Category: Stories

Stories

UMBRELLA

gmzdigital

Umbrella

Warning some mild nudity

If I climb to the very top of my house and look at an angle through the attic box room window I can see into my neighbour’s garden.  Well, I could when old Mrs Rogers lived there but not so well now that the new people have moved in.  They are a couple, well I think they are a couple but I don’t know if they are married.  Who can tell these days?   People just move in together and everyone just accepts it, not like when I was a young woman.  I know that they both go to work because I have watched them going off in the mornings. He doesn’t wear a business suit. He wears one of those polo shirts with a logo on it.  I don’t think he is a builder though because he is quite clean when he comes home. Maybe he works in a shop or is a waiter or a barista (whatever they are?)  She usually wears smartish clothes, sometimes a skirt but more often trousers.  She has one of those name tag things around her neck with the council logo on. Perhaps she is a social worker or a librarian.  I suppose she must be quite respectable to work for the council but they take all sorts now.

Anyway, I can’t see into their garden so well since they have put up the new fence.  A dirty great six-foot thing, all I can see now is a bit right next to the house. I dug out Reg’s old binoculars but even with them, I can’t see much more.  What do they want to do in their garden that they have to keep so private?

Last weekend they were laying a patio.  Well, I think that is what they were doing because I can’t actually see that far but I watched him carrying in a whole lot of slabs and they have been out there all day working.  I know the weather is warm but does he realise how awful he looks with no shirt on.  He has a beer belly and tattoos.  It looks disgusting.  He was wearing shorts too with socks and boots.  What is that all about?  I saw that when he was taking things in from the car.  I can’t see his bottom half in the garden now because of that wretched fence. She was out there with him in a little strappy sun top that showed off her bingo wings.  I couldn’t see what else she was wearing but I expect it was those cycling shorts.  Does she realise what she looks like? She really doesn’t have the figure for things like that.

On Wednesday they had a delivery.  They haven’t asked me to take in parcels yet but I expect they will soon as they are both working but he seemed to be at home on Wednesday.  It was a very large box with the name EzySpa on the side.  I quickly looked it up on Google and it would seem to be an inflatable hot tub.  Well, that will really bring down the tone of the neighbourhood.  They are the sort of things that people on ITVB have – not that I ever watch it but I have seen the trailers.

 

It is warm again this weekend so I expect they will be out in the garden again, probably in their new hot tub doing whatever it is they do.  You can’t swim in them and apparently, they are full of germs like Legionnaires disease.  You wouldn’t catch me in one.  I can’t see it but I can hear them because now they have put up an enormous sun umbrella that completely blocks my view.  Whichever way I stand I can’t see into their garden at all.

They have got friends round because I have seen them arriving and they have parked their cars outside my house.  She was out in the front garden hugging them and doing those ridiculous air-kisses and wearing one of those full-length floaty dresses that people wear as cover-ups on the beach.  Not really suitable for a dinner party I think.

I took my little doggy out for a walk past their house this evening.  There is a tree just by their garden where he likes to do his business so I have to stand there for some time.  I can hear them in there bold as you like, laughing and talking.  I can’t quite hear the words because there is music playing. I can hear the clink of glass though and the sound of splashing water.  I expect the women are drinking Prosecco and the men are being very macho and drinking beer straight from the bottles, a disgusting and unhygienic habit. Why can’t they use glasses?  Maybe can’t be bothered with the washing up.

They are still at it and it is past 10 o clock at night.  They have fairy lights in the garden and I can see them shining from my attic window but I can’t see what is going on because of that blessed umbrella.  It is all very decadent.  I expect they are all frolicking around in the nude.  An alfresco orgy in a quiet residential street in Folkestone.  What is the world coming to?  I could call the police and have them arrested for indecent exposure except for the fact that I can’t actually see them.  Anyway, the police don’t bother with social disturbances now.  They would probably just dismiss me as a prudish old woman.  I won’t be able to go to bed until it has finished otherwise I might have disturbing dreams.  Reg and I never even entertained the idea of things like that.

By Jane Cottle

Stories

UMBRELLA

gmzdigital

Our last task proved a bit difficult for some, including myself. What can you do with the word ‘UMBRELLA?’ Here are what some members created.

MY UMBRELLA

It was the 25th of July, 2019,
The hottest day the U.K. had ever seen.
But in the evening, the heat faded away,
Degrees of temperature dropped by how much, who could say.

As we sat here in Chambers in Folkestone that night,
The heavens opened from an almighty height.
Claps of thunder & lightning were abound,
While people outside were rushing around.

There was just one thing on my mind,
So I checked my bag to see what I could find.
Listening to Carol Creasey as I searched,
I knew what would happen, as my head lurched.

When time came for me to leave I knew,
Just exactly what I had to do.
I raced to my car getting wet in the rain,
Yes,I’d left my umbrella there… oh what a pain!!

By Michael Dowle

Umbrellas in the Square Mile

A sea of spiders,
Oil, waxy skins.
Upturned,
The outstretched aluminum legs- Jointed.

Disjointed.
My spider- red, dangerously drowning in the obsidian ocean.

A waxy web
above my head
Protects me from the rain.

By Samantha Stevens

The Umbrella

The rain poured down, rattling on the roof-tops, it hadn’t stopped for hours, the never ending sheets of water had nearly put her off leaving home. She couldn’t wait any longer. She had promised she would meet him in the park where they always met.

Umbrella in her gloved hand, she tiptoed out of the porch, cautiously, carefully, discreetly closing the door behind her. It was dark. It had been dark all day but now the sun was setting, darkening the street, giving her a blanket to hide under. She couldn’t avoid it any longer. He would be waiting. Would he be soaked? Would he have sheltered in the bandstand? Would he still be there?

An expensive wooden handle reminded Sally that she must perfectly reposition her father’s umbrella to the stand where it stood, in the large spacious hallway, he would need it in the morning. Opening the umbrella’s wings to their fullest span, shielding herself from the driving rain, she stepped out onto the quiet street. The tapping of water droplets against the pavement, spat back up into her pathway. Sally ignored the puddles and began to walk down the street with as much composure as she could muster. Would he wait for her? Would he still be there? She wondered as she walked.

The park was only a short distance away, although the wide brim of the brolly hampered her view, she knew the way well. The brolly prevented those she passed by to recognise her increasingly well-known features, the rain helped to hide her identity. No-one wondered where a young lady of her status was going alone at this time of the evening. The umbrella provided anonymity, an anonymity she welcomed, especially since her father’s rapid rise to power.

Rather rigid and black, the umbrella reminded her of her father, a rather somber and serious man, who rarely smiled at his only child; Sally. Sally walked through the wide iron gates of the park, the umbrella swung as the wind picked up, pushing her towards her destiny. Instinctively she knew he would be there, waiting for her. She saw his decrepit umbrella before she saw him. Arms broken, slightly wounded by the wind, the umbrella tilted as he

turned his head to seek Sally out. Did he sense her presence? She thought there was something between them – inexplicable, some force that drew them together. A force of nature.

The park was busier than the street, despite the weather, young couples still met and walked together, grabbing moments of happiness when they could. Sally stopped and watched as he ran towards her, his umbrella flip-flopping in the wind and rain. He came closer towards her and she saw his smile widened, she felt the rain on her face as her father’s brolly lowered and eventually dropped to her side. He couldn’t control his umbrella as the wind took it and pulled free from his hand. It blew away, dancing in the wind, so powerful the spindly arms cracked and folded.

Sally raised the umbrella to provide shelter for Tom. She welcomed him under the protection of her father’s umbrella offering his arm to Sally, she took it fondly, confidently. It didn’t matter to her that he was a poverty stricken writer. The cliche was almost as satisfying as the disapproval she knew her father had for men like Tom.

Meeting in the park, as the rain poured down, the lamps began to glow as the day became night. The rain slowed to a drizzle and even the grey sky could not dampen Sally’s happiness. They walked for an hour, whispered secrets of their love were captured in the ceiling of Sally’s father’s umbrella. The hallowed roof would not reveal their plans to run away and marry, when she was 21 and inherited her mother’s wealth.

Sally looked like her mother, she knew it tortured her father daily. Fair curly hair that she wore up most days. Slim figure, pale skin; alabasta. The eyes blue grey, changing colour, like the sea, sometimes grey, sometimes blue, often somewhere in between. She reflected how would her mother feel now her daughter was in love. Would she be pleased? Would she chastise Sally for her rather rebellious choice of Tom?

Thomas Blakeson was a good choice really, his care-free and artistic nature hid a rather conservative young man, who despite his current career choice, would eventually return to the family business, paper mills in the North. Tom’s father had frequently reminded Tom that we would always need paper. She drew him closer, her hand covered his on the handle of the umbrella, she grabbed hold of his arm tighter. It was nearly time to go. They would meet again tomorrow and repeat the journey again, around the park, passed the artificial lake and back around passing the bandstand. This time she didn’t know this would be the last time she ever saw him.

He returned the wooden handle of the umbrella to Sally’s gloved hand, pausing a little longer than necessary, touching the soft leather. He gripped the glove. His hands became rigid and stiff. His face paled then reddened. He looked down at his hands, struggling to focus. He let go of Sally’s hand turning to go. She waved him goodbye, feeling disturbed by his abrupt change in temperament. She began to walk towards the gate, the rain seemed to drive down from the black sky. The umbrella and the rain protected her from the scene unfolding behind her as she quickly walked home, avoiding the increasing puddles.

Tom sank to his knees, his hands were burning, it was like they were on fire. Stretching his hands to the sky, the rain soothed the scalding hands. He began coughing and retching. The blurred shapes around him, began to spin as he peeled over. Shaking, sweating as the rain continued down. Shouts of help came as passersby noticed the man convulsing on the wet path. Umbrellas gathered as help came, sheltering him as the blood poured from nose, ears, eyes. Ladies turned in disgust, as screams of shock were drowned out by wails of pain. Tom lay dying in the rain.

Sally returned home and shook the wet umbrella before returning it to the elephant foot umbrella stand, she noticed her father’s umbrella was still there. Whose umbrella had she picked up? It was identical to her father’s. He would need it tomorrow, whilst walking to the court. Judgement day – would the jury find the defendant guilty? She hoped and prayed. At least her father may have some time for her after the murder trial had concluded. She had no doubt he would win. He always did.

Peeling her wet gloves off, she threw them onto the dresser. She would ask Nancy to throw them away, the leather was worn and strange patches were wearing away at the surface. She didn’t like them much any more, rather outdated for a lady of her standing. The fashion was for rather more delicate gloves. She had been glad of them today. They had protected her from the rain. Protected her from her last breath.

Ignorantly comfortable; she did not know those worn leather gloves had saved her young life from the deadly and dangerous umbrella that stood next to her father’s, in the elephant foot stand in the large hall.

By Samantha Stevens

Stories

THE DOOR

gmzdigital

At our last meeting the exercise was to pick a picture and write what ever comes into your mind about it. There were a good assortment to choose from, here are some of them.

The one I chose was the door.

Everybody walked passed the door in the old stone wall. It was made to fit the hole with three heavy old bolts keeping the world out. In fact it was so old the ivy was growing over the door now as well as the wall. Creeping into joints where the wood parted slightly in the summer as it dried out.

Sometimes the children tried to pull the locks so they could get through the door but they never moved. No child had ever been through the door in the old sandstone wall.

UNTIL….

Fred was showing off as usual, telling his friends that he could open the door. No one believed him and told him to just shut up. “Ok then,” Fred shouted. Lets see who is the chicken now and won’t go through the door. With that he got his friend Dick over to the door, “you pull the bottom lock Dick as soon as I say go. Then I will pull the other two locks all at the same time”.

“Yer Yer Yer” shouted the kids that had gathered to watch Fred make an idiot of himself.

ONE TWO THREE PULL

As they all pulled the locks the door creaked and groaned then there was an almighty BANG as the door flew open! Every single child ran as fast as their legs could carry them, they were terrified, of what no one knew but after all that no one was there to see what was being the door. Then it shut.

Stories

LIFE GOES ON

gmzdigital

I sat there, feeling ill, so ill, while all around me life moved on, as though I was still a part of it.  But I wasn’t. I could only observe.  Sitting in the over-60’s cafe sipping metallic tasting coffee and listening to some of the oldies hit songs being hammered out in the next room with frail and tuneless sounds emitting in an effort to make it all sound so happy.  Others shuffled past me with a sausage roll, scone, or piece of cake, placed on small paper plates bending in the middle, while drinks slurped into saucers. Others offered me a gappy grin on their way past, their walking sticks bashing into chairs.  I prayed they wouldn’t ask to join me at my small table. I wanted to be alone, invisible even, and take what life I could from their own feeble frames, but knowing that I could never give anything back.   

Another solitary observer across from me gave me a weak smile.  I gave one back.  I wondered what she was thinking about me.  Perhaps she was a regular and was curious to find a new person in the cafe. I didn’t want to extend the gaze though. I looked out of the window – young children on swings and slides, mothers chattering to friends on the bench. Dogs on leads.  Normal.  All so normal.  But I still felt so ill.  If only this normality could heal me.  Perhaps it will.

Someone strolled past whom I vaguely knew.  He didn’t catch my eye and I was pleased.  I wonder whether they can tell by my facial expressions that I’m so ill? I hope not.  I don’t want any fuss.   An elderly waitress stops at my table and asks whether I’d finished with the remains of a rather crumbly scone.  I looked up apologetically and nodded.  I couldn’t tell her that it fell to pieces on impact with the hard butter. I guess she thought, ‘what a waste’. Perhaps she’d got up at 6.00 that morning to cook them – out of the kindness of her heart.  Yes people do go beyond the call of duty and so I apologised again.

It’s Spring and I notice the blossom between the young green shoots.  Idle chatter in the background.  No one meaning any harm.  Just quiet mediocrity.  I so wanted to be a part of it.  But if I had not been so ill I might never have felt so comforted by the mundane and humdrum.  Instead I might have found the sounds around me too intrusive.  The coffee, foul, the out of tune communal singing irritating to the ear and the ‘listened in’ conversations  so banal.

But instead my illness showed me this mixture of life, this innocence, this slice of every day, so humbling, and it comforted me.  Life goes on, whatever and however I feel.

Mary Leadbetter: 16/04/19

News, Stories

EASTER BY JANE COTTLE

gmzdigital

THIS IS THE WINNING ENTRY IN OUR EASTER COMPETITION

A patch of sunlight fell across the form that Essie was filling in, highlighting the section that said forename.  It was always the same that pang of anger mixed with guilt when she had to write her full name.  Easter Faith Montgomery, not only a mouthful to say but it raised questions.

‘Is it a spelling mistake?’

At least at school she had classmates whose parents had chosen individual spellings for names because it was cool. Names like Danii and Amii.  Cool girls with cool parents who wanted their children to stand out.  Her name was not cool and her parents certainly weren’t cool.  In fact they were the opposite of cool if there was such a thing but they stood out in a way that made Essie cringe with embarrassment. 

When she started primary school she had decided that she would be called Esther and soon became Essie for short.  Even her mum and dad called her Essie now most of the time.

Soon she would be an adult and it wouldn’t matter. It was just on her birth certificate. She would be starting Uni in a few months and she could call herself whatever she wanted and hopefully no one would ask her why she was called Easter, except maybe on her birthday.

Only ten days now and she would be eighteen. The patch of sunlight made her look out of the window.  The magnolia tree in next door’s garden was in full bloom, enormous creamy petals tinged with pink.  It looked magnificent this year.  It seemed such a shame that the blooms lasted such a short time, the April wind and rain knocking them to the ground like little boats with pink painted hulls. The adverts on the TV were gearing up with chocolate eggs and bunnies and spring lamb dinners.  Families making plans for gardening and decorating and spring cleaning.  Not her family though.  They would be going to church as usual and thanking the Lord for the blessing that is their daughter.

Her family went to church a lot.  Twice on Sundays, morning and evening not including the Sunday school class that she taught in the afternoon.  Then in the week there were Bible study meetings, men’s meetings for her dad and women’s meetings for her mum and youth group for her. Sometimes they had special rallies or meetings on Saturdays too.  Essie would moan about the Saturday meetings when she wanted to go out with her friends or do something different.

‘Why do we have to go mum?’

Her mother always had an answer to make her feel guilty, telling her that she should count her blessings.

‘The devil makes work for idle hands.’

She found it difficult explaining to her school friends why she couldn’t go out with them.  She avoided chatter about Sundays.  In her house there was no TV, no homework and no house work on a Sunday. Her mother would look at her neighbour’s washing flapping on the line and say it was a terrible thing, having to wash on a Sunday and she would pray for her.  Essie had got used to it though and she wondered what she would do when she left home for Uni.  Would she break out and try something else or would she stick to the security of the local church and the Christian Union?

She smiled when she imagined the consternation her birth must have caused.  She had heard the story many times.  Her parents were at the Easter Sunday morning service when part way through her mother went into labour.  She tried to keep it quiet but was unable to and the minister had to stop half way through the sermon.  The church was a small wooden hall – it still is – and when the ambulance arrived the congregation had to stand outside in the car park to give them room. After she was born her dad had to get a taxi home and he was too late for the evening service, probably the only time in his life he had missed.

Easter.  A time of rebirth and renewal, a time of resurrection. She was the saviour baby. The blessing from God to show that her parents were forgiven.

There were pictures in the sitting room of her older sister Eve.  The sister she never met.  The sister she replaced.

Eve had died before she was born.  A cot death at just six months old.  Her mother had never forgiven herself and she was sure that it was God’s punishment for her sins.  Essie could not imagine her parents sinning but they had and she had heard them repent for it many times.  God loves a sinner who repents.

Her parents had convinced everyone that Eve had been born prematurely when she arrived so soon after they were married. Luckily she was a small baby, a honeymoon baby they said, a blessing on the couple.  However after her sudden death there was a post mortem and the truth about her conception came out.  The kind words of condolence withered into accusations. They had sinned and had been punished.  Ten barren years followed before they were forgiven and were blessed again with a child. They were rewarded for their faith with a rebirth.

She did not feel like a saviour.  She was just an ordinary girl with a name laden with emotional significance. Soon she would be able to move on from her parent’s story and write a story of her own.  She would go to Uni and have a career.  She wouldn’t be a housewife like her mum. She might marry or she might not.  Easter 2019 was full of opportunity and she was bursting into life just like the buds on the trees.  All she had to do now was finish filling in this form and then work at getting those A level grades.

CONGRATULATIONS JANE COTTLE
Stories

A LOVE NOT MEANT TO BE BY MARY LEADBETTER

gmzdigital

I never meant to fall in love with her. I knew I mustn’t. Throughout my priesthood I had followed the path – Christ’s path and my whole being subsumed in God’s glory. My best work was helping troubled souls. My life’s mission was to heal the sick as Christ had done. Being a priest allowed me that privilege and I embraced it completely when I took my vows in my mid-twenties.


Frances turned up at an Open AA meeting in my local parish of Beckley, Somerset. I always attended these monthly meetings as non-alcoholics or family and friends were allowed in and take part. I was welcomed for my humour and compassion and felt privileged to be there.
She hadn’t noticed me. I saw her and inexplicably fell hopelessly in love with her. What was it that I saw? She was beautiful to be sure, but it was something else – her face shone with humanity. She seemed totally unaware of herself and the effect she had on other people, men and women alike. I thought she was one of the world’s innocents. I wanted to get to know her better – to be close to her, to breathe into her.


During the tea break I approached her. “My name is John, Father John from St. Matthew’s Roman Catholic Church. I admire your honesty and am sorry for the sadness you’ve had in your life. All will be well in time I am sure, but thank you for speaking so openly about the problems you are facing right now”. I tried not to sound patronising. I just wanted to be close so my words tumbled out. I think she recognised this and smiled – a radiant smile. “That’s OK” she said. I took this as an opportunity to spend more time with her. We were leaning against a radiator at the local village hall and I had her attention. She didn’t seem to mind as she quietly sipped her tea. “I love to hear all your stories – of how you descended into a hell, not necessarily of your own making, but I love to hear of your recovery and how you all cope now, in a harsh world without the escape of drink or drugs. I admire you all. I’ve brought Adrian here with me this evening – it’s his first meeting and he’s talking to his sponsor over there. I know you will all make him feel welcome.” Before she could respond her friend Betty came over to ask her a personal question. I backed off and walked into the kitchen with my tea cup. As the weeks went by I became more and more immersed in her. I studied her and she was totally unaware of me. 


One day I plucked up the courage to speak to her after the meeting as she was walking towards her car. She was familiar with my presence and laughed at my quirky humour and charm or so I thought. She always talked freely to me, as she did with others, so it was easy to catch her up before she got into her car.


I told her that I had to travel to Rome and Florence on behalf of the Parish and would be away for a couple of months and could I please send her a postcard from time to time while I was on my travels? She stalled for just a moment and then said “Yes of course”. It was her innocence – her vulnerability as much as her beauty that seemed to paralyse my senses. I was obsessed with her – her free spirit – I wanted that – for myself, but also with her. My Sabbatical was necessary for me to get a grip on my emotions. The thought of her brought up such memories from my own past – my youth in particular and my decision, eventually to give myself to God. I became angry with God and railed against my self–inflicted shackles. In the silence of my room I argued with Him. “Why can’t I have both – love of another human being and You? Why? Why? Was my job in life so difficult that it had to take me away from loving a woman within the sanctity of marriage – and for us to support each other’s paths throughout this life on earth?” I had many sleepless nights. The decision to stay or leave weighed heavily on my mind for weeks and I became withdrawn. I welcomed the chance to go away and contemplate on the life that I’d known for the last 30 years. 


Those two months in Italy were the worst of my life. Every week I mailed her a postcard, writing only about each town and village I visited. My stupid humour joked about putting “Wish you were here” on the card, but then I cried and prayed. I had never known such torment and for the first time in my life I really questioned my faith and my commitment to God. Even more I agonised about her feelings for me. I had no idea whether she would or could reciprocate my feelings as she had many admirers within the AA group she attended. How could I betray her innocence and my duty just because I wanted her – wanted her so badly that I couldn’t rationalise my reasons. I had no one to confide in. This was my guilty secret. My trip to Italy brought me a suntan but no easing of mind. I couldn’t wait to see her again – to see if there was even a hint of love or at least deep friendship between us. 


I saw her again, sitting in the same seat holding the same tea cup with her name on it. She looked radiant and she seemed so excited to see me. I smiled and gave her a gentle hug and kiss on the cheek. My heart started racing. We all sat down and later she spoke. I couldn’t believe it – my shoulders visibly dropped. Excitedly she shared her news with us. “Yes and I’ve been accepted. They want me to start work in two months’ time so I shall be looking for a house by the sea down south. I am so looking forward to it.” I wept inwardly and put my hand up to ruffle my hair – to mask my face. I had to speak to her, had to tell her that I loved her with every bone in my body. Before thinking I blurted out “Frances you are like a beautiful butterfly. You’ve flown into my life. You’ve touched my soul and my heart. Now you’re flying away, to make other people happy. I shall see you in heaven”. I felt a fool – a romantic fool – an infatuated man in a cheap paperback. My face smiled but my heart broke. All my training had never prepared me for this amount of pain.


Frances smiled at me from across the room. I wonder if she really knew that I’d never be the same again. My words were drowned out by the hail of congratulations from the other members of the Group. I sobbed inwardly. Indeed, she was a free spirit, something I would never be. I now had to tread the long path to salvation as my friends in this room were doing. Only for me it wasn’t the alcohol it was the love of a beautiful woman – a love not meant to be.

A SHORT STORY BY MARY LEADBETTER