WAIT

“Wait for me, Rose. We know where I’m going is dangerous and there’s terrible risk, but wait. I will try to email, but I won’t always be able to. You know that I could be shot, taken captive or become the victim of a roadside bomb. It could happen at any time, you may be driving to work, seeing your friends or talking on the phone to your mother. Don’t let the worry cause you to question – is he still alive? I am coming home.

“I love you, Rose - your bright hair, the swing of your hips when you dance and the way laughter brightens your eyes. When I’m gone, move, play and laugh as you have while I’ve been by your side. I want to think of you unchanged, unspoilt by this, as just the way you are now.

“When you hear word of my disappearance and you put your hand over your mouth, your body bent over with stress, please don’t stop being you. Don’t let the fear turn your heart bitter, wipe the smile from your face or dim your eyes. Know this and know it steadfastly. I am coming home, so wait.

“When you don’t hear anything for days, there are no emails and no phone calls, nothing but silence. When your friends and family are gently trying to tell you I may not be returning. Don’t even begin to despair. Wait, because I am coming home.

“When they tell you of the bullet riddled body, that they are so very sorry, that there was nothing anyone could have done. When your tears are streaming down your face and your heart is closed and consumed with sorrow, open it again and wait. I am coming home.

“For our love is eternal, our passion indestructible and this bond between us cannot be severed. Know this with certainty and wait. I love you, Rose. I am coming home.”

(With thanks to Konstantin Simonov)

THE YEW TREE

A woman barely out of her teens stood in the graveyard, pale faced, eyes hard, mouth a determined line.  The open grave was the first in a new line, the hole deep, it had to be.  Nearby the presence of the eternal yew tree mocked her.  The only other living person at the graveside was the ageing minister.  He finished his clear voiced prayer and turned to her; “Is there anything you want to say?”

“There is actually!” she addressed the coffin at the bottom of the deep hole; “you complete and utter shit!  You broke my heart!  I bet you’re sorry now!”
“He died out of love for you,” protested the Minister.
“But he broke me first.”
“You’re very bitter.  I feel I’m burying your innocence with him.”
“Well, say another prayer for me then, because there’s a man waiting at the lych gate.”
The Minister watched her go towards the slight man who kept a respectful distance.

The woman barely out of her twenties stood in the graveyard, pale faced and red eyed.  The open grave was the second in line, the hole shallower than last time because the gravedigger was overworked.  Nearby the presence of the eternal yew tree mocked her.  The only other living person at the graveside was the old minister.  He finished his faint voiced prayer and turned; “Is there anything you want to say?”

“Oh God!  I’m sorry!” she said to the coffin at the bottom of the shallow hole; “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what happened.  I loved you, then suddenly I didn’t.”
“I feel that I’m burying your hope with him.  You’re very distressed.”
“Father, please, say another prayer for me, because there’s a man waiting at the lych gate.  It wasn’t meant to be, it just happened.”
The Minister held up his hand, he didn’t want to know.  He watched her go towards the dark man who kept a respectful distance, but on catching the minister’s eye, he raised a bottle of scotch in a toast and downed some of it.

The woman barely out of her thirties stood in the graveyard, pale faced, wide eyed, muttering incoherently, clutching a bottle of whisky.  The open grave was the third in the line, the hole shallower than last time because the ancient Minister had to dig it himself.  After his mumbled prayer he asked; “Is there anything you want to say?”

“Uh no, just bury him,” she said.
“You look so sad.  I feel I’m burying your youth and joy.”
“Look, I’m in a hurry, because there’s ...”
“A man waiting at the lych gate?”  The minister turned and sure enough there was, a tall man in a black coat, no bottle of scotch in the hand of this one, but a parchment and feather quill.
“To record your wrongs,” the minister intoned.
“What?” she asked distracted, fidgeting.
“That man is known to me,” he gestured to another line of graves that stretched on beyond the eternal yew tree.

CINDERELLA

Christ!  I’m bored out of my fucking skull!  Endless, endless parties, wearing stupid, stupid shoes!  Curse my fairy godmother for getting me into this mess.  The men on about their portfolios and the women talking about babies.  Property blah, money blah, nappies ugh, shut up already!

There’s not much choice when you’re a Disney Princess.  You start life sweeping a floor singing your heart out full of heady anticipation; then you become the wife of somebody you meet once at a ball because you’re so grateful he even danced with you in the first place.

Don’t get me started on Prince Charming – Mr Party Party - he’s a fucking drunk.  Currently he’s passed out in the royal latrine, a urine stain on his trousers.  Charming, he ain’t, unless you count throwing up on the buffet as a social grace.  It certainly delivered us from yet more brown, non nutritious, deep fried food.  I was a bit sorry to see the spring rolls disappear under a sea of puke though.

God, I was happier being a skivvy to my ugly sisters.  Aren’t they the lucky ones?  No-one’s going to marry them into a life of vacuous pointlessness.  Maybe, just maybe, if I speak nicely to my wicked stepmother, she’ll take me back.

BEAUTY AND THE BEAST

“Belle, I think it’s time for happily ever after.  Will you move in with me?” the handsome Prince asked.
“Oh, Adam!  Yes!” replied Belle.
Prince Adam spared no expense decorating their room in his lavish castle, her wardrobe was full of gowns and her dresser packed with jewellery and perfume.
“You’re so beautiful,” he told her, “please ask the servants to make coffee.”
Belle couldn’t find anyone in the kitchen, so she made Prince Adam coffee herself and took it to him.  He received it with pleasure and suggested they dine out; “You must wear the blue dress,” he stated, “it’ll bring out the colour of your eyes.”

Often the Prince asked Belle to get the servants to do this or that.  He passed his time in the study eating sandwiches, drinking coffee and doing his princely duties.  He told Belle it was very important he should not be disturbed.

One day, feeling lonely Belle took Prince Adam coffee instead of sending a servant; “Can we do something together today?” she asked.

Adam looked up with an unfamiliar expression that altered his face, his eyes were red rimmed, his nose a little pinched; “I told you not to disturb me!”
“But I bought you ...”
“Did I ask for coffee?”
“No ...”
“Out you go!” he pointed to the door.

Belle left in fear that she was in trouble.  When Adam came to dine with her later, he behaved as if nothing had happened.  She wasn’t sure if it was the light, but he looked older, haggard.
“That dress is too frilly,” he snapped, “no dinner for you until you put something sensible on.”
Belle rushed to obey.  They ate dinner in silence, she was afraid to speak in case she annoyed him.
“Bring me coffee,” he demanded when the servants had gone to bed, “not that instant shit.  I want filtered.  Oh, and you went out this afternoon.  I’d prefer if you didn’t, I might need you.”
“I went to see my sisters.”
“What did you talk about?”
“How ... happy I am.”
He sneered as if he didn’t believe her and this time she really noticed that something had changed, his shoulders were hunched, eyes hooded, the lips she had kissed thinner and the teeth they drew back to reveal seemed sharper.
“What about my coffee?” he yelled.
Belle returned with his coffee just as fast as she could.
“Not quick enough,” he snapped, “go to bed.  I’ll drink alone.”
“I haven’t seen you all ...”
The look he gave her was full of anger and resentment.
“You’ve changed!” she cried in despair, “you look ...”
He stood up; “Like what?”
She stared at his belly, was it bigger?  The hairs on his arm were thick almost like fur and his face was unshaven.  His eyes glowed red.  “Like a beast,” she answered.
He laughed sarcastically; “This is the real me, love.  Go to bed, I’ll join you soon.  Put something sexy on.”

BRICKS

"Come out you coward!  You fucking yellow streaked pig!  Come out and face me!  I’ll have yer!  I’ll break you in pieces!  I’ll huff and I’ll puff …"

Yeah, whatever.  Like always, I hid and he couldn’t find me.  Track my progress, look at the towns I’ve lived in, the people I’ve been.  My body grows older, but I’m unchanged, cocooned in some hiding place or another. I’ve seen so much and met so many, but no lessons can penetrate bricks.  There was no need to be brave.  There was always something to keep the wolf from the door.

Every hiding place I’d ever known was made of bricks.  I started to feel trapped in a boring interior that never changed.  The wolf was gone in the spring, so I boldly upgraded to a fresh perspective.  The wooden walls weren’t as safe, but they smelt of spring trees.  However, after a while, even they started to feel a little constraining …

The new bolt-hole I got in the summer was really pretty at first.  Maybe a little unreliable, perhaps not hiding place material, but it smelt of grass and flowers, of blue sky fun.  It had such a beautiful thatched roof.  I couldn’t resist it.  I loved making my bacon sandwiches in the sun filled kitchen.

Now it’s autumn and cold suddenly.  Everything has changed with the season.  The freezing air is seeping through the thatch and I can hear the wind moaning in the chimney.  I feel spooked, sat here by myself.  Perhaps I should go stay with a friend.  The cold didn’t penetrate through bricks in this way and there’s a damp feeling.  The central heating isn’t working and no matter how much I surround myself with duvet covers and cushions I’m still shivering.  I’m lonely and vulnerable.  What was that?  Please tell me that was the wind.  No, it was a howl and there’s the unmistakeable scratching at the door.  He’s found me again.

 “Come out you coward!  You fucking yellow streaked pig!  Come out and face me!  I’ll have yer!  I’ll break you in pieces!  I’ll huff and I’ll puff …”

The walls of straw are shaking!   I’ve dived beneath the duvet and peering out I can see him breaking through.  That grey shaggy creature, his hungry red eyes and the saliva dripping from his jaws.

"Got fed up of bricks did yer?  You stupid sow!  I’ll tear your throat out!"

How I long for those bricks and their protection now that the wolf has blown down my door.  He’s drawing in the air through his nose and catching my scent.  He’s seen my shape under the duvet …

THE PINES

Not even my mother knows where I stayed last night. It would break her heart if she did. It’s true what they say about my husband, he was a hard working man … If I’d got kids, if I was respectable someone’d take me in, but here is where the punished go to sleep.
I see him in my dreams, his jacket buttoned to his neck, a weary look on his face as he follows the long steel railway line trying to come home.  He doesn’t know he’s dead.  Sometimes when it happens sudden like that, they don’t realise and they search for the familiar. He’ll walk that line forever …

The dark of these woods is comforting, no light can penetrate, I’m able to peacefully reflect on the hot summer sun, the man I took comfort with, his lips on mine and the sweat of our skin to skin.  Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw my husband stood quietly at the door, but when I looked again he was gone. I tell myself it was my imagination, that it wasn’t because of me he was walking on the railway line when the accident happened, but because he saw some debris there and went to pick it up.

 The wind is getting up, somehow it manages to chill through the woods, it shakes the branches and weeps and mourns like a lost thing. I walk up the hill to where the trees break and the railway line stretches on and on between the pines. In the far distance, I swear I can see a figure walking along the tracks towards me.

TRAINS IN WINTER

When I was a kid I used to live near a railway.  For some reason, I used to feel a sense of fate whenever I heard the trains passing on a still winter’s night.

I used to lie there and wonder who the people on these late night trains were.  In my mind’s eye, I could see the sallow skinned teenagers with their speakers, their street music, the cider cans in the fingers of the boys and the hoop earrings on the hard faced girls.  Their noise would disturb the exhausted professional who having worked late and, not ready to face home, had stopped for a gin and tonic and another and another, until the last train was called.  I also imagined a high class crowd on their way back from a night out, the women in cocktail dresses, the men in designer jeans and shirts.  They’d be buzzing from their night out, telling jokes, maybe planning to go somewhere for a nightcap.  In contrast would be the nurse going to his nightshift.  As he listened to tunes with closed eyes, he’d be worrying about who was going to come into A&E and desperately hoping that tonight at least, no-one would insult him or spit on him.

Perhaps I saw in my reverie, the woman sitting on a window seat, staring out at the blackness with an enigmatic Mona Lisa smile.  Every now and then she checks her reflection in a little mirror.  She sucks on a mint.  Her eyes are deep with racing thoughts, her red tipped fingers are fidgeting, her feet encased in long boots.  She is protected from the cold by a long coat.  I can see her now, getting up eagerly as soon as the station is called.  She passes the boisterous teenagers, the tired professional, the revellers and the anxious nurse, some of them look up, others do not notice.  No-one watches as she alights onto the platform.  There’s a man waiting for her at the other side of the barriers, leaning against the wall smiling broadly.  He takes his hands from his pockets and holds out his arms as she runs to him.