FRAGILE THING

We built it from pieces of jigsaw puzzles, egg shells, rubber bands and the bones of long dead ancient things.  It became everything to us, the driving force for all we did; our pathway to God.  We soon learned how fragile it was and maintained it; adding new parts and jamming them together if they didn’t fit with extra strength glue.   Our faces were close against it as we worked ceaselessly.

The outsiders came and watched from a distance, talking among themselves.  We ignored them, they were not appreciators of what we had made and they could never understand it.  One day we heard laughter.  We turned from our work and saw a caricature of what we had made.  Stark light showed elastic bands at breaking point, cracking eggshells, jigsaw pieces that didn’t really make sense, clumps of smelly glue and the brittleness of the ancient bones.  We acted immediately, turning our backs to our creation and our faces to theirs, we drew our swords.

The destruction of the outsiders was necessary; we must control how our creation is seen.  Its beauty is best displayed in the half light or else the glue that holds it will melt away.  It must only be spoken of in the most reverent whispers for laughter will smash the shells and cast those brittle bones asunder.

THE BIG STORY

“Hey, happy New Year!  How was your Christmas?” Susan asked as Penny entered the office.
“Christmas was OK, but no-one came at New Year, they were all sick,” Penny replied.
“Tell me about it.  Chris called in sick this morning.  Said he was coughing so much he fell and hit his chin on the counter.”
“Knowing him, he fell over drunk,” Penny replied.
All around the office they could hear people coughing and grumbling.  It was hard for Susan to concentrate on her research.  The newsroom wanted her to come up with at least three January dieting fads and a comparison of their success rates.
Natasha strode in dressed to the nines as usual, a waft of perfume preceding her.
“You’re on with Charlie today, Chris is off sick,” Susan told her.
“Hungover again,” sighed Natasha and went on her way.

Later Charlie and Natasha debated diets on the lunchtime news after cursory coverage of the ferry sinking in the Mediterranean.
“God, I feel rough,” Penny complained to Susan after watching the broadcast, “I think I’ll go home.”
Susan nodded distracted and began her research on the effects of sea sickness medication.  It was thought that this combined with alcohol had caused a crew member to drive the ferry onto the rocks.

Later Susan went to her doctor’s office to collect a repeat prescription.  It was full of people coughing and shivering.  Susan put her hand over her mouth.  Behind the desk a tired looking doctor was talking urgently to the practice manager.  Susan caught snatches of their conversation; “... epidemic ... phones ringing and ringing ... out of hand ... patients collapsing ... emergency call outs ...”

Typical, she thought, a bit of flu and the overstretched system collapsed.  As she was about to leave a woman behind her fainted.  Susan tutted, some people would do anything to jump the queue for the doctor.

At home her boyfriend shivered under a duvet complaining of headache and fever.  Susan warmed him some soup, then continued to work on researching the efficacy of abs exercises.  Did they burn fat or simply create muscle behind the fat causing the post Christmas bulge to grow?  She left her boyfriend to sleep alone, his soup untouched.  In the morning he didn’t come out of the bedroom to say goodbye to her and outside their front door was a body.  The homeless guy.  There was blood around his mouth.  Susan shuddered, stepped over him and continued on her way.  Someone else would call the Police, she was far too busy.  All morning her smart phone had been alerting her to emails from work.  The abs exercise report had to be written and the sea sickness piece finalised.  Chris was still off sick, Penny was too ill to come in and Natasha was running late because she’d had to take her children to the doctor.

Hardly anyone was in the office, Susan was able to concentrate on meeting her deadlines.  Charlie approached her desk looking uncharacteristically troubled; “Chris has died,” he said, “pneumonia.”

Susan looked up from her keyboard, her face draining of colour.
“Now, Susan, don’t get upset, we all knew he drank.  It wrecked his immune system.”
“There was a dead homeless guy outside my house this morning,” she whispered.
“Oh dear, not a good start to the day all round.  Hey ho, must keep going, the News never stops.  What’s the progress on that abs exercises piece?”

SANTA'S CHRISTMAS

Ruby and Billy rushed to the living room to find a modest pile of Christmas presents under an artificial Christmas tree.  Mummy and Daddy followed, smiling wearily.  It had been a tough year.

The children started with their stockings, each contained a novelty pencil, a tangerine and a tennis ball.  They looked at each other and continued; surely the bigger presents would be more exciting.  But Grandma had given knitted jumpers and hats and Nanna had provided painting sets.  The last hope was the present from Mummy and Daddy.  Ruby thought she remembered there had been more than one each last Christmas.  Billy opened a cheap looking trainset and could barely hide his disappointment.  For Ruby there was a baby doll with no house, accessories or cot to go with it.

They turned to glare at Mummy and Daddy.  At that moment the front door was knocked down.  Mummy and Daddy turned, mouths falling open and the children whooped with delight.  In he came, red coat and black boots, white fur trim and long flowing beard.  He carried no sack though and gave no cheery hohoho.  “Mummy and Daddy!” he cried, “Billy and Ruby wrote to me at the beginning of December.  Billy wanted a bicycle.  Ruby wanted a princess palace.  They both wanted an X-box.  This pile of crap here, what is it?  Jumpers, tangerines?  They’re not presents!”

“We’re hard up,” Mummy whispered.
“And where’s your presents to each other, Mummy and Daddy?  Has the romance gone?  And what is there for dinner?”  Santa marched through to the kitchen and opened the fridge; the children ran after him and clutched at his red coat.
“What the hell is this?” demanded Santa, “turkey, potatoes and carrots?  Is that ALL?  Where’s the stuffing?  The sausage meat wrapped in bacon?  The WINE?”
Mummy burst into tears and Daddy put his arm round her; “Look ...” he began.
“I can fix this,” Santa interrupted, “the children needn’t remember anything.  I’ll put the clock back to early December.  You can get this right.”
“Do you want us to skip a mortgage payment or something?” demanded Daddy, “Jesus!”
Santa became very still, his face went as red as his coat and his eyes flashed a demonic shade of green; “Don’t say that name to me!  He isn’t what Christmas is about!  It’s all about me!  I say that how much you love your children shows in how much you spend on them - the amount of presents and the quality of those presents.  It’s about gorging your faces with luxury food and drinking your fill of wine!  Now, do you want me to turn back the clock or not?”
“Yes please!” cried Billy and Ruby.
Mummy and Daddy nodded.

Ruby and Billy rushed downstairs to the living room to find an enormous pile of Christmas presents under a beautiful pine Christmas tree.  Mummy and Daddy followed, smiling wearily.  The stockings were crammed with toys and sweets; there was Billy’s bicycle, Ruby’s princess palace and an X-Box.  There were DVDs, dolls, books, puzzles and Lego.  Mummy got her favourite perfume and Daddy a Breitling watch.  Waiting in the kitchen was a sumptuous turkey feast to be served with champagne or red wine when the rest of the family arrived.  The day was one long party, although Mummy and Daddy were at times quiet.  On Boxing Day; the children played with their bonanza of toys, while Mummy and Daddy whispered furiously at each other in another room.

The day after Boxing Day, Mummy went out, taking Daddy’s watch with her.  The children played with Billy’s bike in the garden and the postman called.  Billy was doing wheelies and wanted his father to watch.  “Daddy!” he called.  There was no reply.  Then, from inside the house there was a crash and an audible crack.  The children ran in to find Daddy hanging by the Christmas tree, a letter from the bank under his feet.

ICON

When I first got the script I was super excited.  It was for the role of a lifetime – complex, intense, requiring great sensitivity and involving huge responsibility.  It was a part that could catapult me from a moderately famous actress into an icon!

“You’re made for this part.”

“It was written for you.”
“You’ll be incredible.”
“You’ll be amazing.”
Simpered my agent, his PA, my boyfriend and his publicist.

I got online and researched the part.  I went out into the world and lived it part time.  I did all I could to learn what it felt like to be this role.  At first I was super confident, but the more I read the script, the more I doubted.  I kept imagining the consequences of failure.  What the reviews would say if I bombed.  This could cost me my career, cause me to be dropped by everyone, including my boyfriend.  The more research I did, the less I believed in myself.  All my life I had existed only for me, so how would I ever be able to play a part involving so much self sacrifice?  I’d come across like a phoney on camera.  I’d look like I was acting.  But if I turned it down?  No-one would understand why and if I wasn’t good enough to play such a role what did it say about me as a person?  It would mean I lack depth, that I am a coward.

There was only one solution, I wrote down my research experiences and shared my thoughts on how the role could be tackled.  I stuffed the script and the letter into a large envelope.  I addressed it to my oldest friend who was able and sentimental enough to take on the role in my memory.  I then booked that hotel room, organised the barbiturates and bought the fancy negligee they’d find me wearing.  They’d make much of my tempestuous relationships, my history of substance abuse and my troubled childhood.  They’d remember the last characters I’d played – emotional, intense types.

No-one would guess the real cause.  The script I’d accepted without thinking, the demands of a role that I couldn’t live.  If I attempted to play it, I’d be revealed to the world as second rate.  No, let them talk instead about how great I would have been if only I’d lived to play it.  Let them say I would have been incredible.

JACOB AND ANNABELLE

Jacob and Annabelle are coming, both of them, and we are not ready.  We sit in the silence of our living room, staring out at the moon, racking our brains for a way ahead.
“The house isn’t big enough.  We’ll have to sell it,” you say.
I close my eyes, thinking of the peace of this living room, the sea views, the scrape your key makes when you turn it in the latch in the evening and the way the sea breeze gently blows the bedroom curtain on a Saturday morning.  The house is not the only thing that must be sold.  The sports car has to be traded in too.  It is not practical enough for Annabelle and Jacob.

On moving day I start in the kitchen, I take the bottles of wine from the rack and empty them two at a time into the sink, watching the fizz of champagne mix with Rioja red which used to smell so appealing.  We must be pure now.  You come through and without a word pick up the empty bottles and take them out to the recycling.  When you return you find me rooting through the fridge, removing pizzas, half mouldy cheese, an opened tin of frankfurters and an apologetic single item of rotten fruit.

“That was lunch,” you say.
“Not anymore,” I reply, “Annabelle and Jacob won’t tolerate junk food.”
“Shall we do the bedroom?”
We find the old love letters, the journal I made of how we got together, pictures of our exes and photos of us in our pie eyed drunkenness at party after party.  We don’t want to remember those times, they can never come again.  We burn everything.  Jacob and Annabelle won’t want us to have a past.

We stand on the porch waiting for the removal men, watching the bonfire ash being blown inland by the strengthening winds.  We are thinking of what we are leaving behind and of what is coming.  We have made such sacrifices and yet it has been easy.  Will we be good enough though?  Can anyone get this right?

“Oh God,” you whisper, your hand clutching mine, “I hope they know they’re wanted.”
I hope they know they’re already loved.

THE END OF THE LINE

The conductor loved working this line, as the train got nearer to London, the class of passenger improved.  The noisy youths and unwashed got off at Scavant and workers in hi-vis vests joined the already busy coaches.  The press of a button, the sound of an alarm, the shutting of doors and the train continued its journey.  Pensive types stared out of the window, harrassed looking women tended their restless children, rowdy jokes were exchanged between the workers.

 At Fossingstoke, the workers trooped off the train and bookish civil servant types got on.  The conductor pressed the button, but the doors did not shut.  This could only mean one thing.  He hurried from carriage to carriage, scanning the passengers, until he found the old man, clinging to his hard hat with hands blackened by manual labour.

“This is your stop.”
“I thought I’d buy a ticket to go on,” the old man replied.
The conductor shook his head and referred to the passenger inventory; “Samuel Jones, 61 years old, past retirement, with no formal education ...”
“But I’ve experience.”
“Do you really think that pathetic northern accent of yours would be tolerated?  Get off!”
The old man left the train with the air of one who had tried.  As the journey resumed, the conductor spoke into the public address system; “Sorry about the slight delay, ladies and gentlemen.  Someone wanted to stay beyond their stop.”

 

At Meading, the mothers and their pushchairs and the pensive types and their thoughts got off.

“You know,” a woman said to the conductor, “I could stay on.  I’m educated, I’m a qualified carer and I have empathy.”
The conductor didn’t even bother to look at his inventory; “With your history!” he scoffed, “off you get!”
The woman glared at him and left the train, as she walked across the platform, she heard him speak into the public address system again; “Sorry ladies and gentlemen.  A lady with a history of mental health problems tried to stay on this train all the way down the line!”
There was the sound of raucus laughter as men in business suits and horse faced women got onto the train.   The sound was cut as the doors slammed to and the train continued on its way.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, the next station is Hapham.  Please change here for Victoria, Paddington and Waterloo.”

The civil servants and the City types got to their feet.  They jostled their way off the train to get their connections to the financial district or to Whitehall.  Onto the train got other suits, but these were from Savile Row and this clientele smelt of fine cologne.  Each had a faintly protruding stomach - fine meals consumed in top restaurants.
The conductor pressed the button, again nothing happened.  He rolled his eyes.  A man had remained in his seat; “I’m not moving,” he warned, “I’m going to the last stop.”
“I’ll call the revenues,” threatened the conductor.
“I’m a postgraduate and I have 20 years financial experience.  I do charity work in my spare time.  Look at your inventory!”
The conductor obliged and snorted.
“Oh do get off the train,” brayed one of the passengers.
The man stood; “Is it because I’m black?”
“No, it’s because you didn’t go to Eton.  The revenue are here!”
The man saw the approaching uniformed figures and hurried from the train, thumping the side of it as he left.
The conductor shut the doors and made another apology to his customers as the train began moving again.  He’d barely finished the apology before he had to make another announcement; “Ladies and gentlemen, the train is now arriving at Westminster where this service terminates.  Please remember to take all your personal belongings with you and may I wish you a pleasant evening.”

The driver sitting in the cab watched them walk by; clones carrying leather cases, smug white faces and dead, disinterested eyes.

VICTORY

The castle dominated the horizon, grey granite walls rearing from a high hill.  The Queen thought of her home with its crumbling walls and fields of blighted crops and of the long journey she’d made with her army.  She would take this perfect fortress and bring her people here.  She’d heard talk of a King who was rarely seen.  She would take him too.

Her General reined his horse in next to hers; “Victory will come at great cost.”
“So be it.”

The men within the castle fought fearlessly, their arrows finding their mark.  The numbers of the Queen’s army diminished, but she held on.  Once inside she would replenish her losses with the King’s survivors.  Once she saw him, atop the walls of his castle, gazing down through a telescope.  She had drawn back her bow and sent a missile whizzing past his head.  He had not been back since.

After a year the defences were breached, the Queen’s army tore down the drawbridge and swarmed inside.  There was no-one in the courtyard and nobody up on the walls.  When the Queen and her General entered the throne room, it was empty.  The Queen sat on the King’s throne; “Find him,” she ordered angrily.  A King who hid from confrontation was not a worthy prize.

Footsteps clattered as the Queens’ army went from room to room, they found no-one.

“They couldn’t have got out, there are no tunnels and we had the place surrounded ... They’ve disappeared like ...” the General voiced the fears of his men, “ghosts.  A ghost King, a ghost army.”
“There must be a sealed room within, something you missed.  Find it.”

The search went on.  The Queen became angrier; the King was cheating her out of victory.  The castle that had seemed so impressive was claustrophobic and contained no treasure.  The fireplaces looked like they hadn’t been lit in months, the upholstery of the throne was fading, the banqueting table was dusty and there was no food in the great kitchens.  The Queen had no choice but to give the order to leave.  “When we clear the walls, burn this place to the ground,” she said flatly, mounting her horse.

The drawbridge was closed, the General ordered that it be opened, but nothing happened.
“It’s blocked from the outside!” the voices of the men sounded panicked.
“Ram it!” ordered the General.
The Queen watched as the battering ram hit the drawbridge hard.  It remained in place.
“It’s as if it is untouched,” murmured the General.
The Queen dismounted and went back into the castle, she climbed the tower to the very top and looked out across the hill, there was no-one for miles.  She watched as her army tried canon fire.  From her vantage point she saw something strange, the canon ball was stopped by some invisible force before hitting the drawbridge.  It fell uselessly to the ground.
Night fell; the frightened men camped in the cold of the courtyard.
“There are no rations left.” the General said before taking his place with them.  The Queen spent the night alone in a silent tower bedchamber, tormented by mystery and hunger.

Days passed, the attempts to escape became desperate.  Men were ordered to climb out.  The starving Queen watched their efforts from the tower top.  When they reached the highest point of the battlements it was as if they were pushed.  They fell onto the rocks below and lay motionless. 

This fruitless victory had taken over two thirds of the Queen’s men.  She had been away from home for so long and had thought the worst thing would be to go back with nothing.  Now it seemed she would not being going back at all.  She was trapped in a castle without treasure or food.  The King had won.  She watched what was left of her army turn in on itself.  Soon they would come for her.