secrets: the nottingham writers' studio journal july 2014

This collection of work was published in 2014by Nottingham Writers’ Studio,

25 Hockley,Nottingham NG1 1FH

www.nottinghamwritersstudio.co.uk

Collection copyright Nottingham Writers’ StudioCopyright for individual articles rests with the authors

Nottingham Writers’ Studio gratefully acknowledgesfinancial support from Arts Council England

Printed in Great Britain by Imprint Digital

INTroDuCTIoN ...................................................................................................................5

STEAlING From THE DEAD Lynda Clark ........................................................................7

THE SECrET lIFE oF mr rICHArD CooPEr Lauren Colley.........................................13

INDoor FIrEWorkS Julie Burke ...................................................................................23

ANGEl’S TEETH Debbie Moss .......................................................................................25

rAvEN-rAGS Paul Stapleton ........................................................................................31

HIDDEN Anne McDonnell ............................................................................................33

TAkING FlIGHT Joanne Gibson ....................................................................................45

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CONTENTS

Welcome to the second volume of the Nottingham Writers’ StudioJournal. This edition has the theme of Secrets, which our contributorsinterpreted in a delightful and surprising number of ways. From 1800sScotland to modern london, from re-imagined Celtic myths to post-modern murder mysteries, these stories transcend time and place yetreveal the enduring truth that secrets are an inescapable facet of life, nomatter how hard people might try to believe otherwise.

We invite you to enjoy these stories of secrets and the trouble—orsalvation—they lead to. Pick a favourite (or two). our top pick? Well now,that’s a secret…

The NWS Journal Editorial Team

5

INTRODUCTION

The tourmaline ring is big and beautiful, shiny as a sugar daddy’s baldinghead. my eyes must have lingered too long.

“It doesn’t count as stealing if they’re dead!” says morgan with aderisive laugh, pushing me aside to get at the ring.

She’s like a jackdaw, from her cawing laugh to her black feathereddress, to her penchant for the bright and shiny. Show weakness to morganand she’ll peck out your eyes. oh Bella, whatever did you see in her?

I watch in horror as she tugs at the knobby finger joint, determinedto work the ring free.

“We should go,” I say uneasily, looking from the corpse to the door.“Fetch me my purse.” She gestures to the bed, ignoring me. “I think

there’s a knife in it.”“What? morgan, no!” I say, but I get the purse anyway. maybe this is

how Bella felt. I’d only been traipsing after morgan a few weeks andalready she was making most of my decisions. I couldn’t remember whenshe went from benign benefactor to malign dictator, but already itseemed like everything from the shade of my lipstick to how we’d earna living was down to morgan.

The trick is slumped in the chair exactly as we left him, but I stillexpect him to leap up and accuse us of something. I give him a wideberth, holding the purse out to her at arms length. She snorts.

“He wasn’t up to much before; he definitely won’t be doing anythingnow.” She pats his shoulder. It might’ve seemed affectionate if I hadn’t

7

STEALING FROM THE DEAD

Lynda Clark

NoTTINGHAm WrITErS’ STuDIo

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seen her dose his bourbon with barbiturates downstairs.I look away as morgan saws and swears, one stockinged foot braced

against the desk, her shiny dark hair flopping into her eyes. I look at thestained bed-sheets and the crinkled pillows. I look at the champagneflutes on the nightstand, my lipstick and hers kissing the rim of eachglass. I look at the handle of the door, slowly turning, slower than slowmotion, with an ominous creak, as the nasal voice calls out:“Housekeeping?”

I lunge for the door, slamming it shut with such force that the maidon the other side shrieks.

“No!” I bellow then, forcing calm, “No, thank you.”outside, the trolley moves away. “I come back later.”“Don’t,” I whisper, my head dropping against the door. “Please, don’t.”“Stop being so melodramatic,” morgan’s voice is distorted; she’s

working at something with her teeth. She comes over to me, grin wide,the tourmaline ring clamped in her perfect, bloodstained jaws. She wantsto kiss me with the ring in her mouth, I can tell from her wicked eyes.

I turn away. She drops the finger on the floor and spits the ring intoher palm.

“Have it your way.” She slides the ring onto her thumb, the only digitwide enough to accommodate it. “Just wanted to give you a little gift, is all.”

“You’ve given me enough already,” I insist, smoothing my dress justfor something to do with my hands.

“Yes.” She looks me up and down, and her eyes are like the surgeon’sscalpel, cutting me to the bone, reconfiguring me to something of herliking. Which is kind of how it was. I thought at first that she made melook like Bella because she missed her. Now I wasn’t sure. Was it a displayof power? A project? A temporary diversion like renovating a house ortraining a racehorse?

“Check his pockets.”The abruptness of the request startles me and I just stare at her

stupidly.

“You were the one who said I’d given you enough,” she snorts, rollingher eyes. “maybe you should take something for yourself for once.”

I fumble my hands back into my elbow-length silk gloves. They arereally too narrow and elegant for my thick forearms, but I force them onanyway. I can’t touch him without them. Holding my breath—as if thatsomehow makes it better—I reach into his pocket, closing my fingersaround the leather billfold.

As I withdraw it, he sinks even further forwards, burying his headunder the desk with a low sigh. I leap back as if burned, looking from himto morgan with wide frightened eyes. I can picture exactly how they lookbecause I’ve stared at them so many times in the mirror. The last bit ofthe old me looking out. The only bit that hasn’t really changed.

“Poor baby,” she coos, retrieving a cigarette from her purse andlighting it. “It’s just air leaving the corpse.” She blows out, and I wonderhow many corpses has she seen? How many times has she done this? Andto whom? Was Bella—

She takes the billfold from my unresisting hand and tosses it intoher purse without checking the contents. After swigging the last of thechampagne from the bottle, she drops it back into the silver ice-bucketwith a clang and says, “let’s go, Bella.”

“Don’t call me that,” I sniff, folding my arms.“Well, what should I call you?” She stops in front of me and brushes

my blonde pin curls back from my face. I realise she isn’t looking at me,she’s looking at Bella. my Bella. Her expression shifts from tender totaunting in an instant. “David?”

I take a step back, shaking my head. I should never have done this,none of it. As soon as I found out about morgan, I should have just lefther well alone, let Bella’s memory rest in peace. I’d wanted to align mybody and mind, but not if this was the price.

But I guess even then I’d wondered. About her, about Bella, aboutwhat really happened at the end. Was what Bella and I had ever really real,ever really ours? or was morgan always waiting in the wings like a crow’s

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shadow? I suppose that was why I stuck around. I guess I thought themore time I spent with morgan, the greater chance I had of knowing thetruth. After all, if it didn’t happen like she said, surely she’d slip upsomehow, sooner or later: a thoughtless comment, a contradiction, a clue.

Bella had always said she’d still want me after the surgery, and I hadto believe that was true, no matter what morgan said. morgan may havebeen like a sister to Bella, but I was her world. We were two halves of thesame soul, I’m sure of it.

“Donna,” I say, “Call me Donna.”She strides for the door, bored already. “Donna, what kind of a name

is that?”“It was Bella’s middle name,” I say sarcastically, but my words are

drowned out by the maid’s scream. She’s returned and barged in, seenthe trick and the blood and his finger.

That finger. lying on the carpet like a discarded condom, rubberyand colourless, leaking fluid.

And her scream awakes him. He leaps to his feet, almost overturningthe desk, and he’s yelling at the pain in his hand and the strangers in hisroom and the dizziness that must still be coursing through his head.

“You were meant to be dead!” morgan’s yelling, and she’s fumblingin her purse and I know she has a gun, and when she draws it and fires,I don’t know what else to do, I just react without thinking.

“You saved me,” says the trick, staring at morgan’s prone body. Herhead’s at a sickening angle. I’d hit her so hard with the champagnebucket I must’ve broken her neck. Then, “You’re strong as an ox.”

He’s genuinely surprised. Surprised that an elegant, delicate womanin opera gloves could do such damage. I’m so delighted by this in spiteof myself, it takes me a moment to notice the gun. The gun in her handis smoking. The bullet is embedded in the splintered mahogany of thedesk’s bottom drawer.

“What happened?” says the maid, looking at us in horror, “Whoare you?”

I don’t know why I say it, but I do. “I’m morgan,” I say, “morgan Edgar.”It doesn’t count as stealing if they’re dead.“I met the gentleman downstairs,” I continue, buoyed by his lack of

resistance, “This horrible woman was hiding in his wardrobe.”And he thanks me profusely, and the maid just nods, because rich

men can do whatever they like in hotel rooms and I leave quickly, beforethe cops can get there and ask too many questions.

I have to step round morgan on my way out, narrowly missing herthin arm with my stiletto heel. Best let David die in there with morgan.He was an idiot, undeserving of his beautiful, brilliant wife. Now there’sonly Donna and she won’t let jealous, grasping, control-freaks likemorgan rule her life. She’ll appreciate every moment. Even the onesthat hurt.

miss you, Bella.

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Lynda Clark wrote an article for The Guardian ages agoand has been dining out on that story ever since. Sheworks full time as a writer in between riding horses andplaying video games. She used to work as a producermaking games for PlayStation Home. Don't worry, no-one's ever heard of it.

13th July 2012

Face to Face

This morning, I hear richard Cooper closing his shower door. I was in theshower too and thought of the weird intimacy of two naked strangers afoot apart.

In the months of his occupancy of Flat Two, however, mr richardCooper—like mr Craig mordecai before him—has become something ofa mythological creature. First it was the birdwatcher’s challenge as Iawaited a sighting—caught in the few metres from front door to car, orperhaps taking the rubbish out, or (god forbid) washing and waxing hisvolkswagen Golf. But alas no, he proves a shy and stealthy thing.

Hearing noises from the mr richard Cooper’s residence next door,but not seeing or speaking to him, provides fertile ground for anyimagination. mine likes to go to town though, and along with the fewtitbits garnered from our shared landlord, I have soon constructed ourfuture marital contentment (I have always said I could only tolerate ahusband living next door), and reasons for it: compatible ages, closefamily relationships, both prone to furtive comings and goings—a matchmade in heaven.

Now it is fast eroding. None of these imaginings are by choice. Theyscuttle like cockroaches onto the white plate of my consciousness (andoh, CBT advocates the world over, I tell you they are hard to push off).

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THE SECRET LIFE OF MR RICHARD COOPERLauren Colley


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It is fast eroding, because all these months later what more do Iknow? He is ‘fit’ (my landlord’s word), walks to work, is often in the gym,plays cricket. As far as I have heard, he doesn’t seem to play music or theradio, and he collects his mail with extreme diligence from the front hall.oh, and he has exceedingly short showers.

22nd July 2012

I knock

Having worked myself into a curious outrage at not having met myneighbour, I decide to knock. This is not a decision I take lightly. I pacethe kitchen. I’ll just be on the way out, I think, Chris Shaw’s car willpull up to the rescue—she’s always on time for Sunday practice—andI can do an ‘oh, gotta go’ and disappear off into my super-busy sociallife.

I practise:“Hi, it feels odd not to have properly met…”“Hello, I just thought I’d say…”“I thought I’d knock on my way out…”I go and put eyeliner on. Then I hurry out of the door and knock.How close is too close? A foot? A metre? I don’t want to be in his

face. And he’s tall, or at least an estimated six feet… plus the step giveshim another six inches. Shit, I’m going to look small.

It doesn’t matter anyway because he’s not in.I knock again. No movement, no sound, no mr richard Cooper.of course, this is a relief in most ways, although also a bit

disappointing, having rallied myself up, so I put on eyeliner fullyknowing I have sensitive eyes (bring on tomorrow’s bloodshotwaterings).

Since he’s not in though… I bend down slowly, push the letterboxopen and peer in. I scan the bit of room I can see. Everything is very neat:nothing on the floor, no magazines or mugs, a smart cream sofa carefully

angled to—oh shit, there’s a mr richard Cooper lying on the sofa. luckilyhe is facing diagonally towards the Tv in the opposite corner, and Isilently lower the flap and stand there.

Immediate thought: he’s ignoring me. Bastard. But how would heknow it’s me? Perhaps my door closing, followed by the knock alertedhim… or perhaps he didn’t hear at all, after all, the Tv is on. or he mighteven be asleep.

By now I’ve walked several metres away, but after first feeling silly, Iget a wave of indignation. How dare he ignore me! I spin round, walkback and knock harder. Again, nothing. Perhaps I was mistaken entirely.I repeat my letterbox snoopage. mr richard Cooper is very much there,though something of a chameleon in his cricket whites. He’s not asleepbecause his fingers move on the remote, and the Tvs not loud enoughto obscure a knock. I feel even sillier, and Chris still isn’t here. I don’t wantto go back to my flat—the creaking door would be an audible defeat. SoI go round the front and sit on the step instead. The old men across theroad are having one of their little gossips on the pavement. one ofthem—Arthur, I think—whistles and waves. I give a feeble wave backand carry on my sitting.

2nd August 2012

The Snoop

Perhaps some would be outraged, but there’s no harm in a little curiosity,and there’s no mr richard Cooper around to ever know. The landlord isdoing some work on his flat during the day and the door is open. In allthe months of his residence, mr richard Cooper has been an extremelyregular nine-to-fiver, so it’s highly unlikely he’s going to pop home. Itseems only natural to have a peek.

I wipe my feet, mind.It’s very sparse, but in a slightly dishevelled way. The only seating is

the sofa, but that—like mine—is swimming beneath a large blanket or

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two, and cushions. It holds the shape of an absent inhabitant, thecushions at one end slightly flattened, the sofa curved to the shape of abody as though it had been poured in.

There’s a drying rack draped with gym-style clothes—loose‘working out’ shorts and T-shirts with sporty logos. A couple of pairsof trainers (notably sizeable) are by the door and there’s also the oddcricket bat and a guitar leaning in the corner. What else? lots of DvDs,a poster of 2Pac, not much to go on. No bits and pieces, nonewspapers, plants or photos; no calendar, post-its, postcards, knickknacks…

I feel disappointed. His life clearly exists outside of this room. Itseems his shower is just a shower, before or after something. Thebedroom is for sleeping. The sofa for watching Tv. He puts on his (big)shoes and picks up his bag and goes out to his life.

I reach round from the inside and put my fingers through theletterbox. I watch the bristles rise up like a comedy moustache. I turn toface the Tv at a diagonal, as the sofa-sprawled mr richard Cooper hadbeen and see this movement from the corner of my eye. oh.

17th August 2012

He Sings!

Yesterday mr richard Cooper sang in the shower. melodious,uncaring—he sang like a happy person. I don’t know why I say ‘like a’,perhaps he is a happy person. Perhaps I am too eager to find oddity ormystery, something about him—what my mum would call a foible—thatmakes him… well… normal.

I would like something to clash with the smart, athletic, moderatefigure shaping in my mind. So although the singing is something, I wouldprefer him to roar some Slipknot, or an obscure operatic aria, or evenbetter, recite poetry with the eager, gushing enthusiasm of a romanticpoet.

25th August 2012

This is becoming a slightly obsessive preoccupation: mr richardCooper.

I am sitting next to one of his parcels. Again.It’s from Amazon—a CD, or perhaps a DvD, in a nondescript brown

package. I’m not really that curious as to what’s inside, more pleased bythe fact that it’s having a stop-off on the way—a sleepover at lauren’shouse that he will never know about.

I am inquisitive, nothing more sinister than that.

September 2012

The Run

my door makes an unmistakable creak; mr richard Cooper’s doorsticks, needing a few shoves to lock. I think these alerts are the reasonwe manage so well, so unfortunately, to just miss bumping into oneanother.

When I hear mr richard Cooper locking his door, I have time to runthe length of my flat—from the kitchen, down the hall, into the frontroom to the blinds at the front bay window. There I stand perfectly stillas his shape moves past the first frosted pane. once I know I am beyondhis field of vision, I can step forwards and pull apart the slats a crack towatch him disappear around the corner.

It is quite possible that he hears me as I go; the floor is the kindthat resonates with heavy footfall, and I would never call myselfgraceful. I feel the walls quiver a bit. The flat doesn’t let me get awaywith much.

I am not a stalker, merely a peeping Tom. I realise, though, that nowI have a mr richard Cooper, I no longer want to meet the real thing. Infact, I actively avoid it, as I think he most probably does me. We do shipsin the night remarkably well.

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17th September 2012

Snap

Just when I had decided we were absolutely not compatible.How different could we be really? A man of short showers and

unfaltering routine; a man with no clutter, no pot plants pushingthemselves against the windows like captive ghouls; a man of Tv andsport and sport on Tv—sounds I hear only when I don’t have radio 4 on.I wonder if he hears the Archers theme tune as he makes his tea, everyday at 7.

Then he gets a little parcel—no bigger than a postcard, about acentimetre thick.

Two days later, I get one exactly the same.And inside there is a little olympics pin badge—a limited edition

one as well—so I am not the only person who sends off for the EveningPost special offers. Good to know.

27th September 2012

The Bag

I have seen him come and go with that bag. Sometimes the bag is allI see, the white Dunlop logo disappearing with him round the corner,following him through the doorway of his house. And suddenly I haveto have one. Those bowling bags that I have always thought sohideous now drive in me a furious greed. I go into town, get off thebus and march with great purpose down Clumber Street, turning intothe logo emporium of Sports Direct. I feel myself out of place as Iweave through the racks of T-shirts, my eyes focussed on the back walland those bags.

I choose one quickly, decisively, barely looking at the price, feelinga great surge of satisfaction as I take my new bag to the counter.

It sits next to me now with its great yawning mouth, and I think howun-me it is.

I put things in my bag, feel a little swell of pleasure at how neatly ittakes A4 and how easily it accommodates the height of a water bottle. Itis wonderfully not me. I have made bags my ‘thing’, as women tend to do.All those birthday card jokes about women being shopaholics—the ‘youcan never have too many shoes’ jokes, yet there is the simple, behaviouraltruth of it: women pursue a thing of which a better version will always exist.Coats, earrings, bags, all acceptable materialisms—not too extravagant,but things that ever have a new range coming soon, an end-of-season sale,or merely a hierarchy of standard to luxury. I know bags. I can spot a newseason mulberry, radley or Bridge, or name the range from which any ofthe 300 varieties of kipling come from. I am the girl that strokes the leather,examines the stitching of the lining and, on occasion, asks the staff if I cantry my journal in it for size. I am the bag pervert.

Now I look down into the yawning mouth of my bag, unlined andpocketless—a disorganisation that would usually horrify me, but nowfeels pleasingly clear.

It is a not-me bag and that’s what makes it so very pleasing.[Note, I may be odd, but I realise it is important that mr richard

Cooper does not see my new bag. It is my little secret.]one day when I have taken my flat-length sprint, I will open the

blinds, tap on the window and stand stark naked holding only the bag.That’d scare him.

8th October 2012

more post without a specific flat number is delivered to the front,rather than side door. I think mr richard Cooper’s birthday is on theway. Two cards with handwritten addresses and a small parcel arrive.one card from Taunton, the other reveals little about itself. I don’tkeep these hostage, honest. I just write a tiny message down theside—a literal text message of ‘hello from your neighbour’. I doubt hesaw it, but I am pleased by my gesture; I feel I have been friendly.

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A Question of Names

Yes, you at the back there in the hat.Why use his full name? That’s a very good question with a simple

answer: that’s who he is to me.He is not mr Cooper—a formal, grey-suited man. He is certainly not

richard—too flippant, the address of an acquaintance or so-and-so’sfriend.

mr r. Cooper opens a letter from his doctors. Would he like tobenefit from the free chlamydia check? No mr r. Cooper would not,thank you very much.

richie would be posing for the camera draped over the bonnet ofhis golf, all gelled hair and tight jeans.

rich would be signed by hand at the bottom of a note: Mum, goneto gym, back 6ish, Rich. PS decorator called—something about hallway?

rC is neatly embossed on the handle of his cricket bat. The letterstake off with possibility: radio Controlled? roman Catholic? on thetourist map: churches here, here and here: rC.

Close, too close to ’arsey’.A Taurean perhaps: private, stubborn, sensitive. Ahh no, but a

birthday in october—coloured envelopes with handwritten addresses.Speculation of course, but my mr richard Cooper has a birthday inoctober.

9th October 2012

Facing Facts

The landlord oils mr richard Cooper’s door. Now he can come and gowith the stealth of a tiger.

my flat-length sprint is no longer necessary anyhow, because Irealise I know what he looks like. He is the man who often passes meoutside when I go to Asda. Somewhere in my subconscious, I knew.Despite all the obvious clues—bag, sports clothes, heading in the right

direction for the flats—I had not admitted that this is mr richard Cooper.He has been anonymous until proven otherwise.

Yesterday, though, our eyes met. We both looked away, but notbefore recognition. recognition feels like it should go with words like‘spark/flash/glimmer’—sudden realisations, the dawning of newknowledge—Eureka! But this was tacit, the tiniest dip of the head:‘Yes, I know it is you’ that brought a sudden red-cheeked flush ofexposure.

Then came a sense simply of difference. ‘opposites attract’ doesn’tfit here, because even that infers polar ends of sameness, for example ifone person liked jaffa cakes and the other didn’t, they do at least knowwhat a jaffa cake is. We are in entirely different worlds. unfortunately formr richard Cooper, I am insatiably curious about his. I don’t think—butwait! I could be wrong—he would snoop around my flat, given thechance. Nor press a glass against his wall, examine postal marks or takeletters hostage.

December 2012

Farewell Mr Richard Cooper

mr richard Cooper is leaving. Not that he was ever really here as such,but his imprint was.

Was: already I am referring to him in past tense, when really hehasn’t gone yet. Time left for a token farewell.

I flick through my CDs—that catalogue of whims and crazes,fleeting infatuations, and the more long-standing loyalties. The ones youbought because everyone else had them—Eminem—and the ones youfelt duty-bound to buy—the World Cup songs (even despite beingoblivious to the ‘three lions on a shirt’ patriotism, believing until recentlyit was ‘three lines’ to advertise Adidas). I pause over Candle in the Wind,Goodbye England’s Rose, but no, best to follow my first instincts, the songalready trailing through my mind.

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Ah ha, bingo! I wasn’t amongst the first screaming Spice Girls fans,and only once the wave had begun to recede, when the group began tobicker and have babies, did I truly warm to them. I remember that cringe-inducing Christmas of my dance ‘routine’. Strutting short-skirted,purple-lipsticked down the stairs singing into a hairbrush: Wait wait,where’s Nan? Nan didn’t see. James rewind the tape, just a minute. Muuuumcome back we’re doing it now…

I set my CD player up in the kitchen, stretch the cable round thecorner to the bathroom. richie routine is in his kitchen. In ten minutes,the smell of his tea will drift into the bathroom. The song comes out abit louder than I’d anticipated and I lunge forwards as the tiles buzzGoodbye back at me. Then I sit on the toilet—well, there’s nowhere elseto sit—and let the song reach its fade out.

Goodbye mr richard Cooper.

Epilogue

What does mr richard Cooper leave? Even though he’s no longer thereboiling the kettle a wall away, he leaves a girl with the tendency to leanon the toilet, so as to wee silently on the side of the bowl.

Lauren Colley studied English at Cambridgeuniversity. After this she returned to Nottinghamand worked as a Dementia Support Worker, an areaof interest that has inspired some of her recentwriting. Next year she will embark on the CreativeWriting mA at Nottingham university. She has justmoved into a new home and is trying hard not tostalk her neighbours.

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INDOOR FIREWORKS

Julie Burke

the doorbell trillsit’s heryour belly flips and fizzesshe looks at you baffled for a momentthen she twinkles her smileand even though your sister’s in town she shimmers in past youshe seems happy to stayyou sit opposite her at the tableit’s simpleshe’s easy to talk toyou’re funnyshe laughsher rings clink as she curls her fingers around her mug of teashe scoops her dazzling hair back behind one earand settles her chin into her handyou want to declare that she is exquisiteinstead you ask if she wants a biscuitshe says ok as she moves overshe’s beside younot touching youbut closehow long will she stayis she glad your sister’s out


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you want to offer more teabut movingeven just breathing will extinguish thisso you sitthen you hear the car pull inyou panic and shoot out of your seatyou babble you’ve only been here a minute okshe looks baffled againbut she says okand here comes your sisterladen with shoes or jumpers or make-upfiery faced you leave the roomyou cherish each momentwhen she was yourswhile they laugh about how nicely you make tea

Julie Burke ran a balloon shop in Newcastle-upon-Tyne for six years before moving back to her nativeNottingham. She's also served time as an au pair,English coach, toymaker, library assistant, biscuitinspector and sandwich vendor. She prefers writingpoetry and recently had a little flurry of piecespublished. She is particularly thrilled to have beenselected for inclusion in the NWS Journal.

He had never imagined till now that there were things in thisworld besides pastries and watches and sweet pears, thingsfor which no name could be found in the vocabulary ofchildhood.

Anton Chekhov

That first day working at the crematorium, I was cold and hungry. I wasalways cold and hungry. I reached into the secret pocket my mother hadsewn into my overalls. There was a small piece of dark, stale bread that Ihad saved from the rations I sometimes had to deliver to the men’sbarracks.

As soon as my mother saw the bread, she grabbed my hand andpushed it back into my pocket. “Not here, ruth, you silly girl.”

During those days she wore one of two masks: one was frighteningand the other was sad. I looked up into her frightened eyes. Perhaps shewas scared, but I was still upset and cross with her.

The crematorium was close to the river, but it was quite shallow atthis point, and we had to stand at the edge in a stew of mud. I could seeother women and children standing in the shallow part of the river. Wewere told to stand with them, about an arm’s length apart from eachother, forming a winding line from the edge of the water to the hardsteps of the crematorium. I could see that each urn being passed alongfrom one person to another had a date of birth, a date of death and an

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ANGEL’S TEETH

A TAlE For CHIlDrEN

Debbie Moss


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identification number, just like the one I had been given on the day Iarrived at the camp.

There were lots of SS men walking around. Whenever there wasany activity, there were SS men milling around. There was smokebelching out of the crematorium drifting through the bare branchesof trees. In the last months there was always smoke. I tried hard tobreathe though my mouth so I could avoid the stale smell that hungin the air. In the dark strands of hair that had escaped from my mother’shead-covering, I could see small white flakes of snow, which had settledlike sprinkles of sugar.

Eventually I was handed an urn by a woman whose face I couldhardly see, as her scarf was wrapped so tightly round her neck and face.I held the urn towards me; my mother told me to pass it on quickly but Iheld it closely against my clothes.

“Pass it on ruth!” my mother shouted. I passed it back to the womanwho had struggled to give me the urn. She had held on to the urn sotightly that when I went to take it, she pulled the urn back towards her.She had tears in her eyes and kept crying, “my son, my son, please,please.”

my mother had tried to grab the urn from me before the womanhad already taken it back. But the crying woman’s arms were by thenalready tightly wrapped around her child.

The SS man shouted again, ”Schnell! Schnell!” He snatched the urnfrom the woman and threw the ashes into the river. He then grabbed thewoman and marched her away.

my mother put her arms around my head so that I could hardlybreathe and pushed my head hard against her flat, empty stomach. ButI could still see the ashes in the river. They did not sink and I could seethem merging with the other ashes as they lay unsettled on the dark,cold water.

I did not hear the gunshot that my mother and all the other peoplestanding near the crematorium heard that day. No sound reached me

when it happened. The skies did not darken as others later recounted intheir own stories of that day. I did not hear my mother cry or feel herheart thump.

I was too busy staring at the angel drifting above the water. At first Ididn’t realise it was an angel, as the smoke appeared to curl into strangeshapes but then I saw its smoky, grey-tipped feathered wings.

“look!” I cried to my mother. “He must have been coming for thechild!”

But my mother didn’t seem to be listening to me. She was probablystill cross with me about the bread and not handing her the urn.

“Please, ruth, you must just concentrate on passing the urns. Whymust you always ignore my instructions?”

The SS officer ordered the angel to join the line to replace thewoman who had been taken away. He was told to hurry. more SS mencame marching along the line shouting at everyone to hurry up. I wantedto talk to the angel, but I was frightened of the SS men. So, to please mymother, I tried to keep quiet and carried on passing the urns. but I wasglad because when it was time to return to the barracks, the angelfollowed us. I tried to turn round to look at the angel but my mother kepttwisting my head so I was facing the line of workers in front of us. I didn’tsee the angel again until later that evening.

Everybody’s clothes smelt of smoke and were caked with dirt, dustand ash that had fallen on to the floor. Before my mother went to sleep,she did what she always did and swept the room.

“Greta, leave that now and sleep,” said Hana, the woman who hadbecome one of my mother’s closest friends in the barracks. “ruth wasvery lucky today, you need to speak to her. Who knows how long we mayhave to work at the Crematorium? Perhaps the SS man took pity on her,because she is a child like the boy in the urn.”

“He was ten,” my mother said, pulling up my blanket around myhead, gently kissing my hair and wishing me happy Channukah. very

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quietly, she pushed a piece of bread she had saved for me under myblanket before climbing into her own bunk. She began to dust down herbedding. my mother slept in the middle layer of one the bunks and I sleptunderneath her.

I don’t think I had been asleep for very long when I was awoken bya ruffling sound coming from the corner of the room. That’s when I sawthe angel huddled in the corner, with his great wings wrapped aroundhis body. my mother and all the other women had fallen asleep. I wentand sat by him. He woke and stretched out his soiled, grey wings andshook them until all the vermin fell out. He looked quite old and therewere many creases in his skin. He smiled at me and as he moved tounfold his wings, I noticed his mouth was filled with darkened yellowteeth that glistened slightly in the moonlight entering the room fromthe small, narrow window.

“You can’t stay here, you must go to the men’s barracks,” I told him.“Yes I know, and I will, but your father wants me to give you this.” He

pulled out a doll from one of the folds within his wings. I recognised herblonde hair, although it was now darkened by dirt and dust, her pink silkdress was no longer shiny and the blue ribbon in her hair was faded.

“Eva!” I cried.“Your father wishes you happy Channukah,” said the angel.I told the angel how my mother had told me not to pack my doll

when we had to leave our small village near to Prague. She had told meto leave it with our neighbour for safekeeping, as she had her besttablecloths. I told him how I packed her anyway, wrapping her tightlyinside a blanket and putting her in my rucksack, but then my fatherfound her and hid her inside his false leg. The angel said my father hadhoped to get it to me when he was delivering bread to the women’sbarracks, but that he had not been working in the kitchen or thevegetable gardens, since he had been made to use his dentistry skills.

“I must tell my mother. Perhaps this news will please her,” I said tothe angel.

“No, no, just tell her that he is still in the camp.”The angel smiled and listened whilst I told him how my father had

hid extra bread rations in his leg and sometimes had managed to getthem to us, though my mother was always worried that he would getcaught.

The angel said that it was important for him to get back to the men’sbarracks, that he was tired and that he would see me the next day at theriver. As he left, I stuffed the doll inside my pillow. When the time wasright I would show her to my mother. It wasn’t long before I fell asleep.

The next day we were marched down to the crematorium. The angelwas already making up part of the line. The urns were quickly beingpassed along the line, but when the angel came to pass the urn, his largewings got in the way, slowed down by the heavy weight of the mudcaught in the feathers at their tips.

The SS man came to see what was holding up the activity. He pulledthe angel out of the line and marched him away.

Days passed, and some people had said that the angel had been madeto work collecting potatoes in the vegetable gardens. I was quite surethat he would have been able to collect and carry large amounts in hiswings, stuffed between pockets of feathers. many people had soonforgotten about the angel, or were only thinking about how cold andhungry they were.

my mother’s sadness lifted a little some seven days later. It was thelast night of Channukah, and when we got back from the crematoriumthere was a pile of potatoes in the room. They had all been halved andscooped out, and there were eight in total. Inside each potato was a wickmade from very fine torn threads, possibly from blankets or evenfeathers. The threads had been twisted tightly together. Inside a shoe-polish tin was a small amount of oil, the sort of fine oil that would beneeded to work a machine.

“It must be from the angel,” I cried.

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“This is from your father, putting himself in danger. He has obviouslybeen stealing from the vegetable garden again. I don’t know where hehas got the oil from.”

“Perhaps he is working in the factory now,” said Hana.I wanted to tell them both about what the angel had said about my

father now working in dentistry again, but he’d told me that it was bestnot to tell my mother. Everyone agreed that my mother should light thecandles. Hana stood posted at the door to act as a lookout. my mothermade three blessings, then we quietly sang the traditional Channukahsongs. For a moment nothing else mattered. We were all dreaming ofhome, of people we loved, but most of all we were dreaming aboutmiracles.

* * *Eventually the snows melted, the mud by the river hardened and thewinds that blew the ash across the water grew warmer. The sproutingleaves on the trees reached out for the sun. one warm may day, I walkedout of the camp with my mother and father, tightly clutching my doll.my mother shielded my eyes from the piles of objects that lined the exitof the camp, but I was still just able to make out some grey, dirty feathertips poking through a mound of orphaned shoes.

Debbie Moss is completing an mA in Creative Writingat Nottingham university. Before this she was aGeography Course leader on the PGCE course atkeele university, after teaching for 23 years in schoolsin london and Nottingham. She completed aFellowship in Holocaust Education with The ImperialWar museum in 2009 and is using this work to informher dissertation.

A cold day dawning bright when it happened.Fair hair falling angry over his dark faceConnor culled the last of the winter-calves

death-warmth dropped with its own intended milkinto Deirdre’s cold lap as he left hernothing to show for his kingly attention.

Black birds fell down then, swirling fast behindtaking up blood thick-clotting on frosted groundwhile cream-lipped from the jug and smiling she said

I would have a man of those colourshair of the raven, cheeks like bloodnew-settled snow his own white skin.

Dark as mourning, those crows arose in clamouryet silenced by the sound of one man’s voiceas deep and clear as a stag in the dawn.

She could smell the sweat on his skin, somehowfeel his breath, hanging moist on her cold neckin a part of her mind not quite awake

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RAVEN-RAGSPaul Stapleton


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but ripe for something to happen and soon.overwhelmed by the need for just his touchonly to hold—even to be held—she said,

I am sick now that I know of himand will be no better until he is mine.I won’t hear of anything else before then.

For old Connor, grey at the muzzle and corpse-breathed, she felt no love at allDeirdre had the need for a much younger bull.

Her first-blood flowed full and with painful pangsas cramped over, she hid her conditionwith red-rags fed to ravens arrived

to help veil her availability.They followed her ever after, bound upin blood-deception, their sanguine secret shared.

Paul Stapleton has lived in Nottingham for nearlyforty years, only writing fiction in the last five, versefor even less. old English/Irish, both historic andmythic interests him; all we have now from beforethat written dawn are decimated monkishtranscripts of mostly lost oral tradition. He would liketo develop a graphic approach but he is no artist.

Early June, 1876, St Kilda Island

A fine mist hung over the mountaintop, but the sun reached acrossthe bay and onto the semicircle of houses. Fiona stepped out of theFactor’s house, glad of the night’s rest on solid ground, and took adeep breath. This was to be her home for the next few years. Shestared at the deep curved bowl of the mountainside that stretcheddown to the bay shore. So different from the smoke and dark stone ofEdinburgh. on the boat over, she had wondered what kept people onthese islands, their lives unchanged over the centuries, especially atsuch a personal cost.

But this place had a magnificence of its own. Green grass coveredthe lower slopes where the crofters’ plots were marked out with stones.Smaller structures, barely the size of a kennel and covered with turf,dotted the area. A stone wall curved from one corner of the bay, up andaround the ploughed enclosures and down to the other end of the bay.Higher up, sheep meandered gently through the bracken. The Dun, aspit of land off to her left, was separated by a finger of sea water. The airfelt clean, vibrant, life-giving, in a way she hadn’t experienced before.She could understand why this place had held fast to untold generations.And now it was up to her to make sure that the price didn’t remain sohigh. The breeze tugged gently at her skirt and she reached up to makesure that her nurse’s cap was firmly fixed.

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Footsteps approached from behind. She turned.“Good morning, Nurse mckauley.” It was Alex mcCallum, the

schoolteacher.“Call me Fiona, please,” she said, smiling. He had welcomed her off

the boat, shown her to her lodgings in the Factor’s House and providedher with food for the week. The rest of the islanders had been morebelligerent.

Yesterday, the ship from Glasgow had anchored, mid-morning, in thebay. The island had looked uninhabited, apart from the barking dogs atthe water’s edge. only when the ship’s whistle blew did people emergefrom the fields and houses. The islanders gathered on the water’s edge,arms crossed. Eventually, a couple of men hauled out a small row boatand with some effort, managed to reach the ship.

At the shore, the waiting islanders all stepped back.only Alex came forward. “You must be Nurse mckauley.” He greeted

her in Gaelic. “Delighted to meet you.” He turned to the crowd. “Come.make Nurse mckauley welcome.”

“Does she carry the plague with her?” asked one man, leaningforward.

Fiona was startled. “No. I’m here to help you stay healthy. To helpwith the births.”

“You a Sassenach then?” barked a voice from the back.“A Sassenach? No. Born and raised in Fife. Why?”“It’s Sassenachs that bring illness, and we don’t want any of that.

last year the boat bought us all the Cold. Just managed to get over itbefore winter.”

“If you’re a Sassenach, you’ll not manage to recruit any of us. We’renot for fighting your battles.”

“No. rest assured, there is no war going on,” Alex said. “All is peacefulon the mainland. I am right, aren’t I, Nurse mckauley? You’ve not cometo report war.” he turned to her.

She shook her head. “Certainly not.”one woman, stocky and wearing heavy skirts, stepped forward,

reaching out her hand. It was filthy, caked in mud. Fiona flashed aquestioning look at Alex and then took it reluctantly. She shook handswith them all. The hands were mucky, and at times accompanied by anacrid unpleasant smell.

That evening, about twenty-five villagers, mostly adults, had followed herinto the house. They squatted on the clay floor in the kitchen, watching.

mr mcCallum sat at the table. He indicated Fiona who stood withher back resting against the cool wall.

“This is Fiona mckauley. She’s come all the way from Edinburgh, tohelp with the babies, help them to live beyond the ‘eight-day sickness’.She’s been trained in nursing and delivering, and you must call her whenthe pains start.”

Fiona looked round at the men and women. Their pale faces hadweathered, turning brown in the wind and sun. Creases lined theirforeheads and cheeks, and their hair was matted. The men’s bonnetsrested on their knees.

one man, well-bearded, spoke up. “Why would we need such aperson?”

Another said, “If a babe can’t survive beyond eight days, they aren’tgoing to be strong enough for this life. Best to find out early.”

“Aye.”“Isn’t that the lot of women?”one woman, arms crossed, stepped forward. “‘myself and Ann. We

deliver the bairns. We manage well on our own. We’ve no reason to truststrangers and their crackpot notions.”

A younger woman nodded. “They’ve delivered many babies. We’veno need for you.”

“Yes, but how many survive?” asked Alex quietly. “How manychildren have you had, Ailsa?”

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Ailsa’s head dipped slightly. “Borne eight, buried six.”Fiona felt enormous sadness for the woman. “But that’s not the way

it has to be,” she said, aware of her cheeks flushing. “It’s not natural for somany to die.”

An older man, his hands gnarled like old roots, stood up. He brushedhis jacket down. “If it’s God’s will that babies should die, nothing you cando will save them!” Having spoken, he walked round the group andheaded out through the door.

The group spoke quietly, but with authority. None was upset byanother’s suggestion, even when they shook their heads.

The others gradually stood up, the men twisting their bonnets intheir hands. Some heads were nodding, while other people frowned,their bright eyes temporarily hooded. They all excused themselvespolitely, and headed out. Through the small window, Fiona watchedthem walking together up towards the village houses and their families.These people needed help and Fiona knew, after ten years of work andtraining, that she was good at her job.

Today was her first day. The Glasgow boat had left and no-one wascertain when the next boat was expected. It all depended on theconditions at sea.

She smiled at Alex. “It’s some sight,” she said.He nodded. “Not like Edinburgh.”She had to agree. The air felt fresh, blown in straight off the sea. The

islanders were stocky, ruddy cheeked, strong with bright blue eyes. Theyhad easily carried her luggage and the supplies from the boat.

“And yet...” she said.“I know. The babies. That’s why you are here. Now, we’re going to

meet mary. Her babe is four days old now. And seems very healthy, goodpair of lungs, I’ve heard!”

They walked along the Street, a well-trodden path that ran behindthe row of sixteen Hebridean-style stone houses. The small, rectangular

buildings, their backs facing the sea, had a central door and a glazedwindow on either side. The corrugated zinc roofs shivered in the wind,creating an oddly musical sound that contrasted with the constant cryof the seagulls.

Alex stopped outside the third cottage, and knocked on thewooden door before walking in. “Come. mary is fine to see you.”

The house was dark inside, and it took Fiona’s eyes a couple ofminutes to adapt. She was in a small space that led straight forwardinto an open closet. To the left was a square room with an earthen floor.A small, crudely carved wooden table and two chairs stood in front ofthe fireplace, in which burned a small pile of peat. Smoke driftedthrough, smarting her eyes. To her right was a darker room that smeltof milk, blood, human waste. It brought back an image of slumdwellings in Edinburgh. She’d delivered babies in worse places thanthis house.

She walked in to the right, her eyes adjusting to the dark shadowsuntil she saw a woman sitting on the bed with a baby suckling noisily ather breast.

“mary? That’s a fine babe you’ve got there.”mary stared at Fiona. She looked down at the noise and shrugged.

“It’s nothing, not yet. Hasn’t been decided if this babe will live or die.”Fiona squatted on the floor beside mary who leaned backwards as

far as she could go.“Don’t come near me. Don’t want to catch it off you.”Fiona stood up, startled. “All right.” She sat on a small stool leaning

against the opposite wall. For a few minutes, while the baby fed, shetalked quietly to mary. Asked her about her family, what she did on theisland. mary informed her that this child was her fourth birthing, butnone so far had survived the eight-day sickness.

Fiona’s hand went to her chest.The baby finished, and mary put it down on the bed.“may I see—is it a girl or a boy?” Fiona asked

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mary tipped her head to one side. “I don’t know. Catherine wrappedit before I could see. Told me not to unwrap it until it’s reached ten days.”

Fiona crept across. She kept her arms firmly behind her back whileshe leant over the bundle. The child was tightly swaddled in an old, filthyblanket. Its face was soft, and it posseted a dribble of milk that soakedinto the wrapping. A nauseating smell of stinking fish emanated fromthe bundle. Fiona tried not to gag.

“Tell me. What did they do with the stump? Do you know?” sheasked.

mary shrugged.“may I look?” said Fiona. “Can I open this blanket?”mary leant across the baby. “No. You’ll only bring harm to the child.”Fiona stepped back. “Have you any clean clothes for it?” she

asked.mary shook her head. “Not until the ten days have passed.”Fiona pulled the stool over to mary. She asked her about feeding,

about how she was feeling, about her bleeding and how often babyfed. She recommended that mary clean her hands when she pickedup the child, and ideally put some clean clothes on it, but she knewthat mary would not listen. All they could do was wait out the nextfew days.

She emerged from the house into sunshine. The mist was lifting andthe top of the mountain was becoming visible.

“You all right?” asked Alex.“No, not really,” said Fiona. “I’ve never seen such filthy rags on a baby.

And the smell of fish...”“Hah. That’s something you’ll get used to. Fulmar oil. It gets

everywhere. After a while you won’t notice it!” said Alex. “It’s used onwounds, and when your legs or arms are tired, especially after they havebeen catching the birds.”

Fiona drew in a couple of breaths of fresh air. maybe this constantwind was a good thing. “Think I’ll go back and get cleaned up.”

“I’ll walk with you. I’ve got a class soon. After lunch, the women’ll bein the fields. look for rachel and morag. Both due to have their babiessoon.”

That afternoon she walked around, introducing herself to the women,inviting them for a cup of hot tea. one of them pointed out rachel onthe middle field, her pregnancy visible even under layers of petticoatsand skirts. Fiona watched as rachel stood up and pressed her hands intothe small of her back before rubbing the top of her belly. Her basket wasfilled with potatoes from their patch of land, and she lifted it carefully,carrying the produce to the cleit for storage before turning back downto the cottages.

Fiona headed down to the Street to meet her. As rachel reachedthe path, Fiona noticed another woman stopping to talk to rachel,resting her own hands on rachel’s belly. rachel nodded, head lowered,and the woman moved on. rachel paused, leaning against the wall, hershoulders sagged.

Fiona walked up to her. “mrs mckinnon? rachel? mr mcCallummentioned you. I’m Nurse mckauley, but call me Fiona, please.”

“oh.” rachel stared at her.“How are you?” Fiona asked. “I can see that the baby is almost due.”rachel crossed her hands protectively over her stomach. “Catherine

says seven days.”Fiona nodded. “And have you been well?”rachel shrugged. “As well as can be. We’ve not had the Cold this

time, so not too bad.”“Can I come and talk to you? About the baby.”rachel looked down the street. Behind her, two women were

chatting outside their houses, and mary was sitting in her doorway.one woman strode towards Fiona and rachel.“Don’t talk to her.” The strident voice reverberated off the stone

walls, making rachel jump.

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“Catherine,” said rachel. “It’s Nurse mckauley.”“Hello, Catherine,” said Fiona, recognising her from the meeting

yesterday.“mrs Ferguson, please,” said Catherine.“my apologies, mrs Ferguson. I was just talking to rachel about her

baby. I’ll be here to deliver it when it arrives.”Catherine stopped beside them, planting her feet about twelve

inches apart, letting her heavy skirts hang down to her boots. Wisps offair hair spiraled from under her red scarf and her arms crossed in frontof her broad chest. She stood a few inches taller than Fiona. “Is that right?Well, we’ve no need for any help. I told you, we’ve two of us now thatsort it. myself and Ann.”

Fiona nodded. “I’d love to talk with you. There’s new methods, ideasto prevent the eight-day sickness...”

“Hmm. Don’t think there is much you can help with. We’re used tobabies here.”

”I know,” Fiona said. “And I’m here to make sure more of themsurvive.”

Catherine stared pointedly at Fiona’s bag. “Your tricks won’t workhere,” she said. “Come, rachel. let’s get you back to your man, and achance to sit.” Catherine hooked an arm through rachel’s, twisting herso they walked side by side. As rachel moved away, she turned her head.Her bright blue eyes stared straight at Fiona, pleading. Fiona gave a quicksmile back, afraid of the strength of Catherine’s hold on rachel.

rain battered the windows the next day, so Fiona was surprised whenAlex walked straight into the kitchen

“I knocked.” He stood, dripping. “It’s mary’s baby, it’s not sucking.”Fiona leapt up and grabbed her overcoat and bag. She followed

Alex out, head down into the wind and rain.mary’s house was steaming with damp clothing and smoke. The

kitchen was filled with women, all voicing their own opinions. Fiona

turned to rachel and told her to go home, to stay away. mary sat in thebedroom, holding the baby to her nipple, but it wasn’t sucking. Themewing noises it made were pitiful.

“Cried all night long. Never once drank.”Catherine was there, trying to force a spoonful into the mouth. It

spilled out, running down the chin. Fiona could see the throatconstricting.

mary laid the child down on the bed. She turned her head away.Catherine swept the child into her arms and took it through to thekitchen. Fiona followed and watched as they tried to feed warm whiskyand milk through a bottle, then a spoon.

over the next three days, Fiona argued with the women to cleanthe child, to put it into clean clothes, to feed it with breast milk. It wasuseless. They refused to listen and she could only watch as the child’sjaws clamped together, making any feeding impossible. All the while,the baby’s eyes shone bright and it mewed piteously. Then on the thirdday, the jaw fell open. The women left, heads bowed. The child died soonafter.

Fiona offered to clean the child for burial. mary shrugged. Her eyesand face were blank, and she sat on the stool, arms wrapped aroundherself, gently rocking.

Fiona eased the blanket off the body, aware of manure and mudand an intense fish smell. It came from an oily cloth that had beenwrapped round the cord. She loosened this and recoiled at the pus andinfection inside. other than that, the baby looked normal. All the fingersand toes were present and the limbs and torso had a natural shape. Shedipped a rag in the bucket of water beside her and cleaned the boy,rewrapping him in part of a clean sheet from the Factor’s House.

The funeral took place the same afternoon. The minister talked aboutGod’s Will, and Fiona vowed never again to come to one of his sermons.But his hold on the islanders was absolute. Afterwards, in the cemetery,

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none had spoken to her, all had turned their backs. In a place such asthis, how did new ideas ever get a hold? She had been here a week,and still the women refused to talk to her. Back in Edinburgh, she hadnever felt as lonely or isolated as she did now. Yet she had chosen towork here because of its isolation, and because she thought she couldmake a difference. maybe she was wrong and it would be best to catchthe next boat out. Certainly her own mother would be pleased, andwould renew her attempts to get Fiona married, even at this late age.But Fiona knew that would mean abandoning the St kilda women likerachel and morag, and all the children yet to be born. She couldn’t dothat, not when she knew how to help. She had to find a way to earntheir trust.

That evening, Fiona met rachel walking along the shore. The seagullsswooped and called, filling the air with their cries.

“How can we stop it?” said rachel. Her hand was over her mouth,her voice quiet. “I don’t want, can’t...”

“rachel. let me deliver your child, and it won’t happen. I know whatto do. I’ve delivered dozens of babies in my time. None of them have this.”

“But they are saying that you brought it with you—you infectedmary’s child. And you bewitched mary. She won’t leave the house now.”

“listen. In Edinburgh, there are scientists, looking for the causes.They are studying data, looking at methods...”

rachel stepped away. “That’s witch talk. Catherine was right. Youcan’t help us, just want to...”

“No, rachel.” Fiona shook her head. It was all going wrong. She hadto make rachel understand, otherwise all the modern knowledge andskills would remain a secret to these people. “listen. I don’t know whatthe sickness is, or where it comes from, but it was here before I was, soyou know I didn’t bring it. And I can help. I know I can.” To her horror,dampness stung the corners of her eyes. She’d never win these people’strust by acting weak. She turned to leave, hoping at least that rachel

would think about what she had said. She would have to try againtomorrow.

To her utter surprise, a hand on her arm stopped her. It didn’t clutchor grab; she could barely feel it. But it carried the weight of mountains.

“rachel,” said Fiona. “I promise I will do all I can to keep your childalive. You have to trust me.”

“But Catherine. She won’t let anyone else in,” rachel said, her facepale in the fading light. “I’m so scared. I don’t want this child to be born,I want to keep it safe in here forever. Neil and I... we can’t bear to loseanother...”

late the following afternoon, rachel arrived at the house. Fiona broughther in, nodding to Neil, who then left. She had a mattress set on thekitchen floor and the fire was burning gently.

rachel’s pains continued through the night. By early morning, thebaby’s head was visible. Fiona kept refreshing a bucket of hot water,washing her hands each time she checked rachel. The baby girl arrivedin one final push and Fiona passed a knife through a hot flame threetimes before severing the cord. She promptly covered the umbilicalstump in a clean dressing before wrapping the girl in a boiled-cleansheet. The baby was perfect, the slightly rounded limbs suggested agood birth weight, and she let out a healthy cry before rachel put herto the breast.

The kitchen door slammed open and Catherine stomped under thedoor frame.

“This is not your business. You, bringing devilry to our island,”Catherine almost spat at Fiona before turning her attention. “rachel. Whyare you not at home?”

“Catherine. We are both tired. rachel has been safely delivered of agirl. Go and tell her husband.”

“Now we wait,” said rachel muttering into the baby’s thick blackhair.

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Catherine tried, several times, to visit and rewrap the child. rachel wassuch a bundle of worry that Fiona insisted she stay with her. on day five,the girl was feeding well and the cord had fallen off, leaving a healthybelly button.

Fiona asked Alex to watch over rachel, while she visited morag, thedaughter-in-law of Catherine. She talked to her in the smoky darknessof her house, unsure if morag could break through the family loyalty.

By day ten, rachel’s child was fattening up. And rachel bought outa new blanket she had made. Fiona insisted it be washed first before shelet the child be wrapped up in it. on day fifteen, Elizabeth mackinnonwas christened and all the islanders were present.

Fiona didn’t attend. She was busy delivering morag’s baby. Theservice lasted long enough to detain Catherine until Fiona had cut andbandaged the umbilical cord. While morag rested, Fiona took the cleanedbabe out for his first breath of island air. Scruffy clouds clung to themountain top and the boy stared at them, then yawned.

Fiona cradled him close, her voice a whisper. “I kept my promise.And let me tell you a secret, I’m not going anywhere. I’ll keep you safe.”

The baby yawned again, eyes closing, unaware of Catherine stridingtowards them. Fiona turned back to the cottage, the baby warm andhealthy in her arms.

Anne McDonnell owns and runs Pewter rose Press,a Nottingham independent publisher focusing onpublishing short stories. She has worked as aprimary teacher and an information scientist, writingabstracts for a royal Society of Chemistry journal.She is currently writing her first novel.

For My Husband,

Our life in a book.

May these memories be forever at your side,if not in your head.

Your Wife

Full-Back, 1993This is how I saw you. Huge, bent, storming; everything blurred apartfrom you. Streaks of green, red, brown, then you on top. All the faces aresmudged except yours. look at your hands; huge, splayed, but cradlingthat rugby ball as if it were something precious.

We met on a day like this.I fell in love on a day like this.

Dark Nights, 1994You wanted to escape. You tried so many things, but in the beginningalcohol served you best.

This is Adrian’s 21st. You look happy; your eyes melting outwards,your face torn open by the biggest smile. I longed to share that joy; Ilonged to evoke it. You are hanging from Adrian’s shoulders; cheeksshiny, hair harrowed in whichever direction you last pulled your hand.You were drunk, not happy.

When the music stopped—drink dried to sticky residue, sunshinedull behind drawn curtains—I longed for you to love me. But I can admitit now; your abandon was just that, you didn’t care about much at all.

45

TAKING FLIGHTJoanne Gibson


46

You staggered for four years beneath street lamps, through strobelights, cheered on by rugby teams, university mates, school friends,colleagues. Women.

When you and rob tried to steal a boat from the river bank you fellin, going under, then tearing through the liquid blanket, shuddering,swearing and grinning. You fell from a roof terrace, limped to casualty,then limped out with stitches and half the nurses’ mobile numbers. Youstole a bike instead of ordering a cab and I clung to your waist, laughing.

I rode your choppy wake fiercely, desperately.And finally, you were accepted to flying school. So, you turned your

back on your playground and left for New Zealand as I crashed; tired,thirsty and lost.

An Antipodean Sunrise From the Cockpit of a 747, 1996For me, it is confusing. The clouds belong above me, not stretched outso I could kick through them like a child. Here, the diamond sun is withinreach, a promise on the horizon, shooting pale pink darts into dirtycotton wool. This was your world.

What about the day you saw two sunrises? You described it as ‘a littleunusual’. I thought it sounded magnificent.

As you soared above New Zealand, I ground through Britainweighted with doubt.

Graduation, 1996And then you came home. A pilot. The freedom you craved was yours.

You'll forgive me for mentioning here how this uniform made megiggle. It really should have been a noble photograph to commemoratethe event. only the shirt is too large, even for your broad shoulders, theshort sleeves too wide and the hat makes your hair stick out. Certainlynot the chiselled dignity they sold in the brochure.

But I believed I did see dignity; in your eyes—brown andpenetrating, like flashlights.

Our Wedding Day, 29th February 1997The photographer made us look like we were meeting here for the firsttime. The city gardens are white with snow. Black branches tangle at ourbacks and the glow from a leaden streetlamp warms our almost-caress.

He told you to reach for me. He captured a small woman in a reddress, dark hair spread across her fur stole, head tilted to the figurestanding over her.

But you did not touch me. Your hand fell away with the crack of flashand your head jerked towards the laughter inside the hall. Beyond thebeams and whitewashed timber waited a carnival of balloons, streamers,drapes and painted women who twirled and chattered. All but one. I cansee her now; black dress clinging, a black rose thrust into blonde hairwhile our celebration swirled around her. I wondered—only briefly—what was she waiting for?

Before long I was lost in a fog of champagne and when I found you,your hair was damp and snowflakes clung to your shoulders. I brushedthem and my doubt aside.

Home 199819 lansdowne road, Didsbury. red bricks and bright white walls. Thosesash windows let in the cold and a burglar. But I can hardly complain—Ichose it. You insisted I did; what did it matter to you for all the time youspent here.

It’s not a good photograph, but then I took it in a hurry. I thought itshould be in here and I will need to sell the place soon.

I shall not be sorry—it is haunted. When I was alone, there shouldhave been silence. Instead, each room hummed with questions and cruellaughter. I could hardly bear it. And when you came home, exhausted,you only crawled beneath the duvet, abandoning me to those foul ghosts.

The only real sounds punctuated your leaving. Whirs and snaps andthe full stop of the Yale lock. You left in the early hours and I too wouldget up to shuffle about the kitchen, matching your steps in my slippers.

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A pathetic dance lit by spotlights, repeated over years and reflected inthe kitchen window panes.

my skull heaved with questions planted by those hungry ghosts.‘When will you be back? Will you be late again? Will you tell me whereyou are? Do you miss me? Do you love me?’

If I had a photograph of your black silhouette as you made for thedoor I would paste it here. It is my memory. But I want you to see it.

Finally, your feet heralded your going; tut-tuts against tiles. Younever rushed anywhere, save that one time. Then your feet beat thestairs. But for once I was oblivious, crouched at the bottom of yourwardrobe, blood in my ears, brain glutted on terrible satisfaction.

Danielle, 1997I found her. mad with voices—anxious, unwashed and breathing thestench of my own sweat—I opened your wardrobe. Beneath flip-flops,t-shirts, hats and a drumstick I found what I was looking for. I must havethought the pounding was in my head. Then somehow I knew you werethere. I turned and dropped the photograph.

There was something scrawled on the back. But it was the face I hadglimpsed that mattered. Wide smile, eyes glazed. With drink? love?Blonde hair and a black rose. So inappropriate for a wedding—Iremember thinking so at the time.

When I picked her up, clutching her between thumb and forefinger,holding her out, you left without a word. But not for good. Neither of usknew it, but the disease was already here.

The first time you called me by her name, I was looking down onyou. Your large palm was on my waist; hard, squeezing, pressing valleysinto my flesh until I called out. And in response, you called her namebefore pushing yourself deeper into me.

That was the beginning. Progressively, your memory faded and yoursense of time and space and bodies dissolved. As it tightened its grip onyou, it made your secrets mine and I gorged myself on them until I was

sick. But I did not leave. After all, what had changed? She had alwaysbeen there—your escape, the one thing just out of reach— only now Icould name her. And in some way, you finally needed me.

Mnemosyne, 2009You made the kite at the day centre; still good with your hands, evennow. Delicacy is the only thing you have left. I named it mnemosyne—after the Greek god of memory. A cruel joke, but it was lost on you. Yousimply repeated it several times before it was gone.

I promised we would fly it, and I always keep my word. The windwas perfect. You held it above the cliff tops with a tenderness I envied. Iheard or read somewhere that to fly a kite is like shaking God’s hand. Ihope you felt that and it gave you just a fraction of the freedom of realflight. It was your first since the diagnosis—Early onset Dementia. Whenyou watched that nylon-strapped frame with narrowed eyes, with utterlyunflinching concentration, I think you were remembering.

You know, I had to smile when I put her photograph in the book. AsI daubed on glue, I finally read the back. She had printed two words:‘Never Forget’. A prophetic, confident sentiment at the time, I suppose.

But sadly ironic now, although I am not sure for whom. Each day, Ihold a limp hand and search eyes, devoid of care or recognition, and Iwonder whether you are lost, trapped and terrified inside. on the otherhand, you might be making your greatest escape.

Either way, I am tethered to the shell you have left behind. Andwhile you have forgotten, I never will.

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Jo Gibson joined Nottingham Writers' Studio inNovember 2013, determined to develop her writinghabit and become an active member of a creativecommunity. An undergraduate degree in Englishliterature and a masters in Creative Writing haveprovided structure and insight into the world ofliterature. Now comes the hard work of putting itinto practice.

This collection of work by Nottingham Writers’ Studiomembers addresses the theme of Secrets. There are secretsbetween couples, secret imaginings, secrets kept from thegods themselves, and attempts to break down and buildup walls of secrecy with varying success.

Founded in 2006, Nottingham Writers’ Studio is run bywriters for writers, and is dedicated to the support anddevelopment of all forms of creative writing.

As well as creating a vibrant social community forwriters to discuss and develop their work through courses,writing groups and live literature events, NWS haschampioned major writing events, including WEYA2013,the Eu-funded Dovetail Project, and Nottingham Festivalof Words, Nottingham’s first city-wide literature festival forover thirty years.

membership is open to committed writers who havebeen or are on the verge of being published, living in orconnected with Nottingham. Current members includenovelists, poets, songwriters, scriptwriters, copywriters,playwrights and publishers at all stages of their careers.our patron is 2012 International ImPAC Dublin Awardwinner Jon mcGregor.

NWS is supported by Arts Council Englandthrough Grants for the Arts.

www.nottinghamwritersstudio.co.uk

secrets: the nottingham writers' studio journal july 2014

Documents

nottingham ng1

stories of secrets

ring free

theme of secrets

theyre dead

cawing laugh

collection of work

ishow bella