Flashing On the Riviera

by Elizabeth Ducie

  My Dad had been a keen gardener ever since we moved into this little terraced house. It was the first time he'd had any land of his own to work on and he'd spent every weekend and evening from spring to late autumn tending his plants, nurturing the lawn and sweeping the paths. Over the winter months, he would read catalogues or leaf through reference books, always learning more about the great art of horticulture. My mother shared his interest, but couldn't keep up with his pace and enthusiasm.

  As soon as I was old enough to hold a trowel, he gave me a tiny patch in the corner of one bed for my own garden. But, to me, it was dark, dank and full of worms and insects. I had no interest in trying to grow things. I abandoned this in favour of scooters and roller skates as soon as I could.

  As I got older, he continued to try and involve me in his passion. If he was away during the growing season—although such occasions were rare—he would leave me long lists of tasks: watering the hanging baskets, debudding the chrysanths, dead heading the roses—and watering the tomatoes in the greenhouse. One year I completely forgot about those blessed tomatoes, and they were completely dried out and drooping by the time he returned. I don't think he ever forgave me for that. And gradually, he stopped trying to engage my interest.

  Until now.

  As I stared out of the back window yesterday evening, I noticed the grass was looking less pristine than usual. It was longer than it should be and full of daisies. Now, personally, I love the sight of daisies in a lawn—I even like the odd dandelion as well—but I know Dad hated them.

  Tomorrow, we will have a houseful of people, celebrating Dad's life, after we lay him to rest. I would hate for them to think things had got out of hand now Dad's not here to keep an eye on us. So today I pulled the mower out of the shed and did as good a job as I could, wishing I'd listened more to his instructions when I'd had the chance.

  And now as I finish trimming the edges, I look upwards to where I'm sure he's watching over me.

  "Better late than never, eh Dad?" I say. And in the distance, I swear I can hear him chuckling.

  Return to Table of Contents

  To Brittany and Beyond

  They'd looked forward to this trip for months. Their first overseas holiday since becoming 'empty nesters'. They would take the car across on the ferry to Calais, then head west towards Brittany. Two whole weeks with no-one chasing them from the office; no calls for help from demanding parents; no emergencies to be dealt with for irresponsible twenty-somethings.

  Brian spent days poring over maps, planning routes, avoiding toll roads and checking out bijou hotels en route. Cynthia worked her way through all the restaurant guides looking for out-of-the-way places where they could indulge themselves. They packed everything they might possibly need in to the back of the car and hit the road. It was going to be perfect.

  And for the first week, it was. The sun shone, the traffic was light and all their first choices had rooms available or tables free at just the right time.

  'This is the life, eh Cynth?' Brian said as he settled back with an Armagnac on the terrace after yet another four course extravaganza. 'I could get used to this, couldn't you?'

  Cynthia nodded but stared down at her hands, saying nothing. She was wondering just how many more plates of rich food she was going to have to face before they headed home. Her waistbands were tightening up and she felt light-headed from that last glass of wine Brian had insisted she have.

  'Yes, I'm really glad you suggested this, old girl.' he went on. At that her head shot up and her mouth fell open.

  'What do you mean? It was your idea!' she gasped.

  'No, I think you'll find it was you...'

  The pair looked at each other and then burst out laughing.

  'Oh Brian,' she said, 'wouldn't it be nice to be back home right now?'

  Early next morning, they loaded the car, pointed it eastward and headed back to Calais. By the time the Ten O’clock News came on, they were back home. And the next day, as the sun rose over both the United Kingdom and France, they pulled their loungers into the garden, grabbed their sunglasses and settled down for a quiet relaxing time, secure in the knowledge that no-one knew they were in the country and therefore they were guaranteed a peaceful few days.

  'And when you're hungry, I've got us a nice bit of salad for lunch,' said Cynthia.

  'This is the life, eh Cynth?' Brian said. 'I could get used to this. Yes, I'm really glad you suggested this, old girl.'

  Return to Table of Contents

  Anna Petrovna’s Smile

  When I first met Anna Petrovna in Chelyabinsk, she scared me senseless. She would to come to the factory every day in her army fatigues and although she wasn't carrying a gun at her hip, her face told me she might well do so one day, so I'd better watch my step.

  Each morning we'd put on our white coats and walk into the factory. At least she called it a factory. To me, fresh off the plane, knowing all about the world of making drugs (or so I thought), it was a broken down building with more crumbs than mortar between the bricks, equipment at least forty years old, and not a hygiene procedure in sight.

  I would turn away from Anna, so I couldn't see her glare, concentrate on Igor the translator, a young guy who never stopped smiling, take a deep breath and start telling them exactly what was wrong with their factory. I would talk about product protection, about isolating the drugs from the people, about documentation to track every batch and so on. Occasionally, I would steal a glance at Anna, but she would be staring so hard at me, with such a fierce expression that my voice would falter, and I'd have to start the sentence again.

  Then one day Igor told me it was Anna's birthday. He told me there would be a party after work that evening. He told me I was to be the guest of honour—at Anna's request.

  I was sure there had been a mistake. How could this woman who never once smiled at me, who seemed to hate everything I said and did, possibly want me to be her guest. All day, I waited for someone to tell me they had changed their minds and I would be sent back to the hotel while everyone else helped Anna celebrate her special day.

  But it was no mistake. At precisely five o'clock, we all moved into the conference room, to be greeted by a spread of sandwiches and cakes the like of which I had never seen in Russia. A side table was laden with bottles of spirits: not just the usual vodka, but cognac, whisky and champanski. As I went to take a glass, Igor stopped me.

  "Anna has some of her special vodka she wishes to share with you," he said, "come this way." And he led me to the other end of the room where the birthday girl herself was sitting. Today, she had left off her army fatigues and was dressed in a smart peacock blue dress. She held out a glass and gestured for me to sit beside her.

  The next few hours are a bit of a blur. Anna's special spirit was probably illegal and certainly the strongest liquor I had ever drunk. But one moment remains in my mind. Anna leaned forward and whispered urgently in Igor's ear then nodded towards me.

  "Anna Petrovna wants me to thanks you," he said, "for honouring her with your presence at her party. She wants me to tell you that she has learned much from your visit."

  "About making drugs safely?" I said. He shook his head.

  "Not just that. You have to understand that in Soviet times, Russians never smiled in public. You never knew who was watching you, how your expression would be interpreted, and who would hear about it."

  I must have looked disbelieving because both Anna and Igor nodded their heads insistently.

  "But now Anna says," Igor continued, "that it is possible to trust strangers sometimes. She has seen you come here from a long way away to help us and she is grateful."

  Turning to Anna, I took her hand and smiled. And finally, my scary client, who didn't really hate me at all, smiled back—and it was beautiful.

  Return to Table of Contents

  Bruises for Breakfast

  The last thing I remember is waking to a bladder screaming to be relieved. There is movement in the galley and, in
first class, the lights are already on; I guess we will be next. I jump up and dash to the loo, desperate to get there before any of my fellow passengers. Once these business men with their prissy little wash bags take up residence, I know they will be in for the duration.

  As I close the door in the face of one such pin-striped demon, my head spins and I sink onto the toilet seat with a gasp. Waves of heat rise from my neck to my face, yet I feel icy cold. I lean forward to put my head in my hands—and everything goes grey.

  Now, I am floating near the ceiling of the business class cabin, looking down on a scene of confusion below me. A young woman lies unconscious on the floor; she has short, straight hair, with a fringe which someone has brushed off her forehead. Wearing jeans and a casual shirt; she has no shoes and her feet are covered in airline socks tucked over the bottom of her trouser legs.

  But something is very wrong. Her shirt is unbuttoned, exposing her lacy bra for all to see. The stewards have cleared the passengers out of the front row of the cabin to give room for the girl to lie down, and they crowd around the galley area, asking questions; someone grumbles about missing his breakfast, but the others shush him and carry on their interrogation of the stewards, who all shrug their shoulders and look on nervously.

  The girl is surrounded by half a dozen earnest looking men, all elderly, all speaking in a language I don’t understand. We’re on our way to Brazil, so I’m guessing Portuguese, but I could be totally wrong there. I can tell, however, that they are arguing. One waves a thermometer in the air; two others brandish filled syringes; the rest just wave their hands around. There’s a lot of grabbing of arms, vigorous nodding or shaking of heads.

  In the background, a younger man stands looking at the crowd. He looks familiar; I wonder if he and I have met before. Finally, he steps forward with a sharp word and silences them. He kneels by the girl’s side, gazes at her tenderly for a few seconds, checks her pulse on the artery just below her chin—and then raises a fist and smashes it down on her chest.

  There is a moment of absolute silence, but then the group shuffles backwards with quiet murmurs and watches as the young man performs CPR on the girl. The blows are sharp, her skin flushes red under the pressure—and I suspect she's going to have some serious bruising when this is all over. She’s already got some damage on her face, what looks like a broken nose. Goodness, but she’s been in the wars. I wonder what happened to her?

  For the longest time—although it was probably only a few seconds—there is no response. The other men with their thermometers and syringes creep forward once more; but suddenly, she gives a shudder and a gasp, and her eyes flutter. She takes a deep breath, as though she’s been short of air for a very long time, and then she fades from my sight as everything goes grey once again. I feel hands all over me, my back is pressed against something hard, and my chest feels like it’s been run over by a steam engine!

  As I open my eyes, I am staring into the face of a young man who looks familiar. Maybe we've met before; maybe not. But somehow, I sense he and I will become close friends. Maybe even friends for life.

  Return to Table of Contents

  A Whole Lot of Noughts

  The envelope is lying on the doormat when I come down for breakfast. It is unmarked, pristine and carefully sealed. I figure it's on my doormat, so I have the right to open it.

  The cheque is hand-written, in purple ink, from a fountain pen, probably an italic stylus, judging by the flourishes with which the writer has decorated each letter. I close my eyes and then open them again, but there is no change to the writing in front of me. My name written clearly, and correctly spelled, which is rare, on the top line and the words ‘fifty million dollars’ on the line below. The box of numbers seems to contain a whole lot of noughts. The signature is an unreadable squiggle—which is strange, given the neat hand in which the rest of it is written—but in the overall scheme of things, that’s hardly the strangest part of the situation.

  I decide breakfast can wait and am standing on the steps of my local bank as the clock strikes nine and the heavy oak doors are pulled open from the inside.

  I am ninety nine percent certain this is all a hoax and I’m going to be laughed out of the branch, if they don’t decide to call the police, or the men in white coats, but the other one percent of me just wants to make sure. The cashier takes the cheque from my hand, glances at it, looks up and smiles at me.

  ‘One moment, please’ she murmurs, picking up the phone. Seconds later, there is a tap on my shoulder.

  ‘Come this way please, sir,’ says the branch manager who is standing just behind me with a reverential look on his face. We walk to his office, where he offers me tea and chocolate biscuits (for which I am very grateful, having skipped my breakfast, you remember) before confirming that the cheque is indeed genuine and can be paid into my account straight away, although he recommends that I don’t leave the lot in my checking account but transfer most of it into a high interest account, which he can help me find, of course.

  When I ask him to explain where the money has come from, he shakes his head with a smile. ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,’ he replies. ‘That’s one of the conditions of accepting the money. You don’t need to know where it came from.’

  So, I shake his hand and stand up to take my leave. I am ready to accept this gift and make full use of it.

  If his eyes seem to flash red for a second, I choose to ignore it; if I detect a faint odour of sulphur in the air as I walk across the banking hall and into the sunlight, I decide I am mistaken. Briefly I wonder why he said ‘one of the conditions…’ and just what the other conditions might be; then I laugh and tell myself I can worry about that another day. Today, I'm going to forget my concerns and face my future: whatever it might bring. Come what may, I reckon it's sure as hell going to be comfortable!

  Return to Table of Contents

  Disrespecting the Gift

  I wake up with a start and sit up in bed, trembling violently. It’s happened again. That dream I’ve been having for so many years, ever since I mocked the fortune teller at the fairground. It’s always exactly the same. Two cherubs, sitting in a heavenly office, taking a celestial coffee break. They're gossiping about the book they’re writing—the book of dates—idly mentioning people who are going to live after their hundredth birthday, or die prematurely.

  I can see the book lying on a table nearby. It's green leather with gold tooling on the outside; the pages are thick, cream coloured, with the sort of curly edges you get on expensive writing paper. On the open pages, I can see names and dates written in elegant script. I try to move closer to read what is written there.

  Then suddenly, I hear my name and freeze; surely they can't see me? But when I look across at them, the cherubs are sighing gently and shaking their heads.

  ‘If only she’d believed,’ one says to the other, ‘she’d have been one of the longest-living women in the world. But you can't go around disrespecting the gift and getting away with it.’

  ‘Yes,’ says the other, ‘it’s so sad. And such an unfortunate way to go—celebrating her fiftieth birthday.’

  ‘Still, look on the bright side,’ the first one says as they drain their coffee cups and head back to work, 'at least Anthony will get his holiday earlier than expected.’

  ‘Yes, although I've never quite understood why Guardian Angels get such long holidays between assignments while we only get the normal three weeks a year; we must have a word with the celestial union about that,'

  And that’s where I wake up, every single time.

  I think back once again to that Bank Holiday Monday, a hot August day when I was just ten. We’d seen the young gypsy woman leaning on the side of her caravan, waiting for the next punter to come along and pay her to stare into her crystal ball. My mom had asked if I wanted to have a go, but I’d laughed mockingly and declared I was far too old for such nonsense. The girl had glared at me and shaken her head slowly. I heard her mutter and as we walked awa
y, I could feel her eyes boring into me, just below my shoulder blades. That night, I’d had the dream for the first time.

  Today is my 45th birthday. I am happy, have everything I want, friends, family, good job, in fact a good life. I’m still as cynical as ever. I still refuse to believe in fortune telling—or cherubs, Guardian Angels and fancy leather books for that matter.

  Yet, today, everything will change. Today I’m going to start looking for that gypsy girl. I know she’s still out there somewhere and I’m going to find her if it takes every penny I’ve got and every minute of the next five years.

  Return to Table of Contents

  Cookery Class and Ready Meals

  "Yuk, what's this?" Rachel pulls a face as she stares at the outstretched plate in my hand.

  "It's home-cooked spaghetti bolognaise, topped with grated parmesan," I say proudly.

  "But it's Thursday," wails Joey, "we always have pasta on Thursdays."

  "Yes, why can't we have hoops like normal?" Rachel asks, pouting.

  "This is pasta," I explain, "but it's healthier than the stuff from the tin. Less sugar, fewer additives."

  "Whatever," say my offspring in disgust. They sit at the table, picking at the food I've spent ages putting together, and leave as soon as they can, mumbling about homework. They think I don't see them grabbing the packet of Jaffa cakes on the way out of the door.

  I stare into space, thinking gloomy thoughts. I am determined we will not become the sort of family they show on the television: overweight parents with obese children. We are going to eat healthily—at least once a week, when I go to my new cookery class. But it looks like I’ve got a battle on my hands.