Just Get It Out There

by Steel City Writers

  ‘You resent Jeff for going away,’ he said to break the awkwardness of the silence. ‘You hate yourself for thinking that but...’

  She looked at her brother and tears welled in her eyes. It was not Jeff’s fault for being posted to hell. Or the equivalent as far as family and loved ones of the armed forces were concerned. Every time she heard Helmand province mentioned on the news her breath got caught in the back of her throat. Her mind would race at the atrocities they faced, what dangers were lurking as they walked down the street. What might happen was all she could think about, until nine days ago.

  ‘I don’t resent him, Michael.’

  ‘What happened that night?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ she said. She held the coffee cup in her hands rubbing her finger over a chip on the handle. ‘He knocked on the door.’

  ‘And you let him in?’

  She looked at the coffee in the bottom of the mug and swirled it around the cup. She could hear the rain water running down the drainpipe behind her as she sat. She felt a chill as the wood on the fire started to die. She thought about putting some more wood on the fire but she continued to stare at her drink. She just wanted to see Jeff again, hear his voice or smell him on her clothes. She wanted to be able to talk all night, like they used to. Relax in bed until the early hours talking about whatever nonsense came to mind. Everything inside her died that day.

  ‘I had to let him in, Michael. He said he had news about Jeff.’

  An hour passed without another word being spoken. Michael put fresh wood on the fire and then he brought her a glass of water and the tablets the doctor had prescribed. After a while he made her another cup of coffee and then disappeared for a time. Sara sank deeper into her chair, facing the flames. She had heard him on his mobile phone talking to their mother. She didn’t catch the whole conversation; just enough to know that she was the topic.

  Michael had taken care of her before, during the breakup of her first marriage, and he was good at washing the pots and tidying up. He had given her time to weep and be alone. His phone rang again and he came into the room with it pressed against his ear. Sara assumed he was talking to his wife so she switched off again.

  Some time seemed to pass as Michael finished with the dishes before she heard the door open. Michael seemed to run into the hallway and she could hear a number of thuds as things hit the floor. There were muffled voices and she tried to listen to what they were saying and who the other voice belonged to.

  ‘She’s in the back room,’ Michael said.

  ‘Does she know I’m coming?’ the man said. She felt the first of the tears in her eyes flow gently down her cheeks. Her breathing shortened and she started to gasp for air. She tried to move her legs from underneath her body but she had sat so long they were numb. She lifted her hand to her mouth and then over her eyes, wiping away the tears.

  ‘Sara,’ he said as he walked into the room. She felt dizzy as she lifted her head and her vision blurred as she tried to focus on the man walking towards her. He was an imposing figure over six feet tall with a physique you’d expect from someone in the armed forces. He was still wearing his uniform and polished black boots in which the fire reflected brightly.

  ‘Jeff,’ she said as she reached out her arms and she choked out a few other words even she couldn’t understand. He lifted her out of the chair and her legs fell from her body like a rag doll as he squeezed her tightly. She kissed a scar on his face. It all seemed so real and yet she felt like she must be dreaming.

  It felt like hours but Sara knew it was probably just a couple of minutes when Jeff gently placed her back into her chair, kissing her on her forehead as he turned to speak to Michael.

  ‘What did the Doctor say?’ he asked.

  She heard Michael describe her injuries and the time it would take to heal. She could still hear what he was saying even when he turned away. Over the last week she had been supervised around the clock. She was used to people talking about her when she was still in the room.

  ‘She’s seen a psychiatrist a couple of times here at the house but she hasn’t spoken a word about it at all.’

  ‘I would have been back in a couple of weeks so they added some compassionate leave. It’s taken forever to get back.’ He paused and smiled at his wife. ‘I’ll be here for a while now, Love.’

  ‘They’re saying they won’t prosecute,’ Michael said.

  They continued to talk as she looked out of the French doors. The rain had eased and her mind was clearing from the medication. She looked at her husband, checking it really was him. She thought about that night, when she let the Staff Sergeant into the house. He said he had news about Jeff and she let him in without thinking. Even when she could smell the alcohol on his breath she was too eager for the news of her husband to think anything of it. Every waking minute she dreaded some knock at the door and news that Jeff had been killed by an attack or a bomb.

  Some starlings landed on a bird table just outside the window battling for first bite at the bird seed someone had scattered there. She watched them flap their wings for a few moments before the image of Sergeant Stone returned as he had slapped her across the face and grabbed her by the arm. As she broke free and ran up the stairs he had followed. She had kicked him in the face but that just made him angrier. She made it to the phone in their room but it had flown out of her hand as a blow to her ribs knocked the wind from her lungs.

  Stone had started to remove his belt; he had eased his trousers down when she saw the scissors on the bedside table. She reached for them as Stone lifted up her skirt and ran his hands over her legs. The stench of stale alcohol was over her face as she gripped the scissors tight in her right hand. His warm breath made her stomach churn as she thrust the twin blades into his back.

  One of the birds flew off and she blinked hard to remove the image of Sergeant Stone’s lifeless eyes staring back at her as he lay on the floor; the blood seeping into the beige carpet.

  ‘Everyone wants to help, Sara,’ Jeff said.

  ‘I want to try to talk about it,’ she said.

  Jeff sat down on the rug in front of the fire and held Sara’s hand. She ran the tips of her fingers down his face scraping against his stubble. She looked into his eyes and knew she could finally talk about what had happened to her that night. Michael smiled at them both. He walked out of the room and closed the door behind him.

  Aunty Lil

  By Christie Adams

  I always loved me aunty Lil.

  ‘Er gappy teeth, a friendly smile.

  She smelled a bit, I guess maybe

  she ‘adn’t washed in a quite while.

  I always loved me aunty Lil.

  Creased crepe paper skin now saggy,

  no longer fat wi’ cheeks all full.

  ‘er crowning glory nearly gone ;

  sprouts of grey clinging to ‘er skull.

  I always loved me aunty Lil.

  ‘Er sofa wer’ all furred up;

  ‘er family o’ cats I suppose

  used it as a bed, and a loo,

  but only when the door wer’ closed.

  I always loved me aunty Lil.

  She served us up ‘er battenburg,

  always wi’ soft pink ice.

  Then cut it up ‘n’ licked the knife,

  nice and clean, between each slice.

  I always loved my aunty Lil.

  Pushing daisies through graves ‘n’ grass,

  she’s dead ‘n’ gone now bless ‘er ‘art.

  I’ll not forget ‘er, she had class,

  ‘n’ by ‘eck she knew how to fart!

  Father's father

  By Craig Hallam

  Khaki overcoat

  found folded above the cupboard.

  A musk of moth-balls,

  and ancient wars,

  rises from this relic emblazoned

  with stripes.

  This collar,

  once raised against

 
; foreign rains and ocean sprays.

  The shoulder, worn smooth by

  a rifle's butt.

  Grit.

  In tattered cuffs.

  In pockets.

  Buttons buffed to dullness by

  sands that swallowed men.

  None returned but those who died.

  Khaki coats with holes inside.

  A Late Call

  By Jacqueline Hodgson-Blackburn

  You know what it’s like when you haven’t been to a place for years and then something happens and you have to go. That’s how I felt when I got the ‘call’ that I needed to go up to The Rectory after twenty odd years. Not only that I had to go with a sister who I’d barely spoken to in ages. Like being frog-marched into a kid’s fairy tale – the two sisters grim.

  It was late September, season of mist and mellow something or other but I just couldn’t get used to sitting next to her after all this time. Counties slipped by in rapid succession swallowing up the grown up car until we arrived at the place in more or less one piece. Needed to see this place as much as I need a hole in the head but still it calls you. Drags you up with big sister in tow back to where you never felt you really belonged.

  Edging over to the ivy clad doorway with big sis we realise there’s no one home. No note, no nothing just a bunch of keys tossed onto the front step. Sharp intake of breath and even big sis is tripped up by bad memories. ‘ Scavengers, that’s what we are’ she used to say only now we’d been called up from the town to pick over the past. Suddenly grown up car and grown up accent begin to wobble. Untidy scuffle on the step, key thrust in lock and we’re in.

  In where you always knew you had to come knocking into the big wall of memories that refuses to budge. Late afternoon sun, late afternoon visitors we’re huddled in an empty hallway trying to take charge. Smirked down on by a line of portraits sissy asks if I fancy a cuppa. No, I’m sure they wouldn’t mind but what I need is a stiff drink at this moment in time. ‘A stiffie’ as John used to call it.

  A quick look around the downstairs rooms and nothing’s changed very much. The house sucks up any attempt to change it. Past incarnations slip to the floor even guesthouse tomfoolery hasn’t changed it much. It’s never been a house that’s there for the taking. ‘Reach out and touch me’ flits through the memory filter. Your own ‘Personal Jesus’ as promised by Depeche Mode. Needed him all those years ago and still need him today as big sis sidles up to the Aga to make said cup of tea.

  Started my first period here amongst a number of other notable firsts. Not really a place to nurture teenage angst or make you feel that some glorious future awaited you once you’d escaped. Back in Joanna Trollope’s kitchen and the kettle’s nearly boiled. A shrill chirrup of a boil and then tea’s ready in a couple of those mugs that look as though they’re straight out of Lark Rise to Candleford. Emma somebody or other I think. Yes, Bridgewater and sis has come up trumps again with that tantalising fact that you never managed to get quite right.

  Tea over and its time to find if ‘the little girl’s room’ is still down a long sneaky corridor next to the tradesmen’s entrance. Sure enough it’s still there stinking of stale urine and cheap disinfectant. Stained lino worn away by a series of close encounters with the lavatory bowl it still manages to conjure up the idea of refuge. Sneaky fags, boys and books that took you away from what shouldn’t have been going on in Auntie’s drawing room.

  ‘Think they’re back’. Big sister jumps to attention as I enter the room and note that she’s beginning to lose her grown up looks. Now she’s leapt over to apply a streak of red lipstick in front of a glass cabinet. Frozen in panic it’s a face dying for approval and fear of what comes next. ‘Quick, rinse those mugs out will you’ and I’m back where I used to be skivvying in back rooms away from the action. With back ramrod straight sis tugs her jacket down standing sideways on to snatch at what the glass might offer her in terms of reassurance. ‘Right, I’ll go and let them in’ which seemed a trifle droll seeing as it wasn’t and never would be her home. ‘Letting in the owners are we?’ A quick flash of belligerence and she’s gone.

  Walk a mile...

  By Christie Adams

  Billy Elliott crashed straight into the wall. He crumpled to the floor and fought back the tears that threatened to overflow down his freckly cheeks. He heard his persecutor laugh as he ran down the lane with his cronies following throwing taunts back from a safe distance:

  “Ha, not so light on yer feet now eh our Billy?”

  He picked himself up, brushed the dust off his newly ripped trousers and picked up his school rucksack; it looked as battered and bruised as he felt. This feeling was nothing new to him. Billy had spent ten of his mature twelve years burdened with the name that every other young lad, he had ever met, knew meant he was either a “poof” or a “bleedin’ ballerina”. When he was younger he had worked his way through the other name options; William, Wills, Willy, just the thought of that one made him flush with embarrassment; and Bill before running out of options and finally accepting that Billy it was.

  “I guess it’s been hard to keep up eh mam?” Billy acknowledged after his preference for a different name each week.

  “You’ve always been my little Billy” said his relieved mum reassuringly as she kissed the top of his spiky ginger haired head, thinking she was helping as Mum’s do.

  After discovering his school locker broken into for the umpteenth time Billy discovered someone with much too much time on their hands, although he had to admit a definite skill in origami, had added a pink tissue paper frill to his underpants; they were carefully pinned to his bent locker door. It was at this defining moment that he decided to finally take ownership of his name; he would never again apologise for or regret being called Billy Elliott. He sometimes had to remind himself he had made that momentous and mature decision; it slipped his mind quite often at first.

  One of the most memorable challenges to this newly adopted decisive maturity had been when the school bus company advertised a new theatre show by covering the double-decker with a huge picture of the original now legendary Billy; to add effect they had pictured him in ballet tights and pumps. Billy’s nemesis and Cousin, Bradley Hardacre, announced to the faces of curious classmates, snotty noses squashed against steamed up bus windows:

  “Our Billy can’t wear them big heavy trainers, they’ll hurt his little ballerina toes!”

  “Oh come on Bradley, not again...” Billy sighed as he gazed at the floor, kicking his feet into the dust; his sock worn through on his left big toe.

  “Oops, sorry our Billy...din’t mean to drop them...mind you don’t hurt yer little twinkle toes...ha!!” Bradley had laughed as he threw Billy’s trainers over the railway fencing.

  The bus moved off, the observant occupants turned away and sat down to hide their embarrassment; sympathetic but glad they weren’t the victim, this time. Billy was left behind to unsuccessfully attempt retrieval of the discarded trainers. He took the long walk home in the rain; arriving home and running upstairs before his mum could clip him over the top of his spiky hair for losing yet another pair of shoes. She was fed up of buying him shoes.

  Olwen Blythe was another story altogether, and unlike Billy’s Mum she loved buying and selling shoes. She had invested that love into her new business, and was now the proud owner of a brand new shoe shop full to brimming with lovely footwear. Her shop was on the High Street, not a quaint little village High Street but The High Street within the modern, loud, brightly lit shopping precinct. It stood quietly between the bookshop and the chemist; lined with glossy white shelves laden with rows of brand new shiny shoes, trainers and even wellington boots. She loved every single pair and had spent the previous day carefully unpacking them and pricing them prior to placing them on the shelves with particular care. This involved checking that each pair incorporated the small details she had ordered; the various individual monograms embroidered into delicate fabric
s, printed on canvas, or stamped into the Italian leather. She smiled as she noticed even the flowery wellington boots had initials hidden within the design, obvious only to a keen eye.

  Once each pair had been placed carefully on the shelves Olwen rewarded herself with a strong black coffee with vanilla syrup; the half empty paper cup still sat next to the shiny electronic cash register. After glancing at her watch she smiled; it was finally time to unlock the front shutters. It wouldn’t be long before her first customer arrived.

  Jessica Johns was just about to make a life changing decision; it wasn’t planned, it would take her by surprise. At twenty eight years old, a successful business woman, she was the proud owner of a two year old Mercedes convertible sports car, a waterside apartment and a very expensive handmade diamond bracelet given to her by her married lover. She had been waiting for him to end his unhappy and sham marriage for eight years; even when his wife fell pregnant he reassured her:

  “Darling, we’ll be together. Soon, I promise, you know I love you...”

  “I know. I love you too...” she heard herself reply automatically as he showered and left her apartment to return to his wife and baby.

  They first met on a work project; she was his boss when he was brought in as a consultant. He wasn’t impressed that he didn’t have overall control, he saw her as a challenge; he confessed just a few weeks later as he kissed her bare stomach whilst they lay in the luxurious hotel bedroom. Ironically she originally found his controlling personality an attractive trait; she enjoyed him ordering her menu; relished in being allowed to relax and not worry about which wine to choose or which outfit to wear.

  “It makes a change from work, there I not only have to make every decision, I also have to take responsibility for every decision,” she had once justified to her mother, after yet another heated discussion about his suitability as a partner.

  “Don’t you see, he controls your whole life, that’s not love, that’s power and abuse,” Jessica had heard her mother shout after her as she walked out of the family home again.