by Phyllis King
And that is how it should be for every infant. Little baby John deserved the same. And Karin deserved the support and assistance to give him that.
I tiptoed out of her room and headed down to bed. Instead of the old T-shirt I normally wear to bed, I put on the satin pyjamas that Andrew had bought me to take to hospital when Anna was born. As usual Andrew slept naked. I turned the baby monitor on and lay down to read my book. The bedside clock blinked that it was 12.40 am.
My plan had been that I would wait until I heard the crying before calling Ben, but now I was concerned that he might not get here in time to hear what was going on. I got up and stalked around the house, finally deciding that I was going to take an enormous punt. The last two nights, the crying had started at about 3.10 am. I would ring Ben at 2.45. Hopefully that would allow enough time to convince him that he needed to get here.
Here goes nothing I thought as I picked up the phone and dialled my old flame’s mobile number.
‘Ben, it’s Pearl. I need you,’ I yelled as soon as he answered.
‘Is this some sort of a joke,’ he asked.
‘Please come, I need you.’ Something about my voice must have affected him.
‘Are you hurt?’ he asked.
‘Just come now,’ I pleaded. And then I hung up.
I thought that keeping it vague was probably the best way to get him to act. I went outside and opened the back gate so if he did come, he could get in quickly and quietly.
Then I waited. I kept watching the clock and the baby monitor and thinking that I was crazy. A couple of times I picked up the phone and almost called Ben back, telling him it was just a joke. The part of the plan of which I was most unsure, was whether to wake Andrew and tell him what I was doing, and suggest that he put on some pants. In the end the decision was taken out of my hands.
I heard the squeak of the gate, running footsteps and then Ben was banging on the door calling my name. Andrew woke immediately and sat up looking dazed. At the same time, the baby monitor came to life. Andrew looked at it, the door and then at me. Instead of explaining, I opened the door.
So there we were: Andrew sitting up in the bed looking angry, Ben and his uniformed partner looking enormous in the doorway and me in my good pyjamas.
Everyone wanted an explanation, and all I wanted was for them to all shut up and listen to the monitor.
‘Listen,’ I yelled and pointed towards the monitor.
‘You dragged me out here because your baby is crying?’ Ben yelled. He was really angry, red in the face and bulging neck veins angry.
That got Andrew going. He was just as angry at me but started yelling at Ben that he had no right to speak to his wife like that. Ben’s partner just laughed, like this was the funniest thing he had seen in ages.
‘It is not my baby, stop and listen for god’s sake,’ I screamed. I think I shocked them into silence.
Then the man’s voice started coming out of the monitor. ‘Shut that fucking thing up or I will kill the little parasite.’
Then there were muffled banging sounds and other indistinguishable noises.
‘They are in the house opposite us on Inkerman Street, the one on the corner. Please go now.’ I begged.
Ben and his partner exchanged a look and then took off.
That left just me and Andrew in our bedroom. He looked at me and said, ‘We will talk about this later’. He pulled on his dressing gown and stalked up the stairs to check Anna.
I could still hear crying from the monitor, but now I turned it off. I felt that I had done all I could for the baby.
Now I could let it go and concentrate on dealing with the fallout. I went upstairs and found Andrew had opened the blind and was looking out at the house across the road. I joined him.
The front door stood open. ‘They kicked it in’, Andrew said, not turning to look at me.
Then we heard the screaming of sirens and an ambulance pulled up in front of the house. Two paramedics got out and ran in through the open door.
After what seemed like an age, the paramedics emerged, one of them carrying a baby bundled in a couple of blue blankets. I couldn’t watch any more. I turned away from the window and began to sob.
Andrew turned and took me in his arms. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s go to bed.’
‘There’s something I’ve got to do first.’ I said. I tiptoed into Anna’s room and unplugged the baby monitor. In our bedroom, I grabbed the receiver end of the monitor and put them both in the bin. If Anna needed me, she was going to have to exercise her lungs like babies did in the old days.
<
Poppies
Kylie Fox
In - out, under - over;
one stitch and then another,
my final stitches
in this life.
Death will arrive soon.
I will embrace him,
invite him,
Death needs not an open door,
for he has a key.
A key I have provided.
In - out, under - over;
thread the crimson silk.
Each stitch intricate,
yet this simplest of flowers
forever more mark time,
like no clock on the mantle ever could.
This clock marks not the hours,
nor the meaningless minutes,
the minutes we waste,
counting time in trifles.
Instead, the days,
the days that are idle;
in limbo while I wait.
The days I spent waiting for his return,
for I always knew he would.
Someday, somehow.
They would never take him,
he would always find his way -
home to me.
Home to our bed,
and our Glen Miller records.
He would dance with me again.
A Rat, they called him,
but he was never that.
They called him a hero -
in that they were right.
He survived. He returned.
The telegram that came to so many,
never arrived for me.
Another stitch, marking time,
another poppy on the quilt,
another day without him.
Seven hundred and twenty six poppies -
then no more, not for all these years -
until now.
This time I knew there was no coming back.
This enemy was far too strong,
armed not with tanks,
or machine guns; it infiltrated from within,
attacking his very core,
the centre where I live.
Gone. Forever.
There will be no return.
He lays staring at the ceiling,
my name no longer a memory,
no concept of life or our love.
He is the vegetable I spoon feed him,
he is a shell. Nothing. No one.
Not a hero this time.
Not the Rat they called him before.
There will be no parade,
no hero’s welcome.
This time he’s not coming home.
He dances forever now,
in those far away poppy fields,
To a tune all his own.
The records don’t reach him anymore,
nor my voice, my touch.
Though the spark in his eye
when I crawl in beside him,
makes me wonder if I exist
in the recesses of his fragmented mind.
Do I live on yet,
in his mind and his memory?
Death wants to take him away,
separate us again;
steal him from my bed, my arms
like I have been stolen from his mind.
‘Edith,’ he says,
‘you’ll forget his pills,
or mix them up,
you know you can’t confuse
your pills with his.’
As though I’m a fool - a child.
Ninety seven days,
ninety seven more poppies,
each stitched with care,
the same care I take
doling out his pills.
And mine.
For what end anyway, I wonder?
Will the pills stitch his frayed brain?
Will they bring him back to me?
Never, he is gone.
And so I go on stitching,
marking time,
but no more.
Death will arrive soon,
to take him from me,
to a special place, he says,
where they can care for him properly,
tend to his every need.
But they know nothing of his needs,
that is my domain,
he came back for me.
What can they do,
that I cannot?
It’s all just the power,
power over life - and death.
But have it his way –
I am no match for him,
with his fancy suits
and flashy cars.
But he couldn’t keep her happy,
my darling Sarah -
the joy of our lives.
Born six months after we wed,
she was early, I told them,
early at eight pounds?
I told my Sarah he was no good,
all show and no substance.
She scoffed, laughed,
‘Mum, you’re so silly.’
He gave her substance,
but no sustenance,
it was the substance that killed her.
Now he is coming,
a final act of cruelty.
He’ll take John from me too -
take my life away.
if I don’t stop him.
When John came back
more than six decades past,
we swore never another night,
not a night alone.
Never a night without, ‘I love you,’
to sleep in a cold bed,
and we held true.
Oh, how we’d laugh,
dancing into the wee hours,
him twirling me,
me kissing him.
Never a moment wasted,
no need for another stitch,
not a stitch of time wasted.
Snuggled beneath the quilt,
a reminder of time lost,
time spent alone,
each night entwined beneath the poppy field -
and now Death says no more.
If I had more fight in me,
things could be different.
If John only knew,
this would never be allowed.
He’d fought off the Germans,
he’d fight off the germ.
But I am old.
My face, once silk smooth
is lined and creviced —
every line earned by a life well lived.
My shoulders are hunched,
my legs veined and shaky,
I am no match for him.
The bags are all packed,
the rest left in boxes.
Our lives, so rich and full,
now packed in cardboard,
not much to show
when you condense it like that.
None of it matters though,
only my ring and the quilt,
the Glen Miller records –
our memories.
One stitch, over under,
snip the thread -
the final thread.
The last poppy on my quilted field.
My last night without him.
Time for the pills,
Who says I’d forget?
I know which is which,
which not to mix,
the pink ones only for sleeping,
Never for John.
Pop mine in my mouth,
slide down my throat - parched
arid as desert,
the glass of water a mirage.
Crush his onto a spoon,
force him to swallow,
his throat works automatically.
Does he know? Does he care?
Climb into bed, the quilt to snuggle under,
wrestle John’s arm round my shoulders.
A final embrace
before He knocks on the door,
walks down the hall,
tries to take John away.
Eyes sag with weariness,
one last glance ‘round the room,
death is here; I am tired,
‘Edith, it’s me.’
Like it would be anyone else.
It is death I await.
Death walks in,
but he doesn’t know it.
Not yet. He thinks he is life.
He will inherit, he is sure.
No need the fancy suits - just flashy cars
and flashier girls.
Not another day’s work -
he’ll live on our money.
My final joke on him,
he’ll never find a cent.
Gone - all of it!
Given away, a friend,
a hospital - the deserving.
Death wears corduroy,
who’d have thought?
Brown corduroy and tie.
He smiles - or leers,
the reaper’s grin.
‘Have you had your pills, Edith?
‘Given John his yet?’
Head raises from the pillow,
a slight shake - no.
‘No, of course not.
This is why, Edith.
You just can’t do it.’
Cajoling. Wheedling.
Another glass of water,
little pills in hand,
I swallow, watch as John’s throat works -
his are gone too.
‘Never mix the pills,’ I say.
Death eyes me curiously,
shakes his head. Dismissed.
The ramblings of an old woman.
‘Police here soon,’ I slur,
head fuzzy, words too hard.
Sleepy. So sleepy.
‘No, Edith. Not police.
Ambulance. Remember?
Take John to his new home?’
Bored with me,
the kettle boils,
coffee for himself; a distraction.
An excuse to leave this room,
Death can’t be faced
with his own aging;
his own mortality.
My head on John’s chest,
His breathing slowing down,
Mine too, I supposed.
‘I love you John,
No more poppies, okay?
No more stitching - our quilt is done.
Never apart again.
We promised, remember?’
Whispered words,
final sentiments.
Death didn’t see this coming.
So smug. So cocky.
‘He’s trying to kill us,’ I told them.
Did they believe? Probably not.
Would they now? Oh yes.
We cheated Death.
Darkness settles in,
my body heavy, my head light,
soul lifting, rising from the bed,
hands entwined with John’s,
My hair flowing again,
shoulders straight,
face smooth, an eternal smile.
He in uniform, so handsome,
his medals gleaming,
polished for his parade,
his homecoming.
Coming home to me. Again.
Hand outstretched, the band strikes up.
‘Dance with me, Edith,’
his voice resonates.
We float, we sink -
I don’t know which,
‘Dance with me in the p
oppy fields -
Forever.’
<
Persia Bloom
Amanda Wrangles
Persia Bloom is my real name. Seriously. It says so on my passport, birth certificate, everything. I love it. How many people can lay claim to a name like that?
Well, maybe my brother. His name is Cyrus J Bombay. No middle name, just J - and don’t you dare forget it. Obviously our mother is very creative. Or a little nuts.
Cyrus and I are close, born only eleven months apart. He owns a very well-known jewellery studio just a few streets from my place. I see him as often as I can. He’s a jeweller of the very arty, expensive kind. The kind that makes those weird pieces celebrities wear on the red carpet.
Me? I’m a hairdresser, or hairstylist as Cyrus would insist. He’s flamboyant, a little out there, while I’m the quiet one, more reserved. He can also do hair almost as well as I can. But that’s okay. My talents lay elsewhere.
Sure, I can cut and colour alongside the best of them, but I don’t have any illusions about myself. That’s not why I’m booked months in advance. It’s not why my little suburban shopping centre salon is so successful. I’m not super-trendy or outrageously glamorous like many of my peers. In fact, I’m kind of mousy.
No, what makes me stand out from the crowd are my ‘People Skills’.
As a hairdressing apprentice, you’re required to spend a day a week at trade school. You’d be amazed at how much geometry is involved with a great haircut. It all comes down to angles. Then there’s the chemistry of colours and perms. If your hairdresser doesn’t know her disulphide bonds from her medulla, you’re in trouble. This is what you learn at trade school. Along with design, some biology and ‘People Skills’.