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I am a handsome man. I am. I am a handsome man my mother said it’s so. Not that mother said it often mind. Just the once. Quiet. As I was leaving. You are a handsome man. No hug of course. Wasn’t one for words. Thinking. That was her thing. Her eyes spoke. Fierce passionate speeches. To put fire in the soul. To rouse a man to riot. To raise a boy down to earth. And her hands. Always chatting, to each other, back and forth on this and that. Oh she had a voice. Mother didn’t need words for that, she was loud in actions. The wooden spoon spoke about justice, right, wrong, redemption. The finger spoke about the future, what was next, the summoning or the sending. Mother was always saying something in her own way. Why bother with words. I am a handsome man. She didn’t tell lies. Mother was truth. So it must be true. Doesn't matter if I believe it. I believed her. Mother was belief.

—-

Seems like he sees nothing anymore. Stands to reason. Seeing what he did, or what he hasn’t done rather. Can’t see for looking now can he. For something. Something to steady him. But he’ll not find it. Not yet. He has to realise it first. Can’t see a mountain if your nose is touching rock. Looking too hard. Step back. Close your eyes for a moment. Always was his way. Running from one brick wall to another. He could find an obstacle blindfolded. Always looking never seeing. And then he saw her. And he stoped looking. At himself, and his friends. His family. His mother. They always said I was quiet but now I have so much to say but I can’t. And no one would listen anyway. But he could always hear me. Now he never sees me.

—

She will be here soon. Handsome. Has anyone ever said a bowling ball was handsome. My head shines too much. But she likes it. The feel. It makes me look strong, more of a man. Makes her feel more protected. She likes strength. Men should be strong she says. Focused. They have to meet this world head on. Not waste time. Not get distracted. We are on the clock. Every minute counts. I am strong. I can be strong. I can be handsome.

—

Oh but she could see… Straight away. Straight through. Eyes as sharp as ice and a smile cold enough to blister. Could see the opportunity. Stability. Blue eyes. But green. Money talks they say. So he didn’t need to say much. His job spoke for him. Lucky for him I guess. Or lucky for her maybe. She covered his eyes in lace, his nose in pleasant aromas, his mouth in soft and red. Silence followed. His mouth. Silence. His actions. Silence.

—-

I will drive out to Mother tomorrow. Tonight we celebrate. She is beautiful. She works so hard at that. She is a sight. When she talks, people listen, she has so much to say. So many friends. So much for us to do. It’s working. Working. So why worry. There is plenty of time. I will drive up next week. Friday or maybe Saturday afternoon. Take some flowers. Mother will like that. But focus. Tonight. She will be here soon.

—-

I spose it’s natural. Out of sight and the like. Purpose is taken not given. And I stopped taking long ago. Too hard to take. Age and purpose are oil and water. As one rises the other sinks. Gets me thinking I should have said more. When I had the time. Too little of that now. Won’t be long to wait. Be glad of the rest too. Time spent wishing, wasted. Should have said more. Looking back. Past can’t be caught and sold, mores the pity. I have a story or two worth a penny or more. But my handsome boy, doesn’t need that. Money is no object. She dont object to his money. Maybe he’ll see clearly one day. He’s still in there. My handsome boy. He’ll see. That’s my job. Love from a distance is still love and that won’t stop til I stop. My handsome boy.

My eyebrows are looking particularly excellent this morning. Sometimes they can look better a week after the barber’s than they do straight away. The new growth suggests maybe I’m just a little bit rough around the edges. Maybe I can try it with a little careful stubble…

Yes, I think I’ll do nicely. New shirt, Alison’s ironed my chinos acceptably and I smell wonderful. Issey Miyake.

Alison’s banging on about something. She used to enjoy the way I take care of myself, but now all she does is drone on about chores. Today it’s about picking Cassie up from nursery.

“I’ve got a really important meeting, so you absolutely can’t forget this time. They only ever phone me, they never bother phoning the dads and I can’t miss this meeting.”

I don’t remember when Alison became so obsessed with her career. It wouldn’t hurt her to put Cassie first once in a while. She is our only child.

“You need to be there for eleven o’clock, alright?”

“Of course I’ll be there. It’ll be difficult, but _I_ think it’s important to prioritise our daughter’s needs over my own sometimes.”

“Why difficult? It’s not like you’re working -”

“Do you have to rub it in? I’m actually meeting Davey about a possible writing gig.”

“But Davey never pays you.”

“God you’re obsessed with money, Alison. If I’m going to make it as a writer I have to do my time to the unpaid graft. It’ll be worth it when I’m published. You’ll see.”

She’s gearing up to one of her rants and, honestly, no-one has time for that kind of negativity. So I slip out before she can build up a head of steam.

It is a glorious day, a perfect autumnal setting for my new suede jacket. I make my way down to the coffee shop for a morning of important journaling. Instagram says that any decent writer has to make the time to keep a journal, so I’ll need to get some good photos while I’m there.

Davey pops in at half ten, sunlight glinting off his big bowling ball head. God the man is ugly, but he’s something of a bigwig in the writing circles so it’s good to keep in his orbit. No work this time, but he’s promised a bit of copy editing soon. I shout him a coffee as a thank you.

Oh bugger it’s half past eleven. No missed calls from the nursery, so Alison’s probably sorted all that out after all. I’d better get back and make sure she hasn’t set fire to the house or anything.

Alison’s car isn’t here. Odd. Cassie needs to be having her lunch now, what is Alison playing at? Honestly, the poor kid is being dragged up. I’ll have to have a word. It’s not on.

I’ll just sit here and wait for them to get back. Might be able to sneak a bite of whatever she’s rustling up for lunch. I wonder why all of Cassie’s shoes are gone from the rack. And her teddies. Project for nursery, maybe?

I’ll read the note Alison’s left me on the counter later, she’ll only be nagging about something. Doesn’t she know I have to focus on my writing?

‘I’m sorry,’ Margaret declared, with a gleeful smile. ‘But your membership has lapsed.’

Dorothy narrowed her eyes but kept her decorum. ‘I think there’s some mistake. I paid my dues at Christmas. Just as I have every year since my Reginald died.’

‘Reggie… such a handsome man.’ Margaret raised her eyes to the sky. ‘But there’s no mistake. Your £30 was paid. That’s written here. But you’ve failed to meet your attendance quota. So club rules, chapter four, subsection—’

‘I beg your pardon? Since when has Mintfield Conservative Club had an attenda—’

‘Subsection 14. Addendum: January 2025. “All members must attend at least one event per quarter, except in case of certified illness or extended absence, pre-approved by the committee.”’

‘I don’t recall voting on tha—’

‘No, you were absent from this year’s AGM, due to…’ Margaret ran her finger down the paper, turned up the corners of her mouth, and raised her voice. ‘A recurring bladder complaint!’

Dorothy thought about leaning over and setting Margaret on fire with Reg’s old lighter. There’s no way the geriatrics inside the club would stir themselves from their half-pints and shuffle over quickly enough to save her, and the sandalwood rosary beads she never let go of would release quite the pleasing aroma.

‘But I’ve attended an event every two weeks,’ Dorothy said, holding up the monogrammed leather case that indicated her place on the Mintfield Mowers Crown Green team. She had never missed a game since replacing her ever-present husband, keeping his proud streak alive.

‘The bowling league is a district-organised competition and not an official club event,’ Margaret responded, just as she’d rehearsed. ‘And that brings us to the second matter.’

Dorothy braced herself.

‘Chapter seven, subsection three—’

‘Addendum: January 2025?’

‘Addendum: January 1946, actually. No private equipment will be used on club property without express written permission from the committee. So, both yourself and, sadly, the beautiful Reggie, have been regularly violating the rule book for more than 30 years by using those dusty old bowling balls.’

Dorothy considered violating Margaret’s skull with the blunt objects in her bag, but reasoned at least one member of her former marriage should resist violating this particular bag of obnoxiousness, regularly or not.

‘They’re called bowls, not balls,’ Dorothy corrected. She then spoke more carefully. ‘How do we go about getting my membership restored so I can play today’s match?’

‘I’m afraid we don’t,’ Margaret neared her triumphant conclusion. ‘You can appear before the committee at our next convenience and make your case for reinstatement, but that won’t be until…’ She made a show of checking the diary. ‘The first Thursday in September.’

There was a pause while Margaret closed the book and looked Dorothy square in the eye.

‘I could, of course, play with Reggie’s balls in the meantime, on your behalf, to keep his legacy intact,’ Margaret offered. ‘I’m sure the committee would approve in the circumstances. I’ve always been glad to meet Reggie’s needs when you’ve been unable.’

Dorothy had been right about the slow reactions of the elderly members of Mintfield Conservative Club. But, judging by the acrid smell of burning plastic, quite wrong about Margaret’s rosary being made of sandalwood.

Now sisters gather round me

Cos I want to testify

Because I am an honest child

And cannot tell a lie

This moral of my story

As I stand before you all

Is never mess with a handsome man

And a 10 pin bowling ball

Wa-oooo

*

A young girl was abandoned in 1953

She was so sweet and pretty

(Well that’s right she was me!)

They took her to a convent

And wrapped her in a shawl

And warned her of the handsome man

And a 10 pin bowling ball

Wa-oooo

*

But oh this headstrong sinner

Soon showed that she was weak

She found the convent boring

When they wouldn’t let her speak

To bleed the sinning from her

They tied her to a wall

And warned her of the handsome man

And the ten pin bowling ball

Wa-oooo

*

One night she fled the convent

Her sacred godly home

But the local bowling alley

Was as far as she would roam

And there she saw a stranger

Standing proud and tall

And in the hand of this handsome man

Was a ten pin bowling ball

Wa -ooooo

*

He sidled over to her

And said his name was Jed

He’d a sulphurous aroma

And his fiery eyes were red

And she knew in a moment

like bowling pin she’d fall

For the handsome man from out of town

And his ten pin bowling ball

*

Wa-oo

*

(Key change)

*

Wa-oo

*

He gave her lots of flattery

Which he knew she would like

She knew before the night was done

He’d score a double strike

but rushing from the convent

Came sister Mary Paul

An expert on the scriptures and the ten pin bowling ball

*

Wa-ooo

*

“We’ll see now handsome stranger why don’t we have a bowl

The stakes we’ll put upon it are this young girl or my soul

And who goes first and what not

Well you can have the call

And Jesus hand will steady me

On the ten pin bowling ball

*

Another key change

*

Wa-oooo

*

Well jed he soon accepted

And he powdered up his hand

And then he picked the exact spot

Where his ball would land

And everybody in the place watched

In solemn thrall

As the ageing nun fought the wicked man

And the ten pin bowling ball

*

The nun she threw a “turkey” but then she had a miss

And Jed picked up his favourite ball and gave a tender kiss

And sneeringly he taunted in his lazy southern drawl

“Don’t ever challenge a handsome man with a ten pin bowling ball”

The ball it hit the alley travelling fast and straight

And Jed he eyed his winnings but Mary Paul said “wait”

As It swerved into the gutter they watched his last bowl fall

And it spelt defeat for the handsome man with the ten pin bowling ball

*

The ancient nun stood up and she had glory in her eyes

She said son you are the devil and all that I despise

You had no chance of winning cos Jesus blessed the mall

Be out of here thou satan with thy ten pin bowling ball.

*

My stories nearly over

My tale is nearly done

My training is completed and I’ve become a nun

But god he has forgiveness

And he forgives us all

And besides he is a dab hand with a ten pin bowling ball

*

*

Take pity on me sisters as I try to repent

And devote all my spare hours to the work of the convent

But what with all this prayin and the mopping of the hall

I’d have had more fun with a handsome man

And a tin pin bowling ball

*

I’d have had more fun with a handsome man

And a ten pin bowling ball

*

*

*

*

*

*

*

Sent from my iPhone

Ellie felt that it had been so long since she had spent time with a genuinely handsome man. Not just pleasant, or nice-looking but someone who people looked at twice when they came into a room.

She had known, really, from that first glimpse of Mark on the Hinge page. No dumb accessories, no cute dog, just a face from the gods with enough of a smile to hint at a warm welcome.

The contrast from the last date she had been on was so overwhelming it made her laugh out loud to think about it. She had known in advance that he was balding but hadn’t been quite prepared for the head like a bowling ball. She hated the idea of going on appearances alone, so she had smiled sweetly over a couple of drinks while he talked about crankshafts and carburetors before activating the phone call from a sick friend procedure that she and Hannah had perfected some time ago.

After a month they spent most weekends together, either at his place or hers, and after three it was most evenings as well.

Mark was an architect which was perfect as far as Ellie was concerned. Creative, but also practical with just a hint of maths. He was modest, but after a lot of coaxing he did give a tour of some of the projects he had worked on: the façade of the station, the new Maggie’s Centre at the hospital and the gorgeously refurbished restaurant that she had wanted to try based on its new windows alone.

The pleasing aroma as they went through the art deco front door was intoxicating. They had spent enough time together now for Ellie to feel relaxed and she could concentrate on the prospect of some beautiful food.

Mark had gone to exchange a few words with somebody he referred to as Richard, apparently the owner of the restaurant. He had been gone a few minutes when Ellie decided to check out the toilets. Always interesting in fancy places.

As she followed the discreet signage, she passed a doorway and caught the briefest glimpse of Mark handing over an envelope to a man who briefly opened it before handing a small package in return.

After that all the edible flowers and shellfish reductions couldn’t rescue the evening for Ellie. Every possible scenario played out in her mind, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask.

It only delayed the inevitable. The next morning, after Mark had asked her several times what was worrying her, the story of his latest lapse back into his high-functioning addiction emerged.

Looking back, it was the complacency that had really cut through. Not for him the desperation of the street junky. He had it all under control. How else would he be able to design all those wonderful buildings?

She stayed for a week. Something that afterwards caused her some regret. Lapsed was a word that had taken a fair proportion of her childhood. Another handsome man, her dad. As the locks were being changed, she vividly remembered her new Yale key from years ago. She picked up her phone and dialed the one person who would understand why she had to act quickly. ‘Hi Mum…’

Inspiration could strike at the most unlikely of moments – during the annual clipping of toenails, while mulching the rhododendrons, gazing in awe at the Screwfix catalogue. As a true devotee of his art, none of these demanding scenarios prevented Cody Kavanaugh from dropping everything and immediately instructing Siri to make a note. He had learned painfully that even in the white heat of creation it was still important to speak slowly and clearly enough that his words would be transcribed faithfully. The anguish of trying to decipher ‘backbeat, the word is on the street that the fire in your heart is out’ as anything other than AI gobbledegook still tormented him. Still, he had persisted, and had eventually crafted what he was sure would one day be recognised as an anthem for all time. His only nagging doubt was over the payoff of the chorus – ‘and after all, you’re my Bowling Ball’, which he suspected didn’t convey the gravitas he was striving for. For the neophyte songwriter, bathos was a constant danger, and in his more honest moments of self-examination he had to admit that he had fallen into it’s trap more often than he liked.

Taking his inspiration from such timeless lyrical visionaries as David Morrissey and Noel Gardner, the stellar forces behind the bands The Joneses and Fanta, Cody had spent many happy teenage hours idly visualising himself picking up his latest Grammy, or at least an Ivor Novello award, before a hushed audience of his would-be peers, emanating a pleasing aroma of naked jealousy. Surely it was only a matter of time before his unique talents were recognised, even his mother said so.

On this particular morning, Cody was deeply engaged in tweaking his list of commands for his Bluetooth sock-warmer when he felt that familiar jolt as the muse settled on his knotted shoulders.

He was reflecting, as he laboured, on one of the familiar refrains of modern life in any self-respecting bourgeois household, when he realised how easily it lent itself to a lyric - ‘I would go out tonight but I haven't got a thing to wear’. Astonished at his own powers of invention, he overlooked the quotidian nature of that ‘thing’ and set about thumbing further gems into the keyboard of his phone. Although he generally eschewed the autobiographical in favour of more everyman perspectives, he felt that this time he could reveal more of himself and tap into what he was most familiar with. Wasn’t the accepted wisdom that you should write what you know? With that in mind he knew that the song would ultimately have to be called ‘This Handsome Man’. His heart almost burst with pride as he continued to sketch out this eulogy to his favourite person, finishing with a repetitive flourish of ‘he knows so much about mood swings’.

Elated by this outpouring, his reverie was interrupted by an insistent pounding on the front door. His Ring doorbell had ceased to function only the day before so he was reduced to opening the door blind. Before him stood three sinister burly figures, clad head-to-toe in dark military garb, faces concealed. Grabbing him roughly by the arms, they dragged him down the steps toward the waiting vehicle. ‘But why?’ he spluttered. No-one spoke, but as he was thrust into the open door one of the assailants handed him an official form which bore the title ‘Artistic License – Lapsed’.

The bowling ball rocketed down the glossy wooden alley, its pearlescent skin shimmering, smashing through the pins. A glorious strike and assuring victory for Johann.

‘Not sure how you do it, but good on ya.’ The voice came from his doughy opponent, James Baird, the local sheriff.

‘I’m blessed.’ replied Johann and finished off his beer. A handsome man, tall and angular, fit despite his age, the very opposite of his opponent.

The lawman snorted. ‘Sure… Another game?’

Johann’s ball returned via the shute, shuttering to a halt on the rack, glittering in place. It was a custom cerulean orb, painted with a stylized metal chain around its equator that, despite Johann's prestigious use playing for hours on end daily, never faded. Not even a scratch. If you paid closer attention, the insides seemed to swirl in place.

Johann placed his hand on the ball, shuddering at the touch. It vibrated lightly in his hands.

‘Sure… Should we up the wager?’

It wasn't a question. They always played for money.

‘Hah… Yeah, sure…’

Baird rose, his badge peeking out from his Hawaiian shirt, picked up his ball, and with great effort and little skill, tossed it down the alley. His reward was a grand total of four pins, and a second shot did little to remedy the situation. As he walked to his seat, his eyes glossed over the wall calendar.

‘You know, Johann… It's too bad Ethel couldn't be with us… For your anniversary, I mean’.

Johann's left eye twitched. ‘Yep… It would have been silver, you know.’ His ball smashed through the pins, another strike. Seconds later, it was back in the rack.

The ball vibrated as he retrieved it, its insides swirling visibly. Baird didn't seem to notice.

Johann studied the patterns, the subtle nuances in color and shape, occasionally he could see the outline of a face in the coiling mass.

‘I don’t suppose there has been any developments?’

Baird struggled to get another ball. ‘It's a cold case. In all honesty, Johann… I don't think we will ever know what happened.’

He put a meaty palm on Johann’s shoulder. ‘But if you want me to keep looking, I will.’

Johann studied his friend. The man could barely walk, suffered from cardiovascular problems and yet; he still offered to help find his lost spouse.

He sighed theatrically. ‘I think… I think it's time to let go.’

Baird nodded solemnly. ‘Let me get you another beer.’ and waddled off to the bar.

The bowling ball trembled in Johann's hands, its center swirling like a storm. Johann smiled at it. Holding it close he could still detect a faint pleasing aroma of rose water and menthol. Ethel's favourites.

Smiling, he muttered ‘Fuck you, Ethel’.

The ball shook violently in his hands, and Johan grinned broadly, as he threw it down the glossy lane for another strike.

Pain savaged Ethel's imprisoned soul.