All stories

The walls rattled in the wind and rain, rocking on their wheeled base. Rust stained water dribbled down the window, like an old toothless mouth chewing an orange. The caravan looked and smelled like 15 years in a dark damp forest.

He sat staring out, trying to figure out why he was still there and if he could leave yet. And if he did, then what? He supposed it had been love. Whatever that was. Something inside him that had taken over and stripped sense and reason from him. Or maybe that was just an excuse. He rolled the bottom of his beer across the table in small circles before almost knocking it off clumsily. He sighed and finished the bottle, picking his crochet up and trying again. The hook caught and he cursed silently. Another stupid idea; he just couldn’t get the hang of it. Tom would have been great at this he thought. He was one of those people who was instantly good at everything he turned his hand to. The thought darkened his gloom and he tossed the mess of wool into the corner.

The air was thick with the heavinessc of a summer storm. He picked up a book from a shelf at random and immediately discarded it. The stifling air added to his mood, frustrated, he wanted to get out and walk, but the rain was as torrential as his thoughts.

He wondered for the 1000th time what Tom was doing, if he was thinking about him at all. It had been crazy to do it. The heat. The music. The buzz. It had all been too much. He remembered how his hand had felt numb when they touched. How his lips were rough and tasted of cheap lager. How long ago was that? Funny how one short moment can so completely divide time; before and after. Nothing was the same after. Can I ever go back to before? He thought. Fuck this. Fuck love. Fuck tom.

He lay down on the bed replaying the day after. He’d woken up, packed a bag and driven straight here, firing off a quick email about a family emergency to work. They used to come out here drinking, hunting in the forest. Enjoying nature. The rain had died down briefly a pause in the storm. He grabbed a beer and headed outside. The air was warm and the soft rain was refreshing against his bare chest. He stood silent. Watching nothing. A faint rustle in the undergrowth and his heart froze. He didn’t dare to hope, but there it was anyway. A small perhaps. Maybe. The undergrowth moved again and from the shadows a large canine shape padded into the moonlight. An old fox, faded fur but still beautiful. It looked at him slowly, deep green eyes passing judgment. Then seeing nothing of note it looked away and padded across the grass into the distant undergrowth. Nothing to worry you here he thought. Nothing but a sad fool, waiting. Waiting. Trapped between before and after. Unwilling to go forward. Unable to go back.

Juicy Lucy Coslett naked in the mirror, twisting left then right inspecting the taut lines of her swimmer’s body. Juicy Lucy pouting, bending, hands caressing silky pink skin still shower slick, fingers creeping the taut curve of her belly, quivering closer for the tight lines of her Brazilian wax. Eyes in the mirror, eyes right into Iain’s soul, and there it was, his Big Moment, and then preparations for Big Night could resume for the third time.

After he had put the cushions back to neatness and turned Nana’s photo on the mantelpiece round the right way.

Him and Juicy Lucy together for how long was it? Nursery, so his Nana reckoned, and he remembered primary school, this blur of golden curls pretty much every one of his memories. High school the high point, both of them top set everything, time and again top girl and top boy on stage for their awards. It didn’t matter she went to unit without him, those dark twenties, they were behind them now. Him and Juicy Lucy together again at last. It was going to be perfect.

They were having duck, Gressingham duck breasts, skin lovingly massaged with fine Maldon salt, crisped to a heavenly crunch then placed – skin side up – in the oven to allow the thick layer of fat to render into a delicious sauce. He’d heard her talking, duck her favourite, but she’d never have duck like this. The bought special wine thermometer said her favourite Chardonnay was at the perfect temperature, but there was also three different kinds of foreign beer because he was sure he’d heard her mention it just as the lift doors closed.

The dining room was already perfect, Nana’s best china and cutlery, and obviously pride of place given to her hand crocheted placements she saved for best.

Iain took himself up to his Nana’s room and stood in front of her full length mirror. He was already the man in black, everything dull black, nothing that reflects. He had a pot of black camouflage paint into which he dipped two fingers then began to draw circles around his eyes.

---

Lucy Coslett did own a full length of mirror but the only naked it reflected was a blur as she scurried past. Still enough for those honking great horns of cellulite to sound, and that flabby mess around her middle despite the yoga. She only stood full length in front of the mirror fully clothed, and even then – God – this top with these jeans, how paunchy did they make her look?

When the doorbell chimed she flew, slowing at the last step, counting to six by the front door. When the bell rang again she opened the door. Duncan grinned back at her. He raised both shopping laden arms aloft. Before he’d even set the bags on the kitchen counter she snuck the wine.

‘Chilled already, you wonderful man!’

The first decent gulp of Chardonnay began to work its magic.

‘God, I need this,’ Lucy said. ‘After the week I’ve had.’

‘He’s still, uh…?’

‘Oh God, yes. That man gives me the creeps. The way he-‘

She paused, bright light streaming through the gaps in the kitchen curtains from the outside security light.

‘Probably a cat,’ she said.

‘Or a fox.’

The light went out.

Duncan said, ‘The way he…?’

She shuddered as she gulped more wine.

‘Everyone knows when I shut my office door I’m changing for the gym, or for court. He knocks, then a nanosecond later he’s pushing his stupid little mail cart through, I swear he-‘

The light came on again.

‘Bloody thing,’ Lucy said. She reached behind the curtain and switched off the light. She smiled at Duncan. ‘No more interruptions. Right, where were we?’

Duncan sipped his own wine.

‘You were telling me about Dodgy Iain, how he’s started bursting in unexpectedly…’

Most people hate hospitals, but not Reg, he loves them. Especially at Christmas. Not the triage unit, where the drunks stagger in, bloody and beery from Office Dos Gone Wrong. Reg likes the quieter wards. Sometimes he volunteers to be Father Christmas for the children, but this year they’d asked someone else. Someone a bit younger. He understood.

He goes along anyway, dressed in his best suit, looking like he’s stepped straight out of 1945, his hair Brylcreemed and pencil moustache immaculate.

“You look very pretty tonight Alice” he tells an exhausted looking nurse and produces a tiny ribboned parcel for her. Her face lights up.

“Reg you shouldn’t - you’ll turn my head!”

“Oh Alice, you know if I were fifty years younger…”

“Reg you old fox!” she blushes and he tips her a wink. Then she looks at her watch and frowns “haven’t you got anything better to do on Christmas eve than make me blush?”

“I’m just dropping in this bag of crochet my daughter’s done for the new babies.”

“Karen and the family down for Christmas are they?”

“The house is full of people - I come here to get a bit of peace and quiet!” They both look around at the corridors teaming with people coming and going with bags of gifts and trays of food and they share a laugh.

“That’s very sweet” Alice tells him “I’ve got to dash, but you know your way to maternity don’t you?”

Alice pecks him on the cheek and hurries away.

He takes the crochet with the shop labels carefully snipped out along to the maternity wards. The tired nurses smile when they see him, visibly brightening at his old-fashioned suit and cheerful face. He’s a regular. An old favourite. They crowd around to admire the tiny garments he’s brought and Reg is in his element.

“How’s Karen and the grandkids Reg?”

“She’s wonderful” he tells her “and Alfie’s nearly four and Charlie’s just starting sitting up by himself”

“I don’t know how she finds time to do all this knitting for us Reg”

“Ah - it’s crochet - she’d be furious if I let you think it was knitting!”

The nurses laugh as Reg pretends to tick them off.

Then, one by one, they scurry away - back to work, or home, or sleep until Reg stands alone with the ward sister. Before she can tell him visiting time is over Reg says:

“I’d best get back. I want to see the boys before bedtime.”

“Merry Christmas Reg” the sister says “Lovely to see you.”

Reg gives a flourished bow to make her laugh and heads home as another nurse joins the sister at the desk.

“He’s a sweetheart isn’t he? How old is he? Eighty?”

“Must be if he’s a day” says the sister “He’s a kind soul. Always popping in with something. His family are lucky to have him.”

Meanwhile Reg lets himself in to his silent house. There are no decorations in the window and no stocking on the fireplace. The heating is off, so he makes himself a hot water bottle and sits in his chair, waiting for Christmas day to dawn.

The walls rattled in the wind and rain, rocking on their wheeled base. Rust stained water dribbled down the window, like an old toothless mouth chewing an orange. The caravan looked and smelled like 15 years in a dark damp forest.

He sat staring out, trying to figure out why he was still there and if he could leave yet. And if he did, then what? He supposed it had been love. Whatever that was. Something inside him that had taken over and stripped sense and reason from him. Or maybe that was just an excuse. He rolled the bottom of his beer across the table in small circles before almost knocking it off clumsily. He sighed and finished the bottle, picking his crochet up and trying again. The hook caught and he cursed silently. Another stupid idea; he just couldn’t get the hang of it. Tom would have been great at this he thought. He was one of those people who was instantly good at everything he turned his hand to. The thought darkened his gloom and he tossed the mess of wool into the corner.

The air was thick with the heaviness of a summer storm. He picked up a book from a shelf at random and immediately discarded it. The stifling air added to his mood, frustrated, he wanted to get out and walk, but the rain was as torrential as his thoughts.

He wondered for the 1000th time what Tom was doing, if he was thinking about him at all. It had been crazy to do it. The heat. The music. The buzz. It had all been too much. He remembered how his hand had felt numb when they touched. How his lips were rough and tasted of cheap lager. How long ago was that? Funny how one short moment can so completely divide time; before and after. Nothing was the same after. Can I ever go back to before? He thought. Fuck this. Fuck love. Fuck tom.

He lay down on the bed replaying the day after. He’d woken up, packed a bag and driven straight here, firing off a quick email about a family emergency to work. They used to come out here drinking, hunting in the forest. Enjoying nature. The rain had died down briefly a pause in the storm. He grabbed a beer and headed outside. The air was warm and the soft rain was refreshing against his bare chest. He stood silent. Watching nothing. A faint rustle in the undergrowth and his heart froze. He didn’t dare to hope, but there it was anyway. A small perhaps. Maybe. The undergrowth moved again and from the shadows a large canine shape padded into the moonlight. An old fox, faded fur but still beautiful. It looked at him slowly, deep green eyes passing judgment. Then seeing nothing of note it looked away and padded across the grass into the distant undergrowth. Nothing to worry you here he thought. Nothing but a sad fool, waiting. Waiting. Trapped between before and after. Unwilling to go forward. Unable to go back.