All stories

It was done. The caterers were paid, the guests were all gone and Lisa and her mum were alone in the old house for the first time since Lisa could remember.

It still reverberated with him though, an echo that would never quite die out, Lisa thought, as she traced her finger along the smooth wood of the bannister. He was there in the smell of pipe tobacco in the heavy curtains, the anticipation of whisky glasses, queuing beside the decanter.

His bluster and old-school determination chimed hollow in the glasses and his badly concealed disappointment at his house full of soft, bookish women fluttered like moths in the soft furnishings.

Lisa slowly climbed the stairs. Mum was covering canapes with cling film in the kitchen, as if either of them would fancy a mushroom vol-au-vent for breakfast. She let her feet carry her, almost of their own accord, up and up, all the way to the doorway of his study.

He had been a hard man for Lisa to love. Life was for sports, the outdoors, stiff upper lip, death to small furry animals and boys will be boys. His disappointment in his daughter had been palpable. He never even pretended he wouldn’t have preferred a son.

But he had never stopped trying, much to Lisa’s distress. She remembered the hours shivering outside in the cold, forcing her limbs to run, curling her frozen fingers around the rugby ball or the shotgun trigger or the bridle; whenever he had found her curled up with a book in some warm, hidden corner he had found a way to drag her outside.

And his study was his man space. Leather-bound books lined the walls, a soft armchair beside the unlit fire, his old imperial map of the world stretched out on the wall, highlighting the glories of the Empire; a time when men were men and Britain ruled the world.

Lisa let the door shut softly behind her and breathed in his smell of tobacco and dust and leathery cologne.

Slowly, slowly, she lowered herself into the forbidden arms of his ancient chair, a thrill of disobedience jangling, as though he might walk in any minute and catch her and give her the hiding of her life. Not anymore.

And as she sat there and drank him in, trying desperately to miss him, to feel something now that he was gone, she heard a strange sound from beneath his desk. She sat up, straining to hear. A rustling noise, unmistakable. Something was scurrying around in the footwell of his rolltop.

Lisa stood and moved hesitantly towards it.

It was coming from the bottom drawer, which had been left slightly open. Peering inside, Lisa saw a small parcel wrapped in silver paper with her name on it, a card and a metal cage. Inside were two tiny furry creatures gazing up at her from their sawdust beds.

Lisa could not have been more astonished. Her birthday gifts were invariably activity related - a new cricket bat or sessions to improve her rugby game, whatever she asked for. She opened the card.

To Lisa,

Happy birthday.

Thought I'd try something different this time, nothing like the thought of impending death to change your outlook. Hopefully I’ll still be here when you get to meet them!

Love, Dad.

He was a hard man for Lisa to love, but he had never stopped trying.

Ruby had perfectly plaited blonde locks that fell exactly 3 cm past her shoulder. She kept it very tidy, like her room, which was immaculate at all times, which she was quick to point out to people. Tom on the other hand lived in his own world, which twisted and tumbled around him, jumping from oceans to planets in a haze. One morning they were throwing the rugby ball around in the garden, Ruby waiting patiently for him to stop rolling around and actually throw it, when she heard a strange rustling in the cabbage patch. “What was that?” She asked. “What was what?” Tom muttered, inspecting the new holes that had appeared in his jeans, with curiosity. “That strange rustling noise. Go and check it out.” Ruby wasn’t about to go digging in the patch in her favourite top. Tom wandered over and stuck his head in the middle of two giant Savoys. “I can’t see anything Rube. Hang on a sec there’s somethi…” Ruby watched in shock as Tom disappeared with a cry into the patch. All she could hear was a growl and a snap and then nothing. “Tom. Stop messing around. Come out of there.” Ruby stepped a little closer. Suddenly with a snarl something leapt. She fell backwards with a shriek as it crashed onto her. All she could see was teeth and whiskers and two mad frenzied eyes. Claws raked across her arms as she struggled to break free and razor sharp teeth began to close around her, when suddenly itss head snapped back and slumped onto her. She pushed the body off and crawled away. Tom stood there with a broom, bleeding badly, his clothes torn but grinning. “I think we have a rat problem”.

Before Ruby could say anything, she sensed more movement in the hedges. Faces and claws peered out at them. “Get to the house now” she commanded and they turned and sprinted. Just in time she slammed the door shut, as with a loud thud another giant rat crashed into it. Outside they were destroying the house, clawing and knawing at the walls. “Quick, Let’s get up stairs.” ruby said. They pulled a wardrobe out and tipped it over to block the stairs, as with a smash the back door burst open. “They better stay out of my room.” Ruby said, quite seriously. Tom disappeared into the chaos of his bedroom, clambering across mountains of toys and laundry. He peeled back the map of the world on his wall, to reveal a secret cupboard rammed full of nerf guns. “No ones going to hurt my sister other than me.” He headed back to the landing and handed ruby a crossbow. “Aim for the eyes.” He said firing down the stairs at a snarling face. “Got him”. But ruby knew they only had a few bullets. She left Tom defending and grabbed a cricket bat from the landing. Tom might drive her crazy at times, but he didn’t deserve to be torn apart by rats. Before Tom could stop her she leapt over the wardrobe and rushed down the stairs Swinging wildly. Downstairs was carnage, everything was torn to shreds. She beat her way to the back door, waving her arms and shouting to get the rats attention. Then hoping it would work she turned and ran...

Delyth’s stall in Camden market looks the same, but worse. Like her face observed in the 6 mirrors on the back wall. The ravages of time do for everything in the end.

8 clocks rest on three mantlepieces. Their second hands have stopped at various points on their journey around the face.

An ancient rugby ball signed by Barry John, the only thing that has survived of her first life in Wales drapes like a Salvador Dali clock, deflated and irrelevant.

Pinned to the wall behind it is a map of the world. On this the many tiny countries which surround the Adriatic like sunloungers by a hotel pool have been replaced by the word “Yugoslavia”. The map has some slits in its folds and a coffee cup stain forms an exclusion zone around Chile and Argentina.

In the background a tiny scratching sound emanates from somewhere, slightly impinging on Delyth’s consciousness.

At 58 Delyth has not seen much of the world beyond London except a couple of abandoned inter-rails, the rest of the world was always hicksville.

But now she is broke, alone and middle aged.

Back in the day. She’d fascinated herself! “Polyamorous” before it was a word, She’d got high In a lowlife squat she shared in London. Liaisons with a female bassist in a punk band, a strange Central European called Lotte, and Kev who had started the stall when Camden was cool and not just a scrum for Japanese tourists.

They had all been determined to do what they wanted in a world ripe for changing.

Until the other women had disappeared and what Delyth wanted became secondary to what Kev wanted. Which was more heroin.

Her urban mockney, picked up immediately when she’d bunked on the London train at 16 was hoarse from too many roll-ups in licqourish papers, it was a voice no one used anymore. Young Londoners had their odd mix of cockney, Jamaican and Australian which she couldn’t do, she feels old fashioned, outnumbered.

All this useless junk surrounds her and corrodes her mind, makes her worry. It is all that remains of Kev. How very apt! Delyth’s attention is finally caught by the surprising rustling, this emanates from a distressed ottoman.

She opens the lid and discovers a mouse family which has made a home inside it. They’ve chewed their way in from the back and have shat all over the unruly pile of handkerchiefs inside. But they look so settled and familial she can’t bear to disturb them.

She leaves them to it.

She feels like Miss Havisham, standing here with all her clocks telling stories of different times, none of them very happy.

She looks at the rugby ball again and is strangely warmed by it’s presence and the cheery mouse family she’s discovered. She picks up her scratched mobile and phones her 80 year old mum on the old number, in the old house.

And finally, just like that, after 42 years of running away, Delyth is going home.

.

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Creation Myth – Claire

I am so small. I didn't know this for a long time, not until I found a map of the world. I found it all crumpled in the bottom of a drawer, my attention drawn by a faint rustling noise. In trying to find the source of the noise I opened the drawer and out crawled a cockroach, which had been dragging its smelly carcass across what turned out to be the map. I took the map to the table, hearing the satisfying crunch of the cockroach’s carapace underfoot.

On the map was a shape something like a rugby ball (Momma had told me about Rugby and many other things that were in yellowed newspapers covering the cellar floor). Within the ball were colours and many names. I spent the rest of the day studying the map and by night had decided that I would set off to find out where all the names were. At sunrise next day I packed some seeds, dried rabbit meat and a water pouch in an old hessian bag. Outside I kissed Mommas bleached bones where they hung on the wire fence and walked in the direction of the sun.

I walked all day, passing the fallen down houses and the rusting cars. The landscape was a collage of plastic, rubble and wiry shrubs where furniture rotted and granite work tops stood sentinel and unchanged. Mangy dogs lurked nearby, wary of the stick I carried but hopeful of a morsel. By nightfall I had gone as far as the edge of my known world. I slept under a fibreglass boat on a salt-dry riverbed. When I woke the next morning nothing looked familiar but I walked onwards, stopping only to eat some food, getting more and more footsore and weary.At night I dreamt that I may find another soul, perhaps a child younger than me, or an old man who could teach me things. But then I woke and there was just me, the dogs and cockroaches, not even Mommas bones for company.

On the 3rd day I realised that the map was a lie, just a silly drawing of a fantastical place. I had come so far and yet still had found nothing I had seen on the map, no signs bearing the names, no green forests or blue oceans. I turned to go back home where at least I knew how to live. The journey back seemed longer somehow, without hope and excitement about what I may discover. All I had found out was that I am so small, and I felt sad for the first time since Momma passed, because I wanted to be big again.

I arrived home on the 6th day and the first thing I did was set fire to the map with the lens from Momma’s glasses. I found a sheet of paper and drew a new world as I knew it. I made tiny creatures out of dust and water and covered the world in them to live at my bidding. And I was big again and it felt good. The next day I was so tired I just slept.

Not the choke of father has he struggled for another breath that woke her, nor the whimper of her brother snuggled next to her in the straw. Elli slid from beneath the ragged blanket then slithered to the bare wood floor. She paused in the cool and the silence, and there it was again – that whispering sound of something.

Barefoot and clad in her night rag dress she crept carefully from the family sleeping chamber, pausing at the bottom of the stairs, looking both ways at the early morning light creeping grey over the wood trestles serving as doors to the outside.

The rustle of old bones rose again and Elli shivered, seeing fingers and eye sockets, the horrid grins of the former owners clawing their way back home. She ran and mounted the trestle and the words were out before she could clasp her hand to her mouth.

‘Bloody Dyfrig!’

She looked fearfully back at the stairs, hinging on one hand and foot. But silence. Elli grinned and peered again over the trestle at the strange shaped ball Dyfrig had found then abandoned without thought. It was egg shaped, the ball itself as big as a chicken, and now it was moving in the breeze, tip of one end rasping against the brickwork.

Elli laddered the trestle rather than lever it open. She cradled the ball to her body as she moved along this terrace of houses, past the matching wood trestles that blocked some of the doors. She paused for a moment at the square of earth Heulwen claimed for her own. It cut the shared path neatly in half. Father said that once there had been real walls and real gardens, not this square of dead earth that forced them to edge awkwardly alongside the pile of rubble if they wish to avoid the wrath of Hell-wen.

Elli marched straight. She paused in the middle of this pathetic square of earth. She hefted the ball once, then twice, then grinned. She stepped carefully across the edging of stones as father insisted, then paused, just outside. She shuffled both feet, just enough to mar the careful line, just a little.

Elli grew in confidence with the ball, tossing it higher and higher. Same as she always did, she stopped at the end of the terrace and gazed solemnly up at the expanse of once white wall streaked with grime that had been painted with a map of the world. The seas blue, sort of. Most of the land was red, flecked here and there with hints of green. Over the top in brown crude lettering was daubed “liars!”.

Elli stared long at the map of the world, their home somewhere under the letters, and of course theirs was a huge blob of green, because all this they had now father said, you wouldn’t get that in a place painted red.

Elli screwed her eyes shut, she squatted down low, ball between her legs. She exploded tall, launching the ball as high and as hard as she could. The breeze across her face was bright, the silence glorious, and she was rising on wings, soaring with the ball, higher and higher, gone from this place, this pathetic scrap of brown painted green.