Public Dominoes – a poem

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This poem describes a lunchtime game of dominos witnessed in a Pub called The Victoria in northern England.

Up go the dominoes,
Into his hands,
Covered by the right,
A ring on each finger,
Ill-assorted array!
They glint as he downs to the table,
Following, Morris smiles
Through bushy beard,
Eyes mischievously aglow,
Down another domino.
Controversial this?
Sure, his eyes spell it,
And all display surprise.
Next that friendly pair,
Betty both to me,
Down dominoes successively.
So, back to Barry comes the game,
Simple banter following along,
I’m knocking,
No twos or threes…
And then, suddenly,
Morris is out.

© Copyright, February 2014, Jane Stansfeld

An Unanswered Letter – part 5 – Conclusion – a short story.

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New York was still hot when I got there. I had timed myself to arrive by overnight bus so that I gave myself most of the day to find our meeting place on MacDougal. Of course I arrived early. I carried a small square travelling suitcase which I set upon the sidewalk and used as a seat. As I waited I watched the crowds on the sidewalk – the place teemed with activity. I marveled at the extraordinary mix of people with their unconventional clothing and seemingly carefree demeanors.

I saw Mike before he saw me, but I almost didn’t recognize him. Gone was the pale youth of our transatlantic passage. The young man I saw now was bronzed and muscular and exuded health and vitality. What a difference two and a half months had made! I stood up as he approached and greeted him unsure whether we should hug or shake hands. We indulged in a quick embrace which didn’t express any of my pent-up emotions. Mike was a little preoccupied because he had hoped that we could stay with Chris, one of his friends, in Greenwich Village. This friend turned out to be away on vacation; so, as it was getting late, we found a nearby hotel.

I shall always remember our approach to the reception desk. Mike asked about vacancies and when the clerk inquired whether we needed two rooms or one Mike turned to me. I quietly said, “Two rooms.” My motivation was driven by shame and anguish. I didn’t want Michael to discover my dark secret.

Yes, I had a dark secret. It was that, although I was twenty-one years old, I had still not reached menses. Yes, this is a medical anomaly, but is easily explained. My menses had been delayed by my long years of anorexia. By this time in my life I had overcome anorexia but the hormones of normal development had still not caught up. My chest was as flat as a boy’s although I disguised this fact by wearing a bra padded with bean bags. Of course I didn’t want Michael to discover my secret and, being premenstrual, I knew that I didn’t have the right hormones for intercourse. So here I was, a prim virgin, in the middle of Greenwich Village having to deny the man of my dreams. It was an act to hide a secret and an act which probably affected the direction of the rest of my life. I often wonder what would have happened if I had said, “One room.”

We didn’t spend long in the hotel and were soon out on the streets of Greenwich Village. Our walk was directionless as we wondered among the crowds on the street. Mike seemed to be perfectly at home in this sea of activity but I was unaccustomed to seeing so many unconventional people. We watched a spontaneous concert in Washington Square and eventually found a small restaurant where we ate. When we entered the restaurant Mike turned to me waiting for me to select a table. I looked at him. That is when he told me that American girls always select where they are to sit in a restaurant. It appeared to me that he did not like this custom but was determined to make me do likewise. I think that he liked making me choose, not because he approved of the arrangement, but because it amused him to see me doing so.

The following morning Mike called Barbara who had a flat on East 56th. She told him that she would willingly put us up and so we checked out of the hotel and made our way to her apartment. Barbara impressed me immensely with her long blonde hair and elegant thin body. I got the distinct impression that she disapproved of our liaison as she hardly spoke a word to me. I even wondered if she had one been one of Mike’s girlfriends, for her distaste was undisguised. I soon discovered that she worked for Time Life Magazine and had aspirations of becoming a novelist. She made us laugh with her descriptions of life on the magazine which centered on cutting, cutting and more cutting. She explained that this is the key to good writing.

Mike spent the next two days whisking me around New York. We visited the East Village with its small art galleries and even attended a discussion about art in one of them. We visited Sheridan Square with its famous bookshops, brownstone houses which reminded me of England, the Seagram Building, Lever House, and the Lincoln Center. At the Lincoln Center we saw some Calder sculptures which Mike liked. We wandered into many art galleries, the one which I remember best was the Frick collection with its calm interior courtyard and famous art including Vermeer’s Laughing Girl, JV Eyck’s Virgin and Child and El Greco’s Clearing of the Temple.

Mike made contact with his friend, Chris, who, although still away on vacation, gave us permission to use his flat as a pied-a –terre. I found the ferocious untidiness of his abode in stark contrast to the expense of the furnishings and world class art on the walls including a Chagall. Mike and I adopted it as a good place to hang out and enjoy each other’s company without the watchful eye of a hostess, as was the case in Barbara’s apartment.

My last memory of Mike is of the Sunday afternoon which we spent in Central Park. That’s when he told me that he felt that he had squandered the weekend and that he felt depressed. He told me that girls of my class are cold, and that American girls attack the male. It was obvious from this comment that he did not like the attacking woman but somehow seemed to wish that I were more sexual and did just that. Perhaps this was the moment when I should have come clean and told him about my dark secret but I didn’t. Pride is a terrible thing.

When he made his declaration of love, I did not understand what he was saying. His declaration came in a riddle which I pretended to understand but didn’t. He said that the new Beatles song ‘I’ve just seen a face’ summed up his feelings and made him think of me. I, of course, had never heard the song, and so did not know what he was telling me. But again pride took hold and I didn’t say anything. When I got home I bought the record and cried bitterly when I heard the words. Even now years later those words ring my heart and bring tears to my eyes.

‘I’ve just seen a face
I can’t forget the time or place
Where we just met
She’s just the girl for me
And I want all the world
To see we’ve met
Mmm, mmm, mmm, mmm mmm mmm

Had it been another day
I might have looked the other way
And I’d have never been aware
But as it is I’ll dream of her tonight
La, di, di, da di di

Falling, yes I am falling
And she keeps calling
Me back again
I have never known the like of this
I’ve been alone and I have missed things
And kept out of sight
For other girls were never quite like this
La, di, di, da di di’
——————–
‘Oh, falling, yes I am falling
And she keeps calling
Me back again’

Calling I may have been, but after we parted I spent a few more miserable days in New York and an equally sad nine-day oceanic crossing before taking up my next year at university. I don’t remember if we exchanged letters, I rather think that we didn’t or if we did they were few and far between. Certainly, on my side of the ocean, the demands of everyday life including my mother’s illness and death eclipsed any thoughts of trying to stay in touch. By the time that my menses occurred two years later and I became a full woman we had already lost contact. That’s when I wrote the first version of the letter that was never mailed. That’s the letter which I have now rewritten and have nowhere to send.

I add this conclusion to my ‘Unanswered Letter’ in the second edition of my anthology of short stories. It wraps up Mike and my encounter of 1966. When the first edition came out in 2013, I undertook an extensive promotion tour to assist with sales. I orchestrated the tour so that it followed the path which I had taken forty years earlier. It was a nostalgic decision which gave me pleasure but I was not so wrapped in the past to travel by Greyhound. No, this time, I travelled in luxury in an RV camper. Moreover, I didn’t travel alone as my son, now a freelance photographer, accompanied me acting as chauffeur and companion. He helped fill the vacuum left by my husband’s death and used the trip to chronicle America on film. We stayed in good hotels, and ate well. I enjoyed this chance to travel with him and was thankful that he was beside me to soften the sting of loss and provide companionship.

I developed a routine in which I would read excerpts, always the same excerpts, answer questions, and then sit at a desk signing books with a blue felt tip pen. At each venue I scanned the audience in the hope that, perhaps, I’d see a face that I recognized. Well, actually, I didn’t care about just any recognizable face all I wanted was that one face, the reason for the story, which I did not explain to my audiences. Each time I rationalized my disappointment with the consolation that the more people who came, the more the book would be read the more likely it was to draw the response which I craved.

By the time that we had been on the road for two months we were both ready to go home and headed south from New York with only one stop planned in Fort Worth. Here, the second signing was in a boutique store. As usual I scanned the audience without recognition. I gave my reading, answered questions and settled down to signing books. When I thought that the last book had been presented I looked up at the room to see if my son was close. That was when I felt a warm hand on my neck. I experienced an erotic wave of excitement. Only one person had ever touched my neck in this manner causing such a tremor of desire. A clipped voice spoke, the sound transported me back four decades, “Hi Susan, it has been a long time. How are you?’

I didn’t have to turn. I knew. I said, “It’s you Mike, isn’t it?”

I didn’t have to ask how he was I could feel strength and health in his touch. It was the same vitality of 1966. Slowly, enjoying every precious moment, my heart pounding, every second in slow motion I turned to look into his face. The rest of the room became a blur as I looked at him. In those long nanoseconds I saw beyond aging skin, beyond graying hair, beyond creases around the eyes and mouth, into the depth of the blue eyes. Their color was unchanged and they still shone with intelligence. I wanted to plunge into their blue, to swim in their pool of intellect. As I faced him I felt his hand still warm and caressing, touching the erotic places on my neck. I sensed his strength and lost myself in the ecstasy of the moment.

Slowly, ever so gently, he bent over and brought his lips to mine for a kiss. It was to be that sweet kiss which we had never exchanged.

© Copyright, Jane Stansfeld, January 2014

An Unanswered Letter – part 4 – America – a short story

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Now that we were in New York harbor, Mike again took the role of guide and observer. He kept asking me how I felt and what I thought about what I saw. I recall that I had nothing profound to offer. New York was in the midst of a heat wave and the air was hot. I had never experienced such air. It was like putting one’s head in an oven. Over and over I commented on the air but Mike had experienced such torpor before and I don’t think that my comments impressed.

Looking back I think that he wanted something profound relating to an awed response to the Statue of Liberty and the symbolism of New York’s harbor welcoming immigrants into its arms.
The morning of our arrival he wore a crisp blue cotton shirt the exact color of his eyes. The sky blue hue accentuated their depth and picked up a glimpse of color from his class ring. During our voyage I always loved how he looked in blue admiring the old blue sweater which he wore when it was cold, the one he was wearing when we first met. I’d also seen him in greens and light tan clothing and thought this suited him well but not as well as the blues.

At this point I was desperate and almost paralyzed by a deep sadness which I attempted to disguise. In accordance with my upbringing I thought that if we were to ever meet again the initiative had to come from Mike, the man. I kept telling myself that such romances aboard ship were commonplace and that I should not spoil it by asking for more. I tried to appear distant and not engaged, ready for my American travels. He, doubtless, was waiting for me to be ‘American’ and to give him some encouraging comments.

The State Department employees with their passport booths set up in dining hall. They were set up to process us on board with a barrier between the US citizens and everyone else. Our parting was hasty as we separated into our appropriate lines. As I stood in my line I mused about everything that I had heard about ship board romances. Ours certainly fit the description. But we hadn’t made a rendezvous not even an exchange of contact information. We had just parted with, no meeting in a few months on the Empire State Building, just a fleeting hug, no memento, no promises, no exchange of addresses, no souvenir. I thought that we were to become strangers again separated by time and tide.

He was, of course, in the short fast moving line of Americans while I was swallowed up into the long slow moving line of Europeans. When I emerged I paused at the top of the gangplank and looked down to scan the crowd for one last glimpse. That’s when I saw him moving quickly towards his Mom and Dad. His Mom waved frantically and his Dad stood beside her. I could just see him taking his Mom in his arms and then his turn as he gave a man-hug to his Dad. They patted each-other on the back. By now I was on the pier and lost sight of them in the throng of people.

They had told us that our quay was New York’s newest (ergo “best”) but I found it grim and grimy perhaps because this was where Mike and I separated. I paused beside the ship which loomed above me asserting its presence. I looked up at it letting the experience of the last nine days race through my head. My heart pounded, at the pain of saying goodbye. Then I saw him again. He was running upstream towards me, his face anxious. I thought that, perhaps, he had come back for an address. The address which I, desperately wanted to ask for but didn’t because girls of my upbringing don’t make the first move. Looking back I am sure that he wanted me to respond as an American might and to ask thereby saving him the first step. But I remained mute. He took me in his arms and pressed us together in a long embrace. “Good bye,” he murmured in my ear, “good bye. We had a great time didn’t we?”

I nodded, “Yes, it was a great pleasure.” He seemed to wince. I’m sure that he was thinking, as I thought afterwards, what a stupid understatement I had just made. Those were probably the words which finally severed and sealed our parting.

He kept his arms around me and said, “Good bye. Have a great trip!” not the words which I had hoped to hear “I love you and want to see you again.”

But, this time I was able to respond with warmth, “Good bye, Mike, meeting you has been very special, Thank you for everything- have a good life.” My voice trailed off as he turned to see his parents coming back up the quay. The crowd swelled thicker as he left me and ran towards them to be lost in the milling mass of people. He didn’t look back but I stood and watched until I was almost alone on the wharf. Then I took up my bags and walked slowly into New York.

Outside the docks I took a taxi to a preselected hotel. It turned out to be a ghastly place, a grey gloomy hole which matched my mood. Its only redeeming feature was a lovely “blue room” reception hall. I changed into light clothes and quickly left my dismal room, to brave the heat and walk the city streets. The streets which I trod were garish, streets of bargains and food, of neon signs, of questionable businesses, of people, of rubbish or trash as Americans call it, and of heat so torpid that it radiated up from the sidewalks,. The building rose almost unconnected, grey and grubby, into the hazy air, only their tenuous bases planted in the street podium of garnish activity. I walked for hours trying to find peace in this jumble of humanity and dirt but eventually returned to the hotel to sleep. The City had done nothing to improve my mood.

I was dejected and sad even though I arrived with two fantastic deals in my pocket. Through the National Union of Students for $99 I had purchased a Greyhound ticket which was good for anywhere, any ride, for the next 99 days. I also had invitations from four People to People families with whom I was to stay. I had already set up the stays so that I could start in New Jersey and travel in an anti-clockwise motion, up the New England coast, across the north via the Great Lakes, then eventually get to the Pacific where I could turn south through California and then back east to take in part of Texas and round up the Atlantic coast back to New York for another nine day cruise back home. Call it an American sampler designed to give a taste of America of 1966.

The next day another cab took me to the Greyhound station where I began my ninety nine day travels. My recollection of my travels has faded over the years; that is all, except those relating to Michael. I vividly remember my day in Boston which I spent in an anxious state of morose anticipation, not looking at Boston, but looking for Michael.

I remember that the bus arrived in Boston in the middle of the night and so I found a place in the terminal ladies toilet where I lay on the floor, undisturbed, and slept. I slept the soothing slumber of youth until I was awoken by the cleaning crew who seemed none too pleased to find me curled up in this public place where people are not supposed to sleep. I won them over when I apologized and humbly asked directions to the river.

I knew Boston to be Mike’s home town and that he was somewhere in this city. Naively, I thought that I might run into him but didn’t know where to put myself for this chance meeting. Indeed, I had no plan or thoughts on what I’d say if we did meet. I spent the day looking for him and then saddened, but not surprised, returned to the Greyhound station to continue onwards to Chicago.

From Chicago I went on to Cleveland then across South Dakota to the Black Hills and on to California. My People to People assignment in California was in the Central Valley with Dr. Guy Grenier and family. From the father’s name I expected a French speaking medical doctor. I was surprised; Dr. Guy Grenier was neither French speaking nor a medical doctor, his link to me was through architecture. He, and his family, had selected me as their student because he worked as a coordinator between architects on one side and educationalists on the other, and felt that this created a special rapport. Initially I judged him authoritative and proud, but as I came to know him I saw much to admire and dismissed my first impression. He had a spirited persona and could talk knowledgeably on many subjects including literature, music, lingos, and people. At the hosted People to People picnic I amused him by telling him that my father made a mean “Martini”. I gave the recipe as; one third gin, one third Italian Vermouth, and one third French Vermouth mixed with a drop of Angostura bitters, a twist of lemon and cube of Ice. He was delighted by the recipe and, grinning from ear to ear, introduced me to his ‘boss’, Dr. Garsy, so that I could tell him the recipe. Dr. Garsy smiled with equal amusement and thanked me adding,
“A national capable of perpetuating that deserves to lose its empire!”

Of course the most important event which occurred during my visit in Modesto was my receipt of Michael’s letter. It arrived enclosed in a People to People envelope. He had written to them imploring details of my itinerary and information on how he could contact me. I wish that I had kept this precious letter but I didn’t; suffice to say that I remember exactly what I was doing when the letter arrived. As humans we seem to be blessed with the ability to remember what we were doing and where we were at the most pivotal moments of our lives. In my case I was outside on the Grenier’s patio sunbathing. They were inside discussing the axiom ‘Mad dogs and English men go out in the midday sun’. Michael wrote that he needed to make contact with me and asked People to People to assist him. I immediately wrote back giving my address in Kansas as my next visit.

Soon I was traveling onward to San Francisco, Los Angeles, Grand Canyon, and finally Kansas. Here I found Michael’s next letter waiting for me. He proposed that we meet in New York August 12, 1996 at 8 PM at the intersection of MacDougal Street and Washington Square; half way long the section of MacDougal which borders on Washington Square Park. I wrote back that I’d be there. The rest of my travels into Texas, to St Louis, Philadelphia and Washington DC is a blur eclipsed by my longing for New York and my pending meeting on MacDougal street.

© Copyright, Jane Stansfeld, January 2014

An Unanswered Letter – part 3 – The Voyage – a short story.

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At meals I worked hard to keep conversation flowing. I planned my openers and remarks and then toned them down to match Mike’s swift insightful responses. I quickly deduced that he was smarter and better informed than I and, in addition, at twenty three, was more experienced and worldly. I saw myself in contrast to this knowledgeable person as someone who, at twenty-one, had lived a boring, mundane, protected, middle-class, English life. Using this realization I told myself that I could let his intelligence sharpen my senses and that if I inserted a few words and then followed his lead our mealtime discussions could be exciting. As time went on I got the uncanny impression that his very presence was honing me into something better, someone more alert, more alive. Looking back I wonder if this is what love is made of.

Either at this meal or the next one we exchanged brief histories about why we were there. Mike told me more about his year in Paris. He told me about his Parisian friends, who called him, “Mon très cher.” His description gave me an image of a large Louis XV salon with exotic French ladies swooning over this delectable young man.

I countered and told him about my 1964 six months in Versailles. I told him about the painting atelier, and painting nudes in a studio heated by a pot-belly stove. I told him about the Lycee des Beaux Arts where I spent a whole month on one drawing of a head of Voltaire. I told him about La Sorbonne and my Diplôme de la Civilazion Française. As we talked I felt a growing rapport with him especially when we discovered our joint fluency in the poetic French language and our joint love of literature. Now I wonder whether he still speaks French or if he, like me, has let his fluency lapse through disuse.

The National Union of students had arranged a series of lectures for our entertainment. I don’t remember what all the topics were. They were selected to accentuate our appreciation of American and European cultures. Our first lecture might have been one about T.S. Eliot who had died the previous year. We might have been told about his life and introduced to some of his poetry reading excerpts from the ‘Wasteland.’ His writing suited Mike’s quick intellect but I found it hard to squeeze meaning out of the beautiful words. When I got home I indulged in a ‘Faber’ paperback edition of “Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats.’ To this day I enjoy reading this simpler poetry ranging from “The Naming of Cats’ to “Macavity: The Mystery Cat.” It was that lecture and others like it which broadened our companionship first from dinner table to lecture hall and then on to joint activities on deck.

It is from the times which we spent on the deck together that I carry my most cherished memories. There was that wonderful evening when we went and talked in the warmth of the engine room door. We stood in the open doorway and Mike rested his strong hand lovingly on my neck and we talked and talked. As we talked the erotic sensation of his hand partially distracted me while drawing me to him with a hypnotic pull. That was when he told me of Ezra Pound, New York Literature, La Grande Vie en Paris, Les Sciences Peau Theater and more. Even then I wondered why Ezra Pound interested him so. Did Pound’s unconventional life play to Mike’s sensitivity to the unique? If we ever meet again I shall ask him if he is still drawn to the unusual thinkers, those who rock mainstay value systems. Ask him, if, old age has mellowed his outlook, or if he has further developed his insights into the unconventional.

Another special moment, a few evenings later, was when we stood at the stern of the ship and gazed out to sea. That time Mike stood behind me with his arms on either side protecting me from the wind. Then he suddenly spoke in French, a flow of pure French poetry coddling me as tightly and lovingly as his pose. It was warm talk, talk of companionship, talk of love and the uniqueness of our being together. His words flowed around me with the wind and yet those loving words were as protective as his body acting as a wind shield. I felt them fondling my mind and then flying away out over the ship’s wake. It was an ecstatic moment for me never to be forgotten.

One odd moment was the day on the deck when I asked “Why?” and he shrunk back and turned away. Now of course, I don’t remember why I asked “why?” but at the time it was an unanswered question. Later, I remember that we stood in each other’s arms and he told me how, “It is intense and lovely to be twenty-one.” His comment, a reference to my age, made me feel ecstatic and yet it saddened me. I loved his warmth but somehow the comment distanced us as I analyzed it to be another indication of how superior I felt him to be.

I treasure the afternoon which we spent lying on our tummies on the deck reading, or when we sat reading behind the life rafts. We were always looking for warm places on deck, places where we could rest in the cocoon of our closeness away from the hustle of the rest of the passengers. The bulk of the life rafts created a warm spot where Mike could tell me of his mad youth, Speed, Holy Cross, his family, and my countryman Tolkien. I think that he had just read “The Lord of the Rings” and was awed by this wonderful work. At that time I had only read “The Hobbit” and so could not keep up with his discourse. He expounded on Tolkien’s creativity and the language which he had invented to enrich his tale.

Now, looking back, I wonder whether the artificial environment of the ship’s enclosure and her deck stimulated our romance, or whether we could have connected in any setting. After all ship-board romances are common, subjects of many a story and here we were falling into a hackneyed cliché. I wonder if the sea has something to do with it. It is constant, yet variable, and very beautiful; surely these characteristics create a backdrop for love.

Certainly Mike and I spent many hours as, together, we studied the different colors of the sea. We saw so many. Sometimes it is an intense dark blue, calm, yet assertive gently rocking the ship as she goes. Then, at night it is inky black with white horses rolling in the distance like strange fish emerging from the depths. When it is rougher the larger waves fling themselves into the side of the ship and break forming white foam with rising bubbles. But the best color is the iridescent turquoise green which comes up out of the patterned foam. It is a transient beautiful color which ought to be able to be reproduced but which is so fleeting that it evades capture. Was the beauty of this color as transient and yet as precious and unique as our nascent love?

We had been nine days at sea when we reached land and made our way down the US coast to New York. That was when the ship’s crew frantically demolished the dining room ceiling and threw it over board. No-one ever officially explained what was going on but my recollection is that we somehow gathered that it didn’t comply with the New York harbor safety / fire rules and had to go. I was naturally excited to arrive but also very sad as I knew that my days of bliss in Mike’s company were about to end. That evening we stood by a window as he explained the coast to me and he stared at me and told me that I had a “perfect profile.” Late into the evening we danced, holding each-other very close. In those idyllic moments I knew that we were both happy, creating memories to treasure for a lifetime.

That night, before we docked in New York, the air was heavy with a warm off shore wind. From about 11:30 pm onwards the coast of Long Island and then gradually the City itself drifted into view, a panorama of glowing lights rising from an inky sea. Then the great narrows bridge with its huge suspension span loomed ahead and we went nearer and nearer and passed under its green lights and starry span. We stopped and waited in the neck until 5:30 am when the sun rose in a rosy glory to the right of Manhattan Island. The man-made structures are so high that one is tempted to imagine a hilly terrain not the flats which it was originally. As it got lighter the scene became more and more precise and perhaps more impressive. We sailed grandly past the Statue of Liberty with its green form lit by the dawn sun’s oblique rays. Everyone ran to the stern to take photographs. Then on and in with Manhattan island to the left. I had the impression of a mass of stalagmites gradually giving way to the realization that these gothic sky-scrapers are New York.

© Copyright, Jane Stansfeld, January 2014

An Unanswered Letter- part 2 – All Aboard – a short story

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I began my 17,000 mile jaunt of 1966 on Durham Station in North-East of England. The station is high on the rim of the River basin forming Durham City, and commands a regal view over a field of nestling grey slate roofs around the greenery of the River Banks of the Weir with the Norman Castle and Cathedral rising up out of the greenery. As I stood there gazing out over this place where I grew up, this place of my roots, I knew that I was proud to be part of its antiquity, and I was happy to remind myself that the present Cathedral was begun in 1087. My musings then drifted back to the present as I stood next to my mother and tried to think of something to say at a moment when everything had already been said. I shuffled uneasily, finding the silence onerous. I hoped that the train wouldn’t be late to prolong our good-bye.

When the sun shone unexpectedly through a sky scattered with clouds I turned my face toward it and shut my eyes to enjoy the intensity of its warmth. Mother commented that it was a good day for there was “enough blue overhead to make a sailor a pair of trousers”. She also seemed to enjoy the warmth although the station, windswept in its high location felt cold and I was glad that she had insisted that I wear a lined raincoat. As I wondered whether I should respond with a trite comment on the weather, I detected the approach of the train.

I was pleased that it was on time and I heard my younger brother’s yell of delight as it sounded its steam whistle and approached with smoke and clangor. I saw my mother’s hasty swing to grab him away from the edge of the platform. Everyone stepped back to avoid being sucked into the path of the approaching roaring mass of moving steel. Only too soon it stopped and I maneuvered my suitcase up the step onto the correct coach. Then someone closed the door and I stepped forward to lean out for a final farewell. We hadn’t hugged before I boarded, but now I saw concern in my mother’s moist eyes, “Good-bye dear, take care. Have a wonderful summer. Write.”

She looked wistful and now all I wanted to do was to jump off the train and hug her, “Yes, Mummy I’ll write as often as I can.”

“Promise me, we will miss you.” She reached up and her hand fleetingly touched mine.

Behind her my younger brother bounced up and down impatient to go home to play. He pulled at her clothing, “Can we go now, can we go?” His voice was high and pleading.

The whistle blew and the train pulled away. I looked out of the window waving my arm as I watched the waving form of my mother and brother. Soon they were two undistinguishable diminishing objects on the end of the platform, and then the curve of the railway viaduct hid them from view. At that moment I doubted myself and wondered whether this was a good way to spend my summer break from University.

By the following morning I had managed to get myself across London, though the maze of platforms in Waterloo and down to the coast. Now, I stood on the concrete wharf in Southampton where the National Union of Student’s ship loomed tall. But, even though she looked huge to me, and, I assume, to the other assembled passengers on the concrete pier, I knew her to be small as transatlantic liners go, and that she had previously only sailed in the Mediterranean. Her new mission was to ferry students between Europe and the United States. Before docking in Southampton she had left the warmth of Athens, her home port, sailed out of the Mediterranean, past the Rock of Gibraltar, and north to Le Havre her first port of call. Here she took on a contingent of Continental European students.

Now she was docked to pick up her English passengers, ready for her maiden voyage across the Atlantic Ocean to New York. The waiting crowd, on the dock, was noisy and excited and included both student passengers and their families. I stood alone and watched them as they exchanged last instructions and promises.

I wasn’t given long to watch these activities and contemplate the ship’s looming hull for soon the business of the day took my full attention. We passed through paperwork and stood in innumerable lines. The concluding formality was to be given cabin assignments and assigned a meal shift. When my turn came I looked around and surmised that the majority of the British were selecting the early meal-shift and so I, on the spur-of-the-moment, selected the late shift. I made my selection for several reasons, first because I thought that my experience would be enhanced if I avoided my fellow citizens, and second because eating late suited my concept of continental chic. Lastly I knew that the late shift would give me additional time to stand on deck to breathe in the sea air and to watch the British shore fading into the horizon.

Hours later I responded to the gong for the second meal-shift. When I reached the dining hall 1 was held back to give those with seats already assigned time to sit. 1 stood waiting with a small handful of fellow passengers who had boarded at Southampton. 1 felt insignificant and alone and quietly accepted my pass to table number ten. Then, 1 entered the large dining hall with its rows of long tables, and cacophony of sound from the voices of many students engaged in intense conversation in a multitude of languages. For a moment 1 paused to adjust to the noise, to gain my balance on the swaying floor, and to take in the layout of the room, and then 1 made my way towards table number ten. It seemed a long way off and 1 moved cautiously, still a little unsure of my sea-legs.

When 1 reached my destination 1 paused to survey my options. There were a couple of vacant spots on that long table one of which was to be mine for the next nine days. That’s when I first saw Mike; he sat with a pinched white face and intense pose, rather as if he was bored by everything around him. 1 looked at him and tried to assess his mood. 1 asked myself,
“Should I should sit next to this disengaged young man or take the other vacant seat? My quick assessment of Mike was, “He looks so intense that he will probably be poor company.”

Then, 1 glanced up the table and saw the German boy next to the other empty seat. He was dark and well-built and bubbled with self-confidence. 1 thought, “Oh, no, he looks worse.”

1 approached the seat next to Mike and asked, “Is this seat taken? I’ve been assigned to this table.”

He turned, and I expected a bored look, but instead, when he saw me, his gaze became a winning smile. He nodded, “No, it’s free, let me help you.” He arose and assisted me with my chair. 1 accepted his help and noticed his lean body and strong build and admired the ease of his movements. As 1 looked into his face 1 saw his blue eyes. What eyes; I immediately took in how the worn knitted navy sweater which he wore seemed to accentuate their punch, their color was seductive but their sparkle of intelligence animated his whole body. Initially 1 had wondered whether his pale complexion, accentuated by his blond hair, was due to ill-health but the ease of his movement and the dance of his eyes exuded life and a healthy vitality. As 1 sat 1 knew that 1 had made the right choice.

Everyone introduced themselves giving short explanations of their nationalities and reason for being on the ship. I told them that 1 was a second-year architecture student at London University. Mike had boarded at Le Havre and introduced himself as an American from Boston returning home from a year in Paris. We gossiped in English with lapses into German around the German boy whose name turned out to be Hans, and French when the Canadian honeymooners sitting opposite us spoke to each other.

Before long the conversation began to lag and I took on the challenge of keeping talk flowing. I asked some inane questions. I recall that one of my first questions, when I discovered that Mike was American, related to Christianity in the United States. Looking back I don’t know whether this was prompted by our saying a collective Grace before we ate or whether it stemmed from the preconception that I had that the majority of Americans were practicing Christians taking their faith from their pilgrim forefathers. I quickly discovered that Mike thoroughly disliked the question. He gave an irritated, dismissive response spoken in a clipped tone. He explained that it was counter culture to categorize Americans into church going robots. Somehow I deftly morphed the discussion into one about theism and so salvaged our exchange. Now, all these years later I recall that he told me that he was raised catholic but was, perhaps at that stage in his life, or perhaps still is, an agnostic.

© Copyright, Jane Stansfeld, January 2014

An Unanswered Letter – part 1 – The letter – a short story

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Hello fellow bloggers I’ve missed you the last few weeks while I’ve been off grid with family and health issues but am now emerging and back to my old haunts – I’m glad to be back!

To follow the hiatus I’ve decided on a departure from my normal modus operandi. The following story is about 8,500 words and so I have severed it into five more digestible installments each 1,500 – 2,000 words. It tells a love story which is common to many who cherish the memory of an early love or infatuation which, for some reason, was never fulfilled. I call to mind several novels which expound on this theme, they include; Kazuo Ishiguru’s ‘Remains of the Day’ and Jamie Ford’s ‘Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet.’
I hope that my little story keeps you interested enough to read all five posts – they will span over two to three weeks.

Today I sit in front of my computer starting to write a letter which I tried to write decades ago. It is unanswered, not because it is un-written, but because it is un-mailed. It has been written a thousand times in my mind and now as I stare at a blinking curser on a blank page on the screen I wonder how I should begin. I delay a little longer and glance to my left to look through a tall window onto a serene garden bathed in dappled sunlight. I smile as I get up and push open the window sash to savor the peaceful outside scene more closely. Through the open window I can hear the combined sounds of running water and far off traffic. It eclipses the quiet sounds of my home, the ticking grandfather clock and computer’s hum. The distant moan on the freeway is akin to the roar of the sea, and it jerks me back to my letter because, when I think about the recipient, I think of the ocean.

In front of me I hold an ancient wad of faded yellow paper. It is crisply fragile and carries a faint aroma of age. It is an early version of my letter which I hoard in an old box of mementos. It is undated but I know that it is old because it is written in ink in an exquisite hand only accomplished by using a real fountain pen with flat calligraphy nib. It is clearly a draft because it contains many deletions and inserts. It begins “Dear Michael,” but the “Michael” is crossed out and “Mike,” is inserted above. I like the fact that this handwritten version contains edits so that I can trace my thought-process of forty, or more, years ago. Even now I remember that I changed the address from the formal “Michael” to the less formal “Mike” in an attempt to express my feelings for Mike whom I only address as “Mike” in my head.

Writing in those days took time, first because hand-writing takes longer than typing and second, because frequently the edits necessitated that the final product be completely re-written. Ink on paper means that every word is carefully considered at least twice in the hope that the second draft will be the final version. I like to think that this labor intensive process accounts for the abandonment of the draft before me, but I suspect otherwise.

For today’s letter I consider starting with “Dear Mike;” but then abandon this option in favor of modern e-mail etiquette of “Hi Mike:” I’m not sure that I like this, seemingly casual, address because it feels impersonal and perky and almost trite and so I continue to stare at the blinking curser. As I ponder on the proper salutation I shut my eyes to speculate how Mike and I would greet each-other if we were to meet today. I wonder if he would say, “I’m pleased to meet you.” addressing me as anyone might when meeting someone new. Or would he recognize my full name and say, “Hi Susan, it has been a long time. How are you?’

I muse on how I would respond perhaps saying, “It’s you Mike, isn’t it?” hoping that the brevity of my response conveys the fact that his memory has haunted me ever since we parted

I know that after so long the exchange would have to be casual mostly in deference to what has happened in our lives during the interim. After all, here I am, happy to describe myself as someone who had a wonderful marriage and loving husband. And now as I enter old age I rejoice in my family, hardly the description of someone who is in need of, or pining for, love. I’m equally sure that his life has also developed and that he has obligations of today and loves which he has acquired in the interim since we last saw each other. Yet, I know that this letter is a love letter. I am not sure I know why I write it or what I wish it to accomplish. All I know is that writing it will be therapeutic and finally record the ends which we left loose that summer of 1966. I suspect that it could be a long letter – longer than the biblical epistles, for there is much to say. It is to be a letter in which I explain everything which I didn’t say that day that we parted and I watched him walk away. In it I hope to chronicle those things omitted through a combination of pride and a severe case of British stiff upper lip.

But I still pause and, disregarding the blinking curser, click on the big E icon on the side of my computer monitor. It takes me into an “Internet Explorer”. I type in his name to search for him on line. His name is fairly common and I am astonished by the number of matches but then as I narrow the search by adding his “III” and his birth year of 1943. I draw a blank. I decide to test the system with the name of my husband, also a fairly common name. The response quickly gives me a good match so I know that it works.

I open “ancestry.com” where I have charted our family tree to track my new relatives resulting from the marriage of my daughter. Here I add his name to see what the system will suggest. It gives me nothing. I begin to suspect that I will never be able to find a recipient for my letter and, grieving inwardly, decide that I shall still write. I reassure myself that when the time comes I may hire a private eye to sleuth out some information, knowing full well that I won’t. However, the comforting thought that I might motivates me to click back to the top of the empty screen, to start typing.
 
Hi Mike,
I have no idea how I should begin this letter or even if you will remember me. I’m the girl whom you met on the National Union of Students transatlantic passage in the summer of 1966. You were twenty-three returning home after a year in Paris. I’m the English architectural student who sat next to you at meals, the one with whom you spent your time on deck and the one whom you re-met a couple of months later in New York. Do you remember?
My hope is that this letter finds you in good health and that it jogs your memory enough for you to be willing to respond with your news. I write because I do remember. I write because you were the most important person in my entire three month United States tour of 1966 and, as I enter old age, I should like to know how you are doing; know how your life developed; what you did; and whether you are happy.
I also write because when we parted you gave me a riddle. It was what I later unraveled to be a sincere message of love. But you concealed your message in a simple package which I didn’t unlock until several weeks later. By the time that I understood your message the pressures of life at home had taken over and the moment lost. This letter is to tell you that your love was not in vain but reflected back in deep intensity.
So, I seek you out because I still carry your image in my heart, even though my mental picture of your physique is sadly faded. It is so faded that, even if you haven’t aged, as I have, I know that I wouldn’t recognize you. In some respects this saddens me for perhaps, over the course of these long years, we have run across each other without recognition. When we met photographs were a luxury and so I have nothing physical to jog my memory and I expect that you don’t either for I recall that we never posed together in front of a camera. From another perspective I don’t think that this lack of a faded photograph matters as the treasured memory in my heart is a poignant, nagging, memory of your essence. It is why I write.
Etiquette says that I should give you my news. Suffice it to say that I became an architect and in 1974 married an American and became a citizen of your vast land. I have a son, daughter and two granddaughters. So you see my life is full, and yet, I still crave to know how you are and what you are doing.
You know that I never put demands on you, that I made you do the chasing, but now, I am the seeker. This letter is to let you to know that I cherish and cling to my memory of you and simply ask that you reply to this letter with your news.
No obligations!
Cheerio,
Susan.

I am astonished at the letter’s brevity and wonder why I chose to close with ‘Cheerio’. I suspect that it is because ‘cheerio’ seems to go with ‘hi’. I decide to put it aside for a day and then to come back to add some additional memories which I may wish to share with him before I find an address to which it can be mailed. As I look at it on my monitor I day-dream back to that special summer. I remember and relive it with such urgency that I start typing again. But this time it isn’t a letter, it is a story, our story. I tell myself that maybe I’ll mail Mike the whole manuscript. Perhaps he will respond and we will meet. or better still, maybe, I‘ll publish the document as a short story casting it out into the literary world to see if, by chance, he will pick it up, read and remember.

© Copyright, Jane Stansfeld, January 2014
 

The Retreat – a short story

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Stephen looked at his mother with anger. He had no intention of tidying his room or making his bed. All he wanted to do, this glorious summer day, was to go outside to play. Although only eight, he had decided that tidying rooms, and making beds was women’s work. It was 1963 in the north of England and this belief was held by most of his friends, many of whom got away with it.

“Now Stephen, you have finished your breakfast. It is time for you to go upstairs and make your bed. You are eight years old and quite big enough to do your share. Now move, when it is tidy up there you can go out to play.”

He gave her a rebellious glance and stomped to the door. She followed him. For a moment he thought that there was no escape but then he saw the door to the downstairs powder room. He went in. She knocked on the door.

“It is no use Stephen, you cannot escape in there. I insist that you go upstairs.”

“But Mummy,” he responded “I have to go.” He reached up and quickly latched the door. His mother heard the latch slip into place.

“All right, I believe, you but thousands wouldn’t,” she said, “but when you are done it is upstairs to tidy up. Do you understand?”

He understood, but this didn’t make him like it. He sat on the green toilet seat and thought. The house was an old Victorian mansion with thick masonry walls, heavy solid wood doors, and tall ceilings. The toilet was an unattractive room and was small making the ceiling seem taller. It had a black and white tile floor and black tile wainscot. The rest of the walls were white plaster painted with shiny-gloss enamel. The toilet was on one end and a pedestal lavatory on the other. High on the north wall opposite the door was a small window. It was slightly ajar to ventilate the room. He wondered if he could climb from the toilet seat to the window sill. Climbing out of his bedroom window was easy; he did it every time that he was grounded, returning to sit on his bed when she came to release him. But this window was too small and too high for a small eight year old boy to negotiate.

He was still sitting evaluating his options when she came back to check on him. She knocked “Stephen, are you still in there, you had better come out now and go upstairs to your room.”

He felt a bit stupid as he said, “But, Mummy I’m still going.”

“Go all you want,” She replied, “but it doesn’t let you off. As soon as you are through it is upstairs to your room. Do you understand! It won’t take you long to tidy up and then you can go outside to play.”

She rattled the door even though she knew that it was latched from the inside. The commotion made him more determined. He sat on the floor, not because it was more comfortable than the toilet seat but because it seemed to assist him in asserting his independence.

There were no pictures in the room but on both walls adjacent to the toilet were neat charts prepared by his father. They had gone up after his father read “Cheaper by the Dozen” and decided that the toilet was a great place to reinforce rote memory. The chart on the left read: “The Kings and Queens of England.” He knew some of them already and had heard his sister recite them to their father getting monetary rewards when they gave correct answers. He read “William 1 1066; William II 1087; Henry I 1100; Stephen 1135”. He stopped, thinking that surely Stephen never had to make his bed and tidy his room. He didn’t read them all but he took the time to observe that all the longest reigns were women; Elizabeth I 1558-1603, Victoria 1837-1901, and now Elizabeth II 1952-. He couldn’t decide whether this held any relevance to his situation or not, although, he thought, perhaps it meant that women lasted longer than men.

On the right was a more complex chart. It gave an intricate time line for the great painters and musicians. He glanced at the jumble of names and dates noticing that they were all men. Surely this held some relevance. The great are all men. Women, like his mother and older sisters, are there to support them. He fished around in his pockets to see if he had a pencil so that he could decorate the chart, perhaps underline all those male names. He found nothing. His pencils were probably all strewn on the floor of his room waiting to be tidied up. He strained to listen to his mother vacuuming the hall and he heard muffled whispers as she told his sisters that he had locked himself in the toilet. He thought that he heard them giggling. He was bored. He may have even dozed off a little.

By noon he was getting cold. The room was unheated and the hard surfaces seemed to suck up what little warmth he gave off. His mother knocked on the door “Hello there Stephen it is lunch time. Now you come out of that toilet and have some food.” Although he was hungry he did not move. Somehow this rebellion had become larger than him and had taken on another dimension.

Later, his sisters came and knocked. “Stephen, Mummy says that it is all right now. You can come out and have some lunch. You are hungry aren’t you? Come on Stephen, enough is enough just come out and join us.”

He hardly moved thinking that they would deduce that he was not there. They did think that he might have climbed out or passed out, so they went to the garage and hauled a ladder into the yard outside the powder room. They took turns climbing up and peeping in through the high window. When they looked in each snickered at him as he sat resolutely on the cold floor. They climbed down and put the ladder away.

The long day wore on. He couldn’t sleep any more. He strained his neck and watched clouds racing across the sky. He tried to associate images with each fluffy shape as it passed by but the images bored him without stories attached. It looked like a beautiful day much too good to be wasted on this room. He listened to the sounds of the house outside his door trying to imagine what each noise meant. He stood on the toilet seat and made faces at himself in the mirror on the opposite wall. He unrolled and then rerolled the toilet paper. He wrapped the hand towel around his cold hands. He waited. He thought that perhaps he could come out during the night when they were all in bed. He even hoped that they might decide to break the door down. He was beginning to think that making his bed and tidying his room was preferable to sitting in this cold spot. But somehow he couldn’t move, couldn’t unlatch the door.

At tea time his mother seemed more desperate, in fact she seemed to be begging. “Now, Stephen, please come out and have some food. Enough is enough. The girls and I are having tea in the conservatory and the sun is shining. It is a glorious day. I can make you some of your favorite hot chocolate. Afterwards you can go out and play. It won’t be dark for several hours.”

He had won, hadn’t he? She didn’t mention the room or his bed. He put his hand on the latch but something evil held him back. He silently sat back down on the floor. He drew his legs up close to his body and hugged them with his arms. He silently cried; a tearless lament. He could almost savor the tempting taste of sweet chocolate on his dry tongue. Time dragged on.

When he heard his father came home he had been in the toilet for eight hours. He strained and thought that he heard his mother talking to him. Then, he heard his father walking resolutely down the hall towards him. His father stopped outside and spoke calmly. He did not even raise his voice. “Stephen, I order you come out immediately”

At this moment immediate, blind obedience to his father’s authority was easy. Relieved, Stephen unlatched the door and shot out of the toilet.

Copyright © Jane Stansfeld, December 2013

The Christmas plate – a short story.

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Ethan loved his family; he said that he valued them above all else in the world. His wife, Martha, made sure that he lived most of his life demonstrating the veracity of this statement. At Christmas, upon her urging, he abandoned his normal introverted pursuits and engaged in family interaction. He assisted in decorating the house, and when family came to visit he joined in their joint activities.

Part of the family tradition was to get out, and use, their heirloom Christmas plates. The plate rims were decorated with green leaves and red berries. They weren’t seasonal plates in the traditional sense with images of reindeer, or quotes from the twelve days of Christmas, instead cursive gold letters around the rim gave each a poignant Scottish proverb. The messages ranged from such conversation stimuli as; ‘Don’t judge each day by the harvest you reap, but by the seeds you plant,’ to ‘Learn young, learn fair; learn old, learn more.’

Martha told her family that, as she was growing up, she and her brother, always made sure that their crotchety, miserable, maiden-aunt always got the one which read ‘Be happy while you’re living, for you’re a long time dead.’ She wryly observed that the maiden aunt never commented on her plate and that their family knew that the message was lost on her. Martha speculated that the old lady must have been too self-absorbed, too miserable and too far gone to be able to recognize the message. Now, decades later, Martha’s family shunned ‘Be happy while you’re living, for you’re a long time dead.’ They kept it at the bottom of the stack so that it was seldom used.

The family’s Christmas began with stuffed Christmas stockings, for the children. After they had all located their tangerines in the toes of their stockings they ate a light breakfast, followed by a gift exchange around a regal Christmas tree. Then there was a trip to the local old people’s home to visit those without visitors or too sick to go home for the holiday, followed by a Christmas feast. Martha was a great hostess and her Christmas dinners were mythically large and joyful. She hosted as many of their relatives as could come and any friends who did not have Christmas family commitments. Ethan contributed to the festivities with gifts of crystallized fruit, chocolates and vintage wines. After the meal the family would play games and spend time together until late into the evening. At the end of the day they would slip off to their various rests, feeling replete and satiated.

One New Year’s Eve, after one such celebration, when the Christmas pudding and goose leftovers still haunted the refrigerator, Martha failed to check oncoming traffic and was killed on the intersection at the end of their street. The family was devastated, although life went on and each managed to return to their daily routines. But, a year later, when Christmas rolled around, Ethan had no heart for a seasonal celebration and told his adult children to make alternate plans as he intended to go on a Mediterranean cruise.

The Mediterranean cruise, replete with blue skies, misty islands and new faces gave distraction, but its novelty did nothing to solve Ethan’s problem with Christmas. The following year he conceded that he must celebrate at home. His children invited themselves to be with him. When they arrived he handed over management of the festivities to them. This meant that he could opt out and retire into his lonely world of unhappiness. He did so, sitting before a raging wood fire, while his daughters and grandchildren organized the house into a semblance of Christmas spirit. He dozed off to dream, as he often dreamt, of Martha. This time she took his hand and he experienced the joy of Christmas Past as it surged up to greet him. His stomach rumbled as he smelt the cooking smells of her kitchen, and saw twinkling candles over a table laden with food and festive decorations. He reached out to the table and took a Christmas cracker in his hand. It was red, decorated with gold images. He held it up, grasping one end firmly. Martha laughed and took the other end. They pulled. There was a loud crack. A paper hat, charms, and a small piece of paper bearing a proverb fell onto the table. Ethan picked up the proverb and unfolded it. He gave a start, it read, ‘Be happy while you’re living, for you’re a long time dead.’ He started to protest just as he awoke and drifted back into his present.

Ethan looked around the room and saw his Christmas Present. The table looked the same as Martha’s had in the past, for his daughters had done a good job. As they gathered at the table he realized that Martha was still at his side. She whispered in his ear, “Don’t be a grouch or I’ll have to give you ‘Be happy while you’re living’. Now you don’t want that do you?”

He gently shook his head and turned to talk to her but she was gone. He sighed, and, feeling more miserable than ever, thinking only of his own sadness, he looked down at his place and there it was, the plate that no one used. The words blurred together before his eyes ‘Be happy, you’re a long time dead.’
“Surely,” he thought, “only Martha could have done this.” He trembled, unsure of himself, for he didn’t need reminding that she was dead. He stammered, “I need a different plate!” The assembled family understood, for they had heard Martha’s story about her crotchety maiden aunt. They all spoke at once.

“I don’t understand, I know that that plate was on the bottom of the pile.”

“How could it have got there?”

“Let’s put it back at the bottom of the pile where it belongs!”

A new plate was found; it read, ‘It’s an ill wind that blaws naebody any gude.’ Ethan didn’t like this message any better than the last one for, he asked himself, “That wind, which took away my Martha, defied the Scots and their proverbs for it brought no good.”

The following day Ethan took up his spot before the fire. There he sat, remote from the family’s Christmas exchanges, lost in his self-pity and daydreams of the past. His grandchildren had begged him to go outside with them but he had felt too sad to do so. He could hear their happy shouts as they played a game of Ultimate Frisbee, a game which he once enjoyed. Now he was alone in the house, but not quite, for when he looked up Martha came to him and took him by the hand. Her skin was cold and her voice coaxingly melodious: it mingled imperceptibly with the high-pitched voices of the playing children outside.

“Come,” she said, “Let us see where ‘unhappy while you’re living’ takes you.” The room grew colder, the walls darkened, the drapes over the window sagged, and the giant oak outside the window grew larger and larger. Ethan gasped as he saw himself in a darkened mirror; a wizened old man with sad eyes. The telephone rang and he saw the old man pick it up. “Hi, Dad, Merry Christmas,” came a distant voice. The old man breathed heavily. Ethan couldn’t hear the rest of the family’s distant greetings but he knew them to be terse as he watched the old man swaying with the telephone held close to his ear. Then he saw the old man put the telephone down. Martha led him, as they followed the old man into the kitchen where they watched him take out a frozen turkey dinner-for-one and place it in the microwave. The old man took out a plate and placed his food upon it. Ethan started with horror as he noticed that the plate he was using was the plate. He turned to his guide, “Why?”

“You know why, it is my last plea to you to be happy and to enjoy your family for you will be a long time dead,” came Martha’s gentle reply. Ethan wanted to scream; instead he awoke with a start and found himself still seated before the dying embers of a fire. He stoked the fire, smelling the sweet smell of burning wood, which he once enjoyed but now found annoying. He coughed and began to walk dream-like towards the kitchen. He knew what he had to do. He found the stack of plates neatly piled on the kitchen counter. They were already washed and dried set out in readiness for the next meal. He lifted them up to reveal the bottom plate. It was the plate just as he suspected.

He knew that what he intended was sacrilege but he had to do it and he had to hide his actions. The broken pieces had to be concealed. He rummaged around to locate an old newspaper and opened it to the Christmas advertisements; they glared at him in reds and greens. He placed the plate on the newspaper and wrapped it up. He opened a kitchen drawer and took out a wooden rolling pin and gave the package several sharp slaps. It was harder than he had expected but after the third thump he felt the plate shatter. When he was certain that it was broken he whispered an apology to Martha, “I’m sorry, my dear, but it had to be done!” He gently placed the package in the outside garbage so that his action would not be discovered and went back inside to his seat of misery before the fire.

That evening his family served leftovers buffet-style with everything laid out on the kitchen island. Ethan barely looked at his plate before he began to place food upon it. But when he looked down his horror was supreme, for, in his hands he held an unblemished ‘Be happy’ plate. He was beginning to doubt reality and wondered how soon he could go to check the trash to verify his own sanity. He asked himself if, perhaps, there were twin ‘Be happy’ plates.

The following morning Ethan made sure that he was up before everyone else. He went out to the garbage and retrieved his package. He opened it and stared at the broken pieces which he instantly knew to be the shards from ‘Be happy while you’re living, for you’re a long time dead.” Somehow the words were arranged to give a message in combination with the newspaper type.

‘Be happy, not dead, give time while you’re living.’ Then he understood; the plate’s proverb was about living not about death! And, Martha, hadn’t she been giving him the same message, to live his remaining days, not mope them? He hastily rewrapped the broken pieces and stealthily hid them back in the garbage. He stood in the dawning sunshine and breathed in deeply as he savored the sun’s rays. He looked up to the blue and pink sky and saw its beauty.

He went inside and opened his downstairs catchall closet to draw out three kites. When the children emerged half an hour later, he rustled up pancakes for their breakfast. He served his on the plate, for now he wanted this special plate. His adult children each paused outside the kitchen to listen to the happy chatter inside. They marveled to harken to the discourse as he and the grandchildren discussed their planned morning activity of kite-flying.

© Copyright, Jane Stansfeld, December 2013.

The man who had three mothers-in-law – a short story.

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A man’s relationship with his mother-in-law is often beset with complex emotions and anxiety. Naturally, she demands perfection, on her terms, for her daughter; perfection which most husbands can neither understand nor attain. Dick fit the normal model. Whenever his mother-in-law came to visit, he immediately informed his wife and family that his car urgently needed attention. This ploy gave him an excuse to spend the duration of all her visits lying on his back under his car. Both his wife and mother-in-law commented on this curious coincidence, but neither deduced that the emergency was of his own volition. However, this story isn’t about Dick; it’s about John, who, unlike Dick, expertly managed to become best friends with all three of his mothers-in-law.

John was not a ladies’ man in accordance with any Hollywood definition; for although he was always immaculately turned out, he could not be described as cute or sexy. And yet, he was a ladies’ man. He could comfortably converse with any woman and put her at ease, take her for lunch, or entertain her at a game of golf without her ever feeling threatened. His knack had something to do with his enduring admiration for women, and the fact that he genuinely enjoyed female company, not necessarily as sex objects, but as friends and equals.

John’s first wife was his high school sweetheart, a knockout blond from the drill team. They got married during his first year at dental school; and set up in a tiny apartment in their home town. They lived hectic lives. By the time John graduated, they had two children. John went on to open his own dental practice and gradually saw success in his chosen profession.

John had once read a book on how to remember people’s names. It gave a tip that if you developed an association, such as an unusual facial characteristic, and tied this to their name you could use this to trigger your memory. John used this form of mental gymnastics successfully with his patients. He became so accomplished that he even developed word picture associations for people whose names he had no trouble remembering. His wife’s mother went by Goldie, which John liked because she always made him think of gold. This could have been due to the fact that she always wore an antique gold chocker necklace or perhaps because she had blond hair and favored cream clothing. It might have also been because of her business acumen and the way that her many referrals had assisted in getting his practice launched.

When their children grew up John’s wife defied expectations and became increasingly parochial and bored. John had fully expected her to mature into a replica of her mother, with the same drive and business-like approach to life. Indeed, when he was in high school his father had told him to make sure that he liked his girlfriend’s mothers for, he counseled, “Most women eventually turn out to resemble their mothers.” John liked Goldie, for her go-getter attitude, and her interest in art and literature. He always looked forward to a healthy discussion when they met. He had thought that her daughter would develop similar interests, but she disappointed him, and her only topics of conversation were the children and the latest TV soap opera. When the children left home to follow their own careers, she announced that she wished to join an obscure religious sect which would include their getting a divorce. John acquiesced, letting his wife move out while maintaining a close friendship with, her mother, his mother-in-law, Goldie.

John hadn’t thought that he’d ever remarry; but one of Goldie’s referral patients made him think otherwise. After a quick courtship they invested in a quiet destination wedding in Hawaii. They returned to a few years of marital bliss. His new wife took after her mother, Myrtle, and possessed a highly developed sense of empathy. When his new wife developed brain cancer, John and she, both agreed that they must fight this thing for they craved the opportunity to spend more time together. But even love as deep as theirs is not capable of thwarting fate. John, together with Myrtle, nursed her through her weeks of suffering. They held hands over her bed, and when she died, they mourned together.

John, true to his propensity to nicknaming people in his head, had, very early in their relationship, given Myrtle a secret mental nickname. He thought that it fitted her gifted empathy for others and complimented her given name. The name developed greater significance in his mind after the ordeal of the death, and the mutual support which they gave each other over their loved one’s deathbed.

Now John had two mothers-in-law to meet weekly and to count as his close friends. They both had similar interests in art and literature and so he introduced them to each other and they often dined together. John enjoyed the blending of business acumen and empathy which their interchange gave. One day Goldie brought her dear friend, Frances, with her. This lady contrasted the other two in her beauty and grooming for she was always perfectly turned out. Her conversation added a new dimension to the luncheon debates. Soon John was introduced to this lady’s daughter.

John certainly didn’t expect to embark on a third marriage but Frances’s daughter was an excellent oral hygienist and soon he invited her to work with him. They shared the same work ethic and had a healthy exchange of ideas. Love was inevitable. John talked to Myrtle, and she told him that the best compliment he could give her dead daughter was, to endorse the institution of marriage, by getting remarried. So, John got married for a third time. Now Frances joined John’s line-up of beloved mothers-in-law. She always wore a hypnotic perfume which John could only deduce was extremely expensive. True to form John gave her a nickname in his head, one to describe her perfume and exquisite essence, one to resonate with her given name.

Each Christmas John and his wife would treat his three mothers-in-law to a special dinner. As he sat at the table enjoying a good bottle of wine he would clasp his wife’s hand and the lean back and look at the three wise old ladies before him. At this time of celebration he marveled at the richness of his life; and luxuriated in the secret names which he had given them; the names, which reflected their regal gifts to him, of gold, myrrh, and frankincense.

Copyright © Jane Stansfeld, December 2013

Redemption – a short story.

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To her clients Jenny appeared to lead a perfect life. At her annual Christmas party they marveled at her changeless glossy dark hair, trim figure, and vigorous stride. Each looked around and compared her to those of themselves of the same age with less hair, increased girths, and gaits beset by limps and minor tremors. Some even imagined how good her life appeared and that Christmas had surely showered her with gifts. Although she did feel blessed her story was more complex than they could have imagined. It proved the adage that it is not what life throws at you that is important, but what you do with it.

At forty-five, Jenny had met the man of her life and came to believe that the years ahead were to be effortlessly full of joy. A year later, right before Christmas, while he was on a business trip to Chicago, he had a sudden, fatal heart attack as he ran through O’Hare airport to catch a plane back home. Jenny was shattered; although her innate courage enabled her to conceal the hurt within and to maintain a cheery façade. The truth was that she had lost all faith in the purpose and meaning of life. The only things, which kept her from taking her own, were her concern for her pack of rescue dogs, and the knowledge that, if she died, she would leave no legacy, nothing good that she had contributed to the world. Due to her thinness and years of marathon running she had already passed menopause but for some reason hormones kicked in and she began to long for a child.

At first she tried to staunch her longing through the adoption of more dogs. Her pack grew from three to six. She walked them twice a day and slept with them at night. They gave her unconditional love, and wagged their tails in her presence. To her surprise her longing for a child seemed to increase with each new dog; so when she saw a Compassion commercial, she called and sponsored two children. Their photographs arrived in the mail and she put them on her refrigerator. Their images also only served to intensify her longing. She searched everywhere and wrote numerous letters and confirmed, what she suspected, that the only way for a forty-six year-old spinster to adopt a child is through foreign adoption. She collected brochures and submitted application forms and money, lots of money, and waited.

Over six thousand miles away, in a Varna Bulgaria orphanage on the west shore of the Black Sea a small, silent boy sat, abandoned, in his crib. The white walls of the room were bare and the floor concrete, so that if he had made a noise, it would have echoed loud off the reflective surfaces. The only sounds were distant children’s voices and a fly buzzing at the high window panes. His skin was mahogany colored and his hair black which had earned him, the probably accurate, but spurned label, of “gypsy”. No-body knew for sure where he came from as he had been dropped off on the orphanage steps, a one day-old infant in a make-shift swaddling blanket.

The orphanage staff was not cruel, but they were short-handed and so, while they were able to keep all the children fed, clothed and clean, they had to be selective on those with whom they played. They preferred the light skinned Arian children who responded with smiles, while they disliked Boris’s dour features.

As time went on Jenny’s longing increased and she started to become desperate as nothing seemed to be happening. She maintained her search through reams of forms, and numerous “fees” and “tariffs”. She was excited when, at last she found an agency that was willing to take up her quest. They identified struggling Bulgaria as a country which needed, and were willing to accept, assistance in caring for their orphans. They narrowed the search down to the Varna orphanage, but she still didn’t have a name. As time passed she saw that her hope of having a child was slipping away into the money-hungry bureaucratic mire surrounding foreign adoptions, so, in the spring, she decided to go to Bulgaria.

Her long trip was rewarded, and after thirty six hours in transit she saw the gypsy-child, Boris, the child that no one would adopt, for the first time. He was almost four and she was forty –six. He had been spruced up and readied for her visit. She took him to the seashore but he merely sat, stiff in the sand, as though his clothes prevented him from movement. He showed no interest in the roaring waves, the hopping sea birds, the damp sour smelling seaweed, or the sideling crabs on the sand. When she offered him food he took it, smelled it carefully, and ate. He showed no emotion. His emptiness and need inspired Jenny. She recognized her own desperation mirrored in this child’s withdrawal from human contact. She went home with a mission and a new photograph for her refrigerator. Now she knew that he needed her more than she needed him, and she determined to continue to battle through the paperwork until she was able to go back to Bulgaria to bring him home, to a new life.

Months passed and, in early December, Jenny knew that the time had come for her last important, life-changing, trip to Bulgaria. The agency undertook to transport Boris to Sofia, the capital of Bulgaria, where the final adoption paperwork was to be executed. They volunteered to arrange accommodation and to meet her at the airport; but when she emerged into the cold afternoon sun outside the airport, no-one was waiting for her. She nervously pulled out her agency documentation and waited. Half an hour later, just as she was becoming desperate, an elegantly dressed young woman approached her and, introduced herself as Rosa, her agency contact. She escorted Jenny to an old van with sullen-looking driver and they whirled off into the heart of Sofia.

Jenny was now in post-communist Bulgaria which hadn’t seemed oppressive during her previous whirlwind trip to Varna but now was stifling in its dour negativism and almost hopeless stagnancy. Her accommodation was a converted room in private row-house residence with a shared bathroom down the hall. It faced onto a street lined with parallel-parked, broken-down cars. When Boris was delivered to her the following morning, the four year-old boy, in diapers, showed no emotion and no interest in his surroundings. Rosa was business-like in her review of the necessary paperwork and left as quickly as possible.

Jenny was abandoned to launch, alone, with only Boris at her side, into the seas of bureaucracy between her and Boris’s final adoption, the papers which would legalize his status and allow her to take him back to America. She had to have official photographs taken, official forms signed, have his health certified, and she even had to register herself with the police in this country, newly emerging from the mantle of the USSR.

She decided that her first appointment should be a visit to a lawyer who was to assist with the paperwork. His address seemed prestigious, a few hundred feet from the main governmental buildings. She walked there carrying Boris when he became too tired to walk. When she arrived she found that addresses can be deceptive. The lawyer’s office was a one small shared furnished with two enormous desks which faced each other, leaving just enough room between them for a couple of visitor chairs. It was on the second floor accessed by sparse stairs without heating. Ivan Dimitrov, their lawyer, a tall lanky individual, stood up to shake hands stretching his long arms across his huge desk. He was friendly enough and quickly undertook Jenny’s business before launching into a long monologue about his son who played basketball with an aspiration to be noticed by an American scout, and to be drafted onto a professional American NBA team. For his fees he asked for dollars and a pair of studded size 17 basketball shoes to be mailed to his office.

Jenny had been on the trail over two weeks when she made it to the government clinic to get Boris’s immunization and other medical documents. She waited three hours in a tiny waiting room watching patients come and go. Her assigned doctor must have known that she was the last obstacle between Boris, and his adoption and emigration to America. When Jenny was ushered into her office she gave a sullen scowl indicating with her body language that she did not approve of Boris’s planned future. In a begrudging, business-like manner, she made it through his records.

When Jenny stood to shake hands and say ‘thank-you,” the doctor remained seated and looking Jenny in the face as she spoke in English, “You realize, of course, that Boris is still in diapers and without speech because he is severely retarded!” The words seemed to give her pleasure as she riveted her eyes on Jenny’s face to evaluate her reaction.

If Jenny was horrified or upset she didn’t show it, her face maintained its smile and she responded, “That means that he needs me even more!” At this response the doctor slumped back in her chair and reluctantly reached up her hand for that all-telling good-bye hand shake.

Rosa visited them a last time on the evening of their departure. As always her expensive fur coat and elegant clothing were in stark contrast to everything else that Jenny had encountered during her stay. Then she offhandedly asked Jenny whether she would be so kind as to transport a bag of “video equipment’ to the States for her. Jenny drew back adamant that she could not carry anything other than her own bags and the boy.

The following day saw Jenny and Boris on the long flight west. They stopped in London where they had a long enough lay-over to spend the night in a hotel. Here Jenny luxuriated in hot water, showers and a comfortable bed with clean white sheets. The boy, Boris, showed no emotion letting himself be bathed and fed. In the morning as they prepared to leave Jenny placed him on the floor with his socks before him and an instruction to put them on. He sat and stared at them without movement. Every time that Jenny walked past she indicated the socks to him and pointed at his bare feet. Suddenly he moved, and with a rapid motion faster than Jenny had ever seen him move, he picked up both socks and hurled them across the room. Jenny stopped and smiled, her joy was great for this one action indicated that there was hope for this boy.

Years later when Boris was grown up Jenny still gave her annual ‘thank-you’ Christmas party. Its meaning was tied to Boris’s arrival as well as her business successes. Her clients continued to admire her changeless demeanor as they listened to Boris flawlessly playing the Moonlight Sonata accompanied by Christmas carols on her piano. At moments like this they marveled at her luck and even questioned her about her son. She answered with an enigmatic smile while, egging them on to talk about themselves, even as she silently reminisced back to a Bulgarian doctor and a pair of socks sailing across a London hotel room.

© Copyright, Jane Stansfeld, December 2013