Dialogue (short story)

“We have always been close friends, haven't we?
And not just friends, often we were one person and neither you nor I knew the difference between our characters. More or less like twins although we don't look like each other. And we were 'joint to the hip'. We were so close that we could read each others mind!”

          “Indeed we have but I disagree about not knowing the difference between our characters!”
 
“Why? You are I and I are you! From the moment you created me or as I prefer, was born. I am not going to argue about it again! We have been down that road numerous times. You do not want to admit you created a copy of yourself. Oh yes, I do now you so well! You had hoped for a totally different person but (and here I giggle....) I became your wicked you!!!”

          “Yes, yes, you do not need to rub that in my face. I made a mistake uh?”

“I do love that broad smile on your face. It is so good to have fun together. You did not have much to laugh about lately. It is my duty to bring back the twinkle in your eyes! Come, give me a hug! Good boy... Like in the old days, isn't it?” 

          “It is and here is your hug. By the way, do you still remember our performance in Glasgow?”

“I do, I do!! I thought you were so brave; the first time in Scotland. The Scots are famous for their wicked sense of humour and I was very certain they were not going to laugh about us. Yes, we were good but there is a difference between good and very good. And nobody knew our names. And our performance was not exactly in The Theatre Royal. Actually we did not know where it was, we only had an address.” 

          “And the address was not very promising either but we had to start somewhere. And the fun already started in the train because you did not behave. Again....”

“So sorry, so very sorry! But not. You wanted me to sit on your knee which I did not mind of course; I love travelling and seeing the landscape and towns passing by. And it was not my fault that the train was full of schoolchildren on a day out. We both love children, don't we."

          “Yes, we do. They are less complicated than adults and easy to please.” 

“Particularly when we start singing, our famous duet 'Somethin' Stupid' although I agree with you that we should really leave that to father and daughter Frank and Nancy Sinatra. You can hardly call us father and daughter!” 

          “No, not even father and son."

 “Not even a little bit father and son? Sometimes I wished we were, I would still be lonely but as your legitimate offspring and living another life.” 

          “Alright, just a little bit father and son. I don't think I have children. As you know I have been in love a few times and I have spent nights with different ladies but do I have children?” 

“Don't ask me!! Remember that you always left me in the hotel or where ever we stayed when you were seeing a temporary lady friend! I was not allowed to take part in all the fun. No, instead I was on my own, not even with a light on, waiting for you to return and that was often early in the morning. Can you imagine how boring that was for me?” 

          “Please, don't. Do not mention that again, I have suffered enough for it already without you telling me. I do blame myself for it, honestly. Please smile again, I want to have fun and not feeling sad.”

“You are right, I am sorry but I am the victim here as well. I promise not to mention it again. Back to the train in Glasgow. All those children that almost stood on top of each other not to miss the fun. The ticket collector did not think it was fun, the whole corridor was blocked. But who can resist laughing children on a day out? A memorable journey that ended with all the passengers singing 'Old MacDonald had a farm...'” 

          “And the ticket controller snoring like a pig! Teachers mooing and bleating! Do you think the children will still remember that day?”

“Certainly they do. They are now grown ups with hopefully children of their own and I bet it is occasionally a bed time story. At least we still remember that day. Not knowing our performance in Glasgow was going to be such a huge success that we stayed there a whole week instead of one night. The people kept coming to listen to us.”

          “It was indeed a good start of a career. We never became very famous but we made good money and travelled a lot.”

“Shame isn't it that we needed to spent most of the money on travelling, trains did not come cheap, nor hotels although we never stayed in the Ritz. And you of course also spent it on treating ladies on nights out. No, no.... I do not start again but it is true!”

          “Hush, I do not deny this, I know I did. But how could I have spent money on you? I bought you new clothes but you only needed to wear them during the performances. You and I kept your clothes nice and tidy, you did not wear them off like I did.”

“Well, well, that was a long sentence! I must have upset you and I am sorry for that. By the way, can we stop saying sorry over and over again? Life went how it went and we can not reverse it.

Then..... after a lifetime of performances you fell in love again....."

          “Yes but this time with someone I wanted to marry. I loved her so much!”

“So much that you did not listen to my warnings. I knew immediately what kind of 'lady' she was. She thought you were famous enough to be rich and she was going to spend all your money. You know what I learned there and then....???”

          “I know, you learned not to argue with someone who is deeply in love. You learned that love is blind.”

“Indeed I did. First I was jealous, knowing I was never going to meet a nice lady of flesh and blood, warm and comfortable. Never. But my jealousy changed into deep concern. How could she know I understood everything she said when you were away for a moment, leaving me with her. She mentioned you a lousy lover but as soon as you had married her, she was going to run off with your money. Off to her next victim. I still do not know why I never found the courage to tell you these exact words.”

          “Please calm down, I do not blame you. I know now that I would not have believed you, thinking you were jealous indeed.”

“Most terrible of it all, you did not even had the time to end in poverty with me. You did not have much time at all but both of us did not know. She forced you to buy a house and expected a villa. When you showed her the house, proud and pleasantly nervous, she acted if she liked it though she did not and you did not notice.”

          “No I did not, I thought she liked it and I went on decorating. Making it a nice and welcoming house." 

“You even bought me my own chair, I was touched. I still am but goodness am I lonely after her new boyfriend followed her one evening and pointed his gun at you! It is hard for me to say what happened next but you and I know. Our future together ended. I am glad we can still talk but I will never sit on your knee again, joint to the hip. We will never make people laugh again. I will never make people laugh. I am all on my own in this by everyone forgotten and abandoned house.

Still sitting on my own chair, staring out the window with that stupid, useless perdition smile at my face......”

Word of thanks: the photo of @jasonbakerphotography (Instagram) inspired me to write this story and I was given permission to use the photo as an illustration for which I am very thankful. Thank you Jason!

Link: please  visit the beautiful Instagram account of Jason Baker.

Note: the story is (of course) pure fiction! A figment of my imagination.

Helen

Choices (short story)

    Are you too a woman? If so, do you love clothes like I do?

All my life I loved dresses. And shoes! I remember being a little girl wearing the dresses of my mother and grandmother.

   My first memory goes back to the age of 5. I stood on a chair, one finger at the tip of my nose, asking myself which dress I wanted to ware. My other hand touched all the beautiful clothes in the wardrobe, pushing them aside one by one and by the last dress I started all over again.

Not only because I could not choose but also because I loved the smell, touching the materials and the sound of the metal of the cloth hangers.
   The wooden hangers itself were covered in the most beautiful fabrics with prints of roses and filled with lavender that mingled with the smell of the dresses with my mother's perfume. 
I stood bare feet on the chair, once I was wearing my mother's shoes which were way to big and Mummy said that was far to dangerous! I did not understand but was still at the age mother's knew best.

   Being a little older, Mummy gave me old clothes that I stored in a large wooden box but I have to admit that it wasn't as interesting as have them hanging in the wardrobe. But I loved to sit on my knees and wading through the dresses with my hands. And when I wanted to dress up I could never choose which dress. I loved them all. Thinking of the occasion to wear them was helpful. One day I imagined being at a very posh party, lipstick smeared around my mouth.
   An other day I was the hostess at my tea party and neatly dressed, serving my guests (indeed, my many dolls) tea and cakes. I held the tea cup with my pink up in the air but Mummy said that was not posh. And that is how a little girl learns to become an adult.

   Isn't everything in life about choices? First your parents make choices for you but sooner or later choices become your own responsibility. And cloths have always been a red thread in my life. They helped me to make choices. It may sound strange to you but they transformed me into another person next to myself. I could play roles; being someone I was not deep down my heart. Deep down my heart I was very insecure but you might have guessed that because I take so much time to choose.

   It will not come as a surprise to you that I had the same problem choosing the right husband. Don't laugh.... Yes indeed I had to choose! Mummy and everybody else told me I was a very charming, elegant and exceptional good looking girl, very beautiful. 

Of course I was only beautiful in the right dress (so I thought). I must always have been wearing the right dresses because the house was very often visited by handsome (and less handsome) men who paid my parents a visit introduced by someone in the large circle of friends of my parents, but who also put a lot of effort in to staring at me.
Occasionally I was allowed to go to a party but always with a chaperone. You will agree that it is very difficult to get to know someone if there is always a chaperone walking two steps behind you!

   At the age of 21, Mummy and Daddy told me I was going to be an old spinster if I kept seeing all these men without giving a minor hint which one I liked most. Oh, I often wished all these man hanging in wardrobes so I could touch them one by one, pushing them aside for the next one. And if no one was looking I would probably smell them as well!! I am very certain they all have there own scent!
   I hardly slept thinking of all these young men approved by my parents because they choose first.
After many sleepless nights I imagined putting some men in a wooden box with the lid firmly closed, my way of shifting the handsome from the less handsome. I did the same with the rich and the less rich and lo and behold, I had only 3 men left. I then shifted by age. I did not choose the youngest nor the oldest (although Mummy and Daddy said the oldest was the best choice). No I choose the one in the middle; only 5 years older and from a very good family.

    If I ever knew this turned out to be the most terrible choice I made in my life.....

    We married at my 22^nd birthday, it was a glorious day; the sun shone, the lavender was in full bloom like the roses. The church was filled with wonderful bouquets of the finest flowers, leaves and ribbons.
The guests were dressed in their best clothes; the men with top hats and the women large decorated hats matching their dresses in the same colour as their shoes.

   Everybody was happy and cheerful. Accept I...... After the “you may kiss the bride” moment, I turned my head and looked in the dark brown eyes of a very handsome man with a beautiful moustache and oh, did I love moustaches!! He was tall, well dressed and even more well mannered. And he looked at me, hypnotised me with his eyes until I felt like a rabbit in the headlights of Daddy's limousine.
   I knew there and than, that I made the wrong choice. Don't you agree that if I had not married what was now my husband, I would never had met the man with the dark brown eyes? So in that respect I made the wrong choice for a husband. 

   I could not forget the man and my marriage was over before it started. My poor husband promised 'to have and to hold from this day forward; etcetera, etcetera'.  And I would not let him. I said the same thing to him but it was easier not to remember that.
   My husband changed into a very disappointed man who slept in his own bedroom, seldom being home. My parents were worried about us not having children but how could I explain what was wrong: “Mummy and Daddy I am sorry but I made the wrong choice”? They loved me to bits but were certainly not going to say: “Oh poor girl! Will you come home again or do you want to marry another man?”!!

   One day my husband did not come home at all and was found drunk in the bed of a woman of a certain profession. And because of that, everybody agreed to a divorce although it was 'not done' in those years. I am talking about 100 years ago.
   Did you think I am that old? I can see you counting and thinking: “Oh no, you are not 127 years of age!” and of course I am not. I passed away at the age of 90.
And why am I still here to tell you this story? Think.... you might know though!

   Indeed, I did not know what to choose, to stay here or to go to the other side.
And do you know what made me choose for staying? A long time ago I was told that there are no beautiful cloths and shoes at the other side and after being put on a long white nightgown made of the fine lace of my voile of the wedding dress (I never choose to give to to some one else) the day of my death, I fully believed it.   
   And I could not leave all my cloths behind, could I? I still wanted to touch them and run my hands from one to another, listening to the sound of the metal of the cloth-hangers.

   Do you understand how disappointed I was that I indeed still can run my hands through the dresses but nothing is happening? My hands are like the rest of my body, transparent and go right through everything I touch without moving it. And I can not hold my finger to the tip of my nose!
   One advantage is that I can walk through doors and walls as long as it is within the four walls of the house. But I can not wear all my cloths! I can not even take them from the wardrobe, how hard I try, it does not work.

Photo: @dennislexmond_photography (Instagram)

    I know you are here, wondering about all the dresses and why nothing has changed over the years. How could it with no next of kin. Even the man with the dark eyes and the beautiful moustache was never mine because again I could not choose.

   Do you agree that I think I made again the wrong choice by staying??? Or.........

Word of thanks: the photo of @dennislexmond_photography (Instagram) inspired me to write this story and I was given permission to use the photo as an illustration for which I am very thankful. Thank you Dennis!

Link: please  visit the beautiful Instagram account of Dennis Lexmond Photography.

Note: the story is pure fiction! A figment of my imagination.

Helen

The Stethoscope (short story)

   Once upon a time…

Do not all fairy tales begin with this phrase? I don’t know if I tell you a fairy tale, it is up to you to decide.

   Once upon a time I left the Fine Medical Instruments Workshop as a stethoscope. Although we were not a very rare breed there were fewer doctors those days than in the modern medical world of today.
I was fortunate to be bought by a very young doctor who just finished his medical study at the university. I did not know of course what the expectations of my duties were and this way we were able to grow together.

   I still remember the very first patient, it scared me to death. I was held against the chest of a man covered in thick black bushy hair and I was pushed in between it. I made a strange sound which worried the doctor who took me out of his ears, shook me and held me again to the heart of his patient. This time I was prepared and the doctor could listen to the heart which wasn't well even without my extra noise.

Fortunately the diagnosis was correct and the patient recovered with the right medication.

   My doctor was a very shy and humble man and started a practice in a small village in Devon.

He could have become a rich doctor in a city but preferred the village with hard working people who could not always afford tot pay their bills. But he did not mind. Curing diseases and comforting was his main goal.

   At first the villagers did not trust the new doctor but they did not have a choice; the former doctor died of old age, still doing his work.

The practice was old but apart from a new stethoscope, everything was still useful , including all the pots, bottles, ointments and liquids with their typical smell which I learned to love.

It did not take long before the new doctor was accepted and appreciated.

   He got used to the sturdy people and their beautiful but often very difficult to understand accent. We both learned to love it.

We also learned about the characters of the patients who came in various sorts and sizes. Let me name a few:

   The Librarian, a tall and very skinny spinster with a long and thin nose with on top a pince-nez, in my opinion held in place by a thick hair. I could not think of any other reason why she did not remove the hair... Through the glasses of her pince-nez she looked at the doctor as if he was a strange book from her library, wondering who put it there without her permission. My doctor always felt uncomfortable with her and we both dreaded the moment he had to listen to her lungs; she always suffered from some sort of cold. The skin of her back (and probably everywhere else) was extremely wrinkly and needed to be pushed aside to allow me to come as close as possible to her lungs. And what a relief if my job was done!

   The teacher, he was a very sad person; unattractive, always in a gloomy mood, never smiling, walking with a bowed back and never looking anyone in the eyes. Of course he was not married and lived in a small room in the house of his landlady.

He did not have any control over the children of the very fist classes and these children, often from very large families, took advantage of his humourless character. Without doubt the teacher was very unhappy. That is why he often visited the doctor feeling unwell and depressed.

   I thought that he had special feelings for my also unmarried doctor, in those days a criminal offence. His eyes were always fixed on the doctor's hands and he blushed very quickly. But my doctor showed no interest and the teacher left even more gloomy than he arrived. Poor man.

   He could have lived a better life because the daughter of one of the sheep farmers, and I never understood why but the doctor said that women are never to understand, was very much in love with the teacher and took great effort to attract his attention but to no avail.

And she was so disappointed the day he did not arrive at school and his landlady found him and his scarce luggage gone.

   The midwife.... oh did I like her! She was big, round, cheerful and had a bosom like a side table! A perfect place to hold the babies she delivered. But she also loved to embrace the doctor who got smothered in this voluptuous amount of female flesh and warm heartedness.

   Her voice was deep and loud. She was never interested in other peoples opinion about her, she was who she was and was a very good midwife too! Not at all jealous if the doctor delivered a baby. “I can't do th'm all on my own!” is what she said. With very difficult births, she worked side by side with the doctor and hugged everybody in the room when a new born villager started to scream at his very tired but happy mother.

   She spread a smell of babies and cakes, the latter she often took to the practice and they were delicious according my doctor. Although he never admitted, he was extremely fond of this lovely lady that cycled in fast speed from one baby to the other, waving and smiling at at least two generations she delivered.

   All these people have long been gone, like my doctor and many other villagers.
The young ones moved to the cities for jobs with less long hours and better payments. The elderly stayed here until they passed away. The new villagers who moved from the cities to the countryside, brought there own cars and preferred their own specialists in town.

   Soon there were no patients left for my doctor and he died as poor as a church mouse but without regrets. He lived his full life as he always attended to do and I admired him for that.

Photo: @__ephemeral_6090 (Instagram)

Because there was no other doctor needed in the village and no one knew of any next of kin, the practice was never sold and nothing ever changed.

   I still hang at the wall with the stethoscope of the doctor before mine.

The pots and bottles are still here but the smell of dust and decay overtook the smell of ointments and liquids. Silence overtook the sound of all different Devonshire voices, the typical accent is never to be heard again.

   We are a forgotten era in a new modern world.

Word of thanks:  the photo of @__ephemeral_6090 (Instagram) inspired me to write this story and I was given persmission to use the photo as an illustration for which I am very gratefull. Thank you!!

Note: the story is pure fiction! A figment of my imagination!

Helen 

Seònaid (short story)

   She sat on a stone at the bank of the River Wharfe in Langstrothdale, her arms folded around the long skirt that covered her legs, and looked at her own reflection deformed by the fast flowing water.

Her flaming red hair, the same colour as the leaves of the very few trees on the hills that surrounded her, moved softly in the wind.
   

   It was an exceptional warm day for Autumn and the sheep, only recently separated from their lambs, walked up and down the hills calling for their absent offspring.

Their wool was still stacked in the barns but would soon be transported to the wool factories. A long journey for her husband and the other farmers and hopefully the job was done before the rain started to poor down from what was now a perfectly blue sky.
   

   Seònaid, a Scottish lass who married the Yorkshire sheep farmer Mathe, moved here from the rough Highland Glens to the hills of Langstrothdale. Both families were not happy with the two young people falling in love with each other! Although there were no great wars anymore, the Seumasachas (Jacobitism) was still busy to restore Roman Catholic - leaded by England and Ireland – to the throne of the heirs of the Kings. And the Scots were wild people!

   But the young couple was not interested in the endless discussions about Seumasachas, they were very much in love with eachother and hoped to raise a family in their own little kingdom Cowside Farm, built by the grandparents of Mathe who’s family belonged to the more wealthy sheep farmers.
   

   The view from Cowside Farm was breath taking on a sunny day like today. For the best view she had to leave the house that was built with only a very few small windows viewing the river at the cold side of the house. The front was up hill with the vegetable garden and the beautiful flowers that passed their best time in late September. Although there was enough work to do for her, she could not resist a walk down hill, watching the water following the bends in the river with high speed, curling around the boulders and falling down the flat stones. When the water level was low, you could cross the river jumping from one stone to another but there had been much rain and she needed the wooden bridge to cross.

She did not so, she felt comfortable and at ease where she was, listening to the sound of the sheep, the lark in the bright sky, the pheasants and the many crows gathering in the large trees surrounding and sheltering the farmhouse.
   

   Seònaid smiled when she thought of her parents who she had to leave to follow her heart and Mathe. It was not an easy decision but she hoped to visit them next year. If there were no fights between the English and the Scots! Their war history goes back many centuries and she would not be surprised if they continued the following centuries! But she did not want to think of wars, only about nice things and happiness. Like her pregnancy, Mathe would be thrilled tonight!

There was so much to be thankful for!
   

   It was time to return to the farm and she climbed the steep hill. Close to the farm she could smell the bread she was baking and she hurried the last few yards, afraid she stayed away too long.

She ran through the corridor to the kitchen at her left and opened the large range with the ovens for bread, cakes and food. And during the cold season it kept the house, together with the large fire in the room at the other side of the corridor, comfortably warm. The thick walls kept the warmth inside during the winter and the warm sun outside. 
   

   The next few hours she worked hard to get tea ready for Mathe and afterwards she cuddled up next to him on the sofa in the cosy room with the beautiful fresco decoration and proverb, painted by her father in law who was more an artist than a sheep farmer. Being retired he made beautiful paintings for customers in the surrounding area and villages.

  While she looked at the paintings she wondered if she was going to tell Mathe the great news now or tonight in bed, in the intimacy of their bedroom and she lay her hands on her belly which soon was going to show the growth of their very first child.       

   
   This was now all a very long time ago. Their life passed by and that of many generations after them and the world changed.

Not for the better Seònaid thought when she observed the female visitor of her long abandoned farmhouse which she never left after she died at the very old age of 83. Not many people got that old in those days!

   There were still wars, she remembered the first World War in which two descendants of her, strong young men, died. She could feel the loss and the grief of their mother and wanted to comfort her but could not reach her. Only a very few people felt her presence although they could not always explain it.

These very few people were her own blood and therefore she immediately knew if a visitor of the derelict farm was one of her descendants like the woman who now entered the house.

   She could feel the atmosphere changing when the woman stood in the corridor, looking around. She saw a sign of recognition in her eyes, if she had been here before. She spoke softly, only to her self but Seònaid could hear her clearly: “I must have been here before but a very, very long time ago. I know the kitchen is at my left hand and the room with the decorated wall at my right. Straight forward is the diary and ‘cold’ storage room and the stairs to the next floor. But I have not been here before, how come I feel at home in an unknown farmhouse I enter for the very first time in my life??”

    

   First the woman entered the kitchen and looked at the rusty Yorkshire Range which went cold long ago and smelled bread and food and not dust and damp but this was impossible! Instead of food, there were generations of twigs of crows nests, pushed down the chimney for decades.

Seònaid watched her walking around the kitchen table made of sanded pine and smiled, did the woman realise there was no table?

The woman went to the right side of the hearth and looked if she was looking for the salt and herbs which were stored there in the past.

Photo: Helen Varras

Then she turned around and walked through the corridor to the room and looked surprised, even disappointed, as if she hated the idea of the chalk paint covering the once so beautiful fresco and proverb. She shook her head and turned to the hearth which was blocked in to fit a ‘modern’ heater.

   Seònaid understood the disapproval but there was nothing she could do when a new generation modernised the farmhouse. She learned to ‘live’ with it. The expression made her smile again.

   The woman wanted to go upstairs but Seònaid warned her softly, the wood was rotten, so were the floors. The woman turned around and instead walked to the stone bench in front of the windows where she sat down, her head resting against the wooden shutters, closing her eyes. Sunbeams danced around her.

Seònaid watched the woman listening to the sounds of the house. Not the usual sounds of the flutter of the wings of insects or cracking floors but the sound of the people who lived here long ago.

The sound of the voices and laughter of Mathe, their daughter and 3 sons, their many grandchildren and herself. The sound of ancestors.

   For the very firs time in almost a century, Seònaid felt happy and in harmony with the visitor from abroad to which she had passed on her love for the Dales.

 ~

 Seònaid is fiction, a figment of my imagination. However, the visitor and Cowside Farm are not!

The visitor entered the farmhouse for the very first time in 1978, very determined to restore it to its former glory but lacked of necessary finances.
Instead The Landmark Trust restored it and did justice to the dignity of this beautiful and very old and rare survivor of maybe even the 17^th century. And of course to the approval of Seònaid!!

Cowside Farm is available for holiday bookings. Please visit the link for more information about prices and availability and for details about and photo’s of the restoration: The Landmark Trust/Cowside farm

Last but not least my word of thanks to Amy Taylor of The Landmark Trust.

Helen

The Ashplant (short story)

   “Made of Ash tree”. The voice of my creator was soft, more like a whisper. His beautiful Irish accent  mentioning my name – Ashplant - almost stroke me like his hands did. I knew already that I was going to miss his company.

I was the very first stick he made with a curved handle and therefore carefully selected from the many roots of the Ash trees. Usually roots grow with a natural handle but the customer was a little more demanding.

Maybe it was because of this that my creator and I got attached to each other; he found it very difficult to let me go although he received a generous sum of money.

   Reluctantly he handed me to my new owner. For a few seconds I floated between my creator and the former headmaster of the local school; these few seconds I belonged to no one, just my own little space.

Then the headmaster touched me and I was surprised to learn that hands differ in feel.

I left the hand with the hard skin and the smell of wood. I entered a soft hand with the smell of paper and ink. The difference could not have been bigger.

   My new owner looked at me and smelled, then he nodded in agreement and gave the money to my creator who left the house but not before he looked at me for one more time. At that moment I knew I would always be his one and only stick with a curved handle.

   The soft hand weighed me and waved me a few times before the owner walked a few steps with my iron base pointed downwards. I wasn’t purchased to support him during walking; my owner was still fit. I reminded him of the days he was a headmaster using the Ashplant to point to the blackboard or to point to a child.

I heard of Ashplants used to punish children, leaving read swellings at their hands. I hoped I was treated nicely and not for hitting disobedient family members! Though I soon learned that the man  was nice and that he lived on his own; an elderly lady from the village was his housekeeper.

   I was his nostalgia, the memory to the old school days. The feel and the colour attracted him but than designed to walk. I gave him some sort of status when he walked through the village; a straight posture and his fore-arm and hand elegantly folded against his back, only removed to raise his hat greeting the ladies of the village.

   He must have been a good headmaster; people bowed with respect. He must have taught many generations and he knew almost everybody by name.

It did not take long for me to recognize the red haired boy that delivered the bread covered by a white linen cloth in a large wicker basket. Or the butcher with his pale complexion and fingers with short nails permantly covered in blood, waving with the sharp axe with the short handle when we walked by.

Who I liked most was the lovely lady from the haberdashery shop. Her soft and round cheeks always coloured to a dark pink as soon as she noticed my owner. I understood she liked him very, very much but unfortunately the headmaster, although friendly and always polite, did not return her feelings.

I wondered if she was still a spinster because of this.

   Still an Ash root, I lived underground and only knew about the seasons when the temperatures changed or when it rained. We grew during Summer and slept during Winter.

But as an Ashplant I could see and smell the seasons.

Resting against the bench on the village green I enjoyed the sunshine and looked at the patterns designed by the sunbeams filtered by the leaves of trees.

During Autumn I kicked the beautiful red and golden rustling leaves which became soundless and viscid when it rained. I loved the smell of the wet leaves and the fungi.

I loved the sight of the snow that covered the village in a white blanket. It muffled the sound of footsteps; the cold air changed the smoke that came from the chimneys into straight thin clouds.

But most of all I loved Spring when the tender soft green leaves sprung from the branches and flowers coloured the gardens of the white cottages with the roofs decorated with reed that turned into a golden brown. It reminded me of the time I was ready to grow further until found by the woodworker who transformed me into an Ashplant.

But at home I rested next to his chair, my owner never let me out of sight as if he knew that one day, he also needed me indoors. I rested while he read books or wrote letters. He was not the man to sit still.

   They day that he needed my support arrived sooner than expected. A very bad cold had a devastating effect on his physical condition; he never recovered despite the caring efforts of the housekeeper and even the lady of the haberdashery shop. They spoiled him with healthy food, drinks and attention.

   It worried me tremendously that he became a very old and tired man. His energy left him day by day, I compared it with the halt to my growth during the Winter months.

I supported him where ever I could, he needed me every step in the house; very seldom he went outdoors.

   When he also stopped reading and writing, the lady from the shop and the housekeeper arranged to take him to a care home where he would be well looked after all day long.

My owner was too tired to object. Resting on his bed, he closed his eyes and I could hear him pray to the Cross at the wall behind him, as if he asked to be taken Home before being moved.

His lips moved constantly; noticed by me at the end of his bed close to his feet but not by the housekeeper who packed his suitcases and shoes which she placed under the bed until the ambulance would take my owner away.

As soon as she walked downstairs, the lips of my owner were still. His hand moved as if he wanted to hold me but he never reached me.

Photo: @alexandre.katuszynski

   Seasons went by; the room as cold as ice during the Winters that kept people indoors, damp and smelly during the rainy seasons that fed the soft green pastures and hills of Ireland. Dust dancing in the sunbeams during Spring and Summer.

Over the years the silence in the house got deeper and deeper. No voices, no scratching pens. Even the smell of paper and ink disappeared.

   I still rest against the bed, left alone with my memories.




Word of thanks: the photo of @alexandre.katuszynski (Instagram) inspired me to write this story and I was given persmission to use the photo as an illustration for which I am very gratefull. Thank you Alexandre!

Link: please visit the beautifull acounts of Alexandre on Instagram and Flickr


Note: the story is pure fiction! A figment of my imagination!


Helen

'All Sorts Of People !' published!!

In March 2017, I published my first Dutch e-book 'Observaties'; 12 short fictional stories based on travelling Europe.

Wo does not love watching people and who does not wonder why people act the way they do.
Not everyone attracts the attention of viewers  but some do and if they do, I start 'spinning' a background or explanation which results in short fictional stories.

After the publication of 'Observaties' I received many requests to translate it in English and of course that is what I did.
It is now for sale world wide. Please click this link which directs you to more information about the book (synopsys and reviews) and the list of all sellers.

Helen

Time (short story)

   So many memories and yet so little…...

This is what she thought when she looked back on her life, wondering if she did the right thing.

   At the time it looked right but here she was, all on her own! And now it was too late to change it and reverting was impossible.

She felt old and worn, actually she was old and worn, it was not just the feeling, it was reality.

   To escape from reality, she often dozed off in her chair in front of the window; her head leaning on her skinny chest covered in lace and ribbons with the strong smell of roses and which faded over time from dark red and purple to pink; like the roses embroidered at her long skirt.

A good listener could hear her snoring, soft and gentle. Her hands with the veins like dark blue cords on top, showing her slow heart beat, lay still on her skirt. The fingers only moved when she was dreaming but at this age, even her dreams were scarce.

  A very long time ago, she could not even recall how long, she did have dreams. Too many, her mother said. “It is good to have dreams Rose-Mary, but don’t dream all day long and definitely don’t think all dreams come through!”

   But she refused to listen, particularly when she met Henry; the personification of every girls dream.

She was only 16 and Henry was 26 and ready to marry. Her parents refused to give permission for not just the reason that Henry was too old for Rose-Mary.

Although Henry fell in love with her the moment he laid eyes on her (she was indeed a rose that just opened her tender leaves to the warmth of Henry’s smile), he was also very down to earth and the parents knew as soon as the first amorousness would disappear, he needed a wife that could run a household and be an excellent hostess to his family and friends. And Rose-Mary was never going to be such a wife.

   Still they could not stop him from visiting her, hoping their love would slowly change in to normal friendship. But they never thought of a war ending this strange relationship!

   Like so many men, Henry too was called to fulfil his duties for his country. Rose-Mary was in tears and nothing could make her smile. She dreaded the day she had to say goodbye to the love of her life, not knowing if she would ever see him again.

The day of the last farewell was dramatic; Rose Mary rested in his arms and did not want him to go, she held on to him like a rambler rose to a wall in stormy weather. Her tears dripped on his coat, leaving a large wet spot of which Henry hoped it was never going to dry for this was the last memory of her for a very long time if not for ever.

   He begged her not to walk him to the gate as he could not bare to leave if she did.

Her parents left them in private for these last few minutes and Henry thanked them for their thoughtfulness.

Then it was time for him to leave, he walked out the door down the lane and never looked back.

    This was not only the day Rose-Mary lost Henry. No, it was also the day she lost reality too. She shut the door to the angry confused world and the war that was going on; she did not want to know of it. Instead she opened the door to her dreams and lived in this dream as Henry’s wife who was just waiting for him to come home for dinner.

Her parents thought this was only a temporary experience to be able to cope with the truth but it was not. They worried a lot but there was no one who could help Mary-Rose unless she was going to see a specialist but this is not what her parents wanted.

   They kept her at home and made life as comfortable as possible to her, not thinking about the future and what was going to happen when they were both too old to take care of her or to leave her alone.

The few friends that visited them during the first years, stayed away and they became more or less prisoners of their created little world.

Rose-Mary, still denying the war, never knew it ended after 5 long years. She never knew about the letter her parents received announcing the marriage of Henry who met a woman who was his equal. She never knew Henry got 3 sons. Even if her parents had told her, she would not have believed it.
No other men visited the once so beautiful Mary-Rose who more and more looked like an old wrinkly woman with the eyes of a child.

  Her parents passed away with 3 months in between. Mary-Rose kissed them goodbye, arranged the funeral but never left the house for the services.

Since that day, no one ever visited the house. She was only seen outdoors weeding the vegetable garden and feeding the chicken. The milkman left what was needed at the doorstep and collected the money from the small wooden box near the door.

Neighbours died or moved and soon she was only known as the strange woman next door.

Nobody knew her history and nobody knew about Henry. But also nobody knew that deep down her heart, she understood exactly what happened in her life. She knew she tried to shut the door to reality but never succeeded. But at this stage in life there was no reason to make changes and she decided to spend the last few years dreaming about her dream. Books became her best friends; she read them in the chair in front of the window where she had been waiting for Henry for over 60 years.

The chair in which she dozed off asking herself at the very last day of her life if she had done he right thing.

  

   The visitor of the house was surprised the door was not locked. Because no one came to see him after knocking the door, he let himself in calling “Hello?”

The sound of his voice muffled in the stillness of the house. His footsteps left prints in thick layers of dust and he understood by looking at them, he was the very first visitor for a long time.

The decaying smell of the forgotten house penetrated his nose. It was the smell of a long forgotten time, left furniture and old books that were held together by abandoned cobwebs gathering memories no one could recall.

Photo: @soul_mining (Instagram)

   On top of the books in the window sill lay a pair of old fashioned glasses, neatly folded in the open black case. The glasses called out to the man and when he walked over to take a look at them, he accidentally touched the lace curtains on which a delicate smell of roses filled the room.

   He stood still and looked at the glasses and the books for some time before his voice broke the silence in the room: “Mary-Rose, I am here to tell you my father has, despite his marriage, always loved you”.  


  

Word of thanks: the photo of @soul_mining (Instagram) inspired me to write this story and I was given permission to use the photo as an illustration for which I am very grateful. Thank you Dan!

Link: please visit the beautiful Instagram account of @soul_mining

Note: the story is (of course) pure fiction! A figment of my imagination!

Helen