These writings are an example of some of the short stories and poems I have written.

Click here for selected poetry or read the short stories below.

The following extracts from two of my short stories are written in different tones: THE VANISHING POINT OF PUZZLES is a serious story which I hope will resonate in people’s minds, while THE MIRACLE OF BREASTS is written in a light-hearted style and touches on memories of my childhood in Wales. ( I really did have an elocution teacher with ‘interesting aspects’ called Kate Kolinsky.)

All my writing: prose, poetry and screenplays reflect the duality of life.

Short Stories:

The Miracle of Breasts (published in QWF. Edition 40)

The Vanishing Point of Puzzles

The Miracle of Breasts

Miss Adam-Jones' breasts always walked into the room first. Enormous and conical like embroidered traffic cones. As a child I could never understand how she remained upright. The breasts totally eclipsed her stork-like legs.
‘Look after your tongue and your tongue will look after you,’ was one of her many enigmatic statements. I used to go home and look in the bathroom mirror with my mouth open and wonder what she meant. It was three years before I discovered metaphors.
‘Dud dud dud dud dud dud.’ She enunciated each glottal stop perfectly. But the class of six flat-chested girls and four underdeveloped boys found it difficult to concentrate on glottal stops with the breasts wobbling to a wild erotic rhythm of their own.
‘Practise your glottal stops every night, girls. It will pay untold dividends when you are women.’ Then she put her hands dramatically on her diaphragm and breathed in. The breasts lifted. The boys' jaws dropped. So that's what a dividend is, I thought. I practised endless glottal stops, hoping my flat chest would suddenly inflate. ‘Dud dud dud dud dud dud.’ After three nights, the neighbours started banging on the radiators, thinking there was an air lock and my breasts were still flat.

Each Thursday I dashed down the road to Miss Adam-Jones’ house in case any one saw me. Like the erks. Small, beetle-like creatures with enormous feet wearing the black uniform of a nearby Borstal. They lurked behind leylandii and pounced as I ran for the cover of her porch.
‘Oh, Miss Hoity-Toity’s going for another helocution lesson, is she? Ordinary vowels’ not good enough for 'er? 'as to 'ave special ones, she does. Go on then, Hoity - show us your vowels?’
‘Oh, do piss off,’ I'd drawl, lengthening my vowels in Miss Adam-Jones' inimitable fashion. And each week, they’d fall into the bushes in hysteria. Why did such a simple request create such a response, I wondered?

‘Good afternoon, boys and girls.’ Miss Adam-Jones' breasts launched themselves into the room and we all stood to attention.
‘Good afternoon, Miss Adam-Jones,’ we chanted in well-enunciated unison.
‘Today, children,' she moved in and out of us like some vast figurehead, occasionally anointing someone with a cantilevered breast. ‘We are going to practise vowel number one. I have heard a number of you slipping into slovenly speech whilst stepping outside the precincts of this room.’
She paused for a moment to survey each one of us, trying to decide who was responsible for defacing the English language. My heart square-danced as she searched my face. ‘You were not one of those despoilers, Bethan, were you?' Everyone looked at me as if I'd been caught tripping over a triphthong in Harrods.
‘No, Miss Adam-Jones,’ I whispered. ‘I've been practising my glottal stops every night and I'm onto my aspirates now.’ The boys made vomit-like movements with their mouths beneath Miss Adam-Jones’ breasts. She pirouetted on stork legs and caught them in the act.
‘Ah, John, I see you are practising your fricatives.’ John slammed his mouth shut. ‘So it couldn't have been you.’ She paused ominously. ‘Could it?’
John, the colour of a terracotta statue, stammered.' N-n-n-n-n-n-o, Miss Adam-Jones.’
‘It's NO, John. NO, John. NO, John. NO. Say it.’
He repeated. ‘noJohnnoJohnnoJohnno.’
‘Appalling enunciation.’ The breasts moved on to Michael, a small thirteen year old, notorious for dropping diphthongs. ‘Time spent on developing diphthongs, Michael, is never wasted.’ She gave him a chart to practice at home in the privacy of his bedroom and glided to the front of the class.
‘Are you all ready? Using the diaphragm, breath in through the nose.’ The breasts lifted majestically as she breathed in. ‘Then out through the mouth... so.’ Her voice dropped an octave. After five minutes of deep breathing, the room started swaying. From a vast distance, I heard her intone. ‘Bethan - vowel number one if you please.’
Everyone turned to smirk at me, relieved that I'd been singled out. I searched my memory banks and vowel number one suddenly materialised. ‘Arm, Miss Adam-Jones,’ I stretched my vowel like a piece of elastic.
‘Good, Bethan... Now John, vowel number one from you.’
She waited, tapping one stork leg elegantly. John searched the ceiling as if vowel number one would suddenly descend and drop into his mouth.
‘Uh... uh... uh..’
‘Stop!’ The ugliness of his sound momentarily robbed her of a sentence. The breasts circled him in disbelief.
‘John could have chosen calm or half or dark or even starve, but no, John chose uh … a sound usually emanating from a creature on four legs and living in a cage.’ A small splutter of quickly suppressed laughter. ‘Appalling boy.’ She dismissed John with a swift pirouette. ‘ The exercises, children. Then and only then, will I tell you some rather splendid news. Each line after me, ensuring every 'a' is long and every mouth moves wide.

Father, father, do not starve her,
Do not starve her, father, pray!
Carve her, father, please, a rather
Larger portion for her tray.

We repeated this exercise until our vowels were perfect; our goldfish mouths moving wider and wider until I felt in danger of lockjaw. At last we finished and she stood in front of us, her hands trapping her diaphragm.
'Last week, children, I had dinner with the Mayor and Mayoress.' She swept us with her eyes, waiting for our stunned response. Surely, this wasn’t the 'splendid news’ I’d been looking forward to for half an hour. ‘The Mayor and Mayoress,’ she continued after a protracted pause. ‘ have asked me to stage a performance of our work for the Mayor's banquet. This is a wonderful honour. The local newspapers will be reporting on the evening and there will be photographers and local dignitaries. And, of course, your parents. Imagine, children, you will be performing in front of hundreds and hundreds of very important people.’
Suddenly, I felt violently sick.
‘ The Mayor has asked if his son Paul can join our class. He is a little older than the rest of you, and hasn't been as fortunate as you in having elocution lessons. However, his father assures me he is well versed in public speaking. A few of you will be chosen to recite Shakespearean passages and the others will recite some of the verse we have been practicing this term. Remember - you must be a credit to the Mayoral banquet, a credit to your parents, but above all, children, a credit to me. Now listen carefully…’

The road was a blur as I walked home. There were no birds, pavements, flowers, trees or people. I was going to play Lady Macbeth at the Mayor's Banquet. In four weeks, I would become the first flat-chested Lady Macbeth since women were allowed on the stage. I prayed that God would strike me dead before the performance.
Mum was out when I got home. When I told my ecstatic father, he rang up the entire family. I heard him on the phone, bribing them. He would give anyone who came a percentage of his gambling profits.
‘But, Dad,’ I wailed. ‘ You never win on the horses and the family only like musicals.’
‘ That’s irrelevant, Bethan,’ he said and went upstairs to tell Granny.
I heard her shouting that she’d only come if she could bring her ear trumpet; she’d been having signals from outer space on her hearing aid for four days. Worse was to follow. My fourteen-year-old cousin Roger, he who followed the dictates of Tomás de Torquemada in his love of persecution, insisted on coming. I would be racked with his memory of Lady Macbeth forever.

*

‘I'd like you to meet Paul. He is going to play Macbeth. His father, the Mayor, tells me he is perfect for the part. Are you listening, Bethan?’
How could I listen? I had fallen in love for the first time in my life. In front of me stood a man of the world. Tall and sophisticated in his dark-blue school uniform. Nonchalantly, he held a copy of "Macbeth” in fingers strong enough to tear Shakespeare apart. He turned to smile at me and his deep, brown eyes crinkled at the corners. The room flooded with light.
‘Bethan - wipe that expression off your face immediately. You can't play Lady Macbeth looking half-witted, child. You'll make me a laughing stock.’
She’d called me 'half-witted' and 'child' in front of the man of my dreams. That's when I decided to show her I was neither. I was going to give the performance of a lifetime and grow breasts.
I studied the pink carnations on the carpet; incapable of looking at Paul and controlling the hormones rampaging round my body. Adonis cleared his throat, opened his lips and started to speak.
One of Miss Adam-Jones’ eyelids twitched violently. I’d never seen her less in control. But then, she’d never heard the Mayor's son massacre a passage from Shakespeare before. He hurtled through one of Macbeth’s speeches at roller-coaster speed. Not only was his delivery truly awful, but his voice was high pitched and squeaky. I discovered how transitory love was.
‘How was that, Miss Adam-Jones?’ my former idol squeaked.
The Grandfather-Clock chimed five times before she could speak.
‘Paul,’ Miss Adam-Jones stretched his name across the silence. ‘I'd like you to listen to Bethan's delivery. Remember, Bethan, you are admonishing your husband for his lack of courage. Be measured, yet passionate.’
I delivered my lines with perfect, measured passion.

'Wouldst thou have that
which thou esteem'st the ornament of life,
and live a coward in thine own esteem,
Letting" I dare not" wait upon " I would",
Like the poor cat i' the adage?'

‘You see, Paul. Bethan is full of controlled passion. And yet -’ she paused dramatically - ‘comprehensible.’ She strolled around the room, then pirouetted, catching Paul off guard as he gazed at the breasts. ‘Audiences have strange quirks like ... wishing to distinguish one word from the next. Idiosyncratic, perhaps, Paul, but one must oblige one's audience. This… Bethan has learnt.’
I expanded under her praise, but there was one passage I couldn’t possibly perform in public. Not without breasts. God had created me for some purpose. Surely it must be to give me breasts in time for the performance in two weeks?

*

The house was feverish as each breastless day moved relentlessly forward. My father insisted on performing Macbeth's lines to help me. My mother insisted on being the prompt.
‘No, don't tell me, Gwen,’ he said to my mother as she tried to prompt him for the fortieth time. ‘It's on the tip of my tongue. “Bring forth” - now what the hell does he bring forth? No, no, don't tell me.. give me a clue? Is it Banquo's ghost, the witches or Lady Macbeth? Duw, you wouldn't believe I had the line perfect yesterday, would you?’
‘Dad... can I -?’
‘Good God - she's interrupted again. I've lost the flow now... let's start from the beginning.’

In spite of the help my father gave me, I had the words perfect two nights before the performance. But no faith in God. I still had no breasts. Added to this trauma were two more: Paul seemed only marginally better than my father at learning his lines and Miss Adam-Jones' twitch was accelerating alarmingly. My dreams became Dali-landscapes in which Lady Macbeth galloped across a blasted heath with the witches, the leg of a lizard and the tongue of a dog. She was fleeing from the bloody sight of her husband, Paul, whom she had murdered.

The day of the performance arrived. Two hours before my ordeal and my father and mother were roaming round the house obsessively quoting passages as an aide mémoire for me.
‘“Are you a man?”’ my mother screamed up the stairs to him.
‘What! Less of the lip, woman!’ he roared back from the bathroom, then he laughed. ‘Oh, sharp as a razor, is it? ... “Aye and a bold one which dare look on that which might ...” no, don't tell me - don't tell me... I've got it – “which might appall the devil.” Oh bloody hell, Gwen - where've you hidden Mum’s dentures this time?’
I phoned Miss Adam-Jones and asked her to collect me, then wrote a message to my parents. "What's done is done.” See you after the performance.

One hour later, Paul and I were standing behind red velvet curtains, dressed in Elizabethan costumes. There was a large table in the middle of the stage. Paul was hanging on to it. We could hear hundreds of people in front of the curtain, greeting his parents, the Lord and Lady Mayoress. He didn’t seem able to speak; his Adam's apple jerked repeatedly as he tried to swallow, and his costume hung off his emaciated frame like a deflated balloon. I was having difficulty remaining upright under the enormous purple weight of my costume. But I did have breasts. I had thrown God out of the window and used the mother of invention: ten of my father's monogrammed handkerchiefs stuffed down the front of my dress. My cleavage was hardly in Miss Adam-Jones' league, but at least I felt more ready to tackle lines like: “Come to my woman's breast ...” with something to hang on to.

Miss Adam-Jones appeared on the stage dressed in a tight, black, low-cut sequinned dress which was probably the reason Paul couldn’t speak.
‘Now remember both of you. Loud measured delivery and lots of deep breathing to calm the nerves.’
She swept off the stage and left us like sacrificial victims. I attempted a smile.
‘Well, at least your parents will enjoy seeing you play Macbeth, Paul.’
‘They hate Shakespeare. It's all for publicity.’ I looked up at him in horror. What had happened to his voice? The first sentence was falsetto and the second, bass. I prayed for a quick death.
In front of the curtain everything had gone quiet. Miss Adam-Jones was introducing us.
I heard my grandmother shout. 'Speak up, woman! I can’t hear a word!’ I held onto the table for support.
Miss Adam-Jones, enunciating each syllable for the benefit of my grandmother, set the scene we were going to perform. ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, Macbeth and Lady Macbeth are dining with guests when suddenly Macbeth sees Banquo's ghost and is terrified.’
I looked at Paul. He wouldn’t have to act, I thought. Sweat was cascading down his costume.
‘Don't be nervous,’ I whispered. ‘Miss Adam-Jones knows your part like the back of her...’ I didn’t have time to finish the sentence. Paul passed out, knocking his head against the table. I couldn’t move. Banquo's ghost came on stage, saw what had happened and rushed off again. I still couldn’t move. One minute later, Paul had been dragged off and a twitching Miss Adam-Jones was standing by my side, hissing: ‘ Dear God – my reputation will be ruined!’
Granny had always told me I was born to be a leader, ever since she had read my tea-leaves when I was ten. I’d waited four years to prove her right.
‘You’ll have to play Macbeth, Miss Adam-Jones.’
She stared at me in horror. ‘ Perhaps you haven’t noticed, Bethan – I’m wearing a sequined dress. Macbeth was not of that persuasion.’
I rushed into the wings, rummaged in the costume box, found a suitable costume and threw it at her.
‘ Put it on while I announce that there’s been a change of character.’
I walked out in front of the curtain and Granny started banging on the floor with her walking stick and chanting ‘ Beth-an! Beth-an!’ in a loud voice. My cousin Roger joined in before Auntie Flo clipped him round the ear. But I was not Bethan – I was Lady Macbeth. I raised my hands imperiously. Unbelievably, Granny fell silent.
I took a deep breath before projecting my voice far into the room. ‘ Ladies and gentlemen.’ My enunciation was perfect. ‘ Unfortunately, our lead actor, Paul Chambers, has succumbed to a sudden throat infection and therefore cannot play the part of Macbeth this evening.’
The Mayor jumped out of his chair. ‘ I’ll give him throat infection when I get him home!’ The Lady Mayoress thrust him back into his seat before smiling at everyone.
‘However,’ I continued. ‘ Miss Adam-Jones has agreed to step into the role at a moment’s notice.’
‘You can’t have a woman playing a man’s part!’ The Mayor shouted.
‘Why not?’ I shouted back. ‘ How long did men play women’s parts on the Elizabethan stage?’
‘ Too long!’ yelled Granny who’d never seen a Shakespearian play in her life.
The Mayoress started the clapping. I waited for it to subside before speaking.
‘Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, we are going to redress the balance of power. Tonight, you will see two women with one goal… Macbeth.’
I withdrew behind the curtains to thunderous applause to discover a transformation. There he was - standing in the wings, waiting for me. Every inch a Scottish nobleman. My jaw dropped. He was looking at me with – yes, admiration.
‘Well done, Bethan. You have the courage to become a fine actress.’
‘But how?…where…?’ I stammered, looking for the breasts.
‘Drama is about illusion, Bethan.’ Macbeth whispered as Banquo’s ghost weaved across the stage. ‘ Tonight, my dear, you are going to give the audience a performance they will never forget.’
Then he turned and smiled at me. I felt a tingling in my breasts. It wasn’t possible, was it? The curtain lifted, we walked forward and the audience gasped in surprise.

This story is being published in edition 40 of QWF magazine.

***

The Vanishing Point of Puzzles

When people ask me what I do, I answer: ‘ Nothing, really. Well, I haven’t got a job, that is. I mean, a job outside the house. Of course, I do things.’
Why do I always qualify what I say? Perhaps because I’m always going to important functions with Luke; full of important people. I, of course, am nobody.

My thirteen-year-old daughter, Laura, is talking on her mobile to one of her numerous friends from her expensive private school; her accent dripping with educated vowels. Those vowels are costing us a small fortune and yet her elocution teacher, Miss Highbury-Smythe’s language is so full of arcane metaphors that it’s difficult to decode any of her sounds at all.
I glance at the Grandfather Clock in the hall. Oh, God – I’m going to be late again. My stomach contracts. I know exactly how Phil will look; a small, vulnerable boy, completely out of place, standing near the wrought iron gates of St. Jude’s in his appalling brown uniform. Waiting for me. Always waiting for me.
‘Going to pick Phil up,’ I shout up the stairs.
I hear Laura yell into her mobile ‘He didn’t!’ as I close the front door.

The traffic crawls along the congested High Street with its wide array of expensive shops and restaurants. Half past four. Phil will have been waiting half-an-hour by now. Guilt constricts my breathing. There’s no excuse. I haven’t got a job. Not a proper job like other people. Not like Luke. Head of Marketing at Brazier and Braithwaite. The Brazier and Braithwaite. Luke had been ecstatic when he’d landed the job; the night Philip had been conceived. We’d both got plastered on champagne and success. ‘ We’re really going places this time, Fi,’ Luke had said as we lay post-coital in bed. And we had. Hampstead. Everyone says our house is too stylish for words. Luke got in a team of interior decorators, although I told him I wanted to decorate it myself. ‘No time for that, my darling. I want you sparkling at my side when we’re socializing.’ We’ve eaten together as a family a dozen times in five years.

‘Can you believe we were once penniless art students?’ Luke asks each time a limousine cradles us towards our next important engagement. And each time he reminds me to be especially nice to whichever man he wants money from. I often feel like a prostitute. But perhaps marriage is really just legalized prostitution.

I turn the corner into Sedgebury Street and see Philip standing outside the gates of the school, looking exactly as I had imagined – lost. His short brown trousers reveal coltish legs, too thin for his body. Is it my fault he’s so vulnerable? I ask myself as I slide the BMW to a stop in front of him. He looks at me reproachfully.
‘ You’re late again, Mummy.’
‘ Sorry, darling. You know what I’m like with time.’ I lean over to kiss him.
‘Why don’t you wear a watch?’
‘ We should count time by heart-beats.’
‘You know you can’t.... are you going out again tonight?’
I move out into the traffic, hating my answer. ‘Yes.’
‘You said we were going to draw pictures together.’
‘I know. I’m sorry, darling. How about tomorrow evening?’
‘You said that last night.’
‘Daddy just rang up and said we had to go to a launch party.’
‘Full of important people?’
I turn to look at him, wondering at his tone. ‘ I expect so.’
‘How can everyone you meet be important? What do they do? Build planes? Invent things? Save children from starvation? What?’
‘They make a lot of money.’
I can feel Phil’s eyes on my face: I know what he’s thinking.

*

I am standing in a large, ornate reception room, full of immaculate personnel: men whose suits are hand-tailored at Gieves & Hawkes in Jermyn Street and power-dressed women who look as if their personal dress designer is waiting in the wings. I, of course, am wearing a slinky dress, playing the part of a sparkling wife by listening animatedly to Roland Anderson, the Managing Director of a company with whom Luke is doing business.
‘Did Luke tell you he’s directing the advertising campaign for the launch of our new tea, Fiona?’
‘Luke always tells me about his work.’ I smile at Roland Anderson as if I’m riveted by tea. Luke has warned me to be especially nice to this important American client.
He beams at me. ‘Your husband’s brewing up a storm in radical images, let me tell you. A storm in a teacup, eh!’ Roland roars with laughter, then looks around to ensure his staff are celebrating his wit too. ‘Luke’s new advert is a sensation. Upbeat, life-affirming and sixty seconds long.’
The sharp intake of breath from Roland’s acolytes tells me that this is unusual.
‘ Yeah. Rad-i-cal!’ he continues, ‘but Luke can pull it off – that’s why we’ve allocated a budget of 16 million bucks to this one.’
The enormity of the sum staggers me. I remember what Phil said about starving children, but I continue smiling at him as if advertising is the most important thing in the world. I glance at Luke; tell-tale blotches have spread across his face; he’s been knocking back whisky all night to celebrate his success.
‘In a month’s time, Rollo,’ Luke’s voice reverberates round the room. ‘Everyone in the world will be raising their cups to celebrate the health benefits of Titanic Tea.’
‘Titanic Tea!’ Laughter explodes from my lips before I can stop it and Luke’s face darkens. ‘My husband’s great at lateral thinking, Mr. Anderson. He’s way beyond me.’
‘Isn’t he, though? And it’s Rollo, to you, Fiona. Yeah, I was stunned by the name too at first, but then Luke said to me - think real Titanic, Rollo. What does it suggest? Strength! Vitality! Vigour! Pure genius, Fiona. And listen to this slogan. As Titanic Tea sinks, you get the lift of your life. This time next week that slogan is going to be pasted on billboards all over the world, let me tell you. ’
Everyone claps, looking at Luke with admiration. He knocks back another glass of whisky and tries unsuccessfully to look modest. I wonder how long I can stand this performance.

Three hours later we are driving through shadowy streets full of rubbish and Luke is slumped against the headrest of the limo. I stare at the shadowed angle of his slack jaw and remember the day when Tom Campbell, my Tutor in Art School, told everyone in the class that I had an eye for perspective. ‘You either have it or you don’t,’ he’d said, that wet autumnal day in 1988. ‘And effortless perspective is one of the artist’s most important tools.’
Luke had made a great effort to be rebellious in those days. ‘What about Jackson Pollock and all the other innovative artists?’ He’d shouted out. ‘They don’t care a fuck about perspective!’
Jackson Pollock always brought the blood surging into Tom Campbell’s face. ‘I’m talking about Art, Luke – not daubs of paint thrown at a canvas. I’m talking about perspective and beauty of line. Fiona has that gift.’ He’d looked at me and smiled and Luke had stormed out of the Studio.

Fourteen years later, my perspective is clouded by drink and another nauseating evening where I am considered, at best, an attractive appendage, and at worst, not at all. I study Luke in the sodium-studded night: the vacant mouth; the lolling head; the stale breath, wafting out so much whisky I wonder if I’m getting passively drunk. The limo turns into the gravelled driveway of our detached eight-bedroomed house and I suddenly realize … I’m wasting my life.

It’s a week before I have time for Phil. I find him sitting at the kitchen table, swinging match-stick legs, trying to draw an overflowing bowl of fruit. I study the nape of his neck, too exposed by his regulation school hair cut, even in the diffused lighting. I can almost touch his vulnerability as he turns to me.
‘It’s no good, is it, Mum?’
I am just about to lie when I see what his problem is – perspective.
I sit down beside him and ruffle his hair. ‘ That depends on what you’re trying to do.’
‘Make my picture look real.’
‘Okay.’
I get a piece of A4 paper, a pencil and ruler and place them in front of me, sideways.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Watch.’ I draw two boys at different positions on the paper and draw two lines to a vanishing point.

‘ The vanishing point is where the lines join together.’
‘I can see, Mum.’
We smile at each other.
‘ Artists have used vanishing points for centuries. Now you try.’
The tip of his tongue emerges between his lips as he concentrates on drawing more lines.
‘Now what?’
‘Draw someone inside the lines.’
‘All right.’
He draws a small woman with long, dark hair and bow legs. I suddenly realize, he’s drawing me. He gives her cross eyes.
‘Hey – less of that.’
He laughs and I suddenly feel ridiculously happy. He starts drawing another small woman as Laura saunters in with her mobile stuck to her ear.
‘What did you say?’ She gives a small squeal and shouts. ‘You didn’t!’ She glances at me briefly. ‘ Where’re the Bath Olivers?’
‘Go somewhere else to talk, Laura. We’re busy.’
‘With what?’ She looks at our drawings and shouts into the mobile.
‘You won’t believe this one. I’m in the kitchen and I’m like looking at my mother trying to teach my baby brother to draw stick women with cross eyes and legs like cellos.’ She hoots with laughter into the phone. Phil scrunches up the paper and walks out of the room.
If only there was a vanishing point for people, I think, following him. I’m dreading the weekend at the cottage.

*

We bought the cottage in Kent two years ago to celebrate a well paid project Luke had completed. At first, I’d been reluctant to buy it, not wanting the hassle of driving to the country almost every weekend, but of course, Luke convinced me how important it was to have a weekend retreat to consolidate that high-profile-corporate-image. But when I saw the cottage, trailing history, roses and clematis, I fell in love with its small nuggets of rooms and slanting light. It was surrounded by hop fields and water-washed flowers and myriads of birds. It was wonderful to escape from the fumes of London to breathe clean country air; to watch the garden fill with yellow archangels, jacob’s ladders and brilliant pink shamrock which opened out in a kaleidoscope of colour when the sun shone… It took Luke four months to transform our rural idyll into a geometric designer gallery. He enjoyed taking the before and after pictures, knowing they would impress future clients.
‘A man who can reinvent a property shows the talent and tenacity to make any project work,’ he told Laura as he supervised the extensive renovations. She shadowed her father, and soon knew almost as much as he about corporate images. Phil and I were told to go for walks and not interfere while Luke and his team of men plundered history: hammering and reconstructing the 19th century until it was propelled into the 21st with open planning; minimalist furniture and Luke’s advertising images and slogans despoiling the walls. Phil and I consoled ourselves by walking around the ruins of Scotney Castle. All that remained of this ruined 14th century building was a massive round tower and a crumpling gatehouse. But it was beautiful, surrounded by Japanese maple trees. Each day we sat by the water-lilied moat and studied the refracted reeds in the water; the cobwebbed light on old medieval stones; the oblique angles in the tower. And as I taught Phil how to develop an eye for perspective, I learned to see what he might become.

*

Luke has just rung to say he’s been detained at work on an important project, but not to worry as one of his colleagues, Jonathan, will bring him down to the cottage later. I’ve spent two hours packing everything we need for a relaxing weekend: mountains of food, walking boots, Gorek jackets, light-bulbs, easels, paints and enough clothes for Laura to wear in a month. Laura, of course, is moaning about being incarcerated in the countryside where nothing happens. ‘It’s like being part of the walking dead,’ she shouts at me. ‘ Why can’t we stay in London like everyone else? Why can’t I go clubbing with my friends? ’ This tirade continues all the way down the congested A21 as I stop-start through single lane traffic for nearly three hours. By the time I stop the BMW outside the cottage door, I’m totally exhausted. I open the cottage door to a blast of cold, damp air to find the boiler has burst. ‘ That’s all I need!’ Laura wails. ‘A freezing cottage in the middle of Pittsville!’ I want to strangle her.

An hour later, after trying to resurrect the boiler, I hear Luke talking to Jonathan outside the cottage, then Jonathan’s Jaq speeds off, peppering gravel against the kitchen door. Phil and I stand in the kitchen, tense with expectation, knowing Luke will be expecting dinner to be ready. The kitchen door opens and he walks in, whistling.
‘The boiler’s broken and I can’t get the cooker to work properly so there’s only cold food.’ My stomach contracts as I wait for his face to darken, but he smiles at us disarmingly.
‘ No problem. I’ll fix everything tomorrow. Just hooked the biggest deal of my life, Fi.’ He gives a whoop of delight. ‘Let’s go to The Peasant. Food’s not bad for a pub. Anyway - who cares about food when I’m with my family? Where’s Laura? Laura!’ He shouts up the stairs and suddenly she’s rushing down the stairs to throw herself into his arms.
‘Daddy – where’ve you been? It’s so awful here.’
He starts singing the UB hit It’s a Wonderful World and soon they’re dancing round the kitchen, laughing.

The 15th century pub is full of people celebrating the fact that it’s Friday night and they’ve survived another week. Loud laughter make it difficult to talk, but Phil and I are glad about that. During a sudden lull in the laughter, Laura puts down her knife and fork and smiles at Luke like the Cheshire Cat. ‘Let’s have a puzzle, Daddy.’
I watch Phil’s fingers tighten on the cutlery and say: ‘Not tonight, Luke – we’re all tired.’
He stares at me before turning to Laura. ‘ Rubbish. Look at Laura. Does she look tired?’
Of course she doesn’t. She’s with her father. She’s radiant. Luke takes one of the paper napkins from the holder and starts drawing a puzzle on it; the tip of his tongue poking out between his teeth as he concentrates. I’ve watched the same study in concentration for fourteen years. He passes the puzzle to Laura, confident she’ll solve it. Phil’s face is very pale in the lamplight of the old pub. Should I take him back to the cottage, I think? I watch the agitation develop in Phil’s breathing, knowing I’m a coward. Laura’s forehead creases as she studies the puzzle. She suddenly beams at Luke.

‘The answer’s 210, Daddy. That was so easy!’
Luke smiles at her. ‘Who’s my clever girl.’ Laura smiles triumphantly at Phil as her father leans over to kiss her. ‘Now here’s one for Phil – in letters. I know he’s no good with numbers.’
Phil sits very still, but I can see small muscles moving in his jaw. He doesn’t look at Luke, but stares intently at a picture of a Sussex Hunt on the wall above his head. Why does Luke do this every time we come to the country? Why does he need to negate his son?
‘It’s getting late, Luke. It’s been a long day, let’s get back to the cottage.’
Laura’s head rests on her father’s shoulder as he continues to draw letters on a piece of paper.
‘Luke?’
‘There we are.’ Luke pushes the paper in front of Phil who shrinks back into his chair. Luke’s face tightens. ‘Well for God’s sake, at least look at it!’
Phil’s eyes dart to the paper and away again. ‘ I can’t read properly in this light.’
‘I’m taking him to the optician’s next week,’ I say quickly.
‘Optician’s? You’ve never told me there’s anything wrong with his eyes.’
Luke looks at me as if I’ve given him a genetically inferior son.
‘He’s just started having headaches – that’s a definite sign of eye problems.’
‘How can he read so much if he can’t see?’ Laura stares at me confrontationally, knowing I’m lying.
‘It’s because he reads so much that the problem started, Laura!’ I want to shake my daughter very hard.
‘Well, I read more than him,’ she argues, before turning to Phil. ‘You can’t do it, can you? It’s much easier than mine.’ She points to the letters and reads: ‘What are the letters in place of the stars? A D g J M * S * y?’
Phil blinks rapidly. I hear people shouting good night to the landlord and look at the pub clock. It’s 10. 30.
‘Luke, the children should be in bed. It’s long past their bedtime.’
‘Come on, Philip. Make an effort!’ Luke starts tapping on the table with his pen. A bad sign. Phil’s body tightens like a bow.
‘It’s in twos, isn’t it, Phil?’
Luke glares at me. ‘He’ll do this by himself!’
‘It’s so easy, Philip,’ Laura elongates her words in a patronizing drawl.
‘P.’ Phil whispers.
‘Lower or Upper case?’ Luke snaps.
‘What?’
‘Lower or Upper case? Don’t they teach you to listen in school?’
I look at the anger on Luke’s face; the fear on Phil’s. I actually loved this man once. How is it possible?
‘ It’s lower case, Dumbo.’ Laura shakes her head at Luke. ‘ He’s a lost cause, Daddy. I’d give up on him if I were you.’
I watch Phil moving his mouth, desperately trying not to cry and suddenly push my chair back and grab his hand. ‘We’re going back now. Luke. I’m tired.’
‘ Sit down - unless you want a row.’ We lock eyes. ‘And you hate rows, don’t you?… even in private.’
Phil’s hand tightens in mine and I want to scream, but the predatory look in Luke’s eyes forces me back into my seat. Phil takes his hand away from mine. What sort of mother am I?
‘So…what’s the other missing letter?’ Luke’s pen taps a staccato rhythm on the table as we wait.
I can hear Phil’s rapid, shallow breathing at the side of me, but do nothing.
There are no one other customers left in the pub now. From behind the bar, I see the landlord staring at us curiously. I smile at him, playing the game I’m so good at - happy families. Laura leans over and whispers something to Luke. They laugh. I get a biro and a small note-pad out of my bag and write a large V on it and slide it under the table across to Phil. Laura’s eyes follows my movements. I glare at her, willing her silence.
‘Well?’ Luke stares into Philip’s pale face.
‘ It’s V. Upper case.’
Luke looks surprised. ‘Good.’ Perhaps there’s hope for you after all.’
‘Daddy – Mum’s just -’
I jump up and clutch Laura’s arm tightly. ‘Right – that’s enough. We’re going home. It’s late. Come on, Laura. Philip. You stay and have another drink if you want, Luke.’
Luke looks at me with surprise. ‘ All right. I think I will. See you later. Night, kids.’
Laura rushes to hug her father.
I drag her back. ‘Come on, Laura. You know you hate walking in the dark by yourself.’
I push her in front of me out of the pub.
The sky is studded with stars as we walk home. I’m always amazed by the night sky in the country-side. No street lights to block out the brilliant constellations. I lag behind the children, feeling utterly drained by the evening.
‘I’ll tell Daddy, Mum gave you the answer.’ I hear Laura taunting Philip. Suddenly I find myself running towards her, holding her in a vice-like grip.
‘ Mum - that hurts!’ Laura is shocked. I never get angry.
‘If you tell your father, I’ll make sure that you don’t go on that expensive school skiing trip you’ve been on about for weeks.’
‘Daddy wouldn’t listen to you. He gives me everything I want.’
‘He won’t if he finds out you’ve been going out with a boy from the council estate.’
Laura gasps. ‘ What boy?’
‘The boy with the stud in his nose. I drove past you last week. You were walking home together.’
‘We were only talking!’
‘I saw you kissing him, Laura. One word and no skiing.’ I am blackmailing my daughter and really enjoying it. She pulls away from me in surprise and stomps off towards the cottage.
Phil puts his hand in mine and suddenly the last drop of energy seeps from my body: I cannot continue living like this.

An hour later, Luke and I are lying together in the same bed; separated by hundreds of adverts. He rubs his hand down my leg and my body rebels.
‘ Not tonight, Luke. I’m too tired.’ It’s true, but the real reason lies much deeper: I no longer want this man to touch any part of my life.
He rolls away from me in disgust. ‘You’re always too bloody tired these days. I’m the one with the job, remember. The one who gets up early every day to provide for this family. Jesus - what have you got to be tired about?’
I could pretend to go to sleep as I usually do; I could pretend to play this part for the rest of my life. I could, but I’ve lived too long with puzzles.
I get up from the bed. I can’t discuss the rest of my life, lying down. I switch on the light, wrap myself up in a dressing gown and suddenly feel amazingly strong. He sits up and stares at me in surprise.
‘What are you -’
‘Listen to me carefully, Luke – for once. I want a divorce and I want custody of Phil. I want to paint professionally and I want to live in this cottage. What I don’t want - an argument because you’ll never, never change my mind. You and Laura live in London. It’s where you both belong. Phil and I belong here. Now I’m going to sleep in the spare room and tomorrow I’m going to see a solicitor to arrange everything. That’s final. Good night.’ Then I walk out of the room and he doesn’t say a word.

That autumn, Phil and I change the contours and colours in the cottage so they reflect the burnished browns and blues of our personalities. It’s going to take a long time to bring back the past, but I’m regaining my perspective and Phil is finding his. But what we love most of all about living here: all the puzzles have vanished.

***

© Linda James 2002

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