In a sunny meadow stood the Golden Hive, glowing like a drop of warm honey.
Inside lived two little sisters: Goldenwing, gentle and kind, and Swordbee, bold and bursting with energy.
Two Sisters, One Heart
Goldenwing and Swordbee did everything together.
They played in the flowers, curled up in their honeycomb bed, and whispered stories until the moon rose.
Their hearts buzzed in the same rhythm.
Their Brave Mother
Their mother, Honeyglow, was the bravest bee in the meadow.
She taught them to fly, to help others, and to keep courage warm inside their chests.
“Strength,” she said, “is not in your stinger — it’s in your kindness.”
The Magic Honey Pots
Deep inside the hive shimmered the Magic Honey Pots, glowing with golden light.
They kept the hive warm, safe, and full of hope.
Honeyglow guarded them with all her heart.
The Giant Bumblebee
One day, a giant bumblebee landed with a thud.
He wasn’t cruel — just big, loud, and greedy.
“I smell magic honey!” he boomed. “Give it to me!”
The hive shook like a leaf.
Honeyglow’s Last Stand
Honeyglow flew out to shield her daughters.
She buzzed, dodged, and stung with all her strength.
At last, the giant bumblebee lumbered away…
…but Honeyglow’s wings were fading.
A Goodbyeove of L
Goldenwing held her mother close.
Swordbee stood frozen, her heart cracking open.
Honeyglow whispered, “Be brave… be kind…”
And then she was gone.
The hive fell silent.
Two Sisters, Two Paths
Goldenwing cried softly and stayed close to the other bees.
Swordbee did not cry.
Fear curled inside her like a shadow.
“I must never be weak,” she told herself.
Swordbee Becomes Queen
As she grew, Swordbee became strong — but also sharp and strict.
She ruled with fear, believing it would keep everyone safe.
Goldenwing stayed gentle, helping every bee she met.
The hive loved Goldenwing.
Swordbee felt her heart grow heavier.
One day, Swordbee’s fear grew too big.
She tried to stop Goldenwing, thinking kindness made the hive weak.
But the bees stood with Goldenwing — brave, buzzing, united.
Swordbee’s strength cracked.
Her wings dimmed.
She fell to the ground… not as Swordbee, but as Halfwing, the small bee she once was
A Sster’s Hug
Goldenwing wrapped her wings around her sister. “You don’t have to be strong alone,” she whispered. Swordbee trembled… then hugged her back. The hive glowed softly, as if love itself had returned.
A New Dawn
The hive danced in golden pollen.
Goldenwing became the heart of the hive.
Halfwing learned, slowly and bravely, that kindness was not weakness — it was strength.
Together, the sisters helped the Golden Hive shine brighter than ever.
I watched the planes fly overhead. Where were they taking the people? I knew many friends that had received their notification to go to the various aerodromes. Then they’d disappeared. As I watched a huge craft rumble through the sky, I wondered if any of my friends were aboard.
The day was bright but cold. I’d left my wife and three daughters behind in the cottage we’d rented for the week. It smelt musty, old, the scent of stale smoke in the stonework. I loved it. We’d make a fire that night. The farmer had left us plenty of wood. My wife and daughters had stayed behind to make food and watch a film and generally get settled in. I wished one of them had come with me but I stepped out alone. My small haversack bumping against my back as I’d headed down the stonewall-flanked lane. Waving goodbye, I breathed in the fresh mountain air.
Before too long the weather changed. The air gathered in mist and then fog. As I dropped down into the valley, I could hardly see my hands as I plunged them into the fog, wanting to swish it all away and see again. The air felt colder with the sun’s warmth blanketed tight.
What was I to do? At least I wasn’t up on a mountaintop traversing an arête. As I thought this, I was suddenly aware of a sound gathering volume, seemingly coming closer. Where and what was it? This sound seemed to shake the very earth I stood on. It became deafening. I imagined a huge giant stomping over the land – but I could see nothing. My curiosity and mild fear became utter dread as the noise shook my brain. Whatever it was it was getting a whole lot closer. It was coming from the sky. Was it a plane? There were no flight paths over where we were, maybe a military plane? The sound seemed to tear the very fabric of the fog and its volume increased relentlessly. It felt like the end of the world. In an intuitive act I threw myself to the ground landing on my haversack. The lane was gritty with small stones. I rolled onto my front and blocked my ears. And then. Whatever it was, it must have dived and ploughed straight into a wood. I could hear the sounds of trees being ripped apart, unearthed. And then. Nothing. Utter silence for the briefest of moments.
Getting up on my feet I tried desperately to see what had happened. I heard cries penetrating the cloth-like air. Some shrieks. I walked like a blind man, holding my hands before me and soon I was pitched forwards as I hit a low wall. What was I thinking? What did I expect to be able to do? I had no phone with me. The only thing that connected me to the world had been the path I was on. I should have stayed on that and… Curiously, it felt like the whole area was oblivious to what I had heard. Instinct drove me on. Feeling the mossy top of the wall, I managed to straddle it and then lift my back leg over. The air smelt of smoke and fuel which added to its density. There were more cries and moans in the distance. Except for me there was no distance. Damn that fog!
The first sense of that devastating reality hit me – almost literally. A part of the plane wreckage tripped me up and I fell towards the ground. Flapping my hands, I managed to control my descent to an extent. In the distance I could hear the wailing of sirens. With some difficulty I once again got to my feet and I had the sense that the fog was being dispersed and driven out by the smoke coming from the crashed plane. There were more guttural cries of pain as I made tiny steps over the uneven ground. And then. Bang! I was out cold.
I came round slowly, piecing together fragmented thoughts. I felt trapped. Panicking, I wondered if I was paralysed. I couldn’t feel my legs, or my arms. The air in front of my eyes was black. I opened and shut my eyelids in rapid succession but nothing changed. How long had I been like that, staring into nothing, unable to move. In the end I let my struggle subside and drifted into an unsettling sleep.
In this sleep I could once again move freely. I was in a town, the houses were be-jewelled: rubies and sapphires, diamonds and amethysts shone in their prim brickwork. A river wound its way between two rows of thatched-rooved cottages. But there was no-one about. Looking in through windows I only saw empty rooms. It was as if the houses were waiting to be filled. Walking down what I took to be the high street I felt both lonely and invigorated. Although it felt odd, I was also content being there. And then.
‘Name?’ I was back in my dark, paralysed state. ‘Name?’ ‘Jim,’ I answer innocently. ‘Surname?’ I had to think a moment, ‘Holden,’ I say. ‘James Holden,’ a voice says but not to me. ‘No record,’ answers another voice. ‘Lost in the wreckage?’ ‘No record at all.’ I could feel some tension. ‘He was in the wreckage?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘The capsule has been found?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Well, we’ll see. It’s going to be difficult explaining this. Either he should or shouldn’t have been on the plane. I think it’s best if we say nothing and then get him on the next flight.’ ‘Very well.’ ‘Yes, okay, but what do you think? It’s going to be risky.’ ‘He must have been on the plane. The fog was thick. God only knows why it was flying so low.’ ‘Perhaps it mistook the fog for smoke,’ the voice jokes. ‘Shall I make preparations?’ ‘Yes, indeed. If we’ve made a mistake there’ll be no end to it. Might even lose our jobs. Would you want that?’ ‘Of course not. I understand. I’ll do what’s necessary. Just wish I could find some record.’ ‘No-one checks, why would they? Too late.’ ‘One question,’ the second voice says, ‘what happens to the dead bodies?’ And then.
I felt a piercing of the skin on my arm – I think. That might sound odd but it was hard to tell. It was hard to tell because I was so disorientated. I felt like I was in a packet of sticky glue. Or I had been swathed in bandages soaked in glue. Either way, the sensations of my body were muffled. I had a sense of where my head was and that was about it. I could have been a body assembled by Picasso. Next thing I was aware of was the sensation of movement. Heavy movement. I didn’t feel light – not at all. All the time I was remembering the sound of the plane splitting the coarse blanket of fog and then the animalistic cries of pain. The desperate calls for help. The town my mind had transported itself to and then the dislocated voices. What was happening to me? Was I a prisoner? Was I a patient? Was I awake even? And then.
‘Name?’ ‘Holden, James.’ ‘Flight?’ ‘HA. – DE.5.’ ‘Crashed plane?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Any news on that?’ ‘Investigators are going through the wreckage.’ ‘Crew?’ ‘All dead.’ ‘Any news on them?’ ‘They’re going through clearing.’ ‘Very well. Open him up, give him a jab, full dose. Then onto the plane. DE. 27.’ ‘So many flights,’ the voice says wistfully. ‘Of course.’ ‘I hope…’ the voice begins… ‘There is no hope,’ the other voice says. ‘Nor should there be. We are what we are. Do your job diligently. You’ll find out one day.’ ‘Sir,’ the voice responds.
I came too. Immediately aware I was restrained in my seat. I looked to my left and right. Every seat was full and the occupant of every seat was restrained in the same manner. My head could not turn very far in each direction. I could see seats in front of me and I sensed seats behind. My legs were restrained too. ‘Welcome aboard,’ a voice says from the ether. ‘This flight will take an eternity.’ I feel as if the voice is joking. ‘We trust you enjoy your flight. Take off will be in five minutes.’ ‘Where are we going?’ I say to the man on my right. He laughs. ‘You don’t know?’ ‘I don’t. Where?’ He turns away, so I ask the lady to my left. ‘Do you know where this flight goes to?’ ‘Haven’t you been screened?’ she asks. ‘No. I haven’t.’ ‘Have you been in a coma or something?’ ‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘I don’t know why I’m here.’ The woman laughs. The man to my right says, ‘Well not for good behaviour, that’s for sure.’ The woman laughs at this too. ‘We’ve got a joker,’ says a man from behind. ‘Tell him to shut the fuck up,’ another man says, this time from in front. ‘I want to sleep this one last time.’ ‘Does anyone know?’ I ask desperately. ‘We all know and so do you,’ says the man from behind. ‘I don’t,’ I say. ‘He’s been in a coma,’ the woman explains. ‘Well, I’m not sure…’ ‘He’ll find out soon enough,’ a younger woman says. ‘Leave him be.’ ‘You must be on the wrong flight with a comment like that.’ ‘Nah, imagine his reaction when he does find out?’ They laugh.
Nobody spoke with me from then on. We passed through thunder and lightning. The plane rocked. Rain soaked its carcass. Occasionally it dropped without warning and we felt our stomachs get left behind. Some were being sick. There had been no cabin crew. I kept my eyes focused on the seat in front. It was all I could do to concentrate my mind and keep myself from going insane. When I eventually looked down, I could see what looked like water seeping under my shoes. They were not my shoes but light cotton moccasin type footwear. When did my shoes change to them?
‘Going down,’ a voice says. The captain? ‘If you’d like to look from your windows on the right,’ a female voice says. We all tried to turn our heads and look. There was a huge and vast hole in the ground we could see below. The light of flames and a further dim light on the horizon made sure we could see. This vision put the fear of God into me. Instinctively I say, ‘I shouldn’t be here, I shouldn’t be here…’ And then. ‘Welcome to Hell,’ the voice says. ‘Welcome to eternity,’ it laughs. ‘It’s all you deserve,’ it says cryptically. ‘Hell?’ I say in alarm. ‘Hell yes,’ the man jokes to my right. ‘Get used to it,’ the woman says to my left. ‘But, there really must be some mistake,’ I say. Everyone laughs and then they all break into some incoherent but raucous song. I squeeze my eyes tight and once again hear the roar of a plane’s engine. ‘Dear God,’ I say, ‘help me!’ And then.
In a quiet cottage at the edge of a whispering forest lived a little girl named Eliza. She had bright blue eyes, a curious heart, and a love for animals so big it seemed to shine out of her like sunlight.
Eliza lived with her grandmother, who told stories that smelled like warm tea and sounded like soft lullabies. Even though Eliza’s parents were gone, her grandmother made sure her days were filled with love, comfort, and wonder.
But Eliza had one very special friend —
a beautiful snow owl who perched on the old oak tree outside her window every evening.
Eliza named her Lumi.
Lumi had feathers as white as winter snow and eyes that glowed like tiny moons. Every night, Eliza would wave to Lumi, and Lumi would blink slowly back, as if saying, “Good evening, little one.”
—
🌟 A Wish in the Moonlight
One night, as the moon shone round and bright, Eliza lay in bed thinking about the world above the treetops.
“Oh, how wonderful it must be to fly,” she whispered.
“To feel the wind, to touch the stars, to see the whole world sleeping.”
And then she made a wish — a soft, secret wish that floated into the night:
“I wish I could become an owl and fly up into the sky.”
Suddenly, the wind began to swirl around her room.
It whooshed through the curtains and tickled her toes.
It spun and sparkled like magic.
And then —
Eliza felt herself changing.
Her arms stretched into wings.
Her hair turned into soft white feathers.
Her eyes grew big and blue like shining marbles.
Eliza had become a snow owl, just like Lumi.
—
🦉 A New Life in the Sky
Lumi hooted happily and swooped around her.
Eliza flapped her new wings and lifted off the floor.
Up, up, up she flew — out the window, into the cool night air, and over the treetops. The stars twinkled like they were cheering for her.
She felt free.
She felt brave.
She felt right where she belonged.
Every night, she flew across the forest with Lumi.
Every morning, she perched at the foot of her grandmother’s bed, watching over her with love.
—
🌲 New Friends in the Forest
As the nights passed, Eliza made new friends in her magical owl life.
🐿️ Gogo the Squirrel
Gogo was tiny, fluffy, and full of energy.
He chattered nonstop and loved to race up trees faster than anyone else.
“Try to catch me!” he squeaked as he zipped up a pine tree.
Eliza swooped after him, laughing in her owl way — a soft, happy hoot.
🦌 Simi the Deer
Simi was gentle and graceful, with big brown eyes and a calm voice.
“You fly so beautifully,” Simi said one night as she nibbled on sweet clover.
“And you are always welcome in our forest.”
Eliza felt warm inside.
She had never had forest friends before.
Together, the four of them — Lumi, Gogo, Simi, and Eliza — explored the woods, played games, and shared stories under the moon.
—
🌧️ A Sad Morning
One morning, Eliza returned from a long night of flying. She perched on her grandmother’s bed as she always did.
But her grandmother didn’t wake up.
She lay peacefully, with a soft smile on her face, as if she were dreaming of something beautiful.
Eliza understood.
Her grandmother had drifted into a gentle forever-sleep.
The cottage felt quiet.
The world felt different.
But Lumi, Gogo, and Simi gathered around her.
“We’re here,” Lumi hooted softly.
“You’re not alone,” whispered Simi.
“Let’s stay together,” chirped Gogo.
And Eliza knew she still had a family — a forest family.
—
🌈 A Forever Adventure
From that day on, Eliza lived among the trees.
She flew with Lumi through silver moonbeams.
She played hide-and-seek with Gogo in the branches.
She walked beside Simi through sunlit meadows.
She grew strong.
She grew brave.
She grew happy again.
And every night, if you listen closely near the old oak tree, you might hear a soft hoot drifting through the leaves —
This story was originally part of my latest novel The Experience [to be published 2025]. It is one of five ‘outtakes’ that were originally threaded through the novel’s opening chapters. The job of these stories was to reflect or counter the nature of the narrative’s ‘reality’. Their style and viewpoint being contrary to that of the novel’s. It was eventually decided to remove them, simply to keep the continuity of The Experience’s particular style. Please feel free to comment.
Tim Bragg
My dad would tell me stories. We’d have fun sitting around the kitchen table when I was very young – him making up stories or all three of us playing board games or a card game. Before Ellie was born but even after she was born and sleeping upstairs, we’d have on a low light or lit candles with the fire crackling in its hearth. That part of my life when everything was normal. Well, perhaps that’s the way everyone views their childhood growing up. My mom would make great food and the children that lived around us knew which house to go to to get well fed.
Stories enchanted me. With the other children we’d act out stories I had in my head. Nearby there were fields and barns to play in; hedges to hide behind; woods to disappear within. One simmering summer evening we decided to stay out late. It was safe. We were free. It was my idea that I would act the part of a wild stag and the other children had to hunt me down. My dad had told me a story about a stag that had been cornered by wild dogs, but the stag dropped his head and antlers and held them off. Tossing a dog into the air as they snarled, barked and attacked. The stag was courageous. In the end the dogs retreated. And behind the stag, in a thicket, was revealed a hind with a new born deer – a calf. How I cheered. My dad said that the young of big deer were called a calf not a fawn and that the stag itself would be called a hart. I really liked that. Now I was going to be that stag, that hart – though I had no hind or calf to protect.
We decided to meet up outside the old pub near the centre of the sprawling village. When I got there, Root was waiting, the first as usual. I had no idea why he was called Root and no-one had ever asked him as far as I knew. I sauntered down the lane that led from the high street. It was only then that the name of the pub The White Hart made any sense. I looked up at the sign as if for the first time. But I’d never connected the painting of the stag with the name. I said hello to Root and we waited for the others to join us. Old Farmer Joe seemed to appear out of nowhere and went into the pub, giving a nod as he passed us.
Root said, ‘Here’s Josh and Abby.’ Abby was the only girl we let play with us, she was fun. Eventually, Colin, Doug and Rob arrived.
‘Where are we off to Jim?’
‘Down to Gallows Wood, I’ve got an idea.’ I’d wanted to make a headdress that looked like antlers but every attempt had failed. Imagination would do the trick like it always did. We ran down the hill whooping and hollering, pretending we were riding horses. Old Ma Aldington saw us from her garden and waved. She probably thought us quite mad.
Once over the squat stone bridge, the water constantly gurgling beneath, we climbed the style and went single file down the path. There were lots of blackberry bushes here and in the late summer and early autumn local folk would collect bowls full.
‘Right,’ I said finally. ‘We’re going to play “hunt the stag”.’
‘Dad hates stag hunting,’ Doug said.
‘It’s horrible,’ Abby added.
‘Yes, I know,’ I said, ‘but it’s a game. I’m going to be the stag, or the hart,’ I added knowingly, ‘and you have to hunt me down.’
‘Why?’ said Root.
‘Why what?’
‘Why do we have to hunt you down?’ Colin answered for him.
Thinking fast I said, ‘Because I’m not really a stag. I’m a bad wizard that’s been turned into one. And if you don’t kill me, I’ll kill all the crops, and cows,’ I said defiantly.
‘And sheep?’ Abby asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Not my sheep,’ Rob said. ‘They’ve won prizes.’ Everyone laughed.
‘I’ll hunt you,’ Josh said. ‘I’ll be the prince…’
‘Abby the princess,’ Root teased.
‘Right. Good,’ I said. ‘Give me ten minutes,’ I said. ‘Has anyone got a watch?’ No-one had. Josh said to Abby, ‘Did you bring your phone?’
She shook her head, ‘Mum wouldn’t let me.’
The other boys jeered.
‘Okay. Okay,’ I said, trying to calm them down. ‘Each of you count to a minute but in turns. Then come after me. You’ve got bows and arrows and swords and that’s it.’
‘And spears?’ Colin asked.
‘Maybe,’ I said. I didn’t know if they would or wouldn’t have had spears. Lances perhaps.
I tore off down the path and the wood began to swallow me up. I could hear Doug counting out loud and deliberately missing numbers out but being told to start again by Abby. Before long there was only the strange quiet of the wood. Not wholly quiet, there was tapping on bark from the distance and insects buzzing close by. But it felt like an entirely different world. Stopping briefly, I decided which way to go. The wood was familiar to me – but you could easily get lost. There were a few well-worn paths but I turned off on a barely recognisable one. The sun was gliding through the branches as I rushed headlong into denser tree trunks. Resting, I could hear shouts from Abby and the boys. Seemed like they were off in another direction.
After some moments hesitation I carried on and eventually came to the old hut. I’d discovered this a few weeks back but no-one else knew about it. It was the perfect place to hide. Glancing in through a window, with a piece of its glass missing, I saw dark shadows. I could smell the mustiness of the interior. I’d been in before and was thinking of clearing it out and making it a proper den. Pushing on its wooden door, I opened it enough so that I could get in if necessary. I didn’t want to spend my time in the mushroom-smelling dark, so I found a bush nearby and lay behind it under a patch of sky where the sun hovered for a while. I was so comfortable. I hadn’t slept enough the previous night and so I closed my eyes and I was, as my mum would say, ‘out for the count’.
Waking with a start I looked up to see a man staring down at me. The man had tousled hair, a beard and a look of wildness in his eyes. I attempted to get up but he held me down. As I was about to shout out, he put a dirty hand across my mouth. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘we need help. I’m not going to harm you.’ Releasing his grip on me and removing his hand I had an instance to decide what to do – shout out and try and escape or remain where I was and listen to him. As I looked up at his face I felt an odd sensation, as if I knew him from somewhere.
‘Are you a tramp?’ I asked getting up on my knees. He shook his head. ‘Are you running from the police?’ I asked.
Looking around he said, ‘I’ve done nothing wrong. Nothing. I just want to…’ He broke off as screams were heard in the distance. His face contorted in fear.
‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘They’re my friends. They’re hunting me down.’
‘You too?’
I nodded. I was curious. ‘Are you being hunted?’
He looked around like an animal sniffing the air. ‘Who’s hunting you?’
‘Just some friends. We’re playing a game. I’m a stag.’
He smiled, ‘I see.’ There was some silence between us then he said, ‘I’m like a stag being hunted too. Do you think you could help me?’
‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘What do you want?’
‘We need some food.’
‘Is there more of you? Have you broken out of prison?’ I asked.
Shaking his head he said, ‘Can I trust you?’ I nodded. He’d been crouching down next to me. As one we got to our feet. ‘We’ve been hiding in that old shed,’ he said. ‘Probably a hide,’ he added.
‘Where are you from?’
‘Not far away,’ he said, ‘and very far away.’ Again he looked about, listening intently. Insects still buzzed and whined their way through the trees. ‘Follow me,’ he said. I held back and I knew he could sense that. ‘It’s okay,’ he said, ‘you can trust me. I just need some help. We need some help. Please.’ His face softened. There was something curious about him. I could hear my parents’ voices in my head – don’t go near strangers, never go with any stranger. On cue a voice shouted out in the wood not far away and another answered but more distant. ‘Please,’ he said again. He walked to the old door and pushed it open, motioning to me to come over. I did. With light coming through the doorway I saw a woman and a child. A toddler. They both looked dirty. The woman was younger than the man.
‘Hello,’ she said. She was sitting in the corner with the child in her arms.
‘Hello.’
‘What’s your name?’ she asked.
‘Jim.’
Looking over at the man she smiled. ‘Can we trust you Jim?’
I nodded. They waited. I said, ‘Yes.’
The man looked out the door. The woman said, ‘I’m Jen. This is our little girl Elizabeth. Beth.’
I looked around the interior of the hut, the shed, and as I got used to the light I could see they’d cleaned it up a bit. ‘How long have you been here?’
‘A few days,’ the man said. ‘We haven’t eaten for a few days. Only drunk water from the stream.’
I thought about the old stone bridge and the water gurgling beneath it. ‘I can get you food,’ I said.
‘That would be great,’ Jen said, ‘Beth is so very hungry.’ She looked over at the man.
‘We ate some berries,’ he said. ‘I need to hunt…or…’
‘I can get you food.’ Then, ‘Why are you running away?’
‘It’s my time,’ the man said.
‘Your time?’
The man looked at Jen. Jen said, ‘He’s too old.’
‘For what?’ I asked.
‘For this world.’
‘Our world,’ the man said. ‘Tell me Jim,’ he said, ‘have you got grandparents?’ I nodded. ‘Are they alive?’
‘Of course,’ I laughed.
‘And are they very old?’
I thought for a moment. ‘Yes.’
The man looked at Jen. ‘I told you,’ he said to her. ‘We have a chance. We have a chance here.’
I was confused. ‘A chance?’
‘Can you get us some food, please,’ Jen asked.
I’d never known someone ask anything in that way before. ‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Good boy,’ the man said, exchanging a smile with Jen. Beth continuing to sleep.
Then we heard, ‘What’s that?’ The voice was startlingly close.
‘Don’t let them find us,’ Jen said.
‘They’re my friends,’ I explained.
‘They mustn’t know about us,’ the man said. ‘We can trust you Jim. But no-one else must know we’re here.’
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Let me go out and I can lead them away.’
‘Go,’ Jen said. The man moved from the door.
‘Hide,’ I said. Beth was beginning to move. The man began to put a few large and heavy old cans around them and began unrolling a black covering of some sort. I smiled. ‘I’ll be back,’ I said, ‘with food.’ Then I squeezed out of the doorway into the light of the wood. The door was quickly shut behind me. As I got out I saw Colin looking about.
Turning, he saw me and shouted, ‘Tally ho!’
Root and Rob appeared. ‘We’ve got the stag,’ Rob shouted.
Root called out, ‘Abby, Josh!’
They splayed out around me. I had to escape them and lead them from the shed.
‘Get him,’ Doug shouted. They tried to grab me. But I fought them back. I wasn’t expecting the game to turn this way.
‘What’s in that hut?’ Root asked as they prowled around me.
‘Nothing,’ I said.
‘Stags can’t talk,’ Abby said, arriving on the scene.
Again they pounced on me – but I fought them off again. It was as if something had grabbed hold of me and was controlling my limbs. I’d never fought in this way before. Colin went towards the hut. I thumped Root in the stomach and threw myself at Colin, bringing him down. Then they began piling on me and I was like a boy drowning in an ocean of limbs. With all my determination I rose and gulped air. I saw Abby close to the hut’s door and then a blood-curdling scream came from within. Everyone stopped. I knew this was my chance. ‘It’s a ghost,’ I said. ‘It’s a monster,’ I added. ‘I saw it.’ Another scream came from inside. The others were frozen. I took a gamble. I got to my feet. ‘I’m free,’ I called out. ‘The stag is free. You can’t catch me.’
Running swiftly, I sensed their dilemma. Whether to go into the hut or save face and follow me. I knew what they would do and sure enough I heard their whoops and shouts again as they made chase. With all my remaining energy I ran as fast as I could. The farther from the hut I could get the safer they would be inside it. I knew this wood better than any of them but I had to lure them away. Keeping a short distance between us, I brought them to one of the main paths and ran hard so that eventually I found myself in open fields. Collapsing in the grass, it wasn’t long before they all arrived.
‘Got you, you’re dead,’ Root said. And we all laughed.
We lay in the grass under the hot sun, panting for breath.
‘I didn’t know you were that good at fighting,’ Doug said.
‘Nor did I,’ I joked.
‘What do you think was in that old shed?’ Abby asked.
‘Maybe a wild animal,’ I said. ‘Or a ghost.’
‘We should go back and investigate,’ Root said.
‘No way,’ said Josh.
‘Not today, at least,’ Colin added.
‘If it’s a wild animal it could be dangerous. Best leave it alone and let it escape,’ I said. ‘If it’s a ghost, I’m going nowhere near.’ They all laughed.
I didn’t say anything to my friends or my family about what I had seen in the hut in the woods. Instinctively I kept it a secret. But I couldn’t get back out on Sunday as my mother announced we were going to see my grandparents. The ones that the man had asked about. By the time we got back it was dark. It was Monday when I got home from school and packed my haversack with food I could find that wouldn’t be missed. I had plenty of time before the sunset, when my parents would worry about me. I told my mum I was off to play football. It was a very safe neighbourhood.
Finding the hut was more difficult than I imagined and at one point I nearly went back home. But I thought of little Beth. Recalling where I had run as a ‘stag’ I eventually found the wooden hut. It felt as if the wood would eat it up by high summer. Looking around to make sure no-one was about I went to the rotting wooden door and knocked. At first there was no response. Pushing the door open, I heard Jen say ‘Who is it? Is it Jim?’ She sounded worried. I entered. ‘It is Jim,’ she said surprised. For some reason I felt as if she wasn’t expecting me. There was only Jen there. ‘They’ll be back soon,’ she explained as I was looking around. ‘Beth’s going for a bathe in the stream.’
‘Is everything okay?’ I asked. ‘Have you eaten?’
‘Yep. Monk got some food.’
‘Monk?’
‘My husband,’ she said. ‘It’s what people call him.’
The wooden hut was as tidy as it could be and the window was fixed. Taking off my back pack I handed it to Jen. ‘As much as I could get,’ I said. ‘And a bottle of my dad’s beer too, for…for Monk.’
‘He’ll enjoy that.’ Then, ‘You know we’re not from these parts?’ I nodded. ‘We’re not from around here at all,’ she said. I felt she wanted to say more but the door was opened fully and Monk came in holding Beth in his arms. ‘Jim.’ he said.
‘Sorry I couldn’t get here earlier,’ had to visit my grandparents, then school.’
‘I understand,’ Monk said. He sat Beth down carefully and she immediately got herself onto her feet. I was absorbed by her movements. ‘Thanks,’ Monk said. I smiled at Beth.
‘No-one has seen you?’ I asked.
‘No.’
‘How long will you stay here?’
‘Not sure Jim,’ Monk said. They seem able to track us down.’
‘Who’s they? The police?’ I ask again.
‘Not exactly,’ Monk said, looking over at Jen.
‘Like the police,’ Jen said, ‘but we’ve done nothing wrong…’
‘Nothing but get old,’ Monk said.
‘Monk!’
‘Getting old isn’t a crime,’ I said in innocence.
‘Not yet, maybe,’ Monk said. Then, ‘Are you hungry, will you stay here and eat with us?
‘You can help feed Beth,’ Jen said.
Before I left I asked again if they, or Monk, were in trouble with the police. Jen again explained that they’d done nothing wrong but the authorities were after them.
‘You believe us?’ Jen asked me. I knew she wanted me to believe her, that it was important what I, a boy, thought. I nodded.
Monk said, ‘It’s been good to meet you Jim. Keep your wits about you. Try not to believe everything you’re told by your teachers or what’s on the news. Times can change. Time can…’
‘Monk!’
‘Time can be…’ he searched for his words. ‘Time can be a friend or a foe. It can be like the wind or as solid as a tree. But it’s still growing and changing.’ He looked at Jen. She smiled. ‘It’s been nice meeting you Jim,’ he said. ‘I reckon you’ll grow up into a fine young man. Don’t you think Jen?’
‘Yes, indeed.’ She was holding Beth’s hands and bouncing her up and down.
‘I’ll come tomorrow,’ I said.
‘I think we’ll be gone,’ Monk said. ‘Have to stay one step ahead. Time’s catching up with us.’
‘Oh,’ was all I could say. I said goodbye to Monk and Jen and then stroked Beth’s hair. ‘She’s very nice,’ I said, ‘and she saved you from being discovered when she cried out.’ Jen and Monk looked at each other puzzled. But then smiled.
As I left and looked back they were standing outside next to the door. ‘Take care,’ Jen said. ‘Grow up to be a good man. And stop them if you can.’
I waved. I wanted to ask ‘who?’. But I stopped myself. The next time I looked back they had disappeared. For some reason a tear formed in my eye and rolled down my cheek. I don’t know why.
Root had come to the door. It was Friday night and we were going to town to get some pizza and chips for a treat. ‘Hi Root,’ I said.
‘Hi Jim. Been police all over the village.’
‘Police, what’s happened?’
‘Looking for a dangerous prisoner who’s escaped. Never seen police that looked like them before.’
‘They there now?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘Hang on, let me get my shoes on.’
We ran into the centre of the village where the church was. No-one was about. Nothing. ‘I’ve got an idea,’ I said, ‘follow me Root.’
I ran down the lane, past the pub on the left where we had met the previous weekend. Root was right behind me. We got to the bridge and to the style and then we were up and over. Like the wind we rushed along the path and into the wood. ‘Where are we going?’ Root asked nearly out of breath.
‘Can’t you guess?’
We went along a path and then I darted off down another, which was overgrown. ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘I know how to get there.’ We tore through the bushes and got scratched by thorns and spikes of branches but eventually I stopped, Root nearly crashing into me. ‘There,’ I said triumphantly.
‘That old shed again,’ Root said.
‘Where I beat you all,’ I laughed.
I walked up to the door and knocked on it. Root thought this funny. There was no sound so I pushed it open. ‘Nothing,’ I said out loud. Monk had made a make-shift table which still stood there. It still looked quite tidy but the cans had been knocked over and there was no trace of footsteps in the dust of the hut’s floor. No rubbish. Not a mark. Root was looking about. Then on the table I noticed that there were stalks of grass – and they seemed to spell out something. It wasn’t obvious but I could see they spelt out ‘TIME’ and underneath them were two tiny letters written with blades of grass ‘JH’. I wasn’t being fanciful. I was sure they read TIME with my initials underneath. Well, they had to be mine. But perhaps the J stood for Jen? Without thinking I brushed the stalks and blades from the table top. Root looked at me and I looked back at him innocently.
‘Why did we go to that hut?’ Root asked as we walked back up the lane.
‘I wanted to see if there was a wild animal there, perhaps a deer’s calf…’
In the village a smart-looking man handed us a poster with a photograph on it. At first I didn’t recognise him but I realised it was Monk. Clean shaven, haircut.
‘Seen him around boys?’
‘Who is he?’
‘A fugitive.’
‘What’s that?’ Root asked.
‘Someone running from the law. He might have been with a young woman and a toddler.’ I looked at the man. ‘You know anything son?’ he asked. I wasn’t his son. ‘He could be dangerous.’
‘What’s he done?’ I asked.
‘He’s broken the law.’
‘What’s he done?’ I asked again.
‘He has stepped out of society,’ the man said, ‘stepped out of his obligations.’
‘What’s that?’ Root asked.
But I had a strange feeling come over me. I looked up at the man’s face. There was something different about him but I couldn’t explain what. As we walked away the man shouted over to us, ‘If you see him, make sure you report him.’ Then after a pause. ‘We’re running out of time.’
This story was originally part of my latest novel The Experience [to be published 2025]. It is one of five ‘outtakes’ that were originally threaded through the novel’s opening chapters. The job of these stories was to reflect or counter the nature of the narrative’s ‘reality’. Their style and viewpoint being contrary to that of the novel’s. It was eventually decided to remove them, simply to keep the continuity of The Experience’s particular style. Please feel free to comment.
Tim Bragg
I arrived at a signpost with paths leading off in different directions. The day was warm, not hot. Spring was in full bloom. It felt as if the world was content with itself. As if there were no wars raging. The globe felt like it was alive and full of energy but at peace. All the destructive forces of humanity channelled into the delicate petals of flowers. The trees were in light leaf, some more than others. Each spring I felt hope and optimism for the future. It was natural.
The signpost was wooden, with its fingers pointing out and destinations carved. I looked up and was confused. There were five paths and on the signs was carved: The same way, A different way, An alternative way, The future, The past. I’d never seen such a sign. I half-smiled. Was it a joke? Someone’s or some council’s ‘bit of fun’? Was it cryptic? The air was still but from the trees that surrounded this meeting of paths came the melodies of birds. I looked down the paths that all began, at least, straight. Dividing the natural, organic nature of the wood.
I had no clear intention of where I was heading. I’d parked the car and left it in the carpark. I saw no-one. Earlier I’d dropped off my wife Hannah, with our twins, at the station. She was going to see her mother in the south of the country. There was nothing for me to do and no pressing engagements. I’d always wanted to see the castle ruins and check out the wood, maybe it was a forest, that surrounded. I had no communication device, just the original sign that pointed from the carpark. ‘Nature Trail’ it read and I followed it. There was no real intent to go anywhere. I imagined that the trail would be circular and maybe there’d be a picnic table somewhere for me to rest.
As I walked along, a whole host of thoughts passed across my mind. Jumbled and incoherent. But the more I walked the less jumbled they became and slowly my mind marshalled them into a coherent narrative. The problems I’d faced, I could view with rationality. Maybe it was the regularity of my steps on the earthen path. Sometimes my attention was disturbed as I found a stone or rock jutting out. But mainly I was lulled into making sense of things. Was life a chaotic mess – or was there order? Order behind it all at least.
I don’t know how long I’d been walking when I reached the sign at the five ways. The path I’d taken had led me there. I suppose I could have left it and gone into the wood. But walking along calmed me and I had the sun above in clear blue skies. Looking up at the sign I was half-amused and half-confused. It would have been reasonable, I presumed, to follow the sign which read ‘The same way’. That would suppose that I was on the right way. And I had no prior intentions as to where I was going. I was just meandering along, with my thoughts, as much as the path allowed. So, I could continue in the same direction or go a different or alternative way. ‘The past’ and ‘The future’ signs were more intriguing. The ‘different way’ would, I presume, take me to a different location, or just a different way to the same place. Taking either the past or the future meant I would have a different experience. ‘An alternative way’ would certainly suggest arriving at the same destination. The question was – what did it mean by alternative? No, I was more charmed by either the future or the past. There I was at the five ways in the present. At the present? What does it even mean ‘the present’? I’d never catch up or slow down enough to be in that present. The present was as elusive…well as elusive as the butterfly that delicately flew before me as these thoughts were forming.
‘The past’ was simply pointing back to the way I had come. But at the start of the path it had signed to the future or even the present. Therefore I was intrigued to think that if I went back the way that I came that I might find the path changed in some way. I couldn’t help imagining that if I returned maybe the path would be changed radically, or I would be changed. It was tempting. If I turned back and found both the path and myself changed then would I even know where I was. And if I panicked and went down the same path again, as I had done originally, would I end up somewhere completely different? Then again would it even be the same path? Was the past and the future set?
I decided to take ‘The future’. In many ways this seemed to be the logical path to take. The future was inevitable, wasn’t it? Thus, I was compelled to take that way. I might have thought more deeply about this and even considered taking the path to the past was also, in some way, the future. But I was content enough with my decision. And in curious but good spirits I began walking this new way. This future path began in much the way as my old path had been. Trees were either side of me and I could hear the birds singing and the sun was above me shining brightly. And yet everything seemed new to me. Familiar but at the same time strange. As if I were not sure of my place in the world – I felt slightly apprehensive.
As I continued to walk, I noticed from time to time, paths leading off from the one I was on. There were no signs. The paths appeared like the one I was on except some were more used than others. I had no idea where they led so presumed whoever had used them previously knew where they were going. Or perhaps they had simply walked into the wood on a whim, or seen or heard something that they followed. In which case the first person to walk into that now path had randomly or suddenly veered off. Then I thought that all paths began with a single person doing this. There had to be something about that way, or decision, that led others to do exactly the same before the path was used enough to become, well, a path. A recognisable way.
I was thinking all of this when I noticed a figure in the distance before the path turned to the right. It cheered me seeing a fellow human. As I got closer to the figure, I could see it was an old man, dressed in fairly baggy trousers and an old worn tweed jacket. He also had a worn black hat on his head. As I approached I smiled and said hello.
‘Hello,’ he answered.
‘Where does this path lead to?’ I asked.
The old man looked at me. A smile further crinkled his lined face, ‘Don’t you know?’ he asked.
I shook my head and said, ‘I don’t.’
‘Why, tis the future,’ he began, ‘the path here leads to the future. Didn’t you see the sign?’
‘Is that the name of a pub?’ I asked, presuming he wasn’t referring to the sign at the five ways.
‘A pub? You mean a public house?’
‘Yes.’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ he said. ‘I don’t drink. Never have seen a public house where I live.’
‘You live in a dry town?’ I’d heard about such towns and villages but thought they belonged in the past.
‘No idea what that is,’ he said. ‘Gets good and proper wet at times,’ he smiled.
‘What’s the name of the town you live in?’
‘Tis no town, tis a village,’ the man said.
I was feeling a little exasperated, ‘Well the name of your village.’
‘It’s called Foresite. There’s a manor house there, Foresite Manor.’
‘Thank you. How far is it?’
‘Far? Tis no distance,’ he said, ‘tis no distance at all.’
‘Thank you,’ I said again. He touched his hat and we continued on our ways. As we passed, he looked at me with a smile. He seemed familiar. He could have been my grandfather. I smiled back.
I walked on and when I thought it proper, turned and looked back. But the old man had disappeared. The path had turned slightly, so I ran back farther to see where it was straight and a good view beyond where we’d stopped and talked. Nothing. I imagined him sprinting down the path and out of sight. Then I laughed, he was probably in the wood somewhere relieving himself, or maybe he’d taken one of the turnings between the trees. Walking at a brisk pace, feeling somehow renewed, I carried on. I even began whistling. I didn’t normally whistle. Eventually I came to a village.
There was no sign telling me what the village was called. It wasn’t on the path but rather the path forked and it lay to the left. Once houses appeared the path became a road. Not much of a road. No cars about either. The houses were cottages for the most part. They looked old – they were old. What was I thinking. As I continued, I could see a square ahead. And a church spire suddenly became apparent. How had I missed that? There were shops either side of the entrance to the square. I knew they were shops but they looked empty.
‘Looking for anything?’ came a voice. I looked around and across the square with its plane trees and wrought-iron benches. The church was at the top right, its huge wooden doors and metal rivets clearly visible even from where I was. ‘Looking for anything?’
I then realised the voice was coming from an upstairs window above the shop on my left. Looking up I could see a young man staring down at me. ‘Hello,’ I said.
For the third time he asked, ‘Looking for anything?’
‘Is this village called Foresite?’
‘Yes, it is,’ said the young man. ‘Have you come from the past?’
‘The past?’
‘Yes the past,’ he called down. ‘Wait there.’
I waited outside, there was still no-one around. I heard the jingling of a bell and the shop door opened. The young man stood there gazing at me. ‘Come in,’ he said. ‘Come in.’ I followed him inside the shop. It wasn’t empty but sparsely stocked with what looked like wooden gadgets. If they were toys I had never seen their like.
‘Forgive me,’ the young man said. ‘May I touch your face?’
I recoiled slightly, then realised he was blind. ‘Of course,’ I said.
He felt the shape of my head and face, his touch was light and sensitive. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I can gain a sense of someone’s spirit in this manner.’
‘By touching their face?’ He nodded. ‘I didn’t know you were blind,’ I said.
‘Thank you, though it is of little consequence. I have been blind all my life and know this shop and this village as if I could see. Though I don’t know what it is to see. People try and describe sight to me but it makes no sense. I see with my hands and with my body. I can feel when things are around me. When it rains the sound of the rain hitting the rooves of houses or the branches of trees gives me their shape and position. Or I can hear when the wind blows through branches, and if the trees are leafless I can hear the creak of a bough.’
I was impressed. But I had to ask, ‘You asked me if I were from the past.’
‘Yes indeed, but follow me, I have rooms upstairs.’
Deftly, he weaved between obstacles then climbed the old, winding stairs. I followed tentatively. I had some story to tell my wife and the young twins would be spellbound. I watched as he entered a room and bid me follow. ‘Please take a seat,’ he said. ‘Would you like a drink?’
‘If not too much trouble,’ I answered awkwardly. He smiled. There was no look of a blind man about him. His face and eyes appeared perfect.
‘The past,’ he said.
‘Yes, in a manner,’ I replied hesitantly.
‘I presumed you were from the past. The way you sounded as you moved and waited by the shop. And then when you said ‘hello’ I knew for sure.’ Handing me a drink of coffee, which he’d poured from a pot, he also sat down at the table. I wanted to ask him how he knew when to stop. But I thought that impolite. When he spoke he looked directly at me. His eyes were a cool blue colour and betrayed no blindness.
‘I’m not really from any past,’ I began. ‘I don’t think.’ I recalled I was following a sign to the future but surely this village was from the past, rather than me. It certainly felt that way. ‘I suppose, technically, we’re all living in a kind of past,’ I explained.
‘What year is it?’ he asked.
‘1979,’ I answered.
He seemed very happy. ‘Then you are from the past,’ he exclaimed. ‘I thought so, my senses never let me down. Rarely,’ he added. ‘We haven’t introduced ourselves,’ he said. ‘My name is Root. And yours?’
‘James,’ I said.
‘This is quite exciting,’ he said, ‘it’s been a long time since I’ve talked with someone from the past. I was beginning to think I never would again. I always think it strange that you find this village though.’
I was somewhat perplexed. ‘I rather thought this village was from the past,’ I said. ‘It looks quite an historic place.’
Root laughed. ‘Of course not,’ he said exuberantly.
He asked me many questions about my life in 1979 and what I remembered from my past. He was very curious. He wanted to know many details. I was fascinated by this young man and I was more than willing to give him information. He really wanted to know details about my childhood during the war. And as I told him I was taken back into the past.
Abruptly he stopped speaking. I looked into his eyes. Then turned my gaze away for fear that some magic existed inside them and that he could ‘see’ me without seeing.
‘I have to show you something,’ he said. ‘Come with me.’ He retraced his steps to the shop’s front door. I wanted to ask him about the wooden gadgets but he was swifter than me and ushered me outside. As we stepped out, the village seemed full of people. They looked at me quizzically. At least I thought they looked at me, but as I walked with Root in front, they often bumped into me. Eventually I asked Root, ‘Are all the village folk blind too?’
He laughed. ‘No. No, not at all,’ he spoke with an air of playfulness.
‘But they keep bumping into me,’ I said.
‘Yes, of course,’ he replied. ‘Hold my arm,’ he said. I thought it was for me to guide him across the square, milling with people. But I soon realised it was him guiding me. We reached the church doors, the huge doors I had seen from the other side which I now saw contained a smaller door which was left ajar. ‘Be careful,’ he said. ‘It’s very dark inside.’
I smiled.
We walked in and he gently let go of me. I looked around, adjusting my eyes to the lack of light. It was a spectacular cavern of a church. I wanted to shout out or sing.
‘This way,’ he called. I followed him holding on to the end of a pew when he made a sudden turn. We went close to the alter where there was a huge case and many lit candles.
‘This is wonderful,’ Root said. Quickly, he opened the dark-wooded case and searched for something. Instinctively I wanted to help him. Yet, he seemed dexterous, as if he could see in the dark. I even grew suspicious of his professed blindness. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Here.’ He took a huge heavy book and rested it down on the flat surface in front of the case’s opened doors. Lying the book down – he seemed to know where to turn to – he held out his hand to beckon me closer.
‘Please, tell me,’ he said. ‘Tell me.’
The darkness meant I had to take my glasses case from inside my jacket. Opening it, I took the glasses out and rather self-consciously put them on.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘look.’
And I looked. I peered close to the page he had turned to.
‘Tell me what it says.’
I started to read but I was quite shocked and unnerved as I did. ‘James William Holden a member of this parish, born 1933, died 2013.’
‘You see?’ he asked.
I looked around, a little confused. Whoever this was had the same year and the same date of birth as me.
‘You see?’
‘I’m not sure what I’m meant to see,’ I began.
‘It’s you. You. I knew. As soon as you said ‘James’. I knew. And I’m the only one who can see you.’
‘You can’t see me,’ I said. ‘You’re blind.’
‘I am blind,’ he said gently. ‘But I can see ghosts.’
‘Ghosts?’
‘Yes, ghosts like you James. Dead people. From the past. It’s been some time but they all arrive here eventually. You’re one of the last. Wonderful,’ he said.
I stepped back. Was he a madman, or was I a dead man? Was any of this real?
‘They, you,’ he said, ‘have to come back while you’re alive. But in fact you are really alive and dead. Both at the same time. It’s fine,’ he reassured. ‘You’ve come home,’ he said.
‘But I have no recollection of this village,’ I said.
‘Step outside with me.’
Carefully closing the book and then returning it to the case, Root led me from the dark interior of the church to the outside, where I was blinded by strong light.
I opened my eyes and found myself in my childhood home’s village. Exactly as it was. It could have been before or during the war. People smiled at me but stared straight through Root.
‘Hold my arm,’ I said to him. ‘I’ll take you back.’
He laughed.
Some boys came running through the square. They stopped, saw me. ‘Jimmy,’ they called out. ‘Jimmy where you been?’
I looked at the boy. ‘Root? Is that you Root?’ He laughed out loud. I felt my arm grow heavier and when I turned from the boys, my guide, Root had disappeared.
‘Come on Jimmy, come with us, we’re going to play hide and seek in the wood.’
For a moment I thought I had lost my mind. I could feel my glasses case now in a pocket. But my vision was as sharp as an eagle’s.
The hesitation I felt evaporated. ‘Coming!’ I called and found myself running hard to catch up with my friends.
This story was originally part of my latest novel The Experience [to be published 2025]. It is one of five ‘outtakes’ that were originally threaded through the novel’s opening chapters. The job of these stories was to reflect or counter the nature of the narrative’s ‘reality’. Their style and viewpoint being contrary to that of the novel’s. It was eventually decided to remove them, simply to keep the continuity of The Experience’s particular style. Please feel free to comment. – Tim Bragg
I woke after some vaguely disturbing dreams. I tried to hang onto them, to analyse them, but the more I tried, the more I left them behind. My wife was next to me. She turned around.
‘Are you awake Hannah?’ I asked.
Her eyes flashed open. ‘Hannah?’
Was I back in my dream. ‘Hannah?’ I asked, unsure of her reaction.
‘Who is Hannah?’ she asked.
I sat up in the bed, rubbed my eyes. ‘Hannah?’ I asked again.
She too sat up and stared at me. ‘Are you still dreaming?’
‘I don’t think so.’
She reached over and pinched me. I flinched. ‘You’re not dreaming,’ she said. Then she smiled. ‘I see,’ she said.
‘You see?’
‘Did you have any dreams?’
‘Yes.’
‘Think,’ she said.
‘Think? Of what?’
‘You’re not fully awake,’ she said. ‘You think I’m Hannah.’
I did think she was Hannah. Perhaps I was still in a lingering dream, that somehow touched my awakened state. But that didn’t explain why Hannah was behaving the way she was.
‘Sometimes you’re so strange. After all these years, you’d think I’d be used to you. Jim. Hello Jim, wake up. Wake up,’ she teased.
‘I am awake. And don’t call me Jim. You know I don’t like that.’
‘You do like that,’ she said.
‘Why are you acting so strange,’ I said. ‘What’s going on?’
She seemed to grow a little more serious. ‘Think,’ she said.
‘I am thinking.’
‘This is crazy,’ she said. ‘You’re doing this to wind me up aren’t you? One of your games.’
‘Hannah?’
‘No, I am not Hannah. Who is Hannah?’
I got up and walked to the window and looked out. The trees in the distance were familiar. I wasn’t dreaming. But was I going insane? Is this how it begins? Why was she acting the way she was. Perhaps I was in a dream still – a lucid dream. I said to myself, ‘James, wake up, wake up.’ But I was awake.
‘Who is Hannah?’ she asked again.
I resisted replying that she was. What was I to do. I had to think. ‘This is crazy,’ I said.
‘You’re crazy.’
‘Why me? You don’t even know your own name.’
‘I know my name,’ she said. ‘You can’t even remember liking being called Jim. Have you been smoking?’ She became very serious. ‘Maybe it’s stress,’ she said.
‘This is utterly crazy,’ I said. ‘Are you doing this on purpose?’
She laughed. Then she stopped. ‘You need to see a doctor. Or if this is some great big wind up…or,’ she paused. ‘You’re not playing with me?’
‘Playing?’
She smiled. ‘Am I a character?’
I thought. This was an odd thing for her to say. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Are you creating? Are you trying out dialogue? You’ve done it before. You did it with your last book Which was years ago. But I remember that. I thought you were going mad then, remember?’
Was I creating? ‘Listen,’ I said. ‘I really don’t know what’s going on here. I don’t like this. I don’t like how you’re behaving, if you’re trying to be funny, or clever, it’s not working.’
‘Are you trying to be clever?’ she asked. She got up and walked past me. ‘Who is Hannah?’ she asked.
I could feel the heat of her rage. She was holding herself back, but I could feel it. ‘I thought…’ I was going to say that I thought she was Hannah. But she was Hannah. I was questioning my own sanity.
I could hear her in the bathroom. I could feel the tension. I decided on another tack. Perhaps she was ill? She’d been under some tension, there was a lot going on. I got dressed quickly and went to the bathroom door, which she’d shut. I tapped. ‘Hannah?’
‘Fuck off!’
‘Please. I don’t understand what’s going on. We need to talk.’
‘I don’t want to talk with you,’ she said. And in case you forgot,’ she stressed, ‘it’s Jen. Jen! You remember now?’
‘Jen,’ I said out loud, confused.
‘Ah, now you remember. You just wanted to annoy me. First thing. Put me in a bad mood. Well you succeeded.’
Jen. That was odd. That was an odd name for her to have chosen. I was perplexed. The door burst open and she pushed past me.
‘Jen,’ I said.
‘Too late, you’ve managed to ruin the weekend already. Well done.’ She stamped down the stairs.
Jen. Interesting. She’d chosen the name of my heroine. From my novel. The novel that was fighting for its life. The novel that didn’t seem to go anywhere and I’d left Jen, Jenny in a predicament. Uncertain of which path to take. I’d lost control of the narrative. Perhaps Hannah had read the opening chapters. She didn’t normally. Normally she left me to get on with writing. Writers are admonished not to speak about their work. Write don’t tell.
In the kitchen she was making breakfast. As I entered she turned to me, ‘Make your own. There’s coffee on the table.’ I always drank tea in the morning. ‘Get Hannah to make your breakfast,’ she spat. I wanted to hold her. Whisper to her. But I was unsure. Unsure of everything. We sat in silence at the table in the living room. I sipped the coffee, it tasted dirty. Eventually I broke the deadened atmosphere. ‘Have you been reading my novel?’
‘Why?’
‘I just wondered.’
‘No,’ she said.
I sipped some more of the coffee, looked at her. I could see she was hurt. ‘The main character, well, one of them, is called Jen,’ I said. ‘Jennifer.’ I could feel her brittleness.
‘And?’
‘I think that’s…funny,’ I said.
‘Funny? So now you think my name is funny?’
‘No, no…obviously not,’ I said. ‘The fact that you think your name is Jen. Jennifer.’
‘I don’t like being called Jennifer,’ she said.
‘That’s the same as my character,’ I exclaimed.
‘Perhaps you made me up?’ she said. ‘Perhaps you’ve made everything up.’
‘No, no, don’t be…’ I was going to say ‘ridiculous’ but stopped myself. ‘I mean, it’s funny, a coincidence,’ I stressed. I looked at her. Did I know her? I thought I did. I mean I absolutely did and yet now she seemed more like a stranger. I changed tack. ‘Do you think I’m losing my marbles?’
Looking at me, I could see she wasn’t sure if I was being serious or not. ‘Well you can’t remember your own wife’s name. You think I’m named after a character in your novel. So. Quite possibly.’
‘Seriously, what if I’m, losing it? What if your name is Jen and I’m making it all up?’
‘That’s my name. And I was called Jen long before we met. My dad wanted to call me Rose and my mother Jennifer. That’s why I’m Jennifer Rose, and because my dad wasn’t too happy he’s always called me Jen.’
‘Have you told me this before?’
‘So many times you usually say…’ She stopped herself, realising that whatever I would normally say, I wasn’t saying now.
‘What do I usually say?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. She became solemn. ‘Jim. James. I think perhaps you need to speak with someone.’
‘Who?’
‘Just one of your friends, or perhaps…’
‘Perhaps what?’
‘One of your friends. What about Doug. He’s level-headed.’
‘Doug. So we agree I have a friend called Doug.’
She smiled. Stopped and became very still. ‘Jim,’ she said kindly, please, if this is some kind of joke, some novel plot you have going, some need to act things out in real life…please…’
‘It isn’t anything to do with any of my writing. But you know I write?’
‘Yes, yes of course.’
‘So I am a writer?’
‘Yes. Not very successful…’
‘No,’ I agreed. ‘Are we married?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘You’re called Jen’
‘Yes,’ she smiled, ‘do you remember now?’
I shook my head. ‘In my novel the heroine is called ‘Jen’.’
‘Yes, if you say so.
‘I have a friend called Doug?’
‘Yes.
‘And Colin?’
‘Yes, him too,’ she snarled slightly.
‘And Root?’
‘Root?’
‘Yes Root, you know he was my best friend, still is, but he’s in South America now.’
‘Root? Are you kidding me?’ she taunted. ‘What kind of name is ‘Root’?’
‘It’s what all the kids called him, call him…If he even exists!’ I got up and paced up and down the room. ‘Maybe this is you, Hannah, Jen, what-the-fuck-ever. Maybe it’s you gaslighting me. Yeah. Maybe so. You know Doug and Colin but you don’t recall Root. And – let’s get it out in the open – you know why he’s in South America? You had an affair with him. Remember that? Or have you casually forgotten that bit of life.? Like you can’t remember I don’t like being called Jim. Like you can’t even remember your own name. And, funnily enough, you think you’re called Jen. And you haven’t read my novel yet but you probably know that Jen has an affair in that too. Is there something you need to tell me Jennifer?’ I spit out in rage.
‘You’re fucking nuts,’ she said. ‘That’s it I’m done. Nuts. I’m out. Enough of this. I mean I should have listened to Kara…’
‘Kara? That bitch?!’
‘Ah, now it’s out. Now it is out. I thought as much. She said to me, don’t marry that man. He’s a bit, you know…’ she twisted her forefinger against the side of forehead.
‘What did she say?’
‘Spends too much time in his head…making things up. A contender for the funny-farm. You know, that kind of stuff Jim.’
‘Doesn’t surprise me,’ I said. ‘Hey, go ahead and twist the knife now you and Kara have it in my back. She was always a bitch, calling herself a feminist and manipulating all of you uni-pod friends…’
‘Uni-pod?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s it,’ she said. ‘You’ve lost it. You’ve lost it,’ she was shaking and could only repeat herself.
‘Lost what?’ I taunted.
‘You’re having a breakdown Jim. You’ve let all those words and ideas get in your head.’
‘That’s where they’re from, Hannah. Han-nah. That’s where they’re from. The ideas and thoughts come from my head. Least. Well…’ I wasn’t sure where all my thoughts and ideas came from. ‘I’m going out,’ I said. ‘Getting some air. You think I’m mad. Cuckoo. Ban-na-nas. Don’t you? Well I think you are, whatever your name is. Maybe I’m making you up right now.’
‘That is so fucking typical,’ she said. ‘Such a narcissist.’
‘You don’t even know what it means,’ I retorted.
‘Just get out,’ she said.
‘Try and stop me.’
I left the house and slammed the door. Outside the sun was shining. The postman came whistling down the lane, close to where the pub was. He smiled. Then we both heard a car revving up and Hannah, Jen, whoever she was – blasting down the lane. ‘She’ll kill someone,’ the postman said.
‘She’s upset.’
‘How’s the writing going?’ he asked me. ‘No large envelopes for you recently. Submitting online?’
‘I like the old-fashioned way,’ I said, thinking about Hannah.
‘I had a good idea for a story recently,’ the postman said.
‘Do you write?’ I asked. Glad of his company.
‘Not really,’ he answered, ‘but I do have ideas.’
‘Ideas?’
‘Yes, I had an idea this morning that really stuck with me.’
As a writer, even a writer whose wife was mad and who had run out on him, I was always listening out for ideas.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘The idea’s probably been done a million times before. But I imagined being in bed and not knowing who the woman lying in bed next to me was. And I don’t even know her name…’
‘Are you kidding me?” I asked.
‘You think it’s good?’ his eyes had lit up.
I brushed my hair back. ‘It could be interesting,’ I said.
‘One of those odd tales you hear,’ the postman continued.
‘Yes. Yes. Listen I have to go back inside and make a few calls. In private.’
‘I understand,’ he said.
I was deeply unsure of everything. And found myself doubting my own sanity. I wanted to be sick. Sick.
‘Oh, before you go,’ he said, ‘I have this letter for you. Great to get a letter isn’t it? They’re in vogue again. Means something.’ He handed me the letter which had exotic-looking stamps.
‘From Argentina,’ he confirmed. ‘Must be your daughter,’ he smiled.
‘Yes. Yes,’ I said. ‘Must be.’ I looked at the envelope. She was there in Argentina with my best friend. Well he was my best friend. ‘Thanks.’
He waved as he walked on over the road and down the lane.
I took the letter in. I ripped it open and read her words. I sat down and put my head in my hands.
Waking up in the bed I could see my wife next to me. I was half-dressed. I must have drunk to forget. Forget what? I’d had strange dreams and ideas were beginning to form. My wife turned to face me. ‘God you were drunk,’ she said. ‘Never seen you that drunk before James.’
‘Hannah?’ I asked in a soft but gruff voice.
‘What is it?’
I had thoughts come tumbling in but I felt bad and rolled onto my back. ‘Nothing,’ I said.
‘Nothing?’
‘No nothing. I feel rough. Why did I drink so much? It’s this life,’ I said, ‘this, I don’t know, this experience. Gets to me sometime.’
‘At least you’ve finished,’ she said.
‘Finished?’
‘Wow you really did drink a lot. Your novel. You finished the novel. At last.’
‘Jen?’ I asked seemingly out-of-the-blue.
‘She got her just rewards,’ she said. ‘I read the end. That bitch had it coming to her.’
I smiled. But I feel guilty,’ I said.
‘They’re not real.’
‘Who?’
‘The characters.’
‘Not real,’ I murmured. And I was out like a light.
Falling through the air I felt myriad images pulling me this way and that. Would it be like one of those dreams where you hit the bed with a bump – leaving your stomach behind and waking with a start? Or would I be gently held mid-air and slowly, slowly brought to the surface. Tranquil waters resting atop of the cushion of air. Maybe, but the waters were already very choppy.
We went to visit Aunt Mathilde and Uncle Sebastien in the summer between schools. Everyone was fussing about me. Mummy was fussing the most. Everyone was worrying about the things that didn’t need to be worried about. I didn’t care about my school uniform, but I did care about what it would be like at the senior school.
It’s true that I didn’t know where exactly in France I was going. But I did know that the weather was hotter than anything I had experienced in England. It was the heat I expected from a holiday in Spain I had never been allowed. Why hadn’t we been to visit my Uncle and Aunt before? Was it connected with the death of one of my French Grandparents? But that was a month before and I had remained in England with my older brother who hated looking after me. I suppose he’s a typical brother – thank God he doesn’t look at all like me… My parents had been crotchety before going then and Mummy had been especially upset. Now they both seemed so quiet.
The trees were shorter and the greenery lighter with lots of brown and orange earth. I knew it was special my being there – in that foreign country where the family lived. It was my first time abroad and everything excited me. My parents handing over passports excited me; the ferry excited me. The sea shone such a deep blue – such an exotic colour for the Channel. Yes I was so excited and my parents laughed at me, for they thought my imagination extraordinary, and they told me so. I was known for my stories after all. I would even make up tales about “how I was found in a basket drifting down a deep and wide river”. Of course I wasn’t “found” at all.
The sea shone deep blue and there were the crests of the waves breaking even in the midst of the Channel. There was the sea breeze that tossed my hair. And I was glad that the pins placed carefully by my Mother were lost and my hair was free to untangle.. People noticed me; boys didn’t – but older gentlemen did. Yes I was curious but naive and it took time for me to grow up and understand. But it took less time for me to actually live those years. Now that I remember I am almost nostalgic for that young girl. For then I was so truly innocent.
In France I was like a sleek horse let loose. People spoke differently. Of course I knew that, but had never lived it you see – for it is one thing to know something but yet another to live it. The air smelt differently, the boys looked strange and the houses were odd compared to the homes in England. It felt like life was beginning again. There was no feeling of oppression, nothing ominous. I was just living.
The drive to the villa of the Uncle and Aunt I had never seen (apart from on the few faded photographs) seemed to take forever. I knew I must have annoyed my parents, I knew it even at the time for I wasn’t stupid. And yes I loved to look at the fields that rolled by and the cars with their unusual number plates and the fact that we were driving on the wrong side of the road. Everything was thrilling but it took too long. My brother hadn’t been allowed to come and I enjoyed that – but I knew my parents were sad too. Were they still sad about my French Grandmother?
We turned down a dusty road and after my Father made another wrong turning and started to swear – which upset my Mother – we were pulling up outside the villa. There wasn’t a sound and nor was there any sign of movement. I suppose they must have been expecting us. The roof tiles burnt in the blazing heat of the late afternoon, my throat was dry. Shadows were stretching from the building and from the squat trees nearby. The villa was like an oasis.
The clucking of hens nearby and in the distance a whining motorbike broke the silence. I remember the sense of solitude; perhaps I wouldn’t have thought about it quite like that then but I did feel something deep within me. Daddy went up to the door and gave it a loud knock. The sound reverberated through the air and appeared to kick up dust from the driveway. In some ways it reminded me of those corny American Cowboy films I’ve had to watch – watch in silence too.
The door was knocked again and I saw a strained look descend over Mummy’s face. The sun was drying sweat on my neck but with each movement I made it created more. I was so thirsty. Above, the sky was vivid – bluer than the sea – it felt close to me and thankfully a slight breeze tickled the water that was moistening my skin.
Eventually the door was opened and I saw Aunt Mathilde for the first time. She shrieked out some French that I couldn’t much understand apart from the ‘Bonsoir, bonsoir.’ My Mother, who had been sitting in the car, got out and kissed in that disgusting French fashion. I know some people like that kind of stuff but I certainly didn’t then. Daddy introduced me and I knew I had to stand demurely with my hands behind my back. Swaying a little I gave out a forced smile. Aunt Mathilde ushered us in quickly as if we would fry in the heat. The shadows had lengthened – it was “bonsoir” not “bonjour” – but still the air stifled.
It was the darkness of the place that I remember. All the shutters were drawn. And there was so much junk everywhere – I knew that Mummy would be freaking out; she really hated junk. It was weird and at first wonderful to me. But I had to blink my eyes a few times just to see. In the corner of the main room, kind of skulking, I saw Uncle. Uncle came out of the shadows and looked pleased with himself as he shook hands. He spoke French to my Mother who understood perfectly. I’d never really thought of her as French before – it was strange to hear her speaking like that. Yes we spoke French sometimes at home but it all seemed so unreal, so put-on, so false if you like. Now it kind of un-nerved me to hear her speak like that. Not even when she spoke on the telephone did it seem real. But now…
Uncle bent down and stared at me. It wasn’t a nice stare. You don’t get nice stares I guess. He bent down to kiss me and I could see the texture of his skin and smell the aroma from his breath – was that the way French people smelt? I backed away and he laughed. He laughed a lot did Uncle. But he didn’t laugh when you would expect it. I learnt that. Only when you least expected it would he laugh. I didn’t trust him from the start; you might as well know that. And of course I was right not to. I must have been a sensitive child to have felt all that so early. It wasn’t something I could put any words to, just felt it. Uncle seemed to peer inside my soul.
Nobody put any of the main lights on so that the house was always a kind of eerie half-light. They had two huge dogs too that were let out of somewhere and who jumped all over me with their disgusting licking tongues and foul breath. Nobody told them to get off or if they did they didn’t mean it. Everyone laughed as I wiped off the dust from my dress. What was the point of putting me in clean clothes to laugh about them getting messed up? I didn’t want to wear a dress after all. But I was at that awkward age apparently. It wasn’t so much awkward for me as frightening.
Uncle was always looking at himself in the mirror; you could see it embarrassed my parents. In the middle of a conversation or during a meal he would simply get up and move over to the mirror to look at himself in the dark-light. I mean the mirror was filthy too. The place was an absolute mess. But at least I had a big room to myself and there was a gas lamp for the night and also candles. Either he would look in one of the dusty mirrors or he would stare sideways at me; I’m sure he did that. Of course now I know why. Now I know everything.
Daddy and Uncle got drunk on the wine and though I knew Daddy wasn’t relaxed the wine seemed to calm him down enough for him to get stupid. Aunt Mathilde and Mummy did the washing up and talked away in French but I knew Mummy wasn’t that happy either. I didn’t know why we were there.
When it came to me having to go to bed I was taken up to the room and shown how to use the light and Aunt Mathilde even gave me a disgusting thing to ‘use’ should I need it in the night. Where was the toilet? I asked Mummy, but she laughed. I was serious. Couldn’t they see what was happening to me? I was going to the senior school after the holidays.
In the middle of the night I turned down the gas lamp and put down the book I was reading. With at least one ear I had kept abreast of the conversations down below. There was the shouting of Uncle and Daddy, I didn’t know if it was in English or French, or both, and there was the murmur of Mummy and Aunt.
The conversations ebbed and flowed but kept me company so that I didn’t think much about where I was. With the gas lamp down low I lit a few candles for fun. It was probably a silly thing to do because candle light just enflames the imagination and the sort of dark imagination you don’t want in a place like that. One of the dogs even managed a howl from outside right on cue.
It was typical of me I guess to scare myself like that and to watch the shadows move in that place. Outside, the sound of insects was alien and the dragging of the dogs’ leads made me scared. It was too late to snuggle down and forget my thoughts. The conversations had ceased and the sound of water being flushed gone with the hissing of the pipes. The house had returned to a primitive silence. The shutters were closed in my room as in all the others. Lying there in bed I tried to stop the images of monsters and creatures that flicked relentlessly through my mind. I tried to remember that I was going to the senior school after the holidays and that I was too old to think such stupid things. But every time I felt more composed one of those dogs would get up and mooch or something and drag its horrible chain behind it like a ghost wandering through the night. Or there was the sound of scratching coming from somewhere and I imagined a rat was on the loose.
The candles burnt down steadily as I lay wide awake. The shadows became forms, became grotesque creatures so that I cursed my wild imagination. But nothing really made me jump up till that point. That is till I heard the sound of the stairway creaking. It reverberated through the whole house. And the door of my room was beginning to be opened slowly with the creak of the doorknob. With an absolute frozen heart I lay like a corpse in that bed. The door opened wider and Uncle was standing there. He whispered something in French and smiled slightly as he moved towards me. I was too scared to open my mouth.
As he approached where I lay he stumbled and checked himself by placing a hand on top of the light sheet that covered me. I could see a glint in his eye like a wild schoolboy though he jerked his arm away quick enough. Then he came to my side and I could smell the wine from that distance which grew heavier as he placed a hand on my forehead and wiped away a lock of hair. His shadow was cast behind him like a vampire’s as he stooped low and whispered something close to my cheek. I could not move. My heart was either beating a hundred times to the minute or was not beating at all. His lips puckered and I had the strength only to avert myself slightly as he laid a kiss on my skin. Again his hand wiped my forehead and then he was gone – a lumbering awkward giant loping out of the room.
One of the candles burnt out. I wasn’t sure what to do. I could still smell the rankness of his breath. Should I have woken up Mummy and Daddy? What would I have said? The sound of a dog barking and more rattle of chain coincided with the final candle burning down and out. Only the hiss of the gas lamp was left as I heard a door close downstairs and some muttering I took to be my Uncle. I simply could not move and I noticed that he had not shut the door fully behind him.
There is nothing to say in my defence that I lay there so passively and did nothing. There was much in my mind that confused me. It was a new country, a new house, the insects droned on outside and penetrated the steel shutters. Blackness was enveloping the dark, blinded corners of the room. It was with a troubled heart that I did finally turn off the lamp and slipped down the bed pulling the cover up and over my face and head. I felt like a coward down there. I felt like a child.
The feeling, the terror with which I was woken from the saving grace of sleep cannot be expressed. Again I heard the creaking of the staircase. The door opened slowly and its swish across the floor was like the fluttering of my heart. There was the soft padding of feet. My God. Why could I not cry out? What would he do know, that foul-smelling man? The touch of his lips had burnt into my cheek and I could feel him close by again. Why could I not cry out?
There was the sound of heavy panting and through the thin sheet I could smell the rank odour of his breath. My God an arm was exposed, I had left an arm free from the cover and this turned to stone. What was he going to do this time, now that I had half given my consent by not rushing to my parents? No-one would understand…I could feel a wet touch upon my arm out there in the dark, black, blind room. I could feel the horrible, gruesome wet touch of his lips. And then as if ignited by something primitive, something I could not describe neither then nor now I flung the sheet from me and threw it back, lifting myself up and forcing air through to my lungs ready to scream. And then…
And then I saw it there. In shadowed dark I saw the terrible monster I had presumed was going to ravish me, carry me off into some hideous Hades of sexual deprivation. The nose of the dog nudged up my arm and the beast’s eyes glowed blackly in the dimness of the room. It was difficult to see much but the dog’s breath gave it away and it yearned to have me extend my other arm and stroke its glossy coat. What a fool I had been.
The following morning Uncle had the same kind of glint in his eye as if he was daring me to give his misdemeanour of the previous night away. I wasn’t going to tell anybody. I wasn’t going to let anyone know that I’d been too scared to say anything. I didn’t say anything about the dog either.
There seemed to be a growing tension in the house that I could feel with all my young flesh and bones. The following night I thought I heard Uncle prowling through the house again, but he seemed to remain downstairs. All the time we were there he laughed maniacally and stared at himself in the dark mirrors of that dark house. Many times I caught him staring at me. It seemed so cruel the way he would look me up and down. I was at a certain age – uncertain.
And he came to my room again on the night before we were to leave and he kissed me in the same manner. This time he spoke French to me that I could not decipher from his drunken lisp. How I wish I could remember those words now? No dog visited me after him.
The following morning Uncle was looking in the mirror when I opened the front door and stepped out into the sun. He smiled at his reflection or was it at me? I glowered back. Outside the sun was beginning its relentless climb. Chickens ran across the dusty garden and shadows were starting to form. I could see where the dogs were chained up. Brushing crumbs from the jeans I had changed into I went for a walk down the lane. As the sweat began to form on my neck I vowed at that moment never to think childish thoughts again. A few days away were the start of senior school. We would be in England tomorrow.
Nobody spoke much at first on the return trip. I could still feel the kiss from Uncle burning my lips which he so ostentatiously kissed before we parted. There were many tears as the tension seemed to have dissipated. We were a family again. And that is the way it might easily have ended.
In the second year of my new school I learnt that Uncle Sebastien had died of a heart attack; he was not old. I learnt then also that he was my natural Father. I learnt about the girl who had got pregnant and who had left him, quite simply, “holding the baby”, how he had tried to cope but failed. How he had “changed”. I learnt how my French Grandmother had taken the child, me, and then arranged for my Mother to adopt. I knew I was an adopted child, but what did I care? I had been a baby. They were my parents as any others – better than most. And I had learnt of my Uncle’s wish to see me before I “changed” as he put it. Aunt Mathilde had been in touch with my Mother. My Aunt acted as a Mother to my “Uncle” – that is to my real Father. I never learnt about my real Mother; that girl had disappeared. The death of my French “grandmother” was the catalyst for my “Uncle” to become my Father one last time. And for the first time I understood my Mother’s loss and why she sometimes felt so disconnected.
So you see I am French through and through not just supposedly on my Mother’s side. I didn’t even cry when I learnt all about this – not for many years to come. But now that I think back I understand why that trip to France was so peculiar and so memorable. My Father at least had been able to see his child at the moment she stepped from girlishness to womanhood, for I did so soon after. And I changed more than that too; I grew up both physically and spiritually, it just took a few more years for me to discover that.
Somewhere out in France I imagine my natural Mother living her life. But I have my real Mother in England. Aunt Mathilde writes from her new home. And I visit France with my children often; they are girls and they too are growing up fast. I am waiting for when they “change” and become women and then I will tell them of my first holiday in France and all about the dark house in that hot and distant countryside.