Wiener Blut

 

Wiener Blut

 

 

It was a calm, rainy day in late October when Felix, on his day off, drove through Döbling and the old, picturesque Heurigen district of Vienna. Feeling hungry, he pulled up and parked close to one of the big tourist restaurants, one whose small frontage gave no hint of the number of huge salons behind it, to cope with the crowds of summer visitors. He decided to dine under the verandah overlooking the internal courtyard garden, avoiding those areas where rain dripped through the pergola holding up the yellowing leaves of wisteria. The waiter led him to a table for four and sat him down. There were few other diners enjoying such an early lunch-time.

Felix glanced at the ordinary menu, then focussed on the prix fixe. He saw they were offering Blunzengröstl, a hearty peasant dish of black pudding, potatoes, onions and garlic all fried together. Why not, he thought, and ordered it, with a beer. He could play at being a peasant if he chose to. He liked the crunchy bits best, and the sweetness of the caramelised onion.

The food didn’t take long to arrive, and not long after he had started eating, he noticed a smartly dressed younger woman come into the verandah area, looking around rather hesitantly, while holding out her hand to check which areas were dripping rainwater. Rather impulsively, for him, he called to her and asked if she would like to join him. She agreed, with a smile, said her name was Ludmilla, and sat down. The waiter brought a place setting and a menu.

‘Please carry on eating… ?’

‘Felix. Let’s be informal please.’

She made her choice quickly and called the waiter over, ordering the Schnitzel with a side salad. It arrived even quicker than Felix’s meal had. He guessed the restaurant would always have some pre-prepared and ready to cook. With it she had a glass of Sturm, which Felix knew as Federweisser or Süsser, newly fermented very young white wine, cloudy with suspended yeast. Felix had only tried it once. He’d enjoyed its refreshing flavour, but found it gave him diarrhoea. He’d stick with beer. He wasn’t Viennese, nor even Austrian, but he’d lived there since his marriage.

They chatted in a very easy and relaxed manner while they ate. He asked about her name.

‘You pronounce it in the Russian manner, as Lyudmilla. Are you Russian?’

‘No, but my grandmother had an affair with a Russian officer during the occupation. My mother had a difficult time growing up after independence, without a father, as her own mother had done, but she married a Hungarian locksmith, and I was named Ludmilla. My friends call me Lyuda. You can call me Lyuda if you like.’

‘Thank you. I shall, Lyuda.’

‘What is your story? I can tell by your accent that you’re not Austrian.’

‘No, German, originally from Lübeck. I worked as an oil geologist, and I ended up as one of the company’s OPEC team here in Vienna.’

‘Where do you live?’

‘We have an apartment near the Landstrasse U-Bahn station, not too far from the Hundertwasserhaus.’

‘Oh, it’s nice there. I’ve visited the ‘Haus a few times, meeting people there.’ She hesitated. ‘You’re on your own today?’ She’d obviously picked up from his use of “we” and the ring on his finger that he was married.

‘Day off. We have a carer who looks after my wife one day a week.’

‘Oh, goodness. Your wife is ill?’

‘Motor neuron disease. It is too sad to talk about.’

Lyuda took the hint and changed the subject to music – in Vienna an obvious and easy subject to discuss.

‘We used to go to the New Year’s Day Concerts of the Vienna Philharmonic at the Musikverein,’ he said.

‘That’s lovely. I always watch them on television,’ said Lyuda.

‘It’s great, except when the audience claps along with the Radetsky March. I hate that.’

‘I’d like to see the flowers, for real I mean.’

‘They are extraordinary. It’s almost worth going to the concert just to see them.’

They continued their friendly conversation, until Ludmilla said she had to get back to her fiancée. She called for her check, and the waiter brought two checks to the table. Felix picked them both up.

‘Please allow me to pay for us both Lyuda. It has been a long time since I have enjoyed such pleasant company.’

‘Oh thank you Felix. You are so kind. Perhaps we may meet again?’

She slipped a business card across to him. It contained only her name and a mobile phone number.

He knew she was a “working girl”, and she knew that he knew, but they continued the pretence that she was a mature woman with a fiancée in town.

She stood up and offered her left cheek for a kiss, and then the right.

 

A year later, the widower Felix sent her a text: I have two tickets for the New Year’s Day Concert. Would you like to see some flowers with me? Felix.

 

 

Colin Will

14/05/2021

 

Snap

 

Snap

‘It’s only a week Stuart,’ said Siobhan. ‘It’ll be fine. Eilidh can look after Laura until you come home from work.’
I didn’t mind that part of it really. I love my daughter Laura, and I did a lot of the evening things with her already – bath time fun, getting her ready for bed, reading her stories.  She’s a precocious wee soul – nearly four, so she’d be going to school next year, and it would be harder for Siobhan to take a whole week off to go on a residential photography course. I got on well with her older sister Eilidh too, and so did Laura. Eilidh’s a single mum, after the break-up of her marriage, and her wee boy Callum was the same age as our Laura.
‘It’ll be almost as easy for her looking after two as one at that age,’ said Siobhan.
But she and I had never been apart since our wedding seven years ago, and I knew we’d miss each other, even if it was only for a week. She’d taken up photography about a year ago, and she’d started attending an evening class, one night a week, with more and more enthusiasm. I couldn’t deny her the chance to do some intensive study to further her interest.
Of course I said yes. She showed me her course details – a week in the University’s halls of residence, while the students were on holiday. Her tutor, Dr MacCandless, was also her night school tutor, and he’d be assisted by a distinguished local photographer with letters after his name. The printout said they’d be covering nature, landscape, urban and social photography, portraiture and presentation. The eight students would check in to their rooms on Saturday morning by 11am and then meet for lunch in the University café. Later they’d each separately go for a walk round the campus with their cameras. A “getting to know you” meal would follow, and then they’d have a slide show of the shots they’d taken, with discussion led by their tutors.
I was actually envious. I’m not much of a photographer, but I’d love to have time to indulge my hobby, not that vegetable growing would need a week-long course. But it sounded interesting.
‘You’ll need to give me a slide show when you get back,’ I said.
Eilidh came round with Callum one evening, and we sorted out all the details.
And then Siobhan packed her things on the Friday night, and the next morning she was off. She took the car, of course, so next week I’d have to get myself to work by public transport – train then bus.
Just before six she phoned me. I’d made Laura our supper – macaroni and cheese, with oven chips – took a photo of her with my phone, then wiped the tomato sauce off her face. I sent the photo to Siobhan, and soon after that she phoned me.
‘Love the photo Stuart. Everything OK?’
‘Yes, fine. How are things with you?’
‘It’s exciting. I had a lovely walk round the grounds, photographed the trees and the lake with the ducks. We’re meeting soon for our meal and the slide show afterwards, so I don’t have long.’
‘You going out to eat?’
‘No, Dr MacCandless has ordered pizzas, and he’s laid in some bottles of prosecco.’
‘That’ll be nice. Don’t drink too much.’
‘Why not? It feels like I’m on holiday.. Well, must go Stuart. I’ll phone again tomorrow evening. Love you.’
‘Love you too. Bye,’ I said.
The rest of the weekend was fine, and then on Monday morning Eilidh came round with Callum at 7.30 so I could get off for my train.
Eilidh joined Laura and I for our supper, which I cooked, and she was great company. Then she and Callum left to go home, and I put Laura to bed. I was expecting a phone call from Siobhan, but it didn’t come. Before I got into bed I checked my mobile, and there was a text from her.
<Sorry I didn’t have time to phone. So much going on here. I’ll phone tomorrow. S>
No “Love” at the end of the message, no “xxx” which she usually signed off with.
She didn’t phone on Tuesday night, and nor did she text me.
When I got home on the Wednesday evening Eilidh was looking rather pensive.
‘What’s wrong Eilidh?’
‘Nothing Stuart, just got a lot on my mind just now.’
Before she left that evening she gave me a hug, which was very unusual.
‘Goodnight, dear Stuart, I’ll see you tomorrow.’
There was a text from Siobhan that night. My phone buzzed around midnight, waking me up.
<I’m so so sorry, Stuart. I’ll see you on Saturday. Kiss Laura for me. S>
Thursday evening Eilidh didn’t hide her tears.
‘Siobhan phoned me yesterday. She’s fallen for her tutor.’
‘Dr MacCandless?’
‘Yes, Danny MacCandless. She’s leaving you Stuart. Apparently it started at her night school classes. She’s been seeing him for a few months now.’
‘What about Laura?’
‘She didn’t mention Laura. But she’s pregnant, and she says Danny’s the father.’

It’s now six months later, and I can’t believe all the things that have happened since then, some tragic, others surprisingly joyous. I moved in with Eilidh and Callum, and brought Laura with me. I won’t say we love each other yet, but it’s definitely on the cards. Siobhan moved in with Danny MacCandless, and she’s just given birth to a boy. I don’t know what his name is, and to be honest I don’t care. Our divorce is going through just now. We sold our house and split the profits, not that they amounted to much. She sees Laura once a week, at Eilidh’s house. I don’t know if she still takes photographs.

Copyright © Colin Will 2019

Blue Boy

I like this one. I still think it's a nice wee story, written in a conversational style. Those who know Skye will recognise some of the places, including the lodge.

 Blue Boy

You never liked me in blue, but it was always my favourite colour. Remember my blue Shetland jumper? I’m wearing it this weekend, the thick close-knit wool keeping the cold out on the short walks we take, down to shore, or back up the track for a view of the snow-swept mountains we first visited before we were married. 

My mother used to say I suited blue; she thought it made my grey-blue eyes less grey, more blue. I’ve got a dark blue checked shirt I like wearing.

I’m not saying I’m like Gainsborough’s Blue Boy ‒ he’s a bit much. I could never wear the silk suit and flouncy slippers like him, but I do like his full-face gaze, his confident stare at the man painting him. 

We bought my jumper in the whaling museum at Scalloway, remember that? With all the flensing knives and harpoon heads on the walls, and the table full of knitwear the old woman had done herself. Lovely design and workmanship, you said, and so warm, but you couldn’t possibly wear it. Too scratchy, you said, but I’ve never minded scratchy, and it was warm and snug-fitting, and mine before we left the museum. Remember that?

And now it’s a few years later, winter on Skye, a short break in a gourmet lodge with an uncomfortable bedroom under the roof. The food is special. You’ve always been a good cook, but this is what the posers on telly call “fine dining”, and it really is.

Before we foregather for our pre-dinner drinks at the set time, I stroll down the ice-glazed concrete jetty to look at the lights on the opposite side of the sea loch, dodging the dog shit in the half-light, wearing my cosy blue jumper, which still fits.

I regret that I may never need to buy another blue jumper, but I’m enjoying all these “bucket list” treats we’re sharing. You’re enjoying them too – I know you are, although it doesn’t stop you crying when you think I can’t see you, and sometimes when you know I can.

I suppose Skye was where it started for us, all those years ago, but we haven’t been back much since. Neither of us has those romantic hankerings to revisit the scenes of our youth. You aren’t the young woman I persuaded to come on a climbing holiday with me, and I’m not the young man who took it for granted you’d agree. Was I really so self-centred in those days? It’s all right, you can tell me.

I think my instincts were right though. Through all the exhaustion, excitement and sheer terror of those first days in the Cuillin, we did get closer, and at some point on the way back we said we would get married. Did I propose to you properly? I’m sorry to say I can’t actually remember. I like to think I did, but the return journey is a bit hazy, apart from that hot, sunny afternoon in Glencoe.

Then we were home, me to my parents, you to yours, and I can vividly remember going to your place to speak to your father. You don’t know exactly what we said to each other, only what I reported to you, maybe what he reported later. I dare say, knowing how these things work, that what you heard, from either side, would be a precis, glossing some words, omitting others. But you got the message. “Two households, alike in dignity, in fair Verona, where we lay our scene…” or whatever equivalent there might be for two working class families (mine already aspiring higher) in two provincial industrial towns in Scotland’s central belt, Barbauchlaw and Easton, named respectively for a burn and a pit. 

Nothing like that paternal permission conversation happened with our children. Tony never came to talk to me about wanting to live with Annie, but he probably talked to you about it. And Donnie didn’t tell me he was moving in with Adam. Did he confide in you? Not about the gay thing, we always knew that, but his love for this man, did he mention it? 

I’m pretty sure Adam wasn’t his first love, nor was I yours, nor you mine. But we never had that conversation either, did we? Didn’t think we needed it. I certainly didn’t.

Are you looking forward to tonight’s meal? After last night, I definitely am. The menu is limited; a choice of two starters, two mains, two puds – three if you count the cheese, but all exquisite. Yesterday I had little crab tartlets in a cheesy pastry and a pink peppercorn sauce for my starter, followed by blade of beef. Your main course was lovely too ‒ perfectly pan-fried halibut in a crispy vegetable nest, with celeriac puree, Swiss chard and a rich lemony buttery sauce. And I know I’m not usually a pudding person, but the dessert was scrumptious.

After breakfast tomorrow we’ll head home and I’ll get ready to stay in hospital for the first chemo session. You ask if I’m nervous but you already know I am. I think I’m more nervous than I’ve ever been. It’s almost, but not quite, overwhelming. If I let myself go I’d just dissolve in a little puddle. I had to go to the loo again, but it was just wind ‒ no follow-through, as I might say in one of my coarser moments.

The last time I was this anxious was when you were having that affair with your French colleague Rene, all those years ago. I worried myself sick you might decide to leave me for him. At the end of the day I don’t know if it was me or the boys that made you give him up. No, I’m not going over old ground. It would be like scratching the place where an old scab used to be, years ago, before it healed up and disappeared. There’s no longer any pain, not even any residual itchiness. We got over it. We got over it. That was when we learned to talk. And in my case, when I learned to listen.

It’s just that it’s easier for me to think about the scariest things of the past, and the fact that we got over them, than to think the unthinkably scary things which might or might not happen in the future, if I even have one. “What’s past is prologue; and what’s to come…”

What’s to come? Aye, there’s the rub.

You’ll be retiring in, what? five years? unless the government raises pension age again. Assuming I get through the next six months, I’ll probably be offered early retirement. Best case scenario. You’ll still be slaving away at the chalk face and I’ll be a gentleman of leisure, eking out my teacher’s pension. Maybe I’ll write the Great Post-Kelman Scottish Working Class Novel? No, I’m kidding myself. That will be another unfulfilled dream, like surfing or sea kayaking. I couldn’t be bothered. The man and the woman who climbed these mountains before we married were happy enough this morning just to look at them through the car windows, weren’t we? 

Yes, if I get over this I’ll keep things low key. After the adventurous rock’n roll life of an English teacher (ha, ha), that would be somewhere between adequate and nice. Sounds about right. We’re nice, aren’t we? You’re nice anyway. I’ll be the adequate one. If I’m spared.

Nearly time to assemble for our drinks. I think I’ll have a whisky tonight, a wee malt. Will you join me?’

Copyright © Colin Will 2022

Tyaavin awa

I was Poet Partner to Moray for a number of years, back in the day. The Moray Doric is slightly different from the Aberdeenshire Doric of my grandparents, but I got used to hearing it. Writing a short story purely in Doric would have been difficult for non-Doric spikkers to understand, so I came up with the idea of a hybrid, a loon from Elgin who had moved away to the South, but who could still fit in with the local speech patterns when visiting. This is the result.

Tyaavin awa

 

The scene opens in a terraced house in Elgin, not made of marble.

 

She got up in the darkness at 4:30 am to go to the toilet. She quite often got up at 4:30 am to go to the toilet. This time, however, she did not slip back into bed beside the malodorous mound that was her sleeping husband. This time she picked up her clothes from her bedside chair and took them through to the guest bedroom, not that they ever had actual guests staying. It had been their son’s room before he left them and moved away, finding a job as a fitness instructor in a leisure centre in Glasgow. He disappeared, far too young, after a friend’s stag night in Prague. I sometimes wonder what happened to him, but not very often.

This time she dressed, picked up a note in her left hand, the note she had written the night before, while grabbing the handle of her pre-packed suitcase in her right hand, the one she had written the note with. This time she left the note, with her wedding ring, on the kitchen table, flitted out the front door, and put the case into the back of her car – not their car – then drove off.

 

The End.

 

 

What more do you want? A quick chorus of She’s Leaving Home, Bye, Bye?

 

All right then, I’ll grant you there is more to it than that, but you can’t have all of it. Let’s settle for Selected Highlights, shall we? But first, who are we talking about?

 

 

She: Euphemia (Famie) Murphy, née Townson

He: George (Dod) Murphy, husband of said, and not the soberest son of Moray

Absent Son: Tommy Murphy, about whom nothing more will be said

Freen: Isobel (Beldie), Famie’s workmate and confidante

Assorted Quines: Assorted quines, some professional femmes de la nuit, others bon accord women, temporary subjects for the drink-fuelled and shallow affections of Dod

The Loon: Bobbie, owner of a shoulder on which Famie had sometimes cried, and other anatomical features, on which she had not

 

A note on translation from the local speech:

I realise that conversations like the following:

‘Fit like, Famie?’

‘Och, jist tyaavin awa, Beldie.’

might be difficult for some to fully grasp, but it would be pretentious and untruthful to render them in the Queen’s English as, say

‘How are you, Euphemia?’

‘Oh, just struggling away, Isobel.’

Nevertheless, compromises have had to be made, with English and the occasional Scots words standing in for the rich rustic dialect of North-East Scotland, a tongue familiar to me from growing up there.

Och, let’s just get on with it.

************************

 

Famie was keen to get her temporary roots settled in to a wee sub-let in Fochabers, a room in a bought former council house occupied by her workmate Beldie, Beldie’s man Erchie, and their teenage daughter Lynn-Ann, name-checked at a time when the fashion for arbitrarily double-barrelling quine’s names was spreading o’er the Atlantic. Famie and Beldie worked thegither at a well-known food processing factory on the outskirts of the town, and the baith o them had a shift that morning, clocking on at 8. Famie’s crush, fancy-man, toy-boy, paramour, call him what you will, Bobbie, also worked in the plant, which was handy for lunch-time assignations if he was on the same shift as Famie.

‘That you left him then Famie?’

‘Aye. Left him snoring. He tried to get freenly last nicht, but he was pished, kept fa’in ower. Still, it’s easier to dodge him when he’s like that, it slows him doon.’

‘Want some breakfast?’

Famie nodded.

‘I’ll fry some squerr sausages an a couple eggs for us. See if there’s ony chutney ye fancy.’

The factory had a shop where workers could buy short-dated goods and quality control rejects very cheaply. It came in handy. You could get bashed tins and stuff with missing labels too. It wis aye gweed gear, mind. Beldie’s larder was full of soup tins, relishes, jars of artichoke hearts and other goodies.

‘Fit’ll’e dae fan he reads yer note?’

‘Nae idea, bit he’s workin in Kinloss this week, so he micht no hae time tae read it afore he gets his lift. I’m hopin I can sneak back eftir we feenish today and grab some mair o ma claes.’

‘I’ll come wi ye Fame.’

‘Yer a pal, Bel, so ye are.’

‘Och, it’s nae bother, and it’s jist for a fyow days, until ye get yer room at the refuge.’

‘Monday, they said.’

‘Great, well, let’s go and earn wir crusts.’

‘Lynn-Ann still at the school?’ She pronounced it ‘skweel’, as they do here.

‘Aye, she’ll see tae hersel. She’s a gweed quine.’

They put in their shifts, then Famie drove them to her former home. George wasn’t there, and her note to him was still on the kitchen table. If he had read it he hadn’t dislodged Famie’s wedding ring sitting on top of it. Probably too hungover – he usually was. It didn’t take the two women long to put Famie’s clothes and personal stuff into a couple of heavy duty refuse sacks they’d brought along with them. Beldie asked Famie if she wanted to take her wedding photo from the mantelpiece.

Famie just stared at her, and Beldie said, ‘Thocht no.’ But she did take the photo of the long-lost Tommy. I wonder what happened to him? You’d think the Czech polis would have turned up some evidence by now? Nothing. No sign he’d fallen off the Charles Bridge, or been mugged in the alley behind U Fleků. Maybe he met a quine, or lost his money and was hitch-hiking back to Elgin the long way, via Vladivostock? Sorry, I said I wouldn’t mention him.

Erchie was embarrassed at the tea-table that night, couldn’t look directly at Famie, but Lynn-Ann had no such inhibitions.

‘Fit wey did ye leave Uncle Dod, Auntie Famie?’

‘He wis aye hittin me, lass, an forbye he went wi ither weemin.’

‘Naw! He didnae?’

‘Aye, he did. Nae doot. Ee nicht he went oot drinkin, then he cam back fu an hit me, or tried tae.’

‘That’s terrible, Auntie Famie.’

‘Aye lass. So I’m off to the refuge on Monday, until I can get a place o ma ain.’

‘Will ye no miss him?’

‘Naw, definately naw.’

Their conversation was interrupted by a call on Famie’s mobile. It was an unfamiliar number. Turned out to be one of Dod’s pals, phoning for him, as Dod didnae have a mobile.

‘Aye hen, Dod wis askin faar ye were. He fun yer note last nicht, and he was fair worrit aboot ye.’

‘Wis he noo?’

‘Aye, fair worrit. So faar are ye lass?’

‘I’m no sayin, but ye can tell him he’s no tae bother looking for me. I’ve had enough o’s drinking and the rest o’s nonsense. I’m no comin back. He’ll hae tae shift fur his-sel.’

‘I’ll tell him Famie, but could ye no gie us a bittie clue?’

‘Naw Allie. Night night.’

Allie (Alistair) didn’t hang up immediately, and she heard her husband ask what she’d said, just before she closed the call.

Keep the auld swine guessing, she thought to herself.

At break time the next day she phoned her social worker.

‘Thanks for calling Mrs Murphy. Everything’s all set for you for next Monday. Your room will be ready; it’s just getting a wee clean and tidy.’

‘That’s great hen. I’ve moved out, and I’m bidin wi a pal until then. I’ve got the Monday off work.’

‘And Mr Murphy…?’

‘Disnae know where I’m bidin, and I’ll keep it that wey.’

‘Until you’re settled in.’

‘Until I’m settlet in.’

‘There’s an entryphone on the door, Mrs Murphy, and all the apartments have got alarms. But there’s never been any trouble. I’ll be there to let you in at 9.30, and I’ll introduce you to some of the other women. I’ll see you get sorted out.’

‘Thanks hen, you’re awfy good to me.’

‘Not at all, Mrs Murphy, we’re here to help.’

The thing is, she really believes it. With her it’s not lip-service, or working through a scripted checklist. I know her. She means what she says. We’ve been friends for a long time, but neither of us wanted more than friendship. Let’s face it, I’m just not the marrying kind, or marrying again kind, to be more accurate.

I’d known Babbsy (Barbara) before my divorce, because she and Unspeakable had been pals. When the excrement collided with the turbine it had been Babbsy who came round first to speak to me, and she had calmed me down during the legal twattery.

It was natural that we’d start going out occasionally afterwards, but she was still friends with my ex, and my nasty suspicious mind believed that she would relay info on our ‘dates’ and what I’d said right back to her. But Babbsy’s a good social worker, really cares about the women she works with.

Nae doot Famie would big up foo bad Dod was to her, foo violent he was, foo muckle he drank an slept wi hoors. Basis in fact, actually; he did do all those things. Truth was he was too slow and stupid to do her any serious damage, but there were times he caught her and blacked her eye. Once, a summer evening, she’d been trapped between the garden shed and the fence, and he’d given her a real kicking before the neighbour pulled him off her. No, the violence was real, Babbsy had seen the evidence and the police reports, her team had OK’ed it, so Famie was given a place in the refuge.

I know that Dod isn’t the brightest candle in the votive stand of life, but even he would eventually figure out that Famie’s best friend Beldie would know where she was. Trouble was, Dod didn’t know where Beldie lived, and he didn’t move in Erchie’s more rarified social circles, like the golf club, so he couldn’t ask him. That left the factory. He couldn’t very well march up to the reception desk and ask for Famie’s whereabouts, even if he knew which shift she was working, but he did know some of the women who worked there, some even in the Biblical sense. He would go to the pub and ask them. Friday night, definately, because Tuesdays to Thursdays the centre was so quiet you could hear the tumbleweed blawin alang baith sides o the High Street.

I was actually in Elgin seeing a client that week, out for a wander after my Italian meal, and I fancied a wee digestif – a couple of pints of Best would do – so I wandered into a quiet little lounge bar, and, Blow Me Down, but didn’t Famie, Beldie and Bobbie have the same idea? Naturally I joined them, buying a round of course. I’ve never held it against Famie that her son, that conniving bastard Tommy, stole my wife. It wasn’t Famie’s fault, and besides, I discovered later that my ex had allowed herself to be stolen a few other times while we were married. But he kept her, that was the difference, and she wanted to be kept. Personal trainer? Oh aye.

‘Fit like Famie?’ I asked.

‘Nae sae gweed Jock.’ She leaned over the table, close to my ear, so she could whisper. ‘I’ve left Dod. Dinnae say onyhing, but I’ve done it. I’m awa ti the safe hoose oan Monday.’

‘Dae ye nae think ye’re takkin a risk comin oot faar Dod micht fin ye?’

‘He nivver comes in here. It’s ower fancy for um.’

‘Weel, I wish ye luck Famie.’

‘Thanks Jock. Fit like yirsel?’

‘Och, jist tyaavin awa. I’m here for a couple mair days, then back tae Glasgow.’

‘Foo about…?’ She didn’t need to mention her name.

‘Huvnae heard frae her for a couple months. Bides in Livingston noo. Got a job there.’

‘She didnae mention Tommy, did she?’

‘She said she hadnae seen him since he gaed tae Prague. Speirt if I’d heard onythin.’

‘An ye huvnae?’

‘Nae a dickie bird, Famie. Naithin.’

And it was true. I’d heard nothing since he went to Prague. I’ve read stories about guys hiring thugs to whack folk in foreign capitals, but what would a mere accountant know about arranging that kind of thing? Fantasy, pure fantasy.

The reality was that I’d lost her. We wouldn’t have the family I’d hoped to have with her, the cosy life, the house in the suburbs, the holidays to exotic places. Maybe, at some far off time in the future, I’d have that dream with somebody else, but first I’d have to be able to say her name, picture her, without feeling the way I do now. Sometimes I can’t think of my situation without wanting to kill someone – her, her new loon, myself.

Just then an old Lossie friend, heading out, spotted me in the corner.

‘Fit like Jock?’

‘Oh, Hi Tam. Tyaavin awa, ye ken, jist tyaavin awa.’

Copyright © Colin Will 2021

 

 

 

 

 

Magic realism

 I suppose you could call this one my attempt at magic realism, where a normal realistic narrative is combined with something surreal and improbable. In this case there's only one surreal element, but I follow it through to some sort of conclusion, logical or otherwise.

 

Prickly situation

 

‘I need to go to South America,’ Jenny said.

‘What?’

‘I need to go to South America.’

‘Lover, nobody from Paisley ever needs to go to South America. Why do you want to go to South America?’

‘I don’t want to, I need to.’

‘When?’

‘As soon as I get the visas. I’ve got the one for Chile, but the Argentinean one always takes longer, I’m told.’

‘What’s this really all about, Jennifer?’ I asked, using her Sunday name so she knew I was serious.

‘Sorry Pete, I’ve got to dash, or I’ll miss my bus and be late for work. Love you.’

‘Love you too,’ I replied absent-mindedly, totally confused by the conversation. I had to get our daughter Lizzie ready for school, but I couldn’t really concentrate.

‘What were you and Mummy talking about this morning, Daddy?’

‘Nothing important, sweetie-pie, your Mum just mentioned South America, that’s all.’

‘Good. It’s a shame I’m too young to go with her.’

I just spluttered, put her lunchbox in her schoolbag, and we headed out to the car to take her to school, and me to work. What was my daughter on about? Why did she know more than I did? What was going on? Not for the first time in my marriage to Jenny, I felt confused and out of my depth. Not quite true, because being out of my depth with Jenny implied we were swimming in the same ocean, but sometimes I wasn’t even sure of that.

I put in my 7 hrs 42 mins daily grind, but my heart wasn’t in it, nor was my brain, my eyes, my fingers or the other bits of my anatomy my employers had at their service in exchange for my less than impressive salary.

Jenny started and finished work before me, so she had time to pick up Lizzie from the school before assembling some kind of edible melange for our tea. She had it on the table when I walked in, but she wasn’t eating any.

‘I’ll get mine later Pete. Got to go to a meeting.’ A quick peck on the cheek and she was off, taking our car with her. So I didn’t get the chance to talk to her over our meal. I gave Lizzie her bath and read her a story in bed. I thought about having a little whisky later, but decided to go to bed to read a very poor science fiction novel on my Kindle. It sent me off to sleep, and I woke up when Jenny slid into bed beside me. She kissed me and said Goodnight, and that was that until the morning.

‘Look Pete, I’ll have more time this evening. We’ll talk, OK? Love you.’ and she was off, before I was able to mumble ‘Love you too.’

I got a call from my co-worker and neighbour Charlie, suggesting we get together for lunch in the pub. He seemed a bit sad, so I asked him what was up.

‘Meg’s off to Mexico on Wednesday, and I’ve no idea how long it will take.’

‘Mexico? Why? You haven’t got relatives there, have you?’

‘No. She just said she needed to go there. I couldn’t get any reasons from her, she just avoided my questions. It’s killing me.’

‘How long is she going for?’

‘She won’t say, and she won’t tell me when she’ll be back.’ And right there in the pub, over his pint of Belhaven Best and his steak pie and vegetables, he started to cry. I felt like joining him, but I thought I should tell my story first, as if it might start to make sense of things.

‘Jenny told me she needs to go to South America. She’s just waiting for the visa for Argentina. Apparently Lizzie knows all about it, but I can’t get any answers out of either of them. Does your son know anything?’

‘Ben? No, he’s as confused as I am. I’ve had to arrange to get a childminder to keep him after school until I get home from work.’

‘So we’re both in the same boat. Do you know if it’s happening to any of our other neighbours?’ I toyed with my battered haddock, chips and peas.

‘I haven’t heard. All Meg would say was that she needed to go to Baja California and Sonora. She might have to go to Sinaloa and Durango too.’

‘What’s there, in these places?’

‘Don’t know, they’re all desert areas. Nothing but cacti and drug cartels, as far as I can gather.’

‘Is she into drugs?’

‘Not as far as I know. Did Jenny say where she’s going?’

‘No, just Chile and Argentina. She said some Spanish words, but they didn’t mean anything to me. I didn’t even know she could speak Spanish.’

‘See if you can get any more out of her tonight,’ he said, before he went back to his office.

Just before I finished work that evening I got a text message from Jenny.

<Visa arrived so I’m off. Lizzie is at Mum’s. Please pick her up. Love you.>

I tried to text back, but the phone said she wasn’t available. I fetched Lizzie and asked Jenny’s Mum if she knew where Jenny was going.

‘Chile first, then Argentina. Will you be all right Pete?’

I said I’d manage, then we went home. Lizzie suggested a menu, otherwise I’d have phoned for a pizza. She wanted grilled fish with a salad. I checked the fridge, and found that Jenny had left out a pack of two salmon fillets, and the makings of a salad. I prepared the fish and put it under the grill while I made the salad under Lizzie’s expert tutelage. I have to admit it tasted great, much better than my fish and chips in the pub. Maybe I could do this cooking thing? I know I occasionally cooked for myself when I was a student, so the mechanics of it were familiar to me, but I’d actually enjoyed making our meal that night.

‘Did you make up the beds today, Daddy?’

‘No, honey, I haven’t had time yet.’

‘Well I’ll help you, but only this time. Tomorrow you’ll have to do it yourself.’

Where had this confident, bossy little girl come from? Who had stolen my daughter and left this changeling in her place? But she still had that impish grin, she was still my darling Lizzie, even as she was ordering me around.

I made the beds and tidied up the bedrooms, putting the dirty clothes – hers, mine, Jenny’s – into the laundry basket in the hall cupboard. Must do a washing at the weekend, I thought to myself. The following night I hoovered the carpets, and Lizzie reminded me to move the furniture out of the way so I could get the hose into all the corners. Before that, I suppose I’d just have hoovered only the bits I could see, but I knew I couldn’t get away with it with Lizzie supervising.

‘Where do you suppose Mummy is now,’ I asked her.

‘I expect she’ll have arrived at the first place, but she’ll be pretty tired.’

‘Do you think her mobile phone will be able to pick up any messages? If I texted her to tell her we love her and we’re missing her, would she get the message?’

‘I don’t think so Daddy. She said she’d be out of touch until she got back.’

‘Did she say how long she’d be?’

‘Just until it was finished.’

‘Until what’s finished?’ I was frantic with apprehension and uncertainty, but I didn’t want Lizzie to know how bad I was feeling.

‘Sorry Daddy, but she said you’ll just have to wait.’ And that was all I got out of her, then or later. She made a list of the things I would have to do, and with her encouragement I threw myself into the housework, the shopping and the cooking. Of course it cut into my time in the evenings, I couldn’t slob around watching telly with a beer and crisps. Frankly, I was pretty tired by the time the weekend rolled around.

Then it was time to do the washing. I sorted everything out into whites and coloureds, figured out the programs on the front of the machine, and set the thing going. At the end of the cycle, Lizzie reminded me to set it for an extra rinse and spin, so the clothes would be just that little bit drier. I was going to stuff the whites into the tumble drier when they came out, but it wasn’t raining, and there was a fair little breeze. Lizzie said they’d dry better and smell nicer if I hung them out to dry outside, so I did that. She wasn’t altogether pleased with the way I hung them, but she corrected me. Then I did the coloureds the same way.

While I was hanging them out, I looked along the row of back gardens in our street, and all the men were outside hanging out washing. The ones without daughters to keep them right didn’t have much of a clue, but I knew we were fine, thanks to Lizzie. But where were all the wives? Had all of them gone to South America? I didn’t know any of them well enough to ask, apart from Charlie. I advised him on the right way to hang shirts, towels, trousers and underwear. He’d do it properly next time.

A fortnight after Jenny left I got a text message from her, saying she was on her way home. And it was as if she’d never been away. She kissed Lizzie and I, took her suitcase up to our bedroom, unpacked, and just fell asleep. The next morning, a Saturday, she turned to me in bed.

‘Have you missed me Pete?’

I felt my eyes misting up, and I shed a tear as I told her I had missed her terribly. Then, as quietly as possible so as not to wake Lizzie, we made love.

A few weeks later the three of us went to the botanic garden, and her eyes lit up briefly in the cactus house. She sat down among the plants and seemed to be whispering to a short red-spined one.

‘Hola pobrecito, I bring greetings from Mendoza,’ I think she said. Then she turned and spoke quietly to a tall columnar cactus, whose stem was covered in what looked like dense white hair, ‘Hola my dear friend, do you miss your mountains?’

She stood up and turned round, arms outstretched.

‘This is OK, but it’s so artificial. I won’t come back here again.’

As we left I saw Charlie and his family. They appeared to be arguing, and little Ben was crying. We hurried off home. I had made a Victoria sponge to go with our tea, and I just needed to do the cream and jam filling.

Lizzie grew up and married a nice young man who was respectful to her, and to Jenny and I. As far as I know, she never had a sudden need to go anywhere exotic without her husband. Jenny never went back to South America, if that was really where she went. I never asked her about it, partly because I wasn’t sure I’d ever get a satisfactory answer from her, but mostly because I didn’t need to. At the end of the day, trust is more powerful than suspicion.

Copyright © Colin Will 2021

Pleasurable

 This one's just playful.

Pleasurable.

Stijn’s three new post-docs arrived on a Monday morning. He showed them their work-stations in the lab, and let his assistant Richard give them the obligatory safety introduction, which would be followed up later by a full safety course. Some of the chemicals they worked with, like osmium tetroxide, are extremely dangerous, and they needed to know fairly quickly how to handle them. He told them to come back to his office at 11, and he’d give them a tour of the facility.

Bang on 11 they all trooped in, obviously anxious to please the boss. They seemed like a nice bunch. The most senior, Aleksandr – Sasha –  was from the Ukraine, and Stijn had read his paper on synthetic proteins with great interest. Tamiko (oligonucleotides) was from Japan, and she seemed the quietest of the three. Bahira (methylation mechanisms) was from Beirut, and she was just stunningly beautiful. All three of them were said, on their applications, to have excellent English, but sadly for him, none of them spoke Dutch, Stijn’s native tongue.

He spoke about their projects, their own research and how that fitted in to the bigger picture. This wasn’t a first post-doc for any of them, so he could take a few short cuts with them. Then he gave them a tour of the Department, and ended up in the staff restaurant, where he got them registered so that they could use it on their own later. It was run as a buffet, with lots of international dishes reflecting the multi-national status of the place. But of course, this being Germany, potatoes, sausages and thick creamy sauces were prominent.

Stijn introduced them to some of his colleagues, and he could tell that Bahira in particular was attracting a lot of attention. The afternoon was mostly taken up with getting their apparatus and chemicals ordered from central stores, and then he said that he’d take them out for a meal that night. He suggested Busumo’s sushi restaurant, primarily for Tamiko, but he figured the other two would like it too.  They said yes, and Bahira said she thought it would be ‘pleasurable’. ‘Pleasurable?’ Stijn said.

‘Is that not the right word? I regret my error, please correct me, Professor van Dijkstra.’

‘Please call me Jongen, it’s my nick-name. And ‘pleasurable’ is fine, but maybe a bit formal.’

‘What should I say?’

‘Good, or nice, or maybe even great. If you were American, swell would work too.’

‘Thank you… Jongen. I am beholden to you.’

Stijn smiled. She was delightful, and he just loved the archaisms she was coming out with.

‘Did you learn your English in Beirut?’

‘Yes, I attended the American school until my parents were killed in an ambuscade – Beirut is a very tempestuous city, and they were entrapped in the middle of a feud. Then my brother and I went to live with my aunt and uncle. He had a marvellous library of books in English – Jane Austen, Charlotte Brontë, Sir Walter Scott, George Eliot.’

And then the penny dropped. She’d been brought up on classic novels, hence her language.

‘Your English is wonderful, Bahira, and I look forward to conversing with you for the next six months.’

‘I also would find it… swell to have colloquies with you.’

Busumo’s was his favourite Japanese restaurant in Göttingen, and pretty grand by any standards, but he wanted to impress his students. Maybe in a few weeks they’d be informal enough for the Nudelhaus or the Kartoffelhaus, but this was special. The waitress was Japanese, and she chattered away to Tamiko before their innate politeness made them switch to a mixture of English and German. Stijn ordered miso soup and green tea for them all, and asked the waitress to bring a chef’s selection of sashimi, sushi and cooked dishes. Bahira was not vegetarian, but of course she could not eat pork. She tucked in with gusto to the other dishes, and was very appreciative.

‘The fish is sliced so thin as to be almost incorporeal, but the flavour is epicurean’

Stijn took a note of that word so he could look it up in his dictionary later. The meal was great, and he impressed Tamiko by telling the waitress ‘Gochisōsama, desh’ta’, which is what you say in Japan after a meal you’ve enjoyed.

Over the next couple of months he got to know them all really well, and he’d formed a strong attachment to Bahira. She was very good with her lab work, and extremely easy to talk with – easy on the eye too.

‘What does your name mean?’ he asked her once, early on.

‘It means brilliant, resplendent, or perhaps bright-hued.’

‘They would all fit.’ he said.

And then came the evening of that conversation.

‘I have not met your wife, Herr Professor.’

‘I have no wife, Bahira, there is no Frau Professor van Dijkstra. There was once, but she left me three years ago.’

‘That is sad. What occasioned your schism, if I may be so bold?’

‘She was doing an advanced German course, and it became physical. She told me she had found herself as a woman, and she ran off with two of her tutors to an FKK nudist colony on the Baltic, not far from Warnemünde. So she found herself and lost me. I believe she felt that to be an equitable exchange, but I was not similarly convinced at the time.’

‘That must have been such a disappointment for you, so injurious,’ she said.

‘It was, but in retrospect you could conclude it was an injudicious decision on her part. It has left me free to make new friends and to enjoy the companionship of delightful and beautiful young women such as yourself. Would you be disconcerted if I were to tell you that I have become rather enamoured of you?’

‘No Jongen, that would be entirely acceptable to me, and I am desirous of further conference with you on this topic, which is so close to my heart.’

‘And mine, dearest Bahira. I feel we are close to being consanguineous in this matter.’

So it was that, at the end of her six-month post-doc, she applied for and got the post as Stijn’s new Research Assistant. Six months after that they were married, and he found that life with the new Frau Professor van Dijkstra was entirely pleasurable.

 

 

Copyright © Colin Will 2021