Author: Admin

Book Review–Female Troubles: Stories

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These stories sneak up on you. You’re really not a fan of short stories, but you heard this collection was good; you need something to sink your teeth into, so you start reading, yeah, it’s pretty good. And then all of a sudden, a sentence hits you between the eyes and you’re struck by the clarity and insight and you want to go back to the beginning to start all over again. The stories just get better and better.

Here’s the end of “Happy Hour,” about a woman who’s having an affair.

Andrea leaned across the space between them to put her nose into his neck. She ran her tongue over stubble. It was this sensation she would wake later in the night to review, lying beside her sleeping husband. Robin’s hot textured throat on her lips. “I’m in love with you,” she told him now, miserable. Ahead of her lay a few drinks, wine or perhaps gin, the bedtime rituals with her children, the tired sad friendship she shared with her husband, dishwashing, door locking, videotapes. She had forgotten her little pillow, she realized as she pulled away from Robin, and when she woke later, mouth cottony, dizzy with dehydration, her back would also ache, a flare in her shoulders from sleeping wrong. Sleeping all wrong.

“That dog stinks,” her husband would complain.

“He has wild desires,” Andrea would explain.

She stepped out of Robin’s truck into the dusk, the lonely post-happy-hour walk to her house full of evening, indistinct shadows (along with the dog who she was supposed to be walking.)

Supper With Lord Lowther

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On my last evening in Cumbria, I had supper with Lord Lowther. Remember him? It was his log I stole the week before on the grounds of his estate in front of his magnificent castle. He didn’t realize I was the culprit.

Our meal took place in The George and Dragon, an eighteenth century coaching inn. He owns the place. I had lamb, something I’d been craving. But when my companion wanted to know what I thought of the food, I smiled and nodded. I couldn’t disappoint him; he seemed so proud of the inn’s Finalist for Taste of England Award. The fact is, I didn’t enjoy the dish at all, perhaps because of the guilt I felt for eating a relative of all those dear sweet sheep I’d fallen in love with wandering the fields of Cumbria. We had a couple bottles of the inn’s best red and sticky toffee pudding at the end. It was a lovely ending to a lovely time in Cumbria. I vowed to return the following year.

It all started when John—an old friend of Joan’s from Kitwe—who she’s been seeing for a couple of years, called to invite us to dine at The George and Dragon on my last night. He’d take the early train up from Kent and Bob’s your uncle, I’d finally get to meet her “friend.” Except he missed his train and would be late. So Joan and I went ahead to keep our six-thirty reservation, with plans for her to pick him up from the station when he arrived. The pub was packed. It was live music night. Joan left for the station just as the group tuned up in the corner of the small pub. I took snapshots of all the dogs and had a pint. Check out red-eyed Dudley lying by his mistress’s chair. By the time Joan returned with John, I was enjoying the music, kind of a folksy rock at a small table close to the musicians. We were shown a table in another room away from the pub next to a couple all by themselves. He was young, fresh-faced, casually dressed, as was she, eager to talk about the pub they owned. The Lowthers. Too young to be the Lord himself, but hey, maybe he was a Lord in his own right? And yes his wife was there as well. I neglected to tell you that part. But the rest is all true.

Almost Time To Go

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My last day arrived. I didn’t want to go home yet. I wanted to have tea in Morland’s kaf, see what their scones were like (it felt good to be able to say skon and not be corrected like I am in America where it’s pronounced with a long o). The scones I’d had in Cockermouth where Donna and I toured William Wordsworth’s house were rock hard. We joked how Miss Powell, our cookery teacher at Kitwe High, would’ve taken the cook to task; had she used her pinkies to gently nudge the dough into shape? I also wanted to return to the sweet shop in that same town to buy all the sweets of my childhood, those I thought I’d buy later then forgot: Wilson’s toffees, peppermint crisps, Turkish Delight to name a few. That’s Donna below ordering our Rock Scones.

I wanted to hike up Blen Cathra peak, also known as Saddleback (we have our own Saddleback here in California, not half as grand though). I wanted another train ride up to Scotland. This time we’d go to Edinburgh, spend a couple of nights, have some more haggis, as well as neeps and tatties, attend the Edinburgh International Festival, roam the highlands. I wanted to enjoy the rain for at least another month. I’d miss it, how the grass becomes an eye-popping luminous green when it stops. I’d miss seeing those sweet, heart-melting little lambs every day. I’d miss seeing buildings older than I am (what’s with most of America, especially California, the minute a building gets dirty they tear it down). I’d miss heading down the hallway from my bedroom to have tea in bed with Joan and our laptops, with her popping up to serve me another cuppa every now and then—the way I like it, two sugars and milk. I wanted to spend more time with Donna. I wanted to return to the Great Strickland pub for Quiz night. In fact, I wanted to hit every pub around just to enjoy the sight of dogs sprawled under tables or sitting next to bar stools, leash less, content. That’s how it should be. Well, at least we still had dinner to enjoy. It would be in a poob, to be sure.

Caught In The Act

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Remember I told you that when I first arrived in Morland, the three of us were crying with laughter remembering old times, all the funny stuff back during our time together in Nkana/Kitwe, the people? Well, I wasn’t remembering the names so well. Some of them, sure, like the guys I’d had a crush on, that barrel-shaped Sister at St. John’s Convent School who terrified me, the girl who ran like a duck trying to take flight down the basketball court, the girl whose lips looked like a pig’s butt when she sang “Cherry Ripe,” the girl who told me I was uninvited to her party (I can’t remember why), the girl who became Miss Northern Rhodesia. And the town’s “loose” girl in whose back lane I had my first brush with sex. (That’s me below around the time in our back yard at 24 Kantanta Street, wearing a pointy bra along with a dress hot off my mother’s Singer sewing machine.)

I’d tagged along to this girl’s house on Fourteenth Street with a clump of boys I knew from my first year in high school, one of which was someone who’d shown interest in me; he wasn’t bad looking; he had potential. It was early evening and her parents were gone, a party out at Mindola dam; they’d be away for hours. So there I stood in the back lane with Potential, his ducktail and that little squiff on top gleaming with Brylcreem in the light from the naked bulb over the girl’s back door, watching while the others decided who’d be first to knock on her bedroom window. This took place with interludes of jabs about this or that defect in each other’s personalities, bodies, intelligence, rugby playing skills, along with jokey shoving and scuffling, and knuckle punches on the arm.

Finally, one of the boys, propelled forward with a mighty shove meandered, hands in pockets, toward the side of the house with much over the shoulder grinning. My heart pounded with the thrill of it all. Until the boys turned to look at me. I blushed, feeling exposed, and wondered what I was doing there. I don’t remember how the evening ended, but I do know that Brylcreem head didn’t work out. Hell, I can’t even remember his name.

Keep Breathing

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After our quiz night in the Great Strickland poob, Donna had to drive down to Manchester for her son’s birthday, with the possibility of returning afterward, but she didn’t make it, too many obligations. So Joan and I took the train up to Ayr, Scotland without her. This was the trip I’d been planning since childhood, ever since my dad told me of his school days at Ayr Academy where he’d been sent from Bloemfontein, South Africa as an eleven-year-old—see my U is For Unicorn blog.

The day following my epic journey, we had tea with two of her friends down the street in Morland’s local café, see above. Café is pronounced kaf like they do on BBC’s long running “Eastenders” set in London, which by the way, I reveled in seeing again after PBS canceled the series in the States.  It was in the kaf we learned that a certain Marjorie Roscamp was having a 105th birthday party in Grange, a village fifteen miles north near Borrowdale, “where the valley squeezes between Grange Fell and Castle Crag.” That’s the village there lying beyond the famous Ashness bridge.

 We arrived to find the party in full swing—a handwritten notice in the driveway announced the celebration: “Cakes, preserves, bric a brac for sale in aid of the Leprosy Mission, also a 105th birthday celebration for Marjorie Roscamp.” Also. Don’t you love it?

Blocking our path was Ebony, a Newfoundland. As you can see she’s a huge horse of a dog. Of course I had to drop to my knees and spend some time with her before following Joan and Donna into the jammed stone house. I missed Jake and Fergie. Once inside, I learned from her son, who must’ve been in his late seventies that we’d just missed the BBC crew that filmed the cutting of the cake and interviewed Marjorie. He told me that even though he helped take care of his mother, the secret to her long life had to be the constant tender care provided by his eighty-five year old sister. Marjorie’s answer as to the secret of her long life? “Keep breathing.” That’s her in the wheelchair, her daughter’s on the left. I should look that good now.

Loving England

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I was in love with the country from the moment I stepped outside into the cold and  almost constant drizzle. I loved the way the moody pen-and-ink skies would suddenly burst open just long enough to reveal muted golden hues from a distant sun then close again. While Joan flapped her arms like a penguin to keep warm, I reveled in weather so different from what I’d been used to my entire life: sunshine, sunshine, sunshine. From the middle of Africa to Southern California. The cold felt good, energizing, renewing. The picture below is of me on my first day in the pouring rain trying to get to close to two little lambs. I didn’t mind getting soaked at all.

The other thing about England was that I felt like I’d come home; the same feeling I had when I first landed in America. How could that be? But it makes sense. My schooling and the customs I grew up with were almost entirely British, and that’s where most of my ancestors are from—my mother’s father was from London, and my other grandfather was from Scotland. When I told Joan how I felt about England, she hopped on it. “You’re moving here. You can stay with me. First thing is you need to do is re-establish your British citizenry.”

Well, that’s going to be difficult, if not impossible, as I had to give up my British citizenship to become an American citizen. Joan wouldn’t hear of it. She urged me to write to my Uncle Percy in Umlhanga Rocks, South Africa to see if he has any evidence of my parents’ British ancestry. This way I could re-establish my British status and live part of the year in England with Joan. Don’t you just love it?

However, you need to wonder just how long I would last. You see, I’m a bit of an iconoclast.  I like to mix it up. While I loved the historic buildings, ancient traditions, quaint shops—some with mannequins from the sixties—and radio programmes that broadcast listeners’ personal birthday and anniversary greetings, to the solid genuineness of the people, I was afraid I might end up finding it stifling. But hey, it would only be for part of the year, right? Well, that’s if Uncle Percy has those documents.

Quiz Night

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Three nights after I arrived in the U.K. I still hadn’t caught up on my sleep, so I was quite loopy, causing Joan to remark to Donna in her best imitation of a Cumbrian brogue that I wasn’t “the full shillin’” every time I did something goofy (like mistaking the giant squirrel topiary in St. Lawrence’s churchyard at the entrance to Morland for a rabbit). By now we were all having fun with the Cumbrian accent: summat for “something,” init for “isn’t it”—the latter is now a standard of mine. And then there’s Joan’s name which had become Jooawn, drawn out with a long awww in the middle. This became uproarious on our night out at the pub (pronounced poob) that Joan and her ex used to own in Great Strickland, a small village a few miles away.

Squirrel topiaryIt all started when the three of us walked into the small eighteenth century establishment to find a couple of young guys at the bar who recognized Joan from when she’d managed the place: beers all around and it was Jooawn this and Jooawn that. They got a kick out of three Zambian women imitating their accents; it was foony. Come to find out it was “Quiz Night,” which had already begun. A young guy in a checked shirt and glasses strolled up and down the narrow aisles between booths and tables posing questions from a list he carried. The four or so couples scattered around the small room quietly wrote down their answers. That is until I started playing, with the guys at the bar feeding me the answers through Joan, until I finally got one on my own—Ricky Gervais, don’t remember what the question was—and gave a whoop. And then I got another—the American TV show “Friends.” Another whoop. Couldn’t help it. Everyone knew what was happening and were grinning. I didn’t bother tallying up my score at the end, but the winner insisted we share in the prize, a jug of cider which was passed around. At some point one of the guys remarked that this was the most foon quiz night they’d ever had.

Old Times

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I only mention that Joan was wearing heels because she has a style that is so different from mine, and because I’m having fun with it. You see she’s a bit of a dresser, turned one whole bedroom into a closet filled with dresses and shoes for the Henley Royal Regatta, golfing, hosting dinners, eating out, trips across the Channel to Paris, trips to Dubai. I, on the other hand, wear clothes from the Gap, yoga tanks and pants and flip flops and prefer hiking the hills and spur of the moment outings. She was right, I have become a California girl.

We hugged long and hard then the three of us hurried into her pub-house; a fire blazed in the lounge. Three hours later after a bottle of champagne along with one of red wine, we were doubling over and crying with laughter, remembering old school mates, all the crazy things we did. Now here’s the amazing thing, I don’t remember ever feeling this free in their company in the old days, as unguarded. Whatever reservations I’d had disappeared just like that. I don’t know how they felt but to me it was a victory; I no longer felt like I had anything to lose. Maybe I’d learned something after all these years.

(The photo above is of Donna and Joan in her bed on their computers accessing Facebook and their Nkana friends. The photo below of is of me and Donna–only I’m posting my A to Z Blogging Challenge–God Bless ’em, they were so understanding!)

 

Here We Go!

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This is what I remember of our two hour journey to Morland: overcast skies, lovely drizzle, non-stop texts from Joan on Donna’s cellphone –did you find her, where are you? what are you doing? where are you now?—and the two of us chatting like I don’t think we ever did. So many aha moments when we realized how much both of us had yearned for the history-laden English countryside we learned of in Enid Blyton’s books as children. A world of hedgerows (we just had plain old hedges in Africa), badgers, ancient vine-covered castles, deserted lighthouses, porcelain Calico Cat figurines on mantelpieces, “high” tea at four o’clock in the afternoon, secret club houses hidden at the bottom of lush overgrown gardens, and kindly Bobbies in their round flower pot shaped helmets. This was where The Secret Seven and The Famous Five solved crimes, ferreted out secrets and had a jolly old time. Why had we never spoken of these yearnings as children? I thought I was the only one.

I don’t remember much more of the journey until we entered Morland, past an ancient church with gravestones that tilted this way and that, past a giant topiary squirrel holding a yellow posy, past eighteenth-century flat-faced stone buildings with chimney pots that looked too small for those little smudge-faced chimney sweeps of yore and around a tight corner.

There, to the left, was the pub I’d seen on Joan’s laptop screen a year earlier—a pub she and her ex-husband ran for awhile—and further down, the tiny brook (I soon learned is called a mill race) alongside the larger stream, I’d also seen on her screen. Opposite, I recognized Joan’s row house, which I later learned used to be a pub complete with an iron ring in front where the men tied their horses while downing a pint or two. We pulled up and Joan charged outside. She was wearing heels.

Contact

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Counting my effects to make sure I had everything—these days I have to do this when moving from one spot to another while travelling—especially after only six hours of sleep in a thirty-six hour period: one bulging handbag, one suitcase, one stupid plastic bag still heavy with past editions of The Atlantic, Poets and Writers and The New Yorker I still hadn’t managed to finish reading, I head toward the money exchange window. I gag when my $20 nets me a five pound note and a few coins. What’s the exchange rate again? I need an espresso before I negotiate any more transactions. Hoisting my handbag onto my shoulder, I turn, about to head toward the coffee cart and stop. A woman in a trench coat like mine is peering down the corridor I’d exited just thirty minutes earlier.

Squinting at the woman through my prescription sunglasses (it’s got be pitch dark before I switch to my regular ones: vanity, they hide the suitcases under my eyes), I head toward her. “Donna?” She stares at me. I stare back. The moment hangs there. Can’t be sure; is this my hockey/softball playing chum? The last time I saw Donna we were both in our teens.  What the hell. We both grin and grab each other. Hey, even if it’s not Donna, I’m getting a hug when I most need it. But I know it’s her, no big ESP thing, it just feels right.

(The photo above is of the two of us on the bridge near Joan’s house in Morland).