tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82357914528347408912024-02-19T14:55:28.046+00:00Parma Violet TeaWhat fresh hell is this?Miss Underscorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05958155130597530590noreply@blogger.comBlogger387125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8235791452834740891.post-26128490503951984752021-01-24T18:36:00.008+00:002021-01-29T09:21:08.525+00:00Lost: Part 1He was there again: the new man. Crouched on his haunches, as usual, smoke curling from a cigarette held lightly between two fingers, eyes narrowed as he gazed across the village green, over the blue-grey rooftops of the colliery to the sea. Thrillingly, through her binoculars, Nell could see the tiniest of details: there was no wedding ring on his right hand and he wore no watch. His dark hair Miss Underscorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05958155130597530590noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8235791452834740891.post-53738845228550322902021-01-19T10:53:00.002+00:002021-01-19T10:53:09.695+00:00The Voices in the Garden: Ending Esther could never remember her mother’s funeral with any clarity or detail. It was as if that night, while sleeping, the day was erased from her memory like chalk from a blackboard. The dusty images that were left were faint and cloudlike. Years later she would find two photographs of the day, taken in the garden after the service. She would scour the pictures obsessively, looking for Miss Underscorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05958155130597530590noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8235791452834740891.post-130862176675040652021-01-17T15:27:00.005+00:002021-01-17T15:27:42.519+00:00The Voices in the Garden: Part 5As the school day drew to a close, Miss Finch continued her reading of Carrie’s War. Esther was captivated by the book and the adventures of the three evacuee children in wild, beautiful Wales. She lay with her head on her desk and listened dreamily. She pictured herself sitting with Carrie and Nick Willow and Albert Sandwich by the fire in the ghostly old manor house known as Druid’s Bottom. SheMiss Underscorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05958155130597530590noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8235791452834740891.post-14684433193558168222021-01-16T10:44:00.004+00:002021-01-16T10:44:53.373+00:00The Voices in the Garden: Part 4 The May morning after learning of her mother’s death, Esther woke and found their one-eared cat, Bakewell on her bed. He was a shaggy black and white stray they’d taken in; a wily old tomcat, battle-scarred and ragged but very much loved by everyone. Esther stroked him under his chin and he rolled on his back rakishly, purring like a tractor. Esther thought about last night’s knock on the Miss Underscorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05958155130597530590noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8235791452834740891.post-38391457627672748262021-01-13T13:52:00.000+00:002021-01-13T13:52:17.151+00:00The Voices in the Garden: Part 3There was a moment in the last year when her mother suddenly disappeared. She was no longer in the kitchen, hands dusted with sugar and flour. The perpetual whirring of the sewing machine was silenced. On breezy Spring mornings, when the air was as crisp and green as an apple, there was no washing billowing on the line. The house was a vacuum from which all comfort and softness had retreated.&Miss Underscorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05958155130597530590noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8235791452834740891.post-90999029027033930802021-01-12T15:41:00.000+00:002021-01-12T15:41:11.683+00:00The Voices in the Garden: Part 2 Another night. Earlier. Springtime. Before the voices. The house breathed and settled around Esther who slept deeply and comfortably. Outside, the quiet road of proud pre-war houses stood bathed in the otherworldly sodium streetlight glow, the sky was a purple bruise above. There were no cars, there was no movement at Miss Underscorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05958155130597530590noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8235791452834740891.post-53079509929894084902021-01-11T09:29:00.000+00:002021-01-11T09:29:33.662+00:00The Voices in the Garden: Part 1It was during that sticky, unforgiving summer of 1976 that the voices began. The summer people still remember, decades later. The summer it didn’t rain for three months, not one drop. When days stretched languidly into rose-tinted twilights and dogs lay panting on dusty doorsteps. Petals fell silently. Grasses dried to brittle rasping husks. The air was thick, opaque, motionless. Time stood stillMiss Underscorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05958155130597530590noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8235791452834740891.post-45245783111588096042021-01-10T11:47:00.004+00:002021-01-10T11:54:20.084+00:00The Voices in the Garden: an introduction The Voices in the Garden was the first story I wrote. Entirely autobiographical, I began it when I was suffering from a deep depression and had taken almost a year off work. Like tendrils, the other stories spiralled from it. I wasn't going to share it. In truth, although it is the most personal, it is also the weakest in many ways. The Swarthy Rogue, were he still around, would&Miss Underscorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05958155130597530590noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8235791452834740891.post-54149494611174063372020-12-28T09:08:00.000+00:002020-12-28T09:08:28.543+00:00The Sisters: the ending In the kitchen, Esther was stirring a pan of soup on the stove. The table was set with bowls, mugs, a butter dish and teapot. ‘Is Rose coming down?’ Esther asked. ‘Everything’s about ready.’ ‘Yes, she’ll just be a moment. Can I do anything, Esther?’ Miss Underscorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05958155130597530590noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8235791452834740891.post-35127970875040313922020-12-27T09:09:00.005+00:002020-12-27T09:19:16.683+00:00The Sisters: Part 10They crossed the garden and spoke brightly of ordinary, humdrum things: flavours of soup and favourite flowers. The downpour had conjured layer upon layer fragrance: the damp mineral smell of the earth, the freshness of green leaves and the honeyed sweetness of petals. The air was thick with the loveliness of summer. Yet the women approached at the house with an unspoken dread, as an unexploded Miss Underscorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05958155130597530590noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8235791452834740891.post-15520984274905323992020-12-26T10:40:00.001+00:002020-12-26T10:40:22.564+00:00The Sisters: Part 9 In the darkening kitchen at the vicarage, Betty was roused from her memories by the clattering of the heavy front door and the scrabbling of feet and paws on slate. She suddenly became aware of a rhythmic drumming on the windows and a room cast into premature darkness. ‘JustMiss Underscorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05958155130597530590noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8235791452834740891.post-2111836910167481832020-12-25T09:01:00.002+00:002020-12-25T09:01:56.055+00:00The Sisters: Part 8It had been an October night, Betty remembered: damp and drab and sombre as October nights in the north tend to be. Arthur and Betty had been in bed for about an hour when they were woken by a pounding on the back door. Arthur, silent and unruffled as ever, put on his slippers and headed downstairs. Betty stood at the bedroom door, straining to hear over the booming of her heart. She could make Miss Underscorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05958155130597530590noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8235791452834740891.post-59280128216254173812020-12-24T07:55:00.001+00:002020-12-24T07:55:06.049+00:00The Sisters: Part 7Betty plunged her hands into the hot bubbly water and tried to ignore the terrible dread crouching in the very corners of her mind. She had wrapped the leftover picnic food and stored it in the fridge and was now washing the dishes by hand. She had purposefully ignored the dishwasher. She wasn’t entirely sure how it worked; new-fangled technology made her feel old, but more than that, she wanted Miss Underscorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05958155130597530590noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8235791452834740891.post-59229538955718304662020-12-23T09:01:00.000+00:002020-12-23T09:01:21.795+00:00The Sisters: Part 6 As Esther stopped the car, the perfectly-centred front door opened, and Dina barefoot and dressed in a gauzy Victorian nightshirt, came rushing out. Her long dove-grey hair seemed to be alive with static and floated around her head. She brought to mind otherworldly creatures from story books of old: aerial sprites, flower fairies and water nymphs.‘Heavens help us, what is she wearing?’ murmured Miss Underscorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05958155130597530590noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8235791452834740891.post-53205509850475250892020-12-22T09:05:00.001+00:002020-12-22T09:05:50.748+00:00The Sisters: Part 5As expected, Betty was standing outside her front door dressed in her ‘best’ summer raincoat and glowing nut-brown brogues. She stood as straight and proud as a plane tree and held her head high. A small neat suitcase sat obediently next to her on the doorstep. Betty looked like a brave, good girl, summoned to her headmistress to receive instructions for a top-secret mission.‘You look very smart,Miss Underscorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05958155130597530590noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8235791452834740891.post-10056584397393933392020-12-21T09:30:00.000+00:002020-12-21T09:30:57.746+00:00The Sisters: Part 4Esther drove down the colliery’s corridor-like terraces. She had decided to collect Aunt Betty first. That way, Betty could luxuriate the comfort of the front seat and Aunt Rose would have to relegated to the back like the family dog. It was a small conquest, but one that Esther knew her Aunt Betty would note and appreciate. Esther’s own Phone Call of Dread had come the previous Miss Underscorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05958155130597530590noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8235791452834740891.post-40487896178581331842020-12-20T08:24:00.000+00:002020-12-20T08:24:17.358+00:00The Sisters: Part 3Betty would never forget the first time she met Rose. Oh, she knew of her, of course, long before she met Arthur. Rose was the renowned colliery beauty who worked in the ticket booth of the Rialto Cinema. Betty was a regular there. She liked the dazzle and nonsense of a Hollywood film. She’d hoot with laughter at all the fanciful silken costumes (no use at all for swilling out a back yard). Miss Underscorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05958155130597530590noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8235791452834740891.post-32147427893831451892020-12-18T17:58:00.001+00:002020-12-18T17:58:19.934+00:00The Sisters: Part 2Although Betty no longer had Arthur to confide in. Or Napoleon, bless his soft paws, she did look forward to visits from her niece, Esther. They would sit together on the sofa, gossiping in the hushed tones of conspirators. ‘She knows that Monday is my washing day. Monday is always washing day. Has been since Arthur and me first married. It’s deliberate, Esther, you mark my words it’s Miss Underscorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05958155130597530590noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8235791452834740891.post-92044930134167202542020-12-17T18:38:00.001+00:002020-12-17T18:38:06.820+00:00The Sisters: Part 1After enduring her sister in law’s weekly phone call, Betty Wright calmed her jangled nerves with a brisk walk around the colliery. Its humdrum regularity comforted her. The rows of modest, red brick houses spoke of an egalitarian world where no one was better or worse than his neighbour. After half an hour of Rose’s boastful tittering, Betty luxuriated in the unassuming commonality of the Miss Underscorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05958155130597530590noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8235791452834740891.post-63419993316335325372020-12-12T12:45:00.003+00:002020-12-12T12:53:32.128+00:00An intermission. . .Thanks again to anyone who has commented or Tweeted. Before I start the final story of the 'book', some images of the places that inspired the tales.The Ice Cream Parlour The village churchThe Dene, viaduct and headland.Winter and Nell's view of the village green. Alice's cottage to the right. The CollieryHetty, on the headland. Miss Underscorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05958155130597530590noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8235791452834740891.post-57399575022901808202020-12-11T06:17:00.003+00:002020-12-11T06:18:34.676+00:00The Headland: The EndingJohn looked at the toolbox that stood by the door of the shop. His van was parked outside, rear doors open, waiting to be loaded. He was supposed to be fitting new locks for a customer. It was sheer happenstance that he was standing by the phone when it rang. He loathed the telephone. He mostly ignored it, which was not good for business, he knew. Alice felt the same. She was fond of quoting Miss Underscorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05958155130597530590noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8235791452834740891.post-62680591929413471292020-12-10T05:22:00.002+00:002020-12-10T05:22:41.344+00:00The Headland: Part 13 - the phone call‘Oh, Mabel. I am so sorry, I didn’t realise you had company. I’ll take Hetty back home.’ As soon as she and Hetty entered Mabel’s blousy front room, Alice noticed Percy Hillman sat in the armchair by the window. The cadaverous man stood up and gave a shaky bow. With his bald head, heavy-lidded eyes and torpid movements he reminded Alice of a hoary old tortoise.‘Never you mind, my dear. Of course Miss Underscorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05958155130597530590noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8235791452834740891.post-57549863521211274782020-12-09T06:19:00.002+00:002020-12-09T06:19:27.637+00:00The Headland: Part 13 - The GoldfinchesAlthough Alice would never be able to pinpoint exactly when John began to turn away from her, after her visit to his flat the gentle fluidity between them began to harden and cool. Alice sometimes felt she could see the shadow that stalked him, and understood he would never be free of it. The days lengthened with the change of season, and so too did their absences from each other. His distance Miss Underscorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05958155130597530590noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8235791452834740891.post-66031003800389791882020-12-08T06:14:00.001+00:002020-12-08T06:14:32.787+00:00The Headland: Part 12The long winter eventually retreated to her hollow of grey. Like a cat stretching on a step in the sun, the days began to lengthen and warm. Alice and John spent days walking together with Hetty in the dene and along the jagged headland. Nights spent in the cottage on the green were tender and sweet. When John spoke her name, Alice felt a surging sense of weightlessness, freedom and light. It wasMiss Underscorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05958155130597530590noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8235791452834740891.post-7762357219950916402020-12-07T06:04:00.001+00:002020-12-07T06:04:04.402+00:00The Headland: Part 11 - Rebellious Raven‘Well I told her straight, no bushes were beaten around. I told her I hadn’t seen my own natural hair colour since Harold McMillan was Prime Minister, so if she was going to complain about Miss Wright, she’d better condemn me too. I think that drove the point home rather nicely.’ Gillian Howard placed her cup of milky coffee onto its saucer (she would rather die the agonising death of dehydrationMiss Underscorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05958155130597530590noreply@blogger.com1