Stromness Dragon

I recently entered a writing competition where the remit was Flash Fiction - write a story of no more than 50 words, with the story turning on a moment of chance/luck/fate. In the absence of a proper blog - here it is!

If I’d Worn Grey

If I’d worn grey, he wouldn’t have noticed me. But that day, to hasten the spring, I had worn yellow. Collecting limpets, I saw the boat come with its big hairy men. He took me by force; but the bed is comfy and I have all the herring I can eat.

Tags: fiction, Flash, story

In the early 1990s I worked in a bar in the West End of Edinburgh, near to Haymarket station. In those pre-Starbucks days, the large buildings on the corners of the Edwardian terraces were still banks. At the other end of the street could be found the splendidly-named West End Fish and just across the way stood the war memorial erected to the players and supporters of a local football club who had died in the Great War.

Our pub was a mixture of locals’ drinking den (it was a cellar bar) and gastro-pub before they were all the rage. The owners of our place had culinary pretensions, which manifested as Sole Bonne Femme, vegetable crepes and chilli nachos; the one concession to ordinary pub grub was allowed on Sundays, when we did the All Day Breakfasts. You know the thing – sausages, fried egg, bacon, grilled tomato, and occasionally potato waffles – perfect hangover food. They were amazingly popular and we did dozens of them.

After 3 years of working in that place I had gone from a fairly chipper and cheeky barmaid to a snarling surly animal, as I slowly realised that whilst bar and waitressing work was great for supplementing the student grant and handy in times of high unemployment, it was not exactly what I had planned as a full-on career. Customers asked for ice at their peril. To prevent me from scaring people too much, I was given kitchen tasks, and proved to be quite apt. I liked working in the warm kitchen, and was fast with the orders, plus I could develop my soup-making skills. Every day, the duty cook had to make a huge pot of soup for the next day, and I got stuck straight in. I befriended the rather shabby greengrocer across the road (the shop was shabby, not the Italian greengrocer or his two handsome sons), who loved me because I bought all the old, wilted, on-the-turn veg from him; he would save me bunches of sad watercress and asparagus and I would transform them into bowls of delight. To this day I maintain that the best soup is made from vegetables that are past their best. As well as these exotics, I experimented with Broccoli and Brie, Stilton and Celery, Cream of Courgette and the good old leek and tattie. I once made a tureen of carrot and orange soup and a regular (nicknamed Chief, because he called everyone…erm…Chief….) proclaimed it to be ‘beezer soup’ which was a high accolade indeed.

On Sundays the routine was slightly different and I was occasionally on All Day Breakfast duties. I shared this honour turn about with a lad called Gavin, a clever but troubled soul who liked an occasional drink. Gav’s speciality was to take a hot potato waffle, top it with baked beans and grated cheddar, and then stick it under the grill until it bubbled. I was particularly proud of my mushrooms and tomatoes. The months/years wore on. I went part-time just doing lunches, but worked a full day on Sundays. Other employment beckoned and I finally made the decision to leave the bar and stop smelling of deep fat fryers. My last shift was a Sunday and my co-workers Andy, John and Gavin had told me in the previous week that I would have an easy time of it. Gavin would do the breakfasts, the other pair would serve at the bar, and I could lounge about smoking fags and reading the Sunday papers.

For the last time I donned my greying shapeless polo shirt, black leggings and Doc Martens and stomped up the road to work. I had had a few drinks the night before, knowing that the next day would be my last shift, so I was tired and a bit groggy and looking forward to eight hours of tea drinking and toast-eating. I arrived first to find the place empty, so I set about hoovering and putting the chairs down. Andy and John arrived and I announced my intention of getting the kettle on. Ah, they said. There’s been a slight change of plan. Gavin can’t make it. What? Why not? I cried. Well, he was pissed last night and got arrested and spent the night in the police cells. You’ll have to cook the breakfasts.

As fate would have it, it was one of our busiest Sundays for months and I spent hours frying eggs and heating up baked beans, cursing to high heaven and spitting every time I heard Gavin’s name mentioned. Finally, once all the greasy pans had been cleaned, I poured myself a pint and sat at the bar. I was looking forward to going home, having a long bath, reading a book and having an early night. Andy and John popped up. They waved a card at me and handed over a bunch of tatty Michaelmas daisies. What’s this? My last shift. I was leaving. The end of an era. No word of farewells from the owners (who had not known what to make of the world’s grumpiest barmaid with degrees coming out of her ears), or indeed the rest of the staff. I was quite touched that someone had thought to mark the occasion, and we had a few celebratory pints before I headed home.

My years of barwork did nothing for my lungs or my liver, but they honed my soup-making skills a treat. I met some grand folk whilst pulling pints (including Mr Dragon) and I remember my grubby daisies with fondness. But I still had to cook the breakfasts on my last shift and if I ever see Gavin again I will kill him.

Tags: breakfast, Edinburgh, prison, soup, waffles

10 years ago, two pals of ours got married in Ireland. The wedding was in a stunning 12^th century cathedral on the banks of the river Shannon, with baby swallows cheeping away in the rood screen.

The party was in a marquee in the bride’s parents’ garden and we all camped there too, on the spot, allegedly, where the ancient Irish King Brian Boru kept his horses. It was a wonderful event - we’d never been to Ireland and it seemed a perfect opportunity to drink the black stuff and see for ourselves the forty (and the rest) shades of green. For many reasons it was a magical occasion, but it was also the scene of a most embarrassing incident……

Breakfast was in our tent. The bathroom in the house had a rota pinned to the door, and everyone had signed up for a slot to shower, shave, and brush teeth for the big event. The wedding was at 2.00pm and we saw no lunch due to primping and preening and praying that the gossamer-thin stockings wouldn’t ladder. After the lovely ceremony, we high-tailed it back to the marquee, took our seats and eyed up the fabulous-looking buffet laid out on tables along the side. To our slight dismay, instead of getting stuck in to the nosh, we had to sit through several long speeches. My stomach was gurgling loudly and the Guinness I’d had about 1.00pm was mixing uneasily with the champagne being proffered for every toast of the bride and groom.

The last speech was made by the priest, and I am sure my friends will not be offended if I say that he had himself partaken of strong drink, and had a tendency to ramble. He rambled…..and swayed about a bit. And we got hungrier and hungrier as the clock crept past 4 o’clock, and nothing had passed our lips since breakfast except alcohol. My own organs were digesting themselves. Finally, with a magnanimous sweep of his hand, the priest, gesturing towards the groaning buffet table, proclaimed that ‘God helps those who helps themselves! The buffet is now OPEN!’

There was a shuffling of chairs and that moment of awkward looking around, until we decided that somebody had to be first and it might as well be us. Plate and napkin in hand, we started at one end and helped ourselves to poached salmon, salads, baked tatties, and so on. Behind us were the other 100 or so guests, equally hungry and looking forward to tucking in. We spotted a bowl of yummy coleslaw, but no serving spoon. I asked the waitress behind the table for something to scoop up the coleslaw, and was met with a pair of folded arms and withering glance. ‘It is customary in Ireland,’ she said, ‘for the bride and groom to be served first.’

Frozen in our tracks, we turned behind and mortified, spotted the newly married couple about 20 people down the queue, completely doubled-up with laughter.

Never, ever, have I been first to a buffet table again.

Tags: buffet, Ireland, wedding

Should you ever come to Orkney, and want to immerse yourself in a genuine, utterly authentic Orcadian experience, go to Quoyloo and pay a visit to Isbister Brothers.

All over Orkney I know there are similar shops, and they are valuable in so many ways, particularly in the outer islands, but this is the one with which I am most familiar, and love dearly.

The name Isbister is very old. The ‘…bister’ ending appears in place-names and family names throughout Orkney and originates from Old Norse bolstathr, meaning ‘farm’ or ‘dwelling’. You will find them all over the place – Kirbister, Rennibister, Swanbister, and so on. In the case of the shop, and the folk who run it, the pronunciation is ‘Eyes-bister’. If you pass the magnificent Ring of Brodgar on your way to Quoyloo, one of the biggest standing stones near the entrance has a selection of fine 19^th century carved names (the result of widespread literacy after the 1872 Education Act, fact fans), the biggest and best of which is…..you’ve guessed it, Isbister. It is cut deep and even and the letters are beautifully formed. Early advertising, I have no doubt.

The shop itself stands on a crossroads. In mythological and psychological terms, a crossroads is a significant place to be, but that assumes that the roads leading away from the crossroads are actually going anywhere meaningful. The crossroads on which Isbisters’ shop stands is a triumph of non-directness: in fact the whole of Quoyloo is like that – it was described by my friend and blogger Northern Blethers as ‘the lost village of Sandwick’. There are no direct roads here, and the four roads which run off our crossroads go to 1) the Bay of Skaill (not the main road) 2) Birsay (not the main road) 3) Dounby (not the main road) and 4) another bit of Quoyloo. On Google maps we are a collection of ill-defined squiggles with no thoroughfares, and it is here that I have realised a lifelong ambition of living in a house that is not on a named street and has no number. But I digress.

Isbister Brothers is a wonderful shop, and there isn’t much you can’t buy here. Groceries and foodstuffs galore from Tabasco to butternut squash (unavailable at the Co-op), a good selection of local fish (frozen) and regular deliveries of meat from Flett’s the butchers for the carnivores. Home picklers will find large gallon bottles of white or malt vinegar and bakers will benefit from catering size packs of sugar and raisins, plus huge tubs of bicarbonate of soda. Large trays arrive daily with bread and cakes from several Orkney bakeries, and occasionally you will find jars of homemade jam or duck eggs at 25p a piece. There is also a fabulous selection of old fashioned ‘penny sweeties’ in cardboard boxes at handy small-child-finger height, complete with little paper bags on a hook. And there is an array of fags, beers and wines that would put several city off-licences to shame.

Still swithering? Let me show you the non-food section. Rubber gloves. Hammers. Toasters. Workboots. Rat poison, Buckets. Doilies. Roasting tins. Clothes pegs. Wrapping paper. Ruby Wedding clocks. Stationery. Garden tools. Vegetable seeds. Flower vases. Wine racks.

After we had been living nearby for a few weeks, I went in for the papers (as well as stocking The Orcadian and Orkney Today, they will also order and keep for you any paper or magazine you like) and the lassie asked me how I was liking living in Quoyloo. She then said that if there was anything we particularly wanted them to sell, we should just let them know and they would get it. There was, and they did. How’s that for service?

Can it get any better? Yes, it can. For the shop also houses the Post Office. There are three separate signs up telling you the opening hours of the PO, and they are all different, and frankly it kind of depends who’s on that day….but it is there and we use it regularly. As long as what you want to post is small and for the UK, you’ll be just fine. And there’s more! Isbisters is a petrol station too, widely quoted as having the cheapest petrol in Orkney (although this seems to vary). They are the coal merchants too! Outside the shop stands a collection of enormous old railway trucks filled with black diamonds: and when you go to order coal, they ask you if you want Chinese, Polish or Scottish. Is there a difference? I have no idea.

By this time you are probably booking your ticket to Orkney, in order to make your way to this provider of essential vittals. And good for you. But I should give you the following advice – practice your banter, because otherwise you will fail to hold your own against the brothers themselves, Freddy and Tommy Isbister. They are gentlemen of indeterminate age, but we suspect that actually they are ancient beings who have discovered the secret of eternal life. Be prepared for Freddy to regale you with the story of the 1957 blizzards, when Quoyloo was cut off for weeks and the Stromness lifeboat was sent with supplies to the Bay of Skaill, from where the local men rowed them ashore (the photo at the top shows this event, and one of these men is Freddy). Listen as Tommy reminiscences about the Abdication. Gasp as they both recall the sailors of the shipwrecked Spanish Armada crawling up the shore and seducing their daughters. I am fully confident that when Mesolithic man pulled his wood and leather coracle onto the beach, having crossed the Pentland Firth 9,000 years ago and proceeded to hunt and gather on these fertile lands, Tommy and Freddy were there to greet them - purveyors of cider and hi-visibility vests.

And yet, despite these wonders, I have saved the best to last. Round the back of the cavernous, never ending depths of the Isbisters’ store, there is Trevor. Trevor is a mechanic who fixes cars, and does MOT testing. He is a thoroughly lovely man who lives nearby with his young family and has mended our knackered old car on several occasions. Trevor has come to our house and jump-started us more than once, has changed tyres at very short notice, and even came to our rescue during the freezing snow and ice, to fix our dodgy alternator, when he was actually on his holidays. He and his mechanic buddy Erland are experts on Ford cars, and when I was round there last week in the sunshine and saw the two of them tinkering under the bonnet of a sparkling purple Ford Capri (Trevor’s favourite car) I don’t think there could have been two more contented men in Orkney. I had to break their afternoon of fun though, to enable Trevor to hammer off my stuck petrol cap. I chatted to Erland and he ate a packet of Monster Munch as I tried to ignore the banging noise.

So there you have it. Shop, Post Office, petrol station, car mechanic, coal merchant and the best banter this side of Sauchiehall Street. What are you waiting for?!

If you’re out of milk, and the car needs fixed….who you gonna call?

ISBISTERS!

Tags: Isbister, Orkney, Quoyloo, shop

‘Here, let me help you with that.’

Olivia recognised the voice and turned, uneasy, to see Jonathan. It took her a moment to work out the source of her discomfort – he had addressed her in English rather than German. His voice had an American twang she had not noticed before.

‘Oh, hello.’ They looked at each other for a second before she said, ‘Yes please, this wind is playing havoc with the laundry.’ He moved forward and held one end of the sheet whilst she pegged it on the line.

‘Feels like spring today, don’t you think?’ He handed her a peg.

‘Does it? I hadn’t noticed. I’ve been busy’.

‘Yeah,’ he smiled. ‘Sun’s shining, birds are nesting…’ He handed her another peg. ‘…and I’ve got a special treat for you’.

What was he doing here? Infuriating man. She had only met him a few times, and always in the kitchen when he was delivering a parcel.

‘A present? For the convent, you mean?’

‘No, Olivia. A present for you.’

She rummaged in the basket for a pillow case. ‘Is that appropriate?’

‘Well, I don’t know, Fraulein. But I do know that underneath that prim exterior lies….’ - he grinned at her shocked look - ‘….the heart of a true coffee lover.’

Coffee! Her mouth twitched. She hadn’t had proper coffee for months, just horrid powder that tasted like ash. She narrowed her eyes at him but said nothing.

‘You do like coffee, don’t you?’ He looked very roguish standing there.

‘Yes,’ she was wary. ‘How did you know?’

‘Oh, I have my sources.’ He leaned against the clothes line pole and folded his arms.

‘Well yes, as it happens, I do like coffee.’ Olivia straightened up and squared her shoulders. ‘I like it a lot.’

‘OK, Fraulein, I guess this is your lucky day.’ He paused. ‘But you’ve got to come to my room to get it.’

‘Oh! No. No, I couldn’t possibly. It’s simply out of the question.’ She tucked her wandering hair behind her ear, picked up the laundry basket and started to walk back to the laundry. He pushed himself off the pole and ran to catch up.

‘Hey. Hey! I’m sorry! Look, I didn’t mean to frighten you.’

She stopped. He was smiling. She sniffed.

‘Frightened? I’m not frightened,’ she said, scornfully she hoped. Under the terms of her internment, she was not supposed to go anywhere with anyone, except under strict agreement with the German authorities. Her excursions outside the convent trod a well-worn path between various shops: the butcher, the ironmongers, the bakery and so on. If she was caught deviating from the prescribed route the punishment was immediate detention and probably a prison camp.

Jonathan laughed at her expression. ‘Oh gosh, Olivia, you do look magnificent when you’re shooting those withering looks at a poor fellow. C’mon, let me carry that.’ He took the basket. He had large hands with long fingers, she noticed. Glancing at his face, she saw under the dirty blond hair a pair of startling blue eyes – like crushed blue glass they seemed to reflect the light in a hundred different directions.

The convent cat slunk past. A plane droned high over head. What an annoying man! Then – ‘Alright. I’ll do it.’ What was she saying? Had she taken leave of her senses? ‘Give me five minutes and then we can go.’

He looked startled, then pleased. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Five minutes. I’ll be right here.’

The flagstones were unforgiving beneath Olivia’s knees. Her hands were raw and her nails had cracked and flaked. The bristles on the brush, already worn when she had arrived at the convent the year before, were threadbare and ineffectual, and her cold fingers caught painfully under the wooden handle. The soap was as hard and shiny as a stone and yielded no lather despite her vigorous scrubbing. She was exhausted.

There had been an air raid the night before and she had heard the bombers overhead as she scrambled for the cellar. In the panic to get down the steps, a cloaked figure had pushed Olivia hard in the small of her back, causing her to lose her balance and stumble down the last few stairs. In the semi-dark, several arms had reached out to support her.

The cellar had held wine during the Middle Ages, but now lay empty. It was dry and cold and the walls were lined with rotten shelving which the nuns broke up and used to make small fires. The smoke made the atmosphere even more claustrophobic. In the feeble light, Olivia had counted over thirty shapes, which meant there was probably no-one left above in the convent except the bed-bound and Sister Anna, who refused to leave her sick charges.

She had found herself pressed into a corner with Sara, who had grabbed her arm and whispered ‘What were you doing in the kitchen?’ Olivia had the urge to tell Sara the truth – it would be a relief to share the excitement, and the burden. ‘I…’ she stopped and looked at Sara’s eager face. The girl looked so young. Could she trust her? Their friendship, such as it was, rested on the perpetuation of deceit. They had helped one another out, and had worked side by side hoeing turnips, but no real confidences had been exchanged. Olivia knew nothing about why Sara was a convent novice – from her observations she was not at all convinced that there was a vocation at work.

Once a nun took holy orders in a contemplative order her old life was finished – she was reborn in Christ and had little contact with the outside world, stepping away from family, friends, lovers, even children. Novices had several years of preparation, and many left the convent before they adopted the habit permanently. Sara had let slip that she had two older brothers, both in the army. There was also a hint of some misdemeanour in her past, something that had hurried along her entry into the convent, if not actually prompted it. Olivia sensed a strong personality in Sara, but an immature and wayward one, too.

‘I was helping a friend,’ she had said, opting for the half-truth. And that friend, she had thought, with a frustrated thrill, was lying in her bed. Her moment of warmth with Jonathan had barely begun before the sirens sounded and she had to run for the shelter. Jonathan had remained in bed, tired but alert, flexing his bound hand and smiling at Olivia as she cursed and threw on as many clothes as possible. ‘Hey,’ he had said, making a grab for her hand. ‘You saved me.’ He had raised her hand to his battered face and kissed it. ‘Thank you’.

Sara had seemed satisfied with her answer and grinned as a short wide nun bustled down the steps, huffing and puffing. Olivia found herself smiling. She caught Sara’s expression and they stifled a giggle, holding on to one another as the absurdity of the situation struck them. The odour of damp wool mingled with the nuns’ stale breath, and the smoke from the oil lamp. The door to the cellar slammed shut and the last sister was helped down the stairs. They all moved around the cramped space to accommodate the elderly nuns and Olivia and Sara were separated. Sister Maria cleared her throat, and began to sing. One by one the nuns joined in until the sound they made was loud enough to drown out the noise of the sirens, the planes above, and the deep, earth-shaking tremors which were too near for comfort. Who knows, thought Olivia, maybe it had been loud enough to reach God.

When Olivia got back to her room, Jonathan had gone.

Olivia’s feet were like ice. Dressed only in her nightgown she tried desperately to think of a reason why she would be standing in the unlit kitchen at 3.00 in the morning holding a packet of cotton dressings. In the shadows, the nuns were silent and alert to the prospect of trouble and therefore novelty.

‘I was getting…..I needed these….things…..for…um….’she grasped for words.

‘For me!’ The plea burst out and the dark shapes gasped, parting to let Sara through. ‘Begging forgiveness, Sister,’ she said, bowing her head to the nun then looking at her with guileless eyes. Sister Gertrude glared at Sara – a look that had turned many a novice to stone. ‘You, girl? Are you ailing?’ Sara stared at the floor and mumbled something. ‘What are you saying? Speak up, child!’ snapped Sister Gertrude. ‘My monthlies, sister…I…Fraulein Olivia was kind enough to….I’m sorry’. Silence fell and everyone, Olivia included, stared at Sara. Sister Gertrude inhaled loudly. ‘Very well. I will make a report,’ she said, turning to Olivia. ‘Give me those. I shall take care of this.’ She held out her hand and Olivia had no choice but to hand over her bundles. ‘Maria, take the Fraulein back to her cell.’ Led away, Olivia exchanged a brief glance with Sara, and was disturbed to see a gleam of excited complicity in the girl’s eyes.

Thankfully, Sister Maria did not linger at Olivia’s door as she slipped in, grateful for the dark. Jonathan, a huddle shape under her cloak, had slipped into unconsciousness. His hand seemed to have stopped bleeding, but he was deathly cold. She tore up her only undershirt and dressed his wounds as best she could, then gently stripped him of his wet clothes, checking for other injuries and finding nothing worse than bruises.

Despite his recent troubles and the hardships of the war that they all suffered, Jonathan seemed a reasonable specimen. It was not, she mused, as if she had much to compare – the only other male form she had tended at close quarters had been her elderly father. Jonathan was lean, with a tall, wiry frame and a taut stomach. Olivia’s nursing skills had been largely confined to care of the old, but she remembered reading somewhere (a book of Eskimo lore, she fancied) that the best way to warm someone up was through the direct exchange of body heat.

The bed was small and Jonathan was tall, and it felt awkward to move him. She rolled him onto his side and removing her nightgown, climbed in and wrapped her body around his, pulling the blankets over both of them. Her nose was buried in his neck: his damp hair smelt of smoke. As she pressed closer into his back and curled her legs around him, she decided that Eskimo wisdom was not without its merits. After a while, his breathing deepened and he relaxed into her embrace, warmth creeping back into his body. Her last memory before drifting into sleep was Jonathan easing himself round to face her and without opening his eyes, reaching out a hand to touch her face.

When I was growing up, we lived in a red brick 1950s council house, built to house the London overspill following the Blitz. It was on the edge of the town and the garden backed onto a playing field, which was itself surrounded by fields and ditches and hedgerows – a haven for children growing up and a place of skinned knees, scratched arms, nettle stings, bumped heads, first kisses and all the rest.

When we moved into the house, my parents’ bedroom had thick wallpaper in various shades of cream and black and brown, featuring a nautical theme of galleons in full sail. Having, as my mother so descriptively puts it, ‘not even a pot to piss in’, the redecorating of their bedroom came fairly low down the list of priorities, well after kids’ shoes, cats and Puffin Book Club purchases. For about 4 years they put up with those ships, until my mother tried to persuade my father to strip off the wallpaper in preparation for redecorating. After months of nagging had failed to do the trick, my mother, armed with a kitchen knife and a washing up bowl full of soapy water, did the job herself. The walls beneath were solid enough, and a sort of greyish plaster. Now all they needed to do was repaper the walls and paint them whatever colour they fancied.

A year or two passed. My father showed no signs of enthusiasm for the great decorating project, and my mother resorted to guerrilla tactics. ‘If you don’t decorate the bedroom,’ she threatened, ‘I’ll get the children to do it!’ And he would laugh and go back to his crossword.

One wet day in early February, my brother and I returned from school to find Mum waiting for us with tea and toast. She then produced two big boxes of thick crayons, led us upstairs and told us to decorate her bedroom walls! It must be every child’s dream to have such a large canvas, and we took full advantage of it. Well, my brother got bored after about 20 minutes and went off to do something else, but I got more and more exuberant as the time went on. I started with a big tabby cat, whiskers extended and tail curled. Then I drew a rainbow above the bed, using every colour in the crayon pack, whether they were in the spectrum or not. I tried to draw us, but didn’t do very well ( I was only 8 years old at the time). Then, I struck upon the brilliant idea of drawing Mr Men. They were simple shapes, lovely colours, and had lots of personality! So I ran to my brother’s room and demanded all the Mr Men books he had. Two hours later I had covered the walls, and the pièce de résistance was a magnificent Mr Tickle, a beautiful orange blob with enormous long wavy arms that went all the way around the room. I used two whole orange crayons for him and wore them down to tiny stubs that my fingers could barely hold.

When my father came home he went upstairs to change, and me and Mum held our breath as he walked into the bedroom. There was a stunned silence, a sort of growl, then a chuckle, then a full shout of laughter as he realised what had happened. And do you know something? Those Mr Men were still there 4 years later!

Eventually, as time went on and my brother and I moved towards adolescence, my mother eventually realised that if there was any decorating to be done, she would have to do it herself. The walls of the bedroom were finally papered in woodchip (yep, parental units were still spending all the housekeeping money on books and red wine), and painted with white emulsion. After three heavy coats of paint, Mr Tickle was finally rendered invisible. About 5 years ago, my parents moved out of that house, where they had lived for over 30 years. By that time they had bought it, and like a lot of houses on the street, it had new windows and doors and you would be hard pressed to tell it was ever a council house. Being within easy commuting distance from London, yet right on the edge of lovely countryside, the town where I was brought up had become fashionable and affluent, meaning my folks could sell up and buy a cottage in Suffolk. They sold the house to a lovely young couple with two small children. And I wonder what they thought when they decorated the bedroom and stripped off the old 1970s woodchip wallpaper and found what was underneath…….

Tags: crayons, decorating, Mr Tickle

It was raining so hard that at first Olivia did not hear the knocking at her window. She had gone to bed, exhausted, before Compline, earning herself glances of envy from the novices, who had sent spent much of the day working in the kitchen garden. Olivia had helped them brush their long skirts but the heavy cloth had been soaked and filthy, dragging around their ankles. Whilst the religious duties of the day were far from over, her own work was done. She felt achy and bad-tempered and decided it would be best if she retired for the night. Her bed was not built for comfort, but the scratchy woollen blankets were thick and heavy and she was grateful for them as she lay and listened to the relentless downpour.

She drifted in and out of sleep before dowsing her lamp. She dreamt that someone was calling her name and that she, statue-like, could not move to answer the summons. One moment the supplicant was her father calling for a glass of water, the next it was a child, weeping for its mother. When she finally struggled to wakefulness, she heard the rhythmic knocking on the glass and an increasingly urgent whisper. ‘Olivia! Olivia, for God’s sake! It’s Jonathan, let me in! Olivia, wake up! Please!’

In darkness she stumbled to the window and dragged open the shutter. As her eyes adjusted she could see the sheen of water on the cloister and the figure pressed against the wall. Her cold fingers fumbled with the latch, and he clambered in, collapsing on the floor, breathing heavily as a puddle formed around him. ‘What’s going on?’ she hissed. ‘Are you hurt? What are you doing here?’

Jonathan did not speak but pushed himself up into a sitting position. Groping for the lamp, Olivia struck a flame and turned it down low. The yellow glow revealed a sorry sight: Jonathan, soaked to the skin, had clearly been in a fight and had come off worst. His face was badly beaten and his left eye was closed and swollen. His right arm hung limp at his side and as Olivia’s eyes adjusted to the dim light she could make out the misshapen bloody mess of his hand. Her stomach heaved as she watched his fingers twitch in pain. Pulling her cloak from her bed, she wrapped it around him and made him stand, supporting his weight. She led him to the bed and he made no sound as she lay him down against the hard pillow. ‘Stay here,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t move, or we’re both done for.’

Heart thumping, Olivia found her keys and slipped out of her cell into the corridor. She had no idea of the time, and prayed fervently (the irony not lost on her) that the nuns were at office, or asleep. The medical stores were in a small cupboard in a corner of the kitchen, which meant crossing the cloister. The rain was easing but it wasn’t until she felt the water splashing on her ankles that she realised she was barefoot. From across the courtyard she caught a twinkle of candle and a phrase of plainchant that she recognised as Matins – that meant it was almost three o’clock. Trying to make as little sound as possible, she felt her way across the kitchen and round the large table in the middle.

Lifting her keys gently, she slid the key into the lock and eased open the medical cupboard. As she reached in to find dressings, her elbow nudged the door and she dislodged the key, sending the ring to the floor with a clatter. The noise of metal on stone seemed to ring out for hours, and Olivia’s heart stopped.

Within a few seconds, a rustle of cloth announced the arrival of Sister Gertrude and several other figures, clustered in the dark and sensing drama.

‘What is this? What is happening? What are you doing in here?’ Sister Gertude stared at Olivia and raised her lamp. She stood, clutching the packages of bandages and dressings to her chest. There was nowhere to go.

‘Sister,’ she said, trying to slow her breathing. ‘I did not mean to disturb you, please accept my apologies.’ The nun’s eyes were flat and hard. ‘I repeat, Fraulein, what are you doing?’ How could she explain what she was doing raiding the medical cupboard in the middle of the night? Sister Anna, who ran the infirmary, dealt with the sick or injured of the convent – she would surely have known if anyone needed medical attention. At best, Olivia might be accused of stealing supplies to sell on the black market; at worst…well, she didn’t want to think about that. Whatever happened, Jonathan was lying hurt in her bed and she had to get him out.

The stairs to Herr Jonathan’s room were narrow and they had to go in single file. He led the way up three flights, passing several dusty, drab doors before they reached his, tucked under a roof slope. He held open the door for Olivia in mock ceremony, pulling off his hat and bowing, his dark blonde hair sticking up as he grinned. ‘Fraulein,’ he teased.

She began to wonder if this was a good idea – after all, what did she really know about him? He came to the convent regularly to deliver parcels of food and clothing, but where he got the sugar and thick cotton and other rationed goods she did not ask. Her job was merely to write it in the stock ledger and store it carefully. Sometimes, weeks might pass without him coming, but after these absences he usually returned with something special. It was on such an occasion that he discovered her secret vice – coffee. Since coming to the convent she had barely touched a cup and what she had managed to find was certainly not worthy of the name. ‘Ol-iv-ia,’ he had said, rolling her name around with his mid-Atlantic drawl. ‘I have real coffee in my room, you know. And a book I think you might like.’ Careful, said a voice in Olivia’s head. What’s the harm? said another, louder voice.

Jonathan’s room was plain and held little in the way of furniture. It was devoid of personal effects, not unlike the convent cell she inhabited. Whilst he busied himself with a gas ring and a brown package with a very tantalising aroma, she looked around at the bare walls, chest of drawers and single iron-framed bed. On the small cabinet next to the bed was a book, its title hidden from Olivia’s view.

‘I’ve forgotten something,’ said Jonathan, standing. ‘An extra treat for you. I’ll be right back,’ and smiling, he opened the door, heading for the stairs. She could hear his footsteps and deduced he was taking the steps two at a time. She leaned forward and pushed the book with her forefinger, turning it just enough to see the gold-embossed lettering on the spine. She was craning to read the title when he bounded back up the stairs, startling her. She jumped, and her hand struck the book, knocking it to the floor. Flustered, she knelt to pick it up and found that was well as the book, she had dislodged an identity card.

The photo was unmistakeably him – the rumpled hair, clean shaven, and eyes which even in the small black and white picture seemed to pick up and refract light in a thousand different directions. As Olivia’s heart took an unexpected jolt, she caught sight of the name on the card. It was not his. For a few seconds, the room was still and silent as she half-crouched on the floor, Jonathan looking at her as he clutched a white paper bag spotted with grease.

‘I’m sorry,’ she blushed. ‘I didn’t mean….’. He stepped forward and took the card from her hand. ‘Olivia,’ he said briskly. ‘I should explain….’ Then he seemed to run out of words. ‘I’m not…I was…’. Olivia looked into his handsome face. He tried again to find the words. ‘It’s standard in my line of work, you know, to have several identities,’ he said. ‘It makes things less complicated.’

‘Less complicated?’ she said. She sat down heavily on the bed. ‘Jonathan, who are you?’