Best Years of Your Life

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Best Years of Your Life

There’s the dress, the shoes, the hair – with or without tiara? And you must get the transport right. Pink Mini Cooper? Stretch Limo? Tacky, but what the heck.

My son preferred a lift in a vintage Cadillac and his Dad’s suit – fitted so well my husband never saw it again. My daughter, in gold home-sewn prom dress, walked there under a polka-dot umbrella.

But what a nuisance: the library taken over by chatting teenagers for weeks before exams, the park and playground filled with them hanging out doing nothing much afterwards. I won’t miss any of that.

Actually, it breaks my heart.

Miranda Lewis 2020

(Genre: unreliable memoir)

It’s Friday so I’m late once again to Friday Fiction and I find myself not very fictional.

Today, as schools close across the UK, I am just so sad for the children and young people, particularly those at crucial rite-of-passage stages of their education. No chatting instead of revising in the library for them, no prom night. My library will not be full of irritating teenagers this year as it will be closed; when I stroll through the park (alone) this May and even June there won’t be large groups of teenagers celebrating the end of exams and the start of a long summer by doing nothing in particular together. I still have exam nightmares but now realise there’s something worse than exams – no exams.

Thanks to our host Rochelle who deserves her own Friday Fiction purple Limo to conduct her to story land each week, and  to J Hardy Carroll for the photo prompt.

Thanks to all who visit and especially those who stay to comment. Keep well my fiction friends.

No such thing as a prom (that more recent import from the USA!)  when I took O-levels in the long hot summer of 1976. But quite a bit of fun as I recall. Yours truly below!

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Pretending to Care

This short story was written as part of a writing project, funded by the Heritage Lottery Fund and associated with the Sutton (South London) Past on Glass project.

The story is based on one of the thousands of images of local people taken by photographer David Knights-Whittome, between 1904 and 1918. To find out more about the discovery and preservation of this amazing local archive of places, events and most of all the local residents of Sutton, visit the Past on Glass wordpress blog.

Below is the lovely Miss Daly, photographed in 1905, who inspired my story for the project. I don’t know Miss Daly’s first name, but to me she is, now and forever, my little Iris.

Pretending to Care is entirely fictional and is not based on any real people, places or events.

Pretending to Care

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Chestnut Avenue Care Home, 2010

They like to pretend they care. That’s why it’s called a care home, I suppose.

Yesterday it was the one with the eyebrows serving the mess they call lunch.

I’d have been an opera singer, if it hadn’t been for the war.

That’s interesting, Iris, she said.

She couldn’t care any less if she tried. Thinks I don’t know the difference.

Chocolate pudding, Iris dear.

It’s the skinny one today.

Thank you, I say. My favourite.

This one at least has a bit more wit behind the orange war paint. It used to be the thing to be pale. A lady stayed out of the sun. All nonsense of course. Bodies, appearance; all vanity. All useless in the end.

Is it your favourite, Iris? Chocolate pudding, really?

No idea, I reply.

Body worn out, or almost; mind like a frayed ribbon.

So what’s the tastiest pudding in the whole wide world? If you could have anything you wanted. Have a think, Iris.

I can’t help giving a snort. But I never did like to disappoint people. A people pleaser they call it nowadays, as if it’s a condition, a bad thing. Perhaps they’re right.

Parties, I say. Birthday parties.

Me too, I love parties, she says. So what food did you have? Jelly? Trifle?

Blind man’s bluff, I say. And piggy-in-the-middle.

She kneels down on the floor next to my chair and pats my hand.

Shall we go back there? See what’s for tea?

As I said, I like to please. She looks so keen, I can’t just tell her to get lost, can I?

Sardines all over the house. Oranges and lemons say the bells of St Clement’s.

Presents too. Nicest one ever was a fur coat, soft as a kitten’s paw, from my dear Papa. A gorgeous fluffy hat to match. I was as cosy as an Eskimo. Papa tweaked my cheek and sent me down to the drawing room to show all the family. ‘Look at Iris!’ my brother Lionel shouted when I trotted in, so eager to please the gathering of aunts and uncles. ‘She’s a roly-poly Swiss roll, with a mighty meringue on the top!’ They all laughed of course. It’s what grown-ups do. I can still see their vile faces. Double chins wobbling, false teeth rattling. And the children laughing too. Fat cousin Francis with his tiny eyes shining, like buttons stitched into a cushion. Even my adored mother smiled, though she pretended not to when I hid my face in her lap.

I wake with a jolt. The skinny one is shaking my shoulder.

Wakey-wakey, Iris! Naughty thing, you fell asleep on me. We’ll never find that favourite pudding!

Meringue, I say. A huge, fluffy white meringue.

That’s wonderful. You remembered. Shall we see if we can make it for you sometime?

I nod. This one really does care. Gets it all wrong of course, but she tries.

I never could stand my brother Lionel. He was a bully to the core. Christmas, summer, I’d count the days until he went back to school. I found a baby rabbit once, kept it in a box in the gardener’s hut. It wouldn’t have lasted I suppose, poor little motherless thing, but I loved it nonetheless. Lionel let the dog in deliberately. Bit its neck right through. Baby rabbit head left on the floor for me to find.

The day Lionel went for good it felt as if the whole house sighed with relief. I can picture him now, suddenly apprehensive in his officer’s uniform. Would the bully be bullied, or worse? I covered my face with Papa’s handkerchief to hide the fact that I didn’t care if I never saw him again.

So you see there’s nothing new you can teach me; I know all there is to know about pretending to care.

Miranda Lewis 2017

Steam Trains and Bunting

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Steam Trains and Bunting, Red Flannel Petticoats and Buns for Tea

The 1970 film of the Railway Children (with the lovely Jenny Agutter as teenage Bobby/Roberta) transported me to the Edwardian countryside for a spiffing adventure of mild peril and temporary muddles.

Thirty years later Jenny Agutter played the mother in a television version. Are you enjoying it? I asked my small son. Yes, but Bobby is being very silly and pretending to be the mum. Confusing!

One day maybe, I’ll stoke up the old video player and chug off on a nostalgic journey with my grandchildren. And for Bobby’s famous line – Daddy, my Daddy! – it will be hankies all round once again.

Miranda Lewis 2019

(Genre: unreliable memoir)

Welcome to Friday Flash Fiction! (Yes I do know it’s still Thursday and I am aware this isn’t really fiction.) A big brass-band-and-bunting thanks to our host Rochelle and a wave from the platform to Sandra Crook who supplied the photographic inspiration.

Steam trains will always conjure up E. Nesbit’s The Railway Children for me: girls in white pinafores and ribbons, boys in britches and caps; happy endings and of course those buns for tea.

Thanks to all who visit and most especially to those who stay to comment. For a world of other stories step aboard here.

Spoiler alert, this is that famous tear-jerker of a scene form the 1970 film (Jenny Agutter as Bobby)…

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xkHTT3dJL9E

And actually I won’t even need to preserve my old video of the 2000 TV version because it’s here in its entirety. An hour and a half well spent I’d say! (Confusingly Jenny Agutter as the Mum!)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h3zO0zm5FTU

 

Sixties Childhood

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Sixties Childhood

I’m old enough to remember those callers to the house who have now disappeared – the knife-sharpening man, the fizzy-pop man. Mostly men it seems, though once a traveller-woman persuaded my mother to part with a lovely summer dress.

After the brooms-and-mops man had called my mother would give me the sweet little sample tins of polish and I’d buff up the miniature piano in my dolls house.

Oddly the sitting-room in my doll’s house– polished piano, too many pictures on the walls and a large clock, made out of an old watch– very much resembled my real sitting-room today.

M J Lewis 2016

Welcome to all who visit Friday Fiction and a particular thanks to those who stay to read and comment. Thanks as ever to our host, the writer and artist Rochelle and also to the Friday Fiction regular and writer, Claire Fuller who supplies the photo this week.

(Please note all Friday Fiction photos are copyright and should only be posted in conjunction with Friday Fiction or by permission of the photographer.)

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The Imposter

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The Imposter

I suspected my father was an imposter the day he accepted and smoked a cigarette. We were staying with distant cousins at their strange lakeside house. That my mother would behave differently was predictable – lipstick a deeper pink, laugh shrill. But my father.

Back home he still wore his old summer shirt, with the open weave that looked like a dish-cloth, but I kept vigil through eight-year-old eyes.

Later, at a faraway airport I watched as my new husband clasped my father’s limp old hand in easy greeting and realised that it was I, all along, who had been the imposter.

M J Lewis 2016

Welcome to all who visit Friday Fiction and a particular thanks to those who stay to read and comment. Thanks as ever to our host, the writer and artist Rochelle and also to the Friday Fiction regular, C.E.Ayr who supplies the photo this week.

(Please note all Friday Fiction photos are copyright and should only be posted in conjunction with Friday Fiction or by permission of the photographer.)

The Whole Wide World

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The Whole Wide World

She loved the big atlas in the dusty corner of the schoolroom. Her tiny fingers paddling across the mighty oceans, she visited the whiskered Chinaman and the black-skirted lady outside her little white house.

At playtime she tipped her chin to the sky, opening her arms to embrace it all and turning round and round as she pictured the people – North, South, East and West – living their strange lives beyond the stamped earth of the schoolyard.

Miss James sighed. At least that funny little mouse was a quiet one; but really, what was the point of educating farm labourers’ children?

M J Lewis 2016

Welcome to Friday Fiction, hosted by writer and artist Rochelle Wissoff-Fields. Thanks also to Jan Marler Morrill who provided this week’s photo prompt. To visit more 100 word stories from around the whole wide world click here.

Here in the UK – don’t shout it too loud – summer finally seems to be arriving. No rain so far this week of Wimbledon, that resilient Scott Andy Murray through to the next round (although wouldn’t have minded if the lovely Tsonga had won through) and the Welsh football team playing Portugal as I write this.

Hope all is well with you and yours in these uncertain and troubling times.

Miranda

When Dad’s Away

When Dad’s away my mother blooms,

a princess in peachy lace,

gives the hoover the run around

serenading the baby on her satin hip.

 

We feast on scrumbled eggs and tin salmon

cross-legged on old magazines in front of the telly,

let the baby suckle to kitten-soft sleep,

leave the fairies the dishes.

 

Night-time my brother takes the dog to bed

and I whisper waking spells,

crossing fingers three times, three times, three o’clock,

to tiptoe to the big bed

and lie in the lee of her back.

 

Miranda Lewis 2016

Circle Time

Wrote this a long time ago and (appropriately or not?) I’m coming full circle to edit and post it now. Having problems at the moment committing myself to anything longer than flash fiction. Keep starting things and abandoning them… Ideas are never a problem; it’s sorting the good from the indifferent, making decisions, keeping going that all feels out of sorts. So instead I’m reading and editing old stuff.

If you have a read, thanks! And do let me know what you think.

Miranda

Circle Time

Break time: movement, sunlight and noise fill the playground. Inside, a girl races along a shaded corridor, two long brown plaits streaming behind. Her face is flushed, exhilarated.  She turns a corner sharply and escapes through an open door, into the noise and light of the playground.

At the other end of the corridor in a large, gloomy cloakroom a boy – short and stocky – walks between vertical lines of coats and bags, his face scrunched. He is trying not to cry.  He holds a backpack in one hand and reaches into it with the other. Piece-by-piece he is emptying the bag – pencil case, football boot, water bottle – flinging things to the four corners of the room, bellowing as he lets each object go.

***

On Sunday nights Annie likes to stay awake as long as possible. Tonight, as usual, in the familiar shadows cast by her nightlight, object-by-object she checks the possessions spread around her, lingering over those that are most significant. She can sense rather than see the coloured edge of the 1000-piece Degas jigsaw amongst a pile of boxed games on a shelf. She has stared at the dreamy picture on the lid, of floating dancers in smudgy blue dresses, but has never tipped out the thousand pieces as far as she can remember. She pauses at the shadowy humps at the end of her bed; one is her Dad’s old teddy bear and the other the beautifully dressed rag-doll, with multicoloured hair, that her mother made for her, the Christmas Annie was three.

Annie hears her father coming up the stairs to bed and calls softly.

‘Dad! Dad!’

‘Did I wake you, Annie?’

‘No, I wasn’t asleep yet.’

‘Oh, Annie sweetheart.’ He sighs as he pushes open the door. ‘It’s half eleven.’

‘Dad?’ She holds out a hand to draw him into the room. ‘Mum was a vegetarian wasn’t she, ever since you met her?’

Annie’s father takes the offered hand, sits down on the bed.

‘Yes, since she was at university, before we even met. What is it, Annie?’

‘We had turkey nuggets again last week, at Auntie Pat’s. Me and Adrian. I had to eat them so he would.’

‘Annie, love, she’s your Mum’s sister. She’s doing us a big favour.’

Annie rolls over onto her side and curls her body around her father’s seated form, then snuggles her face into the pillow. If she were a cat she’d purr, both for the comfort of it and to keep him there.

‘Stop worrying and go to sleep now. You’ll be tired in the morning. You know what Miss Stevens said, about being a bit more with it at school, Poppet.’

It is her turn to sigh.

Gently he sweeps Annie’s fringe to one side, then strokes the mass of dark curls that spread across the pillow as she drifts off to sleep. Tomorrow morning, Annie’s Aunt will brush and pull and twist Annie’s unruly locks into two long plaits, to save time during the school week.

***

At eleven o’clock every Wednesday it was Circle Time in every classroom at Annie’s school. In class 5, Miss Stevens was sitting with her whole class in a circle of chairs, holding a small green wooden frog. Children had swapped places across the circle according to eye colour or month of birthday – all without too much giggling and bumping – and now it was time for the game of passing the magic box.

Annie enjoyed Circle Time with Miss Stevens. Her teacher was young and for the most part cheerful and she didn’t make you join in the discussion bits, unless you wanted to. The children passed the green frog round the circle as a signal to speak. Instead of the funny wooden animal, Annie imagined that she saw a real magic box, oval shaped with a pink varnished lid and delicate ornate hinges. She imagined it cradled by each child as she pictured each of their suggestions – in my box there’s a magic dragon, a jet-propelled skateboard, a fifty-pound note.

Terry, as usual, said he would take a football out of the box and some children groaned or laughed, even though in Circle Time, Miss Stevens reminded her class, you were supposed to let everyone say what they really did wish was in the box and it was not a competition. Can’t it at least be some sort of football with magic powers? Annie thought. She could tell Miss Stevens didn’t really like Terry and the way he and his friends tried to put people off, even if she had told them all not to laugh at Terry’s football.

The frog was passed to Annie.

‘In my box I’ve found a tiny ginger kitten, with lovely green eyes,’ she said, suddenly speaking up, her voice squeaky and unfamiliar even to herself.

‘Beautiful, Annie!’ Miss Stevens smiled encouragement.

Annie looked down into her lap. She didn’t like to see the way some children smiled sarcastically across the circle. Beside her, Hayley tapped Annie’s chair gently with her foot. It was Hayley who’d shown Annie the pictures of her cat’s litter of kittens at break time.

The game over, children shared an achievement or news, but you didn’t have to. Annie was still thinking about Hayley’s photos. How lovely it would be to actually own one of those kittens and to say something real in the news section for once. She’d had a lovely weekend with Dad, but that seemed a long time ago now and anyway too private, so she passed as usual on her turn.

‘So, any problems to report before we finish?’ Miss Stevens was using her singsong Circle Time voice. ‘We’ll go this way round this time.’

She passed the wooden frog. Tom shook his head, as did Jenny next to him.

‘One of my gel pens went missing from my bag again,’ said the next girl.

‘My new football boots ended up in lost property last Friday night. My Mum was fed up waiting for me,’ said the boy next to her.

‘Yeah! Stuff is still being chucked about in the cloakroom, Miss,’ said a tall girl across the other side of the circle.

‘Take turns please, Kirsty.’ Miss Stevens’ voice was sharp.

‘Okay, sorry Miss. But what’s the point anyway? We’re supposed to tell the truth in Circle Time, but we’re not allowed to say who’s doing it.’ Kirsty shrugged. ‘That doesn’t make sense.’

‘You said it might stop if we all talked about it.’ This boy was red and agitated, unlike Kirsty, nervous at speaking up. ‘But people are still being pushed about in there at home time.’

Around the circle children started to mutter in agreement. Head still bowed, Annie watched Miss Stevens from under her fringe.

‘And Abby got thumped yesterday in the library when she was changing her reading book, only she was scared to say,’ said one of Kirsty’s friends above the noise.

Several children looked at Terry who sat squat and defiant, protected by two taller friends left and right. Annie eyed his round cheeks and tight little features; tomato-face she thought to herself, stupid squinty little tomato-face.

‘Me?’ he mouthed, pointing a fat finger at his own chest and staring across at Kirsty and her friends.

‘Don’t worry, Terry,’ said the boy next to him. ‘She can’t mention anyone’s name you know, it’s Circle Time.’

‘You all know the rules; you can all tell me things in private, outside Circle Time.’ Miss Stevens’ voice was stern and hard as she stood up to gain control. ‘Then we can try to sort this out. Come and see me this lunchtime.’ She indicated Kirsty and her friend.

Miss Stevens glanced at the faces around her. The changing places games were designed to mix the class up, but she could clearly see the little groups, the clusters of friends, the alliances, arranged around her circle, the ridiculous Terry protected left and right.

‘Now let’s just finish properly,’ she said, resuming her gentler voice. She sat herself back into the circle. ‘Give Annie the frog please. Your turn.’ She knew Annie would just pass it on, get them back on track.

Annie stared at the frog in her lap. ‘I just think that, well I think that we should try to get along, to think about everyone’s feelings,’ she mumbled.

‘How sensible, Annie. We should try to think about each other’s feelings. I think that’s where we’ll finish for today.’

And Miss Steven’s stood up to signal Circle Time was over.

‘What about my go then,’ said Terry. ‘People over here haven’t said nothing yet.’

Miss Stevens stared at him. ‘Well go on then,’ she said coldly but she didn’t bother to sit back down in her precious circle or pass the frog. ‘And make it quick.’

‘I got thumped in the cloakroom too,’ said Terry. ‘And last time it was by her!’

He pointed across the circle at Annie. Miss Stevens watched as Annie looked up, her usual distracted expression replaced by a tense frown. And who could blame her. Terry’s friends started to laugh, whilst all around children talked to each other animatedly. Only Terry and Annie were silent, as Miss Stevens quickly stepped into the circle between them.

‘Thank you, Terry,’ she said. ‘Well you know I’m available in private at lunchtime to discuss any problems, if you can tear yourself away from your usual football game that is.’

Miss Stevens was aware that the sneer in her voice sounded nothing like the caring unflustered teacher on the Circle Time training video, but she was also aware of the smirk on Kirsty’s face.

‘Chairs away now please, sensibly.’

***

At five o’clock, Terry walks home from school. He’s hung around outside his friend Paul’s house for a while, having goes on his bike, until Paul’s mum has called Paul in for his tea. Now he’s slowly walking back along the high street, past the emptying shops, to his own house. Terry swings his bag back and forth across his body, banging his right leg then his left as he trudges along. He feels in his trouser pocket. There’s the note Miss Stevens has written especially and given him to remind his mum about parents’ evening. Miss Stevens hadn’t even mentioned Circle Time when she had given it to him at the end of the day. Stupid bitch with her pathetic frog and swapping games. Terry clutches the piece of paper, screwing it up inside his pocket.

Across the road in the traffic, waiting at the lights, Terry notices a white car with windows open and music pounding. Someone is waving. His sister is leaning across the driver, waving frantically, her blond hair draped over the steering wheel.

‘Terry! Terry!’ she calls. ‘Want a lift home?’

She’s supposed to get his tea when she gets in from school, before their mum comes home at six, but she’s usually out with her friends.

‘Come on, Tel, room for a little one.’

Terry’s face remains blank but he checks the road and begins to cross between the stationary cars. Just as he reaches the traffic island in the centre, the lights change and the white car moves off in the line of traffic, leaving him stranded there as cars stream by in both directions, gathering speed. He can just make out another girl in the back now, behind his sister. They’ll be having a good laugh at his expense.

***

Break time. In the corner of a large, gloomy cloakroom a girl sits on a wooden bench, gently tapping her feet against the wire shoe rack beneath. She is reading a book and humming to herself as she nestles against one of the hanging coats. A boy comes into the cloakroom, walks between a row of coats and tugs open a backpack hanging there.

Annie sees him at the end of the row where she sits. It’s Terry. She shrinks further back into her coat. Terry looks down the aisle at Annie. She’s not the sort of girl you would thump. Not that she would thump back, or tell. He starts pulling something from the bottom of the bag.

‘Annie! Annie!’ he says in a surprisingly soft, singsong voice. ‘Be kind to Annie please, children,’ he chants.

He turns to face her.

‘Your Mum must have hated you, to go and top herself.’

Annie feels squashed into her corner; she can hardly breathe. She looks at his round face, its tiny features and with a great effort she gets up and takes a single step towards him. She can feel her legs trembling.

‘And you must hate yourself,’ she says quietly. Her voice is shaking too, but it comes out louder now. ‘Be kind to Terry children, he’s fat and stupid!’

He stares at her, amazed. Would Miss Stevens really say that?  He wouldn’t put it past her.

Terry watches as Annie begins to walk directly towards him. She moves steadily, one step at a time. It is Terry who is frozen now, unsure how to respond. She raises the book to shield her face from his stare and then, as she passes him, with a tiny animal noise, half-way between a sob and a laugh, she slices the book sharply with surprising force towards the side of his head. Terry stumbles backwards, but Annie is too quick and the book catches his ear painfully.

***

Annie has passed him now and is out of the cloakroom. She can feel her heart pounding as she races along the shaded corridor, two long brown plaits streaming behind. Her face is flushed, exhilarated. She turns the corner sharply and escapes through the open door, into the noise and light of the playground.

M J Lewis 2016

The Best Holiday Ever

The Best Holiday Ever

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The Best Holiday Ever

Chateau or Tepee? Mountains or beach? No contest; the half-term my sister was born and it rained all week.

Dad away, on business he said, we shut the curtains and had an indoors holiday. Mum lovely in peachy slip, wild curly hair and pink lipstick; sister swaddled like a tiny milk-bottle. Porridge for lunch, baked-beans for tea; silly games, daft jokes.

And nighttimes, floating off to dreamland on the wide, high raft of the big bed as my brother sang a lullaby, so sweet the tears trickled down our Mum’s cheeks and onto the dark head suckling at her breast.

M J Lewis ©2016

This is completely fictional (and I have strayed far from the prompt!) but I will say, in this wild wide world of extremes and excitement, tucked away in my store of memories are many of the simplest pleasures of life.

Thanks as always to the amazing Rochelle. For a stroll on the sandy beach of Friday fictional delights click here. Thanks to C. E. Ayr for the photo.

Dream Girl by Miranda Lewis – Prologue

PART ONE, GIRL

Do you sleep well, all safe and sound at night? All tucked up tight, don’t let the bugs bite? I used to. I was never one of those kids who hated going up to bed, who kicked up a fuss at bath time, pleading for five more minutes.

Mind you, I didn’t always go to sleep.  Some nights I liked to read – book propped on my knees, one hand on the light switch listening for Gran’s slippered tread on the stairs. Fairy stories usually, or a comic Gran had bought with her newspaper. Or if I didn’t feel like reading I’d lie on my back and stare at the ceiling, searching for familiar faces in the patched-up plaster or humming to myself as I sailed the seas between the tiny raised islands and strange shaped continents.

No, I wasn’t afraid then, night-time noises didn’t bother me. A shout outside, the rattle of a water pipe, a buzz in my ear – they only made me feel safe and warm, a little girl tucked up tight in her narrow bed.

And when I slept, I slept well, opening my eyes to the light through the flimsy curtains, the miracle of hours passing.

Not now though, not anymore. Don’t drift off to dreamland – too many dark spaces waiting to swallow you up. Don’t even close your eyes.  Too many pictures waiting there, waiting to pull you in: candles in saucers measuring out the length of a cold dark hall; a library of old books, shelves climbing to the cobwebbed ceiling. Pull out an ancient tome and you half expect something to scuttle away into the back of the bookcase on clawed feet.

The curve of a stair twisting up into the velvet darkness, and on each step a tiny flickering flame; a bedroom cold as a cave, hidden deep within the dark house; an old wardrobe with something charred and dreadful hanging between the coats. They say people do the oddest things in fires, crawl under the sofa, hide in cupboards. Anything but save themselves. Not that you’ll read that in your local newspaper.

But don’t think of all that. Don’t even go there because it isn’t your concern, it’s not your fault. I mean all those candles. An accident waiting to happen my Gran would have said.

Don’t blame yourself Poppy. Keep right away, look after yourself, because god knows no one else is looking out for you.

Do you sleep well at night, all tucked up tight? I used to but not now, not anymore.  I lie in the darkness, eyes prickling with the effort to keep them open, heart juddering at each tiny noise. Don’t close your eyes whatever you do, too many pictures waiting behind your eyelids.

If I could stay awake always I would.

M J Lewis 2015

Dream Girl is available here in the Amazon Kindle Store (for 99p)

dream girl cover right size