As Crafty as They Come

     Today was Reading Café at The Girl’s school. Reading Café? It’s a chance for parents to go into the school for the last hour of the day, do a bit of reading, then make something with their child. The idea is to improve communication between parent and child by getting them to work together on the project.

     So I turned up (damp and short-sighted, my glasses had misted up in the rain), collected The Girl from her classroom then made my way to the school hall. We read to each other, then a teacher read Funnybones to all of us. Every child loves Funnybones, don’t they? Well, every child in this household at least. I dreamily look back on those days when The Boy used to demand I read it over and over again when he was three. Over and over again. Over. And. Over. Again.  Every day. Every. Day. For months. I didn’t even need to look at the book by the end of it, it was like the mantra of a cult that had brainwashed me into the worship of bones. And The Girl! The Girl still loves Funnybones now that she’s five. I am doing everything I can to hasten her reading skills so she can curl up with a book, any book, any book at all, perhaps that one with the yellow border, all by herself.

     This particular teacher was obviously a frustrated performer, because she managed to spin out her rendition of the book to a good twenty-five minutes. Yes, twenty-five minutes. Twenty five minutes. Of. Funnybones. I was sitting in an especially exposed position, so I had no way of discreetly distracting myself from the inept assembly of a skeleton dog by arsing about on twitter. Instead, I let the words wash over me like a grey wave of torture.

     All resistance beaten out of me, it was time to move onto the Craft Project. No, sorry, that’s not quite right. It’s the ‘FUN Craft Project’. FUN. FUN Craft Project.

     I absolutely fucking hate craft.

     I’m crap at it, it takes forever to set up and do, the thing you’re trying to make always comes out wrong and not at all as you expected it to, and then after all that faff, you have to tidy everything away and clean up. Except that stuff involved in your crafting will have scattered itself to all four corners of the house, and for months afterwards you’ll still be finding sequins every time you sweep the kitchen floor, or weird little pools of glitter next to the bathroom sink. Every time I move a large piece of furniture in the house I find at least two beads, a piece of painted pasta and Prittstick lid behind them.

     Everything involved in craft is designed to aggravate and irk me. Every time I buy The Blondies a magazine (Moshi Monters for him, Sparkly Pink Tat for her) there is always a craft project involved in it somewhere, and despite knowing my very firm views on the subject, they pester me to help them assemble something. I start by saying no, then’ I’m not really very good at this sort of thing’, a feeble plea of ‘Wouldn’t it be better to do this kind of thing with Daddy?’, and before I know it, it’s two hours later, I have smears of glue on my forehead, glitter coating my hands and a very wobbly and precarious looking Princess carousel made from the glossy pages of the magazine. I take one step back, panting slightly, one corner sags, the front peels off, the whole fucking thing falls apart, and I get The Rage.

     I do everything possible to avoid craft. But it’s part of the Reading Café thing, and The Girl was excited about it. Also, I reasoned to myself, if it does go as spectacularly tits up as every previous attempt at craft, I can just say that The Girl did it ‘all by herself’ and absolve myself of any responsibility and involvement.

I ended up working on a table with another mum and her daughter whom I’d seen around, but never really spoken to. The little girl had the same name as me, so it sounded a bit like her mum was cheering me on the whole time 'That's great Lucy! Well done Lucy!'. The other mum mouthed at me, perfectly deadpan ‘I hate craft’.

     Ahh, a soulmate.

     Oh god, it was terrible. We had to make a Funnybones skeleton thingy by cutting out various drawings of bones, then put them together with little matchstick sized bits of wood and sellotape. I can’t even use scissors to cut along a straight line, so little detailed things like fingers are best avoided. The Girl was having a logic bypass and kept insisting on sticking sellotape on the bits that didn’t need it, and my namesake swapped the ribcage and pelvis of her skeleton around, so he either had a bowtie on or very pert breasts (depending on the purity of your thoughts). The other mum clearly had her alibi already established, and was constantly solicitously getting drinks for the other parents at the table, a drink for her daughter, offering her chair to others, so that when the monstrosity of the FUN craft project was unveiled, she could deflect blame and legal responsibility entirely on to her daughter. Of course, the other parent at the table had managed to make all three figures of the skeletons (the big skeleton, the little skeleton and the dog) and his daughter was happily colouring them in before we’d even worked out what all the bones were on the one single skeleton we were wrestling with.

     And finally, the end result.

     I fucking hate CRAFT.

First Cut is the Deepest

    

 

 That’s my twitter picture. It was a poster that was put up in the subway in Norwich. I took a picture of it at the time, then thought it seemed appropriate for me. Partly because my wrists are connected to my hands that writes the words that help me make sense of the world. But more because of my history of self harm.

     It started when I was 15, when I was struggling to come to terms with my miscarriage, and what my very geographically distant boyfriend felt and thought about me. In those pre-internet days, we were reliant on snail mail and the odd phone call. He was good with words. Not so good at actually following up on what he’d written. I wrote most of this years ago, at the same time that I wrote Aftermath of a Miscarriage, when I was pregnant with The Boy. I was pretty much terrified at being pregnant for the second time, and trying to get the words out of my head so they stopped haunting me. My feelings aren't quite as heightened now.

      After the aftermath, he wrote. He told me he was sorry, he told me he loved me, he told me he would return to me as soon as he could. I believed him. I believed every word. Did I? I wanted to, I truly did. I yearned to believe him, I wanted it to be true. But still some vestige of doubt remained. If he loved me, why wasn’t he here? Perhaps, despite what he said, he blamed me. Perhaps he’d wanted the baby when I told him it was gone and now he was angry with me, but felt guilty for not loving me. Then I would realise how illogical I was being: he didn’t have to write to me, he didn’t have to phone me, there was no need for him to stay in touch if he didn’t love me. But then why wasn’t he here? My mind was in turmoil and I couldn’t stop dwelling on the negatives. Again and again I thought of my miscarriage, of the distance between us. Did I really believe he was coming back? Was he really in love with me? What would have happened if I hadn’t lost the baby? Would he be coming back sooner if I’d still been pregnant? There was a maelstrom of pain in my head and I couldn’t see how to make it stop.

            I wasn't in control of my emotions, or so I felt.  I'd go from poisonous fury to deranged weeping to passive acceptance in the space of ten minutes. Sometimes the pain was too much and I would rake my arms with my fingernails, needing the physical pain to distract me from the emotional. I'd look at the long red scratches dispassionately, picking at them until they bled. It calmed me. I know how that sounds. But somehow seeing something physical, a tangible proof of pain, helped. Now the pain wasn’t inside my head, it existed in the real world, it could be witnessed and not just felt.

Again and again I heard a voice in my head, telling me that I was no good, that I was worthless, that there was no way anyone would ever love me. Why had I been so stupid as to believe that he had? He had done nothing to prove it since he'd left. I wrote the word ‘worthless’ again and again into my arm. Worthless. That’s what I was. Not worthy of respect, thought, or consideration.

It got worse in the summer. I’d told him it was over, but still he came back (having prioritised taking drugs in clubs in London with his friends over coming back to me). My summer job meant I couldn’t escape him and his loud, hedonistic, obnoxious friends. Most evenings, after I’d finished work, I would shower, change into my nightie, and sit in the dark room, door locked. There was always a knock on the door at nine that I ignored. Then I would sit, brooding over how stupid I had been, gazing at the marks and scars on my arms, adding to them, the sting of the knife reminding me that I could feel.

     40 weeks. Your baby will look like an individual now and you will recognise them from other babies. In this scary, loud world that they’ve found themself in, you are familiar. Your heart beat and your voice have been their main sounds for months. 

28^th August 1995. My EDD. Expected Date of Delivery. The day that we would, should, have been meeting our child together. I’d begged for, but not been granted, a day off from work. In the whorl of misery and confusion, in the downward spiral of self-loathing there was no way I would cope with seeing him today. But of course I would. And of course I was put to work in the kitchen. I knew that of course EDD is only an indicator and not an exact science. But I had imbued it with such symbolism that I couldn’t just approach it as any other day. I sat silently through making the packed lunches, swinging my hair over my face to hide the tears I couldn’t stop from streaming down my face.

I even volunteered to go and slice the ham for the sandwiches, a job universally despised by all of us. It consisted of the grim act of extracting 30cm of solid processed meat from a cylindrical can by removing both ends, then sticking your fist into the tube and pushing to extract the tube of spam. Like the type of movement a rural vet becomes very practised in, just without the arm length glove. Then loading the greasy, pink and wobbly form into the slicer, then standing, trancelike, dragging the metal slicer from side to side. And repeat. For another nine tins. It was mindless, dull work that suited me that day. I wasn’t crying, I just couldn’t stem the flow of saltwater that streaked from my eyes, down my face and onto the front of my green long-sleeved top, dampening it.

     When lunch was over I went back to my room for an hour, sitting on the bed, curtains drawn, crying, tearing at the skin on my arms, wishing I could somehow peel away the sorrow I felt as easily. Someone knocked on my door twice, but I ignored them and eventually they went away.

     I couldn't bear it. I needed something to distract me, stop me thinking about it, stop me from running after him and telling him everything. Automatically, I dragged my nails down my arm. But I felt nothing. I tried again. Nothing. I looked around the room wildly until I saw a glass on a chest of drawers. Without thinking I smashed it against the wall, picked up the largest shard and put it against my arm. No, not my arms. Too obvious, too visible. I raised my nightie and watched intently as my hand, on autopilot, guided the glass onto the skin over my hip and sliced into it. It didn't hurt. Blood immediately rose to the surface, seeping out. I sliced again, again, again. More blood. I watched as it trickled down my hip, then leg. I watched until it stopped, then dried in an uneven flaking path.

            I felt perfectly calm. That is how you solve the problem. That. If I could keep my emotions in check, problem solved. This calms me down. This works.

          And then, a few days later, I was working in the kitchen again, and someone made a joke about him being a dad. They had no idea of what had happened, they weren’t being malicious, just chatting and joking as friends do. I pretended I needed to get something from the store room, reached into the drawer where the keys were kept and pocketed them, along with something else my hand closed on instinctively, then walked stiffly out to the store. I left the door ajar, just enough to see what I was doing and crouched behind a stack of shelves. A little better. A little better. I'd had to cut my arm to be able to see it, but I had long sleeves on, no one would notice. I was so intent on what I was doing that it took a few moments to realise just what I’d become.

     I was someone who had been so intent on trying to stop thinking about what had happened to her that instead I’d become someone who ducked out of work to cut her own flesh. I was someone who found relief in seeing my own blood, my own scars, my own wounds that I had inflicted on myself. I was damaging myself far more effectively than he ever had, because I was doing this deliberately. Him? He was just young, immature, fucking stupid and too caught up in the world of his friends to really care about anyone else. I was 15, six years younger than him, but I could see him for what he was. Not a nasty bastard, just a bit of a twat, incapable of realising just what devastation he had unleashed when he started all this by snogging a slightly too intense and damaged 14 year old girl early one morning a year earlier. He thought he loved me, he told me he loved me, but I see now that he believed he loved me because he wanted to. He wrote all the right things, but ultimately failed to back any of it up by his actions. It wasn’t intentional, he just couldn’t see what he’d put me through.

     So I stopped selfharming on a regular basis. But, I’ll be honest, I do sometimes still do it, when things get too much, when there is a silent howl in my mind, when I’m sunk so low I can’t fight back against the tide. I’m not glamourising it, it’s a bloody stupid thing to do, I feel ashamed afterwards and have to wear long sleeves to cover it up. It doesn’t help, however much I feel it does when I’m in the moment. Better by far to just reach out, to talk to someone, anyone, about how you feel. It is ok to feel shit. It is ok to cry. It is ok to feel hurt, to not understand, to question the behaviour of people who purport to love you. It is never ok to hurt yourself to the point of bleeding. And if you are doing it, then it says far more about the people around you than it does about you.

Rosa

     This is a short story I wrote a few weeks ago. I was supposed to send it in as a guest blog for someone else, but then things went a teensy leetle bit awry... I feel very weird putting it on here. Blogging is just my opinion, and we can argue the toss on it. Writing fiction is something else altogether. And Laura isn't a fully fleshed out as I'd like her to be, but sod it. My blog, my words, you can choose to read it. Or not.

Monday, 28^th October

     ‘It’s tiny!’

     ‘What were you expecting? I told you it was small. Are you going to give me a hand with the bags, or not?’ I passed the overloaded bags of food to Mark, deliberately choosing to carry the much lighter suitcases myself. Mark grunted and trudged up the path to the front door of the cottage.

     ‘It smells a bit fusty.’ Mark grumbled as we stepped through the door and into the hall.

     ‘Well, obviously. No one’s been here since August. We’ll just have to open the windows for half an hour to get some fresh air in.’ I said briskly.

     ‘We’ll freeze!’

     ‘No we won’t. Look, are you going to complain about everything? Because if you are, we may as well just go home now.’ I dumped the suitcases on the floor and put my hands on my hips.

     ‘Sorry.’ Mark smiled ruefully. ‘I’m just wound up and tired.’

     ‘I know.’ I hugged him, resting my head against his chest. ‘That’s why you need this break. Five days in the middle of nowhere, no work stress, no need to chef. Just you and me. It’ll be just what you need to feel back on track.’

     ‘You’re right. Ok, let’s get this stuff put away.’

***

     Sitting on the sofa in the living room an hour later, Mark sighed happily. ‘You were right Laura. I do feel better already. How come you never suggested coming here before?’

     ‘I’d kind of forgotten to be honest. I haven’t been here since I was a kid, at least twenty-five years ago. It was only when I bumped into my cousin Sarah and she said they’d been here in the summer that I remembered about it.’

     ‘How can you forget you’ve got a holiday cottage to stay in?’ Mark asked incredulously. ‘It was your grandmother’s house!’

     ‘Great-grandmother.’ I corrected him. ‘Like I said, I haven’t been here for years, and Mum and Dad never bothered either. Anyway, last time I was here it was completely different. Totally unmodernised for a start. No heating, no electricity, no bathroom…’

     ‘No bathroom? That’s a bit grim.’ Mark interrupted me. ‘What about..’

     ‘The toilet?’ I grinned. ‘Long drop shed in the garden. I know. It seemed really dark in here as well. Rosa had all this stuff hanging up everywhere, herbs and flowers, shelves packed out with bottles and jars of things she made.’

     ‘What, like jams and chutneys?’

     ‘Sort of, yes. She made a lot of herbal remedies for things as well, like a cottage industry Neal’s Yard.’ I stopped. An old memory stirred fretfully in my mind, of gathering herbs in the woods that surrounded the cottage.

     ‘Any good?’

     ‘No idea.’ I lied. ‘Anyway, what do you want to do with the rest of the day? Go out for a walk?’

     ‘Nah. I’m going to cuddle up to you, watch a film, and then this evening I shall prepare the most excellent steak dinner for modom’s delectation.’ Mark kissed my nose and I giggled.

     ‘You are daft. You’re supposed to be having a week off from work.’

     ‘Cooking for you is nothing like cheffing in a restaurant. For a start, you actually appreciate the food.’

     ‘I do love you Mark. And not just for your culinary skills. Well, not entirely.’

Tuesday 29^th October

     I woke up slowly, the feather duvet comfortingly heavy on me. Delicious smells were drifting up from the kitchen, hinting that a full English breakfast was being prepared. Mmm. I snuggled down further into the bed, smiling to myself.

     ‘Laura!’ Mark called from downstairs. ‘Stop pretending to be asleep and come down for breakfast.’

     Shrugging on my dressing gown, I made my way down the steeply winding staircase and into the kitchen where the anticipated breakfast was being dished up by a smiling Mark.

     ‘Fancy a walk today?’ Mark asked, deftly forking up sausage and egg.

     ‘Yeah, why not? As long as it’s not raining.’

     We set off after breakfast, arm in arm. A weak sun struggled to shine through the light mist that hung in the trees. Underfoot, the ground was damp, but firm, the only sound our footsteps and the infrequent cooing of wood pigeons. We walked in companionable silence for an hour or so. Then;

     ‘Guess we’d better head back.’ Mark said doubtfully. ‘Which way?’

     ‘What?’

     ‘Which is the quickest way back?’ Mark sounded slightly impatient.

     ‘I don’t know!’

     ‘You were leading the way; I just went along with you.’

     ‘No I wasn’t. I was just walking. I thought you were paying attention to where we were going.’ I protested. We stood in a clearing, facing each other. The mist had deepened and gave a murky, haunted atmosphere to the unfamiliar trees. The sun had given up, disappearing behind the clouds, and the woods felt darker and more oppressive. ‘Fine. Let’s just head back along the path.’

     Within five minutes I could tell I’d gone the wrong way. The trees here were older, more gnarled and covering in ivy. Bum. Perhaps if I kept us walking fast enough, Mark might not realise.

     ‘We’re lost.’ Mark said flatly.

     ‘No, we’re just not going the same way we came.’ I said evenly, trying to convey a sense of calmness I didn’t feel. ‘It’s a big forest; there are plenty of ways through it.’

     ‘Yes, plenty of wrong ways.’ Tetchy.

     ‘I don’t see you doing any better.’ I retorted. Whoops. Mark suddenly looked over my shoulder.

     ‘Laura, what’s that over there?’ Mark began picking his way through a large patch of ivy, heading away from me. I tutted and followed him. ‘Weird. It’s like some kind of table.’

     ‘Altar. It’s an altar.’ I tried to keep my voice steady, but my heart began pounding and adrenaline tore through my veins.

     Mark didn’t seem to have heard me, examining the three foot high white stone altar, the top covered in intricate symbols and runic markings. ‘What an odd things to find in the middle of the forest! Someone must have put it here for some reason. And quite recently too, it’s not covered in moss or ivy like everything else is.’ He ran his fingers across some of the carvings. ‘Come here, have a look.’

     ‘We’d better get going; it looks like it might start raining in a minute.’ My voice sounded high-pitched and stilted, even to my ears.

     ‘Aren’t you even slightly intrigued? Feel how smooth it is.’ Before I could demure, Mark took my hand and brushed my fingers along the top of the altar. I whipped my hand away. ‘What’s wrong?’

     ‘Nothing! I’d just like to try and find our way back to the cottage, before we get soaked.’ Already I knew the route as though I’d walked it every day. And sure enough, within ten minutes we were unlocking the front door.

     ‘How on earth did you do that?’ Mark was stunned that we’d made it back so easily.

     I shrugged. ‘Good sense of direction. And lucky. And aren’t you lucky that you’ve got me?’

     ‘Luckier than Lucky McLuck, riding his luck and asking Lady luck for a date.’ Mark slipped his arms around my waist. ‘Why don’t we celebrate our safe return with a nice hot bath and a bottle of champagne?’

***

     ‘I could get used to this.’ I mumbled, leaning back in the bath, eyes closed, surrounded by bubbles.

     ‘Me too.’ A pause. ‘Did you hear that?

     ‘Wha?’

     ‘Sounded like a noise downstairs.’

     ‘S’nothing. Probably just the furniture creaking.’ I opened my eyes. Mark was sitting hunched forward at the other end of the bath, head cocked to the side, listening. ‘Seriously, it’s an old house. It makes noises. Get used to it.’ I closed my eyes again.

     ‘Yeah, I know. Just seeing that table, altar, shrine thing in the forest… It’s kind of spooky, don’t you think?’

     ‘Not really.’ I faked a yawn. ‘You’re just a townie. You get all sorts of weird stuff in the countryside.’

     ‘Ah yes, I’d forgotten you grew up as a straw chewing yokel. Still got your smock and straw hat?’

    ‘Shurrup.’ I flicked water at him. ‘Make yourself useful and top up my champagne.’ I thrust my glass at him.

     ‘Your great-grandmother would be shocked at all these goings on in her old house.’ Mark said, refilling the glasses, and putting the bottle back on the floor. ‘If she could see us now, eh?’ There was an ear-splitting crack and shards of glass were scattered across the floor as the bottle smashed. ‘Jesus! What the hell happened?’

     ‘You dropped the bottle, you idiot.’ I huffed, climbing out of the bath and wrapping a towel around me.

     ‘I didn’t! Honestly! It didn’t even slip!’

     ‘Well bottles don’t shatter on their own, do they?’ I muttered as I started collecting the larger pieces of glass together.

     ‘You don’t think…’

     ‘What?’

     ‘What I was saying, about your great-grandmother…’

     ‘Oh, don’t be so stupid.’ I snapped, scowling at him.

Wednesday 30^th October

     The tension that had sprung up after Mark smashed the bottle lingered for the rest of Tuesday, making us snap and kvetch at one another. I woke early on Wednesday morning and stood, coffee in hand, gazing out of the window in the living room at a grey and drizzly morning. Looks like we’ll be getting a dose of cabin fever today then, I thought.

     ‘Morning.’ Mark was standing in the doorway.

     ‘Look, I’m sorry…’ We both began, then laughed.

     ‘I’m sorry for being in a mood, I said gruffly, my chin tucked into my chest.

     ‘No, I’m sorry. I must not have put the bottle down properly.’

     ‘It doesn’t matter. It was a stupid thing for me to get annoyed about.’ We cuddled. ‘Do you want to go out anywhere today? The weather’s looking fairly grotty, I can’t see it changing much.’

     ‘Let’s just stay in. Build up the fire, you can read a book and I’ll go to the shops later. Maybe stock up on some bathtime champagne, if that appeals?’ He nudged me. ‘Hmm?’

     We spent the morning slobbing about in the living room in front of the fire, drinking hot chocolate and reading. Absolutely blissful, as the wind outside picked up speed and the old cottage creaked. I felt cosy, peaceful.

     ‘Happy?’ Mark asked me as we washed up after lunch.

     ‘Yes. Just you, me, and peace and quiet. You?’

     ‘Never more so. I know it’s hard sometimes for us to get time together, with the hours I work, but being here with you like this, it reminds me just how happy you make me.’ I blushed and he went on. ‘That said, I’d better go shopping straight after this, before the weather gets any worse. Do you want anything?’

     ‘Just you!’ I said in my best soppy voice, simpering at him and fluttering my eyelashes.

     ‘You big eejit.’ He jangled the car keys and went out to the car.

     I felt restless after he’d gone. Lounging around the cottage on my own didn’t feel as enjoyable somehow. I put away the washing up, straightened up the living room and tried to settle back down with my book, but I couldn’t help feeling slightly on edge, tense, as though I was expecting something, something I wasn’t looking forward to. ‘Don’t be silly.’ I told myself. ‘It’s just because the wind is howling, you’re in the middle of nowhere, on your own and with no one close by… Oh why did I think that?’ Obediently, the wind began to roar through the trees even more violently than before. Despite the lack of sun, the thrashing limbs of the trees cast spindly shadows across the living room, making it appear that the forest was in the living room with me, the wind its wailing voice.

     I clapped my hands over my ears and squeezed my eyes closed, not wanting the memory to return. But it was there. The old woman and the terrified child in the forest, the tempest swirling around them as they held hands and exchanged the ring…

     ‘Stop it!’ I shouted and opened my eyes. ‘Stupid! Stupid.’ I took a deep breath. Stupid. I wasn’t an impressionable child anymore, she was long dead and this was just a normal autumn storm. I glared at the trees outside as though they had personally offended, and pursed my lips. The living room door banged loudly behind me and I jumped, then laughed at myself. Silly girl. It’s the wind, just the wind. And that shadow moving across the wall is just tree branches moving, the noise at the window is just debris from the storm. Enough. I squared my shoulders and sat back down on the sofa, pretending I didn’t feel relieved when Mark got back half an hour later.

     ‘Who was that woman?’

     ‘What woman?’ I put down my book, frowning.

     ‘That woman who was just walking down the path, towards the forest.’ Mark spoke as if I were slow of thinking. I stared at him, puzzled. ‘She came out of the back door. Was she a neighbour?’

     ‘There aren’t any neighbours for at least a mile. And no one’s been here apart from me. Are you sure you thought you saw someone?’

     ‘I don’t think I saw someone, I did see someone.’ Mark was adamant.

     ‘It might have been a walker who got lost. But no one’s been here apart from me, and definitely no one’s been in the house.’ I said, then something occurred to me.’ If someone did knock, I might not have heard them, the wind’s been so loud. But the back door’s locked, so they wouldn’t have been able to get in.’

     ‘I’ll go and check it.’ Mark spoke angrily as though I was deliberately trying to irk him.

     ‘Fine.’ Needled by his mood, I followed him, just to see him discover that I was right.

     ‘Ok, so it is locked.’ Mark abandoned checking the lock and started unpacking the shopping, obviously put out.

     ‘There you are then.’ I said pointlessly.

     ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

     ‘Nothing. Just that I’m pleased that there wasn’t anyone trying to break in when I was here on my own.’ I adopted a placatory tone. Mark was supposed to be unwinding, not getting more stressed.

     ‘So. Laura.’ His voice was like a knife and I felt instantly wary. What had I done wrong? ‘When were you planning to tell me the truth?’

     ‘The truth?’ Stalling. Play for time. ‘The truth about what?’

     ‘Your grandmother.’

     ‘Do you mean my great-grandmother, Rosa?’ I ventured.

     ‘Sorry, your great-grandmother. When were you going to tell me?’

     ‘Tell you what?’ How did he know? Had he guessed? But I’d never told anyone, not a soul. He had no way of knowing what had happened all those years ago, just before Rosa died. ‘I… I didn’t, I’m… I was scared.’  My voice was a whisper.

     ‘Scared?’ Mark snorted. ‘Scared? You couldn’t be that scared! What was there to be scared of?’ I stared at him, my mouth slightly agape. ‘Honestly Laura, I’m annoyed because you didn’t tell me, but there’s no need to be frightened of telling me. It’d just have been nice to know that Rosa died in this house, that’s all. It was a bit weird to hear it from a stranger in the shop.’

     ‘Oh! You mean, yes, yes, she did, she died. Here, in the kitchen.’ Oh. Relief flooded through me like a river. He didn’t know. He didn’t even suspect anything.

     ‘Yes, I know that now. Why didn’t you say anything before?’ Mark smiled fondly at me.

     ‘I didn’t want to freak you out?’ I suggested. Sounded plausible. ‘You’re supposed to be forgetting about horrible stuff.’

     ‘It’s an old house. I’m sure plenty of people have died here over the years. And it was years ago, wasn’t it?’

     ‘Twenty-five years ago.’ I said faintly.

     ‘So not long after you were last here then?’

     ‘Mm.’ Let’s not go any further in that direction. ‘So what do you want to do with the rest of the day?’

     ‘I can think of a few things.’ Mark raised an eyebrow and smiled wickedly. I felt a wriggly squirm of desire and grinned back.

Thursday 31^st October

     The storm lasted all night, the wind shrieking, and making the thatched roof bump and rustle. I woke in the early hours to find Mark standing at the bedroom window.

     ‘Whassit?’ I asked fuzzily. ‘Come back to bed.’

    ‘Laura, come here.’ His voice was low and urgent. I hauled myself out of bed and stumbled over to him. ‘There’ Mark pointed towards the trees. ‘Can you see that?’

     I squinted to where he was indicating. ‘I’m not sure. What do you think it is?’ I couldn’t actually see anything, but he seemed bothered by whatever it was.

     ‘It looked like a light, moving through the trees.’ Mark sounded distracted, ducking his head this way and that. ‘Can’t see it now. But there was something definitely out there.’

     ‘Might be the moon. It’s full moon today or tomorrow.’ I stifled a yawn. ‘Come back to bed. It’s the middle of the night.’

     ‘Yeah, will do.’ Mark frowned, making no effort to move away from the window. ‘I’ll just watch for a minute or two more.’

     Unsurprisingly, I found him fast asleep in the armchair by the window when I woke up at seven. I tucked the duvet round him and went to get myself some breakfast. The storm had finally blown itself out and the new day was cold, but bright, the air crisp. When Mark was still making happy little snores at half past ten I decided to go out for a walk to shake off the clammy feeling that comes of spending too long indoors. Not wanting to get lost again, I stuck to the circular path that skirted the end of the garden, knowing it would keep me well away from the area of forest where the altar was.

     But the path seemed to have changed with time. More overgrown, fewer views of the fields beyond. And it was with a sense of impending unease that I rounded what I told myself would be the final corner of my walk to be confronted by the sight of the altar once more. Without consciously intending to, I drew closer and stood beside it. The sounds of the forest died away and a strange feeling of tranquillity stole over me. I placed both hands on the altar and closed my eyes.

     The memory rose over me like a tidal wave. Rosa, tall and sinewy, her long silver hair reaching past her waist, taking hold of both of my hands and staring into my eyes. I’d stared back, refusing to be intimidated, as much as I was scared of her. She’d watched me intently and then smiled, a thin-lipped smile of cruel satisfaction, not joy, and said to herself ‘Yes. This is the one.’

     And then that terrible rain lashed night at the end of April, following her deep into the forest, her hands gripping my wrists over the altar, making me repeat the same mysterious and snakelike words she hissed into the night. I remembered trembling, terrified of what I might have unleashed without fully understanding, as she pushed the cold metal of the silver ring onto my finger.

     Then the final memory of running, pell mell, the following morning from the cottage back into the woods and to the altar, my hands scrabbling frantically at the wet earth, shoving the ring as deep as I could into the soil, then covering it with leaves and pebbles so that it was gone, gone forever and I was released from the terrible bond Rosa had placed me under.

     I gasped and stepped back. How much of it I’d never wanted to remember. Hadn’t been able to remember until now. ‘Silly old woman.’ I said aloud. ‘You might have scared a little girl, but you don’t scare me.’ Feeling slightly foolish at addressing my words to the trees, I walked quickly back to the cottage, shaking my head that I’d allowed myself to become so fearful. Rosa hadn’t been a witch. Just an eccentric old woman who’d spent too much time on her own and believed her own thoughts. It was coincidence that she’d died a few days after my last visit, nothing more.

     ‘Mark? Mark? Are you up?’ I called up the stairs.

     ‘In the kitchen.’ I threw my arms around him as he stood at the toaster. ‘What’s this for?’

     ‘No reason!’ I sang. ‘Just because I love you. Let’s go out today. It’s too nice to be stuck inside. I fancy a walk along a beach and then fish and chips.’

 It was nearly dark when we got back to the cottage just after five o’clock. Mark grinned at me as we got out of the car. ‘Got a surprise for you.’ He rummaged in the boot. ‘Ta-DAH!’

     ‘A pumpkin?’

     ‘Yes! It’s Halloween, remember? We can put it outside in case any trick or treaters come by!’

     ‘That’s hardly likely.’ I pointed out.

     ‘Spoilsport. You can carve it whilst I start making dinner and then we can watch a scary film and pretend not to be frightened!’

     ‘Oh, alright.’

     It had been bright and sunny all day, and the night sky was clear, a galaxy of stars outshone by a full moon, illuminating the path ahead of us. I felt unaccountably ill at ease, as though we were being watched, the trees seeming to have edged closer to the house, their branches reaching towards us like gnarled and arthritic fingers. There was a hushed susurration of wind and then

     ‘JESUS!’ I yelped, clapping a hand to my chest, fingers splayed.

     ‘Blimey, Laura, it was only a fox or deer or something!’ Mark’s voice was higher than normal, probably from the fright I’d given him, rather than from alarm caused by the sudden crashing noises in the undergrowth to the side of us. ‘What’s got you so jumpy?’

     ‘Nothing!’ I prickled, angry at having frightened myself. ‘It just scared me, that’s all.’ My heart began to slow down. ‘Come on.’

     ‘You were the one who stopped, not me.’ Mark muttered in an undertone that was meant for me to hear. I felt my hackles rise and told myself to ignore him.

     As soon as we were inside he began preparing dinner, industriously chopping, whisking and grating as I battled with the pumpkin, reflecting that the innards of it were possibly my least favourite thing to touch with my bare hands.

     ‘Shall we be total slobs and eat in front of the telly?’ Mark asked, all irritation soothed away by losing himself in culinary bliss.

     ‘Seems like a shame when you make so much of an effort.’

     ‘Not really, I like my food, but I love you. And cuddling up to you is my favourite place in the world to be.’ He snaked an arm around my waist and pulled me close, nuzzling my neck. ‘You make up the fire and choose a film whilst I carry on here. Eat at about seven?’

     I headed out to the woodshed at the end of the garden, pulling my coat around me as the wind frittered leaves past my face and thin wisps of clouds scudded across the face of the moon, sending shadows through the trees. I still felt unsettled, glancing around me for animals lurking, ready to leap out of the woods at me. I filled up the wood basket quickly, my movements jerky and uncoordinated with tension. As I bent to pick it up, the wind stopped, suddenly and completely. There was nothing, so sound, not even from the creatures of the forest. I paused, then lifted up the basket.

     ‘Laura…’ A hoarse whisper. ‘Laura…’

     I ran, incapable of sound, speech or thought, throwing myself through the door of the cottage, dropping the basket and bolting the door behind me.

      ‘Laura! What on earth? You’re white as a sheet!’

     My brain unfroze. ‘Just heard a noise, a noise outside I mean, when I was outside, there was a noise, it frightened me.’ I gabbled, clutching at his arm, silently pleading with him to reassure me, make it stop, make it go away, make her go away.

     ‘Oh Laura.’ Mark tilted his head to the side as he looked at me. ‘A noise? Really? Not an axe-wielding maniac or anything like that? It was probably a hedgehog or something. You’re so jumpy today. Is it that time of the month?’

     ‘No! It wasn’t that kind of noise, it sounded like someone whispering to me.’ Now that I was in the warmth and light of the kitchen, it didn’t seem so real. But still…

     ‘Come off it darling. You’re still freaked out by earlier, for whatever reason. Look, pour yourself a glass of wine, and go into the living room, make up the fire and then relax. I’ll manage in here.’

     Perhaps he was right. But it had felt so close. It had sounded like my name in her voice. No, I was just being silly. She’d been dead a long time. And I don’t believe in ghosts. I don’t. I do not believe in ghosts. I started as the wind howled outside and rolled my eyes at my own stupidity. Nervy idiot.

      The wind continued to guest throughout the evening, bringing with it heavy rain that thundered against the roof and splattered on the windows. We decided against a scary film, and settled for a fluffy rom-com instead, cosily snuggled up on the sofa, the fire blazing merrily away before heading upstairs for an early night. I lay awake, listening to the sound of the storm outside, the trees creaking as they attempted to withstand the assault. It sounded like tow great armies of nature opposing one another, as though the ground itself was being torn apart. Appropriate for Halloween, I thought to myself, the time when the dead return to earth.

     I gripped the duvet. Why had I thought that? Why? I cuddled closer to Mark. He grunted in his sleep and threw a heavy arm around me.

  

Friday 1^st November

     Stupidly, superstitiously, I’d stayed saucer eyed long after midnight, finally falling into a fitful slumber at six, only to wake, tired and grumpy at eight when Mark got up. Odd dreams had stalked me, fragments of memory piecing themselves together.

     I had been so silly, so gullible. Admittedly, I’d been young, but really! Had I honestly believed that Rosa had somehow put a part of her soul into a ring? That she was waiting to be brought back to life, as though she were a pot noodle and I the kettle of boiling water? I snorted at the thought and joined Mark downstairs.

     ‘I guess we’d better pack up, clean and head off before it gets too late.’ There was a slight query in his voice that meant he wanted me to lead him astray.

     ‘No rush, is there? Let’s load up the car and clean in here, then go for one last walk in the woods. Come on.’ I cajoled. I wanted to see the forest again, see it with fresh eyes no longer haunted by the memory of Rosa. ‘And before I forget, pinch, punch, first of the month. And no return.’

     Mark slapped his forehead. ‘Too quick for me. Huh. First of November. All Saints Day. Samhain.’

     ‘Samhain?’

     ‘Ancient Celtic festival of something or other. Precursor to Halloween. Ok, let’s pack up and see if we can get lost again.’ He kissed the top of my head. ‘Love you. Thank you for suggesting we come away here. It’s been good.’

     ‘Love you too. And I’m glad we came.’ As I said it, I realised it was true. I’d spent so much time fearing my memories that to realise it was all just the eccentric mumblings of a lonely old woman to an impressionable young girl was like tasting freedom for the first time.

     Stomping through the woods a few hours later, we realised just how devastating the storm had been. Branches strewn across paths, trees uprooted, the landscape appeared refreshed and unfamiliar. Our progress was halted by an ancient elm tree that had been blown down and lay across the path.

     ‘We could go round it.’ I said doubtfully. There wasn’t much of a gap to squeeze through and the brambles made me fear for the integrity of my tights.

      Mark walked to the end of the tree, peering at the roots and made a small noise of disappointment. ‘Look at this! Laura, look. That stone table. It’s been completely smashed by the tree.’ I moved forward and saw that it was true. Rosa’s altar was in pieces, completely broken and irreparable. I felt elated. Another reminder of my naivety gone. Mark was rooting around in the ground, picked something up, examined it for a moment then stuffed it in his pocket, before standing up. ‘I suppose we should just turn back. The path ahead is probably even worse.’

     Back at the cottage, we checked everything was clean and locked away, then I went upstairs to close the curtains as requested. When I came back down, Mark was waiting in the kitchen, a sheepish look on his face. ‘What? What is it?’

     He took a deep breath. ‘Laura.’ He dropped to one knee. ‘We’ve been together for three years now and I love you so very much.’ Clearing his throat, he delved into his pocket and went on. ‘Will you do me the honour of agreeing to become my wife?’

     I felt the smile spread across my face like sunrise. ‘Yes! Yes!’ Tears filled my eyes. ‘I love you too, and yes, I want to be your wife!’ Mark slipped the ring onto my finger and then lifted me up, swinging me round, both of us laughing.

     ‘But are you sure? I mean, really sure?’

     ‘I have never been more sure of anything in my life!’ I cried, my voice choked.

     ‘When I found the ring, I knew it was a sign, and I knew it had to be here. But now, my darling, your chariot awaits. Let’s go and tell everyone we know that we are engaged.’ Mark opened the front door with a flourish and bowed.

     Absolutely! But firstly, and  in no way wanting to spoil the moment, I need to go to the loo.’

     ‘See you at the car then.’ We beamed at each other before I dashed upstairs.

     I was at the front door when I remembered I hadn’t checked if the kitchen blinds were closed. Phew, they were. I stepped back for one last look to make sure that everything was as it should be and… I saw a movement in the corner of my eye. I turned to the left. Nothing. To the right. Nothing. I looked down.

     Tiny darting black shadows were rushing, racing across the stone floor, hundreds of tiny darting black shadows swirling and writhing. I stood, immobile, watching, hypnotised by them.

     The shadows began to join. Where they met they became larger, darker, faster, filling the world with darkness. There was a split second.

     And then the shadow leapt.

***

     Mark tooted the car horn, impatient to be leave and share the news. He watched as the figure of Laura in her denim jacket locked the front door, skipped lightly down the path and leapt into the front passenger seat.

     ‘Happy?’ he asked.

     ‘Never better.’ replied Rosa.

Kickarse Sunday

     Today is Kickarse Sunday.

     I slept really badly last night. Much, much worse than is normal for me. No idea why, although the appearance of The Rage may have been a factor in this (I'd planned to cook a dinner that required bacon rashers. Alistair instead bought cooking bacon - the weird chunks and chops of bacon offcuts that are quite offputting and too anatomical at times). I stayed up too late, tried to sleep, failed, came back downstairs and tried to doze off with the news on in the background. Then I got up at 03:00, pottered around for a bit, went back to bed, slept fitfully for a bit, then The Girl woke me at five because she was 'HUNGRAY, MUMMAY!'

     As a result I've imbibed far too much coffee to legitimately describe myself as human this morning. If you cut me, I shall bleed pure Alta Rica. And yet, I daren't sit down for too long because if I do, I shall surely allow my eyelids to rest 'just for a moment' and will awaken two hours later, cold, a trail of dribble on my chin and two Blondies who will have turned feral. Also, tomorrow is Back To School. Which means I can have a day of writing, all to myself.

     But in order to do that, I must first purge myself of guilt at being self-indulgent tomorrow. So today is cleaning, cooking, checking uniforms, checking homework, tidying, playing shops with The Girl and talking to The Boy. In order to summon up the energy for this, I need music to get me in the right mood. So the playlist is set to 'Please grant me the energy and motivation to get through today.' And the very first song on that?

     This completely kickarse anthem:

     Enjoy!

Writing is my Therapy

‘Writing is your therapy.’ Alistair shrugged. ‘It’s how you make sense of things.’

     It’s stuff like that that makes me realise that I am exceptionally lucky to have him as my boyfriend. And yes, I do still call him my boyfriend, although we’re both in our thirties. Partner makes me think of either a cowboy or a lawyer, neither of which seem appropriate. But he’s right. Writing is my therapy. Whether it’s fiction, non-fiction, blogging or whatever, writing seems to be the only effective channel for me to express myself.

     For some reason, I am terrible at communication in all other forms. I’ve been called a coward because of it, because in real life I can’t always just grasp the bloody nettle  and say things to someones face. My brother once told me that people don’t like me because they think I’m fake, because I never like to express negative emotion.  Thoughts will build up inside me, absolutely consuming my mind, overwhelming me to the point where I can’t let go of them, but still I remain silent.

     Alistair gets really frustrated with me about this. When he finally got around to reading all of this blog, he found out all sorts of things about me that I’d never told him. Some of them were quite painful, some merely awkward (coughEdBallscough), and we did have a few rows about why I’d never shared these things with him before. But now, he gets it. He understands that writing is the greatest release I have and that it helps. That when things get to me, I just write the fuck out of them.

     Yep, I write the fuck out of things. I’ll find my thoughts running on the same groove for a few days, whether it’s good, bad or ugly, then, usually on the way back from dropping The Blondies at school, a key phrase or thought will come to me and it honestly is a lightbulb moment. ‘Yes!’ I’ll think excitedly ‘That encapsulates everything I feel about it!’ Then I get home, fortify myself with several thousand coffees and cigarettes, and hammer the life out of my keyboard for forty minutes or so. Then I hit ‘Publish’ (and sing out ‘And be DAMNED!’) and that’s it. I stop thinking about whatever it was that was occupying my brain. Until something else occurs to me.  And then I obsess over it for a few days. Then I write the fuck out of it… You get the idea.

     So when I was told that writing was making me a bad and neglectful mother to The Blondies, it seemed to me as though I was being presented with a choice: writing or parenting? You can’t successfully do both. And writing is so central to who and what I am, the very core of me, that I’d never considered being without it. To paraphrase Scout in To Kill A Mockingbird, until I feared I would lose it, I never loved to write. One does not love to breathe. And I felt like I was being condemned to a life of silent screaming in my head. If I couldn’t write the fuck out of whatever was plaguing me, then effectively, I was going to go into a downward spiral with only one outcome.

     So I had a mini breakdown. And I stomped about the house, cleaning and swearing, crying and self-harming (bloody idiot. I haven’t done it for years, it doesn’t help other than give a brief release from whatever turmoil I’m in), keeping well away from anything word related. But then I had my little epiphany and told me to get over myself. Writing and parenting aren’t mutually exclusive. In fact, the simple act of writing myself into a happier place makes me a better parent, because I’m not being gnawed away at by persistent thoughts, feelings and fears.

     All of this week I have had The Arse. Because it’s half term, so with both Blondies here at home, I haven’t been able to write. Or rather, the only time I’m able to write is when they’ve gone to bed, by which time I’m knackered (not sleeping well at the moment), so when I look back the following day, everything I wrote the night before is a jumbled mess of fleeting impressions and sentences that suddenly tail off and don’t really… It’s frustrating, especially when there are so many things occurring to me that I really want to write about. The situation is not improved by Alistair asking hopefully ‘Did you get any writing done today?’ and me narrowing my eyes and snarling through thin lips ‘Fuck. All.’ ‘Oh. Ok. Sorry.’

     But today… Today The Blondies have gone swimming. And that means I have a window of at least an hour. And armed with my trusty fountain pen and notebooks, I am going to write the fuck out of things.

Autumn Fete

     Having built a bridge and told myself to fucking get over it, on Thursday I went to London.

     If you are in any way even slightly kickarse, this will not seem like a big deal to you. But to me, it assumed massive proportions. I haven’t been to London for four years, back in my previous life when I had to suck an awful lot of corporate cock and used to attend Big Important Government Department Meetings. Back then, everything was on expenses, so I’d arrive at King’s Cross, jump in a black cab, spend the day being professional, then catch a taxi back to the station again. Now, obviously, things are different, because I am an impecunious writer. So I’d have to navigate the tube, then make my way along unfamiliar streets before arriving at a party where I would know no one, and where I would do my best to sparkle and impress Important Writer Types, before having to make the return journey, arriving back in Norwich at the very precise time of 23:29.

     Frankly, I was bricking it. I left the house stupidly early to make sure I reached the train station in time and I was so jittery that I half-jogged most of the way there in my far too warm wool coat, and was a sweat-sodden mess when I arrived at the station, fifty minutes before my train was leaving. Alistair phoned to check I was on my way (there had been an awful lot of bolstering me in the days leading up to this) and I appeared to have adopted the voice of Beaker from The Muppets and lost the ability to form a coherent sentence. I tried to eat a baguette and my throat was so dry it actually creaked when I attempted to swallow. Luckily I had my pen and notebook with me, so I was able to lose myself in a project I’ve been working on and it was a bit of a shock to look up after two hours and find that we were nearly at Liverpool Street.

     I made my ways into the bowels of the Underground, successfully made my way to the right platform and boarded the next train, feeling stupidly proud of myself. Then I realised I was on the wrong bloody train and had to humiliatingly get off at the next stop, and get on another train (the right one this time). At Hammersmith, I wandered around aimlessly for ten minutes, trying and failing to locate familiar street names, before I found what I was looking for. Only forty minutes early this time, so that’s an improvement. Oh look, there’s a pub.

     And at six o’clock, quivering with nerves, I made my way here.

     Harper Collins. Harper bloody Collins! (yes, I was a bit shaky).

     Harper Impulse (the digital romance imprint of Harper Collins) were throwing a party, an Autumn Fete, to say thank you to their writers, their reviewers, guest bloggers and for all of us to meet. Although quite a few of us follow each other on twitter, I had never met any of them and I was terrified. Terrified. I made my way into a massive atrium, up a flight of stairs and into the most fabulously glamorous party I have ever underdressed for. Clutching a glass of Pimm’s, I turned slowly on the spot, wondering if anyone from twitter would recognise me. And then two complete strangers entered, and from their faces, I knew exactly how they felt. I joined them and blurted out ‘I DON’T KNOW ANYONE ELSE HERE EITHER!’ We all burst out laughing and here we are:

     The very lovely @MiaHoddell and @stephanie_khani. That’s yours truly in the middle, my claws gripping my glass of Pimm’s (from my cold, dead hands…). I don't know what I was squirrelling away in my cheeks. Then Liz-Sheena from @fivegoglamping arrived and I had just the best evening with my new friends. I met the writers Lorraine Wilson and Jane Linfoot , the incomparably bright and bubbly Harper Impulse team,

 all of whom are so friendly and so much fun that when I grow up I want to be them, and the CEO of Harper Collins

 (yes, he does look like Mr Big).

     There was Pimm’s, prosecco and painted pumpkins, canapés and nibbles, beautiful sweet treats, music and a wonderful speech from the head of Harper Impulse, Kim. My favourite part of the evening was when the authors came face to face with copies of their own books, specially printed for the Fete. To see their faces, absolutely aglow with bashful pride at seeing their creations in real life for the first time was really very touching (may have had a vicarious tear in my eye there). It was almost as though the reality of their achievement finally hit home and was, if it doesn’t sound too gushing,  inspirational.

     Sadly, it was all too quickly eight o’clock and time for this fangirl to set off home. But one further surprise 

– GOODY BAGS! And not filled with any old tat, oh no.

     Books! And the type of books I actually want to read! It was a very happy me that boarded the train at Liverpool Street at half past nine. And just to round off my utterly brilliant day, I’d booked myself into first class (it was only an extra £5). I had a table lamp and free refreshments

     An acre of space to sit and write in

     

     And a dangerously giddy mood that led me to take an ill-advised selfie to prove that this actually happened.

     A massive, massive thank you to Harper Impulse for hosting such a wonderful get together, and allowing me to meet so many fantastic and insanely talented people. I haven’t stopped smiling since.

We Apologise For The Break In Broadcasting

     Normal service will be resumed shortly.

     Promise.

     Kicking off with Thursday, aka The Day I Went To London.

     And, if you were wondering, I am much, much better now. To the people who've been in touch here and in other places, thank you more than you will ever know for the things you've said. Some of you are complete strangers, some are known to me, some are real life friends, but all of you have helped get me back on an even keel.

     So to you, I say