Rescue Me by Lyn Firman
I closed my eyes tightly against the beam of the torch, hoping this would somehow make me invisible and thus able to avoid what was to follow. “What ya skulking down here for” my father asked, his voice not questioning but stating a fact. He knew why I was hiding there in the dank cellar, knew I dreaded his return from the Pub. The fumes of many whiskeys mixed with beer tingled in my nostrils as he drew me from my hiding place, his fat, red face, with its permanent beading of sweat, leered into mine. “Where’s my supper, you dozy cow!” he yelled flinging me up the cellar steps and dragging me into our dingy kitchen.
The bare cupboards afforded me no mercy, likewise the mould-raddled fridge. “I can’t buy food with no money,” I wailed “Mrs Kinchin won’t let me have credit because you didn’t pay her last time.” The first blow caught the side of my head knocking me sideways against the fridge door handle. I don’t remember the other blows but there must have been a few because, when awareness visited me again, the purple stains of the bruises were spread across my chest and back as well as the rapidly closing black eye from the first blow.
What sort of existence was this for a 13-year-old girl? My mother’s death two years ago had unleashed some terrible demon in my father. A previously mild, if easily stressed, man his over-familiar acquaintance with the bottle had made him an unrecognizable and fearsome tyrant. My parents had married late in life, both their parents were dead and my father’s only brother lived in Australia. This meant we had no support network to help us to deal with our grief. “I guess it’s just you and me now girl,” my father had said bleakly, hugging me close as we stood, soaked in drizzle and tears, beside my mother’s grave.
It wasn’t long before my father found a medicine for his melancholy. First it was a couple of whiskeys to “Help me sleep.” Then the local pub provided an escape from his torment. I tried to keep house, tried to maintain my mother’s neat domestic standards, but with little money for food, let alone cleaning materials, it soon became a losing battle.
My own grief had eventually been buried beneath a veneer of detachment. It was the only way I could survive now. I had no close friends. My attempts to talk to my father were evaded as it caused him to focus on his own misery. I desperately missed my mother. She had died suddenly and alone from a brain haemorrhage. I had found her crumpled on the kitchen floor when I came home from school. My happy, safe, little world had crumpled with her. A spasm of grief grabbed at my heart as I remembered her warm hugs and kind heart. She would be horrified by my present sad situation. Occasionally I had vivid dreams in which she held out her arms and enfolded me in a warm hug. Often I felt that the only way out would be to join her in the afterlife! The beatings were becoming more vicious, perhaps it was just a matter of time before I did.
I lay still until I heard the slam of the front door. Tomorrow was a school day, but with a face resembling a well-kicked football, I wouldn’t be able to go. My school work was already suffering and letters, all ignored, had been sent to my father requesting his help with my attendance record. My adult self knows that I should have sought assistance; given the school the chance to bring in professional help, but my still child-like mind was paralysed by fear and shame.
Next morning I put on my hooded top; the hood would disguise my injuries, and let myself out of the back door into the narrow alleyway at the rear. I could walk to the park relatively unseen and the fresh air and sunshine soothed my soul. I went to sit in a secluded corner surrounded by weed-choked flower beds. The remains of a vandalized fountain stood in the empty pond and litter blighted the uncared-for patchy lawns and barren borders. Withered blooms and dehydrated bushes tried vainly to bring some beauty to this forsaken corner. Behind the bench stood the lichen-covered statue of a stone angel, her tranquil expression marred by cracks and bird droppings.
I sat down on the rickety bench and, for some reason, my attention was drawn to the angel. Her expressionless face seemed to echo the hopelessness of my situation but at the same time, witnessing her survival in this abandoned corner aroused a glimmer of hope in my aching heart. A faint inscription on the statue’s plinth read “Gabriel.” “Well, Gabriel,” I said, “we’re both a bit battered but we’re still here, I guess we should try to rescue each other.” I found a sharp flint and began to scrape off the worst of the bird mess and lichen.
Strangely, my activities brought about a sense of tranquillity. As I worked, I poured out my troubles to the statue, told her my life story, asked her to help me if she could. Suddenly heaving sobs arose from my chest and tears began coursing down my cheeks. I rarely cried anymore, but pouring out my troubles to Gabriel seemed to act as a catalyst for the release of years of pent-up grief.
Embarrassed, I set off for home but as I went to turn into our alleyway my tear-blurred vision caused me to crash into a woman coming the other way. My hood flew off exposing my battered features. The woman gasped and clutched my arm. I tried to pull away, tried to pull up my hood but the woman folded me in a warm hug. “My name is Angela, let me help you.” she pleaded. She took me to the sanctuary of her car where, unable to stem the flood of emotion generated in the park, I poured out my heart.
Things moved fast after that, I was placed in a loving foster home and my father was helped to deal with his demons. I finished school and university and I now help other lost souls like me to find their way.
Just the other day I visited that once abandoned corner of the park. It has undergone an amazing face-lift. A new fountain cascades behind neat and colourful borders and the statue, free from any defacements, gazes serenely over neatly trimmed hedges and litter free paths. I whisper my thanks for my new life and I swear I see the corners of the angel’s mouth curve upwards in a smile. I know she had something to do with my rescue from despair. How am I so sure? The woman I bumped into in the alleyway that day, and who subsequently became my saviour, sent me a card a few months later to check that all was well. It was signed with her full name, ‘Angela Gabrielle’.
(Image by Victor Nuno link: http://www.gettyimages.co.uk/detail/89735642/flickr?esource=en-us_photo_allsizes&language=en-GB&location=GBR)
The bare cupboards afforded me no mercy, likewise the mould-raddled fridge. “I can’t buy food with no money,” I wailed “Mrs Kinchin won’t let me have credit because you didn’t pay her last time.” The first blow caught the side of my head knocking me sideways against the fridge door handle. I don’t remember the other blows but there must have been a few because, when awareness visited me again, the purple stains of the bruises were spread across my chest and back as well as the rapidly closing black eye from the first blow.
What sort of existence was this for a 13-year-old girl? My mother’s death two years ago had unleashed some terrible demon in my father. A previously mild, if easily stressed, man his over-familiar acquaintance with the bottle had made him an unrecognizable and fearsome tyrant. My parents had married late in life, both their parents were dead and my father’s only brother lived in Australia. This meant we had no support network to help us to deal with our grief. “I guess it’s just you and me now girl,” my father had said bleakly, hugging me close as we stood, soaked in drizzle and tears, beside my mother’s grave.
It wasn’t long before my father found a medicine for his melancholy. First it was a couple of whiskeys to “Help me sleep.” Then the local pub provided an escape from his torment. I tried to keep house, tried to maintain my mother’s neat domestic standards, but with little money for food, let alone cleaning materials, it soon became a losing battle.
My own grief had eventually been buried beneath a veneer of detachment. It was the only way I could survive now. I had no close friends. My attempts to talk to my father were evaded as it caused him to focus on his own misery. I desperately missed my mother. She had died suddenly and alone from a brain haemorrhage. I had found her crumpled on the kitchen floor when I came home from school. My happy, safe, little world had crumpled with her. A spasm of grief grabbed at my heart as I remembered her warm hugs and kind heart. She would be horrified by my present sad situation. Occasionally I had vivid dreams in which she held out her arms and enfolded me in a warm hug. Often I felt that the only way out would be to join her in the afterlife! The beatings were becoming more vicious, perhaps it was just a matter of time before I did.
I lay still until I heard the slam of the front door. Tomorrow was a school day, but with a face resembling a well-kicked football, I wouldn’t be able to go. My school work was already suffering and letters, all ignored, had been sent to my father requesting his help with my attendance record. My adult self knows that I should have sought assistance; given the school the chance to bring in professional help, but my still child-like mind was paralysed by fear and shame.
Next morning I put on my hooded top; the hood would disguise my injuries, and let myself out of the back door into the narrow alleyway at the rear. I could walk to the park relatively unseen and the fresh air and sunshine soothed my soul. I went to sit in a secluded corner surrounded by weed-choked flower beds. The remains of a vandalized fountain stood in the empty pond and litter blighted the uncared-for patchy lawns and barren borders. Withered blooms and dehydrated bushes tried vainly to bring some beauty to this forsaken corner. Behind the bench stood the lichen-covered statue of a stone angel, her tranquil expression marred by cracks and bird droppings.
I sat down on the rickety bench and, for some reason, my attention was drawn to the angel. Her expressionless face seemed to echo the hopelessness of my situation but at the same time, witnessing her survival in this abandoned corner aroused a glimmer of hope in my aching heart. A faint inscription on the statue’s plinth read “Gabriel.” “Well, Gabriel,” I said, “we’re both a bit battered but we’re still here, I guess we should try to rescue each other.” I found a sharp flint and began to scrape off the worst of the bird mess and lichen.
Strangely, my activities brought about a sense of tranquillity. As I worked, I poured out my troubles to the statue, told her my life story, asked her to help me if she could. Suddenly heaving sobs arose from my chest and tears began coursing down my cheeks. I rarely cried anymore, but pouring out my troubles to Gabriel seemed to act as a catalyst for the release of years of pent-up grief.
Embarrassed, I set off for home but as I went to turn into our alleyway my tear-blurred vision caused me to crash into a woman coming the other way. My hood flew off exposing my battered features. The woman gasped and clutched my arm. I tried to pull away, tried to pull up my hood but the woman folded me in a warm hug. “My name is Angela, let me help you.” she pleaded. She took me to the sanctuary of her car where, unable to stem the flood of emotion generated in the park, I poured out my heart.
Things moved fast after that, I was placed in a loving foster home and my father was helped to deal with his demons. I finished school and university and I now help other lost souls like me to find their way.
Just the other day I visited that once abandoned corner of the park. It has undergone an amazing face-lift. A new fountain cascades behind neat and colourful borders and the statue, free from any defacements, gazes serenely over neatly trimmed hedges and litter free paths. I whisper my thanks for my new life and I swear I see the corners of the angel’s mouth curve upwards in a smile. I know she had something to do with my rescue from despair. How am I so sure? The woman I bumped into in the alleyway that day, and who subsequently became my saviour, sent me a card a few months later to check that all was well. It was signed with her full name, ‘Angela Gabrielle’.
(Image by Victor Nuno link: http://www.gettyimages.co.uk/detail/89735642/flickr?esource=en-us_photo_allsizes&language=en-GB&location=GBR)
Denials by Geoffrey Church
Oh no, no, no, no
never, never, never
we couldn't possibly
we wouldn't know how
But have you met our friend
with those stars in her eyes,
and the stripes on her lapel,
and those perfect teeth?
She's going to have a chat
a little chat with you
we’ll just sit here in the corner
and take notes
What's that?
you don't like the way she’s looking at you
with those stars in her eyes
and the stripes on her lapel
and those perfect teeth
Could we keep her under control?
Oh no, no, no, no.
never, never, never.
we couldn't possibly
we wouldn't know how
ABOUT GEOFFREY CHURCH:
Geoff's first poetic impulse occured at the age of four in the form of a joke. 'Question: Why did they put the telephone in the oven? Answer: To burn the speak.' His taste for the surreal ha been further enhanced by twenty years working in theatre and television as an actor, director and teacher, performing with the Royal Shakespeare Company, the National Theatre and in Bafta award winning drama 'No Child of Mine'. He now runs a theatre company, Hydrocracker (www.hydrocracker.co.uk) and a theatre-based training company, Dramatic Resources (www.dramaticresources.co.uk). He has just completed Oxford University's Diploma in Creative Writing receiving a 2:1 and is working on a novel set in the Ottoman Empire, as well as a collection of short stories about the power of names. His final portfolio piece at Oxford was an epic narrative poem about Rumplestiltskin 'Rattle Stick Speaks'.
Traffic Jam by Katie Smith
Your favourite flowers were lilies,
how pretty you said they were
when lined up in a careful row
against the cold stone curb.
You loved the diary I got you,
wrote diligently everyday,
my hand traces those letters now,
pages filled halfway.
That road you walked to school,
is filled with bustling feet,
yet it may as well be empty
except the flowers in the street.
And sometimes when I walk the road
that you wandered down,
I hear your mindful murmur
yet no mouth to match the sound.
how pretty you said they were
when lined up in a careful row
against the cold stone curb.
You loved the diary I got you,
wrote diligently everyday,
my hand traces those letters now,
pages filled halfway.
That road you walked to school,
is filled with bustling feet,
yet it may as well be empty
except the flowers in the street.
And sometimes when I walk the road
that you wandered down,
I hear your mindful murmur
yet no mouth to match the sound.
ABOUT KATIE SMITH:
Katie Smith is lucky enough to live in the beautiful county of Oxford, where you can go from bustling town streets to quiet, calm fields depending on your whim. Most of her time seems to be split between essays, sleep and television.
Katie has always thought it strange how fleeting our impressions are of strangers walking past, oblivious to the day their having or the life they lead, and how we are just another person passing them on a busy day.This poem is about a person seeing flowers tied in the street, where an accident had obviously taken place, and trying to imagine the person who had been hurt from the eyes of the person who knew him/her. The way it would have affected most people would have been a traffic jam in their day, hence the title, yet for the people involved it would have been a huge and life-altering event.
The Flower Sitter by John Norton
I will never forget the girl in the yellow dress; first she was there and then she was gone, day after day, it drove me mad.
I first saw her from the train. It was a Monday and she sat alone on a park bench with the sunlight dancing on the mustard coloured flowers rowed around her floppy hat. I caught sight of her for just a few moments between the buildings as the train approached my station. From the station I walked along Argyle Road until I reached the little park and looked through the railings, expecting to see her on the bench, but she was gone.
This happened in exactly the same way on Tuesday, Wednesday and again on Thursday. First she was there then she was gone.
By Friday I was totally obsessed so I re-arranged things at work and caught an early train. Rumbling along the familiar stretch of line I stared out through the window and my heart jumped as I saw her there once again. I scrambled up the stairs from the platform and found myself almost running the sixty yards to the park. The park was small with two short pathways that curved around colourful flowerbeds and well tended shrubs. I think it served as a kind of garden for the ugly blocks of flats that dominated the opposite side of the street.
My heart rattled against my ribs as I stood looking at her through the railings. She had an amazing face with high cheekbones and shiny chestnut coloured hair arcing out from under the brim of that striking hat. I thought wow, look at her in her trendy sixties outfit. Then I realised I was staring and she would think I was weird, so I pretended to tie my shoelace, straightened up and walked on.
After that, if it was a dry day and I could get away early, sure enough there she would be. I decided she must be about twenty-two or three and utterly gorgeous and that I should go and talk to her, not keep walking past. One Friday I didn’t go into the office, working instead on my home computer. By eleven thirty I felt hungry, so I walked down Argyle Road and bought sandwiches a bottle of water and a newspaper. I was curious, wanting to know if she would be in the park at that time of day. It was bright and dry so I went to see and there she was.
I sat on the bench opposite grinning like an idiot and wondering why she always faced the road when she could have been looking at the flowers.
‘I sit this way so that I am a part of the picture. You are supposed to be able to see that?’ I jumped at the sound of her voice as I didn’t realise I had said the words out loud. I was mesmerised by how beautifully she seemed to fit the scene, as if she and the flowers that surrounded her were in one of those pop-up books.
‘Yes I can see what you mean. It’s just you have to look at those awful flats.’ I thumbed over my shoulder.
‘Hmmm, yes I know. This park, it’s not much but it does remind me of times with my husband; we had wonderful gardens.’
Husband. My heart sank.
‘Where was that, with your husband I mean?’
‘It was at Knapesley Hall in Herefordshire, quite beautiful. He owned it you see. Everyone called him Bertie but his proper name was Hubert. A bit older than me of course but he was a good man, I wanted for nothing and he adored me. All my so-called friends kept saying he had factories making money out of war. Like a fool I listened.’
I noticed for the first time that her flat black shoes had a flower design on them.
‘What happened?’
‘Oh, I got involved with this guy called Carl and ran away. He was all long hair and guitars and into drugs and stuff. I was really stupid. The thing was Hubert loved to paint and he filled the house with arty types. There were a few nice ones but most of them just sponged off him. Carl was one of those, not content to enjoy his free hospitality, he had to enjoy me too.’
‘Oh I see. But why don’t you find him again, Hubert I mean?’
‘I’ve tried but I got stuck. So here I am.’
She continued to sit each day on her bench staring silently through the rusty railings and I saw her but stayed away. Eventually I had to go back.
I said ‘Will you come out with me, you know, for a drink or something?’
‘That would be really nice but I cant you see it’s not possible. But thanks you’re very sweet.’
It was a Tuesday when she wasn’t there. I got back early and sat remembering what she had said the time before. She had talked about the parties at Hubert’s house.
‘There were lots of exciting film and television people. I remember one really charming man who read the BBC news but then there was this sleazy politician who chatted me up. Lots of them did that, which was fun and usually alright, but not him he was, you know, unpleasant.’
I’d never seen myself in the role of priest but it was like the confessional when she spoke about how ‘we’ had stamped and screamed demanding change and torn down so much of what was there before.
‘We were like children. Hubert used to say if we didn’t keep a grip on things it would all go to the dogs. Looking at things the way they are now I think perhaps he was right.’
But on this cold Tuesday she was gone, her place taken by a smartly dressed elderly gentleman sitting in the centre of her bench. I said good afternoon and he looked across at me and nodded.
‘Good afternoon, it’s good to come down for some air, I should do it more often but I get so caught up with what I’m doing I lose track.’ He gestured up at the flats.
‘Oh I see, you live up there.’
‘Yes, I’ve been there a good few years. I used to live in the country but the taxman got all that. I’ve been shopping; just having a breather before going back up.’ He slowly got to his feet and I noticed that he moved very carefully as he bent to pick up his shopping bags. They looked heavy.
‘Can I help you with those?’
‘That’s very decent of you.’
Together we negotiated the traffic, me carrying his shopping as he held onto my left arm. Making it to the gloomy lobby we waited for the lift.
‘I was going to say, would you like to have a cup of coffee as a thank you for your help?’ I accepted his invitation, I don’t really know why.
I could hear him pottering in the kitchen as I glanced around a living room full of a thousand memories.
Then there they were in a photograph of a society wedding, my host and my park bench girl. She wore a short white A-line dress, her lovely hair piled up on top of her head, he looking like George Harrison. There were other photographs taken in different settings with small groups of people. I liked those where she was laughing.
‘I don’t know what to call you,’ he said reappearing with two cups of coffee. I quickly relieved him of one and said,
‘I’m Dave, I live in Stirling Avenue.’
‘Hello Dave, I’m Hubert but everyone calls me Bertie. Good to know you. Come and see where I while away the hours.’ He opened a door and I followed him through into a room of similar size, with a wide window that looked out across the road towards the railway. On an easel standing amidst a sea of discarded drawings and paint stained rags, was a work in progress of the same young woman with shiny chestnut hair and a bright yellow dress, sitting on a bench in front of some flowerbeds. Behind her was an imposing country house. My heart did that rattling thing again.
‘That’s my wife Stella. I lost her a long time ago. I’ve painted her so many times, if I can just get her right then maybe I can bring her back.’ He angled his head slightly as he looked again at his wife’s image on the canvas.
I moved to the window and peered down at the park. Just for a moment she was there again, the sun glinting on the mustard yellow flowers on her hat.
John Norton (2010)
I first saw her from the train. It was a Monday and she sat alone on a park bench with the sunlight dancing on the mustard coloured flowers rowed around her floppy hat. I caught sight of her for just a few moments between the buildings as the train approached my station. From the station I walked along Argyle Road until I reached the little park and looked through the railings, expecting to see her on the bench, but she was gone.
This happened in exactly the same way on Tuesday, Wednesday and again on Thursday. First she was there then she was gone.
By Friday I was totally obsessed so I re-arranged things at work and caught an early train. Rumbling along the familiar stretch of line I stared out through the window and my heart jumped as I saw her there once again. I scrambled up the stairs from the platform and found myself almost running the sixty yards to the park. The park was small with two short pathways that curved around colourful flowerbeds and well tended shrubs. I think it served as a kind of garden for the ugly blocks of flats that dominated the opposite side of the street.
My heart rattled against my ribs as I stood looking at her through the railings. She had an amazing face with high cheekbones and shiny chestnut coloured hair arcing out from under the brim of that striking hat. I thought wow, look at her in her trendy sixties outfit. Then I realised I was staring and she would think I was weird, so I pretended to tie my shoelace, straightened up and walked on.
After that, if it was a dry day and I could get away early, sure enough there she would be. I decided she must be about twenty-two or three and utterly gorgeous and that I should go and talk to her, not keep walking past. One Friday I didn’t go into the office, working instead on my home computer. By eleven thirty I felt hungry, so I walked down Argyle Road and bought sandwiches a bottle of water and a newspaper. I was curious, wanting to know if she would be in the park at that time of day. It was bright and dry so I went to see and there she was.
I sat on the bench opposite grinning like an idiot and wondering why she always faced the road when she could have been looking at the flowers.
‘I sit this way so that I am a part of the picture. You are supposed to be able to see that?’ I jumped at the sound of her voice as I didn’t realise I had said the words out loud. I was mesmerised by how beautifully she seemed to fit the scene, as if she and the flowers that surrounded her were in one of those pop-up books.
‘Yes I can see what you mean. It’s just you have to look at those awful flats.’ I thumbed over my shoulder.
‘Hmmm, yes I know. This park, it’s not much but it does remind me of times with my husband; we had wonderful gardens.’
Husband. My heart sank.
‘Where was that, with your husband I mean?’
‘It was at Knapesley Hall in Herefordshire, quite beautiful. He owned it you see. Everyone called him Bertie but his proper name was Hubert. A bit older than me of course but he was a good man, I wanted for nothing and he adored me. All my so-called friends kept saying he had factories making money out of war. Like a fool I listened.’
I noticed for the first time that her flat black shoes had a flower design on them.
‘What happened?’
‘Oh, I got involved with this guy called Carl and ran away. He was all long hair and guitars and into drugs and stuff. I was really stupid. The thing was Hubert loved to paint and he filled the house with arty types. There were a few nice ones but most of them just sponged off him. Carl was one of those, not content to enjoy his free hospitality, he had to enjoy me too.’
‘Oh I see. But why don’t you find him again, Hubert I mean?’
‘I’ve tried but I got stuck. So here I am.’
She continued to sit each day on her bench staring silently through the rusty railings and I saw her but stayed away. Eventually I had to go back.
I said ‘Will you come out with me, you know, for a drink or something?’
‘That would be really nice but I cant you see it’s not possible. But thanks you’re very sweet.’
It was a Tuesday when she wasn’t there. I got back early and sat remembering what she had said the time before. She had talked about the parties at Hubert’s house.
‘There were lots of exciting film and television people. I remember one really charming man who read the BBC news but then there was this sleazy politician who chatted me up. Lots of them did that, which was fun and usually alright, but not him he was, you know, unpleasant.’
I’d never seen myself in the role of priest but it was like the confessional when she spoke about how ‘we’ had stamped and screamed demanding change and torn down so much of what was there before.
‘We were like children. Hubert used to say if we didn’t keep a grip on things it would all go to the dogs. Looking at things the way they are now I think perhaps he was right.’
But on this cold Tuesday she was gone, her place taken by a smartly dressed elderly gentleman sitting in the centre of her bench. I said good afternoon and he looked across at me and nodded.
‘Good afternoon, it’s good to come down for some air, I should do it more often but I get so caught up with what I’m doing I lose track.’ He gestured up at the flats.
‘Oh I see, you live up there.’
‘Yes, I’ve been there a good few years. I used to live in the country but the taxman got all that. I’ve been shopping; just having a breather before going back up.’ He slowly got to his feet and I noticed that he moved very carefully as he bent to pick up his shopping bags. They looked heavy.
‘Can I help you with those?’
‘That’s very decent of you.’
Together we negotiated the traffic, me carrying his shopping as he held onto my left arm. Making it to the gloomy lobby we waited for the lift.
‘I was going to say, would you like to have a cup of coffee as a thank you for your help?’ I accepted his invitation, I don’t really know why.
I could hear him pottering in the kitchen as I glanced around a living room full of a thousand memories.
Then there they were in a photograph of a society wedding, my host and my park bench girl. She wore a short white A-line dress, her lovely hair piled up on top of her head, he looking like George Harrison. There were other photographs taken in different settings with small groups of people. I liked those where she was laughing.
‘I don’t know what to call you,’ he said reappearing with two cups of coffee. I quickly relieved him of one and said,
‘I’m Dave, I live in Stirling Avenue.’
‘Hello Dave, I’m Hubert but everyone calls me Bertie. Good to know you. Come and see where I while away the hours.’ He opened a door and I followed him through into a room of similar size, with a wide window that looked out across the road towards the railway. On an easel standing amidst a sea of discarded drawings and paint stained rags, was a work in progress of the same young woman with shiny chestnut hair and a bright yellow dress, sitting on a bench in front of some flowerbeds. Behind her was an imposing country house. My heart did that rattling thing again.
‘That’s my wife Stella. I lost her a long time ago. I’ve painted her so many times, if I can just get her right then maybe I can bring her back.’ He angled his head slightly as he looked again at his wife’s image on the canvas.
I moved to the window and peered down at the park. Just for a moment she was there again, the sun glinting on the mustard yellow flowers on her hat.
John Norton (2010)
ABOUT JON NORTON:
Now retired to the open spaces of West Berkshire this Essex boy spent most of his working life in the commerce of the city of London and in retailing in his home county.
The nineteen nineties brought new challenges as he exchanged a professional role for that of carer to his sick wife. During many solitary hours with chores done and while his wife slept John explored the nature of nature, sourced from the local library and the bursting shelves of charity shops. He roamed from physics to metaphysics, from science to the history of religion, from the waters of the earth to the sparkle of stardust.
On his wife’s long road of partial recovery he shared with her a growing realisation of the spiritual nature of life. Eventually a new role as counsellor emerged after training with a national charity. For John this ushered in the most fulfilling period of a fortunate life, where he learned to shine a very personal light which until then had been a small well hidden flame. This enabled him to connect with a wide span of people as he embraced the task of encouraging others to escape their own particular fog.
Now sixty five with children all grown up and grand daughters blossoming John continues to look after his wife and recalls often the great times spent in class at his local college rambling in good company across the undulating pastures of creative writing.
He has learned that if you give of who you are the universe will help you, for it is made that way.
The nineteen nineties brought new challenges as he exchanged a professional role for that of carer to his sick wife. During many solitary hours with chores done and while his wife slept John explored the nature of nature, sourced from the local library and the bursting shelves of charity shops. He roamed from physics to metaphysics, from science to the history of religion, from the waters of the earth to the sparkle of stardust.
On his wife’s long road of partial recovery he shared with her a growing realisation of the spiritual nature of life. Eventually a new role as counsellor emerged after training with a national charity. For John this ushered in the most fulfilling period of a fortunate life, where he learned to shine a very personal light which until then had been a small well hidden flame. This enabled him to connect with a wide span of people as he embraced the task of encouraging others to escape their own particular fog.
Now sixty five with children all grown up and grand daughters blossoming John continues to look after his wife and recalls often the great times spent in class at his local college rambling in good company across the undulating pastures of creative writing.
He has learned that if you give of who you are the universe will help you, for it is made that way.
