Writing london 2014 by WEA London Region

A collection of writing from the WEA Writing London course 2013 ‐ 2014

A collection of writing from the WEA Writing London course 2013‐2014

Contents

Introduction

Elizabeth Sarkany

The Universe Next Door

David Watson

Mrs. Beeton’s egg salad

Louise Prince

A Little While Longer

Saira Arian

The Eye of the Beholder

Eric Cobb

Saturday night out

Dennis Gardner

The people on the bus go up and down

Jo Ruckman

Escape

Christina Parry

Earth to Earth

Laura Myers

Lavinia

Marilyn Lister

The Workers’ Educational Association (WEA) is a charity registered in England and Wales, number 1112775, and in Scotland, number SC039239, and a company limited by guarantee registered in England and Wales, number 2806910. Website: www.wea.org.uk

Introduction

This is the third collection of writing from the WEA Writing London course. Some pieces were directly inspired by the Museum of London and its exhibits, some by other things, but they all have in common that they are beginning to 'create life with words' 1 . Many of the stories centre around people who have been thrust into alien worlds, sometimes by their own choice and sometimes most definitely not. There are some very touching accounts of geographical, social and psychological displacement and several moving takes on the foreign land of loss and grief.

Elizabeth Sarkany

You will see that each writer’s voice couldn’t sound more individual. And the voices of the characters, too, demand to be heard, whether loud and clear in a ‘white knuckle ride’ through Soho, resolute, in an account of political activism or urgently whispering between the lines in a skilful depiction of suburban strain. This virtual compilation represents a ‘first toe dip’ 2 for some of these writers into finding a wider readership than our class group. I very much hope, and suspect, that it won't be the last. WEA Tutor, Elizabeth Sarkany

1 2

From 'Writing short stories' in Mystery and Manners by Flannery O'Connor See under ‘David Watson’.

David Watson David Watson is a journalist, screenwriter and freelance film hack who writes for Screenjabber, What Culture, Movie Ramblings, FilmJuice and Verite magazine. You can read him at http://filmthug.blogspot.co.uk or follow him on Twitter under the monicker @filmthug. The Writing London class has been his first toe dip into the world of creative prose writing. In the event of a plane crash in the wilderness, he would eat you.

The Universe Next Door Can you imagine floating through the blackness of interstellar space, through clouds of gas and dust, a mote in God’s eye? Adrift? A fragment of flotsam and jetsam tossed on tides of Chaos, the detritus of the Cosmos spinning, coalescing, solidifying into stars, planets, a solar system? Matter given form, given function, given power; the white‐hot mass of a burning sun fills your vision, sears your eyes, roaring like the blood pounding in your ears as you tumble backwards away from it, shrinking as it drops away from you. The long arm of a solar flare bursts from the Sun, races towards you, over you, through you, spanks your bum and flips you over all the better to watch it race away from you. We’re all made of stardust. Every atom in our bodies, every element that makes us who we are, was born in the nuclear fire of a star...Thrown out across the vastness of the night, we’re a natural by‐product of the Universe, made of the same raw materials as a sun...or a planet...or that chair you’re sitting on...endlessly recycled. When she was younger ‐ a toddler really ‐ like most kids, Emmy was obsessed with dinosaurs, both fascinated by, and terrified of, them. She’d lie awake wondering if that creak was a Velociraptor climbing the stairs and sneaking into her parents’ room for a midnight snack. More than once, she kicked open their door to warn them, startling them to opposite sides of the bed. She read that, four and a half billion years ago, the Earth was a cooling ball of molten rock hanging in space, a desert devoid of life. According to the fossil record, just a billion years later, it was standing room only. How’d that happened, she used to wonder? You move through the solar system, beyond it into the cold darkness of space. A field of debris, of rock, of ice, the cold leftovers, stretches into infinity. You fall towards one particular slow rotating dirty ball of rock and ice in an elliptical orbit, circling closer, closer. Closer. You follow the ball as it’s drawn by the inner warmth, plummeting deep into the solar system, explosive outgassing caused by the Sun’s heat erupting across the body of the comet, growing it a long, curving tale. Pulled along in its wake, you clutch that tail fiercely as the comet rockets towards the centre of the solar system. Emmy knows the only thing worse than having a tiger by the tail is letting it go. Some people say comets are teeming with the primordial soup of life, just flying around space looking for a nice warm place to land and start a family ... Others say they’re more like dirty snowballs. Ever been in a snowball fight? Some little shit scoops up a handful of that soft, fluffy stuff and squishes, squashes, squeezes it in their fists, pressure

compacting it, force acting on area. And then they hit you in the face with it. Hurts don’t it? That’s kinetic energy for you. E=mc2. Throw the right mass at the right speed and it doesn’t matter if it’s snow hitting you in the face or a bullet, the results are going to be the same. Comets are just snowballs. If you throw them hard enough.... The comet pulls you towards a growing blue dot, towards home, growing larger and larger until it’s all you can see. 65 million years ago, a comet hit that blue dot and killed off all the dinosaurs. What were the chances of that? Imagine that. Imagine immense, ponderous Leviathans swimming through oceans of grass, grazing, fighting, making little dinosaurs. Oblivious. Not a thought in their crocodile brains. Imagine a fireball streaking across the sky, unnoticed by all, all but one, who looks up from the Brontosaurus burger he’s tearing into. Imagine being that one, that first, groping towards consciousness. Emmy wonders if he knew? If that poor, dumb, galumping lizard looked up, saw a shooting star and had time to make a wish? If it wasn’t for that snowball, imagine who’d be reading this now. Imagine that. You don’t have to be David Icke. Imagine a world where Saurian empires rose and fell. Imagine the T‐rex Michelangelo on his scaly back, half‐blind, brush in tiny hands, toiling to breathe life into the Sistine Chapel of a savage Laramidian Pope. Imagine sharing the morning commute with a Triceratops, having a Velociraptor for a boss. Imagine the Kardashians as peanut‐brained Diplodocuses. Having seen their show, that last one’s not much of a stretch for Emmy. Dragged by the flaming comet, you fall through the Earth’s upper atmosphere, burn across the sky, arc towards the lights of the city at night. If it was good enough for the dinosaurs... You plummet towards an ordinary home, on an ordinary street, crash through an ordinary roof. In a parallel universe, just next door to our own, the comet is the size of Aberdeen when it crashes through that ordinary roof. The impact kills millions. You, the comet, the house, the street, everyone you’ve ever known are instantly vaporised, the dust and ashes you leave behind a shroud that envelops the world, triggering a new Ice Age. No‐one in Aberdeen notices the slight drop in temperature. But in this universe, the comet, boiled by the atmosphere until it’s little more than a tiny pebble, crashes through the ceiling and into the skull of the handsomest man in Emmy’s world who’s just got home from work and poured himself a whisky. He blinks, puzzled, stumbles, sits down hard, eyes rolling back as if investigating the blood pouring from his deflating crown. The whisky sloshes in the glass but doesn’t spill. Surface tension. Hunkered on the floor reading, secure within her fort of popular science books, ingesting quantum mechanics, the multiverse and Brane theory, Emmy allows the Michio Kaku in her hands to snap closed, sits on the sofa beside him, takes his hand in hers as he mutters unintelligibly. There’s an urgency to his babbling, like he has

to get this out, pass to Emmy some forbidden knowledge. It takes him three minutes and twenty seven seconds to die. Universes are birthed and snuffed out in such time, worlds tilted on their axes. Emmy’s mother finds them there like that, both sat quietly together. At the funeral a black‐clad woman circulates among the mourners, dispensing roses from a basket. Emmy recognises her as the friend of her mother’s who can always be found crying on the stairs at parties and singing Only Women Bleed just slightly out of tune. She’s a sorta aunt but not the sort that’s actually any sort of a relative. She gives Emmy a rose, like that’s a fair exchange for a Daddy. Emmy watches her mother toss her rose into the yawning grave. She’s gone a bit Miss Havisham since it happened. It comforts Emmy to suppose that maybe in another universe, maybe one just a breath away, she’s handling it better. But if every action has an equal and opposite reaction, that means that somewhere out there is a mother, Mum 3.0 let’s say, who’s handling it worse, tearing at her flesh and keening like a Trojan woman. Emmy allows herself to be led on jelly legs to the edge of the precipice, opens her hand, allows the rose to slip from her fingers, watches flowers carpet the smooth coffin wood as the grieving follow suit, burying her father in blooms. In another universe, she knows, he never died. He sipped his drink and he and his Emmy watched The Simpsons until that Mum called them for tea. She wonders if that Emmy ever ‐ just for an instant, a flash of déjà vu ‐ remembers holding her father’s cooling hand in her own, or feels that Morlock touch in her dreams. Wonders if she remembers that he never spilled a precious drop.

Louise Prince Writing it out. Writing for me is all about play. Like building bricks, I can heap together elements of autobiography, observation and imagination; tie up loose ends, make sense of people and events, vindicate or condemn. The surprise for me lies in the unplanned metaphor. The ideal setting of the museum, with its objects, vibrancy, space and time constraints, generates the capacity to shift from wide‐angle and long shot to close‐up, and back again.

Mrs. Beeton’s egg salad, Streatham 1965 “6 hardboiled eggs, 2 tablespoons each of cream and mayonnaise, 1 tablespoon chopped parsley, 1 crisp lettuce, 1 tablespoon capers, 1 beetroot. Slice the eggs. Whip the cream till stiff and add to the mayonnaise with 1 teaspoon of parsley.” Something awful has occurred. It was all going so well. Benjamin had phoned from Bristol to ask if he could bring his college friend Sam home to meet us. I was planning egg salad as an entrée. Then there was another call. Nevertheless, this afternoon I’ll be wearing the cream silk shantung draped dress; at the moment still in my purple Pyrennean wool housecoat and violet velvet mules. I’ve already found a dressmaker. She also advised on the soft furnishings. I wanted bright, modern Sanderson’s Palladio patterns ‐ the architects’ range ‐ but Edward (you remember he was Ted when we first met) insisted on William Morris Strawberry Thief print for both the sitting and dining rooms. Traditional lasts and goes better with the antiques, he says. I don’t argue. He’s paying. The kitchen and bathroom are my territory. I chose stylish formica‐faced units in dark brown wood‐ effect, with burnt orange tiles and Tuscan patterned vinyl flooring for the kitchen. The bathroom has the latest Royal Doulton fittings in avocado. Edward says it reminds him of khaki camouflage but it is oh, so fashionable. House & Garden is full of it. The house is all I could wish for. Edward and I have joined the tennis club and bridge circle. He was invited to the Round Table and the Masons, but it all sounds a bit complicated, although I’d enjoy dressing up for the ladies’ nights. The golf club secretary is a friend of Edward’s boss, so he’s hoping for an introduction. There’s amateur dramatics at the Stanley Halls. Remember when I played Queen Elizabeth the First in the school pageant?

Mrs B next door has recommended her hairdresser on the high street and they do a passable manicure, so I’m booked in for next week. Haven’t decided on a church as yet. There’s plenty to choose from: Unitarians, Congregationalist, nonconformist, Jehovah’s Witnesses, High church, low church, Seventh Day Adventists, Methodists, Spiritualists, Baptists, Anabaptists. Thought I’d wait for recommendations before taking the plunge, so to speak. “Mayonnaise: 1‐2 egg yolks (new laid), ¼ ‐1/2 pt of best olive oil, mixed vinegars: 4 parts wine vinegar or lemon juice, 2 parts tarragon and 1 part chilli vinegar." I keep to my routine, my housekeeping habits. I empty ashtrays while they’re being used. I ask people to take their shoes off in the house. Yes, guests too. Can’t risk dog dirt on the afghan rugs. How’s Benjamin doing? You may well ask. He uses expressions I don’t much like the sound of. “Petit bourgeois, arriviste … social aspirant… the thin carapace of respectable sophistication on suburban streets”. I told him, Streatham was good enough for Sir Henry Tate and Dr.Johnson and it’s good enough for us. At the local history talk they showed pictures of the Tates’ mansion and the place where Mrs Thrale, Dr. Johnson’s friend, lived. As for Benjamin’s reading ‐ “Family life and kinship in London’s East End” ‐ I could’ve told him all about that ‐ not that I shall, of course. Shame he couldn’t be more like Sebastian. Number One son carries my Ava Gardner looks with a law degree from Oxford (albeit the polytechnic, but what’s in a name?) and the guaranteed pupillage in Edward’s office. “Remove every trace of egg white from the yolks. Put the yolks in a thick basin which will stand steady in spite of vigorous beating. Add to the egg yolks salt, pepper and mustard. Drop by drop add the olive oil, beating or whisking vigorously all the time.” If only Benjamin had done something useful. I knew social sciences sounded suspect. What’s that going to qualify you for? I asked. Should have let him go to art school and earn a living from commercial art. Architect would sound better at the bridge circle but seven years’ training! He might as well have tried harder at sums and articled with a chartered accountant’s firm. Have I told you about our car? A Humber Supersnipe with mink and cream bodywork, chrome trim, deep leather seats and walnut dashboard. Sitting on the drive it shouts “Success lives here.” Remember the Womens Royal Army Corp ? The night convoy driving, no lights on the roads, just the rear light and a small white bulb reflecting under the vehicle onto the rear axle of the lorry ahead. I was a qualified motor fitter when the war ended. Round here, they eventually move on to Eastbourne, Kings Avenue end. The retirement plan is already in place. I like a bit of sea air. I was first in our set to buy a Kenwood mixer. It peels potatoes, stuffs sausages, opens tins, kneads dough, liquidises soup. Nothing it can’t do ‐ cost a fortune ‐ if only it could host a dinner party. But now I’ve found TV dinners, on a tray just like airline food, to heat through in the oven: roast beef, Yorkshire pudding and three veg. Magic for those evenings I’m on my own, with Edward working late again. Conveyancing often carries on after office hours. He has a study here with a phone,

although he doesn’t use it much. Occasionally he plays records up there. Show tunes mostly, but sometimes Mozart, sometimes Elvis. We go for afternoon tea, me and my new friends, in Bon Marche. Some call it le Bon or Pratts. We see the same weary old waitresses in their black and white. Such swollen ankles from being on their feet all day, a touch breathless from carrying those heavy trays. I suppose they’d go for tea in the ABC or Express dairies, self service. Makes me think of the NAAFI canteen. The sweet hiss of the tea urn, the streaming, steamed up windows. A pall of hot cooking fat and acrid smoke from Woodbines burning away in the ashtrays. A heavy army boot lolling against mine. Perhaps the old girls go to Jo Lyons for a celebration. My mother used to say you get what you pay for, she should know. She had standards. As parlourmaid in a Mayfair house she was reminded “Minnie, you’ve forgotten to dust the coal in the ballroom grate. It must shine like black diamonds”. “As the mayonnaise thickens the olive oil can be poured in a steady stream but whisking must never slacken. A few drops of vinegar or lemon juice stirred in will thin it. Continue whisking in the oil until the whole amount is added." Now, coffee mornings: the charity committee meets every week, each Wednesday morning in someone’s house. There’s a rota. I send Mrs S, the daily (she came with the house) to pick up Kunzle cakes and iced gems. Getting the hang of the coffee percolator has taken me some effort. Wartime coffee subs worked better. “Chicco”, with the bright letters dancing across the tin and the “Camp” bottle’s serious military men; with plenty of milk and sugar, chicory essence almost tasted like the real thing. Also ask Mrs S to give the parquet an extra polish, along with the leaded windows, after shining the front door bell and knocker with Brasso, then whitening the front step. The solid silver photo frames in the sitting room look a bit tarnished. Yes, the ones grouped on the boudoir grand piano. Me, play? No, it was bought when the boys needed to practise their music for the school entrance exam. Perhaps one day I’ll learn, when I’m less busy. “Arrange a layer of lettuce leaves in the salad bowl, add a layer of mayonnaise, then a layer of slices of egg and so on until all the egg and lettuce is used, piling it high. Season each layer. Garnish with capers and neat slices of beetroot, sprinkle with the remainder of the parsley.” The oak panelled staircase has a carved newel post in the shape of a lion’s head. Lenny I call him. Every day I stroke Lenny for luck. But last week he failed me. I blame it on the egg slicer. I’d heard they make perfectly yolked ovals , so I popped into the new Woolworths and bought one. Yes, Woolworths, famed for “nothing over sixpence”. I was seen leaving the shop. Couldn’t pretend I’d been sheltering from rain either. It was a warm sunny day. My life lies in shreds.

Saira Arian There are, perhaps, no better ways of addressing distressing situations than by the use of prose and of creativity in general. Being a British Pakistani, I feel compelled to show the plight of the people I meet in Pakistan. I admire their courage to keep going without complaint and stoically endure their extreme circumstances. I may never be able to do much more for them, but I hope my contribution will be that I showed glimpses of their hardship to the world. I feel very fortunate to be taught by Elizabeth who is a very encouraging and talented teacher and the lessons I have learnt in class are invaluable. I hope to practise my writing skill and continue to learn to be a better writer and hope others will enjoy what they read and feel momentarily carried away to another land.

A Little While Longer As the day burned down, a beam of light shone through the cemented lattice windows onto the marble floor. Bilquis Bi sat on the wooden ottoman, resting her arm on a bolster pillow. ‘ Amlok ley lo,’ screeched the fruit vendor, carrying a basket of persimmons on his head. Bilquis Bi went to the front gate and called out to him. ‘How much is it for half a kilo of amlok, bhaiya?’ The fruit vendor put down the heavy load from his head. ‘Only 70 rupees, begum sahib.’ He held up the basket so Bilquis Bi could take a look at the shiny dark yellow fruit. She gently examined the persimmons, as if trying not to stir them from their sleep. The vendor was exhausted and, on most occasions, would have told another customer to hurry up. But his eyes fell on this aged woman, whose eyes sparkled like emeralds, with a tranquil dreaminess, as if she had no concern for the world she walked in. ‘Okay. Can you please give me one kilo?’ She began to untie the corner of her dupatta which had some money wrapped in a knot. The vendor showed her the measurement, to which she lightly nodded and took the little black bag full of yellow amloks. She walked back to the house and pushed open two rustic wooden shutter doors. ‘I’ve bought you amlok.’ The body on the bed lay still, as if a corpse. It suddenly twitched. ‘What? Sorry? What?’ ‘I said I’ve bought you amlok. I’m putting them beside your bed.’ The old man reached out his hand to his side table and Bilquis Bi gave him one persimmon. He put it close to his nose and inhaled. ‘Hmmm it seems sweet.’ The fustiness of the room made Bilquis Bi uneasy. He stood up in bed and began to bite into its glossy skin. ‘Will you have one?’ he asked his wife. ‘No thank you. You eat them.’ She saw his face light up as he bit into the succulent fibrous yellow flesh. ‘Is it magrib yet?’ he inquired.

‘Yes, nearly. The sun is going down.’ She walked to the window and opened it to let some air in. ‘Please turn the light on as you leave’. Bilquis Bi flicked the light from a line of switches that lay hidden behind the creaking door. Only she knew that there was no bulb in the light but the belief was all her husband needed. She closed his door and sat on her ottoman watching the room grow darker. The sounds of the birds flying back home and creatures hiding in the parched mud beneath the window resonated in the room. She intently watched the door of the third room, as if expecting it to open. She had wanted her son to lie in his room where he would feel safe. But she also fought with the feeling of what he would have desired. He might have wanted to be under the sky, in the sun, watching the birds fly by, coiling into a tree. She had never asked him because she never thought she would need to know. She could still hear the sharp shrills that had pierced through her ears when she saw Kareem’s body brought home in a shroud. ‘Ma, I’m certain there’s a ghost in my room,’ Kareem had remarked gravely. His mother only nodded as she passed him the jelly at the breakfast table. ‘No, seriously, the ghost switches my fan on and off. And this morning I found two dead cockroaches lying on the floor.’ Kareem and his father burst into laughter. Bilquis Bi looked at him. ‘Then you should bury the dead or it’ll haunt you along with the ghost,’ she coolly replied. ‘Ma!’ Kareem gave up and sipped his morning tea, which had a small cardamom floating at the surface. ‘Wonderful chai. I’m sure my day will go well.’ When, one year, Bilquis fell very ill with jaundice, Kareem had sat by her bedside and held her hand as she slept. When she woke up in the early hours, she found him sleeping in the chair with her hand in his. Her slight grasp woke him and he quickly straightened up in his chair. ‘Ma, do you need anything? Shall I give you water?’ Bilquis Bi had weakly smiled and shaken her head. ‘You should go and sleep. I’m fine.’ Kareem had looked into his mother’s pale face with her hazel eyes clouded by a yellow tinge. ‘I know you are fine, Ma. But I feel strong in your presence. There is nothing warmer and safer than your hands.’ She felt an urge to tell him something. You aren’t mine. She looked at Kareem as he bought a glass of warm, turmeric milk. ‘Ma please try and drink this. It’s good for you. The turmeric will heal the infection.’ ‘Uff! I really don’t like the taste of warm milk,’ she complained. Kareem grinned as he helped his mother take sips of the yellow coloured milk. ‘Ah the tables have turned Ma!’ He put the glass down and glanced at his mother’s eyes.‘ Is something wrong, Ma? Do you want to say something?’

You aren’t mine. ‘Mmm, I…’ she noticed how Kareem’s face had changed, with his well‐defined cheekbones and thin nose suddenly becoming sharper. ‘I’m troubling you with my illness,’ she apologised. Kareem’s face eased. ‘Not at all. I just wish I could make you feel better faster.’ He knelt down beside her bedside. ‘You shouldn’t say such things. I’m your son. It’s no trouble at all, Ma.’ Bilquis’s eyes welled up and she quickly shut them to stop the tears. When Kareem had lain in his narrow wooden coffin, Bilquis Bi felt she could see his chest rise and fall. It agitated her to see her husband’s hand disturb him as he tried to trace the last image of Kareem’s face into his mind. She couldn’t see the bullet that had passed through his temples. She couldn’t see how Kareem had struggled as people were falling around him in the fruit market. She couldn’t see how he’d passed his last moments inhaling the smell of squashed amloks. Stillness lived in Kareem’s room now. He lay tightly covered by a cement tomb. Bilquis Bi sat next to him in the late afternoons, her distorted shadow stretched across the tomb in the dimming light. The ceiling fan rotated above them. She knew he needed her there to feel safe.

Eric Cobb Having taught history in 11‐18 schools in Brent for thirty five years, I took early retirement in 2009. This experience was invaluable , widening my awareness of multicultural perspectives, while giving access to the cultural riches of London. I’m basically the eternal student. Grounded with a grammar school education in Rock Ferry, Birkenhead, I was the first person in our family to go to university. I got my BA at Queen Mary College , London in 1973. My original ‘A’ level interests in Art, Literature and History have endured .Since retirement I have gained distinctions in certificate courses at the V+A in Medieval and Early Renaissance Art, and also graduated as an MA in Medieval History through Birkbeck College in 2012. It has been a completely new development to re‐engage with creative writing after such a long gap. I joined my first WEA course, ‘Writing London’ ,this year, based in the Museum of London. I am very grateful to Elizabeth Sarkany who led the course , and my fellow WEA students who have encouraged me to ‘find my writing voice’ and go for it. ‘The Eye of the Beholder’ was inspired by a leather suffragette prison badge in the Museum of London. The original actually belonged to Freda Graham, but the story as written was based on the actions of Mary Richardson. I’m currently developing and researching a story begun on the WEA course, based on the experiences of my grandparents during the Great War.

The Eye of the Beholder On a breezy morning in March 1914 a pale‐skinned woman of about thirty, with brown eyes and tied ‐ back hair, emerged from her lodging house having eaten no breakfast. She had fasted for two days as a quasi‐religious discipline before the enactment. She wore a broad brimmed hat and a cape to keep her warm, clutching the leather prisoner’s badge hard in her hand. She had ‘done time’ to earn it , had no regrets , and wore it at the suffragette march following her latest release. G2 28. A number not a name, as though her personality and individual humanity were denied her as well as the vote. She wore the badge alongside the other sisters , proudly kept as a talisman and reminder of what the struggle had cost. Her last spell in Holloway was cut short after a three week hunger strike, due to the infamous ‘Cat and Mouse Act ‘ ; passed by the Liberal tom‐cats of the day in order to escape blame for any suffragettes dying in custody. The echoes of choking and screaming from other cells still haunted her memory. She had been thankful to get out once the prison doctors resorted to forcing the feeding‐ tube through her nostrils . Her gritted teeth had proved impenetrable to their delicate caresses. She walked the back streets today, through Soho and skirting Leicester Square, avoiding the Whitehall direction. She had made herself notorious there by hurling stones through a series of Home Office windows while running along the pavement. ‘I just had a smashing time’, she'd thought, even as the police manhandled her. The clerks inside the offices were less amused, especially by the

glass slivers in their tea. The drafts that now blew in had played havoc with some of their government paper work. Entering Trafalgar Square, she strolled over to Landseer’s lions. Her eye was drawn up the column, squinting towards Nelson up aloft . There he stood, high and allegedly mighty, turning his male blind eye on her. On the lower deck a birdseed vendor called across to her. ’Buy some seed Miss ? Birds love it.’ ‘No thank you,’ she irritatedly replied, moving a few steps away and shooing some pigeons while she was at it. She again mulled over the plan, reminding herself why she was executing it. Her idol, Emmeline Pankhurst, had been re‐arrested in Glasgow two days ago. For Mary this was tantamount to murder by attrition. She had cleared the plan with Christabel .Today was the day. Doubts reared their heads. What if she was recognised or searched by police or gallery staff? Supposing she succeeded , what good would it do the cause ? Attacking a £45,000 work of art just purchased by public subscription would hardly be popular with everyone, including some of the sisterhood. But what was money compared to the lives of millions of women denied their political rights ? What about the damage they continued to sustain ? ‘What’s wrong Miss, ain’t ‘e turned up then ?’ This interjection , from Birdseed Man, galvanised her into purposefully striding towards the grand portico of the National Gallery . She stared at the entrance, visualising the route she had rehearsed. Today was a free entry day but this did not necessarily mean plain sailing. It would be popular and there might be security checks by stewards, or even police, inside the gallery. The massive spate of suffragette actions over the previous six months had made this a priority, triggered by the death of Emily Davison under the King’s horse at Epsom. Mary had been right next to her when it happened. She’d seen, and physically felt, the collision of horse and woman through the thudding reverberation in the ground. Now it was her turn to strike back. She made a last check on the safety pins running the length of her forearm , securing the heavy butcher’s knife . Good. Still secure beneath her cape. It would hardly do if a great knife clattered to the floor before she was anywhere near the target. After all, this was a kind of assassination attempt. After walking up the flights of steps she trod the polished mosaic floor of the busy foyer. She looked furtively at the stewards standing by the desk. As they were preoccupied with groups of visitors, she managed to slip by without being challenged. She moved nervously to the central block of the building and entered the galleries. The walls were totally lined with pictures . As far as she was concerned ‘Great Masters’ were not so great for women, whoever they were and whatever talent they appeared to have. For every great male artist a thousand women had been prevented from becoming one. This did not mean she was indifferent to their work or insensitive to art. She had herself been an art student. It was The Cause that mattered. She finally came face to face with her intended victim. Amid a small audience of largely male voyeurs, Mary looked intently at the naked beauty on the wall. She was the first female nude in the history of Spanish art. Mary observed the sensuous rear view of the young woman, stretched languidly along a bed , seeming to return and coquettishly invite the viewer’s gaze through the mirror held by the hand of Cupid. The subtle pale flesh tones gave the appearance of skin that seemed so soft that it would surely yield to the touch.

It was exquisite. It was a Velasquez. It was an obscenity. Yet Mary held back. She noticed a security detective sitting in the seat opposite the picture, ostensibly reading a newspaper. Moving to the far corner of the room, she pretended to sketch in a notepad brought with her for the purpose. Gradually the viewers thinned out as midday approached and an attendant drifted into the next room. As the gallery clock struck twelve , Mary could not believe her luck as the law officer folded up his paper , heading off to answer the call of the regulation lunch break. A rapid undoing of safety pins freed the butcher’s knife . Mary flung herself at the painting. Hammering with the butt end she smashed into the protective glass which exploded on to the floor. The blade rhythmically slashed five times across the woman’s back and shoulders, scoring the flesh like cacophonous notes on a stave. Female perfection became meat on a butcher’s chopping block. ‘For The Cause, it is The Cause,’ she told herself. A confused tangle of police, attendants, and members of the public pounced on top of her and on each other, grabbing and slithering on the ground in a heap. It would not have been out of place in a Chaplin film. But Mary came to a sudden, shocking realisation. As she was dragged away and bundled out of the gallery she caught a last glimpse of her handiwork .What she saw was the mutilated body of a beautiful girl. Only then, like the Moor, did she recognise she had just murdered someone she loved.

Dennis Gardner Dennis Gardner was born in Islington and vividly remembers growing up in the post‐war years where every bomb site was the very best of adventure playgrounds. Having just completed his second year at Writing London, and with a strong interest in short stories and radio drama, his writing has progressed far beyond his original expectations. Regarding London as a broad canvas on which to fulfil his writing ambitions, he is an occasional contributor to Radio London and has worked as a jazz DJ. A lifelong Arsenal fan, he lives in Highbury. Please note: some readers may find the language in this account offends them.

Saturday night out: June 1962 They were waiting for us near the Carlton in Essex Road, hair lacquered like candy floss, skirts too tight, make‐up too thick, and worst of all they’re both wearing white high heels. God, I think I’m going to be sick. “Dennis ‐ Joyce ‐ Lucy,” said Fred. “Are we going out in that?” said Joyce. “No Fred, I’m not going out in a fucking coal lorry.” “It’s all right, it’s all been washed and I’ve put clean sacks on the seats. Just back from the laundry,” said our dashing coalman. Fred had been on a promise with Joyce and now I was lumbered with her mate, just for tonight. Because of the high step up to the cab, we’d had to help them in. As I pushed Lucy’s ample arse, she looked over her shoulder and smiled. “Ooh, you mustn’t touch me there. You ain’t bought me a drink yet.” Fred looked tasty, black suit from Bergs with wide shoulders as if the coathanger was still in, black shirt, because he sweated coaldust through the pores on the back of his neck, red tie, black winklepickers. Tall, fair haired, Artful Dodgerish, he resembled a ponce from the rough end of town. Once on the move, he started giving them the spiel. “Right ladies, we’re going to the Flamingo in Wardour Street. Live music, records. We can dance and, if you’re very good girls, we’ll go for a nice Chinese or Indian afterwards.” “Oh I don’t want nothing spicy,” said Joyce. “It gives me the trots.” Lucy chipped in with her two penn’orth. “Me and all. We had a curry in Ball’s Pond Road the other week. Made me shit through the eye of a needle.” Grace Kelly and Audrey Hepburn anyone?

We parked in Shaftesbury Avenue. Fred switched the engine off. It ran on for seven or eight seconds, vibrating and juddering. “It’s like the fucking Dambusters,” said Joyce. We’d got them into this lorry; now we had to get them out. As Fred eased Joyce down onto the pavement, I stood in the road to help my half of the bargain descend safely. She did everything I told her not to do. Sideways, backwards and ending with a little jump off the step. She landed too heavily, on one foot instead of two, her ghastly white shoe twisting beneath her, turning her ankle. For an instant she tottered, like a stunned pig in an abattoir. I grabbed her before she collapsed like a sack of shit. “Oh fuck, fuck,” she said. “I’ve done me fucking ankle in. Look, it’s all swollen.” “No it’s not,” I said. “Your ankles were fat like that when we met up tonight.” She limped along holding Joyce’s arm. I walked two or three yards behind. Fred turned and winked at me. Even he knew the evening was a lost cause. The Flamingo was a cellar club with live music, presided over by Mick, a genial, good‐looking bloke in his navy mohair suit and tab‐collared shirt. With his wavy blond hair and blue eyes, all the girls loved him and all the boys loved to be in his company. The club wasn’t licensed, so half bottles of spirits were smuggled in to mix with the small bottles of Coke sold at the bar. I’d been there for the first time a few months earlier with a young Jamaican workmate and two of his friends. They were the epitome of cool, dressed in a sort of Miles Davis, Greenwich Village, modern jazz style: tightly slim dark suits, white button‐down shirts and narrow‐brimmed Trilby hats, as opposed to the Italian influenced clothes that I wore. On the evening of that white knuckle ride with Freddie and the Dolly sisters, I had worn my bronze tonic mohair suit, slightly waisted, three buttons, slanted pockets, two eight‐inch vents, brown Chelsea boots, spit‐and‐polished like dark crystal. To complement this sartorial glory, I slapped on my fifteen‐bob‐a‐bottle cologne from a stall in Chapel Street. Its fragrance was guaranteed to make every woman under the age of 25 rip her clothes off at fifty paces. I needed to get out into action before it evaporated. The club as always was crowded, noisy and smoky, Rothmans and Dunhills mingling with something a bit more pungent. Fred bought the drinks, Georgie Fame sang “You are my sunshine” and I prayed that nobody saw me with Joyce and Lucy and those bloody white shoes. “What’s this? I drink gin and orange. This is a fucking insult,” said Joyce. Fred slipped a half bottle of Bell’s into Joyce’s handbag. “Now you go into the toilets. I’ve told you what to do.” “This is crap,” said Lucy. “Don’t like it here, don’t like the music. He’s playing the organ. And that black geezer on the saxophone’s got a dress on, the skinny bastard.” I was surprised that she knew what a saxophone looked like.

They retired to the Ladies. “They’ve got to go Fred. Tell them to piss off,” I said. “Den, just stick it out for the evening. They’re not too bad looking.” “Not bad looking! Are you joking?” I said. “My one looks like fucking Bruce Forsyth. She’s got a face like a horse. Slap her arse and say gee up and she’d win The Derby.” They grimly rejoined us, Lucy limping like a crippled toad. “We’re going,” said Joyce. “We’re gonna get a cab down the Mildmay, more our sort of thing. See you.” And with that they were gone. The Mildmay was a big rough old pub with customers to match. Horses for courses I thought. Fred and I stood silently for ten seconds, then: “They took my fucking whisky and all.” Then, as Georgie finished his first half with, aptly, The point of no return, fate, as they say, took a hand. There, two yards away, buying two Cokes, stood the lovely Carole Francis. She was a mod. Straight pencil skirt two inches below the knee, white stockings, black Marks & Spencer twinset, auburn bobbed hair with a deep Louise Brooks fringe down to her eyebrows. And the eye make‐up. I knew her slightly, just to nod hello, but no more than that. We both went to the same places, here in Soho and the Downbeat in Finsbury Park. For all my confidence, I’d never asked her to dance: she was so good at it and always looked so bloody perfect. No matter, I fancied her like crazy. “Hello Carol.” She smiled. Lovely smile. And she’s blushing. “Hello Dennis.” “I didn’t think you knew my name!” I lied. “Course I do,” she said. “You’re so smart. You had a lovely suede jacket on last week at the Downbeat. I didn’t think you knew my name; you always ignore me.” How things can change in 60 seconds. Mick was now DJing. “Dance?” she asked. We danced. Al Wilson’s The Snake, a raunchy soul song, involving us standing nose to nose hissing the chorus, “SSSSSS sighed the snake.” Fred was with Carol’s friend Linda, leaping around like a demented contortionist, a huge smile on his face. Things just got better. Ray Charles’ You don’t know me. Arms around each other, I stroked the back of her neck, ruffling her hair.

“That’s not in the dance,” she smiled. “Sorry, shall I stop?” “Certainly not.” And then… We hadn’t realised that the place had almost emptied. Fred came over. “Come upstairs quick,” he said. “You’ll never see nothing like this again.” He was right. A circle of maybe a hundred people had formed. Two black guys stood in the street slashing at each other with knives. I recognised one of them as Johnny Blue, who sat in the Flamingo with his friend, selling amphetamines (Blueys) which kept you awake all night, hence their nickname Mr & Mr Blue. They weren’t people you’d ever want to cross. These were hard bastards, and the knives weren’t Boy Scout’s stuff either; butcher’s knives, twelve inch blade, four inches across at the base, heavy. He lashed at Johnny, who instinctively held his hand up, losing one and half fingers in the process. Johnny returned the compliment, hacking him to his cheekbone, drawing the blade downwards to his mouth. His lip flapped forward, but worse, the wet whiteness of his cheekbone was all too visible. Then the blood gushed. “Let’s get away from here,” said a tearful Carol. “I’m frightened.” Then the police arrived. Five or six coppers jumped on each of them, sirens, ambulance, more police cars. A fat sergeant screamed at us, “Go on, move away, fuck off!!” The Flamingo had closed. We’d all had enough. Half an hour later we were installed in the South China restaurant in Rupert Street, Freddie was feeing Linda with prawn balls from a spoon and I was feeding Carol with lots of bullshit. By the time we left, we’d arranged to meet the next day. She wanted me to go to her house during the week to play some music, and would I take her to the shop where I’d bought my Chelsea boots as she wanted an identical pair to wear with her white Levi’s. Not bad. “Come on girls, let’s get you home,” said Fred. “I’m parked just up the road, lovely big motor, belongs to my guv’nor. He’s lent it to me for the evening …”

Jo Ruckman I have found the course fascinating in developing and understanding the craft of creative writing. This is a very different discipline to my professional world of internal and corporate communications,but I love finding out how to tell someone’s story, whether factual or fictional. I have found using the Museum of London exhibits as a starting point for writing very liberating and thoroughly enjoyed the process. This story is something I have been wanting to develop for some time. Travelling on the local shopping bus has meant overhearing some interesting conversations and has offered a window into people's lives. This could be a series of different people's stories, but for now this is the start of Faye's story.

The people on the bus go up and down

Faye stared out of the window. It hadn’t stopped raining for days. Or was it just the way she was feeling? She could see herself reflected in the glass. Her long dark hair needed washing and her eyes were too big in her pinched face. She was about to turn away, when she saw a woman and child walking across the road. They stopped opposite the house. The boy had his face turned up to the woman’s and was describing something animatedly. The woman was looking bemusedly at the boy as though she had no idea what he was saying. The boy’s yellow wellies brought a splash of colour to the grey, miserable day. Faye waited for the spasm of pain, but found herself intrigued by the pair and continued to watch them. She saw a red bus coming down the road, another bright punctuation mark in the relentless rain. ‘Here’s the Granny bus, Mum!’ the boy shouted. Mother and son got on the bus and Faye saw that it was already half full, the majority older people. The bus pulled away and Faye realised that the darkness in her brain had lifted for a moment. She put her hand to her head and then pulled it away disgusted at the grease. Maybe she should wash her hair, she thought, but the bed drew her. Better to sleep and forget, as long as she didn’t dream. The sound of the key in the door woke her and she blinked sleepily. She stumbled downstairs to find Luke standing in the kitchen, pointedly ignoring the breakfast mess. And what about lunch? No, she didn’t think she’d had lunch today. She stood awkwardly in the doorway. Luke turned and was about to move towards her, but she looked away quickly and he dropped his hands, his fair skin flushing. ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked. Faye couldn’t even think how to answer, the fog in her brain blurred her vision and she gazed at Luke blankly. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said quietly. Then he seemed to snap. 'What do you do all day? Couldn’t you have even cleared up a bit? And you look terrible. When did you last wash your hair?’ Luke tailed off, looking horrified, but Faye just bowed her head and walked away upstairs. She heard the door bang as Luke left the house. Faye clung onto the doorframe and sobbed. It was the first time she had cried since the miscarriage and the pain almost engulfed her, but,

strangely, when the crying ebbed, her head felt clearer. Looking out of the window, she saw that the rain had finally stopped. She went downstairs just as the front door opened and Luke came in with a takeaway bag and a sheepish expression. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said and his eyes were filled with tears. Faye hadn’t realised how hard it had been for Luke too. She had only thought about herself. She smiled at him tentatively. ‘No. I’m sorry,’ she said. She was about to turn down the offer of food when she realised that she was ravenously hungry. ‘Why don’t you put the meal out,’ she said. ‘I’m going to have a shower.’ The next day, when she woke, the clouds were hovering a little further away and she managed to get out of bed before Luke left for work. ‘Have a good day,’ she ventured from the stairs as he opened the front door. He looked surprised. ‘Thanks. You too.’ Misery threatened, but Faye hurried back up the stairs and decided to get dressed ‐ the first time in weeks. The material of her jeans felt harsh to her fingers, but it was a change from the numb feeling of the past months. She had to tighten her belt an extra couple of notches. In the kitchen, she opened the fridge and examined its meagre contents, drinking the last of the milk from the carton, something she was always telling Luke not to do. She drifted into the sitting room again and through the window she saw the Granny bus rounding the curve at the end of the road. A motley collection of people had already gathered at the bus stop: a tall man with a stick and a military air; an old lady with soft white hair, hunched over her bag as though someone was about to take it from her; and yes, the boy and his mother she had observed the day before. Without giving herself time to change her mind, Faye grabbed her bag and made her way over the road, barely acknowledging the greetings of her neighbours. When the bus arrived, she hung back to let people on and off and hurried to the back. At the top of the hill, the tall man stepped off the bus, calling for his cocker spaniel to follow, but she was already at his side, obviously used to the routine. Faye got off the bus too, her hair streaming in the breeze. She stood for a moment, looking down the hill towards the London towers. She swung her bag on to her shoulder and heard the dog yelp at her feet. Faye looked down. ‘I’m so sorry.’ She bent down to stroke the dog, fur and hair blending for a moment. The man blinked and cleared his throat. ‘She’s all right, aren’t you, Bella?’ ‘Bella, what a lovely name. I’m sorry about bashing you with my bag, Bella.’ Faye stood up slowly. ‘I’m Faye. You live on my road, don’t you? I should really walk up the hill, but I didn’t feel like the climb today.’ They stood for a moment in silence, looking back down the hill. ‘I’m Bob.’ the man said. ‘I used to walk up every day, but my leg’s a bit stiff.’ ‘Nice to meet you. I’ve got to go,’ said Faye abruptly, unable to bear the normality of the conversation. She walked slowly towards the high street, focusing on the need to buy food for the empty fridge.

Christina Parry

Escape ‘Did you say select it?' Her ear throbbed from the pressure of the phone as she searched the screen for the crucial file name and relayed the result back to India. Two hours this time – thankfully at BT’s expense – as the operator talked her through yet another fix. The conversation ended with the poor girl taking over remotely, which they only seemed to do as a last resort. Mary sighed as she gazed at her red laptop, fingers smoothing the deep lacquer finish, 'only an extra hundred pounds', the best in the shop. It was her retirement treat to herself, but was proving a let‐down. She’d changed her security settings and passwords so many times she'd lost track, till she started writing them down in her diary. Mary had learned to stay calm, a conditioned response from years of pressurised office life. 'Love your machine. Give it a hug!' the trainer had joked years ago, as Mary had vented her frustration with the online help that was no help. 'Get to know how it thinks. Humour it'. To her surprise, Mary found this saved her many ill‐tempered days. The advice kicked in hard now she was at the mercy of faceless internet servers and suppliers. She drifted aimlessly into the kitchen and made more tea, staring idly at the garden. The lawn needed mowing and the hedges were running riot. Standing at the sink she smiled at echoes of colleagues scoffing at the latest make‐work job dreamed up by management, and herself joining in the general ridicule. She refused to give way to time‐wasters, the graveyard of retirement dreams, even though her life was full of them. Summer yawned ahead. Mary rammed the mug in the dishwasher, straightened up and carried the laptop back to the Ikea desk where her sons once did their homework. One after the other they had colonised the corner, spreading files and scattering pencils and calculators, graduating to computers and mobiles as technology moved on. Now it was her turn, though her destination wasn't the university place they were after. Today she had promised herself she would find and join some networks that would help with her new business ideas, energise her contacts, broaden her scope. Connections were the thing these days, and one thing led to another. Pressing the keys confidently she defied the gremlins that haunted the laptop. She went straight to e‐mail, resisting the temptation to find out more about the Birmingham E.coli scare, or the cancer breakthrough that would revolutionise treatment in 10 years' time. First, though, she clicked open the union newsletter, the umbilical cord to the last 40 years she'd not yet had the heart to cut. Fancy a grown up gap year? it said on the second page. No kidding. 'Hello, is that Professor Davies? I hear you're recruiting people to teach English in China.' Yes, she had a degree; yes, she could go for six months or a year; yes, she was healthy; yes, she had references. Mental reservations screamed silently as she blithely ticked the oral checklist, refusing

to slam shut the door that had chinked open. More of a keyhole than a door, but you had to start somewhere. Today the river was high after last night's storm. Debris was washing down, knocking the hulls of the gravel and timber barges chugging their way upstream. She watched the mist shimmering on the far bank, early‐morning swifts catching their breakfast, never tired of gazing at the dreamy, steamy beauty of the Min delta. This far out of town you could see the mountains to the West, far beyond the rice paddies and the sugarcane and bamboo groves. The post‐Mao regime that had swept her from suburban London to tropical China had not yet replaced the old fashioned Imperial houses with modern high rise flats. 'In the West, old houses usually cost a lot more than new ones', she had told the class, to their complete disbelief. Why would you want an old house? The new flats had two toilets, piped water, double glazing and air‐conditioning, so who would want a hutong, where you have to queue for the wash house and the outside toilet? She guessed her landlord was rich, owning this traditional house with the open‐fronted shop on the ground floor. The rooms above stepped down onto airy landings, with lime‐washed walls and cool tiles, open to the wind. Last night's lashing rain had poured unhindered down the stairways, out onto the road and the river beyond, unconscious witness to ancestors who valued harmony and elegance. At this rate she'd be late, and Mary grabbed her books and notes. She clattered down the stairs, put on the outdoor shoes that had to be taken off before walking through the house, and carefully let herself out of the heavy front door. On her left, the river, with its usual cluster of housewives squatting on their haunches and slapping the family washing on the rocks. She gave a wave, smiling at the now familiar faces. She was used to stares and whispers, and sometimes a grabbing hand or tentative stroke. So far she'd not seen another Westerner round here, and most of the locals rarely ventured beyond their own neighbourhood. Past the enormous banyan, its aerial roots tentacling towards the tarmac, buttressed trunk the backdrop for the morning fish market. Terrapins and leatherbacks, mountains of heaving carapace; lizards reincarnated from pre‐history, flicking tongues and clawing nails; snakes and snails, worms and locusts writhing and slithering; flat fish, round fish, cat‐fish, sharks, a nightmare Noah's ark, beached from the ocean. 'You don't get that at Waitrose,' thought Mary. Aaron and Lance stumbled into the classroom, late and unwashed. She saw them creep along the back wall, no sign of a pen between them, only mobiles tucked into shirt pockets. Mary ignored them as she got on with the lesson, the girls' heads bent, looking at pictures of London traffic passing bus stops in Oxford Street. She watched from the corner of her eye as the two lads faked concentration. She expected they'd been up half the night in the dormitory, clutching their game consoles, virtual reality more exciting than the tedium of learning English. Even the ambitious Chinese were vulnerable to the lottery syndrome of instant gratification over disciplined work. The old‐fashioned map on the back wall was the only visual aid in the concrete room. That first day, struggling to compensate for her age and inexperience, she had talked about her travels. Aaron and Lance had been first up to point out the countries on the map, naming the capitals, rivers, mountains. How could anyone living have visited that lot? She had pointed to the vastness of China, and the smallness of Europe, the steppes of Siberia and Tibet, the magic of Africa and the mysterious spiritual world of the Amazon. English would be their passport, their route beyond the computer. Then, she’d had no inkling of their narrow world, hemmed in by tradition, family, expectation. Aaron and Lance claimed they were destined for universities in Australia, where they had relatives

who would look out for them. No mention of who would pay. Hidden family wealth had always been the Chinese way. But none of this would happen without the magic IELTS English certificate. 'You need to write things down,' she'd told them, once she'd persuaded the supervisor to issue exercise books. 'Practice as much as you can.' The class had looked at her blankly. They were happy enough to copy things off the board, but question and answer, free expression, was as alien to them as computers were to her. Mary had hit on reading aloud, which at least improved pronunciation and verbal fluency. And it seemed to keep Aaron and Lance awake, even if they were only worrying when it would be their turn. Nor could they escape when the class had to write multiple choice answers on the board, as she always checked everyone had put something, before she went through the answers. 'I've got something to show you,’ she announced. 'Do you know what this is?' Rooting in her bag she pulled out her passport, its metal foil reflecting the midday intensity of the Chinese sun. Aaron and Lance rubbed their faces, lifting their heads in unexpected unison. Noone had ever seen a passport, or known anyone with one, never making the connection between virtual and practical travel. Only Bethany had seen the sea, all of fifteen miles away, and all were chaperoned on their trips into town. Libby had been to Beijing, forty eight hours by train, and Geoff had relatives on the Mongolian border, a week's journey by rail. Mother had packed him off with flasks and dumplings, sleepers booked and paid for in advance. Mary shuddered at the thought of them on their own at university outside China, no idea how to deal with money, traffic, independent living. Aaron and Lance wrinkled their foreheads, glasses glinting as the sunlight reflected from their unusually uplifted faces. In halting English they questioned her about forms and visas, tickets and stamps. How you booked, where you went, what you said, how you paid, whether spitting was normal, when you spoke and when you kept quiet. At last the reality counterpoint to classrooms and computers. Nervously they prompted Mary to expand on the world beyond Fugian, where twenty‐somethings went to cafes, sauntered on streets, chatted to girls.

Laura Myers Laura Myers (not her real name) is a novice fiction writer. After years of journalism and factual writing she is trying to find ways of telling her own stories. She lives in London in a house with a small concrete backyard, but has recently acquired a share in a North London allotment.

Earth to Earth Allotment anticipation. The office hut smells of mice and mud and mould. The bearded custodian hands over three identical small keys for the padlocks that guard this little bit of rural fantasy. Jammed between the railway line, a little wood edged by a stark ginger‐coloured path and rows of solid Edwardian houses that signal this inner London fringe was once stolid commuter land. The three women follow him along narrow grassy strips between the sharply delineated plots, wellingtons finding misshapen paving stones, rotting wooden boards and raised lumps of mud to avoid the deepest squelchy spots. Perfect Pete isn’t there. The plots are am‐dram actors, proclaiming their personality too loudly. They are so human: more or less all the same, when stripped to bones, teeth, skin and hair, yet completely individual once dressed in clothes that betray their history and values. Here’s one in perfect order. Rows of chard glowing amber and ruby in the weak sunlight, a budding rhubarb showing vivid pink in its pegged out square, and leggy tepee poles already awaiting clingy bean tendrils. And here’s the artist, with last year’s sunflower curled back into the earth, upstaged by a mosaic table top sowing glass squares of turquoise, burnt umber, Virgin Mary blue and milky white into the churned up earth. The plot dominated by a lofty 21st century green man made from a metal colander, plastic soil pipes and the legs of a faux glamorous 1950s shop window model. An ode to fertility rather than fertility itself. Three women have come to claim the vacant plot next to the wire mesh cage full of clucking hens. It’s an egg co‐operative: A chicken coop. They eye the lanky unkempt terraces where couch grass has woven a green mat obliterating soil and any remnants of harvested crops. There’s no question that they will take it, however dim the prospects of growing their own edible food. Perfect Pete knew every step. There’s barely a sprouting bramble he had not attacked, a bamboo pole he had not straightened. It is not just his handprint that is on this land, but an imprint of his soul.

Each woman has a vision, and it doesn’t matter that it’s not the same vision that binds them in this venture. Lindy has snow white hair cropped close to her skull and is beginning to stoop, even though she has only just retired. But she sees herself as a modern land army girl, brown as a berry, strong as an ox, and quite independent as she plants her boots on the yielding soil; Sam is the plump earth mother with corn‐coloured hair whose babies have flown. She still wants to make crab apple jelly and nurture green shoots to become vigorous fruiting plants. She needs to be needed. And Gina. Gina once grew some potatoes in a bag in her dank courtyard, but couldn’t bear to eat a single one of the nine little beauties. They sat on the window ledge becoming sour and wrinkled, strangely, a bit like her. But, with a whole allotment, she pictures enjoying vegetables at their best, confident that there will be more, week after week after week. Like the pension that now suffuses her bank account every month. No need to worry about losing her job to someone brighter, younger and smarter. No need to hoard with a garden of plenty. ‘Well, this is it,’ says the bearded one. ‘It’s been a while … It sort of tailed off, and in the end we had to tell Perfect Pete that it was all over. He hadn’t paid for over a year. And so many people want one of these allotments. The soil should be good.’ The soil is good. Year after year PP spread well‐rotted compost on to the nine small banked plots that made up allotment 121. He knew all about rotation and complementary cropping. Sam wants to show that they are not going to leave nature untamed. They aren’t going to give up on the plot. She starts clearing out the shed. The trio haul out five deckchairs with canvas seats speckled with mould and wooden struts rendered lacy by gnawing beetles. They poke into the drawer beneath the work surface. All is ordered: packets of seeds, labelled and dated; plastic markers and a felt‐tipped pen; a tobacco tin full of nails. This does not look like the shed of a man who has given up. This is not the handprint of one who did not care. There is a complete pharmacy of deathly poisons to wage war on nibbling insects and a catalogue’s worth of tools each supported by a precise pattern of nails to hold it in its allotted place ‐ two forks, one with a tine missing, a rusting bow saw, a rake, hoe, spade, trowel and scissors. Those wooden handles were subtly moulded to PP’s grip and his palms had become smooth and brown like those handles. No, this is not a man who didn’t care and lost interest. On their next visit, they attack the plot in earnest. Sam begins turning over the deceptively bland earth with its hidden intricate vermicular chambers, shards of pottery and faded messages on plastic markers. She feels like an archaeologist revealing this land’s past before nature wrested back the plot. Lindy and Gina clear out the poly‐hut, a curve of opaque corrugated plastic that doubles as a greenhouse. They tip out anything too rusty, unlabelled or half eaten into a plastic bag destined for the bin. For Lindy it feels like going through her mother’s things when she was clearing her house. Layer after damp layer of a long life are peeled off and thrown away; tangles of netting, seed trays, torn black plastic sacks and woodlouse casings. Gina finds a penknife, probably once a crisp red and white Swiss army knife, and a rust‐smeared once‐white man’s handkerchief deep in the subsoil. She doesn’t consign these relics to the rubbish bag, but places them with a private sense of ceremony on the top shelf that runs around two sides of the shed. ‘Hello, you’re the new people. Would you some tea?’ The voice came from the allotment next door. She was fortyish, pretty, open‐faced and wearing a woolly cardigan with out‐sized buttons and a

fuchsia and grey striped beanie hat. ‘I’m Sonia. Come across. Don’t mind the yelling. It’s the kids. They’re in the tree house up there.’ They sit on rickety fold‐up chairs while Sonia makes earl grey tea and conversation. Politeness dictates that questioning is kept general although both parties really want to extract full CVs. Sam tries to steer the talk to allotment 121’s glory days and how long it has been lingering on the brink between fecundity and decay. Sonia is vague. ‘He’d had the plot for years before we got ours when Lottie was about three, so that would be six or seven years ago.’ She told them about the plant sale in May and wished them good luck. As they get up to leave, Lindy probes one more time. ‘Why was he called Perfect Pete?’ ‘Oh, nobody called him that any more, but that’s why he was called PP. It didn’t even seem funny anymore.’ ‘Perfect’. Was that a compliment or an insult?’ Gina asks as she steps around the flimsy fence. But there is no answer. Afterwards, they pick over the clues and decide that it was probably not meant kindly. Gina leaves the other two debating whether they could sow broad beans straight into the claggy earth without first nurturing them in seed trays, and stomps to the top of the plot to attack an ash stump that has sprouted long whippy shoots with tight black buds. She starts snipping the shoots with secateurs, but then decides to prise out the whole thing. She starts by digging a trench around the base of the truncated tree with the flat spade that PP left behind but has to switch to the heavy fork to loosen the impacted earth. This is going to be a long tussle with the clinging soil and deep roots. She digs deeper and deeper. Earth to ashes; ashes to earth. The mantra of the cycle of life and the finality of death starts playing through her mind.

Marilyn Lister Marilyn Lister comes from south London. After a career in public service, she has retired from full time work and is now fulfilling a long held ambition to write. This was her first experience of a creative writing course. ‘The WEA course Writing London has given me a great start and boosted my confidence. And I have discovered so many fascinating objects in the Museum of London that I know will provide plenty of inspiration for future pieces. I wrote this piece about the memorial plaque to a dead Roman son, from his mother, in the Museum of London.’

Lavinia She is tall, slim, well‐garbed and dignified, but now her shoulders are slumped: she is bowed down by the sorrow of losing her only son. She touches the elaborate comb in her hair – a festal gift from him. There are threads of grey now among the gold. She recalls every year of his life: his naming ceremony; his first tottering steps, childish hands stretched out towards her. Her boy: wrestling with his friends; leaping, throwing, running; sword practice; falling from his first pony; enlisting. She recalls them all. Her pride in her solider son. Now she looks to the empty years ahead. There will be no more triumphs to celebrate. No bridal now; no grandchildren for her; no one to care for her in her old age. His dog lies slumped at her feet, tail down, whining softly. She bends to caress its head and whispers, ‘You miss him too.’ She straightens up. What the Gods will, must be. Useless to lament or upbraid them. She crosses slowly to the family altar, almost reluctantly. Looking up at the images, she takes a taper and lights the candles. The flame illuminates the stern, carved faces – emotionless, unpitying. She bows her head slowly, in acknowledgement of their power and authority. Silently, she breathes a prayer – a prayer for his soul’s safety in that journey to the Otherworld. She prays to the household gods, to Mithras, the soldiers’ god. ‘Look after him! And turns away, weeping silently. It is the soldier’s fate, The mother’s fate. Dignity requires a reigning‐in of passion, of sorrow. Submission to the will of the gods. External composure. Suppress the grief; Suppress the anger. Hold it in, this desire to rail at the gods.

About the WEA Founded in 1903, the Workers' Educational Association (WEA) is a charity and the UK’s largest voluntary sector provider of adult education. In 2012/13 we delivered 9,700 part-time courses for over 70,000 students in England and Scotland with classes in almost every local authority area and our work in England was assessed in 2014 as ‘Good’ by Ofsted. With the support of over 400 local branches, 3,000 volunteers, 2,000 part-time tutors and our active membership, the WEA provides high quality, student-centred and tutor-led education for adults from all walks of life. We bring education into the heart of communities, helping people learn whatever they want – from maths and English to local history. We believe learning is for everyone and learning is for life. It helps people feel that anything is possible. It can be life-enhancing and life-changing – improving health, self-confidence and creating positive changes that ripple out from individuals to communities. We also have a special mission to reach those who want to improve their lives and communities. Education is a beautiful and powerful tool for tackling economic and social disadvantage because it raises aspirations and helps people create their own change. We campaign for adult education and whether you want to become a student, member, volunteer, tutor or partner, you are always welcome to the WEA. So learn the WEA way – friendly, accessible education on your doorstep. You do not need any previous knowledge or qualifications to join most of our courses, only a willingness to share with others your curiosity, ideas and experience. To find out more go to our website: www.wea.org.uk or dowload our Annual Review here: http://www.wea.org.uk/download.aspx?id=2187