It's Just Too Hot to Install a Water Butt.

It's a ten minute job, right, installing a water butt to collect rain water? Wrong. It should be. It's an ecologically friendly thing to do, it's good for the planet, so it should be simple.

But I failed to reckon with a basic fact of life. The back of the shed is, of course, the place for all those things that you might just need one day. They can be stored there, out of sight and out of mind, which is where I nearly was when I took a look at the proposed site for my newly acquired rain butt.

It's a mixture of jungle, scrapyard and rubbish tip back there. Out of sight and enclosed on three sides, it's a repository for so much…stuff. So, before I can attach the guttering to collect the water from the roof, I have to clear a space. The wheel barrow and the two plastic sacks of compost, one opened to rejuvenate the potted umbrella plant that's resided in the living room for 20 years, is simple enough. Then I discover that some helpful neighbourhood bird has deposited a cherry stone in the fertile soil back there. The result is a huge cherry tree that I'd never noticed, since it's doing a twisting dance with nextdoor's unidentifiable tree and the lower branches of my rather magnificent eucalyptus tree. It's no good. It has to be removed. But, before I can take the hand saw close enough to cut the trunk, I have to clear the fallen leaves of the past ten years. Now the compost bin is almost full of leaf mould, so that's a bonus for the garden later on.

The trunk is exposed and I take the saw to it. It's a relatively simple task and I drag the weed equivalent of a tree onto the lawn to lie; a sorry trophy until I can deal with it. Next, there's a large slab of rough concrete. It weighs about seven tons and measures forty foot by thirty five. Well, okay, I admit that's an exaggeration, but that's what it feels like when I try to shift it. And shift it I must, otherwise every time I approach the spot where the water butt will stand, I'll fall base over apex over this errant lump of concrete. What's it doing there anyway? Well, last year, whilst preparing the ground for the gravelled turning bay at the front of the house, I came across this flat topped lump of concrete that had once served some unknown function for the previous occupier. I managed to raise it and somehow placed it into the wheelbarrow without actually breaking my back, though it did rather bend the wheelbarrow. There was nowhere for it to go, so it ended up behind the shed. That's what you call 'planning', you see. So, now it has to be moved. But there is no other out of the way place for it to go, except, if I do a little bit of clearance, I reckon I can slide it underneath the shed, which is raised off the ground on bricks.

Before I can shift the concrete block, I need to clear away the things that are in the way of me sliding it out of the way. So, there's a small sack of white edging gravel I bought to make the patio look pretty. I'll need that for when I relay the patio later on, so it comes out to sit on the lawn. Then I discover I'd secreted a couple of those enormous plastic containers they deliver sand and gravel in, you know the things that hold around a cubic metre of product and that they never want back. One time only use; now there's an environmentally friendly use of plastic! So, they come out to join the growing pile of rubbish on the back lawn. I disturb about fifteen thousand spiders, some pretty fearsome and large, and an equal number of woodlice. Next, I come across the metal frame of an old garden bench that I'd intended repainting and refilling with wooden slats, so we might sit on it on the patio on sunny days. It consists of a couple of cast iron decorative ends joined together by a long metal rod. The original wood rotted away years ago. I figure if I haven't re-used it by now, I probably never will. Onto the lawn it goes.

There's a pile of mixed bricks, paving and household, along with some flat slabs of York stone that once formed a small feature and now lie awaiting a new lease of life. Too good to chuck out. But in the way, so they go - that's right - on the lawn. You're getting the gist now, aren't you? I forgot about the old orange plastic washing up bowl and the old brown rubbish bin, both full of lovely brown water and soaked dead leaves. Into the compost bin with the contents and the two containers, kept for reasons even I can't imagine, go - right again - on the lawn.

The space is clear. All I have to do now is fix the guttering and place the water butt on its stand and we're away and ready for the next rain.

Ah.

Guttering. Some short while ago, we had the outside woodwork on the house replaced with UPVc plastic as a way of smartening the property and reducing the need for maintenance. I asked the workmen to save me some of the old guttering, as they were replacing it, of course. I knew, you see, I'd need a short piece, about 8 feet in total, to feed rainwater into the butt. They were kind. Left me four lengths, totalling around 36 feet, along with two downpipes, some joints and brackets and other bits and pieces. They were all stored, if that's the word, on the patio.

So, out comes my trusty Black and Decker folding workbench from the garage. Of course, I have to take the car out of the garage in order to get at the workbench. I set it up, on the lawn (is there really room there?). And, in the process, manage to place my thumb between the end of one of the folding legs and the place where it sits when unfolded. Two pieces of fairly hefty metal with a thumb between; I think you can guess where the damage occurred.  I suffer, always have, from a strange condition that causes me to feel faint, even occasionally actually causes me to faint, when I attack myself in certain ways. I feel the world start to spin and, with plenty of experience, recognise that I need to place my head lower than my heart for a while or my body will abruptly do that of its own accord. So I lie down on the lawn (yes, I know, but there is room). That grass is doing great service.

Once the initial feeling has subsided, I rise slowly and grab a folding chair from the shed, plonk it on the patio and sit there with my head between my knees. A position in which Valerie discovers me as she is hanging out the washing on the outdoor airer. Sympathy and a plaster are both forthcoming. The blood is stemmed and the thumb appears still to be functional, so I continue the job. Valerie attacks the fallen cherry tree with saw and secateurs to make it small enough to fit in the recycling bin for garden waste.

I select the first piece of guttering, place it against the shed to gather measurements and see exactly how it will work. The hacksaw cuts through the plastic with ease and I strip the necessary joints and brackets from the lengths left by the workers. When all is assembled, I return to the garage to search through seventeen thousand assorted screws for the four I'll need to fix the brackets to the shed. Nine hours later, I've found four screws. Valerie holds up one end of the assembled guttering whilst I mark the spots needed to ensure there'll be enough slope to drain the water into the butt. I fix the brackets; that small electric screwdriver blessed again for its ease of use.

I clip the guttering into place and look at the spot where the butt will stand. Uneven and a little too low to get a watering can under the tap, even allowing for the stand I've bought for that purpose. So: oh, I forgot about the bag of sand I also discovered behind the shed and had to move using the wheel barrow and emptying the bag in three loads as it was too heavy to move full. Now that sand comes into its own as I spread a layer of it on the ground and then place a layer of house bricks on top. The spirit level assures me they're level in both directions and I place the stand on top. Next the butt itself is raised. All that remains is to cut the hole in the lid. Good old Stanley knife does that job, and the down pipe enters the hole and all is done and ready.

Time for lunch.

Valerie does the catering whilst I organise chairs and tables for the first time on the patio this summer. We eat.

The tools come in handy to reduce the old guttering and the several lengths of wood I'd also forgotten about that were stored behind the shed. I need them all to be short enough to fit in the back of my hatchback. The old bench frame eventually comes apart with the aid of a spanner and I fold the old plastic storage bags neatly to form a base for the rest of the rubbish in the back of the car, once I've taken out the seats.

The local recycling centre is quiet at this time of the day and I find the various deposit points for the different bits and pieces.

Back home, I tidy up the tools and have a shower. I've learned that I need to rest after any form of physical activity if I'm to be any use for the rest of the day: a legacy of 8 years of ME/CFS. So I lie on the sofa and watch the news on TV before finally coming in here to do some writing.

Only then do I remember I haven't done my usual writing piece on the blog. So, there you have it: my excuse for failing to supply you with a thoughtful piece on writing this Thursday. And, if you've got this far, all I can say is, you've got more stamina than I have!

#NaNoWriMo day 5 progress - to 23401 words.

First of all, that total makes it look as though I've done a lunatic number of words today. But that's because yesterday I missed out the words from one session, so they've been added to the total for today. I actually had to go through the chapters and note the total words for each and then add them up as my scrap paper on the desk was so full of figures, I hadn't a clue where I was!
Anyway, had a couple of brill ideas overnight: good job I keep a Moleskine and a pen in the bedroom, otherwise I'd have lost those bright sparks.
Still enjoying the weaving of the tale, though I did feel a bit weary at the end of today's last session. Everything moving forward, even if there have been a couple of amusing, if unintended, diversions: we're still moving forward, which is what matters.
Had to add a couple of characters to my spreadsheet timeline, but they were already prepared and just waiting in the wings for me to bring them on stage. So much about this seems to depend on the preparation before the NaNoWriMo challenge starts.
Ah, well, time for relaxation. See what the morrow brings.

Stuart's Daily Word Spot: Habitation

Habitation: noun - the act of living in or inhabiting; occupation by inhabitants; place of abode, dwelling place; especially a house or a home; a settlement.

‘The communal longhouse, nestling under the towering trees of the rainforest, was a welcome habitation for the tribe, but Jonathan could never really come to terms with it as his home.’

Pic: the pond at Little Driffield.

Stuart's Daily Word Spot: Macaroni

Image via Wikipedia

Macaroni: noun - pasta in tube form, an Italian dish consisting of this and a sauce; macaroni penguin – (Eudyptes chrysolophus), so called because of its orange crest; an Italian, when used as derogatory slang; nonsense, meaningless talk, as used in Australian slang.

‘I could really fancy some macaroni cheese; what about you, Antonio?’

‘That’s just a load of old macaroni, Bruce.’

Writing: 2600 Words Again.

Image by stuartaken via FlickrAn early rise and 2600 words flowing from the fingertips before breakfast. The new location makes for some good variations in the narrative and tests the characters. Room for growth here. It was handy that the day started very warm and continued in this way, since I was writing an episode set in a desert.
Later, I spent some time pretending to be a carpenter, altering the way the headboard is fixed to the bed in an effort to make the bed-making a little easier. So long as no one looks too closely (and why would they?) it'll pass muster and looks fine from the normal viewing positions. More importantly, it does the job.
Had lunch in the garden under a sun shining between fluffy clouds and heating the ground to almost sub-tropical temperatures. I'll have more of this, please. I even took my afternoon rest on a sun lounger in the garden. Fortunately, we're relatively private here, so no sniggers at my exposed form from the neighbours. Those blue swimming shorts are the height of fashion, I'll have you know!
This evening I discovered I had allowed the blog posts to get right up to date, with nothing scheduled for tomorrow. So, I had to get more words done for the Daily Word Spot. Managed to prepare enough to take me through to next Wednesday. There's another 2 author interviews awaiting preparation for posting as well, so I'll be busy tomorrow. When am I going to find time to get this new anthology published? It's no good; I'll have to take early retirement so I have time to do the writing. Chance would be a fine thing.

The picture shows the back garden.

Stuart's Daily Word Spot: Desert or dessert?

Image via Wikipedia

A desert is devoid of living things and often an arid region, but it also something you may, or may not, deserve.

A dessert is a pudding, cake or other sweet item of food served after the main meal.

‘Jim declared he would never desert Mary, and especially not in the desert they were now crossing.’

‘Clive was very keen on his dessert, and would often avoid the main meal in order to have more pudding.’

Writing: 100 Words Today. What?

How can it be that I have done only 100 words? Well, it was a token effort, following a difficult day at the office and the need to thoroughly water the garden, as we have had no rain for three weeks and none forecast until after the weekend. plants are dying. But I was determined to move the story on, even if only a little. And, actually, those few words brought up a new idea, which I'm now ready to expand the next time I take up the thread: probably Thursday, since Wednesday is my writing group night.
So, a very short entry tonight.

The picture is a local vale we walked a few days ago. Walked 4 miles and never met another soul; heaven!

Writing: 1300 Words Again; is This a Habit?

Image by stuartaken via FlickrThis morning, about to embark on the next section of Ch24, I realised somewhat belatedly (I'm not too bright, you know) that I'd killed off a character who, although not a 'point of view' character, nevertheless provided a necessary sounding board for just such another character. So, I had to develop a new person to speak with my pov character. That took a little time, but the profile was completed before breakfast.
Since then, I have been otherwise engaged. The garden gate needed its second coat of paint, I needed a rest, lunch was an option I was reluctant to deny, The front and back gardens both needed lengthy drinks to prevent desertification (and I lack a sprinkler, so have to stand holding the hose and sprinkle manually; such fun). As Valerie was finishing off the fence painting, including the garden shed, I thought it was time I made the bird table I've been intending to construct for months, so she could give it a coat of the paint when she'd finished (I'm so generous to my wife). So, another simple job completed and the visiting birds now have a safe zone where they can eat without too much danger of being eaten by the neighbours' cats. Nevertheless, I did manage another 1300 words, including some interaction between my new character and the pov character, much of it hopefully quite illuminating for the readers.
My daughter has been delivered to her second party in as many nights (she's 18 and all her friends are reaching that landmark age, so her life consists of either parties or studying for exams).
We suddenly discovered, after lunch, that we were short of bread. If we were to eat tomorrow, replenishment of the staff of life was needed. So, Valerie and I walked into town and bought a loaf. The day is saved; we shall eat!
But, I think that, once I've completed the photocopying Valerie needs doing, I shall relax with the current reading matter (Robert Jordan's The Gathering Storm) on my lap and a glass of red wine in my hand.

Stuart’s Daily Word Spot: Nacho

Image via Wikipedia

Nacho: noun - snack or appetizer made of fried tortilla chips covered in melted cheese, peppers and spices.

‘Jennifer was an absolute glutton when it came to nachos, devouring all that came her way and ignoring the effects of the spices on her delicate stomach.’

Writing: Another 1700 Today

Another early rise and straight to the keyboard to pepper the blank page with 1700 words; some action, some emotion, some mystery. The story moves along and gathers pace. Had to extract a character from a dicey situation and I think I managed to keep it all believable.
Our walk this morning took us along familiar tracks, as I was feeling less than full of energy after yesterday's efforts. Didn't stop me from completing the task this afternoon, however. The whole of the paving around the house, the patio and the stone set into the lawn are all free of the slippery stuff now and safe to walk on. It was a reasonable task to undertake under the bright sun.
This evening, I went out and used the hose to give the thirsty plants a much needed drink. Hasn't rained for more than two weeks. Of course, now I've watered the garden, it'll probably rain overnight.
Time now now for a rest and a glass of red, I think.

Today's picture, taken this morning, shows the blossom from the cherry trees floating on the surface of the pond down the road at Little Driffield. Pretty, isn't it?

Writing: a Slight Pause for Some Character Development

It has been a long day. The morning saw me working on Ch20, which is now to 3370 words and page 190. But I reached a point where, due to story development, I needed to conjure 8 new characters. I generally start such profiles with a picture (I have over 1500 on file, collected at random from the internet during searches for other things). These are classified into the two genders and split into age groups and hair colour, simply to make the filing more manageable. I also have a list of names I made up when I started writing the fantasy. Having settled on 8 names and decided on the mix of genders (5 male and 3 female in this case), I selected the pictures and then began the profiles. So far, I have 4 of the males done. The morning will see the others fleshed out and ready to join the adventure.
Meanwhile, I've been out to town, walking, with my wife. Collected currency for Kate for her holiday in Turkey, and sun tan cream and a new shower head. The fun I have when shopping! Don't know how I cope with the excitement. Also brought the Writing Contests page up to date. It now contains over 130 links to various competitons - if you're interested in such things, take a look under the tab above.
Of course, as I'm still recovering from the current spell of CFS, I've had to rest a few times and will do so again when I've finished this post; that'll be me for today.
And here is a local picture for you.

Stuart's Daily Word Spot: Quack

Image via Wikipedia

Quack: noun – someone who pretends medical skill or knowledge; anyone who claims knowledge or skill they do not have; a charlatan; slang for a doctor, physician or surgeon; couch grass; the sound made by a duck; verb – to make a sound like a duck; to practice a pretended skill.

‘That so-called holistic therapist is nothing but a quack, pedalling his hair-brained ideas and robbing the credulous of their hard-earned money.’

‘In the idyllic silence surrounding Robert and Jennifer, making love alfresco, the sudden quack from the pond sent their heightened senses into overdrive so that they burst out laughing and shook so violently that they came simultaneously; a quack, from that day forward, always made them horny.’

Editing Still

Image via WikipediaA further chapter for book 2 edited and ready for correction, and 5 more chapters from book 1 corrected and saved in readiness for the day I approach an agent /publisher.
Another full day, with an early morning rise after Kate returned from her seaside trip for sunrise pix unfulfilled due to cloud cover. At least she has a location for the next attempt. Valerie and I took a different walk and saw more of the local countryside; unfortunately the light wasn't good enough to produce any worthwhile photos.
Sunday dinner was my duty today, as Kate is studying and Valerie is desperately trying to compile her table of fixtures for the bowls league. The chicken was good, served with the trimmings and a glass of vino to help with the preparation.
Now it's time for relaxation in readiness for tomorrow at work. Roll on retirement and a time I can spend more hours actually writing.

WE ARE AWESOME!

Image via CrunchBase

The following is lifted, with permission, from a post on the Linked-In website. I've modified it slightly, but the bulk is as it was originally posted. Thank you David Nicholls

This is addressed to kids who survived the 1930s, '40s, '50s, '60s and '70s, and to their children.

No matter what our kids and the new generation think about us, WE ARE AWESOME!

For those of us born 1925 – 1970: Our Lives Are Living Proof.

First, we survived being born to mothers who may have smoked and/or drank while they were pregnant.
They took aspirin, ate blue cheese dressing, tuna from a can, and didn't get tested for diabetes. Then, after that trauma, we were put to sleep on our tummies in baby cribs covered with bright colored lead-based paints. We had no childproof lids on medicine bottles, locks on doors or cabinets, and, when we rode our bikes, we had baseball caps or nothing, on our heads, not helmets. As infants and children, we rode in cars with no baby seats, no boosters, no seat belts, no air bags, bald tires and sometimes no brakes. Riding in the back of a pick- up truck on a warm day was always a special treat. We drank water from the garden hose and not from a bottle. We shared one soft drink with four friends, from one bottle, and no one actually died from this. We ate cupcakes, white bread, real butter, and bacon. We drank Kool-Aid made with real white sugar. And we weren't overweight. Why? Because we were always outside playing...that's why! We would leave home in the morning and play all day, as long as we were back when the streetlights came on. No one was able to reach us all day. And, we were OK.
We spent hours building go-carts or bogies (as we called them in the UK) out of scraps and then rode them down the hill, only to find out we forgot the brakes. After running into the bushes a few times, we learned to solve the problem. We didn't have Play Stations, Nintendos or X-boxes. There were no video games, no 150 channels on cable, no video movies or DVDs, no surround-sound or CDs, no cell phones, no personal computers, no Internet and no chat rooms.

WE HAD FRIENDS and we went outside and found them! We fell out of trees, got cut, broke bones and teeth, and there were no lawsuits from those accidents. We would get spankings with wooden spoons, switches, belts, ping-pong bats, or just a bare hand, and no one would report this as abuse. We ate worms, and mud pies made from dirt, and the worms did not live in us forever. We made up games with sticks and tennis balls, and -although we were told it would happen- we didn't put out many eyes. We rode bikes or walked to a friend's house and knocked on the door or rang the bell, or just walked in and talked to them. Teams had tryouts and not everyone made the team. Those who didn't had to learn to deal with disappointment. Imagine that!

The idea of a parent bailing us out if we broke the law was unheard of. They actually sided with the law! These generations have produced some of the best risk-takers, problem solvers, and inventors ever. The past 50 to 85 years have seen an explosion of innovation and new ideas. We had freedom, failure, success and responsibility, and we learned how to deal with it all. If YOU are one of those born between 1925-1970, CONGRATULATIONS!
You might want to share this with others who have had the luck to grow up as kids before the lawyers and the government regulated so much of our lives for our own good. While you're at it, forward it to your kids, so they'll know how brave and lucky their parents were. Kind of makes you want to run through the house with scissors, doesn't it?

A Short Story, ELLA. As a change from the pattern.

My mother, May, who inspired this tale.

This short story was first published in Issue 40 of Scribble, a small press fiction Magazine. I offer it here simply as an alternative to the usual posts on this blog.

ELLA

They must re-house her: now. November rain failed to dampen Ella’s determination, though it soaked her hair and shoulders and oozed through gaps in her shoes, as she slogged up the hill to the Housing Office. One more night under the same roof as her father and she’d murder him, sending her to prison and her children to the orphanage.

Carswell, promoted only because the war had disabled or killed his superiors and peers, was not a cruel man: inefficient, bureaucratic, insensitive and self-serving, perhaps. Every time she saw him, she yearned to snip the pathetic comb-over from his shiny pate and leave his crown as bald as nature intended. And his simpering secretary, with her squeaky voice, who’d never been inside a munitions factory or worked the land, enraged Ella with her subservience to a man who would act only according to outdated rules.

‘You don’t know the meaning of compassion!’

Carswell winced and raised round-rimmed spectacles to look down at the form on his desk. ‘You’re not alone in your needs, dear lady.’

Ella fought the urge to hit him, using her clenched fist to strike the desk instead with such force that he jumped back in his seat, almost falling over. ‘Don’t patronise me! If you don’t know what desperation is, it’s staring you in your complacent face.’

He made a condescending grimace, intended as a smile. It was a mistake.

‘I’d hoped to reason with you, Carswell. I’d hoped you might…’

‘It’s Mr Carswell to the likes of you.’ Miss Penny’s squeaked indignation did nothing to calm Ella.

She turned on the obsequious secretary, who backed away at her expression. ‘He has a reason for his idiocy, Miss Penny; he’s a man. What’s your excuse? As a woman, even unmarried, you ought to understand my plight. If you can’t say anything constructive, just shut up.’

The baby boy in her arms whimpered and she finally sat in the chair provided. ‘Excuse me.’ Ignoring Carswell’s look of outrage, his splutterings of protest, she prepared herself and put the baby to her breast.

‘You can’t…’ His protest faltered and failed at the challenge in her eyes.

‘Really, the cheek of some people!’ Miss Penny moved behind her boss so she could glare disgust at Ella.

At her mother’s side, a little girl approaching three, stood silent and still, dripping rain onto the carpet and waiting with unnatural patience. Ella sighed frustration and despair. ‘My children: they’re why I’m here. They’re all the war’s left me. They’ve been through too much already. I won’t put them through any more unnecessary pain. I’m not going to let them suffer any more, just because some hidebound, condescending clerk hasn’t the guts or gumption to put a roof over their heads now their father’s dead.’

‘As I understand it, Mrs Atkinson, regrettably your husband died just months ago. The war’s been over almost three years and I hardly….’

‘Whilst you sat on your idle backside in this office, Carswell, counting forms and filing them in alpha-bloody-betical order, my husband struggled against weather, waves and the foul conditions of an E-boat engine room, to protect you and her from invading forces. Just because torpedoes didn’t get him, just because he wasn’t shot, it doesn’t mean the war didn’t kill him. Eating foul food on the move, whilst he worked his heart out to keep those engines going, damaged his insides and gave him an ulcer.

‘I discovered him: lying face down in a pool of his own blood, after his ulcer burst. Have you the faintest idea what that’s like? Have you?

‘He died from peritonitis and blood poisoning just three weeks before his son was born. The war killed him as surely as if he’d been shot or bombed. Of course, it suits those mindless bureaucrats at the War Office to think along the same lines as you, so I won’t get a war widow’s pension.’

‘We’ve been through your unfortunate circumstances, Mrs Atkinson. I really am sorry for you but there’s nothing I can do. You’ve a roof over your head with your parents. Some people don’t have even that. So much bombing. They’re building new homes as fast as they can, you know. I’m sorry, you must wait your turn.’

‘My parents live in a two-bedroomed council house. My teenage brother and sister still live at home. Where do you suppose we all sleep? I’m in one bedroom, with my children. My poor mother suffers from rheumatism so badly she can hardly walk. My father’s a bigoted fool who, for reasons no one can fathom, accuses me of being an unmarried mother. Every time one of my children makes a sound at night, he curses me and threatens to chuck us out for waking him.

‘Look at these children. See how silent they are? Is that natural? Do you know many such quiet toddlers or babies?’

‘Whether I know… really it’s all rather irrelevant anyway. You don’t score sufficient points. I’m sorry.’

‘Then I’m forced to resort to blackmail. Oh, don’t look so worried, Miss Penny. Your secret’s safe, though God knows what you see in him. I wouldn’t dream of threatening the happiness of any man and woman who’ve found comfort with each other. I’m pleased for you.

‘But, understand me, Carswell, I will do this: if you don’t have a place for me to live, by lunchtime tomorrow, I’ll take these two to the top of the town hall and jump off with them. Wait! I haven’t finished. I’ll write a letter, giving my reasons in full, and hand it to the local paper first.

‘Think about it, Carswell: What price your precious rules, then? And I’ll tell the paper exactly who forced me into such a desperate act, and why.’ Ella detached the baby, covered herself and rose from the seat. ‘Until tomorrow, Mr Carswell, Miss Penny.’

A thoughtful look passed between them as she left but they said nothing.

Now she’d made the threat she wouldn’t carry out, she felt deflated as anger and bitterness were replaced by despair and hopelessness. Carswell might report her to the authorities but they were so stretched and disorganised, dealing with all those orphaned by the war, they wouldn’t take away her children.

The rain still poured, causing muddy streams to wash across the cracked and broken paving slabs out of the piled rubble: all that remained of the factory where she’d placed fuses in bombs for five years. Destruction still lay all around.

She walked, dejected and weary beyond words, along the road out of the town centre, past a row of new, prefabricated homes. Skirting a huge, water-filled crater, she reached the long, blasted road that led to her father’s council house. The little girl walked silently at her side, stepping gravely over fallen masonry, striding over or around puddles she should be jumping in fun. The baby boy slept in her tired arms.

Her father worked on the docks, his hands calloused and torn by labour. Her brother and sister went to school in classrooms with no heating. Her mother toiled over housework on limbs that could barely support her, shivering through each day until it was time to light the fire in preparation for her husband’s return.

Was this what her own dear man had died for? To leave her a life of misery and uncertainty with no hope of a comfortable future?

If their house hadn’t been tied to his job. If her husband’s boss had been more understanding. But, a week after Kenny’s death, the garage owner had evicted her, pregnant and grieving, so he could install a new mechanic in the two-up, two-down terraced house that had been their home since the end of the war.

The next-door neighbours had taken her in and given her shelter, or she’d have wandered the streets, homeless and given birth to her darling son in the gutter. Joan and Arthur had eased her grief and helped her through those first dark days. Arthur had even persuaded her father to give them a temporary home after the baby was born. Joan had only just recovered from the birth of her own second son and they really had no room in their house to let Ella stay, once she’d had the baby.

The birth had been difficult: her grief and shock at Kenny’s death causing complications. The midwife had arrived hours after the waters had broken. ‘It’ll most likely be born dead anyroad, after what you’ve been through.’

She’d suggested Ella would need some sort of stimulus to get the birth going. ‘See if you can’t make the poor love laugh or summat.’ She’d said, as she went off to deal with an emergency further down the road, where she might preside over the birth of a live infant.

Make her laugh? Three weeks after the death of the man she loved so much it had been like losing half of herself? Two weeks after being thrown onto the streets with a toddler in tow and a baby on the way? And they should make her laugh?

But they did. And how! Joan came in, as Ella lay on the bed, hours of exhausting, fruitless pushing already done. Undignified, naked, legs apart, after the midwife’s examination and caring only that the end of the birth should come soon, she lay sweating and frightened on the bed. A bra supported Joan’s milk-swollen breasts but her knickers crowned her head as she entered the room. A look of supreme concentration rendered her pretty face comical, as she shuffled into the room. Behind her, wearing only underpants, on his head, his unlit pipe upside down and dangling from his mouth, Arthur shuffled in step.

Together, they performed the sand dance, à la Wilson, Kepple and Betty’s music hall act, on the bare boards at the foot of the bed. With deadpan faces, and making scraping sounds with their voices to hide the lack of sand, they began this arcane rite as if it were a solemn ceremony. But the sight of them jerking in time to remembered music, as they paraded back and forth, body parts wobbling and arms and legs tangling as they turned, soon had Ella giggling.

Before they’d finished, all three were hysterical with laughter and the baby was well on his way. The midwife returned, unphased, to find them still naked: Arthur holding Ella’s hand, as Joan eased the baby’s head into the world.

That had been in May.

November rain was turning to unseasonal snow, as Ella strode to the Housing Office the following morning. The queue of hopeful, desperate petitioners sat, lounged and stood, a dispirited mass, steaming in the heat of the smoke filled room. Ella grasped her toddler by the hand and forced, insinuated and persuaded her way through to the closed door bearing Carswell’s name and title in gold leaf.

He was alone with Miss Penny and they sprang apart with guilt, as Ella entered without knocking. She waved away their protests, their justifications, their explanations for a situation she didn’t care about, let alone condemn. Holding up a white envelope, clearly addressed to the editor of the local paper, she took her place before the desk.

‘Well?’

‘I want you to know that this has nothing to do with what you believe you just witnessed, Mrs Atkinson.’

‘I saw two people who seem to care for each other. Good luck to you.’

Carswell and Miss Penny shot glances of relief at each other.

‘It’s nothing to do with your irresponsible threat to kill yourself and your children and report it to the papers. I’ve done what I’ve done because I’ve reviewed your case personally and found that you earn more points than I’d previously been advised by my staff. Naturally, such allocation of points has taken you up the list. To the very top, in fact. I’m therefore pleased to be able to hand you this key. The address of the property is on the label and we… that is, I’ve taken the liberty of inspecting the property in person and ensuring the power and water are connected. Now, if you’ll please sign these documents, you may move into your new home as soon as you wish.’

Wordless, in a haze of mingled disbelief and hope, Ella signed the papers he pushed at her, picked up the rent book and grasped the key. She was out on the street before she realised his reasons for his change of mind were a pack of lies.

She didn’t care. ‘It worked.’

She looked at the address and discovered the house was less than fifteen minutes walk away.

Stunned, almost frozen with mixed emotions, she took her children to the redbrick, terraced house on a street untouched by bombs. In front, between pavement and house, a small patch of unkempt weeds behind a low brick wall promised a future of flowers.

She controlled her trembling hand to insert the brass key into the lock of a flaking, green door and pushed into a narrow hall, musty and cool. Her steps, loud on bare boards, took her past the empty front room and into the kitchen.

A pint of milk stood on the stone draining board, beside a plain white cup and saucer, a teaspoon, a brown teapot and a pack of tea. Three sugar cubes formed a small tower. The kettle, blackened with use and already filled, waited on top of a new gas stove. A half used box of matches rested on a sheet of plain white paper bearing the hand-written words, ‘May you be happy in your new home’.

‘Oh, you lovely, lovely man!’

Ella let go her daughter’s hand and, cradling her son in one arm, made herself a pot of tea in her own kitchen. The little girl sauntered to the window and looked out on a garden overgrown with forlorn weeds: a view of the cooling tower dominating the houses that backed on to her own. The snow was falling in earnest, covering ground and roofs with white and casting brightness up into the gloom of the unfurnished room.

Ella sat on bare floorboards, the hope that had sustained her, building slowly into a joy she had almost forgotten. Hot tea in one hand, her son cradled on her arm, she allowed her emotions and senses to take over from the struggle for life that had all but overwhelmed her.

In the silence of that empty house, she became aware of a sound she didn’t recognise at first. Her little girl, standing on tiptoe at the window and watching snowflakes cover the weeds in the back garden, was laughing. Ella gazed at the back of that small joyful head and, at the sound of gurgling, turned to discover the baby awake in her arms, his face alight with wonder.

She looked up into the grey sky full of falling miracles and voiced her relief and gratitude. ‘Thank you, thank you. Oh, thank you.’

And, silently, at last she wept with relief.

Gardening for a rest

Having exhausted the search for the perfect synopsis, yesterday morning I spent gardening; refreshing the spirit by manual labour. The hawthorn, berberis and pyrocantha are all now relatively tamed. At least they won't snag the clothes of unwary visitors or neighbours using their own paths to their houses. And the pond is now almost free of blanket weed. So, the afternoon found me knackered but spiritually revived enough to start again. But, first things first; I thought I should acquaint myself with the needs and requirements of the agents I intend to approach. That left me knowing I needed to produce a single page, double-spaced synopsis for most. That's around 450 words for a novel exceeding 270,000 words. But my writing friends sent advice and  samples and I've had another go. It seems to be goind well, but I'll let you know the general feeling of my writing group after next Wednesday's meeting.