Stories of the Cellar Door

Granny Liza lied to us, the way adults often lie to children. She would insist that the burnt crumble was apple, when it was obviously rhubarb and then call us fussy when we didn’t gobble it up with her half-cold lumpy custard. If we pulled out our tongues in disgust, we would be swiftly reminded that if the wind changed our faces would stick like that. My cousins shared my distaste for it, but at least I didn’t hide the uneaten evidence in the dog bowl. Charlie was a sickly Labrador and grew sicker over time, until Granny Liza sent him away to live on a farm. I later learned that rhubarb is toxic to dogs. I like to think that Gran removed the offending crumble from Charlie’s bowl without ever letting on that she knew exactly what was happening. But I’m pretty sure it’s also toxic to kids and well, rather him than us. Granny Liza could get garden peas wrong. They were somehow slimy and fibrous at the same time. The predictable argument at the end of every pea-ridden meal was how ma

The fifth time was like a dream. The butterflies had died down right before the rendezvous. Now I know I can do this whenever, and wherever, possibly with whoever, I want. If I have enough time to get ready. A first-class lady-killer! I can charm them, unsuspecting, into my arms. Or into a restaurant, cinema, pub. . . alleyway. Wherever we start off, I’ll get my satisfaction by the end of the night in that final, tight, embrace. I have no doubt. By the fourth time, freshly showered and shaved, I was starting to develop a style of my own. A self-assured approach towards the woman in question resulted in a better level of trust from the outset, which always helps in these matters. I put in the leg work at dusk, small talk and finding common ground, as always, but rewards tend to come towards the close of an evening. The casual offer of a lift home, and a little mood music on the radio, was all it took to secure some late-night action. I was not disappointed. The third time wasn’t the

Billy Blue Heart can’t lose, not this time, grand old nag. I say nag, he’s a chestnut four year old with clean legs and near perfect thoroughbred conformation. He’s also got the best jockey of the decade on his back and 200 quid of my hard-earned cash in an each-way bet on his 3 o’clock at Kempton. But just to be sure. . . “Alright Charlie, lager top and a packet o’ pork scratchin’s?” I shout over the crowd to the corner table. “You know it.” Charlie winks at me and flashes that gold tooth he knows I’m here for. Big Roy, the landlord, meets my eye as I join the jostling three-deep bar queue. He waves me through. “Usual for you two?” “Cheers, Roy.” I pass him a tenner. I’ve been a regular here since I turned sixteen. Roy looks after the dedicated few. “Got a bet on?” he asks as he leaves my pint to settle and reaches up for the scratchings. “Have I ever.” “Your luck’s changed recently. Spotted you celebrating the last few weeks. What’s the secret?” I tap my finger to my nose. “Good thin

My father clutched his chest, as I blew to make my sixteenth wish. The next sun rose before my birthday was remembered – wishes are for children. Marked by my mother with a six-wick orange candle and an oval locket. A picture of my father nestled in the silver. “Allow yourself tonight to grieve,” she said, “but you’re a grown-up now. One night will be enough.” Worn every day, an ornament, like the smile on my face, I kissed it on waking and as the sun set. The candle had real slices of orange, and delicate blossom enrobed in its sweet-scented wax. I saved it for twelve years. Until the night I got the call. A sorrowful nurse shook her head as she met me. Tears fell, more saline along the clinical corridors. I returned home and lit all six wicks. Placing mother’s candle by my bed, I rocked myself from side to tearful side. I whispered in the flickering shadows: “Allow yourself tonight to grieve, but you’re a grown up now. One night will be enough.” The curtains caught as I dri

I was glad of the bells that rang out for Grandpa, hours before they rang in midnight mass. The heavy metal tones drowned out memories of his shrill police whistle and his clinking, jailor’s keys. Now set firmly in his coffin, their sounds still woke me in a cold sweat, night after chilling night, since he died. What if I became like him? I trudged through slushy streets towards the empty, unheated church. My father had over-tipped the pall bearers. Right to the last, people had to be bribed to be nice to the remorseless old man. My black-clad mother gave a brief eulogy. Then a priest led us in a short prayer of forgiveness, before the coffin was lowered into frozen ground. We left, tearless, to walk home. The seasons have turned full circle. The leaves are gone, the slushy snow is back. This year, with a heart full of hope and a stomach full of chocolate, I wrap gifts in coloured paper for the very first time. Banned under his patriarchal reign, my family never had any kind of p

Billy jumped in his skin as the lightning flashed again, illuminating ground-level sculptures of books, hearts and hands, for less than a second. Metallic vases of long-dead flowers cast shadow-fingers against tombstones under the electrical burst. Claire swished her torch from headstone to mossy headstone, pulling her hood tighter round her oval face against the lashing rain. Escaping strands of mousey brown hair stuck to her cheeks like spidery legs, as she strode through the dark in her black, rubber wellies. She crunched along the gravel path, catching glimpses of names and dates as she went. “I know it’s here somewhere, I found it at the weekend.” She twisted to look behind her. “I’m sure it was just past that weird tree.” As she spoke, the wind whipped the last remaining orange leaves from the gnarly tree, through Claire's torch beam and into Billy's face. “I don’t like this at all.” Billy batted at his numbing cheeks and lifted his shoulders to his ears. “It’s wet and co