Stories of the Cellar Door

My paternal Grandmother had spent a large part of her later years writing stories, mostly for children. We all hoped she would live to see something of her work in print, but she never finished them. Although my mother had taught her to type and to use a computer when she was in her 80's so that she could get them all in an editable format, she was never, ever, finished. Update after update of every story would be produced, (always without punctuation, because my Grandmother never quite got that part of typing). My mother and my aunt would spend hours and hours editing and formatting a final, final version of something or other only for my Grandmother to announce she had changed the ending or added a subplot. So it would all have to be done again, from the beginning, with no I's dotted or tee's crossed. And of course no one had the heart to take all the files away to stop her from driving them nuts. A few months before she moved into a care home for her final weeks, she

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