Stories of the Cellar Door

The front door swung open and Barbara cooed through it. Of course, I would help with the effing shopping. I wouldn’t mind at all if my lovely wife would ever buy own brand anything. But, in spite of prices creeping up, Barbara was still bringing home the Heinz, the Lurpak, the Kellogg’s. And way more than the two of us could ever eat in seven days. We were throwing out enough to feed the children we never had, on a weekly basis. But then, we, or should I say she, could afford it. “Do you want the good news or the bad news, Darling?” She passed me a pack of kitchen roll, the expensive one with the ‘thirst pockets’. “Always bad news first, my lovely wife, always bad news first.” “Well, the bad news is that the Gable family are moving out.” How could this be bad news? I hated them, and their precocious six-year-old, and their stupid, yappy dog. “Oh, that’s a shame. You will miss playing tennis with Nancy.” “Yes, I will.” She bustled through the hallway into the kitchen. I trailed behind w...

The raised bands and gold leaf of the worn spines, stood to attention in rows of mismatched heights and colours, on antique, wooden shelving. Coloured headbands, only visible if you peered over the spines, protected ancient text blocks, bound by dextrous hands generations ago. Delicate pages concealed within, played host to a plethora of type-set prints, pen and ink lettering, and hand painted illuminations. Every wall, floor to ceiling, in the L-shaped shop, displayed its share of literary beauty. Bethan breathed in the beloved leather and dust as she turned the faded sign from “closed” to “open” in the central bullseye-glass panel of the door. This had all seemed like such a good idea five years ago. She had signed the lease and filled the shelves with her grandfather’s collections, bringing a life-long obsession to reality. She’d used all of her contacts to obtain further stock and get her name out to connoisseurs all over the southeast and beyond. The first three years saw a regula...

Birmingham, England, 1872 The flow from the nib of my pen is smooth on any surface. The barrel sits perfectly in my fingers and the silver band around the ivory-white grip catches the lamp light in such a delightful way. I’ve not needed any other writing tool since I made this, of real bone. Though my wife, my biggest critic, is such a traditionalist. She argues, of course , that I should write in black ink, as is the modern convention. Each time she hints I simply say: “Don’t read it, if it displeases you.” I dip, write, pause, and blot in careful sequence, hour after hour, supported by my father’s walnut desk. The rhythm is comforting and, though it takes time for my letters to stain, I am making good progress on my subject. Ah, my subject. The beauty of the young women from the back-to-backs. They unwittingly claw at my senses, from their flowing locks to the smoky scent of their clothing. Everything about them grabs my attention. To capture that essence, that perfect being,...