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

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,