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

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

Water gushes over the windscreen in waves as unrelenting as my grief. The streetlights blurry starbursts in my struggling vision. Black cloud hangs with menaces above, banishing celestial light from view. The bottle bangs my teeth, even at this low speed. But the bourbon tastes like freedom spilling over my tongue. 'It’s like dancing at the end of the rain' she’d say. But only when she was sky-high happy. I never danced with her. The rigidity of my nerves and the well-structured failure of my confidence built a prison around me. I never even tried to escape. I promised, in her final days, as time and options drained away, that we would dance. She smiled, touched my cheek and said 'I never needed you to be anyone else.' I’ve never seen the end of the rain. Only an occasional merging of droplets and air that wet my face and left me damp, disappointed. She often told a story of how she saw it once, as a kid, in a windless field. How the drops fell like a curtain

The credits rolled, and, even before the lights came up, the exodus began. Satoko shrugged, slurped the last dregs of her bright blue slushie and stuffed her empty pick n mix bag into the cup. “You can’t say I didn’t warn you.” Lou adjusted her seat back to its upright position. “I know, I know, but the reviews were so good I still held out hope for the ‘immersive IMAX experience.’” She made air quotes with her fingers. “You’ll learn. The constant disappointment that goes with being a horror fan in the UK. Honestly the last good one I saw was Japanese, and the three before that. If you moved to England with any hope of a decent scare, you made a mistake. Should have stayed put.” “But it’s been four years! I’d expect one, just one, actually frightening movie by now.” “Sorry Satoko. The reviews always over-hype them and people who don’t watch much horror are generally terrified. But for hard core fans over here there really isn’t much out there. Maybe we should make our own mov

Same face, same voice, same height. But Kaya was always the favourite. Born four minutes earlier, she never let me forget it. But I knew who she really was – I had evidence. The first in a series of juvenile crimes against me. Age seven she took my favourite doll, Mandy Moll, and cut her hair with the kitchen scissors. Dad captured the moment with his digital camera. Did he try to stop her? No. Was she ever punished? No. To add insult to injury, the picture was printed out and stuck on the fridge. It stayed there til I left home at 17 and took it, along with Mandy Moll. Reminders. Motivators. I became a hairdresser to spite my bad-spirited sister. The meanness continued throughout childhood. Kaya was jealous of my piano certificates, so she ripped them. She tripped me over in the park. She threw my school wildlife project into the canal behind the house. No one ever told her off. When I asked why she was so horrible to me all the time they said she wasn’t, I was just making up st

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,