No End in Sight (Fast Fiction)
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Have a heart! Greg Skelton. Leicester, England. In January, Maybe. Through the Mersey Tunnel and onto Port Sunlight. We have a framed print of it in our bedroom, back home in Doncaster. Pursued by Ansora, Dianora agrees to become his mistress if he can produce in January a garden with all the flowers and fruits of summer. With the help of a magician, he succeeds, much to her astonishment. Once outside the three of us walk to the war memorial and rest.
A sprightly old lady plants herself down and begins to talk at us.
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She tells us about her late husband, a fantastically clever English teacher and about her saintly father who once promised her that one day she would be reunited with her beloved dead cat atop a rainbow bridge. She talks about the young Wilfred Owen and how he lived only a short drive away in Birkenhead. So tired from all the driving and cultural overload. While he dozes we check out the Hitler story on our iPhones. Sure enough there are references to it in The Echo. He may have been a bell-boy at The Adelphi where Alois played the violin. He might have enrolled at the art college.
According to local legend, two golden-coloured lion statues marked the house as recently as the s. This thrilling discovery encourages my daughter and me to go on an adventure. We leave my husband to his snoring and go outside for a look. We stroll up and down the street and eventually stop outside a derelict property.
To our excitement we notice there are two identical concrete bases at either side of the rusted gate, certainly large enough to support lion statues.
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Emboldened by our discovery, we make our way up the cracked path towards the house. There is nothing to see through the broken windows except fallen plaster and fractured floorboards.
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But what is that, coming from behind the house? It is the sound of music. Stringed music. Holding hands, we furtively turn the corner.
And all around him are roses, peonies, lilies and a whole array of un-seasonal flowers. Beryl From The Block. Thwing, East Yorkshire. Sugar and Spice. Never did, never will. Had his bit of fun and then was off like a shot when he heard you were coming along. Any peace in the house was completely wrecked. Did my head in. And when they got to be teenagers things just got wilder and wilder.
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Feral, they were. So when it came to having my own kids I knew I was only having girls. No ifs or buts. Brenda and Graham, you say. I gave up two other boys. They came after you, if I remember rightly. That left me with our Kayleigh, our Kirsty, our Kristen and our Kacey. All girls together. Most of them have got different dads who they sometimes see, but not very often.
No, best to forget about them, really. Bad lot, in general. He came round at the weekend and gave our Kirsty a tenner for her birthday. Six months now, or thereabouts. Belongs to some fella I got seeing in Benidorm last June.
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From Newcastle or Glasgow, somewhere northern. Sure signs. Theo Curtz. Castleford, West Yorkshire. One inmate is being very free and easy, happily dancing by herself in a very revealing way. Arthur has been given an inflatable guitar which he is wielding with much enthusiasm. Reggie was tapping his toes but all the excitement has caused him to fall back to sleep. And Brian is wearing the wrong specs.
Then she turns on me. Do you know why Brian is wearing the wrong glasses? But I am too busy keeping tempo with the one about saying goodbye to Piccadilly and farewell to Leicester Square.
When Phyllis gets out of her seat to ask me the same question I begin to think it might be a good thing to leave for Tipperary despite it being a long, long way. At this point Millie stands up and intervenes.
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She tells us Brian is not wearing her glasses because she herself is wearing them. Look, varifocals, she says, and each lens cost me fifty pounds which is a hundred pounds altogether. Yes, but Brian is wearing the wrong glasses, says Phyllis.
Someone has given Brian the wrong glasses. Why is Brian wearing the wrong glasses? Problem solved, or so it seemed.