The Café

“Just look at all that metal” thought the old man as he sat waiting for his meal. He sat and thought most of the time now that his beloved wife had departed this world two years ago this week. He came to the same café, sat at the same table, ordered the same meal, the same coffee, everything was the same as yesterday and the day before. Nothing changed apart from the thoughts in his head, though just lately even they had been on only two or three topics,

He could remember a time when traffic on this road was a rare event, maybe once or twice a week a car would travel up the street. Horse and cart being the main transport back then. Now it was clogged with cars, buses and lorries from early morning to late evening.

He had come in this café the day of the funeral. He had been on his own at the funeral apart from a couple of nurses who had attended his wife in the final weeks. When it was all over he had walked into this café and ordered a meal, this was her wake and he attended it on his own. They had had friends in their early days but as those friends had kids and growing families, he and his wife had slowly been ostracised for not having the normal family, in the end it had been just the two of them. They walked together, they talked about everything under the sun, they read the same books and lived in total harmony, without the need for outside entertainment or friends to live their lives.

Ever since they had been married they had come to this café every Sunday to have a cooked breakfast. He loved being able to treat her to this one day off from looking after the house and the gardens she was so proud of. After breakfast they would walk the mile or so to the river, sometimes walking alongside the river, sometimes getting on the river boat that went down stream on a day trip. Sundays were special to both of them, a time to get away from the work that had to be done. Time to talk about everything other than housework, the plants or his work as a solicitor.

So now he sat here at this table every day, waiting for his meal and coffee. Other regulars to the café would nod or smile at him. Staff would ask him how he was and go through the motions of giving him the menu yet they all knew what he wanted. In return he would politely look at the menu without reading it then place his order.

It was the same meal he had had on the day of the funeral, roast beef with all the trimmings and black coffee. He cannot even remember why he had ordered it on that day. He didn’t really enjoy beef or black coffee but he had become accustomed to it these last two years and felt that it would be wrong to change his order now. Some days he actually did look at the menu, there were several fish dishes that he really liked the look of but he always ordered the beef. One day perhaps he would change his order and surprise them all, but not today.

He looked out of the window once again, watching all humanity pass by. This area had once been a small town on the outskirts of the city, now it felt like it was the heart of the city. High office blocks blotted out the sun, vehicles of all sorts filled the air with their fumes and people rushed everywhere never taking a moment to look at the monstrosity the small town had become a part of. He could not even walk the river banks anymore! Smart flats and offices had been built on the open fields that were once the playground of youth. The land now being classed as private property where once footpaths had led for miles alongside the river. The riverboat had gone never to be replaced so now he never went down to the river, it had become just another trading artery within the big city. There was little pleasure left by the river now.

He ate his meal, not really enjoying it, tipping the waitress his usual ten percent and left the café. Even though a café had stood on this piece of ground all his life it had changed beyond recognition from the first Sunday he and his wife had entered for Sunday breakfast. Then it was just a small, single story building housing the café and not much else. Now it was a tall office block with shops either side of the café which itself was a new building and not the small beautiful little café he once knew. It was still owned and run by the same family though, nowadays it was the grandchildren that ran it but he felt he knew them all and was happy to bring his custom to them after all this time.

Standing on the footpath, he looked down the street towards where the river had once run freely, sighed and then turned to walk the other way, back home to tend the beautiful gardens his wife had worked so hard on all her life.

©2011 Trevor Litchfield

Grit Of Sand

Canned Heat blaring out the stereo, ‘On The Road Again’ seems apt as I drive along the road. Running, or more accurately, driving away from a past that I no longer wish to live, hoping to find a destination worth finding.

The miles get chewed up as the sun beats down. White lines flash by, counting the seconds to my destination; from my departure.

I am leaving behind everything I thought I wanted, everything a man could desire, for what? New challenges are around every corner and sweep of the road and for now I am taking them in my stride, enjoying the curves as they sweep past. Hedgerows full of life watch my passing, my passing of little interest to those inhabiting the hedgerow apart from the sudden shattering of peace my passing brings.

My mind wanders to where I’ve just come from. The people I knew and loved. What must they be thinking now?

I left because it was time to leave. I knew in my bones I had to move on, I needed to find something new. Those people will soon forget as they get on with their lives. There are people I could regret leaving behind but I will soon get past this regret when I find new people to get to know and love.

They could never know my reasons, no one must know my reasons. I will find a new town, a new job and new people then in a few years it will be time to move on before anyone finds out. I enjoy my secret but I must take care when someone gets to close, bedroom close, not to speak about why I came, why I move on. I cannot become embroiled in a family with its responsibilities and then the certain knowledge of knowing and passing it on to another.

I remember the days when horses where the way to travel. I remember how good it felt to be out in the wilderness on horseback with the wind in my hair. Now I drive the latest car with a tiny nuclear power pack at it’s heart. The music rarely changes though, always loud and raucous but now it travels with me as it has done for over a century when on horseback it was in my head alone.

I look ahead into the distance as the clouds take on familiar shapes, this happens every time I hit the road. The world is my oyster and I am it’s grit of sand waiting to be captured.

©2011 Trevor Litchfield

It Floated By

"York Minster in the Fog" by Karli Watson (Flickr)

They had been rowing the boat for a few hours. Semi-submerged trees being their main obstacle but occasionally they came across buildings that barely broke out of the water, these had become especially numerous and dangerous in the last half an hour.

Evening was now drawing in and they were becoming desperate to sight dry land. The three men in the boat had heard the stories as children but never really believed them until today. They had been told of houses under the sea. Whole towns and cities had disappeared under the climate change floods along with the thousands of people that once lived here.

Mist began to form all around them and very soon they were rowing almost blindly through the water and mist. One of the men had to keep a spare oar out front of the small boat to protect it in case of collision and the rowers themselves had to row with extreme caution.

The mist thickened further and the men became very quiet as did all nature around them; evening began to draw in and nightfall was at best only an hour away.

All of a sudden the lookout shouted out, scared out of his wits at the sight he now saw. Floating out of the mist they saw this huge building sailing towards them. The last of the sun hitting the higher parts of the building caused the mist to radiate an aura of light in the air, the likes of which none of the men had ever seen before. They heard the movement of water, it was loud, much louder than when their boat moved through the water, yet there was very little wake, the small boat barely rocked.

What was this building? How was it floating?

The building floated by, or did they float by the building? None of them were really sure of what they saw that day, they could barely describe their experience to each other let alone those they met after.

They never did find dry land, they slept in the small boat after having secured it to a submerged and dying tree. The boat was rocked gently by the ebb and flow of the water. They rowed for several hours the following day to find this huge building again but they never found it yet they found the tops of the houses they remembered from the day before.

©2011 Trevor Litchfield

Kitchen at Parties

We all know the song, yeah, of course we do! Here I am, another party, another kitchen! This one is all new and sparkly with bright new appliances, bright new cookware and so on. I was in my usual place in the corner, can of beer in my hand and basically trying to look like I was having a good time.

I tag along with my friends to these parties, nowadays these are house warming events of newly wed friends or acquaintances. Not so long ago they were the after the pub gatherings where we would be half drunk before we ever reached the house. Many things went on at these parties, things I seemed to be excluded from. I still used to go, what else was I to do?

Now my friends are all getting married , often I am the only one in the pub on a Friday evening, the only one of a once burgeoning group of young twenty somethings.

These house warming parties are often the last time I see these old friends. Until the next party, the next married couple invite all the other married couples to their parties. I often feel I get invited out of habit. I once belonged to their group. Now we have different priorities, different lives.

The kitchen is warm. Why do singles always elevate to the kitchen at parties? Is it because we have no one to cuddle up to? Is it because we are scared to enjoy ourselves? Is it because it’s where the beer is stored?

Music thumps away in the background as the evening drags on. This party, this couple leave me as the last single person of our old gang.

This evening does not end as happily for me as it does in the song. I go home alone and wait to be in another kitchen at another party.

©2011 Trevor Litchfield

Our New Pet

Our New Pet first appeared on Trev's Telautograph on February 22 2011

I was out walking this morning, I was walking in an area of woodland that I have never walked through before, it is not far from the river bank that I usually walk along. This time of year the trees are starting to bud and early spring windflowers are breaking through the once frost covered ground. All in all a good time of year to be out there in warm clothing to see how nature has faired over our harsher than usual winter. As you would expect she has faired rather well and everything seems to be coming long in a nice orderly fashion.

Anyway, I’m walking, enjoying the pre-spring morning crispness in the air when I see an odd looking rock near my foot. I gently nudge it, after all it might not be a rock and I don’t want not-rock splattered over my walking boots. Yeah, the rock moves and I’m satisfied that if I want to kick this rock then nothing is going to splatter my boot. Instead of kicking it though I give the rock a closer look. There is something about this rock that makes me decide to definitely not kick it.

More about me and rocks: I collect small coin sized rocks, they have to be flatish,

sort of roundish and no thicker than a coin because I make then into casting runes. I have a big jar full of this type and size of rock plus of course my regular 24 Futhark runes (I know there are 25 runes but I don’t count the blank one although I do have a blank one in my set of home made runes) that I sometimes read. I try to collect my rocks from areas that I think are pretty much undisturbed by man so a lot of my rocks come from the Welsh Mountains, higher stretches of the Peak District and the Lake District and a few, not many at all really, come from the wilder areas we have here in Norfolk.

The rock I discover in the local woodland fits none of my regular rock collecting criteria. To start with it is roundish, about the size of a tennis ball and I discover on picking it up that it is not half as heavy as it should be! It is also a green sort of colour (not moss or any other growth), not your usual colour for rocks so thinking no more about it other than”What a cute little rock, maybe I can find a home for this on my bookshelf”, I put the rock in my coat pocket and carry on with my walk through the woods.

Once home, I do the usual by putting the kettle on, make a pot of tea and relax on the sofa enjoying the feel of my body after a good long walk. After about twenty minutes I think of the rock in my coat pocket, my coat now resting over the back of the chair I slung it over when I came in (I’m a man remember). I then look at my bookcase and there, right on the top shelf I see the perfect place to sit my new found rock. I get up and fish about in my coat pockets eventually finding the new rock.

It feels even odder now, not that it doesn’t look odd enough already, the rock seems to have changed colour and is now a reddish brown colour (this is going to look great on the shelf when the sunlight catches it just right). The rock is also much warmer than I remember and I am also pretty sure that it has got slightly larger. I handle it some more, swapping it from hand to hand, the blooming rock is getting hot now and I’m swapping hands even faster, like you would if you had a really hot potato in your hand!

Then this rock just splits open!

To my amazement a tiny baby dragon crawls onto my hand!

Seems I now have a new pet so I’m in need of some help, does anyone know what dragons eat? Do baby dragons drink milk or is there some fire breathing liquid they need?

©Trevor Litchfield

Our New Pet

Our New Pet first appeared on Trev's Telautograph on February 22 2011

I was out walking this morning, I was walking in an area of woodland that I have never walked through before, it is not far from the river bank that I usually walk along. This time of year the trees are starting to bud and early spring windflowers are breaking through the once frost covered ground. All in all a good time of year to be out there in warm clothing to see how nature has faired over our harsher than usual winter. As you would expect she has faired rather well and everything seems to be coming long in a nice orderly fashion.

Anyway, I’m walking, enjoying the pre-spring morning crispness in the air when I see an odd looking rock near my foot. I gently nudge it, after all it might not be a rock and I don’t want not-rock splattered over my walking boots. Yeah, the rock moves and I’m satisfied that if I want to kick this rock then nothing is going to splatter my boot. Instead of kicking it though I give the rock a closer look. There is something about this rock that makes me decide to definitely not kick it.

More about me and rocks: I collect small coin sized rocks, they have to be flatish,

sort of roundish and no thicker than a coin because I make then into casting runes. I have a big jar full of this type and size of rock plus of course my regular 24 Futhark runes (I know there are 25 runes but I don’t count the blank one although I do have a blank one in my set of home made runes) that I sometimes read. I try to collect my rocks from areas that I think are pretty much undisturbed by man so a lot of my rocks come from the Welsh Mountains, higher stretches of the Peak District and the Lake District and a few, not many at all really, come from the wilder areas we have here in Norfolk.

The rock I discover in the local woodland fits none of my regular rock collecting criteria. To start with it is roundish, about the size of a tennis ball and I discover on picking it up that it is not half as heavy as it should be! It is also a green sort of colour (not moss or any other growth), not your usual colour for rocks so thinking no more about it other than”What a cute little rock, maybe I can find a home for this on my bookshelf”, I put the rock in my coat pocket and carry on with my walk through the woods.

Once home, I do the usual by putting the kettle on, make a pot of tea and relax on the sofa enjoying the feel of my body after a good long walk. After about twenty minutes I think of the rock in my coat pocket, my coat now resting over the back of the chair I slung it over when I came in (I’m a man remember). I then look at my bookcase and there, right on the top shelf I see the perfect place to sit my new found rock. I get up and fish about in my coat pockets eventually finding the new rock.

It feels even odder now, not that it doesn’t look odd enough already, the rock seems to have changed colour and is now a reddish brown colour (this is going to look great on the shelf when the sunlight catches it just right). The rock is also much warmer than I remember and I am also pretty sure that it has got slightly larger. I handle it some more, swapping it from hand to hand, the blooming rock is getting hot now and I’m swapping hands even faster, like you would if you had a really hot potato in your hand!

Then this rock just splits open!

To my amazement a tiny baby dragon crawls onto my hand!

Seems I now have a new pet so I’m in need of some help, does anyone know what dragons eat? Do baby dragons drink milk or is there some fire breathing liquid they need?

©Trevor Litchfield

Talking Dog

Talking Dog first appeared on Trev's Telautograph on December 30th 2010

“Come on, get up you lazy git!”
I can hear the voice but I must be dreaming it, I really must stop drinking before I go to bed!
“Look, come on, we have important business today”.
I open my eyes, roll over as if to get out of bed, it’s then that I notice my Jack Russell dog sitting on my briefcase. He has an odd look to him but then, like me, he is not a morning lover.
“Will you hurry up, you need to have a shower before we go”.
Now I am looking him square in the muzzle! He sits on the briefcase looking at me as if what he was saying; doing, was the most normal thing for a five year old Jack Russell to do, which is tell his  master to get out of bed and  get in the shower.
“Jeez, it’s early!” I mutter under my breath as I look at the alarm clock “I’m not getting up just yet”.
“You won’t be going to work today mate! We have important business to attend to. Get in that shower, NOW!”
“Are you really talking to me?”
I’m now beginning to understand this dream, talk to my dog and I’ll wake up with the alarm going and things will be just fine.
“Yes, I am really talking to you and no this is not a dream. Get in that shower”
I see the dogs jaws move as the words come forth. What the hell?
I get up anyway, I might as well follow the dream and see where it takes me. I go to the bathroom and get showered.

As I get dressed, my Jack Russell comes trotting into the bedroom, he has his brush in his mouth. I know in real life there is no way he can get to his brush so now I know I can safely follow this through and wake up in what is my rather humdrum reality in due course.
“Brush me, I need to look my best as well you know”.
“This is a first, you hate getting brushed”.
I am really up for this dream now and wondering where it is going to take me.
I brush the dog, finish getting dressed and stand starring into the wall mirror admiring this odd looking pair smiling back at me. Yes the dog seems to be smiling.
“As I’m not going to work today, where are we going?” I ask
“You are taking me for a walk down the park”
“Which park?” There are three parks within easy walking distance of my flat, all of which I walk my dog in regularly
“The one with the stream”

We walk the mile and a bit to the park. It is a lot earlier than I would normally take him for a walk. In fact we see no one apart from a milkman doing his rounds.
“Now what”? I ask
“You’ll see”
I start to walk by the stream as I often do when we come to this park when I hear a dog barking. I look up to see my dog running towards another Jack Russell, in the distance I can see another walker who I assume is the other dogs owner.
I watch the two dogs play, my dog never plays but he is behaving like a puppy with this strange, new dog.
“Hello” I hear a soft female voice behind me. It is the other dog walker.
“Good morning” I reply
“My dog woke me and spoke to me this morning” The lady dog walker looked as confused as I had felt an hour ago.
“So did mine but I know this is a dream and I’ll soon wake up” I say, trying to sound convincing, the dream like state is not feeling quite so comfortable now, In fact I begin to wish that I am not dreaming at all.
“What did your dog say to you?”
“He said we had important business to attend to” I reply
“So did mine”
I look into the ladies eyes as she looked into mine.
The dogs come running towards us, still playing and tumbling as they arrive at our feet. My dog looks up at me and says
“I told you we both had important business this morning”

©Trevor Litchfield

Meet me tonight at Guido’s

Meet me tonight at Guido’s first appeared on Trev's Telautograph on December 26th 2010

It has been a week now since Derek passed on and I think I am finally getting over the loss. Derek was without doubt my best friend, we had grown up together, gone through school together, we both supported the same football team, we liked the same music We had done just about everything together, I missed him terribly!

Today had been my first day back at work, my wife had said that it would help and, as always, she was right. Catching up on everything in my office had taken most of my day and concentration. I was now tired and ready for the journey home while I sat looking out of the office window and waited out the last five minutes before it was time to leave the office. It felt good to be getting some  semblance of life back again.

I heard my door open but took little notice as I knew it would be my secretary letting me know that she was leaving for the day. Instead she came to me and handed me a small UPS package, then informed me she was going.

It was the usual sort of package, I receive several during the course of the day. They normally contain paperwork relating to one contract or another that I oversee from this office. I ripped the tag and expected to find the usual papers or drawings held within. All I found was a postcard that had a photo of Bury St Edmunds Abbey on the front. I turned it over, curious to see who it was from. I nearly fell off my chair when I read the short handwritten message on the reverse.

“I’m not dead. Meet me tonight at Guido’s Pizzeria. Tell no one. Derek”

I sat totally stunned staring at the writing. It was Derek’s handwriting alright, he had an unmistakeable scrawl that I think only we could decipher, even then, I struggled sometimes. I read the words again then noticed that no time was stated. Did this mean he would be there now, or did he intend to be there at what would have been our usual time to meet at Guido’s? We only ever met there on Thursday evenings around 9pm after we had been in the snooker hall for a couple of hours and the girls had attended their yoga class.

It was 5pm and I had decided to walk across town to Guido’s right now. It would only take about fifteen minutes. Driving across town, then finding somewhere to park could take at least an hour plus the walk might help me clear my head a bit.

What the hell was going on?

I arrived at the pizzeria to find it almost empty. Well it was Monday evening and most people were either on their way home or still thinking about leaving off work and then making their journey home through the evening commuter traffic. The walk had done little to ease my mind, in fact I had a hundred thoughts racing through my head at the same time, a bit like the commuter traffic on the motorway.

I entered the eatery, I knew at this time of the evening they would be happy serve me just a coffee, so I ordered and took a table near the back wall, out of sight from the door and with only slight views from the big windowed front of the pizzeria. I sat searching the few faces in Guido’s for Derek but I didn’t recognise anyone seated at the other tables, like me, they sat sipping from coffee mugs perhaps waiting for the rush hour to subside a little before making their journey home or perhaps waiting for their meal to arrive.

Guido’s was a popular haunt both day and night for the office workers in the city. Guido, real name David, had once worked the offices selling sandwiches or pies and other lunchtime treats and had finally built up enough savings to live his dream. Though Guido’s was not the best decorated or refined establishment to eat, it did have David. He had made many friends whilst doing his rounds as a sandwich boy and in return they all stopped by to support him, even if it was only for a coffee at the end of the day.

My coffee was brought to me by Guido himself, he then sat and looked at me.
“Did you receive a postcard?”
I again almost jumped off my chair
“Yes, what the hell is all this about?”
“I Dunno, I got one about an hour ago. It just said look for you when you turned up.”
“Here I am” I stared Guido straight in the eyes hoping for something to explain away these fears in my head.
“So, what did yours say?” asked Guido.
“Just that I should come here and that Derek wasn’t dead. It was in Derek’s handwriting so he either wrote it before his death or he is now on his way here. God knows…..” I stumbled to the end of the sentence, feeling at a total loss.
“What do we do now?”
“I’ve no idea” I replied “This is all too much for me to take in”

We both sat in silence, me sipping my coffee, Guido staring at the floor. There was nothing else we could say to each other.

Time passed, my coffee disappeared and I was thinking that I should either phone my wife or get out of here and start making my way home when the door opened and in walked Derek as full of life as I had ever seen him.

I did not know what to do or say, it was only four days ago that me and everyone else that knew Derek had been to his funeral, now here he was as bold as brass, walking towards me and Guido.

“Evening chaps, coffee please Guido”
Derek spoke as if this was simply another quick get together after work to plan some surprise day out that we sometimes sprung on the girls. They loved these surprises of course but today was more than a bit different.

Derek sat where Guido had left, he looked straight at me and said
“Well, that’s me then”
“That’s you what? What the hell is going on?” I was full of questions but this was all I could say.
“I had to do it this way, otherwise I’ll be a gaol bird for the rest of my life”
“What are you talking about?”
“I set it all up, Angie knows and is already on her way out of the country. Do you and Bev want to join us? Then we could talk about this to our hearts content. I have tickets for you here.” He handed me a paper pouch with two flight tickets to Singapore tucked inside with mine and my wife’s names on the tickets.

Derek’s coffee arrived, Guido sat down again

“I dunno” I replied
“The flight leaves in the morning and I can’t change them. This is a one time offer”
Derek sipped his coffee
“I fly later tonight via Amsterdam and Berlin, you fly direct in the morning, if you decide to come I’ll meet you at the airport”
“But how will you know? what…….”
“Just decide!”
Guido looked puzzled at me, then at Derek
“Guido, can you do me a small favour?” said Derek
“Yes of course”
“Can you put flowers on my grave once a year, or at least have some sent?”
“Yes but why, your not dead?”
“ Don’t ask, will you do it? I’ll make sure it won’t cost you anything”
“OK” Guido looked more confused than I felt.
“Right gents, time to go” Derek handed me a folded piece of paper and stood up to leave.
“You can contact me on this number for the next hour, talk to Bev now. I’m going.” He took my hand, pulled me out of my seat and gave me the biggest hug I’d ever received from him.
“I have to go” and he departed our table and walked out of the door without looking back.

So, here I sit overlooking a beautiful beach somewhere on the coast north of Mombasa; with a very cool refreshing drink by my laptop as I fill you in on some of the finer details. Seems Derek had been doing some monkey business at the bank he worked at. He had squirrelled away a vast fortune in a little under eight months, faked his death and had gone on the run. After a quick phone call to Bev, my wife, who said “What the hell, let’s do it”, I called the number Derek had given me and he answered and said we might have to ‘hop’ around a bit but life could be really good if we wanted it to be. We caught that flight to Singapore.

On our arrival there was someone holding a board with our names on it. We approached him, identified ourselves and he gave us an envelope. Inside were two more flight tickets, this time to Mombasa in Kenya and a thick wad of 100 US dollars notes along with a note saying “Sorry, not able to meet you personally but here’s some joy money. More where that came from. See you soon. Derek”

©Trevor Litchfield

The Day Santa’s Elves Nearly Went On Strike!

The Day Santa’s Elves Nearly Went On Strike! first appeared on Trev's Telautograph on December 22nd 2010

“Get Bushy Evergreen down from his office! I want this sorted now!” cried Bjugnakraekir

Alabaster Snowball, administrator of the naughty and nice list was passing by the toy production warehouse and could see that everything had come to a halt. Head in hands he entered through the door into the melee within. All the senior elves had heard the rumour that one of the elves was for the bullet but no one knew who yet.

“Ahhh Alabaster, you’ll do” said Bjugnakraekir as he spotted Alabaster Snowball enter the warehouse “What’s all this about Steingrimur getting laid off at the end of his shift?”

Although Bjugnakraekir had no authority among the elves he had the loudest voice and was the most militant of the elves, he always took notes and made sure his views were heard at every meeting Santa or any of the senior elves held. Now he had heard of a rumour that one elf was to be laid off. In truth he did not know which one, he had fears that it might be himself but by calling out poor old Steingrimur’s name, he was highlighting who was oldest among the factory elves.

“Come on Bjugnakraekir” said Alabaster “There’s no need for this now. It’s only two days to Christmas morning, all these toys need packing and wrapping ready for the big day.”

“I don’t care about that, all I care about is poor old Steingrimur”

“But who said it would be Steingrimur?” asked Alabaster

“It’s what I heard!”

Bushy Evergreen, inventor of the magic toy-making machine, entered the warehouse.

“Come on now” said Bushy “There’s no need for this, lets get at it people!”

All the other elves turned around and someone pushed the button to get the packaging line moving once again. All the other elves privately wishing that it would not be their name they overheard next.

“Should we tell ‘em” Bushy looked to Alabaster for some help

“Tell who?” Bjugnakraekir still standing near the door, not bothering to get back to his position in the line

“Look Bjugnakraekir” said Bushy “We honestly don’t know which of us is going to see that letter at the time clock tonight.” Bushy looked Bjugnakraekir straight in the eyes “It could even be me!”

“Yeah right! As if Santa’s going to sack you, you’re the only one who knows how most of this stuff works!” Bjugnakraekir swept his hand vaguely around as if pointing to all the magical machinery in the warehouse whilst staring Bushy down.

Alabaster tugged on Bushy’s shirt sleeve

“We’re going to have to get this sorted, Santa should be sorting this out himself, let’s go and get him”

“I’m coming too!” said Bjugnakraekir

“No you’re not, you’ll stay here and calm all this down, after all you started it” said Bushy over his shoulder as he and Alabaster walked out of the warehouse.

“Look, all I know is that we can’t go on like this, we’ve had a bad year and you both know we got very little in the way of food left out last year. You guys know that’s how we do things here. I know it looks like I eat all the food and drink all the drinks left out for me but you guys know I bring it back here for everyone to use throughout the year.” Santa sat in his chair behind the big oak desk in his office, his arms folded over his large but slimmer than usual chest.

“What am I to do fella’s?”

The pair that escaped the warehouse now looked down on Santa.
“Look boss” said Bushy “Whoever you let go is going to make no difference unless we have a bumper haul this year, we’re down to nothing in the granaries you know!”

“And how will whoever you let go survive?” Alabaster joined in “They all have families to feed, who ever it is can’t do that if you lay him off, it’s hundreds of miles to the outside villages, they’d never make it!”

Santa sat in quiet contemplation, he hated this situation just as much as everyone else. Could they all tighten their belts further?

Minutes ticked by like years.

“OK lads, tell ‘em no one is getting laid off. We’ll just have to tighten our belts another notch I guess.”

Alabaster and Bushy both sighed with relief, they could all hope for a decent collection this Christmas and they would all be happy to tighten their belts to keep their jobs, even Bjugnakraekir.

©Trevor Litchfield

The window that opened Pt II

The window that opened Pt I

He had spent countless days looking through the window, the one that opened, the one he had gone through just the once. The people that had brought him here from a life before tried every day to get him to do other things, things he did not want to do, things he had never done, he hated doing other things!

All he wanted was the chair in front of the window, the one with the little table beside it and with his bottle of whiskey and a small glass into which he could pour the whiskey, the small glass that he drank from. The little table that had his tobacco on, he loved smoking and made his own cigarettes to smoke when he drank his whiskey from the small glass. The little table that had a lighter to light his own rolled cigarettes with. The little table that had cigarette papers to make his own rolled cigarettes. The little table that had the ashtray on it, the one he flicked the ash into from his own rolled cigarettes when he was drinking whiskey from the small glass.


The small glass and the ashtray are not the ones he used to have, he wished he had the old ashtray and small glass. He liked the patterns on the ashtray he used to have. The small glass he used to have also had patterns on it, they were different from the patterns on his old ashtray but he liked the different patterns. The ones they gave him, the they that brought him here to the chair in front of the window. Those ones are plain, plain glass ashtray, plain small glass, no patterns on anything! He still used them but did not really like them much.

When they first brought him here, they said he could not have his whiskey, they said he could not have his tobacco, they said he could not have a small glass, they said he could not have an ashtray. He had just sat, not eating their horrid food, not drinking their horrid tea, not anything. He had even refused to be taken to that horrid clean toilet, he wet and soiled himself in the chair!

One day he was brought to his chair in front of the window and there was the little table next to the chair with a whiskey bottle on it and the small glass. He looked at them, not speaking. Still he did not eat, still he did not drink, not even his whiskey. How could he drink whiskey from the small glass without smoking one of his own rolled cigarettes? They insisted he could not have tobacco!

The next day they brought him to the chair and he noticed all the other chairs in the room had gone. The room had just his chair with the little table beside it, the bottle of whiskey and the small glass were on the little table. Beside the bottle of whiskey was a pouch of tobacco, a packet of cigarette rolling papers, a lighter and an ashtray. He felt full of happiness inside to see these things. He let them help him into his chair and sat and rolled a cigarette as they watched him, he then opened the bottle of whiskey and poured some into the small glass. He lit the cigarette with the lighter and puffed so deeply he nearly coughed. He did not let the cough escape, he drank whiskey from the small glass savouring the taste of the fluid on his tongue.

Now he would eat their horrid food, drink their horrid tea, he put whiskey in the tea as he thought it made it taste better. He would let them take him to the horrid clean toilet, he had all he needed. He still would not do other things. They did try and talk to him, he just sat drinking his whiskey from the small glass and smoking his own rolled cigarettes and flicking the ash from his own rolled cigarettes into the clear glass ashtray. He ignored them. He looked out the window that once opened.

©Trevor Litchfield

Late for Work

“Late again Litchfield!” came the by now familiar shout across the office.

My manager is a real tough nut when it comes to turning up late for work but if you can come up with a good enough excuse or the most outlandish reason then he will go away smiling to himself and forget all about you being late. This was the third time this week I had rolled up in the office late and I was running out of stories, these cold mornings just leave me hitting the snooze button more often than I should.

“Yes Mr Smith, sorry” I meekly said back to him
“I hope you have a good reason for this tardiness, it’s the third time this week!”
“I have …….”
“In my office please Mr Litchfield”
Off I go, my mind doing overtime thinking about what I could tell him today.

Mr Smith sat in his chair behind the uncluttered desk in his uncluttered office, he hated mess of any kind and here I was unshaven (again) and looking much the worse for the night out with the lads I had the night before.

“Well?” he looked at me severely.
“It’s like this Mr Smith, my brother called me in the night to say he was locked out.” I started “I have his spare key, so I had to drive over to give him his spare key” What the devil am I talking about, brother?
“That took all night did it Litchfield?” said Mr Smith looking at me expectantly.
“Thing is my brother lives in Manchester” just about as far as I could think of and get back in time to be just late for work.
“So you drove from London to Manchester to give your brother his door key? Isn’t he married or anything?”
“Yes he is but his wife is out of town on business” I’m thinking on my feet again “and she was being entertained by new clients and my brother didn’t want to disturb her”
“OK! I’ll buy the drive to Manchester and back, eight hours round trip, maybe nine with a coffee break. What time did your brother call?”
“It was about five-ish”
“So you got home at four this morning, you could have slept four hours and still been here on time!”
“But when I got to his house, I’d forgotten the key” I looked pleadingly at Mr Smith, now feigning the tiredness I should be showing if I had been up all night “So I had to drive back, get the key and go back to Manchester again.”
“I’m sure you did Litchfield, I’m sure you did!”
I stood looking at him for confirmation of his forgiveness quickly doing the mental calculations for the hours I should have been driving. I’m back in London two hours before I could possibly be.
“Why didn’t your brother come back with you, stay over then go back today WITH the spare key?”
“Coz he’d be late for work if he did that Mr Smith.”

©2010Trevor Litchfield

Homeless

Jo could not remember how she ended up living in the squat. It was yet another freezing cold morning as she lay huddled up in the smelly sleeping bag thrown over a rotting mattress on the floor.

Was it the way she had flounced out on her parents that prevented her from going, cap in hand, back to Suburbia and the family home her parents had worked so hard to pay for all their lives? Was it that arsehole Steve, the way he had ripped her off? Taking all the money from their joint account, all their furniture and the car that awful Saturday morning. She had lost her job in the supermarket because of that bloody car, or lack of it. Soon after followed eviction from the rented flat and now here she was, stuck in some godforsaken backwater of a long forgotten Victorian seaside town with no money, no home, no friends, with less than nothing in the way of prospects.

Steve had sure picked a great time to jump ship. Things were OK but not great while he was there, they argued constantly but bills were getting paid. The landlord had just sent the renewal of their shorthold tenancy, all it needed was signing and they would have a roof over their heads for another year. Steve had said he would sort it, instead he had emptied her life of everything that mattered to her and left her behind.

Jo stirred, trying to find some warmth in the tattered sleeping bag. It was definitely colder this morning, she did not want to leave what warmth she found in the sleeping bag behind but she had promised herself that her life must change today. It was her birthday, 20th December, she was now twenty four years old.

She had found the squat in that late summer by walking the backstreet’s of this once jolly seaside town looking for an empty house. The town was now faded and rotting because the tourists did not come here anymore. Even what few tearooms there were closed in September because this was no place to come if the sun was not shining. Where she slept was barely four walls, it had part of a roof over two dilapidated old rooms, no electricity, no running water, no heat other than the small fire she sometimes lit in one corner of the decrepit room she slept in.

Other homeless people, mainly men, had offered her somewhere to sleep in other squats but she knew what that would mean, right now she certainly did not want the attentions of any man, let alone other homeless men. She considered herself to be different from other homeless people, she did not do drugs, she did not drink to excess like they did, she did not even smoke tobacco like just about all the other homeless people she had encountered. How could they afford the tobacco or all those other things they seem to have?

She could barely afford food some days, begging was mostly a waste of time in the centre of town though just occasionally she got given a few coins which she eagerly accepted. It was on days she got given money that she lit her fire, she always bought food that she could heat up, tinned soup or anything in a tin that she could balance precariously over her little fire. Extracting hot food from a scalding hot tin with your fingers was not ideal but the hot food contained within was more than welcome on a day like today.

Jo poked her head over the top of her sleeping bag, searching to see if she needed to go scavenging for something to burn on her fire. On good days she would scavenge all day, building up reserves to burn on cold days, the activity also warmed her up. She sighed to herself, she would have to scavenge today if she wanted any warmth from her fire and she had no tins left with no money to buy anymore. Suburbia seemed such a long time ago, as did her flat in Uxbridge. Why had she come to this godforsaken town in late summer, just three months ago anyway? She had used the last of her money, the money Steve had not found in her purse, on that bus ticket. What had she been thinking?

She snuggled herself back into the sleeping bag, closed her eyes hoping to find some more sleep, hoping the day would warm up. Jo drifted off into a semi-sleep, that hazy sort you get when you do not want to get out of bed and have no reason to either. She dreamt of a visit to this seaside town she and Steve had taken just over sixteen months ago. The hot sun on her back as she lay topless on the deserted beach, Steve laughing and joking as he applied the sun protection lotion to her skin. That had been a glorious day, where had they gone?

Snow started to fall from the leaden sky, covering all in a beautiful layered white blanket. The snow kept on falling, temperatures making records as they reached new lows. Dog walkers often used this quite backwater of the town during the day where all the houses were either derelict or empty. The ambulance parked outside the partially roofed old bungalow was a rare sight on this street, no one lived in this street anymore.

©2010 Trevor Litchfield

‘Chased By Dogs’

Joe stumbled and fell into the clearing, tired and exhausted. He lay on the frozen ground panting, his breath making mist clouds in the chill air. He knew he had to get up and keep moving he could hear the dogs once again; they were not far away. He had hoped that throwing his coat into that river might put the dogs of his scent for a while, give him a chance to get some distance between himself and the dogs so he could rest up somewhere.

Joe surveyed his surroundings, he was lying in a small clearing in the forest, frost and shallow snow drifts all around then the dark foreboding forest beyond that in all directions. He had a compass, he knew which direction he had to travel and he knew his goal. If he could reach that goal in the next twenty four hours he would be a free man. He looked up, staring at the trees, nothing stirred apart from the incessant barking of the dogs getting ever closer.

Joe stood up to his full and lean six foot frame, his matted dark brown hair falling into his grey eyes. Joe did not care; he checked his compass and started north-east once again. Twigs slashed at his pale skinned face and now bare arms leaving welt marks as he ran through the forest. Run Joe run, he thought.

After another twenty minutes Joe came out of the forest beside a river, his bare skin and face covered in welts. He did not remember this river from the map they showed him. Joe halted, head bowed, thinking hard; where was he?  Joe looked at the river, frozen but not frozen enough to cross without the ice breaking, which way? Joe checked his compass, he would have to travel almost due east along the river bank until he found somewhere to cross, he did not want to go west, he knew what lay in that direction if he travelled far enough, it had to be east. Until now Joe had not noticed the silence, even the dogs where quiet. Had they lost his scent?

To save much needed energy, Joe walked along the riverbank but without his coat and only a T-shirt and jeans for clothing, his sweat soon started to freeze to his body, he had to find some dry warmer clothes. Joe looked down the river and in the distance he could see buildings alongside the river. Joe started to jog to try to get some heat circulating in his body again but he was already shivering.

He reached what looked like an abandoned barn with an old watermill alongside. Both looked deserted as Joe scouted for signs of life. While at the back of the barn, Joe noticed that a window had been smashed. It also looked like the only way into the barn without smashing in doors as the only door to the barn was at the front and locked with a heavy brass padlock. Joe climbed in through the window into the almost total darkness of the barn.

The audience was going wild, placing bets with the interactive betting agents as they flashed their prices across the viewing screens. Joe had found something no other freedom chaser had found; this was something new to the viewers of the most watched TV show in modern history. Of course the audience did not know that the production company had built this new feature into the set after falling viewer and betting income figures had spurred them into new ideas. Everything now rested on Joe, would he find the items planted in the barn and watermill? Finding the right items would mean certain freedom, finding the wrong items; well that was why ‘Chased By Dogs’ was the most popular TV show in modern history.

©2010 Trevor Litchfield

Starting Again

Something I wrote a long time ago and I’m not entirely sure how much longer it will remain published where it currently resides so: This was first published in 2002

Starting Again

The man walked along the deserted beach, his hair being ruffled by the sea breeze. His dog running to and fro, chasing sea birds as they whirled overhead, teasing the animal and seeming to enjoy the game as much as the dog. The sky was getting darker and rain clouds made the horizon look very bleak, it would soon be time to return home to that lonely house. A house that had been lonely for a year or so now, in fact since his wife had left him. The reasons for her leaving still baffled him but she had left, taking items of furniture and ornaments that she felt she couldn’t live without. It didn’t seem to matter that he was attached to a few of those items too, almost everything of value had been taken.

His life since then had been pretty lonely, his dog staying ever faithful when it seemed the world around him just wanted to forget about him. The marriage had been childless, although they were still young and if they wanted, could find new partners. The marriage hadn’t lasted very long either, five years, but it had felt like a lifetime, and when the door had shut, he was on his own with only his dog for company.

His employers had understood to start with, and knew that he had needed time to readjust his life, finances, travel arrangements; the car had carried the ornaments that his wife had taken. Replacing the car had been easy, the local papers were full of second hand cars, but he needed something reliable, and the local garage dealer saw him inspecting a car and had arranged to get him a half decent one at a good a price. True to his word an excellent little car had turned up a week or so later, not one he would have chosen, and it didn’t have any of the comforts he had become accustomed to, but it made the trip to work and back without dramatic daily incident. All this had taken three months to achieve and now his bank balance was as precarious as his job prospects. His employers had begun to take a dim view of his unreliability and the bank had refused to extend his overdraft, so things were tight for the next six months.

He knew that he’d need to work a lot of extra hours to get back in with the bank and his employers, which would leave very little time for anything other than eating and sleeping, and the dog didn’t walk along the beach and the gulls found new dogs to play with, but eventually the bank statement that he had been waiting for dropped onto his doormat. His employers where again talking of a supervisory position, one that he could have had six months previously if he had shown a little more conviction at the time. Now things had sorted themselves out a little he wasn’t sure that he wanted the responsibility any more, once, a lifetime ago he would have accepted the position gladly, now he could earn enough to pay the bills comfortably, have a quiet beer in the bar when he fancied one, but most of all the dog had his playmates again.

His future looked bleak though, like the coming rainstorm he had no destination in life, he just wandered from day to day and wherever life wanted to go, he seemed to follow. Other than a birthday card, he had lost touch completely with his wife. There had been no return address on the envelope and the postmark was smudged, though it appeared to be posted in his wife’s birth town from what he could read of it. He had visited his parents a couple of times and all they could talk about was how sad it all was and would he ever be getting back together with her? What had he done to make her leave like that? All his answers seemed to wash over them or they just didn’t listen. He too would have liked answers to the same questions. He found it hard to talk to the women in his local bar even though they were making the moves; he had started to frequent different bars in an attempt to keep them at bay, until at least he was ready for a new friendship or relationship. He would bypass the bar tonight, he hadn’t thought that he would need a coat and he had left the house in quite light clothing, not the sort to be getting rained on even if it was summer.

He made it indoors just as the first drops of rain had began to fall, but the house offered no real sanctuary to the loneliness that had started to seep into his life. While at first, money had been an issue in his life, he had had something to think about, and take the hours from him, but now that the bank where happy with him again, money became another burden that began to pile up. He couldn’t let it happen though, if his wife asked for a divorce he knew that a lot of money in their remaining joint account would become a target for any solicitor, money under the bed wasn’t his style though, a new account in some back street building society would be a prudent move. He was sure that she would need her share of the house eventually, but he wanted to keep the house. He liked living so close to the dunes and the sea, a nest egg hidden away would be necessary to buy her half of the house, or at least refinance it. Life had found another purpose for him.

He put the kettle on and made sure the dog had some water to drink and a snack or two in its bowl. Then he settled down and watched the late news on TV while he drank his tea and then afterwards, went to bed.

‘Ah, who needs to worry while you’re around,’ he stated, and laughed as his dog snuggled up against him.

©2002 Trevor Litchfield

The Will

From the day Colin had received the letter from the solicitor telling him of his aunts death and that a substantial sum of money and her old house had been left to him in her will, he had dreaded this moment. He made the long journey to the small town solicitor to be handed a set of old worn keys, signed the documents making everything legal and now here he stood, outside a worn out, old and shuttered up old house.

Colin had not been here since his childhood and his memories of the house were not what he would ever call warm and welcoming, the house had always scared him, as did his now departed aunt. She was strict; never letting him play with any of the toys his mother said he could take on his yearly visits. This aunt was his mothers’ only living relative. The sisters were the only living relatives after an unspoken about incident had taken place before his birth. Colin had never known his father and his mother and a scary old aunt had been his entire family. His mother had insisted on the childhood visits but they had stopped before his teens and he had not seen or heard from his aunt since, that was twenty years ago!

Colin stood on the porch, not wanting to enter; his mother never came on those yearly visits. Now standing on the porch to his aunts old house he was wishing his mother was still alive so that she to would be standing on the lonely porch with him. The garden was unkempt, it had not seen a fork in years and the grass stood high even the path leading up to the house was overgrown as if it had not been walked on in years.

Finally, he put the key in the lock, turned it and opened the door. Standing on the threshold memories of his old aunt came flooding back. The smell of cooked vegetables strong as ever, why do old peoples houses smell of cooked vegetables he asked himself as he took that first step into the hallway. He closed the door and walked slowly to the kitchen, it was the one room apart from his bedroom that he had known intimately. He had never been allowed in any other room on his childhood visits. The kitchen had not changed in the preceding twenty years, everything had a place and in its place it was put. Neat cup hooks with neat rows of cups hanging, a picture of wild deer hanging on the wall over the kitchen table, all just as he had remembered from his childhood visits.

Then with horror memories came flooding back of one visit in particular. He had become adventurous on this visit, which also turned out to be his last. He remembered going into another bedroom and in that bedroom had been nothing but another door on the far side of the room. Standing thinking about it he remembered his aunt coming in shrieking at him to get out. Never to go in that room, being almost dragged down the stairs to sit in the kitchen whilst his aunt gathered his few things together then calling his mother to come and pick him up.

His mother had been furious on her arrival, she had bundled him into her car, throwing his bag of toys and clothes in with him and not talking on the journey back to her apartment in the big city. His mother had scalded him so severely when they arrived home that the memory of it made him want to leave this old house and never return. Perhaps it was better his mother was not with him now, she would be telling him to just sell the house and leave.

Colin still stood alone in the kitchen, looking back into the hallway where the staircase led to the bedrooms, the old and faded sofa pushed against a wall in the hallway had letters and newspapers thrown onto it. Probably from a visit by the solicitor at some earlier date, his aunt would never have allowed such tardiness. He had to go and look in that room now; he had no choice, after all these years, the fuss over his entering that room all those years ago. It had been empty he was sure.

Up the stairs he climbed, he could still hear his aunts’ shrieks in his ear as he reached the top, the room he was looking for was now straight in front of him, and the door became an imposing barrier to a long forgotten memory. The door opened with the slightest of squeaks and on entry it was just as he remembered, empty apart from another door on the far side of the room. He walked across the room expecting to find nothing more than an empty cupboard behind the door. The door was locked.

Colin got the set of old keys from his pocket, there were only two keys on it, the front door key and what he had assumed would be a back door key. He tried the key he had not used to gain entry to the house assuming incorrectly that it would unlock the door. What now he thought, he then tried the front door key and to his surprise the key turned and the door creaked open. His heart now pounded, the door opening at the turn of the key had made him jump back, he now wished he had not bothered but he had come this far, what could be behind the door, it had opened as if something was leaning against it. He took the step required to reach the door and flung it open. Nothing fell out at him and Colin took a deep relieved breath and looked inside.

To his utter amazement there was another staircase, it looked as if it led into the roof of the house. Colin never remembered seeing windows in the roof from outside, but then he had never really been allowed to explore outside and he had no real memories of the back garden because of this. He went up the winding staircase, light coming in from skylights in the roof. As he climbed Colin could smell decay, not that the rest of the house smelt much different but this was a different sort of decay smell, mouldy decay.

Colin reached the top of the stairs and wretched at the scene before him, the room was decorated with old and tattered party decorations, cobwebs where everywhere. In the middle of the room was a large table, set out as if for a banquet, eight chairs surrounded the table and in those chairs sat eight skeletons dressed in formal suits and dresses, now slumped into the mould encrusted, festered food that adorned the table. The hair on the skeletons had grown into the food and mice, rats, maggots and any other pests that had obviously found the food and bodies lay dead all over the floor.

The knock at the door surprised Colin; he had been off work since his discovery a few weeks before. Colin answered the door to find a smartly dressed young man flashing a police badge at him. Colin invited him in and led him to his kitchen where the smell of coffee was strong but fresh. After offering coffee to his guest Colin invited him to sit and joined him at the table.

“First of all I hope you feel a bit better Mr Goff” said the young officer. “It appears that you stumbled on a mass poisoning of your whole family”.

“Pardon?” replied Colin, stunned.

“It appears that everyone in the loft room was murdered by your aunt, she must have administered poison to them in the food. Our forensics people have found high concentrations of aconite in the remains of the food and in DNA samples taken from the human remains.”

Colin sat looking into his coffee, unable to comprehend what he had just been told.

“Aconite is an ancient and deadly poison, perhaps better known as wolfsbane, it can kill within minutes of ingestion” the officer continued “Once ingested the victims feels numbness and could be dead within minutes, which appears to be the case here”

The officer went to say more but Colin put his hand up as a gesture for the officer to stop; he did not want to hear anymore and sat silently trying to absorb what he had been told. Then it dawned on him, his mother had known!

“Mr Goff” the officer intruded on his thoughts, “Mr Goff, there is something we need from you.”

“Yes, what is it?” Colin was now swimming in his emotions.

“We need a sample of blood from you. All of the remains found in the room appear to be from people over the age of fifty at the time of their deaths but one is of a young man, in his twenties”

©2009 Trevor Litchfield

The window that opened

He went out through the window once, counting the paces to the fence. Eight steps it is, he remembers how many paces because he counted them on the way back as well. He only went out the window once, the day they first put him here, the big window has not been open in years. He stares out of the window everyday. When he went out there that one time he could not reach the wooden fence, there is a wire fence inside the high wooden fence. The wire fence is also very high and it has barbed wire running along the top of it, you could not climb over the wire fence and all that barbed wire to get to the wooden fence but the the wooden fence is only a few inches away from the wire fence. He wants to know what is the other side of that big high wooden fence.

There are holes in the big high wooden fence, cracks that he could see through, he remembers from that one look he had a long time ago. He could not see anything beyond the trees. He can see the trees from his chair, in his room behind the window, the one that opened so long ago, the one you can walk through. He looks at the trees every day, they sway in the wind. The leaves grow, change colour and fall to the ground. He cannot remember how many times the leaves have grown, changed colour and then fallen to the ground. He prefers the trees when the leaves are nice and new and green.

He can see the sky through the trees, he sits and looks at the sky through the trees every day after he has looked at the trees with their leaves for long enough. The sky is a different colour almost every day. He has no preference for the colour of the sky, he just notices the changes without emotion.

There are birds in the trees, he looks for the birds after he has looked at the sky through the trees for long enough. They, those that put him in the room with the chair in front the window that opened once, gave him a book with pictures of birds in once. The pictures of the birds also had the names of the birds alongside the pictures. He knows that names of the birds he sees every day, they are called pigeon, sparrow, blackbird, starling, crow, blue tit and collared dove. The birds sit on the branches in the trees and on top of the high wooden fence and even the barbed wire on top of the high wire fence. He notices that the birds do not mind the barbs on the barbed wire, they do not seem to care. The birds know what is beyond the trees the other side of that high wooden fence. He sometimes wishes he was a bird then he would know what is beyond the high wooden fence too.

He sometimes see a grey squirrel walking along the high wooden fence. He does not look for it every day but he notices it if it walks along the high wooden fence when he is looking for the birds. The grey squirrel also climbs into the trees and walks along the branches. He thinks he is not sure if he wants to be a grey squirrel, they might not know what is beyond the trees behind the high wooden fence. He thinks the grey squirrel is in the trees looking for nuts. The trees are not nut trees so he wonders why the grey squirrel looks in the trees for nuts. He does not really like the grey squirrel.

When he has looked at the trees and the sky and the birds for long enough, he simply stares out of the window, sitting in the chair, waiting for the sky to go dark when he cannot see the trees with their leaves or the birds anymore. Then they come and close the blinds so that he cannot even see the window that opened once.

©2010 Trevor Litchfield

Room For Rent

Mark had seen the highlife, lived the highlife. His banking job in the city had been the highlife; then the crash came. His bank had gone before the crash; his bank had been the reason for the crash. Greedy traders, greedy investors all looking for that extra percentage point. It was a great life.

Now Mark lived in an east end basement flat, one room that served as living area and bedroom, a kitchenette and a shower cum toilet room was his entire world. First his girlfriend had left him taking most of the expensive furniture with her as she flounced out of his life. A few weeks later the bailiffs where at the door taking everything else including his beloved Porsche 911 that he had bought with his first ever bonus. Handing over the apartment keys to the bailiffs as they laughed in his face; entering the lift to go down to the ground floor where his life had descended to this one roomed basement flat.

He had phoned his father from the payphone at the base of his old apartment block informing his father how his world had crashed around his ears. His father reminding him of how he had treated family and friends on his way up had told him to get on with it; no one wanted him back in the family home anymore. How he wished he still had his mobile, all his numbers were on that phone but the bailiffs had spotted it in his pocket, demanding he hand it over.

The pallid sunlight of a winters day crept into his dull and dank world through the small dirty barred windows. He had found this room whilst he walked the streets. He had walked for two days, hardly stopping; not eating. His only possessions were a plastic carrier bag with a few old clothes that the bailiffs let him keep and his wallet. His wallet he had thought, it still had a credit card tucked way inside. He found a cash till and pushed his card in expecting it to be chewed up; instead it offered him £300 which he took gladly, not caring what happened afterwards.

He had seen the sign “Room For Rent” written by hand in black marker pen on a piece of tattered cardboard in the window of an old low and scruffy block of flats earlier in the day. He had gone back and gladly handed over the £160 deposit plus £80 week in advance rent asked for by the shabbily dressed, gap toothed old man who was the landlord.

That was two days ago. He had gone back to the cash till each morning, still finding he could withdraw his daily maximum allowance of £300. He had put all of the cash in an old writing desk that had been the only furniture when he first entered the room, apart from a small amount that he kept in his pockets. He had walked the area spotting several skips that contained old furniture; he now had a mattress on the floor and a battered armchair in which to sit. An old battery powered radio, covered in paint had also been salvaged; it worked without the need for new batteries and now sat atop the writing desk.

His only purchases other than food had been a thick and warm sleeping bag, a couple of towels and some cheap toiletries. The radiators in the room did come on and almost got warm but that seemed to be the extent of any heating in the block. Today he would be looking for some warmer clothes, or at least more clothes. He would again walk the streets looking for skips, trawling through their contents looking for anything useful but first he would try the cash till once again. Perhaps a different one today, he had used the other one three times now; he had been leaving a trail that anyone could follow. He wanted to disappear until his life turned in his favour again, which it surely must.

His credit card disappeared into the slot; he entered his pin code and heard the dreaded crunching as his card was reclaimed by the credit card provider. Mark found a warm café, ordered tea and toast and then reflected on his situation. He had four weeks rent, maybe six weeks if he starved a little; ate little more than one meal a day; he had to find work. He stared out of the café window, seeing his reflection in the dirty glass he didn’t recognise the tired young blonde haired, green eyed man looking back at him. Just six months ago that young man had the world at his feet, banks chasing his money, now, well now he had managed to get a roof over his head and something warm to sleep in and was safe from the twilight world lived by others on the outside.

He did the calculations in his head again, six weeks rent left him little more than £150 to survive on; he had to earn some money. He asked the café owner if he knew of anyone looking for workers; anything would do. The burly café owner looked Mark up and down; he could see that Mark had never worked an ‘honest’ job, his hands though grubby looked soft like a desk workers hands.
“Can you was dishes?”
Mark confirmed that he could do anything if shown where to do it.
“Come back tomorrow, six in the morning when I open up”.
Mark smiled at the owner
“Don’t you go smiling, you aint done a day yet!”
Mark finished his now cold tea, he had to get an alarm clock; more unnecessary spending but he had a job. He just hoped the café owner paid him cash.

Mark walked the streets looking for a charity shop which had a used alarm clock for sale. He ended up having to buy a new one which he hated doing but it was a necessity. Back in the room he set the clock and placed it on the floor near the mattress. His life was already looking better; he would look for more clothes tomorrow.

©2010 Trevor Litchfield

New job, new life

Oh jeez, the taxi will be here in an hour and I still have so much to do! I should have packed yesterday, now I’m in such a mess, why oh why didn’t I pack yesterday?

I couldn’t believe it when I pulled the letter from my mailbox last Friday morning saying I’d got the job, could I be in their head offices by Tuesday? I never expected to get the job. In truth I never expected them to come all the way from the city to give me an interview in that office they rented. Surely they interviewed more candidates in the area, they would never have hired it just to interview little old me? Now the taxi is coming to whisk me off to a new job, new life, new everything and I’m still packing!

What an opportunity! Big company, big salary, my own department and my own secretary; I had only applied because the job looked to good to be true. Two weeks later I’m on my way to a world I have only dreamed of. I can’t believe they are renting an apartment for me, rent free until I find somewhere I like. I bet I love the apartment, I bet I won’t be able to afford it. They sent me the brochure, new apartments overlooking the river. Oh the views in the brochure.

Come on, pull your finger out, the taxi will be here soon. I arranged with my current landlord to have all my furniture shipped to my new apartment. He was really good saying that the job was an opportunity of a lifetime and sure, he would see that everything was handled carefully. Not that I have much furniture, I rented this apartment furnished, it’ll only be my ‘things’ that need shipping. The shippers are coming later today; they said leave everything to us, you just get on your way. So I’m still packing what I think I need.

When I first saw the date they wanted me to start, I thought to myself why Tuesday? Then realised it is the first of the month. I phoned the coffee shop where I had been scrapping a living, telling them that I had to leave. They were good to me saying that my paycheque would be ready Monday morning. Oh jeez, I’ve got to pick that up on the way to the airport; did I leave enough time to do everything?

Thirty minutes and the taxi will be here. Did I phone everyone I needed to? Remember god-damn-it remember. Yes I phoned the utilities; yes I called the cable company; yes I even called my landlord to check he would be here when I leave; he will be here in ten minutes. I feel sick now, excited but sick. Do I need these shoes? Have I got room in my one and only suitcase for them? I better take shoes, leave the trainers to the shippers; what a mess!

Five minutes to the taxi; oh no, I have to pee; do I have the time to pee? Well, I’d better make time otherwise I’ll pee myself in the taxi, go and have a pee! My landlord is helping tidy up the place a bit, my clothes are everywhere; I think I got everything I need; time to pee.

The taxi is outside and I really do feel sick now. My suitcase is still open on my bed, clothes still all over the bed; close the suitcase and go. Do I need that grey suit or that blue suit? Hurry, this is it, make your mind up. Close the suitcase and lock it. My landlord is offering his hand; I smile nervously and shake it. The taxi honks its horn. Time to go, time to go; I bet I forgot something; where’s my phone? Scrambling about searching for my phone; there it is on the coffee table.

I’m running; running to a taxi and a new life that I’m already late for.

©2010 Trevor Litchfield