My job title is the same
but I no longer recognise it trying to solve the impossible in a phone call in an email yelling at the world I never knew how needed it was… the eye contact
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Returning to the beginning via a new route Offering myself to start anew My mistake was putting my hope; my safety into unknown, selfish hands. ![]() Note: This is another draft chapter of my WIP novel, 'The Old Hall Hotel.' Characters include Alex, the kindly omnipresent night watchman, and Wendy, a permanent guest at the Old Hall, who has a dissociative disorder, and sometimes goes by Aretha. “Each one of us has his own rhythm of suffering.” Roland Barthes RECORDING FROM WENDY PERMANENT RESIDENT [Wendy wanted to tell me her story but not face to face. Alex lent her his mobile so that she could record her story] Shall I start now? Now? Okay. Okay. This is my story and it is told by me. My name is Wendy. One thing first I must clear up because other people like to tell my story but they is not me and it makes me very sad which is AWFUL. I’m not mad. Mad is when you are angry and I have decided to never, ever be angry for as long as I live. I mean it this time. Yes I do. This is because being angry makes people sad- and then I get sad- and being sad is the worst, worst thing in the whole entire world. Everybody in the world should be happy all the time and then everything would be fiiiine and daaaaandy. This girl knows this is true. My mom used to say that allllll the time. I miss my mom. She was a very sad person and that made me sad-so I got sent to happy people to make me happy. But they weren’t happy. They weren’t sad or angry either, they were just boring. They would say ‘Wendy stop speaking like you are not from the Bronx, you are from London, England and we say MUM not MOOOOOM’. And this would make me angry AND sad because this is not always true. Sometimes, most of the time, I AM from the Bronx and my name is not Wendy, it is Aretha. And that is my RIGHT. Because being Wendy can sometimes be sad. Aretha is never sad. She is happy and bubbly and FUN. I don’t know why they didn’t like Aretha. They kept telling me over and over and over ‘You are WENDY.’ And I said ‘No….LOOK. Look CLOSER. I am ARETHA.’ Then I would cry and cry and be sad because sometimes I hate Wendy and wish boring old Wendy would just go away. Things would be so much better without her because all she does in moan, moan, moan. She says Aretha is naughty and evil and wrong. Aretha would try to be cross but Aretha is NEVER cross so she just laughs and laughs at Wendy and says ‘enough of THAT’ and sometimes says some VERY naughty words indeed. When Wendy comes back I feel very, very sad about Aretha saying naughty words because they are not nice. Then people get CROSS and ANGRY with Aretha. Then I say, ‘I will tell her but don’t shoot the messenger!’ Alexander taught me that. ‘Don’t shoot the messenger.’ ‘ Cos that’s all Wendy is- the messenger. And she has to say sorry Miranda for making all the noise. Sorry Daisy for calling you the C word. Sorry, sorry, sorry. This is why Wendy is sad and boring. She is always saying sorry because Aretha never does. Aretha likes very much to get drunk because it makes her extra happy. AND LOUD. Ohh Aretha sings. She dances. She laughs. Sometimes people sing and laugh and dance too. Sometimes they don’t. Then Wendy comes along and be like, ‘Aretha, go to bed, leave these people’ and Aretha sometimes listens. Sometimes she doesn’t. Then Wendy is here for the day and she cries in bed and says sorry, sorry, sorry. Alexander said not to be sorry after the first sorry. What’s done is done and Wendy will be better by morning. Alexander is always Alexander and he is always a very nice man, even when he looks sad. I tell him this and he says he isn’t sad. I say he is lying and he says sometimes it’s okay to tell a lie every now and again, which surprises this girl, let me tell you. Aretha does get quiet sometimes and Wendy lightens up. These are the BEST TIMES. I say to everyone, ‘it is a blessed day today!’ and everyone smile and say indeed it is, indeed it is. I go for hot chocolate and I leave a BIG TIP to the smiley lady and tell her to buy a new dress and oh wow, oh wow, does she smile and smile. Then I go to my room and sit on the balcony and I listen to my songs and draw and everything is happy and I think why can’t it always be like this- but that makes me sad so I stop thinking. I draw and laugh at the little girl playing in the park and pretend like it ghost little me coming by to say hello Wendy, how are you today. But I am only PRETENDING. I know this girl have her own name and her own mommy and daddy and maybe a baby brother [not that I know this for sure]. Sometimes Alexander try and set me and Daisy up on play dates because she is crazy too. I say, what are we going to do, play snakes and ladders? He say no, unless you like snakes and ladders. I say hell no, I don’t. He said, well, you could talk or go to a café. I said talk about what? Alexander look sad here again and he kind of mumbled that it was just something to think about because we all need friends. Sometimes on these BEST TIMES days, Alexander come and talk to me in my room. He says I may need to move soon because the hotel might need to close. I get very annoyed with Alexander for ruining my best time day. He says sorry but says I need to have it in my mind so it don’t go BOO, SURPRISE but I laugh and say this hotel is STAYING, it’s too big to leave. But when I’m allowed back in the hotel bar I hear the whisperings. They don’t even whisper because they think I’m not listening but I AM. They say we’re ALL going to leave and they are going to make the hotel a swimming pool or a supermarket or something else crazy. And they say I’M mad. These are the times that even Wendy laugh and laugh. ![]() Come From Away UK tour Liverpool Empire- 20th March 2024 Book, Music and Lyrics by Irene Sankoff and David Hein I have wanted to see the multi-award winning, ‘Come From Away’, since its initial release in 2017. It has since, alongside Hamilton, become the new darling of the theatre community. After its final performance in the West End last year, it has now hit the road on its first UK tour. Its subject matter does not scream musical material; the grounding of planes in Newfoundland following the 9/11 terrorist attack, leaving nearly 7000 stranded and bewildered. I guarantee to you though, that you will leave with your faith in human nature restored- and that’s no easy feat in this mess of a world we are currently living in. Based on true stories of both the ‘plane people’ and the inhabitants of Newfoundland, Come From Away manages to skillfully tackle its source material with the sensitivity and truth that it deserves, whilst still entertaining the audience throughout with its clever narrative, as any good show should. The show is one act and at a relatively short running time of 110 minutes, it is fast-paced. The music is used to tell the story, rather than ‘filler’ songs that could be tied to any show. I suspect the soundtrack is not particularly popular in the musical theatre community, purely because it is an experience which only really works when every element is present. A fantastic live band remains on stage throughout, and are truly the heart of the show. There is no weak link in this cast, which is vital, as it is a small company of twelve, all playing multiple parts. Special mentions have to go to Sara Poyzer and Amanda Henderson, who bring such emotion to their parts. The staging is sparse but highly effective; the main props being chairs which change from aeroplane seats to pub stools in the blink of an eye. Laughs and tears are guaranteed aplenty- a particularly moving scene which features different people of different religions trying to pray and find answers in response to the tragedy, seemed to have a real effect on the audience. It was very hard not to reflect and compare the words with current affairs today, and the cast seemed to know this too. Come From Away is the show the world needs right now. It reminded me of the Fred Rogers quote, which ironically became universally used post 9/11- ‘When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’ It might not be a solution, but kindness and love is something we are all thirsty for. Come From Away offers it, unapologetically, tenfold. Come From Away continues its UK tour until January 2025 ![]() Tammy Whitworth 54 Do people ever really tell others what they think of you? I don’t think so. I think it’s more of an impression of what we project to others. I met Tammy when she came over from America to teach in the secondary school I was working at. She is such a beautiful soul, and I am blessed to still have her in my life despite her being back in the States. Warm, selfless and kind- her faith shines through. You always feel better after you've spoken to her, and I have so enjoyed learning more about her back story for this interview. How would you describe yourself? I was born into an Italian American family in Connecticut in the late 1960s.We were Catholics but when my parents divorced we were not allowed to have communion and felt ostracised. My younger sister and I had terrible allergies that prompted my parents to move us to a drier climate, and so we moved to Arizona in the mid seventies. I come from a divorced household and as the oldest of three I took on many of our household responsibilities for my working mom. I was a “Tom Boy'' riding motorcycles and shooting targets in the high desert. I was encouraged to excel in school and attended Northern Arizona University in Flagstaff, before following my family to Georgia. I met my husband at my first teaching position in South Georgia. As a Southerner I developed a relationship with God. Our two beautiful and smart daughters were born in this rural area. We moved North to Atlanta for my husband to attend seminary and to have better healthcare for our girls. I have been an art for 27 years in this state and one year as a supply teacher in the lovely Peak District, where my husband received his PhD in Mission Theology. I transitioned from a public to a private school in the second half of my career. I am a recent dog owner and soon to become a grandma. How would others describe you? I feel people would describe me as hospitable, personable, caring and friendly. I am those qualities- I love getting to know people from all walks of life. I love connecting with folks and discovering what their lives are about. Which question was harder to answer? I found the first part of my description of describing who I am necessary to share because it shaped my heart and life choices. I find that question easy. The later question of “how others describe me” is more tricky. Do people ever really tell others what they think of you? I don’t think so. I think it’s more of an impression of what we project to others. There is a quote that I used to have in my bedroom that read, “Your friends will know you better in the first minute you meet than your acquaintances will know you in 1000 years.” I believe that is to be true. What were your first impressions of England? My first impression of England was very comforting. Rain greeted us- surprise! Well, we had to prepare you for what was to come! It was a gentle rain that was so welcomed! In our home state of Georgia we were in a terrible drought that summer. We were not allowed to water our lawns/gardens, wash our cars or even enjoy public pools and lakes. Where did you stay? We stayed in Eyam for our first week, and the day that we arrived there was a well-dressing ceremony. I found it so beautiful and meaningful that people would recognise the huge blessing of water! My second impression of England, particularly where we were living, was how kind, hospitable, and witty British people are! Was anything difficult to adapt to? I was so frightened to try to drive on our narrow lane, leading to our house in Hope Valley. But when I observed how thoughtful and mindful drivers were, it gave me hope that I could master it. I am afraid such manners are not employed where I live in the metro Atlanta Georgia area. What were the differences and similarities in the American and British teaching styles? I honestly felt like there were more differences than similarities between British and American schools, in my opinion. That was a factor in why we returned home when we did. We highly appreciated and valued the primary school education and experience that our children received in our village school. We loved how children were taught how to learn instead of what to learn. We loved the fact that other than “spelling” there was no homework for them. We found they could be children and not have the heavy workload and constant pressure of weekly quizzes and tests. As their headmaster told us when we questioned why there weren't “Friday Folders” brimming with worksheets, quizzes and tests throughout the semester, he replied “the pig doesn’t get better the more you weigh it.” We loved that! And how about secondary schools? I saw the secondary experience at Highfields and that concerned me. I felt like the children had to grow up very quickly taking public transportation and kind of a hands off approach to families partnering with the schools. And what we appreciated in the younger years we didn’t think was as successful in the secondary schools-without quizzes and exams until student’s GCSE, there weren’t short term assessments that help navigate courses. Our systems are just different. My eldest daughter lived in Paraguay, South America during her last year of high school. Now granted, she was coming from a private Christian school and transferring into a private Christian School, but we found their school system more similar to America than the British system. Did you take any traditions back with you? 1) Jacket potatoes with tuna fish 2) Curries 3) Christmas crackers One we did not continue here was driving on the left side of the road!! Was God always at the centre of your life? Not during my high school and college years. My interests were mostly self serving. When I moved to South Georgia in the early 90s I became more involved with a local Methodist church. Is that where you met your husband? Yes, I met him in South Georgia and he became a believer after we began dating. Years later he accepted the call to ministry. Our daughters always grew up in the life of a church community. How do you deal with people who mock Christianity? I notice a surge on social media during Christmas and Easter which can be quite hurtful… Have you heard of or read the book “Live No Lies” by Comer? I haven’t... I've read it once and want to deep dive into it again. It’s a fantastic Christian book that explains how culture has shifted and turned the brunt of jokes and criticism towards Christians. You mentioned before about being a Catholic and how you were treated after your parents divorce… did it ever make you question your faith? I was so young to fully understand my faith. I saw how upsetting it was to my parents and grandparents but it didn’t affect me too badly. In this mess of a world, what brings you hope? My own grown children bring me hope because they are strong in their faith, loving and hard working individuals. But certainly all little children bring me hope! Children are such pure souls that learn so quickly both good and bad. But their purest state is one of love and wonder. And you get to teach the next generation… The older I get the younger I like to teach, because children are fearless in learning… They want more and more of it! I once taught an adult group and it was so sad to me to keep hearing “I can’t do…” children don’t say that until they are told they can’t. We need to embrace their energy… Words of affirmation are so important... “you can’t do it yet” is my reply! Where is your favourite place in the world? I love variety! Can you imagine if every place you went to was the same? How boring! For this reason I can not pick my favourite place in the world. Here are my top 7. In heaven I hope to be able to experience the best parts of each of these at the same time, with my favourite people and foods! #1)Santorini, Greece #2)Southern Caribbean (Tortola, Grenada) #3)Coast or lakes in Maine, USA #4)Hilton Head, South Carolina, USA #5) Jerome, Arizona, USA (Haunted Hamburger Restaurant) #6) Cliff Lane, overlooking Hope Valley, Derbyshire, England #7) Cabos, Mexico What is your ideal weekend? My 94 year old mother-in-law lives with us and has for eight years. My husband preaches on Sundays and I teach during the week, so weekend trips are hard to come by in this season of our lives. When we travel we like to explore the North Georgia Mountains and into North Carolina where there are hiking trails and lots of waterfalls! Bed and breakfasts when we weekend travel is ideal. Do you have a favourite song or piece of writing you return to? This morning I wept singing “The Goodness of God” by CeCe Winens. It’s powerful! Toby Mac’s “The Goodness” is a foot stomping fun song that my heart leaps at! But I love so many styles of music… I still listen to Classic FM from England, but also enjoy jazz, contemporary and pop, especially 1980s! Film: Knight and Day Song: "Canon In D Major”by Pachelbel Stage Show: The Lion King TV series: The Durrells of Corfu Book: The Bible Word: Hope ![]() Last week was World Book Day… or as I like to call it ‘every day’. However, I am not feeling the love from the place which should be embracing books- the classroom. I should say from the off-set that this is not an attack on teachers. Teachers are- on the most part- inspirational and incredible people who are currently working in, I believe, some of the toughest times and most stressful time for education. Books, I think, used to be more celebrated in schools. Primary schools, at least from what I've heard from my 7-year-old niece, are still able to do that. I still have memories of reading time, the cosy corners and bookshelves. Remember the Scholastic book fairs at primary school? We lived for those fairs! I attended a rather idyllic village primary school and the build up to those fairs was something else. Maybe I’m seeing it from a bookworm's point of view but the excitement did seem to flow through everyone in the class. We’d watch those huge crates be wheeled in to the main hall. The day before, we were allowed an afternoon of scanning the books. It was such a joyous occasion, clocking books we were going to beg our parents for when they went on sale the next morning… Now of course we can’t blame schools solely for the loss of interest in books and young people. Books are competing with phones and all that they have to offer. However, the further students go through the school system, the less reading is pushed for pleasure. In fact, it seems it is used more as a punishment. Books aren’t enjoyed in schools anymore. They are used as a tool. I enjoy a book discussion and debate as much as the next bookworm, but these books are torn apart so much that they barely resemble a story anymore. In fact, the whole story is not explored at all. In 2020, the CCEA announced that 'novel study' was no longer required. Meaning a student wanting to study in English Literature could, technically, do so without having actually read a complete book. Since becoming a writer myself, I can confidently say that John Steinbeck absolutely did not think as much about the symbolism of the weather in the opening chapter of Of Mice and Men as GCSE students do. That said, ‘back in my day’, we at least read the entirety of Of Mice and Men... and I loved it. It still holds a special place in my literary heart- I even had a cuddly lucky rabbit for my exams named Lennie [I probably took it a little too far with the book appreciation...] and it opened the door to other novels which I wouldn't have necessarily discovered myself. Now students read extracts. This angers me so much. This is not teaching students to read for pleasure- but as a necessity to pass exams. Imagine reading A Christmas Carol and not getting the character development and true message of the story. Instead, they study the same passage over and over and are told what to think and say. It’s soul destroying. Now I adore poetry but at school I loathed it. English was my favourite subject but if it was a poetry lesson [and this was all the way through my school life] my heart would sink. Not because the poems we were studying were necessarily bad or boring, but because the work we were expected to do was so mind-numbingly dull. Once again, this isn’t blaming the teachers at all- I had some wonderful English teachers- but they had a tick list to follow. I feel sorry for teachers who are having to spoon feed young people with answers copied from a textbook. ‘Answer it this way and you will get such-and-such grade.’ It becomes almost like a Maths problem to solve. Now the powers that be are telling young people how to feel about a poem, when it should be such a personal experience. It isn't why I fell in love with the power of words. I am grateful that I found poetry by myself, but many I fear will not have that pleasure. Teachers are under insane pressure these days. There is very little room for creativity. It used to be that if students responded positively to a certain aspect, you could go off script and embrace it. Now to venture off the lesson plan seems like a failure… even if the students don’t get as much from the lesson. Back to that tick list. Even Creative Writing has become a tick list. I loathed working in schools and having to tell a child they had got a sentence ‘wrong’ because it didn’t fit the criteria that the examiners would be looking for… it was one of the main reasons I set up an extra-curricular Creative Writing Club. It was a safe space where students could just write. No right or wrong. No fronted adverbials required unless they naturally came about…writing needs more freedom in order for students to fall in love with it, rather than resent it. I worry about the future of reading and writing. Young people need to discover the pleasure of a story- sadly, at the moment, there appears to be no room for creativity, joy or imagination in schools. ![]() NOTE: This is another chapter from my WIP novel 'The Old Hall Hotel.' A failing hotel which still accepts permanent guests. This is a rough draft, so any notes would be appreciated! Characters in this story: DANIEL: A struggling writer, tasked with writing a piece on the hotel to try and encourage public interest again. ALEX: The night watchman. Omnipresent, he knows everything about the residents. His life revolves around the hotel. LILY: An elderly, permanent guest. She is known to be eccentric and has segregated herself from everyone in the hotel, besides the kindly Alex. ‘How old is Lily?’ Daniel had limited information about his later interviewee. Alex had been helpful in providing him with the basic information about the previous clients, so that they could skip the standard first questions and get to the interesting middle section. ‘Eighties.’ Alex was frowning over some documents. ‘Late eighties, I would say.’ Daniel scribbled into his notebook. ‘And she’s happy for me to interview her?’ ‘She was yesterday.’ Alex finally looked up from his work. ‘Listen, Daniel. I should maybe pre-warn you about her character- or at least her mood- it can shift quite rapidly.’ Daniel nodded. Could be an interesting one. Daniel glanced down again at the notes. ‘You didn’t give me a surname.’ Alex opened his mouth and closed it again. ‘Ah.’ ‘What?’ ‘I think it’s perhaps best you wait and see which one she offers you.’ ‘Which one…’ ‘And ...best to just go with it. Don’t look too shocked. She’ll like you more if you take it on the chin.’ Choosing not to worry about it, Daniel nodded and scribbled ‘probable psycho’ into his notebook. * ‘Lily?’ Daniel flipped through his notes to make sure he had the right room. 102. ‘Lily?’ He tried the door and found it opened very easily. Taking this an invitation he stepped in. A Dickensian shadow was cast over the room. That or Hitchcock. Despite the sun, creeping through the shut, floor to ceiling blinds, candles were lit in the room, displaying only the edges of tables and the suggestion of the rest of the furnishings. ‘Lily?’ A hissing noise made Daniel make an involuntary gasp. Adjusting his glasses and blinking into the darkness he saw two glowing eyes meeting his from behind a cage. It gave a faint meow and then another hiss. ‘Hello.’ A woman was sitting in an armchair, bolt upright, watching him. How long for he couldn’t be sure. ‘Lil...Lily?’ ‘How presumptuous of you to let yourself in. I thought Alex had fixed the automatic lock.’ ‘I’m very sorry, I thought you were expecting me.’ She didn’t reply and Alex reddened ‘ Not that that entitled me to just come in. I was worried I was late, you see and waiting at the wrong door, I knocked and I was just checking to see if it was locked and it wasn’t, so I tried...’ ‘You’re rambling. It’s not attractive.’ The cat mewed rather pathetically. ‘I’m sorry but… you are Lily?’ ‘Lily? How confident. Indeed, I’m Lily.’ She paused. ‘Miss Hilter to you, though.’ ‘Miss...Hitler?’ ‘Correct.’ She switched an out of place desk light on and studied him, her eyes travelling from his face to his shoes. ‘Oh, now. Don’t you start judging, sonny.’ ‘I...I wasn’t.’ ‘Of course you’re judging. Over a silly name. Goodness me. You should have seen the fuss it caused in Starbucks. They won’t let me in anymore. The café downstairs is simply ghastly, too. Utter discrimination.’ ‘I was just surprised Miss…’ ‘Miss H if you really can’t stand it.’ ‘Miss H….’ ‘AICH not HEICH. Alex told me you were an educated man.’ ‘I don’t know about that.’ ‘Well, he told me that you’re a writer.’ ‘They aren’t exclusive’ ‘They should be.’ She poured some sherry from a canister into a grey-looking mug. ‘My father was a writer.’ ‘Really? What did he write?’ Lily swirled the sherry in the mug. ‘Perhaps, we could go through to my study? I think you'll find it enlightening. Or at least a satisfying backdrop to this meeting.’ ‘Wherever you are most comfortable.’ She poured more sherry into the mug and shrugged .‘Follow me.’ Daniel quickly collected up his notebooks. ’You wouldn’t find Premier Inn having a study.’ Lily chuckled. ‘You know, I think once upon a time it was a second bathroom. Put a desk and a few books in any room and it becomes a study. This way. That door ahead of you.’ Lily stood and Daniel chanced a proper look at her. She was a handsome lady. She wore a buttoned up grey jacket, leaving only room at the neck to display a chain with a ring. A beige skirt which touched the floor trailed behind her slightly as she walked, barefoot. Gesturing to a door she stood back. ‘After you.’ *** ‘Oh…’ The walls were painted black in rough strokes- apart from the central wall, which was covered by a huge swastika. Over the top were various framed photos of Hitler- ones that Daniel had never seen before. He was smiling in every one. There was one exception. A more modern photo of a young woman, maybe in her twenties. Daniel walked toward it ‘My Tabitha.’ Daniel’s voice was failing him. Every part of him wanted to leave. This woman, this room... ‘Who is she?’ he croaked. ‘My daughter.’ She brought up too long red fingernails to stroke the picture.’ Thank you for noticing her. Not many people do. I sometimes think I should perhaps move her to a different wall.’’ ‘You have a daughter?’ ‘I do. A beauty. Don’t you agree, young man?’ Daniel looked again at the photo. Her hair was severely cut, and her eyes looked too big, terrified and wide as though posing for a Victorian photo. ‘I don’t have a recent one.’ Lily turned away. ‘I wish I did.’ She placed two chairs next to a small wooden desk and set them out like a job interview. Daniel made to sit in the one facing toward the door, away from the central wall but Lily sat herself down forcing him to look at the flag and its photos. Lily watched him for a moment, apparently enjoying his discomfort. ‘So. What do you want to know?’ Daniel shook himself slightly and reached inside his satchel. ‘Are you happy to speak about your family?’ ‘My father, I presume?’ ‘If you like. We can start there. Your father…’ ‘Which one?’ Daniel tried to keep his face neutral. Don’t look shocked. ‘You have more than one?’ ‘Three, actually.’ ‘Three?’ ‘Three. Daddy. Step-father. Hitler.’ The more she spoke, the more Lily’s voice altered. Daniel noted it slipped from BBC posh, to Scouse into an odd German tilt. None of them seemed authentic, more like ones heard in a Monty Python sketch. ‘I suppose… I have to ask about Hitler.’ ‘Settle yourself, then. I won’t stop. Hold your questions. Just write.’ * ' Mummy was from Liverpool. The poor part. She had a sweetheart. Billy. He worked on the Docks and with the little money he had he would take her ice skating, or to a show if he was feeling particularly flush. That’s where Hitler met her. At the ice rink. She was by herself that day. Mummy was very pretty- if she went by herself and the right person was working at the kiosk he would let her in for free. And there he was- a man who looked so painfully out of place that Mummy couldn’t help but stare at him. And he stared right back. And then he was flat on his backside. Mummy skated over and helped him up. He spoke little English and Mummy little German. But they smiled a lot. Mummy said she never met a more polite person. They became friends and poor old Billy was given the boot. So, they used to go skating in Wavertree. Hand in hand and round and round they went. They even kept a pair of his skates behind glass when he became famous. People used to stare at them. Some people would just spit. Then without even a goodbye, he left. Went back to Germany and started causing trouble. Mummy was so upset. She collected all the press but just cut out his picture. She didn’t like to read what they were saying.' Lily stopped here. Looked at Daniel. ‘You seem distracted by the wall.’ Daniel had attempted to keep his eyes squarely on Lily. ‘Sorry.’ He thought she was about to ask him to go. Instead she sat back again, and continued. ‘In 1938, without warning he came back to Wavertree. Mummy was skating as usual and she looked up and there he was! He came back to Liverpool and stayed with her just before the war. He did, lad, I swear to you, don’t look at me like that. He came for a holiday. And they had me. He stayed with mummy and they skated, painted and spoke about astrology. And they had me. Then off he went. Off he went to cause even more trouble. ‘She never gave up hope. She would tell her girlfriends- ‘I just need to speak to him. Have a good old skate and talk. Get these mad ideas out of his head. That’s all. Then it got personal and things changed for mummy. ‘You see, she was cross because he bombed the house in Toxteth. She had been staying with a friend at the time and came back to flat land. ‘What happened?’ a neighbor yelled from across the road, ‘Did you and Adolf have a domestic? ’ Mummy felt such shame and anger. She thought he might have given her a warning. She thought they were closer than that.’ ‘She tried to defend him even then. She would talk with Bobby, her little brother. He was only a little boy. She would say to him, ‘How can people think they know someone from words spoken by others?’ Bobby would agree and hug her. He loved his sister. ‘Then Hitler did something Mummy could neither explain nor forgive. Mummy’s little brother was killed. They were living in Bootle with an aunt after the bomb destroyed their home. Bobby had gone walking when the air siren went off. Someone told Mummy they had seen Bobby before the bomb went off and that he had no chance of avoiding it. He was dead. ' ‘Please.’ Her eyes looked into his, suddenly looking every inch her age. ‘It isn’t that I approve. I wish I had known Uncle Bobby. I hate this man I know to be my father. But I frame history, both good and bad. The photos...that one, the one of Hitler with the children- I got that one newly framed. It got broken again. It is the only time Alex has turned me down. I had to order the empty frame and do the blasted thing myself. ‘ ‘But your mother… did she find Bobby?’ She paused. ‘She had rushed to find his body because nobody can ever believe someone is gone until they see a body, you see? She was told he was with the others in the Co-op building- that was where they used to store the bodies- that she should go home and see him tomorrow. She did because Mummy was scared of the dark. When she woke up there had been more bombings. They had got the co-op building. Bombed the dead. And right there is the difference between cruelty and evil, she used to tell me. To take someone but not to give a chance for closure, for goodbyes? My Mummy never forgave Hitler, not ever. She says he left her his skating t.shirt. She used to sleep with it. That night she cut it up into small pieces. ‘Why didn’t you burn it, mummy?’ I would ask her ‘We were short on tea towels.’ she told me.’ *** She stood. ‘I am tired. Are you not tired?’ Daniel remained in his seat. ‘I was curious about your other fathers..’ ‘I will see you another time, Daniel. Another time. Please be sure to say goodbye to my cat on your way out. I will not let him out when people are in my room. He will disgrace himself. But perhaps you could do him the courtesy of a smile. You want to know his name?’ Daniel ran names run through his head, all more inappropriate than the last. ‘Um..,’ ‘Socks.’ ‘Oh. How nice.’ *** ‘Hitler!...Seriously, not even a heads up?’ ‘Ahh.’ ‘Alex!’ Daniel spread his arms out. ‘What the actual…’ ‘I’m sorry. It’s been a while since she was Mrs Hitler. I was hoping that wasn’t who you would meet.’ ‘And who was I supposed to meet?’ ‘Mrs Kennedy?’ Alex pulled at his tie nervously..’ Mrs Churchill. Her Royal Highness. If you were lucky, just Lily.’ ‘She’s a schizophrenic?’ ‘She’s just… sad. When I last spoke to Lily….well, she told me more than she’d ever told me.’ ……………………. ‘She was a war child. Her dad went off to war not long after the wee Lily was born. Her mum brought her up and they moved from Liverpool to escape the bombings. The part about her uncle Bobby appears to be true- it’s the only part that never changes. So Lily and mum came to the countryside. To this hotel in fact.’ ‘Her mother met someone. A porter named Billy. They became...close. So close that Lily took to calling him Daddy. She told me how they would play. How he would take her to the park. The way he held her hand and cuddled her when she was scared. He would make up ‘Lily stories’, set in a magical land, far away where only beautiful plants grew, never weeds and yet it never rained. Then, when she was seven, the war was over. And one day, Lily got home from school to find a strange man standing in the kitchen saying he was her father. Her room was packed up and a car was waiting for them outside. He took them all back to Liverpool- a place she couldn’t remember- and her mum kept telling her that this strange man was her real father. And she would scream and cry until she was sick for Billy, her daddy- and this strange man, with eyes like hers- would watch her cry and say nothing. Not a word. I suppose her mother hoped she would forget about Billy. But she didn’t. She hated her real father- this man who had taken her from all she had ever known- and who would wake her screaming and swearing in the dead of night about things she couldn’t understand. He killed himself. Her real father. It was just her and her mum after that. Lily...she wandered. Wandered through stories and people. Sometimes she speaks of a Tabitha. I tried to find her, this girl- but I couldn’t. Sometimes Tabitha’s picture is up. Sometimes it isn’t. Sometimes her room has a swastika, sometimes an American flag, sometimes nothing. She usually smashes the Hitler pictures… and then asks them to be reframed.’ ![]() LAURA TATAM 39 'I’m nice to everyone because that’s my default setting. Nowadays I don’t worry as much if people don’t reciprocate that. I’ve learnt that not everyone is going to like me and that’s okay...' I met Laura when I started working at a Secondary school on my return from Liverpool. She is an English teacher who knows and loves her subject. She exudes warmness. She genuinely cares and wants to make things better for those around her. She has been through a lot in her life, and has, miraculously, come out the other side stronger and kinder than ever. I’m not sure I could have come out the other side such a kind and gentle person. She has taught me such a lot in finding inner peace. She makes me want to be a better person. How would you describe yourself? Ooh now, I’ve never found this easy, it’s like back to the old NRA and writing the personal statement. Be humble but sell yourself! I think I’m kind to all, even those who do me wrong. I don’t like bad feelings and would rather kill people with kindness than nastiness… but I can hold my own if need be. I am head strong and think I have a good moral compass. I love an adventure and to have a laugh wherever possible. I suffer terribly with anxiety and have quite low self esteem which I’m trying to work on. Most importantly, I’m a mum. How would others describe you? I think others would describe me as a weirdo. Bit odd but friendly. Something I have always admired about you is your genuine kindness and love towards people. Is it something you have to work at or does it come naturally to you? I think for so many years I wanted to be liked and I would never want people to think badly of me that I drove myself a bit mad and was so anxious all the time of doing and saying the wrong thing. As I’ve grown up and have a surer sense of who I am and what it means to me to be nice has taken off some of that pressure and anxiety driven worry. I’m nice to everyone because that’s my default setting. Nowadays I don’t worry as much if people don’t reciprocate that. I’ve learnt that not everyone is going to like me and that’s okay. It can be difficult to be nice in this world… I’ve had people treat me incredibly badly, but I still don’t feel absolute hate or illness towards them, and I’m glad as I wouldn’t want to carry that around inside me. It does make me a bit too understanding though, and at times I need to remember just how horrid they are. Anxiety is an awful cross to bear… I’ve often found that it has made me more understanding and kind to others. Have you found that too? Anxiety really is a burden but I do think it makes me more compassionate. I hate to see others go through it and try to be there for anyone struggling- and just anyone- as you never know who is struggling. I think when you know how it feels yourself you just naturally want to help others not feel it. How does that work in your various jobs? Working for the police for example… I’m no pushover and I’ve tackled my share of prisoners and I’ve been incredibly tough when pushed. Sounds like you have a very healthy balance of being kind and not being taken for advantage… I love love and I just like being happy and having equilibrium as much as possible. What you put out you hopefully get back, I like to think the universe knows- and well, karma is a bitch! You are one of those humble people who will suddenly let slip you worked in Australia and for the police… your life does seem to be an adventure… Ahh blimey Ellie! I’m blushing here! Thank you…I’m not one to admire though! I disagree! I’ve always been one for an adventure. I’ve never shied away from a new experience. I have my parents to thank for that, who I guess taught me to never settle, to always go for what I wanted. “You have to go for what you want Locket, it won’t be handed to you on a plate.” A relationship which has always moved me is between you and your best friend… I have a wonderful best friend who believes in me and encourages me, and who always has my back. She’s my soulmate in friend form. Sophie. So as much as I’ve had a very many weird and wonderful adventures, it’s thanks to those around me for getting me there. You’re an English teacher during a difficult time for schools… I think working in schools in any role is hard. I really feel for midday supervisors, they have such a hard job of trying to ensure students stay safe and calm during the only time they have to be free. It must be such a battle. Yes, there are so many unsung heroes in school. How do you keep positive? For me it’s always been about the students in front of me. They make me laugh…they can really tick me off too! I hope I’m fair in my approach and they know there’s a line that you don’t cross. If you can enjoy yourself while learning then it may just stick in your mind. Has becoming a mother changed your mindset towards teaching? I feel it has. I hope whoever teaches Harriette one day does their best by her and that drives me to do the same for these children, but also, she is my priority. There’s no second go around so any annoyances at work I feel I try and let it go. I know you had a very difficult time in your teens and beyond… I became a young carer of sorts when my mum had a huge stroke when I was 14/15, which was hard… but my dad and I overcame things and the huge change in life this brought for us all, but especially my mum. She was so, so sad. It was hard to see someone I loved so much trapped in their lovely body unable to talk or walk and do all the things they loved to do. That sounds horrendous. I remember she wanted to end it all and I was devastated and angry but I realise now how selfish I was being. You weren’t selfish… and I know you did sadly lose her far too soon… She died of a huge brain haemorrhage when I was 17. My world fell apart and I did too. I didn’t care about my A levels, I had a terrible attitude towards my tutor and I didn’t care. I was angry and devastated and I had no idea what to do with all these emotions. There was no therapy back then. So dad and I grieved and put our broken pieces back together in all the wrong ways. Think of a smashed china cup with big gaping holes and the handle stuck on the bottom and it all being held together by sticky tape. We were terrible. Grief is so hard… and at 17, life can be difficult enough… I managed, somehow, to get into Sheffield University to study English and Sociology. My dad asked me not to go. He said he’d lost my mum and he couldn’t stand to lose me. So, I had to go through clearing and go to Derby uni. Your emotions must have been all over the place… I became even more angry and devastated! I rebelled even more, I partied hard and cared about myself less and less. However, I knew what I wanted and I was always head strong. It must have been such a complex time in your life, to say the least… In the depths of depression and anxiety and despair I always had Sophie who had gone away to Hull university. I used to go there and visit her and she’d come back here. Everything was hard but I just had to believe it was okay. Sadly tragedy didn’t leave you alone… In 2022, just as we were about to go in to lock down my wonderful dad died of a massive heart attack at home all alone. I can’t imagine the pain you must have felt… Grief's familiar hand had grabbed hold of me once again. Now I had no parents. I felt like my identity had gone. My support system, the last person who felt like home. The person I called every night for an hour or more. My world ended. I am so sorry. How did you cope? Sophie moved me in with her despite it being lock down and her having a new baby! My rock as ever. I had therapy and with other members of the family I have managed to pick myself up again and appreciate all that life has to offer. And then you had your own health battles to overcome… I found out in 2014 that I’d had a mini stroke and it was a huge blow to me. I felt like a ticking time bomb and that I was going to end up like my mum! Bound to a wheelchair, unable to talk or communicate in any way. I pulled myself around again and got on with life. I’d decided if it was going to happen it will happen and I’d better get busy living while I can. I’ve had Covid five times, developed long covid which has given me ME and lots of medical troubles. I was hospitalised for a week as the Covid attacked me and it goes to your weakest points so I seemed like I’d had a full stroke, I couldn’t talk properly or walk. Again, I picked myself up and had physio therapy and got back to myself again. Two miscarriages later and a very unpleasant experience in love… I’m picking myself up again but this time for my darling girl. Yes, congratulations on becoming a new mum to gorgeous Harriette! Has it totally changed your life around? Ahh becoming a mum, the greatest adventure of them all! I think because I’ve had a life full of adventures I feel completely ready for this one. She didn’t make the easiest of entrances though! It was so hard giving birth under general anesthetic as I didn’t witness her being born and when they placed her on me when I was coming round I had no idea what was going on. I thought I was in an experiment for nature vs nurture. I was absolutely off my face on morphine though! She is most definitely worth it though! She’s my sidekick in life. I’m her mum and she’s my daughter and I can’t wait to take her on adventures and show her what this life is about as much as I can. I’ll try and step back and let her choose her own path and experience her own adventures. I’ll be right here for her every step though. I sing the theme from Gilmore Girls [Where you Lead- Carole King] to Harriette, and no matter if she’s crying, laughing or playing she stops and looks at me the whole time. Thank you for getting me into the series! You are most welcome! To end on a magical note…Harry Potter is a big part of your life. Why do you think it has touched so many people for so long? Harry Potter! Now, I’d love to teach this in universities, I’ve already got a rough scheme of work in my head planned! I’d sign up for that class! I think so many people love it because there’s some part in it that you can relate to. It’s comforting in its darkness that even in sadness good things can come. That there’s injustice and there’s hardship, but how you deal with that determines your life. Who is your favourite character? Harry Potter. I love Dobby and Luna and all the others, but this is Harry’s life and for me I sort of find comfort in reading of how he grows up without his parents and still makes a success of his life. Probably because that resonates with me and my life. It’s also just a bloomin’ great bit of escapism! BOOK: Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban SONG: Where You Lead- Carole King SHOW: Hamilton FILM: Dead Poets Society SERIES: Friends A FINAL WORD: Lavaré ![]() NOTE: This is another chapter from my WIP novel 'The Old Hall Hotel.' A failing hotel which still accepts permanent guests. This is a rough draft, so any notes would be appreciated! This is more of a 'stand alone' chapter- a visiting guest, Abby, thinks all her dreams are about to come true... She had Twitter to thank when she discovered that after every performance he could be found in a bar near the hotel and theatre called the Old Clubhouse around half-an-hour after the curtain had fallen. Not the theatre bar, that had been an unfortunate mistake made by some. It’s hidden away- I would Google map it before you go @LAPDfan02 had told her. Probably hiding from the LAdies, hehe! @LAdieforlife added. At thirty-five, Abby had watched the majority of her peers leave for university, get jobs, have relationships, babies…have, at some level, something that resembled a respectable life. Abby was aware she didn’t have one. At least not one that anybody would consider noteworthy. She swung from pride at her individuality, indifference at the none too subtle digs on social media, to finally self-loathing on a daily basis. She had unfollowed the majority of her few friends on Facebook because their grinning, conformed faces made her pity either them or herself, depending on where her mind had wandered to that day. But tonight, tonight she was going to own life. She had waited for this day for eighteen years. *** She sat, very aware that she was shaking. She wished she had befriended somebody else in the audience beforehand. That had been part of the plan, to find someone as invested, as passionate as her, to form a friendship that would last the ages. She had hoped to even maybe spot fellow fans at the hotel. She had scanned the audience but nobody had seemed approachable. That said, the turn out had been dismal. A semi-professional production of Guys and Dolls, on a staggered tour of the UK, had struggled to fill half of the 500-seat theatre. Her ticket had been booked for six months, front and centre, and she thought of the poor fools at home, who had missed this opportunity, this privilege. As the lights dimmed, she thought she was going to be sick. She took a long drink from her overpriced water and tried to stop her knees trembling. And then he was there. And nothing, absolutely nothing, else mattered. She had hoped the stage lights were too bright for him to see the sparse crowd, that he wouldn’t feel disheartened. He had thousands of followers on Twitter. Casual fans Abby thought. Where are they tonight? Pathetic. At one point, during the encore, in which she led a faltering standing ovation, he had caught her eye and winked. He probably recognised her from the fan-site… or perhaps even Twitter. She had contained an excited scream and found herself blowing him a kiss. Everything, finally, was falling into place. As the small crowd began to disperse, she became anxious to leave the theatre. She didn’t want to miss him. She tripped over a trailing piece of red carpet. “Can’t wait to leave too?” She looked behind her at a man, roughly her age, grinning at her. “What a let down, ey?” Abby stared at him. Who wore jeans to the theatre? “I thought he was fantastic.” “Who?” “Dale Sands.” The man frowned. “Which one was he? Nathan or Sky?” “Sky.” “Bloody hell, that one. What were they thinking? Seemed almost perverted putting him next to that young girl...what is he? 80?” She tried to keep the angry tremor out of her voice. “He’s 72.” “Jesus, is that all? He clearly enjoyed life a little too much.” Choosing not to get riled, Abby turned away and began to walk out. “Hey, hold on.” Abby kept walking. “Hey, I hope I didn’t upset you. He isn’t your Grandad is he?” Despite herself, she smiled. “I do a review blog, how about you change my mind? We could grab a drink, you could educate me…” Abby pretended not to hear. You fool...he seemed a decent one. *** She was proud of her outfit. She had bid for an original 1970s dress on Ebay as soon as she had purchased the tickets and booked the hotel room. It was close, besides a yellow stripe down the side, to being identical to the one Kev Henderson’s girlfriend wore in the two-part finale to season two. With it she had picked some beige leggings, she loathed showing her legs and she had read in an old Jackie annual she had also bid for on Ebay that he preferred girls who covered up and felt comfortable. Her final touch had been her LAPD necklace which she refused to take off, even for job interviews. She had toyed with wearing one of her LAPD t-shirts but decided against it. She had noticed, to her annoyance, that they had started to sell them in Primark of all places. She had tried for six months to lose some weight for him. She had avoided alcohol, chocolate, even bread. Yet the layers of fat still rolled uncomfortably over what used to be oversized jumpers and leggings. Her mother had tentatively suggested WeightWatchers which had led to both of them crying and screaming at each other for two hours. Abby had chosen today not to fixate on her looks. Besides, Dale wasn’t that shallow. For eighteen years she had lived for this moment. She had breathed for this moment. Fuck all the ordinary people living their photo-shopped lives. Everything was going to be worth it. Everything was about to make sense. She had a plan. She would offer to buy him a drink. That could start a conversation. Nothing seedy- she would be happy with a signature, a selfie and perhaps a hug if she was lucky. She had read on Tumblr that he gave lovely hugs. She had ignored the disgusted expressions of so-called friends who claimed she was obsessed with a man in his seventies. This wasn’t sexual. Of course she had wished she had been around when LAPD had aired. When Dale Sands was at his height, when nobody could deny his beauty. He had aged, of course, and had been the subject of cruel headline jibes about his bald spot and beer belly. Yet it was still him and she needed to show her appreciation- her love and thanks for saving her from such a sorry existence. Where would she be without him? He had to know how she felt. How loved he was. She looked around the bar and tried to see why Dale had picked it. It had, she supposed, a certain amount of charm- but it was so quiet. There was an older man sat on a bar stool flicking through his phone and a woman singing to herself in the corner. Maybe Dale liked the solitude. She had felt embarrassed by the theatre. She had felt excited initially when she had heard the news. When she was young her Grandmother used to bring her to see the panto at Christmas. The huge auditorium had reminded her of the ballroom from Beauty and the Beast. It had been full, ushers in uniform and smiles had welcomed them at every door. She couldn’t tell if the sorry state of the theatre was a victim of time or her poor memory. She had had two vodka and cokes when he arrived, hoping they would steady her nerves. There were now three other people in the bar and yet they didn’t even glance at him as he walked in. A plaid, faded shirt, his hair freshly washed. Slightly wet, eyeliner still under his eyes. He placed himself on a bar stool. Up close she could see more distinctly how bald he had become, a far cry from the golden locks of the LAPD years but still... it was him. Detective Kev Henderson. Feeling light-headed and very aware of her body, she walked up to the stool, clutching the show programme. She noticed across the bar signed pictures from actors she vaguely recognised from Eastenders. She felt embarrassed that Dale had to see them. She cleared her throat. Perhaps he would find the fact that she was so nervous endearing? "Urm...Dale? Mr Sands?" He looked at her- right at her. “Yes?” "I'mahugefancouldIbuyyouadrink?" Daniel frowned, "Say again?" His voice was croaky, making his Texan accent seem even more exaggerated, sexier. "A drink? Can I..can I buy you a drink?" "Oh." Daniels eyes glanced over her, a slight crease in his forehead. "I have a tab, sweetheart but... yeah, thanks anyway." "Oh, okay." She stood, staring, aware of her face flushing, her palms sweating. Her plan had failed at the first hurdle. "Did you want me to sign that?" "Huh?" "Your programme" he pointed to the thin booklet in her hands. "I was in the show." "Oh...I know, I know...urm...yes please." She reached in her bag for a pen but the barman had already passed a marker over. "What's your name?" "Urm, Abby." "Abby, IE, or with a Y?" "Ur, Y....yeah…Y" "Y'sure?" he smirked slightly. He flipped open the pages, found his photo, signed it swiftly and gave it back to her with a quick smile. "Okay, well. Nice to meetcha..." he had already picked up his pint and was inching his way from the bar. That couldn't be it. It had to mean more surely? Couldn’t he see? See that she was different, see how much it meant that she was stood next to him? She fingered her necklace, hoping he would notice it, realise. “Dale?” A slow turn, eyebrows raised. “Yeah?” "Do you... urm, do you plan on seeing Matt, whilst you're in England?" The sentence came out in the space of a few seconds. "Matthew? No.... probably not. At least I have no plans to." "He lives here now." “Yes. So I hear.” She licked her lips. His face was still in a frown. “He...he wished you luck on Twitter." "Did he now." "Yes. He said that he would try to..." "...Come watch me? Heh. Yeah, my agent told me about that. Maybe if it's a slow day for him, kid." She was slightly discouraged by this response. Hadn't the 'buddy cops' remained the closest of friends? Godparents to each other’s children? Her Mum had cut out a joint interview the two gave a few years ago to The Times. It was one of her favourite pictures too. Arms around each other. ‘Brothers in all but Blood’. Yet here was Dale, close to being repulsed at the mention of his former colleague’s name. Perhaps he was teasing her? "I also wanted to thank you for the replies on Twitter...I’m SandsGirl12…" He gave a small laugh into his drink. "Come on, kid. I barely know how to use my cell. You think that's me on there?" "Oh…it’s somebody else?” "Of course it is." "Oh” she felt, to her shame, her eyes becoming hot “...sorry, I thought..." "Why're you sorry?" "For.. y'know...urm..." "Drives me crazy over here... 'Sorry'. "Sorry Mr Sands that you bumped into me.’ ‘Sorry but you need to be side stage...’ ‘Sorry, somebody is on the phone...awfully sorry but that’s my wife you’re screwing...Jesus” "Urm..." "Just... don't be sorry, kid. I should be thanking you. They tell me they only reply or whatever they do to people who have nice things to say" Watching her drag a hand across her eyes, he gave a small smile. "Say, how old are you anyway? Ya Mom a fan or something?" "No. Well, yes she was but... I'm the fan." "How old are you?" "Thirty-five." "Jesus, really?" "Yes.” At last. “I love LAPD." "Sure. Sure." "A lot." "Well...that's... that's nice." She couldn't work out if he was being sarcastic... or perhaps he was angry? When she had met Matt at London Comic Con he had seemed so happy, so grateful, to have a young fan. “Hey, I still got it!” he had high-fived her and even tweeted the selfie they took. "You know my name isn't really Sands?" She was pulled away from the worry and looked at him. Was this a test? A test of her loyalty? "Yeah. It's Sandham. Dale Sandham" "Oh, yeah?" Dale looked mildly impressed "Who let that out of the bag?" "Wikipedia. But I read it in my Mum's LAPD 1975 annual years ago." "Yeah. Sure y'did." "I have it with me." "Seriously?" he looked at her, amused and put a hand up to the bartender for another drink. "Yeah. It’s in my bag. Do you want to..." "No. Hell no" He took a long drink and gave a small laugh. "Actually, yeah. Yeah. Remind me of when I had hair." She reached into her bag and pulled out the annual. He reached for it and flicked nonchalantly through the pages. He paused at the double spread poster of the cop partnership. Without asking, he reached once more for the pen and scrawled his name over it. He spelled her name with an IE at the end. The barman placed two drinks next to them. Dale indicated that one was for her. She stuttered her thanks but his eyes didn’t move from the poster. "Y'know I always liked Sands more than Sandman. Reminded me of Las Vegas. My Dad used to work there, you know? Sinatra. Sammy. You know my Dad once served Jack and Bobby Kennedy? Said they were diamonds. Their dad was a pig, though. Those were the days, kid." "I know" "Na... y'don't. The hell you do. Auto-tuned shit is what you know. Miming to deadeyes. Y’know I can sing myself? Better than my old man could. He hated that.Not that you’d notice with this show. Doesn’t suit my voice.” “You sounded wonderful” “Don’t bullshit me. Why do you all have to suck up so much?” "I’m not… I…sorry." "What did I say about being sorry?" She resisted the urge to apologise again. He tilted his head, his expression was one of confused curiosity. "What did you come here for? Really?" "To see you." "Or a signature. How much would it have gone for on Ebay if I hadn't had personalised it?" "I wanted you to personalise it. I never want to sell it." "Come on. You see what an asshole I was? Covering up Matt's photo? If you ever run into him there won't be space for him to sign it." "I've already met, Matt.... so, it's okay. I don’t mind" "Oh, yeah? Was he nicer than me? Smile for the camera?" She stared at him helplessly. This wasn't going the way she wanted at all. Dale continued to stare at the poster. "I hate this in between. Y'know I was offered an All Stars tour? We were going to ride around in the freaking Partridge Family bus, with two members of The Monkees. Unless you plan on being The Beatles, never get famous, kid. I'm from the generation that had their moment and then faded. No Sinatra moment for me.There's always a fall and after that the grovelling- you become a sound bite for 'Best Cop Shows', a cameo in some fuck-awful soap or third on the bill to the car you used to drive into dustbins. Ain't a job. I never even tell my wife when I'm filming these days." "Urm, but..." “I wish I hadn’t even had that moment. Because I was so big, sweetheart. I was too big for my own fucking good. Then the phones stop ringing and you stop getting screamed at in the street. And nobody asks how much that fucking hurts.” “I…” "But at least Matthew's doing well these days, eh? The new Star Wars I hear? At least I never get 'which one are you'... kind of him, though, to remember. You know I was always the one who was going to live forever?” “But he…” “And tweeted about me, bless him?" "Yeah... and he retweeted you... or, y'know, retweeted your account." "He has my number. It's been the same for ten freaking years." She took a step back. "I was always the star after all. After the fucking car. Y'know, it broke down at least twice a day when we were filming? It was shit. Yet it's the one on the t-shirts. It even got fan mail, sad fuckers. Who writes to a car?" "I wouldn't write to a car..." Daniel burst into a throaty laugh. He put on a fake British accent. "I wouldn't write to a car, squire!' Oh, someone get that on a t.shirt...' He took a long drink. "Was there something else you wanted?" She put the book back into her bag "Urm... could I... would you mind if I had a photo with you?" "A photo?” Dale sighed deeply but ran a hand through the few hairs on his head. “Well…God bless ya, kid. God bless ya for still wanting a photo." She handed the phone to the barman. Dale put an arm around her shoulder which tensed slightly as the flash went. "Thanks..." "Sure." He picked his pint up and walked away, offering a slight dismissive wave of the hand. * The hotel seemed colder as she wrapped the sheets around herself later that night. The two single beds looked suddenly pathetic, her single suitcase made her feel sick. She jumped when she heard pounding on the wall from the room next door. Had she made more noise than she intended when she came back? Was it that late? She stared at her phone, open by default on Twitter. Her hand shaking slightly she started to type Had the misfortune of meeting @RealDaleSands tonight. He is, by his own admission, an absolute asshole. What a disappointment. And btw- he doesn’t even read his tweets let alone reply! #dontshootthemessenger #Mattwasthebestanyway Her hand hovered over the ‘tweet’ button. She had ignored the various messages she had had from the fan site asking if she had met him, what he had said… She deleted the words and paused before re-typing. Check out my pic with @RealDaleSands. What a sweetheart. SUCH a lovely guy! #luckygirl #dreamcometrue She poured a glass of wine, logged out of Twitter and checked her e-mail for job updates. An email from two weeks ago which she hadn’t even opened was addressed from her old college friend, Claire, asking how she was, what she was up to, did she want to meet up for coffee? Smiling slightly, she unceremoniously removed her necklace, replied yes to Claire with a smiley face, apologised for the delay and that she looked forward to catching up. * ![]() This is a short chapter from my novel, 'The Old Hall Hotel.' Still very much a WIP but wanted to share to see what people thought... In the hotel, there is a small library [just because I think everywhere should have one!] It's main customer is Bradley- a homeless man who welcomes the warmth and a place to embrace his passion for words. With him is his constant companion, his dog and best friend, Finty. CHAPTER 6 BRADLEY The Bradley chapter is a departure as Daniel does not feature. This is also the same with a chapter with a character called Abby. In between this and Chapter 2, Bradley has met Daisy, a middle aged lady, an old eccentric lady called Lily and learned more about the history of the hotel through the kindly Alex. Bradley had noted that Finty had made a point of walking more slowly when they approached the hotel recently. As he did every day, he picked her up from Billy outside the co-op promising to return her before last orders at the Old Clubhouse. Usually her tail would wag on spotting Bradley. Recently though she had resisted his gentle reassuring and looked back pathetically at Billy, silently begging him not to make her go. Finty wasn’t the most sociable of dogs, enjoying small bursts of attention often but briefly. Today, she had begrudgingly followed him into the hotel and into the library in which she found her usual spot by the fire, which was never lit, and curled up, sighing human-like, as she did. The hotel had opened the library in the early seventies after the council shut down the small, barely functioning one in the town centre to open a new post office. After a modest but passionate protest, the hotel which had just reopened after renovation, put an idea forward that the few hundred books be moved to the now surplus extra dining room. It was fairly successful initially, even attracting attention from the national press who enjoyed the quirky story with its quirky characters. Of late, in the hotel's struggling years it was somewhat forgotten about. Books were occasionally taken out by temporary guests and never returned, the modest librarian/waitress job dying with the last employer. Miranda had no interest in the library and had left it to semi- disarray. New books were now donated during local house moves, or from paperbacks left in hotel rooms. Bradley, the only loyal customer, had offered to clean the library many times. It annoyed him that the books weren’t in any obvious order, that the windows were dirty and that a white plastic Christmas tree still stood pathetically in the corner at the beginning of February. Last week he had started to move it out when Alex stopped him. ‘Don’t let Miranda see you being helpful, she’ll be furious.’ He knew Alex was only half joking and he hastily returned the piece of tack to its corner on the speckled yellow and blue floor. He had suggested to Miranda when she was in a rare placid mood, that they should look at restoring the old floor. Bradley had spotted under the wooden bookshelves evidence of white and blue marble. It reminded him of the old spa his grandmother used to take him to at weekends. Miranda had immediately lost her venture into kindness and snapped at him. She pointed around the room, her voice rising that the refurbishment had cost the earth and kept the heat in better. That this room was pointless and a cluttered mess in her already cluttered and messy life. That he was the only person who used it and how was a tramp ever going to help her financially? She had apologised later in the disguise of telling a joke she had read on a café blackboard. He could never be too resentful toward Miranda. The world had forced her to be angry and resentful, same as him. He just had more practice at disguising it. He never took for granted the fact that she allowed Finty to come inside with him, or that she still allowed him to come in at all. He suspected it had a lot to do with Alexander, who not only refused not to see the good in the most hard-hearted of person, but had the ability to work it out of them, if only slightly. He also liked how Alex spoke to Finty as though she could understand him like Bradley did, and how he called her ‘old girl.’ It made Bradley feel important somehow, needed. The library gave Bradley a purpose. It had, he would tell people who asked, ‘such potential’, and it was by far his favourite room in the town. Not that he frequented many rooms in the towns these days. There was a deep window seat which looked over the square. He could, although he would avoid looking whilst reading, just see the spot under the tree where he usually slept a night if the police hadn’t moved him on. Where he was supposed to move on to they never told him. The officer wouldn’t even bore him with the ‘talk’ anymore. ‘Moooove on.’ You would hear her before you saw her. ‘Mooooove on.’ Bradley called her ‘Officer Move On’ in his head and would chuckle that it was simply the officer announcing herself. His laughter had never helped in these circumstances. He would pause in between chapters to look at this spot. His ‘home.’ He felt safe overlooking it with the luxury of warmth. He would particularly feel a surge of uncontrolled joy when he saw Officer Move-on surveying it. Sometimes she would catch his eye from the window and he would wave. Bradley wasn’t hard to miss because he wore a multi-covered jumper that had once belonged to his grandfather. He loved it because it helped him feel close to his grandfather, but it hardly suited his plan to fade into the furnishings and not be noticed. That being said, Bradley knew that even if he became a millionaire overnight he wouldn’t take it off. He at least felt he brought some colour to the library. It was lacking somewhat in the furnishings. A Persian grey rug partly covered the unslighly floor. Huge windows, conservatory-like, made the room naturally light, although it rarely caught the sun and it also meant he would get anxious the darker it got. The reminder that the warmth would leave his bloodstream, the lamps would blink on outside, the distraction of the chapter would leave his sight and he would have to hand Finty’s lead back to Billy. He browsed the shelf in search of something new. He was determined to make his way through every book he could, regardless of its intended audience, before his body gave up the ghost. He made mental notes of the books he had abandoned or not given his full attention to that he would eventually return to. Perhaps Great Expectations which he hadn’t been in the right frame of mind for. He had recently restarted Brideshead Revisited and couldn’t decide if he loved or hated it. He wondered if he could have a talk with the author it could sway him one way or the other. He heard footsteps approaching and knew, with relief, by the lightness yet surprising quickness of the steps that it was Alex. Finty’s tail wagged for the first time since they arrived. ‘Hi there, Bradley.’ Alex’s voice instantly put him at ease, gentle and reassuring. ‘Alex, my man.’ Alex put down a flask of hot chocolate and a ham and cheese baguette and Bradley nodded his thanks. Finty wandered over and sat beside Alex, waiting for the inevitable dog treat. ‘Is there a kick to that hot chocolate, Al?’ There was a too long pause before Alex answered. ‘None going, sorry Bradley.’ ‘It’s that kind of day…’ Bradley watched him carefully. ‘Yeah, it is. Don’t shoot the messenger but Miranda says she’s shutting up early today. Meeting. You have another couple of hours though, I’d say.’ ‘Righto.’ Bradley tried to not let the despair show in his face. Alex didn’t deserve that. The guilt. It wasn’t his to feel and yet he seemed to absorb everybody’s. It wasn’t healthy. ‘You’re welcome to stay in my office for a bit though?’ Alex’s eyes, as usual, looked tired and worried. ‘No. No thanks, Alex. If Miranda doesn’t mind me taking another book or so to see me through the night…’ ‘As many as you like, mate.’ Alex perched on the end of the window seat but did not settle himself. ‘God knows it’s nice to see them put to good use. Reminds me of the good old days. I’ll bring some more batteries for your torch, don’t want it cutting out on you again.’ ‘You’re a saint.’ ‘That I’m not.’ Alex jumped down from the seat. ‘Stay a while?’ Bradley cringed at how desperate his voice sounded. ‘Wish I could.’ He scratched Finty behind the ear. ‘I’ve got the day off Thursday though for your doctor's appointment. I’ll buy you a curry at the Clubhouse afterward.’ Bradley loathed the doctors. He loathed trying to make an appointment with no home address, hence it not being a ‘real doctor.’ Alex would always go to the drop-in, and wait with him. Bradley hated the waiting, the muzak always in a rebellious fight with the calm mantra he tried to practise. He hated that the surgery had the same plastic-looking floor as the library. He hated the examination. He hated the patronising. If you were homeless, you would drink too much too. But a day with Alex was welcome. It almost made him feel human again. *** He was deep into Charles’ first meeting with Sebastian in Brideshead Revisited when he noticed that Finty had gone from her usual spot on the rug. He turned to see a young girl in a bright red jumper, stroking her whilst Finty sniffed, her tail wagging slowly. ‘Finty! Fin! Stop bothering the lass!’ ‘It’s okay!’ She looked about five but he had never been good at guessing ages. ‘She’s funny!’ ‘Aye, that’s one word for the dafty.’ He gave a sharp whistle and Finty lolloped over. He gave her a full-handed stroke on the head and she sat, tongue lolling, still looking curiously at the girl. ‘Can I stroke him again?’ ‘Her. Yes. She might get bored but she won’t bite’ The girl walked over and ran her hand over the dog’s back, who, as Bradley predicted, had already laid down with an obvious show of indifference after the initial minute or so of excitement. ‘Are you staying at the hotel?’ ‘No.’ The little girl continued to stroke Finty, who had her head in her paws, barely noticing. ‘Me and mummy are meeting Daniel.’ ‘Is he the one staying here?’ ‘No, it’s Daniel.’ The girl gave him a look. ‘You know Daniel, he lives next door to me.’ ‘Oh. That Daniel.’ He chuckled. He wished his universe fitted into the simple small geography of the little girl. ‘Does he work here?’ ‘Noooooo. Don’t be silly. He just writes here.’ ‘Oh.’ Finally bored of Finty she stood up and looked around the room. ‘Books.’ She stated. ‘Yes. Do you like to read?’ ‘No.’ ‘That’s a shame.’ She considered this and then said, ‘I can’t like books because I like dancing.’ ‘You could like both.’ She laughed. ‘Silly.’ ‘You could. You could do two pirouettes and then read two chapters. The dancing reader.’ She gave him a questioning look and turned her attention back to Finty. ‘I wish I had a dog.’ Bradley gave a wry smile. ‘Oh, she isn’t mine. Well, she used to be but a friend looks after her now when I moved… well, moved out of my house.’ Her eyes widened. ‘That’s sad!’ ‘Yes. But I get to see her every day. She comes with me here don’t you Finty, lass?’ ‘She’s big.’ ‘She should be bigger. She was the runt. Airedales are usually much bigger.’ She sat crossed legged and played with the dogs ears. ‘You live outside. I’ve seen you.’ Bradley played with the frays of his scarf. ‘I guess that’s true.’ ‘Why? It’s cold. Sometimes I live outside in my tent but only for one or two nights. But only when the sun has been shining.’ ‘I don’t mind the cold.’ The lie he told most often. ‘But it’s COLD.’ ‘BUT I’m used to it.’ ‘What’s her name?’ He was thankful at how quickly and willingly she moved away from subjects. ‘Finty.’ ‘Funny.’ ‘I suppose it is. But any name sounds funny if you think about it long enough.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Rosie. Rosie. Rooooosiiiieeeeee.’ ‘See?’ ‘That’s my name.’ ‘I’d never have guessed.’ ‘Rosiiieeee.’ She grinned and looked at him. ‘Say yours.’ ‘Mine?’ ‘So it sounds funny.’ ‘Bradley. Braderbradleeeeey.’ She giggled. It was high and infectious. He laughed back. ‘Now say it properly.’ ‘Bradley.’ ‘Still funny!’ ‘Cheeky.’ She giggled and then stopped when the scepter-like figure of Lily walked in. Today Lily wore a huge sun hat and sunglasses with a heavy winter coat. She looked at the girl with obvious distaste but hesitated before giving a very small smile to Bradley. Bradley smiled back but didn’t speak. Yesterday he had and she had snarled. She picked a book up off the first shelf without looking at it and sharply walked away, pausing only to take the door off the latch so that it slammed shut behind her, the bang echoing around the room. Both Rosie and Finty jumped. Rosie looked at Bradley, her eyes wide. ‘She was horrible!’ Bradley shook his head. ‘She’s nice really. She’s just having a bad day. We all have them. Doesn’t make us horrible.’ She patted Finty’s head. ‘Scaring poor Vlinty. Nasty lady. Don’t be sad, Vlinty.’ She took Finty’s lead and took her to the window. ‘Ooh, look Vlinty! That’s my mummy out there!’ ‘Finty.’ Bradley glanced through the window to see an adult version of Rosie, her eyes growing wide at both Bradley and Finty. She started to run, indicating that Rosie should meet her at the front of the hotel. ‘Bye’ she hopped down from the window sill leaving Bradley suddenly and without warning, lonely. |
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