Remember, Remember, by Carol Caffrey Witherow

The Barrow, the Nore and the Suir. Three rivers. Sister rivers. I remember. Three coins in a fountain. Gallia in tres partes divisa est. A new fountain pen for Christmas. Father was proud of my best copperplate. Miss Quiller pointing to the blackboard. Speak up, child. I emancipated the slaves. Who am I? 

                        

What is this place? Why are my hands so mottled?

Those children slouch and mumble. They appear to be lost. Speak up, child; who am I? I do not understand what they are saying. That woman has no control over them. Belfast was known for linen and shipbuilding. I wish she wouldn’t grasp my hand so. She mistakes me for someone else. She seems a little unstable. Like that woman in the bathroom with the bedraggled hair. She should tie it up.

Tears.

I can taste salt. Tomorrow I shall gallop across the sands on Reuben. My hair will unfurl behind me; my skirts will billow in the wind. Mens sana in corpore sano. Mother will chide me for being unladylike. For wearing my hair untied.

I do not know this room.

Breathe. One, two. In Mississippi, out Mississippi.

I remember my bookshelf. Huckleberry Finn and Shelley. “O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being.” That is Shelley’s most famous opening line.  She sells sea shells on the sea shore.

Reuben is a joy to ride now that he has been brought to bridle. Was I unbridled? But Aunt Kitty presented me. How odd to think one would be among the last of the debutants. The newspapers blame it on the Suez business. Be precise, child. Yes, Miss Quiller. 1958, Miss Quiller. My duchesse silk gown is coral pink with side panels of ruching and unique pearl embroidery on the bodice. It was a triumph. Mother would have loved it.

Aunt Kitty knew W. B. Yeats. Or so she said. He used to come to her salons.  So she said. She said he was a womanizer. She always wore a cameo brooch. There was a strand of hair on the inside of the brooch. From one of her lovers. Did it belong to Yeats?

My arm is bruised. Syringes. I want to go home. Who am I? 

Home is where the heart is. Sisters at heart. Three sisters. Rivers. Who am I?

Of course. Abraham Lincoln. I remember. The 5^th of November. Gunpowder, treason and plot. I remember.

Waterman, by Peter Morford

It was a nice avenue with tidy gardens and expensive cars, Neighbourhood Watch signs and burglar alarms.

     I pressed the bell of number 41, and stepped back two polite paces.

     A little old lady opened the door four inches.

     “Mrs. Phelps?”

     “Yes.”

     “Severn Trent.”  I showed her my badge.  She studied it, compared the mugshot with the mug and released the chain.

     “Come in out of the rain,” she said. “I took a sample for you this morning.  I’ll fetch it.  I’ve just made tea – would you like some?”

     I checked the time.  “Yes, please.”

     “Go through to the drawing room.”

     “Thank you.” 

     Two 12 gauge Purdey shotguns hung over the fireplace. Must be worth ten grand. Crossed swords behind the tv.  The more I looked, the more gunnery I saw.

     She set the tea things on a little table. “Here’s the sample,” she said. “The water’s clear now, it’s only nasty first thing in the morning. Help yourself to cake.”

     “Thank you. I’ll take another sample before I go,” I said.

     She saw me looking at the armoury. “They’re my late husband’s guns.  We lived in Kenn-ya.” That’s the way she said it. “Kenn-ya.”

     “I hope they’re all disarmed – and that you’ve got a licence,” I said.

     “Yes and Yes.”

     “You have a beautiful garden,”

     “Thank you.”   We sat down like a pair of old friends.

     Suddenly she jumped to her feet. “That damned squirrel’s back again.” And so it was, running prettily across the lawn, leaping onto the bird table.

     Mrs. Phelps opened a drawer in a Chippendale desk. “This is my father’s service revolver,” she said as she took rapid aim through the open door.  The squirrel was blown off the bird table in a mess of blood and brains.

     “I have to be going,” I said.                                                                                        

Promises to Keep, by Carol Caffrey Witherow,

PROMISES TO KEEP

But I have promises to keep… And miles to go before I sleep. 
- Robert Frost.

The branches of the trees stood bare and weightless.  A sullen quietness hung in the air.  To the right, a flash of squirrel tail in the undergrowth.  To the left, nothing but the dank and stagnant pond.  It seemed a good place to do it. The eyes – hooded, wrinkled - swivelled around the clearing again.  No other signs of life.  Good.

His fingers, fumbling in the cold, caught in the torn pockets of his coat. The container slipped from his grasp.  He swore.  Typical.  His back creaked as he bent down to retrieve it.  Impatient to get the thing done he blew on his hands. Some birds flapped skywards.  Startled by ghosts.  He spat out the phlegm that had risen in his throat and unscrewed the lid.

No words came to him.  No memories, either, just echoes: curses flung into a room; the slamming of a door.  She would have had plenty to say.  She should have died roaring.  You’d think that would have been the way she’d go.  He could feel the cold seeping into his bones.  This place had been warm and alive once.  They had been young once.

He tipped the container upside down, a swift pouring out, then scuffed at the grey pile with his toe.    His cheeks were numb.  He rubbed them, streaking moisture across the grooves of his face.  He cleared his throat, turned his back and headed away from the woods, the ashes already absorbing the damp around them.  

Travel Bug, by Graham Attenborough

I want to travel, he said, see the world, experience other cultures, find myself.

Great, why not? She said, I'm sure it will change you, perhaps even make you a better person.

What's that supposed to mean? He said, a better person? Are you saying I'm not a good person?

No, no not at all, she said, I'm just saying. I'm agreeing with you. Travel expands the mind and all that.

Yes, he said, but it doesn't follow that it makes you a better person. I just want to travel, see the world, find myself.

You keep saying that, she said, finding yourself, but, what does that mean? Don't you know who you are? Can't you find yourself here?

No but, what I mean, he said, is there's no spirituality here is there, no way of finding your true identity. It's just work and going out for a meal and a drink with your friends on a Friday night. Shopping, buying stuff, watching telly, surfing the net. I mean that's not life is it? You're never going to find yourself just doing all that.

Maybe you're right, she said, but isn't that what everybody does? Or would do if they had the chance?

Perhaps, he said, I don't know. I just keep thinking that there's got to be more than this.

So, these other cultures, she said, do they know who they are then?

Yes, of course, he said, they're in touch with nature aren't they, they don't need all this rubbish to be happy.

Oh, she said, happy. Aren't you happy?

I don't know, he said, are you happy?

I think so, she said, I think so, but I'm not sure.

Me neither, he said.