Sandra Davies

‘From battle and murder, and from sudden death’

   ‘YOU as good as murdered him, so don’t even think about coming to his funeral. We don’t want you there.’
   Des.
   Unaccustomed mid-morning coffee still hot on his breath, as was tobacco from a half-smoked cigarette, thrown down and swivel-killed under his toe as I emerged.
   The eldest of my four step-sons, newly succeeded, due to his father’s death, to the ownership of Burdock’s Farm. Entitled and impatient to occupy the family farmhouse. Waiting only for me to remove myself and my personal belongings, his failure to immediately expel me, in the shocked small hours of Sunday, still rankling: others, less vindictive, had overruled him.
   Now, contrary, he had parked his Land Rover so as to prevent my final leave-taking until he spoke his piece. Thinking, from my silence, that I’d not understood he repeated ‘We don’t want you there.’
   The sourness of his scowl had telegraphed hostility but his ultimatum had been delivered with unprecedented viciousness. It had taken more than a moment for me to recover the power of speech. Then, holding rigid the muscles in my jaw and throat so as to disguise any tremor, lifting my chin, fully meeting his barely-shamed eyes, I retaliated with precisely-enunciated scorn.
   ‘You are being unnecessarily melodramatic which does no credit to your father. Bearing in mind that I have spent the past thirty years as his wife, have born two, have brought up four, perhaps five of his sons (I don’t know how your brother feels about that) and in all that time he uttered not a single complaint about my behaviour, you may be sure that under no circumstances whatsoever will you prevent me both organising and attending his funeral.’
   I made no claim to having mothered him. Never had done since he, thirteen years old when I married Mike, had declared himself not to need it.
   And at the time I was but seventeen myself.
   Those extra four years, plus, thank god, a talent for quick-minded verbal self-defence (honed in dealing with my elder brothers) enabled me to manage him far more effectively than ever he learnt to deal with me. Even so it had been another dozen years before we reached any sort of equilibrium, during which time he moved from a confused hatred which oozed, pustulent, from his unadmitted (because thought ‘unmanly’) mourning for his first step-mother, to resentment at my too-speedy (and in his eyes unsuitable) substitution. Resentment had been shortly after intertwined with discomfort at his dawning perception of his father’s lust, and only superseded by a rampant need to satisfy his own, culminating in an attempted rape (which I never did inform his father of). Thereafter, guilt-spattered, threadbare tolerance ensued.
   And even now – especially now, despite him having reached his early forties – I had to maintain ascendancy because, in a complex confusion of anger and revulsion, Des still found it impossible to be dispassionate towards me. His nature contained too little in the way of moral certainty, a lack uncompensated for by his inheritance of better-than-average Burdock good looks and a deceptively easy-going smile.
   One he’d never used on me.
   Grief further aged him – he anyway looked older than I nowadays – and he barely listened as I said ‘We cannot even begin until after the post mortem. And then I shall tell you what arrangements have been made.’
   ‘No. You’ve forfeited the right. He was our father, and we will organise the funeral. You have no choice. We don’t want you there, you won’t come, it’s as simple as that.’
   I smiled.
   With apparent confidence and with pity. It cost me, and was wavering brittle, but I smiled.
   For all his bullying and his bluster Des was not a patch on his father. Mike was – had been – no saint, had a devil of a temper, was inclined to arrogance, was impatient, stubborn and could be unthinkingly cruel in some of the things he said, but he had many virtues too. Certainly he would have been incapable of the underhand disloyalty, would have roundly condemned anyone who displayed the moral weakness that I’d long known Des possessed. Even so, I was glad I had full-size ammunition with which to shoot him down.
   ‘No, Des, you have a choice, one that’s even simpler than you realise. Either you accept my right to organise Mike’s funeral and to be there to follow Mike’s coffin, in first place, as his wife. As his widow. Or I tell Alice about Natalie Brown.’
   I made sure to watch his face to see the twitch of shock before he swung guilt-blistered shutters into place.
   ‘Tell Alice …? I don’t know what you’re talking about, I don’t know a Natalie.’
   ‘You’ve forgotten her already? When you were there on Friday afternoon? You’ve forgotten that she has a five year-old the spitting image of your Eddie? That she had an abortion, at your request, with your signature countersigning the permission form, at a clinic in Hertford a year ago? Don’t give me ‘don’t know’ Des, you may be a two-timing shit, but you’re not a stupid two-timing shit.’
   Unable to continue facing me he turned, walked away, saying ‘It’s grief, or guilt, gone to your head, anyone can see that …’
   ‘Then you’ll not mind if I go round and tell Alice? See if she thinks I’m deluded with grief …’
   Finally my words penetrated his hear-no-evil rant. He turned, grabbed my arm and brought his face close to mine. ‘You say anything of that, of those lies to Alice and you’ll be sorry!’
   Disliking having to stoop to this level of attack, I nevertheless demolished his threat. ‘But you’ll be sorrier won’t you? Because you need Alice’s money to …’
   ‘Shut the fuck up! How the fuck did you get hold of this stuff?’
   ‘Never mind how. Just accept that I did. Just accept that for something as important as this I am prepared to expose your dirty behaviour just as readily as tales were told about me. I’d prefer not to, but you do need to believe that I will if necessary.’
   And without waiting for him to reply I turned and walked away. Away from thirty years of family memories, from a centuries-old farmhouse, not especially beautiful except in the patina of its familiarity, but a place I’d been fulfilled and happy in. My destination now, temporary but more than welcome, a utilitarian red-brick and slate-roofed agricultural tied cottage, home of my eldest son, three villages away.
   This battle, unanticipated though it had been, I’d won.
   The next I would lose.
   Not necessarily on my arrival but before too long my son, as shocked and aching at his father’s death as Des, would question me.
   And he would very quickly force me to admit that it was witnessing the fleeting more-than-kiss between myself and the man with whom, for the past two years, I’d been having an affair that had caused the heart attack that killed his father.

© Sandra Davies 2012

More writer than printmaker these days, but still needing, and responding to, those wide horizons while juggling three novels. The blog is sandra-linesofcommunication.blogspot.co.uk

Sandra Davies

Best Laid Plans

Gaspar, maître d’ at Giuliano’s in Leith, was both a perfectionist and someone who liked to be in control which, since he dealt daily with the unreliability of the dining public at both lunch time and in the evening, was a handicap and a never-ending source of frustration.

As a long-time favourite, and more than just a customer, Ed Hetherington was less likely than most to be on the receiving end of Gaspar’s displeasure, despite the fact that Gaspar would more than ever want things to be perfect for him. It was Ed who had, a fortnight earlier, made the booking for this lunch, not needing to spell out what was required once he had stated its purpose. Then, the evening before, Ed again who had, with apologies, warned of an increase from the original four, maybe five, to nine. On the day itself no warning could be given of another additional couple, although in the end the numbers were correct and the reason for Gaspar’s considerable disappointment lay elsewhere. His concern too, initially, since it was unusual for any party of Ed’s to be as much as half an hour late. Following explanation, he was entirely mollified, although concern was transferred and a residue of disappointment remained since it was, in his experience, positively unheard of for the bride and groom to be unavoidably absent from their own wedding lunch.

In truth, the whole event had been somewhat precarious. Had been hastily arranged, last minute and ragged at times. Second and mercifully third thoughts frequently occurring, doubts not entirely banished either although both the proposal and acceptance had been genuine enough and the unprompted urgency with which necessary arrangements had been made entirely reassuring.

They had checked that the one essential witness – Ed of course – would be both free and willing, which he was (and would have been regardless of what he had to cancel) but there was some uncertainty as to who her witness might be, until she thought of Lydia, who was delighted. And that was all, except that Lydia’s husband Ian might also wish to be there. With forty-eight hours to spare they thought they ought to let their respective parents know what was going on. Being parents, loving as well as loved, they determined on being part of it, not matter how hasty their arrangements had to be. Hence the first increase in numbers.
And hence also for one set of parents a shock, because although it crossed their minds that there might be a further reason for the haste, they had not realised how far advanced things were until they saw the bride. The groom had deliberately said nothing at the time of their estrangement and then had been too superstitious, desirous of reducing risk. And he might have mentioned it a couple of days previously, except that it had slipped his mind. His brothers who, on hearing of the event and having met the bride just the once had also insisted on coming, just to see if the youngest member of the family really did know what he was doing, were instantly and unavoidably convinced that yes, he must do and laughed, not for the first time, at his ability to create drama.

They were even more convinced that the expectant bride was just right for him when she created further drama of her own, her waters breaking on the steps of the registry office as they paused for, fortuitously, just married photographs.

That a son had safely and speedily been born reached Giuliano’s minutes before the party broke up and Ed, relaying the news, promised Gaspar that he’d bring Madigan and Baz and baby along for a lunch at the earliest opportunity, while refusing to contemplate any such role as godfather.

© Sandra Davies 2012

Sandra Davies is a writer and printmaker, occasionally combining both disciplines as in ‘Edge: curve, arc, circle’ and ‘One that got away’ the precursor to four more novels. Her main writing blog is lines of communication from which links to printmaking blogs can be accessed.

Sandra Davies

Arc of Adaptation

The circumstances of her first time taken had added to the hurt. The confusion and the absence of her father and her brothers, her being left alone, knowing but unknowing danger, never known before, the dark and pain of edge of stone pressed in her back, of hands on thighs and throat, of alien breath too close of tongue too wet and wetness elsewhere grunt and shove and shout of strangeness, pain within ...

But she had become accustomed, had understood, in time, his need, at times had felt it too ...

And then he died.

A new man - he said men called him Yarl - had claimed her as his woman even as the body of the other lay still-fleshed, unstripped, unburied, rites not yet performed. His haste prevented her from mourning chaste as was the custom, gave her too small a space of time to pay the honour due and so she broke the ring to acknowledge that first man had been a man of worth, had begat a son on her and she’d been glad to bear him such.

This new man, this Yarl, was much younger than the man before; near to her and not so much her father. Black haired, his striding loud, cocksure, roughshod across her life had made her angry from the first with him. She respected, for his rank, but did not like, had refused to be submissive even to be sure she would survive. But also from the first the urgency of Yarl told her she had some power, though she wanted not to let him see he had it too. Perhaps such skills were also learnt with rank ...

Having power stopped her hurt – or was it that she would not let herself be hurt that gave her power? For that he’d chosen told her she had something that he wanted, something that he thought she would supply. She knew such wanting was worth knowing, for the fact it gave her worth.

She asked what other than her body was it that he sought from her and he told her that her value lay in family land, in tribal name, in ancestors, for land with men all gone was then known and held by women and her status as a woman of the white tail eagle tribe did add to and increase what was already his.

She told this Yarl, ‘You do not, cannot own my ancestors’ and he to her surprise did say he knew that but the sons that she would have by him would call them theirs and thus the land would stay with those who owned by birthright not by force.

‘Why force?’ she asked since he was calm and listening and he told her that her family men had been too few, too weak, had failed to fight for what was theirs, deserved to lose their women and their lives, to lose their freedom and their birthright. He told her that his people risked their lives for land, in seeking land on journeys across sea and if and where they won it was they who were entitled to the land and to the women and the sons that they would bear.

‘My first born son should rank above all sons of yours since he was born of your people.’

‘He will not: his father was of lesser rank, was a fighter not a leader, you cannot insist ...’ and she knew he had both power and the mind to take him - not kill, but send away since boys could work elsewhere - and she stayed silent so that she would keep her first born son nearby and safe from harm - accepting since she had no choice.
But first to him she had a daughter.

And then she was afraid.

For she knew that one might be allowed to live in times of glut of fish and meat, in times of health and wealth, but rarely more than one and only then when sons had come before.
She would not plead for that would weaken her, and she was certain he was hard enough to do the deed himself. But the first - his first - he had allowed to live, and the second was a son, and he was proud and then the third another girl but first had caught his heart and he could not end the second daughter’s life, knowing what she could become, and in hope of times of glut.

And for that, from the first of his reprieving, and doubly so the second, she had changed her view that he was not a man to like.

© Sandra Davies 2011

Sandra Davies is an artist and printmaker and recently-emerged writer of fiction, with a long-established interest in family history. Born on the Essex coast, she now lives in Teesside in the north east of England, both places having the flat landscapes and sea-edged horizons considered essential for a sense of well-being. More writing can be found at lines of communication and some prints at Print Universe
This piece can be found in Sandra's excellent book Edge which comprises Curve of Early Learning, Arc of Adaptation, and Circle of Celebration

Guest Poet: Sandra Davies

Circle of Celebration

© Sandra Davies 2011

Sandra Davies is an artist and printmaker and recently-emerged writer of fiction, with a long-established interest in family history. Born on the Essex coast, she now lives in Teesside in the north east of England, both places having the flat landscapes and sea-edged horizons considered essential for a sense of well-being. More writing can be found at lines of communication and some prints at Print Universe
This piece can be found in Sandra's excellent book Edge which comprises Curve of Early Learning, Arc of Adaptation, and Circle of Celebration

Guest Poet: Sandra Davies

A Stone for Effie

I know why
And could, therefore,
work out roughly when
but I cannot remember
where I collected this stone.

Seventy percent grey
(ninety when wet)
it was the heartbreaking
near-white markings
which spoke to me.

The qualities of line, stuttering,
the shapes, a trio converging
and circles not round but complete at last,
which echoed the one year wed,
three years awaited,
coming together,
in full hope of happy ever after.

I sought to duplicate the emotion,
to evoke by etching,
to commemorate the sad tragedy
of the fitting but unfitting death
in premature childbirth.
evidenced by the headstone
between two pines at Ymir.

© Sandra Davies 2011

Sandra Davies is an artist and printmaker and recently-emerged writer of fiction, with a long-established interest in family history. Born on the Essex coast, she now lives in Teesside in the north east of England, both places having the flat landscapes and sea-edged horizons considered essential for a sense of well-being.

Guest Writer: Sandra Davies

Curve of Early Learning

“Mind the edge!”

A warning since before memory, always an edge to beware, to be forever aware of.

First, at Liddle, had been slabs, as thick as three of her three-year-old fingers, flat patterned stone, hard and often sharp when new, both separating bed from bed and on which they lay, degree of comfort dependent on the depth and newness of the heather piled thereon. Their edges had too often bruised or marked her, although in time more so by accident, in darkness or too many people in the space. Sometimes her brothers pushed her, but less so once she had learnt to scratch and pinch.

And beside the central fire the stone slabs sunken in a square, a fifth slab as a base, joints sealed with clay so as to stop stone-heated water seep away too fast. Here the need to watch for hot for heat stayed long after fire had gone and pain from heat was different, and far greater. And pain could be from ashes or the splashes from the water or the spitting from the meat when it was cooking.

And as she gained years the edges of her wanderings extended, beyond the need to stay in sight: first of her mother then of the younger boys she was required to watch.

Later still, and with her father, walking to another edge, the edges of their family land, land long belonging to their family, their families and their ancestors. A time of light, near always light, she had not noticed it before, had slept despite the light before, and her father had reminded her, had told her of the inbetweentimes of the almost always dark time which also came with greater cold and wind and wet. That year the edge she saw of land was where the land met land; stones and hollows and narrow running water marking boundary lines between the edge of what was theirs and what was not.

Not until another dark and the following time of light, when she was surer-footed, did he take her to the edge of land itself, to where the land did stop and the bones of land were visible, stone slabs laid down, layer piled on many layers, beneath the thinnest layer of soil and grass. Slab upon slab, just as they built their shelter walls, but these high stack-piled edges were pounded endlessly by mass of pushing heaving water - her father said it never stopped, was ever-present noise and movement, as was the movement of the air, although air changed in noise and where it came from, and how strong and whether warm or fierce or flecked or filled with water.

From here she saw the final edge, where far-off edge of water met the that-day light-filled sky, and she wanted urgently to know and asked her father and he told her he did not know, that no-one knew, but that if she looked to where the sun was now, midway between the edges, in between its coming and its slipping down, below its highest arcing in the sky she would see that there was more land, that the water did not go on forever, but that where the sun slipped out of sight, there again was where no-one he knew had known or seemingly could ever know.

Three or four more light-dark times and then she did know more. Knew then that men could come from the edge of sky met sea, knew then that men could hurt as much as edge of stone, as much as heat and even more, another hurt that did not mark her skin, could not be seen but gave an edge of hurt to everything that came thereafter.

One man had later been less hard, had tried to make amends and after she’d lain down for him, and then again to birth his son – more hurt but yet another kind - had given her a ring, shiny black and heavy on her finger, as his hand had been on her at times. But time did thin the edge of hurt, of people known and now long gone, and he was not so hard as many, so that when he died and his bones stripped and laid at Isbister with others, honour made with totem white-tailed eagle bones, and when soon after she was taken by another, she broke his ring as symbol of her hurt – this time an empty aching hurt - at losing him.

[Isbister, in Orkney, is the location of what is now referred to as the Tomb of the Eagles, a Stone Age burial chamber where half of a jet ring was found in 1976. Subsequently the tomb was excavated and found to contain some thirty human skulls and hundreds of bones from humans and white-tailed sea eagles. Ten years later the second half of the ring was found and given to the farmer who had discovered the first for him to place them back together for the first time in more than 5000 years – an act which, he said, ‘caused the hairs to stand up on the back of his neck’. Liddle is the site of a nearby dwelling, identifiable from its square stone water sink wherein hot stones were laid to heat the water after heating on the hearth and before being placed on the burnt mound midden.]

© Sandra Davies 2011

Sandra Davies is an artist and printmaker and recently-emerged writer of fiction, with a long-established interest in family history. Born on the Essex coast, she now lives in Teesside in the north east of England, both places having the flat landscapes and sea-edged horizons considered essential for a sense of well-being. More writing can be found at lines of communication and some prints at Print Universe
This piece can be found in Sandra's excellent book Edge which comprises Curve of Early Learning, Arc of Adaptation, and Circle of Celebration