Talking about hair dryers....

Talking about hair dryers… well, the subject did come up when I was in a panic over a recent parcel delivery.

This particular tale goes back several years when Guy and I went to Blackpool to see the famous illuminations. We hadn’t been married long so everything we did had a sort of rosy hue … a weekend in Blackpool, we thought, would not only be romantic but would help recapture our youth.

In our youth the only place to stay in Blackpool was a bed and breakfast somewhere near the sea and within easy reach of the legendary Pleasure Beach (for the benefit of overseas readers, that’s a huge fair) and Blackpool Tower (similar to the Eiffel but not as tall). It was with many private memories that I embarked on the trip but I won’t elaborate on those, save to say that girls will be girls when they’re let loose.

On arrival we started the hunt for accommodation. Most places were full but further back from the sea front we found a nice looking place, clean and tidy and respectable looking, with vacant rooms available. Considering the lateness of the hour we were lucky to find it.

The landlady was a cheery soul. She gave us such a hearty welcome I immediately relaxed. I felt suddenly excited and couldn’t wait to deposit our bags and go out into the night to see the illuminations.

By the early hours of the morning, after completing the Golden Mile course, travelled on gaily decorated trams, exclaimed at the wonderful sights, rode in a landau, marvelled at the animated animals and cartoon people, and shivered with cold, I was more than ready for bed. We ambled, foot sore and weary, back to the B&B.

Our room wasn’t bad, a bit on the gloomy side with dark floral wallpaper and dark brown painted woodwork, but there was some light coming through the naked window. At home I wouldn’t dream of leaving windows unadorned but right then I was too tired to bother about anything other than falling asleep. I positively dived into bed…. a well worn double with a full length, well worn hollow in the middle of the mattress, a trench deep enough to hold a body. MINE! Most of the night was spent trying to stop falling into it. If anyone is ever faced with the same problem, remember that hooking toes under the side of the mattress is about the only way to stay on top, pardon the pun, unless of course someone knows better.

Next morning, with limbs stiff as a board, I climbed out of bed thanking the good Lord that we’d only booked for one night. I’d had about two hour’s sleep in total and my mood was murderous. I just hoped breakfast would improve it.

However, before breakfast I had to do something with my hair. All that tossing and turning in the decrepit bed had done little to make me feel on top of the world. My hair was a SIGHT. Fortunately I’d taken my trusted hair dryer so everything should be okay once I’d done a restyle.

Except there was no mirror and no plug socket to be seen.

I hunted all over the room, getting more and more crabby as time went by.

In desperation, because time was getting on and Guy wanted to go down to breakfast, I damped the hair down and HOPED FOR THE BEST. A mirror would have told me that my hope was not realised. Guy said it looked okay but what would he know … he’s a man.

So, downstairs we went, Guy first with me trying to hide behind him. The dining room was light and airy compared to the bedroom; you’d have thought we’d inadvertently moved into a different B&B.

‘Bacon and eggs?’ yelled the landlady from the kitchen area. ‘Sit yourselves down.’

I headed for a side table that would reduce the view for other occupants, keeping my head low to hide my shame. I just didn’t want be seen by the general public as a wild haired specimen from alien parts. By the time breakfast arrived at our table more guests had arrived. I got a strange stare from an elderly man and wondered again about the hair, anxiously smoothing it down in the mistaken belief that it would improve the image.

The food wasn’t bad and actually the atmosphere was quite positive, people chatting about the illuminations and making plans for their day. One couple complained about the lack of electricity in their attic room which made my lack of plug socket seem fairly amusing. I mean, plug or no plug, if there was no power I would still have been in a dilemma. When you think of the amount of power used for electrically run trams, the illuminations, the fairground rides, it was little wonder that an ordinary B&B had to do without.

Chewing bacon, I gazed at the wishy-washy fried egg and wished I was back home. I was at the point of selecting a toothpick from an empty shrimp paste jar on the table when I noticed a bit of a hush. And then I heard a booming voice right next to me……

‘SMILE, PLEASE!’

It was the local photographer.

I screamed, ‘NO!’

Landlady called out that the photographer always took photographs while the guests had breakfast.

I ranted, ‘Not this guest, he doesn’t,’ before racing out of the room.

We’ve laughed about it since. Recapturing our youth hadn’t been achieved and I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone unless they go accompanied by an electric generator and a bag of tools. Oh, and a mirror!

The Anniversary

The mud-splattered wagon trundled away, closely followed by what appeared to be a clapped out JCB. The final operation in the building of my neighbour’s new wing was done. Flicking a faded yellow duster over the sill, I tried to envisage my house free of brick dust and the stink of wet cement. I watched the wagon until it was out of sight, willing it never to darken our street again. There were enough new buildings to take the entire Warwickshire population.

Across the road in the maisonettes an old chap wedged open his door. He did this when the Meals on Wheels woman was due and sure enough there she was, driving up Silhill Street with her Thursday fare. A robust woman, never without a hat, with a matronly chest that reached its destination minutes before the rest of her body.

Seeing her reminded me that my faculties were on the blink, that one day she might be plying me with slender rations in foil dishes. The time might well come, but I wasn’t prepared to admit it to the likes of her. She would turn up her snooty nose and gloat on account of the telling off I gave her the other week. I told her she needn’t think she could boss me into giving in. I said until I got the telegram from the Queen I wouldn’t be savouring any of her wares.

I tweaked the curtain to view the houses, so long obscured by vans and diggers and mountainous heaps of bricks. Old Nelly and her friend Jess were attempting to reverse their car up the narrow drive and making a right meal of it. I couldn’t understand why they found such poor car control amusing but I envied their camaraderie. I had done ever since my Clive passed on.

Screwing the duster into a ball to retain the dust I turned away from the window, but hearing the honk of a horn I twisted back again to see John Carrington getting out of his red Jaguar and making a fist at two scruffy urchins playing ball in his drive. Cheeky beggars pulled faces at him as they ran off. As soon as they were out of sight he retrieved the wheelchair from the back of the car, waving to me before easing Nancy from the passenger seat. She waved as John transported her into the house. They had been on an excursion to Blackpool. When I heard they were going, I appealed to the Almighty to keep them safe. Satisfied that once again he’d done a thorough job, I sent him my appreciation.

I first met the Carringtons one wet, wintry day in the supermarket coffee shop. Several years ago now. We shared a table. John manoeuvred the wheelchair so that his wife faced me. A woman of ample proportions, she was wrapped in a blue wool coat the identical colour of her laughing eyes. She tutted as she pulled a wayward curl, irritated by its bounciness. That was Nancy, my prospective neighbour.

They called me Lizbet instead of Elizabeth, the name I was blessed with. It rolled off Nancy’s tongue like syrup off a spoon. I loved it. It made me feel special. God himself knows how I needed someone like her to latch on to…. her presence in my life went a long way to removing some of the loneliness.

I visited her every day when they moved in. My intention was to help her cope with the disabling arthritis but she was strong enough to handle her disability without my assistance. Nevertheless, she was happy for me to see to her hair. Whenever I brushed those dark locks I would remember the first time I saw her tug that obstinate curl and recall the words John had uttered in the coffee shop as he covered her hand with his: ‘I only promised to love her until she was sixty.’ I remember Nancy’s beaming face when she demanded that when the time came he would grant a ten year extension, and John’s choked reply, ‘You got it, lady.’

Finally withdrawing from the reverie, I noticed that John and Nancy’s door was closed. Normally I gave them the thumbs up before they disappeared into the house but I’d been so taken with reminiscing I missed the opportunity. I silently begged them not to take umbrage.

A cloudburst of loneliness washed my soul as I returned to the kitchen. The fire that had blazed before I began my prying window vigil had reduced to almost nothing. Seizing the poker, I stoked the dying embers until flames reawakened then threw on more cubes of coal. I counselled myself not to be silly but it didn’t work and I rounded on poor Clive when I saw him grinning from his wooden picture frame on the dresser. It’s all your fault,’ I grumbled, ‘leaving me here alone.’

The rain roused me the following morning. Raindrops thumping on the garage roof, water whooshing from the down pipe onto the front slabs, reminded me that the soak-away needed attending to. I was in the process of castigating the All-Powerful for designing such a rotten February when I heard footsteps on the path. Dragging myself from under the warm quilt, I advanced to the window and peered out. ‘Good Lord,’ I muttered. ‘It’s Postman Pat.’

The postman was holding a pink envelope. I was surprised because I had no reason to receive letters. Being childless and without relations to speak of my quota of mail had long since lapsed. Except for the bills! And there was no trash mail thanks to John arranging with the mail preference people to stop it.

Nervously, I descended the stairs to pick up the envelope, examined it front and back for evidence of the sender’s identity. The writing was sort of familiar. Slitting it open I extracted a card depicting a single scarlet rose. Curiously I looked inside. There was a photo of Nancy, John and me, taken one summer’s day in their garden. There was also an inscription.

“Ten years have elapsed since Nancy Rose and John William Carrington adopted you as friend and comforter. Happy Anniversary, dear Lizbet. Please accept this invitation to share Nancy’s ten year extension.”

Can you imagine my delight?

Then there were three...

It must have been the excess of grapes that had me up in the night. I suppose it served me right for pinching them off the kitchen table. I wasn’t the only one up and about, old Owl surveyed the scene, looking for possible captures, while in the near vicinity his mate hooted and the fox hunted, his eyes lit up by the moonlight.

As I crept back through the hole in the barn door I heard Ginger snoring. He was galloping in his sleep like he was chasing something. I wondered what it could be; a mouse, or perhaps one of the cats had taunted him and was being chased away.

Although Ginger got on well with animals and humans he didn’t seem to relate well to cats, that is until two males were brought in to help keep the mice at bay. I suppose it was because they were now part of the farm that he made the effort to be friendly.

The cats had silly names, the lean black and white was called Stringy and the huge tabby was laughingly called Moses. Gaffer suggested Missus changed their names to something less comical but Missus said she thought it would be a bit of fun to keep what they already answered to.

The two cats were fairly friendly towards each other but occasional squabbles broke out. If one tried to sample the other’s food there would be lots of hissing and chasing, while a bewildered Ginger looked on. I didn’t stand any nonsense; if they started a power struggle in front of me I put my paw down hard on one of their heads.

Apart from all the night noises everything was peaceful so I curled up on the hay and covered my eyes with my paw to shut out the moonlight that came through the window.

The whistle woke me with a start. The huge green monster that rushed through fields and over a distant viaduct first thing in the morning always issued a shrill shriek as if saying it was time to wake up. Beside me Ginger gave a low growl; without fail he complained like that whenever the train went by. Well, I thought, I suppose that’s it, I might as well get up. But strangely enough Ginger didn’t bother. Instead he stood up, turned round a couple of times as if searching for a comfortable spot, then sank down on the same section of hay he’d been lying on before.

I wandered outside to check the food bowls by the kitchen door, just in case Gaffer had thought to get up early. I wasn’t disappointed. Next to the water trough there stood two shining enamel bowls filled with food so I barked a couple of times to alert Ginger.

It was at that precise moment that the kitchen door flew open and Missus flew out, shoving me to one side as she loudly proclaimed that she was late. Late? Our breakfast meal was already loaded into the bowls so how could she be late?

Gaffer wasn’t far behind; he came out armed with a small blue case and clutching a brown wallet. I was mystified … surely he wasn’t late as well?

Ginger arrived on the scene just as Gaffer and Missus got in their old car and raced off. He looked at me, and I looked at him. Both of us gave a worried woof before heading over to the bowls of food. Whatever was going on, it was better for us to keep our bellies full. With them going off like that who knows where our next meal would come from.

It wasn’t long afterwards that Gaffer’s car squealed into the yard. Ginger and I were on our way to the stables at the time but we stopped to look. Gaffer drew up beside the kitchen door, and whistled for us to go to heel.

‘Bet you lads wondered where I’d gone,’ he said, rubbing our backs as if he’d been away for a year.

I licked his hand and looked up expectantly, hoping he would enlighten Ginger and me about what was going on.

But we weren’t told, all we knew was that Missus had gone visiting. My guess was that she went on the train since Gaffer had come straight back to the farm. This meant, of course, that we had free rein, and so did Gaffer.

Every afternoon for a week we went long walks, sometimes using the car to get to somewhere different and then running our legs off investigating and sniffing out new land. It was on one of our afternoon treats that we met Susie, a young English Setter.

We hit it off straight away. Ginger liked her as well, he was always trying to get her to join our games of chase but Susie was quite refined for a young dog, she seemed to prefer watching us. Privately I thought Ginger’s constant fidgeting put her off.

Susie wore a white collar with silver markings that gleamed in the sunshine. It really suited her silky white fur. She belonged to a young farmer named Bill and lived in a very smart wooden kennel beneath a sturdy Horse Chestnut, with a long knotted rope hanging from its lowest branch. I anticipated lots of fun playing with that.

Gaffer took us there quite a lot in the next few days. Seems he had quite a business to get through with Bill. While they were seated at the kitchen table, their heads bent over lots of papers, Ginger, Susie and I played with the rope, then we’d scarper into the adjoining woods. Bill said we were quite safe because the whole lot was enclosed by fencing.

There were lots of things to excite us, woodpigeons to chase and the odd feline that skipped up the trees when we came along. Rabbits scampered in and out of burrows and I had great fun chasing a hare. It was touch and go who would win but he always seemed to have a head start. But the best of all was fishing in the pond, watched closely by Mr Kingfisher. He would dive to catch the fish I was trying to trap with my paw.

Ginger spent all his time playing with Susie and when they were near her feeding bowl she would paw some of the meat and offer it to Ginger. Pathetic, I called it. No upstanding dog would do such a scandalous thing.

Apart from that, when it was time to leave at the end of the week I felt quite sad. Gaffer said Missus would be home the next day and he had housework to do, which meant time in the Dolly’s stable for Ginger and me and no more visits to the farm.

It was while we were getting ready to depart that Ginger and I learned that Susie was joining us in the car. Apparently she was coming to live with us. We were delighted, of course. Ginger especially. The change in him was so noticeable … whenever Susie was near he couldn’t leave her alone. He was still my best friend but I suspect he had fallen in love with the glamorous Susie.

Missus was delighted with the new arrival. She’d bought new collars for us, a studded leather one for me, a woven chain and leather for Ginger and, would you believe, a new name tag for Susie. So she must have known before we did that Susie was coming to live on the farm.

Susie fitted in very well. We shared and shared alike, none of us ever taking advantage over the others. I could see happy times ahead. I wasn’t jealous that Ginger was besotted with a bitch of his own kind … after all, I had Chicken Fingers as Gaffer, Ginger and Susie as best friends, and Dolly too. And now that Missus had got used to having me around, my life was settled. I just hoped the cats would remember to keep the mice at bay.

This is the last one, folks. Seven parts, all done and dusted. If you want to read any part again you're welcome to visit the new blog It's A Dog's Life.

Spirits of the Past

It was the weirdest dream I'd ever had. I was flying, literally, soaring like an eagle right into summer, leaving the New Year frosts behind. A silver cape streamed behind me. A black mask, slightly askew, had captured an aimless spiral of blonde hair. Apart from isolated cotton-candy clouds, there was nothing to see. I thought the world had disappeared until I found myself gliding over a floating mass of what appeared to be dark brown rocks. I hovered briefly in order to survey the great bulk of... well, I'll call it rubble for want of a more descriptive word. I could distinguish some mountainous areas in the middle, with colourless water snaking in and out, but the majority of the terrain was flat and sombre, littered with boulders and various markers. I shoved the delinquent hair behind my ear, adjusted the mask, and then zoomed down for a closer look. The nearer I got to that spherical island the more chilled I felt…yet it wasn't cold. In fact, the higher my cape flew the more of my shoulders the sun found to roast.

The markers were a diverse array of signposts each pointing in a different direction. Mostly the posts were constructed from wood, ramshackle and splintering, but one or two were elaborately created. Those were placed abreast of wooden stiles, though there was no path upon which to travel when one had clambered over. I plunged towards the first post and latched onto it by wrapping my arm around its imposing pointed prong. The letters inscribed there were huge and I had to tilt my head to read it.

Welcome to the Forties, it said.

Thank you, I said.

Slackening my grip, I drifted in the direction of less elaborate signs. They were branded with dates, deeply chiselled for permanency, years ranging from 1940 to 1944. Again I felt that sweeping chill. Vibes of bloody battles made me shudder. A curious burning smell made me want to puke. Lamentations filled the air and my cheeks were showered with watery drops. I glanced upwards expecting to see rain clouds, but the sun was shining as fiercely as before. Hastily, I averted my eyes, not liking the perception of such acute sadness. Anxious to find more agreeable surroundings, I pulled my cape closer and wafted away.

Flitting over a cheerless lake, I advanced towards a solidly constructed signpost, made of steel with wrought iron digits standing proud, each digit entwined with withered roses and sprigs of laurel. 1945. Waves of acclamation caressed me, yet the impression that someone had died was very strong. There were no mortals to whom I could attribute the echoing sounds yet I definitely heard laughter and muffled exchanges. And enunciated names: Hitler and Ribbentrop. My own impression was one of relief though I couldn’t explain why. It might have been the warmth, or the unexpected peace.

Ahead of me, descending slowly earthward, was an additional signpost. Enthralled by the method of descent I watched it alight on the brow of the hill, its arrow-like arm indicating the direction of the fifties. What lay on the other side? Would there be chaos, more gunfire and smoke, more flashing lights and despairing cries? I decided not to proceed. I had seen enough. All I wanted was to go home. If only I knew the way.

Swiftly, I arched away from the ghosts that occupied that extraordinarily desolate chunk of land, gathering about me the cape which seemed suddenly leaden. I panicked that the exit point might elude me, completely forgetting I could fly. I whirled round in my agitation and collided with a hitherto unseen monumental placard, suspended in mid-air, the size of the tract itself. I paced back, tortuously slanting my neck to behold the colossal red lettering. Red as blood, the only vivid colour in that dingy brown expanse.

YOU ARE NOW LEAVING OUR DECADE
WE TRUST YOUR VISIT WAS INSPIRING

Somewhere a clock chimed. Out of the remoteness came Ma's piping voice shouting me to wake. My eyes fluttered open. The silver cape was on the five-drawer chest where I had left it after the fancy dress ball. The mask was hanging by its elastic on one of the knobs. I breathed a sigh of relief. I was back home, in our matchbox-sized house, a bright and cosy property just big enough for Ma and me. We were unassailable. We were unaffected by past decades.

Or were we?