The Bluebell Woods

Picking bluebells is the reason I’m here in the woods. The sun is hot for the time of year but very welcome. The birds are twittering all around, too high up to identify. I really should have learned the different birdsongs. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t had the opportunity. I’d spent five years walking my retriever across fields and through the forest, watching him dive-bomb the bushes looking for rabbits or wading into streams looking for fish. I’m sure he knew every blade of grass; I could have learned the birdsongs while he did that if I hadn’t been so lazy.

Bluebells were Dad’s favourite wild flower and each anniversary of his death I take a bunch of them to his grave. I remember him joking about it on his sick bed, saying he wanted to die at the right time so they could be placed on his coffin. So you can understand why I just have to do it.

Dad always maintained he disliked weeds yet when I reminded him that bluebells were weeds and that he’d never planted one in his life he argued, saying bluebells were not weeds. Weeds, he retorted, are simply flowers that nobody wants. Naturally I had a go back but it was only in fun. That’s the sort of relationship we had.

‘Don’t argue with your father, Susan,’ Mom would say, as if I was a five year old. She could never take our baiting as a joke thing. If I was to take situations seriously at that awful time I would have sobbed all over Dad’s clean sheets.

Emphysema is an ugly disease. Heartbreaking, too. Dad tried to keep a smile in place but we could see how hard it was. He’d suffered for a long time and towards the end he hadn’t the strength to get out of bed. Dennis and I went to see him as often as we could although it was quite difficult for my better half to see a once hearty man so frail.

There’s a lot to think about as I walk along the rough path, through the forest of tall trees to the little glade where the bluebells would be widespread. I step over the tiny bubbling stream that meanders through the woods. A few more steps and I’ll reach the lake. I’ve been coming here for ten years now, ten years since Dad died. That was when my sun ceased to shine.

Why him? That’s a question I often ask. And why me? What did I do to warrant losing my very best friend? Oh what memories that statement evokes! Happy days, happy years! We only ever fell out once and that was so awful we vowed we’d never argue over differences again. If it wasn’t for him, though, I’d have left home years before I actually did.

Marriage took me away. Marriage to a man so like my Dad in many ways. Dear Dennis, thoughtful, kind and generous. His happy smile can penetrate my foulest mood. From the start of our relationship he quite skilfully managed to dispel my jaded outlook.

Dennis is the one who discovered the bluebells in the wood. He has an eye for flora and fauna, has Dennis. Just like my Dad. Mom didn’t understand Dennis, but then I don’t think she understood any man. She thought he was toffee-nosed and probably too good for me. How’s that for faith in her daughter’s choice? She had a grumble every time we popped in to see them. My Dad often told her to lighten up, after which she’d go into a lengthy sulk that entailed not speaking to any of us for months.

It wasn’t until Dad died that I discovered Mom was ill. She’d been suffering silently, cancer ridden and determined to hide it for as long as she could. No wonder she was miserable. She vehemently refused chemo and it took Dad’s demise to make me realise her motive.

I don’t put bluebells on Mom’s grave. She gets the red roses that Dad planted in my garden. I remember when the first buds started to form, not too long after the bluebells finished. Dad was doing a spot of weeding. ‘Got to take care of the roses,’ he said, ‘one day they’ll be needed for more than just a pretty scene.’ It was then he told me that Mom’s favourite flower was the rose. I never knew that. It’s amazing what we don’t know about our parents. Anyway, it transpired that when he proposed to Mom he gave her a single red rose, wrapped by the florist and adorned with a huge red ribbon. It was St Valentine’s Day. When she died it was my task to sort out her belongings. That’s when I found the rose, pressed and placed in an old diary, completely devoid of entries except for the words ‘to the brightest star who ignited my world’ in Dad’s distinctive handwriting.

How fabulous is that? I’d never have put either of them down as being romantic. Yes, it’s sad how little we know of our parents.

The sight before me is wondrous. The blanket of flowers between the pine trees just has to be God’s gift to me on this day. Bluebells en masse and a fragrance that never fails to astound me. Whilst listening to the robin’s song I place the basket on a tuft of grass and kneel to collect flowers for my Dad.

The peacefulness of this place encourages memories. I can go for months without reflecting back but here in the wood, surrounded by nature’s offerings, my mind switches back all those years. It’s like washing out the mind, dredging the clutter that modern living brings, rinsing away historic segments like ‘if’ and ‘why’. It’s here that peace settles around me, sweet recall replacing the angst that death creates.

The basket is full of bluebells and some pine cones from last year’s droppings. I have a flask of water ready for when I place the flowers in the urn and there’s a prayer for my Dad playing in my mind. Ten years! In a couple of months I’ll be cutting roses for my Mom. I hope she isn’t plaguing Dad too much in their own private heaven.

Dare to be Scared

The room was cold. The fire, now no more than dying embers, made the fireplace look like a cavernous hole surrounded by a black marble mantelpiece. The unfinished drapes hung at the window awaiting final measurement. In the swelling silence Ellie Peterson was thankful that she couldn’t see outside.

An hour ago the sound of footsteps had unnerved her. Petrified she had waited for the door to open but nothing happened and the footsteps died away. Now, except for the creaking stair, the house was eerily quiet. She sat on the hard wooden settle, her body taut against the high back, feeling the terror in her spine. Dare she move? Would the spirits know of her presence if she did?

She wanted to believe the occupants had returned but they knew she was there so they surely would have called out. Her mind switched. Maybe it had been a burglar. If it was he was being terribly quiet. There were no other noises to indicate that drawers were being searched or cupboards ransacked.

The New Year’s Eve party seemed so long ago. The usual gang had turned up at Lacey’s Wine Bar with one extra, a boy called Ram who told stories about ghosts. While they drank in abundance someone mentioned the big house on the hill, saying it was haunted.

Ellie was taken aback for that house was where she would soon be working. The owner had commissioned her to replace the drapes in the dining room while the family was away in Tobago. In a mildly drunken state, she had scoffed at the suggestion of the place being haunted, saying it was all nonsense and bragging that she wasn’t in the least scared of ghosts. She didn’t mention that as a child she was scared to walk past the turreted property in case the ghost came out to get her.

It was Tom who dared her to spend the night there. Ellie had laughed and joked that she wouldn’t mind spending several nights there. And so she was dared so to do.

She had telephoned Jacqueline McCleary the next day, asking for permission to stay until her work was completed. It would be so much better, she’d said, if she could devote all her time to the task and not have the inconvenience of travelling to and fro. Mrs McCleary was delighted, saying it would be useful to have someone in attendance during her absence. She would make up a bed in the west wing.

Ellie remembered trembling with the excitement of spending nights alone in a supposedly haunted house. Now she trembled with fear in the icy room.

The musty smelling room was lit by a dim lamp on the antique bureau, out of reach from where she sat. She couldn’t remember putting it on but she did recall switching on the central chandelier before lighting the fire, then switching it off because the light was too harsh. Although she didn’t doubt her action she looked up, seeing only flickering firelight reflected in the clear glass. But the fire was dead and she half wondered if she was too.

She twisted round to check the door, wondering if she had the courage to go into the huge, cold hall that led to the west wing. She decided against it. It would be better to stay where she was, maybe close her eyes and try to sleep. The hard settle didn’t encourage sleep but she was too afraid to move to the comfort of an easy chair. Folding her legs beneath her, she eased the tartan blanket over her arms and prayed for daylight to come, wishing she’d ignored Tom’s stupid dare.

Outside the wind howled and rain lashed against the glass. The chandelier shook and the new drapes swayed in the half light. In a room in the west wing a shadowy figure rose from a winged armchair. Her skirts floated behind her as she noiselessly glided through a heavy wooden door that led to an imposing staircase. At the top she paused and listened as the first musical notes filtered through the air.

Ellie stirred, shifted her position on the settle. In the distance she heard faint music. It took her straight back to her childhood, when she’d been so afraid. Straining to listen she became aware of an indistinct soprano voice intoning the words of The Londonderry Air.

Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling
From glen to glen, and down the mountain side
The summer's gone, and all the flowers are dying
'Tis you, 'tis you must go and I must bide.

Ellie shivered as the eerie singing grew louder, swallowed to suppress a ripening scream. Somewhere in the back of her mind was the thought that spirits didn’t like screams and anyway, wasn’t she a grown up, sensible person who wasn’t afraid of ghosts? Hadn’t she said so repeatedly before… before coming here?

The crash completely unnerved her. It sounded like something smashing against the far door. Hardly daring to breathe, Ellie pulled the blanket round her shoulders and slid from the settle, grabbing the wooden arm to keep from falling. Against her better judgement she felt she had to investigate? Fearfully, she tiptoed across the polished floor and eased the door open.

On the floor was the oil painting that had been hanging in the hall, to the right of the door. Its heavy gold frame was broken, the glass lay in smithereens, but the picture seemed unmarked. Inches away lay the picture hook complete with fixtures, the screw ends coated with plaster. Ellie stooped to examine the painting, a naval officer. His stiff posture and stern expression was a little forbidding as he sat on a long wooden bench. The name at the foot of the painting indicated that this was Daniel McCleary, presumably a family ancestor Behind him, one hand on his shoulder, stood an attractive lady dressed in grey. Ellie stretched out an arm to touch her solemn face. The eyes seemed moist as if tears were falling. So sad, she thought, as she made to wipe them away. Ellie shook herself, reprimanding her foolish imagination.

Unsure about how to cope with the picture at that late hour and reluctant to delve further into the mysteries of the house she returned to the room where she had briefly slept. In the morning she would clear up the mess.

Sitting again on the settle she let her mind drift back to the picture, remembering the story of the young diva being killed, stabbed by her lover. So much for respectability, she thought.

Light was beginning to penetrate the room, making the shadows seem less creepy. Soon she would hear the dawn chorus; only then would she be able to relax. Ellie thought about the picture. Knowing she would have to explain to Mrs McCleary filled her with trepidation.

As more light seeped in Ellie found the courage to move about. Throwing aside the blanket she went to draw the curtains. She had to admit they looked good; the burgundy velvet went really well in the room. Since taking the commission she had worked hard, sewing well into the night on some occasions. Now all she had to do was measure and complete the hems. She would start early, after a drink and maybe some cereal. The need to move on with the work and leave the house couldn’t be ignored. But first she must clear up the mess in the hall.

Ellie stretched and yawned and tried to suppress a sudden desire to sleep, a long sleep in her own bed, in her own apartment. A cup of tea would revive her, she thought as she moved towards the door, reminding herself to tread carefully to avoid the broken glass.

Somewhere in the distance she heard a tinkling laugh that seemed to echo through her head, a young voice. Braver now the gloom had dispersed, Ellie flung open the door, stepped into the hall, prepared to see an expanse of broken glass on the floor. But there was not one sliver to be seen. Looking up, she saw the picture on the wall. Intact. Except that the man now had streaks of blood on his face and at his side the young lady smiled.

Completely disregarding the waiting drapes Ellie Peterson fled to the sanctuary of the outside world.

The Bad Dog's Diary

A book found in a charity shop gave me some reading matter while I had breakfast. It is humorously written as a proper diary so I could read as many or as few entries as I liked, mostly though I found it difficult to put down. Blake is indeed a bad dog but lovable at the same time. The writer, Martin Howard, did a brilliant job of giving the dog a brain along with an aptitude for devilment. It took me back to the training days of my own dogs and the love that went with it. A synopsis of the diary, given below, was taken from the book itself since the description couldn’t be bettered. Today the bad dog’s diary was handed over to another owner because it’s definitely a book to be shared.

The bad dog's diary by Martin Howard

This extraordinary diary lifts the dustbin lid on a year in the life of Blake – very bad boy indeed – and spread it’s contents all over the kitchen floor. A maverick hound with an eye for the bitches and a flair for strategy, Blake is on a mission to become Top Dog of his neighbourhood while avoiding any hint of obedience to the Owner. Day by day he gives us canine insight into the canine world from a self-professed ‘dog’s dog’, including what it means to be pack leader, living with the threat of castration, what dogs realty think about tinned food, the joys of leg humping, and of course the political and social injustices of the traditional human-dog relationship.

Backed up by a host of friends, including Scottie, a geriatric, sex-mad Westie, and Constable, a dim-witted best-of-breed TV personality, Blake’s plans take unexpected turns as the year progresses. A dog who will be instantly familiar to anyone who has ever found a favourite shoe in slobbery tatters or fended off complaints from their neighbours, Blake is hilarious, wise and often touching. He delves deeply into questions of loyalty, love, war and scooting and along the way shows us exactly why there will always be a place in the human world for dogs.

Shock treatment works!

I never classed myself as an overly large person when I only wore an average size 16 UK dress size, so it came as quite a shock when the nurse at the Well Woman Clinic told me I was a borderline case for obesity. ‘If you’re not careful you’ll overstep the mark,’ she said. Well, I was about to move up to an 18 but I kept that quiet.

The picture above is quite interesting. I didn’t know there were so many ‘classified’ grades of obesity. I’m truly thankful I didn’t get to the end of the chart.

I’m not sure if it was the shock of her comment that caused the tummy upset but it sure made me think. The upset was one of those conditions that make you go off food, commonly known as THE BUG. I was off food for several days and when I did start eating again I found I didn’t want half the goodies I used to eat before. That’s when my eating habits changed.

It wasn’t a drastic thing. I cut out milk because it upset the tummy and left potatoes alone. No cake, of course, nor those little things wrapped in paper known as sweets. It was only comfort eating anyway, I should have known better! Two major changes were drinking herbal tea and taking probiotic yoghurt which has continued to this day AND I’m back on the potatoes in more respectable portions.

Ever since I changed my style of eating I’ve developed a gradual dislike of heaped plates. Not just mine but other people’s plates too. Family gatherings at carveries are allowed to eat as much as they like so it’s only natural to pile it on. But some do take it to the extreme? Is that how our youngsters get to be so big?

There’s a campaign here to stop children becoming obese. It’s a horrible word, isn’t it? When I look around though, in shops and other public places, I am astonished by the vast amount of children who are totally overweight. It’s not puppy fat either; it’s a good solid mass of fat. No wonder the experts are worried. Imagine having to cart all that weight around while your lissom friends cavort with ease!

I can’t decide whether it’s due to something in the food we buy or a parental dislike of using negative words. I know a local family where the mother panders to her youngster’s demands for unhealthy food simply because she’s afraid of saying ‘NO’. Mind you having witnessed his almost violent tantrums I can almost understand her reluctance. However, in my opinion she’s not doing the child any favours, either in eating habits or obedience.

These days I take smaller portions of everything and feel better for it. For a start I no longer suffer from indigestion and that awful overloaded feeling. Today I went shopping. I knew I’d dropped one dress size but lo and behold I now find I’ve dropped TWO.

All together now: ‘Who’s a clever girl, then?’

Thanks for listening.