The Serpent (Short Story)

It’s there; I can smell it beneath the expensive aftershave and Hollywood smile. It’s lurking under the surface, waiting. Oh so still, poised to strike like a serpent hiding out in a baby’s crib. Who would ever suspect it was there?

Certainly not the girls from his office, crowding around him geisha-style, laughing at his jokes and basking in that perfect gentleman charm. A little wink, some harmless flirting and he’s got them all eating out of the palm of his hand. Now and again, I catch one of them casting a quick glance in my direction. They can’t help it, it’s a mystery to the entire office – how did good old Gav end up with me?

The frumpy dress and lack of anything that even remotely resembles a hair style would be enough to keep them wondering and gossiping but it’s worse than that. I can see it all over their faces and hear it in their polite questions – how did a pinched up, miserable old cow like me manage to bag myself a man like Gavin?

It’s not as if I see them very often and I suppose that’s part of the problem. I don’t like these work dos, I never have. I go to the Christmas one because I can’t get out of it but the others – I usually have a migraine or a stomach upset. Gavin never makes a fuss about me not going out; he says I cramp his style anyway. This one though sneaked up on me. A celebration paid for by management, some sort of reward for meeting targets. “All the big wigs are going to be there,” he said. “And their wives.” So that was that. It wouldn’t do for Gavin to be the odd one out.

I can hear him laughing; that big false laugh, the one he saves for outside and my stomach tightens. Lucy is talking to me, her curls bouncing around her face in time to her words as she moves her head up and down. He’s back. I can smell the serpent even before he drops down into the seat next to me. Alcohol, aftershave and the serpent, brushing up against me as he leans in conspiratorially, “What are you girls nattering on about?”

“I’m just telling Steph how she needs to come out with us more often. We have a right laugh, don’t we? Remember the bowling...” Lucy’s words are lost in bawdy laughter and Gavin joins in.

“Oh Steph’s too serious for the likes of us,” he winks. “She’d rather stay in reading or watching something intellectual on the telly box. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

I think back to the bowling night, it wasn’t much of a laugh for me. At least I don’t remember laughing all that much when he dished out what was coming to me on the kitchen floor. All that charm and bonhomie used up in the bowling alley. Good old Gav, by the time he got home he had nothing left. His mood had turned sour and I just reminded him of how much he hated his life.

I’m not an idiot; I know where it comes from, all that violence and rage. I get it, I really do. I mean it’s not like I’m living the life I wanted for myself. I keep it in though, I have to. What else is there? I have to keep the family together, for the kids’ sake. My sister can’t even look me in the face anymore, I sicken her with my excuses and empty promises but what can I do? My kids need me and they love their dad.

He’s going for more drinks, I mean why wouldn’t he, it’s a free bar? I can’t help but notice the way his mouth tightens in displeasure as his eyes flick over my bitter lemon, sitting still half full on the table. It’s just a millisecond but I see it. I can feel Lucy’s eyes on me as she drains her Prosecco in readiness for the next.

“Don’t you ever drink?” she asks in that way people have. As if she can’t think of anything more tragic.

“Oh Steph thinks drinking is beneath her. Turns people into idiots. Isn’t that what you said, babe?” Gavin’s back from the bar handing out drinks with his big grin. He pushes his face into mine, his beery breath making me want to turn away. But I don’t. “Look what I’ve got,” he winks, thrusting a cherry speared on a cocktail stick towards my lips. “Come on Steph, loosen up it’s a party.”

I hear Lucy laughing nervously as Gavin mischievously pops the cherry into his own mouth. His lips, cold and wet, smash into mine, “See what I mean, Luce?” His eyes offer up a secret to Lucy, who looks uncomfortable despite her Prosecco fuelled giggles. “My wife’s frigid. It’s like being married to a nun – not even a little kiss.” It’s starting already – the serpent’s moving, getting stirred up as if someone’s poking at it with a stick. It won’t be long and good old Gav will hardly be able to keep it contained.

He’ll fight it though, keep it subdued. At least until the party’s over. Once we’re in the taxi it will all become too much for him and we’ll ride home in a charged, heavy silence. The three of us, me, good old Gav and the serpent. He’ll rally, one last time, as he pays the baby sitter and waves her off with his signature wink and then there’ll be no more good old Gav.

He’ll punch and kick until the poison’s been bled and then the serpent will slither away, back to its hiding place. He’ll go to bed and sleep like a baby and I can get on with sorting out the girls’ things. They’re going to a party tomorrow and Amelia’s counting on me getting all the sequins sewn onto her princess costume.

Recurrent Fictional Characters

I read a really interesting blog post the other day, which suggested that writers tend to recreate different versions of the same character. (If I was really good at this and organised, I would have noted the relevant source so that you could read it yourself. Unfortunately, I'm not and I didn't). Anyway, it got me thinking and I have to confess that I’m guilty as charged. 

The character that appears recurrently in my writing, albeit in different forms, is the feckless mother. When my friend's husband read one of my novels, he offered the observation that the mother in it was her mother. I don't know her mother but my friend assumed that we must have mothers who are very similar. Sadly I had to disappoint her. 

I think I subconsciously created the wild and feckless mother as the one I always wanted but certainly didn't get. My own mother is a very serious woman, who doesn't drink alcohol, eat to excess, or do anything that could point to a lack of control. We have a very complex relationship. Even as an adult, I find it impossible to acknowledge any failings in her presence and I keep so much of myself hidden from her. 

It's a shame because I have a great deal to thank her for. My mother is the reason that both my sister and I are independent, successful women. She valued independence above all and it was at the core of everything she taught us. It's not hard to understand why; my mother married very young and submerged all of her own hopes and dreams into being a wife and mother. She always claimed that it was the only thing she ever wanted out of life but we all knew that she was living a lie. She loved my dad and us kids more than anything but she resented having subjugated her own life for us

A very intelligent and creative woman, my mother can turn her hand to anything. She is a talented artist and dressmaker with a real flair for design. However, she had to make do with a lifetime of hobbies and, no matter how much she tried to pretend otherwise, it wasn't enough. My mother, like so many of her generation, was a woman out of time. Had she been born a decade or so later, I have no doubt that she would have been amazing. 

She’s in her late sixties now and finally achieving some of the things I’m sure she always secretly dreamed of. She teaches literacy and numeracy to adults, who for whatever reason missed out on an education. She runs a women's group, offering a wide range of activities designed to help women feel empowered and in control of their own lives. She’s also the most well read woman I know. All this has been bitter sweet for her, as it was the death of my dad, her childhood sweetheart and the love of her life which propelled her out of the home. 

She always says that she would give up everything she has since achieved in a heartbeat to have my dad back and I believe her. She’s a strong, courageous woman and I’m really proud of her but she is not the recurrent mother figure that I write about. Maybe she should be. 

Do You Believe In Guardian Angels?

I like the idea of having a guardian angel although I can equally understand how the idea might completely freak someone out. After all, most of us probably wouldn't come out of it well if we had to withstand round the clock scrutiny from a celestial being. If this were the case then I fear my own place on the other side would be well and truly scuppered. 

Even so there is something reassuring in the thought that there could be someone other than me steering this often chaotic ship. And there lies the crux of the issue, is it simply our need for reassurance that tempts us to look outwards and latch onto fanciful ideas of other worlds and beings? I am not so sure. 

I would have said yes, until a couple of years ago when my dad died. Since then I have never felt closer to him and have a total sense of conviction that he hasn't gone. Obviously, I understand that this may well be nature doing its thing by affording me something to cling on to, when the alternative seems so unbearable. I think it's more than that though. 

I don’t believe that my dad is in any way guiding my life. If he were, I would be sorely disappointed. Given that he was a gregarious, sociable man in life, I certainly hope that he has more exciting things to do with his time now than spy on me. However, there are times when I feel his presence so keenly, I know without a shadow of a doubt, that he is with me. His visits are not what you would expect, he doesn't check in at particularly meaningful times, when I could maybe do with a bit of help or encouragement. No, they are always random, inconsequential moments which, in consequence, never cease to take me by surprise. 

But does any of it really matter anyway? That is why I choose to believe in guardian angels and the idea that my dad is still around - what would be the point in not? Surely life would just seem bleaker and the world a much harsher place. If it should turn out that this is all there is, none of us are going to know about it anyway so I really can't see the benefit of trying to prove or disprove something that lightens the load on our journey through life. 

Have You Made Your Bucket List?

My friend and I will both reach milestone birthdays this year. The kind that ushers you into another decade and tends to engender a lot of fuss. My friend is eager to embrace it, own it if you will. I could take or leave it - in the words of that long forgotten Eurovision winner, "What's another year?"

Recently, however, my friend came up with the idea of a bucket list whereby we would write down everything we’d like to achieve in our landmark year. A little bit in the style of only having a year left to live. I have to say, I struggled to muster up much enthusiasm, as I anticipated two possible outcomes. At worst, I could end up embarking upon a year of idiotic, daredevil behaviour. The kind designed to reassure people that they still have a little bit of life left in them. And at best I’d be faced with a list reminding me of wasted opportunities and unfulfilled hopes and dreams. 

I’m happy to report that I couldn't have been more wrong and I’m now an advocate of everybody writing their own wish list, regardless of their age. My first surprise was that I didn't really have any unfulfilled burning desires. I love travelling and have travelled extensively but, if it all ended tomorrow, I’m happy with my lot. Likewise with books I would like to read or films I've always wanted to see. If something catches my eye, I pretty much read it, see it, experience it, as and when the fancy takes me. I realised that, contrary to what I’ve always thought, I live in the moment and don't put things off until tomorrow. 

The second surprise came with the actual list. My friend and I compiled two separate lists but they came out spookily similar. There was no bungee jumping, sky diving or mountains to climb but instead just simple, joyful pleasures. We both wanted to perform a random act of kindness for a complete stranger, go dancing, sing as part of a choir, go for a long country walk and learn how to cook. 

Making my list reminded me that it really is the small moments which bring us the most happiness and my life is actually pretty fulfilled. So, if you want to remind yourself how great your life is, I suggest you take an inventory and work on that list right now.

Does Anything Stand The Test Of Time?

It's funny how things seemed so much better when I was a kid. And I can't quite figure out whether it's because I have become more sophisticated and demanding in my taste or, whether it's inevitable that memories become larger than life in the retelling of them over the years.

One of the first TV shows that I can remember really loving was The High Chaparral. This was back when there were only three channels to choose from and everybody tended to watch the same shows. Monday night was High Chaparral night and Tuesday it was all anybody at school talked about. I thought about it often over the years, bemoaning the fact that it had never been repeated. Imagine my delight then when, a couple of months ago, I saw that one of the cable channels was running an entire series. However, my excitement soon turned to disappointment when I realised that it wasn't anything like I remembered it. The theme tune still gave me a jolt of pure pleasure but that was about it. Big John, it turned out, is a controlling bully, Buck and Manolito are more spiteful and mean spirited than I remember and Blue Boy, frankly, seems like he has special needs. 

After two episodes, I had to accept that the version I had in my head far exceeded the reality and it got me thinking about other things that hadn't stood the test of time. Reading Catcher In The Rye as a teenager pretty much blew me away and I held the novel in high affection for years, despite never re-reading it. That is until last year and I was devastated to find that it was almost unreadable and Holden was totally irritating and not particularly likeable at all. 

Likewise, I had such strong memories of Jackie magazine which had a tremendous impact on my life as a teen, when it was the focus of my week. With the trend for all things nostaligic, an old edition of Jackie was recently re-issued and I was shocked by its facile simplicity. I couldn't believe that this had been the highlight of my existence during my early teenage years. 

A couple of weeks ago, I ordered a box set of 21 Jump Street, a show which brings back so many happy memories of spending time in The States and watching it with my friend, whilst drinking hot chocolate with marsh mallows. The trouble is I'm scared to open it because I more or less know what's going to happen. I'll watch one episode and wonder what the hell I was thinking. 

Maybe that's the key, it's not about the show or the magazine or the book, it's about what they represent. A moment in time when, for whatever reason, they provide us with what we need. Something magical that only exists in the moment and, when we try to re-create it, it falls flat and disappoints. For that reason, I'm thinking maybe I'll just leave 21 Jump Street in the box.

What Is It About Driving?

Let me put you in the picture straight away; I don't drive. I have passed my test and have a licence but choose not to. Although it's not really much of a choice, as I was reminded only this morning during a conversation with two colleagues. 

They are intelligent, confident women, competent in every way except both confess an irrational fear of driving. Intrigued (partly I suspect because of my own secret sense of inadequacy at not being able to master something that others seem to take for granted) I dug a little bit deeper and, I have to say, I wasn't too surprised by what I learned. 

The first woman reluctantly confessed that she had passed her test but her fledgling driving confidence had never been able to flourish due to the constant criticisms of her then boyfriend and now husband. Yes dear reader, God knows why but she married him. Had we been playing poker, the second woman surely had the winning hand, which she revealed to our gasps of outrage. It seems that whilst on a busy road her husband had, in a fit of panic, reached across from the passenger side and pulled on the handbrake. Leaving her so shaken and traumatised that he of course had to take over the driving. 

I learned to drive in Brighton and according to my instructor and the official examiner was safe enough to be let loose on the roads and highways of Great Britain. Returning for a visit to my home town, I foolishly made the now quite obviously fatal error of driving with my dad. Warming to the role of unofficial driving instructor, he saw fit to pronounce me a driving hazard and subsequently destroyed what little driving confidence I had. 

I convinced myself that I preferred the freedom of public transport and banished driving from my thoughts, ignoring the queasy sense of failure I experienced every time the subject of driving came up. Until years later, when it reared its ugly head again. I got a job working for the fire service (a total debacle and surely a whole blog post of its own) and, on my first day they announced that I needed to be able to drive. 

I was sent out every day with a retired fire fighter, who had spent his career driving fire engines. By way of introduction, he proudly told me how he had put his wife off driving so completely that she hadn't driven for thirty years and none of his children would drive with him in the car. It basically went downhill from there and I have never driven since. In fact, when my driving licence recently needed renewing, I didn't even bother, I just let it expire. 

I had always deep down felt that it was something wrong with me. That there was some indefinable weakness that rendered me unable to get to grips with what essentially is a basic functional skill. More and more though, it seems that I am not alone and there are other women like me out there, women who have been bullied into feeling useless by perfectly nice men. Men who just happen to mutate into tyrants once they’re behind the wheel of a car.

Are We Really What We Eat?

Don't ask me how or why but I seem to be following a health guru on Twitter. I’m almost becoming accustomed to the little stabs of fear his tweets evoke, as he expounds upon the dangers of a poor diet and how no amount of water and exercise can counterbalance them.

My diet is shockingly bad, there I've said it. I probably consume my own body weight in sugar on a daily basis. On the plus side, I don't eat fast food at all but that's not so impressive if I add that neither fresh fruit nor vegetables feature in my life on a regular basis either. I do drink lots of water and I exercise regularly. I think if I were to do an audit, however, things wouldn't look too good. 

I'm not a stupid woman, I know that I risk diabetes and my chances of triggering cancer are increased with poor lifestyle choices. My own dad died from cancer at 63 and my genetic make-up isn't exactly what you could call charmed. It's still not enough though to force me to assume responsibility for my own destiny. 

I think the reason for this is that deep down I'm not convinced that life isn't just a lottery and that won’t meet the same fate come what may. Lots of people I know, who do everything that’s supposed to be right, have still ended up with cancer whilst other people drink, smoke and don't give a damn but live to a ripe old age with no health problems whatsoever. 

Is this just a sense of denial, one of the clichés that we trot out in order to avoid making some tough choices? My Twitter guru would no doubt argue a big fat yes and offer up a mountain of proof that we are what we eat and we are all the engineers of our own bodies and health. But who really knows?

All I know for certain is that I am weak willed with an addiction to sugar. My fear of contracting a horrible disease seems to fade into the distance when faced with a bar of chocolate or a piece of cake. The harsh truth is that if I really have a stark choice between living a long, healthy life or chocolate, cake and gin (I know - I forgot to mention my weakness for alcohol), I'm not sure which one I would go for.