Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

Silver shoes, as rehearsed, tread upon the boards. The audience are hush: she is a shade to them but they know to expect. Sole by sole she goes to the centre of the stage, puts one hand towards the limelight- She is afraid. The wings are full of doubts, of bills unpaid. Piles of darning in the dressing room. The flex of the kettle worn through. Reality is threadbare, and she has worked so hard to be this, to give this. She has so much less and so much more than the people out there in their chairs. They do not know. They are here for the performance. But what is her role? What happens next? She whispers it. But you know this, the prompt squints at her, this is your script. And you wrote it all pictures and moods, there are no words to be repeated. You would not be told, you said. You glued sequins all over the paper. Why yes! What happens next is of no consequence. No right, no wrong. Only be as you are. Dare to. She has her trademark smile. The light is citrus gre

It was the morning of the first full moon.  The sky was growling as we stepped our boots along the lane, padding in shallow muds, poking puddles with toes to play with dark refections. At the foot of the hill we paused, though no-one could remember why: the sound of the stream running fast, how the rains had swelled it, perhaps; after the heron flew up before us, the blue grey wings, the beak-spear, the dangle of legs, that is all we could think of. Silver and blue, shoals of colour. How clear the moving water was, and the puddles, rain-refreshed, shone back in amber slices. It was the evening of the first full moon. Strange tides were calling us. (Even Dog kicked her legs in active sleep.) On the black river the moon would put a mark, a lit fingerprint. Like an intake of breath the waters had expanded.

‘Look at me, Granma!’ Grandchild 1 teeters at the surf edge. It’s shallow water, but lively. Every third set or so rushes in deeper. Pebbles smoothed and oval, large as ostrich eggs, are settled in the fine sand. The water brings out their warm colours. ‘Don’t you be looking at me my lovely- look to the sea!’ Granma shouts, as they have been playing pirates and some of the linguistic idiosyncrasies have stuck. It is good advice unless interpreted as ‘keep facing the sea and run backwards without taking any account of terrain.’ Grandchild 4 is wedged on a hip, gazing seaward. Granma squats to pick up Dog’s ball, thus missing the vital ‘but don’t run away without looking either, you might trip on a rock’ intervention point. Grandchild 1 finds himself sat, arse on sand, sea awash in his armpits. As instructed, he remains facing the swell, the surging white foam of it, wild as dragon spit. Granma has his arm grabbed. Dog runs past, carries her ball into the sea herself. G

Rain nestles on the window pane. Grandchild 2 sits on the other office chair, eating peanut butter from a small jar. She laughs at the waggle in birds’ tails as starlings hop on the ash branches. They are silhouette puppets to her. Steampunk cloud sails in on a quickening squall. Starlings are sprung to flight. We watch. On the storm scale from eye-opening to life-threatening, this measures at come-to-the-beach. Weary faces in the town, a hard night spent midwifing the New Year. Without their ritualising, perhaps it would breech, fail to arrive. We had watched Lilo and Stitch, drunk up some vodka with coconut milk, called to our year all our love for it. An easy beginning. A mother, her daughter, her daughter’s daughter, they blink in the sanded wind, shut the car doors. Dog gets underfoot, too impatient. On the sand Dog squats, too excited. Everyone is happy now for the gale to blow, salt scented. Granma carries the bag up to the bin. Mess is not a surprise: but r

2014, a midwinter’s morning. Winter courts spring with a bridal gown. Laid on earth’s bare skin, the perfection of each crystalline stitch, divine. It is melting, under shallow pools of sun. A gem would not melt in this meagre heat: but we are temporary, we should understand. A diamond is a thing of beauty, yet the pursuit of it, too costly. Laden with servitude, it shines sadly. In the embroidered earth a moment holds, a proposal, a sign of hope sturdier than the materials that spark it. A memory: a memory arrives - 1977, an early summer’s afternoon. There was then a smaller version of me; I can observe her, as though she exists, independent of her adult self. She had brought her necklace to school, a trinket from her Grandma, it dangled a bright jewel, like something from the Raj. She liked to wear it on her head, in the style of a warrior princess. Light fell and caught the dust as she led the class to the cloakroom and all the parents said how sweet she was.

‘This is for our Christmas Day.’ The Chap rolls a bottle of port before our boggled eyes. 1977, vintage. The price tag says what? ‘It’s my new tradition.’ He says, perhaps because he’s eighteen years old. Time will let us know. Christmas Day gathers just the three of us this year. The port is opened; the old cork crumbles, we utilise a tea strainer, two decanters, hide them in the pantry, next to the oats. Breakfast is a slab of hot brioche with extra butter. Clear dry cold sky, a platinum light: we wrestle old bicycles into it, dust them, plump up tyres. Dog runs and somehow avoids an accident. We stop at the house of Grandchild 2, swap gifts, legs gently steaming. Dog commando-crawl sneaks onto the front room carpet from the kitchen tiles. Everyone smirks. Wrapping paper makes a comforting debris. We take the long road back, because of the sky, because of fun. ‘Our mission today,’ I shout, with vibrato over potholes, ‘is not to get too trolled before