Sunday, May 21, 2006

My ghost story


(C) 2006 Carrie Sheppard

Lying upon the large brass framed bed, which stands in the centre of the room, high and proud and unyielding, is a small child. Three years old, a girl in flannel pyjamas. The thick, comfortable mattress of horsehair did not warm her as she lay there, her rasping breath sending small white clouds into the air.

She couldn’t breathe… not easily. Breathing in her thin chest rattled and hardly rose; but breathing out was worse - a struggle, a cough, a wheeze and tears of panic came to her eyes. She could not cry out, could not catch enough of that precious air to shout for her mother and father who were downstairs, oblivious to her distress.

Clutching her candlewick bedspread close to her chin, the desolate feeling of incomprehension and abandonment only served to shorten her breath further. Stick-like arms bent sharply, she pushes her head heavily down into the striped ticking, feather filled pillow.

Feathers: deep within their rough cloth bag, sucking in dust, a safe harbour. Horsehair, flattened and ageing, clings to the years of detritus that have seeped, microscopically, into their substance. Old and cold, damp and dust-ridden, despite the layers of clean sheet, the bed exudes a musty odour. The fire has gone out. The room is chilly as the spring night dampens the world with its dew.

The house has no electricity, not like at home. Only gas light downstairs and candles upstairs – candles whose dim light is set to offer comfort to a small child who feels alone upstairs in this high old house.

She is starting to sweat in panic, thinks about getting up, going downstairs and daring to disobey the command to remain in bed and not disturb the parents. The fear of anger, the fear of touching the candle to light her way from the room, keep her still.

“Calm down child,” and a gentle hand brushes her hot forehead. She looks up, and sees, dancing in the candle’s shadows, the outline of an elderly lady. The woman, she can see, is dressed in a long brown dress, and looks at the child with kindly eyes. Eyes that are hidden, yet comforting. The lady wears her long grey hair in two tight buns. They sit on either side of her head light plaited earmuffs and their oddness makes the child smile. The child’s wheezing slows as she relaxes, no longer alone, and she turns her head on the pillow to see another lady, like the first, standing on the opposite side of the bed.

Candlelight offers brief detail. Spidery hands, blue veins, bony fingers that bear no rings but show calluses on their underside. The two women stand solicitously over the child. “Who are you?” the child asks in her innocence.
“We used to live here,” said the one who had calmed her.
“This was our house.” The child, accepting, feels no fear. She is breathing a little better now, but the loud wheeze and painful cough, are still distressing. Tears squeeze from the corners of her eyes.
“I don’t feel well” the child says, at last able to confide.

“Hush now, all will be well.”
She is calmed, soothed by the gentle voices that sound soft, distant and unfamiliar in their cadence. She coughs and coughs again and sits up, feeling that her chest is so tight it is pulling her over. Her shoulders hunch and the candlewick duck adorning her bedspread distorts as she clutches it closer still to her spare frame. Her coughing gets worse, the wheezing louder and a low, mournful wail escapes in between the spasms.

Rushing hastily up the stairs, two at a time, heavy footsteps echo through the old house. Another light comes into the room, and beloved father’s face is there. The candlelight flickers as he hurries in to his child, his young daughter.
“Are you alright?” he asks of the small thing lying there, wheezing and coughing with tears sliding down her pale cheeks.
“Yes daddy, these two nice old ladies have been looking after me.”
He looks around; though the light is dim he can see they are alone.
“What ladies, sweetheart?” she sees they have gone too.
“They used to live here,” she says. He asks no more, aware that with each word the child struggles for breath.

He wraps her in his warm jumper, takes her downstairs and they all sit together by the fire, warming her, calming her, soothing her. She feels safe in her father’s arms and falls asleep. Tomorrow they will go to the doctor. Tomorrow she will learn the words and the routines that will accompany her new-found lifetime companion – asthma.

-o-


In those first days of her illness, she was too young to understand what was happening and how the dust in the room was her nemesis. Her father, Anthony was always concerned, always carrying her when she was tired, always there for her when she needed him. He would not have been cross, had she come downstairs that night, but how is a child to know?

Who was it that had cared for her that night of her first asthma attack? Who was it that had calmed her and kept her breathing steady until her father appeared? It was a question that begged answers. The house was old, and carried it’s own stories. Anthony loved the house, though it had so few conveniences. He loved the open fire, the gaslight and the great kitchen table that bore the knife marks of butchery from more than a century of farming. He loved the open fields surrounding it, the clear sound of the larks in the morning, and the high piled stacks of hay. The shout of the pheasant, the bark of the fox – these were sounds he craved and escaped from London to hear. He asked the farmer about the house and its history.
“It was always part of the farm,” he was told. “Before the current owners it was empty for a long time.” And before that, Anthony asked?
“Before that I think it was my grandfather’s sisters who lived there, two old spinsters together.”

How could a child imagine so clearly, and retell in such detail, the two women who had stood by her bed that night? How could she have known that less than a lifetime ago those two women had lived in that house, in that big farmer’s Lodge? The memory faded quickly for the child –perhaps she wanted to forget the panic of being unable to breathe – that simple action which should be so easy for us all. The asthma attack was the first of many and she spent months in hospital, her severe condition requiring treatment that, in the 1960’s, was still in its infancy. Inhalers and medicines, injections and hospital stays, the small frail child grew into a taller, equally frail child. But she slowly grew stronger and as time progressed, so did medical knowledge. Her treatments improved and so did her health. But of that night when she was three years old, she remembers nothing. Her parents provide her with the reconstructed memory of the event – and she fills in the gaps with those memories that she does hold dear. Eight years later she was still visiting the house, but she never saw anyone she did not know.

At fourteen years old her father is gone. Her mother is a widow and the world changes. But she can believe that, though there may be no life after death, there is love.


No part of this story may be reproduced or broadcast without the express permission of the author.

Thanks.

Thursday, May 18, 2006

What about the barm cakes?

Being a 'band on the road' we would often have to eat exceedingly unhealthily. I know - you'd think the tour bus chef would have prepared something wholesome and appropriate for a touring band but a) no chef and b) no tourbus. Who am I kidding? Though we photo-shopped a plane with our band logo on it once (ha! Loads of people actually thought we had our own plane!), our travel mode was usually everyone in their own car and tough if you had any troubles.

Well, we'd frequently play 'oop north' and our most frequent provender stops were - you guessed it - chip shops! On one occasion we were all headed righ the way up to Barnard Castle (love the place) so this time we did hire a mini van. It was a bit squashed with all of us and our gear, but it saved on petrol and hey - we could all listen to 'The Archers' on Radio 4 on the way up. Sorry ... did you imagine loud music from the vehicle as the band hit the road? No, since the band hit the forties (our ages), we adopted a far more cultured attitude to travel, life on the road and how we should behave in public. Now - when we'd finished our long journey (we is Southerners you know), we just had one thing in mind! Six hours on the road (it was a slow van) - we needed a NICE CUP OF TEA! Yay. No bad band boozing for us. Boo, I mean.

Chip shops in the north are wonderful! The chips taste chippier, the fish is definintely fishier and the sausages in batter - well, batterful. "Do you want a barm cake?" we were asked. Eh?! Brave K, our drummer, said yes. And he got - a buttered bread roll. Aha! So that's a barm cake then.

But chip shops across the country have more delights in store. B, being vegetarian, was the hardest to please. In Bridgewater (other end of the country completely, down South West), he just had chips. "These are fanstastic chips!" he announced to the chippy. "That's 'cos we cook them in real beef dripping." he said. Laugh? - we cried with laughter! Poor B, he didn't finish the chips.

Now in the Midlands our chip shop experience was even funnier - but it only works if you can do a really good Cannock accent (so 'coach' would sound like 'couch' and 'Barry' would sound like 'Barroi'). B asked for a "roll with no butter."
"Oi'll 'ave to ask," said the chippy, which confused us, but hey ho - we were not on home territory. The answer came back positive and whilst we munched chips and sausage and burgers and all sorts of cholesterol time bombs, B waited - and waited. Eventually his chips were served and a pink, floppy blob plonked on top. "What's that?" He said in Southern horror.
"You asked for a roe with no batter..."

Ewwwww....

My latest food escapade on musical travels was a curry at the model airplane show. There were chips there too - but somehow.. .. ..

Monday, May 15, 2006

Dr Who monsters


I used to have Dr Who monsters in the front room. The best ones were the Mutants, looked like rather large insects with big claws. Mother (a theatrical costumier) also made the bubble creatures, lots of vacuum formed plastic over enormous frames. I never went onto a Dr Who set, but I did see the Muppets being filmed (met Raquel Welch) and loads of other things. The Dr Who stuff - I met the designers, saw the designs (we threw them away!), and knew exactly how every monster trick worked.

My house was full of monsters, masks, costumes - all sorts of theatrical and TV stuff. Being the daughter of an actor and a costumier made for an 'interesting' childhood. I spent much of it in theatres, at TV studios and learned that all the 'magic' was imaginary.

In theatres I met Placido Domingo, and watched Rudolf Nuriyev dance. I was, in many ways, very lucky to have this extraordinary artistic upbringing. In other ways - it was not so good. But hey, I've got some stories to tell out of it all.

I have a photo of my aunt and my mother dressed as flies - and also my aunt as a Robin (a suit which was later worn by Eric Morcambe, a famous - and now dead - British comedian). Mum used to make plaster casts of different features for full facial masks (such as Patrick McNee for the Many Faces of Steed), imaginary creatures (she'd create the face/monster desired out of clay first), to single features ... for many years we had a plaster cast of Marty Feldman's nose.

I remember my mum's work stuff all over the house - large sheets of foam rubber, tubs of latex, pins everywhere (my mother still sheds pins like a dog does hair), and sequins on just about everything. She also used to work on children's productions of David Wood stories, like the Gingerbread Man and the Owl and the Pussycat. I remember on a day off from school having to take a train down to Basildon because she'd forgotten the Cuckoo's beak and glasses. I also remember a large plum pudding costume made with wicker sticks forming an enormous frame and then covered in sparkly purplish material - the sort that would make you a very nice evening dress, but not in that shape.

I need to interview mum and get some of her stories down, not just for posterity, but for entertainment.

Saturday, May 06, 2006

A drake's Tale - a very short story

Drake sat in the rain. He felt low and dejected. He felt as if all the progress he’d made was wasted – a pointless effort. No matter how hard he tried, he just seemed to end up back where he started.

He looked up at the dull English sky and shook himself. “Time for a change,” he thought. What may have been a sigh whispered into the air. A light breeze was picking up but he forged on, never quite defeated no matter how hard his trials became.

The rain set the trees to shivering, and the drops they shed plashed into the rushing waters. “Why,” Drake thought to himself, “do humans actually think ducks love the rain?” And he paddled on, upstream, to the shelter of the reeds.

Writers circle

I have found a wonderful form - mywriterscircle.com - full of people who love to write and who offer support and advice, and ask it too. All round the world we exist - the great unpublished (great being the collective noun, rather than the descriptive). Writing is addictive - I need to write to express all sorts of things I find. Emotion, especially, is an excellent thing to express in the written form. An inspiration - just what I needed to get me writing properly again. Yeeha!

Wednesday, May 03, 2006

Leading questions

Phew! Got out of work and went straight to pick daughter up from horseriding. Dropped her home and then straight to the school to do my Parent/Teachers chair bit. Why do I do this to myself?

The answers are not as simple as 'I want to help the school' or 'to meet other parents' - I can do those in lots of ways. One of the things I want to do is test my leadership skills.

I am having coaching at work about leadership - it's the stumbling block I think that stops me progressing from being a marketing generalist to being a director. Well, partly.

But leadership - a question to ponder. Do I lead already? Well, yes. I lead my own little team at work (in an ad hoc sort of way - they do not work for me directly) and I lead at the PTA, and I sort of lead in the band sometimes. Not the one I'm in with B so much - he's too much of a control freak to let me 'lead' - but I will take the lead if he lets it loose (sometimes he does just to see what happens - is it ego? is it a genuine reluctance to always be controlling things? who knows! he probably doesn't himself).

I know I can lead - I have the inclination and the ability - but it's the opportunity. When it's there I don't always take it. Sometimes I take it when I shouldn't. How on earth do you learn 'the right time'? Practice I guess. I'm good at realising that was the 'wrong thing to do/say' after the event, but not so good at knowing beforehand when to keep my mouth shut.

Ah well - maybe that's why working solo as a musician is fun - I've only myself to blame, to take to task and to share in any glory. Hmmm... but I'm a team player at heart. I don't like working on my own particularly.

Leadership - my boss goes on about being 'authentic' - and my natural authentic self is a bit light-hearted and has a bad sense of humour, but cares about other people and is good at seeing all sides of an argument whilst quite happy to fight for my own point of view where I believe in it strongly enough. But being 'me' doesn't seem to work - there's an insecurity I guess that makes me think something but not say it in case I get shot down, and a naievity that means I open my mouth and out hops the funny play on words before I think about how I then seem to other people.

Why would people want to follow me? That's another question my boss asks - tells us we should ask. Hmm. One to ponder.

There's loads of stuff on leadership and every week new research, new ideas, new theories and models. But it's about how you feel inside and then acting according to your true values. Oh dear, am I destined to be the comedian, not the straight man? I have to work on it - balance my natural inclination to humour with my ambition to progress and to lead and manage other people. What a challenge. Now, how about the ironing...

Monday, May 01, 2006

Wild and Willy

Not a typo - I mean wild and Willy, not wild and wooly. This weekend I supported "Wild Willy Barrett" at a music club. It was ... interesting! Extraordinary musicianship (he had a distinctly flamenco guitar style) and interesting choice of music (bluegrass/country/folk/Irish). A weird combination. He had a cellist and a uillean (sp?) piper with him, both of whom also played the harmonium. All in all - a very entertaining evening. A good sense of humour, laid back, nice on-stage atmosphere and the audience (one of my favourites) was really appreciative. Not only did they love Willy and his gang (whom they had come specially to see) but they were nice to me too. And they sang for me - one song I do has to have audience participation or, as I succinctly put it "look a right tit". They wouldn't do that to me - they sang for me. That's what I love about acoustic music - the audience is so much part of the game.

Today I went to a fair in Reach, near Cambridge. I didn't play music - a nice change! I spent £1 on the tombola (no win) and £8.50 on three crepes (daylight robbery I'm telling ya!). I chatted to the knights in armour (Swords of Chivalry) and wandered around with the family. Best bit? The lovely Suffolk cider in the pub.