The Real Deal

Colin Lipsedge had been fascinated by coins since he was a child. He couldn’t explain why. He just loved the way they felt, and their metallic smell. He knew people thought he was strange. He had heard them talking in the office, but pretended not to notice. He stared at his computer screen, wishing five o’clock would come, so he could go home and look at his collection.

The coins gave him a comfort that nothing else could. He would spend hours sorting them into categories by their size, colour, date, country and denomination. His dream was to one day own a gold one. A Victorian sovereign, perhaps.

But there was one old coin in his collection he couldn’t categorise. It was silver-coloured and the size of a shilling, but its markings were like nothing he had ever seen before. He would turn it over and over, peering at it under a magnifying glass, trying to decipher the date and inscription. He trawled through books about coins and searched the internet, but without success. There had to be someone out there who knew what it was.

One evening after work, Colin decided he was going to find out about the coin once and for all. He took the coin from its plastic pocket and washed it in warm soapy water, patting it dry with a towel. He placed it carefully on a blue velvet cushion and photographed it, first one side, then the other. He uploaded the pictures on to his laptop.

“Can anyone help me identify my coin?” he typed, on his coin collectors’ forum. “I found it on the beach a year ago and would love to know what it is and if it’s worth anything.”

The next morning Colin went to work as usual. By ten o’clock he could stand it no longer. He had to check the site to see if anyone had replied to his message. His heart leapt when he saw the posting.

 “Hello, Colin,” it said. “Your coin is a Spanish Felipe Real from the 16^th Century. It probably came from the Juan de Flores, which sank off the coast of Britain in 1588. It’s a rare find ...”

There was more. Colin scrolled down.

“ ... if genuine, it could fetch around £3,000,000 at auction.”

Colin could hardly believe what he was seeing. £3,000,000! He could feel his palms beginning to sweat.

             “All right there, Colin?” It was Simon Highworthy, the office joker. “You look a bit flushed. Not coming down with anything are you?”

             “Now you come to mention it, I do feel a bit peaky. Think I might knock off early.”

Colin switched off his computer, pulled his jacket on and headed straight for the door.

             “Something you said?” said Marcus Hackman, his colleague.

             “Not guilty, yer honour,” said Simon.

As soon as Colin got home he logged on to his laptop. There it was in black and white on his screen: £3,000,000. He sat back in his chair and began to daydream about what he could do with all that money. He pictured himself walking into his boss’s office the next morning and handing in his notice. He could see the look on Simon’s and Marcus’s faces, as he told them he wasn’t coming back.

But then a thought occurred to him: suppose the coin was a fake? He typed in the question. Seconds later a reply popped up: “I would need to look at it more closely. Can we meet?”

They arranged to meet that evening at the Hilton. Colin wrapped his coin carefully in tissue paper and put it in the inside pocket of his jacket, which he zipped up to his neck.

He went into the hotel bar as arranged and ordered a pint of beer. He settled himself down on a bar stool, sipped at his beer, and waited.

            “Hi, Colin!” came a voice from behind him. Colin swung round. It was Simon.

            “You!” said Colin. “I might have known.”

            “Come on, mate. That’s no way to greet your favourite colleague!”

            “Okay. You win,” said Colin, draining his glass. “I really fell for it this time.”

            “What are you talking about, mate?”

            “You know very well what I mean.”

            “Can’t a man enjoy a quiet drink after work?”

            “Hmmph.”

            “Come on, let me buy you another pint. Hey, wait a minute - aren’t you supposed to be ill? Oh, I get it – you pulled a sickie, didn’t you?”

“You could say that.”

“Look, Colin. I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye, but maybe we should call a truce. Half the time it’s Marcus egging me on.”

“You can’t blame it all on him.”

“No you’re right. Come on, let’s shake hands and put it all behind us.”

Colin reluctantly agreed. They finished their drinks and went their separate ways.

On his walk home Colin cursed himself. How could he have been so stupid? He’d really fallen for it this time. He decided to take a longer route home. He needed to clear his head. The route took him over an old bridge, with a river flowing beneath it.

He took the coin from his pocket, unwrapped it and flung it in the river. No one was ever going to make a fool of him like that again.

It was getting dark when he finally got home. He logged on to the coin forum. There was a message waiting for him.

“Sorry I missed you, Colin,” it said. “My car broke down, so I never made it to the hotel. I tried to phone but the battery ran out. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I asked a collector friend for a second opinion. He’s an expert in old Spanish coins. He says he can see from the photo that your coin’s the real deal. You’ve hit the jackpot, my friend.”

Lesser Mouse-deer

Tiny creature!

Delicate and defenceless

You foraged in the undergrowth

Alert to the sounds of the forest

You quivered with life, and fear of predators

Your tiny hooves tap-tap-tapping on the forest floor,
a warning to others

What chance did you have against them, their teeth and claws?

Minute ruminant!

Captive in your glass prison

A tableau of nature in imitation

With eyes lifeless and unseeing

You captivated me

Old Thatch - A Memoir

I remember lazy summer holidays at my grandmother’s house, a seventeenth century thatched cottage nestled deep in a lush valley in the heart of the Oxfordshire countryside. The cottage was quaintly lopsided, and so small and squat that my father, not a particularly tall man, had to bend over to avoid banging his head on the low beams. The straw eaves drooped over the windows like bushy eyebrows, and among the sheaves lurked a myriad of creepy crawlies, far bigger and more menacing than anything I’d ever seen in my comparatively modern Victorian semi on the east coast of Scotland.

My grandmother was a stout, robust woman. She had strong forearms made thick from decades of beating eggs, whipping cream, chopping mint and kneading dough. I only ever saw her wear one item of clothing, a blue and white nylon housecoat with two deep pockets on the front where she kept an endless supply of paper tissues for mopping up tears and spilt tea. Her hair was white with a bluish tint and it hung in large soft curls around her lined face. She was a fierce woman who believed in hard work, strong tea and no nonsense. She’d been divorced from my grandfather for many years, but she wasn’t lonely. She had a constant companion in the form of her precious corgi Kim, who waddled along faithfully at her feet. The two were inseparable – she referred to Kim as her ‘little man’ and was always spoiling him with titbits.

Like many of her generation, my grandmother was a great admirer of the Royal family. I later learned that her father, my great grandfather, was a butler at the ‘Big House’ – not Buckingham Palace, but the stately home that stood majestically above the village, where the ‘Major’, the owner of the land, lived. It was to the Major and his family whom my grandmother and her family before her paid rent, going back to the seventeenth century when the cottage was built. As a butler for the Major, my great grandfather had many stories to tell and the most memorable one was that when a certain member of the Royal family came to stay at the Major’s house, ‘she wiped her feet on the doormat and wiped the smile off her face’. So the story went. It was one of many anecdotes my grandmother loved to tell us over and over again.

Appearances were everything to my grandmother. She was fiercely proud of her little house and she worked hard to tend the immaculate lawns and flower beds. Of course, the front of the house was the part that everyone could see, so she spent the most time on it. It had a white front door that was always freshly painted, with a black door knocker and handle. Pink clematis grew in a pretty arc around the doorway, and in the summer, rose trees, lupins and tulips stood guard on either side like colourful soldiers on parade.

To make sure the facade stayed pristine, my grandmother kept the front door locked and we accessed the cottage by going around the back, via a white wooden gate at the side. A winding path led round to the back door, which opened into the kitchen. Inside, the floors were made of flagstones, worn smooth in places into gentle furrows by generations of busy feet coming and going over the threshold.

A little way to the left of the back door was a magnificent weeping willow tree. I remember how its leafy branches swayed and whispered gently in the breeze. On scorching summer days we’d strip off and give each other cold showers with a watering can under its cool canopy of pale green leaves.

The path carried on past the willow tree and down between two halves of a large pristine lawn that was mown into neat rows. The path eventually came to a wooden gate under a magical arch of privet hedge, which led to the vegetable garden. Beyond the abundant vegetable garden was a trickling brook where we never dared to venture for reasons that I still can’t fathom. Some sixth sense told us that we mustn’t go there. We often heard our grandmother tell stories of how the local gentry rode their horses at full gallop through the land, churning up the vegetable patches, in pursuit of some unfortunate fox that would be ripped to pieces by their baying pack of hounds. My mother told us that as a child out playing, she might be ordered to hold the gate open by the ‘toffs’ on horseback so they could ride through the garden unhindered, and they’d sometimes throw her a penny for her trouble.

I remember helping my grandmother pick and prepare the vegetables for Sunday lunch. My sisters and I would sit cross-legged on the lawn by the back door, shelling peas and broad beans into a colander. The temptation to pop the delicious vegetables into our mouths was impossible to resist. Or we’d have the job of scraping the skins from baby new potatoes, some as small as marbles, the skins melting away under our fingers. I remember their fresh, earthy smell. Then we’d pick some fresh mint and my grandmother would take the aromatic leaves into the kitchen to make mint-sauce. She would chop vigorously with a large knife on a wooden board with short, sharp, expert movements, first one way, then the other, before adding the vinegar. The smell of fresh mint always takes me back to that time and place.

After that we all deserved a rest, so we’d go to the dank little shed at the bottom of the garden where spiders and beetles lurked, and pull out some old faded deck chairs covered in cobwebs. We’d shake the chairs out and unfold them on the lawn to dry in the sun, then we’d doze to the sound of bumblebees humming round the foxgloves and honeysuckle. Then, with a delicious clinking of fine bone china, my grandmother would bring us a tray of tea and home-made fruit cake, still warm from the oven. The sudden arrival of bluebottles was a sign there was a thunderstorm coming, and sure enough the sky would blacken and the heavens open, so we’d snap up the deck chairs and retreat to the coolness of the cottage, where we’d flop down in armchairs and doze again to the hollow ticking of the cuckoo clock.

Sometimes we would peer through the latticed windows out on to the village green, where tourists often stopped to take photographs of the cottage’s quaint facade. Almost half a century later, with my grandmother long gone and someone else living in the cottage, I stood on that same spot on the village green and took photographs myself. I still occasionally catch glimpses of the cottage on calendars, postcards, jigsaw puzzles and birthday cards, and my childhood memories are stirred once again.

In the evening after supper, my sisters and I would climb up the tiny spiral staircase to bed, and lie awake under stiff white sheets, too excited to sleep, alert to every creak of the floorboards, imagining ghosts coming through the cracks in the plaster. There was no toilet in the house, so if we needed to go during the night, we either went in the enamel chamber pot under the bed, or we took a torch and ventured down to the bottom of the garden for what seemed like miles to the smelly little shed, where unspeakable horrors lurked in the darkness.

In the morning we awoke to the sound of a cock crowing, and the smell of bacon and eggs frying. The bacon came from locally reared pigs. My grandmother would have the ‘wireless’ tuned to Radio 2 and the kitchen door standing open with the sun already streaming in. A slight haze hanging over the valley was a sure sign it would be another perfect summer’s day.­­

Sometimes, with my mother and father away on some mysterious errand, my grandmother would take me and my sisters for a picnic on Cow Hill. My grandmother would prepare a basket and we would skip down to the bottom of the lane and swing on the wooden gate at the entrance to the field. Then we’d run up to the top of the hill to find a spot amongst the thistles. We’d spread out a red checked table cloth and settle down to eat hard boiled eggs, home-grown tomatoes and Melton Mowbray pork pies, washed down with locally made cider. My mother often told us stories of how, as a child, her favourite place was Cow Hill, and she would sometimes go there alone to escape the boredom of village life and dream of getting away from the countryside and living the life of a Hollywood film star.

Back home in Scotland, if we ever had trouble sleeping, my sisters and I would conjure up in our minds an image of our grandmother’s little cottage with its lawns and flower beds, and the whispering of the breeze in the branches of the willow tree. The memory was enough to lull us into a deep and blissful sleep.

Weather Report

I like wet days. No one can see my tears. The darkness of a stormy sky comforts me beyond words. I welcome it with open arms and wrap it around myself like a blanket. Sunny days are the worst. On sunny days, all I can do is look out of the window and watch the kids playing in the park below, like worry dolls in the distance. Their mothers watch over them the way I used to with Wee Frankie. Life seemed easier in those days. The other mums envied me because I had Frank. Everyone loved Frank.

When I first met Frank he had a kind of glow about him, a charm that no one could resist, and I fell for his crooked smile hook, line and sinker. But looking back I suppose I should have seen the signs. I thought it was sweet that he wanted me to stop seeing my friends after we were married. It proved he cared about me. I had a husband, and that was all that mattered.

At first, everything was blissful, just me and Frank in our own little bubble. But then he started demanding that his dinner was ready the minute he came in from work. I could understand that – he’d been hard at work all day and he was hungry. But then he would wolf it down without saying a word. I would try to make conversation, but I may as well have been invisible. Then when he was finished he’d go upstairs to wash and change, then go straight back out to the pub.

Later, he’d come home stinking of smoke and beer. When he stumbled into the bedroom I pretended to be asleep, but he didn’t care if he disturbed me. He’d put the light on and make a racket pulling off his boots, letting them fall to the floor with a thud. Then I would hear him take off his leather belt, coil it around his hand, and place it carefully on the bedside table next to me. It was a reminder of his power over me.

When Wee Frankie came along, Frank’s threats stopped for a while and I kidded myself we were happy. Frank loved playing with Wee Frankie, bouncing him on his knee, telling him he’d be a prizefighter one day. Then one evening, Frank came home late from work. I’d put his dinner on the table as usual but I’d been so busy with Wee Frankie that I forgot about it and let it go cold. When he took a mouthful and realised it was cold, he threw his knife and fork down with such a clatter that it woke Wee Frankie up, and I’d only just got him off to sleep. Frank was ranting and raving, saying what a useless lump of a wife I was. He said he should never have married me, that I was a pathetic waste of space. From then on things just got worse. I was walking on eggshells the whole time, afraid to say the wrong thing. Sometimes he would put his hands on his belt just to remind me who was in charge.

So I concocted a plan. I squirreled away some money and kept it hidden in my bra. He’d never find it there. I managed to save just enough for the bus fare out of town and a month’s rent. Then one morning, after he’d left for work, I threw a few things in a bag, bundled Wee Frankie up in a blanket and made my escape. My heart was pounding as I waited at the bus stop, praying that no one would see us. At last the bus came and as we left town I breathed a huge sigh of relief. He’d never catch us now.

And here is where we made our home, on the top floor of this tower block, just me and Wee Frankie in our own little place. It felt like paradise for a while. Then the lift started breaking down and no one bothered to repair it, or clean off the graffiti. Then I got arthritis and couldn’t take the stairs anymore. And when Wee Frankie left school he got in with a bad crowd. He turned out just like his dad, always spoiling for a fight. In the end it was to be the death of him. But I’m not alone any more. I have the darkness. And Frank’s belt coiled on the bedside table.

The Visitor

This used to be a good neighbourhood. People knew each other and helped each other out. But now I look over my shoulder every time I put my key in the door, afraid there’s someone behind me. Where’s my purse? My hand reaches into my handbag and checks. Still there. It’s crazy having to live like this.

I push open the door. A young couple rush past me on their way out. They hardly notice me. They’re only concerned about themselves and their own plans. They jump into a bashed old car which screeches as it pulls off, leaving a smell of burning rubber.

Only two flights to go. These stairs get steeper every time. They haven’t been cleaned in years, not since Mrs Benton died. She used to clean them every Saturday; now nobody bothers. And it’s too much for me, with my back the way it is.

The front door slams below. Then heavy footsteps in the passage. People are always coming and going but I couldn’t tell you who they are.

At last I reach the door to my apartment. I put the small key in the Yale lock, turn it once to the right, then unlock the top and bottom mortise locks. I’m in.

It’s funny – I think to myself, as I push the door closed behind me – I always dreamed I would live in a pretty cottage in the country, just like my grandmother’s, with clematis growing round the door and a garden that stretches as far as you can see. But here I am in a dirty tenement in a dirty city with dirty streets and a beggar on every corner. Why did it have to happen like this?

I put down my shopping bags and throw my coat over a chair. Through the window I can see storm clouds gathering.

Suddenly I hear footsteps on the landing and I remember I haven’t locked the door. I quickly pull the bolt across and the footsteps stop. I look in terror as my door handle slowly turns. I grab my bunch of keys from the worktop and swiftly turn them in the two mortise locks: first the top, then the bottom. The locks clunk reassuringly. I hold my breath and pick up the phone, my heart pounding. He’s here again.

A true story

I graduated with a degree in Fine Art in 1985. In the summer of that year I rented a shop in the village of Aberdour in Fife. I used the back part of the shop as a studio and the front part as a gallery, where I displayed my pastel drawings and oil paintings. Aberdour was a quiet village. Not many people came into the shop and I was struggling to pay the rent. A few people wandered in to have a look, and I would chat to them, grateful for the company. I remember the feeling of elation when someone actually bought a piece of my work. There is no feeling like it.

There was one painting in particular that proved very popular: a girl in a vermilion dress stands on the beach, her long brown hair whipped up by the wind. Her back to the viewer, she looks out wistfully towards the horizon. Dark grey storm clouds are brewing, and the sea water forms little reflective pools in the ochre sand around her feet.

Someone bought the painting as soon as it went on show, and many visitors admired it. I proudly put a red dot in the corner to show that it had been sold. Unfortunately I can't remember who bought it. If you are reading this, and it was you, please let me know! I would love you to get in touch! Perhaps you could send me a photograph of the painting, if you still have it!

Anyway, one day a scruffy man with black curly hair and horn-rimmed glasses came into the gallery. He was probably in his mid thirties and spoke with a Fife accent. He made a bee-line for the painting and peered very closely at it.

"That one's been sold," I said proudly.

He said nothing. He just kept peering at the painting.

"A lot of people have admired it," I said. "I could have sold it a million times over."

"Well, why don't you paint more of the same?" asked the man.

I simply laughed. No artist worth their salt would paint the same thing over and over again, simply because it was popular!

"Then you'll never make it," he said.

He peered at the painting for a few minutes longer and sauntered out of the shop. I never saw him again.

Some years later I read in the national papers about a self-taught painter from Fife whose first exhibition had been a sell-out ...