Sausages or Sticks

By Diney Bindman

A warm debut novel from a new author who follows the lives of a seemingly normal, happy family living in rural Northumberland whose comfy world is disrupted by bereavement and betrayal. The novel traces Isabella's leap of faith from dependent young wife to strong and sexually confident young mother. Along the way to retrieving her self esteem, she has to face turbulent waters as truths are revealed about her family which drag her out of her previously cacooned world where she was hermetically sealed by the love of a man she trusted completely. From an unwordly, dependent young woman, Isabella finds that life sucks and it's no good just sitting back and letting it get the better of you. And being confident with who you are is paramount to surviving in this world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AUK Authors
• Release date: Jun 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9781849891417

Book preview

EVER!

Chapter 1

The swaying sunflowers of Gascony radiated a warm welcome of saffron some months before it all happened, nodding their sanguine approval at the three as they swept along the challengingly rural roads in their hired Renault. It was their first day on holiday, and Isabella felt a buzz of exhilaration at driving abroad, to say nothing of using a left hand drive. Now that she was able to - albeit precariously - gauge her distance to overtake parked cars in the narrow village streets without noisily thwacking their wing mirrors, she joined in the family sing song feeling strangely liberated and carefree. Even Georgia, irascibly unplugged from the thudding beat of her own preferred music, now sang along zealously to Simon’s ‘Lion King’ cd. Grungy black clothes had been temporarily renounced, and Isabella was comfortably smug with how easy it had been to cajole rather than dragoon her step daughter into a pair of cute denim shorts. She refused to part with the hideous stack-heeled trainers with coloured laces even though they made her clomp clumsily rather than her preferred sashay, but at least her legs were able to see sunlight for the first time in months.

‘Hey! Look, you two!’ Simon shrieked with the unsuppressed excitement of any nine year old on holiday, ‘that looks like it! Over there, look! It’s mint!’

He jabbed a sticky green finger towards a group of whitewashed buildings clustered attractively just beyond a small apple orchard which was generously proffering armfuls of green and bronzed fruit, his beaming face pressed up against the car window.

‘The apartments, just like we saw in the thingy’

‘The brochure, noodle!’ conceded Georgia, trying to mask her own, slightly more mature holiday excitement. ‘And what’s that gross stuff on your finger, dork?’

Simon ignored his sister’s customary bossiness but licked the remainder of the Fizz Wiz popping candy from his fingers.

‘I can see the pool - it’s wicked! Mint...look! ’ Simon was at fever pitch and rising. It could have been an excess of E numbers, it was hard to tell.

It had been a bit scary having Mum driving instead of Dad, as she kept banging the car into something hard which had made a mega loud noise, and he had heard her muttering a naughty rude word each time it happened. He knew it was a naughty word because his friend Josh had an older brother who said it. He pretended that he hadn’t heard her swearing, although it had made him want to giggle, but he had just kept his head down with his game boy, not even daring to glance at his sister. He was glad they had arrived in one piece.

Isabella was extremely relieved too, after her perilous drive, and optimistically manoeuvred their car into the neatly gravelled driveway which concealed no parked cars with wing mirrors, winding gently past the orchard to the paved courtyard around which various apartments and small cottages were arranged in a ‘u’ shape, as if warmly embracing the guests.

‘Here we are guys, home for the next week! Let’s go in and have a peek’.

Isabella hugged an indulgent smile to herself and hoped it was as nice inside as it had sounded in the ‘thingy’.

Their apartment, on closer appraisal, was part of a 20th century farm which had been given a basic slick of white paint over unevenly plastered walls in a fussy attempt to make it look more authentically rustic, with random daubs of wobbly stencil work portraying naff baskets of fruit. It had been advertised as ‘modern yet graceful and sophisticated luxury, basking in the history of Gascony’, but sadly it didn’t look as welcoming or luxurious as she had anticipated. There were signs of damp by the windows, plus there was a large, black spider with a corpulent body lurking ominously in the corner of her heavily pseudo- beamed bedroom. She would have to heave her bed away from the wall and check underneath before she could even contemplate sleeping there. If there was one resident then it was bound to have relatives living nearby, perhaps even larger, older and blacker ones. She shuddered and her skin felt itchy at the mere thought of one touching her. The ones at home knew they weren’t welcome as she had them humanely removed to the bottom of the garden, if Jack or Bunty were available, or else she dropped the Chronicles of the Second World War on them if she had to cope with the crisis alone.

Struggling to lift the suitcases from the car to the apartment, with Georgia giving a less than half-hearted hand, they dragged the sinking wheels over the gravel to the paved courtyard. Simon tried valiantly to be helpful, in an on-going effort to please his Mum, but made the manoeuvre more difficult by fooling around, trying to sit on the case to hitch a ride.

‘Get off you little toe rag’, hissed his sister. He really could be a major pain in the butt, and she wanted to sit down in the house and listen to some of her own music now, in peace. She had done her nice big sister bit for the day.

Sweeping a mass of reddish waves back from her face with pale, lightly freckled fingers, Isabella peevishly began the task of settling her family into their home for the next week. She really wanted to put her feet up as well, having observed that Georgia was now doing just that, and watch someone else do all the work for her, as Georgia was also now doing, but reminded herself that she was purportedly a mature, grown up woman, a mother for goodness’ sake, and this was what mature, grown up mothers did - get on with the business of mothering on a strictly no-moan basis.

Think straight, woman, think! Make a mental list of what needs to be done and just do it!

She sighed. This independence lark wasn’t going to be much fun until she got a grip - menacing spiders and driving shakily on the wrong side of the road might just be the beginning of unwelcome challenges set to spoil her holiday euphoria. But she was on her own now, so it was up to her.

‘Rats, Jack, why couldn’t you have made the time to come with us,’ Isabella muttered, with a whiff of peck lip permeating the air. Jack had excused himself from joining them at the last moment, giving his deadline as the reason for his absence. Jack would have sorted them all out with annoying zest, being a skilled organizer, incredibly tidy, a man who loved to get things done straight away. The problem for Isabella, although she didn’t see it as one, was that she needed Jack, or else her Mother, to motivate her into being pro active, or merely to be active rather than merely laid back, and she was quite happy and content to be led, nurtured, protected and loved. But this was going to be a different week’s holiday for the three of them and, as a temporary single parent, she was determined to enjoy the heady novelty of being in charge, to control the purse strings, to call the tune. At home it was Jack who hogged the remote control of life - in everyone else’s best interests, he would maintain, without a hint of irony.

Her mood lifted and she began her task systematically at first then, chuckling mischievously to herself, in a more higgledy piggeldly, random fashion, eventually resorting to slinging her colourful array of holiday clothes into a small wooden chest of drawers in the room she knew she would probably share with Simon. He still loved having a snuggle and was secretly planning to creep from his bedroom, which he was to share with Georgia, into Mum’s bed every night whilst Dad wasn’t around to disapprove, ‘cos he thought nine year olds should be ‘over that nonsense’.

Georgia, who had been only just seven when Isabella finally became her step mother, five years after her biological mother had left them, had never been as demonstrative. She adored her father with pure filial devotion. She loved Isabella too, but nowadays it was on different terms, with all the gauche surliness imbued by truculent teenagerdom. She had made herself at home already, and was sprawled over a squidgy, brightly covered armchair, her long, swinging legs lost now in the folds of a black fringed skirt, small feet still clad in those black clumpy shoes with red and white laces, her eyes closed in the private pleasure of thumping rock music from her headphones. She felt spiteful for not helping, and she was going to (soon), but something perverse inside made her delay just a bit longer.

Despite the lack of help from her children, they quickly became quite happily ensconced in their little apartment, just 17 kilometres from a town called, to Simon’s continued delight, Condom. It was decided by mutual agreement to go there for lunch, to buy some postcards with Condom written on the front. Isabella couldn’t help thinking that Jack would disapprove, but she felt deliciously free to make her own decisions for a change

Already they had trooped to the local supermarket and bought enough supplies to last them for the week, although they intended eating out locally. Isabella had ceremoniously removed from the fridge the sadly emaciated chicken which had been left as their arrival supper by Madame, and dropped it in the bin. It was almost unseemly to waste food, but it had to be done. She was in charge, and the flaccid bird had to go. It was a challenge to her temporary autonomy, obscenely lying there, scrawny and naked, waiting to be cooked. The sight of it was almost enough to turn her into a vegetarian, but Jack was an inveterate carnivore who liked his rib eye or steak tartar, though it made Isabella nearly retch to prepare it for him. And now sushi was his latest fad, so it would be a lost cause to introduce tofu and lentils into his diet. She had bought some pancetta once, in a moment of rebellion, but hadn’t been quite sure what to do with it so had plonked it on top of the Sunday roast chicken instead of bacon, and it had tasted like greasy slabs of cardboard. As far as Isabella was concerned, she would be quite happy to exist on a diet of pasta and kitkats, with the occasional apple to show willing, but she knew that she had to be boringly sensible and keep herself and her family on a healthy diet.

Except on holiday, and especially when Jack wasn’t there to be quietly - yet overtly - critical. He had an irksome habit of obtrusively raising one quizzical eyebrow in disapproval of many of the actions of his vivacious young wife. She loved him, but that patronising look drove her mad.

‘Jack would definitely disapprove such profligacy’, Isabella thought, as she heard the bird thud in the bin, but it was a passing discomfort which was tinged with an almost juvenile guilty pleasure.

Being in charge of a new kitchen on holiday is always refreshing, but to be in total control was verging on megalomania for her. Before setting off for Condom she had looked gleefully at the calorie laden, creamy ice cream tubs containing such indulgent delights as chocolate cookie dough, blueberry, and strawberry marshmallow flavours. She sniffed the softly delicious tang of creamy cheeses, and admired the shiny sun-ripened tomatoes on the vine, sweetly fragrant melon, and lush greengages and apples which they had picked from the trees in the surrounding orchard, all of which now nestled securely in the fridge, where the unappetising bird had lain before. There were two jumbo packets of kettle crisps to nibble on once the fruit was finished, or maybe to supplement the effect the fruit had on the appetite. Except when she had those inevitable fat days when nothing could help the self-loathing except eating fruit all day, just for one day, to raise self esteem. The key to her self consciousness was that she felt cheated at being born with sausagey legs, as her first boyfriend had brutishly called them.

‘Not fat Cumberland sausages’, the cocky, undiplomatic fifteen year old had elaborated, ‘more your average pork and beef link, but they haven’t much shape to them, have they’?

He had sniggered, unaware of the life long impact his words would have. Isabella had never forgiven him for this insensitive remark, although she had laughed like a drain with him at the time, and ever since with others, but only Jack really understood what a barrier they were to her positive body image. She thought it universally unfair that, given the choice of a girl with sausagey legs and a pretty passable face or a girl with a plain face that required a paper bag stuck over it but with stick-thin legs, men would, sadly, reject the sausages for the sticks.

There were also two huge slabs of chocolate in the fridge, which she thought she may share with the children, perhaps....if she chose to be generous later on. It was a good instrument of bribery, anyway.

Chapter 2

Isabella and Georgia observed with amusement as Simon hesitatingly wrote a Condom postcard to his Gran, as they sat watching the world go by whilst waiting for their lunch.

‘How d’you spell peeve?’ His tongue was poking out of his mouth with concentration.

‘What on earth are you saying to her?’

‘We’re staying in a C..o..n..d..o...m in France and it’s mint’... he began, but stopped in the tracks of his mother’s icy glance, which meant certain death if he continued.

‘I was just peeving you off’, he smiled widely, but Georgia grabbed the card from his chubby brown hand and gave it to Isabella for censorship.

Isabella, enjoying the warmth of the sun and the family banter, vaguely noticed the other tables in the street cafe were now filling up, as weary shoppers and sightseers sought refuge from the stifling heat of the day to enjoy a cool bottle of refreshing water, or to sip some local wine and rest their tired feet.

The blue and white checked tablecloths looked crisp and welcoming, and their table was soon laden with crusty warm bread that melted in the mouth and a fragrant beef casserole cooked in red wine with thyme and garlic served with a random flourish of curly red and green fronds of designer lettuce. In the absence of an English menu, Isabella was frivolously tickled at how easy it had been to communicate with the non English-speaking waiter, without the benefit - or hindrance - of Jack’s tri-lingual expertise, using a mixture of her staccato schoolgirl French, Georgia’s decent but giggly effort, better than Isabella’s, some expansive facial and hand gestures from them both, together with interesting sound effects from Simon to enhance the picture. As the three tucked in hungrily, with even Simon remarking that it tasted ‘mint’, Isabella continued people-watching with renewed interest as a fair haired man, possibly in his early thirties, quite broad in build and strikingly handsome, politely held back a chair for his companion.

It was really the woman who caught Isabella’s main focus of attention at first, remarkable only for her thin, milky white limbs and torso sticking out of a tiny crop top, which made her chest appear concave. Her almost obscenely skeletal face was perched precariously on a neck so thin it looked as though it may snap or bend at any time under the weight, like when Simon moulded a heavy plasticine head onto a model with a plastic straw body. She wore shorts and her legs were bones with skin stretched over and nothing else of substance between. Isabella felt that uncomfortable fascination of voyeurism where you are just compelled to look for fear of missing something unusual, yet anxious not to be seen to stare.

She must have been looking over in their direction for some seconds during their manoeuvre to sit at their table, for the man caught her stare and responded with a polite nod and just the merest hint of a potentially devastating smile. Flushing so much she felt the sweat blossom under her arms, Isabella looked quickly away, took some slow, deep breaths to prevent heated blood giving her pale complexion an unattractive colour clash with her auburn hair (always a problem) and threw herself back into the family conversation, her thoughts an embarrassed scramble.

‘Let’s see how many different words we can think of for you to use, my little chick. Instead of ‘mint’ this and ‘mint’ that, I mean. It shows a lack of imagination to use the same expressions time and again’.

‘Yeah’, agreed his sister, ‘you’re really annoying, you little dork’.

Simon grinned at her, knowing that she didn’t really mean it. She was a bit moody at times but, on the whole, she was an ok sister. Anyway she said ‘dork’ a lot, too.

Isabella thought she would try and divert his attention swiftly away from the looming question about why Condom was a funny name for a town, and why it elicited raised eyebrows and knowing looks from the others. Too late.

‘Mum, what exactly does condom mean?’ Simon suddenly piped up in a voice which was bright and clearly enunciated to most other customers in the café.

‘I mean, I know it’s something rude ‘cos Josh has said it, but I’m not really sure and I don’t want him to know that I don’t know what it means’. Even he was aware of the sharp intake of breath from the amused people at surrounding tables. He looked down, a little embarrassed now. Perhaps he had gone too far in asking. Maybe he would get into big trouble. He chewed at a crust of warm bread with false concentration while listening to the silence around him. There were one or two stifled giggles nearby from other English speaking tourists, and eventually the moment of tangible suspense was broken by his sister.

‘It’s just a very rude name for a - a bag. To put stuff in’, she told him as discretely as possible, eyes brimming with laughter.

‘Yes, and it’s not really a nice word for a little boy to say, thank you Simon’. Isabella’s voice sounded sterner than she felt inside.

‘And certainly never in front of adults, please. As far as we are concerned, Condom is a town in the Armagnac region of France. End of subject’.

That tone of voice definitely brought closure to the topic.

Simon looked up to check that his mum and Georgia hadn’t been too angry, and felt happier when he saw their oddly twinkling eyes. It must be rude, but not too rude. Anyway, how rude could a word for a bag be? He was puzzled even more now, but at least he could tell Josh that he knew what it meant.

‘Come on now little chick, eat up’.

Isabella made a mental note to stop calling her gorgeous son ‘little chick’ so often, before he became humiliated in front of his friends and, worse, told her so. It wouldn’t be long before he reached that stage. And he would then tell her that she was showing a lack of imagination in the way of what goes round comes round.

Sipping again at her chilled wine she clasped onto her hat as she leaned back in her chair and looked up towards the sun to warm her face, eyes closed as she gave herself up to its reassuring rays. She wondered how any parent answered these heavy duty sex questions without giving away too much too soon. Christ! He’s only 9! I’d never even heard of a condom at that age! Still, she felt they had handled it quite well, when all said and done. She saw Jack’s face, one eyebrow arched in disapproval.

What?

Isabella couldn’t be bothered with him. Look, he asked didn’t he? And he needed an answer! Go away, Jack!

She opened her eyes to avoid Jack’s criticism and noticed with approval that both children had finished eating almost everything on their plate. She would encourage them to have fruit for dessert and then they could enjoy an ice cream later. She wanted to laugh out loud - a bag! How had Georgia thought of that one so quickly?! And anyway.... how did she know what a condom was? Her mind began to drift hither and thither, trying to remember if Georgia had asked what a condom was at any time, or if she had discovered it for herself and, if so, how. But it was all too much to contemplate, and the sun was so comforting and enervating that she couldn’t be bothered with her meandering parental thoughts.

However, that guy at the other table was gorgeous and he was looking over in their direction again, catching her eye briefly so that they both looked away abruptly and continued with their private thoughts remaining just so. She shifted in her chair and discreetly jiggled her bottom into a better position for her skirt to fall further over her legs, though it was uncomfortable perching on the edge of the wrought iron chair. Also her thong was now digging in painfully.

She tried to concentrate on matters in hand at her own table, and enthused in the light hearted family chat but began speaking too quickly, a north eastern tendency which she usually tried to address but her brain didn’t seem to engage. Realising that she was gabbling and others were listening in, she felt stupidly self conscious, flustered and strangely bothered. That man with the skeleton was pretty interesting and she felt bizarrely compelled to look at him again, and yet she couldn’t move her eyes in his direction as she knew that he was watching her and enjoying their family conversation.

Hey, you two, what do you say we go swimming this afternoon? Good idea?

Her young holiday companions looked mildly surprised at Isabella’s cheerful but random banter as they had been in the middle of a vociferous discussion about how wonderful (Georgia) or how geekish (Simon) the late Kurt Cobain’s music was. Georgia believed in keeping Simon in the loop with her more mature tastes.

Isabella felt sure that the couple were now both staring at her, probably drawn to her fat legs or perhaps her ridiculous hat, and that his little gesture of acknowledgement had been his way of making fun of her and her sausages. Perhaps she was still showing too much of her horrible fat knees in this skirt. She shifted a little more in her seat as she tried to adjust her skirt and make it a little longer.

Mum, why are you wriggling about on the chair? Simon asked in his annoyingly clear voice. He was grinning at her, and sharing the joke with Georgia.

"I’m not -