Out of the Shadow

By Sarah Strangeways

Life is not easy; people struggle.

These stories tell of the lives of very different people and how they deal with their problems. From the out-of-work, living in dingy flats, to the successful-rich, in their multi-million-pound manor-houses, the stories tell of the complexity of human life, even of the nobodies, from the South of England to the North, and across to Latin America. There is an air of ambiguity, and at times of melancholy, in these quite striking tales. They are human, down to earth, and direct.

The author has had stories read on BBC radio 4, and there are others on the internet.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Nov 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9781805147312

Sarah Strangeways

Sarah Strangeways grew up as part of a literary and intellectual family and went on to an education at Bangor University in Wales. Contemporary novels became a background to her life and to her writing. She has had several short stories read on BBC Radio 4 and, currently, there are more of her thought-provoking tales on the internet and in magazines. Her treatment of feelings, emotions and relationships are central in all of her writing. The stress and anxiety of life are recurring themes, softened by humour.

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Copyright © 2023 Sarah Strangeways

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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ISBN 9781805147312

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Contents

1  Lollipop

2  The Still Room

3  The Angel with a Replaced Wing

4  The Botanical Garden

5  The Customer is Always Right

6  Chocolates for the Nurses

7  Dear Susan

8  Jo’s Buttons

9  Linda in Never-Never Land

10  A bit of Wild Life

11  Match Point

12  Nan’s Things

13  Proper Christmas

14  Paul’s Mummy

15  Smack

16  Penny’s Garden

17  Apple Porch

18  Apple Snow

19  Handsome is as Handsome Does

20  Pillar of Society

1

Lollipop

Hi there! I’m Louise and I’m fifty. I’m a happily married wife, mother and grandmother; and the proud possessor of a desirable collection of Caughley. Not merely your everyday common-or-garden blue-and-white plates, but items such as asparagus servers, pickle dishes, egg drainers and tea bowls. They don’t make kitchen cupboards big enough nowadays to accommodate all those eighteenth-century gadgets, do they? They had something for everything in those days! And coffee cans. They’re called cans, mind you. Not cups.

Yes, I’ve got my Caughley. Nothing to look at unless you know; and you can’t appreciate it unless you’re informed about such things…. but what I really want to tell you about is Lollipop.

No – it’s not pronounced Cawley, (as in Cor) but Calf (think of Laugh). Just one of those details you’ve got to grasp if you want to be knowledgeable about such matters. Anyway, as I was saying, my daughter, Susan, is grown up now, and married. She calls in on Sundays with our four little grandsons – or rather, she used to. Her husband? – He doesn’t come. He works – overtime. Dunno – some kind of glorified plumber – something like that. Oh well…. we’d have wished for something better, but never mind! It’s done now. Is she happy? Who knows? What’s happy? The kids drive her mad and she’s up to her elbows in soap suds, but haven’t we all been through it.

Getting back to me. I haven’t really got around to telling you what I want to tell you. I want to tell you about Lollipop. Get her off my chest, you see. I’ve told you some things like my name and about Susan and about the Caughley collection, of course. Haven’t I? Have I?

In case you’ve forgotten, my name is Louise and I’m fifty. I’ve got everything a woman could ask for. People think I’m lucky. I am. Nice husband – I didn’t mention him, did I? He’s a professor. Writing a book. What sort? I don’t know. Well, yes, I do. I hear enough about it. It’s a kind of dictionary of something nobody else ever thought of. Takes some doing. Lots and lots of putting together and organising. Years of work. Nice husband, nice home, a lot of nice things – not to mention the Caughley. I haven’t told you about the house, have I? Well, here goes. The lounge is nice – all antique, sort of, except for the three-piece suite. That wouldn’t be comfy if it was old, would it? But the suite is beautiful and I’ve had it covered with William Morris fabric. The pattern is called The Barren Fruit. The dining suite is Edwardian inlaid mahogany. You know – or perhaps you don’t? A nineteen-hundreds copy of a Regency original; but desirable in itself these days and appreciating rapidly in value. Such fine craftsmanship. (Oh – I sound like an advert, don’t I?) Upstairs we’ve three bedrooms. One for Herbert and the dictionary. One for me. And one for the Caughley.

I’ve got a wardrobe full of pretty clothes as well. I’ve got so much stuff it takes me ages to decide what to put on in the morning. Even then, I’m always changing my mind. It makes me quite anxious, in confidence. I lie awake worrying about it. Silly, isn’t it? And then I never seem to have what I want. That’s why I’m always buying more. Although Herbert doesn’t seem to care one bit. And this is where I ought to start telling you about Lollipop – she’s never satisfied with anything.

Today I’m wearing my mohair heather-mixture two-piece. Very nice. The skirt is lined, of course; there is applique on the front. Just right. Good taste. The trouble is I don’t have a blouse that goes with it – always on the look-out, mind you. But not having the right blouse quite spoils the whole outfit.

Anyway, what have I told you about so far? About the Caughley, the house, about Susan and my clothes. Not too much about the clothes, I hope, because I don’t want to bore you. And I’ve mentioned Herbert and the dictionary, haven’t I? Have I?

Just to recap. My name is Louise and I’m fifty. I’m a lucky woman really. I’ve got my Caughley and I’m proud of it. And I’ve got my Edwardian Inlaid mahogany furniture. Beautiful. There’s even a little writing bureau with a shell motif inlaid in satinwood. And six dining chairs with sort of long tulips set into the back. Art Nouveau. Did you know that expression? It’s French. On the whole Susan and the boys are encouraged to stay on the patio – they can’t do much damage there. Or they are very welcome to sit in the kitchen if it’s cold.

I like nice things, you see. I must have good quality. Have I told you I’ve a silk two-piece for Sundays? Wild silk. It’s the colour of crushed strawberries. I wear it on Sundays because I’m working other days; and Herbert and I don’t go out much. Not that I don’t wear good clothes to work – I do, of course – but not wild silk. That’s why I don’t like Matthew, Mark, Luke or John – those are the grandchildren – coming too close to me. That’s why I don’t pick them up. They’re messy, kids. Well, they are – aren’t they? And I don’t know where Susan got that string of names from, but there you are. John is fifteen months and he’s …dribbly. No – I know they don’t do it to be awkward, but it feels like that, doesn’t it – when one’s got nice things one cares about, like the Morris covers and the Mahogany Inlaid and the Wild Silk. Susan says he’s teething and I expect that’s it. But I don’t care for them eating in our house because everything gets sticky – I know Susan can’t help it.

It’s funny – I just can’t find a blouse that does the Crushed Strawberry Wild Silk Outfit justice. I’ve hunted and hunted. Tried all over the place. Been round the West End and Knightsbridge. One day I’ll find it. Anyway, where have I got to? What have I told you? Not much. My name is Louise and I’m fifty. I’ve told you about the Caughley (sometimes pronounced Cough) and about the Edwardian Inlaid and the Silk. I don’t think I’ve mentioned that, just for the time being, I work a few hours a day in a rather drab store. It isn’t really me at all – I don’t want to sound snobby, but to put it bluntly, it’s beneath me. The other women there – well. They don’t know the first thing about Caughley and Turn-of-the-Century furniture, or anything else of any importance, or culture if it comes to that.

I work, you see – well, to get out of the house, and for the bit of pocket money. Not that Herbert grudges me anything – I can buy what I like. And I do it partly to escape from Lollipop.

The other women there, apart from not appreciating Caughley and antiques generally, they’re not at all friendly. You see, I wear real jewellery that Mother left me. Nine carat gold chains (rose gold) and seed pearls. Garnets. Quality stuff. Antique. I wear them next to my skin because they’re small and they don’t show. But I know they’re there even if you can’t see them. Those other women – in the shop, I mean – they wear gilt necklaces and plastic pearls – ghastly – on the outside of their Polyester blouses. Showy and shiny and – well – common. Atrocious. My things are hidden, but they’re real. Valuable. I only have to touch my neck to know my worth.

But then Lollipop pokes up her head to laugh at me. What’s really real? she asks.

Well, there you are, then. That’s just about it. That’s how things are for me. My name is Louise and I’m fifty. I’m well preserved and well dressed and thinking about tinting my hair. Only thinking, mind you. Not too sure…. I had beautiful black hair when I was young; like a gypsy, Father said.

It was Father who used to call me little Lollipop.

I’ve been trying to get around to telling you. I don’t talk about it to anyone. I mean – I talk about Susan and the boys and the Caughley and the Edwardian mahogany if anybody’s educated enough to be interested. And I talk about Herbert and the dictionary sometimes…

My name is Louise and I’m fifty and when things go wrong – which they don’t often, I must say – it’s always Lollipop’s fault. I know she’s still around. I wish she’d go away. Sounds mad, doesn’t it? That’s why I don’t ever tell anyone about Lollipop.

That’s what Father used to call me, as I said. His own little Lollipop. Lollipop had shining black curls tumbling over her shoulders tied up with red ribbon Father bought.

‘My Goodness – let’s cut it all off and then it’ll keep neat and tidy instead of floating about,’ Mother would sigh. Her hair was short and grey.

But Father and I paid not one scrap of attention to Mother. Lollipop had a lisp and a dimple. A wink and a cuddle. Cute as sugar candy – sweet enough to eat, Father would say.

‘Come to Daddy, dear little Lollipop! Come for a great big bear hug!’ growled Father.

‘Call her Louise. She’s not a baby any longer,’ Mother scolded.

But Father would smile and smile at me with his lovely twinkling blue eyes and all his beautiful white teeth showing; bending right down to my level. We both ignored Mother, Silly old, frumpy old Mother! She was just jealous of pretty little Lollipop….

My name is Louise and I’m fifty and I’m a wife, a mother and a grandmother and I’ve a priceless collection of Caughley and a lounge furnished in William Morris fabric and Edwardian inlaid furniture. My clothes are one-off models – from boutiques not department stores. There can be absolutely nothing wrong – can there?

But it is Lollipop who gets – well, into black moods for no reason at all, and acts naughty and spoiled and strange. It is she who is never satisfied, you see. And it is Lollipop who creeps into Herbert’s room and messes up his notes. She’ll spill ink on them and crumple them and burn them with matches – the notes for his precious dictionary, I mean. Oh, she misses Daddy so….

I think she gets bored with the Caughley at times. I’ve heard her breathe heavily, sort of well – threateningly – like one of those anonymous telephone callers one hears of. Her voice is getting stronger and she seems to be moving in on me and the Caughley. The pickle dishes are so delicate – they’re shaped like vine leaves, you see. Every vein is traced out on the underside. And the fine pointed ends of the leaves and the little stalks would be so easily snapped…

Which one of us gave John that chocolate biscuit and then picked him up so roughly that the chocolate dribbled all over the wild silk crushed strawberry? It must have been her. Because if she hadn’t done that I would never have screamed or hit him so hard that Susan snatched him back. That was last Sunday.

Was it me that screamed and hit him? Or was it her? Did she scream too? I don’t remember…

Susie gave me a terrible look. I can’t forget it. I don’t think they’ll be coming again.

Well – we’ll have Sundays to ourselves in future. Hooray! Because I’ve bought a new outfit to replace the crushed strawberry. That will never be the same again. You can’t clean silk. Not really. Only this time it is pale, palest oyster. I haven’t found the right blouse to go with it. But I will, if it kills me.

Herbert can work on his dictionary all day Sundays now, if he wants to. And I’ll be free to rearrange the Caughley. And I’ll try to forget about Lollipop, now I’ve told you about her. Only her voice is getting louder.

2

The Still Room

Mother used to tell me over and over and over again:

‘The wages of sin are death,’ she’d say.

‘What’s sin?’ I’d ask.

‘Sin’s another word for Naughtiness. Remember what the wages of sin are.’

‘What’s sin? What are wages?’ I’d say.

But she didn’t answer.

That’s why I never left home, you see, I was too afraid of the answers. But it was Mother who collected the wages in the end. Not me.

Yes, I still live here at Rosebank and next door there’s Elm View and on the other side Jessamine Cottage. Then there’s the Willows. No actual willows or elms – but a Beatitude of roses – Mother’s roses. I’ll tell you about them later…

I’ve been all on my own since Mother was …Taken…Taken? Who took her? Jesus, I suppose –whoever he is. Or was it God? Whoever he is. Anyone’s guess… Well, anyway I’m just rattling around here on my tod – been here all my life and reckon I’ll finish up here too!

Mother had a lovely funeral. She would have smiled. She liked that kind of ‘do’– all those daffs and tulips heaped up. Oh, we ‘do’ things here according to the strict gospel of ‘Mr Rev’ – our own Very Reverend Philip Blake – he did her proud. She’d had her differences from him from time to time, of course. Mrs Rev always thought Mother didn’t arrange the flowers formally enough for church – she’d redo them on the sly! Then the fireworks got going! Mr Rev used to try and pour oil on troubled waters. He’d summon aid from the ‘Almighty’… dear, dear Philip…completely wasted on that snobby woman! He once told me that trying to sort out Mrs Rev and Mother was his most perilous path up Mount Difficulty! He loves his little gems of quotes and jokes – and has a copious cornucopia of academic humour.

It was grey and still, the day of her funeral. The sun peeped out just as Mother’s coffin was arriving. Like a Blessing, Dorothy said. What did she mean? What was like a blessing? I’d requisitioned Mother’s black straw hat and her swanky antelope skin gloves. Reckon I looked as much a picture as Prince Harry’s Meghan! Couldn’t help noticing my dear Philip (the Rev to you) couldn’t take his eyes off me! (Wondered dare I nudge or wink or… very, very softly whistle? No – no. Better not…)

This time of year, our village goes quiet as the grave. (Which isn’t always as peaceful as it sounds!) I don’t cut through the churchyard any more now – I daren’t! I know Mother doesn’t rest easy. Last time I went through I heard someone behind me screaming completely silent accusations – at the top of its voice. (Bit like one of those old silent films.) Suppose Dorothy had heard? Or worse still, Mr or Mrs Rev?

My friend Dorothy calls in every day. ‘Come on now,’ she urges. ‘You’ve been granted a merciful release. How about a weekend break for the two of us by the sea? We deserve it! Don’t we? Margate? Llandudno? Southend? Here we come! Time to think of Number One and spread our wings – before it’s too late.’

Yes, I know she’s right. She’s always right, isn’t she? But somehow, I can’t get around to finding them. My wings, I mean. Perhaps they’ve been too long out of action and have withered away.

But then – Oh, Mea Culpa! As Mr Rev would say, pointing an eloquent finger so as to assassinate his whole meagre flock – then turning it on himself…my gentle Mr Rev! My dearest Philip! My own lamb! But not mine – nobody’s mine now Mother’s gone! No knight in shining armour ever came to whisk me off my feet. No…am I silly? Or sad? Or pathetic? Or just plain bad? Oh, I’m to blame! For everything! Very very… extremely culpa! Or am I? Not sure. I’ll tell you about it. See what you think.

Dorothy dreams up little outings from time to time. Nothing much, but anything for a change (she dictates). Just an evening with the Over 60’s or a lunch given by the Inner Wheel. An afternoon at the flower-arranging display, put on by the Ladies’ Circle. A Fashion show at Jenkins Outsize perhaps. But somehow, we never get to any of them. Dorothy says it’s my fault. ‘Oh, get a life!’ she shouts, quite raucously. She’s right. I haven’t got one, have I? She’s like one of those old crows who scold me when I venture out to hang up the washing. It’s true – It’s always my fault! I’m to blame – I cower indoors. But there’s nowhere like home, is there? There’s just so little left since Mother passed away. I feel stretched out thin and dry. Like old yellowed newspaper that rips at the slightest touch. But there’s nobody who might touch me to try that out, is there? I mean to find out if I rip like the old paper.

Putting together my potpourri has been a comfort to me lately. There’s precious else apart from Mother’s gruesome mongrel so I’ll tell you about it. It was when I was taking poor Patch for his obligatory ‘walkies’ that I thought of collecting all those lovely petals scattered on Mother’s grass and carefully drying them like she used to. I’ve picked them ever since.

So many roses – moss roses running riot: butter-coloured roses, pink roses, tiny red roses that tap high on the kitchen window. It came to me in a flash and with a surge of joy – and I’ve picked the roses ever since; laid them all out on Mother’s big bed. What’s the harm? I spread them all out carefully and turn them twice a day. It gives me more…peace of mind than going to church ever did. As if I’ve put something wholesome where Mother used to lie. Oh well, I’m just trying to turn them into potpourri – just like Mother did. I blot each petal meticulously with special paper before laying them out one by one on Mother’s bed. The drying is a bit like wiping away tears. I like doing that – tender loving care for every single petal.

Sometimes I worry about pulling to pieces the newly opened flowers. They don’t have a chance, do they? You know – to nod on the wall in the sunshine or to feel the tickle of the bees.