Holiday Foundations

In 1991, my mum and dad rented a cottage in Northumberland. A quaint little holiday home which introduced them to the delights of this beautiful county. Friends recommended it, of whose own friends recommended it to them. The following year, my parents rented a different cottage, still quaint, still welcoming. Then in 1993, after having heard so much about this amazing place, its incredible beaches and unspoilt landscape I accepted their invitation to join them at what was to become, eight years later, my home. Unsure as to what I would find, we drew up at the farm cottage, gravel crunching beneath halting tyres. I looked around. My first recollection of that two week holiday was how tranquil our surroundings had become. From bustling traffic in a growing town, to fields, green and scattered with sheep. The sun seemed to shine, perhaps not in the sky, my memory does not recall, but deep in my heart. A strange excitement was building within me, a totally different feeling to one I had ever experienced. I had an obsessive longing to find out more about this place where I was to lay down my roots.

A few days into the holiday, having seen a green suited farmer walking about several times, I wandered towards a small paddock where a beautiful brown mare stood, proud and content with her fortunate life. As I stroked the mare's gentle face I heard a voice behind me. A man's voice. Upon turning around and seeing the farmer, little butterflies made their debut in and around my tummy and I could have sworn I heard someone say, "Welcome to your life."

The farmer told me about his mare. How his love for her shone through his softly spoken words, the twinkle in his eyes shining like a shooting star into mine. I knew nothing about this man, yet I knew everything about his life. I knew by the end of that two week holiday that I had to come back. I needed to come back to this place. Something inside me had changed. My dad spent many hours with the farmer during that holiday. They had so little in common, yet they warmed to each other instantly. Dad decided to book the cottage for the following summer before we left and I had no doubt that I would return.

For the next eight years, I did return with my mum and dad to Northumberland. We stayed in the farm cottage and also stayed in a private house just across the fields. My coolness towards my parents suggestion of visiting our friends at the farm must have been terribly poor acting for they knew, as I realise now, just how much I longed to go back. And they knew why.

In June 2001, after persuading my parents to book the farm cottage, we returned for our final holiday in Northumberland as a family. Amy was almost eighteen months old and I was another member of the single parent statastics. During that first week of our holiday, I walked Amy up and down the farm road in her pram. Over and over again. A John Deere tractor clamoured through thistles in a field of stock and I could just about make out the farmer as he shyly watched me from his cab. Over the years I had got to know that my lovely farmer wasn't married. I assumed he didn't have a girlfriend. I hoped my assumptions were correct!

On the Saturday night at the beginning of our second week I sat on the step outside the cottage and waited for the farmer to return to the farm house. Thankfully I didn't have to wait long otherwise I think I might have lost my nerve. I approached him and bravely invited him in that evening for a drink whilst my parents went out on their own. His answer of Yes must have given the game away as my mouth turned upwards and my eyes lit up the whole of Northumberland. He came in again on Tuesday night and then again on Friday night, our last night of the wonderful holiday. But that Friday was to be the best. We sat on the sofa together, talked all night about everything and even though there were many opportunities for intimacy, we remained respectful throughout.

The following morning, before leaving for the last time, the farmer and I exchanged phone numbers, smiles and a humble kiss. A kiss that would have to last until I returned with Amy and our belongings in August of that same year, just four weeks after my dad's passing. It has been six years now. June, July and August of 2001 will be the most memorable times in my life, times I will look back on as the days that changed my world.

A Marriage made in Northumberland

The last field of wheat has been cut. Bessy is back in the shed, taking rest for another year. Her job has been done, her engine has roared over acres of ripened crop and now she sleeps. The tractor has already prepared a field of oil seed rape, sown meticulously for Bessy to reap once yellow flower has died and sun has dried. J will stay with the John Deere for the next six weeks, day in and day out until all seeds are submerged below earth and soil. Seagulls take flight above ploughed fields, the early bird who catches the worm, keeps its bait.

My husband works so hard as do all farmers at this time of year. His commitment to the farm reminds me of my reason for the instant attraction I felt towards him when we first met, fourteen years ago. So many things have happened in my life since that day, some good, some not so good. Yet to J, his life has remained the same. Every year has been like the last. Spring delivers new lambs, Summer brings in the harvest, Autumn begins the shooting season and Winter feeds the sheep. Always the same routine, always the same jobs. But never bored. He never complains. Total dedication, constant determination to keep heads above water.

At 6am every morning, key is turned in quad. Two dogs bark excitedly, leaping about with faithful eagerness as they join farmer and sheep on the early round across rugged landscape. The weather has no bearing upon a routine farm. Daily tasks have to be fulfilled come rain or shine, sleet or snow. Little time left for play, work takes over. My admiration for my husband sometimes overwhelms me as I watch him tend his flock in the morning then fix the plough onto the tractor to carry on his working day. And night. His bones are stiff, his brain is tired but he carries on. Adrenalin keeps him going, together with a passion which rages deep within his soul. Farming is in his blood. It has been in his family always.

It is so easy for me to do as I please. I have no one to answer to. No one to dictate a curfew. Of course when my father-in-law was here things were different but during these last seven months since he left the farm, my husband and I have found a new life. Together. We have discovered a new side of our marriage which didn't seem to exist before. Our marriage is not perfect. I do not believe anyone has the perfect marriage but it is stable. Secure with all its faults. We can overcome misunderstandings, disagreements, pointless bickering.

I didn't think I could ever be as happy as I am now. As I watch my husband with love in his eyes, peace in his heart, I realise I made the right decision. I was meant to meet him. I was drawn to him; to introduce me to a new and wonderful life of fulfilment. Perhaps I do not tell him I love him often enough. Perhaps I am not quite so affectionate as I think I ought to be. But what we have is far deeper than the seagulls dive; far stronger than determined desire and far more beautiful than perfection.

Don't let them suffer

Living on a farm we have to endure the many revolting creatures which God obviously found a purpose to create. I have mouse traps in kitchen cupboards, behind my bed and filled with a gourmet temptation of chocolate and cheese in and around the cellars. I sometimes think about leaving a little cocktail stick and a glass of muscadet should they get bored. I have had the unfortunate task of drowning the half dead or half alive ones, whichever way you choose to look at it, of which Jess the cat has proudly brought to the back door as a trophy of her successful hunt. I am not a fan of mice and feel quite strongly about them running riot in my home when they have a world outside at their tiny feet, just waiting to be explored. If they don't meet their demise first that is, by a tormented cat.

But with the summer months supposedly upon us, our back door and kitchen window having to be left open for the dogs to make the most of the fresh air, we have been invaded by the usual and most annoying creature of all known officially as the "musca domestica". In Northumberland we call them a "house fly". They seem to appear in great numbers around feeding time. They sit by the plate, rubbing their tiny hands together, getting ready to pounce the minute you reach for the salt. And should you ever dare to turn your back, you may find they have vomited their mark on half your mash potato and are looking around for pudding. But they are so fast. Unless of course you have a rolled up newspaper to hand or a can of mad fly spray which usually sends them into a frenzy as they whizz around the window for five minutes before resting on the dish cloth.

My mum hates flies. With a passion. I would go so far as to say she hates them as much as I hate spiders - perhaps even more. She has just spent almost two days wandering around my kitchen, newspaper in one hand, last week's TV magazine in the other, bent over like Mrs Overall on a particularly spectacular mission. I am pleased that she has successfully swatted at least two dozen, some of which I suspect sent brothers and sisters, aunties and uncles to seek their revenge just before she took her first mouthful of roast chicken on Sunday night.

I do have a door hanger at the back door which is supposed to deter any flying objects but is obviously not doing it's job. Then again, flies with a vengeance will get anywhere. As my cooking skills leave a lot to be desired I assume these flies have no taste. Or are desperately hungry. It is rather unfortunate that we have to feed Jess on the worktop due to having a terribly greedy puppy in the house. Jess, however, is not bothered about where her food is so long as it is not covered up by the local rag, thus making it impossible for her to devour. "But what about the flies?" my mum innocently asks. "Jess eats mice, rats, birds, pigeons, rabbits, need I go on?" I reply. "I was thinking about the food attracting the flies." Of course you were, mum, I think.

Silly me for worrying about the potential starvation my beloved cat may endure. She just needs to pop down our cellar and join her squealing victims for a cheese & wine evening.

My mum has gone home now. The flies have come out again, from wherever they were hiding. I have to admit I don't like them due to their immensely poor hygiene habits but it is something we have got used to. I, however, will not let them win. I will leave my window and door open if I want to. But perhaps for now, I'll keep them closed. The dogs will be okay outside. It's dry.

Invisible Shoes

Spiders and bats enjoy a new found freedom as they roam the attics of my house. Softly they move, quietly making their hasty retreat for the tiny beam of light which gathers in the top corner. We do not use the attic space for fear of being eaten alive. Or perhaps our clumsy steps will falter as floorboards give way beneath our feet. As I clean the bathroom with determined strength, my domesticity showing no bounds, I hear footsteps above me. The creatures which live in neglected space have become irritable, clamorous in their bid for escapism. My longing to understand this unexplained movement leaves me anxious, a little excited at the thought of having discovered another visitor in my already affected residence.


Turning off the tap, I avert my eyes to the ceiling. Amy not having returned from her week away and my husband sewing the last seeds in a field of rape, I worry that this could be a disturbingly large spider. Wearing shoes. Able to walk with such haste over uneven surface. My biggest phobia is spiders. Small ones, big ones. Especially ones that wear shoes. And have eyes, large enough to watch your every move. As the footsteps I hear are relatively loud, I relax as I become certain the noise can not be made by such a creature. Unless it is one in which I have previously shown the gates of heaven, returned to seek it's revenge.


But of course I am not so easily fooled. I know the difference between earth and spiritual planes. I even know the difference between giant spiders and astral footsteps. And as there are no giant spiders living in the attic, nor are there any human life forms, I have come to the conclusion that my attention has once again been required and I, being rather sensitive to such attentive gestures, have another reason to love my house. The bathroom, once a bedroom before renovation work stirred the energy within it's walls, has often seen my eyes questioning each bang and thud, each knock and whisper. I try to find a logical explanation. I try hard. But there are some things in this house that awake my senses and make me smile.


The shadow I saw along the passageway yesterday also made me smile. A hurried figure, slithering along the wall, just a head and shoulders disappearing in seconds. These walls never cease to amaze me. The memories they hold, the tales they could tell if only they could. I want to see more shadows. Hear further footsteps, feel the presence of more visiting souls, watch circles of light dance about my bedroom. In abundance.



Copyright © CJ 2007 - All Rights Reserved

The Return

It has been a strange week. A pleasant one, enjoyable. But strange. Strange in the way that I feel as though my right arm has been detatched from my body. Strange that I spent a night in an incredibly haunted castle yet do experience more paranormal activity in my own home. Perhaps I have felt different. The person I once was, pre-childbirth. I can't quite put my finger on it. But now I want to be me again. I need to get up in the morning at 7am. Put my own needs after someone elses. Spend an hour discussing an impending trip to the shops rather than just picking up my handbag, reaching for the car keys and jumping in the car, all in a matter of minutes. I want to watch the clock again, think about how long I have left to myself before the school taxi arrives at the back door.

This week has gone quickly. When I look back and remember the events which have changed my thoughts I realise I have achieved much more than I would have done should I have had my usual responsibilities; the other part of me that is constantly on my mind; the area of my life which eight years ago I eagerly prepared for; the energy that brings me happiness I could never live without. Amy. My beautiful seven year old.

She has been at my mum's since Monday. I therefore haven't seen her for five days. Five days between mother and child is a long time. For me anyway. Each day a paddy takes place. Sometimes, if I am lucky, it is about nothing. Other times, if I am not, it is because something in Amy's world does not feel right. A ritual has been broken. Bath time was 8pm instead of 7.30. I switched the television off first. I pulled the plug out without asking. This week I have smiled each time I pressed the off button on the TV; I have smiled when I pulled the plug out of the bath; I have flushed the loo late at night, having no fear of waking up a sleeping child.

Tomorrow it will return to how it should be. My life will go back to being Amy and me. A life of just me doesn't feel right anymore. I feel as though I am someone else living in my body. A person who has yet to experience the wonderful joys of parenthood. Tomorrow I will remember the day that I was first introduced to my beautiful daughter. Her cries for warmth, her tiny hands, her head of brown hair. Tomorrow I will be me again.

Copyright © CJ 2007 - All Rights Reserved

Come out to play

A narrow winding stone staircase leads us to our apartment. The Grey Apartment. Beautiful. Imposing. Two bedrooms, one bright and airy, the other oppressive; atmospheric; overwhelming as twin beds try hard to fill a corner. Portraits hang in the hallway; in the lounge; in the bedrooms. Even in the bathroom. Paintings of residents passed, Highland Cattle, majestic stags. On first glance, Lady Mary Berkeley stares down at you, her eyes follow you around the dining table, curious of her new guests. She stands above an ancient sideboard, jacquard attire, gracious and elegant. The painting has faded. The colours of her dress can no longer be admired. Time and daylight have done Her Ladyship no favours.

A chill in the air swirled around our legs as we sat discussing the forthcoming investigation. Lady Mary continued to question our presence. A gentle soul, I wondered if she would present herself to me, in true likeness to the lost and desolate creature that I had imagined. The apartment felt calm. Welcoming almost. An early walk around the formal gardens painted faces at the leaded windows. A boy waving, his eyes pierced in colour. A man, intimidating and controlling, his hands beckoning me to his lair. And a lady. A woman with intense sadness engulfed around her beauty. A child in her arms as she looked frantically amongst the hedgerow, hoping with constant anxiety. Never finding the man she had lost yet forever searching in her heart.

Darkness crept upon us. Two candles burnt, either side of a bolted oak door. A soft breeze threatening to smother their lustrous flame. A spirit watched as people gathered to be taken around the castle with optimistic valour. I caught an orb. My first of the night. A huge circle of light shining through black lens.

We moved into the woods, stopping to learn about the "hanging tree". An ancient yew, memories deep within it's branches. It was difficult to imagine the horror that took place in such times of torture and death, peasants clothes made from sackcloth stripped from rotting flesh. Children, unable to dream, frightened to love. Soldiers hanging on a rope tied around their waist, as they faced upwards. Alleged monks were said to roam the woods, cutting down the unfortunate who still had breath within their weary bodies.

The torture chamber, instruments of slow and agonising death seemed almost surreal. A bed of nails; thumb screws; branding irons. A nailed barrel used to roll a small child down a hill into the moat below. The stretching rack; impaling rods; desperate measures of punishment. Our world so far away from theirs, I felt no atmosphere in this part of the castle. No terrified prisoners touched me on the shoulder or screamed their pleas for help. The tour continued to take us into Edward 1st Room. A large space at the top of the original tower where we were given an opportunity in darkness to feel the presence of an intimidating Lord. A rapist and a murderer. Camera's flashed. The atmosphere was again non existent.

Shown various other rooms within the castle walls, my patience was running out as take after take saw only the room in which we currently stood. No magnificent orbs lit up my lens; no shadows danced upon the walls; no spirit faces made themselves known. The tour: slightly disappointing. Perhaps the banquet which maddeningly outshone our spirit friends could have been arranged for a different night. Maybe the music and laughter and clanking of champagne flutes could have been postponed. No doubt they had no reason to make contact with the many spirits who roam this authentic edifice. Perhaps next time Lady Mary will not be quite so welcoming.

Returning to our apartment at 11pm, music still heard through small paned glass, we poured wine, switched on vocals and discussed the world. The visitor's book lay in wait upon the dining table. Past comments featuring sightings of the dear Lady herself. I secretly wondered if I would experience her manifesting before my eyes. Unexplained noises, creaks, thuds noted by tired hands. Furniture being moved in the apartment above, by determined energy, reassurance of a haunted castle. The visitor's book lay dormant. My fingers flicked through pages, my heart racing as I had corner-of-the-eye moments, coming mainly from the corridor which led to our haunted bedroom.

At 3am the music was beginning to ring out it's last chord. The chapel bell struck and a deathly silence enveloped us as we decided feather beds were a better option than sitting round a table drinking ourselves sober. The video camera switched on. Committed and duty bound as it sat next to my bed. My digital camera ready for anxious hands, cold impatient hands. Lying awake in what is allegedly the most haunted castle in Britain I waited. My eyes widely open. Blood noisily rushing through my head. My friend in the bed next to me drifting into a deep sleep at 4am. I couldn't sleep. Something stirred by the fireplace. Had someone chosen their time with care? Had they waited until the castle was in darkness and I was alone in my thoughts?

My video camera didn't record. My camera didn't take. Nothing further aroused my desperate longing for a night with the living dead. I don't remember falling asleep, nor do I remember any significant activity which could have taken place had the dinner party not spoiled the ambience of Chillingham Castle. A castle steeped in history, drained by torture and death. Quiet, peaceful, chilling.

Anything Goes

Hen parties; Stag weekends; endless boozing and 'Kiss Me Quick' hats. We drove through what has reportedly been classed as "Las Vegas of the North". The aroma of candy floss; horse manure; seaweed and hotdogs. Chips in yesterday's newspaper; knick-knack shops; knockin' shops; buckets and spades. They do try. Something for everyone. Just nothing for me.

Our annual retreat has dated. It no longer offers us that feeling of excitement; adventure; bring it on. A holiday village that needs investment. Staff that need to go on Customer Service courses. Chefs. Who need to learn how to cook. A children's park, two swings. Two climbing frames and a run-way. Lots of picnic tables, mostly covered in bird poo, mostly covered by trees. An onsite shop. Expensive. Very. An upmarket, unwelcoming, unfriendly restaurant. Extortionate. A Bistro. Cardboard cut-out pizza's; rubber scampi; measly wedges of chocolate cake. Pricey. A pool. Not big enough for the amount of cottages on site, plus the statics most of which are lived in. Snooty sales assistants. Noses protruding through the ceiling. High heels. Tanned. Unable to smile in case makeup cracks.

Cottage ready for occupancy at 4pm on day of arrival. Far too late in my opinion. By the time you have unpacked the kitchen sink and other bags, you find it's time for supper. We know of a delightful pub of which we frequented most nights for our evening meal but unfortunately had a mad idea on Wednesday night to try the Bistro - a large restaurant on the site serving absolute dung. We spent a fortune on the worst meal of our lives. We learnt our lesson.

Amy lost her favourite toy, Cinders. A little toy dog which she loved, disappeared on a trip to Freeport in Fleetwood. I chased around twice trying to find it but to no avail. Poor Amy. My purse got a battering, however, when I bought her another - two. I lost an earing. On St. Annes beach. It was only cheap tack but I liked it. Does that say something about me? And my mum lost a red apple. She bought two from the onsite shop but one disappeared. Spooky going's on. I didn't feel anything in the cottage we rented though, not a thing. The spirits have good taste.

But on the whole, our holiday has been pleasurable. We didn't visit the launderette once nor did Amy fall in the duck pond. Nothing got broken and none of us were hurt. A success. We spent a lovely afternoon on St. Annes beach when the sun actually shined. Six donkeys lined up for a photo shoot and sandcastles were erected by the dozen. Not least by Amy as she decorated each and every one with little flags. I even braved exposing my arms. It was so hot. The following day it rained. Torrential rain as Amy tried her best to enjoy the park at Fairhaven Lake. That was Thursday and the rain didn't stop until we were ready to leave this morning. Perhaps the odd clear spell so that we could make a dash for the swimming pool. And I should mention the horses. About the only thing that currently seems to be well looked after. An equestrian centre on site run by clear professionals, hard working grooms doing their best to earn a few bob. Amy rode three times. Each time a stunning golden palomino which gently plodded around the holiday village, me by her side, madly sending text messages to my much missed sister.

This week I have plans. Spooky plans, exciting plans, busy plans and no plans. Amy's spending the week at my mum's. A five day respite which my lovely mum provides every summer. Of course I'll miss Amy. But I am looking forward to some time alone. And if I see my husband, it'll be a bonus.

We'll meet again

Off to find a fortune teller. Thought I might give them some tips. Maybe someone will cross my palm with silver while I'm away. See you Monday 20th August. Be good. And if you can't be good, be careful.

Crystal xx

Change of Scenery

I once said I love to shop. So long as I'm spending money. There is no fun in window shopping; those wonderfully dressed mannequins, beautifully designed interiors tempting you over the threshold. Middlebrook. Shops. M&S, ASDA, Tesco, Next, Comet, Curry's, Boots and dozens more surrounding the Reebok Stadium where Bolton Wanderers (try to) play football. I am not a city shopper. Can't be doing with all those designer shops and pavement cafe's, paper bags carried by bimbo "C" listers with a diamond studded Shiatsu peeping out from their shoulder bag. Perhaps I'm a throwback. Maybe I'm just old fashioned. Trendy doesn't do it for me. I need to feel comfortable. High heels. Short skirts. Low tops. No thanks. Give me a pair of wellies any day.

I miss Northumberland. I miss the fields and the sheep. The dogs and the hens. The pony and the cat. I miss the scattered compost and the poo. The hay stuck to the carpet and the foot prints from a muddy farmer's boots. Did I mention I miss the farmer? Summer seems to have arrived and I have made my escape. I have brought Amy to Manchester until Monday when we will once more throw everything in to the car, including my mum, then set off for St. Annes. We don't like all this extravagance. None of these Caribbean cruises for us or jetting off to the South of France. We have a good old fashioned sea side holiday with ice cream and candy floss, donkeys and sand. Stripey deckchairs and a promenade, kids on roller skates and old folk on wheels.

I think I may once more have tempted fate. Our trip to Middlebrook this morning has left us drained from the heat. And the crowds of people who are currently fighting their way into the football stadium. Bolton v Newcastle United. Lots of "Eye, Eye" and "Oi" mingling amongst turnstiles and kiosks. I was glad to leave. I have digressed. I have changed into shorts. The garden at my mum's is very secluded. So is the sun. Where did all the clouds suddenly appear from? What is it with me and tempting fate! I have a job to do shortly. Inflate a paddling pool for Amy with no foot pump. Not quite sure how I'll manage it without having to be resuscitated but you know me, anything for my little girl. If I'm still around tomorrow, I'm taking Amy to see Shrek the Third at Middlebrook. If anyone reads this without dying of boredom and has seen Shrek the Third, is it any good? And is it a long film? Amy tends to get fidgety after about half an hour and that's just the adverts at the beginning. We usually end up spilling drinks everywhere and after she has "mithered" me for an icecream and a bag of strange looking jelly objects I find I could have booked a week away in a five star villa in the Algarve. Now that sounds quite tempting. "MUUUM! Where's that brochure?"

Mum's Taxi

I love my mum. As far as I am concerned, my mum is the best mum in the whole wide world. She's always been there. Always. She never worked after marrying my lovely dad. She became a full time wife and ten months later a full time mum. They didn't have a telly. That was her life. And she loved it. She went through hell and high water when my dad passed. There was a time when she felt she could not carry on with her own life because she was mourning so deeply. We, her family, carried her through. She, carried us through. She has three children and four grandchildren whom she loves equally.


My mum is a serial mitherer. Definition of mither for those who have never heard such a word means simply, worries; does not let anything drop; goes on a bit. Being rather laid back I tend not to let my mum get to me. Most of her mithering goes over my head; in one ear, out the other. My sister, on the other hand is not quite so laid back. I admire her for the "don't mess with me" attitude she often portrays. She is gutsy, yet has a heart of gold. She has a hard shell yet a soft centre. She makes me laugh. She always makes me laugh. Not least with this short conversation she has recently had with our mum regarding an impending trip to England in September (from her home in Dublin). Please note, Bea emailed me word for word as follows:


Mum: "What day are you over and what time?"


Bea: "4th September, Tuesday. Get in at 4pm."


Mum: "Oooh, not sure if Ralph (our brother) can collect you with his shifts but I will ask him and will ask Antony (mum's other half) if he can't, but all else failing I will HAVE to ask the taxi man round the corner." (Says it like it's the end of the world!)


Bea: "Yeah, that's fine mum. Thanks."


Mum: "When do you go back?"


Bea: "Monday 10th, but don't start worrying about that as I will sort somebody out to take me back."


Mum: "Yes but who? Antony won't be around and what if I ask Ralph or we could book the taxi man again!"


Bea: "MUM! Please don't worry. I will sort it out." (voice slightly raised at this point)


Mum: (She hasn't listened to me) "If I book the taxi man you will have to give me all your flight details so I can tell him."


Bea: "MUM (shouting quite loud now) I WILL SORT IT OUT. Just give me the taxi man's number then if I need him I will ring him myself. Now stop WORRYING."


Mum: "Right ok. Now what day did you say you're over. Was it the 3rd?"


Bea: (Bear in mind at this point I have to take about 10 seconds of a deep breath before I speak as can't believe she has forgotten already what I said) "4th September. TUESDAY"


Mum: "Right, well I will ask them all and get back to you."


Bea: "Thanks mum, got to go now." And have a stiff drink.


I love my family. They ooze madness. We're going away next week. My mum, Amy and me. Probably Antony if he can get some time off work. We have a wonderful time when we go away together. I just wish Bea would come too. The conversations I could record would be classic. They might even give me some ideas for a book. In fact, come to think of it ......

In the meantime, mum has gone ahead and booked the taxi anyway. I love my mum. She is a serial worrier, a serial mitherer and a serial carer.

Emotional Blackmail

At what age did my seven year old take over my life? I suspect it was seven years ago. Wednesday night confirmed she definitely has the upper hand. Sometimes. It is the big brown eyes. Two chocolate maltesers that look at you with a longing to be eaten. The last ones in the bag. The two you think you might be too full to manage but eat them anyway because you would feel sorry should you not. As it happened, Amy's maltesers melted my heart. Again. The menu lay on the table. Red print upon white paper, listing a variety of dishes, my taste buds grappling with choice. Ah, King Prawn & Chicken in Chilli & Sour sauce, chips and fried rice. Now, where's the phone. First things first. Tell Amy we will be going to the Chinese in ten minutes. Always best to warn her of imminent journeys.

Lying on the sofa, watching Strawberry Shortcake, she had covered herself in cushions. I feared she might be cold. I also feared an inevitable paddy. Amy finds it "boring" going to the Chinese. I tend to leave her with J and go myself but J of course was in the field baling.

"You have to come with me. I can't leave you here alone."

"I don't want to come, it's boring."

"You can listen to any music you want." Regretted saying it as the words were leaving my mouth.

"My brain hurts, it's bursting out of my head!"

"You'll be okay once you're in the car!" I was hungry. I had nothing defrosted and had been looking forward to a Chinese all day.

"I can't go, mummy," maltesers now at their chocolate-y-ist.

I phoned J. He was happy to come in for half an hour to watch Amy. He wasn't happy to go the 14 mile round trip for me. Can't blame him really after all the miles he does up and down a field in a tractor. Deciding I could not leave my sick child I backed down, sacrificed my Chinese and thought about what on earth I was going to cook. I got the calpol out. Two spoon fulls administered, to the child, and a few forehead kisses.

"There. You'll be fine now. I'll just ring the Chinese." I was not giving up without a fight.

"Ooooh, my brain hurts again!" Alarm bells were now beginning to ring.

"Okay, you need to go to bed." Upstairs we went, pyjama's on, curtains and shutters closed and lamp aglow. "In you get." Bedclothes pulled back as I watched crafty pants climb into bed and allow me to tuck her in. "Night, night sweetheart. Mummy will check on you in a little while." After I had eaten.

Not a peep. Not a moan. Blimey, I thought, she must be bad. Making my way to the kitchen I began to feel awfully guilty. My little darling had got to me. I was worried about her. My continuous suffering of headaches is something I do not wish on my offspring. Opening the kitchen door to notice Sparky actually sitting still I thought about egg and chips. A bit 'Brit abroad' I know but it was all I could think of. And we currently have dozens of eggs.

As the oven chips turned brown and the crisp & dry lay dormant I went to check on Amy. I'm glad to report all was well. Very well as it happens. Playing in her bedroom, my darling Amy announced she was "all better now." Amazing stuff that calpol. And the smell of chips works wonders too.

Summer Days

Telling tales is the in-thing. Something I find a joy and a nuisance, all rolled into one. Amy's doing what the others do. She's copying; she's playing; she's growing up. She's running in from the climbing frame telling me about Poppy who won't push Annie on the swing; about Molly who's ran off to the cottages for her tenth biscuit from the kind couple in the middle; about Sparky who's just dug up yet another of my tubs. You can't help but smile. And seethe a little on the inside at the thought of having to clean up a fresh mess of compost and dead geraniums.

Amy played well yesterday with two friends who came over for lunch. They sat around the table eating ham sandwiches, chewing frantically to make their escape back to the garden. Always a good sign that they're all getting along. Meanwhile, the two friends' mums and me sat having an incredible natter, one mum doing her best to involve me in the PTA. She won. I've made a promise that providing J can look after Amy I'll make the effort and go to the meetings. Not sure what difference I'll make but I'll try. Anything to help the kids and the school. Perhaps I should stay off the wine at lunch time in future. It was Lea's birthday so we had cake too. Unfortunately, Amy can't cope with the Happy Birthday song so we just cut into it and scoffed it.

I haven't seen much of my husband recently. His love affair with Bessy continues in a far away field. I think I saw him pass through the hall this afternoon hunting for a flask but it could have been a corner-of-the-eye moment. Mind you, the aroma wasn't particularly pleasant so if it was a fleeting moment it doesn't need to come back. And if it was my husband then I'll point him in the direction of the bathroom, shower and a bar of soap. Then I might make him a flask of something. The tranquil surroundings which greet my eyes each time I gaze through the window have been temporarily spoilt by the sound of a distant engine roar. Our baler joined us last night to do his annual whizz around the fields, hatching bales like a giant hen and leaving them in tidy rows for J to collect on the Matbro to then be transfered to the sheds.

The fields come alive at this time of year. Combines, tractors and trailers everywhere. Grumpy farmers and busy housewives, excitable children as they look longingly at the harvesting machines, hoping for a ride up and down the tramlines. It's such a wonderful time. I just wish we could look forward to a nice big cheque at the end of it all. The recent Foot & Mouth crisis has sent shock waves through the farming community and given them all something to talk about on their CB's. I'm sure they would much rather talk about the weather or the current stock market. Well maybe just the weather.

Ancient & Modern (Part 2)

In the six years that we lived in the same house, never once did I hear my husband call his father, Dad. I noticed it after about twelve months of us all living together. A little odd, I used to think. Very sad. They were both farmers. Had been forever. Neither known anything else. In business together, the farm ticked over, an eye sometimes peeping above water level. There was always so much to do on the farm, never time for luxuries or holidays. For my husband that was. The old man and his wife would pack their cases after harvest and jet off to Cyprus for three weeks, leaving J to tidy up the fields. It didn't matter that J never got a holiday; who cared about J? So long as the fields were sown and the kettle was on for their return.


Of course when I arrived with no intention of sacrifice, one or two lives were turned upside down. I just wanted to be part of a family that I admired. A family whose relatives had lived in the same house since 1919 which was quite something to a girl from Lancashire who by then had moved three times since Amy was born eighteen month previous. Blending in was about as easy as my cake mixture. I wanted to help on the farm. I wanted to drive the tractor, help with the land work. I even wanted to clean sheeps' backsides. One morning I was told I couldn't take the old sheep dog (who lived in the shed) her ten o'clock biscuit because it was too muddy. I would be better off inside, making the coffee for J on his return from work. I think that particular day he was sweeping up in the shed.

In November 2002, J asked me to marry him. In a roundabout way. We sort of discussed it and agreed May would be a good time. So, who had the task of telling Jim? My mum was due to come up for a short visit the coming weekend and I knew we had to tell Jim before she came. The plan was for J to ask my mum's permission to marry her daughter. It wouldn't have gone down too well if Jim hadn't been briefed before my mum cried for joy. It took a lot of courage to tell Jim. His answer was, "why?" A little taken aback I faffed about a bit and came up with a viable explanation as to why two people who loved each other and wanted to spend the rest of their lives together would possibly want to get married. I think he thought I would be on my way within two years.


We honeymooned in Dunkeld. A beautiful hotel on the River Tay. Jim was appalled that we could even think of going away. My mum kindly looked after Amy and we set off, both feeling somewhat guilty at leaving the old man alone for a grand total of 4 days. Yes, 4 days was all we were allowed. Jim said a week would be too long and J would need to be back on the farm, "just in case." The question on our return: "What's for supper, you don't need to do much."

The next twelve months I renovated two rooms in the house. A little help from plasterers, decorators and plumbers of course but all my own ideas. Jim just looked on in dismay. He didn't see why we needed our own lounge. He didn't understand why we should want a guest room. Everything we did, he wanted to influence. Everywhere we went, he had to give his permission. When Amy first started school I did the dutiful parent school run every day, rushing back each morning to "you've been a long time."


For almost six years I have tried my best. I have been belittled, patronised and made to feel like a second class citizen. I have lived with an old man who thinks women are useless. I have watched my p's & q's, walked on eggshells and grown two heads. Yet there are many people who respected this old man. Many people who said how wonderful he was, kind and generous, always a good sense of humour. Perhaps if those people could have seen what went on behind a closed door.


From January of this year, I saw a rapid decline in Jim. He failed to live in the way he had been accustomed. He couldn't do anything for himself anymore and even I felt a little sympathetic. He wouldn't let us call the doctor in because he expected me to look after him. It was when he got stuck on the stairs that J and I both knew it was time for a professional to take over. I couldn't carry on cleaning the bathroom every time he'd paid a visit; I couldn't take his rudeness anymore when he insisted I darn his socks and fetch his teeth. It only came to our knowledge some weeks later when we discussed his deterioration with the consultant that Jim thought I was his wife. I knew then why he had told me it was perfectly okay for me to enter his room without knocking, even when he was in a state of undress. I knew then why he spoke to me the way he did. I had heard many stories about his wife and the life she led. And most of them were pretty grim. However, I will not let that be an excuse for the way I was treated. It was for want of a better word, disgusting and it was only January 2007 when Jim developed Dimensia.


Jim would have been 83 on the 6th August. Eventhough he wouldn't let us celebrate I always gave him a card and bought him some of his favourite chocolates. I didn't get any though.

Ancient & Modern (Part 1)

It wasn't until six months after moving to the farm that I eventually realised what I'd let myself in for. "Out of the frying pan, into the fire" used to spring to mind until I would go outside, look around and remember where I was living. And why I was there.

Monday was cleaning day. Every Monday morning (without fail), two of Jim's friends would arrive, one armed with roll ups and the other bearing a home made ham & egg pie, apologising profusely in case 'the wife was stepping on anyone's toes'. I welcomed anything edible, it saved me having to make the effort. I would spend half an hour making coffee for everyone then another half an hour choking on cigarettes and would finally excuse myself for a date with the Panasonic upright. Then at lunch time as the guests were finishing putting the world to rights and saying their farewells for another week I would be summoned to the kitchen and asked "what's for lunch?" Should this have been my own children I probably would have been slightly more mellowing, but of course it wasn't. It was an old man who was more than capable of making his own lunch and very capable of eating it.

Tuesday was baking day. For forty years. Not wanting to spoil that tradition, I tried to carry it on. And failed. Not miserably I'm pleased to add because I've always hated baking. I hated the Kenwood mixer, cracking the eggs, weighing the butter, flour, sugar and whatever else went into Jim's request. I dreaded opening the oven door to find a complete disappointment awaiting oven mits. And then of course I hated the cleaning up afterwards. Only to hear, "what's for lunch?" as I tried in vain to separate mixture from tray.

Wednesday was shopping day. My day off. A day I could at last escape the clutches of an old man's demands. I would purposely stay out for lunch just so I didn't need to hear those three words he loved so much. Then I would arrive back at 2pm, laden with bags and have to contend with questions like, "what's this?" and "how much is bread this week?" If I bought something out of the ordinary like Yorkshire butter instead of Lurpak I would have to listen to "all the years I've had Lurpak. Has it gone up in price?" Every week. Every single week. And if I was later than 2pm, I would be asked, "where have you been?"

Thursday would be a kind of tidy up/clean/sit at my desk day. In other words, a day I would spend as little time as possible in the kitchen being told what to do. I would make my way downstairs at 10am for the traditional morning coffee and fifteen biscuits, followed by a piece of whatever was left from Monday's madness. I would then return at lunch time to be asked, "what's for lunch?"

Friday was cleaning day again. I always wanted the house looking relatively tidy ready for the weekend inevitable tip. I would usually spend at least an hour cleaning the stairs, we had runners then with exposed floor boards either side on all 29 stairs. I would balance up and down them on my hands and knees with cloth and a bowl of soapy water. I used that particular bowl following my decision not to use it for washing up anymore after finding Jim with his feet in it. "What are you doing?" I asked, appalled that I had just washed the lunch pots in the very same bowl. "Washing my feet," he replied. I guess I shouldn't have asked.

Saturday was another shopping day. Mainly to get Amy out of the house and out of Jim's way so he could watch the racing on his telly in peace. And so he didn't spend all day moaning at a small child who's only pleasure in life was to play. And breathe.

But Sunday was a day of rest. For Jim that was, not me. I had lunch and dinner to make. The first six months of residing with my father-in-law saw me in the kitchen from 10am until 2pm making a cooked Sunday dinner. I'm not moaning, I just wasn't used to doing it and have never eaten cooked food in the middle of the day. And being expected to do it was making it a whole lot worse. Jim would then shut himself away which usually meant I had the afternoon to myself. With Amy of course. On very few occasions, J, myself and Amy would take ourselves out in the car and on many occasions would be hounded on our return about where we'd been, why we all needed to go and why we were so long. After a while, J didn't bother coming out with us and so we didn't bother going anywhere. A potter about the farm was enjoyed just as much, so long as we were together. Which didn't last long because Jim moaned about that too.

He laughed at me when I worked on my computer. He smirked when I sent off short stories to potential publishers. I tried to ignore him but it was so hard. Living with someone who had spent all his life being 'in charge' compared to me being a doormat was becoming increasingly difficult and the arguments started. I didn't like someone not taking me seriously. I couldn't stand the fact that his idea of work was outside on a farm. Full stop. Farming was the only work he'd ever known. It had been passed down the generations so I didn't blame him for his ignorance. But I worked hard. I worked to achieve something. I'd spent years working in a claustrophobic office, competing with society, trying to pass exams to get the Institute of Export qualification but that didn't mean anything to Jim. A woman's place was well and truly in the home. Morrison's when necessary but mostly she should be stood behind a kitchen sink or by an Aga. A Kenwood mixer if she was lucky enough to own one.

"Look behind you"

It is sometimes not easy to concentrate. Creaks and footsteps deter my thoughts, my mind wanders from progress I am trying to make. I write about my experiences in a paranormal world yet I am prevented on numerous occasions by having to check the room for any unexpected guests; the doorway for any hovering loved ones and the stairs for the lady who roams. I sit with my back to the door. I usually leave it open. A landing directly outside the room in which I work has an unexplained noise. A paranormal creak which sounds when a foot is applied heavily to its floor boards.


I sit with my back to the door. The door is open. I assume I am alone in the house, the whereabouts of my family known to be in far away fields. Footsteps walk into the room. They settle near the bed, again. The bed creaks. A dull thud near the fireplace sounds as I turn around, unperturbed at the usual sounds which take me to another plane. The footsteps appear on the stairs. Louder than usual. A little different than I am used to. Still sat in my chair, I am now facing the door; the computer subject to my rudeness. I decide these noises aren't those made by my roaming friend. As I rise from my chair I anxiously approach the doorway. Open. Revealing an empty landing, sash window looking out onto a garden filled with child's toys.


I do not feel comfortable. This is a strange feeling, one which I do not appreciate. I am beginning to wonder if I am indeed not alone in the house, if I have been visited by someone from our earth plane. Someone who has not been invited. An intruder. I frantically look around the room for an object, a hard and heavy ornament which will be used should I have a need. I find a crystal vase. I pick it up from the dusty shelf and hold it threateningly in my right hand. I will not allow intruders to take advantage of my home. Of me.


I venture out of the room, onto the landing. The stairs are quiet. There is no one in my sight. Still holding the vase, I slowly descend the staircase. Quietly, one step at a time, careful not to lose my balance. I make my way down the stairs; I pass the mirror then walk up the next staircase. There is no one except me anywhere on the first floor of my house. I go back down. A quick peep into the lounge; nothing. The noises have now ceased. The feeling has now disappeared, my home is my own once more. Whoever has visited me must surely have lost their way, realised they did not want to be in my house, discovered they had ventured into protected territory. I return to my desk, turning my back on the open doorway. I cannot concentrate. I cannot remember what I was writing about. What I was thinking about.


My late father-in-law would have been 83 on Monday 6th August. Does he still wander the house, wondering why life was drained from his failing body? Perhaps I will wish him a Happy Birthday on Monday. He would never tell me the exact date of his birthday because he would not allow us to celebrate it. I found out via other sources. I insisted he enjoyed his 80th, however. I spent time and effort cooking a meal, a family gathering as we sat around the kitchen table, a sad look in the old man's eyes. Frustration yet cheerfulness in my mood. I do hope he will enjoy his birthday this time.

Dare we try.......

......to discover the mind of a child. With autism. Can we understand how this child thinks, how they feel, how they see the world around them? Where was I when God was dealing out normality? Where was I? Answer: I was right here. Waiting for my next challenge. But God didn't deal me normality. He dealt me riches beyond my wildest dreams. He honoured me with love; unequivocal heartstrings, drawn in the face of a child who's needs are greater than any of my own.

My mind; an emotional journey into the unknown. A learning curve, presented on a daily basis, never at the right time but always when meant to be. I consider myself a good mum. I love my child, I would walk through fire for my child, I would die for my child. Yet to understand my child's life would be my ultimate challenge. One in which not even God could expect me to face. Even 'experts' do not understand autism. Research, ongoing, still does not reveal answers as to why a child's mind does not work as God intended. So. Who is God exactly? Why can't He solve these problems?

I have a beautiful, compassionate child. Amy. Seven years old. Full of life. She is aggressive, yet sensitive. She is loud, yet often portrays shyness. She is a part of me that I am proud to love. She writes me notes; "Dear mum. I love (a heart shape) you so much. Love from Amy." She tells me I am beautiful when all I see is drab. She tells me she loves me more than all the pebbles on the beach, the grains of sand in the world, the stars in the sky and the clams in the sea. I tell her I love her more. I cannot joke with her because the part of her brain which should help her to understand has paused for breath. The rest of her brain tries hard to catch up to normality. Amy's normality. Not ours.

"Dear Mr Bugg, I a polagize too take you too bugg heven." This was written on a small piece of paper which was placed on top of the kitchen bin. The note was intended for a terrified bug which had been accidentally squashed by a 6st seven year old on Wednesday morning. Amy believes all creatures, big or small, however many legs, will make their journey to heaven and be once more with their loving families. The following few lines were written by Amy (letter by letter) some weeks ago in the form of a short story:

"One rainy day a sad owle was very alone all the time & he was in the middle of that double tree & then on it got dark on the rainy day & there was a funder storm & He was fritend. The End." A picture of two trees either side of an owl shouting for help was drawn beneath. The story was written on a piece of A4 paper, folded in half with "I Love You" written on the front page.

These children deserve our support. They deserve our time, our effort and our patience. They need our normality. Because to them all they see is what we give them. They don't see our world, they don't read our thoughts. They have their own worlds where we have to meet them; join them at their level, which is usually on a much higher spectrum than the one we are used to. Amy writes music. She writes letters on a piece of paper covering an octave on a piano scale. Her music is beautiful. It is soothing and makes me stare in awe. Then I realise the challenge I have been granted will never end as the restful part of Amy's brain may spring into action, when I least expect.