'This place reminds him of the place that once was' by Maria Thomas

The river runs red, crimson, bloody and it takes him right back to that dreadful night when a different river, a wider, angrier river, ran a terrible red; the red of death and persecution and massacre.  The river ran red, and the life he had known ended, as his kin were wiped out, when he escaped into darkness and fled the city of his birth.  A city he had thought gracious and refined and cultured, that mutated into a chimera of violence and horror, pungent with decay and putrefaction. The river ran red.

This  river before him, this vivacious, bubbling, fast-flowing brook, this river runs red, right through to that great, stinking, serpentine, majestic watercourse, Old Father Thames himself.  And it is this river, the Wandle, that provides him with a kind of rebirth, a purging of the violence of his past, and gives him the purity of a future.

Like many Huguenot’s he came to Wandsworth to settle in a land that might allow him to curl his roots into the earth, and soar upwards, outwards, along a family tree-line like the sycamores that sit on the river's sturdy banks.  Here he can find employment as a weaver, making the luxurious felt that the Huguenot’s are famous for, the cloth that makes the mitres of his enemies, the cloth that makes the river run red.

This red that is neither peaceful, nor tolerant, but might allow him to live the rest of his days in peaceful tolerance, amongst his own, traumatised, hopeful countrymen; might allow them to build the bones of a community that supports their ambitions for the sweet bird of peace and the ancestry of the sycamore.

'Mirror, Mirror' by Maeve Heneghan

 

She had to be the vainest woman I had ever met.  Her hair was never out of place and she always kept up with the latest, most expensive fashions.  What else did she have to spend her money on?  Her darling only son had grown up and had the misfortune, in her eyes, to marry me. The barely concealed contempt that she had for me always carried on her voice in conversation.  I pretended not to notice for Jack’s sake. The only thing that was going for me was the fact that I cooked and cleaned well enough.

When mum died, I stepped in as surrogate mother for my six younger brothers. Daddy worked constantly. I cooked, cleaned up after them, read to them and was their counsellor. When I left they were broken-hearted.  I hope it was more than my housekeeping skills that they missed.

As I plumped the cushions in the sitting room, Jack had that imploring look again.

‘Can we tell her tonight Connie?’ ‘You are past the twelve weeks.’

‘Can I think about it Jack?’ I’m still a little bit nervous.’

He was about to talk me around but I cut him off. ‘I’ll tell you what, why don’t I make that apple pie that your mom loves so much?’ You know, with the cinnamon crumble?’ That seemed to sway him enough to put the pregnancy out of his head for now.

I busied myself with the pie and I resolved that I would not tell her tonight. If I had my way I’d never tell her.

As I sprinkled the cinnamon into the crumble mix, I thought I might add a little extra something this time.  I could blame it on the hormones. Daddy always said my apple pie was to die for.

 

'Chance meeting at the chip shop' by Cheryl Powell

I bumped into Bluebeard outside the fish and chip shop in town. He looked like a rock god in all that black leather.

‘Oh, hi! Long-time no see,’ I gushed, awkward. You know how it is. 

He didn’t recognise me. 

‘It’s Jenny. Bridesmaid, remember? Lavender taffeta.’ 

I hadn’t spoken to Loretta since the wedding. The bitch was too tied up with her tycoon husband and jet-set lifestyle to stay in touch, and I was working my way through a string of lousy husbands. Always messy. 

So here he was, Bluebeard, frighteningly handsome, massive beard oiled, combed and displayed on his chest like a rack of crow feathers. 

Then he remembered. ‘Jenny! Of course. You look wonderful‘ He worked his eyes over me, slowly, then smiled, a flash of gold tooth.

‘And how is Loretta?’ I kept my voice bright, though I couldn’t really care less. 

‘She’s back at the castle.’ He stroked his beard, fingers rimed red beneath his nails, and smiled.

 She would be, I thought, and remembered the Lamborghini's and the stable of Palominos. 

So, anyway, we’re both going in for fish and chips – I chose the cod but, understandably, Bluebeard wanted something finer and ordered Dover sole. We carried on talking in the street, me stabbing at the chips with the wooden fork, he making surgical cuts to the Dover sole with a scalpel taken from his top pocket. 

Finally, he invited me to his castle, and I saw the glitter in his eyes. Result! To be honest, I can’t pack fast enough. But I do need to prepare; grind the boning knives and meat cleavers, sharpen the hooks. Just in case, like all the other times, this relationship doesn’t work out.