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harryandmolly · 6 years ago

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Ten Years - Part Two

summary: ten years after 2007 Warped Tour, Shawn and Val come face to face in London

warnings: Language, NSFW, everything you’ve ever wanted

WC: 5.9k

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Shawn rolls over heavily onto his stomach, expecting more soft, lightly scented sheets and mattress to meet him. Instead, he rolls onto something warm and harder than a mattress. It yelps and kicks at him.

Shawn’s eyes pop open. He shuffles back to his side of the bed and blinks, reorienting.

“Oh, fuck,” he mutters, voice thick and rusty with sleep, “Sorry.”

He can’t stop the stupid grin that spreads his dry lips when he realizes the thing he rolled on top of was Val. She’s also staring up at him with a slow-growing smile and tugging at his arm to drape it over her middle.

“You squashed me,” she jabs playfully, lifting one bare leg out from beneath the duvet to rest beside his, running a hand through her hair.

Shawn helps tuck a strand behind her ear, scooting closer and settling back into her gray pillows. He drops his arm where she directs it, unwilling to let her go. He’d like to spend a few hours just looking at her. He knows he got to yesterday, but it wasn’t like this. It wasn’t like waking up in her bed in sheets that smell like her, admiring the freckles and light laugh lines that she’s achieved since they last spent time like this together. This is different.

“I haven’t slept in a bed with anyone in a while,” he admits, mentally counting the months, “I guess I’m out of practice.”

“Used to try to lie on top of me in my bunk, too,” she points out, the corner of her soft mouth lifting, “I think you’re just clingy in your sleep.”

Shawn gets a dangerous glint in his eye and rolls again until he’s lying overtop her, his knees barely holding the bulk of his weight to keep from crushing her. She giggles in delight and pushes his hair out of his eyes, silently thinking how much she likes this length on him.

“Time is it?” she murmurs, glancing toward the night table.

“‘S early,” Shawn confesses, resting back against her side, “Almost 6.”

Val nods sleepily, her eyes falling shut, “Baby’ll be up soon.”

Shawn presses his lips to her forehead and leaves them there, breathing softly, reveling in the curious skimming of her hands over the firm planes of his body. Maybe she’s re-memorizing him, too.

“I’m sorry about attacking you last night,” Val whispers.

Shawn lifts his head to look down at her. She doesn’t look sheepish or anxious, just tired.

“Oh, I mean, you didn’t--”

“I don’t want it to be like that either,” she continues, keeping her fingers steadily twisting through his frizzy morning curls, “I don’t know what this is yet, you seemingly dropping in out of nowhere. And I don’t know where you are. I think that’s stuff we have to figure out first before we fall into bed together.”

He knows she means having sex. She didn’t at all mind falling into bed with him last night as she stripped down to a camisole and panties, snuggling into him gratefully as she mumbled about always being able to sleep so well with him next to her.

Shawn nods gamely, pulling her hand down from his hair to kiss her fingertips assuredly. He figured this conversation was coming. He kind of hoped there would be coffee first, but this is fine, too.

Because really, he still can’t fucking believe he’s lying in bed with Val again. What dumb fucking luck.

“The thing is, I have a baby.”

Shawn grins. “I noticed.”

Val swats at his chest and presses on, “Meaning this isn’t just my life I’m messing around with. That little girl in the next room? She’s my family. She’s my life. She’s my priority. I owe it to her to take all the relationships in my life very seriously because every second of energy I give to someone else takes it away from her. I’m not totally unwilling to do that, but it has to be for something worth it. Something real. Something hopefully long term.”

Shawn massages her fingers gently and nods at her to continue.

She looks up at him warmly, if a little sad. “I don’t expect you to know if you can handle this. You can’t, not really, not until you live with it for a while. But… Shawn, I don’t think I want you to try if you don’t really, really want to. I know… I mean, I know this is a lot so fast. I just ran into you yesterday and now I sound like I’m trying to lock you down for good. But I need you to know exactly where my head is. For me and for you.”

Shawn nods thoughtfully. He wets his lips and opens his mouth, but a squawking cry from the next room interrupts him. Val sighs, closing her eyes for a moment before wriggling out from beneath him.

Shawn sits up, straightening his t-shirt and clocking his jeans on the ground by the bed. He likes seeing them there. He already feels at home here and doesn’t even have to try.

In another minute, Val reappears in the doorway, bouncing Alice in a cream fleece onesie that has tiny feet and a hood with little lamb ears on it. Shawn’s sure his heart bursts open and drains out all over the bed. He beams.

“Good morning, Alice!” he coos, waving at her. She squeals, kicking against Val’s stomach, reaching for him.

Val scoffs. “Excuse me, I’m the mummy. You’re supposed to be happy to see me.”

“Yeah, but I’m the shiny new toy you brought home for her,” Shawn replies dryly without taking his eyes off Alice, reaching for the squirming infant. Val hands her over reluctantly, trying to ignore the biologically predetermined warmth that spreads through her at seeing Alice held by a big strong handsome man.

“Used to be my shiny new toy,” Val grunts under her breath, toeing at the carpet.

“Hmm?” Shawn hums distractedly, bouncing the baby on his knee.

“Nothing,” Val sighs, perching beside them. She leans in, pressing her nose to Alice’s soft patch of dark hair. She closes her eyes and inhales.

“The thing is, you guys are already perfect,” Shawn whispers.

Val looks up to see him watching them.

“I know you don’t need me. Neither of you do.”

Something tucked away long ago, buried deep in Val’s gut protests. It startles her into blinking quickly.

“And the thing is, you might not even want me. I mean… I know what we’re both feeling right now. It feels like a second chance at something… fucking great. But the truth is, we don’t really know each other anymore. Ten years changes everything. I know it did for me. So we need to get there first. And I want to. Fuck, baby, I want to so much. I know this isn’t an easy thing to jump into. You’re scared. I’m scared. But last time I was scared, I ran. I don’t want to run. I want to work.”

Val’s heart is going to beat out of her chest and flop into his lap. He sits there, holding her world in his hands, offering her his. She can’t say no. She doesn’t want to.

Val leans in, cupping a hand around the back of his head to kiss him softly. Her lips linger, breathing him in, soaking in this feeling. It’s a new twist on a feeling she gets everyday when she greets her daughter.

It’s possibility.

She has to shoo him away sooner than she’d like. But it’s Monday and she and Alice are due at the museum. He helps occupy Alice while Val gets ready, not above a boyish blush when she comes striding into the kitchen in a bra and well tailored trousers to show Shawn that she’s not holding Alice’s bottle correctly.

He walks them to the tube station and Val isn’t quite ready to let him go yet, opting to take the long way on the Circle Line with him until his stop at Embankment.

“Can I see you again before you leave?” he whispers, eyeing the train doors as he tempts time.

Val chuckles at his boldness and the way he’s poised to hop up out of his seat and bolt before the doors can shut him in.

“Tonight. Meet me at Notting Hill Gate station at 5:30. We’ll go Christmas shopping in Portobello Market.”

Shawn exhales in relief and presses his lips to hers, a quick peck to tide him over. He leaps off the train just before the doors shut. Val and Alice wave to him on the platform until he’s out of sight.

Have yourself a merry little Christmas… let your heart be light…

Shawn is parked on a bench outside the tube station, his hands in his pockets, his heel bouncing against the cold stone under his feet as he waits, somewhat impatiently, for his dates for the evening.

Even with the extra time he spent getting ready -- nice close shave, extra time on the hair, picking out the right shirt -- he got to Notting Hill Gate almost 25 minutes early. He couldn’t help it. He’s been going out of his skin with excitement all day.

The sun has just set. The surrounding street lamps have come on. The market is alive with vendors and shoppers. BBC Radio 1’s Christmas music sets the mood. Shawn’s desperately trying not to think about the fact that after tonight, he won’t see them again until after New Years. It feels like a dream he refuses to wake up from. But he can’t let it taint their night. It’s all he’s thought about all day.

The tube lift spits out chilly looking Londoners with shopping bags and a lot of holiday spirit. Last out of the back of the lift are the two people he’s been waiting for.

He stands, grinning, and springs forward to help Val maneuver the pram out of the lift before it can shut on her. They pause under a streetlamp to kiss. It’s supposed to be quick and chaste but he’s so warm and smells so nice and Val’s been thinking about him all goddamn day so she slips him a little tongue to get her blood moving. He returns the favor with a quiet whimper into her mouth.

Alice is very happy to see her big tall friend again. Val lifts her out of the pram to hold while Shawn steers down toward the market.

They catch up on their days. Val has much more to offer than Shawn does. She tells him all about a painting she’s been looking to acquire for a secret exhibit they’re designing for the spring. He doesn’t have much context, not being a seasoned art fan like Val, but he enjoys hearing the passion in her voice.

“So what do you think this next album’s going to look like?” she hums, handing Alice off to Shawn so she can thumb through some cute needlepoints at an outdoor stall that her mom might like.

Shawn adjusts Alice in his arms and lets her suck one of his fingers into her mouth as she teethes. He shrugs.

“Not sure yet, exactly. The last few have been so planned out. It’s nice not knowing every note, every lyric that’s going into it. I dunno, I mean, we played Joy Ride in full this summer. We’ve never gotten to do that. Hearing it all again like that, playing it for the kids, it was… really special. I’ve been thinking about that sound since the show. I think we might get back there see how it feels.”

Val tries to temper her goofy grin. Shawn catches it and laughs.

“You like that idea?”

“I love that idea,” she replies, handing some pound coins to the vendor as they shuffle off to peruse the next stall, “I’ve always loved Joy Ride. From the first time I heard it. I listen to the vinyl sometimes. I like it like that -- all the way through from start to finish, the way that story’s told.”

“Yeah!” Shawn agrees emphatically, his eyes lighting up as Alice pinches at his earlobe, “I’ve been thinking about that, too. We haven’t done that since. I miss that kind of storytelling.”

Val nods thoughtfully, tugging at the flaps around Alice’s little hat to keep her warm. Shawn watches her, a smile on his lips.

“You always were so good at that.”

“Hmm?”

“Songwriting. I know the rest of it didn’t stick with you -- tour life, performing. But you still write sometimes, eh?”

She bobs her head, heading to the next stall where a little old lady is selling homemade candy. “Sometimes. Just with Raf and Alex. And Hayley, when she asks.”

Shawn chews on the inside of his lip for a full two more stalls before he speaks.

“Would you ever consider writing with me?”

Val looks up. Her cheeks flush prettily. Her nose twitches. “Yes, I’d consider it.”

Shawn grins so wide she has to kiss him again. Alice gets a little squashed between them but she doesn’t seem to mind.

At dinner at a little pie shop in the center of the market strip, with twinkle lights around their booth and more Frank Sinatra Christmas music crooning above them, they take out the heavy catch up artillery -- they discuss their love lives.

On this subject, Shawn has more to report than Val. He tells her how he’s been in and out of relationships, never single for very long before this last year. He reports that none of them were serious, no one was ever the right fit. He tells her all of this easily, spilling his guts over a pint and a pie, reaching over to tickle Alice’s belly every few minutes, giggling when she does.

Val aches.

She tells him about the small handful of guys she’s seen over the years -- fewer, with more time between than he took. She similarly reports feeling like nothing was ever quite right, not until Alice. Alice filled voids she didn’t know she had.

But, she thinks to herself as Shawn pays the tab and jingles the bell on the mistletoe hanging over Alice’s head to make her squeal again, Alice can’t give her everything Val really needs.

Val tucks the baby back into the pram after dinner. Shawn pushes with one hand and holds Val around her shoulders with the other. She stays tucked into his side, made convenient from the cold night, and hums along to “Jingle Bell Rock” as they wander.

“Wish it wasn’t Christmas right now,” Shawn suddenly grunts, looking forlorn. Val’s brow wrinkles as she looks up at him.

“Because we just… I mean this just… fuck, we just found this… thing again. And now we’re both leaving.”

Val squeezes the arm around his waist, charmed by the pouty note in his voice. “Only for two weeks. That’s nothing compared to ten years.”

Shawn sighs, dissatisfied. He stops, dropping his arm to tug her beside him, holding her smaller hand in his.

“I know. I just-- do you get this feeling, too? Like it’s too good? This can’t be real. I’m… Val, I’m fucking pinching myself whenever you’re not looking just being around you again. After all this time. A second chance at this, at us? I only dreamed this. This… this is--”

Val pops up on her toes and tucks an arm around his neck.

“Hey, listen,” she whispers, pressing her forehead to his, nudging his nose with hers, “I know. I feel it, too. But you know what? I’ve felt it less tonight. Because this, here, feels so, so real to me. You, me, her. God, Shawn, if you only knew how often I wondered and wished and thought about it and then felt guilty thinking about it because it felt like I had never really moved on… I want this to work. And honestly? I think this time apart is good. We both get to go home to the people that know us and love us best. We regroup. We pop this sweet little bubble and see what’s really real. We can decide for certain if this is actually what we want.”

Shawn lets her words sink in. He tilts his head, brushing his lips against the corner of her mouth. She smiles and kisses him properly -- hands in his hair, murmuring in his mouth, only pulling apart when they’re gasping for breath and Alice has started to cry.

Val sighs, lifting the baby from the pram and hugging her close. “Come here, my little cockblock.”

Shawn barks a laugh and steers on.

Before too long, Val mentions quietly it’s probably time to be getting the baby home, plus they fly to Miami tomorrow and she still has some of Alice’s packing to do. Shawn helps maneuver them into a black cab with more kisses and promises of phone calls and texts.

“I hope your mum likes the sweater,” Val whispers, kissing his earlobe as they attempt to pry themselves away.

“I hope your dad likes the vinyl,” he sighs, finally pulling back as the cabbie honks again.

“Merry Christmas, Shawn.”

“Merry Christmas, Val.”

December 23rd, 2017

Val: how did meeting aaliyah’s new boyfriend go

Shawn: I didn’t hit him. So that’s something.

Val: v proud of you

Shawn: how are Alice and Maria getting along?

Val: like cousins do. Stealing toys, hugging for the camera

Shawn: send me pics

Val: I will <3

December 25th, 2017

Val tips the phone between her ear and shoulder, needing both hands to pop open the jar of baby food. Alice bounces hungrily in her seat. Val giggles. Just the sound makes Shawn smile, hundreds of miles away.

“Funny how Christmas seems to go faster every year,” he says sleepily, closing his eyes.

“Mmm, I know. I just can’t wait for Alice to get a little older so she can be excited about it.”

Shawn quirks a grin. “Little kids are the best at Christmas. They make everything a little more magical.”

Val smiles, spooning a bite of mashed carrot and swede between Alice’s pouty lips. “Alice makes everything more magical.”

Shawn yawns, agreeing with a sleepy grunt.

December 28th, 2017

Shawn shifts, holding his phone up while he scooches down into his pillows, eyeing her apologetically.

“I know… I know it had to happen that way. I know we wouldn’t be who we are now if we stayed together. Who knows. Maybe we would’ve broken up if we had tried. I just-- you’ll never know how sorry I am, how ashamed I am of the way I left.”

Val is quiet, watching his lazy eye get lazier as he speaks over FaceTime. She wants to reach out, cup his cheeks and whisper in his ear, comfort him. Her chest aches.

Just a few more days.

“It did have to happen,” she assures him, “I knew, deep down, even if I didn’t want to, I knew the things we were promising in the moment couldn’t happen. I didn’t truly expect you to keep those promises. It didn’t make me stop loving you.”

Shawn sniffs, nodding, picking at his comforter.

“Nothing made me stop loving you,” he murmurs. His voice is rough. She wonders if he has tears in his pretty brown eyes.

Her lower lip shakes. “How many more days?”

Shawn sighs, scrunches up his face while he thinks, “Nine.”

Val thumbs at the sheets on her childhood bed. “That’s too many.”

“I totally agree.”

Val and Alice fly home to London on New Years Eve morning. It’s cold and rainy in England, a welcome change from the sticky Miami heat, even in December. It makes Val wants to walk around the flat barefoot and dance with Alice to Norah Jones. She puts “Wintertime” on the stereo system she splurged on when she first let the flat.

She dresses Alice up in the Iron Man costume Raf got her for Christmas and twirls with her until Alice passes out on her chest. She changes her and tucks her into bed, her fat rhinoceros toy tucked up under her little arm just like she likes. She pours herself a glass of wine, turning on the TV when the Chinese food delivery guy comes around 10pm. In an oversized cardigan, lace bralette and panties, she doesn’t feel so much like a mum as she usually does. She even lights a few candles and imagines Shawn is there to snuggle with while they watch the midnight countdowns all over the world.

He’s not, of course. He’s still home in Toronto, celebrating with his friends before he flies back on the 6th. And that’s fine. The time is good.

She keeps telling herself that.

Plus, it’s not like last time. She can call him. She can text him. She can request stupid selfies just to see his pretty face. The last time he was gone, he was just… gone.

She doesn’t relish thinking about it.

She’s into her second glass of wine with her feet up on a sturdy pillow beside her, TV muted, fingers drumming along to Norah’s beat as she sings “It Was You” a little quieter than this afternoon so as not to upset cranky Mrs. Roberts down the hall.

There’s a knock at the door. Val frowns. She wouldn’t be shocked to see Drunk Emily from upstairs, who leaves her spare key with Val for when she’s Peak Drunk Emily, but it’s not yet midnight and there’s no way Emily has gotten back so early.

She can’t be bothered to dress before opening the door, she just leans her head around it, eyes wide and curious.

She flings it open. Shawn, fresh from Heathrow, is holding a backpack and a suitcase and looking bright eyed despite the travel circumstances.

“Oh my--!” she squeals, slinging her arms around his neck and jumping so her legs clasp around his slender waist, tucking her face into his hair.

Shawn holds her weight easily, steering his luggage into the flat, kicking the door shut as quietly as he can so as not to wake sleeping Alice. He closes his eyes, breathes in her clean scent of citrus and warm laundry.

“Good surprise?” he murmurs, running a hand up her back to sink into her thick wave of curls.

Val can’t breathe. Her eyes are snapped shut. She’s clinging to him like he’s been gone for months. It might be overkill, but it’s New Years Eve and it always makes her reflective and emotional.

Finally, she nods, pulling her face away to look at him as he walks them into her bedroom.

“Great surprise,” she chokes, smoothing the curls off his forehead to kiss him as he lays her down on the mattress with one knee up beneath her.

“I’ve been thinking,” he breathes, tracing the tip of his nose over her face, feeling her release her hold on his hips as he kicks off his boots and climbs over her, “About this. About us.”

Val’s heart gives a quick pulse and then throbs double time. She nods, reminding herself he wouldn’t be holding her like this if this were bad news.

“I don’t know what it’s like to be a father figure. I don’t know what it’s like to feel responsible for someone other than myself. I don’t know what it’s like to love someone that much. I think-- I think the closest I’ve ever come is loving you.”

Val stops breathing and stares up at him in wonder. He pulls away, lifting his nose from her jaw to wet his lips and look her in the eye.

“And I never stopped loving you. It was inconvenient, it was scary, it was fucking hard. But I never stopped, Vally. Not for a second in ten years. I-- fuck, you’re it, baby. This is it for me.”

A set of tears drip from the outer corners of Val’s eyes. She nods, sliding her hands up and down his sides as he lowers himself closer to her.

“I want it, Shawn. I want all of you. I want this for real this time.”

Shawn barely has enough time to grin like an idiot before she’s fisting a hand in his hair to pull him into a kiss. It’s so perfectly Val, Shawn thinks to himself with a sigh of relief into her mouth, manhandling him without even flinching over it. He’s surprised he’s even still on top after twenty seconds of kissing so feverishly.

She hooks a leg around him and uses it to toss him onto his back beside her so she can climb up to kiss him harder. He smiles into her warm, wet mouth.

“What?” she pants, spreading her kisses down his neck as his pulse races under her mouth.

“You. You’re still-- god, you haven’t changed.”

Val lifts her head, smirking down at him like her job in life is to make his stomach flip.

“You wouldn’t want me to, papi.”

Shawn’s head falls back, his eyes fall shut. He releases a totally unself-conscious moan, rocking his hips up into hers.

Val coos, lighting a fire behind her eyes. She slips a hand down his chest to rest over his heart, reminding her how profoundly he cannot hide from her.

“You like that,” she notes, “You miss that, baby?”

Shawn nods fervently. “So much. God, you’re so sexy.”

Valentina rears up on her knees, shrugging out of her cardigan to toss it away. She feels a piece of her long missing return, snapping into place where motherhood chipped it away.

“You wanna be good for me again, papi?”

Shawn nods before she even gets out the words. She smiles, dropping her lips to his for a hot, hard kiss that has him scooping his hands up the backs of her thighs to meet her ass. He squeezes, kneading her soft flesh, reveling in the feel of her against him once again.

Val carefully pulls her lips away long enough to lick them and sit back in his lap. She tilts her head, studying him as she pants, tracing her finger around his face -- over his brows, around his cheekbones, down his jaw, against his wet, swelling lips. He presses them into her fingertip, closing his eyes.

“Take my clothes off.”

Her voice is quiet and a little ragged, but firm and authoritarian.

Shawn sits up, holding her in his lap. He reaches behind her slowly, hungry hands dragging over her ribs on the way, to the clasp of her bralette at her back. He closes his eyes, leaning in to mouth at her sternum as he releases the hooks and pulls the straps down her slender arms.

Shawn pulls away to look. His eyes bulge. His jaw drops.

“You still have them?”

Val laughs, cupping the back of his head gently. “Would you even recognize them if I didn’t?”

Shawn smiles, sweeping his thumb over the underside of her breast, admiring. “I assumed… you know, with the baby--”

“Never took them out. Didn’t need to.”

Shawn brings the thumb up over the familiar jewelry, shaking his head. “Missed these.”

His head tilts back courtesy of a tug from her fingers. She licks her lips, brushing the tips of her fingers over his mouth.

“Show me.”

Shawn groans, eyes falling shut. He lifts her off his lap, settling her against her mass of pillows.

He starts slow, just the way she taught him so many years ago. He kisses concentric circles around her nipples, leading outward, snagging his teeth occasionally on soft brown skin to feel her arch and gasp. His hand keeps her other nipple busy, thumbing the barbell in the same rhythm as his kisses.

He has her out of breath immediately. She’s out of practice, surely. The outpour of emotion was also taxing. But fuck, he’s also definitely gotten better at this. He knows just when to pull back, how much is too much, knows, somehow, like he’s been dreaming about ways to get her wet in the last decade, how to suck her nipple into his mouth and tongue at the jewelry at the same time.

She looks down at him, watching him play with her, switching between her breasts, lavishing her pronounced postnatal stretch marks with kisses until Val is so wet she can’t stand it.

“Papi,” she gasps, “Take my panties off.”

Shawn groans in agreement, nodding and releasing her nipple with a wet, filthy pop. His lips are swollen. She intends to continue putting them to work.

Shawn slinks down the bed, kissing as he goes, getting stuck around another crosshatching of stretch marks around her tummy and inner thighs that has him pleasantly distracted. It’s too sweet for her to force him to stop. Instead, she lies there, her arms above her head, rocking her hips slowly, waiting.

He lifts her hips, hooking her lace panties around his fingers and tugging, dragging her long, muscular legs up in the air to free them. They fall forgotten off the bed as Shawn refocuses, kissing down the inside of one of the legs he loves so much.

Val smirks. “Remember that day in Texas when our bus broke down?”

Shawn’s head lifts around her inner knee. He grins.

“When I made you come so hard on my face that you screamed?”

Val’s hips buck. She growls, nodding, “Do that again.”

“Yes ma’am.”

He plants his enormous hands on her inner thighs, spreading her open for him. He stares at her, pink and glistening and already so fucking wet for him. He’s overwhelmed, but he can’t let it paralyze him. He whimpers, loud and short, and drops his lips to where she needs them.

“Oh, oh fuck,” Val hisses, tilting her hips as best she can, being pinned beneath his strong grasp.

He’s buried his face in her, spoiling her pussy with short, soft licks, reminding her what it’s like to be the one taken care of. She rakes her fingers through his curls, holding them off his forehead, steering him between her clit and her entrance as his strokes become broader, but not any firmer. She sighs in frustration, lifting her head to look down at him.

“Do you just want to get me wet or do you want to make me come?”

“Both, baby. Always both,” he assures her with a quirk of his eyebrow before diving back in.

Val groans, tempering it to keep from waking Alice in the next room. He sucks at her inner lips, flirting with her clit by skimming it with his lips, his tongue, his teeth. He seems to want to take his time, given the distance they forced upon themselves. She’s about to complain again when he sucks her clit between his lips.

“Yes!” she cries, coming up on one hand as she rocks against his face.

It’s been so long. Val doesn’t have the strength, mentally or physically, to hold off her orgasm for too long. He alternates sucking and lapping at her, his eyes flashing as he waits for her peak.

Val lets it crash into them, falling back into the pillows with a soft thump as she rolls her hips steadily against his willing mouth. Her fingers tighten in his hair, holding him where he is, though he has no intention of moving. Even after she’s come down, regained some breath and remembered her fucking name, he’s still tonguing at her.

She gazes down at him hotly, wondering if he wants what she thinks he wants.

“Come again for me, baby. Please.”

Shawn holds her gaze as he slips two fingers inside her, hooking immediately to press into her g-spot like he knew exactly where it was. He rubs quickly, staring up at her for a reaction.

“Jesus Christ,” Val squeaks, grinding down into his hand, her walls still squeezing hard around his fingers, sucking the breath from his lungs.

“That’s it, baby. Take it. I’m all yours.”

Val’s head falls back with a loud gasp. He strokes harder and faster through her second orgasm, milking it from her as she struggles for breath between choked hisses of his name. When it finally lets her go, Shawn eases back to suck on his fingers.

Val’s legs fall weakly against the bed. He reaches out to massage a scar on her shin he’s always been fond of. She lifts her opposite foot and nudges at his ribs.

“C’mere, honey.”

He goes when she beckons. He settles beside her, unable to keep to himself, nudging little kisses all over her bare shoulders and upper arm until she turns over and rolls on top of him, looking smug.

“How much did you miss that?” she purrs, eyes heavy lidded and taunting.

“So fuckin’ much,” he answers quickly, unashamed, “Baby, you know that was always my favorite.”

Self-satisfied and flushed, Val hauls herself onto her knees. “I know. I remember.”

Shawn’s eyes drift shut as Val undresses him. He’s helpful only to lift his hips so she can pull his jeans and boxers down and wriggle out of his tight fitting henley to toss it over his head. She descends, cupping a hand around his cock and humming pleasantly against his chest as she sucks open-mouthed kisses across the surface.

Shawn has a moment of total existential content so strong, it almost brings tears to his eyes. His breathing quickens, he looks down at the top of her head as she spoils him with kisses that, if you asked him three weeks ago, he’d have said he never thought he’d see again.

“Vally,” he whispers, his voice breaking slightly, getting her attention. She lifts her head, concerned.

He manages a shaky smile, shaking his head. “Can… can you believe how lucky we are?”

It centers them. Val beams, snuggling into him, tucking a leg over his. “Still pinching yourself, Mendes?”

He chuckles. “Absolutely. I’m so stupid happy.”

She blinks slowly like a sleepy house cat. She catches a glimpse of the nightstand clock over his shoulder.

“Hey,” she prompts, tucking an arm around his middle, brushing her nose over his, “Happy New Year.”

Shawn smiles, wide and toothy, rubbing back gently, “Happy New Year, Valentina.”

The next kiss is long and slow. They don’t need to rush. They have all the time now they never did before. Even so, the kiss becomes several kisses, getting shorter and hotter as their bodies rock, eager to pick up where they left off.

Shawn holds her leg still perched overtop his and watches her face as he angles his cock to slide into her as they rest on their sides. To his surprise, Val grins again, cheeks stretched wide as he fills her.

“What?” he pants, the corner of his mouth pulling up. Her smile was always contagious.

“You feel un-fucking-believable,” she whimpers, scooping her arm up under his to grip at his shoulder, beginning to rock them gently.

“You feel even better than I remember,” he admits, stroking his fingers up and down the knobs of her spine.

Their hips fall into a comfortable, easy rhythm. Neither of them is sprinting toward the finish line tonight. They’re enjoying each other, the way their bodies fit, the smoothness of their rocking motion.

They whisper quiet love words, little secrets, desires, moments one thought about the other during their long time apart. Neither of them has ever made love like this, where the aim was not necessarily the orgasm, but the closeness that gets them there.

Eventually, though, Shawn shifts his hips at an angle that has Val’s pelvis pressing up against his with each firmer stroke. He pulses into her clit so overwhelmingly that she comes, shuddering and quiet against his chest. He follows shortly behind her, gathered up in her arms, licking into her mouth as they both smile again for the millionth time that year, and it’s only January 1st.

----------

Part three will be our last. Hoping to have it out next weekend! Thank you for your support my friends, if you’re interested, the link to buy me a Ko-fi is on my main page!

Taglist: @the-claire-bitch-project @achinglyshawn @infiniteshawn @mendesoft @singanddreamanyway @alone-in-madness @abigfatmess @shawnitsmutual @awkwardfangirl2014 @september-lace @grittyisaho @sinplisticshawn @rollingxstone @yslsaint @randi-eve @fallmoreinlove @heyits-claire @itrocksmysocks @parkerspicedlatte @simpledomain @abeautiful-and-cloudy-day @embracehappy @peacedolantwins2 @kitykatnumber

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ganrachi · 6 years ago

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Summer swishy trousers - I’d be imagining a pair of trousers like this for work wear, to wear with cotton lawn tanks and breezy shirts in hot weather, but it took me a while to get round to working out how to make exactly what I wanted. I would have bought some but being pear-shaped I find trousers from shops never ever fit me well and nothing I saw was just right. I wondered about using the megan nielsen flint pants pattern but in the end went for Nina Lee London portobello trousers but hacked them to look like the Flint pants from the front!! Megan Nielsen has a great tutorial on her website on how to hack the flints to have a flat front instead of release tucks, so I figured the same must be possible with the portobello trousers! I simply folded the pleats on the paper pattern piece and smoothed the paper flat. I then measured the pattern pieces across the waist (taking off the seam allowances and missing out the darts on the back) and compared to my waist size, and decided I wanted a bit more room and unfolded half of one pleat to allow for this. I also lowered the waist line by an inch as I find a super high waist isn’t my jam and I added slant pockets using the pocket pieces from the Capri pants in the Gertie sews vintage casual book. Overall they worked out pretty well - having the zipper next to the pockets isn’t ideal but manageable. I think if I made them again I’d draft a curved waist band to get a better fit at the waist, but I still love them and have been wanting to wear them every day!!

#sewist #portobello trousers #Nina lee London #tencel #sewing #handmadefashion #sewcialists

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womenpantstoza · 5 years ago

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^^@^^ $670 RAG & BONE Jean Hyde Portobello Black Leather Trousers Pants. Size 26. https://ift.tt/2tJJ5La

#Pants #womenpants

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reekierevelator · 8 years ago

Text

Going Home

A Short Story by Brian Bourner

Arnie’s Audio Diary

19 January 2015

I’m assailed again by memories of long ago.

It was winter, early dark. We were just ragamuffin kids standing on the pavement outside the shop’s open door, our nostrils flaring in response to the overpowering smell of malt vinegar and burning fat.

From inside, behind the counter, came the familiar soft slurp of wet fish being slapped in batter, immediately followed by the spit and roar, spark and sizzle of the fish being deposited in the deep fryer.

Petey salivated, preparing to crunch his teeth through the crisp, heavily salted batter and into the chewy white cod.

Joe lifted his arms from the counter and swung his big shock of bronze hair towards us, away from the jars of pickled eggs and onions. He grinned, a big twelve year old’s confident grin, one leg bending at a jaunty angle behind the other as he caught my eye.

Behind the imitation white marble counter with its grey veins, Paolo’s sunken eyes drooped sadly. The elderly shop-keeper was still recovering from years of detention on the Isle of Man as an enemy alien. Something I didn’t know about or understand at the time. A heavy-set man in an off-white apron, he posed a question and Joe turned back to answer just as Paolo’s steel spatula plucked the fish from the boiling fat and laid it on a white sheet of paper he’d already spread with his other hand.

A portion of crisp golden chips was instantly shovelled on top, salt and vinegar generously applied, and the whole wrapped neatly in newspaper, all done in one single fluid movement in the same time it took Joe to pull the pound note from his trouser pocket. Somehow Joe always had money when he came to see us.

The till pinged, coins rattled, and Joe pocketed the change that Paolo thrust towards him. Then he stepped out into the cold air, posing proudly with the steaming food, and we quickly closed in around him.

Joe always asked for the bag to be left open, knowing the extent of our hunger and that we couldn’t bear to wait even the other half a minute it would take to open a closed parcel up again.

As we skipped and shuffled down the street, hopping round lampposts and gutters, our eyes bright and our breath condensing in the cold air, we dipped our fingers into the splendid cornucopia at will, plucking out long chips running with vinegar, chunks of white fish, and lumps of crunchy batter, stuffing it all in our mouths without formality. I knew manna from heaven could surely not taste better than such a fish supper. Only Joe was less than euphoric, his ideas still stuck in the old country, and managing a carping comment about the stupidity of people who substitute imitation vinegar for mayonnaise.

20 January 2015

It’s strange the things that fix in the memory. That chip shop tableau always stays clear and fresh and I hold it dear. My elder brother Joe, Johan, my twin Petey, Pieter, and me, Arnie, Armin, enjoying a moveable feast in the cold, grey, winter streets of an immediate post-war Edinburgh. A night of unalloyed pleasure when we had hot food to eat, a place to sleep, and respite from the bombs and bullets, the perennial fighting and screaming, that had plagued our lives in Holland.

We were immigrants, three children whose parents, as I later discovered, had been deported to the camps for organising our escape. Father had been a small tenant farmer, mainly sheep. Mother looked after a few chickens. We were born and lived in the wetlands south of Rotterdam. As the war continued we were left with nothing to eat.

We three children left occupied Holland in a small boat, sailed across the North Sea in 1941 by a friend of our father’s, a fisherman who had already planned his escape. His boat was too small to take our whole family. Johan was eleven. Me and Petey had just turned seven. We arrived frozen and hungry just up the coast from Hull. Joe had been taught enough English at school to be able to explain our position when we were stopped and taken to a police station.

Our father’s friend talked of someone, a fisherman, a man he had run into before the war. He knew he lived somewhere in Scotland called Prestonpans and he was sure that he would help him out.

After a few days we were given travel warrants and bundled onto the train for Edinburgh. But on arriving at Waverley our father’s friend made it clear that though he’d got us across the water, and out of police custody, he couldn’t supply accommodation. The Scottish fisherman with whom he was vaguely acquainted had only had a very tiny cottage, with no room for more than one visitor. When he bade us farewell we were lost.

We spent the next two days hiding in the city, a feral existence of sleeping in graveyards and scavenging for food. The police found us one night at a Grassmarket soup kitchen and we were packed off to a big cold building, standing in its own grounds, and run with strict discipline. It was called the Dean Orphanage. Joe explained several times why our parents had sent away. We knew it was for our own good but we missed our parents very badly.

All the same, the orphanage did provide proper beds, and there were adults around organising things. There was food too, though seldom enough of it. The basic meals provided barely kept hunger at bay. All the same, our basic needs were served. So Petey and me, being so young and having just survived an extremely tough few weeks at sea and then living rough, resolved to stay. Joe was happy to let us. But being that bit older he didn’t want to be confined to care himself. He ran off again, determined to look after himself and be his own master even in this strange new town.

But afterwards he would often sneak in to visit us. One day he said he was now called Joe rather than Johan because it made life easier for him. And a year or so later the orphanage authorities sometimes allowed him to take us outside. We’d go down to Stockbridge and he’d treat us to a fish supper. He’d found a house in Newhaven where a fisherman let him sleep on his floor so long as he helped with gutting, boxing, and transporting his catch. But he resented that a place to sleep was the only payment he ever received for his hard work. He didn’t think he’d stay there long.

As well as fish and chips, Joe sometimes provided us with other small luxuries, toys and boxes of sweets. But as we settled into the orphanage and our stay extended into its second and third years his visits gradually tailed off.

It was after we’d been in the orphanage several years and the authorities were starting to think of our lives after we left that they decided our names sounded too German and they officially registered as Peter and Arnold Miller instead. That was when we became Pete and Arnie. It wasn’t till we actually left the orphanage that we discovered the name on all our documents was Miller instead of Mulder.

I remember the day in 1945 when Joe visited the orphanage for the last time. That was when he told us he was having to go away. He said we might not see him for a long time but not to worry.

When we asked why, what had happened, he said something about soon turning sixteen and having problems finding work. It meant people like him sometime had to move far away.

We never saw him again.

21 January 2015

The memory of that night outside the chip shop burns brighter than the memory of Pete’s funeral. He was fifty-one, a confirmed bachelor. He’d been lucky enough to find a job in the wireworks when the orphanage decided it was time he started looking after himself. That was where he worked the rest of his life. He was simply smoking a cigarette in the canteen when he fell off his chair with a massive heart attack. He was dead before he hit the ground.

Unfortunately, the similarity of the rituals around death, and their relative brevity, mean his funeral is now mixed and muddled in my mind with many others before and after. Which songs were sung and who was attended has merged and blurred with numerous other almost identical dark suit and black tie occasions held at one crematorium or another.

Pete’s death left me, the surviving brother, as the last custodian of our family’s story. That’s partly why I’ve been recording a diary on this little digital thing that clips on to the collar of my shirt or jacket.

The problem, of course, is that I am now eighty-one, my wife Jessie is long dead from lung cancer, and my body is increasingly paralysed with multiple sclerosis. I can move a finger of my right hand, which is handy for the recorder, and my head still works. Otherwise I’m virtually incapable of doing anything for myself. At least I have no children to burden with all these problems.

22 January 2015

Today Jake accompanied me in my wheelchair on a ‘walk’ all the way along Portobello Prom from King’s Road to Joppa. A lot of new housing has been built and there are pubs and cafes where the old Marine Ballroom, Fun Fair, and Open Air Swimming Pool used to be. For the first time in years I briefly wondered what Breskins, the little Dutch town I escaped from all those years ago, would look like nowadays.

Jake is my full-time carer. He’s only twenty-six. If he would shorten his shoulder length hair and shave a bit more regularly he could be a handsome young man and maybe even find a proper girlfriend at last. He often wears a black T-Shirts. One is emblazoned with the word ‘Ramones’. I asked if they were a music group and he sheepishly admitted that they were, but all five members are long dead. It’s the same check shirt over the T-Shirt and black jeans most days too, but at least he’s reliable. And he copes with the dirty work without flinching. Occasionally, when he’s sick or on holiday, they send another carer to substitute. But mostly it’s just me and Jake.

Jake fancies himself as a man prepared to handle any emergency and I generally indulge this conceit. He likes to have a penknife in his pocket and odd tools hanging from his belt. Sometimes there’s a set of spanners, a small screwdriver, or a torch hanging there. But when a tap washer fails Jake’s immediate response is to phone a plumber. And when the plug on the electric kettle was a problem I had to instruct him on the simple process of replacing the fuse.

My own working career is long behind me. With nowhere to go after the orphanage I joined the army. I’ve been a soldier, a clerk, a shop assistant, and a scrap dealer amongst other things. I made a little bit of money before my body started to seize up altogether, but now I feel pointless. Maybe my whole life has been pointless. These days it’s fairly joyless and sometimes painful. I can still listen to the radio, watch TV, or read for short stints, but my social life is non-existent. I feel I’m treading water and that my quality of my life has shrunk to very little. My condition means regular bouts of hospitalisation. I’m tired of being just another bed-blocker, just another old coffin dodger. In fact I think it’s time to call it a day.

That Swiss place, Dignitas, was in the news again today. I briefly tried to broach the question of voluntary euthanasia with Jake. Unfortunately, his reaction was one of such shock and anger that I was immediately silenced. We’d come almost the whole way back to King’s Road before Jake could bear to talk to me again in anything more than monosyllables. He mumbled something about the sanctity of human life and how he’d been brought up to believe only God had the right to take lives.

22 January 2015

I settled in Scotland when I was very young and I’ve lived all my life here. I saw no reason to do anything else. There was nothing to take me back across the sea.

But now, after all these decades, I have decided to go home. Back to Holland, where the radio tells me they understand about ‘unbearable suffering with no prospect of improvement’.

I’ve checked it all on the computer. I could equally choose Belgium, but I suppose the Netherlands has a little more meaning for me. I made contact by email. And now the papers have all been drawn up, legally signed and delivered. I’m determined.

I refused to let Jake try to talk me out of it today. So in the end he very reluctantly agreed to be my travelling companion, to care for me on my last journey.

23 January 2015

Jake is trying to avoid thinking about the purpose of the trip by filling his mind with detail. He’s organising almost everything, all the preparations for travel – the heavy clothes and travel blankets, the medical equipment, the passport, the train tickets, food, money, and the electric wheelchair. Only the payment for the treatment is left and fortunately I only need one finger to transfer the money from my online bank account. I’ll do that as soon as I’ve finished this entry.

I tried to talk to Jake about death, about beginnings and endings and how to give the whole thing meaning. But he’s only a man doing a practical, physical job. He’s not a therapist. The progressive eclipse of physical wellbeing isn’t something with which he’s yet had to concern himself. He thought I must be worrying about the afterlife, about whether I’d end up in heaven or hell. He’s never had those dreams where life becomes more and more of an ordeal, where the Grim Reaper is always lurking around the next dark corner, where your body is already so useless and paralysed that you can’t turn back and run. All you can do is scream.

Epistemologically, I was actually more concerned with what justifies living. But I accepted that existential conundrums aren’t really Jake’s cup of tea. I suppose I can justify myself in economic terms. I’ve earned a little capital. I can afford to shop, eat, get a haircut. But then what? Sleep, go to the toilet, switch on the radio or tv, just survive. I can’t help anyone. I need Jake to brush my teeth and shave me in the morning, to actually do the shopping and make the meals. Frankly, I’m no good for anything these days.

People generally do work that is ultimately aimed at helping other people survive, perhaps even live more comfortably than before, maybe even enjoy life. So is the meaning of life just that life is for living and for helping others to do so too? Well, almost any animal could say the same. How many animals would choose to live a few more years if they were cripplingly disabled by ill-health, a decrepit body just patched together and barely functioning? But only humans are allowed, sometimes at least, to make that choice.

And if that is the meaning of life, then how can death have any meaning?

20 May 2015

Final confirmation arrived today. The date and time are fixed. I’m committed. All I have to do now is turn up.

Over the next few days I’ll check over my Last Will and Testament. There’s a few quid in there for Jake.

Then I’ll say my goodbyes to those few neighbours who still recognise me.

23 June 2015

Since I’ll be dead in two days this will probably be my last diary entry.

The big black taxi arrived bang on time at six-thirty in the morning and I drove my heavy maroon wheelchair up the ramp into the rear compartment. Jake sat in the front talking to the cabbie while I embarked on my trip to oblivion.

At Waverley Station Jake guided me on board the London train. Then I watched out the window as the coast and countryside sped past while the train hurtled south. It was a clear, cool day and by mid-morning the carriage was fully lit in sunshine. I was distracted by back gardens stretching down to the tracks. They flashed by in bright reds, blues, and oranges, riots of summer colour.

Jake sat separately in the seats in front of the wheelchair space, reading newspapers and listening to music on his headphones. As far as pop music is concerned his tastes are eclectic. His headphones sometimes leak noises he calls hip-hop and sometimes I recognise old tunes from the nineteen sixties.

I stopped asking exactly what he is listening to after he rather guiltily mentioned ‘Knocking on heaven’s door’ and ‘It’s alright Ma (I’m only bleeding)’ – titles not guaranteed to cheer me up. I remembered the line from that latter song that ‘he not busy being born is busy dying’. That seemed to simply transform life into a depressing drawn-out death.

My mind wandered back to thinking about whether life was purely random and accidental or might actually have some purpose and meaning. And back to life not being just for human beings. Did all those dinosaurs, that lived on Earth far longer than human beings, have lives with meaning or purpose? Or fruit flies that live only minutes? Is mankind the only thing living massaging its ego with theories of purpose?

The train became busier and more crowded at each halt as it journeyed further south. A tall young lady in a light brown suede jacket and jeans, furiously flicking through messages on her mobile phone, charged on board at York, throwing a canvas backpack into the rack. She took off her jacket to reveal a pretty red and yellow striped crop top and bounced into the seat next to Jake, her short fair hair falling towards the little screen.

Jake abandoned the headphones and managed to strike up a conversation. I had to wait until the train had almost pulled into King’s Cross and they were already best friends before Jake finally deigned to introduce me.

“Arnie, this is Doutzen. Doutzen, meet Arnold Miller, he’s the guy I’m looking after just now.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Her English was impeccable. I would have liked to shake hands. But ‘Doutzen’?

“You’re Dutch?” I queried.

“Yes, I am. But I’m working in Yorkshire.”

“She’s heading back to some place called Middelburg to visit her parents.” put in Jake, “Prefers trains to boats and planes. She’s catching the Eurostar to Brussels, same as us.”

So then the three of us made our way, me in the electric wheelchair driving a path through the mobbed, sticky, luggage strewn tunnel, into St Pancras International and the other two keeping up behind. But in my mind’s eye I was contemplating flat green fields next to white waves cresting on an open sea. It was that old place, Breskens, on the Westerschelde in Zeeland, where I was born, the town I’d fled from as a child. And from Breskens I knew it was only a short distance across the Scheldt to Vlissingen and Middelburg.

I twisted my head round towards Doutzen.

“Does the ferry still run between Vlissingen and Breskens?”

“Oh yes, for sure”, she replied. “But only for walkers and cyclists now, since they opened the tunnel under the Scheldt nearly twenty years ago. You know the area?”

“I used to,” I said, and inwardly lamented that since arriving in Britain I’d neglected my Dutch so much that I could now only talk sensibly to this young Dutch woman in English. “I was there a long time ago. Some interesting medieval buildings.”

She frowned. “No, I don’t think so. Very boring twentieth century architecture I’m afraid. Nice modern harbour though. Good place to visit for the Visserijfeesten.”

I think it must have been what they now euphemistically refer to as a ‘senior moment’. For, of course, I’d heard about it fifty years ago. My memory was playing tricks. The Allied carpet bombing in 1944. My old home town utterly destroyed, another reason it had never seemed worth returning. The town was resurrected in brick and concrete in the fifties.

“Visserijf…?” Jake queried.

“The famous Fishing Festival,” she supplied. “It’ll be happening over the next few days.”

In St Pancras we boarded the Eurostar for Brussels. Near the wheelchair space there were several empty seats so Doutzen abandoned the one she’d booked and sat beside us, which pleased Jake immensely. I fell into a fitful sleep, dreaming of sun shining on the green polder, and only opening my eyes as the train juddered, braking as it pulled into Brussels-Midi.

Before I was fully awake Jake was helping me to drive the electric chair out towards the low platform and he whispered confidentially “Doutzen has invited me over to her parents’ house for a visit if I can find the time.” A few moments later Doutzen’s eyes were glistening, smiling down at me. I thought sympathetically, but maybe it was in hope.

Once we’d arranged ourselves on the platform she said “I think we go our separate ways now Mr Miller. Maybe I’ll see you next time in York. Have a lovely time. Goodbye.”

She swung her canvas backpack over her shoulder, gave a little wave, and strode off towards the platform designated for the IC train to Middelburg.

Jake’s eyes followed her. As the crowds absorbed her his chin dropped to his chest. He turned to me glumly, a picture of thwarted hopes and despondency.

“What did you tell her I was doing here?” I asked.

“I said I was looking after you while you had a little holiday.”

“Holiday? A rather long holiday from life, I suppose. But it would have taken a very hard man not to have had some sympathy for Jake. I wasn’t that man.

“Look,” I said, “I don’t really care. If you feel she’s that important go after her.”

“But your appointment …”

“Oh well, the best laid plans…I’m sure I’ll be able to reorganise it for another day. It just goes to show that dying is always an uncertain business, even when it’s euthanasia. I still have some money. If you like we can go on and find a hotel in Middelburg for a day or two.”

Jake straightened up and his eyes beamed as if someone had just switched on his electricity. “Stay right here,” he said, “and look after the luggage. I won’t be long.” And he ran off down the platform with a long loping stride that I could only lay back and admire.

A few minutes later he was back, his arm entwined in Doutzen’s and both giggling merrily. Having established my agreement to the change of plans Doutzen led the way towards the train for Middelburg.

For the hour or two on the train Jake and Doutzen sat squashed together and talked intently.

Arriving in Middelburg Doutzen was able to recommend the lovely Van der Valk Hotel which catered perfectly for the wheelchair-bound and fortunately had rooms available. I booked two adjoining rooms for me and Jake and checked carefully on what assistance the hotel staff would be able to offer me, knowing I shouldn’t expect to rely so heavily on Jake for the next day or two.

Once settled in I phoned the Clinic, just in time before they closed, to re-arrange the date. They weren’t particularly reassuring. The administration implied I was backing out at the last minute and that was by no means their first experience of someone having come so near only to mentally remain so far away, phoning at the last minute to cancel. Their tone wasn’t at all helpful, focused on emphasising that payments already made could not be reimbursed. They said they’d look at possible alternative dates and rang off saying they’d get back to me.

24 June 2015

It looks like I’ll be keeping my diary for at least another day or two.

This morning I encouraged Jake – and he didn’t need much encouragement – to accept Doutzen’s invitation to spend the day with her. To give him credit he did say he’d stay if I didn’t think the hotel staff would be able to cope. Feeding someone and taking them to the toilet isn’t something many hotels can handle properly. But the hotel staff were keen to try it and in the end they looked after me well.

All the same it did become a little boring driving my electric wheelchair round the hotel’s small garden, stopping occasionally to admire flowers or watch the changing cloud formations. I did have plenty of time, of course, to update my diary.

No-one called from the Clinic.

25 June 2015

This morning Jake said that Dot – apparently he now had a pet name for Doutzen - was grateful to me for helping them to have time together yesterday, but she felt guilty about me being excluded.

Soon after breakfast Doutzen herself turned up at the hotel wearing a short denim skirt and a jolly pink top under her suede jacket. She had driven over in her father’s car. Jake greeted her as if they’d been parted for months.

“Let’s all go on a trip,” she suggested. “I can drive the three of us the short distance to Vlissingen, the neighbouring town. Then, rather than driving through the tunnel, we could take the little scenic ferry trip over to the Fish Festival in Breskens.”

I agreed enthusiastically before remembering. “But my electric chair – it would be too big and heavy for a car.”

She’d already thought of it. “My father’s car is a nice big estate car. With the back seats lowered, and with its low stowage floor, the electric chair still might not be possible but it can certainly accommodate an ordinary wheelchair, and the seat belts will work to hold it firmly in place.”

“Well…,” I hesitated.

“The hotel is happy to lend us one of their light manual wheelchairs.”

I succumbed. A little sea air and a visit to my old home town was a much better prospect than moping around the hotel driving the electric wheelchair, worrying about fixing an alternative date to die.

Everything worked out just as Doutzen had planned. We reached he harbour and Jake put a woolly hat on my head and wrapped blankets round me. A light wind was blowing white clouds across the sky and the salty sea air was bracing. I sniffed the ozone as Jake pushed me on to the little ferry.

The ferry was carrying maybe twenty or thirty passengers as it bounced across the waves. White gulls spun sqawking overhead in the blue-grey sky while Jake and Doutzen sat cosily together on a bench fixed to the deck in the unroofed open area. When sea spray reached them they cuddled closer together. My wheelchair was parked in the small enclosed passengers’ cabin.

Very soon the smell of fish hit us as we entered a comparatively large harbour that I’d never seen before.

“The new harbour was built for the fishing fleet. But then the fishing industry died,” Doutzen informed me. “But they kept on with the fish festival.”

Indeed, there were very few boats in the harbour, just one or two small ones creaking at their moorings as our bow wave hit them. But the quayside was full. All along the shore there were people crowding around little stalls with either orange, or striped red and white or blue and white awnings. Once ashore the air was full of a guttural hum, crowds of people conversing happily in Dutch. And there was the strong smell of fish and chips frying. Groups of family and friends were gathered together and stood chatting and laughing, their fingers dipping into paper cones of chips and mayonnaise. Childhood memories of my brother Joe resurfaced with a vengeance.

We mixed with the festival throng, wandering round the stalls and displays. Besides fish and chips, some stalls sold bottled beer and others pieces of domestic craft work - needlework, pottery, home-made greeting cards . We ate fish and chips with relish – Jake and Doutzen putting a paper cone on the blanket over my knees and feeding me with chips and pieces of fish using plastic forks. We looked at the various display boards planted between the stalls. The Dutch texts were beyond me but the photos of the town, mainly black and white, taken over the last hundred years or so, were fascinating. When I wanted more explanation Doutzen was always ready to translate the texts and sometimes add more detail to the information boards provided. There was an old post-war photo of people queuing for food handouts. One of the grainy figures in the queue reminded me a lot of Joe and the memories flooded back.

We were just thinking it might be time to be leaving when suddenly, there, straight in front of me, stood Joe himself. He was exactly as he’d looked the last time he’d visited us in the orphanage; the way he held himself, grinning under a shock of bronze hair, one leg casually twisted behind the other. He was maybe sixteen years old.

Jake noticed the shock that registered on my face. He asked with some concern “Are you feeling ok Arnie? Your face has just gone white as a sheet, like you’ve seen a ghost.”

It took me a few moments to remember that if Joe was alive today he would have to look even older than me. But the likeness was uncanny.

I explained the reason for my surprise. To set my mind at rest Jake drew Doutzen towards him and they approached the boy to apologise for the fact that I’d been staring at him. Doutzen explained it was just that he looked very like someone I’d known.

I was tense. “Ask him his name” I shouted, somewhat over-aggressively.

“My name is Joran Djikstra,” the boy called back, defensively but in perfect English.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be bad mannered and offensive; it’s just that… well, your grandfathers’ names then? It would settle a troubling question in my mind if you would tell me.”

The boy hesitated. Doutzen spoke to him quietly in Dutch, no doubt reassuring him that I was just an old man and it would do no harm to humour me.

The boy walked over to me, leaned down and spoke carefully. It was as if I was a small six year old again with Johan towering over me.

“Arjen Djikstra, that’s my grandfather on my father’s side. My mother’s father was Johan Mulder.”

I could hardly take it in. I was flabbergasted. But I had to face the unpalatable truth. I suppose the reason was obvious, though it had never occurred to me before. Joe, feeling himself an adult at sixteen, had surely found some way of returning to Holland in 1945. He’d left his two eleven year old brothers in the safe care of the orphanage. I suppose he didn’t know what he’d find back in Holland and didn’t want to put us in danger.

Jake had also picked up on the name the boy mentioned and leaned into my other ear. “ ‘Mulder’? Did you not tell me once that was your real name Arnie? Some kind of relation maybe?”

“I’m fairly sure this boy is my great nephew,” I agreed in a whisper, and Jake puffed out his cheeks and raised his eyebrows in a performance of mock astonishment.

“Oh, really?” he said disbelievingly.

Turning back to the boy I had to bite my tongue to avoid calling him by my elder brother’s name. “Joran, this may seem a little bizarre but I think we may be related. Could I possibly speak to your mother or father to check this is possible and I’m not just fantasising?”

And so, following Joran, we weaved through the crowds to a stall whose awning was a giant red, white and blue striped Dutch flag. This canvas sheltered a number of chairs grouped roughly round half a dozen small tables. While we watched and waited, Joran moved between the tables and stopped at one where a group of men were in conversation, glasses of beer and paper plates piled high with chips in front of them. He spoke to a middle-aged man in a brown leather jacket over blue overalls. The man’s smiling face became a frown of concentration. Eventually he rose, a little usteadily, excusing himself from the company, and followed Joran over to where I was waiting. As he approached I could see his eyelids were drooping over slightly glazed eyes. Clearly he’d been having a very good time.

The man’s English was passable but not nearly as fluent as his son’s.

“Hello. My name Rutjer Djikstra.” He held out his hand.

“Pleased to meet you Rutjer. I’m Arnold Miller. I used to be called Armin Mulder. I’m afraid I’m not able to shake hands - I would if I could. Jake and Doutzen here,” – I nodded in their direction – “are my, er, friends. Your son mentioned his grandfather, Johan Mulder. I wondered if you knew much about him?”

“Ja, ja, for sure. Johan is born here. Lived all the time here. Little farm, sheep, outside town, near the polder. Hard struggle young boy on his own. No vader or moeder to guide him. Married Alexia. All died now though. Their daughter, Beatrix, my wife.”

I was shocked at how much the news of Joe’s death affected me. After all these years it was still a blow. I couldn’t stop a tear falling.

I managed to ask, “Did he ever say anything about the war?”

“Ja, ja, one of the lucky young boys. Escaped to England with brothers. Had fine time. Was angry with England about months in Jeugdgevangenis, - how you say it – borstal, - for stealing things – food, shoes, toys for brothers. Kwam terug naar huis, - how is it, - came back home, - came home on vissersboot, after Nazis gone.”

“Fishing boat,” Joran interjected.

“Ja, on a fishing boat.

“So he stole things to try and help his brothers and as a result ended up spending time in a young offenders institution. Did he ever say what happened to his brothers?”

“Talked sometimes, de jongens, Pieter and Armin. House they were staying closed down. Once, twice tried to trace Mulders in England, but never with luck.

There were more tears in my eye as I admitted, “My God, so it looks like we were lost to each other just because in Edinburgh we had no idea where Johan had gone, and in Breskins he couldn’t trace us because he didn’t know they’d changed our official name to Miller. And having a police record he wouldn’t be welcome back in the UK to look for us.”

By the time we’d all had a drink together, told each other our stories, worked out my relationship to family survivors, and eaten our last portions of chips, it was getting quite late. Rutjer insisted I should come another day and meet Beatrix, who had been at the fair earlier but had gone home early. That was when Doutzen realized with a start that the last ferry back across the estuary had already sailed.

“We’ll have to hire a taxi to Vissingen,” she insisted.

But Rutjer interrupted our deliberations. “Nee, nee,” he said “cost a lot. Too much money. I have small boat. No used much now. So no problem. Must help my new familie, er, relative, eh? Too tired myself now but Joran ferry you over quick and bring boat back.”

Joran looked simultaneously proud and surprised at his father’s suggestion.

We didn’t like to refuse Rutjers’ generous hospitality so we said our farewells and followed Joran towards a concrete ramp which ran down into the harbour. It was no doubt intended for vehicles to bring in or tow away boats on trailers. It made for an easy approach by wheelchair.

Darkness was falling as Joran stopped beside a small launch tied up to a capstan on the quayside. It rocked, squeaking quietly against a couple of old tyres slung over its side as a bulwark against the stone harbour wall. Little more than a large rowing boat it had a sentry box wheelhouse and decking that only covered the forward section around the wheelhouse and a square section at the stern. Its white paint was peeling, its varnished brown woodwork starting to rot. Thin metal posts linked by a rusting chain guarded the port and starboard. To facilitate fishing there was no fence along the square ended stern. There were pools of water sloshing around above the wooden hull in the hollow between the decked areas. The boat put me in mind of my work in the scrapyard many years ago.

Jake and Joran lifted me, still in the hotel’s manual wheelchair, on to the little half deck at the stern, Jake making sure the wheelchair’s brake was on. I sat facing the wheelhouse. Jake helped Doutzen step aboard carefully and they held hands leaning on the wheelhouse. Then Joran jumped on, slipping past them into the tiny sentry box. We waited expectantly as Joran turned the key. After several attempts a small engine wheezed into life, putt-putting erratically.

Jake exchanged a wary look with Doutzen and me. Doutzen was clearly dubious about the boat’s seaworthiness, her forehead wrinkling into a worried expression. But Jake held her hand, reassuring her with a hug. And anyway, the lights of Vissingen seemed hardly any distance away at all.

“Are you sure you’re ok there,” Jake asked me, pulling the woolly hat down over my head. “You’ll be very exposed if a wind gets up or it starts to rain.”

I shook my head and smiled, poo-pooing Jake’s fussiness and dismissing any concerns he and his girlfriend might have about me. I wanted to show trust in my great nephew just as I’d trusted his grandfather all those years ago.

“Don’t worry Jake,” I said. “I’ll be fine. And if anything happens it’ll be my own fault.”

Instead of worrying about cold or rain, I decided that as I’d be parked by myself on the stern deck for a while, I might as well pass the time updating my diary.

“This boat reminds me of one in which I once crossed the North Sea,” I said in a loud forced tone of confidence so that Joran could hear me. He turned his shock of bronze hair back towards me and smiled appreciatively.

Doutzen was still apologising for forgetting to check the return ferry timetable when we were already halfway across the estuary. An easterly wind had got up and the engine was so weak that it seemed we were being pushed more out to sea than straight across the estuary.

“Certainly my mistake as much as yours Dot,” a conciliatory Jake was saying when the engine suddenly emitted a low sigh and cut out. We were left bumping up and down on the waves.

The silence on the boat was deafening. The moon’s face seemed to be laughing at us. Doutzen stared down at the water gradually swelling in the foot of the boat. Jake’s eye was on the moving coastline, watching as the tide coming in swelled as it ran up against the strong flow of fresh water flowing from the Scheldt. The little boat was drifting, the river water combining with the wind to force it quickly further out into open sea.

Lines of anxiety spread rapidly across Joran’s young forehead, but he didn’t panic. Like Joe he was prepared to confront the challenges life threw at him.

“Does anyone know about engines?” he asked, but unfortunately drew a blank in response. Then he tentatively suggested that we might try bailing out the water. But Jake and Doutzen had nothing with which to do that except cupped hands, and that proved wholly ineffectual. As the boat started sinking lower in the water, panic showed in Doutzen’s widening eyes.

“I can’t swim,” she repeated several times, her voice rising as it strained to suppress a growing hysteria.

“Me neither,” Jake added disconsolately, drawing Doutzen closer to him, and trying to comfort her with soothing words.

Joran dropped his head guiltily. “Old fishing communities – very superstitious people – they see learning to swim as tempting fate – so I was never taught either.”

I became very aware that safety equipment on the dilapidated and seldom used boat was non-existent. There was no short-wave radio of course, but neither were there any lifebelts or flares on board. If the boat went down we’d all drown.

Joran and Doutzen scrambled for their mobile phones. But it soon became obvious that on the open sea reception was faint and garbled to the point of non-existence.

Jake rummaged around in his pockets and eventually retrieved a small torch that hung from his belt. But no-one knew the morse code for S.O.S. Instead, he and Jorin took turns simply waving the tiny beam of light out towards the big commercial harbour at Vissingen that we were increasingly drifting further away from.

“I’m sure it’ll attract someone’s attention ,” Jake said, rather desperately hoping someone ashore would want to investigate our situation.

The water was still rising. Jake stepped into the bottom of the boat to check and was stunned to find himself soaked well above the knees. He looked towards me, his face drawn, and though he said nothing I could see the fear in his eyes.

“Soon the water will fill the boat,” Doutzen almost screamed. Jake pulled himself out of the water and, shivering, held her tight.

The situation was genuinely terrifying and, like the others, I struggled to stay calm in this crisis.

But for all that, I was still capable of enough clear thinking to recognise that the boat’s buoyancy would be greatly helped by reducing the weight of its cargo. Unfortunately, the only cargo was the four people on board. I understood my own body weight, together with that of the wheelchair and blankets, was exacerbating the problem. I couldn’t bear the thought of me being the cause of Joe’s grandson drowning, of me bringing such grief to Beatrix, his mother and Joe’s daughter. I hated to be the cause of Doutzen and Jake being so ruthlessly torn apart so soon after finding each other.

Just as wholesale hysteria was about to consume us Jorun spotted a set of red lights flickering into life in the fast disappearing Vissingen harbour.

“A rescue boat,” shouted Joran with desperate relief. “The coast guard has seen us.”

“Yes, they’ve picked up the torchlight at last,” Jake said, exhaling heavily.

“But the boat is sinking so fast. Water will soon be lapping over the sides,” howled Doutzen, splashed her legs around in the ever-deepening water. Jake held her tightly but words could no longer assuage Doutzen’s terror.

“How long do you think it will take for the lifeboat to reach us,” I asked Joran urgently.

“From Vissingen to where we are now, maybe twenty, twenty-five minutes.”

“The boat will have sunk long before that,” wailed Doutzen.

She was right. At the rate the water was rising I calculated it would only be ten minutes before the boat went down, leaving us all floundering around in the freezing water. The only chance of staying afloat longer was less weight. I estimated that removing me and my wheelchair would provide at least the extra ten minutes needed until the rescue boat arrived. And I was here to die anyway. It seemed my life, my death, suddenly had purpose and meaning after all. Maybe this had always been the reason for my existence.

I nudged my arm with my chin and let it fall to the side of the chair next to the brake lever. With my one working finger I pulled on it as hard as I could and breathed a sigh of relief as the brake lever released.

As the small boat’s bow rose up over the next wave, Jake, Doutzen, and Joran were all staring with desperate anxiety towards the flashing red lights which had now moved away from the shore. Doutzen clung to Jake, hoping against hope that his little torch might save the day, that the lifeboat might reach them before they drowned.

There was still a lovely smell of fish and chips that lingered on the blanket over my knees where my last meal had lain. I stole a last loving glance at Joe/Jorin and made a silent wish for Jake’s future happiness with Doutzen.

And they say dead men tell no tales. But if you’re listening to this it’s only because I managed to use my chin to knock the audio recorder off my coat collar so that it dropped on to the deck just as my wheelchair rolled backwards in response to a lifting the bow and leaving the stern pointing downwards.

The wheelchair would have run backwards quickly across the small section of stern decking, fast enough so that it tipped over when it hit the boat’s rim. With no guard rail to stop it, me and the wheelchair would have been dumped with a small splash into the North Sea.

So I suppose I must now be back in my natural home, lost somewhere between Holland and Britain. But even sinking to the sea floor I would have been thinking of having finally served my purpose in life and death. I’ll probably be arriving at the bottom before anyone even notices I’m gone.

#short story #euthanasia #netherlands #Reekie Revelator #war story #fishing

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scotianostra · 6 years ago

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On 26 February 1950 the entertainer and songwriter, Sir Harry Lauder, died.

Born in Portobello in Edinburgh, Lauder was a music-hall comedian who excited enthusiasm throughout the English-speaking world as singer and composer of simple hearted Scottish songs.

While a child half-timer in a flax mill he won singing competitions but worked in a coal mine for 10 years before joining a concert party that took him to Belfast, Birkenhead, and other places that claim to have seen his professional debut.

The first songs that he wrote and sang were Irish or English, but when he went to London, to Gatti’s music hall in May 1900, he was wearing the kilt. Later he wore trousers for his character studies only, such as “Saftest of the Family” and “It’s Nice To Get Up in the Morning.” During his week’s engagement at Gatti’s a gap occurred in the program at the Tivoli, and Lauder stepped into it with “Lass o’ Killiekrankie,” an immediate success. Until then his songs had all been comic. With “I Love a Lassie” he struck the homely poetic note that gave charm to “When I Get Back Again to Bonnie Scotland” and “Roamin’ in the Gloamin’.” His range extended from the bibulous “A Wee Deoch an’ Doris” to the hortatory “End of the Road.” With a large repertory of his own songs (some verses partly by other persons) he toured America, South Africa, and Australia, and during World War I he sang to troops in France. He gave many concerts for war charities and was knighted in 1919. He wrote four books of reminiscences and acted in several films. He made 22 American tours and entertained troops again in World War II.

On February 26th 1950 he passed away at his Strathaven home, aged 79. His funeral was held at Cadzow church in Hamilton on 2 March It was widely reported,[notably by Pathé newsreels. One of the chief mourners was the Duke of Hamilton, a close family friend, who led the funeral procession through Hamilton, and read The Lesson. Lauder was interred with his brother George and their mother in the family plot at Bent Cemetery in Hamilton.

You can find a full biography on Harry Lauder here https://www.arts.gla.ac.uk/STE…/STARN/crit/WAGGLE/lauder.htm

Pics are Lauder in 1909, second pic is with Danny Kaye, with Laurel and Hardy, my fave, with Charlie Chaplin, the last two are of crowds in Hamilton and his funeral cortege in 1950.

#Scotland #scottish #actor #singer songwrtier #entertainer

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lothiriel84 · 8 years ago

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Of love, bears, and icicles

Or that one time I went to London to see The Mighty Fin January Christmas show.

Hello there, my hypothetical reader. I’m taking a short break from writing Sherlock (and Time Spanner) fanfic in order to give you the account of my latest (but hopefully not last ever) trip to the UK. You know the account no one asked for? Yeah, that one.

First things first, I’m ever so grateful that this year’s - well, last year’s, theoretically - Mighty Fin show was in January rather than December. There was no way I would have been able to attend in December, but the one upside of being currently unemployed is that I don’t have to stress about my supervisors forbidding me from taking time off when I most need it (read: when there’s a show I desperately want to attend in the UK).

Anyways. January is probably not the best time of the year when it comes to travelling. I was aware of that, of course, but I still wanted to try - both because of the Mighty Fin show, and the fact that I’m not so sure how free to travel I’m going to be once I actually go ahead and ask for unemployment benefits. (Also, Brexit. But whatevers.)

As it turned out, England was for once a tiny bit warmer than Italy. (And by warmer, I mean slightly-less-freezing, obviously.) The rain definitely didn’t help, but as the less unastute of you might have divined (yeah, this is in fact a Cabin Pressure reference, no need to get offended) it was after all January, and seriously, I think I’ve been exceedingly lucky on all my previous trips to the UK as far as the weather is concerned. (Well, to be fair I’ve been lucky about too many things too count when it comes to each and every one of my trips, but I do believe I have already dwelt on many of those aspects in my previous posts.)

I’ve been to London so many times I’m kind of running out of ideas about what to do on a rainy day. My first day in town was spent between wandering a bit around the Gherkin, then seeking refuge into the Museum of London (which I had already visited, in point of fact). In the end I was only too glad when I could finally check in to my hotel room and happily pay for the wifi in order to watch episode 2 of Sherlock. (Which I believe I watched two more times in the following days. Yeah, I know.)

The next day I very cleverly accidentally decided to go to Dorset. (I blame this entirely on John Finnemore posting a picture of somewhere in Dorset on Twitter, and I’m most glad that he did because that was an excellent idea even for a day trip.) So I took a train to Wool, and then spent quite some time trying to figure out how to reach Durdle Door; I had googled pictures of the beautiful limestone arch on the coast there, and I was really looking forward to see it.

Bless the bus driver, he sounded a bit concerned when he repeatedly asked me if I was aware that there wasn’t going to be a bus for the return journey; but I had kind of figured out I would somehow find a way to get back to Wool, so I happily walked the distance from the bus stop to the coast, then scrambled my way down not one, but two distinct flights of muddy, slippery steps in order to get a better view of both sides of the arch. (And quite miraculously I didn’t fall or slip, not even once, though I definitely got mud on my shoes and trousers.)

You know, there is quite something about standing on a pebble beach listening to the waves gently lapping at the shore. And that particular corner of the Jurassic Coast is quite stunning, as you can see for yourself.

In the end I had to walk for over an hour along a narrow country road at nightfall in order to reach the nearest village where I dearly hoped I could get a bus back to Wool. Luckily I somehow managed to do that in spite of the fact that my phone ran out of battery when I was nearly there, and I had neither a map nor a torch with me.

(I actually had my old phone with me as well, but as it turns out it’s not good for much except maybe listening to the radio - though it took me approximately three quarters of an hour to finally tune in to Radio 4 on the train back to London, so once more thank goodness for the BBC iPlayer.)

On Wednesday I had a bit of a wander in Hampstead Heath, though it was quite muddy and windy, especially on Parliament Hill. In the evening I went to the dress rehearsal for A Midwinter Night’s Dream, which I immediately loved - I had never been to a Mighty Fin show before, though I’ve listened to the songs from a few of them, and I’m now the proud owner of three (soon to be - whatever the total number is, hopefully). Greg and Maddi were there too, and I kind of followed them when they went to say hi to John after the show; but I was quite tired and completely out of ideas as to what I could actually say to John, so I’m not even sure I managed to greet him back when he finally spotted me as I was hiding behind someone else. I’m really sorry Mr Finnemore - I’m not rude, just very awkward, I promise.

I had half a mind to go to Hastings the following day, but I had to put that off given how the weather forecast promised a snowstorm for the day (though in the end it mainly just rained in London). I would have liked to visit the London Aquarium for Sherlock-related reasons, but tickets were far too expensive for my tastes; so I took a bit of a walk along the Thames in the rain, stood for a while on the Vauxhall Bridge for reasons (though if I have to be honest I was far more impressed with the MI6 building that stands nearby), and then sought refuge in the Museum of London Docklands mainly because I deemed I had got enough rain on my coat and shoes for the day. (That, and the DLR. Don’t tell the Train Driver though.)

On Friday I decided that the weather was good enough for a trip to Hastings, and so it was in spite of a little snow we encountered on the train journey. (And by ‘we’ I mean us people on the train, which I somehow find funny now that I’ve listened to the St Ives sketch from JFSP - which I had actually had the privilege to see at one of the tryouts last Autumn, but there you go.)

It was a bit windy in Hastings, and most definitely cold - someone might have spotted me wandering along the shore in my winter coat, hat, scarf, and gloves - but otherwise a lovely day, and apparently I have a soft spot for pebble beaches anyway. Sadly the gate to the castle was locked; but there was quite a lovely view from up there, and the old part of the town is nice too.

On Saturday I took a bit of a wander around Notting Hill (mainly Portobello Market) and then Little Venice, which I had quite liked on a previous visit. In the evening I had tickets for my second viewing of A Midwinter Night’s Dream, which was brilliant for more than one reason, and I will now explain if you bear with me. (You see, John played a bear in the musical, so I simply had to make a joke about that. Arthur Shappey would definitely - and very much enthusiastically - approve of this, so you definitely have to bear with me even if you don’t want to.)

What was I saying? Ah, The Mighty Fin, yes. I loved the show just as much as I had done the first time around; it’s a beautiful retelling of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, centred on the theme of the different kinds of love and how you most definitely shouldn’t try and force someone to love you, Fairy King or not.

(’Trapped by a man / That’s my tragedy / Or was my tragedy / It ends today’, that’s how a line from one of the many brilliant songs went - bless Robbie Hudson and Susannah Pearse who created such a thing of beauty.)

All the actors were really good, and this time around John’s part was a bit longer than it had been in the dress rehearsal, and had an even more distinct Since You Ask Me feel to it. (When I went to ask him after the show John confirmed he had in fact written his own part, and the reason why it was shorter at the dress rehearsal was that he hadn’t finished writing it back then. Bless him.)

Oh, and one more brilliant thing, though strictly speaking it’s not entirely about the show. Simon was among the audience this time around, and I think I have already mentioned how much better that makes anything you might be watching. (I swear the man has the best laugh ever. You can’t possibly hear it and not feel like laughing yourself.)

I had actually spotted him before the show, and I was most definitely hoping I would maybe get to talk to him at the end of the play. Well, as it turned out he kind of recognised me as someone who had probably bothered him before, for he was the one who said hi to me as he walked past where I was standing during the interval, offered me a hug, and then had to listen as I rambled on about how much I loved the pilot for Time Spanner. He said they will probably try crowdfunding if the sitcom doesn’t get commissioned (seriously though, I hope the BBC knows better than that), so I now know what I should save my money for.

(And, um, I should have probably refrained from walking back in when I was already halfway through the door after the show, and awkwardly waving Simon goodbye. But I’m not even sure if and when I’ll be able to go back to the UK, and - oh well, never mind. I’m not going to dwell on Ms Mayhem in this post, thank you very much.)

Sunday was my last day in London, and given that the weather was not very much on my side, I spent some time in Greenwich Market, had some amazing fish and chips for lunch, and a bit of a stroll through Greenwich Park at dusk. As it turned out, by complete coincidence (I know, I know, Mycroft, no need to expand on that) my trip actually included the day when the Sherlock series 4 finale aired, so in the end I made up my mind and booked a ticket so that I could go and watch it on the big screen.

(To be honest I was really confused - and more than a little worse for the wear from an emotional point of view - when the final credits rolled on to the screen. I watched it all over again on my phone once I was back to my hotel room, but I think I only decided I actually quite liked it after watching it a third time back at home.)

And, yes, I guess we’ve come to the end of the road. I don’t know how or when, but I promise I will try and go back there at some point, no matter what. Dear UK, you might not return the feeling, but it’s my choice whether or not to keep doing what I love. Or trying to, at the very least.

#London #and so much more #January 9th to 16th #2017 #The Mighty Fin #A Midwinter Night's Dream #Dorset #Durdle Door #Hastings #I feel so blessed #but also a little bit sad #London I miss you already

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mastcomm · 5 years ago

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What Do You Wear to the End of Days?

LONDON — In 1139 Archbishop Malachy of Armagh supposedly had a vision of the future that became known as the “prophesy of popes.” In it, the Irish saint predicted the names of 112 pontiffs who would rule until the end of days. Though it was later shown to be a 16th-century forgery, the second to last pope on the list was Benedict, which has suggested to some in the Roman Catholic world that the final pope could be the current pope, and the apocalypse is nigh.

Actually, not just the Catholic world but, apparently, the fashion world, too.

Over the weekend, Simone Rocha put the idea front and center on a dress. It was lovely — royal purple splashed with a gold scripted rendering of the saint’s name, draped in swathes of black satin — and it was sandwiched between piles of baptismal lace and tulle; watery fisherman knits and oyster satin slithers; elaborately embroidered cross-topped sacred hearts: the semiology of prayer, loss and rebirth. And it was not happenstance.

Brexit has finally been approved. Storm Dennis, officially classified as a “weather bomb,” was lashing Britain as the shows began, flooding roads and wreaking havoc. A designer here could be forgiven for thinking it’s the end of days. It’s definitely the end of something. The issue for everyone is what comes next.

“Of course I’m worried,” said Molly Goddard after her show of tulle extravaganzas mixed with chunky Fair Isle knits and nerdy-cool tailoring that was an ode to her youth in the late 1990s around London’s Portobello Market. “I’m worried about the people in my factories, most of whom aren’t English, even though the factories are nearby.”

That’s to be expected. As was the existential questioning of identity that was an underlying current in so many of the clothes here: What does it mean to be British? What content do these symbols we put on our backs contain any more?

What was less predictable was where such thinking led some designers: not to the depths of despair, but somewhere else entirely. To a world after doomsday. To renewal, and reinvention.

Could cynicism be out of fashion? What an idea.

Identity and Its Discontents

But first, there was a lot of black. A lot of big, swaddling volumes. A lot of covert messaging and a lot of wrestling — some good, some weighed down with angst — with the past. For some: a lot of royal sleevage. For others: argyle, houndstooth, tweed.

Victoria Beckham belted her curving black sheaths and neatly tailored culotte-suits with hands-across-the-hips silver and cut diamond-shaped holes into her sweater vests like a remembrance of things lost. Emilia Wickstead offered big puffed sleeves and even bigger skirts; Roksanda, a safe space of billowing, shimmering drapes of many colors and chunky, patchwork-nation knits.

At Burberry, the chief creative officer, Riccardo Tisci, named his collection “Memories:” of the brand itself, but also of London, when he was a fashion student, living in the Bethnal Green neighborhood, and of his trips to India, where he started his own label; of the melting pot of the capital and the designer mind. That meant — checks! And trench coats! Lots of them with feathers and faux furs, deconstructed into parts and twisted into sari-like assemblages; mixed and matched and also madras for men and women; leopard and contrasting linings thrown in.

Also the occasional big star plastered on the front of a shirt, and a festival’s worth of rugby stripes in cinnamon and turmeric, as if for a game of Quidditch in Mumbai. Also some go-go silver fringe, for evening. Also a lot of green (afterward Burberry announced the show had been certified carbon neutral and that it was creating what it called “a regeneration fund” to support carbon insetting in its supply chain).

If that sounds like it is skating across the surface — not the environmental initiatives, which are laudable, but the fashion interpretations of the national totems — that’s also how it looked: polished, easy to wear, but lacking depth and soul. Which is odd, because Mr. Tisci is nothing if not an emotional designer, and it often takes an outsider (he’s Italian) to really grapple with a country’s imagery. It’s as if he is deliberately denaturing himself to appeal to as many people as possible; going not with his gut, but with his market research.

Of Risk and Reward

In any case, it still made more sense than Tommy Hilfiger’s #TommyNow celebration of Americana, inclusivity and his celebrity connections in stars, stripes, anchors aweigh, neon and slogans — “Just Rise;” “Still Human;” “Loyalty” — via collaborations with the singer H.E.R. and the Formula One star Lewis Hamilton. The effect was of a semi-party in a place that isn’t really in the mood to party any more (and that has increasingly mixed feelings about the “special relationship” between itself and its former colony anyway). The message was meaningful, but the medium confused.

Mr. Hilfiger has never been a thinking person’s designer. That is absolutely fine; not all clothes need a philosophical grounding (that would be exhausting). But a little sensitivity to context and timing is no bad thing.

British fashion — London fashion — has always had an identity more rooted in risk-taking creativity than in page-view calculation and hashtags.

In the willingness, for example, of Hussein Chalayan to not just double down on the idea of a suit and turn a pair of trousers into a cardigan for his Chalayan show, so the legs wrap the shoulders and the hips shadow the back, but to dare to write and sing his own songs, live, as an accompaniment (that’s putting yourself out there). In the explosive romance of Richard Quinn’s Buckingham Palace-size florals and empire drapes; the pointed extravagance of his nod to Pearly Kings and Queens, the cockney performers with mother-of-pearl studded costumes. In a sense of history, and the gumption to turn it on its head.

Historical Revisionism

Which is why it was so striking to see the connections between the 1920s and the 2020s being drawn at Erdem, with his Cecil Beaton-inspired checkerboards and bias frills; his Erté feathers and lamé Wedgewood-print puffers; his flapper dresses dripping loops of pearls. At Christopher Kane, where things took a turn for the sexually subversive (he called his show “Naturotica’) in more Art Deco geometries. Meant, apparently, to reference the love triangle of Adam, Eve and the serpent, and followed by lacy lingerie slips, strait-laced shirt dresses with sheer mesh tops and chain mail apple-red skirts slit to mid-hip on either side.

And at JW Anderson, where in a terrific collection Jonathan Anderson reached across the century to mix the classic with the couture with the sci-fi to create something viscerally, elegantly modern.

“I was thinking about that moment in the ’20s when everything resurged and rebounded,” he said backstage after the show, which he dubbed “nouveau chic.”

So he took heritage swing coats in camel and wool and blew them up to “optimistic volumes,” adding giant swaddling leather collars; crushed fantasy beer-can-print lamé into shift dresses; crafted sleeveless metallic bubble gowns out of fringed metallic knits to mimic a very glamorous Snuffleupagus; and topped the shoulders of flowing flannel capes, curvaceous tweed coats and silver screen siren gowns with fronds of pearly cellophane that wafted gently in the wind.

It is possible, of course, to question whether the 1920s — the years between the wars — is actually the best harbinger for fashion to embrace. They may have represented a great creative flowering, a burst of energy and social revolution, but they did not exactly end well. On the other hand, you can’t argue with the fact that if, indeed, the four horsemen are coming, at least this way we can greet them with aplomb.

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dulwichdiverter · 6 years ago

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Sustainable style

We-Resonate is described as a sustainable alternative to commercial fashion. Founder Lizzie Clark tells us more

By Katie Allen; Photo by Alexander McBride Wilson

Finding that one-of-a-kind outfit just got a lot easier thanks to Lizzie Clark. The East Dulwich resident is founder of We-Resonate, a new ethical clothing brand that creates unique dresses and tops from vintage silk scarves.

Beautiful as these garments are – Lizzie describes them as “affordable luxury” – she is keen to emphasise that they are wearable for any occasion, from the office to evening events to weddings. Each dress is based upon the same fluid slip style and is flattering to every figure.

A former print designer for Alexander McQueen’s McQ diffusion line, Lizzie says the shape is “really easy” to wear. “It’s meant to be inserted quite easily into a woman’s wardrobe – you can style it with T-shirts, with shirts, blouses, over trousers,” she explains.

A couture seamstress based in Dulwich makes up each garment from Lizzie’s eye-catching original “composition” of vintage silk pieces.

“She’s an amazing seamstress, she’s been working in couture for 10 to 15 years, and it takes her four hours to make a long dress. That sounds quite time-consuming, but it’s because she’s working with silk. It’s such a difficult fabric to work with, and she does it meticulously.”

The key to these covetable, zero-waste garments is Lizzie’s eye for vintage prints and materials. “I start by sourcing the scarves,” she says. “I’ve learned the silks I can use, which aren’t too see-through, will wear well and are the right colours.

“I kind of go with my instinct – I think that’s what I’ve learned throughout my career. I pick them out, get them home, lay them out and group them into colours or just stories.

“I have to engineer the pattern shape around the fabrics, where they’ve worn – like if there are little holes or where the hem’s frayed a little bit. But [using the scarves] salvages a print that might otherwise be lost.”

Lizzie sources the scarves from all around London, at spots including Little Sister in Peckham’s Holdron’s Arcade, Portobello Market, Spitalfields and Hackney, in addition to the famous vintage shops of Paris.

Taking inspiration from vintage scarves has been a key part of her career. She was brought up in Hertfordshire, then “grew up on a beach” on the south coast where her family moved when she was 11.

“I’ve always been artistic,” she says. “I went into art foundation and then university at Winchester School of Art, doing print design. I did an internship with McQueen in my second year.

“My dream was always to work for Alexander McQueen. You read all these books that say if you have a mission in life and you project it, you’ll make it happen. I turned up at McQueen’s doorstep on my first day and I was like, ‘Oh my God, I’ve made it. I can’t believe it!’ [His] aesthetic always resonated with me.”

After her degree she worked as a freelancer “from her “parents’ dining room”, hand-painting silk designs to sell to the industry. After a year, she had the opportunity to move to New York as a scarf designer. She jokes that at the time, she wondered, “‘Who wears silk scarves?’ I’d be working for hours on this beautiful print for someone to tie it around their neck, so you couldn’t see it.”

Love and family brought her back to UK, where she continued to freelance, and then she got the job as print designer, later senior print designer, at McQ. The label was set up by Alexander McQueen as a punky, avant-garde sister brand to his couture collections.

It was not long after the great designer’s death and she worked under Sarah Burton, who famously designed the Duchess of Cambridge’s wedding dress.

Then Lizzie had her baby Elsie and while on maternity leave, she came up with the idea of using the vintage collections that McQ used for inspiration to create a mini collection of unique garments. The idea proved too difficult to produce commercially, but a seed was sown. “We didn’t go ahead, and I thought, ‘Let’s do this myself.’”

Lizzie didn’t return to McQ after her maternity leave, and developed We-Resonate out of that original idea.

The name she says was chosen because “clothing and everything we buy and have in our lives should resonate with us. It should make us feel that sense of memory, joy or just an enjoyable emotion linked with an experience. We-Resonate has such a story behind it: a depth that when you find out more about a particular dress, it will resonate with you.”

Ethics are the cornerstone of the brand. She had watched a number of documentaries about the environmental damage and human exploitation caused by the fashion industry; including 2015 film The True Cost.

“That’s what made this happen,” she says. “As a mother, your emotions are quite highly tuned anyway, and after I watched that film, I was like, ‘I’ve got to do something about this.’

“People always say, ‘Are there enough scarves, is it scalable?’ There are tonnes! Do you know how much stuff has been produced over the past 50 years? It’ll keep us going forever.

“That’s the point of me using no new materials. I need to answer the sustainability problem. I’m a fashion designer [but] I just can’t bear to make anything new. I just can’t do it.”

Her typical customer, she believes, is “the woman who is very time-poor but thought-rich”. She adds: “She doesn’t have time to do her own research. She wants really great style, really easily, but she’s also started to look for fashion that’s more authentic, has more integrity.

“There are a lot of women who appreciate [vintage], but find it hard to buy. They can’t find the right size, they want more of a contemporary feel. I feel like I’m exactly that. We-Resonate is vintage fabrics but in a really contemporary new shape. It’s meant to be really easy to wear, really relaxed, a bit nonchalant – that vibe.”

She laughs, but her mission to combat over-consumption is serious. “We’ve got to change the way that that people shop. Do you remember when you were younger, you would say, ‘Let’s go shopping for my birthday’? Shopping shouldn’t be a hobby, an interest. Going surfing, or painting – that’s a hobby.”

She believes that the only way to really spread the message of sustainable dressing – in the same way the general public is beginning to embrace ideas such as checking the source of their food or avoiding plastic waste – is through “one-to-one talking”.

“It’s having those conversations with people. Angry, hard-hitting [messaging] is not the way. There’s a great website called What’s Your Legacy, which makes [sustainable living] really cool and beautiful. That’s the way: we’ve got to make it the irresistible choice.”

She has founded a collective, We-R, as part of the We-Resonate brand to spread the word further. It currently exists as a series of interviews with different women on her website and “how they’re not necessarily knowingly living more sustainably, [it’s just about] different ways women live and love fashion and have style.

“The whole point of this business was to make sustainability more accessible and to promote it and make it cooler. And the only way to do that is one-on-one – influencing your friends and influencing the people you meet.”

Her five-year plan for the business is to become “more like a lifestyle brand” and to “have more of a community hub”. She is considering the idea of renting the dresses out as part of a swap-shop.

“It’s funny, since I’ve started selling [I’ve discovered that] making new products isn’t just the answer. Replacing a commercial product with an ethical product – that isn’t the end goal here. The idea is that our lives become more considered and conscious.”

Living in East Dulwich, where she has been based for four years, is key to her business and creativity in general. “I originally lived in Greenwich,” she says. “I lived above Starbucks next to the Cutty Sark.

“It was so busy at the weekends, I really wanted a community, somewhere that was less touristy, somewhere more residential. I wanted to live somewhere where I could hear the birds sing, not people yelling.”

The local area and people have contributed more directly to We-Resonate too. She shot the look-book with a group of friends and fellow mums in Watson’s General Telegraph on Forest Hill Road. “The photographer was a mum, the model was a mum, all local, and we had the best day.”

She loves East Dulwich for its relaxed feel. “When we first came to East Dulwich, it had that sense that you’re not actually in London, but at the same time you’re right next to Peckham, which is so vibrant in its culture.

“It seemed like the perfect balance of somewhere to live and a place where I would be very happy to bring up children, but where I could also satisfy my inner creative spirit.”

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