Stories from the Nights at the Round Table

“By the most generous estimate, simply the percentage of fiction of all manner and kind published, men are three quarters of the writing race; in the more selective and indicative estimates, they are 88% to 98%.”
Tillie Olson: Silences

This anthology is the selected work-in-progress of the Hangleton Women Writers and the Brighton Women Writers. The Hangleton Group started meeting in July 1988 as part of the Hangleton and Knoll Community Festival. The women in the group come from the Hangleton and Knoll estates and from Portslade and we meet every Thursday evening. The Brighton Queenspark Women Writers have been meeting regularly for almost ten years.

The stories and poems represented here are the products of the nights and days we spend at writing tables, and for many of us it is the first time we have been able to see our work in print. This book has been put together by the Hangleton Group, who are: Dawn Bartram, Gill Donocick, Julie Everton, Clare Halstead, Ruth Lonsdale, Eve Peel and Pauline Streeton.
Julie Everton
December 1988

SPOTS
by the Hangelton Group

Soap-scented – no
Petal complexion – no
Oval beauty – no
Timotei girl – no
Scarface – yes.

BREAKFAST
by Davin Bartram.

Crunch, munch, slop, drip,
Snap, crackle, pop,
Tea for two,
Just me and you,
And all the washing-up.

Radio four, blah, blah, blah,
Papers rustle, flick, rustle,
Brain whirrs, round and round,
Then stops…breakfast.

Thud, thud, two more,
Will the pot stretch to four,
Chitter chat, feed the cat,
Breakfast, anymore?

Squeak, tap must fix that,
Yawn, stretch, nothing left,
Empty space, breakfasts gone.

LIKE MARBLE

Well, you had promised.
You said I was the one,
You said your life would change
From that moment on,
You said, as our lips touched, that we were
Forever joined, had always been…….

My life stirred within me.
I’d been so afraid, so alone, so alien,
No touch, no word
Silence
So still for so long.
Now you touched me and suddenly
I could hear and see everything,
Knew everyone, felt this uncontrollable
Passionate urge to love,
Love love everyone…….

You were my God.
Inaudibly you spoke to me,
Reached and touched me.
You gave me the power to fly
And I flew, my energy knew no bounds.
I was everywhere, never tired,
Eyes shining, hair flowing,
So, so happy – transformed.
Then…….

You dropped me.
It was Christmas.
I was full of the passion of you.
I would not believe –
It was a game –
You would not, could not
Do this to me..
So I waited…….

Inside the torment raged.
Outside I became still,
Cold as marble.
I lay down.
People looked, wondered,
Eyes afraid, brows furrowed.
What? Why? Who is it?
Is it real? Does she move? Is she dead?
No one touched me.
I heard them, I kept still, so still, so cold
So afraid. I waited…….

The seconds became minutes,
Minutes hours, hours days weeks months
Years; and still I stayed, still cold,
Like marble.

That was five years ago – or was it ten?
I don’t know – it doesn’t matter.
Christmas never came
I don’t think about it now,
I have only one thought –
Curious really….
No one asks me why I am
So still, so cold.
I would like to think they know…
He knows..
Somewhere…
He knows….

Sheila Smith

PARTY INVITATION

They’re all coming.

The wild men toting
Six-packs and Marlboro
Who freeze women with ice-charm

They’re all coming.

The couples turning lovers in
Sweet dark corners
Spongy with spilt beer

They’re all coming.

The temperate ones
Who heat up on whisky
And melt in embarrassment the morning after

They’re all coming.

A chapter of hedonist angels
Halfway up the stairs
And heading for paradise

They’re all coming.

The chatterful butterflies
Casting words out at random
Careless of where they fall

They’re all coming.

Will you be coming?

PROMISES

You promised me sunshine.
Sometimes you give me yellow.
Sometimes your warmth
Engulfs me like springtime.
But it doesn’t always shine!

You gave me a yellow balloon.
It burst!
They always do;
Even in springtime.

You promised me rainbows.
I’ve often felt the rain!
You give me colours
One
By one.
Sometimes they are black,
Not like remembered rainbow bright.
And too far apart,
Even for springtime.

You promised me tomorrow.
It never came!

by Marion Devoy

The Victim

My usual way home was along the lane, but I decided to take a short cut through the wood. It had been raining earlier on, and as I pushed the branches aside moist droplets dripped onto my skin and ran in trickles down my cheeks. I rubbed my wet face with my knuckles, like a child, and strode down the path, my rubber soles making no noise on the wet mossy track.

Was it my imagination, or were there shapes lurking behind every tree?

The wind sighed in the branches, but all else was silent and still, and getting darker by the minute.

Something moved in the undergrowth to my right, and I saw a streak of red amongst the leaves. I stopped and looked as if my staring eyes would magic whatever it was away. There was nothing there – the dim light was playing tricks on me.

As I started to move on I saw it again and I knew I hadn’t been mistaken. A wild red body hidden under a leafy bush, and the terrible rasping sounds of laboured breathing: the sort of breathing you hear in nightmares when something unspeakable is behind you on the stairs. I wanted to run but something prevented me. Instead I slowly approached my victim. As I got nearer I could smell the fear; but I wasn’t sure if it was my own or the creature’s. All I knew was that my palms were wet and my nails digging into the flesh. As I pulled the branches aside and exposed the body of the vixen, another smell reached me. The clinging, bitter, metallic smell of blood. I saw the ripped leg of the fox and the cruel wire tangled round her hind leg.

The eyes of the animal, that were usually wicked and sly, looked at me with a sort of hope. I knelt beside her on the wet ground and gently untangled the barbed trap to set her free.

She didn’t thank me. Her mind was full of her cubs, hidden far away from human eyes and waiting to be fed; but she did wait long enough for me to stroke her side and inspect the wound that I hoped would soon heal. Then she silently loped away and I resumed my walk home.

Peggy Eaton

Ode To A Crumb

I fell for the rip in his trousers
And his fingernails covered in dirt,
And the note of surprise in his laughter,
And the feel of his hand up my skirt.

I fell for his feminist leanings,
His Marx, his electric guitar,
His history of ill-fated passion,
His tongue when we sat in my car.

I fell for his bedsit appartment,
His mattress, the crumbs on his floor,
His interesting books on the sixties,
The sound of his nonchalant snore.

I fell and I couldn’t stop falling,
So I felt in the dark for his hand;
It was there so I fell for his fingers –
I fell rather more than he planned.

I fell on the stair when he pushed me;
I imagined a stab in my heart.
We fell into anger and silence –
We turned silences into an art.

I dreamed of an innocent mishap
Where he fell from a cliff in the night
And he felt in the dark for my fingers,
But my fingers were never in sight.

So we split, and I think of him rarely:
Now he’s only a crumb in my mind.
The crumb I can feel on my mattress –
The crumb which you never can find.

Julie Everton

Whose Hands Are They Anyway?

Always they were there.

Always – just beyond his reach – darting away when he thought to catch them – insistently pulling, tugging his mind – for whether he saw them or not they would not let him alone. Even in his dreams he was not free, for when he lay down those hands whispered around his pillow, his eyes, his bedclothes.

Restless, ever restless, hardly ever still.

Hands, pale shimmering hands floating through the moonlight, tapering fingers beckoning the night.

Hands that whispered through the falling leaves – rustling ghostly sounds.

Hands that crept through the night not caring about the droplets of rain that splashed through open fingers.

Hands swimming through a doorway, now curling into clenched fists, punching through the air like transparent snowballs. Searching, searching, forever searching, touching flesh that trembled at that touch.

Clenched fists that opened and changed, now hands ugly with veins standing out from blotchy skin, grabbing strands from the dust of scattered moonbeams, writhing in and out of darkness – now to be seen – now to disappear.

Trembling hands feeling for – and finding – a terror stricken victim.

Choking hands –

slicing hands – trembling with impending excitement. Into his mind came the thought – what are these hands ? Where do they belong ?

Now they were holding each other before him, wringing in anguish.

He clutched hold of a chair and for one brief moment they left his vision – then they were back in an attitude of prayer.

Bewildered, he watched one hand rise high, the knife it was holding catching the ghostly light showing in the mirror.

Then pain.

Oh such pain.

Unbearable tearing waves of pain.

Then horror – torment beyond reason – for as his mind and body finally blurred into nothing he knew that the hands which had haunted him for so long were his own -and they had destroyed’ him.

Hands

My hands are small and pudgy, prone to dermatitis and with brittle nails.

My hands have a crescent-shaped scar on the left thumb; cut it while opening a tin and could not be bothered to go to the hospital to get it stitched. They have suffered burns often as I tend to be careless with the iron. I also forget where I keep the oven glove…

My hands cannot bear the feel of lolly-sticks, they set my teeth on edge. My hands love to stroke the cat and feel its soft fur running through my fingers. My hands like to play with the hair on a man’s chest, gently pilling at the coarse strands.

My hands like to dangle in the sea, feel the waves splashing over them, cooling them down when they are sticky. They love to hold my daughter, brushing the tears from her face when she is sad and tickling her when she is happy.

My hands have worked hard. They hold my pen, without them I would not be able to write.

My hands deserve to be pampered but will settle for a kiss from a gentleman.

Eine Kleine Nachtmusik

Dignified people dancing in regal dresses, in a ballroom lit by chandeliers. Outwardly happy, but always restrained, sequences repeated over and over, the same movements done time and time again, set patterns. Layers of cloth swishing, so many secrets hidden under those skirts, purity hiding scandal. Down below the menial tasks go on, as the extravagant music filters down, a barrier between two worlds.

And alongside this high culture there exists the music of the inns and bars, good time music where people dance vigorously, bodies flying, all to see, no secrets hidden under those skirts. No pretence, not always beautiful but always honest.

A tasteful sitting room, after a hard day’s work at the office, he shuts out the world with his music, wife in the kitchen, always two worlds. Glass of whisky, feet up; now it’s on C.D. Fine quality, fine style, fine life. Applause from an empty audience.

by Dawn Bartram.

* * *

At work or when I’m walking I think of you
I don’t know who you are I haven’t met you yet
Haven’t even laid eyes on you
But I feel you are there
Maybe just a possibility
An idea to toy with
Anyway I don’t need you yet
I’ll probably need you eventually
But until then your idea will
Haunt me
As I do my work or walk.

Sarah Griffiths.

When I go shopping I think it’s disgusting.
My mind becomes dulled.
Too many potential possessions.
Too many stimuli.
When I go shopping, far away someone else is
Starving.

When I go shopping I see excess,
Too many clothes to buy,
Different fashions
Different looks.
When I go shopping, far away someone else is
Naked.

When I go shopping sometimes I forget.
I forget the starving
The homeless
The naked.
Carefully I handle the product,
I look at the prices,
I purchase the temptingly packaged product.
When I go shopping, far away someone else is
Dying.

Sarah Griffiths.

This morning I saw winter approaching
Softly she made her entrance
Caressing the trees
Seducing the branches
That shyly removed
Their lacy copper garments
That haltingly fell to the ground
Like the fading echoes of summer.

Sarah Griffiths.

THROUGH THE MIRROR

I entered the mirror knowing that the magic fountain would change my every thought, the real me being so down to earth. I was amazed at what transpired; no more trivial worries – the sight of the wonderful fountain inspired me to very different thoughts. I was away from the mundane world and living in fantasy.

I was a ballet dancer wearing a cobweb dress and dancing on my toes, then lifted by a companion in disturbing white tights which set my heart pulsing. He caressed me and then we danced, in unison. The feeling was divine in his arms; he lowered me to the floor and as we bent over, his face was close to mine and I could feel his hot breath. Then as he carried me off the stage, my knees were touching his face and I hoped his thoughts were the same as mine. I was longing for the touch of his lips – this would have been magic indeed. We were now in the wings and his lips were pressed to mine……. the magic of the fountain had certainly worked for us.

Margaret Ward.

ESCAPE FROM THE MIRROR

Dear Margaret,

It was you, it was you that came that day
And took my dancer – my man away.
You came through the mirror looking so fair,
At first I took no notice, I hadn’t a care.
I thought that man to be always true
So I didn’t get worried when he danced with you.
I watched your duet and your pas de deux
and thought, well, he’ll soon get tired of her.
We’d lived in the mirror for many a year,
Happy, loving, with never a tear.
Others had come and stayed a while
Beguiled and entrapped by his wonderful smile.
But I always was there when they went away
Sure he was mine and would never stray,
Far from the one who loved him so true
and this was so, until along came you.
The mirror is timeless; its hard to tell
What will happen if it casts its magic spell.
But Margaret, dear Margaret, I am sorry for you:
I know what will happen – what you will go through.
You are stuck in that false mirror of love
Fixed in his fingers like those in a glove.
But I am free of the love that’s not true –
Now I feel sorry, so sorry for you.

Pauline Streeton

Bare legs show above stocking tops
Young faces flushing in the heat.

Old ladies meeting on a bench
Nod, as birds upon a perch.

Eyes then light as recognise
An ambling figure, old as they,
Who steps to pass the time of day.
Conversation’s dull and flat.
No lively young enquiring minds;
They sleep within the yesteryears
Of memories left to pass the time.

Margaret Bearfield

A Haiku?

Madam said “write a Haiku”.
“What’s that” said I to you
“I don’t know you, bewildered, replied –
So for a fag we went outside.

On our return Madam said,
“A Haiku is – when it is read –
a simple verse or words that rhyme.
That mingle but also stay in time.

So go on home, think, write a word,
Something that’s never before been heard.
Don’t forget your syllables – 17 in all,
Not 16 or 18 – you may recall.

Forget the trap of a two syllable sound,
Else you’ll have too many flying around.”
So after a while we all trundled home
and immediately my thoughts began to roam.

Now what shall I do, what shall I say?
Don’t really understand – but come what may
The words will go down on this paper so white
Maybe I’ll be wrong – I’m not often right.

But the words that dance around in my mind
will come tumbling out as soon as they find
space from my brain and hope from my heart –
Providing of course I can find where to start.

by Pauline Streeton

Remember me, a young girl fair?
With ribbons tied to long brown hair.

I used to skip along the street,
Laugh and chat with those I’d meet.

As a young woman I strolled along
Babes in my arms, crooning soft sweet songs.

My babies grew, so swift, so strong,
To others arms they felt belonged

Yet still I laugh, but often weep
As thoughts return to cobbled streets.

Margaret Bearfield

Fireworks

Flirtatious candleglinmer dances in the dark.
Words, words,
Flickering, flicking,
Something smoulders.

I try to tend the hearthplace of my thoughts,
Try to make them heartwarming,
To keep the homefires burning.
But the words slap my wrists,
Leer and lust at my controlling fingers.

Imagination fires.

Flamethoughts flinging,
Burning, poisonous fumes.
The homefires burn.
Help!
The world blackens;
Smoking fog and scarring sears
Petrol fumes and burning flesh,
Conflagration.
I am trapped.
Caught at the back of a wall of
Black and gold.
No exits.

Suddenly I write;
The fire ignites at last
My firewords:
Hot on the page.
Cool in my mind.

LAMENT FOR A LONELY WOMAN

When God handed out happiness she was way down the list,
Sometimes she feels she doesn’t exist,
She isn’t invisible, she tries not to hide,
And with her appearance she always takes pride.
Yet she’s living alone, she has no one to love,
“Please find me someone” she begs heaven above.
She goes through life with no one to care,
She lives in a world where compassion is rare.
Who gives a damn that she’s breaking her heart?
How can she go on when she’s falling apart?
She doesn’t know what it’s like to be hugged and be kissed,
If she died tomorrow she wouldn’t be missed.

Gill Donocick

THE LONELY CRY

Daddy, oh Daddy, please let me grow.
Daddy dear Daddy, I love you so.
But Daddy, dear Daddy, why do you shout?
Why do you make me feel. cold and left out?
I love you my Daddy and I thought you loved me –
But you’re never around for me to see.

I see my sister who I love well,
Sad and afraid; she cannot tell
Her fears – she don’t understand
Why she feels all alone and don’t feel grand.
She’s at an age where she needs to know
What makes life live with a bright first glow.

But all she seems to get and discover
Is one wrongdoing – one after another.
Sometimes she is naughty and you get mad –
But were you an angel when you were a lad?
Daddy dear Daddy will it be the same
When I am older and no longer a game.

Will I be just a jewel and not a pearl,
When I am me and not just a girl.
Daddy, dear Daddy why do you shun
away from my love and of everyone?
I want to love you and you to love me
and I want your time to spare – to see

I need you even if you can get by
forgetting us all, making us cry.
You work all day to collect in the pounds,
Your busy hands don’t hear our weak sounds.
Daddy where are you, where have you gone –
See us, dear Daddy, stay here from now on.

HAIKU

Do you think it wise
To squeeze into a dress
Smaller than your size

The inks dried up in my biro –
How can I sign my bloody giro?

Gill Donocick

Peace is love shining from
the deep brown eyes
while the tail wags endlessly.

If she is gone now
What is left for you and me –
only her return.

Pauline Streeton

THE MAN NEXT DOOR

The man next door is on the dole,
He never has any money.
The man next door is miserable,
He can’t find anything funny.

The man next door is a lazy sod,
He’s always been a mess;
The man next door sleeps till noon
And rarely bothers to dress.

The man next door doesn’t bother,
His garden is all overgrown.
The man next door, he doesn’t care
That the dog can’t find his bone.

The man next door eats junk food
And he often takes a drink.
The man next door isn’t stupid
But he never stops to think.

The man next door is dirty,
His hair is full of lice;
The man next door, his house smells –
The kitchen is a haven for mice.

The man next door, I had enough
Of this drunken despicable lout;
The man next door, I’m his landlord
So maybe I’ll chuck him out.

By Gill Donocick