skiffcat

Miss Fantini was not exactly your typical junior school teacher, yet Julia had faith in her. She certainly had a severe exterior and her heavy-rimmed glasses leant an extra severity to her appearance. Emily seemed to like her and never stopped chatting about what she had done at school that day. ‘Miss Fantini this…’ and ‘Miss Fantini that…’ Yet it would be true to say that Miss Fantini was rather more trendy than your usual teacher of children. Her clothes were more outlandish, her skirt a little shorter and the starry nail varnish she wore more associated with teenage schoolgirls. Yet the school thought highly of her and in all Julia’s dealings with her at parents evenings, Julia had found her nothing but professional. Julia collected Emily from the school gate every day and was surprised the day after the Emily’s latest nightmare, to find Miss Fantini at the school gate, holding the little girl’s hand.
“I wonder if we might have a chat, Mrs Saunders,” Miss Fantini enquired. “About Emily. Would you like to come inside?” She led the way into the school, still holding Emily’s hand. Julia followed, apprehensively. Whatever was wrong? Up to now, Emily had been a model pupil. Miss Fantini had said so herself.
The reached Emily’s classroom.
“Would you like to play awhile, Emily?” Miss Fantini said.
“Sure!” Emily sauntered in the direction of the play corner and disappeared into the wendy house.
“Please. Take a seat,” Miss Fantini said.
“Is anything wrong?” Julia asked anxiously.
“I was hoping you might tell me that.” Miss Fantini looked at her through those enormous rims. “How has she been at home?”
Julia debated whether she should mention Emily’s nightmares, but decided she needed some more information from Miss Fantini first.
“You must have a reason for asking me,” Julia said.
“I do. She has been exhibiting some what I would call disturbing behaviour.”
“In what way?”
“First, let me show you her drawings.”
Miss Fantini reached out to her desk and picked up a wad of drawing paper. She handed Julia the top sheet.
Julia stared, unable to believe what she was seeing.
“I would call that an odd drawing for a young child,” Miss Fantini said.
It was.
The drawing, although drawn in an obviously childish way, depicted the surface of a planet. Emily had coloured in green grass and blue water, but had coloured the sky a strange pinky-purple colour. Suspended in it were planets and a huge red sun.
Miss Fantini handed Julia a second drawing. The same planet surface as before was in evidence, but this time it was populated with little characters resembling corn stooks.
Haymen!

Emily’s scream was so loud it resounded round the house. It seemed to be emanating from the very walls of the building. It hurt Julia’s ears as soon as she woke from her shallow sleep. She leapt out of bed and rushed into Emily’s bedroom, steeped in anxiety.
The eight year old girl was sitting up in bed, her eyes screwed up, her hands over her ears and she was still screaming. Julia rushed to her, sat on the bed and took her in her arms.
“There, there,” she soothed, “It’s OK. Mummys here. Mummy’s here.”
To her relief, Emily stopped screaming, but was reduced to a choked sobbing, as she clung to her mother.
“I think it was a bad dream,” Julia observed sagely. “Just another bad dream.” It was Thursday and it was the third bad dream that week.
She stroked Emily’s hair and held her close waiting for her sobs to subside. Gradually the girl quietened, the shaking stopped and her breathing became easier.
“They’re burning,” Emily managed to say, as Julia settled her down.
“What are burning, darling?” Julia asked, “Was something burning in your dream?”
“The haymen.” Emily shuddered as she spoke the words. The haymen were burning."
“Just a bad dream,” Julia reassured her daughter, tucking her in. “Sleep well, Chuckles.”
She stayed with Emily until well after she could hear the deep breathing that indicated she had gone back to sleep. When she felt sure her daughter was settled, she returned to her own room. Glancing at the clock, she saw it was ten past two. The dream had happened at about the same time, two o’clock on all three occasions.
But this was the first time Emily had spoken of the dream. Who were the haymen. Why were they burning? Just a child’s imagination. Yet that scream was disturbing.

The oysters on my plate are moving and I never noticed it before. Yes, I knew that they were live when consumed, but had never stopped to consider that they actually looked as if they were alive. But under the thin film of water, as I observe my oyster closely, a shimmer runs across its filmy surface, Inow not whether in fear of what will happen to it, or just as a natural process. Oh oyster, as food you look tempting, but as a living being you are a monster, a desecration. You could not cuddle an oyster like you cuddle a kitten. But then, you would not eat a kitten either. Holding you up, I look at your under side and see your tough craggy shell exterior. Now there’s a manly sight – for your external appearances suggests shoreline, rocks, cliffs, inhabitants of rocky pools, happy in hospitable habitats. There are even traces of small barnacles upon you. Your smell and the aspect of your underside unmistakeably say ‘Sea’. But not return to my plate where I must peruse thee again. Yes, I can see you are alive, I can see your shimmering movement quite clearly. Are you communicating? Are you speaking to me? Are you begging me to return you to the sea from whence you came? I think not, because your other half is missing…the top piece of your shell. You are too exposed, too vulnerable. So what to do with you? I have a dishful of vinaigrette dressing, onion in vinegar, the base of this liquid ethanoic acid, not the best choice for your environmental mother-liquor. Or there is the piece of lemon waiting to be squeezed over you. Citric acid. It hurts if I get it in my eye, what will it do to you? And how securely are you anchored in your half-shell; to eat you, I must pull at your moorings and detach you from this sticking-post. Will this hurt you? I am wondering. This wrenching from your womb-like captivity? From one enclosure into another…first into my mouth you will go and meet enymic saliva juices…are they kind to you? Then you will slide down my throat, pleasurable for me but possibly a white-knuckle ride for you. Once in my gut, hydrochloric acid and further digestive juices will work on you. At what do you die, oyster, and is it painful? Is it a slow erosion process or at some point during my repast do you endure only a quick and relatively painless death? Suppose I stab you with my fork first? Does that make for a quick an easy death? Like a Roman falling on his sword. But which part do I stab? There is this more opaque, fleshy area here which may your heart, your brain, the centre of your nervous system.

The old writing maxim – Show, don’t tell.
Paul was angry. Replace with ‘Paul barged into the room, his eyes aflame, his huge chest heaving, towered over Elise and banged his enormous hands angrily on the table’
Celia was frightened. Replace with ‘Flutterings of fear were snapping away inside Celia; her skin had gone cold with goosebumps and she was suddenly unable to move’
Clive was stricken with Nadia’s beauty. Replace with ’Clive’s eyes became riveted on Nadia. They took in her clear skin, her azure eyes, her ebony hair; her extraordinary beauty totally melted him inside’
Denise felt emotional as the news of Peter’s accident began to sink in. Replace with ’Denise’s hands began to shake as she read the news of Peter’s accident on the by-pass. She was making little choking noises in her throat. The increased in intensity until she let out an emotional howl of anguish’
George felt sad. Replace with ’George’s world changed from bright sunlight to a grey misty gloom. An intense ache took hold of him’

Ransley had decided that the bitch in Whitstable had to die. The memories he had of the little wooden cottage on the beach close to the oyster factories were bitter-sweet. Florence had been so loving and accommodating when he had first known her, but over the years she had changed. Ultimately, she ruined his life. She took away every vestige of self-confidence, destroyed his pride, emasculated him emotionally (and physically) and in her presence, he had begun to feel a nothing, a total non-presence, a doormat, an ash-tray, a wine-carrier.
Ironically, she had rescued him from drowning, saved his life in no uncertain terms and then proceeded to destroy him according to her own plan.
He had sat in the living room by the open window looking at the sea. He had not been to bed, his clothes were bedraggled and he was aware that he smelt of body odour and whiskey. She, Florence, the bitch, was upstairs, in bed, snoring her demented little head off. The seamen she had brought back and mocked him with had blundered downstairs, drunk and in just as bad as state as him and left. Ransley could have killed him and got away with it. But he wasn’t worth it. There had been others and there would be more in the future. Men Florence brought home to taunt him with.
No, suicide seemed a good option. He wasn’t a strong swimmer, so he would wade out to sea, conscious of the sound of the swell and the seagulls, the reek of the seaweed ringing in his nostrils. He would be up to his waist and he would push off and continue to swim outwards. The grey skies overhead would bear witness to the sacrifice of his own life. Ransley had once been a noted a person, a somebody, but Florence had terminated his existence as a proper person.
Once out to sea, he would keep swimming until he was too exhausted to swim further. He would expel all the air from his lungs, hold it out until it became uncomfortable, until he had to breathe. Then he would duck his head underwater and take a deep breath.