Creative Writing Group - July 2023               

Our challenge this month was to put 3 words from a list of 10 into a story. they are

panorama, twitchy, fortune, banana, joyful, countenance, imperative, baby, pulled and lips.

Many of the group used all 10, and one even got them in the right order! Quite an achievement.

The two stories for July are Ruby Tuesday by Kathy Joyce (yes, me), and 'An Unholy Mess' by Judy Aitken
 

Goodbye Ruby Tuesday

She’s standing by the window of John’s shelf-lined study, surrounded by the music that defines her husband’s life – and much of hers. She likes to come in here when he’s away, soak up the echoes, recall the past, relive the might-have-beens.

Staring into the pane of plate-glass she’s seeing the black-and-white smoulder-eyed Vogue face with a suggestion of a smile and dark, shining curls that fall below the wings of a billowing silken scarf attached to that iconic hat. Her eyes pass through the glass and see not the panorama of lawn with winter-dead borders and leafless beech trees whipping in the Los Angeles December wind, but instead the spacious Chelsea home where he had lived. After her. He had been with Anita then. They’d had babies. But, when she’d arrived at the party, he’d brushed her cheek with his lips, lingering. 1972 it had been, fifty years ago. She’d laughed at torn wallpaper in the hallway, a toy guitar under a chair, smudged fingerprints on doors at the party that had been a joyful celebration of the group’s new album, appropriately called Sticky Fingers, the first they’d released on their own label. She’d simply been curious.

A fragile vinyl disc rests gently in her hands. Spinning it on her index finger her mind echoes the words, the music, ‘Let’s Spend the Night Together’. Strangely, she’d never much liked his music, in fact she had forbidden it in the house when they were together, preferring and sharing the blues such as Jimi had played. Purple Haze and even Wild Thing. But this record was … different.

She’d adored that Chelsea house. The sweeping staircase, elegant rooms, the views over the Thames. They might have been hers if... If. But that party had triggered one of her depressions, intense after those twitchy years of drug inspired elation.

She shivers and the countenance in the window pane changes. The shadow of smile is turned down and the hat is gone, the hair neither shines nor tumbles, the eyes are only smoky within sunken shadows, and a loose kaftan barely conceals the years.

She turns the record over, reads the other label of the double A-side. Goodbye Ruby Tuesday. She shakes her head and turns from the window. Her bare feet take her silently across the room, her fingers slot the disc into its sleeve and her hand slips it back into the pencil-thin gap waiting for its return. If…

If she hadn’t met Jimi. If Keith hadn’t pulled her father out to New York. If her father hadn’t dragged her home, made her a ward of court, dried her out. If… But perhaps that had been her fortune.

Long ago, now.

Returning to the kitchen she presses the expresso double-shot button on the coffee machine - her morning imperative -  and, peeling a banana whilst she waits for the tiny cup to fill, wonders what Keith might have written had she left him on a different day of the week. 

Kathy Joyce

An Unholy Mess.

Soft, gentle voices murmuring Commendation prayers for the dying could be heard escaping from the monastery infirmary as a much-loved elderly nun took leave of the world. Then there was a hush followed by the quiet, comforting swish of long black habits which added to the solemnity of the occasion. One by one the Sisters bent to kiss farewell on their companion’s cooling brow. They noted her relaxed, serene countenance and the hint of a smile on her up-turned lips. Sister Mary Agnes had gone to meet her Maker.

In her office Mother Superior was gathering information for a eulogy to be sent out to Convents of the Order announcing the death of her Sister.  This was usual practice when a member of the Community died. Suddenly, a small piece of paper detached itself from the file in her hands and fluttered to the floor. Stooping to retrieve it she noted the paperwork was yellow with age and written in beautiful, copper-plate script which encouraged a second look. As she read a small gasp escaped the woman’s pulled lips and she knew it was imperative to investigate the matter further. Her first instinct was to telephone Father Damien the Order’s Priest and Confessor and divulge what she had found. He agreed to come right away and together they poured over the old document and verified its legitimacy.

It clearly stated that Sister Mary Agnes Mostyn was the beneficiary of a family Trust Fund set up many years previously. The notification identified that Mary Agnes was the last known surviving member of the Mostyn family of Hawick and that upon her death the Trust was to be wound up and all monies distributed to the Institution where she lived. The original sum invested was large and the two clerics could not begin to guess how much it had accumulated over the years. Mother Superior could only think of the good fortune could be put towards, but Father Damien was more hesitant and twitchy. He knew he should really inform the bishop whom he guessed would take immediate charge of the inheritance for the cathedral. The convent and Fr Damien’s idea of where the money could go would instantly be thwarted. No, he decided, this godsend would need a great deal of thought.

During recreation time that afternoon the Sister’s noted their Superior’s joyful demeanour as they watched one of their favourite taped programmes, Panorama. The programme that afternoon highlighted the plight of women and children in the Sudan and the hardships they endured. They were surprised to see their Superior distracted, paying little attention to the screen and leaving her needlework untouched. At Vespers, the prayers of thanksgiving for the life of Sister Mary Agnes took on a completely new significance and after Compline the nun’s retired for the night unaware that they were all ‘sitting on a fortune!’ 

It was too good to be true, Mother mused, of course it was! How had her Sister never spoken about the matter? The following week another bombshell hit the convent when a solicitor asked for an urgent appointment to see the Mother Superior. Unaware that this visit had anything to do with the previous good news, Mother saw him in the ‘Outside Common room” as soon as he arrived.

“I will come straight to the point Mother Superior, I understand that one of your elderly sisters, Sister Mary Agnes of Jesus died here eight days ago. Can you confirm that?” Perplexed, she concurred. “In that case,” he went on, “It is my duty to inform you that Mary Agnes Jane Mostyn, Roman Catholic nun, is survived by a daughter, Natalie Mary James, my client. She is a middle-aged teacher, a spinster, presently living in Devon!” For the first time in her life Mother was dumbstruck, her mind suddenly bewildered. Was she hearing right? How could an enclosed nun have given birth to a baby when she had entered her Profession 60 years ago aged eighteen! It didn’t add up.

“Does this young woman have a living father,” Mother asked and was surprised to see the lawyer shift his gaze embarrassingly.

“I’m afraid her father died many years ago, Mother, but here is his death certificate and also registration of my client’s birth.”  He handed over the papers and with incredulity the facts seemed to leap off the pages. The professed nun was both shocked and dismayed as she read that the woman’s father had been a well-known Diocesan bishop! At this point, the usually calm and austere nun had to sit down and ask for a glass of water. She vaguely remembered seeing an entry in the convent archives that a Sister had been loaned to the Diocesan office for a short period of time to help with clerical duties but nothing about a child.  In an instant the windfall to her Community was gone like a leaf in the breeze. It felt as if she had just stepped on a giant banana skin and landed firmly in the mire!

“That’s the bad news,” the lawyer went on, “but there is better to come. Natalie has asked if you would consider her as a Postulant in your Order, Mother Superior, and will transfer her possession of Sister Mary Agnes’ estate, in line with her vow of poverty, to the safe keeping of this convent. She believes she has a calling to the religious life and wishes to emulate her mother, whom she never knew, and enter this convent!”  At this Mother Superior fainted clean away.