Until we were overtaken by the onset of the present virus crisis, a dozen of us had been meeting each Tuesday morning at Rosanna McGlone’s Wincle home to attend her creative writing course. Each week we have studied a different aspect of putting a story  or poem together and from homework and/or writing during the session, a number of verse and prose pieces has emerged. Three of them follow: Skeggy; Tell It Like It Really Is?; and Maundy Thursday. The two prose pieces are followed by a poem that came to me from left of left field in response to the prompts a text, a sandwich and a doctor.

Skeggy

Slate-grey skies and a cool breeze and the dunes stretching away as far as the eye can see, that’s how I always remember it. And today is no exception. It’s the tetchy squawk of the gulls, planing overhead, which reminds me that this is the seaside – despite appearances, it is by the sea – though the murky waters seem particularly distant and elusive at low tide.

I’ve parked in the lee of the dunes as we always did, though now a machine requires my number plate and a pro rata insertion of coins. I trudge up a gap to the top of the nearest dune, as I did on our daytrips all those years ago. Small clouds of beige granules leap up to join the wisps caught by the stiff easterly wind. I recognise (or think I do) the hollow, bordered by spikes of marram grass, where we would picnic, struggling to keep the tartan car rug becoming airborne and seeking its release and solace in the far off shallows.

Before we tucked into our picnic and behind the protection of a towel, I would somehow wriggle out of my clothes and into my skimpy blue trunks before setting off on the expedition which was the wave-wrinkled sand, leaving the sensible older generation to their flask of hot coffee. Not another living soul in sight. Robinson Crusoe and Ben Gunn would have wept at such solitude, but I scurried on, as eager as one of the tiny crabs. Soon-to-be-erased footprints marked my slow progress to the water’s edge. Gradually, the flesh-chilling waves covered toes, ankles, shins and finally, fifty or more yards further on, knee high, I would take the plunge. Gasping and screeching, teeth chattering, I would jump up briefly before diving back in for a second, less traumatic dip. Just deep enough for breast stroke, the North Sea wrestled with the unwelcome intruder and soon succeeded in sending me shorewards towards dry land. Mam would drop what she was doing, wrap me in a towel and half-rub, half-pummel me dry. If disrobing had been a challenge, imagine the contortions required to protect my modesty from Auntie Clara and Uncle Horace’s averted gaze.

No egg sandwiches today, no Madeira cake, no banana. Just time to remove shoes and socks, roll up my trouser legs and head for a paddle down memory lane.

Tell It Like It Really Is?

Paul wasn’t a natural worrier. He’d a cheerful disposition that he couldn’t keep under wraps and it shone out of his every pore like embers under a blacksmith’s bellows. When his glass wasn’t full to the brim and overflowing, it always seemed to be at least two thirds full, irrespective of the current circumstances. Life just didn’t seem to be able to grind him down.

There were times, and this was one of them, when, frankly, Shirley found it bloody annoying. There he was at his laptop, unruly mop of blond hair crying out for a good brushing, cheeky grin unabashed despite the all-pervading bombardment of atmospheric, medical, economic and personal gloom, his lips, as always, pursed in a permanent, slightly off key whistle. She suppressed her desire to scream. Maybe she should have shacked up with his younger brother, Stan, after all. There had been a brief moment when it wouldn’t have seemed so crazy. “Dream on, you silly cow,” she mused.

She and bachelor boy, Paul, had met online, of course, even though they weren’t really in an age bracket you’d associate with Tinder. The only swiping Shirley had previously got up to was on the surfaces around sink and cooker and on the door handles, but when her mum had finally gone into care and soon after caught the virus, she acted on impulse, swiped right and the rest was a mystery to her.

She fussed with the rebellious strands around her ears and pushed her glasses back up for the nth. time. Now where had she put her Barbara Cartland? Time to step away from everyday routine and live a little.

Maundy Thursday/ Jueves Maundy

“Enjoy your Last Supper,” was all the text said.

Jesús couldn’t get those 4 words out of his head.

He’d ordered the water. He’d ordered the tapas,

with olives from the Mount and plenty of papas.

He’d do the old trick of water to vino

and then they’d tuck in to a right stonking beano.

There’d be a paella à la mamma mía

and one of his mates would sing “Ave María”.

It would all be so scrumptious they’d never forget,

but that “Last Supper” text brought him out in cold sweat.

 

The taverna had laid out the table upstairs.

and his mates arrived singly, in groups and in pairs.

Jesús looked at all twelve, but he couldn’t decide

which one was hinting at imminent homicide.

“Buena provecha! What we’re about to receive…”,

Then, hey presto, they’d wine. Had he more up his sleeve?

To a clatter of plates, Pedro raised his glass in a toast.

He pushed back his chair saying, “Here’s health to our host!”

Jesús leant towards him, squeezed his hand once or twice.

“Before the sun’s dawning, you’ll deny knowing me thrice.”

 

Pedro was shocked. He’d give his life for this man.

He considered himself Jesús’s number one fan.

Jesús looked round benignly at the gathered throng.

“30 pesetas it’s Thomas, though maybe I’m wrong

and Jude’s looking furtive there, sandwiched between

Jaime and Juan. I wonder where he has just been.”

“You’re pale and you’re sweating. Come, let me cool your brow.

I’m a dab hand at healing as you’ll soon avow.

Here we are in Galicia, good friends round the table.

Some think me a doctor, but I shrug off the label.”

 

The evening passed quickly. Jesús said, “Adios”

Eleven mates were puzzled, didn’t foresee their loss.

But the twelfth one knew he’d sold leader and friend

for a handful of silver which he couldn’t defend.

Beryl’s workshop yesterday was on the theme of Loss. You’d be amazed how many types of loss people came up with. I wrote the following reprise of an earlier poem about my fall in the bath (“Bang to Rights”) with the emphasis on memory loss.

Loss

The last I recall, I was taking a shower.

The water was hot and the jet on full power.

I’d shampooed my hair, soaped from my head to my toes

and washed myself down with the flexible hose.

I reached for my towel, went down with a bang.

My head hit the wall and the whole bathroom rang.

 

How long I was out for I haven’t a clue.

Now here I am bed-bound, surrounded by you.

Yes, you, bunch of strangers, so caring, so kind.

You say it’s amnesia, but I’m losing my mind.

You tell me you love me, call me by a name

which means nothing to me. It fills me with shame.

 

A fine-looking woman called Eve often cries,

tells me she’s my wife and I’m sure it’s not lies.

Two youngsters – my children? – called Tom and Elaine,

lovely young people. I search my memory in vain

for some recollection that we’ve met before,

but what do they look like once they’re out the door.

 

Then just yesterday, Eve popped in with a bag.

I was down in the dumps, morale starting to flag.

“I’ve brought someone to see you,” and then just like that

she pulled open the handles and there was our cat,

adorable creature, a short-haired, black beauty.

“Marley,” I cried out, “you, sweet, little cutie.”

 

Suddenly, all flooded back: Eve, Tom and Elaine

and of course my name’s Patrick* I remembered again.

 

*A running joke which developed during the read around of various people’s efforts.