helpfulhigherenglish

He swiped the screen on his phone one more time. Nothing new. Looked up slyly at Amy sitting across the table, busily swiping too. Hadn't this been a ground rule? "We'll never become one of those couples that never talk!" Now they'd become one of those couples that never talk. Derek couldn't believe it. Knew too that if he mentioned it, there would be one of two outcomes. She would look through him as though he were a ghost, not hearing a word. Or she would switch on immediately, blame him squarely for their lack of communication, thereby ruining the evening. Damned if you do. Damned if you don't. Derek ordered another round of drinks. A craft beer because this place was uber cool. A pint of ordinary draught lager would be a fashion-faux-pas. Her's was prosecco. From the tap. The only thing they had in common was a hatred of their jobs. Meeting at the bridge as they usually did on Thursday evenings, ten minutes of cursing and damning-to-hell of ...

She still dances. Not like the old days in the chorus line. But she waltzes every day. Back then, how it all was! The grease paint and innocence. She'd had a formal courtship with the footlights... time in the wings with the props and tension, sorting a dozen wooden chests of hired costumes for the big shows. And then the stage, how vast it all seemed. How dark the audience were...out there somewhere. There was a war on. A straight-drawn line down the back of bare legs to mimic stockings. Lights off outside in the street to ward off a random enemy plane. Heightened excitement and camaraderie. A group of girls to march with. And Patrick. A different type of formal courtship. Alas that stands defeated. Time and life has stepped in to upturn that box of memories. But Patrick too saw the wings and conductor, the prompters and backdrops. They shared a love affair with velvet theatre seats, opening nights and dress rehearsal frights. They could laugh at it all walking up the hill, him ...

Oily chestnuts broken out of spiked cocoons are collected by the kids. Every corner in the house will have chestnuts in them by dusk to ward off spiders. In the backyard a heavy breath of fallen apples soaks the ground. Another storm will surely remove the rest. Another thud. Mind out! Or the big apples, the monsters on the outer branches that absorbed more sun and rain than the others. Now they are shipwrecked husks; insides scavenged by crows and blackbirds, modern 'wreckers making away with the life-giving pulp. And in the ditches the blackberries are beaten, gales flinging them stupidly and rain delivering Autumn's coup de grace. But it's beautiful. The splash of gold in gutters, sloppy leaves sticking around. The heave of massive tree limbs straining like over-burdened weight lifters. After dark in a storm, the background noise and struggle in the oaks. Or the acorns jettisoned like useful bullets to be picked up at dawn. I cannot wait to wake tomorrow and see more ...

He would wait until he found the perfect establishment. A bright and airy place with smiling staff, a welcome, and a seat near the door. It had been a long Winter. He'd covered two New York Burroughs without going into the same place twice. In January it had been fourteen below. Stupidly cold. He had stepped out every day and survived. Now it was April; a beautiful April evening in fact. Lit up with a late sun, shining still from the West. Leaves, damp and glistening from unpredictable showers, were forcing themselves to grow again in the Parks. Alfred loved it. Not his daily challenging chore but the time of year. Hope, he thought, is Spring. Tonight's choice was 24 Thomas Jefferson Avenue. The Pizza Pie Palace. He didn't like the name but he liked that the place looked welcoming and warm. As a bonus, it looked busy. Alfred stepped in. No bell over the door. He hunkered up onto a stool inside the entrance, scanned a beaten-up menu and waited to be served. Wearing a sh...

The smell first. Not a perfume but an ochre, smoky smell falling down the polished concrete steps. I dragged a tired body up those steps into the late evening light, towards where the chestnut seller had his stand. Somehow the cooked chestnut smell revived me a little. Pedro [They were always a Pedro] stood waiting, his lined skin taking on the grey charcoal hue of his art. He said hello and waited those few seconds to see if for once, I'd buy his wares. It was the end of the month. In my pocket sat a small wages envelope containing a meagre cheque, wrapped in a good deal of cash; black money, the untaxed part of my wages. Today was Pedro's lucky day. I loved cooked chestnuts straight out of the makeshift barrel-brazier. I'd loved them twenty years before I'd eaten them. My parents had consumed them on their Honeymoon in fifty's London. I loved the idea of it. Old-fashioned, simple and necessary. "How much?" "Four hundred pesetas for a cone-...