My new collection of short stories – ‘Athene and Other Stories’ is now available as an Amazon Kindle book. A few months ago, I posted a story on this blog entitled ‘Persephone’. This was the starting point for this collection, and ‘Persephone’ is one of the stories featured. I have accompanied it with other pieces that are named after ancient Greek legend, but are set in the 20th century. The stories are inspired by the reputed properties of the Greek character, but they are by no means a simple retelling of the story in a modern setting. To whet your appetite, here is the opening paragraph from each story:
Athene
Not many of the evacuees wanted to go to Owl Farm. It was run by the Widow Woolton, a tall and stocky woman whose voice violently ricocheted off the walls of the village hall as she made her selection. Her husband, Farmer Woolton, had given up his life during the 1939 harvest. That is, a lot of people said that the incident with the thresher had been suicide. His wife had patently married him for his farm and it has to be said that she was born to a life dedicated to the country. Ever since their union, he had declined in strength while hers continually multiplied. She became expert in new farming methods where he remained novice and she flaunted her skills making him feel less useful by the month. None of Farmer Woolton’s relatives had dared to claim inheritance of the farm and besides; they were all away with the forces. Widow Woolton remained in firm control of Owl Farm, and relished the challenge of helping to feed a country at war.
Persephone
Despite being newly divorced, I had been able to afford this house because it was in need of attention. As the first year progressed I had to attend to the fabric of the building. I spent my days off work in making rounds of tea and sandwiches for plumbers, electricians and roofers. I also became more familiar with the contents of the toolbox myself, and covered uneven surfaces with thick coats of paint. Throughout this time, I ached to see to the long and narrow strip of back garden. Tall grass and clumps of thistle and nettle beckoned me outside with heavy nodding heads. I worried what unsavoury creatures were sheltering in there that might have designs on the hole in my kitchen wall. Occasionally, in order to alleviate tension, I went out and pulled up bucketsful of weeds. I formed a compost heap with them and considered this to be the start of my great gardening project.
Eurydice
Mr and Mrs Deller enjoyed their home comforts, especially since retirement. Mr Deller had worked hard, he had never had a day’s sickness throughout his career at the Town Hall. Mrs Deller meanwhile had expertly managed her husband’s wages and ensured that they always put something by every month. Their little semi detached home at the head of a cul-de-sac was always cosy. There was nothing fancy about it, but it was kept warm and comfortable. Mrs Deller enjoyed cushions. She liked to make them and she liked to perch them in every position where someone might want to sit, or even just lean. Mr Deller’s chair boasted two cushions – only half as many as Mrs Deller’s chair. But it did have a mahogany side table, always neatly set out with a book, a newspaper, a pencil, a pipe and tobacco. They both liked their little sweet treats with afternoon tea and to have them served on lace doilies. Their two daughters, having left the cushions and doilies behind in favour of running a family home their own way, both laughed at their parents’ rituals and teased them when they came home to visit. Mr and Mrs Deller merely looked at their daughters with smiling incomprehension, and sank further into ritual and routine in response to wayward modern manners.
Iris
Whenever I had spent time with Mark, I ended up shopping. It was as though committing one self-indulgent act led to another. You may as well be hung for a sheep and so on. The more serious Mark and I got, the more serious the shopping. We began with shared lunchtimes, swapping books and taking power walks together (trying to work off our cream-topped mochas). That could all be seen as an innocent, platonic friendship. I gave him advice on how to find a girlfriend. Then I went off and bought a new nail varnish or tried a new chocolate bar. Then, one day we were left alone in the office, and I was in a particularly bad way. I had to tell him why I could barely bring myself to laugh at his internet date disaster. I told him about the vicious argument that had taken place at home that morning, and how I had been silenced with a slap. Mark showed concern, compassion – all the things that I wasn’t used to. So I told him the lot. We switched on the answer machine and took an early lunch. He bought me the biggest mocha and chocolate muffin that they had and he held my hand as I told him that I could honestly see no way out of my marriage. On my way home that day, I bought myself a hula hoop and some new trainers. The first time that he kissed me, I fled in a blind panic and bought an expensive winter coat from John Lewis – though when I got it home it suddenly changed its provenance to Primark. On the day that Mark told me that he would wait for me to free myself, that he had stopped looking for anyone else, that was the day that I bought the old telephone. I saw it in the window of the arty vintage shop and it made me smile. It reminded me of my 1980s childhood, of those sitcoms where characters had those funny one-sided conversations – that sort of thing always tickled my funny bone. It looked like a piece of life-enhancing kitsch that I really needed on my bedside table. It would go nicely with my old reading lamp. My husband would roll his eyes at it, I knew, but I really was starting to care less about what he thought. So I bought it. There was no wire to plug into the telephone socket, it was purely ornamental. So it was rather a shock when it began to ring.
Amphitrite
The young couple were married just before the Great War started. That last perfect Edwardian summer of 1913 belonged to them. They were very young. They liked to picnic on the cliffs, sitting as close to the edge as they dare. They threw pieces of bread over to taunt the seagulls, and drank nothing stronger than lemonade. But it was the best lemonade that they could procure, even going to the trouble of bringing it down from London.
On the husband’s final leave before embarking for the Continent, they drank the best lemonade that they had ever tasted. The bottle was exquisitely decorated, with scrolled writing advertising the maker and acanthus leaves moulded into the neck. When the food was all eaten and the lemonade drunk, the wife clasped the bottle to her swollen breast while looking silently out to sea. Her husband tried to comfort her, he told her that the war would soon be over and that he would be back to her and their child before she’d even got used to his absence. His kind words only made her cry outright. Huge droplets of saltwater ran down her face, balanced precariously on the end of her nose and chin and dropped onto the bottle. Three of her tears even dropped into the neck and slithered down to join the small pool of dregs in the bottle bottom. The husband prized it from her hands and threw it away, filling her empty hands with his own. The bottle landed on a ledge halfway down the Cliffside, to be slowly buried by blown sand and fallen earth.
Hermes
The A1 was closed, and Neil needed to get to Newark by 9 o’clock. He would have to take the old route, join in with the A616 and arrive that way. A trip down memory road for him. His Grandad used to chug along it regularly on summer Sunday afternoons in his old black Morris. Neil and his Mum would sit in the back with the picnic hamper between them. Whenever Neil thought back to those days, he remembered that accident. The policeman stood in the road in his black cape, motioning his Grandad to stop the car and turn around. Neil was ordered to cover his eyes and not to look out of the window as the three point turn was being executed. Of course he peeped through his fingers. He would always regret it. The sight of the other policeman being sick on the grass verge was the most memorable thing, he always thought of them as being infallible until then.
Artemis
Life wasn’t as relaxing as Laura had anticipated. When she had packed up and left London and her job in Marketing, she thought that the knots in her shoulders would untie themselves. But the small terraced cottage which sheltered in the lee of the woods wasn’t as welcoming as she had hoped. First there was the family of mice, always darting about just beyond her line of vision and making her jumpy. It wasn’t that she was afraid, they just had a disconcerting habit of appearing a bit too suddenly. Then there was the 1970s wallpaper which refused to budge. It was coming to the point where she would have to call in help. It had been a matter of pride that she was going to do it all herself. She’d spent London evenings studying magazines full of people who had single handedly renovated their cottage retreats and she imagined her own delightfully decorated sitting room among the pages of Woodland Escapes. But most evenings Laura would come in from work, look around herself and simply feel overwhelmed.
Demeter
An early autumn Saturday. A new term underway and the Christmas holidays still too far away to see. Lisa and her neighbour, Amanda, sat on the wall at the end of the back yards. ‘Swap Shop’ had finished and Dads and brothers had taken over the television for ‘Grandstand’. They could think of nothing that they wanted to do. A bus trip to the precinct had been mooted and rejected due to lack of cash. They stared at a stray dog, rooting in a dustbin.
“What did you have for your dinner then?”
“A Vesta curry. It was horrible. I had about three mouthfuls.”
“I had crackers and Dairylea. Tasted like socks.”
“What could you eat right now?”
“Right now? One of my Gran’s Yorkshire puddings with raisins in.”
“Yeah, I’d go for a big dish of custard.”
The stray dog was chased off. The owner of the dustbin righted it and shoved the black rubber lid back on with an accusing clang. She looked at the two girls critically before shuffling back into the house.
Sirens
“Put your hand over the side of the boat.”
I didn’t want to do it. I’m no sailor, not even on my home seas. But I didn’t know these waters and I had heard stories. I had no idea what might live in the green, opaque depths. I thought back to my childhood and when, after lights out, I was scared to swing my legs out of the bed. I had convinced myself that there was something under there, something just waiting to grab my cold bare feet and drag me into its lair. I would lay and visualise a pair of yellow eyes watching, flexing, getting ready. If my bladder filled, it would remain so until the daylight.
‘Athene and Other Stories’ by Sarah Miller Walters:
Sarah Miller Walters 