Edited by Clara Khan

If we’re talking about ‘change,’ at some point we need to address the deeper questions of life and death. There’s no easy way to talk about this, so I’ll start by stating the fact: death is the only thing we know will reach us all at some point. We sometimes push it to the back of our minds, often forgetting about it when in the throes of life, but it always comes back again.

The truth is, we’re reminded of our mortality on a daily basis. Someone enters your life and then leaves some years later. Or you turn on the TV and hear about the death of a group of people, a famous person, an injury that resulted in death, an accident: someone who didn’t have a chance, someone who wasn’t given a chance. Or, we hear of those who have somehow connected with the dead: through the supernatural, in dreams, through animals or symbols. For me, these are all reminders that we are mortal and that not only is our time on Earth limited, but how we spend it is crucial. We’re given one chance to live in this world and each day should be spent wisely, no matter what.

To lighten the mood, my last piece is a reminder of the flip side of the coin: the excitement of life and all it brings with it. By featuring Wimbledon and perspectives on one of Britain’s most important sporting tournaments, I’m putting us firmly back in the here and now!

This first piece is a sweet short story about those who have passed, watching and waiting for their loved ones.

The Phone Call

It’s empty here, most of the time in this space in between. We don’t come here often now, but sometimes we can’t help ourselves. Even in this life beyond life, our daughter’s pain and fear is able to reach us, literally (in our case, at least) waking the dead. In these last moments before she wakes, though, there is still peace. It’s our favourite time for watching. Having said that, Chris, my husband, is usually here before. I don’t know what could have kept him today. Maybe it’s harder for him. He went after me, so their bond is stronger.

“Christopher! It’s time to wake up. You always say this is the best part of her day. It was your idea to watch those last moments of sleep before she‘s awake. I can’t believe I made it before you.”

“I’m here. Sorry, I was just watching. I love her seeing her like this.”

I push aside my irritation. After all, what does it matter? It’s easy to get lost in these magic moments with our girl. I do it too.

The alarm goes off. She reaches over and snoozes it for another ten minutes. She always does that. I think she likes spending that time stretching her legs, rolling her ankles, listening to the day waking up. Blackbirds are calling “morning” to anyone that is listening. Happy chirping!

Before opening her eyes, her arm appears from the warmth of the duvet and reaches blindly for Pup. She knows roughly where he is, though is never sure which end of him, head or tail, her hand will discover first.

Soft fur tickles her fingertips. It’s his back; he moves under her caress and squiggles his way over for the morning hug. Still with her eyes closed, she says, “Good morning.” Pup thumps his answer. Two thumps of his tail. They enjoy these few minutes of peace before taking on the day and God knows what it brings.

I whisper. In Linda’s world it’s a breath of wind on the curtain, or a mote of dust floating into the still room.

“Do you see, Chris?”

“I do, I do,” he replies.

We watch in silent communion as our daughter continues her conversation with Pup, revelling alongside her in this languorous moment.

I use my words to make the sunlight swirl: “She’s as daft about dogs as you were. Remember when you had to sit in the car at the rescue centre, as you couldn’t cope with seeing all the dogs that needed homes?”

Chris sniffs quietly, clearing a not-quite-there throat. “Hmm, yeah vaguely. Who were we replacing?”

“No time for reminiscing any more, Chris. Look, she’s waking up! And don’t go getting Pup wound up. You know he can see us.”

Sure enough, Pup’s nut brown, liquid eyes turn to me. But that’s not all.

“Mum, Dad, for ghosts you’re not very quiet, are you?” Her eyes are still closed. I do a double-take. The curtains ripple in a physical manifestation of my amazement.

Chris pretends he hasn’t heard and quietly disappears. To the garden, no doubt.

For me, though, it feels I’m part of her; entering the world alongside my daughter. Eyes open, ears now listening out for the sounds of the house waking up.

There’s the Boy going to the toilet, sounding like a baby elephant going along the hall. His loud footsteps are comforting.

She’s yet to hear the noises that will determine how her day goes. Reluctantly, she gets out of bed. Dressing gown on, she gathers her phone and goes downstairs. Walking slowly, she stops halfway. Still no noise. Deep breathing to control the rising panic. She starts rehearsing the phone call in her mind. What will she say? And what will she say to the Boy?

I try to whisper my reassurance, but there’s no room for me any more. Still, I’m here and able to watch her thoughts chasing themselves in ever-decreasing circles.

What will I say to the Boy? I’ve put instructions on the fridge. But they won’t prepare him for the real thing. He’s only 11, after all.

Pup charging down the stairs behind her jolts her into the present again.

She enters the kitchen, looks to her right at the open-plan sitting room. Over the sofa, she can just see the top of his head. She can usually tell if he’s awake or not by the angle; today a weary arm lifts and a hand waves. Without realising, she’s been holding her breath. She lets it out as relief floods her. Today is not the day she’ll be making the phone call.

I’m not needed any more. I follow Chris, not sure whether it’s into the garden or sweet oblivion. We’ll be ready, though, waiting. For him and for her. We’ll try to bring comfort either way.

© Jo Webb, 2024

Connect with Jo on Facebook: facebook.com/jo.carvin.35

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My second piece is an extract from a short story about a night-time escape through a forest. It details the thought process of encountering something unsettling and the desperate desire to break free.

Run

It’s often the things we don’t say which warrant the loudest voice. Sometimes the deepest silences ought to be broken, disturbed from beneath the headstones. That’s easy for me to think now. It’s easy to think of the things which you should have said, all of the things you wanted to say, those things you weren’t brave enough to, when you’re alone. In these lonely moments, I lie in the dark and listen to the rain pattering above, my eyes closed.

You followed me, didn’t you? As you always follow me, day and night, from when I wake in the morning, through the lit hours of the day at a steady pace, a safe distance away, gaining on me as the dark yawned and stretched and slowly ate the light for its breakfast. When it has swallowed its last morsel, licking its lips with a glutton’s satisfaction, I can feel you close, never quite sure how you managed to close the gap so quickly, reaching out a hand to touch my shoulder. It is then that I run, and you chase me through my dreams until morning, when we begin our Danse Macabre once again.

But I always knew the night would come when you’d catch up with me.

It’s difficult to pinpoint exactly where it began. Everything seems so jumbled, both of us so intertwined you could have been beside me on the day I was born. Of course, how could I remember if you were? Would you even remember?

When I try to look back, everything is so foggy. Strange, how our memory seems to develop at a slower rate than our brains do. As if they’re separate, not truly connected at all. I suppose most people can only look back so far with clarity. Back further still with less clarity, details beginning to merge or become clouded. Further back again where entire events meld, parts of them getting confused, chunks missing, or simply not true recollections.

I wonder, does the fog advance through your life as you do, some distance behind but a constant presence, clouding memories, leaving decay in its wake? In your early life, your childhood becomes lost and unclear, and your most cherished memories may not even be real. You reach the middle of your life and now your teenage years are lost too. How often parents appear to forget the past as their own children grow into them as teenagers. It used to amuse me. Now it only makes me feel sad. How much do we lose when we reach our later life? I don’t think I’ll get there to find out.

Is that when the fog starts to catch up with you?

I am in total blackness. Complete dark. I run my hands over the smooth wood of the wall beside me, conjuring images of my safe haven, a log cabin in the heart of the forest where you cannot reach me. A candle burns beside me. There is a small window above my head. I know you are outside, watching me through the glass, glimpsing my life but unable to reach me. I snuff out the flame, lying in the dark, listening to the rainfall; distant, unable to break through the thick canopy of trees.

© Lee Allen, 2024

Connect with Lee on Facebook: @LeeAllenAuthor, X: @LeeAllenAuthor, Instagram: @LeeAllenAuthor and via their website: leeallen.my.canva.site/

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And finally – with Wimbledon done and dusted for another year, it’s worth reflecting on the comfort of a tradition that’s truly embedded in our culture landscape. Written by Dr Afsana Elanko, this last piece is a simple observation of the changing environment at Wimbledon. Strawberries and cream, anyone?

Wimbledon Championships – The Change

For many, early summer heralds Wimbledon, the oldest tennis championship in the world. First held in 1877, it’s changed over time in terms of rules, the way the sport is played and the attire. The development of the sportswear associated with the game is a science of its own.  The fashion, through the years, has changed too, for both players and spectators. However, the biggest change comes into play in June, when the whole site transforms into ‘Wimbledon,’ the stage we see on television or in person.

The changes that occur on Wimbledon grounds are only possible with the hard work and dedication of many professionals who work immensely hard in the background looking after their individual areas of expertise. The attention to detail is second to none; from the serving areas that are created with associated platforms for the guests. The flowers change too; the different shades of purple and white flowers against the background of the freshest lush greens. The plants and flowers arrive in pots and go into the planters and areas reserved for them. The food and drink orders are placed and stocked up ready for the people who will be attending.

So much work goes on  in the background to ensure the players are looked after; the playing order and boards are updated and arrangements are made for them. The guest lists for the Royal Box are discussed and created. A lot of this work happens pre, intra and post championship.

Wimbledon town centre is also transformed. The charity shops put on the most elaborate Wimbledon-related displays. Oh, and the traditional strawberries and cream line the shelves of the local food shops. Apparently, more than 1.92 million strawberries are eaten during the tournament. Just imagine the number of punnets of strawberries needing to be brought in!

Many staff are also drafted in for the championship; in a normal year this includes 250 ball boys and girls. There’s something special about seeing the latter in action. But, for me, nothing compares to the atmosphere the tennis ignites, whether as a player of the sport or a supporter!

© Dr Afsana Elanko, 2024

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Read Issue 21 online here or find it in libraries and other outlets. You can see previous editions of our magazines here. 

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