eyes, or deliberately avoiding questions? A nervous twitch or a recognisable gesture?
Such was the complexity of the mind playing games that ensued, AN HOUR TOO SOON? presents you with two conflicting yet highly convincing accounts of what happened. It was a true stale mate. But who to believe?
During those days even I began to doubt what was being said, it was two steps forward and one step back.
And who held the master card? Who had the ultimate power?
Power is such a peculiar emotion. It takes and it gives from a person in equal measure. It can be the opposite of envy – but was I that sort of person or was I made into that sort of person?
And what of the person I became?
S.W.
Beyond Reasonable Doubt
Posted July 31st, 2013
I could tell you about my life right now, relate all that has happened since 2008 and everything that is happening.
If you finish the book you will inevitably ask yourself why didn’t I want to break the circle? Did I like being the centre of attention? Being in control? Did I like it all just a little too much?
How many times have I had that conversation with myself? I think perhaps I know the answer and yet I don’t want to think about it.
Ever think the term ‘face off’ is an odd expression? Two people face to face like two teams facing each other, eye-balling, watchful and each waiting for the first move. Be ready and do not be taken unawares. Don’t cause doubt because doubt is like a disease. It grows within you. It insidiously eats away at your resolve and makes you question your actions.
In my case, I had to show ‘evidence.’ And how utterly horrible it all must have looked.
Here’s that scene from page 154 (paperback)
Cindy knew all her secrets had been hidden with care. Only Pandora sensed their location. Removing her shoes from the floor of her wardrobe, Cindy pulled back the carpet to reveal a loose floorboard that she prized up. Thrusting her arm into the dark space she dragged out a dusty bin liner. A small brown parcel lay within the liner, tied with string. She retrieved it and returned the bin liner to its hiding place in the wardrobe then meticulously replaced the floorboard, the carpet and her shoes.
Cindy placed the brown parcel on the bed before methodically removing the string and peeling open the wrapping. There it lay.
Cindy’s thoughts were interrupted by the premature arrival of Susan‘s car. Quickly she wrapped the parcel and picked it up. She walked to the top of the landing and watched silently as Susan opened the front door and entered in her golfing gear. But there was none of the usual verve in Susan‘s actions as she took off her jacket and hung it on the stair post.
How old she looks, Cindy thought. So dull and middle-aged. A floorboard creaked under her foot and the noise made her mother jump.
“Who’s there?” Susan looked up, her eyes fearful.
“It’s me,” Cindy came slowly down the stairs. She followed Susan into the kitchen and placed the parcel down on the table. “Do you want a coffee?”
Cindy nodded at Susan, who busied herself with the kettle.
“So?” Susan attempted a smile. It didn’t work; it looked more like a grimace. “How are you?”
Cindy sighed, not wishing to talk but knowing she had no choice. Briefly she told Susan about her meeting with Grant in the café. She hesitated before saying, “But that’s not why I’m here. I came here today because I remembered, and I hate remembering. I can’t seem to stop now. It just goes round and round in my mind.” Susan made as if to speak then paused seeing the expression on Cindy’s face.
Her mother seemed to have aged fifteen years over the past weeks. Her skin looked sallow and was creased by worry lines. To know that she had been the cause of this deterioration in her mother gave Cindy a moment’s unease. Susan had done nothing wrong and it seemed unfair that she was being put through so much. “You don’t believe me, do you?” Cindy said softly.
“I don’t know what to think any more,” Susan admitted with a sigh.
Cindy hesitated and then said quietly. “It was hard for me to do this, Mum. I’d pushed it away, but it wouldn’t go for long.” She tapped her forehead. “It comes and it goes, the memory of it. Sometimes it hurts. I wouldn’t have mentioned it but the article made me want to be clean again. It’s so hard to put into words, Mum. But I’ve something here. I need to show you.” She looked embarrassed as she handed Susan the package. “Open it!”
I can still see the repugnance on my mother’s face. How must I have looked in showing it? Or how must I have looked by keeping it?
How could the evidence be lies? Nobody every answered my question – why would I lie? Funny that! Going to stop now before I get too angry.
Next time I talk about my unlikely saviour.
S.
A Friend in Deed
Posted September 30th, 2013
I first saw Fiona in the waiting room when she came out of her office and straight into our lives. Or should I say my life.
Yes, there was animosity at first, especially on my part. Why did I feel that? Well, looking back on it, I guess it was due to Fiona being utterly unfair and extremely biased and even today, I will not alter my opinion on her regarding that – no matter how difficult it is for Fiona to accept.
But Fiona, in her own special way, helped all of us. I very much appreciate how she guided me with a patience and understanding of a true friend – even on those days when I shouted at her!
I know there are many unanswered questions, like when I felt the ground slipping from underneath me, why did I still hold back? And those unanswered questions are even harder to answer all these years later.
S.W.
Touché Fiona!
Posted November 30th, 2013
What a lovely word ‘plotting’ is. It has so many connotations.
From my first meeting I realised Fiona was very accomplished at her work. That made me more cautious every time we met. I also knew of the goings-on that were happening behind my back.
Secret meetings, telephone calls, innuendoes and comments. And always watchful eyes. Did they really think I didn’t know what they thought?
They all wanted to crucify me, sadly they never wanted to listen. Like the book says, if we had talked, we could have got through it. But we didn’t and my later comparison of Fiona to Agatha Christie’s ‘Miss Marple’ was so accurate. I know that observation irritates Fiona even to this day.
But I had the belief that right was always on my side, and I had to keep telling myself this even when it all became unbearable and it frequently did. My meetings with Fiona were always interesting and at times stimulating; she was a skilled questioner. I gave her a drawing, which I know she had framed and put on the wall of her home office. Her reaction to this gift took me by surprise for she cleverly described it far better than I did at the time.
So I say, touché, to my friend Fiona.
S.
Almost Caught!
Posted January 27th, 2014
The problem with outsiders entering your life is that, more often than not, they see something – and immediately jump to the wrong assumptions. Fiona continued to feel confident that she knew all the answers – but the answer she did not have was how this would all end. Well, even I never imagined how it would all turn out.
And then there was my other grandma. Suddenly a mysterious dimension in this dreadfully warped story comes to life. A sad, bitter, confused (and I have to say neglected woman) who I later discovered held the key to this whole affair. But more of that later. She could neither speak nor write, so what went on behind those dull windows of her eyes? What had happened in the past? Would there be a reasonable explanation for it all – something for me to hang onto during the frequent moments of doubt?
The problem with having a past is it can always be dredged up at the most inappropriate times. This aspect took me unawares and I was ill-prepared for what followed. I never dreamt thi
s would happen. But all credit to Fiona. She tried so hard to get to the truth but, well, what can I say – I think you’ll just have to read that bit for yourselves and draw your own conclusions.
S. W.
Murder She Wrote
Posted February 5th, 2014
Death comes, sometimes, as an unwelcome stranger. Why are we still surprised and shocked when someone we know dies? It is as if it should not happen. There seems to be very few ‘good deaths’ and by that I mean departing this life in peaceful acceptance. Today, death seems more violent and more disturbing, a bit like life itself.
So death is not a word people like.
But Murder is even worse.
At certain times you find that a particular word brings fear, but more often than not it can bring memories, either unpleasant or happy. I use to think of death (or dying) as being for the old. But then it all changed, and it changed me forever as I came face to face with murder.
But what about someone who had never lived? A soul returned to heaven to live again somewhere else. I wish I could think of it like that, but I can’t. I can only think of loss, hatred, misery and recompense. Yes, I knew all the compelling reasons why but it’s still … well I close my eyes and tend not to think of it. But as these years tick by, it gets so much harder.
We are taught so much about life and how to cope with the stress and strain of daily living. We view life as permanent and that makes us careless custodians of the time. We learn little of the important aspect of living and pay no need to our eventual immortality. It’s a throw away society – or