Writing done in Pollensa, Mallorca 21-28 April, 2007

Ten writers, plus Chris and her husband John, stayed in two villas in countryside between Pollensa and Puerto Pollensa, N Mallorca. Here is our first writing session in Can Gorgs

Our themes were ‘Ways, Means and Levels’.

Here are Marjorie Hudson’s Reflections by the poolside…   NB all writing is copyright to the author

 What will I take home?  This moment , for one: the warm breeze ripples the pool as I lounge lazily beside.  Gentle clouds guard the hazy hills. The leaves of the tree give dappled shade, as the nostalgic songs play indoors.

How to leave this idyll and return to the levels?  The every-dayness of life.  I must take it all with me and carry it around like a book to be opened and savoured.

Then there was the terrace overlooking the rooftops of Deia: Graves’s place.

First a delicious lunch washed down with Pimms, then along the newly-built wooden walkway overlooking first the mountains then, as we round the bend, the bay with its gentle trees and azure sea, reminiscent of Capri.

To Graves’s home.  What will I take from there?  The thought of the fifties-style kitchen, with its range, its bottled fruit caught in a moment in time.  And the patty tins, mirror-images of mine.

The pages of writing: crossed-out patches, ready to be re-typed maybe for the tenth time.  And the bicycle on the wall the male version of mine, bought with my first pay packet.

His story, told in pictures by his son, is our first port of call. I will take his voice away with me back to England, and find him again in I Claudius and Goodbye to All That.

As Englishman in Deia. Are other of his countrymen expected at his home?  Their language is not welcome amongst all his exhibits.  Hey-ho!

I can’t take back all I haven’t seen.
Is that a monastery on the hill-top?
Who are the monks?
How do they live?
Do they write? Make wine?
And what of the rest of the island?

What of my inner world? 
More to be explored everywhere.
I will be back.

     ************************

What is abroad?
Is it the part of our selves
We are seeking and
Have not yet found?

Do we have to travel
To find abroad
Or is it with us
Wherever we go?

And what happens
When we come home?
Is that death?
Or is it a kind of rebirth?

What if we feel we never come home?
What if we have to
Spend our lives forever searching?

Yet we must always
Keep space
To stand and stare.

To make room for
The Courage to Be.
Right here.

We ate well, both in-house - Angela and Lorraine bearing one of two enormous paellas they had prepared earlier...  and out...L to R Marjorie, Ann, Lindsay, Janet, Lorraine, Delphine, Angela, Sheila, Alison, John, Judy     Here is Sheila Francis’ contribution on ‘Levels’ The road twisted up from the plain. Below were flat fields, staple cereal crops, alluvial soil worked by machines. Here there were groves and orchards, trees with roots wriggled deep into the earth, drawing sustenance from unseen depths; stone walls marking age-old boundaries. As the track continued to climb the way got steeper, and there was no space now for fields. The stone walls supported terraces where vegetables grew in short rows. A fig tree, roots constricted by the shallow depth of soil, spread its canopy of shade over the walls of a house. Here were old olive trees, hand-harvested. And still the path climbs higher - weather-worn rock and aromatic bushes, the only buildings are huts for shepherds. Once there were trees, bent pines felled to fuel the fires for warmth on the valleys. Now there is dry maquis, the terrain rough and abandoned, with patches of broom, bright as Spanish gold between the rocks. Sheep tracks pick their way around the boulders and all turns silver - holm oak, asphodel and grey rock, up to the untamed peaks. This is the domain of the mountain goats, their feet unfaltering beside precipitous drops, grazing on none but the toughest dwarf herbs. At last the summit. The way has not become easier, but harder, the terrain rougher, the shelter less, and few venture this high among the clouds. But from here the whole of life is laid out, map-clear, far below. Beyond is the way of the eagle.   (Sheila was certainly laid back - here she is writing!)   Delphine Roche Gordon’s THE DOLPHIN Father Thames stretched dark and wide before me, and I felt  apprehension at leaving the safe calm of the Grand Union canal. Our widebeam narrow boat, "The Dolphin", sat heavily on the water and  behaved impeccably, so I began to relax at the tiller. At seventy-two  feet long, she held her own well and I waved merrily at passing  washing-up bowls' - our term for fibreglass motorboats. David and I had planned this trip carefully, as we were treating his  brother and family to a long weekend on the Thames. I checked my map.  Another mile or so to go, before I could moor up. We had to find the  perfect place before nightfall and we'd decided to tie up for the  night close to Putney bridge. I'd stocked up with plenty of food,  games and white wine and I couldn't wait to sit on our tiny deck and  toast to our trip. "There's a good spot ahead," David called from the bow and I put the  engine in reverse. I was good at this and The Dolphin slid gently  into place, without me touching the bank once! I watched as David looped the rope around a pole and then he called  out, 'Are you okay up there? I'll go and make dinner,' and with that,  he clattered down the metal stairs to his family. It was my job to remove the brass tiller and stow it carefully,  along with the brass dolphin pin, in the engine room. By the time I'd  tied off, shut the engine room doors and cleaned the deck of weed and  footprints, I could hear laughter and the sound of chinking glasses  through the open window. I stopped and sniffed the Thames air and looked up at the sodium  suffused sky. It didn't feel like London at all. I watched the  headlights crossing Putney bridge and felt a moment's compassion for the commuters high up on the busy road. This is the life, I thought  and pictured everyone downstairs settling down to a game of Scrabble.  I straightened up the jauntily painted flower pots and decided I'd  water them later. A strange glupping noise reached my ears, faint above the sounds of  the quietening town.  Then I heard Ant call out, 'Shall I run a bath  for the kids?'Ah, perhaps it was the bath water. Perhaps Di was cleaning out the  bath?But there it was again...a sound like thick bubbles escaping from a  hole. I leaned over the railing, then heard the twang of a damp rope.  I looked up. My loosely tied mooring line had become taught and  trembled with strain. 'DAVID!' I screamed into the night, 'DAVID...! Please, oh please,  come quickly...ANT...DI ...A-N-Y-B-O-D-Y! Please, please... the tide  is going out!' My fingers felt thick and unwieldy, as I tried  unfastening the wet rope. Oh why weren't they answering? Sounds of  happiness drifted out of the doors - they were laughing too much to  hear me. I grabbed the tiller off its' clips and banged down on the  deck as hard as I could. 'D-A-V-I-D!' I looked over the gunwhale and saw, to my mounting  horror, the Thames retreating beneath us. The blupping got louder.  The tide was going out fast! At that moment, David shouted across the layer of cotton mist.'Undo your line , quickly,' What did he think I was trying to do! 'I-I can't, it's too taut,'  I called, a sob catching at my words. Now the sound of chinking glass became breaking glass, as the boat  started to tilt. 'Ant! Forget the bath! We need help,' David called, but Ant was already clambouring out onto the bank. He ran towards me. I had a  brainwave and grabbed the dolphin pin, and using it as a prong,  levered it into the straining rope. With a thunk, the rope loosened - just in time for the boat to sink majestically onto the mud. The  water level had dropped at least fifteen feet! Boat people are wonderful and within minutes a man's voice drifted  across the silvery water and black mud. 'Are...you...alright? Do...you...need...help?' I cupped my hands and called back, 'Thanks... we're...fine...Just!' The crazy tilt of the boat had caused all the crockery to slide off  the shelves and the television to sit drunkenly at the end of its  flex. After a hurried supper and a cursory tidy up, we spent the night rolling out of our bunks or clutching at the mattress' edge.The children thought it was brilliant fun and were very disappointed  when the tide finally lifted us up to being horizontal once more!

Some of us swam in the sea, including Delphine of the pink hair, at least we think she swam.

Some of us went exploring. Some of us were interested in flowers and birds. Possibly.

Left to right Angela, John, Sheila, Janet and Alison.

Later some, including Janet, walked up the Boquer valley which is renowned for birdwatching ‘twitchers’ as well as its spectacular natural beauty.

The Irreverent Twitcher: Boquer Valley, by Janet Catsaras

PLEASE don't tell the others but today I saw:
The haw-finched crossbill and cormorants galore.
But don't tell the others, cos THEY might be jealous.
And don't tell them either, at the gate by the Can
Was a Radde's accentor equal to none.
And THEY didn't see it (though they SAID they had!)
The Fuertaventura minor stonechat.
And then a whole host of pendulum saver tit..
I saw it, I swear, but THEY didn't see it.
The Cretzschmar's bunting from last winter flew by
I saw it and let out a very deep sigh.
They PRETENDED they'd seen it but they hadn't really.
Oh how they would have loved to see it, dearly.
The red-footed falcon, on wing at full-stretch-
Don't tell them I saw it (they might start to retch.)
And Montagu's harrier - how impressive HE was..
The red-breasted flycatcher - we all got THAT buzz.
The olive-backed pipit blends with the tree.
In the valley I found it- but it didn't find me!
And then we dropped down, down by the sea
And you know what I saw?
An English farm duck with ducklings galore
(I thought about supper and wished there were four!)
And I said to myself: you ARE  hallucinating,
They'll NEVER forgive all this taunting and baiting.

All of us had our photos taken - left to right Sheila, Marjorie, Alison, Angela, Chris, Judy, Janet, Ann, Lorraine, Lindsay and Delphine. See if you can guess who is who below!

We all visited Pollensa market on our first morning and did an ‘observation exercise.

Pollensa Market on a Sunday Morning by Ann Stringer

We sit sipping our cappuccinos aware of a soft carpet of sound.  The sun filters through the narrow alleyways. It is warm and comfortable. The blur of sound becomes more defined.  Conversations come through.

A nasal northern voice giving boring unnecessary details to a bored companion on the ways and means of tuning into stations on Sky comes through the blur of sound.

An upper class voice, strident and compelling. A free Spanish paper is being waved in the air –‘so interesting darling – the local news.  People do miss so much when they can’t speak the language.’ I sink down into my seat trying to think how to say to the waitress ‘ another coffee please’

Then a gritty, smoky voice filters through.  Crackly laughter from a middle aged woman through her cigarette smoke, directed at a younger man.  Her red nails are flashing and her hair is flicking.

The colours and textures of passing people come into focus.  Some are dawdling, looking at the stalls intently as they pass. The local people are rushing through, shouting at their friends, impatient of the dawdling tourists. The bright holiday clothes are luminous in the bright sun. These are clothes they would never wear at home. I ask myself – will I be wearing my wig next Tuesday to Tescos, trying to blend in or will I be brave enough to wear this Panama ha, so beautifully decorated with the silk scarf by Delphine?

A young couple, pushing a very lively toddler pass by. They are oblivious to the colour and sounds around them. Their eyes are fixed into the middle distance, glazed by the lack of sleep.

 An older man strides by.  He has shoulder length blond hair and long grimy guitar picking fingernails, which he passes across his head with suppressed boredom. He hates this world but needs to be here to make money.

I see the back of a woman. She has long, rusty dyed hair. Her thin legs, on impossible heels are barely hidden under a miniscule skirt.  She turns her head and I see with astonishment a lined and cavernous old face staring at me as if out of a Hitchcock movie.

 Two teenage girls giggle self-consciously as they pass my table.  They are not talking to each other but are constantly looking around for possibilities.

The noisy, lively market is vibrant with talking and laughter. The oranges, reds and yellows of the fruit and vegetables are luminous in the sun.  The smells of warm fruit, pungent herbs and earthy vegetables drift past our noses.  The market is a tumble of delightful sounds, sights and smells.

We sit and eat our lunch.  The market is being slowly dismantled.  The metal stalls clank, the traders shout and boxes of unsold fruit and vegetables crash as they are thrown into the back of lorries.

Empty boxes, carrier bags, and onionskins blow around in the dusty heat. Exhausted traders trail away with their small baskets of black bananas and old garlic for their families, clutched in their arms.

The dust carts line up like army tanks ready to do battle with the dirt and debris left behind,

The colourful and warm carpet has disappeared in a few hours. The people that make up the fibres of the carpet drift off home, each with their own needs.  Their need of attention, of rest, of money of regaining lost youth still there.

The carpet really has so much wear and tear. There is so much hidden grime when it is examined. The dustcarts make normality return and all the dust and rubbish is swept away until next Sunday.  Then the warm soft carpet will return – but what lies hidden in the fibres?

Alison Walton had another ‘take’ on the market observation and begun an intriguing story:

Mystery in Mallorca

He had told her to go to La Font des gall, a restaurant on Carrer de Monti-Sion in Pollensa, one of the labyrinth of narrow streets spiking out from the wide market square. Lisa threaded her way through the throngs as they shifted slowly from stall to stall. Despite her haste, she paused to take in the mounds of colourful wares on display: huge red peppers, oranges with the green leaves of the trees still attached, baby pineapples, swathes of lilies, tubs of olives glistening in oil.

Nobody else was in a hurry and, leaving the square, she had to scrape along the rough sides of the buildings to get past the tourists as they jostled to view the boards of jewellery, feel the smooth olive wood bowls and finger the summary garments hanging on display.

She’d memorised the route on her tourist’s street map and found Carrer de Monti-Sion quite easily. She paused at the entrance to catch her breath. Like the other streets, it was hemmed in on either side by towering buildings, painted in a palette of rustic colours: ochre, burnt sienna, terracotta. They had a scruffy charm, the paint rubbed away to reveal patches of grey concrete, small plants flowering in tiny nooks. On one side of the street, bottle green shutters were closed tight, the paint blistered from days in the hot Mallorcan sun. On the other side, a couple of restaurants had their awnings out to provide some respite from the heat.

One was La Font des gall and she took a seat at a marble-effect Formica table. A twisted plait of cables emerged from halfway up the building opposite and crossed the street high above. Metal troughs of spiky plants made splashes of green at intervals down the street. The waiter, a young Frenchman whose stubble mirrored his close-shaven hair, took her order for a cup of coffee.

She glanced at her watch: midday and no sign of Matt. Despite the bright sunshine, cheerful babble of noise and the ordinariness of a Sunday morning in a busy Mallorcan town, she felt a tremor of unease mix with the trickle of sweat down her back. It was hard to believe that it was only 48 hours since she’d received the email from Matt requesting – demanding – that she meet him in Mallorca. The note was terse with a final instruction not to ring his mobile but to wait for him to contact her.

She’d dismissed it as a ridiculous prank – her brother was always gadding off somewhere and often suggested she join him. But then he’d phoned her in the middle of the night, sounding almost frightened. He said he couldn’t explain until he saw her in person. So in the end she’d agreed to go, resigning herself to some difficult explanations at work on her return.

‘This had better not be a joke,’ she’d finished sternly. ‘Or you’ll be dead.’

‘Trust me,’ he’d replied without laughing, and the line went dead.

There was a steady trickle of people along the street: macho young men in ripped jeans, fashion-conscious women in knee-high boots despite the heat, tourists of all nationalities, clad in sunhats and shorts. A Spanish lady, a pink flower in her hair, a long-fringed black shawl embroidered with brightly coloured flowers around her shoulders, flounced down the street in a long black dress. Lisa stared at their faces looking for a sign but no one gave her a second glance.

At the far end of the street, the buildings framed a narrow rectangle of the massive church, its small stone cross silhouetted against the blue sky. Suddenly her mobile phone vibrated, clattering against her coffee cup.

‘No. 3 opposite – you’ll get a sign.’ It was Matt’s voice, hushed, hurried.

She looked across the street. There was a white square with a faded blue ‘3’ painted on it. A narrow balcony with wrought iron railings overhung the wooden front door. A small oval cut into the top frame of the door and the base of the balcony housed a ceramic plate showing Jesus with his hand raised in blessing above the word ‘Bendicare’. As she watched, a shutter on the first floor opened and a woman’s face shrouded in a lace mantilla appeared at the window, scanning the street below. Catching sight of Lisa, she beckoned once and then the shutter closed.

Lindsay Duncombe wrote two stories, one funny and for children, about a very small moose, and one more serious:

Touch Not The Cat by Lindsay Duncombe

You said it would be OK if I let him out. I was petrified, but no, you said the tiger had to come out of his cage.  He prowled up and down watching me through the bars, his amber eyes glinting in the sun.

‘Go on,’ you said, and gave me a nudge. ‘You’ve got to set him free.’

I reached out gingerly for the cage door, then withdrew my hand quickly. ‘But his teeth, they’re massive. And sharp.’ I shot you a worried glance. ‘He’ll hurt me.’

‘He’ll hurt you more if you leave him in there.’

I wasn’t convinced. We sat outside the bars, side by side, our backs to the world, and studied him. He watched us back, tail swishing angrily.

‘Come on, I’ll hold your hand while you do it,’ you said.

Sirens of panic flashed screaming in my head, heart hammering, lungs constricted with iron bands like tiger stripes. Grasping your hand so tightly, I crept up and slid back the bolt.

‘Swing the door open,’ you whispered. It took all my courage, every ounce. I knew I had to set him free.

There, cage door open.

I’d expected an explosion, a frenzied mass of black and gold and claw and tooth, and somewhere in the middle would be me. He yawned and stretched, then stealthily he placed one paw in front of the other, lowered his head, and fixed me with his stare. He came so close, so close I could feel his hot moist breath on my face.

‘Go away. GO AWAY. Go-on, GO,’ I yelled, and I crouched down low in the dust, naked and small.

He circled me, unsure of what to do now I was easy prey. He had been in that cage for so long, he was flexing muscles he hadn’t tried before. Sweat ran in trickles down my back. I so wanted to run, but fear kept me rooted to the spot.

You whispered in my ear again. ‘Touch him. Reach out and feel him.’

‘I don’t want to feel him. I never want to feel him. Just make him go away.’

‘Only you can tame him,’ you said, sitting there so calm and smug.

He circled closer, his white teeth flashing as he licked his bloodied lips. ‘Just feel him.’

Your serenity calmed me and I unfurled, stretched out my hand and with trembling fingers touched his stripy fur.

‘Now, let him walk beside you. Let him be your guide.’

So now we walk through life together, the tiger and I in an uneasy truce. He is mighty and I still quake with fear of what he might do to me.

His name is feelings.

Sausage Makes a Cake by Lindsay Duncombe

Sausage opened one beady little black eye and peered out over the duvet. The coast was clear – Mum had left for work and the dog, after a stretch and yawn, had curled up on a sunny chair in the lounge.

He wriggled out of bed and scampered through to the kitchen for breakfast. Now, you might think that moose would like twigs or grass to eat, but Sausage wasn’t your average moose. What he liked best in the world was porridge and he ate it from a tiny egg cup with “Brighton” written on the side.

He looked across to the calendar and saw, written in red ink and big letters “Special Person to Tea”. People didn’t come to tea very often, and you really should have something special for them to eat, so Sausage decided to make a cake.

The butter was still on the table from breakfast time and he found that if he balanced a knife on top, then pounced on it quickly, it cut quite well. He plopped the pieces into a bowl and turned on the mixer. It made him very dizzy, watching the bowl go round and round, and he began to wish he hadn’t eaten quite so much porridge for breakfast, but it soon turned into a creamy mush so he thought it must be ready.

Now, Sausage knew he needed sugar, but he couldn’t remember what kind, and it was no good asking the dog because she was still asleep. He jumped down into the cupboard and had a look. Brown sugar, cubed sugar, a packet of sugar – that would do nicely, and he grasped it with his paws and pushed it out of the cupboard.

Unfortunately, the packet had already been opened and rather a lot of sugar fell on the floor. It was gritty under his paws and it looked a bit dirty now, so he gave a little sigh and went back to the cupboard to see what he could find. There was a whole box of icing sugar, but he tipped it rather too quickly into the bowl and a cloud of sticky white sugar dust puffed up into the air and settled like snow on the worktops and the floor. Lots more sugar dust flew around the kitchen when he turned the mixer on, and wherever he walked he left little paw prints in the dust. By now, his brown fur was really quite sticky.

It’s not easy to crack eggs when you’ve got paws instead of thumbs, and quite a few ended up on the floor before he managed to get some in the bowl. He wasn’t sure how many Mummy used, so he guessed, then beat them wildly with a fork before slurping them into the bowl. It didn’t look quite right, but he really wanted to help Mummy and make a special cake for her visitor.

There is really no way a tiny little moose can lift a bag of flour all by himself, so Sausage knew that now he needed to wake up the dog. He bounced through the hatch, into the lounge and up onto the dog’s chair. Harley was fast asleep, her head tucked under her paw. She was very deaf, and Sausage knew he would have to shout to wake her up. He lifted her flappy ear with his horns, took a deep breath and cupped his paws to his mouth.

‘HARLEY, WAKE UP!’ She shook her head and sent him flying off the chair, so he tried again.

‘For Heaven’s sake Sausage, what is it now?’ she said, giving a huge sigh, then uncurled herself and followed him into the kitchen.

Now, Harley had lived a very long time, but she had never seen the place in such a state. She stuck her head into the cupboard and pulled out the flour, but her teeth were very sharp and as she swung the bag up onto the worktop, flour flew out of the tooth holes. The kitchen was really not looking good.

Sausage wiped a sticky paw across his brow. He was so hot his horns had gone all floppy and hung limply by his ears. A big tear welled up and trickled down his nose and onto his tummy, leaving a little trail in the sugar dust on his fur. Perhaps making a cake wasn’t such a good idea.

The doorbell rang and he tiptoed across the carpet and opened the door a tiny crack. A smartly dressed man stood outside looking at his watch, and he seemed rather surprised to see a tiny moose, covered in sugar dust and sniffing back the tears.

‘Hello little chap,’ he said, crouching down and he held out a hand to shake Sausage’s paw. ‘Is your mummy at home?’

‘No,’ sniffed Sausage, ‘and it’s just as well.’

The tall stranger stood up and looked past Sausage into the kitchen. He raised his eyebrows at the mess, but was far too polite to comment.

‘You look like you could use some help,’ he said.

Sausage gulped and nodded, and even though he knew you should never let a stranger into your house, this man was very kind and in no time at all they had cleaned up the mess and were sitting down eating jam sandwiches and drinking tea.

‘I was supposed to be meeting your mummy,’ said the man, ‘But I really have to go now.’

Sausage was sad. He’d had a lovely time, but he took a card from the man and left it propped up against the jam pot.

‘Sorry to have missed you – perhaps another time, Nigel.’

 Letter from Majorca (not in the style of Robert Graves) by Ann Stringer

Dear Frances,

Thank you for your letter and the useful travel catalogue. I suppose we could squeeze in the portable shelter and storm kettle if you think we will really need it for our coach trip around New Zealand!

Last week’s appointment was fine, if a little reflective.  Thank you for your encouraging letter and your concern. I sat waiting in Outpatients. Before my diagnosis I had never sat there. I had only ever dashed through on my way to the League of Friends coffee bar to buy my lunch. This time as I was waiting for my ‘ all clear’ after the final chemotherapy, I sat there thinking over the last six months and came to the conclusion that chemotherapy is indeed a great leveller.

You know I am not vain. You have known that since we were five when we jumped about in the same ballet class in the Co-operative Hall in Bookham, vainly trying to perfect our pas de deux on the bumpy floor. Although we had different gifts – your reports always said that you were  ‘gifted in games and dancing’ whereas mine said that I ‘showed some promise in science’.  You would be flying over the tennis court like Prometheus with your flaming red hair and flashing feet and I would be taking up most of the goal as goalie for hockey – good old Hippo!! Although we were so different we always had the same sense of humour – always the same silly thing that continues to make us laugh. I have never been vain but I must admit to quite liking my hair.  When Steve Johnson, my Consultant talked to me about my hair falling out five weeks after the first chemo I didn’t take too much notice.  I had entered on my forms so many times grade 4 alopecia. I mistakenly thought I knew what it meant.

However, last year when at three weeks not five, my hair started to fall out in shed loads on that writing holiday on Jersey I went into shock. I had no wig, no scarves or hats.  My hair was cascading onto the Hotel carpets and clogging up the shower tray like washed mustard and cress. The wind ‘blew mightily’ along that cliff top where we stayed and hair that hadn’t sprayed out onto carpets and showers, blew away in the wind!

It was the right time and the right place as it happened.  The support and love that I received from that writing group, most of whom I had never met before, was exactly what I needed.

Soon I stopped worrying about my hair, my fleshy eyes, my crumbling nails and all the outward signs of poisoning. After the 2^nd course of chemo I felt so sick and ill nothing else mattered. I was shouting at God for what he was doing to me or lying in a crumpled weeping heap in my bedroom wondering if there was anybody out there who knew how I was feeling.

Last week I sat in the breast clinic outpatients (called the Joint Breast Clinic – wondering vaguely what a joint breast looked like!) and looked at women coming in after surgery for their first appointment to hear about the chemotherapy.  They had made an effort, hair bouncy and freshly washed, nails painted coral blush, drinking tea or coffee and eating thick tuna sandwiches, reading fashion magazines, chatting to supportive friend. I knew what they were thinking – I had been there. They were wondering about the chemotherapy that they would need to have. They were thinking it could never be as bad as the surgery that they had just undergone. What a horrible shock it was going to be for them but nobody could tell them – they wouldn’t have believed it.

.Then I looked at the other women, those coming in after their 4^th or 5^th bout of chemo, wearing scarves or acrylic wigs, which were giving them unrelenting headaches, as they attempted to hide their poor bald shaven heads.  They sat as far away from the coffee bar as possible with its smells of warming sausage rolls, tea and fruit buns. They looked grey, nauseated and sickly as they sipped water trying to rid their sore mouths of the ‘photographic developer’ taste. They did not talk to the supportive friend who looked concerned but bored. They sat gazing into a black hole of yet more chemo wondering if the next time they would escape the deadly infections that would land them in hospital again. Days lying on a hot sweaty plastic sheet feeling so ill they wanted to die. I can remember sitting in the shared loo on the ward, holding onto the taps for support hoping that nobody needed to come in, praying that the gut infection would at least enable me to have a room on my own with some peace and quiet away from the relentless chatter that was going on around the next bed. I was praying that I would be out of hospital in time to go to Joe and Bethan’s wedding in Scotland in two days time. Please God make me better (and He did!)

Yes, it is a great leveller, chemotherapy. You stop caring about falling hair, rotting nails, mutilated body – all you want is for that ghastly nausea and body poisoning to pass.

Then like the sun drifting into the dawn of a new day, it stopped. I do feel ill sometimes, but not that intense ill of acute poisoning.  My mouth still tastes of developer and I do have to remember not to bend over the hot oven in my synthetic wig so it melts and ends up looking like something at the start of Star Wars. The horror is over at last – and never again will I enter grade 4 toxicity on a form with gay abandon. I will know what grade 4 toxicity feels like.

This last week I have been away with Chris again on the next writing holiday.  We have had an amazing time listening to good writing, inspiring words and U2 music, (U2 is Chris’ own mid-life eccentricity like supporting Chelsea Football Club is mine!).  We have been having funny and sad conversations sitting around meal tables in the sun and by candlelight. The twelve of us have been in hysterics and have been moved, laughed and cried – writing and telling our stories.

We have been staying in Pollensa in the north of the island with spectacular scenery, grey green cliffs falling into clear, blue sea.  We visited Robert Graves house in Deia on the other side of the island one day. Lorraine drove us there, being the trouper she is, snaking around hairy hair pin bends being sternly told to look at the road not at the wonderful scenery. Graves’ house felt as if it had absorbed writing talent by osmosis. It is like Chartwell. It had a feeling of greatness absorbed into the fabric of the house. We stayed there as long as possible to soak up the writing greatness – but as you see it didn’t work.

These lovely people here have persuaded me to stop wearing the hot, itchy wig. I have even stopped wearing the Panama hat so artistically decorated by Delphine – our costume designer who has delighted us with stories of the actors she has met in a professional capacity. You wouldn’t believe some of the anecdotes but I have promised not to tell!

There has been a full circle between the two writing holidays. I experienced the trauma of loss at so many levels and being comforted on one holiday and the hope of renewal at so many levels and being encouraged on the next holiday. It has been just what I needed at the right time.  God is good. At the right time he has given me the support of loving friends to get me through.

Talking of loving friends, I want to thank you so much Frances for your beautiful and funny letters. Arriving as they do first thing in the morning, they are an unbelievable lift. Amy loved the account of the metal bits in your Katisha wig getting caught up in the beaded curtain and you taking most of the scenery with you as you majestically strode across the stage in the Mikado in full voice!

 Your admonishments to think of myself for a change and not to be a child of the 40’s show just how alike we are. Your amazing tales of people you have known or have read about - how wonderful it was to have the physio massage your poor painful knees (too much tennis!) - the first person that really loved your knees! Predictably the person who comes off worst in your wonderful stories is always you.  You have such an endearing talent for combining humour (usually against yourself) with emotion and you have helped me enormously over these last horrible months. Thank you for being you.

Although I have had a horrible time during treatment I have been fortunate to have the love and encouragement from good friends – good friends who make me laugh.

By the way the latest Mark quote came when I asked him where he was going with Mummy and he replied after some thought that he was having his eyes tested at the ‘Magicians’.

Give my love to Bill and thank him for sparing you for our Antipodean adventure. I am so pleased you enjoyed your latest trip to Mull – how is the Gallic coming along?

Love to all the family ‘and take care you’ as my sister Jane says,

 God Bless

Ann

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