Today’s story asks the fundamental question “What makes us human?” If you had to decide whether or not someone was a robot or a human, and you could ask only one question to help you decide, what would it be?

I’ve taken my inspiration from modern day game shows/reality TV – and the answer to the above question may surprise you.

What Makes Us Human

“So, Laura – are you going to be able to tell whether you’re dating a human or an android?”

The TV presenter’s teeth are unnaturally perfect as he smilingly asks the question. He sits opposite Laura, the backdrop behind them both proclaiming ‘The Perfect Partner?’ in massive letters. A banner travels across the screen: ‘Sponsored by AI Unlimited.’ The audience waits expectantly.

Laura twiddles a brunette ringlet in her fingers, obviously trying to give the impression of thinking hard – although the whole audience knows this ‘reality show’ is scripted. “I guess so,” she says at last. Turning to face the camera, she laughs. “I mean, how hard can it be, right?”

Larry Loveheart – it’s his real name; he changed it by deed poll – winks at the audience. “Well, if AI Unlimited have done their job properly, then you should have your work cut out deciding which of the guys you’re going to meet in a few minutes is actually real!” The crowd applauds. “But first, let’s remind our audience what you’re looking for in the perfect boyfriend…”

He takes a sip of the clear liquid in the glass in front of him as the camera cuts to a pre-recorded segment: Laura is in her bedroom, opening her heart to the millions of viewers she hopes are watching her.

“I want a man who’s good-looking, and tall –”

“How tall are you?” a voice interrupts.

“Uh, five eight, I think. And he should be intelligent – you know, with a college degree – and be kind to animals and be respectful.”

“What do you mean by ‘respectful’?”

Laura appears to be thinking. “He should be honest,” she declares at last. “I don’t want a cheater. And he should treat me like a lady. I’m all for feminism, you know, but I still like it when a man buys me flowers or opens a door for me.”

There is some jeering from the audience at this last sentence. Larry Loveheart ignores it, turning to face the camera once more.

“Well, let’s see if either of the guys we’ve brought here tonight is going to live up to your expectations. Let’s meet Date Number 1!”

There is more applause as the back-screen splits in half to reveal an aesthetically perfect young man in his twenties. Classically handsome in a blond, Scandinavian type of way, he has several members of the audience literally on the edge of their seats with excitement. As the crowd cheers, he makes his way down the steps towards Laura and then kisses her on the cheek.

“Laura,” Larry Loveheart can tell that she likes this one, “Sven is twenty-six, he’s a marine biologist and you’ll be happy to know he’s six feet tall!”

“Can’t I just make my choice now?” Laura asks impishly, reading off the autocue.

The audience laughs, but Larry shakes his head.

“No, we’re going to let you meet Date Number 2, and that’s Marco from Italy!”

Once more, the back-screen splits open and the audience erupts again as a second man descends in Laura’s direction. Marco is equally tall and handsome, although this time in an olive-skinned, dark-haired-with-come-to-bed-eyes kind of way.

“Marco is twenty-seven,” proclaims Larry. “He’s also a male model –” (cue wolf whistles) “with a degree in literature and he owns an Irish wolfhound named Mitzi!”

Laura looks from one man to the other, obviously confused.

“So,” Larry remarks chattily, “any ideas at the moment which one of these guys is the real deal, Laura?” Without waiting for a response, he appeals to the audience. “What about all of you? Which one would you choose?”

He holds the pause just a fraction longer until the fade to commercial.

*

Audience figures for the pilot episode are phenomenal. Social media is flooded that week with people speculating about which of Laura’s dates is really human and which the AI imposter. There’s also a lot of interest in just how realistic the android might be. ‘Do you think,’ tweets one curious fan, ‘that their date’s over at the end of the evening – or does it go further than that?’ The press is equally prurient, hanging outside Laura’s flat to see if she’s on her own when she leaves for work the following morning and printing obviously posed photos of the nights out. She is snapped with Sven at the cinema and with Marco at a nightclub, and there are pictures of her with both men (although not at the same time, obviously) in some of the most exclusive restaurants, causing bookings to skyrocket.

Laura, meanwhile, feels increasingly more confused. When she is with Sven, she loves the way he listens intently to everything she says, leaning in close, fixing her with those hypnotic blue eyes. His lips when he kisses her are so soft and real that she thinks he must be human; but Marco’s lips are just as seductive and his attention equally flattering. One of them has to be a robot – but what if the TV company’s just messing with her head and they’re both of them real men after all?

*

The second episode sees her back in the studio, flanked on either side by her two dates. She has six weeks to make up her mind, but how can she bear to part with either of them? The audience is also indecisive with half of them rooting for Marco and half for Sven; while the general public has been voting with its wallet, placing staggering bets on one or the other until the bookies stop taking any more wagers.

“So,” Larry asks Laura as the camera pans from her to Sven to Marco and then back to her again, “have you decided yet?”

The autocue flashes her prompt. “Do you mean have I decided which guy I want to keep on dating, or which guy’s the robot?” she asks playfully.

The audience applauds and there are yells of “Sven!” and “Marco!” in equal number.

Larry settles comfortably into his chair. “Well, let’s look at some of your highlights so far…”

A montage of dates flashes across the screen. Laura and Marco walk hand in hand through a park, stopping to gaze at squirrels and delighting over one who boldly approaches them, sniffing at Marco’s shoes. They feed ducks; they buy ice cream. The camera pauses as Marco notices a blob of ice cream on Laura’s nose and gently kisses it away. The audience sighs, high on romance.

We then see footage of Sven taking Laura to the aquarium, wearing his marine biologist hat as he explains the different species of fish. The audience fidgets slightly, wanting something a little more physical. They enter a room with an enclosure full of rays and Sven shows her how to stroke the delicate, pancake-like creatures. His arm steals round her waist as she does so and the audience sighs once more as he hugs her to him before leaning over and kissing her on the lips.

*

Episode Three offers more of the same. The audience is becoming ridiculously invested in these characters to the extent that every newspaper every day carries photos and articles about the nation’s three favourite people. Meanwhile, someone puts forward the theory that perhaps Laura is the android; and the rumour is fuelled even further when the television network declines to comment.

In all this, Laura finds herself fluctuating on a daily basis. When she is with Sven, she thinks he’s The One: the perfect boyfriend she’s always dreamed of; but the following day, when she sees Marco, she finds herself preferring him. Her emotions are a ping pong ball, ricocheting around in an endless volley for the audience’s amusement.

*

By Episode Seven – the final one in the series – she’s spent six weeks with Sven and Marco and pre-orders for AI Unlimited’s ‘Perfect Partner’ droid have gone through the roof. She’s still no closer to making a decision: she likes both of them, even – dare we use the word? – thinks she may be in love. But tonight, she will have to decide and tell the world not only which man she thinks is a robot but which one she wants to pursue a relationship with.

The opening credits roll across the screen as the camera pans across the studio audience, some waving banners with ‘Select Sven!’ and others proclaiming ‘Marry Marco!’ in large colourful lettering. When it finally rests on Larry Loveheart, everyone leans forward expectantly. The network’s promised a big surprise for tonight’s finale and they can’t wait to find out what it is.

Ever the consummate professional, Larry rattles through his greeting with ease before turning to Laura and giving her an encouraging smile. “So,” he says, “it’s been six weeks since your adventure started and tonight you’re going to tell us which one of these wonderful men is a robot – if you guess right, you win a substantial cash prize and, more importantly, the opportunity to keep the Perfect Partner droid.” The audience claps and whistles. “As we all know, the Perfect Partner is the latest in a series of ultra-realistic androids from AI Unlimited, our sponsors for this show. Let’s just listen to what their CEO, Martin Jackson, has to say about this product.”

In the segment that follows, Jackson explains the rationale behind his company’s decision to ‘construct bespoke significant others’. “It’s all very simple,” he says, making direct eye contact with the camera. “You choose your specification and we programme the droid to act in accordance with everything you’ve asked for. We can include an anti-nagging function, for example, or a romance chip…” (Cue studio laughter.) “…for all those women who’re fed up with never receiving cards or flowers on anniversaries or birthdays. Basically, we’re giving you all the best bits of someone’s personality with none of the flaws. And we’re just as careful with the outer packaging too: thanks to a recent technological breakthrough, every droid we make has synthetic skin and body parts that feel and function just like the real thing. In addition, the lithium battery has been adapted to last for seventy years which should be more time than most people need!”

The camera returns to Larry, flashing his impossibly white teeth in a smile that doesn’t quite manage sincerity. “So, there you go: the Perfect Partner is exactly what it promises: someone who lives up to all the expectations you’ve given the company. Laura, let’s just remind ourselves what you said you were looking for.”

We’re back in Laura’s bedroom, watching her once more as she specifies a man who’s good-looking, tall, intelligent and respectful. As she repeats the word ‘honest’, the video clip freezes and Larry turns to Laura, his expression now almost predatory.

“Honesty’s very important to you, isn’t it, Laura?”

“Well, yes, but…”

“So how would you feel,” Larry continues relentlessly, “if I said that one of your dates may – and I have to emphasise that word may – have cheated on you this week?”

The audience gasps. Laura’s face turns white.

“You said last week that you found it hard to decide, Laura. Well, you have the opportunity now to ask both your dates a question that might help you make that decision.”

Laura turns first to Sven. “Sven, have you cheated on me?” she asks.

Sven looks hurt by the suggestion. “Sweetheart, why would I do that? You know I love you!”

The audience sighs with relief.

She now addresses Marco. “Marco, I’m going to ask you the same question: have you cheated on me?”

Marco’s face crumples as he gives his reply. “I’m sorry, Laura. I love you, I really do; but earlier this week, a girl approached me in a bar – you were seeing Sven that night – and…” His voice breaks. “Well, one thing led to another,” he finishes awkwardly. “I’m so sorry, but I can’t lie and pretend it never happened.”

The hurt in Laura’s eyes in unbearable as she hears this confession. Meanwhile, the audience starts to boo Marco.

“So, does that make your decision any easier?” Larry asks. “After all, you did say you wanted a boyfriend who was honest – someone who’s ‘not a cheater’.”

“I…” Laura’s floundering, but it seems like the surprise isn’t over yet.

“We’ll be back after the break,” Larry announces jovially, “with yet another twist before Laura chooses her Perfect Partner. Stay tuned!”

As the cameras pull back, Laura tearfully faces Marco. “How could you do this to me? I just don’t understand.”

*

The audience is buzzing by the time the final segment starts. But then Larry drops his bombshell.

“Laura, you’re understandably upset with Marco, but how would you feel if we told you we made him cheat on you?”

“What?” Laura looks confused.

“In fact, we told both your dates to cheat on you this week – as this footage proves!”

In a daze, Laura watches the film that now plays. Marco is sitting in a bar. A pretty girl approaches him and starts making advances. At first, Marco tries to ignore her, but eventually he allows her to sit down next to him and the two share a bottle of wine as they indulge in conversation. She’s obviously doing her best to seduce him, but he remains resolute – until the end of the evening when she gets up to leave, then turns and plants a kiss on his lips. The camera zooms in to Marco’s surprised expression, then to their lips approaching again. The second kiss lasts much longer and the audience is obviously expecting him to follow her outside, but instead, he waves her goodbye and she leaves on her own.

“That’s how you cheated on me?” Laura sounds amazed. “You didn’t sleep with her: you just kissed her?”

Marco nods, looking ashamed. The audience buzzes.

It’s now Sven’s turn. He’s sitting in the same bar, at the same table, when the same girl approaches. The scene plays out like the one with Marco – except when the girl kisses him at the end, Sven looks around furtively before following the girl outside. Cameras pick out the two of them climbing into a taxi together and disappearing off into the night.

There is a shocked silence. The audience cannot believe what it’s just seen.

Laura looks at Sven. “You lied to me!” she accuses.

He looks embarrassed. “I didn’t know they were filming.”

“But you lied,” she repeats.

“Only because I didn’t want to hurt you, Babe.”

The audience mutters angrily.

“So, Laura…” Larry takes charge once more. “Which one of your dates is the android?”

“Marco,” Laura says without hesitation.

“And you’ve come to that conclusion because…?”

“He was honest with me,” Laura declares. Her eyes glisten with tears. “He didn’t try to save himself like Sven did – he told me he’d done something wrong, even though he knew it might stop me choosing him as my boyfriend.”

“Well, Laura, you’re – absolutely right!”

The crowd goes wild.

“So,” Larry continues as the noise dies down, “who are you going to choose as your boyfriend? Will it be perfect Partner Marco who’ll never lie to you; or love rat Sven who cares more about himself than you?”

The crowd’s keyed up for her to say Marco’s name, but when she utters “Sven” there is a chorus of disbelief. Even Larry looks surprised.

“Do you mind telling us why Sven and not Marco?” he asks politely.

Laura sighs. “I think, maybe, I didn’t know what I wanted. I thought total honesty was important, but when it comes down to it, I was happier not knowing I’d been cheated on. You see, Sven’s lies didn’t just protect him: they protected me as well.” The audience’s outrage rumbles. “AI Unlimited gave me what I thought I wanted,” she continues, “but they’ve given me something I know I can’t live up to myself. That’s why I’m picking Sven, with his human flaws – I guess I’m just not perfect enough for a Perfect Partner.”

Today’s piece is a little difference since I haven’t actually written any of it myself. Instead, I’ve experimented with a form of Dadaism called ‘cut up writing’ which seemed to lend itself quite well to writing from the perspective of a character whose mind is fragmented so that he is emotionally and mentally ‘in pieces’. I will leave you to decide for yourselves whether the object of his infatuation is real.

In Pieces

From the first day I saw her, I knew she was the one. She stared in my eyes and smiled. She was more beautiful than any woman I’d seen. Her lips were the colour of the roses that grew down the river, all bloody and wild.

How can I tell you that I love you but I can’t think of right words to say? When you are too in love to let it show. But if you never try, you’ll never know.

“Oh, my love, my darling! I’ve hungered, for your touch. My nights are oh so lonely – come and lay down your head.” (You’ll be mine tonight.)

Do you know what you have done? Do you know what you’ve begun?

When you love someone, it will ignite your bones. Between the tick and the tock, I know you. I feel my arms around you like a sea around a shore.

In silence and darkness, we held each other near that night. We prayed it would last forever.

*

Tender nights before they fly; golden days before they end. How can it last forever? I was all right for a while but it breaks your heart in two to know that she’s untrue. I’m caught up in a whirlwind and my ever-changing moods ignite my fear. No room for conversation.

How can I tell you that I love you but I can’t think of right words to say?

Cold stares and angry words fall in pieces from our faces.

“You’re not the man who gave me everything I’ve ever wanted – that was someone who could do no wrong. That was someone who you left behind a long time ago.”

I long to tell you that I’m always thinking of you but my words just blow away.

“We cannot live together.”

 We cannot live apart.

Between the tick and the tock, your features are changing. Every time I look at you, I can see the future and I’m sad that you’re throwing it all away.

There’s nothing I can say. I promise you I will learn from all my mistakes. Is there nothing that I can say to make you change your mind?

Throwing it all away. Someday you’ll be sorry.

Can’t you see what you are doing to me? Can’t you see what you have done?

I watch the world go round and round and see mine turning upside down.

How long before the pain ends? Tell me where living starts.

The past is knowledge – the present our mistake and the future we always leave too late.

*

 Her lips were the colour of the roses that grew down the river, all bloody and wild. But I’m caught up in a whirlwind: I’ve more pain than I can bear. Caught up in a whirlwind and my ever-changing moods ignite …  Every flame that ever moved you, touched your lips but never mine. Do you see we shall never be together again?

I kissed her goodbye; said, “All beauty must die.” With a careful hand, I tear your body to the ground, smother your cries. Her lips covered red, she feels the pain with surprise. Past. Present. Between the tick and the tock, the dust settles all around me.

Now see what you’ve gone and done.

My trembling subsided. Tears ran down my face. She was more bloody than any woman I’d seen. All bloody. Take a look at the beautiful river of blood.

Can’t you see what you have done?

Tears come streaming down your face when you lose something you cannot replace. The past is knowledge – the present our mistake … Now I’ve lost everything. All of my life.

*

It used to be a sweet sensation when we held each other between the tick and the tock in a world I used to know before. Now I’ve lost everything, I miss you more. I look and you’re not there. I would search everywhere just to hear your call.

*

The grey of evening fills the room. Daylight turns to moonlight. I reach across to touch her but I know that she’s not there. I almost believe that she is here in the glow of the night. Aching back, my breath coming fast, my feet getting lighter, I feel kind of dizzy. I need your love. And when the morning comes upon us, I’ll be holding you so close to me.

Author’s note: This piece is composed entirely of lyrics from the following songs: ‘Where The Wild Roses Grow’, Nick Cave; ‘How Can I Tell You?’, Cat Stevens; ‘Fix You’, Coldplay; ‘Unchained Melody’, The Righteous Brothers; ‘Smallcreep’s Day’, Mike Rutherford; ‘Ruby Love’, Cat Stevens; ‘In the Glow of the Night’, Genesis; ‘It’s Over’, Roy Orbison; ‘Crying’, Roy Orbison; ‘Ever Changing Moods’, The Style Council; ‘Burning Buildings’, Elton John; ‘You’re Not The Man’, Sade; ‘Throwing It All Away’, Genesis; ‘Snowbound’, Genesis; ‘Afterglow’, Genesis; ‘The Last Domino’, Genesis.

Mostly complete lines have been used, but in some places, I’ve split several lyrics to form one sentence.

24th June is National Writing Day in the UK and this year, First Story have set a nationwide challenge to write a 24 words story in 7 minutes, starting with the words ‘One day…’

I’ve decided to try several of these throughout the day, aiming for a different genre in each one. Each story starts with ‘One day’, but I have also added the genre in bold so I can keep a record of all the different styles I attempt. In the spirit of the day, I will aim for 24 genres.

1. Celebrity Romance: One day was all it took for them both to fall in love – but their separation and divorce dragged out for several months.
2. Environmental: One day, the sun rose in the west and set in the east – and that’s what global warming has done for the entire planet.
3. Horror: One day, the dead rose from their graves, zombies stalked the streets and Jessica discovered that she had chipped one of her expensive nails.
4. Action adventure: One day, a fearless adventurer travelled to the Antarctic to retrieve a long-lost artefact. After many hair-raising experiences, he died without reaching his goal.
5. Fantasy: One day, Gandalf sent dwarves on a quest with Bilbo. They escaped trolls, found a ring, battled a dragon and were back by teatime.
6. Sci-fi: One day in the future, a giant meteorite will hurtle towards the earth. People will panic but the big name movie stars will survive.
7. YA: One day, a daisy told her that he loved her, so she waited for him to ask her to the Prom. The daisy lied.
8. Up-lit: One day, the lonely man on the autistic spectrum realised he was perfect material for an uplifting tale about how anyone can find love.
9. Rom-com: One day, she met a man she hated on sight; but after many mishaps, they fell in love, married and lived happily ever after.
10. Classic literature: One day, Cathy’s father brought home an unkempt urchin. Cathy and Heathcliff loved each other passionately, but their tragic relationship was doomed to fail.
11. Thriller: One day after the pandemic hit the world, a journalist with integrity began to uncover a conspiracy. Would he live to tell the tale?
12. Western: One day, a stranger rode into Dodge City, swaggered into the saloon and ordered a tequila. “We’re all out of that,” said the barman.
13. Fairy tale: One day, the three bears came home to find someone had eaten all their porridge. “I should have locked the door,” said Father Bear.
14. Crime: One day, a body was found in the library, leaking blood all over the First Editions. Poirot and Marple were both baffled by this.
15. Comedy: One day, an incompetent university lecturer attended his professor’s house party, insulted the guests and set fire to a bed. Not so lucky, Jim.
16. Mythology: One day, Theseus entered the labyrinth and slew the fearsome minotaur. Ariadne wept at her brother’s loss and again when Theseus callously abandoned her.
17. Classic children’s fiction: One day, Alice fell down a rabbit hole and found herself terrorised by talking animals, a psychotic Hatter and some rather dubious playing cards.
18. Political satire: One day, the government told people to stay home and save lives; now we’re told to go to the pub and save the economy.
19. The American novel: One day, George left Lennie on his own while he went out with the other hands. Who could’ve known Lennie would kill Curley’s wife?
20. Russian literature: One day, Dimitri Vlostovsky heard that Marina was accused of killing her husband. Crime and punishment merged into one the more vodka he drank.
21. Supernatural: One day more was all she needed to achieve her goal of escaping the otherworld and taking human form. Unfortunately, the Ghostbusters got her.
22. Shakespearean: One day was all it took for Romeo to marry Juliet, kill her cousin and be banished by the prince. They both died later.
23. Historical: One day, Cromwell, received some unfortunate news: the king wished to execute Anne Boleyn and marry another. Love always made him lose his head.
24. Autobiographical: One day, I will write something that truly comes from the heart and not because I am merely following someone else’s random writing prompt.

These days, emails and texts have replaced the art of letter writing, but what happens if the email address has a mistake such as a .com instead of a .co.uk? This story is based on a real experience when I found I was receiving emails for someone else with the same name as me – although real life started and ended with a polite message to the sender to let her know of her mistake. In this story, I imagine what life would be like for two people who meet via a wrongly sent email and whether such an occurrence would ever end in something more than friendship.

Sender Unknown

Francesca Greenstone rereads the email, feeling perplexed.

“Hi Fran,” it begins. “It was good to see you and the kids last weekend. I think Mum enjoyed having us together under one roof again, despite the noise. Any thoughts for a present for her birthday? J x”

What kids? she wonders. And, Who on earth is this person?

It’s obviously a case of mistaken identity: the only friends she has whose names begin with J are Justine and Julie from work, and they never get together at weekends. Besides, she thinks now, wrinkling her forehead as she tries to remember, she spent most of last weekend in bed with a migraine. Whoever this email was meant for, it definitely wasn’t her.

*

It takes another three emails – one thanking her for choosing the scarf which “Mum really loved” and the other two asking about holiday plans – before she can pluck up the courage to reply, apologetically, that “I think you’ve got the wrong person.”

Almost immediately, she receives another message. “So sorry. I must have mistyped my sister’s email address – she’s Fran Greenstone too, but .com and not .co.uk. Jon”

Greenstone isn’t a common name. A part of her wonders whether they might be related in some way, but she’s too reserved to ask. Besides, if his sister has children, she’s probably married and inherited the name ‘Greenstone’ as part of the deal.

*

She doesn’t hear again from Jon for weeks, is on the verge of emailing him to check he’s okay when another erroneously addressed message pops up on her screen. Her feeling of pleasure at noticing the signature is dispelled instantly as she peruses the contents. His wife has left him and he is struggling to cope.

Impulsively, she types a response. “It’s me again – the wrong Fran. I’m so sorry about your wife.”

She’s not expecting him to answer, but he sends a brief line, thanking her for her support and promising to try not to make the same mistake again. Does he mean marrying the wrong woman, or emailing the wrong person? she wonders, thinking about how lonely he must feel – how lonely she herself is – with no significant other to share life’s ups and downs.

*

Over the next few months, he emails her regularly, laying bare his heart as he talks about the break-up and how much he misses his wife. She too knows the pain of abandonment – was going to get married years ago but was left, not at the altar but at the reception, when she caught her hours-old husband kissing another woman. Wisely, she mentions none of this in her exchanges with Jon – this isn’t about her: it’s about him and getting him through the pain. From time to time, she allows herself to dream that their virtual relationship will blossom into something more; but she’s never even seen a photo of him, knows next to nothing about him apart from the pain he’s poured out recently. Instead, she is his shoulder to cry on, the sounding board for his questions, the safe harbour in his sea of confusion. If only, she thinks wistfully from time to time, someone loved me enough to miss me like that.

*

Gradually, as time passes, his venting becomes more infrequent and so do his emails. It’s almost as if fate conspired to push both of them together at a time when Jon needed it most but is now gently prising them apart again so that life can begin once more. If she feels a twinge of loss at his withdrawal, she says nothing: serendipity introduced them but didn’t promise a happy ending. Perhaps sometimes, she thinks, friendship has a predetermined shelf-life, and the date on her connection with Jon has already expired.

She still checks her inbox on a daily basis, but his name has been absent for months. From time to time, she tells herself that this is a good thing, that he’s moved on; nevertheless, she finds she misses those emails from a man she didn’t know.

*

Christmas comes, and with it an e-greeting from some website or another, depicting an animated snowman and other suitably festive clichés. The message reads simply, ‘Thanks for helping me out last summer, J x’

She dutifully sends a reply: some carol-singing mice who squeak ‘We wish you a merry Christmas’ when the attachment is opened. She’d much prefer a physical card, but they’ve never exchanged addresses or even phone numbers: they exist for each other only within the shadowy world of the internet.

*

For some years, their communication is intermittent at best – birthday wishes; the odd joke. He’s met someone else now, and so has she; but she still dreams of what might have been, rereading all of his old emails on the nights when Rick’s working late. It isn’t cheating, she tells herself: she and Jon never kissed, never even met. All the same, she can’t resist letting her mind wander into the realms of ‘What if …’ She still doesn’t know what Jon looks like, but she imagines someone tall and dark, perhaps with curly hair; visualises them meeting by chance in the city, on a train, in the park … She feels as if her soul would recognise his, as if something inexplicable would draw them together. Lying in bed, she tries not to picture his hands cupping her face as he kisses her tenderly; attempts to shut out the longing she feels to see him just once, to put her mind at rest.

*

It seems like a cruel twist of fate when the final misdirected missive for his sister turns up in her inbox, but at least the wedding photo shows her what Jon looks like, smiling at his new bride with all the optimism of fresh love. Her hand hovers over the ‘download’ icon, then she thinks better of it and presses ‘delete’ instead. Closing her laptop, she turns to the man sitting next to her and tries not to think of the emails that she will no longer receive.

Today’s piece is another one that takes an historical figure and imagines what may have inspired his work. William Blake was a visionary artist, a poet and a radical thinker – if you want to have a look at some of his artwork, click here: https://www.google.com/search?q=william+blake+paintings&sxsrf=ALeKk02G0ZmV1QBZVHr8W4GXdilRfmKC7g:1592900331410&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwiY8amTwJfqAhVaUhUIHcuHBE8Q_AUoAXoECCIQAw&biw=1366&bih=625

Angels Dancing

He saw angels dancing.

Will must have been around eight or ten when he first saw the angels. He and some other boys had been playing on the common when he looked up to see a tree filled with glorious, radiant creatures, their bright, angelic wings bespangling every branch like stars. For a moment, he could not move, captivated by the shining beauty he saw before him. Seconds later, the vision disappeared, but Will held the memory, hugging it tight as he fell asleep that night and carrying it around with him for months afterwards.

The next time he saw them, he was in his chamber, busily working on a sketch for his mother. He had already tried several times – albeit unsuccessfully – to capture the sense of awe he had felt at that first meeting; but the seraphim that flowed from his pencil looked clumsy and awkward on paper – almost, he thought, as if it did not want to be recorded for human eyes.

It was as he was thinking thus that his eye caught sight of a hazy shape in the corner of the room. Without turning his head to look at it properly, he knew it was the angel he had been attempting to draw from memory. Keeping his gaze firmly fixed on the paper in front of him, he said slowly, “I know you’re there – and you’re real. Will you stay for long enough to let me copy your likeness?”

He said afterwards that the angel hadn’t uttered audible words yet it had spoken to him as plainly as his mother when she told him to blow out his candle or his father when he talked to him about books. He somehow knew instinctively that this time the being would not vanish as abruptly as before, and so he began turning his head little by little until he was staring at a creature made from fire and stars and sunlight all at the same time.

“Write this down,” said the angel, and its voice was the sound of many waters and its eyes burned into his very soul: “The angels of the Lord shall walk this earth again and great and terrible will be the suffering of those who choose not to believe.”

But Will was too busy trying to sketch the flowing robes and mighty wings to pay much attention to the actual words being said, and so, with a sigh, the angel shimmered out of existence – or at least out of the plane of existence as we know it.

*

Will’s mother was quite taken with the angel pictures he presented to her over the next few years. By now, he had been enrolled in drawing classes at Pars’s drawing school in the Strand. He was still an avid reader, and many of his sketches reflected his love of the Psalms, in particular, the ones that described the Lord of Hosts seated in a chariot made of thunderclouds or hurling bolts of lightning across the sky. For Will, Norse mythology and Christianity seemed to combine and his paintings were mysterious and vibrant, depicting fearsome battles between angels and demons, light and dark, fire and ice.

He did not tell anyone about the vivid dreams he had in which the angel that he had seen in his room visited him again, night after night, telling him that he was to use his eyes and ears and write down the evils he saw.

*

He was fourteen when he became apprenticed to an engraver, leaving his family and going to live on Great Queen Street where James Basire ran his business. Often, whilst running errands for his master, Will would find his gaze being drawn towards the injustices he saw. The angel’s words echoed in his mind: “And thou shalt use thine eyes and thine ears and shalt make a record of the evil that men do.”

There was plenty to note down. For the first time in his life, he became aware of the plight of the poor as day after day he noticed the marks of weakness and woe written on men’s faces, and his heart railed against the Church that turned away beggars and refused to help those who were most in need. What was it our Lord had said to the Pharisees? He had compared them to whited sepulchures full of rotting bones and that now seemed an apt way to describe the hypocrisy of established religion. At night, he drew the suffering he saw; but his heart was set on capturing it all in a series of engravings that would show the Almighty’s displeasure with the vipers who professed to be His representatives on earth.

Gradually, he began to detect the true face of humanity. It was as if he were seeing with the angel’s eyes and not his own – had that heavenly messenger been sent not merely to open Will’s eyes and ears but to give him a voice as well? Fragments of judgement danced in his brain: King and Church alike must be held to account for the suffering they had imposed on their fellow men and it was up to him, William Blake, to sever the mind-forged manacles the people wore.

*

He was twenty-one by the time he left Basire. He was now a fully qualified engraver and he longed to use his talent to fulfil the angel’s directive. He would produce a pamphlet full of the scenes that had so touched his heart. Others needed to know how tiny children as young as three were apprenticed to chimney sweeps and often died before reaching their tenth birthdays: their faces might be blackened with soot, but their souls shone far whiter than those of the priests who refused to intercede for them. There were so many innocents suffering needlessly, but he would record their misery and the songs of woe that surrounded them.

By now, he was a student at the Royal Academy and, to his delight, he found that he had kindred spirits there: others who felt as strongly as he did that some kind of social reform was needed. This conviction was further strengthened when he was caught up in a mob whilst en route to his old master’s shop in Great Queen Street and found that he was part of a crowd storming Newgate Prison. He could have sworn he saw the angelic host at the front of the crowd, waving flaming swords and encouraging the angry men to set the captives free.

It was now that his friends cautioned temperance. Will had already attained a reputation at the Academy due to his strange paintings. It was not just the style – figures painted in bold brush strokes with muscles and sinews standing out in stark relief as if to call attention to the physical power they contained: it was the subject matter itself. Where his contemporaries painted scenes that were easily recognisable from life, Will’s canvases were full of supernatural beings, and judgement and terror dripped from every tableau. He protested that he merely painted what he saw, but Joshua Reynolds and the other tutors were not impressed. Will was not concerned with Reynold’s disapprobation: the painter might be the president of the Academy, but Michaelangelo’s work was far more interesting to a young man who saw angels.

Leaving aside his controversial paintings for the time being, Will found himself becoming more engaged with politics. Through the meetings of The Society for Constitutional Reformation, he was able to voice many of the views he had hitherto been forced to keep secret; he eventually grew bold enough to start expressing these ideas in other social settings where they attracted the interest of a young woman, the sister of his friend George Cumberland. Will began to court the raven-haired beauty, thinking that she would make a good wife for him; however, she found his talk of angels disturbing and when he proposed marriage some months later, she refused.

Dejected and despondent, Will struggled to see his angel for a while. What good was it to paint hidden mysteries when the simple pleasures of life were denied him? He became morose, often sitting and staring into space for hours at a time without producing anything on his canvas.

It was as he was leaving the Academy one day that he quite literally bumped into a stranger walking down the street. Catching sight of some engravings tucked under Will’s arm, the unknown gentleman asked if he was an artist. Upon hearing that he was, Mr Boucher introduced himself and asked Will to dine with himself and his family that evening. Will would have refused were it not for the angel standing behind Mr Boucher, nodding his head approvingly.

That evening, Will found himself pouring out his heart to the Bouchers and their daughter Catherine, recounting the story of his lost love. “Do you pity me?” he asked, addressing the remark directly to Catherine. The girl blushed. At nineteen, she was five years younger than Will; and whereas Mary Cumberland had been his intellectual equal, being well-versed in the satire of the day, Catherine was illiterate. Nevertheless, there was something about her warm, green eyes and soft curves that attracted him – “Freya in human form,” he thought distractedly – and from that moment on, he began to woo her in earnest.

*

If Mary had driven his angel away, Catherine welcomed him with open arms. “Is he here now?” she would ask as they strolled hand in hand through the London streets and, “What is he telling you to observe?”

The two were married later that year and Will immediately set about teaching his wife to read and write. Putting aside his ‘Songs of Innocence’ until a later time, he began to write poetry that was more traditional in nature, inspired by the Elizabethan poets he so admired. Once he had enough for a slim volume, he printed enough copies of ‘Poetical Sketches’ for his friends and other interested parties. If he could make a name for himself as a poet now, the public might be more likely to take an interest in his political ‘Songs’ once they were finished. The poems were riddled with mistakes which Will hastened to correct with handwritten notes and did not achieve the admiration he had hoped for. Was this a reflection of his human pride, he wondered, in writing from his own heart and not penning the words the angel was giving him?

It was then that he decided he must return to his mission. He began walking the streets again, this time noting everything the angel showed him. He would write two pamphlets, he decided: ‘Songs of Innocence’ would show the world as most people saw it, and ‘Songs of Experience’ would reveal the shocking truth of man’s selfish existence, chronicling the evils that were rife in London. At Catherine’s suggestion, he illustrated each poem with one of his experimental inverse engravings. Art and literature would combine for the glory of God!

*

Throughout the years that followed, Will was faithful to the angel’s prompting, teaching Catherine to engrave so she could help him in his work. He returned to his painting, producing wild and wonderful canvases depicting man’s foolish pride and God’s immense glory. When people asked him what inspired his imagination, he replied simply that he painted what he saw. And in his mind, there were always angels dancing.

Some writers like to set their stories in actual places – several of my novels are Birmingham based, for example, and make reference to landmarks such as Cannon Hill Park or New Street Station; whereas other people prefer to create their own landscapes, inventing towns and villages and painting pictures of imaginary countryside. Today’s piece mentions a real place (the Tower of London) and a real person (Queen Victoria) but the rest is completely fictional. Writing in the style of a brochure for visitors, I welcome you to the story of The White Elephant Gift Shop and Tea Room.

The White Elephant (A Visitors’ Guide)

            Visitors to the Tower of London often ask about the unusual gift shop. The White Elephant dates back to Victorian times and was built to commemorate the death of Rani, the white elephant presented to Her Majesty in 1877 by Prince Bir Chandra Manikya as a symbol of his respect to the new Empress of India.

Legends concerning the beast’s origins are well known in the Tripura State: it is told that Brahma, the Creator, originally made all elephants white and that the pachyderm was the purest of all his creatures; but as time went by, the elephant became proud and haughty and looked down his nose at the smaller animals beneath him, and so Shiva, the Destroyer, was granted permission to torment the elephant with termites that burrowed into his skin, causing him to roll on the ground in agony. Then Brahma took pity upon his favourite and allowed the mighty beast’s movements to crush his attackers, but he had rolled in the dust for so long that his once white skin was now grey. And so it was that the elephant received the colour he wears today; but once in a blue moon, a white elephant is born and is celebrated for its wondrous colour, and these beasts are revered as symbols of purity and are worth a king’s ransom due to their rarity. And any man who owns a white elephant must not put it to work but must care for it, bathing it daily in milk to maintain the colour of its skin; and it will not eat hay and fruit like other elephants but must be fed with the finest honey and with Yangmei berries and Pu Wei grass (which is purple in colour).

History records that Her Majesty was at first delighted with the gift, thinking that it might enable her to reopen the Tower of London menagerie which had been forced to close in 1835, two years before she came to the throne. However, most of the surviving creatures had already been moved to Regents Park to the institution we now know as the London Zoo, and her plan was further thwarted when she was reminded that animals at the Tower had, in the past, attacked and even eaten visitors and keepers.

The Queen was now faced with a dilemma: she had a large and somewhat temperamental white elephant which she could not house at any of her residences (in case the beast panicked and began to rampage: a creature that size could do irreparable damage to any of the royal grounds and buildings) and yet she could not give it away since to do so would be viewed as an insult to Prince Bir Chandra Manikya and Tripura State – if not the whole of India. Since her role as Empress was a recently announced one, she did not wish to say or do anything that might be perceived as inflammatory, wishing instead to establish her reign as a wise and gracious leader.

The problem was further complicated when Rani the elephant became ill. The finest animal doctors were sent for, but whereas their knowledge of dogs and horses marked them out as veterinarians par excellence, they confessed themselves at a loss to know how to treat this rare and exotic herbivore. Eventually, the Queen’s own physician was sent for and he prescribed washing the creature with a lotion of his own creation which, he claimed, contained herbs native to India that would restore the elephant’s vitality. In addition, she should be given meat twice daily to build her strength. These instructions were followed to the letter, but unfortunately the creature died, being ill equipped to digest the beef steak that had been fed to her by well meaning but ignorant keepers.

In order to avoid a diplomatic incident, a story was concocted that the elephant had contracted a rare disease whilst in transit; and since British ships were at the time renowned for their superiority over those of the other nations, it was suggested that the elephant had not been adequately housed in the hold during her journey from India and that she had inadvertently been exposed to germs which, although harmless to humans, were fatal to pachyderms. Her Majesty generously did not demand compensation for the loss of her elephant but magnanimously declared that she would honour the creature’s memory with the erection of a pavilion to be known as The White Elephant in the grounds surrounding the Tower. The gift shop you see today is housed within the original pavilion and its stunning architecture attracts visitors from all over the world on a daily basis. (Editor’s note: Due to Covid 19, the gift shop will remain closed for the foreseeable future.)

Patrons of the gift shop will notice immediately that all the stock has been carefully chosen to reflect the White Elephant theme: purchases are unnecessarily expensive whilst at the same time being utterly useless. Past favourites include: a Left Handed Spoon, made from wood with a carved elephant on the top (retailing at £27.99); an elephant-shaped, silver-plated Photo Frame with intricate metalwork that obscures most of the picture placed inside (£45.99); a cuddly Toy Elephant made with extremely rare white beaver fur (not vegan-friendly, child-friendly or fire-resistant; does not comply to British Safety Standards; RRP £950.00); and an elephant shaped Notebook, bound in genuine white elephant hide with an ivory pencil (RRP £600). (Editor: These items may be purchased online at www.whiteelephant@thetower.com.) The gift shop has had some slight refurbishment in recent years due to unsolicited arson attacks by various animal rights organisations, but we remain confident that it will endure its status as one of the Tower’s main attractions and that the newly opened White Elephant Tearoom at the back of the gift shop will continue to do a roaring trade in Jumbo Sausage Rolls, Elephant’s Foot pastries and Indian tea.

If you would like to make a booking, please see our website for further details. Coach parties and children’s birthdays can only be accepted with six months’ notice. Terms and conditions apply. (Editor: Virtual tours are currently available, including our Children’s Party Pack which offers interactive handling of the online goods, using the VR goggles provided, a song for the birthday child by Rani, the white elephant (played by a well known actor), and a boxed birthday cake in the shape of an animal. (Due to high demand, we cannot guarantee that this animal will be an elephant, but previous customers have praised the anteater, armadillo and wombat cakes they received in the Party Pack.) Your child will also receive a special elephant shaped birthday card from Rani.) All major credit cards accepted.

© whiteelephant@thetower.com, 2020

Russian literature of the 1800s is full of anxiety, self analysis and angst. It’s also quite lengthy. For today’s challenge, I produced a long short story (just under 7,000 words) that tries to capture the flavour of the Russian novel in condensed form. We have Pushkin, we have vodka, we have Russian insults – and the ending is satisfyingly depressing, in keeping with the genre. Take your time with this one, and приятного аппетита!

Dreams and Dust

I’ve lived to bury my desires,

And see my dreams corrode with rust;

Now all that’s left are fruitless fires

That turn my dreams to dust. (Alexander Pushkin)

“And Dimitri has written to you while he has been away?” The Countess Natascha Petrovsky sipped her tea delicately, watching the younger girl’s face to confirm her suspicions.

Irina Yahontov studied her friend a little warily from beneath lowered lashes. She was almost bursting with happiness, it was true; but she was equally aware that the other woman was a rumourmonger: scandal spilled from her lips like cake crumbs whenever the two took tea together. She did not want this beautiful thing with Dimitri to become tarnished by others’ dissection of it. His love for her was a delicate rose and she wanted to let it bloom unhindered.

“He has written,” she admitted at last.

“And?”

Oh, she was greedy for gossip!

“He is well.” Then, as her friend pouted with impatience, Irina took pity on her. “He has declared his intentions and has also written to Papa, asking his permission to marry me!”

“Well, well, well!” The countess’s voice held a note of admiration. “So our little Dimitri has finally landed himself a girl with money!”

“What do you mean?” Irina asked, a little naïvely.

Natascha shrugged. “He is a handsome man, certainly, but he has broken countless hearts before he met you – hearts of girls without the roubles your father possesses, or a family name as well respected as yours.” She smiled sweetly. “Still, I am sure he will be faithful – or at least discreet. After all, he wouldn’t want to lose your father’s money.”

“Are you telling me Dimitri doesn’t really love me?” Irina felt tortured with self-doubt. No, it couldn’t be true: when they had met for the first time at Count Oleg’s winter ball, the young clerk had been the soul of attentiveness, dancing not one, nor even two but three! waltzes with her, and then he had taken her out onto the terrace and given her a white rose. Its petals were still pressed between the pages of Pushkin’s poetry.

The Countess politely ignored the tears falling into Irina’s teacup. “Darling, you mustn’t take these things to heart. You are young and have no experience of the world, but in time to come, he will take other lovers and so will you. What is important is that you will be his wife and that means that other men will automatically find you more attractive.” She smiled secretively. “There is nothing sweeter than forbidden fruit,” she murmured.

“I think perhaps you should leave now.” Irina’s voice quivered with hurt. “I have a headache,” she improvised, “and need to lie down.”

“As you wish.” Natascha sounded amused. It would be better, she reflected, not to let the little Yahontov girl know just how well she was acquainted with Dimitri. That was all in the past – or at least, it had been for some months. “I’m very happy for you,” she added, kissing Irina on both cheeks before turning to leave. “I look forward to my invitation to the wedding!”

*

Once she was sure the countess had gone, Irina threw herself face down on the chaise-longue and wept bitterly until she thought her heart would burst with grief. The Countess’s casual remarks about infidelity had both shocked and wounded her. At first, she had felt sure that Dimitri wouldn’t treat her in that way, but now …

Rising to her feet, she crossed the room to study her face in the ornate gilded mirror that hung over the fireplace. Her gentle features were reasonably pretty, but she still looked like a child. Would Dimitri really remain true to her when there were so many beautiful women in Moscow to dazzle him? Forming her lips into a pout, she tried to look coquettish. It was no use: she looked more constipated than anything else. Oh, Dimitri! How would she ever hold onto him?

The sound of the salon door opening interrupted her reverie. Her mother was entering the room, almost exploding with excitement.

“Irina!” She clasped her bewildered daughter to her bosom. “My little girl! Your father has just received a visitor in his study – and what do you think is the purpose of their conversation?” When Irina did not answer, Madame Yahontov enlightened her: “He has come to ask for your hand in marriage!”

“Dimitri is here?” At once Irina felt more hopeful.

“Dimitri?” Her mother sounded puzzled. “Mikhail Baronsky is with your father. You know that he has always admired you.”

“I can’t marry dyadya Mikhail!” Irina uttered in shock, using the nickname from her childhood. “He’s old!”

“He’s thirty-five,” her mother corrected.

“That’s still almost twice my age,” Irina protested.

“Mikhail is a good man – wealthy too. It is an advantageous match, zaya.” Her daughter did not respond, so Madame Yahontov tried again. “It is what your father wishes and you know he wants only the best for you. The betrothal will be announced next week – once you and Mikhail have had the opportunity to spend some time together; and then I was thinking, perhaps a summer wedding? That would give us three months to put your trousseau together.”

*

The ballroom felt airless and stuffy in the unseasonably warm April evening. Irina fanned herself with the white ostrich plumes her mother had insisted on giving her as an accessory to the pastel blue ballgown, aware that she would have to disillusion the man by her side. Mikhail had escorted her here tonight, at her parents’ request; and although she would once have felt delighted to be attending Count Oleg’s Spring Ball (“So much more exclusive than the winter one!” Natascha had whispered in her ear earlier), she was now filled with dread that Dimitri would be here and would see her with another man.

Her heart pounded as her eyes scanned the room, desperately searching for the dark curly hair she knew so well. Disappointed, she returned her attention to Baronsky, noting the beads of perspiration that had already soaked his shirt. His trousers were too tight, she thought dispassionately: his girth overhung the dark green cummerbund like a loaf of bread escaping from its tin.

“May I get you some more champagne?” he asked now. “Or a little caviar, perhaps? The blinis are good tonight.”

She shook her head, then froze in horror. Dimitri Vassilyev had just entered the room. His eye caught sight of her with Mikhail and he frowned his displeasure.

“Irina? What’s wrong? You are as pale as a sheet!” Her companion sounded concerned.

“I … nothing …” She was unable to form a coherent reply, aware only that Dimitri’s face was thunder as he glared at them both.

“You need some fresh air,” Mikhail declared. Pulling her to her feet, he whisked her out of the French windows and out into the rose garden. “Now then, lyubimaya, tell me what is wrong.”

Irina looked at her feet. Mikhail was a good man and he would make a good husband – but she loved Dimitri. How could she tell him this? It would crush her dyadya if she admitted that she did not want to marry him.

“I have something to tell you,” she began in a small voice.

“You love someone else.” He said it so easily that she felt surprised. “I saw you looking at that man a few minutes ago,” he continued. “The one who was gazing at you as if his heart would break if he did not have you.” He paused. “You had the same look in your own eyes.”

She glanced up at him now, her heart beating fast.

“I will not marry you against your will, little one,” he said, softly pushing a lock of hair away from her face. “If you love someone else, you must tell your father.”

“He has no money.” Now that she had confessed it, she saw what an insurmountable obstacle this was. The only daughter of Sergei Yahontov would never be allowed to marry a penniless individual.

“Then you must live on love,” Mikhail said simply. “If he truly feels for you as you do for him, you will find a way.” He reached out and stroked her cheek. “I have loved you since the first time I saw you, but I could not bear to make you unhappy. I will tell your father I have reconsidered: perhaps he will look more favourably on this other suitor then.”

“You are a good man, Mikhail Baronsky,” Irina told him, “and you deserve a much better wife than a foolish girl like me.”

“Goodbye, Irina.” He kissed her lightly. “I see your beau approaching. I will leave the two of you alone.”

She watched him leave, her heart flooding with affection for him, hoping that he would find himself a bride before long.

*

“You forgot me quickly, then.”

She span around, startled by the venom in Dimitri’s voice. “I don’t understand.”

“Your new lover!” He spat the words out in disgust.

“Baronsky is an old family friend,” she began, not sure why she should need to defend herself.

“I saw him kiss you! Do you let all your old family friends make love to you in rose gardens?”

“Dimitri!”

But he turned away from her, still sulking at the perceived betrayal.

“You don’t understand how much I’ve longed for you to return,” she heard herself say. Placing a placatory hand on his arm, she added, “You are the only one my heart has ever loved – you must know that.”

“Then prove it,” he muttered.

Her heart stood still.

“Prove that you love me,” he insisted.

Dimitri, I …”

“There’s a summer house not far from here,” he whispered. “We could be private – no one would know we were there.”

Against her better judgement, she let him lead her through the gardens and down towards the ornamental lake. Moonlight glittered on the water as he pulled her into the summerhouse and shut the door.

“Do you know how much I have longed for this?” he asked her as he began kissing her neck.

“We shouldn’t,” she protested, but he ignored her pleas.

“You are mine, lyubimaya, and I need to make sure that you belong to me.”

In the silence that surrounded them, no one else heard her sobs.

*

Dawn was breaking as they stole back to the house. Dimitri held her hand in his; nevertheless, Irina felt as if her heart was ripped in two. How could he have done this to her? Worse still, how had she let him? She had struggled – at first; but his hands had held her down, forcing her into compliance. In the end, she had just let it happen, repeating to herself over and over again, “Dimitri loves me. Dimitri loves me.” But was it love if a man took what he wanted without consent?

Mikhail ran up anxiously as they approached. “Where have you been? The carriage is waiting.”

“We went for a walk.” The lie wrenched from her lips. She could not tell him the truth. “Mikhail, this is Dimitri Vassilyev. Dimitri, Mikhail is a friend of my father’s.”

The two men clicked their heels as they respectfully bowed to one another, but Irina could feel the animosity between them.

“I must go, Dimitri. When will I see you again?”

“I will write,” he said carelessly, his voice sounding strangely cold. “Goodbye, Gospodin Baronsky.”

She did not let her tears fall until she was safely inside the carriage.

*

Two weeks later, she had not received any letters from Dimitri. Her heart twisted as she thought of the night in the summerhouse. Who would want her now? She was no longer innocent, but it seemed she had let someone unworthy rob her of her greatest possession.

Mikhail Baronsky had been true to his word, tactfully breaking off the engagement and telling her father that he thought a younger husband might be a better choice. Each day, she half expected Dimitri to turn up on the doorstep, begging an audience with her papa, but he did not come. Her eyes dulled with disappointment and her skin became unnaturally pale. She felt as if she were dying of a broken heart.

Eventually, her mother noted her pallor and, thinking that the girl was pining for Baronsky, devised a plan. They would visit the dressmaker, she told Irina, and then afterwards take tea in the Perlov Tea House. She did not mention that she had also invited the ex-fiancé.

Irina moved through her dress fitting as one in a dream. Consumed with guilt over giving herself to Dimitri, she was nevertheless desperate to see him again. Surely he would not expect her to do that again now he knew she was his? So lost was she in self-analysis that she did not hear any of the dressmaker’s questions and Madame Yahontov was forced to answer for her daughter. “Yes, the length is fine … No, the grey, not the red … With a black trim.”

Finally, the ordeal was over and the two women made their way on foot to Ulitsa Mayasnitskaya and the waiting tea rooms. Once inside, they were shown to a table near the window and sank down into their chairs in relief.

“Isn’t that Mikhail?” Irina’s mother said suddenly, waving across the room.

Sure enough, Baronsky came hurrying up, delighted to see his adopted niece again.

“How foolish of me!” Madame Yahontov exclaimed a moment later. “I seem to have left something important at the dressmaker’s.”

“Allow me to be of service.” Baronsky sprang to his feet.

“No, no. I’ll go myself. You young ones sit here and chat.” The older woman rose to her feet and swept out of the building before the other two had a chance to stop her.

Irina, looked awkwardly at Baronsky. She was sure her mother had done this on purpose, but to what avail?

Baronsky spoke first. “You’re not happy, are you?”

A tear rolled down Irina’s cheek. She felt suddenly overwhelmed by life.

“Would you like to tell me about it?”

She shook her head, too embarrassed to admit her deflowering. If anyone found out …

Baronsky tried to catch the attention of a waiter but to no avail. “Excuse me a moment.” He left his seat and made his way towards one of the smartly uniformed servers.

He had been gone only seconds when she became aware of a figure looming over her. “Still running around with that oaf, I see,” a voice said bitterly.

“Dimitri!” He was the last person she had expected to see.

“I saw you through the window, taking tea with your lover.”

His accusation squeezed her heart.

“There is nothing between Mikhail and me,” she insisted.

“We need to talk,” he said grimly. “Not here – I have a carriage outside.”

“I must tell someone,” she said, looking around wildly for Mikhail.

“Here,” he said, producing a pencil and paper. “You can leave a note.”

She quickly scribbled, “Something has arisen. I will be back shortly” and deposited the note on the table before letting Dimitri lead her outside. Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw Mikhail picking up her missive; but the carriage door was already closing and she had no way of letting him know what was really going on.

*

She had thought they would merely sit in Dimitri’s carriage, but once inside, he nodded to the coachman and the vehicle moved smartly away.

“Where are we going?” she asked fearfully.

“To my lodgings,” he told her. “We can be private there.”

The memory of the summerhouse assaulted her with these words and she felt the bile rise in her throat.

“Stop the carriage!” she begged. “I feel faint.”

But they were already pulling to a halt. Dimitri handed her down from the conveyance onto a narrow street filled with dismal looking buildings. The door he unlocked had cracked and peeling paint and one of the front windows was broken. “It’s all poverty can afford,” he said defiantly when he saw her look askance. Inside the dingy hallway, several rooms led off the central corridor. He produced another key and proceeded to open the door closest to them. Taking her by the hand, he almost dragged her into the darkened chamber, fumbling with the shutters to allow some light to penetrate.

Irina surveyed her surroundings. A narrow bed covered with a thin blanket was pushed against one of the walls. Apart from that, the room held very little: there was a rickety table, propped up with a book, a splintered chair, a wash stand and a small cupboard. How could anyone live like this? she thought in dismay, trying not to make her shock visible.

He motioned to her to sit down on the bed, so she did so, hearing springs creak in an alarming manner.

“I can’t offer you tea,” he announced, “but I have some vodka somewhere …” He began moving things around on the table until he found what he was looking for.

She refused his offer of a drink, already regretting her decision to come here. “You said we needed to talk about something,” she reminded him.

“Yes.” He came and sat down next to her, staring at the glass in his hand. “You hurt me,” he began without preamble. “I wrote to you when I was away in Saint Petersburg and I thought we had an understanding, then I came back and found you with another man.”

“I told you …” she began, but he would not listen.

“And then, today, I saw you with that same man. Why are you doing this to me, Irina?”

She looked down at her lap, fighting back the tears. Why wouldn’t he listen to her? He must know how much she loved him. After all …

“You hurt me,” he repeated, “and so now I am going to hurt you – so that you know what it feels like and how important it is that you are honest with me.” Putting his glass on the floor, he grabbed her face and turned it towards him. “When I was in Saint Petersburg,” he enunciated each word slowly and carefully, “I met a woman – an older woman – and she became my mistress.”

She recoiled as if slapped, feeling the room beginning to spin.

“Did you love her?” she managed at last.

He shook his head. “No, but I made love to her – many times. She was much more experienced than you. I can honestly say it was a pleasure.”

Every word a knife in her soul. Anguish bled out from her in rivers of pain.

“You were … intimate with her, and all the while, you were writing to me, telling me you loved me?” None of it made sense.

“I do love you. But you must understand: I never thought I would enjoy you without being married to you.” He tried again. “She was there and you weren’t.”

She looked at the callous, cavalier man in front of her and no longer recognised him. The Dimitri she knew had promised her his heart, but this one …

“I know I’ve hurt you,” he said now, more gently this time. “But you needed to know what it felt like.”

She had not ripped his soul from his body, playing with it the way a cat bats an almost dead mouse around the room.

“I’ll still marry you,” he said magnanimously, “but you have to promise never to see that lover of yours again.”

She nodded mutely. It was all she could do.

Once more, he offered her the vodka and this time she took it gratefully, letting the fiery liquid sear the back of her throat as she tried to blot out the unbearable pain. Once more, he kissed her; and once more, his hands began pushing her skirts aside, seeking to satisfy his own need whilst she wept silently. She was ruined already: what further harm could he do to her?

Afterwards, they lay still, the weight of his body on top of her, and she thought that never before had she known such utter sorrow.

Three weeks later, she realised she was with child.

*

 At first, she did not interpret the signs: the nausea each morning, the loss of appetite, the general feeling of malaise. She put her physical discomfort down to guilt – she had been sneaking off on her own each day, allegedly for a walk; and each day, Dimitri was waiting in a carriage to take her back to the pitiful room with the broken furniture and the lumpy mattress. Each time it happened, she wept – before, during and afterwards; but he seemed immune to her tears. “Can I help it that I find you so irresistible?” he would say to her and, “You should be flattered – most women would love their husbands to pay them so much attention.”

In God’s eyes, he was her husband: they had become one flesh over and over again; and yet she knew instinctively what her father would say.

“How can you live like this?” she asked him one day.

He shrugged. “I make a little money from my job as a clerk, but that goes nowhere. You don’t know what it’s like – you’ve always lived in the lap of luxury.”

“But there must be other clerks who live in better places than this,” she argued. “Could you not at least buy some decent furniture?”

She soon learned the answer to her own questions when she realised how much of his wage went on vodka and gambling – two vices he had always hidden from her until now.

He was the one to divine her condition. They had visited his room and for once he was showing her consideration, taking her out to a tea room for sustenance. “Not the Perlov,” he added hastily when her eyes lit up at the suggestion. She was still touched by his thoughtfulness: he so rarely asked her what she wanted.

Dimitri ordered tea for them both and vatrushka. She looked at the ring of dough and her stomach heaved. The waiter regarded her with some concern.

“I just need a little fresh air,” she said weakly.

Dimitri led her out into the street, his gaze travelling over her face and body. “You’re pregnant,” he remarked coarsely. “Is it mine?”

“You know no one else ever touched me.” She felt wounded by his question but she was too unwell to make a fuss.

By way of response, he kissed her on the mouth, not caring if anyone was passing by. “Sergei Yahontov will have to let me marry you now,” he muttered. “He won’t entertain having a bastard for a grandchild.”

He insisted on driving her back to her house instead of making her walk from the end of the lane as he usually did. “It’s time I spoke with your father,” he said when she protested that she could go in by herself.

The meeting did not go well. Yahontov was outraged that his daughter had deceived him – and with a mere clerk at that! He threatened to disinherit Irina immediately if she dared to marry this adventurer – child or no child.

“Then you must live with the knowledge that you have forced your only daughter to live in a hovel!” Dimitri told him coldly, his face white with rage.

Irina wept quietly in the corner, but since she was always weeping these days, no one paid much attention to her.

“Write to me when your father changes his mind,” was Dimitri’s parting shot to his lover as he stormed out of the room.

*

A little later, Mikhail Baronsky visited the house as was his custom on a Friday evening. He and Sergei usually played chess together, but tonight the master of the house was incandescent with anger. Mikhail listened in horror as Sergei railed against the scoundrel who had seduced his daughter and then expected a marriage dowry.

“As if I would give that negodyay anything!” he exclaimed. “As for Irina – what could she possibly see in a fellow like that?”

Mikhail was silent, thinking of the younger man’s handsome face and the dashing figure he cut on the dance floor. He could understand women being dazzled by the charming manners and the flirtatious eyes, but a part of him wished that his favourite had shown more sense.

“You’re not really cutting her off without a kopek, are you?” he enquired.

“I would rather die than see any of my money go to fund that moshennik!” came the reply.

*

Irina was crying into her pillow when the gentle knock sounded at her bedroom door. “May I come in?” her dyadya asked.

Dimitri had forbidden her to see Baronsky, but he had also insulted her father and left her all alone with only her parents’ wrath for company. Besides, the idea that she could ever love someone like Mikhail was ridiculous! He was losing his hair for one thing and he carried far too much weight.

She would have been wary of any other man entering her boudoir, but when Mikhail came in, she breathed a sigh of relief. He was always so kind to her. One of her fondest memories was of the way he had always brought her special presents when he visited the house in her childhood: a nightingale in a cage, a basket of sugarplums, a kitten with fur the colour of smoke.

“Has Papa told you?” She knew the two men would have had time to talk by now.

Mikhail nodded. “He is very upset, zaya.”

“Couldn’t you talk to him?” she pleaded. “He would listen to you, I am sure.”

“What can I do, little one?” He threw up his hands in despair.

“If you could just make Papa see sense,” she murmured. “We don’t need much money – just enough to live on in comfort, in a little house of our own and not that dreadful room Dimitri currently rents.” Her eyes were wide and blue as she looked at him imploringly. “We wouldn’t have to stay in Moscow. I’m sure Dimitri could find work anywhere.”

Mikhail’s heart was torn. More than anything, he wished he could marry Irina and take her away to his country estate where she and her child could live in safety from Vassilyev. But she loved the man! And he was her baby’s father. It was at that moment that Baronsky made a decision that would change the lives of several people, including himself.

“Where does Dimitri live?” he asked casually.

Irina named the street. It was easy to remember since she had visited it over twenty times. Baronsky made a mental note of the address, then took his leave, promising to come back soon. If all went well, he would be returning with a marriage proposal of his own.

*

The hour was late when he arrived at the dismal building. “Wait here,” Baronsky told his coachman, comforting himself with the thought that the man in his employ was sufficiently well-built to look after himself should the occasion arise. No one answered the first few knocks on the door, but then a dubious-looking woman thrust her head out of a ground floor window, asking him what he wanted.

“I’m looking for a Dimitri Vassilyev,” Baronsky said politely. “I have a business proposal for him.”

A few minutes later, a dishevelled Dimitri appeared at the door. “What do you want?” he snarled at the older man.

“This is not something I wish to discuss on a doorstep,” Baronsky said gravely.

With ill grace, Dimitri let him inside. Baronsky couldn’t be certain, but he thought the room they entered was the one from which the fille de joie had addressed him.

Vassilyev poured himself a glass of vodka without offering one to his guest. “I take it you’re here because of Irina?”

Baronsky nodded.

“I told the little slut not to see you again,” Dimitri growled.

Baronsky ignored the insult. “I have a proposition for you.”

“Go on.” Dimitri seemed interested in spite of himself.

“I’m sure that you would rather live somewhere far more salubrious than this.” Baronsky waved his hand around the room. “I could give you enough money to afford a much better lifestyle.”

“A lifestyle without Irina,” Dimitri said flatly.

Baronsky nodded again.

“Because you want to marry her,” Dimitri guessed. “You’re twice her age, but you want to rescue her from the drunken philanderer she prefers to you.”

“I have an estate in the country.” Baronsky’s voice was tight. “I could take her away from Moscow and give her a good life. And you would have a better life yourself without her.”

“But your little plaything has my baby in her belly,” Dimitri mocked. When Baronsky didn’t respond, Dimitri’s eyes widened. “You knew already?”

Baronsky seemed to have turned into one of those wooden dolls whose head nods incessantly. “Well?” he demanded, somewhat abruptly. “What do you say?”

“How do you think Irina will react,” Dimitri began, “when I tell her that you tried to buy her from me?” When the other man did not answer, he continued, “You’re right that she would be happier in the countryside, but she will be my wife, not yours. This estate of yours – it must have servants who look after it for you while you’re away.”

“Well, yes, but …” Baronsky felt flustered. This was not how the conversation was supposed to go.

“Tell them you no longer need their services,” Dimitri instructed. “Irina and I will run the house for you – with the requisite number of maids and cooks and so forth. I will, of course, expect a small renumeration for my trouble, and in return, I will not tell Irina that it is your house or that you tried to bribe me to give her up.”

Baronsky’s face was white.

“You really don’t have any alternative,” Dimitri mused. “If I stay here, Irina will have to live in this room with me, and her life expectancy will immediately diminish. Thankfully, I drink enough vodka to keep the germs and diseases at bay, but an innocent young creature such as she …” He paused meaningfully.

“I will speak to her father tomorrow.” Mikhail knew when he was beaten.

“I think the marriage should take place as soon as possible,” Dimitri said smoothly. “After all, Irina will need time to get used to her new house before the baby comes along.”

*

After a small, private ceremony which Sergei Yahontov refused to attend, the happy couple set off in a coach for the countryside near Kolomna. Irina was overjoyed that her clever Dimitri had found them a house in the country, and when she saw the impressive building, her delight knew no bounds.

“Your aunt must have thought very highly of you to leave you this!” she remarked innocently.

“Yes,” Dimitri agreed, “her death was most fortuitous, coming as it did when we were most in need of money.”

And so the two of them settled into a peaceable existence. Dimitri did not drink less, but he bought more expensive vodka than he had before and perhaps this accounted for his kinder manner towards his wife. Irina had a beautiful boudoir, ten times nicer than the one at her father’s house, and the bed was quite large enough to accommodate Dimitri as well if he felt in the mood to visit his wife’s room. Now that they were married, she no longer tolerated his lovemaking but had begun to enjoy it.

Some seven months later, their daughter was born. Irina wrote to tell her father but he did not respond. She assumed her was still angry with her. She was also a little upset that dyadya Mikhail had not sent his congratulations – she had not seen him since the night he talked to her just before the wedding.

The Countess Natascha visited, declaring the baby to be milyy. “And so big for a seven months’ child!” she said admiringly.

Irina blushed.

“Well, my dear,” the Countess continued, “you have succeeded where others have failed. Who would have guessed that all it would take to make Dimitri settle down was a baby! Of course,” her tone grew reflective, “it helps that you have your uncle’s house to live in. I’m sure your father wouldn’t have been so generous.”

Irina felt suddenly cold. “What do you mean?” she said sharply. “Dimitri inherited this house when his aunt died.”

Natascha laughed, and it was not a pleasant sound.

“This is Mikhail Baronsky’s estate, child. I’ve visited before – when the rightful owner was here.” Noting her friend’s expression, she said hurriedly, “Whatever arrangement the two of them came to, I’m sure they were only thinking of you.”

*

Irina wept once her friend had gone. She could not believe that Dimitri had lied to her. But what was it her beloved Pushkin had once said? ‘A deception that elevates us is dearer than a host of low truths.’ He had brought her here to make her happy, she was sure of it. Whereas Mikhail … Perhaps his betrayal hurt more.

She could not mention this to her husband. He was happy enjoying the life of a country gentleman, going out riding every day and quite often visiting other local gentlemen in the evenings for a game or six of cards. She hoped that he was being careful with his money for a house like this could not be cheap to run, even if Mikhail was letting them live there, as she suspected, rent free.

From time to time, Dimitri urged her to get to know some of their neighbours – if you could call them neighbours when the nearest house was several miles away. She had dutifully taken tea with a number of them in the early days, but their sophistication frightened her: they were all so worldly-wise – more Natascha’s sort of people than her own.

*

The baby was three months old when Dimitri announced that he had hired a nursemaid. “The child takes up too much of your time,” he told her. “You are overtired and you cannot perform your wifely duties.”

She knew this was an oblique reference to her refusal to allow him access to her boudoir, but she had lost all desire for him since the latter stages of her confinement and the thought of him putting another baby inside her filled her with dread.

The girl, when she arrived, turned out to be an unexpected ally. Closer in age to Irina than any of the other women she knew, Svetlana was a comely maiden with large dark eyes and a plait that snaked down her back. She was devoted to little Anastasia but agreed with Dimitri that the baby needed to sleep in the nursery rather than in the bed with Irina.

“I will place a mattress of my own next to her cradle,” she promised, “and if she wakes in the night and cries, I will comfort her.” Then, turning to Dimitri, she added, “And you must let your wife sleep! She is exhausted from all the constant feeding.”

Dimitri sulked, but cheered up at the prospect of inviting his friends round to play cards when Svetlana suggested that it would be nicer for Irina if her husband wasn’t disappearing every night.

Of course, Dimitri could not invite the men without the women and so Irina found herself hosting an elegant soirée in the drawing room while her husband and his cronies sat around the large table in the dining room, drinking copious amounts of vodka and gambling to their hearts’ content. After a while, the talk turned to acquaintances in Moscow and she was surprised to hear Baronsky’s name mentioned in conjunction with a well-known opera singer.

“And is he really going to marry the creature?” one of the wives asked languidly. “I would have thought that several steps beneath him – after all, he was once engaged to Sergei Yahontov’s daughter, wasn’t he? I wonder why that match was broken off?”

Irina’s cheeks burned with embarrassment as she said stiffly, “Actually, that was me. And the match was broken off because he knew I was in love with Dimitri.”

The other woman shrugged. “Mikhail loved you, you loved Dimitri, Dimitri loved …” She broke off suddenly, leaving Irina wondering how the sentence ended.

“If you’ll excuse me a moment …” She made her voice as steady as possible. “I think my baby is crying. I must go and attend to her.”

She escaped the room before any of the others could point out that she had a nursemaid to do that.

Outside, in the corridor, Irina tried to stop her heart from fluttering with anxiety. Natascha’s long ago words came back to haunt her: “he will take other lovers and so will you.” Were all marriages like this, then? Was fidelity really so elusive?

The dining room door was slightly ajar and she could hear the murmur of the men’s voices as they chatted over their cards.

“I see her once a fortnight when I visit Moscow on business,” one of them remarked. “She’s a welcome diversion: Ludmila lost her appeal six months after we married.”

There was a burst of laughter at this. Irina froze. Were all men so callous?

“Well, you know what Pushkin said.” This was Dimitri’s voice. “With womankind, the less we love them, the easier they are to charm.”

More laughter. Irina crept away, heading for the nursery and the one person whose love she could be sure of.

*

Anastasia was thriving. As the months passed, she grew chubbier each day – and so did Svetlana. Wrapped up in her own misery, Irina did not realise the truth until it was too late. Once it dawned on her that the girl was with child, her heart went out to her, although Svetlana refused to say who the father was. She must have been tumbled under a haystack by one of the local farm boys, Irina guessed, asking the nursemaid gently if she wanted to marry the lad – she was sure Dimitri would spare some roubles for a dowry; but Svetlana shook her head and refused to discuss it further.

A while later, Irina was wakened one night by the sound of Anastasia wailing. It was not like Svetlana to let her cry for so long, she thought, getting out of bed and pulling a wrapper around herself. Tiptoeing to the nursery, she thought she detected noises coming from Dimitri’s room: a moaning and groaning that suggested her husband was ill.

“Dimitri?” The door was unlocked. She opened it and walked into the room, suddenly understanding who it was that had impregnated the nursemaid.

At first they did not notice her. When they did, Svetlana let out a scream and tried to pull the covers over their heads. Dimitri, meanwhile, seemed quite unabashed, rising from the bed and crossing the room to greet his wife with a kiss on the cheek.

“It was nice of you to visit,” he said coolly, “but as you can see, I already have a prior appointment.”

He had removed her from the room before she had a chance to protest.

*

Irina wept, of course, but not as much as she had done before. She liked Svetlana and since their children would be siblings, it seemed only natural to let her stay on – although she now started taking a few drops of laudanum before bed each night so that she would sleep through any unpleasantness that might be occurring in Dimitri’s bedroom.

Her husband’s son was born a few months later: a darling little boy with Svetlana’s hair and Dimitri’s eyes. He was named Alexei and Irina felt glad that Anastasia would not have to grow up an only child as she, Irina, had done herself.

She heard from others that Baronsky had not married his opera singer: she had found another beau, even older and richer. It was a small consolation when weighed against all the other disasters in her life, but she was glad that her dear dyadya was not going to demean himself by marrying someone unworthy.

*

The seasons passed and little Anastasia became an adorable toddler, following her mother everywhere she went. She was devoted to her half-brother and would sit watching his cradle for hours, a serious expression on her otherwise sweet face.

Dimitri was hardly ever home these days. He would leave every morning to go riding, returning only as twilight began creeping in. She no longer missed him: whatever fruitless fires had once burned within her had effectively turned her dreams to dust long ago.

From time to time, as she thumbed through her well worn copy of Pushkin, a white rose petal would flutter from the pages, reminding her that she was just the trembling leaf that winter left behind; and then she would find herself thinking of Baronsky and of the love she had failed to appreciate when it was within her grasp.

Today’s challenge centres around the following piece of music –

Most of us probably associate Tchaikovsky with the 1812 overture or ballets such as ‘Swan Lake’. I decided to recreate the last few weeks of the composer’s life and try to weave into the narrative memories he might have had of previous incidents, taking inspiration not just from the piece above but from ‘Swan Lake’ too. This is a creative interpretation where I have allowed my imagination not only to fill in the gaps but also to invent characters and incidents. Listen to the music, read the piece and see what you think.

Memories of June

He was hurrying along the cobbled streets, anxious to be on time for the recital, when the curly headed boy selling pirozhki caught his eye. Immediately, he was transported back to the summer of 1854 when he’d returned home from the Imperial School of Jurisprudence for his mother’s funeral. He wondered now why his father had recovered fully from the cholera that had killed his mother. His sister Alexandra had made pirozhki then and he could still taste the fried pastry, the sautéed fish and the hardboiled eggs.

 This boy looked like Alexandra’s son Vladimir – or ‘Bob’ as Pyotr liked to call him. His nephew was perhaps the closest he had ever come to a son of his own. Perhaps if God had made him differently… He sighed, remembering the disastrous marriage to Antonine all those years ago – 1877 had been calamitous for a number of other reasons apart from the two and a half months’ union, for it had also seen the première of his first ballet, Swan Lake, and the scathing comments that it was “too noisy” and “too Wagnerian” rankled even now.

 He came back to the present with a start, realising that the lad was holding out one of the pastries hopefully. Taken with the youth’s dark eyes and resemblance to Bob, he failed to notice the grimy hands or the dirt under the fingernails, forgetting all about hygiene as he fumbled in his pocket for a coin and took the proffered delicacy.

 Hastening his step once more, he took huge bites of fish, rice and egg as he scurried in the direction of the Russian Musical Society. Rubinstein was now in his sixties and had mellowed since the early days of the Society in Saint Petersburg when he’d refused to consider Pyotr’s First Symphony without substantial changes. Today’s performance would include, amongst other works, the set of twelve piano pieces inspired by the months of the year. He’d been glad of the commission at the time, beginning the work whilst still in the middle of Swan Lake, but his heart had been so wrapped up with Odette and Odile that he had paid scant attention to the first five compositions.

Sitting in the audience, with the sound of June echoing in his ears, he smiled to himself, wondering if anyone else could pinpoint when this particular piece was written. Listening with the benefit of almost twenty years of experience, he could immediately detect Swan Lake’s influence – hardly surprising when he had begun June immediately after completing the ballet. He checked his programme notes – what was it that Pleshcheyev had written as the epigram for this one? Something about the waves kissing our feet “with mysterious sadness” – but that was totally ignoring the second part of the piece when the tone moved from melancholy sadness to a far more dramatic and vibrant theme. Life had taught him that there was always an Odile for every Odette, that the delicate poignancy of the dying swan would always be counterbalanced by the allegro of a lively courtship. Light and dark, black and white, sadness and joy – existence encompassed them all. He let the music wash over him, lost in reverie, and was surprised when the last notes of December finally came to a close.

*

A few weeks later, he found himself in the same cobbled street, although not in such a hurry this time. His Sixth Symphony was to be premiered and, despite the fact that he had gained popularity since those earlier days of being misunderstood and pronounced “not Russian enough”, he still felt apprehensive each time he introduced a new work to the public. Conducting the symphony himself helped a little – he knew how he wanted it to sound – but it was still slightly unsettling. I feel disconcerted! he thought wryly. He looked for the boy with curly hair, wondering if he were still peddling his food now that the weather had turned bitterly cold. October was never warm, but still … Pulling his fur coat around himself, he let his eyes wander up and down, but the youth was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps it was just as well: the face had reminded him too much of Sergey, and that love was well and truly in the past even if it was the longest, strongest and purest he had ever known. Bob understood, of course – but then, that was Bob’s nature too. They were both of them Odettes, he mused, fated to stand forever lonely and watch as happiness was denied them.

He must not be late. Casting a final, regretful glance over his shoulder, he walked on, curious to see how the Pathétique would be received.

*

That night, he dreamed of lost love – not of Sergey, nor any of his other unfortunate infatuations with his male companions, but of Désirée, the Belgian soprano who had captured his heart when he was still in his twenties. She was the only woman he had truly loved, and in his dreams, she was willing to move to Russia to live with him there and even to give up the stage so she could settle down and raise their children. He had been totally captivated by her grace and artistry: she could hit notes that few others could even attempt; and he did not care that she was five years older than he for what was age compared to talent?

In his sleep, he relived their meetings: the parties, the performances, the evening invitations. If only her mother had not disliked him so violently! He held her gloved hand in his own, promising fidelity; but her image faded before his lips could touch hers and he knew that their engagement would not last.

Waking in the small hours of the morning, still overcome with sadness at the memory of what he had lost, he found himself thinking once more of Antonine, his wife. What a disaster that had been! He had married her on impulse – when the derogatory reviews of Swan Lake had appeared, his former student had been one of the few people to give him affirmation. And perhaps subconsciously he had thought that someone so much younger and more innocent than he would restore his creativity – instead, he had suffered from unbearable writer’s block, unable to write a single note until he left her. It had not been difficult to dissolve the marriage, given that it had never been consummated; but eighteen years later, he still suffered guilt when he thought of her tears and how cruelly he had mistreated her.

No, he was not meant for marriage. Some men were not suited to the conjugal state and besides, his work was his mistress, his compositions his children. He loved them all – even the ugly ones.

*

Day after day, he found himself making the same journey, whether or not he had anywhere in particular to go. He was still searching for the boy with Sergey’s face, clutching at memories of June when he was already in the November of his life.

November. Troika. Now that was a Russian sounding piece! His boots crunched over the snow-covered cobbles and, irrationally, he hoped that the boy was not still here. His thin clothing would offer no protection against the weather.

It was on the twenty-eighth, as he was hurrying once more to conduct his symphony, that the face he had been seeking finally came into view. This time, the pirozhki were stuffed with mushrooms and onions. He took two, letting the greasy flakes of pastry sprinkle his coat as he stuffed the still warm taste of heaven into his mouth. The child was dirty and unkempt; nevertheless, Pyotr looked at the exquisite bone structure and saw an angel. His mind still dwelt on the boy as he reached the concert hall.

*

That night, he could not sleep, his body wracked with pain. His gut twisted and he barely made it to the chamber pot in time, the slick sheen of perspiration on his forehead telling him that all was not well. Over and over again, he emptied his bowels, sometimes vomiting at the same time. Was it something he had eaten or drunk in the restaurant earlier? he wondered. Everyone claimed to boil their water these days, but one could never be sure.

The following morning, he felt totally exhausted, yet still the constant retching and diarrhoea continued. Feeling too weak to call for assistance, he tried to crawl as far as the table in the corner, thinking that if he could only help himself to water from the jug that stood there, he would start to feel better. It seemed even this simple task was beyond him.

Parched and empty, he lay on the floor, contemplating his next move. His father had not succumbed to cholera: he had fought it off and lived to the ripe old age of eighty-four. He, Pyotr, would do the same: it was unthinkable that he should die in his fifties!

Drifting in and out of consciousness, all his past loves blended into one. Désirée had Sergey’s colouring; Vladimir sang like a nightingale; even Antonine had the street urchin’s eyes. Was he Siegfried or was he Odette? He was no longer sure, his mind spinning like the dancers in front of his eyes. The waves descended over him, kissing him with the “mysterious sadness” Pleshcheyev had referenced all those years ago, and so it was that Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky finally slipped into death.

We were asked to write this one for someone special, so I’ve chosen my mum. I don’t think I need to say anything else.

Grown Up

“The stitches are quite hard,” my mother says. “Have a feel.”

The last thing I want to do is to stretch out my hand and feel the place where she had her cancer surgery three days ago, but I feel guilty for being so selfish and so I place my fingers near the spot she’s shown me and try not to think what lies beneath her nightdress.

I found out a week ago that she had bowel cancer – only days after she’d received the news herself. Although I know that it’s inevitable she’ll die one day – she’s 76 this year, for goodness’ sake! – this has all happened too quickly, without any of us having had the chance to prepare for it.

She sits on the hospital bed, suddenly old, suddenly small. I used to think she looked like my grandmother: her face plumped out as she grew older, but she was still the mother I remembered from my childhood. Now, though, she reminds me of my great-grandmother: her face has been ravaged by age, and illness has carved deep furrows into the once smooth skin. She seems tiny – as if the cancer has sucked all the life out of her, leaving her like a deflated balloon.

She’s speaking again, telling me about the lady in the bed opposite – “Philomena,” she says, “like the film with Judi Dench.” – and how she has trouble sleeping when some of the other patients start screaming in the middle of the night. I listen to everything she’s been through and feel guilty for wanting to cry earlier in the day when I got lost on my way to the hospital. Her suffering is real and raw – something grown ups go through; whereas mine seems childish and petty by comparison.

The nurse arrives and asks my mother if she can check her stoma. I’ve already googled colostomy bags and ileostomy bags and know my mother has the latter: they removed part of her lower bowel and now all her waste trickles into the bag in liquid form. She told me she tried to change it earlier but she made a mistake and the waste seeped out over her dressing gown and slippers. I feel embarrassed for her when she tells me this: it’s a role reversal of all those times when I was a toddler and didn’t make it to the potty fast enough.

I offer to leave to give her some privacy, but she and the nurse are quite happy for me to stay with them behind the wall of curtain. Here, in this little world they’ve made for themselves, we’re cut off from the rest of the world: it’s an adult version of a fort or a tree house.

To begin with, I avert my gaze, not wanting to see the bag or the wound – or even my mum’s face as she struggles to decipher the written instructions on the printed sheet in front of her. I hand her her glasses and she reads each line slowly, pausing to let the words sink in. She sounds amazingly detached and practical – almost as if she is reading a recipe or a shopping list. When she removes the emptied bag, I wince involuntarily, half-expecting to see a gaping hole; but instead, a red blob of jelly looks back at me: a children’s dessert where I had thought to see guts and gore.

Independent to her core, she cleans her wound carefully with a dry wipe followed by a wet one. I long to help, but I know she won’t let me: she has to do this on her own. So I watch, and marvel at her bravery, and wonder how long it will be until she can’t do this on her own anymore.

She’s missed her evening meal in all the excitement. An orderly brings her a bowl of soup and a bread roll. Both remain untouched. She’s hardly eaten in four days and yet she isn’t hungry. I’m about to leave when her face twists and she asks for a bowl. Holding it in front of her, I watch her vomit an almost clear waterfall. Her stomach’s empty: she has nothing to bring up except the jug of water she’s drunk since I’ve been here.

I help her back into bed, pulling the sheet over her legs and tucking her in. This is what it means to be grown up: to care for the woman who gave birth to you; to realise that you are now the parent and she the child.

I’m 53. I’ve had three children of my own and two grandchildren; but until now, whenever I’ve been with my mum, I’ve felt like I’m still a teenager. “Don’t touch the iron – it’s hot” and “You can’t go out looking like that” still fall from her lips as easily as they did forty years ago.

I’ve always been the child in our relationship, but now our roles are reversed. I wonder how long it will be before I am feeding my toddler-mother and seeing to her personal hygiene.

“Sleep well,” I tell her, kissing her on the forehead and preparing to leave my childhood behind.

This one has a fantasy theme – which would normally be right up my street as I love medieval settings, flowery language and sword fights. However, this particular challenge asks for the fantasy to be set somewhere else, so I’ve stepped out of my comfort zone and tried my hand at urban fantasy instead.

Night Vision

Sasha stared at the email in front of her: “Your training will be complete,” it read, “once you have successfully carried out the night duty assigned to you by your commanding officer.”

She sighed as she read the words. It seemed that policing was less about using her considerable intelligence to solve crimes and more about pounding the streets, keeping an eye open for any would-be hooligans. Still, if it was a requirement …

“What you got planned for tonight?” Dev’s voice intruded on her thoughts. “Only, I was thinking of popping by ‘The Stag’ later, if you’re interested?”

She was interested: Dev was probably one of the best-looking guys she knew and he actually had a sense of humour – something that was in short supply at her local police station. Tonight was not the night for such an assignation, though. “Sorry.” She tried to put as much regret as she could into her voice. “I’d like to, but I already have plans.”

Immediately the words left her mouth, she could have kicked herself. Why hadn’t she said she had police work to do? Now Dev would think she had a date with someone else. Okay, so the email had been marked ‘Highly Confidential’ and it had stated, most explicitly, that she was to tell no one (bold font, heavily underlined) where she was going or what she was doing, but surely that didn’t include Dev? He might be a slightly newer recruit than she was, but he’d already impressed half her work buddies with his ability to remain calm in a crisis and his uncanny knack of rooting out bad guys, almost as if he could smell the guilt dripping off them.

“Some other time, then.” Dev flashed her a brilliant smile that showcased his gleaming white teeth perfectly.

“Yeh,” she replied automatically, her mind already moving on to wondering who would walk the dog if she was stuck here all night on secret police business. (If only she’d known beforehand, she could have brought Benji to work with her and walked him as she patrolled.) “Let’s definitely do it some other time.”

*

“Okay.” Julie led Sasha through a door marked ‘No Entry’ and into a room she’d never visited before. “This is where we kit you out. You’ll need a pair of these.”

“Night vision goggles?” said Sasha with surprise. “Why on earth would I need those?”

Julie lowered her voice. “What you’re about to embark on is Special Ops patrol. You’ve read Harry Potter, haven’t you?”

“Well, yes,” admitted Sasha, “but…”

“And you know that there’s a hidden wizarding world that Muggles can’t see?”

“Yes, but…”

“Well, JK Rowling didn’t make any of that up!” hissed Julie. “At least, she did – but she got the idea from the Undercover Crime Department. When we patrol at night, we’re keeping an eye on the hidden world of magic – the one most people think doesn’t really exist.”

“But it doesn’t exist!” Sasha wanted to say. She was beginning to wonder whether Julie was fit to hold such a superior position within the station. Perhaps she should request a psychiatric evaluation?

But there was no time to worry about any of this now. Julie was pushing her towards a gigantic guy in uniform who wouldn’t have looked out of place at a Giants’ Convention – if giants existed, of course. “Merv, Sasha’s your partner for this evening. It’s her first time out, so break her in gently.”

“Hi.” Sasha held out her hand but Merv ignored it. “So,” she continued, beginning to babble nervously, “Merv – is that short for Mervyn, then?”

“Mervatroyd,” grunted the Neanderthal.

Was that even a real name? wondered Sasha.

“You’re gonna need ter put ‘em on,” he said next, pointing at the goggles. “Yer won’t see nuffin’ wivout ‘em. All the magic stuff that’s hidden, that’s why you wear ‘em.”

“But you’re not wearing any!” she pointed out, not unreasonably.

Merv sighed.  “Don’ need ‘em, do I?” He glanced at Julie. “Boss, tell ‘er ‘ow it works.”

“Merv’s a half-breed,” Julia mouthed at her. “He can see the hidden world because he’s part of it himself.”

“I don’t think we’re supposed to say ‘half-breed’ anymore,” Sasha began sanctimoniously. “It’s ‘persons or entities with some magical ability’.”

“So you admit magic exists then?”

Damn! She hadn’t thought of that. “What exactly are you then, Merv?” she said at last. “Half-man and half-what?”

“Put the goggles on!” Julie said sharply. “It’s a lot easier than explanations.”

Sasha pulled the device over her eyes and gasped. In Merv’s place stood – or rather lurched – a hulking great beast that was vaguely human in shape but far uglier than anything Sasha had ever seen. Its limbs were like twisted tree trunks and its skin was a horrible greenish-grey, offset by a bulbous nose and disconcertingly red eyes.

“What is it?” Sasha gasped in horror.

“Merv,” Julie emphasised his name, “is part-man, part-Troll – and one of our finest officers. And you will be keeping him company this evening.”

Sasha thought longingly of ‘The Stag’ and Dev, then looked at the slime dripping from Merv’s nose. “Okay,” she said at last, “but I hope you’ve got a good supply of tissues because I refuse to look at snot when I’m on duty.”

*

As they began to walk down the street, Sasha knew she had to ask Merv the question that was burning a hole in her brain.

“Merv,” she began hesitantly.

“Yeh? Wha’ choo want?”

“Well, Julie said you’re half and half…” She paused delicately. “Which of your parents was human?” she said at last.

“That was my dad,” Merv said reflectively. “He wasn’t much to look at, but ‘e ‘ad a good ‘eart. ‘Sno wonder me muvver fell fer ‘im, even though she could’ve ‘ad anyone she wanted. Now, she was a real beauty…”

Sasha gave an almost imperceptible snort of disbelief.

“Troll women are known fer their pulchritude,” Merv said sternly. “Once me dad saw ‘er, there was never anyone else – not as far as ‘e was concerned. She always said she was glad I took after ‘er and not ‘im.”

Sasha listened with only half an ear. Her goggles were really most uncomfortable. She took them off, wondering if she could adjust the straps.

She was still fiddling with them when Merv let out a roar. “Clear off, yer dirty creature!”

Looking up, she realised that he was running towards a beautiful unicorn. Its white coat glistened in the moonlight and its golden horn shone. A mini-skirted woman – presumably on her way home from some nightclub – was stroking the creature’s nose and babbling something about how she’d always known it was true. It seemed unfair of Merv to chase her away, but Sasha supposed he knew what he was doing.

Or did he? She watched in horror as Merv pulled out a nasty looking knife and plunged it into the unicorn’s pure, white throat.

“What are you doing?” she screamed in horror, already mentally filing the report that said the Troll had gone berserk and slaughtered an innocent magical creature before she could stop him.

“Put them goggles back on!” thundered Merv.

Sasha did as she was told and felt her stomach turn over. In place of the unicorn stood a maggot-infested corpse of a horse. Patches of its black hair still clung to its emaciated frame and flaming eyes rolled in their sockets.

“What is it?” she whispered, askance.

“It’s a Nightmare, innit?” Merv seemed matter of fact. “Come out to prey on anyone oo’s stupid enuff ter fall fer that unicorn malarkey. S’all a glamour, innit? The white coat … the golden horn … load of old bol…”

“Yes, yes,” Sasha said hastily, “I can see that now. But how did you know it wasn’t a real unicorn?”

Merv looked at her pityingly.

“There’s no such fing as a ‘real unicorn’. ‘S all just a disguise that Nightmares wear.”

“But there must be!” she said in surprise. “I mean, there are books and paintings and … and some children’s parties have unicorn rides…” Her voice tailed off uncertainly.

“Unicorn rides!” Merv echoed bitterly. “They’d be better off letting their kiddies swim in a shark tank!”

“And you’re telling me that Nightmares are creatures, not just bad dreams?”

Merv nodded slowly. “Now you’re getting’ it,” he said as if he thought she was very stupid. “Nightmares and Gremlins – they’re bad; Pixies are just annoying; and Fairies …”

“Don’t tell me,” Sasha interrupted. “Fairies are evil and nothing like the pretty creatures you see in children’s storybooks.”

“Well,” Merv considered, “it depends, don’ it? Graffiti Fairies – yer wanna stay clear of them. But Washing Up Fairies – they’re a different matter entirely.” His voice became wistful. “Everyone would love a Washing Up Fairy, or a Cleaning Sprite – but yer hardly see any of ‘em around these days. I blame it all on Brexit.”

“Sorry?” What on earth had politics got to do with magical creatures?

“Can’t get the visas these days,” Merv explained sadly. “They’re all French Polish, yer see. An as fer the Gnome Anaesthetists … Well, all them cuts to the National Elf Service were bound to ‘ave an effect on the otherworld staff. Is it any wonder the country’s in such a state?”

It was just her luck to be lumbered with a woke troll! Sasha thought. Still, at least he wasn’t trying to get rid of her. Keeping her goggles firmly in place, she trotted beside him, eyes constantly roving for Graffiti Fairies or Leprechauns.

“Erm, we arrest Leprechauns, don’t we?” she asked, checking for clarification.

“Only when they’re drunk and disorderly,” Merv told her. “It’s Boggarts that are the worst when it comes to closing time – they drink far too much and start rampaging through the streets, knocking everyone’s bins over.”

*

For the next hour or so, they made a systematic sweep of the surrounding streets, breaking up a fight between a Kobold and a Kelpie, and arresting a dozen singing mice who insisted on disturbing the peace. Sasha found she was getting used to the goggles – in fact, after a while, she almost forgot she was wearing them; and when Merv suggested stopping off for a kebab, her excitement knew no bounds.

Despite the lateness of the hour, there was quite a crowd at the counter. Merv motioned to Sasha. “Why doncha take a seat? Yer’ve been on yer feet a while now.”

It was not until he said it that she realised how weary she felt. She sank down gratefully onto the red plastic bench. “Garlic mayo and chilli sauce on mine,” she murmured before leaning back and closing her eyes.

She let the gentle hum of customer conversation drift over her while she thought about the evening. Although she would have enjoyed an evening in Dev’s company, with perhaps a glass or three of prosecco to help her unwind, she couldn’t pretend she hadn’t had fun with Merv, learning about the hidden world she’d never realised existed. She should really have taken off her night vision goggles, but she was so tired and it seemed like such an effort to remove them…

Suddenly, the room fell quiet.  Sasha swivelled in her seat to see what had caused the drop in the noise and felt her heart clench as a huge, ugly looking – thing – almost as large as Merv pushed his way into the kebab shop. By her side, Merv froze with the kebabs still in his hand. “You don’t wanna get on the wrong side o’ one o’ them,” he breathed. “It’s an ‘Obgoblin, that is.”

“Can everyone else see him?” Sasha felt puzzled. “Only, I was wondering why they’ve all gone quiet.”

“I ‘spect that’ll be the gun ‘e’s wavin’ around,” Merv said matter of factly. “No one else in ’ere can see what ‘e really looks like – to them, ‘e’s just a guy with a weapon.”

“So, are we going to arrest him?”

“I fink that might be a good idea,” Merv said gravely. Dropping the kebabs on the table, he whirled round. “P’lice! Put yer ‘ands up now!”

The Hobgoblin shot Merv a filthy look and made a run for the door. Without pausing to take off her goggles, Sasha reacted instinctively, extending her arm and tasering the lumbering creature as it moved past her. It sank to the ground instantly and lay there twitching.

As Merv struggled to get a pair of handcuffs around the Hobgoblin’s hairy wrists, Sasha became aware of how quickly her heart was beating. Adrenalin coursed through her as she became aware that she had tackled something several times her own size on her own. So this was what policing was all about!

“Yer might wanna take yer goggles off an’ see what ‘e really looks like,” Merv instructed. There was a pause before he added poignantly, “You can remove yer filter – I can’t.”

Pulling off the equipment, Sasha found herself staring into handsome features she recognised. Who would have thought that Dev Patak was a Hobgoblin?

“He’s one of ours,” she said tersely. “One of the police recruits, I mean.”

Merv nodded sadly. “Happens every year – there’s always one or other ‘oo tries ter infiltrate us. ‘Ow do yer fink I ended up becomin’ a p’lice officer meself? Only, I saw the error of me ways an’ decided it was a job worf doin’ properly.”

Dev was slowly coming to. “Sasha?” he said a little uncertainly. “What you doing here, Babe?”

Once more, he flashed those brilliant teeth, but this time Sasha wasn’t fooled. “I know what you really are,” she hissed at him. “And I don’t like being lied to.”

“Did I ever tell you I wasn’t a Hobgoblin?” he asked.

Sasha turned to Merv. “Let’s get him back to the station.

There would be other good-looking police officers who invited her out – and in future, she would look at everyone with her night vision goggles before she let her heart get involved.