Vortex UoW 2007 by UoW Vortex

2007 Edition

Welcome to the 2007 edition of VORTEX, the University of Winchester student writing magazine. We very much hope you enjoy reading the range of material included within it. This is the third edition of the magazine since its relaunch in 2005. Since then the number of submissions by our students has grown enormously, so much so that on this occasion we have only been able to publish around 20 per cent of the material submitted. The process of selection has thus had to be extremely rigorous, and I thank very much the Editorial Board who have helped me in this. It may come as little comfort to those of you whose work has not been published this time, but the competition for inclusion in VORTEX is now intense, and personally I view this as a great success. So please keep submitting your work, so we can continue to ensure that the magazine remains exciting and of the highest quality. Stimulating reading ! Neil McCaw (Editor) University of Winchester October 2007

Editorial Board Judith Anderson Judy Waite Carole Burns

Julian Stannard Mark Rutter Joan McGavin

Contents page 03...

Emilie Lamplough, ‘The Woman in my Dreams’

page 07...

Adam Cox, ‘Picture Postcard Dream’

page 08...

Babajide Anjorin, ‘Footsteps’

page 09...

Katherine Westhorp, ‘Halos’

page 10...

Kass Boucher, ‘Silver Fox’

page 11...

Claire Gradidge, ‘She Wolf ’

page 13...

David Owen, ‘Tunnels’

page 14...

Kathy Enders, ‘The Morning City’

page 15...

Linda Broadbent, ‘Depression’

page 16...

Will Burns, ‘Appreciating Life by Defying Death’

page 17...

Wendy Falla, ‘The Cynics’ Guide to Love’

page 19...

Juliet England, ‘Untitled’

page 27...

Miriam Coley, ‘Silver Linings’

Emilie Lamplough

The Woman in my Dreams There is a lady who appears in my dreams, a beautiful woman in white. Her wavy red hair is long and sleek and her sapphire eyes sparkle like stars. I don’t know who she is. I don’t know what she wants. A brief presence, she fades away as quick as she comes - air of a graceful shadow. Who is this angel?

There was a shallow wet ditch at the edge of the wood near the farm. The pigs liked to bathe there during the summer. Lazily tossing and turning in the cool pool of mud they found relief and smiled in their pleasure, eyes closed. I enjoyed watching this. I liked the pigs, they didn’t seem to mind my company (and I was quite fond of theirs). Sometimes I even lay down and joined them. Laughing as the chill of the slime hit my belly I let myself sink.

The village children scorned me. Frayed grubby rags and lion-mare hair, I wasn’t one of them that much was clear. Sometimes I became the game though; sometimes they came after me, trapping me in a circle pelting mud and stones, laughing at the sport. Look at the feral child, they’d taunt, look at the beastie! Screaming at them I roared and I snarled, leaping at the nearest person until pinned down by the group. I got used to the taste of blood.

I am in a daffodil field; flowers smile at the sun. The sky is blue, the grass is green. I start skipping, I dance. All sounds are alive, tweeting birds and humming bees. Then there is a voice and I stop in my tracks. I can hear a faint voice, a woman’s voice, calling a name I don’t think I remember - not sure. She appears in the distance. What do you want? Is she calling me? Don’t leave! But a heavy fog descends and her form disappears in the haze. I break into a run, desperate to follow yet brought to a halt by a wood. Thick branches are everywhere, wrapped in sharp brambles that cut and ensnare. Kicking and screaming, I beg the woman to come back but no figure moves amidst the trees and my pleas are met with silence. She is already gone.

I always had mash. Slops was one form; oats, corn and barley ground to a watery pulp. Intended for the pigs really but I could get in if I was lucky. It’s not that they minded my sharing but it was first come first served, you had to be quick. Sometimes we devoured the goo quite content side by side but failure to reach the trough in time and my share was cancelled. There was no room to squeeze between the fat bulks of flesh and nothing was ever wasted.

It didn’t always mean hunger though. An elderly couple lived in the farmhouse nearby and they were quite choosy with meals; hammering on the waste bins was announcement of scraps. Now and then it was just to tease me and I’d sprint to the back door to ﬁnd nothing there. But when there was something, it could be quite generous: chewy pink meat, lumpy brown sauce, squares of black bread, all mashed together in abundance. I polished the bowl.

There’s a crib, there’s a cry. I move forward and see a baby inside. Wrapped in a white blanket the infant looks up at me with small squinting eyes. I decide it’s a girl. I want to hold her but a woman steps in front and bars my way - that woman. May I hold her? She shakes her head and looks solemn, her almond-shaped eyes seeming sad. I feel angry, why not? She won’t answer. Turning her back on me, she gently lifts the baby from the crib and holds it to her chest. She turns to face me again but won’t meet my eye, walking right past and she’s gone. Left alone with the empty crib, I climb inside and hug myself tight.

The rain often compelled me to sleep in the barn. I didn’t mind really, it was more dry and sheltered than anywhere else, and the scent of grain and straw should have been soothing along with the sound of the cows. The cattle were wary though, wrinkling their noses if I came near. Squalid creature. Who was I to invade their quarters? Who was I to try to huddle with them? They blocked the entrance and I’d lie down alone in the coarse bed of hay. That was why I preferred the sty. The pigs oﬀered security, accepting my presence with good-natured grunts - soft, buoyant and open-mouthed. Snug in the porcine enclosure we’d sleep nose to nose and I felt safe.

In the winter, the old couple allowed me to sleep in the cellar. It was necessary, that was acknowledged, and the warmest they’d give but I didn’t like it. The old mattress I’d lie on was rough and damp as was the jumper I used as a cover. Each morning I woke it was the same familiar stench that ﬁlled my nostrils; the same pungent smell

of urine as I lay there drenched, curled up on the sodden material and shivering in the cold. Wintry air seeped through the sandstone.

The stale scent of drink was prominent too. Some bottles lay empty and broken but most were stacked high on the shelves, way out of my reach. One time I saw something though, something gleaming at the foot of the stair. An odd shiny shape against rotten wood. Picking up a steel ﬂask, I shook it to check the contents and felt a sharp spatter inside. It was full and I was empty so, gagging, I gulped it down. Throat on ﬁre, a sour taste danced on my burning tongue but I swallowed it all. The drink made me feel powerful. It made me feel strong.

I am sitting on a chair with a table before me and there’s a man at the opposite end. A man with no face. It’s a black room so he a shines a light and I’m forced to shield my eyes. He doesn’t notice and holds up a picture of a lady. A beautiful woman. Tapping the image, he points at me accusingly and I’m speechless, instantly recognizing the smiling face and yet ﬁnding it strange. I don’t know her. I shake my head but the man is angry, slamming his ﬁst on the surface so hard that it shakes. My guilt is already decided.

Sal was a goat I regularly played with, nearly my height had he the horns. A dull manifestation, large pendulous ears drooped down his head like those of a squat-legged basset. Still, he had the soul of a kid and a dancer at that, and together we made a duet: tossing our heads we sprang and we spun, whirling in circles with vigour and skill. This wasn’t the best pastime though. My favourite game was Animal.

The rule of Animal is simple: mimic as many diﬀerent voices as you can. I loved this contest as I always won. The challenge would start and I’d be three creatures at once, lion, tiger, panther. I roared furiously. HEE-HAW, I’m a donkey, ARF-ARF, I’m a hound. Sal would give it his all but could only do sheep. Sometimes the pigs tried to join in but could not pass beyond human squeals. KLURK-KLURK, I’m a chicken, MUUUUU, I’m a -

Something strikes the back of my head with such force I’m knocked down, my chin slamming against the ground. The earth is hard and pebbled. There’s a warm taste in my mouth. Shut the hell up, says a voice.

Pressing my nose hard against the double-pane glass, I make out the inside. Two familiar shapes sit propped on a sofa but I only see the back of their heads. The old woman’s locks are wild and wiry and the fat man beside her has no hair at all; a warm glow comes from the gas-lamps and bounces oﬀ the peak of his shiny domed skull. He reminds me of the sofa: frayed and saggy.

They both face a large box with a frontage that glows. A small ﬁgure stands dead on the screen. That woman. Gazing at me with a kind gentle stare I ﬁnd her both soothing and sad. What is it she wants from me?

Adam Cox

Picture Postcard Dream Welcome to Britain:

The picture postcard dream Of tea cups and whipped cream, Where even silence has a surreptitious scent, Peppermint, rose-bowl, fresh trout from the Trent, Where even nothing has a guidebook to sell, A historical Mecca from any hovel or shell, Where every street corner is paved with gold, Lined with the dead selling stories of old, Where every martyr matters, every single day, Every ﬁeld of gold, every bale of honey-hued hay, Where every brick counts, every ship’s deck, Every one a milestone around our nation’s neck, Remember Guido Fawkes, St. Paddy, Pentecost, Each a step closer to a closet country lost, From the past we continue to beg, steal and borrow, Until yesterday is all we have . . . There is no tomorrow.

Babajide Anjorin

footsteps Footsteps echo in staccato along cobbled corridors The Eagles’ march scatters ethnic tribes Jutes Celts Nubians crowd the Colosseum Vespasian’s dream is Titus’ glory. Oath bound Viking Speaks Latin on an English throne, Persona non grata – awakens, Arrived yesternight, late Eight-thirty unlock, step out, wary. Collect razor, toothbrush, two become one The beast’s belly resembles a slave ship. Cimmaroons, Eden’s children ﬁght on Broadwaters, Saharan trade routes are globalized Time colludes and collides In capitalism’s arena, As Roland’s horn Called Charlemagne, Bush calls Blair. Templars battling Saracens, Predatory martyrs dispense terror. As wide eyed cats and dawgs Populate London tower blocks Victims of Afghan poppies And the bells toll and toll Through the ages. But for whom? But for whom?

Katherine Westhorp

Halos

Kass Boucher

Silver Fox Silver Fox collects the rent, and in his smile thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s nothing meant, but still I feel close to hyperventilating, when Silver Fox collects the rent.

Claire Gradidge

She Wolf

say all this crap about drinking? cut down say just one thing is drinker’s secret not drip pour thing is it’s one you gotta worry about the ﬁrst feeling edge oﬀ away from it all you’re a god don’t matter your grade teacher said cack handed paul you cain’t never draw half hour maybe you feel it half hour no one can touch you writing on the sky writing on sand wolf suckled you been wolf kindled the savage comes out black and green you see the red and you know stir it with a stick you know cocktail hour run round the edges move it spray and broken glass it means something pain seeing through it means no accident no end no nail it nail how it feels dripping white face like milk wolf tits like mother on the farm like string like stringing out on JD on a wire like nail it

speed and the need cut down gotta just one gotta go this crap this yellow and black this blue faster splash you put your hand down ﬂat on it canvas ﬂat to remind jung young men need speed need how to go the shape the black to control the way the speed need wolf teeth biting hair of the dog hair of the OUTTA MY FACE outta the way I’m nature I’m the green speed and the tree convertible nothing changes no nothing no end no nothing

*Abstract expressionist painter, Paul Jackson Pollock 1912-1956 died in a single-car, alcohol related accident. One of his most famous paintings is ‘She Wolf ’. Of his work, he is recorded as saying: “There is no accident...I have no fear of changes.”

Tunnels

David Owen I

Joan is having trouble with her soul. Now that she is alone she finds solace in a pen, but cannot stop her soul from dribbling out of her thumb onto the page. Joan knows it is not proper to speak of one’s soul. Instead she will write of that other personal matter: II Sex. Henry is thinking about anal sex. The London Underground often causes this. Perhaps it is the summer heat, the shape of his daughter’s thighs, III the smooth trains slipping into dark tunnels. Maureen is placing the top layer of a A woman’s voice drips from the tannoy, wedding cake ‘The next station is: Anal Sex.’ into her freezer. It will not fit Henry sighs and mops his brow. alongside the butt of a six-foot sub lifted from an emptied conference room, the bowl of birthday jelly frozen solid like a birdbath in winter. IV Maureen will not remember Sal is eating a bag of chips that her grandchildren aren’t coming with mushy peas. to finger the treats she has saved. She is propped on a toilet cistern,

a man slowly bowing into darkness between her thighs. Sal is empty, a slick pink sac of skin. The man will be birthed onto the ﬂoor, hand her a ten pound note from his pocket. Sal will feel nothing. She has missed the nightbus.

Kathy Enders

TheThe Morning City Morning City The Morning City The fast sharp crack of high heels on concrete frightens me a little.

Some high-powered devil woman with her hairless shins and veined feet. I like you better on your way home, with your gentle heavy clip clop, you shoed old horse with bloodshot eyes.

COMPLEX LOW LOSING IDENTITY HIGH EXPECTED BY 24 HOURS LATER MODERATE. FORTIES THUNDERY. BIGHT BECOMING OCCASIONAL AT FIRST CYCLONIC PERHAPS MODERATE DECREASING LATER.

Will Burns

Appreciating Life by Defying Death Wait for me, crashing plane full of uranium I’m stuck here, looking at a red termite mound Wait for me, non-discriminatory disease I’m stuck here, holding Maddey’s hand Wait for me, timed explosives I’m stuck here, smelling an oriental lily Wait for me, cancer of the oesophagus I’m stuck here, kissing Debbie’s neck Wait for me, derailing passenger train I’m stuck here, snorkelling the Great Barrier Reef Wait for me, nuclear warhead I’m stuck here, daydreaming on Ventnor beach Wait for me, AK-47 round I’m stuck here, tasting roast chestnuts Wait for me, erupting volcano I’m stuck here, diving Erawan waterfalls Wait for me, death I’m stuck here, living

The Cynics’ Guide to Love Lies: the beginning of the end. Big ones, small ones, white and slightly grey ones, whoppers, heart stoppers, convoluted tales of extraordinary deviousness.

Over it: over him: overall a disastrous experience – never to be forgotten or repeated... until the next time.

Stab: the quickest way to a man’s heart. Through his chest wall with a six inch knife, ice pick or any other sharp object.

Trust: no longer exists in this relationship, ﬂew out of the window hand in hand with truth, never to return.

Leaving: packing bags and moving on. Discarding all those sentimental little gifts, notes attached to the fridge door, the half eaten chocolate cake.

Other: signiﬁcant or not, him, her, the other man, the other woman, another time, another place, another dimension, maybe...

alentine ? Ha Ha Ha. I laughed so much I almost wet myself! You opened the door with a wry smile and a huge erection. Or was it the other way around?

Emotions: mixed, running high, red and raw to the point of bleeding, open wounds, feelings too near the surface. EXHAUSTED.

Wendy Falla

Juliet England

Untitled

August 2006

I push through the glass door into the bar and I am instantly engulfed in its suﬀocating warmth; its stale human whiﬀ.

Once my eyes have adjusted to the gloom, I spot him at the counter that runs the length of the far window, staring at the human tide passing by. Occasionally, he glances down at the mobile phone in his left hand. The space between his eyebrows, never the greatest distance, has become non-existent.

A coil of smoke curls up from the Marlboro Light between his yellow-stained ﬁngers, his right hand slung down by the side of his stool. A dark look smoulders on his face. My heart plummets. Justin is going to be hard work today.

He is wrapped in a silver puﬀa jacket, emphasising his large frame, and holds himself with a certain style, almost arrogantly deﬁant in his right to be here, in this bar at this moment.

His face is softer, ﬂeshier than when I ﬁrst knew him as a student eighteen years ago, but retains something of the good-looker who took the university fashion show by storm. (More than a decade later, at his parents’ house, he sat endlessly replaying the video.)

Now, in this cheap and cheerless bar, he catches my eye.

‘Where have you been?’ he grumbles in greeting, an edge to his voice. ‘Why can’t you answer your phone?’

‘Nice to see you, too, Justin,’ I return, breezily. ‘My train was delayed. Are you all right for a drink?’

Silly question. I glance at the crumpled cans and empty glasses lined up like toy soldiers on the counter. I fetch a coﬀee then perch on a stool next to him.

He lights a fag, grey ﬂakes ﬂoating into the ash tray to join the stubs of the six cigarettes he has got through in the last hour.

Being with Justin means sitting in a constant fug of smoke, an endless litter of fag ends. They are his crutch, his prop, despite his many attempts at giving up, heralded with great fanfare but inevitably doomed.

Along with the chain-smoking, chain-drinking is almost a full-time occupation. Only when he is pissed does he feel truly free from the demons that rattle around his head: it must get pretty crowded in there. Demons that can be wonderful, but which are mostly fairly hellish company.

I drag Justin, with surprisingly little protest, into the non-smoking area. I know that, once the food has arrived, the meal, eaten mechanically and without pleasure, will command all his attention.

Food, drink, sex, cigarettes, drugs – always he is a consumer.

The silences between us are not usually this uncomfortable.

‘So how’s the job?’ I ask.

Justin, who could sell his own grandmother, started a new telesales job a few weeks back. He looks shifty.

‘I gave it up.’

This is not surprising. No job Justin does lasts long. Always, there is some excuse. They were talking about me behind my back. The boss is a nightmare. It was too diﬃcult. I didn’t like it.

‘It was boring,’ he says. ‘Anyway, I’m gonna head home. I’m just... you know, busy.’

I am annoyed now. What’s an unemployed, manic depressive wastrel like him got to do all day? How can he be busy? I love Justin, but today I want to thump him.

‘I love you, Widget,’ he says, mind-reading. ‘But sometimes you do my head in.’

I stay in the bar, watching until the crowd has swallowed up his bobbing head.

September 2006

The end, when it comes, is unexpectedly calm.

I am on the evening train when the ﬁrst message arrives, saying he wants to communicate by email or texting. This is exasperating. We have been struggling to get along for a while, and I want to talk. Yet he shies away from this. He doesn’t want anything ‘too heavy’, which is rich, coming from someone who thrives on life’s more emotionally intense moments.

Outside the icy station, discarded polystyrene fast food cartons lap at my feet as I tap out my reply.

Why don’t we just leave it? Permanently.

Seconds later, my phone jerks in my pocket.

Fine. Have a nice life.

My thumb is ﬂying over the keypad now.

OK. You won’t be hearing from me again. Best Wishes.

Best Wishes. After eighteen years of knowing Justin, fourteen of them knowing him well, I am signing oﬀ devoid of emotion.

Riding home, I feel oddly liberated, almost giddy with relief.

There is little sense that I am abandoning him, for my friendship seems no longer able to support him. Yet I am shocked at the absence of regret. Where is the grieving, the feeling that someone has died? Where there should be pain at the loss of a friendship, there is not a ﬂicker.

And there is an air of ﬁnality this time. (It’s not as if I can say Can’t we be friends?) Previously, he has ‘ended’ the friendship countless times. The next day he would call, contrite. ‘Sorry, Widget.’ (Using that old nickname to tug at my emotions.)

At other times we wouldn’t speak for weeks, each of us vying to see whose pride would crack ﬁrst.

Now I must think of him diﬀerently, in the past. My ex-friend.

September 1988 – September 1993

There never was any romance, though some people assumed we were lovers. Justin would take my hand occasionally in public, and we shared my bed, once or twice, cocooned cosily in separate duvets.

In fact, Justin was gay, although this was one of the least interesting things about him. There were men, occasionally paid for, although the capacity to love - truly love and be loved - eluded him.

The year after graduation, as we dodged the lunchtime crowds of the busy town centre, he ﬁrst mentioned his problems ‘dans la tête’. The previous summer had been an appalling procession of delusions and voices and paranoia; the resurfacing of the manic depression that had blighted his teenage years. His bipolar disorder caused him to lurch giddily between euphoria and despair.

I felt a strange tightness in my throat and stomach. Justin the peacock who strutted about the university surrounded by his adoring coterie was mentally ill. But this was before I understood that its icy ﬁnger can beckon anyone. Like those National Lottery adverts, It could be you.

From then on, Justin became so closely woven into the fabric of my life he was almost indistinguishable. I came to have the faintest understanding of the demons he danced with. Demons that dazzled brightly even as they wreaked unspeakable havoc.

July 2001

It’s a beautiful summery Sunday morning, the perfect time to ﬁnd oneself at a psychiatric hospital.

A nurse shows me to Justin’s room. I knock, hear a murmur of assent, and enter. He is sitting on the edge of the bed. His vest and shorts look crumpled and grubby. The room is sparse, clinical.

I wrap my arms around his bear-like frame, while his hang by his side. He draws no comfort from this, doesn’t recognise me.

‘It’s nice to... see you.’ (I am ﬂoundering hopelessly now.)

On previous hospital visits we have walked in the grounds, with me using the sometimes clumsy saw of my friendship to try to hack a path through the maze of his illness.

I was in this hospital’s smoking room with Justin once when he turned to another patient.

‘Have you ever contemplated suicide?’ he asked. ‘And do you believe in Jesus?’

I was nowhere to be seen the night when Justin wandered oﬀ down a leafy road, just outside here, willing a car to mow him down.

May 2006

Tonight the texts and calls have come in an unrelenting stream.

A couple of times, he rings from the village pub. He has stormed oﬀ there during dinner with his parents and one of their friends. His father has enraged him, ‘showing oﬀ abominably’, apparently. Some word, some gesture has unleashed the demons.

The texts begin relatively mildly. My Dad is a pretentious wanker. Then, as the alcohol kicks in, he calls.

He is ranting wildly, trying to explain what has happened. There is ﬁre in his blood.

‘I couldn’t stay in that house a second longer!’ he yells.

The loudness of his voice and the background music from the pub make him sound distorted. I ask why he stormed out, can’t hear his reply. He puts the phone down.

He calls back, saying I have been unhelpful, awkward, and made him feel worse.

Then he hangs up again.

I ﬂick the remote, channel-hopping restlessly.

My mobile phone is buzzing now.

U are sad and warped. Why would anyone want to be friends with someone like you?

Followed seconds later by:

Your boyfriend is a sad tosser. You deserve each other.

I feel chilled as the phone goes again.

‘Why are you doing this to me?’ he says. ‘Why do you make me feel like this?’

‘Justin,’ I protest feebly.

He pauses, and I picture him taking a drag on his cigarette. Then he coughs violently.

‘I don’t want to hear from you again, you deformed bitch.’

‘OK, that’s it. I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.’

This time, I put the receiver down ﬁrst.

I feel a lurch at another text alert.

Don’t contact me or my parents again.

Still trembling, I call Justin’s father. Paul says he will go and fetch his son. I try not to picture the scene, Paul striding puce-faced into the bar with its swirly-patterned carpet, his son hunched over a pint at a corner table.

It is some weeks before I bring myself to speak to Justin again.

Summer 2006

I cannot find Justin’s new flat, the first place he has lived independently in years. In this modern complex, all the blocks look hopelessly the same. I ring a bell outside what I hope is his building, but there is no reply.

Eventually, there he is, in the doorway, a look of thunder in his eyes. He is shiny red from last month’s holiday, which somehow makes him look more dramatic, more ﬁerily angry.

‘Christ, what’s the matter with you?’ he splutters, erupting into his smoker’s violent choking.

His ﬂat has the unmistakeable air of a lone male resident. It is modern and functional, with bare ﬂoors. An overnight bag lies open on the single bed, spilling out enough medication for a small pharmacy.

In the sitting room, an open window gives on to a cramped balcony. The ﬂat is near the railway and trains pass regularly, gently rattling the window panes, their constant rumblings almost comforting.

It feels unnaturally formal as we settle with mugs of tea on the leather sofa.

Justin indicates a glass frame, propped up by the window, full of photos of the Greek holiday. Justin on the beach, patting a grey dog. Justin at night, in his best purple shirt, cigarette stub glowing red.

He asks how things are going with Graham. Previously, Justin had taken a brotherly interest in my doomed romantic affairs. When one car crash of a liaison went into freefall, he told me I was wonderful, that I would find somebody better, clicking his fingers to show how quickly.

As Graham and I grew closer, Justin and I edged further apart. I took longer to return his calls or texts. I no longer shot into a quiet room at work to discuss his latest crisis.

Justin’s interest became scorn and, possibly, panic. My life was changing, while his remained the same hopeless swirl of bars and cigarettes, aimless afternoons and failing jobs.

The ﬁrst time Graham came over for dinner, the phone rang loudly halfway through pudding, its shrill tone disturbing our subdued conversation. Justin was eager to know how our evening was going.

Next day, Graham (the perfect gentleman, at least at ﬁrst, he slept on the sofa) said the phone had rung twice by the time I wandered in sleepily to say good morning. There was no need to dial 1471.

Back in my bedroom, I noticed the text alert on my phone. I wanted to hurl the thing across the room.

Did u sleep with him, then?

So, why put up with it? Why remain Justin’s friend for so long? Why go to that fetid hospital smoking room? Why spend countless Friday evenings stretched out on the sofa, phone clamped to my ear, asking about his latest hospital appointment, or the drugs he’d been prescribed? Why be there for him when he cried in the car for no reason?

In truth, there were myriad reasons why I didn’t walk. Certainly not because he was ‘nice’. My Aunty Pauline, my colleagues are ‘nice’. It’s not top of the list of things I seek in more intimate relationships.

Back then, I could no more have given up Justin than my left lung. Something about his dark side pulled me irresistibly towards him and kept me there through the worst of times. Part of me felt sadness, tinged with irritation, at the way his life had run to waste. Perhaps I thought I could change him.

There were few people with whom I shared such total understanding. No one else used the same little silly Spanish phrases that, years old, were a hangover from student days. Few people still called me Widget, my old nickname. (His were Jus, Justino, me Juzza.) No one else shared such comfortable telephonic silences. Sometimes, just knowing he was at the end of the line was enough. In my last house he was a constantly comforting presence, standing by the back door ﬂicking ash into the yard while I sat in the bright kitchen. We talked, we talked, we talked.

And, for every ﬁve abusive messages, there would be one (I do love u and u’ve put up with all my warts and don’t deserve any of it) that erased the others.

January 2007

The texts are happening again.

U r a really mean shit whose only hope is to die withering. Go rot.

Some are so bizarre I laugh out loud: U are too short and fat. And odd-looking!

I delete again, swatting them away with no more irritation than I would a ﬂy, his words no longer capable of inﬂicting pain.

Miriam Coley

Silver Linings 4 down...’Every dark cloud has one’ (6.6). Hayden Thomas stroked the newspaper’s folded square with long, pale ﬁngers.

‘Just like my name,’ he said to himself, checking this by spelling it out carefully. He tapped each digit of his hands in turn, starting with the left hand little finger that wore a mellow gold signet ring. He got to the ‘h’ and pressed particularly hard with his middle finger, right hand, by force of habit. There was no reassuring rap of metal. Of course, it would have been (6.11) if his father hadn’t anglicised their surname when they had first arrived. In the Wales of 1933, ’Tomaszewski’ would not fit at all.

Staring out of the window he could see small white clouds. What did each one of these have? He pulled his attention back to the crossword. Now, where was he? His eyes wandered around the room. A series of yellow post-its punctuated the wall like a line of miniature cotton dusters. Reminders. ‘Today is Tuesday’, ‘Shut the window’, ‘Tuesday 11.15, Memory Workshop with Verity and Josh’. Hayden slowly shook his head. Tuesday, yes, that made perfect sense. The window was shut too. He placed a hand against the cool glass to make sure and the clouds caught his attention again. ‘Heavy Rain’ (5.4)? He tapped the window sill.

Julie, Hayden’s main carer, bustled up the corridor. Quiet trainers made little noise on the sage green carpet, but jangling keys around her neck announced her arrival. The door opened.

‘Good morning Mr Thomas!’ she said in her singsong way. ‘How are you today?’

‘Well, thank you, er...’

‘It’s Julie, your key worker, Mr Thomas.’

‘Key worker,’ he repeated, then distractedly added, ‘Lock Smith (4.5)?’

‘Shall I come in then? Pick up your bits and bobs?’

Julie did not have much to do in the tidy room. She noticed the newspaper, folded into its neat shape. Today there were some letters written in. On some evenings she did a quick whisk round and found the puzzle completed, with neat crosses, like a cross-stitch sampler.

‘Ready to come down? It’s Josh and Verity’s visit, you know.’

‘I’m not dressed Julie, I need my...’ Hayden’s voice trailed oﬀ.

‘Tie, my dear? Or shoes?’

Hayden nodded and walked the few steps to his day chair. He sat carefully and slid oﬀ his leather slippers.

‘Brown or black?’ Julie asked. Mentally Hayden tutted.

‘Tan, Julie. I am wearing grey today...’ He watched as Julie’s capable arms ﬁshed the shoes out from his cupboard.

Julie knew not to rush her resident along the corridor. He often would stop to check his clothing, or to run his ﬁngers along the hem of a curtain. She didn’t know him well. He had only been at Berryﬁeld’s for a month, brought in by his daughter-in-law. He’d taken to wandering the High Street and couldn’t be contained.

Josh looked up as Hayden entered the room. He and his colleague Verity had been advised that this gentleman might be a good subject. Verity was scrabbling under the table, plugging in a small tape recorder. On top of the table was a box.

Hayden took in the scene as he entered the room: slumbering residents in the ubiquitous day chairs; a collection of sorry plants. Then the young people. The chap was standing, he was tall and slim, probably about a 30-inch waist, and with shoulders it would be a joy to ﬁt. The young

lady was wearing a little jacket with a dog-tooth print. They both smiled at him. Had he met them before?

The young woman now came towards him, hand outstretched.

‘You remember Verity, Mr Thomas,’ prompted Julie, inaccurately.

Hayden looked at the table. The young man oﬀered him a seat.

‘Hello, we have some things for you to look at.’

Julie and Verity now joined them, Julie dropping into her chair like a stone, Verity sliding her small hips into the place next to Hayden.

There was a silence.

Verity put her hand on the A4 size box file, and then flipped the lid open. She began placing different objects onto the table, each in its own space. Like Kim’s game, thought Julie.

Hayden began reverently to touch the item nearest him, speaking softly to himself.

‘Well, this is your tailor’s chalk see.’ He picked up the flat blue disc confidently, holding it like a stone he could skim across the sea in long tacking stitches. ‘Better than any modern day pen, you can do bold lines then just flick them away, if you want.’

The next item was a bright yellow tape measure. This he unrolled, pulling the whole sixty inches into a straight line on the edge of the table. He nodded, the familiar graduations speaking of certainties to him.

Animatedly he reached for a third. He did not see the satisﬁed glance that Julie, Verity and Josh shared. Slipping the silver thimble onto his middle ﬁnger, right hand, he sat up and looked at the others, ready to leave.

‘Just one or two other things, Mr Thomas,’ said Verity, her hand resting on his forearm, a gesture that both encouraged and restrained. ‘Would you like to see the fabrics too?’

Verity brought out a neat pile of swatches. Hayden reached for these, placing the tape measure out of the way, around his neck. Deftly he made three piles: wools, cottons and silks.

‘Tell us about these, Mr Taylor,’ said Josh.

‘It’s Thomas the tailor,’ corrected Hayden, running the worsted wools through his ﬁngers. ‘Suiting really depends on your budget and also how hard wearing you need your suit to be. Naturally you

can’t beat wool for comfort. Especially Welsh wool!’ He smiled at his audience. ‘Now, for nice weight cotton I recommend Egyptian as it washes well and is crisp. These stripes can disguise some ﬁgure ﬂaws.’ He glanced at Julie. ‘And this check would be best with a plain weave jacket. See how it argues with your dog-tooth?’ He laid the check fabric square gently on Verity’s sleeve.

Hayden moved onto the ﬁne silks. One by one he laid them out, straightening them, ordering them from dark to light.

‘So, this black taﬀeta could face the revers of an evening jacket - lots of call for that with the Masons,’ he added with a wry smile. ‘I like a nice navy for an overcoat and this,’ he reached for the lightest grey, ‘I suppose this is your silver lining...’

He looked up at Julie.

‘What’s that expression?’ he asked.

‘Every dark cloud has a,’ Julie oﬀered.

‘Silver Lining!’ Hayden joined in, adding ‘six, six’ to himself. A smile of contentment played on his lips.

‘If there are some needles and thread in the box perhaps I could go and sort out the hem on the green curtain in the corridor?’

www.siferdesign.co.uk

For further information on Vortex contact: Neil McCaw Faculty of Arts University of Winchester neil.mccaw@winchester.ac.uk

2007 Edition