Ghost Ship

Hallowe’en is almost upon us, and I have a true ghost story for you. I know it is true because the events happened to me and some of my family a few days ago.

I observe all the common superstitions. For example, I do not put new shoes on tables, give knives to friends as gifts or bring hawthorn blossom indoors. However, I have never taken ghost stories seriously, no matter how scary they are. All my life I have been convinced that if the supernatural world does exist, it cannot affect the living. After what happened to me on a day out at the seaside, I am reconsidering this long-held belief.

Labrador Love

Mark first saw the big white-breasted fox in Reynolds, a strip of woodland that lay between a motorway and the new estate where he had recently bought his first house. Although the council called Reynolds a country park, runners, cyclists and casual walkers were deterred by the rampant brambles and overhanging branches, so it belonged to the dog people.

Jade, a two-year-old golden labrador, was the reason why Mark circled Reynolds twice a day in all weathers. Soon after moving into his two bedroom mid-terrace new build, he had adopted her from a colleague who was transferring to the company’s Singapore office. Mark was not jealous. At the age of thirty-five he was eager to embrace a relaxed and healthy lifestyle. For him, there would be no more staggering into work straight from a night of clubbing, no more jet-lag after sales trips when he saw only airports and no more crazy weekends with girls who dumped him for guys with bigger expense accounts.

Are You Sorry You Didn’t Work?

As well as being a self-employed garden designer, I volunteer at our local community centre, so I have more than enough to do. Nevertheless, when a certain ‘save the date’ email landed in my inbox, I dropped everything and booked a flight.

‘I’m going to stop Helen making a fool of herself,’ I told my sister.

‘You’re a killjoy, Luv. I can’t wait for Mum’s wedding. It’ll be fun being the daughters of the bride.’

I was born during our mother’s student anarchist phase, so I was brought up to call my parents by their first names. By the time my sister came along, twenty years later, my mother Helen had learned that life is easier if you pretend to be a nice normal family.

Breaking Ground

The Covid-19 pandemic sent shock waves through the community centre, but eventually we returned to what passes for normal around here. Sadly I can’t say the same about my one-woman gardening enterprise. In 2020 I’d been self-employed for less than a year, so I didn’t qualify for a payout from the government. I was allowed to work out of doors, but when my old car broke down I couldn’t afford to have it repaired. Weeks after restrictions ended I was still walking from job to job, pushing my tools around in a trolley ‘borrowed’ from the local supermarket. I’d almost given up on my dream of becoming a successful garden designer when a former local bigwig turned up out of the blue and changed my life.

Walking the Walk

The platinum jubilee is almost upon us. All kinds of high jinks have been planned at the community centre but with a pandemic in its third year, the cost of living sky-high and grim news from abroad on the airwaves, we’re in no mood to bring out the bunting. One afternoon our manager, Erica, summons everyone who happens to be on the premises to what she calls a ‘motivational meeting’.

I’m there to plant celebratory flowers in the yard, so I get roped into Erica’s communal pep talk. I drop my trowel and rush to the office in time to bag the only guest chair. Marlon, the youth leader, sits down on one arm of it and Yogi Tony perches on the other. So many people cram into the room that eventually I can only glimpse Erica between two stout ladies from the Book Club. At the last minute, Bub elbows her way through the crowd. ‘You don’t mind, do you Lovey?’ she says, plumping herself down on my lap. Now all I can see is her scraggy blonde bun.

Home Cooking

I’m happy to say I’ve recently made a new friend, in spite of us all being in lockdown. You could say our shared love of nature brought us together.

One day in February I hear there’s a black swan on the lake, so I give myself the afternoon off and walk down to the nature reserve. I find the gorgeous creature bobbing on the water and posing like an A-list celeb. Unfortunately, its fans don’t bother to look where they’re going, so I soon find myself backing into a hedge. This is not a new experience for me. Since social distancing began last year, I’ve spent a lot of time in hedges. Usually I have them all to myself.

Not this time.

I trip on the rough ground and stumble into the foliage. Someone shouts ‘Jeepers!’, then there’s a loud bump. I look around to see where the noise is coming from.

Vintage Pickles

I find Bub, my fellow community volunteer, and her ninety-five year old next door neighbour, Elsie, sitting on garden chairs in front of their terraced houses. Well wrapped up to keep out the December chill, they’re gossiping over the low fence between their gardens. Bub has squashed her scraggy fair hair into a bobble hat far too small for her. Elsie, who is rocking a faded tartan beret from circa 1962, holds an enormous green cabbage. As if she’s directing traffic, Bub raises a hand.

‘Lovage, stop right there! Them yellow flowers is exactly six feet from my door. The pink ones mean you’re too close.’

When I gave Bub a few plants left over from one of my gardening jobs, I didn’t expect them to be used as a measure of social distance. Nevertheless, I halt by the winter pansies, giving the cyclamens a wide berth.

Elsie is looking grumpy, so I try to cheer her up with a joke about the massive legume.

The Welcome Soap

From the safety of her doorstep, the alpha female of the Over Fifties Club is hollering to me: ‘This is all your fault! You jinxed us, when you predicted 2020 was going to be full of lovely surprises!’

On the pavement, I hover at a safe distance, both from my friend’s sharp tongue, and any Covid-19 bugs to which she may, inadvertently, be giving house room. For once, I work up the nerve to answer her back: ‘Be fair, Bub! You can blame me for lots of things, but not this pandemic!’

‘Then, who done it? I don’t see nobody putting their hand up. Not even Erica.’

‘Erica? Is she back at work?’

‘She drove past a few minutes ago. That precious BMW of hers was full of files and folders.’

Where Did Our Love Go?

Lovage, gardening entrepreneur and part-time volunteer, is squatting in the closed Community Centre for the duration of the Pandemic. Left without an income, she is in despair until Bub, matriarch of the Over-Fifties Club, persuades eccentric survivalist, Red, to employ her.

Why have I chosen to squat in a concrete labyrinth smelling of pine cleanser and cheap biscuits? Because anything’s better than sharing lockdown with my bossy sister and her moody fiancé. Down the community centre, I have sole use of the kitchen and I can choose from a selection of shower cubicles. Best of all, I sleep like a log on my camp bed padded with yoga mats, undisturbed by the sounds of late-night box sets or 3am coitus. For me, it’s a no-brainer.

For the Duration

When I arrive for my regular shift at the Community Centre, our manager is taping a poster to the inside of the front door. It reads, ‘Closed for the Duration of the Pandemic’.

‘How long?’ I mouth at her through the glass.

Erica gestures to me to keep my distance before she pushes her way out, buttocks first, with laptop under one arm and a bundle of files under the other. She pauses to lock up. ‘About twelve weeks. Stay safe, Lovey!’

‘Lovage! My name is Lovage!’

She waves goodbye, hops into her BMW and drives off. It’s all right for her, working remotely in a four-bedroom family semi with spacious garden and view over the golf course. That’s what I call ‘social distancing’. As for me, I’m single and I’ve been self-employed for less than a year…

The Penalty Fudge

‘Bub, I’m excited for this New Year! I just know that 2020 is going to be full of lovely surprises.’

‘Don’t fall for that bullshit, Lovey. It’s the booze talking. Be careful with them tumblers.’

While tidying the Community Centre kitchen after our New Year party, Bub and I were swigging fruit punch, not from the huge alcohol-free bowl on the buffet, but from a secret jug in the broom cupboard. I hadn’t asked light-fingered Myrtle where she got the bottle of rum she emptied into it, because I’d never been more in need of a stiff drink. Leaning against the fridge, I dabbed my forehead with a tea-towel. ‘Can you believe I’ve had an email from my baby sister? It’s ages since I’ve seen her.’

‘I’d keep it that way if I were you, girl. My sister’s a stuck-up cow. I don’t speak to her, unless I have to. And ain’t it a bit sad calling your sister a baby, when you’re nearly fifty?’

Free Travel

If there were ever a ‘most annoying person’ competition up the community centre, I know who’d get my vote.

Ever since Myrtle pinched my ‘thank-you’ sweets at the Winter Festival, I’ve had my eye on her. To look at that placid face, those neat washable suits and the perky hand-knitted berets she wears in all weathers, you’d think butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. I know better.

Who smuggles whole packets of biscuits into her bag? Myrtle. Who makes off with the spare toilet rolls? Myrtle. Who ‘borrows’ anything not nailed down? Who do you think?

Menopause Monday

Everyone agrees that Erica, the community centre manager, is ‘a bit full on’ – a cross between a cheerleader and a referee. Whether she’s telling our sponsors sob stories to get donations, dressing up as a carrot for Healthy Eating Week or settling territorial disputes between the ballroom and line dancers, she throws herself at everything like a labrador entering a duckpond.

Sadly, for the past few months, she’s not been the bossy Erica we know and tolerate. Instead of keeping our noses to the community grindstone, she’s been hiding in her office, fanning herself and Googling herbal remedies. Not being one to suffer in silence, she decided to organise an informative evening event.