Just Another Cynical Love Story

white lightning flash in a hot spinning night-time of the first kiss as it lands shipwreck-beached on the deserted shores of evening a soft aggressive contact in the dusk

* * * * *
a shared hard-to-let flat in the concrete third world of some storm-tossed inner-city ..... wooden blinkers on the see-no-evil gaze of boarded-up windows where glass has never been ..... black mould and grey mould and green mould and a smell of damp carpets and long dead cigarettes .....

* * * * *

he came into the 40 watt room with the cheap taste of low pubs in his mouth and found you talking with the others

you were introduced and - winded by your body-blow beauty - he forgot your name before the sound of it had drowned in the dampness of the walls

he swore at himself for being drunk - for being beyond the circling reach of your conversation

through his stupor’s pulsating black void he watched you shine to the music of the autumn lights and blamed the beer and the brandy for falling in love

the others had gone to bed before he realised you were staying overnight and he made an ugly effort to sober up - his frog-bulge stare trying to fix full focal length on anything that couldn’t move

his unhooked fishtongue died flapping at the baked dirtedge pool of his mouth as he tried to speak - to say something that might make you talk to him

his world spun ever faster to the tune of your laughter until the speed reached its limit when his slurring fell away and finally you could talk together and laugh and smoke cigarette after cigarette until both packets lay empty and you knew you were on the edge and looking down

and the kiss landed with the determined stealth of the sea

and your tongues exchanged their secrets

and his hands were in your hair

and your arms around his neck might never let him go

and fragments burst in starshowered brilliance to sprinkle your passion with his perfect love

and fragments burst in starshowered brilliance to sprinkle his passion with your perfect love

and you went to bed

alone

the hammer of his guilt beat against your softly fragile youth and he knew you deserved more than his drunken adoring fumbling so he left you to the wasteland of your single bed while he went to his own room sadly feasting on the yeastwarm tang of your virgin lips

* * * * *

You take him water in the morning as he lies crucified beneath a fourteen year hangover.

“More?” you ask as he lowers the glass from his lips.

He nods without speaking. He knows his voice would be the flat cracked baritone of an Orphean love song to the dead. He closes his eyes wondering if his breath smells nearly as bad as it tastes.

You come back and sit on the desert of his bed while he empties the second glass.

“You’re a shit,” you say, your hands moulding castles on the dunes of the duvet beside his knees. You want to say more, to open the floodgates and deluge his suffering with your own. But you’re not sure you can control the undercurrent of real emotion you feel welling inside you.

He looks at you from the bottom of a half-litre of whiskey and he knows he’s a shit. He wonders if your reasons for thinking it are the same as his and he doubts it.

He feels he has centrespread eyes and closes them against the possibility. He can remember drinking with your husband long after you had gone to bed ..... sharing middle-aged dreams of yesterday’s future ..... protesting ..... confirming ..... laughter and promises ..... vast blank chasms .....

“Feeling better? you ask, hoping you sound sarcastic with the I-don’t-care of someone else’s wife. Your hands lie still now, truth-naked except for the ring which you wish you had taken off. They rest on the warm quilt and you think how this is the substance of fourteen years: the thickness of a duvet, the lifetime of forever .....

You take the glass from his trembling hands and put it on the floor beside the bed as he looks at you more closely than you want, seeing the same girl of his oh-so-long-ago kiss. Only much more beautiful now.

You want to look away but for a long moment you stare into his eyes without expression. Your own eyes are burnished dark and lust-bright with loathing. He takes one of your hands in his and you are surprised at how tightly you hold him. He strokes your fingers and brings them to his lips .....

You say, “Don’t,” but the sound has no strength and you pull back your hand only when he takes one of your fingers into his mouth.

“Please,” you say, lowering your eyes to where your hardlocked grasp writhes in your lap. You feel your own heat radiating through your jeans and behind his shield of whiskey fumes you sense the same heat rising in him. Eighteen inches ..... fourteen years ..... two lifetimes ..... The distance between you stretches like razorwire until you think it might snap, until you know it must snap and .....

He falls back against the pillow and the spell is broken.

“I love you,” he says. “I always have and you know it.”

His voice is as quiet and dead as the breeze in a photograph and you know what he says is the truth and you wonder if he said it or if you said it but you don’t care whether or not he loves you because of the fourteen years.

“Shut up,” you whisper in a red twist of uncertainty, daring yourself but holding back.

He touches your perfect cheek with the scraps of his fingertips and you lift your eyes to him once more. You say nothing but he listens to the dark suns of your eyes as they set below the horizon of their tears and he knows you are fighting the silence and fighting what lies behind that silence with your lip-lost mouth gouging a deep scratch on polished steel. When he touches your ear you flinch, hoping he won’t draw your face to his ..... hoping he won’t ..... wanting him to ..... And you despise him for your weakness.

“If you come to bed we can talk about it,” he says. But you can’t see his smile because your eyes are closed.

There is a screaming in your ears which you hope is only on the inside and you are shaking your head more violently than you want but you can’t stop.

“Hey,” he says softly, the sigh of skin-brushed silk. “Hey, I’m joking. Come on.”

He raises your head with a finger under your chin and you grab his hand and kiss the backs of his fingers with a greed which denies his words and almost makes him speak the one-way street of his heart.

But you speak instead. From somewhere near to drowning you break the surface and emerge into the light of safety in triumph over your own desire and his desire and ..... your husband’s desire, if only you knew it.

“Leave me alone,” you say. And you look him in the eyes again and your tears have gone, dried by the heat of your sudden anger. “You don’t know how dangerous you are.”

He reads the pity and contempt on your face and knows you think he is playing with you. Only your still holding his hand so tightly prevents him from using harsh words.

“Love is dangerous,” he says, “not me.” And his voice is sad in the knowledge that your misplaced morality is ultimately unshakeable.

“Love is dangerous because it makes us behave the way we really are. We lose control and we can’t always cope with that. So we deny love. I love you very much.”

“Don’t, please.” Black and white, hysteria’s disc-flat circles spin towards vertigo in the hollowness of your stomach. You still have his hand in yours but you want your nails in his flesh, your teeth in his flesh, the taste of his blood on your tongue.

“I don’t believe you,” you say, even though you do believe him because he is speaking for you as well as for himself. “I don’t believe you because you love whoever you’re with at the time. You lie in your love and I could never trust you.”

Your words thrust holes through the morning’s flimsy skin and he feels the many shades of his pain seeping out into no-hiding-place of the day.

He knows that what you say is no more than inspired self-protection but he also knows his mistake is old and immovable, crusted over by the coral of conversations which never took place.

* * * * *

sunday lunchtime the day after you’d met - six hours after he had tasted the moon on your breath and bathed your vulnerability in the tears of his loss

you sit in the dim quiet of a public bar with three or four friends and irrelevant drinks on the table

he sees only you and tries not to make a fool of himself

he was hung over then too and lit a cigarette to calm his rattling hands but he was sucking the sodden fur of a ship’s cat and crushed it out in the ashtray

two seats away you were cool and distant and avoided looking in his direction

he thought this was a denial and let the accumulation of his whole life conspire against the single silver truth of himself - let all the falseness of convention overwhelm and subdue that one thing that was his desire

instead he watched you leave the pub to drive back to the coast and your safe life and he drank the bitter grief of his beer through the chewed unspoken words of his yearning

you left he watched

his mistake was made in doing nothing

he found your phone number in his flatmate’s address book but couldn’t bring himself to dial it for all the bastard reasons of doubt and insecurity conjured by your averted gaze

shortly afterwards life changed

he moved away to the north although he thought of you in the darkness of his nights as you remembered him for a while like the smile of a stranger in a dream

and the next time you met you were a married woman

* * * * *

Your argument works only because your ears are stopped against him.

“It only holds true from your position.” He knows you won’t listen but he owes it to himself so he says it anyway. “I’m bound to seem to love whoever I’m with at the time because when you see that, I’m with you. So it’s true. When you’re not there, you can’t see that I don’t love whoever is.”

His voice has risen a little and you glance towards the door. You can hear your husband moving about downstairs in the kitchen and you wonder just what you are doing sitting on this bed holding the hand of your never-lover while the man you are married to (and who you love who you love) makes tea and noise against the background sounds of your voices. If only it could .....

“Also,” relentless word-mill of lies, of truth, of you don’t know what. “I never realised ..... You never-”

“Did I need to?” You spit the words with a cracked glass frown on your perfect brow as if the question was born in a film you’ve never seen.

He doesn’t answer and his silence makes it difficult to think.

“If only the world would stop for three weeks,” you say, hot salt blinding your eyes. “If only we could have three weeks together.”

“Three weeks?” He laughs - but gently because he has just now understood that you don’t understand. “I’m not talking about a fling,” he says with patience, his words smoothing the creases on the crumpled bedsheet of your thinking. His fingers tighten around your grateful hand. “I love you enough for the world to stop for three centuries.”

Without listening, you hear the sounds of his words. You are already three weeks away. You absently reach out to pluck a tiny hair from his chest as you think how you would feel for those three weeks. Only his sudden stillness brings you back to what you have just done and you lean towards him to kiss the invisible wound with a magic potency that explodes at the base of his skull. Your lips linger for an instant to prolong this, the third kiss, as you consider .....

You turn your slow-motion head and rest your cheek against his chest and slide your hand over the whiskey-reeking surface of his skin in a caress which is the closest you can come to surrender.

You know the emotion between you is undeniable and destructive. It must be nailed to resolve’s unyielding board with rods of fortitude ..... But not yet. You stroke his chest and circle his nipple with abandoned fingertips safe in the knowledge that your time will soon run out.

His hand is on your face, moving over your face like the blush of guilt which is already there. And he nuzzles in the fragrance of your hair, dreaming you and wanting you and crying inside for the lost moments past and the lost moments to come, feeling your cruel touch on him and knowing that you could never see that cruelty because you think he is too hard to hurt and too insensitive to care.

You lie against him for twelve minutes as the red seconds hand of the alarm-clock winds through the morning while he tries to insinuate himself deeper into your thoughts, telling you that it’s all true, that whether you like it or not, neither of you can ever escape.

When you sit up there’s a redness around your eyes which will fade before lunch.

“You’d better get up,” you say. “You’ve made a ruin of my life.”

As you stand you lean over him once more and touch his forehead with your lips in a kiss as soft as the shadow of a moth’s wing before you leave the bedroom without looking back.

Creative Writing Workshop - Katoomba

So, you read books by the score ... you read books that transport you to fabulous places ... and you read books that disappoint you ... you think, 'I could write better than that' ... Well, here's the chance to find out if you can.

This workshop will be held on consecutive Saturdays (28 March and 4 April 2009) at Blackburn's Family Hotel, 15 Parke Street, Katoomba between 2.00 - 5.00pm. We'll look at what makes writing work - and what makes it fail. In fact, we'll discuss amongst other things, what 'good' writing is. Is it style? Story? Plot? Character? A combination of all of the above? Or is it some magical spark that sets all the other elements alight?

If you can write - if you wantto write fiction but feel you need some fine-tuning, some guidance then book a place on the course and let's do some work.

To book, call now on: 0421 19 33 46 (payment of $135.00 can be made by credit card - MasterCard / Visa - or by cheque).


For directions to Blackburn's Family Hotel follow the map

A Short Story with an Unconventional Plot / Narrative

In this example we can see a more experimental approach to story-telling


A WALTZ IN THE E MINOR MORNING


ONE
Sunlight bounced back off the bright blue door and the early morning heat bored into the back of my neck as I grasped the heavy brass knocker above the letterbox. The door, however, swung smoothly open with a sort of namaskar and I stepped over the threshold having completely forgotten why I had come to Lomax's house at such an hour. I was there, nevertheless, and made my way without hesitation or thought into the small dining room to my left.

Nothing struck me as unusual in the appearance of the room. It was spacious and empty. The windowless walls gleamed brilliantly white and the marble floor was cool to the touch of my bare feet. I entered by the only door and noted the absence of any form of lighting. The entire space shone with a silver luminosity.

Closing the door behind me, I walked two-thirds the length of the room and stopped, alert to any sound. There was none. I turned and sat on the floor, tucked my feet beneath me and spread out my skirt like a bird's wing. The room was cool and fresh and peaceful and exquisitely white (or shades of white) in colour. Even the powder-blue silk of my shirt and my sea-blue skirt seemed no more than further notes on the scale of white.

I waited. My quiet hand on the marble floor was a starfish on a beach of sleeping sand, my pale eyes rockpools for which it longed.

I sensed the movement of the opening door and lifted my head to smile at Lomax who came towards me smiling in his turn. He wore a floor-length kimono of midnight blue and his feet were visible only as he walked. In his hands he held a silver tray on which a glass jug of iced water stood beside a crystal tumbler. He slowly sank to the floor an arm's length from where I waited and our eyes met in silence. He continued to smile as he reached for the water. He stretched out one graceful hand as soft and slender as a seagull and lifted the jug by its handle. Tilted above the tumbler the cool blue liquid poured like piano music from one container to the other, poured with a clarity and precision which suspended my breathing. I had never seen such purity, never witnessed such perfection. Lomax poured slowly in a minutely measured flow, concentrating solely on the essence of his action. The water, laughing and sparkling, rose in the tumbler until the level neared the rim, until the level grew above the rim and flowed like birdsong over the rim and down the sides of the tumbler. Still Lomax poured at the same heartbeat rate. The water flowed down the sides of the tumbler and onto the floor and over the floor, spreading like a breeze on the air. I watched as the pool grew in size, coming closer to my knees, as the limitless jug added to the tumbler, as the cool water spread towards my knees.

I reached out my fingers to touch the seeping liquid and as they dipped beneath the surface so the water disappeared and I looked and saw the tumbler disappear and I looked and saw the jug disappear and I looked and saw the silver tray disappear leaving Lomax and me open-mouthed.

"Lomax -" I said.

And Lomax

disappeared.



TWO

He had no right to say it - any of it - and I was furious. I ran up the five stone steps to his front door hearing the angry tattoo of my shoes like someone rapping on a window with a coin: tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. I raised my fist to pound against the flaking blue paint but saw that the door stood open so I let myself in. Even better, I thought, I'll surprise him while he sleeps. I took the stairs two at a time without thinking about why the door would be open because I was too busy rehearsing what I would say to him when he woke to find me fuming above him.

And who could blame me for fuming? Telephoning in the middle of the night like that!

"Karin? I hope I didn't wake you?" It was after midnight but he gave me no chance to reply. "Look, why don't you come over? I've got some foie gras and a bottle of Asbach. We can have them in bed."

I couldn't believe it. I thought, maybe I'm still asleep, maybe I'm dreaming.

"Hurry," he said. "Grab a cab and come to bed."

"Lomax," I said, "are you drunk? Because whether you are or not, you're not very funny."

"Oh god, Karin," soft despair at the other end of the line, "how long are you going to be a stiff-kneed little virgin?"

The 'phone went dead and I just stood there looking at it not quite trusting my ears. I went back to bed but tossed and turned until six when I got up again having decided to have it out with him before I went to work. He had no right, as I've said. After all, he was more a friend of friends than a bona fide friend of mine.

Perhaps a little melodramatically I threw open his bedroom door and stood on the threshold, hands on hips and breathing hard from the stairs, but ready to deliver my half-prepared speech.

"Listen, Lomax," I was going to say, "your disgusting suggestion that I share your bed..." and so on.

But I said nothing.

The bedroom was spacious and empty. The windowless walls gleamed brilliantly white and the marble floor was cool to the touch of my bare feet. I entered by the only door and noted the absence of any form of lighting. The entire space shone with a silver luminosity.

I waited. My filleted feet on the icebed marble white fish gleamed. Shoes lost and forgotten, my pale eyes...



THREE

Beneath the warm surface a pink plastic lozenge floats in the morning, a green perspex shadow alive in the morning while inside the wombcab (alone in the darkness) the others sit talking. Laughing and talking.

When we arrived the front door was open and Lomax was waiting, waiting to greet us. He moved in the hallway with patience, quite gracefully, speaking with clarity as he asked whether we thought he should put rugs on the floor. The floor was white marble.

['you'll like him"
"you'll love him"

they laughed in the silence, wetblack and shining though lit for an instant

"because he's so kind"

"- but not patronising"

"so gentle and quiet"

"- but not moody or limp"]

Lomax ushered us into his small but delightfully furnighed dining room, urging us to sit down while he poured the champagne. Above our perfect heads hung a crystal chandelier which sang a thousand tiny notes of fire.

He served foie gras with twelve years old brandy and brought a cut glass jug of iced water to the table.

[they said he was rich (though only by our standards)

they said sensitive (without being neurotic)

they said he's unmarried (and looked out of the window)

they said he's so kind (and laughed to remember)]

The movement was soothing and the talk reassuring as we slid through the evening beneath that warm surface. Yet there remained a slight nagging, unfocused and shapeless, but somehow unnerving. The prisms of colour which fragmented the blackness offered distraction though not for long: pink and green lozenge and perspex and plastic aren't much of talisman, even today.

So I admitted their laughter again and again, heard all their chatter ward off my misgivings. But I needn't have worried, there on that journey, because when they told me all my fears vanished, my doubts melted away.

They said he liked dancing and I smiled.

"Good," I said. Because I like dancing, too.

A short Story with Plot

In this example we see a plot-driven short story.


LOOKING AT PICTURES



"Okay, this story is called The Judge's Throne. Are you lying comfortably?"

Susie grinned up at me from her pillow, her long hair spread in a silken nimbus about her head, catching and holding the golden light from her bedside lamp. I crossed my legs and adjusted my glasses on the bridge of my nose. Clearing my throat, I was ready to begin.

"Wait! You haven't smelled my breath!"

She was quite right. It was part of our nightly ritual: at nine o'clock every evening I collected together our three current story books while Susie got herself ready for bed, putting on her nightdress, washing her face and so on. After hearing the toilet flush I would go slowly upstairs, giving her enough time to be under the duvet when I came into the room. She would then choose the book from which I was to read that night's story and I would smell her breath to make sure she had cleaned her teeth.

That is what we had done for seven nights a week during the two years since her mother, Carol, had left for the second and last time.

I leaned over the bed close enough to let her exhale, giggling as she always did, into my face. A wave of minty sweetness, mingled with the peculiar milky, naturally clean, uncorrupt scent of the healthy eight year old and I sat back with a pretended dubious 'hmm'. As I always did.

"Like I said, this story is called The Judge's Throne." The book, 'Persian Tales', was new and this was the first story in it so neither of us knew what to expect.

I began to read.

"'A long time ago there was a very rich king ruling over Persia. Unlike other kings before him who were ruthless and cruel, he was kind and thoughtful. He built roads throughout the land so that people could find their way more easily and could travel more comfortably. He built canals so ships could sail right into the cities, bringing food directly to the people. He built lavish temples and libraries and paid the best artists to paint great pictures to hang in them. And he paid the best sculptors to make fine statues to decorate them.

'He himself lived in a grand palace with his wife and children and many servants, and the palace was full of wonderful things. The floors and walls were made from beautiful pink marble which kept the rooms cool during the hot summers and the doors were carved with birds and flowers and all manner of fabulous creatures..'"

I paused and glanced at my daughter. Her bright eyes burned with fire and diamonds as she quickly caught the mood of the story. She had a lively, vivid imagination and a yearning to be pleased by what she heard so that reading to her was as rewarding to me as it was entertaining for her.

"'The queen and princesses,'" I continued, "'were the most beautiful women in the land and they wore the most beautiful clothes made from silk and satin in the brightest colours. On their fingers they wore dazzling rings of precious stones and at their throats shone delicately wrought necklaces of precious metal. They carried deliciously scented sandalwood fans and they were always happy.

'And all this finery and all the good works done by the king were paid for by the fairest taxes the people had ever known, with everyone paying only what he could afford. A rich man had to give one silver 'talent' every year but a poor man had only to pay a few 'obols'.' That's like the difference between a hundred dollars and a few cents," I explained, seeing the spider's web beginnings of a frown on Susie's brow.

Comprehension restored, she smiled again, encouraging me to go on.

* * *

With a flood of tenderness I remembered how difficult it had been to make her smile when her mother had first left, how she had asked, day after day, when her Mummy was coming home. I thought I hated Carol then; I thought I hated her for leaving a five year old child who adored her, who was incapable of understanding that her Mummy had found someone else - someone she loved more than her own little girl and her little girl's Daddy. And I thought I hated her for leaving me in the impossible position of having to inadequately answer our daughter's questions.

But that wasn't hatred. Not then. That was just the taste of hatred.

* * *

"'Of course, the king was much too busy to collect the taxes himself and his lands were too great for one man to cover all the ground in a single year.

'His empire stretched from the sea in the west to the distant Orient many months march to the east. And it stretched from the snow-covered mountains in the north to the deserts of the south.

'And in every part of this huge empire splendid cities glittered in the sunshine.

'Each city had its own libraries and temples and each city had a magnificent palace like the king's.

'It was in these palaces that the local governors lived. They were called 'satraps' and they were appointed by the king to act as trusted friends and representatives to conduct the king's business in their particular province.

'Amongst his many duties, the 'satrap' had to collect the taxes from the people and send them every year to the king. For this he was allowed to keep a small portion for himself as payment.

'Also, he acted as the king's judge within his province, settling disputes between the local citizens who paid him two 'obols' each time they came to court.'" I looked up from the page. "Remember what an 'obol' is? I asked.

"A few cents," Susie replied unhesitatingly. She showed no sign of tiredness and I knew we were here for the duration of the story so I flicked through the pages to see how long it was.

Fortunately it wasn't too long and I inwardly sighed with relief: it had been part of our agreement, since she had grasped the principle behind A Thousand And One Arabian Nights, that I was never allowed to stop reading before the end of a story unless she fell asleep first. In return, she would not ask if the principal female character, queen or princess or whatever, had a tattoo.

"Ready?" I asked.

She nodded eagerly and I carried on.

"'In the greatest city in the east, the 'satrap' was called Ortanes and he was the king's best friend. Each year, he collected more taxes than any other 'satrap' because his province was richer than the others and it took a hundred donkeys to carry all the money to the capital. And because Ortanes was such a good governor the people of the province were always happy to pay. So much so that they were honest and gave what was due instead of trying to hide their wealth as other people did elsewhere.

'One of the reasons everyone thought he was the best governor was because he was the fairest judge in the land. Whenever he dealt with a dispute both sides would go away happy, satisfied that justice had been done. They would each pay their two 'obols' and everyone would be friends again.

'So Ortanes was very popular too, and made many friends himself.

'The city in which he lived was almost as beautiful as the king's and Ortanes' palace was filled with the most expensive things. He had fine paintings and crystal goblets and jewel-encrusted caskets in which he kept his gold. His wife wore the best clothes and his son rode a magnificent white stallion.

'There was always plenty of food and enough wine for the table and he looked after his servants well. He gave lavish banquets to entertain the most important people and everyone said that only the king's banquets were more sumptuous.

'But the grandest thing in the palace, the grandest thing in the whole city, was Ortanes' judge's throne. It was made from solid gold and stood on a high platform at the end of a long courtroom. It's back was tall and straight and carved in the shape of an eagle's wings, and the arms and feet were golden lions' paws. The seat was of the very softest leather and was held in place by mother-of-pearl studs which shimmered in the light -'"

"Pictures!"

Susie wriggled into a sitting position and held out her hands for the book. This was another clause in the deal: at any point in the story she was entitled to look at whatever illustrations there were so far. She could do this once as an interruption and again at the end and would often use this prerogative as a ruse to keep herself awake. And as a means of checking that I wasn't skipping anything.

I watched her face light up as she studied the colour plates of exaggerated opulence and smiled at her obvious joy, remembering how hard won her present happiness had been.

* * *

When Carol had first left I simply said that Mummy had 'gone away for a bit'. But it's a lot more difficult to lie to a five year old than you might think and, after a week or so, I was forced to admit she wasn't coming back. How do you tell a child that her mother has gone to live with someone else? It's not something you get much practice at. Anyway, I did the best I could, and eventually we both seemed to come to terms with the situation, accepting adjusted roles within our relationship. Which was when the 'deal' started to take shape.

We made trade-offs almost as a means of sharing our loss so that the third side of our former triangle was split between the two of us and it was in the portioning that we established our need for each other - but obliquely, without exposing our raw emotions. You know, "I'll cook the dinner if you help with the washing up" and "I'll let you stay up for an extra half hour on Fridays and Saturdays if you keep your room tidy". Not very subtle, I admit. And probably the kind of thing to give child psychologists a fit. But they weren't the ones on the front line, as it were, and it seemed to work for us because it involved both of us to some extent in everything. Anyway, as I say, it worked.

Until Carol came back.

The bitch walked in unannounced on Susie's sixth birthday laden with presents: toys and clothes and trinkets and god knows what else. I was too stunned to react at first: I just watched them playing 'happy families' with a birthday party for two. I was pretty much excluded although they - or she, Carol - made a point of involving me in everything. But it was an unconvincing inclusion and I wasn't taken in by her false sincerity. I just couldn't believe it: after three months of silence - no 'phone call, no letter, not even a postcard to her daughter - here she was back in our midst as though she'd just popped out to do a bit of shopping.

And Susie, of course, was all over her, not letting her mother out of her sight for an instant.

Later, at Susie's insistence, Carol bathed her and put her to bed - Susie and I hadn't drawn up the bedtime story clause in our little contract at this point - staying in the bedroom until the child was asleep. Only then did I receive the courtesy of an explanation of sorts, although I thought it more an insult than anything else.

Apparently, they - Carol and whatever-his-name-was - had acted rashly. They spent all their time arguing; about money, about Susie, about everything if the deceitful bitch was to be believed. They argued until neither could stand it any longer and he had gone back to his wife. That had been four days earlier but Carol had waited for our daughter's birthday before she came slinking back under cover of the celebrations. Clever, I thought, very clever. Oh, she was full of remorse, repeating over and over how it had all been a mistake, how she had realised as soon as she left but had been too ashamed to admit it, how she had wanted to come 'home' but didn't know how. She vowed never to hurt us again and said she had missed us - both of us - terribly and was glad to be back.

I let her talk on, not mentioning the fact that she had never once made contact despite missing us so much, desperately trying not to look at her beautiful face, knowing that if I did I would accept her lies. It was at that moment that I truly hated her.

In the morning Susie woke up in a fever of excitement with her little girl smell of freshly baked bread, and came squealing downstairs in search of her mother. I had to tell her that Carol had only come back for her birthday, that now she had gone again. I broke it to her as gently as I could and made a million promises and we both cried and had to start all over again.

* * *

"Daddy!" Having had her fill of all the pictures so far, Susie handed back the book and squirmed once more into a horizontal position waiting for me to go on.

I found my place and re-crossed my legs, pushing my glasses further onto the bridge of my nose.

"Right," I said. "Where was I? Ah, yes. 'Sometimes the king went to stay with his friend and they would go hunting together. In the evenings there would be great feasts with singing and dancing in honour of the king and delicious foods of every kind.

'And in the mornings the king would attend the court to watch Ortanes deal with the grievances of the people and he marvelled at the wisdom of his friend.

'On one such visit the king arrived at the gates of the city after dark and the guards, who did not know he was the king, refused to let him in because the city was locked to protect the people at night. The guards told the king, who they thought was a rich merchant, to go to the inn along the road and come back in the morning.

'Instead of being angry, the king was pleased to find his subjects so well looked after and he set off with his troop of soldiers in the direction of the inn.

'Like the guards, the innkeeper did not recognise the king either, and gave him an ordinary room, telling the soldiers that they could sleep in the stables with their horses.

'Still the king was happy because his room was clean and the stables were dry. But as he ate his simple supper among the true merchants staying at the inn he overheard them talking. And what they said greatly disturbed him.

'One of the merchants had ridden for some distance with the mule train taking the taxes from Ortanes to the capital. "Two hundred mules," he said, "laden with silver and gold and incense and pearls from the Orient." All the other merchants stared wide-eyed at the very idea of such wealth but the king kept his own eyes lowered to the table because his heart was heavy with sadness.

'If what this merchant said was true and, indeed, two hundred loaded mules had been sent to the capital, then someone had stolen a hundred mules and all the treasure they carried.

'But perhaps the merchant was mistaken, thought the king. Only a hundred mules had reached his palace so perhaps only a hundred had been sent by his friend.

'The king decided to stay at the inn for another day and to send his most trustworthy servant, dressed as a foreign trader, to make inquiries.'"

Once again I paused for a moment. "What do you think, darling?" I asked.

"I think he only sent a hundred," Susie said decisively. "He wouldn't steal off the king because he's his friend and if anyone else had stolen them he would know."

Her innocent logic was irrefutable. But it had been less than a year ago that this confidence, this positivism, had been severely shaken.

* * *

I met Polly at work some weeks after Carol had vanished and we easily became friends. By then, Susie and I were firmly fixed in our routine and happy in our world although an element of adult female contact was missing from my life, an element which Polly willingly supplied. And nothing seemed to change at home when Polly started to come to the house; she and Susie appeared to get on well together, forming an almost sisterly bond. I'd explained our domestic situation to Polly and she was very sympathetic, offering to help with anything particularly female that I might not find easy to cope with. I appreciated her consideration and our three-way friendship began to flourish.

Until nearly a year ago when Polly moved in with us.

At first, Susie was only sullen and un-cooperative, which Polly said was only to be expected. We all three sat down and talked about what was going on, trying to explain why Polly and I wanted to be together. But Susie became hostile and aggressive towards both of us. Polly smiled a lot and said that that, too, was normal behaviour under the circumstances, while I just felt out of my depth: Polly's understanding of Susie's problem seemed to move her away from me in a way, at the same time that Susie was distancing herself from me of her own accord. It was a stressful and confusing time for all of us.

Anyway, Susie suddenly stopped all the discussion by telling Polly to take off her top. She didn't ask, she commanded. And Polly complied. I couldn't believe it. I started to say something about conduct and decent manners but then Polly told me to be quiet. And she removed her tee-shirt - it was a long-sleeved thing and she got it caught on an earring and took a while to untangle it - and sat at the kitchen table in her jeans and bra while my seven year old child stared hard at the point on her collar bone directly below her left ear.

"See?" she said with a sneer. "No tattoo!"

Polly sat open-mouthed as if she had been physically struck until I explained that Carol had had a thumbnail-sized red rose tattooed on her left collar bone.

Over the following days we tried to make Susie understand that not everyone was the same, that just because someone had - or hadn't - a tattoo while someone else hadn't - or had - didn't mean that they were better or worse than... We tied ourselves in knots, became totally confused in what we were saying and met a blank wall of resistance from my daughter.

This wall, which was originally erected as a negative thing, something behind which she could retreat, has now developed into something far stronger, something which allows her her present forthrightness and poise. She now treats Polly with a politeness often bordering on condescension. But all Polly says is, give it time.

* * *

"I said, what do you think, Daddy?"

And there was that near-adult tone of voice now: patient, tolerant, indulgent. But only just. Only a hairs breadth this side of insolent.

I pretended to have been thinking hard and raised a hand to my temple as an indication that I was concentrating.

"I think," I said slowly, coming to a momentous conclusion, "that we'd better read on and find out."

Susie rolled her eyes in mock despair as I began to read once more.

"'For the whole of that day the king stayed at the inn giving the matter much thought. He could not believe that his best friend - who was also the fairest judge in the kingdom - could be dishonest. Of course, there must be a sensible explanation. He would just have to wait for his servant to return.

'But when the servant did return late that evening, the news was very bad.

'His secret inquiries had led him to a village some distance from the city where he had found a vast warehouse guarded by many armed soldiers. He had bribed the captain of the guard and had been allowed to see inside the warehouse. And what he saw filled him with wonder.

'There were chests full of gold piled high against the walls, soft furs and shimmering silks in gorgeous bales. There was row upon row of overflowing coffers, spilling blood-red rubies and ice-bright diamonds, sapphires and pearls and emeralds. There were silver cups and daggers in great heaps, boxes of incense and barrels of spices. In short, the servant said, there was more wealth than that of the king himself.

'The king listened with a sinking heart, not knowing what he should do. It was now obvious that Ortanes - his best friend - was hoarding all these riches to become more powerful than the king so that could seize all the lands for himself.

'But the thing that saddened the king more than anything else was that the great 'satrap' and fairest of all judges was, in fact, deceiving the people who loved him by stealing their money for his own purposes.

'And suddenly, as he looked at the reason for his sadness, the king knew what he must do.' Any ideas?"

Susie's eyes had misted over at the injustice of the thievery, the thievery that had deceived her as much as it had the innocents in the story. She shook her head saying nothing.

Lowering my voice, I carried on with the tale.

"'Early next morning the king rode into the city and was greeted with great ceremony by Ortanes who ordered that twenty oxen and a hundred fowl be slaughtered for a great banquet that night.

'"But first," said the king, "we must go to your court for I have a problem which only your immense wisdom can solve." Ortanes was surprised but greatly flattered to be asked to sit in judgment for the king himself and he led the way to the royal courtroom.

'The king made Ortanes sit on his gleaming throne while he, the king, knelt on the floor before him like any ordinary citizen. "My problem is this," he began. "I know a man whom I have trusted as a friend and treated well. But I have discovered that he is cheating me and those around him by pretending to be what he is not. Everyone in his house thinks he is fair and honest and loyal to his master and servants alike. But in truth he betrays everyone for his own gain, ultimately seeking the greatest of all glories for himself. How should I deal with such a man?"

'And Ortanes, too smug to realize that the king was talking about him, thought for a moment before speaking. "For his greed," he replied, "take from him everything he owns and give it to the poor. Then, when he has nothing, take the last thing - his life. In seeking the greatest of glories, which is the immortality of the gods, send his soul to join them. But for his treachery in betraying his people, preserve his body and display it in a public place as a warning to the masses.

'"You are indeed as wise as your reputation proclaims," said the king, raising himself sadly to his feet. "Seize him!" he called to his guards and Ortanes was bound and shackled and held prisoner.

'The king had his governor taken to the main square in front of the palace and he summoned all the people of the city so that they might hear the misdeeds of their 'satrap' and the judgment of the king.

'The king explained to the throng how Ortanes had seemed to be the very fairest tax collector but that he was keeping half the dues for himself. The king explained how he seemed to be the fairest of all judges but that his fairness as he sat on his golden throne only served to disguise the fact that, in private, he was unfair to everyone in stealing from both the king and the people.

'"The punishment for his greed," said the king, "is that he should lose more than he has stolen." His lands and gold and jewels and furs and pearls from the Orient would all be taken from him, sold and the money given to the poor. He would lose his palace and his servants and all his fine clothes. Then, when he had nothing, the king said, he must lose even more. He would be flayed alive and lose the very skin he wore to clothe his bones. And as a warning to all others, his skin would be used to replace the leather on the seat of the great throne so that future judges would always be mindful of the fate awaiting those who sat in false judgment.'"

I waited for a moment, expecting some reaction from Susie, an expression of revulsion maybe, or a moue of distaste. But she merely sat up in her bed, propped herself against the headboard and held out her hands.

"Pictures," she said.

As I passed her the book I could hear Polly downstairs, moving from the kitchen to the living room. Polly, small and dark and understanding. The opposite of Carol in almost every way. Pretty Polly whose portrait hung facing the sofa on which she always sat - on which she would be sitting now - so she would always know how I felt about her.

It was a good likeness in oils. I commissioned it when she first moved in, after I'd made sure she understood about Carol's moving out and coming back and disappearing the second time.

A student from the local art school painted it for me, having negotiated a rather high price, I thought. But at least I made him agree to my two stipulated conditions of me supplying absolutely all the necessary materials and -

"I'm not sure the king was a very nice man." Susie had closed the book and was holding it towards me. "It said at the beginning that he was kind. But skinning his best friend..." She wrinkled her nose in doubt and disgust. "That doesn't sound very kind."

"But his friend wasn't really his friend, was he? Not if he was stealing from him and from all the people who thought they were paying their taxes to the king."

"Yes, but to peel his skin off! Yuk!" Her concern had given way to a gleeful horror and she wriggled down into her bed, giggling.

"In the olden days," I said, relieved to see that the story wasn't going to give her bad dreams, "they made examples of people to teach others a lesson." I bent over her bright and perfect face. She was too young to understand, really, took everything too literally. She was unable to see the deeper meanings within a story. I kissed her brow and turned to leave the room taking the book with me.

"Goodnight, darling," I said. "Sleep tight."

* * *

In the kitchen I poured two whiskies, one each for Polly and me. As I fetched ice from the freezer I thought about the outcome of the story. It had a certain poetic justice, which I appreciated, even if it lacked the subtlety of Solomon. But, I decided, in stories as in life, we can only do our best.

Polly was on the sofa as I'd expected, her legs curled beneath her and a happy smile on her face. I handed her the whisky and told her she looked lovely as I raised my own glass in my nightly toast, first to her and then to her portrait.

"Good health," I said, feeling the warmth of the liquid bring a contentment to my throat.

Oh yes, the second stipulation for the artist - looking at the painting just now reminded me: he was to use only those materials I provided, as I said, and he had to leave visible the thumbnail sized red rose at the top right hand corner of the 'canvas'.