Io the traveller- (Chapter 3)

We flew into Kuala Lumpur airport miles from the city. I went to the Business class area and Io followed me in.

"How far are you going?" I asked.

She merely said "You first".

"Adelaide" I said.

She beamed "So am I." 

"You haven't a ticket or a passport have you? You just make them think so. Do you think you are Cleopatra or someone like that?" 

"Well I'm better than her. Haven't you heard of Isis?" She pouted.

"I thought that was a story the Egyptians made up of you swimming in the sea to escape Hera tormenting you with gadflies."

"I am a good swimmer, but an insect spray would have been good."

I shook my head "You really have bewitched me? Why did you pick on me Io?"

"You are the only one that understands" With that she gave me a hug as we headed for the lounge together.

We settled in some easy chairs and I said I was off to the shower. "We could bathe together" she suggested. 

I shook my head. "That is forbidden, the facilities are segregated. You go ahead, I can get one later." So off she went. Later she came back all fresh and dewy. So I went had my shower and then we talked about  Adelaide and what she wanted to do. I would let my family know I was back and mention I had met a friend on the plane who might stay with me.

I still wondered why she fled Greece but such matters were slight compared with how much I fancied her.

As I looked up she smiled and said "I've changed my name".

I raised my eyebrows.

"I am Violet S.Inarchus and I'm Greek on holiday to see friends in Melbourne. That is near you isn't it?"

"Only about 450 miles away and I think you have put an "r" for Robin in your family's name. I am flattered."

She grinned. "Yes, you are quite good Robin!"

331 words

 Image  of Kuala Lumpur airport found at www.pixabay.com

Her kiss of delicacy

My wife died nearly ten years ago
As you'd imagine that hurt a lot
Fought her illness long as was her way
Everyone wept for many a day

We married long ago in Britain
When we were both aged twenty one
Independent strong minded both were
But we thought alike and did concur

She was an analytical chemist
Sang in choir and performed on stage
Loved the flicks so that pleased me too
Explored overseas, was good to do

Agreed that children should come along
And they did just that, one, two and three
I wanted girls, she wanted a boy
Boy came first then two girls to enjoy

Both of us wanted to see the world
So migrated to Australia then
Was the best thing we ever done
As though a lottery we had won

As the children grew and made their way
She then bought a bookshop just for fun
To take her mind off kids leaving home
As they too found partners of their own

With just me and her living alone
Both retired we travelled far and wide
Some years later cancer knocked her door
She fought hard but sadly lost the war

But what a life of triumph was hers
For she laughed and loved it to her fill
Our three children are her legacy
So miss her kiss of delicacy

Illustration is postcard of migrant passenger ship Fairstar which was the boat we emigrated on in 1966.

See you in my dreams

I sat down and closed my eyes
At last the journey had begun
Slowly at first the platform left behind
Past the signals, past the sheds
Clickity clack over the tracks
Whoosh as a train passed us 
Going the other way

We slowly left the suburbs
Trees, fields and reservoirs to see
Giant power lines striding over us all
Past the rivers, past the roads
Clickity clack over the tracks
Whistle though the station
Boy waves us on our way

Screaming now though the farmland
Cattle skitter away in fear
Sending flocks of birds soaring in the sky
Clanging sounds at the road crossing
My head nods as eyes close slowly
I get used to the the rhythm
And see you in my dreams

The train is now slowing down
I can just hear the announcement
"Barnstaple, Barnstaple" That is my stop!
I stir myself, clutch my suitcase
Glance out the window, wondering
If you'll be there to meet me
I do hope that you will

Image found at www.blogpreston.co.uk

Sink hole on Savai'i

                             

The island of Savai'i is part of the independent state of Samoa (formerly Western Samoa) in the south Pacific Ocean where there is an extensive lava field  caused by a lava flow following a series of earthquakes  beytween 1905-1911.

In those days the Samoan Islands were colonies (or dependencies) of Germany and the United States although a number of European nations traded there. 

Robert Louis Stevenson the renowned author "Kidnapped, Treasure Island and The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr Hyde" amongst other writings took his extended family there thinking that it would be a good place to live as he suffered from tuberculosis eventually dying there in 1894.

When the lava flow resulting from the earthquakes had solidified it was discovered that in one devastated area near Saleaula that the lava had avoided but surrounded one grave of a young girl from the village appearing to be a sink hole in the surrounding lava. .

 It is now a tourist attraction to walk on that same lava field probably quaking in your shoes to see it for yourself.

My wife and I visited the islands in 1985 and considered it to be one of the best holidays we ever had also visiting Robert Louis Stevenson's former home there on the more populated island of Upulu just a few kilometres from the capital Apia.

Image found at www.traveladventures.com

La Boulangerie

It was 1952 and I was an exchange student to a pen pal in France, Michel who with his twin brother Claude had come to stay in our house in England for four weeks so they could experience Great Britain.

As arranged I returned with them to France to stay a month with their parents and their two younger sisters Joelle and Silvie so I too could learn what it was like living with a French family in France.

It was different to say the least but as it was school holidays I had every day to explore the town of Meaux a few miles outside Paris and to ride our bikes all around the countryside seeing chateaux and quaint villages and even rowing across the River Marne to have fun on the island midstream where we could swim in the river and play volleyball with their friends.

On Sundays of course they went to church at the cathedral in Meaux and I went along too more of a spectator being an Anglican rather than a participant in the service as the boys like the majority of French citizens were Catholic.

On weekdays we would run errands for their mother and often we would have to stop by "La boulangerie" (baker) to collect the baguettes and patisseries their mother had ordered.

Even today so many years later I still eat that now common crusty French bread reliving the memory of me first discovering a wider world than I had ever known before.

Image found at www.boulangerie.devulder.free.fr

I'm the traveller

I'm the traveller
Searching for the least worn path
To refresh my soul

Seeking the answer
But not knowing the question
In the clear blue sky

I walk the seashore
A mermaid swims away
But the seagulls stay

You have gone missing
There is a map in my heart
But can't find my way

Another dark night
The dawn comes up anyway
And pays me no mind

The end is in sight
I do not want to arrive 
Unless you are there

Image found at www.zelonelytraveller.blogspot.com

Don't be late

Don't be late they said
We'd been invited to stay
It was a four hour drive

Dine at six o'clock
So we had plenty of time
So I calculated

We drove through the hills
Avoiding the busy highway
It was far more fun that way

Little shops to visit
Then there was the scenic lake
On our erratic course

This led us astray
With delay at the ferry
I was put in a spin

Sun slowly sank west
I returned to the highway
Trying to catch up time

We didn't of course
But were greeted with a grin
So we were surprised

"Oh, you're always late
We have booked in for seven
We rememberd last time"

The two sisters hugged
I shook hands with her hubby
Our family is good

Image found at www.wikiwand.com

Treasure Island

                                The virgins grave

The island of Savai'i is part of the independent state of Samoa (formerly Western Samoa) in the south Pacific Ocean where there is an extensive lava field  caused by a lava flow following a series of earthquakes  beytween 1905-1911.

In those days the Samoan Islands were colonies (or dependencies) of Germany and the United States although a number of European nations traded there. Robert Louis Stevenson the renowned author "Kidnapped, Treasure Island and The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr Hyde" amongst other writings took his extended family there thinking that it would be a good place to live as he suffered from tuberculosis eventually dying there in 1894.

When the lava flow resulting from the earthquakes had solidified it was discovered that in one devastated area near Saleaula that the lava had avoided but surrounded one grave of a young girl from the village. It is now a tourist attraction to walk on that same lava field probably quaking in your shoes to see it for yourself.

My wife and I visited the islands in 1985 and considered it to be one of the best holidays we ever had also visiting Robert Louis Stevenson's former home there on the more populated island of Upulu just a few kilometres from the capital Apia.

                             Vailima, just outside Apia on Upolu

Image 1 found at www.traveladventures.com
Image 2 found at https://en.wikipedia.org

A waste of time

Your eyes reflected sadness
As you packed your bags
Packing and unpacking
Travelling used to fun
Exploring was not boring
But now I am snoring
Or perhaps I've died
I wanted to hold you close
You shook your head
Journeys are tedious now
Feeling tired sitting down
When we do arrive
All we want to do
Is come back home
A waste of time
A waste of energy
A waste of you
A waste of me
As I loved you

Image found at www.railgallery.wongm.com

The Glance

It's a problem
Riding on the evening train
Except with closed eyes

Just one casual glance
In the wrong direction here
May a receive a look

Or an angry pout
As though you had touched this maid
Not just glanced outside

For it is as though
You had caressed her bare arm
As she glares a you

In your journey's time
Now must avoid at all costs
Just one look her way

As your train pulls in
You get up and leave your seat
To wend your way home

She too now alights
And speaks a few words to you
"I've seen you before"

My heart dropped like stone
Fearing of what she would say
As she smiles and states

"See you tomorrow
We'll talk then if you like"
I walk home so pleased

Image found at www.darkmoon.me

She's in the Caribbean

She was glamorous

She made the grade to a tee

Far as I could see

She was colorful

Had a sparkle in her eye

Only meant for me

She was so cheeky

So pretty this girl of mine

Oh, she was divine

Seasons come and go

And autumn took her away

Said she could not stay

I’ve no companion

She’s in the Caribbean

Keeping others warm

image from www.travelpictures.1-my.com

At the foot of the Apennine hills

This piece was originally posted way back in 2009 without a prompt and has now found a home in Two Shoes Tuesday for the prompt Sacrifice.

The coach sped along the autostrada. Forty six contented tourists basked in the morning sun. Their tour of Italy was nearly at its end. The drive today would see them back in Rome in the afternoon with just a farewell dinner, a good night's rest and they would go their separate ways again.

What a great tour it had been. Ten days of sights sounds, food and friendship. Each one had a favourite city.

"I loved Venice."

"Oh. No Stresa and the Alps for me."

"Pisa was so spectacular."

"But what about Rome and it's history?"

"The romantic scenery of Capri, you can't beat that."

"Surely the remains at Pompeii?"

And so it went on, everyone's senses had been filled; not one disappointed. The attempts at the language, the fabulous food and wine, the irrepressible humour of the guide, what memories they would take back with them.

The coach slowed down and turned off the main road. The guide explained that the group would now pass the monastery of Monte Cassino. He was less buoyant now. He spoke slower. It was as though he something difficult to say.

"It was destroyed in the war by allied bombs and ground attack...the monastery buildings were rebuilt after the war...many thousands of soldiers died on both sides, attacking and defending it.

He looked away for a moment, then went on.

"Perhaps it was not necessary to do this. Cassino...Cassino, it was not so important." He shrugged his shoulders and sat down again.

As the coach approached the towering structure on the apex of the hill, the sun disappeared from view and the sad edifice cast its shadow over the coach. A village was passed, a turning taken and the coach drew up at a lay-by at the foot of some steps.

The passengers emerged into the sunlight again and were invited to view the Commonwealth War Graves Commission cemetery, overlooked by the monastery so high above it. The coach party climbed the steps and were greeted by a crisp cut field of blinding white. There in front of them marked by countless rows of identical marble headstones were the many graves of the fallen allied soldiers who gave their lives in order to take the citadel from their enemy. Not far away we were told there were other cemeteries; American, German, Polish, all giving testament to those few weeks of the war.

But these were not some unkempt graveyards of neglect. This place was fresh and clean and alive with trees and flowers and sound of birdsong.

Tourists became mourners and without words being spoken, they separated and walked singly amongst the dead. It was as though the experience was too personal to share. Row upon row of young lives lost; sons of grieving mothers, husbands of stricken wives, fathers of orphaned children.

There they were, captain and corporal, private and padre, all equal in that part of Italy which was now their home.

Lance Corporal William Scott, Dorset Regiment, Aged 21
Private John Hughes, Middlesex Regiment, Aged 19
Captain Reginald Farrow, Royal Ulster Rifles, Aged 27
Pilot Officer James Riddle, Royal Air Force, Aged 25

On and on went the inscriptions, each one a wound to the heart. More than one tear was shed at this frequent inscription:

A soldier known only to God

Once strangers, they were made brothers and sisters as the names were read. Closer too were they to the guide whose own soil had been soaked by these warriors' blood.

In grieving perhaps all now could see the futility of war. If lives have to be lost in causes not of their own making, there could be no better place to rest in that beautiful and awe inspiring cemetery at the foot of the Apennine hills.

(Photo by the author, names invented for privacy)

Commuting

Back from town again

As all of us commuters

Jostle for a seat

Stare down the tall man

Grab the last seat by the girl

With a fragrant scent

I’m in paradise

Our knees touch each other

She leaves at my stop

Her perfume lingers
Just a remnant of a smile
and we separate

Io arrives in Australia (No 4)

The continuing adventures of me and the Greek goddess Io

Io (AKA Violet S Inarchus) and I landed in Adelaide quite early in the morning. It didn’t feel early for us we had breakfasted at some ungodly hour so that the aircraft would be ready for the next leg of its flight with the minimum of inconvenience to the flight crews but for the maximum discomfort for the alighting passengers.

We skipped the duty free shop, trundled into immigration and customs. Well I trundled with my case but Io nonchalantly fronted the necessary counters and interviews with just her large red handbag. I didn’t dare guess what it contained nor if it would pass the x-ray scanner. I was a coward I just wasn’t with her at times like this. I had a nasty feeling that she would turn to me for help when it was discovered she didn’t even have a passport or entry permit…well one that I could see.

I had my own problems though being grilled as to whether I had visited a farm in the UK and played with animals with mad cow disease. They even wanted to know why I visited Greece. I felt like saying “Well I had always fancied an affair with a sexy naiad all moist and naked from the stream and luckily I found one and look there she is over there.” Luckily I kept to the standard spiel about ancient temples and trying out my Greek. Unluckily the woman on the counter was of Greek origin and came out with some unintelligible gabble. I stuttered a geis sas and eycharisto and moved on quickly.

Not unexpectedly Io had already got through to the arrival hall before me. As she stood there smiling I felt that it was she that was welcoming me to Adelaide rather than the other way round.

As I wheeled my case to the exit and we queued up for a taxi, we were welcomed by the dry air of Adelaide and a clear blue sky. It was already quite warm so early in the morning as we shuffled along in the queue to grab a taxi. Our driver who on hearing my address; nodded in comprehension and then we drove out of the arrivals bay. Io was very observant. She looked at the photo ID of the Indian driver and would no doubt have started a conversation with him about the mogul emperors had I not jumped in first and asked him how the cricket was going. Luckily that was the right subject and after receiving a shayakking about how weak the Aussies were we then had to endure his effusive praises for Tendulkar and the rest of the Indian team. At least we didn’t get an in depth conversation about Macedonia versus the world with Alexander the Great from Mrs. Inarchus.

Io poked me in the ribs but kept a slightly sullen silence until we got to my house. As I let us in she changed immediately and delightedly started to discover all the rooms. I put on the air conditioning to suck out the stale air, did a quick check of all the rooms then took my case to the bedroom. Io was already stretched out on the bed.

“Is this where we will sleep?

“No I have a fish pond you can use. Trust me, you will be more comfortable there won’t you, being a Naiad?”

She jumped up off the bed wrapped her arms around me, “I do love the way you talk to me. You are not frightened of me. You make me laugh.”

She then dragged me down onto the bed with her and started shedding her clothes, which were few.

“Io, you may still be that young heifer that Zeus wanted so much but remember I am an old mortal.”

Her skin so flawless and beautiful, her body so youthful and eager and her breath as sweet as honey she leaned over me and as she blew on my face it made me relaxed and comfortable and filled me with an overwhelming desire that I have never felt before. She seemed to change before me her breasts swelled and her skin took on a bronzy glow and without being conscious of removing any part of my clothing I was suddenly as one with her naked, melting into her and she into me. In my semi conscious state I felt that the whole of me had united with her. As she had read my mind so I now I read hers, her story, her needs and her fears. And in this united being I experienced her long life, from childhood to womanhood and beyond. I too now feared Hera’s brutal retribution for being a victim of Zeus’s lust. I too battled waves like Leander as I swam the Hellespont but I was not I swimming to Hero but to Io who skilled Naiad that she was, scooped me up and saved me with her love from the stormy seas.

I don’t know I long I had been asleep but when I was woken by the telephone ringing insistently I glanced over to see Io also lying by my side. We were both still naked. The phone had stopped ringing but the answering machine would pick up any messages. Io was relaxed with her eyes closed, asleep as I had been, I expect. She was so beautiful. Carefully I leaned over and kissed her tummy and then added a few more kisses as I made my way up her body over her breasts, her neck, then her chin and finally with a most gentle kiss on her lips.

“I am not asleep, so don’t stop.”

“Stop? I was only just beginning. So you have put me in your life story then? I think we have got some planning to do. But first let’s sort out my luggage and get the washing machine on. I need a cup of tea too.”

As I hopped out of bed I could feel her eyes on me. My case had disappeared. As I looked out the Laundry window I could see washing already on the line. I sighed a deep sigh, went back to the bedroom only to see a cup of tea waiting for me.

“I know you are old enough to be my mother,” I said to her as she lay there on the bed, “but please stop mothering me.” She cocked her head to one side then patted the bed with her hand.

Io the traveller (No 3)

The continuing adventure of me and a Greek goddess

We flew into Kuala Lumpur airport, which as you may know is quite a few miles from the city. Airports are airports and I had no desire to traipse around all those shops yet again so I told Io I was going up to the Business Class lounge and did she want to meet me there later?

“How far are you going?” I asked meaning the flight as we hadn’t discussed our destinations. She didn’t answer but asked me in turn where I was going.

“Adelaide” I replied.

She beamed. “So am I.”

I didn’t believe her. “Show me you ticket then.”

She pouted, “Don’t be cross. I haven’t got a ticket.”

“Nor a passport either, I expect. You just make them think you have, don’t you?” I sighed deeply. “How do you do it? Who do you think you are, Cleopatra or someone just lauding it over everyone?”

She raised her eyebrows, “Well a little better than her. Haven’t you heard of Isis?”

“Oh no, I thought that was some story the Egyptians made up to account for you swimming in the sea from the Bosphorus through the Mediterranean to the Nile all to escape Hera tormenting you with gadflies.” At this point I held her arm and examined it for insect bites.”

“Well I am a good swimmer. And the gadflies? I found this really good spray I think it is made in Australia, called Stingose.”

“You know couldn’t get Stingose back then. Why do you make my brain ache Io?”

She suddenly looked worried, came up to me and put her hand on my forehead.

”Is that better?”

“Of course it is better. You have bewitched me haven’t you? I can just see my kids meeting me off the plane in Adelaide with a teenage girl alongside holding my hand. Why did you pick on me Io?”

“You’re the only one that understands.” With that she gave me a hug so we skipped the shops and headed for the lounge together.

We settled into some easy chairs and I said I was going to have a shower.

“We could bathe together” she suggested.

I shook my head. “That is naughty and forbidden. This is Muslim country. The facilities are strictly segregated. If you want a shower I will look after the carry-ons and have my shower later.”

She nodded and flounced off to the back of the lounge where had I directed her. For the last 15 hours or so I had been in her company and just those few minutes apart were now an agony. What had she done to me? I looked out of the window onto the airport tarmac the sun was at its zenith and I could imagine how hot and steamy it was out there as we were just above the equator. After the exhilaration of being with her I now felt dead tired.

She came back all fresh and dewy. Mind you she was like that when she left. Being a minor goddess clearly has an advantage over us mortals. After my shower we sat and talked about what would happen when we got to Adelaide while I tried to determine the real purpose of her trip.

She assumed I would provide a bed for her. Luckily I had a spare room and the neighbours weren’t nosy. It would be slightly different though with my three grown up children all with families of their own. What tactic could I use with them?

“I should have told them you were coming” I said to Io a few hours later as we stood waiting to board the last leg flight to Adelaide.

“Can’t you send them a message?”

I am glad she didn’t suggest sending Hermes. So I texted the same message to them all, Met my cousin’s daughter at KL, said she could stay with me in Oz for a while, Dad x.

As you can see I am not an expert at texting but it seemed OK. As I showed my boarding pass and Io did whatever she did while I disowned her for a minute, I quickly turned my mobile off, before any questions started to hit the ether from Australia.

Once we had settled in again on this new flight, I tried to think practicalities. Should Io’s name be changed? What was her real purpose in fleeing Greece? Is she just a tourist and does she need a temporary entry permit? I was worrying unduly of course; she was the one with the problem of getting through customs. My worry was how I could resist ripping all her clothes off and making her mine the moment we stepped inside my front door.

At that moment Io caught up with me gave me a wink and said “I’ve changed my name”

I raised my eyebrows.

“It’s Violet S. Inarchus. I am Greek and on a holiday to see friends and relatives in Melbourne. That’s near you isn’t it?”

“Well that is better than saying you have an Arcadian passport,” I grinned. “I love the idea of little Io hiding in a bunch of sweet scented violets. Oh and by the way Melbourne is about 500 miles from Adelaide.”

“Well perhaps I won’t meet up with them after all.”

“So how do I explain to my family that you have a Greek name.”

“Well I am married aren’t I?”

“I have the measure of you Io. Inarchus is not your father’s name, his was Inachus. Inarchus was one of the first kings of Greece thousands of years ago. What you have done is put a little r for Robin in your father’s name. I am flattered.”

“Oh that was just a little test” she said, “You came through with flying colours.” As she said that she let her forefinger just tap me gently on the nose.

I sat in my seat and wondered how soon the drinks trolley would come round I really needed one.

A wonder on the Rue de Rivoli

I was supposed to meet Brenda on the end of the Rue de Rivoli by the Metro station, just where there is a crossing to the Louvre Museum.
"I just want to browse a bit in these souvenir shops."
She smiled that cute smile of hers and disappeared inside a shop that was clearly going to test our Visa card again. Why is it that souvenirs and mementos are so desirable and attractive in a foreign country, yet are just so much junk when you get them home? We had already agreed if we got separated where we would meet on the hour. In a city like Paris there is always so many interesting sights and scenes that waiting for someone is never a hardship.

I returned to the appointed spot at four o'clock and amused myself by taking shots of the street and crowds. Already I had got through so many that day I started to worry I might fill the memory chip before the holiday ended. As I crossed over the road at the pedestrian crossing I brushed against a bundle of rags in the gutter. I wondered what on earth it was. As I looked down I could see that it was in fact a beggar sitting there. When I got to the other pavement I glanced back. The beggar was in fact a woman, head bowed with just a small brown hand poking out from the collection of shawls and wraps that enveloped her body. I focused the camera and took a long shot back through the traffic, of her pathetic figure. Hardly anybody seemed to notice her and even less offered her a coin. As I panned my camera around, disguising my detailed observation of her, I was staggered to see that in a quieter moment with less people around she drew forth from the wrappings, a little baby. She unfolded her clothing and there in the midst of the street, suckled the child. The traffic roared relentlessly on around her. Tourists and Parisian's alike streamed by her, and there in the noise and the filth of the gutter the baby took its fill.

The mother looked kindly down on her offspring and her begging hand rocked up and down as though merely by such movement the passers by would come to her aid. I was overcome by emotion. I crossed back over the road again and dropped a one Euro coin into her hand. Almost imperceptibly, she glanced at the coin, from the coin to me, then nodding in acknowledgment, bent her face over the child again. In that fleeting moment I could see that the mother was a girl of outstanding beauty. Her high cheek bones, her well formed nose and the darkest of dark eyes were set on an face of unblemished dusky brown. Then she was gone, hidden in that bundle of nondescript rags. I returned to my post awaiting Brenda. Looking back to the girl's position on the roadside, I could scarcely believe that anyone was sitting there.

"What do you think of these?" Brenda voice sang out.
She was back with her prizes. I had to admire the silk scarves, the miniature street signs and the ubiquitous Eiffel Towers, right there in the street with all the crowds milling around us.
"Lets take the Metro back to the hotel."
She nodded agreement, while I wondered about the money we had just wasted, while the beggar girl sat in the gutter.

Brenda could see that I was a bit testy about her spending, and eventually drew out of me the reason for my mood. She cynically suggested that she probably was a professional beggar and she made a reasonable living. I could not believe such a thing, especially not from the few moments that I had observed her.

Later that week unbeknown to Brenda, I returned to that same spot. Brenda assumed I was just snapping away at street scenes, which bored her silly, considering them wasted shots. Having had a busy day shopping in "Au Printemps" she intended to write a few postcards at the hotel to unwind.

The girl was there again, in the identical position. It was much later in the day and the light was fading fast. As before I crossed the street then returned. This time I placed a five Euro note in her hand. She recognised it immediately. Her look was longer this time and there was a flicker of recognition, her other hand was drawn out from the bundles and barely touched my hand in return. There was no smile, no utterance before she lowered her eyes again. But when our eyes had met, I had an overwhelming feeling of love and gratitude, pass from her to me, that I will remember for the rest of my life.

Travelling in the good old days

We never went on holidays when we were children, because of the war. Of course we had holidays from school but we didn't seem to do much except muck around up at the sandpit or play down in the copse, close to where Tommy Foster lived.

I don't ever remember Mum or Dad ever having holidays then from their work but I suppose they did. Mind you holidays were very much shorter then, and in any case Dad would have spent all his time in the allotment and only come home at tea time. Mum on the other hand worked in a grocery shop, so we should have noticed that she was at home with us but we didn't! We must have been pretty busy ourselves. We were like wild animals let loose from captivity in the morning, straining at the back door while our hair was combed and our faced examined lest the spinster sisters, Olive and Myrtle Green, who lived up the road should see us less than perfect and make some terrible pronouncement to the other neighbours.

Real holidays didn't start until after the war and unbeknown to Jill and myself arrangements had been made to stay in a Bed and Breakfast in Hastings early in September 1945. We were pretty excited when we realised that we were going on our first real holiday. Dad on the other hand was worried because we didn't have a suitcase to put our things in. So he went round to Granddad to see if he could borrow one. He came back later with a medium size shiny leather suitcase of some age. It's corners were reinforced and it had solid chunky brass clasps and locks. Mum was delighted. Dad merely delved into his pocket for a packet of Weights and lit one up with his home made lighter.

"I never knew he had that", she exclaimed, as she placed it on the floor, got down on her knees and reverently opened the clasps. Apart from a brown paper bag and some tissue paper it was empty, but it was lined with a blue and grey striped silky material which Jill immediately smoothed down with her fingers. She murmured "Ohhhh", and Dad beamed down at us through a haze of smoke. He alone remained standing. Meanwhile I was examining the outside. Faded labels told of other peoples excursions to distant parts. There was a remnant of a Cunard sticker showing part of a liner, a hotel label with the word Metropole on it, a long sticker saying 'CABIN LUGGAGE', and most intriguing of all to me, a tiny notice saying 'EXAMINED BY CUSTOMS'. My nine year old mind conjured up exotic ports, intrigues and daring deeds. Jill on the other hand had found the previous owners name, a Mr. A. Weston, written on the inside of the case. Dad explained that Granddad had bought the case in a jumble sale before the war but he had never used it.

How we managed to get all our clothes in the case I don't know. We wore less then, of course, and for longer. Jill and I only had one pair of shoes each, so they didn't have to be packed. Still, the case was stuffed full and Mum, Jill and me, each had to carry a brown paper carrier bag with extras in. Mum also carried her enormous handbag which stored every conceivable necessity for the journey, as well there was an umbrella, which she took with her regardless of the weather. Dad carried the case, today's newspaper and a box brownie camera slung around his neck.

We started early in the morning and walked to the station where we caught a train to Waterloo Station. I bagged a window seat, but had to promise Jill she could sit next to the window on the next train. We then had to cross over to Victoria Station by the Underground to get another train to Hastings. Naturally Jill and I had an argument over the seats because I counted the tube train as the next train which set her off, crying as usual, because she couldn't see anything in the dark tunnels of the tube. Dad lugged the case up and down the stairs, on the escalators, in through the sliding doors, and past the ticket collectors, while we followed on with our carrier bags. When we got to Victoria, the station was packed. I had never seen so many people in my life. They were hurrying in every direction and the sound was deafening as the shouting, the platform announcements and the noise of the trains filled the building. We found some seats in a crowded carriage and I smirked at Jill as no place by the window was available. She looked pretty glum but instead of crying this time, she cuddled up to Mum and was asleep soon after the train left the platform.

There was not a spare seat in the carriage, and between glancing at the suburbs and countryside speeding by, I examined the other occupants. There was a man in a trilby hat that smoked his pipe incessantly. His wife a shrivelled up woman returned my stare then finally with some distaste took the Daily Express from her husband and hid from me by reading it. Her husband meanwhile puffed on happily, admiring the scenery. Next to me in the corridor seats sat two ladies of about Mum's age who engaged in a conversation that necessitated their bending over toward each other that made it very difficult for me to go into the corridor. Out there were interesting people like soldiers sitting on kit bags and other boys my own age, train spotting. Eventually I escaped, and joined them. The journey then went quickly for me and when I returned to the compartment later, the man with the pipe and his wife were gone and Jill was seated at the window.

"We'll soon be there" said Mum as she dabbed her nose with powder. Dad started to get the case down and all the bags were counted and reallocated. As the train drew into the station, Mum and Dad started to discuss the options of walking to our lodging or getting a taxi. Only well off people had cars then and even a ride in a taxi for many years seemed to me like an extravagant luxury. When we did indulge we all sat awkwardly in the car and said not a word, lest the driver think that we were talking to him, or somehow he would realise how poor and ignorant we were.

So we walked. The address; 62 Hillingdon Road, should have been a clue that the accommodation was no where near the sea and up a steep climb. Better establishments had names like Sea View or Seagulls or other such coastal connotations, on streets called The Esplanade or Beach Road. Neither Jill or I complained because every step was a new adventure on our very first holiday.

Now it is very strange but I don't remember much else about that holiday. There was the beach of course and ice cream, but what stood out was that leather suitcase, and how proud of it we all were. We returned it Granddad after, and much later when he died, Dad got it back again. In later years we bought our own suitcases when we could afford them, and the leather case was used by Jill for all her dress up clothes.

When I was called up for National Service I needed a case of my own, so I went up to the attic to see if it was still there. It was, a little older and sadder looking. It was scuffed and dull and one of the locks was broken. I still used it though, tying up its middle with a bit of sash cord. It travelled with me for several years, and stood up to terrible punishment, including being thrown out onto a station platform from a moving train.

Today, as I was waited for my luggage to come through on the airport's carousel, I thought back to that old case. It had outlived it's first owner Mr. Weston, Granddad and my own Mother and Father. I felt a pang of shame as I collected my cases and put them on a trolley. At some time I had discarded that case in one of the many moves in my life and I had not given it a thought to those good old days until now.

My Roman Affair

(OK, so this isn't new but it has not been posted to a prompt before so I thought it needed another airing for newer readers.)   

I looked down at the plate. What had they given us this time? It was 9.30pm Maureen and I were in a ristorante in Rome with the rest of the coach party. It was our last night in the city and and we were enjoying our farewell dinner. The place was crowded, and this was no understatement. It was packed to the rafters! When we had arrived our hearts sank as we could see the place was full. Surely the arrangements had gone seriously wrong. But no, we were ushered in, through the ground floor dining rooms, down a passage, past the kitchens when ten or more chefs and kitchen hands worked in a typical latin frenzy.

At the end of the passage we turned left and squeezed past waiters moving back and forth from service areas to eating areas. Then we went down some steep stairs to the lowest rooms of the building, we had arrived in a series of subterranean vaults that had been converted to dining rooms. We made our way through the mass of diners already eating and eventually found ourselves in a corner with just enough tables and chairs to seat our party.

I automatically looked for the fire exit; there was none! In my mind I read the page three European news in my local Australian newspaper. "Hundreds die in restaurant fire in Rome. Australian tourists believed to be victims. Difficulty in identifying charred bodies. Police have issued an arrest warrant for missing restaurant owner."

We all sat down. Then with typical Italian flourish we were welcomed by the waiter who fussed around the women with smooth courtesy. Wine and water were placed on the table and we were encouraged to ask for more when that ran out. It was included in the meal. So things were not so bad after all! The bottled water might help to put out any fire that started!

The gourmet food and wine were consumed, course by course. Laughter erupted out of the conversation like a natural by-product at such a gathering. New friendships forged in recent days spoke of enduring relationships and the wine flowed. The waiters teased, picked their favorites and customers allowed them liberties that they would laugh about or perhaps choose not to remember in the morning.

My eyes strayed from the group. Through an archway in the wall another party were similarly disposed. A family group of Italian grandparents, parents and children joined in the repartee with the waiters and shouted encouragement at their antics. The eldest granddaughter was a Gina Lollabrigida type; dark eyes, flowing black hair and a sensuality that reflected in every movement.

The main course was served and with a clatter of plates, the most handsome waiter chose his favorite at each table to present their meal on a silver platter. He insisted on a reward of course. He drew his napkin from his arm and with no lack of Latin charm shielded his chosen lady while he stole a kiss. If she resisted he persevered. If she encouraged he took his time. There was no escape and the crowded room erupted with laughter. The wine bottles were exchanged.

I glanced back to family through the arch. A three piece group of musicians were serenading each table and had arrived at Gina Lollabrigida's. She was entranced. She wriggled with desire and rose willingly when the singer invited her to dance. She swayed voluptuously in his arms, her eyes shining and her body reflecting the rhythm of the music. The singer was called away by the leader of the group and she stood in hurt solitude, her supple young body not yet ready to give up. A passing waiter found himself dancing with her, but he was too keen and held her close to feel that young body against him. She frowned, shook her head and released him from her grasp. Yet another waiter was chosen, this one was a fine dancer too. He held her lightly, and led her around the tiny space available, their bodies moving in perfect timing with the music. She closed her eyes in ectasy with a seductive smile on her face.

I was captivated.

The band of minstrels moved away from their area and she reluctantly returned to the family's table and sat down.

I returned to my Gnocchi.

A little while later the musicians approached our table. What fun it was. The ladies were serenaded in turn and the men were encouraged to place a note on the guitar if they approved of the music. There was certainly no room to dance where we were but the thrill of the seductive music, the charm of the Romeo musicians and the effect of the wine showed in the eyes of our partners.

I do not know what made me glance back to the dark eyed nymph through the archway, but I did. She was pouting with exasperation that the music was so close again but unavailable to her. She remonstrated with the singer to come back to her, but he merely smiled and turned back to our group. I kept my eyes on her. For the first time now facing in our direction she saw me too. There was the merest hint of understanding. We searched each others faces and for just one second she was mine. But the moment was brief. In that time I too held her in my arms and danced with her. I could feel that sensuous body against mine and I kissed those red lips.

We both turned away at the same time, then she was lost to me forever.

I returned to my glass of wine and smiled brightly at Maureen and the others on my table hoping my eyes would not reveal my passionate affair.

(Danse a la ville, painting by Renoir c 1883)