The Leap Year: extracts
The Leap Year - extracts
have a taste of the stories in this dazzling collection and leave us your comments please.
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January, Argentina
by Lucy Cavendish
In the arid pampas of Argentina, the maid on a ranch makes a shocking discovery…
“There was a smell. Consuela stopped. What was it? It reminded her of something, something acrid. It stung her nose. She just couldn’t remember what it was. Then, suddenly, a shaft of sunlight came through the old roof of the barn and shone on the body directly. Consuela gasped and gave out a scream. Her hand flew to the crucifix around her neck.
“Mi dios!” She stood transfixed. Then she almost imperceptibly crossed herself and went towards the body. It was her. La mujer del jefe and she was covered in blood.” (p1)
February, Montreal
Anne Tuite-Dalton
With the death of her partner, an elderly Canadian woman is forced to confront her past and future…..
“ Steps resonate in the room, I open my eyes: I can hardly believe it, three figures are making their way to the bench across the aisle. I clasp my hands together. I am shaking slightly. Henry must have noticed: as we sit down, he presses my elbow. Minutes pass, I try to contain my rage. They have appropriated that space as if she was theirs in equal measure. They cannot claim her now she has died. I won’t give them the pleasure of looking at them.” (p2)
March, Jamaica
Rachel Jackson
Dionne returns to her roots in Jamaica for a family reunion. Joining in the preparations she benefits from her Grandmother’s wisdom….
“It was harder still to pluck the bird without an audience. The warm body with its clouded eyes seemed to reproach her for prolonging its humiliation, although, even without the benefit of caffeine, she knew this to be absurd. She was just contemplating the best way to speed up the process, when a large stone seemed to hit the front door. She turned and instead saw a walking stick bashing the door open. Grandmom.
“Dionne?” the old woman murmured as she leaned into the room, as if surprised to see her.
“Yes Grandmom, good morning.”
“What you doin’ to dat hen, leave it be, Darlin can do it.”
She sounded almost angry and Dionne let the bird fall onto the table, feeling foolish.
Grandmom held out the cane and used it to hook a chair leg, pulling the seat back towards her. Then, very slowly, she lowered herself to the table next to her guest.
“You mus’ be lookin’ forward to go back to England, my right?”
Dionne smiled brightly “Not really, all that cold…..It’s beautiful here.” Her smile was met with a shake of the head.
“But you got man. You not miss him already?”
“Yes, of course,” she replied, maintaining the smile.
“He angry you here?”
“No!” she exclaimed, glancing at the humiliated chicken. “No, it’s different back in London, busy, you know, we both have to do our own thing…”
“Don’t sound too good to me.” “ (p12)
April, New York
by Alexa Hughes-Wilson
Girl-about-town Lizzie, is finally about to marry, but after a wild night out with her old flatmate she’s forced to chose between old and new lovers…
“ …If I asked you to come up to MoMa with me today, you wouldn’t be bothered if I said Neil was coming too.”
It was just as he had imagined it would be. The coffee cup went back down, bang. Lizzie’s face froze then her mouth gaped open: her nostrils began to quiver and turn red, her chin trembled and finally tears welled up and spilled out of her eyes. He felt a bit wicked watching all her self-assurance collapse like that, but also relieved to know Miss Sturm und drang was still alive and well.
Jonathan leaned against the doorway, a little amazed. “Or maybe you would be bothered. Lizzie, it’s been a long time. He doesn’t know you might come, so don’t”
“Why didn’t you tell me last night? Why did he find you? When?”
“I didn’t tell you last night because we don’t hang out that much anymore and I wanted to fly around town, laugh, dance and drink with the Lizzie I knew, not the maudlin girl who used to ring me on the phone every Friday night when you were first on your own here in the city.”
He walked over, took her chin in one hand and wiped tears from her cheek with the other.
“That’s part of what you left behind as you woke up this morning, Lizzie. She’s gone. Like it or not Mrs Paul Tight-pants is awake and taking on the day in a black frock and stilletos at noon.” (p 5 and 6)
May, London
Miranda Glover
Haunted by the changes motherhood has brought, Susie laments the world of work she has lost…
“The girls began to glance at their computer clocks. An hour and a half had passed since they sat down at their screens. It was long enough without a break and their attentions began to wander. The lunch hour was creeping their way. Time for a skinny latte and naked crayfish salad. They left their desks in twos and threes, casting discreet glances into soundproofed glass rooms where their queens skipped food in preference for control. Then they took the office lifts down to street level.
“He said he wanted a picture of me,” said one as the coffee machine in Starbucks clunked. “To see how I looked, you know, in digital.”
“In digital?” her friend enquired as she stirred chocolate into the milky froth.
“My tits,” the first murmured, “so he could admire them while he worked.”
She passed her phone with a smirk.
“How did you take it?”
“I stood in the work toilets with my back to the door, pulled up my T-shirt and clicked.”
“Not bad for an amateur, but it’s more soft porn than Mario Testino.” “
(p5)
June, Amsterdam
Anne Tuite-Dalton
After a visit to the Anne Frank’s museum in Amsterdam, a mother wrestles with her understanding of her daughter’s adolescence…
“When they came back outside the sun was high in the sky, the morning light had turned to a strong blue. They walked along the canal, silently, their steps in tune.
The waterways, their regularity, broken by the trees bordering them, brought them a sense of relief. Tall, long, elegant houses stood on the side, seemingly looking at their city. Amsterdam was calm, dignified. They stood on the bridge. Catherine and Juliette both looked down, into the water running underneath them. The sunrays mirrored them, Juliette’s blond hair, her dark t-shirt, Catherine’s light tunic, her face a cream oval. Fragile images.
“It’s interesting isn’t it, how we are defined by how others see us, by the vision they have of us. And this image is very important to all, especially teenagers.”
“Yes and …” Juliettte replied, slightly impatiently.” (p4)
July, India
Jennie Walmsley
A fifty year old widow from the home-counties returns to India and finds spiritual renewal in surprising places…
“The station was heaving with people when she arrived, some with clear intent to catch a train or buy a ticket, or disembark and launch into the business of their day in the city. But plenty of the people seemed to be purposeless, to be standing, surrounded by bags and children in the growing heat, absorbing the noise and colour and chaos. Frances joined them, knowing that she wasn’t camouflaged, that a middle-aged woman standing alone in the middle of this human soup was out of place. This had been where she and Andrew parted. She didn’t recognise it, except for the teeming humanity. The hall was large and echoey, the sound of trains and doors slamming, the shouts of vendors, whistles blowing, a constant buzz of activity. Frances felt like a silent invisibility in the midst of it all. Although she knew her appearance might attract some attention, she was also aware that she had no clear identity here. She might as well have been a column or a wall. Frances noticed an old woman sitting on the floor like a barnacle, immobile in a sea of scurrying feet and trolleys. The old woman’s thin arm outstretched from beneath her tattered white sari in supplication. The tide of Chennai’s rush-hour ignored her.” (p6)
August, Spain
Rachel Jackson
On a weekend break in Barcelona, twenty-something Isla discovers the healing power of dance…
“Diego clapped again and strode back to turn off the music.
“It’s time for partners. Salsa is moving together, responding with lover.”
There were a few more giggles which Isla ignored.
“Now ladies.” Smiled Diego. “I have very good surprise for you.”
He walked over to the main door and opened it. In walked six men, dressed in white t-shirts and black trousers, as dark as Diego and similarly built, they were ranging in ages from late twenties to fifties. Isla bridled at the coarse ripple that ran through the female element in the room.
“This,” he waved at them proudly, “is my friends. Excellent dancers show how to move like Spanish women.” “ (p5)
September, Hong Kong
Jennie Walmsley
Just returned from a business trip to her Hong Kong penthouse, Katy phones a friend to break the news about her recent meeting with a man whom she believes to be God…
“What? Sorry Babes, I was daydreaming a moment, what did you say?”
“I asked, what he wanted from you, apart from the obvious? Why did he decide to reveal himself to you, this man who thinks he’s Jesus flying around South Asia with a hostess trolley?”
Was there a slight hint of envy in Fiona’s voice? A touch of something dark and disappointed with the sluggishness of life in Oxfordshire contrasted with the exoticisms of Hong Kong and the promise of an Oriental Saviour?”
Katy smirked, “He said he wanted to save me, of course. I think he would have whipped me on to the next flight to Hanoi if I’d asked him. But I didn’t. He did promise me it will be OK, though. He kept telling me to believe that it will be alright.” Her fingers rehearsed the circular movements his had traced on the back of her hand, over her wedding ring, as he’d talked about compromise, the seeming impossibility of achieving peace, the need for balance. “What, did he go all cosmic on you, talk about Yin and Yang? Read your star signs? Perform any miracles?”
Katy sighed. She loved Fiona’s sense of humour usually. Just now she felt wearied by it.
“Well he did actually. One of the oldest in the book. Water into wine. Swear to God when he poured it it was Evian, but when I drank it, it was Chablis.” “
(p 6 and 7)
October, South Africa
Alexa Hughes Wilson
A wealthy American couple touring South Africa’s vineyards find themselves confronting their real and imagined fears of violence and death…
“At this point the anxious driver began searching, not for the right road, but simply for a large road, something that might eventually take him where he would find his bearings. Jerome was searching the back of Serena’s head. When you have been married for even a few years, you can read fear and anger simply in the line of the shoulders, the glimpse of a chin. He wondered when she had lost her mad courage that had drawn him to her only four years before. If he had dared to ask her, she would have replied that solitude had drained it from her. She would have claimed that courage is theatre even if performed only for ourselves. And now, though he watched her all the time, she felt vanishingly distant, small, solitary.” (p7 and 8)
November, Kenya
Lucy Cavendish
On honeymoon in Kenya Emma is wondering whether she has made the right choice. A day trip on a boat will reveal the answer…
“Ali suggests she has a sleep. Emma notices that Jon is already dozing – his cigarette has burned down next to his fingers leaving a small slug of ash next to his hand. His mouth is open. He looks comic. It makes Emma feel fond of him. She goes and lies next to him and closes her eyes, letting the sun move over every part of her body.
The next thing she knows she is woken up by sea splashing over her. The water is shockingly cold and it wakes her suddenly. She opens her eyes. Jon is not next to her. She sits up and sees that the sky is dark and it is flashing with lightning. She is shivering but she still cannot see Jon. In fact she cannot make out anything. The boat is rocking precariously back and forth. The waves are getting bigger and bigger.” (p10)
December, Sweden
Miranda Glover
As the Swedish winter descends, Johanna struggles to describe the loss of her father to a new friend…
“ “It was just over a year ago,” she says. “His funeral was held on a cruelly cold Wednesday morning.”
“Like today?”
“Just like today.”
Johanna misses her father’s ability to see through her vacant gazes. Fredrik knew how to pull her back out. Without him a part of her seems to have lost the will to speak. Not to analytical, caring, consistent Alex, nor to Per, kind, generous Per. Definitely not to Helena. Not to anyone, until perhaps now. Suddenly it feels imperative. To get it out. She takes a sip of tea.
“I see images of that day almost as if they’re through smeared windows,” she says.
“Many men there, men in dark, formal suits, powerful, nameless men from corporations. His daytime people. Women, too, of course, pretty, neat women from the office with composed faces; and a couple of more glamorous ones, who wept silently but who no one knew. Neither attended the gathering afterwards. None of it had anything to do with me, with us.”
Erik’s stopped painting. He’s looking across at her,…”
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