Nice As Ninepence ~ Another Journal Response by Lindsay


Nice As Ninepence

by Lindsay

A journal prompt response to “She came in every day.” April 2, 2013.

She comes in every day. Regular as clock time and quiet as a small draft that drifts in under the door. She creeps across the floor, it seems, almost as though she moves on tip-toe or wears slippers, and not a sound does she make save the snatch-catch of her breath as she approaches the counter.

It is no surprise when I turn around and see her there, same as every morning I can remember. It is no surprise ‘cause there’s a smell that she brings with her. She sends it a little ahead of her; a smell of roses and something slightly sour underneath, so I know she is there even if there’s been nothing to hear.

‘Good morning, Miss Purdie,’ I say and I smile at her and she smiles back.

She makes a show then of reading the noticeboard to see what’s on offer today. ‘Course, she and I know that is all just a thing that she does; we know that it’ll be a pot of breakfast tea and a slice of almond cake that she will order – same as she has ordered every day for years. I get the almond cake in specially for her.

She sits in the same chair at the same table and I bring her order out on a tin tray and I bring a cloth napkin with embroidered roses in one corner and I bring a small silver cake fork.

‘It’s turned out nice today,’ I say, making some common comment on the weather that is happening on the other side of the glass.

‘It has dear,’ she says. ‘Nice as ninepence.’

I don’t always know what she means by what she says. I don’t know how ninepence is any nicer than tenpence, but from her nodding and smiling I think she has given some agreement to what I have said.

‘Have you got plans for the day, Miss Purdie?’

I sit with her a while, if the place is not busy, and she tells me about the small excitements of her day ahead. They do not vary and she tells them the same whatever the weather and seems not to know she has told me them before. She says there is a man she sees, and her voice is shrunk to whisper like it is a secret. His name is Edward, she says, and he’s always turned out smart as paint and he’s got the bluest eyes you ever saw and he walks with her once around the park and he holds her hand and they say nothing. Then, at the closing gates of the park they kiss, just the once, and then, without a word having passed between them, they go their separate ways.

‘Isn’t that delightful?’

I tell her that it is and she goes on.

She has lunch a little later with another gentleman. His name is Elliott and he has a houseboat down on the canal and the boat’s name is ‘Jenny’, which is her own name when she is more than Miss Purdie.

Then Miss Jenny Purdie takes the bus to Covent Garden and she feeds the pigeons there and watches acrobats and jugglers and fire-eaters, and there’s a coffee shop where she meets a man who has no name and he tells her his life story in short installments and she says it is better than reading a book.

I know this is all make-believe because I followed her once. I thought it was such an oddly romantic story that I had to see it for myself. And though Miss Purdie did go to the park and did take a turn around the park, she did so alone. And at the gates she did stop, like she said, and she turned to one side, stretched tall on the balls of her feet, with her eyes closed, and she kissed the air – but no one was there to catch that kiss.

And there is a houseboat down on the canal and it is called ‘Jenny’ and I watched Miss Purdie watching the man at work there, painting the boat in bright colours, and emptying dirty water into the canal, and smoking a pipe when he’d finished. And he tipped his boatman’s cap at Miss Purdie and that was all.

And at Covent Garden there were pigeons which she fed, and acrobats to see, and jugglers and fire-eaters just as she’d said, and a coffee shop where she sat for a while over a coffee and where she talked to her own reflection in the window.

‘Course, I never let on to Miss Purdie. We all have our little lies that we live with. I tell her that Bob’s doing fine, that he’s a ray of sunshine in the house, that he’s a wonder with the kids and that I don’t know where I’d be without him. That’s what I tell Miss Purdie and anyone else who asks. But there ain’t no Bob now, just as there ain’t no Edward. Bob ran off with a stripper from Newcastle two years back, only he doesn’t tell his mum she’s a stripper; he tells his mum that she works in a salon and she does hair and make-up for girls when they are brides. We all have stories we tell.

‘Best drink your tea while it’s hot, Miss Purdie,’ I say and I get up from the table.

‘Thank you, dear,’ she says.

And the day shifts forward a little and I watch her picking at her almond cake like a bird, and she licks the point of her finger and not a single crumb is missed and the plate is left perfectly clean.

She checks her watch and checks the time against the clock on the wall and she drinks the last of her tea. Then at a minute before eleven she makes to go. She leaves a silver coin tucked under the edge of the plate and folds the napkin and sets it neatly in place on the tray. Then she tip-toes out, without a word, and off to be with Edward in the park, same as always, and Elliott by the canal, and a man with no name who has coffee with her in Covent Garden.


→Thanks again, dear Lindsay, for sharing your fine writing with us. And to others who find stories from the prompts I post, please feel encouraged to enter them in the comments section on the prompt’s page. And as always, thanks for reading! -PMc←

He Came Out of Nowhere ~ Another Prompt Response by Lindsay

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He came out of nowhere. That’s the story that went round. Like he just appeared. One second there was a wind blowing and the dust of the street making small grey clouds, and the next he was there, standing in the road dressed in a black wool suit and a black tie knotted at his neck and his shoes all glassy shine despite the dust.

‘Course, he said nothing to contradict what they said, what the women gathered at street corners whispered to one another, touching their hair and their lips when they said it. Coming from nowhere meant he could be anyone and that’s the birthplace of rumour.

Candy said he was a millionaire and he’d lost his way and the will to be. He was here in Barstow looking for some small truth to make sense of his life. That’s what she said. ‘He paid for his room with hundred dollar bills. He pulled a crumpled fistful from his coat pocket, like just so much rubbish, and he dropped them on the counter.’

Ruth said he was a thief and that explained the money. She said he’d turned over a small bank and he’d shot the cashier dead. He was a wanted man, she said. Wanted in three states. Then she changed her story. He was the cashier and it was the thief that had been shot and the bank burned to the ground, everything gone, all ‘cept a single bag of money. What had changed Ruth’s story was that she took a liking to him one night and after a drink too many she was in his bed.

‘Smells of spearmint,’ said Alicia. ‘Not just his breath or a taste on his tongue. But his sweat, too, and the back of his neck just below his hair, and the space between his fingers and his toes. Spearmint, I tell you.’ Alicia was a virgin before he came to town and then she wasn’t.

First Ruth and then Alicia and Marjory and Ellie and Lizabeth. I didn’t believe ‘em all. Not at first. But then behind Ed’s bar, just where the streetlight don’t reach, and we did it standing up and leaning against the slat-wood fence, and spearmint kisses just like Alicia said and all the rest.

One day he wasn’t there and then he was. It was the same when he left. Like he just disappeared. Like he had never been. ‘Cept a while later Ruth was sick in the morning, and Ellie, too, and two or three others besides. And those that weren’t felt something like loss and they took to walking to the edge of town standing on Barstow’s high ground and staring into the blue beyond with a look of wistful longing on their faces. I stood there, too, watching the wind whipping up the dirt.


Thanks again to Lindsay, a regular reader and contributor by way of comments to the Daily Journal Prompts I post. This piece is in response to Daily Journal Prompt #238, September 1, 2012. Lindsay’s writing leaves me breathless and longing–lucky for us, she continues to share it here. (And here and here and here and here and here.) It gives me great pleasure to read what folks write in response to the prompts I post; check the comments section for others, and send me yours! As always, thanks for reading! -PMc←

They Say… ~ Another Journal Prompt Response by Lindsay

Another fabulous response from Lindsay, a regular reader of and contributor to my Daily Journal Prompts. This one was written in response to Prompt #232, “It Starts With One Small Step.”

They say it wasn’t real. That it was all just a film set with bad lighting. All a pretence to leave the Russians feeling beaten, well and truly. The pictures are all grainy and grit and the camera shakes and Neil stepping like dancing and the crackle of his ‘one small step, one giant leap,’ and I don’t know what to believe.

I remember the day and my dad pulled us all in front of the television and he said we was watching history in the making. His voice was all hush and there was tears in his eyes and he gave us each a silver dollar afterwards just for the giving, a moon-silver dollar that filled the palm of my child’s hand.

Then some small years later, a boy called Billy put his fingers inside me after church and he moved them about like he was tickling for fish, and my dad was doing the same with Mrs Harkiss next door and our mam said he was no more to be trusted. I thought of all the things he’d ever said then, and I tested each one for truth, everything right back to the moon landing and that too-skippy walk of Neil and his staccato hiss-static poetry.

He’s dead now, my dad, years in the ground, so many I don’t miss him no more. But my mam cries one day a year when she remembers the bride that she was and the groom that he was and the stars he hung in her hair once on a bridge in Vermont.

And Neil’s dead, too, I heard, and no one’s been to the moon in years and that seems sad or wrong. There’s pictures in the paper, ones I have seen before, and I look now for the strings and the smoke and the mirrors, and though I want to believe it was true I am not sure I can.


→Thanks again, Lindsay, for such fine writing. I want to encourage readers of this site to submit their responses to the Daily Journal Prompts via the comments section, and occasionally I will use these pieces as individual posts. As always, thanks for reading! -PMc←

It Sounded Like Crying ~ A Journal Prompt Response

It sounded like crying. Not like a child, but still tears and he was talking to himself in muffled whispers and all his choked words losing their shape so that it was closer to moaning. I heard a whipped dog once, and it was a sound that was the same, all the world breaking and that dog shrinking into its own shadow like it could climb into the dark of itself and disappear.

‘It’s not your fault, Robbie,’ I said.

He turned from me in the bed.

And it wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. Some things aren’t. Some things just are what they are, with no one to blame. Like rock is, or water, or cold.

It hurt me to see him like this. It was unexpected. The tears and the shifting out of reach. A part of me thought this was for the best. It would make it easier to leave in the morning. But at the same time I felt for his pain.

‘Some things just run their course and it’s over,’ I said.

Robbie, a lad about town till he met me. His friends had said I was not good for him, that I took him away from them, that I had a hold over him that made him more mine than theirs and they had history and I didn’t.

‘You’re different,’ they’d said, and they did not mean in a good way.

And now my name would be shit or worse in their mouths and they’d get drunk together, Robbie and his friends, and they’d leer at girls in the street and maybe they’d get lucky, and Robbie would say ‘fuck’ and ‘yeh’ and maybe that would be it and everything back the way it was before. Before Robbie met me and I met Robbie.

Only here he was crying in his bed, sounding like crying, like a cowering dog whose world has been stripped of all meaning, and I hadn’t expected this.


This brief piece was submitted by Callie to the comments section in response to Daily Journal Prompt 156. Thanks, Callie, for a fine bit of writing. -PMc←

Listen ~ A Journal Prompt Response


Oh he had something. Unique it was what he had. Something to do with his ears, he said. Everything fine-tuned so his balance was perfect. He walked between high buildings balanced on a high wire and cameras recording every balletic stumble but Emile never falling.

I saw him once take a wheelbarrow out on the same wire, like there was a garden in the sky needing his attention, and a woman in clouds of white tuille and lace was seated in the barrow, and he made it look so easy. And another time he fried an egg on a small travel stove. An omeltte I think it was, and with a napkin tucked beneath his chin he made a meal of those broken eggs, and only air between him and his own scrambled end on the pavements below.

All in the grace of his body, bending and twisting and pirouetting onto the pages of our newspapers.

And it’s all in the ears, he said. That’s the secret of perfect balance. You listen to the movement of the air, the breath of God, and you let yourself be played, like a wind-harp, and balance is just holding a single perfect note. Listen.

I told him again and again it was over. I whispered it in his sleep, sang it to him over breakfast, spoke it plain as speaking can when serving him dinner. It’s over. He looked up from his beer and his chips. He was smiling. I don’t think he’d actually heard what I’d said.

Written by Lindsay and shared through the comments section of Daily Journal Prompt #152. If a daily journal prompt inspires your writing, please share it with me so I can consider posting it for others to read as well. Thanks for reading! -PMc←