Categories
Short Fiction

Bargain

By Heather Allen

This tale of misspent youth is in no way based on any real events. Image: Adobe Stock

Picture the scene: a Midland town in the early 1980s. Six punk rockers, one punkette and a small bearded hippy were gathered around a large four-wheeled object that vaguely resembled a van.

“How much did you say you paid for it?”
The questioner, a Joe Jackson lookalike called Paz, could not hide his incredulity. Shaun lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. “Fiver. Bloke was going to scrap it.”
“Should’ve let him, you were ripped off,” Paz laughed, kicking the tyre. The van shuddered and creaked in protest.
“What you gonna do with it, anyway?” 
“Gonna sell it! I’ve done a bit of work on it already.”
“Where?”
“There! Look!”

The rest of us had gathered in a rough huddle around the vehicle in question, a Ford Escort Mk I van. It had definitely seen better days. The cowpat-green paint had bubbled around the wheel arches, and bits were flaking off, revealing the rust beneath. The bodywork was covered in dents and scratches, and the number plate was held on with string. A large chunk of the wing around the right headlamp consisted entirely of clumsily-applied fresh filler, and it was this to which Shaun was pointing.

“Right,” said Paz, smirking. “I can see you’ve put some work in there, alright.”
“Sell it?” I laughed. “Who’s gonna buy that heap of rust?”
Shaun scowled at me. “For your information, it’s in the Telegraph tonight.”
“What you asking for it?” I said, sniggering.
“Twenty quid! Reckon someone’ll snatch me hands off.”
At this,  the seven of us – me, Paz, Johnny, Pete, Spike, Reg the hippy, and Nige – exploded into fits of laughter, in which the words “Twenty quid!” and “Snatch his hands off!” were to be heard.

Shaun waited, scowling. When we had eventually calmed down, he said: “What I actually came round for was to see if anyone wanted to come for a drive, before I sell it? It might look like a piece of junk but it’s bloody fast.”
Reg laughed. “You’ve got to be joking, mate! That thing don’t look safe.”
“It’s perfectly safe,” protested Shaun, slapping the roof and causing the van to creak alarmingly.

Pete was jigging up and down. “Yeah, yeah, we should go for it, it’ll be a right laugh. Go up to the services and get some breakfast.”
Reg shrugged. “What the helicoil. Shall we?”
“I don’t care; we’re all going to die soon anyway!” I said, with the typical fatalism of a Cold War teenager. The others grumbled in agreement.
Paz, the self-appointed King of all that is Escort, grunted. “Won’t be as fast as mine. Okay, but I’m driving.”
“Only if I can drive yours next time,” said Shaun.
“No bloody way. Alright, you drive. But I’m sitting in the front, just to keep an eye on you.”
“Okay,” Shaun shrugged.

Shaun stepped to the rear of the van and turned the door handle. Pulled it. Pulled it harder, swearing. Pulled it a third time, and the doors shot open with a squeal, landing him on his back. “Okay,” he said, brushing himself down, “Pile in.” So Reg, Nige and Pete climbed in, followed by six-footers Spike and Johnny, leaving a tiny gap for me between Johnny and the door. Shaun turned the key and the engine coughed and clanged into life.

“You didn’t think it necessary to fix the exhaust, then?” Paz shouted.
“Got a hole in the end, innit? S’fine!” Shaun shouted back. He let out the clutch and the van kangarooed forward.
“Have you got a licence?” shouted Paz.
“You know I ain’t. Have you?”
“Don’t be daft. But at least I can drive.”
“So can I!” shouted Shaun, careering down the street, the back end of the car sagging two inches from the road, the suspension rolling and bucking as he accelerated up to an illegal speed and threw it around the bend.

“Sid and Nancy!” Johnny cried, as he threw his arms around me and squeezed me a bit too tightly. I wriggled free, on account of needing to breathe.
“Shaun! Shaun! Slow down!” yelled Reg. “I’m too young to die!”
“We’re fine, don’t worry! Don’t you want to see what she can do?” shouted Shaun.
“Not particularly, no!” Reg shouted back.
“I’ll be surprised if it stays in one piece all the way to the services,” I yelled, and Johnny clenched his jaw, turning a pale shade of green.

The nightmare drive continued, the elderly Escort wallowing and rolling around every bend, the creaking and squealing growing louder every minute. We soon reached the dual carriageway, and Shaun put his foot down, laughing like a maniac. Paz was shouting: “What you think you’re doing? You’re an idiot! You’re going to get us all killed!”

In the back, Nige had rolled into a ball and was sobbing uncontrollably. Spike was cackling and slapping his knees; Pete was gripping the sill, eyes tightly closed; Johnny was fervently reciting the Lord’s Prayer; and Reg was yelling expletives and attempting to climb into the front. Eventually we approached the notorious chicane which terminated the dual carriageway and skirted the bottom edge of the golf course. The road ahead veered sharply to the left and then to the right in a reverse ‘s’ shape. This was a favourite spot for teenage drivers to show off, usually with a carload of shouting mates.

“Hold on, everyone!” yelled Shaun, and threw the van hard left. The groans and squeals of protesting metal became deafening. We all started yelling. Johnny and I gripped the sill behind us as tightly as we could. I closed my eyes.

Suddenly, there was a sickening crack, and the van veered out of control. Everyone started to shout and scream at once. The van slewed onto its left side with a crash, hurtling forward. Everything seemed to slow down. This is the end, I thought. That’s not fair! I’m only sixteen!

The van rolled onto its roof, then slewed onto its right side, still moving at speed. The gloom in the back was a blur of heads and boots and limbs and leather jackets. Somebody kicked me in the face, and I banged my head against the side of the van. Blood trickled down my neck. The van rolled back onto its wheels for a few yards, then there was a jarring thump, slowing it down. Still moving, it barrelled onto its side again, then finally thumped onto its roof and slid to a halt.

I fell out of the back, Johnny landing in a heap close by. The rest crawled out slowly. Spike rolled round to the side of the van and was violently sick. Nige, still crying, sat on the ground, cradling his knees and rocking.
Pete rubbed his head and swore. “Who kicked me in the head? I bet it was you, Johnny, with your massive Docs!”
“Probably, who cares?” Johnny shrugged. “We’re all alive.”
Johnny turned to me. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I think so. Banged my head though.” I gingerly touched my wound. The bleeding had almost stopped. There was a small cut and a bump, and my head ached, but I felt fine otherwise.

“I thought we were going to die, Johnny!”
“Yeah, me too!” He looked around and frowned. “Reg? You okay?”
Reg was lying on the ground in the foetal position. He was still and silent.
“Reg?” I moved to his side and crouched, my heart pounding. Was he dead? Poor little hippy.
“Reg! Can you hear me! Reg!”
His mouth opened and his lips moved.
“What was that, Reg?” I leaned in so that my ear was close to his mouth.
“…balls…” came the faint yet agonised whisper.
“Oh,” I said, standing up. “I’ll give you a minute, then.”

Then we heard Paz shout: “Oi! Someone give us a hand!” We turned, and saw him, purple in the face, dangling upside down by his seat belt. We rushed to help him out, then ran round to Shaun to force open his door and get him the right way round. Soon we were all assembled at the rear of the groaning, steaming van.

“I don’t like to state the obvious,” said Paz, “but we’ve just crashed an illegal vehicle driven by an illegal driver through a council-owned fence onto a council-owned golf course and left half the van spread all over the road. Now, unless anyone thinks it’s a good idea for us to hang around and wait for the Police to turn up, I reckon we should get moving pretty quick.”

Nige dried his eyes, and helped me to get Reg to his feet. We all staggered, as fast as we could, up the hill to the top of the golf course, trying not to look behind us. When we had reached the top, we paused for breath and turned. A trail of wreckage spread across the road to the fence, then a deep gouge in the grass led to where the van rested, smoking and creaking, severely dented yet surprisingly intact. A crowd was beginning to gather.

“I feel we should say a few words,” said Pete, rubbing his head.
“Bloody good motors, those Mark Ones,” said Paz.
“That’ll do,” said Shaun, as the sound of sirens reached our ears. “Can we go now?”

We hurried over the brow of the hill until we were out of sight of the wreckage, then slowed to a leisurely stroll. Paz turned to Shaun and grinned. “So,” he said, “you still planning on selling it?”

That was all it took to set us off. We started to laugh, and soon we were in hysterics, unable to speak, our sides hurting, tears rolling down our cheeks. We were still laughing when we got to Johnny’s house for tea and toast, still laughing when we left to go to the pub, and still laughing when we all staggered home at the end of the night. I still laugh now when I remember that day; the day we cheated death.

Categories
Short Fiction

Secret Ingredients

by Heather Allen

When curiosity gets the better of you, who knows what you might find?

Through a crack in the door, Jessie watched the old man as he bent over his workbench. He had his back to her, his white hair standing out in a cloud around his head. On the bench in front of him was an array of phials, test tubes and flasks. An acrid smell drifted through the crack. It tickled Jessie’s nose. As she watched, the old man held a test tube filled with a greenish substance over a flame, then poured it into a flask of clear liquid. The mixture bubbled and frothed, turning bright purple and glowing. The smell was overpowering. Jessica sneezed.

The old man stood up, turned to the door and flung it open. Jessica was already halfway through the hole in the hedge, but it was too late.

“Jessica Smith!” he called, “Come back here!” 

Jessie was not in the habit of defying adults, so she obeyed. She returned to stand meekly in front of her next-door neighbour. He frowned down at her.

“Now, I should give you a telling off,” he said. 

Jessie’s lower lip wobbled.

“But,” he said, and smiled, “I can’t do that. I was just as curious at your age.” 

Jessie could not imagine Mr Adams ever being eight, but she said nothing. 

He continued: “What did you see?”

She swallowed and said: “I saw you put the green stuff in the other stuff and it went purple.”

Mr Adams nodded. “Do you want to have a proper look?”

She glanced over at her house on the other side of the hedge, then turned wide eyes back to the old man and nodded

He lowered his voice. “Go on,” he said. “Go and ask your mother first. She won’t mind, she’s known me since she was a little dot.” He chuckled.

Five minutes later, Jessie returned, and Mr Adams let her in.

“Now,” he said, “what do you suppose I’m going to do with this?”

Jessie was looking around the shed. Bunches of herbs and odd-looking roots hung from the rafters, and dusty jars and bottles lined the shelves. She turned to him.

“Hmm?”

“I said, what do you think I’m going to do with this?”

“Don’t know,” said Jessie “Drink it?”

Mr Adams laughed. “No, I’m not going to drink it! It might turn me into a prince!” He laughed, and shook his head. “No, it’s for my arthritis.”

He lifted down an enormous jar of cream, opened the lid, poured the mixture into it and stirred it with a wooden spoon. The result was a faintly glowing purplish gloop.

“Ugh,” said Jessie.

“It’s perfectly safe, I can assure you!” Mr Adams said with a laugh. “Just a few herbs, some things you can get at the pharmacist, and a few…” he coughed, “other ingredients.”

“What other ingredients?”

Mr Adams raised a bony hand to his face and tapped his nose. “That’s for me to know. One day, I might tell you, but not until you’re older, Jessica Smith.”

Categories
Short Fiction

A Neighbourly Encounter

By Heather Allen

Gazing at Christmas window displays is a good excuse to be nosey. Image: Adobe Stock

At this time of year, there are so many lovely windows to look at in our street. Everyone seems to have made a particularly splendid effort this year – we even have a window advent in this town; that’s how seriously people take their Christmas decorations. I am a naturally nosey person, so I feel compelled to take a look in people’s houses whenever and wherever I can. When I’m walking down the road on my daily constitutional, I can’t help but peer in. It’s even more interesting when I walk in the evening, although walking in the dark goes against my instincts to seek daylight and company. At night, though, the Christmas lights are all on and shining brightly; and I can see the faces of my neighbours, lined up on their sofas, reading books or looking at their phones, watching TV or eating. It’s comforting.

Yes, I am nosey, and I have to look away quickly before their innate ‘being watched’ sense kicks in, but just seeing them gives me a happy little thrill in my heart, the idea that they are all there, in their houses, surrounding me, most of them good, kind people, living good, kind lives.

I was walking home from the shops in the early evening yesterday, thinking thoughts like this, window gazing and not really engaging with the world around me, when something made me stop short. I had admired the technicolour display at number 75, waved at the kids at number 73, then looked at the pretty tree in number 69, the house next to ours.. Number 71 was dark. But – I forced my steps back and looked in the window of number 71: the house where until her death in April a lovely old lady had lived, alone. She never went to much effort at Christmas, being on her own, but there was always a small tree inside, decorated with a smattering of coloured lights.

No, it was dark, of course it was. I could just make out her heavy old furniture, the desiccated plants lined along the windowsill, waiting for the clearance team to come now that the house had been sold at auction.

But when I walked past, as my eyes skimmed the window, for a few seconds I thought I saw my neighbour sitting in her big old armchair, her little tree twinkling beside her, holding something in her hand – a mince pie, maybe? I could have sworn that she raised her eyes for a split second and met mine, raised her other hand to wave as she bit down on what could well have been one of the mince pies I used to take round to her house every Christmas.

But no, it must have been my overactive mind. I shivered.

“Goodbye, Mary, Happy Christmas in Heaven,” I whispered.

I turned towards home, but as I did so, for a split second I thought I saw her pale face behind the glass, returning my smile, heard in my mind’s ear: “Happy Christmas, dear.”

I walked the few paces to my front gate, to the the welcome sight of my family in the front room, our beautiful tree and all our fairy lights. I shook my head.

“Thank you, Mary,” I murmured, and turned the key in the lock.

Categories
Technology

Mind controlled wheelchair hope for paralysed people

By Heather Allen

Wheelchairs you can control with your mind will soon become a reality, thanks to the latest brain-machine interface technology. Image: AdobeStock

The ability to control an object by thought alone sounds like the stuff of science fiction. Yet here we are in the 21st century, a time period often used as a setting for classic sci-fi novels, so one would expect that some of their predictions would have come true by now. In fact, they have. As promised, we now have self-driving cars, mobile phones, 3-D holograms and virtual reality; not to mention the wonderful World Wide Web, all of which feel miraculous to my Gen-X self. Nevertheless, one thing I am eager to see is a thought processor – a way to convert brainwaves into computer data, which will translate into instructions enabling us to manipulate matter without using our physical bodies. Anyone who remembers me from my University days will know how I used to be obsessed with this topic, and much mirth was had at my expense as a result.

In fact, research on brain-computer interface technology (BCI) using electroencephalography (EEG) waves began back in the 1970s with the work of UCLA Professor Jacques Vidal. Since that time, experimentation has largely involved the use of invasive implants directly into the brain, starting with monkeys and rats, and only progressing to humans in the early years of this century. The uses for this technology are wide ranging, particularly for people with disabilities.

Unsurprisingly, the race to bring BCI technology to market has stepped up since 2021’s publication of FDA guidance on nonclinical testing and study design related to BCI devices. A number of organisations are jostling for first place, including Synchron, BrainGate, and Elon Musk’s recently launched Neurolink. However, not every potential beneficiary of a brain-machine interface would be willing, or able, to tolerate the implantable technology many of these organisations are trialling.

The solution to this dilemma is the use of non-invasive brain interface technology. This method is used by the authors of a new study on how a mind-controlled wheelchair can help paralysed people gain mobility. The study by researchers at the University of Texas in Austin involved a test group of three tetraplegic people, who wore a skullcap that detected brain activity through EEG waves. Their thoughts were translated into mechanical commands for the wheelchair via a brain machine interface device, which enabled them to negotiate a natural, cluttered environment after training for an extended period.

“Our research highlights a potential pathway for improved clinical translation of non-invasive brain-machine interface technology,” José del R. Millán, the study’s corresponding author, said. “We show that mutual learning of both the user and the brain-machine interface algorithm are both important for users to successfully operate such wheelchairs.”

Dr Millán and his colleagues recruited three tetraplegic men who were all wheelchair users following similar spinal cord injuries. Each participant underwent training sessions three times per week for between two and five months. The participants were asked to control the direction of the wheelchair by thinking about moving their body parts. Specifically, they needed to think about moving both hands to turn left and both feet to turn right.

In the first training session, all three participants had similar levels of accuracy (when the device’s responses aligned with users’ thoughts) of around 43-55 per cent. Over the next few months, the team saw significant improvement in accuracy in participant 1, who reached an accuracy of over 95 per cent by the end of his training. The team also observed an increase in accuracy in participant 3 to 98 per cent halfway through his training before the team updated his device with a new algorithm.

The improvement seen in participants 1 and 3 is correlated with an improvement in ‘feature discriminancy’, which is the algorithm’s ability to discriminate the brain activity pattern encoded for ‘go left’ thoughts from that for ‘go right’. The team found that better feature discriminancy is not only a result of the device’s machine learning, but also learning in the brain of the participants – in other words, the participants and the device were learning from each other in tandem. The EEG of participants 1 and 3 showed distinct shifts in brainwave patterns as their accuracy in mind-controlling the device improved.

Compared with participants 1 and 3, participant 2 had no significant changes in brain activity patterns throughout the training. His accuracy increased only slightly during the first few sessions, which remained stable for the rest of the training period. According to Dr Millán, this suggests that machine learning alone is insufficient for successfully manoeuvring a mind-controlled device. Interestingly, the most successful participant in the experiment, participant 1, was also the most severely disabled, with no mobility at all below the neck and relying on assisted ventilation.

By the end of the training, all participants were asked to drive their wheelchairs across a cluttered hospital room. They had to go around obstacles including a room divider and hospital beds, set up to simulate the real-world environment. Participants 1 and 3 both finished the task, while participant 2 failed to complete it.

“We believe there is a cortical reorganisation that happened as a result of the participants’ learning process,” Dr Millán said. “It seems that for someone to acquire good brain-machine interface control that allows them to perform relatively complex daily activity like driving the wheelchair in a natural environment, it requires some neuroplastic reorganisation in our cortex.”

The longitudinal study is one of the first to evaluate the clinical translation of non-invasive brain-machine interface technology in tetraplegic people. In the next phase, the team aims to establish why participant 2 failed to experience the learning effect. They hope to conduct a more detailed analysis of all participants’ brain signals to understand their differences and possible interventions for people struggling with the learning process in the future.

Source: Tonin et al., Learning to control a BMI-driven wheelchair for people with severe tetraplegia, iScience (2022), https://doi.org/10.1016/j.isci.2022.105418

Categories
Uncategorized

Someone is whistling

By Heather Allen

What would you do if you heard the sound of whistling from an empty room? (Image: Adobe Stock)

Julia lay in her bed, slightly annoyed with herself that she had woken up, but also a little uneasy. She looked at her clock. 2.48am. A cursed time. Maybe one day she might actually get to stay asleep all night. She turned over, tried to settle down, but there was still that uneasy feeling. Something had woken her. It wasn’t her usual random night-time waking. She lay in the dark, listening.

The house sounded different. Silence, but there was a quality to that silence as if it was listening, too. There! Something – a soft ‘thump’ as if something had been dropped in the living room below. Her heart quickened. She knew there should be no-one there. She had no pets, and she had been alone since – but there it was again, another thump, and then a sound that turned her blood to ice.

Someone was whistling. In the dark, downstairs, where no-one had any business being. The sound was faint, but clear. The piece was one she knew very well. Barber’s Adagio – it had been one of his favourite pieces. Complex for a whistling tune, but still, if it’s in your head, he would say, you can dum-dum, or hum, or la-la, but nothing beats a pursing of the lips and a good old whistle, does it?

She must be going mad. It sounded like him, downstairs, but it couldn’t be, it couldn’t because –

Her heart pounding in her ears, she slid out of bed and crept downstairs. The whistling grew lounder as she approached the living room door. There was another soft thump. That’s what he’s doing, she thought, he’s going through the books, finding something, a reference, as he does. Did. On the other side of that door. She pictured him as he whistled his way to the end of the first movement, flicking through a book, putting it down, pulling out another, his glasses on his nose, his lips pursed. She took a deep breath and opened the door.

The whistling stopped. A cold blast of air hit her. The French doors were open – had she left them like that? – and a pile of books was on the coffee table, but there was no one there. Certainly not her husband, God rest his beautiful soul.

Categories
Uncategorized

Mourning, memories and mothers

by Heather Allen

Queen Elizabeth II was the mother of our nation. My own mother felt a strong link to her from childhood. Image by WikiImages from Pixabay

Before I tell you what this is about, I will set out what it is not about. It is not a debate about the monarchy, nor is it a misty-eyed retrospective on the Queen’s life. There is enough of that elsewhere.

This is chiefly about my mother, Iris Martin, and also about my own childhood, and how I got to the stage where I felt the news of the Queen’s death as if I’d lost a favourite aunt. Why I, as a working class Midlander who at times hasn’t even had the proverbial chamber pot, let alone the accompanying exit window, has shed tears and will no doubt shed more at the passing of our indisputably noble Queen.

I love the Queen. She may have passed, but my love for her has not. I always have loved her, and I (mostly) respect the Royal Family, those who deserve respect, anyway; I was brought up to do so. This was due in large part to my mother’s interest in the Queen, in her life and growing family, which began in her own youth and continued throughout mine. If there was an event, we were watching. We celebrated, as a family. Princess Anne’s wedding to the dashing Captain Mark Phillips was viewed in glorious monochrome, digested, discussed and dissected. When the Queen visited Coventry during her Silver Jubilee tour in 1977, my mother and I were among the crowds lining the streets enroute to the Memorial Park. I remember a glimpse of a smiling face, a waving, white-gloved hand. There was an atmosphere of joy and excitement as we waited, loud cheers, jubilation and a flurry of flags as the Queen’s car drove past. I loved the street party on our crescent, every neighbour in their best clothes, long tables groaning with food to which all had contributed. I stuffed myself with sandwiches and cake, then tore around with my friends as we made the most of the street’s closure. I sang the National Anthem in church, at Brownies and Guides, and at school, with the words as indelibly fixed in my mind as the Lord’s Prayer. To me, the Queen and the Royal Family were and are a big part of what it means to be British. And, despite all the chaos, deprivation, disquiet and dissent in this country, I am still proud to be British, although not especially proud of all Britain has become, all it’s done in the past, or indeed all of what it stands for now.

Still, the Queen. Other memories surface. My father, John Martin, was fiercely patriotic in the way characteristic of an ex-British Army soldier and Northern Irish protestant living in England. He would stand to attention at the end of the evening’s TV broadcasting and salute as the National Anthem was played. He did this without irony, it seemed to me, although I was bemused by it. Then I remember my mother, getting ready to go out, joking that people told her she looked like the Queen, as she put on a posh voice, patted her lacquered hair and smoothed her skirt. In my eyes, she truly did, especially when she was dressed up. She was certainly queen of our household.

My mother, Iris Burdett, in the uniform of the Womens Auxilliary Air Force, aged 20

My mother, born Iris Maud Burdett in 1919, was six years old when Princess Elizabeth was born. As a contemporary, my mother’s curiosity about the young Princess was natural. Both were born in the aftermath of one war, and under the threat of another. Both were in the Armed Forces – my mother in the Womens Auxilliary Air Force (WAAF), Princess Elizabeth in the Auxiliary Territorial Service. As young women close in age, they wore similar fashions. And, although Princess Elizabeth married and began having children earlier than my mother, they experienced marriage and parenting contemporaneously. Both had four children, three boys and one girl. The Queen had her darker times, notably her ‘annus horribilis’ of 1992 when Princess Anne got divorced and a huge fire destroyed a large part of Windsor Castle. Again in 2002, when she lost both her mother and sister within weeks of each other. Many other well-known griefs and tribulations, notably the death of her beloved Philip last year, have occurred within her life, and do not need repeating here.

My own mother’s trials and tragedies were many, starting with the death of her own mother when she was just four years old. My mother’s first child, my brother Michael, was born with severe disabilities due to cerebral palsy, and died in the spring of 1966 when he was just fifteen years old.  She also lost her husband, my father, in 1982 when he was 63, going on to live almost a third of her life without him. Around and between, my mother experienced many other life difficulties which the riches and privilege of royalty may well have mitigated or rendered obsolete. However, like the Queen, she drew strength in her unshakeable, lifelong Christian faith which she held fast to until the very end.

In many ways and for most of her life, my mother identified with, and sympathised with, the Queen. She admired, respected and even empathised with her, and I believe this is why I cannot think of the Queen without thinking of my mother. Both women were generous, kind, hard-working, and loyal to family and country. They had a dignity, courage and humility which appears to be the birth right of the generations who grew up in and around the two world wars. Both women inspired love and loyalty in those who knew them. Both had a dazzling smile which lit up their faces and brightened any room they entered. Both had a well-known, dry, slightly cheeky sense of humour. Both were fond of a sensible ‘A’ line skirt, a simple string of pearls, a firmly set hairdo, matching hats, shoes and bags, and bright, neatly applied lipstick. Both would finish their toilette with a puff of face powder, and a dab of a favourite scent. They also had similar colouring, with dark hair, pale, pinkish-toned skin and bright blue eyes. The same stature, with the Queen just a little taller.

I lost my mother in November 2013, at the age of 94. I am used to being without her now, but I cannot say I am over it. I do not believe we ever get over the death of loved ones, we just absorb their loss as part of us. Before my mother died, she had, over a number of years, gradually withdrawn from engagement with life. In September 2013, an infection put her in hospital, and from there to a nursing home for her final month. She maintained her sharp mind and her sense of humour until close to the end. The last photograph I have of her was taken in the nursing home, sitting up in bed, smiling, wearing her glasses which she had carefully cleaned. She was so very frail, a shadow of herself, yet she wanted to present her best self to my camera, perhaps realising it would be the last time. I remember her purple hands and the bruises on her arms, her papery, delicate skin marked from medical procedures.

When I saw the pictures taken of the Queen just before her final meeting with the outgoing and incoming Prime Ministers, it reminded me of that photograph of my mother, and the circumstances in which it was taken. Seeing the Queen standing there, smiling bravely, so frail and tiny, it broke my heart a little. And so, even though the Queen’s death was not really a surprise, it has hit me with great force. Everything I remember from losing my mother has come flooding back. The Queen was the mother of the nation, inextricably linked with my own beloved mother in my mind. There will never be another British Queen in my lifetime, and there will never be another like Queen Elizabeth the Second, Elizabeth Alexandra Mary Windsor. May she enjoy her eternal rest – she has undoubtedly earned it. Who knows, maybe my mother will get to meet her at last.

Categories
Transport

Zero Emissions Car Captures CO₂ As It Drives

Students throw down the gauntlet to motor manufacturers

By Heather Allen

Lean Green Machine: The Zem concept car is the creation of the TU/ecomotive team at the University of Eindhoven. Photo: Bart van Overbeeke.

An electric passenger car that captures more carbon dioxide than it emits has been developed by students at TU Eindhoven.

The prototype car, called Zem, purifies the air through a specially designed filter. The car stores the CO₂ after capture, ready for convenient disposal, possibly while charging. In this way, the students say, Zem can make a major contribution to reducing global warming. The student team aims to improve the vehicle in the coming years, with the goal of making it carbon-neutral for its entire life cycle. The ultimate aim is for the car to go on sale to the public worldwide.

The TU/ecomotive team points to statistics which show that the transport sector is a major polluter, with recent figures suggesting that the sector produces about a quarter of the EU’s total carbon emissions. Passenger cars are responsible for more than 60 per cent of these emissions, the students say. To help reduce these emissions, the 35 students on the team designed, developed and built a car that produces low or no emissions both during the production process and while in use on the road. The team is also aiming for optimal reusability of materials in the future.

Zem is capable of capturing two kilograms of CO₂ through a special filter, at an estimated 20,000 travel miles per year, which means that ten cars can store as much carbon dioxide as an average tree. The team argues that the overall payoff would be significant if this was implemented on a large scale in every passenger car, as there are more than a billion passenger cars currently in use around the world. If every car captured rather than emitted CO₂, global warming would be significantly reduced, the students point out. The students are in the process of applying for a patent for the filter through which the outside air flows.

“It is really still a proof-of-concept, but we can already see that we will be able to increase the capacity of the filter in the coming years. Capturing CO₂ is a prerequisite for compensating for emissions during production and recycling,” Louise de Laat, TU/ecomotive team manager, says. TU/ecomotive is planning for a future where the full filter can be emptied easily via the charging station when the car is charging. The car can currently drive 320 kilometers before the filter is full.

A life cycle analysis with SimaPro, the environmental life cycle and carbon footprint software, can be used to determine how far the life cycle of the vehicle is CO₂-neutral. Innovations which contribute to this goal include the 3D printing techniques used by the students. Zem is completely 3D-printed using recycled plastic (PETG) strengthened with either glass fibers (body panels), or carbon fibers (monocoque). The interior has been 3D-printed with recycled plastics, including the seats, which are covered with biodegradable foam and finished off with pineapple-based pinatex leather. The student team also prints circular plastics that can be shredded and reused for other projects.

Zem has been designed with a sporty appearance, with the aim of attracting the attention of the automotive industry, according to Nikki Okkels, external relations manager at TU/ecomotive: “We want to tickle the industry by showing what is already possible. If 35 students can design, develop and build an almost carbon-neutral car in a year, then there are also opportunities and possibilities for the industry. We call on the industry to pick up the challenge, and of course we are happy to think along with them. We’re not finished developing yet either, and we want to take some big steps in the coming years. We warmly invite car manufacturers to come and take a look.”

Categories
Short Fiction

Hot Wind Rising

By Heather Allen

Summer days mean great escapes. Picture of Triumph Bonneville by kind permission of Craig Carey-Clinch

Sophie awoke at the crack of dawn. She did not usually stir until much later, and even then it took an hour or so and a few gallons of coffee for her to pass as human. Today, though, she was fully awake, early, suddenly, all at once, and with a feeling of dread. Something was badly wrong.

She jumped out of bed, padded downstairs, and unlocked the back door to stand in the garden. The birds were just waking up, and bright dew sparkled on the grass. All as usual for an early morning at the end of June. But there was something different. Sophie could feel it, a shifting in the air. Subtle, but tangible, like a pinch of paprika in a stew. A waft of heat in the breeze, a warm breath coming from the south east, infusing the damp morning air.

Frowning, she looked up into the sky, but it yielded no clues. Just a deep, serene blue, without a wisp of cloud. She inhaled deeply. There was a tang in the air, like baked earth or a desert wind. As if a gigantic oven door had been flung open, just over the horizon. She sighed and closed her eyes. So that was it.

She studied the garden around her, examined the tender plants, listened to the dawn’s exquisite cacophony while she considered what to do. She didn’t have to check the weather report, she just knew it in her bones. It was that time again. She had caught the breath of Sirius, the dog star, harbinger of heat, bringer of the hot wind. Each year worse. This time, she knew, it would be unbearable.

The dog days were coming, sure. That hideous heat. Fine for some, in fact most people seemed to enjoy it, but not her. They would strip off most of their clothes – really, they would do that! – strip off, and expose their vulnerable flesh to the sun, pronouncing it good as they drowned in their own sweat. Let it flay them, then. Let them burn. Time for her to escape.

Could she outrun the hot wind? She closed her eyes, felt the air shift around her. It was growing closer. She had to try. Instinct said head north, head east. She ran into the house, quickly checked the map, packed her panniers, and wriggled into her leathers. She locked the house and hauled her faithful ‘78 Triumph Bonneville out of the garage, clanging the door down behind her.

“Time for a trip, old girl,” she murmured, as she strapped her luggage into place, then checked tyres, connections, and fuel. Angling the old 750 towards the road, she eased the starter into position, balanced on the foot pegs, and brought her weight down and back onto the pedal. The engine turned over, but didn’t catch. She kicked again. A metallic burble this time, then nothing. Again, and the engine caught with a sputter and a roar. She grinned. Always started on the third kick.

She revved the engine to warm it up, savouring the thump of the big twin. Her next-door neighbour, never a friendly sort, twitched her curtains back and shouted something out of the window. “Yeah, yeah, you’re just jealous,” Sophie muttered, and pulled on her helmet.

With a one-fingered wave at her neighbour, Sophie knocked the Bonnie into gear, eased the throttle open, feathered the clutch and pulled off, the big twin thumping away beneath her. She was glad she always kept her tank full – you never knew when you might need to take off. There was no one to say goodbye to, because she hadn’t, just hadn’t made that kind of connection. No partner, no children, few friends, no one she was close to, no family around. Any work she took on was transitory, fleeting, ephemeral even. She had a small inheritance, enough to get her through the worst of times. And now, here they were. The hot wind was on its way, the hottest yet.

She had to get as far north as she could, as soon as she could. Driven by the wind, she headed for the open road.

Categories
Psychology

If In Doubt, Reach Out

Why there’s nothing to fear from checking in with a friend

By Heather Allen

In touch: New research shows that your friends are likely to welcome a surprise contact. Image: Adobe Stock

There’s no denying the profound effect the Covid-19 pandemic had on our social lives. Friendships once kept going by regular, face-to-face meetings were reduced to phone calls, messages and emails, from which state of affairs some have not recovered. Others went the other way and have been strengthened by the move to all-virtual communication. One thing held in common is that people are hesitating to resume pre-pandemic friendships, perhaps because they do not expect a positive response, and the longer we leave it, the more difficult it gets to reach out. We are afraid that our old friends will reject us, that any gesture of reaching out will be taken badly after all this time, and this fear can stop us from making the effort. This can be a particular problem in places and contexts where lives have been set up for isolation rather than spontaneous social interactions, with a steady decline in social interactions in society noted as a key factor in our dwindling confidence to make, remake or strengthen connections.

However, new research from the University of Pittsburgh shows that these fears are largely groundless. The Surprise of Reaching Out: Appreciated More Than We Think is the work of a team of researchers headed by Peggy Liu and published in the Journal of Personality and Social Psychology. The research explores how accurate people are at estimating how much others might value an attempt to connect, and what factors might play into that degree of appreciation. Comprised of an initial literature review plus seven separate experiments involving more than 5,900 participants, the research found that people appreciate an unexpected call, text or email far more than the person making the contact believes that they will. The more surprising the connection, the greater the appreciation.

In one experiment, half of the participants were asked to recall the last time they used email, text, or phone to reach out to someone in their social circle “just because” or “just to catch up” after an extended period without any interaction with them. The remaining participants were prompted to think of a similar situation where someone had reached out to them. Participants were then asked to indicate how much either they or the person they reached out to either appreciated, felt grateful, felt thankful, or felt pleased by the contact using a 7-point scale (1=not at all, 7=to a great extent). People who recalled reaching out thought the gesture they recalled was significantly less appreciated in comparison to those who recalled receiving a communication.

In other experiments, participants sent a short note, or a note and a small gift, to someone in their social circle with whom they had not interacted in a while. Again, participants who initiated contact were asked to rate on a 7-point scale the extent to which they thought the recipient would appreciate, feel grateful for, and feel pleased by the contact. After the notes and gifts were sent, researchers also asked the recipients to rate their appreciation.

Across all experiments, those who initiated the communication significantly underestimated the extent to which recipients would appreciate the act of reaching out. However, the key element to appreciation was surprise.

“We found that people receiving the communication placed greater focus than those initiating the communication on the surprise element, and this heightened focus on surprise was associated with higher appreciation,” Ms Liu said. “We also found that people underestimated others’ appreciation to a greater extent when the communication was more surprising, as opposed to part of a regular communication pattern, or the social ties between the two participants were weak.”

In the study, ‘reaching out’ was taken to mean a purely social interaction, defined broadly to involve a minimum criterion consisting of a gesture to check-in with someone to show that one is thinking of them, such a brief text saying “Hi”, “I’m thinking of you”, “Hope you are well”, or sending a small, thoughtful gift. The study specifically excluded other elements, such as asking for help, offering a compliment, or expressing gratitude.

The research also found that in a face-to-face social interaction, people tend to be focussed on their own actions and overestimate the salience of these actions to others, thereby often underestimating how much their conversation partners enjoyed their company. People focus on their own internal monologues, which are frequently self-critical and negative. Crucially, many people bring their own egocentric perspectives to bear when predicting other’s mental states, the study points out, and so initiators are less focussed on the responder’s positive feelings of surprise than the responder is. The research found that responders are more focused on their own feelings of surprise when reached out to, both because the unexpectedness of the event is salient for them, but also because they are attuned to cues of the warmth of others. By contrast, the unexpectedness is not a salient feature for the initiators, given that the reach-out is not a surprise for them.

Early work cited by the study conceptualised surprise as one of the basic emotions, along with happiness, sadness, anger, fear, and disgust. Surprise can make a positive event more positive, or a negative event more negative. Surprise gifts, as an example, can have a positive effect when they signal warmth and care on the part of the giver – body lotion for a new mum, a new book by a favourite author for a sick friend and so on. However, surprise gifts can be negative when they overreach the boundaries of the relationship (hold off on the ostentatious bouquet for an acquaintance), or insulting in the context of a relationship (an unasked-for vacuum cleaner as an anniversary present from a spouse is unlikely to be met with enthusiasm). Neither a brief message or a small gift are likely to be perceived as bad or uncomfortable among acquaintances, the research finds.

“I sometimes pause before reaching out to people from my pre-pandemic social circle for a variety of reasons. When that happens, I think about these research findings and remind myself that other people may also want to reach out to me and hesitate for the same reasons,” Ms Liu said. “I then tell myself that I would appreciate it so much if they reached out to me and that there is no reason to think they would not similarly appreciate my reaching out to them.”

Researchers hope that the findings will encourage people to reach out to their social contacts more often, “just because”. Such gestures are likely to be appreciated more than people predict. People may underestimate the extent to which simple reach-outs may serve not just to maintain relationships, but to strengthen them as well.

“For those treading back into the social milieu with caution and trepidation, feeling woefully out of practice and unsure, our work provides robust evidence and an encouraging green light to go ahead and surprise someone by reaching out,” the study concludes. “Such reach-outs are likely to be appreciated more than one thinks.”

There you have it. No more excuses. They really won’t mind, you know. Get on the phone, get texting, emailing, messaging or whatever. Get in touch with those long-lost friends. You’ll be glad you did.

 The surprise of reaching out: Appreciated more than we think. Liu, P. J., Rim, S., Min, L., & Min, K. E.  (2022), Journal of Personality and Social Psychology.

Categories
Short Fiction

Eppie Marner

By Heather Allen

Clover and daisies. Image: Adobe Stock

The sun was high above the horizon by the time Eppie had completed her chores and readied herself and little Molly for their morning walk. Silas, Eppie’s father, was already busy at his loom in the cottage they shared, despite that she had told him he should rest. He had been getting very tired lately, and he did not need to labour so hard, not now.

“What would be the purpose of idleness?” he had replied, turning his large eyes to meet hers. “There is always a need for good cloth, is there not?” She could not disagree with that. There were always customers ready to hand over their gold for a good length of fine-woven fabric, and many uses for his weaving in their home too: clothes for Molly, household linens, and now all the bags and cloths needed for Eppie’s burgeoning trade.

This morning, as on many mornings, she and Molly set out to walk across the fields to the river bank to search for a few particular herbs. Eppie had a fine new rush basket, woven from reeds which had grown around the edge of the Stone-pit near the cottage. She had made a smaller one for Molly. Now they strolled, the golden sun climbing the sky, Molly a miniature of Eppie in her pale blue frock and pinafore, her red-gold curls bouncing as she broke away and ran across the meadow.

“Be careful, sweetheart!” Eppie called out, but knew it was pointless. Telling a six year old to be careful? She recalled her father’s tales of her own exploits as a wild child he could not bear to discipline, and took comfort in the memory. She had turned out well enough, had she not? But now—

“Momma, mom, is this one?”

Molly’s voice rang across the meadow. She stood next to a plant taller than herself, the familiar purple bells arranged around the long stalk, open mouths inviting bees in for a visit. A foxglove, and a fine example, standing at the front of a large patch of its fellows.

“Very good, Molly. Yes, it is. That is a foxglove. Well done.”

Eppie approached the foxglove patch.

“Now then, Molly, stand back. You must not pick this one yourself. It is very poisonous.”

Molly jumped back, her eyes round. “Poisonous? But I thought it was medicine?”

“Yes, but only if you use tiny amounts. It is very good medicine for the dropsy.”

“Dropsy? What is that?”

“It is a nasty thing where your arms and legs swell up. Your grandfather healed a lady in the village of it once. He helped her when the doctor could not.”

“Ooh! Grandaddy’s clever!”

“Yes, he is,” replied Eppie, as she produced her pocket knife from her pinafore pocket. She selected four of the best foxglove spears and deftly cut off the last ten inches. Then, reaching into her basket, she pulled out a square of waxed cloth, and carefully wrapped it around the cut ends of the stalks before putting them in the basket.

It had taken Eppie a long time to persuade her father she should learn to be a herbalist, despite his knowledge and affinity with the subject. He would frequently recall the times as a child when his mother had taken him with her on her plant-gathering walks near the northern town where he grew up. Eppie remembered Silas naming plants for her on their walks in her own childhood, and clearly remembered too the look of pain in his eyes as he did so. She had not understood his sadness at the time, but when she was old enough to understand, he recounted the tale of the time when, not long after his arrival at Raveloe, he used a herbal tincture to heal a lady, and his efforts were met with a confusing mixture of suspicion and demand. His refusal to heal anyone else, and increasing annoyance at the villagers’ pleas, had set minds and hearts against him for a time. Slowly, Silas had accepted Eppie’s exhortations that times had changed (indeed, herbalism was becoming quite the fashionable thing in London, so she had heard), and had begun to share his knowledge with her. As it turned out, that knowledge was extensive.

“You must remember, Molly,” she said as she continued to walk, “that your grandfather was taught how to use plants as medicine by his mother, who used them herself, like her mother before her. He knows the use of plants well, but if he had made a mistake with the dose…” she shook her head.

“The lady would be dead,” Molly said, emphasising the final word with gleeful relish.

“Yes, Molly, but unfortunately so might your grandfather.”

“Why?” the child’s voice was outraged.

“Because, Molly, some folks might think he did it on purpose. If the law ruled against him he might have been…” she swallowed, “hanged.”

“Oough.” Molly shuddered and rubbed at her throat. “Mommy, I hope you never kill anyone!”

“Do not worry, sweetheart,” Eppie said, bending to kiss her daughter’s warm curls, “I know what I’m doing.”

Presently, the pair came to the river bank, stopping to gather bunches of yarrow and dandelions on the way. Molly skipped along the bank, pointing at flowers.

“Is this one, Mommy?”

“No dear, that’s a buttercup.”

“This one?”

“No, that is a cowslip. Useful, but not what we are looking for.”

“This one?”

She stood by a patch of an unassuming, yellow-flowered plant with large green waxy leaves.

“Yes, my love, you have found the right one. Good girl! Coltsfoot, good for the coughs and the wheezes. This time,” she said, spreading out a piece of sacking and kneeling on it, “I want the whole plant.”

Eppie reached into her basket for a hand fork (a gift from the local blacksmith for helping with his rheumatics), and started to loosen the earth around the plant. Then, very carefully, she slid a trowel (another gift) into the hole she had made, and eased out the roots. She laid the plant to one side, then got to work on another. A third, and she put aside her tools. “That will be enough,” she said. “We have to leave some so they can grow back again.”

“But Mommy, there are lots and lots and lots!” cried Molly, waving her chubby hand up the river bank, where the yellow flowers were abundant.

“Yes, but we only need three. That is more than enough for now. We can always get more later. We must never, ever be greedy.”

Molly pursed her lips and shook her head solemnly. “No, Mommy, we must not.”

Eppie cleaned her tools carefully on a rag she kept for the purpose, then stood up, rolling up her piece of sacking and placing it in the basket with the plants. She smiled at her daughter, who stood in front of her, bouncing up and down, barely able to contain the life in her limbs as she waited for her mother’s next instruction. Eppie gazed across the meadow and saw what she was looking for. A wide expanse of globular purple flowers, nodding in the warm breeze. She smiled.

“A very important job for you now, Molly!”

Molly jumped up and down. “What is it, Momma?”

Eppie walked a few paces and picked a bloom, then held it out to her daughter.

“I want you to pick me some of these. Wait…” for Molly had already set off towards the patch, “you must make sure the stalk is long, like this, and do not disturb the roots!”

Molly glanced back. “I know, Momma!” She ran.

Eppie followed her daughter to the clover patch, picking stray blooms as she went. Clover, good for a gentle sleeping draught. That would help her father, who sometimes had troubled nights. She sighed. He was a good man. Good right to the soles of his worn brown boots. He did not deserve the troubles he had had in his life, but – here she smiled – he had her now, and her Aaron, the friendship of Aaron’s mother Dolly, and now little Molly. He was well respected, these days, in the village. He was a happy man. But sometimes the old troubles came back to haunt him.

Time seemed to slow as Eppie and Molly picked the clover blossoms. The sun was high in the sky now, gathering heat, and Eppie felt the deep contentment she always felt when surrounded by flowers under a clear sky. Birds sang – here a thrush pealing forth its music, there a charm of goldfinches chattering to each other, and there, a flurry of sparrows fluttering from bush to bush, gossiping as they went. She remembered the words of Godfrey Cass, the son of the old squire and the closest thing they had to gentry in these parts, when he had come to the cottage to announce that he was her true father. He had expected her, a grown girl of eighteen by then, to move to the manor with him and his wife, live a life of luxury and eventually marry a man with money. He had been offended when she refused to leave Silas; and incredulous when she married her Aaron, a lowly gardener and the best husband she could ever wish for. Shaking her head, she smiled at the memory. No rich father or high-born husband could make her life any better than this.

Molly came walking towards her, her little basket overflowing with clover blossoms.

“I cannot carry any more, Momma!” she said.

Eppie laughed. “Thank you, my love. You have done very well. Now…” she looked up at the sky, “it is time to go home to grandfather. He will be needing a bite to eat, and he will not stop for it unless I put it in front of him!”

Molly reached up her hand to her mother’s, who took it firmly. Together, they walked along the river bank, back across the meadow, to the little stone cottage that was their home.