Update

"Spirebeck Road" is now available from Blackwells and Waterstones at its correct price of £5.50 - none of that "sourcing fee" mallarkey you get from Amazon.

It's not in the book...

We like this story. It's not in Spirebeck Road, but if there is ever a sequal we'll be sure to include it. In the meantime, we thought we'd share it with you. We apologise for the format - we spent half an hour patiently pressing "return" to put in gaps between the paragraph, but Blogger apparently thought it would be better without, so we gave up.

The Nursing Home

Kathleen O’Malley stared out of the window, perfectly content. Actually, it probably wasn’t the window she was staring out of as far as she was concerned, which was probably why gazing at a B-road and the cars that trundled down it could seemingly keep her amused for hours on end. Mind you, Catherine thought, as she came away with an empty chocolate box at the end of one of their regular visits, it was a moot point how far this was a recent innovation. Of course, the family could now put all of Kathleen’s eccentricities (and there were a lot of them) down to her deteriorating mental capacities, but in truth most had been perfectly evident before she went into St Francis’s. For it was Kathleen who had thrown the apples in the bin and made apple pie filled with the cores; it was Kathleen who had stayed up until ten o’clock one night to take something out of the oven, and when ten o’clock came she remembered it was at this point that she was due to go to bed, and went upstairs with the oven still on; it was Kathleen who thought that “that Maradonna” couldn’t sing, and when Francis explained that Maradonna was a footballer she seemed satisfied that this explained it; and it was Kathleen who had got on the coach to Bridlington knowing she’d forgotten something and only realising once she was half way there that this something was her six-year-old daughter. In that context it seemed entirely logical that Kathleen, once a care assistant herself, could only assume that her being in St Francis’s must mean she worked there, and her determination to continue this job as best she could was hindered not by the fact that she had forgotten any of her duties – which she hadn’t – but rather, in her belief that she was in her thirties, she had forgotten she could no longer walk.

The nurses had tried to jog her memory by placing her zimmer frame directly in front of her chair, effectively imprisoning her there as though she was in a car on a fairground ride, in the hope that she would put two and two together on seeing it, remembering she couldn’t walk and thus by extension realising that she probably didn’t work there after all.

The O’Malleys visited her every week, usually on a Saturday afternoon, though for some reason Kathleen was always absolutely confident it was Thursday. The nurses assured Francis that the rest of the week she had neither awareness nor interest as to what day it was, yet whenever Francis appeared in the doorway she would brighten and say “Of course! It’s Thursday!” Francis had given up trying to argue. He used to tell her what day it was and she would pat his hand gently and say “You always visit me on a Thursday,” and then, in case anyone hadn’t heard, she would announce to the assembled, “This is my son. He always visits me on a Thursday.” This created a lot of unnecessary confusion amongst the other residents, most of whom were blissfully ignorant even of what year it was. In particular, it caused not inconsiderable distress to her elderly neighbour who always had a table mat on his tray in front of him that announced “Today is SATURDAY,” which his wife had brought him so she didn’t have to tell him every time he visited. He had a whole collection, and the staff meticulously ensured that each day the right mat was produced. This gave him great satisfaction, and every now and again he would share this precious piece of information to everybody else so that they could know what day it was, too. Generally he was ignored.

His name was Mr Bentley, and Catherine felt sorry for his wife. She and her daughter visited him on occasional Saturdays, and in moments where conversation with Kathleen were either not forthcoming, or not comprehensible, Catherine’s ears would drift towards Mr Bentley’s little corner. Each week the conversation began:

“How are my parents?”

“They’re dead,” one of the women would reply shortly. Mr Bentley didn’t look very happy about

this, in fact he looked considerably put out.

“Nobody ever tells me these things,” he grumbled.

“You did know. You organised the funeral.”

He brightened.

“Did I? Ah. Good.”

He looked a little more satisfied and for the next minute or so focussed his attention on the intricate detail on the top of his custard cream, before replacing it, uneaten, on the tray.
“How old am I?”
“You’re eighty-two.”
“Ah.”
He closed his eyes in deep thought as he processed this information. Eventually he said,
“Yes. Well, I suppose they must be dead. Otherwise they’d be…” he tried to do the calculation, then gave up and made do with, “well, very old.”
Kathleen was rather dismissive of Mr Bentley. On the other side of her was Marge, who had been there for a long time and was tacitly in charge. Where everybody would eventually tell Mr Bentley to be quiet, nobody would dare say that to Kathleen, what with Marge’s watchful eyes on her. Kathleen would announce to the room, “This is my son. Doesn’t he have a lovely knew coat?” And those who understood enough to forge any meaning out of her utterance nodded in concurrence that it was indeed a lovely new coat. In return, Kathleen ensured that Marge, who didn’t have any visitors of her own, was kept well stocked with Murray mints and chocolates, and the two spent many a happy hour working through a brief repertoire of well-practised conversation.
In an attempt to make the home as “normal” as possible, the staff of St Francis’s seemed to have succeeded in emphasising quite how abnormal it is to spend your final years in a lounge with ten other elderly people who think it is some time around 1947. Today they had planned a tea party and invited everybody who had ever signed the guest book to come and “join the fun”.
The “fun”, it seemed, consisted mainly of three helium balloons tied to cupboard handles on opposite sides of the room, and paper party hats which the staff carefully yet firmly placed on the heads of all the residents. This was a bad idea, as at best it caused the residents some confusion, and in other cases, uninhibited delight. Mr Bentley simply seemed intrigued, and after ten minutes of pulling the elastic that was holding it to his head as far out as possible and letting it snap back, eliciting an angry “OW!” on each occasion, they took it off him again. Too late, however, did they realise that Mrs Byrne had eaten hers (and evidently quite enjoyed it), and they noted in their evaluation later not to include hats next year.
The staff had intended to allow for a bit of conversation between the residents and guests before bringing out the food, but as conversation was not especially forthcoming they brought it forward and handed round an array of little triangular sandwiches and fairycakes whilst ensuring that everyone was kept happy with copious supplies of luke-warm, weak tea.
“Would you like a fairy cake, Kathy?” a nurse was saying in sing-songy tones at Francis’s shoulder, leaning, he felt rather too close to the old lady so their faces were almost touching. “I think you would,” she continued, dangling one in the air as though Kathleen was a puppy and was being encouraged to bite it out of her hand. “There you go. Isn’t that nice? We like fairycakes, don’t we, Kathy?”
“So do we,” Francis said shortly, whipping two off her tray before she had a chance to try such a routine on him. It upset him that, even with the best of intentions, this woman would yap on at his gentle mother like she was an imbecile, while she sat docile, smiling encouragingly and never complaining. He watched as the staff member went through the same custom with the woman in front. He wondered if it was worth her bothering since, to all intents and purposes, the woman appeared to be dead. Her eyes were almost closed and her head lolled to one side. The fingers of her right hand seemed to be loosening their grip around the handle of her plastic teacup, which was lolling perilously towards her lap and threatening to spill its contents there at any moment.
“We like fairycakes, don’t we, Doris?” the staff member was saying, despite it being clear to everyone else that her charge didn’t have an opinion on the subject.
“Now,” another member of staff with exactly the same tone of voice chanted, once the food had been handed out and the residents were in various stages of trying to decide what one should do with it, “We’re very lucky today, because we’re going to have some music! Yes, we are! We’re very lucky to be able to welcome Father Peter, who it turns out is a bit of a dab hand on the piano. Aren’t you, Father?” she intoned encouragingly, evidently mistaking the priest for one of her charges. “So, let’s all give Father Peter a big clap to welcome him to St Francis’s!”
Clapping proved difficult with tea and party food, and the young staff member who would have to clean the floor afterwards looked annoyed.
Father Peter didn’t feel he really needed a welcome, since he went to St Francis’s every couple of days to give the residents one sacrament or another, but he smiled and nodded to his audience in thanks and sat down at the piano.
As he prepared with all the passion of a concert pianist to rest his fingers on the dusty keys, Mr Bentley caught sight of the sign in front of him and decided to share the ecstatic news with those around him that today was Saturday. Father Peter briefly closed his eyes and tried again.
“You’re not paid to sit around!” an old woman shouted, apparently at him. Her daughter implored her to be quite, but she was having none of it, shouting, “No wonder the post never gets delivered, with you just sitting around like this all day!”
Father Peter looked down at his dog collar, frowning slightly. Her daughter, all too aware she now had an audience herself, explained as quietly as she could who father Peter was, and her mother replied, triumphantly, “So, he’s been sacked, has he? No wonder he was sacked, sitting around like that!” She turned and addressed the room at large. “Four days I waited for a first class letter from Coventry!” she cried. “Four days!”
Father Peter decided that if he waited for silence he would never play, so he launched into “Danny Boy”. The piano was wildly off key, but his choice of song seemed to calm his largely Irish audience, and the fact that it was out of tune soon didn’t matter as residents and guests joined in each in their own keys. Relieved and somewhat buoyed up by their response, he tried a bit of Mozart on them. At this they were less enthusiastic but still fairly passive. In an attempt to brighten everyone’s spirits a little, he followed this up with a rousing chorus of “The Sun Has Got His Hat On”, encouraging them to sing along.
A fairycake hit him in the back of the head, leaving icing on his bald patch and taking him quite by surprise.
“Hey!” Marge shrieked at the woman who had thrown it, who turned out to be the same resident who had accused Father Peter of being a postman. She picked up a sausage roll and threw it back.
“Now there’s no need for that!” Her daughter was irate, leaping up and not looking half so mouse-like now she was at her full height.
The staff, unfortunately, chose to appeal for calm by employing what they thought to be soothing tones, stating “Now, that wasn’t very nice, now, Margey, was it? We don’t throw things, do we?”
Marge, who had been in the home three years because of a heart condition and not, like many of her contemporaries, because of senility, snapped.
“You might not,” she retorted, “but I rather enjoyed it.”
She tossed half a scone in the woman’s direction, but unfortunately she ducked and it hit Mr Bentley in the face instead, who announced as a sort of reflex that it was Tuesday before responding with a cucumber sandwich. Those who had been asleep were now very much awake and evidently thought this looked like fun, particularly Annie Donnelly, who had been at boarding school in the 1920s and, waking to find a food fight in full swing, assumed she must still be there and joined in enthusiastically.
Catherine was aware that this was funny as she watched her mother-in-law’s face break into a delighted smile as she started to unwrap and eat the cherry-topped cake that had landed on her lap, but nevertheless she sought cover behind a chair with an older gentleman who had been visiting his mother.
“This is certainly better than last year,” he said by way of introduction.
“I didn’t come last year,” Catherine said.
“Oh. Well, it wasn’t like this last year.”
“No. I don’t expect it was.”
Like a true professional, Father Peter played on very deliberately until “The Sun Had Got His Hat On” reached its natural conclusion. He then wiped the jam and cream off the keys with his pocket handkerchief, replaced the lid, and quietly retreated.
When the residents (and those guests that had surreptitiously joined in) had run out of food to hurl at one another things gradually calmed down and most residents, exhausted by their efforts, went back to sleep, with the exception of Doris, who appeared not to have woken up and to have missed the whole thing, except for the half of cucumber sandwich on her shoulder and jam on her forehead, which had the odd effect of making her look as though she was wearing a bindi.
Now the visitors were either complaining or making their excuses and leaving. The daughter who was largely responsible for the whole thing was brushing her mother down briskly and saying in slightly overly upbeat tones, “Well, it’s been lovely to see you, Mother. I’ll bring the kids down next week.”
Catherine and Francis, having reassured themselves that Kathleen was not only unharmed, but having the time of her life, rose to leave too.
As they reached the door Doris, who still appeared to be asleep, gave a slight flick of her wrist so that her cup was momentarily horizontal. A wave of tea shot several feet across the room and hit Mr Bentley on the cheek.
“It’s Thursday!” he shrieked in angry retaliation. Goodness, if they only listened to him he wouldn’t have to keep repeating it!

Ann Spellman

Well, the blurb on the back of the book says:


"An expatriate of Yorkshire, Ann Spellman is a London-based humourist and Bradford City supporter who, in her spare time, works in a university. She has appeared on BBC4 and her work has been featured at the Laughing Horse Comedy Club, Hampstead Theatre and Soho Theatre."

We were rather proud of that. But in case you want to know more, here's some more info in the beautifully pretentious form of an interview:



Expat of Yorkshire? I thought you were born in Blackburn? Isn't that Lancashire?

Er, well, technically I was, but that was a bit of a blip. My family comes from Yorkshire, but I did grow up in Lancashire, in a small town called Clitheroe, where they do hideous things like Morris Dancing and host brass band competitions. The accent's still there a bit, I'm afraid, particularly after a few drinks. My family lives in Bradford, and yes, I do support their football club. Somebody has to.



Where do you get your ideas from?

I sort of plagiarise from everyday life. Not that any of my characters are real, of course - it says that in the book, just in case anyone thought they were. They're all completely fictional, and any resemblance to anyone real, alive or dead, is purely coincidental. That way they can't sue me.

Writers spend far too much time and energy doing terribly intellectual things and going to exotic places for "inspiration". I'm neither intellectual nor exotic, and I don't have the time or money to do things like that anyway, so I have to make do with everday life - which I find works beautifully! For example, I walked past a corner shop last week that had a big sign outside that declared "Open seven days a week. Closed Sundays." I'm saving that one up for the future.



Who influences you?

I don't want to in any way equate my own efforts with those of the following, but I could wax lyrical for hours about Garrison Keillor, Alan Bennett and Peter Kay. I suppose my family and the Catholic Church influence me, too, though that isn't necessarily a compliment.



Who are the stories aimed at?

Probably me, I suppose. They make me giggle. But saying that is not really good salesmanship, so, well, they're aimed at anyone who can read and wants something mildly humorous to pass the time with.



Do you have a favourite story?

I have two, but the first, "Nursing Home", isn't in this book, though I'm optimistically hoping there'll be a chance for it to appear in a sequal. I also like "A Good Funeral".


And a favourite character?

I like all the younger characters - Stephen particularly. They're so innocent but think they're not. I'm probably still a bit like that myself. I also like Corrigan, who ended up a bit like Eeyore from "Winnie the Pooh".

The Book

What's this book, then?
"Spirebeck Road" is a collection of humorous short stories which obviously have no basis in real life whatsoever, because the author wouldn't want to be sued, would she?

What's it about?
Here's what it says on the back of the book:

"Kevin, who is passionate about admin; Andrew, for whom it's the winning and not the taking part that counts; Aunty Barbara, who thinks that if everyone lived like Aunty Barbara, there would be no ills in the world but, perhaps fortunately for the world, it has chosen not to. Welcome to Spirebeck Road. 10 pocket-sized stories will introduce you to these any many other comic creations in this new collection by Ann Spellman."

Sounds nice and cosy, doesn't it?

How can I buy it?
I'm so glad you asked. You can buy it on Amazon, but they charge a sourcing fee, whatever that is. It's also available in a seemingly random selection of bookshops, but most will order it for you. One reader apparently ordered it from a Christian bookshop in Liverpool...

Is it any good?
Depends what you call "good". You may well delight in some of the characters you will have come across all too often in real life, and there are certainly worse ways to while away an afternoon. We're told it's also perfect reading material if you're sitting on the tube or the toilet. Any feedback is welcome! Feel free to post on the comments section - those of us at "Self-promotions 'R' Us" have been sweet/reckless enough to open up the comments section of this blog to anyone who cares to use it.

How about a taster?
Why not? Here's an extract from a nice little story about a dead cat to cheer us all up.

When all were assembled, Katy began in a low, dismal voice, wracked with pity for the family of the deceased, “We are gathered here today to mark the passing of a much loved family member, Bernard O’Malley, friend of Tiddles and Tufti” (next door’s tortoise shells) “and devoted cat to Catherine, Francis, Anne, Teresa and Stephen.” Here she paused dramatically. Her brother sniggered. “So let’s celebrate his life by joining together and singing “All Things Bright and Beautiful”, which was one of Bernard’s favourite hymns.” Eyebrows were raised: they hadn’t come to sing, they had come to eat Helen’s fairy cakes. Even Francis, who had known Bernard all his short life, had been unaware of his fondness for “All Things Bright and Beautiful”.
“And now,” Katy continued, after they had mumbled their way through all the verses, “Uncle Francis would like to say a few words.” She withdrew gracefully from her makeshift pulpit on the patio step.
“Would I?” Francis replied as a reflex before he had time to think.
“Yes,” hissed Katy. “You always have to do that at funerals. We did it for Aunt Margaret.”
That wasn’t quite true, thought Francis. The Priest had done it for Aunt Margaret. Nobody else had been able to think of anything nice to say.
“Go on!” Katy urged, and just as he cleared his throat to speak she announced again, “Uncle Francis is just gathering himself to say a few words.”
“Er, yes. Hi. Thanks for coming. Er…this was a last minute thing…”
“Do it properly!” Katy hissed behind him.
He took a deep breath, and began.
“We all remember Bernard as a fine and loving creature.” The congregation sniggered. When he was four Stephen had pulled Bernard’s tail to see what would happen. What happened was that Bernard reciprocated with a few sharp, reproachful scratches to his face and arms, and as a result relations between the two had been very cool ever since.
“He had a tough beginning, poor chap. Thrown out of a car onto the M1 on a cold October night, and while the others were picked up in a jag and a Mercedes, well, poor Bernard drew the short straw and ended up in our metro.” He paused. The family sensed this as a moment where a laugh was expected, and responded accordingly. “Well, after that Bernard was plagued with health problems that seemed never-ending. Ear mite, worms, conjunctivitis…”
“Fleas,” Catherine muttered, cynical at the memory.
“Well, we spent so much money on sorting him out that at the end of it Catherine suggested we chuck him back on the motorway.”
Another laugh, except from Catherine, because she’d meant it.
“Well, the children all welcomed Bernard into the family, but the dog wasn’t so keen to begin with, but they soon made up, and one night during a particularly loud thunderstorm I found them curled up together under my bed, taking care of one another. All was forgiven.”
This wasn’t entirely true. In reality, Kelsley the jack russell, named after Kelsley’s bitter, the best (and incidentally only) beer brewed in the Elby district, was terrified of Bernard. For a start, Bernard was bigger than him – after several years considerably bigger, especially round the stomach – and Kelsley became his slave. Bernard would chase him out of the garden if he decided he wanted it for himself. If Kelsley caught Bernard asleep in his basket, or eating from his dish, he knew better than to make a fuss out of it. The two would simply exchange meaningful looks, and Bernard would always win, and Kelsley would trot away meekly and hide behind the sofa.
“In the old days,” Francis continued, now well into his stride, “Bernard was a keen hunter, and would often bring us presents of dead mice and birds, and once even a rabbit which he had killed for us.” Another titter, but the audience was getting hungry. The O’Malley members of the congregation remembered these surprises all too well. On more than one occasion Bernard had leapt onto Anne’s bed and pawed her awake, and she had opened her eyes only to be confronted with a disembowelled thrush resting on the pillow beside her, and Bernard, licking away the remnants of bird’s intestine from around his lips and beaming up at her with a look-what-I-just-did-aren’t-I-clever? expression on his face.
“But recently he’s traded in his valiant past for a more relaxing life.”
You could say that again. It was well known to residents of Spirebeck Road that mice from all over Elby migrated to the O’Malley back garden for a quiet life, and when they got bored they would totter across the garden and back again in front of Bernard, sometimes in pairs, to see if anything would happen. It didn’t. Bernard would watch with supercilious apathy, seeming to say “Please. I’ve seen it all before” before mooching inside to get some more food. His life revolved around eating and sleeping, usually on Anne’s bed, so when she came home tired from an evening shift at the hospital in need of a good night’s sleep he would look straight at her with his round green eyes, and she knew he meant “I was here first, don’t even think about it.”