Candle to the Sun
a collection of short stories and poems
by
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Orchids for Mr Spendlebury “Prudence has been kissing Mr Spendlebury in the greenhouse!” Mrs Roberts paused dramatically, and resisted the impulse to plunge her head over the top of her husband’s newspaper and shout ‘Yah’. The paper didn’t move and she tried again. “George! Prudence has been kissing Charles Spendlebury!” The paper descended just sufficiently to allow a face to appear above it. It was very nice looking in a blue-eyed, crinkly sort of way – but it was a face which bore, at that moment, a resigned, long-suffering expression. “So what!” it said, and vanished. Interlude Next morning, she walked slowly downstairs to her kitchen and swished back the yellow rose-patterned curtains. Then she made the coffee and lit the grill. ‘Everything is the same, and yet nothing is the same,’ she thought. ‘Yesterday, Simon and I were happily married. We had our house and our child and each other. Nothing seemed so important that it couldn’t wait until tomorrow.’ Her heart contracted suddenly and she put down the coffee-pot and fought back her tears, remembering her determination to make her marriage a success, because she had always known that she was not in love with Simon. The Same Mould Julie’s fleeting anxiety is replaced by a smile, as she waves and drives away. I look down at the small, sturdy boy, who is now standing up and working out the day’s programme, with me no doubt, playing the exhausting role as his leading lady! I know from experience to get in first. “You’re too big to suck your thumb, mister!” A glint appears in his eyes, but he continues to suck, while he gestures towards the garden. “Football!” he commands. “Not likely, my lad. I need a cup of coffee.” Long Ago in Ireland The seasons pass. The corn is cut. The porridge cauldron filled. The fuschias bow once more to summer’s prelude, each skirted bud in pirouette. Another year of life. And – praise the Lord! The fruitful Mrs Duffy’s had her sixth!
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About the Book
These stories and poems are a unique insight into what makes us all human. They unfold deceptively making the reader aware of the ironies of everyday life with all its sadness and joy, its unpredictability and inevitability. Peggy Lewis makes us consider our past as she writes; “On a dog-day afternoon, I found Where father’s father lay ......” or our desire to control the people we love so that we do not lose them: “David accuses me of interfering. ‘For goodness sake Rachel, why is it that you always try to manipulate people?’ he says.” We are made to confront ourselves as we recognise our own fears and regrets: “My daughter’s like me, she sees with my eyes, loves the things I love. Yet I fear she also shares my weaknesses.” Written over thirty years during the latter half of the twentieth century, Peggy Lewis’s writing was ahead of its time. Her women are independent, fierce and strong. Her men are compassionate, protective and, at times, chauvinistic. Her stories and poems are timeless for, as the decades change, our desire to love and be loved, to experience the burning ‘candle’ of our lives is captured in the poignant sincerity of the writing. Read these stories and poems. You will find yourselves somewhere between the lines.
About the Author
Peggy Lewis was born in 1923 in South East London and witnessed the great changes of the 20th century. She married in 1944 but did not begin writing until 1954. Her first story was broadcast by the BBC in 1958. Others were subsequently published in the London Evening Standard, Woman’s Own and Women’s Weekly both in the UK and as far afield as Sweden, Malaysia and South Africa. She went on to write many more stories, poems and articles, one of which was a fascinating insight into the China of 1987. She was awarded prizes for many of her publications. She died in 2009 at St Rita’s Home in Ditchling, West Sussex.