Get Booked – Compilation May 2023

Welcome to today's Get Booked with me, Hazel Butterfield, for Women's and Men's Radio Station. This week I've put together a special compilation show of various authors some of which are past guests of Get Booked reading extracts from their books. Have a listen and get inspired for your TBRs. First up on the show, we have Asma Dar with Spider. Have a listen to this. It is hauntingly fantastic. I'm looking forward to my day. If all goes well, I might finally embark on the adventure I've been yearning for. An artistic journey that means almost everything to me. I drive Zayn to school, then go straight to Café Sprinkle on Great Horton Road, near Bradford University. The place is popular with students and serves a Pakistani-British fusion menu: chicken tikka shepherd's pie, masala chips, chilli chocolate fudge brownies. The decor is a dodgy synthesis of American diner meets Pakistani truck style. Colourful images of the kind found on Punjabi lorries Porty flowers and birds are emblazoned across the walls. Customers are seated in round red booths with white piping. A jukebox in the corner is playing an Abra hit, a jubby song about girls from Lahore having fun at a fairground. It's an eccentric mix, but I like it, especially when it's bustling with students. Makes me feel young, trendy, and intelligent too. I order a coffee and a rose and cardamom Danish pastry, take the script out of my bag, and smile. It's not a leading role in a major movie, and I haven't even got the job yet, but it's something after all this time. An audition for a rice advert for an Asian satellite channel, and I've only got 2 lines to say, but it's a solid opportunity at last. A chance of visibility. There'd be a small payment, but I'm not doing this for the money. I don't need to work. It's a mere stepping stone in my mission to triumph as an actress. It's 11 o'clock when I get the first phone call. "Hello sweetheart," says a familiar voice full of overblown honeyed charm. Suleiman. He's a distant relative of my ex-husband. I close my eyes. "How are you, my dear?" "What do you want?" I say. "Come on, you can be a bit more friendly than that." "I'm very busy, Suleiman." 'Oh, if you insist,' he says. 'I thought I'd give you a bit of advanced warning this time. Planning a little trip in the winter. I need everything to be sorted out before then. Unfortunately, my last investment was a disaster, so I'll have to make up for it.' 'When?' '3 months' time. The regular amount should do it. And I hope you don't need reminding, don't try anything silly.' Silly, we know what will happen. I cut him off. I don't need to hear the threats. It's a ghastly arrangement that I'm forced to keep to, and we both know I'll comply. Next up on today's compilation show, we have past guest Jane Hennigan with Moths. Jane Hennigan, Moths. Prologue. Where were you when it started? The question women of a certain age ask each other on long evenings when the younger women are not around to roll their eyes and look away. Or perhaps, where were you when it ended, depending on your point of view? And the other question that might follow, the one whispered, heads close together in that soft echo chamber of friendship, 'What do you miss?' But there are far fewer women of that age left now. Where were you when the stories started coming out of Venezuela and then Mexico? When did you first hear the news reports outlining pockets of unexplained deaths, violent attacks, and confused stories of mass psychosis? The moths, so the story goes, came from deep within the Amazon. Silent, undisturbed, contained for millennia. Whether it was a warmer global climate, or whether they were driven out by loggers or forest fires, isn't clear. Whatever happened, out they came, away from natural predators, nesting in damp corners and in the tops of trees, crossbreeding with common cousins, and laying thousands upon thousands of eggs. Then 43 years ago, as any schoolgirl can tell you, The eggs hatched and an army of hungry caterpillars spread their tiny toxic threads on every breath of wind. This was the waking of the new world. Where were you, they ask, those who are left, at the death, the birth, the beginning, the end? Mary. Tuesdays and Thursdays, if I'm on duty, I oversee the residents as they wash their own bedding along with their day wear. Their attire is a plain grey ankle-length shift and canvas sandals. Decades ago, there were complaints that the shift was too much like a dress, that it made the men seem effeminate. But trousers have too many seams and creases in which a tiny poisoned thread could hide, so it was decided that a shift would have to do. Everyone got used to it after a while. The men said that they enjoyed the freedom a skirt provided. Now few men alive might remember a word like effeminate, or a word like freedom for that matter. At my age, I don't have to work nights. In fact, if I'd wanted to, I could have retired years ago, gone to live in one of the villages beyond the facility. My young colleagues, all in their 20s and 30s, would prefer it if I did. If I just scuttled off. It would save them the effort of deferring to me, then rolling their eyes when I left the room. But I like the rhythm here. I like the men, especially the new arrivals. They make me think of my son. What would I do if I retired anyway? Grow vegetables, help out in the schools. I've been to the schools as a special visitor. I stared down at the girls, all of them cross-legged on the floor, a garden of bobbing little faces staring up at me. Those are the times when I felt really out of place. I couldn't even answer their questions about the time before. They lacked words like cinema, takeaway, or boyfriend. I don't have to do the night watch, but last week I did it anyway, just to prove to myself that I still could. Also, I knew there was a transfer on the rota, Olivia. She was not as old as me, but old enough, I thought, when I caught a glimpse of her at breakfast. It's long, the night shift, 9 hours, and with the men sleeping there's little to occupy your time. Olivia and I sat in the dimly lit carer's station just outside the dormitories and talked about Coventry, her old facility. The food, the men, and how the filtration system had failed, infecting 3 of the dorms. She was a sturdy woman, not fat except exactly, but heavy, Curvy, as it used to be known. Her hair was brown and cropped, and she moved slowly, pausing before she spoke. As we talked, she had a habit of nodding just slightly along with my words. It was like a tacit agreement, softly nudging along the conversation. She talked of her wife Lucy and of their two daughters, both grown, one working in agriculture and the other in marine conservation. I didn't ask about sons, of course. It would have been inappropriate. She asked me about myself. Safe questions. Curious rather than probing. Did I commute from one of the villages? Had I villis— visited the shrine at Waterloo? Was I married? All of which I answered in the negative and followed up with a polite question of my own. But I was listening for something. In particular for a single a signal, an offering that might lead to a more interesting conversation. It came late in the shift, past midnight. I'd nearly given up waiting, and when it arrived, it was a peach. We'd been talking about the dogs in the local woodlands, whether the animals still had a sense of their domestic origins or whether they were fully wild now. Not an incendiary topic, but at least we graduated from pleasantries. She paused, this time for a beat longer, then said quietly, 'In Coventry, there was a ward sister who was keeping a man in her apartment.' I stared at her for a moment, confused, trying to work out what she meant. 'Like a servant?' I asked finally. She shook her head slowly, and her eyes slid to mine. 'Like a husband.' 'I couldn't help myself. My mouth hung open. Hearing the words spoken aloud felt odd, like an attack of déjà vu. Husband. Her voice had quietly lingered on the S, a conspiratorial and deliberate inflection. How did you— did you see him?' I thought that she wasn't going to answer, that she was going to change the subject. 'Half wanted her to, but she carried on. She kept it a secret, but I delivered food to her living quarters. She always asked for a large serving and kept the door to her suite half closed when I arrived. But one time I looked through the door jamb. He was just sitting at the table, just sitting there holding a drink. He was dressed in clothes from before.' Her breath came quickly and her eyes shone in the low light of the carer's station. I felt a fierce sense of outrage towards this unknown ward sister. How dare she be so irresponsible? After all the suffering, the sacrifices, what gave her the right to endanger herself and him? What if he'd become infected? The filtration systems are weaker in the staff quarters, the surfaces left less often scrubbed. I felt something bitter beneath my anger, fanning it. A man sitting at a table nursing a glass of wine or whiskey, beer perhaps, stretching his long legs. Music playing in the background or the sound of the TV. The smell of cooked chicken. Just a man relaxing, glad to be home after a long day. Husband. Suddenly I was aware of Olivia watching me. She'd stopped nodding and was sitting completely still. She was weighing up my reaction. I chose my words carefully. 'But she must have known how dangerous that is.' No reply. She wanted more from me. She'd opened the door, but I had to walk through. I leaned in closer. 'What happened when the filtration failed? Was he infected?' Olivia shifted her heavy frame towards me and her voice was barely above a whisper. 'I don't know. But the next time I went there, after it was repaired, she was the only one in the room.' A man's living. A man living in a sister's quarters. This sort of thing hadn't happened for decades. There was a time, just after everything changed, when we thought it would go back to the way it was. We believed that we just had to wait it out and we could carry on, drag everything we knew with us. But then more waves of moths came, more heartbreak, more violence. Eventually we had to come to terms with what we had and what we would never have again. And now this. Were there secret affairs happening everywhere or had this been a one-off? What could they even find to talk about together? It's not like before. They don't go out to work or read books, and there's no TV, no internet. The men just pass their time doing chores and crafts or gossiping in the rec room. Every now and then there's a campaign to improve the men's education— laminated reading materials, more advanced teaching for those who show aptitude— but the MWA comes back with the same arguments again and again. Lack of resources. Higher priorities. Olivia leaned back, her round cheeks flushed. It was on the tip of my tongue. Did you report her? But of course she hadn't. This was her offering. The trust she sought to barter. I nodded and offered a tentative smile. She smiled back. After that, those quiet hours wrapped us up together. We were protected. Complicit, our soft voices spread out into the night. 'Where were you when it started?' she asked. 'Tell me everything.' Still more to come. And next in line is the author Judy Larbi, and she has written Alaskan Pioneer Girl. Here we go. Hi, my reading's in two parts. First, a synopsis from the book, and then a chapter which comes early in the first few pages. Alaskan Pioneer Girl: A Memoir of America's Last Frontier is a story of my first 20 years in Alaska in the 1950s and '60s and will appeal to most history enthusiasts. I'm born into a family forging ahead as pioneers, but all screeches to a tragic end with the death of my sister Sherry, forcing us to relocate. Family life restarts in Homer with me being a mischievous middle child, hoping to follow in my older sister's footsteps. Instead, I am wrenched from her, my town friends, and comforts to the wilderness where my parents make a claim on 160 acres of free government land on Porcupine Lake, 60 miles away. We live by the requirements laid down by Abraham Lincoln in the Homestead Act 100 years years earlier. Our first home is a tent, and we live off the land, hunting and butchering moose, fishing salmon, and harvesting large vegetable gardens. My brothers and I are surrounded by fundamentalist Christians in the local school and find salvation at Solid Rock Bible Camp. The last chapters are of the bumpy road to love on my return to Homer high school. Sprinkled throughout are family recipes and photographs. Homesteading Claim on Porcupine Lake. I won't go! I won't leave my friends! I want to stay with Gail! I said, stomping my foot and screaming. This did not sway my parents, as I was older now. Daddy and Mama had become Dad and Mom. School was soon to start the summer of 1959. Dad had initiated the pursuit of making a claim on the 160 acres he and Mom wanted to homestead in the Alaskan wilderness. At 11, I felt outraged to be uprooted. I was coming up to my teens and looked forward to a busy social life in town, following in the footsteps of my older sister Gail. After school, she was with friends sipping sodas in the Dairy Delight, the town's one burger joint, while playing the latest Connie Francis hits on the jukebox: Where the Boys Are, Who's Sorry Now, Stupid Cupid, and Lipstick on Your Collar. She hummed and sang the tunes around the house, and I joined in. Soon I intended to spin my favorite hits on the same jukebox. However, Mom and Dad had a different plan. They were determined to take up the opportunity for free government land. The part of the Kenai Peninsula chosen had many swamps and lakes with billions of mosquitoes. There was a dirt track for a mile and then no road, so Dad's plan was to drive with Gail in our 4x4 Army surplus dump truck, which had a winch, to the site. He and Mom loaded basic startup supplies onto the back of the truck, including lumber, tent, and food. Jerry asked, "How will you know where to turn off the highway, Daddy?" There is a small log cabin with a green roof exactly at mile point 63.2. That is where we start through the woods. Mom said, don't take all the canned moose, leave some for us. Dad replied, have Judy run to the store. For God's sake, John, I need Judy to help with Jerry and Brent. I'm still not up to scratch, have only been out of bed for a few days. They were constantly bickering. In the end, more than enough was on the truck for the few days ahead. At last, they were ready. Mom, Jerry, Brent, and I waved Dad and Gail off as they drove onto Pioneer Avenue to begin the 60-mile journey on gravel road. 3 days later, we had not heard a word. Mom was anxious. But they had not yet returned. I think we better go investigate, Mom said at breakfast, slumping in her chair wearing her old dressing gown. We'll drive the Chevy to where they left the highway. From there we'll walk in. Do we need boots? Yes. Get Jerry and Brent into theirs. It's good weather. 'But we need jeans and sweatshirts and put on mosquito dope,' she said, raising slowly from the table with her teacup and plate. 'Help me, Judy. I'm a bit under the weather.' 'Can Scamp come?' I asked. Scamp was our brown Chesapeake retriever. 'Of course. Get him into the back of the car. We won't take the Kapto will leave extra food for her. We drove up the highway along the Cook Inlet coast. On the left, blue mountains soared from the ocean. On the right, I could see various shades of green, including abundant gray-barked spruce, silver birch, and mottled cottonwoods. These broke up the stretches of brown swamp. Mom and I rolled down our windows to let the odor of Scamp's panting breath out. He was wedged between Brent and Jerry in the back. In a couple of hours, we arrived at mile point 63.2, where Dad and Gail had driven off the truck from the highway. The log cabin with the green roof was right beside the gravel Sterling Highway. I opened the door and Scamp leaped out, making his way to a tree for a pee. Getting through the thick forest and wet areas was like following Hansel and Gretel's breadcrumb trail. I trudged along and thought back to the bombshell announcement Dad had made at dinner one evening before he took us into the middle of nowhere. You kids will love living on Porcupine Lake, swimming in summer and skating in winter, he said. I was infatuated by the spot yesterday when I flew in on the pontoon plane. Ideal. Reminds me of Wisconsin. Brent and Jerry were excited about the adventure. At 4 and 6, they were not leaving behind established friends. Most importantly, they would continue to have each other as playmates. In contrast, I felt wrenched away from my many friends. The fun of easily arranged visits to my home and theirs, all finished. Skipping freely down the street from school to home, would be replaced by trudging in and out on this 2¼-mile rough track through the woods. Running to a shop to pick up something? Completely gone. The long isolated trek through the forest and watery terrain would mean even fetching the smallest item would have to be carefully planned. With each step, I recall Dad's excited pitch of the great life ahead. There will be fresh air to fill your lungs, rainbow trout to fish, and beavers to watch. Resentment grew as I became weary, winding between thick trees, over bogs, and continually swatting buzzing mosquitoes in spite of the heavy doses of smelly repellent. Poor mom was walking slowly. She was doing her best to keep up but was still recovering from something that initially I could not understand. While bedridden, she had called me in for a private talk. Lying under covers and looking weary, her eyes met mine. I won't be having any more children, Judy. I've lost Twin. Next up, we have a reading from last week's guest, Deborah Stone, with Semi-Detached. For those of you that missed the show or want a quick reminder, as ever, you can listen to previous shows in full on womensradiostation.com/shows/getbooked, or you can pop onto my website at hazelbutterfield.com and click on the SoundCloud icon. Semi-Detached by Deborah Stone. Chapter 1: Claire. It took me many years to realize that the more hopeful you feel about something, the more disappointed you will inevitably be. However, back then as a student, excited to show off my new boyfriend to my doting mother, it never crossed my mind that things might not go exactly according to plan. These days I am far more circumspect and and urged myself to expect the worst. But let's face it, I could never have prepared myself for what actually occurred that day. Jack and I were driving home for the Christmas holidays after a gruelling first term of my third year in university in Bath. Alternately negotiating roadworks, contraflows, tailbacks and bad drivers— the ones who only took their cars out on high days and holy days. The radio in the Fiesta that Jack had hired was malfunctioning so I had turned it off despite Rihanna's valiant attempts to warble about her diamonds over the static and frequent drops in signal. Both of our phones had died and the car had nowhere to recharge them, so Jack and I were forced to entertain ourselves by singing tuneless a cappella karaoke and, at our most desperate point, resorting to I Spy. 'Do you think your mum will like me?' 'Of course she will, why wouldn't she?' I sighed. I shifted in my seat. Is it sheep? No, it's not sheep. Can you spy any sheep in the middle of the M4 in the dark? No, but I've run out of things beginning with S. Will this bloody traffic ever move? I need the loo. I've got an empty Coke bottle here if you're really desperate. Months of sleeping together and you still know nothing of my anatomy. I wriggled in my seat as we inched forward. Getting back to your mother. I groaned, but Jack persisted. 'Your mother is bound to feel overprotective of you, given that you're her only child, and I just don't want to get off on the wrong foot.' Jack released the brake and we rolled forward a half inch. 'Stop stressing, you'll have loads in common with her, and my mum is so easygoing, she likes all my friends.' I leant over and planted a noisy kiss on his cheek. 'And anyway, it's not like you're intending to propose or anything, is it?' I teased. Deliberately staring straight at Jack. He paled. 'No, of course not.' 'Well, there's nothing to worry about then, is there? She'll adore you.' 'Crisp?' I shook the dregs that remained at the bottom of a large packet of Walker's Cheese and Onion. 'I think I've finished them already, sorry.' An hour or so later, we drew up outside my mother's flat in Kentish Town. It was raining with monsoon intensity, so I bolted out of the car and ran up the steps of the block as fast as I could, pressing continuously on our buzzer until my mother let me in. I raced up the two flights of stairs to our flat, straight past my mother who stood waiting to greet me in the open doorway, and shot into the toilet. 'Sorry, Mum, I'm busting,' I called, slamming the bathroom door shut. Re-emerging a few minutes later, I realised that Jack was still outside in the car. 'Better now?' my mother asked, smiling. 'Yes, much. We should have stopped at the last services, but we wanted to crack on.' The journey took forever. I held my arms out and Mum enveloped me in her warm, familiar embrace, her scent reassuring and instant relaxing. I was home. My mother was on the large side, chunky you might call her, but I always loved her bulk. It had allowed me to sink into her lap and rest my head on her ample chest as a child, and even as a sulky teenager when my hormones demanded it. To me, she represented pure, unadulterated comfort. Hang on a minute while I go to rescue Jack. I peeled myself and ran back out of the flat and down the front steps to the car where he sat shivering. Come on, Jack, jump out, I instructed him as he opened the car door. We can leave the car here until 9 tomorrow, but we'll have to move it before the wardens start patrolling. They're real bastards around here. Jack jumped out, blinking away the rain that flooded down his face the moment he emerged. He opened the boot, we grabbed our bags as fast as we could. By the time we had shut the front door of the block, we were soaked. Just dump the bags by the front door, Jack, we can sort them out later. Jack did as he was told, and as he straightened up, I introduced him to my mother, who was still waiting by the door. She held out two towels, handing one to each of us. Thanks, Mum. So this is Jack. Jack, this is Mum. It's a pleasure to meet you, Jack said a little too loudly, shaking her hand so vigorously that water from his sleeve sprayed the front of my mother's cardigan. Gosh, I am sorry, he gasped, offering the towel back to my mother for her to use. My mother did not take it, nor did she reply. Her hand lay limp in Jack's and her mouth hung open. Jack glanced at me and I shrugged. You okay, Mum? I asked, placing my hand gently on her shoulder. She started at my touch. What? Oh, oh yes, Claire, I'm fine. It's a pleasure to meet you, Jack. Claire has told me so much about you. Come into the flat, both of you. 'And dry off properly by the gas fire. You're wet through.' My mother stopped momentarily and turned back to stare at Jack again. She shook her head as if trying to clear a blockage. 'Come into the kitchen and let me make you both some tea. It'll warm you up.' Jack and I settled ourselves around the Formica table in the small kitchen, which was somewhat cracked and worn from years of meals eaten, homework poured over, and arts and crafts badly made. There were very few indicators of the festive season in the flat. A sad string of fraying red tinsel hung down from the light fitting over the table in the hall. There was the smallest plastic silver tree with a couple of chipped baubles hanging from it. Underneath was a solitary present for me, to which I would add mine for my mother when I finally got around to buying one for her. Mum busied herself for a strangely long time with the tap and then the kettle, and for even longer in her strange quest to arrange 6 hobnobs intricately on a small plate. I haven't made dinner yet as I couldn't be sure what time you were arriving. Don't worry, we got stuck in terrible traffic and our phones were out of charge, otherwise I would have called. We ate all sorts of crap on the way here, so we will live. Claire, language! I rolled my eyes at Jack. Mum set down the biscuits and placed a mug of tea in front of each of us, her hands trembling. She splashed some down her front leaving a brown stain on her long white cardigan. She moved over to the sink and grabbed a tea towel, absently dabbing at the mark while standing next to the calendar hanging on the wall. It featured the sports in the 2012 London Olympics, which I had given her the previous Christmas. Suddenly, my mother slammed her mug onto the draining board, causing Jack and I to jump. 'Could you excuse me for just a moment?' she whispered, rushing out of the kitchen. Jack looked at me and mouthed, 'What the fuck?' I've no idea what's up with her. Maybe she's ill or something, I muttered. Let me go and see if she's all right. I padded across the small flat and knocked gently on my mother's bedroom door. Come in, she answered in a flat voice. I opened the door and found her sitting on the stool by the small fold-up table which served as her dressing table by the window. She was afforded a clear view of the drab, frenetic high street below, the shops now closed, shuttered for the night, apart from the bustling 24-hour store. 'What's the matter?' She made no reply, continuing to stare out of the window, seemingly fascinated with the comings and goings in the shop opposite. 'You and Jack— have you— are you—' 'Susie, what kind of question is that? You've not even spoken to Jack yet and you're already worried about whether he's deflowered me. I'm 21, Mum, not 15, and it's not the bloody Dark Ages.' 'No,' she replied, almost inaudibly. 'I know that, Claire, but I need to know. Have you had sex with Jack?' 'What the hell is wrong with you?' I leapt off the bed, banging my back against the wooden knob of the wardrobe door. 'Since when has my sex life been any of your bloody business?' My mother swivelled around to face me. 'It's not. I'm well aware that I've got no right to pry.' 'So why the hell are you behaving like this? Jack and I have been going out for ages. 'So what do you think we've been doing, drinking tea?' 'You must stop seeing that boy right now.' My mother began to weep, hiding her face in her hands. 'What the hell are you on about? You haven't even made the slightest effort to get to know Jack yet.' 'You just have to trust me on this one.' A solitary streak of mascara stained her cheek. 'You're being completely ridiculous and irrational, Mum. If you won't come out of your room right now and be civil to Jack, then I'll leave with him.' I love him. I've never felt this way about anyone before. My mother raised her head and stared at me wild-eyed. Claire, sweetheart, you must listen to me. Go back in there right now and tell him he must go. Use me as an excuse if you must. I really don't care what you say to him, just get him out of your life right now. You are totally unbloody believable, you know that? I screeched, tears pricking at the corner of my eyes. 'If you want Jack out of my life, that's not gonna happen, but as of now, I'm gonna be out of yours.' I turned and left the bedroom, slamming the flimsy door behind me. 'Come on, Jack, we're leaving. Grab the bags.' Next we have an author read extract of Hotel 21 by Zenta Rich. Zenta Rich joined us on GetBooked a few weeks ago and she was so much fun. Have a listen to this. Hello, this is Zenta Rich and I'm going to read an extract from my book Hotel 21. I like to set myself little challenges. I've decided the extra thrill for starting in the Magnolia is to aim to beat my previous 5-star record by lasting longer than a month, so I need to have my wits about me and take it slow. I did make it to 7 months in Hotel 15, a 4-star in Cornwall, 2 years ago. My supervisor at the time, Mrs Gomez, was quite upset when I announced I was leaving to be nearer my family. No one ever questions that excuse. I was surprised when Mrs Gomez's large wobbly face veil and her already moist eyes filled with tears. She gave me a big bear hug, pressing my cheek into her full soft bosom which smelled of talcum powder and lily of the valley. For a moment in her arms I wondered what my life would have been like had Mrs. Gomez been my mother. Would I have become a person who stays in 5-star hotels instead of cleaning them? Would I want to be different to the way I am now? I normally abandon these thoughts quickly as they're not helpful and don't go anywhere. Mrs. Gomez finally released me from her bosom and held me firmly by the shoulders. "You are the best little worker I've ever had," she said. I smiled at her, genuinely appreciative. It was nice to hear I was good at my job, but even nicer to know she didn't suspect me one bit. I was quite sad to leave, too. The guests tended to be long-term stayers with mountains of luggage brimming with personal possessions. The wardrobes were always stuffed full of elegant clothes and fussy designer shoes, and the bathrooms—my favourite space in any hotel room—were strewn with delicate pots of expensive-smelling creams and makeup boxes that popped open to display an artist's palette of eyeshadows with elegant brushes and glistening lipstick cases. One guest had 52 lipsticks. Yes, I counted, and I couldn't help but be impressed. I had contemplated taking one. I held the black shiny case between my blue gloved fingers, twisted the bottom, and watched in wonder as an untouched ruby red stick slowly emerged, gleaming in the bright bathroom lights. A rush of adrenaline shot up my spine to the base of my neck, but with a heavy sigh, I put the lipstick back in its designated velvet-lined pouch. A woman with that kind of collection and attention to detail would know in an instant if something were missing, and I'd had a bad experience with a lipstick before and felt it was too risky. Instead, I slowly unzipped her toiletry bag, watching the individual teeth part way as it flopped open to reveal a lucky dip of tubes and pots and shiny plastic containers. I slipped my hand in, pushing down deep to the very bottom where smaller items like forgotten lip balms live. I dug gently in and around the pots and tubes until my forefinger landed on a small lid. I ran the tip of my finger around it, getting a feel for the size of the mini container, and then carefully lifted it out, all the while relishing the rush of adrenaline thundering around my body, my breathing faster than normal. It was a small white tester pot, slightly dirty from being buried in the bottom of the bag for so long, and no bigger than the top of my thumb. It was perfect, not something the guests would notice was missing. I dropped it into the front of my apron and stood for a moment, allowing the rush to subside and my vital signs to return to normal. It didn't matter that I had no idea what was in the pot, I never use the things I take. I just keep them, like that woman kept her lipsticks. Nobody's memory is 100%. Even if she had noticed the little pot was missing, she'd never suspect the cleaner. She'd think she lost it in transit, or assume she'd thrown it away and forgotten. And if she had noticed and made a complaint, Mrs. Gomez would never have believed that I would steal anything, let alone a small tester pot from the bottom of a toiletry bag. And I would swear, forcing fake tears, that I would never even touch a toiletry bag. We're trained not to move guest items unless absolutely necessary. But the first complaint sets a precedent. What if another was made against me, even if it was again over a small item of no value? A flag would be raised, a question mark would appear next to my name, and I couldn't risk that. There's always a complaint eventually, as I begin to increase the level of risk. It's inevitable. 3 weeks after taking the tester pot, I took a little bottle of pink nail varnish from a huge overflowing vanity case. The guests marched down to reception and loudly accused the cleaner of being a thief. Well, Mrs. Gomez stood by me like a guard dog, teeth bared, as she squared up to the hotel manager. As far as she was concerned, I was an angel, and so were the rest of her cleaning staff. I got away with it, of course, but it was highly unlikely she would have defended me a second time. Once a complaint is made against me, I keep a low profile for 2 weeks and take nothing, which kills me. I bite my nails and lose my appetite and have to force-feed myself buttered toast. Then I hand in my notice with a worthy excuse excuse and leave for a new hotel in a new place. Not every hotel cleaning job is straightforward, and it's not always easy to simply up and leave. I went to work in a small 3-star in Jersey once, just to give the English hotel industry a break. Hotel 8. The minute I arrived, I knew I'd made a mistake. Not because they were alert to cleaners taking things, but because the cleaning team was a well-established clique that was going to be tough to infiltrate. It consisted of 8 older women, all from the same Italian family. They spoke Italian among themselves and clearly didn't have much time for the new girl, so my ability to make them like me, and fast, was already severely compromised. I thought about employing my first day rule and leaving immediately, but I'd only just arrived on the ferry It had been my first time on a boat, and I'd spent most of the journey with my head over the side vomiting into the wind. I couldn't face the trip back just yet, so I was prepared to give it a day or two to see if I could get the women on side. Thank you for listening. Definitely one to read. Let's see what we have next. Oh, we have Peter Scott Presland with a few extracts from his recently released book, A Gay Century, Volume 2, no less. Hello, this is Peter Scott Presland, and I'm reading 3 little bits out of my new book, A Gay Century, Volume 2. The first bit is taken from the play which is set in 1984. I say play because these are basically short stories written in dialogue form. So this one is about the AIDS crisis in 1984, written from the point of view of how it felt at the time for anybody in the gay community who was really under attack. It was a dreadful, vile time. It's set in a future in which people who have been diagnosed with HIV are sent off to the Isle of Man, and there is a kind of Big Brother who is rounding up people who are gay, HIV positive, thought to be HIV positive, friends of people who are HIV positive, hiding them from the police who are taking them off to quarantine. At this point, um, a man is holding the hand of his lover who's died and just talking to him, whispering to him, paying his last respects. Well, we did it, mate. Got you to the end and nobody found out. Maybe we were lucky. We didn't realize till late you had the plague. Two months, two short months to live with you dying. I'm so glad I stayed with you. I'm so glad I shared with you. I never knew how much I loved you until I knew it could not last. Holding you in my arms, listening to your rasp of breath. You weighed nothing. When I carried you to the loo, turned you over in the bed, washed your bedsores, wiped your ass, changed the sheets. When you were in pain, I massaged you with oils: tea tree for the skin, emu oil for your poor joints. You were in so much pain and all we had was aspirin. At first I wanted you to seek some treatment, but no, you said, dying is private. There is no cure, there is no real help, and this is just between us. And you were right. I only wish that you had let me kiss you. Lying there beside you at the end, you didn't fight. You said yes to death as you said yes to life. You thought of Krishna, Lord of both. And when the time was ripe, you were ready to unloose the chains and go. You taught me how to die. You taught me how to live. Now give me the strength to bury you. The undertakers will not touch you for fear that they will catch it. They'll cremate you on your own at the end of the day in case you spread disease to other corpses. Says the voice of Big Brother then. We'll take care of that. You're not strong enough. You don't know what to do. Hello, is there a bin lorry in Islington? Another stiff on the Hemingford Estate. Jerry is not a stiff. He was a person, is a person still living in my mind. Treat him with respect. Make sure he's buried in consecrated ground. That will not be happening. Cremation only and covering with quicklime after in a communal pit. There are too many now. But he must have consecrated ground. He was a priest. This is from a little story, uh, set in 1973 called Autumn, and it's about two members of the Gay Liberation Front and their encounter with a much more traditional kind of almost stereotypical homosexual thinker. Quentin Crisp or Douglas Bing or somebody like that. And they come around to his flat, they've discovered him in squalor after a career of great fame and fortune, and he's about to be evicted, and they're pondering whether to let him come and live in their squat, which is the disused post office. And one of them's in favour and one of them isn't. Penny Dreadful is the radical camp one, and Walter is a serious Marxist activist. Penny says, "There are lots of drugs in the squat. Walter thinks you wouldn't approve." "Ah, drugs, that takes me back. Cocaine in the '20s. I used to go to dinner parties where Lady Diana Cooper served cocaine in salt cellars, one at each end of the table." No! 'Oh yes, everybody used it then. Queen Victoria, I believe, was very fond of it.' 'No.' 'I was introduced to it on the Western Front by Siegfried Sassoon before the Battle of the Somme. He had it sent from Harrods by his brother. A welcome present to friends on the front. I remember there was morphine in the kit as well, and a syringe. Of course cocaine's a godsend as an orgy. Greatly enhances the prowess.' Barbara Cartland gave the most marvellous parties—orgies in all but name—full of naked men and dope. Iver and Noel came often. Iver Novello—before your time. And Noel Coward—he died some months ago. We sent each other cards for 40 years at Christmas-time. I always wrote "Happy Birthday to you" on his. Noel? Christmas? I used to call him the first Noel, and of course he was incomparable. Walter says uptight closet queen, a reactionary and a bigot. Noel never concerned himself with politics. He was an artist, a reactionary hack. Maids in uniform, French windows, anyone for tennis. Artists are neither right nor left. Artists are Abarth. Well, I think you ought to go, don't you? Goodbye, Mr. Dreadful. Goodbye, Mr. Craig. You must be going. And he's left alone. What can I do? Have I the strength left to fight? Every day it gets more difficult to be Valentine de Vere. The stairs get steeper, the shops recede into the distance, the legs get weaker. He fondly strokes his gramophone. Might be worth some money. This is the store of all my reputation, my talent, my memories, my money, my life. No, I will not fade. I'll go without a fight. While there is breath in me, a door to lock, a key to turn, I will stand as long as I can stand. I will stand here, the candles will blaze before it gutters and splutters. And fades to nothing. Here I have lived, here I will die. Hmm, not bad, not bad. The local press will love it. This reading is from 1999, Skin Deep, and it's set at the Admiral Duncan bombing. I don't know if people remember, it's 25 years ago now, but there were 3 bombs in London, one at a mosque, one at a black market in Brixton, and one at the Admiral Duncan gay pub in which 4 people were killed. And, um, it was a very traumatic moment for our community when we thought we'd won so much and suddenly there was this shocking attack. And the character speaking here is called Queenie, is a barman at the Admiral Duncan, um, based on a real barman uh, who survived that and was an incredible comfort and support to people who were caught in the bombing and hospitalized and so on, but then himself was killed in a queer bashy attack about 4 or 5 years later. And he's coming back as a ghost to one of the people who's been hideously disfigured in the bombing and is really giving up on life. And Queenie says Let me tell you something. The week after it happened, the bombing, you know, we'd got the rubble all cleared up, the windows were back in, but we hadn't done the painting and we hadn't any stools anyway. It was just before we opened, there was a ringing on the bell. I thought it must be post, we'd had that many cards, so I answered it and there were these 3 Asian lads standing on the step. I hate to say it, But my first thought was, here comes trouble, it's happening again. So I went to shut the door, but this lad holds out his hand. He's got this most ginormous card and he says, we wanted you to know we're also very sorry. We live in Brick Lane, we use East London Mosque, we know what it feels like. And one of the lads, handsome lad he was, held out his arm to show me the scar Well, I cracked up, cried me eyes out. These lads, well, they don't like gays where they come from, do they? But here they were, we'd all been through it. Of course I asked them in and made a cup of tea. That's what kept me going through the months after, the memory of their kindness, what we'd all been through together. And finally, we have a reading from Hasti Sally with Dahlia and Charis. Nurses and one of her colleagues were running in the direction of the patients coming in from a road traffic accident. Charis raced towards one of the trolleys, almost knocking down some contorted tubes of a breathing mask. How calm it had been with Dahlia. She would have loved to savour the encounter for longer, especially the meaningful glances. But now it was back to chaos and noisiness. She was intercepted by a large man with a ruddy face. He ran his fingers through his dishevelled hair and shouted, 'I've been here for 3 hours and still haven't had an X-ray of my foot.' Kharis recoiled and, trying to sound authoritative, said, We've had a road traffic accident and are very busy, sir. The triage nurse hasn't classified your foot as an emergency. Shit. She hated being polite with aggressive patients but didn't feel like responding to a malicious letter of complaint. She tried moving to the side of the patient. He raised his voice and flung the X-ray form in his hand at Carys. It fell It fell to the ground. She left it there, biting her lip. She was a professional and had to keep calm. "You bitch! I pay your wages. I'm a taxpayer and it's my right to be seen. I'm supposed to be dealt with within 4 hours." His nostrils flared up. "You'll be hearing from me, mark my words, and remember my name: Thornton." Carys smelt the patient's stale breath which was almost as toxic as his words. She had dealt with spinal injuries, heart attacks, collapsed lungs and asthma attacks that morning. The patients had been grateful until now. Mr. Thornton's attention turned towards the male nurse who came to Kara's aid and tried to intervene. If you hadn't been drinking tea and eating biscuits with your Filipino nurses, I would have been seen by now.' She felt the colour rise to her cheeks as she took a second deep breath. There was so much to be worried about, like global warming and artificial intelligence, and yet people were preoccupied with immigration and Brexit. When would this end? Carys looked Mr Thornton in the eye. He was waiting for an answer. 'Mr. Thornton, there's no need to be rude. We're all doing our best.' She raised her voice to match his. 'I read your notes. You bumped your foot 3 days ago. You could have consulted your GP and got the X-ray form there.' His neck appeared to expand with every word she uttered. It wouldn't be easy to strangle him, she thought wistfully. But no, every medical student was taught to be level-headed and professional. First, do no harm. That's what she kept telling herself. The patient glared at her. Bloody GPs. You can never get an appointment with them. The phone lines are always engaged and the receptionists are downright rude. Mr. Thornton raised his arm to hit her. She backed away, almost stumbling. Dahlia, who had been following Karis, stepped forward to shield her. The patient ended up hitting her right arm. Which elicited a sharp cry from Dalia. Charis drew Dalia backwards. "Security!" she shouted and glanced at Dalia who looked distraught. She should never have allowed this journalist into A&E. Dalia reminded her of a silver birch tree that would snap if a hurricane pushed it. Dalia would most probably not write anything favourable about the department. Furthermore, Charis had not asked her consultant if he would agree to a journalist setting foot in their department. Why had she made such a rash decision? She shuddered and hoped her actions wouldn't be followed by drastic repercussions from the hospital managers. She needed a break. Mr. Thornton shook himself free from the security officer and hobbled towards the door, hissing, "You will hear from my local conscript." Councillor. I'm lodging a complaint. Lazy bitches like you don't deserve to be registered with the NHS. He turned to look at Dalia, who had tears running down her ashen face whilst she was stroking her wrist. And who's this sidekick of yours? I only want to be served by an English doctor or nurse. He shuffled away, enraged and triumphant at the same time. Kharis frowned and turned her attention to Dalia. Who was squeezing her upper arm, trying to alleviate her pain. "Are you okay? Let me have a look at your arm." She gave her a tissue to wipe her tears. Dalia looked up at her anxiously. "Don't look at my arm, please. I'll be fine." Carys looked at her, mystified. "You're clearly in pain. Wait a minute." She shouldn't have brought this vulnerable reporter here, and yet she felt elated But someone she had just met has instinctively sacrificed her well-being by joining in the fight with Mr. Thornton. Dahlia's head was bowed. Charisse needed to focus on her professional duties, or what was left of them. She sighed. I need to file a report on this incident. It may be used in court. She put her arm around Dahlia and moved to a more secluded area where a computer could be used to implement the this and recorded the details of the altercation with Mr. Thornton. Dahlia touched Karis' hand lightly. You work so hard, I can't believe people can be so ungrateful. The warmth in Dahlia's hand. Karis held it for a few seconds. It felt light and strengthening at the same time. She shook her head. We're ridiculously short-staffed. I don't know how we can make this job more appealing. Appealing for future students to join us. We also need more places in medical colleges. She jotted down some more lines in Mr. Thornton's file and apologized to Gabriel, the young Filipino nurse who had run towards her during the argument. He had been working extra shifts to raise money for his family in the Philippines. It was financial necessity and loyalty to his family. Which kept him in London. Loyalty, what a lovely word, Carys frowned. Don't these patients get punished for their abusive behaviour? Dahlia asked cautiously. We do have a zero tolerance approach to verbal and physical abuse, but even when our security guard escorts them out, they come back after a while. Carys watched Mr. Thornton hobbling away towards the exit with a security guard. Her husband Phil would have lost his temper by now. His work on the geriatric ward was easier as his patients were more docile. Lucky Phil. She had often discussed their frustrations about NHS money spent on the epidemic of compensation claims by patients. This was even though medicine had advanced in the last few decades. How paradoxical, she thought angrily. 'Why is there such a shortage of doctors and nurses? Where have they gone?' she heard Dalia ask. 'Australia, Abu Dhabi, Canada,' Charis sighed and continued in a lighter tone. 'Where the weather is sunny and they can go surfing.' Then she extended her arm to Dalia and added, 'Now let me look at your arm.' Dalia put her arms behind her back. Charis put her arm down quickly. Why was she thinking of the squirrels she had been feeding in St. James's Park recently? She looked into Dahlia's dark brown eyes, as dense as woodland. Dahlia was hiding something, and it wasn't just her arms. She couldn't help shaking her head. She wasn't Dahlia's doctor, and Dahlia was not her patient. Whatever their relationship was, precarious or not, she couldn't help reaching out to Fantastic. I hope you enjoyed today's special edition of author read samples of their books. Go forth and purchase. Let's get our indie authors supported. And I know they love it when you pop a review on Amazon, Goodreads, whichever is your favorite. It really helps their visibility. Go forth, my lovely book fans. Choose and spend away. Thank you for joining me for today's show, and don't forget to tune in next week daily at 5 PM for Women's Radio Station, and every Tuesday at 4 PM for Men's Radio Station. You've been listening to me, Hazel Butterfield, for Get Booked.