First and Fiftieth & other stories Martin Foreman Paradise Press     ISBN 0 9525964 7 4     £6.99

Cover the stories: Kitchen Table Night Traffic Basement Pokhara Foucault's Nightmare Homophobia, Darling Cold Silence Los Feliz Judy Ten Million Years The Last Saturday in May Angel First and Fiftieth Ben and Joe's Sunset Afterword Reviews and Readers' Comments Styles Themes to buy copies biography bibliography PARADISE PRESS TRADE ENQUIRIES

Cold Silence A man in his early thirties returning to London from New York... I'm coming. I'm coming back. I'm coming back to you. I'm coming back to love you. I'm coming back to love you as a believer who once doubted returns to the cold silence of a deserted church. As he stares at the Cross in wonder and hope. As he kneels and prays in fear and longing for the Spirit to fill his heart. As he stammers out the words of forgotten prayers. As he gives himself up to his destiny. I'm coming back To love you. The tables are stored, the seatbacks righted, belts buckled. Stewardesses glide by, like nurses at night reassuring themselves of their patients' breathing, teachers in kindergarten encouraging children to put away their toys. My nighttime erection subsides as I stare out of the window at distant housing estates, railway lines slinking through toy suburbias, tiny cars skittering by. A London I do not recognise. Early one summer Sunday morning. Then the Thames sweeps into view, motionless, eternal. The crystal curve of Waterloo Station. Charing Cross Legoland. The Houses of Parliament and London Eye. Among a small crowd of chattering tourists we rose slowly into the air. I stood behind you, entranced by the mystery of your thick dark hair, by the delicate tones of your perfume. You commented on the view. I heard warmth in your voice and breathed a reply. By chance my fingers brushed your hand and by intention, as we stared into infinity, your fingers claimed mine. A touch so light and strong. My heart thudded, then disappeared. We were alone. I took you in my arms and we fell into a waltz that led us into the air to dance on clouds and sunshine, my arm around your slender waist, your breasts nestling into me, your hand, your beautiful, long dark hand, on my shoulder, all possessing me and yielding to me as we swirled over London and the shadow of my once shallow life. continued in the book...

The inspiration... A Gérard Lenorman song. Before her Italian days The Mother was a fan and I enjoyed him more than I would admit. I can't remember the title, but the song begins, if I remember correctly, "Je reviens t'aimer comme on revient prier dans le silence froid des cathédrales", a powerful image that still haunts me. Eventually it grew in my mind to this story of man who finally admits to himself how much he is in love. I wanted the last paragraph in this extract to be part of the blurb of the book, but friends told me it was too Mills and Boon. I was surprised and a little disappointed because I intended the story to be more Donne than Cartland. Read the whole story and judge for yourselves... Reviewers' and readers' comments "I particularly liked Cold Silence, corny as it was." Tregolwyn Book Reviews

Last update: 11 February 2003

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