Liars' League

Sugar 'n' Spice Weekly Words, by J.A. Hopper

Read by Gloria Sanders (fifth story in podcast, here, or here if that doesn't work)

Dear Parents and Carers,

Happy Friday, Merry Christmas to those who celebrate it, and welcome to your Weekly Words from everyone at Sugar ‘n’ Spice Day Nursery! The children have had lots of fun this week exploring the world and embracing learning, and we have some lovely pictures in this newsletter later on! But first, some dates for your diary:

We know the children LOVE our dressing-up days, and the grown-ups love the photos (if not making the costumes, :) so next week’s nursery Christmas party theme is POEMS! Please bring your child to nursery dressed as a character from their favourite POEM, for example Stick Man by Julia Donaldson, The Gruffalo by Julia Donaldson, The Gruffalo’s Child by Julia Donaldson … I’m sure you can think of plenty, even if they’re not by Julia Donaldson. Maybe we should just call it our annual Julia Donaldson party! :)

Bad Cakes by Roly Grant

Read by Carrie Cohen (fourth story in podcast, here, or here if that doesn't work)

The perfect apple cake, loved by grand-children, great grand-children and invading rats, needs six last-of-the-season English Russets. From where she lies, in the orchard’s long wet grass, looking up into the apple tree’s twisted limbs, she counts 74, 75, 76, their rough skins wet with dew. A snap, a breath, and a deep thump break the silence as another falls. 75. Falling on the heads of scientists. Given to princesses who fall asleep. Passed between Eve and falling Adam. And then they lie, rotting in neglected grass, waiting to turn the ankles of old ladies who fall, flat on their backs, as the moon rises.

She had been out there, in the garden after midnight, setting Bad Cakes for the rats. Six English Russets and, to make a good cake bad, a scoop of green powder from the red box at the back of the shed. The instructions said to put small piles of the stuff in the corners of outbuildings. But the rats weren’t interested in an old shed, full of rusted tools. They came from across the fields, sniffing out her fresh seeds just below the surface, digging up her baby plants. Poison put down outside just washed into liquid mess, weeping into the soil it was supposed to protect, dangerous for curious little fingers that might poke at it.

The Sugar Merchant by Lisa Farrell

Read by Paul Clarke (first story in podcast, here)

The night they banned it, I became the richest man in the city. Instantly, sugar was worth its weight in gold. I travelled around and sold pieces in back alleys and black markets. I exchanged it for silk, for jewels, for dowries and lifesavings. Nothing is worth more than that which we cannot have.

Soon I was decked like a festive tree, adorned with ruby rings and gold chains, and still I carried a sugarloaf in every pocket. I never partook myself of course, never let the white stuff pass my lips. I’d seen what one taste could lead to, seen the need in their eyes and decay in their mouths. I didn’t want my perfect teeth to rot. Who could sell anything then?

Yet, I got greedy all the same. That time was coming, Yuletide, when every merchant rubs his hands with glee or cries in desperation. You sell in the rush and make your fortune, or live like a pauper for the rest of the year. Not me, not this year, not now everyone wanted what I was selling.

The Snow Children by Peggy Lee

Read by Margaret Ashley (second story in podcast, here)

I hear the pitter patter of feet during the night, as I knew I would: the crunch of fresh snow; the whoosh of snowballs cutting through the icy air, landing with soft thuds on trees, on the brick walls of the house, on the glass of my bedroom window.

Are they calling me? Greeting me again after two long, long years. It did not snow last winter, and I have waited seven lengthy seasons.

I have missed them. Time dragged its feet to the rhythm of the grandfather clock in the hall and the dent in the armchair seat is noticeably deeper. I used to roam the house, wandering through the corridors in never-ending spirals, moving from one window to the next. Watching. Now that I can see every knot in the wooden banister in my mind's eye, every broken tile in the kitchen floor, I prefer to sit. The view from the living room’s French windows is encompassing enough. I can see most of the garden, the dark shadows of the forest. Behind me, the corners fill with dust, pale follicles of skin banking up like drifts of snow.

Think Fast, Sugar by Alan Graham

Read by Katy Darby (third story in podcast, here)

The line for the only toilet in the building is at least six people deep when I join. Christ alive, this place is a hole. A poky recording-studio in North London that has clearly seen better days. Outdated equipment, cramped facilities and one single toilet. Whoever designed this place in the sixties had no idea that one December, twenty years later, the entire British music industry would descend to record yet another Christmas charity single.

As I wait, I look through the lyric-sheet for the song we’re recording today, to find the couplet intended for me and my sister. I finally locate it, sandwiched between lines for Andrew Ridgeley and the girls from Bucks Fizz. I sing it once quietly to myself.

“Remember when we fill our bellies

Their starving faces on our tellies”

Jesus wept, you’d think they'd suffered enough?