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Fiction

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Contents 4 Hooray For Rainy Days! by Jane Corry 8 A Little Bit Of Peace by Rachel Lovell 11 The Sum Of Love by Karen Clarke 12 For The Love Of Sheds by Vanda Inman 14 Going Home by Gabrielle Mullarkey 18 Secret Love by Pat Ashford 24 The Right Question by Jacqui Cooper

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26 Twins by Clare Nonhebel 28 The Haunting Of Alf Truscot by Margaret Waddingham 33 Whole Again by Simon Whaley 36 When Push Comes To Shove by Jo Styles 38 Dinosaurs by Helen Yendall 44 Instinct by Teresa Ashby 46 My Big Brother by Lesley Eames 54 Redefining Normal by Andrew Preskey 56 No One by Steve Beresford 60 Dear Sweaty by Maggie Primavesi 62 The Gutter Out Of The Girl by Alison Carter 72 Lost In Translation by Jo Styles 74 Retrace Your Steps by Cilla Moss

Regulars 40 Just Jane 52 The Robin Family 71 Try our puzzles 75 ‘I go the extra mile for my research,’ says Sue Moorcroft

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Woman’s Weekly Fiction 3

Hooray for

Rainy Days! Mum didn’t know why I had a thing about umbrellas, but they made me feel safe

’ll never forget my first one. It was bright red and belonged to my mother. “You can share it too, Rosie,” she’d say as we skipped along the high street together. Sometimes we’d sing a song together. My mother had a lovely voice. And then, one day, along came...

p Sometimes we’d sing a song together

4 Woman’s Weekly Fiction

A BLUE ONE It wasn’t so much the colour that caught my eye — although l do remember thinking that the dark navy matched my brand new school uniform. No. It was the noise beneath it that caught my attention when Mum and I went out for walks. “Shhhh, little one,” my mother would say, bending under the blue thing that she called a “pram canopy”. “It’s all right. We’ll soon be home.” Then she’d give me the red one and I felt very grown up. But I was still a little bit jealous of Ella, my

baby sister, who seemed to get all the songs now. It’s difficult to keep track of time when you’re young. The days and months seemed to blur into one. Not to mention the years. But not long after that — or so it seemed — I found... A YELLOW ONE I still remember the excitement as it poked out of the top of my Christmas stocking. There were lots of yellow ducks all over it. Naturally, I wanted to try it out immediately but Mum said it was bad luck to put it up inside. “Besides,” she laughed, “it’s not even raining!”

By Jane Corry staring at the box in front where Daddy was sleeping. Some time after that, we moved a long way away to a house by the sea near my grandmother. “Just look at the different colours in the water, Rosie,” she would say. “The sea is never the same, from one day to the next.” That’s what gave me my idea. I saved up all my pocket money and when Mum’s birthday came round, I gave her... A TURQUOISE ONE “Gran says it will cheer you up on rainy days,” I said. And then my mother put my sister down and gave me a big hug instead. My new school was much better than my old one. Or maybe I was getting a bit smarter. Either way, I soon learned to spell the word. “U...M...B...R...E...L...L...A”. “Rosie loves umbrellas,” Mum

No one else had one like it in our small seaside town and it made us feel special! SHOCKING BRIGHT PINK My little sister gave this to me for my birthday — even though I knew it was really from Mum because Ella’s not very good at saving up pocket money. “It was in a magazine,” she said. ”Why don’t we try it out?” Then we all went for a walk on the sand because — yes! — it was tipping down. Mum started to hum this song about singing in the rain and Gran gave me a wink as if to say, “I told you it would be all right one day.” SEE-THROUGH I didn’t really like this one because I couldn’t hide inside. Gran gave it to me because “it’s about time you came out of your shell, love. I know it’s been hard for you after

Illustration: Getty

I was in a safe little room, all on my own

“I don’t care,” I said. “Please can we go for a walk in the park?” “Very well.” She ruffled my hair. Then I strutted ahead, past the boating lake and the swings, feeling like a queen while Mum pushed the blue one behind. Dad, of course, was having one of his “naps”. Not long before my next Christmas stocking arrived, there was a knock on the door. And in came lots of.... BLACK ONES “Daddy is having a very long nap now,” said Mum, with red eyes.

“We must be glad he’s not in pain any more.” The black ones scared me. They looked like crows. And the faces underneath all stared at my sister and me. ”Poor little things,” I heard someone whisper. At the church, my sister began to cry and I took her small, chubby hand in mine. Rain began to beat against the window. “It’s all right,” I whispered. “You can have my yellow duck one when we go outside.” I looked up at Mum, hoping she would tell me what a good girl I was to share. But she was just

told everyone. ”She’s got a thing about them. I don’t know why.” But I do. They made me feel as though I was in a safe little room, all on my own. I could lift it to look out if I wanted to. Or, I could put it down to shut out the rest of the world if I didn’t. Every Christmas, it became a standing joke that I had to have a new “brolly”, as Gran called them. I accumulated quite a few — and each had a tale to tell. PURPLE WITH PINK SPOTS Gran gave me this one. “It made me laugh when I saw it,” she said. I hid under it when it was time to go to secondary school. Luckily, it was raining. ”Cool colour,” said a girl with plaits at the school gate. Later, she saved a place next to her at lunch. I’d made my first friend! BIG BEN AND BUCKINGHAM PALACE I bought this with my spending money when I went on my first school trip to London, along with Susie. She’s the one who’d admired the purple with pink spots. My new addition to the collection had all the tourist sights on it and she got one, too. They both blew inside out at the first gust of wind. But it didn’t matter.

your dad. But life has to go on. You know you always have us — and of course there’s your friend Susie — but your teachers say you’re very quiet at school and that you live in a world of your own.” What’s wrong with that? So I went straight up to my room and got out my felt tips... SOME YEARS LATER Pink. Yellow. Blue. Spotted. Plain. Frilly. Petals. Ducks. You name it. I’ve got them. It was Gran’s idea. “I’ve got a little nest-egg put by,” she said after I left art school. “You’re great at designing umbrellas. Why don’t you set up your own business?” Amazingly, it worked. After all, as mum said with a smile, everyone needs an umbrella when it rains. People are always losing them, too — so they need replacements. “In fact, one of the stalls on the sea front happens to be going. And the rent is quite cheap.” I loved it! And to my surprise, I enjoyed meeting all the customers. “You’ve really put a smile on my face,” said one elderly gentleman after I’d helped him choose one that had JUST ADD WATER written on the side in plastic letters.

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Hooray for

Rainy Days!

My first year was wonderfully wet, which was great for business — especially with my new SIMPLY SLIP IN YOUR POCKET range. So was the second year, when I came up with my WIND-PROOF OR MONEY BACK design. “You’re working too hard, Rosie,” said Mum. “You need time to find a boyfriend.” Who needed love? Hadn’t I learned that when Mum was so upset after Dad died? Then came weeks of sunshine. If I didn’t make some money soon, I’d be behind on the rent... “Don’t be silly, Alice,” said a voice. ”You don’t need an umbrella. It’s not raining.” I looked over the counter to find a man with a little girl gripping his hand. “But I want one. PLEASE.” My business skills jumped into action. “How about this one?” I said, pointing to the clear one. “It’s perfect for a sunny day because you can see really clearly.” The man lent towards me. “That’s the trouble,” he whispered. “She wants to hide away.” Instantly, I was catapulted back to my childhood. “I understand that.” “You do?” I nodded. “Umbrellas can be like cocoons. They give you shelter.” I glanced across at the little girl who was playing with my new duck design. “I hope I’m not intruding, but is she hiding from anything in particular?” He bit his lip. “Actually, her mother is in hospital. It’s not been easy for any of us.”

How awful. And what a lovely, kind, family man. Despite what I’d told Mum and my grandparents about being too busy for a boyfriend, I would really like one now. Susie was happily married, and even my little sister was seeing someone. But there weren’t many men around here of my age — and even fewer who were single. “How about this purple one?” I said, getting down on my knees. “Do you like this?” “No,” she said. “I want that one.” She pointed up to the red umbrella which I’ve had on display ever since I started. “I’m afraid that’s not for sale,” I said. “You see, it was mine when I was a little girl.”

“No,” I said suddenly. “I’ve changed my mind. I’d like her to have my red one.” His eyebrows rose. ”Are you sure?” The child’s face was answer enough. It reminded me of mine when Susie and I bought our London umbrellas and felt like the bees’ knees! “Absolutely.” “Then you must let us take you out for a coffee during your break to say, ‘Thank you’.” Had I been wrong about the family man bit — or was he just being friendly? For one minute, I was tempted. “Sorry,” I said. “But I don’t take time off.” And then, wondering what

p I waited for her to stamp and scream like my sister

Her face puckered with disappointment. I waited for her to stamp and scream like my sister had done at that age. ”Never mind,” she said. “Good girl, Alice,” said her father, patting her on the shoulder. “Mummy will be proud of you. Now how about this pretty pink and yellow spotted one instead?” A vision of the black umbrellas at my father’s funeral along with all that childhood uncertainty suddenly shot into my mind.

I’d done, I watched the little girl walk off with my precious red umbrella. A MONTH LATER Talk about cats and dogs! I was rushed off my feet. Fantastic! Despite the weather forecast, the rain was coming down in dinner plates. My hair was soaked through and I must have looked a right old mess. “Next customer, please!” “I’m afraid I need to bring one of your umbrellas back.” Really? That hardly ever happened.

I looked up through my wet fringe. “Is there something wrong with it?” Then I recognised the face and my heart, for some reason, did a little flip. The way a brolly does when it blows inside out. “When my sister heard the story, she said we had to return it immediately. She’s much better now, thank goodness. And my niece is more like her old self.” To be honest, I’d spent several nights tossing and turning, and wishing I hadn’t been soft enough to give away my precious red umbrella. “That’s great news about your, er, sister. To be honest, I thought the little girl was your daughter.” Then I picked up a bright pink and green one from my Candyfloss range to hide my face. “I wondered if you might have drawn the wrong conclusion,” he said. “But it didn’t occur to me until later.” He blushed. “Actually, my sister suggested it when I told her the story.” “What story?” I said, pretending to fiddle with the umbrella handle. “The one about the pretty girl who runs an umbrella shop on the front.” His brown eyes were fixed on mine. “I’m single with a sense of humour and I have a terrible habit of always losing my brollies. I know you said you don’t take time off, but would you come for a working lunch with me so we can discuss what style I should go for?” A YEAR LATER It was the most beautiful day. The sun beamed down and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. So much for crossing my fingers for rain! As I got out of the car, with my sister at my side to give me away, she whispered, “Are you sure about this?” “Absolutely.” Ella sniffed. “Well, I still think it’s odd. Most brides have white frilly ones. I can tell you now, I feel ridiculous with this thing. Still, it’s your day.” “It certainly is,” said Susie, giving me a hug. I glanced behind at little Alice, my other bridesmaid. “Ready?” I whispered. “Yes!” She beamed. And together we walked down the aisle towards Alice’s uncle, holding our matching red umbrellas. THE END © Jane Corry, 2017 Woman’s Weekly Fiction 7

Mr Orchard wasn’t at all convinced that anyone gave two hoots which of his daughters married first. But if it was Clem, would it seem irregular?

A Little Bit Of M

r Orchard closed the bedroom door quietly. Mrs Orchard was lying propped against a pillow with a cold flannel on her forehead and the window open. “Not too much, Mr Orchard!” she’d cried as he’d opened it as instructed. “You’re letting in a gale!” He pulled it to a notch. “That’s better,” she said, before adding a weary, “thank you.” Mrs Orchard was having one of her turns. The previous evening, Clem had introduced her young man — an unassuming (though somewhat dopey) individual who went by the name of Chester — and Mrs Orchard had taken to her bed. Mr Orchard tiptoed down the stairs to make himself a cup of strong tea. He stoked the 8 Woman’s Weekly Fiction

stove, unfolded the newspaper and slipped off his slippers in order to toast his feet. As he sipped his tea, he checked his pocket-watch; peace was a precious commodity and one had to make the most of it when one could. At lunchtime, Mrs Orchard re-emerged, puffy-eyed, but feeling “peckish”. Their

“Feeling better?” she said. “You do say some silly things, Mr Orchard!” Mr Orchard sliced his ham and chewed it appreciatively. He disliked arguments. Besides, long years living with Mrs Orchard had confirmed that arguments were futile and that the best policy was just to wait until things improved. They ate in silence for a while

Mr Orchard sliced his ham and chewed it appreciatively maid, who came on weekdays, had left a cold ham and some pickles, which Mrs Orchard now fetched from her larder. “Are you feeling a little better, my dear?” Mr Orchard ventured as he sat down opposite her at the dining table.

before Mrs Orchard, who by contrast loved a dispute, finally said, “I really don’t know how you can accept it all with such equanimity!” Mr Orchard smiled. He said, “We’re not sure our Clem will even stay with this Chester fellow. In fact, I think it very unlikely.”

“But suppose she does?” Mrs Orchard said, fishing out a handkerchief from the neckline of her dress in preparation for the tears which were inevitable. “Suppose they want to marry?” “I really don’t think...” Mr Orchard began. Mrs Orchard, though, was in full flow. “I won’t allow it!” she said. “Clem can’t possibly marry before poor Nettie. It wouldn’t be right. What would everyone think?” Mr Orchard wasn’t convinced that anyone outside of their household gave two hoots which of his daughters married first. “Well, it wouldn’t be the end of the world, dear,” he said in a placatory tone. “It might not be the end of the world,” Mrs Orchard said, dabbing her eyes accusingly, “but it would be most irregular.”

By Rachel Lovell

Illustration: Getty

Peace As Mr Orchard had predicted, the dopey fellow, Chester, did not last the course. Naturally it was a relief, but if the matter was to be settled for good, it would help if Nettie, as the older of the two sisters, could find a man who would be willing to escort her to the altar. It would have to be a very special man though, because, as Mrs Orchard rightly maintained, Nettie was awkward. She volunteered for far more good causes than was necessary and insisted on bicycling herself around town. Furthermore, she was fiery and unable to suffer even the slightest bit of foolishness gladly. He and Clem were discussing it now. He said, “So, Clem. What to do?” Clem was adding a new band to one of her hats, tilting it this way and that in her hands to get the full

Clem shrugged. “You know Nettie, Pops. I think she’d see it as a challenge!” Clem stood up, placed the hat on her head and studied it critically in the mirror. Mr Orchard smiled. Of course, he didn’t have a favourite daughter. But if there was one who sat a little nearer his heart, then it would be Clem. Not that he didn’t love Nettie. He did. But Nettie was tough. She was a survivor. Whereas Clem was more sensitive and he worried about her. And, besides, it was Clem who laughed at his silly jokes and knitted him thick socks for when the weather got icy. Single lady, 28, requires serious young man with a view to marriage, was the wording Clem and Nettie finally decided upon and the advertisement went in to the March Messenger. Nettie was not in any great rush to tie the knot, but now she said she was happy to do her bit for the Orchards and was intrigued to see what turned up. In the end, there were nine candidates — nine letters to be read and five photographs to be examined. Mr Orchard told the girls he would leave them to it as it was hardly his department, and he parked himself with the paper by the stove while the two of them sat at the table and sifted through the applications.

A missionary was only really a type of parson

effect. She placed it on her knee. “How about, we put an advertisement in The Messenger?” The Messenger was the regional chapel magazine, and it did indeed have advertisements for maids seeking work, for rooms to let or a budgerigar needing a new home. Mr Orchard was not sure, though, he had ever seen one where a husband was required. “It would be possible,” he said slowly, before adding with a smile, “though it would be most irregular.” Clem smiled, too. She said, “Mama needn’t find out. I’m sure it could be arranged anonymously.” Mr Orchard nodded. “And what do you think Nettie would say?”

Mrs Orchard was at a meeting of Mrs Gill’s Charity For The Deserving Poor, so the afternoon should be uninterrupted. Two of the applicants’ letters were apparently so full of spelling mistakes that they were hastily relegated to the waste-paper basket by Clem. And a further three were deemed by Nettie to sound too dull. “We did advertise for a serious man, though, remember,” Clem said. “You did,” Mr Orchard found himself interjecting. “Serious does not mean dull,” Nettie said decisively, snatching the letters up and tearing them in half. “I’m not interested in the names of his brothers and sisters,

which newspaper he takes or a summary of his financial status.” One of the applicants’ photographs showed him sporting a monstrous moustache, which made the three of them howl with laughter. Yet another simply lived too far away. “Hmm,” Nettie said, rereading a letter from a man named Mr Edwin Barthorpe. “This person belongs to a missionary society.” Clem frowned as she peered over her sister’s shoulder. “Is that a good thing, do you think?” she asked. Nettie’s eye had a glint. “Well, it’s certainly interesting.” Mr Orchard thought it sounded a little radical but decided that it would be unwise to say so. After all, there were hardly many candidates who had so far made the grade. And if you thought about it, a missionary was only really a type of parson, albeit in another country. Edwin Barthorpe was indeed a serious man. The second time he visited the house, he brought with him an arsenal of books, maps and an atlas. Mr Orchard laughed as he showed him in. “Goodness, Mr Barthorpe!” he said. “I thought you were planning merely on taking a walk in the park.” Edwin Barthorpe smiled shyly. He said, “The Misses Orchard said they were interested in the missionaries we support. I thought they might like to see the countries in which they work.” “Hello, Mr Barthorpe!” Nettie said. She and Clem had appeared, slipping into their coats as they came into the hall. She rammed on her hat and took the books from Mr Barthorpe. “There,” she said, placing them on the bottom step of the stairs before reaching for an umbrella, “I think we’re all set!” Mrs Orchard arrived next in order to wave them off. She stood on the steps by the front door as the three young people headed along the pavement. “Have a lovely time!” she called. It was Mrs Orchard who had insisted that Clem go along too. “It’s more seemly,” she told Mr Orchard now. “I know it’s becoming popular not to be chaperoned, but in my view, it’s not right for young girls Woman’s Weekly Fiction 9

A Little Bit Of Peace to be walking out with a man quite alone.” Mr Orchard did not think that Nettie at the grand age of 28 qualified any more as a “girl”, and, on a Sunday afternoon, Victoria Park was always thronged with people, but he took her arm as they headed back inside and said, “I’m sure you’re right, my dear.” The next two months were quite blissful for Mr Orchard. It really did look as if Nettie had found a young man as Edwin was now a regular visitor to the Orchard household. And, so far, there had been no arguments, no doors slammed, no refusals ever to see him again, as there had been with previous suitors. Furthermore, both Mr Orchard and Mrs Orchard were in agreement: Mr Edwin Barthorpe would make a fine son-in-law. As a result Mrs Orchard was back to her old self, even planting a kiss on Mr Orchard’s cheek occasionally as she passed his chair by the breakfast-room stove. In fact, she was already planning a wedding — though secretly, of course, because so far Nettie had not even mentioned an engagement. Mr Orchard sighed contentedly. Everything was working out. Once Nettie was safely married, then dear Clem could find her happiness, too. And then, two weeks later, Edwin knocked on the parlour door. In the summer months when it was warmer, Mr and Mrs Orchard used the parlour on Saturday and Sunday afternoons. Mrs Orchard was knitting bonnets for orphaned babies and Mr Orchard was writing a letter to his mother. “Come in,” he called. Edwin entered. He was a tall, smart and smiling person. It was a pleasant moment in which everyone knew what was coming. Mr Edwin Barthorpe was asking for their daughter’s hand in marriage. And everyone knew what the answer would be. Mrs Orchard clasped her hand to her mouth happily on hearing 10 Woman’s Weekly Fiction

the proposal and promptly had to fish out her handkerchief. “Oh, I knew it!” she said. Mr Orchard smiled. “Of course, son,” he said. “Welcome to the family.” Edwin took out his own handkerchief and mopped his forehead. “Good,” he said. “Thank you.” Mrs Orchard reached out her hand to squeeze his. “I know you’ll make our Nettie so happy.” Edwin blanched. “Nettie?” he said. Mr Orchard said, “It is Nettie we’re talking about, isn’t it?” “No,” Edwin stammered. “I’m so sorry. I thought you knew. I’m here to ask about Clem.” There was a silence which seemed to last forever and then Mrs Orchard wailed. It was a wail so loud that it brought both Clem

re-entered the room, that Clem was clearly thrilled about. How had he managed to miss this new light in her face? His wife might be in the middle of a fainting fit, but that was a secondary issue. Right now he went and put an arm around Clem’s shoulders and placed a kiss on the top of her head. “We are very pleased for you, my dear. Very. Edwin is indeed a wonderful fellow.” “Thank you, Pops,” she said. He swallowed. He had a question to ask to which he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear an answer. As casually as he could he said, “So... er... do you think you might end up being a missionary’s wife, then?” She laughed. “Never!” she said. She gave him a hug. “I couldn’t possibly. Who would be there to laugh at your silly jokes?!” Now Mr Orchard, relieved beyond measure, could focus on his wife. He knelt down beside her chair and took her hand. “Come now,” he said. “Our Clem is very happy and so should we be.” “I know. I know,” she sniffed. “I’m sorry. Clementine, dear, I am pleased. Edwin, I am. Of course

He could see Clem surrounded by flies. Clem overcome with heat and Nettie running to the parlour. Mr Orchard, too, felt distinctly queasy. He believed Edwin to be a fine, upstanding gentleman and had absolutely nothing against his missionary interest, but a sudden and vivid vision came to him. He could see Clem and Edwin in darkest Africa. He could see them living in a mud hut. He could see Clem surrounded by flies. Clem overcome with heat. Clem encircled by lions or hippopotamuses... Meanwhile, Mrs Orchard had slumped in her chair. Edwin and Clem had dashed off to the scullery to fetch a glass of water and some salts and Nettie was fanning Mrs Orchard’s face with this month’s Messenger. It took a few moments, but it came to Mr Orchard that he needed to pull himself together. This was not the way to accept a proposal of marriage. A perfectly good proposal. A proposal he could see, as Clem and Edwin

I am. But, oh!” Again she pressed her handkerchief to her nose. “Whatever will become of poor Nettie?” “Mrs Orchard,” Mr Orchard began. “I don’t think that now is the time to harangue our Nettie.” But Nettie cut in, “Actually, Mama, Pops, I have some news, too.” Mrs Orchard’s hand fell slowly from her face and she turned to Nettie with the beginnings of a smile. “Do you mean to say you have a young man, too, Nettie? Tell us, quickly. How long have you known him? Where did you meet?” Nettie shook her head and laughed quietly. “No, Mama,” she said. “I don’t have a young man. In fact, I doubt I’ll ever be married.” Strangely, Mr Orchard was not at all surprised by this news. If he was honest, he had struggled to imagine Nettie ever promising to love, honour and obey any man.

“I’ve decided,” Nettie continued, “to apply to be a missionary’s assistant. They are desperate for people to do rudimentary nursing or teach basic arithmetic.” Another long silence followed. Of course, this was not a career that Mr Orchard would have chosen for his daughter. He would certainly have preferred something along quieter lines. Something safer. A little more conventional. But Nettie did not play things safe. She was not conventional. Quite the opposite, in fact. And it was Nettie’s life. It was not his life. And it was not Mrs Orchard’s, either. Furthermore, he could envision it all quite easily: Nettie, sporting a wide-brimmed hat, happy in the heat; Nettie, supervising the building of a mud hut; Nettie, defending herself with rifle against the lions and hippopotamuses. In short, he knew that this was the only kind of life that would make her happy. Mrs Orchard sighed weakly. “Just please don’t tell me you’re going to the other side of the world, though, Nettie.” Nettie took a breath. “I’m thinking of China, Mama.” vvv Family life was never straightforward, but, on balance, things had worked out pretty well: Clem was getting married and Nettie had finally found a real vocation. In addition, Clem’s wedding plans were marching on unhindered, because all Mrs Orchard’s energies were focussed now on being cross with Nettie. “Oh, why can’t she just be normal, Mr Orchard?” she asked for the hundredth time. Mr Orchard closed the bedroom door quietly. Mrs Orchard was lying now propped against a pillow with a cold flannel on her forehead and the window open. He tiptoed down the stairs to make himself a cup of strong tea. He stoked the stove and slipped off his slippers in order to toast his feet. As he sipped his tea, he checked his pocket watch then closed his eyes. Peace was indeed a wonderful thing. THE END © Rachel Lovell, 2017

By Karen Clarke

The Sum Of

ove L

Parenting might not have been easy — but in the end, we’d survived its ups and downs

“

o you think we should tell her that being a parent is 20 per cent joy and 80 per cent worry?” says Alice, eyes on the woman at the next table, cradling her new-born with a look of bliss. “Probably not,” I say, stirring my coffee. “Let her enjoy the illusion of perfection a while longer.” “It’s probably as well she has no idea what parenting’s going to be like.” From Alice’s expression, I guess she’s remembering her son, Joey, as a youngster. From falling off his bike and breaking his leg, to getting a nasty bite after pulling a dog’s tail to “see what would happen”, he’d been a constant source of worry. Not that my daughter, Emily, had been a model child. In fact, Alice and I met in the A&E department of our local hospital 25 years ago, after Emily jumped off a swing at the park the second I looked away, fracturing her wrist, and Joey was being treated for concussion after leaping out of his treehouse, pretending to be Superman.

“I never knew what real worry was until I had Joey,” Alice muses. Normally, our coffeemorning chats are grounded in the present, but the sight of mother and baby is a sobering reminder of the often difficult journey motherhood has been. “And it doesn’t get any easier as they get older,” I say, pushing aside my plate, which is littered with cake crumbs. “I don’t know why we thought it would be,” says Alice. “Remember when Emily ran away from home on her 13th birthday, because Mark and I didn’t buy her a pony?” “Oh, how could I forget?” She gives a groaning laugh. “I still can’t believe Joey hid her in the treehouse and didn’t tell anyone. He knew you were going through hell.” Her smile fades, and I wonder if she’s recalling the difficult time Joey went through in his teens, bullied at school over his red hair and love of Maths, and later when he broke a boy’s nose and got into trouble with the police. Later still, he fell in with the wrong crowd, and although

Alice suspected drugs were involved, he managed to get into university — only to drop out a year later to set up a company that went swiftly out of business, owing money. Before that, when Alice’s husband left her for a younger woman, Joey blamed his mother and didn’t speak to her for months, and then went missing. Thankfully, Emily knew his favourite place, down by the beach, and we found him there, sleeping rough. “I’m still grateful to Joey for coaxing Emily to start eating properly,” I say with an internal shudder, remembering how my own marriage came under strain when our daughter decided she was overweight, after a throwaway comment from a girl at school, plunging us into a nightmarish year that concluded with her being admitted to hospital. “Their friendship was the one bright light through it all,” says Alice, her eyes — the same olive-green as her son’s — softening. “I always hoped they’d get together one day.” They had, on Emily’s 18th birthday, and their burgeoning feelings had been a source of pleasure and hope, as well as anxiety. They complimented each other so well, and Joey was the only person who could make Emily laugh as if she didn’t have a care in the world, but we worried that if it went wrong, it would ruin their friendship — and ours. It did go wrong: when Joey apparently kissed another girl at a party, and the girl told Emily, who immediately ended their relationship. It had been hard to hear her say terrible things about Joey, knowing I shouldn’t tell Alice, and she was in the same boat — hearing from Joey how Emily ought to have known the girl was lying, and should have trusted him. At times, we nearly buckled, so strong was the temptation to

blame the other’s offspring for the toll their break-up took on both our households. Alice was not long remarried, to a lovely man who tried his best to understand, but was constantly told by Joey to mind his own business. “I sometimes wonder how we came through it,” I say now, looking at my dear friend across the table, noticing the fine lines around her eyes, the grey streaking through her dark hair, thinking I might make an appointment at the hairdresser’s, to sort out my own grey roots. “I’m so glad we did, though.” “Me, too,” she says, and we smile at each other with feeling, like sailors washed up on a sunny shore after navigating rough seas. At the next table, the baby starts to grizzle, the sound building to a roar, and we raise our eyebrows at each other as the woman tucks the baby back into its buggy and hurries out into the sunlit day. “I don’t envy her,” says Alice, but with a trace of wistfulness. The door swings open again and I stare for a moment. My heart beats a little faster. “Alice, I think I know the secret to changing the percentage of joy and worry where children are concerned,” I say, as Emily enters the café and gives me a wave, closely followed by Joey. Both in their 30s now, they’ve been happily married for five years, and asked to meet us at the café as they had the day off work. “Oh?” Alice turns to smile at her daughter-in-law, and I sense by her jolt that she too has noticed the gentle curve of Emily’s belly underneath her stripy top, and Joey’s protective hand in the small of her back. “I think I do, too.” She turns back, eyes shining. “Become a grandparent?” I nod, heart singing. “One hundred per cent joy,” I say softly. THE END © Karen Clarke, 2017

b Joey was the only person who could make Emily laugh

Woman’s Weekly Fiction 11

For The Love Of

Sheds How could I explain the million happy memories my grandfather’s shed held for me? And now it was all mine

heds. I love them. And although they seem to have become somewhat popular, even trendy, what with Shed Of The Year and the quirky, unusual sheds they find, I proudly claim to be one of the original shed lovers. “So what?” people ask. Sheds at the bottom of the garden have been the refuge of generations of men, a kettle on a gas ring for a brew or the odd bottle of home brew stored away at the back. The difference is that I’ve loved sheds ever since I was a little girl and now I’m a grown woman, my passion hasn’t diminished one bit. “Ha,” they say, “but you’re talking about summerhouses really. Decked out with soft cushions and tinkling chimes, incense burners and perhaps a bottle of chilled wine to take away the cares of the world.” Wrong! I’m talking about real sheds. Sheds filled with buckets of compost and garden tools, spades, shovels, grass rakes and onions hanging on a string, drying in the autumn sunlight. It all began when I used to stay with our grandparents in the holidays. “Make sure you help out all you can,” my mother would say. And I would happily wave goodbye in anticipation of a wonderful week, not of 12 Woman’s Weekly Fiction

helping Gran in the kitchen, but Grandpa Albert, as he was known, in the garden or, more importantly, the garden shed. “You’ll never catch a husband if you can’t cook,” Grandma used to say, as she attempted to lure me into her scented kitchen to teach me the basics of the culinary skills she felt were so important. But to no avail. Nothing could separate me from Grandpa and his shed. There was a gas ring, a kettle and two mugs for tea, a variety of tools, including a special spade he’d been given when he began his apprenticeship as a gardener at the age of 16. “You be careful of that,” he told me on more than one occasion. “It’s sharp as a knife from being kept clean and shining all these years.” We spent hours poring over catalogues deciding what we might plant and one spring he showed me how a robin had made its nest in the pocket of the old coat which hung from a nail in the beam. And my favourite thing was an old motorcycle with two flat tyres, relegated to the back of the shed, which I pretended to ride. Grandpa would laugh. “We’re making memories again,” he’d say, “and memories are priceless. Never forget that.” So it was no real surprise that, when Grandpa finally

moved on to that Great Shed In The Sky, he left the contents of the shed to me. “Are you sure you really want it?” asked my mother after the will had been read. “I mean, it’s a bit unusual. Wouldn’t you rather have Grandma’s jewellery and let your father deal with the shed?” “Certainly not,” I replied. How could I explain the happy memories that shed held for me? And although it was impossible to take the actual shed, my husband Rich, bless him, agreed we could buy a brand new garden shed to house everything.

“It will be just for me, won’t it?” I wanted to confirm. “At the bottom of the garden, no interference from anyone, exactly as I please?” “Of course,” he replied. “You carry on and do as you wish. And it’ll even things up a bit,” he admitted. “My kitchen and your shed.” That was another thing about Rich. He loved spending time in the kitchen, which was filled with up-to-the minute gadgets, shining pots and pans, tins, trays and the sharpest knives in the world. Grandma would have loved him. And so it was. Said new shed duly arrived and Rich and my father kindly put it up. They hung around then, expecting me to want them to unpack the crates and boxes of Grandpa’s tools, but I shooed them away. “This is my patch now,” I told them. And so it was. Oh, the fun I had filling that shed. It was about the same size as Grandpa’s had been, so I was able to fit everything in more or less as I remembered it. “A place for everything and everything in its place” was his motto, so it was no surprise when, after everything was unpacked, it all fitted perfectly. The workbench, handmade by Grandpa with wooden planks with the iron vice clamped to it,

y Grandpa finally moved on to that Great Shed In The Sky

By Vanda Inman the handle of which I loved to turn. The row of garden tools, including the shiny spade he’d always told me to be so careful of. The gas ring and kettle, the old motorbike with the flat tyres and even his working jacket and cap, hung carefully so that a passing robin might stop and make its nest in the pocket come spring. As it happened, I wasn’t the only person in our row to get a new shed and it seemed that as soon as one appeared, the garden next door was quick to follow. So it wasn’t long before there was a host of sheds going up and it was obvious everyone was more than interested in everyone else’s. ‘Sheds!’ I snorted to myself. ‘Call those sheds?’ The couple to our left had painted theirs bright blue and hung wind-chimes on the front porch, which I was sure startled the garden birds. The man to our right had filled his with every up-to-date electric tool you could imagine, grass-mower, strimmer, hedge-trimmer, and spent most weekends whizzing around his already tidy garden with them all, scaring the tiny blue tits and the shy nuthatch. Further along still, a new shed had been purchased to house an enormous gas barbecue which was fired up on every occasion. I felt for those birds when they barbecued the chicken; they must have felt unwelcome there too. And so on and so forth. Except for my shed, which was a bog-standard, brown, wooden shed, housing all of Grandpa’s tools, a million memories and a large bag of bird seed so that at least my feathered friends had one garden they felt welcome in. But I was content and the shed was my sanctuary. Until one day Rich came down the garden path, waving a piece of paper excitedly. “You know that programme on the telly, Shed Of The Year, that you love so much?” “Mmm...” I looked up from the seed catalogue I was studying as I sat outside enjoying the sunshine. “The Residents’ Association are organising one of their own. You can enter. I’m sure you’d

win.” He beamed happily and handed me the flyer. Shed Of The Street, I read, my heart sinking. I knew exactly what was going on. The Residents’ Association wanted a nose around each other’s sheds and everyone wanted to outdo everyone else. “Rich,” I began, “have you ever watched Shed Of The Year?” “Well, no,” he admitted, “but I know how much you love it.” “Exactly. Well you need to know the sheds are nothing like mine. They’re special. Little retreats, hideaways. They’re quirky, have a theme, people put a lot of work into them. They’re not bog-standard, boring, brown and filled with a load of rusty old tools no one else wants.” I stopped, realising how my shed would be viewed by other people with no knowledge of the happy memories it held for me. It felt like a horrible intrusion into a private place. “I’m not entering, no way,” I told him. “But I’ve already put your name down.” He looked crestfallen. “You’ve done such wonders with the garden already...” I glanced around. I hadn’t actually done wonders at all, only dug over a small patch in preparation for... something... and spent an inordinate amount of time sitting in the sun browsing through seed catalogues. I sighed. Rich had been so supportive, never interfering, at least not until now, always rustling up delicious dinners as if by magic when I spent too long in the garden. “OK,” I smiled. “But don’t expect us to win and don’t be disappointed when you finally see inside on the day.” He hugged me. “It’s going to be great, I just know it. Don’t you worry about a thing.” The deadline for the Shed Of The Street was four weeks away and I’d never seen such activity in the neighbours’ gardens. Paint brushes abounded, new patio sets and garden furniture appeared, someone even laid a new patio in front of their shed. Chimineas, statues, fountains. You name it, someone had it. “I’m sorry, Rich,” I blurted out as we waited for the judges to

arrive on the big day. “You must be so ashamed. The other gardens are so neat and pristine.“ I glanced around our back garden in dismay. The patch I’d dug over with Grandpa’s special spade hadn’t been planted, the area designated as a fruit garden boasted only nettles and a variety of plants beginning to go to seed. The few crops I had planted seemed to be fighting for survival against some selfsown marigolds, glowing orange and yellow in the sunlight. The shed looked just the same as when it was first put up, brown and unexciting, and inside held... only I knew what the inside held and I didn’t think anyone, least of all the judges, was going to be impressed.

holding their breath. There was absolute silence, broken only by the cooing of a wood pigeon in the distance. The head judge rustled his papers. “There have been some wonderful sheds,” he continued, “worthy of Shed Of The Year itself, but the winner of Shed of the Street is...” He paused dramatically. “Grandpa Albert’s Museum Shed.” There was a moment of stunned silence, then everyone began to clap. “What?” I turned to Rich. “What are they talking about? What Museum Shed and who’s..?” “Yours, silly.” He gave me a push. “That’s what I called it when I filled in the entry form. Because that’s what it is.” “But how did you know...” He gave me a look which was a mixture of exasperation and love. “Do you really think I didn’t know what would be in that shed?” He grinned. “Just like you know I don’t always cook everything that comes out of that dream kitchen of mine.” “A wonderful tribute,” the judge was saying, “and, if I might add, in the perfect setting, just how a garden in the planning would have looked 50 years ago and a marvellous haven for wildlife.” “I’m so proud,” whispered my mother, wiping a tear from her eye. “It reminded me of when I was a little girl and brought back so many lovely memories.” It was afterwards, as I was enjoying a glass of Champagne, I felt a touch on my elbow and turned to find the head judge standing there. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, and you might already know,” he began, “but that old motorbike in your shed, well, it’s a Norton and could be worth rather a lot of money, particularly if it was restored. And some of those tools are collectors’ items. If you’re ever interested in selling...” I smiled. “I’ll think about it,” I promised, but I knew deep down I’d never part with a single thing because every item was a memory. And memories, as Grandpa Albert used to say, are priceless. THE END © Vanda Inman, 2017

y I felt for those birds when they barbecued the chicken

“Here they come now,” hissed Rich excitedly. I almost cried, he looked so proud and was going to be so let down. The head judge shook my hand, and the others began poking around the garden and making notes as they did so. A robin fluttered down and pulled a worm from the turned earth patch and a blackbird trilled its alarm and then sang its beautiful warbling song as it settled in a nearby unpruned apple tree. Then the judges went into the shed and there was much muttering and scribbling of pens before they emerged from its dusty depths into the bright sunlight. vvv “And the winner is...” Everyone seemed to be

Woman’s Weekly Fiction 13

Illustration: Getty

Going Home

14 Womanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Weekly Fiction

By Gabrielle Mullarkey What was I doing here, so far from the family who loved me, hoping to exorcise a ghost that would always haunt me?

or a while after Greg’s death, all I wanted was chocolate: white Toblerone, to be precise. Other bars were too small for my grief. With Toblerone, I could chomp on a whole alpine range in one go. “You’ll turn into a mountain range, the way you’re going,” said my son Ben eventually, staging an intervention. “Listen, Mum, you’ve got to start making some decisions.” He meant, in particular, a decision about the 25th wedding anniversary trip we’d been planning to take together before Greg’s death. I’d booked the tickets as a surprise, only he’d died, suddenly, before I could reveal it — heart attack while “sorting out” his man shed. I’d gone down to knock on the door and found him sitting in that saggy canvas director’s chair he’d bought off the internet, apparently examining a grain of wood above the window. It would have been painless, the doc said. Glad it was for one of us. So, the tickets I’d booked to Paris... Ben was right. I had to make up my mind. I told him he should take Sally and go for the long weekend I’d booked, and I’d have the twins round at mine, but he said he was going away for work that weekend. “Work!” I scoffed. “Cancel or move it.” “I can’t move a whole conference, Mum. I’m just a cog in a wheel. If it wasn’t important, of course I’d cry off.” He sounded so like his father — excuses, excuses — that I had to storm out to the garden and work up a sweat in my borders before I’d calmed down. Anyway, it turned out that it would cost a fair bit to change the names on the tickets at this stage, though I did manage to get a refund on the ruinously expensive room at the George V, and book myself into a youth hostel instead. Ben was aghast. “Those aren’t places for a single woman travelling alone.” Of a certain age, he meant. “Oh, behave,” I told him. “I went

everywhere on my own when I was half your age.” If you call the Isle of Mull on a soul-searching trip at 17, “everywhere”. After havng a row with my stepdad, I’d bunked off A-levels, nicked the cash from his wallet and taken a sleeper all the way to Scotland, then gone trudging over wet rocks with rain blowing vertically into my face, “to find myself.” “And did you?” Greg had asked, tracing a lazy finger up my backbone the first time I told him the story. I’d found some equally depressed-looking seagulls and a few crofters who thought I was barmy. Eventually, a gruffly kind woman in a tin-roofed caff had insisted I come home with her and use her telephone to phone home, my stepdad, Jerry, answering to say, “Oh, thank goodness. Carys, we’ve been frantic. We were about to call the police. Whatever’s gone wrong, we can sort it out. Where are you?” I remember his voice sounding like a line of poetry I’d read at school: God has a brown voice, as

way to rinse those clichés from my head and system was to go solo and slightly boho, mixing with the students and arty crowd rather than the loved-up anniversarymarkers spoon-feeding each other oysters at the George V. But for all my bravado, I felt more than a tremor of misgiving as I stepped off the Eurostar onto the platform of the Gare du Nord, recalling Ben’s assertion that I could have got at least a partial refund if I’d explained the circumstances (cancellation due to sudden death, was bound to be in the T&Cs somewhere). Yes, well, I’ve always been bloody-minded. “You looking for somewhere to stay?” The accent at my elbow was English but I hurried on, eyes to the front. Seconds in the country and I was already fair game for the hotel touts. “I know the cheapest gaffes, if you’re on a budget. I could show you.” At least the voice was female. I turned. She was just a girl, much

b I was already fair game for the hotel touts

soft and full as beer. That was Jerry’s voice that day. I’d cried on hearing it. My “walkabout” had even become an edited highlight of Jerry’s speech at my wedding. By then, Greg and I had been living together for nearly seven years, deciding to “go respectable” so Jerry, undergoing chemo, could walk me down the aisle. Perhaps not the best reason to get formally spliced, looking back, but Ben was already five by then and Greg and I loved each other, so why not? In the years that followed, Greg and I had often talked about Paris for our (official) 25th; the “city of love” and all those clichés. To be honest, I now decided that the best

younger than Ben, thin and pale and kind of nondescript-looking (I didn’t want to be unkind but, apart from noticing that her hair could do with a good wash, I didn’t register many distinguishing features). “I’ve pre-booked a hostel,” I said, for some reason. “A hostel?” The girl’s pale eyebrows and mouth quirked. “They do take wrinklies. Excuse me.” She pursued. “You’re not that wrinkly. Metro’s this way. You have to buy a book of tickets called a carnet. Have you got the right change?” She was looking eagerly at my backpack, but my cash was safely

in the money belt under my shirt (one of Greg’s old shirts, customised for practical, not sentimental, reasons). “I haven’t got spare change to give you,” I said abruptly, but she followed me down the steps to the Metro and hovered on the edge of my vision as I grappled with the next stage of my solo expedition. Then she followed me onto the train, watching my eyes scanning the map above the opposite seat. I was afraid to get up and trace it with my finger in case she saw my destination. “You staying at the one at the Bastille?” she asked innocently, guessing it anyway. “That’s a good spot.” She flicked back a strand of hair. “I stay there, too.” I noticed for the first time that she was bare-legged, wearing a thin, cotton rucksack, an equally thin coat and pumps as flimsy as tissue paper. No wonder she looked half-frozen. I was well padded and could still feel the nip in the air. Damn it, she was activating my maternal instinct, and I didn’t have room in my life for waifs, strays and sob stories. I was done with being a soft touch. Naturally, she followed me off the train. At street level, I hesitated. Evening had gathered in and I suddenly felt all at sea, tears tickling the back of my eyes. Damn! I fished out a hankie, the girl sauntering ahead on the pavement, occasionally throwing an encouraging look over her shoulder. So I followed. Rain pitterpattered down and began to blow vertically into my face, the girl’s gossamer pumps darkening with the weight of water. Yet when we reached the hostel, she hovered outside. “This is it.” “Aren’t you coming inside?” “In a bit.” She ducked under an inadequate awning and hunched into her coat. No doubt she was lingering to have a smoke. I plonked down my backpack, burrowed in its depths and brought up a pair of tights bought for the trip — warm, but snazzily patterned — thrusting them at her. Woman’s Weekly Fiction 15

Going Home

“Here.” They’d probably sag on her pipe-cleaner legs. “Have you got shampoo? A towel to dry off?” I nodded at her ridiculously flimsy rucksack. “I imagine all your worldly goods can’t be in that.” She gave me such a look then that I could have bitten my tongue off. Of course, that might be the sum total of her possessions, I thought, wincing. I’d assumed she was just too fly to be out and about well-equipped, but maybe she was on her uppers or a runaway... She took the tights without looking at me, and I went in and registered. I wasn’t hungry so I went to the drinks machine. For some reason, I spent the rest of my change on two hot chocolates and carried them out to the awning in paper cups as thin as the girl’s own wrapping, nearly scalding my fingers. No sign of her. Oh, well, the youth of today. I didn’t see her again until the next day. The rain had cleared and Paris was looking very... Parisian, in a tinted postcard sort of way. I walked until my feet were sore, then sat on a bench looking down on Sacre Coeur’s pearly-white 16 Woman’s Weekly Fiction

dome rising up to meet scuddy little clouds, and wished I could be less cynical. I’d brought my digital camera, realising too late that Paris wasn’t a place to be photographed alone in front of landmarks, even if strangers were kind enough to do the honours. A selfie stick would’ve been worse — no need for interaction at all. I still wasn’t hungry. That’s when I saw the girl, leaning on a balustrade a few yards away, and I thought, ‘Enough is enough,’ going over to challenge her. “Are you following me?” She was balancing against the balustrade, one skinny leg coiled round another. “You fancy yourself, don’t you?” “In a city this size, the coincidence is amazing.” I frowned, looking down. “How are the tights?” They were slipping a bit, but she modelled them for me, throwing in a few catwalk turns. I wasn’t exactly warming to her, but I’d begun to feel she wasn’t a moocher or con artist. “I would have bought you a meal last night if you’d stuck around,” I said recklessly. “How about one now?” She shook her head, almost shyly.

“A word to the wise when you’re back at the hostel,” I said. “The machine in the foyer does a great hot chocolate, but I’d avoid the coffee. It tastes of grit. What’s your name?” “Perrine.” I’d noticed a hoarding nearby, advertising a film starring an actress called Perrine. I wasn’t daft. “OK, well, mine’s Carys. How did you get a French name?” “I found it here. France is full of French things.” “Hmm, very smart. Very à la mode,” I added, risking a regional joke of my own. “Don’t your parents mind you travelling alone?” “I can look after myself.” “That’s what all the young say, and not what I asked.” “Chill out, Grandma!” “If you’re interested,” I told her, “my own grandkids say ‘chill out’ and ‘chillax’ are both passé. Wow, I’m going great guns with the lingo here.” Her mouth quirked. “What should I say, then?” “Well, I’m half-reliably informed that the mot juste is ‘vegitate’ — spelt wrongly, of course. As in, ‘Why don’t you stay in, Grandma, and vegitate?’” “But you don’t want to, so you’re here.” I suddenly felt a wave of grief come from nowhere and smash me sideways. What was I doing here, so far from family who loved me? I should never have come, hoping to exorcise a ghost that would always stalk me, however far I went. “You’re sad,” she said. “No,” I said. “I’m angry. I’m angry at my husband for what he tore apart so suddenly and without warning, leaving me behind to pick up the pieces.” And abruptly, I walked away from her. Now that I’d been a fool and come here, I’d have to stay the whole weekend or buy another ticket back (assuming I could reserve a train seat). In the meantime, I’d pace alone, having no more truck with enigmatic strays. Anyway, I’d see her back at the hostel. The day turned drizzly to match my mood. I had a small snack near the hostel and went to bed early. The next day, I paced Paris again, beginning to feel like “Perrine” myself, a lost soul in a city that neither saw nor censored me. It

was heresy to think it, but I had always found one city much like another, despite competing claims for glorious skylines and beautiful buildings. Ben had left several messages on my phone but I’d told him I wouldn’t call unless I had to — “roaming charges,” I’d claimed. But in fact, I now thought that to hear my son’s voice from across the sea, his questions and concern filling that chasm with an echo so like Greg’s, might be unbearable. My second night in Paris. I had seen more of the sights, drunk a very good red wine with a nice lunch, admired the fine filigree of the lamp-posts and the way even the pigeons strutted more confidently than the home-grown variety. And then, as dusk sank towards nightfall, I found myself at a small, unremarkable bridge, looking down into the black water of the Seine. And I hesitated. The blackness of the water was all of a one with my mood. I could feel its dark, watery tendrils reaching up to caress and beckon me in... A sound of crying broke into my trance and I peered into the gloom. The girl was on a nearby bench, her lank hair covering much of her face. When I went over and touched her shoulder, I saw she was shivering and almost blue with the cold, especially her bare legs. “Where are those tights I gave you?” I sat down beside her. “You silly girl!” And quite without meaning to, I drew her head onto my shoulder and extended my woollen scarf to cover her thin shoulders. Eventually, she stopped crying and said in a low voice, “I just want to go home.” I started, because I had been thinking the same thing while sitting there, looking back at the edge of the bridge with a shudder. How quickly despair could find a way in and prise you open if no one was there to draw you back from the edge and wrap you in care and love. “Where is home?” I asked gently. She sighed, took my hand and led me back to the hostel. That had to be home for now, I thought. At the entrance, though, she said in a whisper, “I haven’t got a room here now.” “Don’t worry,” I told her. “I’ll smuggle you up to mine. It’s small,

but cosy, and I have one all to myself. Wrinkly’s prerogative.” She was so cold that I suggested she take a hot shower across the landing when the coast was clear, but she seemed too exhausted, simply climbing into bed and falling asleep. I looked at her for a bit, then brushed her hair off her forehead and piled the blankets up to her chin. Finally, I lay down beside her so that the blankets covered me as well, and fell asleep on the outside so that she wouldn’t roll out of the narrow bed. No reason that she should have done — but that was the way I’d slept with Ben in his room whenever he was upset or clingy as a child. I could feel her faint, warm breath on the back of my neck as I fell asleep, relieved to think that for one night at least, she would be warm, safe and wrapped in more than flimsy cotton and bitterly cold wind. Morning came. I woke with a start, in a tangle of blankets. No sign of “Perrine”. I looked at my watch. The hostel doors were locked at midnight and opened again at six, though someone was on reception all night to buzz in latecomers. She must have snuck out soon after six, making sure the receptionist was looking the other way. I searched high and low for her all the same, having planned to give her money, tease out more of her story... but she’d vanished, and my train left at 10am. I didn’t have time to pace Paris, looking for her. I tried to leave money at reception for the “English girl” who’d been staying there up until recently, but even after giving a good description of her to staff, they all shook their heads politely and said they had no recollection of her, while informing me that accepting money as I’d outlined “was against policy”. I took the Metro back to the railway station, hoping against hope to glimpse a tatty rucksack and a sheet of lank brown hair. But I didn’t speak to anyone again until I spotted Ben waiting for me at the barrier at St Pancras. I’d texted him before I boarded the train, telling him I’d call later, once I was back home. Now, I was not only flooded with joy to see him, but also relieved that he hadn’t brought Sally and the kids.

He was embarrassed when I gave him a slobbery kiss on each cheek — French style — followed by a big hug, Mum style; embarrassed, but not displeased. “Blimey, Mum, I feel like I’ve been attacked by a giant, slobbery snail. Ironically, that’s probably what the average French restaurateur has nightmares about.” I rolled my eyes. He had my sense of humour (nothing to see here, move along please) and Greg’s chin, nose and selfdiscipline. Well, at least we’d got something right between the two of us. “And did you,” he asked as he drove me home, “find yourself?” For a second, thinking it was Greg speaking, I started. “I can recommend the youth hostel,” I told him guardedly, and he respected my reticence, thinking I wanted to keep whatever bittersweet memories I’d garnered all to myself. Some time, though, perhaps even soon, I’d have to tell him about Greg’s affair. After booking the surprise tickets, I’d gone looking for his passport to make sure it wasn’t out

not half my age or anything. In fact, she’s a year older than you.” That was to be my silver lining, apparently. When I’d told him to get out, he’d retreated to the shed, “Just ‘til you’re calm enough to discuss this like adults, Carys,” and that was where I’d found him three hours later when I’d gone down with a piccalilli sandwich. Well, old habits died hard, and old love never dies at all. Could I, should I tell Ben? He’d be the last person to put his dad on a pedestal but there were two sides (apparently) even to a story this tawdry, and with Greg no longer around to put his, how would I avoid looking vindictive or spoiling Ben’s own cache of bittersweet memories? At least this Elaine hadn’t turned up at the funeral, though she had sent me a letter, which I’d read, re-read, then burned in a ritual bonfire in the garden. Its contents were between me and the night sky. So Paris had been a first step back to normality, instead nearly ending in a bridge too far and a dark step into oblivion. Perrine, or whoever she was,

b I didn’t have time to pace Paris, looking for her

of date, and that’s when I’d found the receipt for a hotel in Jersey, double room with a beach view, on the weekend he’d been away at a conference for work. “But I was with work!” he’d protested when I waved the receipt. “In a double room? And if the company booked it, why would you have a personal receipt, in your name?” I was too good a detective for him. In the end, it had all come out. The conference at the hotel in St Helier had finished at three pm, then he’d legged it over to a cosy boutique hotel by the sea to meet up again with Elaine, a rep from a rival company, whom he’d met at a conference the year before... The thing of it was, he’d been such a middle-aged cliché. “Not strictly speaking,” he’d claimed, despite being rumbled. “Elaine’s

had saved me. I broke open a Toblerone and searched the internet for young English girls missing or perhaps last seen in Paris — and found a picture of my youth hostel next to the headline New youth hostel opens on site of fatal fire. My heart jolted with the shock, but I read on. It seemed my youth hostel had been built two years ago on the site of a hostel for drifters and the homeless, which had burnt down one night eight years ago, probably as a result of a candle left burning, killing 12 young residents, some of whom remain unidentified to this day. ‘Drifters’, I repeated in my head. ‘Waifs and strays, the unseen ghosts pacing city streets.’ That could so easily have been me, running away from home all those

years ago with a headful of self-destructive misery, if a warm brown voice on the end of a phone hadn’t begged for another chance. And when I had “run away” again — to Paris — a shivering, lank-haired girl had pulled me back from the brink. “Perrine” had saved me. She had saved me by needing me. I put my head down on the keyboard then and had a good old cry — for a nameless girl nobody had missed or claimed; for myself and Greg, and for all the near-misses and wrong turns you don’t realise you’ve taken until much later. Maybe it would have blown over with Elaine. Maybe he wouldn’t have had that heart attack if I hadn’t confronted him. Maybe, if I’d stayed another night in Paris, I could have kept Perrine safe for one more night, and one more after that... Unpacking much later, I found my patterned tights curled up at the bottom of my sturdy backpack, and when I uncurled them, a lurid-tinted postcard fell out, showing a bench overlooking Sacre Coeur, with just a hint of balustrade in the corner. An empty bench and balustrade, the suggestion of recent presence haunting both. I knew I hadn’t bought the postcard. On the back of it, handwritten words had been scrawled so faintly, I had to hold the card up to the light to read them: Thanks for being my guardian angel. And then it came to me, with a great thump in my heart, that I might have saved her by leading her “home”, staying with her while she fell asleep in safety and care, so that when she woke, she was finally wherever she was meant to be, “finding herself” not on wet rocks or lonely streets, but with blankets up to her chin for one more night, and one more after that... Is it possible for the living to be guardian angels to the dead? ‘More things in heaven and earth, Horatio,’ I thought, putting the postcard somewhere safe, along with my memories, good and bad, and the words consigned to the flames but inscribed on my heart: Sometimes, all you want to do is come home. And carry on. THE END © Gabrielle Mullarkey, 2017 Woman’s Weekly Fiction 17

Secret

I felt my heart breaking inside me because now I knew there could be no question of me ending our engagement

sn’t it funny how some days seem to stand out as red-letter days, when life presents you with a challenge, a choice or an opportunity which may never come again and which will have the power to change everything? This was one of those days. It was one lovely summer afternoon a couple of years after the war, when you could hardly believe the sight of children running freely across a beach. As it was a bank holiday, the world and his wife seemed to have the same idea as me — sprawling on a deckchair with the sun on my face, relishing the taste of the salty air. It was then I spotted a familiar figure loping along at the water’s edge. At first, I thought I was seeing a ghost or having an hallucination especially as the man I saw had been the subject of my reflections only moments before. I hadn’t seen Alec for years. In fact, I thought 18 Woman’s Weekly Fiction

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he was probably dead. My heart pounded. vvv I was back in 1942. I had just returned home from my factory job and was in the act of parking my bike when I spotted a soldier hobbling down our lane on crutches. It was John, my fiancé, missing presumed dead since Dunkirk. ‘Oh, my God, it can’t be!’ was my first thought, quickly followed by guilt and a surge of relief that

hoped that the smile reached my eyes as I reached him. “Esther!” He stopped dead and then tried to embrace me, nearly falling on his crutch in the process. He looked all in; absolutely dead beat, with lines of pain wracking his poor, thin features. “I thought you were...” I couldn’t say the word. I was too choked with pity and my own confused pain. “I nearly bloomin’ well was,” he managed to quip with a flash of his old tongue-in-

At first, I thought I was seeing a ghost or having an hallucination he was alive. “John!” I yelled, dropping my bike and waving madly, before dashing towards him. What an utter fraud I was, plastering that smile on my face and trying vainly to invoke that warm love I had once felt for him. Not that I thought that then. I just

cheek, but even then he was wincing with pain. “Copped it in both legs.” A commotion behind me signalled the joy and surprise of his mum, Madge, my neighbour. She was crying out his name and laughing at the same time and trying to give him the best hug she

could without toppling him over. I felt suddenly superfluous, as indeed I deserved to be, and tried to sneak away, but she pulled me into their joint embrace. “Hey, Esther, he’s home now, our lad. What a day, eh!” As my face brushed against the rough khaki of his uniform, I felt my heart breaking inside me because I knew there could be no question of me ending our engagement. Not now, not with the state John was in; not after the sacrifice he’d made to defend us. It was my turn to make a sacrifice now, and that sacrifice had to be Alec. Alec, who’d suffered enough already from the war and now I was about to betray him. My throat caught. “This damnable war!” I felt Madge squeeze my arm. “Don’t you fret, lovely. John’s back now,” she said reassuringly, just as if the war was over now that John and his smashed-up legs had come

By Pat Ashford home. I stifled a pointless surge of anger. After all, Madge loved her son, who she’d thought dead. In a sense, the war was over for her. I managed a smile. “I ought to go now. John’s just about done in.” I kissed John’s gaunt cheek. “I’ll come back tomorrow.” “Don’t go yet.” He reached for my hand, but I could see that all he wanted at the moment was sleep. “Mum will be wondering where I am. My tea will be on the table and...” I sniffed my overall, “I need a good wash. I smell of slurry.” “Why do you have to work in a factory?” His words were slow. “We all have to do our bit, John.” His eyes were closing even as Madge and I helped him into the house. “I’ll go now,” I murmured to Madge, but she was already too involved with John and caring for him to see me creep gratefully out of the door. Now I had to face my own mum and dad with the news of John’s return and pretend to be as ecstatic as they would be. ‘Oh, Alec,’ I thought. I remembered those first weeks working in the factory, overwhelmed by the noise and bustle, especially after the quiet greengrocery shop where I’d worked for my dad. The

of the machine and how it worked in a way that made it easy to understand. His voice held a warm burr, a country accent I tried to place. “You’re not from around here, are you?” “Somerset,” he supplied. “Zoider apple country.” His deliberate exaggeration of his accent had me smiling. “I came up here for work. Not fit for the army, but fit for a factory.” He indicated his leg. “A bit like me. Being a woman, I mean. Not that I’d want to...” My voice had faltered then, thinking of my John. Alec was looking at me closely. “Got someone out there, have you?” “Sorry, I can’t help...” I swallowed hard to try to control myself. “My fiancé, John. He didn’t return with the others from Dunkirk. He’s missing, you see.” “Any time you need a shoulder to cry on,” he said, and handed me a large, white hankie. “And by that, I don’t mean anything, you know. Let’s just say, I understand.” As he limped away, Joan, a fellow worker I’d befriended, came up to me. “The tool-setter’s nice,” I said. “Alec Summers, you mean? He’s the best of the bunch,” she said laconically. “Doesn’t moan

‘A car ran over his foot before the war, so he couldn’t enlist’ foreman started me on an assembly line at first, but after a week or two, he moved me onto a capstan machine. He laughed as I eyed it with horror. “I’ll get Alec,” he said, “he’ll show you the ropes.” He went away and returned with the gaunt man with the haunted eyes and a limp who’d nevertheless smiled reassuringly at me on my first day. “Hey, don’t look so grim,” he said now, his grin lighting up those shadowed eyes like a light switching on. “It won’t bite you and it’s fairly easy to operate. I’m the tool-setter, by the way.” He explained the mysteries

or nag when you break a drill. A car ran over his foot before the war, so he couldn’t enlist like he wanted to. Then his twin brother was killed at Dunkirk.” “He never said,” I gasped, “and here was me going on about John!” The next week, Joan left the factory, having responsibilities at home caring for her invalid mother. I found myself sitting alone at lunch-breaks, trying not to feel sorry for myself. Alec noticed me and began bringing his own lunch and sitting with me. We found we had a lot in common, discussing everything from the latest films to jazz recordings. “Seen Gone With The Wind?” Woman’s Weekly Fiction 19

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he asked one day. “I’ve read the book. John gave it to me.” Alec made a face. “My mum always said too much reading could turn a woman’s head.” “And not a man’s?” “I wouldn’t know.” He’d grinned. “Can’t say I read much.” “Then now’s the time to start,” I retorted, slightly disappointed at finding the very thing I loved most he evidently did not share. “I’ll lend you the book.” “You’re on,” he said. “But only if you’ll come to the Odeon with me to see the flick.” vvv That was the start, I suppose. I struggled with my conscience momentarily, but by that time I was so attracted to Alec, I threw caution to the wind. We went together to see the film, and I let him kiss me goodnight, but later I lay in bed, wracked with guilt about having betrayed John. Not only had I lent a precious book he’d given me to another man, I’d let that man kiss me. I started avoiding Alec by going for walks at lunch-time and eating alone. Then one day, he followed and demanded to know what was going on. “I shouldn’t have gone out with you,” I said and walked on, keeping my eyes averted. “It’s just — it’s just...” I turned to face him then. “It’s betraying John. It’s not fair on him.”

“A penny for ’em, love.” I jumped as my dad startled me awake from my daydreaming memories. He had his hand on my shoulder, and the kind concern in his eyes nearly had me breaking down and confiding in him. “Don’t fret so much, pet,” he said. “John’s legs will soon mend, you’ll see. It’ll just take time.” I felt overwhelmed with guilt. I nodded mutely and turned away. “Soon be walking you down the aisle, eh, Esther?” Dad persisted. “I couldn’t wish for a better son-in-law.” ‘God, if only he knew,’ I thought and muttered, “There’s plenty of time for that, Dad.” “With this war, you never know how much time anyone has.” I made good my escape to the kitchen, just wishing my dad would shut up. It had been a week now since John’s return and I had yet to tell Alec it was over between us. Instead, I’d been avoiding him again, ignoring the mute, puzzled questions in his brown eyes as he bent across the capstan machine, adjusting a tool. It was the night of the air-raid that had been the catalyst of our love. I had been on my way to retrieve my bike from the bike-racks at work when the sirens had sounded. I decided to ride home anyway and risk it. After all, the blackout would shield me. I was just

We went together to see the film, and I let him kiss me “Look, Esther, I just wanted to take you out of yourself, cheer you up...” “OK, but kissing goodnight...” “Couldn’t help myself; didn’t intend to, but the fact is I like you a lot.” He smiled at me, but there was something so wistful about that smile, I couldn’t help myself, I reached up and touched his face lightly. “I like you too, Alec, but don’t you see, it’s — it’s impossible?” “Nothing’s impossible,” he called after me, but I was already walking away. 20 Woman’s Weekly Fiction

freeing up my bike, when I heard a shout. It was Alec. “For the love of God, Esther, get to the shelter.” I half turned towards him. “You following me, by any chance?” “I want you to be safe, you idiot!” I felt suddenly reckless and heady, glad to see the look of concern in those brown eyes. “I’ll be fine,” I said, and just then, as if in mockery of my words, an almighty blast had me reeling off my feet and landing with my bike

upended on top of me. I lay dazed and disoriented as the silence following the blast lasted for moments on end. “Alec!” I called his name in a complete panic. Then I felt myself encircled in his arms, and clutched at him, trembling. “Did it hit the factory?” I said, my voice quavering. He was stroking my hair and I touched his face. It was wet. Tears or blood? “Dear God, Alec..!” “It’s nothing. A graze, that’s all. Are you OK? Oh, Esther, I thought you were...” He didn’t finish because he was crying and holding me close. Later, we learned that the bomb had hit a nearby house and that two people had been killed. But the factory and workers, who had been filing out to return home, were safe. As for me, as Alec and I clung together, I realised there was no going back. Life was too short in those days, in every sense. We began to meet regularly at a secret rendezvous. I remembered the day that we’d sped off to the coast on our bikes. It had entailed lying to Mum, saying I was going out with Joan. I had to swallow my guilt as she helped prepare tomato sandwiches and used the last of our cocoa to make a chocolate cake. Alec brought strawberries and a bread pudding. We sat on a cliff overlooking the beach, fortified with barbed wire. His arm crept around my waist as I unpacked the picnic. “I must look a sight,” I said aware of wisps of hair from my carefully prepared “victory roll” hairstyle blowing into my eyes. Alec stroked them away with his finger. My heart did its own victory roll of drumbeats at his closeness and the look in his eyes. “You’re beautiful,” he said simply. “You know what’s happening to us, don’t you?” I can’t remember replying. I just remember feeling rapturous and lost and kind of full up all at the same time. There were tears in Alec’s eyes too as he bent to kiss me. Then the world and the war went away for endless minutes.

Suddenly, without warning, John’s face came into my mind for a second, clear as a photograph and, abruptly, I pulled away. “This is all wrong,” I said, and tried very hard to believe it. I looked down at the ring John had given me before he left. I didn’t know whether he was dead or alive. There was just this awful limbo. And I had betrayed everything he stood for. Alec took my hand and pressed the palm to his lips. “Who knows what is right or wrong now?” he said. “Everything’s changed, everything’s topsy-turvy. We can’t help how we feel, Esther. We just have to live

“Did we?” He stared at me for a long moment, then abruptly turned and walked away. That night after work, I took my sewing and went to sit with John. The pain of finishing with Alec was like a vice gripping my chest. I bent my head over my work, glad that John seemed to be in a blue study all of his own. Madge came in with a pot of tea which she set down with a quick smile before turning away to build up the fire. I listened dully to the crackle and spit of the coal as the flames licked greedily around the new lumps. “Nights drawing in now,” Madge observed. “I expect you two want to be left alone. It’s the least you deserve, after all.”

We sat together on that cliff, entwined in each other’s arms for each day.” We sat together on that cliff, entwined in each other’s arms, gazing out to sea until the sun started to go down. Then we’d cycled back through the twilight, singing at the tops of our voices to keep our spirits up because we didn’t know when we would spend another day like this one — if ever. “Esther, why are you avoiding me?” I jumped as Alec broke into my reverie about him as I sat eating my lunch. I could hardly bear to meet his quizzical stare and the puzzled sadness in his eyes. ‘Time to come clean,’ I thought, taking a deep breath. “John’s home. He’s been back a week now.” I heard his quick intake of breath. “And you’ve been avoiding telling me!” I nodded mutely, close to tears now. “He’s been injured,” I told him. “His legs — he’s in a lot of pain.” I told him about the French family who had helped John to hide, and then treated his injuries. All the time he was looking at me with this wounded stare. “It has to be over with us Alec,” I said. “We always knew it couldn’t last.”

“No need,” I said hastily. “Thanks for the tea and biscuits anyway.” “You’re more than welcome. You’ll soon be one of the family, and the way you’ve waited faithfully for our John and not given up hope — as I said to your mum, we couldn’t wish for a better daughter-in-law.” Echoing my dad’s sentiments about John, I thought wryly, as Madge left the room. I felt slightly winded by her words. Looking at John, I saw the strain in his eyes. “Are you in any pain, John? Can I get you anything?” He shook his head. “No, Est, but thanks. It’s not too bad tonight. Comes and goes. It’s just Mum keeping on hinting about us marrying and all that...” I felt sudden hope leaping in my heart. Had he changed his mind? I asked him outright. He looked at me incredulously. “Would I ever let you down, Est? You’re my girl.” He groped for my hand, wincing as he moved his leg. “It’s just... well, I can hardly walk you down the aisle in this state. You deserve a fit man, not a — a cripple.” “Don’t call yourself that! Your legs will get better with time, and, anyway, I’ll look after you.” I meant it. A sudden rush of feeling for John convinced me

that it was possible to love two men at the same time. I realised that my love for Alec had been so intense, it had driven all other feelings into the shadows, like a strong beam of light obliterating a more distant one. What I wasn’t prepared for was John’s fierce reaction. “I don’t need you to look after me,” he said angrily. “The trouble is, Esther, you’ve not been where I’ve been or seen what I’ve seen... I’m not the same man since... but I don’t need a nursemaid.” Taken aback, I held up my hands in defence. “I know, John. I know.” I hesitated, then added. “Shall I go now?” He looked troubled, evasive, staring into the fire. “You don’t have to go, Est. Take no notice of me. I’m not... not myself, you know.” I noticed his hand was trembling. He was right, I thought, I hadn’t experienced what he had. How could I possibly know what he’d been through? Filled with the familiar guilt, I took his hand to try to steady it. “You’re a good girl, Esther. Some girls wouldn’t have waited, I know that. I don’t deserve you.” I bent my head to hide my fiery-red face, my thoughts racing in the silence broken only by the crackling of the fire. “Don’t be silly,” I muttered. “Anyway, you need rest and I have to be up in the morning.” I bundled up my sewing and smiled at him, but he had gone far away again, back in France, most likely. As I stole out of the room, John hardly seemed to notice my going. I saw very little of Alec in the days that followed. A different tool-setter serviced the machines now. In a way, it was a relief, but I ached to see Alec’s familiar smile. At home, John was sinking further and further into a depressive state, hardly talking at all when I sat with him, and simply staring into space or the fire. Occasionally, I would persuade him to go outside and hobble on his crutches up and down the lane. He was making some progress, but it was slow going. Woman’s Weekly Fiction 21

Secret

e v o L

“If only he could cheer up,” I said to his mum. “It might help him physically.” Madge nodded. “The doctor says he’s seen a good few injured men go into their shells. He says to give it time.” I now saw it almost as my duty to try to rally John around, cheer him up with little treats like baking a cake for him, or relating a funny story about the factory. The latter didn’t go down well. “It’s a wonder you get any work done there with all the fooling around that seems to go on,” he said sourly. I didn’t retaliate, just remembered sadly how he used to laugh uproariously at my funny stories about customers whom I’d served in my dad’s shop before the war. Was a sense of humour the first casualty of seeing action as a soldier, I wondered? Later, lying in bed, I found myself pining for Alec. Would my feelings for him ever go away? I realised I hadn’t seen him for days. The factory was a large one, though, and he could simply be working in another section. Next day, I plucked up courage to ask Sid about Alec, trying very hard to keep a neutral tone of voice. “He left a week Friday,” Sid told me. “I thought you’d have known, seeing as how pally you were. He’s gone back to Somerset.” It seemed like I was the only

“Anything up, Est?” I jumped. John was staring at me intently. “No, well, I heard one of our old tool-setters had joined the fire service in Bristol,” I said as casually as I could. “He’ll be missed. He was a good worker.” “Oh, yes. Handsome, was he?” I looked up quickly, but was relieved to see John grinning, a rare sight these days. “Never noticed,” I lied. “Why wasn’t he away fighting like the rest of us?” Irritated, I told him about Alec’s disability. “It’s all right for some.” “The fire service is dangerous enough,” I said heatedly. “In London or Brum, perhaps.” “You know very well any city is dangerous and especially Bristol being a port,” I said. I was very near to tears and he must have noticed. I tried to interject a jokey note. “Anyway, you’re very talkative all of a sudden.” “Doc’s been today. Says I could be fit for service again in no time.” I stared at him. “And put yourself through all that again.” “Why wouldn’t I?” he retorted. “No choice, anyway. Better than sitting twiddling my thumbs at home.” Later, I quizzed Madge about John’s response to the doctor’s visit. “Mmm. Doctor’s humouring him,” she said. “Let him dream on, if it’ll give him an incentive to get better. He’s

Later, lying in bed, I found myself pining for Alec one who didn’t know. The jolt left me feeling badly bruised, almost ill with shock. No one appeared to know which part of Somerset he’d returned to. Why hadn’t it occurred to me to ask him precisely where he came from? Two weeks later, I heard one of the men tell Sid he’d heard from Alec. He’d gone to live with a married sister in Bristol, apparently, and joined the fire service there. That night, it was my turn to stare broodingly into the fire as I sat with John. 22 Woman’s Weekly Fiction

lucky to have survived, let alone kept his legs, so the doc says. If it hadn’t been for that French girl, Marie, that he keeps on about...” “Marie?” “The daughter of the family as hid him. She’d had some medical training before the war which turned out to be a godsend for our John.” “The dark horse,” I said. “He never mentioned her to me.” She gave my arm a reassuring squeeze. “You needn’t fear, love. You’re the light of his life.”

I wasn’t so sure. Was that why John had seemed far away from me, in another place, perhaps reliving his time with this Marie? Was that why he was so keen to get back to active service? Maybe he was hoping to eventually return to France. I was surprised to find myself jealous. A few days later, accompanying John for some fresh air as he struggled along on his crutches, I said teasingly, “Pretty was she, this Marie who dressed your wounds?” He looked sideways at me and gave a sly grin. “An absolute stunner!” Then his eyes clouded over and he was silent. I couldn’t resist pursuing it further. “I expect you’re worried about her and her family.” “Yes,” he said. “They risked their lives to help me.” I thought about the danger they’d all been in and still were, and here had been me cavorting about the countryside with Alec, eyes meeting flirtatiously over the capstan machine, gallivanting about on bikes to the sea, kissing... “Hey,” he said. “Cheer up. I’m back in Blighty now.” He smiled, but there was sadness there in his eyes. He wasn’t the same John who had marched away. But then, I wasn’t the same girl either. The thought of Alec had me aching to know how he was. I relived that kiss on the beach over and over again. The war ground relentlessly on. One day, listening to the wireless, I heard there had been another air-raid on Bristol, a bad one causing many deaths. I was sitting with John at the time and felt his eyes on me. “You’re thinking of that bloke, aren’t you — that tool-setter?” I was unable to speak. I just nodded and looked away. “He meant something to you, didn’t he, Est?” I looked at him then, dreading his anger, but he didn’t look angry. He looked as full up as I was. “Come here,” he said brokenly holding out his arms. I went over to sit by him and we held on to each other, both

crying openly now. It was then he told me about Marie, how in his confinement in the attic at the farm, and with their shared danger, they had fallen in love. “She had a fiancé too,” he said. “He was away fighting with the Allies. She hadn’t a clue what had happened to him.” I screwed my handkerchief into a damp ball and nodded. “You’re still in love with this girl, aren’t you, John?” “I can’t forget her,” he said after a silence. “Just like you can’t forget this...” “Alec. His name is Alec. And no, I’ve tried but I can’t and when I heard the news...” I sat up rubbing my arms. “Oh, John, what are we going to do?”

parachuting into France. I realised then the real pain of loss, a grief deeper than I had ever known before. My childhood sweetheart and best friend was dead. vvv I thought I had buried all thoughts of Alec in that grief, but seeing him now, walking by the sea, I realised I had merely repressed them. It was as though I was rooted to that deckchair, watching him walking along, utterly oblivious to me. ‘OK,’ I thought, ‘I have a choice.’ I could let him pass by and probably out of my life forever, or I could take a risk that he’d just see me as a casual fling he had in the war. ‘To hell with it,’ I thought.

It was as though I was rooted to that deckchair, watching him John sat up, wincing a little with pain. He sat extending his hands to the fire, then rubbing them together deep in thought. “Just get through this war is the first thing,” he said eventually. “I still care for you, Est. I came home thinking you’d always been my girl and I wasn’t about to let you down. What sort of a rat would I have been if I had?” I told him then how I had given up Alec for his sake. “I realised that I loved both of you, only in different ways,” I told him. “With Alec, it was sort of intense, like...” “Like tomorrow might never come?” “Yes.” “That’s how I felt.” His eyes darkened for a moment, and then he turned to me and took my hands and kissed the palms of each of them in turn. “Est, if you need to go to Bristol to try to find Alec, I’ll understand,” he said. I had never loved John so much as I loved him at that moment. I leaned forward and kissed him. “Maybe,” I said. A year or so later, John returned to his regiment, and later still joined the expeditionary force on D-Day. I never saw him again. He was killed in action shortly after

“Alec,” I called, waving furiously. For a split second, he didn’t appear to hear me and I thought ‘let it go, Esther’ then he turned, stared and broke into a run, so far as he could run with that foot of his. He was smiling broadly as he came near. “Esther! Well, I’ll be...” “I can’t believe you’re alive.” I was suddenly back again overlooking that other beach. So long ago now, but it seemed only yesterday. “I heard you’d married,” he said. I nodded. “Special licence,” I told him, “we had a week together, then he went back. He was killed.” “I’m so sorry, Esther.” I felt myself welling up; there was so much feeling in his voice, so much compassion in his eyes. All the old conflicting feelings were back and when he reached out to touch my hand, I recoiled as if I had been burned. “What about you?” I asked in what I intended to be a flippant tone. “Have you met that certain someone yet?” “As it happens, yes,” he said softly. I hadn’t expected that. I was stunned. “Oh, really? I’m glad for you,” I said, unable to stop my voice quivering. “When’s the wedding?”

“How would I know? I haven’t asked her yet,” he said and his lovely smile nearly killed me. Why, oh, why had I chosen to come to this beach today! Then unbelievably, he took my hand in his own. “The penny hasn’t dropped yet, has it, Est?” he said and his eyes said it all. “It’s you. It’s always been you. It always will be you. You broke my heart, you know, and I’m risking it all over again, and I know it may be too soon what with everything that’s gone on.” I was too choked to answer him and, misinterpreting my silence, he half turned away, the old shadowed sadness coming back to his eyes. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have... I’m taking liberties,” he said. “It’s just — seeing you again.” “No!” I moved quickly, standing in his way as he turned to go. “Please don’t disappear again, Alec.” I poured it all out then, how I had never really stopped thinking about him all those years. Even in the midst of my grief for John, he had been at the edge of my mind. “John loved someone else, too,” I told him. “A French girl. He never forgot her. Alec, if I’ve learned anything at all, it’s that you can love more than one person at the same time, only in different ways...” His lovely smile returned. “No barbed wire on this beach,” he said. “At least that’s a start.” “It was such a lovely beach though, barbed wire and all,” I said, overwhelmed with memories. Then, hardly knowing what I was doing, I just reached up and put my arms around his neck. “Do you remember what we said about living for the day?” I said and as he slowly nodded, I added, “Well, today is another day and we’ve met up again and perhaps we’ll never have another chance — if war taught us anything, Alec, it taught us that. So what I’m trying to say is, ‘No, it’s not too soon. It can never be that’.” I stopped for a breath, only to have it taken away a moment later when Alec kissed me. THE END © Pat Ashford, 2017 Woman’s Weekly Fiction 23

The

Right

Question She knew why Roy was so reluctant to tie the knot. But this would be such a perfect setting for a proposal

my stood on the hotel balcony, gazing out at the shimmering turquoise sea. Behind her in the room, she could hear Roy moving around. He liked to unpack as soon as they arrived, unable to enjoy his holiday until everything was tidied away in drawers. Whereas Amy was happy living out of a suitcase. She heard him step out onto the balcony behind her and, though she didn’t turn, excitement quickened inside her. Was this the big moment she had been anticipating for so long? Was Roy about to propose? She savoured the moment. Blue sky, palm trees and golden sand. A pelican skimmed over the waves. The perfect setting for creating such a precious memory. “Do you know where the teabags are?” Roy asked. She puffed out the breath she had been holding. “Front pocket of my suitcase.” OK, so not now. But they had two whole weeks ahead of them. Plenty of time. Roy came closer and slipped his arms around her. “Nice,” he said and she hoped he wasn’t just talking about the view. 24 Woman’s Weekly Fiction

“Aren’t you glad you came?” she teased. Roy didn’t do flying. And he didn’t do abroad. But he’d made an exception for this trip, travelling to Mexico with a group to celebrate the wedding of two of their friends. It hadn’t escaped Amy’s attention that, once Laura and Tom were married, she and Roy would be the only ones still to tie the knot. And while on one level she knew that marriage wasn’t everything, she had to admit part of her yearned for her big day. She leaned back against him. “I love weddings, don’t you? You should see the flowers

never tired of pointing this out. Their friends never tired of teasing them. After six years together without a proposal, Amy knew better than to get her hopes up. But on the other hand, should Roy propose, what better place to do so than here? They changed quickly to go down and meet their friends in the hotel bar. On the way out the door, Amy reached for her camera. Roy made a face. “You’re not bringing that, are you? You know once you start taking pictures, you forget about everything else.” Amy hesitated. She was a keen

“Well what?” asked Amy, though she knew exactly what Laura was asking. “Did he get down on one knee?” Amy shook her head. “We’ve only just got here.” “There’s money riding on this,” said Laura. “We have a sweepstake.” Amy laughed. She knew why Roy was so reluctant to tie the knot. She even understood. His parents had divorced when he was young. They’d both remarried several times and his childhood hadn’t been easy. He wasn’t a fan of marriage.

Was this the big moment she had been anticipating? for tomorrow. Everything will be just perfect.” Not quite. Perfect would have been a double wedding. “Be all right, I suppose,” muttered Roy. “Lot of fuss over nothing, if you ask me. Especially making everyone come all this way.” “Saves on the honeymoon,” she pointed out with a grin. Amy wasn’t the only one expecting Roy to propose on holiday. Her mother thought a wedding was long overdue and

amateur photographer, had even done a couple of courses. She’d planned to take candid photos of the wedding preparations and put them together in an album for the bride and groom. But Roy was right; making time for them as a couple was important. Reluctantly, she put the camera back. “Well?” asked Laura, the bride and Amy’s best friend, when they reached the bar and split into two groups, boys at the bar, girls outside on the terrace.

“He’ll do it in his own time,” she told Laura, crossing her fingers under the table. She glanced over at the bar where Roy was clearly the butt of some good-natured teasing. He caught her eye and grimaced, making her laugh. “Have you searched his bag for a ring?” demanded Laura. “Of course not.” Cheeks flaming, Amy took a sip of her cocktail. She hadn’t searched his bag. But she’d thought about it. She’d even considered checking

By Jacqui Cooper his bank statement for the name of a jeweller’s shop. But that wasn’t who she was. The wedding rehearsal went well and afterwards the friends all gathered for a meal. Amy missed her camera but she took some pictures with her phone. She was checking through them when Roy sought her out. “I hope you’re not going to spend all day tomorrow doing that,” he grumbled. “There’s an official photographer, you know.” She slipped her phone away. “I was wondering,” said Roy, oddly formal,” if you’d like to go for a walk on the beach?” He wasn’t much for walking. Her surprise must have shown on her face. “We don’t get away much,” he added. “I just thought it might be nice. Besides, there’s something we need to talk about.” Amy’s heart skipped. Was this it? They strolled hand in hand. “Enjoying yourself?” she asked. Roy nodded. “I’d enjoy myself more if that lot would stop having a go at me.” “I’m getting the same,” she said. “They’re all married. They think we should be, too.” “Married? That’s not... I mean, yeah. That as well.” He stopped and pulled her into his arms. “I’m glad I’ve got you alone.” The moon shone behind him, reflecting on the shifting sea. Out of the corner of her eye, Amy could see the fairy-lights in the hotel garden. She held her breath. “You are?” He nodded. “There’s something I need to — Ouch!” “What?” she asked impatiently. “Something bit me!” “No. What were you going to say?” Roy began to hop from foot to foot. “I’m being eaten alive. Come on!” He grabbed her hand and they dashed back to the hotel. Once inside, she could see his feet were breaking out in angry red lumps. “Sand-flies,” said Amy. “Didn’t you put bug spray on?” “Not on my feet. Who sprays their feet? Ow.” Amy had, for one. They took the lift up to the room, Roy complaining all the way. “Where’s the antihistamine cream?” she asked once they got there.

“Didn’t you pack it?” he asked. She stopped searching. “No, you said you’d see to the first-aid kit. Stop scratching. You’ll only make it worse.” He did look as if he was suffering. “Why don’t I nip down and see if I can borrow some from Laura?” “Thanks,” he said when she returned with a tube of cream. He began to dab it gingerly onto his bites. “Amy? About what I was going to say on the beach —” “Can it wait?” she said quickly. A disgruntled Roy covered in insect bites was not the kind of memory she wanted to cherish. “We’re both exhausted. And we have a big day tomorrow.” vvv The wedding passed off perfectly. Amy took some amazing photos. And she caught the bouquet. Waving it triumphantly, she searched for Roy in the crowd but saw him at the hotel desk, talking to the receptionist. Oblivious.

tanned, happy and a little sheepish, he hurried out to find her. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I tried to tell you.” “Not very hard.” He became defensive. “You’re always like this when I want to play golf. Surely you don’t begrudge me a game on holiday?” Of course she didn’t. Not really. “I mean, I don’t complain about your photography.” Seriously? But this was an old argument and not one Amy wanted to repeat in front of their friends. Besides, who wanted to fight on holiday? She let it go. Roy took the opportunity to tell her that he had a weekly pass for the golf course. She gritted her teeth. That was OK. They still had the second week. In the end, she rather enjoyed having the week to herself. Her friends were on hand if she

Would the ring come in a glass of Champagne? Or she’d read of some poor woman who was presented with her ring inside a fish! “I’ve had a great holiday,” Roy said as they settled at their table. “Me, too.” “I didn’t expect to enjoy it,” he continued. “What with all the stick I was getting about us being next for the altar.” “Mmmm,” she said. Their table was on a wooden platform over the water, surrounded by sea. The moon was huge and she had never seen so many stars in the clear sky. The setting was the stuff of dreams. “And I’m glad I booked this restaurant for tonight,” said Roy. “It’s special.” “It is,” she agreed. “Because I’m really sick of that all inclusive menu. I fancied a steak tonight.”

For the first time in years, she could please herself vvv Next morning, she woke alone. After a shower, she went down to the terrace. Several of her friends were there having breakfast. She looked around. “Anyone seen Roy?” The women didn’t know. The men avoided her eye. “Tom?” asked Laura. “Have you seen him?” “I think he might be playing golf,” muttered Tom, yesterday’s groom. “Golf?” Amy repeated blankly. Tom nodded. “He had his clubs sent out from home. They arrived yesterday. I thought you knew...” He tailed off because it must have been obvious to everyone that she didn’t. “The hotel has a first-class golf course. It was the clincher when I was trying to persuade Roy to get on a plane,” admitted Tom. Oh? It might have been nice if Roy had mentioned it. “What about poor Amy?” demanded Laura indignantly. “It’s bad enough that he’s on the golf course every weekend at home. But on holiday, too?” Amy refused to be the cause of a rift between the newly-weds. “It’s fine,” she said quickly. She spent the day by the pool, relaxing. When Roy returned,

wanted company. But she spent a lot of time on her own, too. For the first time in years, she could please herself without feeling guilty, sightseeing and visiting local museums. Normally at home when Roy was on the golf course, she was busy catching up with chores and housework. She took her camera everywhere and relished having the time to spend on her hobby without Roy’s constant disapproval. On the second week, Roy packed his clubs away and once more took over their itinerary. A water park. Rip-gliding. Scubadiving. Amy hated them all, but didn’t complain. There were markets she wanted to visit, a Mayan ruin. Neither of those interested Roy, but he grumblingly accompanied her. By their last evening, the subject of marriage still hadn’t come up. But then Roy announced he had booked a table in the hotel’s best restaurant. Just the two of them. Amy took extra care with her make-up and hair. She wore a dress that showed off her glowing tan. Her friends gave her an approving thumbs-up as she and Roy left them in the bar to go to the restaurant.

Amy blinked. She doubted even Roy would try to hide a diamond ring in a steak. “I mean, we’re happy just as we are, aren’t we?” he continued. “Why would we want to get married and spoil it?” Happy? The word gave her pause. “You know what?” said Amy thoughtfully. “You’re right.” “I am?” He looked relieved. She nodded. “I think I’ve been so caught up in the idea of marriage that I haven’t stopped to think if it’s right for us.” “Exactly,” said Roy. “I knew you’d see things my way. You really don’t mind?” She smiled. “I really don’t.” The past two weeks had shown her what the previous six years had failed to: she and Roy had practically nothing in common. Break-ups were often bitter and acrimonious, but did they have to be? Amy looked again at the stars, the moon, the glittering sea. The setting was just perfect. “Roy?” She reached for his hand. “There’s something we need to talk about...” THE END © Jacqui Cooper, 2017 Woman’s Weekly Fiction 25

Twins

They may have looked like two people with the same face at first, but it was soon obvious they were very different from each other

he photo shows two little girls in pink dresses with identical bows in their hair, except that the girl on the left has hers neatly tied and the other girl’s has come loose, with one end of the ribbon flung over her shoulder. Everyone who sees the photo, even now — there’s a framed copy in Viola’s sitting room and one in Cory’s desk drawer — leans in to examine the faces, as if it’s a spot-thedifference contest. They all want to be the one who identifies those subtle variations in nose or eyebrows or expression, who can instantly tell which is Cory and which is Viola. Even their mother muddled them up at times, though she swore it was just a slip of the tongue when she called the wrong name. Their father admitted that, when one twin spilled juice on the floor or made the baby cry and all he could see was the back of a pigtailed head, he would simply shout, “Twin! Come here, whichever you are!” Nine times out of 10 it was Vi; she was the untameable, impulsive one. Cory was the girl who tenderly combed her doll’s hair, while Vi shaved hers to see if it would grow back. Vi, christened Violet, insisted at age six on being upgraded to Viola. Violet was old-fashioned, she claimed, and she had always hated it. Cory noted that she only went off her name after Uncle 26 Woman’s Weekly Fiction

Eddie’s visit when he teasingly tagged them Cordial and Violent. Cory — or Cordelia — thought cordial was syrup and wasn’t keen to be known as the syrupy one. When their father told her it meant amicable and kind, she still updated her name anyway because, otherwise, wouldn’t it sound as though Vi was the violent one and she was the nice one? And that wouldn’t be fair or right. The one detail few people notice is that there is a third child in the photo. Just old enough to sit upright, she leans slightly backwards as though about to fall under the feet of the twins. Gwendoline. Another oldfashioned name, soon shortened to Gwennie or Gwen, not because the child objected to her name but because nobody could be bothered to say such a mouthful. In the photo, she’s in the shadow while the twins have their heads, shoulders and linked arms in the sunlight. Viola leans forward, as if ready to sprint, while Cory stands straight with one foot automatically propping up Gwen. It could have been a metaphor for their childhood. Vivacious Viola increasingly occupied the limelight. Cory absent-mindedly cuddled and played with Gwen, much as she played with her other dolls when Viola wasn’t requiring her full attention. If Cory didn’t instantly run into the garden when Viola called her,

having climbed up high in the sycamore tree, Viola would become dramatic, shouting, “I’m stuck!” or, “I’m going to fall!” Once Cory arrived, Viola would urge her to climb up either to “rescue” her or to admire the view or just to acknowledge her bravery. Gwen, as she grew, would try to follow but, more often than not, both twins would shout at her to stay ` where she was. “No, Gwen, you’ll fall and get hurt!” Cory would call, her eyes squeezed tight with anxiety. “No, Gwen, go away, there’s not room for three!” was always Viola’s response. She said it on other occasions: “No room for three in here, Gwen!” when they were playing hide-and-seek with other children. Or, “There aren’t enough things for you, too!” when the twins were raiding the dressing-up box — even when

they had grown too big to fit into Cory’s nurse’s outfit or Vi’s old Superman suit. Cory would make room for her, dress Gwen up as a nurse and, when she cried that she wanted to be a princess, would wind floaty scarves around her waist and drape her thin little arms with bangles so big they fell off. “Keep your arms up, Gwen,” Cory would encourage her, and Gwen the nurse-princess would parade around with arms in the air until she grew tired or her trailing scarf got caught in the light-sabre brandished by Viola in her role of hero-whosaved-the-universe. When the twins started school, the other children were stunned to see two people with the same face and kept asking which was which. But it wasn’t long before they knew them so well that they couldn’t imagine how anyone could mistake Viola for Cory or vice versa. They were so different! Wasn’t it obvious? By the end of the first few weeks, the reception class teacher agreed. There were few physical differences, she acknowledged, but although she found it easier to tell them apart when they were together than when she saw them separately, still they were very different. A keen birdwatcher, she compared it with seeing a small brown bird in the distance: even if you couldn’t see that it had a red breast or smooth or speckled wings, you could identify it by its

F The child objected to her name

By Clare Nonhebel mannerisms — the bobbing movement of a robin, the quick flutter of a sparrow or the shy shuffling of a dunnock. Viola was a sparrow, she said: chattering, lively and cheeky. Cory was a dunnock. “It’s another word for dunce,” Viola whispered to Cory behind her hand and Cory cried and believed her, as she always did. When Gwen started school, there was no need to compare her to a bird. Teachers in successive years simply compared her with her sisters. The younger one. The other one. The one who wasn’t a bubbly comedian like Viola nor, like Cory, a conscientious hard worker in the classroom and adopter of left-out children in the playground. Gwen was simply the sister who wasn’t a twin. Cory’s mother-hen role in the playground was a lifesaver to Gwen when she started school. She adapted well to the classroom, but was alarmed by the rampaging gangs of exuberant children playing games with mysterious rules and ever-changing allegiances. A best friend could become an opponent within an afternoon; someone who shared sweets yesterday could today link arms with another child and walk away, talking secrets between them. Gwen’s only sure point was Cory who, although fully engaged in gangs of friends and games, would notice Gwen if she hovered near enough and would take her by the hand and lead her back to the “babies” and ask a little group to let her sister join in their game. And the babies would always say, “Yes, of course”, because one of the big girls was asking, and they looked up to Cory. Most people liked Cory, but the one they wanted to be liked by was Viola. If Viola chose you for one of her make-believe games or her skipping or rounders team, you knew you were on the winning side. Even if she lost, Viola never recognised defeat but would lead her team in an energetic chanting we-will-getthem-next-time dance. It was no surprise to anyone when Viola, who had been casually considering applying

for university when she left school, was suddenly, at the age of 17, offered an opportunity to go to the States to train in the glamorous world of fashion design. A friend of a colleague of Uncle Eddie, to whom he had shown his niece’s ambitious and fanciful designs, had recognised budding talent, not so much in her sketches of impractical evening-wear as in the feisty spirit they represented, and offered her a trial year as a trainee in his fashion promotion studio. The family was buzzing for weeks before Vi left for America. Every day, she presented a new challenge or crisis. First, she kept

Wasn’t it a twin sister’s duty to offer support at such a defining moment in Viola’s life? Cory and Gwen began exchanging meaningful glances when Viola came down to breakfast each morning with a breathless, “Do you know what I haven’t thought of?” In the end, Cory said with unaccustomed forthrightness, “There’s nothing you haven’t thought of, Vi, except other people. Anyone would think you were going to the moon!” Viola and Gwen both stared at Cory in disbelief. Then Viola flung her way out of the room and the house, slamming every door en route. “I shouldn’t have said that,” said Cory quietly. “She’s probably scared about going, really.” “Viola’s never scared of anything,” Gwen said. But when Viola returned, hours later, she looked pale and shaky. Cory followed her into the bedroom they shared and shut the door. When she came out, they were both quiet and a bit red around the eyes. Gwen took her favourite teddy and laid it on Viola’s pillow, in case she needed it for comfort on her last night at home. Viola said her goodbyes to their parents at the house, having said she wanted to be waved off at the airport only by her sister. “Sisters,” said Cory. “You do have two, remember?” On the train, Gwen sat by the window, facing backwards, with Cory beside her and Viola and her bags taking up the two seats opposite, facing forwards. Buildings, trees and trafficclogged roads flashed past, like life passing by. Viola talked incessantly about life in the States, about the family — friends of Uncle Eddie’s — with whom she would be lodging, about the job she would eventually be trained to do, the people she would meet, the accent she would acquire and the successful career that would inevitably evolve from this exceptional opportunity. Cory said very little except, suddenly,

F Viola never recognised defeat

refusing to get her passport photo, demanding a professional photographer to “do it properly”, while the deadline for applying for the passport loomed. Cory offered one of her own photos, having quietly had one taken in a high-street booth, but their mother objected, saying she wasn’t going to have both twins arrested for fraud. Then a postal strike delayed the passport’s arrival and Vi had to make a personal visit to the issuing office. Cory was meant to go with her — but Cory had an interview for nursing training, so Viola persuaded Gwen to take a day off school and go with her instead. Then her hair wasn’t right for America and she needed a special makeover at an upmarket salon instead of the local place. Then she didn’t have the right clothes. Or enough dollars to take with her. Or a proper travel bag for the flight. And how could she shop for all these important items without on-the-spot advice?

when they were almost there, “I got accepted. I had the letter this morning.” Gwen jumped off the seat and exclaimed, “That’s wonderful! Why didn’t you say so before? You’ll make a perfect nurse!” just as Viola frowned and asked, “Accepted for what?” Viola recovered quickly and said, “Yes, you will make a good nurse, Cory. Well done, you,” but she didn’t miss Cory’s fleeting expression of hurt. At the airport, Viola hugged Gwen first then turned to Cory and took both her hands. “I know I’ve hogged the limelight. I’m sorry. I’ve always been jealous of you.” “Jealous of me?” Cory was astonished. “You’re a far nicer person,” said Viola. “You always have been. I just wanted to tell you now because otherwise you’d never think it for yourself.” Then she ran for the Departures gate and didn’t look back. Cory stood motionless. “Cory,” said Gwen tentatively, “just till Vi comes home again — could I be your twin?” “Oh, Gwen,” said Cory, scooping her up and kissing her with damp cheeks and a wide smile, “of course not! You’re my one-of-a-kind sister. You’re irreplaceable, don’t you know that?” I’ve never forgotten that scene. It wouldn’t be too much to say that those words changed my whole view of myself, for a lifetime. Even now, after all those years, sitting here with my newest granddaughter on my knee, little Sarah Gwendoline, it brings a smile to my face. One of a kind. THE END © Clare Nonhebel, 2017

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THErE wAS SomETHIng vEry oDD ABouT THE LADIES’ DEPArTmEnT. HE HAD THE DISTIncT fEELIng HE wAS BEIng wATcHED

he building had been an eyesore for years, walls decorated with graffiti and most of its windows broken. Even so, the remaining occupant of one flat on the top floor had stubbornly refused to go, and it wasn’t until her death solved the problem that Hamsworth Bros. Department Stores seized the opportunity and moved in. It had been there now for several years, giving the town a thriving business they could be proud of. Alf Truscot applied there for the job of night watchman. Among the unwritten qualities required for such a post are common-sense, discipline and loyalty, and the store instantly took him on. Ex-military, he 28 Woman’s Weekly Fiction

appeared to have all such qualities by the bucket-load. Alf had no doubt he could do the job with his hands tied behind his back, which was why, in spite of those excellent qualities, he found one aspect of it somewhat unnerving during his very first week.

There was something very odd about the Ladies’ Department on the third floor. He had the distinct feeling that he was being watched and a rather powerful perfume kept wafting over him. He recognised that perfume because he had once given some to Pru. She had tried to look pleased, but he could tell she wasn’t. “It’s just that lavender water always reminds me of my grandmother,” she explained when pressed. He told himself briskly to pull himself together, and that someone who had spent the best part of his life yelling at countless squaddies on a parade ground should not allow himself such flights of fancy. Besides, he only had these feelings when walking round the Ladies’ Department.

q He could do the job with his hands tied behind his back

His real problem, however, began with the dresses. He had worked his way methodically up the store, department by department, until he reached the third floor, and was marching in his usual brisk military manner — chest out, chin in, head up — swinging his torch into corners where the security lights could not reach. He gave a cursory glance at the rails of dresses and skirts and the pairs of colourful shoes, noting as he did so that the models had been clad now in seasonal winter dress. He paused by a rail on wheels full of dresses which had been left as though in preparation for display the following day, and caught sight of a striking red number. He thought how good his Pru would look in it — not half good! Then

Illustration: Getty

By Margaret Waddingham

he spotted a smart navy jacket and skirt on one of the models, who was wearing it with a wide white hat decorated with ribbons of navy and white. Just the thing for her nephew’s wedding. Then he looked at the price and puffed out his cheeks in astonishment. Perhaps she could find something in m&S instead. In the underwear department, he cocked his eyebrows at the bras and pants in purples and reds and bright pinks and had one of his private thoughts of Pru dressed in a set of black lace. not likely to happen, of course, she was strictly a white underwear girl. All the same... He cleared his throat, ran his finger inside his collar and marched on. He headed back towards the staircase, weaving his way this

way and that, glancing again at the rail which he had passed earlier so that he could look once more at the red dress. And stopped abruptly. The dresses were moving as though someone was pushing through them. He shivered. It seemed suddenly to have gone cold. He stepped back in surprise and said, “’Ello, ’ello,” in his usual military way. The dresses stopped moving. He walked along the line, pushing them aside as he went. no one. And the red dress was there, but no longer at the end of the rail. It was now behind a blue cotton one. Blue with spots. He stroked his chin, lifted his uniform cap slightly and scratched his head. wondered

q He shivered. It seemed suddenly to have gone cold

whether he was going barmy. Decided he wasn’t. ‘Someone is here,’ he thought. ‘Someone hiding.’ Perhaps having a bit of a lark. maybe one of the cleaners had somehow slipped back, even though he himself had let them out of the building over an hour ago. He dismissed the thought. It would be

a bit difficult, seeing as how it was only he who could let anyone in again. He called out, “All right, out you come,” trying to sound jovial. no one came out, but that strange perfume was nearer and he had the feeling that he was being watched. from somewhere nearby, he even imagined he heard the faintest of throaty laughs. He walked around again, more carefully, flashing his torch to check corners, behind tills, beneath tables, throwing open the doors of the changing rooms. Every now and then he said sternly, “That’s enough now, come on out,” but no one appeared. He checked everywhere he could think of, including the toilets, then headed towards the stairs. once, Woman’s Weekly Fiction 29

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he spun around quickly. He was sure that someone had tapped him on his shoulder, and he had the impression of something like a little cloud moving behind him. He blinked hard but there was nothing there. The lift hadn’t moved because he had locked the doors in an open position, so if anyone was trying to make a hasty getaway, it could only be by the stairs. He peered over the banisters, right down to the basement, but could see no movement. Rather than go through each department again, he decided to go back to his desk and the bank of CCTV screens. It would be difficult to escape those. He returned to the lift and, as he entered it and unlocked the doors, pressing the button to go down to the ground floor, he cast one final look over his shoulder and gasped. Bobbing along, as though someone was underneath it, was the white hat that had been on the model with the navy suit. He stared as the hat moved this way and that until finally it came to rest before the model and sort of floated (or was it lifted? Alf wondered), back into place upon its head. For a long time, he stared, unable to believe what he had just seen, then, clutching his torch firmly in one hand and his mobile phone in the other, just in case he needed to call 999, he walked back to the model. “Hmmm,” said a voice nearby. He turned quickly. “Who’s there?” he shouted, but there was no one, he was quite sure of that. He checked the model. Sure, the hat was in place, though at rather an odd angle, falling almost over its nose. And lying on the floor beside it was a curious little old-fashioned thing, decorated all around with artificial flowers. He went hastily back to the lift, jabbed at the button to shut its doors and it sped down 30 Woman’s Weekly Fiction

towards the safety of his desk and CCTV screens. vvv His shift was over as the first of the day staff arrived. He went up to the ladies’ department to find its head, Miss Jones, and hurried from the lift, trying not to look at the model. “Mornin’ Miss Jones,” he said. “Good morning. Have a quiet night?” “I think we may have had an intruder playin’ around.” “Here? In my department?” He nodded. “The hat on that model over there, it — it...“ he couldn’t bring himself to say the words. “I think you’ll find it’s been moved slightly and there’s a funny little hat thing on the floor just beside it.” “Which model?” “The one that’s wearing the navy suit and white hat.” Together, they walked to the navy suit and white hat and stood there, frowning. “Nothing wrong here,” she said. “The hat’s slipped a bit, that’s all. There, that’s better. And where’s the other one you talked about?” Alf looked around and his jaw dropped. No sign of it. “It’s gone,” he said. “Perhaps one of your girls picked it up.” “They’re not in yet.” He rubbed his hand over his chin. “Well, I never,” he said. Miss Jones, having only been at the store herself for a few weeks, did not know him very well. She smiled cheerfully. “Perhaps you have a little brandy in your flask,” she joked, but he looked at her so ferociously that she wished she hadn’t. “I do not drink on duty,” he thundered. “All I have is the cocoa that my Pru puts in a flask for me.” “I apologise, Alf,” she said humbly, “it was just a little joke. But you can see nothing’s wrong here.” Alf harrumphed for a moment. “There’s another thing. A dress had been moved.” Miss Jones raised her eyebrows. “Show me,” she said. He led her to the rail of dresses, ready to point out the blue spotted one. It wasn’t there. “Ah,” he said. “Perhaps one of your girls has moved it already.” “I told you, they’re not in yet.”

He scratched his head. “There was a blue spotted dress. I’d caught sight of a red one at this end of the rail. I noticed it in particular because I was thinkin’ how good my Pru would look in it, and when I came past it next time, it was hanging behind a blue one. A blue one with spots.” “Spots?” She wrinkled her nose disdainfully. “Spots aren’t in this winter.” “Well, they was last night. Hanging right in front of this red one. I wouldn’t have noticed it if it hadn’t been at the end of the rail. I don’t go fidgeting through them all, you know,” he added hastily. “It was only because of my Pru. Then when I came to pass it next time, it wasn’t there any more. Because of the blue dress

back to the lift, arms swinging, chest out, chin tucked in, head erect, noting that the perfume that had wafted around was no longer there. He sailed down on the lift, gathered up his things and went home. vvv For the next few nights, nothing peculiar happened in the Ladies’ Department, except that perfume which seemed to follow him wherever he went. Then it happened again. He turned a corner and found some jumpers and cardigans strewn all over the floor. And a blue spotted dress, lying on the counter — just lying there, as though someone had taken it off in a hurry. Exactly like the one that had hung in front of the red dress. He took a step back. The perfume was stronger now and, in spite of himself, he was shivering with a sudden chill. The feeling that someone was watching him was so strong that he could feel the hairs on the back of his neck rising. He forced himself to turn away and marched, in his usual brisk manner, around the rest of the department, except that now and then he spun around, flashing his torch behind him. On the way back, he deliberately passed the untidy piles on the floor again. They were still there, perhaps even more untidy. So was the dress — but this time there was a little oldfashioned hat decorated with flowers lying on top of it. “Now, look here,” he said loudly, backing against the counter-top as he said it, “stop messing me about.” “Me — messing you about?” said a small voice. He spun around, and there was something just on the other side of the counter behind him with a jumper suspended in mid-air. His lips had suddenly become dry. He licked them, then said, “And just what do you think you’re doing here?” “What am I doing here?” she said. “Young man, I could ask you the same question. And while you’re thinking about it, I am in a state of undress and if you were a gentleman, you’d turn around so that I could reverse the situation.” Almost without thinking, Alf did as he was told. “Do you mind telling me who you are?” he said

q He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck rising

with spots. Hangin’ in front of it. And...” He paused here for a moment whilst gathering his thoughts. “And the dresses was movin’.” “Moving?” “Yes. Movin‘. Without a doubt, they was movin‘. Swinging backwards and forwards like they do when someone tries to push through them.” “One of the cleaners, perhaps?” “They’d all been gone an hour before.“ “And — on the CCTV?” He pushed out his chest. “I looked. Nothing on that, either. And I checked each floor.” “Then there’s surely nothing to worry about, is there? Perhaps it was just your imagination.” “Miss Jones, do I look the sort to suffer from imagination?” Miss Jones quaked in her shoes and had to admit that he didn’t. “Neither am I the least bit fanciful, Miss Jones.” “No,” she said, “of course not. Just one of those things, then.” He looked at her hard, said, “Good morning,” and marched

to the piles of jumpers and cardigans on the floor. “I’m Mrs Huxley. All right, you can turn round now.” He did so and there she was. She seemed to waver before his eyes for a moment, but finally became a small, elderly lady with a round, mischievous face and wiry hair, standing — at least he thought she was standing — on the other side of the counter. She was wearing the blue spotted dress. He gulped. “Well, Mrs Huxley, and what do you think you’re doing here? It’s long past closing time.” “Closing time? What’s closing time got to do with me? I live here.” He stared at her. “What do you mean, live here? You can’t. This is a department store.” She sighed sadly. “Silly boy,” she said. “I’ve lived here in this flat for more years than I can remember.” “No, you haven‘t. It’s a shop.” “No,” she said firmly, “it’s my flat.” There was a sort of wavering transparency about her and when she spoke, it was as though she were in an echo chamber. “It is my flat.” Then there was a faint, throaty little laugh, and suddenly, she wasn’t there any more. Alf stared at the spot where she had been. Stared, then rubbed his eyes. The jumper that she had been holding up was lying crumpled on the counter. “Mrs Huxley,” he called. But she had definitely gone. All that was left behind her was the perfume and it no longer felt so cold. Then he said, “Alf Truscott, pull yourself together,” and he looked behind the counter, searched the floor again, and the staircase, and through the other departments. When at last he returned to his desk, he had a comforting cup of cocoa and rather wished he did have some brandy to go in it. He accosted Miss Jones next day. “Everythin’ in order, Miss Jones?” he enquired politely. “Yes, thank you, Alf.” “Only I was just wondering — those jumpers and things. Unusual for you to allow that.” She looked at him vacantly. “What jumpers and things?” “Over there. The things all over the floor.”

“What things all over the floor?” “I’ll show you.” He marched over to the corner where, only a few short hours ago, clothes had definitely been all over the floor. Miss Jones looked puzzled. “Here?” she said. “Nothing wrong here, Alf,” and she gave him one of those looks that said, “You’re imagining things again.” He said, “You wouldn’t know someone called Mrs Huxley, would you? One of your customers, perhaps?” “No, I don’t think so.” Alf thought, ‘I am not imagining things. I did see someone last night. Someone who said her name was Mrs Huxley. Someone with a blue spotted dress who was trying on jumpers that she had spread all over the floor.’ But there was nothing on the floor now. Nothing at all. vvv Each night, he found himself approaching the Ladies’ Department with a mixture of alarm and excitement. Truth to tell, he was almost hoping that Mrs Huxley would put in another appearance. At last, she did, in the lingerie department. Bras undone and put with a mismatch of pants. He stared at them for a few moments, caught that scent again, felt the now familiar goose bumps of chill down his back, and knew she was there, watching him. In the dim light, he saw a battered handbag lying on the floor. He flashed his torch behind and all around him, then cautiously picked it up. It had the feeling of old, cracked leather. He shivered slightly, then, pulling himself together, he opened it. Almost immediately, the bag was snatched away from him and a hand slapped his.

He stepped back with a gasp of surprise. The bag was now lying on the counter and the back of his hand was stinging from the slap. He flashed his torch on it and saw faint red marks. “Oi!” he said.“If that’s you, Mrs Huxley, there’s no need to get rough.” “You shouldn’t mess with ladies’ handbags, then.” “I wasn’t messing with it. I was just picking it up,” he said, and he thought, ‘What on earth are you doing, Alf Truscot, talking to nothing?’ “And what, may I ask, are you doing prowling around amongst the ladies’ unmentionables?” She was there now, beside him, though he hadn’t seen her come, her perfume strong and old and still wearing her blue spotted dress. “I could say the same to you,” he said. “I’ve a perfect right to be here in my flat, young man,” she said indignantly, “and you haven’t had the courtesy to tell me your name yet.” “I’m Alf Truscot and I’ve told you it’s not your flat, Mrs Huxley,” he said patiently. “It’s a department store.” She took a deep breath in, tipping her head back as she did so. “It is my flat,” she said again, louder, so that the words rang around, bell-like. He, too, took a deep breath. “Look here, Mrs Huxley, who are you?” “I’ve told you who I am.” “Yes, but you’re not — you’re not real, are you?” “Whatever do you mean, not real? I’m as real as you are.” “I don’t think so. I think you’re a ghost.” She laughed then. Threw back her head and laughed and laughed so that her wiry grey curls shook, and this time it was her laughter that rang around. “I don’t think it’s that funny,” said Alf. She stopped and wiped her eyes with her hands and they were thin, wafer thin; in fact, she

q She stopped and wiped her eyes with her hands

was gradually becoming wafer thin all over, so thin that she was disappearing from view. “Don’t go, Mrs Huxley,” he called out, anxious to speak some more. But it was too late. She had gone. vvv Back at his desk, he watched the banks of screens intently, on all floors but most especially the ones that covered the Ladies’ Department. Halfway through his shift, he unwrapped the packet of sandwiches that Pru put up for him but found his appetite had vanished. He poured out some cocoa and sipped it. Had he really been talking to a ghost? Him? Alf Truscot? But on the back of his hand, there was still a red mark and he couldn’t think of any other explanation. vvv Their meetings became more frequent. Sometimes, he knew she was there because an item of clothing was wriggling around as though someone was trying to get into it. Once, a dress walked out of a changing-room in front of him and began to move around as though dancing to some music that he couldn’t hear. He called to her, “Is that you, Mrs Huxley?” and she said crossly, “Of course, who else?” and there she was. On another occasion, a stand of necklaces swayed dangerously as they jingled together, then a pair of skis staggered awkwardly and fell in an untidy heap and he heard her say, quite clearly, a word that would have made some of his rookies blush. Woman’s Weekly Fiction 31

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He couldn’t help her up, so he picked up the skis instead and put them back in the display that Miss Jones had created and when he turned, Mrs Huxley was sitting on a plinth next to a model, rubbing her toes. “Are you all right?” he enquired politely. He still couldn’t quite get used to talking to a ghost. She sniffed. “I’ll live,” she said, and he had a bit of a job not to laugh. He sat down on the plinth beside her. “Mrs Huxley, why do you keep coming in here?” “Why?” she said in amazement. “Because of all these lovely things that someone has left for me of, course.” “But no one left them for you. This is a department store.” “So you’ve told me. A hundred times. And I’ve told you a hundred times, this is my flat.” She stood up and went towards a stand of scarves. “Lovely things,” she said. “Lovely, pretty things. So pretty. And all for me.” The scarves whirled around on their stand, floated in the air, fluttered around like brightly coloured birds. “Lovely things,” he heard her say again, but this time from a great distance. The scarves floated again and then were still. She had gone.

Mr Gurney, head of Human Resources, asked to see him and enquired how he was getting on. Alarmed, he said, “Very well,” wondering what was coming. “And, um, no troubles on your shift?” He eyed him narrowly. “Troubles? What sort of troubles?” “Oh,” he replied airily, “any sort of troubles.” “Why do you ask?” he said. “Has someone complained about me?” “Oh, no. Goodness me, no. Quite the opposite. It’s just that you seem to be getting on well with — um — no troubles. We usually have some, you see, with the night watchmen. They don’t usually stay long.” He sat more upright. “What troubles?” Mr Gurney gave a rather false laugh. “Oh, you know how it is. Night is a funny time. One can get a little — um — how shall I put it? Over-excited.” ‘Ah,’ he thought. ‘Now we come to it.’ “What were they getting over-excited about?” he asked calmly. Mr Gurney was a small man, over-fussy, florid and not really great at his job. When he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbed. He wished he hadn’t started this conversation. “They usually left because they were convinced there was a ghost. On the third floor. In the Ladies’ Department.” He laughed again, uneasily. “All nonsense, of course,” he said. “Yes,” said Alf thoughtfully. Next time Alf saw Mrs Huxley, he said, “Do you usually appear to people?” “Whatever do you mean, appear?” “You know, appear. In front of them. Behind them. Slap them on the hand, even.” Mrs Huxley giggled. “Good gracious, no. It’s more fun just frightening them.” “Why me then?” “Oh, well, you were different. You looked as though you would take a lot of frightening. I couldn’t be bothered.” He grunted. “You can’t stay here, you know,” he said. “Why not? I keep telling you, it’s my flat.”

“And I keep telling you that it’s a department store. It’s not a flat any more. It hasn’t been a flat for several years. Since you died,” he added. She turned her head slowly towards him. “What did you say?” “I said, since you died.” “Since I died,” she repeated incredulously. “That’s right. You do know you’re a ghost, don’t you?” She opened her mouth and inhaled deeply. “I am not a ghost,” she said. “You are.” “I am not!” “You are.” “I’m not!” Her voice grew thin, the words repeated over and

q His hand moved aimlessly through cold, thin air

over and ringing around the department but growing more and more distant: “I’m not. I’m not,” until he could hear them no more and he was again alone in the Ladies’ Department, with only the faintest hint of perfume. The following night, he could smell her perfume almost before he opened the doors of the lift and could feel the drop in temperature. She appeared to be waiting for him. “Alf Truscot,” she said, “you have disturbed me greatly.” “I’ve disturbed you?” he said. “How come I’ve disturbed you? It’s you that’s the ghost.” She wore her usual blue dress and the funny little hat and she fussed over her battered handbag, anxiously opening and closing it. “What makes you think I’m a ghost?” she asked. “Well, for one thing, when you try clothes on, you disappear.” “I beg your pardon?” “I can see the clothes moving around, but you’re not there.” “I don’t know what you mean.” “That first night, you nearly showed yourself. You tried on

a hat. The hat moved but there was no one in it. Once you tried on a dress and the dress swirled around as though it was dancing, all on its own. Same with the skis and the cardigan.” She stood by a long evening dress in midnight blue and stroked it longingly, and he stood beside her and tried to pat her shoulder, but his hand moved aimlessly through cold, thin air. “Then,” she said in a tired, frail voice, “if I’m dead, and, if what you say is correct, I really am a ghost...” She didn’t finish the sentence. Alf nodded at her. “You really are.” “Then I suppose I ought not to be here at all. I ought to go somewhere else.” “You’re quite old,” said Alf gently, “and it’s time for you to rest.” “What a shame,” she said. “I’ve had such fun. You know, frightening people and trying on all these lovely things.” He nodded and wondered what would be the right and proper thing to say to make a ghost stop haunting. “I did think my flat looked different somehow,” she confessed. “Perhaps I could go to another part of this shop of yours?” “No,” he said hastily. “That wouldn’t work at all. It’s time for you to go. Properly go and rest,” he added firmly. He heard her give a soft moan. He didn’t see her go. He saw the scarves do their fluttering, colourful dance, heard necklaces jingle together, saw dresses move as though someone was pushing through them, caught the whiff of perfume, fainter and fainter, felt the temperature rise, but he didn’t see her go. He just knew she had. As he turned to go back into the lift, he saw a battered handbag lying on the floor. He picked it up and this time there was nothing to slap his hand or snatch it away from him. “Goodbye,” he called softly, but there was no answer, no movement anywhere. “Goodbye, Mrs Huxley,” he called again. “It’s been a pleasure knowing you.” THE END © Margaret Waddingham, 2017

WHOLE AGAIN

By Simon Whaley When Maureen died, she left two big holes: one in my heart and one in my life

hate holes. Nothing but trouble, they are. “How are you feeling, Mr Clarke?” The receptionist moved some out-of-date magazines from the chair next to me, sat down and then took my hand in hers. “Still feeling woozy?” I smiled. Or I tried. It was more of a sneer, really. Half my face was numb. The receptionist patted my hand. “It’s not every day you have a filling, is it?” I sneered again, as she dashed back behind her counter to sort out Mrs Johnson, who’d come out from her check-up. She was right. It wasn’t every day that I have a filling. This was my first in 62 years. My first adult tooth filling. Not a big one, but big enough to hurt. “You’ll get a hole, and need a filling,” my Maureen would tease, wagging her finger at me every time I opened a new packet. I like my mints, you see. You know the ones. With the holes. I used to eat a whole packet every day. That was before. Now, I eat two. I slipped my fingers into my trouser pocket, feeling for the comforting metallic wrapper of my mints, twisted at the top to stop those remaining from falling out. They weren’t there! Instead, my middle finger poked through the lining, and I felt the skin of my thigh. Another hole! See what I mean? Nothing but trouble. I leant forward, checking under the seats, but they weren’t there. I sighed. It was only half a packet of mints. I’ll stop at the newsagent’s on the way home. I always do, if I’ve enough change. “Burning a hole in your pocket, is it?” Maureen always teased when I counted my loose change in the palm of my hand. “There’s more to life than mints,” she’d say. “There’s always me.” And she’d follow it with a cheeky wink.

I spent a lot on Maureen. Never begrudged her a penny. Loved her tights, she did. Felt undressed if she hadn’t got a pair on. Even felt naked when she found a hole in them. Always getting holes in her tights, was Maureen. I think she put them there on purpose, just so I would buy her a new pair. My fingers explored the hole in my trouser pockets. “I spend my life darning holes in your clothes,” Maureen muttered regularly. I wish she were here now to mend them. She’s another hole, you see. Well, two, really. One in my heart, and one in my life. I so hate holes. “We’re shutting for lunch soon, Mr Clarke.” The receptionist glanced at her watch. “Shall I call you a taxi, or will you be OK on the bus?” I stood up. “I might have a cup of tea at Hobson’s Café first.” The receptionist nodded. “You might find it easier to use a straw until the anaesthetic wears off.” Outside, the road was clogged with traffic. Temporary traffic lights. The gas board was digging up the road. Drivers tooted horns in frustration. More hole misery. As I turned towards Hobson’s Café, a woman behind me screamed. “Oh, no!” She was on her hands and knees on the pavement, desperately gathering up her groceries that were making a bid for freedom across the precinct. A couple of loose onions and a tin of minestrone

soup rolled towards me. I picked them up. “Thank you,” she said. She waved a bag in the air disdainfully. “These biodegradable carriers are useless.” The bottom corner was torn. Yet another hole. Although perhaps I could do something with this one. “Here, let me.” I took it from her and gathered together the torn strands, then twisted it into a strip of plastic, long enough to knot. “There we go,” I said, pulling it tight. “You can still use it for some of your shopping.” I dropped in the onions and the minestrone soup. She rose to her feet and smiled. “They’re mine, too.” She pointed to the pavement behind me. I turned and saw a packet of mints lying there. Ones with holes. I collected them for her and dropped them into the bag. “My favourites.” She winked at me. “I like the holes best. No calories in them.” We rose to our feet, each holding a carrier bag handle to check if my knot would hold. “Thank you. Not many would help a woman in distress these days.” My cheeks tingled. A blush? Or was the anaesthetic wearing off? “Let me walk you to the bus stop,” I offered. Her green eyes sparkled, and her pupils widened. The holes to the soul, as Maureen always used to call them. “How kind,” she said. “When we get there, I’ll open that packet of mints.” I smiled. Perhaps holes weren’t so bad, after all. THE END © Simon Whaley, 2017

She was on her hands and knees on the pavement, desperately gathering up her groceries

Woman’s Weekly Fiction 33

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2017 Writing

0800 024 1212*

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e’ve now introduced an even wider selection of writing workshops which we’re sure you’ll love. And with our fabulous tutors, you will be in good hands...

About Our Tutors

Della Galton is a novelist, shortstory writer and journalist. She is a qualified Adult Education tutor and her ‘How to Write’ Books are available from Amazon.

Suzanne Ahern is one of Woman’s Weekly’s bestloved serial writers and is known for dramatic plots and memorable characters. Alison Chisholm has had over 800 poems published in magazines, anthologies and nine collections, or broadcast on radio and TV. She’s published textbooks and has taught poetry for over 25 years.

Monday BeginnerS’

poetrY Writing With Alison May Chisholm Learn techniques for writing compelling poems, from ideagathering and structure to the final polish and submission. 10.00am Welcome. 10.30am What is your experience of poetry, and how will you take it further? 11.00am Group exercise: anaphora poems that use repetition. 11.45am Finding ideas. Discussion and practical ideasgathering session. 12.20pm Exercise: follow pattern to create a poem, using the template of a published poem to consider a pattern that’s worked, and then adapt it to suit our own writing. 1.00pm Break for lunch. 2.00pm Rhyme, slant rhyme and metre workshop, looking at the building blocks of poetry. 2.30pm Keep it fun! A poetry game to demonstrate the value of randomness. Group exercise and individual writing. 3.15pm You’ve got it written — now get it right. A look at redrafting and revision. 3.40pm Sharing your poetry — publication and readings, and how to achieve them. 4.10pm Final discussion with questions and answers. 4.30pm Workshop finishes.

Tuesday DeVelop Your

16 May

poetrY SkillS

With Alison Chisholm

Take your knowledge a stage further. 10.00am Welcome. 10.30am Where has your poetry carried you so far and where would you like it to take you next? 11.00am Exercise: Explore a set form. Writing a triolet. 11.45am “Value-added” poetry — pooling ideas for writing more vibrant poems. 12.20pm Exercise: A poem that surprises. We’ll come at the subject from a new angle, produce a twist ending, or use the What If? principle to add interest for the reader. 1.00pm Break for lunch. 2.00pm Group work looking at the poem’s voice. A short poem will be re-worked to see how much more or less effective it would be in a different tense or person. 2.30pm The response poem. Have your say about works of art, topics for debate and news items. Discussion and exercise. 3.15pm Poetry competitions. What can they do for you? 3.40pm Writing-on-the-spot exercise, using a trigger and strict time limit. 4.10pm Final discussion with questions and answers. 4.30pm Workshop finishes.

Monday Writing

22 May

Short StorieS for Woman’S WeeklY With Della Galton

Have you ever wanted to write stories for Woman’s Weekly? Suitable for beginners and experienced writers. 10.00am Welcome. 10.30am What is a short story? 11.00am Workshop: Opening paragraphs. What makes a good one? Write yours. 11.45am Constructive feedback. 12.30pm What is a blurb? How can it help you to plot? 1.00pm Break for lunch. 2.00pm Workshop: Blurbs, plus constructive feedback. 3.15pm Workshop: Endings. What makes a good one? Write yours. 3.30pm Constructive feedback. 4.15pm Final whole group discussion with time for questions and answers. 4.30pm Workshop finishes.

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We are close to Canary Wharf, which is on the Jubilee pleaSe note all Line, and Heron Quays, which is on the DLR. Once our WorkShopS you’ve booked your place, we’ll be able to help you Will Be helD in the with further directions, should you need them. learning zone at Workshops start at 10am with a meet and greet, and 161 marSh Wall, there will be two 15-minute breaks during the day, lonDon when you will be able to help yourselves to tea and e14 9ap coffee and water from the kitchen area. We will provide the biscuits! There will also be an hour for lunch from 1pm — please bring lunch with you (we have microwaves), or there is a small supermarket close by, should you prefer to buy lunch on the day.

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ong To Our

at our NEW lEarNiNg vENuE iN loNdoN

g Workshops Friday

June

hoW to Create BelieVaBle heroineS & VillainS

Monday Writing the

12 June

With Suzanne Ahern

What goes into constructing heroines and villains who are believable and memorable? 10.00am Welcome. 10.30am What is character? 11.00am First impressions count! Start from scratch with a hero and a villain. 11.45am How to make characters realistic. 12.15pm Character exercise: Build your heroine and villain. 12.40pm Interrogate your heroine and villain (in pairs). 1.00pm Break for lunch. 2.00pm How to give your heroine and villain a back story. 2.30pm Character exercise: Fill in the gaps for your characters. 2.50pm Decide what’s important. 3.15pm How to raise the emotional stakes for your characters and take the reader with you. 3.40pm Character exercise: Make your characters whole. 3.55pm Character exercise: Re-interrogate your heroine or villain (in the same pair). 4.15pm Final whole group discussion with time for questions and answers 4.30pm Workshop finishes nB: Please bring photographs from magazines or the internet of people. All shapes and sizes!

tWiSt-enDing Short StorY With Della Galton

Do you enjoy stories that end with a twist? Just what makes a good twist ending? This course will show you how to avoid some of the pitfalls and to steer clear of the taboos. Suitable for both beginners and experienced writers. 10.00am Welcome. 10.30am What is a twist-ending story? We will look at a number of different types of twist. 11.00am Workshop: Start by writing the opening paragraph of a twist story. 11.45am Constructive feedback on the story openings from the tutor and from other members ` of the group. 12.30pm Tips on twists — find out what are the Dos and what are the Don’ts. 1.00pm Break for lunch. 2.00pm Workshop: Endings, plus constructive feedback. 3.15pm Finding a title for your twist. What makes a good title? 3.30pm Workshop: Titles, plus constructive feedback from the tutor and from other members ` of the group. 4.15pm Final whole group discussion with time for questions and answers. 4.30pm Workshop finishes.

Tuesday Your life in

27 June

poetrY

With Alison Chisholm

Whether you are writing for the interest of your own family or for the world at large, learn the skills of turning your life experience into individual poems, sequences or mini-memoirs. 10.00am Welcome. 10.30am Selecting the limits to help find the focus for your writing. Discussion. 11.00am: Exercise: A narrative poem from childhood based on a specific event. 11.45am Breaking down the experience to discover the angles from which to write a sequence. 12.20pm Exercise: A poem based on a series of linked soundbites that add up to a clear picture. 1.00pm Break for lunch. 2.00pm: Approaching the poetry mini-memoir. How to turn any event into a long poem or short collection of poems. 2.30pm Exercise: A poem fuelled by emotion, based on your teens. 3.15pm Bringing other people into the equation who could be affected by your writing. 3.40pm Writing-on-the-spot exercise, using a trigger and strict time limit. 4.10pm Final discussion with questions and answers. 4.30pm Workshop finishes.

Monday Writing

July

Sparkling Dialogue

With Della Galton

Writing dialogue is great fun, but can also be hard to get right if you’re a new writer. Or even if you’re not. How do you write dialogue that sounds believable? How do you stop your characters all sounding like you? Are there are any tips and tricks? Indeed there are. Come along and find out more. 10.00am Welcome. 10.30am The Golden Rules of writing dialogue. 11.00am Workshop: How do they sound? 11.45am Constructive feedback on workshop. 12.30pm Tips and tricks on how to make them sound different. 1.00pm Lunch. 2.00pm Different voices workshop. 3.15pm Dialogue and plot. Making it sound natural. 3.30 pm Workshop: Constructive feedback. 4.15pm Final whole group discussion with time for questions and answers. 4.30pm Workshop finishes.

Please cuT ouT This couPon anD senD To: Woman’s Weekly Writing Workshops, customer care, Time inc. 5 churchill Place, 2nd Floor, canary Wharf, london e14 5hu

Workshop

Date

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Beginners’ Poetry Writing

Monday 15 May

£79

Develop Your Poetry Skills

Tuesday 16 May

£79

Writing Short Stories For Woman’s Weekly

Monday 22 May

£79

How To Create Believable Heroines And Villains

Friday 9 June

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Writing The Twist Ending Story Monday 12 June

£79

Your Life In Poetry

Tuesday 27 June

£79

Writing Sparkling Dialogue

Monday 3 July

£79

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Name

WhenPush Comes To

Shove

auren clutched the steering-wheel a little tighter as her mother-inlaw, Angela, chatted on and on from the back seat. “I think modelling is a wonderful idea. It’ll open up new horizons. Plus, it’ll be so much fun for all the kiddies.” She paused, then added to Lauren’s four-year-old in her safety seat, “Don’t you think so, too?” “Yes, Gran,” Kelsey said with a giggle. She always agreed with her gran. Then again, in a good mood she tended to agree with everyone. “Are we going the right way?” Lauren asked. The queue of traffic they sat in streamed past another set of lights. “Yes, the photography studio is on the industrial estate.” Angela pointed up ahead. “Take a left up here, then a right. It’s a shortcut.” Lauren puffed out a sigh. Push, push, that was Angela. She ought to get a job as a midwife. Kelsey taking up modelling would never have crossed her mind. No, she and her daughter would be at home now, Kelsey knee-deep in finger-paint, Lauren quaffing down coffee as she tried to work out how to barricade the front door to keep her mother-in-law outside.

36 Woman’s Weekly Fiction

“There it is!” Minutes later, the woman’s loud declaration made Lauren jump. She turned into the car park of a single-storey, box-like building. ‘What am I doing here? I know more about nuclear fission than I do about modelling for the under fives,’ she thought. Leaving the car-park behind, they entered the studio. They passed a deserted reception desk and wandered into the huge room that opened up beyond it. There, a woman scuttled over. “You’re the last — so you must be the Nelsons. I’m from the catalogue company. We’re trying to keep things low-key so the kids don’t get overexcited. Hi, there!” she said to Kelsey, her hands on her

What was she doing here, surrounded by five-year-old models?

parents. Introductions were made. Lauren struggled to remember half the names flung at her. Kelsey just grinned and giggled. “The changing cubicles are over here; clothes there.” The woman from the catalogue motioned from place to place, her hand too fast to follow. “Hair and make-up is in the corner. Oh, don’t worry, nobody will look like a clown.” She clapped. “Pasha! Simone!” she called to two of her assistants. “Can you get things organised, please? I’ll be with Nigel.” Nigel, the photographer, was busy setting up big lights in front of a backcloth. He waved and some of the

Lauren puffed out a sigh. Push, push, that was Angela knees as she leaned down. “Look at you. Aren’t you pretty?” Kelsey didn’t argue. “Yes, I am.” “Come on, come over and meet the other models.” She waved them all over to the other side of the room where five other kids stood with their

kids waved back. ‘Oh, crikey,’ Lauren thought. ‘Really, what am I doing here?’ The short version was that Angela had sneaked Kelsey off to an audition at an agency one afternoon. Paul, Lauren’s other half, curse him, had seen no harm in it at all. “I know it’s not

something you’d normally consider, Lauren, but why not give it a try?” he’d said. Then an actual modelling job had turned up. Lauren had still done her best to wriggle out of it. “I don’t think we ought to go, Kelsey,” she’d said. “I don’t think you’ll enjoy it.” Her daughter had then screamed the house down. So here they were. Lauren got elbowed out of the little changing cubicle with its fabric sides as Pasha, the assistant, and Angela dressed Kelsey in her first outfit of the day — white tights, a pleated sky-blue skirt, a bright green T-shirt and huge red trainers. An explosion in a paint factory would look less colourful. Kelsey laughed and twirled about. “If you can just take her to hair and make-up,” Pasha instructed, before moving on to the next cubicle and the next tiny model. Angela took charge, leading Kelsey across the creaking wooden floor towards the women in the corner, their folddown tables stacked with hair accessories and bronzers. “Today, we are all about pigtails,” one of the women there declared, after they’d

By Jo Styles introduced themselves. The other buried Kelsey in a big white towel to keep her clothes clean. Kelsey sat very still while the pair dolled her up. Angela beamed. “She’s loving every moment of this. I knew she would.” She cast a wary glance over to her daughter-in-law. Lauren crossed her arms. What next — This Year’s Next Tot Model? Miss Teeny World? “Is everybody ready? Now, we’ll be doing group shots first.” The catalogue woman left Nigel’s side again. She herded all the kids and their parents towards the green backcloth. “We might change the background digitally later but for now can all the tots form a line in front of it, please? Now, strike a pose, kids. And smile!” It became a little more complicated after that, once Nigel started directing the children properly. Plus, all the parents had to keep reminding him of their names. “Er... you... there!” He wagged a finger. “That’s Jamal,” his mother prompted. “Yes, sorry. Jamal. Move over just a little. Stand sideways. That’s it, look at... erm...” “Lisa,” her dad cut in. “Yes, sorry. Lisa, smile like your dad’s going to buy you a pony. That’s good!” He moved on to the next two kids, Jack and Freya. “You two hold hands. Don’t be shy. Good.” He then reached Kelsey and a little boy called Reuben. “I want you two to stand back to back. Can you do that for me?” On and on it went. Do this. Do that. Smile. Don’t smile. Tilt your chin. Look up. Look down. Nigel photographed the children’s every move before checking the shots on a laptop set up on a table. Then he wanted to photograph them all individually. After that, they all had to change into outfit number two... then three. The boys started yawning. The girls started scuffing the floor with their shoes. It was only a matter of time before one little tot launched into a meltdown. That tot happened to be Kelsey. “I don’t want to!” she wailed in one of the cubicles when

presented with outfit number five. “I don’t want to wear it. It’s silly.” Angela held up a bright yellow spotted onesie. “It’s only nightwear,” she soothed. “Don’t like it! Don’t!” “But this is all a part of modelling, sweetheart. You don’t always wear the things you like. You’re doing ever so well. Just stick with it. You’ll be happy you did. I can guarantee it.” Kelsey burst into tears. “No! No! No!” she wailed until Lauren pushed past her mother-in-law and swept her daughter up into her arms. “She’s tired. She’s had enough.” “She loved it until three seconds ago. She’s just having a moment, that’s all.” “Rubbish!” Lauren carried her daughter off. Across the wooden floor she strode, as everybody turned around. “She just needs some fresh air,” Angela excused, smiling at them all. Lauren escaped out into the car park and set her

a morning of rain. She poked in one toe of her pink ballet slippers, then wiped her eyes. ‘I’m done with this, too,’ Lauren thought. ‘I’ve let Angela get away with far too much for too long. I need to make a stand. If she never wants to see me again, well, Paul will get over it. One day.’ She took a deep breath. “Angela, you pushed Kelsey and me into doing this the same way you’ve been pushing Paul around his entire life. That’s what you do. You push, push, push.” Angela laid a hand across her chest as if needing to feel the roaring beat of her heart. “I do not. I encourage. I persuade.” “Persuade?” Lauren echoed in a strangled hiss. “It’s more like being mown down by a steam train.” “It is not. You’re exaggerating because you didn’t want to come here today.” Angela glanced over to Kelsey to make sure she couldn’t overhear them. “You ought to be grateful I do persuade people. I needed to

She stared into a big puddle left behind after the morning rain daughter down. Kelsey still wore outfit four from the fancy-dress section of the catalogue — a pink fairy dress, complete with two tiny wings. On her head, her tiara listed like a sinking ship. “Mummy?” “Yes, Kel...” Kelsey might have said more — only Angela bustled out, her brow full of furrows. “Are you two just taking a breather?” Lauren scowled. “No! Kel’s had enough. I’ll take her back inside in a minute, get her changed and take her home.” Angela, of course, argued. “She just needs a break, Lauren. You must have seen her giggling earlier. She’s having a wonderful time.” “No, she’s not. She’s going home.” By now, Kelsey had wandered off to the side of the building. There, she stared into a big puddle left behind after

persuade Paul just before your wedding. Did you know that? No. I didn’t think you did.” “What are you talking about?” “He had doubts. Oh, I knew what was going on. He was having a moment, too. That’s all it was.” She glanced to Kelsey again and a bright smile lit up her face. “He was worried about taking on somebody else’s little girl. I told him he had nothing to worry about. I always knew he’d make a fabulous dad.” “You... you pushed him into marrying me?” “No. I encouraged him to do so. I keep telling you there’s a difference. I told him, ‘Just stick with it. You’ll be happy you did. I can guarantee it.’” Isn’t that what she’d just told Kelsey about wearing a onesie? Lauren frowned as she remembered their register office wedding: her little toddler carrying a posy; her fiancé standing beside her, looking so

proud and happy. He’d never mentioned any doubts. Ever. They’d been married for two very happy years now. ‘What if... No, don’t start thinking of “What ifs”,’ she warned herself. Luckily, Kelsey ran over and tugged the leg of her jeans before a stream of “What ifs” could suck her in and carry her off. “Can I go back in now, Mummy? I’ll wear the spotty thing. I want my photo taken.” Kelsey could change her mind very quickly. Lauren took in her big wide smile, then she peered over at her mother-in-law. “Shall I take her back in for you?” Angela asked. “Or are you still going home?” She seemed wary of pushing Lauren either one way or the other now. Lauren frowned. ‘When does a nudge become a shove?’ she wondered. ‘When does a suggestion turn into a bout of nagging? When did I lose all perspective when it came to my mother-in-law? Was it when I left my comfort zone behind? Modelling, really? But I can’t deny it any more — this has been a fun day for Kelsey, all in all. So who is the miserable one here? Is it me?’ She bit her lip. ‘It is, isn’t it? I’m not joining in because Angela gave me a bit of a push into taking part. After that, all I could see was... red.’ She cleared her throat. “Let’s both go back in, shall we? It was a lovely onesie. I thought so, anyway. And Kelsey is enjoying herself.” She blinked as her mother-in-law’s jaw slackened in shock. ‘Yes, I just agreed with you. Surprise!’ “Is there anything you’ve never imagined yourself doing, Angela?” she asked. “Some hobby you’ve never looked into? We all need a bit of help leaving our comfort zones sometimes, don’t we? I could give you a —” She winced. ‘I do need to stop thinking of it as a bad thing, don’t I?’ She smiled. “I could give you some encouragement and use some gentle persuasion.” ‘Yes, that’s the way to do it, Lauren, when push comes to shove.’ THE END © Jo Styles, 2017 Woman’s Weekly Fiction 37

inosaurs D Jed told me I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have the skill to hatch the emu egg. That made me determined...

38 Womanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Weekly Fiction

placed my hands around the egg, lifted it from the incubator and set it down carefully on the kitchen table. “Watch this,” I told my sister. Then I leaned forward and whistled at it. “Peep, peep.” Immediately, the egg rocked from side to side, like a puppy, wagging its tail. Sarah gasped. “That’s amazing!” I cradled the egg — the colour of an avocado but three times the size — and placed it back in its cotton-wool bed, under the warm light bulb. “It’s the wiggle test. It doesn’t always work. Sometimes — quite often, in fact — he’s asleep.” “He?” Sarah queried. I smiled. “Or she. There’s no telling until — or if — he hatches. He might not make it out of the shell. But right now, there’s a live baby emu in there.” Sarah shifted in her seat and peered into the Styrofoam box. “I won’t tell the kids yet, then. Just in case. But where on earth did you get it? Oh, don’t tell me: the Chicken Man, right?” I nodded as I moved the incubator back into position, next to the central-heating boiler. “His name’s Jed. Jed Parker. He doesn’t have any chickens, though. He’s got ducks and geese — oh, and turkeys —“ Sarah was frowning. “So, what exactly is going on between you two?” she interrupted. I laughed at her outraged tone. “Nothing like that! He’s about 40, for a start. Practically a dinosaur! Although — “ I smiled at the memory — “he has just made me a proposition...” vvv “The only thing Jed Parker understands is money,” my boss said. “His ex took him to the cleaners, apparently. But we can’t drop our prices, so if you’re really determined to ‘crack’ him — ’scuse the pun — then you’ll need to think of another way in.” I’d tried various approaches: stilettos and full make-up (not a good look in a farmyard, but I almost made Jed laugh by skidding on a mud patch); an attempt to talk seriously about farming, which fell on deaf ears because I was a woman, I suspect, and I even, once, presented him with a pair of quails.

By Helen Yendall I’d spent an unproductive 12 months trying to convince Jed Parker to switch suppliers and buy from us, but that day when I zoomed into his yard with the William Tell Overture blasting from the stereo, I was pretty confident that, this time, I could do it. He was supervising the unloading of sacks of grain from the back of a lorry. I parked my car beside his Land Rover and got out. “Morning!” I called, sounding more confident than I felt. Jed stepped sideways as the fork-lift truck reversed. “You,” he said. “The proverbial bad penny. Thought you might’ve got yourself a proper job by now.” My smile didn’t waiver. That’s the thing about repping, you can’t take it personally if they turn you down or say horrible things. You just have to keep plugging away. Jed grimaced as he heaved a bag of grain onto his shoulder. He was built like a rugby player, with curly brown hair, a ruddy outdoors complexion and blue eyes that flashed when he was annoyed, which seemed to be most of the time. He tilted his head towards me. “Come on, then. There’s something I want to show you.” He led me through the yard and out towards what looked like a huge plastic ark. “So, what have you brought me this time?” he asked. “A partridge in a pear tree? Couple of peacocks?” I tapped my nose. “Information.” Inside the enclosure were dozens of tiny quails, pecking and waddling around contentedly. “Wow!” I said. “I heard you’d grown the flock but you’ve got hundreds.” “Yeah and every one’s a little princess,” he grumbled, but there was a touch of pride in his voice too. “They’re nervous and they don’t like it too wet or draughty, so they’ve got shavings on the floor and straw bales to nestle up against. And they don’t lay their eggs anywhere convenient.” I watched as a quail hardly broke stride as it dropped a brown speckled egg on the ground and then waddled on. I picked it up: the size of an olive and still warm. “I see what you mean.”

I sat down carefully on a straw bale and kept still as one of the little birds hopped on and off my shoe. “Have you thought about playing them music?” Jed pulled a face. “You said they’re nervous. Music would block out noise. No heavy metal, though. Something gentle.” He crossed his arms and his biceps flexed. “Is that the information you’ve brought me? That birds like music?” I took a deep breath and stood up. “This is a big investment. Don’t you think the quails deserve the best?” He smiled and rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Told you before. I’m happy with Farley’s feed. And it’s cheaper than yours.” “But ours is better!” I reeled off the list of ingredients and the nutritional values — my daily mantra.

He narrowed his eyes. “So, how do you know?” “My sister used to be a buyer there. She’s still got contacts. You could get in first. They have a policy of buying from local farmers.” For the first time, Jed Parker looked at me with something like interest. “Who else have you told?” “Just you.” He pursed his lips and nodded. “Go on then, chick — “ “Chick?” I was trying not to laugh. “Did you just call me chick?” He looked confused. “I dunno. Did I? Maybe. It’s just force of habit.” I should have just ignored it. I’d made a basic error: I’d interrupted him. “Anyway, you were saying?” I prompted. I felt light-headed. I’d probably just blown my one chance of getting an order. But I breathed out again, as he said, “I’ll take a dozen bags of that organic supplement. On a trial basis, mind.” We stood in his kitchen and Jed put on reading glasses to sign the order form. “Lucy Roberts,” he read, “Animal Nutrition Representative. Funny job, for a woman.” “I like it,” I lied. “I’m out on the road; it’s better than being stuck in an office. I like the animals. And some of the people.” That part was true, at least. He didn’t look convinced. “All right, I’m really a failed vet,” I admitted. “I messed up my finals but I needed to earn a living, so...” I shrugged. “You don’t strike me as the kind of person who messes up anything.” That was unexpected: a compliment. I opened my mouth to explain, but thought better of it. He wouldn’t be interested in the sorry tale of my badly timed relationship break-up and all the dark days back then. I shook his hand. It was surprisingly warm and so was his smile. “Thanks,” I said. “It’s great to finally do business with you.” As I walked back to my car, I allowed myself a little fist-pump. I’d done it! A fortnight later, I went back to Jed’s farm to check his delivery

y I almost made Jed laugh by skidding on a mud patch

He shook his head. “Come on.” He took the quail’s egg from my hand. “I’ll walk you back out.” I waited until we were out of the shed. Jed set off at a fast pace and I almost had to skip to keep up with him. “Thought you might be interested in the news about the supermarket,” I said, casually. He stopped and turned to look at me. “Go on.” I told him how our nearest big supermarket — 10 miles away, in town — was being taken over by an up-market chain, in the next few weeks. “It’s all hush-hush at the moment.”

Woman’s Weekly Fiction 39

Photo: Bill Harris

t is the day of the RoNas — Romantic Novel of the Year Awards — one of my favourite events and the seventh of these occasions over which I have helped preside. Each of the previous six have been marked by some small disaster of a sartorial or smudged-varnish nature, and a sense of time galloping past while I am still mid sound-check, tracksuit bottomed and un-lipsticked, dangerously close to the arrival of whichever celebrity is dishing out the gongs. This time, I am a picture of studied calm. My frock still fits, my heels haven’t snapped, my nails remain unbroken. We have completed the run-through unscathed. I have scanned the shortlists and my long and inglorious history of always pronouncing at least one name wrong — it never seems to be the Smiths or the Joneses that win these prizes — appears to be at an end. Hywela Lyn, author of Beloved Enemy (Wild Rose Press), up for the Paranormal Or Speculative Romance Novel (a new category this year), raised a possible question mark, but Nicola, vice-chair of the Romantic Novelists’ Association, which runs the show, has personally checked it out. I have written “Hugh-Wella” in felt-tip against her name and am quietly confident. “Does this mean something big will go wrong?” I ask Katie Fforde, best-selling novelist and president of the RNA, when we are both changed, made-up, and sipping Champagne in our allotted positions on the welcome committee, a full 20 minutes before Prue Leith is due to arrive. “No, it doesn’t,” she says firmly. Katie is first on stage. She

Below: Jane takes to the stage with Prue Leith

Just as she thinks she has the awards ceremony under control, along comes a tricky name to trip Jane up...

Just Jane introduces Eileen, our chair, who introduces me. I introduce Prue, which takes some time. She has a list of achievements as long as your leg. I try to find out if she’s been confirmed as the new judge on The Great British Bake Off. But at this point, she’s keeping schtum. She looks happy, though. What Prue’s not so glad about is the word “romantic”. “Just because we’re women and we’re writing about love, it gets a pink cover and sounds soppy and silly,” she says, declaring that some of the best stories ever written were love stories that didn’t get termed as romance and citing Jane Austen, Sebastian Faulkes and Julian Barnes. “You never see a guy who’s written a really good love story go up on the romantic shelves. So I don’t like

the categorisation,” she finishes, as I jestingly show her the door and announce we have seven categories of Romantic Novel to get through, so she’s going to hear the word a lot! Soon we are whizzing through them. I pronounce Hywela with what I like to think is aplomb,

Sophia comes on stage and thanks Prue for being one of the few to get her name right. I get another go, though, as Sophia is in the running for the overall Goldsboro Books Romantic Novel Of The Year. “SO-fee-ya” I mutter as Barbara Erskine and Adele Parks are given achievement awards and make their speeches. “SO-FEE-YA” I intone more loudly as I recap on all the individual winners. “Sophia,” says Prue calmly as she opens the final envelope and reveals that the author of Love Song (Chicken House) has indeed won the highest accolade of them all. Congratulations, Sophia! “Speculative” is next year’s challenge...

She’s going to hear the word a lot! realising too late it would have been more useful to practise “Speculative”, to which I have added an extra “tat”. The winner of the final category is Sophia Bennett for her Young Adult romantic novel Love Song. I read the shortlist, pronouncing her first name with “i” to rhyme with “my”. Prue goes for “i” to rhyme with “me” and puts the stress on the first syllable. ‘That’s a funny way to say it’, I think, as

100 Ways To Fight The Flab And Still Have Wine And Chocolate by Jane Wenham-Jones is published by Accent Press. Out in paperback and e formats.

Dinosaurs had arrived and to admire the music system that he’d wired up in the quail enclosure. And that’s when he gave it to me: an emu egg. I turned it over in my hands, uncertain of what to say. “Thanks. I’ve never actually seen one of these before. It’s heavy.” He nodded. “The equivalent of 12 hens’ eggs. It’ll make a pretty big omelette.“ I frowned. “Oh, I’m not going to cook with it.” “What are you going to do then? Incubate it?” He laughed and I felt my hackles start to rise. “I could. Where’s it from? Is it fertilised?” “Maybe. But you couldn’t incubate that. It takes skill, care, devotion, time.” He shook his head; his shaggy curls bounced. “You couldn’t do it, chick.” Beaky was born — or, rather, hatched — because of my sheer bloody-mindedness. Because what business did I have to be incubating an emu egg? I didn’t really have time to turn it five times a day, for a start. I had to keep nipping home, when I should have been out on the road, getting orders and seeing customers.

“I’m going to get the sack,” I warned Jed Parker, the next time I saw him. He just smiled. “Would that be so bad? You hate this job, I know you do. Why don’t you come and work for me instead?” It was almost two months later when the egg started to tremble and rock from side to side. I called my sister. “Sarah, you might want to bring the boys over,” I said. “As long as they promise to be quiet.” The baby emu was hatching. vvv “So, what have you brought me this time?” Jed asked, peering into the back of my sister’s car. Sarah glared at me. “You said you’d asked him!” I nodded. “He’s just pulling our leg. I turned to my nephews on the back seat. “Come on, boys, it’s time to get Beaky out.” It had been the right thing to do, having Sarah and her boys there when Beaky hatched because, when he’d finally made it out of the shell, it had been love at first sight. It had taken a while: first, he’d pecked away at the shell, making a hole just big enough for his beak, then he’d rested, making sweet little whistles through the hole. He was wet and tired when he finally emerged and he lay on

a towel to gather his strength. We marvelled as his feathers dried out and fluffed up and his beautiful markings — brown and white swirls and stripes — were plain to see. “Is it a boy or a girl, Auntie Lucy?” I frowned. “It’s hard to tell. But the books say, if it has a bull’s eye pattern on its head, then it’s a boy.” We all peered at the chick’s head. It wasn’t really clear but we convinced ourselves we could see the requisite markings. “I think it’s a boy!” my nephew said. “Let’s call him Beaky!” My sister bravely agreed to babysit Beaky for the first couple of months of his life. I had to work but she was home all day with the children and Beaky, I assured her, would be just like a third. Sure enough, he ran around the garden, played with toys, chased the family dog and when she needed to keep him in one place for a while, she just popped him into the playpen. He had us in stitches. He was, I decided, a cross between a dinosaur and a duck. But at nearly three months old, Beaky was getting too big. He’d eventually grow to be six feet tall. Now, he was big enough to jump out of the playpen and wreck the house and the garden. Luckily, Jed had agreed to take him back. “Can we come and visit?” my nephew asked, glum-faced, as we stood in the yard and Beaky investigated his new home. “He might be lonely.” “‘Course you can,” Jed said, “but don’t worry about him

being lonely. I’ve just bought myself three grown-up lady emus.” He winked at me. “I’m going to start selling emu eggs.” He made a dash for Beaky, scooped him up under one arm and we all trooped through the yard, to view the new emus in their paddock. They were standing together at the far side, craning their long necks for a better view of us. “That one on the left is called Lucy,” Jed told the boys. I gaped. “You named an emu after me?” He laughed. “She’s stubborn and wilful.” He scratched Beaky’s head. “But the prettiest one of the lot.” My sister nudged me and then called to the boys. “Come on, let’s go and have a closer look at the big emus, shall we? Beaky will be that size one day!” They started to walk along the fence, towards the birds. “I’ve left my job,” I told Jed. “I just gave my company car back today.” He frowned. “You know, my offer’s still on the table. Come and work for me. Let’s introduce some rare breeds.” He shrugged. “Whatever you want.” I hadn’t admitted it to anyone but I’d been flattered — and tempted — by Jed’s job offer. And who knew what the future held? But right now, there was something else I had to do. I shook my head. “I’m going back to university, to retake my final year.” I nodded at my sister in the distance. “Sarah’s dropping me off at the station now.” I looked up at Jed. Was that something like hurt — or pride — in his eyes? If it hadn’t been for him and his taunts and what I’d come to think of as his “emu challenge”, I wouldn’t have the confidence or the same self-belief. I’d still be repping, selling bird seed forever. Instead, I was reaching for the stars and this time, I was going to make it. Beaky was cheeping in his arms and I stroked his downy feathers, not daring to look up, not wanting Jed to see the tears in my eyes. “I’m going to be a vet,” I said, simply. “Thank you.” THE END © Helen Yendall, 2017

y Right now, there was something else I had to do

Woman’s Weekly Fiction 41

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Instinct I can see why my exhusband fell for this girl. She’s sweet and I hate the fact that I can’t hate her

44 Woman’s Weekly Fiction

don’t know anyone else who drives an old pink convertible. Common-sense tells me to put my foot down, but instinct has me lifting my foot off the accelerator. And then I see Phoebe. She’s standing beside the car, looking far too young to be so heavily pregnant. She’s all legs and eyes, like a Great Dane puppy. The bonnet is up and smoke is billowing out. I could drive right on past. She probably wouldn’t realise it was me and no one need ever know. But I’d know. I pull across the road into the lay-by, and think there is still time to drive away. Someone else will stop. Surely people won’t ignore a young pregnant woman standing next to a broken-down car? But it’s a very quiet road, and it could be ages before someone else drives past. “Angela?” she says as I climb out. “Oh, Angela, thank goodness.” She waddles over to me in her big, flat shoes and, for one awful moment, it seems as if she might hug me, but I daresay my frosty expression puts her off because her arms drop to her sides and she stops a couple of paces away. “I’ve broken down,” she says, flapping her hand at the car. “There was a bang, then the engine died and I only just managed to get into the lay-by.” She blinks rapidly as if she still can’t believe it happened.

I can see why my ex-husband fell for her. She’s very pretty and rather sweet. I hate the fact that I can’t hate her. I’ve met her a couple of times when I bumped into her and Jonathan in town. Jonathan was cross with me as he hadn’t been invited to his parents’ wedding anniversary party or his grandad’s 90th birthday. “It’s not Angela’s fault,” Phoebe said. “You can’t blame her.” “They’re my family,” he said. “Not yours.” But that wasn’t how his mum, Rose, saw it. “You’re part of this family,” she’d told me. “I’ve known you since you were 17. You’re one of us, Angela. Nothing will change that.” It seems that when we broke up, I got the house and his family while he got the young girlfriend and her flat. The very young girlfriend.

“Have you called for roadside rescue?” I ask. “I can’t get a signal on my phone. I don’t think I could walk far to get help. I’m so glad it was you that stopped, Angela.” “Are you really?” I sniff. It’s more of a statement than a question, but she answers it anyway. “Yes, I really am. Could you give me a lift back to town?” Take her in my car? Isn’t that a step too far? “I’m sorry. That was insensitive. Perhaps you could call for help for me when you get home.” I never thought I’d say this about the girl who stole my husband, but she’s brave to put herself in my hands. We’re at the top of a hill on a bend and it would be so easy to give her a push and knock her off balance. She’d tumble down the slope behind the lay-by, never to be seen again. I’d be lying if I said I haven’t thought of many and varied ways to get rid of her. Jonathan and I had been married for 22 years when she came along and ruined it all. I wonder if my murderous thoughts are showing on my face because she winces suddenly. I wouldn’t really kill her, by the way! I might still be mad, but I’m not a murderer. “What were you doing down this way?” I ask, suddenly suspicious. It’s not exactly the road to nowhere, but it leads to just a few houses, including mine. One of the reasons

y She’s all legs and eyes, like a Great Dane puppy

By Teresa Ashby Jonathan and I chose the cottage was its seclusion. “I came to see you, but I chickened out.” “Oh, I see. You want me to hand over the house.” “What? No.” She winces again. But of course they want the house. Jonathan’s phoned me often enough to demand it. Phoebe’s flat, he says, isn’t big enough for a family. “Did he send you? The coward! I’m not the one in the wrong. I don’t see why I should give up my home.” “No one asked you to.” This time when she winces, she grabs my arm and it’s all I can do not to wrench it away, but she’s making a strange sound. “Are you all right?” She shakes her head. “I’ve been getting pains all day. I thought it was wind.” She laughs, but she looks scared. “It’s definitely not wind.” “Get in my car. I’m taking you to hospital.” “I think it’s too late for that,” she says. “Sorry. Will you stay with me?” Stay with her? Until when? No one’s coming. We’re all alone out here. It’s almost as if she expects me to know what to do. Me! I lead her to my car. “Lie down on the back seat. I’ll drive you to the hospital.” She shakes her head. “We wouldn’t make it in time.” She’s right. It’s 30 miles to the hospital and that’s 40 minutes on these country roads. If we’re lucky. I know nothing about having babies. I saw a film a long time ago when I was at school and it scared the life out of me. Jonathan was as happy as I was not to have a family. Or so he said. It seems he had a change of heart about that, too. I try to call for help, but she’s right, there’s no signal along here no matter how much I wave my phone in the air. “I’ll take you back to my cottage. It’s only five minutes away and I can call an ambulance from there on the landline.” “Thank you,” she whispers. She’s making an awful lot of noise in the back there. If it’s as painful as it sounds, I’m glad I never had children.

I help her up to my bedroom and onto the bed I used to share with Jonathan. This is more than weird. The girl who stole my husband is now lying on my bed, having their baby. “I’ll phone for help.” “Don’t leave me,” she shrieks. “I’m scared.” But I don’t know what I’m doing. She seems to think that because I’m a woman, I’ll instinctively know what to do, but there’s nothing instinctive about it. My only instinct is to run away, but I can’t do that. She grabs my hand and squeezes. Hard. I tug my hand free. “Let me just call an ambulance. I’ll be right back.” I don’t like the way I’m feeling sorry for her and worried about her. She’s not my responsibility. Damn Jonathan and his mid-life crisis! “We can’t get an ambulance to you for at least 30 minutes, but I will get a first responder out to you sooner than that,” the operator tells me. “And I’ll get a midwife to call you as soon as possible. They can talk you through it.” I take the phone back to the bedroom with me, but it’s too late. No one can talk me through this. It’s all happening now! “Did you call Jonathan?” Phoebe screams at me. She sounds like a possessed character in a horror movie. She’s sweating, her hair is wet and plastered to her livid red face. “No, I...” “Good!” she shrieks. Of course, she wouldn’t want him to see her looking like a demon. I mop her face and hold her hand and I have to ignore the ringing phone because she’s got such a tight hold of me I can’t let go and when I do, it’s to help the baby into the world. None of it is instinct. I’m terrified. I wrap the baby in the nearest thing to hand — my dressing-gown. She’s tiny and slippery and I’m afraid I’ll drop her. Phoebe is sobbing and apologising and I hear someone shout from downstairs.

It’s the first responder, who appears carrying a large bag. He gives us the biggest smile. “Looks like you managed fine without me!” he says and the room spins. When I come round, I’m lying on the bed next to Phoebe, who is still crying. “You did really well,” the man says. “Would you like to hold your granddaughter?” Phoebe looks at me and bursts out laughing. “Thank you, Angela,” she says. “If not for you, I’d have given birth on my own in the lay-by. I’m so sorry about your bed.” I laugh, too. She’s sorry about my bed, but she’s never said sorry for stealing my husband.

She snaps her mouth shut and pretends to zip it up and I smile in spite of the turmoil raging inside me. “Would you like me to call Jonathan? I don’t have his number. I deleted him from my phone a while back.” “No,” she says. “I’ve deleted him too. That’s why I drove out to your house. I was going to warn you.” “Warn me?” “He said you’d welcome him back with open arms. I thought perhaps you might if he caught you on the hop, but not if you had time to think about it.” The cheek of it! “What happened?” I ask gently. “He left. He’s staying with a friend, but he plans to come back to you. He said he couldn’t go through with being a father, that’s he’s too old and set in his ways. He got in a sulk about all the baby stuff taking up so much room.” “He abandoned you?” She could be spinning me a yarn, but instinct tells me she isn’t. “I don’t want anything to do with a man who walks out on his pregnant girlfriend.” “He’s always boasted that you’ll take him back in a heartbeat.” “He’s in for a surprise then, isn’t he?” She looks scared and very alone, but I don’t think she’d have him back, either. Not now. “Is there anyone I can call for you?” She shakes her head. “There’s no one.” But instinct tells me she’s wrong. I slip off the ward to make a phone call. Jonathan’s parents, Rose and Eric, arrive a short while later, bearing gifts. There are hugs all round, then they hold the grandchild they never thought they’d have. “You’re part of our family now,” Rose tells her. “Just like Angela. We’ll help you all we can.” She smiles at me and I nod, glad I didn’t drive past when I saw the pink convertible stricken at the side of the road. THE END © Teresa Ashby, 2017

y Like the first responder, they think I’m her mother

It’s hilarious. Well, it isn’t, but if I don’t laugh, I think I’ll scream. The ambulance arrives and I follow it in my car because Phoebe wants me to go to hospital with her. Goodness knows why. I mean, she’s nothing to me, nothing at all. Yet I feel connected to her, and not because we both love the same man. I can’t wait to see Jonathan’s face when he finds out I delivered his baby on our bed. Phoebe still has to deliver the placenta and she needs stitches, but they say she can go home in a few hours. Like the first responder, they think I’m her mother, so I’m shown in to the ward. “I’m so...” “If you’re going to tell me you’re sorry again, please don’t.”

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suppose the most surprising thing isn’t the fact that our relationship broke down and sent me spinning into an emotional wilderness. It’s the fact that it ever got started. I was eight years old when we first met. You were 10. “This is Cheryl,” your mother told you. “Cheryl, this is Robert.” Not Rob or Robbie, I noted. But a playful name wouldn’t have suited you. Robert fitted better with your neat cardigan, pudding-bowl haircut and specs. I decided you were probably one of those clever, geeky kids who did well at school but were otherwise uncool. And that suited me fine as it meant you were unlikely to give me any trouble. “I’m sorry about your mum,” you said, and I shrugged. I was used to my mother not being there for me. This time she’d broken her ankle, falling off a kerb in high heels while

“This way.” I waited for you to get ahead, then followed. Casually, so as to appear neither eager nor scared. The house had three bedrooms and I was to have the smallest. I didn’t mind about the size. I was just glad to have a room to myself. There was only one bedroom in the flat I shared with Mum. The social workers thought I slept in there while Mum slept on the sofa in the livingroom but this was a story Mum made up to make her look good. It was usually me who had to sleep on the sofa. Not that I got much sleep on it. On the evenings Mum stayed home, I couldn’t lie down until she’d finished watching latenight telly. On the nights she went out, she woke me as she crashed back in from the pub. This little bedroom wasn’t smart, but it was comfortable and cosy. I liked the old-fashioned flowery curtains

Back then, my strongest emotion was anger trying to light a cigarette. Or so I was told. I wasn’t there to witness it because I’d been left at home alone with a bag of crisps for my tea. I can’t say I felt much sympathy for my mother. Back then, my strongest emotion was anger. It was like a fire that never quite went out. Sometimes it merely smouldered, but at other times it roared up into a blaze that led me into all sorts of bother. On that day, I was angry but I didn’t want you or anyone else to know I was feeling anything at all. Indifference was a pretence I wore like a suit of armour, partly to cover up my shame over the chaotic home life that forced me into foster care periodically and partly to fend off sneers and pity. It didn’t always work. But, without it, I’d have got into even more bother. “Shall I show you to your room?” you asked, and once again I shrugged. 46 Woman’s Weekly Fiction

and bedcover. I also liked the little extras that had been provided for me. “I’ve put some of my books on the shelf, in case you’re interested,” you told me. “There’s a notepad too, and you’ll find pens and crayons in the pencil-case. Just ask if you need anything else. We brought those flowers in from the garden as they smell nice. I hope you’re not allergic?” I wasn’t allergic to anything as far as I knew, though I’d never had flowers in my room before. “That’s Barnaby.” You nodded at a teddy that lay on the pillow. “He’s old but cuddly. You’re welcome to come and see my room when you’ve put your things away. I’m next door.” With that, you left me to adjust to my new surroundings. I touched a fingertip to the flowers — pink and yellow roses — then investigated the books. I remember one of them being

Big

Broth I decided you were one of those geeky kids. That suited me fine — it meant you wouldn’t give me any trouble

By Lesley Eames

Illustration: Getty

her Womanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Weekly Fiction 47

Big

Brother

The Lion, The Witch And The Wardrobe. Opening it, I found a handwritten message inside: To Robert, Happy Christmas, darling, love from Mum and Dad xxx. The book was soft with use, but you’d looked after it well. It was the same with the other books. Clearly they were favourites, yet you’d trusted them to me. The thought of it gave me a strange feeling because I wasn’t usually trusted with anything of financial or sentimental value. I put the books back on the shelf, then unpacked my few things and stood at the window. I couldn’t go to your room because that would have meant showing an interest but I was secretly glad when you came and got me. Your room had none of the garish football, spaceship or superhero themes I’d seen in other boys’ rooms. Instead, you had books, board games, model aeroplanes, and, most interesting of all, a cage. “These are my pet rats, Millie and Molly,” you said. They were white rats with eager eyes. “Want to hold one?” I made no answer but I was thrilled when you opened the cage door and brought a rat out. “This is Molly.” You put her into my hands and it was wonderful to feel her silky warmth and energy. I held Millie too. “You can help me to clean

their cage out later,” you told me. “But only if you want to.” I did want to, though I couldn’t bring myself to show it. Luckily, you made it easy for me by not expecting me to say whether I wanted to help or not. Instead, you simply placed the rats into a box and suggested I entertained them while you scooped out soiled bedding, wiped the cage and set it up for another week. You kept up a calm commentary about how rats should be cared for and what they liked to eat. “We get special rat food from the pet shop. They

going to admit that my mum was an embarrassment while my dad was a loser I’d never met. It was easier not even to try to make friends. “St Peter’s isn’t a bad school,” you told me. “Quite small.” I snorted. A fat lot of difference size was going to make. I had a lot to think about when I finally went to bed in that little room. My first thoughts were of you and I decided you weren’t quite the uncool geek I’d suspected. You had a quiet sort of confidence I hadn’t seen in a kid before. Then I thought about your mum and dad. They were kind, cheerful people who didn’t bombard me with questions. I decided I’d had worse foster placements. But after that I thought about starting school the next morning and my stomach flipped again. I was sure it was going to be a disaster. It was. I was aware of sneaky glances and whispers from the start, and I couldn’t help wondering if word had got out about me being in care. The thought of it made me feel hot and breathless. It played havoc with my concentration. Worse, I could feel my hands bunching into fists by my sides. I was in the playground at break-time when the inevitable happened. I walked past a girl — Becky Simmonds — who’d been sitting at my table during maths. “That new girl doesn’t even know what a pentagon is,” I heard her tell her friend. Whirling to face her, I dragged her up from the bench. “I don’t know much about pentagons but I know a lot about fighting. Do you?” “It isn’t my fault you’re thick,” Becky argued. So I slapped her. Hearing her wail, a boy rushed over. Her brother, apparently. He was twice my size but I was ready to fight him too, when you strolled up. “Is something wrong?” you asked. “Mind your own business,” the other boy said. “It is my business,” you told him calmly. “Cheryl’s my sister.”

I was aware of sneaky glances and whispers from the start

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also like vegetables. Carrots and broccoli, mostly. No sweets or chocolate, though. And only water to drink.” Later, you showed me the pond in the garden. “We get tadpoles and frogs in the spring,” you said, and we stared into the murky green depths. “I hear you’re starting at my school,” you said then. My stomach suddenly felt like it was flipping over. Turning away, I trailed my fingers in the water. I’d been to four schools by then and hated them all. I’d missed a lot of lessons over the years and, having fallen behind, the other kids usually considered me to be stupid. They were curious about my background too, but there was no way I was

“Your sister?” the boy scoffed, and I guessed that word had indeed got out that I was in care. “My foster sister.” “That doesn’t count.” “It does to me,” you said. What? I stared at you incredulously. Never before had anyone suggested that being a foster kid made me part of their family. And never had anyone come to my rescue, except for the teachers and social workers who were paid to keep me safe. It was especially amazing considering you looked like you’d be rubbish in a fight. And you were. Becky pulled a face at me. I shoved her in protest and her brother retaliated by slapping my arm. “That’s enough,” you said, stepping between us, but Becky’s brother promptly slapped you too, hitting you in the face and knocking your specs off. Luckily, the specs didn’t break but your face turned puffy and red. I was sure it must be hurting but you gave no sign of it, and when a teacher came running to intervene and investigate, you insisted that Becky had provoked the fight by being unkind. I was terrified your mum would take a different view but she simply sighed and shook her head. “As if fighting ever changed anything for the better! Shepherd’s pie for tea?” You sent me a wink but didn’t expect me to thank you. Which was just as well as I couldn’t have found the words. We played with the rats when we got home, then, after another of your pauses, you said, “It must be hard starting school somewhere new if you’ve been doing different lessons. What lessons did you have today?” “Maths. I hate maths.” “I hate maths too, when I don’t know what the teacher means. It’s fun when you understand it, though. What was your lesson about?” “Stupid shapes.” The next moment, you’d reached for some paper and were drawing all the shapes we’d been looking at in class. You wrote the names beside them. You often helped me with schoolwork after that. I stopped feeling quite so stupid and that

meant I fought less. Not because I made lots of friends — I didn’t — but because I wasn’t quite as angry. Neither did I want to be responsible for you getting slapped again. I wouldn’t have said I liked you exactly — I refused to like anyone — but you were all right. You didn’t fuss. But after three months at your house, the social workers returned me to my mother, who told them she was turning over a new leaf. Ha ha. It didn’t take long for life to become chaotic again and I hated her new boyfriend, Jason. I still went to school at St Peter’s but it wasn’t the same. I didn’t get enough sleep and, without an alarm clock to wake me, I was often late. I didn’t have you to help with my lessons either and I fell behind again. Frustrated, my temper reared up in squabbles and fights. It wasn’t that you’d abandoned me. You were as friendly as ever, but I wasn’t your foster sister any more and, fearing you were only feeling sorry for me, I kept you at a distance. Then one day you asked me back to your house. “Why?” I asked suspiciously. “Why not? We like you. We miss you.” I couldn’t believe anyone liked me or missed me. I was moody and rude. Not likeable at all. “Don’t you want to come?” you asked. I shrugged, but in truth I longed to be back in your unexciting but wonderfully soothing household. “Mum says she’ll make chicken pie and jam roly-poly,” you said. “Seeing as they’re your favourites.” So I allowed myself to be persuaded and it was wonderful to be cocooned in the cosy shabbiness of your house again. I often visited after that. We’d play with the rats, you’d help with my schoolwork and your mum would feed me up. I settled down at school again. On my birthday you made me a card saying, Happy birthday, little sis. No one had ever made a card for me before. I couldn’t help running a fingertip over

the words and reciting them in my head. They made me feel warm. Steady. Your parents gave me a card too and something wrapped in jolly paper that turned out to be a dress. I kept that dress for years and felt quite a pang when it no longer fitted. They also gave me a pack of school socks because I’d got into

what other people might think. We didn’t see each daily any more, but you made sure I got to see you often. With age had come greater freedom, so, as well as meeting at your house, we went to the pet store, the park, the cinema and other places. It never bothered you if we bumped into someone from your school. You’d introduce me as your sister, Cheryl, and let them take me or leave me, as they chose. I helped you with Millie’s funeral in the garden when she sadly died. “Old age,” you explained. “She had a long and happy life, I think.” A few months later, we buried Molly beside her. Then we went to the pet store to choose two new rats, Boris and Bertie, and I helped you to settle them into their new home. A year passed. I still got into trouble at school, but less often. I was learning to think before lashing out. Another year passed and I followed you to secondary school. Once again, I worried you might feel it was uncool to have a new kid hanging around but, as always, you couldn’t have cared less about being cool. Not that I hung around you all the time. I made a point of giving you space and even made a few friends of my own. I couldn’t have said they were close friends but it was a start. As time went on, you mentioned your ambition

I worried I might be tempting fate to wish for something nice a fight over the holes in my old socks. Your mum even made me a birthday cake with candles. “Make a wish,” you said, before I blew them out. I didn’t know what to wish for. I worried I might be tempting fate to wish for something nice, so I settled for sort of hugging the happy moment close. Mum finally kicked Jason out and, after a wild few months, moved Nathan in. Nathan drank a lot and had a temper, so the social worker arranged for me to stay with you again. It had occurred to me to wonder about the other foster children who stayed at your house. I’d never seen any. And, though I was privately ashamed of a feeling I knew to be selfish, I didn’t like to think I was just one of many little brothers and sisters. “Do you have a lot of kids staying with you?” I asked one day, hoping you wouldn’t see through to my meanness. “Not many. And they don’t stay long when they do come.” “You still see them, though?” “Actually, no,” you told me. “Only you.” I had to struggle to hide my grin. The months that followed were good but then the time came for you to leave St Peter’s to go to secondary school. The thought panicked me because I couldn’t imagine you’d want a kid like me hanging round. Not when you were practically a teenager. But I should have known you wouldn’t be like other boys because you’d always forged your own path, regardless of

so badly, I found myself on the end of a permanent exclusion from school. So much for my future! I was bitterly disappointed in myself. It was you who gave me hope that all wasn’t lost. “Sometimes it’s good to start over. At a new school, you can be anyone you like.” “Sure,” I said, not believing you. But the words stuck and, not wanting to throw away this second chance, I kept my head down at my new school. I even began to wonder if I might scrape some GCSEs. I did more than scrape them. My results weren’t as brilliant as yours had been, but they were still above average. You’d sat your A-Levels by then and no one was surprised when your grades were outstanding. We celebrated together and your parents were thrilled for both of us. You were leaving to study veterinary medicine at Cambridge and I went round to your house to say goodbye. I’d made you a card saying, Good luck, big bro. We always gave each other hand-made cards. I ruffled your hair, which had become rather funky through your teenage years, the pudding-basin look being long gone. You had trendier specs too, and much better clothes. You were quite the grown up, in fact, and I teased you about it. “You might want to think about university too,” you said, as you got in your dad’s car to be taken off to this new phase of your life. I laughed because that was going too far but, once again, your words stuck. You’d been at Cambridge for several weeks when I visited you by train. We went to a café for lunch. “I’d quite like to become a social worker, “I confided, though I was ready to laugh it off as a joke if you thought the idea was crazy. You didn’t think it was crazy. “Go for it,” you advised. “Seriously?” “You’ve got a huge amount to offer and you’re easily bright enough.” I did go for it and I got my place at university. Not a world-

I made a point of giving you space and even made a few friends of my own to be a vet and began asking about my ideas for the future. I hadn’t really thought about it because people like Mum lived from day to day with almost no forward-planning. “There’s no rush to decide,” you said, relaxed as always, but the idea of a future in which I had choices had been well and truly planted. Then disaster struck. Mum took up with Mick, a man I hated more than any of them. I reacted

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Big

Brother

famous university like Cambridge, but respectable all the same, especially considering I’d had to juggle my sixth-form studies alongside an evening and weekend job in a supermarket. “I knew you could do it,” you told me. “Now go and shine, and have fun as well.” Buoyed up by your belief in me, I settled into uni and made as many friends as a regular person. I even found the confidence to start dating a boy called Jack. One day, I arranged to meet you in London. “Jack’s got an hour to kill before he gets the train to his parents,” I said. “It’s all right if he comes to lunch, isn’t it?” “The more the merrier,” you said. I had no premonition of disaster when Jack and I walked into the pizza restaurant. Why would I? You hadn’t told me you’d be bringing Emily. You introduced her as your girlfriend. Which was fine, in theory. It wasn’t fine in practice. I was a little hurt that you hadn’t told me you were seeing someone, and disappointed that I wouldn’t have time alone with you once Jack had left to catch his train. But the main problem was Emily herself. It wasn’t the fact that she was posh that troubled me especially. It was the smug way

she snaked her arm around you and smiled, saying, “Rob’s told me all about you.” In an instant, I was transported back to the angry, awkward embarrassment of my childhood. How dare you discuss my awful upbringing with this superior little madam? I managed to hold in the worst of my temper but when Jack left, so did I. You texted me later. Have I upset you? Betrayed my trust, I texted back. Within seconds, you

But that only made me feel pitied. Stung and wounded, I ended the call and the wilderness years began. We didn’t lose touch completely, but things weren’t the same. I’d let weeks pass before I replied to your calls and texts. Even then, I was brusque. So we settled into the sort of occasional contact that barely skimmed the surface of our previous friendship. I continued to visit your parents, but only when I knew you wouldn’t be there. I stopped making My Big Bro cards for your birthday and Christmas, and sent shop-bought cards instead. Your hand-made Little sis cards continued, but I took to barely glancing at them. It was far better to cast them aside than to dwell on them and get upset. Not that I could hold back the hurt completely. You’d been my best friend since I was eight years old. You were the only person who’d ever really understood me and I missed you terribly. But I couldn’t move past my anger. Jack didn’t last long as my boyfriend. I couldn’t help thinking you’d consider him immature and I had to agree. After a while I started seeing Nick, who was much more sensible. I heard you’d broken up with Emily, though I didn’t know if you were seeing anyone else yet. I wondered if you might choose someone nicer for your next girlfriend. Someone I might get along with. It wasn’t that I wanted to dictate your romances. I just wanted both of us to find people who’d fit into our friendship instead of driving it apart. I had dreamy visions of a future in which you, me and our partners enjoyed visiting each other’s houses and going for meals out together. Perhaps even sharing weekends away and holidays. When your mum’s 50th birthday approached, she wanted us both at the celebrations. I planned to take Nick as my guest, but we’d broken up by the time the date rolled round as I’d realised by

We were both still young and inexperienced at the dating game

50 Woman’s Weekly Fiction

called me. “I haven’t betrayed your trust, Cheryl.” “Emily said you’d told her all about me.” “I told her you’re my foster sister and plan to be a social worker. That’s all.” It was enough. There was a world of information to be mined from the words “foster sister”. I could imagine Emily picking away at them to find out what she could. I’d told Jack: that we were honorary brother and sister because of an old family connection. I couldn’t understand why you hadn’t given a similar explanation to Emily. “Cheryl, I’m sorry,” you said. “I wouldn’t have hurt you for the world.”

then that a boyfriend needed to be fun as well as sensible. Feeling more than a little nervous, I went to the party alone but there was no Emilytype person to face as you were alone, too. Not that we spent much time together. Almost a year had passed since we’d last seen each other. Stiff with awkwardness, I made no move towards you, save for a nod of greeting and you were kept busy acting as host. But there were odd moments of humour. Your Great Aunt Rose mistaking you for a hotel waiter for one. And, for another, an elderly friend of your parents getting into a tizz when someone mentioned taking up tap-dancing because he thought they’d said lap-dancing. At those moments, our gazes met across the room and we shared a smile. We didn’t get to say goodbye as you were called upon to drive another family friend home while I had to leave to catch a train before you returned. But afterwards, I began to wonder if I shouldn’t let bygones be bygones. After all, we were both still young and inexperienced at the dating game. I’d made mistakes with Jack and Nick, and presumably you’d come to your senses about Emily. You texted to say you were sorry I’d had to rush off from the party and I replied the same day. Slowly and cautiously, we began to work our way back towards a friendship. I was full of good intentions when you introduced me to Sophie but, again, I disliked her on sight. She looked at me like I was an oddity from another planet and I couldn’t understand why you wanted to be with someone who made me feel small. Clearly, you didn’t value our friendship even half as much as I did. So we returned to the wilderness, our relationship never quite breaking off but remaining distant and, for me at least, deeply painful. Some years went by. You qualified as a vet and I qualified as a social worker. You got a job in Bleebury and moved into a cottage. I got a job in Morchester and moved into a studio flat. It

was a huge relief to have even a tiny place of my own as I hadn’t wanted to return to Mum’s. She’d slowed down and grown maudlin by then. In age she wasn’t much above 40, but she looked much older. I still found myself exasperated by her chaotic way of living but much of my anger had given way to pity. I did what I could to help her, going round regularly to clean her flat, do her laundry and take her to the shops. But I was always thankful to escape back to my own small sanctuary. Mum had only ever worked in fits and starts, but I was determined to do better. I worked hard and, despite the challenges and upsets involved in social work, I felt I was making a difference. I managed my money more carefully than Mum had ever done, too. Rent and bills took up most of my salary, but I saved what I could while ensuring I also had a modest social life. My circle of friends wasn’t large, but it got me out and about. I dated occasionally and assumed you were doing the same, though I made a point of never questioning your family about it. Mum had never been interested in your family and she’d met them only by chance when I took her to the doctor’s one day and we bumped into your parents in the street outside. Being kind people, your parents tried in vain to befriend Mum and started inviting us to your house for meals. They even began inviting us for Christmas, though I always declined and not just to avoid you. Mum could be difficult and I didn’t want her to spoil your family’s celebrations. It was safer for me to manage her moods by myself. That Christmas was no different. The invitation was given and I declined it with thanks. “At least come for breakfast,” your mum said. I could see it distressed her to think of me facing yet another grim Christmas alone with Mum, so I agreed to a breakfast visit. Mum was rarely up before 11 or

noon, so she wouldn’t even notice my absence. Being Christmas morning, it was only natural for you to be there. As always, I yearned for our old closeness but the wounds you’d inflicted hadn’t healed and I couldn’t imagine they ever would. My gift to you that year was a selection of books as you’d

Liza? I couldn’t cope just now with hearing about your latest girlfriend. “I’d better get to Mum’s,” I announced. “I’ll give you a lift,” you offered. “No, the walk will do me good.” I kissed your mum and dad, uttered a general thank-you for the gifts, then grabbed my bag and hastened to the door. You followed. “We should meet up,” you said gently. “Sure,” I agreed, almost choking now. I walked away without looking back. There was a park nearby and I turned into it because I hadn’t been able to stop the tears from spilling over. Thankfully, the park was deserted. I found a bench and sat down. Frustration spilled over with my tears. Opening my bag, I pulled out the card you’d made and tore it in half. “Cheryl?” It was you, of course. The last person I wanted to see me in this state. You sat beside me and took hold of the two pieces of card. “You don’t like my robins? Luckily, I’m a better vet than I am an artist.” There was a smile in your voice but I couldn’t smile back. More tears flooded my eyes and I dashed them away, hating to be so weak and feeble in front of you. Reaching out, you covered my hand with yours. “Don’t you like

I still found myself exasperated by her chaotic way of living always been a great reader. You said they were terrific — just what you wanted — and I think you meant it. Your gift to me was a voucher for Benton’s department store. “Sorry if it’s dull, but I thought it might be useful,” you explained. You were right. The voucher meant I could buy a toaster and a decent set of pans. I was grateful. You also gave me a small box wrapped in festive paper. Opening it, I saw the gift was a novelty mug with words printed on the side: The best little sis ever. My throat tightened. “Thanks,” I said, swallowing. “It’s lovely.” “I made you a card as well.” With your parents looking on I could hardly give the card my usual bitter glance and shove it back in its envelope. I had to give it proper attention. I stared down at merry robins in iceskates and saw you’d written the same words on the front: The best little sis ever. “Thanks,” I said again, and to my horror, I realised I wanted to cry. Words like these had been precious to me once, but how could you ever have meant them if you let people like Emily and Sophie turn their elegant noses up at me? I looked down at the floor and saw you were wearing Christmas socks. “Snazzy,” I commented, using flippancy to try to salvage my dignity. You wriggled your toes, not having shoes on. “Are they the socks Liza gave you?” your Mum asked. “Uh huh,” you said.

suddenly, like a flash of searing brightness, I understood exactly why our relationship had grieved me in recent years. It made sense of everything. Of the way I’d taken against your girlfriends without taking the trouble to get to know them. Of the way I’d walked away from my own romantic ventures. And of the way I’d felt so horribly incomplete and miserable out in the wilderness. Somewhere along the line, I’d fallen in love with you. “Cheryl?” you said. I snatched my gaze away, my heart racing and my head rushing to find a way to hide my emotions. For you couldn’t know the truth about my feelings. If you had any love for me, it was only as your foster sister. And after everything you and your parents had done for me, the least I owed you was to spare you awkwardness and embarrassment. “Cheryl?” you said again, and this time you nudged me to prompt a reply. The smile I summoned felt as stiff and sharp and as a knife. “Of course I want to be your little sis.” “You do?” “Yes. Take no notice of these tears. I had a bad morning with Mum. You know what she’s like.” Was I convincing you? Or had you seen straight through my pretence and been appalled? “I’m disappointed,” you said. No, no, no, I couldn’t bear it. “Can’t we just turn the clock back and pretend this conversation never happened?” I asked desperately. “I’m disappointed because I’d like to be more than your big bro,” you said. I didn’t understand. “I love you, Cheryl. I’ve known it for a while. That’s why I haven’t had a girlfriend in ages.” Hadn’t he? “But Liza —” “She’s a nurse at the surgery. A happily married nurse. She got socks for all of us.” Even if that were true, I couldn’t believe — No, it wasn’t possible. “You can’t love me.” “I assure you I can. I do.” I shook my head. There were so many reasons why you

Had you seen straight through my pretence and been appalled? being my little sis any more?” Far from comforting me, the warmth of your fingers deepened my overwhelming sadness and made me want to weep all the more. I dug inside myself for some of the old feistiness that would give me the strength to pull away and tell you I wasn’t bothered. But when I glanced up, you were watching me with such a soft expression in your eyes that my resolve faltered. And

Woman’s Weekly Fiction 51

The

Robin family

Children’s Fiction

More Tales From The Woodlands A Swarm Of Bees It was such a beautiful day that Mrs Rebecca Robin decided to go for an earlymorning stroll. “Now is the month of Maying,” she sang as she walked, thinking how pretty everything looked. Then she remembered something she had read about long-ago Woodland ladies sprinkling their feathers with dew-drops to make them look elegant, and decided to try it herself. ‘I don’t know about looking elegant,’ she thought when she’d finished, ‘but dew-drops

Illustration: Martina Farrow/New Division

See What I’ve Found

52 Woman’s Weekly Fiction

Rosemary Robin, Sally Sparrow and Molly Mouse were on their way to the Woodland Library on Saturday afternoon when Molly stopped suddenly. “Just a minute!” she cried and then disappeared behind an elder bush, leaving her two friends staring after her. “Whatever did she do that for?” Sally asked Rosemary. Rosemary shook her head. “I’ve no idea,” she replied. When Molly reappeared, she was clutching a leaf. But it was not a leaf that had come from the elder bush. “See what I’ve found!” she cried, and there, in her paw, was a charming goldcoloured brooch in the shape of a hawthorn leaf. “It’s very pretty,” said Sally admiringly, “and if it belonged to me, I know I would be really upset if I’d lost it!” “Then perhaps we should take it to the Police Station on the way to the Library,” Rosemary suggested, “just in case someone has reported losing a brooch.” They set off for the Woodlands Police Station. P. C. Bullfinch was on duty and, like the three little Woodlanders, he too thought the leaf brooch very pretty. “I think it could be real gold!” he said. “Leave it with me and let’s hope somebody comes to claim it.”

do make you rather damp.’ She shook herself briskly, quite startling a young Honey Bee by accidently sprinkling her with dewdrops! “Oh, my goodness, I thought it had begun to rain,” the Honey Bee gasped, “and that would have been a disaster! Her Majesty, our Queen Bee,” she buzzed importantly, “has sent me to find a new home as our old one is becoming zo...zoo crowded. But we hate getting wet when we move house!” Mrs Rebecca apologised for having given the young Honeybee a fright. “But have

A Basket Full Of Elderflowers

Mrs Rosabelle Robin and baby Rowena were on their way to visit Mrs Wood-Mouse, but they had not got far before they saw her coming towards them, carrying a large basket. Rowena’s face fell. “We were coming to visit you,” she said, “but now we can’t!” Mrs Wood-Mouse smiled at her. “Well, I’m very pleased to see you both, because I’d like you to help me with a little job.” “What would you like us to do?” asked Mrs Rosabelle. “I need help picking a basketful of elderflowers,” said Mrs Wood-Mouse, “as Julie Wagtail has asked me to make some of my special cordial, ready for something exciting that’s happening next month.” And she told them that on Midsummer Day, the Circus would be coming to The Woodlands. “So as well as our usual Midsummer Concert to enjoy in the evening, there will be the Circus to enjoy in the afternoon. Nerissa Nightingale has arranged it all...” “How delightful!” Mrs And somebody did! For when they came out of the Library, the three little Woodlanders found a happy Venetia Fox waiting for them. “P.C. Bullfinch told me you had

you managed to find a new home?” she asked. “Oh, yes, a delightful hollow in an oak tree not far from here,” the Honey Bee replied. “I must remember where you are when I want some more honey,” Mrs Rebecca told her, “because your honey is quite delicious.” The Honeybee smiled. “Why, thank you. And it’s quite valuable too — you know the old saying that ‘a swarm of bees in May is worth a load of hay’.” Mrs Rebecca laughed. “Well, I think a jar of honey is very much nicer!”

Rosabelle exclaimed, and it was difficult to know who was the more excited at the news, Mrs Rosabelle or her baby daughter. With their help, it didn’t take long to fill the basket with creamy-white elderflowers, picked from the bushes that grew in the hedgerows. The next morning, bright and early, Julie Wagtail arrived, ready to help Mrs WoodMouse make the elderflower cordial, and bringing with her all the lemons and sugar they needed. “Jack Daw promised to have them ready for me first thing — and he did,” she said, as she put them on the kitchen table, and got out her apron. “So now we can begin!” The two Woodlanders were soon working so busily that, by the end of the afternoon, a shelf in Mrs Wood-Mouse’s larder was filled with bottles of her special elderflower cordial, all ready to be enjoyed at both the Circus and the Midsummer Concert. “A good day’s work!” she announced as she put the last bottle away — and Julie agreed with her. found my brooch,” she said. “Thank you so much. It was a birthday present and I was so upset when I lost it. As a thank you, I’d like to treat you all to tea at Swallow Tea Rooms!”

Big

Brother

couldn’t love me, all boiling down to the fact that I wasn’t your equal. I wasn’t clever or classy. I wasn’t even comfortable to be around. I was argumentative and difficult. A prize pain. “Cheryl, you changed my life,” you said. “You opened my eyes to the world. To the way it’s possible to find the courage to fight back against adversity and never give up. To make something of life against all the odds. I admire you. Feel inspired by you. And even when you’re driving me nuts, I want to kiss you.” I stared back, unable to process what you were saying. “You make me feel alive, Cheryl. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. As your husband. The question is, will you have me?” You were serious. You were actually serious. “I’m not really sure,” I finally said. “You can be annoying, you know.” You realised I was joking. A big grin lit up your face and I supposed a big grin was lighting up mine. I threw myself into your arms, almost knocking you off the bench, and you laughed. “Ever the wildcat, Cheryl.” “Are you complaining?” “Nope. Not at all.” You tilted my chin and lowered your mouth to mine. The kiss was delicious. When it ended, I wanted another kiss and then another. But a doubt crept over me. “What will your parents think?”

It was one thing to welcome me as a foster child. It was quite another to accept me as a daughter-in-law. “They’ll be thrilled,” you said, and you were right. It would have been foolish to expect Mum to be thrilled and she wasn’t. “Getting married?” she scoffed. “What a waste of time that’ll be.” Men always let women down in her experience. She saw no reason to be excited or even involved. But then you went round to see her. “I love your daughter and I want our wedding to be the happiest day of her life,” you announced. Mum’s response was a shrug. A bored shrug. “I hate weddings,” she said, though she’d never been to one in my lifetime. “That doesn’t matter,” you countered firmly. “It’s Cheryl’s day and we’ve got to play our parts in making it special. That’s why I’m paying for new outfits for both of our mothers.” “Eh? I’m not wearing something just because you like it,” Mum argued, but her attention had picked up the mention of a free outfit. And, even if she didn’t know it, she was playing right into your hands because you had your answer ready. “If you don’t trust me to choose an outfit, you’d better come and choose one for

yourself, hadn’t you? We’re going shopping on Saturday. You, me, my mother and Cheryl. If everyone behaves, I’ll treat us all to lunch afterwards.” “Are you always this bossy?” Mum protested, but I could see she was rather taken with the idea of shopping and lunch. The day out was a great success. Mum had a good figure hiding beneath her usual awful clothes, so no one had to pretend when they said how stunning she looked. “I wish I had a waist like that,” your mum said. The shop assistant nodded wistfully. “Long legs too,” she said. Then she put her head on one side and ventured, “This heather colour really suits you, Lynda. It would look even better if you had some highlights to soften your hair.” “I can’t afford highlights,” Mum told her, looking at you. “I’ll pay for highlights,” you promised, and you sent me a grin. “What about a hat?” Mum asked. “I can’t go to a wedding without a hat.” “I’ll pay for a hat, too.” Mum enjoyed the wedding tremendously and it marked a turning-point for her. It was as though your belief that she’d produced a daughter to be proud of and had an important role to play in our lives gave her a new idea of herself. And ever since then she’s been trying to live up to that idea, even if she does call you That Bossy Boy and grumble about

for the first time, you feel our baby kick. We laugh in utter delight. We couldn’t be happier about this baby and neither could our families. Even Mum. Weirdly but wonderfully, she’s got your mum teaching her how to knit baby clothes. She’s produced her first mittens and started on a matinée coat, and who really cares if it’s likely to be a bit lop-sided? Not me, and not you either. You’re going to be a wonderful dad and I’m determined to be a great mum, though I know we shan’t be able to protect our child from all the rough and tumble of the world. Life throws challenges to everyone and we’ve had our share. The troubled start to my early years was just the first of those challenges. Six months after our wedding, you were involved in a car accident and now you limp slightly when you’re tired. A year later, your father needed major heart surgery and he’s still quite frail. Doubtless, we’ll come face to face with more challenges in the future. What matters is how we deal with them. And in this I’ve learned some important lessons. I’ve learned that time brings change as well as the power to heal. I’ve learned to trust in the kindness of others, to accept their help and also to have faith in myself. Most importantly of all, I’ve learned that love is the most powerful thing in the universe. It’s stronger than mountains, brighter than sunshine and softer than gossamer. It’s awesome, in fact. Transformational. These are the lessons I’ll be passing on to our child. We know she’s a daughter and we’ve toyed with all sorts of names for her. Lucy, Sarah, Amelia and Alice are just a few of them. But there’s only one name that fits with everything she represents to us so we’ve settled on that. It’s Hope, of course. THE END © Lesley Eames, 2017

I threw myself into your arms, almost knocking you off the bench you constantly to hide the fact that she adores you. Two years have passed since our wedding. Now I watch you walk across our bedroom floor, towelling your hair which is wet from the shower. You pull on a T-shirt and grope for your specs. Then you send me a smile. One of your loving smiles that warm me from top to toe. “Come here,” I invite, and you sit on the edge of the bed. Taking your hand, I press it to my tummy. Your eyes widen as,

Woman’s Weekly Fiction 53

Redefining

Normal

Charlie’s mum and step-dad tell me not to blame myself but blame is sticky, like discarded chewing-gum

H “

appiness is... a black Labrador puppy, bouncing joyfully into the waves,” says Charlie, laughing. “Happiness is... a tousle-haired girl in patchwork dungarees, bucket and spade in hand,” I answer, running my fingers through her wayward curls. “Happiness is... a cycle ride down to the South Bank on my beautiful new bicycle.” She pulls away from my arms, picking up her helmet and passing me mine. “Come on!” Now, I sit by her bedside. The obscure pronouncements of doctors and kind words of nurses are punctuated by random bleeps that mean nothing. In the quiet moments, which are few, I tell her over and over how much I love her. In a parallel universe, somewhere light-years from here, we walk hand-in-hand along Sandown

b I tell her over and over how much I love her

54 Woman’s Weekly Fiction

Bay, enjoying those final slivers of sunshine not yet cut off by the crumbling cliffs behind us. Like the young dog in her holiday daydream, we tread the water’s edge, barefoot, content. In the real world, my world, her eyes flicker open/closed/ open but she looks beyond me. What does she see? Back home, the phone rings incessantly. I don’t answer it. Selfish, but I’d only be talking to people who don’t know what to say, who just want to be there for me — to help us get back to normal. Where is “there”, I wonder? What is “normal”? Less than a week ago, “normal” was a 28-year-old woman, so bursting with life that strangers turned to look when she entered a room, so full of energy and enthusiasm that a chore like cleaning the kitchen would suddenly become a source of shared delight. “Normal” was her happy-go-lucky 32-year-old boyfriend, a man whose biggest problem to date was no more than the unexpected closure of his favourite coffee shop. What it is now, I cannot begin to comprehend. Charlie’s mum and step-dad tell me that I shouldn’t blame myself. In my heart, I know they

are right. I didn’t crash the car in a drunken stupor or suggest some reckless night-time swim. I just bought her a birthday present, a bicycle in her favourite shade of blue. But blame is sticky, like discarded chewinggum; it adheres all the more for one’s efforts to shed it. Today is important. Every day of the last three weeks has been important, but this is different. When we last met, the consultant seemed so pressed that I left without answers. This time, I wear my interview suit, information about the Health Ombudsman to hand. I have been learning the language. I notice the hairs in his ears, the monocle and waistcoat, emblems of the eccentricity that is his armour. Eccentricity is no match for love, however, and I, too, can draw upon words as my weapons of attack. So we grapple, he and I, a civilised war in the land that lies between hope and despair. Afterwards, I collapse into a comfortable chair in the hospital café, exhausted. An elderly volunteer places a cup of tea in front of me; she sits down, unsteadily, and reaches out her hand towards mine. “Penny for them?” she says.

By Andrew Preskey I am so tired, so completely preoccupied, that it is only when she smiles that I recognise her; the neighbour who lives in the apartment below mine. We talk about inconsequentialities, reassuring things of little importance — the weather, the roadworks in our street, the cat-flap I fitted to her front door last month. “She’s young; she’s strong; she has you — she’ll be OK,” she says brightly, standing to leave, even though Charlie has not entered our conversation at all up to that point. Alone once again, I examine the treatment plan that we agreed, the Consultant and I. Later, at home, I will type up my notes and write to him to confirm its contents. I will leave nothing to chance. Still, I wonder if I could do more. It is now more than a month since the tipper-truck brushed Charlie aside, crushing her beloved new bicycle. She has progressed from intensive care to high-dependency unit to an ordinary ward and, finally, to rehabilitation, a strange kind of stasis punctuated only by occasional occupational therapy. The setting, like an old, unloved secondary school, seems heavy with hopelessness. The nurses here move slowly, stultified by the weight of their surroundings. Hospital food, lovechild of school dinners and the office canteen, penetrates even this distant outpost, so I have prepared a salad. Boxed neatly in a plastic container, I present it to her, a teatime treat. “It’s very, very,” she says, her eyes taking in the spectacle: glistening strawberries, crisp furls of yellow-green lettuce, tangerine-coloured tomatoes, cucumber cut into the strips she always liked, not my preferred chunky slices. She glances up at me and then down at the salad, once more, as if it is a gift of unfathomable beauty. “It’s very,” she says again, the first flicker of recognition in her face, as if she somehow perceives a familiarity, an intangible sense in which I might be significant. Later, as I walk home, the memory of her words will replace the sun that lingers lazily behind the early-evening clouds.

In truth, I hardly know the woman that is now Charlie; she does not know me at all, except that I am kind. After the meal, which I help her to eat, she sleeps, undisturbed by the restrained bustle of white-coated staff, overlooked only by the faded people of a washed-out print — Constable or Gainsborough. Mick and John, voices easily identified even before they reach the apartment door, are part of my history. They are like glittering treasure in the murky ocean depths. Students together, their crimes are my crimes. Their past joys are mine, too, but theirs continue — family, holidays, hobbies, home. I feel envious of this good fortune and yet glad that I am part of their happiness. We talk of ordinary things, shared recollections of more carefree times. And although these are but memories, there seems something solid about

I find this difficult. Despite my profession, I was never the campaigner. She once told me that if I ever found a reason, I would fight, that if I ever discovered a cause, I would outstrip even her energy and enthusiasm. I laughed at the thought. Now, with the deft digits of the practised journalist, I record every nuance of each exercise that the physiotherapist recommends; I am a veritable Moses with his tablets of stone. I glimpsed Charlie’s notes just before her referral to this specialist. Boyfriend — challenging was the phrase that surprised me. It seems I have morphed from easygoing potential life-partner to professional threat. I guess, if that’s what it takes... Charlie’s mum tells me that her ex-husband, the father with whom Charlie has not spoken for two years, spent all of last

b How do you pack two years of lost love into one gift?

them, something real that I can rely upon. The television newsreader chatters away in the background: Europe, terrorism, the wonderful unlikeliness of Leicester City topping the English Premier League last season and their chequered progress since that achievement. I hold onto the headlines but, somehow, the stories slip away, bereft of significance. The understanding of old friends is precious, but only Charlie can give life meaning. I visit her twice a day now and write about her in my weekly column, a kind of cathartic creativity. I am careful not to invite intrusion; this is Charlie’s story. I use positive and encouraging words like recovery, journey and cure, but I know that these are mealy-mouthed and, ultimately, meaningless. I must mine deeper if I am going to help her to claw her way back to normality, to reclaim her life.

Tuesday looking for something, something to give his daughter, something just right. How do you pack two years of lost love into one gift? I have christened the large stuffed toy he purchased “Honey Bear”. It sits by Charlie’s bedside, a guard and companion for when I cannot be here. Again she sleeps, and I reflect upon life to this point, as I have so often since that day. Time now divides into BCA and PCA — before critical accident and post critical accident. Before critical accident, things just seemed to work out. Exams passed, I drifted into a career for which most people have to compete. Girlfriends arrived like the morning papers and, generally, lasted about as long. Then I met Charlie. Old-fashioned, principled, Beatles-obsessed, cricket-loving Charlie, the one thing I had to work for in life, the one person that I didn’t take for granted. Ironic that it

should be her that life would try to take away. She snuggles into my shoulder; we probably appear no different to any other affectionate couple. It has taken us an hour to walk the 200 metres to this bench in the park. I’m not sure how we will get home. But then it occurs to me, I don’t care. Six weeks after the accident that should have killed her, Charlie already knows who she is, who I am. For Christmas, she has told me, she would like a bright blue bicycle. There is a strange but delightful sense in which we are home... “You still love me?” It is the third time that she has asked this question since I helped her up from the hospital-type bed now installed in the spare room of my apartment. “You’re crying?” she adds, turning to look at me. “I’m not so much crying, as...” My words falter. Although Charlie cannot yet spar with me as she used to, tying me up with her intellectual string, somehow I experience that same sense of intensity in her presence. I notice the grain in the wood of the bench upon which we sit; the dedication, For Nora, who so loved Alfred, has a resonance, a meaning that would be impossible without her. I marvel at the essence that makes each of us unique, how resilient it can be — to illness, to accident, and wonder again what “normal” is. After all we have been through, Charlie and I, would I settle for normal, even the rose-tinted normal of those holiday daydreams? I think about the last six weeks, so challenging and yet so remarkable, just like the young woman who rests on my shoulder. Would I swap them for normal? The truth is, I’m not sure. Normal, it strikes me, was always a rushing existence — life hastening by, oblivious to our plans. Maybe what we need is to redefine normal. Perhaps that’s what we are doing. “I love you, Owen Clarke,” she says sleepily. Yes, that’s what we’re doing. We’re redefining normal. THE END © Andrew Preskey, 2017 Woman’s Weekly Fiction 55

No One

To Immie, it suddenly seemed ridiculous that she might have anything worthwhile to offer

mmie took a breath, opened the door and slipped behind the security fence immediately outside. A flurry of smartphones shot into the air and a collective murmur of anticipation rippled through the assembled gathering. Except, of course, the gathering was comprised mostly of teenage girls and as soon as they twigged she wasn’t one of the talent, all the smartphones were lowered. “Oh, it’s no one,” someone said, and it was as if Immie had suddenly become invisible. Immie made an effort not to let her chin drop and walked purposefully across to the assembled TV crew, who were shooting near the university library. But even after all this time, it still rankled. Immie knew she should be used to it by now. After all, she’d spent her entire 42 years being No One. For a short while, she’d almost become a Bore. And she did

wonder whether at least being a Bore would have been better than a No One. But probably not, she reckoned, based on the evidence. The TV crew were filming for a star-studded, six-part universitybased mystery thriller, using the long break to take advantage of a quieter period on campus. Anybody who was anybody seemed to be in it and Immie had thought it would be exciting to watch the filming — until she discovered the cast included Chrissie Saxon, the woman who stole her fiancé. Then the magic quickly evaporated, leaving only the inconvenience of the intrusive activity. Immie was going over there now because a request had been made for a rarely-used doorway to be unlocked, and she had been despatched with the necessary keys. She handed them over to the 2nd assistant to the assistant director’s gofer — sympathising with the young girl’s lowly place in the TV production hierarchy —

and received a smiling thanks in return. Immie also spotted Chrissie Saxon again, sipping from a plastic cup, presumably waiting to film the next scene. Chrissie. Immie used to hate the woman. But now... now she hardly gave her a thought. She turned and walked back past the teenage girls, all of whom ignored her completely this time.

It was as if Immie had suddenly become invisible 56 Woman’s Weekly Fiction

She was, literally, no one in comparison. Imogen Melissa Noone had often asked her parents what they were thinking when they named her. Imogen Melissa? With a surname like Noone? Making her I. M. Noone? Or I’m No One if the spacing and punctuation went awry. It had made her life... well, not exactly difficult... but definitely awkward at school. Trouble was, she’d been a quiet girl, more interested in

By Steve Beresford

Illustration: Getty

“I just saw whatsisname on my way in.” Alison had only just arrived, after having the morning off. “You know, out of Poldark. Or was it Victoria? Him with the eyes. Almost asked for his autograph, but he was on the phone.” “Do you mean — ?” “Which reminded me,” Alison ploughed on, “I saw you with this gorgeous guy yesterday.” “You did?” Immie frowned. “And you were, like, totally flirting with each other.” “We were?” Immie didn’t do flirting. She didn’t know how. “When was this?” “Home-time. Yesterday. I was heading up to the station and I spotted you outside the maths department, chatting to this guy. Tall. Blond. Lumberjack shirt.” “Oh, you mean Joe!” Dr Joe Patton, actually. “Joe, eh? Come on then, spill!” Immie shrugged. “He’s simply a... a friend.” “A friend? Rii-iight!” “No, honestly.” Immie didn’t really want to explain how she knew Joe. It was personal. Private. “And I happened to stop for a chat.” Alison was clearly disappointed. “So he’s not, like, your secret lover?” “No.” Immie managed a laugh. “Sorry.” Crikey — if only! Because, well, yes, OK, she was attracted to Dr Joe Patton, because he was totally dishy. But he was out of her league, like some god from a Viking legend. And she was... well, she was no one. Joe was always really friendly, but he’d never sent out any romantic signals that she’d noticed. Immie had never been good with men. Too clever by half for most of them, she reckoned, which threatened their masculinity or some such rubbish. Her first true love had been mathematics than partying, preferring numbers and equations to the latest fashions. Which didn’t help to make her any more noticeable. And while the fans gathered outside hadn’t meant anything nasty, their words — “It’s no one” — still sounded like a familiar taunt. Now, back in Admin and having her lunch al desko, she tapped at her laptop and tried to put Chrissie from her mind to get some work done on her personal project.

Then there was Matt Bore. Mr Right. Mr Wonderful. She’d had brief flings at university, both as as an undergrad and a postgrad, as she continued her mathematical studies. Nothing serious, though. And after years of studying, she was offered a position with a firm of architectural consultants working as a computer programmer in their mathematical modelling division, specialising in crowd flows and entrance/exit scenarios. Someone at the firm had come across her postgrad thesis and decided he needed her particular expertise. “There’s no one else quite like you,” was the comment. Which made a brief change from simply being no one. And through her job she met Matt, who worked at the Council, in planning. She was 27 then. The whole thing with Matt had been incredible. A whirlwind. Immie had been sooo in love. She told him all the horror stories about her name and she joked that as a Bore he must have suffered, too. But strangely, he hadn’t. Maybe he’d dealt with it better, been more confident, not giving anyone the opportunity to put him down. She joked that when they got married, she would go from a No One to a Bore. Imogen Bore. I Bore, in fact, as if declaring the basic essence of her character. Unless she took a double-barrelled approach and adopted I Bore-No One, in which case everyone would find her interesting. Matt said he couldn’t understand why anyone wouldn’t find her interesting. She was smart and beautiful and funny, he told her — and somehow he convinced her to follow him to Chilfield when he got a better job. She was 28 then, already pregnant with Harry, and would be taking

He was out of her league, like some god “What are you up to?” asked Alison, a colleague in Admin, as she deposited herself in a chair next to Immie’s workstation. “Inspired by that lot outside to start writing a script of your own?” “Wouldn’t even know where to start.” Immie hit Save. She didn’t usually bring her laptop to work, but she was reaching a crucial point in her project and wanted to maintain the momentum.

Nick, back in sixth form. But he dumped her for this posh girl from the nearby private school. She could clearly remember coming across them canoodling on a park bench and humiliating herself by causing a scene. “Who’s the psycho?” the posh girl asked. “Ignore her.” Nick smirked. “She’s no one.” Knowing exactly how much that would hurt her.

maternity leave, anyway. So why not take the plunge and simply leave her job entirely? “There’ll be other jobs,” Matt said, “when you’re ready to go back to work.” It sounded reasonable and sensible. At the time. The wedding was organised, a date set once they were settled into their new house with their new baby and their new life and... Woman’s Weekly Fiction 57

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No One ... and then Matt met Chrissie Saxon. Chrissie wasn’t a maths genius. She wasn’t permanently attached to a tiny child. She was, instead, someone. An actress. She’d been on the TV. She had a regular recurring role in a series of adverts. She was destined for great things. Matt simply walked away from Immie. The wedding was cancelled. Immie was just 30 then. In three years, her life turned completely around. For a while, Matt visited Harry, but even that trailed off to nothing when he moved away from Chilfield, now following Chrissie’s career and not his own. He claimed it was best for Harry, that it would only confuse the boy. Harry was now a teenager, and did know Matt. But the two rarely met. And now Chrissie was on campus, filming. Matt wouldn’t be around, though. He and Chrissie had split years ago and he was currently with a shoe-shop manager. They had two kids. Ho, hum. Immie had tried to get her old job back following Matt’s departure, but the company had restructured after she resigned, then been swallowed by a rival. Her previous position no longer existed and there were no vacancies. No vacancies anywhere, actually, for a mathematician. So she took what she could get. And currently she was at Chilfield University, working in admin. She enjoyed it too, but it wasn’t quite her dream job. So she returned to her first love in her spare time. Mathematics. Crowd flows, in particular — modelling and analysing the way large volumes of people moved in and out and through buildings and public spaces. For some reason, the problems fascinated her. How emergencies could create

bottlenecks at exits. How queues formed and evolved. She ran simulations on her laptop and with Joe’s help had been developing her software. Joe even suggested she could sell her software and her talent on the open market. He knew, so he told her, just the man she needed to talk to. Kevin Andrews. And he set up a meeting at the Maths Department at three o’clock the following day. Immie wasn’t looking forward to it. Well, she was. It could, after all, lead to exciting things. But past experience had taught her that exciting experiences rarely happened to people who were no one. But she made an effort, booking the afternoon off so she could nip home and change into something more stylish, something more

“You’ll like Kevin. Come on, he’s waiting in the tea room.” And Joe led her away down the corridor . Kevin Andrews was in his 40s, in jeans and an unbuttoned green shirt over a grey T-shirt. Joe had said he was an old friend, and a partner in a newly-formed architectural development company. He looked more like a roadie for a rock band. “Hi! Imogen, right?” The man rose from his seat, extending a large, rough hand, smiling. “Joe tells me that you’re interested in crowd-modelling.” It suddenly seemed ridiculous to think she had anything worthwhile to offer, no matter how well she might have dressed up. “Well, I’ve dabbled.” Joe laughed. “Dabbled? This woman, Kev, is basically an expert in her field. Admittedly, it’s a very small field, but she’s... she’s absolutely the best you can get.” And the way Joe was looking at her, the way his eyes were glowing... Like he might be more than just a friend, helping her for the fun of it. Like there might be suddenly something bigger at stake. He frowned, like he had surprised himself too. “Oh, please..!” Immie tried to make light of it, although she couldn’t help but shiver when Joe then laughed. “No, really,” he went on, his calm exterior cracking to expose something deeper beneath, “she’s something really special.” He cleared his throat. “I reckon she’s number one.”

for concerts, conferences and conventions. Immie’s specialist work would be invaluable to create a flowing and safe environment for the crowds that he hoped would eventually turn up. She demonstrated the basics of her computer program and he was apparently impressed. Then Kevin announced he had another meeting to get to. They all shook hands and he said he would definitely be in touch, that he would have his legal guy draw up a preliminary contract, that he looked forward very much to working together. And he thanked Joe for introducing them. “You were right, Joe,” he said. “She is number one in her field.” Joe grinned. “I told you.” Then, seemingly in a flash, the meeting was over and Kevin Andrews had gone. “That went well,” Joe said. “Very well.” The chaos in Immie’s head had settled somewhat, but it was still there, bubbling beneath the surface. “So, well, do you fancy a drink maybe?” “A drink?” Her mouth was quite dry after all the talking. “You know... to, erm, celebrate.” Then she realised what he was saying. A drink. The celebration was incidental. He was asking her out. It was suddenly obvious. Suddenly the right time. “A drink sounds lovely.” She couldn’t help but smile. Because she could feel her life was changing, like she’d been leading up to this point. And the

Joe frowned, like he had surprised himself too business-like, something more intellectual, hoping to give the impression that she really was capable of designing software. “Hey, you look —” Joe Patton eyed her when she arrived in the Maths Department at just before three, having waited outside for ages after arriving far too early, palms growing sweaty around her laptop satchel — “Different,” he finished. “Nice, I mean. Not that you don’t normally. Obviously. But...” “Oh, well.” She tugged at her blouse self-consciously. “You know.” He looked different, too. Not clothes-wise. Still jeans and the lumberjack shirt. But different anyway. Although she couldn’t place why.

And Immie realised that maybe Alison was right. Maybe they really had been flirting, in their own mathematical way, a tiny fraction here and a tiny fraction there, all insignificant until today when they finally added up to something more substantial. “Number one, eh?” Kevin said, missing the subtext and the crackle beneath his own desire to see the software Immie had created. “You could be just the person I’m looking for.” The meeting went well — considering the chaos inside Immie’s head. Kevin explained that he was looking to develop a number of derelict and disused industrial sites into public arenas

kiss was inevitable. Just a quick one, half-embarrassed, but exciting nonetheless. “You’ve been my number one for ages,” Joe said. She laughed happily. “Why didn’t you say?” Imogen Noone. For most of her 42 years, she’d been No One. Defined by her name. Now, today, suddenly, to two different men for two different reasons, her name finally made sense. Noone. It was simply a matter of looking at it from a slightly different perspective, reading it in a different way. Not no one, but No 1. THE END © Steve Beresford, 2017 Woman’s Weekly Fiction 59

Dear

Sweaty FIvE MILES IS A LONG WAY, IF YOU HAvEN’T DONE MUCH RUNNNG. BUT LILY WAS DETERMINED TO DO IT ear Sweaty, Lily read between gulps of breath. It wasn’t the most romantic beginning to a letter. Even so, she was unable to stop herself smiling. It had popped through the letter-box that morning and she’d put it in the pocket of her hoody to save for later. ‘Then I can read it properly,’ she thought. Zac had drawn a little frog in the corner. He loved frogs. Wanted to work in conservation as a career. They spent a lot of their walks by the river, looking for frogs in the long grass. You might have to kiss a frog, he’d written. She was too choked up to read any more. Too choked because she and Zac originally planned to do this fun-run together. If it hadn’t been for that slippery patch of mud and the worn soles of his trainers, he’d be there with her now. “It’s amazing,” he said to her later, after the hospital sent him home on crutches with his ankle encased in plaster, “how, in just a moment, something can happen to change all your plans.” He was much more laidback than Lily. She’d raged

60 Woman’s Weekly Fiction

and sulked when she heard what happened. The sharp disappointment she felt when she realised they wouldn’t be able to do the run together still lingered. “You’ll just have to do it on your own,” he said. She’d been gearing herself up for another outburst when she suddenly realised that was how he was expecting her to react. “I’ll do it on my own then.” She glared at him. “Five miles is a long way, if you haven’t done much running for a while.” “I’ll practise.” “You sure?” “Yes. Don’t try to make me change my mind.” He knew better than that. He also knew that the best way to get Lily to do something was to imply she couldn’t. “Good for you,” he replied. “Just think of all the frogs you’ll be saving.” And now here she was, out in the middle of nowhere and covered in mud and sweat. The other reason she was choking was because she hadn’t done a great deal of training. When they first planned to take

part in the run and raise money for endangered wildlife, the idea was they would train together. Of course, Zac’s accident put paid to that. Lily had gone out running on her own but it wasn’t the same without Zac. She could hardly breath due to the exertion. Three miles finished, but two still to go. Normally, a five-miler would be a piece of cake but Lily had broken her leg badly a few years ago and now it wasn’t so good.

The damage had mended but her leg wasn’t as strong. She took in great breaths of the chilly, spring air and cleared her head. Perhaps it was the brief stop or maybe the letter that gave her some extra energy. She’d have to make it to the next checkpoint soon or they’d come looking for her. It was a condition of her entry. “You damaged your leg badly a couple of years ago,” said one of the organisers who lived round the corner from Lily. “I can still do it.” She stared back. Stubborn. Daring him to say she couldn’t take part. Ready with her ammunition, in case he did. “I’ll walk, if running gets too much.” The man raised an eyebrow. Lily let out a long, disgruntled sigh. She’d had to agree that if she didn’t keep to the planned timing, they’d come to find her, see if she was OK. A moment’s pause was all she could allow herself. And she wasn’t just sweaty. Mud plastered up to her thighs. As well as a cold spring, it had also been a wet one. She ploughed on across the next field and then onto the river path. A black and white cow paused from its grazing to look at

y She took in great breaths of the chilly, spring air

By Maggie Primavesi her and Lily stuck her tongue out as she jogged past. “So aggressive!” she heard Zac’s words. “You’re always so aggressive, Lil. Chill a bit. Things are going well. You just need to keep going.” It was what he said after her last training run when she’d come back and said she couldn’t go through with it. “You can’t give up now. You need to keep going.” There was no option. Zac knew the anger that would spill out of her if she gave up now. It would be aimed at herself this time and that was the worse kind. It would destroy her confidence, which was just starting to grow. He’d made her a play-list she’d loaded onto her mobile phone. “I couldn’t find many recent songs about running. It might sound a bit like something your dad would listen to.” The first one was Keep On Running and she’d never heard of the band. Born To Run brought a smile to her lips. Her mum liked Bruce Springsteen. She sometimes put his CD on and danced round the living-room. Lily used to join in before she became a teenager and changed overnight into a ragbag of rage. Zac was right. The music was filling her head with stuff, taking her mind off her tiredness and just how much the physical effort of running was taking it out of her. “Dear Sweaty,” she said to herself over again. “Dear, dear Sweaty.” He’d taken her mother’s side at first about the run, just like he had over the tattoo. “Your mother won’t like it,” Zac said when they first had the idea of doing a sponsored run. “She’ll think you’re not ready.” “Whose side are you on?” she’d snapped back. “There aren’t sides, Lily, just different ways of looking at things. You see it one way, she sees it another. Go easy on her.” “She’s not my real mother, you know.” The words just slipped out. She’d never told anyone before. That was why she felt such an outsider. Why she always felt angry. “Real mothers aren’t always perfect,” Zac replied. “Why do you think I live with my aunt and uncle?”

She didn’t know anything about Zac’s parents, just that an aunt and uncle had brought him up. He’d turned up by the canal one Sunday. She was sitting on an old bench, sketching the grass at the edge of the towpath. The doctor said she had to get out and exercise her leg. Zac flopped down on the bench beside her and peered at her drawing, his long legs sprawling out in front and his black, curly hair struggling to escape from a beanie. “Not bad,” he said as if that explained why someone she hardly knew, from the year above her at school, suddenly turned up. But that was like Zac. He didn’t go in for explanations. He just took a small sketchpad out of his pocket and showed her the drawings he’d made of frogs. There were cartoons he’d drawn, too, of their teachers. After 10 minutes with Zac, she already felt better. He was interested in plants and animals, like she was, and told her he was going to study ecology at university. Then there was the tattoo. “If your mum says you shouldn’t have one, then perhaps you shouldn’t,” he said. Lily had stared at him, open-mouthed. She couldn’t believe she was hearing it. Zac never did anything unless he was told not to. He’d made a career out of rebelling. “Perhaps she really knows why you want that tattoo. So you can hang out with Katy Simms and her crowd in the mall. So you feel like part of the crowd.” “What’s wrong with that?” She pulled a face, feeling the anger rise up inside her like it did the other day at school when someone made a remark about her hair. Said she was like a hedgehog. She ran her hand over it. She’d used some gel that day and it was just long enough to stand up in little spikes. “Well, you are prickly,” Zac replied. “They were just trying to make a joke. If someone tries to be friendly, you always fight against it. You can get fake ones, you know.” “Fake ones?” “My Auntie Cath got a fake tattoo after my Uncle Des left. It was this huge panther prowling

up her arm. She said it made her feel empowered, as if she wasn’t just a victim, and it’d wash off after a few days.” ‘Empowered.’ Lily rolled the words around inside her head. ‘Things will happen regardless of what I do. I don’t see how having a fake tattoo can make me feel better.’ But here she was, running to raise money to help endangered species. Something both she and Zac believed in. And it did make her feel stronger, in an odd sort of way. Once, they were walking along the canal towpath. It was Sunday afternoon and Lily should have been doing her homework, but she’d sneaked out after lunch. Zac knew she preferred the canal to the

with ribbons and artificial flowers. She twirled it round, striking a pose. “It’s very girly. I’m not really girly, am I?” “Aren’t you?” he replied. “You’re always trying to hide bits of yourself away either with tattoos or by being sharp with people. You don’t need to be like that lot that hang about down at the mall. Just be yourself.” The trouble was, Lily wasn’t sure who she was at the moment. It was as if the real person had disappeared like a frightened animal and could only put in an appearance if she came out fighting. Now there was only half a mile to go. In the distance, she could hear sounds of shouting as people cheered those who’d already finished. ‘I need another break,’ she thought. ‘Just for a moment.’ Her blood felt as if it was pounding in her head. Then Zac’s words were in her head. ‘Dear Sweaty.’ ‘Dear Frog Face.’ The silly names they called each other. Why couldn’t they say what they really wanted to? She took the letter out again. Well, it was hardly a letter, more a note. Thanks for doing this. Sorry I can’t be there. You might have to kiss a frog. Love, Zac xx. Lily hugged the letter to herself. Love Zac. He’d never used that word before. To Lily, it was the most romantic note in the world and she’d keep it forever. Years later their daughter would find it and think it odd. “You and Dad did have a strange way of saying things,” she’d say. They’d laugh and say there was no right or wrong way to tell someone you loved them. Everyone cheered when Lily crossed the finishing line. Zac, wearing the green beanie she’d knitted him, was jumping up and down. “Go easy on that ankle,” his aunt told him. Lily’s mum had a blanket to wrap her up in. “The car’s waiting,” she said. “Not yet, Mum,” said Lily in her usual, forthright way. “I have to kiss a frog first,” and that was exactly what she did. THE END © Maggie Primavesi, 2017

y Zac was right. The music was filling her head

centre of town. It was quieter. Her leg was aching. She should have been using the stick the hospital gave her, but she’d deliberately left it behind. “I forgot my stick. It makes me feel like an old person,” she said defiantly. She’d outlined her eyes in black kohl and they glared at him. “Never mind. Lean on my arm, if you like. Now we look like a couple of old people out for a Sunday stroll.” Lily wouldn’t admit it, but she loved the way he diffused her anger, refused to give her something to kick against. The next time they met, he produced a stick he’d found in a charity shop and decorated it

Woman’s Weekly Fiction 61

Gutter Out The

Girl

Of The

She could hardly believe she was about to go downstairs to Lady Sloan’s salon, to greet the guests. How her life had changed!

lizabeth Caldwell stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her hair was arranged in ringlets at the temples, and a mass of curls was piled on top, looped with the tiny silver chains Lady Sloan had given her that afternoon in town. Her gown was very pale pink, so pale that it had the effect of making Elizabeth’s cheeks seem rosier and brighter. Her eyes were a dark blue — people often remarked on their unusual

b Her lips rested constantly in a sweet, upward curve

62 Woman’s Weekly Fiction

colour, and her lips rested constantly in a sweet, upward curve that caused observers to believe she was always content, even when she was not. Her eye strayed to the mirror’s ebony frame. It was carved with bunches of grapes and flowers, and had been polished by Lady Sloan’s servants until it shone like a conker newly out of its case. Elizabeth reached out and ran her fingers over the carvings. She thought of the mirror that had hung in her mother’s room, the room they had shared on the farm. It had barely been a mirror at all, so tarnished and blackened that they hung it there more for something to cover the wall’s unevenness than to see their faces. That looking glass, and this one, seemed to Elizabeth to represent the extraordinary contrast between

her old life and this life, separated by a few short years. She could hardly believe that she was standing before this mirror, and even less believe that she was about to go downstairs to Lady Sloan’s salon, to greet the guests. “Lizzy, dearest!” Lady Sloan’s resonant voice reached Elizabeth’s ears. “Lizzy! Come along, do — they don’t want to see me when the front door is opened. They want to see you!” Elizabeth adjusted the necklace at her throat and hurried down the wide staircase. In the hall stood Lady Sloan and her man, Norris, who smiled to himself as he watched Elizabeth descend. “A picture, Norris, wouldn’t you say?” commented Lady Sloan. “Better than all the other pictures in the house, My Lady,” he said, running his eye

Illustration: Getty

By Alison Carter

Womanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Weekly Fiction 63

Gutter Out The

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over the family portraits that decorated the walls. Lady Sloan sighed. “My family has not your beauty, my dear. I wish we had. Now, it is a few minutes after nine, and my guests will be arriving. Have we cards enough, Lizzy?” “Eight tables laid out,” Elizabeth said. “There will be sherry and cake to begin, and tea later.” “Excellent. Though we are an odd number now, you know, which is vexing. My son John is bringing some friend of his — a Mr Connor, or a Mr Connolly, some name like that. An Irishman, John says, and a great friend from his university days.” “I can sit out for the cards, then,” Elizabeth offered, “if we have not an even number.” “You most certainly cannot!” Then the bell sounded. Norris straightened his waistcoat before opening the door, and the guests began to trickle in. After six months living at Lady Sloan’s house, Elizabeth recognised them all except one auburn-haired gentleman, and two small and lively young women who were introduced as distant cousins of Lady Sloan’s, staying in London. The gentleman turned out to be called Keneely. My Lady had such a large social circle that she was in the habit of calling everyone “my dear”, or “sir” and not bothering greatly with accuracy. Mr Keneely was not tall, and not notably handsome, but as the party assembled and talked, Elizabeth quickly recognised in him wit and an energy that she admired. Lady Sloan’s two young cousins lived in Wiltshire and had come to stay in London at an hotel. “Their mother was to have come, but suffered a bout of influenza, and is confined to bed 64 Woman’s Weekly Fiction

at home,” Lady Sloan told Elizabeth. “I did suggest they stay here, so that they are properly chaperoned, but they would have none of it, and I confess that I can watch over them just as well from the hotel, which is so close by, as here, for I am out so very often! I have put a carriage at their disposal, so they can...” She smiled knowingly at the younger Miss Wilshaw, squealing with laughter at a joke made by one of the men, “so they can fulfill the object of their coming to town. Constance is a clever girl, and can guide her young sister, and of course I will see them daily at all the good houses.” The Wilshaw sisters made themselves at home in the salon quickly, moving about the room to converse with all the men under 50, and a few of the women. Both were pretty, and well dressed in a way that was perhaps (Elizabeth thought, but from scant experience) a little elaborate for an evening salon, more befitting a dinner. Georgina, the younger sister, roamed happily, explaining her relationship to “Cousin Anne” (Lady Sloan) and declaring to all who would listen that she was delighted to be at last in London. She commented repeatedly that her parents’ Wiltshire estate was “all damp fields and dullness”. The shorter and older girl, Constance, came to talk to Elizabeth just as

the assembled company began to take their seats for cards. “And you are my cousin’s companion?” she asked, her face a fraction too close to Elizabeth’s, her look sharp. “I’m lucky enough to have been taken under Lady Sloan’s wing, yes,” Elizabeth said. The word “companion” had never actually been used by her patron. Lady Sloan was a woman not only of good taste but of kindness, and Elizabeth had felt from the start that she was treated as a friend. “I dare say she likes someone to sit with her when there’s no company available,” Constance Wilshaw remarked. Elizabeth wondered if the girl noticed the implied insult — that she, Elizabeth, was not “company”. But she decided that it had been a slip. The girl smiled knowingly. “I recollect my cousin saying that you have lived abroad?” “Yes. I was in Van Diemen’s Land for —” “That’s it! I remember. Well, that’s exotic, to be sure. Van Diemen’s Land! One day you must tell me all

b Norris straightened his waistcoat before opening the door

about it, if you are still employed here.” She looked at Elizabeth for a moment. “But for now, would you fetch me something like a cushion, for when I sit at cards?” She waved a hand. “I don’t mind what cushion. But these baize tables are high, and I want to be in command of the play.” She laughed. “The gentlemen often remark I am just like a doll — small and formed to perfection! I just say that I am small!” Elizabeth had no objection whatever to fetching cushions, but had a sense that this young woman did not like her, or at least did not like the fact that she was living with Lady Sloan. Constance was indeed clever, or at least had some powers of perception. Possibly she sensed something unusual in Elizabeth Caldwell. Perhaps she even guessed a little of Elizabeth’s extraordinary path to this drawing room in Devonshire Street. Elizabeth understood, more than any young woman, her own good luck. She had begun her life only a mile or two from where she now stood, born to a joiner who died when she was 10 years old. Her mother had then gone into service, but fell on hard times having broken an arm falling down some cellar steps, and was forced to leave her position. Elizabeth remembered clearly the fateful day when Jennet Caldwell became desperate, and stole. They were side by side in a draper’s shop. Elizabeth had grown an inch, it seemed, even in the few weeks since they had lost their income, and she had nothing to wear that fitted her. Elizabeth knew that there was no money to go shopping in an actual shop — clothes were acquired from people they knew, worn and handed down. But, nevertheless, Jennet had brought her daughter into this shop and they were waiting behind a short queue of women. “Why are we here?” Lizzy asked. “Just for a look, Lizzy,” her mother said. Her voice was tense. Elizabeth remembered her mother’s expression as fretful, eyes flitting about the shop. Later, when Elizabeth recollected that day, she realised that her mother had probably entered the shop knowing she would steal, knowing she must, for survival. Beside them on a bench sat a small wooden crate of made-up stockings; Elizabeth recalled their soft, pale

colours forever afterwards. She recalled her mother’s equally pale hand reaching out, taking two pairs, and slipping them under her shawl. “You!” The shopkeeper’s voice was loud, and a stark contrast to the chatter of the women between his position and the criminal’s. The line parted and he was suddenly out from behind the long counter and upon them. There was a sentence that was easy to hand down for women like Jennet Caldwell, women who took what wasn’t theirs. It was viewed as merciful, too, and was therefore popular among magistrates and judges. Following decades of war there were old, broken-down warships aplenty, available to carry undesirables to the other side of the world. Jennet was convicted, after a peremptory trial, to transportation and an indefinite sentence of labour at a penal colony (in practice, a Tasmansian sheep farm). Elizabeth presented the magistrate with a problem. She was at an awkward age — not quite old enough at 10 to be left in London alone; far cheaper to pack up with her mother and add to the boat. So, in the autumn of 1812 the two of them had made the frightening, filthy and cramped five-month journey into the unknown. Elizabeth had by now, at the age of 23, made more than one personal vow in her life, but her first was she would never again go to sea. In Lady Sloan’s drawing-room, Elizabeth reached up and touched the thin, deep scar on the back of her neck. It was the result of a disagreement with a ram when she had been 15. The ram had not approved of her being in his enclosure, and had sought to tell her so. A woman named Mrs Lawson, keeper of a brothel near the Women’s Factory in that part of Van Diemen’s Land, had been passing and had hauled her out, bleeding, and taken her home. Mrs Lawson benefitted, Elizabeth remembered, from a broad back. The penal colony had been a miserable place, prone to disease, certainly prone to sin. But Jennet and Elizabeth had made friends there every bit as good as Lady Sloan. Elizabeth watched Constance Wilshaw walk away and hover behind a chair on the other side of the room, smiling around at the

company, perfectly confident in her youth and careless superiority. She wondered how Miss Wilshaw would fare at plaiting straw for 11 hours a day in a Van Diemen’s Land factory. “Miss Caldwell, I think?” It was the Irishman, Mr Keneely. “Sir.” Elizabeth turned to him. “Where will you sit?” he asked. His voice was deep and rich, his smile open. She was disconcerted by the effect he had on her, even with four short words. She said, “I am just upon an errand for Miss Wil —” “Fetching this?” He held up an embroidered cushion. “Miss Wilshaw has an excellent voice — clear and ringing. I noted her requirement and was ahead of you.” Elizabeth watched him as he crossed the room and tapped Miss Wilshaw on the shoulder. Constance turned and gave him

think we were discussing the armed forces.” Elizabeth laughed. “But there is a space, sir, so...” He appeared to be unwilling to play, or at least unwilling to move away, and he stood beside her with his glass in his hand for two minutes more, until Lady Sloan saw them. “Lizzy,” she said, “you are a wicked girl. You have contrived to sit out, after all.” “Are we playing Euchre?” Mr Keneely asked. “We don’t have that game in Ireland, and so I am without skill. Perhaps Miss Caldwell will be kind enough to stand behind me and pretend not to see my cards while all the time prodding me in the back to ensure I make the right move.” Lady Sloan thought this idea very amusing, and sent them across the room together, to the spare seat. Constance Wilshaw looked up as

b The penal colony had been a miserable place

a brilliant smile, and he laid the cushion down and waited while she settled herself on it, with some ceremony. This Irishman, Elizabeth observed, must be seen as a promising match, as a good friend of John, Lady Sloan’s son — and money tended to follow money. Constance’s parents, at home on their Wiltshire estate, were even now hoping that with My Lady’s help, their older daughter would secure a husband. The younger daughter Georgina was just as lively, but probably too young for this season. Mr Keneely returned to where Elizabeth stood. “Oh, dear,” he said. “While I ran my errand, all the seats were filled.” “No, I think the company numbers 25,” Elizabeth said, scanning the room, “so there will be one chair still free. Look, beyond the tea table — an empty place.” He looked. “Yes, I see, between Lady Sloan’s virtuous vicar and the deaf gentleman I spoke to earlier about horses. At least, I was speaking of horses; he seemed to

they passed her table, touched Mr Keneely’s arm and gave him a charming smile. Further on, Georgina looked at Elizabeth with a glance that was not wholly friendly. Elizabeth was surprised that Mrs Wilshaw saw fit to send such a young girl — practically a child — to London, and with her almost-chaperone so unaccustomed to the job. Mothers here in England saw danger around every corner. Elizabeth found it funny, viewing girls as delicate flowers. Females in a penal colony learned quickly to look after themselves. Jennet, Elizabeth’s mother, had seized her fate with both hands. She had worked hard, and made firm relationships among the other convicts, especially what women there were. “We are few enough,” she told Elizabeth, “and so we stick together, and pull each other up. We are all in the gutter, so they tell us all the time, so we may as well make it as pleasant to lie in as we can.” Elizabeth watched Georgina bite her lip as she looked at her hand.

She was indeed young. She reminded Elizabeth of the children she had cared for in the Gunn household, which had been her first stopping place upon her return from Van Diemen’s Land. She had been 19 then, alone and adrift. But the Gunns had — by chance, by the sort of good fortune that rains down from heaven — saved her. In December of the year before, Elizabeth had been with her mother in Van Diemen’s Land. She was an oddity in a community of convicts because she was not a criminal herself, and was older than most of the other youngsters in the colony. A new assistant to the governor had recently arrived, an unusually elderly man (for the position), with a kind and motherly wife who took an interest in the convicts. “Pickpocketing in Covent Garden, and sent all the way here!” Mrs Macdonald would say, shaking her head and tutting. “Caught brawling once on Southampton Dock! What a fate, for one thrashing!” Newly arrived on the island and looking about her, Mrs Macdonald spotted Elizabeth one warm and muggy morning, and hired her to help keep house. “So you were convicted of nothing?” she asked. They were walking the empty rooms of the Assistant Governor’s residence, Mrs Macdonald deciding what furniture should be arranged where, once the cargo ship came in. “My mother was found guilty,” Elizabeth said quietly, “at a draper’s in —” “Well, that’s by the by,” Mrs Macdonald interrupted. “You have been in this Godforsaken place since a child? By what method are you to go home again?” “Home, Mrs Macdonald?” “I mean, to England, of course, and... well, some kind of a future.” Elizabeth stared at her. A “future” had never been suggested to her. “I know of no method,” she said. “I understood that I was to work here, and —” “I will consult my husband,” Mrs Macdonald interrupted again, “and see what he has to say.” Mr Macdonald was as puzzled by Elizabeth’s peculiar position as his wife. But he was a vague, forgetful man. Once an important diplomat in Europe, he was now nearing retirement and had been Woman’s Weekly Fiction 65

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sent to mind the affairs of an uninteresting penal settlement almost to “fill in” until he was pensioned. Mrs Macdonald had to nag her husband several times before he looked into the matter of an 18-year-old woman consigned to prison for no good reason. “I suppose I could grant a Ticket of Leave,” he mumbled one morning. Mrs Macdonald had summoned Elizabeth to his presence, hopeful of an answer. Elizabeth had heard of these Tickets. Good behaviour, apparently, could earn such a thing, and a Ticket could take a man back to Britain. “Can you hand them out at your discretion, my dear?” asked Mrs Macdonald. He blinked, and rummaged among a sheaf of papers on his desk. “I believe it’s stated in my list of duties here,” he said. “I think I can. But then we shall lose this helpful young woman when we have only just got her, Isobel.” “She would not be in Van Diemen’s Land at all, Jock,” Mrs Macdonald said, “if there was justice at home.” Elizabeth was reluctant to leave her mother. But, like many convicts, Jennet Caldwell had begun, after years of hardship, to forge a real life for herself. She was still only 37, and had a sweetheart at the farm, a man who had ambitions to own land and was working hard. Women were scarce in 1818 in all the colonies, and Jennet had her pick of men. She chose the best, and she had those close friends too, those women who had come with her over the oceans, had tended her when she was sick, just as she had tended them. She had delivered their babies, defended them in all 66 Woman’s Weekly Fiction

situations, looked out for them. She told Elizabeth that she now called the island colony her home. “But I want you to go,” she told her daughter tearfully, holding Elizabeth. “This place should not be your fate, and you have so much to offer. You can do anything.” Even in the dirt and danger of their early days in the penal colony, and with barely a roof over their heads, barely a mattress to sleep on, Jennet had taught her daughter to read and write. With a stub of tallow candle and a printed ship’s inventory from the voyage, they had worked together through hundreds of evenings. Elizabeth could find work, her mother said, in England. So Elizabeth got her Ticket of Leave from the office of the Governor. It provided passage on a homeward bound ship and a sealed letter for her pocket. On arrival at Southampton, Mr Macdonald told her, she should travel to the village of Egham, west of London, and to the home of the Gunns. “Mrs Gunn is a relative of mine,” he said, “though I have not seen the family for some years. They will see my signature, and it is my hope that they can find you a position in service somewhere, perhaps as a kitchen maid, which is a start.” vvv Elizabeth had no idea what to expect when she climbed off

a cart, hooked her bag over her shoulder and walked along the main street of the village of Egham. She was frightened, and beginning to regret that she had left the familiarity of her mother’s meagre home, and had swapped the warmth of a Tasmanian summer for this cold drizzle. And the most she could expect here was drudgery. The door of the large, square house was opened by a harassedlooking maid who appeared to have twigs inserted into the curls that protruded from under her mob cap. Immediately, three small children clustered round the maid’s legs. “Who is it, Mary?” the children chorused. A faint voice filtered to Elizabeth’s ears from a room off the hall. “Mary, don’t let the little ones out to get themselves under horses’ hooves, for pity’s sake!” As Mary stood, tugging vegetation from her hair and handing it to the largest of the children with a scowl, a slender, tired-looking lady walked out into the hall to see what the commotion was. She nudged the housemaid aside and looked at Elizabeth. Her brow — furrowed with worry — seemed to clear at the sight of the visitor. “Well, Mr Gunn’s advertisement only went in two days ago!” she said. “My goodness, you are an angel come from heaven!” Elizabeth’s startled eyes met the lady’s, and then travelled to the three pairs of brown eyes peeking out from the skirts of the maid. “I don’t know about an advertisement,” Elizabeth said nervously. “I’ve a... I’ve only a letter here from Mr Macdonald —” “My Uncle Jock!” The lady clapped her hands together and the shrill cry of a baby was heard from somewhere. “How is he? Where is he, the darling gentleman? Well, Mary, bring this young woman inside, quick.”

b Elizabeth’s startled eyes met the lady’s

Mrs Ursula Gunn had seven children and a baby on the way. Elizabeth learned that she had failed in recent months to engage a competent governess, though two or three had come for an interview. “I can’t imagine why,” Mrs Gunn said as they sat in a cluttered room that smelled of milk and dead flowers. “Perhaps it is our distance from London?” The maid, Mary, who (Mrs Gunn whispered) struggled to keep the rest of the household afloat, had threatened to leave unless help could be found. Mary herself stood in the doorway with her arms folded, watching Elizabeth as Mrs Gunn talked, and slowly nodding. After three minutes, one of the children was sick on the rug, and Elizabeth found herself helping with bucket and mop. Before Mr Gunn came home from his work, she was thoroughly absorbed in the household, and there had not been time to ask any further questions about her. By eight, she had shared supper with six of the children, had read to them from a book of fairy-tales until they fell asleep, and had received a dozen blessings from Mary. Elizabeth happened to have come to the Gunn house at a moment when it was close to collapse. Mrs Gunn was a loving mother, but she was as vague as her Uncle Jock, and exhausted. As peace and order began to spread along the corridors of the Egham house, and settle over its rooms, nobody mentioned an interview, or even a letter of recommendation. Eventually Mr Gunn, pressed by his wife, made salary arrangements. Months went by. “So, remind me: you mentioned our need of a governess to your Uncle Jock, Ursula?” Mr Gunn asked his wife one morning. Elizabeth was present, overseeing preparations for the trip to church. “You told him we were advertising? This was in your letter?” “Letter?” Mrs Gunn was brushing the hair of Eleonora, the oldest child. “Goodness, when have I time for writing letters, Harry?” “But I know you are dutiful to your uncle and his wife? Mrs Macdonald is a good woman, I remember. Are they not in Istanbul these days?”

Elizabeth opened her mouth to speak, but Mrs Gunn said, “Oh, no. That was a long time ago when they had their children with them. They were sent further away... somewhere. I ought to have written, but with the last three children coming so close together —” “But they sent us Elizabeth?” Mrs Gunn looked up and blinked. “If you say so, Harry dear, then you must be right. I am so glad of it —” “No,” Mr Gunn insisted, but weakly, “I mean, did he send us the governess?” Mrs Gunn patted Eleanora on the back and sent her away. “I don’t know why you must investigate everything after the event, Harry. Lizzy is indispensible; she is our angel, and if Uncle Tom sent her as you suggest, then I love him for it, and my aunt, too. But now we are late for church, so hurry and get your cravat on.” Much later, it was established that Elizabeth had not been provided in response to the Gunns’ advertisement, and had no formal qualifications whatever as governess or nursery nurse, but by then nobody cared. Elizabeth worked with the family for three years, until Mr Gunn, a government administrator, was himself posted abroad. Mrs Gunn actually went down on her hands and knees to beg her to travel with them, but Elizabeth’s memories of those ships to and from Van Deimen’s Land were too fresh, and her vow too strong. She had, as her mother impressed upon her, made friends in Egham, and was able to recommend a woman. Mrs Gunn cried, and kissed her. “Then I will recommend a position for you, Lizzy, where not a single child under 25 will ever bother you! It shall be recompense for the trouble my darlings have given you since you came to us.” Mr Gunn’s superior in his London office, a knight of ancient family, knew Lady Soan, a wealthy widow in need of a bright young woman as a friend and confidante in her large and lonely house. vvv Mr Keneely played cards well. If Euchre were not customary in Ireland — Elizabeth thought — the Irish must play something very like it, for he won every hand. He had pulled up a chair and insisted

that Elizabeth sit beside him. The other men at the table were so amused and enchanted by him that the vicar shed his habitual scowl and the deaf old gentleman called him “Phelim” and invited him to view his hounds! Mr Keneely was in high spirits, and two women on the neighbouring table twice had to ask him to be quiet! “I have not enjoyed myself so much in a long time,” he said to them. “Forgive me: it is hard to be quiet.” Lady Sloan ordered all the tables to be cleared away before midnight, and the company mingled once more. As soon as Mr Keneely stood up, Constance Wilshaw was at his side, and she quickly led him out to see Lady Sloan’s family portraits. “They make a handsome pair,” Elizabeth heard a friend of Lady Sloan’s say behind her hand.

one of my chief joys in you, Lizzy,” Lady Sloan muttered, “that you never swoon.” “I wasn’t brought up to swoon,” Elizabeth said almost to herself. “It wasn’t a useful talent.” Mr Keneely, seeing his hostess’ approach, had hurried away in search of the maid and the salts. It fell to Elizabeth to check that Miss Wilshaw was still alive. She was, and she quickly recovered, blinking and whimpering softly. “I hope I did not put Mr Keneely to any trouble,” she gasped, looking around the room. “Where is he?” Lady Sloan went off to reassure her guests that nothing was amiss, and Constance sat up. Her face was close to Elizabeth’s. “I am interested in your origins, Miss Caldwell,” she whispered. Elizabeth was taken aback. “Perhaps you were on a prison island for perfectly sensible

b She took him with her to the window and they stood laughing

“Possibly,” said Lady Sloan. “I know my relatives in Wiltshire are quite determined that Constance go home engaged.” She laughed. “I think they want some peace and quiet.” “Mr Keneely has money, I take it?” asked the friend. “His father’s money, I believe,” Lady Sloan said. “Where is the younger one? Georgina? She is a slippery thing, and needs watching, if I were only able. And where is the hot water for more tea? I rang hours ago.” All the teacups had been refilled by the time Constance returned with Mr Keneely. She took him with her to the window and they stood laughing. Elizabeth saw that she often laid her tiny hand on his arm. Elizabeth noticed Constance place her cup on a side table, and cry out, her hand going to her breast. Lady Sloan turned towards the noise. “Good heavens, is the girl ill?” she said. “Norris, fetch my maid! These young women and their faints!” Elizabeth hurried with her patron across the large room. “It is

reasons. Who knows?” Elizabeth said nothing, but shifted, on her knees, a few inches further away. “You have an attractive face,” the girl went on, “attractive in a way that my mother says men like, a... voluptuous way. But people see it all, you know. They know that you are quite the Wrong Sort.” Her last phrase was articulated so firmly, with a hiss on the “s”, that Elizabeth felt a jolt of shock. The maid had arrived at last and Elizabeth took the tiny bottle of sal volatile and uncorked it. “I mean to find out who you are,” Constance said. “For now, remember that Phelim will need a proper match. Whatever my cousin thinks of you, and she is a good woman but too liberal in her ways, you must never be allowed to —” Constance was interrupted by the return of Mr Keneely, who had followed the maid in. He was all concern, and helped Constance into a chair. “I have tired you out, Miss Wilshaw,” he said. “Forgive me.”

Constance looked up at him, her lashes fluttering. “Not at all, sir,” she said. vvv Elizabeth went to bed late that night, smiling to herself. Constance Wilshaw was a particular type, a breed of female that made Elizabeth laugh. Constance might or might not be really fond of Mr Keneely, who was her clear target — just as though he had circles painted on his body. Whether she loved him or not, she would keep up her pursuit, aiming her bow and arrow steadfastly, if not with very great skill. As she pulled the coverlet up, Elizabeth imagined the wedding, and the triumphant smile of Miss Wilshaw, proud possessor of the prize, a handsome man with the decent fortune. Elizabeth smiled, but found that she could not sleep. She turned over and over on the soft mattress. The image of Phelim Keneely at that society wedding disturbed her, and she lay staring into the darkness. Why, she thought suddenly, was Constance so determined that he should not notice Lady Sloan’s humble young friend? What had the girl seen in his demeanour that suggested a threat to her marriage plans? Elizabeth thought about her own life to this point. There had been another vow, made more recently while her fortunate — oh, so fortunate! — “second” life in England continued. She had vowed never to succumb to the weakness of romantic love. That path was fraught with risk, at least as long as she consorted with gentlemen, with men who stood above her station, above her as he stood looking back into the gutter. She had been (as she’d heard many a prison guard say) born in that gutter, and her origins would be revealed, she was sure. Constance Wilshaw was all empty threats and stupid envy, but she was a warning. Elizabeth was alone in the world, and it was safer to stay that way, to earn her bread by whatever means offered themselves, and to keep her past hidden. But it was hard not to think of Phelim Keneely. He had been nothing to her when he walked through the front door that evening and handed his hat and cane to Norris. She had known him for less than four hours. Was he so different from any other man who Woman’s Weekly Fiction 67

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walked into Lady Sloan’s hall? But as she closed her eyes, Elizabeth knew with a sensation in her chest that was half exhilaration and half an ache, that he was something to her now. vvv Miss Wilshaw and her sister were to stay on in London for the whole summer. They had managed to convince their mother and father that it was absolutely necessary, Lady Sloan told Elizabeth. “I believe the elder Miss Wilshaw’s sojourn here will in fact last exactly until she has a good offer,” Lady Sloan said with a wicked smile. “Her mother has practically sewn into her clothes the instruction to secure a husband. They have struck an excellent bargain with the keeper of their hotel, and have the rooms until the start of October.” She tapped her fan on the breakfast table. “I must try to keep my eye upon them both. Their mother wrote to me begging that I guide Constance in her... in her project.” She laughed. “Constance has all the necessary application for the task ahead. But I feel that the younger child, Georgina, is at an age where she might... err. Sir Thomas Illeston — did you meet him at the cards? — he reported that Georgina is energetic in pursuing male company!” “She likes to have fun,” Elizabeth said. “Rather, she is a brazen flirt!” said Lady Sloan. “But girls will be girls. We shall have them here for luncheon again.” Constance and Georgina were often at Lady Sloan’s as the weeks went by, and so was Mr Keneely. John Sloan’s regiment was at home, and he had the summer in London. Elizabeth wished fervently that Mr Keneely would 68 Woman’s Weekly Fiction

stay away, because she was very afraid that she was falling in love with him, and struggling to hide her feelings. She thought herself a resilient person, and she was right to think so. In the penal colony, she had come through whooping cough, drought and flood, through times of want and sometimes of despair, and she had reserves of character that none of the girls she met in London could hope to attain. But she had never been in love, and it offered new difficulties. Phelim seemed to follow her from room to room and engagement to engagement. Of course, that was nonsense — her perception merely — but it destroyed her composure. As the summer began to wane, Lady Sloan decided that the weather was perfect for a picnic, and in her usual lavish fashion, ordered that four carriages be assembled in front of her house for the purpose. Almost all the kitchen servants were employed to prepare and pack a feast, and Elizabeth heard a great deal of grumbling below stairs. Lady Sloan’s house was one of the busiest in London (Elizabeth had long ceased to ask her why she felt she needed a companion) and the lower servants complained constantly of their workload. Phelim Keneely and John were the only younger men in the party, and Mr Keneely spent much time

in settling all the ladies, and the older gentlemen, into their seats, and instructing the drivers. “You, Miss Caldwell, look in need of air,” he said, and insisted she sit atop, though Lady Sloan protested. The Misses Wilshaw asked him to take the final seat in the third vehicle with them, and he promised he would be with them shortly. Then, as the first two coaches moved off, he landed up beside Elizabeth in one athletic leap, and waved on the last two carriages. Lady Sloan laughed at his bossy nature but declared, with a shout through her carriage window, that she loved him for it too. As they moved out into the street, Elizabeth saw the face of Constance, framed by her new and fashionable bonnet, thrust out of the carriage window, taut with fury. “Elizabeth,” he said, just loud enough to be heard over the rattle and rumble of the vehicles, “there is never a moment when we are alone. Why do you run away from me?” She turned to him, thinking he was joking, and preparing to

b His lovely, expressive mouth curled in a smile

say something light, something that would divert attention from the question, but she saw that his face looked quite different from her expectation. He was in earnest. “I hope I don’t... run,” she said. “There is less than an hour before we reach the spot on the river that My Lady has chosen, and I have to use it well,” he said. “I am a motherless man from County Clare, a wanderer with nothing to recommend me but my good humour and enough income to keep the best wife in the world — if I can get her — in dinners and linens, but I can offer a heart full of —” He looked into her eyes, and Elizabeth felt as though the carriage were lurching over at a terrifying angle — “A heart full of love. No, full of passion. I can’t stay silent any longer, or it will send me mad.” Elizabeth had imagined this scene just once, before driving it out of her mind. She had instructed herself to be strong, and to resist this love that she felt. Now, every ounce of strength in her dissolved, and she looked at him, until his lovely, expressive mouth curled in a smile, and he took her face in his hands and kissed her. It felt to Elizabeth as though all her travels and her tribulations had led to this point, and all her vows to be alone were squashed under his shoe. “Will you ever love me?” he asked. “I already do,” she said. “I always have.” The picnic was an extraordinary mixture of pleasure and trepidation. Elizabeth found herself unable to concentrate, and spilled or dropped so many picnic items that Lady Sloan asked her if she was ill. She took a walk down to the water to regain her composure, and Constance Wilshaw followed her. “Miss Caldwell will spot a swan before I do!” she called out to the general company. “That will never do!” She stopped beside Elizabeth and said in a low but clear voice, “I suspected, and I was right. One cannot conceal from servants, you see, what manner of person is living in a house. My Lady has girls down there in her kitchens who know exactly who you are, and where you came from, and that you are a hussy!”

Elizabeth stared at her. “Lived for some time in Van Diemen’s Land?” Constance went on. “Transported, rather! Lady Sloan might think it diverting to gather waifs and strays, but if she were to find that her waif were stealing, from under the noses of ladies —” “Stealing?” Constance glanced at Phelim Keneely, who sat apart on the grass. “Do not try to pretend you don’t know what I mean!” she hissed. “Whatever low behaviour is usual on a filthy penal island, do not think you can continue it here among respectable women! I was brought up to know that once in the gutter, best always in the gutter!” Constance took a breath, smoothed her skirts, resumed her expression of refinement, and returned to the picnic. Elizabeth, feeling nauseous, took a minute longer. When she went back, Phelim looked at her for a moment with concern and enquiry, and she smiled, and tried to compose herself. She wondered what Constance could do. Soon, she realised, she must tell her lover all about herself, before Constance Wilshaw did. And whoever told it, would that change his love? “Why could your charming sister not be with us today, Miss Wilshaw?” asked John Sloan. He was smoking as he walked around the picnic tables. Constance laughed. “Georgina is very busy in London,” she said gaily. “I can barely keep track of her. Today, she shops, apparently. She shops far too much and will bankrupt even my father!” vvv The Wilshaw sisters had now been in London for more than three months. Lady Sloan’s social round had been more than usually frantic, and Elizabeth knew that Constance and Georgina had perhaps been left to their own devices too often. As the days after the picnic went on, and rain came down in torrents, she wondered what Miss Wilshaw was hatching. Both sisters had been oddly absent, and though she and Phelim had not yet revealed their engagement, Constance must suspect, and must be furious. One evening, Lady Sloan said to Elizabeth, “I am fretting about those girls. Their mother wishes in her letters to know more about

their activities in London. I find myself unable to answer well enough. I want you to go to that hotel of theirs — I have not visited for too long — and make sure they have all that they need. I dare say their new circle of acquaintance has replaced my own poor efforts. They are the sort of girls to make their own introductions, and naturally seek youthful company. I know they will spend time with appropriate people but, of course, I am to some extent in loco parentis, and I worry.” So Elizabeth went reluctantly to the hotel. She was shown to their rooms on an upper floor, and knocked. After a minute, when there was no reply, she tried the handle, and — taking a deep breath — went carefully inside. Georgina Wilshaw was propped up on pillows on the bed, sobbing. Her face was shiny with

She guessed it all — why the girl had been frightened to hear of Lady Sloan’s enquiries after her; why she was distressed; just what sort of pain she was in. “I’ll help you,” she said. Both girls looked at her, pallid and wide-eyed. They looked like sisters for the first time, in their distress. “My sister’s mistake must not be known,” Constance said. Her voice rose into a high wail. “It cannot be known. But we don’t know what to do.” There would be no child at the end of this terrible ordeal — Elizabeth was sure of that. She dared to think (though she did not say it) that this sad outcome might be for the best. If Georgina were to bear home to Wiltshire a babe in arms then her fate, and perhaps the fate her sister, would be ruined. But the task now was to keep Georgina safe.

b It was an awful and bloody day at the hotel

perspiration, and Elizabeth’s first surmise was that she had a cold. As she stood there, Constance entered the room through a connecting door. “How dare you come in here?” Constance said, but her words did not hold their usual vitriol, and her narrow shoulders — her whole small figure — seemed shrunken. “Oh, Connie,” wailed Georgina, “how can you still be so pert with the girl now?” Elizabeth knew something was wrong. Her instincts cried out to her. “Lady Sloan wishes to know,” she said, “if you —” “Oh, do not mention me to Lady Sloan!” Georgina yelled. Then, suddenly, she clasped her hands over her belly and gave a very different cry. “Oh, Georgie, what is it now?” Constance said, and hurried in. Georgina was doubled over in pain, and at that moment, as Constance entered the room fully, Elizabeth saw through to the next room, and to a basin and pitcher, and water stained red.

She threw off her bonnet and cape and rolled up her muslin sleeves. “I have experience of this,” she said almost to herself. She was mentally listing what Constance must fetch from an apothecary, mentally counting the linen that might be in these rooms, mentally reviewing her experience and her mother’s from a land of suffering. She murmured, “We convicts, we have to help each other, and I’ve helped other women in this position. That is what we do in the gutter, because it’s the only choice we have. Sometimes, the gutter provides.” vvv Lady Sloan never found out about Georgina Wilshaw’s mistake, and neither did her parents. It was an awful and bloody day at the hotel, but the girl came through it safely, and shortly afterwards went with her sister back to the damp and dull fields of Wiltshire. The sisters had their story ready and their characters very much altered. Before they left, Constance kneeled before Elizabeth and expressed her thanks.

“No, Constance, get up.” Elizabeth said gently. “Perhaps one day you will have the opportunity to help someone else of your own sex. We women don’t have many freedoms, here or in Van Diemen’s Land, but one of our freedoms is to support each other.” Next, Elizabeth sat with her lover and laid before him her history. He listened with a sober expression. “So you see that, though not a convict myself, I am the child of one.” He sighed, and smiled, and her heart leapt. “In that case,” he said, “now it’s my turn to reveal all.” He took her hand. “Do you know of Robert Emmet’s Rebellion?’ Elizabeth frowned. “Only that it was in Ireland, and I was a tiny child when it happened.” He nodded. “I think there will always be Irishmen trying to tear Ireland from the grasp of its rulers, and my own father was one of these. I was a boy of nine or 10 at the time. He joined with Emmet, and Emmet failed, and died in a noose, and his comrades went before the judges, too. My father is even now in the colony of New South Wales. He was transported, like your mother, for a crime that was not really a crime.” Phelim gazed out of the window of Lady Sloan’s drawing-room. “I am an unlucky man because I have not seen my father for 20 years, and a lucky one, they tell me, because his property could not be forfeit, and I have the use of it, and of the income.” He kissed her for a long time. “Which is why I can offer you the dinners and the linen that the loveliest woman in London deserves. Lady Sloan will need to sit in her favourite chair to hear our story —” “Or she will faint, however much she despises the practice!” Elizabeth said with a laugh. “Shall we live in London?” “And in County Clare, which I assure you is beautiful beyond compare.” “And across the sea?” He frowned. “Across some sea, yes. Why?” “Oh, no matter,” Elizabeth said. “A girl can break a vow and get in a boat, for the right man.” THE END © Alison Carter, 2017 Woman’s Weekly Fiction 69

Puzzles Rearrange the letters in the highlighted squares to spell out the name of a portable light (7)

Binds, compels

Catches (fish) with a large hook

Sound of birds

Void

Electrically charged particle

In deep unconsciousness

Just for fun, make yours elf coffee and t a ry our two brain-teaser s!

Food from bees

Flow back

Coldshoulder, ignore

Entitlements

List of business

Wished evil upon

Jetsam gathering

Arrowword

Swine keeper (3,6)

As easy as __, simple (inits)

Helium

Affectionate term for father

Quantity of money

Tiny vegetable

Be wrong

Jazz-band instruments

Brief sleep

Press the accelerator (3,2)

Horse’s constraint

Remitting

Gaming cube

Collection

Resist enemy forces (4,1,5)

Kriss Kross

7 7

Fit the words listed below into the grid, then rearrange the letters in the shaded squares to spell out the name of a comic picture (10) 10 letters 6 letters 4 letters FIGURE DAUB BACKGROUND STUDIO FORM EXHIBITION 7 letters POSE 11 letters COLLAGE 5 letters COMPOSITION OUTLINE MODEL PERSPECTIVE 9 letters PRINT 12 letters LETTERING ILLUMINATION MINIATURE ILLUSTRATION

11 12 5 11

10 6

9 6 5 10

F P O COM R S MOD E L P E S R M T S F I GU P N D E X H I B I C A O T T I L L U S T V R E L E T T

C POS I T I ON U L T I L L L DAU I L G N U E R E M I T I ON P A R T I RA T I ON O T E R I NG

B A C K G R O U N D

E S MB I NG B U R ABC I NG U G E RR HON E S T D I E S T AND

SOLUTION: CARICATURE

O G C H B E ACHCO L F I ON P I G F ARME GA S P A Y NA P P T T S A XOP R E V U P S E S MAK E A SOLUTION: LANTERN

AnsWers

9 Woman’s Weekly Fiction 11

Lost In Translation There had always been tension when her mother-in-law was around, but now it was on a whole new level

“

his isn’t going to go well.” Mandy hadn’t seen her French mother-in-law in person since her family’s last holiday in Brittany nearly six months ago. Back then, in the presence of Sylvie, Mandy had kept to the background and let her husband take over. Unfortunately, now his mother was visiting them for a week, Louis would mostly be at work. “You’ll be fine. You’ll be diplomatic,” he’d said to her. “You’re Supermum!” That’s what he called her, though Mandy knew he was only joking. Waiting and waiting for his mother’s taxi to arrive from the airport, she paced the kitchen. Her little girl, Daisy, marched up and down, too. Upstairs, the spare room stood ready. She’d dusted and vacuumed it to death. Now, she peered down at Daisy and said, “What did Daddy teach you to say?” Her little girl’s blue eyes lit up. “Bonjour!” Daisy wasn’t normally bilingual. “Well done! Now you know as much French as

Mummy and you’re only two.” Languages at school had refused to settle into Mandy’s brain. It had been ironic then, meeting and falling in love with Louis. He was half-French, halfWelsh which, thinking about it, ought to be a language all by itself. He now worked for a big company in London while Mandy, back at home, herded children about. Not that she minded. If she wasn’t at home, her career opportunities amounted to factory work or the local supermarket. Everybody knew that Louis was out of her league. ‘Mandy, you’re not quite good enough.’ A shadow appeared behind the front door’s glass. She charged down the hall before

les turbulences. C’était un voyage d’horreur!” The French could sound very irate sometimes. “Pardon?” Mandy wore a rictus grin. Sylvie’s gaze racked up and down her daughter-in-law from her toes to her addled brain. “Oh, I forgot. You can’t speak French. I said, the flight was terrible, all delays and turbulence. I had a horrible journey. Now, where is my little Daisy? Oh, there she is!” She loomed over Daisy, her hands spread wide. “But you’re so big now. You looked so tiny during our chats on the Internet.” She swept Daisy into her arms and settled her on to one hip. “What an angel. Where’s your big brother then? Where’s Harry?” She directed the last of her words at Mandy. “Is he at school?” “Yes. I’ll need to pick him up just after three.” “I can do that! You can stay here.” “No. No. You won’t know where to go.” “You can give me directions. I didn’t come all this way to sit on my behind. I will help with the children. Yes?” Sylvie waved Mandy’s protests away as she

Everybody knew that Louis was out of her league

72 Woman’s Weekly Fiction

Sylvie could ring the bell. “Bonjour!” she managed when she yanked the door open. The blast of disturbed air sent Sylvie’s glossy dark hair into her eyes. She blinked then rattled out, machine-gun style, “Le vol était terrible — tous les retards et

headed for the kitchen. Left behind, Mandy wheeled the woman’s suitcase in. “You had the kitchen refitted then?” Sylvie’s voice echoed down the hall. “It’s all very... English now, wouldn’t you say?” “Oui,” Mandy muttered under her breath. ‘Louis will be back at six,’ she reminded herself. ‘Just bear it until then. It’ll be fine. Just don’t let her get to you with all her ugly little looks.’ Sylvie didn’t go up to her room straightaway. She wafted from the kitchen to the dining room to the lounge instead. She peered down the garden Mandy had toiled over all week. “You have washing on the line. I will iron the little ones’ things later.” “No, no, it’s fine. I can do that,” Mandy replied. “Nonsense!” Sylvie said, meaning, of course, she’d do the job far better. She turned to the clock on the wall. “Isn’t it nearly time for lunch? Isn’t little Daisy hungry?” ‘No, I thought I’d starve her to death.’ “Yes, it is nearly time.” Daisy would ask for fish fingers. She had a fish finger fetish going on lately. Did they have those in France? Mandy didn’t recall being fed any when

By Jo Styles they’d visited Sylvie in her onestorey villa in the middle of the French countryside. Now, Mandy tried to keep smiling. “I’m afraid Daisy has a tantrum if I give her anything but fish fingers these days. She will eat fruit afterwards but it has to be fish fingers first.” “I will grill some for her,” Sylvie said before she narrowed her eyes. “What are you having?” “Me?” “Yes. You. I will make you an omelette — three eggs, onions, mushrooms, peppers, Parmesan and a big crust of bread.” ‘Thanks for the recipe.’ “I’m not sure we have any mushrooms, peppers, Parmesan or crusty bread in at the moment.” “So, go and buy some!” Sylvie waved her away again. “Go, get some fresh air. I will take care of the baby. Then we all eat together, oui?” Mandy peered down at her little girl. ‘Is this how it’s going to happen then? She sends me off to do chores, then slowly... slowly, she takes over. Still, it’s only for a week. I can cope with that.’ “Are you sure you’ll be all right here on your own?” “I will be wonderful!” Sylvie said in her thick accent with a toss of her shiny hair. When she returned from her dash to the supermarket, Mandy found her mother-in-law singing to her daughter in French. Daisy sat on the rug in the kitchen, giggling and swaying away. She waved her hands when she saw her mum and cried, “Fish fingers!” Sylvie translated for her, “Batonnets de poisson! Daisy, can you say that?” Daisy didn’t even try, so Sylvie took the carrier-bag from Mandy’s hand. “I will do it all,” she said, arranging all her ingredients on the countertop before she went hunting for a frying-pan. Mandy knitted her lips into a tight line and simply watched. Of course, Sylvie would cook something simple but spectacular just to show her up. She didn’t cook much herself — that talent had passed her by — although she did make sure her children ate

a diet that included lots of fruit and veg. The kitchen filled with delicious smells as she sat at the table. Her stomach growled, her mouth watered, then suddenly, as if by magic, an enormous, fluffy omelette appeared on a plate under her nose. “Wow!”

and she didn’t exactly relish the idea of returning to the kitchen. Still, avoiding it for the rest of the week didn’t seem like an option. She took Daisy’s hand. “Come on. Let’s go and get your fish.” In the kitchen, Sylvie stood waiting. Unaware of the tension crackling in the air, Daisy toddled over to her favourite spot on the rug and sat down with a doll she’d left behind. With her distracted, Mandy hurried over to the freezer. She opened it up and eyed the oh-so-familiar stack of boxes. “I hate to be critical,” Sylvie said so suddenly behind her, Mandy almost dropped the fish finger she’d prised from inside a box. “But there is something you are doing very badly here, Mandy. Let’s not pretend a moment longer.” How dare she? For Daisy’s sake, Mandy kept her mouth zipped closed. “It would be remiss of me not to point it out,” Sylvie went on. “I have kept things to myself in the past because I don’t think it’s always wise to interfere in my son’s life, but now... now I must speak out.” Mandy, the fish finger held in a death-grip, turned slowly around. “Go on, then. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Unaware of the tension crackling in the air, Daisy toddled over “I’ll cut a little off for Daisy.” Finished with playing a waitress, Sylvie turned away. “She’ll want fish fingers,” Mandy warned. “She’ll want to graze as well. You know — wander about as she eats.” With the omelette cut, Sylvie started wafting it to make sure it wouldn’t burn little fingers. Then she presented it to Daisy on a little plastic plate. Daisy nearly went cross-eyed glaring it into dust. “I want fish fingers!” Her face crumpled up. “Fish fingers!” Tears appeared in her eyes, then she screamed loud enough to crack glass. “FISH FINGERS!” “Well, what a fuss.” Sylvie sent a glance Mandy’s way, one filled with contempt. ‘What an unruly child,’ her look suggested. ‘My Louis was perfect from the day he was born.’ “What a terrible noise, Daisy. My poor, poor ears!” Mandy left her seat. She made a grab for her Daisy before she collapsed and thrashed her way into a full-out tantrum on the floor. Mandy held her close, whirled about and carried her out the door. In the lounge, the little girl grizzled for a while, then turned more sulky than explosive. Mandy’s zillion promises of fish fingers likely helped. “Yes, soon, any second now, I’ll cook some for you. Just let Mummy —” ‘— Get her head back together.’ There had always been tension between herself and Sylvie, but now the woman kept throwing those ugly looks at her, head to toe and back again they travelled. She felt like an exhibit in a case,

bypassed lunch completely... and breakfast. “You’re not sleeping well either, are you?” said Sylvie. Mandy felt one of the dark circles under her eyes. Sometimes, instead of relaxing and nodding off at night, she’d plan the next day. She’d plot out little jobs she could slot in when Daisy dozed off or sat distracted by a toy. “I’d hate anything to happen to you.” Sylvie voice now dripped with unabashed concern. “I will feed you up and spoil you while I’m here. I will make you big and strong again. You will have a proper breakfast every morning, a proper dinner in the evening and a proper supper. I will take care of the children in the mornings so you can have a lie-in. I want you hale and hearty before I leave. Mothers are very precious things, Mandy. You have to look after yourself for your family’s sake.” She said it then in French, likely for emphasis. “Vous devez prendre soin de vous. Can you say that for me?” Mandy raised her brows. “I very much doubt it, Sylvie.” A smile lifted her lips. Her mother-in-law’s intentions had definitely got lost in translation. Sylvie didn’t want to take over to save her grandchildren from their terrible mum. No, their mother was clearly so good, she needed to be preserved. This visit wasn’t going to be a trial, after all. It might even be lots of fun! “I’ll draw you a map,” she offered, “so you can go and pick Harry up. You could take Daisy with you. She loves a walk, though she does tend to stop about every three seconds. While you’re out, I’ll... I’ll...” “Vous prendrez un bain?” Sylvie suggested, before she gave a big, wide smile. “Pardon?” “You’ll have a nice, relaxing soak in the bath.” Mandy laughed. What an insanely decadent idea. “Yes, yes, I’ll do that!” THE END © Jo Styles, 2017

Sometimes, she did nibble a half-chewed fish finger “You are! Look at you.” Sylvie gave Mandy another of those down-the-nose looks. “You’re all skin and bone these days. You’ve always been on the skinny side of thin, but now you’re just ribs and elbows. You’re clearly running yourself ragged here. I’m worried about you. Do you skip meals? Do you eat whatever Daisy leaves behind instead of making yourself a proper meal?” Mandy frowned. Sometimes, she did nibble a half-chewed fish finger and a few slices of mauled fruit, courtesy of Daisy. She often

Woman’s Weekly Fiction 73

By Cilla Moss

Retrace Your Steps H

e’d had it a minute ago. It was right there in his pocket, Declan would swear it. He felt through all his pockets in a panic. Please don’t say he’d dropped it! “What’s up?” his brother asked. “Don’t say you’ve lost the rings?” “Of course not. You don’t think I’d be carrying your wedding rings around the night before the wedding, do you?” Ian didn’t seem convinced. Declan had a history of losing anything he was put in charge of, from Bugs, the Year Six hamster, onwards. Their friend Michelle always said part of him did it on purpose. “So what are you looking for?” “Nothing important,” Declan said lightly, dying inside. “But... you haven’t seen a bit of paper lying about..?” He cast about, checking under every chair and cushion in the conservatory while Ian sipped his beer, bemused. “If it’s your Best-Man speech, I hope you had it memorised.” Soon, there would be a crowd: all the main members of the wedding party who were staying here in the bride’s family’s B&B. The thought of any one of them finding the folded paper made Declan dizzy with anxiety. In desperation, he even checked inside the hollow trunk of the window seat, which once, as a child, he and Michelle had made a den of. 74 Woman’s Weekly Fiction

He’d thought they’d never be together again. Now a wedding had reunited them “I don’t think it’s in here,” Ian said. “Why don’t you retrace your steps?” Declan had only been back to the B&B once in the last few years, but it hadn’t changed. He knew it inside out, the way you only do with places you’ve grown up in. In the quiet seasons, Carrie’s parents had let them have the run of the place. Earlier, Declan had walked through the garden, finding the spot where the four of them — Ian, Carrie, Michelle and

cake with on his 14th birthday while Michelle and Carrie sang Happy Birthday. He put the fork in his pocket. A half-melted fork, but no letter on blue notepaper. He’d only breezed through the games room earlier, but now he scanned every corner. His shoulder knocked against the corner of the pool table as he bent to check beneath it, and two balls in the pocket chimed together. The sound was so lovely, he did it again. The last time he’d heard that sound was during Michelle’s leaving party before she went to university. Ian hadn’t been there that night — he’d started uni a year before. Declan was on a work placement with an engineering company. All four of them had been spending less time together recently. Declan had always been shy, but his shyness was even stronger when Ian wasn’t around, and it got worst of all when he contemplated Michelle moving away. He’d started a game of pool as a way both to have something to do and as an excuse not to talk. Michelle was fiercely competitive and they were both good at pool; the game went on until the early hours, until she beat him. She did a victory lap, cheering silently. He just watched her. “What?” she said, smiling. He shook his head. “Nothing.” She waited. He struggled to speak. “Here.” Kindly, she pushed a notepad towards him. “Write it down.” That was when he knew he loved her. But all he wrote was, Good luck. What he was looking for wasn’t

he hugged her. He couldn’t believe how lovely she was. It had been three years since he’d last seen her. “You’re just the same,” she said fondly. “Sorry about that.” “Don’t be.” He’d thought the four of them would never be together again. But he hadn’t expected that Ian would bump into Carrie at a party, and 12 months later ask her to marry him. Or that Carrie would have Michelle as a bridesmaid. The engagement party brought them all back together. Suddenly, they were doing everything together again as they planned the wedding. Declan headed up to his bedroom with relief. If the letter was nowhere else, it must be in his room. It was safe. He replayed in his mind the moment when he had thrust it into his pocket. He’d been so hasty about it, it must have fallen straight to the ground. He’d only just finished writing it when Michelle knocked on his door. That letter: it said everything he’d been trying to say to her for days, weeks... years, even. Everything he couldn’t say — he’d written down. He’d wanted to give it to her then, but before he could muster the courage, Carrie arrived too and started to tease him about his smart “wedding” haircut. And when Michelle turned back to him — “What were you about to say?” — he had shoved the letter into his pocket with a tense smile. “Maybe later.” He’d now retraced his steps all the way back to the beginning, and when he got there, he found Michelle. She was at the threshold

He cast about, checking under every chair and cushion he — used to set up their tent every summer. He went back there now, eyes downcast as he searched for that particular piece of blue notepaper. It could have been blown anywhere. Anxiously, he poked through the debris in the small stone circle that used to hold their camping stove in the old days, but couldn’t help smiling when he found a plastic fork amongst the leaves. This could be the very fork that he’d eaten his

in the games room. It didn’t seem to be in the kitchen either, which he’d stopped in earlier to pinch some emergency chocolate from the store Carrie’s mum kept on the top shelf of the pantry. He’d always loved this kitchen. “I should have known you’d be in here,” Michelle had said four months ago, when she’d found him in the kitchen. “It’s a party; where else would I be?” Declan laughed as

of his room, and she was reading the letter. “I came back to find you...” she said. “This was on the floor.” Her face was soft and light with awe and gladness. She held the letter tightly, as if there would be no chance of it ever being lost again, and smiled. “I knew there was something you wanted to tell me,” she said. THE END © Cilla Moss, 2017

Authors’ Secrets

‘I Go The Extra Mile For My Research’ Sue Moorcroft reveals the secrets of her success to Sue Cooke How did you become a novelist? It was a lifelong ambition and when my children were very small, I saw an opportunity to put it into practice. When the youngest went to playgroup, I started writing and told myself I was going to get published. I read in a writer’s handbook that if you had 20 short stories in national magazines, a book publisher would look at you more kindly, so I set out to do that. It wasn’t 20 short stories — it was 87 and a serial — but it worked. Things have changed for me recently. The Christmas Promise went to number one on Amazon for five days and is my most successful book so far. So I can now officially call myself a bestselling novelist. But it took more than 20 years for me to become an overnight success!

Where do you get your ideas for plots? It varies from story to story, but the idea for my latest book, Just For The Holidays, came from my friend Andrea. She told me about her holiday from hell in France and I was in tears of laughter. When her sister’s marriage was on the brink, her sister said, ‘Will you come with us on holiday?’ and I asked if I could use that premise: a single woman without kids ends up looking after her sister’s family in a country

where she doesn’t speak the language. Then I looked at my other central characters. I’ve always had a thing about pilots and decided it would be cool to make my hero a helicopter pilot.

Where do you get your ideas for characters? They just seem to grow in my head. Occasionally, I see a person and something about them makes me want to give them a story. With Cleo, from All That Mullarkey, I’d seen a magazine take eight ordinary women and dress them. They all seemed willing to be changed, except one who looked out at the camera, and her expression said, “I’m fine as I am. OK, I’m a bit top heavy; OK, I’m a bit short — that’s the shape I am, take me or leave me, I don’t care.” That is one of Cleo’s traits. Sometimes it gets her into trouble and sometimes it pulls her through.

How do you research? I love research. If I want to do something, I put it in a book. I needed the pilot in Just For The Holidays to be grounded for the summer, so I made him have a forced landing. This is where I went the extra mile for my research. I was introduced to a local pilot who told me, “There’s this process all helicopter pilots can do in their sleep called autorotation”, and he took me up and did it. It was absolutely fantastic! I talked about it on

Just for the holidays by Sue MoorcroFt (Avon, £7.99) iS out on 18th MAy

Facebook and I had an awful lot of comments — half thought I was bonkers and half were wildly jealous.

Which of your characters is your favourite? Ava from The Christmas Promise, because she never gives up. It’s Christmas, she’s skint and her boyfriend’s threatening her with revenge porn. She does waver but, as soon as she can, she picks herself up again.

Which of your characters would you most like to be? I’m going to go for Ronan from Just For The Holidays, simply because he’s a helicopter pilot. In my head, I would have made a fantastic pilot; in reality, probably not.

Which book has been hardest to write? The first half of Dream A Little Dream was very difficult. I’d given the hero, Dominic, narcolepsy, which is a neurological condition which causes 24/7 sleep chaos. So the book is about dreams of both

kinds: the dreams we have at night, and aspirations. It was hard to get under the skin of the condition and I was just reading the same superficial information everywhere. Then I went on the message board for Narcolepsy UK, said who I was and what I was doing. Somebody answered. He saved the book. He said, “Just tell it as it is. People with narcolepsy are fed up of being made the butt of jokes.”

Which fictional character do you wish you’d created? I’m going to say Mr Rochester in Jane Eyre because I am always disappointed in him as a hero — he’s a liar and a cheat, and I would make him less so!

What is your all-time favourite book? I read A Town Like Alice by Nevil Shute when I was nine. Between us, Dad and I collected all Nevil Shute’s works. I no longer have my dad but I still have all the books and re-read them. That book was the beginning of me loving romantic fiction because it was a real “love conquers all” story, very grittily written. The story was so sweeping and epic it just carried me along. Woman’s Weekly Fiction 75

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