Womans weekly fiction special september 2016

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Welcome

As a story lover, it may have crossed your mind to write one for us. If so, we’d be pleased to read it! And if you’re in the Manchester area on 8th, 9th or 10th September, why not come to one of the writing workshops I’m holding with popular author and tutor Della Galton? (Check out Della’s exciting website at www.dellagalton. co.uk). Come and join in the fun by booking in advance — go to www. womansweekly.com/ events.

Fiction

4 Blackberry Way by Rebecca Holmes 8 Too Hot To Handle

by Jo Styles 10 Barbara’s Legacy by Patsy Collins 16 Minding The Gap by Gabrielle Mullarkey 18 A Waltons Ending

by Della Galton 22 Shipwreck by Julie Coffin Gaynor Davies, Editor 24 Sequins And Sparkles PS Our next issue is on

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30 What’s In A Name?

by Margaret Skipworth 34 Carrie’s Knee by Steve Beresford 40 Finding The Right Pattern

by Elizabeth Moulder 43 Brain Fog by Maggie Primavesi 44 My Little Big Sister

by Teresa Ashby 48 A Marriage Of Two Minds

by H. Johnson-Mack 52 Ordinary Joe And The Cat Show by Beth Felix 54 Northbound, Southbound by Alison Carter 64 The Primes Of Life

by Steve Beresford 69 Making Sunshine

by Bethany Collins 70 Some Kind Of Loved-Up

by Gabrielle Mullarkey 75 The ‘One Day’ House

by Mhairi Grant

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Black

Illustration: Getty

It was halfterm in late May. The sap was rising, birds were in full song and summer was waiting in the wings...

4 Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special

By Rebecca Holmes

kberry Way I

loved growing up on Blackberry Way. We moved there when I was six and the house wasn’t just new to us, it was brand-new, part of a smallish estate on the edge of the village.

There was a song around at the time called Goodbye Blackberry Way — you might know it — and we sang it while transferring our worldly possessions, except we changed the words to “Hello, Blackberry Way” and hummed most of the rest because we didn’t know all the lyrics. Perhaps that was just as well, as they’re actually quite melancholy.

Even if we had known, I’m not sure it would have bothered us.

Everything was bright and full of promise. There was a smart kitchen, and a gleaming bathroom with a bath that didn’t have a ring around the high-water mark and wouldn’t for several weeks. (Feminism was already making its mark on our mum, and Dad had to like it or lump it.) Best of all was the way our road carried on to a track which led to a patch of rough ground, where trees screened a busy road on the far side, and a brook — perfect for building dams and generally messing about — meandered its way between them.

Then there were the brambles.

Our road wasn’t called Blackberry Way for nothing. When Mum saw me and my brother, Peter, with purple-stained fingers and faces, about a month after we’d moved in, she grabbed every available receptacle and marched us straight to this new treasure trove, picking as many berries as she could and moaning that the best ones were just out of reach, while we grumbled about child labour.

Once home, she switched to Earth

Mother mode and made blackberry and apple crumble, using a couple of apples that were mouldering in the fruit bowl because everyone preferred bananas and grapes. For the rest of the summer, we were out there every chance we got, collecting berries in between eating them, until Mum got fed up and they ended up in the bin.

That was how we met Nick and his brother, Steve.

We’d watched their family move in, a couple of weeks after us, on a day when it was too rainy to play outside. After our initial curiosity, they hadn’t really registered in my universe, but now here they were, picking blackberries too, armed with white cardboard punnets that

The addition of these two might, even if they weren’t exactly what our dad would call bruisers.

We got on well enough to go round with them to their house, calling in at ours first to deliver our haul to our mum.

She was in the back garden, bickering with Dad, who was marking out a corner with bits of wood and string.

“I was going to plant potatoes there,” Mum was complaining. “There’s hardly going to be room to grow any vegetables, at this rate.”

“It’s too shady for them.

A shed will be more useful,” Dad replied, equably. “If you’re serious about this grow-your-own lark, you could put your name down for an allotment.”

Everything was bright and full of promise strawberries came in when we bought them on the market in town, while we just had plastic bags which made the berries look sad and mashed up. We soon learned that Steve was 10, the same age as my brother, Nick was seven, and that they’d also been keeping an eye on us. They in turn learned that yes, Lesley was a girl’s name. You just had to spell it right.

Our renewed interest wasn’t entirely altruistic. Children on the estate had already divided into gangs, Us and The Other Gang, who were usually the ones winning. The fact that there were six of them and only three of us, counting Katy Williams who’d moved in three doors down but was at her gran’s a lot, didn’t help.

“Where am I going to find time for that? Term starts in a couple of weeks and I’ll be drowned in a sea of marking.”

Mum taught English at the local secondary school and always looked disapproving when I got Enid Blyton books out on our weekly trip to the library. When I threatened not to go any more if I couldn’t read the books I wanted, she decided I was “stubborn”, but that she had more important matters to worry about, so didn’t call my bluff.

Steve and Nick’s house was an eye-opener. We still had boxes round the place, mainly full of books that Dad hadn’t got round to putting up shelves for yet, and kitchen stuff that Mum kept buying and never used. By

contrast, their kitchen would have made Fanny Cradock swoon, bookshelves had authors arranged in alphabetical order (I knew because I looked), and the less said about the effect the already-erected shed would have had on our dad, the better. Even their mother — “call me Barbara” — was picture perfect, in neat slacks and a psychedelic blouse.

“That’s wonderful, boys,” she said as she added the berries to a load already sitting in a huge bowl. Nick had told me she was a station announcer. I could imagine her accurate tones enunciating: “The train standing at Platform Four is the 11.22 to Manchester Piccadilly, calling at...” and everyone in the vicinity nodding in agreement.

“I’ve got enough here to make blackberry jam.”

She made jam? Just wait ‘til my mum heard.

Life settled into a mostly contented routine and carried on like that over the next few years, with me, my brother, Nick and Steve practically living at each other’s houses, and Katy joining us whenever she was around. We gradually got organised at home, though never seemed able to compare with their house. I tried not to let it slip to Mum, but she found out, somehow.

“Tidiness isn’t everything,” she’d snap. “She should try being organised when she’s dealt with a load of rowdy fourth-formers all day.” As if trains and children were somehow comparable.

I didn’t mind if the house was tidy or not, but she seemed to make it a kind of competition.

I wished I’d kept quiet about the blackberry jam. She insisted on making some, which seemed pointless as we all preferred WomanÕs Weekly Fiction Special 5

Blackberry Way strawberry. It set too hard. We nearly broke a knife, trying to get it out. Another year, Mum tried making blackberry wine, buying demijohns which took up half the kitchen. I didn’t know whether Nick’s mum made any, and I didn’t want to. That way, I needn’t lie when ours turned out to be undrinkable and ended up being poured down the drain.

Not that Barbara turned out to be as self-assured as I’d always assumed.

“I wish I’d carried on with my education,” she told us one day. I think she was trying to encourage Steve to stay on at school. “I enjoy what I do, but I left school at 16 because I had the chance of a job and my parents felt staying on wasn’t for the likes of us. I know I’d never have been a teacher, say, like your mum,” she added to me, “but it would be nice to feel... better read.”

By now, we’d all moved up to the local comprehensive, thankfully not the same one where our mother taught. I learned how to make fruit crumble in Domestic Science, so I took over the honours, come blackberry season. Katy, Nick and Steve usually had some when they came round. I always saved the biggest portion for Nick. Katy was my best friend, but Nick was my best mate, if that makes sense.

Yet, as time went by, he developed strange tastes in music, getting into progressive rock. Then he started going to “Science Club”, and he was always irritatingly organised, a quality that was fine in his mother but downright weird in a 15-year-old boy.

“He says you’ve changed, as well,” Pete told me when I mentioned it to him. The fact we were having the conversation was slightly unusual in itself, these days. We’d drifted apart in our own ways, partly because he was seeing a girl I only vaguely knew, partly because he had exams coming up and was obsessing about them.

“It’s only to be expected,” had been Mum’s reaction when I’d complained about my brother.

“He’s got other things on his mind. It wouldn’t hurt if you knuckled down a bit more,” she added, darkly.

6 Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special

I told myself she was in a bad mood because she’d tried inserting some floral fabric into the legs of her jeans to make them more flared, and failed miserably. Never mind. I still had the perfect answer. “I don’t see why it matters. Nick’s mum left school at 16, and she’s done all right.”

We still all went to the patch of rough ground at the end of Blackberry Way, by now having mastered the art of tree-climbing, perching high to get the best views. I liked seeing how the rectangles of people’s back gardens changed with the seasons. Mum had got Dad to put a weather-vane on top of the shed he’d finally constructed.

Sometimes, if the sun caught it just right, I could see it glinting.

One of the trees, a beech, had a cleft between two thick branches that was perfect for sitting in and thinking. When the leaves were out, no one could see you if they didn’t know you were there. It was my favourite spot. The world seemed different, filtered through their different coloured light, depending on the time of year.

The Other Gang went there, too. There was Gav, the ringleader, Slug (real name Simon), Dot and Kevin, plus two others who came and went, depending on their mood.

By some unexplained miracle,

approve of him. But he was in The Other Gang, and the old antagonisms remained.

That changed the day the men from the council came.

It was half-term, otherwise we wouldn’t have been there. Late May, with sap rising, birds in full song and summer waiting in the wings. Pete and Steve were off on a geography field trip, but the rest of us were hanging around, talking about nothing in particular in the dappled shade. Nick was explaining the finer points of King Crimson and Katy was blowing the seeds off a dandelion clock when we heard a truck pulling up at the far side of the trees. There

Conversation was slightly unusual in itself, these days Gav had morphed into someone nearly all the girls in our year wanted to go out with. He had a kind of dubious charm, in an Artful Dodger sort of way, giving cheek to the teachers and regularly getting detention for his hair being over his collar at the back. He had a different girlfriend every week, each convinced that she’d be the one to change his ways and keep him faithful.

Even I wasn’t entirely immune, though I’d never admit it to anybody. For all his faults, he had the attraction of being a little bit edgy, plus I knew there was no way my parents would ever

was the sound of doors slamming, before two men in hard hats appeared, carrying chain-saws.

The sight had us all on our feet, even The Other Gang.

“What the hell’s going on?” Gav was an expert at sounding belligerent.

A big bloke, someone Dad would have called a bruiser, swung around to face him.

“We’re here to take these trees down.”

I gasped. “Trees? Plural? You can’t do that.”

“Oh, yes, we can, Little Miss Grammar. They’ve been marked.

See?” He nodded to where a line

had been spray-painted in a barely perceptible colour on the trunk nearest him. Now I was aware of them, I saw similar marks on two of the other trees, one of them my favourite beech.

“Why?” “Orders from the council. The branches are overhanging the road. They’ve got to go.”

I stepped forward. “That doesn’t mean the trees have to be cut down. Just trim back the branches.”

“Right, love. And, of course, the branches won’t grow back, will they? Stop getting your little knickers in a twist and get out of our way so we can do our job.”

My mother hadn’t complained I was stubborn for nothing. I took a step forward, trying not to flinch as the man towered over me.

Someone else moved up beside me. “But the branches won’t grow back for a bit, will they? You’re just cutting the trees down ’cause you like getting rid of things.”

It was Gav, chin jutted forward.

I glanced round, hoping to see Nick. He had a way with words that always came in useful. There was no sign of him. Gav’s fingers interlaced with mine.

“We’re not moving,” I said. “You can’t cut those trees down.”

“In that case, we’ll have to call the police. That’s hardly going to help your futures, is it, having a criminal record?”

Gav snorted. “As if.”

The bruiser’s face darkened.

“Don’t you take that tone with me. I know your sort.” He stopped just as I felt a hand on my shoulder and Gav’s hand shot away from mine.

“Is there a problem here?” Dad’s tone was calm and conciliatory.

“This bunch are getting in the way of us doing our job.”

“No one consulted the locals about this.”

“No need to. The trees are a hazard to traffic.”

Dad’s grip on my shoulder tightened as I tensed and my hands balled into fists. “Come on, Lesley,” he said. “There’s nothing else we can do here.”

There was nothing for it but to back off. That’s when I saw Nick, a couple of feet behind my dad. Gav and the rest had disappeared. Katy looked like she’d been crying. Nick looked at me and I glared back at him and had the satisfaction of seeing the snake in the grass turn pale. That was about the only good thing about that day.

Looking back, I suppose the day the trees came down was the day my childhood ended.

Granted, several were left, but that was outweighed by those three gaping chasms. I’d never hugged a tree in my life, but sometimes I would lay my hand on one of the stumps, with their pale surfaces staring up at the sky, and try to feel whether there was any of the old tree that could still mean something.

I forgave my dad because I could never stay mad at him for long. Nick, I avoided like the plague. He was the real traitor.

I didn’t go to his house any more.

Ironically, it was around then that his mother started coming to ours. She’d decided to take an Open University course, and had asked Mum to help.

“I wish I was brainy like you,” she told her. “I just freeze when I see so much on the page.”

Mum in turn admitted she wished she was more practical, which led to a bit of return “tutoring”. I can’t say our house became an epitome of domesticity as a result, but there were less burnt dinners.

Another result was a certain amount of ear-bending from my mother about Nick.

“If he hadn’t had the sense to go and fetch your father, things could have got a lot worse. He cared about those trees as much as you did, you know. His mother told me. But he knew that getting into trouble wouldn’t have saved them. Sometimes you have to pick your fights. And another thing...” she added, before I could come up with a cutting riposte.

“Keep away from that Gavin. He’s bad news.”

Nick and I got back on speaking terms, eventually, since it would have caused too many fault lines for everyone else if we hadn’t, but it was never the same. There was always a barrier between us that only something dramatic could have broken down. Dramatic didn’t happen in our little world on Blackberry Way. No more trees were cut down or acquired tell-tale spray paint marks. I finally knuckled down at school. Mum cried when I went away to university and even made me a perfect apple and blackberry pie, as if she believed I’d starve once away from the safety and bounty of the place where we seemed to have sunk down deep enough roots to stay forever. I graduated (Mum cried

again at the ceremony but claimed her contact lenses were playing up), married (more tears) and had two children to whom I introduced the finer points of Blackberry Way on visits home after we moved away. To me, the brambles seemed scrubbier, the berries seedier, though the children seemed happy enough with them. Gradually, they grew up, and joined me less often, divorce having been added to the list, to nobody’s surprise, several years before.

Most of our old group had also moved on. On the rare occasions our visits back coincided, we were all too busy and our links too weakened to meet up properly.

So, in many ways, it seemed fitting that the event that brought us all back together was similar to the one that had started the weakening process.

“They want to make the main road into a dual carriageway,” Mum told me over the phone.

“You know what that means, don’t you? The rest of the trees will have to go.”

How could I not be? It was Blackberry Way. On the day, nearly everyone, past and present, turned up, those of us who’d left coming back to help swell the numbers. Pete had come along with his wife, their two daughters and one grandson. Katy was there with her family, as was Steve with his, and his father. Both our mothers, inseparable friends standing together, brandished home-made placards.

Gav had come, too, standing a few yards away with his five children, three of them grown up, from various relationships. All had the same cheeky charm as their dad. Seeing me, the second and third eldest, James and Lily, rushed over.

“Hey, Mum! How does it feel to be back?”

I’d got together with Gavin when I’d finished at university, my stubborn side, as Mum called it, rearing its head just as he split from wife number one. I had no regrets or complaints. We had a pretty good run, especially by his standards, and two amazing children had resulted.

Dramatic didn’t happen in our little world on Blackberry Way “Wouldn’t the land on the other side be better?” I asked.

“That’s used for agriculture, so they’re saying our bit is less important, but Babs and I reckon that if enough of us make a stand...”

“It didn’t do any good before.”

I knew my interruption sounded harsh, but some sores still smarted, even after 40 years.

Mum sighed. “We didn’t know about that until the last minute and, to be fair, a bunch of children weren’t going to make any difference in that situation. I know you found the experience upsetting, but what happened, happened.” She paused. “We didn’t really get round to telling you at the time, but we admired what you did.”

“Then why did you stop me?”

“No parent should ever let their child blunder into a dangerous situation. You’re a parent yourself now, you know that. But this time a few of us have got our heads together, and we think we can present some alternatives.” She explained the plan. “Are you up for it?”

“To be fair, I always felt I was your second choice,” he’d said, when we called it a day.

Seeing me now, he waved before going over to chat with a beer-bellied bloke who might have been Slug.

“I hope we can save this,” James said. “I have so many happy memories of this place.”

A makeshift swing hung from one of the remaining trees, while a roughly constructed den huddled in a bend of the brook.

Several protestors were casting speculative glances over pale pink berries among the brambles, thinking ahead to later in the summer. For a brief moment, I could have been my six-year-old self again, excited and optimistic, discovering a whole new world.

“Do you really think our protest will have an impact?” Lily asked Mum, who’d come over with Barbara.

She shrugged. “Hopefully.

There must be at least 80 people here, ready to give the planners and surveyors what for. The whole estate’s pulling together.”

Not quite the whole estate.

True, it was a long way to come from America, but still...

“Where’s Grandad?” asked James.

“I sent him on an errand,” Mum told him. She’d said the same to me earlier, but had turned her attention to putting the finishing touches on her placard before I could ask more.

Whatever it was, it seemed to be taking a while.

As if thinking of my dad was enough to make him materialise, a hand came to rest on my shoulder. It was from a lower angle now. Dad wasn’t so tall, nowadays.

“Sorry I’m late,” said a voice I recognised. “Your father drove me straight from the airport.

I haven’t even had time to change.”

Nick stood in front of me and smiled awkwardly. He’d lost weight and his hair was shorter, but he’d gained a tan, which accentuated the pale band on a finger of his left hand, where a wedding ring had once been.

I noticed because mine had been the same for a while.

It was Dad, still standing on the other side of me, who broke the silence. “So this time he wasn’t fetching me. I was fetching him.”

Nick smiled again, more uncertainly, his eyes searching mine. “How many years is it since we last spoke?” he asked.

I never was good at mental arithmetic, especially at moments of emotion, and before I could say anything, something changed in the air. The crowd stirred and drew closer together as two vehicles pulled up, just visible on the other side of the trees, and men in overalls and suits climbed out.

Dad took my left hand, Nick took my right. Our group held hands in a chain, all as much in this together now as if the years had never passed, bound by our shared memories and determination to preserve the magic for those to come.

“I’m sorry about the other time,” Nick whispered in my ear.

“I hope I can make up for it now.

Are we good?”

“Goodbye Blackberry Way,” the song had said. We hadn’t used those words then, we wouldn’t now and we never would. Not if we could help it.

“We’re good,” I whispered back.

THE END © Rebecca Holmes, 2016 Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special 7

Too Hotdle n a H To

It wasn’t just the weather making me feel like this. I really wasn’t a very nice person at all... “

Y

ou’ll have to go on your own then!” I yelled at the top of my lungs before I mopped at my wet brow.

Jack, my husband, backed slowly out of the kitchen.

‘Who are you, Becky?’

I asked myself, seeing his furrowed brow.

Looking back is never a good idea but, around the age of 10, I’d been a very naughty girl. I slammed doors and answered back; I stole; I lied. I thought I’d outgrown that child — but had months and months of boiling sunshine scorched her back into view?

“Daddy’s in trouble.” I heard the voice of my little girl, Chloe, then, “This is Hannah Marks, reporting from the hall.”

Just to add to my woes, she’d become obsessed with our local TV reporter, Hannah Marks, and her little catchphrase, lately. Maybe it was her own kind of heat exhaustion? Hannah rushed around to local reservoirs and rivers. Cool, blonde and tanned, she posed on their banks on TV and said, “As you can see, the water level’s dropped again.”

8 Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special

What a surprise! It was August. It hadn’t rained since May, after the driest winter on record. I glowered at the blue sky beyond the kitchen window. “I hate this stupid weather!”

I’d yelled at Jack today because I’d refused to go on a trip to a blistering hot air-show. Oddly enough, before I turned into Mrs Hyde, I used to love our family trips out.

“Come on, Chloe,” Jack said to our daughter in the hall. “It’s time to get ready.”

“We’re going to the air-show!

Yay!” she cried.

Remorse tightened my throat. I poked my head around the door. “Sorry, Jack. I’ll come too. I’ll pack some sandwiches.”

They say if you’re nice to people, you feel better yourself. Whoever said that hadn’t tossed and turned on perspiration-soaked sheets for eight hours the night before.

Jack and Chloe were climbing the stairs by now.

“This is Hannah Marks —” Chloe piped up — “on the stairs. Going up to clean my teeth.”

She idolised a reporter. She gave her daddy a standing

ovation every time he came home from work, but her mummy was nothing but a sweaty, tetchy mess these days.

I knew who was third-best in our house. vvv Just like aircraft, any trip out needed a pilot and a navigator.

Somehow, we ended up with two pilots and two navigators instead.

“Mind that cyclist!” I snapped, although Jack hadn’t even left our drive. At least the car blasted a stream of slightly cooler air around my legs.

Three streets later, he announced, “They say the weather’s going to break soon.”

“They’ve been saying that for weeks.” I pointed up ahead.

“Turn right here.”

“I thought we’d take the long way round.”

“Why would we do that?”

“It’s prettier.”

The parched trees had started stress-shedding their leaves. The grass on the verges stood all brown and crisp. The cows lay down in their fields — not to signal rain, but to get a few millimetres further away from the sun.

“It’s not pretty!” I fumed.

“Pretty is a nice, typical British summer, when you need a brolly and all your plans for the day turn into a wet soggy mess.

That’s pretty!

It took us an hour just to reach the queue waiting to go through the entrance gate to the air-show. After that, we crawled forwards for another 50 minutes.

“Well, this has been wellplanned,” I remarked. “Just one way in and one way out, is it?”

My left arm, catching the sun through the open window, had started to redden in spite of three layers of sun-cream.

y They say if you are nice to people, you feel better yourself

By Jo Styles “Mum’s in a mood again,” Chloe said from the rear seats.

“This is...” “... Hannah Marks reporting from the car. Yes, we know.”

Jack fished in my bag for a nice, warm bottle of squash.

He handed it over and I took a few deep, calming breaths.

I was sticking to the seat by now and my sunglasses kept sliding down my nose.

Jack inched us forwards one more millimetre.

“We’re going to see the Red Arrows!” Chloe said excitedly.

“We’ll have to see them from here at this rate,” I muttered, while pulling the seatbelt clear of my melting chest.

Jack cast a glance my way.

I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d snapped, “You’re not the woman I married.”

Frayed — that’s how I felt when we finally parked in a field that looked like the Arizona desert, with what seemed like a million other cars lined up. There they all sat: an eye-watering glare of multicoloured paint.

I took Chloe’s scorching little hand as we walked away. ‘We’ll never find our car again,’ I thought. ‘We’ll be hunting for it for weeks amongst this lot.’

“We’ll need ice-creams as soon as we find a stand,” Jack said. “We need to cool off a bit.”

Marshals in yellow vests shepherded us along, together with other people just like us: sunglasses, sandals, burning faces. Only most of them were smiling.

Inside the show-field itself, Jack started hunting for an icecream vendor. “There!” He pointed. “Becky, you go and get some lollies.” It’s as if he thought I needed to do something nice to save my doomed soul. “Chloe and I will go over there. Look, bi-planes, Chloe!” He pointed to a display. “We won’t go any further than that,” he said to me, “so you won’t lose us.” He smiled — one of his forced ones that never reach his eyes. After 10 years of marriage, was he wondering about divorce or did my new

persona mean he’d never dare cross me now? He took our daughter’s hand and tugged her away.

I blew out a slow breath.

‘It’s not just the weather, is it?’

I thought. ‘This is the real me.

I’m not a very nice person.’

I headed for another queue.

At the ice-cream stand, a crowd swarmed like ants around a pile of sugar. But, I confess, I wandered well past it. I hunted something down for a good 10 minutes — something Jack had told me about that morning which he’d just discovered on the internet.

I spotted it in the distance then — a red and white truck with our local TV station’s logo painted on the side.

Why couldn’t they have sent smiley Michael Thornton or Loraine Collinsford or even that weather girl — what’s her name — the one with the odd dress sense? I elbowed my way through another swarm of people gathered around a plane.

Then I saw her in the flesh — Hannah Flaming Marks.

“We shouldn’t tell Chloe she’ll be there,” Jack had advised me that morning.

“She’ll be disappointed if we get delayed, the car breaks down or we get stuck in a queue at the venue and miss her.” He’d really thought it through.

“I don’t want to go at all if she’s there. You’ll have to go on your own!” I’d snapped. It had seemed a reasonable enough response from an overheated mother.

In the flesh, Hannah now appeared cool and poised.

“Sorry, I’ll begin again,” she said to her cameraman. “I’m Hannah Marks reporting from the Jillingford...” She shook her head. “No, I’m not in Jillingford at all. I’ll start again. I sounded nasal, anyway.

It’s my hayfever.”

She smiled at the camera.

“Hi, I’m Hannah Marks, reporting from the Stockingford air-show today,” she corrected. “There are all kinds of aircraft here. One is this Spitfire.” She waved a hand as if showing off jewellery

on a shopping channel. “It’s owned and flown by...” She pressed a hand to her forehead and the man by her side puffed out his cheeks.

Precisely how long had she laboured over this recording? I wondered.

“I’m still Michael Sanders,” the man said with an exasperated sigh.

“Right. Got it this time.

We’ll start again.” Hannah stared down at the grass.

“Thank God this isn’t live,” she said. She looked out into the watching crowd.

‘Yes,’ I thought. ‘They’ll likely go home and tell their neighbours they’ve seen that Marks woman and she’s

head to turn our way. “It’s the weather’s fault,” I said loudly.

“This heat’s enough to make it hard for anybody to think straight.” By then, the man was hopping away. I’m not sure he heard me.

Hannah smiled. I smiled back and gave her a bit of a wave.

Not in a fan-girl way; my wave was more, ‘Yes, I know how you feel. I haven’t been myself since our thermometer melted.’

“Let’s go again,” she said, luring her cameraman from his strop.

I knew what I had to do then. I had to stand and wait while she fluffed her intro and stumbled her way through her interview. Then and only then could I go and fetch my daughter. Chloe would squeal with delight and ask for an autograph and a T-shirt. She’d adore Hannah even more, since I felt sure she’d be clever and witty once she’d cooled off a bit.

Then I’d endure a few more months of Chloe announcing, “This is Hannah Marks reporting from the kitchen... the lounge... the loo.”

Feeling third-best would go on and on.

‘Who are you, Becky?’

I asked myself, my hot feet sliding about in my sandals.

‘I’m a protector of the innocent,’ I replied loftily.

(Will that fit on a T-shirt?) ‘I’m definitely not that mean little girl from years ago.’

I realised that at my core remained an unwavering love for my family. I knew Chloe didn’t really mean to hurt me. My sweaty fingers just lost their grip on that fact now and again.

As we all stood and watched Hannah trip over another line, a song drifted over from a display: “Always take the weather with you,” its chorus advised.

‘This is Rebecca Fleming reporting from an air-field,’ I said to myself. ‘I’m being cooked out here. I’m sizzling like bacon in a pan, but at least now I’m absolutely sure that as soon as this weather breaks, I will be my normal self again.’

THE END © Jo Styles, 2016

y I knew Chloe didn’t really mean to hurt me

nothing like she is on the telly.’

“Let’s take a break,” Hannah’s cameramen said, hoisting his camera off a shoulder that looked wet with perspiration.

“Sorry,” she repeated for the hundredth time before she peered out again into the sea of faces, all judging her.

The man next to me, wearing a loud T-shirt and thick black socks with his sandals, snorted. “I always said she wasn’t a proper journalist. She’s nothing but a blonde airhead.”

‘Actually, she’s the woman my daughter adores,’ I thought.

He gave a surprised yelp.

“Oh, sorry! Did I stand on your foot?” I told you I’d been a naughty girl. I could still remember a few tricks.

His bellow caused Hannah’s

Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special 9

Barbara’s Legacy I’d only known her just over two years, but that Barbara cared more from the start. I was touched that she’d left me her books and photos,

T

he solicitor’s letter, inviting me to come in and discuss matters relating to the late Miss Watkins, came as a surprise. I knew all too well that there was nothing left of Barbara’s business. In her last months, I’d negotiated with the landowner to allow her to keep the tenancy long enough for her to find good homes for her horses. She’d done that, sometimes sending me to pose as a potential customer or member of staff to check them out first. The sale price was of less concern to her than the way the animal would be treated.

There was nothing left of Barbara’s business 10 Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special

“I don’t want to die in debt, but I’ll do it rather than letting them down.”

“Of course.” I’d only known her just over two years, but that she cared more for her horses than anything else was obvious from the start.

“I’ve made a will. You’ll get anything that’s left, but if it’s so much as a lead rope you plaited yourself, you’ll be lucky.”

She was right in that there was nothing worth any money remaining by the time she’d paid what she owed and breathed her last. I was moved, though, that she’d left me her books and photos. That meant nearly as much to me as the trust she’d shown in listening to my opinion about who would be permitted to buy her beloved horses.

I did briefly wonder if there might be an insurance policy or investment somewhere which had got overlooked, but soon dismissed the idea. Barbara was organised, with every scrap of paperwork neatly filed. Besides, if she’d had money for those things, she’d have spent it on the horses. I went anyway, though.

I’d left school two months before and hadn’t yet found a job — and I’d tried hard. I’d applied to almost everywhere which had anything directly to do with horses throughout my last term. Then after my exams, I’d applied to anywhere indirectly connected with horses: feed merchants, saddlers and even a supplier of riding clothes.

Recently, I’d widened my search and applied for any

By Patsy Collins

Illustration: Getty

for her horses than anything else was obvious though — that meant a lot

job I thought I stood a chance of getting. No interviews conflicted with any of the dates the solicitor had suggested, so I agreed to the first of those.

The solicitor, who so far I’d only spoken to by telephone, introduced himself and then quickly explained his role as executor of Barbara’s estate, confirmed I’d received the few items which made up my inheritance and provided papers for me to sign. There was also a cheque for £3.47.

Not even as much as the bus fare I’d have paid to come and collect it, had I decided against cycling.

“There’s one other thing...” the solicitor said.

“Yes?” “Miss Watkins left certain, er, instructions.”

Of course she did. If Barbara had any last words for me they wouldn’t be gentle platitudes or even suggestions, but definite orders regarding something she wanted me to do.

“She would like you to go here and speak to

He’d have been top of the list of places I’d applied for a job had it not been for George, the horse he’d bought from Barbara. George was her best, most loved and most valuable horse.

When she sold him, we both cried. It was then that I realised

I nodded. What choice did I have?

Mr Granger.” He passed me a slip of paper with the address on.

I didn’t need to read it.

Charles Granger had once been a world-class showjumper and now owned a prosperous stables where he bred and trained horses.

it was true; Barbara was dying and my time with her and her horses would soon be over. I guessed her tears were for the same reason, minus the part about me, of course.

There had been no need for me to go and check out

Mr Granger’s establishment before the sale was agreed, so the only time I’d met him was when he collected George. Barbara had by then been too weak to lead him up the lorry’s steep ramp and I was so upset I couldn’t even do up the head-collar. Mr Granger had taken it from me, swiftly fitted it and led George away.

Neither of them had so much as glanced at me.

“Miss Sandall?”

“Sorry, what did you say?”

“Would you like me to ring and arrange an appointment?” the solicitor asked.

I nodded. What choice did I have? This was one of Barbara’s orders and maybe I’d get to see George again. I felt I was almost ready for that.

“Would this afternoon be convenient?” I was asked, after Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special 11

Barbara’s Legacy the solicitor had explained why he was calling.

The stables were sort of on my way home, I had nothing better to do and putting it off would have made me nervous.

Mr Granger shook my hand half an hour later, showed me where I could leave my bike and offered tea.

“How did you get interested in horses, Maria?” he asked once I’d taken a few sips and eaten a chocolate biscuit.

I didn’t know why Barbara had wanted me to meet him or what she might have said and had no idea if he remembered me. He did seem genuinely interested, though.

“I think I was probably born that way. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t love them. All my dreams and ambitions growing up involved horses. They varied a bit. I was going to be a princess carried around in a crystal carriage pulled by unicorns at one point. Other times, I was going to be a show-jumper like you, or win races. You know the kind of thing.”

It seemed he did as he smiled and offered another biscuit before encouraging me to continue. I decided to give him the whole story.

I don’t know if I have selective memory, or there really were a lot of horses in my childhood. My grandparents took me for a proper seaside holiday which involved pony rides on the beach. A cousin was driven to her wedding in a horse and carriage. Two of my school friends were pony 12 Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special

mad for a while. Their parents paid for them to have riding lessons once a week and they worked in the stables sometimes. I went too, whenever I could, just to be with the ponies. Mum couldn’t afford lessons for me and I usually had to save my pocket money to pay to get the bus over there.

The people at the stables were lovely and always thanked me for my help mucking out, poop-picking in the fields or clearing them of weeds and I spent hours grooming the animals.

Just being close to the ponies would have been reward enough, but I was given a few short lessons.

I wasn’t jealous of the other two that their parents could afford lessons and drove them everywhere, but I was furious when they decided the stables stuff was just too much like hard work.

It broke nails and took up time they could be hanging about looking for boys.

I was going for a ride. No job had been advertised, but I knew where horses were involved there was always work to do and the lady who ran the place apparently worked alone, so I was very hopeful she’d take me on.

The first time I met her, Barbara yelled at me. “What are you doing here?’”

Somehow I stammered out that I wanted a job.

“No jobs here and I wouldn’t employ a silly little kid like you if there was.”

I tried to tell her I knew how to muck out and she wouldn’t have to pay me if I could ride her horses, but when she asked where I’d learned to ride, she laughed so hard she had trouble breathing.

When eventually she got herself under control, she told me to clear off.

I cycled home, furious. Didn’t tell Mum about it, though.

I’d intended to tell her when I had the job all sorted out.

The people at the stables were lovely I decided to try to get a parttime job at a place nearer to me. Not a riding school, but a private yard I knew very little about. I wouldn’t mind if it was unpaid, as long as I could be near the horses and perhaps ride occasionally. It was still a three-mile journey, but there was a cycle path so I told Mum

She’s hot on not letting people down, so I’d have persuaded her.

Perhaps Barbara had thought I really was a silly little kid, who’d be like my friends and let her down.

If I could just prove that wasn’t the case, maybe she’d change her mind.

It took me a while to pluck up the courage to return to Barbara’s, but I went back.

At first I couldn’t see her in the yard, then I saw her out in a paddock with a horse. She was holding his foot, as though about to pick it out, but even to me it seemed odd she’d do it in the middle of a field and I guessed something was wrong.

I didn’t know if that would make it better or worse and hesitated by the gate. Soon I heard her yelling and, incredibly, it was for me to get over there quick. There was no doubting the urgency of her voice.

I ran. When I got closer I saw blood. It was all over her and seeping from where she held the horse’s ankle.

“Come here, girl.”

I did as ordered.

“Get down.” She pulled me onto my knees by her side. “Put your hands by mine. When I let go, you have to clamp your hands where mine are and squeeze tight. Understand?”

I thought I did, but when she removed hers and a great arc of blood spurted out, I saw I didn’t have a clue.

Barbara pressed my hands in place. “Hold tight and don’t let go. His artery is severed and he’ll bleed to death if you do.

I’m going to call the vet.”

“I could do that.”

“Can you get into my house, find the phone, know what number to call and what to say?”

I don’t know if I answered, but it must have been obvious

I couldn’t. That I was just a silly little kid.

“Do not let go,” she barked.

She removed the pressure of her hand. Immediately blood began to gush between my fingers. I used both hands together and pushed hard until it was just a gentle seeping.

“Be quick,” I told Barbara.

“I can’t hold on like this for long.”

She’d already gone and was running towards her cottage.

I was terrified. First that the horse would die and then that when he did, he’d fall on me and crush me. This was no pony, but a huge great beast and from my position under his belly I could see he was a stallion.

From the way he was standing so placidly with a strange and terrified girl gripping his leg, I assumed he must be very weak or possibly in shock. Could horses faint? I wondered.

That they slept standing, I knew, but presumably unconsciousness or death would bring them down.

Naturally I was on the side with the injured leg.

If I moved to the other side, instead of being crushed, I’d simply run the risk of being struck by a hoof as he fell.

Possibly safer for me, but with my arms outstretched I wouldn’t be able to apply as much pressure, so worse for him. I stayed where I was.

It seemed a very long wait.

I could no longer feel my fingers and I realised more blood was flowing under my weakening grip, but there was absolutely nothing I could do.

My legs and back were in agony and tears and snot ran unchecked down my face.

This beautiful creature, who was meekly and trustingly allowing me to help him, might die.

Eventually, Barbara returned.

She stroked the horse’s muzzle and spoke softly to him.

“Help’s coming, George.

Hold on, there’s a good boy.”

Then she turned her attention on me. “If you let go, will you get on that bike of yours and cycle off?”

I couldn’t tell if that’s what she wanted or not, but my concern for the horse was

greater than my fear of her.

“I can’t just leave him.”

She nodded, then knelt beside me. She put her hands ready and when I let go, she applied pressure.

Much less blood spurted out that time. I didn’t know if it was good or bad. Had he lost so much the pressure was weaker, or had our changeover been swifter?

“Go and open the gate wide.” Barbara nodded towards the paddock gate.

“Then the one to the road.

Wait there for the vet and bring him up here.”

“OK.” I did as she asked.

The vet managed to stop the bleeding, stitched George up and gave him various injections. George was taken into a stable and given food and water. I did that, following out Barbara’s

hadn’t scared me so much I’d never want to see another horse, so didn’t ban me from returning.

I didn’t exactly get a warm welcome from Barbara.

“I told you I don’t want you here. It was probably stupid kids like you who set off the Chinese lanterns.”

Although I couldn’t really see what was wrong with that, I knew I was innocent and said so.

I learned a lantern had come down in her paddock and it was the wire remains which had cut and nearly killed her best stallion. The “nearly killed” reassured me he wasn’t dead and I knew I’d contributed to that. I told her I at least deserved to know if he’d be OK. “Do you now?” She stomped off towards the stables.

I followed. It was that or get

I could no longer feel my fingers snapped instructions as she continued to stroke and soothe him. I remember very little of it. Once it seemed that all that could be done had been done, I started to shake and the stable spun.

Barbara was full of thanks to the vet. It was he who pointed out I needed someone to take care of me as I seemed to be in shock.

“That’s all I need,” Barbara muttered.

I was put in front of a fire, wrapped in a blanket and given sweet tea until my teeth stopped chattering.

I was even allowed to use her bathroom to wipe off the worst of the blood before I cycled home.

Even so, you can imagine how Mum reacted when I got in. Persuading her I was fine was hampered by the fact that really I wasn’t.

That had been a Sunday term-time and it was winter and dark after school, so I wasn’t allowed to go back until the Saturday. OK, I wasn’t strictly allowed back, but Mum had no idea the experience

on my bike and go home, never to return.

George looked fantastic and just a bit frightening. His ears pricked forward as we approached, his coat gleamed and he stamped impatiently in his stable.

“Wants to be out,” Barbara said. “Want to take him for a ride?”

There was a challenge in her voice. One I wasn’t stupid enough to accept.

“That probably wouldn’t be a good idea.”

“He’s fine. A gentle walk would do him good.

You’d have to keep him on a tight rein, though, make sure he didn’t trot and pull his stitches.”

“I don’t think I could do that,” I admitted.

“No need to be modest, I know you’ve had lessons.”

“And we both know I still don’t have a clue.”

Barbara laughed again, but nowhere near as harshly as when I’d tried to convince her I did know what I was doing. She let me feed George a couple of carrots, which I managed to do

without getting my fingers bitten.

“There you go, then, you’ve seen he’s all right.”

“I still want to work here. Not for money, like I said, just to be with the horses and maybe learn a bit. I’m willing to work really hard and do whatever you say.”

“Are you now?”

I tried to assure her of that.

“And what do your parents think of the idea?”

“There’s just my mum.”

“You’d best go home and ask her, hadn’t you? Come back tomorrow if she says yes.”

If I’d thought convincing Barbara was hard, it was as easy as handing out sugar lumps compared with getting Mum to agree.

She insisted on coming to meet Barbara and exchanging phone numbers with her and that I promise to be careful and do my homework first, be home by six at the latest...

Barbara worked me hard and I had the three-mile cycle ride each way, but I loved it. I learned a lot.

The first lesson was that most of the stuff I’d learned at the riding school was rubbish. They wasted a fortune on straw the way they mucked out, for example.

Lead-ropes and hay-nets weren’t things to be bought, but items made from string recycled from hay bales.

I learned that new jodhpurs and the kind of fancy riding jackets my friends had worn were a waste of money, but good boots were essential.

“You can’t get so much work done with crushed toes or a twisted ankle,” she explained. Don’t think, though, that she bought me a pair; she lent me a set of hers and told me to wear extra socks.

My assumption that she couldn’t afford to pay me, although she desperately needed the help, was proved to be correct.

I learned you have to work hard for what you want and that it means more if you earn it. Barbara had done a job she’d hated, what it was I never did learn, but it had provided the money to set up her stables, and the pension Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special 13

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Barbara’s Legacy was just about enough to keep them going.

I also learned that Barbara had a heart, after all. One capable of caring a little for those on two legs, despite her loving only those with four. Her horses needed more exercise than she had time to provide.

“I’m not having them messed about with, so I’ll have to teach you to ride properly.”

She pretended not to notice how delighted I was.

Even then, I thought I already knew the basics, but fat riding school ponies hadn’t prepared me for horses with spirit. They weren’t vicious and were accustomed to me handling them, but they were big and wanted to do more than stand still and be petted.

Barbara started me off on an elderly mare. Although fairly docile, she wasn’t used to looking after beginners and she was huge. Just getting on was a challenge, but once Barbara started us trotting around in circles on the end of a long lead-rope, I found it was one I had to repeat several times each lesson. The mare got quite good at stepping over me and continuing her circuit.

Barbara said, “If you can’t stay on, could you at least fall off somewhere which is less in the way?”

I noticed, though, that before I’d arrived for the first lesson, she’d spread a thick layer of her precious straw over the floor of the barn where I was to practise.

“Do you think I’m deliberately falling under her legs?” I asked when I’d got my

breath back and scrambled once more to my feet.

“Looks like it from here!”

“I’m holding on as tightly as I can.”

“Yes, to the reins but they won’t keep you up, girl. Use your legs and your weight and your balance. Move with the horse, not off of her.”

Each week, I improved.

George was fully recovered long before I was ready to sit on his back and be led around a paddock, but I did do that. Twice.

Barbara must have suspected she was ill long before I found her slumped in the tack-room. Even then she tried to pass it off as just being a bit tired. By then, I’d picked up some of her stubbornness and abrupt manner and ordered her to see a doctor.

until I mentioned George’s departure that I remembered I was talking to his new owner.

“Can I see him?” I asked.

“Of course.”

Mr Granger showed me out to a paddock. The grass was lusher than any I’d seen at Barbara’s place. The fencing was far smarter and the gate shiny and new. The horse looked no better, though. No amount of money would have seen him better cared for than the way she’d treated her animals.

George’s coat gleamed in the sun and his ears pricked forward when I called to him.

He trotted over to us.

Mr Granger handed me a head-collar and lead-rope.

It wasn’t made from recycled bale string, but I guessed being new and

George’s coat gleamed in the sun “If you won’t help yourself, I won’t help you, either. You can muck out and feed your own horses.”

I’m not sure I meant it, but it worked and she made the appointment. The first time she spoke to me with anything of the gentleness she used for the horses was when she told me she had just months to live.

“I need to find homes for the horses. Good homes. Will you help me?”

“Of course.”

I explained the steps we’d taken to Mr Granger. It wasn’t

expensive wouldn’t stop it doing the job. I climbed into the paddock, fastened the collar around his head and led George to where Mr Granger had opened the gate.

“Would you like to ride him?”

“I would, yes... but although I’ve learned quite a bit from Barbara, I’m not up to handling him on my own yet.”

“That’s OK.” He waved towards the stable block and someone came running.

“Take George in will you, Brett, and get ready to give this young lady a riding lesson.”

“Sure thing, boss.”

As the man led George away, I asked Mr Granger, “Is that why Barbara asked me to meet you? So I could learn to ride George?”

“No. She asked... no insisted, that when I next had a staff vacancy, that I interview you.”

“Oh!” “Do you still want a job in a stables?”

“Yes! Yes, definitely. I’d absolutely love to work here.

I can bring you my CV any time. There’s not much on it and I’m still waiting for my exam results, but I do have some experience. Er, well, you know about that now. And I can come for an interview whenever you like.”

“I don’t think we need bother with any of that; you come very highly recommended.”

“Does that mean..? Have I..?”

“If you’re willing to start on minimum wage whilst you’re being trained and happy to start straight away then yes, you’ve got the job.”

“Thank you,” I said, accepting the final part of Barbara’s legacy. I’d treasure her books, the money would be useful to buy mints for George and, of course, I was delighted to have a job I was sure I’d love.

“And thank you, Barbara,” I whispered as I made my way to the stables. “Thank you for teaching a silly little kid some valuable lessons and for caring enough about her future to ensure she’d continue to learn after you were gone.”

THE END © Patsy Collins, 2016 Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special 15

He was a friend of her son: jadegreen eyes, blond hair — just the sort she’d fancied when she was growing up

the youth clarified. “You were very generous.”

Suddenly, she did recognise those green eyes, last seen twinkling above a white beard as she walked past him in the high street, chucking her spare change into his rattling bucket. “You had a very deep voice,” she recalled. “For one so young.”

“Had plenty of practice.

Played a Viking in a school play once, complete with curly beard and booming voice.”

“When was that?” she risked asking.

“I was 14.”

“So last week, then,” Kate sighed.

“Well, a bit longer than that.”

He smiled. “I’m 25 now.”

So, older than her son by a whole four years!

Matt’s party was currently taking place in the basement, his lair when he was home from college. He’d been doing his own thing down there since his early teens, after Ben had done it up as his “man-cave”,

lives, or who might be stopping overnight...

Which, so far, had only worked one way. That was why Matt had suggested the pact, knowing she’d never act on it.

“Those mixers are in the top shelf of the fridge,” she said now, to dispel the crackling atmosphere in the kitchen. “I saw Matt putting them in earlier.”

“Thanks,” said Green Eyes.

“I hope we’re not making too much noise in the basement.”

“I didn’t stay at home to keep an eye on things,” she sniffed defensively. “Normally, I’d be out myself. I don’t interfere in Matt’s life,” she added, bridling.

“I don’t believe that,” said green eyes, teasingly. “But just so you know, we’re only having a few drinks, playing Twister, oldtimey stuff. No illicit activities.”

“You don’t need to tell me,” she said, tightening her dressinggown primly. “I was young once myself, believe it or not. Excuse me!” And she turned to go, annoyed at conforming to type as Matt’s touchy (and cliché-

if it might be — what? The wrinkliest thing he’d seen this side of a raisin? Or — or was it — could it be — that she was actually holding on to his hand, and he was paralysed with embarrassment?

“I’m sorry,” they both said simultaneously, jumping back and colliding with kitchen appliances (she knocked her elbow against the fridge, he clattered into the breadbin).

And then, in acute mutual embarrassment that followed, they both started laughing.

Sniggering, really, like the kid he was and the big kid she was in danger of becoming...

Suddenly, Kate wanted to get as far away as possible from “mature and civilised”; to untighten her tightlybound dressing-gown and feel the wind in her hair — which was notionally possible if she ran around opening a few windows...

When she awoke next morning, she blinked as if waking from hibernation.

Minding Th W

hen Kate went into the kitchen for a glass of water, the last thing she expected was to bump into a man — boy? — who looked her in the eye and said, “We must stop meeting like this.”

“I’m sorry, have we met before?” she murmured. He was a friend of her son Matt, that much was clear: jade-green eyes, blond hair — just the glint-in-the-eye type she’d fancied, growing up, only to play safe by marrying her childhood sweetheart Ben. And look where that had led to. The divorce court.

“Matt dispatched me to fetch some mixers, but I was Santa in the high street last year, oh-yaying for charity,” 16 WomanÕs Weekly Fiction Special

only for Matt and his schoolmates to commandeer it and make Ben feel the way Kate did now — about 100, and surplus to requirements.

At New Year, she and Matt had even hosted two parties, Matt having his bash down below while she held a more sedate gig upstairs, sharing access to the kitchen and cleaning-up duties in the morning.

All her friends thought she and Matt were terribly mature and civilised.

It was true — they’d co-operated well since Ben moved out. In fact, they’d established a pact not to ask about each other’s love

spouting) mum.

“Hey!” He grimaced.

“Didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfy. Sorry.”

“You didn’t. Um, where do you know Matt from?” she asked.

“The bike shop?”

Her son worked in a cycling shop in town in the college holidays.

“Nah, we were at school together, though I was a few years ahead. We played on the squash team, and kept in touch when I left school. I’m Tom,” he said, extending a hand.

“I’m Kate.” She shook it.

“The mixers...”

But his hand was still holding hers. He was frowning at it, as

Then she remembered — and sat up gingerly.

Her empty glass sat on the dressing-table, where she’d left it after accepting her third top-up of wine — three was her absolute limit, she’d insisted to Tom, who had the hollow legs of youth, compared to her.

Then she’d said her goodnights and, picking up her final, half-sipped drink, made her solitary way to bed, but not before... Oh, God, not before kissing him! Just a lip graze, really, but she might as well have signalled her intentions by lighting a bonfire on the Brecon Beacons.

His hand was still holding hers. He was frowning at it

By Gabrielle Mullarkey “Mum!” called Matt outside her bedroom door.

“You decent?”

“Er...”

This morning, that question sounded particularly loaded.

She scrabbled for her dressinggown. Her mobile phone was in its pocket and she peered at the screen showing an hour-old message on its lit-up fascia: Pick you up 7.30 tonight for film, as agreed. T Oh, God. It was all coming back to her...

When he’d asked her out last night, she’d tried to protest.

“The age gap —” “You’re only 38.”

“And you’re 25!”

“So both consenting adults.

I take it you are consenting to accompany me to the latest oeuvre in the Mad Max canon?

One of your favourite film franchises, you said.”

“Yes, yes it is. My husb — Ben didn’t approve.” Of me generally, she could have added. “It was more about being into Mel Gibson, if I’m honest. Only he’s

if Tom was among those who’d “crashed”, and if she’d now have to face him over burnt pancake mix and a bin overflowing with empties.

She got out of bed, conscious of the hubbub below. Sounded like a cast of thousands down there, rooting in her cupboards.

She tried on three outfits before she was satisfied she resembled neither a “cougar” nor Mrs Doubtfire, although unsure what look she was going

Matt slipped her an appealing look. “You’ve a lot in common, you know, Mum.” “Similar age, you mean?”

“I mean, you’re both sassy, forward-thinking, a good laugh —” “OK, I get the picture.” And she was considering going to the cinema tonight with a 25-year-old...

“And anyway,” he added with devastating casualness, “it’s not that big an age-gap.

He’d leaned forward and grazed her on the lips for, exactly: something in the region of “woman-who’s-stillgot-it-to-flaunt-but-choosesnot-to-thank-you-very-much”.

Which wasn’t as easy to pull off as it sounded...

Eventually, she descended to the kitchen in jeans, T-shirt and cardie, driven by the need to impose authority.

“All right, Ma?” Matt asked rhetorically, ramming a balloon whisk into the dishwasher. “I saved a few

he Gap not in the Mad Max films any more, is he?”

At which point — hang on! Yes, it was all coming back to her... at which point, he’d leaned forward and grazed her on the lips.

So she wasn’t a — a cradle-snatcher, after all.

“Mum!” Matt called impatiently on the landing.

“What do you want for breakfast?

We’re doing pancakes.”

“OK,” she called back, pulling the sheet up to her chin, as if anyone could see her.

“Hang on, who’s ‘we’ when they’re at my home?”

“Just a few people who crashed overnight. See you down there!”

He ran down the stairs like a scalded cat while she wondered

Kate felt faint. She had to sit down. This was her neighbour and very casual acquaintance Linda Gaines, a finance officer or some such at the council.

Aged 30, if she was a day.

Fellow divorcée of the parish.

And she smoked. And had a son.

And was 30, if she was a day...

“How old is your son, Linda?” she asked faintly.

“Louis is seven now. Still learning the ropes without his stabilisers.” And she actually

pancakes, can always zap them in the microwave.”

“No, thanks, toast will do.”

No sign of Tom. Breathing easier, she allowed her gaze to settle on the trio who were at her kitchen table: two guys and a girl. “Introduce me to your... friends.”

“This is Buzz, aka Ollie, his old man owns the bike shop. This is Pete, an old mate from school and this is... you two have actually met, Mum.” Matt’s face flamed. “This is Linda.”

“Hi, Kate,” said the “girl” at the table, raising a languid arm festooned with bracelets.

Kate blinked. “Linda. Linda Gaines? From up the road?”

“Yeah, that’s me. Matt helped my son choose a bike for cycling to school. He was very helpful.”

winked at Matt as she spoke, obviously conveying some hideous euphemism. “Excuse me,” added Linda, standing up.

“It’s been years since I stayed up all night playing Twister. Better get home and make myself presentable for Louis returning from his sleepover.”

“You can use the back garden if you need to smoke,” blurted Kate.

“Thanks, but I’ve given up.”

She squeezed Matt’s elbow as she went past and said brazenly to him, “Give me a ring about the park, kiddo.”

Kate waited until Linda had sashayed past her and out of the front door. Then: “Back garden, now,” she said to Matt.

While Pete and Ollie stacked plates, Matt followed Kate, sulkily, into the garden. “I know what you’re going to say, Mum, but we’re meeting in the park ’cos I’m teaching Louis to ride his bike. I love doing it. And Linda...

Linda’s great,” he added, with a look coming into his eyes that Kate recognised. It was the gleam her son got when he wasn’t for turning; when he’d found something that made him truly happy and he knew his own mind. In the past, that might have been choosing a Furby over a Nintendo, or insisting to his parents that he really was prepared to get up at 6am every day to do a paperround (which meant she’d ended up getting up at 6am to finish his paper-round).

And Kate knew that, just like all those previous times, she was meant to step back, keep her counsel and be as “mature and civilised” as humanly possible, especially to Linda, next time they met.

She’s only 29.”

“Oh.” That did sound better than 30. It meant Linda and Matt were sharing the same decade.

“And you’d be the first to say age is just a number.” He was pressing home his advantage. “Isn’t that what you said to Gran when you got pregnant with me at 17?”

She opened her mouth, closed it again. He’d got her there. They both knew it.

She recalled that horribly vivid memory of sitting in a similar kitchen to her own 21 years ago, having agreed with 18-year-old Ben they should tell his parents together. She recalled her own bravado. And the look on his mother’s face!

She understood it now.

But it also meant she could put herself in Linda’s shoes, too, sashaying out with an apparent coolness that might hide a multitude of swirling emotions.

She looked again at Matt.

He followed his heart and his instincts, just as she’d started to do again, since Ben left. Why not give him the benefit of the doubt?

And herself, too?

“Listen, if you’re happy, that’s good enough for me, believe it or not,” she said, conscious of her pocketed phone lying snug to her hip. She took a deep breath.

“Bring Linda round one evening — with Louis, if you like.”

His face lit up. Her heart melted.

“Really?” he asked.

“Really.” She started to head back indoors, turning with a nervous smile. “Um, by the way, I’m going to the cinema tonight with a... friend. Just so you know, I may be back rather late.”

THE END © Gabrielle Mullarkey, 2016 WomanÕs Weekly Fiction Special 17

The day we met still sticks out in my mind. Like the impression the sun makes when you’ve just closed your eyes. As though it’s still there, somehow — an imprint on your eyelids

N

aomi wriggled her toes in the hot sand and gave me a quick sideways look from beneath her lashes. “Well, I think that Uncle George is a whelk,” she said.

“Because he hides away a lot and scuttles sideways.”

“Sounds more like a crab,” I said, picking up a handful of fine sand and enjoying the feel of it trickling through my fingers.

She smiled at me. “I bet whelks go sideways, too — they’d have to, being that awkward shape.

And Auntie Em is a razor shell, long and thin and a bit austere.”

I shook my head. “Sometimes I worry about you.”

“I worry about me, too,” she said candidly. “I don’t think I’ve ever grown up.” Suddenly, her eyes were as deep as the Atlantic and a lot darker and I thought what a paradox life is because actually she’d grown up faster than most.

We’d both had to — with our background. Only Naomi had done it in a different way to

b Suddenly, her eyes were as deep as the Atlantic

me. Maybe it’s because she’s a girl and she was that much younger when we lost our parents.

Uncle George and Auntie Em were our foster parents. They had been since Naomi was six and I was 10. They’d done a good job of it, actually. You hear a lot of talk about kids being abused in the care system, slipping between the gaps, having a really hard time.

But it hadn’t been like that for us. George and Em had been great. They were just a normal couple who couldn’t have kids of their own. Although I do remember thinking they were

18 Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special

pretty ancient. They were both in their 40s when they’d first taken us on.

The day we met still sticks out in my mind. Like the impression the sun makes when you’ve just closed your eyes. As though it’s still there somehow — an imprint on your eyelids Uncle George was tubby and had a moustache. Naomi said he reminded her of Poirot. He wasn’t anything like him, really. His moustache wasn’t curly and he didn’t even have a Belgian accent. Auntie Em was taller than him and very thin. Apparently she couldn’t have her own children because she was too thin. I didn’t even know that was possible. Can you be too thin to have children?

Anyway, we’d all heard the horror stories. About how foster parents change when they get you back to their own houses. How they only want you because of the money. Or they want an unpaid babysitter for their own kids, or they want unpaid servants.

“Like in Cinderella,” Naomi said. “Maybe we’ll get ugly stepsisters.”

“They haven’t got any kids, so we can’t.” I remember getting irritated when she said that.

I remember thinking, when is she ever going to get real, my baby sister? But I never said anything.

Because I knew it was how she dealt with life. Putting it all in a different context. Never really looking at it directly.

So maybe, although we didn’t slip through the gaps in a bad way — we weren’t neglected or forgotten — we still did go through them. There’s always a gap if you’re in the care system.

You don’t have parents, for a start. That’s a pretty big gap, in anyone’s book.

We knew what had happened to ours. They died in a road accident. They were on their way back from shopping one day and their car skidded on black ice and ended upside down in a ditch.

And that was that. Both dead on arrival at hospital.

Naomi was too little to remember it. But I have a vague memory of hearing the babysitter crying. She was a teenager from up the road.

Mum and Dad didn’t have any relatives except us. No brothers or sisters. No parents left alive.

They had been pulled together by their aloneness. I heard someone say that once, or maybe I imagined it.

It’s hard to remember them sometimes. We’ve got photos, of course. Naomi keeps hers in a frame on the chest of drawers by her bed. I keep mine tucked between the pages of a notebook. I don’t get it out too often. But I know it’s there.

That day on the beach, which was just after Naomi’s 18th, is a long time ago now, too. I guess I’m thinking about it now because we’re heading towards the same stretch of beach and because it’s another landmark day — it’s Auntie Em’s birthday. One of those days when we’re all together again.

She’s quite fragile, these days. Osteoporosis. It can be hereditary, apparently. Auntie Em’s wasn’t. I know now that she had an eating disorder when she was younger. She recovered from it — if you ever do recover from stuff like that — but the damage stayed. Like early damage often does.

We’re going for a picnic on the beach. Her choice — well, it is June — and it’s quite a good day.

A bit blowy and overcast but there is blue sky up there. And the sun pops out fairly regularly.

‘We should do it more often,’ I’d thought when I was driving us over. But we’re pretty busy. Me with my job — I’m a heating engineer. Sounds boring, but it’s OK. It’s well paid. I’m never out of work and there’s a lot of time spent driving between calls so I get a break in between people, which suits me fine.

By Della Galton

A

Waltons

Illustration: Getty

Ending

Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special 19

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A

Waltons Ending

The only person I’m really close to, aside from these guys, is my wife, Jess. She lost her parents young, too. She wasn’t in care, she had other relatives. But it’s not the same as having an actual mum and dad. She gets that. Jess is joining us a bit later. She had stuff she had to do first thing.

We’re walking along the prom through sand swirls and we’ve just passed the pier. I’m holding Auntie Em’s arm. She can walk OK, but she’s scared of falling since the last time she did it and broke her elbow.

I help her down the steps onto the beach. She glances at me gratefully as we reach the soft sand. “Thank you, Ben. I should be able to manage now.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.” She gives me a rare smile. “Even if I do fall over, I doubt I’ll break anything. Too much of a soft landing, eh?”

She has a dark sense of humour, Auntie Em. She isn’t austere at all. Just extremely dry and she doesn’t smile very much. It took me about 18 months to work that one out.

I was wary of her before that.

I thought the frown meant she wasn’t happy — or she was fed up with us or something.

That all changed on the day Naomi was sick on the bedroom carpet. She’d just woken up and started retching. She woke me up, too. We had bunk beds in those days.

I was down from mine in an instant.

The next thing I knew, there was Auntie Em — a skinny shadow in the doorway. Naomi started to cry.

“She didn’t mean it,” I said, terrified she was going to get into trouble. We would have got into trouble for that in the care home.

“She’s not very well.” I could hear my voice rising. “I’ll clear it up.”

“Don’t be silly, child,” said Auntie Em, ignoring the mess on the carpet and feeling Naomi’s forehead. “Go and fetch the bucket from the utility room, though, would you?”

When I got back, Naomi was in Auntie Em’s arms being gently rocked back and forth. She had her eyes closed — Naomi, not Em. They looked peaceful and Auntie Em was saying, “It’s OK, it’s all going to be OK,” over and over.

“What did it feel like?” I asked Naomi later. “Did you feel like you were being cuddled by a giant stick insect?”

“No,” she said, looking thoughtful. “It was more like being cuddled by a butterfly.”

I remembered that just now when I had my arm around Auntie Em’s shoulders. I kind of didn’t get it at the time — but I get it now a bit more.

Auntie Em is much more like a butterfly than a stick insect. So fragile, she could be carried off by the slightest gust of wind.

Uncle George is puffing along behind us, carrying the picnic basket. It’s one of those heavy wicker ones. The type that’s heavy before you even put anything in it. Goodness knows

weather.’ I remember that one.

We seem to have spent shedloads of time down here when we were kids.

I remember Uncle George telling us about the sea-horses that lived beneath the ocean and their white frothy manes that got tangled up with the tops of the breaking waves. I remember that Naomi used to believe this old nonsense. Like she believed in happy endings. Where it all turned out to be a terrible mistake about our parents being dead. That they just turned up out of the blue to collect us. She’s never given up on that one.

“It’s never too late for a Waltons ending,” Auntie Em said to me one day.

“A what?” I’d asked, hands shoved deep into my pockets.

I knew what she meant though. The Waltons was a series that Uncle George used to watch.

It was about a wholesome American family living through the war. I always zoned out when they got to the saccharine-sweet ending where everyone calls out goodnight to everyone else.

Where everyone has sweet dreams and no one has nightmares. It wasn’t like real life.

b Uncle George is puffing along behind us

why they have to use one of those. But they do like their traditions. They had one when we were kids. In fact, it’s probably the same one. We’re not kids any more. I’m 32. Naomi’s 28. There’s hardly any gap at all between our ages now.

I can hear Naomi laughing with Uncle George. They’re talking about a quiz show they just watched on TV. Mastermind, I think. Naomi’s a brain-box — always has been. She’s a doctor — and Uncle George is a scientist.

Not the nutty kind who invents things, but the kind who works in a hospital laboratory testing samples. He has a team of analysts beneath him.

The beach is fairly empty. Just a few die-hard families with stripy wind-breaks set up. ‘It’s the summer, so we’re going to the beach, OK? No matter what the

Everyone knew that, didn’t they?

Everyone except my sister, anyway.

But today is not a time for being irritable. It’s a time to celebrate.

“Here will do, won’t it?” Uncle George dumps the basket unceremoniously on the sand.

Something cracks.

“Oh, George, do be careful,” Auntie Em says. “I’d like to keep those plates.”

“It wasn’t a plate,” Naomi says, lifting the basket to reveal something underneath. A razor shell snapped clean in two.

I think of Auntie Em’s bones.

Naomi unfolds the sun chairs she’d been carrying for the oldies and then stands back with a flourish. “Just like old times,” she says with her sweet smile. “Shall I open the flask of tea?”

“I’ve got it.” George kneels awkwardly in the sand. He lifts out tubs of sugar and milk. Em unwraps sandwiches and gets out hard-boiled eggs. I wonder why we never called them Mum and Dad. Not even Naomi, who couldn’t remember our actual ones. Was it because of some misguided loyalty? I suspect my father, who’s not much more than a distant, dark-haired memory, would have liked them.

Or was it because they never asked us to call them anything other than Auntie and Uncle?

Labels no more real than Mum and Dad would’ve been, anyway.

Does it matter what we call things? Whether we liken people to shells — or life events to fairytales, or happy endings to television programmes which everyone knows aren’t real.

When did I get so reflective?

“Isn’t this nice?” Auntie Em says, glancing at George.

“Shame about the weather,” he says.

“It’s not raining.” She smiles at him with such love. How did I ever think she was austere? How did I ever not see how bright and shiny she is, with her blue-veined hands and her serious eyes?

I’ve gone soft, I think. How did that happen? I know the answer to that one — Jess is pregnant, you see. She told me last night. “You’re going to be a dad, Ben. It’s happening. At last.

It’s really happening.”

We’ve been trying for a while.

I’ve kept quiet about it — I’ve even kept it quiet from Naomi.

I didn’t want her to get all gooeyeyed and optimistic. But I’m optimistic now. I’m bursting to tell them, but I wanted to get them all together. I keep having this picture of Jess with a baby in her arms. My baby. And then I have this picture of Auntie Em holding it, too — my son, or my daughter — and I can imagine the look on her face. I can imagine her love and her pride.

Auntie Em finally getting to hold a baby.

And I think — as the sun goes behind the cloud again and turns all the edges to silver, that the breeze feels a little less chill. And the sea looks a little bluer and that maybe actually Naomi wasn’t so wrong about it never being too late for a happy ending — and maybe there’s more than one type of Waltons ending, after all.

THE END © Della Galton, 2016 Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special 21

Shipwreck I

When the storm came, Jamie was looking out of the window, not even flinching at the thunder-claps

can see Jamie down by the water’s edge, paddling through small rock pools left by the tide. Every so often, he stops, crouches down on his heels and peers into the shallow water, trailing his fingers.

I watch his fair head turn sideways, then nod, and realise he is talking to someone.

But the beach is quite empty.

No one else is here. Only the two of us.

“Look, Mummy!”

He is running across the sand now, his little face glowing with sunshine and excitement.

His fingers uncurl.

“Matthew says it’s a mermaid’s purse.”

I look at the dried brown object lying on his palm,

Gulls swirl and dip from rocky ledges, cries echoing and I smile.

“It’s an egg case, Jamie.

From a dog fish, I think.”

“I know it is really,” he says, stroking it with one finger.

“Matthew told me. When the baby fishes have come out, it floats to the shore.”

“Who’s Matthew?” I ask.

“My friend,” he says, and turns to scamper back to the pools again, sand flying out from under his feet.

22

Lots of children have imaginary friends, I reason.

Especially only children. And after the turmoil of the divorce, it isn’t surprising that Jamie should invent one.

His whole world has been turned upside-down. And his father moving to America with his new wife and her children has devastated him. How can you explain that to a four-yearold? How can I reassure him that of course his daddy still loves him, when I know only too well that he doesn’t? That he’s made a new life for himself and cast off the old one. My whole world has been turned upside-down, too.

So when my cousin suggested using her cottage down in Cornwall while she was away for a month working in France, I agreed straight away.

It seemed like a good idea.

Or so I thought.

Jamie has settled in immediately, which surprises me. He’s usually a bit wary about new places and events.

But here, it’s different.

The cottage is almost on the beach, overshadowed by towering cliffs. A rather dark sort of place, with white, thick stone walls, thin, grey slates and tiny, deep-set windows. Gulls swirl and dip from rocky ledges, their shrill cries echoing.

At night, waves thunder against the cliffs, dragging shingle as they retreat with

a long-drawn-out swish of sound. Everything in the cottage rattles or creaks or shakes. But none of this worries Jamie at all.

While I hardly sleep, he goes out like a light as soon as his head touches the pillow, and is up and eager for the beach as soon as daylight comes. He talks non-stop about Matthew and what he says or does.

We’ve been here for three days, and I still find it difficult to sleep. Tonight, the air is humid and heavy, making it an effort even to breathe. Sheet lightning blazes far out to sea and there’s a faint rumble of thunder.

I lie in bed, duvet pushed back, listening, growing more and more tense. Storms are something I hate. My mother was the same. Pulling out every electric plug. Covering any mirror. Even hiding under the stairs when it grew too close. She blamed it on her own mother, who had lived through the bombing of London.

I have no excuse.

Then, from Jamie’s room, I hear his voice murmuring.

Guessing the storm has disturbed him too, I tiptoe in.

He’s kneeling on his bed, looking out of the window, his chin cupped between his hands.

Not even flinching, as I do, at each thunder-clap.

“We’re watching for the ship, Mummy. Matthew says it’s going

By Julie Coffin to hit the rocks, then we can go down and bring in the treasure.”

“Oh, yes,” I tease, ruffling his soft fair hair, relieved to see he isn’t scared by the fury of the storm. “And what sort of treasure will there be?”

He twists his head sideways.

“What sort of treasure, Matthew?”

I see him nod and then turn back to me.

“Chests of gold coins.

Beautiful silken material, the like you never do see before.

Silver ewers and plate. Mebbe casks of wine, even.”

My body ices as I listen to the words. Words my small son would never know.

“Jamie,” I say, wrapping the duvet around him. “You’d better come into my room until the storm is over.”

His body arches, his hands pushing me away.

“No! I want to stay with Matthew and see the ship be wrecked.”

“Darling!” I protest, trying to hold him still. “There’s nothing out there.”

“There is! Matthew says it’s coming in fast. Look, Mummy.”

There’s a tremendous crash of thunder as he speaks and at the same time the whole sky seems to explode into light. Through the rain-spattered glass, I see the sea, lit as though it’s day. Huge waves race in, white-crested, to meet the cliffs and spiral upwards into plumes of spray.

And sweeping in with them is a boat, mast splintered and twisted, heading straight towards the jagged outline of the rocks.

Momentarily, I close my eyes, refusing to believe what I’m seeing. But when I open them again, the boat is still there, even closer, dipping and rising as each wave pours over it.

“Wait for me, Matthew!”

Jamie is fighting his way out of my enclosing arms, running to the bedroom door, almost tumbling down the steep flight of wooden stairs in his haste.

I follow, snatching our anoraks from pegs in the hallway as I pass.

Even before Jamie or I reach it, the cottage door leans inwards, crashing against the wall, as

though by an unseen hand.

I know it has to be the force of the gale and lashing rain, but still it scares me.

“Jamie!” I shriek, seeing his small figure running on ahead.

Sand swirls, blown by the wind, searing into my skin and eyes. My bare feet slip and stumble on rough shingle. With every flash of lightning, the sea seems to boil and the noise of it is terrible.

Then, above the clamour, comes the sound of splintering wood and, for a moment, silence, as if the elements are waiting.

“No, Matthew! No!” I hear my son’s anguished cry and then I’m beside him, my arms closing around his drenched little body, pulling him back from the drag of the sea.

Bits of wood are flung high in the air, crashing down onto the sand and shingle with a shuddering thud that trembles the ground.

Lightning quivers around us as I kneel, holding my son, while he sobs into my shoulder as if

the basics of First Aid. Shouldn’t he be turned on his side? Isn’t that the correct thing to do?

But maybe he’s already dead.

The man lurches and gives a groan. From the noises that follow, I guess he’s bringing up swallowed water.

I crouch down beside him.

“Can you stand? Our cottage is just up the beach. If you can make it there...”

He groans again and I feel the shingle shift as he struggles to his knees. With an arm around my shoulders, he heaves himself slowly to his feet.

It seems to take for ever to reach the cottage, stopping every metre or so for him to rest.

His weight leans into me and I try not to stumble.

“Jamie, run on,” I urge.

“Fetch the towels from the bathroom and our duvets. Put them in the kitchen.”

Once inside, with the door closed and the kettle boiling, the sound of the storm isn’t quite so bad. The man hunches over the table, a pink bath towel

There’s a tremendous crash of thunder as he speaks his heart is breaking.

A dark shape swirls in towards the beach, then is taken back again by the tug of the current.

As the next wave curls over, I move forward, feeling the tide suck at my feet as they sink into the damp sand.

My cold fingers clutch at cloth, my arms wrenching as the sea tries to drag it away from my grasp. Refusing to let go, I fight to keep my grip, my nails burying into the wet material.

Slowly and gradually, I haul the heavy body up over the stones.

And as the skies splinter into brightness once more, I see it’s a man, his face blood-streaked.

James’ cold, wet hand slips into mine.

“Is he dead, Mummy?”

“I don’t know, sweetheart,” I whisper.

“Shouldn’t we breathe into him, like they do on TV?” Should I, or force out the water first, I wonder? If only I knew just

swathed round him, rubbing his face and hair with another. He studies me with red-rimmed eyes and frowns.

“How did you manage to drag me out?”

His voice is hoarse from the salt.

“From the sea, you mean?”

He shakes his head, and drops of water spatter the table.

“No, from the boat.”

“But I didn’t. You were swept up onto the shore.”

His hair is springing into dark curls as it dries. He tugs at his soaking sweatshirt and pulls it over his head. His body is lean and tanned, red marks already forming from his encounter with the rocks.

I look away.

“Well, somebody did. I was below deck, trying to get the engine restarted, when it struck the rocks. It was pitch-dark. Then someone grabbed my arms and dragged me out.”

His deep-set blue eyes scanned my face.

“But you say it wasn’t you?”

I shake my head and pour tea into two mugs.

“It was Matthew.”

Jamie’s voice, choking with tears, whispers from the chair where he’s bundled into another towel.

“Matthew swam out. I told him not to, Mummy, but he just wouldn’t listen.”

“Matthew? You have an older son?”

The man’s gaze questions mine.

“No.” Tea spills over the side of the mug as my hand trembles.

“So who is this Matthew, then?

Where is he now? Is he safe?

I need to thank him.”

He starts to rise up from the chair, then pauses, reading my expression.

What do I say?

That Matthew is a figment of my child’s imagination?

Or is he?

Did Matthew, once, years ago, live in this cottage? The son of a fisherman, or even a fisherman himself? Dependent on the sea for his livelihood — and whatever washed up on the shore.

And Jamie... A sad and lonely child. Is it possible that, somehow... I dare not let the thought form in my mind.

Jamie has never spoken of Matthew again. Maybe he doesn’t need to. Alex is his friend now. A real-life friend.

The man from the sea.

A fisherman who lives by the harbour in a village a little further along the coast. They spend a lot of time together.

Alex is teaching him to swim.

Alex is my friend, too.

Drawn together by the storm and the sea. If it wasn’t for me, he says...

I don’t agree. You see, there’s another strange thing I’ve learnt.

Alex’s family have always been fishermen. A century or so ago, one of them was never found after his boat was driven onto the rocks and wrecked in a ferocious gale.

His name was Matthew.

THE END © Julie Coffin, 2016

23

24 Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special

By Elizabeth McKay

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I felt a wave of panic ripple through me. Who was this stranger taking up residence in my spare room? How on earth was I going to cope with this bizarre creature all on my own?

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Illustration: Getty

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t’ll only be for six weeks,” I told Bill, relaying everything Carol had said to me on the phone.

Bill grunted something unintelligible from behind the newspaper. I took it as a promising sign.

“I expect we’ll hardly see her.

She’ll be out at the store all day and working on her project in the evenings.”

Bill grunted again and turned the page.

“That’s settled then.” I nodded.

“I’ll phone Carol back and tell her Lucy can come at the weekend.”

I must admit I was slightly apprehensive about having an 18-year-old descend on us for that length of time. Bill and I don’t have children of our own and, loath as I am to admit it, we’d both become quite set in our ways. But Carol was my favourite cousin, and when she phoned and told me her daughter was doing a fashion and design course at college and had been assigned to our local department store for work experience, how could I do anything other than offer to put her up?

I hadn’t seen Lucy for a few years; not since she’d been old enough to stay at home on her own rather than be dragged along to yet another one of our family gatherings.

I remembered her as a sweet, shy little thing and wondered if she’d changed.

The first thing I discovered about Lucy was that she came with a lot of baggage.

“Sorry about all this, Eileen,” Carol said while we were unloading the car, “but she needs her sewing-machine so she can work on her project.”

“She could’ve used my ironing-board and iron,” I said, watching Bill trying to manoeuvre said board round the bend on the landing, en-route to Lucy’s room.

“You know what these arty folk are like.” Carol sighed.

“They’re very particular about the tools they use. She won’t even use my scissors when she’s wrapping up a parcel.”

“It’s a shame about the dummy,” Lucy said, joining Carol and me in the hall.

Before I could joke that wasn’t a very nice way to talk about Bill, she quickly explained, “My dressmaker’s dummy. There wasn’t any room for it in the car.”

Carol and I looked at each other and smiled.

I left them to bring in the rest of Lucy’s things: bales of material, boxes of fashion magazines, and bags and bags overflowing with ribbons and threads of every colour

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Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special 25

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imaginable, while I heated up some soup and made sandwiches for lunch. Lucy had only been here half an hour and already I was looking on the kitchen as a haven of peace and tranquillity.

I felt a wave of panic ripple through me. Who was this stranger taking up residence in my spare room? It wasn’t Lucy.

The Lucy I remembered was a chubby little blonde with ringlets and Wedgwood-blue eyes, who had to stand on tiptoes to reach the door handle. The girl upstairs was tall and slender. Her hair was short and spikey. And it was purple. She didn’t have fingernails, she had talons, each one a different colour, some with little glittery swirls on them. I supposed her eyes were still the same shade of blue, but it was hard to focus on them when your attention was drawn to the gold hoop embedded in her left eyebrow. The diamond stud at the side of her nose was moderate by comparison.

I was terrified when, after lunch, Carol said she was going home. I wanted to beg her to stay, or at least let me go with her. How on earth was I going to cope with this bizarre creature all on my own?

Surprisingly, I wasn’t on my own. Bill usually went to a football match on Saturday afternoons, but today, without any prompting from me, he offered to stay and help Lucy settle in. She needed something to sit her sewing-machine on and Bill remembered there was a small table up in the loft that he was sure would take the weight.

I tided up the living-room and listened to the voices wafting down from above.

“What were you talking about?” I asked Bill when he 26 Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special

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came downstairs, leaving Lucy to unpack her personal belongings from her case.

“Not much.” He shrugged.

“She can see the garden from her window and was asking about the flowers and plants. She said they might give her inspiration.”

“Inspiration?”

“For the display she has to do as part of her assignment at the store,” said Bill. “I offered to give her a tour later.”

“A tour of the garden?”

I laughed. “It’s not exactly Downton Abbey.”

“No,” he said, “but it’s nice she’s showing a bit of interest.

And if it gives her a few ideas then that’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

It turned out Lucy wasn’t the only one to get some new ideas.

When I went into the diningroom the next day, I found Bill sitting at the table, poring over some of his gardening books and catalogues.

“I’ve let it go a bit,” he said, “but talking to Lucy has got me thinking. She suggested adding some height and colour to the bed next to the vegetable patch.

And she said if I planted poppies against the whitewashed wall of the outhouse, it would really make a statement.”

I smiled and left him to it. He’d been a keen gardener in his younger days and it was good to see him showing some enthusiasm again.

All in all, we adapted pretty quickly to having Lucy to stay. If it wasn’t for the half-full mugs of coffee abandoned on every available surface, the discarded chocolate wrappings and the muffled beat of music leaking through the living-room ceiling, we would never have known she was there. There was one little incident when Bill had gone into the bathroom and discovered several items of underwear

drying on the radiator. But it was easily dealt with when we decided I would do a recce first thing each morning to check if it was clear.

Lucy seemed to be enjoying her time at the store and had made some friends. She’d been with us for two weeks when she nervously asked if it would be OK to invite a couple of the girls over so they could help with ideas for her project.

“It would be so much easier to show them my designs and fabrics here, Eileen, rather than cart everything to the store,” she said.

I assured her that her friends would be very welcome.

“You don’t have to cook or anything,” she said. “We’ll get a take-away. You and Bill can share it with us.”

Neither Bill nor I were really into exotic food, but the girls brought a variety of different things, and I must admit we had fun trying them.

“That curried lamb dish was really tasty,” Bill said when the girls had gone upstairs to start work and we were washing the dishes. “And the spicy chicken was delicious. Why don’t we give the Thai restaurant in the Square a go at the weekend? It’s ages since we’ve been out for a meal.”

Since Lucy didn’t have to go into the store at the weekends, she liked to spend Saturday mornings browsing in the charity shops for accessories to go with her designs. She said it was amazing what you could pick up for next to nothing. I went with her one day while Bill was remodelling the herbaceous border. It was entertaining, and a little

baffling, to watch her getting excited over a box of embroidered hankies and a set of buttons on an old cardigan.

While we were there, a woman came in with a little girl and started rummaging through the rail of children’s clothes. The girl held a pink frilly dress up in front of her and asked her mother what she thought.

“Oh, no,” said Lucy, immediately approaching the child and putting the dress back on the rack. “That’s completely the wrong colour for you. You need something a little more —” she produced a rather plain green dress — “like this.”

The girl looked unconvinced while the mother looked bemused.

“I know it doesn’t look much just now,” said Lucy, “but if you take off the bow at the back and add this silver belt, it’ll be great.”

The child’s mother took a step forward, but I gently touched her arm and explained that Lucy was studying fashion at college and had a good eye for design.

“You can trust her,” I said. “She knows what she’s doing.”

The woman confided that her daughter had been invited to a birthday party at the home of one of her classmates in one of the big houses on the outskirts of the town. “They’ve cut my hours at work, so I can’t afford to buy her something new,” she said. “But I don’t want Ruby to feel embarrassed and out of place.”

We both turned when we heard a loud, “Wow!” coming from the other side of the shop. Ruby had emerged from behind the curtain and was wearing the green dress, newly embellished by Lucy. She looked so pretty. The colour was perfect for her and the fact that her eyes were shining with happiness only made her look even more lovely.

“I think a little silver brooch on the collar would set it off nicely,” said Lucy thoughtfully.

“I’ve got the very thing,” said the woman in charge of the shop, who had been intently following events. “Come and have a look.” She produced a pretty little posy of flowers in filigreed silver.

“Perfect,” said Lucy.

Ruby looked at the price tag and then at her mother.

“All jewellery’s half-price today,” said the shop woman quickly.

y Lucy wasn’t the only one to get some new ideas

“Thank you,” said Ruby’s mum, knowing that was a lie.

“We’ll take it.”

We left the shop an hour later with a bag of belts and buttons and a single lace glove Lucy had procured from the odds-andends basket. Lucy also had a photograph on her phone of one very happy little girl wearing her new party dress.

I shuddered as Lucy skipped up the stairs with her cache.

Where on earth was she going to put it? We’d agreed at the start of her stay that Lucy would be responsible for her own room.

I never went in unless invited, partly because she was an adult and entitled to her own space, and partly because it was — well, exactly what it was. There were pieces of fabric and paper patterns strewn all over the floor.

I’m not sure if the bed was ever made. It was hard to tell with all the stuff piled on top of it. The surfaces were littered with more fabric, scissors, tape measures and coffee mugs.

We were three weeks into Lucy’s stay when she bounced into the living-room one evening, clutching her phone.

“I’ve just been talking to Mum,” she said. “She told me it’s your wedding anniversary tomorrow.”

“That’s right,” I said. “Fancy her remembering that.”

“What are you doing to celebrate?” Lucy asked.

“Nothing much.” I shrugged.

“Bill and I don’t do much in the way of celebrating. Not after 27 years. We exchange cards, of course, but that’s about it.”

“And they say romance is dead,” Lucy muttered.

As usual, I met Bill in town the following afternoon. It was Thursday and we always did the weekly shop at the supermarket on Thursday. As a concession to our anniversary, I bought three cream doughnuts to have after supper.

As soon as we entered the house on our arrival back home, I knew something was going on. A warm, spicy aroma snaked through from the kitchen and when we opened the livingroom door, it was like walking into fairy-land. There were candles everywhere and the mantelpiece was strung with dainty little lights. The table in the dining-room was set with my best china and the wine glasses sparkled with the light

that flickered from even more candles. The table itself was sprinkled with rose petals and soft music played in the background.

“Happy anniversary,” Lucy said, coming in with a tray bearing two bowls of steaming soup. “I got this recipe off the Internet and it’s supposed to be foolproof. But I’m warning you now, I’m not a contender for MasterChef, so I hope it’s OK. Don’t worry about washing up.

I’ll see to it later. I’ve left some DVDs out for you to watch after your meal.”

And with that, she disappeared back into the kitchen.

The soup was salty, the meat a tad on the tough side, and the ice-cream had been out of the freezer too long, but both Bill and I agreed it was one of the nicest meals we’d ever had.

And then there were only two weeks left of Lucy’s placement. We hardly saw her.

As soon as she came home from the store, she shut herself in her room to work on her project.

I worried she wasn’t eating properly, although she assured me she had lunch in the staff canteen, so I left sandwiches and hot drinks outside her door.

Sometimes they were still there the next day and sometimes they weren’t.

One day, I noticed Lucy seemed a little nervous, as if she was working herself up to saying something. Was she going to say her assignment had been extended and ask if she could stay a bit longer? My hopes soared at the thought of it.

“Eileen, can I ask you a favour?” she eventually asked.

“Of course you can,” I said, realising I was answering the much anticipated question before she’d even asked it.

“You know I couldn’t bring my dressmaker’s dummy with me?”

“Yeees?” This wasn’t going the way I wanted it to.

“Well, I’m at the stage when I need to do the fittings for the outfit I’m making for my exam.

Would you mind putting it on so I can do the adjustments and add the trimmings?”

“Of course,” I said. “I’d be happy to help.”

But it was with some trepidation that I followed her upstairs. I’d seen some of her designs. I’d noticed swatches of orange and purple and lime

green material on the floor.

I’d watched her going out to a club on Saturday evening, wearing one of her designs which Bill had likened at the time to a curtain pelmet.

What on earth was she going to put me in?

“The remit was for formal or evening wear,” Lucy said, tugging at a sheet that was covering whatever it was hanging on the wardrobe door.

“Most of the class chose to design outfits for younger people — weddings, schoolproms, that sort of thing. But

I was wrong. When Lucy summoned Bill upstairs, he was rendered speechless.

Before Lucy came to stay, Bill and I often sat in silence — him with his paper and me with my book or crossword. But this was a different type of silence altogether. It spoke volumes.

“I have to take it with me when I return to college,” Lucy said.

“I have to present it as part of my exam portfolio. But once it’s been assessed and marked, I’d like you to have it, Eileen. As a thank-you for putting up with me and making me feel so much at home.”

Bill left the room to make some tea, but not before I saw his eyes fill up with tears.

The last week went by far too fast. We invited Lucy’s friends over for a farewell meal and Carol came the day before she was due to go home and stayed overnight.

And then all of a sudden it was only me and Bill, standing on the pavement, waving the car away, even though it was already out of sight.

We couldn’t content ourselves to do anything that afternoon.

Bill said he didn’t feel like going to the football and there was nothing worth watching on the television. I picked up my book, re-read the same paragraph five times and put it down again.

Eventually, I sighed and said I was going upstairs to clean out Lucy’s room. I asked Bill to carry the vacuum-cleaner up for me.

I gasped when I entered the room. Lucy had stripped the bed and the covers were sitting neatly on top of the mattress.

All the surfaces were bare except for a few snippets of fabric and some bits of lace and ribbon scattered here and there. But it was the floor that caught my attention. The carpet was covered in tiny sequins and sparkles, glittering in the sunshine streaming through the window.

I felt Bill’s hand on my shoulder. “Everyone leaves something of themselves behind when they go,” he whispered.

“Sequins and sparkles.”

I nodded. “It describes her perfectly.”

“Do you want me to plug in the vacuum?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “Let’s leave it for a while. I like it the way it is.”

THE END © Elizabeth McKay, 2016

y I looked in the mirror.

The dress was stunning

I wanted to do something different. Something for the more —” She hesitated — “mature lady.”

“You mean an old fuddyduddy like me,” I said gruffly, but I couldn’t keep my face straight and burst out laughing.

I wasn’t laughing an hour later when I looked in the mirror.

The dress was stunning. The colour — sapphire blue — was perfect for my complexion. Why had I never worn that colour before? The neckline was scalloped and not too low, and the bodice, which was covered in tiny sequins, tapered into a flowing skirt.

“It’s gorgeous,” I said over and over again, while Lucy nipped here and tucked there, added a ribbon, took it away again, then added another one somewhere else.

“Just wait until Bill sees you in it,” she muttered through a mouthful of pins.

“Bill!” I laughed. “Bill wouldn’t notice if I was wearing a flour sack with a mixing bowl on my head.”

Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special 27

Jane notices two very odd things happening when she visits a Devon town for a funeral

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f anyone’s looking for inspiration for a sciencefiction novel, may I point you to the unlikely setting of Brixham?

I have just returned from two days in the delightful Devon fishing town, where my friend, writer Lynne Hackles, and I came up with two plots based on the experience. First, there was the mysterious Brixham sneeze Ñ we were struck by how many of the locals seemed to be afflicted Ñ that might be an escaped virus from a secret government laboratory. And then came the sightings of various doppelgangers and reincarnations. ÒI have just seen my mother!Ó Lynne announced dramatically, when she and husband Colin picked me up from Paignton station. ÒSame walk, clothes, hair Ñ everything!Ó Knowing the maternal demise had taken place some years before, I raised my brows.

Later that evening, we spotted our old pal Barry, alive and well, the last we heard, in Bishop’s Stortford but apparently also working as a waiter in a fish restaurant near our hotel. At breakfast, we both gawped as my aunt Ð now in a care home in

J

ust ane

ÒWe should get her a cactus, really,Ó said Lynne as we entered the shop. And there to one side was a whole shelf of them. We exchanged glances, both imagining her expression, and her voice: ÒDon’t you dare!Ó Trish could certainly be prickly.

room, her fearlessness in voicing her displeasure when something irked her, her passion for The Archers, her dodgy driving, appalling sense of direction and the time she gave me a good dressing-down for sharing a hilarious photograph of her

Photo: Bill Harris

We exchanged glances...

Surrey Ð apparently walked past the window. ÒShe used to wear stripy tops just like that!Ó I said. ÒAnd look at the hair,Ó added Lynne, who has met her. Then we saw a lookalike for women’s magazine short-story writer and novelist, Trish Maw. This really did startle us, for the sad reason that we were in Brixham in the first place was to attend our dear, feisty, much-missed friend’s funeral and we were at that moment on our way to the florist’s to buy her a rose.

28 Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special

Her caustic comments are legendary. She was also kind, funny, intrepid and entertaining company. Lynne and I have spent many a weekend away with her over the last decade, on jaunts and writing conferences various, and I had an extensive choice of anecdotes to draw on when I paid tribute to her at the service that afternoon. I recalled her storming down a hotel corridor at midnight, in her nightie, demanding an end to some latenight revelling from another

taken from behind...

Trish Maw was an avid reader, and a lovely writer herself. Four of her stories were published by Woman’s Weekly in the 1990s but her collection of copies went back to the 1950s Ñ when covers were pink and knitting dominant Ñ and she was always a big fan of this fiction magazine and knew many contributors.

Back at Paington station, Lynne said, ÒRemember when you were nearly late to give your talk because Trish had forgotten where the car was?Ó she asked. ÒRemember when we got stuck in the car because the central-locking was damaged when she drove into the ditch?Ó I countered.

We both glanced at the flash of silver hair that had just passed us, dressed in an outfit that seemed strangely familiar. ÒThey’re everywhere...Ó Lynne whispered.

I can see Trish’s expression as I write this, and her cultured tones insisting sternly that nobody, anywhere, looked like her. She’d act cross. And be delighted to be here.

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.

The Life Plan

By Paula Williams according to Rachel, because of all his careful planning — his marriage was over.

How had this happened? One minute, he was telling her how their plan for the next phase of their life (a plan with which she’d agreed enthusiastically only last week) was going well. He’d researched their holiday in the Seychelles and, with his upcoming rise, he’d been saying how they’d be able to increase their mortgage to include that extra room she’d always wanted.

Rachel was a talented amateur artist and the new room was to be her studio.

And that was what had triggered all this anger and resentment? He’d tried to help her realise her artistic ambitions and because of it he was “dull and boring”? Nice one, Rachel.

Max had had a chaotic childhood. His father died when Max was a baby and his mother lurched from one messy relationship to the next. Max and his sister never knew from one day to the next where they would be living — or with whom.

All he wanted from life now was predictability. And, of course, his marriage. But Rachel, it seemed, wanted neither. “I don’t understand,” he said again.

“Is — is there someone else?”

“Of course not,” she hissed.

Then came a horrible pause that had his heart leaping in his throat. “Well, not exactly.”

“How exactly? Is it someone at work?”

“No. No. It’s not that at all. It’s —” She looked around the room, as if trying to work out her best escape route. “It’s — a

All Max wanted from life was predictability.

And, of course, his marriage

M

ax stared at his wife, speechless with shock.

There he was, two weeks short of his 40th birthday, about to become unexpectedly single.

After four years of what he’d thought was a happy marriage.

His wife obviously didn’t share that thought. He felt like he’d been cut off at the knees. “But why?” was all he could say. “What did I do wrong?”

“You did nothing wrong.

It’s just that you’re so —” Rachel’s face was flushed, her eyes hot and angry, as she struggled to explain. “You’re just so boring and predictable. You never do anything spontaneous.

Never go anywhere without planning everything to the last tiny, insignificant detail. I can’t stand it any longer. You’re stifling me, Max.” “I don’t understand.” Panic wrenched his insides. “What is it you want?”

“I want — I want —” She gave a hopeless shrug. Shook her head.

“You want a divorce? Is that what you’re saying?”

A deep, scary silence filled the room. Broken only by the ticking of the kitchen clock (telling him he was already five minutes later leaving for work than he should be) and the sound of his own ragged breathing.

Rachel said nothing.

“You’re saying our marriage was a mistake?” he pressed on.

He knew he was inviting disaster, asking questions when he didn’t want to hear the answers. But he hated that deep, scary silence.

Still Rachel said nothing. But she nodded.

On the table in front of him, littered with the remnants of breakfast — their usual everyday breakfast, which he’d eaten with no idea of the disaster about to be heaped on him — his phone beeped. It was reminding him to complete his 10 minutes of exercise this morning, to pick up the dry cleaning this afternoon and that tomorrow was his sister’s birthday. His day neatly mapped out for him. Just as he’d thought his life was neatly mapped out. His and Rachel’s.

She’d said she hated the way he planned everything down to the last detail, but that

“No I didn’t. You said that. You put words in my mouth, like you always do. The way you finish my sentences drives me mad. And how you tell me to put the cap back on the toothpaste. And how you remind me to charge my phone every single night. You are so — so damned organised! It drives me bonkers! And, while we’re on the subject...”

But Max was no longer listening. From somewhere deep inside him, a bubble of pure joy began to rise. Yes, she was pretty mad with him and had obviously been storing all this up for some time. But she didn’t want a divorce. And. She. Was. Pregnant. Pregnant!

“Pregnant?” he managed to say when she eventually paused for breath. “But that’s amazing.

Fantastic. It’s —” “It’s a disaster.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I feel sick all the time, I’m so grumpy I could scream — and then you start telling me how you’ve planned our holiday and that we can now afford the room that was going to be my studio but is now going to have to be a nursery. That wasn’t in your life plan, was it?”

“It certainly was. Right up at the top.” He took her hand and looked deep into her eyes.

“The holiday. The studio. Do you mind missing out on them very much?”

“Of course I don’t,” she said with a sniff. “But I thought you did. I thought because it wasn’t in your plan —” “Plans can be changed,” he said. “And I can’t think of a better reason to do so, can you?”

She smiled and shook her head. “Now, don’t you go making schedules and timetables for this baby, will you?” she said. “Because babies don’t do schedules.”

“Of course not,” he said and meant it. But there was no harm

Deep inside him, a bubble of pure joy began to rise was the way he was. The spreadsheet he’d designed for their wedding had been a miracle of forward-planning.

She didn’t complain about it then when the whole thing, including the honeymoon, went like clockwork, a testament to his meticulous planning.

But now, it seemed, in spite of all his careful planning — no,

baby. I’m pregnant, Max.” Max was stunned. Robbed of speech and the ability to think. To comprehend.

“You want a divorce because you’re pregnant?”

“I don’t want a divorce, you moron!” Rachel’s yell sent the cat scrabbling for the safety of the stairs.

“But you just said —”

in setting up a new spreadsheet, listing all the things they’d need to buy for the baby. And their preferred names. And, of course, there was the route to the hospital. That would need to be planned well in advance.

Max’s life was, indeed, going perfectly to plan.

THE END © Paula Williams, 2016 Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special 29

What’s In a Name?

The way my friend told me about Liz and Dick’s affair sounded so romantic, and by the end of that day I’d decided to change my name yet again...

I

was eight years old when I decided to change my name.

“I hate the name Elizabeth,” I told my mum as I was helping her to make chocolate buns one Saturday afternoon.

“Don’t be silly, Lilibet,” she said sternly, spooning the last dollop of mixture into a paper case.

I pulled a face. My mum had started calling me Lilibet when she discovered it was Queen Elizabeth’s nickname.

“You ought to be proud of your name,” she went on as she carefully placed the tray of buns in the oven.

“You were named Elizabeth because you were born on a very special day — Coronation Day.” I tried to shut out my mother’s voice and concentrated on scraping delicious bits of chocolate from

b When I gave her a blank look, she rolled her eyes

30 Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special

the sides of the mixing bowl with my finger.

My friend Bridget and I had spent hours on her garden swing, going through variations of Elizabeth until we’d settled on a suitable name.

“I want to be called Lily from now on,” I announced when my mother had finished her speech.

She took off her pinny and hung it on a hook at the back of the kitchen door. “Lily’s a lovely name, Lilibet,” she said, ruffling my hair.

By the time I was 10, I’d grown tired of Lily. I was hoping to pass my 11-plus and go to grammar school, so I decided I needed a more grown-up name. Again I went through all the options — Betty, Ellen, Elisa, Lisa — but nothing really appealed to me.

“Have you heard about Liz and Dick?” Bridget whispered to me during a spelling test one day.

“Liz and Dick who?”

I looked around the classroom, expecting to see some new kids.

“Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton,” Bridget hissed impatiently. When

I gave her a blank look, she rolled her eyes. “They’re the stars of that new film, Cleopatra.” She lowered her voice even more. “The story of their affair’s been in all the newspapers.”

I frowned. “What’s an affair?”

Bridget filled me in on all the details at playtime. The way she told the story, it sounded so romantic. I rolled the word “Liz” around my tongue and by the end of the school day, I’d persuaded all my friends to try out my new name.

My Liz phase didn’t last very long. When I saw the film My Fair Lady in 1965, I was fascinated with Audrey Hepburn’s character, Eliza Doolittle.

“Eliza’s a fab name,” I said to Bridget as we ploughed our way through treacle sponge pudding in the grammar school refectory. “And Eliza’s like me,” I added dreamily.

“You’re not a flower girl,” Bridget pointed out, her mouth full of gooey pudding.

“No, but I’m poor. I mean, we live in a council house.

And my dad worked as a dustman for a few weeks, like Eliza’s dad.” I sighed deeply.

By Margaret Skipworth “Just think, if someone rich wanted to teach me how to speak proper...”

“Yeah.” Bridget nodded.

“Wouldn’t it be luvverlyyy?”

And we fell about in a fit of giggles.

My friends — and some of the teachers — had just got used to calling me Eliza when I decided to change my name again.

Bridget and I had become hooked on the novel Little Women and we saw ourselves as the characters Jo and Beth. While Bridget was outspoken and a tomboy, like Jo, I imagined I was Beth — a shy, gentle girl who liked music.

The liking music bit was a slight exaggeration, but I did enjoy playing the recorder.

My Beth persona lasted until after my A-levels. During my teenage years, I had more important things on my mind than my name: boys, make-up, clothes...

Most of my friends and family readily accepted me as Beth, although my mother still insisted on calling me Lilibet.

Then in 1972, when I was 19, I saw the film Cabaret while I was staying with my grandparents in Ireland.

I couldn’t wait to tell Bridget all about it when I got back to England, so we arranged to meet for a drink at the pub one Friday evening.

“You should have seen that Liza Minelli,” I said, after I’d told Bridget all about the film. “She was brilliant.”

I paused to take a drink of my lager and lime. But before I had the chance to say any more, a voice piped up: “That sounds like a great film.”

I glanced up and found myself looking into a pair of gorgeous turquoisegreen eyes.

While I was thinking I could happily drown in those eyes, the man dragged a stool from under the table and sat down. “I can’t wait to hear more,” he said, placing his glass of beer on the table.

“Make yourself at home,” Bridget remarked sarcastically.

“I intend to.” He flashed us a cheeky grin and my heart somersaulted.

We all got on really well and had a good laugh. Then, at closing time, he asked if he could walk me home.

“By the way, we haven’t even introduced ourselves,” he said, helping me into my coat. “My name’s Jack Smith.”

“This is Bridget.” I wafted a hand in Bridget’s direction.

“And I’m Liza.” The name was out of my mouth before I realised what I was saying.

Bridget started to correct me but I glared at her — and the name stuck.

Of course, I told Jack the truth about my name long before we moved in together three years later.

“But Elizabeth’s a fantastic name,” he said. “It’s a name fit for a queen — and whatever happens, you’ll always be my princess,” he added, giving me that cheeky grin again.

“Don’t be daft,” I replied, feeling myself blush. But I loved the way he drawled the

home, so he was on hand to look after Amy. It was while I was in Rome that I met Marco. He was a production manager at the manufacturing firm and, at first, all we talked about was the company’s new range of designer T-shirts. We discussed colours and textures, swapped ideas and laughed over pizza and pasta dinners when we ate and drank too much.

And inevitably — so it seemed at the time — we became more than colleagues and friends.

I would like to say that Jack and I had already grown apart, that I was lonely and vulnerable in Rome without him by my side. But the truth was that Marco was attentive and chivalrous and devastatingly handsome and when he called me Elisabetta it sent a shiver down my spine.

He was also available.

By the time I admitted my

b We never got round to getting married.

We were always too busy

name “Elizabeth”, like he was wrapping me in a soft, warm blanket.

We never got round to getting married. We were always too busy, or money was too short. Besides, as Jack always said, we didn’t need a piece of paper to keep us together.

But unfortunately, after nearly 20 years, we did split up. And it was around the time I changed my name again.

I’d worked as a fashion designer after leaving university until our only daughter, Amy, was born in 1982. When Amy was six, I was lucky enough to get a job with my former employers.

I was delighted but also apprehensive, as the work involved making frequent visits to our manufacturers in Rome.

Jack couldn’t have been more supportive, however, and as a bookkeeper he was able to do a lot of work from

affair to Jack, I’d already started using the name Elisabetta. It was much more fitting, I convinced myself, for the fashion industry than any of the English variations of Elizabeth.

But, of course, all that was a while ago. My relationship with Marco fizzled out eventually and I stopped using the name Elisabetta when I discovered my Italian lover had started dating one of the other designers while he was still seeing me.

After Elisabetta, I vowed I would never change my name again.

And yet, here I am, thinking about doing just that.

“I thought I’d find you out here.” Jack hands me a glass of lemonade and sits down on the bench next to me.

He gives me that cheeky grin and my heart flutters — the way it’s always done when he’s close to me.

We’re sitting in the garden at Amy’s house, where the whole family has gathered after the christening of our first grandson, William.

We’ve been seeing quite a lot of each other recently, me and Jack. I will never forget how badly I treated him but, whenever I mention my affair, he brushes it aside with the comment, “It’s the future that’s important.”

“So, how about it, Elizabeth?” he says now.

I smile. Only Jack can pronounce my name in such a way that makes me feel like I’m being seduced, but also cosseted and protected.

He’s waiting for an answer to his marriage proposal. He popped the question and presented me with a beautiful sapphire ring this morning.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says.

“If we get married, you could keep your maiden name.” He raises an eyebrow. “You’re probably fed up with changing your name.”

I take a sip of lemonade. “But why do you want to get married, Jack? You’ve always said a piece of paper doesn’t hold a couple together.”

“I know.” Jack nods slowly, deep in thought. He bites on his lip before adding, “It just feels like the right thing to do at our age. I think William might want to grow up with ‘respectable’ grandparents.” He chuckles.

“I guess I’m getting oldfashioned in my old age.”

He teases a hand through his salt and pepper hair, as if to press home the point, and I can’t help laughing along with him.

I close my eyes and run through all the names I’ve called myself. These days, friends and colleagues often shorten my name to Bea, Bet, Betty and even Elsie. And I think, ‘What’s in a name, anyway? Surely it’s what’s in your heart that’s important?’

Me and Jack — married?

Yes, that feels right, somehow.

I flick open my eyes and squeeze his hand. “I quite fancy changing my name one last time,” I say, giving him a loving smile.

THE END © Margaret Skipworth, 2016 Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special 31

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Carrie’s K

Something bad had happened. Hester Grant hadn’t simply gone aw Possibly dead. There was a Hester-shaped hole in the world and it w

H

ester Grant’s Renault Twingo was found in the car park of a pub. But Hester herself..?

Gone.

Only Gregory Pardoe knew where she was. He had, after all, killed her and buried the body. But he wasn’t about to admit to anything so awful, and had lied pretty creatively when questioned by the police. And after two months, he was feeling happy. The panic he had felt at the time had completely evaporated.

Now he stood in Pardoe Hall, smiling at his grandpa’s portrait.

“That’s how you do it, old man.”

“How you do what, darling?”

Pardoe’s wife Elizabeth had drifted in, back from the stables.

“Oh, nothing, dear.” She offered her cheek and he pecked it dutifully, noting the trill of the landline ringing in the study. “Just talking to myself.”

“Sign of madness, that is.”

Elizabeth smirked. “One of many signs, in your case,” she added as she drifted away — in search, no doubt, of gin.

Pardoe’s smile faded. Maybe he should have killed Elizabeth — the snide harpy — instead of Hester. But no, he had his reputation to think of, his standing in the community. And Elizabeth was the perfect wife — in public, anyway, at his side at functions and parties. In private, in the bedroom, not so much.

Now he needed a new playmate to satisfy his cravings. But Hester was going to take some replacing.

If only she hadn’t been so careless. And so strong-willed...

“The phone, Mr Pardoe.”

Pardoe flinched at the 34 Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special

sudden appearance of his man.

“What’s that, Soames?” It was as though he simply materialised out of thin air.

“The phone, sir. For you, sir.”

Soames held out the cordless handset. “Gentleman has identified himself as a private enquiry agent, sir, and is requesting a meeting.”

“Is he now? With regard to..?”

“With regard to Hester, sir.

Specifically —” Soames coughed discreetly — “ahem, her disappearance.”

“Give it to me.” Pardoe snatched the phone. “Hello?

Who is this?”

And Soames, somehow, had vanished instantly. vvv At the office from where the telephone call originated — but a couple of hours before the call was made — Hester Grant’s disappearance was being discussed.

“No handbag on the passenger seat. And no overnight case in the boot.” Carrie read through the notes she had gleaned, following a few enquiries with ex-colleagues at the cop shop; notably Eric, who’d been handed the case. “The barman remembers Hester. She had an orange juice.”

“Refreshment break,” Dan Platt, her business partner, said, “or rendez-vous?”

“Rendez-vous with whom, though? Lover? Friend?”

“Family member?” Dan shrugged. “Could have been anyone. Or, of course, no one.”

Carrie smiled. “Which doesn’t give us much to go on. Because at the moment all we have is that somewhere, somehow, between having an orange juice and

returning to her car, Hester Grant vanished.” Carrie pointed at the map unfolded on her desk, where she’d circled the pub, the last known sighting of Hester. “There’s a railway station down the road.

It’s possible she made a spur-ofthe-minute decision and went for a train instead.”

“What about CCTV?” “Eric did a preliminary check.

There’s no CCTV at the pub at all.

And it’s patchy and inconclusive at the station.” By an unhappy coincidence, the CCTV was in the middle of an upgrade that week and only one camera was working, pointing along the southbound platform. “So if Hester went northbound...” “... she got clean away.

Ticket records?”

“Nothing. A few tickets bought for cash. Any one of them could have been her. Assistant at the counter doesn’t remember her.

And no other witnesses have come forward.”

“Taxi, maybe?” Dan suggested.

y Maybe he should have killed Elizabeth — the snide harpy

Knee

By Steve Beresford

Illustration: Getty

way. She was truly missing. was down to Carrie to fill it...

“From the pub?” He traced his finger across the map. “And isn’t there a bus along here?”

“Eric checked the major companies, but nothing turned up.”

Carrie’s busted knee ached, a sure sign there was something fishy about this case, and she rubbed it absently. Since her accident, her knee had developed its own sixth sense — in the same way some people’s arthritis flared up before a storm. Dan poohpoohed the idea, being the down-toearth, pragmatic man he was, but Carrie had learned to trust her knee’s instincts. Something bad had happened. Hester Grant hadn’t simply gone away. She was truly missing. Possibly dead. There was a Hester-shaped hole in the world and it was down to Carrie to fill it.

Carrie Bowen was a Private Enquiry Agent, specialising in missing people. She did other work — gathering evidence for disgruntled spouses and divorce cases, insurance fraud, background checks — but she had a special talent for finding people. Sometimes long-lost heirs hunted by solicitors with estates to dispose of. Sometimes runaway kids.

And now she’d been hired to find Hester Grant.

Hester had gone missing two months ago, although technically she wasn’t missing to start with. The police had started looking for her a month or so after she was last seen by her friend and flatmate Annabel Madison. But with no real leads

to follow, other investigations had taken precedence over Hester’s absence.

“Trouble is,” Carrie said when Annabel Madison complained that morning of the police’s attitude, “Hester is an adult who told you she needed to leave town to think things over and sort herself out. She’d packed an overnight case, put it in her boot, hugged you goodbye, then drove away under her own steam.”

“But she’s not returned!”

Annabel was clearly worried sick.

The police would need to check every single taxi firm, bus company and railway station. Or maybe someone had picked her up from the pub. There were old friends, new friends, colleagues and remote family she might be staying with or lodging nearby.

She could even be moving on

from B&B to B&B, paying cash as she went, staying off the grid for some reason. People had done stranger things, Carrie knew, when they didn’t want to be found. Some checking had been done, but with limited resources the police were struggling and could only do so much. After all, Hester was a

woman who had deliberately gone away of her own accord. She was never going to be top priority.

No one knew why Hester had decided to leave or what it was she needed to sort out. Maybe if a body was found, to force a murder investigation... But there was absolutely no evidence any Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special 35

CarrieÕs Knee harm had come to her, apart from the fact that her car had been found in a pub car park, apparently abandoned.

“It’s been two months,” Annabel had said. “Hester should have come home by now. Or she would have at least been in contact.”

“I agree.” The ache in Carrie’s knee had confirmed it.

“It’s suspicious.”

“You should start with Pardoe.”

Annabel Madison obviously didn’t like the man and from what she’d read and heard, Carrie was guessing she wouldn’t, either. He had got himself in the papers a few times and had come across as thoroughly unpleasant. And nothing Hester had told Annabel about him — which Annabel had then passed on to Carrie — changed Carrie’s opinion.

So, after going through the case with Dan, she got him to telephone Pardoe and book a visit. He was as good a place to start as any.

She wanted to see his place, too. The Pardoe family had history in these parts. And Carrie decided to refresh her memory with regard to that history. vvv Carrie Bowen had been a policewoman once. A detective constable. A good one, too. Until one day, pursuing a suspect, she landed awkwardly after vaulting a wall. Her knee hadn’t recovered properly — not enough to continue frontline investigating, anyway — and rather than take the proffered desk job, she set up her own investigative company.

Dan took care of admin — which Carrie detested — and specialised in background research.

She drove to Pardoe Hall first thing in the morning and paused at the imposing iron gates to buzz the intercom. “Carrie Bowen. I have an appointment with Mr Pardoe.”

“Drive on up, ma’am.” The glum voice crackled through the tiny speaker. “I shall meet you outside.”

The gates swung open and she drove through.

The massive ancient house was set in sprawling grounds. Stable block, tennis court, even a lake. A

butler — tall chap in his 50s, black suit — escorted her to the snooker room, where Gregory Pardoe was bent over the table, sinking a red into a pocket.

“Miss Carrie Bowen, sir.”

“Thank you, Soames.”

Carrie nodded appreciatively.

“Nice place, Mr Pardoe. Must take some dusting.”

“I have staff for that sort of thing.”

“I’ve noticed.” She went to wink at the butler, but he had apparently vanished.

So, Gregory Pardoe. Hester Grant’s boss. He was in his 30s and handsome in green cords and a striped shirt. Carrie already knew some of the history of Pardoe Hall, not least with regard to Pardoe’s grandfather, who was semi-famous for murdering his wife in the 1950s. The guy got caught on his way to dispose of the body when his Bentley picked up a puncture and skidded into a ditch. His wife was found in the boot. Big scandal at the time. Another big scandal 50 years before that, too. Carrie liked her local history — especially the crimes. Her bookshelves were full of it. She knew that criminal tendencies often, though not always, ran through a family tree. Sometimes the DNA was simply crooked.

“That your grandfather out in the hall?” She’d spotted the portrait on the way through. The scar was the giveaway.

Pardoe smiled, lining up the

blue. “Ah, yes, the family hero.”

“Don’t you mean villain?”

“If you prefer. But my grandmother wasn’t a good woman, by all accounts.

Selling the family secrets to our rivals and carrying on with another man while her own son, my father, God rest his soul, was barely three years old.”

He potted the blue. “But I thought you were here to discuss Hester. Not my grandpa.”

“Yes. Sorry. I do like my true crime stories, though.”

“They’re not quite as... entertaining when so close to home.”

For all the scandal and the grandfather’s prison sentence, the Pardoes had managed to hang on to Pardoe Hall and keep the company going — property development, apparently — and keep the millions rolling in.

“Down to business, then.

Hester was your estate manager.”

“Damn fine one, too. She’ll be difficult to replace. And I am already looking to replace her, before you ask. This place doesn’t run itself and I can’t afford to wait around for her to turn up. In fact, I think it’s highly inconsiderate of her to simply walk away without any explanation.”

“When did you last see her?”

“Day or so before she left. She’d booked a week’s leave. I’ve been through all of this with the police.

What business is it of yours?”

“I’m conducting some private enquiries for a friend of Hester’s. Annabel Madison. You know her?”

“Nope.”

“And I’m just after some background, really. I wondered if Hester had mentioned anything to you.”

“About what?”

“Anything at all. Any problems?

Her personal life? Trouble here?”

“Don’t you think I would have told the police if she had?”

“Yes, I suppose. But I have to

y

36 Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special

Carrie liked her local history — especially the crimes

start somewhere.

And talking to the police can be daunting for some people.

I always hope my friendlier face will help the hidden memories resurface.”

He smiled thinly. “Not working today, I’m afraid.”

“Was Hester in a good mood when you last saw her? I’ve been told she was going away to sort herself out.”

“There was something troubling her. But I don’t know what it was. She was an employee, nothing more. We didn’t exchange our deepest secrets. Whatever was affecting her was none of my business and, frankly, I didn’t care.”

“Nice.”

“I employ a lot of people, Miss...

Bowen, is it?”

She nodded. “But you can call me Carrie.”

“Miss Bowen, if I took a personal interest in everyone I employed, I’d never get any work done at all.”

She gestured at the snooker table. “And clearly you’re very busy.” That was one plus point for not being an official detective any more — she could be rude to people she didn’t like. And Gregory Pardoe was an easy man to dislike. In person, he came across as even more unpleasant

than she’d expected. She wandered across the room to study another portrait that had caught her eye. “This isn’t your grandfather.”

She pointed. “No scar.

But there’s a definite family resemblance.”

“That’s my great-greatgrandfather. George Pardoe.

A brilliant man.”

Carrie peered at the picture. George Pardoe had been sitting by a window for his portrait. Through the window, Carrie could see a curiously-shaped hill with a monument on the top and nestled at the foot of the hill was a tiny cottage. Hardly more than a couple of paint smudges, but the light in the open doorway was obvious. Very artistic.

There was a date too.

1907. Carrie frowned, remembering something from her research. “Where’s this?”

As she studied the portrait, her dodgy knee began to throb, signifying something.

“It looks familiar.”

“No idea. Miss Bowen, please, it may not look like it, but I am very busy. I’ve only granted you these few minutes because Hester was a valuable employee.

And I’d very much like to have her back, if only so I can sack her personally for causing me all this disruption. But as far as I can see, you are bringing nothing new to the investigation into her disappearance. The police have already covered everything.”

“I have different methods of investigation, Mr Pardoe.

More intuitive.”

“Then I suggest you intuit elsewhere.”

“Just one final question, if I may.”

He sighed. “Yes?” “Hester’s boyfriend? You ever meet him?”

“Boyfriend? Hester didn’t have a...” Pardoe frowned. “She never mentioned a boyfriend, anyway.”

“Well, no, I suppose she wouldn’t. Being only an employee. I’ll be off then, Mr Pardoe. Is it OK if I have a chat with the rest of the staff?

They all knew Hester pretty

well, I’m guessing.”

“If you must. But please don’t disturb them any more than necessary.”

“I’ll try not to.”

“I’ll get Soames to show you round. Soames!”

“Yes, sir?”

Carrie flinched at the sudden appearance, as if by magic, of the butler. vvv “So how’s it going, then?” Dan asked when she called him before leaving Pardoe Hall.

“Not bad.” Carrie was pacing next to her car on the gravel drive as she told her partner what she’d learned. Which was a lot. Hence the pacing to ease the niggle in her busted but intuitive knee. It had been aching constantly as she talked to the staff. She’d asked about Hester, about Gregory Pardoe, and about the Pardoe family in general. And while the staff were respectful and loyal to start with, Carrie’s persuasive cajoling soon opened most people up to reveal an almost universal undercurrent of resentment. Turnover of staff was high. Which was hardly surprising. Only Soames the butler had been there for any considerable time and he had been the least communicative.

A couple of staff members had tried to contact Hester — by phone and text — but had no luck. Most, however, weren’t that friendly with her because they saw her as Pardoe’s crony, under his complete control, doing his bidding, whatever he asked.

Carrie also went into some detail with Dan about what she thought of Gregory Pardoe as a person. She’d seen him leave earlier, zooming off in his black Ferrari, so she was free to give full vent to her opinions without fear of being overheard. Not that she much cared if the repellent oaf did hear her.

Dan laughed. “So are you saying you don’t like him, then?”

“The man clearly knows more than he’s letting on. And when I mentioned Hester’s boyfriend...”

“What boyfriend? Annabel said she didn’t have one.”

“Exactly. But Gregory was straight in, surprised when

I brought it up. ‘What boyfriend?’ he wondered. Rattled him for some reason. Made me suspicious.”

“You’re always suspicious.

Of everyone.”

“I know. But it does mean there’s definitely more going on here than it first appears.”

She mentioned the portraits she’d seen. “I’ve asked around the staff, but no one knows anything about the cottage in the picture.

You can pin it down, though, can’t you?”

“You think the cottage is important?”

“My knee is telling me so.”

And Carrie’s knee was very rarely wrong.

into overdrive.

“My knee is telling me so.”

He had no idea what she meant about her knee, but her remark about the cottage was devastating. He leaned forward, straining, wishing he could hear the other side of her phone conversation as well.

“Once you’ve located it,” she said, “I’m going up there for a scout around. Old Pardoe buried her there. I’m convinced of it. It’s the arrogance of the man. The arrogance of the whole family, actually.” She paused, presumably listening. Then: “Make it official?”

She laughed. “Dan, you’re joking!

They wouldn’t believe me, for a start. Pardoe is too big in these parts to make this official straight off. I’d be closed down before I got started and hit with more restraining orders than you’ve had cold salads.”

She was right there. Pardoe’s lawyers were the best that bribes could buy. He could have the investigator tied in so many legal knots. Not that he wanted to let it get that far, obviously.

“No, I need to find some concrete evidence first,” she was saying now. “Then, when I have something solid, and only then, I’ll make it official.” There was the sound of a car door opening now. Should he run out and stop her? “I’ll see you back at the office later. I’m dropping by the council first. Hester spent a lot of time there in the planning department, discussing Pardoe’s ideas for developing the estate.

There could be something in that. Yeah, I will. OK. ’Bye!” The car door clunked shut and the engine started.

Pardoe cursed and hurried out, unable to believe what he had just heard. But he was too late. She was driving away, her tyres spitting gravel. He should have stopped her. Dealt with her. But the big problem was, of course, how to deal with her. He’d planned meticulously before dealing with Hester — arranging to meet her at the pub, knowing exactly what to say to get her to accompany him; all the tiny details worked out to protect himself — having had time to prepare. And Pardoe

y The big problem was, of course, how to deal with her

vvv Gregory Pardoe hung back in the doorway. He’d been charging around trying to find that Bowen woman, determined to tell her to clear off. He’d had to go out on business shortly after meeting her, but he’d returned a few minutes ago, parking his Ferrari in the garage at the back. He thought she’d gone, but a glance out of his office window — on the other side of the house to the garages — revealed her car was still parked outside. So he’d gone looking for her, but when he realised she was on the phone, he held back to eavesdrop. “... no one knows anything about the cottage in the picture.

You can pin it down, though, can’t you?”

Pardoe’s heart went

Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special 37

Carrie’s Knee did like to prepare thoroughly.

It’s what made him such a good businessman. Reacting too quickly, it was easy to make mistakes.

So, first things first, he decided.

He had to move Hester’s body.

And fast.

“Soames!”

“Sir?” Pardoe almost had a heart attack. “Where the heck did you..?

Oh, never mind.”

“Sir?” “I have to go out, Soames. To the office. Something’s come up.

But I’m not to be contacted under any circumstances.”

“Of course, sir.”

But Pardoe wasn’t going to the office. He was going to Broome Rise. vvv “Broome Rise?”

Carrie had pulled over to take the call from Dan. “It’s virtually out in the wilderness,” Dan told her. “But I think I’ve found the right cottage. It’s the only one nearby, anyway. And from what I can glean from the Land Registry records —” Dan really was good on the computer — “the property used to belong to the Bidmark family.”

“Bidmark? Never heard of them.”

“The Bidmarks married into the Pardoes over a century ago. I’m sending a map and directions to your phone as we speak.”

“Great stuff. Thanks. I’ll go over that way now then.”

“Are you sure it’s a good idea?

I mean, with...”

“Dan, I’m going.”

“It’ll take you a couple of hours.”

He clearly thought she was wasting her time.

“That’s fine. It’s lucky I’m not frightened of the dark.”

“Well, take care, anyway. And keep me updated.”

“I will.”

“Oh, and how did it go at the council?”

“Pretty much a blow-out.”

They knew Hester, but couldn’t shed any light on her disappearance. “Someone did mention she was sick last time she was there and had to run off suddenly to the loo, but that

was the best I got.”

“Useful.” His tone said the opposite.

“Yes, very.” Although Carrie did think it was possibly relevant. “See you later, then.”

She studied the map and the directions Dan had sent to her, then stowed her phone and set out on her mission to unearth the truth about the Pardoes.

An hour and a half later, the curiously-shaped hill came into view against the darkening sky as she emerged from a slow treelined bend.

the cottage itself appeared ahead.

It was like something out of a fairytale, almost as though it might be constructed of gingerbread, with icing for a roof. Probably charming by daylight, but spooky at the current moment.

Carrie parked and got out to approach the cottage, taking her giant torch, her knee protesting a lot now, as though warning her to be on her guard. Which was ridiculous, because why else would anybody be..?

“Ah.” The wide beam of her torch flicked across a second vehicle.

A 4x4 jeep sort of thing. The exact make and model eluded her. Out of her price range, she guessed, judging by the elegant bodywork. She hoped her inadvertent utterance hadn’t attracted attention, although she then immediately realised that the noise of her car would have given her away long before her “Ah”. But there was no sign of anyone around. The cottage itself was in darkness.

She carefully continued to the door and gave it a gentle push.

Locked. She moved to the side and peered through the window.

Couldn’t see a thing. She shone her torch in, but the room beyond — a sitting room, maybe, to judge by the fireplace — was empty of any furniture.

She should, she knew, quickly retreat to her car, get in, turn round and drive away. She could return in the morning, possibly with reinforcements to investigate the cottage and its surroundings.

But Carrie had never been one to back down. She was here and she was investigating. If she retreated now she might never uncover the truth about...

“You!” The voice made her jump.

A second beam of light lit her up abruptly and she twisted sharply, her own beam falling on a figure standing by the jeep. “Gregory Pardoe,” she said. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Pardoe couldn’t quite believe it. The Bowen woman was little more than half an hour behind him.

“How did you find me so

y

38 Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special

Carrie parked and got out to approach the cottage

Broome Rise.

Yes, she’d passed by this location before. Only once before, when she was very young with her parents, but the place was distinctive enough that it had lodged in her memory.

Back at Pardoe’s house, though, the tickle of recognition had been there, without the full recall of place and time.

Her knee began to throb.

Always a good sign. She pulled over briefly to check the last stage of the journey. Then, within 15 minutes, as full dark descended, she saw the turn-off for the Bidmark cottage and swung off the main road. Last time she’d been here, with her dad driving, they must have gone straight past this opening between the hedges. Her headlights showed that vehicles had used the rough muddy track recently. Which was interesting. She massaged her knee, steering one-handed until

quickly?” He opened his car door and reached inside. But what he reached for didn’t want to come out.

She shrugged, making her torch beam dance. “Just lucky, I guess.”

“Or unlucky —” he ducked inside and fiddled with the awkwardly jammed pistol until he could yank it from the glove-box — “depending on which way you look at it.” He pointed the pistol directly at Carrie’s chest.

“Hey, careful, Gregory,” she said.

“Guns are dangerous.”

“I intend to be very careful with it.” He motioned with the muzzle. “Round the back. Come on. This way.”

He lit the way from a fair remove so she couldn’t try to take him by surprise, and ushered her into the middle of the clearing well behind the cottage. Once he reached the nearest of the lamps, he crouched quickly to turn it on and indicated the other two lamps with his torch.

“You switch those on.” He’d been using the lamps to illuminate his work — digging up Hester Grant’s body so he could move it somewhere different, far away from here. Up to now, however, he’d only broken the soil with his shovel. Then he’d heard the approaching car and hurriedly switched off all the lamps to wait in the darkness.

Carrie did as she was instructed with the lamps and the area flooded with light.

“Good girl.”

“I’m hardly a girl, Gregory. Nor was Hester Grant.” Carrie frowned and pointed at the shovel sticking out of the ground. “You killed Hester, didn’t you, and buried her here, where you knew no one would ever come looking?”

“She was going to ruin everything, the stupid woman.

Getting herself pregnant, threatening to tell the world.

Threatening to tell my wife.”

Things were bad enough between him and Elizabeth as it was, but if Elizabeth decided to go rogue because of his infidelity, he could lose everything — his freedom included. She knew too many of his company’s dirty secrets. She could bring him

down within hours if she ever tired of him and the life he provided for her. So Hester Grant had to go before she spoiled it all. Not to mention the shame of it, as well — the shame of having a fling with his estate manager.

He’d have been a laughing stock. He waved the gun. “Start digging, please.”

“Can’t,” Carrie said. “Duff knee.” She flexed it and winced, to prove her point. He didn’t look convinced. She’d guessed Hester Grant had been pregnant. Sickness? Getting away to sort herself out?

Had to be.

“Just get on with it. Or shall I shoot you in the knee? Both knees, even? That’ll keep you occupied while I dig instead.”

Carrie picked up the shovel.

She wasn’t sure she could quite believe this. Gregory Pardoe was unbearably smug, supercilious and odious, but she’d had no direct evidence to implicate him in the disappearance of Hester Grant. Until now. And it wasn’t because of Hester that she had come to Broome Rise. But here he was. And he’d just admitted to killing Hester.

No, Carrie had only come to the cottage nestled beneath Broome Rise because she was following up the story of Pardoe’s great-great-grandfather.

It had been the date on the portrait that had set her clever knee aching. 1907. The year

after old George Pardoe’s mistress had gone missing. That was the other story about the Pardoe family.

There had been a big scandal in 1906. A young pregnant woman had gone missing, her body never found, and George Pardoe had been implicated in her disappearance. It was said the woman had been carrying his child. But there was no way to prove it, not in those days. And with no body and no evidence, the episode passed into legend.

Carrie had read all the stories in her true-crime books.

And it was pure arrogance that made George have his portrait painted a year later, 1907, with the burial location of his pregnant mistress seen through the window at his shoulder. He was snubbing his nose at the police and the town and all those people who talked about him behind his back. He wanted to show them all how clever he was, how superior.

Because that’s how the Pardoes were.

Carrie had seen George’s portrait and instantly understood what she was looking at. And Gregory’s attitude proved that the Pardoe arrogance was inherited. Because when she added in George’s grandson — Gregory’s grandfather, the man who crashed his car on his way to dispose of his wife’s body — she spied a pattern.

And she’d been reading about the car crash only the previous evening in one of her true-crime books, swotting up on the Pardoe family history to prepare herself for meeting the newest generation. The crash had happened on the main road north. A road Carrie remembered from a childhood holiday. But it wasn’t until she saw the tiny inset of Broome Rise on the painting that her knee began to ache.

And so Carrie had come looking for evidence of a 100year-old burial, never expecting to find evidence of a much more recent one.

“You won’t get away with this,” she said to Gregory Pardoe.

“You don’t think so?” He

y She’d been reading about the car crash only the previous evening

sneered. “My great-greatgrandfather George did. And my

grandfather almost did, except for that unfortunate puncture.

And I will too. We Pardoes are above the law.”

“Well, that’s an opinion —” Carrie returned the smile — “but not one I’d agree with.”

Because she’d heard the sirens.

Faint, they were, but getting louder. She withdrew her phone from her pocket, the phone with which she had surreptitiously managed to dial Dan while Pardoe had been rummaging in his glove-box. She flicked it to speaker. “You heard everything, Dan?” “Got the confession,” came his voice into the clearing. “Muffled, but clear enough. Police are on their way.”

Gregory Pardoe stared.

“Why, you..!”

Carrie seized her chance. She threw the shovel. He dodged to avoid it, temporarily losing his aim. And that was all she needed to get to him.

Her police training took over then, regardless of her aching busted knee. vvv It wasn’t quite the news that Annabel Madison had been hoping for, but at least now her friend Hester Grant had been found and could be laid peacefully to rest, with her murderer safely in prison.

Quite why Hester had an affair with Pardoe they would never really know. Maybe she couldn’t say no to his advances for fear of losing her job. Maybe she’d seen something in the man — some spark of humanity — that no one else could see. Or maybe she’d

simply been lonely and momentarily vulnerable.

But Dan was less concerned with the whys of Hester’s case than he was with Carrie’s safety.

“You could have been killed,” he said.

“Yeah, but I wasn’t.” Carrie grinned. Gregory Pardoe had been no match for an ex-copper fighting for her life. She’d had him immobilised on the ground when the first squad car drew up at the cottage. “Not bad, eh?

Solved two murders together, 100 years apart.” The police had unearthed a second body — only a skeleton now — George Pardoe’s mistress from 1906.

“And all because of a date on a portrait.”

And her theory about crooked DNA was proven, too.

Great-great-grandfather, grandfather, and now Gregory himself. The arrogance of evil was in the blood, passed down through the generations.

“You were lucky.”

“Luck?” She rubbed her leg.

“Luck had nothing to do with it.”

“Oh, no, don’t say it was your...”

“The knee, Dan.” She laughed.

“Always trust the knee.”

THE END © Steve Beresford, 2016 Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special 39

Finding The Right Pattern Mrs Frobisher was there in the residents’ lounge, knitting. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I’d passed off her work as my own...

T

emptation stared me in the face that fateful day and I fell.

Simple as that, and now look at the mess I’m in.

It was at a charity fund-raising day and I was there with my best mate, Daisy. Not usually the kind of thing we’d go to, but our mums were both helping, and we’d been dragooned into carting stuff down there. On the way out, I noticed this handicraft stall and giving it a glance in passing, my eye caught what I thought could be the answer to my current dilemma. There, among the tea-cosies and knitted draught excluders, lay a beautifully hand-knitted new-

Sara was a lovely American girl who’d had a flat near us baby outfit in blue and white.

There was a little cap, a pair of mittens and a pair of bootees, all laid out on a shawl.

“Will you look at that,” I said to Daisy. “Talk about the answer to a prayer.”

“What would you want those for? There isn’t something you’re not telling me, is there?”

40 Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special

“Don’t be daft,” I said. “I was thinking of Sara.”

Sara was a lovely American girl who’d had a flat near us when she was at university over here.

She’d hung out with us and, to my great pleasure, she kept up with me when she went back, giving me news of jobs, boyfriends, a serious boyfriend, the wedding and the latest news, a baby on the way.

Naturally I was delighted and emailed straight back, telling her I’d have to get my knitting needles out. When she was over here, I’d actually taught Sara the rudiments of knitting as she wanted to learn. I hadn’t mentioned at the time that the rudiments are all I know. She’d seen me knitting often and assumed I was experienced. All I do is knit squares for someone else to crochet together into blankets for refugees. My mum got me into it and I didn’t mind as it stopped me nibbling in the evening. So that remark about “getting knitting” was just off the top of my head. Unfortunately, she emailed back all excited about Junior having something real hand-made in England to wear for his début.

So when I saw this lovely little outfit, I didn’t hesitate.

“Will you tell her you bought them?” asked Daisy.

“Oh, I don’t think so, do you?

I mean, why spoil her pleasure?

What would be the point? And it’s not as if she’ll ever know.”

So I sent it off. I have to say I did have a slight pang of guilt when I got Sara’s thank-you letter.

Dear Jaz, You are incredible! I am in awe of your craftsmanship! They are so soft and perfect. Thank you! I’ve already told Carl that we are bringing Junior home from the hospital in these. I really appreciate the time and love you put into them. I’m excited to show them to Mom when she comes. She can’t knit at all. No one makes things by hand over here any more, so it makes them so much more special.

Lots and lots of love and thanks, Sara.

Like I say, a slight pang of guilt — especially about the slight on her poor mum. But it soon wore off and time went by and I forgot all about it, what with clubbing and clothes shopping and dieting and dating and all.

Eventually, we got photographs of Junior in my outfit and I was quietly proud until Daisy reminded me that I hadn’t actually knitted it.

By Elizabeth Moulder Time went by and I thought no more about it until today, when I got a letter from Sara.

As I read it, I felt I could hear the rustle of chickens as they came home to roost around my head.

Dear Jaz, In haste to let you know our latest news. We meant to wait a while but it didn’t work out like that. We are expecting a little girl and it would mean so much to me if you could knit a replica of that lovely outfit you made for Junior, only this time in pink and white.

Do you think you could? We would be so grateful.

Love, Sara.

So there it is. Now what am I going to do? Daisy wasn’t sympathetic. When she’d finished laughing, she stood firmly on the moral high ground and didn’t come up with anything useful.

I’ve been racking my brain.

It’s a long shot, but all I could think of is to try to track down the demon knitter.

I remembered the church hall where it had been held and when I saw a jumble sale advertised there, I bowled in on the off chance. Sure enough, one of the organisers knew the lady in question.

“That’s Mrs Frobisher.

She always knits for the handicraft stall. She’s a lovely knitter. Lives in Anglia House, just down the road.”

I knew where that was and I rushed down there full of hope. It was a retirement complex and when I walked into the residents’ lounge, there she was and actually knitting. It seemed like an omen.

I went over, introduced myself and explained my problem. Well, I didn’t actually tell her that I’d passed her work off as mine.

I glossed over that bit. I just said they’d like another one just the same, only pink.

“Why don’t you knit it yourself?” she asked gently, but gazing at me very directly with her clear, bright eyes. They seemed to see through me and I shifted uncomfortably. “Can you knit at all?” she went on.

I explained about the squares.

“If you can knit squares, you can certainly knit a honeycombpatterned shawl. Look, I’ve got

the pattern here. This tells you how many balls of baby wool you need. Get the wool and come round tomorrow evening and I’ll get you started. I’ve got plenty of needles.”

I didn’t see how I could refuse so I stumped off, feeling a bit disgruntled. I was supposed to be meeting up with Daisy and the usual gang for our Saturday-night clubbing. They’d have a laugh knowing I was walled up, knitting with a lot of old ladies.

Still, couldn’t be helped. I’d got nobody to blame for the situation but myself. I don’t know about you, but I never find this helps.

I turned up, complete with wool, at six o’clock. That’s when she said to come. They have their tea at five. I hadn’t had mine. It would have to be a bag of chips on the way back.

There were about a dozen of them sitting in the lounge.

I’d got about three inches on my needles and was really in the rhythm of this honeycomb pattern. Piece of cake. Mrs Frobisher asked me if I’d like to leave my work there or take it home. I couldn’t see me getting on with it at home with all our lot around, so I said I’d come round the next night and get on with it there.

It was funny to wake up Sunday morning without a hangover and feeling wide-awake and energetic.

I asked Daisy how their night out had gone. Apparently, they’d got slung out of the club because Sally-Ann had a bit too much to drink and got into a row with another girl, and I thought of my evening with those ladies...

I’m onto the bootees now.

They’re talking about a coach trip to Weston-super-Mare on Sunday. They needn’t think I’m going, though apparently there

Sally-Ann had too much to drink and got into a row Apparently, they have their own flats but a lot of them like to gather in the lounge.

I can see why. They seem a livelier lot than you might have thought.

Mrs Frobisher got me straight down to business. “You know how to cast on, so get started and it says here how many stitches. You’ll soon learn how to follow a pattern. Once you learn that, you can knit anything.”

She needn’t think I was planning on making a habit of it. However, after a bit I started to feel quite relaxed among them all. Someone always seemed to be passing round a tin of toffees and they never stopped talking. One’d start on...

“Do you remember... whatever.”

It might be rationing, The Monkees, Diana’s wedding, knitted swimsuits... You name it, they had a story about it and how they laughed. Surprisingly, me too. Quicker than I expected, the cocoa trolley came round and I was included in the bedtime biscuit selection.

are spare seats.

So anyway, Daisy came. She was a bit broke and couldn’t afford to go clubbing again.

Oddly enough, I was a bit flush with mostly going round to Anglia House every evening.

Even though I chipped in to top up the toffee tin and biscuit barrel, I really hadn’t spent much all week. So I said I’d treat her to the Weston-super-Mare outing. She was very scornful about it but, as I said, we needn’t stay with them once we got there. We could go on the pier and find a pub, meet up with some lads, if we felt like it...

So she agreed.

Well, they sang all the way down there and we found ourselves joining in. It’s nice to have a good sing-song and Daisy really has got a voice. They talked her into giving her karaoke speciality — I Will Survive.

You should have seen her — strutting her stuff up and down the coach. They loved her.

We meant to split once we got there, but they were heading

straight for a big Bingo game on the front and somehow we got caught up in it. Wouldn’t you just know it? Daisy won big time and insisted on treating everyone to a fishand-chip dinner on the front!

Boy, did they taste good. Well, they always do at the seaside, don’t they?

We did go our own way after that as they were going to settle down in deck-chairs for a snooze. We thought of finding a pub but we were full of fish and chips and didn’t feel like it, so we just strolled along the sands and were a bit quiet. And then we talked.

Were we getting a bit old for clubbing every night? Was it really all that much fun?

Somehow, the lively company of these old girls was so satisfying. Their contentment had rubbed off on us.

“Why are we messing about working at the sandwich bar, Jaz?” said Daisy. “We both got good qualifications at catering college. The sandwich bar was supposed to be a stop-gap while we looked around and had a good time for a bit. And it’s been what, two years now?”

“You’re right, Daisy,” I said.

“I think we should dust off our dreams and stop wasting our time. There’s got to be something better for us to do out there.”

“Only we’ll still have a laugh, won’t we?” “’Course we will. Did I tell you that story Mrs Frobisher told us about going into the sea at Weston when she was a kid, in a swimsuit her mum had knitted, and when she came out...”

“Oh, you and your Mrs Frobisher,” said Daisy. “Still, I think maybe she’s taught you to follow more than one kind of pattern at that. She’s not daft.”

“No, she isn’t. She said she’s going to teach me about casting off on Monday evening. That’s what we’re going to do, Daisy, in a way. We’re going to cast off from being kids and start our grown-up life. It’ll be an adventure. They still have a good time being grown-up at Anglia House and that’s the way we’re going to grow up too.”

THE END © Elizabeth Moulder, 2016 Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special 41

The

Robin family

Children’s fiction

More Tales From The Woodlands In At The Deep End Rosemary Robin was awakened by a most peculiar noise. ‘Whatever can it be?’ she thought sleepily. But then, quite suddenly, she realised. It was the sound of the sea, and today was the first day of the two Robin families’ holiday — staying with the Rock-Pipits in the Old Boathouse at Sandhopper Bay! Rosemary was out of her bunk-bed in a flash to look through the port-hole window for her first glimpse of the sea, for it had been too dark to see it when they arrived the evening before. It was such a beautiful morning that the little Robin decided to go for a swim in her favourite rock-pool before breakfast. Her baby cousin, Rowena, who was in the bunk-bed below, woke up, too, and in no time at all they were dressed in their swimsuits.

Illustration: Martina Farrow/New Division

Sea Flowers

42 Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special

The two Robin families were having a lovely holiday at Sandhopper Bay. They’d been out with Captain RockPipit in his little boat, Alpha, lots of times, but their most enjoyable outing was a visit to Dolphin Point.

“It’s really pretty there,” Mrs Rock-Pipit had told them, “because it’s where all those flowers who like living by the sea grow.”

“And, if we’re very lucky,” added the Captain, “the Dolphins may come as well!”

When they arrived, the two Robin families could hardly believe their eyes, for there were so many flowers to be seen, some growing on the pebbly beach, others among the sand-dunes and sea-grass.

“What a good thing you’ve got your sketch book, Rosemary!” Roley told his sister.

While Rosemary settled down to draw pink thrift, yellow poppies and spiky sea holly, Roley, Richard and Baby Rowena scampered off to build a sandcastle.

“It’s going to be ever so big, and Richard says I can be Queen of the Castle!” announced Rowena importantly.

Mrs Rock-Pipit smiled as she and the other grown-ups sat enjoying the sunshine. But then she gave a cry of delight.

“Look! Here they come!” And sure enough, leaping gracefully

“Goodness, you’re bright and early!” exclaimed Mrs Rock-Pipit as they pattered into the kitchen. “Priscilla is just off for her morning dip. Why don’t you go with her?”

When they arrived at her favourite rockpool, Rosemary immediately scrambled up on to the highest of the rocks and dived, with a splash, into the clear water.

“Well done — that really was going in at the deep end!” Priscilla called admiringly, as the little Robin swam briskly up and down, and then, before diving in herself, Priscilla went to watch Rowena, who was paddling happily in a tiny rock-pool all of her own.

The two little Robins and Priscilla were enjoying their morning dip so much that Captain Rock-Pipit had to come and tell them that breakfast was ready, and if they didn’t hurry back to The Old Boat House, there would be none left for them!

The Sandhopper Bay Races “Right! Are we all ready for the off?” asked Captain Rock-Pipit briskly, as soon as breakfast was over in the big kitchen of The Old Boat House.

“Of course we are,” Priscilla told him. “And the picnic is ready, too!” she added.

It was the day of the Sandhopper Bay Races and, when the Rock-Pipits and the two Robin families arrived at the gaily decorated harbour, they found there was lots to see and do even before the races began. They could play Catch The Whale By The Tail and Find The Mermaid’s Mirror. And they could guess the name of a pretty little ship in a bottle or enjoy a trip around the bay in Captain Cormorant’s speedboat. And, of course, there were all Sandhopper Bay’s tempting shops to visit. But what everyone had been waiting for was when Harbour Master Puffin blew his boatswain’s whistle to announce the start of the first race!

“Come on, Alpha!” shouted through the waves as they swam towards the shore, were five sleek, silvery Dolphins.

“We’ve heard you brought your Woodland guests to admire the flowers,” they called to the Rock-Pipits, “so we’ve got a souvenir of Dolphin Point

the two Robin families, as Captain Rock-Pipit’s red-sailed boat slipped into the lead.

And how they cheered when she crossed the line first — with Baby Rowena hopping up and down so excitedly that everyone around her couldn’t help laughing!

There were lots more races, including a fun-run over the sand by several lively shrimps and a swimming race which Rosemary entered just for fun, as she knew she couldn’t possibly win against such impressive swimmers as Peter Puffin, the Harbour Master’s grandson. But the very last race of the day was the Visitors’ Rowing-Boat Race and Roley, Rosemary and Richard had been practising for this in Minnow, Priscilla’s rowingboat. They rowed as hard as they could and they won!

“Very well done!” said Lady Serena Seal, as she presented the prizes. “We will make you honorary Sandhopper Bay Sailor-Robins!”

“What a lovely way to end the holiday,” said Mrs Rebecca that evening, “and what a lot we have got to tell our friends when we get back home.” for them!” And with that, the smallest Dolphin tossed a little seaweed basket on to the beach. “There’s a mauve seaanemone in it, but we,” she added in her pretty, laughing voice, “prefer to call them Flowers Of The Sea!”

Brain Fog

By Maggie Primavesi

She could be a bit forgetful these days. Her head felt as if it was clogged up with facts

“

S

o what did you do yesterday, Mum?” Molly frowned, holding the phone a short distance away. “Now let me think. Do you want a short answer or would you like me to write an essay? Is this a test? Are you scoring me out of 10?”

“Stop joking, Mum,” Kirsty replied. Molly always seemed to derail her good intentions by treating them like a joke.

“You know I’m only concerned about you. I phoned yesterday but you were out.”

“Concerned?” Molly snorted.

“Or were you checking up on me? Making sure my brain’s still working? Well, since you ask, I have been a bit fuzzy recently.”

“Really?” said Kirsty, pouncing on her mother’s words like a leopard in full chase. “A change in diet might help. I’ll email you some suggestions over. Oh, and there’s a website you can look at.”

‘When did things come to this?’ thought Molly. Everything long distance or emailed. Life used to be simpler once. A quick hug would have sorted her out then.

None of this searching on the Internet for something that may or may not help. She couldn’t remember when her daughter had last given her a hug, or even a quick pat on the arm. She was always too busy.

Kirsty, a social worker with responsibility for older people, had recently been on a day course for something known as brain fog, a condition that was thought to afflict the elderly.

Molly felt a bit as though she’d become Kirsty’s checklist for brain fog. True, she had got a bit forgetful lately, but who over 60 didn’t? Sometimes her head felt as if it was clogged up with facts.

She blamed the Internet and all it threw at her.

“If I was a computer, they’d say my motherboard was full,” she’d sniped when Kirsty said that drinking a different type of tea might help her think more clearly.

Kirsty had ended the call with, “Try watercress, Mum. They say that helps.”

She knew her daughter was only trying to help but “trying” was the word. Knowing Kirsty, she’d be round in a few days’ time with a bag full of watercress.

Enough to stock a small stream.

The last time Kirsty had come to see her was when Molly was

wine enjoyed with a delicious, calorie-laden lunch in the café.

And Molly had no idea what she would have made of the moment Ted reached over and took her hand as they were admiring an avenue of rhododendrons.

Somehow, when the fog of her daughter’s good intentions cleared, everything looked much simpler. Molly couldn’t remember when someone had last held her hand. Not the clutching of a child’s hand for safety but proper, grown-up hand-holding. She felt safe and protected with her hand enveloped in Ted’s

drive. She wasn’t going to forget anything about their day out together, but she wasn’t sure Kirsty was ready to hear about it just yet.

The phone rang again, jolting Molly out of her daydream.

“Hi, Mum, there was something I meant to ask earlier but I forgot,” said Kirsty.

“That wouldn’t be down to brain fog, would it?”

“Don’t be silly. No, I’m on a course on Thursday. It’s in Manchester, so I won’t be able to let Barney out at lunchtime.

I wondered if you would come over and take him for a walk?”

She knew her daughter was only trying to help red-faced and puffing after cutting her hedge. “Mum, I think the garden’s getting a bit much for you. I’ve made enquiries and found a nice man who does gardening. I’ve arranged for him to call round and give you a hand with the heavier work.” Molly fumed, but she’d been too tired to argue.

And yes, she could remember what she did yesterday. The stately home gardens had been delightful. Ted knew the names of most of the plants, even some of the Latin ones that sounded so much more poetic.

Who wouldn’t prefer Ilex aquifolium to plain old holly?

“You’ve transformed my garden in more ways than just tidying it,” Molly said to him.

“I can go and say good morning to my Syringa vulgaris now instead of my lilac. It sounds like a completely different tree.” ‘And I feel like a completely different person, too,’ she added to herself.

Probably Kirsty wouldn’t have approved of the sinful glass of

slightly roughened but highly capable one.

It was the hand that held the loppers and cut back her overgrown shrubs so the light could get in. It also scattered the tiny seeds and cupped itself around the mug of tea she brought him while they discussed what Molly could plant to flourish in the darker corners of her garden. She was still fuzzy headed, had left her glasses on the café table and had to go back for them, but perhaps there was a different reason for it now.

It was the kind of fuzziness she’d felt at 16 when she had a crush on Lionel Davies, who lived down the road from her. She remembered how her heart leaped every time he walked past her front gate. It was the same feeling she had waiting for Ted to arrive or when she spotted his car on her

“Oh, I’m sure I could manage that. I’ll put it in my diary,” Molly said, with added emphasis and a hint of mischief. She didn’t like to say that her diary was already full that day, but she was sure Ted would be only too happy for Barney to accompany them to the seaside. They’d have a stroll along the beach and if Molly needed a hug to set her to rights again, she was sure Ted would be happy to provide that, too.

Telling Kirsty could wait a little while longer.

THE END © Maggie Primavesi, 2016

NEW

on sale noW

My Little Big

Distance had made my sister and I closer over the last 10 years — but having a few days together had been a disaster 44 Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special

T

his is rather nice. I was dreading sitting next to someone awful on the plane going home, but there’s just me and an ever-so-slightlygorgeous-looking man in this row. The seat between us is empty and we’ll be sitting together for the

next 13 hours or so. How lucky is that?

He even looks vaguely familiar, but I’m sure he wasn’t staying at our hotel.

Not that I’m looking forward to going home. I wish in a way I could have stayed on in Goa. This has been my first trip to India. It’s not a trip I would

By Teresa Ashby have a great time. Besides, it’s on my list of places I’ve always wanted to go and we can celebrate my 30th birthday.”

“All right, then,” I’d said. “But please don’t call me Sylvie.”

Jess has changed a lot, but in some ways she hasn’t changed at all.

We used to fight all the time when we were young, but since she left home and we haven’t seen each other, we’ve become really close. Maybe, on reflection, that was why we’d got close — precisely because we weren’t seeing each other.

It would have been better if we’d left it that way.

About the only thing we agreed on was that we didn’t travel all that way to sit on the beach. We can both do that at home. Jess, of course, wanted to visit a bird sanctuary and a butterfly place. She’s always been mad keen on animals and particularly fond of things with wings.

Not me. I used to get hysterical if a moth flew into our bedroom at night and Jess would gently catch the offending insect in her cupped hands and release it out of the window.

Sometimes she’d open her hands and hold them out to me. Oddly enough, whatever she’d caught used to stay where it was as if it sensed she meant it no harm.

“Just have a look. See, it’s sort of furry. It can’t hurt you, Sylvie.

Look at that cute little face.”

She’d hold it up as close to my face as she could and I’d dive

Illustration: Getty

Sister normally have made on my own, but I came over to meet my sister in Goa. We hadn’t seen each other for 10 years, since she’d married an Australian and gone to live in Perth.

It was Jess’s idea we should both travel to Goa. “Oh, go on, Sylvie,” she’d said. “It’s about halfway between us and we’ll

reminded me of the insects she loved, all small and spindly.

Everyone thought I was the older sister and one aunt remarked that I must be a throwback to Great Uncle Sylvester who was, by all accounts, a giant of a man.

After that, everyone called me Sylvester which eventually got shortened to Sylvie, but after a while, it was forgotten and most people used my proper name.

There were things I wanted to see in Goa, mainly Hindu temples, which I should have known wouldn’t go down well with my sister.

Family holidays used to be

we’ve been apart took a matter of minutes to evaporate.

As soon as I mentioned the Mahadev Temple, she rolled her eyes at me and groaned.

“Seriously? I thought you only used to want to go around old relics to wind me up.”

“Why would I do that?” I said and she shook her head at me.

She’s not quite so spindly any more, but she still made me feel like the BFG’s younger sister. And she kept calling me Sylvie, no matter how many times I asked her not to.

Our hotel room was lovely, with a beautiful view over lush green gardens, but Jess got annoyed when I wanted to keep the windows shut. You wouldn’t believe the size of some of the insects flying around at night and when a gecko came into our room, I very nearly packed up and came home.

“I don’t know what you’re complaining about,” Jess said impatiently. “The gecko will eat the insects you hate. He’s your friend.”

“He’s no friend of mine,” I said.

“Maybe if you hadn’t been so cheap and had booked us a hotel with air-conditioning, it wouldn’t have been a problem having the windows shut,” she snapped.

“We can’t all find a rich guy to marry,” I snapped back. “Money might be no object to you, but it’s a very big object to me.”

The trip had taken a sizeable chunk out of my savings for a deposit on a place of my own.

House prices are rising faster than I can keep up with them and I hadn’t had a holiday since I went to Blackpool with Mum and Dad nine years ago, unlike my sister, who is always going to Bali or Vanuatu or Fiji and other such exotic places.

But she never comes back to the UK or even to Europe. I thought it was her dislike of longdistance travel, but I really think, deep down, it’s her dislike of me.

From the moment we met up, it was as if a barbed wire barrier had sprung up between us.

Our parents have been out to see her a few times. They come back overflowing with stories about how wonderful her life is and I’ve always been happy for her, really I have. She’s successful and has a wonderful home with her own swimming pool, no less.

y

under my covers, screaming at her to get it away.

“You’re just silly,” she’d mutter as she opened the window.

“Poor little thing. Imagine how afraid it must be of a hulking great monster like you.”

That was another difference between us, five inches in height and several stones. Jess

I had nightmares about things flapping round my

a nightmare, with our parents trying desperately to keep us happy by doing things we both liked, but we argued and fought the whole time.

My point was that at least going around castles and churches didn’t scare her. I used to be terrified when we had to watch bird of prey displays or go around butterfly farms.

I had nightmares about things flapping around my head.

But Jess claimed that old places made her scalp prickle and gave her nightmares about ghouls and ghosts.

“Had a good time?” the guy in the window-seat interrupts my thoughts.

“Brilliant, thank you. You?” “Terrific,” he says. “What a fabulous place. I’m definitely coming back.”

“Oh, me too,” I say. But next time, it would be without Jess.

I blink back tears. I don’t want to think about her, but she’s all I can think about. The closeness that has built up between us while

Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special 45

My Little Big Sister

OK, if I’m honest, I am a bit envious. Well, she’s living the dream whereas I exist from one day to the next while my dream gets further and further away from me.

It wasn’t even her dream, it was mine. Oh, yes, as a child all I wanted was to grow up and go to live in Australia, that magical land of koalas and kangaroos. How about that?

Now, wild horses wouldn’t get me out there. And as for Lee, well, I saw him first. I even dated him first. Nine times, to be exact, before he decided he liked my sister better.

“Come on, Sylvie,” he’d said.

“We weren’t really a thing.”

“I thought we were and my name’s not Sylvie!” I yelled at him. “It’s Allie!” Ever since he’d started seeing Jess, he’d slipped into calling me Sylvie.

It was so hard, so very hard, let me tell you, to smile through my sister’s wedding when all I wanted to do was plunge a knife between her delicate little shoulder-blades.

I wore flat shoes under my bridesmaid dress and still I towered over her. In his speech, Lee said he’d first been attracted to Jess because she was so tiny and fragile-looking, he just wanted to take care of her.

Not like me. He didn’t want to take care of me. And I wasn’t half as tough as she was.

Then, just to rub salt into the wound, he thanked me for introducing them and everyone said, “Ahhh,” as if it was the nicest thing in the world.

The guy next to me has just asked a question. “Sorry,” I say.

“I was away with the fairies.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” he says. “I was just asking if you went to the bird sanctuary.”

My heart sinks. “I don’t like birds.”

“Really?” He looks so taken aback, it makes me laugh.

“Actually, I do like them, I just don’t like them flying around my head. It doesn’t look as if that seat’s taken.” See how I deftly changed the subject there?

I don’t like myself very much.

I could have gone along to see

the birds, I just didn’t want to give any ground to my sister.

“My girlfriend, or should I say ex-girlfriend, was supposed to be sitting there,” he says.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.” He grins. “We booked this holiday months ago, before we split up, but decided to come anyway and try to get along.”

“It didn’t work?”

“It was never going to.

We were both too stubborn to give up our half of the holiday.”

“Does she not like birds?”

“Cheska? She loves birds. We had our itinerary all planned and we went to all the places we wanted to go, but the magic wasn’t there.”

“You were hoping for a reconciliation?”

“No way,” he says. “We were definitely finished. This holiday just cemented it, really. We had a good time, but we laid some ghosts and we’ve ended up friends.”

“So where is she?”

He laughs. “I didn’t murder her, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he says and I laugh because that was exactly what I was thinking.

Unfortunately, that’s just how my mind works. “She met some people and decided to stay on.

They’re doing that thing; you know, driving round Asia in a beat-up old camper-van. I’m pleased for her, really. She’s always wanted to do something like that, whereas I like to know exactly where I’m going.”

I decide to mention one of the temples I’d seen and he says, “I thought you looked familiar.

Were you there Tuesday? That’s when Cheska and I went.”

I remember him now.

I remember Cheska, too.

I thought she was gorgeous with her tanned skin and long, blonde hair. She looked so stylish

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46 Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special

I saw him first. I even dated him first. Nine times, to be exact

and cool, despite the heat.

And she was so tiny and delicate-looking, she’d even have made my sister look like a clodhopping lump.

“Are you travelling alone?” he asks.

“I met up with my little big sister in Goa. She came over from Australia and it was the first time I’ve seen her for 10 years.”

It was my fault we never had any pets. She did go on about it a bit, telling me about all the pets she has now I’m not around to spoil things for her. My eyes feel stupidly moist.

“Little big sister?”

“She’s two years older and a good deal smaller.”

“I see. I think.”

“She was very unhappy with me,” I recall. And it’s true. From the moment we met, she was waspish and snappy. No wonder she wanted to stay away from me the whole week. She still didn’t like me and I’ve never really known why.

Someone once said that Jess and I reminded them of a little sparrow being followed round by a huge baby cuckoo. I did used to follow her around and I’d loom over her and she’d tell me to get out of her sun.

“I suppose little weeds need all the sunshine they can get,”

I’d retort and she’d curl her lip up at me.

“I don’t know what I did wrong,” I say. “Perhaps we should have stuck to the beach. Do you mind if we change the subject?”

We spend a couple of minutes talking about ourselves. Turns out his name is Alex and he lives less than 50 miles from me. He says, “I’m really happy to meet you, Allie,” and I’m drifting off into the realms of fantasy, thinking maybe meeting Alex is fate, when there’s a flurry further down the plane and my sister appears. My happy little bubble pops.

“Sylvie! I managed to get a seat. There was a cancellation.

Not only on your flight, but right next to you! How amazing is that?”

“Sylvie?” Alex asks, but his eyes are on Jess. Of course they are.

She’s the pretty one, after all.

“It’s a pet name,” Jess explains.

“And I asked you not to use it.”

“Sorry, I forgot in all the excitement.”

“But what are you doing here? What about your flight back to Perth?”

I’m about to move over to the middle seat, but she says she wants it.

“It would be silly to have the big one in the middle,” she says.

“What I mean is, you can stick your long legs out in the aisle.”

She turns to Alex. “Hi, I’m Jess.”

Well that’s a record. She’s gone from stealing my boyfriend to stealing a guy before I’d even got as far as a date.

She’s also managed to get a dig in about my size and mentioned my hated nickname.

“There, this is nice, isn’t it?”

“What are you playing at?”

She looks hurt. “I’m coming home. I can’t live a lie any longer.”

“What do you mean? What about your perfect life? Where are you going to live?”

“So many questions,” she trills in her sweet, helpless little voice that men find irresistible.

“You haven’t changed, Sylvie.

I’ll stay with our folks until I can get a job and find a place of my own. Unless you have room in your flat.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. My flat is tiny. It only has one bedroom and we’d kill each other inside a week, especially if you keep calling me Sylvie.”

Alex is watching, a half smile on his face.

“And what about Lee? Does he know you’re not going home?”

She shrugs.

We fasten our seatbelts and the plane starts to taxi. It’s too late for her to get off now. I’m stuck with her for the whole flight. Thirteen hours!

“What about all your pets?”

I remind her. “Who will look after them?”

“I don’t actually have any now,” she says. “They all live with Lee.” “You don’t live with your husband?”

“We had to sell the house, all right?” she says. “Lee moved in with some woman and I moved into a flat over a dive shop, OK? Happy now? I was going to tell you, but the opportunity never arose.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not. It was time I came home.”

“Was that the plan all along?”

“No. I was about to check in for my flight and I thought, ‘What am I going back for? What is there in Australia for me now?

I have nothing’.”

She turns to look at Alex and I swear her eyes grow to twice their size. She’s like a cartoon puppy. No wonder she was able to reel Lee in so easily, all those years ago.

“I’m sorry about you and Lee,” I say and I really am. I thought they had it all. It’s a shock to find out they didn’t.

She turns to look at me. “Do you know what he said to me?” she says. “When he walked out, his parting words were, ‘I should have married your sister’.” She turns back to Alex. “Imagine how that made me feel. All my life, I’ve lived in her shadow and then I find out my husband wished he was with her.”

In my shadow? Hardly. I’m two years younger. She’s always been held up to me as a shining example of what I could have been.

Alex frowns and shakes his head. What must he think of me?

She talks a lot, mainly about herself, sometimes about me and how I was such a pain when we were growing up. She tells him how I used to lie in bed at night and wouldn’t stop talking.

The only time she could get me to shut up was if a moth came in and she could scare me with it.

“I used to open the curtain a little so they’d come in to the light,” she says. “I told her they were drawn in by the sound of her voice.”

I remember that.

I pretend to go to sleep.

I just want to escape. If we were on a bus, I’d get off at the next stop, but there’s no getting away from her.

After a while, she says, “Oh, she’s asleep, bless her. I missed her so much these past 10 years, but I’d hate me too, if I was her.”

“She doesn’t hate you,” he says.

“And you’d know that how?”

“The way she was talking about you before you boarded the plane. It’s clear she loves you.

She had tears in her eyes when she spoke about you.”

“I’m not surprised, but they were probably sad tears. All the time we were growing up,

We argue for a while before I realise Alex has fallen silent. He’s put headphones on and has his eyes shut. Well, I’ve definitely blown it now.

“I so wanted to be like you,” Jess says. “So tall and elegant and beautiful and so sweet.”

“Sweet?”

“Compared to me, you were.

I feel sick when I think of how I used to torment you with insects and when we went on holiday, how I dragged everyone around places I knew you’d hate.

I used to put spiders in your bed.

I’m sorry.”

I forget about the lovely Alex sitting there, as we talk and talk.

By the time he opens his eyes, we’re talking about maybe getting a bigger flat together.

He smiles and my heart gives a little squeeze. One thing I will have to face up to is that if Jess is coming back, I’m probably not going to have much success with the opposite sex.

She gets up to go to the loo and Alex smiles at me. He has a lovely smile and I feel so sad for what might have been. I know we’ve only just met, but something clicked.

Then he leans across to me.

“Can we swap numbers?” he asks. “I’d like to see you again when we get back.”

“You what?”

He backs up. “Sorry,” he says.

“I misjudged the situation.

I thought we were getting along so well and you seem like such a nice person.”

“No, I mean — what about Jess? Don’t you want to ask her out?”

“Why would I?” Jess is back. “Give him your number, Allie, or I will,” she says. “And you might as well shift over to the middle. I don’t see why you should get the aisle seat just because you have lovely long legs.”

I don’t argue with her. I’m not stupid enough to think we’ll never argue, but it really is time we left the past behind. And I think of our parents, how heartbroken they were when she moved so far away and how sad they’ll be that her marriage has broken up, but how happy to have her home again.

Of course I give him my number and I’m so looking forward to going home. I have such a lot to look forward to.

THE END © Teresa Ashby, 2016

y He smiles and my heart gives a little squeeze

she used to go on about living in Australia. Then I went and stole her boyfriend and moved there myself. So childish. So cruel. It backfired, though. I’ve not been happy. Oh, golly, you poor thing, ending up sitting next to me and having to listen to my life story.”

“I don’t mind, really,” he says and he sounds as if he means it.

“It’s good to talk.”

“It’s been murder, putting on a brave face for six weeks every time my folks came to visit. I used to dream about Allie coming with them and spilling to her about how unhappy I was. I used to write her long messages, then delete them without sending them. Then, of course, I got the chance to talk to her and it was like she’d put this huge wall up between us.”

I can’t do this any longer. “Me? You were the one who was all snappy and distant.”

“I thought you were asleep.”

“You know what thought did.”

Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special 47

Illustration: Getty

A Marriage

48 Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special

By H. Johnson-Mack

Of Two Minds E

It was her fault that this was happening. But she’d been so intent on her own happy-ever-after, she hadn’t heeded the danger signs...

mmeline Matcham switched her anxious gaze from the sobbing servant to the rain streaming down upon the streets of Mayfair, and sighed to herself. Wasn’t it just like Frances, her best friend and soon-to-be sister by marriage, to pick such a foul afternoon to elope!

Well, it couldn’t be helped, and time was of the essence. Squaring her shoulders, she addressed herself briskly to the maid. “No more tears, Martha. I promise, all will be well. Send a message to the stables to ready the carriage.”

Martha watched, wide-eyed, as, folding up her mistress’s note, Emmeline began to bustle about the bedchamber. “What’re you going to do, miss?”

Emmeline paused mid-whirl, and blinked at the maid. “Why, go after her, of course.” vvv Getting out of London proved surprisingly easy. But, Emmeline fretted, if it had been swift for her and the Audleys’ coachman, Frances and her soldier could now be further along the Great North Road than she’d anticipated. She shifted restlessly on her seat. The chances of her finding the eloping pair then returning before any of them were missed were fading as fast as the light on this depressing afternoon. But she had to try. It was imperative that Gideon never learnt of this latest rebellion by his little sister, or he would ship her off, just as he’d threatened, to her severe Aunt Eglantine, where the vibrant, artless Frances, deprived of any fun or freedom, would no doubt fall into decline. And she, Emmeline, would begin her married life minus her best friend, with a husband who’d be miserable without his sister, no matter what he might claim to the contrary.

As the only children of five to survive into adulthood, the two Audleys had always been close.

But when, a few years ago, their mother’s death left Frances to his sole guardianship, Gideon’s sense of responsibility for her had grown to what she considered obsessive proportions. Add to that his reserve compared with her fervour and there were always going to be clashes. That was why having her long-time friend and natural buffer Emmeline Matcham to stay had worked to such advantage. Until, that is, she and Gideon had fallen in love.

Emmeline read through Frances’ letter again, sighing over the blots where tears must have been shed.

The words were typically passionate, reproaching her brother for having forced her into this flight. To save her from exile, she said, Harry Morton was taking her over the border, where in the absence of Hardwicke’s marriage

happy-ever-after, she hadn’t heeded the danger signs. vvv “I cannot quite decide whom I like least,” Frances declared, critically surveying her reflection in the gleaming glass cabinet front. “My brother in love, or my brother the bore.”

“I’ve told you before,” Emmeline corrected in her soft voice. “Gideon isn’t boring, he’s merely conservative.”

Frances wrinkled her nose.

“Then why on earth you want to marry him is beyond me!”

Emmeline’s smile held a hint of mischief. “Gravity can be very attractive in a man. Remember the masquerade?”

They were in the Minerva Press lending library on Leadenhall Street, one of Emmeline’s favourite places. Very rarely did a week go by without her fingers eagerly brushing along its collection of myriad handsome leather-bound

b Emmeline’s smile held a hint of mischief. ‘Gravity can be very attractive’

laws, he would make her an honest soldier’s wife, and Gideon’s problem no longer.

Emmeline sighed again as she slipped the letter back into her reticule. It was her fault that this was happening. For ever since Gideon had announced their engagement, she’d known her best friend had been in some turmoil, worried about where she’d fit in with this new arrangement. But she’d been so intent on her own

books, as they were now, seeking out thrilling stories of history, adventure and romance.

Frances, beside her, sniffed. “The one Gideon dragged me from?

Indeed! I haven’t been able to look Robert Portman in the eye ever since, which is very frustrating, as he is so handsome!”

Laughing, Emmeline said, “I recall it rather differently.

Ranelagh on public masquerade night really wasn’t a safe place for

two young ladies; Gideon was right about that. But he came to save us from unscrupulous characters, despite his loathing of such events.

And, of course, that was the night he first told me he loved me.”

“Oh, do blink those stars out of your eyes!” Frances begged, rolling her own. “You know, much as I love you, Emmie, I did wonder if marrying my so-very-sensible brother was the right thing for such a romantic heart as yours. But ever since you got engaged, you’ve become quite as dull as he is.”

“Do you really think so?”

Seeing her friend’s stricken expression, Frances pulled her forward for a guilty hug. “Don’t mind me,” she said hastily. “I’m just envious of you having found your hero whilst I’m still plain old ‘Miss’, shackled by society and doomed to wearing pastel shades until I marry.” Her face fell. “And then, of course, there’s the threat of Aunt Eglantine.”

Emmeline had been gazing unseeingly at the books in front of her. But at that, she turned and took her friend’s hands. “Are you still worrying about that? Because I’m sure Gideon doesn’t really mean to send you to Leamington. He was only reacting to your being rather too friendly with those bucks at the Ackermans’ ball.”

“So you say,” Frances huffed.

“But there’s no denying you’ll be honeymooning for nearly a month, and Gideon’s gone and got it into his head that Cousin Maria isn’t strong enough to chaperone me alone whilst you’re away. Well, you know how obstinate he is once he sets his mind on something.”

Emmeline bit her lip. “Yes. That’s all too true.”

“And I can’t face going to rotten Aunt Eg’s, Emmie! She’s so awful, her own daughter chose to be Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special 49

A Marriage Of Two Minds

a schoolmistress rather than live with her.”

“Then, between us, we’ll just have to persuade him of Maria’s capabilities.” Linking arms with Frances, Emmeline turned her toward the novel section. “Now, come. As you’ve yet to find your own hero in the flesh, let’s get you the next best thing. What shall it be? Dashing Valancourt in The Mysteries Of Udolpho or Belinda’s gallant Mr Hervey?” vvv The silver epergne squatted, spiderlike, on the corner table in the Audleys’ Duke Street drawingroom, its heavily encrusted, ugly insect frieze glittering madly in the slanting sunlight. Emmeline trod quietly to stand beside the smart gentleman surveying the centre piece, remarking after a moment, “Well, that’s certainly a generous-sized serving stand, whoever it’s from.”

“It’s an early wedding gift, an heirloom of my Aunt Eglantine’s she has graciously bequeathed to us.”

Emmeline arched a brow. “Either that, or she saw a good excuse to get rid of something hideous.”

The steady hand that had stolen into hers now lightly squeezed.

“I like it, wicked girl. Don’t you think it’ll brighten up the dining table?”

Emmeline gazed demurely into Gideon Audley’s dark eyes. “Why, yes, if you want to frighten off our future guests.”

“Now that,” Gideon drawled, drawing her onto the sofa, 50 Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special

“sounds like an excellent suggestion. Come here, quick, before my cousin arrives...”

Emmeline allowed herself to be nuzzled, then untangled herself from his arms. “I must speak with you about Frances.”

“Ah, Frances. Where is the little minx?”

“In her bedchamber, showing Maria our latest purchases for the wedding.”

Gideon groaned. “Not more frills and furbeloes!”

“That’s society weddings for you.

Gideon, something she said earlier worried me.”

“If you’re referring to Aunt Eglantine, I am well aware how Frances feels about her. She may be strict, but at least I could trust her to keep that girl in line whilst we’re away. Cousin Maria certainly can’t, if these whispers I’ve been hearing have any truth in them!”

“Your sister’s young and pretty, and just enjoying the attention it brings her. Is that so wrong?”

“It is if she ruins her reputation in the process. But protecting her is my concern, not yours, so why the frown?”

His thumb had gently traced a deepened furrow on her brow.

Emmeline swallowed.

“It was something else she said, about us not being suited. She knows us both so well. What if she’s right? What if we’re not like that sonnet of Shakespeare? You know, the one about a marriage of true minds?”

“Then we’ll be miserable, ’til death us do part.” When Emmeline didn’t join in his laughter, Gideon frowned and tilted her chin upward with a fingertip. “You don’t agree with her, do you?”

“Well, we do have such different views on things.”

“Is this about those novels again?

I promise you, my love, a Theodore may be all very well between the pages of a Horace Walpole book, but he’d be totally impractical in real life.”

He was about to say more when the door opened to admit Frances and Cousin Maria, the little spinster lady currently residing with the girls, Gideon having prudently taken temporary lodgings until he and Emmeline were married. He immediately rose and crossed to the window, leaving her wondering what he’d left unsaid, as Frances, catching sight of the epergne, exclaimed, “Heavens, where on earth did you get that thing?” vvv She should have been so happy.

She was wearing the betrothal ring of the man she loved and spending her days planning and purchasing for their future wedded bliss together. Yet a persistent little grey cloud seemed to hang above Emmeline and follow her everywhere, threatening to rain on her parade. As the days passed, it became more and more apparent that her tastes and Gideon’s were poles apart, and she began to fret that anything she’d bought for the London house or

b The steady hand that had stolen into hers now lightly squeezed

the Audleys’ Suffolk manor, of whom she’d soon become mistress, would be unsuitable.

Then, too, there was the problem of Frances, who’d become restless and remote. To Emmeline’s knowing eye, her animation whilst out shopping or at engagements appeared forced. Yet when Emmeline tried to win her confidence, she resisted all her efforts, and threw herself into events with such passion that, eventually, even the persevering Maria shook her head and muttered darkly of what happened to girls with too much spirit.

Things finally came to a head one evening, when Gideon had come to dine with his girls before escorting them to Almack’s Assembly Rooms.

Emmeline nervously sipped her wine, her gaze darting between the siblings.

After the servants had left the room, Gideon remarked all too casually, “So, I hear you evaded Maria’s chaperonage in the park this afternoon to wander amongst the bushes with Harry Morton.”

Frances’ eyes glittered as she recklessly tossed back her drink.

“And what if I did?”

Gideon glared at her. “Don’t be foolish, Frances. Do you think it’s a game, all this flirting and defying the rules? Because I promise you, society won’t.”

“That’s all you care about, isn’t it?

The family name!”

“And your reputation, yes.

How do you expect to make a good, respectable marriage and get on in life, if that good name lies in tatters?”

“You’re not concerned about my feelings. All you want is for me to be out of your way, so you can disappear into the country with Emmeline and live happily ever after. Well, I’m sorry to be such a burden! I’m sorry that Mama died and left me on your hands! Perhaps I’ll run off with one of my flirts.

Then all you’ll have to deal with is the ensuing scandal. That shouldn’t take long to live down, especially if you disown me.”

“For heaven’s sake!” Gideon’s fist came crashing down onto the table. “I can see I’ve indulged you far too much all these years, if having to be inconvenienced for

a few weeks whilst I spend a little time alone with my new wife can provoke such a response. Now, enough of these dramatics. You’ll go to Aunt Eglantine, and that’s an end to it.”

“God!” Leaping up, Frances threw her napkin on the table.

“I pity you, Emmie, having to be with such a cold, uncaring wretch for the rest of your life! At least in Leamington, I won’t have to put up with him!” And with that, she flounced out of the room.

In the abrupt silence that followed, Emmeline rose to lay a hand on Gideon’s shoulder. His jaw was tightly clenched. “I hate to see you two fighting.”

“She’s behaving like a spoilt child.”

“She loves you,” Emmeline corrected softly. “It’s difficult for her to have to share your affection, as much as she and I are close.”

Gideon sighed, looking suddenly weary.

“Couldn’t we give up the honeymoon trip,” Emmeline suggested, “and all three of us go down to Suffolk a little earlier than planned instead?”

The look Gideon fixed on her made her insides do strange things. “Being alone with you for three luxurious weeks is the only reason I’m putting up with all this wedding fuss.”

Slightly flushed, Emmeline bent her head to rest against his, then straightened. “I’d better see how she is.”

With a nod, Gideon reluctantly let her go. “Emmeline?” he murmured before she could open the door. “Don’t let her cry. I don’t want to take her to Almack’s with her eyes all red-rimmed.”

Frances responded to Emmeline’s light tap on her bedchamber door with a guarded, “Come in.” When she saw her friend’s sympathetic expression, her own crumpled.

“Now, none of that,” Emmeline said firmly. “Gideon made me promise not to let you spoil your beautiful face with any weeping.”

“He said that?”

“Of course he did.” As Frances sighed and leaned back into her, Emmeline stroked her hair a moment, then bent to meet her eyes in the dressing-table mirror. “Make it up with him, please. He’s always so unhappy when you argue.”

“Once, perhaps,” Frances muttered. “Now he has you, he doesn’t care as much for me any more.”

“Frances Audley!” Snatching up an ivory fan, Emmeline lightly rapped her knuckles with it. “I’ve never heard such rubbish! If anything, he cares too much, and that’s why you’re bumping heads.

Darling, tell me, are you really serious about Harry Morton?”

Frances sniffed. “Well, he is rather sweet, and I don’t want to end up like Maria, long past 30 and unmarried, having to rely on the kindness of relatives for a roof over my head.”

Emmeline’s incredulous laugh brought a reluctant smile to her face. “As if that would ever happen!

Your problem is just which one of your suitors to choose! Now, what shall we have Martha do with your hair tonight? A la Meduse, or one long ringlet over the shoulder? We want to keep Gideon busy frowning at all those gentlemen who’ll be wanting a dance.”

Frances agreed, but there was a speculative gleam in her eye that made Emmeline rather nervous. vvv

The respectable landlord, at first inclined to frown at her lone appearance without escort or baggage, brightened up when she mentioned the London couple currently sheltering from the rain, and led her to his private parlour where, he assured her, a warm fire burned.

When Emmeline knocked and heard Frances’s voice call out to enter, she felt so relieved, she almost fainted. “Really, Frances,” she scolded as she stepped inside and closed the door on an interested pot-boy. “If you must make me chase you up the North Road, could you at least do so when the sun is out?”

Frances turned from staring into the fire with a delighted squeal, rushing forward to pull Emmeline into her arms. “Emmie! I knew you wouldn’t let me down!”

“It’s all right,” Emmeline soothed. “There’s no harm done.

But we need to get back to London before we’re...” She stopped on a gasp, as, at that

b She was starting to wish she’d brought Martha with her

The carriage continued to eat up the miles. It was so dull now, the persistent rain taking on a distinctly murky quality, that Emmeline could barely see the countryside through which they were travelling.

Sighing, she lay back against the cushions and hoped their next stop would come soon. Though it was sensible for Will Coachman to check at every main staging post, it was rather tedious.

She was starting to wish she’d brought Martha with her, if only for the company, when the carriage drew up in the courtyard of the Crown Inn, the swinging lanterns dotted round its low, thatched building spilling their trembling reflections into the puddles.

Emmeline waited, holding her breath, as the coachman once more enquired for a London couple travelling alone and in some haste. When he hurried over to tell her that just such a pair had indeed come this way, and were still within, her heart leapt and, heedless of wet hems, she quickly got down from the carriage and hurried inside.

very moment, Gideon’s voice could be heard, calling stridently for the landlord. He must have been just behind her the whole time! “Now, don’t panic,” she hissed, wishing she could take her own advice as she put herself between Frances and the door.

“I’ll get us out of this.”

Seconds later, it burst open and Gideon stood on the threshold, his caped riding cloak making him look even more broad-shouldered than usual.

“Before you say anything,” Emmeline began imploringly, “please remember that...”

Having swept round the room, Gideon’s eyes had come to rest upon his sister. “Ah, Frances.

You’re here, I see, with the appropriate baggage.”

As he spoke, it suddenly dawned on Emmeline that the small pile of luggage by the window was the only other thing in the room besides Frances; no ardent lover, at all. There was something very odd here.

Her puzzled frown deepened further still when, slipping from her

shadow, Frances sent her brother an inscrutable smile. “Yes,” she said.

“Just as planned.”

Emmeline looked from one to the other, fear turning to frustration. But before she could speak, Gideon had picked up the luggage and was taking her arm in his other hand. “You, my girl, are coming with me.”

Emmeline held her tongue until Gideon’s carriage door was shut upon them. Then she turned on him, demanding, “What exactly is going on here? Why did Frances write me that note? And where is Harry Morton?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Gideon replied with a grin, easing Emmeline onto one cushioned seat. “It’s not Frances who’s eloping; it’s us.”

“What?!”

“The Harry Morton thing was just a ruse. We knew that if you thought Frances was in danger of making such a potentially disastrous mistake, you’d rush to her aid, and thus give me the chance to carry you off instead, so I could prove to you I can be that romantic, impetuous hero that you want in your life.”

Emmeline gaped at him, not sure whether to be furious or flattered. “Why would you do that?” she asked eventually.

“Because I’d do anything to make you happy,” Gideon said gravely, “and I knew you were having doubts about us. I hoped that if I showed you my dashing side as well as the sensible one, you’d realise that we’re actually a perfect match. A marriage of two minds, that together, equal harmony.”

“We knew?”

“Myself and Frances. You’ll be glad to know we’ve had a good talk and made up our differences. She’s promised to conduct herself a little better and I’ve agreed to postpone our honeymoon for another season or until she can do without us, so both my girls will be happy.”

“But,” Emmeline persisted as Gideon possessed himself of her hand, “the landlord said that a couple had sheltered here.”

“Umm. Frances and Cousin Maria, who, it turns out, is quite a romantic, and couldn’t wait to lend herself to our little plan. Now I have a bishop’s licence in my pocket, and our bags all packed. So say you’ll marry me, Emmie.”

Emmeline sighed and drew him to her. “On one condition.

That awful epergne goes back to Aunt Eglantine...”

THE END © H. Johnson-Mack, 2016 Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special 51

Ordinary Joe

And The Cat Show MY MUM ASkS MY GRAN FoR AdvICe BeFoRe SHe MAkeS A deCISIoN oN ABSoLUTeLY eveRYTHING. BUT MAYBe THAT IS CHANGING...

“

I

don’t think Rachel should enter,” Mum said, standing in our kitchen.

“It’s just a bit of fun for kids,” Joe replied, looking up from the table where the local paper lay in front of him. “That’s what it says here, anyway.”

“No, it’s not. It’s a beauty contest. It’s not the kind of message I want to send.”

“It’s a cat show.” He frowned.

“Besides, personality counts.

Nobody wants a surly cat to win, do they?”

My mum’s really pretty, with dark hair and dark eyes, but Joe, her boyfriend, is nearly bald. He has a big nose and hardly any chin.

I was standing on a chair washing up, because Mum likes me to do chores. I’m Rachel, I’m seven. My cat’s name is Leala. She’s a two-year-old Ragdoll. My gran bought her

Sometimes, I think Gran is really Yoda in disguise. She says things in a funny way sometimes.

“So, a cat show, this is?” She’s from Spain, which means I am too, in a way.

“You know, he’s just a big rebounder.” She said that once about Joe. I wasn’t supposed to hear her. When she said it, I was just running in from the garden.

It made me feel a bit funny to hear it. I haven’t known Joe for very long. He’s the first man Mum’s ever brought home.

“I know what you’re saying.”

That’s what my mum said to Gran. “But... I’ve introduced him to Rachel now.”

When they saw me, they shut up. Gran started talking about some woman next door and Mum just nodded and hummed while her face filled with wrinkles. I’ve never told Joe what they said. It didn’t seem fair.

In the kitchen now, Mum

they’re pretty. It’s fine. Lighten up a little.”

Mum always agrees with Gran, even when she’s still frowning. “All right, then.”

Her smile looked a bit droopy at the edges. “Fine, I’ll get a form and find out how much it costs to take part.”

“Yay!” I waved my arms above my head and suds flew everywhere. I made plans to brush Leala a bit more. Could I clean her teeth and do her nails? How do you get cats to purr louder? “Leala will win,” I said. “She’s the best cat ever.”

Gran appeared on Saturday morning, just after I put Leala in her carrier.

Gran’s tiny and has curly brown hair; she carries a bag the size of a suitcase around with her and is always pulling things out of it, like a magician. Today, she pulled out a big pink ribbon.

“For Leala, this is.”

I waved my arms above my head and suds flew everywhere for me when my dad left.

“Mum,” I said, as I clattered pots around. “Please let me enter. I know life’s not all about how you look. Honest.”

Mum points at the models in magazines sometimes. We play the “airbrush game”. You have to find legs that are like lolly-sticks and hips so narrow, any normal person would snap like a twig.

“Please,” I said again.

I knew what she’d say next, “I’ll ask your gran.”

She always says that.

52 Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special

dialled on her mobile. She put it on speaker-phone and set it on the table. Last week, she asked Gran about house insurance. The week before, she asked about swapping dentists.

“Hola,” Gran said.

“Hola. Mum, it’s me.” My mum leaned over her mobile.

“I just wanted your opinion on something.” She explained about the cat show and why she hated the idea.

Gran listened then said in a big Spanish rush, “Cats don’t care if

“Thanks, Gran. I’ll put it on when we get there.”

We were all going; Mum and Gran in the front seats of Mum’s car, Leala between me and Joe in the back. He’d had what was left of his hair cut. Usually, it’s all shaggy but today, it was all clipped around his ears. His skin looked funny as well; more golden, as if he’d had a spray tan, like they always do on Strictly.

Gran kept glancing back to him as we drove along, as if surprised he sat there at all.

By Beth Felix When we reached the church hall where the cat show was being held, we could barely squeeze in past all the kids and their parents. The cats all had cages on long tables. We hunted along, looking for Leala’s number. Joe set her carrier on the table when we found it.

Mum helped me take her out, put on her ribbon and placed her in her cage. Then Mum stalked down the rows looking at all the other cats. She stopped once, leaning in and peering at a big ginger Tom. Joe stroked a hand over his new hair-do when she returned. “So, what’s the competition look like?”

Mum frowned. “This isn’t about good looks.”

“No, of course not. There’s much more to a cat than the colour of its fur.”

We weren’t allowed in the hall when the judging took place.

I’m not even sure who the judges were, but they all wore suits except for a lady. She wore a nice blue dress. We stood out at the back of the building where the grass is. A dog show would take place there later. A few stalls stood there too, full of drinks and sandwiches. “I hope Leala’s all right,” I said to Gran.

“She’s fine. Look after her, they will.” She stood staring at my mum as if she didn’t mean Leala at all. Joe and Mum stood a long way away from us and were talking. He waved his arms about while she shook her head. He wants us all to go on holiday together this year, just me and him and Mum. Last year, Mum and me went to Margate with Gran. We stayed in a cottage.

“No...” Mum’s words drifted over. “That’s not how I want things to be. All right?”

The doors opened behind us and one of the judges stepped out. “Come in, everybody!”

They made an official announcement from the front of the hall. The lady judge stood there and everybody crowded around. She held up her hand and made a speech. “What a wonderful turnout for our very first pet show.” She told us then about the children’s charity all our entry money would go to.

My heart started thundering.

I could see Leala from where

I stood. She’d managed to get her ribbon off. It hung from the side of her mouth as she chomped on it.

“In third place,” the judge said, “... is Timmy Tiger Mittens.”

I didn’t want to be third anyway.

The judge held out a rosette and an envelope full of prize money to the boy who darted forwards. everybody clapped and, in the cages, a lot of the cats mewed.

“In second place,” the judge said, “... is ellie.” A very little girl squealed and ran out of the crowd.

I didn’t want to be second either. I could barely breathe now.

“In first place...”

‘Is Leala. Is Leala,’ I repeated in my head. “... is George.” The judge grinned. “Who won not only because of his unusual looks but for his outstanding personality.” everybody looked round as

I stood with Gran by Leala’s cage as Joe followed Mum outside. Leala’s ribbon was in bits now and all covered in spit.

She mewed at me accusingly.

“Sorry you didn’t win. Maybe all your chewing put the judges off?” I said. “What’s up with Mum?” I whispered to Gran. “Is she breaking up with Joe?” Gran nodded. “It is that time, I’m afraid.”

My mum dresses really well.

She does her own hair and nails.

She goes on weird diets for weeks at a time, then she’ll tell me looks aren’t important and it’s what’s inside that counts.

“Joe’s not good-looking enough for her, is he? That’s why she’s been acting funny all week.”

Gran cackled out a laugh then said in her thick Spanish accent, “This is not about looks... it’s about magnets. Yes... magnets.”

Sometimes I think she’s the wrong person to ask about things like this. “I don’t know

confused. “It’s all about attraction and... and shams, not about looks at all.”

“No,” Mum said very firmly.

“It’s not about any of that, Rachel. It seems it’s about your Gran deciding Joe isn’t good enough for the both of us then jumping to all the wrong conclusions. He has gone, yes. He’s gone to help his dad move some furniture. We have been arguing lately, it’s true, but only about who’s going to pay for our holiday. He wanted to pay for everything but I said, ‘No’.”

I had to think it all through for a moment after that and catch up. Adults can be very complicated sometimes. “So, when Gran said all that about magnets, it is true but... she’s the one who isn’t being drawn towards Joe?” Mum tugged me to her and held me tight. “You’re a very clever girl.”

Leala’s ribbon was in bits now and all covered in spit another judge carried George’s cage forward. George, thin, wrinkled and completely bald, was the ugliest cat I’d ever seen. An older girl took a red rosette from the judge and waved it about.

“Well, that’s just how you wanted it,” I heard Joe say to my mum, “for looks not to matter.”

For some reason, Mum didn’t look thrilled. “You’re not too disappointed, are you?” she asked me.

“No,” I lied. I stood looking at George then I looked at Joe and well, if you were going to buy a lookalike cat for anybody, George was the cat for him.

“I have some good news,” Joe said. “I’ll tell you as soon as we get home.”

It had to be about our holiday.

Were we going then?

Mum glanced towards Gran and Gran pursed her lips and shook her head slowly. When I don’t listen to her, she does that to me as well. “Joe, I think we need to talk... again?”

Mum waved a hand at the exit. “Please.”

what you mean, Gran.” “did you like the bald cat?” she asked me. “No, you didn’t. But the girl with the bald cat loves him very much. See, it’s about attraction. Yes? You need it to pull everything together. Cats and people and all things.

Without it —” she gazed at the ceiling — “things are always a lie and a sham.”

She’s almost as bad as my teacher when she asks me something like, “Seven times four?” I have to think for a bit.

Gran slapped her hands together. “You need two magnets that attract just the same for both to be happy. Yes?” “Yes... Gran.” I have no idea how Mum ever makes up her mind when she asks Gran for advice.

After Gran went off hunting for a cup of tea, my mum came back all alone. “Has Joe gone?” I asked.

“Yes.” “Gran said you’d split up.

I understand. He wasn’t the magnet for you.” I nodded wisely while Mum stood looking

I chewed at my lip when she let me go. “You don’t tell Gran everything, do you, Mum? You didn’t tell her about Joe wanting to pay for our holiday, for a start.”

She heaved a sigh.

“Sometimes, it is easier to work around your gran than tell her everything. She’d have called him controlling instead of stupidly over-generous. She will learn to like him eventually, I’m sure of it.”

‘You see, Gran,’ I thought, ‘you can’t always trust those magnets inside you. You need to give everybody a chance instead.’

“Come on,” Mum said. “Let’s get Leala ready to take home.”

I did feel much better knowing she hadn’t broken up with Joe. I do like him. I like his half-bald head and his big nose. I like them even more because, sometimes, I think my nose is too big too and I’m far too short for my age.

I was sad that Leala didn’t win the cat show, though, but I don’t think she was too bothered. She still purred all the way home.

THe eNd © Beth Felix, 2016 Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special 53

Northbound,

Southbou W

aitress service at watford gap had ended weeks ago, but hazel murden still mourned its passing, and the little bit of glamour it conferred on her. most people in long Buckby, where hazel came from, worked in the pram factory, and her new job had been a little bit different. the watford gap service station — a brand-new concept for a brand-new motorway — had been the talk of the whole midlands area when it opened five years before, in 1960. a half-hour walk from the house where hazel lived with her mum and dad, watford gap was still the only place to eat out for miles around, and getting a job as a waitress there had offered a touch of elegance. But, after a brief flourish of napkins and shining cutlery, the management had decided to convert to a selfservice cafeteria. “travellers demand a quick bite on their way up and down the m1,” the general manager had said, back in the summer at a meeting of the entire staff. “we’ve identified that silver service is not the way forward; the future lies in quick meals for people in a hurry.” despite the change, hazel felt that a unique beacon of the

Watford Gap was still the only place to eat out for miles around 54 Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special

Illustration: Getty

the late shift was so great: it was like a world of its own, a world more free and more edgy than the daytime. fuzzy images of life in a london flat Began to creep into hazel’s imagination...

und

By Alison Carter modern age had sprung up near her own home town, and she liked it. at the time of the service station’s opening, she had commented to whoever would listen that their ordinary patch of england was now a sort of gateway between north and south. “you just go and look at it,” she told her mum. “it’s symbolic, that’s how i see it. we’re on a dividing line, a cusp.” her mum shook her head. “i’m very glad you’re bringing in a wage, love, but you don’t need

any more romantic ideas. you always were full of imagination.” her dad lowered his newspaper. “i can’t for the life of me see why they called it watford gap, anyhow. we’re more than 60 miles north of ruddy watford!” hazel laughed. “i like that about it, dad — the odd name. that’s what they call a talking point. it gives the place a bit of mystery.” mr murden snorted. hazel appreciated the modern look and feel of the

services, right from the beginning — bold concrete arching over the new sweep of motorway, gleaming formica and plastics everywhere, uniform petrol pumps and multi-coloured parked cars, all in their rows. she wished they could have kept on with the silver service, but her friend and colleague karen was less concerned. “at least you don’t have to wear the uniform no more,” she said. the two young women were arriving for a night shift one cold autumn evening. “that’s the silver lining. the bodice was tight, i found.”

But hazel had liked the black and white uniform, and now she had to wear a pinny, or more accurately a regulation overall, in a dull shade of red that did nothing for her complexion. despite her name, she was a redhead, with green eyes, the creamy skin that went with her hair colour, and a very slender figure. she laboured daily among sausage butties, chelsea buns and sugary tea, but struggled to gain weight. “me, i prefer the continental café way of doing it,” karen said, yanking open her locker. “it’s good for meeting people.” the sound of laughter filtered through from the cafeteria. “my goodness, a crowd at this hour? that’s a surprise. oh, hiya, mave.” the previous shift was filing out into the cloakroom, pulling their pinnies over their heads and gossiping. “hiya, karen. left-hand urn’s playing up again,” said mavis young, one of the girls on the previous shift. “nothing new under the sun then,” karen replied. “thanks for letting us know.” late nights at watford gap were rarely busy; motorway travel was by no means the 24-hour activity that it later became. But there wasn’t another eatery nearby, not one that opened into the night, and rugby and northampton didn’t have much to offer, either. so the gap served an unexpected need. as well as the trickle of hungry motorists and truck drivers, two other groups had gradually become regular Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special 55

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customers. First, there were the locals, who liked to soak up the atmosphere. Hazel often laughed at the way this group talked a lot about the new concept of Continental coffee, but ordered tea. Tea at sixpence a cup outsold coffee by a long way. And bacon and eggs was the most popular dish at two shillings and threepence. The English were not as adventurous as they liked to think.

The second group of customers — and this had been a surprise for the management — were rock bands, mostly men, who had “discovered” Watford Gap as a great place to hang out while on tour. Their reasons were not dissimilar to those of the locals: so few places were open after hours, and the new service station answered a need.

It was one of these, Hazel guessed, that greeted the new shift when it emerged, overalled, into the bright light of the cafeteria. Hazel saw a group of six or seven men bent over a far table, laughing. After a moment, a couple of them stood and sauntered up to the counter. They both had the kind of long hair, right down past their ears, that Hazel’s dad would have something to say about.

“Musicians, you think?”

Hazel hissed to Karen, who was standing beside her, both of them partly hidden by the glass warming cabinets that divided staff from customers.

“I don’t recognise either of them,” Karen whispered back.

She stepped sideways so as to be more visible. “Can I help you, sir?” she said.

“Well, there’s a question,” said the taller of the blokes in a southern accent. He was replying to Karen, but looking at Hazel. “I shouldn’t say this, I suppose, but the quality of the staff has risen quite a bit since I was last at the Gap.” Hazel knew that she didn’t need to respond to flirtation.

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Their manager had made that much clear. The late crowd was always a bit more ready with banter than the day crowd, and all the girls were used to batting back chat-up lines.

But this particular bloke was smiling such a nice smile that she decided not to get uppity with him, for now.

He was handsome, too — really handsome — with very dark hair, like Paul McCartney’s, and a sort of a lean and hungry look which she liked. It was a look that seemed common among the musicians who passed through.

“We aim to please,” she said politely. “What can I get you?”

“One of them strong coffees,” he said, “and a bone for me guitar.”

Hazel blinked at him and he laughed, a lovely, fag-

Dusty had all eaten Watford Gap bacon sandwiches and planted their rear ends on its plastic chairs fixed to the floor.

Musicians stopped on the way to concerts, but (it was said) that wasn’t the whole story: they actually made a point of rendezvousing here with their fellow band members or their manager, even meeting other well-known people just to socialise. Rumours abounded about songs written at Watford Gap, albums named in latenight sessions around the tables, and recording deals made. So far, Hazel hadn’t seen anybody celebrated, but it was early days. She felt that this was, at least, an upside to the closure of waitress service.

The shift dragged on. At about 11.30pm, Richie Cogan came in for his cup of tea and his usual

The late crowd was always a bit more ready with banter than the day crowd roughened laugh. “I play guitar,” he said. “It’s always with me.”

“Oh, like ‘a bone for me dog’,” said Hazel, laughing. “Yeah.”

Later, when she went to refresh the cutlery trays, Hazel couldn’t resist giving the young man’s party a quick glance.

They were sitting and talking, heads together, and they stayed that way for half an hour, until they rose to leave.

“None of them famous, then?” Karen asked Hazel softly.

“I don’t think so,” Hazel replied. “There’s quite a lot of them, for a band.”

“Ask the name of their group, Haze, will you?”

“I daren’t,” Hazel said. “I never do that.”

Most of the night-shift workers — certainly the young ones — lived in constant hope of seeing somebody famous. To Hazel’s certain knowledge, The Rolling Stones, Cliff Richard and

fried egg in a roll. “Sunny side down!” he called out over the hot plates. “Hiya, Hazel.”

Hazel had reached for the egg boxes the moment she saw Richie’s stocky figure come striding into the cafeteria.

Richie was part of the furniture of her life. They had been in the same class at primary and secondary school, they lived near each other in Buckby and now Richie worked on the Watford Gap petrol pumps. They liked a good argument, the two of them, and were always disagreeing about something.

Hazel’s mum said that they made these tiffs up, just for the fun of it, which Hazel knew was nonsense. Richie was talkative, bumptious and untidy, but pleasantly familiar to her, and now that he worked at the service station, he helped relieve the boredom every now and then, until a rock star showed up.

“You really want exactly the same again, Cogan?” Hazel asked, holding up two eggs in one hand. “You don’t yearn for some variety in your life?”

“Same every time,” he said, nodding and grinning his enormous grin. He was a big kid, really, was Richie, and like a big kid, he stuck to his habits.

He lived in the next street to Hazel’s, and they had been sparring partners on the football pitch (or at least the sloping field that served as a pitch), the playground and later the pub. Karen sometimes said that Hazel would miss Richie if either of them moved away, because she’d have nobody to fight viciously with, but Hazel said that she’d be glad to see the back of him.

“He’s an idiot,” she’d say.

“That’s Cogan’s problem.”

“Burnt the place down yet?”

Richie asked, standing by the counter with his arms crossed.

His forearms, under their dusting of fine blond hair, were usually stained a shade of oil brown from his job, and also from the car he was always tinkering with. Richie was fascinated by his car.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Hazel replied sharply, cracking an egg in each hand with one deft movement, and dropping them into the fat.

“Well, this is how I see it.

During the day in that classy restaurant they could keep an eye on you, but now there’s just a few of you working in the wee small hours, anything might go wrong. Like the time you got Paul Wilson’s fingers caught in Miss Inchborne’s classroom door. Squashed ’em flat.”

“Which never would’ve happened if you’d not made him chase me, Richie Cogan, as I’ve said 100 times.”

“I don’t mind if you’re accident-prone. It’s sweet.”

“I’m not accident prone.

You’re full of rubbish.”

He gave her his lopsided, ironic smile, and she shook her

head and raised her eyes to heaven. “You are such a child,” she said.

“I know, and as such I’m still growing, so hurry up with those eggs.”

Hazel laughed. In the end, he did often make her laugh.

A week later, Hazel saw the musician with the long hair again. This time he was alone, and because he stayed chatting to her for a few minutes while she cut him a teacake, she gathered the courage to ask, “So, you play in a band then?”

“I’m a session musician.

That means —” “Oh, I know what it means,” Hazel interrupted. “You play for lots of bands.”

He smiled. “I can hear the disappointment in your voice.

You were hoping I was a Stone or a Kink.”

“No, I wasn’t,” she said, and felt immediately embarrassed.

Her denial had sounded overeager; she had probably given away the fact that she thought he was rather lovely. She had clumsily revealed that it didn’t matter a jot to her if he was famous or not.

“I like playing all over,” he said, “more than sticking with one band, especially because I get to drive up and down this fine new motorway, and call in here at The Gap, and now I even get my teacake toasted by a genuinely pretty girl into the bargain.”

Hazel blushed. Then she yelled, “Oh, Lord, the grill!” and flung herself backwards to where black smoke was issuing from the toasting oven. When she turned around, he was laughing.

“I suppose I’ll just have the coffee and the conversation, then,” he said, and that was how it began, how she slowly fell for a travelling guitar player.

It was a funny kind of courtship. They met whenever Dave Burton travelled from north and south and back again to perform. It took Hazel some

weeks even to admit to herself that they were courting, and she was well aware that her mum and dad wouldn’t necessarily look kindly on it. They’d want to know where Dave came from and what his prospects were, and they’d not consider the music profession as “prospects”. For her part, Hazel knew quite enough to find herself going crazy for Dave. He was funny and handsome and talented, and he liked her a lot. Soon it was obvious to the small number of staff on Hazel’s night shift that they were proper keen on each other.

Karen was impressed. “He’s the romantic sort, I can tell,” she said. “I bet he signs up for concerts just so as to bring him in here more often,” she said. “I bet if they say, ‘Play Exeter and then play Croydon’, he fiddles it so as to slot in

looked forward to the next time he sauntered in across the swirly carpet, looked around to make sure her manager wasn’t there, and gave her a lingering kiss over the counter. That was why the late shift was so great: it was like a world of its own, a world more free and more edgy than the daytime.

Fuzzy images of life in a London flat began to creep into Hazel’s imagination. She had never set foot in London, and wanted to.

The other girls thought Dave was dreamy, naturally. The blokes at the petrol station, less so. Richie and his cronies had a natural antipathy to the rock bands who passed through.

“They think they are so... groovy,” Ted Francis said one evening, leaning on the cafeteria counter beside Richie.

His tone was sarcastic.

“That’s because they are,”

The other girls thought Dave was dreamy, naturally. The blokes at the petrol station, less so Bradford, in between.”

Hazel blushed. “Don’t be daft,” she said, but she hoped it was true. She imagined Dave’s battered atlas of the United Kingdom lying on the seat of his van, and him looking to see how he could fix it to call in at the services. One day, she told herself, she’d ask him if he did plan like that; for now, she just

Karen said.

“I’d be as groovy as any Beatle,” Ted said, “if I could wear a leather jacket instead of this overall.” He took the cheese sandwich he’d paid for and stalked out.

“Are you wanting a sandwich too, Cogan?” Hazel asked.

“Er, no ta.”

“Then why are you here?”

“On a break. Is that a problem for you, Murden?” He drummed his fingers on the counter. “I did a retune on my old car yesterday,” he said.

Hazel flicked her dishcloth with impatience. “Not that car again,” she said. “You never stop going on about that car.”

“It’s a lovely motor, Hazel. I’m good with it.”

Karen laughed as she walked by with a stack of trays. “He has a car like other boys have a comic book collection, or a notebook with train numbers written in it.”

“It’s all you think about, Rich,” Hazel said.

Richie turned away to face the tables. “That’s not true,” he said. “Don’t be stupid.”

“It’s a nice car,” Hazel conceded. Richie didn’t deserve to be laughed at. “I like green.”

“Listen, are you girls coming to the dance at Daventry FC?” Richie said after a moment, turning round.

“Aren’t we working Saturday?” Hazel asked Karen.

“No, I checked,” said Richie.

“It’s Saturday week and you’re both on a night off.”

“I’ll be tired,” Hazel said.

“Fridays are busy, and we don’t get off ’til eight, and I’m still bad at getting to sleep in the day.”

“You’ll never go out if you think like that,” Richie said.

“Go on.”

Hazel flicked the dishcloth towards him. “Why, are you going to ask me for the last dance, Cogan?” she asked.

He strode off towards the exit. “Not in a month of Sundays,” he called back.

“Can’t stand the sight of you, and you’re no great dancer. I’d do a lot better with Karen.”

A few days later, Hazel managed to snatch a full halfhour with Dave Burton. It was becoming an unspoken rule that someone would cover for Hazel, just for a few minutes, if she had a chance of time alone Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special 57

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with Dave. She was so grateful; she reckoned that she might be falling in love, which was something entirely new to her.

The two of them usually went for a quick walk, out of the front of The Gap and round to the loading bays of the cafeteria.

It wasn’t glamorous, but they were alone, and he was such an amazing kisser.

“D’you know,” he said, gazing into her eyes, “people — I mean artistic people — talk about this place all the time.”

“Do they?” Hazel had taken off her pinny, which was strictly against the rules, but she had a new polo-neck to show off to Dave, a fashionable ribbed black number that had cost an arm and a leg from a catalogue.

She had her back pressed to the wall and he was leaning over her. She felt that this was where she belonged.

He went on, “It’s kind of... like a place where a musician, or a poet, can be anonymous, and really be themselves as a result.

It’s creative, even. I met this girl, a singer, at a concert in Camden, who said she started writing her novel here.”

‘No! Really?”

“Yeah. She said this place is so isolated, and yet so... real. Jimi Hendrix thought it was a club.”

“What?”

“It’s true. My agent told me.”

“You’ve got an agent?” He was so exotic!

“You have to.” He kissed her again, and she felt the brickwork of the wall against her back. She hoped Dave would notice the new sweater, but he was looking at her face, which was just fine. Men weren’t good at noticing clothes; she knew that.

“Jimi kept hearing, my agent told me, about the ‘Blue Boar’ where all the UK dudes came, and eventually he said he wanted to see the joint when he next came to Britain.

He’d no idea Blue Boar is a company running a motorway service station!”

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“I don’t believe you.”

Dave shrugged. “It’s true. He might come — keep your eyes peeled. And it is almost like a club, with all the artists coming through here. You’re catering to the stars, Hazel. Hey, you’re kind of a muse.”

Hazel looked up “muse” in the family dictionary later that morning, and she liked the idea of being one.

She mentioned to Dave the possibility of his staying around for the Saturday dance in Daventry, if his schedule allowed. It was the Thursday before the event and they were sitting gazing at each other

seemed needy to ask for his details when he’d only just promised to provide them. He was not a man you hurried or nagged; he wasn’t a “normal” man like her dad, who was pestered daily to take out the bins or wipe his feet. Dave was an artist and a free spirit. But if she just took a tiny peek in that wallet, she could post a card to arrive in good time for his birthday, two weeks hence. Dave had said he “didn’t really bother with birthdays” and would probably just go with a mate to a pub in London. But Hazel wasn’t fooled; nobody liked to be ignored on their special day.

She had managed to persuade him to tell her the date of his birthday across the cafeteria table in a hidden corner.

He shook his head sadly. “I’m booked Saturday at a club in East London somewhere.”

“Where do you live in London?” Hazel asked.

“I’ve got a pad in Highbury.

It’s all right — not big. You’ll have to come and visit one day, if your parents don’t lock you up for even suggesting it.”

“They don’t rule me,” Hazel said.

“Well, thank goodness for that,” he said. “I’ll have to give you my address.” He grinned his gorgeous grin and went to the phone box because he had to ring his agent. Hazel noticed his wallet, sticking out of the inside pocket of his leather jacket which hung on the back of his chair, still warm from his body.

She had managed to persuade him to tell her the date of his birthday, and if she knew his address she could send a card.

The idea thrilled her in a small way — a token of her love propped up on his mantelpiece in Highbury, London. But she didn’t want to push Dave; it

Then she would follow the card, at some point, when he had space for the visit. That was the next phase in their relationship, and her mum and dad really didn’t rule her. In Dave’s flat, and in his arms, she’d joke about that birthday card. “I’m jealous of a card,” she’d say. “It saw your home before I did!”

Hazel tugged the wallet out and memorised Dave’s address: 34 Ravens Crescent, Highbury.

Then she tucked the wallet back and waited for her last minutes with her boyfriend and her last few kisses. vvv The dance at Daventry footie ground was like all local dances. There was some good music played but it was populated by boys she’d known since they were in nappies. She danced with a few of the boys, and with Richie Cogan in the end, because he wasn’t dancing with anybody else and she thought that was a shame. He was a nice bloke and a pal, despite being an idiot. All the while she was thinking

about Dave Burton, and wishing he could be there.

Karen drank a bit too much — she liked to have a good time.

As Hazel crossed the sticky floor with Karen propped against her shoulder, Richie hurried over to them. “Is she all right?” he asked.

“She will be,” Hazel said.

“Shall I carry her?” he asked, reaching out those helpfully solid arms of his which, for once, were as clean as a whistle.

“You’re a bit small for this job.”

Hazel gave him a patient look. “Into the ladies? Don’t show yourself up more than usual, Rich.”

He grinned. “Fair enough.

I just saw the two of you looking like Laurel and Hardy in trouble.”

By the time Hazel had sorted Karen out inside the echoing ladies’ loo, with water, coffee, a long sit-down and a lot of patience, the last bus had left.

It was nearly an hour’s walk to Karen’s house in Welton, a village to the north-east, and then Hazel would somehow have to get herself back to Buckby. She pondered, as she stood with Karen outside the ground, about the irony of the huge M1 passing across their landscape, but the lack of transport for two girls trying to reach home. Then she decided that if they could walk to Karen’s, Karen’s mum would surely provide a settee for the night. Hazel wrapped her coat around Karen, buttoned up her own cardigan, and the two young women set off. Then, in the distance, they saw the low

shape of Richie Cogan’s beloved old car. It had always looked to Hazel to be more of a composite than one single car — bits of scrap that Richie had access to.

The car came to a groaning halt some yards further along the street, and the two women tottered towards it.

“Ladies!” he called. “You’re out late!”

“We’ve not much choice,” Hazel called back. Karen groaned faintly at the loudness of her friend’s voice.

“The last bus went.”

“I was just passing,” Richie said. “You’re in luck. Hop in.

Welton for Karen, yes?” He climbed out, and as he opened the back passenger door, he said, “Don’t smear the seats.”

“Good grief, Rich,” Hazel said.

“As if we would.”

“Well, my pride and joy, my pride and joy,” he said. “You all right yourself, Hazel?”

“I’m fine. It’s her.” Hazel wedged Karen against the end of the back seat, and they set off. Richie drove Karen home and then set off for Buckby with Hazel beside him in the front. All the way, he went on about his car, talking 19 to the dozen until Hazel said, “Is that all you know about, Cogan?

This engine?”

He turned a corner into her street, and said nothing more.

“Thanks, Rich,” she said at last, climbing out. “Good thing you were going past the ground. Saved my bacon.”

A few days after that, Dave Burton came back to Watford Gap and told Hazel that he had begun to write a song about

her. For her, in fact.

“What did I say about a muse?” he said. He had arrived in the early hours, excited and restless after an “amazing” concert in Glasgow. He had led her outside at the end of her shift, and there was more kissing. “Hop in the back,” he said after a while. “It’s chilly out here.”

“All right,” Hazel said. She wondered if that atlas would be in there.

“I need to be alone with you,” Dave said. “Hey, I can play you a few bars of your song.”

They curled up in the back of the van together, and he really did — he got out the guitar in the cramped space and he played. Of course, there was no amp, so Hazel could just hear the melody faintly from the strings. And so far Dave had only had time to write a section of the chorus, but it had Hazel’s name right there in it, there was a definite tune, and she was thrilled.

He put the guitar aside and

to be standoffish. She wanted to show how committed she was to the two of them, while also taking care. Boys — men — were easily carried away, but Hazel was no fool. Love was wonderful, but only a silly girl took risks. She tried to divert his attention, while reaching up to touch his beautiful face. “Listen, I could come to one of your concerts, Dave, or I could come to Highbury. I’ve got leave owing.”

He rearranged his shirt collar. “Yeah, that’d be amazing,” he said, picking up the cover of his guitar.

She didn’t want him to feel aggrieved. “It’s the 10th now, and I think I can get some days off from the 13th, if that suits you. If you’re not passing this way, I can easily get the train.”

He was shuffling forward on his bottom to the doors of the van, through which a cold draught blew. He glanced back at Hazel, who had begun to shiver, and did up his leather jacket. “I’m not sure of my

Love was wonderful but only a silly girl took risks. She tried to divert his attention they sat side by side, and soon — naturally — they were kissing. Hazel found herself on the floor of the van with a coiled cable pressing in the small of her back. But it didn’t matter a jot; the warmth of love eased all pain. Her rock boyfriend with the dark eyes was whispering sweet nothings into her ear, and he’d just offered her a song.

When his hand went to the hem of her sweater, she wriggled out from under him.

“Oh, Hazel, I’m so crazy about you,” he said, sitting up, a hint of a sulk in his voice.

“Oh, me too, Dave,” she said, and she lay there looking up at him, smiling. She didn’t want

schedule,” he said. “Next time I come, let’s look at our diaries.

That’s a good idea.”

Hazel smiled. She loved that fact that he thought she had a diary! Not enough happened in Long Buckby to warrant a girl owning a diary. But one day, when they were finally, properly, together, she’d take pleasure in choosing one every December and comparing it with Dave’s.

He realised at that moment that he had to dash off — he was going to his parents’ place north of London for Sunday lunch.

Hazel climbed out of the van.

She stood and watched it roar away, impressing on her mind

a memory of Dave, an image of his back with the black leather of his jacket taut across it. She was freezing now, and realised she’d left her own coat in Dave’s van. It was far too cold in the bleak dawn to walk home, or to wait for the first bus of the morning, so she walked across the petrol station forecourt, back towards the cafeteria building.

Somebody, she knew, would have something warm in their locker that she could borrow.

Suddenly, she felt very tired.

“Hazel Murden, you are going the wrong way!”

It was the deep voice of Richie Cogan, who came strolling out of the pay kiosk, his hair untidy. He’d probably been sleeping with his head on the till, Hazel thought.

“What a perceptive boy you are,” she said.

“Blimey, you’re cold,” he said, and he took off the ancient pea coat he was so fond of, the one which had a faint tang of petrol to it even after it had been cleaned. He put it around her shoulders.

“But you’ll need it,” Hazel said. “You’re coming on shift, aren’t you?”

“Na. Sun’ll be up in a bit.” He looked down at her. “I can’t have you cold, Hazel.”

His voice was unexpectedly gentle, and for a moment neither of them said anything, until Richie went on, “If you go off sick with a cold, who will make my egg sarnie for me? That’s what I’m thinking.”

He hesitated. “Your rock star’s left again?”

“He’s a busy man.”

Hazel looked down the exit road where the van had just vanished.

“Yeah,” Richie said. “Pop music’s hard work.”

“You’re jealous.”

He gave a short laugh, but he said nothing.

“Thanks for this, Cogan,” Hazel said, touching the collar of the pea coat.

“You look quite good in it, Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special 59

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although it’s six sizes too big,” he joked.

She saw Dave’s picture in a magazine a few days later. It was a music paper that Deirdre, one of the girls on her shift, had on postal subscription.

“Isn’t that your lover boy?”

Deirdre asked Hazel, slapping the open magazine down on the counter.

She turned bright red. “Might be,” she said, smiling with pleasure at the sight of him, and at her close connection with him.

“It’s a piece about session musicians,” Deirdre said. “It says Dave Burton played a new song in a studio session in London, one of his first successful compositions, and it was written for a very special girl.”

Hazel almost flung herself at the page, devouring the words.

“It does say that!”

“Is that you?” Deirdre was all admiration. “Look, Haze, what are you doing waiting for that lad? He’s handsome, and he’s an earner, by the look of this. Can I just ask why you’re not after him like a dog after a rabbit? I’d be down to wherever he lives his rock star life before you could say Carnaby Street.”

Deirdre was one of the more fun-loving girls at Watford Gap. She was famous for counting her boyfriends on the fingers of her hands and her feet. But Hazel knew she was right. Why was she not going after what she wanted, after what both she and Dave had to have in the end? Yes, they were both working people, but what did that matter when a person was in love? They were young, with time on their side, but even young people hadn’t endless time to be happy. She stared down at the page. There, across Dave’s body, was slung the very guitar she had listened to in his van! There were the full lips she’d kissed so often and with such joy! vvv First, Hazel posted the birthday

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card, so that it would reach 34 Ravens Crescent before her.

Then she asked for, and got, three days’ leave. She packed a small case, told her mum and dad fearlessly where she was going, steadfastly ignored their expressions of horror, and caught a train.

It was quite a hike to Ravens Crescent, Highbury, especially for a woman who’d never been to London before. Hazel’s journey time was increased by periods spent staring at the Tube map and hunting down directions. She arrived at dusk in front of a pleasant-looking terrace in the middle of a row, and rang the bell.

It was Dave who opened the door. “Hazel!” He looked so flabbergasted that, though exhausted, Hazel burst out

away from her, his head in the fridge. She felt overwhelmingly excited to be finally here, with him, in a strange place, to have taken the plunge. “You bring me here, numbskull!” She sprung away from him, and Dave straightened up, bringing nothing out from his fridge. She leaned back extravagantly against the worktop, crossing her feet in the pair of white boots she’d rushed into Northampton to buy for the visit. “I thought, ‘Why not?’

I thought, ‘life’s too short, Hazel Murden’. I suppose I’ve been listening to your view on the world. Follow your dreams!”

He was getting cups from a cupboard, and she gazed at his beautiful back. “I won’t get in the way, Dave,” she went on.

“I remember you said you were

She gave him a long kiss on the lips as she passed him in the narrow passage laughing. “Surprise!” she said.

He blinked a few times, then stood aside so she could enter.

She gave him a long kiss on the lips as she passed him in the narrow passage. On a small hall table she dropped her handful of maps and tickets and, still holding her case, entered a surprisingly tidy living room.

She dropped the case and turned to see Dave framed in the doorway.

“I was half expecting to find a girlfriend here,” she said. “A fashion model, I thought. Or even a wife! Can I make a cuppa?” She was giggling as he filled the kettle.

“It’s been a long trip.”

“Oh, no girls,” he said. He crossed the floor and opened a green fridge, peering inside.

“What brings you here, Hazel?”

Hazel burst out laughing again, left the tea caddy and walked over to put her arms around him. He was facing

busy for the next few weeks. I’d love to see a studio, but I’ll also take myself off for a look at the West End. They only gave me three days off. This is thrilling!”

“Three days.” His voice was flat, and when he turned to face her, Hazel realised that, apart from the snatched kiss, it was the first time she’d seen his face since he opened the front door.

“I’ll get some milk from the corner shop,” he said.

Hazel nodded and smiled and, as he left the room, idly opened the green fridge, where half a bottle of silver top sat in the door. “Dave, there’s some...”

But the front door closed.

Hazel sat on the sofa waiting for him, her knees together, feeling as if she was in a kind of limbo. She was elated, but also in an odd way felt uneasy. Dave was such an enthusiastic, passionate person, but today he seemed lack-lustre. She stood and paced around the living

room for a minute or so, trying to get to know the man and his real life for the first time, wondering how to raise his spirits when he came back. She saw, lying on his guitar case on the floor, a sheaf of music manuscript and lifted it up to read the lyrics.

The front door creaked open and Dave slowly came back into the room.

“Jean,” she said. “Who’s Jean?”

He frowned, put the bottle of milk down and took the pages from her. “It’s just a name,” he said, “in a song.”

“But this is my song,” Hazel said softly. “I’m not good at reading music but I played the recorder, and this is my tune.

I mean, this is the tune you wrote for me.”

He looked down at the page. “It really needed a onesyllable name. I realised that, later on. Hazel never really fitted... never scanned.”

“Oh,” Hazel said, and sat down again on the sofa.

He stood at some distance from her. “I’m not really sure why you came to London, Hazel,” he said after a pause.

“I mean, it’s nice of you to come down... but —” “Dave,” Hazel interrupted, but she hesitated. A chilly block was forming in her heart.

Now that the initial thrill had calmed down, she took in his whole manner. He had been odd, reluctant even. She had kissed him; she had done all the laughing.

“Are we... am I your..?” Hazel swallowed, and the movement hurt her throat. If she asked a straight question, was she going to get a straight answer, and did she want it?

His mouth opened and closed twice. “It’s nice to see you, Hazel. The thing is, I’ve got a lot on.”

“A lot on?”

“With the work, you know.”

She said nothing, so he went on, trying to put a bright edge into his voice. “It’s really great,

catching up when I pass by The Gap. You know that.”

“Catching up?” Hazel couldn’t help repeating his words. Her world was beginning slowly to crumble and she hadn’t any new words of her own to use.

“I really like you,” he said.

“You’re very pretty, like I said.”

He smiled, warming to his theme. “I love the whole idea of a girl on the motorway, you know. It’s kind of... Beatles.” He waved the manuscript pages in the air feebly. “Hence the song.

There’s quite a well-known band who’ll maybe record this.

My agent is working on —” “I’m an idea?”

“No!” He shook his head vehemently. “God, no, nobody should be an idea. It’s great to spend time with you, and obviously convenient for both of —” “Convenient!” Hazel had stood up and taken a step towards him. He seemed shorter, somehow, than before, and she noticed that his hair, under the light of the overhead bulb, had a sheen to it that was oddly false. She wondered if he actually dyed his hair.

He was shaking his head harder. “No, stupid word, ‘convenient’. Not convenient.

It’s more... a romantic concept.”

He looked at her, a new flicker in his eyes. Hazel noticed suddenly that Dave was terrible at expressing himself, for a songwriter. “Don’t you think it has its own romance — us, the M1, all... all that?” He was searching for words in a rather pathetic way. It reminded Hazel suddenly of schooldays, little Liam Gregory in Miss Inchborne’s class, unable to explain himself about some wrong-doing, and Richie Cogan stepping in and doing Liam’s talking for him. Dave was battling on. “We... we kind of exist in one place, at only certain moments in time.

That’s like a song.” He blinked.

“No, bad analogy.

Not a song.

Like a poem. Poetic in a new, er, way.” He turned away, and slid cups noisily along the work surface of the kitchenette.

“Look — this is embarrassing — I have to go out now. It’s... I’ve got a booking. Feel free to make yourself tea and... and so on.”

“Have you got a girlfriend, Dave?”

“Me? No.” He looked relieved at her question, pleased to be able to give a better impression.

“No, I’m no two-timer. It’s been great to have this thing with you, at the service station. It’s groovy — man and woman without ties, attraction and creativity among the dust of the motorway, among the cheap food and the crowded toilets and the travel sweets in tins. It’s got a great irony. Hence the song, actually.”

“It’s not that good a song, Dave, just so you know. And today, I am not very interested in irony. Is that what you think

I got to go to the seaside when I was little — it is something special. It’s glamorous, Dave.

I know that for rock stars, it’s less than nothing; it’s a bit of a laugh. But to —” Hazel stopped, and glared at him. “D’you know, it would have at least been interesting if I’d turned up here to find you with another girl! I’d have been the ‘other woman’.

You’d have had something about you. As it is, to you I’m just... I’m nothing. I’m your girl for a quick fumble, in an ironic way. You think you’re the amazing one.”

Dave stood there, his leather jacket and his hair both glistening too black, too glossy in the electric light. Hazel felt a fool, but she also felt that she was taller than him, and that she’d grown up. It was to be Dave Burton’s 28th birthday in a day or so, but she was the adult in the room.

It was then that she caught sight of the birthday card, with

She’d kissed the stamp and posted it with a smile and a spring in her step of the place where I work, where we met?”

He shrugged. “It’s a service station.”

“To you, it’s cheap.

To you, it’s oh, so ironic.

To kids on their way to the seaside — and I remember the very few times

its picture of a pretty red-head in a mini-dress on the front, a slender girl that Hazel had thought looked a little like herself. She’d kissed the stamp and posted it with a smile and a spring in her step as she approached the post-box. She reached for the card, which lay

flat on a chest of drawers. In her hand was only the picture side. Underneath lay the other part, the one without the picture, and on the back of it was scribbled: New plectrum; E string in case; Paers soap; jam, marg.

“You can’t spell ‘Pears’,” she said, and picked up her bag and walked out. vvv Hazel was back at Euston station before she realised that she had left her ticket on Dave Burton’s hall table. She certainly hadn’t enough money to buy another single ticket, and as she stood outside a phone-box at the end of the platforms she didn’t know who to ring, so she wandered outside to watch the traffic thundering along the Euston Road. Her parents would both be in “told you so” mode, and she felt too deflated to tackle them. Three red buses rumbled past, all with the same route number, and then three black cabs. Hazel knew she ought to appreciate being in the middle of the capital, but she couldn’t.

Two cars like Richie’s sped from right to left, both with young men leaning back in the driving seat, and she thought of Richie Cogan, of when he’d deposited her at home after that dance in Daventry. It seemed months ago, but it wasn’t. How drunk Karen had been! Hadn’t Richie said, in that throwaway tone of his, that he was “just passing”?

But how could he have been?

He’d left the football ground earlier, and would have headed back to Long Buckby. Hazel had no idea why she was standing there, thinking of a dance at Daventry, when her emotions and dreams were in tatters, but it struck her that Richie had come back that night, aware that she was battling with a tipsy Karen, suspecting that she’d be stranded. He could have been anywhere in the interim — sitting idling the engine round Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special 61

Northbound,

Southbound

a corner, or getting most of the way home and then thinking of them. She went back to the phone-box and thought about ringing Cogan now — she knew his number after scout-hut teenage parties, village fêtes, uneventful Saturday afternoons around the shops of Northampton. But she couldn’t call Richie. It would be taking advantage, and that was something she had had enough of. Dave had taken advantage of her in a way that was breathtakingly callous. He had never intended to offer anything beyond a fling, and a fling — this was the real insult — at his own convenience, only when he was in transit, only when he had nothing better to do. To him, she was something to fill a gap in the schedule, to jolly up a few idle hours between York and Winchester, Chester and Broadstairs. Unable to face calling her parents, Hazel rang the cafeteria and asked for Karen.

“How is London Town?” Karen asked cheerfully over the sound of the urn coming to the boil.

Hazel tried to say something, but for the first time in that long, tiring day, was unable to get words out. She sobbed and Karen said, “Haze, what is it, love? Haze?” Karen’s voice grew faint. “Richie, I’m busy. Get your own bread, will you?”

Then Hazel heard a fumbling at the end of the line, and Richie Cogan’s voice, deep, loud and clear. “So where are you, Hazel?” he said. Hazel felt a trickle of heat begin to seep into her body. “Just give me an idea,” he went on. He sounded so calm.

“I’ll get myself back, Cogan,” she said in a weak voice.

“For God’s sake,” he said, “you’re not going to try to argue now.”

Hazel told him she was at Euston, and he told her to find a café to sit in.

“One that stays open,” he said, his voice soothing. “Like Watford Gap, yes?”

Hazel peered through damp lashes along the Euston Road, and identified a place.

She didn’t even have the necessary energy to fight with Richie Cogan, which was usually meat and drink to her.

“See you in about two hours,” he said.

“I’ve got a new serpentine belt.”

Hazel could hear Karen jumping up and down in the background.

“Shut up about the car,” Karen was saying. “What’s up with Haze?”

“What’s a serpentine belt?”

Hazel said quietly. She wanted Richie to keep talking.

“I’ll tell you when I pick you up. You got money for tea?”

“Um, yes.”

“Get tea. All right?”

“All right, Richie.” vvv Richie Cogan drove far too fast down the M1. He didn’t tell Hazel that at the time. At the time, he bundled her up in his

It took Richie another month to dare to ask Hazel Murden out. She said, “Yes”. It felt so odd, agreeing to “go out” with a bloke she’d climbed trees with, and with Richie Cogan at that!

He took every care to make their evening perfect.

“You’ve gone to a lot of trouble,” Hazel said as he

Hazel peered through damp lashes along the Euston Road precious car rugs and set off back, and before midnight Hazel was at her parents’ house, and watching her mother trying not to give a lecture. Hazel had given Richie a brief Highbury, and he had said not a word about how she’d been taken in, or how she’d learned lessons. He listened, and then rattled on about the car all the way home, and the sound of it soothed her. vvv

drew back her chair, at the only Chinese restaurant within 20 miles.

“Never take a person for granted,” Richie said. “Are you warm enough?”

She laughed. “I’m fine.”

“A person should never assume a person will stay the same,” he said as he sat down. “When you went off to London, I thought that might be it, that you might get a taste for it. I knew it might happen — the best-looking girl in Buckby.”

He picked up the pair of chopsticks and looked at them, puzzled, for a moment, then put them down. Hazel was grateful that he wasn’t mentioning Dave Burton; not once.

“You know, I talk about that stupid car —” “It’s not stupid.”

“I talk on and on because I’m nervous.”

“Of me?”

“It was all right when we were at school. But later...”

Richie sighed. “I talked about paintwork and carburetors as an alternative to saying what I... how I...” He hailed the waiter. “Whatever the young lady wants,” he said firmly.

“You make me feel like Princess Anne,” Hazel said.

“And why not? There’s more than one way to treat a girl,” he said. “Will you go out with me again?”

“We’ve only just got here, Cogan.”

“Even so,” he said. “Will you?”

Hazel smiled. “I expect I will,” she said.

THE END © Alison Carter, 2016 Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special 63

Illustration: Getty

64 Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special

By steve Beresford

Primes The

Of Life

N

ew Year’s eve, 1999 — age 31 “I’ve just had a brilliant idea.” Larry was half-drunk already and there was still an hour before midnight.

“Oh, yes?” Gemma Markham was finding it hard to be enthusiastic.

Technically, the whole Dawn of the New Millennium thing shouldn’t be happening until next year — 2000 into 2001, but everyone was more concerned with the 000s-thing instead. Although the lack of date accuracy wasn’t entirely the reason for her lack of enthusiasm. Hardly even made a dent on the real reason. She gave Larry a sideways glance. “What idea is that then?”

He grinned. “Let’s get, you know, married!”

And Gemma’s heart exploded.

Just not in a good way.

They were standing in the Head of Geography’s back garden, surrounded by teachers, spouses of teachers and friends of teachers.

Gemma was a maths teacher. Larry was a physics teacher. Both taught at Menton Road High School.

Gemma hadn’t been looking forward to the celebration. Parties weren’t really her thing. She’d dragged Larry outside where the noise was slightly less deafening.

She hadn’t thought parties were Larry’s thing either, but maybe the whole end-of-one-era-start-of-anew-era atmosphere had got to

him — hence the continuing appearance of lager bottles in his hand.

“Married?” Gemma tried hard not to cry. “You’re joking, right?”

“Nooo, no way. Let’s do it. First thing tomorrow. Well, maybe the day after.” He frowned. “Are churches shut on New Year’s Day? Well, soon anyway. Soon as possible. What do you think?”

It was definitely not the most romantic proposal in history and it certainly hadn’t come at the right time. They’d been dating for two years, and Gemma was pretty certain they weren’t going to make it to three.

“I think you’re too tipsy to think straight.”

“Am not.” He swigged from his latest bottle. “But I’m getting there...”

“We can’t get married, Larry.”

become suddenly sober. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing’s going...” Gemma stopped. Oh, heck, why not tell him now? “I’ve been offered a new job.”

“A new job? Where?

Doing what?”

“Teaching maths, as usual. But it’s in, erm... Chicago.”

“Chicago? In America?”

“I was going to tell you, but I only got confirmation a couple of weeks ago and...”

“A couple of weeks?” “... and I didn’t want to spoil Christmas and New Year. I was planning to tell you next week.”

Planning to tell him, actually, when she finally managed to summon the courage.

“But, Chicago? And what about me?”

“Well, that’s the thing...”

It had gone pretty much

THIS WAS THe CHANCe OF A LIFeTIMe, AND TOO GOOD TO PASS uP. IT MIGHT NeveR COMe AGAIN...

She’d tried to explain to him.

“I’m in the prime of my life. And I’ve been offered the chance of a lifetime. You remember my friend Jo?” Gemma had been at school with Jo. “She’s been out there for six years.” Got married to a Chicago man. And she’d called Gemma with news of a job at the local college.

“I can’t pass this up. I might never get an opportunity like this again.

And we’re not exactly the perfect couple, are we?”

“I thought we were,” Larry said.

“I’ve just asked you to marry me.”

“You haven’t even got a ring.”

“Well, no.”

“So it was a spur of the moment thing.”

“Well, yes. But even so...”

That was Larry all over. Always grinning. Always spontaneous.

Never particularly serious about anything. Including, she had

Gemma’s heart exploded. Just not in a good way “Can.” “No, we can’t.”

“Don’t you want to?”

No, she didn’t. But she didn’t want to be quite that blunt, not here, not now. This wasn’t how she had planned this at all.

“It’s not the right time, Larry.”

“How so?”

“It just isn’t.”

“Hold up.” He put his lager bottle down in the rockery, appearing to

how she expected after that — downhill, fast.

The New Year arrived — she heard the fireworks — but Gemma was already back home by then.

Luckily, although they did spend a lot of time together, they hadn’t quite done the whole, proper moving-in-together. So her flat was still her own. When Larry decided to leave the party, he could go home to his own house.

recently begun to think, even her, despite the obvious connection that had brought them together.

“I want to go, Larry. To Chicago.”

“I could come.”

“And I’d like to go by myself.”

“Oh.” “It’s just something I have to do.

Something I want to do.”

Almost two months later, at the end of February, just before her next birthday, Gemma was at the Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special 65

Primes The

Of Life

airport. Her parents went to see her off, tearfully hugging her. But Larry didn’t turn up. She hadn’t heard from him for ages, not even a brief message to say good luck.

So that was the end of that. Aged 31, Gemma Markham set off alone on what she assumed would be a grand adventure to a foreign land. vvv Menton Road HigH ScHool, 1991 — age 23 “Have we met before?”

Gemma Markham examined the man in the staff room and tried to place him. Late 20s, maybe. Blond, unkempt hair.

Surfer type. Accent was posh Brummie. He looked vaguely familiar and he was giving her a funny feeling in her tum.

“I don’t know. Have we?”

The man thrust out his hand and shook hers forcefully.

“Lawrence Archer.” He grinned.

“Physics Department.”

“Hello, Lawrence. I’m Gemma.

Gemma Markham. I’m just starting in the Maths Department.”

“A mathematician, eh? I had you pegged for English. It’s the dress, I suppose.” He gave it a brief study.

“Very, erm, Thomas Hardy.”

She’d bought the dress specially for her first day. She’d thought it was ideal. Schoolteacher-ly.

Dignified yet fashionable.

Apparently not.

The man shrugged and laughed.

“And it’s Larry, really.”

“Larry. Right.”

“Lawrence makes me sound like I should be on the back of a camel.”

“Hhmm?”

“You know, Lawrence Of Arabia.”

“Oh, I see. Yes. So, Larry —” she nodded down, to where they were still attached — “could I have my hand back, please?”

“What? Oh, right!” He finally let go. “Yes, sorry and all that. So you’re old Bill’s replacement then?”

“I believe I am. I’ve never actually met old Bill, though.” Mr Masen to give him his full title. “Although I’ve heard him mentioned. Am I trying to fill big shoes?”

“Tiny. He was a terrible teacher.

Too much shouting.” Larry grinned, apparently his default setting. “I’m sure you’ll do much better.”

“Well, thank you.” She smiled.

66 Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special

“Blimey, this is a din, isn’t it?” He jerked a thumb at the radio.

“Everything he does, he does it for me. Try shutting up, I say. I’d appreciate that.”

Bryan Adams had been at number one for weeks now, heading for some sort of record apparently. “I quite like this.”

“You do?” He frowned now, as if vaguely insulted.

“It’s romantic.”

“Romantic?” He said it like it left a nasty taste in his mouth. “Takes all sorts, I suppose.” He peered at her. “Are you definite we haven’t met before?”

The man was an oaf. Impolite, full of himself and ever so slightly weird. “I’m sure I’d remember,” she said. Because, despite all that, there was something about him.

Suddenly, he pointed at her.

“No, I’ve got it! You remind me of that woman.”

“Which woman?” There were,

“Are those existential questions,” Gemma asked, “or are they specific to today?”

Jo sighed. “Take your pick.”

“I’m enjoying it.” Gemma raised her face to the sun. “And we’re going to some great lectures.” The lectures had been laid on by Chilfield University — just a few miles down the road from the school where they were both in the sixth form. They were in a group of around 20 or so, led by Mr Jenson, who seemed to think he was Chris Bonnington leading an expedition up Mount Everest.

“Stay close, everyone,” he called back, adjusting his rucksack.

“Tight formation. Keep an eye out for hazards.”

“Hazards!” Jo spluttered a laugh.

“Oh, yes, we might be attacked by a maths nerd.” Jo wasn’t really into maths, not like Gemma. She was studying English and History and Art. But she’d cadged a place on

walked straight into something.

Or, rather, someone.

“Hey, watch it, bozo!” Jo said, catching Gemma’s arm to steady her.

“Sorry.” The student had blond, unkempt hair. Like some surfer from an Australian film. “My fault.”

Although his accent was more Brummie. Posh Brummie.

“That’s... OK.” Gemma couldn’t help staring. Apart from the impact, he’d taken her breath away for another reason. Crikey, he was dishy. And apparently he couldn’t stop staring at her, either. The air seemed to crackle between them.

“OK, move along.” Jo waved him away. “Nothing to see here.”

Another student called to the Brummie surfer. “Come on, Larry! Shift yourself!”

“Coming!” The surfer winked at Gemma. “See you around maybe.” Then he was gone, jogging after his friend.

He was giving her a funny feeling in her tum after all, quite a few to choose from.

“Whatsit Sherwood. The astronaut.”

“Helen Sharman?” She’d been on the television a lot recently — the first-ever British astronaut.

Gemma didn’t envy her.

Numbers were her thing, not rockets. Numbers were safe, rockets not so much.

Larry grinned again. “That’s the one! Spitting image. Anyway, must get on. I have Class 5T2 waiting.

A lovely bunch, according to their parole officers, anyway.”

His grin, it turned out, was infectious. Which was strange, because she wasn’t even sure she liked him. vvv cHilfield UniveRSity, 1985 — age 17 “Yeah, my dad’s getting one,” Gemma was saying as they ambled across campus towards the Physics Department.

“They’re a complete waste of time, if you ask me.” Jo clearly wasn’t impressed. “It’ll never catch on. I mean, why on earth would you ever need to carry a portable telephone around with you?”

Gemma had seen Ernie Wise on the news making what had supposedly been the first mobile phone call. “Be handy if you broke down in a car. You could call for someone to rescue you.”

“We could call for rescue now.

I mean, what are we doing here?

What’s the point?”

the trip because Gemma was going and also because she fancied bunking off. Seems like she was regretting it already.

“First lecture’s about prime numbers.” Gemma consulted her leaflet.

“Fascinating.” Jo yawned theatrically.

“Actually, they are fascinating.

Really. Prime numbers underpin everything. Some insects use them to breed and feed, and some flowers grow with prime numbers of leaves and seeds.”

“I refer the learned lady to my earlier remark. You’re insane, you do realise that, don’t you? No one, and I mean no one, finds maths fascinating.”

Gemma laughed. “I do. In fact, I think I’d like to teach maths.” She nudged Jo. “Then I could catch people like you when you were younger and show you how much fun it is before you decided it was boring.”

Jo pulled a face. “Fun? Never! Me, I’m going to emigrate to America first chance I get and marry a cowboy and work on a ranch.”

“Maths is definitely useful on a ranch. Calculating grain stocks, crop rotation, size of cattle herds...”

“All right, all right, I’m convinced.

Ooh, look, hunky students.”

But Gemma was examining her leaflet again. “The first lecture after lunch is about genetics. You might find that more inter... Ooof!” Not looking where she was going, she

“Creep,” Jo muttered.

“You think so..?” And Gemma smiled, like she felt something really important had just happened. vvv geMMa’S flat, 1997 — age 29 “And so I was wondering,” Larry had said, “if you fancied going out?

For a drink? With me?”

“Go on, then.” Gemma had laughed. It had taken long enough.

“You’ve twisted my arm.”

And now they were standing in her flat, in the midst of their fourth official date. Well, she was in her tiny kitchen, making coffee, and he was in the lounge.

Their first three dates had been pub, then meal, then cinema to watch Contact with Jodie Foster. Gemma had really enjoyed it. Especially the bit with the prime numbers. She tried to concentrate, but her mind was racing. Larry was actually standing right there, in her flat, next to her bookshelves.

Things were progressing fast — for her, anyway.

Larry Archer wasn’t such an oaf as he had appeared on that day at school when she first met him. He’d turned out to be warm and kind, although he tended to take nothing seriously. Gemma was willing to give this a go.

That afternoon, they’d been shopping in town. Mostly window shopping as they strolled and chatted, although Gemma had

bought a couple of books. It was like an addiction. She simply couldn’t pass a bookshop without buying something.

“Have you read this?” Larry picked out a book from her shelves and showed her the cover through the kitchen doorway. Schoolboy with glasses and a scar on his forehead, standing in front of a train called Hogwarts Express.

“Yes, it’s pretty good.”

“You think so?” Larry shrugged.

“Maybe it’s just me. I know people are raving about it, but I’ve read better.”

“I’d definitely read more, if she writes any.”

“No chance.” He grinned. “It’ll never catch on. I bet you a pound you never hear of this Rowling bloke again.”

“You’re on. Although she’s a woman, I think.”

Larry replaced the book and carried on perusing the shelves.

The kettle had boiled now and Gemma started pouring.

“You know, I’ve been meaning to apologise,” he said.

“What for?”

“That day. In the staff room.

When we first met. I was a complete buffoon.”

Gemma laughed. “Yes, you were.”

“I’m not normally like that.”

“I have noticed.”

“But I was suddenly so nervous.

I had this conviction I’d met you before and I felt this strong... you know, connection.”

Yes, Gemma had felt it too. Not that she was going to admit it. Not with him standing right there. But he’d been seeing someone at the time. Then when he was single, she was seeing someone. Almost six years it had taken them to finally act on the connection.

“Coffee!” She brought in the two mugs and placed them on the coasters on her miniature coffee table.

“Hey, look, you have my mum’s book.” Larry pulled out a thin volume from the tightly-packed shelves and held it up. It was Nifty Numbers, Perplexing Primes and Crazy Calculations by Miriam Grant.

A children’s book about “the wonderful things that numbers can get up to”. Gemma could remember the blurb on the back almost word for word. The cover showed jaunty colourful anthropomorphised digits — numbers with little arms and legs and wide smiles — bouncing off each other.

“Your mum’s got a copy?”

“No, my mum actually wrote this.

It says Miriam Grant because she used her maiden name, not Archer.

Look.” He opened it to the About The Author page and read: “Miriam is married to Clive and she has two children, Lawrence and Jane. That’s me. I’m Lawrence.”

“Seriously?”

Larry grinned. “For once, I’m not joking.”

Gemma’s spine tickled. She’d had that book since she was, what, 11 years old. “That’s weird.”

“It’s pretty amazing, because I don’t think it sold all that well. She never got rich off it, anyway.” He laughed. “One printing and she has most of those in the loft after the publisher went bust.”

“How come your mum was writing about numbers?”

“She’s a scientist. A meteorologist, actually. But she loved numbers and the weird things they do. She’s written a few other books, too, but they were all academic volumes about the weather. Not had anything published for years, though, although she is still working.

You’ll have to meet her. She’ll be stunned by this.”

Meet his mother? Big step, that.

The sort of step long-term couples make when it’s getting serious.

Gemma wondered what would happen if Larry ever, in a few years maybe, after they’d been going out for much longer, if he ever asked her to marry him. Was he The One? It was still early days — very early days — but the question was already there in her mind.

And the likely answer to a proposal..? vvv HUdSon’S BookSHop, 1979 — age 11 Gemma was attracted by the cover,

Gemma knew a load about numbers. Like integers and fractions and Pi. Jo asked her once what was her favourite number and she’d said Pi. Pi is 3.141592... something something something.

Jo hadn’t known that. But Gemma had. She was still trying to remember more of it, but it went on forever and ever, never-ending, stretching out bigger than the whole universe. And knowing this made Gemma feel special — like she knew a big, big secret.

Her heart did an excited dance as she flicked through the rest of the book, pausing here and there to marvel at the wonders contained within. This was just the sort of thing she had been looking for.

“Mum! Mum! Look!”

“Ooh, that’s nice, Gemma. Is that the one you want?”

“Yes, please!”

“OK. There’s the till. Have you got enough money left?”

Gemma checked the price — 85p — then checked her pocket money. Oh, yes, she had enough!

The author was someone called Miriam Grant. It was a nice name.

Warm and cosy. And the book was brill! Gemma read it over and over, devouring and memorising the fantastic facts and figures.

Even then, Gemma knew this was one book that she’d never let go. vvv Heading HoMe, 2015 — age 47 Gemma was buying a Lottery ticket for Saturday, trying to decide as she stood at the little counter by the till which numbers to pick. She knew the chances of winning the jackpot were slim. After all, she was good at maths and could calculate, if she wanted to, the precise odds for every combination of two, three, four, five or six numbers, including

She wasn’t sure why she picked those particular primes, but they seemed important for some reason, like her pen had been guided by an unseen force to mark the little boxes on the pink form.

She wondered briefly if she should have picked 13 — for her anniversary — but it was too late now. She handed the ticket over.

After all, prime numbers ought to be lucky. Insects use them.

Flowers use them. Internet security uses them. Essentially the universe is built on prime numbers.

They’d agreed not to buy big presents for this wedding anniversary. Although she had done, obviously, to go with her fun ones, because she knew Larry would, too.

“Hey, what are you up to?”

Larry pecked her cheek as he met her outside the supermarket as arranged.

“Oh, nothing.”

“You look furtive. Like you’re up to something.”

Gemma Archer smiled, in what she hoped was an enigmatic manner. “Just planning for our future.” The Lottery ticket felt heavy in her handbag, like the numbers were meant to be.

They were off now to pick up Frances, their daughter, 11 years old and madly obsessed with Harry Potter. Which made Gemma happy, for some reason.

Gemma couldn’t help but wonder what her life would have been like had she not spent that single year in Chicago with Jo. But the grand adventure hadn’t worked out. She’d grown homesick.

Lovesick, too, missing Larry more than she could ever have imagined.

And he was waiting at the airport when she returned.

What had she been thinking,

There was the option of lace underwear first of all. Not so much the picture — colourful numbers with little arms and legs and wide smiles bouncing off each other — but the title.

Nifty Numbers, Perplexing Primes And Crazy Calculations.

It was almost as if someone had left it for her, with the cover turned outwards so she couldn’t miss it.

She took it down and flicked through, stopping at a page about prime numbers.

“Prime numbers,” she read, “are numbers that are only divisible by themselves and one.” Of course, she already knew this. Obviously.

the bonus ball. Not that she did want to. This was only a bit of fun to add to her anniversary present for her husband.

She’d got laces, too — this being her 13th wedding anniversary, which is lace, apparently. There was the option of lace underwear, obviously, but she’d opted for the shoelaces. They were funnier.

She decided to use her age to start with — 47 — and remembered that this is a prime number. So she decided to use all prime numbers. And she chose 31, then 23. Next came 17.

Then 29. Then 11.

leaving him behind like that?

Must have been off her rocker.

They were, after all, meant to be together.

Larry took her hand as they walked back to the car. “Our future, eh?” He grinned. “Plenty of time for all that. What about this weekend and our anniversary? I’m thinking we could...”

Could what? Gemma grinned, too. They could do anything, basically. After all, they were in the primes of their lives. And always would be.

THE END © Steve Beresford, 2016 Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special 67

By Bethany Collins

Making Sunshine When Gran decided to put a bit of jive in her life, everything changed

W

hen I’m in the glumps, Gran always tells me, “You make your own sunshine.”

How do you make sunshine?

If Gran knew how, she’d make some for herself. When I was a small boy, she used to tell me, “I love you as warm as sunshine.”

There’s surely a clue there, somewhere?

Gran was fit. Not a regularworkout-at-the-gym fit, although I wouldn’t put that past Gran. Fit as in she’s a very attractive lady.

Gran and Grandad went on a cruise and Grandad went overboard. Back then, I was too young to understand. When I could, Mum filled me in.

Grandad went overboard for a woman travelling solo on the cruise. Grandad fell for her hook, line and sinker.

Gran started divorce proceedings, but didn’t complete them. She said divorce was just paperwork. She wanted Grandad to come back so she could tell him she wouldn’t have him back. Gran said that would have been closure.

I was 15 when Grandad died.

In a freak, nightmare motorway scenario, a tyre blowout swerved his car across the central reservation into an oncoming heavy-goods vehicle.

Grandad was the only fatality, mercifully for the HGV driver and the people in the pile-up that followed.

He must have still had feelings for Gran — in his will, he left her all his worldly possessions. They didn’t add up to much, but the

thought was there.

He also left her his regrets, in a letter, which counted for more. I regret hurting you. Saying it shouldn’t have happened doesn’t excuse my weakness. I hope you find your happiness, and can forgive me and bear me no ill feeling.

That should have been closure, but no. At Grandad’s funeral, which Gran arranged, she said she couldn’t act the grieving widow, but she mourned the fact that she hadn’t been able to kiss him goodbye. That would have been closure.

Since Grandad, there has been no one for Gran.

On my 22nd birthday bash with mates, I met Teri. We got talking, talking led to dating.

Dating led to... a self-question, “Kieran, is this what you want?”

Candid answer: I didn’t feel overboard about her. I was sweet on her, but my heart didn’t pick up the beat.

Gran can read me. She said, “Teri isn’t the one for you.”

I said, “I could do worse than Teri.”

Gran’s smile was smug. “That means you could do better.”

Teri finished with me, by text.

There were two sides to that, one getting in the way of the other. Relief, but annoyance at being dumped by text. I wouldn’t have finished with Teri by text. I would have faced up, and let her down gently.

Gran decided she should put some jive into her life. She did just that. The jive, cha-cha, tango, quickstep. She joined a Modem Sequence Dancing class. She said it was good for mind, body and soul. Learning tricky new steps kept her brain

nimble, dancing them kept her limbs supple. Gran’s astute summing-up was that it was all beneficial good fun.

With my shipwreck of a love life, I could do with some of that.

But I wasn’t going to niminypiminy as Gran’s dancing partner. No way!

Her favourite dance was the quickstep. Quick, slow, quick quick, slow. There was nothing go-slow about Gran, she was on the go all the time. Her energy left me breathless.

Gran introduced me to Emily, the granddaughter of a man in the Modem Sequence Dancing class. Gran said Jack was her strictly dancing partner, nothing more. I would have been strictly bonkers to believe her, if I’d thought of it, which I didn’t, fully engrossed as I was with Emily.

Emily had a biting-sharp wit, redeemed by her softer side.

She was nice to be with.

Nice! The platitude was too insipid in relation to Emily’s vibrant personality, so I’ll improve on that. She was fantastic company. We shared a similar sense of humour, laughed in harmony. It was all looking good, positively good.

As positive as anything can be in the perplexity of, “Is this love?”

Gran plumped for — meaning she’d decided we would have — a small gathering to announce the engagement. Gran’s engagement to Jack, who was apparently more than her strictly dancing partner now.

I hadn’t seen this coming.

Observant Emily, had, though.

With thoughts of Grandad, I asked Gran, “What about closure?”

Gran said with smug complacency, “Your scientific head must have worked out what’s meant by the saying that when one door opens, another one closes. Jack pushed that one door open, the other door slammed shut. That’s closure.”

The engagement celebration was for close family and, appropriately, mutual friends from the Modem Sequence Dancing class. I recalled Gran telling me, “You make your own sunshine”, and when she looked at Jack, and he looked at Gran, they made sunshine.

I bathed in it, wallowing in happiness for my wonderful, loveable, incomparable best mate — my Gran.

Emily said to me, “I hope we can still meet up as friends.

I want what my grandad and your gran have got.”

That’s what I wanted, too.

What is it with women?

Emily could read me. She said, “Thank you for letting me do the finishing.”

I said, “My pleasure.”

My pleasure! I reproached myself for my insensitive wording.

Even though it was true.

It had everything to do with Hannah pushing the door open of the lab to join our team.

Now that I was single, we moved on from being friendly work colleagues to after-work friends... and mutual much more. The warmth of my feelings zooming up the Celsius scale, my heart beating in sync.

When I look at Hannah, and she looks at me, it’s like sunshine...

THE END © Bethany Collins, 2016

F There was nothing go-slow about Gran

Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special 69

Some

Kind Of

They ‘d never been ones for romantic gestures — she didn’t even notice if she got a birthday card or not

Loved -Up M

eg had never warmed to the idea of those “couplesonly” resorts abroad.

The brochure photos were enough to deter her — pages of hair-tossing women in high-cut bikinis, frolicking in the surf. She didn’t go a bundle on the blokes, either. They all seemed to be power-boating or quad-biking himbos with wraparound shades and flashy great diving watches.

It was Cheryl, finding one such brochure down the side of the sofa, who got the wrong end of the stick. “Mum, you and Dad thinking of one of these places for your anniversary?”

“It was briefly on our radar,” admitted Meg. “But can you see me and Dad ‘swaying to the sound of the cicadas as the sun goes down over the palm trees’?” she read sarcastically from the brochure, wondering what the cicadas were when they were at home — some kind of band?

“Yeah, but you don’t have to go abroad for this sort of pampering,” Cheryl said, and then came clean. “Me and Dave want to send you and Dad to a couplesonly hotel for your 25th. The Cotswolds, not Acapulco.” She grinned. “Abaline Towers does

70 Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special

have a spa with a pool, but beachwear is not compulsory.”

“Oh, I don’t know, love.

You’ve got bills to pay and your brother —” “I’ve twisted his arm and he’s coughed up,” Cheryl said brutally.

“So if you and Dad don’t go, I’ll have to give him back his share of the money, which he’ll only spend on clubbing. You’ve got to go,” she added, as if Meg would be performing a public service. “I know you and Dad like to make out neither of you has a romantic bone in your body, but that’s only an act you put on to save face, Mum.”

hydraulic pressure-jet for cleaning the driveway, so she’d got him that for his birthday, and he’d bought her a solar flamingo that glowed different colours after dark. It had been on special offer in the high street, Mike had revealed as he positioned it next to the hostas.

Anyway, when it came to more trad “romantic” gifts, she didn’t like chocolates, most flowers made her sneeze, and Champagne gave her a headache.

Mindful of her duty, however, she and Cheryl looked at Abaline Towers on the internet, though while Chezza waxed lyrical about the fluffy robes, four-poster

It all sounded dull as ditchwater “Is it?” wondered Meg. Neither she nor Mike had ever been much cop at romantic gesturing, yet no one believed her when she claimed (truthfully) that she didn’t really notice whether or not she got a Valentine’s, birthday or anniversary card.

Despite this, people (Cheryl) assumed that Mike was emotionally insensitive and she was just stiff-upper-lipped about it. Not so. Last year, he’d wanted a

bed and cream teas, Meg nodded enthusiastically but thought it all sounded dull as ditchwater and wondered aloud if she could bring Lionel, their Westie. At least then she and Mike would have a reason to take long, hearty walks in the countryside.

“No, Mum, pets aren’t allowed and I’m taking Lionel,” Cheryl said firmly. “What sort of a romantic weekend would it be with him drooling everywhere and barking

his head off when it’s time for The Antiques Roadshow?”

“He’s very useful that way.

I don’t like to miss The Antiques Roadshow.”

“You can watch it on catch-up,” said Cheryl, with chin-wobbling forbearance, and Meg realised she wasn’t being very grateful.

If she did have a romantic bone in her body, it was motherly love that ran deep through her marrow.

“It all looks wonderful,” she said truthfully. “I’m sure Dad and I will love it. It’s an amazing anniversary present, love.”

“And then we can have a celebratory lunch when you both get back,” said Cheryl, flicking out of the website.

Meg nodded again. She needed to get into the spirit of this 25th wedding anniversary. So did Mike.

He was careful to look neutral when she told him about the hotel. “Will I have to wear a tie to dinner in the restaurant?”

“I’ll check.”

“Or a tux?”

She grabbed a Post-It note off the dresser. “I’d better make a list. Tie, tux... I’ll need bits and bobs as well.”

“Ball gown, tiara, that sort of thing?” he asked, scratching Lionel’s ears.

By Gabrielle Mullarkey “Mmm.” Actually, she’d been thinking ‘romantic lingerie’, or whatever it was called these days.

Back in the mists of time, she seemed to recall that lingerie had been based on the Henry Ford principle — any colour, as long as it was black, occasionally relieved with a hint of red ribbon.

Well, hints had gone out the window, she learnt when she hit the shops later that week. The choice of colours and fabrics was overwhelming and they all looked complicatedly strappy, reminding her of an unseemly tussle several years ago with a spider-web top, when she’d gone to a neighbour’s barbecue with her head through an arm-hole.

In the end, she bought a lacy camisole with matching, underwired bra. She only wore sports bras, usually, so the underwiring made her eyes water.

Still, it gave her a nice silhouette under her best dress and the camisole would look nice, too, once she’d shaved her legs (she tended to forget about defuzzing until Mike bumped up against her leg in bed and warned Lionel that he was supposed to be in his basket).

The first thing she and Mike saw when they arrived at Abaline Towers was another couple checking in ahead of them who were about their age — so loved-up, though, that they were nudging noses as well as holding hands. They exchanged horrified glances.

For the rest of that day, they saw the same couple wherever they went, partly because they were staying in the suite below them.

The other thing Meg had noticed was that this other couple had brought enough luggage to emigrate, never mind go away for a weekend.

“Maybe they’re emigrating afterwards,” Mike suggested as they got ready for dinner. He held up two shirts. “The grey or the blue? I’m trying to avoid clashing with the poncy décor.”

“You brought just two shirts?” she checked, scandalised. “I think people here change every couple of hours — you know, like in olden times. Hang on, did you hear that?”

“What?”

She peered up at the ceiling. “That! In Mr and Mrs Loved-up’s quarters.”

“I don’t hear anything and don’t want to.” He shuddered.

“If they’re swinging from the chandeliers up there, I don’t want to know.”

“It sounded like a dog yapping,” she reported.

They listened for another minute, but all had gone quiet.

“I mean, if it is a dog, how unscrupulous,” said Meg, as they descended to dinner. “No wonder they had all that luggage. I hope they punched enough air holes.”

“They could have been watching One Man and his wotsit on the telly,” Mike pointed out. “Forget it, love. Let’s enjoy this dinner our offspring have uncharacteristically stumped up for.”

As they sat down to scan the menu, Meg realised she’d left her glasses in their suite. “Won’t be a tick,” she said, adjusting her sparkly wrap.

This time, back in their suite, she distinctly heard a small dog barking in the suite above.

She hurried back to tell Mike.

“I think they’ve gone out and left it in the room! It sounds frantic.

What should we do?”

He followed her back up to the suite, the maitre d’ rolling his eyes at their to-ing and fro-ing.

Listening intently, Mike said, “That is a dog. Sounds like it’s

Hearing the door shut again, Mike nipped onto the landing and intercepted a harassed-looking man with a name tag coming down the stairs. Meg heard the conversation but couldn’t make out the words.

Mike returned, looking deadpan.

“Well?” she demanded.

“The Handcuffs claim their dog-sitter bailed at the last minute, so it was either cancel or bring the dog.” ”So what’s tickled your funny bone?” she pressed, knowing that the more Mike struggled to look deadpan, the greater the guffaw he was suppressing.

“Get this,” he said. “The manager was going to ask them to leave, ’til he saw the state they’re in.

You weren’t far wrong with the ‘coming a cropper’ theory.

Seems Mr Handcuffs dropped his contact lens case, they fell out onto the carpet and Brutus — the dog — gobbled them up. Mr Handcuffs then crocked his knee on a bedside table, walked into the bathroom without seeing Mrs H behind the door and knocked her into the bath!

They’re both currently laid up, applying ice from the mini bar to each other’s sore spots.” He paused.

She distinctly heard a small dog barking overdue for a walk.”

“Oh, gawd,” she said. “I just hope Mr and Mrs Loved-up haven’t come a cropper doing something untoward... you know... with fluffy handcuffs or whatnot.”

Mike looked at her incredulously.

“Fluffy handcuffs?”

“You’re the one who mentioned chandeliers! This is a hotel for romantic breaks, and some people’s idea of what passes for romantic — well, to coin a phrase of my mum’s, ‘It would make your hair curl as much as your bacon.’”

Mike still looked incredulous but finally decided to ring Reception and report the barking in suite 503. “Hope his ‘n’ hers handcuffs don’t think we’ve grassed them up over the dog,” he said, putting down the phone.

They listened intently, the barking growing louder as a member of staff knocked on the door above. The door opened.

Words were exchanged.

“Upshot is, I said we’d take Brutus for his walks.”

“Brutus?” Meg echoed nervously.

“Yeah, you don’t get many dachshunds called that!

Anyway, manager’s gone to get more ice. So much for swinging from the chandeliers!”

Mike duly delayed dinner yet again, to collect Brutus.

Meg wanted to go up and see the Handcuffs for herself (what sort of people called a dachshund Brutus?), but Mike said they were embarrassed enough as it was. They were actually called Kathy and Neville, which didn’t go at all with Handcuffs as a putative surname.

And apparently, “Brutus” was an ironic name. “They said it was like a modelling agency calling itself ‘Ugly’,” Mike explained.

Meg looked blank.

“No, me neither,” Mike admitted.

They got plenty of fresh air that weekend, dog-walking over hill and dale, carrying Brutus

when his little legs got tired.

They stopped at country pubs, found a DIY store nearby — where Mike looked at cordless drills — and hardly saw the inside of their plush room.

“Well, that was a very nice break,” observed Mike as they drove away on Sunday afternoon, Kathy and Neville having hobbled down in person to thank them.

“Although,” he added, “I can’t help feeling that Chezza will demand photographic evidence of us nibbling the same strand of spaghetti and gazing deep into each other’s wotsits.”

“That reminds me.” She grinned.

“When we were kids, you’d gaze deeply into my bag of Wotsits while plucking up the courage to ask me out.”

“I remember. I’d ask you for a Wotsit, lose my bottle about a date and slink away with a cheesedusted finger. Let’s get a bag on the way home.”

“Hmm. Long as we don’t run into Cheryl, who’ll think we’re over-compensating for all that posh nosh she so kindly paid for.”

At which point, Meg recalled that, in the rush to vacate the room and say goodbye to Brutus, she’d left her new lingerie in the hotel wardrobe, price tags still attached. Oh, well, maybe the next occupants would consider it a suitably romantic omen.

Mike reached over and took her hand. “I loved the weekend,” he said quietly. “Makes me realise how lucky we are to have each other.”

She suddenly felt deliciously warm all over, and squeezed his hand back.

Maybe they hadn’t fed each other oysters in front of a roaring fire or bothered entering the hotel competition to win a free return weekend by “telling us what makes you the most romantic couple you know”.

They’d continue to be not much cop at that sort of romantic gesturing — but they were going home with a bag of Wotsits, some unforgettable memories and a renewed sense of perspective.

If the past 25 years had been anything to go by, in their own way and between themselves, they were their own kind of Mr and Mrs Loved-up.

THE END © Gabrielle Mullarkey, 2016 Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special 71

Puzzles Rearrange the letters in the highlighted squares to spell out the name of a sweet snack that can be in the shape of a ring or filled with jam (8)

Billy Mack in Love Actually (4,5)

Protective furniture cover (4,5)

Challenger

Salty place Vain, without for a swim success

One who consumes or operates

__ Angeles, US city

Encourage

Health resort

__ Rum, famous racehorse

White and yellow food items Airport departure point

Quick glance

Dead heat

(Had) consumed

Jetty

Item worn on the foot

Marshes, swamps

Slap

Off the __, Throw, toss readyto-wear

Pen’s point

Late great boxer

Husband of your aunt Vehicle and driver for hire

Tiny jumping insect

Classical band

Unprocessed

Jar for flowers

Arrowword

Bird of New Zealand

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

Popular TV dramas

Kriss Kross

Fit the words listed below into the grid, then rearrange the letters in the shaded squares to spell out a food colloquially called a ‘banger’ (7) 9 letters 4 letters DRINKS TOMATO RED PEPPER BAPS 7 letters RICE SALAD COOK NAPKINS 10 letters 5 letters PARASOL MAYONNAISE ONION 8 letters PASTA SALAD PARTY CHARCOAL 11 letters TONGS SUNSHINE NEW POTATOES 6 letters POTATO SALAD CRISPS

MA T O N L I O N

O R NC H I E S A T R OA AW L E I T L A N D S P E E P

I N K S U T ONG S S H N NNA I S E N W E P O T A T O E S

D

F S E R E U A X I T UR L R E GGS E S

SOLUTION: SAUSAGE

D U A S T OS H I E E A T

C DR A SO L O K B P MA YO R P T K I N S A C T E T O S S HAR COA L L T A S A L A D D

B R K I W I L V F L E A N L N I B G P S HOE Y G

SOLUTION: DOUGHNUT

P AR A E R D T P Y E P NA P E C R R I C S P A S S

Answers

Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special 73

authors’ Secrets

‘My Barbie dolls had amazingly complex lives!’

How did you become a novelist?

As soon as I learned to write, I was scribbling little stories, and even before that I was telling stories involving my dolls and teddies to my little sister. My Barbie dolls had these amazingly complex lives, like something out of a Jackie Collins novel! After university, I worked in publicity for a publisher. For me, working with books and stories is the most interesting work you can do. The downside was that I got an enormous attack of stage-fright about my own writing, because I was working with these amazing, prize-winning authors. I knew I would very likely end up having to pitch to the same people I was working with in my day job, so it would be very embarrassing if they thought my stories were rubbish. So for about 12 years, I just wrote and wrote, and it all went under the bed. But then I wrote a young adult book I couldn’t bear to shelve and that’s the one that got me an agent. In A Dark Dark Wood was my début adult novel. I’m thrilled and stunned by the success it has had.

Where do you get your ideas for plots?

For In A Dark Dark Wood, it was a conversation with a friend who said she thought a hen night would be a brilliant setting for a thriller. As soon as she said this, I thought, ‘I really want to write that book.’

Luckily, she isn’t a writer! On the Tube on the way

home, the characters were almost walking into my head of their own accord. I’ve been on a fair number of hen nights and you start to notice people playing different roles: the stressed organiser who’s desperate that everything goes well, the work friend who’s out of kilter with friends from home...

I found by the time I’d finished the Tube journey, I had the bones of the plot in my head. It just felt like it was begging to be written.

Also my books are an exploration of my own phobias. In The Woman In Cabin 10, I explored the fear of not being believed. A woman sees a crime committed, but when she goes to tell the security forces on the boat about it, there’s no evidence that anything happened, so she’s basically disbelieved and her account is undermined. So she’s stuck on the boat with a murderer but there’s nothing she can do.

Where do you get your ideas for characters?

I guess to some extent they’re all me. I don’t think you can write a character without walking in their shoes, even the baddies — you need to understand why someone does what they do. No one character corresponds to one person I’ve met. They’re always a hotchpotch of different things, bits of me, bits of other people, like re-animated zombies!

Which of your characters is your favourite?

I love Lo in The Woman In Cabin 10.

Having written Nora, for In A Dark

The Woman in Cabin 10 by Ruth WaRe (haRvill SeckeR, £9.99) iS out noW.

Ruth Ware reveals the secrets of her success to Sue Cooke

Dark Wood, who was quite neurotic and self-doubting, I wanted to write someone who was much more go-getting.

Lo has her own problems, but fundamentally she is a pretty funny, cheerful person to be with.

Which of your characters would you most like to be?

Nina, from In A Dark Dark Wood, says all the things that I would secretly like to say, but I’m either too polite or not funny enough to come up with on the spur of the moment. She makes all the sarcastic remarks, whereas I would just be sitting there having those feelings but not actually articulating them. In that sense, I really admire her. In The Woman In Cabin 10, I really like Tina. She’s a careerist, she knows what she wants and she’s not apologetic about it. I spend far too much of my time second-guessing my motives and apologising internally for my behaviour.

Which book has been hardest to write?

I was writing The Woman In Cabin 10 at the same time as editing In A Dark Dark Wood, so it was much harder to write. I think of it as a bit like patting your tummy and rubbing your head at the same time. For that reason, I think I’m probably more proud of it. It felt more hard won.

Which fictional character do you wish you’d created?

If I’m allowed two, I would pick Aubrey and Maturin from the Patrick O’Brian Master & Commander novels. They are very beautifully written books and have this really tender, compelling friendship at the heart of them.

He’s managed to stretch this incredibly supportive mutual respectful friendship over 20 books — I think it’s a huge achievement.

Which author has inspired you the most?

Purely in terms of plotting and creating an atmosphere, it would have to be Agatha Christie. I think my books probably owe the biggest debt to her.

What is your all-time favourite book?

It’s a question I’m always asked and I give a different answer every time. Today, I’m going to say The Secret History by Donna Tartt. She evokes so beautifully the setting and the characters; they’re so distinctive and so soaked in nostalgia and melancholy. I think you could read any page of that book and immediately know it was her writing, her setting and her characters.

The ‘One Day’ House The house tantalised and teased us. It was our ultimate aspiration.

And now here it was, 25 years later, up for sale...

F

“

ernie Bank is up for sale!”

I exclaimed, showing my husband the newspaper.

Ian looked up from compiling a quiz. “You’re kidding!” His eyes widened.

Fernie Bank was our “One day...” house. In the early years of our marriage, when we lived in the next county, we would walk past it and, in the way people do who have absolutely no money, envision ourselves living in it.

We had lived in rented accommodation then and our heating was metered. Often, when the flat wouldn’t heat up properly, we would put Scott in his pushchair and walk to keep warm. And no matter what

direction we started off, we nearly always ended up walking past Fernie Bank.

“Imagine living in a detached house,” I would murmur.

“With a lovely big garden,” put in Ian. Then we would sigh and say, “One day...”. It became a kind of mantra. And as Scott was growing, the subject of Fernie Bank often came to the fore when we shared a take-away and a bottle of wine. It was cheaper than going out. The house tantalised and teased us.

It was our ultimate aspiration.

And now here it was, 25 years later, up for sale. We jostled each other in our rush to switch on the laptop to get the details.

Scott had flown the coop and Fernie Bank was just within commuting distance of both our jobs.

“We can afford it!” I squealed, unable to believe it.

Ian didn’t speak. He flicked through photo after photo and devoured all the details.

It was even better than we’d imagined. “So,” he said eventually, putting his hands behind his head, “what do you think?”

We hadn’t thought of moving from the area but... it was our “One day...” house.

“It wouldn’t harm to go and see it.”

“I agree. It wouldn’t harm at all.”

And we both nodded like mature, sensible adults, while

By Mhairi Grant inside we felt like giddy teenagers who had just scooped the jackpot. Not that we showed that excitement to the estate agent.

“Now, we have to think with our heads as well as our hearts,” Ian had warned me earlier.

And I tried — I really did — but our “One day...” house had cast a spell over me as soon as I entered the door. The inglenook fireplace, deep-set windows and original features were like a dream come true.

And in every way it was so much better than our own house.

I would have put an offer in there and then.

“We’ll sleep on it,” Ian said to the estate agent, sounding uninterested.

“Have you got the collywobbles?” I challenged him when we got home.

“No. I’m just trying to be rational, that’s all. Going with your heart is not always right.”

“That’s true. Look what happened to me — I ended up with you.”

Before he could come back with a retort, I went out to the shed where we kept our chest freezer. But I got a shock when I raised the lid. It had broken down and the food was swimming in a mess.

“All the food is ruined,” I wailed at the village knitting club that evening. “I’ve got my son’s future in-laws coming to stay and I’d prepared and frozen food specially for them!”

Everyone spoke at once.

“Poor you” and “That’s a shame” had me biting my bottom lip. But I was almost crying when asked what kind of food had been ruined.

I had spent days cooking my favourite recipes and buying in specialities. I had so wanted to make a good impression.

And as for the cost — I didn’t want to think about it.

On Friday night, I was in a tizzy and biting Ian’s head off. I’d ruined the sauce for the moussaka and my meringues had turned out as crumbly as crisps.

“Look, Hazel, Jack and Elaine won’t mind if we —” The sound of the doorbell cut him off. It was two of my neighbours from the knitting club.

“We won’t come in. We just wanted to give you this,” they said, handing me two filled carrier bags. “Everyone in the club has cooked a dish each and there are desserts as well as main meals there...”

A lump formed in my throat as I accepted their gift.

I couldn’t thank them enough.

“Wasn’t that thoughtful of them?” I said for the umpteenth time after they left. “We’re so lucky to have such kind and caring neighbours.”

Ian smiled. He was getting ready to go to the local pub’s quiz night where he was the quiz master. He was also responsible for the sweep which raised money for the village children’s gala.

“You know,” I said, “I love Fernie Bank. It has a study which we always wanted, an en-suite bathroom, and French windows leading from the spacious kitchen onto the large garden, but —” “But you don’t want to move there,” put in Ian, smiling. “It’s too isolated.”

“I would miss our wonderful neighbours terribly.”

“And I would miss the local.”

We looked at each other then with perfect understanding. Fernie Bank was just a dream. The house we were in was not our “One day...” house. Instead, it was our “Forever” house.

“We’re going with our hearts, aren’t we?”

And my rational husband grinned and said, “Is there any other way to go?”

THE END © Mhairi Grant, 2016

F Then we would sigh and say, ‘One day...’

Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special 75