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If you’re following along, we get a look at Pamela today - and a look at what she gets a look at too!

Part Ten – Pamela’s Place

Pamela never rose in the mornings with any intention of causing trouble. In fact, it came as a regular surprise to her that this was, in fact, what she did. She caused trouble. She had been told enough times in one way or another.

Pamela, stop stirring!

Pamela, mind your own business!

See what you did now, Pamela, by saying/doing/being* that? (*delete as applicable as relevant to the problem du jour).

In truth, she wasn’t particularly earnest in searching for a quiet life. And this was usually evidenced by the considerable stealth with which she managed to go from shop to shop up and down Stookey Hill, listening in to all and any and every conversation she could.

Of course, there were some wise ones now. Some folk clammed up the moment they clocked her. They did that with varying degrees of obviousness. A nudge here, or a wink. Or an audible ‘shush’ or ‘watch it’. Other just shuffled right off, looking over their shoulders as they went.

Pamela didn’t care. She would smile to herself knowingly, pleased she had got them rattled.

Except she did care. She would smile to herself, and it was knowingly – she knew fine well people were avoiding her – but she wasn’t pleased at all. It was a mask.

Pamela left the florist aggrieved. She knew she had no real right to be put out. But then, she didn’t really like that Elena Clayton. The woman behaved as though she was superior to them all – but they all knew that she was only renting a shop space on Stookey Hill because she couldn’t afford to in town. So there she was with her highfaluting, pretentious flower displays with all their raffia ribbons and hessian wrappings.

As she stepped into the street, Pamela looked down into her bag. It was a large, striped bag-for-life from one of the big supermarkets. She liked it because it had a strip of Velcro across the top and she could close it. It concealed what she had in there. Which was invariably important because what was in there was usually pilfered.

There, laying across the bottom of the bag were three calla lilies. They were her favourites. She had managed to get them in easily enough, but was concerned that their precious petals might get broken, so she hurried down the alley between the florist and the pizza takeaway to her front floor.

Pamela lived upstairs in a flat above the unimaginably titled ‘Pizza Place’. Her front room mostly smelled of cheese and pepperoni, but she didn’t mind that too much. There was also considerable rising warmth from the two industrial pizza ovens they had downstairs and on a good summer’s day, Pamela was roasting. She would complain loudly about people eating pizza in good weather, telling everyone who would listen to go and get a nice salad instead.

But, despite the dubious building fabric between her flat and the takeaway, Pamela liked it there. She could see the entire length and breadth of Stookey Hill. Well, if she leaned sufficiently out of the window.

The Pizza Place had erected a neon light advertising as such and that did obscure her view a little towards The Frog and Cricket. She had complained to Les, who owned the takeaway, but he didn’t care. Even when she said it made a near-constant buzzing sound that she couldn’t bear when her bedroom window was open. He wasn’t bothered. Well, he was a little bit because he had bought her a pack of 300 foam ear plugs. Elena said she thought he was having a joke and making fun of her, but Pamela thought they were very useful and only threw them away when they were so waxy they slipped out of her ears.

But, the weather was cooler now and she didn’t have to have the bedroom window open as much. Pushing her key into the lock of her door, she was about to turn it when she heard voices.

She paused, almost holding her breath with glee.

You see, this is where most people would continue into their homes. Shut their front doors behind them and let people get on with whatever it was they were saying. They wouldn’t eavesdrop or attempt to learn what might be private information. No, they would be on their way, letting others be on theirs too.

Not Pamela. She loved hushed voices and quiet whispers. She enjoyed the thrill of listening to something what was not for her ears. She had heard a fair bit of very interesting ‘news’, as she liked to call it, over the years. In fact, she had broken some of that news over the years too. Like when Alfred Parker was having an affair, and when Kelly Bruce ran over a cat and hid the remains – that was a bad one. She wished she hadn’t had to be the bearer of that bad news.

And while most people made an effort to avoid talking at all around Pamela, they could only do that so long as they knew she was there.

Her hand held on to the key which she had got as far as inserting into the key hole. She had one foot on the front step, and one on the paving of the alleyway. But she had to hold that position now so that she could listen without warning anyone of her presence. Her bag rustled slightly and she remembered the lilies. She would have to hold extra still.

To start with, she could only make out every few words. They didn’t make sense, and had no real meaning. And had they not been whispered, she might have just given up and gone inside.

But then…there was movement. The voices became closer. Pamela had a panic that whoever they belonged to might see her, but then she remembered. She had perfected this over the years – positioning herself to look as though she was about to do something. Always look mid-busy, she had taught herself. Although her arm was tiring, holding the key at the lock.

But then – bingo!

Muffled, muffled, muffled, “…looks like an accident. Then no one will know!”

Looks like an accident? Those words were a serial gossip’s dream come true! Her eyes near enough sparkled with possibility.

“Don’t worry, it will, there’s plenty of opportunity for that…” this was a different voice. she recognised it but couldn’t place it.

“I’d prefer if Ciara didn’t know the details. I trust her, but only a little bit – ifyaknowwhadimean!”

Laughter. She didn’t get what was funny. She wanted them to talk more about whatever it was that had to look like an accident.

“When will we do the first, though?”

Silence, as if thinking. Pamela’s arm, which was still holding her key in the lock, was shaking now with having been in one position for so long. but she was desperate to know - do the first what?

Then, muffled, muffled, muffled again.

Frustrated, she lowered her arm. Slowly and so as to stop the trembling. She could still look about to go inside if she needed to. But the voices, they were low again. Too low.

Then she did what she knew she never should. She moved, towards the voices. She had too much information and yet, not enough! She crept slowly towards the end of the alley which led towards the drying greens.

Voices still speaking quietly.

Very carefully, as slowly as she could, she leaned her head around a little to see who was there, hoping against all hope that they wouldn’t see her.

Ah! That was why she couldn’t hear! They were facing the other way and smoking. One of them – they looked familiar.

She pulled her head back. Maybe she could hear from the corner. She pressed herself against the wall, remembering this is what Tom Cruise did in those mission films. She was on a mission, all right! She chuckled to herself.

“We’ll have to wait until the shops close. We need the place to be as empty as possible!”

“Yeah, right, but what about the pub?”

That’s when she realised how she knew the voice, knew the figure – it was Mark Dorado! She narrowed her eyes. She knew he was a no-good…her disdain was interrupted when Mark spoke again.

“Power cut, Ciara says. Cut the power, send the punters home…jobsagoodun!”

Of course that was him! Always running words together like sentences didn’t even matter! She tutted then clamped a hand over her own mouth, aware that she might have been too audible.

The voices seemed to have stopped entirely. Were they on the move?

She peered around the corner again, and to her horror – indeed they were. The two men were coming right towards her. The one she didn’t know saw her and shouted an “oy!” Pamela panicked, running towards her front door, managing to get the key in the lock. She threw herself inside, almost panting with anticipation and excitement and fear. She closed the door, composing herself quickly enough to make sure she did it quietly.

Then she stood in her small entrance way holding her breath.

She heard footsteps and voices, but no one came to her door. She sighed in relief. They didn’t know it was her! The exhilaration was pumping blood round her body so hard, she could hear it pulsing in her ears.

She looked down at her lilies. They were, unfortunately, a little worse for wear. She didn’t feel so bad for stealing them now. Clearly they weren’t very good quality. Never mind, she could get them in water and…

Pamela was three stairs up when there was a knock on the door. She froze. The small half-moon of frosted glass at the top of the door betrayed a man’s head. She looked round carefully, trying to see if she could tell who it was. Les maybe? With another woodburning stove emergency?

Another knock…she almost dropped her shopper. And then, when the voice spoke through letterbox, she did. It was Mark Dorado.

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Part Nine – Elena Clayton’s Floral Studio

It was a shame for Elena. She had wanted to rent a property on the High Street, just between Debenhams and M&S. She felt that the location reflected a number of things: her desire for life’s mid-price finer things, a clientele who enjoyed the same and a locale she could be proud of…even boast a little about.

But she couldn’t afford the rent. It was just too steep and while she had done her best to barter with the landlord, he wouldn’t budge. She felt a little better when Debenhams closed down because that building became a shuttered drug den. At least that’s what it looked like.

Still. She would have preferred a slightly more central location. One that might not have Pamela Albright in every day without fail for a start.

“Morning, Pamela,” Elena sighed. It was a daily sigh thanks to the aforementioned daily presence of Stookey Hill’s most notorious gossip.

“Lena!” this was another irritation. She never pronounced the ‘E’. Elena had long given up trying to get her to say it properly. Pamela was nothing if not determined to do everything any way she pleased.

“What can I do for you today?” Again, a daily habit because the answer was nothing. In the three years Elena had been in her florist studio on Stookey Hill, Pamela had bought absolutely not a single thing.

“Ah, just browsing, just browsing!” You guessed it – the same response, day in and day out.

Pamela flitted about, pinging the heads of flowers forward to smell them. Very few of them had a scent, but she still breathed in as though each offered a heady perfume. Then she breathed out as if satisfied to have smelled nature’s beauty itself.

She had moved on from the bus stop when Glenn stopped for her. He was the mean one. At least, in Pamela’s opinion. He was irate that she never got on it. But the one time he had seen her and kept going, she had complained to the council and he had received a sharp telling off from his boss, Duncan.

“It’s not your place to decide if she’s getting on or not,” Duncan tried to reason with him, “it’s just your job to stop!”

But the next time she was there, and he stopped, she waved him on. He cursed her under his breath and did as Duncan had told him, closing the doors and moving on. The problem was, he didn’t always curse her under his breath. Sometimes it was very audible.

“What was that?” Pamela strained to hear as the bus let out a squeal.

And that was when Glenn learned it was all about timing. So now, he shouted at her every day just as air-suspension system started to raise the bus from the kerb. So, she never heard him. And thanks to the advent of ear buds, neither did any of the passengers. At least, none of them said.

“Do you know Glenn who drives the 47?” Pamela asked, kicking the head of a daisy under the cabinet. She hadn’t meant to pull it off. But the bright petals left a trail and try as she might, she couldn’t get them all out of sight. Some of them stuck to her shoe.

“No, I don’t think so,” Elena kept her conversation with Pamela light and indifferent.

“I think you need to clear up over here,” Pamela opted for deniability, “there are some bits on the floor, they’ve stuck to my shoe!” she did her best to sound indignant, throw Elena off the scent.

Elena just nodded. She knew fine well what had happened. It wasn’t the first time Pamela had played havoc with her stock. The worst time was when she fell, head first, into the row of metal buckets she had arranged outside one summer. She’d had the idea from the Chelsea Flower Show and had bought them from Amazon. They had small chalkboards on bamboo sticks in them, advertising the flower and the price. It was by far, the prettiest thing on Stookey Hill.

Until Pamela. In trying to rub off a number ‘1’ with her licked finger, Pamela lost her footing. She thought that £11.99 was far too much, even if the stems were in threes and tied with raffia. She was going to get rid of a ‘1’ and then demand consumer rights to be sold the flowers as advertised. Because she actually quite liked them.

However, the plan was short-lived because the tassels on her jacket got caught on a piece of bamboo in the bucket next to the one she was so shamelessly trying to steal from. She pulled it back, thus becoming engaged in a tussle with the stick, the mini-chalkboard and what looked like chrysanthemums. Just as she noted it was a ridiculous price for such a commonplace flower, the bamboo got the better of her and there she was. Face down amid the clatter of tin and wood as the buckets tipped. One of them started rolling, descending all the way down the hill until it came to rest in the gutter opposite the bakery.

“I thought someone might have stopped it,” Pamela observed as Elena fought tears. The chrysanthemums were scattered like birdseed down the pavement. Mrs Dorado, who had narrowly escaped being smacked in the ankles by the rolling escapee, picked three of the stray flowers up and took them home. She didn’t even offer to pay for them.

So, yes. Elena was always on guard for the possibility that she may find her beloved flower arrangements on the floor with an indignant Pamela somewhere in the midst. She had also threatened to sue, you know. Said it hurt her left arm when she banged it on a rogue tin bucket.

Pamela managed to shake the daisy petals off her shoe, and continued her sojourn around the shop.

“I think Bobby Shaw is sick,” bored of said sojourn, Pamela decided to go and speak instead. Although this was always her motive.

“Oh dear, really?” Elena didn’t like to hear that. He was a sweet old man and she hated the thought of him becoming ill. He lived alone upstairs in that flat of his and he had so little custom, she feared he could just drop dead and it would be days before anyone noticed.

“I think he has…” Pamela looked about, conspiratorially, “…something catching. A super-spreader!” she liked that word. She remembered it from covid days. It was suitably alarming and likely to provoke a response of fear and panic.

Elena paused. She tried to pry the delicate layers of tissue from under Pamela’s hefty elbows, which were now leaning on the counter.

“What’s the matter with him?” Elena wasn’t alarmed. She had also learned this the hard way. Pamela was inflammatory at best, and it was unlikely that there was half a grain of truth in anything she said.

Pamela shrugged. She needed a minute to think. In her haste to share the news of Bobby Shaw’s sudden decline, she hadn’t given due consideration to what it might actually be.

Elena, having retrieved all but one corner of her tissue paper, turned to put it somewhere safe until Pamela had moved on. She’d maybe need to check on Bobby Shaw at lunchtime. It would mean closing the shop though…she looked about. It would barely matter. So few people came into the shop. She did a good bit of business online, and – seasonally – for weddings. She had zoned Pamela out, so never caught the rest of what she was saying.

The door opened and two young women came in. They looked smartly dressed. High heels, skirt suits. Elena stood up straight. New clients!

“Hello!” she said, rushing to speak to them. Pamela was still listing what seemed to be a good number of symptoms Bobby Shaw had.

The two women nodded in greeting.

“What can I do for you? Anything in particular?”

Pamela, taking umbrage, decided to leave.

“Watch you choose well!” she said to the two women as she passed, “the heads come off the flowers awfully easily!”

Elena glared at her as she left, but quickly turned back to the two women, who were suddenly deep in conversation.

“Ciara, you tell her, you explain it,” one of them said, wandering off to look at the various displays Elena had about the shop.

“Of course, now then,” the woman, evidently Ciara, looked at her evenly, “I am going to need to place several orders. Your discretion will be appreciated.”

“Absolutely!” Elena nearly clapped. She hadn’t had several orders in the last week, let alone in one day! “Is it a special occasion?”

Ciara smiled knowingly.

“Well, it is for someone. I’m going to need flowers for five funerals!”

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Part Eight – The Drying Green

Mark’s irritation was palpable. He had driven round the block three times in the hope that he might escape the beady eyes of his mother who, no doubt, would see him if he wasn’t careful. He had already told her a convoluted story about doing some work for a company on the other side of town, but he still fully intended to be home for lunch. There was no way he was going to start paying for sandwiches now. Not after all this time.

He had started by fetching Ciara. He liked her. She was an interesting woman with bags of personality. She had been married four times, although the whereabouts of one of her husbands remained unknown. There was a glint in her eye, he was sure of it, every time she spoke of Ted. The missing one. That’s why he liked her. She was suspicious and mysterious and, he concluded, very unlikely to be law-abiding in situations where she needed an advantage.

“Why are we going round in circles?” she complained. Ciara was a woman of action and while she found Mark an amiable enough character – she had her own plotting and planning to do as to how he could be most useful to her – she found him tiresome.

For a man in his forties, he seemed unduly tied to his mother’s apron-strings and she was sure he was interested in her. Romantically. He had no chance; there was no possibility at all. No mummy’s boys for Ciara.

“I think my mother is out and about,” he was looking as shifty as a man could look and her irritation grew.

“And what of it? So what if she sees you? You can make something up. Say you forgot something, or that you had business.”

Mark sighed. She didn’t get it. His entire existence was built on a carefully orchestrated lie. He even had a notebook to keep track of the details. His mother was a wily one and while she generally showed very little interest in his business endeavours, he knew that she was just as likely to spot something and ask a series of questions that might lead to…who knows? At worst, his arrest.

“We’ll go and park round the back,” Mark pulled away once more, but not before noticing that nosey Belinda Skipton at her front room window. He couldn’t abide that woman. He had suggested to John one night in The Frog and Cricket that maybe she should get a job, contribute to the family income, and the economy. John had laughed. He was old fashioned, he wanted to be the provider and Belinda wanted to be a mum.

Mark found the whole notion ridiculous. But largely because if he was ever going to get caught by anyone, it would be her. He pretended he hadn’t seen her, though. Deniability and all that.

Ciara sighed again as Mark swerved out into the traffic, up the hill and round the back. He pulled in behind a lorry that was rolling steel barrels of beer down the back alley to The Frog and Cricket. She hated that place, it made her shudder.

“Come on then,” said Mark, opening the car door for her. She liked those little touches at least.

The two of them scuttled past the lorry driver who was now on his return leg with what seemed to be an empty barrel. Brief acknowledgements as, Ciara observed, Mark employed his I’m a businessman persona. That irritated her too. He put on an accent and made remarks about stocks and shares as if to somehow assert his credibility as a financier.

“Great day for some trading, the pound is looking strong today!” he said to the lorry driver as they passed him. Ciara cringed. The driver, if he heard, ignored him. But by the sound of the bass coming out of his ear buds, Ciara doubted very much he had caught Mark’s ridiculous comments.

The alley that ran the length of Stookey Hill behind the shop fronts and houses was like a different world. There were patches of grass, some with clothes lines and wooden benches. Planters and flower pots provided some welcome cheer. The street side of the hill was less than appealing. Ciara lived in the city, but found it to be clean and well-kept. Stookey Hill was neither of those things. There was litter and shop fronts with broken signage. Local youths gathered in the evenings outside the newsagent and drunks gathered outside the pubs. Any and every night of the week. The stench of food waste and vomit was strong when the wind was westerly, blowing right down the hill.

Ciara wasn’t wearing footwear appropriate for picking along the back alley. While it was distinctly brighter than the front, she still had to navigate plastic crates, bins and empty boxes. Her heels, which were almost five inches, got caught occasionally between slabs of concrete tile, sinking into the bits of mud and grass occupying the misshapen spaces.

Mark was well ahead. As ever, a man on a mission. She doubted his abilities most of the time, but she couldn’t fault him for how driven he was. Almost manically.

A wide door swung open just inches ahead of him and a man appeared. He shook hands with Mark and the two started a conversation, to her frustration. This was another habit: he forgot about her. Which was a cheek as well, considering it was her money!

“Hi!” Ciara stuck her hand out to shake hands too. But the recipient looked at her in surprise.

“Who is this?” he said to Mark, with something of a low grow.

“This is C-yara,” she hated that too – how he said her name. There was no Y. Why do you pronounce a Y? She had asked this many times. He didn’t know what she meant. Neanderthal, she would mutter under her breath.

“Who?” the other man lit a cigarette. Dirty habit, Ciara thought, watching the bright red illumination flash and wane as he sucked and puffed.

“Ciara,” she said, firmly and offering her hand once more, “I’m the money.”

That seemed to do the trick, because he took her hands and shook it. Limp, though, she noticed. A pathetic hand shake.

“Has it been done? Does Primrose know?” Mark, despite what seemed to be his best efforts not to look shifty, did so anyway as he looked over his shoulder and then over the other one.

“Shush, shush, shush!” the other man stamped his foot, annoyed that Mark had said her name. That was the problem with him, he always said the wrong thing, or the right thing but loudly. He was a liability.

“Sorry!” Mark, contrite, looked over his shoulders again.

Ciara looked too, but there was no one there. The alley, since the lorry driver with the barrels had finished his exchange, was quiet.

“Come here, away from the door,” Mark walked away from what seemed to be the rear entrance to a shop. He had no idea which one. Maybe Harry’s at a guess. He wasn’t sure, but he was aware he needed to keep some distance with prying ears.

The two followed him up a step and on to the drying green. Ciara sighed in disappointment as her heels sunk into the grass. She tried to stand on her tiptoes.

“She’s no real threat though,” Mark said, wondering if he too should light a cigarette. He didn’t smoke but he had the notion that it might make him look cool.

“How not?” the man was gruff, disbelieving. He had learned the hard way to trust as few people as possible. Most people were threats, in his experience.

Mark laughed. It was sort of like a villainous laugh. At least, his attempt to seem unpleasant and cruel. But he swallowed funny and his saliva made him choke. Ciara slapped him on the back a few times as he went purple, struggling to catch his breath.

“I’ve told you not to do that,” she looked at him. This was what happened when you lived with your mother for decades and decades.

Mark, still coughing, thanked her and tried again to swallow and gather whatever pride he had left back.

“Alan, trust me, Primrose is no threat. There’s a combination of factors to consider, and certainly her job is one of them, but we’ve sorted that out. She’ll be fired,” Mark attempted a smile, his eyes still watering. He wanted to appear confident and in control, but all that coughing had made his throat sore.

“Considering this is all a secret, you boys seem very aure of yourself, discussing it all so loudly,” Ciara was not amused. She had been scanning the back of the buildings and there were so many windows and doors. All that stepping on to the drying green had done was expose them to many eyes, many ears…cowboys.

“Who is this again?” the man pointed once more at Ciara as he stubbed his cigarette on to the pole of a washing line, flicking it to the ground. The damp grass made it sizzle to a smoulder.

“You boys,” Ciara said, “need to sort these meetings out. The park, the cinema, the pub…it’s all too public. Do you think no one can see or hear us?”

The two looked at her. She had no idea what she was talking about. Mark had been running shady deals for years and as for the other one – he was new to it all for sure, ever since his windfall. But he hadn’t been caught. And he had no intention of getting caught any time soon, either.

“This is not my first game of chess,” he said, puffing his chest out a little. He still wasn’t entirely sure who Ciara was, or why they actually even needed her money. He still had enough of his own.

“Maybe not, Mr Limpton,” Ciara looked at him with as much contempt as she could muster, “but it’s not mine either. And if you two don’t start listening to me, then…”

Ciara was interrupted by the gentle bang of a door and the three of them looked towards the shops, the houses, alarmed. Where had it come from? Where had there been an open door? Who had been there, and what did they know?

Sighing, Ciara made her way back towards the car.

They were most definitely cowboys and no matter how many games of ‘chess’ they had played, they were going to get her in some serious trouble if she didn’t take matters into her own hands.

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Part Seven – The Quiet Life of Bobby Shaw

There was less of a need for a tailor these days. This was Bobby’s daily observation as he opened his shop – the action of which was getting later and later. Back in the day, he had opened at seven sharp otherwise he would: a) miss his early clients who came by before work, and: b) never get anything finished.

But the work had, over the years, near enough petered out to a standstill.

“Fast fashion!” he would remark with a huff whenever anyone asked how business was these days, “I cant compete with cut-price throw-away clothes that folk buy in four different sizes and keep going until something fits!”

Most of his remaining clientele didn’t know what fast fashion even was, but his granddaughter, a sympathetic soul who had grown up with a first hand witness to the steady demise of Grandpa Bobby’s business, had written an essay on it for school. She had got full marks. Her teacher said that was because she had done primary research. Bobby himself was the said research and had spent a good few hours bemoaning the abundance of cheap fabrics and expendable clothing that was so readily available with the ascendance of global distribution.

Of course, Bobby had also benefited from this, but he said less about the fact that he too had a few cheap international suppliers. He was pretty sure no one would go digging to determine where he had got his reels of cotton and replacement machine needles from.

Bobby, with ever-increasing reluctance, turned the Closed sign on his shop door to Open and unlocked the snib. He pulled up the far blind and sighed as he realised there was a splash of something across the window. Youths. They’d been throwing things round again. There was always some sort of ruckus with a bottle of Coke or a pint of milk. The worst was eggs. They were near enough impossible to get off.

With a series of heavy, heaving sighs, he went to the back of his shop and filled a bucket with warm, soapy water, swirling it round and watching it foam.

This was his life. He thought it was pitiful. Opening a shop barely anyone used anymore on a busy street - made so only by the fact that they sold cut-price alcohol and vapes. He thought the bakery did well enough. There was always a hearty queue there. Bread, it seemed, would never go out of fashion.

Dragging the plastic bucket from under the sink, Bobby sunk a sponge into it and went out front to clean off his windows.

“Didn’t you do that yesterday?”

Bobby resented the council’s decision to put a bus stop outside his shop. Not only did the bright green shelter obscure his view of the road (and the houses and shops opposite), but it attracted all kinds who liked to gossip, commentate and pass judgement. He was fairly confident that some folk gathered there not for the cheap public transport but for the opportunity to pass on all manner of news – invented or otherwise.

“Not yesterday, Pamela,” he said, without looking up. Pamela was one such gossip. He had never seen her board or alight from a bus in his life but there she was, regular as clockwork. Once upon a time he had felt sorry for her. She was, it seemed, a lonely only soul who needed human contact. That’s what he thought, anyway. Until she spread that vicious rumour about him and his dog. Then Bobby knew. She was an actress. And a pretty good one.

“I thought it was yesterday,” that was another thing. She was persistent. In her inventiveness, she had decided that if she said the same thing enough times it became true.

“Indeed it was not,” Bobby knew fine well how this was going to go. Back and forth until somehow he admitted to cleaning his windows yesterday, either by silence or omission.

A bus pulled up, hissing to a stop. Pamela was watching Bobby intently. He had his back to her, but he could see her in the glass, arms crossed over her chest, her head slightly tilted.

“Aren’t you getting on that?” he turned and looked at her squarely, pointing at the bus. She wasn’t flustered.

“Not this one,” she said.

“Not any one,” he muttered, dipping the sponge which was now a shade of brown into the bucket of water.

“What was that?” she asked, leaning forward.

“Nothing,” Bobby squeezed the sponge and waved it in her direction. He should have known, after all these years, to check who was at the bus stop before committing to cleaning his windows. He just couldn’t bear them being dirty.

The bus driver, who had been waved on by Pamela, pulled away leaving a hot trail of exhaust. Bobby coughed a little.

“That doesn’t sound good!” Pamela remarked, a strange joy in her voice as she calculated how she could tell some folk that Bobby might be carrying a communicable illness.

Bobby, relieved that the brown splashes that had dried on his window were easy to remove, shuffled back inside his shop, closing the door behind him. For a moment, he considered turning the sign back to Closed. That would give Pamela, who was now straining her neck to see in after him, something to talk about.

He didn’t, however. He had to stick with the vain hope and possibility that someone might come in requiring some trousers turned up or sleeves shortened.

He was just about to tip the murky liquid from the bucket into the sink when he heard voices. The back door to his shop was ever so slightly ajar. He wasn’t one to leave that open and so laid the bucket down and went to click it closed. It bothered him a little that he hadn’t realised it wasn’t shut. How long had it been open?

Bobby lived upstairs and could get to the shop without going outside. The flat had an external entrance, at the back down a precarious black metal staircase, but his cousin Ned had put in a staircase so that as he aged, Bobby didn’t have to go outside. A small door just next to the sink, led up to his one bedroom flat. And this is where his consternation came from. He couldn’t remember when he last used that door. He didn’t think it had been for a few days.

This bothered Bobby considerably. He had found these past few years that there were details that escaped him. Not necessarily significant details. He knew who folk were, and he had a good long-term memory…but there were other things…where was his wallet? Where were his keys? Had he sent that invoice yet? Had he even printed it off?

He could reconcile with those small details – but leaving the back door to his shop open when he had no recollection of being out there at all…for days…

But just as Bobby went to close it, there were voices. And this was not unusual. The back alley of Stookey Hill ran across the rear of the shops, interrupted occasionally by a garden on drying green for the flats. Some businesses used their back entrances frequently. Some less so. Bobby: never. But voices in of themselves shouldn’t have stopped him.

It was mostly muffled noise to be honest. But as he sat, minutes later and shaking, Bobby noted down the words he had heard:

Primrose.

Threat.

A combination of factors.

Secret.

Chess.

Although he wasn’t sure of the last one. The others were all along a theme – a semantic field if you will. He couldn’t decide if it was ‘chess’ or ‘Jess’. Either way, the muffled nature of what he had heard, the fact that it was clearly a private conversation, his back door being open…

And try as he might to convince himself he shouldn’t binge watch ‘Bosch’ because it was doing nothing for his nerves, he still felt there was something afoot more sinister than the machinations of his own American-cop-lead imagination…

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The Kerronicles

Stookey Hill: A Serial, Part Five

Here continues my serial with the next part of ‘Stookey Hill’. If you missed any, you can go back here: Archive - The Kerronicles…

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15 days ago · 1 like · 2 comments · Helen Kerr

But, today, we go into the house next to Mrs Dorado - the Skiptons!

Part Six - The Skiptons at No. 44

John Skipton had gone home before deciding to venture out to work. He had bought his customary sausage roll, but upon realising he had forgotten his van keys, crossed the street to fetch them.

His house was quiet and for that he was thankful. Living with four kids and a wife - who he loved dearly but who also drove him crazy - made for a less than peaceful existence. Couple all that with living in a three bedroom mid-terrace on an insanely busy street…John’s only solace was that the rent was cheap.

“What are you doing home?” his wife Belinda shouted from the kitchen. She appeared at the door, the baby on her hip.

“Forgot my keys,” John said, sitting down to eat his sausage roll.

Belinda sighed and went back into the kitchen. John was her childhood sweetheart, the love of her life, but he was never in a rush about anything. Nothing ever had any sense of urgency, or importance. Of course, he was lucky because at least he owned the business, but still…she often wondered how on earth it was still afloat.

“I have an appointment for Izzy’s vaccinations at two - do you want anything in particular for tea because I’ll likely head straight over to the big Tesco out at the roundabout?”

There was silence. Belinda, sighing once more, went back to the door. John had gone again. But, she noted, his sausage roll wrapper had not. Neither had the flaked bits of pastry on the arm of the chair. More sighs. Belinda put Izzy into the playpen so that she could wipe up the pastry. The car horn made her start.

“Goodness me!” she gasped, laughing at her own fright, but wandering over to the window nonetheless.

A car had come to what seemed like a screeching halt and there, in the middle of the road, was Mrs Dorado. Her face was red, angry. And terrified. Belinda sighed again. She had concerns about Mrs Dorado.

Their house shared a wall. What was Mrs Dorado’s living room was the staircase in the Skipton’s, but there were two bedrooms upstairs that shared a shockingly thin partition too. There had been times when Belinda had been pottering about, putting away laundry, while the baby slept and she had been aware of voices. She knew that Mrs Dorado’s son Mark was there virtually every day, but there were times when there had been another man’s voice too.

At first, Belinda had thought nothing of it. Mrs Dorado could have whoever she wanted as a guest to her house. And it wasn’t as though you could make out words. Just noises, like you were listening from the bottom of a swimming pool.

Except, that one time when the voices were upstairs. Two men, she thought, as she folded Tommy and James’s laundry on the bed. Izzy was fast asleep, her gentle breathing the only sound. Until someone next door shouted. Then there was a shouted reply. Belinda paused. Please don’t wake the baby! That was her first thought.

Because of course it would be - who would have thought that the next thing she would hear would be a crash, a scream and a thud as though something had been flung at the wall between them. Out of some sort of instinct, Belinda clutched the small pair of trousers she was folding to her chest. Then she laughed as the silence became once more. Shaking her head, she smiled and picked up another t-shirt to fold.

Then, thud thud thud and another scream and the two male voices started shouting again. The difference was, this time she could make out words.

“I told you, you’ll get it when you get it!” Voice one.

“That’s not, like I said, good enough!” Voice two - probably Mark, Belinda concluded as she reflected after.

“And what do you want me to do? Magic it out of thin air?” Voice one.

“I don’t care where it comes from, just get me what you owe me!”

Thud, thud, thud. Then silence. Then what sounded like the trickle of plasterboard between the walls. Belinda had, she admitted to John when she retold the story that evening, wondered if they might come clean through the wall at that point!

The voices became muffled again as they quietened down, but there was tension. Belinda could feel it. A door banged and she ran to the window to see who left the house. A man, tall and wearing a suit, charged out with purpose, walking quickly as if to avoid being seen. But Belinda was upstairs and couldn’t see his face, just the top of what seemed to be a balding head.

If Mark was the other voice, he never appeared and number 42 Stookey Hill fell into its usual silence.

Later that afternoon, Belinda had just come through to the lounge with a cup of tea when she saw Mrs Dorado passing by, towards her house. Had she not been in earlier when all that ruckus was taking place next door?

“Mrs Dorado!” Belinda pulled the front door open to catch her before she went inside.

“Hello, dear!” Mrs Dorado paused, her key already in the lock. She wasn’t a fan of the Skiptons. Noisy lot. Belinda was all right, but the others were loud and boisterous.

“Been anywhere nice?” Belinda’s question was deliberately nosy so as to elicit whether or not Mrs Dorado had been witness to whatever had been happening earlier. She was sure there must be marks on the walls on her side.

Mrs Dorado sighed. This woman. Nice but so nosy. So, so nosy. If she hadn’t seen the tree branch with her own eyes through the back fence last winter, she might have thought that Belinda had done it herself to make a peep hole!

“Opticians this morning, then podiatrist to get my toe nails cut!”

Belinda shuddered at the thought of Mrs Dorado’s feet.

“An MOT then?” she said, instead of something ruder.

“An MOT indeed!” Mrs Dorado wondered when this would end.

A silence indicated that it had finally ended and Mrs Dorado smiled one last time and went inside.

So she wasn’t in earlier, Belinda had mused over her cup of tea.

And now, she was looking outside to see poor Mrs Dorado in a near miss with a vehicle! What a shame. She considered going out to her, but always got the impression that Mrs Dorado didn’t like her.

As Belinda watched, Mrs Dorado pulled her shopper behind her, face like thunder. No, now wasn’t the time to speak to her. However, if she got chance, she might quite like a word with that Mark…

And, as if by thinking his name she had summoned him, there he was. In a car that had pulled up right outside, much to the consternation of those cars behind him as their horns fired off and their drivers zoomed round, close enough to make a point without causing an accident.

Belinda watched with interest. Mark always came for his lunch, but it was a bit earlier today. Whoever he was with, she couldn’t see but they seemed deep in conversation. Then, without either of them getting out of the car, it started to pull away. It was then that Belinda realised that the driver was a woman! Belinda smiled - was this a girlfriend? Maybe…she had never seen Mark bring a girl home before. Not that next door was his home. Just his restaurant. Belinda was bemused. She thought he used Mrs Dorado for her kindness.

Sighing again, as was her perpetual life these days, Belinda decided it was time to get on with some chores before she needed to go out with the baby.

She was whistling when, almost thirty minutes later, there was a thud on the wall. From Mrs Dorado’s side. Upstairs. And then there they were again. Voices and shouting. And another thud, thud, thud.

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Today, we meet Mr Owens, the owner of the camera shop, and his hapless assistant, Grant!

Part Five - Picture This

Mrs Dorado left Harry bemused. She was preoccupied with the fact that someone was stealing the most unusual of items from her. Ham and pound coins. The money she could sort of understand, but the meat…

Thankfully, someone else entered the shop and held the door for her so that she could get her shopper out without it getting snarled in the mechanism again. She was about to cross the street, when she remembered her photo book – she might go and see if it was ready, since the camera shop was right next door.

Heaving the door inwards with her entire body weight, she managed to get herself and her shopper through without incident. She stood for a moment, basking in the achievement.

“Mrs Dorado!” Grant popped his head up over the counter. He had been pretending to look for something, but the small wispy trail gave away the fact that he was vaping. He’d got in trouble with the manager a few times for that. One time he had even been in trouble for not doing a better job at hiding what Mr Owens had called a filthy habit. Grant didn’t think it was filthy. It smelled of mangoes.

“Hello dear,” she said, ambling over to ask after her photo book.

“Let me check for you,” Grant said, sliding out from behind the counter to go out back. This was entirely unnecessary because he could check on the computer. But out back, he could light an actual cigarette thanks to the fact that Mr Owens kept the back door propped open most of the time. Even in the winter. One year, the snow had come all the way in and left a gleaming white carpet on the storage room floor.

Mrs Dorado leaned on the counter. Her hip felt a bit dicky and she hadn’t walked much these past few days. She thought it might do her good to get to the park later. Maybe Mark would take her.

However, the thought of Mark led her to think about how it would soon be time to make his customary ham and crisp sandwich, which then led her to consider once more that someone was stealing from her. It was the worst of crimes – to thieve from an old lady, she thought to herself.

Instead, she distracted herself with the very many displays about the shop. They were a bit much, she thought, looking at all the bright, smiling faces in glorious colour posing for what were no doubt highly staged photos. There was one that ran ceiling to floor – a young couple walking a dog. They were smiling, not a care in the world. Even the dog seemed to be smiling.

She leaned forward a bit on the counter to see the bottom of one of the posters. She had a sudden inclination to look at the footwear of the round, friendly-faced grandmother beaming away.

The woman appeared not to have any feet, however, as the skirting board swallowed her ankles. This was much to Mrs Dorado’s disappointment. She could have done with some shoe inspiration. She’d had the same pair of memory foam slip-ons from Marks and Spencer for about seven years now – eight maybe…

It was during this casual musing about the age of her worn, navy shoes, that Mrs Dorado spotted it. She wasn’t trying to look, she insisted to herself later when attempting to justify the actions that came next. It was just that her eyes were pointing that way.

The printer, which had been churning out a series of photos, had squeaked – quite literally – to a halt. It was the sudden silence, in fact, that made Mrs Dorado glance at the last photo that sat in its 8x10 glory for all to see.

It was a couple of kids at the park. They were on swings, laughing. Fun times, Mrs Dorado thought as she remembered going to the park herself as a young girl. Except those were the days when health and safety was not even taken into consideration and you scorched the back of your legs in the summer on the metal slide which seemed hot enough to fry an egg on.

Oh, and little Alex Fiddler – poor boy. He had got his scarf caught in the underside of the roundabout and had laid there for three hours before someone realised he hadn’t gone home for his tea. His mother lived with eternal regret for saying “he’ll come home when he’s hungry.” Little Alex Fiddler would have gone home had he been able. Instead, not only did he never darken the gate of the park again, but he only ever spoke in monosyllables.

Mrs Dorado shuddered at the memory and decided today was not the day to visit the park. Even for just a walk.

And Mrs Dorado was just about to turn her attention to something else, wondering where on earth Grant was before remembering he was likely chain-smoking at the back door, when she spotted something out of the corner of her eye. It was two people in the background of the photo with the children on the swings.

“Looks like Mark,” Mrs Dorado muttered, out loud but to no one since she was alone in the shop.

Leaning forward a little more, she tried to inspect the photo. Hang on, it was Mark! She smiled to herself a little – small town life! Everyone knew everyone and…

But hang on…who was that he was with? It looked like Alan Limpton…no, it couldn’t be. Mark couldn’t stand the man. No one could stand the man. Then, without any thought, Mrs Dorado leaned and picked up the photo. It was Alan Limpton! And they were…shaking hands? Why were they shaking hands?

Mrs Dorado frowned. This was strange. Then, and she wasn’t sure what possessed her, she leaned and picked up all the photos.

Mark was in several of them. She flicked through them and, as though it was a small action comic book, she saw the tale unravel. Mark and Alan walking to each other, meeting, looking about them (she thought that seemed shifty) and then shaking hands. And then…the exchange of something. A package maybe…an envelope? She squinted to look when suddenly she heard the front door jangle open.

Horrified at the thought of being caught, she immediately dropped the photos back on to the printer. She was equally horrified to see that the top one had smudge marks where the ink mustn’t have dried properly before she touched them. Her eyes were wide and she gulped, aware suddenly that she had (inadvertently) ruined someone’s photos.

“Mrs D!” It was Mr Owens. He had come in, paper under one arm, pipe in one hand, “where’s Grant?” he frowned instantly. That boy was barely worth employing…

“He’s out back looking for my photo book!” Mrs Dorado shouted it, as if that distracted from the fact that she had been nosy, and not only looked through someone else’s photos but had also left her fingerprints on them all.

Mr Owens looked surprised at both the volume and the gusto of her reply.

“I’m afraid it’s not ready yet,” he said, calmly and in the hope that she too would remain calm. Her eyes had a strange bewildered look and he was slightly worried she was about to experience a medical emergency.

“Okay!” Mrs Dorado grabbed the handle of her shopper, “not to worry, I’ll come back!”

And Mr Owens watched as she pushed the door open, narrowly missed slamming it into the postie, Andy, before yanking her shopper through it.

“What’s with her?” Andy raised his eyebrows as the two watched her march straight back towards her house, the shopper flipping spectacularly along the way like a fish on a line.

Mr Owens shrugged and the two gasped as she walked straight into an oncoming car. It screeched to a halt and then the horn blasted as Mrs Dorado’s face wore a curious combination of alarm and rage.

“Anyway, here you go,” Andy handed Mr Owens a small pile of letters before heading in to Harry’s.

Mr Owens watched to make sure Mrs Dorado made it safely into her house before going to find out where that good-for-nothing Grant was so that he could sit in peace and read the paper.

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Today I share Part Four of ‘Stookey Hill’ - meet Harry, owner of the local mini-mart!

You can see Part Three here, which will also link you to Parts 1 and 2 if you missed those!

Part Four – Harry’s Shoppe

Harry Dinkum had bought the modest premises he now occupied in the spring of ’77. After a whirlwind romance with the woman who later became his wife, Bettina, he spent his entire inheritance on No. 43 Stookey Hill. Initially he had no intention of living out the rest of his years in it, since he believed that he was quite the entrepreneur at heart.

Prior to this purchase, however, he had owned an ice-cream van and did a fairly decent trade in what was highly suspected by the more wary of locals to be stolen goods. After all, most whipped ice-cream is not passed on via unmarked brown boxes. However, he vehemently denied it and no one ever did anything other than spread sceptical gossip so that was that really.

However, one brush with the law in 1982 scared him sufficiently to ensure all his future business endeavours were upright and he ran what turned out to be a moderately successful one-stop-shop.

Bettina used a back room to cut hair and had a similarly moderate income from a clientele who were growing old with her. She joked that some of them soon wouldn’t even have any of their own hair left to cut. It was a joke that didn’t always land well. Especially with Mr Emerson who was bald on the top and only came for a quick trim around the ears. He also thought twelve pounds was steep for the snipping of what was very little hair, but he came really for the banter. Bettina was a hoot.

For the most part, Harry saw regulars too. He was competing with the ‘big’ supermarket at the far end of the street, one of the huge retailers that had their ‘suburb’ shops, selling everything at a price Harry couldn’t compete with. But between loyalty, laziness and the desire to ‘not let the corporate giants win’, Harry did a good enough trade.

One of his favourite regulars was Mrs Dorado from across the street. She came in most days, bought a lot of bread and ham and wasn’t above eating a few out-of-date baked goods here and there. In fact it was because of Mrs Dorado he started selling those small half-loaves. She used to complain about how much she had to throw away because the small freezer compartment above her fridge wouldn’t store it.

He liked to think of himself as a bit of a philanthropist – a man of the people. He couldn’t stand that Alan Limpton, though, who thought it was money that made you that. No, it was kindness and thoughtfulness and the good of your own heart. Even if Bettina did laugh when he said that, saying he wasn’t as much a man of the people as much as he was a man who liked to make a sale. He thought these things could both be true, but she just laughed even more. Hurt his feelings a little bit.

Anyway, he sold a lot of those mini-loaves and that was good enough for him.

It was one Tuesday morning when the bell jangled and he looked up to see Mrs Dorado struggling in with her wheeled shopper. He didn’t know why she grappled with it so. It had only three functioning wheels, and the handle had been duct-taped to death, so that she would stand and pick residue off her hands while she caught him up with the events of the last twenty four hours. She also only bought a few items, which she then dropped into the bottom of the shopper and no doubt struggled to reach once she was back at home.

“Morning, Mrs D!” he exclaimed, looking up from his newspaper. He liked to read the newspaper. Well, look as though he was. He read some headlines, checked the sports fixtures and then did the puzzles. Except he was yet to finish one. He didn’t usually get the ones where the words had more than seven letters.

“Harry!” Mrs Dorado was wrestling the shopper in backwards and one corner of it appeared caught in the jamb of the door. The electronic detector above it kept pinging the door open at which point she tried to pull it through, then once it could no longer detect her, it closed again. So there she was, bouncing in and out of the door making no progress.

“Do you need help?” Harry looked at her over his spectacles. Like the paper, they were there for show. They were actually his Uncle Terry’s who, rest his soul, had passed on last Spring. In a moment of silliness, Harry had tried them on and, upon checking his reflection in the mirror, decided they made him look intelligent. He didn’t ask Bettina what she thought. She didn’t even seem to notice that he intermittently donned a pair of glasses that looked like relics from the fifties.

“Nope, I’ve got it,” said Mrs Dorado, deciding to exit entirely before trying again. To no avail as the shopper did not exit with her and, instead, crunched in the door as it closed once more.

Harry took his glasses off and decided that despite her protestations, she did need help. The door opened on his approach and he bent to inspect it. Mrs Dorado, slightly put out that he had come to help her – she considered herself to be fiercely independent – decided to pull the shopper. Harry pulled it the other way. What then ensued was a ridiculous back and forth tug-of-war as to the two determined that they would be the one to fix it.

“Here, kick this bit,” John Skipton, who always stopped mid-morning for a hot sausage roll, booted the shopper and kicked it clean through the door. It teetered on its three wheels for a moment before landing on one side. It was intact but definitely a little scruffier for its scuffle with the automatic door.

“Thanks,” Mrs Dorado grumbled, leaning to pick it off the floor. But John Skipton was gone. He only had one motive and that was an overcooked sausage wrapped in ever-so-slightly blackened pastry.

“Bread?” asked Harry, reaching for his glasses so as to resume his intellectual appearance.

“Yes, and ham. I didn’t like the breaded ham, though. The yellow stuff round the edge was not good,” Mrs Dorado followed Harry to the refrigerator cabinets.

“That’s the bread bit of the breaded ham,” Harry said, peering in to see what deli options he had.

“It looked like something you get an ointment to treat,” Mrs Dorado said, shuddering at the thought, “and there weren’t as many pieces in it as the honey roast…”

“There are eight slices in all the packs,” said Harry, trying to rummage around for what would be an acceptable packet. Mrs Dorado had virtually impossible ham standards. Not too much fat, no bits that looked streaky and no spongey bits – whatever they were. Oh, and now apparently no breaded crumb.

“Well, there were not eight slices in that last one, there were…” Mrs Dorado’s voice trailed off. Maybe, she thought, the electric man had them like that last one who had stolen ham…did he take her money and her ham…

“I’ve left a couple of quid here, Harry, I can’t wait any longer. I’ll get my change later!” John Skipton shouted across the shop.

Harry rolled his eyes. Yes, he had best make sure he came back for his two pence. Maybe he could sell John Skipton some patience too.

“I’ll take that one,” said Mrs Dorado, plucking a packet from Harry’s hand and then waving it at him to shoo him away.

Harry resumed his spot behind the counter, ringing through the £1.98 sausage roll and placing a two pence piece on the cash register for later when John would inevitably be back.

Kelly from The Frog and Cricket came in for some cough sweets, then Gloria (or Glorious Gloria as she was known locally – more on that another time) came for the paper and a few sundries. She had a brief natter with Mrs Dorado as they talked about the weather and how the nights were drawing in and then left. Mrs Dorado laid out the three items she had: bread, honey roast ham and a pint of milk.

“Much else on today Mrs D?” he asked as she rifled through her pockets to retrieve her money.

“No, not much. Mark will be home for his lunch,” she pointed at her purchases as though that explained lunch, before dropping them into the bottom of her shopper.

Harry just nodded. He wasn’t very keen on that Mark chap. He had a shifty look about him. Gave him the heebie-jeebies. Although this was mostly based on the funeral. Or memorial, as it was.

The late Julio Dorado, Mark’s father, had died many years ago. Harry couldn’t quite remember how many years – ten? Fifteen? Anyway, Julio had mysteriously disappeared one night. He had a canal barge which wasn’t tied up where it should have been. It hound been found drifting dangerously close to the locks with no one on it. The assumption had been that Julio had drowned, but there was never a body. No sign of him anywhere. There had, of course, been some local speculation that maybe he had run off. But there was no evidence of that. He had just disappeared, assumed dead.

The memorial, from Harry’s perspective, had been a strange affair. Mrs Dorado had, understandably, sobbed throughout. Less explainable was the intermittent pausing in the sobbing to send a text message. But Mark…there was something off about Mark. Harry liked to think he could sense these things. Spidey-sense! He would joke. Bettina thought that was funny and told him he was too plump to be a superhero. That made him smart a little but she wasn’t wrong.

“Yes, but some things I just know,” he said, tapping his head knowingly. That just made her laugh even more though.

But that Mark – yes, something amiss.

“Why, though?” his pal Grimby said when they sat with a pint up at the bar of The Frog and Cricket, “everyone mourns in different ways.”

“I know, I know,” Harry traced the top of his pint glass with his finger, “but I tell you…one day we’ll find out.”

Grimby just nodded, taking a gulp from his Guinness while both of them considered the possibilities. Of course, as it turned out, the reality was something they had never concocted in their wildest dreams.

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Come back on Monday for Part 5!

You can read yesterday’s ‘chapter’ here, and that in turn will link you back if you have missed anything!:

The Kerronicles

Stookey Hill: A Serial

Yesterday I introduced you to part one of my series on the fictional street of ‘Stookey Hill’. You can read that part here…

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21 days ago · 1 comment · Helen Kerr

Today, meet Mrs Dorado who lives next door to Park Place Bakery!

Part Three – Mrs Dorado at No.42

There were distinct advantages in living next door to the bakery. For a start: the smell. It was, as Mrs Dorado often exclaimed, “divine”. The soft warmth of freshly made bread near enough seemed to seep through the very walls from the bakery right into Mrs Dorado’s front room.

“It’ll be okay if I ever need to sell this place,” she would say, “because of the bread smell. They say bread and coffee sell a house!” although she had an aversion to coffee so had reconciled that she was fully relying on next door’s bread to sell No. 42 in the unlikely event that she wanted it sold.

“You’ll never sell it!” said Mark, her son. He said it with a chuckle, but that was a ruse. He didn’t think it was funny at all. He fully intended to make sure he inherited the place. Mainly because of what was underneath it. But no one else knew about that. Except maybe that young girl in planning who had found him some archived paperwork. He had tried to distract her with some flirtatious conversation to make sure she didn’t look at what he was looking at. So there was her. Possibly. But other than that, just him.

“I might one day!” Mrs Dorado would waggle her finger teasingly. But she knew she wouldn’t. She had every intention of dying in there. Hopefully in the lounger with the electric footrest, and hopefully while she had her feet up and was dozing to one of her favourite soap operas.

But, there were also disadvantages in living next to the bakery. The walls were paper thin. Mrs Dorado had enquired a few times as to whether or not the walls were sufficient.

“I’d best not go up in flames in a grill fire!” she joked. That made Mark a bit nervous. He also hoped she did not go up in a grill fire, although for altogether different reasons.

One morning, however, she was sure she could hear some kind of wailing. She got a small, decorative Ikea glass and pressed it against the wall, her ear against the cool underside of the glass. It didn’t seem to be coming from the bakery. Maybe it was that Clive again. She wasn’t fussed on him. Difficult man with a very patient, if somewhat dopey-looking, wife.

Although it didn’t sound like Clive.

Mrs Dorado wondered whether or not a bigger glass might help. She shuffled around in the kitchen, but they were all the same small tumblers that Mark had got her for Christmas. They were 50p each. He’d left the stickers on the bottom. He had also bought her twelve, which was ridiculous for a woman living alone, but useful since she had dropped seven of them when trying to listen in to the bakery to her right or the Skiptons at No. 44 to her left.

Eventually, she dumped what were actually quite stale looking carnations out of the vase in the kitchen window, gave it a rinse and then went to listen again. She sighed as she realised she hadn’t dried it thoroughly, making her face damp on one side. Also, the opening of the vase was far too big and it did absolutely nothing to aid her in hearing what the hullaballoo next door was actually about.

The front door opened. It was Mark. He looked at his mother and raised his eyebrows. He said nothing, however. This wasn’t strange behaviour in of itself. Not for her anyway. Although he did think the trail of slightly green water down the wall was a bit off-putting.

“Don’t you want to know what I’m doing?” Mrs Dorado shouted after him as he went to the kitchen.

“Okay,” he said, somewhat reluctantly. He was rummaging around and took his chance while she was distracted by opening the drawer next to the microwave where she kept her spare change and a roll of ten pound notes wrapped in an elastic band. He took two notes and three pounds in change. She wouldn’t miss that.

“I’m listening to what is happening next door, Mark, come and listen!” she shouted, even though she could hear nothing but faint muffles and a bang here and there.

Mark reappeared, his hands in his pockets with the money he had so shamelessly stolen from his own mother. The thought of it made him go a little red but then he dismissed it quickly. He’d been doing it for years. No point developing a conscience now.

The two of them stood, Mrs Dorado still with drops of water leaking from the mouth of the vase on to her blue floral dress and Mark standing as still as possible, hands still stuffed into his pockets as if burying his treasure.

The sounds were vague and difficult to interpret. Multiple voices, for sure.

“It sounds like Primrose…” Mark said, trying to decide by cocking his head to one side.

“She’s upset!” said Mrs Dorado, her eyes glinting as they relished the thought (or hope) of something scandalous unfolding.

“It’s probably just that lazy boy,” Mark shrugged and was about to leave when there was a crash which caused Mrs Dorado to drop the vase. It smashed to the floor in a hundred pieces and she sighed. There were still some bits down there from the last glass she broke, she was sure of it.

Mark stepped to the side and over a few stray shards that had made their way to the middle of the room before saying his goodbyes and leaving her to it. He was fed up of hoovering broken glass off that carpet.

Mrs Dorado sighed again and shook her head. You’re the lazy boy, she thought to herself as she went to fetch the dustpan ad brush.

Whatever was unfolding next door, however, came to a halt. Just as well, since Mrs Dorado had run out of ear-wigging options.

Once the glass was cleaned up – well, -ish – Mrs Dorado wondered about what she might do first that day. As much as she loved the smell of the bakery, she couldn’t afford fresh bread, or pies or cakes. She usually went to the little shop across the way. Harry’s Shoppe. She didn’t understand the spelling mistake and had long since given up trying to get Harry to explain it. Anyway, Harry sold loaves of bread for under a pound and kept out-of-date Eccles cakes for her. He gave her a 10% discount but also made her promise not to sue him if she ever got food poisoning. She thought it was a bit much that he had made her sign a disclaimer, but she didn’t think salmonella was a high risk outcome from a small cake that had more preservatives in it anyway than other ingredients.

As she thought about it, she decided it might be as well to get on with her day and get some food in. Mark would be back for his lunch soon enough and she always made him his favourite: ham sandwich with butter and cheese and onion crisps, right there in between the slices of bread and ham. He liked the crunch, he said.

Putting on her shoes, Mrs Dorado looked about for her coat. It was October already and the nip in the air was now apparent. To her dismay, she realised there was no change left in her pockets so she went to her stash in the kitchen – the drawer next to the microwave.

“Hmmm,” she said out loud, puzzled. There were some coins missing. She wouldn’t ordinarily notice, but little Tommy Skipton had asked her the day before if she happened to have a five pound note he could swap her for all his pound coins. She did, so they had made the exchange over the back fence. At least, the hole in the back fence that Skipton’s swing set had caused in that awful gale last winter.

She poked around a bit, but no. There were definitely coins missing.

“I bet it’s that man who came to read the meter!” she exclaimed to herself, horrified at the sudden thought of him rifling through her belongings. She’d report him to Ofgen later. She had their number from when she had reported that other boy who came and took two packets of ham from the fridge! Who’d have thought it! Such shameless theft. Although, she mused to herself, that was how crime was the most successful. Hidden in plain sight. She thought the electricity board needed a more stringent screening process.

Pulling a ten pound note from her elasticated wad, Mrs Dorado went to get her shopping. She pulled her coat about her as the breeze made her shudder. And had she locked her front door a fraction later, she might not have missed her own son look furtively up and down the street before darting into the side entrance of The Frog and Cricket.

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Come back tomorrow for the last instalment of this week: Harry’s Shoppe!

Today, the story continues with Primmie and the bakery in which she works!

Part Two – The Park Place Bakery

Primmie was often late to work. In fact, a fairer reflection might be to say usually. It was a variable lateness, sometimes seconds, sometimes eight or nine minutes. The worst one had been ninety seven, but that (Primmie claimed) was because of the dentist.

“Who sees someone for a scale and polish before seven in the morning?” Alan, who was the owner of the bakery, was incredulous. He didn’t like doing much else other than own it, though. He paid as many people as possible to ensure he had as little to do with it as possible. He had a plethora of people on staff: managers, assistants, accountants…anyone who could in any way make it so that all he had to worry about was whether or not he knew where he had put his credit card for his next hefty purchase.

“Glinton does,” Primmie was flustered.

Her gums had bled all the way on her short walk from Lentil Dental which Glinton Dayley had named, creatively, after his favourite soup: “My mam used to make it every Sunday and we had it for lunch every day until it either ran out or smelled suspicious!” he would say. And he would say it with fondness, which surprised everyone because it wasn’t a great story.

“Glinton needs to get a life,” Alan muttered, opening the door of his Mercedes which was unceremoniously parked half on the kerb and not, as you might think, half on the road. The other half was on Mrs Dorado’s drive and she was not happy. Not because she had a car, because she didn’t, but rather because that was just her general disposition.

Alan disappeared in a flume of smoke, revving his engine just to remind everyone that he had an expensive car because he could afford one. And a little bit because he was irritated that he had been required to leave the comforts of his estate three miles out of town at six in the morning because his manager hadn’t shown up. He’d been asleep as well, which didn’t help.

“I don’t think he was even wearing clothes!” Mrs Dorado said, clicking her tongue as she considered the probability that his shorts were, in fact, underpants.

Primmie opened the bakery and let in Sue (who had called Alan) and Anna-Marie (who worked out back). Tyler, the sales assistant, had gone home. He was a lazy boy who most days had to be shaken back to wakefulness as he managed, quite impressively, to nap on one hand propped at the elbow.

However, she had to give Mrs Armitage a gentle shove out, telling her they wouldn’t be able to open immediately because they hadn’t got anything in the oven yet. How she wished she hadn’t kicked Glinton in the armpit when he turned on the drill. Then it wouldn’t have catapulted out of his hand, pinging Lesley the dental nurse in the cheek and causing her to yelp. The dominoes continued as, in trying to catch the drill, Glinton fell over a bucket which had seemingly been left there by the cleaner the night before and suddenly the whole room was awash in disinfected water that had a slight beige sludgeness to it. Lesley slipped, adding a graze to her elbow to match her cheek and Primmie had never seen such pandemonium in all her life.

Glinton, after cleaning up the water and reassuring Lesley that of course she didn’t look like she’d done ten rounds with Mike Tyson, warned Primmie loudly that he was about to start in his drill again and the scale and polish resumed without further incident.

Sighing, Primmie put on her apron and Sue and Anna-Marie began their duties. As they did most days, a few minutes late here and there. But Primmie was a good worker and, on the whole, did a decent enough job.

Which made the murmurings that she was going to be let go even more surprising.

“Have you complained about me?” she asked Mrs Armitage who was watching carefully to make sure she got 2 cream-filled doughnuts that were acceptable to her.

“I complain about you every day of my life,” Mrs Armitage replied, shaking her head as Sue went for a doughnut from which the cream was trailing out, “not that one, dear. I am paying for the filling you know!”

Sue did know. She knew that every day of her life. But, as she always did, she picked a different one, flicked the paper bag round twice to secure its corners and asked Mrs Armitage if she would like anything else.

“Have you complained about me to Alan, though?” Primmie was persistent. She was not pleased to hear at The Frog and Cricket the previous night that Alan was looking for a new bakery manager.

“Did you not know?” asked Kelly, the barmaid as she wiped the bar down, deciding that eye contact was no longer a good idea now she may have let the proverbial cat out of the bag and all the way down the street.

“Do you think I would ask if I knew?” Primmie said, sarcastically.

Kelly shrugged and went to serve an imaginary punter for fear of escalation. Primmie had a temper.

However, as Primmie nursed her rum and coke, she pondered what might have happened. Alan wasn’t particularly bothered by her lateness. He had told her so during her last appraisal. It was a brief evaluation of her skills and abilities, though, since Alan thought appraisals felt too much like hard work. He had tried to get Clare his accountant to do them, but she had insisted they weren’t in her job description.

“I’m not bothered about you being a few minutes late here and there,” he had insisted, “the bakery does very well and makes me a tidy packet. Now, your other competencies – fine. Let’s give them all ticks shall we?” and after that he was gone. Primmie didn’t even know what the other competencies were. But Alan was fine, so she was fine, so that was fine.

Except now, it seemed, it wasn’t fine.

She wracked her brains trying to think. What had happened that had caused the rumour mill to churn out the fact – or understanding - that Primmie was going to be fired? Mrs Armitage might be the reason, although Alan thought she was a lunatic. Apparently she emailed him three or four times a week complaining about one thing or another. The last complaint had been because she doubted that the sugar on her doughnuts was the same as it usually was because it was particularly coarse. She liked the finer stuff, more like powder.

No, it probably wasn’t her.

So Primmie was a bit surprised to find herself in Clive and Ellen’s flat crying, of all things. She wasn’t even particularly friendly with them, noting wryly that most of her interactions with the inhabitants of the flat above the bakery were her complaining about them. The irony was not lost on her.

Ellen gave her a kitchen roll and made some comforting noises, but Primmie left eventually and none the wiser. Clive gave her a look of distaste as she left and she heard him shout the minute she got to the stairs.

“Where have you been?” Sue looked annoyed. They often had an early afternoon rush. There was first thing, then lunchtime consumers and for some reason they had a good number of regulars who came later saying they liked to miss the rush. But they only created a rush themselves, so it was a funny old situation really.

Primmie was trying to compose herself. She had inadvertently disclosed to Ellen that she thought Jim from down the way, the barber, had got her fired. This was loosely based on something Sue had said that morning. Not about Primmie, but it certainly implicated her.

“My man, Billy, went to see James Hindbright the other week,” Sue had said that morning as she stretched out a hair net to its maximum in an effort to make sure it caught the entirety of her significant perm. She always called her husband ‘my man, Billy’. Once, Elisa from the florist thought that was his name. Mymanbilly and Sue Cunningham. Put it on a Christmas card, assumed he was maybe from somewhere abroad. No, Billy was from Sheffield.

However, Sue’s retelling of her man Billy’s trip to have his hair cut didn’t feel newsworthy in of itself. So, to start with Primmie didn’t pay much attention. In fact, she wouldn’t even be able to tell you what came after: “he has needed a haircut for weeks and I said to him…” and before: “just like that he lost eight customers that day due to a bad review on some sort of page where you leave those…”

That’s when Primmie stopped in her tracks and made herself try to pay attention again. She had to pause though because first thing rush started and she had to go and wake Tyler from his first slumber of the day.

By ten o’clock, Primmie’s anxiety was at a peak. She was desperate to resume her conversation with Sue, and just needed to think how she might go about that. At 10.15 they went for a tea break and she took her chance.

“Hey, Sue, finish what you were telling me earlier about James and the review…” she stirred her tea so as to look at anything but Sue, feeling her cheeks redden a little at the possibilities as to what might come next.

Sue took a minute to remember, which only caused Primmie’s anxiety feel like stew in a pressure cooker. She continued to stir her tea, considering how best to look nonchalant.

“You remember, you said Billy needed a haircut, and then you were saying about a bad review someone had left…” Primmie repeated it again. How can one person’s memory be that bad? she wondered as Sue looked at her blankly.

“Ah, yes, I remember. Oh it was nothing. Nothing important anyway!” Sue laughed as though that as that conversation over. As far as Primmie was concerned, however, it was far from it.

“No, go on tell me…” Sue looked at her plea with curiosity, so Primmie tried to redirect, “I was just thinking what we might do if we got a bad review in Baker’s Weekly, or something…” that seemed to satisfy Sue who had never actually heard of Baker’s Weekly – which she wouldn’t have done because Primmie made it up right there and then.

“Well,” Sue settled in as though she did have a good story after all, “James got this terrible review – and that day he got all these cancellations and a few of them said they would be finding somewhere else, and so James had decided to do some investigating and even though the review was left by User123456789, he thinks he knows who it is!” Sue’s eyes flashed as though she had let out some trade secrets that would bring a government down.

“Okay…” Primmie felt like she had lost Sue who was sipping her coffee and looking off into the distance, “Sue…Sue?”

“Oh yes, well anyway – he knows who left the review and got in touch with their manager and, according to James, they’re going to get fired!” the glee on Sue’s face was apparent. She even rocked a little on her chair as though perfecting some sort of manic in-the-know evil laugh.

Primmie felt sick and even though she took herself up to Ellen and Clive in the hope of some solace, she found none. Ellen listened to her, but didn’t seem to have any advice.

So, she went back to the bakery to gather her things and told Sue that she didn’t feel well and was going to go home immediately. Sue was fuming, but said nothing, thinking that Primmie did look unusually snotty.

Primmie made a dash to her car, near on hyperventilating as she pulled open the door, flung herself home and hurtled back to her small apartment three miles away at considerably illegal speeds.

She unlocked her front door with shaking hands and switched on a lamp at her desk. Turning the computer on, she fetched a glass of water and tried to steady her nerves. Which she did not manage to do.

Her emails opened automatically and there, to her horror was a new message.

Dear User123456789…

Come back tomorrow for Part Three - Mrs Dorado of Number 42

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This is what fascinates me - ordinary people and their lives which may not actually always be that ordinary. And even if their lives were ordinary, what might they be like?

And I have always been like this - I remember visiting my grandparents in Leek when we lived in Cambridgeshire and there was this one part of the journey that was through fields and hills and there would be small houses dotted about, sometimes far flung with just the low glimmer of distant lights as we drove home at night. I would wonder then as I did in the city - who lives there? What is that like?

So, I suppose much of my writing is preoccupied with that. What is life like? The ups, the downs, the treasure, the trash…and that’s what I enjoy writing the most. People you might know, who I might know and what connects us all in this great tapestry of life!

So, over the next few weeks I will be sharing with you my short stories - loosely based on and inspired by that journey to work I took through the city. Each day there will be a new part, linking to the last but they also stand alone in introducing you to an ensemble of characters that, you never know, might be just like you!

The Flat Above Park Place Bakery

Alan’s lottery win in August 1998 was a much publicised affair that, quite dreadfully, seemed to drag on in an endless quagmire of parties and lunatic behaviour until the police were called out in the early hours of a Friday morning. It appeared that Alan’s neighbour, a frail elderly woman who wouldn’t see eighty again, had objected to the fact that Alan himself was tied to a lamp post in little else other than a bed sheet, drunkenly singing Huey Lewis songs at the top of his alcohol soaked lungs. The police arrived, carted the aforementioned drunk off for a night in the cells and apologised to Mrs Hubbert from number 92.

Shortly after, Alan – who had insisted his big lottery win would not cause him to move from number 94 Elksdown Terrace or give up his day job as a mail sorter in the post office – did, in fact, hand his notice in. He bought a £2 million home in the country. He did not sell number 94 Elksdown Terrace but, in rather poor taste, invited the mayor and several other prominent local officials to a media frenzy whereby he handed over the keys and deeds to a stunned and bemused Mrs Hubbert. The front page of the Evening Gazette was plastered with pictures of Alan Limpton’s generous gift to – quote “the old and needy” unquote – with a rather strangled looking Mrs Hubbert blinking into the cameras.

When asked by the Gazette’s reporter what words she could find to thank Mr Limpton for his generosity, Mrs Hubbert barked the reply “Gift? Why would someone want 2 houses next door to each other?”

Her response was not included in the final version of the article and she was merely said to be extremely grateful, words she insisted to anyone who would listen that she had categorically not said. And from then on Alan Limpton, who had previously enjoyed some mini-celebrity status on Stookey Hill due to his win, became the local sweetheart...the charitable and altruistic Mr Limpton. This made his decision to buy the bakery on the corner of Stookey Hill and Park Place a “philanthropic gesture to a neglected neighbourhood”. That is, according to the Gazette. While the article did much to enhance Alan’s fast growing profile as the benevolent benefactor from a working class background, it also did much to affront the local residents who were getting rather tired of their locality being portrayed as some kind of post-communist ghetto.

However, Alan Limpton persevered as the lottery fairy godmother, granting as many wishes as he could to local businesses. While Alan’s Dresses (which in all seriousness was destined to fail with a shop name like that) closed down within two months of changing from Zara’s Dress Mart, the Park Place Bakery became a local legend.

I remember the day it all changed all too well. Clive was home, as is usually the case these days, shouting at the ‘imbeciles’ on some inane daytime talk show. Addicted to such television viewing ever since his accident, Clive had little patience for those he called ‘maladroit and inept’ – words he learned from a three and a half year subscription to a crossword puzzle magazine. Clive himself was less than competent but, as he pointed out frequently, would not subject himself to a DNA test no matter how unfaithful his girlfriend was. Clive and I are married and he doesn’t have a girlfriend. I had given up pointing this out. He would throw the remote at me and tell me, not awfully quietly either, that I am missing the point.

Clive could be heard from the shop when he was in full flow and three times a week, there and thereabout, the manager – Primmie – would come and knock and ask if there was any progress yet on either soundproofing or (even better) just getting Clive to shut up. I would smile at her thinly and tell her no on both counts. The bakery clientele could hear him, so it seemed, as he ranted and shouted at the television. Sometimes it was colourful or, more often than not, it wasn’t.

“I just can’t believe it,” he would say, “how people can be so stupid!”

His general dim view of the vast majority of the population was not just from his daytime television viewing. He liked a magazine here and there, which he would send me to fetch twice a week. Mainly gossipy ones with You’ll Never Believe It! headlines and horror stories about botched Botox. I’d like to say I didn’t read them, but I would look at them occasionally, flicking through the thin pages – thin in actuality and thin in quality journalism. And he liked true crime ones too. He made notes from those he wouldn’t let me read, which I tried not to be suspicious about.

The rat-tat at the door was firm and I sighed. It was Primmie. Although it was two o’clock and she hadn’t been up already, so that was at least something. I also wasn’t aware of Clive shouting, but then I sometimes thought I was so used to it I could tune it out.

“Primrose!” I said, brightly, opening the door. She already had that look on her face. A bit like she was gurning, but really it was just her angry face. Her bottom lip curled up over her top one, though, as though it was working on swallowing her nose whole. Her eyes were big and round, ready to pop clean out of the sockets if one more thing annoyed her. I suspected in calling her Primrose, that might be it.

“Ellen,” she said, her bottom lip sort of exiting from the top one, making her face still seem intent on eating itself.

“How can I help you?” this was always the patter. She came up and knocked, I said hello (sometimes using her whole name to irritate her), she said my name, I asked her what I could do for her and then came what Clive and I had affectionately started to call: The Diatribe.

Although, on that day The Diatribe never came. Instead, she burst into tears, which I did not see coming. I thought Primmie was fairly emotionless in that she possessed just the one, which was angered.

“What has happened?” I was alarmed and thrown entirely and wondered whether or not I should invite her in. Clive wouldn’t be happy, but then was he ever? I could sit her in the kitchen and give her some kitchen towel to stem the flow of mucous which was making a steady trail down her face. Gross.

She said nothing, instead the slow whine of her tears got louder and louder. So, invite her in it was.

Clive glowered at me, momentarily flicking his eyes from the television as we walked past him to the kitchen. Thankfully, despite the impossibly small flat we were in, there was a door to the kitchen. I had to move one of the chairs and shove the table against the wall to shut it, but shut it I could. So I did.

Primmie sat, her sobs petering out to a sniffle as she pulled what felt like yards of kitchen roll from the holder I placed in front of her. I strategically placed the bin by her side so she could toss the used ones in there, but she didn’t take that hint and so, instead, she made something of a sodden tissue mountain laced with gunk on my kitchen table.

Eventually, her sobs settled to an even in-out, in-out and I asked her again, what was wrong.

“I think I’m going to get fired!” her voice suddenly became low and conspiratorial. As though she had segued neatly from scorned woman to secret agent.

“Fired?” I said, for lack of anything better. I wouldn’t be entirely surprised. She was late most mornings and Mrs Armitage from No.48 was not above shouting at the top of her lungs that she needed her cream-filled doughnuts or else. Then there was the whole ‘money’ debacle. She had (allegedly) paid an (alleged) financial advisor to (allegedly) move some money to an (alleged) offshore account while (allegedly) claiming benefits. The newspaper sure did its best to avoid litigation with that report. But it was so convoluted I didn’t think anyone took it seriously. Except her boyfriend Phil who promptly dumped her the morning the paper came out.

“Yes,” she sniffed. Another transition, this time to somewhat haughty.

“But why?” that was a mistake of a question. Why did I want to know why? Actually, I didn’t want to know anything and wondered why Clive hadn’t deteriorated into a bit of hearty television-cursing so that I could make my excuses and get her to leave.

“It’s all because of Jim,” more sniffing, but a few more tears which meant a new shred of toilet roll from the dispenser.

“Jim?” can you kick yourself? Is that physically possible? I made a mental note to practice later so that I could prepare myself for any future moments such as this.

“Jim,” she said, with a deep sigh as though – despite the evident cadence in my voice that made my previous response a question – it was obvious. It was not. I hazarded a few guesses.

“Jim Carter?”

“No.”

“Jim Angleberry?”

“No.”

“Jim Thompson?” I was surprised I even knew this many Jims. That, it seemed, was the extent of it, though, because I had no more Jims left to suggest.

“No!” she sounded frustrated, but still offered no solution to which Jim we were supposed to loathe for getting Primmie fired.

“I don’t know anymore Jims!” I conceded, a bit sadly. A ball of kitchen roll made a move, tipping three out a bit further on to the table, a little trail of slime following behind it. It made me feel a little green.

“Jim from down the way!” she said, exasperation growing.

“The barber?”

“Yes!”

“I didn’t know he went by Jim!”

She smiled at me, knowingly and demurely.

“He does to his friends!” she said, winking at me. More knowing but less demure.

There was a silence as I tried to process the possible subtexts of what she was trying to communicate through her tear-stained face and winks, of which she gave me three, each becoming more and more a caricature of the previous one.

“I still don’t think I understand what you are saying!” I decided. I knew of James Hindbright the barber, who was indeed from down the way – six doors to be precise. He was, apparently a nice chap. Early sixties. Had owned the barbers since it had opened thirty years ago. I, of course, never went. And neither did Clive since he bought himself some clippers from Amazon and insisted I do it. Which I hated. The first three times I had kept closing my eyes. This is not advisable. I cut his ear twice, nicked the back of his neck and narrowly missed an eyebrow. Now I kept my eyes open, but barely.

I waited with expectation that Primmie might disclose what had led to Jim the barber, with whom she was well-acquainted, seeing her out of her managerial post at Park Place Bakery.

The tale, however, was far more intriguing than I would ever have imagined. And in it began the saga of Stookey Hill.

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Here is the final part of my short story, Roses for Violet.

You can read part one here:

And part two here:

She was standing at her gate, which despite being low and small, came up to her waist. She was smaller than I remembered. She was dressed in a blue jumper and a blue skirt. Even though they were both blue, they didn’t match and I couldn’t work out why it looked so odd. I was about to continue my walk home, when I saw her fumbling with the latch of the gate. A look of consternation crossed her face. She bent a little as if to see it better. She stood up and tugged it twice but it wouldn’t budge. I sighed. It looked like she needed help again.

Crossing the street I went and stood at her gate, Charles dancing behind me with excitement.

Again: the smile, the creases, the sudden cheer.

“Do you need help?”

“Dear, I can’t open the gate,” she pointed at the latch, and then held out her hands, wizened with age and each finger crooked, “I never catch it, but sometimes the postie does, if he forgets I can’t get out!”

A shudder of embarrassment and guilt ran through my veins as I remembered locking it that windy evening. I felt terrible - sad that I had made life harder for her in my attempts to do the very opposite.

“I can get it,” I said, aware that my embarrassment was creeping up to colour my cheeks.

“Thank you, dear,” she said.

I flicked the latch back and she creaked the gate open, a smile simply glowing as she looked back up at me. Then, the horrifying part that made all my sorrow, all my remorse and guilt, all my sympathy melt like ice in a kettle.

“Would you like to come in for a cuppa?”

I certainly did not. I wanted nothing of the sort. Her house smelled awful and it was unfathomably hot in there.

“Oh, I really can’t…I have…a dog…”I pointed at Charles in the hope that he would look menacing and grisly enough for her to uninvite us in. I looked down at him. Who was I kidding? He was virtually smiling, his pink tongue hanging out, his fur all curly like a nineties perm.

Of course, she loved dogs. I mean, who doesn’t when they put the left paw out like they’re shaking your hand?

Traitor, I mumbled as we followed her up the path.

The house wasn’t as hot as the last time I came. She had a window open slightly which let enough of a breath of wind in to make the place more temperate.

“Sit, sit,” she said, motioning to the sofa as she plodded into what I assumed was the kitchen. I heard the clattering of crockery and looked at the door. Maybe I could just escape, run off. I mean, she had no idea who I was and even if she saw Charles again in a few weeks’ time, then it wouldn’t be with me…

I almost did it, you know. I can sense your disgust. But you weren’t there. You don’t know what it was like.

Every inch of the place had either an ornament, or a vase, or a newspaper, or something knitted on it. A shroud of dust enveloped everything on the bookcase that leaned slightly to one side. I tilted my head as if willing to make it straight. The top shelf had picture frames on and while I squinted to see, I couldn’t make out much. One looked like a school photo, a mugshot of some poor teenager in his blazer and tie. One was at the beach maybe. Four people holding hands as the sun set behind them.

The kitchen door swung open and she reappeared with two mugs on a tray. They rattled a bit and she almost lost her balance, sending them sliding to one side. I jumped to catch it in her hands and placed it on the small side table next to her seat.

“Help yourself,” she said, poking at one of the mugs as she lifted the other and sat down.

Obediently, I did so and smiled at her. She smiled back. We did that, between sips of tea, for a few minutes. Then, she leaned down beside her chair, her hands feeling for something. Another smile, and her hand reappeared with a packet of custard creams. She asked me if I wanted one. I did not, but found myself instead reaching for the packet. All of my worst fears were confirmed, they were soft and had likely been open a good while. I washed it down with the tea as quickly as I could, reassuring myself no one got food poisoning from stale biscuits.

“I’m Violet,” she said, chuckling as though she had only just realised that we were, in fact, complete strangers.

“Sally,” I replied, trying to smile through the tepid tea and soft biscuit.

I’d like to tell you that was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. That we talked and talked for hours and laughed until we cried. But I left after twenty minutes, shuddering all the way home.

***

The summer days did that thing where they wash into each other. Where the light sits late and the evenings are crickets and birdsong, barbecues and sleepovers in tents. Even at our age, we weren’t too old to pop up an old family tent and pull ourselves into a night of giggling in hole-ridden sleeping bags and scratchy blankets.

I had no reason to go up Parkson Lane for weeks. Gracie’s family kept disappearing off to Wales to deal with more family inheritance stuff that neither of us understood. Then, when she got back she was so desperate to be away from her own family she came to mine.

Then, one day Gracie called and asked me to go over. She had this boyfriend called Timbo – which tells you everything you need to know, he was as dumb as his name sounds – but she had discovered he was cheating on her. Not relishing the thought of being agony aunt to a new problem of Gracie’s I nonetheless said I would go.

There were two vans parked up on the kerb on Parkson Lane. I didn’t think a great deal of it at first until I realised they were outside number 7. Maybe Violet is getting new furniture, I thought, smiling to myself at my internal – if cruel – joke about the state of her house.

I paused to watch as two men did in fact emerge with a sofa. They steered it over the hedge and into the back of one of the vans.

It was then that I saw him. A forlorn looking figure, just by the gate to number 7. He was wearing a suit. It was brown and looked dated and he was holding something by his side in his left hand. I watched the men a little longer go back and forth. Maybe Violet was moving house.

I set to continue on, remembering that Gracie was wailing into her second box of Kleenex and awaiting my arrival. I looked in at the house as I passed and saw that there were no curtains at the windows. I felt a sudden sorrow as I remembered Violet’s small face as she tapped on the window that day.

“Is Violet moving house?” I asked the brown suit man.

He looked at me and I saw tears in his eyes.

“Didn’t you hear?” he asked, his voice strained and clipped. He swallowed as though he was struggling to speak. I looked at him, my eyes flicking briefly at the suit, at his hands which were holding flowers. He looked fifty maybe, his hair peppered with grey at the sides.

“Hear what?” I looked back at the house as one of the men opened a front window, billowing out a sheet that cascaded dust and scattered bits of dirt.

The man stiffened a little and looked past me again, blankly at the house.

“Do you know Violet?” I asked, and he seemed to soften again. Was it because I knew her name? Had I said enough to make him think I knew her?

“She was my mum,” the statement was short but profound enough for the words to echo. It felt as though the street had become one of those old movies with no sound. Just the hubbub of activity you felt removed from because it was cinematic and distant. You were watching but you weren’t there.

“Was?” I eventually asked, with some fear of what the answer might be.

The man lifted the flowers in his hands. They were beautiful, dark red roses. They looked a little brown at the edges and I wasn’t sure they were a great gift, but they were pretty enough.

“I was going to take them to the grave, but I wanted to come here first.”

My eyes widened.

“Has she died?” I asked, almost in disbelief, even though it also felt inevitable as an explanation. I looked back at number 7. The window was closed again but the movement inside continued as the men appeared, this time with that bookcase. The one that leaned. Its shelves were caked in dust and grime. But where were the pictures? What about the pictures? And the people? Where were the people, the ones in the pictures? Was this him, the schoolboy with the gap in his teeth and the freckles?

“I didn’t know,” I said as the men heaved the bookcase into the van. I heard it splinter and crack.

“These were her favourite,” he said, nursing the bouquet in his arms, tears rolling in gentle streams down his face.

I looked at him, then the flowers and found my own tears fighting for escape. It was simply too late. Too late to bring roses for Violet.

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You can read the first part here:

Here is the continuation:

A woman was at one of the windows. She was waving something in her right hand. I looked at her and she looked at me. She smiled and I saw the crinkle of age crease her features. She waved again. It looked like she was holding a spoon.

My mistake was stopping. I should have thought little of the glint, the sparkle, the flash of whatever it was. I blamed it on the fact that I had a tendency to become fanciful when I was by myself. I made a move to continue, but not before catching her face fall into a look of sadness. I decided to quicken my step, but there was the sound of the tink of glass again. I looked back and she was tapping on the window with the spoon. She smiled and gestured. She was beckoning me in.

Now, remember what I told you? I can’t stand old people. So what possessed me to go up the small, paved path to her front door? Who knows. But there I was, as the sun sunk a little lower, standing at number 7 Parkson Lane. I stood for a few minutes, wondering what she was doing. Had I misread the situation? Maybe she didn’t want me come to the house after all. I was about to leave – with a good degree of relief, I’ll have you know – when there it was again. A tink, tink on the window.

“Come in!” I could see her mouth, “come in, come in!”

Sighing with the weight of a thousand worlds, I went to try the front door. It was open and that surprised me. Not that the village itself was unsafe, but she was old. Shouldn’t she be taking more care than that?

The door, however, did not push open easily. The carpet tugged it as I leaned to get it open. There was nothing behind the door other than an immediate door to my left and what was likely a coat cupboard.

“Hello?” I called, but it wasn’t until I stepped inside that the smell really got me.

Now, let’s be clear. It wasn’t that the smell was bad. Not in the way smells can be when something is decaying and rotting. It was more like lavender and dust. Warm lavender and dust. There was an uncomfortable heat about the place. Instinctively, I reached to touch the small, square radiator and to my surprise it was on. But not just on, it was hot.

“Hello?” I tried again and heard a mumbling shout from behind the door.

Tentatively, I opened it. Tentatively? I don’t know why. It was an old lady at her sitting room window banging on it with a teaspoon.

Behind the door was another room. The heat bellowed out from it as though it was gasping for air. There, in the middle of what was a small, claustrophobic sitting room, was the small elderly woman who had been at the window.

“Hi!” I said, casting my eyes around quickly. The room was cluttered, every surface strewn with newspapers, magazines, plants, ornaments…I looked back at her quickly so as not to appear too rude, the lavender haze taking a chokehold and making me cough a little. She smiled again and her entire face seemed to swallow itself whole as it wrinkled up.

“Can you help me, dear?” she asked, holding out a tin of baked beans and the teaspoon.

I looked at the two items blankly. Help her with what? She must have read my expression because she just held them out further and repeated her question.

“What do you need?” I near enough spluttered. Even my light jacket was starting to make me swelter. The sunlight through the window caught the dust dancing around the heat of the radiator underneath it.

“I can’t open my beans!” she smiled again and then her face dropped.

“Of course!” I said, finding myself and my manners. I took the two things from her.

“I can’t get the ring pull,” she shuffled closer. I could smell her. She smelled like dried roses. Dusty ones at that, “I tried with the spoon, but…” she shrugged and smiled up at me.

“No problem!”

I didn’t stick around. I was raised well enough to know it was good to be helpful but I felt stifled. The small room, the dust, the smell of dried flowers – the very stereotype itself in multicolour, standing there unable to eat her tea because her bony, arthritic fingers didn’t have the strength to pull open the ring on a tin of beans.

I shuddered as I recounted the story to Gracie, Gary and Louise. They laughed and made jokes about hoping they were dead before they couldn’t even open a tin of beans. I laughed too, but there was something…I don’t know, something that had made me uncomfortable with it all.

***

I didn’t have need to pass down Parkson Lane again until two weeks later. Again, I was going to Gracie’s. But the weather had turned. The uncooperative English summers that lured you with sun and heat and long days only to turn on you and send torrential rain for three days straight. Finding a gap in the showers, I made a quick exit to go to Gracie’s as quickly as I could.

It wasn’t until I had got all the way to the end of Parkson Lane that I remembered and, to this day, I couldn’t tell you what made me turn back. The clouds were shifting across the sky with furious speed, promising more thunder and rain. It made no sense to do anything other than keep going, hopefully getting to Gracie’s before the heaven’s opened once more.

But I didn’t. Instead, the small face of the woman at number 7 appeared in my mind, as if from nowhere. Her gentle, friendly smile and that tin of beans. I wondered if she had managed to eat her tea that night. I skipped back quickly and stood at the end of the path. The wind had picked up a little, clanging the gate back and forth. I reached and caught it back into its latch and looked at the window. She wasn’t there. The window was dark. Which in itself wasn’t surprising given the dismal weather. A sudden splash of rain on my right shoulder reminded me where I was really going and so I turned and ran all the way to Gracie’s without looking back.

***

Four days after that, Gracie’s granny died. I didn’t know Gracie’s granny. She lived in Wales in a static caravan they had never been able to get her out of, so insistent was she that she would breathe her last there. Gracie cried a lot, and showed me old photos from the second world war of her granny as a baby and of her granny’s granny. A few of them were later on, Gracie’s granny was in a pair of slacks in one of them. It made me smile. All the other women in all the other photos were in polka dot dresses or calf length skirts. But there was Gracie’s granny. Bouffant hair and big, dark lashes like a movie star and trousers. I bet she had spunk, I thought.

That afternoon, Gracie and her family piled into their Volvo to go to Wales for a few days. I didn’t envy her. All her relatives in Wales were old, she said, all on the cusp of eternity. Great Aunt this and Old Cousin that. It would be days and nights of lamenting about who might be next to shuffle off in some house with an avocado bathroom that hadn’t seen fresh wallpaper since the eighties.

I stood on the pavement, waving goodbye and holding the lead of their cockapoo, Charles. It was a grand name for a dog that lived on the fringes of poverty. I wasn’t sure mum would be thrilled I’d agreed to take the dog, but what was she going to do?

“Come on, Charles, I suppose we’ll find out,” I picked up the bag with his food in and started the slow walk home. There was no scenario I had yet to consider where I came out of this well.

As we walked down Parkson Lane, so lost was I in all my further considerations of what kind of barbaric punishment my parents might come up with for bringing home Charles the cockapoo, I almost didn’t hear her.

“Dear!” there was a shout and as I looked across the street, there was the baked bean lady. In the absence of not knowing her name, that’s what she had become. I waved. Sort of. I didn’t really want to speak to her, although I couldn’t tell you why.

“Hi!” I shouted back.

She was standing at her gate, which despite being low and small, came up to her waist. She was smaller than I remembered. She was dressed in a blue jumper and a blue skirt. Even though they were both blue, they didn’t match and I couldn’t work out why it looked so odd. I was about to continue my walk home, when I saw her fumbling with the latch of the gate. A look of consternation crossed her face. She bent a little as if to see it better. She stood up and tugged it twice but it wouldn’t budge. I sighed. It looked like she needed help again.

Check back tomorrow for the final part!

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Part one below, parts two and three to follow!

I can’t stand old people. They stink. Last year I had to go to an old people’s home and it stunk. Of course, it wasn’t my first choice. I wanted to go to the leisure centre with Gracie and Gary. Then, in assembly, Mrs Carter (we called her Carthorse because she was built like one. But never to her face, because if she leaned in close to tell you off, then she kind of spat on you) gave everyone grief for choosing the leisure centre.

“...and some of you think you can parade around the swimming pool in your short shorts like a piece of meat, flexing your weedy muscles, well you’re wrong!” she was pacing, back and forth along the school stage, each thunderous step reminding us all that she was overweight, “it’s no holiday camp! You’re going to be cleaning toilets, mopping floors, wiping other people’s sweat off the exercise bike...”

She went on and on; me and Gracie looked at each other and sighed. We had put leisure centre first but only because we fancied the aerobics instructor. Mrs Carter dispelled all myths, however, that in some way it was going to be an opportunity for us to sit together in the cafeteria and ogle Jamie Cunningham during his exercise classes. So, at first I was quite pleased when I saw I hadn’t got my first choice. To my horror, I hadn’t got my second choice either, which was to work in a law firm in town. I had got my third choice, which I had put down as a joke.

“No one ever gets their third choice!” I mimicked my older brother that evening at the dinner table, “it’s pointless putting one really!” I went on, pulling faces as I stabbed at my chips.

“You shouldn’t have been an idiot and put ‘smelly old people’ in the box,” said Dan, through a mouthful of fishcake, “it’s retribution.”

I didn’t even know what retribution was, but if it was just a cocky university student’s way of saying “mean”, then that’s exactly what it was.

So I spent the whole week watching one senile old man pull banana skins out of his dustbin and pick at them and another tell me the same story about the war every fifteen minutes while he wiped his dribbling nose on a sodden handkerchief. Then there was Elspeth, the formidable matron who made me sit with an old dear in a bed.

“She likes it if you hold her hand,” Elspeth had this voice that was firm and made you feel a bit nervous and sweaty. Like you were being told off for something you may or may not have done. She stood at the door with her eyebrows raised until I reached out and lifted the small, bony hand of Catherine who, apparently, had no next of kin.

She didn’t flinch. Her eyes were glazed and distant. If it wasn’t for the quiet rasp that she seemed to expel from her lungs at an alarmingly slow frequency, you could be forgiven for thinking she was dead. Her skin was papery, almost transparent, the network of veins like discoloured spaghetti.

As soon as Elspeth disappeared, I dropped her hand. It fell back to the sheet and lay there, some of her fingers slightly twisted, like nodes on twigs. We had learned that in Biology when Mrs Jacobs had made us go out to Sellton Wood and collect leaves and sticks that had fallen from the trees. That was what her fingers were like. Deadened wood that was aging and decaying, no longer attached to anything with life or fervour.

I had, of course, survived the week at Chestnut Ridge Home, but had made it clear on my work experience evaluation form that no one should get their third choice. And yes, I did get in trouble with Carthorse for that one too.

So, Mum’s idea that I go to help her do some volunteer work went down so-so until she told me it was at a shop. It was something to do with age, or aging. Or old people. I groaned.

“Do I have to?” I asked, a horror reel of Chestnut Ridge flickering through my mind at pace. I felt queasy at the very thought of reliving even a minute of anything that involved those ready to pass through to the other side.

“You promised!” she said, which wasn’t strictly true. A muttering agreement at dinner when I was desperate to get to netball but had to finish my greens was hardly a promise. But, I went anyway. And, I was initially pleased to find that there were absolutely no aged people in the shop. I texted Gracie.

No grannies.

She replied asking me if I wanted to go to Gary’s later. I thought about that for a bit but in truth, I was a bit annoyed with Gary since he had switched his affections to Selina Humphries in 11b. I was sure he was going to ask me out, then he wrote SH on the cover of his homework diary and asked me if I knew where she lived. I lied and said I didn’t, but I knew exactly. And her dad had a lot of money and drove a Mercedes, so if I told him, he’d find all that out and fancy her a bit more. So I told him nothing and added him to my bad book. I actually have one, you know. People say it all the time – you’ll be in my bad books if you’re not careful...oh no, you’re in the bad books. But they’re all metaphorical. I really have one.

“Sally, come here,” said Mum, folding clothes. I hid my black book under a pile of shirts, “look, all these need sorting through. What’s good can go in this box...” red box near the counter, “...and anything no good can go here...” blue box near the stairs.

I went home that evening with the mild smell of damp and fustiness in my nostrils. It still wasn’t as bad as Chestnut Ridge, but it had the same staleness to it. I sprayed Tahitian Nights liberally around my room and over my clothes until all I could smell was vanilla musk and sandalwood.

Despite my better judgement, I decided to venture out to Gary’s after all. Gracie had insisted that Selina Humphries wasn’t going to be there, so I relented and set off into an evening which was lit with the promise of summer lingering in the sky.

I love that. The way the weather becomes less tepid and the evening skies turn to pinky hues as the sun sets. The warmth of the days leaves behind a more temperate balm in the atmosphere. There’s a smell about it. Sometimes the smell of honeysuckle and sweet peas, other times the fuzz of cut grass that melds itself to the air once the drone of the lawnmower settles. Yeah, I love that.

I pulled my jacket on, enjoying the fact that it’s not the dense, fur-lined parka I need when the weather is cooler. I could feel the spring in my step, which made me laugh because I hate clichés. Apart from my bad book. Is that a cliché? I think no, because I have it as an actual thing.

I turned at the end of our street on to Parkson Lane. The village we lived in was quiet for the most part. The houses were nice, you know. The suburban, middle-class, two car garage types. A few council houses littered the far end as you drove out towards the motorway. And I mean littered. There were only five of them, but they were strung together in a terrace and the front yard of each one held something broken or disused as though there was some unspoken competition over who could have the worse caravan or trampoline. Gracie lived in the end one, and her family had three barbecues in their front garden. But she was good. Gracie’s family were a hoot.

But Parkson Lane has its own entirely different vibe. It’s a row of bungalows, all semi-detached and set about six or seven feet back from the path. Small, square front gardens that the council takes care of so each one has the same grass, peppered with daisies, and the bins are all strapped to the wall by the front door. My Aunt Sheila lived in one until pneumonia had her.

As I was about to pass what turned out to be number 7, something caught my eye. A glint. At first, I thought it was the sun catching the glass as it bade goodnight. But no, there it was again, and it made me stop to look.

A woman was at one of the windows. She was waving something in her right hand. I looked at her and she looked at me. She smiled and I saw the crinkle of age crease her features. She waved again. It looked like she was holding a spoon.

To be continued - check back tomorrow for the next part!

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In many ways, I am not one to lament. My mum knew the Lord Jesus, and I know she is in heaven with Him, her eternity secure.

But I am one to reflect.

And these past years have made me reflect on many things. The biggest reflection for me has been how life can turn on a dime. It can change so quickly and you have no control over it. And as someone who likes to be firmly in the driver’s seat, that is something I have wrestled with most of my adult life. I have a need to try and gain control when life gets out of it, to be a fixer when life gets messy and broken - those ducks of mine? They are constantly being yelled at to get back in their row!

That’s a wrestle I will no doubt continue to have.

But the other reflection for me has been around how I spend my time. The challenge to spend what I have well. And not in a morbid, or a melancholy way. I am not constantly feeling the breath of death down my neck or seeing time as a ticking bomb. But I want to challenge myself to steward the time I have as well as I would anything else with value and worth.

So I have written a short story. It is a challenge to myself. It is not a criticism of any of the things mentioned within it, but it is a question - how do we make sure those things do not replace what matters most? And, hopefully, it is a challenge to make sure we know what matter most.

May we never be too busy for that, whatever we conclude it to be.

Busy Bizzy

A Cautionary Tale

Elizabeth, or Bizzy as she was known to her friends, had a new planner. She had filled it from top to bottom. There were to-do-lists and spaces for goals and achievements – she especially liked the small trophy, hand-drawn like a cartoon, in the corner – plus, there was a space for her to track her water consumption. Each time she drank 500ml she could colour in a little cup.

She shoved it into her bag and set it on the seat next to her as she drove to work. She had five appointments that day. Four for business and one for pleasure. Well, kind of pleasure. It was to get her hair dyed because she didn’t like the grey. It made her feel old and while Grandma had told her that it was a sign of the blessing of age, she thought that was a stretch. She was only thirty-nine.

Bizzy didn’t take a lunch break, because she was such a hard worker. She had won Employee of the Month three years ago and was yet to gain the accolade again, so she was now committing March to making sure Mr Thomson, the office manager, saw all her hard work in all its glory. She had to tell him, though, that she was working through lunch because he went for a walk on his. Sloppy man, she thought as she replied to three emails and made a spreadsheet. It was an efficiency one and if she could just get the formula right, it would shave minutes off some of her tasks. Maybe that would win her Employee of the Month.

At five thirty, just as she was turning her computer off, her phone rang. It was her Auntie Chessie. Bizzy sighed and dismissed the call. Auntie Chessie was very needy. She lived by herself in what was actually a very large and very grand house. She had one of everything and a bag to put it in, that’s what Grandma used to say. Bizzy observed this was correct. She was the woman who had everything.

Although, she did not know how to use her time well. She set an extra place at the table every day just in case someone popped in for lunch and she always made two fruit loaves on a Thursday should there be a visitor for afternoon tea. It seemed like a tremendous waste of time for someone who spent most of their time alone. But then, Bizzy concluded, she was not busy like other folk.

Anyway, Bizzy only had ten minutes to get to her hairdresser appointment, so she had to hustle. Bizzy loved that word: hustle. It felt busy – in a dynamic and exciting kind of way.

As she drove, Auntie Chessie called again. Sighing, Bizzy looked at the pre-typed options she could send as a reply. I’m busy, was one. She could send that one. Because it was true, she was busy.

Four hours later, Bizzy was radiant. She stood at her mirror and admired the considerable lack of grey hair on her head but just as she was about to turn off the illuminated mirror, she gasped. A grey hair! Already? She let her fingers follow it all the way to the root and pulled it out. Satisfied that she had spent the evening turning back time, Bizzy went to consider what to have for dinner.

But, she was tired. She sat in front of the television and fell asleep, missing the other three phone calls until she woke at half one in the morning. Groaning, she pulled herself to bed and then lay awake for almost an hour and a half. She wondered why Grandma had called and why Auntie Chessie had called again. And what the old dear in the apartment three doors over had wanted. Although, Bizzy noted, it was Tuesday and she tended to call most weeks on a Tuesday to see if Bizzy wanted to play Uno. Bizzy did not, she was usually too busy for that.

However, Bizzy’s more pressing problem was how she was going to fire on all cylinders at work the next day after being awake for so long during the night. One did not stand as good a chance at winning anything if one was sleep-deprived. Bizzy knew that because she listened to podcasts when she went running.

To her surprise, Mr Thomson wasn’t even there the next day.

“He’s taken annual leave,” his assistant Debbie said, “his sister isn’t very well, so he’s gone to see her.”

Bizzy was surprised. She made a note in her planner to tell Mr Thomson about video calling – it was a great way to see people without actually having to go and see them, and he wasn’t very good with tech so maybe he didn’t know that. Bizzy was pleased with herself. That kind of efficiency would get her Employee of the Month. If Mr Thomson realised he could speak to his sister from his desk…yes, he would be so pleased he would reward her with the little gold office cup. Employee of the Month. Bizzy could taste the success..

That was, until a little message lit up her phone.

Auntie Chessie again.

Hello, dear, are you busy?

Bizzy sighed. Yes, she was busy. While she only had two appointments that day, she had a report to write and had to go to the bank at some point. She told her yes. Maybe if she was short enough in her replies, Auntie Chessie would leave her alone for a few days. The woman was becoming impossible.

And, as it happened, the next few days were busy for Bizzy. She had the dentist on Thursday and went home to write an extended version of a report while she sat with a dental treatment glistening her teeth to a sparkling ivory. On Friday, Mr Thomson came back to work. But he wasn’t interested in Bizzy’s explanation of video calling. He’s had too long from work, Bizzy surmised, to remember how important it is.

On Saturday, Bizzy woke early and went to the gym. She attended her usual spin class, then Pilates and then went for a swim. She washed and dried her hair so that she was ready for the day but when she got home and opened her planner, she was horrified. There was nothing in it. She had no plans for Saturday afternoon. She scooted her finger down the empty boxes to the small one that said ‘Evening’. She had nothing on there, either!

Bizzy ate her lunch, trying to decide what to do. She looked at her work bag with her laptop on it. Surely there was something in there to do? Of course! She could make a productivity calendar for Mr Thomson. And in that she could include links to make video calling easier.

Excitedly, she pulled open her computer and fired it up.

Then. Auntie Chessie.

Elizabeth, are you wanting to come for your tea tonight?

Bizzy sighed. No she didn’t, she was busy.

Busy tonight, Auntie Chessie. I shall speak to you soon.

And Bizzy set about making a calendar. It was colour-coded, with four different fonts and everything. Then she sent it to Mr Thomson. She could have waited until Monday morning, but she wanted him to see how busy she had been, working at the weekends.

To her surprise, an email came back straight away.

I am out of the office this weekend. I shall read and respond to all emails on Monday March 30^th.

He wasn’t going to read his emails until Monday? What on earth could he be so busy with that he wasn’t going to check his emails for another 36 hours? Bizzy sighed and leaned back on her chair. She picked up her phone, thinking about messaging Auntie Chessie to see if she could still see her for tea.

But the truth was, Bizzy was tired from being so busy all day. So she had a look on some of her social media pages. She did that for 72 minutes. Doom-scrolling, her niece Jacqueline called it. But there was no doom in it at all because Bizzy watched 112 videos, saving 6 that were high-protein low-carb dinners and 3 that were on how to make best use of the Data ribbon in Excel. No, that was the very definition of productivity. Other than the one of the boy slipping on the mud over and over again. That one was very funny and she watched it five times. Or six. Maybe more.

By seven o’clock, Bizzy felt tired. Her eyes had gone a bit glassy and they watered when she tried to focus on anything too far away. Best have an early night, she thought to herself as she dialled for a pizza delivery. After all, she deserved it after such a busy week.

Bizzy, as was her other custom, had a lie in on Sunday morning. She got up at seven and went for a shower, then consulted her planner. Nothing. She frowned. Had she forgotten to write something in? But, as she was thinking, her eye caught sight of Monday. She had a presentation to do. Snapping her fingers, she smiled. That’s why her calendar was empty! She needed Sunday to prepare for Monday!

Chuckling to herself for nearly missing that, Bizzy opened her laptop and started her PowerPoint. Grandma rang at ten, but Bizzy was too busy to pick it up. She left a voicemail though, so Bizzy half-listened to that while she watched a YouTuber on 2x speed explain how to embed videos into PowerPoint.

Elizabeth, could you drive me to church today? I’ve not seen anyone all week, and it would be fine to get out, but my hip is bad so I won’t be able to get the bus…

Bizzy hung up and replied to Grandma with a text.

Yes, Grandma, just get the bus.

And to her surprise and delight, her embedded video worked! Mr Thomson was going to love this! She thought about sending it to him in advance. Let him see the work of art. The slide transitions, the wavy letters that danced to Queen’s Don’t Stop Me Now – genius! She closed her eyes as she imagined it – standing in front of the whole office, accepting Employee of the Month…but then she remembered Mr Thomson’s Out of Office email reply.

She sat for a few minutes – surely he didn’t really leave his emails until Monday?

She sent a test.

Dear Mr Thomson, just a reminder that Employee of the Month is usually given out the on the last day of the month in the breakroom. That would make it Tuesday. I thought you’d be glad of the reminder, thanks in advance, Elizabeth.

She liked that email. It was so helpful of her to remind him like that, and while she was cheeky with the thanks in advance, she knew it would land well when she held up that cup on Tuesday at half past ten.

Suddenly, though there was a ping.

It was an out of office reply. Bizzy frowned. It was very slack of him not to check his emails…unless…maybe he did check them, but he didn’t want people to know he checked them so they didn’t feel the pressure to work on the weekends. Bizzy nodded to herself, satisfied that she had cracked his code. That’s exactly what he must be doing. Because only some people were cut out to work at the weekends when they weren’t being paid to. People like Bizzy. The real Employees of the Month.

That night, Bizzy went to bed feeling content having had a wonderful weekend of busyness.

But, by Monday lunch she was confused. Mr Thomson hadn’t replied to either of her emails. She looked in at his office door.

“Morning, Mr Thomson! Or should I say, afternoon, because half the day has gone already! How busy it has been!”

“Hello, Elizabeth,” Mr Thomson said, looking up from his computer, “how can I help you?”

“Did you see my emails?” Bizzy stepped into the office so that she could bask in the praise he would give her for being so busy that weekend.

“Yes, I did,” he said, frowning a little.

Bizzy looked back, also frowning, but probably for altogether different reasons.

“I sent them this weekend,” she said, another step in. Had he not realised? Had he not read them on Sunday after all?

“I saw that,” Mr Thomson pressed the tips of his fingers together so that his hands held a little triangle, “we maybe need to speak about that…”

But Bizzy clapped and interrupted him.

“No spoilers before tomorrow!” she said, spinning a turn to the door on her heel and heading back to her desk.

He had noticed.

But Bizzy, meanwhile, had not noticed that Grandma had rang twice. And that Auntie Chessie had sent a text message. Instead, she skipped lunch and attended an online course on Effective Timekeeping.

By the time she got home, they had both called again.

I must call them back, Bizzy thought as she ran a bath. But, she had to put laundry on and choose an outfit for Employee of the Month the next day. She was too busy just now.

The next day, Bizzy arrived to work in a blush pink skirt suit. She had worn it once to a wedding, but she was so certain that Tuesday’s coffee break was going to go in her favour, she thought it wasn’t at all a tad over the top, no matter what Alan at reception said.

At ten thirty, Bizzy made sure she wasn’t the first there. She had been quite busy all morning and when she accepted the award, she wanted it duly noted that even on EotM day (she had decided that wee acronym gave it a little flair) she was working. Grafting. Hustling.

She bundled into the breakroom to get a coffee, almost the last one.

“Sorry, I was almost late!” she sing-songed three times as she poured her coffee, “I’ve been so busy!”

Mr Thomson was the last one. And while she had rather hoped he would be there before her so that he could see how she had nearly missed it because of her busyness, she reminded herself that he had already chosen. This was it. She sighed that contented sigh again and waited.

She had to wait a fair bit, though, because Mr Thomson droned on longer than he should have. This week had been hard, blah blah, his sister had been unwell, blah blah, and he had had to go all the way to Surrey to see her, blah blah…actually Bizzy was a little bit annoyed with that one. She had tried to help him out, make it easy for him. But instead, he wanted to wax lyrical about it. She sighed. Not everyone was as efficient as she was, and she had to remember that.

“So, it is with great joy…”

This was it…

“…that I announce to you today…”

…Bizzy smoothed her pencil skirt with the palms of her hands…

“…that Employee of the Month is…”

…Bizzy stood, in anticipation…

“…my assistant, Debbie Parker…!”

Bizzy almost fell over. Not from shock, mind, but because everyone in the breakroom stood to their feet to clap and applaud and whistle at Debbie. At Debbie! The jostling to tell her congratulations, the hugs, and then, of all things, they sang For she’s a jolly good fellow…! And for what? For answering the phone all day and saying “Mr Thomson’s desk, how can I help you?”

Bizzy was enraged. She pushed her way out of the breakroom to go back to her desk. Shaking with anger and disappointment, she opened her top drawer and ate three of the chocolate bars she kept for moments just like this. What a crushing blow, to have worked so hard for so long. To have gone the extra mile, to…

Her phone was ringing. Grandma. She dismissed it and sat, deciding four chocolate bars was not too many given the circumstances.

Bizzy tried all afternoon to focus, but she couldn’t. The rest of the office seemed to be in a great mood. So much so, that Bizzy had had to restrain herself from kicking that Louise girl from HR in the ankles when she asked Bizzy if she could think of a more deserving winner than Debbie.

Bizzy drove home that night and sat in the quiet of her apartment, crushed.

She missed the four new voicemails.

She wouldn’t listen to them for three days, when she finally talked herself out of her slump. And when she did? Bizzy wished she hadn’t been so busy after all.

***

Hi, Elizabeth? Are you there? It’s Grandma. Call me.

Elizabeth? It’s Grandma. It’s your Auntie Chessie. She has had a fall. It’s a bad one. I told her about those stairs, but she wouldn’t get a stairlift now would she…are you there, Elizabeth? Is that you?

Elizabeth? Elizabeth? It’s Grandma. Auntie Chessie…it’s Auntie Chessie. She’s died, Elizabeth, she’s gone. Can you come to the hospital? Can you come quickly?

Elizabeth?

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I feel like the past week has been one of doing many things and feeling many more.

When you have done the same thing for 26 years, it’s quite hard to disconnect that thing from who you are when you decide to stop doing it. It’s as though it becomes part of your identity when it isn’t at all. At least, not in the way that defines you.

But with new territory comes new terrors. Or so it seems.

Last week, I finished my edit of the book I have written. As well as being appalled by the awful number of typos, I slowly started to find myself in the mire of thinking it was awful in the more general sense. Despite having alpha readers who enjoyed it, there’s a very real fear in the thought that maybe your alpha readers were the only three people in the world who were going to think like that!

So, out of the editing trenches I came and went into the beta reader ravine. There’s a strange tension between longing for people to read your work and enjoy it and the thought that it may end up on their DNF shelf and they don’t.

Honestly, I’ve cried a bit over it. Not full blown meltdown tears that would make a toddler proud. Just the prickle of moisture that you can fight, but you are more than aware has the potential to consume you.

Somehow I managed not to let it do the latter, but I would be lying if I said it was easy. My former boss used to say, when I was faced with a tough task: “time to put your big girl pants on!” Turns out I don’t have any. Not of the metaphorical kind anyway!

By nature, I am one of those people who is better with a task. A full calendar, a busy day, a number of projects…so I spent a good bit of time scouring my hard drive looking for all the many bits of writing I have started and not finished. With every single one, I remember the idea, the spark, the plot…sometimes all I saved was a title.

Opening up a word document, imaginatively called ‘Doc 1’, I found one such title and the whole story came flooding back. So, in waiting for beta reader feedback, I decided to start there.

I’m now almost 50k words in and the story is taking shape. In fact, so vivid is this story, I wanted some art work to go with it, so I took a trip (next door) to see my niece and asked her to create me something to go with the story. She got it totally and has brought me some sketches - one of those is at the top of this article.

I also made a mid-year resolution - to share what I write because I believe, despite all my doubts and crises of confidence, that this is the gift God gave me.

Below, you will find the opening to my new story. It’s another labour, and it’s still raw and unedited, but I hope you enjoy it. Who knows, one day it might be something you can read in full!

In the meantime, have a great week - and thank you for your support. It’s a real treasure. 💕

Standing at the foot of the valley, looking out beyond a wooden fence that had seen better days, I saw no romance. No unbridled passion or fervent ardour. I just saw muddy hills and broken pathways. Walls built by hand with rocks collected and shaped by the same. That was what you saw if you looked north. Then looking south varied little. Maybe a scattering of a few sheep, perched on little grassy plateaus munching lazily and staring unblinkingly into the wind. East...well, the same again, and if you looked west then you saw a barn. It sat squat into the grass like an elderly companion stooping from the strains of life.

It didn’t even look like a house, let alone a home. Wooden windowsills chipped and broken, peeling paintwork and a chimney stack that appeared to be worryingly on a downwards decline. The driveway, and I use that term loosely, was forbidding and long; a track that wound perilously close to a ditch, uneven and threatening. The car, an old compact Ford with poor suspension and small wheels, was parked on the other side of the valley, battered by winds and rain and, I was sure, likely to be thieved in the night. The first, and only, time we had driven down, I was sure that the car was going to explode. The relief when we reached the bottom was soon replaced with fear when we had to try and get it back up the hill the following morning. The revving engine had startled the sheep into bleating a hasty retreat into the hills. I had sat, inhaling the burning rubber smell, my eyes squeezed shut hoping against all hope that the car would make it.

My jubilation upon reaching the top was short-lived, however, when the front left tyre blew sending streams of swollen black air down the hillside. I had to walk all the way back down to the bottom while my father, we’ll call him Alex, sat and waited for the rescue truck to come and drag the sorry vehicle to the nearest motor station. Fed up with waiting, I eventually retired at eleven that night, vaguely recalling the door lock at around midnight, and since then we have walked up and down to the car. Alex’s bank balance couldn’t handle another new tyre, and believe me Alex’s bank balance needed all the help it could get after a messy separation, a property development “opportunity” that had made him a loss, and a file for bankruptcy three months previously.

I could hear him calling me. He had been doing so for some time, but I felt defiant most days and ignored him while I listened to the lilt in his voice harden slowly with each call, until I could sense the anger. I had learned to stop my disobedience just short of a grounding. I turned back towards the house; his head was hanging from the upstairs window which he was having to support with both hands to save the rotting hinges from dragging the glass to its death. I smiled thinly, slowly making my way towards the house. I wasn’t entirely sure what he was saying, he was shouting but the wind had caught his words and shifted them south so all I heard were the valley echoes of an angry parent who would surely shake his fists if it was safe enough to let go of the window.

So when did Dad become Alex? Well, to be honest, to his face he’s always Dad. It wasn’t worth the grief I had to endure the first time I attempted to change from acknowledging the man as my father to assigning him the name given to him by his parents. At school I called him Alex and to my friends I called him Alex. My Maths teacher thought that he was called Alex because we weren’t really related. Which was probably the notion that I was going for really. She kept threatening to call my step dad, but she never did because she couldn’t find evidence of one in my file.

He was still upstairs when I got back to the house. I stood in the small sitting room/kitchen/ dining room until he appeared. The small, narrow stairs announced his descent. Everything creaked and groaned under the weight of the two of us living here. It was as though the house was perpetually sighing that we had stirred it from its dismal rest to the death.

A shaft of light lay itself across the stone floor which was decorated – if indeed you can count it as décor – with a small, round frayed rug. The brightness of the light promised warmth, as it peered through the flimsy curtains which were a pale yellow colour. Maybe they had once been orange. They had clearly faded in the sun, all that was left of their previous radiance in dregs around the hem that hung below the window sill. Small flowers had been near obliterated by years of relentless light exposure. Alex wanted new ones, but I insisted they stay. There was something about them – something olde-worlde with a charm that made me fancy that once upon a time the house had been loved and cherished. A burrowed jewel in the velvet fields that surrounded it way back then. The thatched roof a golden splendour, the paintwork a beaming white…not the sullen butter colour it was now, blackened with streaks down the sides where the guttering had given up years ago.

“Where were you going?” Alex stood at the bottom of the stairs, his arms folded. He was wearing a smart pair of shoes and what looked like a suit jacket, rather than his usual garb of mud-splashed wellies and bedraggled woollen jumpers he had bought at the Cancer Research shop.

I shrugged. I didn’t really have an answer to that. There was nowhere to go. I just wanted to be out.

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The conclusion is below. You can read the start of it here: Dot's Dream: Part 1

Maybe it would be this week!

Spurred on by this possibility, I busy about frying the mince, adding an onion and a generous spoon full of gravy granules. I don’t have any potatoes in, so I make a small bowl of Smash and sit down to eat. It’s not cold yet but it is October and the nights are definitely darkening earlier.

I wait as long as possible before I turn on the lights, until I’m virtually squinting at my dinner. I had tried to eat by candlelight before to try and save some money. I had briefly enjoyed the soft glow and the magic it created, warm and romantic…that is until I knocked one of the sticks off the table when I moved a glass and the candle caught the cat’s tail. Howling it had jumped, claws poised to attack, and hung half way up the back door curtain like a caricature of itself. I had to unpick it from the velour one nail at a time, by which time the molten wax had made a greasy puddle on the carpet.

Two hours later I had wasted not only my entire Sunday evening, but a whole roll of parchment paper and had an aching arm from all the ironing. I inherited an oily patch for my folly and decided it was better to pay for the electricity it took to power the light.

Anyhow, since it’s Friday night, I choose an alcoholic beverage from the cabinet. Despite my ill-stocked fridge, my drinks cabinet is healthy and I debate over a mini bottle of Babycham and a can of Newcastle Brown. Looking at the frazzled mince and gravy, I opt for the ale, deciding I need liquid in quantity to wash it down. The mince isn’t so bad, I think, as I fiddle with the can. It takes three minutes to prise open the ring pull, by which time there is a gluey looking film over my dinner. Chasing each mouthful with a swig of brown nectar, I finish my dinner and sit back.

The cat mews around my legs, winding its poor tail that looks as though it has been soldered by a four year old, around the arm of the chair.

“Here, Puss,” I say, offering it the remainder of the mince, but it sniffs it and wanders off, nose in the air, “please yourself,” I mutter as I scrape the remains into her dish - she’ll eat when she’s hungry enough.

By the time it’s six o’clock, I have turned off the kitchen light and made my way to the front room. I take the letter with me, as has been my custom on a Friday night, and slide into my chair with the dredges of the can in a brandy glass. Edinburgh crystal. I’d had two of them for my seventieth. They weren’t a great deal of use, they were heavy and I didn’t care much for brandy, but I drank most things from them, using one then the other, then the other.

I have one lamp on, right next to my side table, and I stand the brandy glass next to it, switching on the telly for a bit of weekend nonsense. A game show, or that show where they go to the jungle, or the one with that bloke from the snooker. I mostly keep it on for company at this point, imagining the noise to be the busy admiring voices of those congratulating me on my sudden fortune.

I look at my letter. It’s addressed: ‘Mrs D Leonard’. It sounds grand and important. Shanti calls me Missus Len, which at first made me balk, but the obvious affection in her voice softened it eventually. Brenda, the sprightly eighty nine year old from two doors down calls me Dot and the only other people in my life call me Mam, and that is only over the phone on a brief, expensive, shouty call from a foreign exchange.

The young men who had visited after the first letter called me Mrs Leonard.

“Oh, call me Dot!” I had exclaimed, flushing from the attention.

“Now,” said the taller man, “I could never call you that! You’re a proper lady, Mrs Leonard, so that’s what I’m just going to have to call you!”

Flattered? Of course I was. No one had ever been so courteous and respectful. They had stayed nearly an hour, shown great interest in the cat and the photos on the sideboard. The shorter one, he was called Barry, had made us all a cup of tea, insisting it was the least they could do for one of their big winners.

“So, were you excited to get the letter?” said the other one. He was tall - Jim, I think - and looked officious as he rifled through paperwork. I nodded, sipping a cup of tea that was liquid from heaven having been made by helpful young Barry.

“Of course I was!” I exclaimed, putting on my best BBC accent, stretching my vowels and clipping my consonants.

The first letter had only come a week ago and I had returned it quickly. I had never won anything before in my life that wasn’t some neighbour’s junk at a tombola.

Dear Mrs Dorothy Leonard, it said, You have won!!

It was a combination of factors. First of all, the fact that they knew my full name. They KNEW me! Secondly, the overuse of exclamation marks jumped off the page and shook the excitement up in me like a glittery snow globe. The rest of the words blurred, they were long and took up two pages. I filled in the return slip at the end of the letter, eagerly and with abandon I never knew I possessed, and sent Shanti out with it immediately.

I had WON!

Then those lovely young men came round within a week. They wore navy suits and wide smiles. They had plastic ID cards clipped to their lapels and talked up a storm, complimenting my small house and my handsome kids. Now, that’s not to say there weren’t some uncomfortable moments. When they explained how the lottery worked, I was taken aback. But they told me it had all been in the first letter and, fearing a loss of face or, perhaps more accurately, a loss of winnings, I had nodded and said, “of course, no of course I read it!” and variables along the same lines.

“Now,” said Barry, shuffling papers back and forth, “I just need your bank details here, and your signature here…” then a few swigs of tea and they were gone. A few days later the second letter came.

Dear Mrs Leonard, it started and I instantly smiled, thank you so much for trusting us with £20,000 of funds from your account. I smiled further at the thought of that nice Barry taking care of my money. We will be back within ten days with your winnings, which will total no less than half a million pounds!

The joy that rocked my body made me almost squeal at the thought, and the Sydney Harbour Bridge, the Taj Mahal….all of those places morphed from postcard pretty images to real life as I booked airline tickets and visited my children with my winnings.

However, it was more than ten days now. I had called Head Office a few times, and they assured me Barry and Jim would be back. Then the number stopped working, which I can only assume is because they have changed premises. Barry did say they were a growing company. Barry was such a nice young man…

The programme on the telly changes and I press the volume button so as I can better hear. I fold up the letter and return it to its envelope. Yes, I say to myself, now lit only by the glow from the TV set, they’ll be back really soon.

I love to write about people. Their experiences, sadness, joys…

Here’s the first part of Dot’s Dream. Check back tomorrow for the conclusion!

I have eighteen postcards pinned to my fridge door. All from overseas and all from this year. I have roving children. I don’t know where they get it from. Not me. I was twenty-four before I left Staffordshire and even when I did finally cross a county line, it was to go to a funeral on his side in Mansfield. We went for the weekend and stayed in a hotel. That was also the first time I had ever stayed in a bedroom you had to pay for.

Then the next time was when I was thirty-three. That time we had a week in Scotland in a little rental cottage. But it rained all week and all we did was play 187 games of Scrabble and watched telly.

No, I’m no traveller, and neither was their father. But there they are. Postcards from Hungary and Romania. Australia. Thailand. All of them away. Abroad. Every time I get the milk out, I have a good long think about them all. Off in exotic places, doing exciting things. Meeting extraordinary people. The postcards are vibrant, selling me a life I can barely even imagine. It’s not Mansfield or Carnoustie, that’s for sure.

I stir my tea and steady myself against the sideboard. My hip’s not so good but I like to stand here because, for a few minutes, my window - which overlooks a red brick wall that has blackened and chipped over the years - all but disappears. The sprouting germs of moss and ailing, crawling plants disintegrate momentarily, replaced by one of those images magically captured on a piece of glossy 6 by 4 card.

The Sydney Opera House. The Taj Mahal. The Empire State Building.

I imagine I am there. I fancy what the streets of Rome are like, and if you can really get a coffee at the foot of the Eiffel Tower. I imagine doing that little camera pose where you pretend you’re holding up the Leaning Tower of Pisa, or where you put your finger on the top of Lady Liberty’s head. I take it all in. Sometimes I even have the notion that I can hear the cars, the chatter of foreign voices. But they’re not really there and I eventually become aware that I am just in my kitchen. Still and silent. Then my ankle starts to ache and I pour a splash of milk in my tea and return it to the fridge, glancing only briefly at the cards again before I go and sit down.

I have lived here for eight years now and when I have my three o’clock cup of tea, I sit and watch the high school youngsters walk home. Eight years. One thousand four hundred and forty days of mischievous coming and going. Not that mine were ever angels, mind. But they weren’t like these kids today who wear menace on their faces like grotesque masks in some kind of macabre theatre. Scowling and moody, always kicking something noisy like a can or a hubcap. The boys wear hoods and the girls wear skirts that barely scuff the tops of their knees.

Shanti, the girl next door with the eighteen month old baby, sometimes stands and shakes her head with me over the back wall as we tut and sigh over the futility of modern youth. She dreads Melinda – the baby - growing up. I say kids were never as dark in my day as they are now. She exhales heavily and makes jokes about never letting Melinda out of the house when she turns thirteen. I nod sympathetically. I wouldn’t either, I say.

Then we ooh and aah over one of my new postcards. It’s Gill in Singapore. It’s Andrew in Jakarta. It’s Phil and Eileen in Brisbane. We both disappear for a moment, caught into the air, bursting through the belch of industrial smog. Transported to far off lands, exotic, tropical.

Then we smile and grimace as the air wafts with the stench of ale and Marmite and we retreat until the wind changes. A sudden clang at the front door causes my arm to jolt and spill my tea all over my knee. Looking through my net curtains I see a group of boys assembled across the other side of the road. Two are swinging from a street sign. Another is running across to my door.

With sudden horror, I step back, but he has seen the curtains twitch and pauses at my window. His face is close. I see his teenage acne scars, his wondering eyes peering in.

“Sorry!” he shouts before jumping into the path of an oncoming car which slams its brakes on and squeals to a halt, horn blasting, rear end swinging. The boy bangs the bonnet with two fists and roars, brutish and intimidating.

I back further from my window. I see a figure get out of the car and hear the screaming and shouting until the car squeals away and the youths are left laughing and high-fiving, shaking their fists and clicking their fingers with some sort of arrogant pride at the spectacle they just created. It is not until they have all gone that I sit down again and find that the tension in my fingers has caused two of them on my right hand to seize up, which annoys me as I can’t lift my cup with my left hand.

Not that it matters, the tea is too cold now and the spill on my dress gives me a new job to do so I pick myself up from my seat to go and change. I pull the curtains in my bedroom shut and sit down on the edge of the bed. There are no houses opposite, but the windows are deep and wide, typical of these two-up two-down mid-terraces. No one can see in, but it still feels exposed. I shrug off my dress, trying to stretch my fingers out. With difficulty I pull open my wardrobe and choose a clean dress. I have twelve, all hanging neatly. I don’t wear anything else: just dresses. Patterned, nylon, cheap. But I do have one for Sunday best.

I wonder if I’ll replace them when I get my money through. Buy something nice from Marks and Sparks maybe. I’d like to think I was one of those who carried on life as they were before. I don’t want to be affected by money, or changed by it. Picking up my least favourite of all the dresses, I pull it over my head. It’s half on when I get out of breath. I sit, one arm stuck half way through one sleeve, the other arm being slowly pinched as a seam digs into my flesh, until I have enough energy to shimmy into the rest of the dress. I consider briefly lying down, but then decide there is a good chance I won’t get up again and with it only being half three, that doesn’t bode too well for a good night’s sleep.

Instead, I examine myself in the mirror and poke at a few stray curls that have become dislodged, spraying them liberally with Elnett before making my descent to the sitting room.

I keep the letter propped up on the sideboard. There are seven photos there. Each time I pass, I rearrange them. Sort them a bit, you know. Sometimes by location, sometimes by order of event. Even after eight years I haven’t come up with an arrangement I’m happy with.

Three of the photos are of the kids when they were young. Smiling faces, eyes squinting in the sun. Fair Isle cardis and shorts, skinny white legs on sandy beaches, unkempt hair. Not like those kids outside, with their gruff voices, the high-pitched squeals and pounding fists, their disregard for anything and everyone around them.

No, the photos I have are wholesome. Plastic buckets and spades, wet butterfly nets and catapults. Of course, these have all been replaced with electronic toys, video games, computers and mobile phones. I sigh as I always do at the progress, which isn’t really progress if no one picks up the phone to call anymore.

I trace my fingers along the other four - they are wedding photos. My wedding of course. I usually put this one in the middle, unless I’m feeling melancholy and I miss his face. Then, I will usually lay that one down on its face for a few days until the sadness passes. It’s a crinkled, yellowing photo, full of family that have long since shuffled off this mortal coil.

Then there’s Phil’s wedding. I was never fussed on his choice of bride, if the truth be known. She’s awkward and tempestuous. Phil calls it fire in her belly. I call it a pain in my bee-hind. There are a few slit marks at the top of the photo where I have gone to cut her off the picture a few times, but common sense prevails and I have left her in. I have just pushed the photo over to the left a bit so that some of her is obscured by the frame.

Then Cherry’s wedding. My eldest grandchild. A beautiful, smart girl who married an Oxford don. She sends me text messages but I find typing a reply too difficult. The buttons are small and the screen is too pixelated for my old eyes to make sense of. So I just send her a : and a ) back. It’s apparently a smile.

And lastly Shanti’s from next door. She had married after Melinda was born, which I did not particularly approve of, and I had been caught making far too many distasteful glances at the baby as it sat, pudgy and warm at the front of the church while they shouted their vows above its gurgling. But in truth Shanti was a nice young thing and did my shopping once a fortnight at Safeway.

I pause by the sideboard and move the letter first this time. It looks rather dog-eared now, as I have folded and unfolded it several times a day for almost a month. It has one small crinkle in the corner from a close encounter with a bottle of Lucozade that I clumsily spilled, so engrossed was I in Eastenders. I had managed to sweep it away as the orange liquid glugged across the table and on to the floor; it had taken me an hour to scrub the sticky mess up out of the carpet, but the letter was safe. It was then that I decided it was too precious to leave in the way of my blundering arthritic hands, and I moved it to the sideboard.

I swiftly rearrange the photos and stand back to admire my handiwork. There was a good chance they had stood this way before, but no mind. I flick a few pieces of stray dust off the top of the porcelain clock, and wander back to the kitchen. When the kids were growing up, my fridge was always jampacked. Ham and cheese, pints of milk…butter, jams, marmalades…mostly homemade too. These days, it looks sparse and I only really use one shelf, packing all my things in, trying to make it look homely and full.

However, looking in, it seems that there is little to pack together. Shuffling through some sandwich bags, I count three slices of ham, half a block of Lurpak, a small wedge of Wensleydale. And a chorizo sausage. What on earth a chorizo sausage is, I have no idea. Gill had sent it last Christmas in a hamper which had more obvious supplies in such as chutney and water biscuits. I had never seen anything like this sausage before, twisted into a hairpin bend and caught together by a thick piece of black string. But it had a good date on it, so I tucked it in the fridge and kept it for the sake of the illusion of abundance.

Right at the back I spy a small pack of mince, looking rather questionable as it has started to brown, but I already had a ham sandwich for lunch and the thought of another for tea does little to whet the appetite. I count eight more days until Shanti goes to Safeway. Frowning, I push the coins around in a tin I keep in the kitchen window. There might be two pounds in there. With a sudden mix of desperation and excitement, I look through the kitchen door at my letter.

Maybe it would be this week!

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I think I was maybe seven or eight when I had a poem printed in the local paper. It felt like the greatest thing that could ever happen to me. It was an accolade indeed to a young girl with big dreams of writing professionally one day.

When I was fourteen I sent my first ever full manuscript out to a number of publishers. I got some nice letters and kind words back. All typewritten and delivered by snail-mail of course. But it was the also the slow strangulation of a dream, and one that seemed thoroughly impossible.

And I suppose, that’s where life takes over isn’t it? You perhaps need a certain amount of grit, or determination, or self-confidence and belief in yourself to drive big dreams forward into difficult terrain where few succeed. Those were just things I didn’t think I had.

I never stopped writing. There were spells when I wrote more than at other times. I wrote poems for baby dedications, an anthology to raise money for my local church, reviews of plays, pieces for special events…and every time I did it, I felt the burn. The fire in my belly that made me think that somewhere, deep inside, there was a roaring writer desperate to get out.

But, as with all things - life presents itself with its own joys and complexities. Raising a family, working as a teacher, being active in my local church…and the days drift and wander until whatever dream that once was has been so caught in the snares of life, you barely remember it existed.

Now, I am in a new season. I have sat, having left my teaching career of 26 years, and written thousands and thousands of words. One day, my husband came home and asked me what I had been up to that day. I had written 7,000 words and moved about seventeen steps.

“Do you enjoy it?” he asked.

“I love it,” I replied, “when I sit there, at my computer and type, I feel like it is what I was born to do!”

Yet, there is still the same old treachery rearing its head - the feelings that rumble around in my own head about being good enough, or worthy. Of being capable of doing something significant in a thoroughly saturated market of writing wannabes like me.

I don’t know what the future holds. I don’t know if one day I will hold my own book in my own hands, or whether the dream will be just that. A dream. A good dream - a great dream even - but just a dream.

But you know what I do know?

I know that life is very short. I know that since I left teaching and sat at my desk for hours a day I am happier and more content. I know that if it’s not this, then it’s something else and that God has a plan for me, even when I can’t see it or feel it.

Wherever this has found you today, I hope you know that it’s as true for you as it is for me.

May we not let the days pass us by. 💕

So, I haven’t been undergoing an identity crisis - per se. But I have been asking: who am I in this season?

After 26 years of teaching High School English, it was time to call it a day. It was a job I loved and was good at. But it was also full of challenges and disappointments on a personal level. So, while it wasn’t how I thought it would end, it was still time.

Because ever since I was a little girl, I have wanted to be a writer.

And it’s a crazy dream in a saturated market. And it’s a time-consuming dream, and it will be full of knockbacks and frustrations and challenges…I’m a dreamer, but I’m a realist too.

But, I write all the time. Not always on paper, or on my computer, but in my head. I see and hear things, and I form and make stories. I am not necessarily easily distracted, but I can get lost in my own little made-up worlds - creating people, places, stories…

So here I am. The time has come to at least pursue the dream and try and make it come true.

And if it doesn’t come true, then I will be content in knowing that I tried and maybe, just maybe, I can brighten someone’s day or encourage them in quiet ways.

Thank you for subscribing and joining me on the journey. I’m glad you’re here 💕.

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Finally…

After much procrastination, research, typing and deleting…I have started this - a place off the usual social media for my writing, pondering - thoughts if you will!

1. I’m writing a book…

I’m writing a book. There. I said it.

And I want to bring you with me — not just for the finished product, but for the journey itself. The doubts, the breakthroughs, the days where I write one sentence and the days where I write 3000 words!

2. …and I want you to come too…

If you love stories - filled with faith, characters who you can really get to know, places that seem familiar and yet help you escape - well, maybe this place is for you too!

3. …and join me for the journey…

This will be my behind-the-scenes journey, sneak peeks at my writing, thoughts and ponderings!

4. So, click subscribe and follow along!

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