Short story number 16

                                 Short story number 16

                                              A Day in the Life…

Elizabeth stared out of her car window towards the dismal estate. What brought her to that part of town today she couldn’t answer. There was no reason for her to come that way and her mother certainty never expected her to visit. There was a strict understanding between them; Wednesday and Saturday afternoons  either at A&N coffee shop or at her own home ‘The Glades’, though her mother never showed much enthusiasm for the latter. She lit a cigarette and stepped out of the car. Today was Thursday and no such meetings were imminent. She inhaled deeply and breathed out the smoke with an aggression she could barely articulate. The whole development had gone up in the 70’s in a wave of optimistic fervour; a happy new world of precincts and open courtyards, playgrounds and picnic areas. What had the planners been thinking of? The precincts were barren and windswept, the playgrounds had become a meeting point for crack and other adolescent miseries and the picnic areas were more like tracts of waste land; old tires and discarded pieces of furniture sprouting up in place of wooden trestle tables and benches. It hadn’t been like that when she was growing up in the terrace. The project had been swamped with theories, riddled with unanswered questions and puffed out with an awful lot of ignorance and self interest. She flattened the half smoked cigarette into the tarmac with her foot and sat back again in the driver’s seat. Had she really thought she could throw all this behind; that the past would never catch up with her? She flicked on the radio and, to her great surprise, instead of the usual musical indifference she was greeted with a sound that stirred her from within; a long ago tune but one which brought with it an intangible warmth, a craving and nostalgia and an irrefutable throw back to her early childhood. What power lay in that music to do this to her? She thought to switch it off but the pull was too strong and slowly, she relaxed and let it do its work. She was a little girl again, standing in her soft blue flannel dressing gown with the ladybird buttons. It wasn’t so much the memory of her home itself but a far stronger, richer recollection. It was as though she were engulfed with an immense strength, a warm breeze of love, security and belonging, an unwavering sense of absolute belief and trust. Tears began to roll down her cheeks and she wiped them away with the back of her hand but they came all the more. Was it Christmas? If it was, it was one far, far away. It spoke of pure happiness and joy, it called out from the past, not in anguish or regret but with a soft voice of assurance, unblemished and indestructible. She breathed in deeply and shook slightly as she tried to control the tremor seizing her chest; so beautiful, so indescribably beautiful.

The song finished and immediately she switched off the radio, terrified the return to the superficial gabble of the D.J could shatter this fragile, ephemeral remembrance. After a few moments, she dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief, had a quick look in the mirror and turned the engine on. She had to drive away from that place but at that moment had no notion of where she wanted to be. She slipped into the stream of traffic heading towards the town but at the crossroads took a left turn that climbed steadily upwards. The road was lined with neat 1930’s semis, most of their front gardens still intact and all of them emitting a profound Englishness. She both loved and despised it. At the ‘Grenadier Arms’ she turned right and knew she was heading to her beloved grandmother’s old home. So many years had passed. The route was more than familiar. It was as though she were following a map of her own dimension, her own world. She knew every wall, every house and every garden. Whether in her mind or now, physically at this very moment, she could trace every step. She knew the smells of every season. She could sense the damp from the pavement in the autumn and the rich aroma of the dripping overhanging plants along the way, or feel the sunlight penetrating the hedges and bushes in abundance on a long, sultry summer’s afternoon. It was all so unquestionably part of herself. The house appeared on her right and she pulled up just a little before the front gate. There it was, number 22, still with the original wooden number plate, black on white. The garden was neat and orderly with just enough flowers to credit it as such but with an obvious disregard to any real appreciation of plants. She stared at the white painted front door. It had always been a dull green. There was an alabaster obelisk in the front window and orange and pink draylons of somebody else’s house and somebody else’s reality. The house was an imposter in the precious world of her memories. Her own lay deep within her but this edifice, plain in front of her eyes was merely a stage copy, a barren lifeless image that surely could be blown away with a simple puff. Elizabeth retreated back to her car and lit another cigarette. She furrowed her brow and bit her bottom lip to stop it trembling. She felt fragile and vulnerable. ‘It’s normal’, her friends had told her, ‘Sometimes you’ll feel up and sometimes down. You’re whole body’s going through a tremendous change, you’ve got to respect that’. She shook her head and pursed her lips. Did it really matter what may or may not be happening to her body? She wanted answers to questions she could barely articulate. There were so many thoughts flying through her mind, if she could only put them together, line them all up and answer them one by one, but they would slip away so from her mental grasp.

Sixteen again. What was it her grandmother had said? Yes, she began to remember the scene.

“Grandma, do you feel any different from when you were my age than you do now?”

What sort of question was that from a teenager with a hopelessly loose grasp of the world to a woman who had lived decades and decades – almost an eternity for a naïve sixteen year old? “No”, her grandmother had replied, “I think I’m fundamentally the same, but sometimes I see myself in the mirror and I ask myself, who is that old woman looking at me?”

But hadn’t she always been that age? Surely, she had been born a grandmother, just as surely as her mother had always had a daughter to look after and she herself had been surrounded by her parents and aunts and uncles? She had her place! That was the way it was supposed to be. Her grandmother had always been old; cosy and rounded with lovely soft white hair but then she had broken the rules and simply died. Where did that leave her, Elizabeth? What had happened in between? Her own mother’s grip of the world was fast receding and Elizabeth was reluctantly awakening to the fact that she would shortly be incapable of living alone. Everything was breaking up and she resented it with a bitterness that gnawed at her inwards. She pulled out a hand mirror from her bag and stared angrily into it. What face was glaring back at her? It was assuredly a young face, not above thirty; pretty, she’d always been pretty, “Quite the English rose!”, how many times her aunts had cooed. “Quite the English rose, a lovely fresh English rose”. She threw the mirror onto the floor and, as it hit the clutch pedal it broke in two. “English rose”, she murmured, “More like a bloody English thistle! Christ, what a shambles, what a mess! I’m fifty bloody two. How the hell am I all that?” She switched on the ignition and pulled away without checking the rear mirror. A large Porsche just avoided clipping the bumper. “Stupid old cow!” screamed out an angry voice from the open window, “Try getting a bloody license!” Elizabeth clenched her teeth, raised her chin slightly and steadily headed down the road. By this time, tears of anger were streaming down her cheeks. She drove straight out at the T junction and was greeted with a siren of car horns and flashing headlights. ‘Tesco’s Megastore’ loomed on the right and, drawn by a desperate need for something she could feel in control of, she turned a little too quickly into the car park. A shiny white Mustang braked abruptly. “You’re in a bit of a hurry” drawled a carefully cultivated husky voice from the open window, “Liz, this is Marco” and the woman leaned conspiratorially towards her, “Quite a dish, eh?”

Elizabeth glanced hesitatingly across to a dark Brazilian looking youth by the side of her friend. He couldn’t have been more than twenty three or four. He gave her a confident grin and she caught the flash of his white teeth.

“Not really the place for chatting, is it, Liz? Give me a ring some time. We must have one of our coffees” – and in a moment she and her latest indulgence were gone.

There was a free space close to the entrance and she gratefully slipped into it. The engine off, all quiet and still. Her breathing slowly returned to normal and she sat staring fixedly in front of her, registering with a calm neutrality the various shoppers either leaving their cars to visit the consumer cave of delights or returning with ridiculously over laden trolleys. The scene with the Mustang crept into her thoughts. “What did Carol Slayter think she was doing, gavotting around with a mere boy? Did she think she could stay young forever? Push here, tuck there – and her clothes! – on a sixteen year old, fair enough but – oh, how absurd it all was!”

Was she jealous? Yes, perhaps she was a little, but it wasn’t fair. What right had fifty something Carol got to go flaunting taught young male flesh in the faces of her flabby, wrinkling up friends? At what point do you leave the ship and say, enough is enough? Step aside for the others to take the helm – step aside and do what? – fade away in the pastel shades of her suburban home? Submit graciously to a stuck-in-the-mud, dreary respectability? She thought of her little home with its neat front garden, but even that sanctuary was cracking at the edges. Until her grandmother had died, she had relished collecting all manner of decorative items and pieces of furniture. Her home had been a refuge for all discarded and unwanted relics that she had lovingly acquired in her weekend forays to the bric-a brac shops. She had felt she could breathe life again into the love-less and rejected and so onwards to an unspoken eternity. Clearing the house after her grandmother’s death, she had salvaged enumerate beloved objects and gathered them tenderly to her benevolent bosom. But there they had undergone a curious transformation. She had stared in dismay at these forlorn orphans sitting incongruously on her shelves and had slowly awoken to the perception of a monstrous betrayal. They were simply objects; beautiful or not in their own right but quite dull and lifeless; neutral pieces of glass or china as dead and devoid of the unspoken love and security they had previously conveyed as any other similar item to be found. Elizabeth sensed her heart was beating faster and as she did do, an indescribable panic rose up from her toes and crept into her chest, her throat, her head. She felt unable to breathe and, fumbling helplessly for the handle, staggered out of the car and leaned against the door, her left hand clasping her throat. Was it a heart attack, a stroke? She had an acute vision of herself lying straddled on the tarmac and dying, yes, dying, snatched away from life, breathing her last with the smell of tar and petrol in her nostrils and simply snuffing out. Oh, how she wanted to live, to be present in the world, a part of it, however confused or distorted! With no thought to locking the car, she falteringly headed towards the supermarket entrance and, once within the marble floored interior with its artificial palms and wooden slatted seats for the comfort of the elderly, felt an unsteady but rising sense of relief. Almost immediately she sat on one of the benches and closed her eyes and, with immense effort, tried to clear her mind.

“Do you mind if I sit here?” a mellow well spoken voice enquired.

Elizabeth slowly raised her head and saw an elderly but elegant woman standing in front of her.

“No, not at all” she stammered and the neatly dressed woman lowered

herself onto the bench at a reasonable but not unsociable distance from herself.

“How these shops tire me” she began. “Such enormous places to get round, though full of everything a body could possibly need but, it does take an age to get from A to B and then, of course, if you forget something…” She broke off suddenly, “But forgive me, my dear. You don’t look quite well. Is there anything the matter?”

The simple fact of having this pleasant woman freely talking to her had restored Elizabeth to a measured sense of equilibrium.

“No, not really” she replied. “Just a little tired myself, you know”.

The woman eyed her keenly for a moment and then, with a knowing gleam in her eye, leaned across and patted her leg.

“I’m just about to have a cup of tea over there, why don’t you come too? You look as though you could do with one”.

The stranger stood up. She had such a warm sparkle in her eyes that Elizabeth rose steadily to join her and the two of them walked across to the refreshment area. How wonderful! How simple! A woman she had never met before had freely and spontaneously invited her to share a pot of tea and they were talking like old friends. What easy charm the woman had and how direct and uncomplicated her conversation. Eventually, Elizabeth ventured a more intimate question,

“What sort of work did you use to do?”

As she said it, she felt she may have overstepped the nebulous boundries of untried friendship but the woman responded at once,

“That depends upon when. Let me see now. I began life as a history teacher in a grammar school, but that was before I was married. Are you married my dear?”

“Err, no” replied Elizabeth.

“Well, marriage brought me the life of a diplomat’s wife. I think we lived in at least six countries in the first ten years”.

“Do you have any children?” Elizabeth could hardly believe the forwardness of her own questions.

“Just the one” came the reply, but I lost him to typhoid fever. Life has so many pages. You turn one and you start another. I never go back to the beginning, you know. Memories are delightful – well, the good ones at any rate – but they merely serve to fortify and make sense of the present – don’t you agree, my dear?”

“No, I mean, yes, I don’t know” Elizabeth stared down at her empty cup and the woman immediately refilled it.

“I did actually go back to teaching when we finally settled here and when my husband died I was very grateful for the stimulus and vibrancy of my teaching world but, of course, I had to retire”.

Elizabeth glanced up and, behind the delicately lined face looking into her own she became conscious of an intangible beauty, an aura of calm assurance and tranquility.

“And what do you do now?” she asked.

“Heavens, all manner of things! I never seem to have enough time, that’s my problem. There are so many things that I want to get involved in. If I could only dispense with the eight hours nightly repose, I would, but, there we have it. Ever onwards! That’s my motto. This world is so buzzing with things to learn and comprehend and then re-learn all over again. It changes so and we change along with it. You know what I’ve always believed? A person remains young just as long as they are not prisoners of the past. What a wonderful never ending adventure it all is!”

Elizabeth was beginning to like her new friend more and more.

“Listen”, she continued. “I’m going straight from here to the university. There’s a speaker coming to talk about how Afghan nomads deal with old age and infirmity – I’m sure it’ll be very interesting. Why don’t you come along too?”

“You know” said Elizabeth gratefully, a shy smile creeping across her face, “I think I might just do that, but first let me pop into the chemist’s. I need to buy a new pocket mirror for my handbag”.

                               …………………………

Story number 15

Malcolm

“Come along now, Malcolm, stop dithering! Oh, you do dither – and watch where you’re putting them wheels – mind the lady! Oh, hello, Mrs. Kelby, say hello to Mrs. Kelby, Malcolm. Malcolm!”

The walk from their house to the market was a bit above twenty minutes. Malcolm usually said very little. His mother provided all the conversation such as it was. He’d never really been encouraged to speak in all his forty seven years – and when he had tried, it was always wrong; the wrong answer, the wrong tone of voice, often completely the wrong end of the stick. They wound their way towards the busy throng. Malcolm liked the market; there were so many smells and lots of different faces. The people behind the stalls were nice to him; they smiled and sometimes gave him an extra piece of fruit – though, of course his mother would never permit him to eat it while they were right in the public eye. No, he would thrust it into his coat pocket and later smuggle it into his room and eat it secretly between the sheets.

His mother never varied in her choice of stalls and never changed the order in which she went to them. She was very loyal in that way. On the other hand, if somebody served her badly or were simply not up to scratch in her demands for common courtesy, she was quite capable of switching her custom to someone else, “Where my money’s better appreciated”. Malcolm didn’t like scenes. He could still remember one horrible moment when his mother, despite standing, “as plain as the nose on your face” in front of the banana man, had been ignored as two women were served ahead of her. She’d shouted much above reason and Malcolm had just stood there limply behind her, clinging to the shopping trolley and feeling wretched. They bought their bananas from the supermarket nowadays. Of course, they weren’t as good and were much more expensive but his mother had made her point and was sticking to it.

“What do you want for your tea, Malcolm?”

Malcolm was busy observing the thick white veins on a huge cabbage and looking at the ones on his hand in comparison.

“Sorry, mother. What did you say?”

“Oh, never mind you daft h’apeth. We’ll have some nice corn on the cob. You like your corn-on-the cob, don’t you?”

“Actually, mother, I….”

“Course you do, Malcolm! You’ve always liked corn-on-the cob. Now, how about some nice russets? nothing better than a good russet”.

And so the morning progressed and when the trolley was filled fit to bursting, they were free to make their way home again, Malcolm dragging the hand-picked selection behind him.

“What do you say to a muffin, Malcolm, shall we buy a couple of muffins? They’d be nice for the afternoon, wouldn’t they? let’s just pop into “Denton’s”. There we go”.

They’d arrived in front of the dreary bread shop. It was colourless throughout. Everything looked dull and lifeless, but his mother had had a “do” with the people at “Pratt’s” where, “I’ll never set foot in this shop again” had cut Malcolm off forever from all the far superior cakes and buns they provided.

“Mind the step, Malcolm, Oh, what ever are you doing with it? – You’re all cack-handed. Tut! Give it to me! You don’t know where you are half the time, do you?” – and she blustered on as the two of them struggled to heave the trolley up the couple of steps into the shop just at the precise moment that a hefty women was emerging with three French sticks clasped to her large bosom and a fat ugly child glued to her side. Exactly the sort of unnecessary commotion Malcolm hated.

Pilchards on toast. Malcolm hated pilchards on toast but that’s what they’d had for Saturday lunch ever since he could remember.

“Not too much vinegar now, Malcolm. You don’t want your toes to drop off”. He stared at the ‘Sarson’s’ bottle. Had there ever been a Saturday when she hadn’t said that? It was as established a routine as the pilchards themselves. He gave a little tremor.

“Don’t let them get cold, Malcolm” .

Malcolm’s eyes lifted from the “Sarson’s” bottle up to his mother’s.

“Malcolm! Your pilchards. Eat them up while they’re hot”.

He stared back down at the neat little row of shapeless fish mounted on a slice of toasted “Mother’s Pride”.

“Yes, mother”.

It was half past one. It was always half past one when they finished washing up on Saturday. He looked at his mother’s face. Her lips loomed large; they seemed to be filling all the space. He knew exactly what they were going to say. They were unstoppable and yet how he wanted to stop them but, like a repeating dream they must play out to the last syllable.

“Are you going to the library, then?” She said it and he observed every movement of her mouth. It was odious and hateful to him.

“Yes, mother”. Only that. Was that all he could say? He wanted to say so much more. He wanted to shake her, to turn her upside down, pull her from side to side and watch all the words, the rigid meaningless words come tumbling out of her mouth and jumble up altogether on the kitchen floor. Maybe then they could piece them together differently, back to front, up, down, anyway they wanted just as long as they were different. But his own words betrayed him.

“I’ll be back at 4 o’clock”. Why 4 o’clock? Why not five or six? Malcolm pulled on his coat and scarf and let his footsteps take him to the town library.

Miss Davis nodded to him discretely and the tiniest of smiles flickered across her thin lips. He walked straight over to the geology section and began scanning the shelves with his right fore-finger until he reached a large wine coloured book “Exploring Fossils” by P.Merton. He studied the spine for a moment, the gold coloured ‘P’ had almost disappeared and then, with no aforethought whatsoever he turned his back on the bay and presented himself in front of Miss Davis, ‘Have you got anything on French cooking?’

She blinked at him incredulously. "But the geology section is -"    "Yes, I know" he interrupted. ‘I want something on French cooking’.

How thrilling to hear himself say it. "French cooking". It came like a surprise Christmas present or a new exotic fruit at the market. Miss Davis could only point vaguely and just managed to say "Over there, next to the home decorating section".

Malcolm walked across the squeaky polished floor. He felt taller and inside, his stomach was turning – it was all so exciting. At first, it was bewildering, a sea of newness washing in front of him. He reached out his hand and began to scan the titles – his finger landed on an ‘F’. ‘French Provincial Cooking’. Tenderly, he lifted it from the shelf. The first thing he did was to rush to the index. ‘P’ for pastry, paté, peppers, pigeon, pineapple! – No pilchards! This was an excellent start. There were soups of all descriptions – soups indeed! – that didn’t come out of a packet. It didn’t matter that the details washed over him; what mattered was the simple daring of the excursion - food, marvelous food! He leapt from page to page – truffle sauce – whatever that was and something called marinade; salmon that bore no relation to a ‘John West’ Christmas treat; soupy things called fondue and recipes using real alcohol. Each page was a revelation, a sign and the pictures, the wonderful, wonderful pictures; he could hardly contain himself.

“Mr. Parker… Mr. Parker!”

It was Miss Davis at his ear.

“We’re closing now, Mr. Parker. Will you be taking the book?”

“Closing? What time is it, please?”

“Six o’clock, dear”.

“Six o’clock” he repeated the words slowly. “No, Miss Davis. I won’t take the book just now”, and he lovingly replaced it on the shelf.

How could almost four hours have gone by unnoticed? Four whole hours in another world, a truly marvelous world. It was already dark outside. He didn’t think about his mother, or the muffins or anything else. He simply walked home with a glorious glowing secret inside him.

“Wherever have you been? Oh, wherever have you been?” clamoured his mother. “Malcolm, you’ve had me at my wit’s end. How could you do this to me? So thoughtless!”

Malcolm remained motionless.

“Well, it’s too late for the muffins”.

“Muffins’, murmured Malcolm, ‘what muffins?”

“Is it a girl, Malcolm? Is that what it is? Are you seeing some girl? a cheap hussy, no doubt. And don’t try and tell me you’ve fallen in love. Love indeed! Sex raising its ugly head more like. Here, give me your coat”.

Malcolm let his mother pull off his overcoat for him, while she fussed and blathered.

“Now you go through to the front room while I get these corn-on-the-cobs going. You’ve missed the six o’clock news but you’ll still catch the soap”.

He ate them mechanically. The butter oozed a little from the corner of his mouth but he hardly noticed.

“It’s the generation game at eight o’clock. You like that, don’t you, Malcolm?”

But Malcolm appeared not to be listening. He was thinking about rich creamy soups and unheard of dishes with intoxicating foreign names.

“Malcolm, dear, you’re not listening to me. I said” –

“I heard what you said, mother”.

“So why couldn’t you have the decency to answer me? Whatever’s got into you, Malcolm?”

“Mother” he said calmly. “I’m going to bed” – and he slowly stood up and left the room.

“Tuesday”, pronounced Mrs. Parker at breakfast – as if it needed an introduction.

“Riverside walk day – and not a spot of rain”.

Breakfast continued as normal. Mrs. Parker wittered  on and Malcolm kept his customary diffidence only this time, deep within him there was a kindling, and, if she had looked into his eyes, she might have seen an alarming sparkle, a long repressed urge for living that was growing in ardent intensity. The tongue-tied bottled up Malcolm was pushing up to the light. He had no control over it.

At precisely 10.00 a.m. they left the house.

“Do up your top button, Malcolm, that’s a good boy. Shoulders back now, and for goodness sake, pick your feet up – and stop slouching!”

Words, words. They turned the corner and headed down towards the river.

“Walk on the outside, Malcolm, like a gentleman. How many times do I have to tell you?”

They reached the boat house and began walking along the bank. It was cold but there was a brightness about the day; every little leaf, every blade of grass seemed to leap out at him. The river was unusually high on account of the recent heavy rains. Near the bank it made a gurgling sound as it ran through the thick bullrushes.

“Well, look at that, Malcolm. Someone’s left a horrible crisp packet right in the middle of that clump of rushes. Aren’t people awful?”

But Malcolm wasn’t listening. He was already walking on ahead, trailing his hands through the riverside grasses and feeling extraordinarily gay and buoyant. There was music in the air. He had a lightness of step. He’d never in all his life felt so alive and full of expectations.

“Malcolm dear, just give me a hand while I remove that nasty crisp packet. Malcolm, Malcolm! Wherever is the daft boy? I may as well do it myself,”  and she leaned forward with arm outstretched to retrieve the intrusive family size packet of Smith’s crisps.

Just an inch too far. One silly little inch and she lost her balance. She fell headlong into the current and for a few seconds a black mound of astrakhan coat floated like a little island, and then it was gone.

Malcolm stopped suddenly in his tracks. Little birds were chattering. The river was making a delightful sound, a laughing, dancing bubbling sound. He turned round but ahead was only the path and the river. A little beyond he could just see the bright turquoise blue of a crisp packet sticking out of the grass. The world was silent, hushed. He walked back a little further and stopped in front of the crisp packet. It had slipped down the weeds and the water was tugging at it until, in a moment it was snatched away and carried off. Malcolm watched it disappearing into the distance; silence, such rich golden silence.

“Mother?” he whispered. The river stared back at him. He stood for several minutes until he felt the dampness creeping into his toes. Then he pulled up his collar around his neck and, humming very softly to himself, directed his steps towards the town.

Short story number 14. 'A friend in need'

A Friend in Need

“For crying out loud, Marta. How long does it take you to put a case together?”

Marta slowly bit her upper lip and continued arranging the neatly folded undergarments. She was used to his railings. They were flying, and when they were flying, Sergio became irritable. There was still plenty of time and, partly not to increase the tension further and partly for her own self preservation, she remained silent.

Sergio paced about the room. His case was packed and ready but not as a result of any effort on his behalf. He had a brilliant mind but, like so many others of his kind, it didn’t extend to the vagaries of selecting and packing clothes for a fine day trip to the States. Here Marta calmly took the controls, as she did in almost every domestic or family matter. She got no thanks for it and had learnt not to expect any. He would calm down once they were on the plane and then she could look forward to few days of relative peace and enjoyment, at least until the return flight.

“Have you remembered my shaving cream? – and my handkerchiefs, and my ear plugs, you haven’t forgotten my ear plugs!” – Marta nodded at the end of each item. Heaven forbid the day that she should forget something. She felt sure there would be an ‘always’ planted firmly somewhere in the accusation.

“Ok”, she said brightly. “I think that’s probably about it”.

Sergio grunted.

“I think a coffee would be nice, what do you think?”

“Coffee, coffee”, he almost spluttered. “What are you doing thinking about coffee? They’ll be plenty of time at the airport.”

“It’ll take five minutes” – and she calmly walked to the kitchen, switched on the kettle and dropped a couple of spoons onto the filter.

The phone rang.

“Who the hell can that be? If it’s your mother, tell her we’re out”’.

“It’s for you” she said, and handed him the phone.

“Yes, what? Oh, Flavio, yes. Yes, all set to go. We’re just leaving this minute, that is, when Marta’s finished her coffee. Women, eh?”

“Well, err, Sergio. I was actually wondering if you’d do me a favour…”

The coffee had almost filtered through. A shy smile crept across Marta’s face. She knew Sergio was getting exasperated but he couldn’t just let rip like he so often did with her. Flavio was a friend but he was also technically his boss. It didn’t do to ruffle the nest unduly. They were still talking. Five minutes peace! She poured herself a cup of the rich dark liquid and sat on one of the stools.

“How nice to get away”, she thought; time for both of them to put aside the stresses of normal working lives and see something of ‘The Big Apple’. She gazed absently at the tea towel dropped over the back of the cooker, ‘Beauty Spots of Devon’. Sergio split open the silence.

“You’ll never believe it, Marta”.

“Believe what?”, she murmured.

“We have to make a blessed diversion. Flavio wants me to take a box of something or other over to the States, That’s going to put at least half an hour onto the journey”.

“Well, we’d better be off then!’ And she slipped of the stool, double checked the back door once more and was at the front door with coat and suitcase before he was.

“Ready?”

It was beginning to rain, the fine penetrable kind. The roads were busy but passable.

“There’s the turning” she said. “It’s just the other side of Oxbridge”.

They found the place readily enough. Sergio pressed the button of number 7, ‘just a tad more insistently then necessary’ – thought Marta to herself.

“Come in, come in you two. So grateful you could do this for me. Now I’ve got everything I need except just one book – Uh, have a look under that pile of magazines would you, Marta? It’s about the size of a small family bible with a tatty green cover. If I could only remember where I put it”

Marta and Sergio found themselves lifting up cushions and leafing through newspapers for the said green article. Sergio was picking things up and putting them down mechanically, He couldn’t have recognized the book if it had fallen in front of his face. Marta turned sideways to him and hissed. “You’d have thought he’d have had the stuff ready having dragged us out here to do him a favour”. Sergio said nothing.

“Oh, here it is, at last! Thank you both for being so patient!”

Flavio then disappeared upstairs, presumably to get a box of something to put the things in.

“You know what it’s like”, they could hear his voice echoing down the stairwell. “As soon as you want something, you can’t find it”. It was becoming torturous; even Marta was getting edgy. There was a welcome pounding of feet on the stairs and Flavio burst into the room with an improvised box of folded cardboard, optimistically tied together with blue wool.

“The address is on the front – and thanks once again”.

They more or less fell out of the door, flung out a couple of hasty goodbyes and were off down the lane.

“You don’t need to kill us, ok, with your anxiety, Sergio”.

“Well, what do you expect? We’ve got a dam good chance of missing this basted plane”.

They drove in silence, much too fast for Marta’s liking.

“What will be, will be”, she thought, and calmly folded her hands in front of her.

The airport was spilling over with people. They pushed themselves forward like salmon against the stream.

“Oh! There it is!” said Marta breathlessly.

There were no other passengers at the check in desk.

The two clerks, trim and intractable in their navy-blue two piece were in quiet conversation.

“I’m sorry, we’re late” puffed Sergio. “We need to check in for the 7.05 to New York”.

“I’m afraid the check-in desk is closed, sir. We can’t put you on that flight”.

“But that’s ridiculous!” Sergio began to shout. ‘There’s plenty of time to squeeze us through. It doesn’t leave for another 30 minutes”.

“Flight regulations, I’m sorry sir. There’s nothing I can do”. Marta squeezed his arm and a silence filled the space like a huge, empty ‘O’.

“Just let me have a word with my colleague… I can put you on the next plane that’s leaving just twenty minutes later. Would that be all right?”

“Yes, yes, thank you, thank you so much” Marta was taking control again. “That would be just fine”.

Within seconds, the accumulated tension was melting away and they began walking with welcome relief to the gate.

“Umm, now it’ll all be plain sailing” whispered Marta. She looked up at him and he gave her one of his comical school-boy grins.

“Come on, old thing, let’s be getting into this plane”’, and he patted her affectionately in the small of her back.

A beautiful flight, not an inch of turbulence. The food was more than passable and even the film was worth watching.

First things first. On arrival at New York they slipped into a taxi and drove straight to the hotel.

“Mr. and Mrs. Saldanha?” the clerk checked his list and looked up with a strange benevolence in his eyes. “You have a number of messages”, he said. “Would you like them now or would you prefer me to send them up?”

“Messages?” said Marta. “What are people doing sending us messages? Could you send them up? We’ll get showered first and then we’ll see what they’re about”.

As they opened the bedroom door the phone was already ringing.

“Who on earth can that be?” snapped Sergio. He picked it up and Marta saw his face turn ashen.

“Whatever is it?” she said.

“It’s your brother” he stammered. “Our plane, the one we should have been on, has crashed over a village in Scotland. That dammed Flavio. That dammed wonderful friend, Flavio”.

Short story number 13 'Home Cooking'

Home Cooking

The smell was tantalizing. No child could resist it and Mrs. Underwood made sure that they didn’t. Her window opened right on to the street and it was impossible to pass by her house without being assailed by warm golden kitchen aromas.

She was busy all day. She could quite easily have sold her produce but emphatically resisted any kind of persuasion to do so. No, her great delight was to fill the open mouth of any village child who passed her window. There were many children whose homes lay in quite the opposite direction but who made extraordinary diversions to include Mrs. Underwood’s cottage on their route back from school. And what temptations they were! Dark brown ginger biscuits, crunchy on the outside and chewy in the middle, honey coloured oatmeal fingers, slabs of incredibly soft and gooey chocolate cake, wedges of golden shortbread topped with sugar crystals, her imagination and inventiveness enchanted the minds and stomachs of her devotees.  She had such a way with children. As they approached the open window they would slow down their pace. Some would bend down to fiddle with a perfectly tied shoelace, others would idly fondle the tall grasses growing by her garden wall but all of them with ears tuned for the gentle “co-ee” that was sure to emanate from the open lattice at any moment.

Though unceasing in her generosity Mrs. Underwood would, under no circumstances allow anyone to take more than one biscuit at any one time – and woe betide the child who attempted to do so. She was not unknown to whip out of the house and snatch the pilfered item from the sneak thief’s mouth. Through fear of this frightful scenario and fear of losing their haven of delight, the children were closely vigilant of each other.

Running down the side of her cottage was the lane that lead to the church. It was a pretty place set on a slight hill that overlooked the steam and beyond to the centre of the village. It had its share of weddings and baptisms but, to the great sadness of the villagers, more than its fair share of funerals. Some put it down to the uncommonly damp conditions of the valley, others to less than adequate diets while some even conjectured the possibility of malignant forces. Whatever the cause, nothing could allay the painfully regular sight of a funeral cortege making its way up the little lane with the pathetic coffin of yet another village child. Mrs. Underwood would stand by her door and look solemnly onto the doleful scene, her oven lying cold on such a day.

Dr. Mortimer was baffled. He had consulted colleagues in town but nothing concrete could be deduced. The symptoms, if any existed, were a slight sluggishness and maybe paleness about the cheeks. In many cases it were as though the unfortunate victim had simply given up living. Secretly, among the children, they suspected that the sleep sickness was coming when a boy or girl lost interest in paying a visit to Mrs. Underwood’s house.

One sad evening, little Emily Anderson lay crying in her bed. The empty one of her sister, May, was gleaming white in the moonlight. Why hadn’t she wanted to stay? Emily had tried everything. She had given her her most prized possession: a cloth Japanese doll with real silk pyjamas – but to no avail. She had even saved her every biscuit she had been given from Mrs. Underwood. May ate them readily enough at first but her health diminished evermore rapidly. No, May had simply lost interest in everything and had now gone and left her younger sister to play alone.

“How could we leave her all by herself up on the hill?” she sobbed.

“She must be feeling so cold and lonely”. And at that moment she pushed back the bed covers, pulled on her clothes and slipped out of the house.

“I will stay with you tonight, May” she whispered. “I’m sorry, I left you, I’m sorry. But I’m coming and I’m not afraid”. She made her way silently down the street and turned left into the lane leading to the church. Mrs Underwood’s cottage was wrapped in darkness.

Water dripped off the lilac bushes that flourished on either side. There were other noises: strange crackles and sounds of things dropping. She was afraid, very afraid but she wasn’t going to leave her sister alone.

In a little while the grey stone church came into view. It stood stark against the dark yew trees behind. She gently clicked open the gate and walked across the soft wet grass. Just ahead she could see the white headstone of her own dear sister and posies of flowers now reflecting tones of grey in the moonlight, but something else caught her eye. She stopped and bent down a little. There, almost at the edge of the graveyard there was a figure. It was huddled over something and rocking steadily to and fro. She listened. The person was speaking to someone. It was a woman. She had a soft gentle voice, the kind you can trust, a familiar voice. Surely, it couldn’t be… but? – Yes, it was, it was Mrs. Underwood!

Emily wanted to turn and run but she had to know more. She was drawn to the crouching figure. She darted between the tombstones and then, shielding herself behind an angel with wings outstretched, trained her ear to the low murmurings.

“Oh, my pet, my angel. Mam hasn’t forgotten you. My dear Susan. Surely you’re not angry with Mam now? Look, I’ve brought you a new friend to keep you company. So many playmates for my baby girl. I tried to save you, I did my pet but now you’re not alone. There’s Mary and Lizzie and the two Walker boys, young Katherine, Sally Anne and now you’re got little May”.

Emily let out a cry of horror. The sleep sickness. It was all Mrs.Underwood’s doing. The biscuits, the irresistible biscuits!

Mrs. Underwood looked up in alarm. Her secret vigil shattered by the intruder. But Emily was already running, running away down the hill, up the main street and straight to the house of Dr. Mortimer.

Short story number 12

                                                         The letter

‘Well, we’ve found the three most famous residents’, said Gill cheerfully, dusting some dead leaves from her jeans, ‘And not so difficult really’.

‘No’, replied Daniel, ‘But now we’ve got the John Constables and George du Mauriers out of the way, let’s start looking at the really interesting stuff – the locals!’

Gill and Daniel had met at university. Their mutual interest in archeology and history in general had thrown them together and they were never happier than spending hour upon hour looking up local history and visiting any number of places that offered peeps into events and people gone by. Invariably, this took them to graveyards and cemeteries, where there was always a wealth of information to be found about past personages or simply the people who once lived in the area.

‘They keep this place pretty much in trim’ said Daniel as he brushed away a trail of ivy over a pale grey tombstone. ‘Funny how it never gives me the creeps – only makes me a bit sad sometimes. Look at this one, just five years old and her sister but three and even a little boy of nine months – the whole family! How on earth did people cope with it?’

‘That’s something we’ll never know’ replied Gill. ‘I guess everybody’s reality is moulded round the time they are living. People a hundred odd years ago didn’t expect to see all their children grow up. I suppose they must have got used to it’.

‘No’ said Daniel. ‘I don’t think anyone could ever get used to losing a child. The pain must have been as acute as it might be today. Perhaps they just accepted it with more resignation’.

They picked their way through the sombre army of stone and marble; mankind’s final gesture to his mortal fragility.

‘Isn’t that a headstone right over there by the wall?’ said Gill.

‘Could be. Let’s have a look’.

They passed a great rectangular tomb surrounded by rusty railings and made their way through the undergrowth. A large line tree stood against the bulging cemetery wall and beneath it, a perfect white headstone.  In this corner of the churchyard the weeds had been allowed to grow high, almost concealing the grave but, exactly around it, as though neatly trimmed with a pair of scissors, the grass was perfectly cut.

‘There are even some flowers here, look!’ said Gill. ‘So strange, tucked away here half forgotten, and yet not forgotten. Somebody must visit it periodically… love – lies – bleeding’.

‘What are you talking about?’ said Daniel.

‘These flowers; love – lies – bleeding; the traditional symbol of desertion’ replied Gill.

‘Umm, I won’t ask you where you dug that one up from, but look what’s written, IN MEMORY OF IRINA SHABELSKY AND …’

‘And what?’ cried Gill. ‘How incredible! Imagine leaving a space. Let’s see, when was she born?... August 4^th, 1890 and she died April 9^th, 1912 – umm, died young’.

‘And the name, what about the name?’ added Daniel. ‘That’s never an English name… Shabelsky, Irina Shabelsky – it’s Russian, of course!’

‘How can you be so sure?’ questioned Gill.

‘Humph! You obviously don’t know you Chekhov, do you?’

‘But this thing with the space’, continued Gill, ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. ‘Irina Shabelsky and… and who, for goodness sake? It’s really strange’.

‘Must admit, beats me. It’s kind of sad, isn’t it? Who was she? And where did she come from? I’d be surprised if we found anymore Shabelskys around.’

‘Well, whoever she was,’ said Gill, ‘Somebody hasn’t forgotten her’.

‘I can feel my investigative claws twitching, can’t you, Gill?’

‘I’m game if you are, Daniel’

‘Ok, so where do we begin?’

The first and most obvious choice was the church itself. The doors were locked, a sad reminder of modern times but to their great delight, they could see a light on in the vestry. Gill knocked tentatively.

‘It’s probably just the cleaner’ she whispered to Daniel.

After a hefty silence they could hear what sounded like shuffling footsteps and presently, the bolt was drawn and the door was opened a few inches.

‘Yes?’ the voice was flat and offered little encouragement for conversation but Gill put on her prettiest smile and, in tender tones asked if the old man could spare just a little of his time for two dotty historians. To their surprise the door was opened quite fully and there stood, or rather stooped before them an elderly man with an exceptionally large forehead, fronds of snow white hair hanging almost to his shoulders and glasses that, in persons less sensitive than Gill and Daniel, might have provoked laughter due to the extraordinary magnitude they imposed upon his eyes.

‘So, you’re young historians, are you? Well, there’s plenty to tell you about this church. As you can see, it’s not more than a couple of hundred or so years old – not that there hasn’t been a church here for a good deal longer than that. The original church was founded in the 14^th century but, forgive me. I don’t yet know where your main interest lies’. However, he continued, ‘There are a couple of striking stained glass windows, unless, of course, it’s the tapestry you’re interested in – is it by any chance the tapestry?’

‘Well, err, actually’, said Daniel, relieved to get a word in. ‘It’s really the cemetery we are interested in’.

‘Oh, well why didn’t you say so? I suppose you know about Sir Herbert Beerbolm Tree and John Constable?’

‘Yes’ interrupted Gill. ‘And George du Maurier, no, what we’re really interested in is the little white grave that’s all by itself near the wall’.

‘Oh, I see’, said the verger, and his eyes lost their sparkle for a moment. ‘And what might interest you there, if I may be so bold to ask?’

‘Oh, I don’t know really’, stammered Gill.

Daniel stepped in.

‘We are fascinated by the name, Shibelsky – not a common one to be found round here – and the fact that it’s so hidden away’.

‘Yes’, replied the verger. He nodded his head and a sad smile filtered across his face. ‘It is indeed hidden away and you’re right, you won’t find any other Shibelsky’s here. Yes, a sad and haunting story it is to be sure. Look, if you’re really interested, why don’t you both pop round tomorrow, say around 4.00 p.m.? I may have something that’ll interest you’.

They both thanked him and stepped out of the vestry door onto the gravel.

‘Not a bad start’, said Gill. ‘How about taking just one more look before we go home?’.

‘Well, if you insist, but I don’t see how much more we are going to get from the headstone’.

‘Neither do I’, replied Gill. ‘Just a feeling. I’d like to have another peep. I wonder what the verger’ll bring us tomorrow – do you know, we don’t even know his name’.

And the two of them made their way back through the cemetery towards the little white tombstone. It was getting late and the watery winter sun had disappeared begin a hefty bank of thick cloud covering the horizon. In the shade of the dark trees the tombstones assumed a softer hue, blending into the enveloping shadows of bottle green and grey.

‘Do we have to do this?’ said Daniel.

‘Whatever’s the matter?’ replied Gill.

‘Nothing, I’m sorry’ and Daniel went quiet.

‘Look!’ said Gill suddenly. ‘There’s someone there!’

‘Where?’ replied Daniel, involuntarily clutching Gill’s arm.

‘Over there, behind that broken column. I’m sure I saw someone’.

They had both stopped in their tracks and were straining to see in the twilight.

‘There was definitely someone there’, said Gill, almost defiantly. ‘It was a woman, small and slightly bent. She must be making her way through those trees there and out towards the north entrance’.

‘Good, well let’s leave her that way’ said Daniel quickly. ‘Come on, let’s go and have this peak at our friend, Irina’.

Despite the rapidly diminishing light, the little headstone stood out distinctly. Gill laid her hand over the top of it almost caressingly.

‘There’s something terribly sad here’, she mused. ‘Poor Irina’. ‘I can’t put my finger on it but, and we know almost nothing about her, I feel so sorry for her’.

‘Fair enough, Gill. But remember, whatever happened to her happened a long time ago’.

‘I know, Daniel, but something has touched me. Can’t explaine. Must be a woman thing’, and she smiled softly at him.

There was a cold breeze picking up. They both shuddered.

‘Let’s be heading back, Gill – oh, my God, what’s that?’

‘What’s what, Daniel?’

‘That light over there, see it? It must be a torch; someone’s carrying a torch’.

Right among the thickest of the trees an intense flickering light was approaching. Instinctively, they moved towards the large railed tomb and crouched behind it.

‘I don’t like it, Gill’ whispered Daniel.

‘Shh’ she replied, and inched her way forward where she had a clear view of the approaching light. It was getting bigger and brighter. A fine but desperate voice broke the silence… ‘Henry, Henry, where are you?’

The light moved right in front of them and, as it reached the white headstone, quivered agitatedly and began to elongate, stretching out both upwards and downwards until it formed a narrow streak. There was one more agonizing cry and it vanished. The darkness was now the more intense. The two of them remained huddled by the railings in mute silence. The dry leaves of the lime tree rustled; a car beeped its horn some way in the distance.

‘I think we can go home now, can’t we?’ said Daniel, finally and slowly, without saying another word, they edged their way through the darkened graveyard and out into the welcome orange glare of the street lamps. After some while of walking in silence Daniel stopped. They were standing right in front of a Turkish take-away.

‘Gill’ he began. ‘What are you thinking about?’

‘I’m thinking that I don’t know anything about anything. I know we saw and heard what we just saw and heard – we did, didn’t we, Daniel?’

‘Saw and heard what? – no, just kidding’.

‘Daniel, let’s face it, we’ve just witnessed and experienced what is commonly called a ghost. I don’t know what we’re supposed to feel. We were both frightened, we can’t deny that but, it simply happened, like watching a show or two people talking or, I don’t know! – it was strange and so ordinary!’

‘I don’t know about ordinary’ replied Daniel, ‘but yes, I don’t feel any different than I did before. We certainly have seen something but, well, that’s it!’

‘Do you think we should mention it to the verger?’ said Gill.

‘I don’t know. Let’s play it by ear’.

A row of juicy kebabs were sitting under the grill near the window, generous wads of onions and red and green pepper bulging between each chunk of meat.

‘Fancy one? said Daniel

‘You don’t have to ask me twice’, and the two of them slipped into the urban familiarity of ‘Ahmed’s Kebabs’.

At the appointed hour, Gill and Daniel were knocking at the vestry door, their amiable collaborator opening it almost at once.

‘Come in, come in’ he said congenially, ‘come in out of the cold. I’ve got the paraffin heater on, as you can see; not that it emanates a great deal of warmth. Church cuts, you know. What with the place being opened only for services, not much justification for burning good money, yes, well…’, and, almost as though he were embarrassed by his own ramblings, he turned away from them and opened a small dark wooden cupboard in the shape of a gothic arch, which stood above the mantelpiece. There was a sound of rustling and he drew out a large faded envelope.

‘Popped it in here as soon as I arrived. Didn’t want to leave it lying about’.

He placed it reverently on the tatty leather bound table and beckoned for them both to sit down. Meanwhile he sat himself in the windsor chair opposite and, with his elbows resting on the arms, touched his lips with the tips of his fingers. For a few seconds, no one said anything.

‘I must confess’ he began, ‘a great deal of time has passed since I last examined the contents of this envelope. I probably wasn’t much older than yourselves. Well, there it is. Why don’t you open it? and he prodded the article towards them. Gill took it up gingerly in both hands. It was soft to the touch, probably due to its age. Written across the front in a beautiful delicate hand was the inscription ‘To the very Reverend Jules Darcy’ and a little to the right in smaller letters ‘In very strictest confidence’.

‘Don’t be afraid’, he continued. ‘I shall be very interested to hear what you make of it. I’ve never shown it to anyone else’.

With slightly trembling hands, Gill drew out several sheets of cream coloured paper, remarkably smooth considering the age and written on one side only in the same graceful hand.

‘But it says, April 8^th , 1912’ stammered Gill, ‘surely that’s around the time of –

‘Yes’, interrupted the verger. ‘One day before she died’.

Daniel nudged up closer and the two of them began to read.

‘Dear Reverend Darcy,

‘Firstly, I hope and pray that this letter does indeed fall into your hand only. I have almost no friends here, but I know you are a good man and I have no one else to turn to. I need your forgiveness, good Sir; your forgiveness and more than a little of your comprehension. It is for this reason, if you permit, that I will hereby relate to you the circumstances that have drawn us both to this hateful but inescapable decision’.

Gill and Daniel both looked up at the verger. He raised his eyebrows slightly and nodded to them to continue.

‘You know little of me. For reasons I will now relate, you will perhaps understand why I have kept so low a profile. You may have spotted a figure at the back of the nave. I have always arrived after the service began and, to avoid any uncomfortable encounters, have left before the end. As God is my witness, I have never renounced the faith. I had hoped that one day I would persuade my beloved fiancé, Henry, to join me. I felt sure that in time he would. Due to my imposed anonymity, I could not join the Russian Orthodox community but found comfort here in this church’.

‘Henry? said Daniel sharply, ‘Why, that’s the name …’ and he broke off suddenly.

‘The name of who?’ questioned the verger. ‘You know something about Henry?’

‘Yes, I mean, no’ stammered Daniel. ‘It just happens to be my father’s name’.

Gill looked at him sideways for a second. The verger made no reaction at all and they all resumed their reading.

‘I met Henry less than a year ago while at Lake Ladoga with my family. My marriage to a Mr. Nikolai Andreyevna was imminent; a man much older than myself and for whom my heart was cold. My parents were insisting upon the match and I saw no chance of escape – and than I met Dr. Weston. He was so attentive and charming. Yes, perhaps we were foolish but we fell desperately in love. It seemed so hopeless and yet Henry thought of a plan. I know I did wrong but Henry assured me he would quickly earn enough to pay back more than their full value and so he persuaded me to take my mother’s jewellery. It would be sufficient for us to live on the same level to which I have always been accustomed until he could repay everything’.

‘Who was this Henry Western?’ interjected Daniel

‘Ah’, replied the verger, ‘A nasty piece of work and no mistake. Quite a regular gold digger’.

‘And what was he doing in Russia?’ asked Gill.

‘Looking out for himself, no more, no less. He was a neurologist by profession, though a shameful example of one. Been struck off, he had, for malpractice. Had a bad reputation with women. He used his charm and good looks solely for his own advantage’.

‘And poor Irina couldn’t see it’ sighed Gill.

‘Love is blind, my dear. A cliché it may be but the sentiment prevails’.

‘What happened when they came to England?’ said Daniel.

‘Read on, it’s all there, well, most of it’.

They returned once more to the finely written pages.

‘Things were not easy for us. Henry couldn’t find a buyer for my Mother’s jewellery. He refused to sell them for less than their worth. Without money we couldn’t get married and so we must wait. He found rooms for us, very discrete and hidden away. I was so worried, and so was he, dear man – it was then that I started getting those headaches. Not so bad at first but as time went by they became more intense. How lucky I was to have Henry! He put me through many tests and examinations – all carried out, of course, in the privacy of our rooms. How hard, how very hard it was for him to tell me that I had less than six months to live. He cried so and though I was in terrible shock myself my heart broke for him. We were so in love – may I say, though there be such little time for us, still so very in love. Henry was inconsolable. There was nothing I could do or say to give him comfort. It was then that he thought up our plan. You may think me selfish but I swear to you, Henry said there was nothing I could do to dissuade him. His mind was made up. Life without me would be unbearable and so, tomorrow, the two of us will end our lives together and, God’s grace permitting, be united in heaven forever. Please, Reverend Darcy, do not imagine any ill has been planned against me. My decision has been made of my own free will. I commend our souls to God and beg that you pray for us both. The ring enclosed here is sufficient, should you enquire in the right quarters, to pay for our burial.

God bless you and keep you,

Yours sincerely,

Irina Shibelsky

Gill’s eyes were moist and a veil of pain hung over her face.

‘But the grave only has her name on it’, she said quietly.

‘Yes’, replied the verger. ‘She left without him, so to speak’.

‘Do you mean to say, he didn’t die with her?’

‘Exactly, my dear. He had probably been administering minute doses over some time and, at the appointed hour, gave her the necessary lethal amount’.

‘Of what?’ said Daniel.

‘Strychnine. Very similar in appearance to sugar. It would have been very simple for him to have taken an identical portion of a totally innocuous substitute. Though he could no longer practice in England, he must still have had reliable sources where he could get hold of the stuff’.

‘How horrible’, cried Gill. ‘I knew there was something. When Daniel and I were there by the grave I just had this feeling, something so sad and melancholy. Look, Sir – and please forgive us. We don’t know your name’.

‘Oh, bless me, how very English of us all! The name’s Nathan and you are…?’

‘Gill and Daniel’, said Gill. ‘Nice to meet you!’ and the three of them made a show of shaking hands with each other.

‘Nathan’, began Daniel. ‘There’s something we’ve been meaning to ask you’ Gill darted a glance at him.

‘Fire away, I’m all ears’.

‘No, it’s just, we were wondering if there haven’t been any stories of sightings, umm, you know, strange appearances or such like.

‘I wouldn’t have thought two serious historians like yourselves would be interested in such rumours but, as you happen to mention it, yes, I have heard talk of lights, strange lights but I’ve never seen or heard the like myself – and I’ve been working here a good many tears. No, I put that sort of thing down to an hour or so too long at the pub’, and he gave a curious throaty sort of laugh.

Gill and Daniel smiled feebly and nodded mutual consent to say no more on the matter.

‘Going back to this pathetic story’, said Daniel, ‘What became of Henry Weston and what became of the jewels?’

‘Ah’, sighed Nathan, ‘there’s a pretty tale. Her family never got them but then, neither did Henry, well, not for long’.

‘You mean he was arrested?’ ventured Gill.

‘No, no, nothing so prosaic. Our friend was much cleverer than that – too clever for his own good. Of course, he knew nothing of Irina’s letter, nor of the ring that she had kept back from the jewels, but it all made no difference in the end. No, as soon as he had dispatched his unsuspecting financée he booked a passage for the states. Never heard of again’.

‘So the scoundrel got away with it!’ shouted Daniel.

‘No, indeed he didn’t. His name was confirmed on the list of missing passengers. Our friend made one error which he couldn’t possibly have foreseen. He booked his passage on the ‘Titanic’.

‘Wow’, said Gill. ‘What a story. A miserable confidence trickster met his end and an innocent young victim, cruelly deceived. There’s a sort of moral to it but… it’s got that air of unfinished business’.

‘Who put up the headstone?’ asked Daniel, suddenly.

‘Well, that was nothing thanks to Reverend Darcy. When he received the ring and the letter he was very agitated. He was an extremely pious man but he was tormented by the willful desire for suicide and yet the obvious fact of cruel deception. After much deliberating, he consented to have her buried where you saw her grave, right over by the far wall. No, the headstone came much later, erected by her niece and finance by the ring. He had left both the letter and the ring in the care of his successor. He felt the ring should be returned to her family, should they appear.

‘And did they?’ said Gill.

‘Just one, the niece’, replied Nathan. ‘The only survivor from her family. The rest of them perished in the revolution’.

‘How dreadful’, said Gill.

‘Yes, my dear. She had lost everyone and came looking in search of her aunt. When she discovered what had happened she became quite strange. I suppose it was the last straw, so to speak. She received the ring and used it to pay for the white headstone – the same material as many of the first world war graves’.

‘The woman among the trees’, whispered Gill involuntarily.

‘I’m sorry, my dear?’

‘Umm, no, I as just remembering. I was sure I saw someone yesterday, but then I suppose it could have been anybody’.

‘Yes’, said Nathan, scraping back his chair and standing up. That’s the whole story as far as I know it. The woman, Danyasha’s her name, she tends the grave. Quite a strange one she is. One of our local characters’.

Gill and Daniel could feel that it was time to leave. They carefully replaced the letter in its envelope and handed it back to Nathan.

‘Thank you so much’, they both said, and he shook each of their hands in turn.

‘Been a pleasure. Any time you want to talk, just knock on the door, you’ll always be welcome’.

They thanked him again and in a moment were standing once more on the gravel.

‘We’ve got to look at it again’, said Gill.

Immediately, they set out towards the white headstone. By now it was quite dark but their route was becoming familiar.

‘What are we going to do, Gill?

‘I don’t know, Daniel, what can we do?’

It was raining, not heavily but with the cold wind that had picked up, sufficient to discourage any notions for prolonged walking. They were but twenty feet from the spot when they stopped abruptly. There was somebody by the grave. They could see the silhouette quite clearly against the white.

‘It’s got to be Danyasha’, whispered Gill.

They crept a little further forward and Daniel stepped on a large twig. The woman gave a harsh cry and stumbled to her feet.

‘What do you want?’ she shrieked. ‘What do you want and who are you? Keep away from me, do you hear? Keep away!’

‘It’s all right’, coaxed Gill. ‘We have not come here to do you any harm, please don’t be afraid’.

Gill tried to reach out her arm but the woman started back in fright and, as she did so, a bedraggled spray of crimson amaranthus dropped to her feet.

‘We are your friends, Danyasha. It is Danyasha, isn’t it?’

‘How do you know? Who are you?’ The woman was becoming hysterical. ‘You don’t know anything, you young people, you foolish young people but I’ll tell you something, that I will’, and she glared at them from under her drooping black hat. ‘Sadness, you can forget, and believe me, I’ve had my share, disappointment too but treachery, never, do you hear me? Never!’ and she turned and slipped away through the dripping trees.

‘Oh, for God’s sake, let’s get out of here’, said Daniel. ‘I’ve really had enough for one afternoon’.

Gill at once consented.

‘Look, I’m sorry, Daniel’, she began, the moment they were back on the lit pavement. ‘We’ve got to do something. I know you’ll think I’m crazy but I’ve got this really strong feeling that it will work. We owe it to Irena’.

‘We don’t owe Irena anything’, snapped Daniel. ‘We’ve found out loads more than we’d ever imagined and now I think we can forget  the whole thing and leave ghoulish nocturnal wanderings to this Danyisha, or whatever her name is.’

‘Danyasha’, said Gill calmly. ‘I don’t think you understand, Daniel. There is something we can do and if you’re not willing to help me…’

‘I’m sorry, love’, said Daniel. ‘Course I’ll help you. Just tell me nice and slowly as we’re walking home, o.k? You can rely on me, you know you can. Right, I’m listening’.

It was almost three in the morning when two figures, cloaked in black and

 carrying a small bag were making their way towards the church. They kept out

of the street light as much as possible and slipped imperceptibly through the

iron cemetery gate. The rain was constant and blowing in sudden, uncomfortable gusts. The wind effected a constant roar in the trees and the graves glistened cold and damp.

  ‘Almost there’, whispered Gill.

In a moment they were standing under the lime tree by the familiar headstone. Daniel fumbled in the bag and pulled out a gleaming chisel and hammer. He handed them both to Gill and then focused a large torch onto the headstone.

‘Keep your eyes peeled, whatever you do. This is probably a prisonable offence’.

Gill read the inscription once more, ‘IN LOVING MEMORY OF IRINA SHIBELSKY AND...’ She took a deep breath and placed the edge of the chisel in the space immediately after the ‘AND’. At once, the wind seemed to grow in intensity, the roaring in the trees rose and the branches of the lime tree began to beat about her hands and face.

‘I’ve got to do it’, she murmured, ‘I’ve got to do it’.

 The chisel dug into the white stone, chips flying off sporadically. She worked as fast as she could and, steadily, if roughly, the letter’ H’ began to form.

‘Hurry, Gill, as quick as you can’.

She focused on the chisel and one by one the letters appeared. The roar was becoming deafening. Gill had to half close her eyes to stop herself from being scratched by the branches.

‘There’s someone coming!’ screamed Daniel.

At once, the woman, Danyasha, burst upon them, her eyes bulging from their sockets.

‘You, you thieves, you vandals, I’ll kill you for this!’

She threw herself towards Gill but Daniel managed to grab her arm and the two of them fell onto the damp grass. She was spluttering with rage and growling strange words in Russian. One hand was on his throat but her other was locked behind her. Daniel tried to release her fingers with his other hand but they were digging in sharply. She stared up from the ground towards the headstone and read the inscription. The words choked her as she spoke. At that moment a strange light enveloped them, a lurid penetrating light that distorted their features. The same horrible cry, ‘Henry, Henry, where are you?’ The noise filled their ears. Skeletal leaves and other debris blew about them, sticking to their clothes and faces.

‘Look what you’ve done!’ shrieked Danyasha, ‘Look what you’ve done!’

Gill carved in the last details of the number twelve. Crude but legible, the stone read, ‘IN MEMORY OF IRINA SHIBELSKY AND HENRY WESTERN, WHO DIED 14^TH APRIL, 1912’, while below, the record of Irina’s short life remained intact. The hammer and chisel dropped from her hand and she fell against the headstone, the leaves and debris half smothering her face. The light and the haunting scream filled their eyes and ears. Gill buried her face in the dead matte. Suddenly, the wind dropped; the terrible roar in the trees melted into a murmur and the garish light filtered away. In its place, a soft, pink glow pervaded the space. Slowly, the three of them looked up. Danyasha had let go her grip and lay limp against Daniel’s shoulder. They turned towards the white headstone. It was surrounded by the same soft, pink light. It reflected in all their faces. They felt the gentlest of breezes, like a sweet caress, pass one by one across their cheeks. It played about them for some seconds and then, almost imperceptibly, drifted up and away into the still winter air.

‘Come on’, said Gill, and she tenderly lifted Danyasha to her feet.

The woman looked up into her face. Her eyes were calm now, almost serene. She linked her arm slowly into Gill’s while Daniel took the other.

‘I think we can go home now’, said Gill.

The woman nodded and the three of them walked towards the gravel path. Danyasha stopped and looked back across her shoulder.

‘It’s finished, hasn’t it?’ she said.

‘Yes, yes’, said Gill. ‘Irina can rest in peace’, and the little trio turned away from the darkness of the trees and out into the welcome orange glow of the street lamps.

........................................................................................................