The Excerpts from Novels
First Date
This is a section from my forthcoming book, Finders Keepers
The restaurant, though reached via an unpromising alleyway from a street on which the bookies and pawn shop were the only flourishing businesses, was pretentious and modern in that way which meant it had the ambience of a foundry canteen. The floor was of shiny white tile, which Amelia slipped on in her new heels, falling into the bucket shaped brown faux-leather chair which grated as it was pulled out for her. The table was glass and aluminium, which was disconcerting because Amelia could see her knees under her place setting. She put her napkin over them self-consciously. There was a forlorn and slightly wilted white rose in the centre of the table, which became more and more pitiful as the scented candle burning close to it singed its petals. The walls were an expanse of black with huge narrow mirrors. There were no pictures hung anywhere. A baby grand piano stood on a pedestal in the corner near the door to the kitchen, but although dramatic piano music was discernible there appeared to be no one seated at it.
Amelia smiled winsomely at Patrick as the menus arrived, and peered nervously into hers. Just as she feared – French, or possibly Greek. Anyway, the dishes were foreign and although they were described in English, she knew she would find it impossible to pronounce their names. Were they having a starter? Should she assume they were, or was it wrong to think that Patrick wouldn’t mind her committing him to this extra expense? She closed the leather-bound menu again.
“Why don’t you order for me? I bet you know what’s good.”
“I’ve never been here before,” he replied. “Order anything you like, really. I’m told the steaks are excellent.”
Steak. She could say steak, and steaks were filling so she could pretend she didn’t want a starter so that she could manage all of her main course. All the same, as she ordered from the attentive and apparently authentic waiter, she flashed her eyes toward Patrick to be quite sure he didn’t mind as she ordered the smallest and thus cheapest steak on the menu. He didn’t seem to object either that it was too meagre or that she was holding back.
“How would you like that cooked?” the waiter asked, looking directly at her. She blushed under his gaze and stuttered, “Medium, please.”
“And what sauce would you like with it?”
“Oh, um, whatever you recommend.” She returned his smile.
Patrick ordered the Filet Mignon, and at Amelia’s insistence also chose the wine., although she was a little surprised that he ordered the house white. She had always thought it was red wine which most complemented red meat, and felt a burgundy would be particularly welcome, but perhaps she was mistaken. Still, she thought she saw the waiter raise an eyebrow and cast a glance at Amelia as he scribbled the request on his pad. She frowned and nodded, almost imperceptibly, annoyed that their server should question Patrick’s judgement.
The wine was good, the steak lived up to its promise, and Patrick was excellent company, regaling her with stories of his job. Amelia had little to offer in the way of conversation, not having a job of her own, and fearing that too many reminders of her children, the primary focus of her thoughts, would scare him. It was a brave man who would date a woman with three failed marriages and two children in the first place – reminding him of that fact was probably unwise.
So she simply laughed at Patrick’s jokes, complimented him on his shirt (pale lemon) and put her head on one side to indicate interest in anything he said that wasn’t intended to be funny, but her only significant contribution to the conversation was when they found themselves talking about their fears and phobias. Patrick revealed that he was superstitious to the point of terror about Friday the Thirteenth and never left his house on that date. Probably needing to assuage his embarrassment he asked Amelia what she was scared of.
That was easy. “Spiders, mice, dogs, snakes, clowns, flying, boats, needles, closed spaces and the dark.”
“So you don’t travel much.”
She admitted that she didn’t, just as the waiter came back to clear their plates and ask whether they would like to see a dessert menu.
“I don’t think I could manage another thing just now,” Patrick declared, clapping a hand to his stomach.
“Maybe for your wife?” the waiter asked, and Amelia spluttered into her horrible wine.
“Oh, she’s not my wife,” Patrick smiled.
“It’s actually our first date,” Amelia blurted out, as though to emphasise the point.
“Coffee, then?”
Amelia agreed, the instant after Patrick did, that coffee would be nice.
“Um, do you mind if I just… find the Ladies? I think I have some sauce on my hands…” She rubbed her fingertips together as thought to illustrate the point.
“By all means,” he agreed with a wide smile that she returned. It was all going very well, she thought as she weaved across the restaurant to the appropriate door. Patrick was nice, and they seemed to be getting along well. She tried to think back over all that had happened, who had ordered what, what they had chatted about, what they were each wearing, fixing in her head in case he turned out of be her Keeper, and they would discuss this First Date in sentimental tones in years to come.
For a restaurant that tried to be more upmarket than it actually was, more effort could have been put into the toilets. Not only were the walls in the same black marble, but there were only two cubicles, one stained sink and one rusty hand dryer although in fairness the space was probably too cramped to allow for any more. There were no windows, and Amelia listened in vain for the humming which would tell her the extractor fan had detected her presence and was sucking out the stale air.
Amelia washed her hands thoroughly as though trying to wash away the grime the bathroom itself had sullied her with, but just as she turned off the tap it disappeared. So did her hands, the sink, her feet, everything. A power cut. She heard gasping and chattering from outside the door as the diners too were startled by the sudden darkness. It’s all right for them, she thought, they have candles on the tables. She started groping around for the hand dryer, hoping it worked well so that she could get out as quickly as possible. Then she remember that the dryer wouldn’t work either. She stood with dripping wet hands trying to remember where the door was.
The door she was so anxious about opened and she turned in alarm to warn whoever it was that she was there, and there was precious little space for more than one person. Outlined in the flickering candlelight from the doorway she saw the unexpected figure of a man, a tall man in a pale coloured shirt. Her heart leapt in joy. She had told Patrick about her fear of enclosed spaces and the dark and he had come to rescue her! She hadn’t realised that she’d been holding her breath until she let it out in a gasp of gratitude as she faced her knight in shining armour.
Tenderly, without a word, impossibly romantically, he bent down to kiss her, gently at first, then with more purpose, more ardour and more hunger. He wrapped his arms around her waist and she put her hands on his shoulders, pulling him closer to her as she yielded and responded to him. Then, as suddenly as he had come, he stepped back, turned and left, leaving Amelia smiling and sighing after him and drying her hands on her skirt.
She waited a moment to compose herself, then found the door, pulled it open and stepped back into the dimly lit restaurant. Was it just the fact that it was illuminated only by candles that made it suddenly seem so much more quixotic, or could it be because of the lifting and bobbing of her heart? Trying to stifle the beaming smile on her face she slipped back into her seat and gazed into Patrick’s lovely brown eyes.
“Thank you,” she declared, her voice dripping with warmth. She wished she could see him better, remember the expression on his face as he acknowledged her gratitude for his chivalry and tenderness. But before he could do so vocally, the waiter arrived at the table with a second, much larger, candle, and two miraculous tiny cups of coffee.
Amelia dragged her eyes away from Patrick to t
hank the man and noticed his striking face, his knowing smile, the gleam in his black eyes, and the two damp patches on his shirt over his shoulders.
Blackwood
This is the opening section of my gothic horror novel for children.
In a higgledy-piggledy village called Tippett’s Bottom, four sisters with long and lustrous black hair lived in a big Victorian mansion. The house, built of burgundy brick under a sharp-tile roof, was called The Old Curacy, although hardly anyone in the village remembered what a curacy was, or when the village had last had a curate. The sisters’ parents were probably dead (probably in a car crash) so the eldest sister, Prudence Blackwood, played mother even though she was barely seventeen. Her job was to cook all their meals, from the fried potatoes and eggs they liked for breakfast, to the stews they enjoyed for their tea.
Temperance Blackwood was fifteen, and it was her job to see that all the bills were paid on time, and that there was plenty of food in the pantry (even if that meant growing it herself in the garden) and that they all had clothes to wear, which basically meant making clothes for Prudence and repairing them as they were handed down.
Patience Blackwood cleaned the house, as best a thirteen year old could when there was no way she could reach those clumps of grey cobwebs that festooned the high ceilings, not even with chairs atop ladders atop tables.
The baby of the family, Chastity Blackwood, did the laundry. She was barely ten, but she was still big enough to carry the big wicker hamper to the old green machine and turn the handle until the water that came out was clean.
The sisters rarely spoke, not even to each other, because their wise parents had taught them that words were precious and could not be recalled once issued. Because of this, many people in the village thought them strange, and avoided them wherever possible. Unlike most sisters they didn’t fight or argue. In fact, they were the very best of friends, but that might have been because no one else wanted to be friends with any of them. Well, almost no one, as we shall see.
You might imagine that with such long names that they would call each other Pru, Tempy, Pat and Chas, but they always used their full names. No one else used their first names at all. Everyone in the village, from shopkeepers to school teachers, called them the Misses Blackwood.
Prudence, Temperance and Patience went to the same school, and after taking Chastity to her school, would walk through the park together each morning, straight-backed and returning the growls of the dogs that passed them, in their perfectly pressed pale lemon blouses under their black school blazers with the yellow motto, Pathemata Mathemata. Where other girls at their school rolled up their skirts just to make sure that everyone knew they had thighs as well as knees, the Misses Blackwood sewed extra fabric onto theirs so that they swished about their ankles as they kicked through the leaves.
When the school day was over, Prudence, Temperance and Patience walked to Chastity’s school.All together once more, they returned to the Old Curacy and settled down around the thick oak table to do their homework while Prudence stirred the big cooking pot and delicious smells wafted around them. Frequently they found their own homework too boring (who wants to spend yet another hour on something you only just did for interminable hours at school?) so they would each pass their assignments one space to the left.
The shop was in the stable block of the Old Curacy, in the coach house to be exact, across the courtyard from the house and therefore a safe enough distance for customers to browse and enjoy the trinkets and treasures without having to disturb the girls. If there was something they wanted to buy—or sell—they could ring the big copper bell which hung from the wall and which had once summoned the groom, footman or coachman to the stable block.
The sisters lived this lonely, strange existence without concern or complaint, and without any desire for the slightest change to their established routine. So it’s understandable that they were rather perplexed one day when something very, very different happened to upset their insular little world.
A nine-year-old girl, to be precise, with a mass of blonde curls which framed her pretty face like a halo and a toothy smile which lit up twinkling blue eyes. She had accessorised her grey school uniform with frilly socks, bows in her hair, sparkles on her shoes and a little flower necklace.
“Can I go and play with Chastity at her house today, Mummy?” She asked brightly.
Her mother, a slim, elegant woman who smelled of vanilla and money, looked Chastity up and down. “I’ll have to ask her mother.”
“She doesn’t have a mother,” the girl said breathlessly, as though this were something terribly exciting.
“Dead,” Chastity explained in monotone.
“Oh, that’s so sad! What about your father, dear. Is he here to collect you? Can I speak to him?”
“Dead too,” Chastity said.
The woman was disconcerted by this doubly tragic news. “Then… who should I speak to?”
“My sisters,” Chastity suggested, looking towards where they stood in a line, silently waiting for her on the crest of the hill behind the school.
The mother shuddered ever so slightly and pulled her smaller daughter closer to her side. Nevertheless, she gamely took Hope’s hand and walked towards the Blackwood sisters. She and her daughters were new in the village, so probably hadn’t heard the rumours and gossip about the mysterious incumbents of the Old Curacy, but she somehow still had the strange feeling of foreboding they engendered. She identified Prudence as the eldest, and asked her question.
“Hope would like to know whether she might come and play with Chastity today. May she?”
Prudence looked at the mother very carefully, and then at the bouncing and eager little girls, and then, with disapproval, at Chastity.
“Play?” She said.
“Yes, well, or hang out or whatever the word is.” Maybe, the woman thought, poor little orphaned Chastity Blackwood didn’t play.
“Which is Hope?”
The two girls were very similar, the mother allowed, with their radiant smiles and frothy curls, and yet even she wondered why Prudence Blackwood hadn’t immediately discounted six-year-old Felicity as her sister’s preferred playmate.
“The elder,” she stammered, and Prudence, Patience and Temperance all directed their gaze to that child.
“No,” Prudence said.
Chastity and the little girl groaned in disappointed unison.
“Well, then,” the mother said, bravely trying again, “Perhaps Chastity would like to come to tea with us tonight?”
Prudence took a little longer to consider this option. But then again she said “No.”
“Why not?” Chastity asked boldly.
“Because then we should feel obliged to invite her to visit us in return.”
“But your house looks so fascinating!” Hope enthused. “I would love to see all the old things!”
“Please,” Chastity asked.
Prudence, flattered by the little girl’s interest, and seeing the strange look of hopefulness on her sister’s countenance, reconsidered. “Very well. Hope may come home with us today. But you--” she addressed the mother with severity, “Must collect her from the Old Curacy by seven p.m.”
The mother trembled slightly, imperceptibly, and might have wondered what terrible fate would befall her daughter in the mysterious mansion at one minute past seven. She faithfully promised that she would be at the gates to rescue the child long before that deadline.
And so it was that the four silent Blackwood sisters, with their tall, wispy figures and their long jet-black hair and deep coal eyes, were joined by a blonde, blue-eyed, lively, happy little girl called Hope.
Hope loved everything about the Old Curacy, from the bramble-infested overgrown garden (“Booby–trapped!” she declared he as a particularly vicious prickle tore at her skirt) to the creaky gate and the stout, weatherworn, splintered front door. Inside she exclaimed joyfully over the dusty oil-painting which adorned the gallery corridor, and the w
eb-wrapped stag-head with the severe expression which glared at her from above the fireplace in the Butler’s Pantry.
“Homework first,” Prudence decreed when Chastity asked whether she might take Hope on a tour of the upstairs rooms. An extra chair was found for Hope, and the girls sat around the kitchen table as usual, where there was silence except for the scratching of pencils and rustling of paper.
Silence, that is, until the jarring jangling of the Coach House bell flew across the courtyard and through the open window. Temperance, who was particularly tired of Chastity’s homework, answered it.
Mrs Headingley was an elegant and self-possessed woman who, in earlier ages, might have paraded proudly around the village in a fur coat and silk stockings, but in these enlightened times wore perfectly normal clothes which cost as much as a fur coat and silk stockings because they had a little piece of material sewn into the neck with the name of a famous dress designer on it.
Mrs Headingley, like Hope’s family, was new to Tippett’s Bottom, but whereas Hope’s parents had bought one of the exclusive luxury 3 and 4 bedroom executive homes on the brand new development the signs called “Hazelwood Wold” (but which the inhabitants of Tippett’s Bottom still called “The Old Fertiliser Factory”), Mr and Mrs Headingley had bought a house even older than the Old Curacy. Thanet Grange had once been the nearest thing the humble village of Tippett’s Bottom had to a manor house, and the grandest family with the most servants had lived there for many generations until the last of their number, awash with debt and unable to maintain the place despite selling off most of the land, had sold up and slunk away to the anonymity of the city.
According to village gossip, which found its way to the sisters mostly in the form of overheard rather than directly imparted information, Mr and Mrs Headingley were “doing up” Thanet Grange as their weekend residence. Judging from the number of rubble-filled skips outside the mansion, “doing it up” was only one step away from “pulling it down” but apparently they seemed to think that the old manor house needing to be brought into the twenty-first century. Prudence had commented that she wished they would do it by bringing all the eighteenth, nineteenth and twentieth-century parts to the Old Curacy rather than throwing them in skips.
Maybe Mrs Headingley had finally decided to do that.
“Good morning, Mrs Headingly,” Temperance greeted her.
“Good morning, Miss Blackwood,” Mrs Headingley replied, a little suspiciously.
“How may I help you?” Temperance said. Her sisters would probably come across the courtyard to see what was going on soon, and too many Miss Blackwoods could confuse matters, especially in a room so crowded with antique clocks, cameras, cabinets and curios.
“We’re putting in a new kitchen at Thanet Grange and the contractor found something interesting when he knocked down one of the walls. It’s a book.”
“A new kitchen?” Prudence said, having come silently through the service door behind Temperance. Mrs Headingley was startled at the abruptness of her appearance. Temperance wasn’t. Prudence was good at suddenly being somewhere, or indeed nowhere, when the situation called for it. It was a trait all the sisters shared.
“Does it have … chrome?”
“Brushed steel,” Mrs Headingley said, “And high gloss units.”
“Red?” Temperance knew what was most fashionable in kitchens.
“Charcoal.”
“Granite worktops?”
“Yes. And a slate tiled floor with underfloor heating.”
“A breakfast island?”
“Naturally, and sunken spotlights.”
Prudence inhaled the deliciousness of this kitchen. Not only was it new and fully equipped, but it was almost entirely black. How wonderful she would look, with her glossy dark tresses swinging behind her, stirring a rabbit stew on the halogen hob in such a kitchen.
“Why don’t we have units and a breakfast island?” Chastity asked quietly, having appeared just as suddenly as Prudence.
“Because we have shelves, a dresser and a pantry,” Patience replied. The little room was now full with four Miss Blackwoods, and a rather less stealthy Miss Hope Brightwell, and Mrs Headingley was looking more nervous still to find herself so outnumbered.
“Book?” Temperance prompted.
Mrs Headingley fished into her large shiny handbag with the metal plaque on the side, and brought out a big leather book. She passed it to Temperance, having apparently decided that, although not the oldest, she was the preferred sister.
Temperance turned it over in her hands, weighing it carefully. She felt along the spine, sniffed it, and leafed through the pages.
“Octavo. Original dark green cloth, titles to spine gilt and to upper board in blind. Written during the interwar period—the eye of the storm—which probably gives rise to its typically idealised subject matter. Autographed first edition of a small initial run; five more followed. We would very much like to have this in our shop, Mrs Headingley.” She named a sum as payment to Mrs Headingley for the book, and Mrs Headingley, with the air of one who really doesn’t need the money, accepted without any attempt to negotiate a higher price.
Temperance opened the wooden compartmentalised drawer where they kept the money. She found several buttons, some bits of paper which might have been IOUs from customers, a cotton reel, an anxiously scurrying spider and a few very sticky coins which didn’t come close to the amount she had offered Mrs Headingley.
“I cashed up and banked everything last night,” Prudence lied helpfully.
“Would you bring back the book tomo- another day?” Temperance asked.
“Unless you would like to select something else of the same value,” Patience suggested.
Mrs Headingley’s pained face suggested that she found everything in the shop extremely distasteful and unpleasant and not only couldn’t wait to get out of it but would most certainly not like to take any part of it with her into her shiny new home. “Never mind the money,” she said munificently, “Keep the book.”
“We will repay your generosity.” said Patience, who had some idea what the book was actually worth. Somewhere among all these things which Mrs Headingley could barely bring herself to look at was a painting of Thanet Grange as it had been when it was first built two hundred years ago. Mrs Headingley would like that, she was sure, but it could take several weeks of selling things stacked higher before the painting was uncovered.
As Mrs Headingley left, as briskly as decorum allowed, Temperance speculated that she probably hadn’t had what might be termed a “good consumer experience” at the Old Curacy and, as retail establishments everywhere knew, that could be very bad for business. For the Blackwoods it meant that Mrs Headingley would think twice about bringing them anything else of value she might find, especially with the lures of the antique fairs and specialist valuers of Battlebarn only five miles away.
An encounter with all four Blackwood sisters, especially on their home turf where they were surrounded with musty antiques and obscure oddities, could be unsettling. She knew this because one of their more frank customers had told them so. Something to do with their dour expressions, piercing eyes and bizarre clothes. No offence, he had added, needlessly, for Temperance had been quite flattered by his description.
“How exciting!” Hope said. “A customer!”
The Blackwood sisters would like to have told her that it was not exciting at all, because customers at the Coach House of the Old Curacy were a commonplace and even everyday occurrence, but in fact this was not true, as the empty cash drawer testified.
Chastity seemed particularly interested in the book, and insisted that they put it on the kitchen table, put away their homework and instead examine their new acquisition. Prudence demanded that they eat first, her parsnip and pumpkin stew being perfectly ready to serve, and so Chastity’s excitement about the book had to be locked away as the five girls ate and then washed up their bowls and spoons.
The ornate first page, with i
ts elegant script declaring the title (The Fables of Garden Fauna), author (Mary Montague) and illustrator (John Long), long-defunct publisher (Lloyd Scrivener, London) and the date of publication (1928) was defaced by two separate hands. The first was the faded but neatly scratched signature, all swirling loops and long tails, of the author. The second was written in hard pencil and altogether more haphazard handwriting and said “My book. Alice Cotley.” Underlined twice.
“What does ‘fauna’ mean?” Hope asked, slowly turning the pages and marvelling at how dull children’s books had once been, with line upon line of tiny text, and just a few line drawings to illustrate it.
“It usually means animals,” Patience said. “So this is probably about hedgehogs and dormice.”
“No,” Prudence said, looking more closely at the yellowed pages. “These pictures are not of animals. The subject matter is fairies, imps, pixies, brownies and all the other mysterious creatures which live on the edge of human reality.”
Hope trembled with excitement, and her fingers tingled where they touched the astonishing pages. What fascinating wonders this book held, and how much might she learn about the strange creatures which so privately occupied the grounds of the Old Curacy. If there were fairies, imps, pixies, brownies and other mysterious creatures anyway, they would surely be in the Old Curacy. She thought of her neat little semi-detached home with its perfectly flat lawn and flower borders and knew that no self-respecting fairy would want to live there.
“There are plenty of collectors who would pay a lot of money for this book,” Chastity said. “Lots of people love old books because they smell so nice.”
In the very centre pages was something strange. Two thick, bumpy, rough-edged sheets of paper, firmly pressed together as though the weight of the book, or perhaps those beside it on a shelf, had firmly affixed them to each other. “A pressed flower!” Temperance predicted in delight. “Open it very carefully, Chastity, it must be extremely old.”
Chastity used her long thumbnail to separate the sheets of paper, and then gently peeled them apart. Her gasp at what she found there was followed by four near-identical echoes. Perfectly preserved, from the wispy white hair to the translucent veined wings, was a fairy.
The creature lay on its side, long limbs stretched out as though it had vainly assumed the recovery position before dying. Its colours were faded, and it wore a delicate tunic with just a tinge of purple remaining. On its tiny feet little yellow shoes were clearly rolled from flower petals. Its wings, which were splayed out on either side, were raggedy lace-edged and barely visible. The tiny face seemed to have decomposed a little, for features were only just discernable, but the whole creature was no bigger than Chastity’s outstretched hand, so maybe they were just too tiny to make out.
“Well!” Prudence exclaimed, the first to find her voice. “We’ve never had one of those in the shop before.”
“She’s very beautiful,” Hope said in wonder and awe.
“Is it real?” Patience said.
“Can we keep her?” Chastity asked.
Prudence was the oldest, and the others recognised that the decision about what to do with the fairy had to be hers. It seemed to be a simple matter of selling or keeping it. The possibility that they might announce its existence to any form of media never entered any of the girls’ heads.
“I would like to find out a little more about this fairy before we decide,” Prudence said. “Someone has found her, and used this book and blotting paper to preserve her as one might preserve a special flower.”
“What’s blotting paper?” Hope asked, carefully touching the thick paper again.
“In old days, people used pens which had to be filled with ink from an ink well,” Temperance explained. “These pens were not always very efficient at dispensing the correct amount of ink, and the ink stayed wet for some time and could easily be smudged. So, after each sentence was written, the writer could use absorbent blotting paper to soak up the excess ink and prevent splotches and smears. And because it could soak away wetness, it was also very useful for drying out things like flowers – and fairy corpses – in order to preserve them.”
“How do we find out who put the fairy in the blotting paper?” Chastity asked.
“Oh, yes!” Hope clapped her hands together. “We could find out where the fairy came from, and maybe then we could find some alive ones!” She had been at the wondrous Old Curacy for less than an hour, and already she had made a marvellous discovery and was on a quest to solve a fascinating mystery. She had known, from the first moment she saw it, that the Old Curacy was a magical place.
“We must follow the only two leads we have,” Prudence suggested. “We must ask Mrs Headingley exactly where she found the book, and who owned Thanet Grange before she did. And we must also try to find Alice Cotley, because this was her book.”
The matter of the fairy concluded, Chastity reluctantly replaced the paper and closed the book, but it was left in the middle of the kitchen table. None of them wanted to run the risk of damaging the fairy by moving the book more than necessary, even if that meant eating each meal from now on with The Fables of Garden Fauna where the pepper and mustard used to stand. Temperance remembered how Mrs Headingley had lifted the book by its spine from her deep leather bag, and shivered at what might have happened to the fairy’s delicate little body.
Hope’s mother drove a very large, very high, square dark green vehicle which was ideally suited to farm tracks and country lanes, and yet was polished to such a shine and so carefully balanced and serviced that she was often reluctant to go anywhere less rink-like than the main road which bypassed Tippett’s Bottom. It did make a very satisfying and conclusive crunch as it pulled up on the large gravel forecourt of the Old Curacy, however.
Hope was filled with dismay to see her. She had been at the Old Curacy for barely an hour, and already she had helped in a shop, eaten a delicious meal cooked in what she really thought might be a cauldron, and seen a fairy, even if it was a dead one.
“May I come again?” She begged Chastity once it became clear that her mother, who was reluctant even to cross the threshold, was getting increasing annoyed at the fuss Hope was making about leaving, and wasn’t going to put up with it for much longer before dragging her out unceremoniously by her fluffy pink scarf.
“Yes,” Chastity declared without reference or thought to her sisters, and Hope smiled a sincere but gappy smile, and was bundled into the big square car.
The Blackwoods did not own a television because the television, electricity and licence all cost money, and Temperance said that they did not have enough. So each evening they listened as Patience, who had been the only sister prepared to practice for two hours a day, played the harpsichord in the withdrawing room. Then they would feed their goldfish, and each would hug her sisters, kiss the photograph of their parents, and retire to bed, Chastity first, followed at half-hour intervals by Patience, Temperance and finally Prudence.
That evening’s entertainment was preceded by each of the other three sisters berating Chastity for bringing a stranger into their home. Mostly they did this by pointedly disapproving stares, but Temperance said, “Really, Chastity, a friend?”
“I like her,” Chastity protested.
“We don’t need friends.” Patience reminded her.
“I do,” Chastity said with pride, and after that none of her sisters could retort for fear that their censure might look like jealousy, or maybe a lack of due sisterly concern for the social wellbeing of the youngest among them. And Chastity, naturally because she wanted to, took their silence to mean that Hope might visit again.
Prudence, on whom fell the heavy burden of responsibility, allowed the last half-hour of each day to be hers alone once her younger siblings had retired to their rooms. Most days she would read, or repair some object which had come into the shop, or just wonder at what the future might hold. There was no profit in that, she soon realised. No one could guess at the future. The past was w
here their gifts lay, and where there was most to be discovered.
Sometimes she would use this half-hour to weep as she remembered their parents, and how they had driven away one day in their big black Bentley, and never returned. She would remember how her mother’s last words to them had been, “You are such strong, clever girls, you will be fine. Take care of each other.” It had seemed such a curious thing to say at the time. So final, as though they had known that they would not be coming back.
She tried, really tried, to live up to the pride her parents had shown in her and in all their daughters, but on the days when she chose to weep, she feared that their mother had been wrong.
Each night, as she retired to bed close to midnight, Prudence vowed to her sleeping sisters that somehow, someday, they would find their parents.
Oil
This is a section from my forthcoming novel, Finders Keepers
Jen and George met at a roadside lay-by in neutral territory and parked self-consciously at opposite ends. Jen waited at her car in the misty twilight rain and watched her soon-to-be-ex-husband walk cautiously towards her. After a desultory greeting she handed over the last of his shoes and trinkets and explained why he didn’t get the wall clock.
“It’s not much to show for almost twenty years of marriage,” George said with a deep, thoughtful sigh.
Jen hoped desperately he wasn’t going to start a profound monologue about how happy they’d been, or what hopes and dreams they had once shared, or how sorry he was that it had to end this way. She was having trouble holding back the tears as it was and knew that if she let them fall he’d assume that they were tears of sadness, not boiling anger. He had left her so he had no right to make her feel worse. She wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of thinking that she cared in the slightest or wanted him back.
“I have an appointment,” she fumbled, looking at the watch he had given her for their anniversary. The one that complemented the eternity ring he had bought her for her birthday.
Another deep sigh, and he was looking into her eyes with a strange expression of regret and longing. “But this could be the last time we see each other.”
“Can’t be helped,” she blurted. “I really do have to go now.”
She heard his breath catch in his throat as he nodded. “Well, ‘bye then Jennifer. Good luck. You know, with everything.”
“Goodbye George.”
She watched him for only a moment as he shuffled off into the grey drizzle with the two laden carrier bags, then she turned back to slam the boot shut, push her damp hair out of her eyes, straighten her shirt, scratch her neck.
She couldn’t resist. She turned for one last glance at the man who had shared her life, been her life, for so long. And at the same moment, he turned to look back at her. He stopped and held her gaze. He put down the bags without taking his eyes off her face.
The rain grew harder. He made a strange choking sound, and then again. It was her name, she realised. He was calling to her as best he could over the noise of the cars speeding past and the rain lashing the pavement. “Jennifer! Jennifer!” And then he was running, not caring that he was splashing through puddles, seeming not to notice the traffic passing so closely. He was running back to her, a look of urgency on his face. “Jennifer!”
She was transfixed and watched him come, not even daring to wonder whether he was sorry, whether he had realised that he needed her, wanted her, loved her, couldn’t be without her.
And then he was beside her, panting, his chest heaving. She fought the urge to reach out and embrace him. She had to be sure.
“George?”
“I left my oil can in your car. That oil can under the felt by the spare tyre? That’s mine. Only I didn’t want you to drive off with it. It’s good stuff.”
She opened the boot again, lifted the felt, and fished out the little shiny can of three-in-one. “This one?”
“Yes,” he gasped in relief at seeing it. She seethed.
She popped off the little plastic cap, stood on tiptoe and inverted it over his head, squeezing the can as hard as she could to release a small but steady flow of grease over his wet hair.
“I prefer WD40,” she said as she did so, and before he could get over the shock she jumped into her car and drove off into the rain and out of his life forever.
Nonimprimusmorbus
This is a section from my latest novel, Emon and the Emperor. Beset with unusual symptoms since birth, Emon learns from the eccentric Dr. Schlesser that he has, in fact, been genetically engineered for a specific purpose. Having imparted this news Dr. Schlesser returns to Canada leaving Emon to continue with his everyday life.
For all I knew than I could be a superhero in embryo, but after a couple of months of hanging around with my mates as usual, attending my eldest sister Sascha’s wedding, mourning the family dog and watching the microwave explode again, it was as though everything was as it always had been.
I took my GCSEs and did as badly as expected given my almost complete inability to read. I did a couple of college terms on what they called a “vocational” course, but was really intended for people too stupid to do a real job. I didn’t like that, and thus found myself at the local Mickey B’s Barbecue Bar trying to interpret the interview questions I was being asked by a man only four years older than me with ketchup down his tie.
The question, when repeated after the articulated truck had passed, turned out to be “What can you bring to Mickey B’s Barbecue Bar?”
I hadn’t planned on bringing anything much. “Manpower,” I replied. Apparently that was all that was required. That single question and some form filling comprised the entire interview. Once I was quite certain that I had the job I asked, with what I hoped was a friendly smile, why the charade of a formal interview had been necessary given that the sign saying “Crew members wanted” had been up outside the restaurant since it had opened five years ago.
The manager shrugged. “Company policy,” he said. “We just have to make sure you haven’t got two heads or something.”
No, that was one physical peculiarity I didn’t have.
I was under no illusion that working at Mickey B’s would be fun, and I wasn’t disappointed. But it did have the advantage of placing me in the path of attractive young women who, mesmerised by my glowing eyes, would happily give me their phone numbers. Lucy was the one whose number I chose to call.
Lucy had the type of brown hair only seen on shampoo adverts – long, smooth, glossy and always bouncy and perfect. She had a little puckered mouth that seemed to be constantly asking to be kissed and, once the first date formalities were over, frequently got its way. Before any sort of satisfying and life affirming relationship could develop, however, my eighteenth birthday came along and Dr. Shlesser turned up on our doorstep right on schedule a few days later.
I was in my pink and lavender polo shirt with the Mickey’s logo, getting ready for my shift at work. It wasn’t a good time, but Mum treated him with entirely unwarranted deference and respect by inviting him in and offering him lunch.
He wanted to speak to me alone, of course. So Mum shut us in the lounge and wandered off to the kitchen, humming to herself in fake indifference.
“I have to go to work,” I told him, pulling on the cerise polyester baseball cap with the purple stripes.
“Work?” he said, in the incredulous tone I had used when Mum had first told me that since I had dropped out of college I needed to get a job.
“I have a career.” Stretching the truth a little, admittedly.
“Don’t go to your job,” he said, as though it were that simple.
“Trust me - that will be taken as my resignation.”
“How convenient!”
“But I don’t want to resign.”
“You have to. You are coming to Montreal with me. Six months in the Preparation Unit for training.”
“What if I don’t want to come?”
“Don’t be si
lly, you don’t have any choice. Anyway, of course you want to come. What do you have here?”
“My parents, my family, my friends, my job, my girlfriend. And I’m late for both of the last two, so if you don’t mind, I’ll be going.”
“You go then,” he said with a magnanimous smile. “One last time. Say goodbye to your friends, your job and your girlfriend. I’ll wait.” He folded himself onto the centre of the couch and looked around the room for something to do while he waited for me to pack away my life.
“But I don’t want to say goodbye. I don’t want to leave my job, or my girlfriend.”
“If you don’t come with me” Dr. Shlesser said, raising his fluffy eyebrows over his glasses as he fixed me with a glassy stare, “You will drop down dead of nonimprimusmorbus.” The newspaper seemed not to interest him, so he picked up the remote control and flicked through the channels on the television until he found something which looked like teleshopping in Hindi, whereupon he parked the remote control on his bulging stomach, cleaned his glasses on his lab coat, and stared in pleasure at the kitchen appliance (it might have been a chapatti maker, I didn’t pay it as much attention as he did) being demonstrated. It might have been the least threatening death threat ever issued.
Mum was in the kitchen swearing at the toaster. She looked at me expectantly as I came into the room, but her eyes were a little red and I wondered whether she had been crying, or whether the smoke billowing out of the toaster was to blame.
“He’s in the lounge,” I told her. “He won’t leave until I agree to go to Montreal with him. But I have to go to work and I don’t have time to argue.”
She swore again. “Now I’ll have to make him some lunch after all, and I was halfway through doing baked beans on charcoal for myself.”
“Don’t bother,” I said, hugging her nervously with one floppy arm. “I’ll send Lucy over with a couple of Mickey’s Summer Specials. Ribs, chicken, corn and wedges OK?”
“Why do you have to go to Montreal?” she asked. “Is something wrong?”
“I think he wants to study me.”
“Canada’s supposed to be very nice,” she said wistfully.
Lucy’s lunch break started the same time as my shift; I was late and she wasn’t. She was, as I had expected, in the restaurant already, sitting at her favourite table and looking very displeased. She was sipping a Mickey’s cola which she had actually had to pay for, and she was extremely annoyed about that. I slipped a muffin into her Mickey’s MegaMeal box as an apology for being late.
I let her talk while I got on with serving customers, occasionally inclining my head to suggest I was listening, flashing her a smile when I could. By the time she had finished her meal I theoretically knew all about the office feud, her friend Chardonnay’s birthday party and the relative merits and faults of all the contestants on the latest season of “America’s Next Top Model”. But most importantly, by dint of my having “listened” to her for twenty minutes, I also knew that she was in a better mood and would not only agree to take lunch to Mum and Dr. Shlesser, but might not throw a tantrum when she learned I was going to Montreal for six months.
During a lull I joined her at her table with two Summer Specials in a brown takeaway bag. I called her “Sweetheart,” which always softened her up.
“Is your dad not at work today?” she asked.
“No. The other one is for... a doctor.”
“A doctor? What is a doctor doing at your house? Are you ill?”
“He’s the doctor who diagnosed my condition, and now he wants to me to go to Montreal with him to run some tests, that kind of thing.”
She looked petulant rather than sorrowful. “How long for?” she asked.
“Six months.”
“Where is Montreal anyway? Can I visit you?”
“It’s in Canada, so I’m guessing you can’t.”
She mustered a tear. “When do you leave?”
“Pretty soon, I think. It could be, er, detrimental to my health if I don’t go with Dr. Shlesser right away.”
She looked at me through narrowed eyes. “You know, I Googled this mystery illness of yours.”
I had misjudged her. As nonchalantly as I could, I raised one eyebrow, feigning mild interest. “And?”
“Nothing,” she replied. “It’s not mentioned once, anywhere.”
“It’s very rare,” I offered. And then came up with something even better. “You probably spelt it wrong.”
She wasn’t buying it.
“Those are going cold,” I nodded towards the meals in their brown bag.
She pouted, and I took that opportunity to kiss her discretely, given that I was in uniform, she was a customer, and she was a little dubious of me at that precise moment. And then she left, and I knew that was that, relationship over. We hadn’t been together long enough to survive six months apart.
I stayed later at work than I should have done, making up for being late and sorting out the rotas as far as possible to provide cover for my shifts several weeks ahead. I even wrote a little note apologising that due to health issues I had to give my notice immediately and wouldn’t be coming back. And then I took some time saying goodbye to some of the staff members I actually liked. By the time I trudged home I was ready to pack, and feeling a little lightheaded at the combination of sudden, temporary freedom, and the realisation of how easy it had been to give up everything I had thought mattered to me.
One Cat Short
This is the opening to an LDS mystery-romance-comedy.
“Where you’re ready, come and find me here. I’ll be waiting. But you should know that when you do, it’ll be forever.” To seal the deal I kissed him. And then I walked into the building and away from Ryan Loveland.
As dramatic exits go, I think it played out exactly as I pictured it. I just probably should have thought it through better. For one thing, the building he was to come and find me in was the town public library where I worked, so I had effectively barred Ryan from ever visiting the library again unless he wanted to get back together with his geeky ex-girlfriend.
For another thing, I wasn’t sure I could stick to my resolve. After all, I knew where to find him anytime I wanted, and I wanted right now. He was only a few feet away, outside, probably looking forlornly though the glass doors. I could just run to him and apologise, declare that it was okay, I understood, and I was prepared to take him as he was. I bounced on my toes a little as though warming up for that run of shame into his arms.
Except that he wasn’t staring forlornly towards my desk in the library. My dramatic exit clearly hadn’t had the desired effect, because he had walked away. Maybe, I speculated, he had even shrugged, dusted his hands and stuck them in his pockets, then walked cheerily into his future with his head held high reflecting that there were plenty more fish in the sea.
Ugh!
“Plenty more fish in the sea,” Patrice cooed soothingly. “He wasn’t good enough for you.”
How many times had I heard that? “Yes, he was,” I said. “He was perfect. He’s an RM in a town full of single Mormon women. He’s a marathon runner, a private detective and a part-time male model.”
Rather than admit that Ryan Loveland was, in fact, the epitome of perfect, Patrice snorted. “Yeah, doesn’t he know it. Why’s he still single then, you tell me that girl?”
I chose not to. I didn’t want to admit that the reason was probably to do with Ryan being determined to find a girl just as perfect as he was. And until she came along he was going to date every single woman in Humming Meadow, Utah.
“Um hmm, that’s what I thought,” Patrice declared. “So what did you say to him?”
I told her. “Unfortunately that means he can’t come to the library again without me thinking he wants to get back together.”
“Never did come here anyways,” Patrice pointed out. “That boy doesn’t even have a library card. Not convinced he can read.”
“Could you deal with these?” I pu
shed a cart loaded with books towards Patrice. She recognised a distraction technique when one was presented to her, and rolled her eyes, a simple gesture which nevertheless said everything she was about to lecture me about. But then she trundled off with the books, and I was left with the peace I craved.
I was still thinking about Ryan and our brief, ill fated romance when I arrived home. We had been on four dates, which was something of a record, and had bonded over a shared love of old eighties music and water parks. We’d shared our ambitions for the future and embarrassing anecdotes from the past, and it had all been going so well.
Jasmine and Mothball met me at the door, both miaowing plaintively as though I was late with their dinner. I told them I wasn’t falling for it: they’d both been well fed that morning before I left for work, and Mothball in particular could stand to lose a couple of pounds. Which is a lot, for a cat.
Hector was asleep in my favourite armchair, drooling as usual, so I sat on one end of the sofa as I went through the mail, Mollie strolling nonchalantly on my lap as I did so. She nuzzled lovingly against my chin, insisting I pay more attention to her. She was much cuter than the utility bill or the belated birthday card from my uncle and aunt in Wyoming, so I obliged.
Cats are much more loving and reliable than humans, I mused as I petted Mollie and tried to fend off Parker, who was the jealous type. No making polite smalltalk, trying to laugh in the right places, or worrying about poppy seeds in my teeth when I was hanging out with my feline friends, and neither did I have to work hard not to say anything stupidly geeky in their company.
I mentally counted my current coterie of cats as I headed to the utility area. Three had been rehomed last week, but I had added four more at the weekend when old Mrs Gordon had died leaving her precious Burmese companions all alone. That made ... nineteen.
One cat short of being a crazy cat lady. The archetypal pathetic recluse, destined to be alone forever but for the felines that were her only family. At 26, were my hopes of marriage and a family really drifting away into the ether?
As though to answer my question, my cellphone rang. I pushed Mew off it and groaned. Clark Curtis, owner of Humming Meadows’ only dog sanctuary. It could only mean more incomers.
“Hey, Clark,” I said, doing my best to feign cheerfulness as Sarah gently clambered onto my shoulder, purring noisily down the phone as though trying to drown out my greeting.
“Callie,” Clark said, and I listened to the incessant barking in the background with some pleasure. At least cats were quieter. “We’ve got an interesting situation. How are you fixed tonight?”
Nice of him to ask, really. Almost as though there were the remotest possibility that I might have a date. “I’m not doing anything. Feeding the cats…”
“We’ve got an interesting situation. Do you know the Bensons? Nice white adobe house over by Larkspur and Fifth?”
I told him I didn’t.
“They’ve disappeared. The whole family. Mom, Dad, four kids. The car is gone too. No one had heard from them or knows where they’ve got to.”
I sighed. “I think that’s usually called a vacation, Clark.” Honestly, dog people.
“That’s what the police are saying. That’s what Loveland is saying—”
“Loveland?” What had any of this got to do with Ryan?
“Mrs Benson’s mother hired him to find them when the cops refused to get involved.”
“Well, he’s right, they’re obviously on vacation.” I swapped the phone to my other ear, dislodging Peggy as I did so.
“But they can’t be. They left their pets behind. That’s why Loveland called me. They’ve left behind a Schnauzer and a curly-coated Retriever. That’s them you can hear now, they’re quite distraught. And a cat.”
Just one! Thank you, God!
“They’ve obviously got a neighbour coming in to feed the animals while they’re gone.”
“The cat maybe, but you can’t leave dogs alone for any length of time.”
“Then they’re not very nice people.” I yawned. Clark’s earnestness was trying at the best of times, and it was late and I was heartbroken and tired.
“But they are. They’re a great family. They would never leave behind their animals, and I’ve asked all the neighbours and checked with all the boarding kennels and they made no arrangements at all. I’m taking the dogs, but I need your help.”
I shuffled my feet, kicking off my slippers, and wondered where I left my boots. “Sure, I’ll come over and get the cat.”
“Not just with that,” Clark said.
“What, then?”
“We have to find out what happened to the Bensons. Don’t you understand? You and I are the only people who know that they’re missing.”
Random Ramblings Page 10
