Tag Archives: fiction

Renaissance

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This, again, is my homage to The Woodentops, a children’s TV programme of the fifties. It was probably my favourite among the offerings of the time, which were, of course all made in black and white and without the technological advances of today. To catch a sample of The Woodentops click here. https://www.bing.com/videos/riverview/relatedvideo?q=the+woodentops+tv+series&&mid=CB54C44233820CDCA9FDCB54C44233820CDCA9FD&FORM=VAMGZC

                She stirs. Her eyelids part in a narrow slit although it is still dark. What has woken her? She shudders and feels a sharp intrusive dig on her left side, wedged as she is between two others.  There it is again; a blow to her ribs. Her eyelids widen as she gasps, feeling around with her right hand for the offending weapon. An elbow.

‘Jenny!’

She stiffens. ‘Get off me! What are you doing?’ Her small, high voice is thick and slurred from under-use.

‘There’s someone out there. I can hear sounds-steps. Listen.’

Jenny groans. ‘Leave me alone, Will. I’m asleep.’

‘You’re not asleep. You are talking to me.’

She lifts her head as far as the space will allow. In the oppressive darkness of their space there are rhythmic snores amid the sighing breaths and snuffles of sleep as well as an occasional whimpering yap from the dog as he dreams of biscuits and buried bones.

‘There!’

She feels her brother’s hissing breath as the sound of steps approaching and receding invades her consciousness. In the gloom she knows he is listening too just as she knows everything he is thinking. After a moment a thin strip of light appears below them along the floor. She takes in a sharp breath and needs to cough but stifles it, reaching instead for her twin’s hand. There is an abrupt rattle as the door knob is twisted which prompts rousing from the others and whimpering from the baby, who threatens to howl.

‘Did you hear the voices?’ Jenny can feel Will trembling. The dog is stirring, a low growl heralding what could become a tirade of barking.

‘Don’t panic. I’ve got him.’ It is their father who has wrapped a restraining hand around the dog’s muzzle.

They are all awake now and straining to hear. The footsteps have disappeared but the light remains. Jenny frowns, trying to think how long they’ve been here and what prompted them to have been banished to this dark, musty cell. She can remember someone saying they should be kept as she was brought in but none of them knew what they did to be banished and hidden away like pariahs. If the footsteps return they might find out. She allows herself to hope.

She tries to stretch her limbs but in doing so elicits an outraged ‘Oy! Watch yourself!’’ from Sam who is squeezed next to her other side.

Mrs Scrubitt’s voice is tremulous as she utters, voicing all their thoughts into the half- light. “What are they going to do with us? They might be having a clear-out, like. Will they be…doing away with us, do you think?’

Jenny trembles. Sam’s mum is right. They could be cast into a bin somewhere or thrown on to a bonfire. Mummy intervenes. ‘There’s no use in worrying what’ll happen. What will be, will be. Whatever they do we’ll be all together, like always.’

They are startled into silence then as the footsteps return, more this time. There are voices at the door and they hear a key in the lock. The door opens, deluging their small closet with blinding light, forcing them to wince and squint at the unaccustomed brightness.

Jenny swallows and lifts her chin as they prepare to face whatever fate awaits them. A large face looms into hers and she shrinks back into a space she does not have. There are two of them scrutinising, exclaiming.

‘Take care! They’re very old, you know-nearly seventy years!’ The voice booms like a fog-horn in the little cupboard until Jenny’s ears feel like exploding balloons.

‘They’re in good shape though!’ The second voice is softer. After a moment a warm, scooping hand envelops her and she is off the shelf, travelling outside the safety of the cubby-hole and along a bright, white corridor. She closes her eyes as the glare prompts tears to stream down her face. Then she is in a large room, comforted to be sitting on a surface she recognises as wood and mummy and baby are placed next to her.

The two giants discuss them. ‘Of course, if we’re going to remake it there will need to be changes. The show was made before political correctness was thought of.’

The other one chuckles. ‘Yes of course. We can’t have a Mrs Scrubitt and we’ll need to address the nuclear family issue. Plus the fact that they are all white, fully-abled and middle class.’

Jenny glances across at Mrs Scrubitt whose face has become an unnerving, chalky white and whose mouth is open in a silent cry.

‘I’m not so sure that they were middle class. He is a farmer.’

‘Yes but Mum doesn’t go out to work and they can afford to employ servants.’

‘OK. Well maybe we can use Mrs Scrubitt as extended family and Mum can be a farm worker, too? And how about giving one of the twins a disability? I don’t know about Sam Scrubitt though. There may not be a role for him.’

Jenny and Will exchange a stricken look as Mrs Scrubitt claps a terrified hand over her mouth.

Four months later they are on set. Jenny has become adept at the sign language she must use to communicate with her twin, they have all learned to call Mrs Scrubitt ‘Grandma’, Mum has had a new wardrobe consisting of overalls, has got the hang of the power tools she must use and they’ve all adjusted to their new, ebony colour as well as remembering to call Sam, who’s been given some exuberant dreadlocks, ‘Denzil’.

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Night Walkers

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Here’s a brand new, short fiction for the last post of 2025. Seasons greetings to all Anecdotage followers, old and new and to visitors. A Happy New Year to all!

The Pullen sisters were nocturnal. When she’d first heard this, trying to decode the adult conversation in the post office while she waited in the queue with her mum, Jessie hadn’t understood ‘nocturnal’. Over time though, after having overheard more gossip amongst the adults and the older children in her school playground, she realised it meant they only emerged at night, rather than in the daytime, like hedgehogs and owls.

There had been plenty of occasions when she’d tried to look out and spot them. Her bedroom window faced out across the lane with a direct view of the Pullens’ dilapidated cottage, weeds growing out of their thatched roof and here and there, a hint of plastic bag poking out. This, Jessie’s dad had explained, was because their roof leaked. She had asked why they didn’t get it repaired and received a lecture on how lucky some people were compared to others.

Jessie attempted to stay awake after bedtime, in order to creep across to the window and watch for the sisters but so far, had failed to stay awake long enough. What did they do at night? Did they eat meals? Read? Tend their garden? Surely not- in the darkness? She tried asking her older brothers about the Pullens but they didn’t seem interested, batting her away as usual, like an annoying fly.

In December, Jessie succumbed to the flu virus that had been running riot around her school. She came home feeling hot, with a scratchy throat. In their house, illness meant bed, with no compromises; no lolling on the sofa in pyjamas and dressing gown watching television. If you were ill you went to bed and stayed there until you were better. You had to suffer drinking things like hot milk with sugar or Bovril in a cup, neither of which Jessie could stomach or wanted at all when she was feeling so sick. There was also a hot water bottle to endure, which she slid under the bed once her mother had left the room. She was hot enough without it.

On the third night of the flu, Jessie woke from a fitful, feverish sleep. Her skin felt clammy, her pyjamas damp with sweat and her head ached. She swung her legs out of bed and crossed to the window, where a cold, blue light shone in a line between the curtains. She sat on the ottoman and pulled one of the curtains aside. There was a clear sky dominated by a nearly full moon giving enough light for an almost daytime view over the lane and the Pullens’ cottage.

Jessie closed her eyes for a minute and shivered. The damp pyjamas were getting cold, too, now, sticking to her goose-bumpy skin. But when she she looked out again, she caught a movement off to the side, where the sisters had a tall, wooden, arched gate leading to their garden. The gate was opening. Jessie held her breath. Two, shadowy figures were emerging and walking out to the lane. In the half light, the figures looked identical. Were they twins? There were identical twins in Jessie’s class at school.

The view of the two women became clearer as they got to the lane, strolling arm-in-arm, heads turning to each other as if chatting. They were portly, middle-aged, older than her parents. Whenever she’d heard gossip about the women it had sounded as if they were sad, unhappy people who’d been damaged by life and were now hiding away from village society but here they appeared cheerful, enjoying their outing and each other’s company.

They walked on, drew out of sight. Jessie sighed and yawned. She dropped the curtain and padded back to bed, shedding her damp pyjamas on the way. She clambered back in and snuggled down. As she drifted off, images of nocturnal creatures filtered into her dreams.

She didn’t wake until her mother came in next morning, whisking back the curtains to allow bright sunlight in. She felt Jessie’s forehead and asked how she felt. Jessie frowned.

‘I had strange dreams’

Her mother smiled. ‘Your temperature is down. You’ve got some colour. I think you can get up for a while today.’

Jess got out and pulled on her dressing gown then padded to the bathroom. She puzzled while cleaning her teeth. Had she dreamt the Pullens? Or had she seen ghosts in the night? They’d been chatting and smiling as they walked in the darkness. They hadn’t looked at all damaged or sad.

Realising she was ravenous with hunger, she went down to the kitchen to have breakfast. Afterwards, she sat at her desk and drew a picture, using her pastel colours; two ladies walking under a bright, yellowish moon and smiling at each other. She folded the picture, found an envelope to slide it into, then stored it under her pillow.

A few days later, she was able to return to school, but on her way home, trailing behind her mother and her friend, she dashed down the Pullens’ path and posted the picture through their letter box. She’d seen them happy, the sisters, and she wanted them to know.

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Two Sisters [Part 5. Finale]

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Previous episodes of Two Sisters can be read in previous posts on Anecdotage.

I hear no more. A week later, Christmas is cranking up and we’re busier than ever at the agency, arranging a festive meal and entertainment for our elderly and disabled clients and sorting out their transport to the venue, on top of our usual, caring duties. We all feel the need of a knees-up so we gather at our local, which is hosting a DJ night and three-for-two on cocktails and spirits. By the time it winds up we’re all merry, also hoarse from all the screeching at each other. It’s in this festive, warm afterglow that I get off at my nearest bus stop and make my way to the flats, looking forward to sliding between the sheets and enjoying the heat of the electric blanket.

I push open the outer door into the hallway, delving into my bag for my key and look up to see a woman, slumped on the carpet by the console table that houses our mail. I have to do a double-take before I realise it’s her, Terry, collapsed on the carpet, bundled in her coat, handbag spilling out next to her. She raises her face to mine. Her face is ravaged, smeared lipstick, mascara streaks and red, swollen eyes. I pull her to her feet and she sags against me, weeping.

Not wishing to conduct enquiries here in the hallway, I pull her towards and up the stairs to my floor, into the flat and lower her down on to the sofa, where she sinks, sobbing. I switch on the electric fire, manoeuvre her out of her coat and sit down next to her, waiting for the shuddering sobs to subside.

In the aftermath, I acknowledge that the entire, sorry saga has been predictable. Should I have tried harder to prevent the disaster that befell her? I’ve had to conclude that nothing I could have said or done would have caused her to give up her scheme or be more circumspect in her relationship with Julian- if indeed that was his name.

She’s not recognisable as the woman she was. I come home from work each day and she is sprawled on the sofa in front of the TV watching anything and everything. Most days, she’s still in the pyjamas I had to give her and won’t have washed or brushed her hair, which has grown long and straggly, the blond highlights making their way down the sides of her face to make way for grey.

On my days off, I make attempts to get her out of the flat but so far I’ve been unsuccessful. She has nothing but her state pension and I’ve suggested she finds some employment, although she shows no sign of searching for jobs on my old, battered laptop or making any attempts to compile a CV. Her conversation is, at best, monosyllabic. She neither shops nor cooks and does no housework.

I have managed to worm the gist of what happened out of her, of what became of her home and all of her belongings, including her sporty BMW car. She seems adamant that there’s nothing to be done. She signed everything over to him; her savings, her property, her house contents- all passed to him like a dish of peas. She can no more gain entry to her former home or business than she can fairyland, since it’s locked up and in the hands of estate agents. Where is ‘Julian’? Fleecing some other unsuspecting, gullible, older woman by now, no doubt.

I haven’t given up my bedroom and she must sleep on the sofa-bed, the one that my daughter uses when she stays, only now she has to share with me when she visits. I bought a small, second hand TV for my bedroom, which I’ve converted into a bed-sitting room so that I can escape from the gloomy cloud that hangs around her in her despondency/

I don’t invite her to join in my nights out with the girls. I need my own space away from her and besides, she wouldn’t want to come. It’s a world away from the yacht club or cruising and she wouldn’t want to admit how far she’s fallen. The girls tell me I should throw her out, her and her arrogant, self-centred ways and I should reclaim my flat and my life. But I’m not able to, not able to throw her out on the street.

She’s my sister…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Two Sisters [Part 4]

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Previous chapters of this story can be read in the last 3 weeks’ posts-

For a week or so I hear nothing. It’s a relief to get on with my work and my social life without the interference of my sister. I assume she’s busy serving wealthy, glamorous customers and I adopt an ‘out-of-sight-out-of-mind’ attitude.

I’m getting done up for the night when she texts me, wanting to know why I haven’t visited the shop yet. She will give me a ‘special discount’ on anything I would like to buy. I snort at this. Fifty per cent off any item in her clothing range would still take half my salary for a week. After this, I’m deluged with a torrent of texts which become ever more reproachful as they continue to plop into my phone. I suppose I must pop in tomorrow, which is Saturday and see her, although I resolve not to buy anything. It’s not simply a matter of price, but the clothes are not my style, consisting of shiny, hugely patterned kaftans, sparkly, skimpy boob tubes and furry stoles.

I look in on my way to Lidl. As I push open the door, a bell tinkles and Terry looks up from a magazine she’s reading as she leans her elbows on the oak counter. There’s no one else in the store- no prospective customers perusing the rails, nobody in a changing cubicle or holding up a dress or peering at the ostentatious jewellery and accessories. There is no Julian, either.

She looks up and beams at me.

‘Darling! How lovely to see you! I’m so glad you found the time to visit. I keep finding things that would be perfect for you. I see a top and I think, ‘that’d be fabulous on Sherry’. Come and see!’

I begin to splutter replies about cash flow but she silences me, holding a hand up. ‘Darling! You must let me treat you to something. I won’t hear of you spending your hard-earned pennies on anything in here. Come on!’

I trail after her along the rails as she plucks out various items, finishing by pushing me towards a curtained cubicle and thrusting the pile of clothes inside.

‘I want to see you in everything!’ she warns. I sink down on the stool in the cubicle and survey the price tags on the items, choosing the cheapest, a tiny, orange vest top embellished with purple faux jewels. It’s ghastly.

I leave the boutique an hour later, having managed to convince her I neither want or need anything to wear and having had a coffee with her. During all of this time, no one else has entered the shop. When I ask her where Julian is, she mutters something about suppliers and accountants, which strikes me as odd, since she’d assured me that Julian was, himself a qualified accountant.

I wander past the shop on occasions after this but don’t enter, preferring to glance in past the displays and see how busy it is. Once or twice I spot a young woman at the counter, staring at her phone but never serving anyone. Terry must have taken her on to give herself some time off. I can only guess at how boring it must be to man a shop day after day and not see any customers.

There’s a long, restful period with no communication from Terry and it’s the run up to Christmas. Her window displays look good, colour themed, with fake snow, Christmas trees and mannequins decked out in fur capes. I’ve been too busy to meet up with my sister and the girls and I have been planning out Christmas get together.

A month passes before I hear from her, a voice message and she sounds anxious rather than excited. Once home from work, I ring her but she doesn’t pick up so I say I’m returning her call. Then I go off out. It’s my choir night. I’m not much of a singer but I enjoy the company and the shared activity. I try ringing a couple more times when I get home, with no response…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Two Sisters [Part 3]

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[Parts 1 and 2 of ‘Two Sisters’ can be read in the previous 2 weeks’ posts]

I decide to accept the taxi offer. Wearing my good, black trousers and a silk shirt, I climb out of the cab and enter the restaurant. Renoir’s is one of those eateries with a long waiting list for tables. It has an extravagant exterior, with exotic, fake blooms framing the entrance and inside there are fake trees smothered in more fake flowers dotted around the tables. It’s a cavernous place and I need to ask the waiter who took the booking where to find my sister and Julian. We get there in the end- a table by the window which overlooks the street.

They spot me winding my way through the diners. Julian stands, comes around and proffers a hand to shake then goes to pull out a chair for me. I catch Terry’s eye and she’s grinning like the proverbial cat, which makes me frown.

Her man is solicitous and charming, pouring wine, complimenting, asking about my work, professing admiration. He has a George Clooney look: silver streaked hair swept back, yachtsman’s tan, navy, Lacoste cotton sweater slung casually around his shoulders, immaculate pale blue shirt, chinos and loafers. Everything about him says ‘Look how well-to-do I am’.

Terry is smitten. She hangs on his every word. I notice all her sentences now begin with ‘we’, meaning herself and Julian. When the waiter arrives, I choose my starter, unbothered by the expense. Julian is paying.

‘We’d love you to come and see the shop now, Sherry,’ Terry gushes, ‘It’s looking just marvellous, isn’t it, darling?’ She places a hand over his.

‘Mm,’ I murmur, picking up my glass and sipping.

She continues, describing all the changes that have taken place, the rich magenta walls, the changing cubicles with their dark, red velvet curtains, the rails and shelving, the magnificent oak counter that Julian has sourced from an antique dealer he knows. I allow a faint smile and nod from time to time throughout this monologue. Julian watches her, grinning, not interrupting until at last, she comes to a halt.

Our starters come. I apply myself to the crayfish bisque, having decided I may as well enjoy the food, if nothing else. My sister looks up from her pate de foie gras, small crumbs of toast adhering to her lips.

‘I haven’t told you the best bit, Sheridan.’ I’m startled. She rarely calls me by my full name. Perhaps it’s for Julian’s benefit?

‘What?’ I look down at my dish, wondering if I can get away with soaking up the last smears of bisque with the remains of the sliced ciabatta.

‘Well darling, best of all, Julian is moving in with me!’ She sits back, shedding crumbs on to her cleavage, an expectant look ion her face. Now, why am I not surprised?

I place my spoon into the bowl, dab my lips with the pristine, linen napkin and sit back. ‘Um…well I suppose congratulations are in order.’

She chatters on, Julian nodding along. They laugh, heads drawing together. I learn that Julian has been married and has two sons, both working in the United States in finance of some sort. Julian has been living on his yacht until now, sailing wherever the weather of his fancy takes him. He loves Monaco and wouldn’t have minded living there if he hadn’t met Terry. He shows me a photo of the yacht, a gin palace moored in some sun-soaked destination.

I’m relieved when our main courses arrive and I can give my full attention to the fillet steak and bearnaise sauce. When Julian gets up, excuses himself and goes to the men’s room, she leans towards me. ‘Well? What do you think, darling? Isn’t he gorgeous? I’m so lucky! I want to find you somebody like him, now. It’s a shame he doesn’t have a twin brother!’

‘Terry, you know very well I have no interest at all in finding a man. I like my life as it is, thanks!’ I know, however that I’ll never convince her.

I don’t hear from my sister for another couple of weeks, then she phones to invite me to the grand opening of ‘Cruise Collections’. She’s excited. It’s to be a classy do with champagne and canapes, all bought in of course. I fail to see how I can escape this shindig, which is next Saturday evening, starting at seven pm. She’s got some models coming to do a show displaying some of the outfits and to showcase her ideas for capsule wardrobes, for those who can’t think how to pack for a cruise. She’s managed to get replies from a crowd of her acquaintances from golf, horse-racing, motor racing and sailing.

On Saturday evening I put on my good, black trousers and a different silk shirt and go along, arriving at about seven thirty, hoping to sidle in among the well-heeled and glamorous and lurk in a dark corner, however she pounces on me as soon as she spots me and drags me through the milling party-goers, grabbing a champagne flute from a passing tray and thrusting me into a group of elegant women in sparkly outfits.

‘This is my sister, Sheridan, everyone, I couldn’t have done all this without her!’ She melts away then, leaving me to filed questions about what part I’ve played in the assemblage of this brand, new business. I hedge and duck their probing until they lose interest and return to their gossip, excusing myself to dive through into the tiny kitchen area where the drinks and canapes are laid out. Grabbing a tray, I return to the shop area and circle with it, bumping into Julian as I’m about to return and fetch another round.

I greet him. He returns a vague nod and moves away. So he doesn’t remember me, his possible sister-in-law. This both amuses and alarms me…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Two Sisters [Part 2]

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[Part 1 of ‘Two Sisters’ can be read in last week’s post]

I lead a frugal life, in my sister’s estimation, a one-bedroom flat in a modest block, an old Peugeot 205, kept alive by the ministrations of a kindly mechanic, a wardrobe furnished with charity shop finds, a practical haircut maintained by an old friend. I’ve one, grown-up daughter who lives in Scotland, where she went to university, meaning that my holidays are taken there. No cruises or Florida stays for me. But I reckon that my life is fulfilled and happier than Terry’s in so many ways. It’s just that she doesn’t see it.

‘It’s up to you.’ she pouts. ‘Let me know if you change your mind.’ I nod.

A few days later she rings to tell me she has the keys to the shop and do I want to see the inside? I feel an obligation to keep an eye on her, so I agree to meet there on my next day off, which is in two days’ time. It’s a blustery, early autumn day. Fallen leaves have gathered in the corner of the shop’s doorway and a cool wind makes me pull my my collar up as she fumbles with the keys. After a few minutes the door creaks open and she steps in to wait, breathless for my reaction. There’s not a lot to say. It’s a small space with a stained carpet and some dusty shelving, a door in the back corner.

‘Where does that go?’ I nod at the door. She leads me through to a tiny, dingy kitchen area with a window on to a back yard housing dustbins. She’s behind me. ‘Isn’t it great?’ she breathes.

‘Mmm,’ I murmur, not turning. ‘How will you raise the cash to do it up?’

‘We already have a bank loan. Julian’s been brilliant at that side of it.’ I turn to look at her.

‘How did you get a loan? Didn’t you need to put up some collateral?’

‘Oh yes, we did. But we only needed property for that.. I stare at her.

‘Property? What property? Julian’s?’ She looks shifty, averting her eyes from mine.

‘No dear, mine. My property.;

Thinking of nothing to say, I stride back into the shop, unable to look at her. Terry owms a detached, double-fronted, four-bedroom, two-bathroom, Victorian house, overlooking the park, with a conservatory and a landscaped garden. Not all of her encounters with men have been wasted.

I resolve to have nothing more to do with her enterprise. She’s made her bed, burned her books and inspired a lot of other cliches. I don’t contact her and hear nothing more for two weeks. Then she rings me.

‘How;s it going?’ she asks, as if I’m the one undertaking a new project. I’m cautious.

‘OK,’ I reply, ‘Nothing special happening here. Same old.’ I’m determined not to ask about the shop or Julian or anything else to do with her scheme.

‘I’m ringing,’ she says, ‘because Julian would like to meet you and he’s booked a table at Renoir’s for us all tomorrow night. Are you free then?’ I hesitate. Although I am free tomorrow night, I have no desire to meet Julian or to talk about Terry’s business.

‘I’m not free tomorrow night,’ I tell her.

‘Oh Sher! Surely you can put it off, whatever it is? Is it your girls’ night out? Can’t you change it? I’m so looking forward to you two meeting up.And we’ve got so much to tell you. It’s all going really well. I wondered if you’d like to help me choose some stock now that the interior’s almost done.’

I go out with the girls about once a week. We go to musical venues, have a drink, a dance and a laugh. We don’t have a regular night but it’s always the highlight of my week. My colleagues are like family to me. We share everything- problems, stories, tears and laughter. But we’re going out the day after tomorrow. I’d been planning a cosy night in tomorrow, slobbing on the sofa in my pyjamas with a drama serial I’ve started watching. Besides, Renoir’s is expensive, not somewhere I’d frequent on a regular basis. Terry puts on her wheedling voice.

‘We’d love you to come. Julian’s paying for everything so you wouldn’t need to worry. He’ll even send a taxi for you and to get home. I can lend you something to wear, too, if you like.’

‘I’ll let you know,’ I say.

‘Don’t take too long, dear. You know how busy Renoir’s can get. We’ve only got a table because Julian knows the manager.’

I slump. There doesn’t appear to be a way out. And somewhere inside of me a small frisson of curiosity is needling. I leave it an hour then call her back to agree, but I won’t need an outfit, thanks. I’ve plenty of nice clothes to choose from…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Two Sisters

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A brand new short story begins today-

It’s three in the afternoon and I’m staring into the empty shop window at our reflections; two, late middle-aged women, as different as any two women can be, except that we’re not only sisters, but twins.

‘Sher…Sher…Sherry!’ she bellows. ‘Are you listening?’

My parents named us Therese and Sheridan, unaware that we’d be labelled ‘Terry and Sherry’ for the rest of our lives, as if we were a comedy act from the seventies.

But I’m not listening, no. I haven’t been. I switched off, like I always do. I’ve been here too many times- not at this shop window, but summoned to hear one of her latest, hair-brained schemes, or where she’s about to holiday, or who is the latest man friend.

My sister: Therese Louisa Rawlings: vivacious, curvaceous, immaculate, coiffed, pampered and wealthy. She flits like a butterfly on speed from one project to another, calling all these ideas ‘work’.

‘I’m working on something,’ she will say. ‘I’ll let you know.’ Sometimes she’ll text me to tell me she’s away for the weekend, or she’ll say she’s going on a cruise. Sometimes she applies for jobs. She’s been an estate agent, a hotel receptionist, a dog walker, a photographer’s assistant and a theatre box office manager, though none of these pursuits lasted long due to their requiring some commitment. She’d realised she had to get up and be there at a certain time of day. She’d discovered that the jobs were less glamourous than she’d imagined. The remuneration had been less than she’d expected.

‘Sorry,’ I tell her. ‘It’s the traffic.’

The shop is by a busy roundabout on the outskirts of town. I’ve walked past it for the last four years and never seen it occupied. Its windows display a few dog-eared and faded posters, some of upcoming events, others of long past- circus, wrestling, dirt-car racing. Cobwebs and a thick layer of dust cover the surface of all of it, the window-sill dotted with insect carcasses.

Terry steps back and sweeps her arm along in a presentational gesture.

‘This,’ she begins, ‘this is my new venture, a business. What do you think?’ I feel weary. I’ve weathered more of her excitements and disappointments than she’s gulped consolatory gin and tonics but I hate being the constant voice of disparagement. Mostly, I know I’ll need to be the one picking up the fragments of her devastated vision once it’s all over.

‘Oh,’ I say.

‘Well? Aren’t you going to ask me what it will be?’

‘Ok. What will it be?’

She has that manic expression, eyes wide and arms folded. ‘I haven’t completely decided yet. But I’m leaning towards a little boutique. I thought it could be directed towards people going on luxury cruises and so on. What do you think?’

I suppress a sigh in favour of a non-committal grunt. She grins at me. ‘Sherry, I thought we could do this together. You could leave that godawful job at the care agency and come and sell beautiful clothes to rich retirees. I think you’d be good at it!’

There are so many responses I can conjure to this that I need to turn away and cough into my hand to buy time. Terry has never understood that I love my job as much as any other part of my life. I love the elderly and disabled folks I try to help and I adore my cheerful, generous, fun and caring colleagues, with whom I socialise as well as work. There is no career or salary in the world that would tempt me away from my job.

As if she’s read my thoughts, she breaks the silence. ‘I should think you could earn a bit more working with me, you know. Shall we get a coffee? I can fill you in on a few of the details.’

During the stroll to the coffee shop, she shocks me, not only with the news that she’s already taken on the lease of the shop but that she has a business partner, a man called Julian. We seat ourselves in the window of the coffee house. I lean towards her.

‘Terry, you know nothing about running abusiness. Shoudn’t you take a book-keeping course or something? There’s more to it than dressing a shop window, isn’t there? What about tax, insurance, business law, VAT, employment law-all that stuff?’

She laughs. ‘Oh, I’m not worried about all that! Julian is the business head. He’ll deal with it. He’s run several businesses and is an experienced bookkeeper. I’m going to be the creative partner, designing the decor, buying the stock, doing the advertising- that kind of thing. I’d love you to meet him. He’s such a wonderful, inspiring person, full of ideas enthusiasm.’ She stirs a sweetener into her cappachino, her cheeks flushed, a speck of lipstick on her teeth.

I gaze at her; at her salon-streaked hair, matching gold earrings and necklace, extravagantly painted nails and designer top. Soo, even the illusion of a desirable, glamorous woman will be beyond her reach. She’s begun to mention surgery, just to ‘tighten a few things up’

‘So how did you meet this Julian?’ I ask. She bristles, frowning. I should not have called him ‘this’ Julian.

‘I met him at the yacht club. I was just standing at the bar, wondering which cocktail to choose when I saw him. He looked good, you know, distinguished. He wears nice clothes and has that sort of swept back hair- silver of course, but he’s an attractive man. I asked him what he would choose and we got talking- and he bought the mojito.’ She smiles a coy grin into her coffee and I shudder. She’s met three husbands and a couple of partners at the yacht club, which is one of her hunting grounds. She has no interest whatsoever in sailing but is very adept at pretending interest if it will get her a man; golf ,horse-racing, motor racing and sailing are all fertile areas for her pursuit of men.

I sip my Americano then pull myself together and smile at her. ‘It sounds promising. And I wish you all the luck with it! But I’ll have to pass on the job offer. I wouldn’t leave the agency for anything because it’s the occupation I’ve loved more than anything else I’ve ever done.’

She sniffs. She’s told me ,any times she doesn’t know how I can do a caring job; how I can deal with bodily fluids, smells, and upsetting situations. But she doesn’t understand the satisfaction and pleasure of looking after others, nor does she see how my fellow workers’ companionship enhances my life, the laughs, the hugs and the friendship akin to love.

Part 2 of Two Sisters can be read in next week’s post…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Exit

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It’s mid morning in the Help the Aged charity shop and the store is quiet, except for one or two shoppers making diligent searches of the rails. Faye has been out the back, sorting through the latest batch of donations. Donated clothing and bric-a-brac have been dwindling lately and she’s had to discard much more than she did when she first became the manager of the shop.

She pulls the curtain and goes into the sales area. Melissa is on the till today. She’s a smiley, willing volunteer who enjoys interacting with the shoppers but needs a lot of support with practicalities.

‘Melissa, it’s time you had a break. Go and make a coffee and I’ll take over for a bit.’ The young woman smiles and goes out to the back. Faye settles on the bar stool and casts an eye over the shop, wondering whether the window displays should change now, to reflect the change of season. Perhaps an autumn theme with brown, orange and yellow hues is in order? She’s found herself enjoying this lowly, managerial role with a small wage during the six months since she was appointed.

The door opens and a woman enters. Faye stares. Can it really be her? Looking older, yes, hair longer and un-styled; wearing jeans. Jeans? Faye never once saw Selena in jeans, not on training days, never on social occasions, not even on a company fund-raising day. Her ex boss hasn’t looked up yet, hasn’t spotted her. Faye watches her progress along the rails, thinking, remembering.

In her lunch hour, Faye carried the cardboard box of her belongings down to the car park and put it into the boot of her battered Ford Fiesta. In truth, there weren’t many things to take home; her favourite pen, a couple of best wishes cards from colleagues, her bone china mug from the kitchen and the photo of her kids. As she’d packed the items, Faye couldn’t help thinking it was precious little to show for the twelve years she’d worked here.

To get downstairs she’d had to use the corridor outside Selena’s office, the door of which was almost always open. She’d had to scoot past without looking, hoping that Selena would be too engrossed in something on the computer to notice her. They’d said everything they had to say, now, hadn’t they?

She went back upstairs and glanced quickly in at Selena as she padded along the corridor but the room was empty. Back at her desk, opposite Frank, she sank down and took her sandwich out of her bag. There were few in this lunchtime, most preferring to get off the premises for a break in the middle of the day.

‘Why are you hanging about, Faye?’ her friend Orla called from across the office. ‘you should get going and make the most of the afternoon. Hit the shops! Go for a walk! Curl up with a magazine! Get your nails done!’

Faye smiled. ‘I’m not going to be short of time now, am I?’

Orla came across and handed her a coffee, pulling up a seat beside her. She was her closest friend at work, nowadays. They laughed at the same things, shared good and bad news.

‘Still nothing on the job front?’

‘Not unless I want to work in the Amazon warehouse or make deliveries. It may come to that.’

The afternoon passed slowly, Faye idly searching agency jobs. The events of the last weeks still hurt. The announcement of the ‘reorganisation and restructuring’, the revelation about staffing levels needing to be cut, the anxiety inducing wait to see who was to go, the afternoon she’d been summoned to be told it was to be her, one of the oldest, Experience counted for mothing.

Selena had arrived only a couple of years ago, replacing Jan, who’d been a great friend to Faye but had moved onwards and upwards into a promotion many miles away. Selena wasn’t fond of those who’d been friendly with her predecessor, finding fault with small tasks and making snide remarks over trivial issues. She wasn’t a glamourous woman but most office staff were aware she was sleeping with the director, Lance, who was married with teenaged children. The general feeling seemed to be that the affair was mystifying, as while Selena was expensively dressed and coiffed, she was plain to the point of frumpy.

Faye looked at her watch. In five minutes she was due in for her exit interview. Should she remain mute? Should she speak her mind? She still had no idea what her manager would say, what she, Faye would say. She’d thought about it, awake at night, all the things she’d like to say to Selena. How she’d been picky, never complimentary, stared at them, she and Orla, when they’d laughed at something. Maybe she thought they were laughing at her? Sometimes they were.

Time was up. She walked along to Selena’s small office and through the open door.

‘Take a seat’ the woman ordered, unsmiling.

Faye sat. What did anything matter now? The ideal thing was to get out as soon as possible. Selena asked her if she’d had any interviews, got anywhere with her job search.

‘No.’ Faye shrugged. Selena droned on about CVs and references and was there anything else they could do?

‘No. There was a pause.

‘OK. So I wonder, is there anything about the running of this place you think might be improved. We’d really value your input.’

Faye sat up, stared at the woman across the desk. A small bubble of laughter threatened to escape, then Faye let it out in a guffaw.

‘No you don’t!.’ she gasped, wiping her eyes, and she stood, turned and walked out of the room. Ay the bottom of the stairs she stopped for a moment to look at her photo on the personnel board, then reached up and took it down, leaving a pale rectangle where it had been. She pushed the photo into her bag and marched with a jaunty step across to her car.

She’s smiling when Selena finally looks up from the bargain rail and spots her. She looks shocked, drawn. The dress she’d been holding up against her was shoved back on to the rail before she turned and rushed through the shop, head down, out of the door and away as fast as her legs could go.

Faye is still smiling when she gets home, a warm bubble encasing her. She can’t wait to tell Orla, who had been next on the redundancy list.

How the mighty are fallen…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Harriet in the Hedge

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I’m Googling ‘ways to kill your husband.’

Nobody can see me in here, my tiny hideaway. Terence never comes up the garden this far and considers it a wilderness, which is fine by me; the wilder the better.

I might not be serious- or I might be.

Here in my little den I have everything I need. Stool, rescued from the pavement where it was abandoned, cigarettes and lighter, plus the phone of course but I don’t leave that in here. Terence doesn’t know about the cigarettes or the hiding place for that matter.

He’s coming out now. Wait for it…

‘Harriet? Harry? Are you out here?’ I’m shrinking back into the leafy cave but I know he won’t look this far.

‘Harry? Can you come and hold this hardboard a minute? Harriet?’ He’s standing outside the back door and muttering to himself now. ‘Where has she got to?’

He’s gone back inside. I’m scrolling through the search results. There are a lot, Some are listed with advantages and drawbacks.

Poisoning: Advantages: neat, easy, Disadvantages: detectable, traceable to killer.

Shooting: Advantages: quick, conclusive Disadvantages: messy, difficult to acquire gun,

Stabbing: Advantages: no preparation Disadvantages: messy

He’s come back out. ‘Harriet! I can’t find my blue-handled screwdriver. Can you come and look?’ Mutter, mutter and he goes back indoors. I’ve been out here for half an hour so I’ll have one more ciggie and have to go indoors. He’ll ask where I’ve been. I have plenty of answers up my sleeve for that one; next door at Patsy’s [good for explaining lingering cigarette smoke smells], to the shop, to post a letter, to the road to get a phone signal. There’s an endless list.

I look again. Allergies: Advantages: hard to detect Disadvantages: victim needs to be allergic to substance. Does Terence have any dangerous allergies? I can’t recall any.

‘Where were you?’ he asks, when I enter the kitchen.

‘Just popped next door to Patsy’s,’ I tell him and open the fridge, looking for dinner inspiration. Maybe I can use poison mushrooms, like that Australian woman, except that she didn’t get away with it and everyone knows about that method now. I could push him down the stairs except that we live in a bungalow.

Next time I get into my den, it’s raining. But it’s dense and thick in here; even my fags are dry. I’m contemplating sleeping out here. There’s a sleeping bag somewhere in the house. I’m rummaging in the hall cupboard when Terence appears, huffing and puffing.

‘Harriet!’ he squeaks. ‘Where is my new packet of blood pressure tablets? I should have taken one this morning!’

I pause. Even in this dark cupboard, it’s a lightbulb moment. No blood pressure tablets? I turn round. ‘I’ll have a look for them after supper,’ I say…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

The Courtyard Pest

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Nancy has moved to be near her daughter but has left her old life behind. How will she adjust? A neighbour is offering support; or is he?

                  Nancy wakes again. The grey glow of an autumn dawn is seeping between the curtains. This room is still new, shadows in strange places. She pushes the quilt back, eases pale legs over the bedside then pads across the carpet to the en-suite, shaking her head at the incongruity of it. An ‘en-suite’! Imagine!

On the way back she pauses by the window to peer out at her tiny patch of yard, bare except for the wooden bench, a flat-warming gift from Sarah. “What will you do with this courtyard?” her daughter had asked her as they sat on it, only three days ago. Nancy shrugged. “Not sure yet. A few pots. A bird feeder.”

Sarah laughed. “You and your birds!”

But they were company; bird company was easier to come by in a strange town than the human sort.

There is a movement, a flicker in the passageway outside the yard gate, caught in the corner of her eye as she stares. But it is nothing; a moving branch across the faint light. She sighs. It is still only six. She must try to get back to sleep. The days are already too long to fill.

She is washing up her breakfast bowl when the doorbell rings, a shrill unaccustomed sound above the murmur of the radio news programme. A silhouette fills the door’s frosted glass as she fumbles with the key. “Won’t be a minute!” she calls and at last the door yields, revealing Jeffery, from number five. He leans down towards her, eyes protuberant in his florid complexion. “Is the door a bit stiff? I can fix it, if you like.”

She knows her smile is weak. “It’s just new, that’s all; new to me.”

Clad in a beige waistcoat with pockets, he is grasping a canvas shopping bag. “I’m off down the road. Can I get anything for you? Hexton’s bread is marvellous. Shall I get you a loaf? And I’m going to D0-IT-ALL for a few bits this afternoon if you need anything”.

It is only eight. Early, Nancy thinks, to be setting off for the shops. What time does he get up, this neighbour? She has a sense that he must have been waiting until it was an acceptable time to call on her. She shakes her head. “It’s kind of you but I’m going out myself later.”

“Like a lift?” He breaks in. Too fast. She maintains the narrow opening, lifting her chin. “I shall walk. I like to walk. It does me good.”

He takes a step back and she lets out a breath.

“OK. By the way-watch out for rats, won’t you? Some have been seen in the alley at the back. They’re probably from the social housing in the close. Vermin, that’s what they are.” Nancy nods, unsure whether he means the rats or the residents of the housing association development opposite their flats.

He turns with a wave and withdraws, swinging the canvas shopping bag as he plods around the corner.

Later, as she drifts along the unfamiliar High Street Nancy wonders if she should have asked Jeffery to fetch her some compost for her courtyard pots. Has she been a little hard on him? He is only being neighbourly. She did ask Sarah if Danny might be able to take her to the garden centre but they are so busy all the time.

It had been Sarah’s idea for her to move here, to be nearer the family. Nancy was reluctant at first, then attracted by the notion that she might be of some help now that Sarah and Danny were both working full time. She’d thought she might be able to collect the boys from school, help with homework, even make some meals when the parents had to work late. But Sarah pointed out that the boys had little need of childcare and either went to clubs and after school activities or messed about with their friends.

Nancy stops to study a display in the window of ‘Chic Shack’, a small shop selling household items, many of which appear to have been made from driftwood, or been painted and subsequently had patches worn off. She snorts. These are things that wouldn’t have got into a jumble sale in her day.

Since she moved to be near Sarah she’s had no more contact with her and the boys than she did when she was seventy eight miles away. At least then they’d talked on the phone every evening.

Later, when she’s finished clearing up her supper things and is settled in front of the TV the phone rings.

“Will you be in tomorrow evening, Mum? Danny can drop your compost off then. He’ll pick it up on the way home from work”.

Nancy had been looking forward to a morning at the garden centre and had been going to suggest she treat them all to lunch. “It’s very kind, when he’s so busy.”

“It’s nothing. How are you settling in? How are the neighbours?”

“Oh-the couple in the flat above are very nice. They say Good Morning”. She hesitates. Jaqui and David are polite but self-contained and disinterested.

“Anyone else?”

“There’s Jeffery.”

“Is that the man with the wild, grey hair and the county accent?” Sarah met Jeffery when Nancy was moving in. He’d been on the forecourt sweeping up and had introduced himself, shaking their hands and offering assistance. “Has he been a nuisance?”

“No. He’s friendly enough. I’ll see you later.”

“Not me, I’m afraid Mum. Just Danny. I’ve got to collect Lewis from football training.”

Danny arrives with the compost, leaving the engine running while he heaves the bags into the small yard outside her living room and waving a cheerful goodbye as he drives off. Nancy surveys the three bags stacked against the fence. At least she’ll have something to be getting on with tomorrow. She can’t get to the garden centre for spring bulbs but the ‘Supercuts’ shop had some mixed bags on offer outside in a basket. She is about to close the curtains when a face appears above the fence, prompting her to cry out in alarm, hand over her mouth. An arm waves at her. She opens the patio door. Jeffery.

“You’ve got your compost then? Want a hand with the planters tomorrow? I can bring a trowel.”

She sighs. “Alright. Just not too early.”

Nancy’s sleep is restless. In her dreams giant rats stream over the gate, flooding her tiny yard, squeaking at her, hectoring, chastising, although she can’t catch the words. She wakes many times, hears scraping sounds, feels disorientated and sleeps on to an unaccustomed eight o’clock.

She is on the phone when the doorbell rings, chatting to Meg. When she’d heard her friend’s voice she’d visualised her unruly hair and bright lipstick and felt tears pricking her eyes. ‘Yes’ she tells Meg, ‘the move was fine. The flat is perfect. Just what I wanted.’ She doesn’t say it was what Sarah wanted.

“And how have you been, dear? Any more falls?”

Nancy shakes her head then realises Meg can’t see. “No. And I don’t need to use the stick Sarah got me. I’m as steady on my feet as I’ve ever been. I’m not sleeping well, but I suppose it’s just the newness of the place.”

There is a pause.

“We all miss you here, Nancy. ‘The Nettlehide Players’ isn’t the same without you.” The tears are threatening again. “We should arrange a meet up. Shall we? A weekend, even! There’s always the coach-why don’t you come to me? Or I’ll come down if you’ve room. What do you say?”

“I’d like that.”  The bell is ringing. “I have to go, Meg. We’ll arrange it.”

Jeffery is wearing overalls and brandishing a trowel. “I’m not quite ready” she tells him. “You’d better come in. Would you like a cup of coffee?” He takes up all the space in her miniature kitchen, scrutinising the tiny room, unabashed.

“You don’t have much…” he sweeps the trowel around at the walls “…stuff, do you? My place is an Aladdin’s Cave! You must come round.” She brushes past him to get to the kettle before reaching into a cupboard for a small jar of Nescafe. “Could I have tea? I’m not a fan of instant. I grind my own beans. Costa Rican. A friend gets them for me. Have you tried Costa Rican? It’s marvellous!” She replaces the jar and pulls out tea bags. “I’ve got a spare tea pot at mine. Do you want it?” he asks, watching her. She takes the two mugs of tea outside and places them on the wooden seat.

“Where are you having the pots?” Jeffery gestures at the tall, terracotta planters which are dotted about on the paving slabs in what Nancy considers a satisfying, random arrangement. She stares at him.

“They’re staying where they are.” Nancy’s chin lifts a little then she stoops to take the bags of bulbs from under the bench. He shrugs. “I prefer a bit of symmetry myself.”

When Nancy can take no more advice about which bulbs to put where she goes in to make more tea. They sit on the bench to drink it.

“So, Nancy, what did your husband used to do?”

She frowns at the paving slabs by her feet, taking a sip of the tea. “I’m sorry?”

“Your husband. What was his line of work?-if you don’t mind me asking. I was a financial adviser myself. Got it all up here still.” He places a finger on his unruly hair. “If you need any help with investments, that kind of thing, you have only to ask!”

She is silent for a moment, placing the mug on her lap between her hands.

“I’ve never been married”.

“Oh I’m so sorry!” he blurts, drops of tea splashing on to his overalls.  “I’ve been married three times. Had five children. Not that I see much of them of course. They’re spread far and wide. One in Singapore, one in America. I expect they’d contact me if they were in trouble. No news is good news, as they say.”

Nancy stands up and holds out her hand for his cup. “Thanks for helping. I’ll have to leave it there for now, though. I have an appointment after lunch and will need to clear up and get changed.”

Having had to demonstrate her intention by leaving the flat, she wanders along the High Street and turns down the lane leading to the library. There may be a noticeboard showing local events, groups and activities or at least someone who could point her in the right direction. The building is new with lots of internal glass. She spots a small, neat, grey woman like herself wearing a navy raincoat and realises it is herself, reflected in a rotating door.

The vast space is decorated in garish lime greens and scarlets. At a circular desk she has to wait as one librarian is attending to a young woman with a foreign accent and another is talking on the phone.

At last she is directed across to an area designated ‘local information’ where there are brochures, wall maps and a noticeboard advertising special interest groups and activities. She reads each flyer. There is a cycling club, meeting each Sunday morning at seven, a ‘knit and natter’ group in a church hall on Monday afternoons, there is the WI, the University of the Third Age and Psychic evenings. On a low table is a file labelled ‘cultural events’ and she bends to begin flipping through but is interrupted by a commotion around the reception desk.

Nancy straightens to peer around a bookcase and sees a figure in a beige waistcoat gesticulating at the librarian, who is responding by adopting a decidedly non-library tone and pointing in the direction of the exit doors.

“Mr Marsh, as I’ve said before we cannot stock every periodical and the library is run according to local authority guidelines. Now I’m sorry but unless and until you are able to follow our code of conduct I am going to have to ask you to leave the building and you may be barred from entering the premises in future.”

Her neighbour doesn’t spot her as he is escorted out of the exit doors. She sits down to look through the file of cultural societies, noting one or two phone numbers down then waits ten minutes before she leaves to avoid bumping into him.

She has walked twenty five yards before a dizzy spell threatens to topple her and she stops by a bus stop, clutching the side of the shelter until it has passed, then perching on the narrow plastic bench inside. A bus pulls up, disgorging several passengers; the driver leaning forward to see if she’s getting on. She shakes her head and takes a few deep breaths as the doors wheeze closed.

Back in the flat she feels jittery and unsettled. Perhaps getting on with her unpacking will help. But when she leans down from her bed to get a box out from underneath the dizziness descends like a fog and she sits back up, closes her eyes and sinks on to the pillows. A deluge of jumbled images gushes in to a background of piercing squeaks which rise to a crescendo, at which point her eyes fly open and she is aware of the door bell ringing with an insistent, lengthy clang.

“I didn’t know if you were in.” There is an element of reproach in his frown. “I thought I’d better let you know I’ve put some rat poison down in the alley. In case you go out that way. Let me know if you see anything, won’t you?”

It takes Nancy a moment to gather her thoughts. “Yes. Thank you. I will”.

He clears his throat. “Can I interest you in an early evening glass of wine? Over at my place?”

She pulls the edges of her cardigan together, aware that she is dishevelled from sleep. “Just a small one” he continues and she can think of no excuse to refuse. She keeps him at the door while she slips her shoes on and fetches her bag and keys. “All secure?” he asks, as she locks the door.

His flat is as different from hers as an identical design could be, the surfaces crammed with objects, odd-shaped stones, pieces of wood, metal parts of things; the walls clad in pictures, photos, mirrors and hangings. It feels claustrophobic, as if the entire space is closing in on her. She murmurs ‘thanks’ as he hands her a glass, watching as she takes a cautious sip. “Know your wines?” he asks, “Where do you think that one’s from?”

Tempted to say ‘Tesco’ she perches on the edge of a sagging sofa covered in piles of magazines and shakes her head. He grins, holding his glass up to an imaginary light. “Algeria! You wouldn’t know, would you? A friend brought it back from a trip for me. I love the stuff.” He places his glass on the edge of a shelf, snatches up an object from the coffee table and offers it to her. “What do think this is? Any ideas?” She turns the small, circular, metallic item in her hand. It has an opening with a serrated edge like tiny, sharp teeth

“A nut-cracker?”

He chuckles. “It’s a pepper grinder. African. I bet you’ve never seen one like that before!”

She clears her throat. “I must go, Jeffery. I have some calls to make. Thank you for the wine.”

“You haven’t finished it!”

“No. It’s very nice. But I’m not much of a drinker. It goes straight to my head I’m afraid”. She picks up her bag. He continues to stand, tilting the glass up to drain it then twirling the stem as he watches her.

Back in her flat Nancy makes some tea and takes it into the sitting room. She finds the numbers she wrote down in the library. As she picks up the phone she is distracted by a sound. She sits still and concentrates. There! A scraping, grinding sound, like a pot sliding along on the slabs of the courtyard. Jeffery told her if the rats got into the yard they might dig up the bulbs. She goes to the patio door and pulls a curtain back, peering along the shaft of light that’s been cast. But there is nothing other than the pots standing motionless in their places. A rat, however large, would not be strong enough to move a large, terracotta pot full of earth. The sound must have come from something in the alley; someone trundling something along there, perhaps. She picks up the phone again.

It is two twenty three when she wakes, having fallen asleep thinking about her telephone conversation with Rebecca Fripp, of the local amateur dramatic society. Rebecca’s response to Nancy’s enquiry had been luke-warm, as if she’d be doing her a favour by allowing her to attend a rehearsal. But they always needed ‘front-of-house’ help, she’d said, even though Nancy’d explained about her experience in set design. Once she is awake, she is unable to drift off again and thinks that perhaps she should get up and make tea. She stretches out her hand to the light and there! There is the sound: scrape. Outside the windows.

She freezes, stomach churning, her skin prickly; but forces her feet to the floor; tiptoes through to the kitchen. She takes her time in the half light, pulling open a cupboard door to withdraw a heavy pan with a long handle. She breathes in long, slow pulls like an automaton. She returns to the living room, pan held to her side in one hand and uses a finger to create a slit of light in the long curtains.

A wind has got up, stirring the trees over the alleyway and chasing leaves around the small yard; but there is also a dark, rounded shape moving around the pots. Nancy grips the pan handle and uses her other hand to inch the patio door open. The swishing breeze is louder as she steps outside, flattening her nightie against her legs. She searches for the shape then spots it-moving from behind one pot to another. In two paces she is there. She pulls her arm back straight like a forehand smash and swings hard at the shape. Crunch! The contact is sickening, jarring her arm as she stumbles. The shape topples and she drops her weapon. She takes a step forward to look but the foot gives way, sliding and she falls to her knees in the wetness, confused. There has been no rain so why is there a puddle? Reaching out she feels fur, wetly sticky; then she is swaying, sinking as the fog descends.

She is dressed and in the chair when Sarah arrives. “Ready, Mum?”

Got your tablets and everything?”

Nancy nods. She stares at her daughter, eyes wide. She swallows. “Sarah-I can’t, I don’t…”

“Shh-Mum it’s ok. You don’t have to go back to the flat. Danny and I have packed all of your stuff. You can take a case with you today and the rest will follow.”

“How…how is he?”

“He’s doing alright, Mum. He’s a tough old boy. His skull has a small fracture but it will heal. He doesn’t blame you. He’s an idiot to have been there in the middle of the night! ‘Checking the rat bate’, apparently.

A solitary tear rolls down her mother’s face. “I’ve caused so much harm. I’m so sorry”

Sarah takes her hand. “No, Mum. I’m the one who should be sorry. I should never have nagged you to come. Now we must go or we’ll be late.”

Nancy stands and accepts her daughter’s supporting arm. In the car she sinks back, closing her eyes to picture Meg’s sparkly eyes and the way specks of scarlet lipstick are visible on her teeth when she grins. “You don’t have to downsize, dear” her friend had told her, sitting by the hospital bed. “Just come back and live at my place. We can look after each other, can’t we? And you can come back to The Nettlehide Players, where you belong.”

Nancy had nodded, feeling relief course through her like a transfusion. Of course. It was all anyone wanted or needed. To belong.

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com