Tag Archives: short story

Adonis

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He was a grown man, but his mother still received child allowance for him. New in the area, everyone soon realised they had someone special in their midst. He was the most beautiful youth in the upper sixth. To all the girls and some of the boys and teachers, he was an Adonis. But Jason was not a celebrity pretty boy. His mature looks led him to be mistaken for a teacher on many occasions and his unassuming nature meant that other boys were not jealous.

Tammy in the lower sixth knew she was in love with him. On a Thursday afternoon after school she could be seen plodding two paces behind her best friend Lee-Anne Friends since infant school, they had always walked home together; sometimes in a group, sometimes just the two of them. The two girls had less in common as they grew older. For Tammy, Lee-Anne provided a tenuous link with the in-crowd. Lee-Anne was pretty and popular although not the most beautiful or cleverest in their cohort. Being with her plain, plump friend emphasised her best points.

The walk home today was different for Lee=Anne and Tammy. Lee-Anne was walking hand-in-hand with Jason. Tammy had no idea how this new development had occurred. All the girls had been longing to be asked out by Jason but his quiet reserve gave no hint which girl had caught his eye.

Now he strode confidently along, his dark curls bouncing in the breeze, his strong, sun-tanned hand gripped around Lee-Anne’s pale, slender fingers with their manicured nails. She was tall and slim but he was head and shoulders above her. She gazed up at him, hanging on his every word.

As Tammy trailed behind them, she noted enviously how Lee-Anne’s short, neat school skirt showed off her long, slim legs and her natural blond tresses tumbled down her back.

They didn’t even notice when Tammy turned in at her front garden gate and made no response to her ‘see you tomorrow’ as she scuffed up the path to her door. Usually the two girls stood gossiping and giggling before Lee-Anne continued home. Tammy was relieved to find the house empty. She shut her bedroom door and played her Naxos playlist. Ever since that music lesson on opera she had become a devoted Radio 3 listener and a secret visitor to the smallest section of HMV. Her mind struggled to take in the mythical stories of the most yearning operas. They always finished with the death of the lovers, although it was the dying that seemed to bring about the true fulfilment of that love. Her heart understood. Inside the pimply schoolgirl was a passionate young woman born in the wrong age. She should have been a pre-Raphaelite artist’s model or a poet’s wife. Girls far younger than her would have already run away with their lovers in bygone days.

That evening she delved further than usual into the internet: opera, mythology, broken hearts, spells, potions, suicides. You could order anything on the internet.

The next afternoon, she set off home by herself but soon heard voices calling her and turned to see Jason and Lee-Anne. The man-boy caught up with her. His deep, melodious voice rendered her almost incapable of listening to his words, let alone replying.

‘Lee-Anne tells me you’re good at drama and music. Would you like to help with my school show? On the production side, of course- not on the stage’.

Tammy let out a breath, only able to nod. Lee-Anne had drawn alongside.

‘She likes opera,’ she sneered.

‘Even better! That’s what it’s going to be, a modern adaptation of ancient myths; on a small scale, of course- tight budget!’

The project got off to a good start as Jason injected staff and students alike with an infectious enthusiasm. If he had any career ambitions it was to be a polymath and he had the ability to achieve anything he desired. He genuinely appreciated Tammy’s contribution and had the generosity of sprit to tell her so. Tammy basked in his praise and fantasised that he was secretly in love with her.

Jason’s stage story wove itself into her inner life. Her parcel arrived from the internet. Anything else she needed could be found in the kitchen. It was time for she and Jason’s fantasy passion to be fulfilled. He agreed to her suggestion that he drop by her house on the way home from school, to listen to her CDs. Lee-Anne was at a convenient dentist appointment..

Tammy had ready the love potion and the death potion, Cupid’s arrow to pierce his heart. As he looked at her art posters and listened to Wagner, she asked if he would like a glass of Coke.

At first, the potion made him feel a little giddy and he sat on the edge of her bed but when he focused his eyes, he gazed at Tammy anew. She edged closer to him. When their lips met, she was not disappointed and lay back, giddy with the sensations. In a feverish surge, they pulled off each others’ clothes. She could hardly believe she was touching him and he was responding. The music built to a crescendo and she had won her love. It was time for fulfilment, while he was all hers. He would never look as beautiful as he did now, lying naked beside her. She slipped her hand under the pillow and withdrew the arrow that would pierce his heart, thrusting it under his ribs.

When she heard his startled, unearthly cry, she knew he’d joined her in ecstasy. For a moment, she tried to stem the flow of hot blood that pumped from him but it spurred her on to join him as quickly as possible so she swalloed the death potion and positioned the knife under her ribs.

The first Lee-Anne learned of the terrible deaths was when detectives arrived at her front door and took her in for questioning. The jealous girlfriend was the only lead they had.

Outside the school gates, a mountain of flowers grew, though few were for Tammy. The whole community was in a state of shock. Questions were asked in parliament. The deaths did not fit knife crime patterns or teenage suicide trends.

Jason remained forever beautiful in everyone’s memory and Tammy achieved the notoriety she had failed to attract in life…

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

One Giant Lie

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I am old enough to remember the grainy, monochrome footage of the moon landing . As the US prepares to make a second visit, here’s a bit of whimsy…

Well, you know, in those days, CGI- that’s computer generated graphics- was barely invented but special effects were getting more sophisticated all the time so it didn’t take all that much imagination to put some kind of mock-up together. What’s that? Why?

To be honest, I thought we should have come clean about what happened but there was the budget to consider. There’d been a load of bucks spent. I guess Senate were kind of banking on the feel-good factor here. After all, it still wasn’t so long since the war ended, was it? Folks needed something to celebrate and the success of the mission was going to be recognised all over the world. It was set to define America as the most innovative, successful and powerful nation on the whole planet. ‘We couldn’t let the public down’ was what mission command said.

Yeah- I can tell you what it was like in there. It was Hell, buddy, that’s what; Hell from the start. To begin with, Neil, he wasn’t confident. Oh yeah, he was happy with the interviews, smiling and saying he was looking forward to it but to tell the truth, from the moment he entered the craft, he was a gibbering wreck, like a condemned man ascending a scaffold. And Buzz, well he tried everything. He started off telling Neil he’d be fine, reassuring him- we both did but then he lost patience with him.

It all went fine at first, the take-off and the ascent. Why did we take off at all? You got to understand. It’s a big deal, the take-off. It attracts a big crowd. There were thousands there, from all over- space fans, journalists, tourists. If you’re going to publicise an event like that you’re going to expect a lot of spectators and boy- there was a huge crowd!

We thought the guy would settle downonce we were underway. But soon as we’d gone up, he lost it. He was wrecked. Man, it was bad in there. Buzz gave him some pills. I don’t know what they were; some kind of calm-down thing. Where did Buzz get them? Just had them- maybe for his own use. I don’t know.

We were only going up and coming down so it was supposed to be a piece of cake. In the end, Neil swallowed so many pills he was out of it. We had to make a decision cos there was no way he was going to be able to go outside and pretend to be moonwalking. No way, so it was down to us- to Buzz and me. We didn’t have a coin to toss so we did ‘rock, paper, scissors’ best of three. I lost.

I got mentally prepared on the way back down. I’d seen the set enough times to know what to do. I knew the drill. I knew the lines. I couldn’t get into the helmet and harness until we’d been pulled from the ocean because it’s crazy small in the capsule. When they got us on the support vessel, Neil started coming round from the drugs and he was raving like a loonie so they subdued him with a jab. Back at base I got everything on. Man- that was heavy kit! If it had been for real, I’d have been weightless, but as it was, I had to wear a float harness so it looked like I was defying gravity.

Buzz got into the fake ship and they manhandled Neil in there so it would look authentic, while I got into position. I had to keep an eye on the director when I climbed out on to the dusty, white floor. You gotta hand it to the set guys. They did agreat job with it all. Even the lighting looked right. And after, they did something to make it all look a bit fuzzy- you know? Like it came from a long way. I did a few steps then I followed the script- the ‘one small step’ thing. Did I feel a fraud? Yeah. I felt like a dummy and in any case, Neil should have been doing the job!

Am I sorry? No. I was just doing what I was ordered to do, man; following instructions. But no, I wouldn’t do it again. I guess we fooled the whole world though. And it’s one Hell of a story…isn’t it?

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

Beach Encounter

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They were on the beach when she spotted him. The day was blustery and few had ventured out, so he’d been easy to see, even at a distance; his distinctive walk, hands behind his back, his upright stance. Though she couldn’t hear him, she knew he was regaling his companion with some of his trademark humour, or what went for humour, anyway. He turned sideways, said something, then faced front and laughed uproariously at what he’d said.

She tensed, wondering whether to say anything to Mark, who was plodding along beside her. As the two pairs drew nearer to each other, she wondered how she would respond when they were alongside. Would she smile and greet them? Stop and chat like old friends? She shuddered.

‘Alright love?’ Mark frowned, having noticed the tremor. ‘Are you cold?’ She shook her head.

‘It’s nothing.’

Soon they’d be level. Now she could make out his features, his expression. She saw a glimmer of recognition flash across his face and the composition of false smile she remembered so well. He was preparing to greet her, preparing to pretend. She faced front, fixed her stare ahead at the cliffs and strode determinedly on until they were past him and his wife. She allowed some distance to grow between them and the other couple before she turned to look back. And when she did, she saw that he and his wife had both turned to look back as well.

She resumed walking. Mark fell into step with her.

‘What was that about?’

‘What?’

‘That bloke. He looked at you and smiled- like he knew you. And you made a point of ignoring him.’ She frowned.

‘It was him.’

‘What? Who? Who is him?’

She stopped and faced Mark. ‘Lando. It was Robert Lando.’

‘Your old boss?’ She nodded, biting her lip, feeling tears begin to well up and not wanting Mark to see. She was supposed to be over it all now, wasn’t she?

Mark tucked her arm into his. ‘If you ask me, I think you should have stopped and told him what happened to you because of him.’

She shuddered as they strolled on, remembering. Seeing Lando brought it all back; the humiliation, the shouting and the torment, the impossible demands and the withdrawal of her managerial status, this last announced to all in the office before she’d known of it. It had taken months to regain her health and move on, finding a job in a garden centre. She’d had to accept a huge drop in salary but had slowly regained her confidence and found peace.

She turned back once more to look. The two figures had become mere dots in the distance. Mark watched her.

‘There,’ he said, ‘Lando is disappearing into the horizon. You need never see him again. He’s a tiny speck vanishing to nothing. Come on. Let’s get to the kiosk and buy a hot chocolate.’

It was over.

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

Ripple

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Ripple–here’s a repeat of a ghost story to take us into New Year-

             It’s there again, rippling the surface; an outline surfacing and receding against the background. Oliver rubs his eyes and peers again at the blue screen. Now there is nothing under the desktop shortcuts. He makes a mental note to take the laptop into town.
He stretches, rises and walks to the tall wall of glass where he gazes out over the cityscape. It is an arresting view, even for one who lives such a large part of his life in front of a screen. The city stretches away, a pleasing mix of old and new dotted with ancient steepled churches and elegant, high rise skyscrapers and further away the sweep of the harbour with a variety of shipping docking and embarking day and night. Immediately below his block the silver snake of the canal winds its way around the parks and estates on its way out to port. But Oliver does not glance down, ever. He prefers to see further into the distance and away.
His phone buzzes, breaking into his thoughts.
“Are you ok?”
Melanie. She has assumed responsibility for his wellbeing despite his protests that he is fine.
“Yes. I’m alright. You don’t need to keep ringing.”
Mel laughs. “You’re such a charmer, Olly! I’m only looking out for you.”
“You don’t need to.”
“Have you been out today? You should get out. It isn’t good to sit at home brooding.”
“I’m not brooding. I’m working. And I do have to go out because my laptop’s playing up. I may need to get a new one.”
His sister sighs. “Is that the only reason to go out? You could just walk! How about meeting for lunch somewhere? Or come here to eat this evening?”
Oliver shudders. He’d have to sit around the table with noisy, prattling kids, make small talk, Mel and Charlie tiptoeing around his feelings like bomb disposal experts.
He grabs a jacket, stuffs the errant laptop and lead into its bag, grabs his keys and steps out of the apartment to summon the lift. In the lobby he grunts a peremptory reply to the doorman’s greeting before exiting through the revolving glass door and down the steps to the street. Pulling his collar together tight against the blustery wind he turns left and left again rather than continuing along to Canal Street, which would be the shortest route into town. Oliver has not walked along the towpath for eight months and has no intention of going there again, ever.
Nerina haunts his thoughts as always, day and night. As he walks he tries to picture her but succeeds only in conjuring parts of his wife- her smooth, white throat as she laughed, the black curls that fell down her back, the velvet soft touch of her and her husky voice as she spoke in her accented English. How she’d mocked him, her sly, sideways look as she posed in front of their mirror before telling him she had to go out. The way she dressed, a sensuous smile as she pulled on a sheer stocking or applied glossy, red lipstick.
At the store counter he unpacks the laptop, explaining the issue with its screen. The assistant, Paula according to her badge, turns the screen to the side for him to show her the fault. But there is nothing; no vestige of the movement he’d been witnessing. Oliver frowns, feeling a heat rise to his face. Paula smiles an open, sympathetic grin.
“Don’t be embarrassed! It’s common for devices’ faults to disappear like magic as soon as customers step through the doors with them. It’s almost as if the threat of repair is enough to make them behave!” She laughs; a deep, throaty bellow that forces Oliver to stare up into her face. It is a broad, guileless face, not pretty but honest; a face accustomed to laughter. For a moment he feels his shoulders relaxing, feels the tension draining down towards his feet. He nods at Paula, stows the errant laptop in the bag and thanks her.
“Bring it back if it starts playing up again” she advises him, before turning to another customer.
Oliver feels lighter as he exits the store and heads for home. He’ll try and eat something then get on with the figures he is supposed to be producing for a company report.
In his kitchen he can think of nothing he wants to eat and opts instead for a couple of the prescription tablets, standing at the sink, pressing the tiny, white capsules from their foil wrapping and swilling them down with a mouthful of water.
At his desk he opens the laptop lid and switches on, waiting for his password prompt and taking the deep breaths he’s been coached to employ if he feels a sense of panic. As he taps in the password his palms grow damp and he wipes them on his jeans as he waits for everything to load. The desktop shortcuts appear, nothing else. He exhales and thinks of Paula’s kind, friendly face as he clicks on his work folder and scans the files for his current spreadsheet. The white screen underneath the figures is flat and stable. Oliver breathes, closing his eyes to relish the relief.
He begins to work, clicking on each cell, highlighting, deleting and replacing. Needing to refer to some previous notes he rifles through some papers in a cardboard folder beside the laptop. Sheet in hand he turns back to the screen. It is heart-stopping. Oliver feels his pulse thumping as he takes short, shallow breaths, the blood draining from his face. He stares. The outline has reappeared, more defined now, undulating but clear. It is a face; a face he knows; the pronounced cheek bones, almond-shaped eyes and full lips. Nerina. He starts as her eyes flash open, the paper dropping to the floor. Her sensual lips part in the shape of a word as the image floats on the screen. She smiles, continues to mouth the word.
Oliver has dreamed of hearing Nerina’s husky voice; has lain awake at night bathed in perspiration, longing for her but now he dreads to turn on the volume switch, fearful of listening, although he knows what it is she is saying. He should switch off. He should shut down, power off, pull the plug. He shudders, transfixed by her rippling features, strands of her curls drifting in a rectangular pool…

…His phone rings. Wrenching his eyes from the laptop he dives from the swivel chair and snaps the lid down on the device.
“Oliver Grantley” he croaks into his phone.
“Olly it’s only me, Mel! What’s with the formality?”
There is a pause. “Nothing. It’s nothing. I was working. The phone has broken my train of thought.” Oliver doesn’t want this. Doesn’t want his sister to know what he’s seen. She will think he’s lost it. Maybe he has lost it.
“I’m really sorry, Olly. It’s good that you’re working though. Are you sure you won’t change your mind and come round tonight?”
“I’m busy tonight, meeting a friend. We’re going for a drink.”
“Oh Olly! That’s great! Is it anyone we know? Male or female?”
Oliver stutters, frowning. “No. No one you know. It’s someone from work.”
“What’s her name then?”
Now all he wants is to tell his sister to get lost. “Paula. Her name’s Paula. Look, I have to go. I have a report to finish.”
“Alright Olly. But I want to know how it goes tonight. Call me back tomorrow!”
At last she hangs up. He tosses the phone on to the sofa, folds his arms and looks out at the city. After a moment he goes to the kitchen and swallows a couple more pills before going to his desk and glowering at the offending computer. He lunges forward, snatches it and stuffs it into his bag.
Outside the breeze has stiffened, whipping up eddies of litter and dust and tugging harder at his collar as he strides along. His deceased wife’s throaty laugh swirls around him in the wind. How many nights had he spent in the guest room after her claims of feeling ‘too exhausted for company’? How many times had he put his hand in his pocket to fund yet another ‘night out with a friend’? He could stand these deceits, and more if she’d shown him some affection instead of scornful jibes and mocking laughter.
He’s walked half a mile or so before he realises where he is; on the tow path. He stops, hitching the bag higher on his shoulder, takes a few steps to a bench and sits. The flowing canal is mesmerising, travelling along in its relentless passage to the harbour, carrying small islands of detritus-tangled sticks, discarded coffee cups and bits of polystyrene packaging or plastic bottles. He shivers. When they’d walked here last summer it had seemed romantic. He’d felt proud showing her the waterside. There had been swans bobbing on the water and a kingfisher darting amongst the willow trees that hung over the bank trailing leafy fronds, leaving ripples.
Today’s ripples are from the insistent, blustery wind. Beneath the surface there are dark, wavy shapes like hair; like black, glossy hair and the air is rank with an earthy smell of rotting vegetation. He leaves his bag on the bench and shuffles towards the canal side, drawn by the undulating contours below the water. He peers down. She’d asked him if there were fish he remembers and they’d leaned down to see. He’d put a restraining arm around her for protection. Weeks later he’d followed her, watching her swaying hips as she made her way down to the canal, hiding in the lush undergrowth while she lay on the bench with her lover, her skirt pushed up and her head thrown back as the other man drew his lips along her long, white throat.
Afterwards the man had left without a backward glance, striding away on the path, smoothing his hair and tucking his shirt in.
Under the wrinkly surface there are pale shapes, sometimes still, sometimes moving like soft, creamy limbs in the flow. This is where they’d found her. Oliver had been in the flat when they came to tell him how they’d pulled her from the canal, speaking in hushed voices, solicitous, offering counselling, offering to call someone. He shouldn’t be on his own, they’d said.
Later he’d had to go and identify her as she lay on a slab, her cold features bleached, her ivory skin blue-tinged; no trace of scorn remained on her pale lips, no remnant of guile under her dark eyelashes.
They’d found the man from forensic traces along the path.
“He got what he deserved” Mel had said when Nerina’s lover was sentenced to life.            But Oliver knows better.
He is on the edge now, leaning forwards towards the shapes, drawn by them. She’d stood on the verge, her back to him as he’d emerged from his hiding place. He’d only meant to shock her, to make her see sense, to see how angry he was. She’d hit the water without much of a splash and the sounds were more like strangled squeaks than a scream, her slender arms flaying a little, making circles of ripples that radiated out from her head as it sank. A steady flow of bubbles rose to the surface, slowing after a couple of minutes then the brown, snaking canal had continued on as before.
A white hand flutters among the weed, beckoning. On the surface her face is appearing again, swaying in the ripples, mouth half open, smiling. A gust of wind rushes through the trees on the bank, roaring in his ears as he takes another step towards the undulating shape, where her arms are open to receive him.
In the bag on the bench Oliver’s laptop is wide awake, its blue screen oscillating as a gentle stream of bubbles rises from the bottom to the top in a never-ending stream.

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


 

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