Tag Archives: short story

Happy New Year, Brian Meadon

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This is an old story, but I make no apologies for publishing it once more as, after all, New Year is almost upon us. Wishing all my readers a much happier New Year than Brian is about to have!

Brian Meadon peers out into the darkness and is forced to admit a grudging fascination for the way the snowflakes are looming out of the sky and settling in an ominous and ever growing heap on his car’s windscreen. His initial feelings of hot anger and frustration with the car’s failings have ebbed away to be replaced with somewhat colder resignation. There is still just enough light outside to make out the writing on a road sign beyond his lay-by. ‘Stoodley Interchange’, it asserts, taunting Brian with confident superiority, even though accumulations of snow are creeping up its legs.

Settling back into his driving seat once more, Brian decides to give his phone another go. He is pleased with the way he’d remembered to charge up the battery, a task he’d frequently been accused of neglecting by his ex-wife. This small celebration of competence affords him a slight, smug smile until yet again ‘no signal’ appears on the screen in an impudent gesture almost as if it were conspiring with the road sign to gang up on him. At least the phone’s tiny screen casts a little light.

Brian shivers. He attempts to recall the advice being provided by experts on this morning’s Beeb’s news programme but it had been burbling away as a background to packing. If he’d not been carried away with optimistic anticipation of the evening revelries to come he might have paid more close attention to the weather warnings and in particular to dire predictions concerning road travel. What was one meant to do? Firstly, you should not travel at all unless your journey is absolutely vital. ‘Well’, thinks Brian, ‘It is vital to my wellbeing to have a bit of fun, so I’ve covered that one’. Secondly, you should ensure that loved ones know your whereabouts and your travel plans. Brian feels uneasy about this one, since although he has made Jackie, his ex, aware that he has been invited to a ‘country house New Year festivity’ somewhere in Berkshire he had not been motivated so much by a need for self preservation, more a desire to demonstrate what a popular, well-connected and upwardly mobile fellow he has become since they split up. ‘Neither is she a loved one!’ he speaks aloud into the silent phone. He has not brought a shovel or a torch, but these would be of no assistance as the car is going nowhere, snow or not. A flask of coffee, however and a warm blanket, he has to admit, would have been very welcome by now.

An exploratory foray into his overnight bag yields little of any use to Brian except for a towel, which he drapes around his shoulders like a cape. He has also brought some pajamas which, whilst the additional layer would be beneficial he feels reluctant to don in case of rescue. After deliberating he decides to bear them in mind as emergency clothing supplies. His feet are by far the most pressing problem, having become totally numb inside his shoes so that he is compelled to scrunch his toes up periodically in attempt to regain some feeling. Should he, perhaps break into the bottle of wine he brought along as a contribution to the New Year do? He thinks not, for now; best to keep something in reserve in case, Heaven forbid, the situation worsens.

Another glance at the phone reveals the time to be 8.57pm, and forty five minutes since the last vehicle passed by. Brian realizes with a grimace that his careful calculation of timing in order to arrive not too early and not too late will now be academic. His arrival will now be, at best, late. What will the reception be like if, and when, he arrives? Misgivings flutter through his digestive system like tipsy hens and peck away at his confidence. Rob and Shelley are people he met almost a year ago and spent one week with, when comradeship was enhanced by the thrills and spills of the ski slopes. But they were charming, friendly and fun, seemed to really like having him around, have kept up with emails. The invitation had been issued with genuine warmth and re-issued as a result of his last email enquiry as to whether the party was going ahead.

Brian decides that he can utilize more of his clothing resources if he curls up on the rear seat. The time has come to employ the services of his pajamas-which he acknowledges he only brought as an afterthought, thus freeing up his towel as a foot-wrapping. The achievement of all this takes some time and energy, resulting in the opening of the wine, thankfully of the screw topped variety. He lifts his head up enough to swallow a mouthful and then shudders as a yawn escapes him. He wonders what is happening at the party now and imagines he is there, glass in hand, chatting up a woman, asking her to dance, getting close, feeling the rhythm, moving his feet, becoming warm, hot, sweating, thumping.

Thumping! Brian starts awake, wild eyed, dropping the wine bottle into his overnight bag, an intense, dazzling light in his face and an urgent thumping on the window. ‘Just a minute!’ he tries to shout, managing a feeble croak. He fumbles with frozen fingers to open the rear door which eventually opens with a gasping crack, having been yanked from the outside. A large, unearthly figure swathed in black is bending in to scrutinize him, playing a flashlight over the interior of the car. For a fleeting, delirious moment Brian believes he has expired; that this horrific apparition has materialized in the afterlife to exact retribution for his earthly sins.

“Good evening sir. Are you alright?”

Speechless, Brian feels an ignominious, hot welling of tears behind his eyes as he struggles to get a grip on his emotions at being found. Minutes later he is sitting in the police land rover clutching a hot cup of tea while the officer calls the AA number he has given him.

“Rescue vehicle is on its way sir,” the policeman tells him. The dashboard clock is showing 10.48pm. Flooded with a surge of optimism, Brian grasps that he has not missed the entire party, because it is a New Year’s celebration, and the nature of New Year’s parties is to extend up to, and indeed well beyond midnight. He pictures himself arriving at Rob and Shelley’s, hearing raucous laughter and the thudding beat of loud music, windows all lit and pulsating figures gyrating within. He will apologize for his lateness, explain his predicament, present the remnants of the wine, be hailed as a hero, exclaimed over, pressed with drinks and nibbles, surrounded by sympathetic, admiring women.

Whilst it takes longer than Brian has anticipated for the AA man to attach the defective car to the breakdown truck he calculates that he will still get to the party in plenty of time.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go home sir? You won’t be the only person not attending, I’m sure, then there’s the car. You’ll have that to deal with. How will you get it back?”

“No! These friends of mine, they’re almost family! They’ll be disappointed if I don’t turn up, and Rob’ll help with the car tomorrow. He knows loads about electrics.”

“How about calling them, though, sir? Just to be sure?”

“I doubt if they’d hear it!” Brian chuckles. “No, let’s just carry on and get there. It’ll be fine.”

They lapse into a silence burdened with the AA man’s skepticism.

It is 11.52pm when they pull in to the entrance to the lane leading to ‘The Orchard’.

“I’m going to have to leave the car here, sir. I don’t want to be going up there and not be able to manoeuvre or turn the rig round.”

“No problem! We can sort it out tomorrow. As I said, Rob will know what to do.”

Once the offending car has been detached from the truck the AA man is as eager for departure as Brian is for merriment. Brian pumps his hand, more in a desire for him to disappear than in gratitude, staying only briefly to wave as the truck rumbles away. Having stuffed his pajamas back into the overnight bag he sets off round the bend towards ‘The Orchard’.

It has stopped snowing. Against the inky sky there is the silhouette of a house, but as yet no sound or hint of light. He walks on to find a gate, more easily visible now that his eyes are accustomed to darkness, unlatches it and continues up a path to the front door. He stops to listen, straining to hear a hint of music or a voice, gazing at the windows for some chink of light, any sign of activity or, as a frisson of anxiety begins to insinuate itself, an indication of occupation. There is a small click. Brian is instantly illuminated by the security light, setting off a tirade of furious yapping from the bowels of the house. ‘Strange’, he muses ‘that they never mentioned owning a dog’. He procrastinates on the doorstep in a doldrum of indecision. It is clear even to him that there is no party taking place. The unnerving idea that this may be the wrong house fills him with dread, since he has waved off the kindly AA man to whom he’d exaggerated the description of his acquaintances as ‘almost family’. It is now twelve twenty one am and he is freezing.

Faced with the choice of once more donning his pajamas and towel and sleeping on the back seat of his car or rousing the inhabitants of this house, whoever they may be, Brian opts for throwing himself on the mercy of the householders even if they are strangers. At the sound of the doorbell, the yapping acquires new vigor and he feels both anxious and relieved as an interior light is switched on and he hears a muffled voice. There is a momentary hiatus while locks and chain are undone then the door is opened a little to reveal part of a pajama-clad body topped by a pale, wary face. The face speaks.

“Yes?”

Brian feels weak with gratitude to some unformulated source that it is Rob who has answered the door, albeit not the party-animal Rob he’d envisioned; the ‘life-and-soul’ Rob of the pistes. Nevertheless this suspicious, guarded individual is recognizable as Rob.

“Hello Rob. Happy New Year!”

He proffers the half bottle of wine, affecting a merry grin in the hope that his teeth are not chattering too much. The distrustful figure in the doorway peers further out at him, blinking until recognition dawns.

“Oh it’s um..”

“Brian. From skiing! You know. Last February”

“Brian. Yes. Brian. From skiing.”

There is an interval during which Brian lowers the wine bottle to his side and Rob continues to stand in the small gap he has allowed between the door and the frame and contemplate the visitor. Somewhere in the background the yapping continues apace.

“What did you want Brian?”

Brian swallows. His lips have become dry and numb, his voice a timorous squeak.

“The party. The New Year’s do.”

“Party?” Rob’s eyes widen as he stares at him. The moment is interrupted by a woman’s voice.

“What’s going on? Who is it Rob?” and Shelley appears, swathed in a white towelling bathrobe and a bewildered expression. Rob half turns to speak over his shoulder.

“It’s Brian. From skiing. He’s come for a party, apparently.”

It is Shelley’s turn to squint at him, looking closely from behind Rob’s shoulder. Brian dangles the wine bottle, nervous snicker hovering on his lips. Shelley appears to rally, declaring,

“Well we can’t all stand here letting cold into the house. You’d better come in, er, Brian.”

He steps over the threshold, still clutching the wine bottle and continuing to sport what he hopes is his most affable and charming smile despite the ambiguous welcome.

“I seem to have got you up, don’t I? Was the party cancelled at the last minute? Only I’ve got a slight problem with my car. The recovery vehicle has had to leave it at the end of your driveway. I can probably get it moved tomorrow. Do you think there’ll be any taxis tonight?”

Their confused frowns lead him to pause as he glances from one to the other.

Fifteen minutes later he is plumping up a cushion on the sofa in their lounge and unzipping the side of a threadbare sleeping bag that is most likely a relic of Rob’s past travels. At last the dog has lapsed into merciful silence. He takes a sip of the tea he’s been given and moves stealthily to the living room door, the better to hear what is being shouted in the kitchen.

“What the Hell were you playing at, inviting that bloke here?” Rob’s anger has broken out now that he is no longer in the room with Brian.

“We were all pissed, Rob, if you recall and we came up with the idea of getting together at New Year. He wasn’t asked specifically. He was just there. He was always hanging around. Don’t you remember? We couldn’t shake him off; odious little man! We must have overlooked him when we decided to cancel.”

Brian listens in for a few more minutes until the recriminations and accusations begin to be repeated, then he pads quietly back to the sofa to insinuate himself into the moth-eaten sleeping bag. He lifts the remnants of the wine to his lips, whispering ‘Happy New Year’ before knocking it back in two mouthfuls. In the morning he will have to phone up and get his car taken home and with luck, scrounge a lift for himself. Once he is home he will ring Jackie. If she is feeling magnanimous he might get invited round there, especially if he says he’d like to see the kids on New Year’s Day. She might ask about the party. He will tell her all the details. How the champagne flowed like water, the house was a mansion lavishly decked out, the women gorgeous. He will name drop a few minor celebrities and hints about not sleeping alone. Yes. She will be impressed. The bickering voices seem further away now. Brian sighs. The bottle slips from his hand on to the carpet where it leaves a blood red dribble. A gentle snore escapes him. ‘Happy New Year’. Well it didn’t turn out so bad.

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

New Fiction for Christmas…

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End of Season

You could tell what kind of day it would be without sitting up to pull the blind. This morning was gloomy, overcast and reflective of the mood that clouded Raymond when he woke. Today there was no need to throw off the duvet, stand up and stretch, take a chair and his morning tea outside to survey the world. No, no, today was a day to lie still and wallow in the dingy light and the sporadic smatter of drops on the windows. Just to check, he raised a finger to a corner of the blind. Grey clouds were racing across the hill opposite and rain spattering the glass. He sighed, let the blind drop, sank back on the pillow.

Mary would have said, ‘we should count our blessings, Ray.’ Mary had been fond of her homespun epithets. ‘Look on the bright side’, ‘time will tell’, ‘it’ll all come out in the wash’,were some of her favourites. She’d told him he must get out and about, have adventures while he still could. Now look at him- incarcerated in the self-same caravan they’d bought to share adventures in.

He stared ahead at the wall opposite, not much further than his feet, cream coloured, plastic and dimpled, a few scuff marks. He’d lost the urge to keep the van spanking clean and spruced, couldn’t remember when he’d last cleaned the shower cubicle and loo or the fridge and last night’s dishes were still lingering in a reproachful heap in the sink.

He sat up, scratched his chin where a couple of days’ stubble had accumulated then edged his way around the bed and through to the dining/kitchen area where he shrugged on his default navy cardigan over vest and shorts before collecting his threadbare towel and his washbag from the tiny shower. As he stepped out and down on to the grass a cheerful voice called ‘Morning Raymond! You’re late this morning. Heavy night, was it?’. Ray scowled at the retreating backs of his neighbours, Geoff and Julie, as they walked their terrier up the drive towards the dog-walking field. He trudged down towards the shower block, clutching his cardigan together as a stiff breeze blew droplets of rain across the site.

A hot shower and a shave in one of the site’s pristine cubicles partly restored his mood to neutral, although he could think of nothing to plan today, other than a cup of tea with the day’s news. But as he exited the block and headed back to his pitch, he noticed he had a new neighbour on the other side to Geoff and Julie; a two-tone, green and cream VW had pulled in next to his van. There was no sign of a driver, which was lucky because Raymond, attired as he was in sleep shorts, greyish vest and disreputable cardigan, was able to scuttle back inside before anyone emerged. He changed into cleaner shorts and a T-shirt, filled the kettle and waited at the window to see who the new arrival might be.

When the kettle whistled he turned towards the hob and was surprised by a knock on his door, opening it to see a middle-aged woman, large, colourful and grinning up at him. She wore a hand-knitted poncho and a jaunty, crocheted bucket hat with a yellow flower on the brim. Unruly curls of red hair were escaping from beneath the hat.

‘Hello! I’m Polly. I’ve just arrived and I realise I’ve forgotten to bring a tin opener. You wouldn’t happen to have one, would you?’

Raymond spluttered then came to his senses. ‘Uh- yes of course. Hold on and I’ll get it.’ He rifled through his cutlery drawer, managing to find one, hoping it was clean, then handed it down to Polly, who, much to his shame, was peering into the gloom of his van. He felt his face heat up, aware of the bedding piled high on his caravan bed and the unwashed crockery in the sink.

It was early evening and he was slumped on the bench seat watching TV when the knock came again. He jumped up, straightened his cardigan and opened up to see Polly smiling and proffering the tin opener.

‘Thanks,,,er,,,’

‘Raymond- Ray. You’re welcome.’ He cast around for something else to say, something to keep her there a little longer. He couldn’t invite her in- not with the state the van was in. She gestured rowards the hillside, towards the bar/cafe.

‘Is the bar open every night, Ray? I thought I might give it a go and have a night off cooking. Are the meals any good?’

He swallowed. ‘It’s not bad. Depends what you like. It’s just pub grub- pies, scampi and stuff.’

She nodded. ‘Fancy joining me, then? Later? I’ve got to get a shower and everything first, of course.’

He blinked, blushing again. ‘I…’

She laughed, a big, hearty guffaw that warmed his heart, ‘I’m not asking you to marry me, Ray. I just fancied a bit of company while I eat a pie and have a pint’.

Raymond exhaled, unaware he’d been holding his breath. ‘Yes of course’, he blurted. ‘I’d like to’. He felt his shoulders relax.

‘See you about seven, then? I’ll knock when I’m ready.’

He managed to nod and waited until she’d climbed back into her VW before closing his door, experiencing a tremor of panic at the idea that he’d be going on a date. What could he wear? He rummaged in his clothes locker in the vain hope of finding something presentable, throwing garments out on to the bench, mostly unwashed and all creased and scruffy. With no time to wash anything he delved into the heap, coming up with a purple, 2003, Iron Maiden T-shirt and his least filthy pair of jeans. Remembering there was an iron in the laundry, he took the items down there and preyed that nobody he knew entered. At least he’d showered and shaved that morning, which gave him more time.

Back in the van, he studied as much as he could see of his outfit in the mirror inside the cupboard and sighed. It would have to do.

She was prompt; seven o’clock sharp she knocked. He grabbed his jacket and stepped out, noting that polly still wore the poncho but had ditched the hat.

‘Um…what would you like to drink?’ he asked her, as they stood studying the beer taps.

‘I’ll have a pint of best, Ray, if you’re offering. Thanks!’

He ordered two pints and followed her to a table, bemused. Mary never drank beer and would have a small glass of white wine, or if it was a special occasion a gin and tonic and if it was Christmas, a modest glass of sherry.

At the table, Polly was studying the menu, frowning. ‘Have you had a pie here, Ray? I’m thinking I might try one.’

‘Yeah- I’ve had all the varieties of pie,’ he said. She looked up from the menu.

‘Because you don’t cook much? Or because you’ve been here a long time…?’

There was a pause. ‘I suppose it is a long time, compared to most people. I come every year and I stay all season. We always come…came…’ He petered out.

‘When you were married, you mean?’

Raymond found himself talking about it all; about Mary’s death, about not wanting to be in an empty house, about all the things he wish he could do. At last he came to a jerky halt, aware that he might not be the best company Polly could have chosen.

‘I’m sorry’, he muttered. ‘You don’t want to hear all this.’

She placed a hand on his arm and he felt the warm, reassuring pressure on his skin.

‘It’s fine. None of us gets to middle age without some burden, without a blight we carry round with us for the rest of life. Some burdens are heavier than others.’

He rallied. ‘What about you? What’s your burden?’

She shook her head, her mass of curls flying out in a ginger storm. ‘Let’s leave it and choose our dinner, shall we? I’m going for steak and stilton and a heap of chips!’

Raymond was to realise he was unused to talking when he woke in the night with a dry throat, his jaw muscles stiff like they needed oiling. He got up and drank some water then got back into bed, drifting off in a reverie of imagined dates, companionship and shared travels. What a wonderful, cheerful, vivacious woman Polly was! She’d drawn him out, made him laugh, given him a glimpse of what living could be like.

He woke to shafts of sunlight piercing the gaps in the blinds and illuminating his walking boots, where he’d placed them on the floor last night after a frantic search. He lay smiling for a moment, recalling the plans they’d made to go walking today after he’d told her about the joys of the coastal path and the stunning views that rewarded strenuous hill climbs.

For once, he was eager to begin the day, swinging his legs to the rug, folding his bedding and stowing it in the locker above the driver’s seat before filling the kettle. He unlatched a blind. As it slid down, sunshine flooded in, temporarily depriving him of sight. He shaded his eyes, staring out at the field. He frowned, continuing to stare. At nothing. There was nothing. There was a space, some slight indentations in the grass…four, tyre-shaped, where a two-tone VW had been.

He stood for a long time, gaping, rubbing his neck. Then he reached down, pulled the blind up and latched it, before dragging his duvet out of the top compartment. throwing it on to the bed and climbing back underneath it.

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

Visiting Steven [Part 3]

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Molly and Ed have been paying a visit to lugubrious Steven as a favour to a neighbour, but the visit is not easy or enjoyable. Now they on their way back home…

‘You’re surely not going, are you?’ Ed exhales an irritated huff as I begin to reverse out of the driveway.

‘I feel I should. I need to be Elspeth’s representative. And If I don’t go, who on earth else will?’

‘It doesn’t matter,does it? Who cares? It’s not our problem. I suppose at least we’ve got a cake out of it.’

Next morning I go next door to Elspeth’s to tell her when the funeral is, playing down the negative reception we had from Stevenand probing a little into the strange, mother-son relationship of Steven and Bet. My elderly, infirm neighbour is sitting in her usual spot by the bay window, where she likes to watch the world go by. I tap the window to let her know I’m coming in, then use my key.

Elspeth was here when we moved here, seven years ago. She made us feel welcome straight away, going on to become a close friend and confidante. Over the years she’s become disabled, lost confidence and rarely leaves the house, even though she knows we’d take her anywhere she’d like to go. I pop in most days, unless we’re on holiday, just to check if she’s alright and see if she needs any shopping.

I make us both tea and settle into a chair opposite her. She’s looking expectant, wanting to know how we got on yesterday at Steven’s house.

‘Did he like the flowers?’ she asks. I smile.

‘Oh yes- I think he liked them. I found a vase to put them in for him.’

She nods. ‘How does he seem, Molly?’

I chew my lip, thinking. ‘He’s…he’s sad, of course.’

She waits for more. She hasn’t seen Steven or his mother for more than twenty years. since they moved to the coast, to Eastbourne and I wonder why they made the choice to move away from anyone they knew, given that neither of them had left the bungalow or the TV screen to stroll by the sea and enjoy the benefits of coastal living.

‘Elspeth, why do you think Steven stayed with his mum and never left the family home? He seems to have become dependent on her right into adulthood.’

She gazes out of the window, where a hungry blue tit is tearing away at her bird feeder.

‘Well, they were always close,’ she tells me, ‘more so when his dad left them. I think Steven felt protective towards her then I suppose it became a mutual thing.’ she turns back to me.

I ask her how she and Bet had met and she describes how they’d both started in the same accountancy firm on the same day, how they’d gone out dancing, met men, had boyfriends who’d become husbands, had a baby within a year of each other. They’d been bridesmaids for each other, supported each other and laughed together for years, shared secrets and helped out whenever it was needed, until Bet’s husband left her and she wanted a new start, wanted to be near the sea. She chose Eastbourne, many miles away.

Elspeth’s happy marriage came to an end when she was widowed but she no longer had the immediate support of her best friend. Contact had been reduced to letters, fewer and fewer of them as time went by, then only birthdays and Christmas cards. Elspeth had received an impersonal, typed, round-robin letter informing her of Bet’s death.When she asks me about the funeral arrangements I feel so sorry for her I tell her I will deputise for her and attend.

Then I realise I will have to tell Ed.

Back at our house, Ed is busy pottering in the garage. I open the door and he looks up.

‘How was Elspeth?’ he asks me.

‘She’s ok. I know you won’t like this idea much,’ I venture, ‘but…

Check in next Sunday for the fourth and final instalment of Visiting Steven. For more fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend and The Year of Familiar Strangers. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Visiting Steven [part 2]

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Molly and husband, Ed have driven a longway to visit Steven, a man they don’t know but are beginning to wish they still didn’t…Track back to last week’s post to begin at the beginning…

He stares down. ‘I cared for her for a year. She likes to be in here, with me. We like to be together. We like the same TV programmes. Emmerdale, that’s one of her favourites; all the soaps. We love them.

I’m noting the use of present tense, nodding at him. Is he confused, part of him believing her to still be alive?

‘Did you have help with her care? Did anyone come in?’

‘They come three times a week; not always the same ones. Some of them are alright. I like it when they’re gone and it’s just Mum and me again. I can do anything they do, anyway. We don’t need anyone else.’

Ed coughs. I ignore him.

‘I tell you what, Steven. How about me making us all a cup of tea. Shall I do that? I expect I can find everything in the kitchen. Is it through there?’ I wave my hand at the hallway. Ed leaps up, springing into action.

‘I’ll do it! he blurts and strides from the room.

I plunder my thoughts for conciliatory phrases. ‘Was it peaceful? I expect she was comforted to have you by her side, wasn’t she?’

There is a painful silence, during which I notice his face is glistening with tears. I rifle in my bag for a clean tissue and place it in his lap before escaping to the kitchen, where Ed is opening and closing cupboards in a hunt for mugs. He turns when I enter.

‘For God’s sake! How much longer do we need to be here? The man’s clearly deluded and clinically depressed. There’s nothing we can do for him, is there?’

I refrain from questioning Ed’s psychiatric, diagnostic skills. ‘I promised Elspeth! I can’t just throw the flowers at him and run off!’

‘Well, we’re leaving as soon as we’ve done the tea- that’s if I can find anything to put it in. It’s a hell of a way to come for this kind of welcome. We’ll need to get back on the road soon.’

He’s right, of course. It’s a two and a half hour drive for us.

I find a glass jug in a cupboard and put the flowers into it as Ed withdraws some petite, flowery cups from a high shelf. He’s made tea in a brown, tannin-stained teapot, using leaves he’s found in an ancient, tin caddy. There’s some milk in the fridge which smells alright. I carry two cups back into the living room, where Steven hasn’t budged, and place one beside him on a side table. We resume our respective positions. I lean forward.

‘When’s the funeral, Steven?’ I ask him and he flinches as though he’d forgotten we were there.

‘Monday. Willdown Cemetery. Eleven o’clock.’ He sniffs.

‘Who’ll be there- apart from yourself, I mean?’

He shrugs…

Check in next Sunday for the third and final instalment of Visiting Steven. For more fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend and The Year of Familiar Strangers. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Visiting Steven

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It’s a squat, ugly bungalow on a corner between two busy roads. a short driveway bordered with scruffy weeds leads to the front door, paint peeling, neglected terracotta planters. I press the bell, peering through the wobbly glass until a blurred figure is visible and approaching. I clear my throat as the door opens just a bit, a narrow sliver of face in the gap, the rest shielded behind.

‘Steven?’ I say, summoning what I hope is a cheerful smile. He looks from me to Ed, his long , pale face guarded, his eyes hooded. He opens the door a fraction more. He’s a tall man, thin, a little stooped. He’s wearing a hand-knitted, navy cardigan over a grey shirt.

Ed’s lurking behind me on the step, semi-concealed as though he needs me to protect him. I take a breath and extend my free hand towards Steven.

‘My name’s Molly,’ I tell him, ‘and this is my husband, Ed’. I half turn to Ed, who appears to be what I term ‘skulking’ whenever he is engaged in a task he is reluctant to undertake. Steven glances down at my hand but doesn’t take it, preferring to move the door back until he’s narrowed the gap once more. I shift the bouquet of flowers I’m holding and plough on.

‘Steven, we’ve come to see you at the request of our neighbour, Elspeth. I believe you know her?’ A flicker of acknowledgement passes across his face. I continue. ‘I think your mum was a close friend of Elspeth’s. Am I right?’

He steps out from behind the door, nodding. I proffer the flowers.

‘Elspeth wanted you to have these. And she’s written you a note. Her writing’s a bit shaky these days but you should be able to decipher it.’ I do my utmost to fix an encouraging smile on my lips. There’s a pause while he stares at the flowers then back at us then he seems to rally, pulling the door wider and mumbling ‘come’, as he turns and lopes away into the hallway and turns left into a room. We follow, Ed trying to hisss something from behind me. I can guess what it is but ignore him. I know he’s even more averse to running this errand than I am myself. He wants to leave the flowers and the cake and go home.

I follow Steven into a living room furnished with two, faded, Dralon armchairs- ‘wingbacks’ I believe they’re called, in beige. There’s a worn, beige carpet, an old-fashioned gas fire opposite the door and a small dining table against one wall. The bay window has lattice panes, floral curtains on either side. It’s a bland, joyless room, unremarkable except for a large, metal-framed hospital bed, stripped down to its plastic-covered mattress. It faces the television, dominating the space like a huge, silent reproach. Steven, who has dropped into one of the wingbacks, must have noticed me staring.

‘It’s Mum’s’ he says, as if she’s still lying in it, frail and needing attention. I nod, aware that my smile must look grafted on my face.

‘You can sit’ announces, sweeping an arm at the other wingback. He pays no attention to Ed. There’s no other seating except for a dining chair, which Ed, still holding the cake, plumps for, giving me one of his hard frowns. I lean towards Steven.

‘We’ve brought you a cake’.

‘I don’t eat cake. I can’t eat gluten.’ I risk a glance at my husband, who rolls his eyes. Steven hasn’t made eye contact with either of us, rather keeping his face downcast, currently at carpet level as he sits, motionless except for the slightest twitch in his left foot, the one that’s resting on his right knee.

‘So, Steven’, I venture, ‘Your mum lived here in this room, did she?’…

The next part of ‘Visiting Steven’ will be in next Sunday’s Post. To read more by Jane Deans: novels, The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend are available. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Heart of Oak

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A new, flash fiction story in this week’s Anecdotage post. A young girl finds comfort in the empowering branches of an ancient tree…

It’s the top of the world, a pinnacle where the landscape lays beneath like a map studded with vehicles and figures, or at least that’s how it seems to Ada, who has never climbed to this position before.

At this height, the branches become spindly and precarious, susceptible to the slightest breath of breeze, but the girl enjoys the thrill of the swaying limbs, the danger they promise. She also understands that the tree is her protector, will never let her fall and has her best interests at heart. She’s confessed to it, held fast to it, spoken her fears to its sturdy trunk while her arms stretched around to encircled it.

She feels empowered in this lofty perch where nothing can touch her. Below, on the scruffy patch of grass they call a lawn her little sister, Jessie is talking to her doll, Clarissa and although Ada can’t make out the words, Jessie’s hectoring tone indicates that Clarissa is in trouble. She watches as Jessie shakes a warning finger at the doll, where it lays in the battered pram.

In the field next door to their garden, the Baildons’ shire horse, Toby is cutting a diligent swathe through the grass, his nimble teeth tugging the stalks as he steps. Ada loves Toby and dreams of straddling his broad back to roam the lanes, perhaps to school where she would be the envy of all the others.

An insistent buzz comes fromthe opposite side of the garden, where the churchyard paths are being mown. From this high, the ebb and flow of her father and stepmother’s current row is little more than a blurred grumble, alternate high-pitched whine and low growl. If there was more height, more branches to climb she’d continue the ascent until the voices disappeared altogether.

Jessie’s taken Clarissa out of the pram now and is giving the doll a hard smacking. She must have done something very wrong- failed to eat her dinner, perhaps, or left her room untidy? Maybe she’d just been in the wrong place at the wrong time?

Wood smoke drifts across Ada in the breeze and she inhales as it passes, relishing the sweet, earthy aroma. A long time ago, when they used to visit their grandparents, she’d been allowed to help out when they had a bonfire in their garden and needed to clear unwanted growth and prunings, raking up twigs and leaves and tossing them on to the flames. She’d loved doing it; loved watching the flames spring into action, licking up around the bundle of trimmings as if accepting an offering. They never visited their grandparents now, since Mum went.

She looks downthrough the leafy boughs to the washing line and tries to conjure the figure of her mother, working her way along the line, a peg in her mouth as she hung items there. If she caught sight of Ada in the tree she’d wave before returning inside or she would bring biscuits and milk out for her and Jessie, placing the cups on the picnic table and fetching her coffee so they could all sit together in the sunshine. They’re not allowed to snack between meals now.

There’s a bang from somewhere inside the house, a door slamming then rapid footsteps. A moment later her stepmother emerges, stomping to her car, wrenching the door open and driving away. Dad comes out and she can see the round, thinning circle on the top of his head as he stands gazing at where the car was, before taking a long drag of a cigarette and blowing the smoke out in a long, irritated plume. Ada can smell the smoke, the dry, acrid wisp making her nose wrinkle. Dad murmurs something to Jessie, who’s engaged in tucking the blankets round Clarissa, who must have been forgiven her misdemeanours. Jessie shrugs without looking up. Dad glances around before returning indoors but doesn’t raise his eyes skyward, doesn’t imagine for a moment that Ada is right here above his balding head where she can peer down on it.

She closes her eyes, resing her cheek against the knobbly bark and inhaling its wholesome, mossy scent. Suppose she could live up here?She could bring some planks from the shed, rig up a shelter from old, plastic sheeting, add cushions and the sleeping bag she used to use when Mum and Dad took them camping. It’s still in the house somewhere, she’s certain. She’d only need to climb down for food and water, which she could collect at night, although the house might be locked up of course. But she knows there’s a spare key under the flower pot by the back door. Ada drifts into a semi-doze where she sits leaning on the oak’s solid, reassuring trunk.

A shout jerks her from her everie. Jessie is directly underneath her, squinting up. ‘Dad says do we want to go out for pizza?’ her sister asks, peering up into the branches. Ada sighs, nods.

‘Yeah. Yeah, alright’

and she drops one foot down to a lower branch, then another until she’s back on the ground. Back to Earth.

Read these 2 novels by Jane Deans: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Love in a Cold Carriage [part 2]

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Love in a Cold Carriage concludes today. Search Anecdotage for Part 1 [published last week].

As the doors groan open, she takes her bag from the seat next to her. Perhaps if it is occupied. Love-spoon man will desist. New passengers shuffle in, filling the aisle, their big coats brushing the seats, their bags jostling. They bring in the scent of the platform- doughnuts, diesel fumes and night air. A teenager in a puffa jacket drops down beside her, headphones on and wastes no time in withdrawing a phone from her pocket and scrolling, engrossed. Alex expresses an inward curse. Why hadn’t she done this? The teenager has insulated herself from interactions. A book is inadequate for this purpose.

Throughout the disgorging and boarding, Love-spoon man has continued to talk in spite of Alex’s hostile lack of interest. Now he pauses, renews his pose across the table and thrusts a long, rangy arm and knobbly hand into her space until she must withdraw her head to avoid contact.

‘My name’s Ellory’ he beams. Alex drops her eyes to her book. ‘And yours is?’ She pretends not to hear.

‘What’s your name?’

She coughs then sighs, frowning. ‘Alex’

‘Pleased to meet you’. His white, lumpy hand looks indecent as it’s dangled under her nose to be shaken. Alex lays her book down and turns to the teenager.

‘Excuse me’ she hisses, then has to nudge the oblivious girl, who makes a reluctant exit from her seat to allow her to pass. Alex makes her way to the end of the carriage and out of the door, where she leans against the wall, swaying with the rumbling, rolling train. It’s at the suburbs now and will be sliding into Waterloo in a few minutes. She could stay here, out in the door area until it stops, except that her handbag is on the seat and her weekend case above on the rack. She’ll need to return to her seat- and the odious Love-spoon man, before she can leave. She steels herself; better sooner than later.

Returning to the seat, she ignores the delighted grin of the man and the disgruntled scowl of the teenager, who must get out again, and leans in to take her handbag before reaching up to pull her case down.

‘Thanks’ she tells the girl. She’s aware that the man is speaking, that he may be about to follow her, so she heads out and along the train towards the nearest toilet, where she enters, locks the door and sinks down on the seat, hoping that nobody will need the facilities before the train stops.

At last the train slows to a halt and the doors open. Alex emerges, peering along each way before trundling her case to the next door along, stepping down on to the platform. She takes advantage of the crowd, dashing towards the barrier, inserting her ticket and bursting through to the other side. She stares wildly around at the milling throng in the station concourse until she spots the man she’s looking for and makes for him, feeling the smile build inside her, thumping, surging elation replacing anxiety and irritation. The joy of the weekend is upon her.

He sweeps her into a hug and they kiss. When she lifts her face he’s looking over the top of her head at something approaching. Someone. He’s smiling. She turns to see as the person arrives next to them. She feels the blood drain to her feet and her stomach lurch.

‘Alex’, says Jared, swivelling her to face the newcomer. ‘There’ll be three of us this weekend. This is my Dad, Ellory. I didn’t say before because I wanted to surprise you.’

She swallows, words failing her. Ellory’s frog eyes are wide with mirth.

‘I suppose a hug is out of the question? Although we have already met, haven’t we?’ …

To unlock more fiction by Jane Deans, search novels: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Love in a Cold Carriage

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Here’s Part 1 of a brand, new story, in which passenger Alex’s longed for journey is sullied by the attentions of a fellow traveller-

The carriage isn’t too full when Alex steps inside the door; better still, there’s a table free. She’s in no doubt that within a couple of stops she’ll be sharing, but for now she can sink into the seat, enjoy her coffee and revel in the luxury of having the space to herself. She doesn’t feel too much like reading, preferring to gaze out of the window and savour the anticipation of the weekend to come, a feeling that eclipses her exhaustion.

For the first two stops, she’s lulled into a false sense of security, then as the train pulls into a larger station, a crowd is waiting on the platform, a mix of students, commuters and holiday makers lugging cases, making for the airport, which is the next station along. Alex sighs as the doors wheeeze open and the first passengers fill the aisle, looking right and left, heaving cases on to racks and sinking into seats; bringing with them an acrid scent of vapes, tarmac and sweat.

She’s staring out when someone slides into the seat across the table. It’s become dark enough to outside to see the man’s reflection as he settles. She can also see that he’s gazing at her. Perhaps she’ll get her book out after all. She turns towards her bag, keeping her face down as she unzips and delves for the book. But the man seizes the chance mid-turn and leans forward to speak.

‘Will I be disturbing you if I get on with my whittling?’

‘Excuse me?’ Alex frowns. What on earth is he talking about? She is obliged to look up and at him then.

‘Will you mind very much if I indulge my hobby while we’re travelling together?’

Travelling together? Alex pulls in her chin and squints at him. He has leaned across to her side so far that she can detect a faint aroma of something like polish and can see the faded grey of his protruding, frog-like eyes. He has thinning, sandy wisps of hair combed over a bald patch and a pale, dry complexion. She suppresses a shudder then shrugs, shakes her head. There’s no time to open her book before he places a bundle on the table between them, his bulging eyes never leaving her face.

‘I can see you’re intrigued!’ he grins, prompting her to frown. He’s unrolling the fabric bundle now. Alex executes a demonstrative opening of her book and plonks it down in the space remaining on her side but he is undeterred, continuing to gaze at her over the table, having revealed the contents of the bundle. She risks a glance at the items displayed: a type of knife, a soft cloth,some woodshavings and a rudimentary, wooden spoon. She’s aware that he’s grinning like he won the lottery, having almost caught her attention. He picks up the spoon and waves it in her face.

‘Know what this is?’ Although she’s adopted and expression of mild irritation now, he’s either failed to notice or doesn’t care. ‘It’s a love spoon, a Welsh love spoon. Have you seen one before?’ Alex’s lack of response fails to halt the deluge of enthusiastic tedium as he describes the tradition of love spoons, how they are Welsh, how young men gave them to their sweethearts as romantic tokens, how he makes them and sells them at craft fairs. The unsolicited flood of facts streams on and on. Alex picks up her book and slumps back. He’s still talking. She leans slightly to the right to ascertain whether there could be an empty seat further along the carriage but it’s busy. When the tannoy announces that they’ll be arriving at the next station she wonders if she’ll be able to move along to the next carriage and find a seat, although as the train pulls in only a handful passengers leave and she can see that the platform is crowded with people waiting. It’s Friday evening after all…

Check in next week to find out if Alex escapes!

Novels: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend aare widely available. Visit my website: janedeans.com

The Waiting Room

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It’s a return to fiction this week. I’ve mined my own, recent experiences with health issues to produce this very short, flash fiction story about someone waiting. When waiting myself, I’ve been lucky to be brilliantly supported by Husband, but many, many of us must face serious health scares and investigations alone. This story is dedicated to those who wait, undergo tests and wait for results without someone by their side…

Clutching the letter, the woman made her way along the endless corridor, up the wide staircase, through the automatic doors, along another corridor and towards ‘Reception’, where she stood in front of the glass in mute compliance to wait her turn. When she reached the desk, she was compelled to ask the receptionist to repeat her question, then decipher what she’d heard in the woman’s heavily accented English. She handed over her paper, standing still while the woman scrutinised her computer screen, feeling a sudden heat of panic engulf her as the receptionist frowned at the screen. Had she got the wrong day? The wrong time? Perhaps she’d come to the wrong department.The place was, after all, a giant maze of corridors,buildings, floors and courtyards.

‘Take a seat please’ the woman instructed and she turned towards the two rows of chairs, pink, shiny seats and wooden arms. On the wall opposite, a TV screen showed the twenty-four hour news, silent with subtitles. She chose a seat at the end of the back row and sank down. Along the row, at the other end there was a couple, heads close together, murmuring in low voices; in front of them a lone woman like herself but much younger, engrossed in her phone.

She sighed. A few years ago there would have been a pile of scruffy, dog-eared magazines- Country Life, Good Housekeeping or Take a Break, all far out of date but providing an undemanding distraction. She glanced around at the walls which displayed a selection of worthy, earnest posters and leaflets advocating this and that and bearing telephone numbers or warning against violent or unruly behaviour towards staff.

Behind the desk, the receptionist had returned to her screen and was scrolling, perusing and tutting. A nurse in a blue tunic and trousers entered, smiling, provoking an anticipatory response from the four waiting, the attendees; but as the nurse merely picked up a folder from the desk and disappeared through the doors they all slumped back into their waiting activity, or lack of it.

Outside the waiting room, a corridor led to a series of small, intimate rooms, their open doors offering an occasional glimpse of more desks and chairs. She could hear doors opening and closing away up the corridor, blue-clad nurses or someone wearing a lanyard striding purposefully away, carrying papers. Then a door closed and a couple passed the waiting room, shrugging coats on.

She closed in on herself, stilled, looked down at her clasped hands. She was accustomed to waiting, having done a lot of it as a child, when she’d been compelled to attend Sunday morning service in church with her father, perching on a hard pew as communion stretched on and on, an interminable queue of devout parishioners, hopeful of eternal life. Here, in this waiting room they all shared this hope too, although they wouldn’t be depending on God to provide it.

Remembering her yoga breathing exercises, she closed her eyes and concentrated on the long breaths in and out. It was soporific after an interminable, wakeful night and she caught herself drifting, drifting until a different blue-clad nurse appeared in the doorway, causing everyone to look up again.

‘Victoria Hegly?’ she announced, consulting her clipboard. The couple at the end of the row stood, looked at each other and followed her. ‘I’m Simone’, she heard the nurse say, ‘I’m one of the nurses here.’

She resumed her unmoving meditation. Secondary school- that had been a monument of boredom; the assemblies when they’d had to sit on the hard, cold parquet floor, speech days even worse as the prize giving laboured on, seeming to be never-ending. The lessons themselves had been mind-numbing, with teachers entering, sitting enthroned on a raised platform and dictating notes for their luckless pupils to write in ‘rough’ books and learn. It would not do these days! Children could not be allowed to be bored for one minute, needing distaractions in the form of colouring or screen activities in restaurants and even, as in her grandson’s home, at the dining table.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a couple of women entering the room, one older than the other- mother and daughter perhaps? The younger woman leant in towards the desk, they waited, were told to sit, choosing seats by the window, which overlooked the busy car park. She thought it just as well the car park tickets were paid as you left, or how on Earth would you know how much time to purchase?

The other lone woman was summoned by a new, smiling nurse. Nurses have changed, she thought, since she’d last had reason to be here in the building. It was forty years ago. The nurses had been stern and authoritarian as they cared for the new mothers during and after childbirth. She’d been well looked after but in her post-natal, emotional turmoil they’d seemed hard and unfeeling, admonishing her for her ignorance and ineptitude. Now, here, they smiled, proffered tissues, held her hand. Times had changed.

Inside her bag her phone vibrated and she reached down to withdraw it. There was a text from Neil. She frowned. ‘Thinking of you’ it said. ‘How did it go?’ She turned the phone off and replaced it in her bag. Neil wanted to help more than she wanted him to. Neil was for companionship, evenings out, an occasional meal or a night in with a film, sometimes overnight stays, nothing more. She wished she hadn’t mentioned the appointment now, as his desire to be ‘there for her’ added an extra layer of obligation to the anxiety of waiting and a frisson of guilt into the mix.

She was zipping the bag up when the first nurse reappeared with her clipboard. ‘Eleanor Gatiss?’ she asked the room, scanning those remaining. She nodded. ‘That’s me.’

‘I’m Christine. I’m one of the nurses. It’s this way.’

She bent to pick up her bag, straightened her back and smoothed down her skirt before following the young woman in blue out into the corridor towards the small, intimate consulting room…

Want to read more fiction from Grace’s later ego, Jane Deans? Novels: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend, available to download or purchase. Visit my writer page: Janedeans.com

Wish You Were Here

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Jacob is lonely and a loner, until events conspire to change his circumstances. A brand new story on Anecdotage for you today…

              The postcard has been on Jacob Cunningham’s shelf for almost ten hours; and for at least two of those hours Jacob has sat and frowned at it, the remaining hours having been occupied by work, sleep, travelling to and from work and shoving a ready meal into the microwave oven. Jacob is not one to prepare elaborate meals, having only himself to feed and care for, so he rises from his armchair, takes his eyes off the postcard just for the time it takes to heat the meal and returns with the plastic tray and a fork to his chair, cutting down the time and effort involved in taking a plate from the drawer and having to wash it up afterwards. It’s a meagre life, almost monastic in its austerity.

              While he chews, Jacob revisits all the thoughts and ideas he’s had so far about the postcard, which is handwritten and unsigned. First of all, could it be from a friend? Jacob ties his brows into a perplexed knot as he considers this. The problem, as far as he sees it, is that he has no friends, or at least nobody who fits into the friend category. He does, of course have colleagues, if you count his line manager at the Co-op and the two check-out staff, Olek and Sue, who greet him when he arrives and bid him goodbye if they catch him leaving. No one at the Co-op, however, would be likely to send him a postcard, would they? And no one knows his address, except perhaps for Big Beryl, his manager, who interviewed him for his role as warehouseman and shelf-stacker. The idea of Big Beryl sending him anything, least of all a postcard is beyond Jacob’s imagination. In any case, she isn’t on holiday and when she has been on leave, she’s returned to work in an even worse humour than usual, having spent her time caring for her unruly grandchildren, not be-sporting herself on a sun-drenched beach in the South of France.

              Jacob plucks the card from the shelf and inspects it again. The photo is of the beachfront at Nice, a curving bay of creamy sand decorated with palm trees and fringed by pastel coloured apartment blocks, the balconies all facing out to an azure sea. The entire scene is bathed in sunlight and Jacob can make out figures walking along the path between the sand and the road, the Promenade des Anglais, as the caption informs him. He’s read it countless times. He flips it over, stares at the stamp, a rectangle with a turquoise, monochrome image of a young woman in profile. She’s wearing a cap and has long, flowing curls escaping from underneath it. The postmark is from three days ago.

              He appraises the handwriting. It’s elegant and curving in an old-fashioned way that is seldom seen these days. He thinks. You seldom see any handwriting at all these days. In fact, you seldom see postcards. No one writes, not letters, not postcards and rarely greetings cards. It’s unusual to receive anything handwritten.

              His next thought is of family members. Neither of Jacob’s parents is alive and he was an only child, much loved- even doted on, by his mother and father. He doesn’t know why he had no siblings but suspects it was more for economic reasons than anything else. His Dad was a skilled man, a tool-maker, but spent the whole of his working life on the same factory floor without ever achieving a promotion like line manager. His mother had worked in a care home, loving the work but receiving little remuneration. They’d been proud people, though, his parents, and kept the small, terraced, two -bedroom house they’d worked to buy spotless and tidy. Jacob closes his eyes. Thank God they weren’t around to see how little he’s made of his life, how he struggles to just about cover the rent on his housing association, one bedroom box of a flat and works as a dogsbody in a supermarket.

              For a moment, he allows the idea that the postcard is from his son, Lee to drift into his mind. How old is Lee now? Early twenties? Mid-twenties? Where is he, even?  The thought that a child of his could be holidaying in such a place, a place for rich, privileged, classy people fills Jacob with a warm, proud glow, before his imagination hits the brick wall of reality. Of course, Lee isn’t rich, privileged and classy; far from it. Lee will have been as lost to life as Jacob is himself, following Jenny’s death. He takes a quick, inward breath when he thinks the words, ‘Jenny’s death’. It isn’t something he often allows himself to dwell on. He wishes it were different, that he’d tried harder with Lee, but then his own, fragile, mental state had been like a raw wound, exposed and ugly as if anyone could see it and recoil from it.

              If only he’d tried harder with Lee when there had been two parents. Jenny was a natural mother, dealing with all the trials and tribulations of parenthood like she was born to it and delighting in all the joys, too, whereas he himself had been at a loss even before she went, never slotting into life as a dad, with all the pleasures that other fathers and sons seem to share- no football games in the back yard, no mock wrestling, no fishing trips or scoffing popcorn in front of the TV. It’s painful to recall how stiff and uncomfortable he’d been as a dad. No wonder Lee had left home as soon as he was able, vacating the house while Jacob was at work, leaving nothing to indicate his whereabouts and not answering any calls. He’d been sixteen then. Jacob had spent many sleepless nights wondering and worrying and feeling he ‘d let Jenny down. The police response had been, at best, lacklustre; too many teenage runaways to deal with, they said. If the boy wanted to disappear then he would.

              None of this is shedding any light on the mystery of the postcard. He reads the message again:

Hi there!

Sun, sea, palm trees, French cuisine and all the vin you could want! This place is formidable! I should have done this Europe trip years ago! You should try it, Jacob. It’s true what they say about travel broadening the mind! Leaving tomorrow for Italy. Watch this space! xxx

‘Watch this space?’ What does that mean?

Jacob doesn’t have too long to consider what the words mean. Four days later there’s another postcard waiting on the mat when he returns from work. He stares down at it, at the shiny surface of the photo, pausing and frowning at it before placing his carrier bag with a ready meal and one can of beer on to the floor. He reaches down and plucks it from the mat. This time the photo is of a cluster of yellow and ochre buildings terraced above the sea, the lowest and nearest building looking like a café or bar with white parasols outside. In the foreground there is a row of white boats pulled up on what looks like a road; in the middle distance a greyish beach. He continues to inspect the scene as he picks up the bag and pads the few steps into his tiny kitchenette and slumps down on to his one dining chair. ‘Genoa town beach’ proclaims the caption under the picture, and at the top of the beach he can just make out a restaurant with outside tables bathed in the golden, evening light, tiny figures seated around one. He imagines the scene. They’ll be eating pasta and drinking wine, those people.

At work next day, Jacob withdraws the cards from his back pocket and perches on a palette in the yard. He’s studying them when Sue emerges from the delivery entrance and wanders over to join him.

‘Alright Jacob?’

He nods, glancing up at her then back at the Italian post card.

‘That looks nice. I wouldn’t mind being there now, would you?’

Jacob looks sideways at her as she sinks down beside him on the palette. She nods at the cards in his hand. ‘Well, some bugger’s having a good time, eh? Is it a family member?’

He frowns, shakes his head. ‘Tell you the truth; I don’t know who it is.’ He pauses, searching for the words, unused to conversation. ‘I’ve received these two postcards but they aren’t signed and I don’t know who sent them.’

Sue leans forward, eyes wide. ‘Oooh! I love a mystery, me! Who do you think it might be? Who do you know that travels a bit? Could be a youngster, I should think. What’s the handwriting like?’

He turns the cards over to display the neat, curving script. ‘Maybe not a young person, then’ she suggests, peering at the writing. ‘And look, there’s no surname in the address side.’

Jacob sighs. It feels different, sitting out here with another person. He’s used to taking breaks alone, looking at his phone and sipping from his thermos cup but having Sue’s substantial, interested presence feels soothing somehow and when Big Beryl appears in the doorway to give them both a pointed stare, he feels disappointed that his break is over.

Over the next couple of days Sue asks if he’s any nearer to finding the sender of the cards, then on the day before his day off, while they are outside sharing a break he finds himself having a proper conversation with her, telling her things he’s never shared with anyone- stuff about Jenny and about Lee. He feels like a tap in his head has been undone and some of the pressure released.

‘So you don’t reckon the postcards are from him then, Jacob? From Lee?’

He shakes his head. ‘No, no. I don’t know how he’d have got the money to travel like that. And I think he’d write ‘Dad’, not Jacob.’

On his way out, shrugging into his jacket and picking up his carrier bag of groceries, Sue stops him. ‘What are you doing with your day off? Got any plans?’

He pauses, scratches his head. ‘Bit of cleaning, washing- stuff like that.’

She grins. ‘Not much fun!’

He shrugs. Fun doesn’t figure too much in his life these days. Sue persists. ‘If you don’t have much planned, you’re welcome to join our walking group. We go out most Sundays. It’s not too strenuous and they’re a friendly enough bunch. The more the merrier!’ She tells him where and when the group meets but that there’s no obligation, if he doesn’t fancy going.

              That evening he rummages in the bottom of his narrow wardrobe until he finds a battered, shabby pair of trainers, trying them on before placing them ready by his bed. In the kitchen bin there’s an old plastic bottle which he rinses and puts on the draining board ready to be filled with water. He sleeps a deep, dreamless sleep, untroubled by postcards or anything else.

              He’s up in good time, out on the landing locking his door as his neighbour two doors along steps outside. They nod to each other, the extent of their contact to date since Jacob moved in five years ago. He knows there’s a family there, West Indian, two young children- but hasn’t spoken, having not progressed beyond the nodding stage. Now the young man calls to him.

              ‘Morning!’

              Jacob looks up, startled, then rallies. ‘Yes- morning to you, too’ The neighbour approaches as he’s putting his key away.

‘Can I ask you something?’

Flustered, he drops his water bottle then straightens. ‘Er, yes, yes ok.’

‘Have you had any post that wasn’t addressed to you? You know- with someone else’s name on?’

Jacob shakes his head. ‘All my post has my name on’ he says. ‘Sorry- I must dash. I have to be somewhere.’

As he walks down the stairs, the novelty of having to be somewhere swells inside him like a malt whisky. Down in the square he spots Sue milling about among a small group dressed for walking in cagoules and hiking boots and he’s conscious of his scruffy trainers and cheap windcheater jacket. But Sue grins when she sees him, drawing him in and introducing him, although he’s taken aback when she says ‘and this is my partner Raj’.

They set off along the street towards the outskirts of town, Jacob finding himself walking alongside Raj, who engages him in easy conversation. During lulls he wonders if he’d begun to think of Sue romantically and decides he hadn’t, not really; he’d been seduced by her warmth and friendship. Now she’d been generous enough to share her friends with him too. He’s a lucky man.

He’s unused to walking but after a mile or so he finds a rhythm and a stride then he and Raj settle into a companionable silence that enables him to take in his surroundings while his mind meanders into a journey of its own. They’ve got out into the lanes now and are heading towards a village pub where they’ll get lunch- ‘a ploughman’s’, Sue had explained the day before. He settles in the garden at a table with Raj, Sue and a couple of the others. Raj is solicitous, including him in the conversation and asking his opinion.

It’s only when he gets home that he realises how tired he is, sinking into his armchair and kicking off the trainers before closing his eyes. When he opens them it’s late and the first thing he sees are the two postcards, confronting him as if he’s abandoned them for the day, which of course, he has. He spent an entire day without thinking about them- or about Jenny or Lee.

Sitting with Sue on the palette on Monday morning he confesses he’s sore and stiff.

‘But did you enjoy it, Jacob? Will you be coming next time?’

He nods. ‘But I might go and have a look at some proper hiking boots at lunch time though.’

‘Had any more of those postcards yet?’

He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out this morning’s arrival. The mystery sender is in Rome, the card a picture of the Coliseum.

Sue takes the card. ‘Wow!’ She gazes at it. ‘Have you travelled much, Jacob?’

He shakes his head. ‘Not much out of the country, no. We went to Devon once, when Lee was little. Stayed in a caravan. It rained a lot so we felt a bit cooped up, you know.’

Next morning, as he’s exiting the flat, his neighbour appears, a rucksack on his shoulders, says ‘Morning’ and strides away down the landing. A young woman, presumably his wife, hangs out of the doorway holding a Tupperware box.

‘Jacob! Jacob!’ she hollers as he disappears down the stairs.

Jacob? Jacob frowns, then dashes along to the stairwell and calls,

‘Hey mate, mate!’

Below him the dark head of his neighbour turns up towards him.

‘I think you’ve forgotten your lunch’.

The other Jacob grins and leaps back up, taking two steps at a time. He runs back, grabs the box and dashes for the stairs, calling ‘Cheers’ as he passes Jacob.

He re-enters his flat and collects the postcards before knocking on the neighbours’ door. When the woman opens it, she’s all prepared to go out, with a toddler in a stroller and another standing in a coat.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ he begins, ‘I have a feeling these are your husband’s postcards. You see, I’m called Jacob, too.’

Outside on the palette, he tells Sue of the development. ‘Goodness! What are the odds of having two Jacobs within two doors of each other, do you think?’

Jacob remembers the young woman, Tara’s face as he thrust the misplaced cards at her; remembers her delighted smile and tinkling laughter, the wide eyes of the toddlers on him as he stood in the doorway.

‘Are you up for next Sunday’s walk?’ Sue asks him, ‘we’re going over the downs, weather permitting of course’.

‘Yes. I’ll be trying out my new boots’ Jacob lifts up his feet to display the brand, new hiking boots he’s been wearing to work to get accustomed to, on Sue’s advice.

Later he plods along the landing towards his flat and spots something on the floor by his door. It’s a bottle of red wine and an envelope. He carries the items inside before sitting down and opening it.

‘For our neighbour and friend, Jacob’  it says, ‘to thank you for finding our lost post’

He stares at the card for a long time. At last he stands and places it with almost reverend care on the shelf where the postcards used to sit, then he removes his walking boots and pads into the kitchenette, taking a plate, knife and fork from the cupboard and setting them on the tiny, formica table before placing his meal in the microwave oven.

Grace is the alter ego of novelist and short story writer, Jane Deans. To date I have two published novels to my name: The Conways at Earthsend [https://www.amazon.co.uk/Conways-at-Earthsend-Jane-Deans-ebook/dp/B08VNQT5YC/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2ZHXO7687MYXE&keywords=the+conways+at+earthsend&qid=1673350649&sprefix=the+conways+at+earthsend%2Caps%2C79&sr=8-1 and The Year of Familiar Strangers [https://www.amazon.co.uk/Year-Familiar-Strangers-Jane-Deans-ebook/dp/B00EWNXIFA/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2EQHJGCF8DSSL&keywords=The+year+of+familiar+strangers&qid=1673350789&sprefix=the+year+of+familiar+strangers%2Caps%2C82&sr=8-1 Visit my writer Facebook page [https://www.facebook.com/search/top?q=jane%20deans%2C%20novellist%2C%20short%20fiction%20and%20blog or my website: https://www.janedeans.com/