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Two Sisters

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A brand new short story begins today-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Oh,’ I say.

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

‘Ok. What will it be?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Exit

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Still nothing on the job front?’

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

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

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

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

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

‘Take a seat’ the woman ordered, unsmiling.

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

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

‘No. There was a pause.

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

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

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

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

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

How the mighty are fallen…

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

Unmanned on a Wednesday

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So here’s another vintage short story, in which two women meet in a laundrette…

Muriel stood outside on the pavement and examined the information on display, mouthing the words: opening hours, the management accepts no responsibility…

Shielding her eyes against reflection, she peered into the gloom, scanning for signs of life, hoping for an efficient counter assistant to relieve her of her bulky bundle; someone who was familiar with the machines and the vagaries of washing one’s dirty linen in public. Inside she could make out a figure, bending to pull open a circular door.

She inhaled, grasped the handle of the bag with one hand and pushed the door with the other, hearing its incongruous jangle as she dragged the holdall in through the entrance to the launderette.

The figure straightened, turned to acknowledge her presence with a smiling ‘Hello’ then continued to feed clothing into the open mouth of the washer, flicking items or turning them inside out.

Muriel looked around. The atmosphere was oppressive with the stifling damp of detergent fumes and hummed with churning dryers and the whirring of front loaders as they went into intermittent, furious spins. She approached an idle machine warily as if it were a stray dog and studied the instructions. It needed some pound coins. She dug into her bag for her purse.

A voice hailed her from the row of chairs opposite.

“There’s a coin dispenser if you need change. It’s on the wall by the service counter.” It was a lilting, youthful voice, the words coloured with a tint of accent.

Muriel turned to face the voice, the young woman having sat down, a dog eared magazine unopened on her lap.

“A coin dispenser?” she replied, “Oh, I see-for pounds to go in the slot. Sorry! You must think I’m an idiot! I’m not used to these places. I thought there would be someone here, to take the laundry and deal with it.”

In the ensuing pause she became aware that she’d spewed out her inadequacy like an over indulgence of champagne.

The seated woman smiled again. She had an elegant, restful face; a long nose above a wide mouth accustomed to laughter.

“It’s unmanned on a Wednesday and in the evenings,” she informed the older woman. “Don’t worry. It’s quite easy when you get the hang of it, as it were.” She grinned, extracting an inadvertent smile from Muriel, who negotiated the change machine, returned to the washer and stuffed as much of the contents of the bag as she could into its gaping aperture.

“They don’t like being overloaded,” cautioned her companion. “It might be better to split the load between two machines.”

Once the two appliances were humming in harmonious tandem Muriel sat down next to her mentor and the two watched the revolving drums in a shared trance.

“You must be a regular at this,” she ventured. “You seem to be an expert.”

The young woman shrugged.  “I’ve no washing machine in my tiny flat. I don’t mind it; in fact I enjoy coming. I get to read the trashy magazines I wouldn’t buy or admit to enjoying.”

“Except for tonight!”

She laughed; a light, infectious laugh.

“Oh no, I didn’t mean I wasn’t enjoying some company for a change! I come from a large family back in Ireland so talking is what I’m used to. But what brings you here? Has your home machine broken down?”

Muriel sighed. “The new one can’t be delivered until next week. I may have to visit a second time before it comes. You might have to suffer my company again.”

“I’d like that! What’s your name?”

“Muriel.”

“I’m Niamh.” She put a slender hand out to shake.

They watched the circulating fabrics in silence. Muriel thought it curious how an item would present itself at the front in the spotlight for a few seconds then withdraw to make way for a different article’s display. One of the dryers ground to a halt, prompting Niamh to stand, pull the door open and inspect the progress of its contents. Muriel continued to watch the revolving laundry behind the doors, her attention drawn to an item, the colours of which seemed familiar. Perhaps she had an identical tablecloth or bed linen; a coincidence. The piece of laundry came and went, teasing her in its intermittent exhibition.

Having reinvigorated the dryer with more coins, Niamh returned to sit.

“I see you’re married,” she said. “Do you have children?”

Muriel flushed. Accustomed to her own company or the stilted, polite society of her husband’s associates and their wives she was unused to striking up spontaneous conversations with strangers on subjects of a personal matter. Not for her the inconsequential chatter of the supermarket queue or the doctor’s waiting room. Her groceries were delivered, her healthcare private. But she was both flattered and warmed by this beautiful young woman’s attention and besides, she’d brought nothing to do or to read, not having considered she would have to undertake the task of washing the laundry herself.

She nodded. “I do, though they’ve flown the nest. The youngest is at university.”

“So you’ve more time to spend with your husband now, is that it?”

The older woman raised her eyebrows. “You would think so, but no. My husband spends more time at work since the children grew up and left; late evenings and overnight to different cities, for training sessions, he says. So I’m on my own most of the time.”

“This is a night out for you then!”

Infected by her familiarity, Muriel felt emboldened.

“You are not married yourself?”

She hesitated. “No. I am kind of seeing someone though.”

“Kind of?”

She gazed into the gyrating turmoil of clothes. “It’s complicated.”

“You mean he’s married.”

Muriel stared at the circulating washing. She realised now what the familiar item was. She was sure it was a shirt; one that her husband used to wear, but hadn’t for some time. She could remember where he’d bought it, when they’d been on holiday in Italy. It was an expensive, designer shirt; flamboyant, the colours an unusual mix of purple, red and cream, the design vivid and abstract like a Picasso painting.

A machine to the right of them jolted into an angry whirl as it prepared for its rinse cycle. Muriel continued to gaze into the enigmatic circle where the mingling colours jostled for prominence.

“I’m not shocked,” she said, once the raging machine had settled for a quiet, resentful simmer, “but it makes me sad. I’m guessing he’s an older man? I’d say you were too good for him, too young and lovely to waste your life on him.” She hauled her eyes away from the washer, from which a trickling sound issued.

Niamh drew out a tissue from her sleeve and blew her nose. “I don’t know why I’m opening up to you like this. I’ve not told anyone else. You must be easier to talk to than most people. I would never be able to confide in my mother like I’m confessing to you. Can we chat again next time you come? We could go for a coffee or something.”

Muriel was silent, contemplating the revolving drum. It turned this way and that as if undecided. The younger woman stood abruptly and began pulling articles from the dryer, which had churned to a grumbling halt. The Italian shirt tumbled out into a pale blue, plastic basket, pock marked with cigarette burns. She had her back to Muriel, speaking harshly into the cavernous cylinder.

“I’ve been too personal, haven’t I? I’m always like this with people; not reserved enough, nattering like we’ve known each other for years. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I’m sorry. Say something. Please.”

She turned around. She had the shirt in her hand. Muriel nodded at it. “I see you don’t send his washing home for his wife to do.”

Niamh held the hot garment against her cheek as if the spirit of her lover was bound within its vibrant folds. “I love to do things for him,” she said. “I pretend I’m married to him. I spend hours finding new recipes to cook for him. I like to open the wardrobe and see some of his clothes hanging next to mine. That way I’ve got some small part of him when he’s not with me.” Facing the dryer as she closed the door, she missed the fleeting look of weary scorn that passed over Muriel’s face. A stab of cruelty thrust out, threatening to pierce the friendly bubble of shared confidences.

“He won’t leave his wife, you know. They never do.”

“He is going to leave. He’s waiting for the right time to tell her. He’s sensitive to her needs. I love that about him.”

She was folding garments now and placing them into a rectangular laundry bag. There was a brisk manner to the way she was pushing the clothes into the bag, as if she could press her conviction into the still warm fabrics.

“I wonder if he knows what her needs are.”

“She’s been occupied looking after the children all these years and now they’re growing up and leaving-like yours are. He has to wait for her to find a new direction in her life; something to fill the void her children have left. You must know how that feels. How have you coped with the extra time on your hands?”

Muriel smiled an enigmatic, knowing smirk. “Oh I like to travel. I’m always planning the next holiday and preparing for it. I like comfortable hotels in beautiful locations with wonderful, scenic views. I enjoy eating in expensive restaurants, shopping in exclusive stores and finding exquisite, original art works.”

She paused to observe the effect her words were having.

Niamh stared, transfixed as she listened then nodded, grinning, her creamy skin pink with enthusiasm. “My man is well travelled. He’s going to take me on exotic trips once he’s free.”

She lifted the strap of her leather satchel over her head and gripped the handle of the chequered bag. She looked at Muriel.

“Shall I see you at the same time next week?”

“It’s possible.”

“Go on, you know you want to! I can give you an update on progress. I’m seeing him tomorrow night. He might have told her by then! Bye for now!”

She pulled open the door and stepped out, leaving the bell jangling. Muriel watched as she crossed the road, negotiating the passing traffic, tossing her head to rid the glossy, dark fringe from her eyes. Then she disappeared round a corner. Although the two machines had stopped, Muriel continued to sit in the silent laundrette. Outside the light was beginning to fade and glare from the headlights of passing vehicles cast intermittent flashes into the scruffy room.

It would soon be time to start packing, she thought, wondering what she would need this time.

She was jerked from her thoughts by the strident ring of her phone.

“Ah, I’ve got you. Where are you, Mu? I got home hours ago!”

“I had to come to one of those laundry places. The new washer won’t be delivered until next week.”

“Good God, Mu! Don’t these places collect and deliver or something?”

His voice crackled. “Anyway, never mind that now. I’ve found us some flights to Geneva. Thought we’d do the Swiss lakes. Fancy it? The flights are on Friday morning. I’ve just got a meeting tomorrow night to tie up some loose ends then I’ll be free.”

Muriel stood, pocketing the phone, savouring the anticipation. Last time they’d stayed at the Grand Hotel Kempinski on the lake. Their room had overlooked the Jet d’eau fountain. She would have to contact an ironing service in the morning, one that could do a rush job. She could spend tomorrow evening researching excursions and places to eat.

She crammed her laundry items into the holdall in an unceremonious bunch, stuffing recalcitrant clothes down into the corners, heedless of the creases that would form as they dried. When the zip gaped in an obstinate refusal to close over the bulging, newly laundered items she capitulated and grasped the handles, leaving it open in her haste to be away. She pulled the door, hearing its accompanying clank for the last time as she tugged the bag through to the outside. Trudging past the window she glanced back in at the stark, Spartan room, the plastic chairs and the worn lino and exhaled a profound, heartfelt sigh of relief.

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

The Group

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A brand new fiction short occupies today’s post.

Stella Tutton and her younger friend, Samantha are already seated at the table Beth reserved when she arrives. She sits opposite them in the circle, which still has room for four more members.

‘So how are you both?’ Beth begins and they respond with nods and ‘OKs’. Beth makes an internal sigh while maintaining her smile. Stella will have brought her customary, poetic offering, having made no attempt to act on any of her suggestions and Samantha will have written nothing, although ‘had some ideas’.

The library, contrary to traditional values and expectations, is not a quiet, contemplative haven. Across the large, open space, in the newspaper and magazine area, a large man with an exuberant beard is guffawing whilst patting a smaller, older man on the back. Meanwhile, away in a distant corner which houses the children’s books, toddlers and pre-schoolers are arriving for their ‘sing and play’ session with Tracey, the beleaguered librarian who runs it. They are running around the bookcases and squealing while Tracey tries to muster them and doll out instruments, before they sit down in their circle.

Beth turns back to her two companions. ‘It’s not the quietest day, is it? This is the most private table I could find.’ She’s aware then, of a figure standing at her shoulder,casting a shadow on to her laptop case. Without turning, she knows it’s Christopher. Christopher is unable to arrive and sit downwithout a rigmarole of some sort. He is ensuring he is seen and remarked upon before he settles, a strategy Beth has learnt to ignore, saying ‘Hello Christopher. Come and join us’, while opening her laptop.

He launches into a description of his jottings of the month. Beth halts him with her hand.

‘Christopher’, she interrupts, mustering a grin, ‘we haven’t quite started yet. Give it a couple of minutes. We’re expecting two new members today.’

This means, of course, that one new member may turn up, or that no one will turn up. Stella opens her folder at a page on which she has written her new poem. A quick glance assures Beth that it is the usual offering of four-line verses and she can predict with unwavering certainty that it will be in rhyming couplets. Stella will have bent over backwards so far that the back of her head touched her heels to make sure the lines rhyme. Should Beth ask Stella to begin today? And get it over with? Or should she give in to Christopher’s twitchy impatience and have him start? He is tapping his blue biro on the table now, a staccato morse code leaving circles of tiny blue dots on the formica top.

A portly, elderly man arrives at the table. wheezing. He places a clear zippy-bag down and pulls out a chair next to Samantha. Beth greets him.

‘Roger?’

‘Yes. Roger Pullen; or you can call me by my pen name: Hayden Chandler. You can call me Rog or Hayden. I don’t mind!’ He chuckles, thrusting out a hand, which Beth takes, glimpsing down at the zippy-bag, which contains a a paperback inside its clear plastic. Oh. Roger intends to treat everyone to an extract from what is, almost certainly, a self-published novel. Her heart sinks to an even lower part of her stomach.

‘Can I go first today? I’ve got to go in half an hour,’ Christopher always says this. Beth has explained many times that he needs to listen to others’ contributions to help with the critique and that he will benefit from this as much as he will from hearing other’s opinions on his own offering. But it is hopeless. He wants compliments, praise, a soothed, pampered ego. Then he will stand up and leave.

‘I’m going to ask Samantha to start us off today, if you would, please? What have you got for us?’ Beth knows the answer will be ‘nothing’ but asks her anyway. Samantha grins, unabashed.

‘I don’t have nothing on paper.’ She indicates the brown exercise book on the table in front of her. ‘But I got some ideas. I’m going to write about my cat, Cissy.’

Beth nods, trying to block out the furious biro tapping on her right. ‘Good- will it be like a kind of diary, then?’

‘Er…yeah. Yeah- like a diary.’ Samantha looks delighted.

‘So- Roger.’ Beth turns to the newcomer. ‘Have you brought something to read to us? Or would you prefer to sit out and listen today?’

He leans back, a smug smile on his face as he unzips the bag and withdraws his book. He clears his throat. ‘I can read you a passage from my latest novel, if you like.’ He holds it up so that everyone can see the book jacket. It bears a picture of a screaming woman’s head with a hand holding a knife at her throat. The book is entitled ‘Murder at the Office’ in blood, red letters. Beth attempts a faint smile. ‘Right. Can you give us a brief synopsis then, Roger?’ He obliges and as far as she can recall, the storyline owes much to the plot of a Philip Marlowe story she read as a teenager.

Roger turns to the middle of the book and begins to read:

‘Her soft, creamy skin split apart as the knife slid across her white throat and a river of blood gushed from the wound. The killer stepped back, smiling as he…’

Christopher leaps to his feet, purple faced. ‘I can’t listen to this!’ he yells. ‘It’ll start my turns again, bring back memories of my attack! I’ll have to go!’ and he snatches up his notebook and storms away across the library, leaving them all to stare after him.

‘Yes- well…thank you Roger. I think we’ve got the idea. ‘Stella- what did you think of Roger’s extract and his ideas?’

Stella looks up from her poem. ‘Yeah- um- good’, she mutters..

‘Samantha?’

‘Yeah. It’s quite good; not my kind of thing though.’ Beth pursues the remark. ‘What’s your kind of thing then?’

‘Well, you know, animals and stuff.’

Unable to put it off any longer, Beth looks at Stella and is about to ask her to read when Christopher reappears, plonking himself down and grunting. ‘It’s me now, isn’t it?’

‘I’m asking Stella to read next, Christopher. We thought you’d left.’

His face reddens to dark magenta but he says nothing, rather takes up his biro and resumes tapping. Stella begins.

‘Bells ring out this time of year

To bring us all some festive cheer

Carol singers at the door

With voices that we can’t ignore‘

The poem, two and a half pages of it, comes to an end. Stella has stopped and is looking expectant, though Beth’s mind has wandered and she’s taken nothing in since the first verse. She looks at Roger.

‘What do you think, Roger?’

He looks startled. ‘Er…of course I don’t know anything about poetry, but it all rhymed, didn’t it?’

‘Yes, yes, it does rhyme. Samantha,how do you feel about Stella’s poem?’

‘I loved it.’

‘What did you love about it?’

‘The words. I loved the words.’

Beth stifles a yawn. ‘Christopher?’

‘Yeah?’

‘What did you think of Stella’s poem?’

He shrugs. ‘Dunno’,

Beth explains their next assignment, packs up her laptop and bids them goodbye. She goes to the reception desk, where Alex smiles and, as she does each month, tells her what a great job she’s doing for the community. Beth takes a breath- she’s been meaning to give up leading the group for the last six months.

‘Actually, Alex, I…’

‘I don’t know what we’d do without you, Beth!’

She steps outside into the cold, night air and walks home.

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

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

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/