The story was posted earlier, read it at:
https://rlwg2020.blogspot.com/2020/03/the-ken-westel-prize-winner.html
Just Click on the link, If you like the story there were subsequent chapters in the following month's May to August 2020. Enjoy...
by Rosemary Clarke
You can't think
You wait and pray
That they'll come through
It all OK.
Time drags on
There's lots to do
Will they be one
Of many or few?
You just have
To sit and wait
Wondering what
Will be their fate.
Your heart breaks
With every pain
Wondering if
You'll see them again.
If you think
It's just a game
On your death
You'll have your fame.
Lose family
Lose a life
It cuts everyone
Like a knife.
Wear mask
Keep away
Help those who help
The rest, okay?
Then they
Can help you too
Disease may not
Come after you.
BEWARE AND CARE LEST YOU ARE THERE!
Copyright
Rosemary Clarke
By Peter Woodgate
When I
have gone, gone far away,
a
journey to that other land,
embraced
by blue skies and green fields
surrounded
by fine crystal sand,
a sand
that’s filtered out those deeds,
those
shameful acts mankind has made,
I shall
not fear the searing heat
For I
know, there will be shade.
A shade
against the acts of sin,
forgiveness
in that special place,
misdemeanous
carried out
but
repercussions I’ll not face.
All
will be friends, no enemies,
and I
shall never be alone
but
most of all there will be peace,
no TV
soaps, no mobile phone.
Copyright Peter Woodgate
by Rosemary Clarke
When things they cost a whole lot less
And wages seemed much higher
When we weren't in such a bad mess
And there were real coal fires
When everybody smartened up
And love was everywhere
When England won the World Cup
And everybody cared.
When fish and chips were all around
And bells rung from church steeples
I've asked, and this is what I've heard
From many many people
It's not the years we really miss
Not all the numbers there
Or even a certain way of life
It's friends who always care.
When life is really hard for us
We can't get off the ground
The thing we must remember is
Good folk are all around.
So hold our hearts out,
help the poor the needy and the sick
When someone's having trouble
Don't walk away so quick.
Remember all over the world
We are the very same
Friends across all nations
And from all our mums we came.
Copyright Rosemary Clarke
Peter Woodgate
It was 9.30pm on Christmas Eve, the weather was icy and snow began to fall covering the platform at Westwood station. Five teenage girls were huddled together in the small waiting room as the snowflakes fell softly, sticking valiantly to the somewhat grimy windows.
The girls watched as each flake began to
melt into tiny rivulets before running like tears down each pane of glass. The
computerized announcement system burst into life with the information that the
last train to
Being entirely computerized, and controlled
by
Suddenly, the waiting room door was flung
open and a stocky man, wearing a thick overcoat, peered into the room. He
looked around, his eyes appearing to pass right through the girls, focusing on
the pictures hanging on the wall behind them.
After a moment he limped over to the bench
in the corner and sat down pulling a newspaper from his pocket as he did so. As
he started to read the front page became exposed and the girls caught site of
the headline which read:
ON
THE ANNIVERSARY OF THE WESTWOOD LEVEL CROSSING DISASTER THE TRIBUNAL HAS
FINALLY CONCLUDED THAT THE DEATHS OF 5 TEENAGE GIRLS WAS CAUSED BY A COMPUTER
FAILURE.
The girls shivered in realization as the
announcement concerning the approaching train echoed through the cold night air.
MR
Roberts rose from his seat and made his way to the waiting room door. As he
opened it a freezing blast brushed past him and, mingling with the screeching
of the train’s brakes, he was sure he heard screams.
“Glad I will be home soon,” he thought.
by Richard Banks
I return to the flat that evening to
find that our room has an additional occupant. It is a baby, an unnamed
illegal, who arrived in the arms of a nurse from the central hospital. We are
to look after it, or rather him until his fate is decided. Greta wants to call
him Kurt after her father and when no one suggests an alternative name she
trickles water down his face and declares him baptised. Eli looks displeased.
Since the Second Reformation, the observance of religious sacraments has been
strictly forbidden. Eli's duty is to report Greta's crime to the Public
Compliance Unit but if he does the flat will likely lose its cook. For now, he
says nothing. No doubt he will choose a less crowded moment to whisper a
warning. “Where there are ears, tongues must be careful,” he will say. “No
religion, no politics; leave these things to the Party; all wisdom is with the
Party.”
We eat our dinner and as usual clear
our plates, but the good humour of the previous evening has been replaced by a
mood of foreboding. Twenty four hours have done nothing to ease the tension
between Egor and Eli. Another clash between them is likely to prove more
bruising than the first. To make matters worse the child starts crying and will
not stop. It is hungry, but we have no milk to give it. Eli volunteers to go
out and get some. He has a voucher to which Greta adds one of her own. He
motions me to follow him. “Adam, you and me together, yes? Safer if we both
go.”
No sooner are we out of the building
than Eli's conversation turns to Egor. “Would not the world be a better place
without people like him?” he says. I nod my head but fear what is to come. His
voice is cold, matter of fact. “So how do we make this happen? What are the
options? Shall we lead him down a dark alley and cut his throat? Is that a good
idea, applicant member?”
I say, no. I wonder who else might be
listening, but the nearest loudspeaker is on the next corner, some thirty
metres away. Is Eli serious about killing Egor or is he up to something else?
Could it be a test of my loyalty, my commitment to him and the Party? At worse
it could be entrapment.
“Why no, comrade?” Eli lights a cigarette
and almost lets it fall from his lips. He is nervous, ill at ease. If I am at
risk, so is he. Can I trust him? I think I can.
I tell him what he already knows; that
the homicide of anyone even remotely connected to the party will be investigated
and that forensic evidence will almost certainly identify the person or persons
responsible. “Is Egor connected?”
“There are those who watch over him.”
“Big fish with sharp teeth?”
He makes no answer. We walk on until
we are safely past the loudspeaker. He continues talking. “But supposing Egor
was never born, consider that; no Egor, no crime, no investigation. What say
you to that, applicant member?”
“So this is about Timewalk?”
“It is the means to an end. All that is
needed is a minor reworking of history. Two people who once met, don't, an
insignificant change in their lives that not even they will be aware of.”
“And you want me to make this happen?”
“Why not? You hate Egor as much as I
do. Why should he live?”
“So what do I do?”
Eli waits until we are out of earshot
of a rough sleeper. “Patience comrade, I have a love story to tell you. On 25
July 2060, Josef Herschel, father of Egor, came to London on a road bus. In
those days inter-sector travel required no special permissions and London was a
popular destination for visitors. But for Josef, it was just another stage in a
much longer journey. On reaching the coach terminus his intention was to catch
another coach to the city then known as Plymouth. His plans, however, were
disrupted by the late running of the first coach, which arrived two minutes
after the departure of the Plymouth coach. The next service was not for three
hours and Josef spent most of that time in a café, where he met and was much
attracted to a waitress. Josef never did catch that coach. Within a month he
and the waitress were married; Egor was their only child.”
“So, I am to prevent their meeting by
making sure that Josef catches that coach.”
“Full marks, comrade. When you report
for work tomorrow you will be sent back to that July day with its unfortunate
consequences for ourselves. Here is a map of the coach station. The coach to Plymouth departs from bay K. Delay
it for two minutes until Josef is on board. This is him, comrade. It was taken
only one year after the events I have described.”
He thrusts the photograph and map into
the hip pocket of my jacket. There are questions I should be asking, but almost
certainly there will be no answers. I have been told what I need to know.
Complete the mission and this can only go well for me. With Eli's help who
knows what I might achieve.
We purchase the milk and return to the
flat, where we find the two women arguing furiously with Egor, who wants the
now hysterical child removed down the corridor to the laundry room. Greta warms
some of the milk, to which she adds a nip of vodka. She trickles it into the
child's mouth and cradles him in her arms. To everyone's relief, he falls asleep
and is placed on a pillow inside a cardboard box. It is ten minutes to lights
out and we quickly prepare our bedding for the night ahead. Egor, who, as
usual, has drunk Mia's vodka as well as his own, falls asleep almost as soon as
he lies down. If the child wakes and starts crying again he will be the last of
us to know. For now, his snoring is the only sound keeping us from our sleep.
After tomorrow only myself and Eli will have the memory of him; the memory of
someone who was never born.
I arrive at the laboratory the next
morning to find that no missions are scheduled for that day. By 12.30 this is still the case. I take a
sustenance break at my desk, before starting a routine analysis of data. The
feeling of nervous excitement with which I started the day has given way to
puzzlement and annoyance. By 14.00 I am down to two options; one, that I have
been set up and that my arrest will shortly follow or, two, that Eli's plan is
nothing more than a dark, humourless joke at my expense.
My thoughts are interrupted by a
message on my terminal telling me to report to a Senior Technician. If there
are unknown people with him I will almost certainly be arrested, but when I
push open the door to his office he is alone. He looks displeased. Fortunately,
the object of his displeasure does not seem to be me. I am, he says, to conduct
an observational study of central London in the year 2060. He tries to give me
the impression that this is a planned mission that has been properly
researched, but his instructions as to what I am expected to observe are vague
and unsupported by any paperwork beyond a standard proforma.
I am hurried through the props room and
kitted out in a beige suit, reminiscent of one my grandfather used to wear. By
the time I reach the Transmissions Room my point of entry has been defined as
an unpeopled plot of land within the Buckingham Palace Redevelopment Zone. The
launch is delayed several minutes by an unidentified life form that is probably
a dog. When it wanders off the entry grid the mission commences.
I arrive and experience the usual
sensations of physical and mental disorientation. If these have not cleared
within twenty seconds I am to press the recall button on my wrist band, but by
ten my head is clear and although my legs are shaking they are well able to
support the weight of my body. I make off down a disused road in which weeds
have taken root. At the end of it should be a main road for motorised traffic
but the way to it is barred by a wooden hoarding on top of which is a double
curl of barbed wire. Had the mission been properly researched this obstruction
would have been identified and instructions issued as to the way past it.
Fortunately, the way soon becomes clear. A section of hoarding has become
detached from a gate post and I am able to widen the gap and squeeze through. I
join other pedestrians on a thermic pavement which, to my surprise, contains
more space than people. With every step, I am seeing and hearing things that I
have only seen in films; hydrogen cars, taxi pods, a snake tram. Above the
street, a man in an orange jet pack is descending into a designated landing
area.
I arrive at a side road to find that
the only way across is to step into the carriageway between moving traffic.
This is dangerous, bordering on madness. Some of the cars are still driver
operated. None of them are yet made from soft bounce materials. In front of me is
a woman in the dark blue uniform of the London Militia. As she crosses so do I.
There are more roads to cross. At each one I cross close on the heels of
someone who, with varying degrees of difficulty, makes it safely to the other
side. To my left, across the main road that still bears the name of the old
palace, is the metal exterior of the newly constructed rail terminus. Its
colour slowly changes from blue to green. The coach station is further along to
my right. Just three more roads to cross and I am there. I make it with ten
minutes to spare and locate bay K. Passengers for the Plymouth coach have
formed an orderly queue, which as the minute's tick by gets steadily longer.
At 15.45 the coach arrives and the
driver opens up a compartment on the side of the bus into which he loads the
luggage of those travelling. At 15.55 the coach is almost full. He checks a
list of names and declares that he is waiting for three more passengers.
Several minutes elapse and an elderly couple arrive with a suitcase which is
put with the other luggage. They ascend the steps into the coach. As the driver
locks the luggage compartment I make my intervention. I affect a foreign
accent.
In reply to my asking if this is the
Plymouth coach the driver replies that it is.
“Mr Herschel?” he asks.
“Herschel,” I say. “Yes, yes Herschel,
that is my name. You take me to Plymouth, yes?”
He assures me that he will. “Do I have
any luggage?” he asks.
I stare at him blankly.
“Luggage,” he repeats in a louder
voice. He looks at his watch and then at a uniformed official who is standing
in the gateway of the next bay. “Yes, mate, luggage: suitcase, hold-all, backpack, expandobag.” He runs out of words to describe luggage and decides I don't
have any. “Okay, let’s see your ticket. It's time we were off.”
I make a show of reaching into my
inside jacket pocket and when I find nothing in it I transfer the search to my
outer pockets, where I find a William V payment disc. This I offer to the
driver, who reiterates his demand for a ticket.
“Do you have one or not?” he asks with
mounting irritation.
I nod my head vigorously and continue
the search by reaching into my trouser pockets. I find a handkerchief, which I
draw slowly out of my pocket, like a magician about to transform it into a dove.
The driver sounds his horn to attract
the attention of the man with the clipboard, who asks the driver if he is okay.
The driver says he's not okay, that I'm holding up the coach because I don't
have a ticket.
“Nor does he have any luggage,” he
adds. The thought crosses both their minds that I am not Mr Herschel and I am
invited to get off the coach or they will call Security. This I pretend not to
understand and cling tightly to a handrail exclaiming, “Plymouth, Plymouth,
take me to Plymouth.”
The man with the clipboard speaks on
his mobile to someone called Charlie, requesting his help in, “removing a
nutter.” As he does so, a short, swarthy man arrives, running and much out of
breath. It's Herschel. The Security man also arrives and I allow him to drag me
off the bus. I look back at Herschel, who is showing his ticket to the driver.
He takes his seat, the doors shut and the coach begins its journey.
The Security man is all for taking me
to the detention room, but when I give him the payment disc and promise not to
return he lets me go with a warning. I have one hour before the trip back, time
enough to fill in the questionnaire I have been given and take audio and visual
recordings. That done, I return along the route by which I came. There is more
traffic now, but that’s good because
most of it is stationary. I find the gap in the fence and return to the point
of entry. As before there's no one to be seen, but since my arrival, a sheaf of
flowers has been placed on a tumbled over column. Five years after a violent
upheaval there is an uneasy calm.
I signal that I am ready to depart and
within seconds arrive back in the laboratory. My supervisor greets me with the
usual health checks and an expression that suggests that the mission, as far as
he is concerned, has been a waste of time. I file my report and download the
data from my pad. There is an observational analysis to complete, then I am
free to go.
Copyright Richard Banks
By Dawn Van Win
There is a
terrace
Beside the
sea
That gently
laps
The soft warm
sand
Beneath my
feet
That slowly
tread
A well-worn
Path
Along the
shore
‘Neath cobalt
skies
Where soaring
gulls
Express their
cries
Of airborne
bliss
Untethered from
Life such as
this
Where shut
away
From day to
day
Through fear
and dread
Of Covid
spread
By one and
all
We do not
know
So keep our
distance
Try to show
Some
reverence
for saving
space
Whilst
wearing masks
upon our face
Then shuffle
through
Dark winter’s
gloom
Whilst
meeting loved ones
Over zoom
I sit and
ponder
days gone by
And look out
at
the stormy
skies
The clouds
above us
Briefly part
I feel the
sun
And in my
heart
I know
There is a
terrace
Beside the
sea
That gently
laps
The soft warm
sand
Beneath my
feet
That slowly
tread
A well-worn
Path
Copyright
Dawn Van Win
by Rosemary Clarke
The ocean beds are teeming with life
But plastic and rubbish are like stabs from a knife.
They push their way to the heart of things
And take away what the oceans bring.
But still we do it, don't we care?
If we keep on, no ocean there.
No fun for our children, no more swims
Just because of our rubbish whims.
Can't we afford to save them all
All the waters big and small?
Put our rubbish where it should be
Then water lives in harmony.
Copyright
Rosemary Clarke
(written on the day after)
By Peter Woodgate
Strange it is that we all like a puppet show
The marionettes, on stage, all synchronized
The puppeteers are expert at ensuring
That those to be controlled were idolized
Even Megan, the commoner, without blue blood
Was given a transfusion, epithet
The queen can give out titles, should she choose,
A shame then She and I have never met
But we, as lesser mortals, should be grateful
And look up to those, who in the past,
Have accumulated wealth, most often through foul
deeds
And changed the rules to make sure it would last
I noticed all the crowd waved Union Jacks
It should have been Euro flags on view
The royals are so very multi-national
Less British than the likes of me and you
But then, I guess, most people need to worship
And will ignore the means that make the end
We wear our special spectacles, rose-tinted,
And masking misdemeanours, we pretend
For throughout our history, Monarchs of this land
Have murdered to ensure they would remain
And God was used to justify their actions
As wealth and land, and property they’d gain
Of course, today, the Royals are just figureheads,
Icons, that our needs will focus on
The show of Punch and Judy, more resembling of
mankind,
Will simply be reviewed as children’s fun
So, Megan and our Harry, just mortals after all
And I, for one, have never seen their wings,
As humans, I would wish them, happiness and peace
But feel they will be strangled by their strings
Copyright Peter
Woodgate
Pets
by Rosemary Clarke
They love so much
they are so true
all the pets
Look after you.
They don't need dresses
shoes or hats
or any of
that other tat.
They just need love
and so much care
to let them know
that we are there.
They snuggle close
their heart they lend
and on their love
we can depend.
They make us warm
and not alone
but most of all
They need a home.
Copyright Rosemary
Clarke
By Bob French
Having come to terms with her folly, Amanda
reluctantly joined in the festive season throughout the hospital as Christmas
Day drew near. As she met up with her friends in the restroom, Pam
came and sat down next to her.
“Look,
the second team is at home this weekend. Fancy joining
us?” At first, her mind told her no. There was no
point. She couldn’t compete with Holly and the thought of breaking
up a family so near Christmas was cruel, to say the least, but Pam nudged her
and with a smile explained that this was the last time the second team would be
playing at home until the New Year. Amanda looked up at Pam, then
Clair and nodded. It was pointless moping about something she
couldn’t have, then stood up and agreed.
“I’ll meet you there.”
The day was cold and frosty with a
clear blue sky and the clubhouse was packed with spectators from both
teams. The game started and soon became a very fast-moving one, with
three tries in the first ten minutes. Then just before the half time whistle,
Roddy had run onto a loose ball, picked it up, and was sprinting towards the
try line. Out of nowhere, two huge gorillas rushed at him from
different sides smashing him to the ground. The spectators all groaned
as all three men fell in a heap. The first up was Roddy, who picked
up the ball and limped across the line and fell to the ground for a
try. The half time whistle blew and the medical crews rushed onto
the pitch.
The spectators lingered for a few minutes
until all three men were on their feet then applauded them, then made a dash
for the clubhouse for some hot chocolate.
Roddy never made it back onto the
pitch for the second half and Amanda started to worry about him. She
made her excuses to Jill and Pam and discretely asked where the medical room
was. An old veteran smiled at her and nodded her towards a White
door with a large red cross on it.
Without knocking, she pushed the
door open and the smell of horse liniment and sweat stung her eyes and the back
of her throat. An elderly man wearing a dirty white coat turned and
stared at her.
“Sorry Miss, are you lost?”
“Amanda took a slow deep
breath. “Sorry, I was looking for Roddy. I think he was
hurt just before the whistle went.”
The old man looked at her with a
smile, then nodded her towards a curtained off cubical. “He’s resting at the
moment, so try not to disturb him too much Miss.”
She stood beside him, staring down
at his sweat covered face. Then she let her eyes move over his
body. His right leg was covered in ice packs and his rugby shirt had
been taken off and his ribs strapped up. His muscular chest and six-pack rose
and sank slowly as the sedatives gradually did its work. Without thinking, she
slowly took his hand and held it as though it was the most precious thing in
the world.
She must have been standing there
for a while when suddenly Roddy opened his eyes and with a confused look,
stared up at her.
“Aren’t you the young lady who
nearly fell in the mud last month?” Amanda grinned, then squeezed
his hand.
“Yes, I thought I ought to say
thank you for saving me,” and without thinking, she leant slowly forward and
kiss his forehead.
Roddy smiled. “Consider
the debt repaid Miss.”
“Oh, sorry, my name is Amanda.”
The moment was shattered as the
old man in the dirty white coat pulled back the curtain. “Excuse me, Miss.”
Amanda stepped back as the old man
inspected his treatment of Roddy. Then with a smile on his face and
gave a nod.
“You can go Roddy, take it real
easy; no training or heavy work until the new year. I’ll tell Frank,
your captain. You just take it easy and enjoy
Christmas.” He turned towards Amanda. “You can stay if
you want Miss, but after the full-time whistle is blown, this place is like a
Turkish brothel, so I suggest you make a dash for it while you can.”
After he had left, Amanda turned
to Roddy with a frown on her face. “Turkish Brothel?” Roddy laughed
through gritted teeth.
“A steamy room full of fat, sweaty
naked bodies all pushing and shoving for the bath or shower.” The
look on Amanda’s face before he closed his eyes again told him that this was
her first time behind the scenes of a rugby club.
After a while, Roddy tried to sit
up. “You couldn’t do me a huge favour Miss? Take me
home. I normally jog to and from the clubhouse, but I think I won’t
be able to make it today and I really want to be out of here before the lads
get back.”
“Don’t be silly. It’s
the least I can do for you, after all you did save me from embarrassment.”
After a lot of gentle lifting and
moving, Roddy was finally on his feet. He nodded towards his kit bag
and boots. “I’ll need my tracksuit top and trainers. Can
you help me?”
It took a little time as Amanda
dressed Roddy, then together they staggered thought the empty clubhouse, pleased
that there were no inquisitive spectators. When they finally reached
fresh air, Amanda nodded to her Mini Countryman. As they approached, Roddy gave
out a little chuckle.
“It is clear that these little
cars are not built for six-foot-three rugby players.”
Amanda laughed with him. “I have a
plan,” she said in a French accent, as she moved towards the boot of her
car. After collapsing the back seats and pushing the front passenger
seat flat, she stood back and invited him to carefully crawl in and lay
down. After a little bit of grunting and shuffling, Roddy managed to
climb into the back of her car.
Once she started the car and drove
over to the club gates, she realised that she had to play dumb. “Sorry Roddy,
but I don’t know where you live. Can you tell me please?”
“Do you know the railway
station? Take the first left after it and continue as though you are
going out of town. We are about a hundred yards down that road.”
“Oh, not far then. Do
you need to tell anyone that you are injured and won’t be in work on
Monday?” She knew she was prying, but continued to act the innocent.
“No, it’s alright, I’m my own
boss, but thank you anyway.”
As she pulled up into the driveway
of the little cottage, the door opened and the tall elegant woman she had seen
him with going into Crown and Anchor, stepped outside with a frown on her face.
“Can I help you?”
Amanda got out of her car and
walked to the back doors. “It’s Roddy. I’m afraid he’s in a pretty
bad way. Can you give me a hand?”
“Good heavens Roddy, what have you
done this time?” Amanda noticed that her voice had no compassion in
it.
“You seem pretty well bashed up.
Do I need to get a doctor?”
Roddy groaned as he eased himself
out of the back of the car, then held on to the tall woman and started to
hobble towards the front door. As he reached it, he tried to turn
and thank Amanda, but the tall woman eased him away and through the
door. Roddy stretched back and tied to take her hand to thank her.
Before she could respond, the tall
woman smiled her thanks, then eased him through the front door, shutting it
behind her. Amanda noticed that the woman’s smile didn’t reach her
eyes.
Amanda sat in her fluffy PJ's with
a half-empty tin of Roses on her lap watching ‘Strictly’ on the
television. It depressed her; the Christmas music, the laughter,
glitz and fun of the show being enjoyed by everyone except her. She
let her mind drift back to Roddy and Holly, who instantly reminded her of
Cruella de Vil, then quickly cast them out of her mind; raised a glass of wine
to her favourite Teddy Bear. “Another Christmas with you again.”
Her thoughts were interrupted by
the sound of her phone which caused her to jump, then frantically look around
the room, trying to identify where the sound was coming from. When
she finally found it, she looked at the screen and couldn’t recognise the
number.
“Hello.”
“I’m sorry but is this
Amanda?”
Thinking it was another cold
caller, she thought for a minute before deciding to answer it. “How
did you get this number? I’m ex-directory.”
“I’m so sorry, but is this
Amanda?”
“Yes. Who is speaking
please?”
“It’s Roddy. Look I
hope you don’t think me rude, but.” He paused as though trying to
think of what to say. “I just wanted to thank you for getting me home
safely and, and….”.
She listened for a while, then
realising he wasn’t going to speak took a deep breath.
“Are you feeling a little better
Roddy? I was a little worried…. Being cramped in my little car, I
thought I might have caused you more injury.”
“No, no I’m fine, and once again,
thank you for all your help.” There was a pause, then the phone went
dead.
Amanda looked at her phone and
frowned. How strange, she thought, then tossed it onto the cushion
next to her and raided the Roses before going back to watching ‘Strictly’.
As she was leaving the children’s
ward a few days before Christmas, a little girl had been admitted with a very
high temperature. As she wasn’t part of the ward staff, she didn’t
get involved. The following day as she popped down to give a hand at
the end of her shift, who should be there but Cruella de Vil. She
was standing over the little girl who had been admitted the night before and
was lecturing her about something. Once the tall woman had left, she
quietly sat down beside the little girl.
“Hi, my name is Amanda, what’s
yours.”
“Julia, but my …”
She was rudely interrupted as the
Sister of the ward called her over. “Sorry Amanda, we got a bit of a flap
on. Can you help?” Amanda smiled at Julia and
winked.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be
back.” But it was gone ten by the time the incident that needed her
help had been sorted and Amanda thought it too late to bother the little girl.
It was the day before Christmas
Eve and once Amanda had finished her shift, she dropped in on
Julia. She stayed with her, caring for her and making her laugh,
until the ward Sister approached her and informed her that Julia could go home
first thing in the morning. When Amanda explained what the Sister
had said, she didn’t seem to want to go. “I’d rather stay here with
you please.”
“Is there something wrong at
home?”
Julia frowned. “It’s my
Dad. He can’t get around very well and I don’t know how to get home
or to take care of him.”
If you like I can drive you home
and see what we can do to help your Dad.”
Julia instantly cheered up, then
threw her arms around Amanda’s neck.
“Thank you so much.”
Amanda got permission from her
ward Sister to take Julia home during her shift and promised to make up the
time, but the Sister simply smiles at her.
“Amanda, you’re the only one who
goes above and beyond your duties. Go and take care of little Julia
and her father. I will see you back on duty on the 27th.
Amanda was surprised when Julia
directed her down past the railway station, then taking the first
left drove down to the little cottage.
“You live here?” Amanda
said with a little surprise in her voice, then prepared herself for another
bout of rudeness from Cruella de Vil. As she pulled on the hand
brake, the front door opened and Roddy, holding onto the door frame grinned,
they waived at Julia.
“Daddy, I’m better and nurse
Amanda is going to take care of you.”
Amanda stepped out of the car as
Julia rushed into her Dad’s arms.
“God it’s so good to have you home
and safe. I was really worried.”
As Amanda reached the front door
of the cottage, Roddy reached out and took Amanda’s hand. “Thank you
so much for looking after Holly. She means so much to me.”
Amanda looked down at
Julia. “Holly? I thought you said your name was Julia?”
Roddy smiled. That’s
her real name, but as she was born on Christmas Day, I’ve always called her
Holly.”
Before he had finished, Amanda
blurted out. “Then who was that tall blond-haired woman I saw you with?”
Holly turned and looked up into
Amanda’s face with a scowl on her face. “Oh, she’s his big sister.” She’s not
very nice. But she’s gone now so it’s just me, Dad and you for Christmas. Won’t
that be fantastic?”
Copyright
Bob French
