The Haunted House 3

 Aspirations 

By Janet Baldey 

As they rounded the bend, Mr Osmond stopped gratefully and gestured towards the house, visible for the first time.  He opened his mouth.  

          “There we are. Isn’t it grand?” The words came out as a chesty wheeze but sensing,  rather than seeing, the couple exchanged glances, he carried on regardless, his voice gaining strength.  “I know what you’re thinking but visualise it as it could be. With the gardens tidied up and the ivy stripped away. Now look again, at its beautiful lines.  I assure you; you won’t get a better bargain in this part of the country.”

Emily Farquerson glanced at the brochure, refreshing her memory….six bedrooms, two large sitting rooms, a turreted library on the first floor and a south-facing façade. Looking up, she narrowed her eyes and suddenly the unkempt garden with its shaggy rhododendron bushes, faded away and a trim, emerald lawn with islands of rose bushes took its place. 

“But why is it so ….” She was about to say cheap but stopped herself, just in time…” reasonable?”

               The agent shrugged, “the owner specifically asked that it should go to a family.  I think he was remembering his own time as a husband and father and wanted the house to ring with the sound of childish laughter again.”  He sighed, dramatically.  “Sad really.  He never wanted to leave but circumstances….”  He shrugged, leaving the couple to imagine those circumstances.   “Come, I’ll show you the inside.  It needs freshening up but it has bags of potential.”

A gentle smile softened the lines of anxiety on Mrs Farquerson’s face as she tucked her hand underneath her husband’s crooked elbow.  House hunting had been exciting at first but after a while, it became a chore; how wonderful it was that now their search was over.  At last, they’d found the perfect home.  She glanced back at the red-brick Victorian villa with its pointed eaves, watching as the evening sun painted it with amber.   Her smile widened as she imagined the lunch parties and soirees, she would be able to host in its airy sitting room.  On fine days she would open the casement windows to allow the sound of teacups and silvery laughter to spill out onto the lawn. It was fit for the cream of society and what was even better was that at last, she would be the hostess and not a mere guest. She preened at the thought. 

“Isn’t it lovely my dear.  So spacious, a piano will fit well in the main sitting room and the turreted room will make a perfect library.”

Henry Farquerson grunted and his wife shot a look at him, anxious for him to agree with her.  After all, thanks to the legacy he’d been left, they could well afford it.

“Is anything wrong dear?  Just think how good it will be for the children to live in a house like this.   They’ll be able to have their friends around all the time.”  Reading Mr Farquerson’s expression, she realised she’d made a tactical error and added a softener.  “And because the house is so large, we won’t be able to hear a thing.” Her voice quivered, surely Henry wasn’t going to be difficult.

“It’s the smell.” He said at last.  “There must be  a problem with the drains.  We’ll have to get them checked.”

There was no problem.  The drains were fine and after his wife had promised to air the place thoroughly and use a judicious amount of Glade, the sale went ahead.

Mrs Farquerson, was not idle during the wait to move in.  With the help of a fat brochure from Liberty’s, she picked out fabric and colour schemes for all the rooms, paying special attention to Tom’s room.  She decided on light blue figured wallpaper and a walnut bedroom suite.  She half toyed with the idea of art deco before discarding it in favour of something plainer and more masculine.  She thought fondly of her eldest.  Such a fine boy, sturdy and athletic with rosy cheeks and a mop of dark brown hair, he was a son to be proud of. Captured In a moment  of maternal pride, she added a glass-fronted cabinet to hold all the trophies he would be bound to acquire. 

As for Sophie, pink would do.  A gentle, feminine colour as befits a daughter who would surely make a good marriage in due course. 

 

Three months later, Emily Farquerson gazed out of her bedroom window at a mournful drizzle soaking the garden.   Her spirits matched the weather as she ruminated that since they’d moved in everything had gone wrong.  Primarily the smell. No matter how hard their charlady scrubbed, it had deepened.  It now permeated the whole house forcing both herself and Sophie to go around with handkerchiefs soaked in lavender water pressed against their noses.   The expression on Henry’s face grew thunderous and the stench, nauseating at times, put paid to Emily’s dreams of rising in society. There  was no way she could invite anyone to a delicate tea or musical evening, not even, according to the charlady as she gave notice, a stray cat.

She dabbed at a teardrop and watched the rain flood the lawn. At last, it lessened and Emily stirred.  She decided to take herself off for a walk.  Perhaps it would cheer her up. She would stroll to the pier and back, maybe she would see one of her friends and take tea in a café.

Hours later, refreshed in both body and mind Emily returned.  Her friends had convinced her that her problems were mere teething troubles and would soon be forgotten. Her spirits rose even further as she looked at the house outlined against the backdrop of a charcoal-coloured sky. What a fine place it was. 

She noticed that Tom’s room was in darkness, and smiled.  He was obviously in the games room downstairs playing Ludo with his sister, or maybe in the main sitting room, practising scales on the piano.  How lucky he was to have a choice.  But as she grew nearer, her smile faltered.  There seemed to be a strange orange shape bobbing in the window.  From a distance, it looked a bit like a face, except that it had no features.  She stared harder and her smile disappeared completely.  Why, it didn’t seem to be Tom’s room at all!  Glossy, dull brown paint had taken the place of the blue wallpaper, and the shape of the furniture was different, blockier, and more old-fashioned.   Suddenly, her heart started to beat faster and she began to run.  Bursting through the door, she raced up the stairs and threw open the door to her son’s room. 

“Eh, what’s up Mum?”

Confused, Emily froze.  She blinked at her son, who  lay in bed blinking back at her.  She looked around.  Everything was as it should be. The new furniture gleamed in the glow of a rosy fire flickering in the grate,  the dark blue curtains were drawn against the night and pictures of Tom playing sport adorned the walls.

At last, she found her voice. 

“Nothing dear, I just wondered how you were?”

“I’m OK.  Just a bit under the weather and I felt like an early night.”

She crossed over to him and caressed his forehead.  It was quite cool but she thought he was a trifle pale.

She smoothed his covers and tucked him in securely. She would like to have kissed him but didn’t want to turn him into a cissy.

“You have a nice rest dear.  I’ll bring you up some hot milk when I go to bed.” 

Months later, Emily sat at her desk playing with her pen and staring into space.  She was wondering if she really wanted to arrange the first of her soirees.  She was sure the smell had disappeared, she hadn’t noticed it for weeks and both Sophie and Henry had stopped, complaining. She ruminated on the  fact that she hadn’t seen either of them for days. Maybe Henry had disappeared into his study and Sophie was probably in her bedroom. 

Emily thought back to when she’d last spoken to her. It was just after breakfast last Tuesday.  “Mummy,” her daughter had said, “have you noticed how thin Tommy has got.  Is there anything wrong with him?”

To her shame, Emily hadn’t but just at that moment, Tom’s bedroom door opened and he appeared.  Sophie was right, she decided.  He was much thinner, and seemed to float down the stairs rather than bound as he usually did. 

Emily wasn’t worried.   She decided she liked the shape of the new Tom. Before he’d been carrying too much weight and she hated fat boys.  Now he looked more interesting, a bit like a young Lord Byron.  So, she’d reassured Sophie and had gone back to her dream of rising in society.

Since then, she hadn’t seen any of them but didn’t mind at all.   She found that she liked being alone and decided it was because of the house. She had been kept so busy, tending to its needs, and making everything just so. What’s more, she felt and appreciated it.   She didn’t know why she felt this but it was a nice feeling and one that made her want to melt into its walls and become part of it.

 

Once more, Mr Osmond laboured up the drive to the front of the house.  He stood staring at the front bedroom carefully counting the orange-coloured globes bobbing against its panes.

“Good,” he grunted.  “Four of them.  It’s time to produce another brochure.”

He looked again at the house, especially appreciating its new layer of windows.  To think, that once it had consisted of just one storey. Now, he could truthfully describe it as a mansion in the brochure.   He smiled and tipped his hat at the house giving credit where it was due. It was, as they say, a good little earner.

 

Copyright Janet Baldey

 

 

 

 

          

          

 

         

          

 BEDLAM

By Peter Woodgate

Dark the night, so too his thoughts,

ghastly visions and loneliness combine,

then dawn, with all its glory breaks

alas, this fails to calm the mind

of the soul locked in a detached sphere,

just why? The doctors are unsure,

the diagnosis is not clear.

And so, the patient sits and stares,

a blank expression on his face,

sometimes he stands and walks the room

a slow and melancholy pace.

Scrambled numbers on the door

like prison bars restrict the soul,

the body too and will ensure confinement.

Twenty years, to date, I’m told

and find it hard to understand

whilst looking at the world today

I’m fearful, in profound dismay.

I guess this crazy soul, like I

cannot understand just why

mankind is heading into Hell

to leave miasma in the sky,

what fate we face? Just time will tell.

Since Adam first walked on this Earth

mankind has chosen war, not peace

for greed consumes the heart and mind

forgetting that this world we lease.

We have been warned, some will ignore,

it matters not, for rich or poor.

This chap, without a shout,

has shown me what it’s all about

I find, that now, I am like him

and can’t accept the state we’re in.

So, lock me up, think I am mad,

I’ll think of you and will be sad

For this asylum knows the truth,

and all outside are crass, uncouth.        

Copyright Peter Woodgate

  

A 10 line story/Poem from a play

 A 10 line story/Poem from a play

 By Jane Goodhew

  1. The day they met and fell in love their fate was sealed

  2. For what could become of the two whose family loathed with such intent

3. When hostility and killing would follow close behind as jealousy and pomp knew no bounds

4. Oblivious to all but love, they danced as stars sparkled in the dark night sky

not knowing that someone would soon die and he would be banished from the land

5.    But not before the nurse and priest helped them to conceive a plot

6.    And the two lovers kissed and dreamt of a future life as in secret she became his wife

7.      But alas with the turn of events following a further devious plan trying to reunite the warring parents

8.    The message that she was but asleep did not get through and he with the notion that she was dead drank a deadly potion

9.    But she awoke and full of grief kissed his lips in the hope there would still be a drop but had to fall on his knife instead and her life's blood ebbed away

10.  So at least reunited by death and their families united by grief young love would become eternal.

Copyright Jane Goodhew

We Invited Aunt Nellie

We Invited Aunt Nellie

By Sis Unsworth 

Aunt Nellie was an old lady, we heard was on her own

and had to spend all Christmas day, totally alone.

We had our family on the day, but they didn’t make a fuss

so we asked if she would like to come, and spend the day with us.

We did think she had had a drink, as she came through the door,

she tripped on our new carpet, and landed on the floor

we helped her up and she was fine, although she’d fallen flat.

Then when she chose where she would sit, she nearly squashed the cat.

We offered her a Christmas drink, we thought shed like a wine.

She said that she would help herself, that would suit her fine,

she started on the whiskey, then went on the port,

then almost got the brandy, if she hadn’t then got caught.

We all sat round the table, the plates were piled up high,

Nellie ate hers very fast, then sat back with a sigh.

No one wanted Christmas pud, except for Auntie Nell.

Then she asked for seconds with double cream as well.

We couldn’t hear the new King's speech, so loud our Nell did snore

her glass slipped from her hand, and smashed upon the floor

the noise it made woke her up, and she jumped up really quick,

she said she didn’t feel too good, and just then she was sick.

The car came round to take her home, I felt we’d done our best

it really had been busy, but tomorrow we could rest.

We said goodbye, and she did sigh, at that point, I was yawning,

“It has been great,” she said, “can’t wait, I’ll come back in the morning.”

Copyright Sis Unsworth

Before I Died

 Before I Died  

By Len Morgan 

Before I died, I signed an organ donor form, and as a joke, I added~ (All of me, why not take all of me…).  But, it was just a joke! 

So, here I am, they added my brain to an AI/Quantum computer system.  I’m required to supply the human factor, illogical thinking, and uncertainty. Typical hesitation and slow reactions. Input attributes that would make a machine appear human.  In fact, I’ve been sliced, spliced, and diced into the system to provide that magic ingredient ~ Human error!  

My job is to answer those difficult questions, ethical questions, that a computer could not, such as:

 

I am not a computer…

The Winds of Change

 The Winds of Change

 

By Sis Unsworth

 

When the essence of our Christmas fades,

the trees and the lights come down.

Seasonal bells still ring out, and echo through the town

children’s dreams and wishes, we hope have all come true

Friends and families gather round, to share hopes and memories too

But the winds of change now echo, with hope that it may bring

us glory and the wonder, and the signs of early spring.

Copyright Sis Unsworth

Sweyne Park

 Sweyne Park

By Janet Baldey 

Early one morning, decades ago, I remember lying sleepless in my bed.  A momentous event lay ahead, one which I hadn’t planned for and my happiness lay in the balance.  Knowing this, I had tossed and turned all night and now lay exhausted, staring into space. As daylight crept into my room, I heard a single cheep and turned to the window, where my curtains were now rimmed with gold.  That first chirp was rapidly followed by others until it seemed that every bird in the universe was shouting out their joy at the start of a new day.  Back then – in what is now called the past - this full-throated explosion of birdsong was taken for granted and either delighted or exasperated and I’m sure there were those who, with muffled curses, pulled their pillows over their ears and tried to get back to sleep. As for me, as I lay surrounded by a symphony gifted by nature, my woes receded and lulled, I was able to sleep.    

          In the past there were many occasions, like this, when one could experience moments of wonder without having to spend a penny.  On many a rose-tinted evening my husband and I would walk down to Southend’s sea-front and stand spell-bound watching as thousands of starlings looped and plunged in smoky arcs across the sky.    While at harvest time, the formerly green hedgerows near our cottage were transmuted into shades of brown as a twitter of sparrows descended, each anticipating a meal of scattered grain as combine harvesters rolled their dusty way across the fields. 

              Then, there was the magical event that happened in Leigh-on-Sea every October when the Brent Geese arrived from Siberia to overwinter on the Eel grass.   On one particular morning, I’d spent the night on my father’s barge and as the mist dissipated and the air warmed, I decided to drink my morning cuppa on the deck.  As I sipped my tea and thought of nothing, I stared into the distance, past the mudflats and the yachts, their masts at odd angles as they lay at anchor, towards the horizon where a black line separated the sky from the sea.  As I watched, the line thickened and very soon a dark stain was spreading towards us.  I felt my heartbeat quicken.  Dad must see this.  I turned towards the hatchway.

          “Dad,” I called.  “The geese are coming.”

          I heard a scramble of movement from inside the barge and a few seconds later up he popped like a genie out of a bottle.  He raised his binoculars towards the moving cloud and I knew that he was smiling even though most of his face was obscured by binoculars and beard.

          “I thought it might be today,” he announced.  “You can almost set your watch by them.”

          But that was yesterday when the mud flats were covered by hungry geese and their music filled the air.  I haven’t been back to Leigh recently.  The last time I did, the geese had arrived but in patchy numbers and it broke my heart to see them so depleted.

These days, the place that’s special to me has no soaring ice-tipped mountains, no far-flung purple moors filled with the sound of silence, no coves with golden sand beaten flat by the ebb tide, it’s just the place that I walk the last dog I shall ever own, and as such, it’s very dear. 

Formerly 57 acres of wartime agricultural land, Sweyne Park has been transformed by Rochford Council into a leisure park for the local population.  It has two ponds, islands of twelve species of tree, Willow, Oak, and Alder to name but three, and is surrounded by four km of hedgerows.  Stitched cross-wise by paths, it’s a popular place for dog-walkers and I’ve seen it in all its moods.  In spring time, the branches of the hawthorn are cocooned by sweet-smelling blossom of the purest white, that could transport me back to the snows of winter, were it not for wind that has lost its power to scour the skin.  In summertime, the sun blazes down from cloudless skies for days on end, baking the earth and shrivelling the Timothy grass.  On days like these, I seek shelter in the cooler parts of the park by following the path over a small bridge, underneath which the remains of a stream, a sluggish relative of its former winter-lively self, feeds into the lower of the two ponds. Here Willow trees flourish, planted especially to help to drain the marshy soil and their shade is a welcome relief.  However, respite is short and soon sweat is stinging my eyes as I plod up a hill that seemingly has the same power to exhaust as Everest.  But however long the days, time passes at an ever-increasing speed, soon the nights are drawing in and it’s autumn again.  Autumn has two faces.  At first the leaves of the trees change from differing shades of green to shades of burnt orange, amber and scarlet, their colours burning against the sky like brands held by Olympic athletes.  Their beauty is breathtaking but it is a doomed beauty and soon the leaves relinquish their hold and spiral down to earth where they form a frayed jigsaw of colour.  As the days pass more follow disintegrating with their fellows into a uniformed mulch leaving the bare bones of their mother- trees shivering against the skyline with no defence against the raw winds of winter.  And so, the cycle starts afresh.

          This is as it should be, it is expected and comes as no real surprise.  But what does worry me is what I haven’t mentioned.  When the park was first created forty years ago, it was home to at least ten species of birds – blue tits, long-tailed tits, greenfinches, black-caps, starlings, blackbirds, collared doves, whitethroats, green woodpeckers, and sparrow hawks.  There was no mention of magpies, those strutting bandits with their harsh cackling cries, or of crows, their gangmasters.  Now these thugs seem to have taken over and I suspect have subjugated the smaller birds who may still be seen but in rare and fleeting moments.  But where are the sparrow hawks and the starlings who used to be so infinite?  Sadly, we humans have sucked the life out of our natural spaces and not enough people care.

 

          But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe in times to come folk will tear their eyes away from Facebook, or TikTok and maybe even the internet will bore them.  They’ll look around and realise there are empty skies to fill. Books will remind them of all the wonders that once called planet Earth their home and we will pine for all we have lost.  But our species is very good at making demands and maybe, for once, our demands will be for the good of the planet.  As in the film, extinct species will be brought back to life and once more wolves, tigers and bears will roam the forests.  Science will have found a cure for plastic and the seas will be cleansed so that sea creatures can flourish.  We will learn to cherish all natural life, not just for its sake but for ours.  And wouldn’t that be lovely?

 

Copyright Janet Baldey        

            

Riddles 11

 Riddles 11

 

By the Riddler

The Riddler has only one puzzle for us today:

 

    You are captured by a sadistic terrorist group that loves playing mind games with their victims.

You are told:

 

a)           You will enter a Unit with two rooms in the first there are three switches, A B C.

 

b)           In the second room there are three light bulbs, 1  2  3.

 

c)           You can enter each room only once!  If you re-enter either you will be blown to bits.

 

d)           The door locks as you enter, but there is an exit pad at the door ~ 1  2  3.  The correct exit code is dependent on which switch is connected to which light bulb.

 

e)           So, how do you discover the code?

 

f)             You have only 30 minutes to enter ABC ~ BCA ~ CAB ~ CBA ~ BAC ~ ACB.

.  And exit the Unit safely.

 

g)           Warning!  A wrong guess will result in your death…

 

h)           So how do you work out the correct code?

 

Have Fun!  

 

Keep em coming Riddler

 

FRIDAY NIGHT IS GOING TO BE ALRIGHT

 FRIDAY NIGHT IS GOING TO BE ALRIGHT 

(Based on the words of Herman’s Hermits 1965 song ‘Silhouettes’ (on the shade.)

By Bob French

Frank stood in front of his full-length mirror and admired himself. He had just been given a pay rise and with his savings had gone down to Burtons, on the high street, and bought a Beatles suit, a high collar white shirt, just like that worn by Paul McCartney, and a pair of two-inch-high-heel boots worn by the Beatles.

He stood there for nearly five minutes admiring himself, then spoke to his image with confidence. “If this doesn’t catch Jenifer’s attention, then I give up.”

The Saint Benedict Youth Club in Romford, just behind Woolies, was the place to be on a Friday night. Ever since he, and all his mates, had left school, a year or so back, they had kept their promise that no matter what, they would meet up at the Friday night dance at the club.

He straightened his tie as ‘Love, Love Me Do,’ by the Beatles, burst into his bedroom via the small Japanese transistor radio his dad had bought him for his eighteenth birthday, and he smiled to himself. “This is going to be the night.”

Frank and Jenifer had, what one would call, a casual friendship.  Whenever they met, they were always accompanied by their friends; even when he asked her to dance, everyone would get up and join in.  So far, he had never been alone with her, well, not really, not since he had bumped into her at the library, and even then, he’d sat next to her and never spoke a word for fear of the dreaded Miss Hetheringay giving him one of her looks you only saw in horror films.

Frank had gone over in his mind a hundred times, the words he wanted to use to ask Jenifer out on a date, and would regularly berate himself at the last minute for the lack of courage when a rare occasion presented itself.  To ease his frustration, he would convince himself that, ‘It’s just that there were too many people around, or it wasn’t the right moment.’

They could hear the music before they even entered the club.  Mrs. Miller, the ancient caretaker, and unofficial bouncer, gave Frank the once over, then smiled as he handed her his ‘half a dollar’ coin. As she stamped the back of his hand, she leaned forward and quietly spoke in his ear “Jenifer is over by the Jukebox, love.”

Once inside, Frank and his mates mingled with their mates.  But Frank’s eyes were searching for Jenifer.  He wanted to impress her, but just as he caught sight of her, the beat of Cliff and the Shadows filled the hall and the dance floor was suddenly filled with screaming, jiving, and, twisting dancers. 

Frank watched as Butterworth casually sauntered up to Jenifer and joined her circle of friends. He watched to see her reaction and was pleased that she appeared not to like what he had done, then smiled as Fay, one of Jenifer’s friends, danced in between them.

As he stood with his back to the wall watching Jenifer dancing, several of his female friends asked him if he wanted to dance, but Frank was saving himself for his girl.

Half an hour later, the music stopped for snacks and Jenifer and her friends moved towards the table of sandwiches and squash. Butterworth had given up trying to muscle in on Jenifer and was messing about with a couple of his mates on the far side of the hall. 

Frank took a deep breath.  “This was it,” he told himself, then straightened his tie and moved slowly towards Jenifer and her friends.  As usual, he felt his hands go clammy; he started to sweat and he could feel his heart pounding in his chest.  Then he froze.

He suddenly became aware that Mrs. Miller was standing beside him. He felt her hand touch his elbow as she spoke quietly to him.

“Listen, love, just take a deep breath and go up to her.”

“What do I say to her?”  He could sense panic starting to set in.

“Just say, hello Jenifer, you look nice this evening.  Fancy a dance?”

“No…. I can’t”

Without warning he felt himself being gently propelled towards Jenifer and her friends. He tried to wriggle out of it, but before he knew what was happening, he was standing in front of Jenifer.  Everyone was now staring at Frank.  No one moved, and then he suddenly came to his senses.

 “Hello Jenifer.  You look nice tonight.  When the music starts, would you mind if…”

Before he could finish, Jenifer stepped forward, took Frank by his shoulders, and leaned into him.

“Frank, I’d love to dance with you, all night, if you’d let me.”

Several of her friends started clapping and some even said out loud, “About time.”

That evening Frank walked her home. They talked about everything and nothing as they strolled hand in hand towards her home.  Frank noticed as they started to walk down Jamerson’s Drive. everyone seemed to have the same blinds and how, when the light shone on the blinds you could easily make out the silhouettes of the people who lived there. They began to laugh as they made up stories and jokes about some of the silhouettes.

Every Friday night, Frank would walk Jenifer home and after a while, he stopped remembering which turns to take, as long as he ended up at her red door with a bronze number 58 on it.

After three months, they were viewed by many of those who frequented the club, as the perfect couple, except Butterworth who had become jealous as he watched the love affair unfold and begun to plot to split them. He started to spread rumours about the two of them, and when confronted, he’d denied ever saying such things.

Then, on the first Friday of September, Phillipa, one of the girls who flat shared with Jenifer told him that Jenifer had gone down with the flu and was confined to her bed. For some reason, Frank felt a little let down.  Why hadn’t she told him herself, he thought.

During that week Frank tried telephoning her, but her line was always engaged.  Frank started to fret for her and on the following Friday, Frank, on entering the club sought out Phillipa.  He needed to know if Jennifer was alright.  As he approached, her on the dance floor he noticed that Phillipa was in the arms of someone.

As he tapped her on the shoulder, he noticed that the boy kissing her was Roy, and not Mike, her boyfriend.  Phillipa lazily glanced at Frank and realized that he wanted to know about Jenifer.

With a guilty expression on her face, she quietly said. “Not now Frank, I’m sorta busy.

Frank now felt rejected, and confused.  It was then that Max, one of his friends approached him.

“Listen Frank. It’s probably nothing, but that fat slob Jenkins, you know, he hangs around with Butterworth. Well, he’s just told me that Jenifer is fine and that Butterworth and her have been shacking up together for the past two weeks.”

Frank suddenly felt cold. He recalled the guilty expression on Phillipa’s face and that the two weeks Jenifer had been ill, were the same two weeks that Butterworth had been missing from the club. It all made sense now.

Something seemed to snap in Frank’s mind and he hurried towards the club door.  The cold night air brought him to his senses, as he turned and started to run towards Jenifer’s flat.  After twenty minutes, he realised that he wasn’t sure of his bearings, then he saw the street with the blinds at all the windows.

By now Frank’s imagination was running wild as he sprinted down the street until he came to the red door with the brass number 58, and stopped. His mind was all over the place.  Standing in the cold wind he saw the silhouette of two people come together on the blind.  His heart was pounding in his chest as they slowly embraced each other and began kissing slowly and passionately.

Frank screamed, then ran up to the red door, and began hammering on it, demanding that it be opened immediately.

The door was wrenched open and there, standing in front of him, was a tall ginger-haired man who, judging by the expression on his face, was not best pleased.

“What the hell do you want son?”

“I want to see Jenifer, right now!  I saw you kissing her.”

“Who is Jenifer?” As the man spoke, a woman appeared beside the man.

“Who is it darling?”

“This lad is looking for some girl called Jenifer.”

“Does your Jenifer work in Barclays?”

Frank was suddenly taken aback with the question and nodded.

The woman laughed. “Sorry love, but this is 58 Jamerson’s Drive.  Your Jenifer lives at 58 Jamerson’s Road, two streets down.

As Frank sprinted down the street, the woman yelled after him. “You can’t miss it, love, It has a brass number 58 on a bright red door.”

When Frank reached Jenifer’s flat, he stumbled up to the front door and rang the bell.  He seemed to wait for ages and began to wonder what he would do if Butterworth opened the door.  

Very slowly the door opened and there stood Jenifer, wrapped up as if she was about to go hiking in the Antarctic.

Frank just stood there admiring the girl he loved.  Jenifer smiled and he could see the love in her eyes, then she frowned as she realised that she must look a state, and went to close the door.

Frank stepped into the foyer, reached out and gently held her in his arms until he felt her respond. They stood there for a while, just holding each other.

“Jenifer, my darling, I was so worried about you.  I tried calling but your phone was always engaged.”

“I’m alright my love, just a really bad cold and didn’t want to be bothered.” 

Frank thought for a bit, then gently kissed her forehead.

“Darling, I love you so much and want to spend the rest of my life with you. We can be the silhouette on the shade.”

Upstairs in Jenifer’s bedroom, Butterworth lay listening to the conversation, then grinned.

 Copyright Bob French