A Hard Life

By Janet Baldey

“Between Tesco’s and the station, that’s where you’ll find me. Riding the pavement from dawn till dusk.  It’s a good pitch, the best. You get a steady stream of shoppers raiding Tesco’s and later there’s party goers back from an evening in Town.  But it’s hard being me.  I thought of getting meself a dog, for company as well as the sympathy vote, but I wouldn’t wish my life on any animal. For starters, it’d have to put up with the verbal abuse. Not that it bothers me, I’m used to it.  It was my lullaby when I was a kid. There’s nothing folk can say to me that I haven’t heard before.

 Have you ever been lonely?   I don’t mean like if your family are away for a bit, or you’re on your tod in a strange town - I mean really lonely.  Like when you know no-one in this world gives a toss about you.  You could die in your sleep and no-one would care, or even notice, except they would because the pavements have to be kept clear of dead bodies, ‘cos it would never do to have commuters tripping over them. 

Sometimes I watch little kids going in and out of the supermarket, clutching their Mum’s hand or swaying on their Dad’s shoulders and feel I could kill for a childhood like that.  My mum never loved me. Not in the slightest.  I often wonder why she never got some pills and flushed me down the toilet when she first realised she was up the duff.   Too stoned, I suppose, or drunk, and eventually I popped out of her fanny. 

         My gran took care of me.   She loved me – when I was little she used to take me to the park to feed the ducks, only I didn’t understand and ate the bread meself.    

‘No, lovie, that’s for them fellas over there, the ones with the feathers.’   Then, she’d roar with laughter and give me a hug.

 Sometimes we made gingerbread together. I mixed the ginger in with the flour and when she’d rolled out the mixture, I cut out shapes of little men.  Lovely, they were. We ate them straight out of the oven, warm and crumbly they melted in yer mouth. I remember their taste and me mouth fills with water.  Yeah.   My gran loved me.   Although sometimes she’d cry and stroke my hair and call me her ‘poor little lamb’, but she’d never say why although, looking back, I think she knew. Then, she died and left me all alone.

 I lived with Mum afterwards.  At first, I didn’t understand why Gran wasn’t there and kept crying for her. Mum use to yell at me, said I was getting on her nerves.  She’d throw me in a bedroom and lock the door.

There was a constant stream of men coming in and out but I never knew their names.  I reckon Mum didn’t know either ‘cuz she told me to call them all ‘Uncle’.  When there was a special ‘Uncle’ expected, Mum didn’t want to let on she had a kid so she shut me in the cellar.  It was pitch black and I was terrified at first.  Later though, I got used to it, at least no-one screamed or hit me down there.

         I was always hungry but it was easy to scavenge in our house.  There was always bits of pizza lying around and occasionally an ‘Uncle’ would send me to the chippy.

         ‘Don’t bother hurrying back.’  He’d add.  So now I reckon I know every nook and cranny of this shitty town. That’s come in handy now.

         At school, no-one wanted to sit next to me.   ‘He smells, Miss….’    I reckon they’d smell if their Mum didn’t bother to wash them or change their clothes.  But I always wanted a friend.  I hated break times when I had to hang around alone and look as if I didn’t care.   Then I noticed that all the kids were on about their latest ‘designer’ trainers so I thought if I  got some then maybe I’d fit in.  That’s how I first learned to steal.  I’d tag onto a family in a shoe-shop, follow them around, then when no-one was looking, I’d sneak some trainers and scarper.   The trainers didn’t always fit and anyway, they didn’t make any difference - I still had no friends.   Later, I graduated to nicking jeans and that’s when I got caught.  From then on it was Remand Home, Children’s Home and now the streets.  Story of my life.  

         It was about a month ago, I first noticed her. A little girl of around five, standing looking at me.  Normally, I hate kids. They pinch my money, or kick my tin over. Others will cling onto their Mum’s arm and pretend to be frightened.  But this kid wasn’t like that and when I looked at her, I recognised the signs - fading bruises, stained, too-short dress and no coat.   She smiled, whispered ‘Hello’, then scuttled back to where her Mum was yakking on her mobile.  Sometimes she seemed to be completely on her own and she’d sit down beside me and we’d talk.  Not much, but enough to realise I’d found a friend.  She’d show me stones she’d found and I’d say they were pretty. Eventually, her Mum’d show up and yell at her.  It used to make me so sad to see the cowed way she’d slink back.

         One day she turned up with a fresh bruise on her face.  

         ‘What’s that?’  I said.

         ‘I was naughty,’ she whispered, and that was when I made up my mind.

It’s nearly dark and the first stars are out.  In the surrounding fields, pinpricks of light jitter in mad circles and above the sky is full of the machine gun rattle of helicopter blades.  They’re searching hard but I grin, ‘cuz they’re way off course.   As I said, I know all the rat runs in this town and they’ll never guess where I’ve hidden her.  She’s mine now and I’ll never be lonely again.”

    Copyright Janet Baldey

The Estuary ~ (A Conversation)

 The Estuary  ~ (A Conversation) 

By Janet Baldey 

“So, any luck today?” 

“Firstly,”  I held up a finger.  “It was such a lovely day, I decided to take a walk along the estuary. Hadn’t gone a hundred yards when I found myself lying face down, my nose inches from a puddle. Completely dazed… Hadn’t a clue what had happened, but although I was winded, nothing seemed to be broken.  Even Essex mud can sometimes be a blessing.  Anyway, feeling a perfect fool, I began to get up, hoping no-one had seen.  Fat chance….seconds later I was being suffocated by lavender and a female voice was doing its best to hit top C.” 

“Are you alright?  Marcus, you bad dog, how could you?  Here, let me help you up.  Oh no!  Now, I’ve made it worse. I’ve got paint all over your lovely jacket.  How stupid!  You must let me pay for it.”  Her voice rose even higher, chasing larks into the sky.

          I looked at the woman jitterbugging in front of me.  Middle fifties, maybe.  Blonde, plump.  I was about to tell her what I thought about her and her damn dog, when I took a second look.    Her clothes were casual but obviously top quality and I’d swear the pearls glowing in her ears and around her neck were the real thing, so I changed the shape of my mouth into a smile.

          “Please don’t worry, it was my own stupid fault…wasn’t looking where I was going.  Is this the culprit?”

          Now, you know I dislike dogs intensely, but I made myself pat the hairy thing drooling in front of me.

          “I’m afraid so, He’s usually so good but he must have seen a rabbit and when he does, the red mist descends and he’s off.”         

I nodded understandingly.  Then, I noticed a smudge of blue paint on her nose, an easel and a half-finished canvas and quickly made the logical conclusion. “Why, you’re an artist!”         

She laughed, a shrill tinkling sound that made the fillings in my teeth ache.  “Oh hardly, I just dabble, I only took it up after my husband died.”

          I pretended to admire the widow’s painting.  “It’s very good.”  (It wasn’t, just a mere daub – God, the things I do for you.)

          “Do you think so?”

          “Absolutely.  It’s just that…excuse me, do you mind?”  I reached for the brush and added a couple of thin, ochre lines.  “There…”         

“Oh, that is so much better.”  The old girl clasped her hands, looking as if she was peeing herself with joy.  “Do you paint?”

                “Used to but when Mater and Pater fell ill, I had to move out of the Manor.  Care Home fees are so expensive, you know.  Where I live now, there is hardly room to swing the proverbial cat, let alone store canvasses and what not.” 

          Blondie’s eyes widened, she couldn’t have looked more stricken if she’d caught me strangling a cat – or her bloody dog.

                 “What a terrible shame.  It’s obvious that you’re sooo talented.”

                 I hid a smirk and looked sad. “Of course, I miss painting immensely – almost as much as I do the parents.”

                 Her voice dropped to whisper, as if she was in the very presence of the dead.  “I understand completely.  Tell me, what is it that you do?”

                 “Got a little business going – internet design.  Not doing too badly actually – in fact I’m on the brink of something earth shattering.  If, of course, I can raise the money to finance it.  Anyway, enough of nasty business talk.  Where do you go to paint?” 

                 “I belong to a local group; we meet in the village hall.  It’s great fun.  Oh, I’ve just had a brilliant idea.  Why don’t you come along and join us.  I’m sure we could learn from you.”

                 No doubt about that, I thought.  Aloud, I said.  “Do you know, I’d really like to.  Take my mind off my business worries.  But, as I said, easels and canvasses take up a lot of space.”

                 She fingered the pearls at her neck and my mouth watered.

                 “That’s no problem.  I rattle along in my big old house like a pea in a pod.  I’ve got plenty of room.  Come and see.”

                 I held up a second finger. “So, I helped her pack up and she dragged me along and wow, that house!   Drowning in ivy, glowing in the sun, slumbering under oaks, all the clichés you can possibly think of, and I had an ‘in’!”  I licked my lips and leaned back in my chair.

 “And thirdly?”         

“Give me a chance, babe.  But thanks to Marcus, I’ve sown a whole row of seeds and they’ll fruit soon enough.  Anyway, what happened with you.  Did the old goat bite?”

 

          The words were no sooner out of my mouth when a shaft of sunlight coloured her hair rose-gold.

 

 She crossed her long, bronzed legs and lifted one perfect eyebrow.  “Stupid question – wish I hadn’t asked.”

 

Copyright Janet Baldey      

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

 

          

          

 

         

          

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        

            

 Didn’t you hear me?

Janet Baldey
 

The heavy oak doors burst open and Leo fled down the curved white steps.  Without hesitation, he heeled to the left and strode down the street.  His mouth was raked into a thin line and furrows scarred his face.  There was just one thought in his mind, he had to get away from the grey faced men and their grey voices and away from the few friends who’d attended the hearing, knowing he couldn’t stomach their clumsy shoulder-pats and embarrassed sympathy.  His anger, simmering just below the surface ever since it happened, flared, and became white-hot.  How could she have done this to him?  He’d reached his car by now and stood thumping its roof with fury.

         At last, feeling dead inside, he got into the car.  For a long time, he sat, watching skeletal trees bowing under a freshening breeze. Slowly, he reached out his hand and switched on the ignition.  Immediately, the husky voice of his wife’s favourite singer, flooded the car.   His hand shot towards the ‘off’ switch but the damage had been done and his shoulders heaved as he lowered his head onto the steering wheel.

         “Why, Catherine. Why?”

         It was almost dark by the time he recovered.  He knew he couldn’t return to an empty house, so he headed in the opposite direction, threading his way through the evening rush hour, out of the city and onto the coast road.

         When he reached the boatyard, it was almost midnight.  Leo parked the car and stood looking out over the moorings.  The wind was blowing hard now, sending tattered clouds scudding over the moon.  All around him, he could hear the slap of the waves, the clinking of halyards and the creak of vessels being buffeted by the rolling swell.  He drew in a breath of salt-laden air and, despite everything, felt himself relax.  He’d always loved this place.  He’d bought Catherine a yacht, just after they’d lost their third child, thinking it might take her mind off her grief.  After, they had spent almost every weekend sailing.  The rougher the sea, the better Catherine liked it.  On his work desk, he kept a picture of her at the tiller.  Her hair was streaming in the wind and her face was beaded with spray.  He never tired of looking at it, when things were tough, it gave him strength.

         Suddenly, the words of her favourite song reverberated in his head….Didn’t I tell you, I’ll love you forever?  Didn’t you hear me?

         They were very young when they first met but he’d known, almost at first sight, that she was the one.  He remembered walking into the church youth club, intent on having a game of table tennis and a laugh with his mates. Then, he caught sight of a small, serious-faced girl with a cloud of black hair and big brown eyes.  She reminded him of a faun, so small, so dark, so silent.  He found himself wanting to protect her.  He squeezed his eyes shut and a fresh wave of guilt washed over him.  He’d meant to do his best but at the very time she’d needed him most, he’d failed her.

         At first, they were happy just to be together.  He remembered one sun-kissed afternoon when they’d ran along the sands at Rye, her slim, brown legs struggling to keep up with his and her protesting squeals as he brushed sand from her hair after they’d made love in the dunes.  She’d been so joyful then, her future stretched out before her, golden with promise like the sands they raced along.

         All Catherine had wanted from their marriage was to be a wife and mother.  She was not interested in a career; “a real home bird” his mother had called her.  But that was before; after losing three babies in a row, they’d started the soul-destroying round of specialist consultations.  With every visit, hope leached away and her happiness faded.  At first, he’d been supportive but as he became more and more caught up in his career, its distractions followed him home and he failed to notice how pale she was becoming.   All she wanted was to hold her baby; that was her tragedy and it was also his that he never fully realised how deep her longing was.  She sank into depression, her spirit languished and she spent long hours sitting alone in silence.  Then, the attacks of vertigo and dizziness began.  At first, their GP put it down to ‘nerves’ and offered antidepressants and it was only when she collapsed that she was taken seriously.  When MS was finally diagnosed, Leo was shocked into realising how far she had degenerated.  At long last, a surge of tenderness welled and he’d folded her slight figure in his arms. 

         “Don’t worry darling.  I’ll always be here to look after you,” he’d said.

         Didn’t you hear me?  Evidently, she hadn’t.  He’d come back from work one day, opened the front door and immediately felt the emptiness.  Pounding up the stairs, he burst into their bedroom only to find her limp body prostrate on the bed, her dark hair a curtain covering her face and an empty bottle of pills upended on the floor.

         Leo knew he couldn’t live without her.  Moving slowly, he raised the sail, heard the snap of the canvas as the wind took it and saw it billowing ghostly in the moonlight.  He nodded, bad weather was forecast and that would suit his purpose.  He cast off from the jetty and hauled on the tiller.  Without bothering to switch on his navigation lights, he set off and as he did, the first squall of icy rain slapped him full in the face.

Copyright Janet Baldey

        

         

 MARISA

By Janet Baldey

She was sitting in the window-seat, her silhouette framed by an aureole of gold.  As he crossed the room towards her, he saw her eyes were misty and far-away as she gazed into the garden and Harry thought he had never seen anyone more beautiful.  He felt a rush of tenderness as he thought of how much he loved her.

           “I’m off now love.”  He planted a kiss on her forehead.  She started and an almost imperceptible frown marred the perfection of her face before she lifted her head to acknowledge his embrace.

           As she heard the slam of the door, she felt a rush of relief.  Rising, she ran up the stairs and into her bedroom; standing in front of a full-length mirror, she stretched voluptuously, relishing the way her kimono clung to her figure.  Heat flooded through her; she wished Steve was with her now and she looked towards the bed feeling a tingle of delicious anticipation.  She couldn’t wait to see him again, last evening had been so perfect.

          She stood in the shower feeling the spray hard against her body.  With dawning delight, she remembered that Harry was due to start night shifts tomorrow.  It was perfect timing; she and Steve could spend the whole night together.  She didn’t have his telephone number, he was always forgetting to give it to her, but she knew where he lived, so she would drop a discreet note through his door.  Impatient now, she switched off the shower and grabbed a towel.

          Outside, the sun beat down on her unprotected head like a bar of iron as she swung along the street, her short skirt flirting against her thighs.  Clutched in her hand was a scribbled note and two letters for the post.  As she neared the familiar red post box on the corner, she darted a quick glance left towards the road junction and gasped as her heart started to pound.  She recognised the sleek, green Jaguar held by the lights – it was his car and if she was quick, she could catch him.  She thrust the letters into the box and raced down the street.  

 

          The back of Harry’s shirt was dark with sweat and damp rings circled his armpits as he heaved himself out of the van into evening air heavy with humidity.  Last box, thank God.  He licked his lips; he could almost taste the ice-cold lager he’d treat himself to when he got home.  As he unlocked the post box, an avalanche of letters flowed into his sack.  With a grunt he stooped to pick it up and as he did, he noticed a slip of paper caught in the grill.  Shopping list he thought, they were always being posted by mistake.  Plucking it out, a name caught his attention.  It was an unusual name and he’d always liked the exotic images it conjured when he whispered it in her ear.  Marisa, his wife’s name.  He looked closer and smiled cynically, not a shopping list it was obviously a lover’s tryst.  He was about to screw it into a ball when he froze as he recognised something else, the telephone number.  It was the one he dialled every time he was late home.  For an instant he stood very still, then mechanically, he closed the post box.  As if in a trance, he put his van into gear and drove to the sorting office, where, with a smile glued to his face, he responded to the banter of his colleagues until it was time to leave.

          Several pubs and several lagers later, he dragged himself home.  Inside, the house was in darkness except for a thin, yellow line underneath the kitchen door.   Without turning on the lights, he turned into the living room and flung himself down in an armchair and sat watching creeping shadows change familiar furniture into hump-backed monsters.

          Eventually, the door opened and light flooded in.  He heard her give a little gasp then,

          “Whatever are you doing, sitting in the dark?”  He didn’t answer and she shrugged and went back into the kitchen.  He heard her moving about, heard the clattering of plates and the hiss of the kettle.  Still, he sat, dull-eyed, staring at nothing.

          Impatiently, she swept into the room again.  “Are you coming, or what?”

          He sat at the table, pushing food about his plate.  Marisa sat opposite, eating with quick, economical bites.  At last, she put down her knife and fork and looked at him, a brittle smile stretching her mouth.

          “So, what time are you leaving for work tomorrow?”

          “Not going to work.”

          There was a pause; he kept his eyes fixed on his plate.

          “I thought you were starting nights?” 

          “Change of plan.  I’m taking a few days off.  Thought we could go away for a break.”  Even to his own ears, his voice sounded thick and unnatural.  He waited as silence deadened the room.  Eventually, he looked up and it felt as though someone had punched him.  She was staring at him, disappointment etched into the contours of her face.  It was all the proof he needed.

          “What’s his name?”

          Her eyes widened.

          He flung the crumpled note towards her.  “His name?”

          As she sat motionless, he noticed a small pulse beating rapidly in the base of her neck.

          Suddenly, he rose and pounded upstairs to their bedroom where he began wrenching open drawers and burrowing his thick hands into the froth of her lingerie.  At last, he found what he was looking for.

          “What are you doing?”  Behind him, her voice was high and razor sharp.

          Flicking through the pages of her diary, he took no notice.  Suddenly, he stopped and his shoulders slumped.  “Steve.”  Anger twisted his features.  “You whore.”

          “Give me that.”  She grabbed for the book.

          His arm pistoned towards her and she fell backwards onto the bed.   His face reddened and veins knotted his neck.  “I trusted you and you creep around like an alley cat.  Why Marisa?  I’ve bought you everything you ever wanted.  I’ve worked my fingers to the bone for you.  I thought we were happy.”

          She scrambled off the bed, her eyes blazing.

          “You fool” she sneered.  “You thought you could buy me?  Well, let me tell you, Postman Pat, you are just a joke.  An ugly, clumsy joke.  I’ve never loved you.  How could anyone love you?  You say you’ve bought me things but I’ve paid for them.  I pay for them every time your stinking body comes anywhere near me.  I lie there in the dark, with you on top of me, paying for them.  Here, give me that!”  She snatched the diary out of his hands and riffled through its pages and held it out towards him.  “Look.”

          He stared in horror as one scarlet nail traced a list of names.  He recognised most of them, some friends of his, others pillars of society.  Her voice rose, becoming strident and ugly.  He stared at her contorted face; this was someone he didn’t know any more.

          “Everyone was better than you!  They satisfy me more in one hour than you have in the whole of our marriage…..”  Her voice stopped abruptly as his hand knifed towards her and caught her full in the throat.  Bunching his fists, he hit her again and again until she fell to the floor.  He loomed over her, breathing heavily, sweat pouring down his face.  Gradually, he brought himself under control.  She lay very still and he noticed that her head was twisted to one side.

          “Marisa?”  Tentatively, touched her fallen body with his foot.  She never stirred.  He dropped to one knee and tried to straighten her head.  Tenderly, he brushed back her hair that had fallen over her face.  “Marisa?” he repeated, panic trembling his voice.  Bitter bile erupted into his mouth and he retched.  He felt weak and dazed.  Groggily, he got to his feet and went into the bathroom where he turned the shower full on and thrust his head under its icy spray.  He perched on the edge of the bath for a long time feeling so weary he could have slept for a week.  He tried to think but thoughts buzzed around inside his head like a swarm of angry bees.  Finally, he returned to the bedroom and looked down at his wife.  She looked so young and vulnerable lying where she’d fallen.  Gently, he picked her up, laid her on the bed and lay down beside her.  As if an invisible hand had snapped off a switch, he was instantly asleep.

          Harry woke as the first birds heralded the new day.  At first, he wondered why he was lying fully dressed on the bed.  Then, he remembered and sat bolt upright.  Nothing had changed, the room was still in turmoil and Marisa was still lying beside him, as stiff and white as a marble statue.  He gathered her into his arms, and sat with his head bowed, a storm of sobs shaking his body. Eventually, he became calmer and when he next looked up it was as if, along with his tears, his soul had flooded out of his body.  His eyes were dry and hard and his face was grim.

          He looked at his dead wife and love disappeared as resentment took its place.  He had never been a violent man but he could only stand so much.   She had brought this on herself and he had no intention of paying the price for something that was not his fault. 

          After a cup of hot, black coffee, his head cleared.  He looked at his watch, he was already late for work.  Over the phone, he had no trouble convincing his supervisor that he was ill, his hoarse croak did that for him.  He sat, deep in thought, a few months earlier he had arrived back home to find Marisa watching one of her favourite television programmes – Price Drop TV.  She had sat avidly watching he screen, her hand hovering over the telephone.  He’d sighed.  Already the house groaned with the so-called ‘bargains’ she had accumulated.  As she put in a bid for a set of heavy-duty steel knives, including a cleaver, he had jokingly asked if she was thinking of taking up butchery.  Now, he grinned sardonically.

 

          Three days later, he went back to work.  His colleagues were shocked at his appearance, gone was the spruce, genial giant with twinkles in his eyes, now his face was gaunt and morose and stubble clung to his chin.

          “Are you alright, mate?  You look really rough.  ‘Flu was it?”

          “Wife’s done a bunk,” he muttered, picking up a mailbag, he shuffled out of the door.

          From then on, he avoided his friends and sat alone in the canteen.  Conversation at the adjoining tables grew stilted as he ate his solitary meal, only picking up again when he left the room.

          “Poor bugger.  He doted on that floozie…” the voice trailed away as it was kicked into silence for fear of its carrying power.

          As the days passed, no-one took any particular notice of the little red post van as it buzzed around the countryside, delivering letters, parcels, and packages.  No-one noticed the number of times it was to be seen parked near woods, copses and lonely fields.  No-one noticed the mud that frequently stained the bottom of his trousers and coated the soles of his shoes.

          Summer had fled, autumn was dwindling, soon it would be winter and the ground would freeze.  Normally, winter is hard on wild animals, but this year, they would feed well.

 

Copyright Janet Baldey

 Twilight Time

Janet Baldey

This is going to be one of my good days.  My body feels as if it’s floating just above my bed; the ache in my bones has disappeared completely and my mind feels as if it has been spring cleaned overnight. As if she is still with me and whispering in my ear, I can clearly hear my favourite carer, Sadie, telling me that she will be on duty today.  Instinctively I try to form a smile but it turns into a lopsided snarl. Nevertheless, I am happy.  At least she will treat my ancient flesh gently, not like the other one who pushed and pulled me this way and that as if I was one of the living dead; a nuisance to everyone and so far gone it didn’t matter what she did.  But she was wrong.  Although my body resembles a sack of dough, there is nothing wrong with my brain and I sussed her from the first.  All smiles to Sadie but when she turned to me her mask slipped and I saw contempt, distaste, and an obscure emotion that I struggled to process. She plucked at me with fastidious fingers as if I was infectious and all at once I flexed a muscle in my brain and knew it was fear that I sensed.  I also knew she wouldn’t be back and the knowledge comforted me.  In any case, she is quite wrong.  I’m not just a lump of flesh, I do have a life, although not one she would understand.

It’s a lovely day outside. I can tell that by the way my curtains are rimmed by light.  Soon Sadie will tap at my door and waft in like a soft summer breeze.  First, she lets the outside in and my room is filled with sunshine and the twitter of birds.  Then, she washes me and changes my bedclothes, her soft voice chattering non-stop, recounting little anecdotes and snippets of gossip she thinks I might like to hear.  I think she gets as much out of this as I do as frequently her voice deepens and she drifts towards more personal topics, problems of a domestic nature that need a solution and I like to think talking to me helps, although I never utter a word.  Then, after a kiss as light as gossamer, she is gone and I am left alone.

This, is when my life starts.  I peer into the corner nearest my bed and there is a little girl with wide, cornflower blue eyes.  She is timid, this little girl and clutches her toy rabbit to her as if it’s about to run away.  Our mother, has already washed and dressed her and she has two pigtails sticking out from the side of her head, with pink ribbons that match the colour of her dress.  My spirit leaves my shell and gently unites with hers and immediately we are one.  I have spent many happy days with her as my memories creep through the mist of years and the love that surrounded me in my infancy gives me strength.

In the next corner, the child has morphed into a gawky, awkward teenager who hates her looks and is so shy as to be almost catatonic.  She needs a lot of help that girl but in those days, children were seen, not heard so no-one noticed she was crying inside. In any case, our mother was so occupied with the problems of her second daughter, that she pushed aside her first, in many ways, the most needy. A bright girl, she found relief in self harm but was canny enough not to cut her arms instead she disfigured her thighs that nobody saw. Whenever I visit her, my memories are grey and twisted, much like the scars that decorate her upper legs and the thought of her pain saddens me.

Then, there is the harried young mother of three.  She is desperately worried about her middle daughter and I need to reassure her that all will be well and the child will grow into the most successful of all her children. But how does one calm the irrational fears that keep her awake at night?

A new day brings Sadie back again, but instead of softly wafting, she boils into the room with the force of a tornado.  Wisps of hair foam around her head and her eyes are wild.  This is not my sweet Sadie and I wonder what has happened as she rushes around the room, scattering tissues and cotton wool buds first onto the bed and then the floor.  I stare at her.  I’ve become used to reading Sadie’s lips but today they’re working overtime and her incoherence almost overwhelms me, but over the past few months, I’ve become aware that her marriage is not a happy one.  Purple bruises frequently stain her arms and occasionally her face, but fiercely loyal, she gives away very little.  Sometimes phrases like ‘Anton was in a bad mood today’ or ‘when someone upsets Anton, I pay for it’ slips from her lips but afterwards she looks ashamed and clams up.  But today is different, she almost acts as if I wasn’t there and it hurts to think I can so easily be dismissed. 

I will let you into a secret, since my immobility, I’ve developed a secret power.  By flexing a certain muscle in my brain, I can see into peoples’ lives as clearly as if I were watching a film, but I very rarely use this power,  The few times I have, I was left feeling unclean; an unwelcome usurper into peoples’ privacy, a bit like a man in a dirty raincoat.  So, knowing that, I hesitate but then decide to go ahead anyway because I must know why Sadie is so upset.

So, the movie starts to unspool.  There is a man lurching down the road and I can see by the way people flinch out of his way that he smells strongly of alcohol.  He comes to a little green gate and grasping at it with both hands he executes an unsteady right turn, almost falling over in the process.  Weaving up to the front door, he fumbles out his key and stabs at the keyhole several times before losing patience and dropping it.  With his fists, he hammers at the door.  “Lemme in, you daft cow,” I hear him roar. “I’ll giv yer ten seconds.” Immediately, the door opens and I catch a glimpse of Sadie’s face.  The man enters and there is a confusion of noise, the man’s bawling drowning out whatever she is saying.   He pushes Sadie down a narrow corridor and aims a blow but she dodges it and runs up the stairs.  “I’ll teach you,” he roars, stumbling after her. “’Yer’ll not look so pretty after I’ve finished with yer.”  But just as her husband reaches the top stair, Sadie reappears, thrusts out her arms and pushes him backwards down the stairs. I hear a sickening crack as his head connects with something hard.  A scarlet tide floods my vision and I know immediately what has happened. There is a limit to what anyone can take and my poor Sadie reached it. Because of his brutality she has been turned into a murderess.

I feel so blessed she chose to run to me but wonder why.  I try to see inside her mind but it’s a welter of confusion.  Perhaps she felt, as a woman of colour, she had no other choice but to carry on as usual until apprehended.  I know I must help her and not for the first time, rage at my paralysis although I know it’s wasted energy.  At last, she looks at me with eyes less clouded than before.  Some of her panic has receded and I flex my secret muscle as hard as I can until I see a spark of understanding.  Now, she knows she has refuge here and  soon I will show her my cache, for what use have I for money?  Later, when the hue and cry has slackened, she must go. 

As must I, for the ghosts of me have left their corners and are closer now.  Deep in the dark, I hear their voices; and know at last, it’s twilight time.

 

Copyright Janet Baldey

 

 

 

 

 

 

 The Traveller’s Joy

By Janet Baldey

“Half of best, please love.”

Joy turned back to the pump, glancing at the clock; still early and already her arm was aching, it’d be as numb as a block of wood before the night was out.  As amber liquid foamed into the tankard, she thanked the Lord it had a good head.  At least there’d be no moaning and groaning that usually greeted the landlord’s watered-down brew.  Not her fault, but she was the one who got it in the neck.  Certainly not Fred, who’d disappear into the snug at the first hint of trouble. Like a bloody canary in a coal mine, he was.

“That’ll be a tanner please, Bert.  I know, I know. Goes up every week. But don’t shoot the messenger. Ain’t me wot’s lining me pockets.  What’s yours then, sweetheart?” Ignoring a nagging pain in her back, she nodded to the next in line.

She was sick of both this job and the landlord; especially, the landlord.  Conniving bugger with his weak beer and sky-high prices.  She peeked in his direction.  Forget the canary, he was crouching behind the bar like a fat, black spider with many eyes, each following her every move, just in case she slipped a penny into her apron pocket.  That was the trouble with being on the take, he thought everybody else had sticky fingers.

A sudden gust of wind buffeted the windows and icy rain scoured the glass with a venom that made even the most hard-bitten look up from their pints.  Despite the smelly fug of the bar, Joy shivered, glad to be inside, even if she did have to share the same air as Fred and his cronies.  She thought she heard the creak of wood and glanced towards the door but it was set firm in its frame.  Must be the wind trying to get in, she thought and if Fred didn’t do something about that lock, sooner or later it would.  She looked around the bar; pity about the state of the place though.  Her Ma could remember when it was a prison, and swore it was in better condition then.  Fred had really let it go.  Sometimes, Joy daydreamed about what she’d do if it were hers.  For starters, she’d sort out the state of the woodwork, inside and out, at the moment it was barely good enough for woodworm.  Then, she’d paint it up and make it look smart.  Ma had showed her a picture once and the whole place used to be covered in some sort of greenery, Old Man’s Beard, she called it.  Used to look quite nice, ‘Was the only thing holding the place together,’ Ma said.  But the first, and only, thing Fred did was to tear it all down and let the world see how rough the timber was.  Joy’s lip curled as she looked around the bar at the greasy upholstery and chipped tables.  Lot of work to be done and a fortune to be spent no doubt.  Again, she heard the creak of wood and stepped out of her daydream as this time the door did more than shiver, it swung open with a crash that sent loose plaster spraying from the ceiling.  In the silence that followed, Joy clearly heard mice in the wainscoting as everybody’s eyes swivelled towards the entrance. 

“Blimey, it’s Frosty the Snowman!”  Immediately, the would-be comic regretted his quip and buried his face in his glass, for there was something oddly dignified about the man standing in the doorway.  With a brisk, dog-shake of his body the stranger rid himself of hailstones clinging to his clothes and stepped out their puddle towards the bar. 

Fred jumped to his feet, almost spilling his beer.

“Out,” he bawled.  “No travellers here.  Didn’t yer read the sign?”  He gestured towards a board that read No travellers, no blacks, no Irish.

The man looked at him.  “But it’s called The Travellers.” He pointed out, mildly.

“Never you mind what it’s called.  I run this place and I don’t want dirty gyppos stinking the place out.” He nodded to his two mates who immediately lurched to their feet and stood swaying, poised for action.

The traveller stared into Fred’s bloodshot eyes and his lips moved.  At the time, nobody heard what he said, although several swore they did, but that was later.

Seconds passed, everyone held their breath, then the man turned back towards the door.  The wind’s whine carolled into a scream as it was opened and Joy shivered again.  “Wouldn’t send a cur out in weather like that” she muttered and at that moment, made up her mind.

With one swift movement, she ripped off her apron.  “Cover for me, will ya Fred.  Gotta go, call of nature,” she yelled.  Not waiting for his reaction, she dived down a couple of steps into the kitchen. Stopping only to grab a bottle of beer and hunk of pork pie, she wrenched her coat off its hook and flung it over her head. 

“Ere, mister. Wait up” she called into the whirling snow through which she could just see the dim outline of a bow top.  Puffing and blowing into the polar air she slid to a stop beside the traveller who was standing at his pony’s head, picking lumps of ice out of its mane.

“Sorry about Fred” she said, “he can be a misery sometimes.  Look, his girl’s got a pony and she keeps it in the stable across the yard.  She’s off to the farriers but she didn’t reckon on this weather and anyway, she’s sweet on the farrier’s son, so she won’t be back any time soon.  You can take your ‘orse in there for a while.  There’s fresh hay and if you’re lucky, a bit of bran mash. Quick, let’s get going, I gotta get back.”  She led the way across the yard to the stable and waited till the Bow Top rumbled to a stop and the horse was let out of its shafts. 

“Ere.” She thrust the beer and pie into the gypsy’s hands and for the first time looked at him full on.  Although his nut-brown face was seamed with as many cracks as ancient leather, his eyes were bright and alive with intelligence.  The eyes of a young man in an old man’s face, she thought and a sudden feeling of awe swept over her.

“That’s very civil of you Missy, may I ask your name?”

“It’s Joy sir; although me Ma sometimes says I bring her more trouble than joy.”

“You are very kind, Miss Joy and kindness should always be rewarded.  Here…” reaching deep into the pocket of his worn woollen coat, he held out a small sprig of heather. “Take this, keep it safe and remember who gave it to you.”

Scampering back to take her place behind the bar, Joy wondered what the old gypsy meant but words are cheap, soon forgotten and she had work to do; she tucked the heather into her apron pocket.  Sure enough, as the weeks passed nothing changed but the seasons that is, until exactly six months later when Fred was found drowned in a bowl of stew, his face bright purple, decorated with gravy and shreds of gristle.

Although not a popular landlord, the mood was sombre in the bar the evening after.   Unease lined every face as they lamented his demise, he wasn’t an old man but his lifestyle didn’t bode well for old bones and many a pint was left untasted as others vowed to cut back and take more walks.  There was only one who didn’t join in the general chorus of health-related consequences.  Jem stared into his tot of whisky before swallowing it down and clearing his throat.

“Twere that gypsy.  Six months, he told ‘im, and six months he got.  I said at the time, Fred should never have messed with ‘im.  He were no ordinary tinker, pure Romany he was and them lot ‘ave powers.”

“Ah, get away wi’ you Jem.  That whisky’s gone to yer head.”

“No, no.  I think Jem’s right.  E did say six months.  I read ‘is lips…”

Discussion prowled the room and after a while Joy switched off, although she did wonder.  After all, she’d had more to do with the traveller than the others.  Had she sensed something?  She gave herself a quick mental shake, she had more important things to worry about.  Even though she’d been no fan of Fred’s, she’d wished him no ill and what was going to happen now?  Who would be the new landlord and would she still have a job?

The next evening, she trudged back home her eyes all but blinded with tears. There’d been a letter waiting for her when she’d arrived at the pub and she never got letters.  It looked official and now tiredness and depression had convinced her that it was her notice and she’d be out on her ear before the week ended. What would she do then?  There was no way that she and her Ma could manage without her weekly pay packet, small though it was. Anyway, she enjoyed her job.  She was fond of all her regulars, mostly they were lonely men, widowers like Bert and Harry and there was Cliff whose wife had run off with a Yank.  Of course. there was the odd ruffian, too fond of his beer and his fists.  Lord help their wives, she often thought, but they were few and far between and tended to congregate around Harry.  Mostly, the blokes were kind and treated her with respect.  There’d only been one who’d truly given her the creeps.  Good looking chap and first she’d been flattered when he started paying attention to her.  Then, she’d looked up suddenly and caught him by surprise.  He was smiling but his eyes raised goosebumps although the room was warm; completely expressionless with no light or life,  looking into them was like looking into a pair of empty graves.  Chilled, from then on, she kept busy and did her best to ignore him but as the minutes ticked on she started to dread the dark journey home.   In the end, she asked Harry if she could walk up the hill with him and he seemed to understand.

“Is that chap bothering you?  “Don’t worry, me girl.  If he comes back tomorrer, me and the lads will have a word with him”.

Sure enough, he did come back and later she heard fists talking in the yard.  He never showed his face again but a couple of days later a young girl was found murdered near Rayleigh Weir and Joy couldn’t help wondering.

 

She wiped her face as she walked up the garden path, no need to worry Ma.  But once inside, when she tried to read her letter, more tears welled and the words separated into shapes that swam away like little fish.  In the end she had to ask her Ma for help.

“This is from a solicitor, what ‘ave you been up to my girl?”  Then, Ma squawked like next door’s rooster.   

“It says you’ve got to go and see them, to learn something to your advantage.  Oh, Joy.  Wonder what it means?”

………

Joy finished polishing the bar and looked around with a satisfied smile.   Now the refurbishment was completed, it looked lovely, just as she’d always imagined.  But she still had to keep pinching herself, fancy being made Manager with full control.  She and Ma had moved into the pub so there was no rent to pay and her wages had been doubled overnight.  The rotten woodwork outside had been replaced and painted a smoky green as a nod to the original Old Man’s Beard, otherwise known as The Traveller’s Joy, which was now the pub’s official name.  That was the first of two conditions to her employment - the other being that there was always a welcome to anyone, whoever he might be.   Joy still didn’t know who the new owner was, but he seemed to know about her which was a puzzle and no mistake, although the solicitor had told her not to worry about it.  So, she didn’t, not really, although she made a point of doing what the gypsy told her, and kept the sprig of heather in a safe place - just in case.

Copyright net Baldey