Pink Rabbit.

Pink Rabbit.

By Len Morgan

A beer bottle missed my head by inches smashing on the path behind me. Something shattered in front of me spraying shards that hit my calf and fanned out before me.  I felt a sharp pain, "Ugh!  You cow Jenny."  A three-foot floppy-eared pink rabbit hit me square in the chest and my hands grabbed it instinctively.  The front door slammed as I retreated to the front gate.  I could hear her clomping up the stairs. It sounded like mayhem, glass breaking cupboards slamming.  The window flew open and the corner of a suitcase peeked over the windowsill.  "No!" I yelled as all my clothes and worldly goods flew in the wind.

"Sod off Brad!" she yelled.

"This is all your fault!" I yelled at the pink rabbit.  He just grinned back at me, as I read the label ~ 'To Allison, love Brad'.

"Jeanette.  Be reasonable.  I can explain..."

MAVIS AND THE ADA’S

MAVIS AND THE ADA’S

by Richard Banks                        

It was unfortunate, if understandable, that the first recorded words of the red petunia were, “Get away from me, you bitch.” Unfortunate, in as much that great events should, whenever possible, be accompanied by an apt, well turned phrase suitable for inclusion in histories and scientific manuals.    Neil Armstrong’s first words when stepping onto the moon is one of many such phrases. His, “Small step for man, a giant step for mankind,” was neither spontaneous or inspired but at least it attempted, and to some extent succeeded, in expressing the public perception that a new space age, more important and significant than any other age, had begun. Had he, on stepping out, unexpectedly encountered a large lunar creature of unfriendly intent his first words may well have been similar to those of the petunia.

         I mean, look at it from the petunia’s point of view. You have been growing for several months in a window box on the balcony of Mavis Adkin’s flat on the twelfth floor of an unlovely tower block in the unlovely suburb of Grimthorpe. Mavis wants a splash of colour to relieve the monotonous greyness of the building and those about it. This she has said several times to her husband, Sam, and the flowers, on overhearing her, have done their best to oblige. Although not in receipt of detailed instructions as to how they should grow they have listened attentively to everything Mavis has said and learned that her favourite colour is scarlet and that she is particularly fond of a perfume called Evening Delight. Anxious to please, the petunias have produced blooms of the brightest red and breathed out an odour so delightful that Grimthorpe was attracting thousands of visitors wishing to, ‘take the air.’ When Mavis saw a magazine illustration of the hanging gardens of Babylon and imagined herself living in such a place the petunias immediately set to work and within a week made their way down to the tenth floor.

         They had done well, no petunias could have done better which is why Mavis’s savage attack on them was as unexpected as it was alarming. In fairness to Mavis, she had not intended to be alarming, she was merely wanting to cut off one or two blooms for display on her dining room table. The idea that in so doing she would be inflicting pain and emotional distress was no more in her thoughts than garotting her dull and sometimes irritating husband. While she was naturally taken aback to be called a bitch it was not so much the petunia’s choice of words that startled her but the discovery that it had words to speak; she had cultivated many plants from many parts of the world and found them all to be silent witnesses to a world in which disease, drought and the ravishes of plant eating insects frequently threatened their well being.

         Having taken several steps back and inadvertently allowed her secateurs to clatter to the floor, Mavis recovered herself sufficiently to realise that the next few moments were likely to be pivotal in the future relationship between man and plant. Deciding that her mission on behalf of the human race must be to establish peaceful and cordial relations with the petunias she smiled her most ingratiating of smiles and in her best voice introduced herself as, “Me Mavis.” She pointed at the petunia, “and you?” The petunia, quivering with indignation rather than fear, replied that he was well aware of who she was and that he was a Petunia Hybrida Grandiflora Ada. There was an awkward silence which Mavis brought to an end with the revelation that she once had an aunt called Ada. Another of the petunias volunteered the information that he too was called Ada as were all the other petunias in the window box. A third petunia joined the conversation by asking if she could have a drink of water. It had, she said, been rather warm of late, and if Mavis could give them a good sprinkle flavoured with that delicious liquid feed she sometimes treated them to this would greatly assist their downward journey.

         Needing no second bidding Mavis filled her watering can to which she added fifty millilitres of super enriched ericaceous plant food. She returned to the balcony and on asking the plants if they were ready and receiving the reply that they were emptied the entire can onto their bright redheads. For the first time, she was aware of an audible sigh of pleasure.

         “Is that enough?” she asked. The plants assured her that it was probably more than enough and that they felt quite tipsy as a consequence. After a whispered consultation the first petunia to speak expressed his regret at his intemperate language and Mavis graciously responded by assuring the petunias that she had no greater wish than to live in peace and harmony with them all and any other talking flora there might be.

         With these words, an entente cordiale was established that might have been the wonder of the world had not Mavis decided to keep the momentous events of that day to herself. Her reasons for doing so were both selfish and practical. The petunias were her petunias and she had no intention of sharing them with anyone, assuming of course that she be allowed to keep them. In the lawless streets of darkest Grimthorpe, there were criminal gangs who would undoubtedly try and steal them while the Government was likely to insist that their care be transferred to scientists who might subject her new friends to unpleasant medical probing.

          Consequently, she conversed with the petunias only after her husband had departed to his work and no one else was present. She found them convivial companions who having nothing to do but grow were particularly keen to expand their minds by learning all that Mavis could teach them. As she knew very little that was worth knowing and her knowledge of that was very incomplete and confused she chose instead to read them an improving book each week. Of these, she found more than sufficient for her needs in the Grimthorpe Public Library where the most improving books were generally the dustiest. Selecting one on geography that had last escaped the library in 1997 she hurried back to the flat and regaled her students with a comprehensive account of the world’s countries and the oceans between them.

         She found the petunias to be eager and attentive scholars whose prodigious memories absorbed and retained everything that was read to them, and when they learned that the world was just one of many and that some of the others could be seen in the night sky they beseeched Mavis to return to the library for a book on astronomy. And so it continued, one book leading to another until the petunias’ knowledge exceeded everything that could be found on the world’s most powerful computers. They took a particular liking to medical science and through their frequent debating of the principles they had learned were able to dictate learned papers to Mavis on cures for the world’s most prevalent diseases. Sensing that these might be useful to someone who ‘knew about such things’ Mavis presented them to her GP who later won a Nobel Prize and the accolade of, ‘Doctor Cure All’.

         The untroubled passing of long summer days continued until the petunias turned their attention to a book called, ‘Hislop’s History of the World’ in which they discovered that the human race had an unusual and alarming propensity for destroying each other in unfriendly encounters called wars. They recalled the incident involving Mavis and the scissors. Dismissing their earlier thoughts that this had merely been an unfortunate misunderstanding they concluded that their relationship with the human race required immediate reassessment. Their uneasiness concerning their situation was only increased when a group of hooded youths known as the Grimthorpe Scum Boys attempted to set fire to the first petunia to reach the ground floor.

         Having generously concluded that the human race probably had as many virtues as faults they sought a solution to their dilemma in a book of chemistry that had already enabled them to prepare for the winter to come by increasing their resistance to sub zero temperatures. After several days of diligent study a further biological adjustment enabled them to supplement their divine odour with a chemical element that when inhaled by human beings not only erased their aggressive tendencies but removed their capacity for independent thought.

         Henceforth the world was ruled by the petunias who appointed Mavis to announce their many proclamations through a loud hailer from the balcony of her flat, occasionally correcting her faltering pronunciation of long words. As a consequence of their many ingenious and beneficial laws poverty and disease were ended, the world saved from global warming and the nations united in peace and prosperity. Grimthorpe became capital of the world and its unlovely greyness replaced with beautiful new buildings that radiated warmth and light making even the dullest winter day seem like summer.

         A new golden age had begun that might have continued as long as the planet had it not been for the invasion of Agro-Supertroops from the planet Zorgon. But that, dear reader, is a story for another day.

 Copyright Richard Banks      

ARACHNOPHOBIA

ARACHNOPHOBIA

By Peter Woodgate

Incy Wincy spider

Hanging on the wall

Why so many cobwebs?

I don’t like you at all.

My wife she screams,

But that’s not all

You are a monster

Ten feet tall.

Jo orders me to kill you

No “stay of execution”

A shoe, size 8, to splatter you,

Not by electrocution.

But I’m not mean and I’ve been told

You catch those pesky flies,

But all you catch, it seems, is dust

And that gets in my eyes.

I wish that you’d stop spinning,

Is that too much to ask?

This time of year I get no rest

To dust, a daily task.

Besides, if I should splatter you

It would make a nasty mess,

And I’d be told “you must repaint”

All of the room, I guess.

No, I shall use a nice big glass

And trap you for a while,

I’d watch as you would slip and slide

That really makes me smile.

Amusement over I’d throw you out,

You’d not have time to pack,

Is that the reason that I find

You keep on coming back?

Copyright Peter Woodgate

The Legacy ~ Part 1 of 3

The Legacy ~ Part 1 of 3

By Len Morgan

   It all began when my estranged grandfather died leaving me his house and its grounds.

We'd not been on speaking terms, for some years, so I was surprised to receive a letter from his solicitors inviting me to the reading of his will.   I remember it vividly, why didn’t I listen to my wife Elaine and tear it up?

"Clive Alexander Perry," intoned the solicitors’ clerk.   I was the only person left in the room yet he peered around with a questing myopic gaze.

"That's me," I said.

 He started reading... "To my indomitable grandson Clive I leave the family estate, which stands in one and one-half acres of private woodlands, and cultivated gardens.   The land and buildings have been under Perry stewardship, for a dozen generations.   I expect Clive will learn to love and cherish it, as I have, continuing a family tradition by becoming its custodian.   Should he choose not to do so, another will be appointed to take on the task.   To this end, I impose the following conditions.   Namely, that 'the custodian' should take up and prove permanent residence, on a daily basis, for a period of not less than three months, prior to taking up stewardship," He paused and peered over his spectacles in my general direction.    

 “Is that quite clear Mr Perry?"  He asked.  So, I nodded, but he continued to wait...

It wasn't exactly Buck house, but it certainly wasn’t a ruin.   The furnishings were serviceable; mostly antique and excellent quality.  Then there were one and a half acres of prime Essex countryside encircled by a forbidding six-foot granite wall; privacy assured.   It would certainly be worth a bob or two I thought.   Despite having been a complete ass-hole, to poor old Grandpa Perry, during his later years.  
It seemed I would not come out of this situation too badly after all.   
The silence and his questioning gaze persisted.
"Yes," I said.

"The estate had a book value of £1.2 million at last valuation," the clerk continued.  
"Mmm," my mind was far away, hatching schemes for spending 1.2 million.

"There will, of course, be inheritance tax, the current rate is 40%," he added.

I nearly choked; the reality of the situation was not as simple as I’d thought.   But, after some quick mental arithmetic, I cheered up.   Yesterday three-quarters of a million was beyond my wildest dreams.   All I had to do was to remain in residence for three months.   Just answer the phone, at 08:30am & midnight, and talk to the solicitors’ clerk.   Simple!

So, what could go wrong?   Well, I hadn't counted on Elaine’s reaction.  

"If you think I'm giving up my comfortable semi to live in that monstrosity for three months you can forget it!   It’s a cold, damp, rat-infested ruin!”

 She’s a little emotional, with a tendency to over-react, but her pronouncement had the ring of finality.   Well, that’s my wife…

 "My career is more important than a rundown estate out in the sticks; I need to be here, close to the city, where I can keep my fingers on its pulse--" she ranted.

"It's only thirty miles fer cry sake and you've never been closer to it than ten miles..." I interrupted her flow.  But, when her mind’s made up, nothing will budge her.   So I resigned myself to fulfilling the requirements of the legacy; alone.  

I walked outside, "Thank you, Grandpa Perry," I raged at the sky, assuming he'd headed off in that direction. 

.-…-. 

   I tied up the loose ends in my life a week later.  By dropping two suitcases inside the main hall, I effectively took up official residence.

  Opening the refrigerator, I sniffed gingerly at the milk, expecting the worst.  It smelt and tasted quite fresh.  The bacon, eggs, butter, cheese, and bread were fresh.  Maybe somebody had come in the previous day to restock, a neighbourly act?   But, as I recall, Perry hadn’t been very neighbourly.  I sat down and ate a hearty breakfast, it was good, so I helped myself to seconds.   Halfway through, I got to thinking about that refrigerator.   The more I thought the stranger it appeared.   It was incredibly large for domestic use; covering a third of the kitchen wall, extending from floor to ceiling, it was more like a bank vault or a hotel deep freeze.  There was no manufacturer’s name, logo, model or serial number on it, but it looked brand new.   Yet I knew for a fact, it had stood in that same spot for as long as I could remember, since before I was born, and I hadn't set foot over the threshold in eight years.   It had a brushed steel finish but did not feel cold to the touch.   On impulse, I took out my pocket knife and attempted to scratch my initials on it - a recessive vandalism gene at work - "so what?"   It would soon be mine anyway but, it resisted my worst efforts.   At this point, my hackles rose.   I was ready to run away.  From a refrigerator, I thought?   If my friends get wind of that I’ll be a laughing stock.  

‘Fight your Dragons’, was dad's favourite saying, so I walked right up to it and opening the door…

   A closer inspection of the contents showed they were quite normal.   They were fresh but, cool to the touch, nothing was actually cold.  There was milk, eggs, bacon, butter, cheese, bread, booze, cash boxes. 
"Cash boxes!?"   
Two of each I observed identical pairs.   I could swear there had only been two bottles of milk, but there were two inside and one-half empty on the kitchen table.   On impulse, I removed one of the cash boxes, surprised to find them there, the box was locked.   I searched the large bunch of keys the solicitor’s clerk had given me.   Sure enough, there was a small key…   
"Yes!” I said, as the box opened.   
My mind went wild at the sight; it was completely stuffed with cash.   Large-denomination notes, new crisp twenties and fifties,   Thirty neat packs (3'x2'x6') still bearing official treasury bands with the words 'Bank of England £1000' printed on them.   I counted each stack, without removing the band, my mouth was dry from licking my fingers, £30,000!   I was suddenly fearful and checked the serial numbers, watermarks, and holograms, this time my pessimism was unfounded, all the notes were genuine.   I recovered slowly and stashed the money in my briefcase.   I'd often dreamed…   But, I would have to spend three months here before I could consider fulfilling dreams.   Best not think about it, I can do patient.   Trembling with excitement, and feeling thirsty, I quaffed the remaining milk straight from the bottle.   It didn't have the desired effect; did I see beer in there? 

 "Yes,” I reached in and grabbed a large amber bottle, then stepped back in shock.   There were still two cash boxes inside.   A quick glance at the kitchen table confirmed, a third identical box sat on the table empty.

   I sat down and stared at it listening to an ancient timepiece ticking away tiny fragments of my life.   I drank the beer slowly and deliberately, it had warmed a little before I binned the empty bottle.   I was determined, not to be intimidated, I would ignore the red tin box on the kitchen table…   As an afterthought, it followed the bottle into the rubbish bin.  I returned to the refrigerator, for the second bottle, and there on the shelf were two!   I removed one and closed the door it wasn't going to spoil my evening.   Next time I looked there were only two bottles left, I ignored them, my math was correct, instead, I took a bottle of Glenfiddich single malt scotch whiskey and went in search of a glass.   “Two minus one equals two,” I recited.

   At sometime during the evening, I dozed off.   Just after midnight, I awoke vaguely aware the phone had been ringing for a spell.

"Yes," I said.

"Ah!   I was about to give up on you, just needed to know you are still there, I'll ring again in the morning goodnight," said the solicitor’s clerk.  

 I awoke in time to prepare and eat breakfast before the phone rang.

"Look here," I said, "you can hardly expect me to dash home every evening before midnight just to hear you bid me goodnight, I'm not Cinda-fella you know…"

"haha, very droll!  It was your grandfather’s stipulation."   He answered frostily, "you can stick with it or move on and give somebody else a chance, the choice is yours but, if you fail to comply even once, the legacy is forfeit."

"But, what if I had an accident and was taken to hospital…"

"Then you would lose everything!   Be there at midnight and at 8:30am for the next ninety-one days,” he said.  

"What would happen to it if I did default?"

"I imagine your grandfather has made a clear stipulation regarding our course of action in such an eventuality.   Next in line would have to meet the same stipulation."

"You have a list?"

"We will speak again tonight," he said and hung up. 

After breakfast, I placed £10,000 in each of three manila envelopes placing them in my briefcase.   I drove into the centre of Dorriton, and opened accounts for £10,000 each in the two main banks, and £5,000 in the Building Society.  Next, I visited a prestigious local jeweller where I purchased platinum and diamond ear studs and a matching pendant, on sale or return for £4,500, subject to my wife's approval.  I ordered a necklace and bracelet, with matching one and a half carat blue diamonds for £15,000 leaving a deposit of £500.  I ate at a local restaurant and bought a new Mercedes car at the local dealership.  I promised to pay cash the following morning, inferring I’d won a large sum on the lottery.   Back home I placed the jewellery in the refrigerator; I’ve decided, from now on, to call it ‘the box’.   Helping myself to a bottle of beer, I settled to watch horse racing on TV.   Later, I took one set of jewels.   I finished my beer and returned the jewellery to the store accepting a cheque for £4,500, which I deposited in one of the banks.   I drew £5,000 from each of my accounts and placed it in the box with a bottle of fine Cognac, noting as I did so there were two jewel cases in 'the box'.   I closed the door; reopened it to remove a bottle of Cognac.  I checked the serial numbers on the two stacks of £10,000, which confirmed my growing suspicion, stack for stack the numbers were identical.  I would have to bank the money in different locations and allow time for the notes to get well circulated; I could therefore not touch the two cash boxes, each containing £30,000 for at least a month.   I settled down to drink my Cognac in front of the TV and was again roused at midnight by my friendly neighbourhood solicitor’s clerk.

To be continued/...

Part 2:

Copyright Len Morgan

BAD ROOTS

BAD ROOTS

By Peter Woodgate

I spread it on the table,

My completed family tree

Tracing all my ancestors

From cavemen up to me.

My finger wandered over lines

that led to various names,

And next to some, in brackets bold,

were details of the crimes.

It appears that I’ve descended

From a really motley bunch,

Details of which I can’t disclose

When it comes down to the crunch.

Needless to say I have no blue

Running through my veins,

No explorers, inventors or warriors

Or other various fames.

Right at the start, or so it seems

My ancestors made gates,

Fashioned from wood and allowing in

Their families and mates.

Of course, apart from letting in

They were designed to keep some out,

It appears the good could not get in

And the bad could not get out.

So, I’ve been stuck with an iffy past

I can’t change what’s gone before,

The future though, that’s up to me

I’m a villain, say no more..

Copyright Peter Woodgate

Writers Block.

Writers Block.

By Len Morgan

I wrote this to a fellow writer to help him overcome the deadly WB:

  I understand how you must be feeling and that your problem today could be mine, Sarah’s, Amanda’s, Ken’s, or Ron’s tomorrow (nobody is immune).  

  My suggested solution stems from my method of writing.   Some people need to have a complete story in their head before taking pen in hand.   Others jot ideas in a notebook and string them together like pearls.   Yet others decide which formula/theme, and the storyline they intend to use.   They decide on the characters, their ages, sex, names, and psychological profile etc.   Only then do they start to write their story.

  I am in a permanent quasi-state of block.   I haven’t got a clue what to write beyond the simple desire to write.  The act of touching pencil to paper, (I always write in pencil [with rubber to hand]), starts the process and releases words into my mind.  My hand moves, and I write.    From the words I have written come other words; a lot of the time what I write is drivel, but the important thing is that I write.   I have left a record, of an idea or thought process. I suppose I’m just doodling with words, which is why I write with a pencil and rubber.   I usually do not know what it’s about or where it will lead until I’m quite close to the end; when the inspirational idea hits me.

  Here is an example:

 ‘My grandmother had a cat’

I can’t guarantee how this will turn out - but here goes:

  My grandmother had a cat, a true tortoiseshell with long bushy fur, but I’d never figured out until today why he was so universally disliked?   He was friendly and climbed onto your lap, purring contentedly, then after a while, you felt quite at ease stroking him.   She called him ‘Flash’, which I thought was a grand misnomer; a tortoise would have given him a close race.   He was so languid; he even jumped in slomo; like the six million dollar man.   What mattered was that Grandmother adored him and he seemed completely oblivious to the universal loathing he stirred up in people.   The mystery of his name was resolved one day when I witnessed him catching a field mouse, in the garden.   One moment he was on my left; then he was on my right with a tail protruding between his teeth.   But I never understood why he was so universally reviled, until this moment; then it just hit me in a flash.

___________________________________

Here is where the punch line came to me. 

He was ‘BOSSEYED’ I suddenly remembered, I was three years old, he looked at me with such malevolence that my hackles rose and I experienced deep feelings of loathing that persisted, I guess he had the same effect on everybody.   The poor cat moved slowly so as not to bump into things, except when he focused on something specific, the object of his desire, like food, or grandma.

.-…-.

Well that was a spontaneous illustration of how I break my block.

Now it’s your turn, break your block by writing for ten minutes, without stopping, on any or all of the following subjects:

‘What I really hate is…   Have you seen me dance…   My first childhood recollection…   hats I’ve worn…   When I win the lottery…    

Think of some others and do, at least, one every day.

Note: the hi-lited line was added after the punchline came to me.

The Darker Half Chapter 9

The Darker Half Chapter 9

By Janet Baldey

CHAPTER NINE

The unnatural silence had woken her and as soon as she opened her eyes, she realised that something was different.  Her bedroom had an eerie glow and the air was bone chilling, the room felt like a refrigerator with its door open and the moment she sat up she started to shiver. Then she remembered what day it was and, despite the cold, she slipped out of bed.  It took a great effort of will, but she took only a quick glance towards the bottom of the bed before she pushed her feet into her slippers and shuffled towards the window.      

Lifting the curtain, she was met with a blank white wall, etched with spirographs of frost. Scraping a small hole clear, she peered outside. The snow gleamed dully, covering everything, even clinging to vertical surfaces. She wondered how deep it was and marvelled at the transformation that had silently taken place while she was sleeping.   Searching for signs of life and seeing none, her spirits lifted.  Surely none of their aged relatives would venture out in weather like this. She crossed her fingers tightly. Ever since she could remember, her Christmas had been turned into a sort of penance.   Despite ignoring them all year, her mother always held open house for her family at Christmas lunch and from mid-morning onwards, the front doorbell shrilled regularly as a steady stream of elderly aunts, uncles and cousins tottered, limped or waddled into their front room. Chairs were borrowed from all parts of the house, even from her father’s workshop, and withered, chubby and frankly fat, bottoms were jammed into mismatched seats side to side, forming a circle around the room. Anna often wondered why they came. It couldn’t have been for the food.  Her mother was no cook and all morning the bilious smell of brussel sprouts being boiled to a mush seeped into the lounge. 

Despite this, the oldies loved it and the noise levels increased with every glass of alcohol imbibed until they put parrots at the zoo to shame. Even more surprising, rising high above hoots of cackling laughter, Alec’s shrill voice could clearly be heard.  Every Christmas he never failed to amaze, as she witnessed a side to her brother she’d never dreamed of.  He was like a different child.  His usual surly, discontented pout was replaced by a sunny smile and while her father stood by the sideboard measuring out cherry brandy, port and tots of whisky into tiny glasses, Alec stumbled around offering round plates of nuts, crisps and cheese speared on cocktail sticks. The aunts cooed over him, calling him ‘their little pet’ and inviting him to kiss their wrinkled cheeks. The uncles would be gruffer but no less charmed, digging deep into their pockets for pennies to buy sweets. Anna had watched her brother perform before and despite everything always felt a secret twinge of admiration. She couldn’t believe that Alec could change so completely. Instinctively, he knew how to play each of them. With some he was quiet and sweet; with others, he giggled and acted the fool. To Anna’s amazement it worked, they thought he was adorable. It was all show of course. When they’d gone, and behind his mother’s back, he’d sneer at them mercilessly but to their faces he was angelic. Anna decided he must be a born actor and as she slaved away in the steamy kitchen, dishing stringy turkey and overdone vegetables onto cold plates, she wished she could be the same.  Instead she knew very well that when she made her entrance she’d stand, scarlet faced and sweating, feeling tongue-tied, and huge in comparison with her smaller brother.

But perhaps this year, it would be different. Perhaps this year she wouldn’t have to go through all that. She gazed up at the sky. “Snow”, she whispered. “Come on, snow as hard as you like.”  As if in answer, a few flakes drifted down from the charcoal coloured sky.

Comforted, she turned towards the misshapen snake lying at the end of her bed.  Long ago she’d trained herself not to be disappointed by Santa.  He wasn’t to know.   Maybe her being a twin confused him; in any event, he always got it wrong.  Christmas after Christmas, her stocking was stuffed by toys meant for boys – train sets, Matchbox cars, the Eagle Annual. How she longed for something fluffy and cuddly. It wasn’t until she was older that she realised it was all down to her mother. Bitter experience must have taught her that Alec wanted whatever Anna had and she’d lighted upon a solution.  Give them both the same but whatever the cost, Alec had to be kept happy.  

Anna recognised the shapes of the usual apple, orange and nuts together with the diary she always got, but there were also the sharp angles of a square box. Tugging it out from the thick lisle stocking, she gently removed its wrapping paper. This would find its way into her box of treasures - she had Christmas wrapping paper going back years and this time it was robins perched amongst pale green mistletoe leaves.  Inside the wrapping was a bright red box with MECCANO stamped on the lid.  She grinned. For once her present wasn’t a disappointment.  She loved Meccano, although she did wonder at her mother’s choice. Alec would find it difficult.  He’d struggle, and before long, he’d start whining, then grizzling and it would end by him throwing the pieces all over the carpet in a fit of rage.  She had seen it all before. Relishing the peace of the moment, she’d drawn her dressing gown closer and jumped back onto her bed sitting cross-legged on the counterpane.  Opening the box and tipping out the red and green metal pieces, she read the printed instructions and slowly and carefully, began to construct a crane.

        She was so engrossed, at first she didn’t notice the commotion coming from the landing outside her bedroom door. Slowly, she became aware that someone was screaming. Listening, her heart started to beat faster. That was her mother’s voice. Forgetting all about her crane, she jumped off the bed and raced out of her room towards the shrieks that were rapidly increasing in pitch.

      “Oh my Gawd.  What is it?  What is it?  Len come quickly. There’s something in the lav and it’s ‘orrible!”

         When she first got there Anna couldn’t see anything except her father’s broad back. He was standing in the doorway of the bathroom, then he bent and just before her mother started to screech again, she heard the steady drip of water. 

         “Joyce, please.  It’s nothing for you to fuss about.  I’ll deal with it”.  

Her father’s voice was thin as if all his breath had been squeezed out of his lungs and suddenly the hairs on her arms rose as something told her that they had both lost something precious and that life would never be the same again.

         “Dad, what is it? What’s happened?”

         He hesitated, then slowly turned to face her. Wordlessly, he held out his hand and she glimpsed a spiky mass of sodden grey fur lying limply in the centre of her father’s palm.

         Her stomach lurched and she felt sick as she realised what it was. She didn’t want to see but she couldn’t look way.

“Oh no,” she whispered.

         “Must have been thirsty, went to get a drink, fell in and then couldn’t get out.”  He sighed deeply. “Anna, I thought I told you to always make sure you locked the workshop door behind you?”

         Stricken, Anna looked at her father.  “But, I did Daddy.  I swear I did. I always do….”

“Then how…..” Her father stopped and shook his head, “I thought I could trust you Anna. Go back to your room.”

         She couldn’t drag her eyes away from his face. She’d never seen him look at her like that before. His eyes were cold and although hers implored him to believe her, his expression didn’t change. Then her tears overflowed as she struggled to comprehend.  It couldn’t be true, it just couldn’t be. If it was, it would mean that she’d never hold Misty in her arms again and feel the warmth and contented thrumming of its body drifting towards sleep, its tummy full of warm milk. When she entered the workshop there would be no soft mew to greet her, no furry fireball with tiny claws that sometimes drew blood when the game got too wild. Never again would she sit by the fire a book in her hand and Misty on her lap.  All that would be gone. And, her father blamed her!  Her heart broke. She just couldn’t bear it. Unable to move, she watched as her father turned away from her towards the stairs.

Something flickered at the corner of her vision. There was a tiny click and the light dimmed. Somewhere, somebody had closed a door. She looked around. Where was Alec?  The commotion must have woken him and he liked nothing better than a good scene. Why wasn’t he present, squirming with delight at the sight of her misery and shame?  A sudden certainty made her gasp. Alec had done this. Her stomach squeezed and a bitter taste almost choked her as she thought about it. She re-played yesterday evening in her head. She’d played with Misty, teasing her with a scrap of wool until the kitten had yawned and lost interest.  The kitten had curled up in its bed and she’d picked the box up and put in under the stove to keep warm. Then, she’d switched off the light and left, locking the door behind her. She remembered that distinctly, she always took great care not to forget. She thought back and also remembered all the times she’d heard a noise behind her as she’d locked up. Each time she had looked round, seen nothing and assumed she’d just been spooked by the dark.  But she must have been wrong.  Alec must have known about the kitten for weeks and had chosen Christmas Eve to act.

She started to shake. She’d always known that Alec liked nothing better than to make her life a misery and she knew that he was spiteful, but this went way beyond that.  This was pure evil. The thought that her own brother hated her so much he’d drown a defenceless scrap like Misty just to hurt her was unbelievable, but she knew it was true.   She saw her father disappearing down the stairs and opened her mouth to scream at him.

“It wasn’t me. It was Alec. Alec did this!”

She wanted to send the words flying, like arrows, towards him. She wanted them to pierce his rigid back.  She wanted him to stop, turn round and listen. Her shoulders slumped and with a soundless sigh her mouth closed. It was no good.  Her parents wouldn’t believe her. Alec would deny it and her mother would take his side. She’d say Anna was blaming Alec to save her own skin, after all there was no proof, it would be just her word against Alec’s. Any anyway, it didn’t matter. Misty was dead and nothing would bring her back.

         Listlessly, she’d walked towards her room. She wanted to be alone. She got into bed and drew the covers around her. Whatever happened, however much her mother screamed and raged, she wouldn’t get up again today. Let Alec do the work. He had caused this and she would never, ever forgive him. Lying on her back, staring up at the ceiling, she vowed that she would never enjoy another Christmas, and she would never speak to her brother again. 

Copyright Janet Baldey