The Carver Twins.

The Carver Twins.

By Len Morgan

Lillian started life as the third of four sisters, as different each to the others as porridge & peas pudding. Iris, the eldest, was married with a two-year-old boy and another on the way. Laurel, the youngest sister, was at Leicester Uni. Violet, Lillie’s twin and two minutes her senior, worked at the Bank of England, she'd been married for three years but though she dearly wanted to start a family, she couldn't conceive, because Jeff had a low sperm count. Violet & Jeff were saving up for invitro-fertilization, which was putting a serious drain on their funds.

The twins were identical, both blessed with stunning good looks.  But, Lilly considered herself to be the dunce in the family, she did not do well at school, she wasn't stupid though, her problem was dyslexia.  She was an excellent people person; Lilly worked in a local call centre.  A good listener and problem solver she was popular with her fellow workers and clients alike many even asked for her by name. She was outgoing and had had a string of boyfriends but nothing seemed to last.  She enjoyed sex, but boys and men just seemed to be one dimensional.  There was a time when she’d thought she was pregnant but it was a false alarm.  The doctor at the clinic told her she would be very unlikely to have children because, in layman’s terms, her plumbing wasn’t conducive.

 The call centre wasn't the best-paid job so she’d been looking around for a line of work that would pay better and stretch her potential.  Sheila, one of her clients suggested she call round to interview for a job in customer liaison services.

.-…-.

Lilly arrived at the appointed time and was ushered into a small but neat office.

Sheila smiled and shook her hand, "Lilly darling you look just divine, I think our clients would be pleased to be seen with you on their arm."

Lilly looked puzzled. "I, I don't understand."

"We are an escort agency, darling.  Businessmen from all around the globe come here for meetings, they require an escort to act as their guide, and provide pleasant companionship during their stay."

"Escort?  Isn't that a polite word for a prostitute?"

"Haha! A popular misconception darling, no, an escort is a guide who provides intelligent conversation, companionship, eye candy to enhance the impression made when the couple enters a room. An Escort makes his or her clients stay as enjoyable as possible.  However, if you should choose to take things further, that’s up to you but there’s no obligation if asked you can just say no and walk away, without causing offence.  You get paid either way, £500 a day or part thereof, and the client pays for everything else."

"But, my wardrobe isn't really suitable for classy venues."

"We have an extensive wardrobe.  Follow me.” She opened a side door, lights came on.  She ushered Lilly into a walk-in wardrobe, three times the size of her office. “The racks are in size order, just go in and choose what you think is appropriate for the occasion.  Everything in here is available for your use.  After a few months, you may prefer to acquire clothing more to your own taste but until then...  What size are you 16?" she led Lilly to a row of top brand clothing all in her size.

“Prada, Gap, Chanel, Stella McCartney, Monsoon, Calvin Clein Gucci.  Oh, Jimmy Choo’s, can I try them?”

“Feel free, there’s a full-length mirror behind the door.  When you’re ready I’ll be outside at my desk.”  The phone interrupted her…

Half an hour later Lilly reappeared in her street clothes and Sheila switched off the hidden surveillance cameras in the wardrobe.

“Do you have an application form for me to fill out?”

“Just sign here darling, you will be self-employed so, I’ll give you the rundown on filling out tax & N.I. forms.  If it’s a problem we have an accountant who can take care of the paperwork for a small fee.  Just put your name and address on the application form.”

“When do I start?”

“Well, if you’re free, select your attire, and meet Mr Okasaki at London airport.  He will be arriving at terminal 3 in two hours. I’ll help you with your makeup, and arrange for a taxi to take you in one hour.  Mr Okasaki is a regular, a real sweetie.  Look after him well and he will show his appreciation.

Mr Okasaki looked at the image of Lilly sent to him from the agency and smiled.

.-…-.

She said no to one in three of her clients over the following six months, and received a generous bonus each time.  She found she had so much spare cash that she was able to offer Violet a generous contribution towards her invitro-fertilization fund.

The twins were close, so when Lilly found Violet in tears on one of her frequent visits she was concerned. “What’s the matter Vi, why the tears?”

“Oh Lil, Jeff says we are wasting our time trying for something that will never happen.  He wants to spend the remains of our savings on a holiday to Vegas.” 

“You could adopt Sis…”

“He’s gone off the idea of having a child; he thinks it will spoil things between us.  But, I think he’s having an affair with his boss.”

“I have an idea,” said Lilly.  “You do know I work in customer relations.  Well, there’s a nice guy I’m meeting tomorrow I think you would like him.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“What’s good for the goose…  Just meet me in the foyer of the Woodgrange hotel in Southend at 10:30pm tomorrow evening, and I think your problem will be solved.”

.-…-.

“He’s in room 1023, I’ve left the door ajar, just go in, leave the light off and enjoy…”

The client in room 1032 thought Lilly had changed her mind.

.-...-.

Six months later Jeff moved in with his boss, and Lilly moved in with Violet to help her through her pregnancy.

Three months on Violet gave birth.  To Lilly’s surprise, it was a petite black baby with brown jewel-bright eyes and a lusty voice.

Lilly looked perplexed. “Vi, did I say go to room 1032 or 1023?”

Violet smiled and thought: Dyslexia is a wonderful thing!

Copyright Len Morgan

Look

Look 

By Robert Kingston

A Fort once stood upon my mount, its history held within.

Look, look now, come see me,

My heritage few will know, but revealing it can be.

Visual delights are plentiful, its people proud, smitten, maybe.

Look, look now, come see me.

Trespass from whichever point, my windmill you will see.

A treasure of architecture on your path, a pleasure most will agree.

Look, look now, come see me.

Stained glass windows adorn our church, tell stories of bygone times,

A mention in the doomsday book, a place seen as earned.

Look, look now, come see me.

Bustling High street, busy shops, cuisine a plenty, places to stop.

Idle chit chat, laughter too, set amongst markets with flowers in bloom.

Look, look now come see me.

A skate park, bowling green, swings and slides, tears and laughter, cheers of pride,

It called Rayleigh town this place to be.

Look, look now, and come visit me. 

Copyright Robert Kingston (2014)

The Look of Lorna

 The Look of Lorna

By Janet Baldey

Even today, I hear the name Lorna and I’m transported back to a time when I was both at my happiest and most miserable.

 She first came to me late one night after the whispers, sighs and creaking of bedsprings finally ceased as a dozen girls drifted off to sleep.  Silence deadened the room and it was only then that my body unclenched and the tears flowed, soaking my pillow. Wracked by loneliness and grief, I lay remembering my father, his death and the way my life had changed.

‘Hush…’

Clad in a long white nightgown, she stood by my bed.  Moonlight, streaming through the window shone upon her red gold hair turning her into a candle holding back the dark.

Covering her lips with a finger, she drew back the sheet, slipped in beside me and held me tight.  Her kisses dried my tears and her body made me forget.  By morning, she was gone but as time passed I grew to know her and learned her story.  Like me, she was fatherless and like me, she pined for a life that had vanished as completely as smoke blown by the wind.  She already knew about me.  Everybody did.  A poor relation kept afloat by charity, every day was turned into purgatory by a myriad of petty slights and humiliations. Only the nights spent in Lorna’s arms made my life bearable.

But even that comfort came to an end when suddenly the covers were stripped from our bed leaving us naked and shivering as if doused in iced water. An oil lamp dazzled as we stared into the face of a gargoyle. Disgust and the wavering light had transmuted the Head’s features and her eyes glistened with malice as she hissed like a snake and hauled us from the room.

* * *

‘Sit down girl and don’t utter a word.’

Steel grabbed my shoulder and pushed me towards a chair.  Hardly daring to breathe I perched on the wooden seat and listened to the scratch of pen upon paper.  Head bowed, I stared at the floor. Darkly varnished, its knotholes were filled with the dust of years and my eyes blurred with the effort of concentrating on the filthy wood.  My shoulder was throbbing but I feared to move. Too well, I remembered the hiss of the cane as it whipped through the air.

There was the sound of a pen being thrown down, followed by the screech of a chair and the rustle of silk. Suddenly I saw the tips of highly polished boots and my gaze travelled upwards….. black skirt, black blouse, a rope of glistening jet. Before  reaching her face, my scalp burned and my head was jerked backwards as I was pulled to my feet by my hair.

I closed my eyes, sickened by pain and the smell of onions on her breath as her tirade began; each vitriolic word honed to slash, wound and scar.

‘Worthless…perverted….a disgrace on the road to hell.’  

 Her speech was familiar and had lost its power. Nothing could touch me now that Lorna had gone. Suddenly her litany slackened, her tone changed and despite my misery, I began to listen.

‘For the good of your soul, you must make your own way in the world.  A post of scullery maid has been found for you.  You leave on the morrow.’

My lids flew open and I stared into her eyes. Their colour, shifting from slate blue to grey, reminded me of the sea in winter.  

* * *

It was late when I arrived and I sat at the scrubbed table staring at broth congealing in its bowl.  It was the first food I’d seen all day but, nauseated by the lurch of the carriage, I couldn’t bare to taste it.  My head felt heavy and a yawn threatened.  Desperately, I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek and pain chased all thoughts of sleep away.  Staring at the woman seated opposite, I tried to concentrate.  The cook’s face shone as if oil oozed from every pore, stray wisps of hair escaped from her bun and she seemed almost as weary as I, but her manner was kind. Ticking an imaginary list off on her fingers, she detailed my duties.  They seemed endless and just as I began to despair, the drone of her voice ended.

‘Off to bed with you now.  Molly will show you the way.’

Through the door, along the corridor, up some back stairs I followed the sway of her hips until we came to yet another flight, almost hidden behind a dusty curtain.   Pausing only to light a taper, Molly continued to climb.  No longer wood but metal, the stairs coiled upwards disappearing into a soupy darkness barely pierced by our frail flame.

‘Ere we are then.’

Only slightly taller than my head, the cramped room was hot and its air smelled sour. Plaster was falling off the walls and in each dim corner, a smudge of cobwebs clustered. I walked towards the window but it was sealed shut with age and mouse droppings decorated its sill.  The tiny space was empty, save for two small beds nestled close to each other. 

‘You sleep here as well?’ 

She nodded.

‘Its not much. But it ‘as its good points.  Nobody, ever comes up ‘ere.’

Her bed groaned as she threw herself down.  Her cheeks were stained with scarlet and her eyes had the glitter of fever. 

‘It’s very private.’

There was something in her voice. Startled, I noticed her skirt was rucked and showed a glimmer of flesh.  My pulses throbbed as sudden realisation banished my fatigue.   Plump not slim; dark not fair; rough not gentle;  still, she had the look of Lorna.  

Copyright Janet Baldey

     

           

Ode to a Blog (and all you lot! :-))

Ode to a Blog (& all you lot!  : - ) )

By Dawn Van Win

How do I value thee

Let me count the ways...

In times of Covid crisis

When the whole world feels shut down

You are a valued safe space

Where our work is shared around

All members and the wider span

Of folk around the globe

Can come and read 

And share our tales 

of mystery and hope,

Adventure, joy and derring-do

And subjects many varied 

(I’m listing just a few!)

This magic space in a virtual sea

A home to share and so connect

Our words and rhymes 

With one another

All members of RLWG

Our blog meister extraordinaire

Len of course, deserves a mention

All of this here brought to exist

By his ever true attention

Not only posting to and fro 

All work we do submit

But timely updates

Informing all of latest numbers hit

The times indeed 

‘They are a-changing’

As Bob so rightly sang

so in virtual spaces

Like our blog 

Our hat, coat and verse we hang

Until we all may meet again safely sharing words and tea

There’s not much more that I can say

‘cept I miss our writers' gang!

Copyright Dawn Van Win

A Walk in the Country

A Walk in the Country

Peter Woodgate

Like a painter with his canvas I viewed the morning scene, 

Clouds were drifting overhead The dark hills could be seen 

And in the fields the clover was a haven for the bees,

The rhythm of their crazy flight Quickened by the breeze. 

Meadow grass and thistles Swayed gently to and fro,

A swallow dipped and swerved in flight Keen to join the show.

A rabbit, in the early light was cropping sweet damp grass

And a pheasant, with ungainly step, In front of me, did pass.

The brushstrokes of my inner eye Sketched tranquil harmony

And foxgloves, by the garden gate we’re full in bloom for me.

But something strange and sinister Stood there before my eyes,

Rubbish, heaped, to curtail the joy And rob me of my prize.

Fly-Tipping

Copyright Peter Woodgate

REBECCA CANT

REBECCA CANT

by Richard Banks                        

Little is known of Rebecca's life, only her leaving of it is remembered. On that, much has been written, it is a mystery second only to the Whitechapel murders. There is, of course, no shortage of theories: murder, suicide, death by misadventure, even sorcery, but without the evidence of a body who can be sure that she did die. The only certainty is that on the morning of the 13^th January 1897 she disappeared from her home in Harbour Lane, Brixham and was never seen again

         The discovery that she was gone was made by the village postman who finding the front door to her small cottage open peered in to find the kitchen range lit and the dining table set for breakfast. Having called out her name several times and received no response he continued on his round intending to call back later that morning with the letter he was carrying. When he did so he found the front door still open and the fire in the range almost out. Fearing that something was amiss but reluctant to go beyond the kitchen he reported his concerns to the village Constable who came to the cottage shortly before mid-day.

         On finding Rebecca still absent the Constable carefully searched each room for some indication as to what had happened. The door had been unlocked from the inside, the key still in the lock, easing concerns that a thief or some other intruder had forced their way in. Apart from her unmade bed, each room was tidy, and several items of value, including fifteen shillings in a purse, were found undisturbed. On a hook by the door was Rebecca's coat and beneath a chair, next to the kitchen range, were her shoes. While there was no evidence that a crime had been committed Rebecca's absence from her home on a cold winter's day without shoes or coat prompted the Constable to extend his search to the harbour and the thirty or so roads and courtyards then comprising Brixham.

         Having failed to find her, or anyone who had seen her that day, he abandoned his search at dusk. Remembering that the door to Rebecca's cottage was shut but not locked he returned there with the intention of securing the cottage and taking charge of the key, only to find a lighted candle on the shelf above the kitchen range. As before he called out Rebecca's name and by the light of the candle again searched the cottage. If Rebecca had returned to the cottage to light the candle she had again ventured forth without coat or shoes. Returning to the kitchen he noticed something else that was new.  Above her shoes, on the seat of the chair, was a red flower later identified as a Begonia Veitchii. Long out of season this was, in its way, as much a mystery as Rebecca's disappearance. How had such a flower survived the winter? Who had put it there?  While these were questions never to be answered the significance of the candle and the flower was not lost on Mr Woodleigh, the Evangelical editor of the South Devon Post, who saw them as metaphors for life, both in this world and the next. His impassioned reportage of Rebecca's disappearance and the investigation that followed created a stir among the 'papers readers unequalled since the serialisation of Little Nell.

         The 'story' was taken up by the Daily Graphic who added the additional information – not to be found in official records – that on the morning of Rebecca's disappearance a warm dish of porridge had been found on her kitchen table. Within days the story had become front-page news in other Fleet Street nationals and their reporters became as common a sight in Brixham as its fishermen. In their quest for new revelations, they found the local population more than willing to supply them in exchange for financial or liquid inducements. The villagers did not lack for imagination and their stories, although often contradictory, filled the reporters' notebooks for weeks to come.

         While fact and fiction were becoming inextricably entwined it soon became evident that speculation concerning Rebecca had been rife well before her disappearance. She had come to Brixham in the autumn of 1896, a young woman, unaccompanied by husband or family, who had taken up residence in a small rented cottage shortly after the demise of the previous tenant. Having arrived with no other possessions than the clothes she wore and a small trunk, she purchased the furniture and fittings of the cottage from the landlord who had assumed ownership of them in default of unpaid rent.

         Although not unfriendly to her new neighbours their curiosity about her was satisfied only to the extent that she was unmarried and had come from Somerset to be housekeeper to Mr Yardley, a local landowner who had recently been widowed. Thinking it improper that a young woman should stay unchaperoned in his large house it was he who insisted that Rebecca seek accommodation in the village. Her daily trips to and from her employer’s house were, at first, keenly observed by the villagers but on finding her back home each evening at half past six their speculation concerning Rebecca turned to matters unconnected to Mr Yardley. According to her neighbours, Rebecca received visitors from outside the village who arrived after dark in a post-chaise and departed shortly after midnight. While their arrivals and departures took place in silence the sound of voices from inside the house gave the impression that they were speaking in unison. Dismissing more mundane explanations the rumour spread that Rebecca was dabbling in the occult, an accusation fuelled by the additional evidence that she had acquired a large black cat.   

         In London the editors of Fleet Street newspapers decided not to use the various rumours sent to them by their reporters. For now all that was needed was the mystery of her disappearance. The story had more legs than a centipede and might well continue to be front-page news for weeks to come. To help matters along the Daily Graphic offered a reward of £1,000 to anyone with information on the present whereabouts of Rebecca, dead or alive.

         Within days the largest manhunt in criminal history was being undertaken by an army of amateur sleuths whose efforts to find Rebecca were undertaken with a zeal worthy of Stanley's quest for Livingstone. For several weeks no young woman remotely corresponding to her description could venture out on her own without being asked, “are you, Rebecca Cant?” Those who managed by fleet of foot or some other subterfuge to avoid their pursuers were seen in a variety of places and situations, often involving the boarding of trains or steamships to destinations where new sightings of Rebecca were sure to follow.

         'But who is she?' asked a letter to The Times. 'How can it be that nothing is known of her past life? Surely someone must know of it?' And although no reward was offered for this information another army of informants searched their memories for young women who for reasons, now rendered mysterious, were no longer where they had once been. Within days a deluge of letters identified over one hundred young women as being Rebecca either prior to her time in Brixham or now living under a variety of names that in only one instance was Rebecca Cant. Although few of these letters were taken seriously their claims were often featured in front-page news coverage and in one instance led to the arrest of a receiver of stolen goods who might well have evaded capture had she not been named Roberta Cant.

         As the number of Rebecca sightings diminished the story sparked back into life when a convicted murderer, Charles Meade, confessed to her abduction and murder. Claiming the one thousand pound reward for his family he led the police to a shallow grave in woodland, north of Brixham, from which a body was removed and examined. The headline news that Rebecca's remains had been discovered was refuted two days later by the findings of an autopsy that established a time of death many months before Rebecca's arrival in Brixham. While the body in the woods was never identified, forensic examination established that the victim had been struck several times to the head by a blunt instrument similar, if not identical, to the weapon used to kill Mead's first victim. Despite all evidence that the exhumed body was not Rebecca his insistence that it was received more newspaper coverage than the two murders he undoubtedly committed. His last words on the scaffold, still claiming responsibility for Rebecca's death, were reported on the front pages of all the national dailies.

         With record sales of the Graphic beginning to falter the Editor decided to make use of one of the rumours confided earlier to his reporters. Knowing that the Daily Mail was about to go to press with the story that Rebecca was a Serbian revolutionary in hiding from the secret police of that country the Graphic decided that more newspapers would be sold if Rebecca 'became' a witch. Expanding on the unexplained meetings at her cottage the newspaper published startling new information that Rebecca was at the centre of a coven of west country witches. While professing scepticism about witchcraft in keeping with the rationalism of the modern age the Graphic surrendered its front pages to anyone claiming knowledge of Rebecca's involvement in satanic ritual. How else, it was argued, could she have disappeared so completely. Was it not common knowledge that a witch could change its shape and become any black creature of its choosing. Had not a large crow been sighted on the roof of Rebecca's cottage. Had not a black lamb been born on a nearby farm? Rebecca was still in the village, had never left. That was the meaning of the candle and the flower. What could be clearer?

         To many readers of the Graphic nothing could be less clear. When letters were received to this effect the newspaper sought to enhance the credibility of its reportage by paying an impoverished academic to write an article questioning the scientific understanding of the supernatural. Having stemmed the tide of criticism the academic was dispatched to Brixham to undertake a study of the supernatural beliefs and activities of its inhabitants. This he may have attempted but was unable to complete on account of his unsuspected partiality for bottled spirits. Seldom straying beyond the taproom of his lodgings in the Ship Inn the study floundered on the learned gentleman's inability to recall anything that was told him. 

         At the instigation of its owner, the Graphic informed its readers that the report would not be published owing to the 'unexplained disappearance of the academic' who was obliged to maintain this fiction by lying low in a Perthshire croft. 'Had he come too close to the truth and become a victim of satanic powers?' asked the Graphic in a front-page editorial. 'Could it be that Rebecca, was not a witch but had suffered the same fate as the academic?' Predictably another crow was seen, this time striding along the ridge tiles of the Ship Inn, cawing loudly at the black clouds of a gathering storm.

         Other reports of birds behaving suspiciously flooded into the newspaper which also received a visit from a talking rook whose repertoire included the phrases “I am Rebecca Cant,” “God Save the Queen” and the first line of a popular song. While unable to account for the random nature of the rook's conversation the bird's owner, an East-end costermonger, claimed the one thousand pound reward on the basis that the rook had always been a very truthful bird and was most unlikely to take on a false identity, which the rook and himself fully understood to be a most heinous crime. The clerk manning the newspaper's public counter was unconvinced and on finding some of the bird's blackness rubbing-off onto his fingers made the discovery that the rook was a parrot.

         As interest in the fate of Rebecca declined along with sales of the newspaper the owner of the Graphic decided to abandon the story and concentrate instead on the Queen's Diamond Jubilee. He was sorry it was over. It had been good while it lasted. He would, of course, have preferred the story to continue with the discovery of Rebecca's murdered body and the prospect of a long trial to follow, but the world was not a perfect place and he was only too aware of what was possible and what was not. Nevertheless, the story had turned a handsome profit and with that, he was more than satisfied. As a measure of his appreciation to those most responsible for this success a celebration was held on his ocean-going yacht, 'The Fidelity', to which myself, the Editor, Mr Woodleigh and Mr Yardley were invited.

         Far from the gaze of the newspaper buying public we were now free to be ourselves and enjoy the pecuniary benefits of deception that must forever remain a mystery. In my subsequent life as an actress I played many roles but none I liked better than Rebecca Cant.

 Copyright Richard Banks      

             

Magic Granddad ~ Part 3 & Last

Magic Granddad ~ Part 3 & Last

By Len Morgan

Tina heard a soft tapping on their bedroom door.   

A voice said softly “It’s Saturday, and breakfast is on the table.”

Tina looked at Jack, and they smiled.

“Told you,” she said.   They were both already dressed and followed Steve downstairs, they rushed through breakfast then headed straight out to the shed.

“Have you got the key?” Tina asked Jack.

“It’s in mum’s apron pocket,” he replied.

Karen put her hand in her pocket, and with a surprise look pulled out the key.

“Would you open it please Granddad, it’s been a bit stiff lately.”

Steve opened the door and turned on the light.   Karen gasped, and began to tremble; Steve took a deep breath and began to cry.

“What is it?   What’s the matter,” Tina cried in alarm.

“Nothing darlings,” Karen sobbed, hugging them both.   Steve joined them in a weeping huddle, hugging them all to him.   He continued to sob silently.   On the facing wall were two Portraits.   One was their father, the other their Grandmother, Karen’s mother. 

 “Were so, so sorry, so very sorry,” Tina sniffed while Jack shook his head, the corners of his mouth turning down; both were now shedding tears of their own.

“Don’t be sorry!   It’s the most wonderful thing that anybody has ever done for me.  It’s the best surprise I’ve ever had,” said Steve, smiling with tears still glistening in the corners of his eyes.   “I know you didn’t find the photos in this house; I destroyed everything because it hurt so much to be reminded.   I’ve regretted that action ever since.   It’s been hard not having a likeness to remember her by – well, now I have and it’s thanks to you both.  You know, if I live to be a hundred, I will never receive a better gift,” he kissed them both and hugged them fondly.

“Good, now we have one more surprise.   Tomorrow, we are all dining with Mrs Williams.   She said to come at 6pm, and to be prompt!” Tina announced.

“Whatever you say,” Steve replied, hugging them again, his eyes pink and blotchy.

.-...-.

The twins were up early on Sunday morning, it was their eighth birthday.    They checked the room but could find no presents.  

“Mum has only been at work for one week, so we can’t expect too much,” Tina whispered hoping otherwise.

“Let’s try downstairs,” suggested Jack.

“Are you two ready for breakfast?”    Karen called from the kitchen, “there are cards on the table to be opened,” she added.

Tina and Jack sorted them into three piles: Jack, Tina, and Jack & Tina, before opening them.   They spent ten minutes alternately reading humorous verses, and poems, and comments from their friends and family.

Steve sat reading his newspaper, listening contentedly.   When breakfast was over, mum asked them if they’d been out on the back porch.   They made a headlong dash each trying to be first.   An instant later the air was filled with their yells and whoops of delight.

“Just what I wanted, thanks mum,” yelled Tina.

“Cool!” said Jack.

Karen and Steve stood at the back door, watching them ride up and down the garden on their bikes.

“They’re not new,” she explained “but they’re in pretty good condition since Granddad cleaned and checked them over. So, now you won't have to walk to school."

“Thank you mum, thanks, Granddad.”

“Would you two like to see if there’s anything for you in the magic cabinet?”  They headed towards the shed, in answer, Steve and Karen following as fast as they could.   Without ceremony, Steve opened the door and flicked on the light.

.-…-.

“There’s nothing here,” said Jack.

“Then open the cabinet,” said Steve.

Rap ta-ta tap tap, Jack made the knock and was rewarded with the Tap tap, response.   “I’d like a pair of TYCHO skates children’s size 11, PLEASE,”   He added the magic word.   He turned the handle, the door opened, and there before him was a box with a picture of Roller Skates on its side “WOW!”  He exclaimed, “You really are Magic Granddad.”

“It’s your turn, Tina,” he smiled.   

“But I thought it only worked once a day?” she answered in surprise.

“Ah!   Didn’t I say?   The rules change completely on birthdays.   Give it a try, a dolls pram wasn’t it?”

She tapped, I’d like a dolls pram for ‘Linda blue eyes’ - PLEASE!”     She turned the handle.   “It’s empty,” her disappointment was plain.

“Are you sure?” Steve asked.   “Look Closer…”

Tina put in her hand and took out a slip of paper, which she unfolded and read aloud:

‘LOOK OUTSIDE TINA’   she ran to the shed door, and there, by Mrs Williams’ fence was a beautiful cream coloured ‘Gold Cross’  dolls pram, the tag on it said Have a wonderful day, Love Granddad.

“Oh it’s just what I wanted,” she flung her arms about him, “thank you.”

Over Tina’s shoulder, he could see Joan gave him a thumb’s up sign.  

Life ain’t so bad, he thought.

.-...-.

 “We have a confession to make,” Joan said, “your grandfather and I have been friends for a good number of years, in fact since we were your age.   We used to be an item, then he met your grandmother Esther – my best friend – they fell madly in love.  I met my George…”  She wiped moisture from her eyes, “When they were taken from us we were both devastated.  For a while, we went a little cranky.   But, since your arrival, we’ve been talking again and making sense of our loss,” Steve squeezed her hand and smiled reassuring her.

“We both remember the good times we shared, through the years, as a foursome with Esther and George, they are both gone now, but we know they would give us their blessing,” said Steve.  

“We are both tired of being miserable, and alone, so we have decided to ask for your blessing to get married,” Joan added what Steve found so hard to put into words.

“Oh, that’s so wonderful,” said Karen with enthusiasm.   “Congratulations to you both,” she kissed Joan and gave her a lingering hug.

“Brilliant!” said Tina.  

“Will I have to call you Grandma?” asked Jack all smiles now.

.-…-.

”Before we eat, if you were granted a birthday wish, what would it be?”

“We’d like Daddy to come home,” they said without hesitation. 

Steve looked towards the kitchen door and the twins followed his gaze…

“Daddy!” they yelled, as loud as their lungs would allow, dashing towards the smiling young man standing in the doorway.

“Daddy, we’ve missed you so much!”    Tina sobbed.

“I’m sorry I misbehaved and made you go away, if you stay I’ll never be bad again, I promise,” Jack sobbed, hugging him tight, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“It wasn’t you kids you’re the best things in my life, you and mum, don’t ever think my going away was your fault…”

“I’m so sorry for the things I said to you Alan, I was upset and confused, but never doubt my love.   I know you did it for us,” Karen held him tightly, as if afraid he would go away again, then he kissed her hard on the lips.

“I said some pretty awful things too,” he countered; they hugged warmly once more.

“Would you mind giving me a hand in the kitchen please Steve, I think the roast may be catching and they need to be alone for a while.”

.-…-.

“So, whatever went wrong, between those two kids,” she asked, “they are obviously still very much in love.”

"Well," Steve smiled and squeezed her hand gently, as he sat opposite her at the kitchen table.

“If we are going to help them I need to know,” she coaxed.

He shook his head and cast his mind back.   “Alan was in electronics, he ran his own business, Karen did the admin and they had two other employees.   They were doing fine.   They purchased a nice family house, at the height of the housing boom, in the early eighties, but they could afford it.   Then came the slump, Business went down to a trickle, there wasn’t enough work for three men so Steve had to let the others go, even so, they barely made a living.    They were forced to make cutbacks, even so, they could have ridden out the crisis but, several of their major Customers went into liquidation, at the same time, owing them a lot of money.”

“That’s so sad, but it doesn’t explain what caused their split?”

“Suddenly Alan was under pressure to pay bills, he borrowed to keep afloat, but they were in real trouble and had to go into voluntary liquidation.   He found himself out of work with a large mortgage, and when the Liquidators sold the house to pay off his creditors they found themselves with negative equity, the house was worth £10,000 less than they paid for it, adding still further to the debt.   They had spent all their savings and anything Steve could earn in temporary jobs but it wasn’t enough,” Steve licked his lips.

Joan poured two cups of tea, “drink this.”

He sipped reflecting, “So, without Karen knowing, he took a job on an oil rig in the North Sea, on a six-month contract.   The money would get them back on their feet, but Karen couldn’t believe he’d gone ahead without talking it over with her first.   In the past, they’d always made decisions jointly.”

“Poor Karen, I can understand how that must have felt.”

“On top of everything he didn’t tell her until the last minute, she was hurt, and she doesn’t hold back when she’s aroused, so he left amid a blazing row.   Karen was left to settle up their affairs and move down here with me.”

“At least they seem to be reconciling their differences now thank goodness,” Joan sipped her tea. 

“Steve’s work pattern is three weeks on, with one-week off, and this is his first leave, their first chance to patch things up.   Alan told me that he spends all his spare time on the rig, applying for jobs nearer home.  He’s a hard-working ambitious young man; he’s independent and knows his trade inside out!   I just know something will turn up for him, it’s just a matter of time,” he looked down at his tea.

“They’ll resolve their differences and be the stronger for it, just you wait and see,” Joan smiled and patted his hand reassuringly.

“In the meantime, Karen and the twins will be staying here with me.    I didn’t realise just how lonely I was until they entered my life, now I’d really hate for them to go." he confided.

“Come on old man, there’s always a solution to every problem, let’s dish up the dinner,” she said giving him a peck on the cheek.   He held her cheeks tenderly, between his large gnarled hands, and turning her to face him.

“Oh I do love you,” he said softly, and he kissed her.

.-...-.

“That was some meal,” said Alan.   “I will have to go back and finish my contract on the AMECO rig, but I’ve received two pieces of good news.   One is a job offer from a Company just ten miles from here; I applied for it before I went away.   I’ve told them I’m interested, subject to the approval of my family, and they are prepared to wait.   You get plenty of time to mull things over on a rig, I now know what is really important in my life, and that is my family," He licked his lips.  So, I think we should be looking for a house nearby, the twins won’t have to change school again, and they’ll still be able to visit their grandparents.”

“What was the other piece of news,” said Karen.

“Apparently, the two Companies that went into liquidation, owing us money, have paid out 55p & 43p in the pound to their creditors, including us!”

“Oh that’s wonderful news,” said Karen.

“Even better, we are no longer insolvent, all our debts are paid in full and we have a healthy surplus left over.   So the future is looking brighter.”

“Joan and I have been talking things over,” said Steve.   "Why don’t you move into my house, then when we get married, Joan and I will move in here.  That's if you don't mind us for neighbours.”

 “That would mean we can use the magic cabinet whenever we want,” said Jack, “and we'll have lots of friends and family close bye, wonderful.   Please dad?”

Steve just smiled and nodded, arms around Karen.

“You really are a Magic Granddad!” said Tina giving Steve a hug.

They all laughed, as Steve produced pound coins from behind each of their ears.

“Magic!” said Jack.

Ends.