FREED SPIRITS

Peter Woodgate

It was 9.30pm on Christmas Eve, the weather was icy and snow began to fall covering the platform at Westwood station. Five teenage girls were huddled together in the small waiting room as the snowflakes fell softly, sticking valiantly to the somewhat grimy windows.

    The girls watched as each flake began to melt into tiny rivulets before running like tears down each pane of glass. The computerized announcement system burst into life with the information that the last train to Wadsworth was due to arrive at 9.50pm, it was now 9.35pm.

    Being entirely computerized, and controlled by Wadsworth, the nearest thing to staff was the talking ticket machine which stood like a sentinel outside the waiting room. The platform, at that time, was empty.

    Suddenly, the waiting room door was flung open and a stocky man, wearing a thick overcoat, peered into the room. He looked around, his eyes appearing to pass right through the girls, focusing on the pictures hanging on the wall behind them.

    After a moment he limped over to the bench in the corner and sat down pulling a newspaper from his pocket as he did so. As he started to read the front page became exposed and the girls caught site of the headline which read:

   

ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF THE WESTWOOD LEVEL CROSSING DISASTER THE TRIBUNAL HAS FINALLY CONCLUDED THAT THE DEATHS OF 5 TEENAGE GIRLS WAS CAUSED BY A COMPUTER FAILURE.

 

    The girls shivered in realization as the announcement concerning the approaching train echoed through the cold night air.

 

MR Roberts rose from his seat and made his way to the waiting room door. As he opened it a freezing blast brushed past him and, mingling with the screeching of the train’s brakes, he was sure he heard screams.

    “Glad I will be home soon,” he thought.

TIMEWALK (Part 2 of 5)

 TIMEWALK  (part two)

 by Richard Banks        

         I return to the flat that evening to find that our room has an additional occupant. It is a baby, an unnamed illegal, who arrived in the arms of a nurse from the central hospital. We are to look after it, or rather him until his fate is decided. Greta wants to call him Kurt after her father and when no one suggests an alternative name she trickles water down his face and declares him baptised. Eli looks displeased. Since the Second Reformation, the observance of religious sacraments has been strictly forbidden. Eli's duty is to report Greta's crime to the Public Compliance Unit but if he does the flat will likely lose its cook. For now, he says nothing. No doubt he will choose a less crowded moment to whisper a warning. “Where there are ears, tongues must be careful,” he will say. “No religion, no politics; leave these things to the Party; all wisdom is with the Party.”

         We eat our dinner and as usual clear our plates, but the good humour of the previous evening has been replaced by a mood of foreboding. Twenty four hours have done nothing to ease the tension between Egor and Eli. Another clash between them is likely to prove more bruising than the first. To make matters worse the child starts crying and will not stop. It is hungry, but we have no milk to give it. Eli volunteers to go out and get some. He has a voucher to which Greta adds one of her own. He motions me to follow him. “Adam, you and me together, yes? Safer if we both go.”

         No sooner are we out of the building than Eli's conversation turns to Egor. “Would not the world be a better place without people like him?” he says. I nod my head but fear what is to come. His voice is cold, matter of fact. “So how do we make this happen? What are the options? Shall we lead him down a dark alley and cut his throat? Is that a good idea, applicant member?”

          I say, no. I wonder who else might be listening, but the nearest loudspeaker is on the next corner, some thirty metres away. Is Eli serious about killing Egor or is he up to something else? Could it be a test of my loyalty, my commitment to him and the Party? At worse it could be entrapment.

         “Why no, comrade?” Eli lights a cigarette and almost lets it fall from his lips. He is nervous, ill at ease. If I am at risk, so is he. Can I trust him? I think I can.

         I tell him what he already knows; that the homicide of anyone even remotely connected to the party will be investigated and that forensic evidence will almost certainly identify the person or persons responsible. “Is Egor connected?”

         “There are those who watch over him.”

         “Big fish with sharp teeth?”

         He makes no answer. We walk on until we are safely past the loudspeaker. He continues talking. “But supposing Egor was never born, consider that; no Egor, no crime, no investigation. What say you to that, applicant member?”

         “So this is about Timewalk?”

         “It is the means to an end. All that is needed is a minor reworking of history. Two people who once met, don't, an insignificant change in their lives that not even they will be aware of.”

         “And you want me to make this happen?”

         “Why not? You hate Egor as much as I do. Why should he live?”

         “So what do I do?”

         Eli waits until we are out of earshot of a rough sleeper. “Patience comrade, I have a love story to tell you. On 25 July 2060, Josef Herschel, father of Egor, came to London on a road bus. In those days inter-sector travel required no special permissions and London was a popular destination for visitors. But for Josef, it was just another stage in a much longer journey. On reaching the coach terminus his intention was to catch another coach to the city then known as Plymouth. His plans, however, were disrupted by the late running of the first coach, which arrived two minutes after the departure of the Plymouth coach. The next service was not for three hours and Josef spent most of that time in a café, where he met and was much attracted to a waitress. Josef never did catch that coach. Within a month he and the waitress were married; Egor was their only child.”

         “So, I am to prevent their meeting by making sure that Josef catches that coach.”

         “Full marks, comrade. When you report for work tomorrow you will be sent back to that July day with its unfortunate consequences for ourselves. Here is a map of the coach station. The coach to Plymouth departs from bay K. Delay it for two minutes until Josef is on board. This is him, comrade. It was taken only one year after the events I have described.”

         He thrusts the photograph and map into the hip pocket of my jacket. There are questions I should be asking, but almost certainly there will be no answers. I have been told what I need to know. Complete the mission and this can only go well for me. With Eli's help who knows what I might achieve.

         We purchase the milk and return to the flat, where we find the two women arguing furiously with Egor, who wants the now hysterical child removed down the corridor to the laundry room. Greta warms some of the milk, to which she adds a nip of vodka. She trickles it into the child's mouth and cradles him in her arms. To everyone's relief, he falls asleep and is placed on a pillow inside a cardboard box. It is ten minutes to lights out and we quickly prepare our bedding for the night ahead. Egor, who, as usual, has drunk Mia's vodka as well as his own, falls asleep almost as soon as he lies down. If the child wakes and starts crying again he will be the last of us to know. For now, his snoring is the only sound keeping us from our sleep. After tomorrow only myself and Eli will have the memory of him; the memory of someone who was never born.

         I arrive at the laboratory the next morning to find that no missions are scheduled for that day.  By 12.30 this is still the case. I take a sustenance break at my desk, before starting a routine analysis of data. The feeling of nervous excitement with which I started the day has given way to puzzlement and annoyance. By 14.00 I am down to two options; one, that I have been set up and that my arrest will shortly follow or, two, that Eli's plan is nothing more than a dark, humourless joke at my expense.

         My thoughts are interrupted by a message on my terminal telling me to report to a Senior Technician. If there are unknown people with him I will almost certainly be arrested, but when I push open the door to his office he is alone. He looks displeased. Fortunately, the object of his displeasure does not seem to be me. I am, he says, to conduct an observational study of central London in the year 2060. He tries to give me the impression that this is a planned mission that has been properly researched, but his instructions as to what I am expected to observe are vague and unsupported by any paperwork beyond a standard proforma.

         I am hurried through the props room and kitted out in a beige suit, reminiscent of one my grandfather used to wear. By the time I reach the Transmissions Room my point of entry has been defined as an unpeopled plot of land within the Buckingham Palace Redevelopment Zone. The launch is delayed several minutes by an unidentified life form that is probably a dog. When it wanders off the entry grid the mission commences.

         I arrive and experience the usual sensations of physical and mental disorientation. If these have not cleared within twenty seconds I am to press the recall button on my wrist band, but by ten my head is clear and although my legs are shaking they are well able to support the weight of my body. I make off down a disused road in which weeds have taken root. At the end of it should be a main road for motorised traffic but the way to it is barred by a wooden hoarding on top of which is a double curl of barbed wire. Had the mission been properly researched this obstruction would have been identified and instructions issued as to the way past it. Fortunately, the way soon becomes clear. A section of hoarding has become detached from a gate post and I am able to widen the gap and squeeze through. I join other pedestrians on a thermic pavement which, to my surprise, contains more space than people. With every step, I am seeing and hearing things that I have only seen in films; hydrogen cars, taxi pods, a snake tram. Above the street, a man in an orange jet pack is descending into a designated landing area.

         I arrive at a side road to find that the only way across is to step into the carriageway between moving traffic. This is dangerous, bordering on madness. Some of the cars are still driver operated. None of them are yet made from soft bounce materials. In front of me is a woman in the dark blue uniform of the London Militia. As she crosses so do I. There are more roads to cross. At each one I cross close on the heels of someone who, with varying degrees of difficulty, makes it safely to the other side. To my left, across the main road that still bears the name of the old palace, is the metal exterior of the newly constructed rail terminus. Its colour slowly changes from blue to green. The coach station is further along to my right. Just three more roads to cross and I am there. I make it with ten minutes to spare and locate bay K. Passengers for the Plymouth coach have formed an orderly queue, which as the minute's tick by gets steadily longer.

         At 15.45 the coach arrives and the driver opens up a compartment on the side of the bus into which he loads the luggage of those travelling. At 15.55 the coach is almost full. He checks a list of names and declares that he is waiting for three more passengers. Several minutes elapse and an elderly couple arrive with a suitcase which is put with the other luggage. They ascend the steps into the coach. As the driver locks the luggage compartment I make my intervention. I affect a foreign accent.

         In reply to my asking if this is the Plymouth coach the driver replies that it is.

         “Mr Herschel?” he asks.

         “Herschel,” I say. “Yes, yes Herschel, that is my name. You take me to Plymouth, yes?”

         He assures me that he will. “Do I have any luggage?” he asks.

         I stare at him blankly.

         “Luggage,” he repeats in a louder voice. He looks at his watch and then at a uniformed official who is standing in the gateway of the next bay. “Yes, mate, luggage: suitcase, hold-all, backpack, expandobag.” He runs out of words to describe luggage and decides I don't have any. “Okay, let’s see your ticket. It's time we were off.”

         I make a show of reaching into my inside jacket pocket and when I find nothing in it I transfer the search to my outer pockets, where I find a William V payment disc. This I offer to the driver, who reiterates his demand for a ticket.

         “Do you have one or not?” he asks with mounting irritation.

         I nod my head vigorously and continue the search by reaching into my trouser pockets. I find a handkerchief, which I draw slowly out of my pocket, like a magician about to transform it into a dove.

         The driver sounds his horn to attract the attention of the man with the clipboard, who asks the driver if he is okay. The driver says he's not okay, that I'm holding up the coach because I don't have a ticket.

         “Nor does he have any luggage,” he adds. The thought crosses both their minds that I am not Mr Herschel and I am invited to get off the coach or they will call Security. This I pretend not to understand and cling tightly to a handrail exclaiming, “Plymouth, Plymouth, take me to Plymouth.”

         The man with the clipboard speaks on his mobile to someone called Charlie, requesting his help in, “removing a nutter.” As he does so, a short, swarthy man arrives, running and much out of breath. It's Herschel. The Security man also arrives and I allow him to drag me off the bus. I look back at Herschel, who is showing his ticket to the driver. He takes his seat, the doors shut and the coach begins its journey.

         The Security man is all for taking me to the detention room, but when I give him the payment disc and promise not to return he lets me go with a warning. I have one hour before the trip back, time enough to fill in the questionnaire I have been given and take audio and visual recordings. That done, I return along the route by which I came. There is more traffic now, but that’s good because most of it is stationary. I find the gap in the fence and return to the point of entry. As before there's no one to be seen, but since my arrival, a sheaf of flowers has been placed on a tumbled over column. Five years after a violent upheaval there is an uneasy calm.

         I signal that I am ready to depart and within seconds arrive back in the laboratory. My supervisor greets me with the usual health checks and an expression that suggests that the mission, as far as he is concerned, has been a waste of time. I file my report and download the data from my pad. There is an observational analysis to complete, then I am free to go.

Copyright Richard Banks

        

                                                                       Somewhere… 

By Dawn Van Win

 

There is a terrace

Beside the sea

That gently laps

The soft warm sand

Beneath my feet

That slowly tread

A well-worn

Path

 

Along the shore

‘Neath cobalt skies

Where soaring gulls

Express their cries

Of airborne bliss

Untethered from 

Life such as this

 

Where shut away

From day to day

Through fear and dread 

Of Covid spread

By one and all

We do not know 

So keep our distance

Try to show

Some reverence 

for saving space 

Whilst wearing masks 

upon our face

 

Then shuffle through 

Dark winter’s gloom

Whilst meeting loved ones

Over zoom

I sit and ponder 

days gone by

And look out at 

the stormy skies

The clouds above us

Briefly part

I feel the sun

And in my heart

I know

 

There is a terrace

Beside the sea

That gently laps

The soft warm sand

Beneath my feet

That slowly tread

A well-worn

Path

Copyright Dawn Van Win

 

 Water

by Rosemary Clarke

The ocean beds are teeming with life
But plastic and rubbish are like stabs from a knife.
They push their way to the heart of things
And take away what the oceans bring.
But still we do it, don't we care?
If we keep on, no ocean there.
No fun for our children, no more swims
Just because of our rubbish whims.
Can't we afford to save them all
All the waters big and small?
Put our rubbish where it should be
Then water lives in harmony.

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

 

THE ROYAL WEDDING

 (written on the day after)

By Peter Woodgate 

Strange it is that we all like a puppet show

The marionettes, on stage, all synchronized

The puppeteers are expert at ensuring

That those to be controlled were idolized

Even Megan, the commoner, without blue blood

Was given a transfusion, epithet

The queen can give out titles, should she choose,

A shame then She and I have never met

But we, as lesser mortals, should be grateful

And look up to those, who in the past,

Have accumulated wealth, most often through foul deeds

And changed the rules to make sure it would last

I noticed all the crowd waved Union Jacks

It should have been Euro flags on view

The royals are so very multi-national

Less British than the likes of me and you

But then, I guess, most people need to worship

And will ignore the means that make the end

We wear our special spectacles, rose-tinted,

And masking misdemeanours, we pretend

For throughout our history, Monarchs of this land

Have murdered to ensure they would remain

And God was used to justify their actions

As wealth and land, and property they’d gain

Of course, today, the Royals are just figureheads,

Icons, that our needs will focus on

The show of Punch and Judy, more resembling of mankind,

Will simply be reviewed as children’s fun

So, Megan and our Harry, just mortals after all

And I, for one, have never seen their wings,

As humans, I would wish them, happiness and peace

But feel they will be strangled by their strings 

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 

Pets

 Pets

by Rosemary Clarke

They love so much
they are so true
all the pets
Look after you.
They don't need dresses
shoes or hats
or any of
that other tat.
They just need love
and so much care
to let them know
that we are there.
They snuggle close
their heart they lend
and on their love
we can depend.
They make us warm
and not alone
but most of all
They need a home.

Copyright  Rosemary Clarke

 

CHRISTMAS ON MY OWN 2

 CHRISTMAS ON MY OWN ~ Part Two & Last

By Bob French

Having come to terms with her folly, Amanda reluctantly joined in the festive season throughout the hospital as Christmas Day drew near.  As she met up with her friends in the restroom, Pam came and sat down next to her.

          “Look, the second team is at home this weekend.  Fancy joining us?”  At first, her mind told her no. There was no point.  She couldn’t compete with Holly and the thought of breaking up a family so near Christmas was cruel, to say the least, but Pam nudged her and with a smile explained that this was the last time the second team would be playing at home until the New Year.  Amanda looked up at Pam, then Clair and nodded.  It was pointless moping about something she couldn’t have, then stood up and agreed. 

“I’ll meet you there.”

The day was cold and frosty with a clear blue sky and the clubhouse was packed with spectators from both teams.  The game started and soon became a very fast-moving one, with three tries in the first ten minutes. Then just before the half time whistle, Roddy had run onto a loose ball, picked it up, and was sprinting towards the try line.  Out of nowhere, two huge gorillas rushed at him from different sides smashing him to the ground.  The spectators all groaned as all three men fell in a heap.  The first up was Roddy, who picked up the ball and limped across the line and fell to the ground for a try.  The half time whistle blew and the medical crews rushed onto the pitch.

The spectators lingered for a few minutes until all three men were on their feet then applauded them, then made a dash for the clubhouse for some hot chocolate.

Roddy never made it back onto the pitch for the second half and Amanda started to worry about him.  She made her excuses to Jill and Pam and discretely asked where the medical room was.  An old veteran smiled at her and nodded her towards a White door with a large red cross on it.

Without knocking, she pushed the door open and the smell of horse liniment and sweat stung her eyes and the back of her throat.  An elderly man wearing a dirty white coat turned and stared at her.

“Sorry Miss, are you lost?”

“Amanda took a slow deep breath.  “Sorry, I was looking for Roddy.  I think he was hurt just before the whistle went.”

The old man looked at her with a smile, then nodded her towards a curtained off cubical. “He’s resting at the moment, so try not to disturb him too much Miss.”

She stood beside him, staring down at his sweat covered face.  Then she let her eyes move over his body.  His right leg was covered in ice packs and his rugby shirt had been taken off and his ribs strapped up. His muscular chest and six-pack rose and sank slowly as the sedatives gradually did its work. Without thinking, she slowly took his hand and held it as though it was the most precious thing in the world. 

She must have been standing there for a while when suddenly Roddy opened his eyes and with a confused look, stared up at her.

“Aren’t you the young lady who nearly fell in the mud last month?”  Amanda grinned, then squeezed his hand.

“Yes, I thought I ought to say thank you for saving me,” and without thinking, she leant slowly forward and kiss his forehead.

Roddy smiled.  “Consider the debt repaid Miss.”

“Oh, sorry, my name is Amanda.”

The moment was shattered as the old man in the dirty white coat pulled back the curtain. “Excuse me, Miss.”

Amanda stepped back as the old man inspected his treatment of Roddy.  Then with a smile on his face and gave a nod.

“You can go Roddy, take it real easy; no training or heavy work until the new year.  I’ll tell Frank, your captain.  You just take it easy and enjoy Christmas.”  He turned towards Amanda.  “You can stay if you want Miss, but after the full-time whistle is blown, this place is like a Turkish brothel, so I suggest you make a dash for it while you can.”

After he had left, Amanda turned to Roddy with a frown on her face. “Turkish Brothel?”  Roddy laughed through gritted teeth.

“A steamy room full of fat, sweaty naked bodies all pushing and shoving for the bath or shower.”  The look on Amanda’s face before he closed his eyes again told him that this was her first time behind the scenes of a rugby club.

After a while, Roddy tried to sit up.  “You couldn’t do me a huge favour Miss?  Take me home.  I normally jog to and from the clubhouse, but I think I won’t be able to make it today and I really want to be out of here before the lads get back.”

“Don’t be silly.  It’s the least I can do for you, after all you did save me from embarrassment.”

After a lot of gentle lifting and moving, Roddy was finally on his feet.  He nodded towards his kit bag and boots.  “I’ll need my tracksuit top and trainers.  Can you help me?”

It took a little time as Amanda dressed Roddy, then together they staggered thought the empty clubhouse, pleased that there were no inquisitive spectators.  When they finally reached fresh air, Amanda nodded to her Mini Countryman. As they approached, Roddy gave out a little chuckle.

“It is clear that these little cars are not built for six-foot-three rugby players.”

Amanda laughed with him. “I have a plan,” she said in a French accent, as she moved towards the boot of her car.  After collapsing the back seats and pushing the front passenger seat flat, she stood back and invited him to carefully crawl in and lay down.  After a little bit of grunting and shuffling, Roddy managed to climb into the back of her car.

Once she started the car and drove over to the club gates, she realised that she had to play dumb. “Sorry Roddy, but I don’t know where you live.  Can you tell me please?”

“Do you know the railway station?  Take the first left after it and continue as though you are going out of town.  We are about a hundred yards down that road.”

“Oh, not far then.  Do you need to tell anyone that you are injured and won’t be in work on Monday?”  She knew she was prying, but continued to act the innocent.

“No, it’s alright, I’m my own boss, but thank you anyway.”

As she pulled up into the driveway of the little cottage, the door opened and the tall elegant woman she had seen him with going into Crown and Anchor, stepped outside with a frown on her face.

“Can I help you?”

Amanda got out of her car and walked to the back doors. “It’s Roddy.  I’m afraid he’s in a pretty bad way.  Can you give me a hand?”

“Good heavens Roddy, what have you done this time?”  Amanda noticed that her voice had no compassion in it.

“You seem pretty well bashed up. Do I need to get a doctor?”

Roddy groaned as he eased himself out of the back of the car, then held on to the tall woman and started to hobble towards the front door.  As he reached it, he tried to turn and thank Amanda, but the tall woman eased him away and through the door.  Roddy stretched back and tied to take her hand to thank her.

Before she could respond, the tall woman smiled her thanks, then eased him through the front door, shutting it behind her.  Amanda noticed that the woman’s smile didn’t reach her eyes.

Amanda sat in her fluffy PJ's with a half-empty tin of Roses on her lap watching ‘Strictly’ on the television.  It depressed her; the Christmas music, the laughter, glitz and fun of the show being enjoyed by everyone except her.  She let her mind drift back to Roddy and Holly, who instantly reminded her of Cruella de Vil, then quickly cast them out of her mind; raised a glass of wine to her favourite Teddy Bear. “Another Christmas with you again.”

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of her phone which caused her to jump, then frantically look around the room, trying to identify where the sound was coming from.  When she finally found it, she looked at the screen and couldn’t recognise the number.

“Hello.”

“I’m sorry but is this Amanda?” 

Thinking it was another cold caller, she thought for a minute before deciding to answer it.  “How did you get this number?  I’m ex-directory.”

“I’m so sorry, but is this Amanda?” 

“Yes.  Who is speaking please?”

“It’s Roddy.  Look I hope you don’t think me rude, but.”  He paused as though trying to think of what to say.  “I just wanted to thank you for getting me home safely and, and….”.

She listened for a while, then realising he wasn’t going to speak took a deep breath.

“Are you feeling a little better Roddy?  I was a little worried…. Being cramped in my little car, I thought I might have caused you more injury.”

“No, no I’m fine, and once again, thank you for all your help.”  There was a pause, then the phone went dead.

Amanda looked at her phone and frowned.  How strange, she thought, then tossed it onto the cushion next to her and raided the Roses before going back to watching ‘Strictly’.

As she was leaving the children’s ward a few days before Christmas, a little girl had been admitted with a very high temperature.  As she wasn’t part of the ward staff, she didn’t get involved.  The following day as she popped down to give a hand at the end of her shift, who should be there but Cruella de Vil.  She was standing over the little girl who had been admitted the night before and was lecturing her about something.  Once the tall woman had left, she quietly sat down beside the little girl.

“Hi, my name is Amanda, what’s yours.”

“Julia, but my …”

She was rudely interrupted as the Sister of the ward called her over. “Sorry Amanda, we got a bit of a flap on.  Can you help?”  Amanda smiled at Julia and winked. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll be back.”  But it was gone ten by the time the incident that needed her help had been sorted and Amanda thought it too late to bother the little girl.

It was the day before Christmas Eve and once Amanda had finished her shift, she dropped in on Julia.  She stayed with her, caring for her and making her laugh, until the ward Sister approached her and informed her that Julia could go home first thing in the morning.  When Amanda explained what the Sister had said, she didn’t seem to want to go.  “I’d rather stay here with you please.”

“Is there something wrong at home?”

Julia frowned.  “It’s my Dad.  He can’t get around very well and I don’t know how to get home or to take care of him.”  

If you like I can drive you home and see what we can do to help your Dad.”

Julia instantly cheered up, then threw her arms around Amanda’s neck.

“Thank you so much.”

Amanda got permission from her ward Sister to take Julia home during her shift and promised to make up the time, but the Sister simply smiles at her.

“Amanda, you’re the only one who goes above and beyond your duties.  Go and take care of little Julia and her father.  I will see you back on duty on the 27^th.

Amanda was surprised when Julia directed her down past the railway station, then taking the first left drove down to the little cottage.

“You live here?”  Amanda said with a little surprise in her voice, then prepared herself for another bout of rudeness from Cruella de Vil.  As she pulled on the hand brake, the front door opened and Roddy, holding onto the door frame grinned, they waived at Julia.

“Daddy, I’m better and nurse Amanda is going to take care of you.”

Amanda stepped out of the car as Julia rushed into her Dad’s arms.

“God it’s so good to have you home and safe.  I was really worried.”

As Amanda reached the front door of the cottage, Roddy reached out and took Amanda’s hand.  “Thank you so much for looking after Holly.  She means so much to me.”

Amanda looked down at Julia.  “Holly? I thought you said your name was Julia?”

Roddy smiled.  That’s her real name, but as she was born on Christmas Day, I’ve always called her Holly.”

Before he had finished, Amanda blurted out. “Then who was that tall blond-haired woman I saw you with?”

Holly turned and looked up into Amanda’s face with a scowl on her face. “Oh, she’s his big sister.” She’s not very nice. But she’s gone now so it’s just me, Dad and you for Christmas. Won’t that be fantastic?”

 

Copyright Bob French