NOW AND THEN

By Rosemary Clarke

Sasha is asleep at the moment, her beautiful brown eyes closed as she luxuriates in the sun's warmth...full circle?  I suppose so, it's how my life started.

The house I was born in was what you'd call very well - to - do; at six every morning we’d have breakfast and playtime just to stretch our legs, setting us up for the day.  Someone would come in to comb and brush our hair, see that our nails were cut, nothing wrong with our teeth then work.

The couple that owned us made sure, along with the kennel maids, that we sat or stood when we were told and walking to heel was rewarded by tidbits or a toy so everyone tried their hardest.  I was only small then and days stretched forever in golden bliss.

I still don't know how it happened.  We were show dogs, a group of Burmese Shepherds known for our gentle ways and intelligence both of which were my downfall for the next two years; I think it was two...how can you tell when someone, somehow takes you far away from green fields, kind hands and good food in a dirty white truck.

I was treated quite well at first, meals were un-nourishing and bland, but there were meals.  I was tied outside a dirty caravan, children in grubby clothes with faces that didn't see a flannel very often running around in the dirt; sometimes a small hand would grab my hair gently, using me as something with which to stand, until a wobble would have the child back on its bottom, sad at having failed in their task.  Then the newspapers arrived, pictures of me spread on pages; lost show dog I should imagine not reading your writing.  I can understand you, you can't have everything.

The person who had taken me was growing tense, I felt it, and once more I was pushed into the dirty van.  Our journey was long and, as he stopped and let me out I could see trees..home?
No, roughly I was tied to a post near a yard.  The man spoke to a tall man in a bright yellow jacket who handed him what I had seen was payment.  Someone paid for me so I should be treated well!  How wrong I was!

A few moments after the van had driven off I was untied and led into a yard where rusty cars piled on one another; a graveyard of metal.  Lights hanging limply from their fronts or doors rusted and permanently open as though they had ceased to hope, the end of life. 

Seeing the metal cage before me, only big enough for me and situated in a grimy corner I started to understand their feelings: this was where dogs ended their lives too. 

For once I fought back, trying hard to pull away from my steel prison, knowing that once inside I would have no hope too. I twisted and struggled, pulling hard and growling until a sharp kick with a steel tipped boot made my legs buckle and my back tingle and ache nastily.  He and another man also in the bright yellow jacket dragged Me towards the cage and now I had no way to fight, only gaze as the inevitable slid ever nearer.

I lived on scraps.  After a while, my back healed but I still had trouble walking, not that I had far to walk.  By pushing against the side I could just sit down and kept one corner, the farthest from me, for my toilet.

If people came I caught pieces of burger, chips, and the odd piece of fish.  I was oily and filthy, my beautiful hair matted and black; why didn't they just kill me, why hate me that much?Xd

Then, one day, a couple arrived in a red van; they were dressed in boots and jeans like the rest but the woman, tall and with dark hair came near, her hands were gentle as they stroked my nose and ears through the harsh metal.  Later on, she unwrapped meals she had bought just for me, pasties and meat pies, a whole fish fried in batter!  Not the best food but hot, and it certainly made me feel better as it settled in my aching stomach.

I don't know if I was sold or they took me but one night the cage was quietly opened and she led me out on a piece of string into the back of the petrol-smelling red van.  I was driven away: no one followed, no one came.  I felt sure that she wouldn't let any harm come to me.

Suddenly, after a long while, we turned down a bumpy, dusty road; where was I to go now?  The van stopped and she led me out tying me once again to a metal pole but this time under lots of clothes hanging on a line.  The woman walked away, was I sold to someone else?

I decided to explore as much as the rope would allow me; I could at least sit or lie down and the garden was calm and forgiving, trees waving in the gentle breeze as if in time to the clothes.  It was quiet here, I had time to think and feel.  I sat down on the grass, as well as I could with my painful legs; these people, whoever they were, were not the kind to use steel boots, iron bars or any other metal things.  A voice nearby made me look up from my musings. another dog?  How long had it been since I'd heard that!  I answered in a squeaky yip, forgetting in my zeal that I hadn't used my voice for many years; would it come back?

I heard an engine, not a van too smooth then I could see it, a bright gleaming silver car!  A woman, older than my one, was walking down the path joined by two more, a man with unruly grey hair and a tall gangly girl, rather like one of the kennel maids in my puppy days.
"Why's someone tied next door's dog to the line?". The girl said looking puzzled, the woman, also grey haired, stood looking at me; she reminded me of my woman, were they a family?
She put out her hand.
"Bobby?"
This is what my woman called me and I yipped at the name.  The woman smiled.
"This is Bobby; she said she'd get him.  He needs a wash, he's all oily."

A dish of meat was put before me but, because my jaw had been smashed, my teeth wouldn't reach the bowl.  I sat there looking at it.  The woman watched me then walked away returning with a flat tray; I cowered, waiting for the crack as it hit me but no, she pushed the meat onto it from the bowl.  I could eat this, jellied as it was easier.
I was then taken, in the back of the clean smelling car, to a concrete yard and there...now what?  Two young women, one tall with long red hair one small dark and chubby walked over.  I liked their smell and willingly went with them through a counter to a room. 

Shampoo, warm water, and a glistening gleaming cleanly groomed coat; I was sand and black once again, my true self.  I strutted out, my head raised in sheer joy, no longer bedraggled and dark, a real show dog!

My days were now spent in walks and food and play,  my favourite time being early morning when the older woman would awake, having slept on a chair near me to keep me company and boil the kettle for a cup of tea.  We would sit down before anyone else was awake and munch our digestive biscuits; a little rest before the day ahead.

Well, I loved it there playing with the family but I grew too strong.  My woman and the girl took me to training classes but when I didn't do as I was told my woman's boyfriend tried to kick me, telling me that that was what they did to trouble makers in London.  I don't know, it didn't sound very nice, perhaps I had been in London all those years.  Also, my woman and her boyfriend were tired of walking me, leaving it to the older woman and the girl, all were working but one day, when I needed to go to the toilet, I pulled the woman and hurt her arm very badly, having it wrapped up in a bandage with her not able to use it.  She was threatened and pulled by my woman's boyfriend, who I suspected had something to do with the men and the cage, and kept away from him just in case.

It was then that the older woman spoke to my one who said she had a friend and would see what she could do.

And here I am!  I still have some of my old toys with me, my children play with them now but I do occasionally throw one in the air when no one's looking.

Sasha is beside me now and it's dinner time.  Here comes my new man, he used to be a farmer and knows how to treat dogs.  You see, a dog's life can be a good thing in the end.

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

 SUSIE

by Richard Banks 

It was ten pm when we decided that something must be up. She was due home at nine, and by half past we were already on edge. It was so unlike her. She had never been this late before and, worse still, we didn’t have a clue where she was. She had left the house in a rush saying something about visiting a friend. By the time we thought to ask her ‘who and where’ she was through the door and away.

         We decided to phone her friends. They were all at home, mostly in their beds, as Susie should have been. Nobody had seen her or had any idea where she was. At eleven thirty we phoned the police.

         “Perhaps she went into Barchester and got delayed coming back,” they said. “Could she be staying overnight with a friend?”

         “No, no,” I told them, “that’s not like Susie. Besides she would have phoned us on her mobile.”

         Eventually, the police agreed to circulate her description to their patrol cars in the area. “Try not to worry,” they said, “she’ll turn up. They usually do.”

         Try not to worry, I thought, you must be joking. I could bear it no longer. “I’m going out to look for her,” I said to the wife. “Stay by the phone in case she calls.” I pulled on my overcoat and hurried out into the night.

         I decided to start with the cafe in the High Street where Susie sometimes hung out with her friends, but it was closed and the shutters down. On the other side of the road the neon lights in the George flickered off. I was alone, not a soul in sight. A grey mist was beginning to roll in from the river.

         I kind of panicked at that point. The thought of Susie being out this late, on her own, with no one to look out for her was more than I could stand. I sat down on the cafe steps and took in a deep breath of cold air.

         “Get a grip on yourself,” I said out loud. “What use are you to Susie like this?” The roar of a car was quickly followed by the glare of headlights as it accelerated past me. “Get up you fool, they’ll probably think you’re drunk. Get up and look for Susie.”

         I staggered off down a side street towards the bus station which was as dark and deserted as everywhere else. It was the same story at the war memorial where local youngsters sometimes gathered. After that, I wandered about for ages just hoping I would see Susie or someone who might know where she was.

         I was on the point of returning home when I thought of the kids’ playground. Susie seldom went there now she was thirteen, but it was worth a try. It was only a few minutes walk. At first, I didn’t see the young couple standing by the swings. As I drew nearer the woman turned towards me.

         “Hello there,” I shouted, I was still some way off, “have you seen a young girl, fair hair, red jacket, jeans?”

         “No, I haven’t, she said, but not to me. She turned towards the young man. “No I haven’t forgiven myself and I don’t think I ever will.”

         “But it’s been five years,” interposed the young man, “and anyway you weren’t to blame.”

         “Of course I was! If only I had phoned, it would never have happened. Dad should never have been out that night, not with his bad heart. Goodness knows how long he lay there before he died.” Tears filled her eyes and I wanted to wipe them away like I had done so many times before.

         “Susie!” I shouted. She was a young woman now, but still my Susie. “Susie, dear, it’s me! Don’t blame yourself. Everything’s fine, it’s OK. You’re safe. That’s all that matters.”

         She neither saw me or heard what I said, but somehow she understood, her eyes and face an open book. She smiled as the young man wiped away her tears. I smiled too. They hugged, then kissed, and all was well with them, and me.

         As they left the playground, hand in hand, a familiar figure came into view wearing his trademark Kannex and cloth cap. He strode purposefully towards me, choosing to walk through, rather than around, the children’s roundabout. He was in one of his moods. As he drew closer the barrage began. “Well, you found her then, about bloody time too.”

         “Dad! What are you doing here?”

         “What am I doing?” he repeated, fuming with rage. Well, I’m not walking the dog, that’s for sure. You daft loon, I’m here for you, and not for the first time I might add.”

         “What do you mean?”

         “I mean I was here before when you had your heart attack. What a fiasco that was. I came down in a beam, all welcoming like, and you went rushing off without seeing me. ‘Come back,’ I yelled. ‘I’m over here.’ Come back? did you heck.”

         “Why didn’t you stop me?”

         “How could I? You were like a headless chicken. There was only one thing on your mind - find Susie. Nothing else existed for you. Anyhow, I only had the beam for an hour. After that, we thought it best to wait until you calmed down a bit. Trouble was you never did. You just kept on looking, night after night, scurrying up and down the same old streets.”

         “And then I saw Susie.”

         “And then you saw Susie. Thank the Lord for that. Come on, son, it’s moving day. Let’s be off.”

Copyright Richard Banks

A few haiku

 

A few haiku from me

By Robert Kingston

still water dusk

the rivers dregs

at the sluice gate

 

Poem of the week June 7-11~2021 The Japan society

 

geometry class

a blackbird

takes flight

 

The Mainiche (Japanese daily newspaper) 26.6.21

 

Copyright Rob Kingston

 

 OUCH!

By Rosemary Clarke

By Rosemary Clarke
They bite you here
They bite you there
They bite most blessed anywhere.
The itching almost
Drives you bats
Of course I'm talking about gnats.
And when you're
happy and asleep
Dreaming of those jumping sheep
From near your ear
A little sound
A whine that tells you they're around.
Then you leap up
Turn on the light
But little gnats stay out of sight
Until you sleep
You hear the drone
And wonder if you should leave home.
But Citronella
Candles call
Gnats do not like that stuff at all
So joss sticks, candles
All alight
And little gnats
Will all take fright
Leaving you
To hit the hay
Knowing gnats will stay away.

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

 PETER’S RANT

By Peter Woodgate

I had a dream the other day

That I was in another land

It wasn’t very far away

And love, it drained like coloured sand

Through time.

Wealth, it seemed, was paramount

And gained without the thought for care

It would be stacked too high to count

Without a single plan to share,

Is this a crime?

We were told “this is the way”

To a better life, a future plan

And slogans showed that this would sway

The minds of sheep dressed up as man.

No time to whine.

This land, it chose to isolate

No need for others, it is great

And ruled by one with golden hair

Who lies yet thinks he’s debonair,

Oh mate.

I woke up from this nightmare dream

Sweat on my brow, for it would seem

I was already in this land

Where everything was fine and grand,

But the one with hair like a toilet brush

Will find statistics, with a rush,

Do not match up to those he gave

Then brushed aside with a casual wave.

It appears we accept politicians lies

Forgive them as they rule our lives

With damned deceit and guarded truth

The fact is they are just uncouth.

If only I could trust someone

To tell the truth treat all as one,

But reluctantly know that won’t be

Corruption is the game you see.

And power is the ultimate

We’re damned and we know our fate.

Votes are planned and aimed at those

Who just don’t look beyond their nose

So keep them happy, feed and plot

Don’t worry about the other lot.

I doubt it ever will be fair,

Nor will we find Utopia.

 

So there it is, I’ve had my say

Thank God for that, I hear you say.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate   

 Stop!

By Len Morgan

   On Good Friday 6^th April 2007 at 3:15pm, I was driving home from work, through Coryton in Essex.  I'd agreed to work that morning because If I don’t work I don’t get paid; I'd been temping at the oil refinery for nearly three years.  So, there I was, at the tail end of a ten-hour shift, heading home to my wife and a hot home-cooked meal.  And to get some real work done, for my sins I’m a writer.  Not a successful one, not a well-published one, but a writer nonetheless.

  I was multi-tasking, as I drove down a quiet country lane, at thirty miles an hour. Listening to the annual Easter service on Radio 4, and mulling over the plot of a short story that had been marinating in my mind for several days.  It was a sunny but bracing spring afternoon, as I approached a small group of cottages on my left.  I glanced in my rear-view mirror and noticed a white van, rapidly narrowing the gap between us. 

  A full choir of voices, bass, tenor, baritone, and soprano’s escaped through the speakers of my car stereo.  The choral voices soared to a crescendo angelic and harmonious.  Beautiful…

  “Stop!” 

  My foot hit the brake.  There was a screech of tyres as the van skidded into the back of me, shaking my car as it slammed into my rear bumper.  At that precise moment, three young children ran out, from a concealed alley, giggling and shouting. They ran straight into the road in front of my stationary car.  Their looks of horror were replaced with surprise, as they realized, I was not going to run them down.

 The voice that had boomed from my radio, so commanding and insistent, had saved their young lives, and they would never even know it.   The music continued unabated and it occurred to me that had I not stopped I would have passed the spot an instant before the kids appeared.

  The van driver came up to my half-open window. He looked dazed.  “Thanks to your quick thinking, those kids are still alive,” he said.  “If you’d driven by I would have been unable to stop.  They would be lying in the road now, badly injured or dying.  I don’t know what to say,” he shook my hand vigorously; “I’ve never seen reflexes like that.”   His emotions played on his face, for all to see, as the kids ran back into the alley.  Somebody behind the van leaned impatiently on his horn.  We both ignored it.  I got out of my car to inspect my rear end. “No real damage!” I said straightening the bent bumper. “Let’s put it down to our mutual good fortune eh?”  I patted him on the back and smiled reassuringly before getting back into my car and carefully driving off.

.-…-. 

  Half an hour later, I was at home.  I switched on my laptop and booted up the internet.  www.bbc.co.uk and reprised the concert I’d been listening to in the car.  I waited expectantly, but there was no shout, nothing!   I played it again and again.  

“Not your usual music repertoire,” said June.

   I told her what had happened.  She pondered for a while.  “Maybe you heard somebody in the alley. Maybe they realized the kids might be in danger and called to warn them?”

  “You’re probably right,” I said, turning back to my laptop, “we can’t expect two miracles in one day.”

  She smiled, “something tells me I shouldn’t be asking...”

  “The boss agreed to pay me time-and-a-half for working today since its Good Friday,” I said.

  “Don’t get too embroiled with that blog of yours Len, dinner is almost ready…”

  

Copyright Len Morgan

 The Clinic

By Len Morgan

In an exclusive private clinic, owned by a multinational pharmaceutical corporation, there is a laboratory run by a genetic chemist Dr Cole Hatcher; a chemical wizard producing man-made substances for therapeutic uses.   They are not banned or illegal substances, how could they be?   Only their creator and his exclusive clientele know of their existence.   Each client knows that his or her medication has been formulated exclusively with their metabolism and physical attributes in mind.   True designer drugs, each an exclusive one-off creation.   Cole smiled, his empire was built on his ability to manipulate chemistry at the genetic level.   Yet, he marveled at the similarity of people at basic levels.   Their dreams hopes, desires, and fears are unwaveringly constant.   With minor variations, we all crave the same things.   Regardless of sex, race, religion, age, and wealth, all men harbour similar hopes, fears, and desires; desires that Cole Hatcher was willing and able to meet on-demand.

He did so by making each client believe their unique experience was created exclusively for them alone.   To ensure his secrets would not be copied and mass-produced he maintained one inviolable rule.   All medication was prepared by and dispensed by him and No drugs or potions ever left the clinic.

David Janes, a distinguished greying man in his forties, arrived from the station in the house limousine.   He walked into the foyé, acknowledging a smile, from the young receptionist, with a curt nod and nervous twitch of his left cheek.

“Good morning Mr Janes, Cole will be with you in a few minutes.   Would you please freshen up and change into the robe provided in courtesy room No.4,” she indicated the direction he should take.

He slipped from the shower into the house green and white toweling robe.   His mind cast back one week to his initial meeting with Dr Cole Hatcher.

.-...-.

  He’d arrived with an open mind, but totally unprepared for the tall twig-like young man sporting a goatee in an obvious attempt to add age and dignity to his appearance.   But, when Cole spoke, David realised his first impression was flawed.

“David I have total confidence in my ability to fulfill your requirements no matter how bizarre.  You can be completely open and say exactly what comes to mind, it will not cause offense, and nothing said in this office will go beyond these walls.   You have my word on it,” said Cole.

“And why should I trust you?   We have only just met and you haven’t even introduced yourself.”

“My dear Mr Janes…”

“Call me David.”

“I’m sorry David, let me start again.”

“I’m doctor Cole Thatcher,” he offered his hand with a smile.   They sat and talked then arranged a session for the following week.   Within half an hour he was being driven back to the station. 

.-...-.

“We meet again Cole,” he still had to smile at the image the beanstalk doctor presented. 

“I know I’m not George Clooney,” said Cole with a disarming boyish grin.  “As I explained at our first meeting, you have a complete money-back guarantee.   If the experience falls short of your expectations, you walk away and not a single copper coin of the realm will change hands,” he had a slick carnival sideshow patter.

“For twenty-seven years, I was very happily married to Margaret, the love of my life.   She died, three and a half years ago,” he glanced away to hide the misting of his eyes, “I miss her more with each passing day.   You recall, my dream was to be with her again for a short time.  But, short of death, I can’t see how that could be accomplished.”

“Swallow the pill with liquid, don’t chew it, the taste is not particularly pleasant,” Cole warned.

“David swallowed it with orange juice.   He was about to make an inconsequential remark, but when he looked, he was alone.   He’d been instructed to go through the blue door.   He found himself walking down a narrow dimly lit corridor.   He felt younger, healthier, and more vigorous than he had in an age.   He looked down at his normally painful knuckles, genetic arthritis, flexing them he was conscious of the absence of pain and lack of wrinkles.   In fact, he had no pain anywhere, even his teeth felt strong.   He’d lost his front teeth at the age of twelve in an accident playing rugger at school.   Gauging his height, he realized he was full-grown, possibly in his late twenties, the age he’d been when he and Margaret had first met, for the first time since her death, her name failed to invoke the emotional pain.   Because she isn’t dead, he thought.   Recalling a recent promise from a skinny young man named Cole.   He realised this was a dream.   He’d been instructed to enter room No.4.    There were hundreds of identical doors ahead and behind him.   The corridor stretched as far as he could see in either direction.   He looked at the nearest door, No.4.   He turned the handle and silently entered.

 

It was a candle-lit room.   The walls were pale and bare, a mattress lay on the floor, covered by a quilted down Douvette.   He saw the familiar shape of a young woman beneath the covers.   Could it be?

He edged closer, went down on his knees, retrieving a lighted candle stub.   Holding the light above, he lifted a corner of the quilt, revealing a tanned dark haired young female form.   As he did so, she rose up on one elbow and smiled at him.   His breath caught in his throat, and he knew if it were not a dream he would have suffered a heart attack.  His face broke into a smile and his eyes filled with tears.   They embraced, “Dear sweet Margaret, love of my life.”

They didn’t sleep, they made love repeatedly.   It’s so great to be young again.   They talked and made plans for the future.   As time passed the dream took on the guise of reality, and the last three years seemed just a cruel joke at his expense; he resolved never to sleep again.   Margaret produced a French stick cheese and red wine.   They laughed and joked, ate and drank, then made love again.   Passion spent, they lay embracing watching the false dawn through a small round window, listening to the dawn chorus.   When finally the sky lightened they fell asleep in each other's arms.

David awoke, conscious of familiar, aches and pains.   But, he was filled with life, ambition, and sheer elation.   He realized it had been a dream but he didn’t care.

.-…-.

Alice Prendergast, Ali to her friends, a smart, mature, woman in her forties had been a widow for four years.   She was wealthy and influential, a woman with physical needs and the determination to see them met, with as little disruption to her business and social life as possible.   Charlie, her well-endowed and devoted husband had kept her satisfied for twenty-two years, until his sudden death.   After a period of mourning, she found no shortage of suitors, but they all fell far short of Charlie.   Finally, she gave up on them.   A kindly well-meaning friend gave her the number of an exclusive male escort agency.   To her surprise, she found her frustration was alleviated overnight, and her physical well-being improved immeasurably.   She looked around and found other agencies, less reputable but able to cater to her needs, day or night.   She was seeing more men, more frequently than anybody realized.   Her search for Charlie 2 was becoming an obsession.

An escort from a less reputable agency breached the confidentiality clause by writing about her sexploits.   He threatened to talk to the tabloid newspapers, he even had pictures.   So she bought his silence as any woman in her social position would.   Overnight, she stopped using agencies, and for several months led the celibate life of a nun.   Then, of all people, her chiropodist told her about 'the clinic'. 

.-…-.

On her first visit, she was skeptical, but hopeful, what had she to lose but time, a commodity she had in abundance.   She took the pill Cole gave her and enjoyed the experience, but after her third visit, she felt there was something lacking.   She explained to Cole at their debriefing session.  

“The experience was perfect, maybe too perfect.   Charlie—in my dream—was better than the original; he was too pre-emptive.”   After a long pause, she said, “I no longer wish to continue with these sessions,” to her surprise Cole laughed.

“You know, it’s a plateau, it takes a dozen visits for some clients to reach that conclusion, others never do.   Three sessions is a new record.”

“So what can you do when somebody rejects the program?” she asked.

“Simple,” he said with a widening grin, “change the game and modify the rules.”

“My problem you understand is that I loved Charlie warts and all.   The dream was too perfect, it lacked his humanity.”

“Ali, don’t concern yourself,” Cole said, “It’s my job to iron out such trifling details.   Just come back next week, in your usual slot, and you will enjoy an enhanced session, a completely new experience.”

.-...-.

A week later, Cole was briefing a young man from an escort agency.

 “Of course you will appear to be her Charlie, your movements and actions will be his.   If you play your part well she will have the experience of a lifetime.   One thing could spoil the illusion, we do not have a print of his voice, so on no account should you speak.” 

.-…-.

David was to have his first enhanced session on the very same day.

A young woman had been briefed on him and was already waiting in the adjoining room No.5.   David walked down the corridor followed by a young man possibly on a similar mission.   As David entered his room, the young man entered the room opposite.  

 The woman was not young.   She took his hand and led him to a bed of scatter cushions.   They disrobed in the subdued light, admiring each other.   He knew she was not Margaret.    But, in the deep shadows, he would never know, this would be his first time with another woman since they were married.   They kissed tentatively at first, nervously, like two shy young virgins on a first date.   They kissed, caressed, and tentatively made love.   As they became more familiar their movements became surer and their lovemaking more intense.   They rapidly improved and learned from each other, neither spoke, they communicated in other ways.   Their passion waxed and waned and waxed again until dawn's light sidled throw the small window.   They slept exhausted but satisfied, in each other's arms.   In the other room, a young couple had been similarly engaged, each totally absorbed in the other.   Mid-morning they retired to their respective rooms to freshen up and return to the outside world.   David was very taken with the woman, he supposed her services would be added to his bill, but he had a real desire to continue their association.   Even if it was a relationship based on cash.   Unlike previous visits, he was completely aware of everything they had done because he had deftly palmed the pill to enable him to have a real experience instead of just a memory.

Having decided that she would enjoy the company of a man who was not a Charlie substitute, Ali did not take the pill either.   She had been aware that the evening could easily have ended in failure.   It was actually an unqualified success because she knew she’d found a man with whom she could spend the rest of her life.   But, there would be a cost.   Whatever it was she would pay it. 

.-…-.

Ali was driven to the station, in the house Limo, in plenty of time to catch the 12:10 train to Waterloo.   Cole had made sure they were unlikely to meet by accident, still believing they had both taken their medication like good little patients.   David was booked for the 13:10 train.

.-...-.

“You two!   How could you possible have gone into the wrong rooms?”

“You told me No.4,” the young woman protested.

“You told me No.5, but the other guy went into that room and I don’t do same-sex, so I assumed you gave me the wrong number.   If it’s any consolation, we have decided not to accept payment for the sessions, we are getting married, if it hadn’t been for this coincidence we might never have met, so our thanks to you, doctor.”

“Does that mean you will no longer be available?   Either of you?”

“Fraid not, we are both seeking a new profession.”

Cole waved them off as they left the staff car park. 

.-...-.

“Sir, I found this in Mr Janes’s room.”

One glance told him it was the tablet David should have taken it before entering room No.5.   It didn’t matter, he had left an hour after Ali, so it was unlikely that it would pose a problem.  'We are not a dating agency,' he thought.

.-…-.

Ali made inquiries at the station.   She described David to the station staff but none had seen him that day.   David arrived an hour later, the station was practically deserted, as always.   His heart sank, he’d obviously missed her, or she hadn’t left the clinic.  

He approached the ticket office attendant.

“Have you seen a young woman about so tall, dark hair, delicate features…”

“Aye!” he said, “try ‘the ladies waiting room’, she’s been here about an hour.”

He gazed through the window.   Ali sat with her head in her hands.   'She probably won't remember me having been under the influence of a mind-altering drug, when we were last together,' he thought   'Maybe she would be revolted by a man who needed a substitute for a wife, four years after her death.'   He was stricken with doubt now, maybe it would be better if he stayed out of her life.  

'God, she’s so beautiful,' he thought.

At that moment, she looked up, her head turned in his direction.   Her eyes lit up with recognition, anticipation, and something else.   Love!   All at once, she was in his arms, her perfume filling his being, taking over his life.   In that instant, they were both irrevocably changed.

As they kissed they knew, that neither would be returning to 'the clinic'.

Copyright Len Morgan