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.

Under the Spotlight

Under the Spotlight

Janet Baldey

When you dabble in the murky waters of the past sometimes monsters surface…

Miriam put down her pen and sat twisting her broad gold wedding band watching it gleam under the light of the lamp.  Restless, she rose and prowled her suite. Unlike the pale pastels of the tastefully decorated rooms of other residents, here anonymous walls were swathed by the rich colours of maroon, emerald and crimson velvet.  Always dark even at mid-day, it was the bane of the cleaning lady’s life and it took a good many ‘sweeteners’ to pacify her.  But, Miriam always had a taste for the dramatic and every evening escaped from the dining room, with its insipid décor and the gossipy rustling of the other guests, to her own domain where she would pace its shadows, reciting lines that rose naturally to her lips while imagining herself, once more, under the spotlight.

 Returning to her seat, she picked up her pen and looked at her last sentence.   She crossed it out, bearing down so hard the line scarred the paper.  Her shoulders slumped;  for the last few weeks, she’d been chronicling milestones in her life, praying for revelation, but as soon as she got to 1954, her mind blanked and her hand froze.  Closing her papery lids, she willed her way into the past but it was no good.  All she remembered was what she’d been told.  In the January of that year, one thousand nine hundred and fifty-four, she’d been found wandering in the swirling pre-dawn mistiness of Hampstead Heath, naked except for a full length sable.  She’d no identification and no memory. Why? It was hard to understand.  She recalled quite clearly, her childhood, her career, her wedding at the Abbey with six actress bridesmaids surrounding her as tall and proud as a phalanx of pale lilies.   That was in 1950 and she distinctly recalled thinking that life couldn’t get any better.  But the devil must have been listening, forever since there’d been a black gap in the white picket fence of years stretching towards the future. 

* * *

There is a very sweet young man living in the hotel where she waits. He befriended her when she first arrived and for some time they had long weekly conversations until the terrible day when she realised the truth.

‘So why are you here Miriam?’ He had asked.

‘That’s a strange question.  Why do people stay in hotels?  I imagine there are many reasons. In my case, I shall be gone as soon as my husband arrives to collect me.’

The man had looked at her, his eyes boring into hers.

‘Tell me Miriam, what year is it?’

She’d looked at him in astonishment, her mouth opening in a breathless gasp as her heart beat faster. Didn’t he know? Surely, everyone knew what year it was, unless…. he’d seemed so normal but all this time she’d been talking to a madman.

‘Why, 1955, of course.’    Hurriedly, she left the room.

Then, there’s the other gentleman; the one with deep lines skiing down his face.  Too old for her of course, but his eyes are kind.  At first, she’d thought he had the answer.   One day, in a fit of melancholy, she had cried over her missing year.  Taking her hand and holding it gently, he suggested a diet of 1954 films or newscasts to jog her memory.  So, every night for weeks she sat in front of the television set and with the aid of a recorder watched a parade of movies. She saw a muscular and muttering Marlon Brandon in ‘On the Waterfront’, a paranoid Humphrey Bogart twitching his way through the Caine Mutiny, The Glenn Miller Story and as many other musicals that she could stomach.   All, she found fairly enjoyable, with the exception of Bill Haley in ‘Rock Around the Clock’ – the music jangled her nerves and made it difficult for her to sleep.  But not one, not even contemporary news flashes of Roger Bannister, breaking the four-minute mile, or sickening footage of the Mau Mau atrocities, succeeded in tearing down the veil.

Occasionally, she heard snippets of conversation that piqued her curiosity.  Once, she was on her way to the lounge when she came across the two men chatting.

‘You know, it never ceases to amaze me how the human brain can delude itself.’

‘True, nature can be merciful sometimes.’

‘We could bring her back, of course…regression therapy or hypnotism.   She’s desperate to know.’

‘What would be the point?   The truth would destroy her.  It’s kindest just to let her live in the past.  At least she remembers her former success and that makes her happy enough.’

‘But she’s our oldest resident.  Don’t you think she deserves the truth before she passes?’

Miriam couldn’t help noticing that, as soon as they saw her, they stopped and smiled; their faces bland as their lips expanded.  She wondered who they’d been talking about.

And then, there were the nightmares.   In the early hours, she’d wake up, her throat tight and sore, with the reedy cries of a baby ringing in her ears together with a feeling of desolation so intense it was like teetering on the edge of The Pit.

She very rarely looked in the mirror, the image reflected distressed, but on a sudden impulse, she walked towards her wardrobe and stared into the full-length glass.   Whoever would have thought that one year of neglect could wreak such havoc?   She plucked at her greying hair and pulled taut the wrinkles on her face.    Roger will barely recognise her.  She wished he wasn’t quite so busy, she missed him so much but, at least, she was well provided for.  She opened the door and looked at her sable, still lustrous, although the fur now wore a grey patina of dust.

Her skin began to prickle, and she gasped for breath.  How hot it was.  Once more she ran her fingers through her hair hearing the crackle of static electricity.  The Gods grumbled overhead and her spirits leapt. Despite their accompanying humidity, she loved storms.   When it came to drama nothing could put on a better show than the elements.  Glancing towards the window she saw deep purple clouds racing across the heavens as the thunder roared.

   A few short paces and she was staring out of the glass watching lightening writhe across the sky, spitting out streaks of electricity that that lit the dusky hills. Suddenly, with a roar as shrill as a train whistle. a sudden gust of wind blew open the casement and a squall of rain plastered her hair to her head.  Startled, she stepped backwards and almost tripped over a bulky package lying on the floor. 

  A new wrinkle joined the others as she frowned.  The package appeared to be newspapers, yellow and creased with age, tied into a bundle that crackled as she picked it up.  She noticed that the papers were all dated 1954.  Scrawled across the top of one was a note in her cleaning lady’s handwriting.

‘Found these recently and thought you might be interested.’

Storm forgotten, Miriam sank down onto the bed and with stiff fingers worked at the frayed string.  As she riffled through the sheets of fragile paper, her excitement waned.  There was nothing of interest.  Impatiently, she tossed the package aside and got up to close the window.  As she did, a sheet of paper detached and fluttered to the floor.  Annoyed, she scooped it up.   She was just about to crush the page when something made her take a closer look.  Black spots danced in front of her eyes as the newsprint wavered and merged slowly blooming into the shape of a face.   One she recognised.  One she saw every morning in the bathroom mirror. Her legs turned to water and she collapsed back onto the bed as she read the black banner headlines underneath.

FAMOUS ACTRESS ACCUSED OF ARSON.

Family feared lost in the flames

Her heart stilled as the roaring sound of blood in her ears merged with that of the storm. Suddenly, she remembered everything. She smelled drifting smoke and heard the sound of crackling flames as the body of a tiny baby appeared, just out of reach.   Beyond, her husband, mother and father stared with accusing eyes before crumbling into ash.  Horror overwhelmed her and she covered her face with her hands.  Lost in misery, she neither saw, nor heard, the thunderbolt that flashed into the room attracted by the precious band circling the third finger of her left hand.

* * *

All who knew her agreed it was a blessing she’d died in ignorance, and all agreed it was a marvel she’d lived so long.  The general public no longer remembered the once famous name of Miriam Marr, let alone the tragedy of her crime.  Consequently, the funeral was a small affair;  a token attendance from the ward plus the lady who always makes an appearance on these occasions and  regardless of the circumstances, always says the same thing.

‘How sad to die alone, un-mourned by her family.  I’m sure the poor soul did nothing to deserve that.’

Copyright Janet Baldey

.

                

   

A STONE IN THE SAND

A STONE IN THE SAND

by Rosemary Clarke

     Debbie Cutler brushed back her peroxide hair, clipping it with a silver slide before staring into the mirror; too much eye shadow? No.  Smudging another layer of crimson lip-enhancing lipstick she smiled yes, knock 'em dead girl!
     Maureen Cutler looked up from nursing blonde four year old Becky, she smiled approvingly.
     "You look, gorgeous Debs!"
Debbie grinned, twitching in her silver mini skirt, the schoolgirl showing through.
     "Sure you'll be okay with Becks?"
Maureen smiled.
     "Aren't I always?  She's a dream, so quiet, don't know where she gets it from."
As Becky's mum strode happily out of the door, blowing a kiss to her David Beckham poster Becky looked up, her bottomless brown eyes brimming with tears.  Shifting a little she squirmed from Maureen's lap.
     "What's the matter love, you tired?  Nanny give you a nap?"
Picking the child up she made her way to her daughter's bedroom, laying her on Debbie's bed; she always slept there.  Leaning she pulled the curtains, shutting out the light from the streetlamps.  Becky buried her little golden head in the pillow breathing in her mother's scent.
     "Bless her, she's asleep."
Maureen stood for a moment gently stroking her hair watching her granddaughter, remembering the way Debbie had seemed like a big doll to her eighteen-year-old self.  She smiled as thoughts enveloped her; peroxiding Debbie's hair, her experiments with lipstick and the way she'd grown into a double of Maureen's idol.  She could see her fronting a group like Blondie's even now, posing and pouting in those floaty dresses; well she at least looked the part but Debbie couldn't hold a note to save herself.
     Becky was the result of an unfortunate fling at work; you got these things happening if you didn't watch yourself.  Debbie had always been one for wanting cuddles and hugs, too demonstrative.  A working mum, like Maureen had been, couldn't cope with all that.  Her sister Jean had been a godsend taking Debs out for walks, showing her things.  She frowned as she remembered her Mum laying down the law.  Maureen could still see her, hands-on overfed hips, shaking those dark curls of hers still in their curling papers.
     "Why don't you take Debbie out!  You never do!  She didn't ask to come into this world!  Mum’s and daughters ought to do things together."
Vince, her husband had soon sorted her out.
     "Mau's a good mum.  The trouble with you Mrs L is that you don't see it.  Girls today don't cook an' that lark, don't have time."
     "If you were more of a husband she would have!"
Words like that had finally smashed up the marriage.  She sighed shaking her head, why couldn't her mum see she needed her help?  That's what mums were for; you look after the kids while your kids get a life; live a bit before they settle down.  Becky hadn't moved.  Maureen quietly walked out shutting the door.
     Wendy and Steve were already on their second lager in the mock olde- worlde cosy atmosphere of the Horse and Groom as Debbie burst through the door.  Steve stood collecting the glasses.
     "What can I get you, Debs?"
     "G & T not too much T." She grinned swerving into a seat.
     "So what's new?"
Wendy leaned over the wooden table pushing aside two more glasses already staining rings into the dark varnish.
     "Hil's going steady."
     "No!  She said she'd never!"
Wendy laughed.
     "Kev and her are an item; prob'ly broody after seeing Louise's"
     "You think?"
     "Yeah, I get broody when I see Becks; she's cute."
     "Yeah, she's a great kid," Debs said proudly.
     "Why don't you bring her some time, we could always go in the family bit, they serve 'til seven."
Debbie smiled.  "Wait 'til she's older then I'll show her the sights."
Steve manoeuvred the drinks onto the table.
     "Who's older?"
Wendy brushed an auburn strand from her heart-shaped face.   "Becky, talking about getting her an intro to this place."
Steve grinned, the lights catching his hairless head.
     "Bit young yet, mind you if she grows up like her mum....". He gave Debbie a nudge, souring Wendy's face.
     "Where's Don?"
Steve stretched back in his seat. "Baby bruv watching."
Wendy sighed picking up her lager.  "Not again!  He's there every evening after work takes him to football at weekends; you'd think he'd be sick of it!"
Steve's long fingers caressed the cold glass.
"Yeah well, some guys never learn.  Says he'll be over later when his mum's back."
     Debbie's brown eyes searched the bar for anyone worth spotting.  Suddenly she saw Don striding toward them looking younger than his twenty-three years, the long golden waves flowing over his shoulders.  Placing his beer on the table he sat down a satisfied smile on his face; Wendy smirked.
     "You look like the cat that's got the cream.  Gonna tell us who she is?"
Closing his eyes he smiled.
"Life's good."
Debbie frowned.  "What babysitting?"
     "What's wrong with that, Andy likes it and I get to see a lot of Andy."
Wendy flicked her hair back.  "Shame you don't bring him here."
      "Twelve's a bit young; could take him in the family bit."
      "Yeah that's what I was saying to Debs."
Don turned to her.  "Yeah, why not bring Becks here.  She's a good kid and we'd love to see her.  I could bring Andy if we stayed in the family bit."
Debbie shook her head.  "She's okay but pub time's my time."
Don looked at her, his blue eyes serious.  "When's Becks time?"
A lump was forming in Debbie's throat, a lump like she had had when she'd gone to visit Grandma.
     "Her time comes later." She mumbled.
     "But you're missing out on a load of things, seeing her grow, telling her stories sharing things with her.  It all makes life that bit better.  You care and they care, and caring's what we all need."
Debbie slammed the pub door as she told him what to do with his ideas.
     Maureen looked up as she stormed into the room.
     "Where's Becks!"
     "In the bedroom asleep; I left her on your bed.  Good night?"
     "What do you think!"
Maureen went back to watching her television programme on, mums to be carrying dolls instead of real children, there was a market in it.  Amazing!  Debbie strode angrily into her bedroom strewn with all her things then stopped; Becky was still cuddling the pillow her little face wet with tears.  Debbie sat down on the bed stroking her daughter's wispy hair.
     "Oh, Becks!  What am I doing to you, what am I doing to us both?"
Becky snuggled closer her tiny hand reaching out for the one person she'd wanted all of her life.  Debbie kicked off her sparkly shoes, her other arm enveloping the soft blonde head, knowing at last what parenthood was really about.

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

Magic Granddad ~ Part 2 of 3

Magic Granddad ~ Part 2

By Len Morgan

Jack was the first awake, he yawned and stretched.   He felt a bit stiff.   The carpet wasn't hard but the floor beneath it was.   The sleeping bag was snug and warm, and he didn't really want to get out, but he could hear somebody or something rummaging around in the next room and his curiosity was piqued.

“Who do you think it is?” asked Tina echoing his thoughts.

Jack turned towards her, and saw her face peeking out from the hood of her sleeping bag, she looked just like an animated Russian doll; the type that has one small doll inside another, inside another…  He smiled with amusement.

“It’s probably Scruffy, Granddad's border terrier,” he answered after a moments thought.

“Let’s go and have a look,” she said on impulse, shedding her sleeping bag like a cocoon.

Jack stood up, unzipping his bag from the inside.   As the two halves separated Tina chuckled loudly.  

“It looks just like a banana skin with you inside it as the banana,” she yelled.

“You got to the green one first, I didn’t get a choice, it was yellow or nothing,” he said defensively.   “Maybe we could swap tonight?” he said hopefully.

“Let’s go find out who it is,” said Tina dodging the question.

They padded barefoot into the hall.   They could see the end room door was ajar, and they clearly heard the noises coming from within.

“What are you doing Granddad?” Jack asked politely.

“I’m looking for some film to put in my camera.”

“Why don’t you look in the magic cabinet that Mum told us about?” Tina asked helpfully.

“That was just a story,” Jack sneered scornfully.

“That’s where you’re wrong clever clogs,” said Steve.   “As it happens, that’s a very good idea Tina, and that’s exactly what we will do!   Back to your rooms and get dressed, and I’ll race you – OUCH!” he hopped on one leg holding his big toe…   “Kicked the f#*@lipping door jamb!” he cursed.

The twins spasmed with laughter.  

“Tut-tut!   language Granddad,” Jack admonished him, with a waggling finger just like Dad.

“Not in front of the children,” Tina snickered, mimicking Mum.

“Excuse my French!” said Steve, seeing the funny side of it.

“What’s all that noise?” Karen asked in a sleepy voice.

“We’re off to the magic cabinet, to get some film for Granddad's camera,” Tina replied, pulling on her shoes. 

“Are you coming Mum?”

“No thanks' Jack, I think I’ll settle for putting the kettle on and starting the breakfast; our things will be arriving today.   Hot buttered toast and marmalade with hot sweet coffee, MMM!” she disappeared into the bathroom.

“I win!” Steve yelled taking the stairs two at a time…

“That’s not fair!” the twins complained bounding down after him, “We were ready, but Mum was talking to us!”

“Tough!   You lose,” he laughed and tousled their hair.

“Where’s the magic cabinet?” asked Jack.

“It’s in my shed, at the bottom of the garden, follow me.”  He led the way, with Scruffy yapping at his heels; he wasn’t going to miss out. 

They charged across the lawn like a herd of wild buffalo.

.-…-.

“Tch, tch, tch,” clucked Mrs Williams at No. 49, shaking her head.   “Barking mad that man,” she said to herself in mock disapproval, “nothing but trouble.   Always was, even when we were at school, he was always instigating trouble.”   She’d always secretly envied his free spirit and refusal to grow old gracefully; he always did as he pleased.    Even when her best friend Esther – Steve's wife - was alive he would still be off gallivanting here and there.   She recalled with a rare smile, Esther used to say; ‘He’ll grow up one of these days’, but of course, he never did.   She wiped away tears, from beneath her eyes, where had the years gone?   She missed Esther and their endless chats.

“Morning Joan, these are my grand children, Jack and Tina, do you feel like coming out to play?” he asked grinning from ear to ear.

He’s seen me she thought, and cocked her snook at him, turning away from the window, too quickly.   “Why do I always do that!” she said angrily, “why do I let him get to me?”   Truth was she’d love to say yes!   But it’s not the done thing for the secretary of the Women’s Institute.   She shook her head sadly, “not the thing at all.”

She’d been lonely, since George passed over, despite her many activities.

“My biscuits!” She cried aloud, sensing disaster with the quivering tip of her nose.

.-...-.

“Now then, let me see.   Where did I put that shed key?”   Steve searched through his pockets in vain. 

 “Ah I remember, Tina has it!”

“I do not?” she said indignantly.  Reaching behind her ear he produced a brass key.  

“Would you mind opening it for me Jack?   I’m all fingers and thumbs today.”

Jack too k the key and fumbled with the lock ‘CLICK’.   “There you are Granddad,” he said.

Steve turned the light on, and they viewed his cluttered workshop.  There were cabinets, cupboards, tables and workbenches, but his tools hung neatly in racks all around three walls.   There were lengths of wood, sheets of metal, metal tubes and plastic pipes in bins.   There was even an assortment of wheels in various sizes.   The floor was covered in sawdust and shavings.   The grimy windows were covered with whitewash.   Not the sort of place Karen would want her children to play in.

“These tools are not toys,” Steve warned them.   “They can be dangerous if you don’t use them properly.   Don’t touch anything before asking.   If you have any questions you want to ask, about anything, I will give you an answer if I can.

Tina looked uncertain, “which one is the magic cabinet,” she asked?

“This one!” said Jack at once, his hand resting on its metal handle.

“No, this is it,” said Tina with equal certainty placing her hand on a small white wood cabinet with a strangely carved handle in the shape of a blackbird.   It was 3ft x 2ft x 1ft and stood on a bench all on its own.   Carefully, she took hold of the handle and turned it, then pulled, then pushed it.   Nothing happened.   Tina turned and tugged, a little harder, then very hard, but still, nothing happened.

“Did you use the magic knock, and ask politely for what you want, using the magic word?” Steve asked.

“You didn’t tell us we had to do that,” said Tina shaking her head.

“That’s why they are secret!” he whispered.

“So are we going to do it or talk about it?” Jack asked impatiently.

“Well…”

“Oh please Granddad, do show us,” she pleaded.   “CAN WE HAVE SOME FILM FOR GRANDDAD's CAMERA – PLEASE!” she asked.

“That, was the magic word, now for the knock,”:

 Tap ta-ta tap tap,

Then from nowhere came the response:  

Tap tap,

 Slowly, and silently the cabinet slid open.   Their eyes went wide with surprise, for inside were three rolls of 35mm film.   Tina removed them reverently from the cabinet and Steve loaded one into his camera.

“Can we wish for something else now?” asked Jack.

“Such as?” Steve asked.

“I would like a ‘Gold Cross’ pram for ‘Linda blue eyes,” said Tina hopefully.

“I’d like a pair of skates,” said Jack.

“That is a shame because you’ll both have to wait, the cabinet is getting old, and only grants one wish a day now, and it only provides things that will fit inside it!”

“So tomorrow, we can ask for a pair of skates each?” asked Jack with a cheeky grin.

“Oh yes please,” Tina added, “but what will Mum say?”

“Leave your mother to me,” said Steve firmly.

.-…-.

They returned the following day and made their wish…

“What are they?”  Tina asked wrinkling her nose at the smell.  Steve smiled in amusement “what you have there are two pairs of skate…”

“Skate?” said Jack in disgust.   “Who asked for fish?  Definitely not me!” 

“What use are fish to us anyway?” Tina added turning away.

“I- I’m sorry,” he stammered, “but that’s how magic works sometimes…” he tried to explain “You have to be specific.   Ask for exactly what you want!   Two pairs of TYCHO roller skates one size 9 the other size 11, with adjuster keys…”

“Thank you for explaining Granddad, but what will we do with these.  Can we send them back?”

“Shhh!    You may confuse it, or worse still hurt its feelings, it is only a cabinet after all.   I think it would be better if we simply accepted gratefully,” he said removing the fish and closing the cabinet door.   “Why don’t you ask your mother?”

.-…-.

“Well,” said Mum rubbing her nose, “we could always fry them in batter, and have them for dinner with salt, vinegar, and chips?”   She turned, giving her father a withering stare.

“It wasn’t my fault Karen!” he pleaded defensively.   “They weren’t specific…”

He shrugged, holding his arms out in supplication, “you know magic, Karen…”

“I know you!” she answered sharply, and then she broke into a smile.   “So it’s fish and chips for lunch – compliments of Jack and Tina?”

“Yea!” They yelled, their disappointment forgotten.

.-...-.

“So!  Tomorrow you start school at Felton Primary; are you excited?” He asked, drying the last of the breakfast things.   Their faces confirmed what he already knew.   “We have three rolls of film and a lovely day.   Why don’t we take some photographs?   I have an idea; if I can get the right shots we could make use of them at the weekend.”

“That’s a nice thought,” said Karen, “I’ve always fancied myself as a model.”

The twins laughed as she paraded up and down in her apron.

“We could take some in the house and some in the garden…” said Tina.

“Some in the car and I’d like everyone to pose for a close-up portrait.”

Steve shot a roll of film, then the twins shot a roll – several involving sleeping bags, and scruffy.

“Just one roll left,” said Mum.

“Let’s go to the park,” Jack suggested.

“Yes, we could take some on the swings, and the slide.”

.-…-.

At twelve o’clock, they handed their films in at a shop in the High street.

“That will be £4.50, and your photos will be ready for collection in one hour, thank you for using WONDER SNAPPS,” said the cheerful young woman behind the counter.

.-…-.

  They went into a Café Steve called ‘the greasy spoon’.   Mum had egg-chips-beans-bread & butter, and a mug of tea.   The twins had burgers and chips, with frostie cola. 

 “I’ll have the all-day breakfast with black pudding, button mushrooms, and a nice cool glass of cow juice,” Steve said.

“He means milk,” Karen whispered as Tina opened her mouth to ask.

Later, they sat outside the library, laughing at their pictures.   Tina particularly liked one of scruffy begging for titbits.

Steve selected the five best portraits, and while Mum and the twins registered, for library membership, he took them to the photocopier and made A4 enlargements.   Later, he visited the art shop and made several purchases, but would not reveal what he was up too.   “It’ll be a surprise,” he said mysteriously.

That night, while the twins were tucked up tight in their beds, Steve’s shed light was on into the early hours.   

.-…-.

 “Mum says, breakfast is ready and, your eggs will go hard.”

“Coming!” he said pulling on his clothes.   He could hear scruffy and the twins dashing down the stairs. 

“You lose…” he heard Tina call.  

He smiled; the old house had certainly come alive again since their arrival.   He hadn’t felt this happy in over five years.   Not since… ‘If only she could see them’ he thought, smiling again, yet his eyes had filled with tears.

.-…-.

 Steve sat at the table, sipping his second cup of tea, reading the paper.

“Haven’t you finished reading that old newspaper yet Granddad?”  Tina asked impatiently.

“Just let me finish this paragraph,” He smiled, he couldn’t contain his amusement.   “Alright, alright,” he said putting it down “come on then, down to the shed, and I’ll reveal my surprise.”  

“Yes!” They yelled in triumph.   Scruffy followed yapping excitedly, with the twins close behind.

“Can I come too?”   Karen called from the kitchen door.

“No!”  the twins said in unison.

“Yes, of course, join the party,” said Steve over his shoulder.   “Ok!   Who’s got the key?” he asked accusingly.

“Me!”  Jack said.

“Me!”  Tina giggled.

“Yap, rar, rar, yap,” added Scruffy as Karen arrived breathless.

“Give me the key woman.”   He demanded, plucking it from behind her ear.

“Here Tina, it’s your turn to open it,” he said glancing towards the kitchen window of number 49, Joan smiled and waved at them, Steve and Jack waved back.

“We must ask Joan over for Sunday lunch,” said Karen, reading his mind.

“That would be nice,” said Steve with a twinkle in his eye.

Tina pushed open the door and switched on the light.

“Wow!”  Jack gasped.

“That’s me!” Tina exclaimed.

“They’re brilliant dad. You’ve obviously been working very hard.”

On the facing wall, were two life-size portraits one of Jack and one of Tina.

“You didn’t tell us you’re an Artist,” Jack said in awe.

“You didn’t ask,” said Steve flattered.   “But really, I simply know some effective methods of getting a likeness onto paper, that doesn’t make me an Artist.   I’ll show you how it’s done then you can judge for yourself.”

“Do you think we could?” asked Tina.

“I’ll tell you what!   You can do portraits of your Mum and me.   If I can do it, I’m sure that you and Jack can do at least as well.” He answered with confidence.

“I thought you threw away all your art stuff when Mum died,” said Karen.

“No, I just put it away for better times.   Times I thought would never come again,” he added quietly.   “There are two easels; I’ve taped a sheet of watercolour paper to each, with a piece of carbon copy paper, over it, and one of the photocopies I made at the library on top of that.   All you need to do is draw the outline of the main features – head, shoulders, ears, eyes, nose, lips hairline and any clothing.”   He watched as they followed his instructions.   “Now remove the copy and carbon paper…”

“That’s great!” Jack enthused.  

“I’ve mixed flesh tints, and all the other colours are on your pallet,” he explained.   For shadows, you mix a tiny dab of blue with the flesh colours, and a little white for the highlights.  Don’t forget to wash your brushes before changing colours, or the paint will get muddy,” he demonstrated.  “Use the colour photos, I’ve taped to the side of your board, for comparison when you’re mixing colours,” as they started work he took Karen’s arm, I think we can go back to the house now and let these two Artists get on with their work.   Call us when you’re finished or if you need any help.   Don’t rush, take your time and do a good job.   It took me two hours to paint each of your portraits.”

.-…-.

Both Steve and Karen liked their portraits.   All four pictures were hung in the dining room so they could be seen and admired by friends and family alike.   The twin's work, of course, had pride of place on the mantel shelf.

during the following week, the twins became secretive.   They requested, and were given access to the shed but, when asked what they were doing they simply said: “It’s a secret!”

Steve was aware that they had been searching the house for something, but they wouldn’t say what.   He spied them talking to Joan Williams at No.49, but when he approached them they just clammed up.   Later, when he made polite enquiries of Joan she smiled and told him to mind his own business.

Karen knew they had raided their money boxes, and assumed it was to buy each other a birthday present.   They asked her permission to go out with Joan after school on Friday, explaining that it was personal and she wasn’t welcome.

“Would you like Ice Cream Sundae’s tonight?” Steve asked.

“Better not,” Jack replied, “we’ve got a lot of work to do…”

“A school project,” he enquired.

“Yes a project,” Tina answered.

“Will it take long,” Steve asked, “only I need to use the shed for a project of my own at the weekend.”

“Tomorrow,” said Jack.   Then, they wolfed down their tea and dashed out to the shed.

“What are they up to?” Karen asked.

Steve shrugged “they said it was important and a surprise.”

“Don’t you think we should take a peek?”

“Do you want to tell them we don’t trust them?” Steve replied.

“Just a little peek…   They are only seven…”

“Best not,” he said “trust is a double-edged sword, they have earned our trust, and we have to respect their wishes.   Besides, Joan wouldn’t get involved in anything underhand; she’s secretary of the Women’s Institute don't you know?”

To be continued/...