The Rift by Paula R C Readman, Craft beer: Old Speckled Hen, distinctive rich malty ale bursting with toffee character, fruity aroma and deliciously smooth.

‘Ethan, are you ready?’ Martin called me.

‘Yes, I won’t be a minute.’ I replied, stepping away from the bedroom window. The view of the park, an oasis of green amidst an ever-expanding city, caused me to reminisce on a chance meeting between our mums shortly after we were born that led to a friendship between Martin and me that’s lasted a lifetime.

As children, we explored every corner of the park. From the duck pond to the ice cream parlour, we raced our bikes along the paths. On the boating lake, we were pirates, while in the rose garden, knights with our wooden swords. As we grew older, Martin’s mum would drop him off before school and pick him up after finishing work. Sometimes, during the summer, my parents would invite them for tea. One day, I asked Mum, why Martin’s father never came with them.

 ‘It’s rude to ask such personal questions, Ethan,’ she replied. ‘People will share things with you, if they feel you have a right to know.’

It’s only now, after all these years that my question has finally been answered.

 

Martin’s mum and my parents passed away many years ago, along with our wives in recent years. Our children have emigrated for a better life so now; our friendship sustains us as Martin’s health declines. Most evenings and weekends, we would meet in the park to go to the theatre or for a meal out.

As children, Martin and I hated routine, but now we find it comforting. One morning as I reached the bench, where I always met Martin, a cosy spot under the spreading horse chestnut tree, with a view over the boating lake, I noticed a dark shape lay between the back of the bench, partially hidden by the laurel bush. I moved closer to get a better look. There appeared to be a bushy tail and paws.

 ‘A fox,’ I thought. The golden-red fur was dull and stained with dirt and blood. Had it crawled there to die after being hit crossing a busy road? I hoped the poor thing hadn’t suffered. Martin came from the opposite direction, and waved before pointing with his cane. I nodded, acknowledging that I had spotted the creature, too.

‘A dead fox?’ he asked.

‘I’m not sure.’ I peered over the back of the bench. To my surprise, a pair of sad, brown eyes met mine as the creature lifted its head and whimpered. ‘Oh, it’s a dog.’

‘Has it been hit by a car?’ Martin asked as he sat on the bench while I tried to coax the dog out.

‘It’s a corgi. Come on, you’re among friends.’  

‘A corgi,’ Martin repeated as though trying to remember something. ‘Apart from the old queen, who else do we know who owns one?’

I met Martin’s gaze as I gently stroked the dog’s head. He nudged my hand weakly as I reached for his shoulders and carefully edged him towards me until I could lift him into my arms.

 ‘Be careful; he might bite,’ Martin warned.

 ‘The poor thing is so thin; he hasn’t the energy to bite. We’ll take him back to mine,’ I said, hugging the corgi to me.

 

In the kitchen, Martin spread an old towel over the counter. The dog lay, breathing weakly, barely opening its eyes as I whispered soothing words while examining its legs and body, parting the fur to check for signs of injury.

 ‘No fractures or wounds, just undernourished. We need to get some fluids into him. Where’s Libby’s turkey baster? That’ll help us get the fluids into its mouth.’ I pulled out the cooking utensil drawer. 

‘I’ll look in the garage for a box to make him a bed,’ Martin said.

‘You’ll find a couple of old blankets, too,’ I said as Martin stepped into the garage.

After we managed to get some beef soup into the dog, and settled him in the box by the warm radiator. Martin asked, ‘Could I stay tonight, Ethan?’

‘Of course you can. We can take turns watching over our patient,’ I said, preparing us something to eat.

 ‘Shouldn’t we report finding the dog to the police, or at least someone?’

‘Let’s wait until the morning.’ I opened the oven door to check on the pies.’

‘The owner must be local. My mum and I often encountered a woman in the park who had corgis when I was young. Mum must have known her through working at the bank. The lady was always polite to me, asking about school, but she was always offhandish with Mum. Mum told me I must never be rude to her because her husband and son died in a car accident, leaving her all alone. She lived in the big house by the river, the one with the high fences.

‘Oh, I know the house you mean. The Lovejoys owned the jewellers in town.’ I said, placing the plates on the table.

‘Oh, Lovejoy… My Sally often encountered Mrs. Lovejoy walking her dog in the park and called her, Lady Penelope because she wore a hairband in her short blond hair and her corgi wore a diamante collar. Are you saying the lady, with the corgis, I met as a child is the same woman, Sally spoke about?’

‘I’ve no idea, Martin. All I know is the Lovejoy family owned the large Victorian house, with its gargoyles.’ I looked towards the sleeping dog. ‘It’s a pity this corgi doesn’t have a collar.’ I leant down to check him. His breathing seemed stronger as his legs twitched. ‘Sorry, what did you say?’

‘I said maybe someone removed the collar, because they thought the diamonds were real.’

‘That’s a possibility. Would you like a beer to accompany your dinner?’ I opened the fridge and pulled out two bottles of Speckled Hen. Martin nodded, and I set a bottle and glass in front of him.

After taking a sip and setting his glass down, he said, ‘I could get used to this quickly. I expect you miss your Libby just as much as I miss Sally.’

‘Yeah, coming home to an untidy house and a cold kitchen makes you wonder whether you told them enough about how much you appreciate the time they took to keep everything homely.’

‘My mum ensured I knew all the shortcuts to tidying the home. Sally reckoned I could manage without her, but I miss her company the most.’

‘Yes, talking to yourself, isn’t fun. I thought about getting a rescue dog, or cat that needs a loving home,’ I said, between mouthfuls of food.

‘This pie is lovely. Full of rich gravy.’

‘I made them following the recipe Sally gave Libby,’ I laughed.

‘That’s why it tastes great. So what’s the plan for tomorrow?’

 

The night passed peacefully, with Martin taking the first shift. The little dog curled up on his back, mouth slightly open, snoring softly. I relieved Martin at three o’clock, and told him to get some rest. He nodded and went to the guest room. I stayed awake until dawn thinking about Mrs Lovejoy and her corgis.

Was the sleeping dog one of hers?

At eight o’clock, I decided to make a full English breakfast for us— an energy boost for the day ahead. With sausages grilling, I began to fry some eggs. Suddenly, something nudged my leg. When I looked down, I saw a bright, foxy face with brown eyes sparkling with life as a fluffy tail brushed the floor excitedly.

‘Hey, buddy. You look much better today,’ I said, scratching his head. He barked happily.

‘Shh, don’t wake Martin,’ I whispered. The dog lay down on the floor, tilting his head to one side.

The kitchen door opened and Martin walked in, wearing my dad’s old robe. ‘It wasn’t the corgi that woke me, but the delicious smell of a cooked breakfast.'

The corgi ran over to Martin, who rubbed his head, and then rushed back to me, sitting up to beg.

‘Yes, there are some sausages for you, too,’ I laughed.

 

After tidying the kitchen, I poured us fresh coffee and asked. ‘Do you think we should go to the Lovejoy house to see if our friend came from there?’

 ‘Definitely, but we need a lead and collar.’

 ‘Just give me a moment. I’ll phone my neighbour; she might have a spare one.’ When I returned from next door, I found Martin feeding slices of ham to the corgi.

 ‘What are you doing?’

 ‘Rhys is still hungry.’

 ‘Rhys?’

 ‘Yes, we can’t keep calling him Dog.’

 ‘Okay, it’s a good Welsh name. You get dressed while I put the harness on Rhys.’

 

Rhys seemed to know where he was going as we walked through the park. He trotted ahead quite happily. After leaving the park, we walked along the main road before turning onto an avenue lined with mature trees. Large, imposing Victorian properties had neat front gardens and parking for cars, but one stood out from the rest. Though it was the grandest, it was also the most unkempt. Two police cars stood on the weed-filled driveway. As we approached the front door, Rhys pulled hard on his lead.

 ‘He definitely lives here,’ Martin said.

 Before we had time to knock, the door opened, and a police officer asked sharply, ‘Can I help you?’

 ‘We came to see Mrs. Lovejoy,’ Martin replied, struggling to stop Rhys from wrapping his lead around the police officer’s legs.

 ‘I’m sorry, but Mrs. Lovejoy isn’t available. May I ask what you wanted to see her about?’

 ‘We think this is her dog. We found him in the park yesterday morning,’ I explained.

 ‘Just a moment.’ The officer closed the door and disappeared into the house. A few minutes later, a woman accompanied him.

 ‘Hello, I’m Detective Inspector Julie Roth. So you think you’ve found Mrs. Lovejoy’s dog.’

 ‘Yes, the dog was hiding under the bench, near the boating lake, but we’re not sure he is her dog. There’s no collar, you see. Has something happened to Mrs. Lovejoy?

 ‘How well did you know her?’

 ‘Not at all. I only knew her family owned the jewellers in town and she’s the only person locally we knew who owned corgis.’

 ‘My wife, Sally used to see her walking her dog in the park,’ Martin added.

 ‘Did the dog have a collar when you found it?’ the detective asked.

 ‘No. So you don’t think the dog belongs to her?’

 ‘Let’s have your details, if you’ll give them to my officer here. Would it be possible for you to look after the dog overnight again? He’ll be happier with you, than at a rescue centre. Tomorrow morning, I would like to come and see you both,’ she said, her serious tone leaving us uneasy.

 

On our way home, after picking up some tins of dog food, Rhys twisted free from his harness and darted for the shrubbery near where we found him.

‘Great, just what we need— a runaway dog, when the police are coming to see us tomorrow,’ Martin grumbled.

‘Don’t worry,’ I called over my shoulder as I pushed between two laurel bushes. At the centre of a shrubbery, I found Rhys digging. ‘Hey, boy, what are you up to?’

Rhys laid flat, his paws either side of a jewel-covered collar.

‘What do you have there, boy?’

‘Well, I never! It looks like he hid his collar. But why?’ Martin said holding back a laurel branch

 ‘Let’s go back to mine, and phone the police,’ I said.

 

Back home, I informed DI Roth what Rhys had dug up in the park, while Martin was busy examining it. Suddenly, he gasped and held up the collar.

‘These aren’t real diamonds on this collar.’

‘I didn’t think they were; just diamante.’

‘No, but these are real,’ Martin held up a tiny glass vial he found sewn into the lining of the collar. Stones of various sizes sparkled in the light.

‘DI Roth, we’ve just uncovered some raw diamonds hidden within the collar.’

‘Did you say diamonds?’

‘Yes!’

‘I’m on my way.’

I turned to Martin. ‘I don’t like this. How did the diamonds get into the collar?’

‘The question should be: why did Mrs Lovejoy hide them in the first place?’

 

The doorbell rang just as I finished preparing a bite to eat for us. Martin, followed closely by Rhys, headed to the front door while I covered the sandwiches, and popped them in the fridge. When I entered the living room, I found Martin chatting to DI Roth and a tall man in a well-cut suit.

‘Ethan, please allow me to introduce you to Mrs. Iris Lovejoy’s solicitor, Mr. Robert Fiske. He’s here to speak with us about Rhys, whose real name is Bertie Lovejoy, ‘Martin said.

‘Bertie…’ I laughed as the little dog sat up and extended a paw. I gestured to the others to sit down. Mr. Fiske placed his briefcase on his knees and opened it.

‘What has this to do with the diamonds, DI Roth?’ I asked.

‘Please allow Mr. Fiske to explain, Mr. Quinn and Mr. Waters,’ Roth said.

Mr. Fiske pulled out a folder. ‘I’m delighted to meet you both, although it is under sad circumstances. Mr. Waters, two nights ago, Mrs. Lovejoy’s home was broken into. While she managed to raise the alarm, by the time the police arrived, she had suffered a stroke. In the chaos with the arrival of the ambulance, her companion Bertie escaped. Naturally, the focus was on Mrs. Lovejoy, rather than her dog.’ Mr. Fiske selected another sheet of paper and spoke directly to Martin. ‘Mrs. Lovejoy left strict instruction that should anything unforeseen happen to her I was to trace her grandson, Martin Waters and give him this letter.’

‘My grandmother! I don’t understand. Why wasn’t I aware of this?’

‘Everything will be explained in the letter,’ Mr. Fiske continued. ‘Mrs Lovejoy wanted to make sure should anything happen to her that her little companion, Bertie Lovejoy would have a loving home. Are you two gentlemen in the position to take on Bertie?’

 ‘Yes,’ We both replied without hesitation.

‘Right, if you would be kind enough to sign this paper.’

I turned to DI Roth.

‘It’s all above board, I can assure you, Mr. Quinn,’ she said with a smile.

Martin and I signed the paper.

‘Now, if I can have the tube of diamonds please.’ Mr. Fiske held out his hand. Once it disappeared into the briefcase, he continued, ‘Mrs. Lovejoy wished for the estate be sold, upon her death, which includes the diamonds which are Bertie’s inheritance. Most of the capital will go to animal charities. The good news is Mrs Lovejoy would’ve approved of you both taking care of her Bertie and her will covers all his financial needs.

I found my voice and asked, ‘Are you saying what I think you are saying?’

Mr. Fiske nodded. ‘Bertie is a wealthy dog.’

Bertie wagged his tail excitedly, seeming to understand the situation.

 

As Martin and I watched Mr. Fiske and DI Roth leave, Martin said, ‘Maybe I should move in with you and Bertie.’

‘Funny enough, I had the same thought. Let’s have a drink and talk about it.’

‘First, let’s see what my grandmother has to say.’ Martin’s face darkened as he tore open the envelope.

‘I’ll fix us both a drink. Oh, just a thought, Martin: if Mrs Lovejoy was your grandmother and her son was your father, does that make Bertie your uncle?’

 ‘I suppose it does,’ Martin said with a laugh. ‘I wish Mum had told me.’

‘Maybe she did in a way. She told you the lady in the park had a husband and son who died in a car accident.’

‘Of course, Mrs. Lovejoy was the lady in the park. That explains why she gave my mum the cold shoulder,’ Martin said as he unfolded the letter.

‘I’m sure the letter will explain everything. I’ll sort out dinner. Come here, Rhys—sorry, Bertie. Let’s get you your dinner while Martin concentrates on reading the letter.’

 

After our meal, Martin read parts of the letter aloud. ‘It’s unbelievable! Mrs. Lovejoy has left me my father’s inheritance. Tomorrow, I must go and see Mr. Fiske about what will happen next.’

‘Martin, that’s wonderful news. Maybe with the inheritance, you could move to Canada to be with your daughter.’

‘It’s a lot to think about, Ethan.’

‘At least, it’s good to know Mrs. Lovejoy was sorry for the way she treated your mother.’

‘Mum was right, she was a sad, lonely woman overwhelmed by grief at the loss of her loved ones. Maybe, if Mum and Dad had married before he died she might have felt differently about us,’ Martin said with sigh. ‘I would’ve loved to know more about my father.’

‘Things were different in her generation. Anyway, we can do some research at the library. Maybe the solicitor will tell you more. Do you still want to move in with me?’

‘Yes, it would be far easier for us both to look after Rhys…I mean, Bertie. I’ll have to get used to his real name. I could buy a share in your house after the sale of mine; I can divide the money between your son and my daughter. What do you think?’

‘That’s a great idea!’

‘Thank you. I really wouldn’t want to move to Canada, Ethan. I can’t leave Bertie or you. With my health the way it is, I don’t suppose Canada would want me. We can have trips out together for the rest of our days.’ Martin said raising his glass.

‘Yes, we’ll make Bertie’s life a fun one.’ I raised mine, too. ‘We can finally relax and enjoy our golden years without any worries. Bertie will keep us busy and healthy.’

We laughed as Bertie barked his agreement.  

About the auhtor 

 

Paula R. C. Readman is a prolific writer. She shares her life with her husband, Russell, and two cats. She collaborates with three publishers and has penned six books and over a hundred short stories. Blog: https://colourswordspaper.blog or just Google Paula R C Readman, and something’s bound to pop up. 

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Sunday Serial, 280 x70, 46. Breaking-up, by Gill James, brandy

 Introduction

This collection is a collection of seventy stories, each 280 words. They were inspired by the first picture seen on my Twitter feed on a given day. 

Enough was enough. What should he tell her? How should he tell her? How would she react? The freedom would be welcome.  He could be himself again. Watch the football if he wanted to. Go to the pub to meet his mates.  No more Sundays with her parents. 

She made a joke of it. Scally instead of Scully. How would she feel if he called her Scally instead of Sally?

Then there were the dishes always left festering in the sink but never washed. Even now they had a dishwasher.

"You always complain when I load it up," she said.  "You always rearrange it. You take more time sorting it out than it used to take to wash up. There's no point."

She was always at him to cut the grass as well.

"You're stronger than me. You've got the muscles. I haven't. Go on."

And she wanted him to keep the bushes trim.  And dig out the weeds. While she did the fun stuff: putting in new plants, harvesting the fruits and pruning back the perennials. 

How to do it though? Just pack his bags and leave? Take her out for one last meal at Abby's? Send a text?

Well, he was going to pack anyway.

His phone rang.

It was her.

"Hello?" he said. His mouth was dry.

"Listen, I'm on my way to the airport. With Scally. We're going to Tenerife. I'm not coming back. If you could go away, please, the weekend after next I'll move my stuff out. I don't want to see you again. Better this way. A clean break. I'm sorry. I've fallen for Scally." 

He started to laugh and then couldn't stop.                

 

About the author

Gill James is published by The Red Telephone, Butterfly and Chapeltown. She edits CafeLit and writes for the online community news magazine: Talking About My Generation. She teaches Creative Writing and has an MA in Writing for Children and PhD in Creative and Critical Writing. 

http://www.gilljameswriter.com 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/-/e/B001KMQRKE 

https://www.facebook.com/gilljameswriter 

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Saturday Sample: An Honourable Wager by Sarah Swatridge, afternoon tea,

 Chapter One

Lizzie was in her garden weeding. “Hello, Auntie Liz!” called Fiona cheerfully, as she opened the picket gate and carefully closed it after her, despite her mother and little brother being only a little way behind.

Once, she had left it open, and the goats had escaped. It had taken ages to round them up again and, although it had been fun, Fiona had learnt her lesson.

“Can you come to tea?” Fiona asked. “I’m bursting with things to tell you,” Said the eight-year-old.

“Can’t you tell me now?” asked Lizzie as she took off her gardening gloves and gave Fiona a big hug. “I bet it’s that you’ve grown?” Fiona shook her head. “Lost a tooth?”

The picket gate squeaked and an elegant woman walked in wearing high heels. “I do wish you’d get a phone, or at least let us buy you a mobile. It’s ridiculous having to traipse over here just to give you a quick message,” Sally sighed as she tried to grab hold of Sidney’s hand. He was too quick and was soon off exploring the large garden. “I’m sorry, I hope he won’t trample on anything…edible.”

“Don’t worry about him,” reassured Lizzie. She stood up and stretched. She ached from all the weeding. “What’s the message?”

“We want you to come to tea!” interrupted Fiona. “Today. It has to be today.”

“Darling,” Sally soothed, “Auntie Liz may be busy today.”

Lizzie looked around her. There were always things to do in her garden or in the kitchen. “Tea today would be lovely. It will save me having to cook later on. When do you want me?”

“Now!” said Fiona excitedly.

“You’ll have to give me a little while to tidy up, have a wash and put the chickens to bed so that nasty Mr Fox won’t get them.”

“I’ll help!” offered Fiona.

“She’s welcome to give me a hand and we’ll catch you up in about half an hour.” Lizzie looked at her sister-in-law and added, “If that’s ok?”

“Stay,” said Sidney. He was a child of few words. Lizzie bent down to give her nephew a hug.

“If you can manage?” asked Sally haughtily. She was fifteen years younger than Lizzie, but, because she was a married woman with a family, she classed herself as superior.

“Sally,” said Lizzie gently. “I used to be a primary school teacher, I’m sure I’ll be able to manage my niece and nephew.” Lizzie smiled contentedly, holding their hands. “Is there anything you’d like me to bring?”

“Could I have some mint, please? Just a little, Richard’s home tomorrow and I’m hoping to welcome him back with a dinner party. I’m doing a fruit punch. I think it’s one of your recipes.”

“Mint’s no problem, but I thought I’d given you a plant only a short while ago.”

Sally looked down at her feet. “You’re always giving me plants. I don’t think it was mint. I really can’t tell the difference. They all look green to me.”

“It was mint. I remember the smell, but it’s dead now,” said Fiona. “Mummy forgot to water it.”

“You know what I’m like with plants!” laughed Sally.

“Never mind, I’ve got loads, it spreads like anything. Is it ok if I let the children choose which type you want – peppermint, spearmint, apple mint?”

“Any sort will be lovely. I’ll see you all in about half-an-hour.” Sally paused. “And Liz, don’t let them get too dirty.”

It didn’t take long to round up the chickens and put them in their coop. It was easier with someone to help.

Sidney gave the goats fresh water and Fiona fed them a bit of hay while Lizzie freshened up.

As she was in her bedroom brushing her long dark hair tinged with grey, she noticed a stranger in the garden next door. The house had been unoccupied for years and Lizzie wondered how safe it was inside. Quickly she twisted her hair up into a knot on the back of her head and ran downstairs to be with the children.

She let them pick a variety of mints from her herb garden and put them in a jam jar with a little water.

“Can I help?” Lizzie asked the tall, silver-haired stranger. “The house is empty.”

“Do you know where I can get a key?” he asked. His voice was mellow and he smiled kindly at the children. Laugh lines showed near his eyes and Lizzie couldn’t help smiling back.

“You can ask at the farmhouse along the lane. I don’t know if it belongs to the farm, but I have a feeling that they hold a key. If you do go in the house,  be careful; I don’t know how safe it is. It’s been derelict for years.”

“Thanks for your help, Mrs…”

“Elliot, Lizzie.” She watched him go down the lane and turn into the farm track. “Come on then, let’s go and have some tea.”

It was only a short walk to her brother’s house where he lived with his wife, Sally, and their two children, Fiona and Sidney, and yet there was such a sharp contrast.

“It’s like time travel,” said Fiona.

“Pardon?”

“We go back in time to your cottage and forward to our house. Mummy calls it the real world.”

“Doesn’t she think I live in the real world too?” asked Lizzie.

“No, she’s always telling Daddy you live in the dark ages. She gets really cross sometimes.” Lizzie felt it was time to change the subject before Fiona said too much.

“Which do you like best?” asked Lizzie. Fiona thought for a while.

“Both. I love going back in time but I couldn’t live without TV.”

“And what about you, Sidney?” asked Lizzie in a quiet voice.

“Paddy and Ginty,” he said simply.

“I know you like the goats. Paddy was really naughty the other day. He managed to get free and nibbled all my clean washing!”

They came to the end of the grass track that led down to Lizzie’s cottage. Now there was a new road which led to a recently built, and very expensive, housing estate. It looked very sparse to Lizzie but she told herself it would look better once the trees and shrubs matured.

Lizzie couldn’t help looking up the farm path where she had directed the stranger. There was no sign of him, but Lizzie could see him clearly in her mind.

Sally’s new people carrier sat on the drive leading up to the double garage. The garden was mainly grass, with a few rose bushes in a flower bed.

Fiona ran up to the front door and hammered on it calling, “We’re home!”

Sally opened the door to let them in, the children dutifully removed their shoes and left them at the door. Lizzie slipped off her shoes too for fear of upsetting Sally if she were to get a dirty mark on the cream-coloured carpet.

“Tea’s nearly ready. Why don’t you go in the lounge for a few minutes?”

Lizzie sat on the creamy leather sofa with a child on each side. Fiona got out her school reading book and read to them.

“Now it’s your turn to read to us,” announced Fiona when she’d finished her school book.

“Tea’s ready. Wash your hands and come and sit up.”

The table was covered with healthy, but shop bought food. Sally said she didn’t have time to cook.

“Look!” said Fiona proudly waving a piece of paper in the air. “We made a newspaper at school and the real editor came in from The Chronicle and said it was very good.

“That’s excellent,” said Lizzie. “Which bit did you do?”

“Don’t worry about that now. It’s tea time,” reminded Sally. Fiona ignored her mother and found the page she was looking for.

“But that’s why I wanted Auntie Liz over!” explained Fiona. “I wrote this article all about you and your farm.”

“It’s not really a farm. I only have a few animals. The farm’s next door.”

“Well anyway. I said how it was just like going back into olden times and how clever you were, but do you know what?” Fiona’s voice sounded indignant.

“What?” asked Lizzie as she politely took a sandwich.

“The editor said it was a good story but in a real newspaper they don’t have fiction, just fact. I told him he didn’t know what he was talking about.”

“I hope you didn’t,” interrupted Sally with a stern look.

“I wasn’t rude, but I told him it was all true and if he didn’t believe me, he should come and see for himself!”

“And what did he say to that?” asked Lizzie.

“He said he’d love to and he would bring a photographer,” Fiona paused with her sandwich in one hand. “I think he said Thursday.”

“A photographer’s coming to me on Thursday? That’s tomorrow!” said Lizzie. “I’ll have to shampoo the goats!”

“I think it was Thursday, but I’m not sure, Sophie was poking me in the back because she wanted to show the editor her picture.”

“I’m sure they won’t just turn up,” began Lizzie. “This tea is lovely. You’ll have to come to me next time, especially if your dad’s home.”

“Richard’s due home at the weekend, but we’ll be very busy.”

“Oh well, do let me know if I can babysit or anything.”

“Actually,” said Sally, “I was hoping you might do me a table arrangement for the dinner party on Saturday night?”

“Certainly. I love working with flowers. What colour do you want?”

“I’ve got ivory napkins…”

“How about using those beautiful red roses you’ve got in the front garden?”

“Good idea.”

“It’ll be easier if I come round on Saturday and do it here. Perhaps I can have a few minutes with Richard?”

“Daddy,” said Sidney and Fiona lent over and gave him a sisterly kiss.

It was beginning to get dark by the time Lizzie walked up the lane on her way home. The children had wanted one story after another and then she had helped Sally choose the menu for Saturday.

Lizzie slowed as she neared her home. She thought she’d seen a shadowy figure in the garden. As she watched, she saw something move. Suddenly it dawned on Lizzie that Paddy the goat might have somehow managed to get out of his field and be free to roam around the vegetable patch.

Lizzie ran through the picket gate and headed blindly toward the small paddock where the goats grazed. She let out a gasp as she realised, she was not alone.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” a man’s voice said. Lizzie recognised the mellow tones of the strange man who’d been hanging around earlier.

“What are you doing in my garden?” she demanded.

“I thought I heard a noise,” he said. “It sounded like an animal.”

“I keep animals,” said Lizzie shortly.

“It sounded in pain,” he explained. “I didn’t mean any harm; I was just concerned.”

“Well, it’s fine now. I’m home, you can go and I’d be grateful if you didn’t trespass on my property in future!”

He brushed past her as he made for the path on his way out of the garden.

The handsome stranger had not reached the gate when they both heard a strangled cry. He turned and made his way back to Lizzie’s side. He carried a torch which he flashed around in the direction the noise had come from.

“My chickens!” cried Lizzie as she ran towards the little hen house. She clapped and waved her arms around. In the torchlight they saw the unmistakeable red fur of a fox. “Shoo!” called Lizzie. The man ran forward shouting and the fox disappeared.

“Ah!” yelped the man as he jumped up in the air and tripped over something. He fell back down to the ground and yelled out in agony.

Lizzie turned round and saw Paddy with a piece of cloth in his mouth.

“What have you got there?” she asked as she approached the goat. He seemed to think it was a game and ran off.

“What was that?” said a voice from the ground.

Lizzie offered him her hand to help him up. “I’m sorry, that’s Paddy, my goat. He’s always seen himself as a sort of guard dog. He’s harmless but…” before Lizzie could finish the sentence, McGinty had barged into her and sent her flying. She landed on top of the strange man.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said trying to pick herself up.

“Here,” said the man, “let me give you a hand.” He rose to his feet and easily helped her up again.

“Paddy,” called Lizzie in a coaxing voice and obediently he walked over to her and held up his chin to be tickled. Lizzie stroked him with one hand and grabbed his collar with the other. “I’ll take him back to his pen and get another torch so we can check that the chickens are ok.”

“I’ll try and catch the other one,” the man suggested but his voice did not sound confident.

It didn’t take long for Lizzie to return Paddy to his pen and to fetch a torch. She easily caught McGinty who recognised her voice. As soon as she too was shut up with Paddy for the night, they went to inspect the hen house for damage.

“I think he was just sniffing around,” said the man. “There’s no sign of a break in.” Lizzie double checked, but had to agree that the chicken wire was still intact.

“Thank you for your help,” she said quietly, now feeling embarrassed, knowing that he had just been trying to help.

“I suppose I’d better go and clean up,” he said.

“You’re not living next door, are you?” asked Lizzie.

“No. It needs too much doing to it. I’m staying at the pub in the village. I was just out for a walk. It’s beautiful round here.”

“It is,” agreed Lizzie. “Look, why don’t you come in and wash your hands. Do you want a cup of tea?”

“I won’t say no,” he paused as Lizzie reached her front door. “I’m Jack, by the way.” He held out his hand and then they both laughed as in the light of Lizzie’s cottage they realised just how dirty they both were. “On second thoughts, I’ll go back to the pub and have a bath. Will you be all right now?”

“I’ll be fine,” Lizzie smiled at the stranger. Even with his hair ruffled up and a muddy face he was still dazzlingly handsome. “Thanks again for your help,” she called as he disappeared down the dark lane.

The following day Lizzie was up early. She fed the chickens and let the goats into the small field to graze. She couldn’t see any damage but tightened up the hinges on the gate of the goat pen.

While it was still early Lizzie wandered round her garden snipping here and there at a selection of leafy foliage ready to condition in water for making her sister-in-law’s arrangement that evening.

The day passed rapidly with weeding and planting and Lizzie lost all track of time. Once or twice during the day she had caught herself day dreaming about the silver-haired man called Jack who had come to her rescue.

Lizzie rarely let herself dwell on how things might have been. She had thrown herself into her career as a teacher and was kept so busy she never had time for a social life. She was happy. She loved her job and was rewarded by feeling loved by all those she taught. It was a small village school in those days and everyone knew everyone in the village. The atmosphere was lovely. Lizzie felt the whole community was her family.

Then, first her mother, shortly followed by her father passed away and Richard moved abroad to work. By the time he returned five years later having met and married Sally, the village had changed beyond recognition.

Two farms had been sold and hundreds of houses had been built. The village school was no longer large enough to cater for the growing population. It was replaced by a huge modern school on the other side of the village.

Lizzie recalled the day she’d returned from the solicitor’s office having received her share of her parents’ estate. She should have been glad to be a wealthy woman but she’d looked in the mirror and just saw a middle-aged woman with bags under her eyes and a pasty complexion.

It wasn’t long after, that she bought the dilapidated old cottage and refurbished it. The more time she spent making the house comfortable and taming the large plot, the more she realised how much she enjoyed the outdoor life. Her complexion improved but there were too many changes at the new school that Lizzie didn’t care for, and soon she decided to take early retirement at 50. She had shut herself away and tried to live in harmony with nature.

“Thank God you’ve arrived!” said Sally. “I was beginning to get worried that I wouldn’t have a table decoration for this evening.”

Lizzie smiled at her sister-in-law. “You knew I wouldn’t let you down. I just got carried away in the garden and forgot the time.” Lizzie hugged her niece, nephew and then her brother as he came to greet her as she arranged the things round her in the kitchen.

As Lizzie worked with the flowers, Fiona sat quietly and watched. It didn’t take long before she’d transformed individual flowers into a beautiful table decoration.

“That’s lovely,” said Sally as she whisked it off into the dining room.

Lizzie sipped her tea and was pleased to find herself alone with her brother.

“Richard,” she said, “I hope you don’t think I’m interfering, but I am concerned about Sidney. He hardly says a word and when he does speak, he doesn’t say a whole sentence. He’s nearly five and he’ll be starting school before you know it.”

“Sally has taken him to the doctor. He just said that Fiona’s such a chatterbox, he doesn’t get a chance to speak. Don’t worry.”

At that moment Sally came back into the room and reminded Richard that he only had half an hour before their guests arrived and he had to get changed and be ready to serve the welcome drink.

“I’ll talk to you over dinner,” said Richard to Lizzie.

“She’s not staying,” said Sally as though Lizzie was just a servant brought in for her floristry skills.

“Have you eaten?” Richard asked Lizzie.

“Not yet, I’ve been in the garden all day, but it’s no problem, I can get something when I get home. I’ll just stay and put the children to bed for you and then slip off.”

The doorbell rang. Sally went pale and looked at the clock.

“Quick, Richard, go and get changed!” she ordered.

“Paul!” said Sally loudly to let Richard, and the whole household know that their guests had started to arrive. “How lovely to see you! Do come in. Richard will be down in a moment. He’ll get you a drink.”

As Paul entered, taking off his coat, Fiona rushed past her mum and into the kitchen where Lizzie was tidying up her things.

“Auntie Liz! It’s him!”

Lizzie looked up. “Who?”

“The man who said my article about you was a story!” Fiona was pulling on her hand and dragged her through to the lounge where Sally was making small talk with their guest.

As Fiona entered with Lizzie, Richard came through the opposite door and shook hands with Paul. Lizzie couldn’t conceal a gasp as she looked at the man. He reminded her of the man who’d been in her garden but she couldn’t be sure.

“This is Lizzie, my sister,” said Richard. The man offered his hand but made no sign of recognising her. They briefly shook hands.

“This is my auntie,” announced Fiona. “The one who lives in the past. Honest. You ask her!”

“Lizzie, would you mind taking Fiona up to bed?” asked Sally coolly.

“It’s not my bedtime!” argued Fiona. “Besides, Sidney’s still up.”

“Come along with me and we’ll find Sidney,” suggested Lizzie still holding Fiona’s hand.

“So do you believe me now?” asked Fiona.

The man smiled down at Fiona. It was a shallow smile. “I tell you what, you go off to bed like a good little girl and I’ll talk to your auntie about her lifestyle.”

Fiona tried to stand her ground but Sidney had found a frog in the garden and wanted everyone to come and see.

“I’ll lay another place,” said Sally to herself as everyone else went to inspect the frog. 

Find your copy here  

About the author  

Sarah’s the eldest daughter of two librarians, so it’s no surprise she has a love of books, and has always been an avid reader. Her mother was a writer and storyteller, whereas her father preferred non-fiction. Both were always supportive of her early writing attempts and presented her with an electric self-correctable typewriter for her 21st! She’s never looked back! 

Sarah had a variety of jobs before going to university as a mature student and training to be a teacher, since then she’s taken early retirement and now writes on a fulltime basis, discovering a real passion for historical fiction. She’s currently working on a series set in Edwardian England. 

Her aim is to entertain with an interesting plot and lively characters, but also to include enough little details to transport you back in time, without making you feel like you’re reading a history book. Her research includes practical things like dressing up in period costume, living on rations, having a go at driving a tractor and flying a spitfire (a simulation only but a worthwhile experience!) 

She has two grown up sons living nearby with their lovely long-term girlfriends and a very supportive husband. He’s a sports fanatic and makes sure Sarah doesn’t spend all her time reading or working at the computer, but makes time for a good daily walk and plenty of fresh air. 

Above all, Sarah’s a cheerful, optimistic person, a little on the quirky side but always on the look-out for an uplifting snippet she can weave into a story – you have been warned!

The Space Between by Nikki Blakely, chamomile tea,

 Georgia lies in bed, eyes closed, curled into a ball, listening to the soft tick-tick-tick from the clock in the living room as it counts down the minutes until morning. The minutes tick into hours, and the hours creep past midnight, past one, past three, and still, sleep does not come.

The bed is too big, too empty, the nook behind her knees, too cold. Even though she’s rolled up an extra blanket and tucked it into the empty space—a placebo is what she’d have called it back in her nursing days—it doesn’t help. 

It’s only been three days, she tells herself. You’ll get used to it. 

Three days since she’d found Boris, her mixed-breed rescue mutt, unresponsive on the kitchen floor. He was fifteen years old; it was just his time to go, Dr. Doherty had told her. Now Boris resides in the small silver box on the mantle, next to the black marble urn that contains Raymond. 

You’ll get used to it. 

No. She won’t.

The bed is too empty, too big—yet still too full, too small. She lies near the edge of the left side, just as she has for the past forty-three years. The right side - Raymond’s side - is vacant. But still, she reaches for him every night, only to remember, he’s not there.

She would never get used to it. 

She kicks off the thick quilt, and lifts herself out of bed, her old bones protesting with the sudden movement, and she wonders why, when everyone she has ever loved is gone, is she still here?

Why? Why? Why?

And then, a thought blooms dark and comforting.

She doesn’t have to be. 

Wrapping her robe around herself, she slides on her slippers and shuffles to the kitchen. Through the small window above the sink a slice of moon glints white in the starless sky, and from the clock in the living room the minutes tick on, and on, and on. As Georgia waits for the kettle to boil, she pulls a mug from the cupboard and, after searching through a myriad of prescription bottles, finds the one she’s looking for. 

When the kettle sings, she pours a cup of chamomile, and because it is a special night, she adds a tablespoon of honey. Two tablespoons. Then she pulls a white capsule from the bottle and empties the contents of it into her tea. Then another, and another. She knows the exact amount necessary to bring on the sweet nothingness she so desperately desires.

In the living room, she sinks into her favorite chair, reaches up and twists the knob on the lamp, casting a weak glow throughout the darkened room. The dark recess of the fireplace gapes at her like an open mouth, and from the mantle, small silver boxes glint like sparkling eyes—Boris, and Charlie, and Moose and Buckles, and Ginger, and Monty and Cinder. And, in the tall black urn between them, standing like a sentinel at the gate—Raymond.

She cups the hot mug in both hands, and her eyes fall to the side table under the lamp, to the small silver bowl resting on a white doily, the intricate patterned lacework reflected on the shiny surface. A wedding gift from whom she can’t remember. It surprises her that such a fragile thing had lasted so many years without getting broken.

Doris Mulvany, from book club, has a similar bowl. Georgia has seen it at her house and commented on it. Doris’s bowl contained caramels wrapped in cellophane—the grandkids just love ‘em, Doris had said and asked what Georgia kept in hers.

Dog treats, Georgia had told her. I bake them myself.  

Oh, I’m sorry, Doris had said, and Georgia had to clarify, as she often did, no apology was necessary. She and Raymond had been childless, and thus grandchild-less by choice. Their fur-babies had been enough.

But now she wonders - had they, really?

Georgia brings the mug to her nose, smelling the bittersweet aroma, and closes her eyes. She thinks of a quote then, something she’d read, but can’t remember where.

The space between life and death is shadowy at best.

Who was it who’d said that?

‘Edgar Allen Poe,’ says a familiar voice, and Georgia jumps, tea sloshing from her mug onto her lap.

There, sitting in his favorite chair, gray-bearded and blue eyes sparkling, is Raymond. And nestled in his lap, tail wagging, is Boris.

Georgia knows they are figments, delusions, a fantasy her feeble mind has concocted to deal with the grief.

And yet, dear god, how she has missed that smile!

‘I see you made yourself a special cup of tea.’ Raymond nods towards the mug. ‘Are you sure?’

Georgia shrugs. ‘Not particularly.’

‘Good, ‘cause neither am I. You know, if you’re thinking there’s no one left for you to love, and no one left to love you, maybe you’re looking in the wrong places.’

Boris barks in agreement, and she gets the gist.

‘Raymond, I need to know. Do you have any regrets?’

‘Not a one,’ Raymond answers. ‘And neither should you.’

‘Not even… well…children?’

‘Nope. We were enough.’

Georgia nods. He’s right, she knows. She guesses she just needed to hear him say it.

‘Your tea’s gone cold,’ Raymond says. ‘I think you should go pour it down the drain and make another.’

‘Yes,’ Georgia agrees. ‘I think I will.’

But she makes no move to rise from the chair, doesn’t want this illusion to end, doesn’t want to lose the moment.

‘Well,’ says Raymond finally, and stands, Boris snuggled in the crook of his arm. ‘I guess we’ll see you when you get there.’ And before she can say anything else, he is fading, a chimera dissolving into mist, and seconds later, they are gone.

Georgia stands, pulls her robe tighter around her shoulders, and shuffles to the kitchen. The shelter opens in two hours. There’s just enough time to do some baking.  

About the author  

Nikki Blakely lives in the SF Bay Area, and enjoys writing stories that evoke smiles, tears, laughter, the occasional eye roll, and sometimes even a scream. Her work has appeared in Uncharted, Sundial Magazine, Bright Flash Literary, Luna Station Quarterly and others. You can read more at www.nikkiblakely.com 

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