You’ll Never Walk Alone by Peter Lingard, lemon cordial

Penelope walked into the Dry Flats police station to complain about a stalker. When she returned to the street with a constable, the stalker was not in sight. She then went to the offices of the local rag, The Dry Flats Observer, and was told of similar recent complaints. The police had dismissed them as no one had been approached or assaulted but now the citizens wanted an investigation by an independent party. The paper’s owners rubbed their hands in glee as they foresaw an enduring story and increased advertising revenue. They might get more mileage if the police were to prosecute someone, but Penelope was a sweet, sympathetic and convincing eyewitness.

The following week, Shane and Liam O’Reilly told their mother a man had followed them home from school. He hadn’t approached them, merely trailed about fifty metres behind them until they reached the front gate. She laughed and told them the man was probably travelling in the same direction and had continued his walk while they ran into the house.

The following night Mrs Simpson realized she was being followed. She took out her phone and photographed the man. He smiled and wished her a good night. Stella Simpson went to the police station and showed the photograph to the desk sergeant. She shouted at the man and demanded something be done.

‘What did he do to you?’ the policeman asked.

‘He was following me.’

‘He was travelling behind you, in the same direction as you, and didn’t approach you in any way.’

Stella’s anger rose. ‘That’s because I took his picture!’

‘I appreciate that, ma’am, but what do you want us to do? What crime has been committed?’

‘Don’t you ma’am me! Do you think this is amusing? I want something done.’

The policeman sighed. ‘Let me get a copy of that photo and we’ll look into it.’

 

At a meeting in the squad room the photograph was posted on a large screen. ‘Anyone know this bozo? He’s been reported for stalking a woman yesterday.’

‘Yeah, I know him. Jack Benson. He lives next door to me. Good guy. Let me have a word with him when I get off duty tonight.’

‘You do that! Don’t wait for tonight, do it now! This is the third report we’ve had. We don’t want these complaints reaching flood proportions. If you’re not convinced about the man’s intentions, bring him in.’

 

Constable Dodds knocked on his neighbour’s door at eight.

‘Hey, come on in,’ said Jack.

‘Nah. Better we speak out here for a moment. Let’s go for a jar. That all right?’

Jack’s eyebrows went up. ‘Er, yeah, I guess so.’ He turned his head and shouted, ‘Just going for a drink with Tom Dodds, Sheil. Won’t be long.’  

As they walked down the drive, Jack asked, ‘What’s up, Tom?’

‘I won’t beat about the bush, Jack. There’s a photo of you down the station taken by a woman who claims you were stalking her last night.’

‘Yeah. I knew it’d happen sooner or later. I saw her take the photo but didn’t want to approach her as she was obviously scared. Perhaps I should have gone to the station myself.’

‘What are you talking about? The woman reckons you were stalking her!’

‘Well, I guess I was, in a way. You know I’m a member of the local Men’s Group?’

Tom nodded. ‘Well, we started a kind of service where we follow women and children to make sure they get home, or wherever they’re going, safely. It’s a new thing and we can’t be everywhere and so we are still ironing out some of the details. Once we figured it out we were going to tell you guys about it. Maybe even offer to accompany folks.’

Tom shook his head. ‘Ya gotta stop, Jack. Can’t you see how it can be misinterpreted?’

‘Yeah, but … look … we’re doing it with the best intentions.’

‘Well not everyone’s convinced. I was told to take you in if there was any doubt in my mind. Haven’t you guys thought this through? Don’t you see how an actual perp could take advantage of the situation? Some woman, or child, going home sees a stalker and thinks, ‘oh, it’s the Men’s Club protector and I’m safe now. I’ll invite him in for a cuppa when I get home.’’

Jack’s face dropped.’ Oh shit, I do now. I’ll phone everyone immediately.’ He turned to go home, then turned back. ‘Do you think we could offer the service as escorts to those who want it?’

‘Not really, Jack. How many are there of you? You’d never be able to cover all the requests. Best to let things be, I reckon. I’ll tell everyone at the station that all this has been done with the best intentions, but you have to stop.’

Jack saw the sense of Tom’s suggestion. He wondered if he should tell him about fellow Men’s Club volunteer, Steve Owen, who had revealed Tom’s wife made late night visits, whenever Tom was working nights, to the town’s newly elected young mayoress. Perhaps not.

 

About the author 

 

Peter Lingard, born a Brit, served in the Royal Marines, was an accountant, a barman and a farm worker. He once lived in the US where he owned a freight forwarding business. An Aussie now because the sun frequently shines and the natives communicate in English. 

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When Sally met Cyril (and Roger) by Dawn Knox, chocolate milk

Previously: An unusual stranger has shaken up the neighbourhood. Gladys, Elsie, Minnie, Daphne and schoolboy, Cyril, have all witnessed the exotic man. Now Mr Johnson’s niece, Sally, wonders what the stranger had been doing in her uncle’s garden.

 

Sally O’Connor didn’t like visiting Uncle Trevor’s house. It was boring, except when he read stories to her. He had a collection of World War Two spy stories that Sally was sure her mum wouldn’t approve of, and that made them even more exciting. But, of course, he never read those to her when Mum was there.

Uncle Trevor was Mum’s brother, and the two were nothing alike. He was secretive and sometimes vague, although Sally suspected he was smarter than he looked – a bit like a spy, really. Sally’s dad had described him as a schemer and chancer, but Sally wasn’t sure what he meant, although it was plain Dad didn’t like him.

‘Nonsense,’ Mum had said when she’d heard Dad’s description of Uncle Trevor. But then Mum saw the best in everyone.

And now, a reluctant Sally had been left at Uncle Trevor’s house while Mum had gone to the local college to teach her IT evening class. It was Sally’s fault. The previous week, she’d gone to the college with Mum, and had been waiting in a classroom with Mum’s friend while she was marking students’ work. Instead of waiting in the classroom as she’d been told, Sally had claimed she needed the Ladies and had set off, looking for the room where Mum was teaching. She’d intended to catch her mother’s eye through the window in the door and ask for some money so she could buy a snack in the canteen.

However, after twenty minutes of searching, Sally had begun to despair of finding Mum before her lesson ended, and worse, after wandering up and down corridors, she’d feared she’d never retrace her steps to the classroom where Mum’s friend would be waiting.

Finally, at the end of a long corridor, she found a windowless door and wondering if her mother was in that room, she’d opened it a crack and peeped. That had been a mistake. She’d accidentally blundered into the life drawing class and when she saw the enormous, elderly, nude gentleman on the chair in the middle of the room, she hadn’t been able to help herself. She’d laughed and laughed. The man had reminded her of a white chocolate Walnut Whip with stubby arms and legs.

On the way home, Mum had told her she’d been so embarrassed at Sally’s poor behaviour, in future, when she taught her class, Sally would have to stay at her uncle’s house. The word ‘babysitting’ hadn’t been mentioned, but that’s what it amounted to. It was humiliating.

Unfortunately, Uncle Trevor had recently become interested in gardening and had stopped reading spy stories to her. Sally stifled yawn. What was interesting about gardening? Plants grew all on their own. They didn’t need any help.

Even worse, a short while ago, Uncle Trevor had told her he was expecting a phone call, and that she should go into the garden and play.

Play? She was eleven years old. What could she possibly play on her own? Even Horatio had deserted her. Not that she liked cats, but if he’d been there, he might have amused her for a while. She sighed and checked her watch. Another hour to go till Mum picked her up.

Something rustled in the next-door garden, and she wondered if it was Horatio returning. However, a voice filtered through the fence. A young voice. It could only be the boy next-door. She’d never met him, but she’d seen him from her uncle’s upstairs window, creeping about in the garden, while looking over his shoulder as if he thought someone was there. He looked weird, but even so, she’d ignore that if he’d hang out with her and make the time pass faster.

She hesitated. If the boy was talking, perhaps he had a friend over, although she couldn’t hear another voice. Maybe he was talking to Horatio. That gave her a good excuse to find out. She stealthily fetched a chair from the patio and placing it next to the fence she climbed on it and looked over – just like a spy.

Below, the boy was sitting on his heels behind a bush. He was holding a garden gnome around the waist with one hand and jabbing it towards a small paper bag that lay on the earth in front of him. With his other hand, he took what looked like sweets from the bag and crammed them into his mouth, between keeping up a commentary – all the while looking at the bush.

‘Look at that, ladies and gents. Our pointy-hatted hero, Gnomey McGnomeface makes another bold move, throwing a punch at a bunch of Star Destroyer Space Frisbees. How brave is that? But the fleet of Space Frisbees hasn’t flown all the way across the universe to back down now…’ The boy thrust his fist into the bag and grabbed a handful of sweets. He stabbed at the air around the gnome with them, making whooshing noises, then crammed those into his mouth. The commentary stopped while he chewed, although he still appeared to take an unusual interest in the bush.

Sally wondered if Horatio was behind the shrub, but if he was, he remained remarkably still, which was strange with the battle sounds the boy was making because Horatio wasn’t very brave.

Anyway, what was the boy doing? There was only one way to find out.

‘Hello,’ she said.

The result was explosive. The boy yelped, jumped backwards, dropped the gnome and several sweets. He looked up, blinking. ‘Wh…who are you?’

‘Sally O’Connor. And who are you?’

The boy picked up the gnome and scowled at her. ‘Well, Sallio, why don’t you clear off? I’m Cyril Stibthorpe and this is my garden. You’re trespassing.’

‘I’m not trespassing. I’m not in your garden. And my name’s Sally not Sallio.’

‘No, you definitely said, your name’s Sallio. I heard you.’

‘It’s Sally O’Connor. Not Sallio Connor.’

‘That’s what I said.’ Cyril shrugged and looked at her pityingly, as if she didn’t know her own name. ‘Anyway, why were you spying on me?’

‘I wasn’t spying. If I’d been spying, I wouldn’t have said anything, because that’s the idea of spying. You don’t tell people you’re there. I know that because my uncle reads me spy stories.’

‘All right, chill out, Sallio.’ Cyril glowered at her. ‘So, what are you doing there?’

‘Looking for Horatio.’

‘Sorry, he’s not here,’ Cyril said as if dismissing her. Then he turned to the bush. ‘I haven’t seen him, have you, Roger?’

Sally glared at Cyril. ‘If I’d seen him, I wouldn’t be asking you, would I? And my name’s Sally, not Roger. Can’t you remember people’s names?’

‘I wasn’t talking to you.’ Cyril slapped a hand over his mouth.

‘Who were you talking to? Is there someone hiding behind that bush?’

Cyril’s cheeks flushed crimson. ‘No. Now, why don’t you mind your own business?’

‘You were talking to the bush, weren’t you?’

‘No, I wasn’t.’ Cyril blushed again.

‘I’ve been watching you for a while, and that’s definitely what you were doing. I’ve never met a boy who talks to bushes.’

‘I don’t talk to bushes.’ Cyril’s voice rose in pitch. ‘If you must know, I’m talking to Roger.’

‘Who’s Roger?’

‘No one.’ Cyril mumbled.

Sally suddenly realised. ‘Oh, I see. You’ve got an imaginary friend. That’s it, isn’t it?’

‘Yes… No… None of your business.’

‘I had an imaginary friend,’ Sally said.

‘Did you?’ Cyril looked up with interest.

‘Yes, but I grew out of her by the time I was four. I’m eleven now. How old are you?’

‘Almost eleven,’ Cyril said. ‘And I don’t have an imaginary friend.’ He looked apologetically towards the bush.

‘So, what does Roger look like?’ Sally was familiar with interrogation tactics from her uncle’s espionage books.

‘Well, he’s about my height with blonde hair…’ Cyril paused realising he’d been tricked. ‘That is, he would be, if I had an imaginary friend. Which I don’t. What do you want anyway?’

‘I told you. I’m looking for Horatio.’

‘He’s not here, so push off,’ Cyril said.

What a rude boy.

‘But I’m bored,’ Sally said. ‘I’m looking for something to do.’

‘Well, go and be bored somewhere else. I’m busy.’

‘What are you doing anyway?’

‘If you must know, I’m having a battle. Gnomey McGnomeface against the fleet of Star Destroyer Space Frisbees.’

‘What are Space Frisbees?’

Cyril held out the bag to show her. They looked like chocolate buttons with sprinkles on the top. ‘If you must know, they’re chocolate Jazzies.’

‘So, you’re having a play battle?’

Cyril’s eyes narrowed. ‘No, I’m having a real battle.’

‘Right,’ said Sally slowly. ‘So, who d’you think is going to win?’

‘Gnomey McGnomeface, obviously,’ Cyril said. ‘Roger thought… I mean a friend of mine thought the Space Frisbees would win, but what would he know? He usually backs the wrong side.’

‘And do you always eat the loser?’

Cyril shrugged.

‘Would you have eaten Gnomey McGnomeface if he’d lost?’

Cyril snorted. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t eat garden gnomes.’

‘So, if you always eat the loser, why doesn’t Roger work out who’s going to win?’

‘Shut up. It’s none of your business.’

Cyril looked away as if he’d dismissed her. She still had ages until Mum came, so how could she keep the boy talking? Then she had it. ‘How d’you feel about Walnut Whips?’

Cyril tilted his head to one side, surveying her. ‘In what way?’ His eyebrows shot up. ‘You haven’t got any, have you?’

Sally shook her head. ‘No, but I got into trouble the other day because of a Walnut Whip, and I wouldn’t mind seeing one come off second best.’

‘D’you want me to set up a fight?’ Cyril’s eyes lit up. ‘Gnomey McGnomeface versus Walnut Whip, playing the part of the Beehive of Doom filled with assassin bees.’

Sally considered. ‘That depends on who gets to eat the Walnut Whip.’

‘As the fight organiser, that’ll be me. You can have the walnut off the top if you want. I don’t like them.’

‘No, don’t worry, I can fight my own battles. And anyway, I prefer the idea of secret missions and sabotage rather than all-out warfare. Uncle Trevor says it was the spies, secret agents and saboteurs who helped win the Second World War.’

Cyril narrowed his eyes as he contemplated her. ‘I like your style, Sallio.’ He turned to the bush. ‘What d’you think, Roger?’ he whispered.

After pausing, he nodded and grunted. ‘Spying and sabotage is okay, but it’s a long game. Me and Rog prefer… I mean, I prefer a fair fight, no holds barred and a clear winner.’

‘Is that so you can eat the loser?’

Cyril shrugged. ‘How did a Walnut Whip get you in trouble anyway?’

Sally explained about the enormous, ancient, nude male model and Cyril laughed.

‘There was a nude man in your uncle’s garden a little while ago.’ Cyril turned to the bush and appeared to be listening to it, then said, ‘No, he didn’t look like a Walnut Whip, you’re right, Rog… More like a creepy witch doctor.’

Sally’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Really? What was he doing?’

‘Dancing, wailing. You know, the usual witch doctor stuff.’

‘Why was he doing that?’

‘How should I know? He was in your uncle’s garden. I thought you’d know. Anyway, me and Rog… I mean I’ve got a fight to finish. Bye, Sallio.’ He turned back to Gnomey McGnomeface and the Space Frisbees.

Sally sniffed her disapproval and climbed down off the chair. She supposed she could have stayed to watch the fight – Cyril couldn’t have stopped her – but she’d seen enough. And more importantly, she was burning to know why a naked man had been in her uncle’s garden. As far as she knew, her uncle wasn’t interested in drawing, so the naked person couldn’t have been a model. Uncle Trevor was interested in spies, though. Could the man have been a real-life spy? But if so, wouldn’t he have drawn attention to himself if he wasn’t wearing any clothes? She glanced around with fresh eyes. Had the man left a clue? The garden looked like it usually did. Boring.

As she approached the kitchen door, she heard her uncle using his telephone voice. She crept closer. Who was he talking to?

 

Uncle Trevor was speaking. ‘See here, Alfie, this is too important to muck up. I know you like to keep up your tan, but just think about sunning yourself on some tropical nudist beach. You won’t be able to afford that unless our business takes off.’

There was a pause then he continued, ‘Yes, I know you don’t have a garden, but that’s too bad. You’re not coming around here to practise again. Consider the bigger picture. Your recent naked farce in my garden caused quite a stir. Already I’ve had several neighbours ask about you, and not for the right reasons. We’re supposed to be generating interest in the business not in your nakedness. I haven’t controlled the damage yet. My lady friend next door is easing off a bit on her questions, but her fluffy-brained friend also saw you, and she’s really nosy. Daphne from two doors along has also been enquiring and the next-door neighbour on the other side, Susan, keeps snooping. I understand you also went over the fence into the Pegwells’ garden. For such an outspoken woman, Minnie’s been remarkably quiet about you, so I assume she didn’t see you. It was lucky you found some clothes in their shed and could get back to your van without anyone else noticing you.’

Uncle Trevor paused briefly again. ‘Expenses? For a new spade? What happened to the last one? All right, all right, I’ll get you a new spade. But you need to start taking this more seriously. We’ve only got another year and there’s a lot riding on this. Basilwade must win, and I’ve already booked my cruise for next year. I need enough money to enjoy it.

Sally yelped with shock as something brushed against her legs. She leapt backwards and looked down. It was Horatio. He sauntered past her to the kitchen.

‘Got to go.’ Uncle Trevor’s voice was tense and urgent, as Horatio nosed open the door and swaggered in. Sally waited a few seconds and then followed as if she’d been pursuing Horatio.

‘There you are, dear,’ Uncle Trevor said, his voice now calm. There was no sign of his phone, and he was sipping from a mug as if he’d merely been enjoying a cuppa and not talking to anyone. So cool, Sally thought, just like a spy.

‘Did you have fun in the garden?’ Uncle Trevor asked.

‘Oh yes,’ said Sally. ‘I learned quite a lot.’

 

After dinner, Uncle Trevor parked Sally in front of the television. Gladys, the lady from next-door, had come in and Uncle was in the kitchen with her. Sally wondered whether it would be wrong to go on a spying mission around Uncle’s house and try to learn the identity of the naked man, who apparently was called Alfie. She certainly didn’t want to come to her uncle’s house while her mother was teaching and find another Walnut Whip in Uncle Trevor’s garden. Although Cyril had said the man was young and fit. Not that she trusted Cyril’s word – he believed in Space Frisbees. But perhaps Alfie didn’t resemble a Walnut Whip at all, perhaps he was more of a normal chocolate bar. Cyril had made him sound a bit exotic and Uncle had said he was keen on his suntan so perhaps he was more like a dark chocolate Bounty bar. Sally grimaced. This likening of strange people and aliens to chocolate bars was making her queasy. Chocolate should be eaten and enjoyed, but now, she’d never eat another Walnut Whip, Bounty or Chocolate Jazzy.

But, back to the spying. What would Uncle say if he found her snooping? Well, he could hardly complain. It had been Uncle Trevor who’d read her stories about World War Two spies and taught her various secret agent techniques, like recognising a few words in Morse Code and how to roll when you landed after a parachute jump. Morse Code was quite interesting, and she and Uncle had sent each other a few messages, but she never expected to drop out of an aeroplane. Perhaps when she grew up, she might, and then she’d know what to do. And she also knew she had to bury her parachute immediately on landing, to stop the enemy finding it. Sally gasped. Was that why Alfie had wanted a new spade? Was he part of a sabotage raid?

Yes, Sally would set out on a reconnaissance mission. It couldn’t do any harm. It would be Uncle Trevor’s fault anyway, even though she suspected he’d merely been reading to her and not teaching her how to be a spy, but she could claim it amounted to the same thing.

Sally crept up the stairs followed by Horatio. She halted on the landing, listening, but Uncle and Gladys were giggling, and it sounded as though they were absorbed in whatever they were doing in the kitchen.

She made for her uncle’s tiny office, which was next to the bathroom, and if he came upstairs, she’d claim she was lost. Horatio beat her to it and nosed his way into the study. Well, the room couldn’t be top-secret; Uncle hadn’t even shut the door, although to be fair he hadn’t expected her to be spying either. Horatio had provided her with a better alibi than losing herself on the way to the toilet which might not be a convincing story. If her uncle came upstairs now, she’d say she’d been looking for the cat, who was now picking his way around the desk, his tail upright and bent at the tip.

On the desk was a leaflet, advertising a neighbourhood best-kept garden competition. The date was June, the following year, and it would take place between the local village of Creaping Bottom and nearby Upper Chortle versus Basilwade. Boring.

Her heart was thudding as she reached out to see what was underneath the leaflets. Was there something more exiting? A clue to Alfie’s identity?

No, nothing. Just bills for gardening tools and other boring things.

In the top drawer of the desk were other leaflets. One read:

 

The Plant Enchanter

The multicultural wisdom of the Ancients combined with cutting edge AI.

Enchant your Plants,

We use ancient shamanic secrets combined with the latest AI technology.

Turn your garden into Paradise.

Telephone Alfie Inskip for a free quote.

Another read:

Weed it and Reap

For All Your Gardening Needs

Cultivating Plants and Nurturing Nature One Garden at a Time

Telephone Alfie Inskip for a free quote.

 

The mysterious Alfie Inskip was a busy man and appeared to have two businesses.

But there was nothing exciting in any of the other drawers and after folding one of each of the leaflets and putting them in her jeans’ pocket for further investigation, Sally gave up. At the same time, Horatio tired of walking around the desk and as he made for the door, she followed him out of the study.

On the landing, Sally shrugged. That had been a waste of time, but even World War Two spies must have experienced times when their undercover operations had revealed nothing.

 

Sally crept downstairs and went into the living room, where the television was still blaring. She checked her watch. What was she going to do until Mum came to pick her up? She idly wondered if she ought to go back into the garden and see what Cyril and Roger were doing, but it would mean walking through the kitchen and alerting the adults to her existence. That was never a good idea. While you remained undercover, adults forgot about you and left you alone.

Sally wandered to her uncle’s bookshelves. She’d find a book and look at that. Ten Ways to Kill and Maim Without a Weapon, she read on the spine of the first book she saw, and with one finger, she slipped the book off the shelf. How could you kill someone without a weapon? Unless of course you were Cyril next door who ate the losers in his fights. But his battles weren’t real.

Perhaps it was a cartoon book. Sally began to read, pausing after the first page. Wait, what? Who’d have guessed that was possible? She still wasn’t convinced it wasn’t a jokebook and decided she’d ask Uncle when he’d finished with Gladys, although that didn’t sound like it would be any time soon, judging by the hysterical laughter coming from the kitchen.

Sally read on. Exploding rats, booby-trapped chocolate bars, cyanide capsules? It was unbelievable.

When the doorbell rang, she was first at the door to let Mum in. Thank goodness at last she could go home.

‘What are you reading, love? Mum peered at the book. When she’d seen the title, her hands flew to her cheeks. ‘Where did you get that awful thing?’

‘Off the bookshelf,’ Sally said, aware that she ought to have asked permission first. ‘I’m sure Uncle won’t mind. He often reads stories about war spies to me.’

‘He does?’ Mum’s voice was more of a squeak.

‘Hello, Mavis.’ Uncle Trevor sounded breathless as he appeared behind Sally. ‘Have you had a good evening?’

‘No,’ said Mum, snatching the book from Sally’s hands and handing it to her brother. ‘What are you thinking, allowing my eleven-year-old daughter to read books like this?’

Uncle Trevor frowned. ‘I wasn’t aware she was reading it. Where were you?’ he asked Sally, at the same time as Gladys came out of the kitchen, her cheeks flushed and her hair sticking out at various angles.

Mum’s eyes narrowed as she took in the flustered woman, and she glared at Uncle Trevor. Grabbing Sally’s wrist, Mum drew her outside with one last angry glance at her brother.

‘Well, Trevor, I can’t believe you’d entertain your fancy woman while you were supposed to be looking after your niece. I won’t need your babysitting services again, thank you. Fancy teaching my daughter how to kill and maim people… It’s quite barbaric.’

 

Adults were strange, Sally reflected on the way home. She’d been silent during the drive, unsure whether she was in trouble with Mum or not, but at least she wouldn’t have to go back to Uncle Trevor’s for a while. Strangely, she had a sinking feeling of disappointment in her stomach – it might have been nice to talk to Cyril and Roger again. Perhaps she’d buy some Walnut Whips and go round to visit them. They might be interested in what she’d learnt about killing someone without a weapon.

When she got home, she’d write down all the ways she could remember. And anyway, it might come in handy in the future when she was grown up, the adult world was such a strange place. Although first, she might have to find out where you could buy nitro-glycerine.

 

To read the previous stories:

Glady’s Story is here - https://www.cafelitmagazine.uk/2024/03/gladyss-neighbourhood-watch-by-dawn.html

Minnie’s Story is here - https://www.cafelitmagazine.uk/2024/04/minnies-story-by-dawn-knox-milk-shake.html

Cyril’s Story is here - https://www.cafelitmagazine.uk/2024/05/cyrils-story-by-dawn-knox-lashings-of.html

Daphne’s Story is here - https://www.cafelitmagazine.uk/2024/06/daphnes-story-by-dawn-knox-green.html

Elsie’s Story is here - https://www.cafelitmagazine.uk/2024/07/elsies-story-by-dawn-knox-tea-and-buns.html

 

About the author

   

Dawn’s four previous books in the ‘Chronicles Chronicles’ series are ‘The Basilwade Chronicles’, ‘The Macaroon Chronicles’, 'The Crispin Chronicles' and 'The Post Box Topper Chronicles', published by Chapeltown Publishing. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

Sunday Serial: 280 x 70, 33 Yellow Sky, by Gill James, a pint of bitter

 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. 

33. Yellow Sky

 Tom had read about yellow sky and he'd seen it on book covers. He didn't think he'd even seen it in a movie. And here it was now.   Was it the effect of the setting sun?

The normally browny-grey stone of the walls on the promenade was scarlet against the yellow background. Were his eyes playing tricks on him? Didn’t the sun set over the mountains and not the sea? 

He shivered. It was bitterly cold  out here. No wonder he was alone.

Should he quit? Couldn't he do an on-line course from the comfort of his own home? Wouldn't that be cheaper as well? Even if it meant he couldn't have Professor Rob Travis as his mentor? A Masters was a Masters, after all.

Maybe he should sleep on it. And he should eat. The cold air was giving him an appetite.

He turned his back to the sea. He heard running footsteps.

"Hey there," a voice called.

He turned and saw another student from the short story class he'd attended earlier, about the same age as himself, he guessed." How's it going? I'm Ralf. Ralf Anderson, by the way."

Tom took the extended hand and shook it.

"I was an undergrad here," said Ralf, “so I'm used to it. It's a bit bleak isn't it? But it's cosy. We're all eating at the Silver Duck tonight. Join us."

The Silver Duck was lively. Tom soon spotted some of his other classmates and sitting in the middle of them was Professor Rob Travis. Cosy.

He glanced back at the window. The stones on the promenade had returned to their normal grey and the sky was now dark blue.      

 

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://twitter.com/GillJames 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

She Stole My Book, by June Webber, bitter lemon

I helped myself to a latte from the machine and scanned the room for an empty seat.  All around were groups chattering excitedly, and each new arrival was greeted by hugs.  I knew no-one at the Crime Writers’ Weekend and had never felt so alone.  I spotted a spare seat at a corner table, where an older woman was absorbed in her phone.

‘Is anyone sitting here?’ I asked.

‘Not unless they are invisible,’ was the curt reply.

‘May I join you then? I’m Abbie,’ I said with a smile.

‘I can read,’ replied the other woman, looking at my name badge.

‘Of course, and you are Jane I see,’ I continued.  ‘It’s my first time here and I’m so looking forward to hearing Felicity Fanshawe tomorrow.  I’ve read all her books and I’m hoping she will sign her latest one for me.  So clever to change genre.  I think it’s her best one yet.’

‘Do you really?’  Jane walked out of the room leaving a half-drunk mug of coffee.

I shrank into the corner, but Emily, a member of the welcome committee, came over.

‘Don’t mind Jane,’ she began.  ‘She’s got a chip on her shoulder because she’s never been published.’

‘Well neither have I.’

‘Yet,’ added Emily with a smile, and soon we were chatting like old friends.

‘Are you coming to the Flappers evening?’ asked Emily.

‘Yes, I’m so looking forward to it. I’ve hired a costume.  I love the twenties music and of course the Charleston.’

     I finished my coffee and went back to my room to change.  It was halfway along a corridor in Lake House, a functional sixties rectangular block of no architectural merit, at odds with the beautiful old manor house I had just left.  I put on my fringed blue dress, long beads, matching headdress, and long gloves and practiced the Charleston in the full-length mirror.  As I opened my door, Felicity was emerging from her room along the corridor looking very glamorous in a shocking pink sequinned dress. with a feathered headdress and a matching feather boa.

    I enjoyed the evening, chatting and drinking more than I was used to and danced with a young man called Steve, who was a reporter from the local paper. I avoided Jane, who was dressed all in black with a matching feather boa.  Felicity left early, saying she had to look through her talk for the next day and Jane left shortly afterwards.

     I slept soundly and was just coming out of the bathroom the next morning when I heard a piercing scream.  I opened the door to see the cleaner running along the corridor and speaking to the other cleaner in some Eastern European language.  They both abandoned their trollies and hurried across to the manor house.  As I went to breakfast, I noticed a black feather on the stairs.

     The main hall was full, and there was an excited buzz, waiting for Felicity Fanshawe.  We waited and waited.  After ten minutes the chairman came to the rostrum, looking pale and nervous.

‘I am sorry to inform you that Felicity will not be giving her talk.  Lake House will be closed for the day, but all facilities will be open in the Manor House.  This is all I can tell you for now, but please stay on site and report anything unusual you have seen or heard.’

     As we made our way to the bar, everyone was stunned and speculating why the main speaker was missing.

‘Perhaps she’s got Covid or a hangover,’ suggested Steve.

‘No, I noticed she hardly drank anything and left early. I hope she’s not ill, although I did notice an ambulance in the car park outside Lake House after breakfast,’ I told him.

‘And there’s a police car there.  Why would they close all of Lake House if she was ill?’

     The police set up an interview room in the main lounge and questioned all the 100 guests, examining photos of the previous night’s event.  It emerged that the cleaner had knocked on the door of Felicity’s bedroom and, hearing no response, had entered and found Felicity lying on the floor motionless.  I had heard nothing apart from the cleaner’s scream but remembered the black feather on the stairs.  Only one person had worn a black feather boa.

     As Jane was taken to the police station, she called out, ‘She stole my book!’

    Well, I had lent books to people who had not returned them, but surely that was not a motive for murder.  At the police station, Jane confessed all under questioning.

     ‘I had written my first crime novel.  I knew Felicity from school, and she was already an established writer, so I sent it to her for a critique.  She sent it back with a note that it needed a complete rewrite: the plot was too thin, the characters were not believable, and the dialogue stilted.  I hadn’t the heart to rewrite something I had struggled with for so long, so I put it in a drawer.  Felicity had already had ten romantic novels published, so I was interested to read her first crime novel.  Imagine my surprise and anger when it was my book, almost word for word.  She had only changed the title and names.  It became a best seller and won the Agatha Christie prize.  I came to the crime weekend to confront her.  I followed her to her room and asked for half the royalties or I would go to the press and expose her.  She laughed in my face and said nobody would believe me, a complete unknown.  I grabbed her feather boa and pulled hard, and she fell to the floor, banging her head on the metal bedpost.  I hadn’t meant to kill her, just frighten her.’

    Jane got ten years for manslaughter. In her defence she produced her original manuscript, complete with Felicity’s damning comments.  Steve reported on the trial, appeared on the national news, and was promoted to chief reporter. In prison Jane ran the prison library and wrote a series of crime novels, which became best sellers. I wrote romantic novels published by Felicity’s publisher with great success, but I never again attended the Crime Writers’ weekend.

About the author

June Webber has written stories for CafeLit, some of which have been included in The Best of CafeLit 11 and 13. She attends Swanwick Writers’ Summer School, where she had a play performed. She is a member of two writing groups and one poetry group. She lives in Dorset and is a great grandmother. 

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Where the Heart Is by Jim Bates, black coffee

“Daddy! Daddy, watch!”

            “I am, sweetheart,” I said. “You’re looking good.”

            Janey, my five-year-old daughter was flinging herself back and forth on the swing set with courage I never had, pumping her skinny legs for all she was worth.

            “Just be careful!” I called to her, imagining all sorts of horrors if she crashed.

            Janey’s mind was not on crashing. “Wheeeeee,” she called out. Then she leaped into space while I watched, frozen to my spot, as my daughter sailed through the air, her pigtails trailing behind her. She landed expertly in the sand and executed a perfect somersault before popping to her feet in front of me. “Ta-da!” She said and ran off giggling to grab the swing and do it all over again.

           We were in a small park, two blocks from our home. I glanced at my wife Lesley sitting next to me, calmly nursing our three-month-old son, Aaron. She smiled. “I like her style,” she said. Then went back to gazing lovingly at Aaron.

            I grinned and turned my attention to Janey. She was wearing pink tights and a dark blue tee shirt that said Girl Power on it. She waved. “Come join me, Daddy!”
            I waved back. “In a minute!”

            I turned to Lesley and kissed the top of her head. Her short-cropped auburn hair had the aroma of the strawberry shampoo she loved. Then I kissed Aaron, reveling in the sweet scent of milk and baby powder.

            Lesley mussed up my hair and pointed to where Janey was back on the swing set, pumping her legs and soaring ever higher. The summer sky was blue. Nearby a robin was singing. “Your daughter’s a real daredevil,” she said.
            I grinned. “Takes after her mother.”

            Lesley smiled back at me. “You got that right, Big Boy.”

            Just to be clear, my name’s not Big Boy, it’s Frank. And, I have to say, I’m happy to be here.

            I was wounded some years ago while fighting in Afghanistan. At the exact moment the IED exploded, I was sure I was going to die. I didn’t. I lived (obviously), however, the shrapnel messed up my leg pretty badly. I returned to the States with not only a limp but a bad attitude. I drank a lot. Did drugs. And when it came to being with women, let’s just say I was not the most fun to be around. In short, I was not a nice human being.

            What changed my life were my grandparents. I began living with them when my parents divorced when I was ten years old. My dad wanted nothing to do with me, and, it turned out, neither did my mom. She left me with Grandpa Jack and Grandma Helen and took off with a boyfriend to California. I never saw her again.

They were the kindest people I’ve ever met. Grandpa worked at the local creamery and Grandma was a science teacher at the high school. The name of the town was Ester. It had a population of about five thousand and was located in southern Minnesota close to the Iowa border. It was a close-knit farming community and, at first, I fit in like a pimple on a forehead. But, I adapted. Grandma and Grandpa were patient with me, taught me right from wrong, and didn’t berate me for the many mistakes I made growing up. They had a saying for everything, one of the most common was, “You live and learn, Frank. Learn from your mistakes. That’s the main thing.” And I did. I had ample opportunity, that’s for sure.

            I met Lesley at Alcoholics Anonymous and we’ve been together ever since. We were living in Minneapolis, she working as a cashier, and me for a landscaping company (we plowed driveways in the winter), when I got word that my grandparents had been in a horrific car accident. I didn’t hesitate. I hurried down to Ester to be with them and help with their recovery. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much either me or the doctors could do. After a week Grandpa died, and a few days later Grandma passed away. Her final words to me were, “Live life well, my son. Love who you love.”

            Lesley was by my side when Grandma spoke those words. We married a week later.

            My grandparents left their home to me. The move from our apartment in the big city to this small town was easy. A year later Janey was born. Then Aaron.

            When I was growing up, before my parents split up, there was a saying my mom had on a framed piece of embroidery. It read “Home Is Where The Heart Is.” At the time, with all the issues I was subjected to by my parents, I thought the saying was a load of crap. But, later, I found out that Grandma had embroidered it. She had one up in her and Grandpa’s home when I moved in. There it took on new meaning. Eventually, with them as my parents, I realized what it truly meant.

            Lesley and I work hard to keep Grandma and Grandpa’s home like it used to be. What others call “possessions” we call “keepsakes” and our home is filled with them.

            I think of Grandma and Grandpa all the time. They gave me a chance at life when my parents left, and they loved me until the day they died. I’ll never forget them.

            My thoughts were brought back to the present by Janey.

            “Daddy! Daddy! Look at me!”

            She was swinging as high as she possibly could. “Looking good!” I called to her.

            She giggled. “Come swing with me, Daddy!”

            I looked at Lesley. Aaron was sleeping peacefully in her arms. My wonderful wife smiled at me. “Go for it.” She nodded toward our daughter. “Have fun.”

            I kissed her and used my cane to get to my feet. I limped over to join Janey. Nothing was going to stop me.

 

About the author 

 Jim lives in a small town in Minnesota. He loves to write! His stories and poems have appeared in over 500 online and print publications. To learn more and to see all of his work, check out his blog at: www.theviewfromlonglake.wordpress.com. 

 

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