A Probationary Tale by Jackie McGregor, flat white

‘Of course nothing gets shared with us,’ Debbie stage-whispered, ‘We’re just meant to get on with it, minding our own business. Don’t you think we should be told if there’s anything to be concerned about?’

The hubbub spread round every area of our cramped staffroom, a collective buzz to rival any busy hive, though we paused for a few moments till we could be sure the Head Teacher would have made it back downstairs.

We all looked to Catriona.

     ‘Did you know he would be taking over your class?’ I asked, being the eldest, momentarily appointing myself as head inquisitor.

Catriona paused for a moment, just long enough to make me think she was choosing her words carefully.

     ‘Helen phoned me at home a couple of days ago. She asked me not to say anything. I don’t know why he didn’t complete his probation year, either. I was just told he would be taking charge of my class from tomorrow for the first term. He’s using today to get paperwork sorted at the Council since it’s just an INSET day.’

     ‘Jammy bugger,’ sighed Mike, ‘So what will you be doing this term?’

Starting to redden, Catriona glanced round the room.

     ‘I’m going to be implementing a whole-school curriculum for using the new iPads and will be updating the policy on transitions throughout the school.’

     ‘What room will you be working in?’ Mike continued, ‘I thought we were running out of space with the business manager taking over the medical room.’

Catriona now looked decidedly uncomfortable, glancing at her watch and began to rise from her chair. Knowing she was a complete gossip, Helen had no doubt reminded her about personal circumstances being confidential.

     ‘I’ll be working from the back of the classroom’ and with that, she walked to the door, ‘I’d better get on. See you later.’

The door slowly closed, the remaining eight of us tight lipped, our curiosity only obvious by a fair few raised eyebrows.

 

Between us we have over 100 years of teaching experience at our small school, though I can take credit for bringing up the numbers, having contributed to over 40 of these myself and I’ve seen a lot of comings and goings in that time. These young pups don’t have the same life experience to smell a rat. I’ve never heard of a probationer having another teacher in their classroom full-time. Different when you’re a student and you need to work alongside an experienced classroom teacher, such as myself, to observe good practice. But probationers -  no - never.

     In my forty years teaching I’ve heard the infamous words ‘gardening leave’ enough to know it isn’t the idyll you hope to end your career by. No-one wants to shuffle out of school, head down, with all their belongings in a couple of cardboard boxes to stay home and tend their gardens, metaphorical or actual. Although it doesn’t happen often, this wee school alone has seen its fair share of teachers who take their handbags into the toilets. If you use the next cubicle and listen closely enough you can hear the faint metal-on-metal scrape as a bottle is surreptitiously opened. And don’t get me started on the stationery cupboard. That tiny space has seen more action than our gym hall – whether pilfering, extra-marital affairs or worse. Let’s just say, if pupils are to accompany any of us to get supplies we must take them in twos or threes. We need a bigger cupboard.

    

Before the first school day had even started most of the staff were round the newbie like flies round the proverbial. They’d already tried to do their usual sleuthing on Facebook, LinkedIn and Instagram. So far Cameron, Cam and Cammy Doyle had got them nowhere, so I suspect their visits to the P7 classroom were partly them doing a Columbo. We all hoped of course that Catriona would soon come through with the goods.

     Mr Doyle didn’t join us at break or lunch that day, eating his lunch in the classroom with a flask of, I hope, tea or coffee. Catriona informed us he seemed nice but nervous and had come very well prepared for the day with PowerPoint presentations for all his lessons.

     ‘Is he married? Kids? Where does he live? Where did he do the rest of his probationary year?’

The questions flowed thick and fast but Catriona shrugged her shoulders.

     ‘Sorry guys, you’re gonna need to get another spy. So far we’ve only been talking classroom stuff. He seems really nice but very eager to get things right so he’s got loads of questions. I don’t get time to ask any back at all. Plus, Helen will kill me if I’m caught blabbing, especially after her comment about my ‘unprofessional’ behaviour at the karaoke bar last term.’

Hooray for Helen.

     I glanced into his classroom as I walked down the corridor to my own but didn’t get a proper look. I’d been assigned P4 or P5 for many years now, despite repeatedly requesting a move to infants. Many of these young teachers spend so much time letting the children run wild, playing with toys for most of the day, that they are barely able to read or write by the time they get to me. One barely qualified newbie had the temerity to lecture me, ‘Margaret, we must begin to develop integrated pedagogical approaches to play throughout the school if we want to instil comprehensive problem solving skills.’ Apparently we only have to look to Norway. Or Japan. Japan!

     Management obviously keep me in middle school knowing I’ll be able to sort out the earlier transgressions. Even if they come to me as virtual illiterates I’ll soon have them using decent punctuation and grammar and as they leave me they should be able to recite at least their 2,3,4,5 and 10 times tables. God help me, these youngsters talk to their pupils in terms of ‘sharing sweeties’ or ‘pizza slices’ when trying to explain maths. I once asked a child what one divided by four was and they answered, ‘a slice of pizza!’

     If I’m clearly being used as a ‘fixer,’ why don’t they give me P7 so I can help them get on track before they get to high school? I wouldn’t be doing any of this Camp nonsense though. High Wires, GORGE WALKING – when on earth in life will they ever need this, while we’re situated, for free, next to some of the most beautiful hills and rivers in the country.  And, Jesus wept, the P7 prom. Americanism gone bloody mad. Their parents can’t afford a pencil or a piece of fruit but they can buy a hideous ballgown and club together for limousine.

 

Mr Doyle had been in place for three days before I popped in to see him. He still hadn’t shown face in the staffroom – very suspicious – so I thought it was time I checked him out. I was hoping, having spotted him through his door this week, that being slightly older than most of the newbies he’d be less of a lefty liberal and could be the educator this class particularly needed.

     ‘Hello, Mr Doyle, I’m Mrs Fletcher, Margaret, p4,’ I said extending my hand. ‘I wanted to give you a few days before I bombarded you with another new face. I’ve brought you a piece of banana loaf from the staffroom. Rest assured, no snotty children’s hands have been involved in the process - I baked it myself last night. Always nice to have a Friday treat. How’s your first week been?’

He walked towards me, extending his hand.

     ‘Oh hello, Mrs Fletcher, pleased to meet you. Please call me Cameron, or my friends call me Cammo,’ he said, smiling.

He had a nice manner and was obviously brought up well enough to know our introduction merited a handshake, but if it were down to me I’d have given him the advice to make sure his shirt and trousers were freshly pressed each morning and to take a couple of inches off his hair, which was straggling over his shirt collar.

     ‘I’ll stick to Mr Doyle or Cameron if you don’t mind. I find it best to stay with proper names for professionalism,’ but gave him a smile to show I meant no offense.  Cameron didn’t seem flustered in the slightest. He took off his glasses, wiping them with his untucked shirt and rubbed his eyes. This looked like a habit as his eyes looked slightly red, the dark circles underneath, rimmed by the indent of his glasses.

     ‘Thanks Margaret, I really appreciate the cake. I’m using my breaks to catch up as much as I can in school.’

     ‘Well, I’m here every day from around 8 till 6 when they lock the building. Saves me taking work home – separation of church and state and all that. So, if you need any advice just pop along to p4.’ I started towards the door, ‘Make sure you don’t overdo it. I hope you live local?’

     ‘Yes, I’ve just moved into the new estate beside the park.’

     ‘Nice houses. Lovely to have a little garden. You must have a family?’

Cameron replied, ‘em, yes. I’d better get on now Margaret or I’ll never get home tonight.’ He sat back down at his keyboard and started tapping away without so much as a backward glance. The message to stop prying could not have been any clearer.

I could hardly wait for Monday to get back to the staff room with all the juicy titbits. This was going to be a long weekend.

 

At last Monday came and I delivered my haul of information at break-time. Karen had apparently seen Chloe, a P7 pupil alone in the classroom with him last week at lunchtime, crying as he sat beside her. Another 2 pupils had tried to come in at break, telling the playground staff Mr Doyle had told them they could come and talk to him if they needed. Now we were getting somewhere.

     I imagine we all expected the mystery of his unexpected post to continue to build over the forthcoming weeks, but it all amounted to very little really. Catriona said he struggled a bit with behaviour management but to be fair, every supply teacher who had that class were glad to get out alive at the end of the day.  As we broke for the October holidays we found a large tub of Celebrations chocolates in the staff room with a card.

     He had written, ‘Sorry for leaving without properly saying goodbye. I wasn’t quite sure I’d manage without becoming emotional. It’s been a pleasure teaching amongst you all and I can’t thank you enough for your support and kindness. I had no idea if I’d manage to complete my probationary period, having had a bit of a breakdown following the death of my beautiful wife, Meg, in April, but being in such a lovely environment with the added bonus of the delicious home baking has made me feel like one of your family. With gratitude, Cameron (Cammo) x.’

     I don’t think I can have been the only one who hung my head just a little.

About the author 

Jackie McGregor is a teacher who never stops learning. She needs to live till at least 105 to be able to conquer the unread book piles scattered throughout her house.

 

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For Pamela by Hamish Hutchinson, black chai

Everyone was staring at me. The arena held a collection of inscrutable eyes. Then there was Pamela, whose own pair offered me hope. Hers were soft and blue, like the lake we would walk round every Saturday morning.

I didn’t want to be there but Pamela had insisted, and she was the boss. We had religiously practiced for six months though it had felt like seven years. She had set up the basics of an obstacle course in the tiny patch of grass she called a garden at the back of the bungalow. The hurdles were made from dented soup tins and ragged twigs. After each training session, if the twigs hadn’t moved, I would get a treat. She filled my heart with her crooked smile and my stomach with cheesy crunch.

The announcer boomed on the mic adding to the wall of noise in the arena. Pamela gave a slight tug on the lead and that was my cue to start trotting. My legs wobbled as she jogged beside me wearing some bedazzling mini-skirt suit that defied belief, and my colour-blind eyes.

I bounced along the floor which had the spring of carpet but was coarser to the paw. We circled the edge of the floor, passing rows of empty seats. Everyone seemed to be sitting miles away but I could still smell them sucking on boiled sweets. My stomach curdled.

We reached the beginning of the course and Pamela gently pushed my rear to get me to sit. Just ahead was the first hurdle. My body twitched and I swallowed. I knew how much this meant to her. Just because I was a dog didn’t mean I wasn’t aware of the tears she shed at night; how much she missed Derek and saw the trials as a means to escape from the hurt.

I looked up at her and she met my goofy gaze. Her hands shook as she unclipped the lead from my collar and passed it to some bald-headed man, who looked like he’d overindulged in cheesy crunch.

I could hear the sound of my heart despite the cacophony of cheers and clapping that echoed around me. It pounded, as if I was running free. My collar felt tight around my neck. I scratched behind my floppy ear and shivered.

Pamela bent down and whispered to me. I smelt the sharp tang of her citrus perfume.

‘You’ll be amazing, Pete.’

Then, with a light tap to my back, I was off.

Tongue flapping, I bounded towards the first hurdle and took flight. But I misjudged its height. It was a lot higher than two tins of mulligatawny, and I felt my paws scuff the smooth pole. My heart stopped, and I landed in a stumble to see the pole shudder.

I closed my eyes and froze. Seconds felt like days. This was it; I had fallen at the first hurdle. I was going to break her already broken heart. I wanted to whimper, cry out, return to a time when we were all still together – when Derek was alive – lying in front of a roaring fire, listening to records, as Pamela tunelessly hummed along. A time when we were all happy; when Pamela was happy.

‘Go, Pete, go.’

I heard her call my name and I opened my eyes to see her frantically waving me on to the next obstacle. I glanced back and saw the pole was calmly sitting in place. I grinned my goofy grin and bounced on the spot. I heard a ripple of laughter in the crowd and saw Pamela laugh, and my heart took flight.

I bounded towards the next hurdle as my tail danced in time.

About the author

Hamish Hutchinson is a communications professional, playwright, filmmaker, journalist, and author of children’s book series, Three Friends and Crumbs. He lives in Stirling with three bundles of fun who inspire him daily. www.hamishhutchinson.com 

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Holding Tightly by Marcia McGreevy Lewis, short decaf extra hot nonfat latte

He arrived shocked and squalling. The walls that had soothed him in utero had disappeared, and Sam let us know immediately that this didn’t please him. He didn’t appreciate the noise, the manhandling or the pressure he’d needed to exert to make his entry. And the messy mucus was annoying.

More walls soon found him. His new ones were the clear plastic sides of the incubator in the hospital’s Special Care Unit. Though determined to stay with us, this tiny baby couldn’t survive on his own. He gave his best to tolerate the loud machines clicking away, too many bodies surrounding him and the light accosting him. His response was to grasp his pacifier with both hands and insert it into his mouth, signaling us that he was going to hold on tightly.

And he did, but his journey was arduous. We had a hard time acknowledging that Sam was in danger of not making it, but that reality lived with us every day of the long three-week wait for Sam’s release from the Special Care Unit. We held his hand as much as the cords and monitors allowed. Translucent bags strung with tubes hung on poles while dripping healing medications to our sweet patient’s body. The screen monitor tracked every vital heartbeat, and the bedside tray overflowed with tape, gauze and packets of cleansing swabs.

After weeks of uncertainty, the hospital doors finally swung open to discharge Sam, ready to show the world how he could conquer fragility. He was two pounds stronger, but judging from all the spitting up, this pint-sized body was working hard to digest. That tough work triggered constant crying for almost three months straight.

His parents found his reflux undaunting and cocooned him in their love. Much as I might claim a little credit for getting through the tough days, it was his parents who were up with the vulnerable little body day and night. They are the heroes who were trying to hold down jobs on top of that.

#

Sam's unexpected entrance into the world defied the odds. His mother, my daughter-in-law who was in her late 40s, concluded that she couldn't conceive. Sam convinced her that she could, and arrived almost five weeks early to make his point.

 

When he climbed the mountain of turning six weeks old, this little fighter had tapered his bellowing enough that his parents brought him to our house for his first dinner out. He was right beside us as we clinked silverware, praised the chef for the aromatic curried soup and engaged vociferously over the state of the nation. He endured the big folks’ noise and didn’t make a peep until he objected to going home. He was finding his voice.

Later that voice found its focus. At age two, his Grampy and I took Sam to a bakery. I offered him a bite of my bun, and he responded with, "It's delicious."

I stated the obvious, saying, "You're delicious."

He confirmed that conclusion with a gleeful, "I'm a delicious boy." And he was becoming just that. He was winning his battle to grow, having recently measured at 70% of normal.

When he was three, Sam peeked around corners when he entered a room, confident that all would show delight in seeing him. He was as right, and he knew it except for the time when we were having dinner together one night. The discussion was lively, but it overlooked him. Finally, he piped up, “Could we stop the conversation?” We did and paid him the attention he was due.

A little later, we, his grandparents, took Sam for a walk and stopped to visit with a friend. He tolerated this for a while, but soon popped up with, “This is Sam.” Of course we should have introduced him. Who’s out there to train grandparents? Maybe kids.

Observing his Grampy Bob’s wrinkles, four year-old Sam declared that his grampy was an old man, and that he, Sam, was a new boy. That proved to be prophetic, as Bob died shortly afterward. Sam then asked me if I was going to burn him, and then throw the ashes over the water. I told him that was, indeed, going to happen. He pondered that answer for its acceptability and then followed with this query, “Are you going to get another one?”

By age six, Sam reached normal height and weight for his age, and the fears around his health were disappearing. He was growing and thriving--playing sports, enjoying piano lessons and devouring Harry Potter. He was starting to ski, loved to read and had a bevy of friends.

When he turned 13, I took this normal, healthy boy to Paris. Offering a Parisian holiday to a teen could be a slippery slope to boredom or a petri dish where he will flourish. For Sam this trip served as the perfect vessel for his curious mind.

We made a no-hamburgers pact and instead dove into the blissful world of French pastries, savoring a different confection each day. We took the Metro to view Paris from atop as many structures as possible: Sacré–Coeur Church, Montmartre, Montparnasse Tower and the Arc de Triomphe. Of course we climbed to the top of the La Tour Eiffel where I was the one holding tightly to him in those excursions.

When it was time to cut loose, we made chocolate at Paris’s Chocolate Story and followed that with a virtual reality adventure at Fly View, offering a thrilling aerial tour of Paris and beyond. He soaked it up and gave me the gift of seeing Paris through fresh eyes.      

This Parisian adventure created a permanent bond between us. Afterward, we had dinner almost monthly and I made it to his drama and musical performances. That was a feat. There were many because he was becoming an accomplished pianist. We needed that strong relationship for what was to come.

#

Though I consider Sam my late-life gift, I’m not the grandmother by birth. Sam grew up with four sets of adoring grandparents because his reconfigured family included grandparents who had remarried. My journey with Sam began at mid-life when I married his grandfather. My three children grew to accept this man, and they eventually gave us grandchildren who cherished him.

Sam’s life changed on a dime when, one after another in a very short timeframe, Sam lost six grandparents. He struggled to accept the losses, and he brought his grieving into the open so that we could both heal. We talked often about what each grandparent had brought into his life. We cried together, and we laughed at some of the memories. He’s a grounded young man who has handled the profound loss of his grandparents with remarkable strength.

His real grandmother and I did our best to keep the remaining family ties strong. And then came another blow. She became terminally ill.

Because she suffered from kidney disease, his maternal grandmother’s care needed intervention. The family bought medical equipment, took the training so they could administer life-saving dialysis and built a cottage for her in their backyard.

 For several years the family helped his grandmother with her dialysis. After multiple hospital stays, home care became insufficient, so the family faced the heart-wrenching decision to discontinue her care. Sam found that decision shattering but showed the depth of his care by bringing flowers daily. Her room smelled like a florist shop. Sam’s fading grandmother, understanding that her time had come, withdrew into herself except when Sam visited. She peacefully passed away, holding his hand.

I took my lanky 15 year-old grandson out to dinner a few days later, and we had our usual engaging conversation. He shared his excellent artwork, we discussed his friends, and I gently probed his feelings about losing his grandmother. That’s where the conversation reached an impasse. He wasn’t as open as he had been when he lost grandparents at a younger age, but time will reveal those emotions.

I racked my brain to try to reach him this time, but it was his turn to hold tightly. I have no idea how the internal conflicts and challenges he faces as a teen are gripping him. Young men do have the right to separate from the older generation, and he may have wanted to keep his own counsel. I will be patient with his return to disclosures. Maintaining our bond is my goal. Those revelations were there before and will return someday. This guy who found his words early in life will soon find more to express his emotions.

Sam had his share of challenges as he grew older. He wasn’t a natural athlete except for skiing, but that accomplishment lent him the confidence he needed to carry his tall body with assurance. His tight group of friends focused video games rather than proving they were cool, and that was OK too because they were cool to each other. His inquisitive mind carried him to academic achievements, and that was where he staked his claim.

Sam now towers over me and is playing wind instruments in addition to the piano. He expects to get good grades, and he doesn’t disappoint himself. He’s taught me to enjoy music, even jazz that I didn’t appreciate previously. He has moments of openness, and when he does, that brings out the same in me. His values of kindness, joyfulness and taking care of others are strong. The resilience with which Sam handles his many losses is the stepping-off place to his adaptability and growth.

It strikes me that I, the proxy grandmother, am the last one standing. This add-on grandmother is now the enduring one. Sam acknowledges that and wraps me into his life where our relationship transforms me beyond the role of being supportive to that of being supported.

How grateful I am that I enfolded this grandchild into my pack of seven grandchildren. I didn’t need one more grandchild, but that’s because I didn’t know I needed Sam. This once-frail baby has grown into a spirited young man who embodies the hope we have for the next generation. I hold onto this gift as tightly as he once clung to his pacifier as a newborn. 

About the author

Marcia McGreevy Lewis (she/her) lives in Seattle and is a retired feature writer for a Washington newspaper. She writes for literary journals, magazines, travel sites and books. 

Reach her on Facebook and Instagram: marcialewis25,

 Twitter: @McGreevyLewis and 

Linkedin: marcia-lewis. Clips: https.//www.gravatar.com/profile/about Display name: mmcgreevylewis Choose: Show more 

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False Positives by Jenny Palmer, a bottle of Heineken

I had only ever experienced sleep paralysis once before. It was in my final year at university, and I was spending a lot of time with my boyfriend. He had graduated the year before, and had moved in with me, intending to find a job. All he’d managed to find so far was on the Christmas post. It entailed him setting out at dawn, leaving me with the luxury of a lie-in.

Since Alan had been living there, I’d been bunking off lectures and my professor, who was also my tutor, had called me into his office and told me in no uncertain terms that if I didn’t pull my socks up and start attending, I was likely to fail my degree. I was aware I needed to take myself in hand but after Alan had left for work, I settled back into the comfort of my bed and went back to sleep.

At the time I was in a house-share with three other finalists. We were all language students who had just come back from our years abroad in Germany, Holland, and Italy, where we had been at liberty to do as much or as little studying as we liked. It was 1969 and universities abroad were in the throes of student rebellion. Most of them had closed their departments, cancelled all lectures and seminars, leaving us to study on our own. As a result, we’d got into bad ways. At least I had.

I heard the bedroom door creak, and someone walked into my room. At first, I thought it was Margaret. She was doing a joint degree and had spent six months in Holland before coming to Germany where we had struck up a friendship. We both figured that since there was little else to do at the university, we might as well take advantage of our unexpected freedom. I’d visited the Black Forest, Austria, and Hungary. At Easter, rather than coming home, I’d ventured as far as Italy, to visit Keith and Wendy who were studying in Naples. That was when we’d come up with the plan of sharing a house in our final year.

When she was in Holland, Margaret had met a guy and was hoping to go back there when she graduated. Of late she’d adopted a maternal attitude towards me and was trying to help get me back into lectures. It must be her who was coming in to wake me up. I tried to open my mouth to speak but I couldn’t get a word out. And I couldn’t open my eyes either or move my body. I was paralyzed. Whoever it was walked around to the side of the bed, leaned over, and gently touched me on the neck, without saying a word. I still couldn’t move. Then I heard the person retrace their steps, walk out, and close the door behind them.

I immediately leapt out of bed, rushed out of the bedroom, and ran down the stairs. There was no sign of anyone about. I went to check on Margaret but when I opened her bedroom door, I found her fast asleep. Even if she had been a sleepwalker, which she assured me she wasn’t, she wouldn’t have had time to get back into bed. Margaret denied all knowledge and I was inclined to believe her, yet I felt sure someone had been in my room. Since I was already up, I thought I might as well go to my lecture.

For ages I couldn’t get the experience out of my mind. I found it hard to sleep for fear of it happening again. Alan, who was a psychology graduate, tried to reassure me. He told me about a phenomenon called sleep paralysis, whereby a person is awake, but they are unable to move or see. And he quoted some theory from evolutionary biology, which says that humans have evolved to look for false positives. When confronted with the unknown, we think there must be something there rather than nothing. It’s a result of having lived amongst wild animals when we were hunter gatherers.

The memory of my experience faded over time. I never missed a lecture from then on and thankfully passed my degree. It was a few years later when I suffered from sleep paralysis again. I had split up with Alan by then and was living on my own. Margaret had gone to live in Holland after she’d finished her degree. She’d married Pieter, the man she’d met as a student and had invited me to visit them in their new home. It was my first time in Holland. I met up with Margaret in the pancake house where she was working. It was situated beside one of the tree-lined canals that run through Utrecht. I met her there and we went back to the house she shared with Pieter.

They were living in a rickety old house in the mediaeval part of town. Margaret showed me where I would be staying. She took me up the stairs to the attic. The house had wooden floors and no carpets, and the stairs creaked. The first evening Margaret had prepared a small dinner party and had invited Abel, a male friend to join us. He could speak English which was fortunate since I had no knowledge of Dutch. I had a feeling that Margaret might be trying to match make. Abel was a studious type but there was something shifty about him. I didn’t think we had anything in common. But Margaret had the next day all planned out. We were all going on a rowing trip on one of the reclaimed lakes. She and Pieter often spent their weekends there. I welcomed the opportunity to see a bit more of the Dutch countryside but worried about spending it with Abel.

The lake was a fair distance from Utrecht. Since we were to set off early in the morning, it made sense for Abel to stay the night. Margaret and Pieter often had guests to stay and there was plenty of room. I’d had a long journey by boat and train, and after an evening of food and drink, I was more than ready to turn in early. I fell asleep almost immediately.

In the middle of the night, I heard the stairs creaking. The attic door opened, and someone came into my room, walked over to my bed, leaned over, and touched my neck. I lay there frozen, just like last time. No sooner had they left the room than I was able to open my eyes.

‘I am in an unfamiliar house,’ I rationalized, ‘in a foreign country. Margaret and I haven’t seen each other in years. Being under the same roof as her must have triggered something in my brain. It was just another false positive, as Alan would say. My brain was playing tricks with me again. There had been no one there. I dismissed any fears I had and promptly fell asleep.

Next morning we were going to set off for the lake straight after breakfast. Margaret had made up a picnic basket full of lovely Dutch cheeses and local beers. I had slept well and was looking forward to the day.

‘Where’s Abel?’ I asked. ‘I thought he was coming with us.’

Margaret looked at me sheepishly.

‘I’m afraid we’ve had to put him off,’ she said. ‘I caught him snooping around in your bedroom last night while you were asleep. I heard him going up the stairs. When I went up to check, he was going through your belongings. I kicked him out. We won’t be seeing him again. You were sleeping so soundly; I didn’t want to wake you. 

About the author

Jenny Palmer writes short stories, poetry, memoir and family history. Her stories are on Cafelit. Her collection 'Keepsake and Other Stories,' published by Bridge House, 2018, is available on Amazon. 'Witches, Quakers and Nonconformists,' 2022, is sold at the Pendle Heritage Centre, Barrowford. 'Butterflies and Other Stories' is out now. 

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Sunday Serial: 240 x 70, 37 Handwritten, breakfast tea

 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. 

 

The day was grey and miserable. That suited her mood though. There could be nothing good about today. Had it all been a mistake?  This isolated house and turning her back on the well-paid safe job in the big city.

The post thudded on to the front door mat. Nothing good ever came through the front door.  And she avoided the post girl anyway. She couldn't counter that sullen face and abrupt manner.

She supposed she ought to go and pick them up. Oh, yes.  Just as she'd thought.  Bills bills and more bills. Brown envelopes. White envelopes. Some of them - most of them in fact - had red writing on them.

That one looked a bit different though. A London post mark. She trembled as she opened it. No. Why had she got so excited?  It was just another rejection. Not even a personal one. Just the standard little slip.

She sighed.

Then the doorbell rang.  It was the post girl holding out what looked like a card. "Forgot this. It's too big to go through the door. Somebody's birthday or summat? " The girl was frowning.  She didn't wait for a reply.

Birthday? No thank you. She didn't want that. It wouldn't be for several months. That would be something ls to be miserable about though at least it would be a few years nearer to the time when she could collect the state pension.

She held her breath as she opened the card.

Class 9E. Thank yous. Little verses.

"We miss you."

"Will you come back next year?"

"Thank you. My dad's really proud of my poem."

All beautifully handwritten.

So, perhaps it was worth it after all.       

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 

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