Just Tell Her by Rob Molan, Valpolicella

I loathe coming to London at the best of times. Emerging from Kings Cross railway station just before eleven o’clock, I find the entrance to the Underground closed. The guy standing by it tells travellers the whole system has been shut down and bus services have also been suspended. What the hell’s going on? Whatever the reason, I suppose I better press on by foot even though I get lost every time I visit the capital

I set off down the pavement along with hundreds of others. Police cars and ambulances fly by, lights flashing. After a few minutes, I arrive at a greasy spoon café and dive inside. The windows are streaming with condensation and the tables are covered with vinyl checked tablecloths.

‘Cappuccino, please,’ I say to the dark-haired lady behind the counter.

‘I’ll bring it over to you.’

‘Thanks. By the way, am I heading in the right direction for Liverpool Street if I continue that way?’ I turn and point to the left.

‘Yes, you are.’

I sit down and text Heather to warn her that I’m going to be late.

I fasten my eyes on the television set sitting on a shelf. A female newsreader is speaking.

 ‘To sum up, we have verified reports of three explosions on the Underground and a bus bursting into flames in Russell Square. We will provide you with further updates as more information comes through.’

I wish I was watching this in the comfort of my own home rather than in the centre of the action.

The newsreader pauses for a moment.

‘We are now going over to Downing Street for a report from our correspondent.’

The café falls silent.

‘At a press conference in Downing Street, the Prime Minister, Tony Blair said there has been a coordinated terrorist attack on London this morning resulting in numerous casualties and the entire transport system had been shut down as a precaution against further attacks.’

I feel numb as I listen to this and check my ‘phone but there’s no reply from Heather. I look outside and see lots of bewildered looking folk wandering past.

My coffee arrives. I’ve no idea how long it will take me to get through the metropolitan maze so I’d better head off as soon as I’ve finished this. I’m glad I put on my trainers this morning.

I pay the bill and find the sun is shining brightly when I step outside to resume my trek. Walking along, I mull over our imminent reunion. Heather knows how to manipulate me, her latest call being an example.

‘I’m on a residential course in London next week and will be free from lunchtime on Friday. I want you to come to Liverpool Street station and meet me there. There’s lots we need to talk about. I’m sure you agree.’

I always hate it when she dares me to contradict her views. However, as ever, I agreed to her demand. It’s mad because it’s only two months since our last break up and I promised myself then there was no going back. I’m stuck in a state of limbo caught between her spell over me and the possibility of finding a meaningful relationship with someone else. I know Cheryl holds a torch for me but she won’t wait forever.

I rehearse in my mind what I want to say to Heather.

‘I decided to meet you today so I could tell you face to face that this relationship - if you can call it that - is not doing either of us any good. We need to finally end things and move on with our lives.’

Yet, as I'm thinking this, a memory pops up of Heather coming out of the pool in Majorca last year in that blue bikini and giving me a sultry look, and curling one of her index fingers in my direction. It’s so hard to shake her off.

Walking through the streets, I keep telling myself that I can follow through with my plan but a nagging voice in my head reminds me what a coward I can be. There's no breeze and the heat is stifling, and after a while I decide to turn into a quiet square with public gardens where I can rest. I buy a cold drink from a corner shop and head for a free bench under the trees where I plonk myself down and take a sip. It’s calm here away from the cacophony of emergency services in the distance. I dread to think how many poor souls have been hurt or killed, and whether there have been further attacks.

 

A forty-something lady appears pulling a suitcase. She is wearing a floral print dress and has her auburn hair cut in a Mary Quant style.

 

‘Do you mind if I join you?’

 

‘Be my guest. All dressed up and nowhere to go?’

 

‘Got it in one.’ She has a north American accent. ‘I’ve been walking around for hours with lots of other confused and disoriented folk. It’s as if time has stood still and none of us can move backwards or forwards.’

 

‘I know how you feel.’

 

‘In the circumstances, you either become a stoic or go stir crazy. Boy, do I now regret deciding to break my journey in London. I wasn't bargaining on a visit to Armageddon.’ She sighs.

 

‘Where did you fly in from?’

‘Rome. The US my ultimate destination. Are you stranded yourself?’

 

‘Yep. I travelled up from Peterborough to meet someone.’

 

‘What a drag.’

 

‘By the way, I’m Ian.’

 

‘Cindy’s the name.’ Her green eyes scrutinise me.

 

‘Were you there on holiday?’ I ask.

‘No. I was there trying to connect with my younger self.’ She laughs

‘Did you succeed?’

 

She frowns.

 

‘No. I studied art history there when I was young and lived the dolce vita. It was a wonderful time and it’s where I met the love of my life, Gianfranco.’

 

‘Is he still there?’

 

She shakes her head.

 

‘No, he’s a chubby father of three living in Milan now. But he set the benchmark for how love should feel. Later, I married Harry in my home city Boston and we were happy enough for a few years and set up and ran an art gallery together.’

 

My mobile beeps.

 

‘Excuse me.’

 

I check but it’s not a reply from Heather.  I wonder if she’s okay.

 

‘Sorry to interrupt.’

 

‘Don’t worry. The gallery burned down and was not fully insured for its contents and closed. We blamed each other and our relationship fell apart. I decided that Harry had never made me feel as good as Gianfranco did and jumped at an opportunity to work as an art lecturer in Rome. But it didn’t work out. I was kidding myself I could be the person I was aged twenty and concluded Gianfranco had been a one off as far as Italian men were concerned.’

‘So it’s back home again?’

‘No. I’ve accepted a position with an art auction house in the Midwest. My friends and family think I’m crazy to change profession and to abandon Boston but I’ve decided to break away from old habits and make a completely fresh start in my life.’

A noise like a firecracker breaks the peace and Cindy jumps up.

 

‘Is that gunfire?’ she asks.

 

‘No, It's a car backfiring.’ I point to a passing Mini.

 

‘Thank God.’ She sits down. ‘Now I’ve explained why I’ve ended up here, tell me about the purpose of your visit.’ She looks me in the eye.

 

‘I’m meeting a lady who I’ve have had an on/off relationship with. Every time we break up, she comes back and pleads with me to get back together again. I try to persuade her we’re not suited for each other but each time I end up giving in.’

‘How long has this been going on?’

 

‘For years.’ I feel myself blushing. ‘I’m trying to find it in myself to finally tell her today that it’s over. It’s pathetic really but finding the will and the right words is hard.’

 

She wrinkles her forehead.

 

‘It sounds like you need to stop trying to reason with her. Just tell her it’s over and walk away forever. It’s as simple as that. Your world won’t fall apart as a result. It’s more likely to become a better place.’

 

That’s a change from the advice from my pals who think I’m lucky to have a looker like Heather in my life.

 

‘I wish it was that easy’

 

‘I don’t want to sound like some kinda life coach but it‘s not that difficult when, deep down inside, you want to reinvent yourself. That’s what I’m about to do. A handsome, strapping young guy like you should be enjoying life. Anyway, I promise not to say anything more on the matter.’

 

‘Point taken. I don’t know about you but I think I’ll stay a bit longer in this peaceful oasis.’

 

“Sounds good to me.’

 

We talk about all sorts of things as the afternoon passes. I get a teach in on art and she learns more about computers than she bargained for.  But Heather’s image drifts in and out of my mind as we speak.

 

“I saw an Italian restaurant round the corner,’ she says. ‘Do you fancy heading over there?’

‘Yes. I’m starving.’

The place is quiet when we arrive and we sit by the window. The conversation moves onto our favourite movies over lasagne and tiramisu. When the cappuccinos arrive, I change the topic.

‘I’ve been mulling over what you said earlier about my position. And….’ I’m stopped in my tracks by the sight of a red bus passing. “Look, the transport system must be back up and running.’

‘Thank God,” she says.  “Now, we’ve got our lives back.’

A message arrives on my phone.

‘Sorry about radio silence. Broke my phone this morning. Where are u? xx.’

I type a reply.

‘           In a good place having dinner with someone else. Enjoy the rest of your life.’

I press ‘send.’ I need to block her number now.

‘Everything OK?’ Cindy asks.

‘Couldn’t be better. Let me pay the bill. I’m celebrating.’

Hopefully, King’s Cross has reopened and I’ll get back in time to catch Cheryl when she finishes her shift at the hospital.

 About the author 

Rob lives in Edinburgh but lived in London for many years. He started writing short stories during lockdown. To date, he's had several tales published by Cafe Lit and others in various anthologies. He likes to experiment with different genres and styles of writing. 

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Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go by Karla S. Bryant, a glass of wine

“Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go”

by Karla S. Bryant

 

“Who is H. G. Wells,” I yell out loud at my TV.

The Jeopardy contestant looks hopeful and asks, “Who was Orson Wells?”

I almost choke on my food.

“Sorry,” the host says, “The Time Machine’ was written by H.G. Wells.”

 

I put down my phone, then finish the last bite of my sushi delivered by one of the four Door Dash drivers in town. I look in the fridge for something else to eat. I close the door as soon as I spot the leftover pizza, lean against the fridge, and shut my eyes.

Damn! I know better than this. After the big break-up with Lee Sobieski, I couldn’t eat enough Bassett’s ice cream. Salted caramel pretzel. I loved that ice cream. I loved Lee. I really believed I did. But it hadn’t been a love worth the ten-pound weight gain.

Ben Harmon? I couldn’t even pretend the relationship had been more than an attempt to stave off the nagging feeling that no one cared about me. Like, am I even attractive? Does anybody actually want to be with me? It was exhausting. In the end, truth be told, I didn’t really care about Ben. I no longer found him attractive, and I didn’t really want to be with him. By the time I ended things, it was like pulling off a Band-Aid that had lost its stickiness days ago.

 

I glance at my phone on the counter. Linda had left a voicemail an hour ago. I tap her message.

“Hey, Mimi! You’re going to hate me, but I’m bailing on our Girls Weekend. Jen is having her cake tasting party and I just found out. Ugh! Is this wedding planning never going to end? Let’s reschedule. Sorry for the short notice. Love you!”

I’d been afraid she’d cancel. Fine. She’d probably just talk about the plans for her daughter’s wedding the whole time. I feel like I’d passed the “Always a bridesmaid, never a bride” stage decades ago and was now at the “Always a guest, never a bridesmaid” level.

I pour myself a glass of wine and look out the window at the “skyline” of Mooresville. Only four buildings reach three stories. The rest are one or two stories. There’s the McNeil Trucking Company Headquarters, the Riesman Brothers Window Manufacturing building, the Holiday Inn Express - Mooresville at the PA Turnpike Exchange (it’s actual full name), and the Mooresville High School. I stare down the main street at Mary Beth’s Candle Shoppe, where I’ve worked for three decades.

Even if you’re a close runner-up for a scholarship, if you don’t get it and your parents are scraping to make mortgage payments, college won’t be your path. And once you start working in a small town and dating someone in that small town, you forget about your big city dreams.

I worked for Mary Beth’s Candle Shoppe on weekends and during summers through high school and after graduation, I worked there full time. Mary Beth is pleasant enough, but she’s had enough of it all. She doesn’t want to spend the majority of her days surrounded by Cranberry-Cinnamon, Vanilla Latte, or Northwoods Pine scents. She promoted me to Manager when I turned thirty. The title didn’t mean a lot to me, but what mattered was the raise that went with it. I could afford an apartment of my own. And food. And clothes, within my budget.

I rinse out my wine glass and get ready for bed. Maybe I really live in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania, not Mooresville, Pennsylvania. Every day is a repeat of the one before. I wake up each morning and see the oak tree branches brush against my window. I open my closet and grab whatever seems to go together and get ready for another quiet day at Mary Beth’s Candle Shoppe. It’s not like Mooresville has a tourist season. I know almost all of the local customers and they know me.
I stare at my reflection and run my fingers through my hair. At fifty-three, I’ve somehow avoided gray hair so far. Must be in the genes. But the lines around my eyes are unavoidable.

 

I wake up and the first thing I realize is that there is no oak tree pressed against my window, but elm branches sway in a breeze overhead. And I’m not lying down on my bed. I sit on a… bench? I rub my eyes and look straight ahead. Independence Hall. My conscious mind knows Independence Hall is in Philadelphia, a 4-hour drive from Mooresville. It’s a beautiful fall day and I feel like I’m in the middle of a postcard… but why and how am I here? I’m in Philadelphia? The “big city” that my parents never let me visit because it was “too dangerous”? The city I couldn’t talk my Mooresville friends (or boyfriends) into going to for a weekend? How? In movies, there’s a fade in or fade out before a dream starts. Mine happened in a split second with no warning.

          There’s a man, about twenty-five, to my left on the bench. Thick, dark hair. He has small headphones on and stares down at his Sony Walkman. It can’t really be? I lean forward a bit and can see the cassette reels turning. I gasp.

           “Hey, are you okay?”
           Wow. What a smile. This guy is gorgeous. I notice he’s wearing a bright aqua t-shirt and baggy black pants made from… parachute fabric. Is this guy doing some kind of ‘80s cosplay or something?

I smile back and try to sound as normal as I can. “Sorry! I just haven’t seen a real Sony Walkman in a long time.”
           “No? They’ve been out for like five years.”
            I wonder if he’s all there. “Where did you get it… eBay?”
           “Ebay? I don’t know where that is.”
           Before I can respond to his incomprehensible comment, he adds, “I bought it over at Tower Records.”
           “Tower Records?”
           “You’re something else! You’ve never heard of Tower Records?”
           “I’ve always heard about Tower Records! I mean – where I live there was only one record store and when I’d ask for a new release, they’d always say, ‘Who do you think we are? Tower Records?”

He laughs. “Where do you live? Mars?” He shakes his head and sighs. “I’m a jerk. Didn’t even introduce myself or ask your name. Let’s start over.”
He holds out his hand and smiles – that smile again! “I’m Matt. Matt Baros. What’s your name?”
              I shake his hand. “Mimi. Mimi Sadler.”
              Matt tilts his head, “Mimi. I like it. It’s a nice name.”
              “Thanks.”
              “Mimi,” he says my name as if he’s practicing it. “You want to go to Tower Records with me? It’s just over at 100 South Broad. Maybe a twenty-minute walk.”

“Okay!”

A couple walks by, the man carrying a boom box. He wears a black jacket over a white t-shirt, snug black jeans, boots, and sunglasses. The woman wears a fluorescent pink t-shirt with large black lips on it and a denim jacket slung over her shoulders. Her leggings have a black tiger stripe print against bright pink, and she balances herself well on stilettos.  I can’t make out the song that ended, but the opening bars to “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” blast out.

I stare at Matt. How do I ask him what year it is? How do I find out? I have to find out.
            “Hey, is it okay if I use your phone?”
            “Use my phone?” He looks taken aback. “I don’t live nearby.”

“So?”
            He laughs. “So? What do you mean ‘so’? You think I carry my phone with me? How would that work? It’s on the wall in my kitchen.”
My head is spinning.

I smile. I don’t know what the hell is going on, but I’m beginning to love it. I realize that if I can’t figure out what’s going on, I may as well throw my arms up and enjoy the ride.

 

We walk past a large plate glass window of a store on the corner. I stop, frozen on the spot. I stare at my reflection. I’m my twenty-three-year-old self. What the hell? My hair is permed and styled, and my make-up is dramatically on-point. For the first time, I see I’m wearing snug jeans and an over-sized lime green top that hangs off of one shoulder. If I don’t say so myself, I look damn good and now I see why Matt smiles at me the way he does.

He points at the display. “Those VHS camcorders are crazy, huh?”
           “I guess.”
           “Now, any one of us can be a camera man, like it used to be only the people on a movie set or working in tv. If there’s a birthday, an anniversary, something special like that, you can have an actual movie of it.”
            His amazement is endearing.
            “You could even, “ I say carefully, “Make your own movie. You could write your own script, hire actors, and film it yourself.”
             Matt laughed. “Now that’s going too far, Mimi.”
             He shields his eyes to minimize the reflection on the glass. Matt is startled. “I think they’re selling those Casio calculator watches!”
            “The what?” I must have missed this trend.

He points against the glass and puts his arm around my shoulder. We both lean in.
“Right there, right there. See it? Look how small the calculator buttons are under that screen.”
            “What does the screen show?”
            “The time.”
End of story. I hesitate. Well, why not go for it?
              “Imagine if the Casio calculator watch screen could show you messages from people, from friends, in real time? Or if you could watch actual movies on the screen. It could even tell you your heart rate and how fast you’re walking.”
               Matt laughs. “You’re something, you know that? You’ve got an amazing imagination. Or you’ve been thinking about Dick Tracy watches too much!”
               We laugh and keep walking, past the Reading train station on Arch Street and turn at City Hall. I look up at the statue of William Penn on top of the ornate building.
               “Did you know,” Matt says, “It’s an unwritten rule that no one is allowed to construct a building taller than the top of William Penn’s hat?”
               “What if someone does?”
               Matt shakes his head. “It’ll never happen.”
 

We finally near Tower Records, the yellow and red sign overwhelming everything else on the street. I can’t remember the last time my smile was so big. Matt notices it. He takes my hand, and my heart almost skips a beat. We step inside Tower Records and I’m speechless at the sight of so many albums, so much vinyl! Rows and rows and another story upstairs with more rows and rows.

“Where do you even begin?”
           Matt leads the way. “Start with your favorites.”

He stands in front of a row of albums, the middle tab he looks at is labeled “REM”.

“Oh! I like them, too!”
            “Yeah, they’re from Georgia, I think.”
Matt awkwardly tries to hold on to his Walkman, wires, and headphones while sifting through albums.

“Here.” I extend my hand. “I can hold that for you while you look.”
            “Thanks!”
As he looks through more albums, he asks, “You like any local bands? The Hooters? Tommy Conwell and the Young Rumblers?”

I feel like I’d heard of them when I was… well, twenty-three.
           “Yeah, I do.” I stare at the steps to the upper level. “Matt, do you mind if I take a look upstairs?”
            He’s on a mission flipping through another row of albums. “Sure, go ahead. I’ll stay here.”
            I turn and head towards the stairs. I feel dizzy… I am actually surrounded by albums. I’m in Philadelphia in the 1980s and I have no idea how any of this happened, but I’m relishing every moment. I mean, I have to wake up at some point. I just have never had such a vivid dream before.
             As I walk up the steps, I close my eyes for a moment, inhaling the smells of cardboard and plastic and stale cigarette smoke and some kind of weird incense. All at once, I fall. Like a house of cards. My heel caught on a step at an odd angle, and I can’t catch myself. I don’t want to drop Matt’s Walkman and try to grab the railing with one hand. It doesn’t work. Everything around me blurs as I go down.

 

I open my eyes and look over at the branches of an oak tree pressed against my bedroom window. I lie on my side and stare at it. I know it had all been a dream, but the confirmation of it cuts.  In my mind, I start hearing Bryan Adams’ “It Cuts Like a Knife”.

With a sigh, I try to remember if it’s a weekday or the weekend. I stretch my arms and feel something drop out of my hand. It’s a Sony Walkman.

I pick it up and look at it more closely. It’s an actual Sony Walkman. I pop it open and pull out the cassette. “Tommy Conwell and the Young Rumblers: Rumble”. Scrawled across the label is a name: Matt Baros.

I hold my hands to my chest and look around my bedroom. What had happened? How had it happened? A smile spreads across my face. What in the world could I do to make it happen again?
           One thing was sure. Nothing’s going to happen if I stayed in Mooresville. I shower, take extra care doing my hair and make-up, choose a flattering outfit, and drive to Harrisburg, where I know I can catch a train to Philadelphia.

 

And I do. I stare out the window of the Amtrak passenger car and watch trees, utility poles, farms, and towns flash by. I have no expectations. I only know I have to consciously go on this one adventure. This one crazy, impractical, impulsive adventure.

The train finally stops at 8^th and Market. My app says it’s my destination. Small suitcase in hand, I carefully walk down the steps, go up the escalator, and out on Market Street.

It was as bustling as it had been on my recent visit to the ‘80s. The affluent mix with the not-affluent in a steady stream of pedestrians. It’s noon. Most people may be starting their lunch hour. I join in the flow, I pass Macy’s… which I now know had been John Wanamaker’s department store at one time. I look up. William Penn still looks over the City of Brotherly Love. But massive skyscrapers stand in every direction, dwarfing his one-time status. I lift my iPhone to take a photo. I have the perfect shot. Well, maybe if I stand back a couple yards. I begin to walk backwards and, not for the first time in Philadelphia, fall down. I don’t even know what I tripped on. As I scramble to stand back up and grab my suitcase, I feel a hand on my elbow. Someone is helping me up. I turn around.

A handsome man with salt-and-pepper hair smiles at me. And what a smile.
            “Hey, are you okay?”
            My own smile couldn’t have been brighter. “I think so.” I pause. “Matt, right? Aren’t you Matt Baros?”                              
           He nods and grins, “Yeah, that’s right. We’ve met before?”
          “A long time ago.”
         “I think I should remember you. What’s your name?”
         “Mimi. Mimi Sadler.”
         “Mimi. I like it. It’s a nice name.”

And just like that, I have a second chance. A do-over of my life. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to get it right. This time I’ll grab the chance to live my actual dream. Or whatever it was.

 

About the author 

 

Karla S. Bryant is a published author and essayist. She is also a produced independent screenwriter. She focuses her work on people in midlife, exploring the richness of their layered histories and how they play a part when their lives take unexpected turns. 

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The Barn by Gillian Silverthorn, free spirit mocktail

She moved to mid Wales with her husband, children, two bloodhounds and a saluki, rescued cats, giant rabbits, tortoises, snakes, chickens and a cockrell, some petite quails, and not to mention all the smaller inhabitants of their barn and the wildlife that is welcomed into the house. Their only neighbours are the elderly sheep farmer and his wife who seem to love their flock, although we all know their destiny.

Staying in their field in my camper van for a few days whilst on my travels it dawned on me how happy and content they seem to be, the beauty around them has to help. They walk slower and more relaxed than most folk I know, they take little interest in social media or the outside world.

 

She apologised on behalf of her husband as soon as we arrived in the field, as he adores the clover so much that he cannot bear to mow it. I thought this wonderful and remembered forty years past when I first had a small home and went against my natural feeling, ignoring my desire for a wild garden and instead keeping a perfect green lawn, continually pulling out the odd weed or any flower in the wrong place.

It seems you can't go five minutes here without hearing an animal noise or a bird soaring above you, sweeping in and out of the trees that surround their barn. Their two children play in the garden naked, splashing through water and special rocks found on the ground, and then their mum brings out a large container of slime made from agar agar that they can catapult their trucks into.

 

Waking in my camper the next morning, I stepped down into the uncut dewy field, walking across to their waking world. It seemed no more hectic or rushed than the previous day despite the kitchen floor being strewn with cooked noodles that the youngest had thrown out of her high chair and the casual mention from husband to wife that you can't vacuum up yesterday's slime jelly. Maybe on a school day it's different but somehow I can't see these two getting stressed over the small things that most parents do. I believe I possessed this attitude to life when I was eighteen with my first born but gradually the times change along with us.

 

Their youngest is taken out of her highchair where she has a quick wipe over with the wet tea towel and is left to wobble about, having just learnt to walk and inquisitively check everything out in sight. She climbs up onto a chair at the old piano and lifts one leg up, bashing out a tune with her foot, Jerry Lee Lewis style, while her mum tells her to be careful but leaves her to work it out herself as little harm would come if she tumbled.

 

These small beautiful beings seem to be as carefree and not that different from the gentle animals around them. Like the animals they are learning survival from a young age, a fine balance between taking risks and being tethered.

 

About the author

 

Gillian Silverthorn grew up in a village in Hampshire before moving later in life to Cornwall where she lives with her husband Kevin. In the last few years she has taken up writing short stories and poems. 

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Dead and Buried by Sam Hutchins, The Graveyard Smash

 

The fascination of the two skeletons was that they had been found lying on their backs in a shallow grave. The man and woman had seemingly died together and had been buried linking arms. Any evidence of organic material had long since disintegrated in the acidic soil. I was intrigued by the find: the stark grave, orientated towards the east, might be a Christian burial, but it was independent of any graveyard or church building. It might also be a pagan inhumation.

The tomb had been found early that morning by the driver of the mechanical digger. The skeletons were unscathed: the metal teeth of the digger had cleared the bodies by centimetres and the loose earth filling the oval grave had fallen free revealing the features of one of the skulls. The discovery was remarkable: it was the first substantial find outside of the fragments of pottery and the numerous potholes and would be useful in dating the occupation of this early medieval village. I asked two members of my team to clean the skeletons and, though the task was laboriously long, requiring fine tools: trowels, brushes and dental picks, the skeletal couple were completely presentable for their photographs and sketch session by mid-afternoon.

By late afternoon the winter dusk began falling, casting disfiguring shadows across the site. The roar of the excavator further down the hill hushed and I told my team to cover their work areas with polystyrene boards and plastic sheets against any nightly frost or rain. When all was ready, I threw my helmet and safety shoes into the boot of my car, exchanging these for my headband and some tatty, blue plimsolls. I drove home.

The drive back to Birmingham was eternal, but at least the heavy traffic was flowing the other way. I thought of Sasha who was probably home by now. She was my earthly support when morale was low and frustration with work almost unbearable, my economic support when I was between jobs, my partner for sports and sex. Here, the romantic picture of the buried lovers on the hill came to mind. I wasn’t sure that I was ready for Sasha to be my earthly partner in the spiritual sense of eternal togetherness, but the burial of the two lovers – if lovers they were – did show a certain commitment. Was I ready for that with Sasha?

I parked the car outside a high brick wall and was distracted for a moment by my black silhouette against the cracks and joints of the overbalanced wall; it would topple over soon, pushed up by the roots of the pollards. I grabbed my bags and breathed in the refreshing smell of the first heavy raindrops before making a run across the road. Going through the hinged gate I saw Sasha watching me from the kitchen window. I put my head down and fairly scuttled to the front door. On pushing myself into the hallway, along with the fierce draught from the oncoming storm, Elsy, one overfed collie, launched herself at my legs.

‘Down, girl, down Elsy,’ I ordered, knowing that she would not obey; she never did. It took Sasha to do that.

‘Stop Elsy,’ she ordered before smiling at me and giving me a warm kiss on the mouth.

She drew back instantly. ‘Ouch! That hurt me.’

‘What!’ I saw a pinprick of blood on her upper lip. ‘Sorry love.’ I licked my thumb to rub it off. ‘I’d better have a shave and then I want to print off the photos from the site.’ I watched Sasha roll the tip of her tongue along her lip before offering to print the photos for me. ‘And then tomorrow,’ I continued, throwing my satchel on the sofa, ‘I’ll ask Mike to dismantle the two skeletons, the ones I phoned you about, and crate them off to the museum lab. The curator’s team should be able to give me the results of their analysis in a few weeks.’

‘Fantastic find! What’ll happen to the couple afterwards?’ Sasha asked, inserting the camera wire into the computer so she could download the pictures before printing.

‘They’ll probably be stored somewhere in the museum cellar unless there’s room to display them.’

‘What a shame they can’t be re-buried together.’ She sighed as she bent over the desk. ‘It seems wrong to disturb the dead.’

‘They’d have been destroyed by the new by-pass anyway; it is a rescue excavation after all.’

‘Look Simon,’ she said, picking up the first picture as it rolled out of the printer. ‘Don’t you think these raindrops on this skull look like tears? They even look sad at the prospect of being separated.’

I had to laugh. ‘Always so melodramatic! It wasn’t even raining this afternoon. But that’s enough of work: I’m tired, dirty. I probably stink. I need a shower.’ I swung myself around the doorpost into the bathroom.

The following day the stormy weather continued. The weeks of fine weather were over and the dry, ‘clean’ excavation suddenly turned into a quagmire of slippery mud and ponds of water. It looked like a battlefield. Work had to be abandoned for the next few days. I was furious, frustrated: it meant more delays. As it was, my colleagues and I had so little time to examine the site before it was destroyed. It meant more work pressure. I would have to leave the two skeletons to rest.

However, the weather was surprisingly clear at the weekend. I made the most of this by deciding to work whilst the weather held. Sasha came along. Dressed in a green parka, with wellington boots and her brown hair tied back, she looked quite the part. I had put on my workman’s kit of dun-coloured trousers, helmet and steel-capped boots. Together we uncovered some of the work areas and I showed Sasha the grave.

‘You found them just like this?’ she asked.

‘Yep. Undisturbed for about fifteen hundred years, give or take a century.’

‘Don’t you sometimes feel like a graverobber?’ She had frowned when she said this, but I knew she was also curious to know more.

‘Archaeologists are not graverobbers: we don’t steal from anyone since everything belongs to our cultural heritage and is given to museums.’

‘You sound like a tourist guidebook.’ She shook her head as though in despair at my lack of sensitivity. ‘So, what can I do to help restore our cultural past?’

‘You can start by cutting that section of the ditch.’ I pointed to a point of ground nearby.

‘You can sketch the cut and its stratigraphic layers whilst I dismantle the two skeletons.’ I handed her a crate with some drawing pads, pencils and plastic sample bags.

A number of visitors from the local village came to look at the site. An elderly farmer stopped and asked some questions. About to leave, he said, ‘This grave reminds me of an old story my grandfather told me when I was a lad.’

I wasn’t that interested in any myth-building that had been made over the generations but politely asked him what the story was.

‘He told me that long, long ago this slope was occupied by a small village. There lived a young stonemason, happy, handsome, and poor…’ He stopped.

‘And the woman?’ I prodded.

‘She was the daughter of the local priest – priests could marry then you understand. She was also handsome, comfortable, but unhappy; she was unhappy because she was suffering from an unreciprocated love with the young man. He was building a church for the village but was not interested in her. So, in desperation, she went to visit a wicca, an old witch that is, who made her a charm band. It is said that the young woman even sold her soul to the devil in exchange for the man’s love. Still, the man wanted nothing to do with her. Feeling harassed and tormented by the woman, the man left the village to fight as a mercenary in one of the Frankish or Saxon wars abroad and so make his fortune. He never returned—’

‘Wait a minute,’ I interrupted, ‘you’re saying he never returned. Then how did he end up back here with a second skeleton on his arm?’

‘Let me finish my tale,’ the old man said, tapping his forehead. ‘The woman would not take rejection. Disguised as a man, she followed him, and signed up with him so they could fight side by side. It was disguised as a man that her beloved fell in love with her and that is when she realized that the witch’s spell had, in fact, worked: the man only loved men.’

‘So, what happened after that?’

‘That is why it’s a sad story: as a man she could not reciprocate his love; both desired the other but could not be satisfied. In one battle the man was mortally wounded. The woman managed to pay for their passage home, but her heart was too weak. On that fateful journey, she lay down next to her lover, and wrapped the wicca’s charm band around their arms before she died too. Their bodies were brought back to this village and, as their arms were bound together, they were buried alongside one another in the same grave.’

‘But not in the village cemetery,’ I added.

‘Well no. They weren’t married and the girl’s father would have nothing to do with his run-away soldier-daughter; he wouldn’t let her be buried in consecrated ground.’ The farmer shivered as he ended his story. ‘Just a myth, yes, but good for the tourists.’

The farmer had become cold standing there so he offered to help me carry the two crates of bones to the car along with a metal bracelet which had been found with the bones.

‘So, the witch’s spell did work,’ the old man said, ‘but the witch also warned that whoever broke the charm lock would have a price to pay. There has to be a message in there somewhere, something like beware the anger of a scorned woman.’

‘Yes, it’s one letter short of ‘danger’,’ Sasha threw in as she arrived at the car with her crate and sketches.

The old man laughed before trudging off across the fields.

 

After that, the weather remained fine but I was dogged by work. I began to feel exhausted and slept badly. Work put a strain on my relationship with Sasha and we began to quarrel. It was nothing at first, meaningless bickering, which I sometimes managed to diffuse. One evening, for example, I didn’t leave my desk to join Sasha at the kitchen table - I had to finish a report first. Angry - but here she was a bit extreme - she gave my dinner to the dog. She’d put my plate on the floor with a knife and fork on either side and then drawn an arrow in chalk with a message saying, ‘Simon’s dinner, eaten by the dog.’ She went to bed. When I eventually came into the kitchen and saw it, I had to think of a good riposte.

When Sasha got up the next morning and went into the kitchen she first shrieked in horror and then almost gagged. I rolled out of bed: I had to see her face, and I wanted to appreciate my artwork. On the tiled floor, I had drawn a small coffin. On the lid I had written: ‘Elsy - R.I.P’. Beside the coffin I had added an arrow pointing to a message: ‘Dog, killed by Sasha’s cooking.’ It’s a good thing she had a sense of humour because that is what made her laugh and broke the ice between us.

But it couldn’t last. As the weeks went by, it seemed to both of us that there was never a moment when we didn’t argue. I was to blame for a lot of it, I know: I thought of nothing but work; Sasha just retreated into herself.

At work I hired a remote pilot to fly a drone over the excavation and take air photographs. Flying low over the site I was struck by the bareness of the escarpment. The few remaining trees surrounding the excavation looked dead and destroyed. Some of them had been partly pulled down or split apart by the mechanical digger so that they looked like the decayed ramparts of some deserted hill fort. Within the line of trees, structural outlines were clearly defined in the brown earth, but what was most clearly visible on the stripped ground beneath was the empty grave.

The drone pilot, a young enthusiast from the British Archaeological trust, was enjoying flying all around the site. Over the grave he let slip, ‘Looks like a black eye.’ I frowned at him and took another look. He was right: the oval hole did look like a black eye, and it was staring unblinkingly at me. Disconcerted, I scratched my rough chin.

‘No, don’t be daft; it looks more like the outline of a small boat. A good find: they were buried in a boat.’

I clapped the young man on the back and then turned away to look at the extent of the encroaching new road: it would split the ancient village in two. The speedy construction of this dividing line was another painful reminder of how close I was to my own deadline. I shook my head; I felt another migraine coming.

‘We can stop that now,’ I said to the drone pilot. ‘We’ve got enough pictures.’

 

At the regional museum the osteologist had just completed her bone analysis on the two skeletons: the couple were in their early twenties, from the eighth century and, going by their DNA, they were of Germanic descent. With 3D imagining she had also reconstructed the two faces, giving them skin, brown hair, eyebrows, blue eyes. She had used me as her model for the man so there were certain similarities between us, even down to my untidy hair and dimple.

‘Did you have to use me as the model?’

‘Only a little bit,’ she said, grinning. ‘It’s mostly down to the bone formation of the skull.’

‘What else did you find?’ I asked, slurping warm coffee from a paper cup.

 ‘The man was killed by a weapon,’ she resumed, ‘a sword or dagger, that cut into his ribcage, but I can’t determine the cause of death for the young woman - a broken heart perhaps.’

I crushed my paper cup into the bin. ‘Yeh, right!’

The museum’s curator wasn’t sure what to do with the silver armband or bracelet: there was so little space in the museum, but the Anglo-Saxon burial would make an interesting addition to the permanent early medieval collection. The curator was also hoping to obtain further material from the British Museum in London to complete the display. Perhaps I would be free to help with this, he’d asked, especially since the excavation was now over, which reminded me again of my new status of unemployed.

Sasha had decided to leave me. Our final argument had begun just after the excavation had been flattened for the new road. We had financial difficulties and I didn’t have another contract after the site report was finished. Sasha accused me of being morose and ill-tempered, criticizing everything she said or did. We were already sleeping apart – I was on the sofa. I could not understand how this had happened to us. We had a furious row over breakfast because the milk was sour – or perhaps it was just because we were sharing a meal together.

‘I’m leaving,’ Sasha shouted, throwing her bowl into the sink, where it broke. ‘I can’t take any more of your moods, your bloody-mindedness, your selfishness. I’ve had it.’

‘That’s fine by me because I don’t need you. You keep the flat and I’ll find a new place and a new job - as a grave digger perhaps - I’m good at that; might as well change my whole life at the same time.’

‘Yes, you might even get a discount for digging your own grave!’ She had stormed out of the flat.

Skulking in London, I spent a few days doing some research in the British Library trying not to think of Sasha whilst constantly checking my telephone for WhatsApp messages from her, but she didn’t send me any sign of life. Oh yes, there was one: ‘I’ve changed the locks and your bags are in the dustbin.’

I ignored her too and decided to do some work at the British Museum. I visited the Anglo-Saxon collection on the upper floor and had a coffee with an old colleague who worked there. I even managed to arrange the loan of some of the jewellery for the museum collection in Birmingham. But I wasn’t enjoying my lone stay in London - I missed Sasha; being apart from her somehow felt like the end of my life.

Leaving the British museum at dusk, thinking of Sasha as I crossed the busy road, I was distracted momentarily by the disfigured outline of another shadow behind me against the iron grilling: it looked like a witch. I stopped. I looked at it. And didn’t see or hear the black cab racing towards me - I felt it of course, the sharp stab in my chest, the tear in my heart, the wicca’s curse. I fell.

 

In Birmingham, the museum curator began laying out the bones in their display cabinet. The two skeletons had been placed within a small, reconstructed boat with a touch screen for visitors to scroll through the phases of the excavation and the three-dimensional faces and dress of the couple. Just one final touch, the armband was added, and the couple were linked as they had originally been in their grave: arm-in-arm. The curator smiled, recognising the face of Simon on the screen. And if I’d been there, I might have smiled too.

About the Author:

Sam Hutchins grew up in London to a single working class mother and an unknown father, something which motivates her interest in self-identity and the past. She now lives in France where she teaches English literature and creative writing at Orléans University. She writes books, articles and short stories.