A visit from Samuel By Jane Spirit tea and ginger cake

 

No, it hasn’t been a good day, to be honest, Samuel. I’m afraid you’ve caught me at a bad time. You won’t mind me if I’m a bit quiet, will you? Yes, of course, you can stay. You’re always welcome here, you know that. Put the kettle on if you want a drink. Just help yourself.

Yes, OK, I’ll have a cup of tea too. Thanks for that. Just put it down here on the table. Whoops, let me make some space. There you go. Have a seat for a bit. Sorry I was a bit down just now. I know I shouldn’t let it get to me when one of the residents dies. It’s hardly unexpected after all. It’s hard to explain, but I guess it’s a bit like having children. You always want to keep them safe, and you try to see the good in them. Well, if not the good, at least some unique spark that marks them out. Getting old doesn’t change that, though it sometimes makes it harder to understand and maybe make the resident light up from time to time. It’s hard work, finding a way through their silences or listening patiently to them repeating a phrase endlessly. And even then, how well can you really get to know someone whose had nearly a lifetime of experience. Even so it always seems odd to come into what was their space and see just an empty bed, the chair they liked to sit in, and the few belongings ready for the family to collect already stashed on the bedside table. Sadness always catches me in my throat. Then I make myself carry on, for the others you see. They need getting up, washing, dressing, brushing and combing too so I just keep moving.

Great tea, thanks. Help yourself to some of that ginger cake auntie left if you want some. It’s in the kitchen; silver tin. Yes, you’re right, I should probably eat something. Maybe cut us both a piece? Thanks. And sorry for talking at you about my problems. I’ll be fine now and I’m sure my favourite nephew hasn’t popped by just to listen to me going on? I thought not. OK, of course you can look through my photos again if you want to. Over there on the bottom shelf. Yes, those big albums. Is that why you’ve popped by after school? Your mum mentioned you were thinking of taking photography at college. That will make two photographers in the family, she said. Made me smile. Only thing is, Samuel, I think your mum may have bigged me up a bit too much to you and your sister. I think it must be a little sister, big brother thing. You wait, Samuel, you’ll feel the same way when Sasha looks up to you just for being at college. You’re laughing now, but you’ll be amazed when it happens!

Hey, what do you think of the playground pictures in my portfolio? I had a lot to learn when I took those of course; like how to take a decent picture ha-ha! I’m glad I’ve made you smile now too. Can you find yourself in any of them? Yes, look, there you are in the kiddies’ play area near the flats. You know I still like those old black and white prints a lot. Stark and simple with the geometric lines of the climbing frame towering over you and your friends. Now look at you, taller than me and doing so well. Sorry to be the boring uncle, amazed that you’re almost grown up. Look, I don’t want to put you off, Samuel, but don’t get carried away with it will you? I’m never going to make it as a photographer, you know. I do okay out of the weddings if I can get them, but look at me, I’m still working at the care home. I’m never going to be famous like I wanted to be when I was your age. Even so, I can’t lie to you. There is something exciting about finding you’ve taken a decent picture. When you look at it and maybe let yourself believe that for once you got it almost right. I’d like to have had more of that, Samuel, made a habit of it, even a lifetime of it; standing back to witness the world with an eye to what my next picture would reveal.

Can I show you another photograph now, if you’ve got time? It’s tucked at the far end of the top shelf. Yes, that’s it. I’d like you to see it. Just between you and me, I haven’t said too much to your mum about it, in case she goes boasting to everyone about me being in it. I’m still a bit shy I suppose.

Oh yes, the photographer who took it won lots of prizes. You can tell he knows just how to set up a picture, can’t you? He sent me that copy as a thank you for being included in that picture when he came to take some portraits in the care home. This one made his next exhibition. Not that many people at work were interested and I don’t think management were thrilled with how it showed the place. The rooms have had a makeover since then; out with the comforting chintzy wallpaper and in with clean emulsions and luminous feature walls.

Yes, that’s right, it was taken on the floor I still work on. It was George’s room at the time. And you see that out of focus hand top left, just above George’s head? Well, that’s mine bringing the comb towards George’s head to tidy his hair a little. I think my blurry hand is only in it to give an impression of some action, as a contrast to George. He’s the centre of attention; an old man sitting upright on a simple wooden chair with the floral-patterned wall behind him. His eyes are almost closed, do you see? That’s nothing the photographer asked him to do. It was just what he did when I tidied his hair. It was as if he was shielding his eyes from the stray hairs that might fall loose. Or maybe he was remembering the gentle rhythm of his mother combing his hair now that it was light and soft as a baby’s again. Or perhaps he was dreaming for a moment of some long-ago lover who had teased their fingers through his once abundant locks. He seemed to like being groomed in any case. And he always welcomed my helping him to get into the clothes we chose together from his mahogany wardrobe, which was over there, out of shot. That day he was wearing his favourite combination; grey tailored trousers and a gold-coloured jumper embossed with diamond shapes. Both were a little too large for him. George would be adjusting the trouser belt and pushing up the jumper cuffs repeatedly all day as if reassuring himself through their touch. I could only suppose he had shrunk a little in his old age, though the clothes themselves were smart and seemed almost new.

A year or so later, I visited the exhibition and read the caption placed alongside the life-size photo-portrait of George. That’s when I found out that George had shared his life with another man for sixty years. He had feared that his partner, ailing with dementia, would not be treated well if the relationship had been declared, and so he had nursed him alone at home rather than risk being separated from him by officialdom. When his partner died, he’d moved into our care home.

 

I stood for a long time absorbing the blown-up image of him alone on its white wall, wondering whether he had never felt able to mention the love of his life to me for fear that he too might be rejected, even ousted from his safe space. I wished that I had succeeded in gaining George’s trust enough to truly know him. And I listened to all the things people were saying about him sitting calmly there in the picture. Some even commented on the presence of my blurred hand as I edged the comb towards his thin white hair. The image seemed to commemorate his dignity; compliant in the morning ritual of hair combing whilst dressed for comfort in his deceased partner’s clothes. Even so, the picture alone would never be able to tell his whole story without the words being displayed next to it, filling his silence. And my blurred hand seemed to me to carry the same inadequacy. How could the fleeting presence it represented begin to tell my unspoken story; relieved as I was to be employed, but knowing I would never be bold enough to pursue my dreams openly? 

Don’t worry about me when you get home though, Samuel. I’m content with my life, I really am. Tomorrow I will get back to it. I’ll try to keep the residents as happy as they can be, to delve into their stories, to share in what memories I can glean from their conversation. I see that as no small achievement. And I still get to take photographs from time to time of smiling people in their wedding clothes, touching hands, happy in their moment. I capture images for them of the joy that life can bring, if only for a day. That is quite something too, Samuel. Yes, as your mother would say, it is all worth celebrating. Think about it as you’re heading home; could an ordinary life still be one you should aspire to?

about the author

Jane lives in Woodbridge, Suffolk UK. With the encouragement of the local creative writing class she has been writing stories over the past few years, some of which have appeared on Café Lit. Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the author the other half goes to expenses e.g. Maintaining the web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.

he Murders of the Hospital Social Workers Part 2

The Murders of the Hospital Social Workers Part 2

At lunch, Mary ordered a hamburger patty and asked for a steak knife to cut it. She said it was cooked too well done and hard to cut.

When dietary asked if they could take away her tray after lunch, Mary had removed the knife and had wrapped it in a napkin and hid it under her blanket. Gloria’s turn was tonight. Instead of a fork in the neck, Mary planned to stab her in the back as hard as she could. She had regained much of her strength and at 5’6’, 160 lbs., she was sure she could overpower the petite Gloria, if necessary.

 Oh joy, oh joy, revenge is so sweet. I don’t care what they do to me if they catch me, but these two bitches will be gone…gone forever so they can’t put people like me into nursing homes ever again. I know they are doing it for profit and not because they care or because it is in my best interest. I heard the nurses talking that most of their patients are put in homes. Not me. No way. I’m doing the world a service by getting rid of these parasites that are feeding off of old people and their assets.

##

            ‘Hey Joe,’ said Kelby. ‘Something does not add up.’

            ‘Like what?’ replied Miller.

            ‘I’ve been reading though the last six months of Rose’s files and the majority of her patients were sent to rehab or nursing homes. They weren’t discharged to their own homes. That seems odd to me.’

            ‘I noticed the same thing, partner. Maybe they have a high percentage of people needing that kind of care?’

            ‘There should some kind of means where a percentage are above and a percentage are below. I calculated eighty percent and that seems awfully high.’

            ‘I agree.’

##

            ‘It was a few minutes to five. Mary strolled down the hall past Gloria’s office. Another murder was about to be committed. Another crooked social was about to get axed.

            Mary quietly walked in the room and pushed the door closed. She used a cane now not a walker. The knife was in her robe pocket; her hand on the handle. She got behind Gloria as she wrapping up a phone call. Gloria didn’t see her as she put the receive down. Mary took the knife out of her pocket and with both hands, as hard as she could, shoved it into her upper back area near the neck. Gloria was so surprised she couldn’t call out. In a fit of rage, Mary pulled the knife out and stabbed her again this time in the neck causing Gloria to fall on her desk, dead.

            Mary left the knife in her neck and threw the gloves in the trashcan. She opened the office door and casually walked out into the hallway. Mary saw she had a few drops of blood on the front of her robe. When she got back to her room, she went into the restroom and washed it off.

            ‘Your dinner is here, Mary,’ said the dietary technician through the lavatory door.
            ‘I’ll be out in a minute. Just leave it on the tray table.’

            Mary was able to rinse the blood drops off, then flushed the toilet, and went to eat her supper. She enjoyed her favorite food which was chicken breast, mashed potatoes, mixed vegetables, cake, and coffee for dessert.

            It wasn’t long after Mary started eating that Gloria’s body was found. From the sound of it, her boss found her dead, slumped over her desk. Within an hour the commotion was back with the police and all the technicians roping off the area and walking back and forth. Mary finished dinner; dietary took the tray away and she got back into bed, turned the TV on low and fell appeared like she was asleep. Two down and one more to go. I must get the bastard responsible for this situation. That’s the big boss himself, Bob Rousseau. The cops will have a hard time figuring out who killed that parasite social worker. If they have half a brain, they we’ll see that both these women were on the take and that made for a lot of suspects.

##

            Miller and Kelby walked around the latest murder scene. It wasn’t much different than the first except the murderer used a knife instead of a fork and it was shoved it in the victim’s back first and then pulled out and shoved into the back of the neck. The common thread was they both were social workers. Neither Miller nor Kelby wanted to state the obvious which was someone hated social workers so much that they are going around killing them. But why? This time, they would need to pull all of Gloria’s files and go back to the office to see if there is something that tied both murders together.

##

            ‘Kelby…I’m seeing the same pattern with this one that I saw with the first murder. A high rate of home and rehab placements,’ said Miller.

            ‘I am convinced it’s a patient or a family member of a patient who did this,’ replied Kelby.

            ‘But for what reason. If the patient needed to be in a facility, then why?’

            Ah…but what if the person didn’t need to be institutionalized. What if they received a bad report from Physical Therapy and/or Occupational Therapy and was put there against their will? What if this was small but organized group doing this?’

            ‘But what would the social worker gain?’

            They both looked at each other and shouted, ‘Money!’

            ‘We need to pull their financials and see if they had received some kind of monetary gain and if so, how much,’ said Miller.

            ‘They’d be stupid to put in the bank,’ replied Kelby.

            ‘No one said they were smart, greedy yes…smart, I don’t think so. Besides, if they were getting kickbacks, they could be paid off in cash or in items that were not cash related. Either way maybe they were living a lavish lifestyle. I think we are going to see that their spending habits do not match their income.’

            While Kelby checked into their bank accounts, what kind of car they drove, and where they lived, Miller called Dr. Delmonico to run some ideas by him.

##

            ‘Good evening, Joe. What can I do for you tonight?’ said Dr. Delmonico.

            ‘We just came from Van Nuys Hospital where two social workers have been murdered over the past two days.’

            ‘A second one? I read about yesterday’s murder in today’s paper, but now you are saying there’s another death. Was it a man or a woman?’

‘A woman.’

‘How was it done?’

            ‘The first was with a fork to the side of the neck and this one was a knife in the upper back first and second thrust was in the back of the neck.’

            ‘It sounds like the person is evolving, becoming more violent. The first murder was quick. A one-shot deal. The second was two strikes. More anger here. Like take that, and that. So, tell me do you know if your suspect is a man or a woman?’

            ‘That’s the thing. We don’t have a clue. We think it’s a patient or a patient’s family member because we know that both social workers had a high rate of placing patients into nursing homes and rehab facilities.’

            ‘Well…I would say based on that, I’d say it’s anger or revenge… someone went into a home against their will or someone is going into a home and a family member or the person themselves isn’t too happy about that and they are about to have their assets confiscated to pay for it. They are taking it out on the social worker. You mentioned that there was a high rate of placement by these two workers into homes. How high?’

            ‘The first one was 80 percent. The second one we haven’t figured out yet. We don’t know anything yet as the murder was just committed but it looks like it was just about as high.’

            ‘I think you have a kickback scheme going on between the home and the social workers.’

            ‘Kelby and I thought the same thing.’

            ‘You need to do a cross check which homes and rehab facilities were used. I know this will be a lot of work but you need to see if all the placements went exclusively to these facilities and if so, pull the records of the facilities. They will try to write the kickback off under office supplies, remodeling, cash, or miscellaneous. You need to go back through the records at least six months with the facilities and unfortunately you will need a court order. They will try to pull patient confidentiality as a reason for not giving you the information. Good luck.’

            ‘You think the person will continue to kill?’

            ‘How many more social workers are left at the hospital?’

            ‘On the floor with the two dead women were found? Only their boss is left.’

            ‘Then I predict he’s next. Someone and I think it’s only one person was pushed over the edge will try again tomorrow. The person believes they are ridding the world of scum. This person was told he or she that they would have to go to a facility…and she or he said no and decided to take revenge… Joe?’

            ‘Yes?’

            ‘Both social workers were killed within a day and they worked on the same floor. I think you need to look for a patient that is not in a facility yet but has been slated to go…against their will.’

            ‘When do you think the person will strike?’

            ‘There is no reason to think the murderer will change their modus operandi. He or she will want to strike tomorrow at the same time. You need to be in control of the next situation because this person will try again.’

            ‘Thanks Dr. Delmonico.’

##

            ‘So, what did Dr. Delmonico say?’ said Kelby.

            ‘There will be another murder tomorrow night at the same time,’ replied Miller. ‘He thinks it is a current patient who these social workers were trying to shove into a home and he or she will be going after the boss. We need to get their first,’ replied Miller.

            ‘How do you want to play it?

            ‘Let’s go to the property department…I’ll explain on the way.

##

            I am doing my physical therapy just like I’m supposed to. Nobody knows I’m strolling by the big boss’s office in order to check everything out so I can rid this place of vermin and the poor victims of the last of the stinking dirty slime. The three of them were nothing but blood suckers. Funding their lavish lifestyles off the backs of the disabled and old people. The nerve. They should be ashamed. All of them. They can all die…die. Tonight, the last one will join them…The ringleader. I bet he lives in a mansion and drives a Mercedes. Well, too bad, so sad, for him. He’s going to meet his maker soon…very soon. 

##

            It was three o’clock when Miller and Kelby returned to the hospital. They spoke to the Bob Rousseau and explained their plan. At 4:30, he was to leave his office, and placed in police protection for his own good. Miller got a mannequin from the property department and dressed to look like Rousseau and put him in his chair. His back was to the door: the same position the women sat. The dummy had the phone in his hand, a tape recorder in the drawer with his voice talking like he was on the phone. The scene was set. Now everyone must wait to see who showed up. Miller was in Rousseau’s private bathroom walkie-talkie in hand; Kelby was in the closet. Would the person come back and try it again? If he or she doesn’t, then the person would get away with two murders.

            It was five to five. Miller and Kelby heard footsteps outside the door. Miller said, ‘All positions, hold…I repeat…hold.’

            The door silently opened. Miller could see a figure on a cane but that was all. Kelby couldn’t see anything.

            Then, the figure took a knife and shoved it into the head of the dummy.

            ‘Alright, freeze…drop the knife,’ said Miller.

            Mary stood upright…surprised that she hadn’t killed the boss.

            She yelled, ‘You must let me get him too. Don’t you understand? He’s no damn good.’

            Kelby came over and grabbed Mary’s hand. They both saw a frail older woman on a cane and for a moment, he felt pity for her…only for a moment, but she was a murderer. Kelby couldn’t forget that…nor could he forget that the social workers she killed and the situation drove her to this. Bob Rousseau would be arrested too. Numerous charges from accepting kickbacks to tax evasion to whatever else they could dig up plus all the nursing homes and rehab facilities and the fraud that was committed. Mary inadvertently discovered a whole ring of thieves but instead of bringing it to the proper authorities, she took the law into her own hands. Maybe it was her being scared that she would go to a home…who knows? But this house of cards just fell.

            Mary was still a patient. She was escorted to her room by a police woman. A guard would be posted.

            Bob Rousseau was escorted out. ‘You have the right to remain silent,’ said Kelby.

            ‘I want my lawyer,’ said Rousseau.

            ‘That will be arranged.’

            Miller stood there as his partner walked him to elevator. He watched as Mary went back to her room and got into bed. Miller shook his head. He felt sorry for Mary even though she was a murderess. She came into the hospital to get better and resume her life and now she faces two murder charges and attempted murder charges.

            Miller and Kelby solved the case but all they felt was sadness for Mary and anger for this den of thieves. It shouldn’t have ended this way…but it did.

About the  author

 Since becoming disabled in 2015, Maxine took up her passion for writing. She has been published several times in the Los Angeles Daily News, The Epoch Times, Nail Polish Stories, DarkWinterLit, BrightFlashLiteraryReview, OtherwiseEngagedLit, CafeLit, Maudlin House, and TheMetaworker.com. 

 

The Girl Who Had Everything by Steve Marc Gerson; Water, Flat

The Girl Who Had Everything

Next to her bed, on a brown table, sat a potted plant that had not been watered in weeks. It was as brown as a cigar stub smoked down to ashes. On the table also sat a glass of water, flat, one could even say dry, if wet could be dry.

As she sat on her bed, she saw from her window dusk arriving on the winter solstice. She was 35 and alone.

"Remember?" she asked her napping cat, it responding as cats do with nonchalant indifference.

"Remember when?" but she could go no further.

Everyone said she had had promise. After all, she had graduated number one in her homeschool class. She had read more books than any of her acquaintances, having more time to fill, writing detailed synopses in her diary that no one would read. She had traveled the world as a teen, her dad holding her hand when she crossed unbusy streets in unbusy villages. She learned three languages with no one to speak to. She went to college but left early, stating that none of the other students were “serious.” They graduated. She watched them have full lives.

She had accumulated more of everything that no one wanted.

Now, she was alone, contemplating her life, as empty as the box of dreams on her bedside table, the box becoming cobwebbed. Dead motes gathered in its brown corners.

Turning to look out her window, she saw what appeared to be the night's first star.

"I wish I may, I wish. . . ." She stopped, realizing the vision wasn't a star but the navigation light on a distant plane. The light was blinking. The plane was flying away, somewhere. The light dimmed. The light disappeared.

And dusk diminished into darkness.

Steve Gerson writes poetry and flash about life's dissonance. He has published in many journals plus his 11 chapbooks: Once Planed Straight; Viral; And the Land Dreams Darkly; The 13th Floor; What Is Isn’t; There Is a Season; Have Not; Who Am I Today; Dystopia; Grim; and Through Shadows.

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the author the other half goes to expenses e.g. Maintaining the web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.

Lockdown Spuds by Sarah Swatridge, A Cup of Tetley

Mr Silver was dithering about in the tiny village supermarket. Jo, on the checkout could hear the grumbles because he wasn’t keeping to the rules.

It was tricky to keep 2 metres apart in such a small shop, but they were limiting the number of customers allowed in at any one time. Jo wasn’t sure what else they could do to keep the shop open, whilst managing the risk of people mixing. In her heart, she knew the village shop was a real life-line, in the small, rural village. In fact, more so now than ever!

Unfortunately, Mr Silver seemed to be concentrating more on his shopping list than being aware of the other customers around him. At least he was wearing his mask properly, that was something.

Jo served another customer, watching as they left through one door and nodding to the next in line at the queue that had formed outside. What times we are living in! She thought.

‘Mr Silver!’ she called but he didn’t seem to hear. It was possibly her mask disguising her voice. ‘Excuse me one moment,’ she said to the customer who was beginning to unload their shopping.

‘Mr Silver, don’t forget we have a one-way system,’ she said gently and tried to steer him forward rather than letting him turn round and retrace his steps.

‘But I need potatoes. I can’t find them. I thought they’d be near the door with all the other veg.’

‘I’m afraid we haven’t got any potatoes left. Hopefully, we’ll have another delivery tomorrow, but I can’t say for sure.’

‘But I can’t go home without potatoes. What will Pamela say?’

‘I’m sure she’ll understand, under the circumstances,’ Jo glanced back toward the cash desk. ‘I need to go and serve Mrs Hopkins and you need to keeping going forward, round passed the cereal.’

‘She was due to be assessed at the clinic for dementia, but the appointment’s been postponed. We haven’t got another date at the moment. I’m doing my best for her; I’ve found a routine helps. It’s Tuesday today, and we always have shepherd’s pie on a Tuesday, and even I know, you need potatoes for that.’

‘What about a swede? You can cook it and mash it, just like a potato.’ Jo suggested but saw the face he made. Swede wasn’t for everyone.

Mrs Hopkins at the till, had unloaded her basket and was listening, as was everyone else in the little store.

‘I’ve got a potato you can have,’ Mrs Hopkins said. ‘I’m going straight home now, but I’ll nip out and leave it on your doorstep.’

‘Thank you,’ Mr Silver said. ‘That’s very kind. But one’s not enough.’

‘I’ll go to the allotment and dig up a couple, and like Mrs H, I’ll leave them on your doorstep.’

‘I’ve got some too,’ offered the girl from the post office.

‘Thank you, all of you.’ Mr Silver looked at the man with the allotment, who looked vaguely familiar but Mr Silver didn’t think they’d ever been properly introduced.

Jo wasn’t the only one to let out a sigh of relief as Mr Silver followed the arrows until he came to the queue at the checkout, where he did keep his distance from the woman in front of him.

By the time he’d washed his hands, put the kettle on and unpacked the shopping at home, he’d noticed movement at the front door. He’d leave it a while, so no one would be tempted to stop for a chat, much as that would have been welcome.

True to their word, he found a small, but more than sufficient, collection of potatoes, and a few freshly dug carrots. The kindness of strangers, thought Mr Silver with a tear in his eye.

He returned to the kitchen with a spring in his step and began to rinse the vegetables, putting them on the chopping board to be peeled.

Pamela stood looking at the potatoes, as if she wasn’t quite sure what they were, or how she should prepare them.

‘Potatoes, love,’ he said gently. ‘I can peel them, if you like?’
‘I know they’re potatoes!’ she laughed. ‘But why don’t they match?’

Sarah Swatridge writes short stories for women’s magazines worldwide. She now has a collection of twenty uplifting short stories called Feel-Good Stories along with her large print novels available in libraries and online. Visit www.sarahswatridge.co.uk and sign up to her monthly one page newsletter.

 Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the author the other half goes to expenses e.g. Maintaining the web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.

Dinner Parties by Jane Spirit,hcianti, St-Emilion or champagne

Dinner parties

By Jane Spirit

 Anna sometimes wondered why she’d always treated Martin and Sarah with such deference. Whenever they’d invited her to one of their dinner-parties she’d always cancelled her plans to be there and paid for other people to look after her mother and for the journey to London. The events themselves had often seemed to be a bit of an anticlimax. She usually stayed in her school friend’s little flat at the end of the central line from which it was a long but convenient journey to Martin and Susan’s duplex apartment in Notting Hill. Afterwards, during the long tube ride back to Woodford, she always found herself going over the evening in her mind and worrying about the impression she had made on the other guests. They tended to be either wealthy entrepreneurs who were associates of Sarah, or artsy cinematographers who Martin knew through his work as a director. Of course, these people were polite to her, but she always felt that she bored them. Also, whilst she’d never actually lied during conversations over rustic Italian dishes served with a good chianti, Anna was conscious that she had let the others assume wrongly that she was a successful businesswoman.

 She didn’t in fact own the clothes shop where she worked. She would have loved to, but after university, where she’d met the charismatic Martin and the serious Sarah, she’d gone back home to live with her parents so that she could carry on with her textile art. After her father died suddenly and her mother began to act erratically, she’d managed to obtain a part-time role at a family friend’s dress shop, ‘Fine and Dandy’. From there she had segued almost seamlessly into being her mother’s carer. After university, Martin and Sarah had moved to London separately and built up their careers in finance and film - making quite independently, before meeting again, moving in together and eventually marrying. Perhaps it was a sentimental gesture on their part, but they seemed to like to keep in touch with Anna. She sometimes thought they regarded her as a kind of talisman, connecting them back to their younger days when Martin was still enthused by all things cinematic, and Sarah was determined to pursue her dream of financial independence. They never seemed that curious about how her life had turned out. She wondered sometimes whether they even remembered how brightly she had once dressed as an art student, or her eye for colour and design?

Sarah and Martin had never shown any interest in visiting the midlands town where Anna lived. She’d never invited them there either, of course. She did not want them poking around in the small world she had created for herself and passing judgement on its inadequacies. This meant that she was puzzled as well as surprised when Sarah messaged her to say that they would be coming to Fernham and would love to see her whilst they were in town. Deconstructing the message, Anne was acutely aware that Sarah had not suggested she came to dinner with them at their hotel. She felt obliged to invite them to her flat for a meal and Sarah accepted with alacrity.

For several weeks before their visit, Anna mulled over what kind of food to cook before deciding to play it safe with a French style casserole and crème brulé. Then she chewed over the question of who else, if anyone, to invite. Her table only had comfortable seating space for four people. Inevitably, her thoughts turned towards the new man in her life, Nigel. She had met him first when he came to talk about funeral planning at the care home where her mother had spent her last few months. Their paths had crossed again at the wedding of a mutual friend, and then he had turned up at her choir and she had been struck again by his youthful physique and by his kind eyes. They had been going out with some of the other singers for a meal or a drink after rehearsals for the last few months. Yes, he would be a good choice as a foil to Sarah and Martin: a businessman, though artistic in his love of baroque music. He was also gentle and stoic, perhaps partly because of his work. If she was completely honest, she was curious to see how her old friends might react when they asked him what he did for a living and he told them that he was an undertaker.

Nigel had seemed pleased to be invited. He was already there and chatting to Anna at the kitchen counter when Sarah and Martin arrived with champagne to go with the desert. Despite her slight nervousness, Anna enjoyed giving them a brief tour of her flat. It might have been small, but she knew that its vibrancy reflected her love of colour. She had hand made the soft furnishings to incorporate motifs that reflected her personality. Embroidered musical notes played their way across the curved patches of ruby red and emerald- green felts she’d sewn on to creamy textiles. She felt relaxed and, in her element, now, wearing the charity shop green beaded necklace and bulbous red earrings which she remembered Martin admiring so much in their university days. Sarah seemed genuinely appreciative, if a little distracted, whilst Martin did not seem to notice her jewellery. He quickly insisted on popping out to the local shop to buy an extra bottle of wine to complement the beef they would be eating. Nigel, affable as ever, agreed to go with him to show him the way.

As she turned from the door after seeing them off, Anna noticed that Sarah was crying. Shocked, she found herself instinctively putting an arm round the friend she had always found rather prickly and private and asking her to tell her what the matter was. Sarah confided that Martin, for all his apparent bonhomie, had begun to treat her unkindly. Nowadays, he watched Sarah’s every move and was constantly critical of her behaviour. He was particularly resentful of the long hours she spent working to ensure their comfortable lifestyle. That was why Sarah had suggested a trip to see Anna and to get them away from the pressures of their London life for a weekend. Aware that Martin and Nigel would soon be back, Anna reassured Sarah as much as she could. The two women were standing together at the work surface, chopping herbs and arranging olives in a bowl when the men returned carrying a classy St-Emilion.

Things began calmly with the meal. The food was delicious, and they stayed on sure ground with the conversation, reminiscing to Nigel about bands they had been to see at university. Anna even allowed herself a moment of quiet pride about how well the evening was going, despite Sarah’s concerns about Martin. It was just at that moment that Martin’s mood seemed to pivot. He leaned forward to top up his wine and told Anna in a quiet voice that the necklace and earrings still looked great, but that she didn’t. After all, hadn’t she wasted her life in this shitty little no man’s land of a town?

It took Anna a moment to react to what he had said. She did not feel embarrassed, only angry. She too spoke in a quiet voice. How dare he pass judgement on her? Who was he to tell her she was a failure when she, at least, was still content with her life? She heard Sarah agreeing with her whilst Nigel, still quiet, took her hand and squeezed it in support.

Now Martin was on his feet and laughing at all of them.

 ‘That’s so funny coming from you bunch of losers.’

 He was almost shouting now as he gesticulated.

 ‘Look at the three of you! Underachieving Anna the failed artist, my wife the obsessive, possessive work addict. Oo and then look at who has joined us. The clown, “Nice Nigel” the small-town undertaker … Oh yes Nigel and I have had quite a chat about that whilst we were out.’ Martin paused as if for dramatic effect. Then he turned, grabbed his jacket and left, slamming the door behind him.

In the silence that followed, Anna noticed that Nigel had placed his other hand on Sarah’s. Anna reached across the table to do the same. They sat there, companionably, for a few moments, Anna noting Nigel’s calm and Sarah’s vulnerability. Then they opened the champagne and toasted, ‘Friendship and the Future’. Even so they would have been surprised to know that in a year’s time all three of them would still be together in Middleham. Nigel and Anna would be living together; Anna and Sarah would be the joint owners of ‘Fine and Dandy’ where Anna worked and Sarah lived in some style above the shop. She’d quit her job in the city.

Martin, in the meantime had also moved on. He’d jettisoned the idea he’d been developing which had focussed on a group of forty something friends meeting up in a nondescript midlands’ town. It was rumoured that his new project would follow the fortunes of a middle-aged film director as he tried to create a homage to magical realism amongst the Mayan remains of Mexico. Word also had it that the results would not chime well with a younger audience. The film could never be the success he’d anticipated.

 about the author 

Jane Spirit lives in Woodbridge, Suffolk UK and has been inspired to write fiction by going along to her local creative writing class.