THE LATE FRED GROVER by Guy Pratt, pale ale

 Fred Grover raced down the dark avenue turned into Market Street as fast as his legs would go and then into the Square. Alas he was too late, he leaned breathlessly on the War Memorial as he watched the old charabanc disappear in the distance.

Reader we are back in Suffolk in the 1920s. Fred worked on a farm at Redward, seven miles from Kettlemarket, the local market town where he was now located. Work finished early on the farm on Saturdays and after he had been paid he’d go home, present his mother his board payment, spruce himself up and with the few shillings he had left catch the local bus to town. After whiling away some time gazing in shop windows his usual routine was a cup of tea and a bun in the Cosy Corner Café and an evening at the Picture Palace. This week was rather special though.

This week he had finally plucked up courage to ask Rosy Mayhew to come to the Picture Palace with him. He’d almost been too late for that, for much as Rosy fancied him he’d been so backward in coming forward she’d started to smile at other prospects. After Rosy had dashed home from the High Street grocer’s where she worked changed into her best frock and added a touch of artwork to her face, she was off to the café to meet Fred. After cups of tea and cakes they were soon seated in the cinema.

They hooted with laughter at the comic antics of Harold Lloyd in Safety Last and Rosy gripped Fred’s hand tightly when it came to the melodramatic bits especially during the famous clock hanging finale. Naturally Fred offered to walk Rosy home to where she lived on the outskirts of the town and now she had got him Rosy saw no reason to release the tight grip on his hand. As they reached her home doorstep, although Fred was a little shy, with a mite of encouragement from Rosy they were soon locked in a tender embrace. What a wonderful embrace that was; neither wanted to leave the other, knowing it would be a week before they could meet again. Losing consciousness of time Fred lingered a little longer and a little longer.

Now those who dilly- dally for too long on doorsteps have a price to pay as Fred realised leaning against the War Memorial. It was going to cost him a seven mile walk home to Redward on a chilly night and after the exertion of his dash through the streets he now shivered a little. However fortunes were about to change again.

Round the corner came a young man dressed in a warm double breasted leather coat, his cap on back to front and goggles pushed up high on his forehead. It was Dick Furness whose father owned a large farm in Redward, not the one Fred worked on, but as boys Fred and Dick had attended the village school together. Although farming was in the doldrums Dick helped his father run a very profitable milk round that extended into Kettlemarket. On the strength of this Dick had been able to purchase a new BSA S26 motorcycle. Dick had been chasing up some milk round debtors explaining the best time to get them was Saturday before they spent all their pay.

Fred explained his predicament and felt his cheeks colour when Dick said, “Well I hope the gal was worth it.” Then Dick said that he’d left his motorbike in the Red Lion yard and Fred was welcome to a pillion ride home, thinking it would also be a chance to show off to Fred what the machine could do. Someone on an Indian Scout had recorded over a 100 mph on Daytona Beach and although his BSA could only achieve half that it was still impressive on Suffolk lanes.

At the Red Lion yard Dick appraised Fred’s attire. Fred’s jacket was a bit thin so Dick suggested he take it off, put in on back to front and so prevent the cold wind cutting into his chest. This Fred did and Dick stood behind him and did the buttons up at the back. Then Dick said, “Put your cap on back to front like I’m wearing mine or it will blow away over the hedgerows and you’ll never find it again.” So Fred complied.

Soon they were out of the town on the open road. Dick leant forward over the petrol tank and opened the throttle as far as it would go. Sitting high on the pillion seat behind him Fred felt the cold air blasting against his face and was glad his jacket was on back to front  reducing some of the chill, and his cap on back to front remained firmly on his head.

Midway between Kettlemarket and Redward old Elijah Grant the shepherd and a few of his old farmworker pals were coming out of the Packhorse Inn having consumed a considerable amount of the amber liquid. It was called the Packhorse Inn because it was by the old humpback narrow packhorse bridge at the bottom of the valley. As the group emerged Elijah cocked his head on one side. “Hark,” he said ,”That sounds like young Dick Furness on that infernal contraption of his, best we stay off the road till he’s past.”

The motorbike raced toward the bridge the downhill stretch giving it added velocity. It seemed to rise in the air and bump to the road again as it crossed the bridge. Racing up the other side of the valley Dick hollered into the wind half turning, “Are you alright Fred.” He got no reply and slowing to a halt he realised he no longer had a pillion passenger.

Dick turned in the road and slowly drove back towards the Packhorse Inn. Arriving back at the bridge he saw Elija Grant and his pals grouped around a figure lying prone in the road. Getting off his motorbike Dick paled a little and gasped, “Is he alright?”

Old Elijah Grant, his speech a little slurred from the evenings imbibing replied, “Well it’s like this Master Dick. He were alright, until we turned his head round the right way.”

About the author  

 

Guy Pratt is a retired octogenarian second hand bookseller who enjoys gardening, long walks with his dog and travel. He gravitated into the book trade after earlier years in farming, the army Intelligence Corps and the civil service. 

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The Pale Horse by Lynn Clement , ginger beer and caramel muffin

 The Palomino careered around the field. He bashed his head on the gate post. For a while, he was dazed.

Jenny got out of the jeep. ‘You don’t have to come if you’re frightened,’ she said to Tod, her ten-year-old nephew.

Jenny was looking after Tod for the day, as her sister had an important meeting at work and Tod had another tummy ache, keeping him off school.

Tod pulled his hood up; it fell over his eyes. He got down from his seat in the front. He usually sat in the back of his mother's SUV.

Jenny went to the paddock gate wondering how the little pale horse would react. He’d not settled after another fruitless visit to the vet.

Tod wandered over and stood by the fence. Jenny looked at him. He was a worry too. He’d had a lot of tummy aches recently.

Dinah, her sister, didn’t seem bothered, as long as Jenny or her mother could look after Tod, while she was off doing her important job.

Jenny didn’t want to be harsh on her sister. She’d had it tough, since Tod’s dad Joe, left them for a ‘slapper’ in his office. ‘Slapper,’ was Dinah’s word; she was hurting.

‘Just stand back from the fence a bit,’ Jenny said to Tod.’ He’s been jittery since we got him from the breeder.’

Tod ignored Jenny. He climbed and leaned over the fence.

The colt had backed himself into a corner and was stamping a front hoof.

Tod pushed his hood off and studied the horse.

Jenny went through the gate with a harness in her hand.

Tod watched.

The Palomino whinnied.

‘Come closer,’ said Tod under his breath.

‘Sorry?’ said his auntie.

Tod stared at her.

The horse snorted.

‘It's okay boy,’ said Jenny. ‘I’ve got you.’

‘No harness,’ said Tod.

‘What?’

‘He’s scared.’

‘I can see that,’ said Jenny. She began to move towards the horse.

‘No!’

Jenny stopped abruptly, there was something in Tod’s voice.

‘Please,’ he said. ‘Come here next to me.’

A disgruntled Jenny went to him, a quizzical expression on her face.

Tod looked at the young horse and smiled.

The colt stopped his snorting and stamping.

Tod nodded and smiled again.

The horse shook his head, his white mane splaying like a fan. He was a beauty.

 ‘His name’s Goldie,’ said Jenny.

 ‘Goldie,’ whispered Tod.

The horse looked up and walked towards them.

Jenny stared at Tod who was beaming. He had his eyes firmly fixed on the small pale horse.

 She turned back to Goldie, and she would swear to anyone he was smiling but she knew they wouldn’t believe her.

‘He’s hurting,’ said Tod. ‘There’s a knot in his stomach, that won’t go away. The vet won’t find it – he’s sad.’

Jenny stared at her nephew.

The Palomino nodded, shook his pale mane, and nuzzled into Tod’s shoulder.

About the author

 

Lynn is a regular writer for Cafelit. Her first flash fiction collection, The City of Stories,' is published by Chapeltown Books. See 5-star reviews - #amazonthecityofstorieslynnclement Lynn has stories in The Best of Cafelit 11, 12, 13 and 14. 

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The Goddess Athena Visits Her Dad by Rosemary Johnson, ouzo

 ‘Dad, it’s me, Athena… Dad?  Where are you?  I need to speak to you.  Urgently.

‘Dad… Dad… Wait a minute.  I don’t like what I’m seeing right now: your robe and a woman’s robe here on the floor.  You’re with one of them ‘virgins’ that hang around the shrines by the Acropolis, aren’t you?  I realise that you’re Zeus, and king of the gods and everything, and I’m not judging, but, you know, there are people going off to Mount Olympus and making sacrifices to you.  You need to think about that.

‘Oh, now I see you.  You know, this you turning into a swan thing is not even funny.  Dad, seriously, I need to talk to you.  Mum, she wants to send me off to live with Auntie Penelope in Thebes.  Just because yesterday she found me with Jason.  Okay, she saw me with Perseus the day before, but whatever.  I don’t want to go to Thebes, Dad.  I’d die of boredom out there.  Auntie Penelope’s well old and all she does is do her knitting… maybe it’s weaving… all day.

‘Listen to me, Dad.  Can you actually hear anything through those black dots which swans call ears?  Just use them for a moment.  You’ve got to do something.  Mum’s ordered me a pegasus for Thebes tomorrow morning.

‘Oh Dad, stop squawking.  For your information, swans don’t squawk.  They’re silent, until they’re dying when they sing a… der… swansong. 

‘Pleeese, pleeese stop that awful noise.   You never listen to me.  I hate you.  I really hate you.  You’ve never loved me.  I used to love you but I don’t now.  I hate you.  I hate you…

‘Oh, Dad, please don’t cry.  Please.  When you weep, it’s like thunder and lightning and your tears are like hailstones.  Dad, stop.  Just stop.  You’re making your beard all wet.  I can't stand it.  I didn’t mean it.  Really.  No… no… honestly.  I love you very much.  And it’s so good seeing you as yourself again, as Zeus, not a stupid swan.

‘You will talk to Mum?  You’ll tell her you need me in Athens?  Oh, thank you, my darling Daddy, thank you.  I love you so much.  I’ll be round to see you at Mount Olympus every day.’

About the author 

Rosemary has had short stories published in 'Friday Flash Fiction', 'Paragraph Planet', 'The Copperfield Review', 'Scribble', 'Mslexia' and 'Fiction on the Web'. Her novel, Wodka or Tea With Milk set around the Solidarity trade union in Poland was published in September 2023. Rosemary lives with her husband in Essex. 

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French Knickers and Other Decadences by Gill James, dry Martini

"There is something incredibly decadent," said Jay, "about sitting here in French knickers, reading magazines and worrying about skin care. At a time like this." She chuckled. "You don't need skincare. You're young. You have beautiful skin. But I'll treat you to some Oil of Ulay anyway. You've been so kind and you'll need it when you're my age. You can't start the habit too soon."

It was the heat wave of 1976. We were sitting in what amounted to the back garden of the cottage. It was really more beach than garden. The front faced the main street, the back the sea. Jay's friend Gloria lived in the back in the summer months and rented out the front to holiday-makers.

I was wearing a normal bikini. But Jay hadn't thought to pack anything like that. Greg's funeral had just been a week before. She was anxious to get back to her youngest, Georgie, who had not attended the funeral and had been parked here at the seaside. She was going to leave Ellen, her second youngest, there. The two of us would return on Monday. The twins, now seventeen, had been left at home.

I'd always been fond of my cousin Greg. He died much too young. He was the gentlest of people. This really was the least I could do for them. 

The sun was relaxing. It and the salt air made us feel good. There was something so fine about wriggling your toes in the warm sand. Ellen and Georgie bobbed in and out of the sea and tired themselves out. We all needed this. The last few weeks had been a struggle, watching Greg gradually fade away from us.

The sun started sinking towards the sea.

"That's what he always loved about this place," said Jay. "The way the sun sets over the water." She sighed. "We have been lazy, haven't we? Do you fancy a walk up to the headland before the light's completely gone? You get a great view from up there."

We packed our things away. Ellen and Georgie opted not to come with us.

"It's fine," said Gloria.  "I can amuse them for a bit and I'll get supper in about an hour."

It's quite a challenging walk, up to the headland, especially in the heat. It was worth it when we got to the top. The view was spectacular, especially of the sun that was now sitting on top of the sea.

"It was over there, you know." Jay was pointing to a large rock in the bay." That's where the two young lads got cut off by the tide and Greg rescued them."

I'd not heard that story before but it didn't surprise me. Why had this strong, brave, kind man become so ill?

We stood for a few moments without saying a word.

Jay sighed. "I'm going to pop round to the vicarage tomorrow and ask if we can have his ashes in the churchyard and put a plaque there. I've got a copy of a newspaper article about it."             

Walking back was much easier. Downhill, of course. The path was well lit. When we were back on the main street Jay glanced at her watch. "We've still got a good twenty minutes before supper's ready. Do you fancy an aperitif in The Black Lion?"

It was cosy in the little pub. Just the right number people there to stop if feeling lonely but quiet enough that we got served quickly and we could hear each other.

"Let the decadence continue," said Jay and held up her glass to clink with mine. We'd both chosen dry Martinis.

"Dad told me about this place," I said.

Jay nodded. "I think the whole family used to come here, didn't they?"

I was talking about the pub but she meant the village. I knew anyway that Gloria's place was the same one that they used to rent. How did they get all of them in there? My father was the youngest of nine siblings and the married ones used to bring their whole family with them. There was something about tents, I think, though I couldn't work out where they could pitch them here.  

Jay giggled. "Did you ever hear about Greg's Auntie Peggy?"

I nodded. "Three different dresses every day. And never repeating once in the whole fortnight."

"It's a great place for a holiday, though, isn't it?"           

It is indeed a grand place for a holiday. I've always measured seaside places against the first one I ever visited, just a few miles round the coast from here. We went there several times when I was very young. It had a couple of miles of glorious flat toffee-coloured sand that was ideal for making sandcastles. It had a sparkling pier and a nice little fun fair.

Jay had a point about this place, though. There was plenty of sand castle material here as well. A short bike ride away you found some much softer sand and fascinating dunes where you could lose yourself for hours.

There were some spectacular walks around here as well. And mushrooms. Dad would often go our foraging early in the morning when we stayed here. Then there would be lovely field mushrooms for breakfast. I've even heard that there are magic mushrooms in plentiful supply here - not that I've tried them.

Both Dad and Greg were artists and there were some lovely views for them to paint here.     

 

I've moved on a little since then in my choice of beaches and now have a favourite on the south coast of Spain. The weather is more reliable there. That hot summer of 1976 was a bit of a fluke. I've found a place where the sea and sand always relaxes and where people-watching inspires stories.  

Yet nothing quite compares with what happened later that evening.   

 

Gloria had prepared an excellent meal for us. The sea air had given us all appetites. Jay and I did the washing up.

We felt drowsy too. Georgie fell asleep at the table and had to be carried to bed.

But not Ellen "I'm not tired yet." She was looking grumpy but she was already in her pyjamas.

"Let's go and have a last look at the sea," said Jay.

"But I'm ready for bed."

Jay laughed. "You'll be no more decadent that your mother was earlier today, sitting like a tart on the beach in her French knickers. Come on. Let's go."

It was lovely outside. The waves bounced gently on to the beach. Their foam glistened in the moonlight. It was still warm but not hot.

"I wonder where Daddy is now," said Ellen as she dipped her toes into the water.

"He's not far away, I don't suppose," said Jay.

We all felt it then. He was there with us for sure. And he was laughing at the French knickers, the dry Martinis and the child outside in pyjamas.

"I think he's here, right now," said Ellen.

"Yes," I said.

"He is indeed," whispered Jay. "Well, my love, I hope you'll get to paint lovely pictures every day now."

I could feel his love of life. Of art, of music, and of the sea and the sand and of all of nature

 

I now have the same disease that carried him off but it seems not to be as successful at killing me. My doctors are pleased with me and I'm convinced I'm going to live to be 104. I have to use a moisturiser now, and I'm rather fond Oil of Olay, even though they changed the spelling.     

And now, at odd moments, on any beach anywhere, because that experience was so strong that time, I feel a connection to my lovely cousin Greg. 

About the author 

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

http://www.gilljameswriter.com 

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

https://www.facebook.com/gilljameswriter 

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Sunday Serial: 280 x 70, 55. Pie Charts by Gill James, double gin and tonic

 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. 

55. Pie Charts 

 

"Just look at this." Cindy pointed to her screen. "It's worrying."

Arnie looked at the pie chart. Why green, yellow, blue orange? Green for go, he supposed. The sections looked reasonably even though yellow was the biggest and yes green for go next.

"What does this mean, "couldn't vote"," he asked.

"All those people who pay taxes here but don't have full citizenship? People whose postal votes were lost? Those who have the right to vote but didn't register it in time?"

"Yeah, I guess. And those who didn't vote?"

"Unbelievable, isn't it? I do know that some of my students were confused about where they could vote. I wish they'd get their act together and figure it out.  It’s not good moaning if they don’t like the outcome.”

"Darn!" Cindy stamped her foot. "They wouldn't let a Trade Union call a strike on those figures."

Arnie studied the figures: yellow 18,604.470, green 17,410,742, blue 16,141,241 and orange 12,949,28. More people living here and not allowed to vote than those who voted for this crucial decision? 

"And he calls this an "instruction"? How is this an "instruction"? The damn thing was only supposed to be advisory. The clue's in the name. They were referring to the people, not getting an instruction from them."

She started typing furiously.

"You job is to assert and defend what you consider to be the national interest, so get to it you great big plonker. And tell your mates as well."

He put his hand on her shoulder. "Clam down love. You're putting your blood pressure up again." 

About the author

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

http://www.gilljameswriter.com  

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

https://www.facebook.com/gilljameswriter  

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Saturday Sample: Keepsake by Jenny Palmer, A59, a pint of lager,

 

It wasn’t true. You couldn’t judge a book by its cover. That was one thing Marion had learnt over the years. It probably applied to men too. They were never what they seemed. Take this last one, for instance. He’d appeared normal enough.  He was reasonably good-looking, in a feminine sort of way. His ears stuck out a bit but what did that matter? Looks weren’t everything   He was interested in science and politics. Well, at least he had a brain.

They had met in a country pub just off the A59. The pub served the usual kind of pub grub. Substantial.  Nothing fancy. A lot of country pubs were serving food these days.  They had to get the punters in somehow.  There was a live band playing.  At least she could listen to the music, if all else failed.  The band was a trifle loud for her liking but conversation was still possible, just. 

They went through the usual formalities of getting to know each other. They both led active lives and compared notes on the number of social groupings they belonged to. He topped her nine with thirteen. He went ballroom dancing. Each to their own.  Interests weren’t everything. He liked discussing politics and current affairs. That was a plus. Why did he have to go and spoil everything?

‘I’ve just been to see an astrologer,’ he announced, apropos of nothing.

‘Was he any good?’ Marion asked, instinctively. She’d learnt that things could turn nasty quickly if you cross-questioned people on their beliefs, especially when it came to religion or politics. 

‘Yes,’ he said.  ‘As a matter of fact, he was.’

She had known people in the past who believed in weird stuff like that. Some of them were quite sensible people.  He saw that she wasn’t impressed and changed the topic.

‘So, you are a writer,’ he said. ‘What do you write about?’

‘Whatever takes my fancy,’ she said. ‘Quirky stuff, usually. Human nature, mainly.’  

 He talked about some long-dead Parisian writers he admired who had been into mysticism and the occult.   

Marion couldn’t help raising her eyebrows.

‘There must be something in it,’ he said.  ‘There were a heck of a lot of them.’

‘I believe what I can see with my own eyes and only half of that,’ she said.

‘But the evidence is all there,’ he went on.  ‘I could tell you something really interesting, at the risk of totally losing my credibility.’ 

She always seemed to get the crazies. They made a bee-line for her. What would he come out with next?  She’d better indulge him.  She didn’t feel like arguing. They were supposed to be enjoying themselves.

‘Did you know that the earth is hollow and there are aliens living inside it?’

She’d thought he was weird but not that weird. Now she was beginning to doubt her own judgement

‘Really,’ she said, not wanting to encourage him further.   

‘Yes. They come out at night but only in special places, along lay lines,’ he said.

She was in a time warp. She was back in the sixties, having one of those late-night esoteric conversations with people, in an altered state of consciousness.  ‘And I can tell you,’ he said, leaning towards her in a confiding way, ‘that one of them came out recently somewhere near here. Can you guess where?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t,’ she said, flatly.

 ‘Go on. Try,’ he urged.

 ‘Okay then, Pendle Hill,’ she ventured.

If people believed that witches flew around on broomsticks up there, then why not aliens? she thought.

‘No,’ he said, obviously disappointed.  ‘It was on Ilkley Moor.’

‘Well, I hope he had his hat on,’ she said.   

‘His what?’ he asked.

‘His hat. You know, like in the song ‘Tha’s ba-an te catch thee de-ath a cowd, on Ilkley Mo-or ba-at ha-at?’  Marion sang. 

He looked disgruntled now. The band started playing at an even higher volume.   It was impossible to hear anything.  He made some excuse about having sensitive ears and left.

Well, at least that got rid him, she thought.  She needed to be getting off herself. It was late and there was a storm brewing.

Driving along the A59 she mulled over the events of evening. The conversation had started off well enough but it had soon turned. He must have thought her very gullible to believe all that rubbish.

There was car approaching fast from behind. The headlights were shining right through the back window, almost blinding her. It was trying to overtake.  She clicked the catch down on the mirror to avoid the glare. As the car sped past, she noticed it was a BMW. She remembered him boasting about having a BMW. But he had left before her, surely.

‘Maniac!’ she shouted.

All that stuff about aliens. Didn’t he credit her with more intelligence than that? He could have come up with a better chat-up line. It showed a distinct lack of intelligence on his part. Of course, she was going to make fun of him.  Any sensible woman would.

People drove too fast on the A59. There were often accidents. She’d get off the road and take a short cut home. She preferred driving on country lanes, anyway, especially at night. You could see the cars coming by their headlights.  There wouldn’t be many people on the road. It was gone midnight.

As she turned off the main road onto the single-track road, she saw lights flashing up ahead. Something was blocking the road and a policewoman in a yellow, hazard jacket was walking towards her. Marion wound down the window.

‘I’m sorry,’ the policewoman said, ‘but you can’t get through here tonight. I’m afraid there’s been an accident.’

She could see a car ahead. There was a branch lying right across the bonnet. The roof was all smashed in.

‘Was anyone hurt?’ Marion asked. 

‘That’s the strange thing,’ the policewoman said. ‘Someone called 999 a short while ago but when we got here, there was no-one around. We can’t understand it.  I’m afraid it’ll be another two hours before we can clear the road. We're waiting for the breakdown lorry to arrive. You’ll have to go home another way. 

 It meant going back on the A59. That was a drag but there was nothing else for it.  She reversed up the road and turned the car around. As she was driving away, she caught sight of the smashed-up car in the rear-view mirror. It was a BMW and the registration number was 1MAN AL1EN.

 

Find your copy here  

About the author

Before becoming a writer, Jenny Palmer taught English to foreign students both abroad and in London. In her spare time, she co-edited four anthologies of short stories published by the Women’s Press and Serpent’s Tail. Since returning to her childhood home in rural Lancashire in 2008, she has written and self-published two memoirs Nowhere better than home and Pastures New, two family history books Whipps, Watsons and Bulcocks and Witches, Quakers and Nonconformists, and a poetry book called Pendle Poems. Keepsake and other stories, her first collection of stories, was published by Bridge House in 2018. Butterflies and other stories is her second collection. These new stories have been published in the Lancashire Evening Post, on the Cafelit website, in the Evergreen anthology, and in Creative Mind anthologies. Ladybird and Health Check are in Best of Cafelit 12, and The Visitors 2 is in Best of Cafelit 13.

 

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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