Stalking Diana

Jan Baynham 

strong dark espresso  

A group of us arrived together. We were the Christmas volunteers at a homeless shelter in east London. Easy for me, I thought. Third time, this is. I didn’t have anything else to do but many of them were using up holiday leave so that they could help out at the shelter’s busiest time of the year.

           

‘Hello, I’m Diana,’ she said, beaming a smile that lit up the room.

‘Hi, I’m Kevin.’

My voice sounded quiet, unsure, small yet in my head those three words were booming in time to my heartbeat. I knew from that very moment that she was special, a magnet I’d be unable to resist. What I didn’t know then, though, was how this girl would change my life for ever.

‘It’s my first time at volunteering so I’m all yours. Just tell me what to do,’ she said.

*

For the next five days, Diana and I were inseparable. We decorated the community hall with gaudy foil decorations, served Christmas lunches to over three hundred homeless guests and organised entertainment for after the present-giving. Who would have thought that well spoken girl would have been such an expert in making balloon animals?

‘The little ones I look after love it when we make these,’ Diana explained, transforming two long orange balloons into a squeaky recognisable dachshund. ‘Did I tell you I work as a nanny?’

I was sure she didn’t need to work as a nanny. She rarely gave much away about her private life but from her accent and a few hints about where she went to school and what her home was like, I knew our backgrounds couldn’t be further apart. I was being drawn into her net, becoming obsessed. Diana’s was the last face I saw when I went to sleep and the first I saw when I opened my eyes to begin another day. Yet, she had no idea the effect she had on me …or did she? The way she looked at me coyly and the way she leaned her head on one side running her hand through her cropped blonde hair made me wonder whether she was playing with my feelings. There could be no future for us, I knew that.

          

 ‘I can’t believe this is all coming to an end,’ I said.

Diana just smiled and I knew, then, I would never be able to say good-bye for good.

The end did come and we exchanged mobile phone numbers, promising to text each other.

            ‘Perhaps we can meet for a coffee sometime?’

            ‘Maybe,’ Diana said, without much conviction.

A lump formed in my throat as I watched her almost break into a jog as she left the building for the last time.

            ‘Perhaps I’ll see you next year, Kev,’ she shouted, without a backward glance.

It was as if now the Christmas period was over and her charity work was at an end, she would go back to her privileged lifestyle and forget all about me. What’s happened to the compassionate vibrant girl who made the guests feel so at ease? I thought. What about the girl with the infectious giggle who made me feel on top of the world? Was I part of her ‘ease-my conscience’ plan too? Well, she hadn’t got rid of me as easily as that.

*

I went back to the pokey flat I shared with my mother. She was pleased to see me at least, so she said, but soon started nagging again.

‘What’s up, Kevin? You’ve been moping around getting under my feet ever since you got back from that shelter.’

‘Leave off, Ma,’ I said. ‘What’s your problem?’

‘Charity begins at home, I say. You went swanning off to help them homeless without thinking that yer nearest and dearest was ‘ere all on ‘er lone-some over Christmas. I don’t know what the attraction was.’

Well, you’ve hit the nail on the head, there, Ma, I thought. The attraction was in the form of a beautiful young girl I just can’t get out of my mind.

‘It’s about time you got out there and tried to get yourself sorted. A job for starters,’ she said, droning on. ‘That way, you could start paying your way in this place. Plus, you may get something resembling a social life too instead of staying in night after night.’

I glared at my mother and stormed out to my room. You don’t have to rub it in, Ma. What had I got to offer Diana, anyway? I had no job, no money, no friends. I would put her out of my mind and forget all about her. Well, that was my plan anyway.

*

I lasted a week before I texted.

‘Hi, Diana. Hope u r ok. Missing u. Luv Kev.’ I hesitated before adding XX, then pressed ‘send’.

Nothing came back. I suppose I expected an answer back straightaway.

I pressed ‘Resend’.

Nothing.

And so began my pursuit of the one girl who’d made me feel so special. We hadn’t kissed, we hadn’t even touched apart from that first handshake and the odd brush against each other but without Diana I felt empty inside. I called her mobile.

‘Hello. Who is this?’

‘It’s Kevin.’

‘Umm, Kevin? I don’t think I know a Kevin.’

I felt as if I’d been kicked in the stomach.

‘Kevin. Kevin Smith. We met at the shelter. You gave me your number.’

‘Oh, that Kevin. Hi.’ At the other end, Diana’s voice changed. Her words became more clipped, as if I was taking up precious minutes of her time. ‘What do you want?’

‘I just wondered how you were. It’s been a week and I’ve missed you. Do you think we could meet for that coffee we talked about?’ My hand was shaking and I knew I sounded pathetic. How could one person have an effect on me like this?

‘The coffee you talked about, you mean. I don’t think so. I mean, it was jolly good fun at the shelter and all that, but that was it. Move on, I say, and put it down to doing our bit of good-will for those pooor people. Bye.’

I was left looking at my silent mobile wondering if I’d heard correctly. Surely she couldn’t just dismiss me like that? How dare she?

*

I began phoning several times a day after that but she never answered again. Either the phone was picked up and immediately switched off or it went straight to answer-phone.

           

 ‘Hi, you’ve reached Di. I can’t take your call at the moment. Please leave your message and phone number after the tone and I’ll get back to you.’

But she never did. I left message after message telling her how I felt. It was hopeless.

            I started using my mother’s phone when she was out at Bingo. She never remembered to take it with her. I rang Diana’s number and waited to hear her voice.       

‘Hello. Hello.’

I was unable to answer, so shocked at hearing her voice once again. I pressed the off button and re-dialled.

‘Hello. Who is this?’

I cut her off again. Her voice sounded more anxious that time. I carefully pressed each of the digits and waited for the dialling tone.

‘Who’s there? Just say something.’

But I didn’t. I just held the phone close to my mouth, knowing she would hear every breath.

            

‘Who are you? What do you want? Who are you, you perv? GET OFF MY LINE!’ This time she cut me off.

            

I waited a month before phoning again. Ma was in bed and I rang Diana’s number at two in the morning. She took what seemed like an age to pick up. She hadn’t blocked the number, then.

‘Hello.’ Her voice was husky and each syllable was sleepily monotone.

I exhaled a long breath and whispered, ‘No one rejects me. Ever. You’ll live to regret it.’

Diana’s scream pierced my ear before the silence of being cut off brought me to my senses. What have you just done, you stupid man? I thought. She’ll know it’s you now. What if she contacts the police? You’ll be charged with harassment. They’ll trace your mother’s phone. You love Diana, for God’s sake. Why terrify the poor girl?

I decided not to contact Diana again and life returned to tedious regularity. I managed to get a job packing boxes so at least my mother was happy about that. I got up each morning went to the factory, came home, ate my dinner and then spent every evening alone in my room.

‘I don’t know what you do in there,’ Ma said. ‘All I hear is that awful music, pounding away. It’s as if the ceiling’s going to cave in.’

I got up and left the table, making my way into the hallway.

‘Not healthy.’ I heard her say. ‘Not healthy at all.’

It was no good. I couldn’t get Diana out of my head no matter how hard I tried. Even the ‘awful music’ my mother detested was full of melancholy with lyrics about lovers being spurned by beautiful girls, girls who discarded suitors like unwanted rubbish. I began to see her face everywhere, or so I thought. I was being pulled and sucked into a vacuum, where I couldn’t breathe, with Diana at the centre. If only I could find out where she lived so that I could see her in person just one more time, then I’d leave her alone, I told myself.

A voice pounded in my head.

‘She told you where she lived. Don’t you remember? Not the actual address but the area. Don’t you remember how she laughed when you let out that long whistle?’

I did remember. The properties in that area of South Kensington were worth millions but she assured me that she and two friends were ‘just renting’. I remember jotting it down on the back of the information pack the people at the shelter had provided when we’d arrived. I rummaged through the discarded pile of papers in the corner of the room and found was what I was looking for. My heart raced in my chest. I knew that one final sighting of Diana was all I needed to get over her, once and for all, and by finding that address, it was there in my grasp.  

*

I started missing work. I’d leave at the normal time but would take a tube across London getting off at Gloucester Road station and wander round the nearby streets searching out the names. Stanhope Gardens, that was it. I remembered her saying it sounded as if she lived in a garden not a street. I walked up and down peering in all the windows especially the basements where I could see right inside the rooms. The white houses there were very grand with square bay windows and steps up to each front door but some had separate entrances to basement flats.

It was a particularly wet day in August when I spotted Diana for the first time since I’d started searching. I was on the point of going home after yet another wasted journey and was sheltering from the rain under a bus shelter. The number 49 bus drew up and a group of three girls got off, armed with bags of shopping. I’d know that giggle anywhere, I thought. My heart started racing and I shifted to the corner of the shelter to avoid being seen. I put my hood up, pulling it forward over my face, then followed Diana and her friends along the street. They crossed over and disappeared down the steps to a basement. I made a note of the number and stood to the side looking down in on them.

I knew then I’d be back. In the dark. I could watch all her comings and goings from the gardens opposite. Before leaving the street, I used my new phone and dialled Diana’s number.

‘Hi, Di speaking.’ (‘Ooooh, Di speaking.’ Someone taunted and giggled in the background.) ‘Shut up,’ Diana said. ‘Oh, not you, sorry.’

I took a deep breath, exhaled and said, ‘I know where you live. I can see you. I’ll be back.’

Why had I just done that? I imagined the scene in the flat. Diana would be shaking with fear, I was sure. Maybe hysterical. Her friends would be comforting her, sympathising, offering to check the street perhaps, insisting she rings the police. I knew I had to get away and fast. I was taking a risk just being in the vicinity. Hadn’t I told myself that I wanted to see her one more time and then I’d leave her alone? Yet here I was, getting in deeper and deeper. She was my drug. The more I had, the more I wanted and I couldn’t stop.

I left it a few days until I went again. It was a Thursday night. I walked up the street. It was dusk and I saw that the flat was in darkness. I sat in the gardens opposite and waited and waited. There were plenty of people around to begin with, using the path around the fountain in the centre as a short-cut between streets. When darkness descended completely and it got later and later, past midnight, the gardens became deserted, quite spooky in fact. The light from the only street lamp was blocked by the full leaf of the trees. It was a place of shadows and two female voices carried clearly through the night air. I was in luck; one of them belonged to Diana. I made my way through the blackness to the opening on the other street.

‘I’ll be fine. It’s only a minute or so through here,’ I heard Diana say. ‘It takes absolutely yonks to go all the way round. I’ll be fine as long as that saddo who keeps ringing me isn’t around.’

You shouldn’t joke about things like that, Di. You didn’t think it was a joke last week, did you? Annabel told me how upset you were. They were on the verge of ringing the police. Why did you put them off? And another thing, how did he know your number?’

‘I think it’s a guy I met at the shelter last Christmas. He was besotted with me. My fault; I did rather play up to him. You know what I’m like. He’s completely harmless.’

‘Well, if you’re sure.’ The two young women embraced and Diana made her way along the path.

She was a couple of yards in front of me.

‘Saddo, am I? Harmless am I?’ I said, in a low whisper.

She turned round, her mouth open, eyes wide. ‘Oh my God, who’s there? Kevin, what the hell do you think you’re doing?’

‘Nobody turns me away. Nobody leads me on and then dumps me.’ I grabbed her arm and pulled her towards me, twisting it up behind her back and dragging her into the gloom of the trees.

‘Kevin, you’re hurting me. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have flirted with you. It was only a bit of fun. I’m always doing it. Just let me go, pleeeeease!’

I could taste the fear in her eyes and I hated myself for it but there was no turning back.

*

It was starting to get light and somehow I knew I had to get away from there. I couldn’t remember what had happened but I had a feeling of terror, my heart was thudding in my chest. It was more a denial that I couldn’t even admit to myself, I suppose. I left the gardens behind and walked back to the tube station. My eyes darted everywhere.

            

On reaching the flat, I fumbled to turn the key in the lock and let myself in.

            ‘That you, Kevin? You dirty stop out. Why didn’t you tell me you were staying out all night? Some girl eh?’ My mother’s voice shouted from the living room. ‘Hey, d’ya know what date it is? Ten years to the day that poor Diana died. It’s all over the news. Look at all them flowers people left. Aw, so sad. I don’t believe it was an accident though, do you?’

            I steadied myself against the hall door, shaking uncontrollably. Diana. Yes, she died. My hand made its way into my jacket pocket. I felt the cold steel blade inside. No, no accident, Ma. The blade felt sticky. 

Yes, I remember now. I started to sob and reached for my phone.

 9-9-9

‘Which service?

‘Police.’

‘Kevin. You alright, love?’ said Ma. 

About the author

Jan is a  fiction writer living in Cardiff, Jan regularly submits short stories to magazines and competitions. Several have been published on Alfie Dog Fiction and Cafe Lit. A member of RNA's New Writers' Scheme 2016, she is in the process of submitting her first novel to agents and publishers. www.janbaynham.blogspot.co.uk 

The Girl in the Photograph

The Girl in the Photograph

Jan Baynham

an enamelled tin mug of strong tea

‘Bet’

©Jan Baynham

A treasured photograph of the author’s own mother

Included here with kind permission from the family

'It won’t be long now, Bet. I’m on my way.’

I kissed the smiling face in the photograph and imagined that she could hear me hundreds of miles away. With care, I placed the photo back in the slim gilt cigarette case she’d given me as a present the Christmas before I left. It was safe and dry there.

‘Talking to yerself again, boy,’ bellowed Sergeant Thomas. He seemed unable to speak in a voice with normal volume but we’d all found out that he’d got a soft side over the last few months when we’d been in his command.

I patted the left hand breast pocket of my khaki uniform as I had done so many times over the months I’d been away. We’d all been so frightened when we’d left for the front – though we’d never admit it, most of us were only boys really. Bet’s photograph reassured me, protected me, kept me safe. It was the first thing I looked at when I woke up and the last thing I checked before I went to sleep. It had seen me through so much lately.

‘Why’s the sand lumpy, Reg?’ I said to my mate, trying to keep my balance in the water when we’d landed in France. The water was freezing and I could hear the sound of my teeth chattering above all that was going on around us.

‘Don’t look down, Frank. Them’s the boys that got here before us. Dead in the water. Not so lucky as us, eh?’

That was when the horror dawned on me.

And then there was the time when Reg had been fatally shot alongside me. We’d started training on the same day, at the same barracks and had been posted together. Nothing could have prepared me for the utter despair I felt. One minute we were stalking along a ridge ready to attack the enemy when a shot rang out past my ear and Reg slumped to the ground, blood pouring from a wound in his chest.

‘You, OK, Reg?’

I knew he wasn’t but I pulled him upright and started gabbling nonsense at him.

‘Answer me, Reg, mate!’

It was no use. I wondered if I’d be next. Would I ever hold Bet again? Afterwards, that photo of her seemed to speak to me through the times of guilt when I questioned why I was the one to have survived and Reg hadn’t.

‘It wasn’t your fault, Frank. You couldn’t have saved him. Poor Reg’s luck ran out, that’s all.’

All through those dark days, Bet was at my side – her ‘Midnight in Paris’ scent, her laugh, her smile. It was my favourite photo of her. When I’d been lonely, especially at night time, I only had to look at that brown and white picture with the inscription ‘All my sincere love, Bet xx’ and I was transported back to our cottage in Church Road, our first real home together. I remembered as if it were yesterday. I couldn’t bear to leave her and I know that’s why she’d given me the photo.

‘I want you to keep it with you all the time,’ she said, biting back the tears. ‘That way, you won’t forget me.’

‘You daft thing. As if I would ever…’ The kiss was to reassure her. ‘There’ll never be anyone else.’

She tilted her head to one side. ‘Well, I’ve heard that those French girls are very beautiful…’

Her hazel green eyes looked up at me and we kissed one more time.

I’d shown the photograph to Reg once.

‘Corr, she’s a looker. You’re one lucky geezer to have a missus like that, Frank – looks just like Margaret Lockwood she does!’

‘All that’s missing is the beauty spot,’ I said, joking.

Ten days later, he was dead. I felt an utter numbness and emptiness that I’d not known before. It was as if a lead stone filled my chest cavity and I found it difficult to breathe. That’s when I found out that Sergeant Thomas had a bark that was far worse than his bite. He’d been kind to me then, allowing me to talk to him about my friend. He chose me to send a letter to Reg’s wife. I wrote that Reg often told me how much she and the kids meant to him. At that time, too, I actually started talking to the photograph, telling Bet all about Reg. I told her how we’d got on so well even though we were from opposite ends of the country, me from the back of beyond and him from the East End. His kids had been evacuated out our way and now they were fatherless. Talking to her photograph just seemed to be natural thing to do, as if I was back in our small kitchen talking away like we used to do when I came in from working at the garage and with her cooking my tea.

We were away from home a long time and in our free time we sometimes used to wander into the local villages. Over time, I met a few of the French girls that Bet was so worried about but they couldn’t hold a candle to my girl. They were no match for the beauty in my photograph. The elation we soldiers all felt at the news of victory was unbelievable. Everything was worth it – the horror, the hardship, heartache, even losing mates some said– but at last the country was going to be free. Finally, we were going home. We had survived and were going home in victory. I would be reunited with my favourite girl in the photograph.

***

The small black and white building I called home loomed into view. It looked just the same as it did when I’d left. My insides started to churn as I got nearer and I wondered if Bet would look the same too, the same as the girl in the photograph. But, I needn’t have worried. As soon as I opened the gate, the door of the cottage flung open and Bet ran down the path into my arms. We both had tears streaming down our faces.

‘I thought I’d never see you again,’ she said, stifling a sob.

‘Oh I saw you every night,’ I replied.

‘Don’t be daft. I dreamt about you, too, if that’s what you mean.’

‘No. I mean. I saw you every night,’ I said, ‘thanks to this.’

I fumbled inside the jacket pocket of my de-mob suit and handed her back the photo, albeit a little dog-eared.

‘Let me look at you,’ I said, standing back to drink in the view I’d waited for months to see.

The dark brown hair was fashionably waved just as it was in the photo but there, back at home; it was soft and silky to touch. Her eyes seemed even greener than I remembered them and they sparkled when she talked nineteen to the dozen, catching up on months of absence. Her cheeks were flushed and that sepia photograph could never capture the real thing. I was happy to return it now to the cream parchment album where it belonged. I was home with my girl and I was home to stay.

About the author

A writer living in Cardiff, Jan joined a writers' group three years ago and began writing for her own enjoyment. It wasn’t until she joined a university writing class taught by a published author that she began to submit stories for publication. Currently, she is compiling a collection of themed short stories and attempting to write her first novel.

Website: www.janbaynham.blogspot.co.uk

Defeating Dylan the Dragon

Defeating Dylan the Dragon

Jan Baynham

a tot of Penderyn whiskey 

‘Bryn, I think it’s time you knew about Dylan the Dragon,’ my father said, after sitting me down on a stool by the fire. I must have been about seven at the time.

‘I know there’s supposed to be a giant dragon living in a cavern on the east side of Black Mountain,’ I said, pointing to the large shape which towered above the village.

‘That’s right. Most of the time, Dylan sleeps all day and only ventures out at night; in fact no one has actually seen him. He doesn’t cause any trouble. However, it’s said that once every hundred years, Dylan transforms into an angry, blood-thirsty monster breathing fire, destroying people and property.’

 ‘You don’t believe dragons are real, do you, Dad?’

Years later, I remembered that conversation. It became clear that my father did indeed believe the local legend.

‘You do know what year it is, don’t you, son? I’m dreading it. It’s a hundred years since Dylan last went on the rampage,’ he'd said to me, only the day before.

‘Da-a-ad. If there really is a dragon, he’s been quiet for so long and there’s no one still alive to tell us what happened a hundred years ago. You know how things get exaggerated.’

‘You mark my words, son…’ Dad had muttered and had gone back into the farmhouse.

The setting sun cast an eerie orange glow along the horizon and I felt uneasy; something wasn’t right. It was a cold evening even for January and I was exhausted as I made my way home after looking after our sheep on the mountain. In the valley below, there was an unfamiliar stillness and darkness. Normally at this time people would be hurrying home from work, lights would be glowing in the shop windows and street lamps would mark the curves and bends in the lanes and avenues, gilding each and every landmark in the village. Our farm had been in the family for generations and lay on the outskirts of the village. For about a week, now, everyone had been living in fear.

‘I wonder…’ I whispered to myself.

A cold shiver travelled the whole length of my spine. What I first thought was the sunset was actually a huge fire. Flames of scarlet and orange intensity were engulfing the buildings of the next village a few miles away. As I opened our gate, my father ran out and grabbed my arm.

‘Quick, Bryn. Get inside. Old Dylan’s gone mad as we knew he would. He’s destroyed most of Llanbadarn and we’re next.’

‘I saw the fire as I came down the mountain but how do you know it’s him?’

‘There was a message from him posted on the village notice board this morning. That’s why we’ve plunged the place into darkness but he’ll soon find his way here. He’ll just breathe that fire fury again. But Bryn, it’s even worse than that!’ Dad said, stammering in panic.

I tried to keep calm and asked what the message had said. My father repeated it, word for word.

‘THE VILLAGE OF NEWBRIDGE IS NEXT. ON THE SIXTH DAY OF EVERY MONTH THROUGHOUT THIS YEAR, EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND SIXTY SIX, I SHALL DEVOUR SIX YOUTHS, AT THE PRIME OF THEIR LIVES. IF YOU DO NOT AGREE TO MY DEMANDS, I SHALL BREATHE ENOUGH FIRE TO BURN YOU ALL AND RAZE YOUR VILLAGE TO THE GROUND.’

I went cold. It was the third of January the next day. I knew then I’d been wrong to scoff at my father for believing the legend about Dylan the Dragon. I could be one of those to be sacrificed. No wonder my father was in such a state. I summoned up the calmest voice I could.

‘Dad, I think we should call a meeting tonight. All the youths about my age. We haven’t got much time.’

‘I agree. Three days, that’s all. Let’s get everyone here to the farm to see what we can do. There’s no way Dylan will destroy us without a fight.’

By seven o’clock that evening, eighteen young men with their parents had turned up at our farm. They talked and talked about how they could prevent the tragedy.

‘Let’s put explosives in the cave,’ said one.

‘Why not meet fire with fire and burn the east side of the mountain?’ said another.

‘Look, we’re not dealing with a normal animal here,’ said a Mrs Davies who had three sons. ‘Dylan has such special powers so we need a special plan. I think it will need a very brave person to out-think and out-smart him.’

‘I hope you’re not looking at one of us, Mam!’ said Dai, her eldest.

After more discussion, all agreed with my father that every young man between sixteen and twenty-one should draw a ticket to see which one of them would venture up to Dylan’s cave in the daytime when he slept. Squares of paper – one for each of us - were hurriedly cut, folded and placed in a biscuit tin. Mrs Davies made sure that one ‘ticket’ had a cross written clearly on it. Whoever picked that ticket would be the one to make the journey up to the cavern and try to conquer the dragon. One of us would save Newbridge from a disaster.

The room fell silent, full of tension and foreboding, as we each picked. My hands were shaking when I chose my folded piece of paper. Please don’t let it be me, I thought.

‘Unfold your tickets, now,’ demanded Mrs Davies who seemed to have taken charge of the proceedings.

One by one, there were sighs of ‘Whew’ and relief all round. My parents’ faces were tight with worry. I carefully unfolded my ticket and as the cross revealed itself, I could feel the colour draining from my face. I held my ticket open to face to my mam and dad.

‘Oh no,’ screamed Mam. Dad just left the room.

‘I’ll think of something,’ I said, trying to reassure my mam. The villagers were starting to leave. ‘I’ll have to.’

That night, I thought of nothing but the journey ahead. I’d always hated violence of any kind so how could I defeat Dylan the Dragon? Dylan was at his most terrifying at the moment. What was I to do?

‘Nana,’ I said out loud. She’s always told me that if I’m ever in any trouble, I must go to her. I don’t care if all my friends think she’s strange. If anyone can help, it will be her.

I woke up very early and made my way down the lane to Nana’s cottage.

‘Hello, Bryn. What brings you here so early, then?’ Nana said. ‘Why the worried face?’

‘Haven’t you heard? I’m the one. I’m the one who’s got to save Newbridge from Dylan the Dragon.’

‘You can’t do that on your own, bach. I think you need something with special powers to help you.’

‘What do you mean ‘special powers’?

She went over to the sideboard and rummaged in the gold lustre pot that always took pride of place there.

‘Here. This was given to me by my great-grandmother when she found out I had inherited her gift for magic.’ She held up a gold and ruby ring which glowed when it caught the sunlight which was pouring into the room.

‘How can a ring help me, Nan? I’ll need more than that to defeat Dylan.’

‘Just you see, bach. If you are in trouble, you can use the special powers of this magic ring to help you – but you can only ever use it three times before the magic disappears.’

This has got to be one of those three times, if ever there was one, I thought. I’ll use the ring to get close to the dragon in the cavern but what I’ll do then who knows? Would I be able to slay the dragon? Certainly, I’d save all the youths from an inevitable death not just now but for future generations too. But, could there possibly be another way?

I was ready. I went back to the farm and set off on the journey of my life – literally. It was hard to say good-bye to Mam and Dad.

‘Promise me, you’ll stay safe, Bryn. Nana’s ring will keep you from harm, I know it will,’ my mother said, her voice wobbly with tears. My father was too upset to say anything at all.

In my pocket, I felt Nana’s magic ring, hard and cold, a talisman of whether I would live or die. I knew that the three times I rubbed the ring for help had to be chosen very wisely. Walking briskly along the narrow road which circled Black Mountain, I wasn’t really sure where Dylan’s cavern was but legend had it that it was about three quarters of the way up the mountain. The road rose steeply and after a few miles, I spotted a wooden gate barring a stony lane leading to a flat rock face. Both the gate and the surrounding grass showed evidence of scorching so I guessed this had something to do with Dylan. I decided to rub the ring gently between my thumb and forefinger.

‘Take me safely to Dylan’s cave, oh ring.’

And sure enough, my feet began to move in the direction of the gate, climbing each of the five bars and then walking to the left of the stony lane. I could feel the grass was spongy under my feet and I had no control over my footsteps. As I got close to the rocks, I could make out the shadow of a large cave which had to be Dylan the Dragon’s permanent home. Apparently, the dragon had lived here for ever and it seemed amazing to me that with all that had happened over the years this cavern had never changed.

I crept to the entrance of the cave, my heart pounding. Could it really be true that Dylan slept all day? Would it be safe to enter the shadowy darkness? My eyes grew accustomed to the dark and as I moved further into the cave, I heard a rhythmic breathing, almost like a loud purring from a gigantic cat. But this is no cat, it’s the dreaded Dylan, I thought. In the corner, I could just about make out a huge sleeping creature, covered in glossy red scales with elegant folded wings along his back and his long spiked tail tucked under his legs. His enormous head was gently resting on a flat smooth rock. It was at that very moment that I knew I couldn’t become a dragon slayer. I would rub the ring to help me deal with the dragon in a kinder way. Dylan stirred violently with a start but then snored back to his slumber. I knew I hadn’t much time so I rubbed the ring for a second time.

‘Give me some magic power to make Dylan a perpetual, gentle dragon who will never destroy people or places again, oh ring!’ I said, in a whisper. No sooner had I finished my plea when a small bag appeared in my hand. The label read MAGIC CALMING POWDER, especially for violent dragons. Directions: Sprinkle five pinches of powder into each ear of a sleeping dragon. Wait for the beast to wake and make a true friendship pact. WARNING: Do this before nightfall or the powder will not work due to dragons waking naturally at that time.

I suddenly felt confident that I could save the village and my friends. I opened the bag and sidled up to the sleeping dragon. I reached up onto tiptoe and sprinkled the powder, one pinch at a time, into each of Dylan’s ears. Dylan didn’t flinch so I sat about three feet away from him and waited. It was the longest wait of my life. What if the magic didn’t work? What if Dylan woke up in a rage? There’d be no friendship pact then – far from it. It didn’t bear thinking about.

After an endless ten minutes, one of Dylan’s eyes flickered and once he caught sight of me, he gently pulled himself up onto his haunches.

‘Who are you, boy?’ he said in a drawl.

‘I’m Bryn Jenkins, a local shepherd from Newbridge down there in the valley.’

‘Oh I know – I posted a notice there yesterday. Now what did I ask for?’ said Dylan.

I hoped that the magic calming powder had worked. I couldn’t believe that this dragon was the one who had been wreaking so much havoc. I decided to test his idea.

‘I’m sixteen years of age, a youth, at the prime of my life really,’ I said. Not a flicker of recognition. Dylan had obviously forgotten all about his terrible threats.

‘Look, Dylan. I know you are a friendly gentle dragon but some of the villagers in Newbridge are scared of you. Do you think we can draw up a True Friendship pact for me to take back with me?’

‘Of course,’ said Dylan. ‘I’m actually quite lonely so I shall be glad to have some friends at last.’

And so the two of us drew up a pact whereby Dylan the Dragon could live happily in his cavern on Black Mountain not bothering anyone. Every March 1st, on St David’s Day, he would come down to Newbridge and visit all the children to show that the red Welsh dragon is real. Meanwhile, he and I could meet at any time as true friends do.

I knew I had to get back as everyone in the village was waiting for news. I practically ran down the mountainside and noticed that the main street into Newbridge was lined with well-wishers. I was back safe and sound. I was no longer Bryn Jenkins, quiet local shepherd boy. I was Bryn Jenkins, brave hero, or that’s what everyone was chanting as I walked through the crowds. My parents were waiting for me to tell them how I’d defeated Dylan the Dragon but there was one person who would have every detail of my brave journey first, Nana. And I still had her ring to use one more time.

About the Author

A writer living in Cardiff, Jan Baynham joined a writers' group three years ago and began writing for her own enjoyment. It wasn’t until she joined a university writing class taught by a published author that she began to submit stories for publication. She is currently writing her first novel.

www.janbaynham.blogspot.co.uk

Harriet’s Easter Surprise

Jan Baynham

Harriet’s Easter Surprise

Sweet Hot Chocolate

‘Oh no!’ I clucked to myself, watching Patsy Poulet and Fiona Fowl as they headed my way. These two birds thought they ruled the roost.

‘Come on, Harriet Hen,’ squawked Patsy. ‘Off you get. You’ve been sitting on that nest for days. Let’s see.’ The two hens pushed me off and gazed in at my clutch of precious eggs.

‘What on earth is that?’ clucked Fiona unkindly and pointed one of her talons at the smallest egg which was tucked safely in the corner of the straw. They both cackled with laughter and flew back to the high perch at the other end of the hen house.

I looked down on my eight eggs with the pride that only a broody hen could understand. To me, the smallest egg was special not different, with a pink lilac shell delicately spattered with fine purple speckles and a translucent coating almost like a powder that didn’t rub off. I returned to warm the eggs, fluffed up my feathers and sat back down. How dare they make fun of my beautiful tiny egg? I thought.

‘Over there, my little one,’ I clucked to the pink egg, rolling it to the edge where it was cooler. Something told me instinctively not to over-heat my special egg. That evening, I felt the first pecking and gentle tapping from a few of my chicks inside their shells and knew it wouldn’t be long before they hatched. I loved this time of year when all my careful nest sitting would soon result in baby chicks entering the world from the safety of their silky smooth eggs.

Sure enough, a few days before Good Friday seven out of my eight eggs hatched out into straggly wet chicks. It wasn’t long before they were fluffy and yellow, opening their beaks wide for any food I could give them. My special pink egg just lay there.

‘When are you going to hatch, my little one?’ I clucked, but half knowing that would never happen. Deep down, something told me there was no chick inside the pink shell. As well as producing chicks, my other job was to lay eggs for the family’s breakfast and soon I had laid another clutch of fresh eggs.

*

‘Sophie, Josh! Come and choose your eggs!’ said their mum. ‘As soon as we’ve had breakfast, we can start the egg hunt.’

 It was Easter Sunday at last and the children found their way to where Harriet had laid her eggs.

‘I know why you two always head for Harriet’s eggs,’ she said.

‘Because they are always the brownest and the creamiest,’ Sophie laughed. ‘I’m sure Patsy and Fiona must be jealous.’ She looked over to the part of the henhouse where the two other hens were strutting up and down their perches as if to attract the children’s attention away from Harriet.

 ‘Can I have this one, Mum?’ said Josh, holding up a large shiny brown egg.

‘Mum, Mum, come quick!’ said Sophie. ‘Look Harriet’s laid a pink egg! It must be for me.’

            ‘Don’t be daft,’ said her mum. ‘Hens don’t lay pink eggs!’

‘Come and see,’ said Sophie. ‘Harriet has!’

Her mum strolled over to the corner where Sophie was jumping up and down, unable to contain her excitement.

            ‘Well, I never. In all the years I’ve been looking after hens, I swear I’ve not seen one like that before, ever.’

Sophie picked up the pink egg and carried it back to the house as if she was holding a precious jewel.

All but one of the eggs were dropped into boiling water for four and a half minutes precisely but something told Sophie’s mum just to warm the pink egg gently. Buttered bread soldiers were waiting in rows around the plates for the children to top their eggs.

‘Wow,’ said Josh, as the yolk, like golden lava, trickled down the side of the shell when he opened his egg.

But when Sophie’s spoon cut through the pink shell of her egg, a smooth creamy chocolate oozed out instead.

          ‘I knew the pink egg was special,’ Sophie said, delighted. ‘Thank you, Harriet. It’s a real Easter surprise!’      

About the Author

A writer living in Cardiff, Jan joined a writers' group three years ago and began writing for her own enjoyment. It wasn’t until she joined a university writing class taught by a published author that she began to submit stories for publication. She is currently writing her first novel.

Website:

www.janbaynham.blogspot.co.uk

Stepping Out

Stepping Out

Jan Baynham

Babyccino

‘Come on, you can do it! Come on!’

They were all there – my parents, my maternal grandparents, my great-grandparents – all encouraging me, willing me on. They were all strategically placed around the sitting room, just waiting for me to do it.

It had been the same ever since I was born and even before that. I was the centre of their universe and it was hard not to be continually striving to keep up with their demands. There was no time to just play by myself or gurgle to imaginary friends. Everything was a serious learning experience.

By placing earphones on her stomach, my mother had ensured that I had heard classical music day in and day out throughout her pregnancy hoping I would be musical. At the moment, all I liked to do was bang the table of my high chair with spoons but even then my mother insisted on me following the rhythm she was making with her wooden spoon on a tray. Why couldn’t she just let me do it my way?

I’d had to smile and chuckle to order, clap hands for every visitor who came to the house and every coo and gurgle I made was given a name and a meaning. When my father returned home from work each evening, I had to repeat any new achievements from the day for him. A walk in the park was always a science lesson, learning the names of the birds and wild flowers we saw on the way. I was the only baby in a push-chair that faced my mother. All the other babies seemed to be relaxed and playing with the soft toys and colourful plastic shapes, facing the way they were going. If their mums wanted to talk to them they moved around to the front. Not my mother – she was constantly pointing things out to me.

‘Look at that goose by the lake, sweetheart. It’s called a Canada Goose. Say Canada Goose for Mummy.’

‘Cabba Goo,’ I tried.

‘Nearly there. Good girl. Can – a –da goose,’ she encouraged.

‘Cab-a-ba Gooosse.’

‘Well done, darling. We’ll have to tell Daddy and ring Grandma and Great-grandma tonight. You’re so clever!’

The book shelf in my bedroom was packed with every fairy story, nursery rhyme and Baby Einstein book you could think of. What should have been a fun bedtime story was often a grilling of what I could remember instead.

And so it was… I was the first child, the first grandchild and the first great grandchild in the family and boy, didn’t I know it?  But only in my mother’s family. On my father’s side they were far more laid back. My cousin Harry was the fourth of four boys and was just two weeks older than me. He was allowed to do things at his own pace, happy to gurgle and chuckle without anyone constantly willing him on to the next stage. When I started to move a little on my changing mat, toys were placed further away so that I learned very quickly to roll and get them. This was greeted with whoops of delight. No one had rolled over that early my mother told my father one evening before he’d hardly got through the door.

I was so forward (my mother and father’s words!); I sat up on my own for a few seconds only quickly to fall back on all the cushions surrounding me. This was practised every day for weeks until I could do it properly on my own at a very early age. Next had come the crawling stage, from commando style to start progressing to the more traditional style. My parents had played so many jungle games on all fours with me that I mastered it in no time. Very soon, I was expected to whizz around the house in my baby walker.

‘It’ll strengthen her legs,’ my mother said. ‘I just know she’s going to walk early.’ Whereas Harry was only just moving around his house by rolling and crawling, I was already pulling myself up to standing and walking around the furniture.

And so because of this, the time had come – my grandparents and great-grandparents had all been summoned to the house in anticipation of the momentous event.

‘Come on, you can do it! Come on!’ said my father, holding his hands out for me. He was kneeling at the one end of the sitting room and at the other end, my mother held me under my arms as I stood getting my balance. She loosened her hands and I started to toddle down the room into my father’s arms. First one, then two, three wobbly steps… I can do this, I thought. I’ll show them.

But no, after the third step, I crumpled into a heap on the floor and the sound of everyone’s disappointed groans seemed to resonate around the room.

‘Never mind, darling,’ my mother said, picking me up and comforting me in her arms. ‘Let’s have a giant huggle before we try again.’

It was no good. They’d never accept that perhaps, just perhaps, it wasn’t going to happen that day. So, still it went on. Try after try, tumble after tumble. Please just allow me some breathing space. This walking is exhausting work. My head was spinning. Okay, one last attempt then. Here goes. I fixed my eyes on my father. My mother gently released her hands from under my arms and I took my steps as carefully as I could, trying not to wobble knowing that every family member in the room was holding their breath. I walked past the first armchair, then the settee. Not far now to go now, I thought, gaining in confidence.

‘Come on, nearly there!’ my father cried.

‘Yeessss, she’s going to do it!’ my mother squealed, unable to contain her excitement.

I collapsed into my father’s outstretched arms.

‘Yea! You clever, clever girl,’ shouted six adult voices clapping their hands loudly.

‘I’ve done it! I let go and walked the whole length of the room! It's over,’ I said to myself, so relieved that I'd achieved what was expected of me. If only they knew what was ahead of them now I was free! I thought, beaming.

About the Author

Jan lives in Cardiff, she joined a writers' group three years ago and began writing for her own enjoyment. It wasn’t until she joined a university writing class taught by a published author that she began to submit stories for publication. She is currently writing her first novel.

Website: www.janbaynham.blogspot.co.uk