Saturday Sample: Drawn by the Sea by Jeanne Davies

 

Introduction 

Most of these stories are written whilst walking for miles in the countryside with my Labrador companion at my side. The beauty of creation and all forms of nature always stirs something in our psyche, whether we acknowledge it or not. To be surrounded by fields, trees and sky in a magnificent green space or wandering along the seashore with the serenity and chaos of the ocean, can inspire and give us peace.

 

Jeanne Davies

 

Over the years we have published several of Jeanne’s short stories. Indeed, at the end of this volume you will find featured some of the books that contain her work.   

Some of the stories published in this volume have also appeared in our anthologies and others are brand new. This is exactly what we like in a single author collection. It’s always good, too, to work with an author we know we can trust.

You will find here a mixture of themes and genres. There are brushes with the supernatural, an exploration of human emotions, history, love and loss, and also a firm sense of time and place. 

You can really appreciate the inspiration Jeanne refers to above as you read these stories.

Enjoy!

 

Gill James, editor   

Lady of the water

On that day, the torrents arrived without warning, causing ditches to rise and many of the tiny country roads to become impassable. Rain flung itself like knives at the cloudy windows, hammering down on the old Police station as though it was building a new roof. The wind whipped and howled, rattling the old metal window frames and punishing the ancient brass door knocker until it finally crashed onto the doorstep; it’s ringing reverberating beneath the stone floor. The winter darkness closed in at four which made storms like these seem endless.      

I’d expected rain in that part of the world but had no idea how dramatically and relentlessly it could fall. My journey to these remote parts had been a long and arduous one, including a new career move; but I was determined to leave the past behind me and make a new start. I was really looking forward to retreating to my little rented cottage at the end of my shift. As isolated and lonely as it was, I knew I could sit comfortably with my Kindle before the reassuring wood burner.

At precisely five o’clock, the old station door suddenly flew open, allowing in a deluge of water, born on the wind, which saturated the lobby. A woman appeared from the darkness in a shiny black oil-skin raincoat, wearing a matching southwester hat and red wellington boots. She marched over to the reception desk and stood directly in front of me, her drumming finger nails on the wood sounding like raindrops. Just behind her appeared a scruffy old Airedale terrier who, after a vigorous shuddering, succeeded in shaking a shower of rain droplets from its coarse curly coat, before sitting quietly by the door.

“I’m having trouble with my front door key,” she said. “It doesn’t work in the lock.”

I opened the case book in front of me and started to write the date, asking politely for her address and other details.

“Look, isn’t there a male on duty here as I’m not sure a female is quite up to this task?” she said impatiently. “I’m obviously locked out of my home and my husband isn’t due back tonight. Tula and I have been walking for hours and both of us need a hot bath … can’t someone just come and open the door for me?”

She glared at me before ripping off her hat to allow her long amber hair to cascade across her wet coat and shiver down her back. Her features were refined, with porcelain skin and the darkest of sea green eyes. She could have just stepped out of a John Waterhouse painting.

“Of course,” I answered nervously, as any green-horn would. “I just need to take a few details first, madam.”

She groaned and gazed impatiently up at the ceiling, crossing her arms in an exaggerated sulk. I thought it strange that there were still strands of liquid trickling down her forehead like worms and that water was seeping from inside her raincoat onto the floor. Clearly not wearing fully protective rainwear I observed self-righteously. 

I quickly jotted down as much information as I could extract from her … Delores O’Brien … without angering her any further. I then retrieved our lock equipment whilst quickly heaving on my waterproof boots. I shouted out for Mavis, the telephonist, to man the desk until my return. As usual Mavis was filing her nails with the phone glued to her ear, whilst having a conversation with her husband about what he’d like for tea.

The dog jumped quickly onto the rear seat of the car whilst Delores slid into the passenger seat. Her perfume was unusual; a combination of sweet musk and countryside heather.

I was still a novice to the country roads and, despite the rain having suddenly ceased, found it difficult to navigate through flooded tree laden lanes in the dark, especially as the car windows were misted with dog breath. I increased the heater blowing system to high, but Delores sarcastically suggested I’d do better to put my blue light on to guide the way.

“You’re new here, aren’t you?” Delores asked, without looking at me.

I nodded and told her I’d recently moved from the city to start this new job; in truth, I needed to restart my life.

“A man, I suspect,” she detected sourly. “Why else would a pretty young thing like you come to this god forsaken place!”

Ahead we could see Pump Cottage, which was built in flint and had tiny lattice windows peeping shyly over a neat privet hedge.

“Well, there are some lights on!” I said optimistically.

As the car pulled up to the gate, Delores’ head suddenly jerked toward me as she grabbed my arm, gripping it tightly. Her deep green eyes focused intently on mine.

 “Run, Jenny,” she whispered, her face erupting into a deep frown. “Get away from this village as quickly as you can … it’s a frightful place and you’ll be as good as dead if you stay here.”

I felt like a rabbit startled by headlights. Embarrassed, I stared at the floor where a pool of water was welling up in the footwell around Delores’ red wellington boots. She released her grip and continued looking straight ahead again. After a confused silence, I grabbed my lock equipment and headed for the front door, prompting the security lantern to flick on.

As any good bobby would, I rang the doorbell first before fiddling with the lock. My heart skipped into my mouth when the door suddenly flung open and a small blonde woman with rosy apple cheeks appeared. She looked at me puzzled; then looked beyond me towards the car.

“Oh, thank you officer … you’ve bought Tula home!” she said cheerfully.

The little dog, now almost dry from the aggressive car heating system, trotted arthritically past the woman and into the welcoming warmth of the cosy cottage.

“She’s been gone for days this time, poor lamb. I’ve no idea where she goes, but at least she returns to her home eventually.”

“But there’s this woman …,” I began, gesturing back to the car; but Delores had disappeared  from the passenger seat.

“I must give her a warm bath,” the woman went on. “Thank you so much again, PC Davies,” she added sweetly, scrutinising my badge under the porch light. She gently but firmly closed the door, leaving me standing bewildered on the door step.

The car was still fragranced with Delores’ perfume but there was no sign of her, just a pool of water in the footwell where she’d previously sat. I searched the front garden and a nearby copse with my flashlight, calling her name into the wind; but there came no response.

By the time I got back to the station it was well after six and Amanda from the night shift had taken Mavis’ place at the desk. She’d been reading my notes.

“So, it was Delores, was it then?” she said with a grin.

Before I could answer she suggested I sit down and take a few deep breaths.

“You look very pale, Jenny,” she said.

For no apparent reason my body began to shiver and shake, and my teeth started to chatter loudly.

“I’ll put the kettle on my dear,” she said, pushing me down into the seat and patting her hand on my shoulder.

As the kettle began to purr, Amanda began to relate a story which still confuses me to this day.

“Delores was a city girl like you Jenny,” Amanda began. “Her husband ‘dumped’ her in a country cottage when she became pregnant. He had no time for her really. She was so lonely, poor girl … missed all the hustle and bustle of the city you see and sadly none of her so-called friends ever bothered to visit her. She wasn’t interested in making any new friends here of course; we were beneath her, you understand.”

She proceeded to make a jug of coffee and landed two mugs on the table.

“The one thing she did like about this place though, were the long country walks. Yes, her and her little dog, Tula, were often seen trekking in remote places – she was an artist you see; funny lot they are!”

I clutched the steaming brew, feeling the warmth bite at my cold palms.

“Apparently, she’d sometimes walk all day long … loneliness can do that to a person, you know. She didn’t seem at all excited about having a baby either.”

“What happened to the baby?” I asked, burning my tongue on the scorching liquid.

“It died with her I’m afraid.”

It took a long time for those words to sink in. I suddenly felt light-headed as the events of the evening began to spin around in my head.    

“Apparently she was walking around one of the deep quarries,” went on Amanda, sipping her coffee. “When a violent squall came over and they think she was swept in. But talk has it,” her voice lowered to a whisper, “that she’d tried to take her own life many times before, poor dear.”

A vision popped into my head of the sad, pregnant Delores sinking gently into a deep pool, her auburn  hair floating briefly like a lily on a pond.

“Tula spends most of her days in the churchyard lying on her grave. Obviously, Frances has been very kind to the little dog and adopted her when she bought Pump Cottage; but Tula still pines for her Delores.”

We finished our coffee in silence. Although I’d stopped shaking, I felt freezing cold deep into my bones and totally bewildered.

“So, what you’re basically saying then, is that I’ve just met  a ghost?” I said as everything began to sink in. “How many others have seen Delores?”

“A few people say they have seen the woman with beautiful red hair over the years, but no one has ever spoken with her. It seems that not everybody can see her. They usually only notice the dog; you’re obviously a sensitive soul … or psychic maybe? Every October fourteenth on the anniversary of Delores’ death, little Tula turns up at the station door, just like she’s done for the past five years and whoever is on duty returns her to Pump Cottage at the end of their shift. I’ve never seen Delores myself, but there are many stories about her around here.”

“But one more question Mandy … how did Delores know my name?”

She paused for a moment, seeming puzzled.

“Easy dear … she saw your name badge!”

But when I glanced down, my badge just said PC J Davies … no mention of Jenny.

I did leave the village eighteen months later. I only stayed on in the hope that I’d meet poor Delores again, but it never happened. When out and about doing my duties, I occasionally visited her abandoned grave and, as usual, little Tula lay curled up there, barely visible amongst the long unkempt grass.

However, on the next October fourteenth, I’d ensured I was on duty again. At about five o’clock there was a strange scratching noise at the door. I opened it anxiously, allowing a sudden gush of wind into the station. It was thick with the fragrance of Delores’ perfume but there was no sign of her. Then in from the blackness trotted Tula and the fragrance gradually faded. At the end of my shift, somewhat disappointed, I dutifully returned Tula into Frances’ safe hands at Pump Cottage.

I moved back to the city and became part of the Metropolitan police force. I didn’t miss the bleakness of the landscape, nor the recurrent gunmetal skies. I met my soul mate, Andrew, and we married within a year. It was a busy life and I’d almost forgotten about my ghostly experience, when a flyer came into the station with the normal influx of mail. I snatched it off my assistant’s desk and a tingle of excitement whizzed down my spine … it was a photograph of the lovely Delores. I took it home that evening to show Andy, who I felt had never quite believed my eerie little story. There was an exhibition of her paintings at a gallery nearby and I dragged my dubious spouse along to see it that weekend.

I was mesmerised by Delores’ rich dark oil paintings. You could track the course of her life from her busy London high society life with elegant parties, where her paintings depicted women holding cocktails and cigarette holders, to her confinement in the bleak countryside of North Wales.

There was one particular painting in her collection, a bright water colour that immediately brought tears to my eyes. It was of Pump Cottage, where her key wouldn’t work in the door that day. The front garden was full of summer blooms and an abundantly flowering deep pink rose climbed in an arch over the doorway. In the garden was an old Silver Cross style pram and beside the handles sat Tula, upright and protective on a little wooden stool.

 My hands instinctively went to my belly and I cradled my small bump as I realised that, if it hadn’t been for dear Delores’ haunting visit, I’d still be stuck in that god forsaken place.

Find you copy here

 

Forever Young

by Jeanne Davies

milky Ovaltine

This story was entered for the Resolutions anthology. Although ti was declined it is highly commended.  

He collected Liliane at three. She wore the lime green velvet coat they had bought together many years previously. To him she looked as beautiful as ever, like a delicate faded flower with silvery hair as wild as Medusa’s. Their scruffy Jack Russell, Tula, greeted her lovingly as they were reunited, bringing an innocent smile to his wife’s face. Ray took her hand gently, escorting her to the car before tenderly enveloping her in the seat belt. Her fragile faced turned towards him as she asked if she was going home. How would he ever find the words to tell her? Today, like on many occasions before, his resolution was to try to explain, but he needed to find the right moment.

     Glancing sideways at her as he turned the engine on, he remembered the excitement of the drives they had together when they were courting. In those days he had a Honda CB550 with a sidecar, and she dressed like Audrey Hepburn with her headscarf folded neatly into the nape of her neck, and huge black owl-eyed sunglasses. The motorbike engine was too loud for them to converse, so throughout the journey they would communicate with nods and hand gestures. At the end of any trip, Liliane would alight daintily, tugging at her scarf to release her golden curls which tumbled down her back in a swaying curtain. An inch or two taller than Ray even in flat shoes, she always took his breath away and still did to this day.

     Today they drove slowly through the Hampshire countryside which was vibrantly painted in all its autumn glory of colours; neither said a word. The dappled light highlighted her age spots, once tiny flecks of girlie freckles across her nose, which surrounded her heliotrope eyes in a butterfly shape. He leant across to point at a striking giant oak tree, solitarily stationed like a warrior in the centre of a horse field. She stared at it for some time before gesturing back with a nod of her head and a weathered smile. They pulled over to the side of the road to see the horses, three mares and a foul; her eyes suddenly illuminated with enthusiasm. The naivety of her child-like smile brought tears forward which he promptly dismissed. How could he tell her these outings were numbered?

     In the early days of the illness, she had told him that there were moments when she felt alone on a beach where the tide had gone out completely, taking all her memories with it. Every day he had felt her mind slipping away until one day she was completely gone. As the disease progressed her fear turned into frustration and anger, most of it aimed at him because there was nobody else. He often suffered injury from her violent rages and many times she became a danger to herself, frequently leaving the house barefoot and turning up at the other side of the village with no idea who or where she was. Strangely she still remembered Tula’s name, but these days often referred to her as ‘the puppy’. The time eventually came when he had no choice but to put his dear Liliane into a care home, which made him crumble inside. Before long, the drugs they were able to administer in the home began to calm her, although by then she hardly recognised Ray at all.

    This little outing was all part of their usual Friday jaunt. Soon they would arrive at the coast, abandon the car in the seafront car park to walk across to Hayling Island. Here they would sit on a rickety old bench to watch the boats heading into the harbour for mooring, boats of many shapes and colours against the ever-changing skyscape. Ray covered Liliane’s legs in a car blanket, which Tula took as a signal to jump up. Ray’s hand fitted over Liliane’s as they gazed at the sun lowering in the sky, creating dark silhouettes of tiny, moored crafts outlined by the ocean. Twilight gradually persuaded the day to disappear. As tiny dots of light began expanding in the crimson velvet sky, they headed for Harry’s fish and chip bar, their eyes still wrapped up in the sunset as they watched over their tasty morsels being wrapped in white paper. The smell in the car was intoxicating. He could see her delight as she looked across at the warm parcel between them. He had been careful to hide the Estate Agent’s Sold sign in the front garden and hoped she wouldn’t notice how bare the house had become. Quickly switching on the lights in the house he led them into the parlour where he had previously laid the kitchen table for two with floral serviettes and two wine glasses. Ray took her coat to hang behind the door, carefully coaxing her to her usual seat at the other end of the table. He placed the cream donut he had bought that morning in the centre of the table, dividing it carefully into two. Her eyes were owl-like as they ate the fish and chips together, savouring every morsel with their glass of white wine.

     The television went on as they sat with their coffee and half a donut on the two-seater sofa. Tula crept up on to Liliane’s lap just like so many times before. He could not possibly tell her now; what would he say? This was just one day in his week that highlighted his lonely life, and he did not want to waste it … not for either of them. Ray knew this was his last opportunity to keep to his resolution and be honest with his wife, but inside he knew he would probably fail again.

     “But won’t mother want me home … won’t she be worried?” she gasped as they climbed the stairs together.

     Mrs Smith at the Care Home had become Liliane’s mother over the past four years, catering for her every need and keeping her safe and medicated. Even so, sometimes Liliane did not even recognise her.

     “She knows you are here dear and will be waiting for your return in the morning,” he said soothingly.

     Ray had previously ensured that all his packing cases were well hidden under the bed before taking her into the spare bedroom. He helped her into her pyjamas and stood by as she obediently swallowed her night-time tablets. Leaving the glass of water easily within her reach and the low-wattage bulb on in the bathroom, Ray tucked Liliane carefully inside the crisp white sheets before quietly turning the key in the lock.

     “Goodnight, sweetheart”, he whispered back through the door.

     When he woke Liliane next morning with her cup of tea, that old look of distrust and fear had returned to her eyes. But with gentle coaxing he persuaded her to dip her favourite shortbread biscuit in her tea; the fear slowly subsided and she rewarded him with a smile.

     They ate croissants and fresh orange juice in the conservatory before they belted into the car. After careful consideration, he had decided that his news would have to wait.

     “Did mother say it was alright for me to have a sleepover?” she asked as they drove away.

     He nodded. “Yes, of course, dear”, he sighed.

     Liliane’s life now consisted completely of living amongst strangers, with unfamiliar faces, in places unknown. His Oncologist was correct, there would really be no purpose in sharing his prognosis with his wife. The treatment had ended, and his hospice bed was booked and ready. He held her hand until it slipped away from him. She didn’t say goodbye but disappeared behind the plastic bubble light doors of the care home. Her lack of recognition had finally confirmed everything for him … she would not notice he had gone; she would continue to be forever young.

 

About the author

Jeanne enjoys creating stories and visiting other people's worlds and feelings. She's had many short stories, flash fiction and poetry included in anthologies and magazines in the UK and USA. Her first single author anthology Drawn by the Sea was published by Bridge House in 2020.

 

 

 

The Allotment

by Jeanne Davies 

cranberry juice

Saddled to the back of our garden was a strip of allotments where my father spent most of his summer evenings harvesting his spring labours. Brandishing the hoe, I’d march behind him holding a metal bucket. We’d wander past our noisy chicken coup and into that special place nestled snug beneath the shadow of the South Downs. I’d watch and help where I could, shelling tiny peas that tasted like nectar and caressing the tactile fur inside the pod of the broad beans which rhythmically hit the bottom of the bucket. All the while I took sideways glances to study my father’s features which gradually relaxed as his work commenced. His furrowed forehead slowly softened as sweat clung to his heavy blonde brow line, collecting in rainbow droplets before releasing into the dark earth below; this soil never needed enriching he told me. Our houses were built on Roman remains and I often imagined our potatoes growing like grapes on top of a magnificent mosaic or bath house. Dad once dug up a coin with Nero’s head on it but when the local museum offered him no reward, he decided to encase it in a crazy paving path where he could admire it as he passed by with his rickety wooden wheelbarrow.

     Beyond the allotments spread vast fields of wheat leading onto the grounds of the local mental hospital. Built in harsh red bricks with metal barred windows, there was a strange ivy-covered tower attached to it like a dark leach. Often curious individuals wandered into the allotments from there, sometimes appearing naked and bewildered in our garden like deer caught in headlights. They all had a strange lost look in their eyes like the captain of a ship gazing far out to sea. Often or not they’d be dressed strangely … particularly the women with miss-matched clothing, sometimes with the pattern turned inside out or the buttons done up wrongly. They never bothered me as they never said much – ‘the drugs’ my mother used to say. But still, she warned me and my brothers never to make eye contact with any of them.

     It was like that with “the monkey man” who often pushed his old black metal bike through our estate to the old rubbish tip. I always wondered why that nickname was given. It’s true his skin was dark and leathery with a brown wrinkled face and a low forehead, but I found it curious that he had no tail. I didn’t notice one anyway, unless he kept it hidden wrapped around the saddle. I never saw him ride that bike either, but he often returned at dusk with weird objects strapped to it. A spare misshapen bicycle wheel, a tatty lampshade or a set of pram wheels, which us kids really coveted as we wanted to make go-karts with them.  Mr. A (the bank robber) who lived in the corner house just before the path to the pits, often shouted something at the monkey man which made no sense … unless he knew his mother. His four sons leered and shouted rude words, but the brown man without a tail would just ignore them and walk on. I wondered if he was deaf or something as he too had that strange lost look in his eyes.

     Mr. and Mrs. A had the best garden in the street. It was a corner shape, much bigger than all the others and quite immaculate in every way with an abundance of blooms all the year around. He was always tending it with his hoe; well that was when he wasn’t in ‘the nick’. Mrs. A was a quiet plump lady who always wore pretty clothes and jewellery. She seemed shy and kept herself to herself, particularly when Mr. A went away for those long vacations; my mother said their marriage was a true love story. When I became a teenager, she died of cancer. Two weeks later Mr. A shot himself.

     We all disobeyed our parents sometimes and went to the forbidden pits to skim stones across the deep murky waters left by gravel extraction; it was thrilling to live dangerously and if your footing slipped on the bank you’d feel the hairs prickle down the back of your neck. Once, when it had been snowing, my friend’s older brother went there with a few friends to skate upon the ice. His friends came panicking back to his parents with a tale of how their son suddenly disappeared beneath the ice through a small hole. The police came and searched, dragging up paint tins, empty bottles and other rubbish all seized together by a thick, dark, rubbery weed. The next day there was an ambulance in the street; some policemen carried a body towards the ambulance and my friend’s mother began screaming and wailing. My mother dragged my arm to pull me back inside the house; but I just had to look. The boy’s face was a pale porcelain blue colour with his eyes protruding from their sockets like Dad’s new potatoes, gazing emptily into the distance. After that my friend’s mum had to stay at the mental hospital because she kept trying to set their house on fire.

     Sometime afterwards, our next-door neighbour’s daughter knocked one morning when we were eating our porridge. Her face was as white as a sheet, so Mum and I went with her to find out why her Mum wouldn’t answer the door; she’d slept at her boyfriend’s that night and didn’t have a key … I remember she wore amazing blue glittery nail polish. Peering through the letter box, the girl said her mother’s motor scooter was still in the hallway. We headed around the back and Mum stood on a box to peer through the kitchen window; her face became very serious and ashen coloured. She stepped down, instructing the daughter to fetch our other neighbour and me to bring her a towel. She strapped the towel around her fist before smashing the window, allowing a pungent eggy smell to escape. I ran home to take my brother to school. There were lots of murmurs echoing down the street afterwards as people recalled the change Mrs. G had asked them all for, for her gas meter. Nobody had guessed she was depressed; she’d had her hair done that morning. Nobody knew her husband had a fancy woman and had left her.

     Over the years I realised how strong my mother really was … a woman of poor mental health herself who suffered with severe asthma and anxiety attacks throughout her life. Dad and I knelt in prayer for Mrs. G and her daughter in church that Sunday; but my mother called all church goers hypocrites.

     Dad never seemed bothered when we were there; it was his place of solace … and for me too. Shelling the peas and broad beans took us away from all the harsh realities of life for a while … it was our little allotment in time. And his new potatoes were like beautiful pearls as his fork lifted them like a necklace from the deep ocean of the earth.

The Laridae Brothers

by Jeanne Davies

  iced tea    

Peering down over sun scorched rooftops, the downy pair huddled together, waiting patiently and in complete silence. The warm scented Algarvian breeze would pleasantly ruffle their feathers from time to time, allowing their sun-baked bodies to cool. The young gulls would sporadically shuffle aimlessly along the abyss that Mae had swooped down into before soaring upwards and disappearing into the distance. Bellies empty, they held on solemnly for her huge wings to return, feathers splayed and gleaming white.

     From the very beginning Vicente felt his brother’s presence beside him as they lay as eggs, snuggled in Mae’s nest. He remembered the muffled sounds from their fragile opaque wombs of shell; his pounding pulse always one beat behind that of Erasmus. They’d hatched together, sharing their first glimpse of a dazzling cerulean sky which stung their fledgling eyes; they were hypnotised by the soporific eiderdown of cloud draped all about them.

     Erasmus was always first at doing everything. From the first days of their life, his pleading cry demanded and received immediate attention; whereas Vicente’s pitiful cheeps were barely audible above the Portuguese wind drafts. Vicente suspiciously scrutinised his brother as he periodically unfolded and flapped his dowdy grey wings.

     A raw sound scratched the air as Mae arrived on enormous silvery arched wings, head down, with her red rimmed eyes glowing and her ochre feet extended before her. Her hooked saffron beak, outlined in blood red, carried a morsel she’d hunted – a mollusc that she’d thrown against a rock. Her fluffy tail feathers splayed and wagged as she elegantly lent forward to place a piece of food into each of her sons’ mouths; it tasted of the ocean that the pair constantly watched, spellbound, in the distance. That sparkling mirror of ever changing shapes entranced the young gulls by day, and its moonlit shadows enchanted their nights. The brothers’ eyes were filled with a thousand stars whilst Pai watched over them close by, huge and austere as a sculpture. Erasmus and Vicente were both feeling a strange yearning for flight, but Vicente was cautious and reluctant for change.

     As summer progressed, Vicente noticed Erasmus frequently mantling his wings to test out his strength. Then suddenly embracing primal instincts one day, his brother let out a plaintive cry and dived unexpectedly down into a precipice. Between certain death and paradise, he managed to fasten onto a wind current and soared high above Vicente. Envy was quickly replaced by admiration as Vicente watched his brother’s beautiful aerodynamic shape, until he returned on an awkward landing beside him.

     Days followed with Erasmus recurrently taking to the air to practise and perfect his flying skills. After many shaky falls on the wind, he called out to Vicente, telling his brother of the many joys of flight and urging him to join him. Unconvinced, Vicente turned his back on his brother and remained hawkish and solitary on the rooftop; depressed and toxic with his own inadequacy. Many days passed where Vicente remained alone, marooned high on his island above a sea of white-washed villas sizzling in the heat amongst screeching sirens of crickets.

     One night as the sun set, Pai alighted beside Vicente.

     “My son, what you hold on to will always tie you down to the earth and you will be grounded here forever. You must be more like your brother and a take a chance … believe in yourself!”

     Pai rose with a startling cry, his silhouette swiftly rising high above before disappearing into the clouds. When his brother returned, Vicente hid miserably, unwilling to share in his brother’s mystical experiences. Pai’s words haunted Vicente throughout the long hours of darkness.

     Day after day Erasmus soared and glided eloquently with other fledglings and Vicente watched helplessly as they disappeared far out to sea to the nurseries of the gull world. He knew that Erasmus and his parents had lost all respect for him. Mae loyally continued to bring him food, but Vicente’s pain exceeded all hunger as he was engulfed over and again in solitude.

     On one particular day, as Erasmus was perched high and ready to alight from the rooftop, Vicente’s intuition told him something was wrong. He pleaded with his brother to stay but Erasmus paused, gazing back at him sadly and then leapt into the skies. Vicente spent an anxious day patrolling the roof top and peering far out to the distant horizon. Angry storm clouds were moving in from North Africa and the hot and humid Sirocco wind began to howl around the rooftops. Dusky clouds began gathering together thickly overhead and all at once the twilight blackened into night.

     Avo suddenly descended in a huge mantle beside Vicente.

     “Your brother is lost!” screeched his grandfather. He raised his brightly coloured beak and honked loudly and plaintively up towards the black blanket of sky.

     Mae and Pai searched with all the other elder gulls for days to try to find Erasmus, but he could not be found. A mighty stone fixed in Vicente’s heart, becoming heavier as each day passed that his brother failed to return.  He missed his brother greatly; he missed his valour and might but most of all he missed the beat of his pulse beside him in the nest each night.

     One evening as Vicente sadly watched the darkening velvet sky unfold with bright heavenly bodies, he thought he could hear his brother’s pulse far away in the distant ocean. He knew, even if he was able to fly, night flying was dangerous; but he allowed his feet to tip-toe right up close to the edge of the precipice. Then his beady eyes were suddenly opened to the wind streams previously invisible to him. His heart compelled him to drop, so … he let go; his body rapidly plummeted down and down. But then to his surprise, he was suddenly lifted like a leaf on a breeze as he accidentally harnessed onto a wind current. Ignoring cries from his elders on nearby rooftops, he felt the strength in his wings and began to soar.

     Vicente flew further and further away from his nest; so far that he doubted he’d ever be able to return. He didn’t look back, but continued heading towards that familiar pulse. Eventually the rhythm of his brother’s heart seemed near. He carefully lowered to the call of the fragile beat and began descending rapidly towards the ocean, amazed that his wings held him so steady.

     He was overcome with joy as he spotted Erasmus. His body was lying very still, and Vicente could see he was trapped in discarded fishing nets. Vicente managed to alight clumsily beside his brother. Ignoring the pain, he began swiping his young beak repeatedly across the nearby red rock. His sharp bill eventually obliterated the flayed covering of nets and he nestled down exhausted beside the limp feathered body of his brother … two souls again entwined with their pulses beating together in unison.

     Dawn opened the Algarvian sky as the young Laridae brothers flew alongside each other towards the distant horizon, their spirits gliding and soaring together as silver angels of the skies, forever; citizens of heaven.

Alexander Road

Jeanne Davies

chocolate milk shake

The ocean changed its shape in a perpetual motion of dips and swells beneath a morning sky which boasted the clear blue everyone had longed for. The Southsea beach fronts were laden with families enjoying a typical British summer. Excited children grasped colourful buckets as they patiently watched their fathers hammering windbreaks into moist recently exposed sand. Clutching and snatching at shells, the tide had begun its retreat from the pebbles piled high against the promenade. All along this coastal stretch the new day was beginning, with a promise of ice creams, penny arcades and all the fun of the fair, amid the under scents of chips and greasy sun lotion.
     Gripping the lead securely, Elizabeth carefully navigated Bella to safely avoid streams of bicycles, joggers and the miniature blue train with enormous painted eyes. Bella was slow and sedate now and didn’t cope well with stress. For a moment, Elizabeth paused to gaze out across the vast sparkling sea, far out to the distant horizon. The sepia shadows of several ships hung in limbo on the faded boundary between sky and ocean, motionless except to those who turned away for a time. 
     They crossed the road and vanished down a narrow street, leaving the chaotic seafront noises behind them. The grand beach front houses and hotels gradually disappeared. A few respectable B&B’s sprung up between shabby rented accommodation and flats where foxes had raided black bin liners abandoned in dishevelled front yards. Dust and debris collected on empty spirit bottles and discarded beer cans, amidst scatterings of dried dog faeces.

     Along the cracked pavements, weeds grew high against crumbling brick walls covered in an eczema of lichen. Before she turned into Alexander Road, Elizabeth encountered an elderly drunk with several days of grey stubble on his sun scorched chin. He gave her a toothless smile before reaching down to touch Bella's curly ivory coat. The man hovered there for a second or two, balancing precariously as if on a tightrope which he grappled to remain on, but never managed to control. As usual the Retriever gazed up into his withered face, her kind brown eyes focusing on him whilst her whiskered jaw dropped open into a panting smile.
     As they approached the black pointed railings of Alexander Park, Elizabeth could feel Bella’s enthusiasm mount. They quickened their pace until they were engulfed in a peaceful green canopy of beach and oak. Taking their usual route from left to right of the big grass square, Bella was grateful to receive the freedom to roam off lead as she wished. Having completed the square three times, Elizabeth sat on a bench, allowing her arms to stretch across its width. She resisted frenzied tears hiding behind her dark green eyes, convincing herself that she was doing the right thing.

     Bella returned to her owner’s side and carefully settled herself down beside her feet. The gentle breeze ruffled the graceful fully-clad branches above them in a dance of their own; Debussy’s Claire de Lune echoed in Elizabeth’s mind, in tune with their motion. She allowed it to flow over her like the sound of the waves on the beach. They often sat there watching the world go by; Bella would twitch her nostrils and sniff the air periodically harnessing different scents. Their usual friendly Jackdaw would often hop along the path, searching for crumbs and blinking curiously at them.

     A woman wearing impractical shoes walked her Westie quickly along towards them, gesticulating to her phone. The dog cautiously glanced over at Bella but was soon tugged along sharply like a little white puppet. As they left, it yapped briefly at the postman who’d propped his bike against the railings, juggling an armful of mail for residents in the square.

     Soon an elderly couple entered the park, casually wandering hand in hand behind their bouncy Jack Russell. They eventually sat opposite Elizabeth; the man placing his hand gently on top of the woman’s. They were too far away for her to hear their conversation or understand the topic of their smiles and laughter.
     When the couple left, they nodded happily over at Elizabeth. Sudden unwelcome tears rose to sting her eyes. She sighed heavily, permitting them to roll and make damp tracks down her cheeks. They used to hold hands and gaze out into the world together like that … she’d questioned repeatedly why he had been taken from her. Only Bella had kept her going through those sad times.

     A jogger appeared at the gate, her long lean legs pumping at the path. Elizabeth quickly swiped a tissue across her face and blew her nose, chastising herself for such stupidity. She said a prayer for him, as she always did, and inhaled a full lungful of air. Bella took this as a sign and rose slowly to her feet. She turned to focus those knowing brown eyes into Elizabeth’s … they both knew … it was time to go.

     The sun was beginning to weaken and fall as Elizabeth walked alone amid the cries and tantrums of exhausted children covered in salt, sand and remnants of ice cream, being coaxed and dragged back to cars by weary adults. She too must go back to the loneliness of her life, or at least find some way to carry on without the love of her life. So many long nights with pillows soaked by tears and a cold empty space beside her.

     Elizabeth felt the restless pull of the ocean beneath her bare toes and the huge tug in her heart to go back to the veterinary practice, to scream and shout, shake Bella awake … and to return to Alexander Road.