Following the StarPaula R C ReadmanSidecaCognac, Cointreau, lemon,

 

 

At the crossroads, without slowing, the sporty MG Midget’s headlights carved through the winter fog. Lucy Laylock was on a mission. She leaned forward over the steering wheel and squinted. Suddenly, out of the darkness, the turning she needed appeared. Lucy swung the steering wheel hard right, causing the car’s wheels to lose traction. Grit and dirt flew, rattling off the car’s body. Now wasn’t the time to lose control and put the car into a ditch. The chase was on. Unfamiliar country lanes flashed by as the fog thinned, allowing the moonlight to shine through arching branches and gaps in the high hedgerow.

The chase had started eight hours ago when Lucy witnessed the theft of a diamond-encrusted star from the jeweller’s shop next to her mother’s milliner shop on the high street. She had been busy helping her mother out with the Christmas rush of orders.

“Christmas 1932 will be our best ever,” Lucy’s mother, Penelope, called from the back of the shop, before appearing in the doorway, carrying a pile of hatboxes. “Can you change a couple of hats in the window? These will brighten it and hopefully bring in some last-minute shoppers.”

As Lucy leaned into the window to remove the hats from their stand, her attention was caught by an unfamiliar car parked outside the jeweller’s, with its engine running.

“What’s wrong, Lucy?” Penelope asked, waiting for her daughter to pass her the hats.

“I’m not sure. Pass me a pen and notebook.”

Penelope passed them straightaway, knowing that her daughter's instinct for trouble had saved them and others from heartache in the past. As Lucy made notes, a shout went up, followed by a loud bang, as one of the two men coming out of the shop turned and fired a gun.

“Oh, my goodness was that gunfire?”

“Call the police, Mother. Tell them the car is an Austin ten-four, and here are the number plate details.” She handed the notebook to her mother. “Tell them there are two men. I’m going to follow them.”

“Oh, Lucy you cannot. What if they shoot at you, too?”

“Don’t panic, Mother. We don’t know if anyone was hurt, and my army undercover training will come in handy.

“I know love, but still be careful.”

“It might have been just a warning shot. Please call the police. I’ll keep a safe distance, I promise.”

With her heart pounding, Lucy sprinted to her car and sped after the thieves as they disappeared beyond the town limits.

Lucy kept her distance, trailing the thieves through winding country roads. Where could they be going? When they finally stopped at a petrol station, Lucy seized the chance to call her mother from a nearby phone box.

“I don’t have much time. How is Mr. Juggins?”

“He’s fine. The police have no leads. You were right about them only firing the gun to keep him back as they snatched the silver diamond-encrusted star. It is all very odd. Mr. Juggins said he had only just bought it. With it being so near to Christmas, he decided to use it in his Christmas display.”

“Was it valuable?” Lucy asked, moving the telephone receiver to her other ear, to watch through the window as the thieves paid for their fuel.

“Yes, Lucy, over a thousand pounds, and Mr. Juggins wants it back. He said, it’s called, the Andromeda Star and has quite a history to it. It originally came from the Middle East.”

“So it might be a stolen artefact. Sorry, I have to go. They are on the move again.”

“Be careful. I’ll let the police know where you are.”

“Okay.” Lucy slammed the receiver down and dashed to her car. After they left the forecourt of the petrol station, she counted to ten before following them.  

As Lucy drove on, she thought she knew where they were heading, but they suddenly turned off the main road onto a country lane. She followed on; surprised they weren’t heading for London. After crossing an old stone bridge, a mist appeared. Lucy found it difficult to focus on the taillights snaking off into the distance. Her mother had said the thieves had disregarded everything else, only taking the star. Lucy wondered why that was; after all, Mr Juggins had many other expensive items in the shop. Surely, the star would be easy to trace, or were they planning to break it up?

The car ahead of her turned onto a farm track. Lucy followed, keeping her distance. The red taillights flashed from view for a second as the mist encircled them. Lucy squinted, struggling to keep the car in sight. The road dropped steeply as they descended into a valley. After crossing a bridge, the mist cleared, allowing Lucy to see the other car clearly in the distance. They drove on for half an hour. Relief washed through Lucy, and she relaxed as the car ahead began to slow as though the driver was searching for a turning. Its headlights picked out trees and shrubs in the darkness. Then a fingerpost came into view. Lucy slowed and watched as the car turned off the road into a copse.

On reaching the turning, Lucy stopped to read the sign as it swung in the wind. The faded gold lettering shone in the headlights read: 'The Silver Star Inn; a perfect place to rest your head.'

Between the trees, Lucy saw flickering lights of the car and the outlines of a building. She killed the engine, allowing the silence to calm her racing heart. The mist drifted between the trees and beaded on the windscreen. For a moment, Lucy feared losing visibility as she tried to peer through the misty window. She eased her foot off the brake, which allowed the car to roll forward, giving her a clearer view. The thieves’ car stopped by an outbuilding, and two shapes slipped across the yard, briefly highlighted by the lights from the main building.

After parking in among the trees, Lucy stepped out of the car and breathed in the scent of damp soil, pine, and a hint of something else… smoke or musky clothes, boxed up and forgotten. She hesitated, wondering whether she should let her mother know that she had traced the star to an old Inn and leave it to the police.

“What if the police arrived too late, to stop the star from being broken up? No, I must find out why they took it. The sign had said a perfect place to rest your head, and I’m a weary traveller in need of rest,” Lucy said to her car, patting its bonnet. As in answer, it faintly clicked as it began to cool in the damp night air, glad to rest after the chase. “I’ll need this if I’m to play the part of a weary traveller.” Lucy pulled out a small overnight bag she kept in her car, closing the door with a soft click, and began walking towards the inn.

The building emerged from the mist like a ghost from the past. It was a low-squat building; it must have been a coach inn, Lucy thought, but she couldn’t recall seeing it before. Maybe the summertime foliage hid it too well, though the sign would’ve been clear enough to see. She shook her head and focused on gaining entry to the building. The stone walls were mottled with age and streaked with damp to the point that moss and lichen covered the surfaces. A lantern hung above the main door, throwing restless shadows across the yard in an orange glow. In the moonlight, Lucy saw the roof sagged in places. The windows, lit from within, seemed reluctant to let any of the light out.

As Lucy walked slowly toward the entrance, a feeling of uncertainty washed over her, a sense that time had stilled. She tried to take everything in; the glass looked old, slightly warped, while ivy clung rope-like and unchecked across the porch. The faded sign swung gently on a rusted bracket while uneven cobbles made her catch her balance as she reached for the door handle.

Lucy drew in a slow breath and steadied herself. For whatever reason, the thieves had taken the star, and the answer lay behind the solid oak door that stood ajar. She pulled the thick metal handle towards her, and the door creaked open. Then, from nowhere, a gust of wind forced her into the darkness of the hallway that smelled faintly of lavender and beeswax. As her eyes adjusted to the flickering candlelight, the door swung shut behind her with a thud that made her jump.

A warm glow shimmered ahead, inviting her forward. As though drawn by the comfort of a blazing fire after a winter walk, Lucy stepped towards it. From nowhere, an elegant woman, wearing a long, old-fashioned dress, materialised before her. With her hair piled high, soft curls caressed her cheeks, and a light smile resting on her gentle face, she said, in a whisper, sadness reflected in her eyes. “I’m sorry, my dear, but we have no vacancies.”

“I only need a room for tonight,” Lucy said, trying to see what was causing the bright glow over the woman’s shoulder.

“There are no rooms — you must go quickly.” The tension in the woman’s voice concerned Lucy. Was it fear, fear of what— her being there? The woman glanced over her shoulder and stepped back; her long gown made no sound. She seemed to float across the highly polished wooden floor as she turned toward the dancing light and shadows beyond the hallway. Along the corridor, the mechanism of a grandfather clock clicked a warning. Christmas Day was seconds away.

“Please, you must leave,” she called over her shoulder as she hurried away. Lucy followed her, unwilling to leave without the star.

Beyond the hallway lay a spacious room with a high ceiling and a wide fireplace at the far end. Tables and chairs lined the walls, leaving the centre empty. Christmas decorations of paper chains, holly, and ivy hung from beam to beam, their berries glowing in the candlelight. In the far corner, next to the fireplace, stood a Christmas tree covered in multi-coloured paper chains and its branches heavy with silver stars and glass baubles. A man poised to crown the tree with a large silver, diamond-encrusted star. As the first strike of the clock echoed around the room, he settled the star into place. As the star touched the tree, a silvery light erupted from it, washing over Lucy and filling the room with iridescent colours. As her eyes adjusted to the luminous glow—brighter than any lamp—unearthly shapes drifted toward the tree, melting out of the walls as if summoned. Ghosts, Lucy wondered, but how could that be?

A low hum filled the room. Then, to Lucy's surprise, she realised it was voices—dozens of them, soft- and otherworldly. The drifting shapes took on form: translucent people, shimmering at the edges, greeting each other like long-lost lovers with smiles, hugs, and kisses.  

Laughter rose, music swelled, and the couples began to dance, and Lucy felt herself drawn into the bizarre revelry. Through the chorus of unfamiliar ghostly voices, Lucy heard one she knew. A voice she last heard on a rain-washed railway platform when he had held her tightly, both of them knowing it might be their final embrace. His destination had been unknown to her; in their line of work, there would always be secrets between them. They had married in haste, hoping they had a month together, but it wasn’t to be. A letter arrived the following morning to order Tom abroad the next day.

“Lucy, my darling, please don’t cry. We will meet again, I promise you. This isn’t goodbye.”

“Dearest Tom… this war has torn too many lovers apart.”

He pressed her close, whispering, “You are my world, Lucy. I love you.” Then he boarded the train and was gone. Days later came the telegram that told her three words that froze her heart forever— missing in action. No survivors— plane crashed into the sea.

“Lucy— dearest is that you.”

She turned to find the man of her dreams, tall and handsome as ever, with those laughing blue eyes— standing before her in the Star Inn on Christmas Eve, looking as he did on the day he left.

“Tom? Oh, Tom, but how, why are you here?”

Her husband pulled her into his arms, and they began to sway in time with the music. Just breathing in his scent and feeling the warmth of his lips on hers, made her heart race pushing the questions that crowded her mind aside— all she wanted in this moment as the music wrapped itself around them, was to dance with Tom for eternity  

 “I followed the light of the star,” he murmured into her hair. “It brought me to you. But we only have a short time together, and then I must return.”

“Return? To where?”

“Hush.” His arms tightened around her waist. “I came to tell you I love you— and always will. But you still have a lifetime ahead of you.” She rested her head on his chest as he kissed her hair.

Tom drew back; his blue eyes sparkled with happiness. “You must let me go, Lucy. This is goodbye. Follow your own bright star. Find someone to love you for the rest of your days. I’ll be watching over you.”

“Tom… I want to come with you.” Her heart ached with the longing she carried since his plane went down.

“No, my love. Not yet. Enjoy your time on earth.” He stepped back, smiling gently, “It’s time for me to go.”

As the last chime heralded in Christmas Day, the fire went out, the lights dimmed, and coldness encircled Lucy. The music and laughter faded, and Tom with them. Panic rose in Lucy’s chest. The tree and star began to fluctuate, flickering like a dancing flame. Acting on impulse, Lucy snatched the star from the tree and ran— just as the tree vanished in a puff of black smoke.

Lucy slowly opened her eyes and shivered. Sunlight poured through the windscreen, making her blink. The last wisps of mist would soon disappear. She sat up with a start, realising she was in her car. “Was it real,” Tears ran down her cheeks as she recalled Tom’s touch and her lips still burned with husband’s final, lingering kiss.

Lucy opened the car door, stepped out and looked around. The clearing where the inn had once stood was just a ruin, covered in ivy. The walls had crumbled, the roof was gone, and at its centre, a tall pine tree stood, shedding brown needles across the rubble. Lucy stepped over what had once been the doorway and carefully picked her way towards the tree. The old fireplace lay cracked and broken, roots from the pine tree and young holly trees forced their way through the cracks in the flagstones.

“Had it all been just a dream?” Lucy voiced her thoughts aloud, causing a blackbird to take flight and squawked his complaint of being disturbed. After catching her breath, she took in her surroundings. “Was the car chase…Tom… just my imagination?”

As she turned to leave, something flashed, caught by the sunlight. She bent to pick it up. It must have been true. A silver diamond-encrusted star lay nestled in her hand, the same one she had seen on the tree. She pressed it tightly to her chest, the five points digging into her hand.

“If it wasn’t real, how did the star get here?” Lucy muttered as she made her way back to the car.

On the way home, Lucy kept thinking about the star— had the thieves just discarded it? But, what about the laughter, music and dancing — and the woman, who had spoken to her, seemed so real. Tom’s words echoed in her mind; their final goodbye.

As she parked outside the cottage, she reached for the star. For a heartbeat, it pulsated in her hand, sending a warmth racing up her arm that burst behind her eyes. She was back in the Inn, dancing with Tom; his breath warm on her neck as he whispered, “Follow your own star, my darling.”

“Lucy, thank goodness, I’ve been so worried,” Penelope called from the open door as Lucy stepped out of the car. “Oh, you found it. What about the thieves?”

“No sign of them,” Lucy said with a sigh.

“Oh, so how did you find the star? Never mind telling me now. Come in, and I’ll phone Mr. Juggins. It’l 22ndl really make his Christmas. You put the kettle on, and you can tell me all about it over a cuppa. ”

Lucy followed her mother inside, her mind still puzzling over why the thieves had left the star. As she went through to the kitchen, she heard Penelope on the phone.

“But Mr Juggins I reported the robbery—I witnessed with my daughter. A loud bang… Oh, a car backfiring. And the star? Yes, the one, from your window. Oh…I see. Sorry to bother you. Yes, Happy Christmas to you too.”  

Penelope wandered back into the kitchen with a frown.

“Everything okay, Mother,” Lucy asked as she dropped a couple of teabags into a brown teapot and added hot water.

“How strange, Mr Juggins said there wasn’t a robbery. No theft of the star. No gunfire, just a car back firing. I don’t know what to believe now. We both saw it.” Penelope took two cups and saucers from the cupboard and set them down on the table.

“Never mind, we know what we saw. I have the star.”

“Yes, you do.” Penelope added milk to a cup and passed it to her daughter.”

After taking a sip of her tea, Lucy asked, “Do you know anything about the Star Inn up on the old High Road?”

“Now let me see. Star Inn, oh yes. It was once a popular coaching inn in your great-grandmother’s day. When they straightened the road, which isolated the Inn, but by then it didn’t really matter. One Christmas Eve, just as the clock struck the hour, a spark from a fire ignited the paper decorations on the Christmas tree. Several young couples, who were staying at the inn, lost their lives that Christmas. Legend says every Christmas Eve, their ghosts return for one last dance.      

Lucy looked down at the star in her hand. It felt warm as it glowed slightly. Whatever the world chose to believe, she knew the truth: love is so much stronger when we all follow our own star. Tom had found a way to come back to set her free.

About the author

 

 

ula R. C. Readman is a prolific writer who has penned six books and over a hundred short stories. She lives with her husband, Russell, in a Garden Village in Essex. Just Google Paula R C Readman, and something’s bound to pop up. Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee?. Half of what you pay goes to the author the oher half goes to expense se.g. Maintaining hthe web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.

 

Dante Writers’ Circle by Paula R C Readman, a glass or two of Champagne

“Hello everyone, please welcome Denise Kane to our group,” announced Tabatha Hargrave, the co-founder of the Dante Writers’ Circle, in the echoing village hall in Temple End on a chilly spring evening. “Let me introduce you to everyone,” she continued, gesturing wildly as the group members settled into their usual seats. “Oh, where is Lawrence?”

The eight members exchanged glances and shook their heads, each hoping someone else would speak up.

Tabatha gave Denise a half-smile. “Never mind, I’m sure you’ll meet him later.” She turned to the group. “Right, I’ll get started without him. Even though we are a small group, we all get along well and are happy to support and help one another, don’t we gang?” Tabatha said enthusiastically.

The group smiled half-heartedly and gave slight nods before returning to their whispered conversations. Denise felt her enthusiasm about joining the group fade. She had joined on her aunt’s advice. A terrible car crash while working aboard had left her unable to support herself. At her aunt’s suggestion, she moving in to live with her in Temple End and now fully recovered she was ready to meet new people.

“You can sit here.” Tabatha said, pointing to a chair next to a woman dressed in a long gipsy-style dress and a large, chunky, red plastic beaded necklace that matched her bright red, unnaturally dyed hair. “This is Miranda Murdock who writes poetry and has had many of her poems published.”

Miranda smiled broadly, extended her hand, and said for all to hear, “More than most here have been published. Nice to meet you.”

“Yes, you have, but we don’t want to discourage others,” Tabatha replied, then turned her attention to the white-haired man dressed in a dark grey tweed suit, who sat next to Miranda. “Denise, let me introduce you to Fabian Pritchard, who writes Wild West stories.”

“I’m so pleased to meet you, Mrs. Kane,” Fabian said.

“It’s Miss Kane, but please call me Dee,” she corrected him gently.

“Oh, right, Dee it is. I’m so pleased to finally have fresh blood in the group. How long have you been writing?” he asked.

“Seriously for about two years. I recently had an article published in a magazine, and my aunt suggested I should join a writing group.”

“What made you take up writing?” Miranda asked as Tabatha returned to her seat at the head of the table and pulled a folder out of her bag.

“Well, a combination of two events really: I had to take early retirement due to a long recovery from an accident.”

“Oh dear,” Miranda replied, but there was no trace of empathy in her voice as she pulled a notebook out of her bag. “I have some new poems to read out this evening.”

“It must have been a serious accident. Are you fully recovered now?” Tabatha called over her shoulder.

“Are any of your Wild West books available in print, Fabian?” Dee asked, changing the subject to avoid the attention. Tabatha was now in conversation with another member of the group.  

“I’m not writing Westerns anymore.” Fabian said through narrowing lips. “I’m now working on my second novel based on my undercover work in the Far East.”

“Wow, where can I buy a copy of your first book? I’d love to read it,” Dee said.

“Uh, it’s with my agent at the moment.” He coughed and turned to Miranda. “Any news on your book?”

The banging of the outer door heralded the arrival of another member, causing everyone to turn towards the entrance. A tall, thin woman dressed in baggy jeans and a suit jacket, with short-cropped grey hair, entered and unceremoniously dumped a large bag on a table.

“Hello, comrades!” Ruth’s bright and cheerful voice echoed around the hall. “At last, I’ve done it. I’m in print.” She pulled a magazine out of her bag and held it up like a magician presenting a rabbit. 

The room fell silent until Dee spoke up. “Congratulations! How exciting!”  

Ruth turned to Dee and said, “Thank you. I’m Ruth Honeywell, and you are?”

“I’m Dee. It’s my first time here.”

“Oh, Ruth,” Tabatha called from the other side of the room. “Have you see Lawrence?”

“Yes, he was just pulling in the car park behind me. When I got out of my car, he was still looking for a place to park. He’s not normally this late.”

“Damn nuisance that he’s late today! I’ve some exciting news to share with you all. Are you ready to get started?” Tabatha said. A ripple of excitement spread among the members, who were milling around chatting, causing them to return to their seats and pull out their notebooks and pens, eager to hear the news.

In the far corner of the room, a door opened, and a plump, middle-aged woman entered carrying a tea tray. She resembled the singer Dolly Parton, with her dyed blonde hair piled high on her head, bright red rouge cheeks, and matching red lipstick. However, unlike the singer, Agnes had a somewhat clownish appearance dressed in ill-fitting, dowdy clothes that even a charity shop would have rejected. The woman banged the tray down in front of Tabatha, spilling some of the contents onto a folder lying there.

“Please be more careful, Agnes,” Tabatha snapped, lifting the folder away from the spilt drinks and wiping it clean before passing the drinks around.

Agnes nodded, and with a bright smile, disappeared back through the door, only to reappear moments later with a tray of cakes.

Miranda whispered to Dee, “That’s Agnes. She's one of the founders of the writing group, but she never gets involved with the writing— just makes the drinks and brings in homemade cakes.”

“Thank you so much, Agnes,” Tabatha said, as the tray was set before her. “The cakes look delicious as always.”

Dee studied Agnes closely as she took her seat, pulled some knitting from a bag, untangled the needles from the yarn, and began to knit. Agnes smiled, aware that Dee was watching her, and waved the rainbow-coloured jumper she was working on in Dee’s direction.

Fabian, sitting next to Dee, leaned closer and whispered behind his hand, “For the life of me, I have no idea why she comes. All she does is knit: I’m sure she’s been working on that same jumper for years.”

“Maybe she enjoys the company,” Dee suggested, taking a sip of her drink.

“That may be true. She does live alone in a big, old house,” Fabian replied after replacing his cup.

“Doesn’t she have any family?” Miranda asked.

“I’m not sure. Maybe Tabatha knows. It’s funny; after knowing her all these years, I really don’t know her that well. She keeps to herself,” Fabian muttered.  

 “Are you all right, love?” Miranda called to Agnes sarcastically as the clicking of the knitting needles filled the silence. “How’s the jumper coming on? Will it be as nice as the one you are wearing?

Agnes smiled and nodded. The multi-coloured, faded jumper hugged her ample bosom, making it look as though it had shrunk in the wash. Miranda shook her head in disgust and turned back to the group.

“What is taking Lawrence so long?” Babs said to no one in particular as she opened her notebook. “I wanted his input on a new idea for the book I’m working on—”

 “Sorry to interrupt,” Tabatha said, “but I’ve something amazing to share with you all as soon as Lawrence arrives. It is about our annual outing. We have been invited—”

The door crashing open cut Tabatha off mid-sentence, as a tall, strong-jawed silver fox entered. “That bloody car park! I wish we could meet elsewhere. This place doesn’t help my creativity; I’m always worrying about whether I’ll be able to find parking.” After hanging his jacket on the back of his chair, he sat down and tugged a notebook out of his pocket. “Hello, a new face, and a young one at that.” A beaming smile lit up his face. “Hello, I’m Lawrence.”

“This is Dee,” Tabatha said.

Dee nodded in Lawrence’s direction.

“A pleasure to meet you, Dee,” Lawrence replied with a wink.

“If I may start,” Tabatha said, struggling to keep her annoyance out of her voice.

“Please, carry on.” Lawrence said and leaned back in his chair.

“To begin with, Lawrence,” Tabatha said, her eyes narrowing, “If you arrived early, you wouldn’t have a problem parking. We meet here because it is the most affordable hall available in the village. “Would you like to start the evening off by updating us on your publishing news, especially your book?"

Lawrence muttered something before meeting everyone’s stare. “I was late because I was on Facetime with my agent. He explained that he could secure a much better deal for my book, which is why it is taking longer than expected. What were you saying about our annual outing when I arrived?” Lawrence said, changing the subject. “I hope we’re not visiting another art gallery. If I see one more, I’m leaving this group.”

“I thought the experience would give us a spark of inspiration— Oh, never mind.” Tabatha stood to address the group. “Now, my fellow writers, as your chairperson, I’m pleased to announce to everyone—”

"For goodness’ sake, get on with it, Tabs! I could have written another book by now.” Lawrence interrupted.

Tabatha sat down; all of her excitement vanished. “What I’ve been trying to tell you is that we’ve received invitations to the International Writers’ Guild Awards evening next week.”

“We have! How is that possible? You can’t just show up there; it’s by invitation-only and they’re only sent out to—” Miranda stopped mid-sentence as Tabatha pulled the tickets from her bag.

Lawrence’s jaw dropped as if he had just discovered he actually did have an agent. He took the gold-edged card with his name on it from Tabatha and read aloud. “Prestige invitation.”

“How do they know about us?” Fabian asked, turning his card over. “Is it for real?”

“For goodness sake, Fabian, don’t knock it! At last, we have something good to post on our website. It will be great to mingle with real writers and agents. Oh my, I might find a publisher!” Miranda exclaimed.

“But I thought you had a publisher for your book, Miranda,” Babs said.

“You’re so naive. I’m self-published. Many self-published authors eventually get picked up by big publishers.”

“Oh, so you’re no better than the rest of us.” Fabian narrowed his eyes and waved the card about. “It could be fake and I don’t want to arrive there only to be turned away because someone though it would be a bit of a laugh.”

“Fabian, you’re a cynic.” Babs sighed.

“When I worked undercover in—”

“Oh, please spare us! I’m going. It’s about time I mixed with some real writers instead of a bunch of amateurs.” Miranda replied tartly.

Tabatha coughed. “Now then, there’s no need to be rude. We’ll all go. Transport has been arranged for us as well.

“I agree with Tabatha,” Babs said, “They look real to me. How many invitations are there?”

“Enough for us all.”

All eyes turned on to Agnes, who sat quietly knitting. The soft clicking of the needles was the only sound she made as she completed another row on the long-awaited new jumper. No one ever questioned why it was taking her so long to complete it.

Lawrence swung back around in his chair. “My God,” he whispered, lowering his voice further. “She’s not coming, is she? I mean, there will be some important people from the literary world at these awards.”

Tabatha lowered her head. “Why shouldn’t she come with us? Agnes comes to every meeting; She’s always on time and never cancels.” Sarcasm edged her voice as she glared Lawrence.

“Yes, but every card has our names on them, except one.Agnes isn’t included.” Lawrence pointed out.

“She doesn’t write, just sits bloody knitting,” Fabian snarled.

“Now, my old fellow, Tabatha is right. You know.” Lawrence smiled over to Agnes, who returned his grin. “She does make us drinks and excellent homemade cakes all year.”

Fabian tutted in disgust.

Miranda spoke softly. “Well, if anyone is interested, I think Dee should come with us as our guest.”

“But I’ve only just joined,” Dee said and smiled weakly at Agnes, who winked back at her.

“Yes, I absolutely agree with you, Miranda. Dee should come with us; it would help her with her writing.” Fabian said with a broad smile.

“Well, that’s a first—Fabian, you agreeing with me.” Lawrence remarked, and then continued, “The evening will be more beneficial to Dee than to Agnes. I expect she would only want to take her knitting with her.”

 

On the evening of the event, they climbed excitedly into the stretched limo in their fine evening clothes. As the limo glided through the evening streets, they all sipped the champagne on offer. Lawrence laughed. “This is just how I imagined my writing career to be: fine clothes, wine and—”

“Women!” Fabian finished with a laugh.

“I’m sad Agnes isn’t here too,” Babs said, “She would have loved the glamour of the evening.”

“How do you know that?” Tabatha asked.

“I don’t know. There’s always been something about our Agnes that I could never quite put my finger on.”

At their destination, The Dante Writers group found themselves seated at the front of the proceedings, surrounded by the literary greats. Once the diners finished their meals, the lights dimmed, while the stage lights brightened. The presenter approached to the podium and announced that the international mystery novelist, Agatha Chase — known for her fifty-bestselling novels— would start the evening off by presenting the awards to the winners of each category.

The audience erupted in applause and began to stand as an elegantly woman with golden auburn hair, delicate make-up and dressed in a blue silk gown floated onto the stage and took her place on the podium.

“Thank you, everyone, for recognising my achievement. I would like to extend a big thank you to the many fans of my books and my heroine, Agnes Shepherd— the avid knitter and private investigator. I would also like express my gratitude to a special writing group, The Dante Writers. I’m so glad you could all make it this evening. You have all inspired me over the years.”

The Dante Writers’ group turned to each other as an usher laid a multi-coloured jumper before them.

“But, I don’t understand,” Miranda said, pointing at the jumper. “It can’t be— Isn’t that’s our Agnes’s -  the one she was knitting. 

“Oh no, she’ not here, is she?” Fabian said, finding his voice.

“Agatha Chase is my aunt,” Dee said, with a bright smile. “I guess you didn't know she was a published author?

“No! What, our Agnes is actually the international mystery novelist, Agatha Chase!” the Dante Writers exclaimed in unison, finally agreeing for once.

“Oh yes, Dee said, “she explained to me that her success came from truly listening to others, and understanding her characters."

“So all the time she was coming to the group, she was listening to our conversations,” Tabatha said with a sigh.

About the author

 Paula R. C. Readman is a prolific writer who has penned six books and over a hundred short stories. She lives with her husband, Russell, in a Garden Village in Essex. Just Google Paula R C Readman, and something’s bound to pop up. 

 

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Saturday Sample: Days Pass Like a Shadow by Paula R C Readman, builders' tea

 

The Meetings

 

As I sit on a park bench I trace the words engraved on the small metal plaque with my fingertips. By doing this simple act I recall the happiness I witnessed so long ago. 

Every day I come here to watch others enjoying the park. As I sit, I reflect on an unknown person who was once so strong and so full of life, all those years ago. Maybe the plaque could be a marker for my life too. As crazy as it may seem, I used to watch him and her, while I was busy working among the flowerbeds and borders.

Most mornings the young woman would arrive via the side road into the park.  Bohemian in her dress she walked briskly, her long, blonde hair streaming out behind her, like a veil of sunshine even on the dullest of days.  Her footfall on the gravel was so light it barely made a sound. If I happened to be busy either weeding, hoeing or planting I would miss her arrival.

Sometimes while I straightened my back I would catch sight of her waiting patiently at this bench. On seeing the unknown man’s arrival, her face would brighten and with a laugh she would rush to his open arms. The man, tall and elegant in his posture, dressed quite casually in chino trousers and a light jacket.  Some mornings he would arrive so early that the mist hadn’t time to clear to wait for her. He always came via the main entrance, with its large ornate gates of black and gold. A couple of hours later she would arrive with her beautiful smile. 

I never quite knew what time of day they would arrive. Sometimes if the weather was awful in the morning they came in the afternoon, but I never saw them arrive together.

At first, I wasn’t sure about their relationship, whether they were lovers, or not?  Not that it was any of my business.  I just saw them as two happy people enjoying each other’s company. 

Happiness is a rare thing these days. I considered myself lucky a silent witness to the pleasure they shared as I worked among the flowerbeds and borders. Not being a good judge of age I did think the man looked slightly older than the woman. The sun highlighted the passing of his years in the changing colour of his hair. However, in all honesty, I couldn’t begin to guess the woman’s age, as I hadn’t seen her close up, well, not at first.

I used to see them strolling, arm in arm around the park. The woman gazed into the man’s face as though she’d never tire of it. Occasionally, I would stumble across them standing close together down by the fountain, or up on the rise overlooking the town. 

He stood with his arm around her narrow waist, talking in his easy, gentle way while pointing out something of interest to her.  Like the multitude of colourful butterflies that fed restlessly on the globe buddleia bush. Sometimes, as if by magic, the man would produce a bag of bread. The young woman’s laughter carried on the air across to where I was working among the perennials. Together like children they would race along the path to the pond.  Her gentle, laughing voice was conveyed on the light summer breeze as she called back to him.

“I win again!”

At the pond, the swans were the first to know there was food on offer. They would haughtily swim over as the woman attempted to throw the bread to them, but the smaller, more agile, comical ducks would get in first.  Together the couple would laugh at the antics of the swans and ducks until all the bread had gone. 

Some days while I trundled about with my wheelbarrow I would come across them, sitting with their heads intimately close. They were especially fond of the bench under the spreading oak tree on a rise overlooking the town.

On one occasion while I dug out a flowerbed ready for the seasons planting I watched as the man produced a bag of nuts.  Within minutes as though by some sixth sense, from nowhere, squirrels appeared and came down from the branches above to feed on the nuts the woman held out.

The unexpected look of pure pleasure that crossed her face was a remarkable sight. It seemed to me the man brought a sort of enchantment into her life. I know he did mine, and I began to look forward to their visits, to share in the magic of their happiness. 

It makes me smile even now.  I remember sharing her birthdays and Christmas celebrations on this bench. The gentleman was like a magician conjured brightly coloured balloons and ribbons out of nowhere to decorate the bench before she arrived. 

As she came up the rise towards him, he produced a cake with lighted candles. Once she was seated, he’d arrange her flowing bohemian skirt around her sandaled feet and then set up his camera to take a photograph of them together while she blew out the candles.

 

The autumn seemed to arrive quite quickly that year. You could smell the changing of the seasons in the air.  I had only just unlocked the park gates when he appeared out of the early morning mist.

He walked much slower, unsteady on his feet and with the aid of a stick. He seemed embarrassed to see me and nodded his acknowledgement before making a slow progress up the slight rise to wait as he always did on their bench under the oak tree.  Shocked at the sudden change in his appearance I quickly turned my attention back to raking the first of the falling leaves. Their absence from the park went unnoticed by me, I’m sorry to say, with too many jobs needing my attention.

***

As the flowering season ended I began cutting back shrubs, digging out the annuals, dead heading the roses and splitting some of the large plants to make new ones. As I worked my way through the list of jobs my mind was already planning next season’s planting. The weeks flew by as I continued working my way around the park, tidying the edge of the pond and pulling out the invasive weeds. Soon I was clearing the flowerbeds, borders and urns ready to plant up with the winter flowering plants and bulbs.

Early one morning I woke to find the first snowfall of the season had fallen overnight.  After I had bought a pint of milk I hurried to the park as the snow began to fall again. As I turned the corner, on reaching the shelter of the park keeper’s hut, I found the young woman sitting huddled in her coat outside the hut door.  

On seeing me she rose. Tears stained her face. With a weak smile she greeted me like an old friend and held out a small, brightly wrapped parcel. Words tumbled from her lips in-between uncontrollable sobs. All I could understand was that she was trying to explain something.

“Please, come in and have a cup of tea. While you’re warm up you can explain.”

On unlocking the door the warmth of the hut hit us, adding colour to her cheeks and hands. I gestured for her to sit on an old park bench I had just finished repairing. While we waited for the kettle to boil she repeated what she had said outside.  As I passed her a mug of tea I noticed the fine lines around her eyes.

After taking a sip, she said, “I’ve been unable to face coming here, to our special place, since the funeral two months ago.” Tears bubbled up in her brown eyes as she picked up the parcel and handed it to me. 

On opening it I was unable to speak after reading what was written on the plaque in my hands.  I met her eyes and she smiled at the shock that must have registered on my face. 

“Yes,” she said with a rueful laugh. “He was my father. I was only able to search for him after my mother passed away.  On our first meeting my father promised me we would do all the things we had missed doing when I was a child.  So we flew kites, visited the zoo and built sandcastles on the beach, but mostly we enjoyed spending our time here in the park. I recalled coming here with him as a small child before my parents divorced and my mother took me away.  My father had remarried, but unfortunately, they were unable to have children. He kept me a secret from his new wife only wishing to protect her from any upset that might have arisen from our meetings.” She took another sip before continuing.

“Three months ago I received a call from Dad’s wife to say he’d been rushed into hospital. As his health was deteriorating fast he’d told her all about me. She phoned to ask me to keep her company at his bedside, wanting to share his last moments together. We’ve since become good friends and I spend my time visiting her now. I would like to have a reminder in the park of the wonderful times I’ve spent with my lost father and to remind other people of their fathers too. If it’s possible could we fit the plaque to the bench under the tree?”

I nodded picking up my screwdriver. Together we stepped out in the snow making our way to the rise. As the young woman held the plaque I fastened the last screw in place before she read the words aloud:

‘In memory of all the lost fathers everywhere: One day may your children come back into your lives so you can relive their childhood years together again.’

As I watched her leave by the main gates I recall the happy times I spent with my father playing on my sledge on sunny wintry days so long ago. As I made my way back to my hut I saw our footprints were the only ones in the freshly fallen snow and wondered whether I would see her again. 

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About the author  

Paula R. C. Readman is a prolific writer and has penned six books and over a hundred short stories. She lives in an Essex village with her husband, Russell. Blog: https://colourswordspaper.blog or just Google Paula R C Readman, and something’s bound to pop up.

 

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Dandelion Clock by Paula R C Readman, dandelion wine

 ‘You do know you can make three wishes with that?’ A deep, earthy voice pulled me from my thoughts as I sat on the stone step of a gothic folly in a beautiful garden. I looked up to see a tall, dark, handsome man smiling down at me. I frowned, not recognising him as one of the guests since he hadn’t followed Sally’s strict dress code; he wore jeans and a white shirt. The man pointed to the dandelion clock I had just picked, the only weed in a perfectly manicured garden. Like that dandelion, I felt out of place at the party.

The man repeated his question about making wishes. I stared at the dandelion clock unaware that I was rolling the delicate stem between my thumb and forefinger. ‘Oh, I thought it was for telling the time,’ I said, not interested in making wishes. After all everything I had hoped for had been taken from me.

‘Well, I would rather check my phone for the time,’ he replied, holding up his mobile. ‘I think they are more accurate than a dandelion clock.’ Uninvited, he sat down beside me. ‘Are you with the party at The Barns?’

‘Sort of,’ I said studying the delicate clock. So light, so fragile; a single puff could destroy it. I needed to escape the pitiful stares and whispers behind my back as I wandered among the party guests with a smile plastered on my face. I finally sought peace in the beautiful garden, full of perfume, birdsong, butterflies, and bees.

‘If you don’t mind me saying you don’t sound too sure.’

I met his stare. His brown eyes, the windows to his soul, were gentle and questioning, and I felt my anger begin to dissipate. I let my breath out slowly, unaware I had been holding it.

‘It’s my baby sister’s party— engagement party,’ I finally said the words aloud.

‘Aren’t you happy for her?’

‘Of course, I am.’ I forced a smile instead of voicing my true feelings. In reality, I was pleased that my ex-boyfriend had hit it off so well with my sister that my parents were glad he was still part of the family. Instead, I said, ‘It isn’t my scene— big crowds, lots of drinking, and a mountain of food. To be honest, I wish I could be anywhere else but here.’

‘Well, that’s your first wish,’ he said.

‘My first wish?’

‘Yes, you get three wishes if you blow on the dandelion clock carefully enough to clear its seed head— kind of like blowing out the candles on a birthday cake all at once.’

‘Are you a wish expert, Mr…? Sorry, what is your name?’

‘Gene Vincent. And yours?’

‘Gene Vincent?’ I repeated, frowning as the name sounded familiar.

‘Yes, my father enjoyed the singer’s music and, of course, the motorbike in his wild youth. And your name is?’

‘Philantha James.’

‘Oh, aren’t you the artist who paints wild flower pictures?’

‘Yes, I am. So, you know my work. Are you a friend of my sister or her fiancé?’ I didn’t recognise him as a friend of my ex.

‘Hmm, well, it’s a bit of a long story, with a few twists and turns along the way. For now, I’m helping out my parents who manage the gardens and the outbuildings on this estate. Both were architects and saw a way to transform the buildings into usable spaces for parties, conferences, and weddings. As they say, diversifying helps bring money into the estate, and having your work for sale in the gift shop helps. Your stunning paintings of the grounds and folly sell very well especially with wedding parties.' 

I laughed, knowing one couple who wouldn’t be buying my paintings. ‘Well, at least someone notices my art.’

‘Your work is beautiful and is one of our best sellers, as you must know.’

‘Thank you. Having a steady income has allowed me to move into the flat above my studio.’ I laughed inwardly at the thought a weed had allowed me to escape my sister’s condescending stares and offhanded remarks at home. 

‘So tell me the real reason why you’re not celebrating your sister’s engagement.’

‘I’m… happy for her and I wish her much happiness when they get married.’

‘That’s your second wish,’ Gene said.

I lowered the dandelion clock. ‘Why are you so interested in my wishes, Mr. Vincent?’

‘Because, Miss James, I can’t bear to see you so unhappy. Here you are, sitting in this beautiful garden on a warm summer day, holding the only weed in the whole garden.’

‘I’m not unhappy. Anyway, a weed is just a flower growing in the wrong place. Dandelions are loved by the bees and can make beautiful wine.’

‘True, but in this garden, they are considered weeds.’

‘That’s a negative thing to say, especially when most of these plants are regarded as weeds in other countries.’

‘My dear Miss James, I don’t want to get into a political discussion with you over a weed.’ Gene stretched his legs and leaned back, shielding his eyes against the sun.

I stood and walked away, wanting to be alone rather than with a silly man and his ridiculous theory on wishes.

‘Hey, where are you going?’ Gene called out. His footsteps echoed off the stone steps, telling me he was following me.

‘Back to the party to face my demons,’ I replied over my shoulder.

‘Wait,’ he said, catching me up.

‘Please, I wish—’

‘Shh, don’t say it, Miss James.’

‘Say what?’

‘Your last wish, because you might regret it.’ Gene took the dandelion’s clock from my hand and blew gently, sending the silvery seed-bearing parachutes off in one puff. ‘Now I can have my three wishes’ he said with a laugh. ‘My first wish is to get to know you better.’

‘Oh my goodness, I know who you are, Gene. You’re Sally’s mystery boyfriend.’

‘Yep.’ Gene took my hand and pulled me down to sit on the step beside him. I was just a holiday fling, so I wouldn’t say I was her boyfriend. She talked about you, saying you called yourself an artist, which intrigued me, so I Googled your work and fell in love with its delicate beauty. I showed it to my parents.’

‘Oh, of course, Francesca Vincent is your mother, and she commissioned me to paint a series depicting the folly and gardens. I often wondered how she discovered my work, but was always too frightened to ask.’

‘I didn’t want you to think I was stalking you, especially after I broke up with your sister. I wouldn’t say your sister and I dated, because it was over before it really began. Your sister was looking for high-maintenance lifestyle, which isn’t for me. When I told her my family ran a gift shop, she seemed to lose interest.’

‘Oh dear, you told a lie,’ I said, looking around at the splendid gardens, stunning barn conversions, and the gift shop.

‘Well, not exactly; I just didn’t elaborate,’ Gene said, pinching his thumb and finger together. ‘A tiny, wee bit, I suppose. For me, it’s about loving the person you are with and not their material possessions. I soon realised Sally wasn’t the girl for me.’

‘Yes, I know what you mean. Simon wasn’t interested in the natural world; he was focused on being seen at the right nightclubs and looking buff for a camera. I’m much happier without him.’

‘I was hoping I could meet you in person when Mum told me who had booked The Barns this weekend. She’s a good judge of character, too.’

‘I’m so glad to know I meet your mum’s approval.’

‘You certainly do.’ Gene extended his arm to me. ‘Right, are you ready to enter the lion’s den with me, Miss James?’

I took Gene’s arm, feeling like a lady with her knight in shining armour. ‘It’s now or never, Sir Vincent,’ I said caught up in the magic.

‘My pleasure, Lady Philantha. Having you at my side is more than I could wish for.’

‘Then that means we both have a wish left,’ I replied as we walked away from the folly.’

‘You’re correct, but we might need those wishes later,’ he said, leaning in to kiss my cheek. 

About the author

 

Paula R. C. Readman is a prolific writer who has penned six books and over a hundred short stories. She lives with her husband, Russell, in a Garden Village in Essex. Blog: https://colourswordspaper.blog or just Google Paula R C Readman, and something’s bound to pop up. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)