The Healing, by Andrew Senior, Shiraz

It happened when George Collins was sixteen years of age. That was when he first saw the hole, and then there was everything that came after. 

George lived with his parents and his sister at 12 St John Road. Until recently he had spent his evenings roaming the streets of the neighbourhood, leading a gang of school mates in the performance of petty misdemeanours. But his dad had grounded him indefinitely after George had been caught on a doorbell camera, chucking lighter fluid into Richard Johnson’s wheelie bin and setting it on fire. It was a step too far. Even George’s best friend, Tommy, had tried to stop him. 

Richard Johnson was the Collins’ neighbour, an eccentric man of indeterminate age, with a strabismus; his right eye looked up, his left slanted off to one side. He was always smartly dressed but with hair like he’d had an electric shock. A slight crick in his neck meant he saw everything from just below his brow. Last summer, when Richard Johnson had a prolonged hospital stay, Martin Collins cut his lawn – no small task – but that was the only meaningful interaction between them in nearly fifteen years of living next door to one another.

Richard Johnson was a frequent and easy target for George and his gang. They followed him up the road mimicking his funny short-stepped walk. They subjected him to knock-a-door-run. Tommy, the loudest of the lot, made sudden strange noises as they ran past his house. Once George threw weedkiller on the plants in Richard Johnson’s front garden. 

Following the incident with the wheelie bin, George’s mum had said they could have given poor Richard Johnson a heart attack. George just shrugged. His parents had become increasingly uptight since his dad had lost his job. In any case Richard Johnson had already said he did not intend to take the matter further. He said he understood the foolishness of youth and believed second chances, not punishment, were what could make all the difference. His parents had been pathetically grateful. It hadn’t stopped his dad grounding him though, partly to appease the grumpy neighbour on the other side (Barry), who’d said he thought the police should have been involved, and partly to reassure George’s anxious sister, who whined that she thought George would burn their house down while they were all in bed. 

George had rolled his eyes. As far as he was concerned, he could do whatever he wanted. It was his neighbourhood.

But there were times when George and his mates found themselves just standing and staring in at Richard Johnson in his strange circumstances. 

Of an evening he sat in his cavernous front living room (he never closed the curtains), reading in an armchair which he had retained in the middle of the room, along with a small table and an ornate floor lamp. Like the rest of the house, the room was almost completely empty. (Martin Collins and his wife had watched in disbelief when a van bearing the name The Matthias Hospice came and took away a whole load of expensive looking furniture. ‘It’s not fair,’ Mrs Collins had muttered. ‘Maybe he’s moving out,’ Martin Collins had said, hopefully.) When Richard Johnson eventually shifted his head towards the window the gang would all duck behind the hedge, or leg it up the road. George hated those moments. In those moments they were no longer mocking Richard Johnson. Instead they had become fascinated by the man, and almost a little fearful. So one evening, to try and shake them out of it, George had gone right up to the window and despite their protests, pushed his face against the glass until he could tell Richard Johnson knew he was there. He would stare him down. But the man did not react. He was studying some papers, whilst other papers lay in neat piles on the floor around him. When his head finally moved, his big-eyed, skewed gaze had calmly shifted around where George stood but without settling on him - as though George almost existed, but not quite - and George thought that he would have to do something drastic to assert himself over the man. And that was what led to the wheelie bin idea. 

But whilst grounded and confined to his room, George noticed in Richard Johnson’s garden, the garden where his dad had set to with the mower, a hole. Rectangular in shape, precisely cut, a dark patch dug illogically in the middle of the lawn. George could not work it out. So one evening, after everyone had gone to bed, he snuck downstairs and outside, where he crept through a gap in the hedge.   

He could see as he approached that the hole had deep, vertical sides disappearing down into the darkness. Various piles of displaced earth were visible around it. It wasn’t the sort of hole dug for planting. Momentarily he was distracted by a soft light appearing on the other side of the tall hedge. The bathroom light. One of his parents going to the toilet. 

He turned his attention back to the hole and it dawned on him what it looked like - a macabre purpose utterly out of place in the setting. It was at that moment George realised there was someone standing at the foot of the nearby fir tree; a presence sensed before seen, and it rose in him, the panic, the fear, the exhilaration, of having been caught. 

Richard Johnson stepped forward out of the shadows. 

Despite the gloom, George could see immediately that something was different. For a start Richard Johnson’s hair was combed neatly into a side parting and had the sheen of some product holding it in place. But stranger still, the man seemed to be stood perfectly upright, with no sign whatsoever of any crick in the neck.

‘What are you doing in my garden?’ he said, watching George closely. It was the first time George could recall properly hearing him speak. The voice was much deeper than he’d imagined it would be, commanding, like some of the teachers at school, the ones who took no nonsense but were begrudgingly respected. 

‘I just came to look…’ George stammered, indicating towards the hole.

‘Always looking. That’s what you seem to like doing, George.’

George shifted awkwardly.

‘I look too George. Every morning. I see it from my bedroom window. That’s why I dug it here.’

Richard Johnson gazed down at the hole.  

‘I call it my Lazarus hole. It took me long enough. My arms still haven’t recovered. I won’t be laid to rest here, of course. But it helps me keep perspective. Life is short and there’s so much distraction, so much worry. I hear them arguing, your parents. Always about money it seems. I’m not sure I’d always want to be in the house with them.’

George nodded.  

‘It’s said that unless a seed falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies it bears much fruit.’

George looked uncomprehendingly at Richard Johnson. 

‘My time is almost done George. When I’m gone, perhaps you could fill it back in. I’d appreciate that.’

Then he smiled pleasantly and moved his position slightly and George could not believe what he saw. Richard Johnson’s huge eyes, dark and piercing, looked in perfect unison, straight at him, their unsettling misalignment utterly and inexplicably rectified. 

‘Goodnight George,’ said Richard Johnson and turned and walked away up his garden. A moment later George heard the door at the house shut and a light came on. Keeping to the edges, his heart beating hard somewhere near his stomach, George followed after. He was desperate to get another look at the man. But as he approached the house the light went off and presently another came on somewhere upstairs.  

George stood for a moment in the darkness, wondering what to do. He pushed his way back through the hedge but he did not want to go home. Instead he went down the path at the side of the house and out on to the street. 

The houses of the neighbourhood stood in silent rows, oblivious to his presence, and the streetlights, caught in the trees, created their own display of illuminated leaves. He began to walk. They’d been up this way a few weeks since, just the two of them. He saw that the yellow grit salt bin had been put back in its place and the brown salt swept away. And that the glass in the bus shelter had been replaced. He wondered now why they’d done it, him and Tommy. 

#

It was 1am when he got back. He found his dad sat in the kitchen, laptop open, waiting for him. 

‘Where the hell have you been?’

‘Out.’

‘Out. Doing what exactly?’

‘Just walking.’

‘Just walking. You were in Johnson’s garden. I saw you. What the hell were you doing there?’

‘Just looking.’ 

‘Just this, just that. There’s no just about it lad,’ he said angrily. ‘Why can’t you just leave the man alone?’ 

George sighed and told him about the hole. Martin Collins listened and shook his head. 

‘Get to bed. We’ll carry this on tomorrow,’ he said and slammed the laptop shut. 

#

The following morning, concerned that Richard Johnson’s patience might finally run out and that he would decide to get the police involved with regards to the bin incident, Martin Collins reluctantly went round to offer apologies on behalf of his wayward son. But getting no answer at the door, and himself curious about the hole, he pushed the gate and found it opened.

It really was a long garden and Martin Collins found himself regretting the time and energy he’d expended on it, for a neighbour he wished he did not have. He saw the hole straightaway. 

As he got nearer he realised that there was something lying at the bottom. Then he gasped, and stopped short. Still smartly dressed, hair surprisingly tidy, the light from the sky above reflected where his eyes had not fully closed, lay Richard Johnson.

Martin Collins turned and walked quickly away, already fighting a quiet dread that was taking hold of him.

#

‘He said so,’ George insisted, when he got home from school and was told what had happened. ‘He knew. My time is almost done, he said.’

‘No one can know,’ replied his dad. ‘It’s just coincidence. He was funny in the head. Must have gone back out and climbed down after you’d left.’

‘He knew,’ repeated George, still in disbelief at what had happened. But his dad had already turned on his laptop, ready for another fruitless evening of job seeking. He glanced up at his son.

‘Johnson was just an odd, old man,’ he said.   

#

Several weeks passed. Richard Johnson wasn’t in it of course, but the hole was still there. George could see it from his window. He stood for long periods of time looking down at it. His dad said that the police had erected a temporary shelter over it, whilst the body was removed. 

Then one morning something clattered through the letterbox and on to the doormat and Martin Collins came into the kitchen holding a letter in his hand. 

‘Bloody hell,’ he muttered.

‘Dad!’ exclaimed George’s sister in shock.

‘What is it?’ asked his wife. 

‘The house. Next door. Johnson’s. 50%. It’s worth a fortune.’

‘What?’

‘50%. We get 50%.’ 

She took the letter from him and read. Her eyes widened. 

‘Is this a joke?’

But it wasn’t a joke. The solicitor later said that the distribution of Richard Johnson’s estate, and the array of beneficiaries in his will, was one of the most unusual things she’d seen in thirty years of legal practice. Included in it, Richard Johnson had directed that half the proceedings from the sale of his house were to be bestowed on Mr and Mrs Martin Collins of 12 St John Road. 

‘In recognition of gardening services.’ Martin Collins read aloud from the letter. He looked up at his family.

‘I cut his lawn, once.’ 

‘We won’t have to sell up,’ said his wife quietly.

‘We’re going to sell the house?!’ exclaimed George’s sister.

‘No. Not now we’re not.’ 

Martin Collins turned to his wife and shook his head in disbelief.

‘It’s a miracle,’ she said, with tears in her eyes.  

#

George went out to the garage where the spade hung lopsidedly on a big nail in the wall. 

Richard Johnson’s garden seemed horribly empty now. He went to the hole, feeling behind him the presence of the house. He recalled the man sat in his armchair, warmly lit by the floor lamp and a hollowness welled up inside him. Before he began to dig, he tossed the spade to one side, and sat down, letting his legs hang into the hole. The branches of the fir tree, beneath which Richard Johnson had stood watching him, were steadily swishing as the warm breeze passed between the needles. From through the hedge he heard his mum laugh and the faint chink of glasses and his dad said something in a jovial tone. George could not recall the last time they had been so happy, so full of joy. 

He jumped down and landed with a gentle thud on the compact earth. The ground was cool and damp. He could feel it through his school uniform. Dangling in various places from the walls of earth were ragged root ends, cut off when Richard Johnson had dug the hole. This was the last thing he saw, thought George as he lay. Plumbs of white cloud drifted across the sky. He tried to recall Richard Johnson’s strange words, about seed and fruit and dying.   

He dragged himself back up out of the hole and brushed himself down. He picked up the spade and began steadily to shovel at the first pile of earth. His V-neck sweater was uncomfortable to work in and he took it off and continued in just his white shirt which became damp with sweat and smeared with mud where he wiped his hands. He shovelled all morning until at last the hole was filled. 

Tired out from his work, he went and sat at the foot of Richard Johnson’s fir tree and dozed. Where the hole had been there was now a rectangle of rough earth. It was the type of broken-up soil in which something could be planted. At the school there was a Tree of Remembrance and they’d all laughed at Tommy when he’d been specially chosen as one of the pupils to help plant it. Tommy the Tree Hugger they’d cleverly called him. 

#

George told Tommy that he’d met Richard Johnson in his garden on the night he’d died and that Richard Johnson had changed, but before he could explain what he meant, Tommy started laughing and he laughed and laughed and couldn’t stop and said it was the way George had said it. George laughed too, because he didn’t know what else to do and didn’t try to explain any further. 

George gave his parents no more trouble and made every effort to get along with his sister (though their collective demeanour suggested he was simply behaving like they thought he should always have been behaving). The hollowness left him but it was replaced by something else, a deep longing that he realised his life at 12 St John Road would not be able to fulfil. There was just one thing he had to do. 

#

The people who eventually moved into Richard Johnson’s house were confused over why there was a sapling tree growing in a patch of earth in the middle of their lawn. But it was a delicate and fine-looking thing and they decided to keep it. They expanded the border so that the two trees stood together in the same area of soft ground, the sapling growing steadily stronger every day.

About the author

Andrew Senior is a writer of short literary and speculative fiction, based in Sheffield, UK. His work has recently appeared in various publications including Crow & Cross Keys, Isele Magazine, Postbox Magazine, Litro and The Honest Ulsterman. Visit https://andrewseniorwriting.weebly.com/

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First Date (Geoffrey) by Peter Lingard, a bottle of Shiraz

I wait at a table, worrying about the flowers lying on the starched covering, inconveniencing me, and using elbow space.  I remember my father’s words from long ago, ‘Take your hands off the table, Boy.  Resting them like that will weaken your core, turn you to flab in no time.’  I put my hands in my lap.  Now that I’ve overthought the situation, my hands, wrists, and arms seem like excess baggage.  It’s ridiculous. I order a bottle of wine.

Might they wilt?  The flowers?  Ridiculous again.  Once I give them to Gwen, she’ll sniff them, smile, say thank you, and put them on the carpet where they’ll rest in the same state.  Should I put them on the floor?  Nah, it’d look bad picking them up to present them to Gwen.  Present them?  Give them?  Hand them over?  Stop.  You’re overthinking it again.  

I take a sip of wine.  Tasty plonk.  Some bread would go nicely with it.  I eye a waiter.  ‘Garlic bread, Sir?’  Garlic!  My breath will reek.  ‘No, er, just oil and balsamic, please.’ 

I look at my watch.  Twenty-five minutes.  I pick up my phone which also occupies table space.  Has she called and I’d missed it?  No.  I check the news and the football scores.  United lost again.  Is it that Dutchman’s fault?  They’ve won diddly-squat under him. The bread arrives, providing me with something to do with my excess baggage.  I put the phone down, break off a piece and drag it through the oil and vinegar.  It tastes good, but salt and pepper will improve it.  I grind the mills over the dish.

‘Hello,’ a woman says.  I look up.  It isn’t Gwen.  Not the person I spoke to on Skype.  Someone has recognised the woman and risen to invite her to sit.  Will I easily recognise Gwen?  Rob said some less-than-attractive people have been known to have a better-looking friend sit in for them when making the first electronic face-to-face.  How can that possibly work?  How do they explain the deception when their real face is revealed?  Bloody Rob. I sip my wine and ponder how easy it is for dishonest people to lie on the Internet.  Gwen is my first foray into electronic dating.  Isn’t that what they call it?  Visions of electronic gizmos spring to mind.  Don’t be so base!  Get your mind out of the gutter and your hands off the table, except to take another piece of bread and another sip of wine.  Should I leave?  I look at my phone.  Forty-five minutes.  Fuck!  Give her an hour?  Why hasn’t she called?  Should I call her?  No.  Best not to crank up the impression of eagerness the flowers already demonstrate.  If I order something substantial and she arrives while I’m eating, it’ll look crass.  Probably better to finish the bread and wine and go somewhere else to eat.  Nah.  I’ve already been in this restaurant alone for too long.  Why suffer the same somewhere else?  Well, it wouldn’t be the same.  I’d be able to order, get on with it.  Still, a decent burger with chips and some of the plonk I have at home would go down well.  It’s been a while since I had fish and chips.  Do I prefer fish and chips?  Chish and fips my mother used to say after she’d been at the vodka. 

Has Gwen been here without me realising it?  Has she peeped through a window, recognised me and not liked the reality?  Were my hands resting on the table at the time?  Maybe she’s been and gone and I’m still sitting here like a prize idiot?  Are people wondering if I’ve been stood up?  If not, do they consider me a lonely alchy? Don’t worry, I’ll be gone in ten minutes. Is there an expected/accepted amount of time a man should wait for a date to turn up?  If there is, I’m sure I’m well past it.  I suppose it could depend on the quality of the woman one’s waiting for.  What quality is Gwen?  Can’t say I know really.  I’ve been quite taken by her in our two Skyped conversations and … well, what’s the point?   Two.  We’ve spoken twice, I’ve seen her twice, so Rob’s silly idea must be … jealousy?  

It’s a shame Emily has that reputation.  I like her.  Rob reckons she’s the village bike but I haven’t heard that from anyone else.  Why not?  Did he ask her out and she kicked in him into touch?  That’s probably it.  He’s got to be the one who started the rumour.  Hardly a rumour really … a rumour of one.  A rumour of one?  How stupid can I get? How shallow can I get?  Wish I was waiting for Emily … who was on time that one time.  I wonder …

‘Geoffrey?’

I crush my ruminations, smile, and stand.  ‘Gwen!  How lovely to meet you at long last.’  She doesn’t even blink, but it is the Skyped her and she does look lovely.  ‘Here, I bought you some flowers.’ 

‘Oh, how sweet.’  She sniffs them.  ‘Thank you so much.  I’ll just put them on the floor for now.’  She sits and lowers the bouquet.  ‘You should be proud of me.’

I sit.  ‘I should?  Why?’

‘I’m on time!  I’m notorious for being late.  You should ask my boss.’  She didn’t waste any time.  An unintended or oblique admission of guilt?  She laughs.  The laugh’s light, hahaha; meant, I suppose, to paper over what she must think is a minor gaffe.

I fail to see it from the same perspective.  ‘Actually your reputation’s intact.  You’re over an hour late.’

‘You said eight-thirty.’

‘I said seven-thirty.’

Gwen extracts a phone from her handbag.  ‘No you didn’t.  I purposefully didn’t delete your message.  See, it says, see you … oh.  Sorry about that.  You’re not going to make a big deal out of it are you?’

Does she expect I’ll believe her?  ‘Not a big deal, no.’

‘Well, I can see you didn’t wait for me before you started ordering.’

‘A glass of wine?’

‘And the bread.’

‘It has been over an hour.’

‘Look, I’ve said I’m sorry.  I mean, when you think about it, you’d have to concede that I’m on time for what I mistakenly believed was the right time.’

Please don’t compound your lie.  ‘That’s a bit too convoluted for me.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It doesn’t matter.  Do you want a glass of this wine, or do you prefer a cocktail, or something?’

‘No.  Look, you get an attitude because you think I’m late when I’m not, and now you’re talking down to me.  I think this is probably a bad idea.’

‘Shall we start again?’  I stand.  ‘Hi, I’m Geoffrey.  Glad we could meet at long last.’

Daggers fly from her eyes.  ‘I thought we’d already established I was on time.’

I sit.  ‘Not exactly.’

She stands.  ‘Like I said, this is a bad idea.  Delete me.’

‘Consider it done.’

 

Where’s a waiter?  I need to eat.  Perhaps he has someone to whom he can give the flowers.  I’ll call Emily first thing tomorrow.

About the author 

Peter Lingard, born a Brit, served in the Royal Marines, was an accountant, a barman and a farm worker. He once lived in the US where he owned a freight forwarding business. An Aussie now because the sun frequently shines and the natives communicate in English. 

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An Appetite for Change by Carol Cole, a glass of Shiraz,

 

 

‘I wasn’t expecting you quite so soon. You finished work early?’ Sarah stood back from the door. ‘Ooh wine. Come in.’

            ‘Here, take this.’ Anna passed the bottle of red to her friend. ‘And make the most of it, it could be my last,’ she followed Sarah into the kitchen. ‘I am officially out of work.’

            ‘As of when? Pizza just going in.’ She closed the oven door.

            ‘As of now.’ Anna scooped up the two glasses from the worktop and followed Sarah and the bottle into the sitting room.

            Glasses filled Sarah passed one to Anna.

            ‘Did you poison a customer?’

            Anna pulled a face, shook her head, and took a sip of shiraz.

‘I didn’t think so, but I thought you said your job was safe, even though Antonio died, because his son can’t cook.’

‘Yeah. I did. Rat-face has got no idea about cheffing and worse, he doesn’t even possess working taste buds. Unless it’s a burger in a bun wallowing in ketchup he can’t identify it as food.’

            ‘Disappointing. You and Antonio worked hard to make it a vegan restaurant and were getting really good feedback. Is he changing it back to a meaterie?’

            ‘Worse. He’s sold it to a fast-food chain. Came into the kitchen in the middle of lunch service and told us. Stupid grin on his face. On a positive, at least he’ll know where to get his supper.’ She reached for her glass. ‘Sod it. What am I going to do? I have got till the end of the month to get out of my flat before they knock it down. I didn’t see that as a problem, but now, with no job who is going to give me a tenancy?’

            ‘Can’t you dip into your saving pot? Just this once?’ Sarah sipped her wine and waited but Anna didn’t answer her. Sarah sighed. ‘Okay, I know your parents left it for you to start your own restaurant, but this is an emergency. They wouldn’t want you to be homeless.’

            A tabby cat performed a couple of feline pilates stretches on the mat then landed feather-light on the couch beside Anna before stepping onto her lap and curling up.

‘Hello Princess.’ Anna tickled her behind the ear. Princess closed her eyes in contentment, paddled her feet against Anna’s jeans and emitted a sound like a distant chainsaw. Anna ran her hand over the soft fur releasing the scent of sweet hay and herbs,

            ‘I could always try and get a job as a cushion.’  

            The smell of hot cheese drifted through from the kitchen. ‘Was ditching Jamie last week the right decision? He still has a good job.’

            ‘Definitely the right decision. I don’t like being ordered around or having decisions made for me without consultation.’ Anna caught Sarah’s expression and laughed aloud. ‘Yep, that’s me. The perfect employee.’

            When there were just scraps of pizza crust left on the plate and Princess had slid out through the cat flap in search of her own supper, they relaxed back against the cushions.

            ‘Joking aside, Anna, what are you going to do?’

            ‘No idea. Being jobless has thrown me a bit. I wasn’t expecting it and rat-face never gave me a clue he was selling up.’

            ‘If he had, then you would have found another job and dented his profits while he did the deal.’ Sarah emptied the last of the wine into their glasses.

            ‘I can see why he did it. He’s only trying to make the best of what he’s got. He knows he’s not cut out for the restaurant trade. Probably the best decision he could have made.’ Anna emptied her wine glass. ‘Tomorrow, after I’ve been to see Uncle Joe’s solicitor. I’ll see what the estate agents have on their books for rent.’

            ‘I was sorry to hear about Uncle Joe. Some premises to rent with a flat over the top would be good.’

            ‘Yeah. Joe was a sweetie. Unconventional but fun.’

            ‘So that’s where you get it from. Do you remember that summer we went down to his barge?’

            Anna smiled. Her eyes lost focus as she looked into the past. ‘Fun times.’

            ‘Hilarious. You fell in and was thrashing about scaring the ducks. Joe jumped in and saved you, remember?’ Sarah’s eyed flashed with humour.

            ‘Oh my God, do I? I panicked because I couldn’t swim…’

            ‘…and the water wasn’t even deep enough to get into his wellies.’

            Anna tucked her feet up onto the couch. ’Dear Uncle Joe. Every December he sends me a card with a picture of him aboard, raising a glass to the camera, smiling through that thicket of a beard with a twinkle in his eye. I’m going to miss him.’

            Sarah smiled. ‘He once told me that his boat was painted red and gold because it was a decoration that had fallen from a giant’s Christmas tree.’

            ‘Yeah, and he told me that every year Santa was so tired after delivering all the presents that he slept in the front cabin to save him dashing back to the North Pole.’

             Anna drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, hugging her memories to her, like a warm, favourite cardigan. Life had been so simple then.

 

***

           

 

The tow path was well trampled and firm beneath her feet. She lagged behind the agent at a careful distance because he gesticulated enthusiastically when speaking and was carrying a large ‘FOR SALE’ sign that he wielded like a giant flyswatter. Passing the gaggle vessels moored along the canal bank she recalled her conversation with the solicitor.

‘Are you serious?’ she had asked.

            He had paused before answering. ‘Perfectly, Ms Chandler. Mr Joseph Hemp has bequeathed to you the narrow boat, ‘The Anna Chandler’. I understand that he named her after you when you were born.’

            She had chewed on the floating dust motes in silent relief. She had expected to be informed of unpaid bills that she would be responsible for as his next of kin.

The estate agent slowed his march, waiting for her to catch up with him.

‘We shouldn’t have any problem finding a buyer for ‘The Anna Chandler’, Miss…’ he referred to his notes, ‘Miss Anna Chandler.’

‘How long will it take?’  Her bills were beginning to mount up.

‘Hopefully not long. We have people on our lists looking for these sorts of properties.’ He shrugged deeper into his coat, raised his sign and marched onward like the leader of a Salvation Army band. His hooded duffle coat reminded Anna of a monk who had been short-changed by the garment department.

The Anna Chandler looked cheerful in the morning sun and for a second, she briefly entertained the thought of living on board, sleeping in Santa’s cabin and…and what? Whittle clothes pegs for a living? Two swans glided past, silver reflections serenely sliding along the gunwale until a raucous mallard water-skied a landing and shattered the image into sparkling shards.

The agent climbed on deck, leaned the sale board against the side of the cabin as Anna watched from the bank. A sign-written boat crawled past with that comfortable phut phut of the diesel engine, and the man at the tiller raised a hand. She was about to acknowledge him when she realised that the greeting was intended for a man striding along the tow path towards her. He nodded to the tillerman before offering her his hand.

‘Brodie Carlton.’ His voice was assertive, and his r’s bounced off his tongue like a drumroll.

His name rang a bell. ‘Anna Chandler,’ she said cautiously, her fingers cool in his warm grasp.

‘Yes. I’m here to see Anna Chandler.’

She looked up at his unfamiliar face. Should she know him? Then she realised that he was referring to the boat, not her.

‘I’m on your mailing list. You alerted me that she is for sale.’

He thought she worked for the agent.

‘Right.’ They both watched the agent unlock the doors and disappear below deck. ‘What do you intend to do with her?’ Anna asked. ‘Live on board?’

With his peppery stubble and long hair secured in a ponytail, he looks like a water-gypsy, although she had never seen one wearing a dove grey suit, gold embroidered waistcoat and hand-made shoes.

‘Not personally.’ He huffed a laugh at her assumption. ‘I’m going to turn her into a floating restaurant, for select clientele, intimate dining, excellent food.’

Instantly she knew why his name was familiar. ‘Carlton Cruise Cuisine’ was a big concern with an even bigger reputation that it well deserved. Customers got to see the sights along the canals on his fleet of boats while being served superlative meals in congenial surroundings. To get a table you needed to book months in advance.

He read her face. ‘You’ve heard of us then.’ He smiled amiably. ‘I think Anna Chandler is exactly what I am looking for.’

Anna felt the flutter of her diaphragm as she struggled to take a breath. Why had she not thought of this herself? It had been floating there right before her eyes, waiting for her to open them and see it. She could name the bar ‘Uncle Joe’s’, call the tables after the waterbirds that paddled past the windows, name dishes after local landmarks. A spider diagram of possibilities exploded in her head like a firework.

Duffle coat had climbed back on shore and both men stood looking at her.

‘Are you alright?’ Carlton asked, a frown on his brow.

Anna realised that she obviously had what Sarah referred to as ‘her lunatic grin’ on her face.

‘Yes, thank you. I’ve never felt better.’ Her mind was racing, adding things to her mental ‘to-do’ lists. She would offer Christmas specials, Easter feasts, theme nights. She would need some help with front of house, but she knew a whole restaurant of people who were out of work. Walking away from them along the path, she peered down through the windows of ‘The Anna Chandler’. How many covers could she comfortably seat?

Behind her she heard the agent asked Carlton ‘What will you do to her if you buy her?’

‘A full refit. Update the galley. The front cabin will become the chef’s accommodation, the remainder will be table space and a small bar. While that’s underway we’ll find the right chef, with experience, innovative menu ideas, local food sourcing will be a priority.’

Anna turned to walk back to the men, her step was firm, her eyes bright with anticipation. Their conversation stalled and they were silent when she reached them.

The agent correctly read her body language. ‘You’ve changed your mind, haven’t you, Miss Chandler?’ His voice was flat, and his ebullient energy level had dwindled to a trickle at the prospect of lost commission.

‘Yes. I have changed my mind and I’m not going to sell her.’ She flicked an apologetic glance at Carlton.

‘Miss Chandler?’ He looked at the name on the prow then back at her. His smile folded the skin around his eyes into soft corduroy. ‘Are you the chef at ‘The Laughing Duck?’

‘I was. It’s just closed its doors. Sold to a burger chain.’

‘That’s a shame, I had heard excellent reports about the food you served. And it was a great name for a vegetarian eaterie. I see why the duck was laughing.’

‘It amused Antonio, too.’

His eyes were fixed on her face, his focus snaring her attention. ‘You are going to turn her into a restaurant yourself, aren’t you, now I given you the idea?’ His voice was stern, his face serious.

Anna lifted her chin and held his gaze. She was not about to apologise for what, she hoped, would be the best decision of her life.

‘Yes, I am.’

His features softened as he reached into his jacket pocket. ‘Then you will need this, Miss Chandler, Miss Anna Chandler.’ He held out his card. ‘I applaud enterprise, and you have gained a good reputation in the trade. When you hit a problem – which believe me you will– call me, and if I can help, I will.’

Anna took his card with fingers that trembled just a little and smiled her thanks. Her eyes prickled and she didn’t trust herself to speak.

With a nod to the agent, he stepped back onto the tow path. ‘And I wish you the very best of luck.’

About the author 

Carol Cole lives near the Cathedral city of Salisbury. Shortlisted and placed in story competitions, she has also had short plays performed by BBC Wiltshire Sound and at Salisbury Fringe Festival and short stories published both online and in magazines.
She is an avid reader