The Man Who Came for Christmas Dinner

by Sue Cross

a cup of tea with three sugars

 Phil listened intently to his mother’s telephone conversation.

            “Darling, he’s so distressed. Maybe we could do something – oh, I don’t know. Just something. Fine Christmas this is turning out to be and now that the dishwasher’s broken. Who is going to come out on Christmas Eve to fix it? Oh, I wonder if I’ve got Lee’s number still. He might have a look at it. I’ll phone him now.”

            There was a pause and Phil wondered who she was talking to and what that person was saying in response. It was true, he had been distressed ever since his big brother had told him those shocking facts. He felt as if his world had disintegrated. His mother started to speak again.

            “Okay, darling. I’ll give him a ring. See you later. Bye for now. Love you too.”

            Phil decided that she must have been talking to his father. He could not think of anyone else who she called darling – except occasionally him. Although he quite liked it when she called him darling, he found it very embarrassing when she said it in front of his friends. He sighed deeply and continued to build the fortress that he had been working on with his Lego. His mother was in a complete flap over the Christmas meal. She had been in the kitchen all day, apart from when they had eaten lunch, which was rushed. However, she bucked up considerably when she managed to persuade Lee to have a look at the dishwasher. Phil wondered what all the fuss was about – why couldn’t she wash the dishes in the sink like his Grandma? An hour later, the doorbell rang. His mother greeted their visitor with enthusiasm.

            “Hello, Lee. I’m so pleased you could make it. Come through to the kitchen. Would you like a cup of tea?”

            “Thanks, milk and three sugars.” He marched through to the kitchen with a large tool bag.

            After a short while, he announced, “I can fix this. No problem. Just have to nip out to the van for a part.”

            Phil ventured into the kitchen, which smelled delicious.  A pile of mince pies was cooling on a rack and his mother looked much happier. He hovered in the doorway, when Lee returned with a part for the dishwasher.

            “Would you like a mince pie with your tea?” Mother asked him.

            “Wouldn’t say no. Haven’t managed to eat today.”

            Mother put two mince pies on a plate and enquired, “Why ever not? In this weather you need to eat.”

            Lee shuffled in embarrassment, took a bite of mince pie and announced, “Jen and I split up. I’m living in a caravan. There’s not much storage room for food.”

            “Oh dear. I’m so sorry. What will you be doing for Christmas?”

            “Nothing. Probably put a ready meal in the oven. Christmas is for families…” he trailed off.

            “Then you must come to us! We have plenty of food – no, I insist. It would be a little thank you for fixing the dishwasher for me. You can imagine the pile of washing up there will be tomorrow.”

            Lee looked as if he could imagine it and a large smile lit up his face. “Thanks, Mrs Hood. That will be lovely.”

            “Call me Val, please. Now, how much do I owe you?”

            After paying the repairman, she stood in the hall whispering to him so Phil could not hear what was being said.  It was probably boring anyway, so he returned to his Lego.  He wondered if he would get any presents this year, now that everything had changed so dramatically. Why did his brother have to spoil everything?

            That night, as Phil’s father placed a mince pie and a glass of sherry, as he always did on Christmas Eve, on the mantelpiece, Phil blurted out, “There’s no point,” before crying.

            Phil’s elder brother, Andrew, sniggered before being nudged and told to be quiet by their mother.

            “It’s past your bedtime. You’re overtired. I hope you’ve remembered to hang up your stocking, Phil.”

            Just as he was about to protest, there was a ring on the doorbell.

            “Who on earth could that be at this time of night?” Mother looked surprised.

            “I’ll go.” Father got up from the sofa and hurried into the hall.

            “Ho, ho, ho.” A loud voice boomed and Phil jumped with shock before Father Christmas strolled into the room with a large sack flung over his shoulder.

            “It’s you!” Phil said. He felt as if he’d swallowed a sunbeam, such was his delight. “Why didn’t you come down the chimney? We’ve left you a mince pie and a glass of sherry.”

            “I was a little tired after delivering so many toys across the land. I choose a different house each year to put my feet up for five minutes. I’ve heard that you have the best mince pies in the world and that you’ve been a good boy. However, I was a little sad not to get your usual letter this year. The elves told me that you did not believe in me anymore, which is, of course not true, as you can see.”  He laughed and his large tummy wobbled.

            Father Christmas stayed for at least ten minutes before a happy little boy went to bed, dreaming of elves, and reindeers and, of course, his friend Father Christmas.  The next morning he awoke early to find his stocking full and lots of presents around the tree.

            It was a great Christmas and Phil was pleased that Lee enjoyed his time with the family. He noticed how similar his eyes were to that of Father Christmas. They were blue like the sky in summertime.  

As Phil stared out at the stars from his bedroom that night he was sure that he saw a sleigh, pulled by a dozen reindeer, cross the sky. He blinked and saw Father Christmas waving to him.  Waving back, Phil called, “Goodbye, see you next year.”  Excited, he ran into the living room and told his parents what he had just witnessed. They smiled and nodded. 

“Where’s Lee?” Phil asked.

“He’s gone away - but will visit us next Christmas,” Mother replied.

           

 About the author

Sue Cross has written two novels, Tea at Sam’s and the sequel, Making Scents. Her latest book is a compilation of short stories, titled Stories to Go. Check out her writing on www.suecross.com

The Man Who Came for Chtistmas Dinner

by Sue Cross

a cup of tea with three sugars

 Phil listened intently to his mother’s telephone conversation.

            “Darling, he’s so distressed. Maybe we could do something – oh, I don’t know. Just something. Fine Christmas this is turning out to be and now that the dishwasher’s broken. Who is going to come out on Christmas Eve to fix it? Oh, I wonder if I’ve got Lee’s number still. He might have a look at it. I’ll phone him now.”

            There was a pause and Phil wondered who she was talking to and what that person was saying in response. It was true, he had been distressed ever since his big brother had told him those shocking facts. He felt as if his world had disintegrated. His mother started to speak again.

            “Okay, darling. I’ll give him a ring. See you later. Bye for now. Love you too.”

            Phil decided that she must have been talking to his father. He could not think of anyone else who she called darling – except occasionally him. Although he quite liked it when she called him darling, he found it very embarrassing when she said it in front of his friends. He sighed deeply and continued to build the fortress that he had been working on with his Lego. His mother was in a complete flap over the Christmas meal. She had been in the kitchen all day, apart from when they had eaten lunch, which was rushed. However, she bucked up considerably when she managed to persuade Lee to have a look at the dishwasher. Phil wondered what all the fuss was about – why couldn’t she wash the dishes in the sink like Grandma? An hour later, the doorbell rang. His mother greeted their visitor with enthusiasm.

            “Hello, Lee. I’m so pleased you could make it. Come through to the kitchen. Would you like a cup of tea?”

            “Thanks, milk and three sugars.” He marched through to the kitchen with a large tool bag.

            After a short while, he announced, “I can fix this. No problem. Just have to nip out to the van for a part.”

            Phil ventured into the kitchen, which smelled delicious.  A pile of mince pies was cooling on a rack and his mother looked much happier. He hovered in the doorway, when Lee returned with a part for the dishwasher.

            “Would you like a mince pie with your tea?” Mother asked him.

            “Wouldn’t say no. Haven’t managed to eat today.”

            Mother put two mince pies on a plate. “Why ever not? In this weather you need to eat.”

            Lee shuffled in embarrassment, took a bite of mince pie and announced, “Jen and I split up. I’m living in a caravan. There’s not much storage room for food.”

            “Oh dear. I’m so sorry. What will you be doing for Christmas?”

            “Nothing. Probably put a ready meal in the oven. Christmas is for families…” he trailed off.

            “Then you must come to us! We have plenty of food – no, I insist. It would be a little thank you for fixing the dishwasher for me. You can imagine the pile of washing up there will be tomorrow.”

            Lee looked as if he could imagine it and a large smile lit up his face. “Thanks, Mrs Hood. That will be lovely.”

            “Call me Val, please. Now, how much do I owe you?”

            After paying the repairman, she stood in the hall whispering to him so Phil could not hear what was being said.  It was probably boring anyway, so he returned to his Lego.  He wondered if he would get any presents this year, now that everything had changed so dramatically. Why did his brother have to spoil everything?

            That night, as Phil’s father placed a mince pie and a glass of sherry, as he always did on Christmas Eve, on the mantelpiece, Phil blurted out, “There’s no point,” before crying.

            Phil’s elder brother, Andrew, sniggered before being nudged and told to be quiet by their mother.

            “It’s past your bedtime. You’re overtired. I hope you’ve remembered to hang up your stocking, Phil.”

            Just as he was about to protest, there was a ring on the doorbell.

            “Who on earth could that be at this time of night?” Mother looked surprised.

            “I’ll go.” Father got up from the sofa and hurried into the hall.

            “Ho, ho, ho.” A loud voice boomed and Phil jumped with shock before Father Christmas strolled into the room with a large sack flung over his shoulder.

            “It’s you!” Phil said. He felt as if he’d swallowed a sunbeam, such was his delight. “Why didn’t you come down the chimney? We’ve left you a mince pie and a glass of sherry.”

            “I was a little tired after delivering so many toys across the land. I choose a different house each year to put my feet up for five minutes. I’ve heard that you have the best mince pies in the world and that you’ve been a good boy. However, I was a little sad not to get your usual letter this year. The elves told me that you did not believe in me anymore, which is, of course not true, as you can see.”  He laughed and his large tummy wobbled.

            Father Christmas stayed for at least ten minutes before a happy little boy went to bed, dreaming of elves, and reindeers and, of course, his friend Father Christmas.  The next morning he awoke early to find his stocking full and lots of presents around the tree.

            It was a great Christmas and Phil was pleased that Lee enjoyed his time with the family. He noticed how similar his eyes were to that of Father Christmas. They were blue like the sky in summertime.  

As Phil stared out at the stars from his bedroom that night he was sure that he saw a sleigh, pulled by a dozen reindeer, cross the sky. He blinked and saw Father Christmas waving to him.  Waving back, Phil called, “Goodbye, see you next year.”  Excited, he ran into the living room and told his parents what he had just witnessed. They smiled and nodded. 

“Where’s Lee?” Phil asked.

“He’s gone away - but will visit us next Christmas,” Mother replied.

           

About the auhtor 

Sue Cross has written two novels, Tea at Sam’s and the sequel, Making Scents. Her latest book is a compilation of short stories, titled Stories to Go. Check out her writing on www.suecross.com

The Cure

by Sue Cross

 a cup of strong, sweet tea

I woke up on a golden September morning feeling groggy and disorientated. Sun was streaming through a sparkling window and outside I could see trees and a clear blue sky. The air around me had an aroma of lavender, together with a hint of antiseptic. In the background I heard a persistence beep, beep, beep.

   “Where am I?” I asked the person hovering over me. She had purple hair and was wearing a blue loose fitting top with matching trousers and had an efficient air. I had never seen her before.

   “You’re in the Eternal Clinic. The doctor will be here shortly. Would you like a cup of tea?”

   I viewed the various wires that were attached to me and, although the thought of a cup of tea was tempting, I decided that it would prove too much of a challenge to drink it.

  Before I had time to decline her kind offer, the doctor arrived as promised. He was young with dark hair and smiled broadly as if thrilled to see me. Like the purple-haired lady, I had never set eyes on him before.

   “I’m Doctor Brown. How are you feeling?” he asked as he checked various impressive looking monitors.

   An apt name, I thought, as his eyes were the colour of chocolate. I answered his question “Not bad – a bit cold. What day is it?”

   “It’s Monday. Nurse – turn the heating up please and get Mrs Robins another quilt.”

   The nurse disappeared the Doctor Brown proceeded to detach me from the myriad monitors. I regretted not having that cup of tea and wondered what I was doing in this establishment. Eternal Clinic was a strange name for a hospital, I thought. What was I doing here? Had I had a facelift? And why was I so cold?

   A different nurse came into the room bearing a quilt with a pristine white cover.  She smiled and tucked me up in a comforting way as if I was a child.

  I thanked the nurse before turning to the doctor, “How long have I been asleep?” I asked.

  He looked at some notes at the end of the bed before answering, “Er – sixty years give a day or two.”

   I sat bolt upright, my heart pounding. Had I heard him right? “Did you say sixty hours? Have I been in a coma? Did I have an accident?”

  His serious demeanour left him for a moment and he allowed himself a little chuckle.

   “No, you’ve not been in a coma. You decided to be frozen and today is the day that you’ve been resuscitated.”

   I’ve never been good at maths but even I could work out the fact that I was now a hundred years old.

   The door opened and the first nurse came in bearing a tray of food - scrambled eggs on toast and a mug of tea. Devoid of my encumbering wires, I tucked in. It was delicious. The doctor had left me to enjoy my meal and digest the news of my freezing. It was all rather bizarre.

   The nurse told me that her name was Naomi and showed me a buzzer. “Use this if you need anything,” she announced before leaving me to ponder the strange state of affairs in which I found myself.

   I decided that I must have defrosted as I was no longer cold and kicked the quilts off my bed.  Gazing round the room with its ice-blue coloured walls, I spotted a calendar with today’s date 4^th September 2045. Why had I decided to be frozen and why had I chosen to be resuscitated today? Why not next week?  Why not next year?

   There was a large television screen on the wall in front of me. Reaching for the buzzer on my bedside table, I pressed it and waited.

   Naomi was with me in a trice.

   “Could you show me how to work the television and may I have a mirror, please.”

   Opening the drawer of my bedside table, she retrieved a mirror and was about to leave when I reminded her about the television.

   “Just speak to it and it will come on.” She looked at me as if I was a rare specimen and, I suppose, I was.

   Feeling foolish, I looked at the television and in my clearest voice, commanded it to start. In an instant it came on.  It was the good old BBC news. So, some things did not change.  But, I wondered what ravages the deep freeze had done to my face and braced myself for the worst. Knowing that I was a hundred, I did not relish what my image would reveal.

   I took a deep breath and looked into the mirror. A fairly youthful woman with reddish hair and a pale complexion stared back at me. I wondered if I had actually died and was in that state where I was floating around somewhere near the ceiling and viewing the whole scenario. Or was I perhaps dreaming? Just to check, I pinched myself so hard that I winced.

   At that moment the newscaster on the television spoke out. “On this memorable day many across the world will be resuscitated. Sixty years ago a ground-breaking secret experiment took place when brave volunteers chose to be frozen. Many had incurable diseases and hoped that a cure would be found when they were woken up.” The reporter continued on this earth-shattering theme for some time. I spoke sharply to the journalist on the wall, “Turn off.” And, as if by magic, all was silent. So, I’m one of God’s Frozen People, I thought.

    Doctor Brown came back into the room, still looking thrilled to see me.

    “I’ve seen the news. I’m one of those volunteers aren’t I?”

   He sat on the end of the bed. “Yes,” he said and continued without irony. “And the good news is that we have now found a cure for cancer. You will start your treatment soon. You could live to be a hundred.”

                                                                         

About the author

Sue Cross has published two novels, Tea at Sam’s and the sequel, Making Scents. Her latest work is a compilation of short stories titled Stories to Go, ninety-three very short stories. Please visit her on www.suecross.com

   

A Charmed Life

By Sue Cross

 

a glass of warm milk

 

The gas lamps had been extinguished and the last glowing embers from the log fire had offered the last vestiges of comfort. Pulling a shawl around my shoulders, I shivered as I walked up the two flights of stairs to my attic room. Outside a storm was brewing. It had been a wet, dreary day and my back ached from polishing the mistress’s brass and silver. I glanced at the clock. Half past ten. I would be up again at five and so I slid between my cool sheets and blew out the candle.

   I was just dozing off when a loud bang coming from the room next to mine made me jump. What could it be? The room had not been occupied since Betty, the other housemaid, had left to get married.

  I missed Betty. I missed her cheerful countenance, her jokes and her tall tales. To me she seemed to have a charmed life and good luck stuck to her like damp leaves on muddy boots. She had met Jake, a good looking horse trader, at the market and had decided to leave all behind and elope with him. He promised her an exciting life and I had to admit that I was a little jealous. My only child and then my husband had died of tuberculosis, leaving me in a state of poverty. I was resigned to a life of service. It could have been worse, I suppose. I worked for the Fergusons, a kind couple who treated their staff well.

   Bang. There it was again. Wondering whether or not to investigate, I shivered and pulled the blankets around my shoulders. I wondered if a window had been left open. Outside the wind whistled around the house like ghostly chants. The banging was now persistent and so I forced myself to get up. Lighting my candle again, I noticed that my hands had started to tremble so I told myself to stop being so timid and just go and shut the window.

   Betty’s room was identical to mine and was simply furnished with a small iron bedstead, a chair, a rag rug and a washstand. It was a cheerless room with an embroidered picture stating: Home Sweet Home. I hurried over to the window and at that moment the sky lit up with a fork of lightning so everything in the room became starkly visible. To my surprise, the window was bolted shut. So what could the noise have been?

  I jumped as a clap of thunder seemed to shake the house. In my sleepy state I must have imagined that the window was banging when in fact it was the thunder that had been causing such a racket. Feeling a mixture of exhaustion and relief, I returned to my room to catch up on some much-needed sleep. The storm seemed to have abated and I was about to blow out the candle when I was alerted to something on my bed. It moved and then I heard a feeble whimper.

   It was a baby.

   I bit the back of my hand in shock.  Then I noticed a piece of paper pinned to the baby’s shawl. With shaking hands I read:

  Dearest Emily,

   I have left my baby in your care as I know you will do the right thing. He was born out of wedlock as Jake has disappeared without a trace. I am desperate. Please pray for me.

   Your friend,

   Betty

   I read it again in disbelief and wondered what to do next. Betty had left no forwarding address and she had never mentioned any relatives. My mind was buzzing with unanswered questions: how did she get in, did she hide somewhere, how did she keep the baby quiet, where was she now?

   Tentatively, I reached out and picked up the tiny bundle. It looked at me, sighed and went to sleep - but not for long. I was just dozing off when the infant began to wail. It must have been hungry. Lighting my candle again, I crept downstairs to the basement kitchen hoping that the baby’s cries would not wake the household.  I found some milk that I warmed and, using a clean rag, soaked it in the milk and put it to the baby’s mouth. It sucked gratefully and the crying stopped.

   When dawn broke and a watery sun crept through the sky, I arose. I knew what I had to do.

   I cleaned the grates, swept the floors and carried on with my early morning household chores as if nothing had happened. At breakfast, cook seemed to be inspecting me with a curious air.

  “You all right, girl?” she asked.

  “Yes, fine. Why?” I hoped that she had not heard the baby.

  “You look done in. Storm keep you awake did it?” she asked.

  “Yes, it was a bad one. Must get on. Has the mistress finished her breakfast?”

I asked the lady’s maid.

   “She’s in the morning room. Why?”

   “Just wondered. I need a word with her.”

   “I knew something was wrong. You in trouble?” Cook asked.

   I excused myself without answering her and went to my room where the baby was just stirring. I quickly changed my apron, and, taking the baby, hurried into the morning room, where Mrs Ferguson was sitting a her desk writing something. Her fair hair was piled up on her head and she wore a pale blue dress with a white lace colour. She glanced up, surprised to see me.

  “Emily. Why do you have a baby?”

  I explained everything to my mistress who nodded in silent sympathy.

  All’s well that ends well, I suppose. I was concerned that the baby, who has been named George, would be sent to an orphanage. I forgot to mention that the Fergusons are childless. Not any more though. After failing to trace Betty, they have adopted George and I have been promoted to nursemaid.

   It seemed as if Betty had lost her lucky streak but George has inherited it. He will live a charmed life.

About the author

Sue Cross is an award winning short story writer who has published two novels, Tea at Sam’s and the sequel, Making Scents. Please visit her on www.suecross.com

 

  

New Year's Resolution

 Sue Cross

a glass of mineral water with a Slice of Lemon

 

It has been three days since chocolate has passed my lips. Three long, miserable days. It was the sight of my hips that decided it as I battled with the zip of my jeans. I cursed my addiction as I managed to yank it closed, and viewed with horror the roll of fat lying on top of the waistband like an overblown muffin.

‘That’s it. No more chocolate.’ I muttered to my reflection in the mirror.

Of course I had to finish the remains of the Belgium chocolate truffles that my mother had given me for Christmas. It would be sacrilege not too. I savoured each one slowly, letting the bitter, dark cocoa that dusted the outside dissolve in my mouth before the velvety, rich layer of chocolate melted to release the molten deliciousness of the inside of each sinful morsel.

Too soon I had polished them off and I felt a mixture of relief and regret in throwing the box away. No more chocolate for me. Soon my jeans would be swimming on my hips as I dropped a dress size. But my self-righteousness was soon replaced by despair.

I was like one possessed by a force stronger than myself.

Did it get easier? No, it did not. Each day dawned and I was enveloped in misery. How could I get by without my best friend? For that is what chocolate had become. Any chocolate. I fantasised about walnut whips, coffee creams, chocolate covered Turkish delight, caramels in milk chocolate, mint creams encased in dark chocolate, white chocolate truffles, coconut covered chocolates, bitter black chocolate squares, rum and raisin, chocolate bursting in the mouth releasing liqueurs, strawberry fondants, cherries in bitter chocolate.  I dreamed of chocolate. In other words, I was obsessed.

It’s not really my fault. My mother owned a sweet shop and I grew up inhaling the fragrance of her kitchen, where she toiled each evening over fresh batches of home made chocolates.  The bitter-sweet fragrance of that kitchen was the air I breathed: vanilla, spices, Christmas, birthdays, celebrations, life. And when I’d had a bad day at school or fell and scraped my knee, the succour that she offered was always a chocolate placed into my mouth. It worked every time and soon the pain was forgotten as I gave in to the sweet temptations that were constantly on offer.

Theobroma cocao, the food of the gods. The Mayans made it over two thousand years ago with ground cocoa beans, chillies, cinnamon and just enough sugar to take away the bitterness. It was used in ceremonies to give courage before battle. They gave it to their sacrificial victims just before they ripped their hearts out. Such is the magic of chocolate.

Day four at work and Sharon, from the typing pool, brings a box of chocolates into the office. Sharon is a thin girl who belongs to one of those gyms where only the slim venture over the threshold. Sharon worships at the shrine of the body beautiful and chocolate is not a part of her diet. Sharon brings a plastic container of undressed salad to work each day for her lunch.

‘Have one.’ She places the open box on my desk and the familiar aroma is an aphrodisiac, pulling at my senses.

Try me. Taste me. They seem to chant as they glisten in their plastic tray.

‘What are you doing with chocolate?’ I quiz her accusingly, as I avert my eyes from the temptation.

‘They were a present from my new boyfriend but –'

‘I don’t eat chocolate.’ I interrupt, willing her to remove them.

‘But, I thought –'

‘No, I don’t anymore. New Year’s Resolution.’

‘Really?’ Sharon looks at me with deep suspicion, as well she might.

I start to reason with myself. Just the one. One won’t harm. You can walk home instead of getting the bus.

Then I look at her snake hips and remember the sight of mine in my too tight skirt.

‘Yes, really. I find they give me a headache…’ I trail off as I feel a guilty blush creep up my cheeks. I am a hopeless liar. I decide that I would have to go to confession, as lying was now added to my sin of greed.

‘Well, if you insist.’ And with that she whips them away and I breathe a sigh of relief.

‘Well done.’ A voice behind me whispers.

It’s Caroline, five foot two and weighing at around a hundred and fifty pounds.

‘Did you have one?’ I asked.

‘No, I’ve given them up. New Year’s Resolution.’ She replies, looking as dejected as I felt.

‘Are you finding it hard?’

‘Incredibly,' replies my new soul mate.

‘Tell you what.’ I am struck with inspiration. ‘If we can get through this week, why don’t we treat each other to a meal out? Not pizza or anything but something healthy and delicious.’

Caroline smiles and we form a pact.

Six months later I have dropped two dress sizes and joined that snooty gym. Actually, I found it to be quite friendly once the terror of joining was surmounted. Sharon, Caroline and I go every evening after work and once a week we treat ourselves to a meal out.

Do I miss chocolate? Of course I do. But I don’t miss that layer of blubber that used to sit on top of my jeans like an overblown muffin.

About the author:

Sue Cross has written two novels, Tea at Sam’s and the sequel, Making Scents, as well as numerous short stories. You can visit her on the website www.suecross.com

Trapped

Sue Cross  

 crème de menthe

Jack recognised Roger immediately. It was the hair that did it. If Jack had not felt so terrified he would have laughed out loud.

            ‘Try not to panic; we’ll soon be out of here. I’ve messaged my people.’

            ‘Your people?’ Jack echoed and realised how stupid he sounded.

            Roger chose to ignore the remark and started to bite his nails.

            Outside gunshots and shouting could be heard and Jack tasted fear; cold and metallic. So, this is how I’m going to die, he thought. Stuck in a shop changing room with one of the world’s wealthiest tycoons.

            ‘Should we try and make a dash for it?’ Jack asked.

            ‘No point – we’ll be mowed down. Sounds like machine gun fire. Try and keep calm. Like I said – my people will get us out of this mess. Here – have a peppermint. Keep the blood sugar up.’

            Jack took a candy from his fellow captor and noticed how smooth his hands looked, how manicured his nails, in complete contrast to his own calloused hands and ragged nails.

            ‘I know who you are.’ He said, sucking the cool mint. ‘Seen you on the television. You’re Roger Gillingham, the famous entrepreneur aren’t you?’

            Roger stood a little taller, ran his hands over his bizarre hair and half smiled. ‘I get used to being recognised.’

            For a moment there was a lull in the shooting and Jack wondered if the gunmen had entered the shop or if the police had managed to arrest or shoot them.

            ‘So, what are you doing in a shop? I’d have thought that you’d have a personal shopper who, you know, brought stuff to you.’

            ‘I do usually. But I fancied a break from work and thought I’d buy myself a new outfit. Wish I hadn’t bothered now. I don’t normally go anywhere without my bodyguard. Well, actually he’s here somewhere. Needed to go to the gents. What you doing in a shop of this quality? If you don’t mind my saying, you look as if you don’t have a penny to your name.’

            ‘I don’t. I came here to use the toilet facilities. I was just on my way out when I heard shouting and saw these guys dressed in black and wielding guns so ran back in. God, I’m scared.’

            Roger continued to bite his nails and then checked his phone. He swore. ‘No signal.’

            ‘So, how did you manage to become a down and out?’ Roger had always been outspoken and prided himself on it.

            Jack swallowed hard. ‘It’s a long story.’

            ‘We may have a while. Here have another mint.’ Roger sat on the floor and composed himself like a child waiting for a bedtime story.

            Jack joined his new acquaintance on the floor and began. ‘My mother had me when she was sixteen and gave me up for adoption but, as nobody seemed to want such an ugly kid, I never got chosen. Instead I was brought up in an orphanage. It was pretty grim. I left when I was sixteen and was going to start a college course. Instead, I got in with a bad crowd. Ended up on drugs and I’ve been in and out of rehab ever since. I’m clean now, thank God, but, as I’ve never had a proper job, nobody wants to employ me. I live in a hostel and manage by busking.’

            ‘That’s too bad. You play an instrument then?’ Roger asked.

            ‘Yeah, guitar and I sing quite well, I’m told.’

            ‘Sing me something. Let’s hear your voice.’

            Jack thought for a moment, took a deep breath and started to sing, ‘The Sound of Silence.’

            Outside gunfire and shouting started up again but Jack continued to sing while Roger nodded in approval.

            When the song was finished, Roger clapped slowly, still nodding so that his long blonde comb-over fell into his eyes.

            ‘Tell you what.’ He announced. ‘If we get out of here alive, I’ll sign you. I have connections. Ever heard of Simon Cowell?’

            It was now Jack’s turn to nod. He could not believe his luck. But his euphoria was short lived as the dire situation in which he found himself overrode any feelings of hope. His life had been a disaster – why would it change now?

            The shooting became louder and outside there was more shouting.

            ‘Lie down flat and keep quiet.’ Roger whispered.

            Both men hit the floor. They were no longer the advantaged and the disadvantaged but two men, made brothers by circumstances. Death – the great equalizer, was feeling uncomfortably close. The laminate floor felt as cold as the grave. Jack closed his eyes tight, fought back the nausea and prayed. Roger stared into the corner, his mind racing, as he watched a spider crawl to safety, oblivious to the danger that surrounded them. For the first time in his life, his money, power and influence was of no use to him. After what seemed an eternity, a voice called out.

            ‘Police – anyone there? Come out. You’re safe.’ The words were a welcome lifeline.

            Both men scrambled up from the floor and embraced.

           

You may have heard of Jack Jackson. His new single, “Trapped,” reached the number one spot in the charts last week. 

About the author

Sue Cross has had two novels published, Tea at Sam’s and the sequel, Making Scents. Please visit her on the website www.suecross.com

Advent Day Eight 2015

Advent Day Eight

December 08 2015

Sue Cross

Orange Juice

Orange Juice

Caroline had always been uncomfortable in social situations and so the thought of the office Christmas party was causing her to have sudden palpitations whenever the thought crossed her mind. She had managed to duck out of it the previous year, feigning a virus infection but she could hardly repeat that excuse again.

Scott had worked for Jagger and Smythe Accountants for only two months and was also dreading the office Christmas party. While his colleagues were talking about it with enthusiasm, bordering on hysteria in his opinion, he was wondering what excuse he could make to avoid going. He liked nothing better than spending his free time star gazing with his telescope or, when the weather permitted, going off alone bird watching. After careful deliberation, he decided to attend the party but leave after an hour.

This year the boss had decided that it would be a good idea to have a secret Santa draw, stipulating that no-one should spend more than a fiver. Caroline went into her local bookstore and purchased a literary classic, just the sort of book that she would have devoured with relish.

            Scott visited the same bookstore the following day and purchased A Handbook of British Birds.

Soon the last day before the Christmas break arrived and little work was accomplished. At five o’clock Caroline tidied her desk before making her way to the ladies’ room. Inside there was much giggling as Caroline’s colleagues stood in front of the mirror, primping, perfuming and preening, so that the air smelled like that of a harem. One of the girls was having a problem with some false eyelashes that seemed to have a will of their own and did not wish to stick to her eyelids, while another was putting on a pair of red stilettos.

            ‘Hey Caroline – staying for a drink this year? Do you good to get plastered!’ Jan, a large girl with a larger personality joked and Caroline felt the colour rise in her normally pale cheeks.

            ‘I don’t drink. Excuse me.’ She nudged her way forward in order to wash her hands, carefully avoiding looking at her reflection in the mirror.

            ‘That’s all right. I’ll drink yours,’ Jan boomed while the other six girls fell about laughing. Caroline suspected that they’d already had a few.

Someone had pushed the desks back in the communal office, which was festooned with garish decorations, and some rock music was blaring out, making any conversation impossible. Caroline had never enjoyed this type of music, preferring the classical variety. The booze was flowing and Jan was sitting on her boss’s lap, flirting outrageously, while he seemed mesmerized by her overflowing bosom, which resembled a couple of wayward blancmanges.

Meanwhile Scott was sipping his orange juice and trying to hide behind a pillar. He glanced at his watch and couldn’t believe that the party had only been going for twenty minutes. It seemed like hours and he could feel one of his headaches coming on.

            ‘Time for secret Santa,’ Mr Jagger, red faced and blustering, announced as he rubbed his hands together. “Come on Jan – you do the draw.”

            Scott took his ticket out of his pocket. Number thirteen. The irony did not escape him.

            ‘Number seven,’ Jan called out.

            To her horror Caroline realized that she was the first to go forward to claim her present.

            ‘Merry Christmas.’ Mr Jagger kissed her on the cheek much to her dismay.

            She muttered a quick thank you and scurried away.

            ‘Open it. C’mon we want to see what you’ve got!’ Jan shouted from the other end of the office.

            Caroline wished that the floor would swallow her up as she ripped at the paper. Inside was a pair of men’s socks emblazoned with a holly design.

            Everyone burst out laughing.

            ‘Next is number thirteen.’

            Scott shuffled forward, adjusting his thick spectacles and Jan handed him a parcel wrapped in silver paper. On it was a tag.

            Jan started slow clapping and chanting, ‘Read it out, read it out.’

            Soon the whole office was joining in, so that Scott’s embarrassment was palpable.

            ‘Something for the weekend,’ he muttered.

            ‘Can’t hear you,’ Jan shrieked.

            ‘Something for the weekend.’ His voiced sounded hoarse.

            ‘Go on, open it. Although we all know what’s inside. Ha, ha.’

            Scott fumbled with the wrapping paper, dreading what was to come next but, to his relief, he pulled out a book of crosswords. He rushed to the further corner of the office where he examined the carpet, not daring to look up.

            ‘I like crosswords, do you?’ Caroline found her normally elusive voice as well as sympathy for her shy colleague. It was only as he smiled at her that she realized that she had never spoken to him before.

            ‘Not that much. I prefer sudokus,’ he replied.

            ‘Want to swap. I’ve no use for these socks.’

            ‘Good idea. Would you like another orange juice?’

            ‘I would but I don’t think I can bear another moment at this party. I hate parties.’

            ‘Me too.’ He smiled again and Caroline thought that he had a kind face.

            ‘I live just around the corner. Would you like to come round for a cup of tea or something?’ Caroline could not believe that she had said this, and wondered if by some miracle his acute timidity had given her a newfound boldness.

            Scott hesitated, but not for long. ‘That sounds very acceptable. Thank you. My name’s Scott by the way.’

            ‘I’m Caroline, Caroline Platford. Here take the socks.’

            ‘Ah yes. Thank you. And here’s something for the weekend.’

About the Author

Sue Cross has published two novels, Tea at Sam’s and the sequel, Making Scents. She lives in the Cotswolds and Spain and likes to use her experiences living abroad in her writing. Please visit her website http://www.suecross.com

Head Banging

Head Banging

Sue Cross

G and T

I had just returned from a visit to the supermarket when the phone rang.

            ‘Pamela! What a surprise – how are you?’ I uttered before I could bite my tongue in regret.

            ‘I’ve had an awful few months. The migraines are forever lurking behind my eyes,’ she moaned.

            I sat down, knowing that this would be a long conversation. After commiserating, she asked if we could meet for lunch.

            ‘Are you sure that you’ll be up to it. You know, the migraines…’

            ‘I must make the effort. I’ve not been out for ages. Shall we meet at the Wine Bar in Grove Road?’

It was arranged and we met on the dot at twelve noon. Pamela had lost weight since I had last seen her and she looked pale. In spite of the heat she wore a beige body warmer over her pristine, white blouse. Although she could be irritating, I was fond of her and I felt sorry that she had to suffer such poor health. We pecked each other on the cheek and I hoped that my perfume would not cause an allergic reaction. Silly of me to have put it on, but it was habit.

            We found a quiet table in the window and soon the waiter greeted us. He had docile eyes and sported a tattoo of a spider’s web on his neck.

            ‘The special today is Chicken Chasseur with new potatoes and either salad or green beans.’

            Pamela screwed her nose up and perused the menu.

            ‘Shall I come back?’ he asked.

            ‘Er, yes. This table is no good. The sun will be round in a minute. Can we sit in the shade? Migraines.’ She sounded ominous and the waiter’s eyebrows raised a fraction.

            We duly found a table near to the kitchen, where it was suitably gloomy, and ordered some drinks.

            ‘White wine for me, please. What would you like, Pamela?’

            ‘Er, let me think. Mineral water, still. Thank you.’

            The waiter returned with our drinks and asked if we were ready to order.

            ‘I’ll have the special, please – with the green beans.’

            He scribbled in his notepad and looked expectantly at Pamela, who was wearing a pained expression. I hoped that it was not the start of a migraine.

            ‘Er, let me think. I’ll have the pâté with white bread. No butter. Dairy allergy. Does the pâté contain any dairy?’

            ‘I’ll check for you.’ He smiled and disappeared. My tummy rumbled.

            ‘Well, this is nice. Cheers.’ I raised my glass and took a gulp of wine.

            ‘I’ve come off the blood pressure pills,’ Pamela informed me. ‘They were causing so many problems. George has been doing all the housework and cooking. I couldn’t get out of bed for a month.’

            The waiter returned, looking triumphant. ‘No dairy products in the pâté.’

            ‘All right. I’ll have that, then.’

            He looked relieved and disappeared with haste before she could change her mind.

  

My mouth watered as the food was presented. It smelled delicious and soon I was tucking into my meal. The chicken was tender and succulent, the sauce rich and the green beans crisp.

            Pamela picked at her food and complained about the incompetence of the medical profession.

            ‘Everything all right here?’ The waiter held his head to one side, like an expectant sparrow.

            ‘Delicious.’ I meant it.

            ‘The bread is a bit doughy and the pâté is too rich. You can take my plate away. I can’t finish it.’ Pamela adjusted her sunglasses and took some tablets from her handbag.

            ‘Can I get you anything else? Coffee or dessert?’

            ‘Coffee please. What about you, Pamela?’

            ‘Er, let me think. I’ll have a chamomile tea.’

            I heard a lot about the side effects of modern drugs as we waited for our drinks. It really was a shock to learn of the dangers of such medicines.

            After paying our bill, I asked Pamela if she would like a lift home. I was worried that she was too delicate to manage the half-mile walk to her house.

            ‘Thank you, dear. I am rather tired.’

            ‘I’m parked in the car park around the corner.’

            ‘These new bifocals are so difficult to get used to,’ she announced as we strolled to the car park but, before I could steady her, she was on the pavement, prone and moaning.

            ‘Are you all right?’ I helped her to her feet.

            ‘Banged my head. I’ll be fine,’ she said with uncharacteristic optimism.

            ‘Are you sure? I can drive you round to A and E.’

            ‘No need to fuss. I’m all right.’

            I drove her home and, worried, phoned her the next day.

            ‘How are you feeling today?’ I braced myself for a detailed description.

            ‘Oh, fine. It was lovely seeing you yesterday. Can we do it again next week?’ She sounded chirpy and cheerful.

We met at the same wine bar. She was a little late and breezed in looking ten years younger. I tried to fathom what was different about her and then realised that she was not wearing her dark glasses and she was wearing eye makeup. Eye makeup! She was allergic to eye makeup and had often described the alarming the effects of even the slightest hint of mascara.

            Let’s sit in the window. It’s such a lovely day.’

            ‘Are you sure?’

            ‘Yes, why do you ask?’

            ‘Oh, you know. Just wondered.’

We had a different waiter this time. ‘Can I get you a drink?’ he enquired.

            ‘I’d like a gin and tonic. What about you, dear?’ Pamela looked at me, smiling.

            I ordered my usual glass of Chardonnay.

            ‘The special today is steak in a creamy pepper sauce with chips and side salad or broccoli.’

            ‘Yum – sounds good to me. I’ll have mine rare with broccoli,’ Pamela enthused.

            The waiter disappeared to the kitchen and I sat in silent shock.

            ‘So, how have you been since your fall?’

            ‘Fall, what fall? I don’t know – my memory has been shocking this week, but what the heck! Cheers, drink up. I’m going to have another G and T.’

About the Author

Sue Cross has published two novels, Tea at Sam’s and the sequel, Making Scents. You can visit her on her website www.suecross.com

100 Worder Bloody Mary

100 Worder

Sue Cross

Bloody Mary

Bloody Mary

Only his hard, cruel eyes could be seen. The balaclava hid the rest of his face. He was clad entirely in black and wielded a large sword. Behind him the empty desert stretched and, in front of him, his victim kneeled; a quivering wreck clad entirely in orange. He had read his statement, begging the western world to take heed – or else there would be more to follow.

The terrorist’s sword was lifted in preparation for the execution.

    ‘Cut!’ The producer called. ‘Well done. First take. Everyone have a quick break before we go ahead and shoot the next scene.’

  

About the Author

The Seminar

An Advent Calendar of Stories

December 20/21 2014

The Seminar

Sue Cross

Mulled wine

Maria’s heart was warmed as she entered the conference suite. How things had changed over the last couple of decades. The room was packed and ninety per cent of the delegates were men. When she first started presenting her seminars, her audience consisted of ninety five per cent women but these New Men were to be admired. She noted that all were smartly dressed in suits but was a little surprised at how eager to learn they looked with notepads and pens poised in anticipation.

As usual, Maria came well prepared, laptop in hand and wearing a navy dress, polished shoes and immaculate make-up. Taking her place at the rostrum, she smiled, took a deep relaxing breath and greeted her audience. She relished this moment, as it was to be her last presentation for at least six months. Her third pregnancy was well advanced.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, I must say how pleased I am to see so many gentlemen here today. Welcome. I hope that you will find my presentation both informative and inspiring.’ A ripple of applause caused her to stop for a moment before continuing.

  ‘The most important thing to remember is how to breathe, so before we commence, we’ll practise our breathing techniques. I suggest we move our chairs to the side of the room, maybe take off our jackets and shoes and lie on the floor. We’ll bread in an hour for a mince pie and some mulled wine.’ Maria was in full flow.

As if in a trance, all those gathered did as they were instructed, lying down on the red carpet. Maria thought that they looked tired and seemed to be enjoying the rest.

‘Hands on abdomens and breathe, making sure that we don’t breathe from the chest. I’ll come round and check that you’re all doing this properly. Your partners will be so thrilled that you can help them with this important technique. And breathe in – one, two, three and out one, two three four. As you breathe in note how your abdomen rises and as you breathe out it should go down.’

 

After ten minutes of this everyone was suitably relaxed, if reluctant get up from the floor to continue with the seminar.

Using her laptop, Maria projected many graphic shots of her subject onto the screen provided and noticed that one or two of the delegates looked uncomfortable and confused. Indeed some appeared decidedly queasy. Poor dears, it’s probably their first she thought.

‘No need to worry. Now, the first sign that…’ She was cut off by the entry of a portly gentleman who ran into the room, red faced and out of breath.

‘I’m so sorry. Got stuck in traffic.’ He stopped in his tracks. ‘I’m not sure that we’ve met.’ He viewed Maria with curiosity.

‘I’m Maria Jackson, taking the natural childbirth and breast feeding seminar.’ She held out a manicured hand in greeting. ‘Is your name down?’

‘My name down? Oh, I see. No, no. I’m Jonathan Fairbrother – booked in to take the seminar on…’ but before he could finish, Maria doubled up in agony and gave a loud screech before falling to the floor. Unfortunately the tastefully decorated Christmas tree fell with her, leaving a scattering of white and silver baubles in its wake.

She viewed the puddle of water at her feet in dismay, dropped on all fours and began to grunt loudly as if in imitation of a distressed pig.

Roused from their stupor, the delegates jumped up and viewed the scene with horror. Some left the room in haste, while others gathered round.

‘What’s wrong with her?’ A fair-haired young man asked, looking terrified.

‘She’s gone into labour, stupid,’ one of the few females present remarked with irony. ‘Phone for an ambulance.’

The fair-haired young man whipped out his mobile. Soon the room was cleared as if by a bomb scare. The only ones remaining were the helpful female and Jonathan Fairbrother.

The female introduced herself. ‘I’m Gabby. Now, Maria – I want you to breathe. Take a deep breath from your abdomen. One, two three. That’s right – breathe and relax. You’re doing fine. The ambulance will be here soon.’

Maria continued to grunt and groan, breathe and pant. She gripped Gabby’s hand like a vice, her face contorted.

Jonathan paced.

Meanwhile several staff members had arrived on the scene looking alarmed.

‘What shall we do?’ asked the receptionist.

‘Blimey this is like a soap opera,’ remarked the cleaner.

‘Keep calm.’ Gabby spoke with authority. ‘The ambulance is on its way, although it may take a little longer than usual, with Christmas and everything. Now please leave us in peace. Oh, get me some hot water and towels.’

Everyone left the scene except for Gabby and Jonathan, who continued to pace.

Twenty minutes later two ambulance men arrived to find Maria cradling a baby boy and looking flushed with pride. The air was filled with the aroma of spices as the mulled wine being served in the hotel lobby was eagerly consumed by the delegates, who directed the ambulance men to the conference suite.

‘Thank you, Gabby. You’re an angel. I don’t know how I’d have managed without you.” Maria spoke with gratitude as she gazed at her latest offspring.

‘That’s all right. Just as well I’d been at your seminar and not his.’ Gabby waved a hand towards Jonathan who was being attended to by one of the ambulance men.

‘This is the Windy Ridge Hotel isn’t it?’ Maria asked, still feeling confused.

            ‘No, it’s the Ridgeway Inn. I suppose there’ll be a group of pregnant women waiting with bated breath at the other hotel. Excuse the pun.’ Gabby suppressed a giggle before continuing. ‘Your seminar has been life changing.’

‘Really?’

Maria looked pleased. ‘Yes. I’ve always thought of myself as a career girl. You know, married to the job. And I never thought I’d have kids. No, I thought I’d be perfectly happy to stick to cats. But after today I’ve decided to marry my boyfriend and have a family. I feel as if I’ve just witnesses a miracle. Your seminar was very useful to me. And to think – I’d signed up to learn about stress in the workplace!’

About the Author

Sue Cross is the author of Tea at Sam’s and the sequel, Making Scents. You can visit her on her website www.suecross.com