Counting Sheep by Jenny Palmer, Chamomile tea

The fog was starting to clear. The sheep were on the move. The farmer must be about. He would be bringing them theirdaily rations of sheep nuts to keep them going through the winter. Julia loved watching them. Fat with lambs, they ran in single file to assemble as a flock in the spot where he would dole out the feed. Some stragglers made up the rear. They were the ones who were going to have twins or triplets.  Once they’d eaten, most of the sheep would lie down and chew the cud. It was a sign that they were contented and well-fed. One of them just stood there, staring into space. What was it thinking? she wondered. Did sheep think?

Sometimes she wished she could stop thinking. Turn her brain off. Be more sheep. She was feeling sleep-deprived, having lain awake half the night watching YouTube videos and listening to podcasts. It was her own fault. She needed to take herself in hand again. She’d had these bouts of insomnia before.

As an asthmatic child, when she couldn’t breathe, she would cry out in the night for her mother to come, to give her a pill and rub her back. The attack would be over in twenty minutes or so and her mother would leave, telling her to count sheep. She liked to imagine the sheep jumping over a fence one by one, even though it was not in their nature to jump, except when they were lambs. But it was easier to count them that way. She rarely got to a hundred.

Insomnia was a real bind especially when you had to get up in the morning. The more you tried, the less you were ableto nod off. And she’d tried everything over the years: chamomile tea, cutting out caffeine, not drinking alcohol, going to bed earlier, mindfulness, meditation. Nothing seemed to work. Sometimes she’d get up, make a cup of tea, and readuntil she dropped off, but the house was too cold for that in winter. She’d end up turning on the radio to distract herself. It hadn’t exactly been comforting listening to the BBC World Service and following all the trouble spots around the globe.But at least it had been educational.

Since she’d retired, she’d embraced the new technologies. Nowadays she turned on her tablet to watch films, podcasts, and YouTube videos in bed at night. She liked to feel in touch with the world and hear the various analyses about what was going on behind the scenes. Nighttime was her favourite time of day, a time when she could absorb new information, learn something. And what with Netflix, Primeand Sky Atlantic, she was never short of anything to watch. But of late it was becoming a problem. Teenagers weren’t the only ones addicted to technology.    

Ever since that unhinged, demented, real estate manfrom reality TV had got into power in the US again, things had gone downhill. He was dismantling the rule-based international order. The whole world was living in a state of anxiety, watching his every move. The number of political podcasts had grown exponentially, and it was getting harder and harder to keep up.   She knew missing sleep was an unhealthy habit to get into. Research showed that lack of sleep caused all sorts of health problems. It could even shorten your life. That was something else to worry about.

How could she break the habit? It occurred to her one night that she could only allow herself to fall asleep once she’d found someone or something that gave her hope. Hope that the war in Ukraine might end, hope that there would be a political solution for the conflict in Gaza, or that nations might unite to combat climate change. Something to indicate thatthe world was not falling into chaos and that things would right themselves eventually. It was a hard ask. 

All this searching was sending her brain into overdrive. Not only was she over-tired but over-stimulated, making it impossible to sleep. If the world’s biggest brains couldn’t sort it out, how could she? She had been looking for answers where there were none. No one could tell her things would get better. The truth was it could go either way. Better to concentrate on the people and places around her, focus on them. Better to accept her limitations, like the Serenity Prayer said, and stop worrying. 

She managed to allow herself to fall asleep that night and didn’t wake up till after eleven. By the time she got up, the sheep had already congregated by the gate and were contentedly chewing the cud.  

About the author

Jenny Palmer writes short stories, poetry, memoir and family history. Her collections 'Keepsake and Other Stories.' 2018, and 'Butterflies and Other Stories,' 2024, were published by Bridge House, and are on Amazon. 'Witches, Quakers and Nonconformists,' 2022, is sold at the Pendle Heritage Centre, Barrowford

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Where The Windrush Wends, by Mike Everley, chamomile tea

The Windrush meandered under several small stone bridges in the centre of Bourton-on-the-Water. Hotels and restaurants built of golden Cotswold stone stood proudly near the river's edge. The areas rich history dated back to Neolithic times, with evidence of habitation from that period up to the Roman era, when Icknield Street connected Bourton to Templeborough in South Yorkshire. During the Middle Ages it had become sheep territory known for its production of wool. Now, in the summer months, it was swamped with tourists from all over the world snapping away with their digital cameras and mobile phones, each trying to capture the charm of Olde Worlde England that the Tourist Board had carefully crafted for them.

    Ducks trod water or clustered along each bank of the river accosting visitors for food, the emerald sheen of a mallard or the bright red bill of a moorhen standing out amid the rest.

   This had been their favourite place. Near enough to Cheltenham to make day trips in summer and winter possible. Now along with memories there was a sense of melancholy. Although the model village and the motor museum remained, nothing seemed quite right. Something was missing. Even the Edinburgh Mill shop, a favourite haunt, lacked its usual charm. It took him awhile to realise that what was missing was not in the town but in himself.

 

The Riverside Cafe was relatively quiet. A few out-of-season tourists sat on high backed wooden chairs in front of square, polished tables laden with the remnants of all day breakfasts. Plastic replicas of yellow lilies stood erect in tall, glass vases amid the plates and condiments. Red mural tapestries, picked out by carefully positioned spotlights, hung from the white walls and added a splash of colour to the dining area, creating an overall impression that was clean, minimal and modern.

    A young couple, holding hands and staring into each other’s eyes, occupied the table they normally sat at. He ordered a toasted teacake and a latte. He sat nibbling at its edges rather than eating.

 

Later that evening the winter sun cast golden reflections across the Windrush and made the light frost on the pavements shine like myriads of diamonds. The trees stood stark and bare against the skyline.

    Before leaving home he had poured the ashes from the urn into an orange Sainsbury's bag to make them look less conspicuous. The ducks had already gone to sleep with their heads tucked under their wings as he slowly let handfuls of ash scatter onto the quietly moving water. Soon she would be travelling through the Gloucestershire countryside she loved so much.

    On the other side of the river an elderly couple stopped for a moment and glanced at the stooping grey haired man, apparently still feeding the ducks, before moving on.

     Slowly he made his way to his car, depositing the empty bag in a bin. Ahead lay the short journey to the empty house.

 

He would not be coming back.

About the author

Mike Everley has been writing for many years and has had poetry, short stories and articles published in numerous publications and online. He was a member of both the NUJ and the Society of Authors before retirement. Now, a silver scribbler, he devotes his time to creative writing.

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The Space Between by Nikki Blakely, chamomile tea,

 Georgia lies in bed, eyes closed, curled into a ball, listening to the soft tick-tick-tick from the clock in the living room as it counts down the minutes until morning. The minutes tick into hours, and the hours creep past midnight, past one, past three, and still, sleep does not come.

The bed is too big, too empty, the nook behind her knees, too cold. Even though she’s rolled up an extra blanket and tucked it into the empty space—a placebo is what she’d have called it back in her nursing days—it doesn’t help. 

It’s only been three days, she tells herself. You’ll get used to it. 

Three days since she’d found Boris, her mixed-breed rescue mutt, unresponsive on the kitchen floor. He was fifteen years old; it was just his time to go, Dr. Doherty had told her. Now Boris resides in the small silver box on the mantle, next to the black marble urn that contains Raymond. 

You’ll get used to it. 

No. She won’t.

The bed is too empty, too big—yet still too full, too small. She lies near the edge of the left side, just as she has for the past forty-three years. The right side - Raymond’s side - is vacant. But still, she reaches for him every night, only to remember, he’s not there.

She would never get used to it. 

She kicks off the thick quilt, and lifts herself out of bed, her old bones protesting with the sudden movement, and she wonders why, when everyone she has ever loved is gone, is she still here?

Why? Why? Why?

And then, a thought blooms dark and comforting.

She doesn’t have to be. 

Wrapping her robe around herself, she slides on her slippers and shuffles to the kitchen. Through the small window above the sink a slice of moon glints white in the starless sky, and from the clock in the living room the minutes tick on, and on, and on. As Georgia waits for the kettle to boil, she pulls a mug from the cupboard and, after searching through a myriad of prescription bottles, finds the one she’s looking for. 

When the kettle sings, she pours a cup of chamomile, and because it is a special night, she adds a tablespoon of honey. Two tablespoons. Then she pulls a white capsule from the bottle and empties the contents of it into her tea. Then another, and another. She knows the exact amount necessary to bring on the sweet nothingness she so desperately desires.

In the living room, she sinks into her favorite chair, reaches up and twists the knob on the lamp, casting a weak glow throughout the darkened room. The dark recess of the fireplace gapes at her like an open mouth, and from the mantle, small silver boxes glint like sparkling eyes—Boris, and Charlie, and Moose and Buckles, and Ginger, and Monty and Cinder. And, in the tall black urn between them, standing like a sentinel at the gate—Raymond.

She cups the hot mug in both hands, and her eyes fall to the side table under the lamp, to the small silver bowl resting on a white doily, the intricate patterned lacework reflected on the shiny surface. A wedding gift from whom she can’t remember. It surprises her that such a fragile thing had lasted so many years without getting broken.

Doris Mulvany, from book club, has a similar bowl. Georgia has seen it at her house and commented on it. Doris’s bowl contained caramels wrapped in cellophane—the grandkids just love ‘em, Doris had said and asked what Georgia kept in hers.

Dog treats, Georgia had told her. I bake them myself.  

Oh, I’m sorry, Doris had said, and Georgia had to clarify, as she often did, no apology was necessary. She and Raymond had been childless, and thus grandchild-less by choice. Their fur-babies had been enough.

But now she wonders - had they, really?

Georgia brings the mug to her nose, smelling the bittersweet aroma, and closes her eyes. She thinks of a quote then, something she’d read, but can’t remember where.

The space between life and death is shadowy at best.

Who was it who’d said that?

‘Edgar Allen Poe,’ says a familiar voice, and Georgia jumps, tea sloshing from her mug onto her lap.

There, sitting in his favorite chair, gray-bearded and blue eyes sparkling, is Raymond. And nestled in his lap, tail wagging, is Boris.

Georgia knows they are figments, delusions, a fantasy her feeble mind has concocted to deal with the grief.

And yet, dear god, how she has missed that smile!

‘I see you made yourself a special cup of tea.’ Raymond nods towards the mug. ‘Are you sure?’

Georgia shrugs. ‘Not particularly.’

‘Good, ‘cause neither am I. You know, if you’re thinking there’s no one left for you to love, and no one left to love you, maybe you’re looking in the wrong places.’

Boris barks in agreement, and she gets the gist.

‘Raymond, I need to know. Do you have any regrets?’

‘Not a one,’ Raymond answers. ‘And neither should you.’

‘Not even… well…children?’

‘Nope. We were enough.’

Georgia nods. He’s right, she knows. She guesses she just needed to hear him say it.

‘Your tea’s gone cold,’ Raymond says. ‘I think you should go pour it down the drain and make another.’

‘Yes,’ Georgia agrees. ‘I think I will.’

But she makes no move to rise from the chair, doesn’t want this illusion to end, doesn’t want to lose the moment.

‘Well,’ says Raymond finally, and stands, Boris snuggled in the crook of his arm. ‘I guess we’ll see you when you get there.’ And before she can say anything else, he is fading, a chimera dissolving into mist, and seconds later, they are gone.

Georgia stands, pulls her robe tighter around her shoulders, and shuffles to the kitchen. The shelter opens in two hours. There’s just enough time to do some baking.  

About the author  

Nikki Blakely lives in the SF Bay Area, and enjoys writing stories that evoke smiles, tears, laughter, the occasional eye roll, and sometimes even a scream. Her work has appeared in Uncharted, Sundial Magazine, Bright Flash Literary, Luna Station Quarterly and others. You can read more at www.nikkiblakely.com 

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Clemency by Rob Molan, chamomile tea,

Coming out of the warmth of the café into the cold is always a shock at this time of year and my fingers start to freeze as I’m locking up. I notice the homeless guy is lying in the doorway of the empty shop next door again. He’s wrapped up in a blue sleeping bag and resting on a cardboard mattress with his head covered with a balaclava. Mary from the bread shop was complaining about him when she was in this morning but I feel sorry for the poor sod. I remember my social worker pal telling me that many rough sleepers have been in prison, the army or care and struggle to lead independent lives after entering the outside world.

 

I’m running late. I told Kay I would meet her in the pub at eight and it’s twenty past. There’s so much I need to do now before I can get away at night. I look for a taxi but the first few aren’t free. I’m shivering with the cold and regret not putting on my extra thick, woolly tights. Eventually, a free cab appears which whisks me off to Camden Town.

 

The pub is packed and I see Kay sitting at a table with a big frown on her face and an empty glass in front of her, and rush over.

 

‘I’m so sorry I’m late.’

 

‘Thank God you’re here, Brigid. I’ve had some creep hitting on me. I called but you didn’t pick up.’ She’s got new highlights in her hair.

 

I look inside my handbag.

 

‘Damn. I’ve left my mobile in the café and will have to go back later. But let me get some drinks.’

 

Once we have two large glasses of Malbec on the table we start chatting.

 

‘So how are you?’ asks Kay resting her chin on a hand. ‘I’ve not seen you for ages.’

 

‘Cream crackered. Having your lover as a business partner is great when things are going well but not so when you break up and you’re left to run things yourself. Tim didn’t pull his weight. There was always a reason why he had to nip out during the day or finish early, leaving muggins here on her own. Whenever I complained, he was apologetic but nothing changed and I finally snapped one day and gave him his marching orders. He pleaded with me but wasn’t getting another chance.’

 

‘I’m sorry to hear that. But I heard you had a young woman helping you.’

 

‘I had to let her go a couple of weeks ago. She missed a few shifts due to childcare problems and I couldn’t rely on her.’

 

I take a sip of wine.

 

‘She was upset when I told her the news complaining that Christmas was coming up but she had blown the opportunity I’d given her. I’ve advertised for a replacement but have had no luck so far. Brexit has made it much harder to recruit staff in the sector.’

 

Kay frowns. I need to change the subject.

 

‘Sorry, that’s enough of me moaning. When did you change your hairstyle? It suits you.’

 

‘I’m glad you like it. I had it done last week.’ She smiles patting her head.

 

Our conversation then takes off in all sorts of directions, including holiday plans for our forthcoming birthdays – we’re both about to hit forty. Time flies and when I realise it’s nearly ten thirty. I make my excuses and leave, and jump on a bus back to King’s Cross. I get off at the stop opposite the café and spot a commotion outside the shop next door. Crossing the road, I see three young men kicking the homeless guy on the ground and him wrapped up into a ball to protect himself. I run over and shout at them.

 

 

‘Hey, stop that. I’m calling the police.’ I may be petite but I’ve got a powerful pair of lungs.

 

They turn around and then look at each other before scarpering. I know I took a risk there but the adrenalin kicked in.

 

‘I’ll get help,’ I say to the poor bloke who is writhing in pain and moaning.

 

I let myself into the café and call 999 and ask for the police and an ambulance before returning outside. I bend down and the street light reveals streaks of blood running down his greyish skin into a matted beard.

 

‘They won’t be long. I said you needed urgent assistance.’ His eyes are closed but thankfully he’s still breathing.

 

The ambulance arrives ten minutes later and the police shortly afterwards.

 

‘Did you get a clear view of the men?’ a young officer asks.

 

‘No. They had their hoods up and only turned round briefly. I hope you catch the thugs.’

 

 

The paramedics attend to the victim, carefully place him on a stretcher and carry him into the back of the ambulance. As it disappears into the night, a sense of exhaustion overwhelms me as I start the trek home back to my flat along the frosty pavement.

 

 

 

I’m pulling my hair out here. I’ve got four orders for a full English and other customers waiting for takeaway bacon rolls who are getting impatient.  And the flaming coffee machine is playing up again.

 

I hear the door open and, in the corner of my eye, see a tall chap enter and approach the counter.

 

‘I’ll be with you shortly,’ I say.

 

‘No problem, Brigid. Take your time.’ I turn and find his bright blue eyes staring at me.

 

I don’t recognise him.  He’s clean shaven and has cropped blonde hair and a long thin jaw.

 

“It’s me, the homeless guy you rescued,” he says softly. ‘You might not recognise me as I was in a right state the last time you saw me.’

 

‘Oh, it’s great to see you looking so well.’  He’s younger than I thought, probably in his mid-thirties.

 

‘Grab a seat and I’ll be with you as soon as I can.’

 

He nods and walks over to a table by the window.

 

When the rush is over, I make two instant coffees, take them over and sit down beside him.

 

‘So how are you?’

 

‘I’m fine now. The bruising on my ribs is a lot better and the headaches have stopped. I was released from hospital two weeks ago and have moved into a hostel. If you hadn’t had the guts to chase off those lads, God knows where I would be now. I’m ever so grateful.’

 

‘I had to do something. Have they caught the bastards?’

 

‘Not to my knowledge.’ He shrugs his shoulders.

 

‘What are your plans?’

 

‘I’ve signed on and am looking for a job. I want to stand on my own feet.’

 

I don’t often have light bulb moments but this is one of them.

 

‘If you’re interested, I can let you have a few hours a day here. It will just be washing dishes, clearing and wiping tables and it will be cash in hand.’

 

‘Brilliant. When can I start?’ He jumps up.

 

‘Be here at seven thirty tomorrow. What’s your name by the way?’

 

‘Keith. The policeman who took my statement was kind enough to tell me yours.’

 

‘Welcome on board, Keith.’

 

 

 

‘How does Moses brew his coffee?’

 

‘No idea.’

 

‘Hebrews it!’

 

‘Groan!’ Keith keeps coming out with these corny jokes. ‘’Can you pop up that bread in the toaster before it turns into a cinder?’

 

‘No problem,’ he replies.

 

I’ve had a smile on my face at work since he started six weeks ago.  More importantly, he’s a real grafter, washing and scrubbing anything and everything, leaving the tables spotless after clearing them. And the coffee machine is never out of action now.  He’s also showing an interest in helping me with the cooking.

 

The customers love him. A few taxi drivers were sitting round a table the other day and Keith was loading dirty dishes onto a tray.

 

‘Don’t you get fed up with Brigid bossing you about?’ asked one of them with a twinkle in his eye.

 

‘No, I’ve had worse. You know I was in a cab yesterday and the driver said he loved his job as nobody told him what to do. He wasn’t happy though when I told him to turn left.’

 

‘You should be on the stage. Then I could heckle you,’ laughs another.

 

When grumpy Mary came in and met Keith for the first time, she started flirting with him.

 

‘So where did you appear from?’ she asked in a husky voice.

 

‘I was hiding in plain sight,’ he replied with a big grin.

 

She looked at him blankly and I couldn’t stop myself giggling.

 

It’s also handy to have him around when customers kick off, like one did last week.

 

‘I gave you a twenty, love, but you’ve given me change from a ten.’  The big lump was sticking his hand out as he eyeballed me.

 

‘No. It was definitely a tenner,’ I replied calmly.

 

‘I’ll come round the other side and take what you owe me,’ he threatened, jabbing a finger at me.

 

Keith was across in a flash and pulled himself up to his full height.

 

‘That wouldn’t be very clever, sir. Would it?’ The oaf turned and sloped off without replying.

 

Today, I need a favour from Keith.

 

‘Can you stay a bit later tonight and cash up for me?’ I’ve shown him how to do this and trust him with the till. ‘I need to get away an hour early so I can complete my tax return. While I’m at it, I’ll register you for tax and national insurance contributions. It’s time to put you on the books.’

 

‘That’s great. I’ve got my benefit slip in my jacket in a minute and it’s got my national insurance number on it.’

 

Later at home, I spend several hours working on the return. When it’s finally submitted, I take Keith’s benefit slip out of my handbag before logging onto the registration website. Funnily, I’ve never asked him what his surname is and when I see it in black and white my stomach lurches.

I never saw the robber’s face when he grabbed the handbag off my shoulder and sprinted away. I was summoned though a few months later to give evidence in the trial of a certain Keith Coady. But the case never went to trial in the end because he was charged with a string of other, similar offences and changed his plea to guilty to all of them. That was four years ago but I still remember the shock of being robbed by a stranger and the feelings of anxiety when I went out on my own in the weeks which followed.

 

I don’t like being taken for a mug and will have it out with him tomorrow. But I need to get to bed now as I can’t keep my eyes open.

 

 

‘Good morning, Brigid. How are you?’ Now he has his own key, he’s usually in before me.

 

I don’t reply and walk through to the back and hang up my coat. I take a deep breath before coming back to the front.

 

‘Err, I’ve made a brew for us.’ He looks sideways at me.

 

I take the mug from him, have a sip of the hot, sweet coffee and look him in the eye.

 

‘When did you get out of prison?’

 

His face goes beetroot.

 

‘Is it that obvious I was inside?’

 

‘Let’s call it an educated guess.’

 

His shoulders slump.

 

‘Six months ago.’ His voice drops. ‘I didn’t want to go back to the life and people I knew before and so ended up living on the streets. I was hoping to find a job and somewhere to live but had almost given up by the time I got beaten up by those guys. Surviving that, gave me renewed hope and then you gave me this chance.’

 

‘It would have been better if you’d told me this before. Don’t you think?’

 

‘Yes,’ he mumbles.

 

‘I’d be within my rights to sack you.’

 

He nods slowly and starts to take off his apron

 

‘But I’m not going to.’

 

His jaw slackens.

 

‘I’ve booked a city break with a friend next week to celebrate our birthdays and I need you to manage the café while I’m away.  And when I get back, I’m going to increase your hours.’

 

Maybe I’m turning soft but I’ve had enough of working twelve hour days and anyway the guy has earned himself a break.

 

‘You won’t regret it. I promise you.’

 

‘I’d better not, otherwise you’ll be back sleeping in doorways. Anyway, we need to get a move on, we’re opening in a few minutes.’

About the author 

Rob lives in Edinburgh started writing short stories during lockdown. To date, he's had a few stories published by Cafe Lit and in various anthologies. He likes to experiment with different genres and styles of writing. 

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.)