Three Little Words by Claire Jaggard, fizzy pop

 What the girl staring at Joey needed right now was a people person.

         

            It was just her luck that Joey was more comfortable with numbers.

 

            His last form teacher, Mrs Jefferies, had been a people person. She’d valued a firm handshake and a steady gaze. Joey’s slouchy lollop and downcast eyes had dismayed her and, regretfully, she’d pencilled “NP” beside his name in the register: “No Potential”. The fact that Joey could tot up lunch money faster than any of his classmates or remember the combination to the lock on the stationery cupboard every time she forgot it counted for nothing to Mrs Jefferies.

 

            Starved of encouragement to look beyond the end of his nose, Joey had settled for a job at the only petrol station in town. He hadn’t even applied for the role, more fallen into it by accident when Mr Healey the owner lost his temper one afternoon and sacked the previous incumbent. Joey had been sitting on the forecourt cooling off with a can of drink, and mumbled that he could help out, maybe, until Mr Healey found someone better.

 

            The quiet late shifts were the ones Joey preferred. Few customers called by after nightfall, and those who did rarely wanted to make small talk. As long as he offered the appropriate grunts and the correct change, Joey could keep one ear plugged into the radio as he worked, and the hours simply slipped by.

 

            Out of habit, he memorised number plates, gradually stacking the local regulars into his mental filing cabinet. The blue van that had just pulled up wasn’t one he recognised. Must be an out of towner. 

 

            The driver opened the back of the van to let out a passenger, but that didn’t strike Joey as unusual. A new radio host had taken over his favourite show, and Joey was still in two minds about the cheeky chappie presentation style. The girl half fell out of the van and the man gripped her arm as she recovered her balance.

 

            That left him with just one hand to fumble the petrol flap open and fill the van, but Joey couldn’t leave his post to offer help. Mr Healey had impressed this on him time and again. Joey had easily committed the van’s number plate to memory by the time the driver banged the dispenser back onto the pump.

 

            Inside the shop, the man steered the girl towards the customer toilet and hovered nearby, fingers drumming against denim-clad thighs until she slid out again.  

 

            Joey’s own standards of personal grooming had stopped Mrs Jefferies in her tracks on more than one occasion, but even he could see this girl was a mess. Greasy hair lay plastered against her forehead, her clothes hung too loosely and her eyes were red and swollen.

 

            Her eyes. They’d locked onto his the minute she’d emerged from the toilet, and stayed there. Her mouth opened and shut, but she said nothing. Joey felt himself redden and broke the connection, looking down at the till.

 

            The man grabbed crisps, sweets and a large bottle of fizzy drink and dumped them on the counter, pulling out his wallet while Joey carefully scanned each item. 

 

            ‘That’s twenty one fifty seven, please.’

 

            Joey started to pack the snacks into a carrier bag, but the bottle toppled over and the girl reached out to catch it on a reflex. Their hands met awkwardly, his warmth transferring to her cold fingers, her eyes still boring into his. Joey disentangled himself and righted the bottle, but not before the man lost patience.

 

            He tossed down two grubby twenty pound notes, snatched the bag with one hand and the girl with the other, and turned to leave.                                                            

 

            ‘Keep the change.’

 

            Three little words.

 

            ‘But that’s…’

 

            Joey’s brain sputtered, and for once, failed to compute.

 

            ‘… too much.’

 

            No-one tips petrol station cashiers, and no-one walks away from the best part of twenty quid. 

 

            They were already at the door, the man’s hand pushing firmly into the small of the girl’s back. She threw Joey one last beseeching look before sagging out towards the van.

 

            Joey shrugged, screwed up the receipt and tossed it into the bin. He turned his attention back to the radio. It was the top of the hour, and the news jingle ushered in a calmer voice. The lead story was still that girl who’d disappeared a few days ago. No-one had yet given the police any useful information, despite a handsome reward on offer.

 

            The stories faded in importance and the newsreader wrapped up with a cheery anecdote. Joey pulled out his ear plugs. The petrol station was empty now, quiet save for the soothing background hum of lights and coolers.

 

            Joey wondered idly how he would spend a reward that generous.                                                                 

 

            He eyed the folded notes still lying on the counter.

 

            ‘Keep the change,’ the man had said.

 

            Should he though? Something didn’t add up. Joey sat for a long while reviewing the situation, his brain tumbling and fumbling towards an explanation that he didn’t like, but couldn’t dismiss.

 

            Slowly, very slowly, Joey’s hand reached for the phone.  

About the author

                                                           

Claire lives in South Gloucestershire, works as a journalist and writes for pleasure. Her stories have been longlisted, shortlisted and published by Stroud Short Stories, appeared in online publications and broadcast by BBC Upload. She’s currently researching ways to commit murder for her first cosy mystery. https://clairejaggard.com 

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Fifty-fifty

by Jenny Palmer

a bottle of fizzy pop 

When he first came across the tadpoles in a puddle up on the moor, it was a total surprise. That was the last place he’d expected to find them. The spawn must have been laid during the rainy weather when the moor was wet and boggy. But it hadn’t rained in over a month and the earth was bone-dry.  What sort of creature had left its spawn in that congested, murky puddle up by the cattle grid in the middle of nowhere? The nearest reservoir was at least a kilometre away down the hill.

Normally, when he went on expeditions of this nature, it was in the company of his grandad. At this time of year, they would go off in search of tadpoles down by the old mill lodge. That was where the toads returned every year. You knew when it was the right season because people put up rude signs on the roadside, saying ‘Randy toads crossing.’ It was to try and slow down the traffic and stop the cars squashing the poor creatures as they crawled across the road to the lodge. 

‘Fat chance of that happening,’ his grandad had said. ‘Try driving in between a load of crawling toads. It’s not easy.’

He wished his grandad were here now. He knew everything there was to know about tadpoles. But his grandpa was laid up in hospital so he couldn’t ask him. He hadn’t let it stop him going out on his excursions though.     

‘You can’t go out on your own,’ his mother said, when he first suggested it.  ‘You’re only ten’.

It was the Easter holidays so there was no school. His mother worked part-time in the local supermarket as an essential worker and left him to his own devices at home.

‘But there’s no one around,’ he argued. ‘The roads are empty. And it will count as my daily exercise.’

He’ went on and on about it so long that she finally relented. 

‘Don’t be staying out longer than an hour, mind,’ she shouted as he shot out of the house. ’Otherwise it’ll me who will gets into trouble.’

 The road onto the moor was uphill all the way. It would be quicker by bike.  When he walked with his grandad, he had to slow down. His grandpa struggled with the hills. He walked at snail pace. 

‘It’s what happens when you get older,’ he said. ‘Especially if you’ve been a smoker. Your lungs pack up. Don’t do what I did, lad. Don’t ever smoke.’

He planned to visit one of their favourites haunts every day. He would take some photos and put them on Instagram to send to his grandad who, hopefully, would have taken his phone with him into hospital. This would be their way of keeping in touch since he wasn’t allowed to visit.

He’d no doubt face an inquisition from his mother when he got home. He wasn’t going to tell her where he’d been. It was between him and his grandad. She didn’t tell him everything anyway. It had taken him ages to get it out of her what was going on. Did she think he didn’t know? You didn’t go into intensive care unless you were seriously ill.

All tadpoles looked the same. They had a big head and a little, wriggling body.  When he’d first come across them, he’d rushed home to consult his wildlife encyclopaedia.  Frogs were mottled in shades of green, yellow, or brown with smooth, moist skin and needed to live near water. Toads, on the other hand, had dry, warty skin. They tended to crawl rather than hop and could survive on land in dryer places. So perhaps these were toads.  But then frogs laid their spawn in clumps in the water, whereas toads tended to wrap it around the nearby vegetation. All things considered; his tadpoles were probably going to turn out to be frogs.

They weren’t going to turn into anything if it didn’t rain soon. When he visited them the next time, the puddle had shrunk even further.  It was just a wriggling mass of bodies. Soon the water would have completely dried up. He went up close and peered into the murky water. The tadpoles were still in their early stages. Their legs hadn’t even begun to develop. It would be a while before their gills turned into lungs and they could start breathing air or their tails disappeared into their bodies. And it would be even longer before their intestines grew and they turned into carnivores, becoming the gardener’s best friend, and eating all the slugs and snails or ants in the case of toads. It could take as long as fourteen weeks before the transition was complete. At times like this, he wished that nature would just hurry up. 

When he got home his mother was in an agitated state.

‘They’ve just rung from the hospital to say that your grandad’s condition has got worse,’ she said. ‘They are going to put him on a ventilator. There’s nothing we can do but wait and pray.’

He couldn’t just stand by and do nothing. He went into the kitchen and took out a couple of jam jars, filled them with water and loaded them into his panniers and set off uphill again. He could save some of the tadpoles, give them a fifty-fifty chance at least. It was hard going. Every breath counted. But it was something he just had to do.

About the author

In June 2019, Jenny Palmer published her first collection of poetry called Pendle Poems. She has published two memoirs, called Nowhere Better than Home and  Pastures New  and a family history book called Whipps, Watsons and Bulcocks. They are available from the Pendle Heritage Centre, Barrowford and from No 10 Literature and Lifestyle, Clitheroe.  Her collection of short stories Keepsake and other Stories was published by Bridge House in 2018 and is available on Amazon in paperback and on Kindle . Many of her stories are on the CafeLit website. A 59, Fatal Flaws and The Visitors are in Best of Café Lit 3, 5 and 7. The Visitors is also in ‘Citizens of Nowhere’ and Magnetism.