Moving HousebyJudith Skilleter,prosecco

 

Jasmine is seven years old and is not happy. She was happy, very happy, until earlier today but then her mum and dad told her they were moving house. They were moving so far away that she will have to change school and make new friends. Her dad had a new and better job that would enable them to have nicer holidays and nicer clothes and toys. Her mum and dad said it would be an exciting adventure – a new bedroom where she could decide how her bedroom should be decorated, a bigger garden where she could play and they would even get a puppy.

All these things meant nothing to Jasmine. She just did not want to go. Even the thought of a puppy did not make her change her mind. This was truly the worst thing ever to happen to her. She did not want to leave her two best friends, Chloe and Eva, and she did not want to change school where she was doing very well.

Jasmine has a younger sister, Amber. But Amber is just two years old and wouldn’t understand what was happening. “Amber is stupid” thinks the big sister.

Jasmine talks to her two friends, Chloe and Eva. Chloe bursts into tears when she hears that Jasmine might be leaving them and fiery Eva screamed in anger. “No, no, no” she shouted to anyone who would hear.

 Eva says to Jasmine “I’m going to ask my mum if you can live with us. You can share my bedroom.”

“And mine” says Chloe. “We have plenty of room now that Nana is in a home.”

“Yes, we will share you” says Eva “but we can’t take Amber as well. She will have to move with your mum and dad.” Amber has a reputation for being sick at every opportunity.

“Really?” says Jasmine.” Do you think that might work?”

“Why not” says Chloe “I’m going home to ask my mum now”

“Me too” said Eva and the two girls hurried off to their homes.

Jasmine felt so much better after this conversation. She was sure her mum and dad would let her stay with both Eva and Chloe. After all, they would have to buy less food and Grandma Joan, who is not well at all, could have her, Jasmine’s, new bedroom.

Jasmine couldn’t wait to hear from Eva and Chloe, she was sure their mums and dads would agree to the plan, and she went straight home to share the plan with her mum and dad.

But Jasmine was wrong. Her mum and dad said “No” to the plan. They were a family and they would stay together. They said they knew it would be difficult for her but there is nothing they can do to make it better and she would get used to the new move and even like it in time.

“I won’t, I won’t, I won’t” screamed Jasmine and she rushed upstairs to her bedroom where she got a black felt tip pen and scrawled “I am not going” all over the walls.

Jasmine’s mum and dad had told her teacher that they were moving and that Jasmine was not at all happy about it all. Her teacher, Mrs Gibbs, was very understanding, especially when Jasmine asked “May I live with you instead?”  But Jasmine’s schoolwork suffered and she was no longer top or near the top of her class. She was also very naughty and more than once Jasmine was sent to the headmistress for punishment. Jasmine just didn’t care. She was rude, she was sullen and she burst into tears at the drop of a hat – and Chloe and Eva’s behaviour was not much better.

At home Jasmine’s behaviour was appalling. When no one was looking she pinched Amber and made her cry. She deliberately broke cups and plates and whatever she could find that could not be mended. She wouldn’t speak to her mum and dad and looked at them with such hate in her eyes. 

Jasmine’s mum and dad eventually lost patience. They stopped her pocket money, they sent her to bed early, they hid her mobile phone and they prevented her seeing Eva and Chloe. Jasmine still didn’t care and with a red felt tip pen she scrawled “No” all over her already scrawled on bedroom wallpaper.

The moving day came. The huge van was waiting outside and Jasmine used all the moving activity to get away. Jasmine and her two best pals had a plan.  Eva’s family had a garden room and Eva had been secretly moving pillows and duvets into it with lots of snacks and food. The garden room had been Eva’s dad’s office when he worked at home during Covid, but now he was back at work properly the garden room was used for storage. But it still had room for a small girl to hide away in.

Jasmine sneaked out of the house when no-one was looking and made her way to Eva’s house - her new place of refuge. There was no one at home – she knew Eva would be at school, as would Ewan, Eva’s older brother and Eva’s mum and dad would be at work. But Eva’s older brother, Ewan, was not at school. He was at home; he had broken an ankle playing football and he was in his bedroom wondering where he could hobble to without causing more damage to his foot when he saw movement in the back garden. He recognised Jasmine immediately. His fiery sister had been making her own family miserable for the last few weeks following the awful news of Jasmine’s move and he quickly worked out what those two naughty girls had done. “And Chloe is probably in on it too” he chuckled.

His mum rang him to check on him and the foot.

“We have a visitor in the garden room” he said.

“Oh please don’t tell me the fox has returned. If she has babies in there I will scream.”

“I think a fox would be easier than this visitor.” said Ewan.

“What do you mean” asked his mum.

“Jasmine is in there” he replied.

“Oh that poor girl” said his mum. “I’m coming home now. Don’t do anything till I get there.”

“OK” chuckled Ewan. Suddenly having a broken ankle was quite exciting and not the boring event it had been not so many minutes ago.

Eva’s mum came home. She wondered on the way whether she should collect Eva and Chloe as well but decided against it. They would be dealt with later. Instead she rang Jasmine’s mum and dad, who were frantic with worry and told them that Jasmine was safe and she also rang Chloe’s mum who worked from home. They were all asked to meet in her, Eva’s mums, kitchen.

At home she went straight up to Ewan’s bedroom where he was sitting with his eyes glued to the garden room door. “There has been no movement. I reckon she is waiting until Eva gets back from school” reported Ewan.

She said.” In a short while, Chloe’s mum and Jasmine’s mum and dad will arrive. Can you welcome them and take them in to the kitchen and ask them to stay there. I will come to the kitchen with Jasmine. Can you do this Ewan? I will help you downstairs”

Ewan nodded. Never ever had a broken ankle been so thrilling.

 Eva’s mum went to the garden room, went in quietly and sat down. Jasmine was well hidden behind some deckchairs. After five minutes or so, after five minutes of the tiniest noises from the far corner, Eva’s mum said in a very gentle and kind voice.

“I know you are in here Jasmine and I know you are very unhappy about your family’s move. I am so sorry this is happening”

At this Jasmine burst into tears, she cried like she had never cried before. Eva’s mum moved the deckchairs and gathered this distraught small girl tightly into her arms and sat back down with her.

When Jasmine had calmed down a little, she was shaking all over and the tears still fell but no longer in a torrent Eva’s mum said.

“Sometimes Jasmine, we have to do things in life that we do not want to do. I know exactly what you are going through. When we moved here I was leaving my family, my mum and dad and aunties and uncles and I hated it for ages. But it got better and now I wouldn’t live anywhere else.”

“I’m not going” mumbled a small voice into Eva’s mum’s wet jumper. There had, after all, been a lot of tears and no tissues.

“I know it is awful for you but I promise you that Eva and Chloe will keep in touch otherwise they will be in big trouble.”

There was a small smile somewhere in the depths of the wet jumper.

“But it won’t be the same” said Jasmine.

“It won’t” agreed Eva’s mum. “But we can make it a bit better if we all try – and that includes you. I think by now your mum and dad are in my kitchen. Shall we go in and have a chat?”

Jasmine immediately looked terrified, she knew she was in the most trouble ever.
“I will be with you. You will be fine” said Eva’s mum in her most reassuring voice – but with her fingers crossed too.

And shortly afterwards and hand in hand they entered the kitchen.

About the Author

 

dith Skilleter is new to writing fiction after a long career in social work and teaching. Her first children's novel The April Rebellion, has recently been published. Judith is a Geordie, who settled in East Yorkshire 4forty-fiveyears ago and is married with 4fourgrandchildrenDid you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee?. Half of what you pay goes to the author thothrr half goes to expense se.g. Miantaining rhhthe web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.

Kosovo Love Story by Maeve Murphy, a glass of prosecco,

The Kosovo countryside flows past the window as the old wooden train chugs into Pristina. Roisin, in work mode on her ipad doesn’t see it.  She doesn’t see anything, not the family with children nearby, or the young mother breast feeding. Her eyes remain completely fixed on the screen. The train stops at a station, the door springs opens.

A man jumps on and sits opposite her. Roisin doesn’t look up. He’s got brown hair and a great smile. He watches her work. It’s raining, there’s condensation on the window. He coughs; she doesn’t look up. He then writes “Hello” on the window. She slowly looks up.   He smiles, pulling a smile from her in reply. She pauses and then writes “Hello” back.

“Going to Pristina?”

She nods.

“Coolest place in the Balkans.”

 She notes his slight London accent. He tells her he’s sussing it out for a stag weekend. The chemistry is natural, almost immediate but Roisin internally bats it off because of his age, he looks early thirties.

“Your head is full of work.”

“That’s cos I’m at sea.”  She has surprised herself; she’s opened up to him.

They get out at the station. It’s stopped raining, the sun is shining; it catches her long auburn hair.  He asks where’s staying? It’s the same hotel… he suggests they share a taxi. She agrees.  They both laugh, Roisin bites her lip.

As they get into the huge main square, she’s dazzled by the light-coloured Brutalist buildings. So different, fresh.

They check in… she’s quietly wondering if their rooms will be close. They aren’t.  

“I wanna see you,” he states: shockingly bold.

“I’m working.”

“Before. A drink. Martin by the way.”

“Roisin”.

 She hesitates but then swept along by his confidence nods. Leaving their luggage in their separate rooms, they have a tea outside in the square lined with cafés. Metallic chairs round a square metallic table. It’s Ramadan. Nothing to show that other than the sound of the prayer through a megaphone. She is astonishing herself, she can’t believe she is there, but his very easy-going approach puts her at ease.

 “Why do you feel at sea? Look on land to me!”

“I’ve just had my second miscarriage in two years.”She blurts it out.

 He nods, it’s a lot, but she already knows he can hold this, it’s not too much for him.

 “Maybe in a previous life time, I was their mother.”

“But also in this one, you were their mother.”

This has visible impact on Roisin, such a positive way of framing.   

“Anyway, you asked, and sorry, I just don’t have a fuckin’ filter at the moment!”

He laughs.

“Do you really believe in past lives?”

 “Yes.”

“So, you think we may have met before?”

“Maybe.” 

“That trivialises the meaning of death and life.”

This surprises her.

“The real appreciation of a person’s life comes from knowing that when death comes, we will never see that person again.  So, we make every minute count.”

He gets up. “Maybe see you in the morning, for a Pristina plod?”

She laughs, considers. “Maybe.” A gentle smoulder. He goes, moving smoothly, gracefully. She watches him.

Roisin looks around the buzzing square. She stares at the huge yellow and blue Ukraine flag draped down a building. Magnetised by it all, she gets up, pays and walks.  

There are a lot of fortune tellers, around mostly women with children. She stops with one, a man. He does her tarot cards, but before he has turned them, he tells her it will be third time lucky. Next time she will go full-term. She is stunned but delighted. He tells her also there is a good-looking younger man around her, he wants a fling, maybe sex… She listens fascinated, flattered. She goes to pay and leave. He tells her this guy will be dead in ten years, from suicide. He can see the gravestone he tells her. Shocked, she tells him he should never say something like that. He hasn’t even read the cards! He tells her he doesn’t need to, he sees images. As an Irish woman she has a residual belief in all this. Freaked, she pays him, leaves. He tells her to be loyal. She bites her lip.

Returning quickly to the hotel she’s surprised to find Martin in the hotel lobby chatting to the receptionist. He waves.

“Finding the tops spots, to recce the stag. Wanna come?”

Roisin hesitates.

“Carpe momentum” he says… she laughs.

“Okay.”

Martin blinks, smiles.

They meander slowly around the city, almost floating. They pass a huge concrete monument commemorating women assaulted and killed in the Serbian war. She whips out her phone and takes a snap. He observes her.

“Documentary I’m doing is about this.”

They pass an old statue of a local patriot on a horse who fought and won against an invading army. She admires the spirit of the Kosovo people; they got them out. He teases her about the Irish and their global anti-colonial agenda. Taking the bait, she says she doesn’t get why the Brits won’t face their history. He reminds her Kosovo was rescued by the Brits.

 This turns into a jokey argument about rescuing countries and if it’s just another form of co-dependency.

They stop at a late-night café.  Roisin casually remarks on all the fortune tellers and asks Martin what he thinks.

“I think it's a con; they prey on trusting people tell them what they want to hear.” 

“I know I should think that, but I kind of believe it. Maybe it’s an Irish thing.”

He picks up her coffee cup and reads the coffee grains at the bottom.

“I see big lights, dancing!”

She laughs.

They pay and go and carry on meandering.                                                                                   

 

From a side street Euro music blasts from a huge old Brutalist building with rusty iron doors.

“Wanna?” An alluring gaze. She laughs, nods.  

They dance. It’s fun but also becomes quietly electric.

“This is sex.” Martin tells her.

“That kills it,” she tells him. Martin gives her a quizzical look.  She bolts. He follows.

“I’m thirty-two, a young man, got sex on the brain, sorry… girls often like that.”

 “Do you always give women what you feel they want? What do you want? Validation of your charm and good looks?”

“So, you think I'm good looking?”

 She laughs despite herself. She walks; he joins her. They walk in silence.

“Where are you going?” Roisin asks.

“Making sure you get home safely, that's all.”

It is sincere and heart-melting.

“Actually, you saying that was exciting, truth is… I’m not available.”  

He looks down, sighs, letting this sink in.

Roisin spots a cinema across the square.

“Want to see a movie?”

He nods, but still in silent mode.

“What kind of stag do is it?”

“The usual drunken bollocks… I don’t believe in marriage.”

“You don’t believe in the afterlife; you don’t believe in marriage, what do you believe in?”

“This.”

“What is this?”

He shrugs in a good-natured way.

 

Meandering again they amble into the cinema; it’s a rundown old art deco building. It’s open but no one is there. They decide to wait. They play a game. She tells him she is thinking of a number between one and ten can he guess what it is?

He thinks.

 “Three.”

“Bloody hell! Yes!” she says, her eyes opening wide with joy.  

 “A lucky guess! A one in ten probability.” He laughs shaking his head.

A drunken hen do arrive, they’ve rented out the old cinema and are waiting for a male stripper. Martin unexpectantly picks her up in a fireman’s lift and brings her out.

“Didn’t think you would want to be there for the whole thing,” he says, piss-taking as he carefully puts her down.

She is laughing. There is now a feeling of elation. A kindness also. A falling-in-love feeling.

They try to find another café to have another coffee but everywhere is closed.

“The hotel?” she suggests.

 “What about the cemetery?”

“The cemetery!!! I’m forty-one not fourteen!”                                                          

 “We’ve gone past that. It’s off the agenda.”

Roisin considers, intrigued. “Okay then.”

They carry on their stroll until they reach the cemetery.

They go in. Trees line the path; the moon hangs over, huge statues over the graves.

“I did my recce for the stag a few days ago,” he confesses. “I was on the other platform waiting to go back and saw you on the train and leapt on.”

She swallows amazed at this. It’s flattering but also… They sit down on a bench.

“I do that kind of thing all the time,” he replies as if reading her mind.

Roisin, stares at the nearby gravestones remembering what the fortune teller said. It distresses her.

“Jung said if we don’t get conscious about our unconscious it drives us and we call it fate. It’s all personal choice.”

“It was a conscious personal choice. I jumped on the train. But maybe fate too?” He looks at her, his playful smile is back.

“No, I’m saying maybe you’re right about what you were saying before in the café there is no fate or destiny, it’s all choice.”

 “Tell my mum that,” Martin says.

She looks at him not understanding.

“She’s buried here; one of a group of women killed by Serbs.”

A long silence. Roisin is moved.

“Me and my dad left the Balkans immediately after. I was very young, I don’t really remember anything. I went to uni late. I was like doing the clubs for years. I’ve applied to lots of places. I’ve not got many offers,” he discloses, opening up.

“Something will turn up,” she tells him gently.  

“Maybe we can meet here in eleven years’ time?” Roisin says.

 “Eleven years? You’re here for another few days!”

He very smoothly but suddenly kisses her. 

His smiling face creates her smiling heart.

The fizzy whoosh of early love.

“Kind of emotional, isn’t it, “he says lightly touching his heart.

She nods. His honesty startles her, but this time in a nice way.

He lies down on the ground. She pauses then lies down beside him. 

They lie, just holding each other, slowly falling asleep.

“You, okay?” he asks. She nods. 

“This is the weirdest day.”

He laughs, puts his arm protectively round her. 

The night moon and night sky watch over.  

As the sun rises, they are still lying asleep. She wakes, whispers something. He smiles, opens his eyes, the sun falls on them, lighting them both. They get up, laughing at their aching bodies from lying on the ground.

As they head to the exit he stops at a little pathway. It’s his mum’s grave. They stand and look with solemn reverence, then leave. 

They walk in a long sweeping silence until Martin spots an open café. Martin chats to the cafe owner in Albanian which amazes her. They discuss what to eat for breakfast, in the end he orders a traditional Albanian breakfast of feta cheese, soft cheese with bread, yoghurt and Turkish coffee.

 “So how long have you been with this guy?”

“…We broke up. I lied.”

“Why?”  

“I went to a fortune teller, yesterday …he told me something nice, something I wanted to hear.  When he said I should be loyal to my partner, I wanted that to be true also cos then everything in his prediction about me would be true.”

 “So, you prefer a fantasy lie to a horrible truth?”

“Just for today, yes. Not always.”

 “What was the nice thing?” he asks.

 “It’s obvious,” she replies.

 “Tall dark and handsome?”

“…a baby,” she murmurs.  

He nods, looks down, sighs, he understands.  

“What else did he say?” he gently probes.

Roisin bites her lip feeling uncomfortable.

 “… I have to work today, I’m being paid.”

“If I paid you to make babies, would you?”

She laughs.

“I can show you some horror sights later.”  

He calls over the waiter and orders something else in Albanian.

A local liquor ‘Raki’ is brought. And two small glasses.

“Holidays,” he says smiling.

He drinks. She doesn’t.

“Do you ever think about dying?”

“What?” he practically chokes on his drink.

She picks up the small glass and takes a sip.

“Do you?” he asks, still appalled by her question.

 Seeing his response, Roisin wonders if maybe the fortune teller was just trying to stop her from doing something he saw as socially unacceptable, a woman and a younger man.

 “It’s very conventional here, isn’t it?” she comments.

“I don’t really know, I was a toddler when I left.”

 Roisin picks up and now knocks back the Raki.

 “I think about dying, well not dying. I’m scared about what happens after… hell.” 

“Hell?” he asks. “You believe in hell?”

“No but yes a little bit of me does and even though I’m not a mass murderer or anything, I’m scared of going to hell.”

He shakes his head. “Hell stuff is just there to control us, it’s this.” 

“Consequence could still be operating in ‘this’,” she says.

He nods. “Agreed. I’m not saying be a prick.” He orders two more.   

They drink the two more. So early in the morning, it goes to her head.

 “How do you feel about your future?” she asks him.

“I’m confident. I sometimes get anxious about sudden changes… you don’t have to be a therapist to work that one out.”

Roisin nods. She twists a bit of her long hair.

“What about you? What do you feel about your future?”

Roisin lets it all spill out.

“That fortune teller said someone here, around me, a guy, who was interested in me was going to kill themselves in ten years’ time.”

Martin is astonished.

A shocked silence. He seems angry.

“And you think that might be me? And if it was more than a one-night stand, that you might you know torture me somehow and I would be so hopelessly in love with you that effectively you would kill me. I would kill me, but really it would be you. Wow! You have some ego! You really think you have big impact don’t you!”

“It’s not even 9 am and I’m drunk! I’m not going to say that’s an Irish thing,” Roisin says attempting humour.

 Martin doesn’t find any of this funny.

“You’ve told me that. You’ve given me that,” he says. “That is terrible.”

“I’m sorry.”

He leaves money down for the extra drinks and gets up and goes.

She follows him and he ignores her.  Roisin sees the women fortune tellers are setting up. She goes to talk to one, behind her she hears Martin’s voice.  

“They say magic words over a melted bullet. Spiritual cleansing. Wanna get my soul cleansed? Save me from you?”

She turns to him. “I’m really sorry”

He just glares at her. She turns and carries on walking, now at a sharp pace.

She becomes aware Martin is striding in a similar march mode behind her.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“Being a dead man walking,” he replies.

She half laughs despite herself.

They carry on but not together in the direction of the hotel.

Eventually they get there. Both take the hotel lift to go to their rooms.

“I thought you didn’t care about all that,” she says. “You said fortune telling was rubbish.  Look, I was freaked, the drink had gone to my head… I’m sorry.”

“Maybe you’re saving me? Lifting ‘the curse’.”

“I don’t care what you do in ten years’ time! It’s not about me! It’s all up to you, your choices,” she says. “I’m not a rescuer.”

 “It’s horse shit. Bollocks from some fraudulent prick who you paid to stop you having the shag of your life.”

“You said it/this, was emotional,” she replies looking at him directly.  

He doesn’t seem to hear, a glazed look.

 

Roisin leaves the lift first. She slopes down the hotel corridor.

Roisin goes into her room. She sits very still on her double bed with a beautiful crimson bed runner. She weeps, everything all mixed up and mixed in.

 After some time, there’s a knock on the door. She ignores it.

“I don’t want children. It’s not me giving you the baby. I’m not important.”

She pauses, unsure, then slowly gets up and opens the door. Martin stands opposite. He pulls a packet out of his pocket.

“Calmee!?” she says.

He laughs embarrassed at the over-the-counter mild anti-anxiety supplement; he’s taken out by mistake. He rummages in his pocket and produces a packet of condoms.

 

Inside her room they are both trembling, hearts beating fast, kissing, undressing.

Still tipsy, with the sun blazing in from outside they make love for the first time. Fun, silliness, bursts of laughter, lovely pleasure feeling of love, of pleasure. At an intense level.  

After, he nestles into her. She nestles into him.

“Do you have a partner? What’s the truth Roisin?”   

“I did. We split up… but… I think…I want to get back with him, try again for a baby.”

 No more words are spoken between them.

Martin abruptly gets up and dresses. He goes.

 

Roisin looks out of the hotel window, over the square. It’s raining.

She’s devastated. 

“I want you” she writes on the condensation on the hotel window. 

The old wooden train starts to move. Martin upset and angry leans back against the seat, he stares out the window as the Kosovan countryside moves past.  

He writes on the condensation on the train window, “Don’t worry I’m not going to kill myself.”

As if hearing this, Roisin half smiles.

She goes out and wanders around the city alone. 

She walks past the wall of huge yellow letters spelling REBORN.

 The train speeds into the night. Martin is asleep. On the steamed window, “Bye” is written. And also “CU in 11?”

 

Roisin sits in the café where they had breakfast that morning.

She spells “Bye” on the table with the salt.

Then wipes it away.  

And writes “CU in 11.” 

About the author

Maeve Murphy's debut feature film Silent Grace was 38 in Irish Times Best 50 Irish Films Ever Made. Her debut novella, Christmas at the Cross, was published in 2021. A short film 2024, based on it is winner 8 international film awards. 

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Saturday Sample: Good News ...?, Anna’s Secret Mission by Sara Knapp, prosseco

 

Yes, Constable Dale, I’ve seen the footage. And yes, I certainly can understand why the detective alerted you. Definitely on the ball, there.

But there’s a perfectly good justification for what you’ve seen. It just might take time to explain. All the time in the world? Right. I’ll try my best…

Every family has its stories. Funny, tragic, weird.

For example, my grandma’s neighbours, the Dobbs, met twenty-odd years ago when they got stuck in one of those see-through lifts in a shopping-centre. He has no head for heights. She’s claustrophobic. But they were practically engaged by the time they were rescued.

And my best mate Emma and her siblings were all born, several years apart, in the first week of August. People speculate on how their parents celebrate Bonfire Night.

What? Yes, I do think it’s relevant, Constable. I’m scene-setting.

My family anecdotes, though, tend not to have happy endings. For example, way back, my dad’s dad had a £50,000 win on something called the Football Pools. The cheque came as a total surprise. My grandma was at the bus-stop across the road, so he rushed over to tell her, and was killed by a Number 9.

And when my Aunty Jo won a crystal decanter at a fete, she tripped on the way out, crashing to the ground and landing on her prize. She bled loads and the scar is huge.

So we never place bets, do the lottery or buy scratch cards. We don’t Guess The Weight Of The Cake. If someone runs a raffle, we may donate, but we refuse the ticket. It’s safer that way.

Yes, Constable. Idiosyncratic maybe, but then you haven’t seen my aunty’s scar. Where was I?

So: I often shop for my gran, and sometimes her friend Sue who, ever since a phantom pineapple mysteriously added itself to our bill, likes to ‘check receipts properly.’ If I’d been paying attention, maybe I’d have noticed the coupon attached to my receipt. But evidently I wasn’t. The woman in front of me at the check-out, though, turning to make sure she’d packed everything, squealed: “|Oooh look, you’ve got a ‘Pop-Me-In!’ coupon,” plucked it from my hand, and ‘popped it in’ to a cardboard pretend computer thingy by the door. Which shook and pushed out (I think it’s faulty) several red tickets.

“There you go, dear – that’ll be nice, won’t it?” she said, puzzlingly, dropping them into my carrier, and headed off. The person queueing behind me coughed meaningfully, so I took my shopping and left.

I forgot all about the tickets until I was sorting stuff (me, Gran, Sue) on my kitchen table. I gave a squawk when found them. They were supermarket vouchers worth £15, £25 and £50.

Now you can see the problem, can’t you, Constable? Can’t you? Well…

These vouchers were of course, indisputably, “winnings.” And as established earlier, my family doesn’t ‘do’ winnings. They bring Bad Things.

I groaned, grabbed Gran’s and Sue’s bags and headed off. Clutching the three blood-red rectangular omens…

What? Yes, Constable Dale. I am getting to the point. Actually, I just had an idea. I happen to know that Sue would absolutely love to meet a real policeman! Maybe you’d like to interview her? You’ll see? OK. Where was I?

Well, quite logically, my grandma and I – given the family history, which I have been at pains to explain – felt that there should be no tempting fate. We couldn’t use the vouchers for Personal Gain.

And Sue decided that, out of loyalty, she would align herself with us – after all, Gran’s her best friend – and that therefore, she too would decline to use any of the vouchers.

This left us with the problem of what to do with the blessed things. But the answer to that came to us all simultaneously, I think. The vouchers should go to ‘deserving shoppers,’ as defined by yours truly, Anna Blake. Designated Shopper.

Aha. I think you are on my wavelength now, Constable Dale? No?

So I was charged – ha, ha – on my next trip, conveniently close to Christmas, with what I and my, um, accomplices have christened ‘Shop-Gifting.’ I limbered up by slipping the £15 voucher into the bag of an old lady who’d only bought yellow sticker stuff. I did that near the bus-stop; maybe the CCTV doesn’t pick things up beyond the car-park? Anyway, the cashiers will know if the woman with the purple coat and the white hat with those ear-flap things has used a voucher. Or maybe just looked a bit happier of recent…

I think I can tell what you are going to say, but I’ll just finish, if I may.

Now, your CCTV footage there shows Mission 2: the £25 ‘drop’, so to speak. The voucher is squeezed between my fingers as I flip it into the man’s carrier. I expect it is zoom-in-on-able? I did have to drop my brolly so he’d bend down to retrieve it. That’s a technique Gran and Sue hit upon; I must say it worked a treat. Good job they’re on the right side of the law.

Pardon? Yes, I realise you’ll have to check this out. But since it’s perfectly verifiable, I have no worries. Well, save the obvious one…

What? Well, the blindingly obvious fact that I have not yet carried out The Biggie! The £50 voucher ‘drop’.

Actually, it occurs to me, Constable Dale, that were you able to accompany me on my final mission, you would constitute the perfect distraction. If you were to engage the young mum I’ve nominated (two little girls, she has, and such a tired smile) in conversation, I’m sure I could Do The Deed and slide that £50 voucher in her bag easy as pie!

You would?!

A condition? What condition?

Oh. Well. Now you mention it, a glass of something to celebrate a final act of shop-gifting would not seem inappropriate. OK – it’s a date!

Good news! Our family luck may just be changing…

About the author

Sara Knapp was born in Manchester (UK). A sometime translator and teacher, she has always loved reading and listening to stories of all genres. She has published non-fiction, short stories in Yours Fiction and more recently in sci-fi anthology AI, Robot (JayHenge Publishing KB).

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