Saturday Sample: Clara's Story by Gill James, tea with lemon

 

8 October 1918, Berlin: The end of a phase

Clara shuddered. It was one of those strange uncontrollable little movements. Her mother used to say it meant someone was walking over your grave. What did that mean, actually though? They were walking over where you were going to be buried? How would you know now? It was nonsense really but she had no better or even any other explanation for it. It wasn’t as if it was cold in the kitchen: the Kackelofen was lit and the sun was streaming through the window.

She put the rest of yesterday’s birthday cake away. Ernst had insisted she should celebrate her birthday despite his illness. She’d baked one of her special cheesecakes but nobody had had much appetite for it. It would keep a few days, she guessed. Perhaps when he was feeling better they would all appreciate it more.

 She looked at the clock. He should have called for his tea by now. It was half an hour past the normal time. She’d looked in on him earlier. He’d been sound asleep. Doctor Friedrich had said it was good to let him sleep. Perhaps she should go and look in on him again.

The doctor hadn’t really given a clear diagnosis. “It’s a combination of things, Frau Lehrs,” he’d said. “His worry about this war has weakened him. The rickets has got worse. And now this chest infection…”

“That shouldn’t kill a man, though, should it, Herr Doctor? He will recover won’t he?”

“I’m afraid I can’t say. He’s still quite young but you know this terrible war has taken its toll. It’s made men even younger than him want to give up. I’m sorry I can’t give you any better news.”

Damn men and their wars.  Clara made her way towards her husband’s room. So many men killed on both sides and so many left with half-lives. And now they were all so poor. It wasn’t so bad for them as for some of the people who worked in Ernst’s factory. But they had had to cut Imelda’s hours in order to pay for the nurse.

The door to Ernst’s room was flung open. Schwester Adelberg rushed out. “Frau Lehrs, you must come quickly,” she cried.

Clara hurried into the bedroom.

Ernst’s breathing was laboured. His chest was rattling.

“Should we send for the doctor?” said Clara. But she could tell from the look on the nurse’s face that it was too late.

“You must say your goodbyes,” Schwester Adelberg whispered guiding her gently towards the bed.

Clara knelt down beside her husband and put her face next to his. She took his hand. He was trying to speak but she couldn’t make out what he was saying. Yellow bile streamed from his nose and seeped from the corners of his mouth and his eyes. He tried to push the sheets and blankets away.

“Does he have a fever?”

“It’s the blood rushing to his vital organs, trying to save them. His lungs are filling. That sound you hear is them working to expel the fluid but it has gone too far now.”

“Is – is he in pain?”

“He’s probably not comfortable and he’s very likely afraid and lonely. Talk to him.”

“Ernst – Ernst, my love. Don’t leave me yet. It’s too soon.”

Schwester Adelberg touched her shoulder. “There’s nothing more we can do,” she whispered. “Try to comfort him.”

Clara stroked his arm. “I’m here my darling. It will be all right. Sleep gently. You’ll soon have no more pain.”

He looked at once like a child and a man forty years older. Her father had not looked this frail when he’d died. Ernst’s poor body was a twisted wreck. But it had been like that all of his life and he’d done so much despite his disability. She stroked his hair.

He relaxed a little. He took one final breath and the rattle in his chest stopped. His faced changed and he looked peaceful. Yet at the same time he looked like a piece of paper. His lips and cheeks were grey. Yes, the life had gone out of him. That wasn’t her Ernst anymore. Even so she leant over and kissed his forehead. “Goodbye, sweetheart,” she whispered.

She knelt for a few more minutes holding his hand and then she stood up. “We’d better get the doctor here to sign a death certificate,” she said.

“I’m happy to stay and lay him out properly after the doctor’s visit,” said Schwester Adelberg.

“Thank you.”

“And would you like me to help with the arrangements?”

“That would be very kind. Now, I’d better go and let the children know.”

As Clara made her way down the stairs she realised that another phase of her life had ended. 

Find you copy here 

About the author

Gill James is published by The Red Telephone, Butterfly and Chapeltown.  

She edits CafeLit and writes for the online community news magazine: Talking About My Generation.

She teaches Creative Writing and has an MA in Writing for Children and PhD in Creative and Critical Writing.    

http://www.gilljameswriter.com  

https://www.amazon.co.uk/-/e/B001KMQRKE

https://twitter.com/GillJames

 

 

A Strange Hello and Goodbye by Peter Jenkins, strong tea with lemon

After a lifetime of being largely anti authority, and fiercely independent, I found myself in desperate straits. My parents had died when I was young and I had various support from relatives friends and neighbours.

After university, I found myself a job but became depressed. I was so low and lonely that I started going back to church, something that had not happened since I was a small boy being taken by parents. I had left the church behind and prided myself on my atheist views. Because I went back to the same church I was confirmed in, I went to see the vicar, who was still there, and he suggested I went to see a colleague of his for counselling. This would be another first because counselling wasn’t even in my mental backpack – another middle class talking cure for the worried well.

Because I felt so lonely and anxious I did follow up his suggestion, and I made an appointment to see the counsellor, which was in a very posh building in the middle of town – run by a doctor. The person I went to see was not a doctor, but he told me he was a Jungian counsellor, and also happened to be a priest. I estimated that he was about sixty, a large man and gay with it, I thought. Had to be – a single priest.

I’m not sure how that session went, but we did swap some personal information, and he told me where his set of parishes were, including his “home” parish. We made a second appointment, but I was not sure I would go back. He was exactly the sort of man that I distrusted, made fun of, and generally would not have anything to do with; a gay, Christian priest….

I did go back to the second appointment. By this time in my life I was living alone in a house I had bought with the remnants of my parents estate. I was very unhappy there, and despite the counselling I was getting worse, ending up with a full-on breakdown, and hospitalisation. The counsellor  (David by name) did end up getting involved in this incident because he was called up by a worried friend, who went through my address book to find him. That was it really – after a short spell in hospital, I came home and resumed my life, even more desperate than before. I did not resume the counselling but one evening I was so lonely that I drove out to Reverend David’s house in the countryside, to see him. I sat outside his house in my car but that was it. I had not arranged to see him, and for some reason was unable to get out of the car and knock on the door. I wanted to talk to him and yet at the same time I could not.         

Eventually, after what seemed like hours, David’s front door opened and he  walked down his long driveway.

 

‘Would you like to come in, or would you hate to?’ he said in his deep mellifluous voice. 

 

‘I’d like to come in……’

 

We went into his house, which was a large modern detached house, the ancient vicarage having been sold off by the church some years ago. We went into his sitting room, where the log burner was sending out inviting warmth.

 

‘Would you like a cup of coffee or tea – I’m having one……’

 

‘Yes please.’

 

That was it…….no  “what are you doing here”………or  “what on earth do you think you are doing”……Simply accepting the fact that I was there, and making me a coffee.

 

We did talk as we drank our hot drinks.

 

‘I just wanted to see you’ I said. The conversation was not exactly desultory but it was stilted, as he gently asked me neutral questions.

 

The time came when I should leave and go home.

 

‘I don’t want to go home’ I said.

 

‘If you would like to stay, you need to ask me’ – I think was the reply.

 

Relief flowed through me. I still thought he was a gay vicar, but I was so desperate not to go home.

 

‘I have a spare bedroom’ he said, ‘which is made up.’

 

He showed me the room – gave me a glass of water and said goodnight. There was a connecting door along the upstairs corridor which he closed. So there I was – going to bed in a strange man’s vicarage, with really no idea about what I was doing.

 

In the morning, I woke up to the smells of a cooked breakfast being prepared. I had a shower, and then got dressed and went downstairs.

 

‘Would you like some breakfast? Did you sleep well?’

 

The conversation carried on like that through breakfast. At some point, David did say that if I wanted to, I could stay a little longer. There were two rooms upstairs I could use – a bedroom, and next to it another room which I could use as a lounge. Although I was still a bit suspicious of David’s intentions, I went back to my house and packed what I needed.

 

 I stayed at David’s house for two years…..at no time was his behaviour anything but polite and pleasant. I really needed to revise my prejudices about priests and posh people – he told me that when he was a boy, they had servants in their house; hard to believe but also hard to mock, as he was being so good to me. God knows what the people who lived in the village thought about this arrangement. I did not attend his church, but gradually went out and about a bit more. I pretended that no one knew I was living there. I hardly ever saw anyone else but David anyway.

David simply and without expectation, looked after me – you might say parented me.  Mostly he fed me. I was not working, and spent a lot of time reading, and sometimes entertaining the odd girlfriend when he was out for the day. I worked my way through a lot of Dickens volumes.

The Reverend David continued his life pretty much as it was before I moved in. He went about his parish duties, preaching on a Sunday, and looking after me.

 

Gradually I regained some of my old motivation, and applied to continue my education. I sold my house and continued to live with David. It came to a bitter sweet end when he was planning to go on a cruise, and offered to take me with him. I blurted out something about not being gay, and he visibly recoiled. I know now that his motives were from a purer love than a sexual attraction. Although the living arrangement continued, he became a little more distant and polite.

Eventually I moved out into a girlfriend’s flat – and he also moved house.

The final act of love occurred when my girlfriend was eight months pregnant and we were going to be evicted. David bought a house and rented it to us, paying the mortage off as we went, and allowing us to buy the remainder of the house when we were able to. When we married, he officiated.

 

When the Reverend David died, his family knew nothing of our friendship, and they overrode his wish to be buried in his favourite rural churchyard, which dated back to the stone age as a hilltop burial site, and was reputedly on a major ley line. The family organised a traditional service in the nearby town. I often thought of David and of how his last wish remained unfulfilled, and how I could somehow rectify it. I had been very upset by the family’s decision, and that our close relationship was never acknowledged.

           So finally…..on the seventh anniversary of his death, on a beautiful warm late spring day, a small group of us who had been close to David travelled to that rural churchyard and while it was quiet and we were undisturbed, carried out a private ritual there, overlooking the river and countryside; some prayers and meditations, and a short personal goodbye, and buried under the apple tree a momento of one of his small trinkets which I had kept.; a perfectly crafted artificial egg, which symbolises renewal and the potentialities of life.

 

We felt David could rest there happily.

About the author 

Peter is an ex local government manager, who has always enjoyed writing but never seemed to have the time. Attends creative writing classes which have improved writing confidence and stimulated the interest in sharing with others. He lives in Suffolk. He is retired, and now hopes to write good stories rather than boring reports!

 

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.)

Fantastic

by Greg Duncan

iced tea with a squoosh of lemon

It had been many years since Matilda and Sophie had spent time together. At junior high school, even though Matilda had always been a flashy fanciful one, they had been virtually inseparable. However, when Matilda's family moved to a different part of Chicago their friendship waned. For a while they telephoned to keep in contact but soon that stopped as each found new friends.

Sophie pursued her interest in painting and after art college one of the important galleries began exhibiting her work. When her first major one person show was advertised in the newspaper, she was surprised to receive a message from the gallery saying that a Matilda Frasenheim had called, left her number and could Sophie call her back. Although the surname was different, Sophie felt it must be her old school friend so she called and Matilda answered.

"Oh Sophie, thanks for calling back. It's so nice to hear from you. It's been so long. And I've really missed you, dear."

"Yeah, it's been a long time."

"I so much want to catch up with you. I've got so much to tell you, dear. Shall we meet for coffee? How about Forty Carrots at Bloomingdales?"

Sophie knew this was not the cheapest place to have coffee but if that was where Matilda wanted to go, then so be it.

"Fine; sounds good. Tomorrow? 10 o'clock?"

"Oh sorry, dear, can't do then, I've my yoga meditation class at that time."

"You're doing yoga? Hey, that's fantastic."

Sophie remembered Matilda's distaste for anything requiring effort - she must have really changed and this was worth seeing.

"Oh yes. It's so refreshing and helps calm my inner persona. Thursday would be fine. I won't be chairing the meeting of the Help for Homeless till the afternoon so 10 would be perfect. I'm so tied up with committees today can I leave you to reserve a table, dear? See you then. Bye, darling."

Before Sophie could reply, Matilda had hung up.

Reserve a table? Sophie knew that probably meant she would be expected to pick up the bill but she could not back out now.

On Thursday, it was almost a quarter past ten before Matilda swept into the restaurant all smiles and glitter.

"Oh so good to see you again Sophie, dear. You're looking so well. How do you do it? No don't tell me - it would make me jealous. But then I don't really need to be jealous do I? Not with the way life's been treating me, dear."

Sophie leant back in her chair to reduce the chance of asphyxiation from Matilda's over powering cheap perfume - it certainly was not one Sophie would buy.

With hardly a pause for breath, Matilda took command of the conversation. "I see you've got an art show coming up. That's so clever of you, dear. I'm so looking forward to seeing it. As you know, I love art."

Based on her memory of Matilda, Sophie was slightly lost for words at this unexpected revelation about art and so just replied with a single word. "Fantastic."

"Herbert taught me all about art."

"Herbert? Is he your husband?"

"Oh yes, dear. Herbert's my darling husband. He's a doctor, you know."

Matilda's words came out so fast, Sophie had little time to respond. She remembered it was best not to interrupt Matilda so Sophie spoke the first word that came into her mind and uttered another quick "Fantastic."

"He's a heart specialist. Much in demand."

Sophie was able to slip in another "Fantastic" before Matilda continued her on going gurgle of words.

"It meant we had to move out to Magnificent Mile."

"Really? The expensive suburb? Fantastic."

"Oh yes. We needed more space for the cars and for Carson and Yvonne."

"Carson and Yvonne? Are they your kids?"

"Oh no dear, we haven't time for kids. No Carson is our butler and Yvonne looks after the housekeeping staff."

"What can I say but how great for you. I knew this would happen to you one day - it's just fantastic."

"I know. Carson would have driven me here today in the Bentley but it's in for service so we had to use the Lincoln."

"It must be great to have such helpful people around you."

"Oh yes - you can't imagine how much I rely on them, especially on golf days."

"You play golf as well? That's fantastic."

"Oh I don't just play - I'm also vice-chair of the social committee. You know what it's like."

"I don't, actually, but in your case I can imagine. Vice-chair? Fantastic. I can see you being chair one day."

"Oh thanks, dear - I will make a great chairperson, won't I? But oh Sophie, dear. I've been spending all our time here talking about my little hum-drum life and there you are doing such great things with, er ... art. Tell me how did it all begin? Tell me everything. Make me jealous."

"Well - after high school my parents sent me to a finishing school in Switzerland."

"A finishing school? In Switzerland? Did they speak English? What kind of things do they teach at a finishing school? Did you learn anything there?"

"They taught us how to be polite in company."

"Oh tell me more dear. What was the most important thing you learned?"

"Well ... one of the things they taught us was - in polite company, don't use the word bullshit - instead, just say - fantastic."

For some reason, at that point Matilda stood up and walked out.

Knit and Natter

Dawn Knox

tea with lemon

 

“D’you think that’ll be enough?” Florrie Fanshawe asked, stabbing the air with a bony finger as she counted each of the plastic chairs she’d arranged around the village hall table. 

 

“Mm hmm, six should be enough,” Harriet replied, “Peggy’s still got the ‘flu, Doris is in Brighton and as for poor Gladys…” She crossed herself. 

 

“Oh, yes, Gladys, poor thing. Is she still…?

 

“Mm hmm.”

 

“Oh dear.”

Florrie wiped her skeletal finger across the top of the table and inspected it. “Just look at this!” she held out the evidence, “Filth!” Clicking open the clasp on her handbag, she pulled out a pack of wipes and scrubbed at the pitted, wooden surface of the table. Once satisfied, she fished in her handbag again and produced a spray of air freshener from which she let out several frenzied blasts. A fragrant, lemon scent struggled bravely with the musty, fusty air in the village hall but was soon vanquished. 

 

“What’s the target now?” Harriet asked as Florrie took a pile of knitted squares from a large carrier bag and placed them in the middle of the table.

 

“Well, we were aiming for ten blankets but we seem to have got through the first four quite quickly, so I’d like to suggest we increase it to a dozen. What d’you think?”

 

“Mm hmm. The people at the dog’s home are always appealing for extra blankets, so I’d say yes. It looks like Knit and Natter is a great success. Perhaps we ought to pay for the hall for a further three months.” 

 

“Yes, I think you’re right.”

 

When everyone had arrived, Florrie took a notebook from her capacious handbag and listed everyone’s name. “Harriet Pettara, Edna Harbottle, Mary Wilson, Rita Gupta, Sebastian Milligrew…” she turned to the new lady, “and you are?”

 

“Bella Carrossetti, two R’s, two S’s and two T’s.”

 

“Rrsstt?” asked Florrie reading what she’d written.

 

“Well, I expected you to work out all the other letters yourself.” Bella shook her head in disbelief and the bun on top of her head wobbled precariously. “Here,” she said taking a handful of business cards from her pocket with a perfectly manicured hand and distributed one in front of each person at the table. 

 

“Bella’s Beauty Box,” she said proudly. “I’m the proprietor. Beauty in Basilwade or Wherever You Are,” she added. “Ten percent off on presentation of this card.”

 

“Oh my!” she said as Rita reached out to take the card that had been placed in front of her. “Don’t worry, there’s nothing to be ashamed of,” she added as Rita snatched her hand away, “False nails would be perfect for you. There’s not much you can do with nails that shape or in that state but I’ll be able to make them look reasonable. Just give me a ring and ask for a Bella’s Special Manicure.”

 

Rita stared at the card as if willing it to glide towards her without having to expose her hands again.

 

“And don’t think that gentlemen aren’t welcome, I have lots of male customers. It’s really quite manly now to have manicures,” Bella said to Sebastian who thrust his hands in his pockets and shrank behind Edna.

 

“Or facials,” Bella added.

 

He’s rather shy, mouthed Edna.

“He’s what?” Bella asked, craning her neck to get a better look at Sebastian who checked his watch, rose apologetically, his face crimson. He mumbled something and rushed out.

Everyone looked accusingly at Bella.

 

“Oh my!” she said, “He forgot his card. ‘Scuse me a moment, while I chase after him ̶ “

“No!” said the Knit and Natter ladies in unison.

 

Bella sat down and patted her topknot. “I’ll give it to him next week.”

“Now, if we could get on,” Florrie said, glancing sideways at Bella, nostrils flared and eyebrows drawn together. “Well, ladies, we’ve almost finished blanket number five. Just three more squares needed. We’ve had suggestions for a colour scheme for number six. Mary would like blue and red ̶ “

There was a sharp intake of breath from Bella.

 

“Oh, no! Oh my, no! Red and blue will never do,” she said in a sing-song voice.

 

Harriet, the peace-keeper, replaced the blue wool that Florrie had laid next to the red one with a green ball. 

 

Bella tutted.

 

“Red and blue will never do. Red and green should never be seen,” Bella said.

 

Florrie turned to Bella and fixed her with the look that even Amy, her teenage daughter, with all the insouciance of youth, recognised as a tipping point before a cataclysmic eruption. Florrie was halfway through the inhalation that would launch the explosion when Bella leapt up.

 

“Stop right there! Freeze!” said Bella.

Florrie stopped and froze.

 

Bella pulled a pair of tweezers from her pocket and grabbed Florrie by the chin. 

 

“There!” she said triumphantly as she applied the tweezers to Florrie’s jaw and plucked. 

 

“I’ve never seen such a large whisker on a woman before,” she said holding the hair still trapped between the jaws of the tweezers so that all the ladies could admire it. 

 

“Would you like me to dab that with witch hazel? I swear by the stuff,” she asked Florrie who cradled her chin as if she’d been punched. Florrie shook her head, eyes wide with shock. 

 

The other ladies surreptitiously probed their faces with exploratory fingers, all eyes on Bella.

 

“Oh my!” said Bella whose gaze had alighted on Harriet. She sprang to her feet. “Such tension!” 

 

Bella rolled her sleeves up and reached out as if to play the piano. Harriet gulped and her eyes swivelled in their sockets as she tried to see behind her without moving her head which was now clamped in Bella’s vice-like grip. With elbows raised, she began to knead the muscles in Harriet’s neck and shoulders. 

 

“Oh my! I’ve never felt such locked muscles. How on earth d’you move your head?” Harriet’s eyes were watering as Bella squeezed and pulled, then performed some chopping actions with the edge of her hand.

 

HELP! Mouthed Harriet. But no one dared move. 

 

“Better?” Bella asked silkily, poking her head over Harriet’s shoulder. 

 

Harriet nodded. 

 

She was beyond speech. 

 

“Goodness me,” said Edna, checking her watch, “is that the time? I really should be going.” So far, she and Mary had been the only ones to escape Bella’s scrutiny.

 

“So soon?” said Florrie, whose tone dripped acid. She might just as easily have said ‘Sit down! If we’ve had to put up with these indignities, don’t think you’re going to get away with it!”

 

Edna went into the kitchen with a toss of her head and returned a few minutes later with a tray of mugs and a plate of biscuits.

 

“Tsk,” said Bella wagging her finger at Edna, “What crosses the lips ends up on the hips.” She half-rose to peer over the top of the table at Edna’s ample hips, then moved the plate out of her reach.

 

“I’ve got the perfect diet regime.” She splayed thumb and little finger as if representing a telephone receiver and mouthed Phone me.  

 

“Well, if we can proceed,” said Florrie with a quick glance to her left to check on Bella. 

 

“So, what do we do?” asked Bella.

 

“The clue’s in the name!” snapped the usually peaceful Harriet, picking up her knitting needles. She aimed the points at Bella.

 

“Indeed,” said Florrie, “we knit. We natter. We make squares which we sew into blankets for the local dog’s home.” 

 

She passed Bella needles and a ball of blue wool. The next blanket would be red and blue as Mary had requested. She rubbed the tiny irritated area where until a few minutes ago she’d unknowingly harboured a whisker. Yes, red and blue would definitely do. She’d make sure of that!

 

“Oh my!” said Bella.

 

Everyone went rigid, heads moving like meerkats. 

 

“You’re knitting a triangle. I thought you said squares?” 

 

Harriet dropped three stitches as she turned, her needles pointing towards Bella and eyed her warily, “We knit from corner to corner.”

 

“But I don’t know how to do that.”

 

“Oh dear,” said Florrie, keeping her chin tucked down, “well, I don’t have the pattern on me,” she said pushing her bag containing the patterns further under the table with her foot. “And we’re all decreasing, so no one can demonstrate how to do it. Oh dear.”

 

Five pairs of needles clickety clacked faster and faster, as if out of control. 

 

“I know,” said Florrie, “I’ll bring the pattern next week. So, rather than waste your precious time now…” She stood ready to escort Bella out, needles still moving so fast, they were a blur.

But Florrie’s hint was obviously too subtle for the beautician. She slid her chair closer to Harriet who swung round, needles aimed.

 

“Umm,” said Rita who was knitting with her hands under the table, “you could always drop into the dog’s home. They’ve got several of the blankets we’ve made and there are lots of volunteers there who’d probably love some beauty tips… and your card, of course.” 

 

Five Knitter Natterers collectively held their breath.

 

“Excellent idea,” said Bella, patting her topknot and then powdering her nose. She smiled benevolently at the ladies. “Well, no time like the present,” she said and rose to go.

“Mm hmm,” said Harriet, still holding her breath.

 

 

Florrie was the first to breathe out. “Has she gone?”

 

The high-speed knitting ceased.

 

“Mm hmm,” said Harriet, gasping. 

 

Florrie took out her lemon-scented air freshener and gave two prolonged blasts in the direction of the door. It was hard to tell if she was attempting to annihilate the beautician’s lingering floral scent or whether she was imagining she was firing at Bella herself. 

 

“Thank goodness she’s gone,” said Mary.

 

“I don’t know why you’re so pleased, Mary, you’re the only one who escaped attention.” 

 

Mary’s bottom lip trembled. “Not exactly.”

 

“Well, she didn’t offer you any ‘helpful tips’, did she?”

 

“No but I got plenty of attention. I kept feeling her eyes on me. She was looking at me as if I was beyond hope…”

 

“I think you’re being a bit sensitive, dear,” said Rita, her hands curled so her nails were hidden in her palms. “There’s nothing wrong with curly, ginger hair. Honestly.”

 

“Nor so many freckles,” said Florrie.

 

“And your face is pleasant being round. It wouldn’t suit you to lose much weight,” added Edna eyeing the biscuits. 

 

Mary’s bottom lip trembled even more.

 

“Just as well Gladys wasn’t here,” said Rita.

 

“Oh yes, poor Gladys. Well, at least she was saved the indignity of an encounter with Miss Basilwade. Although…”

 

“I know,” said Harriet crossing herself, “I think I’d rather an encounter with Miss Basilwade than go through what poor Gladys has been through. Although I still can’t work out exactly what happened.”

 

“Me neither. I can’t understand where the baked beans came into it.”

 

“No, nor that rabid badger.”

 

“Badger? I thought it was her lodger.” 

 

“Was her lodger rabid?”

 

“I don’t know. Someone told me it was a wildebeest.” 

 

“Hmm, I’d heard it was a wild beast?”

 

“Well, one thing’s for sure, we won’t be seeing Gladys back here for some time.”

 

“If ever…”

 

The ladies sat silently with their thoughts for a while.

 

“Suppose Miss Basilwade comes next week?” asked Edna eventually, “she might bring wax or… lasers…”

 

“Suppose she comes to what?” asked Florrie.

 

“Knit and Natter, of course!”

 

“No, she won’t be able to, because it’s cancelled.”

 

“Since when?”

 

“Since now.”

 

“Oh, that’s a shame. Surely we’re not going to let some botoxed bimbo break up our group?”

“Absolutely not,” said Florrie, “next week a new group will meet at my house and it will be called… umm… Blankets and Blarney or Squares and Squawk and the membership is firmly closed.”

 

About the author

Dawn’s third book ‘Extraordinary’ was published by Chapeltown in October 2017. She has stories published in various anthologies, including horror and speculative fiction, as well as romances in women's magazines. Dawn has written a play to commemorate World War One, which has been performed in England, Germany and France. www.dawnknox.com