The Journey

 

by Lynn Clement 

warm milk

 

The stars splattered over the black canvass, lighting the way for the travellers. The path was long and winding, making them tired. The leader decided to stop for the night; to eat and rest before continuing the epic journey. A camp was set up and after supper they slept.

Danny had heard about the travellers and knew they were going to find something special so he had decided to join them. He’d spent half the night getting to the camp and he was exhausted, so he curled up and slept in the warmth alongside the leader.

The following day the sun beat down. Danny wished he had a hat like the others but he took shade where he could. He rode with the leader and his servant, saving his little legs. He listened to their conversation and grew excited to see ‘The Saviour’ that they spoke about, although he wasn’t really sure what they meant, he had a special feeling.

The journey was longer than he expected and he was getting a bit despondent that they wouldn’t find ‘The Saviour’, when there was a shout from the front of the caravan. 

‘The Star!’

Danny wondered why they were so excited about a star. He’d seen lots of stars as he went about his usual business - hadn’t they? Maybe this star was, ‘The saviour’? He poked his head out of his warm bed and looked up into the sky. His eyes widened, he was dazzled. Danny opened his mouth in a yawn and a squeaky sound escaped. He hid. The leader stopped looking at the night and looked down at Danny, trying to hide in his bag.

‘Well what is this?’ he said lifting Danny from his bed. ‘Have you made a home in my bag little one?’ Danny shook.

‘Don’t be afraid,’ said the man.

‘Oh yuck,’ said his servant, ‘a mouse. I’ll kill him, my King.’ He reached to grab hold of Danny’s neck. But the king held Danny close to his chest. 

‘No, leave him be,’ he said. ‘Even a mouse can visit a Saviour.’ And he put Danny back into the warmth of his carpet bag.

Later that night Danny crept out of his hiding place. He sniffed. It smelled like his old farmyard, the straw was soft and sweet. This place was crowded, with cows, sheep and a donkey but all was quiet. Then a baby started crying and its mother began singing. Danny couldn’t see because of the large animals in his way. Deftly climbing a rope tied to a rafter, he clambered onto a wooden beam.

The Kings were kneeling round the baby’s crib and they were offering gifts. A golden glow surrounded the scene. Danny’s fur tingled and stood up on the back of his neck. So this is what they meant. The chatter that he’d heard about ‘The Saviour’ was right and here He was. Danny felt comforted. Eventually the baby fell asleep and the night was calm and peaceful  so Danny curled up in the yellow straw and slept himself, right underneath ‘The Saviour’s’ crib.

Valley of Tears

by Phyllis Souza

warm milk 

 

On a Friday afternoon, Mary walked towards a pulmonary physician’s office.  She paused to allow her sister, Olivia, to catch up.  Together, they entered the waiting room.  Startled by their entrance, a man with a faded grey fedora pulled over his eyes, jumped from his seat.

Olivia sat opposite the man. He assumed his former position. She raised a brow and picking up a June edition of LIFE magazine, read the cover. A letter to the American people: Your sons, husbands, and brothers are fighting for more than victory in war.  They're fighting for a new world of freedom--

Mary stepped toward the receptionist. When she reached the window, she turned and looked back at her sister.  Comforted by her presence, she sighed and tapped the bell on the counter.  The panel slid back.  "How may I help you?" the receptionist asked.

"I'm Mary Souza.  I have a four o'clock appointment."

"Have a seat. Shouldn't be too long."  The lady smiled and closed the window.

Mary sat next to Olivia.  "What are you reading?" she asked.

"Oh, the government's pushing war bonds."

Mary looked up as the door to the examination area opened. A woman, wearing a maroon beret came out, and, marching to the man, shook his shoulder.  "Wake up. Let's go."

He straightened his hat.  "What did the doctor say?"

"He said I'm fine. I've got Bronchitis."

A few minutes after they'd left the office, a heavy-set nurse stood in the doorway and called out,  "Mary Souza, the doctor will see you now."

Mary rose from her chair.  Olivia put down the magazine.  A quiet stillness crept into the room.

The blue, wide-legged trousers Mary had on flapped against her shins and ankles as she followed the nurse down a long hallway to the doctor's private office.  There, behind a large oak desk, sat the doctor. She quivered now that the moment had come and tried not to let nerves get the better of her.  Mary stared at the papers and files on top of the desk. The results of the tests she’d taken would be among them. The doctor facing her tugged at the lapels of his white lab coat, her gaze shifted from him to a framed print of an old Acoustic Stethoscope and a University of California Medical Degree displayed on the wall.

"Come in. Have a seat."  He gestured to the chair across from him.  "I'll be with you in a moment."

Eyes narrowed, lips pursed, he wrote something in a file.  The doctor put down his pen, placed his hands on top of the desk, leaned forward and said,  "Mary, I'm sorry, but you have tuberculosis.  Unfortunately, it's spread to both lungs."

"Tuberculosis?" she whispered. She closed her eyes.  With her face buried in her hands, she turned her head back and forth. "My God—no—not me too."

"I'm going to have you admitted into Olive View Sanitarium in San Fernando Valley.  The best advice I can give you— is to think of it this way— you'll get plenty of rest and a lot of fresh air while you're receiving treatment."

She dropped her hands, lifted her head and, with tears welling, she sputtered, "I...ha...have a three-year-old child.  I can't leave her."

"You don't have any other options. No one does at this stage of the disease.  It's the law."

Mary took a deep breath. Slow... slow... ever so slowly… she rose from her chair and wandered to the window.  She looked out. After she'd collected her thoughts, she asked,  "Is there a cure?"

"There's a new drug called Streptomycin that's benefited many patients."

She turned, looked into the sad eyes of the doctor.  "How long will I be there?"

"Six months to a year.  It'll be strange to be away from home at first, but you’ll make friends. Time and fresh air are the best cures."

"Will I... will I be able to see my little girl?"

"There's a visiting room with a large window. You'll be able to see and hear each other through the glass."

I'll be a mama in the window...

Gene, Mary's husband, pressed his foot on the brake of his 1938 Chevrolet coup and reduced his speed to the 20-mile an hour speed zone.  They had entered a narrow tree-lined road.

"You're quiet," he said.

Mary stared over her right shoulder out the car window.  It had taken weeks to find the courage to make her decision.  Her heart, breaking, she said, "Gene, I've asked Laura to adopt Sharon if I die."

"Jesus, Mary, you're not going to die. You should have spoken to me about this and, what made you think I'd agree?  It's okay for your cousin to take care of her while you're away, but that's all."

She turned to him. "Laura has money.  She can afford to give Sharon a good home. You can't."

"Why are you bringing this up now?"

"Because it's been bothering me. Promise, you'll let Laura take care of our daughter."

Not wanting to get into an argument, he gave his word and continued to drive for about a mile.

They passed through the entrance gate and were greeted by sprawling green lawns, colorful flowers, and the white buildings, roofed with red tiles, of the Olive View Sanitarium.

Gene drove through one parking area after another searching for a place to park.  After several minutes, he found one designated for incoming patients.

Mary, like a rose in full bloom, one that had been picked, lost its fragrance, and would be pressed in a book.

Gene stood next Mary as they waited in line behind a lady wearing a red floral dress.  The older woman with her appeared to be in her mid-forties, maybe her mother? They were crying.

Mary wanted to cry too.  She wanted to put her head on Gene's chest and flood it with tears. But she didn't.

The line crept forward. At last Mary’s turn arrived, without saying a word, looked at Gene.  After a few seconds, she murmured, “Good-bye.”

 "I love you," he said and kissed her cheek.

"You better go. I can manage on my own," Mary said softly.

After checking in, a nurse escorted Mary to a room where a doctor began to write the details of her history.  He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his index finger.  "When were you born?"

"May 21, 1922."

"Mother, living?"

"Yes."

"Father, living?"

"No."

"Siblings?"

"Seven."

With a slight nod, he continued to ask questions.

She answered.

Then came the final questions.  "Has anyone in your family had Tuberculosis?"

"My father and my sister, Emily. They both died of it."

The doctor made a note. He slipped his pen into his breast pocket— looked at Mary— satisfied. He called in a nurse.

Mary followed the nurse to the weighing room.  She took off her shoes and stepped on a scale.

"One hundred and two pounds," the nurse called out. "You'll be weighed once a week in the evening.  Around here, we call it weighing night."

Another much younger nurse showed Mary to her ward.  "Ladies, meet Mary."

Patients responded with a faint, “Hello,” or a smile.

“Hello,” Mary whispered.

They passed in front of a row of white iron beds filled with patients, young and old. Mary wondered, where their homes were—how long have they been here—do they have children?

Halfway down the aisle, the nurse stopped.  "There you are, between Amelia and Lena."  She handed Mary a hospital gown and told her to get into bed and lie flat on her back.

But before she did, Mary stepped to one of the French windows.  Outside, sunlight swept below on a canopy of green branches in an olive orchard.

Around five o'clock, a robust nurse came into the ward. A sterile container in hand, she marched over to Mary's bed and barked an order, "Cough up some phlegm and spit it in the jar for a sputum culture."

Mary sat and with a trembling hand reached for the jar.  She brought it up under her chin and coughed. Nothing. She coughed again. Nothing. Again she tried. She tried until her face turned red and her chest hurt. "I… I can't."

"Get up."

Mary slid out of bed.

"Turn around."  The nurse wrapped her arms around Mary's waist. She squeezed as hard as she could.  Mary coughed. And, again the nurse squeezed, Mary, coughed up bloody phlegm.

As if dancing on waves, Mary called out, "I… I'm going to faint."

When she opened her eyes, she was back in her bed.  Night had obliterated the day.

Early the next morning, the click-clack of a wheelchair being pushed by an orderly came into the ward to take Mary to X-ray.

A few minutes later, as if trapped in an empty elevator with the arrow pointing down, she stood alone in the middle of a dark booth.  The sounds of murmurings and shapes of men moved on the other side of the screen.

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. Outside, autumn leaves swaying on branches rustled.  Inside, pretty young nurses streamed in and streamed out of the ward.  They offered clean handkerchiefs and newspapers. Signs of a cure were shifting in the right direction.  For an hour a day, Mary could sit in a chair, read a book or write a letter.

Dear Olivia,

After three months in this place, I've learned something. I want to live.

Laura brought Sharon to see me last week.  I could see through the window.  She seemed happy.  She waved. I waved back. I blew kisses; then she pretended to catch them.  It took a couple of days to get over the visit. That was the hard part.

Gene, as the army would say, is AWOL.  But then, that's nothing new.  How about you?  I couldn't stand it if something happened to you.  You're my only sister.  I love our brothers, but it's not the same.

I'd better finish this so I can get it in today's mail.

Love, Mary

Christmas Eve...  the ward was decorated with garlands weaved with holiday lights.  Patients sat in their beds and opened gifts from their families.  Mary got a photograph of Sharon, dressed in red, sitting on a vanity bench.

One minute the door swung open--and the next it closed.

Mary had a 104-degree fever. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead. She tossed, turned, and coughed profusely.

"Ring for a nurse," Amelia yelled, "Mary's sick!"

A nurse came in.  Alarmed by Mary's condition, she ran out of the ward and summoned a doctor.

They laid Mary on a gurney and rolled her into intensive care.  Her lungs filled with pneumonia.  "Call her family, she's going fast," a doctor called out.

On Christmas morning, her mother, six brothers, and her sister arrived at Olive View Sanitarium. They were by her side while she struggled to breathe. However, her husband, as usual, wasn't found.

Later, dressed in a dusty rose-colored dressing gown with a gardenia penned in her hair, Mary lay in a casket.

The Day the Music Died

by Paula Williams

warm milk 

Maggie stood tall, straight-backed, her throat almost closed,  her eyes over-bright. Her only thought was to get away without having to speak to anyone. Without having to see the pity and embarrassment in their eyes.

Too late to wish she'd never come.  Too late to wish she'd never let Lindsay talk her into it.

"It'll be good for you, Mum," Lindsay had said. "You used to love choral singing – and look, it says here the Cathedral Choral Society is looking for new singers, especially tenors."

"But tenors are male voices," Maggie said with a smile, knowing Lindsay didn’t share her love of classical music. "I'm an alto.  Or, rather, I was.  Who knows what I am now?  I haven’t sung for years."

"Then why not give it a try?"

Maggie felt quite guilty about the way her well meaning daughter, who had enough to do with a young baby, worried about her. Even now, more than a year after John's sudden, shocking death from a massive heart attack, she kept finding things for Maggie to do, as if a succession of non-stop activities could somehow fill the un-fillable hole in Maggie's life.

But this time, maybe Lindsay had got it right. Maggie used to belong to the Cathedral Choral Society years ago but had to give it up when the demands of her job and family had made it difficult to attend the weekly rehearsals. When she saw they were doing Bach's Mass in B Minor this coming season her heart did something it hadn't done for a long time.  It gave a little lift of joy.  Bach was one of her favourite composers and she knew she'd enjoy singing those wonderful soaring choruses again.

John used to shake his head at her, puzzled and laughing, as she tried to explain how she got almost as much pleasure from looking at Bach's music, with its undulating lines of musical notation rippling across the pages, as she did from hearing or singing it. He, like Lindsay, didn't 'get' classical music.

Going into the cathedral for the first rehearsal of the new season was like meeting up again with an old, dear friend.  She'd forgotten what a thrill it was to walk through that awe inspiring building, darkened except for the lights in the rehearsal area.  She'd always loved the feeling of  having the place to herself (or, at least, her and the other hundred or so members of the Choral Society) now the tourists had gone home.

She loved, too,  the deep shadowy corners, the sonorous echoes, but above all the feeling of reaching back across the centuries as the music she was helping to make soared heavenward into the cathedral's highest places, the different voice parts weaving in and around each other like ribbons around a maypole.  

It felt good, too, to take her place among the altos again Not that she knew any of them now.  And she certainly didn't know Simon, the conductor, a young and ambitious man who was, according to the woman on her left, destined for 'great things.'

As the rehearsal got under way, she realised he was a much more exacting task master than his predecessor.  James had been a soft spoken, gentle man who coaxed the music from his chorus.  Simon, on the other hand, demanded the highest standard right from the very first rehearsal.  But, to her surprise, Maggie found that as her confidence returned, she actually relished the challenge.

"You do realise there's an audition, don't you?" the society secretary had explained.  "Simon likes to do it after rehearsal.  Probably in a week or two.  Is that ok?"

"That's fine."  Maggie remembered all too clearly when auditions had been introduced, back in James's time.  Everyone had got very agitated and worried about it, but in the end, it was all done very calmly and kindly.  A bit of sight reading and a  few easy scales to show you weren't tone deaf which Maggie had managed with ease.

Simon, however, did things differently.  

On the third week, during the break for notices he announced he would be holding auditions after that evening's rehearsals and would those this applied to please stay behind.

Her first instinct was to put on her coat, hurry out and not come back.  Particularly when she realised the auditions were not going to be like last time, when one by one they were called into a private room, with kindly James urging them to relax and telling them it was nothing to worry about.

Instead, they clustered around the piano in the middle of the rehearsal area, which was still bustling with people chatting in small groups, or busily putting the chairs away.  She stood in line with the other hopefuls, all of whom appeared much better prepared than she was. 

 She felt her first moment of panic when the first singer opened her mouth.  She had a beautiful soprano voice and gave a near perfect solo performance, her clear pure voice rising above the hubbub of one hundred plus people making their way home.

As, one by one, the line grew shorter, each voice was the same stunning standard as the first.  Maggie grew more and more uneasy, a sick feeling in her stomach, her hands clutching her music as if it were a life raft and she had just leapt off the Titanic.

She'd decided she was going to sing the Dona Nobis Pacem  chorus they'd been rehearsing that evening.  It was something she knew well and figured that at least she wouldn't make a complete fool of herself by losing her place. 

There was no encouraging smile from Simon, seated at the piano.  Just a one bar introduction, during which Maggie forgot all she ever knew about breathing, still less about pitch.  What came out of her mouth was the kind of sound her dog made when someone stepped on his tail.

"I- I'm sorry," she stammered.  "I – I'm a bit nervous.  I forgot to breathe.  Do you mind if we start again?"

He didn’t exactly sigh and look at his watch.  But she could tell from his body language it was a close run thing.

This time, Maggie forced herself to relax and focus on the music.  The beautiful, beautiful music that had made her cry the first time she heard it. The beautiful, beautiful music that deserved the very best of voices.

She was half way through the seventh bar when her throat, which had been getting tighter and tighter, finally closed over completely and she gave up.  Simon played on for a few more bars then, when it became apparent she wasn't going to join him, stopped and looked at her.

"That'll be a no, then?" Maggie said, trying to make it sound casual, like it was no big deal.  He nodded and she walked away, back through the still lingering groups of people.  She walked briskly, shoulders back, her head held high, not looking at anyone. Not wanting to see their pained expressions – or worse still, their pity.

And that was the day the music died for Maggie.  She'd sung all her life, from as far back as she could remember.  She sang when she was happy and sometimes when she was sad.  She sang when she was driving and when she was out walking the dog. She sang when she was working and when she was playing.

Until the night of the audition when something inside her, that little kernel of joy that was everything music meant to her, shrivelled and died.  Like a frost stricken rose.

After that, she never sang again.  Not even Happy Birthday to Harry, her little one year old grandson who was born three months after his Grandad John died. Instead, she just mouthed the words as her daughter and son-in-law sang.

…………….

"So I was wondering, Mum if you'd mind looking after Harry tonight?" Lindsay asked a couple of weeks after the audition.  "Unless it’s your rehearsal night?"

"No.  I decided not to go after all," Maggie said.  "I didn’t really enjoy it that much, you know.  My voice isn't what it was.  And it's – it’s not so good coming home to an empty house.  I'm still not used to that."

"I understand," Lindsay said quietly. "But what a shame.  I thought you loved it –"

"What time do you want me tonight?" Maggie cut in.  She wasn't exactly thrilled about being asked to look after Harry.  Not that she wasn't very fond of him.  He was a dear little chap, with a smile to melt your bones.

But, the truth was, she wasn't very good with babies.  Never had been, when she came to think about it.  John was always the one who could calm Lindsay and her brother down when they were little.  He was one those people who was completely at ease with small children.  Not awkward and over anxious like she was.

He'd have made such a lovely granddad.  They'd have made lovely grandparents together.  But on her own, she wasn't much good.  And young Harry was teething, which meant he was far from being his usual sunny self.

Add to that the fact that she'd never actually looked after him on her own before.  Rob's mother, Jenny, was a much more hands on grandma than her and Maggie was quite happy to stand back and let her get on with it.  But Jenny was away visiting her other son that week.  So it looked as if, as far as Lindsay was concerned, it was Maggie or nothing.

Lindsay and Rob hadn't been gone ten minutes when, to Maggie's dismay, she heard the first fretful wailings coming through the baby monitor.  She left it for a few moments, hoping he'd go back to sleep.  No chance.

By the time she got to his room, his cries had all the volume and passion of the Hallelujah Chorus in full throttle.  His little face was scarlet, his cheeks glistened with tears.

She picked him up, jiggled him around a bit the way she'd seen Lindsay do, offered him a bottle, changed his nappy, even tried to interest him in his toys.  But it was no good.  Nothing she said or did had any effect.  The screaming got louder and shriller, and he was pushing at her with his little fists.

"Oh John, where are you when I need you?" she thought desperately.  "If you were here, you'd know what to do. But then, if you were, he wouldn’t be in this state in the first place."

She felt like crying along with Harry – and it would have been a toss up whose wails would have been the loudest.

Then, a long forgotten memory tip-toed into her head.  She cradled the unhappy baby in her arms, took a deep calming breath and, very softly, very gently, began to sing.

And amazingly, Harry stopped crying, looked up at her and smiled.

So she took another deep breath and sang some more.  And she didn’t stop singing until Harry, with a little sigh, finally went back to sleep.

Puff the Magic Dragon wasn't exactly Bach.  But it was a start.

About the author

Paula Williams writes the Much Winchmoor series of murder mysteries, set in a small Somerset village which bears an uncanny resemblance to her own, the first of which, Murder Served Cold  can be found at https://mybook.to/murderservedcold.  She also writes a monthly column,  Ideas Store in the UK magazine Writers' Forum.Paula blogs at paulawilliamswriter.wordpress.com

www.paulawilliamswriter.co.uk

Murder Served Cold.(#1,Much Winchmoor Series) October 2018

Rough and Deadly. (#2, Much Winchmoor Series). April 2019

A Charmed Life

By Sue Cross

 

a glass of warm milk

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

   It was a baby.

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

  Dearest Emily,

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

   Your friend,

   Betty

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

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

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

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

  “You all right, girl?” she asked.

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

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

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

I asked the lady’s maid.

   “She’s in the morning room. Why?”

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

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

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

  “Emily. Why do you have a baby?”

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

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

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

About the author

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

 

  

Jemima

by Carolyn Belcher

warm milk 

Jemima was sitting on the bottom step of the stairs. She had her ‘hopeful’ coat on. It was the coat she hoped her mother wouldn’t make her take off. Her mother didn’t like the coat. Jemima did. It was red. Red was Jemima’s favourite colour. Mummy had said the coat was too small. It was to be put away for the baby who was in her mother’s tummy. Sometimes Jemima wondered how the baby had got there. Mummy had said something about eggs. Jemima liked eggs, particularly a dippy egg with soldiers.

‘Please can I come with you?’

‘Do you promise to be good?’

‘Yes?’ There was a question in Jemima’s voice as though she wasn’t quite sure what good meant when you went shopping. Jemima liked shopping. The supermarket was full of exciting things to buy and interesting people to help. Jemima liked helping people.

Her mother didn’t seem to notice the question in her voice. Nor did she notice the coat. She was too busy looking for her car keys. ‘Where did I put them?’ she said in her impatient voice.

‘Daddy says--’

‘I know what Daddy says, put them on a hook in the key cupboard. But sometimes my mind doesn’t work like that, especially when I’m in a hurry.’

Jemima knew all about minds working in one way and then another. One day, Jemima’s mind told her she did like brussel sprouts and the next day it said, ‘yuk.’

‘Oh here they are.’ Her mother pulled the keys out of her coat pocket. ‘Right, we’re ready.’

‘Are you going to do a big shop or a small shop?’ asked Jemima.

‘What day is it?’

Jemima screwed up her face. ‘Now let me see,’ she said. ‘I’m going to nursery school this afternoon, so that means,’ she ticked the days off on her fingers. ‘Monday, Wednesday or Friday.’ On Tuesdays and Thursdays I go to nursery school in the morning. I think Monday was a long time ago.’ She put her finger on her lips. ‘Is it Wednesday? No. On Wednesday I went to Sarah’s house for tea. It’s Friday. And on Fridays you always do a big shop. Am I right?’

‘You are a very clever four year old, Jemima Wiggins. Get in the car, please.’

‘Which shop are we going to, Mummy?’

There were two supermarkets in the town where Jemima lived. One was near all the other shops. The other was near lots of houses with very small gardens. Jemima was glad that she, her mother and father didn’t live there. Her house had a long garden with a tyre swing hanging from a tree at the bottom. Nana said there were fairies at the bottom of the garden. Jemima hadn’t ever seen one. But sometimes she saw grasses or leaves on bushes move when there was no wind, and she thought, that must be the fairies. They’re hiding from me.

‘We’re going to the supermarket where they sell clothes, Jemima. I could do with some new leggings for pilates and you could do with some pyjamas.’

‘Can I choose them?’

‘Of course.’

‘Can I choose your leggings?’

‘Yes, as long as they’re black.’

Jemima pulled a face. I don’t like black. I like red.’

‘I need black,’ said her mother.

In the supermarket Jemima said, ‘Can we do jamies and leggings first?’

‘I think that’s a very good idea,’ said her mother, and pushed the trolley over to the aisle where they sold trousers.

Jemima hung back. She had noticed a woman looking at some tops. The woman picked up a white top. It had lacy sleeves. It was pretty, but Jemima knew that it wouldn’t look nice on the woman. She had to help her. The woman would be sad and cross if she bought it. Jemima didn’t like feeling sad or cross. She felt sad when Sarah didn’t want to play with her. She felt cross when her father wouldn’t push her on the tyre swing. He told her she had her, worm, face on. Her worm face was the one in the rhyme.

Nobody likes me. Everybody hates me.

I’m going down the garden to eat worms.

She went up to the woman and tapped her on the arm.

The woman jumped. ‘Are you lost, dear?’ she said.

‘No,’ said Jemima. ‘My mummy’s over there.’ She pointed to the trouser aisle. ‘I like helping people to choose. That top is nice but it won’t look nice on you.’ She shook her head. ‘It will make you look--’

‘Jemima come here at once. I am so sorry,’ said Jemima’s mother. Her mother had her cross face on. She took Jemima’s hand. ‘You’re going to help me look for leggings. That lady wants to choose her own clothes without your help.’

‘That’s alright dear. I wasn’t sure about it. She’s helped me make up my mind.’

‘See Mummy?’ Jemima had her happy face on. ‘People like me to help them. That lady has a big bottom and a big tummy. Her tummy is bigger than yours. The white top will be here.’ She pointed to the middle of her mother’s belly. ‘She would show people her big tummy. I don’t think people like seeing big tummies.’

Jemima knew that her mother’s tummy was big because of the baby in it. Sometimes the baby slept in her mother’s tummy and sometimes he kicked. You couldn’t see the baby doing that, but her mother let her feel the baby moving and said, ‘there. Can you feel that kick? I think he’s going to be a footballer with a kick like that.’

The first time she had felt Tyler, that was going to be his name, kick, she had asked her mother if it hurt? Her mother had shaken her head and said, no. Jemima wondered why. When James kicked her leg it hurt. James was a boy in nursery school.

‘The lady should buy the red or blue top.’ she squirmed round. ‘Perhaps she’s got a baby in her tummy, or her bottom. Can babies be in bottoms?’

Her mother squatted down. ‘No, babies can’t be in bottoms, and you promised to be good, Jemima.’

‘I am being good. I was helping. I wanted her to buy the blue one or the red one. They are better for people with big tummies and bottoms.’

‘It isn’t good to tell people that the clothing they want to buy will make them look fat?’

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s rude. Come and choose your pyjamas,’

‘I thought we were going to choose your leggings first.’

‘We were. But I think we’ll do that after.’

‘I’d like red jamies.”

There weren’t any red pyjamas. But they found some pink ones with red hearts on them and pink was almost as good as red. Then they found her mummy some black leggings and made their way to the groceries’ aisles. Jemima’s mother told her to stay close to the trolley. ‘I don’t want you to get lost,’ she said. Jemima liked the word, groceries. It was a growly word. Sometimes, when she was on her own in her bedroom, she practised growly words, making them sound like a lion. Grrrroceries, grrrapes, grrrrumpy, grrrrizzle.

‘Can we buy some growly grrrrapes?’ she said.

‘What are growly grapes?’ her mother asked.

‘Green ones, red ones.’

‘But why growly?’

‘Because of the grrrrr,’ said Jemima. ‘Buy grrrreen grrrrapes.’

Her mother laughed. ‘You funny ha’p’orth? Did you hear what I said about staying close to the trolley?’

‘Yes. I won’t get lost.’ She wondered why her mother thought she might get lost. The grrrocery aisles went up and down. It was very difficult to get lost.

‘Fruit and veg first then.’ her mother said.

It took time. Jemima’s mother was a careful shopper. She checked everything she picked up before putting them in the trolley. When she was buying packets of things like biscuits, she always checked for e numbers. Jemima knew what e numbers were. They were things that were added to food or drinks in packets or tins or bottles or ready meals. Some e numbers were good and some were bad. Some made children too excited and silly.

Because Jemima’s mother took her time shopping, it was easy for Jemima to look around to see if there was anyone else who needed help. Soon, she wasn’t at all close to the trolley. She was near a lady who looked as though she was as old as Jemima’s great-granny. The old lady was looking at apples. Red apples, green apples, yellow apples and apples that were all three colours. Apples were not Jemima’s favourite fruit. She liked satsumas and grrrapes and strawberries best. Satsumas didn’t growl, but strrrrawberries did.

Jemima decided that the old lady would find it difficult to eat an apple. Satsumas would be better. Satsumas were easy to peel and felt soft and juicy in your mouth. Jemima’s great granny liked satsumas. She popped a bag of satsumas into the old lady’s trolly when she wasn’t looking and then skipped back to her mother feeling very pleased that she had helped another shopper.

In the next aisle Jemima helped a man to a packet of sausages. He had eggs and bacon in his trolley. Eggs, bacon and sausages were yummy together, especially when Jemima was allowed to help herself to tomato ketchup. If the man had children, they would be happy that Jemima had helped him to sausages. Perhaps she ought to go to the sauce aisle and find the ketchup? But she saw that her mother wasn’t in the meat isle any longer. Hunt the mummy, she told herself and skipped to the end of the aisle. ‘No, she wasn’t in the next aisle, nor the next, then she saw her in the aisle where there were lots of disposables. That is what her mother called nappies and things like that.

‘What are you looking for, Mummy?’ she asked.

‘Pads.’ said her mother.

The only pads that Jemima knew were pads to draw on. Nothing on the shelves in this aisle looked like a pad you could draw on.

‘Pads are near crayons,’ she said.

‘Not drawing pads. Pads for older people.’

Were drawing pads for older people in plastic packets that looked like packets of nappies, only smaller? ‘Pads for older people,’ said Jemima in a thinking voice.

Her mother looked at her. ‘Your great granny needs pads like this,’ she held up a packet. ‘They’re to keep her dry. Sometimes when you’re old you wet yourself a bit if you cough or laugh.’

‘I don’t wet myself when I cough or laugh. I sometimes wet myself if I forget to go to the toilet because I’m happy playing.’

‘Yes you do,’ her mother said. ‘And that reminds me, do you need to do a wee now?’

Jemima shook her head. She decided to look for an old person who might need pads. She glanced round. An old man was pottering down the aisle towards them. Did old men need pads? She decided to help him, just in case. She chose a packet, one that she could reach and when he was looking at toilet rolls she popped it in his trolley.

Her mother studied her list. ‘Right Jemima, we’ve finished. Let’s pay and go home. I’m ready for a cuppa.’

‘Can I ride on the trolley now?’

‘Ok.’ Jemima’s mother lifted her into the trolley and pushed it to a till that had just one person ahead of them. My old man, Jemima thought.

He began to put the items from his trolley onto the belt. ‘What are these? I didn’t want to buy these?’ The old man was peering at the packet of pads that Jemima had popped into his trolley.

‘They’re sanitary towels, Mr Rose. You certainly don’t want those. If you have a problem--

‘I don’t.’ said Mr Rose. ‘And I don’t need… whatever it is you think I might want to buy. These… whatever you called them must have fallen off the shelf into my basket.’

Jemima’s mother looked at her. ‘Did they fall off the shelf, Jemima?’ she whispered.

Jemima pulled her lips inside her mouth to stop words that might get her into trouble, escaping.

Her mother gave her a, we’ll talk about this later, look.

When they got home, Jemima carried the toilet rolls and kitchen rolls into the house while her mother dealt with the bags.

‘Milk and a biscuit?’ her mother asked.

‘Could I have an ice lolly, please?’

‘When do you get ice lollies, Jemima?’

‘When I’ve been good. I have been good.’

‘Have you? What about the lady and her white top? What about the packet of sanitary towels in Mr Rose’s trolley?’

Jemima knew it was wrong to lie. Jemima wanted a home made orange lolly. She looked at her mother. ‘I put the pads in the man’s trolley because I wanted to help him,’ she said.

‘What have I told you about helping people?’

‘But sometimes you tell me I’m good when I help. I helped you with the toilet rolls and the kitchen rolls. That was good, wasn’t it?’

‘That’s one being good and two being naughty.’

‘What if I put the toilet rolls in the bathroom cupboard? That’s two being goods.’

‘Okay minx. But next time--

‘No helping people in the supermarket?’

‘When you go shopping with me, no helping people in the supermarket.’

In her mind, Jemima skipped up the stairs to the bathroom. Really, skipping would have been impossible with the packets of toilet and kitchen rolls.

Mummy said, ‘shopping with me.’ That meant, if she went shopping with Daddy or Nana she could help lots of people. Perfect. Perfect was a new word. It was a growly word.