A Splash of Perception

 

                                                        Madeleine Maddocks

                                                     Black americano with sugar  

Independence sang through every cell of my body, as I climbed into my new little white car.

         “Good luck at the interview, darling” Matt said, giving me a quick kiss “Be careful”

           I grinned, rolling my eyes. “I’ll be fine. I’m a fully licensed driver now.”

          “It’s frosty, there could be black ice”

          “Little Monster will keep me safe” I smiled, driving off with panache.

The brittle, spring sunshine brightened the windscreen, as I got my Americano from the Drive-Thru and wedged it in the storage well, before setting off for my interview at the Abbey bookshop. I had bought the Mini from a friend-of-a-friend, so it must be safe and it still smelled of her. The MOT wasn’t due for months yet, which suited my budget.

Down a steep hill, my right turn rapidly approached, the road curving sharply to the left. I applied the brake. Nothing. I knew I needed to stop to avoid the oncoming traffic. I braked harder, still nothing. Instinctively I grabbed the gear stick. Gearing down from fourth to third to second I flew through an opening in the traffic like a keystone cop. As I pulled up at the kerb, applying the handbrake, my coffee launched itself into the passenger foot well, emptying its contents onto the mat. My hands were shaking as the delicious rich, dark aroma filled my senses. Glancing up to my left I spotted the sign: MOT and Auto repairs. Little Monster had kept me safe, after all.

Bio:

Madeleine Maddocks reads lots of different genres. Having started a writing blog in Aug 2010 she has had lots of fun practising her prose, poetry and haiku as well as flash fiction.  She also loves decent coffee and enjoys textile crafts and has always loved to write and create her own books and magazines.
Her Blog: http://scribbleandedit.blogspot.co.uk/

THE AUDREY HEPBURN CONNECTION

Alan Cadman

Breakfast Coffee . . . at Tiffany’s of course

Sally sat back in contentment, after she’d revealed her latest plan to her two closest friends.

Amy shook her head. ‘I’ve never heard such a half-brained idea in all my life.’

Jill raised her voice above the melody of “Moon River” that floated out of the speakers in Sally’s apartment. ‘Why don’t you just ask him, Sal, for God’s sake?’

‘You’re allowed to you know,’ Amy agreed. ‘It’s the twenty first century now, not the dark ages, or should I say not 1961 with your hair looking like that?’

Sally Brown was a big fan of Audrey Hepburn. Her favourite film of all time was Breakfast at Tiffany’s in which Hepburn played the role of Holly Golightly; the confused and manipulated New York socialite with a difficult past.

Sally looked down her nose at Amy. ‘It’s called class, but you two wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?’ She eyed both of her friends up and down. ‘Look at you both, with your identical razor cuts and over-straightened bobs. How passé is that?

Jill opened her mouth, but Sally carried on, ‘The Audrey Hepburn look remains timeless.’

Sally did bear a slight resemblance to her heroine, with her light brown eyes and shiny black hair. She even sported a few blonde highlights; similar to the ones Hepburn wore in the film.

Jill studied a box of designer chocolates, her fingers hovered over a fudge and strawberry blush. ‘You’re just a daydreamer Sal,’ she said, shaking her head.

Amy pouted her lips and sighed. ‘A drama queen, more like, if you ask me.’

Sally didn’t miss the way both of her friends looked at her in a pitiful way. ‘I know what you pair will be doing tomorrow, idling your time away in a tanning booth or a nail-bar. At least my plans for the day are going to be exciting.’

‘So you’re really going through with it then?’ Amy asked, as she pushed back a few strands of her ‘over-straightened hair’.

‘Of course, and to prove to you I’m so confident it’ll work, I promise I’ll have my hair cropped if it doesn’t. How does that sound?’

Jill held a strawberry blush half way to her mouth, which remained open.

‘I think you’re just plain barmy, ’Amy said, grabbing the box of chocolates from Jill.

‘Anyway,’ Sally said, ‘if by the slightest chance things don’t go as planned, it’ll be like the scene from Roman Holiday when Audrey’s character, Princess Ann, gets her locks chopped into the pixie cut.’ Amy and Jill both laughed . . . for a little bit longer than they should have.

A book rested on Sally’s lap, as the bus inched its way forward through early Saturday morning traffic. The front cover faced upwards. It displayed a black and white image of a dark haired confident young woman; with a quirky smile and timeless natural elegance. Above the image of the woman’s head were the words, Audrey Hepburn. Sally copied the smile to perfection. She thought Holly Golightly would approve of her plan.

The journey to London’s West End, where Sally was employed as a sales assistant, took around an hour to complete. This gave her plenty of time for daydreaming about a hectic New York social life and, of course, her plan.

Sally shifted in her seat. Amy and Jill have got me down as a nutter just because I don’t conform, at least it relieves the frustration of flogging expensive designer clothes I can’t afford and don’t really like.

Thirty minutes into the journey she picked up her favourite book, with the front cover aimed directly at the passenger opposite, and pretended to read the well-thumbed pages. Sally noted the man had only started to commute on the bus for the last few weeks. He always joined three stops later than she did, and remained in his seat when she reached her destination. He sat opposite her on the left. This gave her plenty of time to be seated on the right.

She decided to give him a pet name. Yes he looks like a Fred, a struggling writer in his early forties, with his cropped dark hair and deep blue eyes. In fact he’s just like the character, Paul Varjak, who Holly named . . . Fred.

The man in the opposite seat showed no signs of being engaged in any profession just by the clothes he wore. He glanced towards Sally and gave her a brief smile of recognition. She blushed and pretended to scan another chapter of the actress’s biography. She convinced herself he could see the connection, between her and Audrey, on the front cover of the book. 

Her ludicrous plan, as her friends pointed out to her the previous night, consisted of one objective; she simply wanted a date with Fred. Through her own insecurities, Sally didn’t know how to engineer one. Being the drama queen she was, she concocted a far more complex and illogical way to solve the age-old problem.

She went through it in her mind once again. When I’m ready to leave the bus, I’ll place the book on the seat without anyone noticing. Now for the tricky part, hope Fred picks up the book, stops the bus, runs down Bond Street and returns it to me. I’ll thank him, offer to buy him a coffee and ask the all-important question.

It never entered Sally’s head that if, by some slim chance, he did happen to see the book he would just hand it over to the driver, or return it to her on Monday.

An hour had passed since she boarded the bus. It was time to put her well thought out, if somewhat very odd, plan into action. The sound of screeching brakes signalled she had reached her destination. Sally remained in her seat motionless.

In a fleeting moment, every doubt she had about her idea became more illuminated. Perhaps Amy and Jill were right. It’s too late. I’m going through with it.

Sally tripped, as she stood up and nearly fell right into Fred’s lap. She managed to compose herself and, with her back to the aisle, placed the book on the seat. Her hand went to her mouth. Oh no, it’s far too near the edge!

She scrambled to the exit doors before the bus headed off to Marble Arch. As she stepped down from the bus, she couldn’t resist glancing behind her. Fred seemed unaware that the book had slid off the seat. The front cover faced upwards. It displayed a black and white image of a dark haired confident young woman; with a quirky smile and timeless natural elegance.

BIO: Alan has been writing short stories for four years. Before that, he was editor of a civic society newsletter for seven years. His published work has been rewarded with complimentary issues from magazines. Alan’s first cheque arrived on Christmas Eve 2009. Almost two years later he became a prize winner for flash fiction.

Desmond

Roger Noons

Red martini, with a cherry

‘Dez? Oh sorry, Desmond?’

‘Yes dear?’

‘Have you got any cotton?’

‘What colour dear?’

‘Any colour, it’s just to sew a button on …’

With a long suffering look, his head slightly tilted, Desmond held out his hand.

‘Thank you Desmond.’

‘Have you got the button?’

‘Sorry, no.’

After a deeply theatrical sigh, which had he been on stage, would have reached the back row of the upper circle, Desmond snatched the shirt from Sebastian’s hand and, head in the air, marched out of the dressing room.

Mark Olver giggled. ‘Is he always like that?’

‘Today’s a good day, he’s obviously too busy to deliver a lecture.’

*

As he made his way towards his workroom, passing Dressing Room Number 3, Desmond was hailed by Jonathan Tremlett. He put his head around the door.

‘Yes dear?’

‘Desmond, I need more fuzz, gingerish …’

‘Give me ten dear, I’ve only one pair of hands.’

‘I …’ Jon said no more, as he heard the heels clicking on the concrete floor.

*

Around the English speaking world, there were thousands of actors and other theatrical personnel to whom, if you said ‘Theatre Royal, Birmingham,’ would reply ‘Desmond’. Not one of them would know his surname, but each would have a story to tell. There appeared to be no-one alive who could recall a time when the short, slim, bespectacled man was not at the ‘Royal’. One notable director regularly advised that Desmond was not real, but the ghost of a member of the cast from the Theatre’s first production in 1820.

If that was the case, at least Desmond had updated his wardrobe. He was always to be seen freshly shaved, wearing a white shirt and a tie which would bear some or other insignia, black trousers and a short grey jacket. The latter was the type defined in the old days as a ‘bum-freezer’. His most idiosyncratic characteristic was his shoes, always ladies, black patent, with one and a half inch heels.

People outside the theatre would have scorned and ridiculed him, but inside he was respected, indeed admired, as there was nothing he did not know; nothing he could not do, and little he could not get, given enough time. He knew so many parts in so many plays that, during rehearsals, he would often prompt, without the book.

On a number of occasions, it had been suggested that he must live somewhere within the confines of the premises, as not a single person had ever seen him away from the theatre. He was apparently always first to arrive, and the last to depart. Apart from an occasional sniff during the pantomime season, he had never appeared to be unwell.

*

‘Who on earth is he?’ Moira asked, after the costumes had been delivered and hung on the rack.

‘That’s Desmond, don’t ever call him Dez, not even Lord Olivier got away with that.’ Amelia replied.

‘But who is he, what’s his job?’

‘I told you, he’s Desmond. If you need anything, anything at all, ask Desmond, and he’ll get it.’

Moira shook her head, believing her question to have remained unanswered. She stood and examined the costume which was intended for her character. She held the dress against her, turned from side to side and studied her reflection in the mirror.

‘This is going to be much too big,’ she pouted.

‘Ask Desmond, he’ll adjust it, render it as a glove.’

‘Really?’

‘Believe me, he’s brilliant.’

‘Where will I find him?’

Amelia reached out and pulled a portable microphone towards her. ‘Will Desmond kindly come to DR 12 please, when it’s convenient.’

‘Do you have to grovel?’

‘It’s not compulsory, but it’s worth it, he will …’

Before she could finish the sentence, he put his head around the door. ‘Yes dear?’

‘Desmond, Moira needs a fitting please.’

‘Right you are, how do you do Miss Moira, we‘ve not met before, welcome to the Royal.’ He proffered his hand.

She took it in hers as she said quietly, ‘hello Desmond.’

‘Well?’ he challenged, his hands on his hips. The actress looked confused.

‘He won’t be able to fit you with the dress still on the hanger,’ Amelia chipped in.

‘Oh,’ Moira blushed.

‘I’ll be back in five,’ he said and walked out of the room.

He must have waited just outside the door, for as soon as Moira had stepped into the garment, he was back and pulling up the zip.

‘Right, lets have a look at you.’

For a small, slight man, he was strong, Moira thought, as he turned her this way and that. He said nothing, as he had a collection of pins between his teeth, but seemingly within seconds he had pinched and crimped, pleated and pinned, and she could feel the tightness of the dress. He studied her reflection in the mirror which occupied the whole of one wall.

‘How does that feel dear?’

She breathed in deeply, then exhaled. ‘Good, it feels good, it’s, I’m, a little …’

‘You need tits dear, just hold on there, two seconds.’

Moira was mesmerised.

‘I told you he was good.’ Amelia declared.

‘Do you think he could get me some slap?’

‘That’ll be no bother at all.’

*

It was just before midnight by the time Desmond had completed his rounds and satisfied himself that all was as it should be. He entered his workroom and made his regular phone call. He opened the single wardrobe door and scanned the contents. Smiling, he removed the chocolate brown two piece that augmented a cream blouse which hung beneath it. He kicked off his shoes and undressed. After he viewed himself in the old, worn mirror, satisfied with his re-dressed appearance, he selected a shoulder length hair piece, two shades lighter than the suit. Finally, the shoes; dark brown suede with flat heels. ‘You’re getting old dear,’ he said aloud, as he wriggled his feet into them.

Collecting his handbag, he extricated a set of keys and let himself out through a trompe l’oeil bordello door, which gave access to a stairway. Having carefully locked the door, he climbed the steps to the waiting taxi.

‘Good morning Miss Hall,’ the driver said, as Desmond opened the front passenger door. ‘How are you today?’

  
BIO - Roger Noons began writing in 2006, when he completed a screenplay, for a friend who is an amateur film maker. After the film was made, he wrote further scripts, then began short stories and poems. He occasionally produces non fiction, particularly memoirs from his long career in Environmental Health. 

A Pick-me-up

Paul Warnes




Espresso with a hint of chocolate


Derek’s upstairs having a kip, bless him. He’s never going to desert me 
because he needs me as much as I need him. How did we get together? Well, I 
suppose looking back, it’s Dr. Richards I’ve got to thank. 

Dr. Richards was a real treasure. I swear he used to look forward to our 
weekly chats and there was never any fuss about prescribing my pills.

'So, Mrs Jones, some more of your little pick-me-ups then?'

That’s what he used to call them, my little pick-me-ups. One of the old school 
he was, beautifully turned out, always wore a suit with a red handkerchief 
poking out of the top pocket. He lent me it one time when I got a little 
tearful. It was silky soft and smelt of roses.

He never failed to ask after my boy even though Terry hadn’t been to visit 
him for a good ten years. He’d say,

'And how’s young Terence, Mrs Jones? Keeping out of trouble is he?'

Terence! Nobody else called him that. As I said, quality, that was Dr. 
Richards.

And then he went and retired didn’t he. Didn’t even tell me, his best 
customer! I just turned up one week as normal and one of those witches on 
reception said,'I’m afraid Dr. Richards won’t be seeing you today.'

'Why not? Is he ill?'

He’d never been away before and you don’t expect a doctor to get poorly do 
you?

'He’s retired,' she said, not even looking at me.

'He didn’t say anything to me about it.'

'A sudden decision. Were you expecting him to consult you?'

She said this with a tight little smile from her perfectly made up lips. I knew 
she was being cruel but I haven’t got the words to fight back, never have had. 
I couldn’t get angry because I still needed my pills.

'I’ve booked you in with the new doctor, Dr. Chatterjee.'

'Who?'

'Dr. Chatterjee. Is that a problem for you?'

I’m not stupid, I knew she was trying to needle me but I didn’t take the bait. 
I was panicking inside though when I was called through.

I told him straight away that Dr. Richards always gave me a repeat 
prescription but he said he wouldn’t do it. I explained about my breathlessness 
and my chest pains and my depression but I don’t know how much he understood. 
He said I needed to lose weight! The cheek of it, just a boy from god knows 
where and he thinks he can make personal comments like that! No respect, that’s 
the problem. 

'I’m going to send you to the gym Mrs Jones.'

'I’d rather just have my pills.'

'I’m sure you would but you’ve been taking them for, how long is it, eight 
years and they don’t seem to have made you any better do they?'

'Better than I would’ve been without them,' I mumbled.

'What’s that you say?' he asked, leaning towards me from his chair. I reeled 
back.

'Nothing.'

Anyway, he said I had to go to the gym for three month before he’d give me any 
more pills. So that was that.

The week before my first appointment was a nightmare. Without my pick-me-ups 
I couldn’t settle to anything and it was all I could do just to get out of bed. 
I couldn’t sit in front of the telly, couldn’t read my magazines, couldn’t make 
my little greetings cards. And I was terrified about going to the gym. I phoned 
Terry. He was always ‘pumping iron’, as he called it, when he was inside.

'I won’t know what to do son. How do you work them machines?'

'For God’s sake Mum. I’ve told you there’ll be someone there to show you 
what to do.'

'Well I’ve got nothing to wear either.'

'It don’t matter what you wear. Big t-shirt, your old tracky bottoms and a 
pair of trainers. No problem. Look, you’ve only gotta do this for a few months 
and everything’ll be back to normal. Sorry, gotta go now.'

He wasn’t much help. You’d think I’d deserve a bit of sympathy but he doesn’
t care. Can’t wait to get off the phone and back to his ‘bird’. After all the 
sacrifices I’ve made for him, bringing him up on my own and then as soon as 
some little hussy shows an interest he’s off. Deserted me he has, just like his 
father. Story of my life.

As it turned out the gym wasn’t too bad once I’d plucked up the courage to 
go in. There was loud music thumping out, same sort of stuff Terry used to fill 
the flat with every night. Made it feel a bit like home! The room was full of 
all these machines that looked more like instruments of torture than anything 
else. But Ryan came to my rescue.

Ryan was my instructor. He said he was a bodybuilder and I reckon he’s got 
muscles in places I haven’t even got places. A lovely young man and if I’d been 
twenty years younger and ten stone lighter…No, who am I kidding, he still 
wouldn’t have given me a second glance.

Anyway, he put me on the running machine first, just starting at what he 
called a very gentle walking pace. Well after a couple of minutes I’d had it, I 
was exhausted and sweating like a pig. I had to press the emergency stop 
button. Ryan came over.

'Had enough already Jean?'

'I’m sorry but me legs have turned to jelly!'

'It doesn’t matter, just take it as slow as you want to start with and you’
ll improve each time you come I promise you.'

As he said that he took my arm to help me off the machine and I went weak at 
the knees once again!

I couldn’t wait to go back. It was nice to have something to look forward to 
and leave the house for. I felt important, having an appointment to attend 
three times a week. I didn’t even miss going to the surgery. Ryan left me to 
follow my own programme after a while, said I should do less chatting and more 
exercising, said he had other people to look after. I didn’t know why he 
bothered, none of them looked as if they needed much help to me. I think he was 
just making excuses.

After I’d been a few times I started to recognise some of the other 
regulars. I didn’t speak to any of them of course. Keep myself to myself I do 
and anyway I’ve never had the confidence to just start talking to somebody. I 
wish I did. There was one bloke who was always there, though he never seemed to 
spend much time actually exercising. He seemed very popular, always chatting 
with the receptionists and the instructors and the other exercisers.

He was dressed for action -- white jogging bottoms, trendy trainers, well 
pressed t-shirt and a white towelling head band. The head band was a bit naff 
but I had to admit he was well turned out. He walked awkwardly, lifting his 
right leg as if he was climbing a step and he held his right arm at a strange 
angle. Maybe he’d had some sort of stroke. I was on the exercise bike when he 
first spoke to me.

'Going anywhere nice?' he said.

'Sorry?'

'I said are you off anywhere nice!' he shouted, rather embarrassingly.

'I’m not deaf you know and I’m not going anywhere!' I replied.

'Well I’m sorry I disturbed you.'

And with that he went away. I could have kicked meself, only I’d probably miss. 
I must have sounded very rude and he did look a bit shocked but, as I’ve said, 
I’m no good with words. And it didn’t help that I hadn’t got my little pick-me-
ups. I’d have been a lot less stressed if I’d had them. Bloody doctor! 

I was glad I’d frightened him off in a way ’cos I was knackered and I didn’t 
want to stop cycling while he was there. But I could have done with a bit of 
company, it was getting pretty lonely down there what with Ryan having deserted 
me and all. I mean I’m used to being on my own but a bit of male attention 
wouldn’t have gone amiss.

For my next visit I decided to spruce myself up. Put a bit of lippy on for 
the first time in years, bought a lovely pink t-shirt down the market and even 
picked up a pair of leggings! Bit revealing they are, but what the heck.

He was lying down on a narrow bench when I arrived, there weren’t many other 
people about. He was pushing a weightlifting bar up from his chest and then 
lowering it again and I could see the sweat glistening on his skin. He spoke as 
I passed.

'Hey love you couldn’t just support this bar for me could you? I get a bit 
shaky on the last few reps.'

'Reps?'

'Repetitions. I need someone just to support it when I straighten my arms 
and I reckon you look more than capable.'

I was gonna get annoyed again. Did he think I looked like a weightlifter then? 
But I remembered last time and I stopped myself.

'Alright, where do I stand?'

He told me, so I got into position behind his head and shadowed the path of the 
bar for him.

'Cheers,' he said, getting up 'well that’s done me in! Thanks, the name’s 
Derek by the way.'

We got into a routine where he’d ask me to hold the bar for him while he did 
his thirty reps. I remember the first time he asked me to have a drink with 
him.

'You finished as well Carol? Fancy a coffee?'

'I don’t like coffee,' I said.

'Oh, alright then not to bother.'

'I like tea though, love a cup of tea.'

'Tea it is then young lady!' He had all the chat did Derek.

He was very easy to talk to, even if he was a bit mutton jeff. I didn’t mind 
repeating things for him. He told me he was a widower, wife died five years ago 
on their thirtieth wedding anniversary. Bad car crash it was, left him pretty 
smashed up as well, meant he couldn’t work any more. They hadn’t had any kids. 
I felt very sorry for him and I don’t think he liked talking about himself 
much. He was good though, he let me prattle on about myself for ages. Reminded 
me of Dr. Richards he did.

We didn’t have a lot in common but we did share the same hobby- making 
cards. We both watched that shopping channel on telly and ordered our sequins 
and ribbons and all the other bits and bobs from them over the phone. saves 
having to struggle out to the shops. Turned out that Derek didn’t just make 
cards, he sold them as well at craft fairs of a weekend. 

I’d never even been to a craft fair before but, to cut a long story short, I 
was soon making cards for Derek to sell and then I got to going along with him 
to help with the shifting and selling. He used to pick me up from the end of my 
road in his big, silver estate car. I felt like Lady Muck I did and I used to 
love it if I noticed the neighbour’s nets twitching. I never invited Derek in 
though and he never asked me round to his.

So life was pretty good what with the gym and the fairs. I was seeing a lot 
of Derek and people we came across began to see us as a couple. If only! I’d 
have been up for it like a shot but Derek didn’t see me like that. He was kind 
and funny and clever, everything Terry’s father had never been and yet he didn’
t give me what I wanted. I tried to get him to say something at a Xmas fair in 
early December. We’d set the stall up together and were sitting on his canvas 
chairs waiting for customers.

'This is nice isn’t it,' I said.

'I wish we were selling a bit more.'

'Don’t you think it’s nice anyway? Sitting together like this side-by-side. 
We’re like an old married couple we are. Partners!' I couldn’t have been much 
more obvious could I!

'Less of the old thank you,' he laughed. But I didn’t mean it in a jokey 
way.

'No, but we are like partners aren’t we Derek,' I said.

'Partners in crime more like!'

He was annoying me now. I decided to be bold.

'I love you Derek and I want us to be together always. There I’ve said it. 
What do you say?'

What did he say? He backed out didn’t he, told me he’d never thought of us in 
that way. Then why did he lead me on like that? Happy to use me as his training 
partner, happy to use me to flog his poxy cards but…nothing more. Deserted 
again! That was our last fair together.

But that, of course, wasn’t the end of the affair. I met up with him again 
at the gym. I played it cool, pretended nothing had happened and took up my 
usual station at the head of the bench. I could tell he was surprised to see me 
but he didn’t say anything, just continued lifting. And on his last repetition, 
when his strength was ebbing and he was relying on me to support the bar, I’m 
not sure what happened but the weights slipped through my fingers.

The bar fell straight onto Derek’s neck. The hospital did what it could but 
his neck was broken and his voice box crushed. He was left paralysed and 
voiceless but he was lucky in a way. He’s got me to look after him now; 
everyone thought I was very good to volunteer to be his carer but what fiancee 
would give up on her intended? There’d be no desertion this time.

Bio:

Paul Warnes lives in Kent where he teaches and writes. He has written a  novel called The Society of Unexampled Brilliance and is looking for a publisher. He watches The Big Bang Theory every evening between 6 and 7. Today he was wondering why people who hitch rids carry numberplates. He has one follower on twitter and five friends on facebook. He would like more. He hopes this bio is not too flippant. 

Good Luck, Bad Luck Cat

Rose Kelland

Black coffee and a little biscuit

 There’s a small park just around the corner from my house; a small piece of green among the dark brick suburban houses. The trees home numerous birds and squirrels, and the lush grass is a soft carpet to many pooch’s running paws!  On a dry morning I enjoy stepping across this small piece of paradise. My pace slows and my spirit absorbs the peaceful cooing of the doves, my whole being is cheered by the breakfast chatterings of the blackbirds and the scampering squirrels bring a smile to my face. Too soon this morning paradise is left behind, but it’s been enough to prepare my soul for a busy office day.

        On Thursday I looked up to the skies which had over the last few days rained its blessings all over the city, and decided that the next half hour would be clear and sunny and so I hastened across the busy road, past the sad, cramped houses, to the green and slightly muddy path which winds through the park. With the path just in sight, a skittish black cat almost tripped me as it ran from under a parked car to an open gateway. It stopped and looked back at the human who had made it run, before scampering to the cat flap, and, no doubt, a bowl of kitty breakfast.

Black cat, I thought, now is that good luck or bad luck?! With only a few paces to the park, my mind raced over what might be considered bad luck in the hours ahead. I am not seriously superstitious and I love animals, especially cats, so this thought was merely an early morning brain exercise.

 There were no mongrels playing games with the squirrels this morning, but there was a lady sitting on the park bench. I looked around expecting to see a scrappy puppy looking like a contented dirty little boy come bounding toward her – but there were no four-legged creatures in the park at all.

  As I drew closer to the bench, the lady stood up, straightened her skirt and started walking across the rain-wet grass away from the path.  But as I drew level I heard her hesitantly call, ‘’Scuse me.’ At 7.30 in the morning there are few commuters walking to work and I turned to the lady who now seemed to be a little distressed.

 ‘Can you tell me please, the way to High Street?’ 

 ‘Yes, certainly,’ I said, ‘Do you want to go by bus or walk?’ I was walking to the High Street, and I was quite happy to have a companion, but the bus stop was outside my front door.

 ‘I will walk,’ she said with very little hesitation.

 There was something in this lady that caught at my heart. While being wary of scammers, my gut feeling was that maybe I could be an angel for someone one day. Or was that black cat watching me?

 As we walked out of the park and away from the wildlife’s morning preparations, I noticed that she looked more dishevelled than I had at first noticed. Not wanting to sound rude I had to find a way of drawing this stranger to me, so if she’d let me, I could maybe offer help.  The black cat was maybe the stranger-lady’s good luck charm, maybe it wasn’t my bad luck!

 ‘Are you visiting this area?’ I asked tentatively.

 ‘Yes,’ but at this point her eyes welled up with tears and she sniffed openly.

 More quietly now I ventured to ask, ‘Did you sleep in the park last night?’

 The faintest of nods accompanied the screwed up face, the biting lip and the glistening tears now falling off the wrinkles of her cheeks. That black cat was definitely her good luck cat. It had nothing to do with me!

'Let’s go back to my house, and I’ll make you a cup of tea.’ I had to say it with more of a command than a suggestion, and gently held my hand out as I stopped to turn around. There was no hesitation in the dear lady at all, she turned and walked back the way we had come. Throughout the park the squirrels had woken up and were rushing around trying to find where they’d stored their breakfast, and a spaniel was sniffing the wet grass trying to find an unused spot near a tree!

 As we left the park where I had first entered, the black cat was sitting at the gate elegantly cleaning his bib. He meowed gently as we passed by. I smiled and winked at the cat – a knowing little look between us.

 Anka sat in our conservatory as it warmed up in the morning’s sun. We’d found her some clothes and hers were whirring quietly in the washing machine. She was on her second cup of tea and had gratefully accepted the muesli and toast with marmalade.  I had called the office to say I would be in later, and we sat, in frequent puddles of silence as she told me her story.

 Anka had left her husband in Poland. Her children had all left home for the city and good jobs and this was her chance to start a new life. She hadn’t seen her sister for many years, but knew she had moved to London about five years previously. I listened to the sad story of unhappiness, emotional abuse and subsequent low self-esteem.  As she spoke of her childhood with her sister, her marriage and leaving home, she slipped in her sister’s name and the man she had married. My brain had been lulled by the sad story, but suddenly clicked as I recognised the pure pronunciation of ‘Dyta’ and ‘Wojtek’. I backtracked my thoughts a little, and carefully asked her to repeat their names.

 ‘Dyta and Wojtek,’ she said again.

 Was it just a coincidence that these were the names of the Polish couple right next door to me who said they had been in the UK for nearly five years? Or were these perhaps common Polish names?  Anka continued with her story, unaware of the huge butterflies suddenly flying into a frenzy within me.

 At the next tearful interlude, I made Anka another cup of tea, added a biscuit, and excused myself as I sneaked out of the front door and knocked on my neighbour’s door.  Very unsure of how to approach the issue, I simply asked Dyta if she had a sister.

 ‘Yes!’ Her face lit up! Good! That shows there’s still good feelings there, I thought.

 ‘I think your sister may be sitting in my kitchen!’ I still wondered if I was doing the right thing.

 ‘Anka?! Anka is here?’ Dyta nearly knocked me over as she tumbled down the steps from her doorway.

 There were squeals and cries and ‘Ooh’s’ and ‘Aah’s’ coming from the back of my house. I stayed back, with tears welling in my own eyes.

             That black cat was certainly good luck for someone – in fact for some two! 

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Bio:  Rose has been writing short stories and poetry for about five years since buying a writing mag for her daughter - who is now studying creative writing! She has had a couple of pieces published in Carillon Magazine, and was the December 2011 winner of an online creative writing competition, and also wrote 'Neighbours' for Cafe Lit in 2011. Rose uses every-day life situations and expands them into stories!

www.rosescountryrose.blogspot.com