The Fine Print

by Dawn Knox

bitter lemon

Previously, Eddie the bald chicken, who manages the pop band, The Three Wise Monkeys, band members Brian and Colin, and two social-media loving rabbits, Deirdre and Babs have been invited to stay in a hotel by Mr Krapowski. He is a wily fox who promotes pop bands and Eddie hopes he’ll offer The Three Wise Monkeys a deal for a recording contract...

Reluctantly, the hotel manager handed over the keys. 

“This is most irregular, Young Mr Krapowski. I really need your brother’s permission to allocate rooms to you.” 

“Come on Hugo! It’s not like you’re full.”

“That’s not the point, sir. The Tropicana Hotel has a reputation to uphold.”

“#WhatADump,” whispered Deirdre.

“Well, if you’ll take a seat, I’ll find the register,” Hugo muttered.

Eddie looked around the decaying hotel reception with dismay. Undoubtedly it had once been grand, but over time, its red velvet furnishings had faded to a sickly, salmon pink and the gold tassels and trimmings were mildewed and green. As Eddie sat on the sofa, a puff of dust enveloped him and rose into the gloom. It was too much for the spider above Eddie’s head. He began to choke and with one final dust-laden cough, he dropped from his web and dangled lifelessly by a thread.

“Another one bites the dust,” remarked an ancient spider on one of the lanterns that hung from the ceiling. “If I were you, mate, I’d get out while you can,” he said to Eddie. 

“D’you think he’s right?” whispered Babs, “there’s something odd about this place. I haven’t seen a single guest.”

“They’re probably asleep in their rooms, like I want to be,” said Colin yawning. 

 “Look there’s another guest,” said Deirdre, “She keeps wandering in and out of the reception.”

“I don’t think she can see through that veil she’s wearing. She’s trying to open the panel in the wall.”

“The door’s to the left, Miss Havisham,” Hugo called to the elderly lady mouse. 

“Thank you, Hugo,” she trilled, stepping to the right and trying a different panel.

Taking a feather duster from under the desk, Hugo hobbled towards the old lady who was now rapping on the wooden panel with her walking stick.

“Now, now, Miss Havisham,” said Hugo, flicking the duster back and forth across what appeared to be the old lady’s veil. It disintegrated with each swipe, “there, let’s get rid of all those cobwebs.”

“I wish to make a complaint, Hugo. This door is stuck.”

He took her gently by the shoulders and turned her towards the large entrance to her left. 

“If I might make a suggestion, Miss Havisham, it’s best to keep out of the cellar. It’s full of cobwebs and you know how they cling to your fur.”

“Why on earth should I go into the cellar, Hugo?”

“I’ve no idea, Miss Havisham. But that’s why you’re covered in cobwebs.”

“Nonsense. Now please point me in the direction of my room.”

“It’s to the right and up the stairs… the other right, Miss Havisham.”

Hugo lumbered back to the desk and beckoned the weary group.

“Name?” he asked Babs.

‘Babs’n’Deirdre.’

He scribbled laboriously in a large book.

“Name?” he asked Deirdre. 

“Er…Deirdre.” 

He scribbled again. 

“Er, Hugo, she’s Babs and I’m Deirdre.”

He glared at the rabbits and crossed out the entries. 

“Name?”

“This could take a while,” whispered Brian with a sigh.

Hugo finally led them to their rooms. The water in the shower had been tepid but after some vigorous scrubbing, Eddie’s goose bumps were no longer glazed in custard. By the time he’d climbed into bed, Colin and Brian were top to tail in the other bed, snoring in time with each other.

“Rise ‘n shine, boys!” Eddie said the following morning as he pulled the threadbare curtains apart.

“Shut up!” said Brian pulling the duvet over his head. 

There was a loud knock at the door. 

“It’s Hugo with our breakfast!” said Eddie, peering through the spy hole. He opened the door.

 “Good morning, Mr Chicken and Sirs. Mr Krapowski asked me to inform you that you’re expected in the conference room in ten minutes.”

“You can put the tray here,” Eddie said clearing a space on the table. 

“Only if you want Miss Havisham to join you, sir,” Hugo said, “this is her breakfast.” He turned and carried on further up the corridor, followed by the delicious aroma of bacon and eggs.

“I hope there’s something for us to eat,” Colin said as they made their way down to the conference room, “I’m starving.”

Ahead of them a veiled Miss Havisham stepped into a broom cupboard. A mop fell out into the corridor, closely followed by a bucket. 

“Miss Havisham, can I help you?” Eddie asked.

“Perhaps you’d be good enough to direct me to the restaurant. My eyes are playing up this morning.”

Eddie brushed the cobwebs from her head. “Have you been in the cellar again, Miss Havisham?”

“Certainly not! Now, where’s the restaurant? While you ask me silly questions, the eggs are getting congealed.”

“But didn’t you have breakfast in your room earlier?”

“That was ages ago. Now, if you’d be so kind as to escort me to the restaurant…’ she said, tucking her paw under Eddie’s wing. 

“Er, it’s in the opposite direction, Miss Havisham,” he said, turning her so they were facing the same way, and tucking her other paw under his arm. “Let’s go.” 

The door to the restaurant was clearly marked.

“This way, Miss Havisham,” Eddie said as she walked past it.

Once he was satisfied she’d made it to a table, he followed the others towards the conference room.

The door opened and Mr Krapowski beckoned them, “Come on! We haven’t got all day!”

“What’s the rush?” Babs whispered. 

“#CrabbyKrapowski,” Deirdre replied.

“I hope there’s breakfast,” said Colin, “I’m starving.”

As they entered the conference room, cameras flashed and people stampeded towards them shouting questions.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Mr Krapowski held up his paws and shouted above the roar, “there will be plenty of time to talk to the band later, please let The Three Wise Monkeys in.”

“#MorningMayhem!” said Babs.

“#WorseThanThat!” said Deirdre. “What on earth’s going on?”

Mr Krapowski led them to a table on a dais, in front of which were rows of chairs.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the press, please find a seat, ready for an important announcement.”

Mr Krapowski indicated that the band members should sit at the table and then placing a sheaf of papers in front of each one, he told the reporters to be ready with their cameras to photograph the signing of the ‘Deal of the Century’.

“You didn’t say you’d done a deal, Eddie,” Colin whispered. 

Eddie shrugged, “I haven’t but I expect Mr Krapowski’ll explain everything in a minute.”

“Right, Three Wise Monkeys, when I give the signal, I want everyone to sign their contracts here, and here and then tick this little box,” said Mr Krapowski.

“But we haven’t read ̶ “

“I’m offering you fame and fortune!” snapped Mr Krapowski, “Just sign!” 

“Yes, but we ought to read ̶ “

“Just sign the contract. You can read it later and if you don’t agree, there’s a cooling off period of three days. But you can’t keep the press waiting any longer,” said Mr Krapowski, “it’s now or never.”

“So, if we don’t agree with the contract, it won’t be binding?”

“Correct.”

“I’m not sure about this,” said Brian.

“Me neither,” said Colin.

“Look,” said Eddie, “if we don’t like it, we’ve got a three-days cooling off period. What can possibly go wrong?”

“Ready!” Mr Krapowski said to the reporters, “Sign!” he said to The Three Wise Monkeys.

The five members of The Three Wise Monkeys signed where Mr Krapowski had indicated, and ticked the box, as cameras clicked and flashed. 

“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. And now, I know many of you have questions for the superstars.”

“What a load of sexist nonsense!” said Babs after the press had exhausted their questions and left, “They didn’t ask how often Brian or Colin pluck their eyebrows!”

“Never mind,” said Colin, “When we’re rich beyond our wildest dreams, you can buy a newspaper and sack all the idiots, can’t they Eddie?”

Eddie was reading the contract with his beak wide open.

“Can’t they Eddie?”

Eddie leapt up and chased after Mr Krapowski, who was showing the last of the reporters out.

“You told me we could cancel this contract!” said Eddie.

“And you could have done, if you hadn't ticked that little box,” said Mr Krapowski, tapping the paper with his paw.

“But you told us to tick that box!”

“Didn't anyone ever tell you not to sign anything until you’ve read the fine print?”

“We've got to what?” said Babs, reading her copy of the contract. 

“Stop screeching!” said Eddie “You're giving me a headache!”

“Yes, but really! We've got to what?”

“Hand over our mobile phones…” read Deirdre, “Oh no! #CompletelyStuffed.” 

“Is that all you're worried about? Look at this!” shouted Eddie, “We can't leave the Tropicana Hotel without Mr Krapowski's permission! #TrussedUpLikeATurkey!”

“Ooh!” said Deirdre “Great hashtag.”

“Well technically,” said Brian smugly, “I can leave because I didn't sign my name on the contract.”

“You wrote something,” said Deirdre, “I saw you.” 

“Yeah,” said Brian “I thought there might be something dodgy about that fox, so I signed my contract ‘Colin’. I can walk out of here any time I please.” 

“So can I!” said Colin “Great minds think alike. I signed my contract ‘Brian’.”

“Sit down the pair of you,” said Eddie “if Mr Krapowski has got one contract signed ‘Brian’ and one signed ‘Colin’ do you think he's going to be bothered which of you numbskulls has signed it?”

Brian and Colin glared at each other and sat down again on the sagging bed. 

“Well what’re we gonna do?” asked Deirdre “We can't possibly perform twice a day, six days a week! It was exhausting enough doing last night’s show.”

“And what about the elephant’s knickers? How can we recreate that at each performance?” asked Babs bursting into tears. “#Doomed!”

“We’ve got to get out of this, Eddie. You’re the manager, manage things!” said Colin.

The others nodded. 

“We need to escape but Hugo seems to be everywhere. I tried to get out of the fire exit but he caught me,” said Deirdre, “I had to pretend I’d tripped and fallen through the door.”

“Like I said,” said Babs “#Doomed!” she sobbed hysterically.

“Shh, Babs! What’s that?” asked Brian.

“What?”

“There’s tapping outside our bedroom door.” He looked through the spy hole. “It’s Miss Havisham. She’s probably trying to find the restaurant for lunch.”

“Right!” said Eddie leaping up, “follow me! #EagleWithAPlan.” 

“Now, let’s get this straight,” said Miss Havisham, “You want me to take you to the restaurant?”

“Yes, please, Miss Havisham. It’s a sort of fire drill.”

“Well, of course. Follow me.”

“There’s just one thing, we need to be really quiet. We’re going to keep it from Hugo and then surprise him with how much we know about the fire escapes and regulations.”

“Say no more. I’ll be as quiet as a mouse,” she said bumping into a table and knocking over an enormous vase.

Colin pirouetted, caught the vase mid-air and slid along the corridor on his stomach holding it aloft.  

“Shh, young monkey! Hugo’ll hear,” said Miss Havisham, “Now, I’m sure the restaurant’s here somewhere.”

“This is the first floor, Miss Havisham. Are you certain?”

“Oh, yes. Ah!” she said opening a door which led to a back staircase. “Yes, this is it.”

At the bottom of the steps, she opened another door.

“Yes!” said Eddie excitedly.

“This isn’t the restaurant!” said Colin.

“No, it’s the cellar! We’re going to dig our way out,” said Eddie.

“What’s that about a cellar?” asked Miss Havisham.

“Nothing, Miss Havisham. Thank you for bringing us to the restaurant.” 

“It’s amazing what collective talents we have,” said Brian, “I didn’t know rabbits were so good at digging.”

“And I didn’t know monkeys were so good at climbing,” said Babs.

“I am not a monkey!” said Colin. 

“Well,” said Eddie, “now we’ve escaped from the cellar, we’d best go our separate ways. Mr Krapowski won’t be able to catch us if we’ve split up.”

“Bye, boys,” said Babs, wiping her eyes, “Deirdre and I are going back to Spudwell to get proper jobs. It’s been great knowing you. #LoveYouToBits.” She blew kisses as they set off towards town. 

“I’m going back to college,” said Colin, “I’ve always wanted to be an architect.”

“I’m going to Cakehall,” said Brian, “I’m going to work down the cheese mine. That’s been my dream since I was young.”

“And I’m going exploring,” said Eddie, “I’m going to hire a boat and row to the source of the Custard River.”

“And I’m going to the restaurant,” said Miss Havisham, tucking her paw under Eddie’s wing. 

Links to previous stories in The Macaroon Chronicles series

The Macaroon Chronicles Prologue and the Three Wise Monkeys - http://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2020/01/the-macaroon-chronicles-prologue-and.html?m=0

#ChickenInCustard - https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2020/02/chickenincustard.html

About the author

Dawn’s latest book is ’The Basilwade Chronicles’ published by Chapeltown Books and she enjoys writing in different genres and has had romances, speculative fiction, sci-fi, humorous and women’s fiction published in magazines, anthologies and books. She’s also had two plays about World War One performed internationally. You can follow her here on https://dawnknox.com , Facebook here DawnKnoxWriter or on Twitter here https://twitter.com/SunriseCalls 

Hugs from Dawn

Do Betta Fish HaveTeeth?

By Jerry Guarino

spring water

 Tim was a couple years into retirement when he discovered Betta fish.  Tim wasn’t old; he just made a lot of money in the tech industry and retired at the age of 35.  He still went out with friends, dated a few lovelies and socialized with former co-workers, but he found a lot of free time, especially in the morning.  It was getting boring.

            Yes, he retired from Silicon Valley to the neighborhood with Marley, the vegan dog, Jeri, the stoned cat, duck, Boston, the Yankee Doodle, Larry, the white cockatoo, the bunnies and the chipmunks, but those were all outdoor animals/pets.  He wanted something he could enjoy indoors, especially on all those rainy days in the Pacific Northwest.

            Wandering through the pet store, he saw dozens of small plastic containers with betta fish in them.  The poor fish had barely enough room to turn around and Tim felt a need to liberate at least a couple of them from captivity.

            “How many fish can I put in one tank?”, he said to the teenager in the fish department.

            “Well, only one male fish or a couple female fish, but you can’t mix them.  Males will fight other males or females, sometimes to the death.”

            “All right.  I’ll take a dozen male fish with small tanks.”

            “A dozen?”  The teenager thought he must be kidding.

            Tim flashed his black credit card. 

            “All right, these one-gallon tanks have a filter, light and heater.  They should be perfect.  I’ll have them brought to the register.  You can choose your fish.”

            Tim looked over the collection, betta fish ranging from $2.99 to $30 each.  He chose only male fish, with their vibrant colors and beautiful fins. 

            The teenager gave him a container of pellets, enough to feed all the fish for months.  “You only give each fish a few pellets a day.”

            “What about gravel and plants?”

            Betta fish love gravel, plants and some structures to hide into, so Tim bought an assortment of colored gravels, plants, structures, even a mirror so the fish could see themselves, you know like they put in canary cages.

            “What about water maintenance?”

            “I’ll tell you a secret.  We have many chemicals to adjust the water chemistry for fish, but you only need to use spring water instead of tap water.  The tank will stay crystal clear and you only need to do partial water changes every month or two.”

            “Great, any particular water?”

            “Evian is best.  PH of 7.2, perfectly balanced.”

            “Is that why I see some people have such clear tanks and some look like the black lagoon?”

            “Yup, it’s our little secret, so people keep buying chemicals.”

            “Well, I appreciate the tip and I’ll keep your secret.”  Tim handed the teenager a crisp, one-hundred-dollar bill.  “Here, take your girl out on me.”

            “Thanks mister.”

            Being an engineer, Tim was able to set up book cases for the twelve tanks, and power strips for all the electrical cords.  Once everything was set up, he posted a picture of all the tanks with their LED lights on, the rainbow of colored gravels and little structures for the fish to play in.  Reactions to the post were immediate and frequent.

            Other betta fish owners sent congratulations, along with respect on how he had freed so many betta fish from their little containers at the pet store.  He was nominated for an award from the betta fish association of America (BFAA).

            Local school teachers asked Tim if they could bring their students in to see the tanks.  “Now, look children but don’t touch.  You could scare the fish,” said a teacher to his students.  The students marveled at the display.  You could almost hear them asking their parents for a fish when they got home.

            “Can you touch the fish mister?” said one cute 8-year-old boy.

            “Well, no son, you might upset the water chemistry and besides, they might bite you.”

            The kids laughed.  “Little fish can’t bite, they have no teeth.”

            “I’m afraid so.  That’s why there’s only one fish in each tank.  Otherwise, they bite each other.”

            “All right children, time to go.”  The teacher thanked Tim.

            “You’re quite welcome.  Would you like one of the fishes for your classroom?”

            The kids overheard his offer and began clapping and cheering.

            “That’s very generous sir.  Which one do you think?”
            Let’s let the kids decide.  After a few minutes of commotion, the children decided on the Double Tail fish with red and blue fins.  Tim took out the tank and handed it to the teacher.

            Later that day, Tim read a post from a woman who saw his fish display.  She asked if she could come see them.  Tim agreed and the woman came over to his home around dinner time with a bottle of wine.

            Tim was surprised when he opened the door.  Here was this stunning twenty something blonde with athletic built and an angelic face.

            “Hi, I’m Kelly, you must be Tim.”

            “Yes, please come in.”

            “I brought dinner and wine, if you don’t mind, a thank you for letting me see your fish.”

            “That’s so generous.  Here, let’s put these on the table and see the fish before we eat.”

            Kelly marveled at the fish display, beautifully set up in Tim’s bedroom on cherry wood bookcases, four shelves of three tanks each.

            “They’re amazing!  I love this.  But I thought you had twelve tanks.”

            “I did, but I gave one to a classroom that came to visit today.”

            Kelly sighed to herself, obviously taken with the kindness of his gesture.  “Can we open that wine now?”

            “Sure.”  Tim and Kelly ate dinner and finished the bottle of wine, talking with soft chamber music playing in the background.  After a couple of hours, Kelly stood up, took Tim’s hand and led him to the bedroom.  She stayed the night.  Tim wasn’t bored anymore.

    

About the author:

Jerry Guarino’s short stories have been published by dozens of magazines in the United States, Canada, Australia and Great Britain. His latest book, "Café Stories: west coast stories", is available on Amazon.com and as a Kindle eBook. Please visit his website at http://cafestories.net

Curbed

by Hannah Retallick

milkshake

Valentine’s Day. It’s the perfect time for all this. Crunchy, bright and hopeful. We stroll in silence towards the library, as usual, and are daring enough not to wait for the zebra crossing. Look right look left look right again.

Time to make it happen. I could give her a sharp shove sideways, just for fun, you know? A distantly approaching car is crawling along and we can easily amble to the other side of the road without being at risk, but it would be a good joke. Saved your life!

She won’t expect it. Her ankles will turn in those black heeled boots, slipping on the frosty tarmac. She’ll let out a scream and hit the curb. Crack! The car won’t stop because the driver will see that the woman is with a lad, a we’re-just-friends lad; hand in his pocket rather than around hers. The driver will assume he’ll take care of her. And, of course, he will take care of her. It was his fault after all.

Jake! she’ll cry. What you doing?

I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

I’ll drag her onto the pavement, squat down and check she’s okay, which she obviously won’t be. She’ll push me away, wincing, brushing gravel out of the hand that broke her fall. Wrist. Broken or sprained? Or both. Not the best start.

After taking a moment to collect herself, she’ll remember to run her finger under her weepy eyes, scared for the state of her black smudgy what’s-it-thingy. Mascara? (Sounds too much like massacre.)

A significant pause. I’ll draw closer, hoping the fall hasn’t ruined everything. Her dark hair will catch in the winter wind, wisping out of the messy up-do, blowing the scent of apple shampoo towards me. I’ll inhale.

Why did you do that? she’ll ask.

Sorry, it smells nice.

What? I meant the push!

I love you, I’ll blurt.

Excuse me? Expletive expletive expletive. Why did you nearly kill me?

Oh, the hurt in her blue eyes, never mind her wrist! There’s no coming back from that. This girl is a Queen, loved by everyone; I shouldn’t have even touched her. She won’t meet me outside my house next week, won’t text to apologise, and won’t hesitate to find a new study partner. It’s over.

The cold stings my throat. Who am I kidding? I won’t push her. I could never push her. I can’t cause her pain, not ever. So, on second thoughts…When the time is right, I’ll take the red envelope out of my backpack, tap her on the shoulder, and nail my colours. And then she can reject me swiftly, slamming my heart into the tarmac – with her mascara still intact. (Massacre, yep.)

What you smirking at? she says, stepping onto the safe pavement.

Nothing, I say.

About the author

Hannah Retallick is a twenty-five-year-old from Anglesey, North Wales. She was home educated and then studied with the Open University, graduating with a First-class honours degree, BA in Humanities with Creative Writing and Music, and is studying for an MA in Creative Writing. She is working on her second novel and writes short stories and a blog. She was shortlisted in the Writing Awards at the Scottish Mental Health Arts Festival 2019, the Cambridge Short Story Prize, and the Henshaw Short Story Competition June 2019. https://ihaveanideablog.wordpress.com/

Valentine

by Christine Howe

hot chocolate  

The store was like a maze, stock crammed on rails in the women's clothing section. Steve had Meryl's dress size written on his palm, but that was of no use in this vague clothing mash-up that was Women's Tops. Instead of sizesthey had 'S', 'M' and 'L'. He worked his way along the 'S' and 'M' side of the double rail. Plastic hangers clattered and a couple of tops slithered to the floor. He pulled out a dark blue halter-neck top with a beaded decoration, held it up and then dropped it into the basket. Meryl would look great in that, with her skinny jeans; just what the model was wearing in the magazine photo.

The magazine had lain open on the coffee table at the same page for a couple of weeks. Meryl had to have wanted him to see it because her usual habit was to tidy away her magazine to the shelf beneath the table. Easy evening glamour  it read. It recommended a glitzy top and strappy sandals, plus a fringed wrap for warmth. Big hint to what Meryl wanted for Valentine's day and what she hoped for in terms of a night out. Tonight they'd walk right on past their favourite haunt, Joe's Pizza Place, and dine at Carluccio's. He could already feel the pain in his credit card.

Now for the strappy sandals. The other number engraved on his palm was her shoe size. He cruised past the trainers, boots, flats and court shoes to the sandals, glancing at the sizes. No 'S' and 'M' in the shoe department. The strappy sandals all looked crippling. A pity that Meryl wouldn't have time to practise walking in them. She always wore sensible flats for work and trainers at the weekend. He spotted a silver pair in her size, with a high spiky heel and a bit of glittery decoration. Just the business!

He checked his watch. Better get going and find the wrap. By mistake he hit the rugs and throws section and stood doubtfully for a moment before heading to jackets. The jewel-coloured wraps, soft with angora and cashmere dangled their price tags at him and he let out a low whistle. They could always use it as a bed throw he guessed, and chose one in taupe. He hoped that Meryl would be pleased at this bit of practicality. 

At the till the checkout assistant smiled both approval and envy. He asked for the price tags to be removed and paid extra to have his purchases wrapped in red tissue paper and for a big red paper carrier bag.

He was home before Meryl, who had gone to have her hair trimmed. Maybe she was going to surprise him with a fancy up-do like the model in the magazine photo. They had agreed not to buy each other Valentine cards as Meryl said they were a waste of money. 

Upstairs he had a shower and put on a clean shirt. On top of Meryl's chest of drawers was a neat pile of clothes. He saw boot socks and the base layer tops she wore for hiking. He sat on the bed and stared at it. Meryl had started her springtime drawer tidying early. He rubbed his chin and picked up his shaver. 

Back downstairs he waited for her to return, ready to praise her hairstyle. It would be exciting to see her in that slinky top and spiky heels. Maybe she'd keep those heels on for a while when they got back from Carluccio's. 

The magazine was still open on the coffee table. He knew all about easy evening glamour now. His eye slid down the page and met a brief article praising the Yorkshire Dales for a weekend break. He saw the tiny heart pencilled on it just as he heard Meryl open the front door.

About the author 

Christine Howe was once a librarian, then she leapt the desk.

Mother Crow and Friar Tuck

by Anne Forrest

cocoa

 I had two mothers and two fathers. When I was a seven-year old I thought that was unfair because Gill Waterstone only had one father and no mother at all, and James Jackson only had one mother. Of course, neither went to our church, Our Lady of the Rosary, as my mum, dad and sister did, so didn’t even know the father guardian, Father Ethelbert, or our mother superior, Mother Providence. Charged with our spiritual welfare, both were diligent and sincere, and I took in every word. Armed with the sign of faith, Mother Providence wore her Rosary and Cross at her breast, Father Ethelbert’s wooden Rosary was tied around his waist; his brown, hooded habit made me think of Friar Tuck except that our friar was lean. I loved the way his habit hung and swished with an authoritative sound as he walked. When he was home at the Friary, he wore sandals on his bare feet; they smacked the tiled floor as he came to answer the bell.. 

Mother Providence was corvid-like; long, black, head-veil and gown over her white wimple, from which her beaky nose peeped; black shoes. When I was seven, I thought Mother Providence was over a hundred-years old because her boney fingers looked like dried twigs. These she poked around inside a large glass jar to loosen the pear-drops she dished out every Saturday morning if we had been good in Catechism. Each week she said, Off you go and play in the grounds for ten minutes, come back when I ring the bell. One week she withheld the sweets because we dilly-dallied too long. I remember watching her from behind a tree, her figure bent as she stood in the doorway shaking the little bell, its querulous tinkling lost in the air. 

                The nuns were lovely to us. But one of them was stealing our cocoa. Mixed with sugar in a jar, the cocoa lived in a tall cupboard. At 10.30am, a spoonful was added to hot water and milk for our morning drink. Arthur James pencil-marked the label every week to see if any was missing, and often there was. Peter Brook said he was going to tell Father Ethelbert when he came to give us extra lessons, but I don’t think he ever did because we were all a bit afraid of the father guardian. He arrived dressed as he did when he was out to business: a black suit with Roman collar, a black trilby hat, shiny black brogues, and a brown briefcase. Once he opened the briefcase and it held a railway timetable and an apple. Mother Superior never went out to business.

                Not a month went by without Father Ethelbert telling us of the unrepentant man on his deathbed. Unrepentant to his last breath. I was left shuddering at that dying man’s audacity and wondered if the thieving nun would confess her cocoa sin before she died.  

About the author:

Anne Forrest is studying for a Masters at Chester University ‘Writing and Publishing Fiction’ 2019-2020, after gaining a First Class Hons at Bangor Uni: MArts in ‘English Literature with Creative Writing’. Her common-folk biography, My Whole World, Penmaenmawr (in 2^nd print) was published by Old Bakehouse Publications, Abertillery, in 2000. Her Gothic novel, Lilies if the Valley made the strong longlist in the Cinnamon Press Debut Novel Award 2019. She wrote a series of ‘Timothy Crumble’ stories, set in the NT’s Bodnant Garden ‘to educate and entertain children’.

Visit her website at  anneforrestwriter.weebly.com

Treasure Trove

by Jenny Palmer

alcoholic Dandelion and Burdock

When I first moved into the cottage, the garden was completely overgrown. I found bits of old guttering and drainpipe, lying around in the undergrowth. Saplings from nearby ash trees had taken root and sprung up all over the place. The dry-stone wall between the garden and the meadow had collapsed, raising the possibility of flooding from the nearby syke which flowed past the house. I couldn’t make out any flower beds, because of all the nettles, dock and ground elder.

The first thing I did was to hire someone to cut down the saplings and rebuild the wall. During the winter there would be plenty of indoor jobs to be getting on with. The rest could wait. In the following spring, I was overjoyed to see snowdrops appearing, followed by daffodils and bluebells. I planted a few rose bushes and some low maintenance shrubs to form a hedge - Hebe, Box, Spirea and the like alongside Buddleia and Forsythia to attract bees and butterflies. They would also provide privacy from next door, and be somewhere to sit behind in summer, if there was a summer.

I pruned the hedges using some rusty old shears I found in the shed but ended up putting my neck out. After weeks of neck pain and costly osteopathic bills, I gave in and invested in a piece of hi-tech gardening equipment in the form of a brand-new, state-of-the-art hedge trimmer. It went through the hedges like butter and I did the job in half the time.

 I’d never had a garden before although I’d always been keen on Gardener’s World. I used to find it relaxing at the end of the week to order a Chinese takeaway, put my feet up and watch someone else slaving away in their garden. During that time, I must have picked up many a handy tip, such as how to test the pH nature of the soil, the best way to deal with slugs or the best time to take cuttings. But I’d never had the chance to put any of it into practice and it had remained textbook knowledge.

Probably I should have laid carpet or cardboard over the weeds, as the experts suggested, but I hadn’t and now it was too late. The weeds had taken over.   I pulled the nettles up by the roots and cut off the dock leaves at the base.  But the roots of the ground elder had spread underground and I couldn’t dislodge them. I became despondent when I saw that once you had it, you had it for good. I racked my brains and eventually came up with a new approach. I would intersperse the weeds with wildflowers that grew naturally in the area and let them battle it out. I planted poppies, ox-eye daisies, and foxgloves and left them to it. 

It was while I was cutting back the low-lying branches of the lilac tree that I noticed a patch of bare soil without any weeds in it. It was probably because of the lack of sun. As I was raking over the soil and noticed something glinting.  I fetched a trowel from the shed and started digging.  The object turned out to be a piece of rock with some silver streaks running through it.  It wasn’t like the rest of the stones in my garden, which were largely limestone. I knew that because of the preponderance of fossils in them.

I remembered there had been lead mines in the area. So, I went inside to look it up on Google. The lead mines were only a couple of miles away across the fields. A Roman road ran straight past them, so it was thought the Romans had worked the mines. But they were famous for another reason. The lead contained a proportion of silver and back in the sixteenth century the mines had belonged to a family called Pudsey who lived nearby in Bolton-by-Bowland. One William Pudsey had become notorious for minting a stack of illegal silver coins.

The authorities had got on to him and were determined to stop to his activities.  He escaped, as they were giving chase, so the story goes, by leaping across the River Ribble on horseback. ‘Pudsey’s leap,’ as it came to be known, gained mythical status. It was attributed to the silver bit in the mouth of his horse, which had been fashioned out of the very same silver he had used in the minting of the coins.

Legends aside, I discovered that the mines had been worked until well into the nineteenth century. It felt imperative to find out who had lived in the house before me. I knew the house had been built in 1752, the same year as the one next door, where the date is clearly inscribed over the chimney breast. On the 1850 census, it wasn’t exactly clear who had lived where. The names of some of the houses had changed over the years and a couple of houses had fallen into disrepair. But each house had contained a family of anything up to eight members. There was a thriving community of farmers, cotton weavers, quarry men and miners.

Then I had a hunch. It was quite conceivable that someone, possibly a miner, had once lived in the house. One day he’d thought fit to bring home a piece of silver-laden rock unbeknown to his boss, and sequestered it in the garden, until such a time as he could find a suitable outlet for it. And what if said miner had died before he was able to benefit from his stash, leaving his treasure trove to the vagaries of fate?  If my theory was true, there could be more of that rock lying around in the garden. I could be sitting on a silver mine. 

I couldn’t wait for the next day to come when I could get out and start digging again. As a student, I’d once participated in an archaeological dig. In those days I’d been excited at the prospect of finding anything that had lain in the ground for hundreds, perhaps thousands of years, of uncovering some ancient relic, which would add to the world’s cultural and historical knowledge. In those days I was happy enough to spend hours in the sun, carefully brushing away sand from the small patch of ground, which I had been allocated by the site supervisor.

Now I had an opportunity to do archaeology in my own garden. Who knew what I might come across? If not chunks of silver, it might be something else.  Ancient artefacts were often found in the area: Bronze Age axe heads, Roman pottery, a Roman helmet even. And back in the nineteenth century, one of the largest ever silver Viking hoards was found by a group of workmen on the banks of the River Ribble at Cuerdale. The bulk of the find now belonged to the Crown and was housed in the British Museum but the workmen had been allowed to keep some of the pieces.

I resumed digging the patch of earth under the lilac tree. When I didn’t find anything there, I graduated outwards. I dug all day long, frantically pulling out the weeds in the process. Before I knew it, I’d dug up the whole garden, plants and all. The garden looked like a disaster area.  I had found nothing of value, but my garden was finally weed-free.

About the author

In June 2019, Jenny Palmer published her first collection of poems, called Pendle Poems. It is available from the Pendle Heritage Centre, Barrowford and from No 10, Literature and Lifestyle, Clitheroe. She has also written two memoirs Nowhere better than home and Pastures New and a family history book Whipps, Watsons and  Bulcocks. Her collection of short stories Keepsake and other stories  was published by Bridge House in 2019 and is  available on Amazon in paperback and on Kindle. Many of her stories are on the Cafelit  website. ‘A 59’, ‘Fatal Flaws’ and ‘The Visitors’ are in Best of Cafe lit 3,5 and 7  and ‘The Visitors’ is in the Citizens of Nowhere  anthology.

 

Fear of Snakes

by Jim Bates

raspberry tea

We'd been dating for a about a month when Lorrie got a bull snake as a pet and brought it over to my apartment. "Here," she said, pushing the writhing reptile toward me. "Her name is Julie. Want to hold her?"

            No. Not on your life.

            But, I liked Lorrie a lot and wanted to make a good impression so I attempted to work up some enthusiasm, "Sure!"

            Bad idea. Julie was heavy and cold and thick and she curled around my arm, stuck out her tongue and maybe some more stuff I'll never know because I fainted. I came to on the floor with a warm blanket tucked around me and a soft pillow placed under my head. Lorrie and Julie were both gone.

            I stood on shaky legs and called Lorrie right away. "Please come back. You can even bring Julie."

            "You sure?"

            "Positive," I gulped, suddenly weak in my knees, wondering what I was getting myself into.

            "Great. We're on our way."

            "Fabulous. See you soon!"

            Oh, oh. I didn't even have time to think before my reptilian world went spinning around and around and around. I fainted once again and crashed to the floor.

            A little while later, Lorrie's concerned voice brought me around, "Jerry, Jerry. Are you okay?" I sat up, rubbing my eyes. "Yeah, I'm all right. I just...wait a minute!" I panicked, scanning the room frantically, "Where's Julie?"

            Lorrie smiled and kissed me. "She's not here. I didn't want to take a chance on..."

            "...on me fainting again?" I completed her thought, feeling not only sheepish at my inability to deal with reptiles in general and Julie in particular, but also relieved I wouldn't have to, at least not right then.

            "Yeah, something like that," she grinned.

            I felt bad. I didn't want this woman I really cared about to think I was being a jerk for not liking her pet snake; her beloved Julie. Also, there was that male ego thing. I wanted to prove to her I really wasn't all that afraid.

            Next thing I knew, feeling a burst of confidence that came out of nowhere, I stated, "I'll tell you what. I'm willing to give it another try." I remember distinctly trying to keep the tremor out of my voice.

            "That's so sweet," she hugged me."Really?"

            I took a deep breath and let it out. "Really."

            "Well, that's great. I'll go get her."

            "Wait a minute! What do you mean? Now?"

            "Yeah. I left her in my car. I'll be right back."

            Oh, my. What had I gotten myself into?

Five months later and I have to say that things are working out good. Lorrie and I get along great and are still dating. I'm getting used to Julie. We even play together sometimes. She's not so bad, although she's kind of heavy. Lorrie feeds her once a week. I won't tell you what, but let's just say that I leave mealtime to her.

            But, when it comes to love? Well that's a different story. I care for Lorrie a lot and I'll do just about anything for her, even learn to like Julie. But please, don't let her start buying any more snakes, even one as likeable as her pet. I'm not sure I could handle it, because, believe me, as far as me and pet snakes are concerned, one is more than enough. 

 

About the author

Jim lives in a small town twenty miles west of Minneapolis, Minnesota. His stories have appeared in many online and print publications. His collection of short stories Resilience is scheduled to be published in 2020 by Bridge House Publishing. All of his stories can be found on his blog: www.theviewfromlonglake.wordpress.com.