Conspiracy

Roger Noons

a pint of strong lager.

Condensation covered the window. At a table in the corner, two men sat opposite each other, their pint glasses reflecting the meagre light that crept inside. One glass contained dark beer, the other bronze. Although they were half way through their first round, they had yet to begin the conversation that justified each travelling more than two hundred miles to meet at a neutral venue. Jackie emptied his glass, wiped the back of his fist across his lips and stood, held out his hand for Eddie’s tankard.

    Once each man had tasted the second pulling, they sat back. Eddie pushed his spectacles up towards his forehead and stared at Jack’s tie. ‘You called me Jack, what have you got to say?’

    ‘How’s business?’

    Eddie frowned then began to chuckle. ‘Get on with it, I’ve a dinner date this evening, I’ll need to be off as soon as possible.’ He picked up his glass and sucked an inch of lager into his mouth.

    Tapping his fingertips onto the table top alongside his glass, Jack said. ’How about joining forces on a job?’

    ‘What sort of job?’

    ‘Kidnapping.’

    Eddie’s expression soured. ‘Have you ever done one?’

    Jack shook his head.

    ‘Well don’t, they’re a bloody pain and there’s so many things that can go wrong, it’s not worth the trouble.’ He took a long draught from his glass. When Jack said no more, he added. ‘I was the minder on one once and the bloke refused to pay, said we could keep his missus.’

    ‘Well, I suppose you could call it a highjack.’

    ‘Let me guess, the Prime Minister, no I bet you’ve got Her Majesty in mind. At her age she’s unlikely to run away.’ Getting no response, he tipped the contents of his glass into his mouth and hands on the table, pushed himself up. ‘I’ll bid you farewell Jackie old lad.’ He offered his right hand but there was no response. Glancing over his shoulder he saw that the barman had disappeared and two men in dark suits were walking towards him. Each was holding a sawn off shotgun.

    ‘Ah, I’m the target, am I? You do realise that there are four armed pals of mine in the Range Rover on the car park?’

    ‘There were Eddie, past tense I‘m afraid.’

    Eddie drew a pistol and shot Jack, first in the chest and as he slumped forward, in the head. When he turned the advancing men were just a yard away. Eddie asked the taller one, ‘Well?’

    ‘Dunno, we weren’t told—’

    ‘Would you like to join my outfit?’

    ‘Yeah, okay,’ said the shorter one. ‘There’s a Merc outside, where’d you want to go?’

    ‘Back to Bristol.’

    ‘Right oh Boss, after you.’

    ‘No, after you, and put those bloody shooters away.’

The White Swan

Robin Wrigley 

dry sherry

For Erskine, the weekend’s partying left him with a hangover that he was still suffering today, Tuesday. Bourbon, Bintang beer and Jakarta’s climate did no man any favours.

     He was expecting a client in from the field. Harry S. Duimyer was an unknown. The telex said he was an important senior construction engineer on the gas project in central Sumatra.

     Shortly after midday he heard the company car pull into the driveway in the office compound. Harry Duimyer was exactly what he had pictured when he read the telex: mid-fifties, heavy-set, tanned with greying hair under a baseball cap emblazoned with the company logo. He wore a white button-down collar, cotton shirt, the sleeves rolled half-way up his forearms. In his breast pocket was a passport behind three pens.  Half-way down a pair of khaki trousers, the left-hand leg was caught on the top of his light-tan work- boot, slightly caked with yellow mud.

     ‘Pleased to meet you sir. Come through and have some coffee.’ Erskine extended his hand which was firmly shaken. His guest didn’t smile. If anything he looked somewhat sad.

          In the office Erskine closed the door behind them. The maid had placed a silver tray with coffee, milk, sugar and a plate of homemade cookies on the teak table in the corner.

     ‘How’s it going out there in Sumatra, Harry? Erskine asked as they sat down.

     ‘As well as can be expected considering this year’s monsoons. My guess is that your guys will be a month behind schedule.’

     Harry took a sip of his coffee and reached for a cookie. ‘Damn fine cookies,’ he said, biting a biscuit and regarding the remainder in his hand.

     ‘Thank you, my maid Tina makes them – my wife’s recipe.’

     ‘Got your family with you?’ Harry asked.

     ‘No. Wife and the boys are back in the States. She didn’t like it here – got homesick.’

     ‘Too bad,’ Harry sympathised.

For the next hour they talked about the project, then, looking at his watch, Erskine said, ‘Heck Harry, you must be starving. The Hotel Indonesia will do us proud. What d’you say?’

     ‘You’re in charge, young feller. I could do with some decent chow and a cold beer after that site-canteen garbage.

     As Erskine drove the car out into the mid-week traffic, he tried to gauge his guest. He seemed a nice old boy, looking out at the city without comment, but he hated client entertainment duties, continually walking on egg-shells.

     ‘I admire your courage driving in this place, Erskine; I wouldn’t have the guts.’

     ‘Been doing it for some time. I have a driver, but when the journey is open-ended and parking’s not a problem I drive myself. I figure if I’m gonna die, it should be my doing and not some local driver.’ Erskine gave a wry grin, hoping to get a reaction from his passenger.

     Harry said simply, ‘Uh huh,’ and continued looking at the passing street scenes.

     He parked the car in the shade of a mango tree and they sauntered up the main pathway through the manicured gardens. The huge glass doors were opened by a brightly uniformed doorman who greeted them with a ceremonious bow. To the left of the main reception desk, in the air-conditioned lobby a Gamelan duo played two double rows of round, brass metalliphones, tapping in unison with small mallets, producing a sense of circular rhythm, peace and tranquillity,  a marked contrast after the noise of the traffic.

     Erskine stopped to allow Harry to watch and listen to the players.

     ‘Ain’t that just something else, Erskine?’

      Erskine’s attention was caught by the approach of a European couple coming towards them from the main foyer. The man was rather non-descript – Le Carre’s George Smiley perhaps, but the woman was quite stunning. Long, honey-blonde hair resting on tanned shoulders. She was wearing a plain, full-skirted white linen dress.

     Gliding through the muted colours of the hotel’s Javanese décor she had the appearance of a swan navigating a narrow passage of dark water.

     They were twenty feet away when Erskine touched Harry’s arm. He seemed mesmerised by the couple. ‘Listen Harry I just remembered the restaurant here is not that good on Tuesdays. I know a place that will be much better.’ They turned and walked back to the car park.

 Erskine started the engine when Harry put a hand on his left forearm.

     ‘D’you mind if I ask you a personal question young man?’ He was looking closely at Erskine.

     ‘Feel free,’ Erskine said.

     ‘You got woman problems?’ Erskine nodded. This old boy, hair growing in his ears, probably never been out of Texas before, didn’t miss a trick. ‘That blonde?’ he continued. Erskine nodded again.

     ‘One fine looking lady. Pity she looks spoken for.’

     Erskine reversed the car, made a U-turn and drove away.

Dry Sherry

One night at Harry's

 Alun Williams

Jack on the rocks

 I never knew anyone could smoke so many cigarettes and still have the ability to play piano like he did. Maybe cancer doesn’t affect the hands. I don’t know if that’s correct ‘cause I’m not a doctor, but his fingers, stained desert yellow from years of nicotine abuse never lost their magic. By the time he reached thirty he was thin, gaunt and looking twenty years older. I can honestly say I never saw him eat anything more that a whisky sour on the rocks. It was his staple diet along with sixty Camels a day.

Johnson "JD" Browne never usually talked much to customers; I don’t think he had the energy after his shows, but one night when the winter snows had almost closed the city down, he sat down at his piano at Harry’s Bar and played the show of his life to me, Walter the barkeep and an old black drunk called Smithy.

None of us had anyplace else to go or anyplace else we’d want to be. We were the scrapings at the bottom of the barrel, each one of us with more than a hundred reasons to be there and not one to stay at home.

He didn’t have to play that evening, not to an almost deserted bar, but he lit one cigarette, took his jacket off and played. Piano keys will never be played like that again. I think he must have smoked a hundred cigarettes that night and drank at least fifteen whisky sours. He played anything and everything from jazz and blues to ragtime and Mozart. Walter the barkeep only sold me and Smithy one beer each, because we couldn’t drink anything else for fear of missing a single note.

At the end of his show, he gave us the best rendition of “Strange Fruit” I ever heard and I saw Billie Holiday sing that at Café Society and thought I’d never hear anything sweeter. I was wrong.

After that he joined us for one last drink. He drank Jack on the rocks with a twist of ginger, a single no more, no less. I told him it was the greatest piece of piano playing I’d ever heard. He shrugged his shoulders, wiped his sweaty brow and lit another cigarette. He said one word, “Thanks”, put his coat on and shuffled out into a Chicago winter.

I guess no one knew what really happened that night, but a mail man found his body early next morning, three blocks away, frozen stiff. He had a smile on his face and a half smoked Camel between his lips.

No one plays piano at Harrys’ bar anymore.

One night at Harrys’

I never knew anyone could smoke so many cigarettes and still have the ability to play piano like he did. Maybe cancer doesn’t affect the hands. I don’t know if that’s correct ‘cause I’m not a doctor, but his fingers, stained desert yellow from years of nicotine abuse never lost their magic. By the time he reached thirty he was thin, gaunt and looking twenty years older. I can honestly say I never saw him eat anything more that a whisky sour on the rocks. It was his staple diet along with sixty Camels a day.

Johnson Browne never usually talked much to customers; I don’t think he had the energy after his shows, but one night when the winter snows had almost closed the city down, he sat down at his piano at Harry’s Bar and played the show of his life to me, Walter the barkeep and an old black drunk called Smithy.

None of us had anyplace else to go or anyplace else we’d want to be. We were the scrapings at the bottom of the barrel, each one of us with more than a hundred reasons to be there and not one to stay at home.

He didn’t have to play that evening, not to an almost deserted bar, but he lit one cigarette, took his jacket off and played. Piano keys will never be played like that again. I think he must have smoked a hundred cigarettes that night and drank at least fifteen whisky sours. He played anything and everything from jazz and blues to ragtime and Mozart. Walter the barkeep only sold me and Smithy one beer each, because we couldn’t drink anything else for fear of missing a single note.

At the end of his show, he gave us the best rendition of “Strange Fruit” I ever heard and I saw Billie Holiday sing that at Café Society and thought I’d never hear anything sweeter. I was wrong.

After that he joined us for one last drink. He drank Jack on the rocks with a twist of ginger, a single no more, no less. I told him it was the greatest piece of piano playing I’d ever heard. He shrugged his shoulders, wiped his sweaty brow and lit another cigarette. He said one word, “Thanks”, put his coat on and shuffled out into a Chicago winter.

I guess no one knew what really happened that night, but a mail man found his body early next morning, three blocks away, frozen stiff. He had a smile on his face and a half smoked Camel between his lips.

No one plays piano at Harrys’ bar anymore.

Messages

Lisa Williams

pina colada

It started as many things do as a bit of fun. They messaged constantly. Laughed. Shared a lot. She'd wanted to rekindle something lost from life.

He said he couldn't believe how well she knew him. She'd smiled. Knowing the truth and not letting on.

Things took a turn then. 

He sent her pictures. Had kept their wedding photo just out of shot from the one he took late at night in the front room.

She tentatively sent one back.

And when he replied and hadn't recognised his own wife's tits she knew. For sure, their marriage really was over.

VENGEANCE

 Roger Noons

a mug of cocoa

 

A right twerp I must look, sat in this old wheelbarrow. Granddad’s trousers indeed and his grandmother’s cardigan. Pink! Who wears pink at this time of year? And to cap (don’t go there) it all, this scarf’s too tight. Even the paper he’s stuffed inside me is local. A page or two from The Times or Telegraph wouldn’t have come amiss.

    I suppose I should be grateful he didn’t process along the High Street, I couldn’t stand viewing my reflection in shop windows. Having to put up with the comments of his mates was bad enough.

 

‘Is that the best you could manage?’

‘Hardly twenty first century, is he?’

‘Are you sure he’ll burn? Looks a bit wet to me.

‘He’ll not earn you much.’

 

    It was the final comment that did it, gave me the idea. When he was stuffing paper down my trousers, I snaffled a piece of string and hid it in an inside pocket. Afterwards I threaded it in such a way that when passers-by toss in coins, they slip into the pocket and I can pull the string and close the space. He’ll not know where the loose change has gone.

    When I’m tossed onto the fire, his wealth will go up in flames with me. Mind you, I gather the weather forecast’s not good. Heavy rain promised, so I may get a reprieve. I would then have enough money to make my escape, buy new clothes, take on a new personality, live in peace somewhere. No-one need ever know about my previous identity.

   

 

 

Night Terrors

Angela Haffenden  

Bloody Mary

Gnarled branches scratch at the window with impatient fingers. Inside the room, a child cowers under the bedclothes, hugging his knees to his chest. Tiny knuckles white with tension, breath quickening, panic rising.

There are no such things as monsters under the bed, Mummy told him so but he doesn’t believe it, not one bit.

There are monsters all around him. Shadow monsters loom in the corner of his room. Spiders scuttle across the wooden floor, and there are strange noises. Noises a five year old cannot rationalise.  Foxes screaming, owls hooting, it’s the stuff of fairy tales and horror stories.
     The sliver of light from the almost full moon gives him no comfort. He peeks an eye out, slowly pulling down his bed covers, nothing has changed. The strange shadows are there, in different forms. One shaped like a dragon. The wind howls, things move outside changing the shadow from a dragon to a quivering ghoul. Quickly he throws himself back into his blankety haven.

Counting, that’s right, counting sheep; this may distract him from the horrors.

“One sheep, two sheep….”

It’s of little comfort, maybe singing will work?

     “Twinkle, twinkle, little star…”

NO, nothing is allaying his fear. Maybe he should have another peek? Monsters don’t exist, he tells himself for the umpteenth time. Calling for Mummy or Daddy would be a bad idea, they get cross, they like to sleep. Maybe he could slip out of his room to the warmth of his parent’s bed, but he’s frozen with fear. 

He tries to distract himself again, this time with happy thoughts, thoughts of cute characters from books, fun days out with his family. However, the unknown horrors outside the cocoon of his blanket stop him.

     It doesn’t help that the pumpkins he and Mummy had carved together earlier that day intruded his thoughts, he imagines armies of pumpkins marching with their fiery eyes burning, coming for him. He tries once again to dispel these childish thoughts, difficult because after all he is a child.

Stories of bogeymen, ghosts, ghouls, dragons and dinosaurs have occupied his imagination and on this night, All Hallows’ Eve, every one of them threatens to dispel all the truths this five year old understands.
     A yawn escapes, his eyes droop, and he releases his grip of the bed covers to rub his tired peepers. What will he do? He has school in the morning, the morning that doesn’t want to come.

His body betrays him, his head nods, he’s almost slumbering. Only to be woken by a bang. Fear envelops him once more, until a cat mews, and a dog barks. These sounds bring him a minute of peace. Theses sounds he knows.

     Slowly the darkness subsides, he can hear birds tweeting. Relief washes over him, dawn is coming. He makes a decision to pull the covers down from over his head and watch the day begin.

     “One, two, three” he counts silently to himself.

Indeed the sun is coming up in the sky, the birds are louder, and the tree branches outside his window are still, no breeze to animate them. An orangey-red glow warms his bedroom, dispelling the scary shadows. He can now see the outline of his oversized teddy bear; a plastic dinosaur and other toys; everything is once again familiar. All fear of the darkness gone, a new day starts. It is no longer Halloween. 
     He leans over his bed, feeling brave in the almost daylight, checks for monsters and finds nothing. What would Mummy and Daddy say if they knew how worried he’d been in the night? His shoulders sag involuntarily, defeated by the lack of sleep.  His tired body takes over; moments later, he is gently snoring, deep in the slumber of the very young.

     “Aah doesn’t he look peaceful” Mummy says, looking down at her little boy. She smiles and looks at her husband standing next to her.

     “There, told you Halloween cartoons wouldn’t scare him, you worry too much”

About the Author

Angela Haffenden is a mother of four children. She is also responsible for a husband, a dog and an ageing father. She writes mainly to stay sane. She lives by the sea and writes in a cabin in the garden.

Knit and Natter

Dawn Knox

tea with lemon

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Mm hmm.”

 

“Oh dear.”

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Yes, I think you’re right.”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Or facials,” Bella added.

 

He’s rather shy, mouthed Edna.

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

Everyone looked accusingly at Bella.

 

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

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

 

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

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

There was a sharp intake of breath from Bella.

 

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

 

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

 

Bella tutted.

 

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

 

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

 

“Stop right there! Freeze!” said Bella.

Florrie stopped and froze.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

HELP! Mouthed Harriet. But no one dared move. 

 

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

 

Harriet nodded. 

 

She was beyond speech. 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“So, what do we do?” asked Bella.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Oh my!” said Bella.

 

Everyone went rigid, heads moving like meerkats. 

 

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

 

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

 

“But I don’t know how to do that.”

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

Five Knitter Natterers collectively held their breath.

 

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

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

 

 

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

 

The high-speed knitting ceased.

 

“Mm hmm,” said Harriet, gasping. 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Nor so many freckles,” said Florrie.

 

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

 

Mary’s bottom lip trembled even more.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“No, nor that rabid badger.”

 

“Badger? I thought it was her lodger.” 

 

“Was her lodger rabid?”

 

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

 

“Hmm, I’d heard it was a wild beast?”

 

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

 

“If ever…”

 

The ladies sat silently with their thoughts for a while.

 

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

 

“Suppose she comes to what?” asked Florrie.

 

“Knit and Natter, of course!”

 

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

 

“Since when?”

 

“Since now.”

 

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

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

 

About the author

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