There was great excitement in the village that year. Jugglers, amazing flame throwers, and Morris dancers in their colourful costumes, all had congregated for the annual Maylands fete and I, the blacksmith was kept busy shoeing the great horses for there was to be a jousting contest too. The fete began on a Saturday but Sunday was the big day. The weather was perfect, a balmy summer’s day with no sign of rain which was a change, just a quiet breeze.

I was enjoying a brief respite at the local hostelry. The landlord was a friend of mine and his daughter Meg had just brought me a jug of ale with a generous plate of bread and cheese. At twenty three I was still a bachelor and it appeared that most of the young village wenches were anxious I should be kept in good health and strength. The truth was that I was not of a mind to marry just yet. The blacksmith business had been left to me by my father and gradually I was building it up; I had ambitions of being the best smithy for miles, reliable and not likely to cheat the customers, I already had several firm promises from local farmers and best of all Sir Roger, the lord of the manor had praised me well.

‘You’re a good man Thatcher. I shall trust you with my stable from now on, so long as you keep up the good work.’

I had assured him that I would indeed prove my worthiness, so you see I had no time to court a girl; that demanded time and energy both of which were expended on my trade, but one day I expect I would want a wife and babe but that day was some time away.

‘Eat up Hal or you won’t grow up to be big and strong’ that was Meg who was eyeing me with a flirtatious glint in her eye. As I was over six foot and in excellent health and strength

2/ strength

I gathered this remark was to gain my attention. Obligingly I answered in the same light hearted manner.

‘That would never do for who would shoe my horses if not I? On the strength of that I will have another flagon.’

‘Too much ale and you’ll fall flat on your face’ she retorted, ‘still ‘tis my father’s ale and I must keep the customers happy he says.’

We carried on with this banter for a few more minutes before another customer banged on the table for her attention.

I watched her walk away, swinging her hips provocatively as she was wont to do. I thought, not for the first time that Meg was a pretty thing and maybe one day I’d ask her to walk out with me. It was then that I spotted the boy in the doorway of the inn watching me. I’d seen him before hanging around the stables while I was busy with Hercules, Sir Roger’s mount. I had assumed he was one of the travelling troupes. Slight in build with longish dark hair, he had a narrow face and serious countenance; he didn’t look like a traveller who as a rule is more robust and perhaps coarser in feature. I felt a finger of unease, a premonition flicker through me. What did he want of me? Perhaps money for food or drink? Even as I gazed at him he disappeared from my view. I threw some coins on the table in payment; for some reason my meal no longer attracted me.

I walked the short way to my stables breathing in the warm air and sights and smells of the

3/ the

fair. The atmosphere that day was joyful, people exchanging ribaldry, much laughter; the chatter of many voices accompanied the high pitch whinny of horses and the array of bright colours from the costumes. It is still fresh in my memory. But there was another reason the day was so special to me.

I saw the boy again lurking by a stall selling fruits; he gave me an unblinking gaze which unnerved me somewhat. I called over to him.

‘Here boy’ fumbling in the leather pouch which hung from my waist, I found some coins. ‘Go and get a hot pie for yourself, tell the landlord Hal the blacksmith sent you. He’ll see you well.’ What had prompted me to give the fellow money I had no idea, I am, by nature mindful of every penny I spend because of the stables which ate up money.

John, my apprentice who was minding Hercules while I was away seemed mighty relieved to see me.

‘He’s playing up a bit. I expect he knows he’ll be jousting today. Whoa, whoa boy’ as the great horse made to turn round, snorting and stamping.

‘Leave him to me, you go and get a bite but don’t be too long, I’ll need your help.’

I made sure he was safely tethered before I began the process of shoeing but Hercules was becoming increasingly restless as if sensing the excitement to come. I was beginning to regret sending John off when all at once the beast reared his head and stepped back; onto my

4/ my

foot.  I heard the bones break before I felt the agony. Even so, all I could think of was my livelihood, without me the business would be all but finished. How was I to tend the horses with a broken foot? I realised I had to roll out of his the way before I was killed. Then through the mists of pain I saw him. The boy who had been watching me.

‘Get help’ I yelled but instead he moved forward as if to help.

‘You fool, you can’t handle him alone’ but the boy ignored me, instead he put out a hand and stroked the horse’s flank who miraculously moved off me. I dared not look at the mangled mess that was my right foot. But then he touched it very gently and the pain went as if by magic. When I looked there was no sign of injury.

‘Who are you? What is your name?’ I asked fearfully.

He turned to me and before my eyes there was an old man with white flowing hair and wise eyes like polished agates.

‘Merlin’ he replied.

Then he was gone.

So you see I had a very good reason to remember that Sunday summer day.

When I look back, I always think of it as that last perfect summer. The years have flown by as they do after the short golden age of youth; my hands now wrinkled and age spotted are still the same hands he held with his own before kissing my fingers one by one in a lingering farewell.

After all this time I still remember everything about him. The way his hair fell over a narrow forehead; a clever forehead my mother used to say and his eyes that were of the darkest blue, prematurely crinkled at the corners from being out in all weathers either on the tractor or tending his livestock. His name was William, as his father and grandfather had been; our first son would also be a William Thorogood. I liked that, a good stout name for an Englishman – a man of the land. Our future was planned, the ceremony at the village church, our vows promised and pledged before our friends and family then a big party at the village hall for them all to come back and celebrate our union. That was the plan, no surprises or last minute hitches, or so we thought until fate or just circumstances beyond our control intervened in a big way. Life tended to be unchanging when you live on the land, always fighting the weather or blight, carefully watching and tending the crops and the wheat so there would be a good harvest, farmers then had little time for the outside world and what went on, the only newspaper they read was The Farmers’ Weekly. That was all to change because things could never be quite the same again.

That Sunday summer day we had together we went to our favourite place for what was to be the last time, uncertain of the future, or of what would happen to us now that our lives were on hold.

2.

The sky was a blue blanket above us with midges dancing in the shafting sunlight, there was

the sweet scent of freshly mown hay, the lowing of a cow and in the distance the monotonous hum of a tractor. We walked hands entwined; I remember I stooped to pick a stray flower before tucking it behind my ear.

‘Look.’ William pointed to a hawk high in the sky, wings barely moving, rocking on the thermals. There was no need of words between us.

‘Let’s sit here where there’s some shade and we can eat our lunch.’ I had brought a simple

picnic of fresh baked bread, honey on the comb, some apples and a flagon of cider. William gallantly spread his jacket for me to sit on and we shared the cider, taking it in turns to drink and I fed him heels of crusty bread, laughing when he choked on the crumbs. After we’d finished eating we lay back on and watched the sunlight filtering through the tree’s branches, both of us silent.

I turned on my side and rested on my elbow so I could see him. I will remember this moment forever I told myself.  His eyes were closed but he wasn’t asleep; brushing aside the heavy fringe of hair from his forehead, I gently blew on his face.

‘What are you thinking?’ I asked like all women since the beginning of time have done.

‘Just that I’ll store this in my memory box until we’re together again.’ He’d kept his eyes closed as he said this, but then he opened them to give me that startling blue gaze.

3.

‘You had better William Thorogood. No fooling around.’

He kissed me then. Slowly at first so I tasted the sweet honey on his mouth.

‘Oh Betts if only it could stay like this, you and I and this lovely day.’

‘We’ll have it again when you come back, the first thing we’ll do is come here and I’ll make a picnic just like today’ I had whispered in quiet desperation, to reassure him and myself.

These are the memories of the last summer of my youth. Life in the English countryside as I knew it before the blue blanket of sky we’d lain under was scattered with swooping alien planes dispatching their lethal cargo of death and destruction and my brave young lover who had gone to fight the enemy was no more.

“Happy birthday!”
He must have heard that every time his birthday rolled around and each time he politely smiled and said “Thanks” like a normal human being, but he was not like everyone else and for as long as he could remember, he hated this day. Presents were nice, but they were tangled amongst hidden agendas and favors he knew he’d have to repay.
“Hey, remember the 3-iron I got you last year? The least you can do is let me borrow the set.”
Or, his personal favorite, from the guy who got him a twenty-dollar fan, “Dude, remember the fan I got you? It was nice right? Just watch my kids for the weekend and we’ll call it even.”
“Seriously? Saturday and Sunday?”
“Oh, no. My weekend starts Friday at five, so we’ll just drop’em off at 5:30.”
“But I don’t finish until—“
“Thanks bro. Happy birthday by the way.”
And that’s the way it was. That’s why this year would be different. No party equals no gifts. No gifts equal no obligations. No obligations mean no beating. And no beating means, for the next year, some modicum of happiness.
The calls started as soon as June 1 hit.
“What’s the plan?”
“Where we meetin’ up?”
“What present you want?”
But he was unfazed, “Actually, I don’t want a party or anything. I’m just gonna relax.”
“Common, at least let’s have a dinner.”
His friends were lovely people, but damn if they couldn’t take a hint.
“I’m good, but I’ll call you next week, thanks.”
The dinner might have been OK if not for the drunken madness that was sure to ensue. No drinks equals no madness. No madness equals happiness.
Finally June 5 arrived. He awake to Jay Z’s “Big Pimpin’” and not even the frosty shower could dampen his spirits. After two minutes in icy paradise, he threw on the Holland soccer jersey he had bought himself the day before. He loved buying himself presents. After all, no obligations. He stood in the mirror, staring triumphantly at what was perhaps the best gift he had ever received.
Even getting ready for his lessons went smoothly, but not before picking up his phone. Six messages and four missed calls all asking about the party, which he said he didn’t want, or about the gift he wanted to which he had replied “none” all week. With one simple “click” of a button, he was now cut-off. Un-reachable. Alone. Free.
He jumped on his bike and made it through hellish traffic in record time. The first two lessons went off great and at the end, what did his two fourth graders give him? A cake. Just because they liked him. Zero strings attached. He sincerely thanked them both and at his next lesson, an eighth-grader, what did he receive? A box of chocolates! And not for a grade or any future favors, he was only a private tutor after all, but because she knew he liked chocolates, and it was his birthday.
“Everyone must be freaking out,” he thought as, now finished, he headed over to Starbucks to relax. It was relatively empty, but the surrounding mini-mall was having some kind of summer fair. He cycled past the pony rides, the wine tasting booth, and yes, even the pet grooming station to achieve his ultimate goal—a large mango passion fruit frappuccino. It was truly a little piece of heaven, and he savored every drop. In fact, it was so good he decided to savor another.
Protected from sun’s overbearing rays by a huge umbrella, his attention drifting from booth to booth. He stared at those poor dogs being harassed by the groomer, then moved on to the little ponies shamelessly carrying chubby tots all afternoon. Turning more to his right, he found the goldfish pond, surrounded by parents prodding their kids stuff fistfuls of dying little fish into tiny plastic bags.
Rather than spoil his flawless afternoon of peace and frappuccinos, he decided to look away, but as he did he noticed the fish pond attendant—tall, short shorts, thin, pony tail, belly shirt—and noticed her noticing him. He smiled, and she bashfully looked away. If he was anything, he was persistent and, in a few seconds, their gaze was re-united. She smiled. His heart raced thinking hers must be as well. This playful look-at-me-look-at-you continued until finally, a slurp. He had found the bottom of his cup. He smiled at her as she held the back of some kid’s shirt to prevent him from, no pun intended, swimming with the fishes. She was incredible. Her smile made him melt. Her hair, long and black, tied playfully up in a pony tail, mesmerized him. Her body—damn. Her body was unbelievable. He could take it no longer.
“What if some idiot hits on her and she says ‘yes’?” he thought. He threw away his cup. Frappuccino time was over.
He walked casually over, being as conspicuous as possible yet pretending not to notice her. He entered the slaughter that was the fish pond. Carefully avoiding the dried golden carcasses strewn about the pavement, he re-established eye contact, but this peace was quickly shattered by a scream, “Sally ate a goldfish! Mom! Mom!” The chunky little fish eater panicked and ran away, leaving everyone in the pond area shocked and awed.
“Can I eat one too?” he said playfully, standing next to his target.
“Oh no, you can’t eat them. They’re for—“
“I know,” he said, barely containing his laughter, “I was just teasing. My name’s Mike. What’s yours?”
For the next half hour, until the fish pond closed, they were engrossed with each other. She, whose name turned out to be Penelope, couldn’t stop smiling. Every time he spoke, she giggled and touched him coyly on the shoulder or leg. Spurred on by his obvious success, he decided to forego his original birthday plan and ask her out to dinner. She accepted without hesitation.
As the fair wound down to a close and the fish pond, full of lifeless floaters, was taken apart, they carefully loaded his bicycle in the back of her Audi. It was a delicate process, but nothing was going to stop him from getting that infernal bike in the trunk. Finally, after nearly twenty minutes and now in a full on sweat, he got his handlebars in and they smiled at each other. He didn’t know why, but looking into her dark brown eyes was calming. For the first time in a long time he actually wanted to talk to this woman rather than just take her to bed.
She pulled out and carefully negotiated though the road construction, nearly hitting a semi-conscious worker flattening out some freshly laid cement.
“Why did you come to the fair today?” she asked, losing herself in his eyes.
He felt peace, a kind he had never felt before. Was it love at first sight? Maybe. But there was only one way to tell, and he was willing to find out. “Oh, well, today’s my bir—“
In an instant, all was over. Neither of them saw the cement truck swerve into their lane.

Going to a new school can be tough, but going to a new school and being the only African American is a recipe for disaster.  I had never had anyone dislike me for anything before, but these kids had two reasons not to be my friend.  Mom and dad told me that the kids were just not used to different people, but once they got to know me, they wouldn’t even realize my skin was a different color.  The problem was, however, that no one wanted to get to know me.  And why would they?  After all, they were having plenty of fun tripping me, throwing food at me, or stealing my books to even think that getting to know me could be just as fun. 

                The days passed.  I began to lose hope.  I mean, even the nerds were making fun of me.  It was then that I saw the answer.  I was on my way to the boy’s bathroom to clean the food off my shirt after yet another one-sided food fight (I lost), when I saw my salvation—a bright green poster plastered to the bulletin board, “Dodge ball tryouts tomorrow”.  I looked at the sign-up sheet and saw that nearly all of my tormentors had signed up.  A grin slipped slowly across my face.  If I couldn’t make friends, at least I could get even with a few well placed throws.  I signed up and told my parents that I thought this would be a great way to make friends, but inside I was already preparing a list of targets, topped by none other than Dale Benjamin, the ringleader of the bullies.  I was so excited to smash him that I hardly slept.

                I couldn’t concentrate at all the following day.  The only thought running through my mind was smashing Dale’s face in.  Even when they threw my books in the toilet, I laughed inside.  “Oh just you wait” I said to myself.  The bell couldn’t have arrived sooner.  I darted out from behind my desk and, sidestepping Dale and his crew, raced to the gym.  I was the first one on the court.  All the other kids, Dale included, went to the other side.  Only the girls were on my team, and not by choice.  But that was OK; I had no desire to win, only to get some payback.

                Coach Stevens came out, lined up the bouncy red balls, and blew his whistle—game on!  Everyone rushed to the middle, but not me.  I didn’t want some random ricochet to take me out of the game before I had a chance to strike.  I just stayed back along the wall, dodging elimination and watching the kids go out one by one.  Finally, a ball rolled over to me.  I grabbed it, avoiding a hail of rubber from the other time, and rushed forward.  Dale had fallen, laying totally defenseless on the floor.  I raised my arm, thinking of the joy I’d feel.  My heart raced.  But just as I was about to throw, our eyes met.  I saw deep into his dark brown eyes and at that moment, what I saw wasn’t a bad kid, but someone who, like me, wanted to desperately make friends.  I felt sorry for him, for his pain, because I knew exactly what he was going through.  I felt at peace; I didn’t need revenge, at that moment we were friends, real friends.  I could win him over by showing mercy.  I smiled, and so did he.  Then I chucked the ball as hard as I could right into his face, smashing his nose, causing blood to pour out all over the floor.  Dale fell over, clutching his broken nose, and began to cry.  I was right; I could have won him over with mercy, but revenge was even sweeter.  No one messes with me and gets away with it!

The theater was empty.  The usher brought him straight to the front row.  The elegant velvet curtains slowly drew apart.  His heart pulsed.  This was a onetime showing.  Flash.  The boy on the screen—him at four years, up in the tree; his friend on the ground screaming in agony, arm broken.  An accident as he would later tell his parents? 

                Flash.  The boy in the store was him at thirteen years.  This was a strange movie indeed.  He deftly pocketed a toy car, then a yo-yo, then a chocolate bar.  This wasn’t the only time, but it was the first time. 

                Flash.  That girl, who was she?  Of course!  It was Jessica, his first love.  She pranced joyfully up to the stage as she and Curt were crowned homecoming king and queen.  In the corner, who was that?  It was him, crying. 

                Flash.  Curt throws the photos to the ground, cursing her as Jessica falls on top of them, tears streaming down her reddened cheeks.  She tries to save her dignity, but everyone knows what happened under the bleachers.  He had gotten his revenge.

                He closes his eyes.  What was this madness?  He tries to stand up, but is glued to the seat.  He turns to the usher, standing erect and smiling, but no words creep from his lips. 

                Flash.  A man driving a car.  It’s raining, lighting flashes.  The man is speeding.  Speeding home from somewhere.  His cell phone rings.

                “Where the hell are you!” a woman’s voice screeches through the earpiece.

                “Hey baby, I’m still at the office, just a few more things to take care of.  I’ll be home in forty minutes.”

                A lie.  It’s written across his face.

                Flash.  The same truck, but this time parked at the pier.  The man opens the hatch.  A large, black garbage bag fills the rear.  He looks in all directions, then hefts it onto his shoulder.  He strains under its weight, wobbling cautiously down the dock.  It snags on an old wooden post—he violently tugs it free, creating a tear.  A long curl of dirty blonde hair tumbles out of the bag.  He pauses—remembering—then heaves it into the frigid blackness.

                “Bitch.”

                Flash.  An office.  His.  Knocking on the door.  He glances, then continues piling money into his briefcase.  Handful upon handful.

                Flash.  Driving.  The briefcase on his lap.  He furiously bites his lip.  One hand on the wheel, the other on the case.  A deer bolts out from the dark.  His foot slams the brake.  Tires screech.  He pulls the wheel.  The truck plunges over the side.  Flash.  Flash.  Flash. 

                The screen goes blank.  Curtains close.  He wipes the sweat from his brow and looks at the usher.

                “What’s going on?”

                “The show is over sir.  We have to go.”

                He takes the usher’s hand, not knowing why, and heads down a glowing hallway.

                “Wait,” he says, “I left my coat.”

                The usher laughs.  “Sir, where you’re going, you won’t ever need a coat.”  

Nothing fascinated Joe Pulaski more than discovery.  He wanted to understand the minds and feelings of the people whose artifacts he was unearthing.  Joe spoke of nothing more.

                The Medieval castle perched atop the mountain and teeming with tourists seemed the perfect place to explore.  Joe woke at dawn, destined to be one of the masses.

                Pulaski pushed through the heat, passing a chatty group of Japanese umbrella-wielding tourists who vividly noted and promptly forgot the energetic American.  He stopped to take some snapshots of the view: the incredibly blue sea filled with large rocky incisors, the umbrella dotted beaches stretching endlessly, the hotel dominating this tourist hot-spot.

                By afternoon the castle was a buzz.  No one really noticed the curious American climbing walls, inspecting the ramparts, or crawling into nearly every side-chamber.  This was not the typical tourist trail, but Joe was not the typical tourist.  To him, the building was alive—alive with the stories of those who once occupied it.  Pulaski was the one person who could hear the ancient voices, speaking to him through the rocks.

                “No, it’s OK,” an elderly German said as Joe squeezed past him on the narrow side-track, heading into the bramble-filled old cavalry parade grounds in the back.  The tiny entrance under the steps wasn’t on his pocket tourist map.  He slithered into the corridor just as a Canadian couple peeked into the courtyard, retreating at the mass of thorns confronting their next steps. 

The camcorder light wasn’t strong, but Joe could sense an incredible discovery.  His heart began to quicken.

Fifteen yards in, Pulaski made a sharp right into the blackness.  No one heard the splash.  All his life Joe Pulaski wanted to be a part of something great—a discovery.  Three hundred years later, he was.

 They met once a month at the Chicken and Rooster, which Susie said was highly inappropriate, since they were none of them chickens and with not a  rooster between them.

            “But it’s nice eating out in the garden, and  and we can spend half the afternoon over coffee”, she added.

            “Some of the men aren’t bad either”, added Kate.

            “Well, if any of them start chatting you up,  don’t let them think you can cope with anything more intellectual than choosing a drink”, snapped Susie.  “It frightens them off.”

            “And aren’t we in love with the human race this evening”, said Louise, as she regarded Susie with surprise.

            “Well,” sniffed Susie.  “I grant you that just occasionally you find one who doesn’t mind admitting some women have brains!”

            “Susie’s hungry,” grinned Kate.  “People get depressed when their blood sugar drops.  Let’s order, I’m starving”.

            They caught up on each other’s news.  Kate’s three sons were doing well, and their father had met someone half his age.

            “He says he can’t live without her, but he’ll never stay the course”, said Kate.  “She’s into paragliding and discos, and  it’s all he can do to get out of the armchair”.

            Louise’s daughter was living with a married man.

            “You’d think she’d have remembered what it did to us when our marriage broke up”, mourned Louise.   “She says this is different.   He said his wife’s  so taken up with her career  she’s forgotten what life’s about”.

            I wouldn’t worry about it,” said Kate.  “Your daughter will soon get bored  and she’ll be off.   Anyway, most women have to work, like it or not.  They have to help pay the mortgage and feed the kids.  They turn themselves inside out to be superwoman, then one day they discover they’re on their own!”

            “Its cliche time and life isn’t fair”, said Susie.  “Incidentally,  Kate, you’re looking rather smug, and what’s making you look as if you’ve lost ten years and discovered the secrets of the universe.  I bet you’ve met someone”!

            Two pairs of eyes bored into Kate, whose mouth turned up in a grin as she scrutinised her nails.

            “Well, I wasn’t going to mention it…” she began.

            “Of course not.  Wild horses wouldn’t have dragged it out of you.  But you can tell us”, invited Louise.  “No details too large or too small.”   And she turned a dazzling smile on the waiter, who was wielding a vast pepper grinder over her steak.

            “Well, he makes me laugh, and he suggested a trip to Paris”, said Kate in a rush.

            “Are you sure he’s divorced”, insisted Louise.

            “I’m certain”, said Kate.

            “No huge teenagers still at home, who need someone to feed them and do their washing?” enquired Susie.

            “Susie! Will you lighten up?  What’s the matter.  You look miserable”.

            “I’m not miserable, I’ve got a problem at work”, muttered Susie.

            “Well, a problem shared…..”

            ” I spend all my weekends compiling reports and drawing up pi charts and graphs, take them into my moronic director who passes the whole thing off as his own work”.

            “Well, you should be used to that by now”, said Louise. 

            “I know.  I know”, groaned Susie.  “But  I’m doing all his work now.  It’s his business to analyse and innovate, but he asks me to make notes on this, and research that, then I hear that he’s being congratulated on his reports.   My reports.  The only change he’s made to them is to put his name on the front page.”

            “Can’t you drop in a few deliberate mistakes? said Kate. 

            “I thought of that, but I just couldn’t do it”, sighed Susie. 

            Kate sighed. 

“This glass ceiling they keep talking about.  You know, the one that women can’t get past,” she said loudly.

            Susie and Louise stared in surprise and Kate lowered her voice slightly.

             “Well, this particular ceiling isn’t made of glass.  It’s made of marshmallow, and women have put it there themselves, because they  hate to upset people.”

            She studied Susie kindly, and went on, more gently.

            “You’re mothering him, when you should be doing your best to smother him.  Of course he’s going to take advantage of the situation.  Deal with the problem, or go along with it.   It’s in your own hands!  Now, what shall we have for pudding?”

            “I used to make  peach roulade for Jeff”, murmured Louise.  “It  took hours”, she added wistfully.

            “Well, maybe you should have been taking flying lessons instead,”  said Kate briskly. ” And I’ve made up my mind.   I’m going to Paris”, she added.

             There was a burst of activity  as four men were ushered to a table opposite.  Susie and Louise and Kate arranged their features into smiles and studied the new arrivals.

            “What do you think?” hissed Susie

             “Steady”, grinned Kate.

            Susie smiled on a sudden thought.

            “Kate, you’re right, I don’t have to be a victim.  He’ll  needs my notes for a meeting on Monday, so he’ll hit the roof and start shouting.     I’ll get hysterical, pay a visit to Personnel, mention the fact that I was unable to do the extra work because of  my sick grandmother,  and bingo, everything’s out in the open.”

“Brilliant,” grinned Kate.

The voices from the next table were getting louder, three of the men appearing to be consoling the  younger man.

“She took the kids and went off to her mother’s! Said I was always working, and now she’s met someone else.”

“There’s no pleasing them,” snapped his friend.  ” I worked all the hours there were to pay it off our  mortgage,  and my dear wife shot off with the window cleaner.”

“And my wife’s a compulsive spender,” moaned the third man. 

Kate grinned, Susie laughed and Louise sighed.

“I’m always hearing about window cleaners,” whispered Kate. 

“Shame though,” said Louise.

“Not all men are bad,” said Susie.

“And some women are hell,” said Kate.

            “And I  like men,” grinned Susie.  “And it’s good to talk.”

Tilly  loved going to the fish and chip shop.   It was always warm and smelled of chips. The other nice thing about the chippy was the way the couple behind the counter  smiled and teased her.

“Hi Tilly,” they’d say.  “I hope you went to school today.”

Sometimes, she hadn’t managed to get to school, and she’d feel herself going red in the face, but they never noticed. 

 “How’s your Mum,” they’d say, and  they always gave her a little paper bag full of crispy batter just for herself, and the pieces were all golden brown and absolutely delicious with a shake of salt.  She’d eat them on the way home, with the warm packet of chips tucked inside her coat, and that was the best part of the day,  what with having to make her Mum cups of tea because she wasn’t feeling well, or listening to her moaning about the state of the flat.

Sometimes, she wished she had a Mum like the English teacher, who said she could do well if she wasn’t away so often.  And she longed for her own special  friend in school.     The girls in her class called her names and said  her hair was greasy.  She hadn’t realised until they said that, and when she got home, she took all the rubbish out of the bath, found some soap, and washed her hair under the tap.   The water was freezing, and she had to hurry, because Mum was screeching from the sofa, and she had to go to the launderette.

Tilly’s Mum always seemed to be screeching for her tablets, or huddled up asleep, and the day the man came to the door,  she’d spilled tea on the sheets.

“Mum.  There’s a man outside.  He wants to see you,” Tilly said, shaking her mother hard.

“Leave me alone,” screeched her mother, but now the man had come inside, and he was looking around and shaking his head.

“Not at school today Tilly,” he said.

“Mum wasn’t very well,” Tilly said.  

“Could she manage to come and talk to me do you think.” the man said.

Tilly’s Mum staggered in then.   She’d wrapped herself in her old candlewick dressing gown and managed to fall into a chair before she screamed at the man.

“Just walk in, why don’t you.  Don’t bother to ask permission.”

“I came to see how you were managing,” the man said. “And I notice Tilly’s been absent from school a lot this term.”

“We don’t need any help,” Tilly’s Mum said fiercely.

“Maybe Tilly does,” said the man. “Would you make us a nice cup of tea Tilly.”

She dithered, and he smiled again.  “I need to talk to your mother for a moment, but as soon as you get back, we’ll be all finished.”

“That’s all right Tilly,” her mother said, and she put the kettle on, worrying about being in trouble for not going to school.

Things happened fast after that.  

“You’re to have a holiday,” her mother said, “and I’m going to a special clinic.  They’re going to check me over and help me to get better.”

Tilly was caught up in such amazement, she forgot to worry about her Mum being checked over.  A lady who smelled of lavender gave her two pairs of shorts, three tops and a swim suit.  Then she found her some sandals, a beautiful nightdress with bows all round the neck and an anorak with a hood.

“Let’s hope you won’t need that,” she laughed.  “You’re going on holiday Tilly, with other children just like you, who look after their Mums or Dads.  We’re going to take you to the seaside.”

For the rest of her life, Tilly would remember that holiday.   Dave and Wendy counted them all on the minibus, and made them laugh when they teased the driver and shouted out riddles.  She sat next to a girl called Polly, and they worked out the riddles, and giggled.   They left grey tower blocks and burnt out cars behind,  and drove along lanes so narrow that bracken and blackberries  brushed the windows. Honeysuckle spilled over  hedges, and horses leaned on gates.  It was better than the pictures she’d seen in books.  And when they came to a village where the  cottages were covered with flowers, Tilly thought she was dreaming.  

“Are they real,” she said.

“Absolutely one hundred per cent,” said Dave, and as the bus left the village, Tilly wished she could live in a fairytale place like that for ever and ever.

“We’re here,” said Wendy. They all spilled out, and Tilly stared.

She’d never seen the sea. She couldn’t believe there could be so much space, or so much water. She could smell seaweed,  the sun sparkled on pools, waves frothed over rocks, and she longed to collect the  seashells lying right at her feet.    There were children making sandcastles, and proper families with Dads, were having picnics.

“What do you think,” said Dave. Tilly was speechless.

“Come on then.  If you  stopped daydreaming, you could  paddle,” laughed Dave, and Polly nudged her and said they were sharing a room.

“Swim suits on, see you all on the beach in twenty minutes,” said Wendy, after they’d unpacked and been given a drink and a biscuit.”

“Do you think Heaven’s like this,” Tilly said.

 Polly giggled and said she was mad. “Last one in’s a great big sissy,” she shouted, and together, they skittered down to the water’s edge, where the waves foamed as they splashed through the water  hand in hand, and Tilly laughed until she ached.

 After breakfast next day, they were all given a postcard so that they could write home.

Tilly thought for a long while, chewing her pencil.  And then she smiled.

  ‘Dear Mum’, she wrote.  ‘When I grow up, I’ll get a job here.  We’ll paddle every day, and you’ll soon get better.

PS  I have a friend.   She has black hair and she says I’m funny.  Love Tilly.

It was Sunday, the penultimate Sunday in July, the first Sunday of the summer holidays, and it was raining.  No, not just raining, it was bucketing down, and had bucketed down since TyddDroveCommunity College broke up the previous Friday.

Tim Jackson scowled at his computer screen, tossed the game console on to his bed and angrily tussled his hair; he had lost count of how many times he had defeated the mutant killer zombie mice from Mars.  He was playing games instead of revising for next year’s GCSEs.  He had to work out some sort of history project; probably the Poor Law, everyone does that he thought; it must be easy.  All the other stuff, physics maths, English is straight book and class work.  Tim thought that if he could get the history project sorted out this holiday, he would have an easy time in the half terms, and the Christmas and Easter holidays before the exams in June.

‘Timmy, oh Timmy.’

‘Not again.’  Tim sprung up from his chair and peered intently from behind the nets, trying to find some source for the feminine musical voice that had haunted him since Friday.

‘Nothing,’ he muttered, ‘always nothing.’

That wasn’t entirely true, from his bedroom he could see into the derelict gatehouse opposite, in Chandler‘s Copse.  There had been shadows coming from the upper windows and flickering lights after dark.

Chandler‘s Copse stood on the edge of the Wisbech Road and Chandler‘s Playing Field and was a left over from when old squire Chandler sold off the estate to property developers.

‘Right, I’m going to solve this.’  Goaded into action, Tim stormed downstairs, stared into the hall mirror and ran his fingers through his tight, curly ginger hair, apparently, a legacy from his mother.  Not that he cared, she ran out on them years ago.  According to dad, she had ‘got herself caught up in some occult group at the manor house.’  Tim hadn’t seen her since his fifth birthday.  He grabbed his coat from its usual place on the coat hooks and ventured into the summer storm.

From the front door, the copse and gatehouse loomed grey and inhospitable through the sheeting rain.

The pewter grey sky turned electric blue as another bolt of lightening crackled across the fenland farms that straddled the Cambridgeshire, Norfolk, and Lincolnshire border; it was followed by an ominous, long, low roll of thunder.

He eyed a strange, pink, rubbery shape lopping through the copse.  Pull your self together, Timmy boy, you’re reading too much Lovecraft.

He deftly jumped the puddle forming in the gutter, there was always trouble with the drains during storms, and was soon in the abandoned garden to the gatehouse.

It had only been seven or eight years since the sale of the estate; already the copse was taking over the cottage.  Massive vines of bramble and old man’s beard snaked across the garden and clung desperately to the cottage walls, making it seem as if the building and woods were one sinuous entity.

The front door was unlatched.  Opposite, sprayed on the wall in the entrance hall, in fluorescent yellow, was a giant word:

CTHULHU

Tim smiled, ah; Wayne Harold has been here with his spray can leaving his tag.

A sickly green glow shone down the stairs and out into the hall.  Tim wondered if this was the source of the flickering, evening lights.  Originally, he had thought it was candles; he and Wayne had lit candles in the evenings to scare passers-by, but then they stopped the silly game, they themselves frightened by noises from the attic.

Tim took a deep breath and climbed the stairs; wary of the rotting treads.  He barely noticed the fungal stench of decomposition that pervaded the air.

‘Timmy, oh, Timmy.’

Tim’s hackles rose, for the first time that day, he started to feel afraid.  ‘Come on Wayne, stop fooling around, turn off the sound effects and the funny torch.’

Nothing; the light still glared from the front bedroom and down the stairs into his eyes, followed by a quiet, manic giggle.

‘No sound effects Timmy, no funny torch, Wayne has joined us.’  Framed by the bedroom door was a hideous, travesty of a human being, a bloated woman with writhing tentacles sprouting from livid gaps in her tight, curly, ginger hair.

On the creature’s right side, Wayne had somehow merged with this monstrosity, as if the flesh had welded together and had taken on a sickening, fluorescent, shocking pink hue.  Wayne‘s face contorted into a long, silent scream.

Beyond this travesty of nature, the room seemed to stretch for miles, the floor heaved and writhed like some monstrous battlefield, covered with the dead and injured refusing to rest.

‘Come Timmy, join us.’  The creature hissed.  ‘This is not only the mundane gatehouse to the Chandler estate; it is the gateway for the ancient gods.  Together we can read the sacred Necromicon and pave the hallowed path for them to enter this world.’

Suddenly, a tentacle wrapped around Tim and lifted him in the air.  As much as he wriggled and struggled, he could not free himself.  He forced his hand into his right pocket end retrieved his penknife.  The blade easily penetrated the tentacle’s rubbery flesh.  The creature in the doorway issued a long, piercing howl and released Tim.  He crashed, senseless, on to the landing. 

Tim regained his senses to a long, warm bright light, he lifted his head; the creature had gone, along with the hideous landscape.

Outside the clouds had parted and the summer sun shone through the cottage’s bedroom window.  Across the room, clutching his canvas rucksack of spray cans, lay the whimpering body of Wayne.