The Women Left Behind by Leonie Jarrett, whisky, neat

I took a deep breath in and called my sister’s mobile. This was not a call I wanted to make but I had known it was coming. So did she.

My sister answered, “Hey Kath, can I call you back? I’m about to start the lunch service.”

“Hey Susie. No. It’s important. But I’ll be quick. It’s Dad. It’s time. A day or two at most the nurses tell me.” My voice cracked a little. Saying the words that my Dad is dying just made it real.

I heard a small sob, “Thanks for telling me straight Kath. I’ll make arrangements here and be in Manchester later today if I can. I’ll call you back once I know what train I’m on.”

“OK. Take care Susie. See you soon.”

“One last thing. Make sure that woman is not there when I get there.” Susie hung up before I could reply. Deliberately probably.

Susie owns and runs a busy restaurant in London. It’s open seven days a week so it’s full on for her. Even when the restaurant is thriving, it is a huge commitment. There’s always staff to hire and fire, uniforms and linen to have cleaned, food and liquor to order, customers to placate. At the moment, with cost of living pressures, there is the added stress of keeping the meal prices low but still making money. As she tells me, the needle is balanced precariously between profit and loss. Anyway, the restaurant had made it really difficult for Susie to come to Manchester to visit Dad. She had made me promise that I would communicate with her honestly about Dad and that’s what I had done over the last few months.

Dad is 81 – a “good age” until you’re talking about your Dad and the very real prospect of losing him. He’d always had good health. Really good health. In fact, he’d always been quite smug about it. “Never drink, never smoke. That’s why I keep so well,” was always his refrain.

But something gets all of us one day doesn’t it? In Dad’s case, it was an infection bad enough for him to be hospitalised. Blood tests whilst he was there showed the dreaded “C.” A nasty type. Incurable. There was treatment to improve the quality of the life he had left but the medicos did not fill us with any false hope. It was to be six months. Or less.

I live in Manchester so I can see Dad regularly. I had thought he was looking a bit “peaky” and I knew he was off his food. I had suspected that time was closing in.

“That woman” – the one Susie refuses to see – is Dad’s partner of over twenty years. They had had an affair whilst she was working for my Dad. Which is dreadful. No argument from me about that. But she is Dad’s long-term partner and my view is to at least be civil. Especially at the moment.

Susie and I had had furious rows about this. Well, about lots of things actually. But let’s stick to the issue at hand – “that woman.” Helen. Dad’s partner. He has probably been with Helen now longer than he was with our Mum.

I had beseeched Susie, “This is about Dad. Not about you.”

To no avail.

Susie had told me repeatedly that she would be in the same room once only with “that woman” and that would be at Dad’s funeral.

So, now here we are, almost at the point of Dad’s funeral but not quite.

Keeping Susie “happy” has been a challenge for years. She has never been part of a long-term relationship and she has no children. As she has aged, she has become more and more set in her ways. More absolute. Harder.

I, on the other hand, married three plus decades ago and have grown children. “Compromise” is my middle name. It has to be when you have a long-term relationship I think.

I picked Susie up from the station and took her straight to Dad’s. Helen had taken the opportunity to go down the street and pick up some prescriptions. My nerves were on edge as I waited for Helen to come home and for Susie to erupt.

For now, though, there was peace. Just two sisters sitting at our Dad’s bedside as he lay sleeping.

Susie and I sat in silence for about an hour, lost in our thoughts and our memories.

Dad opened his eyes, saw us both and smiled. He whispered, “My girls. You’re both here. You’ve been good girls to me. I need you to do one more thing for me - be kind to Helen when I’m gone.”

With that, his eyelids closed again.

About the author

Leonie Jarrett lives in Melbourne, Australia with her Husband of more than three decades, her four adult children and her two Golden Retrievers. Leonie is a lawyer and has owned several businesses. Now that she is semi-retired, Leonie is loving writing rivers of words. 

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Anthony Powell Would Be Horrified by Judith Skilleter, flat white coffee

Marie has two main interests. The first, and probably her main interest, is reading. She reads all the time. Her reading matter is obtained from her local lending library or bookshops but mainly Amazon. She admits that her extravagance of buying hardbacks on the day of publication is because she hasn’t, in fact has never had, the patience to wait for her favourite authors to come out in paperback. Her library at home is quite organised. Cookery books are in the dining room, travel books at the top of the stairs, art and art history books on the landing alongside hardback fiction. More hardback fiction and biographies are in the second bedroom and children‘s books are in the third bedroom.  The study has the rest, a miscellany plus her husband’s golf books. He has a shelf somewhere in there. It goes without saying that she is a great fan of Anthony Powell and his A Dance to the Music of Time series. She agrees with Mr Powell absolutely that “Books do furnish a room.”

Marie never goes out without a book. Therefore her handbags are big, they have to be able to hold a hardback (or two if she is coming to the end of a story). She even takes books to the cinema. After all why waste those minutes waiting for the lights to go down. When travelling she chooses trains for the reading opportunities and she reckons that she will one day buy a car that drives itself – for obvious reasons. And whenever she is asked what she would like as a birthday or Christmas gift she says immediately “A book token please – book tokens are the gift of imagination.” By now though her friends and family don’t ask anymore, they just go to their nearest bookshop where Marie’s gifts are easily sorted out.

She learned a good lesson some years ago when she and her husband visited Venice with the latest Donne Leon which Marie opened, as was her custom, when the aeroplane took off and she had her first gin and tonic of the trip. She had finished it two days later and could not find anything else she fancied in the whole of Venice. So Marie re- read the latest adventures of Guido Brunetti. But the lesson was learned and now, whenever Marie and her husband go on holiday, there are always one or two emergency books in their packing.

Marie’s second interest is looking at other people’s houses.  Marie has no wish to move house. She loves her home which is conveniently close to a golf course so her husband would not even give a house move a moment’s thought. They have lived there all their married life. It is where they brought up their two lovely and successful children who still love coming “home” from time to time with their own families. A house move is absolutely out of the question but Marie loves seeing other people’s house choices; some she approves of but some make her shake her head in despair.

Marie loves all the programmes on TV where derelict houses are done up or where fancy houses are made fancier.  She never misses an episode of that couple who renovated a chateau in France and she is amazed at all these other people who live in squalor as they try to achieve their dream.

Marie especially loves the programmes where estate agents are followed by cameramen as they sell very swanky abodes. Her particular favourite is Luxe Listings a programme based in Sydney, Australia. Here the estate agents involved live the high life as they buy and sell multi-million dollar homes that have to have a state of the art kitchen and dining area, a magnificent view of the ocean, a pool and a garage big enough for expensive cars. Marie marvels at these palaces and wonders “Where do these people get all this money to buy these houses and cars - and furniture that they didn’t assemble themselves?”

But Marie has grave concerns about the owners of these very swanky dwellings. Are they unable to read? Where is the house reading matter? There is never even a sight of a lone Kindle lying about. This baffles Marie and she feels sorry for these people who have lots of money but don’t seem to spend any of it on literature. Do they watch TV all the time instead? It seems that huge TV screens in every room seem to be the norm in these exotic palaces. That seems unlikely as her reports of TV Down Under have never been positive. In addition, these owners of vast houses certainly don’t seem to eat.  Their expensive state of the art kitchens are filled with empty worktops although there might be an expensive floral decoration somewhere on the bland marble nothingness. And these owners must be child and pet free because there is never any mess, there is never a lone scruffy trainer lying on the stairs, there is never a rude poster on a teenager’s bedroom wall or a washing line filled with small sized sports gear. And there is certainly never an impossible - to - remove dog accident in the middle of the Persian rug in the hallway.

All this and the lack of reading matter could be due to the stylists who go in before house is put on the market to make it ready for the sort of person or family the estate agents have assessed as being the most likely potential purchasers? This can involve the removal of much, if not all, of the owner’s possessions and certainly all of the personal stuff such photos which are discreetly hidden away and any evidence of small people is bound to be removed. Are books therefore boxed up and put in the garage alongside the Mercedes and Porsches? How tragic? Why do they do this? Have they not heard of Anthony Powell Down Under? It follows, as far as Marie is concerned, that if books furnish a room therefore the more books in a house will enhance any house sale.

Marie has no time for these stylists. She has a friend who lives in Sydney and when she decided to move house the stylists came on the attack and decided that her lovely home would suit a young family. So all her friend’s fabulous, stylish and expensive furniture was put into storage and the house was filled with furniture that, and a pun is not intended here, to which Marie’s friend would not give house room.  Marie’s friend’s house was eventually sold to an elderly Chinese couple who had no family.

But deep down Marie accepts that houses for sale have to become show houses to attract “the right sort of people” and all personal evidence, even  including precious books, have   to be removed so that prospective buyers can imagine their own personal evidence in that place. What a business?

This is a depressing thought but Marie cheers herself up by pre-ordering from Amazon a crime thriller due out very soon.

About the author

 Judith Skilleter is new to writing fiction after a long career in social work and teaching. Her first children's novel The April Rebellion, has recently been published. Judith is a Geordie, who settled in East Yorkshire forty-five  years ago and is married with four grandchildren. 

 

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Elsie’s Story by Dawn Knox, tea and buns

 

Elsie’s Story

By Dawn Knox

Drink: Tea and buns

Previously: An unusual stranger has shaken up the neighbourhood. Gladys, Elsie, Minnie, Daphne and schoolboy, Cyril, have all witnessed the exotic man. Now Gladys and Elsie are determined to track him down…

 

Elsie rapped sharply on Gladys’s front door. She knocked again until the bolt was drawn inside, and the door opened. ‘Gladys! You’ll never guess what. Look at this.’

‘And a very good morning to you too, Elsie.’ Gladys juggled a bowl of cereal in one hand and kept Robert Louis Stevenson back with one foot, so he didn’t escape. ‘Do come in. How lovely to see you so early in the morning. And so unexpected.’

Elsie held up the local newspaper. ‘Oh, don’t be so grumpy, Gladys. I simply had to show you this. I bought it while I was out jogging.’

Gladys sniggered. ‘Jogging, indeed!’

‘There’s no need for that.’ Elsie’s cheeks flushed. ‘I’m more active than you.’

‘No, you’re not. You just wear sporty clothes that make it look like you’re dynamic. You haven’t jogged anywhere since you heard rumours they’d reduced the prices of the cakes in the patisserie in town.’

‘Never mind that. Just look at this.’ Elsie waved the newspaper.

‘It’s probably best if you come in and show me,’ Gladys said, spilling milk from her cereal bowl on the doormat as she stood on one foot, pushing Robert Louis Stevenson back with the other. ‘I’ll put RLS in the dining room to cool off.’

 

Seated at the kitchen table, Elsie passed the Basilwade Chronicle towards Gladys.

Naked Man on the Loose in Basilwade

Gladys read the front page and gave a sharp intake of breath. ‘That’s our man.’

‘Well, he’s not ‘our man’, strictly speaking,’ said Elsie, sipping her tea.

‘No, but I expect we’re the most traumatised by him. We had the greatest exposure.’

‘We were spying on him, so some might say it was our fault.’

‘Elsie. I’ve told you before, we were carrying out Neighbourhood Watch. Anyway, I wonder who reported him. It wasn’t Mr Johnson. That’s for sure.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because I asked him who the man was, and Mr Johnson was remarkably guarded. It was almost as if he was pretending he hadn’t known the man was in his garden. But as I told him, he was talking nonsense. The naked man couldn’t have got into the garden without someone letting him in.’

‘And?’

‘Then he admitted he’d let the man in, but apparently, it’s hush-hush because of his DNA.’

Elsie frowned. ‘Whose DNA? Mr Johnson’s or the naked man’s? Is it some kind of hereditary problem?’

‘What are you talking about, Elsie? I wish you’d keep up. Mr Johnson said he signed the DNA and now he’s not allowed to tell me anything about the man.’

Elsie paused for a few seconds. ‘I think you mean an NDA, dear. A non-disclosure agreement.’

‘That’s what I said, Elsie. I wish you’d listen. Anyway, Mr Johnson and I have fallen out. He is no longer welcome in my house.’

‘Oh dear. That’s a shame. You were getting rather close.’ Elsie dipped two biscuits in her tea.

‘Yes, indeed. But no more of my sherry or cocktails for him. Or anything else, for that matter.’ Gladys raised her chin and pursed her lips.

Elsie sighed. ‘So, who else can we ask about the naked man?’

Gladys frowned. ‘He went into Daphne’s, but he wasn’t there long, so there’s no point asking her. Then he climbed into the Pegwells’. Perhaps Minnie might have more idea where he went after that.’

‘I could ask Percy Pegwell. I’ve been bumping into him quite a lot recently.’ Elsie’s cheeks flushed again. ‘He’s a really nice man.’

Gladys’s frown deepened. ‘Yes, so you keep telling me. Anyway, he seems very pleasant. I’ve no idea what he sees in Minnie, though.’

Elsie licked her finger and lowered her head as she turned the pages of the newspaper to hide her flaming cheeks. ‘Hmm. Perhaps there’ll be more mentions of our man inside. Well, I never! Look at that. I think I might have solved the mystery.’ She turned the newspaper for Gladys to see.

‘Tiberius Tromploy presents his World Famous Circus of Delights and Wonders,’ Gladys read aloud. ‘You may be on to something, Elsie. Those arty types will take their clothes off for anyone.’

‘I think that’s rather a sweeping generalisation, Gladys, but in this instance, it fits perfectly. Our man belongs to the circus.’

Gladys tapped the newspaper with one forefinger. ‘Just wait until I tell Mr Johnson I know whose DNA he has. That’ll serve him right for being such a clever clogs.’

‘But we don’t know which man is ‘our man’. Look, there are lots of performers listed in that circus advert. Let’s write them down and discuss them. You know, like they do in the police force when they’ve got a list of suspects. We could be Scrivener and Winterbottom – sleuths of Basilwade.’

‘Don’t be so ridiculous, Elsie. And anyway, it would be Winterbottom and Scrivener. But a list can’t hurt.’ Gladys fetched a notepad and pen and wrote all the names in the advert.

‘Who’s first,’ Elsie asked.

‘Tiberius Tromploy. But I don’t think it could be him. Look at the picture. He’s got a ridiculous twirly moustache.’

‘That’s a drawing. He might not look as plump as that in real life, and he might have shaved.’

‘True, but the illustration must bear some likeness to him. It’s his circus; he’d hardly use an image that didn’t have some resemblance.’ Gladys crossed his name off the list.

‘Who’s next?’ Elsie asked.

‘Manny the Bendy Bunny.’ Gladys scratched her head with the end of the pen. ‘What do you think a bendy bunny is?’

‘A flexible rabbit?’

‘That doesn’t sound like a very exciting circus act. Shall I leave him on the list of suspects?’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

Gladys ticked Manny’s name. ‘The next is Pablo the Pudding Wrestler. Could it be him?’

‘It’s possible. Our man was fit like you’d expect a wrestler to be, and I imagine he could have wrestled anything, even a pudding.’

Gladys frowned. ‘But when you think about it, how fit do you have to be to wrestle a pudding?’

Elsie looked up and contemplated the ceiling. ‘I can’t help my imagination conjuring up the image of a Sumo Wrestler hugging a Christmas pudding.’

Gladys followed Elsie’s gaze. ‘Yes, my imagination can see that, too. It’s a hard picture to banish. Anyway, Elsie, you eat a lot of puddings. Do you often need to overpower them? And if so, how hard are they to body slam?’

‘I do not eat a lot of pudding,’ Elsie said crossly. ‘But if I did, and I had trouble with a particular pudding, I suspect I could easily disarm and immobilise it.’

Gladys crossed Pablo out. ‘No, he’s not our man.’

‘Who’s next?’ Elsie said sharply, still annoyed at Gladys for assuming she ate lots of pudding.

‘Brenda the Bearded Person. Obviously not.’ Gladys crossed that name out. ‘Bungling Bones the Turnip? No, perhaps not.’ She crossed that one out too.

‘That leaves Punchy and Piquant, the twin champion high-wire clog dancers.’

Gladys crossed them both out.

Elsie stared. ‘What did you do that for?’

‘Oh, Elsie, for goodness’ sake, keep up! You might have been seeing double, but I assure you there was only one man in Mr Johnson’s garden. Punchy and Piquant are twins.’

Elsie pressed her lips together and frowned. ‘Twins don’t always go out in pairs. Our man might be one of the twins. You’re being very sharp, this morning, dear. I’m finding it quite upsetting.’

Gladys’s shoulders sagged. ‘Yes, I apologise, Elsie. I’m still cross with Mr Johnson, but that’s no reason to take it out on you. You’re right, it could be Punchy or Piquant. Although our man wasn’t wearing clogs. But he looked athletic, so he could be a high-wire clog dancer.’ She looked at the remaining names on her list. ‘That leaves Manny the Bendy Bunny and either of the clog dancing twins, Punchy and Piquant.’

‘What do we do now, Gladys?’

‘There’s only one thing for it…’

Elsie’s eyebrows rose in question.

‘We need to go out and buy tickets for the circus so we can find our man. Come on.’

‘Now? I’ve already had my exercise for the day.’

‘I think you’ll find, Elsie, that when they recommend Five a Day for your health, they’re not referring to five steps a day, they’re referring to portions of vegetables and fruit.’

‘Oh, hilarious, I’m sure.’

‘And if we go now to buy tickets, we can stop off on the way home at Le Bunnoir for tea and buns.’

‘Now you’re talking. Lead on.’

 

It had been a good idea to arrive at the circus box office early because they’d managed to buy ringside seats for that evening. Gladys got her pad out and sat with pen poised, making notes as each act performed.

It was strange how, despite the audience being seated all around the ring, the circus performers spent more time in front of Elsie and Gladys than anyone else.

The woman sitting next to Elsie leaned over and whispered. ‘I’m glad I sat next to you.’

‘You are?’

‘Of course. You’re obviously talent scouts and the acts all want to be scouted, so they’re performing just for you.’

 

‘Well, that was a very different evening,’ Gladys said as they set off home along Basilwade High Road. ‘Although we’re no closer to identifying our man. He wasn’t there.’

‘Manny the Bendy Bunny was quite a disappointment. He wasn’t even that bendy.’

‘I know what you mean. But it was interesting to see a human turnip.’

‘Hmm. Well, it was a lovely evening out, even if we failed to find our man. Although if you want a new career, Gladys, you could always become a talent scout. How many business cards do you have?’

‘Six from assorted clowns, three from various jugglers, two from bare-back riders, one from the human turnip, one from the lion tamer with her pride of ten lions and another from a high-wire clog dancer.’

‘Just the one clog dancer?’

‘Punchy said he’d had an artistic disagreement with his twin and wanted to branch out. Apparently, he also does a balancing act juggling chainsaws.’

Elsie sighed. ‘So much for Scrivener and Winterbottom. The intrepid sleuths have reached a dead end.’

‘Winterbottom and Scrivener. And we still have one avenue left open.’

‘We do?’

‘Certainly. I’m going round to see Mr Johnson, and I intend to get the information out of him, DNA or no DNA. Once I get a few Piña Coladas inside him, he’ll be spilling beans all over the place.’

‘That’s not a very wholesome image you’ve just conjured up there, Gladys. Piña Coladas and beans.’

‘But I’m determined it’ll work.’

‘Well, in that case, I ought to do my bit. I’ll visit Percy Pegwell and question him. Minnie is out tonight at her bridge club.’

After Elsie had left Gladys, she did a half-skip. After she’d seen Percy, she’d go home and finish her box of doughnuts. Sleuthing was demanding work, and she was famished. Then, perhaps she’d check out the business card one of the trapeze artists had pressed into her hand. He hadn’t been the man she and Gladys had been seeking, but it wouldn’t hurt to telephone him tomorrow anyway and have a chat. Perhaps they could meet up?

Elsie half-skipped again. Her social life was looking up.

 

 

If you’d like to read the previous stories you can find them here:

Glady’s Story is here - https://www.cafelitmagazine.uk/2024/03/gladyss-neighbourhood-watch-by-dawn.html

Minnie’s Story is here - https://www.cafelitmagazine.uk/2024/04/minnies-story-by-dawn-knox-milk-shake.html

Cyril’s Story is here - https://www.cafelitmagazine.uk/2024/05/cyrils-story-by-dawn-knox-lashings-of.html

Daphne’s Story is here - https://www.cafelitmagazine.uk/2024/06/daphnes-story-by-dawn-knox-green.html

 

About the author 

Dawn’s three previous books in the ‘Chronicles Chronicles’ series are ‘The Basilwade Chronicles’, ‘The Macaroon Chronicles’ and 'The Crispin Chronicles' published by Chapeltown Publishing. 'The Post Box Topper Chronicles' is coming soon. 

You can follow her here on https://dawnknox.com 

on Twitter: https://twitter.com/SunriseCalls 

Amazon Author: http://mybook.to/DawnKnox 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

Sunday Serial:240 x 70, 27. A Space of His Own 15 January 2019 by Gill James, cold beer

 

Introduction

This collection is a collection of seventy stories, each 240 words. They were inspired by the first picture seen on my Twitter feed on a given day.

    27.  A Space of His Own 15 January 2019

 It was grey on the outside but the pictures Dylan had seen of the inside were promising. Did he really belong here, though? This was right, wasn't it?

He pushed the door open.

Yes.It was just like the photos he'd seen. Thick carpets in the lounge areas and hardwood floors in the work pods. Gentle muzak.  Smartly dressed receptionists. Purposeful busyness.

"Can I help you?" She didn't look as if she'd take any nonsense.

"I'm here to see Matt Schandler."

As he'd expected. Designer suit. Designer hair style? And expensive aftershave.

"Do you think you'd prefer hot desks for you and your company? Or are the fixed ones a better option."

"Oh we'll hot desk.  I expect we'll be in the theatre a lot. How easy will that be to organise?"

Matt grinned. "It should be all right if you book it far enough in advance. Would you like another look?"

He nodded.

Seconds later they were back in the theatre. Yes, it would do very well. The tiered seating was flexible.  Stage blocks meant you could set any sort of scene that you wanted. The decor was young and energetic.

"Well, how many slots?"

Dylan's palms were sweating now and he had a lump in his throat. This was going to cost a lot.

"I'd book sooner rather than later," said Matt. "This space is popular."

Oh heck. He'd got the money from the Dragons, hadn't he? They expected him to spend it all wisely didn't they?

About the author 

Gill James is published by The Red Telephone, Butterfly and Chapeltown.  

She edits CafeLit and writes for the online community news magazine: Talking About My Generation.

She teaches Creative Writing and has an MA in Writing for Children and PhD in Creative and Critical Writing.    

http://www.gilljameswriter.com  

https://www.amazon.co.uk/-/e/B001KMQRKE

https://twitter.com/GillJames

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