One to One was published by the group in June 2014 and is available in paperback from BurtonWriters@aol.com and also from Amazon at http://tinyurl.com/ohcjcjn at £3.99, ebook format is also available from Amazon. One to One - Monologues from a Writing Group was short-listed at the 2015 NAWG competition in the group anthology section. |
Our latest anthology, Cornucopia 2023, is now available at the low cost of £1.00 plus postage and packing. Short stories, poems, flash fiction, a short radio play script and also a pantomime "Jack and the Cyber Beanstalk" a combined effort from our members.
Burton Monday Writers celebrated 2017 with a splendid Festive anthology Yuletide Tales which was shortlisted at the 2018 NAWG awards held at Warwick University in September 2018 
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Burton Monday Writers latest anthology produced during lockdown. A collection of short stories and poetry which was entered for the National Association of Writing Groups annual anthology competition in 2021.
Now available at £2.00 per copy plus postage and packing. Email for details: Burtonwriters@aol.com |
Write Bytes is our 2016 publication - an anthology of short prose and poetry from sixteen of our members.
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A collection of short prose, Fiction in a Flash, was published by the group in December 2015 |
Short Story of the Month Each month we focus on one member's work. This month we have Afaf Sanders' short story, "In Loving Memory" which was runner up at the 2023 National Association of Writing Groups annual writing competition. A longstanding member of Burton Monday Writers, Afaf's work has been featured in several of the anthologies we have produced. |
IN LOVING MEMORY by Afaf Sanders
A passing breeze carries the fragrance of the Mediterranean Sea as the ship moves slowly bathed in the glorious September sunshine. Fornell comes into sight with its cliffs and beaches. My heart flutters.
Once I lived in this village along with my friend Lorenzo. Like everyone else, our fathers were fishermen devoted to the sea and family life.
Images roll in front of me as if they aren’t distant anymore…
I look back to that day when Lorenzo and I sneaked out of our homes, still in our pyjamas.
“A bit dark,” I whispered rubbing my sleepy eyes.
He motioned me to move reminding me of my promise. A few weeks before, during a beach fiesta, old uncle Pedro swore by Santa Teresa of Avila that he’d seen mermaids on more than one occasion.
Lorenzo beamed as if he was stepping inside the sweet shop. “Real mermaids?” he asked.
Uncle Pedro gave a long nod emphasising that they only come out at dawn.
It sparked our curiosity. For days and days, we talked about nothing but mermaids, looking at pictures of them in books and some posters at school. They always fascinated us with their shiny long hair and fish tails, and they seemed friendly.
“Sofia,” Lorenzo said to me between mouthfuls of fish croquetas, while we sat eating lunch at his place, “don’t want to wait loads of years to see them.”
Although we were of the same age, Lorenzo was the more exuberant one, daring to explore things; and as an eight-year-old, I was carried away by his charisma.
So off we went before daybreak. Bare footed, we clambered down the cool steps leading to the beach. The mist rising like ghosts in the distance didn’t discourage me, I felt more confident with Lorenzo. Staggering through the dry sand, we reached the shore, eager to catch a glimpse of a mermaid before she’d disappear back under the water.
We stood still, the September breeze nibbled at our faces stinging our cheeks. Everything around us was silent, occasionally punctuated by the piercing squawking of a few gulls. Our ears bristled with alertness, as we listened to the rhythmic rise and fall of the waves, expecting a big splash and the magical apparition of a glittering mermaid smiling at us.
“We’ll say ola amiga,” Lorenzo had repeated to me earlier as we were scurrying along the cobbled lane. The glint in his brown eyes matched our excitement.
Suddenly, the sound of splattering spray made us jump. “She’s coming,” he whispered wriggling in elation. A faint orange glow emanated from the horizon, we held hands smiling. We were on the verge of enjoying our moment of triumph, we’d finally succeeded. But our anticipation turned into confusion then disappointment as the prow of a boat emerged from the surf. Slowly, black hooded heads started to rise like seals pushing through the water, and diver-suited men rushed out wading ashore with their black rubber boots.
Panic surged through us, we stood motionless, Lorenzo tightened his grip on my hand as if preventing me from running away. My heart was pounding, dreading that they’d want to harm us. There was no one there to save us, our fathers weren’t due out for their daily fishing trip yet. But swiftly, these men moved in the opposite direction from us.
Still in a daze, I didn’t feel Lorenzo had released my hand until I saw him racing after them. But somehow, I managed to retrieve my voice, perhaps it was the urge to save him.
“Come back!” I yelled at the top of my lungs.
But Lorenzo wouldn’t halt, he went further and further. I could see him zigzagging amongst these strangers. His little figure dressed in green and blue stripped pyjamas was quite discernible. I called again and again. Sometimes, my voice battering against the cliffs carried my echo back to me, nonetheless, I persisted shouting until he vanished out of sight. My chest felt like burning, I collapsed burying my tearful face in the sand.
Later, I remember being startled by loud voices filling the air and the crackling spurts of police radios. A woman police officer gently walked me to Mother who’d been waiting behind the police cordon, looking dishevelled in her dressing gown. I was scared Mother would tell me off, but she wrapped her arms around me, fervently kissing my sand encrusted face and patting my body all over, relieved I wasn’t harmed.
“I want to go home, mum,” I said clinging to her.
For many sleepless nights, I lay in bed gaping at the ceiling, tears flooding from the corners of my eyes. I couldn’t understand why Lorenzo ran after those diver suited men. Maybe he was enraged because he thought they’d frightened off the mermaid and spoiled our adventure. His shout kept resonating in my ears, “Naughty people!”
Had he wanted to tell them off or been nosy about what they were up to? I prayed and hoped that some miracle would happen and that he’d return soon, and then everything would go back to the way it was.
With the agony of the passing months, and the long-winded interviews by the police, I began to understand the ongoing political conflict between my community and the separatists who’d been fighting for a cause they considered to be legitimate. It had become the regular gossip of the villagers.
School wasn’t enjoyable anymore. I used to walk home by myself and felt like I’d been pushed aside by my peers. Whenever they had the opportunity, they’d give me an accusative look.
“It’s all your fault!” a classmate screamed in my face, echoing what the others believed.
Her words stabbed me like a knife in my heart, I’d just turned thirteen. It reignited the sense of the guilt that was already brooding inside me, and made me question myself again and again. Should I have run after Lorenzo and tried to bring him back? But I was terrified and glued to the spot. It was easy for everyone to blame me, but rather harder to make the effort to listen and try to understand.
His parents never accepted that it was he who had planned that fateful excursion, despite the police report. Parental love can be so emotionally irrational that it can blind parents to the truth. They labelled me as the little devil with black hair, dismissing the long friendship that had tied our two families.
It still hurts after all these years, a spontaneous fat tear rolls down my cheek. Sometimes, we need to look at the past as it was, and not treat it as a troublesome memory and bury it.
Everything lost its shine after Lorenzo’s disappearance. Grandad’s Flamenco melodies died with him. No more dancing and hand clapping to enliven the sleepy village, and no more gatherings to share food, the spirited affection that was once so prevalent amongst the community faded away. The wide expanse of sand lay empty most evenings, fewer and fewer people gathered for the summer night beach fiestas which in the past my father and Lorenzo’s had used to arrange. Over the years, youngsters left the village renouncing their fathers’ fishing tradition.
I gaze at the harbour that had been expanded, small yachts and multi-coloured cruise boats await to indulge the tourists’ fancies. A couple of jet-skis are racing in the bay reminding me of when Lorenzo and I used to spatter each other by the rock pools. Fornell is buzzing with life again but in a different way. Not sure whether I feel tempted to go back and visit. The wound heals but its scar remains.
A few neighbours had believed my side of the story, but were reluctant to challenge the frenzy which swept through the majority of the villagers. My parents couldn’t cope with being ostracised by the community as my father’s fishing business shrank.
“We don’t belong to this place, anymore,” he said one summer morning, then heaved a long frustrated sigh. “We must leave,” and that was it. All at once, we uprooted ourselves from our beloved island and moved to Pontevedra.
It wasn’t easy for me.
“You’ll adapt with time, Sofia,” my father said.
But conflicting emotions triggered confusion in my mind. I couldn’t study nor make friends and left school at sixteen with basic qualifications. Sometimes, we convince ourselves of certain ideas in childhood and create an illusion of truth that sticks with us. Even as a teenager, there was still that thread of hope that Lorenzo was alive; and that he’d turn up one day for the big city fiesta, and watch me in my colourful gitana outfit taking the first steps of the Sevillana dance.
Many summers came and went, and Lorenzo was never found. Every search brought distress to his parents and to me. As time passed, many stories were woven around his disappearance. Some thought that he’d been trampled upon then thrown into the deep sea. Others accepted the police version that he’d been adopted by the separatists to groom as one of them. The speculation went on and on.
I was lucky to have the support of loving parents and professional help, which enabled me to overcome the overhanging survivor’s guilt and unjustified self-blame I bore for so many years. Eventually, I realised that I shouldn’t get stuck in the past, and came to accept that life isn’t always sweet.
“You’ll be alone one day, Sofia,” my father said.
I looked at the lines under his eyes and the grey at his temples, and understood what he’d meant.
Gradually, the thought of the future spurred me on. I returned to school as a mature student, and managed to get the necessary grades to enter the naval academy. A bit older than my peers, I was twenty-six, but it didn’t deter me from working my way up. That strengthened my healing because I’d succeeded in fulfilling my childhood dream and Lorenzo’s.
And here I am now. Standing on the bridge of this corvette which I command, I focus my binoculars on that very beach of my childhood as we sail by. The distant past and the present are fused in this special moment. I let my smile linger, imagining the squeals of delight from the children I watch in the distance splashing each other. I can see Lorenzo amongst them, for in my eyes, he remains the little friend who never left me.
A LIFE FOR A LIFE by Shelagh Wain
Hester dropped the logs in the basket on the hearth of the dining room and stared out of the window. There was always something to see in the High Street. As she had hoped, she saw a couple of French officers from Napoleon’s army on their way up the hill to the point which marked the limits of their freedom. Prisoners of war or not, they looked so elegant compared with the young men of Ashbourne.
A moment later she saw Mary and Susannah from the Cock Inn strolling in the same direction. They were wearing fashionable muslin dresses and their best bonnets. Rumour had it that Mary was engaged to a French officer. Hester sighed. The Cock was an elegant inn, favoured by the gentry. Matt Redmond, the owner, imported French wines. Not like her own father, John Loach – or his pub, the Nag’s Head.
Her mother’s voice came from the doorway. ‘Hester! Stop mooning over the officers. There’s work to do.’
‘Yes, mother. Do you need anything from the market? I’d like to buy a toy for Rosie.’
‘I need some cloves and ginger – so off you go. But keep away from those Frenchies!’
Hester was taking off her pinafore and putting on a hat as her mother spoke. She found her purse with the few coins saved from the occasional tip left by a customer and set off up the hill to the marketplace.
Hester always loved the bustle of the market, but she had something special in mind today. The French prisoners of war who were billeted in Ashbourne were allowed to sell trinkets which they had made, to give them a little spending money. Most of the men were officers, but there seemed to be others who weren’t. She forced herself to buy the spices first, then headed for the top corner of the market, where the Frenchmen sold their wares.
Only one was there today – a slight figure with brown hair tinged with copper. On his folding table were several little figures carved in bone. Time and skill had gone into their making. One or two had arms and legs that moved, including one figure seated at a spinning wheel.
Hester picked it up, very carefully. ‘Did you make this? It’s beautiful.’
The young man frowned in concentration. ‘Yes, I make. One shilling, please.’
Hester was disappointed. It was too much. And her little niece, daughter of her sister Molly, was only a baby. She would probably chew the automaton and break it. She looked up. ‘Have you anything simpler?’ Then she blushed, for she found herself looking directly at a pair of brown eyes filled with longing. ‘I need a toy for a baby.’
The brown eyes lit up in a smile. ‘Yes – a – I know not the word.’ He pointed to a thick piece of bone which had been hollowed out and had a pebble inside it to make a rattle. The whole thing had then been polished smooth. ‘For a baby – safer, I think.’
‘How much?’
‘For you, sixpence.’
Hester counted out six pennies and dropped them in the young man’s hand. As he clasped the coins, his fingers brushed hers. They both looked down. ‘Thank you’, she said and fled back home.
The next week she found another excuse to go to the market. Once again she admired the tiny automaton. ‘You were a soldier|?’ she asked.
‘Moi? No.’ He thought furiously, then said slowly, ‘I make food. For the captain, on a ship. When he is taken, he ask for me to be his servant still.’ He smiled. ‘It is better than the old ships, I think.’
Hester had heard of the ‘prison hulks’ where the ordinary French soldiers were kept – those who survived. He had had a lucky escape. ‘You cook French food?’ she asked.
‘When I can find the …how you say..?’
‘Ingredients?’
‘Yes.’
The conversation seemed to be over, then he said quickly, ‘I should like to cook for you, one day. Or make a cake.’
‘Thank you. But it is not possible.’ She turned away.
Most people in Ashbourne accepted the officers. The surgeon was allowed to practise, and was popular with his patients. Hester’s father hated the French. Her older brother, took part in the Siege of Valenciennes in 1793. The Duke of York took the city, but her brother was killed. She herself was born after his death – a last attempt to produce a son to fill the loss and provide an heir. Her father had been an embittered man ever since. He would be furious if he saw her flirting with a ‘Monsewer’.
Despite her misgivings, Hester went back to the market several times. She learned that the young man was called Bertrand Kerouac. He had no sisters, so his mother had taught him to cook, but he really wanted to have a small bakery of his own. ‘A house with a garden, and an orchard, and a beautiful wife with hair like the gold of the sun in the west.’
Hester had fiery red-gold hair. She blushed, and was wondering how to respond when a sound like a wounded lion rang around the marketplace.
‘Hester! What do you think you are up to? Will you be a traitor to your dead brother?’
John Loach was almost purple in his towering rage. He had just seized Hester’s arm to pull her away when her mother’s voice cried out.
‘John! You must come. Young Daniel got out of the garden again while Molly was busy with the baby. You know he’s fascinated by the river, and the bank is so steep.’
All three set off at a run for the brook. Daniel was only three, enterprising and determined. The Henmore Brook was just a stream, but it was deep in places and it fed a mill pond.
Molly was searching along the bank closest to their house. Then Hester caught sight of a dark head, scampering ahead of them. As she watched, the child tripped over a tree root, and fell into the water. He went under, then reappeared, spluttering. The current carried him away.
‘The mill race!’ Molly was shrieking.
A slight, dark figure raced ahead and plunged straight into the stream, striking out towards the mill pond.
He reached the little boy halfway towards the mill race – and the churning wheel. With the child in his arms, the swimmer was having difficulty counteracting the pull of the race. But John Loach had run along the bank with a broken branch, which he held out. Man and boy were slowly pulled to the edge, where eager hands helped them onto dry land.
The danger was not over. Little Daniel appeared unconscious. Unceremoniously, the Frenchman took hold of his feet and held him upside down and shook him. Molly tried to protest, then she saw the stream of water from his mouth. When the boy started to splutter, Bertrand laid him on the bank. ‘He lives,’ he said.
‘We must get him warm and dry.’ Molly was in tears of relief. She swept up her child and fled for home.
‘This young man needs dry clothes too. Show him the way, Hester’. Mrs Loach’s voice was decisive. She marched off to the Nag’s Head, closely followed by Hester, Bertrand, and, more slowly, by John. On the way, Hester asked Bertrand how he knew what to do.
‘I am from Bretagne. We all learn to swim and how to help the drowning.’
Molly puzzled over ‘Bretagne’ until she remembered the French onion sellers who sometimes came to Ashbourne. Brittany. Where they spoke a different language. Not really French at all.
Bertrand was soon dry and dressed in some of John’s old clothes. The latter stood silently by the hearth while the women fussed over their young hero.
Mrs. Loach looked her husband in the eye. ‘A life for a life, John.’
He considered. ‘I am grateful to you, sir, for saving my grandson’s life. You will be welcome in my house. But no more than that.’ He looked long and hard at Hester, who just smiled. Bertrand had to leave as he was already late for his duties as a cook.
The next day, everyone heard that the captain who employed Bertrand had sacked him for being late. He would be taken to a prison hulk on the Thames. There was an outcry. Molly’s husband was a wealthy man and persuaded the authorities to release Bertrand Kerouac as a reward for saving the life of his child.
After prolonged family negotiations, Bertrand was taken on at the ‘Nag’s Head’ as a cook and baker.
The takings at the inn doubled. Especially popular was a special cake, a gingerbread the light gold colour of Hester’s hair.
A year later, after Waterloo, Hester and Bertrand were married. Eventually the ‘Nag’s Head’ ceased to be a pub and became the bakery which it still is today, selling its famous Gingerbread.
TOM’S RETIREMENT by Mary Gladstone
Lydia rapped the top of the kitchen table with a teaspoon and glared at her son, Paul.
“Thirty years I have been in this house getting it ready for his lordship’s retirement, I’ve decorated it, furnished it, tended the garden and if I say so myself it is a lovely home, but no, he decides he needs ‘space’ whatever that means. “
“Would you like to see where he is living now? I have a key and he is golfing this morning.”
“You have a key? You knew what he was intending to do and didn’t bother to mention it?”
“It’s not for me to get involved, you will just have to sort yourselves out. I refuse to take sides”
“Seems to me you already have!”
But curiosity got the better of Lydia. They pulled up outside a small end terrace house and as Paul opened the front door Lydia gasped.
"But this is dreadful. He must be having a nervous breakdown.” She looked around the room with its white walls and plain furnishings. “We must help all we can. Blue curtains I think instead of …”
“Mum.”
“…those plain things and a rug…”
“Mum.”
“…something bright and cheerful and..."
“MOTHER.”
Lydia stopped in shock at the tone of his voice.
“This is what he likes, he decorated it himself and chose the furniture. It’s spartan I know, but excellent quality. It’s what he likes. Anyway, he'll be back in a moment and I will run you home. It’s only ten minutes.” He headed for the stairs.
Lydia looked around the room with distaste, at the faded photos and pictures on the wall, the well-thumbed books on the shelf and wrinkled her nose. Probably what had been stored in the boxes in the garage. In the back kitchen the garden had recently been rotovated and a plan lay open on the draining board. A straight path and oblong patches marked out with notes for vegetables. As though they needed to grow their own veg, how ridiculous. There was even a plot marked for a greenhouse! "For goodness sake," she muttered under her breath.
As they were getting into the car Paul mentioned that Tom was causing a big of a stir at the golf club among the merry widows. “Quite the Silver Fox you know,” he said lightly.
“If he wants to start chasing bits of cheap skirt at his age, making a fool of himself, well it’s up to him. Not my concern. Not my business.”
Paul sighed.
Some days later Lydia waited behind the front door. She had been watching for Tom and was full of anticipation. She heard his key in the lock, he took it out and tried again. She had changed the locks! She felt a moment of triumph. She would let him knock twice, then wait a moment, open the door surprised and be very cool, but forgiving in the end. She had rehearsed it in her mind so many times. He knocked once and then nothing. She peered out of the window and saw him marching away, his back ramrod straight. Oh dear, that didn’t go according to plan, she thought.
A couple of days passed and still no sight or sound from Tom, and as temper receded reason began to step in. She looked over her beautiful garden with the curved borders and immaculate lawn and remembered the plan he had made for the other garden. All straight lines and squares. That plain room against her beautiful home, with its velvets, pastel shades and fine bone china and a glimmer of light began to shine through. She remembered him mentioning a study, after all they had three good-sized bedrooms, but she had dismissed this out of hand. He broached the subject of a greenhouse but where, in
her beautiful garden, was there space? And they really didn’t need one. He had brought in a bottle of his favourite whiskey and she had relegated it to the kitchen cupboard. A bottle of brandy and her lovely, curved glasses were left on display. So much more elegant than the whiskey tumblers. Lydia blushed to think of the small daily things that must have upset him. It’s just that she has been so used to having the house to herself and wherever he was he seemed to be in the way, and as for the constant sport – the noise and excitement he and his old buddy George and Paul had made whilst watching some final or other had given her a headache. George hadn’t been back. Oh dear, she thought. She had arranged everything so beautifully for Tom’s retirement and had forgotten one thing – the most important thing – Tom himself. She reached for the ‘phone.
“Hello Paul.”
“Mum, good to hear from you” and Lydia realised that she had been very cool with him over the weeks.
“Paul – I want you to do me a favour if you would – it’s about your father.”
“Oh?”
“Don’t’ worry I’m not going to ask you to shoot him.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” Paul laughed.
“You know it’s our wedding anniversary in a couple of weeks, well I was wondering if – as a gift – you could book us into The Bull for a meal and mention it to your father first.”
“Why don’t you just ask him yourself?”
“It will be less embarrassing if he wants to refuse. Easier all round if you do it.” She said in a small voice.
“OK Mum, leave it with me.”
And so, at an appointed time a taxi pulled up at the front door and Tom got out to open the taxi door. It was very cool and awkward at first but after a glass of wine or two and an excellent meal in their favourite restaurant, where they were well known, they were soon chatting about holidays taken and people they had met. They both enjoyed breaks away and when Tom had leave they would sometimes meet up somewhere exotic at a sort of half-way house, but even when he took his leave at home there were always trips and breaks away. One long holiday. Not a lot of time spent at home.
When the taxi pulled up at her door at the end of the evening, she turned to Tom
“Would you like to come in for a coffee or something?”
“I’ll settle for the ‘or something,’” he said following her down the path.
As Tom passed through the lounge the first thing he noticed was the whiskey on the side table, along with the heavy, lead crystal tumblers. He wondered idly where the brandy was kept now. In the cupboard?
Opening the fridge, he saw the cans of his favourite beer. He was even more surprised the next morning as he stepped out of the shower to the smell of bacon frying. Lydia hated the smell of frying, always maintained that it permeated the house for days and clung to the furnishings, but the final surprise was the kitchen table. Right down the centre Lydia had placed the old table tennis net. On one side of it was her bone chine cup, saucer and plate, muesli and croissants. On the other side was a cooked breakfast, red and brown sauce, white bread and English butter. His tea was in a very serviceable white mug bearing the insignia of his regiment. He laughed and ceremoniously took down the division and gently mixed the two sides, just a little.
“I thought we could call Hobson Street our annexe,” he said as he started transferring dates from his diary onto the calendar, “and we will need a larger calendar next year that’s for sure.”
Lydia looked over his shoulder, Thursday’s poker night and for a moment she had a cartoon type vision of four men sitting around her dining table, ash-loaded cigarettes hanging from the corners of their mouths and her polished table top covered with cans of beer and overflowing ashtrays. She was filled with dismay, then she heard him say “… greenhouse arriving on Tuesday afternoon” and again the cartoon like vision this time a mini digger was grinding its way up the centre of her immaculate lawn with its open jaws poised over her favourite flower bed. This is going to be awful, she thought, then noticed the letter ‘A’ beside these entries and most of the sports too. Perhaps an annexe was a good idea after all. But then a worse thought, “Are you planning to live in the annexe – are we going to have to live apart.” She felt near to tears. “That isn’t what I want.”
He reached over the table and took her hand.
“I have loved you too much for too long Lydia to part now. When I was on the other side of the world we were together and strong, surely we can be together and strong when our annexe is only ten minutes down the road. We will get there. No need to rush it. Anyway, I need your help with the garden, I have no idea what I am doing, and the greenhouse will be useful for you to over-winter your more delicate plants.”
A potting shed come greenhouse, thought Lydia, and someone to do some of the heaving. Well things are looking up.
She looked over his shoulder again and saw him writing golf.
“I have heard they do a good lunch at the golf club, perhaps I could meet you when your game is finished?” He obediently wrote lunch under.
I will certainly make it plain to any prowling merry widows that this particular silver fox is not surplus to requirements, she thought.
SHERBERT LEMONS by Ann Hodgkin
The sweet shop’s enticing display had lured me away from the shiny glass and chrome of the shopping mall. As I entered I could smell the nostalgia. Jars full of cinder toffee, midget gems, and acid drops stood in military fashion along the shelves. The sherbert lemons shone out vibrantly from the top shelf, and I thought of Granny.
She wasn’t the cuddly, marshmallow granny of story books, but I loved her and I know she loved me.
I was ten years old, fresh out of hospital following appendicitis and longing to see her. Imagine my disappointment when mother explained that Granny had also been ill and couldn’t visit.
But when I awoke from my afternoon nap, there she was, standing by my bed. I laughed and cried at the same time. Her face was flushed and her wispy grey hair poked out raggedly from beneath her chocolate brown hat. I could smell her favourite Imperial Leather soap. She flopped down on my bed with a sigh. “If I’d known you were going to cry I wouldn’t have come,” she gasped.
But I guessed from her bright beady eyes that my reaction pleased her. From her voluminous carpet, like a conjuror, she produced a twist of white paper containing sherbert lemons. How did she know these were the very sweets I coveted? On the rare occasions when I had money to spare, I’d always bought dolly mixtures so that they would last a long time.
Granny sat with me, and read from Alice in Wonderland. I felt very special having her all to myself. We shared the sweets, and they didn’t disappoint. Their sugary crunchiness mingled deliciously with their sharp fizzy centres. This was my first experience of sweet and sour tastes combined.
A little like Granny herself.
THE LADY AND THE THORN by Lynda Turner
Ice cold air stung my face as I emerged from Mills’ barn, another calf safely delivered.
"Sorry you had to come out tonight of all nights,” Mills said as I got into my Land Rover.
“Think nothing of it,” I replied starting the engine, “the animals don’t know it’s Christmas.”
Fog drifted across the road from the river as I drove into the village. I slowed down and slid open the window. The church clock struck three. Midnight mass had finished and sensible villagers were in warm beds. I envied them.
The mist grew thicker and I slowed to walking speed, then, cough...splutter, my engine died but I managed to manoeuvre my vehicle into a lay-by. No lights. No power. I unclipped my seat belt and jumped out to check the battery.
In the darkness I ferreted for my flashlight, found it and pressed the switch - nothing. I tried my mobile – no signal. What next?
Then I remembered a phone box at the nearby crossroads, did the phone connection still work? Unlikely but I decided to give it a try. However, as I locked my Land Rover I heard the clip-clop of horse’s hooves approaching. I wasn’t alone.
A horse and rider appeared out of the fog and halted before me. Thick mane and long flowing tail, I could see the white stallion was a fine piece of horseflesh. His rider, dressed in a long white gown belted with a thick gold cord, looked very small on the handsome stead. She pulled her hood back and an enormous length of fair hair cascaded over her shoulders. The horse let out a powerful cry and scraped his hoof on the ground. That’s when I noticed a trickle of blood oozing from his fetlock. “Excuse me, your horse needs attention.”
She slipped from the saddle and held the bridle whilst I crouched down to examine the wound. “It’s a thorn,” I said rising, “I’ll get it out before it festers. I’ll get my bag.”
As she watched me remove the thorn I wondered what she was doing riding about early on Christmas morning dressed as if she was in a pantomime? “Could have caused him trouble,” I said as I showed her the thorn.
“Glastonbury,” she said.
I assumed she meant her horse’s name and asked, “Isn’t it dangerous riding alone on a foggy night?”
“’Tis my time and not they place to question my deeds. Fear not! Thou hast served me well and deserve reward.” She took a ring from her finger and offered it to me.
“I can’t take that, here’s my card. Pay me after the holiday if you must.”
“Nay I shall be gone. Take it! Do as I bid!”
I shook my head but she pressed the ice cold jewel into my hand. “Keep my gift and tell me, whence cometh the Day of Judgement?”
I stared at her. Why was she speaking so strangely? “Who are you?”
She mounted her horse in a single leap. “This is Leofric’s land. I am his lady. I ride to warn those sheltering in Leofric’s Hall these Twelve Days of Christmas a violent curse will afflict our Saxon land. All Thanes must hide their gold for Normans come from the south. Their fire will destroy all in their path. Our lands will be pillaged as never before. The Normans will long be known for their doomsday.”
“Domesday? The Great Book?”
“Ye know of it? Then tell me true, whence cometh Judgement Day?”
“God knows,” I bellowed.
“Aye and God be with thee, healer.” She kicked her mount hard and galloped off.
“And Merry Christmas to you,” I shouted after her.
Left alone, I tried my mobile again. The signal was back up. Hopefully my Land Rover would spring to life too –no luck. I didn’t like waking Jenny but it was a relief to hear her sleepy voice and she agreed to pick me up. As I waited I thought about the strange woman and half-wondered if I had imagined her.
At first light the kids were up, tearing open presents and turning the lounge into a battlefield. I gazed heavy-eyed at Jenny. “I’d rather not leave the Land Rover out there too long. Perhaps I can get it started.”
She nodded and we left Mum holding the fort, or rather being attacked by forces of the Galatic Empire. In daylight the lay-by looked like any other lay-by. As we got out of the car a black Labrador bounded towards us. He was friendly and Jenny fussed him.
“Merry Christmas,” his owner called, “trouble?”
“Power failure around three this morning,” I said, “actually, it was rather odd. I spoke to a strange woman riding a white horse.”
“Oh, her! She’s not been sighted for years, but when she is it’s usually around the Twelve Days, always at night and somewhere in the village. Some say she’s Lady Godiva but I’ve never seen her.”
I guessed by his collar he was the local vicar. “She asked me when the Day of Judgement would come.”
“And what did you say?”
“God knows, I think, oh sorry, no offence intended.”
“None taken. I’m told a few words, no matter what you say, will send her packing.” He glanced at his watch. “Must be off to work. Morning service. Happy Christmas.”
I watched him cross the road and disappear into the churchyard. “He doesn’t believe me, does he?”
Jenny shrugged. “You didn’t say she was Lady Godiva. Was she wearing any clothes?”
“You don’t believe me either, do you? The ring, she gave me this ring.”
Jenny looked at the white pebble I held in my hand. "Hmm.."
Indignantly I thrust my hand back into my pocket. “Ouch!” Something pricked my finger.
“Look the thorn I removed from Glastonbury.”
“Then plant it. If it grows and flowers at Christmas you can come back and tell her about it.”
“Sure,” I smiled, “and who knows, she might tell me where they buried the gold.”