FLASH FICTION - LOST - NOV 2022

The first snowflakes of the season flutter in an updraught like angels performing a silent dance. Twenty-seven years, and the sight of falling snow still mesmerises me. I pull my coat tight around me, check my watch, and glance up the deserted street towards Tavistock Gardens. 4:34 a.m. If there is any truth to the legend, a bus should arrive in precisely one minute.

The humble drone of an engine fractures the stillness as an antique bus rounds the corner—on time—and stops alongside me. Doors hiss open. 

‘Where to?’ the driver asks. 

I’ve rehearsed the requisite response a hundred times in as many inflexions. ‘Where I need to be,’ I say.

He smiles and nods approvingly. ‘I’m Sal. Hop on.’ 

I’m chary of boarding an empty bus with a complete stranger, but Sal has a mature Pierce Brosnan vibe. Affable. Gentle. Trustworthy. So I shove my apprehensions aside and take the priority seat nearest the door where I can keep a vigilant eye on this man I’m entrusting with my life. 

Sal watches me in his mirrors as we travel through Bloomsbury in silence. 

‘Did you wait long, miss?’ he asks after we turn onto Oxford Street. 

‘Not long,’ I say. ‘Please. Call me Lamina.’ 

‘Beautiful name. What’s its origin?’

‘Afghanistan. My family immigrated here when I was eight.’

‘How wonderful,’ he says. ‘What do you do, Lamina?’ 

‘I’m a solicitor for Netflix. Acquisitions and Contracts.’

‘You must make your parents proud.’

‘Yes, I guess,’ I answer, but dad’s most recent remarks resonate in my mind. ‘I didn’t risk everything and bring you to this country so you could deliver frivolity to a society already consumed by rubbish. You’re a brilliant solicitor, Lamina. Put your skills to better use.’

‘You married? Children?’ 

‘Neither,’ I say. ‘Not by choice.’

‘Tell me, Lamina. Are you happy?’ Sal asks. 

I gaze into his eyes reflected in the rearview mirror. ‘Would I be here if I were?’ 

‘Fair point.’

Several wordless minutes pass. 

‘What makes you so unhappy?’

‘Where do I start?’ I snicker. ‘I worry about my future … about letting people down. I’m terrified of ending up alone. I just feel … lost. Without any real direction or purpose.’

*

I’m awakened from a hazy dream when the bus stops in front of a colourless, flat-roofed building. I’ve no idea how long I’d been sleeping or how far we’d traveled. All I know is that it’s daylight, and a thick blanket of snow covers the ground.

‘Where have you brought me, Sal?’ 

‘Where you need to be.’

I look towards the building. ‘In there?’

Sal nods and opens the doors. 

As I approach the building, I see several small faces with noses pressed up against a window. I immediately recognise the meld of wonderment and worry in the children’s doleful eyes. 

I press the intercom buzzer beside the door.

A woman answers. ‘Refugee Support Centre. Are you in need of assistance?’

‘No,’ I reply. ‘But I believe I can offer mine.’

This time his father punched him in the stomach so hard that Jason collapsed in a retching heap, trying to force air into his straining lungs.

“Get up you big sissy, I didn’t hit you that hard.” His father stalked into the kitchen where his mother stood quietly by the stove. She had heard the loud exchange but years of abuse had cowed her into a submissive silence. Her ability to stand up to him had disappeared years ago in a welter of physical and verbal abuse.

All she said timidly was, “What would you like for tea Michael?”

“I don’t want any of your bloody awful slop Claire. I’m off to the pub for a bit of peace and quiet.”

Claire went upstairs. Jason lay curled up on the bed sobbing. She put her arms round him but he pulled away sharply. Raising his tear-stained face he fixed her with a look of contempt. “Mum, why do you let him hurt us all the time?” 

“If I try to stop him it will only get worse. You’ll have to try harder not to annoy him.”

Michael jumped off the bed and shoved her. He was big for his age and she staggered back. “You’re my mum. You should protect me,” he screamed. “All I did today was bump into him as I was coming through the door and he went ballistic again. “

He pushed past her. Moments later she heard the front door slam. She sat on his bed in a state of utter desolation. Her inability to confront Michael had driven a wedge between her and her son. “I’ve lost him,”she thought. “If I can’t protect him as his mother I don’t deserve his love.”

Claire had realised that Michael’s physical attacks were increasing in frequency and intensity. She was terrified that one day he would really hurt her only child. She’d already had to invent stories to explain Jason’s bruises to her mum when she visited recently. Earlier on Michael had been careful to hit both her and Jason where it wouldn’t show, but lately he’d been indiscriminate in his physical attacks.

She dozed off and when she woke up with a start it was pitch black. She had a feeling that something awful had happened. She was relieved to see Jason sitting at the kitchen table. There was a blank look in his eyes that frightened her.

In a flat, emotionless voice he said, “He won’t be hitting us ever again Mum.”

Her hand flew to her mouth. “What have you done?” 

“What you should have done years ago. I’ve killed him. I waited outside the pub till he staggered out and I hit him with a brick when he got onto the canal tow path. I shoved him into the water and he didn’t come up again.”

The murder case was never solved but the rift between mother and son did not heal. Jason left home two years later when he was sixteen.

Born into the Rowbottom-Smyth family, Cedric had been a staunch member of Oxford University’s  Bullingdon Club, where mock revolutions, including the trashing of one’s college room, were considered laudable. 

The year was 2073 and ‘The Common People’, as Cedric liked to call them, had started a revolution of their own. ‘Insurrection will not be tolerated,’ he declared. The commoners’ movement, which advocated the abolition of The House of Lords, and even the monarchy, had to be halted and Cedric understood that such a monstrous impertinence threatened the whole system. The commoners’ leader had even been heard to say, ‘An uneven playing field denies true competition’, when the idea of competition was, ironically, at the heart of the Cedric’s philosophy. In private, Cedric had said that the ‘commoners’ were at the bottom, where they deserved to be, but he had denied this in public.

Cedric knew that he had to infiltrate this group of revolutionaries. So he attended elocution lessons, not to learn ‘how to speak posh’, but to learn how to speak like one of the ‘locals’, focussing on removing any erudite words from his vocabulary, and substituting the word ‘like’ wherever possible. 

He had spent many hours in front of the mirror practising, ‘Well, yeah, sorta like, yeah, you know what I mean, bruv!’ He even invented a new persona for himself, that of ‘Big Miffa’ Jones.

As plan of his master-plan, Cedric, or ‘Big Miffa’, developed a relationship with a young commoner from Stepney, called Missy. He proceeded to develop the habits appropriate for someone called ‘Big Miffa’, including adopting a football team of his own, the richest in the land. But as he became accustomed to his new lifestyle, Cedric started to feel genuine passion for his team and his new partner.

It was Sunday, 22nd January, 2073 and ‘Big Miffa’ sat in front of the TV, watching his team. As usual, he was getting excited, yelling abuse at the referee at every opportunity. 

But Cedric’s team, despite their wealth, succumbed to defeat and, as the referee blew the final whistle, Cedric threw his cap at the television, uttering expletives.

Unfortunately for him, this was not the only loss that Big Miffa suffered that day. Years of tolerating him had finally taken their toll on Missy. 

‘Your team is not the only team that has lost today. I’ve had enough of your behaviour, Miffa!’ yelled Missy. ‘I’m leaving you for another man, one who writes poems, and doesn’t spend the whole of his life watching football!’

With that Missy slammed the living-room door, and was gone.

Cedric had lost twice in the space of a few minutes, and with that his enthusiasm for leading a counter-revolution disappeared. He was to return to the safety of his privileged lifestyle in Surrey, where he re-entered his former world, re-joining the family firm of financial investors. 

Cedric had lost Missy, who he had come to love, but was this compensated for by money and privilege?

Only Cedric himself would know. 

We’d been in the trench for what seemed a lifetime when we started getting some new recruits.

Most of these recruits were very young. Sixteen. Seventeen. Nineteen was rare.

‘How old are you?’ The recruitment officer would ask.

‘Seventeen.’

‘Don’t you mean, nineteen, son?’

So many of them were recruited this way. Encouraged to tell a lie to get in. God knows how many were under age… Well, nobody knew and nobody cared.

This particular boy had been with us two weeks, complaining all the time he was bored. 

Well, it was bloody boring, stuck in a trench. But at least it hadn’t rained. Hadn’t rained for three weeks.

‘How long will we be here?’ He kept on asking.

He was missing his girlfriend. Missed her so much. He showed me a photograph. Lovely looking girl.

‘How long do you think we’ll be stuck in this trench?’

The German trench was a hundred yards away. So close, you might say, and yet so far. 

Our orders had been to hold position. Stay put. Let the Germans make the first move.

Then, out of the blue, a sudden change of plan.

‘Tomorrow’s the day, men! Tomorrow, we attack!’

It was pitiful, to see how this boy changed. He was no longer bored. Just very scared.

We were all very scared. No doubt about that. The night before seemed endless. I couldn’t sleep at all. He was sobbing and crying in the trench, by my side.

Of course, we’d all heard of the slaughter on the Somme…

When we moved to attack, went over the top, we lost sight of him. Thought he’d been killed straight away. Men were falling like flies. But, no, he’d cleared off. They caught him, three miles away, hiding in a barn.

On the Sunday, the whole battalion was paraded. The boy was made to stand apart, on his own.

His cap and regiment insignia were torn off to disgrace him for all the battalion to see.

Then the verdict of The Council was read out. A forgone conclusion. To be shot at dawn.

He was part of my platoon which meant lots were drawn to find six men to shoot him. I was one of the six. 

We marched him to the woods and tied him to a post. He refused the blindfold. Tears in his eyes, he stared straight at us as we fired. His face never leaves me. It won’t go away.

His eyes…they’ve followed me down through the years. He was just a young lad who lost his nerve. 

‘He died in action.’ The telegram would say.

I later heard his father had joined the army to avenge his son on the Germans. 

----------

HISTORICAL NOTE.

306 British Empire Army soldiers were executed for desertion in WW1. 

British policy changed during the war. Initially, next of kin were informed of the circumstances

surrounding a deserter’s death. Later on, instead, they were simply informed that the

executed had died in action. Informed or not, next of kin would soon discover

the nature of the death when they did not receive the pension for those killed in action.

Shell Shock, now known as combat stress or Posttraumatic Stress Disorder was prevalent in many cases of desertion.

After nearly 90 years, following many long campaigns, all 306 men were pardoned in 2006 by Labour’s Defence Secretary, Des Browne.

IMAGE: The Shot at Dawn Memorial, Staffordshire

Marie and her brother walked slowly towards the house that they’d for many years called home.

“At least she’s pulled the curtains. I know she’s in mourning but it’s nearly been three months…”

Pete gave her shoulders a squeeze.

“Go easy on her, Sis; she was so dependent on the old man and now she’s…” he searched the air-

“Lost?”

“Exactly – like his will: lost. Right, shall we do it?”

Marie nodded, turned the key, then shouted, “Hi Mum! We’re here!”

“She won’t hear you, y’know: deaf as a post, and she won’t change the batteries.”

Marie led them, past the hallstand - fishing rods and battered trilby - then gently opened the parlour door.

Geraldine Montague was in her favourite chair, book on lap, rocking slowly as she surveyed the garden.

“Coo-ee! Mum. Just us! We’re here to sort out Dad’s stuff.”

The old woman jumped, gripped her daughter’s hand, then smiled broadly.

“Lovely to see you. Shall I put kettle on?” she said; too loud.

“No, Mum,” Pete said, pecking her cheek. “Later maybe. We’re here to try and find Dad’s will. You know, like we said we would.”

His mother waved them towards the filing cabinet.

“Good luck to you. I was never allowed to look in there. ‘Private!’ he used to say, so I didn’t dare. The key’s in the vase, I think.”

Marie pulled open the top drawer and stood back.

“OMG! Pete. I thought Dad was supposed to be methodical, but this…” she gestured to the mass of envelopes, binders, folders and files. “What a mess!”

“Well, we’ve just got to do it. The will’s got be in there somewhere: we owe it to him to sort things out properly.”

Emptying each drawer as they worked, they paused to read the contents, making piles and nodding silently at each other when one, or other, held a particular piece of paper over the waste-bin. One hour later they had just managed to clear the topmost drawer. The rocking of their mother’s chair had stopped, gentle snoring seeming to amplify the musty silence.

The two worked on, and still the papers came.

“Remember this party?!” one would say, or “He kept all my letters from Uni!” before removing another rubber-band and moving onto the next unmarked folder. And then they saw it: ‘The Last Will and Testament of Dennis Montague: Do not open until my death!’

Pete quickly opened the envelope and pulled out the contents – a single sheet of paper, beneath which was stapled a black and white photograph.

Their father – handsome, and casually dressed – stared out at them, proudly. Next to him, a beautiful woman draped an arm around his shoulders as she pressed her lips firmly to his neck. On her knee she dandled a tiny child.

“And who the hell is this?!” Pete shouted, involuntarily.

“What was that?!” Mrs Montague woke with a start.

“Nothing mum… Fancy a cuppa?”

Dad, it seems, was hiding more than his will in the filing cabinet…

I’m pleased for my brother-in-law. Obviously. Frank worked hard to lose the excess weight he’d been carrying since hanging up his football boots all those years ago. A triumph, no question. But, really?

I liked Frank. As far as in-laws go, I couldn’t ask for a more stand-up guy. He was always good for a laugh or a night at the pub. A mate, when I needed temporary respite from my oestrogen-charged household. But after his wife of ten years left him for her younger, trimmer, more successful boss, Frank wasn’t what you’d call delightful company. If truth be told, he was a miserable git. I should know. For nearly two years, he spent more than his welcome share around our place, guzzling my beers and raiding my snack cupboard, while sulking about the love he’d lost and lamenting his poor life choices. My wife Millie assured me Frank’s melancholy would pass. This wasn’t the first time she’d seen her older brother through a nasty breakup.

Earlier this spring, Frank decided he’d wasted enough time feeling sorry for himself and committed to turning his life around. Good for him, I thought. It’ll be great to have my mate back. The first thing he did was to hit the gym and forego his X-Trail for a Cannondale road bike. That, combined with a drastic change to his diet, helped him to reach his goal weight in no time. Frank was down three stone and the healthiest he’d been in decades. A changed man. 

As I said. I’m pleased for him. It’s just a shame I can no longer stand the guy.

It started with the Lycra. The moment he dropped a stone, he shed his loose-fitting tracksuit bottoms and opted instead for a pair of skintight cycling shorts that left no room for my, or my adolescent daughter’s imaginations. Try having a meaningful conversation with a middle-aged man’s bunched up bits staring you in the face. You can’t. By the time summer rolled around, Frank was down another stone. Suddenly, shirts became optional attire. There’s a time and place, buddy, I wanted to tell him. Sunday lunch at your mother’s is not one of them. Read the room.

Lycra shorts and exposed torso aside, Frank has become an intolerable, self-righteous pillock. His sense of humour, social grace, and every ounce of common sense flushed down the loo along with stone number three. Nowadays, we can’t get through a single occasion without his incessant preaching.

‘At our age, weight training is the only way to go. Cardio alone isn’t enough.’ 

‘You should cut back on them beers. A moment down your gullet, a lifetime round your gut.’

‘Plant-based meals. Good for the planet. Good for you.’

And God forbid if he let ten minutes pass without bringing up his weight loss.

‘When I was fat ….’

‘Before I lost three stone …’

‘Now that I’m thin ….’

Frankly, Frank, I liked you more when you were a fat, miserable git. 

The kids were squabbling loudly in the back of the car – just for a change.

“Josh keeps touching my arm,” moaned Katy.

“I’m not. Katy keeps kicking my foot!” 

We had been driving around for what seemed like hours trying to find our Paris hotel. 

George had missed the turn off from the Boulevard Peripherique – the ring road – and we were lost.

Trouble is, being a man, he wouldn’t admit it. It’s so frustrating when he won’t ask for help. And to make matters worse, our sat nav didn’t seem to be working.

We were now in dense woodland. Pitch dark and no street lighting. 

There was a loud scream from the back seat and what sounded like a sob. The natives were getting restless. And probably hungry too. I know I was.

Suddenly a figure, illuminated by fairy lights, stepped out from under the trees. The man – I could see it was a man – was stark naked. He was carrying what appeared to be an axe and looked like the Grim Reaper. 

“George,” I screamed hysterically, “I want you to turn back now!” But George carried on.

Another figure leapt in front of the car, trying to wave us down. This time it was a woman wearing nothing except a head-dress that reminded me of pictures I’d seen of Queen Boudica! 

The children at the back had gone very quiet.

George continued driving.

A few minutes later we came across a whole group of half-naked people, bizarrely dressed, rolling around on the ground coupling – for want of a better word – right in front of us.

“Katy! Josh!” I yelled, “Close your eyes!”

George’s eyes were popping out of his head.

“Where are we?” I nagged him. 

“What is your location,” a familiar voice said.

“That’s Alexa! You’ve activated Alexa!” I shouted excitedly. For once I was glad to hear her voice. 

“I must have activated the button on my steering wheel.”

“Alexa, we’re in a wood,” I said, “in Paris, France.”

“The wood in Paris, France is the Bois de Boulogne.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry.

“The Bois de Boulogne! George – we were told that whatever we did we had to avoid the Bois de Boulogne. Especially at night. It’s full of prostitutes – hundreds of them.”

“You mean sex workers mummy. No one says prostitutes now.” It was Josh at the back correcting me.

Alexa began, “prostitutes are ….

“Alexa stop!” yelled George.

“We just can’t continue driving,” I implored him. “Turn back now.”

For once, George listened. He turned the car round and we headed back the way we had come.

“They probably thought I was a punter,” he said and he was almost laughing.

“Alexa,” he asked, “where is the Novotel, Paris?”

Alexa gave us directions and to my relief he followed them.

But we’ll never forget the time we were lost in the Bois de Boulogne.

And I don’t expect the children ever will either! 

Elsie and Mary meet at the bus stop.

Mary: “Hello Elsie, long time no see. How are you?”

Elsie: “Just been to the optician and he said I had a tear in the rectum.”

Mary: “Don’t you mean retina, love.”

Elsie: “That’s what I said wasn’t it.”

Mary: “Listen, if you’re not in a hurry do you fancy a quick coffee?”

Elsie: “OK but I only drink decapitated these days.”

In Starbucks 

Elsie: “Can you believe the prices now? In Marks they wanted £5 for a small tray of orgasmic blueberries. No one takes me for granite so I gave them a miss. There’s a sign saying shoplifters will be prostituted but I saw somebody pocketing an avocado brazen as you like. When I came to pay, the flipping machine said card only which made my blood burn. Even though they say sorry for the incontinence it’s still annoying.”

Mary: “I know. Everything’s going to the dogs. By the way, didn’t I see you at the doctors the other day?”

Elsie: “Yes Dr Blake told me I had tattoo diabetes. Ever heard of that? He then interrogated me like the bloody Nazi Gazpacho. He said I had a sexually transmitted disease. I told him straight that me and Ernie had a totally monotonous relationship so he must have got it wrong.”

Mary: Did you mean monogamous love?

Elsie: Yes. That’s what I said didn’t you hear me?”

Mary: How’s work at the factory?

Elsie: The job’s fine but the food in the canteen is not fit for human constipation.

Mary: “How’s that son of yours?”

Elsie: “Jack’s OK but I do worry about him a bit. He’s started smoking that mozzarella again. He says the weed helps to relax him. He’s just back from a holiday in Venice. It was very interesting hearing how the tourists travel along the canals in those gorgonzolas.”

Mary: “I think you mean gondolas, love.”

Elsie: “Bloody hell Mary that’s what I said. Are you going deaf?” 

Mary: “Sorry love. Did Jack bring you a present back?”

Elsie: “Yes, he got me one of the latest transvestite radios. I really do think the world is my lobster now with all the gifts he’s showered on me. My Jack stops me fading into Bolivian. He’s so clever. Like me he has a photogenic memory. The other day he was telling me how all those medieval cathedrals were supported by flying buttocks. He’s very active too. He certainly doesn’t live a sedimentary life. He’s now learning the autistic guitar. He’s really very cultured for an inferior decorator.”

Mary: “Does he take you out much?”

Elsie: “Yes, we go to a nice seafood restaurant but I have to tell him I won’t eat crab or any more of those crushed Asians he likes. But he’s quite headstrong and my affluence over him is very small. Still, patience is a virgin and I’ve made sure that in my last will and testicle he will inherit all my woolly goods.”

Anne’s friends were going on an adventure to the Brazilian Rain Forest, but Anne had decided not to join them, because she could not bear to leave her beloved dog, Max, alone without her love. Anne herself was not in good health. 

Instead, despite the fact it was the middle of winter, Anne decided to spend her days exploring the English countryside and, although it could not be compared to a trip to exotic Brazil, it gave Anne some comfort to know that she was not taking for granted the natural beauty of England. Of course, Anne would take her beloved companion, Max, with her.

So, that Saturday morning, Anne put Max in the back of the car, and they drove off to Epping Forest. Arriving, Anne and Max set off to lose themselves in the ancient Essex woodland, where many of the trees had been living since the days of the Anglo Saxons. 

Running her hand down the bark of one tree, Anne, reflecting on her own increasing age, comforted herself, saying, ‘You have been here so long, and yet you are still as beautiful as ever. I shall follow your example’. This moment transported Anne away from all her anxieties and concerns, and took her into the world of nature and contentment. Max, his big eyes looking beseechingly at his mistress, seemed to understand the emotional comfort Anne was finding, and this gave him his own contentment. 

At that moment, the rains came down and the winds hollowed, and Anne, standing in a tiny gap between two trees, turned to find more shelter. Unfortunately for her, she tripped over a root of one of the trees, so that she cracked her head on its bark, making her unconscious. Max, realising that Anne was in trouble, chose to remain beside her, keeping her body warm through the warmth of his. 

They were both lost in the woods, alone.

As the rains and winds beat their bodies, Anne remained still and silent as Max howled, but to no avail. Anne’s physical body was soaked in the cold rain of an English winter, but her unconscious mind was taking her on a journey through those rain forests of Brazil. Anne’s body was lost, but her mind had found a new place to live and breathe. 

Max understood that his human companion was in danger, so he did not move. No danger to him was more important than the danger to his mistress. 

When they were both discovered, bedraggled but alive, the next day, the doctor reflected that there would have been serious concerns for Anne’s health, had not Max protected her throughout the night. Anne’s love for her companion had meant that she had not, in person, discovered the warmth of the Brazilian rain forest, but, instead, had visited those rain forests in her mind. Anne had been saved by the physical and emotional warmth of her most beloved companion in all the world, her dear friend Max. 

“Hello, love, are you lost?”

“I’m not sure he can hear us, Joyce. I say, lad, can you hear us? Are you lost?”

There was a brief pause before David looked up to the concerned couple. 

“Are you ok, love? You’ve been sat here for a long time. You know, on your own.”

David stood up. Oh, I’m sorry, did you want to sit on the bench?”

“No, no,” said Harold. “We are worried about you. How long have you been sat here?”

David brushed down his threadbare jacket and straightened his hair with his hands.

“Have you been here all night?”

“I’m not sure,” said David quietly. He looked around the station. “What station is this?”

“Waterloo, love. Would you like something to eat?”

“I haven’t any money.”

“Don’t you worry about that. What’s your name?”

“David”

“Well, David. Let’s go and grab a sandwich and a brew. What d’say?”

David looked at Harold and Joyce. His eyes were watering, but he held back the tears. “Please, that is so kind.”

“C’mon, love,” said Joyce. “We’ve got an hour before our train leaves.”

Up in the station café, Harold and Joyce persuaded David to tell his story. How does a young teenager end up at Waterloo not really knowing why? Over a bacon sandwich and strong tea, David slowly revealed his story. 

“I couldn’t stay at the home any longer. I was orphaned back five years ago. My mother had died, and my father took off to sea. That was it. I was picked up on the streets of Shoreditch. I couldn’t take any more punishment. I had to get out.”

“And what now?” asked Harold.

“Dorset. They won’t capture me there.”

Harold and Joyce looked at each other. They had not been blessed with children and lived a frugal life not lacking in love and sensibility, just no joy of children. 

“David,” said Harold, “we live in Winchester. Is that far enough for you?”

“I’ve heard of Winchester. It has a hall where King Arthur’s round table used to meet?”

“Where did you learn that, David?”

“I found a book in the home’s library and there was a drawing of King Arthur and his knights sat around the table and it said, Winchester.”

“Why Dorset?” said Joyce. “What is so special about Dorset?”

“I have a friend who lives in a cottage in Shaftesbury. There’s a hill. She lives in a cottage on the hill.”

“Who is this friend?”

“Jim. His name is Jim. His parents came to fetch him from the home and they moved to a cottage on the hill in Shaftesbury. Jim said to me that I could visit any time I wanted.” 

Harold looked at Joyce. Joyce nodded.

“Why don’t we travel with you to Shaftesbury? You know, just to make sure you are safe. If things don’t work out, we have a home in Winchester waiting for you.”

Joyce held out her hand. David began to cry.

It was that first autumn morning when the damp hang in the air, the falling leaves carried a gentle but ice-cold wind, and Jan had that familiar feeling of dread.  This time she had lost the house key.

That feeling of dread was not because she had lost the key but in anticipation of what Dave would say when he found out. She knew she could be careless, she knew she always got things wrong, she knew that Dave would shout at her.  

Jan sat on the damp step to the front door, opened her large brown handbag and tipped out its contents. With a clatter, lipstick, mirror, hairbrush, loose coins, sunglasses (sunglasses??). But no key. 

She definitely had the key when she left the bank, she must have dropped it on the way home. Now there was only one thing to do - retrace her steps all the way back into town.     

Her coat! Had she missed a pocket?  Phone, credit cards, the passport she'd just used to provide ID to the bank, the five hundred pounds she'd drawn for the holiday.  But no key.          

She had wanted to go to France. Dave knew that going to France was an excuse to see Mitzi, her sister. He wasn’t keen on Mitzi.  It wasn’t personal, he wasn’t keen on any of her friends or relatives. So not France but Spain. Horrible hot, smelly Spain. Dave had got his way. As usual.        

It was also she who was responsible for providing spending money. It had taken all three cleaning jobs to save those five hundred pounds.      

Now she walked slowly, staring at the pavement. She thought of little Ben, he would do the same, staring at the ground: an interesting twig, a fascinating pebble, an amazing snail...  A tear. She missed little Ben.  At least that wasn't her fault, the inquest had returned a verdict of Death by Misadventure. 

At the end of the lane, the main road. A Funeral Directors, a closed-down coffee shop, no sign of the key. Past the school, the pedestrian crossing, eyes down. But no key.        

Left into the narrow alley. Nothing. Into the park, the muddy track by the river. Nothing. Out of the park, under the underpass...no key. Hope was waning.      

It had taken thirty five minutes to walk into town, now it would take the same thirty five minutes to walk back, and it was now raining steadily.   

The walk distorted time, that aching feeling, waves of hopelessness. The High Street…the park…the underpass. Nothing.   

Nearly home now, just the pedestrian crossing and a couple of streets to go.   

HOOT!  

Jan was standing still, in the middle of the pedestrian crossing, willing the key to appear between the black-and-white stripes, and she was holding up the traffic. In particular, she was holding up a black cab.    

Very slowly, Jan walked over to the cab and, wearily, the cabbie wound down the window.      

"Where to luv?"        

"Heathrow".        

“Hop in then, don't just stand there getting wet! Going somewhere nice?”       

This is a story about never giving up

I am famous. I have my own Facebook page. If you don’t believe me, just search for ‘Mango is home!!!’.

I want to tell you my story, but some of it is too sad to tell, so I will begin from when I was four. I had been living in an animal shelter. I was sad and desperately lonely.

At the shelter, a couple started visiting. The man, Ben, had a cheeky face and made me laugh, but I didn’t trust him. I had learnt from past experience. 

Eventually they were allowed to adopt me. I didn’t want more change, but I had no choice. On 5th November 2017, I was led to the back seat of their car.  I laid down and hid my face. I was terrified.

After an hour, we arrived at the new house. I needed a wee, so as soon as they opened the front car door, I leapt across from the back and escaped. I meant to return, but there was an almighty bang in the sky, so I ran. Like Forest Gump, I ran and ran.

It got dark, the louds bangs and flashes got worse. I was tired and hungry, but still I ran, for six whole weeks. 

As time went on, I got so skinny that my bones were sticking out. I was so cold that bits of my ears fell off.

Many people searched for me, I was spotted in several towns, but I wouldn’t let them catch me. I found food in dustbins; when you are starving you will eat anything.

After six weeks I was too weak to walk any further. I needed somewhere to lay down, fall asleep and never wake up. 

My worn-out feet took me to a large wooden building, which had a slightly open door. I crept into the very back and laid down on a pile of straw. Hungry and exhausted, I cried myself to sleep.

I woke to the sound of a human ‘Is it a deer?’ They pushed a bowl towards me and retreated. I ate some food and had a long drink of water. I was so unwell that I don’t remember any more.

After six weeks of cold, I was now wrapped in warm blankets, with a hot water bottle.

I remember hearing a man’s voice. I listened intently, yes, it was Ben. What a shock! He sat beside me on the floor stroking my head. We both cried, tears of relief.

The next weeks are a blur. I remember being in a car again, and being taken to an animal doctor, then to Ben’s house. This time I didn’t run. Anyway, I had two collars and a tracker fitted, which makes me laugh, as I would never ever run away now. 

Ben had faith. He never gave up on me, and I will never give up on him.

This story is about knowing when to give in, and accept help.

I was five years old and excited about a day trip to the beach. We caught the coach early in the morning. Two hours later and we were setting up on the beach. No wind breaks and cardigans needed today. The sea front smelled of fish and chips and candy floss. The shops along the promenade were full of buckets and spades, windmills, and rubber rings. I could see a fun fair in the distance and hear the excited squeals of the children. Time for all that later! First things first and I ran down to the edge of the water to paddle and look for shells. 

A while later I decided it was time to cash in on the promise of an ice-cream and looked for the steps near to where my family were. But there were several flights of steps along the long beach and I couldn’t find them. I started to cry. A kind lady guessed what had happened walked up and down the beach with me. I was worried about what would happen if we didn’t find my mummy and daddy before it was time for the coach to leave. They would have to catch it of course and I would have to stay in a children’s home until the next time they came for a day trip. I comforted myself with the fact that I knew my address (11 Brunswick Road) and I could ask someone to write and tell them where I was, but we soon spotted them, also walking up and down the beach looking for me.

Several years later and we have swapped Scarborough for Torremolinos. That day we were later down to the beach than normal so our usual beach beds had been taken. “Look”, I said to our three kids, ”we are just next to these palm trees, OK?” Their attention was already drawn to the sea and they ran off. Leaving their dad in charge, I went off to buy some drinks and snacks. When I returned I could see the boys playing bat and ball, but where was Ellen? No where to be seen. I tried not to panic, it was a busy safe beach – no strong currents, no sharp rocks. But I couldn’t help thinking of other families who set out on a normal day only for it to end with grisly findings and a lifetime of grief. I tell the lifeguard and the crackle of radio messages travels up the beach. A woman tries to comfort me, telling of her young son who had been missing for two hours the day before. They had even scrambled a helicopter to look for him before they found him asleep under the beach bed that they were all sitting on.

Then a there is a ripple of relief down the beach – they’ve found her and she runs to me, arms outstretched and I try not to scold her for giving me such a scare. 

Lincoln, he called himself. Born two centuries ago, his full name, once etched in finely-tooled gold lettering on his spine, was now faded and forgotten, his pages stained with foxing and watermarks where damp had entered. The pale autumn sun highlighted motes of dust floating in the air, though they failed to reach the bottom shelf where he lay, in a forgotten corner of a gloomy attic of a secondhand bookshop.

That afternoon, he awoke to a voice drifting in through the half-open skylight from the music shop next door, ‘see me, feel me, touch me, heal me’.

It’s too long since I’ve been seen, felt, or touched… he mused. And I’ve never healed...

And his mind drifted back fifty years to another autumn afternoon. By then, already somewhat tattered, he was relegated to a dusty garage. But his friends, the old man and the girl, had loved him, he knew. Whilst the old man told her stories of their ancestors, who’d lived in the landscapes of Lincoln’s pages, she’d traced her fingers gently over the hills and valleys of his pictures and maps, turning his pages so lovingly, Lincoln would remember her touch for ever.

We should have stayed together, he sobbed. But it was not to be. On the old man’s death, the garage was cleared, the debris of a past life disposed of. Lincoln had mistakenly been bundled together with other old and musty, dusty books, and a collection of stamp albums, and sold, in a job lot, to a local ‘antique dealer’. And Lincoln and the girl were lost to each other.

The dealer had believed in a quick profit. And Lincoln could still feel the agony as his most picturesque engravings and finest maps were ripped from his body, still hear their pitiful cries as they’d vanished from his life, to be reincarnated as framed prints.

Profits made, he’d been discarded, passed dealer to dealer, shop to shop, until he’d come to languish here, in this dusty attic...

As the song’s words continued to haunt him, over them came another sound; the creak of the stairs. Someone was coming.

A woman entered and started to browse the shelves. She came nearer, and nearer.

There’s something about her…

The song still thrummed through Lincoln’s mind, louder and louder, and he called out, pleading; ‘see me, feel me, touch me, heal me.’

She gave a start, and looked around.

Could she have heard me?

The gentle rays of the sun had moved to the shelf where Lincoln rested. The woman spotted him and knelt down by his side, and gasped. She fumbled in her bag for a tissue, and gently began to wipe his dust away, before lifting him and placing him carefully on a nearby table.

And Lincoln reeled in wonder as he recognised her loving touch… the touch of his friend, the girl in the garage. And as she turned his pages, she whispered, ‘Lincoln, I’ve found you at last!’ 

And Lincoln began to heal.

-----------

Author’s note: 

song lyric from the album Tommy by The Who

Karen heard a tinkle as something hit the pavement. She saw it was a key, but couldn’t tell where it had come from. The street was empty. Perhaps, a bird had dropped it, maybe a magpie, they were attracted to shiny things. She examined the key, surprised by its strange shape, unlike any key she had seen before. As she turned it over, it seemed to flash though there was no sunlight to reflect.

When she arrived home, she showed the key to Mummy.

“This does look very special,” Mummy said. “Tomorrow I’ll hand it in at the Police Station, someone will have lost it and hope its been found.” She put the key on the mantlepiece before giving Karen a drink and a biscuit.

Shortly afterwards, Stephen came back from school crying.

“One of the bigger boys snatched my briefcase, locked it with its key and threw the key into a holly bush and I couldn’t find it.” He said, tears still running down his cheeks.

“Don’t worry,” Mummy said, “I’m sure we have another key.” 

She found the box of spare keys but after trying every suitable one she couldn’t unlock the case.

“What about the one I found?” Karen said.

“I think it’s the wrong shape,” Mummy said but Karen fetched it anyway. It looked a different shape now, in fact just like a briefcase key. She tried it in the lock and opened the case. What a lucky find.

Later, Daddy suggested a family treat and they drove to the cinema. After the film, back at the car, Daddy discovered he had somehow locked the car keys inside the boot. Of course, they didn’t have the spare key with them. They would have to call the AA and hope they could unlock the car. Daddy couldn’t say how long it would be before help came.

Karen felt a vibration, a continuous jingling in her pocket, something was knocking against the coins she had in there. She remembered she had pocketed the found-key after opening Stephen’s case.

“Would this work, Daddy?” she said, handing him the key.

“Of course not,” He said giving it back to her.

“Please let me try.” Karen said, noticing the key had changed shape again before pushing it into the car door and unlocking it. 

Everyone gasped. The key was magical. Perhaps, it could open any lock, Karen thought. Maybe they should keep it.

She heard a loud clang as she got out of the car, the sort of noise when you dropped a coin down a street drain. The key seemed to have fallen through a hole in her pocket. Daddy fetched a torch. They looked everywhere but couldn’t find the key. Karen checked her pockets again, there were no holes. She went to bed thinking perhaps you can only have a magic key if you didn’t know it was magic. But she realised they had been lucky to have it on a day they needed its magic.

Tamsin looked out of the office window and frowned. The bright, clear, summer sky had darkened. A giant rain cloud fist enclosed the afternoon sun. She shivered in sympathy with the massed tourists basking on the beach. The storm had exploded out of nowhere, unexpected and violent. She saw the flash of lightening then the heavens opened drowning the town. Tamsin tensed anticipating the alarm that ordered her to drop everything and head out into the storm.

The car’s wipers were going double time to clear the windscreen driving along the undulating cliff path. Where blue sea had smiled that morning was now blurred and grey, the water boiling and smashing furiously into the land below the road.

The rest of the crew reached the station at the same time. In a very few moments they got into the yellow survival suits and climbed aboard, launching into the heaving froth-foamed waves. Forging a path through the waves cresting over the bow then dipping down through the wall of water into the troughs between, they headed in the direction of the last known location. A small hired sailing dinghy on a family pleasure trip that summer’s day. Dad, mum and three small children. Either side of the cabin in the wind Tamsin could see her colleagues. Human eyes seeking for a sign of their quarry just as she watched the radar for the blip that would show their position.

Tom, their coxswain, was using all his experience of that coast to keep the lifeboat on course. He shook his head. “Can’t see a damn thing through the water,” he said, making a slight correction to compensate for the push of the buffeting wind. “Hope to God we get to them. That dinghy is a fair-weather sailor and the family can’t have been prepared for this.” He leaned forward, over the wheel, trying to pierce the curtain of water.

“We certainly weren’t, it’s a freak storm,” Tamsin agreed. “Even the forecast missed this one. Let’s hope it’s as quick to stop.”

Tom shook his head “Set for some time I think.” 

He turned the bow into the cresting wave. They felt the screw vibrate in air then the hull fell into the trough where the propellor bit into the sea. Tamsin caught a shout and saw the port lookout point. Phil appeared, face wet with seawater. “Jed reckons he saw a mast top.”

Tamsin checked the radar and saw a portside blip. “Confirmed.” She said as they lifted with the next wave. Please let them be alive she prayed silently wile they drew closer to the slender pointer.

The wind and rain eased momentarily allowing the boat to pull alongside the listing hull. The exhausted, sodden family emerged from the cabin and were hauled across to dry safety Phil tied a tow to the dinghy. Tamsin swayed with the rocking of the boat, a contented smile on her face, thankful that no-one would be listed lost at sea.

William sat silently in the classroom.

Master Jakes, his teacher, looked at the beautiful writing the boy had produced, a perfect essay.  If only William would speak, Jakes knew the boy could hear perfectly. He was a fast learner, good at history, Latin and English. His mother told the teacher that after William’s sisters died, he was ‘lost for words’. He’d not spoken since he was three years old, now classed as a mute. William’s father was an important tradesman in the town and there had been no hesitation in admitting the boy to the school.

The young student leant over his desk as the afternoon sun sent a shaft of light through the leaded window and onto his fair hair. He wrote quickly, whilst specks of dust danced in the sunlight. He’s my most intelligent student thought Jakes, I wonder what could be done to reverse the speech problem? Sadly the other pupils ignored him, they didn’t include him nor even speak to him.

As the July days warmed the classroom and the boys started to lose interest in their studies, Jakes decided to take them for a walk through the town, to the riverside. He packed his bible, the cooler air by the river might improve their concentration.  As they came to the crossroads in the centre of town, voices could be heard and a crowd gathered. Jakes was worried there might be a fight breaking out and tried to steer the boys away.

‘It’s alright Sir’ shouted one of the boys ‘It’s the strolling actors!’ Jakes let the boys watch the performance, He recognised the piece as an excerpt from Virgil’s ‘Aeneid’, telling the story of the Trojan horse. Looking across at William, he saw he was completely memorised by the play. A smile appeared and his eyes were wide open in awe.  The actors stopped for a break, ale was bought out by the local innkeeper. Jakes decided this was time to urge the boys to resume their journey.  

Jakes chose to sit in the cool shade of a Weeping Willow, some boys threw sticks at the water’s edge, others lazed on the grass. Taking out his bible, Jakes placed it beside him on the grass, not certain that bible studies were needed on this hot day. William walked over and pointed to the bible. 

‘Why yes young William, trust you to want to continue your studies outside of the classroom!’

Jakes relaxed, watching the boys through dappled sunlight, feeling his eyes becoming heavy. He must have drifted into a sleep. On waking, he panicked, where were the boys? Turning quickly, he saw they were all stood in a group.  There in the middle was William, the bible held aloft and arms waving. What on earth is happening he thought? 

Seeing Jakes stumbling towards them the boys started shouting, “Sir, Sir,”, “He’s speaking”, ‘”No he’s acting”, “He’s pretending he’s God!”

William Shakespeare stood amongst the boys, no longer lost for words.

This story is completely fictional!

I was in a valiant but doomed charge of the light brigade as I headed the wrong way down the up escalator at Victoria station. A mismatched competition with my mates. We were all currently flying, seven sheets to the wind. They down the proper way; for me, it was one step down, two back. We were on a pub crawl of the circle line.

Previous expeditions to the smoke had included a twenty-four-hour sesh, starting at the bar that served the veg and flower sellers at Covent Garden and ending at Heathrow. We’d knocked off all the bars from Trafalgar Square and on down the Strand and raised a glass in a pub on all the properties on a monopoly board.

Now they are pretty much all-day sessions and not escalator - pint – escalator – escalator pint. I hit the bottom in a wobble as the stairs move away behind me. A busker plays Baker Street, the station where we’d began this intrepid – sorry stupid – endeavour. 

I’d fallen behind the team and had to race along the platform to be pulled onto the tube. Narrowly close to being squished. Next stop the Hole in the Wall.

‘Next station, Sloane square. Doors will open on the left-hand side. Mind the gap.’ 

Unbelievably, the doors opened right on the Westbound platform where the tiny boozer sat. 

Nestled in a niche, bottles of spirits sit squat on shelves. A brightly lit mirror enhanced the bar and like a TARDIS expanded its dimensions.

‘Four pints of Fullers, and four Cinzano and lemonades please.’

The barmaid whose black dyed hair, matched the dark wood of the bar looked as if she had been serving for time immemorial; swiftly poured the pints. Her dainty hands sliced lemon and mixed the girls drinks. ‘That’ll be ten pounds for cash.’

I dug in my wallet and handed over a crisp tenner, fresh from the cashpoint. An expensive night.

‘Tickets please.’

Blimey, the inspector is even checking our capital cards.

The barmaid smiled. ‘Checking everyone’s got a Jiminee Cricket. People often try and sneak down, but you need a valid travel ticket or pay for a tuppenny platform ticket.’

Satisfied, the inspector jumped onto a recently vacated stool and the barmaid poured him a pint in a jug, not the straights we were drinking from and passed it over with a theatrical wink.

Something brushed my legs and if my pint had been any fuller, I’d have slopped some. A cat jumped up onto the bar and let the inspector tickle it under the chin. ‘Hello Kit.’ He looked at us all. ‘She’s the best mouser on the underground.’

We smiled, necked our drinks and jumped onto the incoming tube, heading for South Ken.

 I sat down on the uncomfortable seats. Mixing Youngs and Fullers had done me in; still several stops to go…

I must have nodded of. Damn. Where was I?

I tell you where. Lost on the flippin underground.

Driving rain greets as we start our climbing procession up Hevellyan. Katie, my daughter, down from University, is joining me for my company’s annual Lakes weekend.

Within minutes, our group of twenty, of mixed abilities, is strung out for hundreds of yards up the lower slopes of the fell. We are soon merged with others, in a long, single-file, queue for the summit. Disguised in our waterproofs, partially-sighted with clouded googles, we all become strangers, facing the challenge of the climb alone. I soon lose contact with Katie, in the mist. I can’t tell whether she is in front of me or behind. I just keep walking up, following the man or woman in front, whoever they are, until reaching our designated halfway meeting point at the Hole-in-the-Wall.

I am not the first of our group to arrive there. Some familiar faces peer from multi-coloured anoraks perched on the wall. I scan the costumes but I can’t see Katie. She must be behind me. I sit and wait as the line snakes up. 

One by one our group arrives. Still, there’s no sign of Katie. I ask around. No one has seen her stop or fall on the way up, but then she is unknown to most of the group. Has she gone on beyond the Hole-in-the-Wall, on towards Striding Edge, a very dangerous place to be in this wind? Can I risk going on, in search of her, and getting separated from the rest, with the possibility that she isn’t ahead anyway? Should I press the panic button and instigate a wider search? There’s just a chance I can avoid this.

This is 1994 and mobile phones are heavy, expensive and mainly for posers. There are two amongst our group, two mobiles I mean. Bill, our expedition leader, has borrowed one from work, and given it to John from accounts and designated him our official communications officer. The other phone is in Katie’s anorak pocket. We bought her one so we can contact her at university. 

Fortunately, I am still young enough to remember phone numbers, and, maybe through some freak conditions in the ether, there is a network signal over Helvellyn. Most important of all, Katie has her phone charged and switched on.

“ Katie, where are you?” I shout against the howling wind.

There’s a connection and the answer comes back crisp and clear.

“Dad, I thought you were in front of me, I’ve been following your blue trousers for ages, and you’re just about to go over Striding Edge.”

Fifteen minutes later, with waves of relief flooding through me, I watch Katie walk back from the precipice to the Hole-in-the-Wall. 

It may not be the first use of a mobile phone for a mountain rescue but it is an impressive demonstration for our group and a lesson for me. Find something else distinctive to wear if you have the same coloured waterproofs as nearly everyone else.