Blackpool Rock

This is another short story from my archives, one I particularly like because although the story is not my own, it contains one or two personal references, an indulgence I rarely claim. I hope you will like it (or possibly remember it)!

Had he expected it?  The open fields poppy-red where he had played, half a century ago, unchanged?  The lake in the disused quarry, the village hall at Benton crossroads, with flagstone roof and walls of Victorian brick, still standing?   Looking rejuvenated, if anything, in the bright afternoon sun.

He drew up beside the wooden notice board nailed to its double doors, grey-pasted with faded parish notices, and still hanging at that slightly misjudged angle, almost exactly as he remembered it the summer before university.  He let his mind take him back, through those peeling doors that were just as he had thrust them open one Tuesday night, so many years before, and he remembered his dread as he sidled into the old brick building, oozing the furtive reluctance of youth, feeling the embarrassment of his tight, badly-cut jeans.  Village hall melees were not for him, not then.  Saturday night dancing was for him; local tribute Eddy Cochran (Ronnie Blass, baker’s assistant) tying himself in agonized knots on a creaking wooden stage.  Three-four time – not always on time, but loud.  Primal and wild.

Not the Women’s Institute.

They were all so old.  Portly ladies in portly clothes; teacups and nudges, secret buzz.  Contralto bees.

“What d’you want, love?”   Annie Riley, her enormousness bulged beneath rose-print on white.  “Did your mum send you?”

“Leaflets.”   He had muttered unintelligibly.

“You what, dear?”  Sherry Harbottle, as thin as Annie was fat.  Shrunk shank beneath a black frock that hung about her like a shroud.  “Oh, bless him!  He’s shy!”

Beetroot soldiers shinning up  their siege ladders.  He could not stop them.

“Oh, he’s blushing now!  Bless him!”  

“I want the leaflets.”  He said, oozing defiance.  “My ma says I’m to deliver them tonight.”

“Oh, them!”  Annie was already turning away.  “I left ’em in the kitchen.  Out there.”   She waved at the door of a tiny room from which trays of tea were known, periodically, to erupt. 

His path to the kitchen was long and circuitous because, like Kipling’s dormouse, he followed the wall, afraid to step into the middle of the room.  He plunged through its closed door like a mariner abandoning a stricken submarine.   Eyes glued to the floor, he took a moment to realise he was not alone.

“Oh goodness!   Excuse me!”  The owner of an exposed thigh hurriedly brushed her dress down to cover a refastened suspender.  A young woman; a plain blue dress.  She glared at him.  “Couldn’t you knock, or something?”

“Sorry!  Sorry!”  He spluttered, vermillion rising.  “I didn’t know… I got to take the leaflets, see?”

Severe eyes pinned him for long enough to be satisfied of his mortification.  “That’s them.”  She nodded towards a neat pile on a shelf.

“Thanks.”  He made to take possession of the leaflets.  

“I was making the tea.”  She gestured towards a huffing industrial-sized urn.  “Don’t drink it, whatever you do.”

“No, I won’t.  I can smell it.”  He glanced at her face, his skin alive with embarrassment.  He looked long enough to see a strong jaw, a wide, rather thin mouth, and pale cheeks.  Horn-rimmed spectacles disguised frank but nervous eyes.

“I got to deliver them, see?”

“What, the teas?”  Her voice was edgy, quite deep.

“No, them.”  He waved the leaflets.  Then, in a moment of bravery:  “What’s your name then?”

“Me?”   She seemed genuinely unsure if there was someone else in the room;  “I’m Mary.   I make the tea.”

“Yeah?  Hello Mary!”  He felt suddenly confident.  “Are you one of them, then?”  He nodded at the door.

“Yes, I joined.  The Women’s Institute’s a good way to get to know people.”  She recited.

“I’m Malcolm.”  He introduced himself.  “I don’t remember seeing you around the village.”

“I don’t get out, much.”  How old was she?  She might be twenty-five or six; but she had the naiveté of a seventeen year old, and she was painfully shy.  Two little pink blots had appeared on her cheeks.  But then she had cause, he supposed.  He had seen more of her underwear than was polite.

“You’re staring!”  She accused.

“Sorry, Mary.  So, how are you getting on with the old….with the ladies of the WI?”

“They asked me to make the tea. This is my third meeting and I’ve made the tea each time. That’s all they seem to want me to do.   I think you’re leaning against the biscuits.”

“Oh sorry!”  He said again, blenching at his oft-repeated apology.  “Custard creams, eh?”

“They’re allowed one each.”

“Would you come out with me Thursday?”

She was waiting outside the little whitewashed cottage when he had called for her, blinking through those thick glasses, mousey brown hair drawn back in a modest bun, champagne-coloured frock and little brown handbag clasped before her.   He spent the last of his weekly pay on a movie.  Afterwards, as they walked back the mile from the late night bus, he had ventured to put an arm around her shoulder. She neither resisted nor broke her stride.   At her door their eyes shared a silent moment.

“Well, thank you very much.”  She said. 

“Can I see you again?”

She seemed a little astonished.  “If you like.”

Mary almost ran, slipping indoors by the doorjamb as if she was frightened to fully open it.  The lock clicked behind her.

And this was the place.  That was the door.  As he had driven from the village hall another four hundred yards to her home the sky clouded over and rain began quietly.  Wind-blown, it flecked the windscreen like tiny splinters.   Malcolm tapped the wiper switch impatiently, as though to lose sight of those white cottage walls with their solemn brown front door even for a second would be too important.   In his head he recounted each detail as if he defied it to be altered.  It was not.

Sighing, he repeated a question he had asked himself so often down the years: why had he  persisted in his pursuit of Mary, that summer when he was seventeen?   And why had he never forgotten her?  Was it the sight of a graceful leg that began an obsession in him?  No, despite the gaucheness of his tender years, that was not the image of her that dominated his mind.  It was the memory of a day, and a look.

They dated sporadically at first.  His friends teased him.

“Did I see you out with your mum again last night, Malc?  I can let you have a paper bag if you want one.”

At each meeting he learned a little more about her.  She lived with her father, she spoke of her home life often.  She told him about her cat, of the flowers she loved to grow.   Were it not for the wooden set of her expression and a hint of cynicism in her voice he might have thought her happy in her world, but something nagging at his brain had persuaded him otherwise.

One hot sunny afternoon as they sat on a grass bank above the lake he turned his head to kiss her.  She did not resist, nor did she respond.

“Why did you do that?”

“Because I wanted to.   I still want to.”

Mary stared at her knees.  “How old are you?”

“I’m – nineteen.  How old are you?”

“You shouldn’t ask a lady her age.”

Thereafter a kiss became part of their ritual which they observed, routinely, whenever there was a private moment.  As summer passed Malcolm became bolder until once, on the evening bus, he ventured to put his hand on that familiar leg.  She seemed unmoved by his gentle grip, yet she allowed it.  They walked the final mile to her home.

“My Dad’s going away on Wednesday.”  She said suddenly.  “Do you want to come round?”

By the Wednesday afternoon his hand was shaking so much he could hardly press her doorbell.  She answered in her dressing gown, taking his hand to draw him into the subdued light of a living room heavily decorated in green patterned wallpaper and bluntly furnished.  A fat, comatose cat stretched out on the windowsill, head against the nets.

“I don’t really know much about this.”  She confessed, as if she was addressing a task – a challenge she had set herself.

In her tiny upstairs room with afternoon sun beating on the coverlet he taught her the little he knew.   They were students in a shared experience, inexpert and mercifully brief; yet afterwards she clung to him as if he were life itself.

The rain on the car roof became a rhythm, a cascade of memories in heavy drops splashing, a milky mist rising from the warm road.  Malcolm’s car’s wipers swept the windscreen in regular gestures.   That had been the first time.  Up there.  The casement window above the brown front door.  After so long, could those curtains really be the same?

When, as now, his imagination took him back to that summer he remembered it as a time of joyful nakedness and entanglement, of thirst and gratification.  Only in times of sadness could he regret how few were those bejewelled afternoons when Mary’s father, a man he never got to meet, was away.   And when their physical union happened it was frequently awkward, mannerly and restrained, but reflection had persuaded himself otherwise.  He had always been ruled by passion, so the lie was important to him.

“Why do you like me so much?”  Mary asked him once, on one of those glittering days.

“Because – because you’re beautiful.” He let his eyes feast on the slenderness lying beside him, because it was a question he had to answer in himself.  “You’re just – beautiful.”

She reached for her spectacles from the bedside table, so she could see him better. She would squint without them.  “I’m not beautiful.  I’m plain.  I’m ugly.”

The self-loathing behind the words shocked him.  “No!  No you’re not!  Not to me.”  He tried to kiss her, and she turned away.

“You’re seeing someone who isn’t there.”  She told him. 

“She’s there.”  He insisted.  “She’s buried deep, where maybe not everyone can see her.  But I can; and when she’s happy and she lets it show – then her eyes shine like raindrops in the sun, and all the beauty spills out.  Some people paint beauty on themselves each morning, but they’re really twisted and hideous underneath.  Not you.  You have loveliness written right through you.”

“Like a stick of Blackpool rock!”  She laughed a rare laugh, then kissed him with rare spontaneity.  “Remember you said that.  Even if you didn’t really mean it, don’t ever forget it, alright?”

Had he really meant it?  After summer was over and he had gone to his further education he frequently accused himself of using her, of blinding himself to truths she accepted only too easily.  At university he found love that gave itself more freely, that possessed greater beauty, yet was never so profound.  As other memories were made and afterwards faded, hers was constant.  And with the years, yes, even through the married years, it survived.

So here he was, forty-two years later, parked on the road opposite her door.  There, just there by the hollyhocks, they had said their goodbyes.   There, on that precise spot, his heart had filled with sorrow at their parting and he had said the three words.  One of a very few times in his life he had said them.

Mary had stared into his eyes with an earnest darkness that made his heart stop.   “We’ll love a memory then.  Keep it precious for us, yes?”

“I’ll write to you.”

“No, you won’t.”  She would have turned away without so much as a farewell kiss had he not insisted.  And he saw her reasons, saw the bitterness, the self-disgust – saw tears behind those heavy lenses.    He felt the sob in her throat.

Malcom eased himself to a more comfortable position in his car seat.  Rain thrashed the roof now.  Accusation.  A flagellation; a penance.  She was right, of course.  He never wrote to her, even when the nights were their longest and his loneliness at its most intense.  Oh, how fresh were the images in his mind – of that look, of those tears!  In all the time he had known her, she had been unable to give herself entirely to him.   Only when it was too late had those magic words breached  her defences enough to show how she had hoped, and striven, perhaps, to return his love. 

He had no family now; here, or anywhere close.  He thought of his wife, and the sad, lonely stone that was her final home.  He thought of his children in their nests at the far corners of the big world, and then he thought of Mary, and how much of life he had missed.  With a great sense of destiny, he opened his car door.

“Who the hell are you?”   The man on the threshold stared at Malcolm as if he somehow recognised that face, but with the darkness and the rain he could not place a memory.  “Do I know you from somewhere?”

“I wondered if Mary Marshalsea still lived here?”  Malcolm said.

“Mary?”  The man pushed anxious fingers through a thinning head of hair.  “You…you’re looking for Mary?”  His eyes met Malcolm’s.  How old would he be – about forty, or forty-two, maybe?  “Yes, she still lives here.  She’s not home, though, I’m afraid. I’m Mr Marshalsea – can I help?”

A silence dropped like a curtain between the two men.  Facing each other, each confused, surprised, a little frightened, each at the dawn of a truth in the raining night.   Malcolm picked his words carefully.  “You’re Mary’s husband?”

The man bridled. “Look, chap, I don’t know where you got your information.  I’m her son. There’s no other Mister Marshalsea, unless you’re referring to my grandfather.  He died about twenty year ago.” Indignant, he dredged up a few ingots of aggression.  “See here, I ain’t going to stand in my door no longer.  If you want my mother you’ll find her at the village hall.  She goes up there early on Tuesday evenings.   It’s Women’s Institute tonight, see?  She makes the tea.”

His heart beating a little faster, his mind crowded with possibilities, Malcolm turned his car and retraced the road to Benton crossroads.   Outside the village hall he drew to a halt.  In his mind he saw her, as she had been in that distant time, busying herself among the cups and the custard creams.  He saw the heavily rimmed spectacles, those earnest eyebrows, that firm, slightly too prominent jaw.  And he remembered.

“We’ll love a memory then.  Keep it precious for us, yes?”

He saw the peeling paint on the closed doors, the old notice board with its bleached messages.  He might have heard or imagined the faint clink and rattle of crockery from within. 

He slipped his car back into gear, and drove on.

© Frederick Anderson 2016.  Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Frederick Anderson with specific direction to the original content.

Photo Credit: Philip Miles, from PIxabay

Thin Ice – Another from the Archives…

There will always be dysfunctional people. Just as there will always be those who skate elegantly across the pond of life, so there will be those for whom life is a gauntlet of thin ice. I remember once, in discussion with a colleague about a stroke of misfortune that had visited a then-girlfriend, George remarking that ‘bad luck seemed to follow her around’.
This is a truth newly awakened in me each time (and there are many times) I find myself witnessing a disintegration in progress, and the absolute helplessness I feel before the relentless juggernaut of human nature. I can only watch as, in apparent slow motion, two irresistible forces match up to each other. I can do nothing to stop the explosion of destructive energy which follows.
From the shallows of old age, there is a morbid attraction for the tumult that forms about the thinner and cracking ice. To watch the inevitable and not to turn and walk away up the riverbank is dangerously close to schadenfreude, and I neither like myself nor respect my own history when I yield to that temptation. After all, these are scenes from my own past: I genuinely want to step between the protagonists and keep them apart. But I have no wisdom in this arena; and even if I had, wisdom has no part to play.

White Goods counselling

This was a few years ago. Tony was a generous man of nearly my own age, not in the bloom of health perhaps, but still walking in the sun when he found a partner younger than he, slim and apparently self-confident with a willing smile; a paragon of something not quite within the powers of description but mother to two adolescent children, a girl and a boy.
Within three months they found a house – a modest semi-detached with a garden – and moved in together; a course of action which might have seemed sudden, but the days grow short as you reach November, and it would be hard to criticize them for reaching out to grasp at happiness. To all appearances, this was the sort of consolation prize relationship many dream about but few attain, and all seemed well with Tony and Marian, his new-found friend.
Barely six months had passed before the first cracks showed. According to Tony, Marian’s expensive tastes did not match his modest income: she kept two horses, insisted upon her own car, and had a penchant for retail therapy. Two months later, again according to Tony, Marian drank heavily; Marian was bi-polar, Marian was ‘troubled by her nerves’. Marian suffered those slings and arrows stoically and made no accusations in return, but the outcome was inevitable.
Friends gathered around the two camps; battle lines were drawn. It was noticeable that of the two armies, Tony’s was much the smaller. They entered into skirmishes on his behalf with less enthusiasm and were conspicuously absent at key points in the fight. Like Custer at Little Bighorn, Tony stood tall; like Custer, Tony was too stubborn to realize he was hopelessly outnumbered.
No-one mentioned counselling.
Then, one Saturday morning as she hung out washing on their garden line, Marian announced calmly that she and Tony were not ‘getting on together very well’ and she was moving out. She had procured a new house locally, she told me, and would be gone ‘within the week’.
True to her word, as day seven dawned she and her children were to be seen loading boxes of possessions into her little car. They drove off and peace descended over the little house. A disconsolate Tony watched the remnants of his defeated army disappearing over the horizon. He stood alone.
For one day.
On the Monday morning at nine o’clock Tony went off to work. At nine-thirty Marian’s car drew up outside his house, where she stayed for the rest of the morning because her new accommodation had no washing machine and no garden. By midday she could be seen pegging out her washing on what now had to be regarded as Tony’s washing line. It was a temporary arrangement, she explained. It would be rectified as soon as she could procure the necessary equipment.
By Tony’s return in the evening Marian and her washing had vanished and the matter should have rested there – would have done, if Marian had fulfilled her intention to purchase her own washing machine and drier. Perhaps the temptation was too great, the answer too simple; or maybe with all her other commitments now she was single again new white goods were beyond her financial reach: whatever the reason, Marian kept coming back. Three times a week, her washing adorned Tony’s washing line, even to a point on one occasion when Tony’s own washing had to be deposed to make room.
Now Tony’s ear for bush telegraph was less than acute, but eventually this state of affairs had to come to light. You do not need to catch a rabbit red-handed to know it has trespassed in your cabbage patch. The evidence is provided by the cabbages. My choice of metaphor, by the way, is not accidental.
Marian had retained possession of a key. Her daughter knew its whereabouts. It was so available that one afternoon, in the grip of coital fever and desperately in need of privacy, she and her boyfriend let themselves into Tony’s house and thence into Tony’s spare bedroom. They were still there, deep in satisfied sleep, when Tony returned that evening.
I am unsure exactly what agreements the ensuing row produced, though a whiff of blackmail hangs in the air to this day. Suffice to say both Marian’s children spent the following weekend grudgingly treating Tony’s garden to a rather inexpert but well-intended makeover, and Marian’s washing forays no longer retained their clandestine nature. In fact, she often arrived with the basket before Tony had left, and on increasingly frequent occasions did not leave on the same day, or the next.
These events took place, as I have said, a few years ago. Tony is older now by double those years, and poorer by several more: but Marian, though she has still a house of her own, spends little time in it, and a lot of time in Tony’s, if only because of the volume of her washing. As far as I know, she never bought her own machine, and if she did, she never uses it.
The moral of this story? If there is one, it might point out there are many versions of ‘happily ever after’ which even within one partnership may not coincide. And a further point: as a bachelor in need of a life partner, your first consideration should probably be the purchase of a good washing machine.

A Meeting in the Park – A Short Story Revival

Another example of anecdotal sludge snatched from the jaws of File Shredder in the nick of time.  I always liked this one:

“I think you’re very beautiful.”  Martin said.

Alana felt the hot scarlet of a blush as it crept up her graceful neck, the way it always did whenever she was surprised by a compliment, no matter how clumsily it was delivered or by whom.   “Thank you.  I wish I deserved that.”  She said with a shy smile.

“I saw you and I thought…” Martin hesitated, gathering his strength; “I thought I must speak.  I simply had to speak.  I often walk Rufus in this park, but I don’t remember seeing you here before.”

“No.  I don’t suppose you do.  I’m new here, you see.  We just moved in to the new apartments over there.  Your dog is very clever.”

“Yes.  You can pet him if you like.  He’s extremely gentle.”  

Alana crouched in front of the fair-haired Labrador, offering her delicate long fingers for Rufus to get her scent before she gently scratched his ear.  “You’re a clever boy!”  She praised him.  “Without you I would have lost my diary.  Thank you.”  And Rufus pressed his head against her hand, wagging his tail furiously.  She looked up at the young man.  “I wish I had a treat for him.”

“Oh please don’t worry.  He’s a natural retriever, you see.  It isn’t a trick to Rufus; he just can’t help himself.  He saw you’d left your book on the bench when you walked away and he went straight to it.  It’s what he does.”

“Well, I’m very grateful.”

“I wonder…” the young man was tongue-tied again.  “I wonder if someone as lovely as you would ever consider going out to dinner with someone like me?”

Alana smiled her demurest smile.   He was very uncertain of himself, this young man, and some might have thought him a little creepy, but she recognized the loneliness in him and understood.  He was good-looking, if you took away those heavy-rimmed glasses, made him trim those lank strands of black hair.  “I would love to.”  She said. 

They met at Sardi’s on the Quayside, where they feasted on lobster that had been landed that morning and drank white wine from Bourgogne.  He learned that Alana had an elder brother and they had arrived in town only a week ago.  She learned what she had first suspected:  that Martin lived alone in a small bedsit overlooking the park.  He was lonely, she decided. 

“You don’t have any relatives?”

“Not here.  They live up-country.”

“You don’t get to see them very often?”

“Scarcely at all.  My father and I, we argue every time we meet.”

“So when did you last see him?”

“Oh – years.”

Martin was a software engineer.  “I’m sort of freelance.  I don’t get much work these days…”

“I bet you’re very good…”

“Things move so fast – I don’t keep up so well.”

Alana smiled consolingly, placing her hand on his.  “Martin, I can help you.”

Martin walked her home, and by the time they reached her door he was clinging to her hand as though his life depended upon it.  He looked up to her windows to see there was a light shining there.  “Your mum and your brother – I expect they’re home.”  He said wistfully.

“I think they are.”  She said.

“Will I see you again?”

“What about tomorrow evening, when you’re walking Rufus in the park?  I’d love to join you then.”

He smiled, comforted by the knowledge she had not been bored by him, that his conversations surrounding the swift evolution of software had somehow entertained her.

As if she were reading his mind, she said:  “Thank you for a lovely dinner and your company Martin.  It’s been fun.”

He waited, expecting her to turn, disappear through the door.  She waited, filling his eyes with hers.   Impulsive?  No, he was never that. So she leaned towards him, and kissed him, almost chastely: almost, but not quite.  He walked away before he had to admit he was crying.  

The hours to the following evening passed very slowly for Martin.  They were punctuated by impossible hopes and dreams which floated around the ethereal image of Alana.  Alana in the blue dress she had worn last night, Alana in white wedding weeds, Alana in – he could only dare himself to peep – nothing at all.  Guilt consumed him, anxiety possessed him, and fear (that she would not keep their assignation in the park) almost drove him to distraction.

He reached his habitual walk early, with Rufus in enthusiastic tow, but lingered.  He positioned himself upon a bench with a view of the park gates while Rufus fidgeted at his feet, eager to be walked.  From where he sat he could see Alana approach, watching her even, faun-like stride through the railings.  The evening was warm enough for the short green skirt she wore and the street quiet enough for the click of her heels to be audible.

Martin spotted the man in the red bomber jacket almost before Alana did. The man was young, well built with a strong face and a bold, confident stride – everything Martin was not.   He was walking towards Alana, he knew her.  A thousand tiny needles of apprehension pricked at the back of Martin’s eyes as he watched them meet, as they performed a ritual of hand gestures in pursuit of their hum of conversation.  HE was someone she would want to be with; the kind of man a girl like that deserved.   HE would have a decent income, a regular job, property, a fast car…

Alana saw Martin as soon as she turned away from the man.  She gave a quick glance over her shoulder to see if the man was watching before she waved cheerfully.   “You’re early!”   She said as she hurried towards him.  “Come on, Martin, let’s walk!”

He gave her one of his bleakest, most defeated smiles.  But he did not ask her about the man.  He dared not.  Alana did not volunteer any information; instead she snuggled cozily into his side, her arm through his as though they were already lovers, while Rufus trotted faithfully behind.  For what seemed an hour neither would break the silence, each just happy to bathe in the other’s company as a red sun set slowly over the distant hill.  At last, resting on the memorial benches by the lake, Martin summoned up all his courage.  With shaking fingers he took her chin as gently as he could and turned her to him.  Then, trying not to breathe, he kissed Alana on the lips.

She sighed, saying softly:  “Not bad.  Now let’s try that again.”  And she returned his kiss.  And she taught him how mouths could explore, and hands excite.

After a while, when his first lessons had been learned, Martin’s disbelief would no longer let him remain silent.  He asked:  “What is it?”

Alana rested her head upon his shoulder contentedly:  “What is what?”

He hesitated because he knew it was a question he should not ask:  “You know what I see in you.  What is it – what can you possibly – see in me?

She turned her head to his, so close he could feel the warm waft of her breath on his cheek, hear the tremulous edge in her voice.  “Perhaps I see much more than you do.  There’s something about you – and Rufus.  Don’t forget Rufus.  Perhaps vulnerability turns me on.”  She squeezed his hand.  “Come on, my little man, I want to take you home.”

So they walked again, retracing the steps that had directed them to their tryst, consumed with laughter and promise.   At the park gates, Martin found himself pausing to look up at Alana’s apartment windows.   “They’re not in tonight.”  She whispered.   “It’s just you and me, Martin.   Come on, let’s hurry!”

Rufus caught his human companions’ mood and pulled them heartily on his leash across the road and along the pavement on the further side,  To his own amazement, Martin was no longer afraid of himself.  He matched Alana’s pace as they hurried to her door, and almost skipped beside her on the wide stone stairs.  Inside the lobby of her apartment he took her in his arms and made her laugh at his ineptitude as he rained kisses on her cheeks, her neck, her arms…  Rufus snuffled, Rufus whimpered, Rufus growled.

The room was dark inside – dark and warm.  A faint, sweet scent filled the air.

“Don’t.”  She whispered, very close.  “Don’t turn on the lights.”

It was Alana who shook now, whose hands were quaking in the grip of her desire, the certain knowledge of his need. 

“You can touch me, Martin.  Touch me darling – I won’t break.  Come on now, don’t wait….don’t, don’t wait.”

It was surprising, in no subtle way, the lance of warmth that pierced his heart.  It found its path with so little pain, so little resistance he scarcely knew it had happened.  Alana was trembling in his arms and crying out her ecstasy.  He was shaking in hers; but it was not joy that made him so.   Making his final, desperate clutch at life his eyes took in the room, now lit; the table he was being thrust back upon, the long, thin knife in Alana’s hand.  And he clattered down beside the saw, and died.

#

“Hi!”  Alana said, pleased despite herself.  “Isn’t it a little early to come calling?”

“You settling in OK?”  Asked the young man in the red bomber jacket.  “I’m kind of interested, being your upstairs neighbor and all.”

“Yes.”  Alana leant against her doorpost.  “I’m fine.”

“Got yourself a dog.”  Rufus, a little scared of the young man, was hiding behind Alana’s legs.  She felt, rather than saw or heard, his presence.

“Yes, got him yesterday.  Nice dog.   Listen, I don’t mean to be rude, but…”

“I’m from Glasgow.”  Said the young man.  “You can probably tell from my accent.  Forgive me stopping you in the street like last night, but I couldn’t help thinking I knew you from somewhere.  Then I remembered:  you used to have red hair, right?”

“No, I think you have me mixed up with….”

“No, I don’t.  I worked in Glasgow CID, you see, before I transferred down here, and we had a lot of photographs of you.   Never did find your mother or your brother, never could hang anything on you.  Always squeaky clean, always tidy.  There was a lot of washing and tidying going on down here last night, wasn’t there?”

Alana was becoming annoyed:  “Look, I don’t know who you have got me mixed up with, but you’re wrong.  Now will you go away – please?”

“Fine dog, isn’t he?  Good retriever.”

“They always are, this breed.”  Rufus had come to sit at her heel.  She reached down to pet his shoulder.  “So what?”

“So he’s brought you a shoe.”

“Oh Rufus!”  Alana scolded.  “Whatever am I going to do with you?”  She looked down.   And she added in quite a different voice:  “Put it back, Rufus.”

But Rufus trusted the young man and he wanted to give him the shoe as a gift.  First, though, he had to adjust his grip, so he put the shoe down and, to achieve better balance, he picked it up again, holding it by the leg that was still wearing it…

© Frederick Anderson 2015.  Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Frederick Anderson with specific direction to the original content.