Jo's Site

Thrilled
Workshop challenge. "Your messed-up life still thrills me" - Should've been a dirty, insomniacal rock star

Jagged Edge
Workshop challenge. He loves his car more than her! - time to put the wheels in motion

Round The Bend
OCD, anyone? - I think I hide it well, actually

Nine Forty
Your worst nightmare - at nine forty, every morning, I'd remember

Free Spirit
Memories of an actress' daughter - she wasn't like the other girls' mums

Mother And Baby
How desperate for a baby would you have to be - it's just for a little while, my conscience whispered

The Spice Of Life
Childhood memories - "How about I teach you to fly?"

Unarmed And Not Very Dangerous
Silly humour (you have been warned!) - "I called yesterday? Y'know, about the arm I left on the bus?"

Soul Mates
Fifty years of wedded bliss - "You bought me this in Malta."

"Cecil Who?"
Failed writer (somewhat silly humour) - "Goodbye cruel world"

"Sorry I'm Late"
This'll put you off commuting - eventually I reach the station, Lynford Christie style (only minus the lunchbox)

End Of The Road
Car crash on a remote road - my teeth chatter in unison with my uncontrollable shaking hands

Santa Baby, Hurry Down My Chimney Tonight
The night before Christmas. Naughty Santa! - "It certainly has been a while, Santy."

"Do You Remember?"
Childhood bullies - you stole my dinner money again today

You always were a bad boy. Should've been a dirty, insomniacal rock star. Instead, you lived on the Sunrise Estate with the rest of us. But you stood out. Always did, always will. Everyone knows your name. Jimmy Cole. The one with the deathwish.

Looking out from under that long scruffy hair with your seemingly black eyes, fag permanently hanging from those plump lips. The way you spoke, your lips twitching back and forward but your mouth barely opening. Slurring slightly. The Jimmy Dean of our time. I worshiped him too.

It was about eleven o'clock in the Estate pub one night. Seventies' type place. The frontage full of tall windows - two boarded up. Had been for years. I was there with Cathy. A smile prickled my face at the roar of your bike. My fingers crossed in my denim jacket pocket. Please come in. You didn't disappoint. Was like a Western when you stepped foot inside. My mind's eye sees wafts of smoke around you, gun holsters at your side, swing doors and a fat cigar in that gorgeous mouth. Of course it was your usual Benson and Hedges, but that's how I remember it. Everyone watched as you swaggered over and put your arm round me. Fag in mouth as you spoke. "Alright, Babe." You didn't look at me. Didn't get me a drink. From that moment, we were some sort of item, but we never really spoke. Friends told me I was the luckiest girl alive. When I whinged, they silenced me before I could finish. "Do you know how many girls fancy him, Lana?"

You never asked my name. I presume you did know it but I was too ashamed to check. You never phoned. Never knocked at my door. Never bought me anything. But I loved you. Deeply.

You moved on six months later to Chantelle Simmons. The pretty blonde girl who dressed like Madonna.

You still get dead phonecalls. Still answer the door to pizza deliveries and taxis at three in the morning. I watch you from my balcony. Skinny girls come and go. I see you every hour of every day. Not only when you're at the shops, the pub, even the hairdressers, but in my three year old son's eyes. You'll always thrill, excite and captivate me. One day, I'll tell you.

©2008 JRC

I didn't like him. I handed him the gloves and he nodded. I didn't like that smirk. He said nothing, just turned away, his broad back mocking me.

Tomorrow, I promised myself.

That night there was a storm – violent, tropical. Lightning rent the sky, thunder crashed and rain sleeted down, oppressive. I couldn't sleep, thinking of the next day, as the water gurgled in the gutters and pipes.

The next morning, I went out early.

The previous night's rainwater sloshed over the clogged gutters creating long, dirty stripes alongside the drainpipes. For years he'd promised to clear out the debris and paint the outside of the house. Surely, his side of the bargain when I kept things immaculate inside.

I stood outside for a while just staring at the house, remembering how different things were twenty-odd years ago. Before the car. When he still put me first. Behind those heavy garage doors sat his beloved E-Type, snug beside my boring, beige Fiesta. Loved more than me. More than our house. Our kids, even.

But it no longer upset me. This was to be my day. One to remember. One to change the course of my life; my future.

He was going out at two to meet his car club cronies. I had the entire morning to myself. Time to put the wheels in motion.

The guy I'd spoken with on the phone the day before certainly appeared to know his stuff. I realised I'd have to hold my reserve; put on a brave front; not allow myself to feel intimidated. Something I'd been practicing for years. That selfish, pig-headed husband of mine had taught me how to be strong. His family were probably to blame. Their social skills left much to be desired. He'd been barking orders at me for nigh on thirty years. Putting his treasured car before me. Well, I'd had enough. Taken all I was prepared to take. Some 'me' time, long overdue – and much deserved. I felt no guilt in giving up on him. He was never going to change. I'd wasted the best part of my life realising that.

So I set off to meet 'Ron'. Pulled up in my practical Fiesta, much to his obvious distaste and we shook on our deal. Seven thousand pounds passed between us. He eyed me like I was a cop but obviously decided to trust me – or perhaps he was just plain greedy.

Midday. Time to be heading home. Time to start the ball rolling. I inhaled deeply and phoned 'Mark'. "It's Sandra. I've done it. I'll meet you in the designated car-park at four." I hung up with no remorse.

My new leather gloves perched on top of his on the kitchen table. With my heart beating as high as my throat and with a close eye on the clock, I headed up the stairs to remind him he had to be out in half an hour. His back was facing me and I could hear the customary smirk in his reply. "Yes, dear. I think I'm quite capable of reading my watch."

I trotted back down the stairs, teeth gritted. Not long now and my life would be my own.

As the kitchen clock struck two, he appeared in the doorway. Prompt as ever. His ever present driving gloves donned his underworked hands. Flat cap rested on his balding head. "Don’t wait up, dear, you know how it is."

I followed him through the internal door to the garage.

There, he got the biggest shock of his life. Totally unaware. Totally unexpected. His eyes bulged and random words stuttered from his fat face.

I dangled my car keys in front of his reddening features. "Take as long as you like, dear. It's my first MG owners' club meeting at four, so don't wait up…'

I still don't like him. But at least the feeling's now mutual.

©2007 JRC

I think I hide it well, actually. There are people at work who've never cottoned on. They just think I'm partial to burgers and Maltesers.

My obsession with round food started about five years ago, probably after my husband disappeared. I thought he was dead. So did the police for a while as they interviewed me half a dozen times down at the station. If they'd not found him sunning himself on a beach in Marbella with a piña colada in one hand and a blonde's arse in the other, I might have been charged with his murder.

Maybe it represents the full circle my life's turned around. Boyfriends hanging off my arm since I was about seventeen and suddenly, two decades later, I find myself alone and single.

Eating out's the hardest to deal with. Chips are off the menu unless I make them at home. Thankfully, not everything has to be perfectly round, although if I'm having a particularly bad day or week I'll only eat spherical food, like a tomato or peach. If things are hunky-dory, flat and round is okay which is where the burgers come in. But, as life trickles on and shit happens, the rounder the food gets.

I've got used to circular food at home. My diet's not that limited, really. Carrots can be sliced, along with cucumbers. Babybel cheese is man's best invention! Edam always was too large to eat in one sitting. Meat's tricky, but, so long as I'm dining alone (more often than not these days), I use the scone cutter. It means the edges are serrated, but I can live with that.

I can feel other compulsions creeping into my life too. Now, I have to wash my hands twice on the trot. And I'll only answer the telephone after four rings. Has to be an even number. Don't you just hate it when it starts ringing on a half-ring?

It's not that I think something bad will happen. I'm not particularly superstitious (unless you count opening umbrellas indoors, stepping under ladders, the number thirteen, saluting a magpie, putting new shoes on a table and I always eat an apple a day to keep the doctor away. Mind you, if apples were square, I'm sure I'd manage to overlook that particular one) and my childhood was what they define as 'relatively normal'.

What's the fashion with square plates lately? Now that is disturbing. They're meant to be round. Always have been, always should be. On the rare occasions I do eat out, I always ring beforehand to check the shape of their plates. Okay, so I'm obviously way past caring what strangers think, but I wouldn't have to call if people just stuck to normality.

I do sometimes wonder exactly who has the problem.

©2006 JRC

The kids were playing up. Monday morning. Eight thirty flashed at me from the digital clock. A neon sign illuminating my inadequacies as we battled over the bathroom, breakfast and socks.

At nine forty, every morning, I'd remember. 

"Just get in the fucking car!" 

They knew they'd wound me up. Stuck pins in until they found one that made me lash out. They hadn't meant to reach that stage; their red cheeks revealed their horror at my use of the 'f' word. But neither would buckle in front of the other, so they laughed instead. 

I smacked the eldest. Hard. On her left arse cheek. "Car. Now!" 

Her face would be unrecognisable after one vicious upward blow to her chin. 

The two of them were singing. Some bloody irritating song from their forthcoming school play. The youngest did the actions which involved lots of hand-clapping and feet-stamping. But we were late, so I yelled. 

She would die first. Before her sister. He strangled her. During the time that he fucked me. Stopped for about thirty seconds to shut her up after she'd pleaded for the toilet, then clambered back on. Cock still hard. 

"Mummy, I've got a tummy ache."

I rolled my eyes and floored the accelerator. "Nothing to do with that Science test this afternoon, then?" 

If only she had been ill. Puked there and then in the car. All the 'what ifs' that went through my head afterwards… I wonder if, as I'd been clearing the vomit off the crevices in the back seat, I'd have thought things happen for a reason… I'd probably have just cursed.

Eight fifty-five. A couple of roads away from the school. Fucking school runs. Blocked roads, double parking, nowhere to stop. 

He licked his lips. Patient as a cat. 

Less than five minutes later, he was beside me in the passenger seat. It was something I'd considered before; in my worst nightmares, perhaps. Always locked my doors at night when travelling home alone. 

"Drive." 

The girls were silent as they watched. Their confused faces are still in my head. Half an hour before, they'd been so cocky. So full of life… 

Words evaded them. They remained calm; didn't panic. Did as they were told. I was proud of my girls. Looking back, I wish they'd been more rebellious; insolent maybe. But they just looked at me for instructions. Perhaps I should have been less compliant…   

Nine forty. My worst time of day. Although every minute's my worst time of day now... 

He sits and waits three roads from the school. Not long now… 

She wasn't like the other girls' mums. You're so lucky, they'd say. Your mum's fabulous, Cassie. Mother would turn up with her full slap on, dressed up to the nines just to collect me from school. Not that she made it very often. Invariably, Mrs Manning from up the road would be there to greet me at the school gates. Your mam needs to get her priorities straight, she'd mutter as she tugged on my arm and virtually frogmarched me home.

I suppose mother was what you might call a free spirit. There were no curfews imposed in our house. We never ate at regular times and we'd sleep when we were tired. If my father had ever lived with us, maybe the situation would have been different; although I'm not convinced anyone would have been able to sway my stubborn mother. Each Sunday afternoon (if she wasn't performing), she'd sit me down in the conservatory on the foam filled window seat and tell me how it was in her day. We'd browse the photos and theatre programmes and occasionally she'd teach me a song or dance routine. We'd dress up in patterned flares and chunky white platform boots - they went all the way up my legs but were really only supposed to reach my knees - before the evening dresses came out, bejewelled with sequins and what I believed at the time to be priceless gems.

We talked about travelling together when I finished school or college. She told me of faraway places, portraying vivid images of each country and giving colourful descriptions of the inhabitants along with their cultures. I desperately wanted to visit India first with its heady, spicy aromas. It reminded me of an artist's palette, the way she described it. We'd wrap ourselves up in her silk scarves as make-do saris and sit cross-legged with the incense sticks burning gently in the background.

She taught me smatterings of other languages. Oui, I'd say if she offered me tea. And, if Mrs Manning was minding me, I'd answer the phone with Bonjour. Although that was to annoy Mrs Manning more than anything. She'd always roll her eyes and say, Should be speaking bleedin' English properly before speaking foreign.

Most of my childhood was spent indoors. There'd be kids out in the street on their bikes, or bouncing tennis balls up against fences, hollering and screaming. Mother and I would close the heavy curtains and light the candles and incense sticks. She loved books and often read to me. I never grew up listening to children's stories; always adult fiction, poetry or something factual. She owned a large 'coffee table book' (as she called it) which was effectively a take on Vogue, filled with glamorous women wearing the latest fashion. I'd flick through it and daydream during the rare occasions she was watching the television or engrossed in a radio play.

When we did venture out, it was never to the park or the cinema. For my birthdays, she'd take me to the theatre. We'd always dress up for the occasion. Mother would dab rouge on my cheeks and apply a stroke of pink gloss to my lips. She took me backstage once, but I almost wish she hadn't. The bubble burst for me that night. The decor was tatty, the dressing rooms cramped, and the language! Everyone either seemed to be in a rush or arguing. I froze on the spot when a portly man shouted, What's she doing back here? before realising who I was with. His whole demeanour changed when he found out I was Meg Hamilton's daughter.

She was only forty seven when we buried her. I was seventeen. We never did visit India together. But I told her lifeless body of the adventures I would have, knowing her spirit would be by my side absorbing each country with me.

I'd ensured her head had been wrapped in her favourite vintage Pucci scarf and her face painted on, along with false eyelashes and pencilled in eyebrows. The blue dress I'd always loved her in adorned her tiny frame. I didn't think she'd mind that it was too big for her now. You can never be too thin or too glamorous, Cassie, she'd probably still have said.

© JRC

"I'm so sorry, Amanda, your baby girl died during the operation. They did everything they could."

I stared, trancelike, at the doctor from my maternity ward bed.

"Amanda, dear, I'm very sorry. Are you alright? Would you like me to call anyone? I'll arrange a cup of tea for you." He looked concerned, like I was about to explode, and edged backwards to the main desk where he whispered to a nurse and pointed over in my direction.

The two of them came over together with the tea; the nurse took hold of my hands. All I could think of to say was, "When can I go home?" I watched them exchange glances.

I decided the funeral should be immediate family only. Not that I had much in the way of family. Mum took hold of my hand throughout the brief service and hugged me during talk of a mother and daughter's loving bond. I still didn't cry. Briefly, I wondered if I should try and trace her father, but dismissed the thought. He hadn't known about the pregnancy so why should he know about his daughter's death?

At 41, I'd left it rather late to have my first child. Not that she'd been planned, but I knew what the outcome might be when I jumped into bed with Jonathan from a local book group I'd joined. Now I was fast approaching 42 with no partner, no child, no nieces or nephews and barely any family. I'd accepted voluntary redundancy before my little girl was born. The thought of job hunting now filled me with dread. I hated my life. Hated the sense of failure I carried round with me (couldn't even have a baby and get that right) and, most of all, I utterly hated myself. I believed things happened for a reason - and the only reason I could find for my baby girl dying was that she was better off dead than having me as a parent. Depression fogged my days and even getting out of bed proved challenging. Television commercials mocked me. All appeared to advertise baby essentials or depict happy families.

I continued to express my milk, sometimes keeping it bottled in the fridge for days before draining it down the sink. It was impossible to break that bond. I would sit for hours, cradling her brand new teddies on the sofa. Usually, I'd have a cushion stuffed up my pyjama top with my hands linked in front of my 'bump'. A thousand 'what ifs' clogged my mind.

My neighbours probably hadn't even realised I was pregnant. There were only four houses in my road and, to be honest, I'm not even sure I'd recognise those from number 4 if we were sat next to each other on a train! Julie, next door, had asked about the baby, but I'd said she was under observation in hospital. It had been easier to deflect her questions and sympathy with a lie.

One miserable Monday morning after a virtually sleepless night, I forced myself into town to buy Christmas presents. Rather than trail the other cars round and round each tier of the multi-storey car park, I headed straight for the top floor. Two spaces away from my car was a family saloon facing the opposite direction to mine. I double-took as I noticed a sleeping baby strapped into a car seat in the back. She couldn't have been more than three months old, dressed from head to toe in pink and oblivious to the fact her mother was out of sight. Anger first flashed through me. How dare she be allowed a baby if she neglects it like that. My wing mirror showed a woman glancing back towards her car as she made her way through the double doors to the lobby. Perhaps she'd lost her ticket, I could think of no other reason why her child would be in the car alone. The assistance button was out there; surely that must be it.

My brain turned over at lightning speed. Before I had a chance to process the thoughts, I'd opened her car door and was grappling with the restraints holding the little girl safely in her seat. I'd never have time to work out how to strap her in again so I grabbed the bag and blanket next to her, plonked her down on the passenger seat of my car and covered her with the yellow waffled blanket. She hollered.

I raced round to the driver's side and started the engine. The baby's mother had left the lobby and was running towards my car. Her screams of, "My baby, she's taking my baby!" echoed round the car park. I frantically searched for the Exit sign and bounced over the speed bumps towards it, my left arm extended to hold the baby down. The mother had given up chasing me and was running back towards her car. I snaked my way down five levels and fumbled with my ticket and cash at the barrier but eventually pulled out into the traffic.

I knew the back roads pretty well and, at first, headed down the dual carriageway like I was heading for the motorway but then doubled back on myself and took a long residential turn-off which I knew led me to the High Street in the opposite direction. I knew I couldn't risk staying on the High Street for long, so I turned off again almost immediately and continued down the quieter residential roads. The baby yelled constantly.

As I pulled up outside my semi, I was eternally grateful that my neighbours appeared to be out at work. Daisy (as I'd now named her) stopped screaming almost as soon as we stopped. I carried her clumsily into the house and bolted the door behind us.

"Oh, baby girl," I said, kissing her peachy head. "My little girl, I missed you so much." She looked up at me in confusion, her wide blue eyes darting round at the unfamiliar surroundings. Tears slipped down her blotchy cheeks and her bottom lip trembled.

"It's alright, baby girl, don't cry, look..." I knelt on the floor and made sure she was safely wedged into the corner of my sofa. "Peek-a-boo, I see you, hiding under the stairs." My hands lifted away from my face on the 'peek-a-boo', revealing a wide smile. This seemed to temporarily quieten her down, although she'd take some settling in.

It's just for a little while, my conscience whispered.

Living with someone else's baby proved easier than I expected. Supermarket orders turned up on my doorstep, although by the end of the second week I ventured out, so desperate for people to see the proud mum that I was feeling inside. Daisy was an absolute angel. It did take her a week to stop grizzling, but soon she was crying for my cuddles instead. She took my milk from day one. It was a bit hit and miss as the experience was new to me, but it didn't take us long to get into a routine.

Still my conscience told me it wasn't going to be forever.

By the end of the fifth week, I'd managed to avoid conversations about 'that poor woman' along with any radio or television reports of the incident. But, as I went to enter the newsagents' round the corner, I couldn't help but notice that a centre spread from a 'red top' had been plastered prominently in the shop window, headed 'MISSING'. It seemed her name was Amelia. Three photographs adorned the pages. In one, her mother was beaming while Amelia's chubby face poked out from beneath a blanket; the father standing proudly beside them, outside the hospital's main entrance. The second picture showed Amelia lying on her changing mat underneath a plastic mobile. She looked so content and I could imagine the gurgling sounds she'd have been making.

The final photograph depicted the mother with a rather sallow complexion. Her eyes were dark and her mouth turned down like she'd forgotten how to smile. I'd have guessed her to be about ten years older than in the previous picture. The lump in my throat wouldn't clear, no matter how many times I swallowed.

I knew that night had to be my last with Daisy. She slept in my arms and my tears fell at last. Predictably, I couldn't sleep.

I kept the yellow blanket along with the few daisy patterned sleepsuits I'd been unable to resist from the local supermarket superstore.

The following dark, crisp December morning, I gave up my baby. There was no way I could hand myself in; I couldn't deal with the press, the court case, the looks, the shame... So I left her wrapped up in warm blankets in an open box outside a suburban police station. I'd memorised the station's telephone number and checked that the phone box along the road actually worked before I abandoned her. I called with brief, hurried details, then watched as the large wooden door swung open, throwing light onto the steps, illuminating my little girl.

My house sold within a month. Julie was led to believe my baby had died, which wasn't entirely untrue. I was finally ready to face up to my grief.

They never traced the 'crime' back to me. I was treated for depression, but never confessed. The worst was over and I'd come out the other side.

I made the most of my time at home and enrolled in a teacher training course. It turned out to be the best move I ever made, especially as it now means I get to see Amelia five days a week during term time.

© JRC

The lurid pink gum spread from her dark lips like a cartoon speech bubble.

"See, easypeasy!"

I tried again, achieving a half hearted pfff as it collapsed over my mouth.

"What about this instead, Jodie," she said, before singing, "And pop goes the weasel," only she substituted "pop" for a loud noise from her mouth using only her finger.

"Wow, Naveen! You gotta teach me that!"

She looked smug as she leant back against the wide sweeping banister. Their hallway must have been as big as the upstairs of our semi.

"How about I teach you to fly?"

"You can't fly," I said without total conviction.

"Can so! All we need is an umbrella."

She led me to their jungle of a garden.

"There. Stand on that," she said pointing to a concrete wall about two foot high, whilst holding out an umbrella for me.

"Don't be daft, I'll fall."

"I flew round the whole garden last week. I just jumped off when the wind came and, honestly Jodie, I went the whole way round!"

She was so convincing. Her brown eyes open wide and her hands gesticulating wildly.

We both gave it several attempts, obviously without success.

"Maybe it's just not windy enough." The corner of her mouth lifted as she frowned, as though deep in thought.

For the next hour or so, we played hide and seek. Of course, she won. She knew all the best places. The grass in their garden was higher than my head; great for games. Down the far end was an open concrete pit with what appeared to be tunnels coming off it. Naveen told me they were put in there when they were naughty - sometimes left for days - but, after the flying episode, I wasn't sure I believed her. One section of the garden had been cleared and a wooden 'tardis' stood in the middle. Apparently, it was a sauna. She told me it got really hot inside and they all sat in there and sweated, occasionally making it hotter by adding water to burning coals. Nobody was allowed to go in there alone, not even during hide and seek. I wondered if such a thing existed and whether or not it was actually a shed. I tried asking her about it, but she just said, "Don't you know anything?"

Her mum called us in for snacks and I tucked into what I presumed was burnt chicken. It nearly blew the top of my head off. I tried to be polite and swallow, but my eyes watered and her mum fetched me a glass of water as Naveen giggled at my red cheeks. The water only made my mouth burn more.

"I love your hair," she said to me that afternoon, whilst we sat in the cleared area by the sauna. I'd worn it down loose that day, held back with a stretchy blue Alice-band. It appeared iridescent in the bright sunlight as she trickled it between her fingers.

"It's not as long as yours, though," I said, picking daisies.

"That's because I've never had mine cut."

I didn't answer. Surely her mum would have made her get her hair cut. I know mine did. I'd cried the last time she cut just an inch off and kept the remains safe in my jewellery box. The strands poked out the bottom of her plaits like frayed rope.

"Your mum and dad said it's okay for my sisters to babysit us tonight when they go out. We can have fireworks, but don't tell. It's a secret."

I hated secrets, but agreed to keep it.

We spent the afternoon in her room reading through her Rupert the Bear annuals. Strangely, the bedroom had a sink in it. I knew they had a couple of bathrooms so couldn't really see the point.

Both our parents left for their do about six o'clock, leaving Naveen's two sisters in charge. I was scared to talk to them, they seemed so grown up. In reality, there was probably only a handful of years between us all.

As soon as the car had crunched off the gravel covered drive, the sisters turned up 'Angelo' on the stereo and pulled the box of indoor fireworks out from behind the peacock-patterned sofa.

I was too scared to hold so much as a sparkler but watched the short display with reluctant enjoyment, convinced the long velvet curtains would go up in flames.

We danced round the lounge that night with the lights dimmed low. It felt weird not being in a party dress at what most definitely felt like a party.

When our parents returned, Mum's cheeks were flushed and she was certainly very chatty. I was embarrassed at how loud her laugh was as they relayed the evening's events. Dad was poured a large brandy and I kneeled on the floor in front of him begging for a taste. He allowed me to dip my finger in and I felt the warm liquid evaporate in my mouth. I managed one more before my luck ran out.

The chitter-chatter of conversation soon echoed round me as I dozed on their oversized sofa some time after midnight.

I woke to find myself high above Mum's head. Initial panic set in as I thought I was flying, until I felt Dad's strong arm round me as I hung over his shoulder. I smiled that delicious sleepy smile when you know you'll soon be tucked up in your own bed.

© JRC

I can't believe I didn't miss it 'til I got home. My right arm, that is. Only went and left it on the bus, didn't I! One minute, I was sorting out change for the driver, arm attached; the next thing I remember, I'm waking up at my stop and rushing to get off the bus in a blind panic. It was only when I got to my front door and needed my key that I noticed its absence.

The handset nestled against my face, propped up by my shoulder, as I punched out the number with my left forefinger.

"Hello, hello... Bus Garage." I blurted.

"Excuse me? Sorry, no. This is the Bus Garage, I think you've dialled internally, love."

Clunk. The monotone, presumably blonde, woman hung up on me.

Infuriated, I tried again.

"Is that the Bus Garage?" I tried the idiot-proof version.

"It certainly is, sweetheart. What's your problem? Sock it to me."

Oh, here we go. Mr Flirt-with-anything-in-a-skirt. I imagined him straightening his tie as he spoke.

I cut to the chase. "I appear to be missing an arm. I last had it on a bus heading to your depot."

"Had it on a bus, did we, love?" He roared with laughter. "You could have been arrested for that, y'know."

"Look, I'm serious. I'm half armless. It's not funny!"

"Not funny?" He cracked up further. "Half 'armless, you say?" Giggles jerked his words out. "So, what, you got like an unloaded gun or something, have you?"

I held the handset away from my ear as his guffaws nearly deafened me. Closing my eyes, I inhaled deeply.

"Yes, I'm sure it's the highlight of your day. But I really need my arm back. Please can you check if anybody has handed a right arm in within the last half hour?"

"I'll have a look for you," he said, sounding suitably chastised - although I'm sure I heard sniggering in the background before he returned.

"Now you come to mention it, sweetheart, we do seem to have acquired an arm in our lost property section."

"Oh, thank God, I'll come and collect it immediately."

He drew a sharp intake of breath. "Sorry love, 24-hour administration. We got to log it, see, before we can release it.

"But, but… Oh, this is ridiculous."

"I know, but what can you do? Company policy, darlin'."

"Right. Well, it's lunchtime now, so any time tomorrow afternoon, you reckon? Or do I need to make an appointment?" I added sarcastically.

"3pm should be alright," he replied in all seriousness. "Oh, and you'll need to bring photo identification, proof of address and we'll obviously need a full description. We don't want it falling into the wrong hands, do we? Oh, wrong hands!" He chuckled some more at his choice of words.

"You need a description? You're kidding me, right?"

"Erm, it's company policy…"

"Well, let me see now. It's arm-length, it has four fingers at the end, one thumb…"

"What about identifying marks… tattoos? Anything? You are being rather vague, y'know."

Deep breaths, I reminded myself.

"It has a silver Celtic ring on its little finger and the nail varnish should match that on my left. That do you?"

"I'll have to double check with the boss, but I can't see it being a problem," he muttered sheepishly.

"Right, well I'll see you tomorrow. Many thanks for your kind assistance." I rolled my eyes.

"Oh, you're more than welcome," he said, probably beaming his little head off.

The following day, I arrived ten minutes early and, for my sins, was made to wait an extra ten minutes past the hour while they shuffled papers and looked at their watches.

It was easy to establish who it was I'd been speaking to the day before. Little round blue glasses resting on a chubby ruddy-cheeked face. Wispy hair combed over his balding head, curly ginger sideburns in need of a good trim. He almost elbowed the others out of the way in a bid to serve me.

"Hello there, Miss. What can we do for you? It is Miss, isn't it?" He sounded hopeful, while I regretted wearing the low-cut top as he spoke to my cleavage.

"Isn't it obvious?" I tried to make light of the situation by waving my empty sleeve at him.

He laughed nervously, unsure which of his questions I was replying to. "Erm, nope, I'm sorry. You'll have to elaborate." The corners of his mouth turned down as his eyebrows lifted, like a puppet on strings.

"I called yesterday? Y'know, about the arm I left on the bus?"

"Ah yes. How could I forget you, sweetheart." He leant on the counter as though trying to chat me up in a bar.

"So, if you don't mind? I am in a bit of a rush, actually."

He looked disappointed. "Oh, of course. I'll be right back. Don't go running off now, young lady."

He returned with my arm obviously concealed behind his back, keeping it out of eyeshot in anticipation of the formal identification process.

"Now then. I just need to take down your particulars." He threw me a wink. I flashed a curt smile back.

Twenty minutes, four forms and a mini-ID parade later, I stood proud, reconciled with my long-lost arm.

"Wow, thank you. You've no idea how wonderful that feels. I'm such a plank. Really, how embarrassing. Fancy leaving my arm on a bus. I bet you don't collect many limbs during the course of a day."

"Oh, you'd be surprised. You can bet your bottom dollar there'll be at least one passenger crawling off the bus, completely legless, on a Saturday night!"

© JRC

"You bought me this in Malta." Connie fiddled with the gold bracelet, glancing across to where George was, realising her thoughts had spilled out into words. The two of them side by side on 'their bench', overlooking the lake where they'd been visiting for nearly six decades. The autumn leaves swept up to the wrought iron of its legs.

Connie loved Sundays like this, sitting reminiscing, chatting with George. Their 'catch-up time' they'd call it. They'd often get jellied eels or whelks from the seafood stall in the pub car park; George would chuckle at his own joke, saying "Want some 'catch-up' with that, love?" as they strolled, arm in arm, towards the lake. Connie would always roll her eyes and tut, "Saucy! Not on me fish though, eh George."

"You took me there for our 50th wedding anniversary." Connie smiled as she recalled the moment he'd surprised her with the tickets. "You went all shy on me, you daft apeth... had only ever got me flowers or chocolates on our anniversary before; I certainly wasn't expecting a holiday!"

More memories came flooding back, the smile now extending into a wide grin as she remembered George ushering her into the Maltese jewellers, "Come on love, before I change me mind." He'd wanted to get her something gold, traditional for 50 years of marriage.

"Starting me off again now, silly sod." Connie wiped away a tear escaping from the corner of her eye.

The bright autumn sun momentarily hid behind a cloud. "Bit of a nip in the air." Connie observed, as she buttoned up her heavy woollen cardigan. "Got me well trained you have, sailor. Never without me woolly now, not with these old bones... you just never know when that weather might turn."

"Oooh you do look after me, George Webster." An edge of sarcasm to her voice.

A young boy ran past, pausing briefly by the bench to stare when he realised he wasn't alone. "Over here, Matthew!" His sister yelled after discovering some water rats foraging for food under a holly bush. Connie sat and watched as they threw nuts and bread. The parents caught up with them soon after. The father standing with his arm round his son, forefinger pointing towards the rats. Smiles all round as they created memories.

"Do you remember that time Ted almost went in?" Connie sat back and folded her arms in front of her, throwing her head back slightly as she recalled the incident. "He was only a nipper. Slipped on the leaves at the edge chasing that duck, the soppy bugger." It must have been autumn then too, she reflected.

Connie waited until the children moved on, rediscovering their energy and running off in search of squirrels; their parents holding hands, ambling slowly behind.

Slapping her legs as she spoke, "Right then, I can't be sitting out here all day, George, I'll catch my death." Connie smiled at the irony as she kissed two of her fingertips, then placed them on top of the urn containing George's ashes. As she lifted the lid, she whispered "Time to let you go now, sailor. I'll see you soon, my love. Sweet dreams 'til I get there."

© JRC

Cecil drew hard bitter lines through his first three words, 'Goodbye cruel world'. Erased, like he soon would be. His overactive mind running away with him as usual, imagining aliens or gods, erasers in hands, giggling like the Smash Potato men as they rubbed out human lives. Maybe an explanation for all those missing people.

'Pick me!' he wanted to yell from the slate roof of his suburban semi. Instead, he pinched the biro between stubby thumb and forefinger and tried again.

'I'm sorry, there's nothing left for me in this world'. A loud snort escaped from his nose as he read it back.

'God, I'm a walking fucking cliché!' He laughed the words out whilst ripping the page from its spiral bind, like a loud zipper on a cheap pair of trousers. Cecil Brown: failed author; failed dead author; Cecil who? He fully expected his headstone to read 'could have tried harder' as had most of his school reports.

Rage welled up inside as he succumbed to writer's block, not for the first time. He reached for the nearest item to hand and lobbed it hard against the opposite wall. Talcum powder exploded into the room; a defeatist whimper escaped from Cecil's mouth, like a dog whose tail had been accidentally trodden on. Spit covered fingertips wiped the lenses of his glasses until they squeaked.

This simply will not do! My final piece of writing should be faultless. They should read it at my funeral, publish it in textbooks; it should accompany my bronzed statue in the town square when they realise the quality, the depth, the originality, the pure genius and essence of my work.

The tappity tap of his biro against yellowing teeth would have irritated his ex enough to scream. It seemed Cecil couldn't help but irritate people. All his life, he'd felt like one almighty itch on the face of society. Never satisfied and impenetrable beyond the surface. He'd always been a poor communicator. Stories revealed his talent for writing, but everyday conversation and communication left him squirming. When Donna left, he'd withdrawn even further. Since writer's block had set in, Cecil had been forced to face up to his vacant life.

After pacing the room several times, Cecil surrendered to the lure of his computer. He'd been loath to type such a personal note but options were running out. It did cross his mind, however, that his sister, Suzanne, would probably be the one to find his body slumped over the keyboard. That would be 'Computer Illiterate Suzanne'. Would she even see the message? Cecil wondered briefly if he should invest in a printer before feasting on the row of pills. It had taken him nearly 15 minutes to align them neatly along his dining room table. Perfectionist to the end. He rejected the printer purchase as a waste of money seeing as he wouldn't be around for much longer.

Cecil again reached for his notebook. 'PLEASE CHECK COMPUTER FOR NOTE - IT'S TURNED ON ALREADY' he capitalised on it. As an afterthought, he drew an arrow to show its location, resisting the urge to draw a picture of a computer at the end of it. He signed it 'Cecil' in case his ditsy sister disregarded it as a reminder to himself. Another harsh two lines drawn underneath his name, seemingly drawing attention to it. What on earth his parents had been thinking of, naming him Cecil - still only 37, but sounding 67 - he'd never know. It wasn't like it was even a family name!

If I'd been called James, or Charles, I bet I wouldn't be in this situation now, Cecil contemplated. I'd be tall, distinguished, maybe greying around the temples by now. The Smiths next door would be replaced by the Haughton-Smythes; only they wouldn't be next door. They'd be 300 yards up the road. Lane. Avenue. Whatever. I'd be driving a Merc, hitched to a blonde, nice perky tits and a mouth made for dick. A flash of regret over his suicide decision as he contemplated one last wank as he waited to die. But the thought of Suzanne finding him, cock in hand, eyes rolled back, top teeth embedded in his bottom lip… Oh no. That simply wouldn't do. No time beforehand, as his steak should be ready soon. His last supper was to be nothing short of perfect. Cecil had never wasted money on frivolities. To him, that included steak on a Monday night. Occasionally, Donna had splashed out, but the expense had nearly caused Cecil to choke on it. He certainly wasn't about to let it frazzle in favour of a wank.

The blank screen summed up his life. He'd not written anything for months and even the desire had waned. Ever since receiving his 87th hessian-backed rejection letter, Cecil had fallen apart both mentally and physically. What a waste of ten years. His best years, probably. He should have been out there, earning a decent wage and partying. His biggest regret was not grabbing his chance, aged 22, with the delectable Francesca. They'd dated briefly, but Cecil believed himself destined for greater things. Ironically, he'd only gone on to shag three more girls and ended up marrying one of them; not a patch on Francesca.

As he sat, quietly contemplating, an idea for a story wormed its way into his head. He grappled with the keyboard, anxious to pour the outline onto the blank screen in case it wriggled its way straight out the other side. A wide smile slapped itself across his face.

'Brilliant!' Cecil congratulated himself. Oh this is too good to be true. Divine intervention at its best. He glanced across at the table adorned with pills.

'Fuck it. I could always try Friends Reunited for Francesca…'

With a spring in his step, Cecil flounced over to the old oak sideboard. In it, he found what he was seeking. A leather-bound case filled with three fat cigars. Donna had never allowed him to smoke in the house. Or even the garden, for that matter. Cecil had virtually burnt away his sense of smell from the constant puff, puff, puffing on cigarettes and cigars before meeting Donna. Miserable non-smoking bitch. He was determined to get back up to 60 a day within the next couple of weeks. Might as well die from something I enjoy doing, he reasoned.

'Mmm, now that's what I call heaven!' Puff, puff, puff. The cigar rarely leaving his crusty lips. Time for his steak, he decided. Charcoaled to perfection. He padded off in the direction of the kitchen, rubbing his hands gleefully and sucking hard on his cigar like a fish out of water. The lack of 'sizzle' concerned him as he entered the kitchen. Instinct pulled his head towards the grill to investigate…

One almighty BANG answered his intrigue. Only Cecil would go to his grave not knowing. His world, life and, indeed, house exploded around what was once his slightly overweight body.

© JRC

OH.MY.GOD. The world's worst hangover beats its steady rhythm in time with the bleeps on the world's loudest alarm clock. My expletives being bleeped out like I’m on telly before the watershed. 7.15am? No way! How the fuck did I manage to 'snooze' it three times whilst remaining asleep! Great start to a Monday. Not.

My poor body manages to drag itself through to the bathroom for an 'eye check' in the mirror. 'Rough' just about sums it up. This calls for eye drops I decide as I rummage through the bathroom cabinet. My ex-bastard used to swear by them - I'm sure they were the only bloody thing he didn't take. Even the moist toilet tissue wipes went!

“Fuck, that stings!” I yell as two drops hit my left eye. I must be in an even worse state than I initially thought. I quickly add two drops to the other eye. As I re-open the cabinet door, out falls yet another little white bottle. Hmmm, alarm bells start ringing. Gingerly, I squint at the bottle still in my hand. Oh fuckety fuck, "ear drops". Can this day get any worse I wonder as I shower my poor eyes.

No time for breakfast or make-up. Not that anything's going near my eyes for a good hour or two anyway! As per usual, the packed lunch I made up last night gets left behind in the fridge. I don't know why I bother, I really don't.

Eventually I reach the station, Lynford Christie style (only minus the lunch box), only to be greeted with 'delayed' on the departures board. Oh for God's sake, I really don't need this!

Twenty minutes later, the train lumbers down the platform. Yes! I spy an empty seat. Unfortunately, so does the steely eyed bloke racing me for it from the opposite direction. Ahah, no way matey, that's mine! I throw my bag onto the seat to claim it, give him a shrug, lifting the corner of my mouth and scrunching my nose, more through smugness than sympathy. One personal victory - maybe today won't be so bad after all.

There are five seats surrounding me. Three male commuters in their 'uniforms' and two women, one casual. Mmmm, not bad, I think looking at the bloke in front of me with his chestnut hair and dreamy eyes. Not so sure that's likely to be reciprocated today though as I recall my earlier 'bathroom experience'.

Nice Bloke drops his pen and leans forward to retrieve it. He catches my eye and apologises. I smile and nod briefly as I wonder what the fuck he's saying sorry for. As he attempts to sit upright again, his hand rests on my knee as he leers at my tits then up to my face, trying to catch my eye. Nice Bloke has morphed into Pervy Bloke in the space of 20 seconds. Just as I’m wondering whether to offer him a signed photo of my tits, I feel his foot slide alongside mine. Am I being paranoid...? Ah, there, the bastard did it again! I give his foot a sharp kick as I lower my book and glare at him. "SORRY" I state loudly as my (bloodshot) eyes narrow at him. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat - I'm hoping from humiliation rather than the hard-on he's enjoying right now.

Suit One gets off at the next stop. Hoody claims the seat. Grey zip up hooded top and baggy trousers. Not quite sure if Hoody is male or female. I look for the telltale signs of tits or stubble (although either can be misleading these days) but Hoody is perhaps too prepubescent for either. Hoody sits next to me, head bobbing to the beat of his personal stereo. Not that there’s such a thing as a ‘personal’ stereo. Ching ching ching drumming in my ear. I look to my left and glare but Hoody doesn't look up. I try texting the words 'Fking loud Walkman’ on my mobile, sending it nowhere, in the hope that Hoody is a nosey sod and reads it over my shoulder. No joy.

From the other side of the carriage a ringtone plays out 'He's got the whole world in his hands'. What the...? I glance over, along with the rest of the carriage, to see who admits to owning it. A plump middle aged woman is frantically searching through her oversized handbag muttering "oh my" repeatedly. At least that's put smiles on my fellow passengers’ faces I observe; apart from Hoody who's oblivious to life outside of a hood. Mobile Woman has obviously set a precedent now as people reach into their bags and pockets for their mobiles and conversations start up around me. My book gets to rest on my lap, barely touched. If I really wanted to listen to people's inane chat, I'd spend my lunch hour hovering round a fucking phone box!

Two girls are sitting alongside Mobile Woman. I see them most mornings; usually try avoiding them as the whole journey is spent slagging off their mates and boyfriends. "He said, so she said… yeah but, yeah but," being garbled in my ear for 40 minutes. Fake Burberry bags on their laps and hair scraped back to exhibit their St Tropez tans to their full extent.

Suit Two lets out a snort as his mouth drops open in deep slumber. I watch as dribble forms at the corner of his mouth... go on, start dribbling, I'm urging, go on... Yes! It lands on his tie. Stifling my giggle, I hold my book up in front of my face in case someone’s watching me.

Finally, we reach the end of the line. The queue to ’escape’ now approaching a mile long, the whole world and his dog shuffling slowly forward, some of us picking up the rhythm. Left, right, left right… comical really, seeing as most of them are in their 'uniforms'. Three minutes down the platform someone yells out the obligatory 'baa' sheep sound. Everyone smirks silently, despite having heard it at least once a day for umpteen years.

Some bastard steps on the back of my sandal, the front of it nearly severing my toes. I decide to climb back on the train and walk through the carriages which I'm convinced must be quicker... besides, I spot a newspaper waiting to be grabbed on one of the seats. Unfortunately, my foot slips off the step and my shin hits the metal with what I swear is a crack. Someone asks if I’m ok, but to be honest, I’d give a reassuring "yes, fine thank you" even if I’d broken my leg. I hobble along the carriage and fall into a seat, fighting back tears. My trousers are grazed and as I peek underneath, I realise not only do I have a bruise already, but a thin line of blood decorates it too. To top it all, Pervy Bloke has just grabbed the newspaper I had my eye on.

I accept defeat and edge my way back into the herd, finding myself humming along to 'he's got he whole world'. Bloody song’s going to be in my head all day now.

The battle continues as I make my way down the steps onto the pavement. Distributors giving out free magazines, brandishing them like swords. Modern day magazine warriors.

"Shit!" I yell as I collide with a 6 foot red squirrel round the first corner. Fucking charity collectors should be banned in the mornings. Scared the living daylights out of me that did!

Next obstacle is the road. I decide to wait for the green man, although people surrounding me have one foot in the road, the other behind them on the kerb as though using it as a starting block. Two of them run between cars in order to reach the middle. Four seconds later, I walk safely to one half of the road, only to be virtually mowed down by a pushbike on the other side, heading in the wrong direction, straight through a red light. "Bastard" I yell at him. "Bitch" he throws back.

Twenty minutes more of 'dancing' with people on pavements as we try and negotiate a route round each other, I reach work. Knackered, harassed, battle scarred and bruised. I head straight for the kitchen, gasping for tea, passing my line manager on the way.

“Nice lie in…” she declares rather than asks. I offer, with a shrug, “Sorry I’m late… trains” by way of explanation. She makes a point of looking at her watch. The raised eyebrow speaks volumes as she flounces off down the corridor.

© JRC

The ringing of my mobile phone, safely wrapped in my handbag, helps me regain consciousness. My first instinct is panic, trying to find a means of escape. My left hand waving frantically at my side, only the steering wheel has me pinned to my seat. Tears fall out of my eyes as I try to calm myself in order to assess the situation. I can't see or feel my legs. "Please, somebody, please," I wimper.

My eyes spring wide open as I remember the oncoming van on the dark lane earlier, the look of horror on the driver's face. Is he nearby? Did we come off the same side of the road? Is he... is he...

I try to remain silent as I listen for life outside of the crushed metal. My teeth chatter in unison with my uncontrollable shaking hands. I thought only actors' hands shook like that in the movies, never believed it possible in reality. The body I once knew, becoming more alien by the minute. I wonder if my legs still work. If they're even still there. I reassure myself they must at least be attached as I've been conscious for a little while now. "Please be right" I plead with my own mind, or to God, I'm not sure which.

The panic rises again as I realise my right shoulder is soaked in blood. I think it's coming from my head. Oh God, please, no. My neck feels wet as the cold air sneaks around my injured body through what was once the windscreen. I start crying as I mull over the implications of blood from my head or ear. Each sob accentuating the extent of my injuries. I instantly regret the release of emotion as the salty tears sting the cuts to my face as they trickle down to my chin. I have no way of clearing my running nose either, that really pisses me off. I wish I could stamp my feet and beat the steering wheel as the anger floods through me. My lungs wouldn't allow me to scream even if I tried to. I remain buried alive in my coffin of twisted metal wrapped in shards of glass.

A thought flashes through my mind that I might be dead soon, or alive and brain damaged. Will I know when it happens? The pain around my neck and shoulders is becoming unbearable.

"Please, somebody, help me. Please, God, help me. Please."

Maybe Dan will come looking for me, maybe that was him calling my mobile, maybe there was a witness, maybe the other driver is calling for help, maybe... maybe...

It's not my time yet. It can't be. I've not created the next generation for my parents yet. A mini-me, maybe with Dan's smile though. My eyes well up at the loss of my unborn children, missing them already. Imagining my parents' reaction when they realise their only daughter has gone. End of the line. Literally.

Who's going to tell Gran? She's 89, it'll kill her.

I've not even had a chance to put the bin out for tomorrow's dustmen; Dan will forget now. That'll be two weeks running. It will stink to high heaven by next Wednesday!

Veronica, my line manager at work, won't be best pleased with the news. I'm only halfway through that project. Nobody can pick that up without my guidance. All that bloody time, effort, lack of sleep and social life. All for nothing. I have visions of her turning up at my hospital bedside like a police officer. "Is she well enough to be questioned yet, doctor?"

I'm feeling so sleepy now. So, so sleepy. My eyes want to close. I know from watching hospital dramas that I shouldn't sleep, but I can't keep my eyes open much longer. I'm in that delicious state of semi-consciousness just before sleep takes over.

Sirens seem to echo around me, but I am no longer sure of reality. The rotating blue lights flash into my car, but I no longer trust my eyes. As I drift off, I wonder whether I'll see tomorrow, whether I'll get to hug Dan again and whether I'll still have my legs and my sanity. Seems like a lot to ask for as I sit here slowly fading away.

© JRC

Wednesday, 22 December - the final "Society Ladies Fellowship Guild" meeting before Christmas
 
"Laberna, dear, do pass the cream."

"Pleasure, Annabel." The corners of Laberna's mouth lifted, but her face remained expressionless. Maybe those looking closely might have detected a slight raise of her eyebrows though.

"I've made some delicious mince pies for Santy this year," gloated Wanda.

"Oh come, come now, Wanda. The poor fellow will be sick of mince pies by the time he reaches your house!" Annabel, it seemed, was being her usual undiplomatic self. "Presuming, of course, they'll be using the alphabetical delivery system as usual. I really think you should consider something sweeter, dear. I will baking blueberry pie, laced with a very special something for my very special man."

Annabel settled into her chair like a plumped up pigeon on its nest.

"Goodness, do you remember the kafuffle in 2001 when they'd loaded the sleigh in the wrong order? Poor Mrs Adams waited until 4.30am for her glimpse."

Laberna continued, waggling her finger as she spoke. "Thought that naughty Mr Clause was visiting her last for all the wrong reasons!"

"In my dreams," sighed Cynthia wistfully.

"Cynthia!" exclaimed Wanda. "You're a married woman!"

"Pot, kettle and black!" Cynthia squinted her eyes at Wanda in a most sarcastic manner. "I take it Rupert knows about the mince pies then?"

"Ladies, ladies," cried Annabel. "That's quite enough." Tapping her watch as she spoke, "Look at the time! We're twelve minutes late already."

"Hopefully there'll be a better turnout next week. Pretty poor show tonight." Wanda reached for her mobile phone to check Rupert was outside before venturing out into the cold.

The women clucked around the cloakroom gathering their possessions before talking over each other with their farewell words.

CHRISTMAS EVE

Laberna's House

Laberna had changed her nightdress twice already. Allowing her husband, Marcus, to believe he was on a promise, she'd managed to coax an early Christmas present out of him. As she lay on the sofa stroking the new burgundy silk negligee, wondering if he was a silk or lace man, a faint jingle scuppered any chance of embarking on the illicit fantasy she had in mind.

Like an accomplished thief, Santa appeared in her lounge without dislodging even one lump of coal in the fireplace. With a snap of his fingers, he soundproofed the room.

"Long time no see, Laberna. Looking good."

Santa held her hand and forced her into a giggly pirouette. Laberna blushed, flirting with him from beneath her mascara coated lashes.

"It certainly has been a while, Santy."

I knew he'd still want me, Laberna thought. The others never stood a chance. Stuck up vultures, as if he'd look twice.

"Come and sit on Santa's knee, tell him what a good girl you've been this past year."

Laberna didn't need asking twice. In fact, she was so brazen as to straddle him, her voice now barely a whisper. "I've been a real good girl, Santy. And I plan on being a whole lot better…"

With that, Santa pulled his robes over them both…

Annabel's House

Even Geoffrey had commented on Annabel's seemingly jumpy disposition.

"Would you calm yourself, darling. The presents will be here. You know he won't show if you're still awake."

"Don't be silly, Geoffrey, I've just got one of my heads. You go on up, I've taken pills, blighters will work in a minute or two. Run along, dear, I won't be long."

"If you're positive, old girl." Geoffrey kissed the top of her head. "Not sure it's wise to take them with whiskey though." He looked disapprovingly at the cut crystal in her hand, the ice cubes gently chinking as she rotated the glass nervously.

"Geoffrey…" the drawn out tone spoke volumes.

"Alright, I'm going…"

Once the latch on the bedroom door clicked into place, Annabel left her sentry duty at the bottom of the stairs and returned to the lounge. Her head full of memories of the last two Christmases. She tried to busy herself making lists, but attempts were futile. Thirty minutes passed before that familiar jingling sound could be heard. Annabel held her breath in anticipation. Any second now…

Whoosh. There he stood in his red finery on her Oriental rug. Annabel jumped and a trickle of whiskey ran down her thumb. Santa took her hand in both of his and sucked the whiskey off her thumb greedily.

"Delicious," he murmured, his blue eyes twinkling as he held her gaze.

"I baked blueberry pie..." Annabel whimpered. Her voice trailing off as she spoke.

"Then we shall have that to follow. Now remember, Annabel, not a word to anybody…"

"Oh Santy…"

He silenced her with a kiss.

Cynthia's House

Cynthia had waited an entire year for this. The way he'd looked at her last year… surely she hadn't imagined it. It must have been fate, she'd concluded. Cynthia was an early bird generally. Tucked up in bed with Frederick by 10.30pm every night. Last Christmas Eve, she'd been so engrossed in a film that she'd stayed up alone. Santa had arrived about 2.00am and she'd been astounded to find herself still on their leather sofa in her flannelette nightdress. This year, she was more prepared. Silk kimono, with not a lot underneath. The last year had seen a dramatic change in Cynthia. She'd even worn lipstick to the last SLFG meeting.

As 2.00am drew near, butterflies began their tango in the pit of her stomach. She knew he was close. Sensed it. A large glass of Chablis had taken the edge off her earlier jitters but they were rising again. Cynthia reached for the bottle from the ice bucket, filling her glass to an inappropriate level.

"Good evening, Cynthia."

She turned to face him, unconsciously flicking her long hair as she did so. "Oh, erm, hello there, erm Santa."

The crimson flush spread from her cheeks down to her chest. She fiddled anxiously with the bottle's cork, drawing her kimono tighter over bare skin.

Stay calm, she told herself. Oh, those eyes though... She'd tried to avoid his hungry stare, felt his eyes undressing her, but still she felt compelled to lift her face to meet his.

"I, but, my husband, really, I never…"

Santa laughed at her. Gentle mocking, not the big belly laugh she'd expected from such an imposing figure.

"Cynthia. We both felt it last year, didn't we. I don't often reveal myself like this, but I've waited a whole year to see that smile again."

So it wasn't just me she assured herself. The attraction was mutual after all. She couldn't find the words to stop him kissing her. Tugging on the cord of her kimono, it fell off her shoulders and landed softly on the floor. He clicked his fingers and reassured her they wouldn't be disturbed.

Wanda's House

Wanda had hidden the mince pies from Rupert in her sewing box. Whatever Santa doesn't eat can be served after dinner she thought, along with the trifle she would make tomorrow. She'd managed to conceal her excitement and told Rupert to go on up to bed, claiming she had embroidery to finish. The floorboards creaked as Wanda paced the length of the oak panelled dining room. Come on, Santa, she willed, resisting another glance at the grandfather clock in the corner. She'd been wise this year and napped for most of the afternoon. As the clock struck 4.00am a distant jingle sounded. Santa appeared ten minutes later, looking slightly dishevelled.

"Oh Santy baby. What a long hard night you must have had. Here, let me massage those aching shoulders…"

Santa slipped out of his suit, clicking his fingers as he did so. "Wanda, my sweet little Wanda. How I've missed you."

Wednesday, 29 December - the first "Society Ladies Fellowship Guild" meeting after Christmas

Laberna shuffled the papers in front of her.

"Right, ladies. First on the agenda is the Blooming Baby Competition following last September's baby boom. I hope we all have our favourites, because this could be a tricky one. They're all rather cute this year, aren't they."

"Secondly, the mincemeat shortage at the local supermarket. Apparently, never before have they experienced such a deficit. Their entire stock had gone by early December. They're blaming the internet for the influx of new mince pie recipes, but frankly I'm not convinced…"

"Thirdly, I'd just like to say I hope you and your families had wonderful Christmases. Mine, especially, was most enjoyable this year."

A few rosy-cheeked faces nodded back at Laberna. Smiles all round as the ladies concurred that 2004 had been the best Christmas ever!

© JRC

You stole my dinner money again today. Why did you do that? Your parents have good jobs. Doctors aren't they? Maybe they're too busy working to pay you any attention or to remember to leave your dinner money. I used to prefer my packed lunch, until you smeared dog shit in my sandwich. I don't understand, Gareth. Why did you hate me? What did I ever do to you? I tried asking you once, do you remember? When it was just the two of us that time down by the stream. I remember you getting real mad at me when I asked about your parents. You pushed my head under the water, I think it was an accident when I hit that mossy rock. Do you remember Gareth, do you? I had to lie to my mum that time, said it happened in football. She thought I'd played late that night. But I only had my kit on because I knew you'd get me. Thought the whole gang would be waiting, didn't think it would just be you. You must have been there for ages. Why did you hate me enough to do that? I didn't want to get my uniform dirty because it would upset my mum. I said I was staying late so I could take the long route home. I'd have my trainers on to run faster and my kit on in case you got me muddy. I knew you'd get me that night. You'd been teasing me all day, making threats. I just knew it.

I told my mum about you once. She cried and then told my dad. I listened to them talking about me from halfway down the stairs. 'Luke's being bullied at school' she said. I heard my dad trying to comfort her as she sobbed. She said she couldn't cope any more. That it was all too much. Ever since Chloe came along, mum's been kind of down. Tearful. You made it so hard for me Gareth. How could I tell my mum that you were still hurting me all those months later? Tormenting me. I was making her life hell as it was. She had enough problems without me being a nuisance. Chloe to deal with, for one. Did you even know I had a new baby sister? Did you Gareth? Did you know about her hearing problems? How hard it was for my mum to cope with that? That's a real problem. A proper one. I've only been upset about a bully and I should have been stronger, but I'm not. I'm weak. That's what you are Gareth, a giant bully. I wanted to stand up to you, but you never gave me a chance. I tried to reason with you, pleaded with you even. At least my sister has an excuse not to hear.

I've stuck pins in my action man thinking he looked like you. Hoping the voodoo might work like in a film I saw. I don't even get scared at horrors y'know, I've felt more fear walking home wondering if you're waiting for me. You're a nasty piece of work Gareth Salter. I hope your mum hears about this. I hope my mum tells her. I think she might now. Nasty, spiteful piece of shit you are. Nothing but a bully. God, I hate you.

Please let it end now. I'm begging you Gareth not to do it any more. Oh please, don't. Are you listening this time I wonder? Sometimes I wish someone would pick on you. Someone bigger than you. Maybe some new kid at school. Maybe they'll take my place.

I got no friends left any more Gareth, they didn't need a loser for a mate. The girls just laugh at me too. You started rumours about me. Nasty embarrassing rumours. I remember you stealing my clothes from the changing room that time. I was in the shower still. Do you remember? Left me with nothing. I was so humiliated. Did it mean anything to you? At least I found them in that bin by the chemistry block. I got in real bad trouble for that at home. My clothes were nearly ruined. Did you care Gareth? Did you ever wonder how disappointed my mum and dad would be in me?

Well, that's all I wanted to say, I guess. The other's for my mum and dad. There's nobody else. Just me, mum, dad and Chloe. They can explain it to her later. What kind of brother am I? I can't even stand up for myself, let alone my sister. She's better off without me. They all are.

***
The tape came to an end. As had Luke's life. Silence engulfed the Salters' living room. Luke's parents, Mr and Mrs Salter and Gareth, standing together, heads bowed.

© JRC