This is Fiction! by Priscilla Brown

 

 

 

Gina is lover shopping, 

but is a New Year's Eve party the right store for her? 

https://books2read.com/Class-Act

  

When our  readers start a book, we authors are asking them to 'suspend disbelief' (also to suspend doing the ironing, looking for a missing sock etc. etc.)  

An author of contemporary romance fiction, my imagination works to create stories involving narratives of a situation, event or circumstance which could happen, or could have happened, in real life. I like to introduce credible characters into environments plausible to their personalities, individual histories, lifestyles and physical backgrounds. 

 

 Although not my usual field, some years ago I entered  a contest for historical short stories to be published in an anthology. I was already familiar with the physical setting on a Scottish island, but not the time frame during World War II. My story concerned a young woman on the island ferry who feels sorry for a young man wearing an army uniform unsuitable for the freezing weather, clearly a soldier on leave exploring the islands. She invites him to her cottage for a warm drink...Of the three judges in this context, two who were writers gave it high marks, while the third, a non-writer, marked it fail, giving the reason as a query 'Would she really ask a stranger into her house?' Maybe this judge was applying present-day mores to a 1940s wartime situation, unable, or choosing not, to consider it as a complete fiction appropriate to the time and place. Although perhaps the story did fail as it could not convince this judge. However, it did win a place in the anthology.

 

May 2022 be kind to you, with lots of great stories to read and enjoy.

Best wishes, Priscilla 

 

https://bwlpublishing.ca 

https://priscillabrownauthor.com 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Time for a story--Tricia McGill

Find all my books here on my BWL author page

When young I travelled west from London many times heading to Devon and Cornwall, first with my family and later with my husband. I always loved the moors, be it Bodmin or Dartmoor. The rugged scenery stirred something in me, even as its remoteness could often be daunting to a city dweller. This short story was obviously inspired by one of my trips down that way.

It stood on Dartmoor, well away from the road to the village. Its surrounds were covered with brambles, its roof sagging. The weathered beams beneath protruded in places and stood out starkly against the grey sky. She walked towards it, stepping over nettles and rocks. The stories about ghostly noises heard by the locals in the deep of night didn't put her off. They said that signs of ghostly inhabitants had been recorded at this time of the year when the days were short and the mists dropped to shroud the moors practically every day. 

She'd spent the past evening in the cosy bar of The Boar, pumping all the locals about the ghost. Every story was different, but she chose to believe the one about the ancient warrior who haunted the cottage. He was to have been married and a week before the wedding day was sent off by his King to fight in a distant county, where he had been killed. His beloved had waited in the dwelling that was to have been their home; waited in vain for her knight's return. When he never returned her ruthless father had forced her into a loveless marriage with a landowner. 

When the story reached the part where the maiden ended her life by throwing herself from her hated husband's castle wall her skin crawled and her heart began to beat in double time. Had her overworked imagination let her taste the girl's despair, felt her hopelessness, and endured her pain as she stood on the battlements; her wretchedness warring with her faith?

She pushed open the door that hung on one rusted hinge. It protested as she lifted the rotten wood back out of the way. There was a fireplace opposite the door, recessed in the thick wall. A few cinders piled in its grate showed it had been used recently by a tramp, or perhaps a lost hiker had built a small fire here when one of the mists the moors were renowned for had come down, stranding him. 

Once, a staircase must have led to the upper floor where a small room might have been nestled beneath the roof beams, but that had long since collapsed. There was just a ragged hole in the ceiling now, letting in the drizzle. The walls had been built to last, for most of them were still intact, just crumbling here and there by the small window openings. She ran a hand over one of the solid blocks of stone she knew had been carved from one of the local hills.

A sense of homecoming enveloped her, which was strange to say the least, for hadn't she spent all her twenty years living with her parents in a comfortable semi-detached house on the outskirts of London. Once, when she was about ten, her mum and dad had brought her on a holiday to this part of the West Country, and as her dad drove near to this old dwelling she'd called to him to stop, begging them to let her look it over. Bemused, her parents had stood aside while she explored its derelict interior.

That same compulsion that urged her to come inside then had called her back. In the years since, she had known that one day she would return; had been biding her time. Waiting, in fact, until her parents had no real need of her any more. Perhaps people would say there was something weird about a house calling you, but to her it was not extraordinary at all. Although it was something she never discussed with anyone. Her parents had long forgotten her fascination with this place. 

The sky was getting darker by the minute; even though her watch told her it was barely two. Curving her arms about her middle, she shuddered. Not with fear, but because she felt chilly in her thin sweater and lightweight slacks. She should head back to the hotel, but knew she couldn't leave yet. Going to stand by the fireplace, she rested a hand on the wall above it and stared down into the grate, knowing instantly that she'd stood here before, in the same position, but also sensing that then her heart had been heavy with sorrow. Her eyes misted as a great sadness crept over her; an echo of the anguish she'd known then. But even as she began to weep, she knew her tears were not for herself but for some distant soul whose feelings had somehow become intermingled with hers.

“Anna,” a soft voice whispered, and she gave a startled little moan as the faint sound seemed to reverberate about the room. 

Her first instinct was to deny the caller, for her name was Jean, but then she found herself returning the call with a whispered response of, “Hugo?”

Hearing a slight movement behind her, she turned her head to stare over a shoulder. A man stood in the doorway, framed by the fading light. She felt no surprise to see him there, in fact now knew she had been waiting for him. Waiting all her life. He wore a simple shirt of some woven fabric above a pair of breeches, with leggings fastened by cross garters.

“I didn't hear you arrive,” she said softly as he walked towards her, hands outstretched.

“I came as soon as I knew you were here, Anna.” His smile was agonisingly familiar. “It's been so long. Now we are home for good, my love.”

She fell into his welcoming arms, and he held her in a tight embrace. “Hugo, my love, we'll never be parted again,” she whispered, knowing they would be together now through eternity.

As they kissed, warmth invaded her limbs, and she felt the rays of the sun on her head. In the second before her eyes closed, she momentarily saw the room as it had been long ago, with the table of roughhewn wood set with a linen cloth finely embroidered about its edges. Simple crockery laid for a meal; the dresser by the wall with familiar plates lined up on its shelves and a copper pot holding wild roses. 

“Home at last,” he said in a low voice at her ear.

She knew it was the truth. This was where she belonged. Where her heart had always belonged. Her love was truly home; and so was she. 

Tricia's Web Page

Time for a story—Tricia McGill

Find all my books here on my BWL Author page.

 One of the questions we authors often get asked is, where do you get your ideas? For me a lot of my ideas come at the crack of dawn as I wake up from a dream--but there are times when an idea will not come, so that is when I go through some of my old short stories to stir the brain up. I came across this short short that is so old I have no idea when I penned it. In my search I also found another story that has now become the background for my next book.

A Friend in Need

    She pulled her tattered dress about her shoulders. Branches caught at her hair as she ran. The sound of her breathing, loud and laboured, reverberated around her head. Footsteps pounded behind her. “Oh God,” she cried on a sob.

   

    Trying to increase her speed, she tripped over a root and just stopped herself falling flat on her face. Blood was oozing from the cut above her left eye, and the graze on the back of her neck where he’d hit her with something solid was beginning to throb violently.

    

    “Please let me live, God, and I promise I’ll never go off the rails again,” she whispered.

    All went quiet. Hopefully, he had lost track of her. All she could hear were birds rustling in the trees above her. The night was as black as a tomb. Thunder rumbled off over town and she jumped out of her skin. Surely the road wasn’t far ahead. He’d only driven down the track for about five minutes before he’d stopped and ordered her out at knife point.
          

    What was that? She breathed a deep sigh of relief. It was the headlights of a car directing her towards the road. Her feet were torn to shreds. She had tossed her high heels away so she could run.
          

    A sob caught in her throat as she fought through some scrub and saw the strip of bitumen ahead. A set of headlights lit up the dark sky. Panting and sobbing at the same time she almost threw herself in front of the car. It slewed to the right of the road as she was caught in its headlights. The passenger wound down the window and she recognised Mrs. Jenkins who worked in the supermarket.
            

    “Please, I need help,” she cried, her voice coming out in a croak. Pulling the torn and bloody dress tighter about her, she moved nearer the car.
            

    “Drive on quick, Cyril, we don’t want tarts like that getting in our car,” Mrs. Jenkins said in her cracked and strident voice.
            

    Cyril Jenkins put up a mild argument but began to drive off. And Mrs. Jenkins gave her a wicked grin out of the window. She remembered calling the woman a rude name only last week. Giving another despairing sob, she began to stumble along the side of the road. When she heard another car approaching she stopped and began to wave. This one slowed down a fraction, and as it passed her she just made out the driver.
         

    Mrs. Morris. Another person who wouldn’t spare her the time of day. Who was she to think herself so high and mighty? Latest rumour was that she was carrying on with the local vet.
           

    Her legs were getting weaker. She didn’t know how much longer she could keep going. It began to rain, great soaking drops that saturated her hair, and the frock she hugged about her, in seconds.
            

    She heard another car approaching. This time she made no attempt to hail it. What was the point? They wouldn’t stop for her. She supposed it would be all over town by tomorrow. Who would pity her? No one. As usual they’d say she got what she deserved.
            

    The car slowed and she turned slightly, expecting it to go past as the others had. It stopped and so did she, the rain now rushing down her face. Her bra and underslip clung stickily to her body and her feet stung.
            

    “My goodness, what on earth are you doing out in this terrible storm, and what’s happened to you?” a kindly male voice said as she collapsed in a heap at his feet. She felt herself being lifted in a pair of strong arms. “What on earth have you done?” the voice asked and she tried to tell him, but her eyes wouldn’t open and her mouth had gone so dry that words wouldn’t come out of it.

***

    The sun streamed through the blinds and she felt cozily warm beneath a blanket. Moving slightly she realised she wore a fleecy sort of nightdress and her feet were bandaged. The ache in her head had subsided, but when she moved her neck a pain shot up to her scalp.
            

    “Ah, so you’re awake. How do you feel?” Elsie Trotter, the nurse asked, and she knew she was in the small hospital on the edge of town.
            

    “I feel fine now,” she whispered as she took a sip of the water Elsie held for her.
            

    “What a to-do you’ve caused,” Elsie said excitedly. “The press are waiting to interview you. Sir Henry Whittenberger found you wandering out on the back road. He’s paid for all your medical expenses, and we’re to keep him informed of your progress. The local paper wants to print your story, and who knows, by tonight you could be featured on the six-o-clock news.”
            

    She sank back on the pillow, her head whirling. What a turn up for the books. And if they thought she’d caused a to-do already, wait till they heard who’d tried to rape her at knife-point. Then the feathers really would start to fly in this neck of the woods.

All my book info can be found on my web page

    

A Short Story for Christmas by Victoria Chatham

 

All That Other Stuff

Ellie Harding rested her chin on her hand and stared out of the window across the valley, relaxing as she always did at the sight of the tall spire of the parish church surrounded by cozy-looking cottages nestling under their Cotswold stone roofs.

Her daughter-in-law, Lori, came in from the garden balancing a wicker laundry basket on her hip.

“I will be glad when Christmas is over.” Lori heaved a dramatic sigh. “It’s nothing but rush and fuss, and no one is ever satisfied. One week left, and I still have to mail cards, shop, clean and for what? Just one day. And as for peace and goodwill, hark at that lot.”

Sounds of discontent burst from the living room where twelve-year-old Matthew and eight-year-old twins, Molly and Hannah, were arguing over television programs.

“And not only that,” Lori continued, “David is due home from Singapore on December 22^nd, and,” she paused for breath, “Mother and Dad are arriving the same day.”

“As David has been away for almost six months, isn’t that a bit inconsiderate of them?” Ellie murmured. She tried to keep the tone of censure out of her voice, but her brow puckered as an additional thought sprang to her mind. “I thought your parents were spending Christmas in Germany with your Aunt Sophie.”

Lori snapped a tea towel, making it sound like a flag in a strong wind. She folded it in half, smoothed it out with the flat of her hand, folded it again and added it to the growing pile of clean laundry on the kitchen counter.

“They were, but Mother fell out with Aunt Sophie over goodness-knows-what and decided she and Dad would come here,” Lori explained. “Oh, Ellie, what am I going to do?”

“We’ll have a cup of tea, dear.” Ellie, a staunch supporter of that particular beverage’s restorative properties, thoughtfully put the kettle on. As it came to the boil, her eyes began to sparkle with mischief.

“Park everybody,” she said suddenly.

“What do you mean?” Lori asked, plainly puzzled.

“I’ll take the children,” Ellie said. “That should give you time for everything you need to do. Book your parents into a hotel and yourself and David into another. That will give you one day to yourselves, and then on Christmas Eve, you can all come to my house.”

Lori’s eyes opened wide. “But I couldn’t⸺.”

“Yes, you could. Don’t think about it, dear, just do it.”

Between them, Ellie and Lori helped the children pack and loaded them and their backpacks into Ellie’s battered blue Audi. Matthew sat silently beside her on the drive out of town, plainly not in agreement with the plan.

“What are we going to do at your house, Gran?” Molly asked. “You don’t even have a TV.”

“I’m sure we can find something to do,” Ellie replied, keeping her eyes on the narrow, two-lane road where she had to stop for a flock of sheep passing from one pasture to another.

“We could do a nativity play,” Hannah said as she watched the woolly bodies crowd either side of the car.

“There’s only three of us, and we already did that at school.” Matthew sounded glum at the prospect.

“Yes, but did you design and make your costumes?” Ellie asked.

“Well, no,” Matthew admitted. “We just used the ones from last year.”

“Ooh, Gran, can I make a crown with sparkles on it?” Despite being restrained by her seat belt, Hannah bounced on the back seat with excitement.

“I’m sure we could arrange that, dear. You three will be the Wise Men, and everyone else can be shepherds.”

“And you have to be the angel, Gran,” chorused Molly and Hannah.

“Can we invite friends from school?” Matthew asked.

“I don’t see why not.” Ellie drove through her gateway, minus its gate, and pulled up in front of a solidly built ivy-covered stone house. “Who would you like to invite?”

“Well, Jamal, because he was new to our school this term and doesn’t know many kids yet and Oliver because he doesn’t have a dad.”

“And can we invite other people too?” the twins asked in unison.

“Yes, you can,” Ellie assured them. “Two friends each. The more the merrier, don’t you think?”

“Then I’ll ask Yasmeen and Adeera,” Hanah said. “I hope their parents will let them come.”

“Yes, and Susan Howell and Dawn Fry,” Molly added. Hannah nodded her agreement.

Ellie parked the car, and the children poured out of it and in through the front door. They hung their coats on pegs in the hallway and deposited their backpacks at the foot of the stairs.

“We’ll have hot chocolate with marshmallows,” Ellis said as she headed to the large kitchen at the back of the house. “While I make it, you can start designing your costumes.”

She took sheets of paper and coloured pencils from a drawer and put them in the table’s centre. In no time, the girls sketched outfits for the shepherds while Matthew, now warming up to the idea, designed crowns for the Three Wise Men.

Over the next two days, Ellie produced lengths of fabric, sheets of art paper, fancy buttons, glue and glitters, rolls of florists wire and strands of ribbon. On a brisk afternoon walk, with a light wind gusting from the south-west blowing the clouds inland over the hills, they collected sheep’s wool from the barbed wire fencing around their field.

“This will make the beards for the Wise Men,” Ellie said as she held out a plastic bag for the children to fill with wool.

“How?” asked Matthew.

“We’ll cut lengths of cotton fabric and stick the wool to it, leaving a gap for your mouths,” Ellie said. “Then we’ll cut lengths of elastic so that it fits your heads, sew the ends to each side of the fabric, and you can just slip them on.”

“That sounds pretty easy,” Matthew said. “I say, Gran, can I be in charge of the costumes?”

“You certainly can, dear,” Ellie agreed.

Her angel wings fitting filled an entire afternoon with the children measuring wire and fabric and calculating the best way to affix them to Ellie’s back.

“Donny Williams sat on Carrie Davis’s wings in class and broke them,” Hannah told her.

“Yes, and she cried,” Molly added.

“Well, after all this work, we’ll have to make sure we hang my wings where no one can sit on them,” Ellie said.

Together they draped and stitched fabric and, once all the costumes were made, Ellie sat the children around the table again and helped them write their invitations. Molly and Hannah decorated theirs with sparkles, both sure the recipients would be pleased with them.

The invitations were hand-delivered and, when Christmas Eve finally arrived, so did the rest of the family and all the guests, including Yasmeen and Adeera’s parents. After a happy and noisy reunion with their father, Matthew, Molly, and Hannah helped everyone into their costumes. Ellie couldn’t help but notice that Lori’s parents, Margaret and Richard, looked somewhat bemused to find themselves clad in tunics made from old bedsheets and cinched around the waist with frayed scarlet cords from thrift store velvet curtains. When everyone was dressed, Ellie clapped her hands, which made her wings wobble frantically.

“Quiet everyone,” she said. “Now, who can tell me what the Three Wise Men did?”

“Oh, Gran, I know, I know!” Hannah’s hand shot up as if she were answering questions in school. “They followed the star.”

“Indeed, they did.” Ellie nodded sagely. “Now, come this way.”

She took everyone outside and then clapped her hands again. From the dark at the bottom of the garden, a bright white light appeared amongst the old and gnarled apple trees. Its silvery glow illuminated the whole area. She watched the children’s eyes open wide in wonder and smiled as they stopped, in total astonishment, at the edge of the lawn.

There, its legs folded neatly beneath it, sat a camel. It turned its head towards them and looked at them from liquid-dark eyes from beneath long lashes. A small tubby man, sporting a large moustache and wearing a red fez, stood beside it.

“This is Fred,” Ellie said. “And this,” she patted the camel’s sinuously graceful neck, “is Harun.”

Margaret sniffed. “Don’t expect me to get on that filthy beast.”

Ellie hid a smile as she heard Richard say, “Don’t worry, Mags, only the Wise Men rode camels. You’re a shepherd. Here, hang onto your crook.”

Fred helped the children onto the saddle, showing them where to put their feet and where to hold on as Harun stood up. His spongy feet made no sound as he lurched and swayed across the winter-damp grass.

“Mother, how on earth did you manage that?” David asked as he caught up with her.

Ellie patted the hand he slipped into the crook of her elbow.

“Oh, a phone call here and a favour there,” she said casually. She clapped her hands once more, and the light in the trees winked out before appearing again further away in the paddock next to her garden.

“It’s over Mr. Donovan’s stable now.” Molly couldn’t keep the excitement out of her voice as she pointed over a gate set in the hedge.

Mr. Donovan, as bent and twisted as Ellie’s old apple trees, smiled at them as he opened the gate and ushered them all through it. The little procession, at last, came to a halt outside the stable. Harun obligingly collapsed his legs, and Molly, Hannah, and Matthew all but fell off him in their eagerness for what they might see. They pulled their friends forward with them, and all peered in at the stable door.

The sweet smell of hay assaulted their nostrils, and they heard the rustling of straw as they looked in on a cow contentedly chewing her cud, a donkey who flicked his long, fuzzy ears at them, and a ewe with twin lambs. A young woman wearing a blue robe smiled a welcome and invited them to sit on some straw bales placed in readiness for the visitors. Beside her, a tall, bearded man wearing a brown cloak welcomed everyone. Between them, laid in a wooden crib, a baby kicked its feet and gurgled happily.

“Oh, Gran, this is magic,” Molly whispered. She went to the crib and knelt beside it, staring down at the baby as if she couldn’t quite believe it was there. Hannah, Matthew, and their friends were more interested in the animals.

“Well, Ellie, I think you have surpassed yourself,” Richard said, still looking around and taking in every little detail with an expression of wonderment on his face. Even Margaret seemed suitably impressed.

“This is so cool, Gran.” Hannah looked up from the lamb she cuddled while Matthew and Jamal petted the donkey.

Matthew’s eyes opened wide as a thought struck him. “Christmas isn’t about what things we get, or what food we have. It’s all that other stuff, isn’t it, Gran?” His pre-teen voice had a croak in it.

Ellie nodded, adding softly, “That’s right, Matthew. It’s all that other stuff. Christmas is for loving and caring, sharing and,” she looked at Lori, “peace and goodwill.”

 AVAILABLE HERE

​Victoria Chatham

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A short story by Tricia McGill

Buy this and any of my books here on my BWL author page

Because I am busily packing and am short on time, and on the day this post goes up I will be moving into my new home, I found this short romance I wrote years ago—see if you can guess who I had in mind when I created Jackson.

“I don’t want Daddy to marry that lady! Why does he have to get married anyway?” Joel grumbled.

      Rebecca helped the three children from the car. “Well, your father doesn’t have to marry anyone, but he will eventually find a new mother for you three so you might as well resign yourselves to it.”

    Why can’t we just stay as we are, Becky?” six-year-old Dylan asked as he straightened his small backpack.

       Rebecca sighed. Why indeed? But nothing ever stayed the same, did it?

     “Off you go, and have a good day.” Mae, just eight, flipped a braid over her shoulder and reached up, waiting for a kiss. Rebecca hugged the dark-haired imp, who then scampered after her brothers, turning to wave when they reached the school gate.

       Rebecca waited until they disappeared inside the school. As she drove to the place she’d called home for nine years she let her mind wander. Her boss, Jackson Hughes, would likely marry soon. This new female in his life seemed to be perfect for him—liked the children, and was obviously besotted by Jackson. His feelings for her were not so obvious.

     Rebecca entered the Hughes household as nanny to Joel soon after his birth, and was there for Jackson and the children when his wife succumbed to a rare disease and died two years ago.

   Being a concert pianist, and in the public eye, Jackson was automatically thrown into the arms of many willing women once the initial grieving period passed. He treated them all with amused aloofness. Rebecca knew it would only be a matter of time before one of the ladies hooked him.

      Jackson married young and at 35 now was a fine figure of a man. He made Rebecca’s heart flutter just looking at him. She was 31 when she first set eyes on him. Natalie, his darling wife, hired Rebecca, so she hadn’t seen Jackson until he returned from a concert tour a week after she settled into his home. It was love at first sight and that love never dwindled. Not only was he a gentleman in all senses of the word but a wonderful and loving father.

    After garaging the car, Rebecca went inside and up to the children’s rooms. As she tidied up their mess, she pondered on her next course of action.

* * *

“Daddy!”

    At Mae’s squeal, heralding the arrival home of her father, Rebecca’s insides did a complete somersault as she stared at her reflection. Women friends said she looked ten years younger than her 40 years, but were they saying that to be nice? There wasn’t a strand of grey in her shoulder-length auburn hair, and her skin was flawless. With a heartfelt sigh she straightened the collar of her neat light blue uniform, patted her chignon, and fixed a smile on her face before going out of her room. Going into the children’s study, she said, “Good afternoon, sir.”

Jackson sat at the long table, Mae on his knee, the boys either side of him. “Hi, Becky. Have a good day? Mae here tells me she got the highest score in the spelling test. Isn’t that great news?”

       Rebecca sat opposite them. “Yes sir, that’s really good news. And Joel is doing splendidly too.”

      “And me, Daddy,” Dylan piped in, not to be excluded from the praise.

      Jackson gave Mae a smacking kiss and hugged the two boys. “Yes, indeed, I’m so proud of my family.” His eyes wore a strange expression as he met Rebecca’s gaze. She wondered if he was remembering his wife who, although a lovely woman in all ways, could by no stretch of the imagination be termed a good mother. If she hadn’t gallivanted off on some obscure mission, and picked up a rare tropical disease, she might still be alive.     

      He visibly shook himself and said, “I have a tour booked for October.”

        “Where to this time, Daddy?” Dylan asked. They were so used to his regular trips away that they treated it nonchalantly. Rebecca’s insides dropped. Perhaps he intended taking this new woman in his life with him—after their wedding. That thought made her feel nauseous.

        “You all right, Becky?” Jackson asked, with left eyebrow raised.

      “Of course I am, sir. So where will you be going in October?” Rebecca crossed her arms in front of her chest and tried not to sound downhearted.

          “England.”

      Her insides plummeted even further. The other side of the world! “And how long will you be away, sir?”

          “About three months.”

         Rebecca rose and began to straighten books and writing pads that were strewn across the table. The children all loved to read and scribble, something she’d encouraged from the moment they could talk.

      “A long tour, sir. Does that mean you will be away for Christmas?”

         She caught sight of a touch of amusement in his expression. What was so funny?

         “Yes, indeed. But not sure about Christmas.” He gently put Mae off his knee and stood, kissing his daughter before she scampered off. “I’m going to have a shower, kids. Behave.”

           “Off out tonight, sir?” Rebecca asked, hoping she didn’t look too crestfallen.

           “Nope. Thought I’d have a night in. What say we all watch a movie?” Rebecca tried to take her gaze from the smattering of dark hairs peeking through the vee of his open-necked shirt, but failed.

         Luckily, giving her time to recoup control, the next few minutes were spent excitedly discussing what to watch, with no one agreeing. The children had varying tastes. Jackson shrugged and pulled a face behind their backs.

            “I might go and visit a friend then,” Rebecca said as Jackson made to leave the room.

             He turned back. “Oh? I meant you too when I said all of us to watch a movie.”

      “I thought you might like to spend time alone with the children.” Rebecca felt flustered.

      “Don’t be daft. You’re one of the family. When I say all I mean all.” He sauntered out.

        Rebecca stared mutely at the door after he’d gone.

* * *

After changing into a black skirt and pale green sweater Rebecca went downstairs. It was her custom to wear her own clothes in the evenings—a practice Jackson’s wife encouraged, thank goodness. If not for that rule, Rebecca might have spent her entire life in the plain daytime uniform.

        The children were chattering excitedly in the family room, still undecided about what to watch. The housekeeper had prepared the popcorn and left out chocolates and soft drinks before going off home.

       Rebecca loved the evenings when, even on the days Jackson wasn’t here, she could imagine she was the mistress of his house.

       Jackson glanced her way as she entered. “Ah, just in time. Settle this argument please. Why can’t kids agree on anything?”

       Rebecca shook her head, got the children to agree on the movie, and once it was playing sat on the long sofa that accommodated all five of them easily.

          Soon the boys slipped to the floor. Not long after, Mae, forever the follower, did the same, which left the two adults on the sofa. Jackson shifted so that he was within touching distance of Rebecca. If asked what the movie was about, Rebecca would have no answer, she was too aware of the man, so near yet so far.

* * *

Closing the door to Dylan’s room Rebecca breathed a soft sigh. Mae had fallen asleep long before the end of the movie and Dylan was asleep as soon as his head hit his pillow. Joel’s light was still on in his room, as was usual. He often read before falling asleep.

         “Want a night-cap?”

         Rebecca jumped at Jackson’s question. For such a large man he moved with extreme stealth. “I… I was off to bed.” She turned as if to go to her room.

         He glanced at his watch. “I know my kids are a handful, but it’s not even nine o’ clock. Surely they can’t have exhausted you that much?” He grinned.

         She smiled. “No sir, I’m not exhausted, it’s just that...”

        “That what?”

        She shrugged, lost for words. What was she doing, turning down an opportunity to sit and talk with him? Perhaps fear that he was about to tell her of his marriage plans made her wary.

        “Come on then. I’m having hot chocolate—you can make it.” He gestured for her to go before him down the stairs.

        “Aha, now I see why my presence is required.” She laughed and preceded him.

       Once the drinks were made, they went into the sitting room. Rebecca was about to sit on one of the chairs when he gestured for her to sit beside him on the sofa. He sat with relaxed ease, one leg tucked beneath him so that he faced her.

      They sipped their drinks in silence, but when he put his empty mug down he said, “I was thinking I might take the children on this tour with me.”

      “Oh.” That completely stumped Rebecca. He’d never taken them on a working tour.

       “Yes. I thought that way we could stay away for Christmas.” He traced the pattern on a cushion with a finger, and Rebecca had the feeling he was picking his words.

       Here it comes. Next he’ll tell me he intends taking his new bride with him and I won’t be required.

           “I shall want you to come with me of course.”

            Rebecca’s gaze shot to meet his. “I… I thought…”

            “Thought what?”

       “I had the idea that you were going to ask Miss Young to accompany you.” Rebecca cleared her throat. “You know—I thought you were about to tell me you intended to ask her to marry you.”

           His soft chuckle did things to her insides. “Funny you should say that. I am about to ask someone to marry me. But I can assure you it isn’t our delectable Miss Young.”

         “It’s not?” Rebecca frowned. Who could it be? Granted there were a few waiting in line who would be more than willing to become his second wife.

            “How would you like to be my wife, Becky?”

           That so stunned Rebecca she almost fainted. Eyes wide, she stared at him.

          “I realise that you don’t love me, but you love my children, and that’s good enough for me,” he said.

          “Is it?” she whispered, not knowing whether to be overjoyed that he wanted her as his wife because she would make a good mother for his children, or broken-hearted because he only wanted her as a mother to his family. “What gave you that idea?”

         “What idea?” He looked puzzled. “The idea that you love my children—it’s as clear as crystal.”

          Rebecca shook her head. “No—the stupid idea that I don’t love you.” She stared down at her hands, now nervously twisting on her lap.

          “Is it? A stupid idea?”

          “So utterly wrong and totally idiotic,” she said, lifting her chin and meeting his gaze. “I’ve loved you from the first moment I saw you, Sir.”

        His face split into a devastating grin. “That’s so good to hear. Because I love you, Becky, more than life. If you went out of my life and my children’s lives, we would all be broken-hearted.”

        “I would never leave any of you—unless you threw me out.” Rebecca reached out and did something she’d yearned to do forever—she ran a finger across his lips.

         He clasped her finger gently and pressed a kiss to it. “I think you can stop calling me sir now, don’t you?”

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A Short Story from Tricia McGill

Find all my books here on my BWL Author's Page

My rather large family teemed with stories itching to be written. Unfortunately I will never live long enough to come anywhere near telling them all. This is one of my first ever efforts and was written so long ago I had forgotten all about it. It was based vaguely on one of my brother's unhappy experiences. Do not fret though, for he ended up finding true love. 

Sweet Bitterness

“Australia. You must be mad!”

As Tony laid one shirt carefully on top of another in his suitcase the angry words of his father reverberated around in his brain. Now that the time of his departure was so near he sincerely believed his father was right. He must be insane. But what was the use in remaining here? Melody would never love him. He doubted if she’d ever love anyone but herself.

Ah, Melody! So beautiful, so vibrant, like a pure white rose in full bloom. With a heavy sigh Tony closed his suitcase and fastened the catch.

While preparing for bed he almost pushed all thoughts of her to the back of his mind, but as he tossed and turned beneath the covers in the bed that had been his all his mature life all memories of Melody came rushing back to torment him.

How well he remembered their first meeting.

“Sweet seventeen and never been kissed,” he said. Her luminous brown eyes smiled provocatively at him while her mouth curved in a smile so enticing his poor heart was lost to her in that moment. Like the first wonderful day of spring after a long and bitterly cold winter this vision blew into his life.

 “That’s for me to know and you to find out.” At this retort she tossed her raven hair; hair like silk. And so he took up the challenge and became so besotted by her beauty and vivacity that soon she led him around like a lamb to the slaughter.

“She’s using you, son. She’s making a fool of you. Are you so blind you can’t see her for what she is? She’s a Jezebel.” Tony’s father kept up a constant barrage of criticism. But Tony fell deeper and deeper into Melody’s honeyed web; so deep that even if he possessed the power to break free of her spell he really doubted he wanted to. His love for her was a wild and desperate desire, blotting out all else, consuming him.

When Tony saw a wealthy and influential local businessman making undisguised passes at her, he stormed, “I’ll kill you before I see that dirty scoundrel set a finger on you.”

Melody laughed in his face. “Oh Tony, what a fool you are. Daniel’s a very rich man, and I intend to get the very most out of life. He doesn’t have a hope of touching me, but what harm can it do to string him along?”

And string him along she did. Tony’s jealousy soon reached boiling point. “You belong to me, Melody, and I’m warning you; my patience is coming to an end.” The ache in his poor heart threatened to choke him when he saw her continue to exercise her growing powers over the infatuated admirer.

“I belong to no one.” With a haughty flounce, she taunted him, which inflamed him more.

Tony had other ideas. He set out to prove to the beautiful half-child with the charms of a witch that she did indeed belong to him, body and soul. He arranged a trip into the serene countryside bordering the city and on a soft and warm spring day when the birdsong filled the hazy air and shafts of sunlight filtered through the overhanging branches of a great willow tree he made love to her.

Melody offered little resistance to his sometimes gentle, sometimes sensual, demanding lovemaking, and when he embraced her in the afterglow and gazed down at her lovingly she did not contradict him when he whispered, “Now you are truly mine forever.”

The breeze drifted over their heated bodies and a train whistle sounded mournfully in the far distance. Filled with the sheer ecstasy of the moment and the enchantment of the place of seclusion on a mossy bank where they lay entwined, she’d nodded mutely and sighed.

* * *

Tony stared at his face in the mirror as he scraped the razor over his stubbly jaw. His night had been restless and dream-tossed and the dark smudges beneath his eyes and the lines running from his mouth to his nose made him appear gaunt and older than his twenty five years.

“Hurry up son, Dad wants to get into the bathroom,” his mother’s quiet and placid voice called as she tapped on the door. How he’d miss his family. Going far away seemed like the only solution to his problems and he’d rushed out recklessly to buy a ticket on a liner to Australia. But as his time of departure drew nearer he wondered if he was doing the right thing.

After he’d seduced Melody—yes it had to be termed as seduction, even though she’d been more than willing, he’d said, “Now you must marry me.”

Melody stared at him. Her eyes filled with her surprise; a look that shocked him to the core. But it was the words coming from her beautiful mouth that hurt the most. “I can’t marry you, Tony, don’t you see. My parents would never agree to me marrying a mere labourer, even if I wanted to. I care for you, of course I do, but I’m too young to settle down to dull domesticity. I have so much living to do before I marry.”

“I’ll be rich one day, Melody. I’ll go up north to work. They’re crying out for tradesmen in the midlands; I’ve already applied and I’m waiting on a reply.” His uttered prediction had sounded hollow even to himself.

But before he left to take up the job he’d begged, “Please wait for me?” But when he looked back on it she never promised or pledged anything; in fact the subject of marriage was ignored as far as she was concerned, but being so blindly in love with her he’d taken her silence as agreement.

* * *

Tony boarded the ship with a heavy heart. His mother’s tears and his father’s remonstrations did little to ease the sense of desolation at leaving all and everyone he loved behind. After taking his travelling case to the tiny cabin he was to share with three fellow passengers he returned to the ship’s rail to watch the hustle and bustle on the dockside below. A girl with a mass of black hair stood on the pier waving, the tears blinding her were clear to see even from this distance. Could it be Melody? His heart stopped for a moment as he gripped the rail. Had she come to beg him not to leave? He tasted blood and realised he’d bitten his lip. What a useless fantasy; no hope for that now.

There were no answering letters when he’d written to her in despair when he went away to work up north. Fool that he was he’d made one excuse after another for the lack of mail. It was her parents—they’d forbidden her to reply, he knew it. Or perhaps they hadn’t even shown her his letters. He eventually ceased writing, but instead sent his young sister to Melody’s house on a mission to discover what she could. But, his sister was unable to talk to Melody and her father had forbidden the girl to come to his door again.

Still Tony clung to his dreams as his bank balance steadily grew. Melody would be waiting for him, despite her parents attitude and when they saw how successful he’d become there was no doubt in his mind they’d approve of his marrying their daughter.

Fat chance. When he’d returned, jubilant, nothing had changed. The stab of pain around his heart was still as strong and the taste of bitter disillusionment still there in his mouth.

Dressed in his best suit with a matching waistcoat he’d arrived at Melody’s front door to be met by the formidable figure of her father. “What d’you want here?” The scorn in his eyes as he took in Tony’s immaculate appearance with a barely concealed touch of amazement was belittling.

“I want to see Melody.” Tony squared his shoulders and tried to keep a confident tone.

But her father was curt to the point of rudeness. “Well she doesn’t want to see you. And I’m warning you, my good man, you keep out of her life; she’s a married woman now and can well do without you hanging around.” He pushed his chin forward in a threatening posture, but Tony was barely aware by then of the man’s twisted sneer. A loud thumping in his ears sent him deaf and his heartbeat was so erratic he felt he’d collapse on the step.

“Married?” The word came out on a squeak of disbelief.

“Yes, and she’s quite happy. So I’m warning you, stay away from my girl!” With a finger waving under Tony’s nose he backed up and slammed the door.

Stricken; Tony stumbled around for a week. Then he took to waiting on the corner of the street where Melody’s parents lived, figuring she was sure to pay a call at some stage.

When she finally put in an appearance a further—and more painful surprise—hit him with the force of a sledge-hammer between the eyes. She was pushing a pram. When she drew level with Tony, she stared at him as if he was an apparition. When Tony’s eyes finally went to the pram a child of about three months waved small arms at him and gurgled happily.

Melody’s stunned reaction was clear testament that her father hadn’t mentioned his return. Eventually she broke the silence by stammering, “Tony it’s you.”

“Your Dad never mentioned you had a kid.” Tony could think of nothing more sensible to say. Sick at heart he scrabbled for something to say to end the awkwardness. “How could you do this?” He gripped her arms and shook her.

Melody’s head went from side to side as she whispered forlornly, “Let me explain,” but Tony turned and strode away, hands fisted at his sides.

“I don’t want to hear your lies.” The rain fell like needles on his face as he shouted over his shoulder. “I never want to set eyes on you again, you little tramp!” But deep down he knew his words to be superficial. Unable to keep away, he returned each day in the hope of bumping into her.

On the third day they met again. The pain that skewered his heart as he watched her walk towards him nearly killed him. Her fragile air of innocence had disappeared; replaced by a hard and brittle detachment. The vibrant shining thing she’d been was gone, along with so much else. Her bitter smile cut him to the quick.

“Can we talk awhile?” he begged. So they strolled along the bank of the canal. A wind whipped her dark mane about her face and plastered it across her cheeks. She stared ahead as she explained how her parents forced her into a loveless marriage. “But why? Why didn’t you wait for me. I promised to come back a rich man, and I have.”

“I was pregnant, and they figured he was a good catch. I didn’t want to get married, I’d rather have stayed a single parent but they wouldn’t hear of it. No daughter of theirs was going to flaunt herself to the world as a harlot, they told me—so I did it for peace and quiet.” There was no mistaking her unhappiness, but this was little consolation.

Sorrow pressed down on him like a heavy weight. “Oh Melody, it’s my baby, isn’t it?” He peered into the pram and the infants’ tiny finger wrapped around his large one. The boy smiled up happily. Melody stared down at their joined fingers silently. Tony forced her to look at him by grabbing her shoulders. “It’s my son, isn’t it?” he insisted. “It’s got to be mine. Tell me you never let him make love to you?”

After mumbling some words he couldn’t decipher she turned and fled, pushing the pram before her as if the devil himself was following.

He shouted after her but she either didn’t hear or chose to ignore him. The pain tore at him until he thought he would die. His parents could find no way to help him out of the depths of his despair.

Belatedly he began to realise she couldn’t have reciprocated his feelings from the start. A host of recollections haunted him until he felt sure he’d gone insane. Determined to prove his paternity he pursued Melody relentlessly until her father found out that he’d been trailing her. He threatened to call the police if Tony refused to stop harassing his daughter. So then Tony started waiting further away from her parent’s house. Eventually he met her again.

“Please meet me somewhere so we can be alone together Melody, we must talk.” He knew he was begging but was past the point of caring. What persuaded her he didn’t know and cared little but she agreed on a meeting place on the other side of town.

He arranged to borrow a friend’s apartment for a couple of hours. To his amazement and joy she allowed him to make love to her. All the pain drifted away when he held her in his arms. As he stroked her slender body in the aftermath of their passion he asked, “Do you love your husband?” With her hair spread across the whiteness of the pillow, she looked like a goddess as she stretched provocatively on the bed.

“I hate him, He’s a worm.” Her full lips twisted with disdain. “I treat him like yesterday’s newspaper, and he takes it. He’s a lapdog, and I despise him for it.” She played with the hairs on his chest as she whispered, “I hate the life I’m tied to. I wish you’d help me run away.”

So Tony made arrangements for them to get away together. Melody didn’t turn up at the prearranged meeting place. Frantic with worry and certain something terrible had happened to her he went to the address Melody had given him. At the time she stressed that he should only go there in extreme emergencies. Well, in Tony’s mind this was such an emergency. The man who answered the door seemed to be a decent unassuming person in his early thirties. He greeted Tony without a trace of rancour.

 When Tony explained that he was looking for Melody, the man said, “I’m her husband, please come in.” Tony followed him into a comfortable, inexpensively furnished sitting-room. “Sit down.” He gestured to an easy chair and floored Tony by saying, “I guess you must be Tony.”

Amazed that the man knew of his existence, Tony nodded. “I suppose you know that I’ve always adored Melody and presumed she’d marry me one day,” he said.

He let out a small laugh without malice and sighed. “Poor man, join the lengthening queue. Melody is immature and unable to accept fate or circumstances as they are.” He sat opposite Tony. “You probably already know all that if you know her well. But she’s married to me, and so must accept that I intend our marriage to survive.” With a dismissive shrug he continued, “I’m not condemning her. She’s a butterfly and blithely flings herself into anyone’s arms without thought of the future or the feelings of the person involved. But I knew what I was getting when I married her, and I knew she’d make trouble wherever she went through life. Please forget you ever met her and leave her alone. She’s foolish and incapable of any responsible actions.”

Tony felt as if the world had tilted. Of course he’d always known she was irresponsible and flighty, but having this man talk that way about her made his insides churn. She belonged to him. Suddenly stifled by the over warm room and the anger welling up inside him he bit out, “But the boy is mine, and I’m not giving up my claim on him.”

The man stared down at his steepled fingers before saying in a quiet voice, “This is an intolerable thing for me to tell you, but the child is possibly not yours and is most certainly not mine. I do love the child, and whereas you may claim paternal rights, I am married to Melody.” For the first time his tone turned savage and sharp and the glint in his eyes warned that he meant every word he said. “So, I suggest you forget any illusions you may be harbouring and don’t try to take the boy from me. Melody has no love for him, but I do, and the day will come when she grows old and perhaps no other man will want her...but I always will.”

Tony walked away from that house shattered in mind and spirit.

Now as he watched the gangplank being drawn away from the ship and the last tie to England being severed he knew her husband was the only sane one in the whole sorry tale.

Surely the years would dull the thoughts of Melody’s face and Melody’s eyes to a memory he could cherish. Perhaps one day he’d return to see his son—the boy he was still convinced was his. The shoreline receded as surely as his youth had faded. The illusion of a dream of eternal love was diminishing as his homeland was fading into the mists.

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