8 Short Romance Stories of Love & Life - Always Afternoons

Family Sonata by Judy Gardner read by Lisa [Music] Godard

"This garden will be the death of me," the Mowing and hoing, the staking and tying, the feeding and watering, and then, when the show's over for another year, the Autumn Leaf sweeping and the digging. It's the digging in particular that'll do for me one of these days. So why do I do it? Because I'm stupid, stubborn, making some kind of statement? I can't decide, but I'm at it now. Elderly spine creaking, elderly muscles crying for mercy, while the spade cuts through yet another slice of chill, hard-packed earth, and the robin waits expectantly for an upturned grub. These days, the robin is what you might term my nearest and dearest. I decide to sit down and take a breather, then revise the decision because the short day is dying and the clouds of starlings are already flying into roost. So I go on to the end of the row and then, suddenly, my spade strikes something hard. Another stone, or maybe half a brick? In this old cottage garden, I've dug up many a relic of the past: old tins and bottles, bits of horses' harness. I ease the spade round it, trying to assess the depth and the width of the obstruction. It's not very big, but in an awkward shape. The spade goes on probing, and it takes a lot of effort finally to bring to the surface a lumpy, clumpy object that clangs against the spade and that shows through the clinging soil an unexpected gleam of gold. Wounded, I let the spade fall and sit back on my haunches, clutching the prize. It's not a stone or a brick, and as my thumbs rub away the dirt, I begin to recognize a trim, little, bulbous shape that ends where the gleam of gold begins. I rub some more, and the suspicion becomes a certainty. It's the leg of something that ends in a brass caster, and the robin flies off in alarm as I disturb the autumn quiet with something between a laugh and a sob. Of all things, I've just dug up Fanny's foot! Fanny, the dowager of upright pianos, with brass candlesticks, keys like uneven yellow teeth, and a voice that twanged like a banjo. I bought her from a hymn-singing Irish woman for £8 10 shillings in 1952, and she arrived by tractor and trailer. "Why?" asked him. "Because I'm going to learn to play it." He eyed me over the evening paper, and he didn't need to say, "29's leaving it a bit late, isn't it?" because I could hear him thinking it. This was one of the drawbacks of being married to someone you were very close to. "There are some things people ought to be able to do before they're 30," I said, "and I promise I'll only practice when everyone's out." So Fanny was installed in the dining room, slowly and very painfully, because the doorways are so low, and the children complained because there was no longer room to play table tennis. "I told them they wouldn't need table tennis when they had good music to listen to." "Huh?" they said, and went off to the youth club to play snooker and get high on Pepsi. Those were the days.

"It's the jingle-jangle I can't stand," Tim said one Saturday. "Can't we oil it or something?" I said that I didn't think you oiled pianos, but because he was basically sympathetic, I made some inquiries at the local music shop. Their piano tuner called, examined Fanny, and came out of the dining room shaking his head like a doctor about to break the news of a terminal illness. "Her felts are gone," he said. Everyone called Fanny "her," even without knowing her name; it was the sort of effect she had. We asked him to elucidate, and he said that they had been eaten by moths. So Tim took a deep breath and said that we must therefore have them replaced. But the piano tuner shook his head again and said that Fanny's type of felt had been out of production since before the First World War. "I would estimate that she's only missed Chopin by about 10 years." "Years?" "Chopin died in 1849," I said. At that period, I was up on composers. "Exactly," he said. It was Tim who came to the rescue by prowling among Fanny's dusty innards and replacing the absent felt, slowly and painstakingly, with little bits cut out of the bright green hat I generally wore for the children's speech days and the Christmas bazaar. And even the least musical members of the family listened in awe to the new voice of my beloved. Her asthmatic twang had now been replaced by a sort of sepulchral thrumming, like that of heavenly harps in a rising wind. I thanked Tim humbly, profusely, and he smiled and said that at least she didn't make cups and saucers rattle anymore.

In the meantime, I had found a music teacher who was exactly 10 years younger than I: a sweet and deferential girl who prefaced every admonition with, "Excuse me, Mrs. Ellingburg." We sweated our way through scales and arpeggios and five-finger exercises. I learned to play "Dancing Pixies" and "My Dolly's Birthday," and the children clubbed together and bought a record player, which they plugged in rather precariously to the light socket in the garden shed. When I denounced them for a tribe of Philistines, they smiled tolerantly. I took my Grade 1 exam, conscious of a bevy of tiny tots with scrubbed knees, immaculate socks, and fingers the size of pink matchsticks. I passed, but only just, and Tim bought me a bunch of Sweet William and asked, "How long before you'll be able to play the Black and White Rag?" But doubts were beginning to creep in, doubts about whether I'd make an amateur pianist of even the most meager capability. I found sight-reading agonizingly difficult, and scales and exercises an increasingly drudging bore. It all seemed to bear less and less relationship to how I had envisaged being able to play: that is, like Liszt, but with Chopin sensitivity. Then my music teacher began cancelling lessons because she had acquired a boyfriend, and I began feeling relieved instead of disappointed because I hadn't done the requisite practice, and because I was having problems with upper and lower Mozart. I finally gave up on Schumann's Album for the Young on the day that Cedric, our youngest, stood beside the music stool and said, "That doesn't sound right to me." "What doesn't?" "What you're playing. It sounds funny." "In that case, perhaps you can play it better." The sarcasm was lost on him because he climbed onto my lap and promptly did so, and it didn't sound at all funny. Far from it. "Cedric," I said, "how did you do that?" He got down from my lap and looked at me very gravely. "I don't know," he said finally. "It just sort of fell out of me."

Family joy that I had stopped tinkering with music was short-lived because the day I gave up was the day Cedric started. He played instinctively, without fear and without fumbling, his small, square hands falling naturally into position over the keys. In those pre-lesson days, it wasn't exactly music that he played; it was more a meandering series of strange and harmonious sounds that he seemed to conjure up from the very depths of Fanny's being. It was as if they were having a conversation, as if she had at last found an understanding friend in whom she could confide. We marveled briefly, then moved the dining table into the sitting room so that we could play table tennis again. On my 34th birthday, I beat Tim six games to three. That was the year we all went camping and caught colds; the year Tim was made manager, and the year Fiona got six O-levels. Fiona, Johnny, Mandy, Caroline, Cedric – the cottage bursting at all seams with children and with children's friends, bicycles slung against the wall, sleeping bags on the landing, and young voices calling through the tangled garden that I never had time to cope with. All I ever seemed to do was wash up and peel potatoes. Yes, time was always short in those days, and in spite of Tim's promotion, so was money. Each year it cost more to feed and clothe them all and to cope with the extras: school trips, pony riding (funny how most girls seem to fall in love with ponies before they fall in love with men), tennis coaching, swimming coaching, and pocket money that always ran dry before the week was up. Then Cedric, aged 15, said, "Please, can we buy another piano? Fanny's just about had it." "Not a hope," Tim said. "The rates have gone up, and the phone bills just came in, besides..." But he didn't finish. He didn't need to. I knew that it was only love, coupled with weariness, that prevented him from mentioning the cost of music lessons. They, like the rates, had gone up again. A few weeks later, Cedric announced that he had become a plumber's mate, just for the holidays, just so they could earn the money to buy a better piano. So I spent six weeks getting up early in order to cut sandwiches and make tea in a thermos flask, which the plumber's mate stowed away in his school satchel before cycling to the builder's yard down in the village. Each evening, he came home tired and dusty and smelling of putty, occasionally of worse things, and grew fond of regaling the supper table with intimate descriptions of other people's septic tanks. Mandy, who wanted to be a doctor, said she hoped he wasn't bringing home intestinal parasites on his person.

A few weeks before the new new secondhand, I mean – piano arrived, we started wondering what to do with Fanny. It didn't occur to us that it might be difficult to find a new home for her. We put an advertisement in the post office window to the effect that we would consider sacrificing her to a good home, but no one answered it. No one even inquired, which surprised us because, after all, £2 for a piano, for any sort of piano, wasn't exactly extortionate. Three days before her successor was due to arrive, we offered her to the village hall for nothing. The offer was politely declined. Hope dwindling, we offered her to the playgroup and to the big house that had become a remand home, and the answer was the same: "Thanks for the kind thought, but no." We even tried the carpenter who works with a local builder. Surely he could make use of the beautiful antique bird walnut that encased her? But he shook his head. "No one wanted bird walnut anymore, antique or otherwise. It was all stripped pine these days." The night before the usurper arrived, "40 neat and anonymous in plain mahogany," Tim said, "I'm afraid there's only one thing for it," and we all knew what he meant. It was hard to accept, but there was honestly no alternative. Not only was the cottage overflowing with all of us, we now had acquired a large dog as well. "In the name of humanity, there ought to be a corner where she could end her days in peace," I cried. "Pianos aren't human," someone murmured soothingly. "This one is," I think it was Caroline, which was strange in a way, because the only music she liked was Gregorian chant. We carried her out after tea, all seven of us, and easing her under the low doorway, she lurched suddenly and slammed Cedric's head hard against the lintel. He gasped but remained tight-lipped. It took a long while to reach the top of the garden where her funeral pyre had been assembled, and it was Cedric who solemnly poured the paraffin over her. In a silent semicircle, we waited while Tim struck the match, and the sudden whoosh of flame, so beautiful and cruel, made me cry. "It's a terrible thing to murder a poor old piano." Cedric was standing next to me. He took my hand and said, "Not if you really love music." She burned all through the night, and I put my head under the blankets so that I wouldn't keep hearing the snapping of piano wire. It was like someone crying for help. Her replacement arrived on the following afternoon and stayed with us until Cedric left home. It was a very nice piano with a clear and well-modulated voice, but somehow, we never gave it a name.

It's dusk now, and the final flock of starlings has flown in to roost over in the woods. The robin disappeared sometime ago, and I'm all alone in the darkening garden, clutching Fanny's foot. I must get up and put the spade away, but I go on sitting here, hunched on the damp grass, while the chill of autumn creeps into my bones because I can't get rid of memories, can't seem to shake them off. The voices and faces, the love and the laughter, the sudden rages and the wild tears of adolescence – all gone now. I'm the only one left. Fiona, twice married and currently living in New York; Johnny, an environmentalist camping out on Dartmoor and keeping watch on the wildlife; Mandy, a doctor in Australia; and Caroline, purring in Paris with her notary husband and three little girls in pigtails. Cedric doesn't seem to have a permanent base; he lives a restless, no-man's sort of existence, that worries me because he's always tended to be travel-sick. And Tim... Tim died four years ago, smiling tiredly and saying, "It's been good, hasn't it? By the way, don't forget about the tax and insurance on the car." The car went years ago, worn out like Fanny, but I can get everything I want in the village, and the walk does me good. All the same, it's an effort to stand up just now. I feel stiff and angular, like a piece of rusty machinery, and my bottom's damp from the grass. I push the memories away. Gone, all gone now. But I've still got the garden, and in the last of the glimmering light, I pause to look around it. No more bramble, elder, and old man's beard flourishing because I haven't time to cope now. I can work from sunrise to sunset if I have a mind to, and if my strength holds out. So, in their season, I've got roses and delphiniums, pears and lilies, not to mention trees and shrubs, alpines and ground-coverers. And I know now why I spend so much time among them. It's not stupidity or stubbornness; it's because they're all my children, my new set of children, and I claim the right to curse them for the work they make, like I used to curse the first lot. So I pick up the spade and trundle it in the wheelbarrow to the shed, where the old record player still lies on the bench under a pile of flower pots and fertilizers. Then I go back for Fanny's foot and carry it down to the cottage. It's dark indoors and very silent. I go to the bathroom and wash my hands and face and comb my hair. I don't bother with makeup these days. I don't bother to change out of my old gardening clothes. Who's there to see? Yet, a sudden bubble of happiness bursts through the loneliness, and I go downstairs and put a match to the fire, then pour myself a sherry and switch on the TV, just in nice time. I see from the clock. My armchair's deep and comfortable, and for some reason, Tim's words come back to me: "It's been good, hasn't it?" Then the screen flickers into life, and there he is: a grave, rather reserved-looking young man in white tie and tails, sitting at a concert grand piano. I raise my glass to Cedric, and to Moort, whose Sonata he's about to play in a large and foreign concert hall, and to the ghost of Fanny, who really started it all. Her soil-encrusted foot lies on the little table to my side. One of these days, I'll have it properly cleaned and polished and mounted on a nice little block of bird walnut and give it to him as a paperweight. God knows there aren't many presents you can give to a concert pianist of international status, but Cedric, I'm happy to record, is as daftly sentimental as the rest of us.

[Music]

Always Afternoons by Stella Whit read by Sandra [Music] Dickinson

She was not seeing him nearly enough. Once a week at first, occasionally twice. It was never enough. The time between meetings was a gray abyss, hours to be counted off, days to be endured. She kept busy darning the time together with meaningless activities, using mental blotting paper for the pain. She had a dream: to see him every day, to wake each morning with his musky, spicy body beside hers, relaxed in sleep, to sleep or not to sleep a whole night through in his arms. A whole night! That luxury was beyond her wildest, ecstatic dreams. To see him on those rare days: weekends, holidays, birthdays, Christmas. Once fun days, now barely tolerated afternoons. "But we only have afternoons," she complained, rolling away from him, staring at the pale watercolor on the hotel wall. "If only time could freeze for them, as it had for those pastel children of long ago, staring forever into a silent rock pool." "Everything's so rushed, we barely have time to talk." "It's all we can have, and you know that," Hal said, tracing her sloping and childish shoulders with his fingers. "I know that," I know," she said, "but I don't want to be a PM person. I want to pretend that we're different." Yet their afternoons together did not feel rushed, sharpened by the long anticipation beforehand. Daisy called them the electric hours, when the hands of the clock finally propelled her towards him. When they met, the chemistry fused afresh, hands touched, eyes glowed, and the time ahead seemed endless. 120 minutes. Romeo and Juliet survived on less. They were both married to other people. Each had a package of children, mortgages, demanding jobs, and homes. But it was not enough. They wanted each other as well. "How can pair bonding be for life?" argued Hal after listening to a wildlife talk on his car radio. "Animals don't do it." "Swans don't," said Daisy. "People expect marriage to be 100% till death us do part. That could be 30, 40, even 50 years together these days." "He groaned. 'We all live too long. We're going to be found out one day,' he said." "She pressed her finger to his mouth. 'But not this afternoon. This afternoon, we have a magic circle protecting us.'" He wasn't listening properly. "We'll make a mistake," he predicted.

Hal's wife was called Claire. She was a tall, cool blonde who wore elegant clothes. She was everything that Daisy wished she was. She longed for Claire's height, her straight nose, her husband. Daisy saw them together once. It was a shattering experience, like being knifed between the ribs, a single swipe that severed nerve ends. They were coming out of a London theatre, a smash-hit musical that Daisy would never get to see. The ticket prices were the kind of money she had for housekeeping. Claire had looked at Daisy for one instant over other heads in the street, a look that registered but could not possibly have meant anything. Daisy was only another harassed young woman rushing home from an evening drama course at the polytechnic. Maybe it was the stunned look in Daisy's eyes that caught Claire's attention. Daisy hurried to the underground station, trying to quiet her pounding heart. She learned a lot from that rapier glance. It was the look of a fighter. Daisy would not stand a chance if it came to open warfare. She'd felt the knife going in.

Hal and Daisy met several times before they became lovers. They met at a distant cousin's 10th birthday party, when Daisy insisted that Hal had eaten her slice of the cake. They met again at the same cousin's 21st birthday party, and Hal dutifully trod on Daisy's toes once round the dance floor. It was not until that convenient cousin got married that Hal and Daisy noticed each other properly. "My wife couldn't come," said Hal at the crowded reception, making his status clear from the beginning. "She's had to go and see my mother." "My husband's over there," said Daisy, reciprocating the cowboy ambushing every drinks tray. "Perhaps he doesn't like weddings." "He doesn't like me," said Daisy. But Hal liked her. He liked her very much. He liked her funny nose, her touchable hair. Claire's golden man was out of bounds, her wistful and hesitant voice. She was insecure, overworked, unloved, and thought drama classes would give her more confidence at home and in the office. Sometimes she felt she was submerged in mediocrity. Hal gathered her into his fold, took her under his multi-layered wing. They knew they were going to have an affair. They recognized something in the other that seemed to complete an equation. Guilt never entered into it. "They were not hurting anyone," they told each other, "as long as neither family was neglected or suffered in any way." Her husband took little interest in her whereabouts as long as food was on the table and her paycheck took care of the mortgage. Their two children, both girls, were totally self-absorbed in school activities. That first Christmas was agony. Daisy and Hal could not meet or even speak on the telephone. The family festivities clamped Daisy with tinsel-covered barbed wire, conveyor-belted her through the relentless jollity, cracker-pulling, over-eating. She tried not to imagine Hal at home with his elegant wife and well-behaved, well-educated sons at the select drinks party they were holding for their select friends. "God, I missed you, Hal," said the first afternoon afterward, holding her as if he would never let her go. "I kept thinking of you, wondering what you were doing. All those stupid people talking, posturing, saying things they didn't mean, sloshing down my drink. Claire being the perfect hostess, of course." "She always is." "I drank everything in sight," Daisy confessed. "It was the only way I had to blot you out." "I don't like the sound of being blotted out," he said, pulling off his tie. "It makes me feel like a hangover. Come here. I don't want to pretend anymore." Daisy did not understand exactly what he meant. She knew he provided something that the perfect Claire did not, and it was not just her rounded body. She was a haven where Hal drank at her fountain. He needed her, and that was all she had to know. She took his head onto the tingling fullness of her bare breasts and felt his breath feathering her skin like angel's wings. Hal had thrown her a lifebelt just when she was drowning. She'd been slipping from the reality of life as surely as if Clapham Junction was the Bermuda Triangle. Though their time together was always short, Hal often slept. He was desperately tired, stressed, competing in a financial rat race to keep Claire in Armani suits, cleaning ladies, and his children at private schools. He dozed in Daisy's arms, some inner alarm waking him when it was time to leave. "I can't bear it when you go to sleep," Daisy wept, her body craven and unfulfilled. It was going to be 10 days before they met again. "It's such a waste of our time together." "I'm sorry, sweetheart," he said, kissing her wearily, soft, aimless kisses like a dying man. "But I can still feel you. I always know you're there." Daisy had to be content with that.

When Claire found out, she was furious. Hal's customary attention to detail was diverted, and he carelessly left a hotel receipt in his jacket. Claire found it when she took his suit to the cleaners. She made inquiries at the hotel and discovered it was for a double room, midweek. Hal had not been away on any business trip that date, which might have explained it. She put two and two together and made five and a half. Claire exploded like an erupting glacier. Her exterior cracked in all directions, spitting out shards of ice. "Don't worry," she raged. "I'll find out who the little..." Hal was stunned. He'd never expected to be found out so soon. He defended Daisy with every scrap of ingenuity in his command. He cared for her and would not have her slurred, defamed, or insulted. "It's entirely my fault," he said. "I took advantage of a young woman who's vulnerable and lonely, but at no time has she ever been a threat to you. I care for her because she's not strong like you, Claire." Hal did not use the word "love." Claire looked too dangerous. He was frightened, not so much for himself, but for Daisy's sake. Claire was like a serpent, venom darting from every fingertip. She described exactly, in that ice-cubed voice of hers, what she would do to Daisy's home, Daisy's family. "But how can she ever find out?" "It's me," said Daisy over the phone, her breath ragged with fear. "There's that about-to-be-divorced convenient cousin of ours. Claire's been seeing a lot of her recently. They might put their heads together." "Claire can't hurt you, can she? Can she make trouble?" "Yes, she can, in many ways. My parents at work, I'm not 100% secure, and then there's the boys. She's threatened to tell them, take them away from me." Daisy took several deep breaths, watching her hands twisting the telephone cord into knots. "I can't let that happen to you," she said. "I'm—I'm not letting you go." "You must. We always said the children came first, you know. We always said that." "They're growing up. One day they'll realize that we're entitled to happiness." "Mine are not grown up enough. I'm only entitled to be a mother and a wife. My happiness doesn't come into it." "What about my happiness?" said Hal angrily. He could see himself losing his funny Daisy, his all-loving woman who gave him her body, a fresh each time, with a sweetness that never ceased to astonish him. He did not know what he'd done to deserve her. They'd had such brief moments together. Claire had everything else of his: a wealth of bed and board, holidays, home, status, financial provision, life insurance. She wanted his soul as well. "I love you," said Daisy, putting down the phone.

Claire tracked Daisy down via the convenient cousin. She homed in on her in a taupe suit, high-heeled, wearing an impenetrable cloud of Dior's poison like armor. Daisy immediately felt shorter, creased, humiliated, and she could never wear taupe. "I can't understand what Hal sees in you," said Claire, sweeping her lashes over Daisy's appearance like a vacuum cleaner. "He must be going out of his mind. A midlife crisis, I suppose." "You know who I am?" "Yes," said Daisy. "I've seen you before." Daisy did not know how she was going to cope with this rampant wife. She cringed back into her anorak, glad she was not at home, that at least they were on neutral ground, glad that Hal was not there. She would not want him to see her cornered. "Leave my husband alone," Claire's ultimatum was as deadly as a cruise missile. "If you don't, then I'll call on your husband, your children, and your employer. How would you like that?" "Not a lot," said Daisy, lifting her chin. "I'm sure your children will be delighted to know that you're a..." "They'd probably find it marginally more interesting than my being their mother. So you're a failure at being both mother and wife. That figures. Well, let me tell you, I'm successful in both roles, and I intend to stay that way. Have I made myself clear?" "You've made it clear why Hal needs me in his life," thought Daisy, wishing she had the courage to say it aloud.

A few months later, Daisy would have given everything she owned for just one afternoon with Hal. She moved through the days like a robot. She could not remember what she did or said, ate very little, existed on cups of tea. Her husband never noticed, but the girls did. "You're all right, Mum?" her elder daughter asked as the teapot shook in Daisy's hand. "Perhaps you've got flu coming on. There's a lot of it about." "There's a lot of loneliness about, too," Daisy thought as she mopped up the spilled tea. It was not easy to put Hal out of her life. She was not a fighter, and there was no one rooting on her side. Hal phoned a few times. She took to leaving the phone off the hook. She changed to a better job, signed on for another drama course, had her hair cut. Hal always liked to run his hands through her hair. Now there was none to run through. She got thin, and her clothes hung on her in folds. She went quiet, as if she'd forgotten how to speak. Waiting for the grieving to end. An uncontested divorce, after all. Daisy saw it briefly reported in the newspapers. Claire had taken her full revenge, and Daisy waited with faint, spiraling hope, but Hal did not phone. Perhaps it had hurt too much, and he did not want to reopen the wound. She could understand that. As time went by, she thought she understood everything about him, but that did not make it any easier. It was two years before she saw Hal again. She caught her breath in shock at the sight of his tall, stooping figure. He was going into a restaurant, very posh. He had his hand protectively on a woman's arm, being the perfect escort, as always. The woman was another Claire, a Mark II model: tall, blonde, sleek, long on hair, short on moral credentials. Even in the dusk of that November evening, Daisy saw the flash of diamonds on the woman's finger. Daisy knew it was a new ring, remembered quite clearly the old one. Daisy felt a certain rashness coming over her. It was a brush-off from all those drama classes, in a way. She admired the Mark II model for stepping in where she'd feared to tread. She went up to the blonde, not looking at Hal, and tapped her on the arm. "Hello, convenient cousin," she said. "I didn't realize you were waiting in the wings." The woman flashed a smile of recognition. "Hello, Daisy. I knew you'd fluff your lines eventually. You always were hopeless, even as a little girl. I remember you crying at a party because Hal had eaten your slice of birthday cake." "He did, too," said Daisy. "How are you, Daisy?" Hal asked, his voice expressionless. He looked older, worn, graying at the side, still running a financial rat race to pay for his divorce, his new marriage. "I'm very busy," she said wildly, inventing lots of things in her head. But Hal did not ask, so she did not say. He looked embarrassed, and because she loved him, she let him off the hook. "Long ago, he had saved her from drowning," she added, "particularly afternoons," before walking away. It was thoughtlessly cruel, but she could not stop herself.

[Music]

Survival Kit by Stella Whit read by June [Music] Whitfield

Coming home to an empty house was the worst part of being alone. The rooms echoed of nothingness. Only the scent of flowers lingered in the air, but even that was fading. Though the blooms weren't quite ready for the bin, much like her, in fact. How strange the bed looked: one side smooth and untouched, the other with her floral nighty neatly folded on the pillow, and the paperbacks with which she anesthetized herself each night on the bedside table. The bathroom floor was unfamiliar: dry, no damp patches, no discarded towels and dirty washing, no rim around the bath. There was no coat on the banisters, no ties on door handles, no new newspapers on the floor. Everywhere was so tidy. She stood motionless at the kitchen window, waiting for the kettle to boil, staring at a garden she hardly recognized. Snow speckled the flower bed. It was freak weather. There had been a spell of warmth, unusual in late autumn, and then a sudden drop in temperature had brought snow and a sharp wind that bit unprotected skin like small teeth. "Huh," much like him, he had been freak weather, the man she had married so trustingly three years ago and who had walked out on her last month without a second glance to live with another man. Well, his freedom had been fleeting. He died in a car crash just days after their separation. At first, when she'd been told what had happened, she was stunned. Then, as the pain began to ease, she'd accepted the fact that he would never return. She'd made a list of the things she wanted to do: go to the theatre, trips to the sea, museums and exhibitions, use her freedom to the full. So far, she'd done nothing. "I must organize myself," she said as she stirred the tea. She found an envelope addressed to both of them and crossed out his name. She wrote on it: one, evening classes; two, eat out; three, new hairstyle. But the words bounced off the paper, and she was left with the dread of being lost and never being properly alive again. Work was as automatic as breathing. She arrived at the office on time, typed, answered the phone, made coffee, programmed herself to cope, made the right replies, composed her office face. But at home, it was different. He had left space. The television was just meaningless mouthings, and the radio, background noise. She heard nothing, and her sight was still unfocused. The snow swirled down onto the brown earth like icing sugar on a chocolate cake. There was a movement among the flurries: a small animal or a cluster of leaves. She didn't like animals very much; their scuttling alarmed her. Her tea grew cold as she watched the snow thickening to a lacy blanket. The waste bin needed emptying. She went outside, bowing her head to the blizzard, watching the tips of her moccasin slippers pick up a crust of snow. The animal was crouched against the dustbin like a small white hedgehog, blinking against the snow that stuck to its lashes. It was visibly shivering, baby fur sprouting icicles. At first, she didn't know what it was: ears flattened to its head, tail curled underneath. Then it blinked up at her, and she saw that its eyes were an incredible, opalescent green. It was a cat, a kitten-cat, a halfway-grown creature, neither cat nor kitten. She didn't like cats; she didn't like the mystical way they looked at people. She emptied the rubbish into the dustbin and banged the lid. The rim of snow dulled the noise, and the small cat barely flinched. "Shoo," she said, but her voice was softened by the cottonwool flakes absorbing her breath. She turned to go back indoors but tripped on an unseen edge, and her slipper went flying. She hopped on one foot, her stocking toes gingerly touching the icy paving stones, but the kitten-cat had been lightning fast. He darted into the warmth of her slipper, trying to fold himself into a size five without success. "Shoo," she said again, exasperated, trying to shake him out, but his claws clung like a limpet to the lambswool lining. She was getting wet; snow was settling on her shoulders, in the back of her neck. She picked up the slipper with the cat and hobbled indoors, a damp stain chilling the underside of her foot. Once inside, the cat jumped out of her slipper and shook himself all over the floor, creating a miniature snowstorm. "Drat the thing," she said, putting her slipper to dry on top of the stove. The cat regarded her with a look of quiet acquiescence that said, "I will go without protest if you turn me out, but I will not fawn on you for hospitality." Strange how she could read that look; it was crystal clear in those amazing eyes. She poured herself a fresh cup of tea and, almost without thinking, put a saucer of milk on the floor near the cat. It sauntered over and sniffed cautiously. Its tongue darted out, and the milk disappeared as the cat hardly took a breath from its lapping. Then it daintily licked up the drops it had spattered and sat back to clean its milk-speckled muzzle. "It's starving," she thought with astonishment. The cat's condition was a shock. She'd never imagined any such predicament. She didn't want the responsibility; she wanted to be left alone in the comfortable cocoon of her empty house. The kitten-cat suddenly leapt six times its own height and landed gracefully on the stove. It snuggled against her slipper, front paws stretched out to dry, a small, enigmatic, unblinking sphinx. "You're not staying, so don't make yourself comfortable," she went to the phone and dialed the local police station. "I'm reporting a found cat." "A kitten?" "Well, is it a cat or a kitten?" "I don't know. It's bigger than a kitten, but not quite a cat." "Where did you find it, Madam?" "It was crouching by my dustbin." She heard his patient sigh. "Address of same, D'Arpyn, please, and description of cat in case anyone inquires. There might be some distraught youngsters somewhere." "What did it look like?" "She had no idea. She darted into the kitchen and back to the phone. 'Um, it's got peculiar darkish stripes on its back and white everywhere else,' she said, lowering her voice in a ridiculous manner. The cat had fallen asleep on the stove, one paw over its nose. 'A grey tabby,' said the constable. 'We'll let you know if anyone inquires.' 'But I don't want it,' she said, panicking. 'Can't you take it away?' 'Sorry, that's impossible. But I'll give you the address of the local branch of the RSPCA.' She wrote it down on the back of an envelope. A pile of unopened mail was on the desk. The branch was some distance away, and it was too dark and too late to take him now. He would have to stay overnight. Food? She hadn't cooked for days, eating only bread and jam, bread and cheese, bread and jam. She hardly thought a cat would eat a jam sandwich, however ravenous. She scavenged around in the top compartment of the fridge-freezer and found a boil-in-the-bag coq au vin sauce. It was a single portion, but enough, surely, for a young cat and a woman with no appetite. She also heated some frozen peas. The cat ate in straight furrows, vacuuming the saucer several times till there wasn't a speck of sauce to be seen. It was dishwasher clean. She gave him her hardly touched fish, and he demolished it, then sat back to clean his whiskers fastidiously. He jumped onto the stove and flaked out, small tummy distended with boil-in-the-bag. "All right for you," she said, mashing the peas between two slices of bread. "A minted garden pea sandwich. I must be going mad." Much later, she heard a polite mew from the kitchen. The cat was hovering by the back door. Was he going? Did he want to leave, she wondered, as she opened the door. He leapt out onto an unhappy-looking flower bed and stood there, poised, as though half expecting the door to be slammed. "Well," she grumbled, "I'm freezing." He turned his back modestly, and a moment later was kicking snow everywhere. It was a performance she hadn't witnessed before, and she was bemused. Then, with one bound, he was back indoors, shaking snow off his paws. That evening, she actually stirred herself to do some sorting out. She went around the house and removed everything that had belonged to her husband and the oddments he had given her. He hadn't been mean, only in spirit; he hadn't even shared his thoughts. She stored the stuff in carrier bags in the broom cupboard. The first brownie that came to the door for jumble would get the lot. She'd forgotten the cat when she got up the next morning and nearly tripped over it as it lay stretched across her slippers. "You're not staying," she said, putting her cold feet into the lambswool. "And I've nothing for breakfast." But she relented and broke a slice of bread into warm milk. He wasn't critical of the sparse fare and ate with quiet gratitude. She rushed around, gulping cold coffee. "Oh, drat, hurry up, you're going to make me late for work!" She pulled on boots, a heavy overcoat, scarf, checked her keys. She didn't bother with makeup these days. A cold blast of air hit her unmoisturized cheeks and unprotected lips as she opened the front door and gently dropped the cat onto the path. He landed forp on a dusting of icy snow and shot her a desperate look. It was no good; she couldn't just go. She hurried back indoors, tipped shoe cleaners out of a cardboard box, and picked up an unread newspaper. She cleared a path of snow off the porch tiles with the edge of her boot, but the box on its side like a hutch with folded newspaper as a makeshift floor. "That's all I'm doing," she panted. "Now I'm really late." She hoped he wouldn't be there when she got home; she wanted him to go off somewhere, to leave her alone, so that her mind needn't be employed. But as she turned towards the house that evening, he was sitting like a sentinel on top of the box, tail curled neatly over his toes. He jumped down as she searched for her keys, tail held high, and shot indoors the moment the door was ajar. "What a nerve," she said. She found a rusty tin of sardines at the back of the larder, which they shared. She made hers into a sandwich. That evening, she went through her clothes and threw away anything her husband had particularly liked. It was very cathartic. The next day, she put adverts in local shop windows: "Found: small grey and white tabby." It generated instant talk with the shop assistants. One gave her a leaflet on caring for kittens; another gave her a sample of new cat food. The snow began melting into a dirty slush. A tide mark of wet crept up the cardboard box in the porch, and the top where the cat sat was sagging perilously. "Why won't you go?" she despaired, renouncing the cat. When the box collapsed, he waited on the wall instead. Each evening, he greeted her with a small, sweet mew of welcome, as if he had been warned not to make too much noise. No one phoned in answer to the adverts. She contacted the police again. She questioned her near neighbors, but no one had lost a small tabby. "Dumped, I'd imagine, probably from a passing car," said one. She searched for the RSPCA address, but she'd thrown the envelope away unopened. She didn't know what to do. She couldn't phone the police station again; they would think she was a crank. Instead, she bought three bunches of bright yellow chrysanthemums, not one but three. She filled three pottery jars with the blooms and stood them on the front window sill like a declaration of independence. For supper, she cooked four chicken fillets in a casserole with plenty of vegetables and baked potatoes. It would be enough for both of them, them twice. She was washing up when the phone rang. "Hello, Betty. Long time no see." She laughed a little, smoothing back her dark hair with a wet hand. "Oh, I—I thought you were someone phoning about a cat." "No, no. It would take too long to explain. Yes, I'm all right. Well, not all right, but getting on somehow." She paused while her friend's voice enthusiastically filled in the silence with words: an invitation to a club dinner. "No, sorry. I know you're only being kind, but I just don't fancy going out. I'm not ready for parties or meeting people." "Scrabble?" She stopped and thought about small words she knew. "Cat? I might cope with a game of Scrabble." Betty hastily pinned her down to a day and a time. "I'll come around after I've made supper," she said. "Yes, thank you. A lift home afterwards would be nice, but I don't mind coming into the house anymore, you see. It isn't empty now." She said goodbye to her friend and put down the receiver. She took her knitting out of a cupboard, a chunky sweater she'd been making before he left, and turned on the television. There was a good play at 9:00. The cat watched the preparations carefully and judged his moment. He had been waiting a long time, patiently. He jumped up onto the sofa beside her, squeezing himself down into the small gap at her side. He put one paw on her thigh to make sure she didn't go away. The beginning of a purr vibrating in his throat. She stared in surprise at the small creature, looking properly for the first time, marveling at the blotting-paper images of grey markings across his back. It was like seeing after being blind, a sunburst of delicate beauty that was stunning. She touched his head, amazed at the swan's-down softness under her fingertips and the trust in the small, furry face. "Kitty," she said, getting the gender wrong. It was a natural mistake, not unlike her other catastrophic mistake. "I suppose I'll have to call you Kitty." And for the first time, she began to feel the stirring of hope for the [Music] [Applause] [Music] future.

The Independent Kind by Stella Whit read by Francis [Music] Delator

Sad Phillips had been single now for exactly a year and felt she stood at some sort of symbolic crossroads, but since she had no choices to make, it was more like a cul-de-sac, she supposed. She drank a toast to those first traumatic months when first sadness, then relief, had been her dominating emotions. Then she drank another toast to the joy of living alone. She could do exactly what she pleased, when and where. If she wanted to spend all Sunday in bed doing a jigsaw and eating cream crackers, she could. The option was open. Her weekends were spent putting the sad imprint on the small terrace, two up and two down, where their marriage had finally petered out among piles of rubble, bricks, ballast, and split bags of cement. Adrien had begun so many projects which were never finished. The little house then became a haven of peace and quiet. She had loved Adrien once, and that was the real grief of it. He had bowled her over from their very first meeting, a tall, bearded draftsman, amusing and attractively boyish, and it had taken Sad several years to discover that she did not actually want to be married to a boy. She wanted to be married to

A man she obliterated. Ated all traces of Adrien, turning the second bedroom, which he had used for a dark room workshop for his photography, into a dressing room. She saw no reason why she should not have this small luxury. Her sewing machine came out of the cold storage, and after studying the latest fashions, she began to make herself some new clothes. And she sold the hideous old table and chairs, which instantly enlarged the matchbox sitting room. Out with the table also went traditional three-course cooking. Meals were now taken in the kitchen or on a tray on her knees. Adrian had always expected enormous meals, and his endless piles of washing had been gargantuan. The Saturday twin tub marathon was now replaced by a relaxing armful of suds, with her flimsies blowing on the line like flags of independence.

Sadie could also give more time to her work as personal assistant to the sales manager of a hoser firm. For, as was so often the case, a woman had to work twice as hard as a man to prove her worth. Sad had been doing a considerable amount of her boss's work for years, but now every report, chart, and sales analysis she produced for him had to be noticed. She decided she was going to be successful. She could feel it in her bones. For the first time, she'd been invited to attend the firm's annual conference in Bournemouth.

"I'll enjoy that very much," she said to Oswald Harris, her boss, the Southeastern sales manager. "Thank you for including me, Mr. Harris. You deserve a break." Oswald Harris had pointed out, thinking how his assistant had blossomed since her divorce. Sad had always been an attractive woman, but now she had an added assurance and zest which was almost a challenge to him. "You'll probably learn a thing or two at the conference, and it's all very friendly." Sadie gave a small, wary smile. She knew Mr. Harris was retiring soon to Beck Hill, to a flat overlooking the sea and the companionship of a brown spaniel called Dolly. So she was going to use every, every minute of that conference, making sure she was fairly considered for Mr. Harris's job. She deserved the chance. Somehow, she had to implant the idea in the heads of the right people. She bought flowers on her way home to celebrate and did poses for every room, even the bathroom. Adrian, she remembered now, had never noticed flowers.

On Saturday afternoon, feeling the need for another treat, she went along to an art gallery, watching the people as much as looking at the paintings. "If you have a couple of hundred pounds to spare, the row of excellent seascapes on the right are mine," someone said in a modest voice, just behind her.

"I beg your pardon?" Sadie said questioningly, swinging around.

"I've been watching you," the man went on. "You were taking such a keen interest that I immediately thought, 'There's a prospective buyer. She can't make up her mind, though. All she needs is a little nudge.'"

"Undecided at an artistic crossroads, you mean?" Sad smiled.

"Exactly," Sadie exclaimed. "It's a cool desac, actually. I was thinking about some prints I have that need framing. They're stuck in the cupboard under the stairs and they approach me every time I get out the vacuum."

"Framing is so expensive, though."

"Don't I know it! I usually go around the Sunday markets and quite often find suitable old frames. In fact, some of them are really beautiful, often better than my paintings."

"If your paintings are good enough to hang in this gallery, then they can't be that bad," Sadie pointed out.

"Don't be so modest. Show them to me. Tell me all about them." Sad only said it to be polite because he sounded so hesitant about his work, and his paintings did look interesting, pale, fascinating seascapes with wonderfully delicate touches of color. She peered closer to read the signature: Ed Ryan. It seemed a very unassuming name for an artist. He talked fluently about his paintings, then, when he had exhausted the subject, he generously continued to comment on the other paintings on show.

"You might be missing a sale," Sadie protested.

"If anyone's interested, they'll find me," he said.

"I can't buy one," she said. "I'm skinned. I've a whole mortgage to take care of."

"A whole mortgage?" he repeated sagely. "Obviously a woman of property."

"It's as tiny as a doll's house," she said, "but it's all my own, and even if I say so myself, very pleasant."

"I don't think I could live in a house," he grinned, "not anymore. Not a proper house. It'd be too much like a prison."

"Where do you live then?" she asked curiously. His jeans and shirt were neat and clean, so he obviously wasn't sleeping rough.

"I have a Land Rover, a dog, and a caravan. I go where I like, along the coast mostly. I'm a nomad, a gypsy, a wanderer."

"Ah," was about as much as Sadie could say. She was out of her depth with Gypsies and Nomads.

"I'm going to Bournemouth soon," his eloquent eyes smiled suddenly. "You're like Bournemouth," he predicted. "It has a beautiful sea and spectacular cliffs." They had a cup of coffee afterwards, companionably talking a lot, and then Ed Ryan disappeared as suddenly as he had appeared. He hadn't said much about himself, only that he had once been an accountant and could fill in a tax form. Sid enjoyed his company but was glad he had not suggested seeing her again. How could he, anyway? A dog, a Land Rover, and a caravan were not the hallmarks of conventional living. He was probably halfway to Chroma Sands by now, and all thoughts of him went out of her mind when she opened Monday's post.

Among the bills was a letter from a firm of solicitors. Her godmother had died and left her a house in the north. S was stunned by the news. She had hardly known her godmother and felt very unworthy of the bequest. "It's rather old and ramshackle and in need of modernization," the solicor had pointed out in his letter.

At work, she blurted out the news to Mr. Harris. "Oh, so you'll be giving up your job and moving, will you?" he said. "I'll cancel your hotel booking for the conference."

"No, I'll not," S de clared firmly. "I'm not going to give up my job, and I'd still like to go to the conference." Mr. Harris shuffled papers around, peering over his half-moon spectacles. "That's good. By the way, have you finished the monthly report?"

"Yes, Mr. Harris. I'll just fetch the draft."

"Splendid. Glad you're not moving. I'd miss you. Perhaps we could have a little supper together in Bournemouth?" Sad had been halfway out of the office when Mr. Harris issued the invitation. She didn't know what to say, so it seemed easier to pretend that she hadn't heard him. She wanted her promotion solely on merit, even though a word from Mr. Harris in the right place might help.

It was because she was still feeling guilty and disturbed about the incident that some days later, when her ex-husband appeared on her doorstep, she automatically asked him in. She regretted it the instant Adrian set foot in her home.

"Who's a lucky girl?" he laughed, giving her a big hug. "Another house?"

"How did you know?"

He tapped his nose. "Then, miss, seriously, I have my sources. Old boy network, you know." He threw himself down in his old armchair, feet stretched out on the rug. "Ah, home," he sighed, eyeing the room. "I've really missed all this. Hey, where's the dining table and the showcase for my trophies?"

"Trophies, you say?"

"Never mind. We can soon..." He stopped, but said he could read his mind. His thoughts were almost lit up in neon: "Soon put it up again." Was that what he was going to say? "Not on your on Nelly," Sad thought, but she merely added, "Would you like some coffee?" wishing she wasn't always so darn polite.

"Smashing!" He launched into a recital of what he had been doing. He'd been moving around a lot. He'd not bought a new place or settled anywhere. He had eventually gone home to roost, where his mother prepared his huge meals and washed and tied it up after him. "It's not been easy," he said, as if he'd been asked to scale the AER single-handed. "There have been moments, sad, when I have felt like ending it all." Sad didn't know whether to believe him or not, although she too had felt low at times. He put his coffee cup on the floor, got up, and began roaming around the house, making comments on all the changes.

"Hey, what's this?" he called down, blinking at the mirror doors on his former dark room.

"My dressing room."

"Dressing room?" he chortled. "Still, you'll be able to move out now and get somewhere bigger."

"I don't want somewhere bigger," Sadie pointed out. "I couldn't cope with somewhere bigger. This house is just the right size for me."

"But it's practically a cupboard," he exclaimed. "You'll be able to afford exactly what you want now. I've always fancied one of those ranch-type houses, sprawling and low-slung with lots of wood. Did I tell you I've taken up carpentry?" Sad heard the alarm bells ringing madly when he asked if he could stay the night, as his mother had gone to visit her sister. She offered him the sofa.

A week later, Adrien was still there, making plans and suggestions, sprawled on the sofa. Sadie felt her independence crumbling. She knew she was was a fool, but she was sorry for him. He didn't seem to have made out as well as she had, and that was the trouble, especially with having once loved him.

"I'm going to Bournemouth next weekend to the firm's annual conference," she told him. "You can stay in the house while I'm away, but then I think you ought to look seriously for a place of your own."

"Darling, is that really necessary?" he said, taking her in his arms, his beard tickling her chin. Sad stiffened her resolve, for she had always liked that beard. "Can't we start again, please, please darling?" he went on. "We're getting on so well now. Things will be different. We could have a big house, every labor-saving gadget, dishwasher, waste disposal unit, you name it, and two cars in the garage with automatic doors. Would have space, honey, your bit of sewing, my dark room, my workshop. I could get a lathe. Please, let's try again." He was very persuasive and handsome, and she had once loved him. She wanted the old, warm feeling of love to return.

"I don't need a waste disposal unit," she said weakly. "I manage very well with a small dustbin."

"We could be so happy," he said, sweeping her around the room, knocking over some flowers. "We'll have a second honeymoon somewhere exotic. I'll make you happy, Sadie, I promise."

Sad extracted herself from his arms and went down on her knees to retrieve the flowers. He didn't move to help her. "I'll tell you when I get back from Bournemouth," she said, picking up the tiny, fragile petals from the carpet. She felt like those crushed petals. Adrian was treading all over her again.

Bournemouth was refreshing. The stiff sea breeze blew away some of the cobwebs of indecision and the stifling influence of her ex. The conference wasn't exactly the den of intrigue that Mr. Harris had always implied. The meetings were informal but constructive, and sad quickly discovered that by asking the right, pertinent questions, she showed she knew more than just how to feed paper into an electronic typewriter. She also knew what a woman wanted to wear on her legs, which was one up on Mr. Harris. Her new clothes were stunning and drew many admiring glances.

Late one afternoon, at the end of a busy session, Sadie put on jeans and a jersey and went for a stroll along the beach. There hadn't been time before. Yes, the sea was beautiful, and the cliffs white and majestic. They had a timeless quality. Perhaps that was why Ed Ryan always painted the sea. She walked a long way. She passed The Farmhouse Chines, passed the houses, hotels, and beach huts. She wanted to walk forever. It seemed an admirable plan. No more worrying or wondering. No more Adrian.

"You can't get any farther unless you got climbing boots," the voice of Ed Ryan said suddenly, from a perch somewhere way up. He held out a hand to help her up over the rocks. His working sketchbook lay on the ledge alongside a box of charcoal and pastels.

"I hoped I might see you," Sadie smiled. She was pleased to see him too. He was so uncomplicated and easy to be with.

"How did you know I'd be here?"

"You told me," he said, frowning slightly. "Remember? Over coffee, you told me about coming to Bournemouth this weekend to fight for your future. But I was beginning to give up any hope of seeing you. How's it going? Have you vanquished all your rivals?"

Sad felt a warm feeling spread through her. She had done well, and this man actually wanted to hear about it. "Not quite," she said, "but I have made an impression. I know that people have been listening to me as a person, not just seeing me as a woman and wondering if I tint my hair."

"I know you don't," Ed said gently, tucking back one of her breeze-blown locks. He did it slowly, letting a shaft of late sunshine stream golden through the strands. "It's real. Everything about you is real. Look, I... I don't suppose you'd care to share a caravan supper with me tonight? Sausages under the stars?"

"It was very romantic," Sadie laughed, absurdly pleased to be asked. "Oh, Ed, I can't. Tonight is the big formal sit-down dinner. I don't miss it. I'll be meeting everybody, mixing with all the directors. It's when I'll be able to find out if they're really considering me for Mr. Harris's job."

"Then you must go," he said. "That's important."

"It's more than important," she said. "It's crucial." And she told him about her Godmother's house and Adrien moving back in again. Ed listened intently, sometimes putting in a question to clarify a point, but all the time his slender hands were working with the charcoal on his sketch of the gathering clouds. At one point, he took off his glasses, wiping the lenses with a paint rag. His eyes were the warmest brown she had ever seen, kind and a little unfocused. She supposed he couldn't see her properly, so she didn't feel embarrassed about scrutinizing his face. He wasn't handsome, not classically good-looking, but oh, there was a gritty something special there. S shook herself mentally. She was not going to get trapped again.

"It's going to rain," he said suddenly, packing up his things. "I'll see you back to your hotel. Put on your glad rags, and you go in there, fighting lady." He took her hand to help her down from the rocks, but didn't let go. Sadie felt 16 again, just out of school, strolling with a boyfriend. They laughed a lot and made up silly jokes about hoser. Ed took nothing too seriously, and yet he understood that her work was important. He left her casually at the hotel steps. "See you next year, babe. Suck it to them." She felt a pang when he walked away. Next year seemed an incredibly long time away, but then she got caught up in getting ready for the dinner. Afterward, she could hardly remember what she had eaten or whom she' sat next to. So many people came up and spoke to her, and all the time she had to tread the delicate tightrope of knowing but not knowing too much, of being willing to learn but of having new ideas to contribute, of not antagonizing the wives of those already in power.

"You're making quite an impact," Mr. Harris said, coming up to her in the general crush after the speeches. "I put in a word for you, my dear. I hope you don't mind. I wouldn't like to see one of those smart Alex ruining everything we've built up together."

"Together?" she smiled and let him get away with it. She saw him more clearly now and understood he was elderly and reluctant to leave, apprehensive about what his retirement and Hill with Dolly would be like. "Is Bex Hill nice?" she asked. "Does it have beautiful sea and wonderful cliffs? I have a painter friend who only paints the sea."

"Beex Hill is lovely, my dear. You must come and see it. Bring your friend. Does he like dogs?"

"I think so, yes. He must. He's got one."

Before she left to return on the early Monday train to London, she received a typewritten note from the managing director: "Would she kindly present herself at his office on Tuesday morning at 10:00?" Relief washed over her. She sat on the train, watching the countryside speed by. Bournemouth had been unreal, in a way. She might almost have imagined it all, but the note was tangible enough, and she was going back to the reality of Adrien camped up in her house. She had to deal with him, and she could give away Godmother's house if she wanted to, some charitable cause, perhaps the homeless orphans or the disabled. Could put it to good use. Once Adrian discovered that her capital had gone, he would go too. She was not hurt; she just understood him.

As she turned the corner that evening, laden with her weekend case, she could hardly believe what she saw outside her house: parked by her tiny terrace front door was a muddy Land Rover and a caravan, taking up a lot of space. A brown-faced dog peered at her from the back of the vehicle. She got out her key, a gast, wondering what might confront her. Adrien flung open the door, screwdriver in hand, bits of sawdust in his hair, and at the last, he declaimed, "Just who is this person who has come to frame your prints?"

Sadie could see Ed on his knees, cleaning a heavy, old carved frame. He looked up, his dark face expressionless. "He's the person who has come to frame my prints," she said.

"How did you know where they were?" Adrien stormed.

"I didn't know that was a state secret," Sadie declared.

"Well, he seems to know his way around the house," Adrian went on, tripping over his toolbox. He'd been putting up shelves for his photo album.

"Well, you hardly need a root map for a house this size," S declared.

"Riley, she put the kettle on, but Ed was already putting out the milk and the mugs. "She don't look at him. The totally at home act was move perfect. He must have taken in every word she ever said."

"Oh, sorry," she said to Ed, looking into the biscuit tin. "Your favorite ginger nuts have all gone."

"Look, S," Adrien said, filling the doorway. "I want to know exactly what's going on."

"I don't think it's any of your business," business, Sadie pointed out reasonably. "We're divorced, remember? And I think it's time you and your hobbies found somewhere else to mess up. This is my home now, and I don't want anything in it to remind me of you."

Ed wandered into the sitting room, picking up tools and bits of wood as he went. He wasn't nearly as tall as Adrian, but in those moments, he was much more menacing in a mature, noons way. He put all the debris into Adrianne's arms and steered him towards the door. "If I find anything else of yours, I'll send it on," he said firmly. "Just forward an address." Adrian's mouth fell open. He hardly knew what was happening, then he found himself on the doorstep. The door slammed firmly in his face.

Sadie looked at Ed, not really knowing what to say. "That was a short year," she finally remarked.

"Ridiculously," did you get the promotion?" he asked.

"I think so. I'm going to see the managing director tomorrow."

He nodded, drinking his tea. "Good," he said. "I'll be off then. I'm driving down to Cornwall tonight." Her heart sank. She didn't want him to go, and yet the only way to keep this strange, sincere, and wonderful man was to let him go. How could she expect to have everything – her work, her house, her independence – and also a man who saw the sea as brush strokes?

"Thank you," she said, being polite again. "Thank you for coming here and sorting out something I was too weak to do myself."

He grinned. "I thought the situation needed something a little dynamic. Good luck with the new job." Swiftly, he cleared up his odds and ends, tidiness that came from living in a caravan. She stood on the step to see him drive off. The dog gave him an ecstatic welcome as he climbed aboard. Ed put the Land Rover in gear but didn't move off. He knew he had to go, even if she stood there forever, looking lovely and a little forlorn. "Sausages under the stars sometime," he shouted, the invitation still stands. S's face broke into a wide smile. "I accept," she laughed, waving, knowing that one day he would be back. Now he had helped her reverse out of her cul-de-sac, the way ahead was clear.

[Music]

I wonder how she slept last night. By Judy Gardner. Read by Hannah [Music] Gordon.

Now, listen, Leonora," said. "You're going to be perfectly all right. You've got your very own room, your very own things all around you, and if you want anything, just ask the housekeeper. Suppose it's in the middle of the night, but you're not likely to want anything in the middle of the night, are you?"

"I might."

"Well, you certainly don't normally." Mother and daughter were standing face to face under the center light that was now adorned by the old familiar lampshade. The room was crammed with all the old familiar things that it had taken Leonora five consecutive car trips to convey from the old home to the new one, but it was going to be far better for the old girl to live in one cozy room in a place that catered specially for the elderly. No more cooking or worrying about shopping, she said, smiling briskly at the bowed, white head. "And tomorrow, the man's coming to fix your television, isn't he?"

"Yes, which will be nice. And then Ben and I will pop over the day after to see how you're getting on."

"Yes, that'll be Sunday."

"Yes." Leonora picked up a handbag and went towards the door. "So don't leave me," the words burst out, quiet but very desperate.

"Daring," I've got to. Affection and a slight hint of weary exasperation. "I've got to go home and cook Ben's supper, haven't I?"

"Yes, well, then..." Leonora's mother took a few slipper steps towards her, hands outstretched. Leonora strove over to her, hugged her, and planted a kiss on her forehead. She ignored the tears that glimmered. "Good night. Sleep tight. Be a good girl now."

"Yes." The door clicked behind her, and it was like leaving a small child at boarding school for the first time. "Ben, I'm so tired I could die."

"Well, you've had a pretty full week. Pork chops for supper, a packet of frozen peas, and the remains of last night's potatoes fried up. No garnishing, not even the table mats. Think she'll settle in okay?"

"God knows I've done my best. Old folks could help themselves more. Still, perhaps where she's gone, they all help each other more. Perhaps any source is there. It's a bit on the dry side."

"No, sorry."

"At in silence for Pete's sake," Leonora said suddenly. "Other old girls settle down all right, don't they? I mean, it's, it's bound to take time, but once she makes friends with some of the others."

"When are you going to see her again?"

"We're both going to see her on Sunday. That'll give her all of tomorrow to gather herself together and to, and to rest up a bit." They finished the pork chops. "Is there any pud?"

"Sorry, no. Just biscuits and cheese."

So there she sat in her old armchair with her feet close together and her hands gripping the arms. The room was warm and pleasantly reassuring, with the curtains drawn and the bedside lamp illuminating the dear old photos and little silver ornaments. Everything she loved was around her. Leonora and Ben would be coming on Sunday, and the people here seemed very nice. There was nothing to worry about, nothing to fear, except the strangeness of it all: the soft burble of television coming from other alien rooms, the subdued hum of a different central heating system, the distant closing of an unknown door. She sat listening, alert and motionless, like a very small creature in a very large jungle.

When someone tapped on her door, she started convulsively. "Coming to supper, dear?" It was the housekeeper.

"No, uh, oh, no, no, no. Thank you. I, I'm, I'm not hungry."

"Just come and have a cup of coffee, then. Mrs. Phillips and Mrs. Hartley and Little Miss Springfield are looking forward to meeting you very much."

"But I, I don't..."

"Come along. I'll take your arm. Miss Springfield has the room directly above yours."

"My, my key. I haven't got my key."

"You don't need it, dear. I've put the catch up for you."

"Yes, but..." Irrational fears danced and jled in her tired mind. Through the open door of the dining room, she could see silver-gray heads gathered around a polished refectory table. "Oh dear, do we have to say grace? We're not a religious foundation," the housekeeper said. "Look, I've put you next to Dear Old Mrs. Mather. I'm sure you'll get on very well together."

The end of the TV program. The fire dying. Leonora wound her knitting around the needles, and Ben went yawning to put the car away. They locked up the house and went to bed. "After all, Ben," she's 83 now. "High time she stopped having to cope with everything on her own."

"Exactly," Leonora said in her petticoat. "The age of the silic cone chip is far too baffling for old people to go It Alone." They climbed into bed and lay breathing toothpaste at the ceiling. "I have tried, I honestly have tried to organize things so that she'll be happy."

"Of course you have. Once she's made some nice friends of her own age, which is another reason why she'll be so much happier where she is. Or you do think she'll be happy, don't you, Ben?"

"She'll be very happy," Ben said. "Now stop worrying about her and go to sleep."

But although she had all her own things about her, the room smelled so different. For one thing, it still had the tang of fresh paint. Lying in the darkness, she wondered who had occupied it before her and whether they had had their bed in the same corner. She wondered if they had died in it. Turning on her side, she resolved to think of other things. Everyone had been very nice to her at supper, and they had persuaded her to eat a little of the kery. After all, Miss Springfield had patted her shoulder, and the one she thought was Mrs. Hartley had shown her where the table napkins were kept in the drawer. "We all help to set the table," one of them said, "and sometimes we wipe up as well. But of course, there's nothing actually laid down about it."

"Well, there's no need for anything to be laid down," someone else said, "because everything here is based on goodwill and consideration for others." Oh yes, she was going to be all right here. Her hot water bottle was warm in the small of her back, and she could hear the ticking of the little bedside clock she'd been given on her 21st birthday. She slept with her hand folded under her cheek. It was still dark when she awoke, dark and heavily silent. Instantly, her blurred mind began fumbling with the fact that this was not home. The smell was different, and the bed was pointing the wrong way. Panic rose until she remembered that this was home now, and that she liked it here. She really did like it very much. Then another problem began to encroach on her awareness, and with a sinking heart, she was forced to acknowledge its increasing insistence. It was a problem that would not wait until morning. She wanted to go to the bathroom. She had been to the bathroom from last thing before coming to bed, but now she wanted to go again. Closing her eyes, she told herself that it was nerves, that it was imagination, but her bladder's demand resisted all denial. She sat up in bed and tried to remember where the bathroom was. On the opposite side of the corridor, she thought. Just a few steps to the left. Without putting on the bedside light, she crept cautiously to the door. Her dressing gun was would have been hanging behind it at home, but wasn't here. There was no time to find it, and the snick of her door latch rang out like a pistol shot. When at last her fingers found it, with hands outstretched like a sleepwalker, she crossed the corridor. She found the opposite wall and ran her hand along it until it made contact with the shape of a door. Her feet made no sound on the thick carpet. Despite her acute nervousness, she remembered that the bathroom door had a small pluck bearing its name. Her hand found it, and with a shivering sigh of relief, she slipped inside. She sat there longer than she needed to, and with eyes grown accustomed to the bright light, studied the bath with all its pulley and handles to help people in and out of it. She was lucky to be living in a place that Kate had especially for old people, very lucky indeed. Striving to flush the lavry as quietly as possible, she switched off the light and closed the door behind her. She crept back to her room, or to the place where her room should have been, but this time her searching hand encountered only smooth, cold wall, and suddenly she was in one of the most hideous nightmares that an old person's mind could ever envisage: the nightmare of being lost in the dark.

"Five car trips," thought Leonora, turning in her sleep. "I helped her sort through letters going back to 1935. I let her lumber me with a, a lot of old snaps that I don't want and she hasn't room for. I lugged all her old clothes to Oxfam, found a home for her dinner service, and helped her pack everything else. Five carloads, and she was furious when her maiden hair fern fell out of its pot. She said it was all my fault." Under the eaves, a roosting bird fluttered uneasily. The little sound checked the even rhythm of Ben SNS for a moment. "I've done all I can, my God. I wouldn't mind having a daughter like me when I'm old."

Forcing herself to remain calm, she continued to search for the door, creeping along close to the wall while her hand slithered over the painted surface. At last, her old fingers found the door frame, the door itself, and then the handle. With a quivering sigh, she slipped inside and had just closed it behind her when a man's voice, hoarse with sleep, suddenly said, "Who's that? What the devil are you doing in my room?"

She gasped, then gave a little cry. Her hands sought the door again, even as her ears caught the rustle of bed clothes and then the stealthy padding of feet coming towards her. "What do you want? Who are you?"

"I'm new, and I've, I've lost my, my..." Her hands dropped uselessly, and she leaned against the wall with a hopeless acceptance of someone awaiting execution.

"Which room do you want?"

"Number... um, I, I think it's number... I, well, I'm, I'm new. I've, I've forgotten." She began to weep. She could sense him near her, but when he put his hand on her arm, she recoiled with a gasp.

"You must be the new woman."

"You..."

"Yes, don't blub," he said. "No one's going to hurt you." At the rough compassion in his voice, her tears became a flood that all but choked her. The depth of misery was incalculable.

"You're cold," she heard him say. His hand traveled down her arm to her shaking fingers. "Oh, you poor creature, you're so cold." Still weeping, she allowed him to lead her across the room. The strength had gone from her legs, and she stumbled over the rug, hardly aware of what she was doing. She crept between the sheets, still warm from his body, and like a little beaten animal, shivering, accepted the hospitality of pillows and blankets and soft idod down that he carefully bunched around her.

"I'm very sorry," her tears ran into the pillow.

"Don't be. I'm sorry I woke you."

"I, I didn't..."

"No, of course you didn't." He put a large, clean handkerchief into her hand. "Just tell me what's the matter."

"I want to go home." She lay huddled while he sat on the edge of the bed, patting the Ida down that encompassed her. The room was very dark.

"We've got a big old plum tree in the garden here," he said, "and in warm weather, the housekeeper lets us have tea on under it." She continued to sniff. "It's a Victoria plum, like the one we had at home when I was a boy. Blossom's beautiful in spring." His handkerchief was very comforting. She wiped her eyes surreptitiously, waiting for the continued sound of his voice. "With green gauges too, a marvelous apple tree that my brothers and I used to climb."

"I like apple blossom," she managed to whisper. "And down beyond the plum tree in this garden, there's a big bed of irises, and you should see them in May. All colors they are: blue, yellow, bronze, and all lapping up the sunlight. I had a lovely speckled iris called Blue Shimmer." Tears gushed again.

"Don't cry," he said gently. "Just think about next year's colors. Forget about what's gone before."

"Is that what you do?"

"Yes, all the time." She heard him get off the bed, and a new, ignoble panic filled her. "Don't, don't put the light on. I, I don't want anyone to see me the way I look now."

"Well, I don't look so good either," he said. "For one thing, I'm not wearing my bottom teeth."

"Neither am I." Astonishment filled her at the sound of her own confession. She felt herself blushing.

"I'll be 81 next year," he said from the other side of the room.

"I didn't know they had men here as well."

"Oh, I'm the only one. You weren't at supper," she said with a hint of accusation.

"That's because I generally prefer to eat my own room."

"They don't mind?"

"No," he said. "They're really very nice here." She dried the last of her tears.

"Yes, I'm sure they are." She heard him come back to the bed again, and sudden gratitude made her put her hand out to him. It caught the rough sleeve of a dressing gown. "Then big, dry, rather leathery fingers."

"You're cold too," she said, "and it's all my fault."

"Stay where you are. There's room for both of us." She was prepared to go to say thank you and find her way back to her own room. Instead, she moved a little closer to the wall, then, with her one free arm, tucked the other half of the Ida down solicitously around his angular shape. They lay side by side.

"I'm 2 years older than you are," she said. "I'm 83, and I've never done anything like this before."

"Longevity makes a nonsense of convention," he said comfortably. "Try to sleep a little. That's about all we can hope to do, isn't it?"

"It's enough." The hateful cold of old age receded. They held hands, and she dreamed that it was April, with apple trees and blossom and birds singing everywhere.

[Music]

[Music]

Saturday Lady. By Norma H. Read by Sheila [Music] Hancock.

Wearing the purple winter coat, Rosa sat down tentatively at the table, like a visitor in her own house. She poured herself tea from the China pot that one of her ladies, Mrs. Nora, had given her. It was a lovely pot with red roses all over and Canada Centennial 1967 written in large gold letters across its middle. She added milk to her tea, milk from the cut glass jug she'd brought all the way from Lisbon, and then she treated herself to a chocolate marshmallow from the package she kept for Al's friend, Ruie. She H it carefully over the bread plate so that she wouldn't drop any crumbs on the embroidered tablecloth, the cloth that had been a wedding present from her mother. The birds twittered behind her in their cage, reminding her that she had forgotten one tiny thing: their ritual Saturday afternoon moment of freedom when she let them out of their cage to fly around the small apartment. It was the little red bird she liked best. He always came and settled on her shoulder and tweaked gently at her ear. They were Al's birds, and yet she was the one who fed them every day and cleaned the cage out on Saturdays. Alby didn't like them out of the cage. The best he could ever do was lift them out for a brief moment and hold them in his calloused, rough hand, rubbing a thumb down their back with an abrasive stroke that made the poor creature shiver and shake. Alby had built the cage right against the window so that the birds had mesh on three sides and constantly battered their bodies against what must have seemed to them the free side in their endless attempts to fly off. When Rosa had suggested it was cruel, Alby had smacked her hard. She still remembered the sting from his hand. She and Alby and her son Manuel had been in Canada for a year now. Land of opportunity, they always used to call it in Lisbon. Opportunity, it certainly was. Opportunity for work and more work. From Monday lady to Friday lady, on and off buses and Subways, up and downstairs, in and out of houses, different vacuum cleaners, dusters, mops, polishes, and brooms. Then home each day to do the same in her own place. Even though Alby was of and in before she was, he expected her to run when she did get home, for he liked to eat on time. Saturday, there was shopping to do, carrying all the bags of groceries home, and then cleaning the apartment. There wasn't even Manuel to help because he'd become a proper Canadian: hockey practices in the winter, baseball in the summer. Besides, Alby didn't like Manuel to help. Housework was not men's work, he always said. But she would put thoughts of housework out of her mind. This was her brief moment of pleasure, the only time in the entire week when she could imagine things.

There was a sudden knock at the door. For an instant, Rosa was startled. Who in Earth could it be? Alby had cleaned himself up, put on his best clothes, his extra gold chain, and gone out for the rest of the day, the way he always did. Manuel was probably playing street hockey somewhere. Besides, neither of them would ever knock. She went to the door and tentatively unlocked it, opening at a crack. It was Mr. Sam, the owner of the garage. "Sorry to bother you, Mrs. dos Santos. Would Alby be... no, never. He go out on his day off? I thought I saw him go, but I had to try anyway. Somebody need some work done in a hurry. I thought he might do it if he was in." Rosa shook her head. "Sorry to BU you, then." She closed the door. Her legs were trembling. What if it had been Alby? What a scene there would have been then. What would have made it all even worse was the fact that he'd never seen the purple coat that Mrs. Norah, her Tuesday lady, had given her, nor any of the clothes she kept hidden under the bed. If he had, he would have insisted she'd take them to the secondhand shop and sell them, for they were good, barely worn, the kind of clothes that never in a million years she, Rosa dos Santos, would ever be able to buy. Saturdays, when Manuel and Elby were both out, was a time to play with the clothes. The day when she pretended she wasn't in her own house but visiting some fine lady in a big house, a house like some of the ones where she work worked, where there were microwave ovens and dishwashers, or best of all, that she was sitting out in the street, back on the Avenue da Liberat, watching the world go by and listening to the birds, dressed exactly like some of the grand ladies she had seen there, having people look at her, admire her clothes, admire her face. She was fairly sure, as she suited the purple coat, the mirror told her so. But then she couldn't be sure of anything anymore. Certainly, Alby never gave her any compliments. However, when Alby brought home his friend Rui, a fat, sthy little man with built-up shoes and hair that stood up in alarming peaks on the thinning areas of his scalp, he looked at her in a certain way. "Ah, you keep her well hidden," he said to Alby. "If I had such a rose, I would do the same." Alby had paid no attention, just grunted and gone immediately for a be for both of them, and together they played cards at the kitchen table. Alby ignored her while Rui winked at her behind Al's back and even once made a funny gesture that Rosa hadn't liked. She prayed sometimes that Alby would say something, would even look at her the way he looked at some of the women who came in with their cars. She could watch him from the window, for they had rented the apartment above where Alby worked, and she could see how he put on a performance for them, strutting and puffing out his chest, the way he had once done for her. There, in the garage, was Al's real kingdom. He could oil and lubricate, make their cars Purr back into life. She didn't like the way he wore his overalls, open halfway down his chest, displaying the curls of black hair and the gold chains that waited for someone's fingers to untangle. She sometimes saw the way women looked at him, high-class women too. They could smell something of him that they couldn't smell from their own husbands, and they liked that smell. She didn't hate them for feeling what they did, but at times she hated Alby.

Rosa sat down again at the table and lifted the teacup. She waited for the little red bird to come back, but they had scattered, and he didn't come. She looked around room. She could see the others, but the red bird was nowhere to be seen. She rose in panic. Was it possible that when Mr. Sam had come to the door, the bird had flown out? She couldn't imagine it happening, for everything the birds ever did, they did in a great flurry of wings, but he was nowhere to be seen. A feeling of dread was building in her. What on Earth was she going to do? She went to the window and looked out, hoping absurdly that she might see him, but of course, there was nothing. She put the others back in their cage and, taking only her key, she raced out, forgetting to be cautious. She almost fell on the broken bottom step. She didn't quite know where she was going, but perhaps somewhere in the back street, in the little park where the railway land formed a slight ravine, she might find the red bird. She became aware all of a sudden that it was actually a beautiful day. How rarely did she notice her surroundings or feel anything lately. It was one of those lovely autumn days, all soft and shimmering, almost magical. The leaves had lost their vivid hues and were milky white, as though someone had drawn a softening brush across them. They seemed to hang on the branches by a mere thread. She remembered her first winter and shivered. Her little bird could flirt with the leaves today, but later, against the ice-blue skies and naked branches, he would be a mere flash, and then he too would drop like a leaf to the ground. She had to find him and bring him home. She moved on, hope fading by the minute, and then suddenly, he was there, sitting on a large mound of construction gravel that had obviously been dumped for some maintenance work, happily pecking at the ground. Behind him, at his suitable distance, there was a group of respectful sparrows, all hopping when he hopped and observing every move so that they could fly in unison with him. It was the most amazing sight, thought Rosa, a bit like a king with his courtiers. She sat down on one of the benches that ringed the flower beds and watched. He perched on a telephone wire. The sparrows followed, but again gave him room, forming a long, differential line like a row of humans waiting for a bus. They waited patiently for some further sign from him. Rosa heard a sudden laugh beside her. She turned and saw a man had seated himself beside her and was watching the bird too.

"Somebody's pet," the man said.

"He's mine," Rosa said. "Or my husband. I let him fly away."

"Quite a show off," the man said. Rosa looked at him and smiled. Never in her life had she struck up a conversation with a total stranger, but he seemed like a nice man. He carried a newspaper, was respectably dressed, and had one of those kind faces. "Probably someone's husband. A good family man."

"My husband," she will be very mad. Rosa frowned as she stared upward again at the truant bird. "That's too nice a day for anyone to be mad. Birds shouldn't be in cages anyway, don't you think?"

"Yes, yes, I do," Rosa agreed eagerly. "You let him out deliberately?"

"Yes, I, I mean, no. Well, I let them fly on Saturdays when elb she go out, and today the door it knocked. No one comes to door and says this, and I got how you say, exact ex itable excited." The man helped out. "Excited, and the bird she slip out. My husband sure be mad. He will be mad," the man corrected. "Husband is male, so it is he. Thank you. No one ever helped me. I like perhaps she shouldn't have said that. It was too forward." She focused on the bird and wished that

She could learn to accept things without always saying too much. "How long have you been in Canada?" "One year." "You're doing very well then with English." "I try, but not so good." "Yes, very good. At least you try."

Rosa looked shyly at him, and he smiled encouragingly. "I came from Poland many years ago, and it took me much longer." "Yes, yes. I, I was too scared to try. And now you speak so good. It's good you speak so good." "Maybe one day I will speak good too."

The bird landed now at Rose's feet. The other sparrows had become wary. They settled a little further off, watching, surprised perhaps at this strange, brightly colored creature's bravado. "I could bend down and pick him up," the man said, but made no move to do so.

The bird rose from the walk in front of her and perched on her knee, looking cheekily up into her face as though daring her to try and catch him. The man stared at her. "That makes a very pretty picture. Two pretty creatures together."

Rosa felt her face blush. She enclosed the bird gently between her hands, concentrating like mad. The bird fluttered feebly between her palms. For an instant, she felt not a bit like herself, almost as if she were holding her own veins, her own blood. A harder caress than her present one, and they both would die.

Then there was the option of opening up her hands and letting the creature go. She had the sudden image of blood spurting from her. Perhaps with that one gesture, she would bleed to death too. She knew the man was watching her, and there was another strange feeling, something from way back in the past, when she had first met Elby. A feeling of power, but almost as quickly as it came, it was gone again.

She opened her hand suddenly, and perhaps sensing her uncertainty, the bird rose swiftly into the air and distanced himself off as quickly as possible. "You think it flies out to warm?" she asked the man. "I'm sure it will. If no, she might get dead. Is possible."

The little bird was on the move again, flying further and further afield. The sparrows had narrowed the gap between the bird and themselves. They were still attracted to it like moths to a firefly. The man didn't answer her question. He was staring at her intently. He lent over and patted her hand. "You did the right thing."

She smiled. "Yes." She looked at him questioningly, and he nodded his head. She stood up. "You kind man." "Em gona." He rose and stood beside her. "Goodbye." They shook hands solemnly. "Someday when you fly, don't worry about the winter."

"Thank you," Rosa said pointlessly, because she couldn't think of anything else to say. She was sure he meant something nice, but she hadn't time to brood about it. She had to get home. It was unlikely Abby would be home, but she had to go back quickly and put everything carefully away: wash the cup and saucer, fold the tablecloth, and pack the purple coat away under the bed. She hadn't thought yet what to say about the missing bird. She could feel her own heart thumping in her chest, exactly as she felt the bird's, the beat quickening as her feet pounded on the pavement in her rush for home.

[Music]

[Music]

Home.

That Friday Feeling by Ella White Law. Read by K. [Music] Mara.

Friday the 13th seemed a good day on which to give in her notice. People expected the unexpected to happen: losing letters, tripping over the cat, missing buses. Helen's departure would be just one more irritating occurrence. "Morning, Miss," said the cheerful doorman. "My last," said Helen, not explaining.

Helen went into the office, took off her coat, and the cover from her typewriter for the last time. She would not work out her notice. She would just up and leave. She made some coffee and decided to clear out her desk.

"Would you come in, please, Helen, with your book?" Roger's voice came over the intercom. Deep, trickly, and it still had the power to make her heart quicken, but not for much longer. Not after today. Helen did not check her appearance in the mirror. Why bother? It did not matter how she looked anymore. She could go in wearing a brown paper bag on her head, and he probably wouldn't notice.

He swiveled around in his chair. Long, gray-clad legs crossed, fingers steepled. His eyes were cold, righteous, fixed on a spot a few inches past her left shoulder. "I'd like to get this lot into your notebook before I go home to Birmingham after lunch," he said, shuffling through some papers. "Let's get started."

"All right," said Helen, sitting in the opposite chair. He shouldn't wear the same clothes. It was not fair. Her fingers still remembered how she had unnoted that pale blue silk tie, with trembling fingers hung that expensive jacket over a chair, as if to impress him with wely care. She had not expected to be a one-afternoon stand. Roger's pursuit had been long and relentless, from the careless brushing of fingers as he handed her a letter to the first tentative kiss in a taxi riding on expenses. She supposed it was the chase he enjoyed, not the capture.

Helen's mouth tightened as her pen scrolled unreadable pits all over the page. She did a lot of short forms and contractions for practice. She had no intention of ever typing it up. Capture? She had been only too willing to be caught, a ready moth to the flame, reduced by that time to an adoring slave by his masterly handling. He kissed beautifully, long, lingering kisses that made her feel as if she was drifting in a warm Caribbean Sea, gentle waves lapping on her bare back. The office became a private paradise for the two of them. She bought flowers, polished his desk, spent most of her salary on flattering clothes, was as lost as a kitten when he went away on business, pining and counting the hours till his return.

"You're a fool," said Miranda, as they repaired their faces at lunchtime. Helen had not said much, but her friend knew. "He's just playing with you. He's very much married, and he's got his eye on promotion. He's not going to take you along with him when he moves upstairs."

"I don't care," Helen said, seeing how her reflection glowed in the mirror, her eyes sparkling. "I'm in love with him. He's wonderful."

"Tosh," said Miranda. "He's a calculating bastard."

Helen did not believe Miranda. Her friend didn't know how hey it was to work with Roger. He was a power machine, motivated by ambition, and Helen loved being part of his dynamic schemes. It was so flattering. He confided in her, depended on her support, told her she was beautiful, always took her to lunch on Fridays, eating on expenses, took time choosing the wine. She ought to have known that behind his handsome, arrogant, clean-shaven face was a mean heart, a man who didn't spend his own money. He rarely put his hand in his pocket, literally. He had a sartorial obsession with the cut of his clothes. What did he put her down as when he lunched her on Fridays? A trading transaction. The company paid towards his Riverside flat, too. He'd been moved from the Midland's office and power-talked the board into assisting with his London accommodation, the same way as he talked Helen into his bed.

By the time that afternoon arrived, she was a puppet in his hands. She would have followed him anywhere, done anything, and found herself melting without protest as his fingers unfastened her blows, brushed the rising curves of her breasts. Helen almost fainted with the intenseness of her feelings as he steered her towards the turn-down, non-iron sheets. But it was all over in minutes. Helen lay in a bewildered haze, body pulsing. Roger had not waited for her. Already he had rolled away and was padding into the bathroom, his naked back tanned from holidays she had not shared. Perhaps next time it would be different, she consoled herself, aching, staring up at the ceiling, his ceiling, looking at the swirling, brush-stroked pattern. The first time was always difficult, clumsy, awkward. But another voice insider demanded, "Why should it be so? The first time could be caring, tender, funny, even if not technically perfect."

The window was open, and a chill breeze made her pull the sheets over her bare shoulders. Perhaps he was bringing her a towel, a cup of tea. That was it. He was making tea in his tiny kitchen. Perhaps he would come back, eyes glowing and smiling, and they'd start all over again, and this time it would be wonderful.

He returned, buttoning up a freshly laundered shirt. "I've got a meeting at half 3," he said briskly. "Yes, of course," said Helen, who'd been hoping he'd cancel it. Her clothes were all over the floor. He'd removed them fast enough. Now, apparently, he could not get rid of her fast enough. He did not help her dress. She had to scramble to find her abandoned bra, panties, rolled-up tights on her own. The first seeds of doubt entered her mind. This wasn't how it should be. Where was the romance? What had she done? And for what? For nothing, it seemed.

Roger's face was set as he hailed a taxi in the street, on expenses, and they went back to the office. They did not speak. Silence hung like a shroud. Helen was still elated but tearful. The next time would be all right, she promised herself. Roger was just upset.

She spent the weekend madly slimming, pampering her face, hair, nails, watching the slow clock till Monday morning. It had been the shock, she explained to herself, adultery. The first time round must be a shock for a man like Roger. On Monday morning, he was not there. He'd been called away North to a meeting that had suddenly materialized out of the air. Helen felt icy cold all over, despite the central heating, as if she had her own private corridor of weather. She could not concentrate on her work, was fit for nothing beyond answering the phone and taking pointless messages.

"He's gone away," said Helen in a low voice, "and he didn't tell me."

"Cheer up," said Miranda, looking across to Helen's pale face in the mirror. "Lover boy will be back soon, panting for another fumble."

"He doesn't fumble," said Helen, ignoring an inner honesty. "You don't understand, that's the trouble."

"I do understand," said Miranda. "Watch out, my girl. You're going to land very hard."

By Friday, Helen knew she had landed, and the earth was a rock-hard, uncompromising, silent, screaming abyss. Roger had returned on the Wednesday, frigid-faced, dictating reports with machine-gun rapidity. No coffee, no kisses, not even a friendly hello. Helen felt like an insect, unclean, like something crawling from under a stone.

"Sorry, I can't make lunch today," he said about noon. "That Friday, I have some clients."

"Something's cropped up." "That's fine," said Helen brightly. "Things do crop up, don't they?" "Don't let him see," she told herself, as she slowly went out of her mind. She did not eat. She lost half a stone. Her skin became sallow. The gloss faded from her hair. Where had she gone wrong? She wept to herself at night because once she said yes after months of saying no. She still loved him, but even that was slowly dying, starved by his indifference and rejection.

A few weeks later, on Friday the 13th, she went to the Personnel department and handed in her notice. The Personnel officer said that they would be sorry to see her go. She was an excellent secretary. Roger would miss her, etc., etc.

"No time for our usual Friday lunch," she said flippantly at noon, getting it in first. She closed her notebook of unintelligible outlines, recapped her pen. "Uh, no," Roger said, embarrassed, not looking at her. "I'm due home. I've got, um, fresh pastures." She knew he had been seeing the new receptionist on the fifth floor. She'd caught them together in the lift, pulling apart swiftly as the doors opened.

"Would you sign these internal memos, please?" said Helen, handing him a sheath. "You forgot to sign them yesterday." He scribbled his name on them, still without looking.

Helen did no work that day, but she did have a very busy afternoon. When she had made sure Roger had gone, she emptied the filing cabinets in both offices and put everything through the shredder in the corridor. She also shredded the contents of his desk: his appointments diary, the framed certificate of merit off the wall, the regional sales charts, address book, phone numbers, even the photo of his wife in the Midlands. Poor woman. The waste bins outside filled up with mountains of shredded paper, overflowing onto the floor like lava.

"Spring cleaning?" asked Miranda, sailing by with a pile of files. "Something like that." Helen surveyed Roger's empty and deserted office, a barren paradise. She knew it was a pathetic gesture, but it made her feel better. He'd talk his way out of any trouble upstairs, say her work had deteriorated, that she'd become unhinged. But word would get around. Miranda would see to that.

She wrote out a check to her employers and addressed it to the chief accountant, marking it "Repayment of her half of those Friday lunches that Roger had claimed on expenses." Her step lightened as she left the building, shaking off that Friday feeling once and for all. She'd arranged for the maintenance men to move in over the weekend. They were going to paint every inch of his office black. Roger had signed the memo, but he might have trouble talking himself out of that one with upstairs.

"You look very happy, Miss," said the doorman, as Helen went out into the late sunshine. "I think I am," said Helen, giving him a special smile. "Who knows what Monday will bring?"

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The Gates by Norma Ha. Read by Patty Kenit. [Music]

The garden gate had six black iron spikes on top, ugly spikes. The distance between each railing was exactly the width of Meg's forehead, so that after leaning her head against its magic coolness and peering out at the world, there were two large pink stripes on either side of her ears. The railings framed all there was to see, just as the frames on picture books did. The gate kept Meg safe from the rest of the world, and at the same time kept her mother prisoner. Nobody could ever escape past that gate without being heard. It was heavy and creaked, and it would announce anyone leaving.

"I've had enough. Oh, there has to be more to life than this," when her mother said this, Meg longed to point to all the lovely things around that she thought maybe her mother couldn't see. Her mother, mother never told Meg she loved her, but at times Meg thought it might be possible. At other times, she didn't believe it for a moment. When Meg tried to help in the kitchen, her mother would yell and wave her arms impatiently. "Oh, get out of my hair!" That's when Meg collected her stool and went to the bottom of the garden to set up her lonely post, guarding the gate so that her mother couldn't run away.

It was nice by the gate. It was a window to watch the world go by, a world bounded beyond the gate by the row of tall red brick houses that soared upward, blocking out the sun until midday. There were things and people to watch on the street: the man across the road with the funny collar and bow tie and his bundle of books; the odd, skinny lady two doors away whom her mother always called the lady with the two left legs. It was true, she had a funny, lopsided look, as though her knees could bend both ways. Then there was the dancer lady, who on summer nights when it was daylight for so long, waved from her window to Meg and brought out a puppet doll to make it dance on the ledge. The sun caught the third-story window sill at that time of night, lighting it up like a stage. It was magical. When the lady saw Meg in the daytime behind the gate, she would wave, but she never came over to speak, and Meg was glad. They shared a secret, and to speak about it would spoil everything. Meg was in love with the dancer. She was tall and dark, with her hair drawn back from her face. She walked, turning her feet out, and sort of glided along, exactly like her puppet. Meg practiced walking that way, imagining she was getting it just right.

Then, in the afternoons, the other children came home from school and played ball on the street. Sometimes they asked Meg to come out from behind the gate and play with them, but she wouldn't come. They started calling her "monkey face." Her father heard them one day, and he began calling her that too, but when he said it, it was different, and Meg was happy.

One day, something dreadful happened. Men came and took the gate away, and all the railings, leaving only the hedge. Her father said it was for the war effort. Meg was baffled. How could the war effort need their gate and railings? Meg decided it was to build a fence around the country to keep the enemy out. She didn't go out of the house for days after that, and her mother got angrier and angrier, complaining to Meg's father, "Oh, do something about her! She's tripping on my heels morning, noon, and night." Her father took her on his knee and stroked her hair. "What is it, monkey face? Can't you leave mommy alone?" Meg began to cry. "Stop mewing!" her mother yelled. "Thank God, she'll be gone to school soon."

Meg had trouble getting to sleep at nights, just thinking about the day school would start. She was certain when that day came, her mother would run away. But there were other things to worry about, different things, all happening suddenly. First, it was the gate, then her sisters and brother left home, went away to the country where they would be safe in boarding school, and then there was just Meg and her mother and father left. A huge iron dining table arrived with mesh sides that hooked on and off. Her father said it was a shelter against air raids, then he made them practice going under the table. Meg, it was lovely underneath the table. There were candles, a mattress, and blankets, and it was cozy. When the sides were on, it was just like being in the garden again with the railings and gate, safe when nothing could touch you. And when they actually went under the table, her mother hugged Meg and cried. Her father was out driving an ambulance down at the dock, and her mother cried and rocked her, and it was warm and lovely in her arms, even though her mother was crying.

Then things changed again. Her father's office was evacuated to the country, and he wanted to take them with him, but her mother wouldn't leave Granny D. Her mother and father fought about that for days, shouting and yelling, until finally her father didn't say anything anymore when he came home at the weekends. Her mother said he was lucky to be able to run away each week, and Meg looked at her father and wondered if that was what he wanted. She hadn't ever thought of her father as wanting to run away. He hugged Meg a lot when he was home, and in the summer took her places. Once, she even went to the country with him and stayed in a long room with other people where she had to sleep on a funny iron bed. She liked it there because everyone seemed gay and carefree. There were no air raid sirens, and there was one lady, her father's secretary, with a powdered face and a strawberry-red mouth, who kept giving her things and putting her arms around her. She liked the presents but didn't really like the lady, although she wasn't quite sure why. The lady smelled of perfume, and long after she had hugged her, Meg still smelled the perfume. She was sure her father didn't really like her either, because he was funny when she was around, making a fuss of Meg and speaking in a funny voice.

Back in town, there were the endless walks to her grandmother's each day. Granny Dunn was lame and always sat in a wheelchair, but apart from that, she didn't seem to need much looking after. She had a maid called Rose and a budgie called Sam. Meg didn't really love her grandmother; she was scared of her, but then everyone seemed scared of her, even Rose. Everyone but her mother. She had a big, deep voice for someone so tiny. "Run away and play," the same words as her mother's, the same frown. "Go look for chickweed for Sunny." But it was all right because it was safe in the garden. For some reason, the garden still had a gate. Perhaps Granny D and scared off the men who came to take it away. Each day, her mother stayed a long time at Granny Dunn's. It was lovely in the garden, picking out the chickweed from between the flagstones to feed to Sammy, then roaming by the flower beds, feeling the stickiness of the snapdragons, getting the orange dye from the big lilies all over her fingers. And then, when she was bored with the garden, she went to the garage where the door was always open and stroked the flanks of the big shining car that only ever came out for weddings and funerals. She pretended the car was a great, gentle horse, and that someday she would be able to climb on and lead the horse wherever she pleased.

Then it was the end of summer, and things changed again. She went to school. That awful first day of school, when she cried all day, and her mother came to pick her up. She called her a baby for crying, but Meg didn't care because she was there, scolding her, and she hadn't run away, and that was the important thing. All the time she complained, she held Meg's hand tightly, and Meg smiled, even though she was being scolded. Her father came home at the weekend and talked to Meg about growing up, and about how big girls didn't cry, and so she stopped crying at school. But she was glad each day when she could run home quickly to make sure her mother was still there.

In the winter, her mother didn't complain so much anymore, and at weekends when her father was home, men from America came to the house. Men wearing uniforms. They brought chocolate bars and nylons and Lucky Strike cigarettes, and they had names like animals and gnats: Buck, Mij, and Bill. When they came, her mother was nice to her, nicer than she'd ever been, and Meg was glad the men with funny names were around. The house was always filled with smoke and the smell of food cooking, and Buck and Mij taught me how to play card games. Her mother laughed a lot and called Meg "darling." The men said her mother was too young-looking to have such a big daughter, and Meg said, "Well, you should see Evelyn," indicating with her hand how tall her sister was. And then her mother was mad and told Meg to run along and play.

One day, the soldier came during the week, when her father was away. Meg didn't like him as much as she liked the other soldiers. He was always giving her money and telling her to go and buy herself some candies. Her mother said candies were sweets, but he was stupid because there were no sweets to buy. He didn't seem to remember about rationing and shortages. One day, when she came home from school, she found the soldier standing close to her mother with his hand on her arm, and she knew for sure she really didn't like him. He pounced on her and swung her up in the air, and she could smell a sort of sweet, familiar smell as her face passed his, a sort of mother smell, and she wanted to cry. He sat her down again. "Hey, hun, run down to the store and get me some matches," he pulled some change from his pocket. "We have matches." Meg went into the kitchen and brought the box that was always kept by the stove. Then she sat on the piano bench and swung her legs. The soldier and her mother sat and looked at each other, and the room felt funny, all hot and clammy, but her mother suddenly wasn't mad anymore. She came over and put her arm around Meg. "Want to hear her sing?" her mother asked the soldier. "She sings like an angel." Meg looked up at her mother and saw how pink her face was and how pretty she looked, prettier than any other mother on the street. "Sure," Meg knew he didn't really want to hear her sing. Her mother made her get up from the piano bench and sit down, and then turn the pages of the songbook to the one with "Beautiful Dreamer." Meg liked "Beautiful Dreamer," and she knew she could sing it well. "Beautiful dreamer, hark unto me." He stood over the piano and stared at her mother. She made her sit down beside her, and instead of looking at the soldier, she looked at her, and Meg saw that her mother loved her at that moment. The soldier was there some days when she came home from school, but when he tried to get her to go out to buy him things or even bribed her with the money her mother gave her, a look that said "don't go," and it was as though they were playing a game together.

One day, when she came home from school, there was nobody there in the house except her mother, and her eyes were red, and she was walking around the kitchen as though she she wasn't sure where she really wanted to be. "Isn't he coming?" Meg asked. "No," she grabbed me by the shoulders. "I don't want you mentioning his name. He's not ever coming again."

That night, there was a terrible air, and the floor shook underneath them. Her mother unhooked the side of the table and ran to the window. When she lifted the blind, Meg could see the entire street lit up, lights flaring and dying, just like at Halloween. Her mother came back under the table. Large tears were trickling down her face, but no sound was coming from her. Instead of fussing and talking as she usually did, she said nothing. Rather than hugging Meg, she held her arms across her body and rocked back and forward, shivering. Meg tucked the blanket around her mother, but she didn't notice and kept on rocking. Meg felt her own tears flowing, and because she hadn't brought a hanky under the table with her, she had to rub her nose on a school jersey.

"Are we going to die then?" Meg asked finally. Her mother stopped rocking and stared at her. She smiled suddenly and put an arm around her, pulling her close. "No, darling, we're not going to die. We're going to the country, to Daddy." "To the country? What about Granny?" She kissed Meg's forehead. "Granny will be all right. What if Granny sleeps on and doesn't hear the air raid siren?" "Nobody would bomb Granny, darling. Nobody would dare, would they?" Meg stared at her mother. "We could take her to the country too, couldn't we?" But she saw her mother wasn't thinking about Granny Dunn anymore.

And then it was over. The long, shrill scream of the all-clear sirens told them the bombers had gone home, and her mother was unhooking the sides of the table. Meg wished suddenly that, like Sammy the budgie in his cage, they could stay forever under the table, safe and sound. Her mother held her hand as she walked her upstairs to bed. "Anyway, Granny has a gate. She'll be all right behind the gate," Meg said brightly, looking up at her mother, but her mother had a far-away look on her face and didn't answer.

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