Author: Janet Gover
Date: 2012-06-23T23:00:00+00:00
Description: Published Short Stories by Janet Gover, as featured on her web site http://janetgover.com

Also by Janet Gover

Published by Little Black Dress

The Farmer Needs a Wife

The Bachelor and Spinster Ball

Girl Racers

Fairy Kiss and other stories

Janet Gover

Hogo Publishing

Copyright © 2012 Janet Gover

The right of Janet Gover to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

"The Brown Pony" first published as "Where The Heart Is" by The People's Friend, June 2002.

"A Bush Christmas" first published as "Let Nothing You Dismay" by The People's Friend, December 2002.

"Don't Stop the Music" first published by The People's Friend, April 2003.

“Fairy Godmothers Need Not Apply” first published as 'Do You believe in Fairy Tales?' in The People's Friend, November 2007.

“Fairy Kiss” first published as 'Do You Believe In Fairies?' in The People's Friend, April 2008.

"Genesis II" first published as 'A Heavenly Child' by My Weekly, March 2010.

“The Homecoming” first published in Your Cat, March 2010.

"Homeward Bound" first published as 'Close Encounters' by The People's Friend, September 2008.

"House Rules" first published as "Pot Luck" by My Weekly Magazine, July 2003.

"The Last Dragon" first published as "Home of the Dragon" by My Weekly Magazine, July 2002.

"New Beginnings" first published in Yours Magazine Fiction Special, January 2004.

"The Reunion Concert" first published by The People's Friend, April 2002.

"The Romance Writer" first published as 'My Hero' by People's Friend, April 2007.

"Snapshot in Time" first published as 'To Love and To Cherish' by The People's Friend, February 2004.

"'Tis The Season" first published by The People's Friend, December 2003.

Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

First published as an Ebook by Hogo Publishing in 2012

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cover photography: John Hocking

Cover design: John Hocking
www.janetgover.com

Contents

1. Contents
2. Introduction
3. Fairy Kiss
4. The Homecoming
5. Fairy Godmothers Need Not Apply
6. The Brown Pony
7. Homeward Bound
8. A Song in His Heart
9. A Bush Christmas
10. House Rules
11. The Reunion Concert
12. New Beginnings
13. The Last Dragon
14. The Romance Writer
15. 'Tis The Season
16. Genesis II
17. Snapshot in Time
18. About the Author

Introduction

They had good reason to be proud, and better reason to be afraid…

My love of short stories started with those words. It is the opening line of The Maltese Cat, a story by Rudyard Kipling. For those who haven't read it, the Cat is a flea-bitten grey polo pony, and the story tells of his last and greatest game.  As a pony-mad girl of about ten, it captivated me.

From there it was just a short leap to more Kipling, then other short stories. I revelled in the sci fi masters – Asimov, Clark and Bradbury. Edgar Allen Poe's short stories left me quaking with fear – afraid to turn out the light.

Why short stories? I read novels too, but short stories have a special magic. Have you ever come out of a movie and listened to people talking… You hear them say 'my favourite bit was…"  That's what a short story is. It's the best part of the movie. The chapter of a book that makes you cry. The few bars of a song that make your heart soar.

When I decided to have a go at writing short stories, I discovered how hard it really is. I had to create a world, characters and a plot in just a couple of thousand words. How could I hope to touch a reader in just a few pages?

I decided I was heading in the right direction when I got a letter from a reader who said my story made her cry. I wonder if she realised how a great a compliment that was.

These stories cover a period of almost ten years. All were published in magazines in the UK and elsewhere. Every single one of them taught me something about my craft – and about myself.

I hope you enjoy them

Janet Gover

New York City, 2012.

Fairy Kiss

The queue for the pizza stall was endless; at least that's how it felt to Ryan. It also wasn't moving. He had been standing in the same spot for what seemed like hours, as people pushed their way past him, moving down the hill towards the stage. He was hungry. He was hot. And he wanted to be anywhere in the world except at this stupid music festival.

Ryan loved music. The right sort of music. Something that involved loud guitars and t-shirts with skulls on them. When his parents had said they were all going to a festival - Ryan had indulged in exciting fantasies of Glastonbury and bands whose music he tried to coax from his own electric guitar. Instead they dragged him to a Folk Festival to listen to aging hippie bands. With all of his heart, Ryan hoped none of his school friends ever found out. He would just die of embarrassment.

Ryan shuffled forward a few inches as some lucky person in front of him was handed their lunch and moved off into the crowd seated on the hillside. The food queue moved again as a large man with a bright tie-dyed t-shirt and a long grey pony tail pushed apologetically past. That's when the fairy appeared.

She had long blonde hair and the bluest eyes Ryan had ever seen. Her lips were the colour of rose petals. She smiled and reached out to gently flick Ryan's hair with her long slim fingers. Ryan blinked and she vanished.

He spun around searching for her. Forgetting his hunger and the time he'd been waiting, Ryan stepped out of the queue and pushed into the crowd.

For one second he thought he saw a flash of shiny blonde hair just a few yards ahead of him. But when he got there, it was gone.

She was gone.

Ryan glanced back up the hill. He didn't have the heart to rejoin the pizza queue, but he still wanted lunch. The nearest food stall didn't have a queue. That was no surprise to Ryan - the stall sold vegetarian food. Still, he supposed that just this once it probably wouldn't kill him.

Ignoring his parents teasing about his choice for lunch, Ryan spent the rest of the afternoon looking at the crowd, rather than the stage. He finally decided he must have imagined her. He was thirteen years old and did not believe in fairies. It must have been the sun doing strange things to his head. It was certainly doing strange things to his parents, who were singing and dancing in a manner that made him want to cringe.

Time he was elsewhere.

The sun was low in the west, turning the sky shades of pale pink and purple. The giant spotlights around the festival site created shadows of an even deeper purple under the trees. Ryan wandered through the crowd, his eyes constantly moving from side to side. He found himself back at the pizza stand.

He still wanted that pizza, and this time the queue was shorter. Ryan was digging in his jeans pockets to see if he had enough money, when someone tapped him on the shoulder.

She was standing behind him, that same smile lighting her face.

She was definitely a fairy. Her wings glowed faintly in the evening light. Her dress looked like it was made of liquid silver and fell in ragged shapes to just below her knees. Her feet were bare and floated a couple of inches above the trampled grass.

Above the grass?

Ryan did a double take, looking back to her feet, then up into those brilliant blue eyes. The fairy laughed mischievously, then reached out to flick his hair again.

"Sorry. Excuse me." A woman carrying two plates of food pushed in front of him. Peter quickly stepped around her - but the fairy was gone.

Peter forgot all about pizza. He darted through the crowd, searching for a flash of silver and trying to convince himself that her feet had not been hovering above the ground.

He didn't succeed at either task.

At midnight, the last band of the day played the last song of the day, and slowly the arena began to clear. Tired and happy people moved towards their tents and camper vans. Ryan hung around near the pizza stall. As the pizza man closed up for the night, he gave Ryan the last slice. Free. Ryan hardly tasted it. At last, he turned towards the exit to the camping ground. His parents would be starting to wonder where he was. As he walked out, he resisted the urge to look over his shoulder one last time.

yan's father was sitting in a folding chair outside their big family tent. He had a cup of coffee in his hand.

"Hi, Dad." Ryan dropped into the chair next to him.

"Hi. Having fun?"

"Where's Mum?" Ryan asked.

"Toilets."

The toilet block was at the far end of the camp ground. His mother would be gone for a while.

"Dad, do you believe..?" Ryan hesitated, not quite sure how to explain.

"Believe in what?"

"Well. I dunno... Magic maybe?"

"What sort of magic?"

"Fairies." There. He had said it. Ryan waited for his father to laugh at him.

Ryan's dad took a deep sip of coffee. "Tell me about her."

"She's beautiful," Ryan said. "She has blue eyes. She's been teasing me all day. Just appearing and vanishing again." He stopped short of any mention of feet hovering inches above the grass. He wasn't ready to talk about that, even to his father.

"Put a spell on you has she?"

Ryan glanced sideways, to see if his father was making fun of him. "Maybe."

"The same thing happened to me when I was about your age."

Surprise left Ryan speechless.

"She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen." Ryan's father spoke softly, almost as if he had forgotten his son was there. "Her eyes were blue too. Her hair was long and as black as night. When she laughed, it was like bluebells ringing in the forest. I knew the moment I saw her that I would love her for the rest of my life."

"Wow." It was almost more than Ryan could believe of his staid and unexciting father. "So what happened, Dad? Did you ever see her again?"

"Yes, I did. I kept looking until I found her."

"And..."

Ryan's father looked out across the camping field. Ryan followed his gaze and spotted his mother walking back towards the tent.

The older man smiled. "I married her."

Ryan told himself he didn't expect to see the fairy again the next day. She wasn't real. But that didn't stop him spinning around every time he caught a glimpse of white from the corner of his eye.

At last, annoyed with himself, he pushed his way through the crowd to the front of the stage and stared up at the band, his mind still a million miles away from the music. But gradually, the rhythm and the notes seeped into his brain and he found he was swaying in time to the tune. He looked at the guitarist. The guy had long grey hair. He was decidedly middle aged and was wearing a tie dyed t-shirt. But his fingers danced along the guitar neck. He was no Jimi Hendrix - but he was good!

Ryan realised the guitarist was looking straight at him. Their eyes met and the musician winked broadly. Ryan barely had time to wonder why, when he felt a gentle warm caress on the back of his neck. He spun around to look once more into those brilliant blue eyes. The fairy pursed her lips and blew another soft breath towards Ryan, lifting his blonde hair. Then she stepped back and the crowd closed around her.

Ignoring the annoyed exclamations of the people near him, Ryan pushed his way through the crowd after her. A couple of times, he caught a glimpse of blonde hair or silver wings ahead of him. Once he thought he heard her laugh. But when he emerged at the edge of the crowd, she was no where to be seen.

Ryan kicked at an inoffensive tuft of grass, and started walking up the hill. Without thinking, his feet turned towards the pizza queue where he had first seen her. He was almost there when he caught a flash of silver and white. He darted forward - then halted in something resembling horror.

About a dozen fairy costumes hung at the front of the stall, alongside batik skirts and hand knitted caps. Fairy costumes just like the one his fairy wore. Some of them were white with silver tinsel around the wings.

She wasn't a fairy. She was just a girl in a silly costume!

A dark cloud of disappointment settled around Ryan's shoulders. He turned away from the stall and wandered back through the crowd.

Stupid girl! Pretending to be a fairy. Everyone knew that fairies weren't real.

But her feet had been hovering a few inches above the ground. No, Ryan told himself. He just imagined they were.

Ryan spent the rest of the afternoon wandering miserably through the crowd, trying not to look for a flash of blonde hair. This had to be the worst day of his life. For a few hours he had believed in magic. He was a fool!

Dusk came, and with it the final band of the festival. All over the hillside, candles and flares blossomed as five thousand voices joined the band in the final songs. Somewhere his parents would be singing along, but Ryan didn't want to join them. His father might ask about the fairy, and Ryan didn't want to admit how wrong he had been. He turned his back on the stage and began climbing the hill towards the exit.

He was almost at the gate, when someone tapped his shoulder.

He turned around and there she was, the girl about his own age, with the blue eyes, blonde hair and a fairy costume. She smiled, then leaned forward and kissed him.

The music faded and the crowds dissolved into nothingness. Her skin smelled like flowers. Her lips were soft and warm and tasted like... They tasted like... a kiss. Ryan closed his eyes as her fingertips brushed his cheek and a few seconds stretched forever. When he opened his eyes she was gone, leaving only the echoes of a laugh that sounded like bluebells in the forest.

Ryan didn't try to follow. He knew he wouldn't find her. Instead, he walked back to the tent, and climbed into his sleeping bag. He heard his parents come back, laughing and singing. He kept his eyes closed, pretending to be asleep and holding fast to a touch of magic.

His parents were up with the birds, breaking down their camp and packing the car for the return to normality. Ryan dragged himself out of the tent and set off for the toilets. All around him, other campers were following his parents' example. Within a few hours, the campsite would be empty. The cows would return and the magic, if there had been any, would be gone.

The blast of a car horn startled him from his thoughts. He stepped aside to make way for a battered old camper van. As it passed he saw a line of festival stickers along the side window. Some were too faded to read and the newest was still bright with colour. As he looked, the window slid open and a girl leaned out the window. A girl with long blonde hair and a smile that seemed brighter than the morning sun. She touched her slender fingers to lips like rose petals, and blew a kiss his way. Ryan thought he felt a soft caress of breath tease the hair on his forehead.

The battered old van carried her away.

Ryan returned to his parents. As they scrambled into the car, his father asked if he had enjoyed the festival.

"It was OK," Ryan replied, his mind elsewhere.

"If you didn't enjoy it, you don't have to come next year," his father said.

Ryan looked across the field, where a battered camper van was pulling though the gate and onto the road. He remembered the line of stickers on the window. Festival stickers. One for each year.

"I think I'd like to come again," he said.

Every year we go to the village of Cropredy in Oxfordshire for Fairport Convention’s music festival. It’s three days of good music, good fellowship, food and beer – and never gets as muddy as Glastonbury.

There is a special atmosphere in these smallish (compared to Glastonbury) festivals. It's not quite so hectic and there is more time to enjoy what's going on around you.

One year, I saw a young girl in a fairy costume dart through the crowd to kiss a startled boy on the cheek. That is magic.

The Homecoming

Bec O'Connell had forgotten the silence. How good it was. She closed her eyes and listened. Really listened. Nothing.

She took a deep breath. The crisp morning air tasted faintly of eucalyptus leaves, still damp with dew. It wouldn't take long for the sun to burn that away, leaving behind the taste of red dust and dry earth. The taste of the Australian outback. The taste of home. In the distance, a kookaburra laughed to welcome the day. To welcome Bec back to Farwell Creek.

She walked out into the silent street, drinking in the familiar sights. At the far end of the tiny town was the one teacher school where she and her friends had learned so much, and somehow acquired an education at the same time. At the other end was the pub, with its long bar and slow moving fans. In between was the shop, half a dozen houses, the post office where Bec had grown up and the stock feed store that had been her second home. Nothing had changed.

Well - one thing had.

Bec felt tears prick the back of her eyes as she looked at the sign above the feed store. K. and B. Braxton, props. They had been more than simply her best friend's parents. Kevin Braxton had filled the gap left by the father Bec had never known. The Braxtons had treated Bec like a second daughter. And now they were gone. After leaving college, Hailey had come home, but Bec had stayed in the city to work. She'd often thought about going home. But not like this. Not to help Hailey say goodbye to her parents.

At the store's side door, she stood on her toes to reach the key that was kept above the doorframe. The whole town knew it was there, but not once had anyone misused it.

Bec stepped inside the huge shed. As children, she and Hailey had spent endless hours playing among the hay bales and bags of feed, under Kevin Braxton's watchful eyes. Bec found the light switch.

"Cat! Where are you?"

Her voice echoed around the huge shed, but there was no answer. That was strange. Cat should be looking for his breakfast. Hailey still couldn't face being in the store, so Bec had volunteered to feed Cat, a black and white stray they'd adopted years ago, and named after the stray in Breakfast at Tiffany's.

"Cat!" Bec called again.

Still no answering meow.

In the store's office, the empty cat food bowls were where they had always been.

"Cat, where are you?"

Bec opened the small fridge. She found the open cat food can, and banged loudly on it with the spoon. That always worked.

It didn't.

Bec was starting to worry a little, when she heard the first human sound of the day. As the car door slammed, she wondered who else would about so early.

Cat walked in through the open door, his tail arched over his back, his green eyes blinking at her. He walked slowly past, rubbing his long lean body against the leg of her jeans and then sauntered to his food bowl.

"Well, hello to you too," Bec said. "Where have you been?"

"With me."

That was another thing she had forgotten. How tall Nick Price was. He seemed to fill the doorway.

"Hi," she said.

"Welcome home." He didn't move to hug her. Things between them had changed when she left for the big smoke.

"Cat was with you?" she asked.

"He must have jumped into the cab of the ute yesterday. I didn't see him until I got home." Nick lived and worked on his parent's cattle stud a short distance outside the town. "I spent most of the night fighting with him for some bed space."

Bec could guess who had won the fight. Nick was big and as tough as a stockman had to be, but he had a gentler side. No-one knew that better than she.

Cat had finished his breakfast. He sauntered nonchalantly up to Bec and sat looking up at her, expectantly. She bent over to scratch the top of his head.

"He missed you when you left," Nick said. His voice was very soft.

"Did he?" Bec kept scratching Cat's head.

"Yes. He did."

They weren't talking about Cat any more.

"I guess I missed him too," Bec admitted.

The big moggie slowly stretched then walked to a pile of empty hessian chaff bags. He leaped onto the pile, slowly turned in a circle then settled himself comfortably. He looked up at Bec again, his green eyes shining in the dim light.

"So, how are things in the city?" Nick asked.

"All right, I guess."

"When are you going back?

"Sunday. I have to get back to work." She didn't really. She hated her job. She didn't like the city much either. But there wasn't any choice.

Nick crossed to the pile of chaff bags. He stood stroking Cat, his back to Bec. "You could stay."

"But what would I do? There aren't any more jobs now than three years ago."

"I think Hailey would like to keep this place."

"Keep it?" Bec looked around her, and the piles of hay and cattle feed supplements, the farming tools and stockman's gear. "There's too much work. She'll never be able to do it alone. She'll need some..." Her voice trailed off.

"Yes. She will." Nick turned to look at her.

From his nest on the chaff bags, Cat looked up at her too. He gave a short sharp meow.

Nick smiled. "See, even Cat thinks it's a good idea."

"Well... if Cat thinks it's a good idea..." she said.

Nick nodded. "I think he does."

"Then who am I to say no."

Bec felt as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Until this very moment, she hadn't realised how very much she wanted to come home.

"Let's go and talk to Hailey," Nick said.

As they pulled the door shut behind them, the interior of the feed store grew dim again. All was silence, except for the sound of a cat purring.

Most writers will tell you there is one book which is special to them – for me it is my second novel – The Bachelor and Spinster Ball. In that book, I tried to capture something of the life I lived growing up in a small Australian town.

This story serves as a prologue to that book. It was written after the novel was finished, but is set a few months before the beginning of the book.

When I re-read this story while making this e-book – I cried. Personally, I blame the cat.

Fairy Godmothers Need Not Apply

The fine stiletto heel tapped smartly as Charles placed the shoe on the polished wood desk. His mother donned her reading glasses for a few moments of close examination.

"Jimmy Choo. Very nice."

"Mother!"

"Well, what do you expect me to say?" With an exasperated sigh, she leaned back in her chair and looked up at her son. "I could say I told you so, but that wouldn't help."

"No, it wouldn't." Charles dropped into the chair opposite his mother's desk and sighed. "I still don't believe you."

"I know. Tell me about the girl?"

"She's beautiful." Charles smiled gently as he remembered. "Dark hair and grey eyes. She's funny and intelligent. And when she smiles..."

"But you don’t know her name." It wasn't a question.

"No, Mother. I don't know her name. Or where she lives. Or works."

"The shoe?"

"The alarm on her mobile phone sounded and she just took off." Charles paused. This wouldn't sound good. "I tried to follow her, but the club was pretty crowded. She was gone by the time I got to the door. Yes, it was midnight. And yes, the shoe was on the steps."

His mother refrained from the obvious comments. "You could just forget about her," she said.

But he couldn't. Charles put the shoe in his closet and tried. He went to other parties. He met other women. But every time he looked at the shoe and the glittering crystal on the toe, her face and her smile came back to haunt him. Something had happened to him when he saw her face across the crowded club. He had to find her.

That didn't mean he believed his mother's ridiculous story. His family were not the descendants of fairy tale characters. Each generation was not destined to live the stories over and over again. He would admit that some of his relative found their loves in... unusual fashions. And yes, his father had woken his mother from a long sleep - but that was a coma after an accident, not a fairy tale. He certainly wasn't going to act out some children's story.

But he had to find the girl.

The decision taken, he pulled the shoe from his cupboard and studied it closely. He could hardly wander around London asking every girl he met to try on the shoe. That would take years. There had to be a better way.

His sister was talking on the phone in the library when he found her. She was wearing a short black skirt and a silk blouse in her trademark brilliant red, with matching fingernail polish. With her love of fashion, she would know about shoes. He waited patiently as she finished the call."

"That was Gran," she said as she dropped the phone back in its cradle. "She's not feeling well. I might go and see her this weekend. "

"Sis," Charles held out the shoe. "What can you tell me about this?"

Stifling a giggle, she examined the offered item. "Satin Jimmy Choo shoe with Swarovski crystal. Very expensive. Barely worn. It looks like this season's design. What's this all about Big Brother?"

"I want to find the girl who wore it." He braced himself for a withering response.

"It's about time!"

"Please, Sis. Don't you start. Mother's bad enough."

"That's because you don't believe her."

"And you do?"

"Well..."

Charles took the shoe and left. He didn't believe in, or need, a fairy godmother. He would do what a sensible man should.

Google returned two million results for Jimmy Choo, but the web site he was looking for was right at the top of the list. The shoe was, as his sister had said, this season's design and very very expensive. That helped a little. There couldn't be that many girls who would or could pay more than £600 for a pair of shoes, no matter how elegant. Nor were there many places to buy them

Charles kept a careful lookout as he wandered through the designer clothing department at Harrods. She could be here, shopping. He might just bump into her. The mere thought would have made his palms sweaty - if nerves hadn't already done it.

"Sir?"

"I was wondering if you could help me." He took to shoe out of the carry bag and placed it in front of the sales assistant.

"Ah, yes," she said almost reverently. "Jimmy Choo. Fresco, with hand made jewel. A lovely shoe. We do carry the design. Were you looking to purchase a pair?"

"No. I need to know if this shoe was bought here."

"Sir?"

Charles stifled a sigh. This wasn't going to be easy. He had no false modesty. He knew he was good looking. Perhaps if he turned on some charm...

The sales assistant listened to his explanation. "No. I'm sorry Sir, but I cannot divulge any customer information."

"Please," he begged. "I really want to find this girl."

"I am sorry." She looked it too. "I wish I could help, but I can't."

Charles set out for the next store on his list.

His feet were aching by the time he got to New Bond Street. This was his last chance, but he already knew the answer. No amount of charm was going to convince these shop assistants to tell him anything about their customers. He'd ask one more time, then go home and beg his mother for help. He had to find her!

The boutique manager gave Charles a long appreciative look as he walked in the door, then hurried over.

"Good afternoon," he said, smiling. "How can I help you?"

Charles produced the Jimmy Choo.

"Oh, isn't it just fabulous," the manager enthused as he caressed the shoe. "I love the jewels. But, you've only got one..."

"I know. It's a long story." Charles said.

"I love a good story. Do tell."

Charles told. As he finished the description of his long day in ladies shoe shops, the manager flicked an imaginary tear from his eye.

"That's such a story. A fairy tale," he said. "Now you just wait right here." He vanished though a door at the back of the store.

Charles waited, not quite daring to hope.

The door opened, and something hit Charles so hard, he thought he might die. Even without the fancy gown and the jewelled shoes, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She smiled, and his whole world changed. He couldn't speak. It was enough just to watch her walk towards him, graceful as a deer even dressed as she was in slacks and a plain white shirt.

Dressed...

"You work here!" Not the most romantic words he could have spoken.

"Yes. I'm studying art design at college. This job pays the bills."

"I thought... I've been looking for a rich... All those stores."

"I know." She chuckled, a warm low sound that curled gently around his heart. "Jason told me." She indicated the store manager, who was watching them a very satisfied grin on his face. "He loaned me the shoes for a special night out on my birthday."

"I see. Was he upset when you lost one?"

"Not really. But I felt terrible. They're so expensive, and I certainly couldn't afford to pay for it."

"Why did you leave the club in such a hurry?" He had to ask.

"A friend 'borrowed' the dress for me. I had to get it back before she got into trouble." She paused, then looked up at him with her lovely grey eyes. "I thought I'd never see you again."

"Nothing could keep me from finding you."

She was lovely when she blushed.

"My name is Cindy," she said softly.

He reached for her hand, and raised it to his lips. "I know."

I do a bit of work at Pinewood movie studios, and regularly walk past a display case containing the shoe from the 1976 movie ‘The Slipper and the Rose’ which starred Richard Chamberlain.

The shoe is spectacular – it glitters with gems. It's every little girl's Cinderella fantasy. It also looks extremely uncomfortable. Not that comfort matters a hoot in a fairy tale…

One day, I asked myself how the Prince would ever find Cinderella in modern London…

The Brown Pony

"Ladies and Gentlemen, a big round of applause please, for the under 13 years Girl Riders, now circling the ring. Leading the group is the winner, Joanne Harper, on her pony Sunbeam. Second is..."

From her seat in the rickety wooden grandstand, Carol watched the winner trot very sedately around the arena. Once safely through the gate, Joanne Harper's control vanished. She flung herself to the ground and wrapped her arms around her pony's neck. A smiling woman, her mother, received a quick hug too, but the pony got most of the little girl's kisses, because the pony was the best thing in the whole world! Carol knew, because a long time ago, she was that girl with pigtails.

How many years was it? Carol didn't even want to think about it. She took a deep breath, inhaling the heat and the dust. The taste of the Australian bush. She hadn't realised just how much she missed it, until she stepped off the plane last week.

Carol turned and wandered away from the arena. Her eyes moved slowly from side to side, drinking in the familiar sights of her childhood.

Tall gum trees shaded the broad shallow bowl that held the town showground. Each year, the whole district gathered here for the Agricultural and Pastoral Show, a five-day celebration of everything county.

Kids and ponies shared the main arena with competitors riding thoroughbreds. Nearby, livestock breeders paraded their cattle and sheep under the critical eye of the judges. Competition was fierce. A win here was money in the bank when sale time came.

In the far corner, the farm machinery display was a gleaming row of red and yellow giants. Walking among the machines, envious farmers mentally turned half grown crops into dollars and cents, while salesman smiled in anticipation of their commission.

The newly painted wooden halls to the left held the proud handy-work of the Country Women's Association. Cooking. Sewing. Home grown vegetables. Common, useful things, given that extra magic this one time of the year, when friendly rivalry raged. Carol knew that some of the winners would be familiar to her. Her mother's friends, or perhaps old school mates of her own.

A collection of sideshow rides attracted most of the younger patrons. Wide-eyed with anticipation, they queued for the thrill of sheer terror. The rides didn't look so scary to Carol now, but her childish heart had pounded as she approached the ticket booth.

Along the dusty pathways between the exhibits strolled the people. Tall weather beaten men in elastic sided boots and broad brimmed hats walked beside smiling woman with work toughened hands. Wide-eyed town dwellers drank in the sights and smells of the countryside, while children bubbled over with excitement and energy. Old friendships were renewed and new ones made. The show was a major community event, an annual re-affirmation of everything that was important.

Days just like this loomed large in Carol's childhood memories. How many hot chips had she eaten at those horrid food vans? How good they had tasted. She was sorely tempted... Well, why not? Before she could change her mind, Carol reached for her purse.

Perched back on the grandstand, Carol ate the chips, as another group of young riders entered the ring seated astride a motley collection of ponies, all gleaming in the early summer sun. She had seen ponies of bluer blood and longer pedigrees. But never had she seen ponies more loved, nor more proudly presented than those in front of her.

How many times had she and her pony circled this very ring? Where were the ribbons she had won, all those years ago? Carol had a sneaking suspicion her mother would have them carefully stored with all the other precious memories.

Carol left the grandstand, tossing the empty chip packet in a bin. Wherever she walked, more memories waited, so strong she could almost taste them, despite the ten long years since she last visited her home town.

She wouldn't be here now, but for her father's heart attack.

Four days ago, a late night phone call had sent her racing to the airport and a long intercontinental flight to her father's side. Although the doctors said he would recover, his appearance had shocked her. He looked so old. And when did her mother's hair turn so grey? With a shock, she realised it was more than two years since she had last seen them. She didn't remember them as old.

If they were... what did that make her? Forty wasn't old. Not even middle aged. She'd done all right for a girl from such a small country backwater. Travelled the world. Seen and done things most people only dreamed about. She was OK. Wasn't she?

Carol stopped walking. She didn't like the direction her thoughts were taking. Perhaps coming to the show had been a mistake. She looked around. Where was the exit?

Instead of a gate, her eyes stopped at the brown pony. He was standing in the inadequate shade of a tree, his back sagging under his saddle. His head hung listlessly, dull eyes almost closed against the sun's glare. He was too tired even to chase away the annoying flies that buzzed around his face. Nailed to the tree was a sign that said "Pony Rides - $1:00".

He was saddest thing Carol had ever seen.

No longer the pride of some little girl's heart, this old pony had been tossed on the equine scrap heap. Carol reached out one hand to straighten his matted forelock, and stroke his dull, dusty coat. This was the last stop in a pony's career. Too old for anything else, he would spend a few years being lead backwards and forwards in school fetes and country shows. After that? The knacker's yard probably.

Carol knelt and looked deep into the pony's big dark brown eyes. Did he know how far he had fallen? Tears filled her eyes.

"As I remember, Carol, you had a brown pony like that once. What was he called?"

"Mr Mischief - but I called him Spud." So lost was Carol in her memories, the answer came without a moment's thought. Quickly brushing away the tears, she rose and turned to face a tall smiling man. The twinkling blue eyes in the sun-browned face were unmistakable. "Tony Martin."

"Carol Waters. It's been a long time."

"Yes. Yes, it has." She was unaccountable pleased to see a face from the past.

The gangly youth she remembered hadn't been handsome, but time had been good to him. The years and the strong Australian sun had given his face a strength and maturity that was very attractive. The blue eyes hadn't lost their humour. The teenager's shyness was long gone. The man looked at her in open appraisal.

He hadn't looked at her that way all those years ago, but now his scrutiny made her feel like a schoolgirl. She knew she looked good in the blue jeans and checked shirt she was wearing, but was almost embarrassed that her clothes were expensive designer variations on the work clothes Tony wore.

"I heard about your father. How is he?" Real concern coloured Tony's voice.

"Fine, thank you. He'll be out of hospital in a few days. The doctors say he should make a good recovery." Of course, Tony would know about her father's heart attack. Everyone knew everything about everybody else in this small community. Years ago, that had annoyed her. Now, it didn't seem so bad.

"It's good to see you again, even if it wasn't the best way to come home."

"Thanks. It's good to be ... home." Was it home? Carol wasn't certain.

"I had best...."

"Would you like..."

The words tumbled over each other, and both started to laugh. Carol gestured for Tony to speak first.

"I was going to suggest a cold drink. Maybe something to eat, if you're hungry. I'd like to catch up."

"I've already had some chips, and they were truly horrid." Carol smiled as she spoke. "But a cold drink would be nice." So would his company, she thought.

Tony bought two cold beers at a nearby bar. They settled themselves atop the old wooden grandstand, and raised their drinks in salute.

"You know, I'm sure it tasted better when we were young and not allowed to drink it."

"You were the wild one, Carol." Tony smiled as he said it. "Always so determined to go away, and you did."

"I saw it as an escape." It was almost a confession, but Tony's eyes were alight with interest, so she continued. "I had to see the rest of the world. I felt like this place would suffocate me. There was nothing here I wanted."

"You still look pretty much at home here - for a jetsetting financial consultant." He smiled as she raised a questioning eyebrow. "Your mother kept me up to date. And your Dad was so proud. He made sure we all knew that his little girl was treading the corridors of corporate power. They did miss you though."

"I missed them." She meant it. At first, she'd come back every year. But as her career flourished, she paid for her parents to visit her instead. For the first time, Carol wondered if they had really enjoyed visiting London and New York. Had they come just to see her, because she never found time to come back?

"That's enough about me." The conversation wasn't helping settle the errant thoughts that had plagued her since the call had brought her back to her old home town. "Tell me what's been happening here."

Tony obliged, with a witty, yet insightful description of the town as it now was, still a farming community, but grown since she last lived here. "Not too big," he laughingly assured her. "But there's a movie theatre now. More shops. And they built an agricultural college."

The college had invigorated the community. "Times haven't been good for the farmers," he added in a thoughtful tone. "The last couple of years have been pretty good, but before that, we had the long drought. Quite a few of the old family farms were sold. No... not mine," he hastened to assure her. "But some. Your financial skills would be a big help to the people here."

The words were casually spoken, but they raised an issue that Carol had been trying to avoid.

"So, what about yourself Tony." She wasn't just trying to change the subject. Carol really was curious about what life had handed to this familiar stranger at her side.

"There's not much to say, I took over the farm when Dad died."

Carol nodded. In one of her frequent letters, her mother had mentioned the accident. "You're married." Her mother had mentioned that too.

"I was."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to..."

"No. It's all right," he hastened to assure her. "She was a nice woman, certain that this was the only place she wanted to be. She didn't want to see the rest of the world, she thought everything she wanted was here." Carol heard her own words echoed back at her. "She was wrong."

She was wrong, too. Carol heard the one extra word that Tony didn't have to say aloud.

"We have a daughter, Helen. She spends most of her time with me; she and her mother aren't very close. She's a great kid." Pride shone on his face. "She's almost finished at school, and wants to go to the agricultural college. I think she's more like me than even I will admit."

Carol looked at the face of the man she knew as a boy, who was now a father. "If that's the case, I'd probably like her." She spoke without thinking. Tony's smile changed, and Carol realised that he might read more in her words than she intended. "Where did they build the college?" She continued quickly, clutching at the first non-personal topic that came to mind.

"Out near the reservoir ... " Tony graciously followed her lead.

Their conversation ranged widely - old friends, places Carol had visited, books, politics, economics. The sun moved slowly in its arc across the searing blue sky, as Carol enjoyed re-discovering an old friendship, with perhaps the tentative suggestion of something more.

Carol watched Tony's face as he talked. A week ago, she would have described the people of this town as hicks - nice, but uninteresting. Country folk, with limited outlook and awareness of their world.

Tony Martin was nothing like that. Intelligent, aware and educated, he was no less interesting than any of the high-flying executives she occasionally dated. Perhaps more so. Most of the men Carol knew cared only about money, but the core of Tony Martin's world was his abiding love of the land, and its people. Far from making him a hick, that gave him an integrity that other men lacked. Perhaps the richness of the land was reflected in the people who were part of it.

An unfamiliar contentment settled around Carol's shoulders. Of all the places in the world, this was the one she had struggled hardest to leave. The same restlessness had driven her from place to place in all the years since. Now she was back, and for the first time in many years, she had no desire to be anywhere else but where she was - in this country town, sharing a joke with the tall man by her side.

The sun was low on the horizon, when the last class of ponies trotted from the show ring. Still Carol and Tony Martin talked, until gradually the failing light drew them out of their private world.

"I must go. Dad is expecting me at the hospital."

"Of course." Tony held out a hand to help her climb down from their perch. "Give him my best wishes."

"I will." Carol let go of Tony's hand as soon as her feet were safely on the ground. It would have been too easy just to keep holding it.

They were nearly at the gate, when Carol spotted the pony rides sign. The brown pony was still there, his head hanging even lower at the close of a long hot day.

"Poor thing." She murmured almost to herself. "It's sad. He so needs to be rescued."

Carol awoke to the sound of a kookaburra's laughter outside her bedroom window. She opened her eyes and looked around the room, that was hers and yet not hers. She had grown up in this room, but it didn't retain much of her girlish stamp. Her mother had redecorated, turning it into a comfortable and airy guest room.

She stretched luxuriously, and glanced at her watch. She hadn't slept this late in a long time. A few minutes more wouldn't hurt. If she returned to New York, there'd be few chances to sleep in.

Her eyes flashed open. IF she returned to New York? There was no question about her return. Her life was there. Too disturbed now for rest, she took her towel and headed for the shower. Perhaps it was time she called the travel agent, and looked for a flight to New York. Her father would be released from hospital in a few days. Then she had to go.

Of course, she'd see more of her parents in the future. Find more time to come back here. Any thought of moving back permanently was ridiculous. What would she do? She could put her business skills to good use. Helping to save this farming would be a fulfilling job. Better than helping some rich men become even richer. But everyone knows that you can never go back. She could never come back. Could she?

Throwing on jeans and a cotton shirt, Carol headed for the kitchen. Her mother was already busy washing soil from newly picked vegetables. Carol poured a cup of tea from the omnipresent pot near the stove. During the last week, she had weaned herself off strong American coffee, surprised to find how much she really preferred tea. As she sipped, she glanced out the window.

Her jaw dropped open.

"Mum, there's a pony out there."

"Ah, yes. Tony Martin dropped it by earlier. You were still asleep, but he told me not to wake you."

"Why?"

"Well, I suppose he figured you were tired, travelling as much as..."

"No. Not me. The pony. Why did he deliver a pony?"

"He said you would understand. Something about rescuing you - I think that's what he said anyway. "

Carol walked onto the front porch. The pony was very familiar. She had seen him only yesterday. A small sad brown pony that no one loved.

Someone, Tony no doubt, had given the pony a brush since the day before, and he was happily munching his way through a slab of hay. He didn't look quite so sad now. He turned his head to look at Carol, his eyes bright with interest. She reached out a hand, and felt the warm caress of the pony's breath as he nuzzled her, looking for treats.

"Here. Give him these." Her mother came up behind her, carrying a bunch of home grown carrots. Carol took them, smiling as she remembered feeding other carrots to another brown pony.

Carol's mother watched as the latest addition to the family happily crunched her precious carrots. A look of speculation crossed her face. "I invited Tony around for lunch with us. I hope that's OK."

Carol caught her breath. What had he said? Something about rescuing her?

She smiled then, the decision made. You can't go back, but you can come home. Even an old brown pony can make a new start.

"Yes, Mum. That would be great. I'll come and give you a hand in the kitchen. But first, I'd better show my pony his new home."

This is another look back at my childhood in Australia.

I had a brown pony. His name was Dino. He wasn’t smart enough to win prizes at the agricultural show. That would come later with much bigger and better mounts. But I loved Dino more than anything…

There was a boy too, but I can't remember HIS name..

Homeward Bound

"Mum, a spaceship has crashed in the allotments."

Jenny looked up from the litter of bills and bank statements on the table. Eight year old Ben was standing in the doorway quivering with excitement.

"What did you say?"

"I saw a spaceship crash in the allotments."

Jenny ran her hands over her face, forced her attention away from the papers on the table and smiled at her son.

"A spaceship?" she said. "Well, that's exciting. Where is it from?"

"Outer space of course," Ben replied with certainty.

"And is ET on board?" The film was a favourite.

"I don't know. Can I go and find out?

Jenny hesitated. Ben loved playing in the allotments behind their council house, but she didn't like him going there alone.

"Mr Laker is there," Ben said anticipating her.

Jenny nodded slowly. The retired teacher who grew vegetables by the railway line was an old friend.

"All right," she said. "Be home by five o'clock." The last words were lost in the banging of the door.

Jenny sighed and turned back to her struggle with the bills. As an army wife, she was used to coping on her own when Steve was away. But this time it was harder. This time he was in real danger in that far away place. Jenny forced down the dull ache of fear that she had felt every day since her husband's unit was posted to Iraq. She turned her attention back to the papers in front of her. Steve relied on her to look after things, and she wasn't about to let him down.

She was just about done when her son returned.

"Mum, can I have a needle and some cotton?"

"Why?" Jenny asked.

"They're Clangers, and one of them is hurt!"

Now he had her attention.

"Clangers?" Both she and Steve had grown up watching the knitted pink creatures on television. Just before he was deployed, Steve had bought the DVD for Ben. It must be almost worn out now from the number of times it had been played. Jenny wondered if Ben really liked the rather simple TV show - or if the hours spent watching it were more about missing his father. Whatever the reason, he knew the stories by heart and could whistle like a Clanger too.

"In the spaceship," her son explained. "One of them was hurt when the ship crashed. I want to help him."

Jenny nodded, a serious look on here face. "That's very kind of you Ben. All right, let me see what I can find."

Jenny opened the door to the under-stairs cupboard. An old shoe box contained a wide assortment of sewing implements.

"Let's see." She found and some thick black cotton. "Will this do?"

"Mum," Ben's disgust was evident. "Black is no good. It has to be pink!"

"Of course it does. Sorry." Jenny found some wool of the correct colour and her son rushed off.

Jenny made herself finish dealing with the bills before she switched on the computer to check her e-mail. She still found it strange that soldiers were able to e-mail their families even in the middle of a war, but the regular contact had helped her cope during the long lonely months. Today, for the second day in a row, her mail box was empty. Jenny was disappointed, but not worried. Some days Steve just wasn't able to e-mail. Her eyes flickered to the television with its 24 hour news channels. Tempted as she was, Jenny turned her back on the set and returned to the kitchen. She tried to avoid the news when Ben was around.

He was back by five o'clock as promised.

"How is the injured Clanger?" Jenny asked, setting a pot on the hob for the vegetables.

Ben replied with his best Clanger whistle. Jenny thought she could almost hear words in the notes.

"I'm glad he's feeling better," she said. "Now, wash your hands and come back down. You can help me get dinner ready."

The next morning was Sunday and Jenny slept late. As she dressed, she heard faint whistles floating up the stairs. Ben must have that DVD on again. When she headed for the kitchen a few minutes later, she was surprised to find Ben near the back door, and the television switched off.

"Good morning," Jenny kissed his tousled brown hair. "You were up early. You must be hungry. I'll get you some breakfast."

"I'm not hungry, Mum," Ben said. "The Clangers brought me some blue string pudding for breakfast. It was really nice."

"I see. Well, how about a glass of milk?"

"All right."

The milk vanished pretty fast. Jenny surmised that imaginary breakfasts might taste good, but they weren't too filling. She handed Ben a piece of her own toast.

"Mum, I need some tools and stuff," Ben said between bites.

"What for?"

"To help the Clangers fix their spaceship."

"What is a Clanger space ship made of?"

"Metal, Mum. You know that."

"All right then. What do you need?"

"Can I have some of that foil you use for cooking?"

"I suppose so. How much foil does it take to fix a space ship?"

As well a length of foil, it seemed spaceship repairs required a rusty old screwdriver that Steve had been planning to throw away, a ball of string and two chocolate biscuits.

"There you go," Jenny said," Good luck with the repairs. But stay in the garden. I don't want you going down to the allotments this morning."

"That's OK," Ben told her, "the Clangers can come here."

Before starting her own day's work, Jenny checked her e-mail. There was still no word from Steve. She bit back a ripple of fear, and turned her attention to housework. While she was making her bed, she glanced out the window into the back garden. Ben was happily playing near the shed. She caught a glimpse of something pink at his side. Steve had given his son a Clanger toy to go with the DVD. Ben must have it with him in the garden.

The day passed slowly as Jenny tried to avoid going back to her e-mail. She took Ben to Tescos and they did the shopping. While she was hanging out some laundry, she waved to Mr Laker in the allotments, and allowed Ben to join him for a while. But all the time, her mind was with her husband so far away, hoping that next time she turned on her computer, there might be some word.

When she called Ben for dinner, he came in proudly clutching a new toy.

"What is it?" she asked.

"It's a music boat."

The boat was made from kitchen foil. The mast looked remarkably like an old screwdriver, holding up a piece of broken plant pot decorated with musical notes drawn in marker pen.

"It was a present from the Clangers," Ben told her. "Because I helped them fix their space ship. They are going home tonight."

Home! Jenny felt a tight twist of her heart as her thoughts flew to Steve so far away.

Ben spent the evening staring out the window hoping to see the Clangers take off, but sleep finally caught up with him. With her son safely tucked up in bed, Jenny turned on the computer once again.

Steve's e-mail was at the top of her inbox. Jenny closed her eyes for a few seconds, as relief washed through her. Then she opened the mail.

I'm coming home.

The words leaped of the screen. His unit had been given their orders. Within a couple of days, Steve would be back with her and Ben!

Jenny didn't try to hold back the tears that ran down her face as she typed her reply.

After sending her love to her husband, Jenny walked up to her son's room. Ben was asleep. The curtains were open, and the moonlight shone on the toy clanger and the music boat sitting on his bedside table. Jenny smiled at the music boat. It was cleverly done. She must remember to thank Mr Laker for helping Ben make it. Jenny walked to the window to close the curtains. She paused for a few seconds, looking out at the clear spring sky. Soon Steve would be flying home to her and their son.

Behind the house, near the allotments, a sudden flash of light caught her eye. The light moved swiftly up and away and vanished. Jenny's brow creased. It could have been a light from a passing train, but she hadn't heard any noise. He face cleared. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered, except that Steve was coming home.

Her heart was singing with joy, and for the briefest moment, Jenny thought she could hear the music.

I never met a Clanger as a child. The TV show didn’t make it as far as Australia.

My first experience with Clangers was in a bookshop, when my husband (webmaster John) suddenly snapped to attention.

"That’s Oliver Postgate", he said in awed tones looking at an elderly gentlemen signing stuff at a desk. To end my appalling ignorance, he (John that is, not Oliver Postgate) immediately bought the complete Clangers on DVD.

What can I say – they are just amazing! Their simple stories had such wonderful messages… that are still important today.

This is my salute to the Clangers.

A Song in His Heart

"We don't get crowds like this for WI jumble sales."

"Maybe you should start serving beer."

Norma smiled at her husband. "Maybe we should." Clutching her handbag tightly, she followed Frank into the crowded hall.

A huge black and yellow banner welcomed them to the town's second annual beer festival. The familiar hall was strangely dressed for the event - in scaffolding and metal barrels. Makeshift bars lined the walls, the crowd moving around them in a slow dance. And above all, the pungent odour of malt and hops.

Norma cast a hopeful glance at the faces, but none were familiar. Leather jackets abounded, as did beards and jeans. They were mostly men, these tasters of the brewers art. Here and there, a flash of lipstick or the flick of hair testified to a woman's presence. Norma wondered if they came to drink, or merely to accompany the men who drank.

Already some were definitely the worse for wear. Near the door, two men were helping a third to his feet. Or rather, trying too.

"Frank, are you sure you want to play today? It's not really your type of event."

"Maybe not, but I'm not going to back out now. And besides..." his voice trailed off. After a lifetime together, Norma didn't need to hear the words. Frank was thinking how few chances he still had to play.

"...better than last year. There are more breweries represented and..."

"...tried their new brew. It's a special just for the festivals..."

Snatches of conversation floated past as Norma followed Frank to the stairway at the back of the big hall. The smaller downstairs room had also become a bar, the wall lined with kegs.

The crowd was thinner down here, and at the other end of the room, Norma could see the pale glimmer of light on metal pipes.

"...a bit young. But still it doesn't taste too bad... "

" ...a bit malty for my liking, but give it a try..."

"...like liquid Christmas cake."

That made her pause. Surely they weren't all talking about beer? But then again, maybe they were. After all, that's why they were here. Their attention was firmly fixed on the scaffolding and beer barrels. Most probably hadn't even noticed the rare beauty at the end of the room.

She caught glimpses as she followed in Frank's wake. A curve of wood. Bright paint, knobs and keys.

The glorious old theatre organ sat on a raised platform, above the crowds in a place of proper respect. The console was painted cream and green, the dark wood of the foot pedals providing a rich contrast. The keys gleamed an invitation to talented fingers, their number and complexity a hint of untapped potential.

Rows of pipes marched through glass-fronted rooms on either side of the platform. Most shone dull silver. A few gave off a golden gleam. High on the walls, wooden slats connected to a complex net of wires and pulleys gave the organist volume control.

Built in the 1930's, the antique organ was a smaller version of the magnificent instruments that graced the great theatres of the world. Poor cousin though it was, it's voice was none the less clear and true.

It was, quite simply, a beautiful thing.

And Frank loved it. Passionately.

As always, he walked around it, checking for any sign of damage. Unconsciously, his hand reached out in a proprietary caress. Satisfied that his beloved organ was untouched, he pulled a key from his pocket and disappeared into the pipe rooms.

Norma let him go. Moving behind the platform, she found the bag Frank had carried for her. As she had so many times before, she set about her part of the performance.

From the bag, she pulled a thermos flask, tea bags and sugar. She put them on the small table, followed by two mugs and a plastic container full of sandwiches. Norma had seen the food stall in the main hall. Obviously food wasn't as important as beer! She and Frank would be glad of these sandwiches.

"I wonder how old it is. It looks in good order."

Norma glanced up to see two large men, not overly steady after a few drinks, gazing at the Wurlitzer. One set his glass down on the stool.

"Gentlemen, do you mind." She stepped forward and indicated the glass.

"Oh, sorry love." The glass vanished.

Norma pulled out a handkerchief to wipe away the mark of disrespect.

"They say someone will be playing this later on. Is that right?"

"Yes, in about 15 minutes, I think." Norma smiled, pleased by the interest.

"It's not you playing is it?"

"No, my husband."

The men nodded and moved away. "Let's get back upstairs, before it starts." The words were whispered, but loud enough to reach Norma's ears.

She turned quickly, glad that Frank hadn't yet emerged from the pipe rooms. Now, of all times, he didn't need to hear comments like that. He had so little time before he said goodbye to the classic instrument that he had so lovingly restored.

Norma was looking forward to their forthcoming move to a new home, closer to their daughter and grandchildren. The small bungalow would be easier to manage and certainly cheaper. Now Frank was retired, they had no need to be close to the city. Everything about the move was right, except for one thing.

The organ.

Frank tried to pretend it didn't matter, but it did.

He had loved the organ since the day he discovered it - in pieces, slowly disintegrating under dusty sheets in a long disused storeroom. He'd spent many months bringing the long neglected organ back to its former glory. He gave his every spare moment to his new love.

It was hard work, but a perfect pastime for a newly retired draughtsman. Norma had helped as best she could, baking cakes for fund-raising raffles and street stalls. The project was something to share as they accustomed themselves to the new realities of retirement.

Frank had been repaid a hundred fold with endless hours of pleasure in his work, and later as a performer, entertaining others at community functions.

His happiness had also been Norma's.

Frank was content with their decision to move. Or would be - if only there was someone to take his legacy.

That was the real problem. There was no-one else to care for and play the organ. Frank was torn apart at the prospect of it lying unused and slowly decaying. And in the years to come, when the old hall gave way to progress? What then for an unwanted and archaic instrument?

Neither of them liked the answer.

The click of the pipe room door alerted her to Frank's return. Setting aside her melancholy, she poured two cups of tea.

"Would you like a song sheet? Here you are. The music will start in just a few minutes." Norma moved through the crowd, distributing the photocopied sheets. "Of course, sing along. That's the whole idea. Don't worry about knowing the words. Here, have a song sheet."

Norma could feel the uncertainty. They were here for the beer, not to listen to "some old geezer play an organ". The man who spoke those words declined her offer of a song sheet.

Norma hid her fears behind a wide smile. Usually Frank's recitals were a key element of whatever school or church or community function was taking place.

But not today.

Today, the music was an almost accidental addition, accepted by the organisers because it was free. The beer was the main attraction. Still, Norma hoped there would be some crowd participation for Frank to enjoy. He didn't have many chances left.

He husband's eyes sought her out her smile before he placed his fingers lovingly on the keys. The first note surged up from the depths of the organ, and the pipes and his soul, and burst out into the room.

The note was strong and true, followed by another and another, until the song was a living thing, moving through the crowd.

Frank didn't have a great singing voice. He was the first to admit it. But when he played, it was as if the organ itself helped, giving his voice a richness that it didn't have alone.

"Oh Danny Boy

The pipes, the pipes are calling..."

The chatter around him stilled, and heads turned. The music coaxed and teased the crowd, and gradually, a few voices rose to join the song.

"From glen to glen

And down the mountainside.."

Norma watched Frank's fingers on the keyboard. She knew every line and movement of his hands. For more than 40 years, she had known his hands - reaching for her in the night, holding his child, working to support their small family. They were musician's hands too.

"But come ye back,

When summer's in the meadow..."

The voices were louder now, stronger and more confident. And when the song rose to its climax and ended, cheers rippled around the room. Frank waved one hand to acknowledge the applause, while his other was already moving into the first chords of the next song.

This time there was no hesitation. A hundred voices joined Frank in the opening chorus.

To Norma's left, heads appeared in the doorway. Drinkers from the vast hall above, drawn by the song. They reached for the offered song sheets, heads already nodding in time to the music.

Norma stepped aside as a rotund gentleman with a bushy beard danced past. His long grey ponytail swung wildly as he twirled, arms waving like a demented teddy bear, his face glowing with pleasure.

All around her, the crowd was swaying in time to the music, their raised hands still clutching beer glasses. Beer occasionally spilled over. But not too much! This was a beer festival and these were seasoned drinkers.

The room was becoming very hot and stuffy. The song sheets took on a second role, doubling as fans to cool sweating brows.

Two young men in leather jackets pushed gently past. They were heading for the exit. The taller of the two, sandy-haired and no more than 20 years old, stopped. He shook his head, and the two exchanged words. The tall man turned back towards the organ, leaving his friend to leave alone.

Frank changed tunes, and the crowd began to murder an old Beatles song.

Norma moved to a vantage point, at the back of the organ platform. She could see the barmen now. They had stopped filling glasses, and started singing.

She could also see the security men exchanging frantic hand signals across the room. They looked like bouncers at a rock concert. At least, what Norma imagined bouncers would look like. She'd never actually been to a rock concert, although she and Frank had danced at big band recitals in their youth. Frank had cut quite a dashing figure in those days, turning more than a few heads.

And still was, from the face of the woman at the front of the crowd. Somewhere in her early forties, she sported dyed blonde hair and a low cut red top. Her eyes were glued to Frank. She nodded vigorously in time to the music, pushing her gold rimmed glasses back each time they slid down her nose.

Norma smiled. She would enjoy teasing him about that.

"Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag,

And smile, smile smile."

As the crowd took up the familiar refrain, Frank suddenly leaped to his feet. Standing with his back to the silent organ, he raised his arms in a conductor's stance and to lead the crowd through the song. Not one in ten of his choir was singing in tune, but that didn't matter. The combined voices and the joy of the moment lifted the room above such mundane concerns.

They all joined in, even those too young to remember the song or the terrible times it represented.

A light flashed, as someone somewhere in the crowd recorded the moment.

Frank spun and dropped back onto the seat, his hands moving unerringly to pick up the chorus and guide the song to a thundering crescendo.

In the few moments of silence that followed the riotous applause, a bell clanged.

"Last orders please, ladies and gentlemen. Last Orders!"

Norma waited for the singers to desert the organ, to grab that last glass beer. But none did. Whistles and cheers echoed off the rafters. Frank bowed, and set his hands once more at the keyboard.

When the last note of the last song faded, the applause lasted for a long long time.

As they filed out of the room, singers stopped to shake Frank's hand, and thump his back. His face was shining, revelling in every minute of it, not just for himself, but also for his beloved Wurlitzer.

Norma's heart contracted. She turned to pack away the tea things, trying hard not to think of the future.

In a short time, the room was empty, except for the barmen cleaning glasses, and a young man walking towards the organ, a glass in his hand.

"I thought you might like a drink." He handed the glass to Frank. "It's BS Johnson's Old Orang-utan. A fine drop. I hope you like it."

"Thank-you." Frank took a deep draught. "That's good. Singing is thirsty work."

Norma recognised him now. This was the sandy-haired young man who had argued with his friend, coming back alone to listen to the music.

"Man, that organ is something else," the young man's voice was filled with awe. "I've never seen anything like it before. It's beautiful."

Of all the words he might have spoken, nothing could have pleased Frank more.

"She sure is. Not one of the great ones of course, but special all the same."

"How old is she?"

"Built in the 1930's. She was in pretty bad shape when I found her. It took a lot of work. But she's in fine voice now." Pride was obvious in Frank's every word, and in the way he stroked the gleaming paint.

"You restored her? Where did you get the parts? And the pipes?"

"Some I repaired, some I made and the rest - well, you can always find what you need, if you look hard enough." Frank beamed at the eager face. "Come on up."

The younger man didn't need a second invitation. He leaped onto the platform, and settled onto the stool like he belonged there.

"I play, you know," he offered in a consciously off-hand tone. "Just a little electric organ, of course. Nothing like this."

"Why don't you have a go. Look, I'll just set these... so." A few muffled thumps sounded deep inside the organ, as Frank re-set the controls. "There you go. Play something for me."

Tentatively the other man reached out one hand, and gently stroked a key. A single note, high and clear soared across the almost empty room. He tried another note, then a short combination.

Frank nodded his approval as the young musician gently established a rapport with the instrument.

Watching then, Norma was struck by how different, yet alike the two men were.

Frank was so conservative in dress and manner, yet passionate about the things he loved.

The younger man, by contrast, was clad in a wildly dyed T-shirt. His hair was long and unkempt, and a gold hoop hung from one pierced ear. His hands were stained and roughened by hard work, yet gentle on the keys. And the concentration he gave his music was exactly the same as she had seen so often in Frank's face.

With both hands on the keyboard, the young musician finished his exploration of the instrument. He coaxed a familiar melody from the organ, and began to sing.

"Are you going to Scarborough Fair,

Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme..."

From the back of the hall, deep voices joined in harmony.

"Remember me to one who lives there.

She once was a true love of mine."

The other barmen, without pausing in their work, had joined the song, the empty hall echoing their voices in rich refrain.

As they sang, Norma watched joy light her husband's face.

"That was fabulous." Frank applauded softly as the last notes faded away. "It wouldn't take you long to understand this old girl."

"I'd love to learn. Would you teach me? Can you spare the time?" The young man held out his hand. "By the way, my name's John."

As he shook the offered hand, Frank caught his wife's eye. Norma nodded and opened her bag to unpack the tea-bags and thermos.

"I'm Frank," he replied. "And I've got all the time you need."

My first English beer festival was like nothing I had ever seen before. I had imagined something like a German Oktoberfest – with music and dancing and food. Not so the English. It's all about the beer. There is not much in the way of food or music… and certainly no dancing.

Then one day, when dragged to another beer festival, I heard music. And elderly gentleman was playing on a magnificent theatre organ at the end of the hall.

I wrote this story sitting in a corner listening to him play.

A Bush Christmas

Anna lay in bed with her eyes tightly shut, savouring a few extra moments of delicious anticipation.

Christmas Day!

A cascade of joyous images filled her mind. The towering beauty of a brightly decorated tree, gaily wrapped presents piled beneath it; her brothers’ laughter as they tried out their new toys; the special treats saved for her as the youngest.

She could almost smell the roasting turkey.

The faces changed as Anna's mind wandered down the years. Her parents' hair turned grey, but their smiles and their love never faltered. New faces appeared, as her brothers brought first their brides and then a new generation of children to share the celebration in front of the roaring log fire.

So many happy memories, all set against the starkly beautiful backdrop of snow covered moors.

Anna's fingers twitched as she relived the Great Snowball Wars of years past. While the older folk dozed through the afternoon, Anna and her brothers and eventually her nieces and nephews waged heroic battles around the farmyard.

Family and snowballs. Love and laughter. Christmas!

Anna opened her eyes.

Above her bed, the fan revolved slowly, stirring the scorching air just enough to give the illusion of a cooling breeze.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat up. The raucous cackling of a kookaburra wafted through the open window, bringing with it the scent of the eucalyptus and the taste of baked dry earth.

Slipping on shorts and a cotton top, Anna stopped long enough to splash her face with lukewarm water before she headed outside. It was not yet seven o'clock, but the day was already hot. Even before she stepped into the glaring sunlight, Anna wiped the first beads of perspiration from her forehead.

"Merry Christmas" she called to the kookaburra, frowning down at her from his perch in the gum tree.

"And you too," she added to the cattle dogs, as they followed her across the dusty yard.

On a farm, there's always work to do, even on Christmas Day. Anna learned that lesson at her father's knee on the Yorkshire moors. It was equally true on an Australian cattle property that was measured in square miles, instead of acres.

Picking up a bucket, she turned her face up to the vivid blue sky, her thoughts flying to that small farm half a world away.

"Merry Christmas", she whispered to her family.

"Merry Christmas, Anna."

Anna turned to smile up at the tall, handsome man. He was always the first to start work each day.

"Merry Christmas, Stephen." Instinctively, she started forward, then stopped. A moment of awkwardness followed, until Stephen leaned forward to softly touch his lips to her cheek.

Both stepped back. There was safety in distance.

"I imagine this is very different from Christmas back in England."

Anna looked out across the vast tree studded plain already shimmering in the heat.

"Just a bit."

"I know you must be homesick. We'll try to make it a happy one for you."

Of one accord, they both turned back to their chores. As she worked, Anna thought about that platonic Christmas kiss. Those moments of awkwardness were becoming more frequent now.

From the very beginning, Anna had been drawn to Stephen. A surprising gentleness lay beneath an exterior roughened by years of toil in the blistering outback sun. His strength and honesty were as appealing as his face and sparkling hazel eyes.

Anna knew she wasn’t alone in her feelings. The attraction between them was becoming too strong to deny. But Stephen would never acknowledge it.

The sudden roar of an engine disrupted her thoughts. Stephen had just started the power generator, to recharge the batteries they’d drained last night.

During her first days here at the edge of the desert, Anna had been shocked by the incredible isolation. No mains power or television. The closest thing to a telephone was a radio transmitter. Drinking water was a precious commodity, drawn from deep under the earth. Then there was the heat, and the flies.

As for a social life... there wasn't one. The next property was fifty miles away. The next town - more than one hundred.

Despite the isolation, Anna had never been lonely here; never felt like a stranger. The burnt red plain was a world away from her beloved moors, yet both places shared a wild beauty that resonated deep inside her soul.

She glanced across at the only other house for so many miles. Stephen's sister Teri and her husband David were the rest of their tiny community. They were spending Christmas 'back east', enjoying a holiday at the beach, while awaiting the not too distant birth of their first child. Anna blessed the day she met the woman who was now her closest friend - in more ways than one.

"Daddy! Merry Christmas!"

Two small forms hurtled down the stairs from the homestead, heading for Stephen who had just emerged from the generator shed.

"Daddy!" More insistent now. "It's time for presents!"

Anna’s heart ached with a deep longing, as Stephen gathered his children into his arms.

Several months and a thousand miles ago, she had first heard Stephen's story from his sister.

As part of her working holiday 'down under', Anna was staying with her aunt, in Sydney. She had a job at a coffee shop and was enjoying the adventure of a lifetime. Then Teri arrived. The daughter of her Aunt's old school chum, Teri was in the city for a checkup, having just discovered that she was pregnant. While she was there, she placed a newspaper advertisement on behalf of her distant brother.

Wanted: Jillaroo for outback property.

Housekeeper for single father.

Nanny for boy 5 and girl 4.

Good conditions - very remote location.

Back then, Anna didn’t even know what a 'jillaroo' was. Teri had explained, then agreed with Anna's suggestion that she use the coffee shop to interview prospective applicants. In the days that followed, the two became firm friends, as Teri interviewed dozens of young women, none of whom were suitable. After a frustrating week, she made the suggestion that was to change Anna's life.

"Will you take the job?"

"Me?" Anna was stunned by the proposal.

"Please, Anna. You would be wonderful with the kids. And you'll see a part of the country most visitors never get to see."

"I don't know Teri. What if your brother doesn't think I'm suitable."

"He will. You'll be much better than any of those others. You grew up on a farm. You'll love it."

"But it's such a long way away - from everywhere."

"I know. But I'll be there." Teri's voice trailed off. "That's part of it too. It would be good for me to have you there too."

Anna understood what her friend was saying. Delighted as she and her husband were about her pregnancy, Teri was a little afraid. Particularly after what had happened to Stephen's wife. Not only did her brother need a jillaroo, Teri needed a friend.

Anna took two days to think it over, then she quit her job and joined Teri on a series of ever smaller aircraft until she landed here, in the back of beyond, caring for two motherless children, and their deeply wounded father.

At their first meeting, Stephen had been almost brutal in his honesty. A jillaroo's job wasn't easy. She would be expected to tackle a mixture of household and outdoor duties on a huge cattle property that was a long way from anywhere and everyone. The isolation was very hard to take.

Stephen had deep reservations about his sister's choice. Even Australian-born jillaroos usually stayed no more than a year. He didn't believe an English girl could last even that long.

"I can and I will!" Anna had exclaimed.

He smiled when he saw her determination. Then his face hardened, as he gave her one last chance to back out.

The outback, he said, is a dangerous place. A simple accident had taken his wife. She died while waiting for an air ambulance to bring help from the nearest hospital, hundreds of miles away.

Did Anna still want the job?

Did she? Anna had looked at the deep lines tragedy had etched around Stephen’s eyes. Yes, she did. Now, some six months later, she was even more certain.

The reason was right in front of her. Stephen and the children.

Ben was such a sad little boy. He had some vague memories of his ‘Mummy’, but his sadness was mostly a reflection of his father's. Stephen tried so hard to shield his children from his own bottomless grief, but it hadn't worked.

Zoe didn’t remember her mother, only a series of jillaroos and nannies, none of whom stayed very long. Her love for her father was total, but Anna knew that something important was missing in the little girl's life. Her Aunt had tried to help, but with a baby of her own on the way, Teri couldn't fill that gap in Zoe's life.

Anna had stepped into that empty place, for both children. As for their father...

"Merry Christmas," Ben's face was glowing as he firmly planted a wet kiss on her cheek.

"Merry Christmas, darling," Anna gathered both of the youngsters into her bear hug. Looking over their heads, she found Stephen's face. He was smiling too. The smile touched her deeply. She had come to this place at her friend's request, but she stayed for an entirely different reason. Her love for the children was matched by her feelings for their father.

Anna broke eye contact with Stephen as she bent to kiss the top of his daughter's head.

Her secret dreams would never be realised. Stephen carried too much guilt over his wife's death. His very being was rooted in this cruel and beautiful place, and despite the tragedy, he could no more leave, than he could ask her to stay.

"Presents, now!" Zoe's voice disrupted Anna's thoughts. She allowed the little girl to drag her back towards the house.

The Christmas tree was brightly decorated, with presents piled around its base. But it was unlike any Anna had ever seen before.

The outback has no pine trees. Stephen had carefully cut a branch from one of the mulga trees that dotted the harsh landscape. Bright tinsel and coloured glass ornaments hung between silver branches. Snow-white cotton wool lay on leaves more blue than green.

The very idea of snow fascinated Zoe. Anna spent hours trying to explain how ice could fall from the sky. The thought was magic to a wide-eye little girl who could barely remember the rain that fell so infrequently.

Now, as the children tore into the mountain of gifts, Anna waited for Zoe to find one special item.

"Anna - it’s snow!" The little girl cried, as she unwrapped the gift that had been sent from Anna's home on the other side of the world.

"Look Daddy! Snow." Zoe shook the ball and held it up for her father to see the tiny white flakes float to the bottom. The little girl giggled, while her father and brother exchanged smiles.

Anna made a mental note to write to her mother about the success of the gift, a souvenir of some long-ago trip to the English seaside.

During the past weeks, she had learned a lesson in long distance shopping. In this remote part of the world, Christmas gifts were bought with a catalogue and radio phone.

For weeks now, strange packages had been arriving with the weekly mail deliveries. Alongside the boxes of groceries, newspapers and farm supplies, the mail truck had left strange brown packages in the small shed that served as mailbox. Competition to make the dusty ten mile journey to collect them had been fierce.

Anna wasn't left out of the giving. From the children, books, and precious hand drawn cards that she would treasure. Teri and David had left their gifts under the tree. The box of scented soaps was a rare concession to the feminine treats that were seldom found this far from the cities. Anna hadn't spoken about her feelings for Stephen, but Teri wasn't blind. She must have guessed.

Then Stephen handed Anna a small box.

Her hands weren't quite shaking as she opened it. Inside, a fine gold chain lay nestled against dark velvet. Gently she lifted it. A miniature gold lizard hung from the chain.

"Do you remember?" Stephen asked.

"How could I forget?"

On her second day here, Anna had been scared out of her wits as a two foot long lizard ran almost under her feet. The goanna was totally harmless, but the incident had become a joke between the two of them.

"I thought the goanna would scare you away, even if nothing else did."

"Well, it didn’t. I’m a lot stronger then you thought."

"Yes, you are. And I’m very glad of it." Was there another message in Stephen’s voice?

"Thank-you. It's beautiful."

Anna impulsively threw her arms around Stephen's neck, and kissed him. If she held him for a few seconds longer than was absolutely necessary, she was sure he didn't notice.

Her gift to him was a book, purchased after an exchange of letters with an antique book shop in the distant capital city.

" 'Under the Southern Cross - The exploration of the Great South Land.' ", Stephen read, gently turning the brittle pages of the old volume over in his hands.

"It's not a first edition, or anything," Anna hastened to add. "But.."

"It's wonderful. Thank-you." Was it her imagination, or did his lips linger a second longer than before on her cheek?

"Can we go to the river now?" Having exhausted the mountain of gifts, Ben was already looking forward to the next big event of the day. The river was miles away. The water was warm and dirty brown, but Ben and Zoe had never seen the ocean, or even a swimming pool. For them, the river was an island of pleasure in the searing heat of the day.

"We sure can, Son." Stephen was on his feet. "But first, Anna probably needs your help to organise the picnic things."

"Picnic!" Both children raced from the room, Anna following close behind, to stop their enthusiasm turning the kitchen into a total disaster area.

Soon the picnic baskets were overflowing with treats for an outdoor feast in the shade of the giant gum trees on the river bank. With the temperature already climbing into the high thirties, roast turkey wasn't on the menu. Instead, the baskets bulged with cold ham, salads, watermelons and other tropical fruit.

Stephen was waiting by the four wheel drive car, as Anna and the kids carried their precious burdens out of the house. Something in his face reminded Anna of her father's quiet joy each year as her Mother brought the Christmas turkey to the table.

She ran her eyes over his handsome features. His eyes sparkled with some secret mischief.

The bundles safely stowed, Stephen turned to his children. "Now?"

"Yes! Now Daddy," they cried in unison.

"Now, what?" Anna was perplexed. Stephen disappeared back into the house, while the giggling children avoided her eyes.

A few moments later, Stephen emerged, carrying a large ice-box, which he gently placed at Anna's feet.

"What..?"

Stephen smiled without a word, while Ben and Zoe giggled even louder. Totally perplexed, Anna bent down and lifted the lid.

A round object lay in the icebox. Slightly bigger than a tennis ball, it was white and glistened wetly in the sunshine. It was...

"A snowball?"

"Yay!" Zoe cheered.

"Throw it!" urged her brother.

Dumbfounded, Anna looked at Stephen. His smile told her this hadn't been all the children's doing.

"Where? How?"

"The freezer. We've been working on it for a while."

Anna understood. It must have taken weeks to scrape enough frost and thin ice from the freezer to mould...

"I'll bet it's the only snowball in the whole country!" Ben asserted proudly.

"I'm sure it is." Anna fought back tears as she bent to hug the small boy, then his sister.

"You can throw it, just like you do in England." Ben was determined that everything should be done properly. "Who are you going to throw it at?"

Anna looked at the eager young faces. If she threw it at one, the other would be disappointed. Their father perhaps?

"Quickly," Stephen urged, "before it melts."

As Anna reached into the ice-box, she had a better idea.

With a flick of her wrist, she sent the snowball soaring straight into the sky directly above their heads. Already starting to melt, the snowball began to disintegrate.

Flakes fell away from the main snowball, and were caught by the faint traces of wind. Then gravity claimed them, and they fell back to earth.

"It's snowing!" Ben cried. The excited children stuck out their tongues, darting from place to place, trying to catch the icy flakes, in the way Anna had described to them.

Those they missed fell to the red earth, soaked up immediately by the parched ground.

Anna felt tears prick her eyes, but she was no longer homesick for the wintery moors of her birthplace.

Family and snowballs. Love and laughter, through all the years to come.

She looked at Stephen. He nodded, and opened his arms to her.

It snowed once near the Australian bush town where I grew up. When I say 'near' – I mean in the mountains about three hour's drive away. It was a once in a lifetime moment, and some of the kids got to skip school for the day as their parents drove them down there to have a look.

I was very disappointed that I didn't get to go.

It did snow during my first winter in the UK– although on December 26th… a day late. That's when I realised that for someone from England, a hot and steamy Christmas would be as strange as a snowy one was for me.

House Rules

I enjoy working weeknights. The pub's quiet and I've got time to chat. The weeknight regulars aren't big drinkers. They're here for the company as much as the beer. There's usually a guest or two. A long way from home, they don't mind some company.

This particular night, old Mr and Mrs Fahey were chatting about someone's wedding anniversary. He always has a half of bitter. She's a G&T. There's not much a person could tell them about wedding anniversaries. They've had 51. Proud of it they are, and rightly so.

By the fire, with his malt whisky, one ice cube, was Mr Cartwright. He's with some big London law firm. They've got clients here. Old money. There's not much new money around these parts. Not likely to be either, the way things are going.

The couple drinking wine at the end table were guests. No sign of a wedding ring, and she looked older than him. Still, I'm not one to judge.

Some of the local lads were in. They're not often here on a weekday. Most of them work on the industrial estate. On the production lines. It's dirty and boring and doesn't pay much, but its work, and a lot don't even have that. On Friday nights, they let off steam. They get a bit drunk, and a bit noisy. Sometimes they give the younger barmaids a spot of cheek. Not me. I'm a few years too old, and a few pounds too heavy for them to waste time on me. Still, they're not bad, just a bit full of themselves.

They were playing pool, but stopped when she walked in. We're a small town, and we don't often see the likes of her in the pub. She was tall and slender, with long dark hair. Her eyes were dark too. Exotic looking, she was, and classy. I read those magazines. I know quality when I see it. It was more than just her designer clothes. It was the way she held her head. The way she walked. Her voice. She was everything I dream of being.

The lads watched her walk to the bar. She must have noticed, but she ignored them.

"What can I get you?"

"Cider, please."

I was ready to dislike her. For her looks, her clothes ... her whole life, really. I do that sometimes, if I feel someone is looking down on me, thinking they're better then me. Mostly they're not, it's just that sometimes I don't feel too good about myself.

"There you go."

"Thanks." Her smile was genuine.

She looked around, barely glancing at the lads. They were back at their game, a little louder than before. Posing a bit more too. But she wasn't interested. She settled at a quiet table and took out some papers. Here on business, I thought. She'll have her drink, maybe two, then head upstairs.

Jamie sauntered to the bar, carrying four empty glasses. "Same again."

"Coming up." As I filled the glasses, the game ended. I looked to see who'd won. Not Jamie. He was looking at her.

I put the beer on the bar. "Had your go yet?"

"No." His eyes didn't leave the girl. "I will, when it's time."

You'll not get much joy there, I thought.

Jamie delivered the beer, but was back at the bar when she came for her second. She glanced at the pool table.

I decided to tell her. She'd find out soon enough. "It's a competition,” I said. The winner gets the girl - any girl in the bar."

She smiled, and glanced at Jamie, who was listening to every word. "What happens if the girl wins?"

Even Jamie smiled. It was a good joke.

He went back to the table and challenged. This would be the last game.

She left paperwork then, and sat at the bar, as cool and elegant as you like. Jamie knew she was watching, and strutted his stuff. He's a good player, and not bad looking. Trouble is, he knows it.

He won of course. As his mates cheered, he looked at her. By his rules, it was time to collect his winnings. She stood up, and walked towards the table, as the lads chuckled and nudged Jamie.

"You're the champion?"

"That's me. Jamie."

"Jamie. They tell me," she tossed her dark hair, "that the winner takes the girl home."

"That's right." If he'd puffed his chest out any more, Jamie would have exploded.

"First, you have to defeat all challengers?"

"I have."

"No, you haven't." She took a cue and tested the tip with one long, red nail.

Jamie wasn't so sure of himself now. "Around here, girls don't play," he blustered.

"This one does." She dropped a coin into the slot and bent to pull the lever. The balls clattered out. She looked back over her shoulder "Are we on?"

Jamie didn't have a choice. "You're on." The lads cheered. "Do you want a drink?"

She nodded. I poured another cider. This one was on the house.

Jamie broke and one ball clattered home. With his next shot, another dropped into the middle pocket. Cheered on by his mates, Jamie was flying. I knew what would happen next. I'd seen it before. Sure enough, he took the shot too casual, and missed by several inches. Jamie shrugged. It didn't matter. After all, he was playing a girl.

The lads stood back. They weren't being polite. They just wanted to get a better look as she bent over the table in those jeans. She knew. The sway of her hips was deliberate. As she spread her fingers on the cloth, it looked like she knew what she was doing.

I silently cheered her on.

Her cue smacked the white ball. It shot across the table, tapped her target which rolled... and stopped well short of the pocket. There was an explosion of muffled male laughter.

Jamie sank another ball, but missed his second shot.

The lads were more interested in her bum, than her second shot, which also missed. As Jamie took his next, she caught my eye. Something in her smile gave me confidence.

Jamie put one more away. Four down – three to go. She still had seven on the table.

Now, I thought. If you've been playing with him, it's time to make your move. She didn't choose an easy shot. The double into the middle pocket missed. The lads stopped laughing when the ball rolled across the table a third time to drop into the top pocket. It had to be good luck, more than good play. They seemed reassured when her next shot seemed wild.

Jamie dropped two more. One to go and he'd be on the black.

She put another down. Five to go. When she missed the next shot, I studied the table carefully. Suddenly, it was clear. Jamie's last ball was against the cushion. And he was snookered. Her balls were over the pockets. She was on from everywhere.

Jamie checked the angles. Took a deep breath. Took the shot. The white bounced off the cushion, crossed behind the black and tapped a ball. The wrong ball. Two shots for a foul.

"Nice try."

The lads murmured encouragement. "She'll need two."

I didn't think she would.

A smart tap. One in the top pocket. Another click, and a second ball dropped. Jamie started to look worried when the third vanished. With very little effort, she cleared the table. When she was on the black, she smiled at Jamie. It was anyone's game now.

It was a tough shot, and Jamie's ball was in the way. When she leaned over the table this time, the lads were watching the shot. The cue ball gently tapped the black. The line was perfect, but the eight clipped Jamie's ball, and veered off course.

It was do or die and Jamie took his time. His last ball dropped home...and he was on the black too.

There's a TV in the pub. The crowd watches the footy or whatever. But it never gets really tense. The Cup final. The Formula One championship. And Jamie's game with the girl.

Her back was to me, so I didn't see the look she gave him before his shot. But I did see the way he smiled back.

He took aim, then he looked at her again. That smile was still on his face. The cue ball crossed the table and clipped the black, which rolled towards the top pocket. The lads cheered as it dropped home.

Then they stopped.

In silence they watched the white ball roll on and drop into the middle pocket. In off the black. Forfeit.

Jamie was stunned.

She walked around the table. "My game." The words were soft, but loud enough in the quiet bar.

"Yeah. Well... I ..." She ignored the stammered words, and looked Jamie slowly up and down. I recognised the look. So did Jamie. He'd used it often enough when he was wearing the winner's shoes. He didn't like being on the receiving end.

"Winner's prerogative?" She shook her head. "Thanks for the game. Goodnight."

She collected her things, and walked out.

Jamie and his mates still play pool. There's not much else to do. The winner still takes the girl home. Most of the time, anyway. The girls seem happy enough to go along. I'm still pulling pints, and wishing for a better life. If Jamie gets too cocky, I catch his eye, and we both remember. He settles down then.

The girl never came back. I still don't know why she came that first time. Maybe it was business. Whatever it was, she gave a gift to an ageing and overweight barmaid, and taught a cheeky lad a lesson in playing the game.

As a young television journalist, I covered a story about the closure of an exclusive men’s club. Women were allowed as guests – but only in the dining room. As part of the report, I was filmed taking a shot on the billiard table, much to the horror of a passing club member. The club was demolished a few days later and I think it’s likely I am the only woman to have ever played on that table.

In the small bush town where I grew up, playing pool was about the only entertainment we had. My Dad taught me how to play and we were partners for many a game. Some years later, I confess to earning a few dollars playing pool when I was at university.

The guys were just too willing to bet that a girl couldn't play as well as they could. They were wrong.

The Reunion Concert

The clouds were even lower when Pat left the underground station.

"Please! Just five more minutes," she prayed, turning her weary feet toward home. Pat hunched her shoulders, not against the looming rain, but against the crowd of people pouring out of the station behind her. Taking a tighter grip on her shopping, she allowed herself to be swept along.

The noise began at the second corner, growing louder with every step, until Pat could distinguish the music inside the murmur. At the park gates, the crowd turned, leaving Pat to stare over the fence at the giant silver dome of the main stage. A circus tent housed the smaller stage. They'll need the shelter, she thought, as the first light drops of rain caressed her face. She looked at the scudding clouds. True concert weather, she thought, recalling her own past.

Pat looked at the posters as small streams of water began trickling across the bold yellow lettering. Most of the names meant nothing to her; she wasn't exactly 'up' on current popular music. The headline act was a different story.

Pat could easily conjure up the faces. She had stared at them often enough, on the record covers and magazines that illustrated her youth. She had loved their music. Loved them too, as teenage girls do. She saved her money to buy records that she played again and again. The day the band split, she cried more tears than she did the day Roger walked out the door.

Roger. The last time she danced at a concert, Roger was with her. She had been pregnant at that concert. Pregnant, without knowing it, and without being married. The married part changed. Then changed back again. As for being a mother... well, that changed back too.

Pat shook her head. What was she doing standing in the rain, letting out memories long since caged in the back of her mind?

"Tickets! Buy and sell tickets."

The tout's voice called Pat back to the damp poster. Why not? This was the band's reunion concert. Maybe she could recapture some of her lost youth.

"How much?"

"Thirty-five pounds."

Pat wasn't totally strapped for cash these days. She could afford a few luxuries. Still, thirty-five pounds was a bit much.

"All right, Love. For you, twenty-five."

Touts were getting nicer. In her day, they were no discounts.

"Done." Pat reached for her purse before either of them could change their minds.

Pat stuffed the ticket into her purse, and hurried towards her tiny flat. The groceries dealt with, she headed straight back. Her idols weren't due on stage for a couple of hours, but other bands were playing. She deserved some fun.

Concert crowds haven't changed, Pat thought as she walked through the gate. They're just older, like me. She was surprised by the crowd of teenagers drawn to the reunion of rock legends. Had they learned this music at their parent's knees, as Kate had at hers?

Kate. As she did a dozen times each day, Pat sent a silent message of love to her daughter. Would Kate remember this band? She'd heard them often enough and sung along in her lisping child's voice, in the early years when times were hard, but good. They fought more than they sang in the later years.

Pat's eyes roamed the crowd, searching for a familiar face and tousled brown hair. She did it every day; in every tube station, street and shopping centre. She could no more stop her subconscious search than she could stop breathing.

Making her way up the rise overlooking the main stage area, Pat savoured the familiar smell of cooking food. Revellers of all ages milled around bars and stalls selling incense and cheap clothing. Nothing has changed, she thought, not in twenty years.

Pat turned her collar against the rain, almost regretting her impulsive decision to come. The money could have been better spent. Pat squashed that thought, even as it formed. Money - or the lack of it - had defined her life for too long. A hard life necessitated hard decisions, but hard decisions also made a hard person. She hadn't realised that until it was too late for her marriage, and her daughter.

Pat shook her head. The atmosphere of the concert was bringing back memories she normally kept locked away. Surely, there were some good memories? She had to get into concert mode.

Her first stop was the T-shirt stall. The choice was greater; so too was the price, but the T-shirts were still the same. She remembered similar purchases of old. Some of the T-shirts had lasted longer than her marriage.

Food was next on the agenda. A burger. Nothing else would do. Pat bit deeply into the bun, ketchup dripping onto her fingers. Why, she wondered, did food that would be unacceptable in a coffee shop, taste so good outdoors?

When the press of people halted her progress towards the stage, Pat was closer than she'd hoped. People around her were swaying unfamiliar music. She started tapping a toe.

Then the heavens opened.

Within seconds she was soaked to the skin, her jacket no match for the torrent. Around her, the crowd shuffled to raise umbrellas and don cheap plastic ponchos. Pat stared laughing. What a picture she must present!

"There's room for one more." The man was sharing a huge golf umbrella with a woman and a teenage boy.

"Thanks."

They smiled a welcome as Pat stepped into their small circle of comfort. All three were singing along with the band. Perhaps that's what happens when a family stays together, Pat thought. Parents teach a toddler to sing, then teenagers teach their parents to rock. She jealous of the love that warmed this family like a cloak.

The rain stopped. Smiling her thanks, Pat stepped from under the umbrella, trying to shake off her mood as she did the drops of water. It was unlike her to wallow so deeply in her memories. That's what happens, she told herself, when you try to go back.

She might have left then, but the band she had come to see was just a few minutes away.

Around her, the fans were jockeying for position, slipping and sliding in the quagmire under their feet. Just in front, a tall young man caught Pat's eye as he tossed his long blonde hair and laughed. He was... nineteen or twenty? An earring glinted as he smiled down at the half-hidden girl at his side.

In that moment, Pat was transported back two decades. She saw the same smile on Roger's face as he looked at her. Had she been young and carefree, like the woman at the blonde man's side? Yes she had. Where had it gone?

Pat and Roger's love had survived the shock of an unexpected pregnancy and forced marriage. They were far too young, but they might have made a go of it, if they'd both tried a bit harder. They didn't, and Roger walked out, leaving her with a small child, and a whole world of bitterness.

Pat would have given anything to turn back the clock. Given another chance, she wouldn't make the same mistakes. Her bitterness ate away at her relationship with her daughter. Kate was seventeen when she left. In the months that followed, Kate began to understand, but by then, it was far too late.

"Hey! How you'all doin'?"

The crowd roared as a man with a guitar stepped into the spotlight.

"You folks have been standing here in the pouring rain all day... and I want you to know that we..." Another cheer as the rest of the band stepped on stage, "... really appreciate that. We're gonna make it worth your while... LET'S MAKE SOME MUSIC!"

The first chord blasting through amplifiers and speakers shook the crowd. The answering cheer was lost in the pounding of drums and guitars, as the band launched into a classic track from Pat's past. She remembered every word. This was the soundtrack of her youth, and as she sang, Pat was absurdly pleased that the tall blond lad and the girl at his side were singing too.

On the stage, the musicians played their guitars like there was no tomorrow. They still looked good in tight jeans. What did it matter if their long hair was mostly grey? Pat gave herself up to the music and the moment.

It was raining again when the band left the stage, to thunderous applause. As the crowd surged forward, Pat's feet slipped in the treacherous mud. She cried out, instinctively grabbing the nearest person for support. Instead, she dragged the girl down with her, and both fell face first into the mud.

"I'm so sorry..." Pat laughed as she spoke, wiping the mud from her eyes.

"That's OK. No problem." The girl was laughing too.

Pat opened her eyes and looked straight into her daughter's face.

"Kate?"

The girl's eyes widened. For a second neither moved, still on their hands and knees in the mud, the crowd moving restlessly around them. Then strong hands grabbed them both, and pulled them to their feet.

"Katie, are you all right? Ma'am?" The tall young man with the blonde hair was Irish.

"I'm fine. Kate? I..." Pat didn't know what to say. Two years was a long time. To meet again. Like this. The young Irishman looked from one to the other.

"I should have guessed you'd be here. Neil, this is my mother." Kate's voice was hesitant and uncertain.

The young man's eyes flashed between the two women. Pat wondered what Kate had told him. "Well met, Mrs..." The rest of his words were lost in a thunderous roar as the band came back for the encore.

Pat could have leaped onto the stage and strangled the musicians one by one. Conversation was impossible in that noise, and she was desperately afraid her daughter might slip away before she had a chance to say ... anything. She flashed a wild glance at the young man standing beside her. Neil smiled back. His left arm dropped across Pat's shoulders. His right already encircled Kate. As the music swept over them, Kate and Neil joined the singer. Too stunned to do anything else, Pat added her voice to the rising chorus.

"You still remember." Pat couldn't hide her pleasure when a break between songs gave them a chance to exchange a few words.

"Of course I do. You played this so many times when I was a kid."

"I'm surprised you didn't end up hating it?"

"It brings back some good memories." Kate yelled back as the opening chords of the final song sounded.

The music was over and the band had gone. Floodlights were pointing the way home. Pat, Kate and Neil stood to one side as the crowd flowed past. Pat's eyes never left her daughter. Kate was beautiful. Always a pretty girl, in the past two years, she had changed and grown. Her clothes and hairstyle were not what Pat might have wished, but her eyes were clear, bright, and happy. Pat knew that her daughter was all right. She closed her eyes, in a silent thank-you that her prayers had been answered.

"How did you end up here?" Kate began.

"I was passing and saw the posters. I live just around the corner."

Kate didn't reply, and Pat realised that her daughter hadn't known. Kate still pictured her mother in the tiny flat they had shared until they couldn't stand it, or each other, any more. Pat had remained for more than a year, hoping to hear her daughter's feet on the stairs again.

"I moved a few months ago. I left messages with our old neighbours. In case..." But obviously Kate hadn't returned.

The silence was uncomfortable.

"Neil. Kate... you're wet and muddy. Would you like to come back to my place? For coffee. Or Kate, maybe I could find you something dry..." Even as she spoke, Pat knew the answer was no. She sounded too much like the mother Kate had run away from.

"No. I think we'd better go." Kate looked up at Neil, "and Mickey will be waiting for us."

"Mickey?" Pat whispered. Who was Mickey? Surely not! Kate couldn't have a baby. Could she?

"Mickey is the cat." Neil must have seen the flash of panic in her eyes.

Pat sagged with relief. Her daughter hadn't made the same mistake. The relief was swiftly followed by a profound sadness. How could she be so far removed from her daughter's life? She could have been a grandmother, without knowing.

The crowd was almost gone. In another few minutes, they must walk out the gates, and turn their different ways. Neither mother nor daughter knew how to break the barriers of the past.

"Kate says you had an impressive record collection."

Nail was smiling down at Pat with understanding and compassion. He seems close to Kate, she thought. Maybe he knows. "I suppose I still do."

"You still have them? All those old records I remember?" Kate's face broke into a broad smile.

"I could never bring myself to throw them out." They were packed with so many other memories in a dusty box under her bed.

"Do you think," Neil's voice was tentative, his eyes moving from Mother to daughter and back again, "that maybe some day we... Kate and I... could come round and listen to them. I'd be really keen to hear some of the old ones."

Pat could have reached up and kissed the tall young man. She immediately forgot the too long hair and the earring. She even forgave the tattoo. If only...

"Yeah. That would be cool. Can we Mum?"

Pat's heart soared. Her daughter had called her Mum. How she had missed that word.

"Of course you can." Pat had to bite her tongue. When, she wanted to ask. Next weekend, she wanted to plead, or tomorrow! But she didn't dare. "Why don't you call me?" She tried to sound as much a friend as a mother.

"OK." Kate sounded cautious, but pleased.

Neil pulled a mobile phone from the recesses of his leather jacket. As he keyed in her number, Pat began a careful re-assessment of this surprising stranger. Earring and tattoo notwithstanding, she decided she liked this young man. Liked him a lot.

As they talked, their steps now took them inexorably towards the gate and their parting. As she stood there, not certain what to stay, Pat felt tears pricking the back of her eyes. More than anything in the world, she wanted to take her daughter in her arms and hold her the way she'd dreamed on so many lonely nights. But her daughter wasn't a child any more. New beginnings are fragile things, easily lost or broken. Maybe...

Strong arms engulfed Pat in a hug. "We'll see you soon, I promise." The words were barely whispered in their soft Irish lilt.

"Thank-you." Pat hoped he understood how grateful she was.

"Bye Mum." Kate hesitated for just a second, then with a quick smile, she took Neil's hand, and they turned towards the station. Pat watched until they were lost to her view, then turned her own feet towards home. Her step was lighter than it had been just a few hours ago, and she was singing.

Some years ago, I went to see the great Neil Young and Crazy Horse perform at a festival in Finsbury Park. It rained all day – but it was worth it. The concert was amazing and renewed my love for live music.

Like stories, music has the ability to touch people. I have laughed and danced and cried my way through so many concerts.

This was the second story I sold, but the first to actually be published. I cried the day my copy arrived.

New Beginnings

Faded window shutters hung at sad angles. Cracks scarred the faded paint. Dust coated the floors. Once upon a time, it had been a marvellous thing, crafted with care and pride and love, but now the doll's house was old and shabby.

"This won't bring much," the trader thought, setting it on the ground. Even for a car boot sale, it was pretty tatty. Still, a couple of pounds was better than nothing. As with all the leftover rubbish from his antiques shop, he'd take whatever he could get.

A long line of cars and vans filed past, covering the doll's house with a new layer of dust.

Ken pulled into his usual spot. He opened the back of his old estate car, propping the tailgate open with a piece of rough timber carefully chosen for just that function. With the ease of much practice, his smiling wife unfolded the wooden table. Humming softly, the man reached for a box of vegetables.

The young couple barely made it. The efficient woman with the floppy perm pulled the gate shut behind them, declaring, "No more room for sellers. Sorry Folks. Maybe next week."

They parked under the large oak tree, next to Ken and the strange assortment of old lawnmowers he was now unloading from the back of his car. He smiled at the little girl and nodded to her parents, as they too began unpacking the goods they'd brought for sale.

The first customers were traders. Before the gates opened to the public, the 'professionals' toured the site, paying a few pennies for things they'd later sell at a profit.

The young couple looked uncomfortable as the traders picked over their wares. They exchanged embarrassed glances as they turned down the pitiful offers.

"Good for you," Ken thought. "The real punters are just arriving. Hang on, and you'll do better."

The smell of frying bacon wafted across the car boot site. Ken sniffed deeply and turned to find his wife was way ahead of him, waving as she set off in search of breakfast.

"Marrows. A luverly bit'a marrow, just 50 p." His almost musical cry greeted the first buyers through the gates.

He heard a giggle, and saw the little dark-haired girl watching. He winked broadly at her, as he pocketed the takings from his first sale. At 30p each, the vegetables wouldn't bring a fortune. But the growers, retired friends of his, appreciated the few extra pounds.

The bargain seekers were already out in force.

"Shall we start here?" a teenage girl asked her Mum.

"OK." One turned left, the other right, and in seconds they had lost each other.

"Remember, just what we came for, nothing else" a man admonished his wife, as she looked the line of stalls, her eyes alight with shopping frenzy.

A smiling child ran past clutching a giant green blow-up alien. The sale was underway.

"It's too much." At the next stall, the woman's voice was overly loud. "I'll pay one pound."

"Sorry, but I'd like three." The young mother's voice was marked with something approaching desperation.

With a derisive snort, the customer moved off. The younger woman looked upset, as she repositioned the small glass statue in her display.

"It's all right love," Ken smiled at her. "You get a few like that."

She smiled back. "I'm new to this - but I suppose you've already guessed that."

"You get all sorts here. After a while, you'll recognise them."

"What do you mean?" Her husband joined the conversation.

"Well, there's some shop here because they can't afford new things. The rich ones usually want to get something for next to nothing. They're tough. You need to be tougher."

The young couple exchanged worried glances.

"But most," Ken hastened to reassure them, "are just here for a fun day out, and maybe to find something interesting. They're what makes this such a treat."

"You sound like an old hand." The young man looked suddenly concerned. "Where's Emma?"

Both parents turned quickly to look. Their daughter was nearby, gazing at the old doll's house.

"Emma," her mother went to her. "Remember, you promised not to wander off. If you are really, really good, you can have an ice-cream at the end of the day."

"Yes, Mummy." But the little girl's eyes stayed fixed on the dolls house even after she took her seat beside her mother.

By early afternoon, the sale was over. Ken's produce was all sold. So too was a lawnmower. The young couple re-packed their unsold goods.

Emma watched the trader reclaim the doll's house. He stowed it in his van alongside the unsold wooden picture frames and boxes of china and glass.

The family waved a friendly goodbye to Ken, then left via the ice cream truck.

The young couple arrived earlier the next week, and were directed to a site across the path from Ken. They waved a greeting, which he returned.

"Tomatoes, folks. Luverly 'ome grown tomatoes. Just 50p a bag."

Three people dashed past, a TV camera crew trailing after. An excited buzz ran through the stall holders. Not just fortune; fame also now beckoned.

"The secret," Ken confided to his new friends over a midmorning cup of his wife's tea, "is to have something that no-one else has. For me, it's the produce. Brings people in. Then I can convince them they really want a lawnmower. You need something unique to make a go of this."

"Oh, we're not doing this forever," the young woman said. "We're just trying to get rid of some things. We don't have a lot of money, and well... it seemed wicked to just throw it away."

The older man understood. He had noticed the age of their car, and the lines of worry on the young man's face. "Where's Emma?"

"Over there," her mother sighed. "She's been pestering us about that thing all week."

The little girl was staring at the old doll's house, her face shining as her mind pushed past the dust and the stains, and saw what lay beneath.

Only the arrival of a customer with a particularly friendly three-legged dog distracted her.

"What happened to him? Does it hurt? How does he chase rabbits?" The mysteries of life on three legs consumed Emma while her mother sold some books to the dog's master.

When she looked back, the doll's house was gone!

The sky darkened and huge raindrops pelted down. Sellers rushed to cover their wares. A youth hurried past, protecting a battered electric guitar under his coat.

Emma retired to her parents' car. When the sun re-emerged a few minutes later, she didn't. Ken waved as the car pulled away at the close of trading. The child waved back, but didn't smile.

A man and his son walked past, carefully toting an aged wooden school desk, stained by ink and scarred by generations of puppy love.

"What is it this week? More tomatoes? Cabbages?" Emma's mother greeted the Ken with a happy smile.

"Leeks, and for a special few... " He produced an apple, polished it on his shirt, and presented it with a flourish to the dark-haired girl.

"Thank-you." Emma perched quietly on a box, eyes searching for the second hand dealer.

"This is our last time," Emma's mother was eager to share good news. "We're moving." Her voice suggested this was a far better future than she had dared hope.

"Thing's haven't been too good lately," she confided. "My husband was laid off, and work's hard to find. Now his brother's found him a job, up north. A house too, at least till we find our own place."

"I'm happy for you."

The day passed faster then most. Ken was busy. Buyers wanted both leeks and lawnmowers. There'd be an extra pint at the end of this sale.

Before breaking camp, he glanced across the way. The car was already packed. The mother was waiting.

"Did you sell everything?"

"Just about. My husband is taking the last bits to the traders. We've got some money to help us move. And it's been fun."

"Where's Emma?"

"With her Dad."

"I have something ... give me a minute." He ducked back to his car, and returned with a box. "I just wanted to check this was OK, before I showed her..."

"Ooohhh!"

Too late. A few yards ahead of her returning father, Emma had already seen the contents of the battered cardboard box. Smiling ruefully, the Ken lifted out the doll's house.

The walls gleamed crisp white, and the new window shutters were blue. The front door was also blue, with a tiny brass knob. Red velvet curtains hung in the windows.

Eyes shining, Emma moved around the back. "Can I?"

"Of course."

The little girl opened the back of the house. Each room was freshly painted in bright yellows and pinks and greens. There was carpet and a table and chairs, and beds on the upper floors.

"It's so beautiful." Emma's voice was soft with awe.

"All it needs now is some dolls to live in it." Ken cast a questioning eye at the parents before kneeling down beside the daughter. "Have you got any dolls Emma?"

"I've got a lot of dolls."

"Do you think they might like to live here?"

"Oh, yes."

"Then, why don't you take this home with you, for your dolls."

Emma's face lit with joy. She looked at her Mother. "Can I Mummy?"

The young woman nodded, her eyes bright. As Ken stood up, she planted a kiss on his cheek.

"This is really too much," her husband said. "I should..."

Ken waved away the younger man's offer. "I like to fix things. My wife likes to sew." He held out his hand. "Good luck in your new home."

"Thank-you."

Emma's eyes didn't leave her new treasure, as her father loaded first the doll's house, then the child safely into the car. She was still gazing at it as their car disappeared.

Smiling, Ken returned to his wife and car."I'll see you next week," he called to the gatekeeper, as he drove away.

I’d never seen anything like a car boot sale until I came to England. What fun they are! All those bits and pieces on sale. There's always the chance of a bargain. Of finding that one unusual thing that is just perfect for… something.

The last time we moved house, rather than throw away stuff we didn’t want – we set up a table at a car boot. That's when I realised that the objects on display are more than just things – they are people's stories.

I started writing this story sitting under a tree at that car boot sale. Then, on the way home, we stopped for a nice lunch, paid for with the proceeds of our little stall.

The Last Dragon

Clare saw the first dragon as she crossed the Severn River. It was on a bridge pylon. It wasn’t breathing fire at passing motorists, as a dragon should. No. It was a painted dragon, welcoming her to Wales.

The second dragon was in the pub where she stopped for lunch. This was a brewer's dragon, advertising the local ale. She tried half a pint. It was good beer.

After that, Clare seemed to see dragons everywhere. On road signs. In tourist shops. On T-shirts when she stopped to buy petrol and a map. Well, what had she expected? This was Wales after all. And weren’t dragons the reason she had come? The fluffy red toys in the tourist shops were less frightening than the dragon inside the folder on the back seat of the car.

At least the pub wasn't named after a dragon. It was called "The Lamb". "Dragon fodder, perhaps," Clare thought as she pulled into the car park. The rental agent had said she would see the cottage from here. Perhaps that was it. A single building was faintly visible in the valley that sloped down to the broad dark waters of the bay. There was nothing but a few sheep beyond the cottage. No beach to attract the tourists. No fishing boats. Just the dull mud flats and the wide sweep of the bay. On the other side of the valley, a steep headland was topped by a huge mound of rock.

It was isolated. It was deathly quiet. It was perfect.

"Good evening. What can I get you?" The landlord’s smile was warm and welcoming. Clare smiled back. She knew there was no answering warmth in her eyes. That knowledge merely added to her sadness.

"Good evening. My name is Clare Anderson. I’ve rented the Bayside Cottage for a few days, and was told to pick the keys up here."

"Of course. Would you like a drink, while we do the paperwork?"

"Actually, coffee would be nice. It's been a long drive."

"Coffee it is."

He was back in a moment with a cup and a set of keys.

"It’s a bit late in the season for it be rented.. It’s starting to get chilly." He paused. Clare could read the question in his eyes, but there was no way she could give him an answer.

"My wife was down there earlier today," he continued after a few moments. "She aired the place, and checked the heating. Are you right for supplies? The village store will be shut by now. But perhaps we can organise something for you."

"I've brought my own supplies." Even to her own ears, it sounded abrupt. Clare forced a smile to her face. This man shouldn’t have to suffer for her mood. "Thank-you for your help."

"You’re welcome. Do drop in any night for a pint."

"I’ll do that." But she knew she wouldn’t.

The cottage was a pleasant surprise. It was old, but well maintained. It was also clean and warm, thanks, no doubt, to the publican’s wife. The ceiling was low, with beams blackened by decades of smoke from the fireplace. Clare could easily imagine the cottage as a haven for smugglers in days of yore. She smiled at this flight of fancy. Her imagination was starting to run away with her. Good. That was what this trip was all about.

She unloaded her car, stacking the supplies in the kitchen. The last items to come in were a folder containing typed pages, and a bundle of watercolour paints, paper and pencils.

Clare didn't even glance at those tools of her trade, as she fixed a light supper. She was an illustrator of children's books. Not rich or famous, but good at her work, which she enjoyed with a passion. For the past three months, however, her artist’s materials had remained virtually untouched. She had been sunk in the depths of despair since a motorway smash claimed the lives of both her parents.

Clare had been very close to her mother and father. She was an only child, and even as an adult, she’d visited them often. The joy had gone from her life on the day they died. She missed their love, their advice and encouragement. The grief she couldn’t shake had also taken away something else - her work

Clare’s parents had been proud of her talent, and encouraged her. Without them, she was lost. How could she draw images for children's stories, when that crash had taken away the last vestiges of her own childhood?

Her friends had tried to help. They'd offered sympathy, company and shoulders to cry upon. Clare still felt almost guilty about refusing their kindness. It had been easier to say no to the offers from her few remaining relatives. Distant in both the physical and emotional senses, they were neither surprised nor offended by her withdrawal. All she really wanted or needed, Clare had decided, was to be alone.

So she had come to this isolated spot. There was a manuscript in that folder lying on a chair. An epic tale of heroism.... of knights and dragons and beautiful princesses. It was a story to delight any small child. Clare had one more week to illustrate the tale, or the author and publisher would turn elsewhere. She wouldn’t blame them. The few sketches she’d tried in the past few weeks had been lifeless and dull. Like the endless days she was now living.

She desperately hoped things would be different in this place. Wales was full of dragons. She would find inspiration. Her muse would return. Starting tomorrow!

Exhausted, Clare burrowed deep into the warm bed and slept, dreamlessly.

Early next morning, Clare set up her easel in the bright front room of the cottage. She opened the door and windows to let the breeze blow through, bringing with it the gentle sounds and smells of the valley and the bay. She spread her watercolours and pencils around her, picked up the manuscript, and began to read.

Three hours later, she finally gave up. Pages from the sketchpad lay scattered around her. There were incomplete drawings of knights and dragons and princesses. None of them, Clare knew, was any good. They were cold. No passion. No imagination. She picked one up. Call that a dragon? No self-respecting hero would ride such a beast into battle against the terrible forces of evil.

Clare sighed deeply, and buried her face in her hands. She was beginning to suspect that the decision to come to this remote spot had been wrong. That there was nothing here for her.

Disgusted with herself, and depressed, Clare decided some fresh air would clear her head. A walk. But not just anywhere. She pulled out a tourist map. There it was - Worm's Head. A sleeping dragon on a headland, and not very far away. She’d go there for fresh air. Perhaps the dragon would speak to her. That could be the inspiration she needed.

The tourist season was pretty much over and the car park at Worm’s Head was almost empty. The wind was cold, pulling at her coat and scarf as she began walking along the headland.

A jagged collection of rocks, reached out into the cold grey sea. Clare could see how it got its name. The long arch of the dragon's neck. The shape of its lowered head as it slept. But despite her desire to see more, it remained just a pile of rocks. She stood for many minutes, looking over the waves, but there was nothing here for her.

Walking back to her car, she spotted some half-buried beams of rotting timber on the beach.

Clare was breathing heavily from exertion when she reached them, still not certain why she’d felt the urge to climb down to the beach. Slowly she put out a hand to touch the dark waterlogged timbers.

It was as if someone had opened the floodgates to her memory.

Suddenly she was a child again. She could hear her father’s tale of a brave ship lured to its doom by wreckers hunting salvage. She remembered sword fights on beaches just like this one, as she battled the smugglers (cunningly disguised as her father). Then she was the princess, rescued by the brave knight, who also looked a lot like her father. She remembered the soft sound of her mother’s voice as she wove the magic around a child’s heart.

Once more, grief at her parent’s death overwhelmed her with a pain so fierce she could barely draw breath. Clare dropped to the sand, the sound of her sobbing lost as the wind whipped the sea spray around her. For many, many minutes, she knelt and cried for what she had lost. When her emotions were spent, Clare gathered her coat tightly against the chill, and made her way slowly back to her car.

Clare was feeling unusually restless as she drove back towards her isolated cottage. As she approached the village, her eyes were drawn to the pub. "The Lamb" looked so cosy. It almost beckoned to her. There would be a fire blazing in the bar. And another welcoming smile on the landlord's face. Clare suddenly realised that she was reluctant to go back to the lonely cottage. She had good excuses to visit the pub. With no fire, the cottage would be cold. She'd missed lunch, and the publican's wife would probably make her a sandwich. What Clare didn't admit to herself was that, for the first time in weeks, she no longer wanted to hide. At last she felt the need for some human company.

There was a fire burning. And yes, of course the publican's wife could fix her a something to eat.

"Are you all right, dear? You look a little pale."

"Yes. I'm fine. Thank-you." Embarrassed, Clare brushed a hand across her face. "It must be the cold and the wind. I was just out on the headland."

"Worm's Head." The woman nodded. "It's chilly on a day like this."

"Yes. But it was quite beautiful."

"It is that. And here's just the man to tell you all about it," the publican's wife was smiling at an elderly man who was just walking through the door. "Eryl Jones has lived here all his life. He'll tell you a tale or two."

"No. Really. I just stopped for a moment." Clare felt something akin to panic. She didn't want to get stuck in a tedious conversation with some garrulous old man. And he might ask questions about her. Questions she wasn't ready to answer yet.

"It's all right love," the older woman nodded reassuringly. "He's a nice man. You might even enjoy his stories. Come here, Eryl Jones, and meet the young lady from London who's renting the cottage. She's just been up to the Head."

"The Worm. Now, there's a place." The man took off his hat as slid carefully onto the stool beside Clare. "Have you heard about the smugglers, girl? And wreckers too. The worm has seen them all."

Clare looked into the man's face. She saw nothing there but kindness. And a storyteller's yearning to share his tales. There was something in that look that reminded her...

"I imagine it has, Mr Jones. Would you sit with me a while, and tell me a tale or two?"

"Why, of course. Now, do you know about the greatest storm to hit these parts? The best part of a century ago it was......."

When the landlady returned with Clare's sandwich a few minutes later, she noted that the anguished lines around the young woman's eyes had faded just a little. The too pale face was now warmed by a smile, as she listened to the old man's tales.

It was late afternoon when Clare arrived back at the cottage. She felt more relaxed than she'd been in a long time. She lit the fire, and made a steaming cup of tea, still smiling occasionally at the memory of the old man's tales of storms and smugglers, of wrecks and rescues. She curled herself on the coach, looking out of the window to the headland, where the sinking sun was weaving strange patterns into the rocks.

Clare felt a welcome stillness come over her. She had felt no peace since her parent's deaths. But something had changed today. Was it the emotional torrent on the beach, or perhaps some kind of gentle magic in the old man's voice? For the first time in many weeks, the dreadful pain and yearning had stopped.

Clare let her eyes roam over the headland outside her window. They came to rest on the rock formation at its peak. Somehow, it seemed different. Its shape. It was almost organic. It looked... She shook her head. It looked almost as if the rock had moved. No. It must have been a trick of the light.

But there. See. It did move. Clare watched in amazement as the shape slowly uncurled, raising a broad head against the deepening evening sky. Then the whole headland seemed to heave, as the wondrous creature stretched its wings. The dragon raised its noble head and gazed out at the setting sun. The heavens were calling, but it remained earthbound. It turned its gaze towards the land, looking and listening for something. For someone.

Then a smaller shape appeared beside the creature. This was a man. A man who knew the creature well. Slowly the great dragon lowered its head, and the man placed his hand on the broad forehead in a brief caress. With a movement of unconscious grace, the warrior slid onto the dragon’s broad back. He settled on its shoulders, and two beings became one. A moment later the dragon launched itself into the sky. One sweep of its mighty wings, and it was gone into the blackness.

Clare sat transfixed. She shook her head. Had her eyes deceived her? She must have fallen asleep. There was the huge rock on the headland. As it had always been. Dragons weren’t real, not even in Wales.

But Clare knew what she had seen. She had to climb that headland. The rising moon would light her way.

Her trek across the valley was brought to a halt by a broad deep gash in the ground, with a fast flowing stream in the bottom. She looked around, but there was no way to cross. Clare worked her way back to the cottage, determined not to lose the image that was still glowing in her mind’s eye. She reached for her pencils as soon as she stepped inside the door.

Clare never really knew how late she worked that night. She barely remembered falling into bed in the small hours of the new day, exhausted.

When she awoke, the despair that had been her constant companion these past weeks was gone. Her grief was still there. It always would be. But it no longer weighed her down. Clare rose from bed feeling refreshed for the first time since her parents’ deaths.

As she walked into the living room, Clare stopped in something close to astonishment. Drawings of dragons and knights littered the room. It was her work of the night before.

Clare picked up a watercolour painting and held it to the light. The deep eyes of the dragon seemed to blaze up at her. The illustration was good. Very good. These were probably the best she had ever done. There would be more. Clare reached deep inside herself, and knew that her muse had, indeed, returned. Her eyes moved to the window. Outside, the headland reared tall against the clear blue sky. At its peak, the dark shape of the rock loomed darkly, as it always had. Rock and nothing more.

That morning, Clare packed her things. It was time she went back to London. Back to her life, her friends and her work. She stopped at the pub to hand back the keys.

"Is anything wrong?", asked the surprised publican.

"Not at all. It was lovely. But I have to get back to London." Clare paid the full week’s rent on the cottage, but paused as she was leaving. "That headland, with the big rock. Does it have a name?"

"The rock? No. Not that I know of. The only headland worthy of a name around here is Worm's Head. My wife tells me that you talked to Eryl Jones, so you'd know all about the Worm now."

"A little bit", Clare agreed, as she took her leave.

Before she went home, there was something Clare had to do. A mile down the road, she parked the car. Shaking her head at the impulse that drove her, she got out and climbed through the fence.

Clare was about halfway to the headland, when she saw the man walking towards her. He was just a silhouette against the sky, but she knew him. Of course he would be here. She stopped, waiting for him to come to her.

"Hey! You! What are you doing here?" The voice was hard, uneducated and uncouth.

"I was just.... I wanted to get out onto the headland."

"Well, you can't." The man had drawn close to her now. "Get off. And close the gate behind you. Damned tourist." The man was as rude and dirty as his manner.

So, this was her hero. Her valiant knight.

"Sorry. My mistake." She turned to walk back to the car. For a moment she was disappointed, then laughter began to bubble up in her throat.

What would the man think of the paintings and sketches stowed so carefully in her car? Could he ever see himself as she had seen him - a handsome and noble knight. Should she tell him that he was her muse? Clare looked over her shoulder, to where the man stood. He raised a hand in a vaguely threatening gesture as she left his land. This time she laughed out loud.

Clare was still smiling as she waved goodbye to the last dragon, on his bridge pylon, as she crossed the river, and turned towards London.

This was my first fiction accepted for publication.

I wrote it after a visit to the Gower Peninsula, in Wales. Our lovely B&B pub, The Lamb, overlooked a bay with a small white cottage near the sand, and a large rocky headland. It was very much as it is described in the story.

And there really was a dragon… honestly.

The Romance Writer

Sarah heard the girls giggling as she opened the office door. The students huddled at the end of the corridor had been in her office a few minutes ago to collect some papers for their Year 9 history class. Whatever was amusing them, she was certain it wasn't history notes.

The girls were so intent on what they were doing, they didn't hear her approach.

"Girls. What's so funny?"

The girls started guiltily, and one crumpled the papers she held in her hand.

"What's that Kirsty?"

"Nothing Miss Tate."

"Then you won't mind if I have a look." Sarah held out her hand.

Amazingly the teenager blushed as she handed over the papers. Something was definitely amiss.

Sarah smoothed the pages and cast her eyes over the printing.

...silken hair flowed through his fingers like a river of gold. She didn’t move as he ran his fingertips down the long white column of her neck, feeling the powerful pulse beating there. Her brilliant green eyes flashed a challenge that he was powerless to deny...

Dragging her eyes away from the words, Sarah turned the pages. There were four pages of history notes plus an extra two pages that were most definitely not schoolwork. Wordlessly, she held out her hand to collect the other sets of notes. The girls handed them over with obvious reluctance. Sarah flicked through the pages. They were all the same.

"There's obviously been a mistake," she said calmly. "Kirsty, come with me and I'll give you new copies. The rest of you should be in class by now. Go."

"Yes Miss Tate," chorused those lucky enough to escape.

Back in her office, Sarah dropped the papers on her desk and thought quickly. "I think the best thing to do will be to simply remove the last two pages," she said to the girl hovering just inside the door.

Kirsty didn't say anything while Sarah quickly accomplished the task. After one final check that this time all was as it should be, Sarah handed over the notes.

"Off you go Kirsty. Please tell your teacher you were delayed while I finished the notes, and apologise for me."

"Yes Miss Tate." The girl vanished, closing the office door behind her.

Safely alone in the privacy of her office, Sarah reached for the offending pages and started to read, feeling her face flush as the passionate encounter unfolded in front of her. She had been wrong in thinking that the pages had nothing to do with history. The clothing being dishevelled was definitely of a bygone era.

Sarah almost cried out with disappointment when she reached the bottom of the second page. She had to know how it ended! Did the lovers consummate their desire? Did they live happily ever after? Sarah sighed, and dropped the pages back onto her desk.

Sarah had a secret. She loved romance novels. The bookshelves in her small flat groaned under the weight of the lives and loves played out on the pages of her many books. From Jane Austen to Bridget Jones, Sarah had shared their pain and their joy. As a plain and shy teenager, she had retreated into books for her romance and discovered a love that proved far more lasting than any of the boys she had dated.

It was not something she had shared with anyone at the school. Not that she was ashamed, exactly. She just felt that the teachers who read and taught such literary works might look down at their office assistant who read romance.

She picked up the two pages from her desk. They were very good; easily as good as anything on her bookshelves. In just two pages, she had become so involved in the characters that she just had to find out what happened. But she didn't know where those two pages had come from.

Perhaps she could find out.

Most of the paper that came into her office was from the teachers - notes and tests they needed her to copy for their classes. She kept them in folders on the bench next to the copy machine. The Year 9 history notes were in the third folder from the top. She opened it and carefully flicked through the pages. There they were, two pages of passionate romance attached to the notes on the Napoleonic war.

Sarah took a closer look at the two pages. They were not numbered. Nor was there any heading. They pages looked like part of a raw manuscript straight from the writer's computer. The history teacher's computer? Could the history teacher be writing romance novels?

The mere thought caused Sarah to drop suddenly into her chair. The history teacher? Lee Barnett? MISTER Lee Barnett!

He was Sarah's second secret.

Lee Barnett was new to the school. He had arrived at the beginning of term to replace a teacher who left. Sarah met him in his first day. He was about thirty and quite good looking. At least she thought he was good looking. Not flashy, like some film star. He had nice eyes, and when he smiled his whole face joined in, causing Sarah's heart to flutter like a heroine in one of her books.

They had talked in the course of their work, but that was all. He was polite and friendly towards all the staff, but he didn't seem to be particularly close to anyone. Sarah had sneaked a look at his staff file, and knew he wasn't married. She had never heard any gossip about a girlfriend. Lee Barnett seemed almost as quiet and shy as Sarah.

Except... he apparently wrote historical romances. Sarah read the words again. Such beautiful words. Looking at Mr Barnett, she would never have suspected such passion. Oh how she wished...

Sarah bit back that thought and wondered what on earth she was going to do. Mr Barnett was in class at the moment. She wondered if he had even noticed the missing pages. If he hadn't, he soon would. She should give them back to him. But then he would know that she'd read them. Know that she knew...

Her courage faltered at the very thought.

Sarah was still undecided when the bell rang for the lunch break. She headed for the staff lunch room, leaving the precious pages safely stowed in her bottom drawer.

Mr Barnett was also in the lunchroom, sitting in a corner, a book in one hand and a sandwich in the other. He looked up as Sarah entered, and for a moment their eyes met. Did she see something there, or was it simply wishful thinking? Slightly flustered, Sarah sat at a table with two other teachers, and hovered on the edge of their conversation about a new movie showing at the local cinema.

When the bell rang for the next class, Sarah left quickly to seek the refuge of her office.

She had barely settled, when a light tap sounded on the open door.

"May I come in?" His voice was deep and gentle.

"Of course Mr Barnett."

He closed the door behind him, "As there are no students about, surely you can call me Lee."

"Ok, Lee." The silence seemed very loud. "You don't have a class this period?"

"No. No, I don't." Lee seemed awfully big in her tiny office. He moved around a little, touching the shelves, resting his hand on the copy machine.

Sarah couldn't help but replay the words he'd written. How she wished she had long fair hair that would flow like molten gold through a man's fingers. Or a swelling bosom that would catch a man's - this man's - breath in his throat.

She could simply tell him she had the pages. But somehow the words just wouldn't come. How do you tell a six foot tall man that you know of his secret life writing historical romances? And to admit she had read his passionate words would be beyond her.

"Thank-you for copying the Year 9 notes," he said.

"You're welcome... Lee." His name sounded good on her lips.

"Do you still have the originals?"

"Of course." She handed over the folder, wishing as she did that she had put the novel pages back inside.

Lee opened the folder and quickly glanced at the contents. Sarah thought she saw a flash of disappointment on his face. For an instant she considered saying nothing. He would just walk away and it would be over. But that wouldn't be right.

She opened her drawer and held out the pages.

"I think these might be yours."

He barely glanced at the pages as he took them. "Yes, they are." He slipped the pages into the folder with the history notes.

Was she imaging it, or did his face colour?

"I assumed you gave them to me by mistake."

"I did. I am so glad you didn't include them in the history notes you copied for my class."

"Well..." Sarah couldn't lie.

"Oh."

"It's all right," Sarah hastened to add. "I found them and got them back. But a couple of the girls did read them. Sorry."

"No. Don't be sorry." Lee assured her. "It's my fault, not yours. I just hope the girls didn't realise I wrote them. That would be embarrassing."

They both laughed, and for an awkward moment there was nothing more to say. Sarah broke the silence.

"Do they live happily ever after?"

"Sorry?"

She nodded at the folder. "Roderick and his fair Kayla."

"Of course," Lee said without hesitation. "I believe in happy ever after. Don't you?"

His eyes were very blue and very expressive.

"Yes. I believe." Sarah answered softly. "I read romances a lot," she hurried on. "Yours is very good."

"Thank you."

"Have you written any others? Had them published?" She could buy one. Or maybe she already had read his books without realising who the author was.

"I've written one other. It will be published this summer," he said, somehow managing to be both proud and bashful at the same time.

"I must buy it," Sarah meant it too. "You could sign it for me."

"Of course," Lee said. He hesitated for a few seconds before continuing. "Would you like to read more of this book?"

"Oh yes," she said eagerly. "I'd love to."

"I would appreciate someone else's opinion on the manuscript, before I send it off." Lee said, smiling at her. "Especially someone who reads a lot of romances."

"I'd be happy to." Sarah felt a little breathless. Almost as if she herself was part of some romantic scene.

"Then I would like to buy you dinner. To say thank you." Lee's smile lit the room.

"I'd like that."

Just then, the bell sounded.

"I've got a class now," Lee said. "Would Friday be all right? For dinner. I could give you some chapters to read."

"Friday would be fine."

With a smile and a nod he was gone.

Sarah sat behind her desk, her hand resting Lee's folder, which he had forgotten. He should be more careful. She thought about opening it and reading Lee's words again. She didn't. She stowed it carefully in her bottom drawer, her thoughts turning to the opening chapter of her own romance.

Writing is a very solitary occupation.  Writers spend hours at their desks alone – except for our characters. When we do emerge from our stories, we tend to seek the company of other writers… because no-one else really knows what it's like to spend all day talking to the imaginary people who live in our heads.

I am a member of the Romantic Novelists Association – a group of supportive, intelligent, funny and wonderful women (and a few brave men) – all of whom talk to people inside their heads.

One, who is also a teacher, told me she had almost accidentally put pages from her new novel into her school work. Most of us prefer no-one at all to see our work until it's finished… but on occasion, it's not such a bad thing.

'Tis The Season

"This is going to be a nightmare!"

Ellie touched the accelerator, and pulled the car forward another few inches. Then she braked and waited, staring through the windscreen at the threatening sky. How many days since she last saw the sun? Curse the English weather! Those pretty Christmas cards with cheerful robins on white frosted branches were false advertising. All she had seen was rain, sleet and more rain.

She glanced at her watch. Not yet ten o'clock. The supermarket wasn't even open and the car park queue already stretched back into the street. She had thought coming early was a good idea.

"There's nothing good about shopping on Christmas Eve," she muttered under her breath. "Oh, look out. Idiot!" The louder comment was directed at a man trying to squeeze his Volvo into the queue ahead of her. Determined not to make the morning worse by getting into a fight, Ellie made way for him, then followed him into the almost full car park.

"As for those who can't manage to park inside the white lines..." Ellie steered carefully around cars and people until she found a space, about as far from the supermarket doors as it was possible to get. She turned the engine off, and took a deep breath. She wasn't even inside the store, and already she could feel her stress levels rising.

"Bah, humbug!" She whispered, hunching her shoulders against the chill as she locked the car door. She didn't hate Christmas. She simply hated THIS Christmas.

As she dashed across the car park, she slipped on a patch of ice, smashing her knee against the side of a car. Rubbing the bruise, Ellie staggered into the shelter of the supermarket entrance, accepting yet another blow in a Christmas that was totally horrid. She wanted none of it - no cards, no carols, no turkey and certainly no bread sauce!

Ellie pulled a trolley from the rack, expecting at least one broken wheel. As if frightened of her mood, the trolley obediently moved in the right direction. The automatic doors slip open to reveal...

"Oh, no!"

The supermarket was heaving with people. A few feet in front of her, the fruit and veg department was a traffic jam of trolleys and prams. The faces of the other shoppers told Ellie everything she didn't want to know - and her shopping list was very very long. There was nothing else for it, she stepped through the doorway and into the melee.

Potatoes, sprouts, parsnips and carrots.

Would that be enough? Maybe she should get broccoli too. What about Peter? Her youngest brother-in-law was difficult about food. What vegetables did he eat? She had been told, but of course she hadn't written it down. And now she had forgotten. Too bad. He could eat whatever she served, or else go hungry!.

Cooking Christmas dinner for her new family wasn't a bad idea, as such. There were just so many of them. She knew when she married David that he came from a large family, and she liked them. Really she did. But Christmas dinner for eleven!

Turkey.

Just how big should the turkey be to feed eleven people? Well, nine adults and two kids, the offspring of David's oldest brother Jason. Did that mean really it was only 10 people?

Ellie stood gazing at the mountain of birds in front of her. Frozen or unfrozen? There wouldn't be time to defrost a big turkey overnight. Would there? She had no idea. She'd never cooked a turkey before. She wasn't even certain exactly what she was supposed to do with the bacon.

This was all David's fault!

When she agreed, somewhat cautiously, to host the family Christmas dinner, David had promised her all the help in the world. "Don't worry about the dinner," he said. "I'll help." And where was he? Off on some urgent, last minute business trip and not due home until this afternoon. What sort of new husband went on a business trip this close to Christmas?

Ellie sighed, and tentatively prodded a turkey.

"Having trouble, dear?"

The woman at her side was old enough to be Ellie's mother. She had grey hair and a kindly face. Her smile was so friendly that Ellie bit back the sharp retort that had sprung automatically to her lips. It wasn't this woman's fault.

"I'm not sure how big the turkey needs to be."

"Oh, that's easy. How many are you feeding?"

"Eleven." The word was a cry of pain.

"Oh, what fun! It's so nice to have the family around at Christmas. How many are children?"

"Just two - five and seven, I think. "At this point, Ellie would have been hard pressed to remember her own age.

"This one should do fine." The woman dropped a big bird into Ellie's trolley. "Don't forget the stuffing and the bread sauce. And mind you use the bones to make soup afterwards. Turkey soup tastes great on a chilly Boxing Day."

"About the bread sauce..." before Ellie could finish, her rescuer was gone, pushed aside by an angry looking woman, dragging a small boy behind her.

"... you don't start behaving yourself, there'll be no Christmas, you hear. Santa will pass our house and ..." A turkey held firmly in one hand and her son in the other, the woman vanished back into the crowd.

The dairy-food aisle was effectively blocked. A young man had parked a pallet of boxes in the middle of the aisle, and was unloading the contents into the refrigerators. As fast as he stacked the cream, shoppers claimed the cartons and moved on. Ellie would never get her trolley down there. She abandoned it, and slipped through a narrow gap.

Milk and cream. Double cream or that clotted stuff? Brandy butter too, whatever that was.

The food was all so different here. Back home in Australia, she'd be serving fresh king prawns and cold ham with salad. They'd be eating mango and pineapple under a blazing summer sky. She wouldn't have to cope with the concept of a hot meal.

Christmas Pudding.

Ellie found the bright boxes in the next aisle. They'd know it wasn't home made, of course. Especially her mother-in-law, Ruth. She'd sniff out the bought cake as well. Ruth had always made her own. She'd offered Ellie the recipe, but Ellie knew such culinary feats were beyond her limited prowess. A bought cake and pudding would have to do.

Ellie felt a twinge of guilt. She was doing David's mother an injustice. Ruth was the best mother-in-law a girl could have. Kind and helpful, without intruding. She would never say a word about a purchased pudding. Wouldn't even think it.

Drinks. Fruit juice.

As Ellie loaded herself with soft beverages, she glanced over at the wines and spirits section. There was barely breathing space for the harassed looking men and women, who were trying to load up with bottles and cans. At least she was spared that. David and his father Allan raced out last week to stock up on port, wine and other Christmas tipples.

That was the day David found out about his trip. It wasn't his fault. Some financial crisis that only he could solve. He couldn't say no and it might mean a promotion. But why did it have to happen just as they were planning their first Christmas together as man and wife? And couldn't it have come a few days earlier, before David had talked her into playing hostess for the famous Henderson family gathering?

Mince pies, chocolates and other sweets.

David's parents topped the guest list. The invitation to his eldest brother Jason naturally included his wife and two children. Youngest brother Peter would come alone, but not sister Clare. She had to bring her boyfriend Joe. When Ellie had tentatively suggested Joe might not be necessary, she learned that Clare was really serious about this latest in a long list of boyfriends. In fact, a Christmas announcement wasn't out of the question!

And that made eleven.

Breakfast cereal. Bread.

As Ellie reached for a loaf, she thought again about the bread sauce. What on earth was bread sauce? In all the Christmases she had enjoyed back home in Australia, nothing called bread sauce had ever crossed her plate. It was, according to David, an English Christmas tradition, and his mother would happily provide the recipe.

No. She wasn't even going to think about bread sauce. Whatever it was, they'd be doing without it this year!

Stuffing, though, was an entirely different matter. Ellie cross-checked her list. She was something of an expert on stuffing. She'd be doing two different types, one with rice and fruit, the other with bread and herbs. She had learned both in her mother's kitchen, many years and so many miles away.

That was the trouble of course. She was depressed because this was her first Christmas away from her family.

Ellie slipped gently into line at the checkout, ignoring the screaming child held over the shoulder of the woman in front of her. As she composed herself for a long wait, her mind wandered to Christmases past. The joy and laughter. The little traditions that made the day special. She would miss all that this year.

Not that she had any regrets. Given a second chance, she would do the same thing - marry the man she loved and follow him to the other side of the world. It was just such a long way from home. They would probably spend next Christmas back in Australia - alternating every year. But knowing that didn't make this first Christmas without her family any easier.

"How are you today?" The check-out woman's question was mechanical. She no more expected an answer than Ellie wanted to give her one. They exchanged nods that spoke louder than words. Neither of them wanted to be in this place on this day. The register began its methodical beeping as one by one Ellie's purchases were passed across the reader and packed into white plastic bags.

Ellie was still digesting the staggering cost of her load as she pushed the overflowing trolley towards the doors. It was too late, but with her whole being she desperately wanted to call off Christmas dinner, go back to bed and pull the covers over her head. She would stay there until the sun shone again, probably in May.

With an asthmatic wheeze the doors slid open, and Ellie walked out into a wonderland.

Soft white flakes wafted gently from the sky. The snow had already covered the dull grey surface of the car park with a pristine beauty. The bright paint of the cars provided a tantalising counterpoint, which was quickly vanishing under coats of white. Children were laughing, their faces upturned, tongues out to catch the falling flakes.

A few flakes drifted under the awning, dropping onto Ellie's grocery bags. Spellbound, she stretched out a finger to catch a flake, which instantly vanished. It was wet! Ellie had never seen snow before. In the land of her birth, snow was restricted to a few mid-winter weeks in the mountains of the far south.

"Now it really does feel like Christmas." It was Ellie's friend from the turkey shelf.

"The snowflakes are so big. I always thought they'd be tiny." Ellie spread her arms wide. "It's simply amazing! Do you think it will last until tomorrow?"

"I do hope so, dear. The children will be so excited. If it keeps up like this, there'll be enough for snowmen and snowball fights. Perfect after that big family dinner of yours."

"Oh, but my family..." Ellie stopped.

She had been about to say that her family was on the other side of the world, spending Christmas Day under summer skies. But she was wrong. Only one part of her family was back in Australia. She had a second family now - David's family was hers too. A new family and new traditions. What a way to start - a white Christmas.

She looked up the gentle white flakes drifting from the cloudy sky. Somewhere above those clouds, David was sitting on a plane, on his way home to her. She glanced at her watch, and then back into the crowded supermarket she had just escaped. Yes, she had time. A genuine smile lit her face as she turned back to the woman at her side.

"It's going to be terrific. But I need your help one more time. Please, can you tell me... just what is bread sauce? And how do I make it?"

Although Australia and England have close ties – it amazed me when I first arrived here how different the two cultures are. I am sure the weather has a lot to do with it. Where I grew up, snow is something that appears on the TV screen, in movies and on Christmas cards.

It took me a few years to get used to the idea of a hot meal for lunch at Christmas. We always had prawns and mangos.

I still have no idea how to make bread sauce.

Genesis II

They were sitting side by side, staring out of the window when it began.

Lani gave a little cry, and her fingers tightened convulsively around the nurse's hand.

"Is this it?" she asked, holding her distended stomach with her other hand.

Fay nodded. "I think so."

Lani's voice shook. "I'm scared." It showed in every line of her face.

The older woman patted the girl's hand. "Don't be frightened. Women have been doing this for thousands of years."

"I know. But not here. Never here."

Fay followed the girl's gaze back to the window and the empty plateau outside. A million stars looked down on the barren landscape from the ink black sky.

"No. Not here," she agreed.

They sat in silence then, as if trying to hold on to their last few moments of peace.

At Lani's next contraction, Fay stood up and reached for the intercom.

The two orderlies were dressed in white coats. They looked almost as nervous as the mother to be. The wheelchair was so new it gleamed.

"I don't want to go!" the girl's voice was quiet but firm.

"It's a bit late now to change your mind," Fay whispered in her ear.

Lani almost smiled. "I don't want to change my mind. I'm just not leaving this room." Her eyes didn't leave the window. "It has to happen here. For both of us."

Fay understood. She signalled the orderlies to leave. They did, with obvious reluctance and Fay caught a flash of something very like anger in the eyes of one. It made her instantly suspicious. For the past few months, she had spent much of her time protecting her patient from the media and from crooks and cranks who were tying to use this important event for their own purposes.

Fay was very glad the orderlies were gone. Lani didn't need any extra pressure.

The Doctor arrived a few minutes later. He was immaculately groomed. His surgical gown looked as if it had been tailor made for the occasion. Fay thought that it probably had. The Doctor was famous for more than just his outstanding medical skill. He liked publicity and this birth was going to make headlines.

"Lani, you're doing just fine," he spoke in careful soothing tones. "It's time to take you down to the theatre now."

"I'm not going to the theatre," Lani said firmly. "I'm staying here."

"We talked about this," the Doctor chastised gently. "This is a mining operation. No-one ever expected us to need a maternity unit. We didn't have enough time to ship in all the things we might need."

Lani had kept her pregnancy a secret well into her fifth month. By the time she finally went to a doctor, it was loo late to send her home to have her baby. Dangerous as it was for her to carry the child in this frontier settlement, the journey home would have carried even more risk.

"The theatre is equipped for any kind of emergency," the doctor argued. "If there are any... complications, you'll be better off there."

"You said everything was all right. Normal!" Fear made Lani's voice shrill.

"And it is," he hastened to reassure her. "I'm certain everything is fine. But, if it isn't..."

"No." Lani turned to the nurse. "Fay, you understand, don't you? I want to stay here. Near the window."

Somewhere out there, the baby's father was doing what men have always done. There was always another mountain to climb, another river to tame, another star to follow. And inevitably they left behind woman to do what women have always done.

Slowly the sliver of silver crept another inch into the sky, and began to show form and colour.

"If she wants to stay - she stays," Fay told the indignant doctor.

He was tempted to argue. Fay could see it in his eyes. But he didn't. He knew when he was beaten. An argument might find its way into the press. Even worse, it would upset his patient at the time she needed calm above all else.

"All right," he said. "But you must let me bring some extra equipment into the room."

Lani agreed to that, but his next suggestion did not please her at all.

"No," she said flatly. "I do not want any drugs. This must be natural."

The doctor could have told her that nothing about this birth was going to be natural. It was about as un-natural as any birth had ever been. But by now, he knew he was beaten. The girl had made up her mind and nothing he could say would change it. He would have the drugs nearby, if she decided the pain was too much. The entire medical facility was on standby. He had done everything to prepare for the very real possibility of something going wrong. There was nothing else he could do but wait. And pray.

Nothing went wrong.

Lani's child entered the world with a minimum of fuss. It seemed but an instant between the mother's first cry of real pain, and the child's cry as it sucked air for the first time into tiny lungs.

Fay's eyes were wet with tears as she wrapped the perfect little girl in a blanket. Dark curls framed a soft face and two huge dark eyes. "She's beautiful," Fay said as she handed the child to her mother.

"I was going to call her Eve," Lani whispered so softly that only Fay could hear. "But Eve belongs to another place and time."

Fay nodded her agreement.

"Did you know I was born on an island?" Lani could almost have been talking to herself.

"Were you?"

"Yes. A tiny island, in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. That's where my ancestors lived. They were great travellers. They explored half the world in tiny boats. My full name is Lulani. In the language of my ancestors, it means the highest point in the heavens." Her voice trailed into silence, and Fay thought she had fallen asleep.

"Tala," Lani's sleepy voice said. "She was their moon goddess. I will call her Tala."

Fay sat by window as her patient slept. Lani had declined the doctor's suggestion of a sleeping pill, and drifted naturally into sleep after the easiest birth that Fay had seen in more than thirty years of nursing. Was that the gift of this place, Fay wondered? Would all the women who followed Lani receive the same blessing?

She held baby Tala in her arms, listening to the tiny sounds the babe made as she began touching the world around her with tiny clenched fists. They were sounds Fay hadn't heard since she left her home five years before. They were sounds never before heard in this place.

The blue and white globe hung in the inky sky. Through the thin cloud layer, Fay could make out the shape of the continents. At least, she thought she could. The planet's reflected light shone through the window and onto the crib, and onto the sleeping babe who would be the first human not to call Earth her home.

As a child – I devoured pulp science fiction short stories written by the likes of Isaac Asimov and Arthur C Clarke. They were all scientists as well as writers. Much as I loved sci-fi, I always thought I could never write it… because I don't have the science for it.

Then I learned that sci-fi isn't about science – like all good stories – it's all about the characters. The science is just the circumstance of their lives.

I decided perhaps I could, after all, write a sci-fi story.

Snapshot in Time

The camera was older than Liz - by a long stretch. The sign above the shop window grandly promised 'Antiques and Objets D'art'. Second-hand goods might be a more accurate description. The unkind would call it junk, but the camera caught her attention and held it.

The brown leather case was a little scuffed but otherwise the old Kodak looked in good order. As a professional photographer, Liz could almost convince herself she had a good reason to look at the camera. It wasn't just an excuse to avoid the next shop window.

Sighing, Liz turned back to the brilliant array of rings in the jeweller's window. Last night wasn't the first time Stewart had asked - but one of these times, it might be the last. Liz wasn't sure she was ready to marry him, but she didn't want to lose him. If she didn't give him an answer soon...

Now her thoughts were straying in a direction she didn't want to go. Time for a distraction. Almost of their own accord, Liz's feet turned towards the open door of the antiques shop.

"I'm not sure how old it is," the salesman said as he lifted the camera off the shelf. "But it's in pretty good condition."

"I can see that."

Liz's expert fingers tested for damage. The black fabric of the bellows looked intact. The lens was clear. She judged it to be well over fifty years old, but it still looked in working order. Liz was half convinced that if she clicked the shutter, the resulting photo would be sepia toned, and peopled with characters in the costumes of a bygone era. Such fancy! If suitable film could be found, the photos would show the harsh realities of today.

"I'll take it," she said, fishing in her bag for the few pounds stipulated on the price tag. Back on the street and clutching her prize, Liz very deliberately turned away from the glittering rainbow in the jeweller's window, but in her mind, she still heard Stewart's soft voice.

"Pick a ring, any ring, just say you'll marry me, Liz. Please. I love you."

Her workshop and darkroom filled what used to be the garage. Liz slipped in through the separate entrance, unwilling to face her mother and the inevitable questions about last night's dinner with Stewart. Not that her Mum was nosey. Mothers always worry about their daughters, particularly when there's no father to shoulder some of the concern. And when that daughter is almost thirty and showing no signs of getting married...

From habit, Liz took the camera into the darkroom before she opened it. Maybe the dim red glow of the darkroom would push Stewart and his gentle persistence out of her mind.

The camera's tiny metal latch was very stiff. Slowly and carefully she eased it open, then frowned with surprise. There was film in the camera, wound part of the way through as if a few shots had been taken.

After all these years, could those shots be salvaged? What would they show? Liz examined the film closely. It was of far more recent vintage than the camera, but still many years old. Carefully she wound it back. Maybe... just maybe she could do something.

Liz gently immersed the film in a chemical bath, then considered going inside for a cup of tea. The problem was that her mother was there, and Liz just didn't want to talk to her mother right now. Close as they were, Liz just couldn't tell her about Stewart's proposals.

The day they met, Liz's Mum took an instant liking to the tall man with the quick smile. For his part, Stewart was more than willing to provide some needed masculine assistance around the house. And he was very fond of her Mum's home made biscuits. The older woman clearly thought it was time Stewart made a commitment. As a dentist, he was the legendary 'good catch'. And there was the small matter of grandchildren.

Liz didn't have the heart to tell her mother that Stewart wasn't the reluctant one.

Shaking off such depressing thoughts, Liz carefully checked the old film. Three images remained intact! She could see two figures in each of the negatives. With care, she should be able to produce prints. She reached for the photographic paper.

Stewart had been remarkably patient. He understood the hidden scars left by her father, who walked out the door many years ago and never returned. Nothing Stewart said or did could convince her that he was different. How could anyone promise to love another person for the rest of their life? People change. Feelings change. If her parent's marriage hadn't worked, why should her own?

Six months ago, Stewart had taken Liz to look over a house he wanted to buy. Together they admired the big family room and the spacious garden. Perfect, the agent said, for kids. They had even talked about converting the large garage into a studio if Liz said yes. But she couldn't. Stewart bought the house anyway, and now lived there, waiting for her to join him.

To ease her troubled mind, Liz focused on the images slowly forming on the photographic paper as she sluiced it gently in the developing fluid.

The same two people appeared in each of the prints. A man and a woman. As details of their faces emerged, Liz could see they were no longer young. They appeared to be wearing their Sunday best. The woman's floral dress was topped by a suitable hat, while the grey-haired man at her side looked dapper in coat and tie. Behind them a low stone wall gave way to rolling countryside and distant farm buildings.

Their hands were joined and they looked, not at the camera, but at each other. Smiling. Their faces exuded calm happiness. And something more. Something seemed familiar... Finally, Liz dismissed the feeling of recognition. She hung the prints to dry, and headed towards the kitchen.

According to her diary, Liz was supposed to spend that afternoon viewing a Norman Church in a nearby village. She was booked to photograph a wedding there the following week, and wanted to look for the best angles. Despite her own reluctance to walk down the aisle, weddings formed the backbone of her business. Normally she enjoyed them, but today, she just wasn't in the mood.

Instead, she picked up the finished photographs of the elderly couple. Who were they? She gazed at the man's face. It wasn't exactly familiar, and she was sure she didn't know him. Just something... The woman too.

Liz slipped the photos into her camera case, and made a decision. It wasn't the one she needed to make, but it gave her afternoon a purpose. She would try to find the couple in the photo and give them the prints. The junk shop would be the best place to start her search.

This time, she did pause outside the jeweller's window. Her liking for antiques wasn't limited to cameras. The estate rings, designed in an older more genteel time, drew her far more than the trendy modern designs. That was the sort of ring she'd chose, if she ever did decide to ...

Stewart's first proposal had been totally unexpected, but very romantic. He declared his love on a fine summer evening, as they sat sipping wine on a hilltop with a glorious view over the downs. Liz wanted to believe his promise to love her always, but couldn't. Her refusal disappointed, but did not deter him. He was, he told her, determined to the point of stubbornness. He would not give up on his heart's desire. And he hadn't.

In the antiques shop, she could set such pleasant, but disturbing memories aside.

"Can you tell me where the camera came from?" She asked the salesman after showing him the photos. "I'd like to find the old couple, and see if they want the prints."

"I really don't know. I suppose I could look in our records." He didn't sound very keen.

"That's so good of you. Thank you so much." Liz gave him a bright smile and no chance to change his mind.

It didn't take long. "Sorry. I can't find anything relating to a camera. There are notes about several boxes of stuff from different places. Deceased estates, house clearances. That sort of thing. But we don't keep detailed records. Sorry."

"Thanks anyway." Liz swallowed her disappointment.

Outside the shop, she turned towards her van, without even glancing at the jeweller's window. It was time she stopped being foolish. She would visit the Norman church and get her mind back on her work.

As she drove, Liz wound down the window of her small van, to breathe in the spring air. She draped one hand over the edge, feeling the thin edge of the decal attached to the door. In blue and gold, it identified her as Liz Parry, Photographer. The magnetic sign had been a gift from Stewart on her last birthday. The gift was his way of re-assuring her that marriage wouldn't mean losing her own identity or giving up the work that she enjoyed. He would support her in every possible way, without trying to change her. She loved him for that, but still couldn't give him the answer he wanted.

Something unusual about the road drew Liz back to the present. She glanced around, then carefully pulled into a lay-by. She must have driven this way a hundred times, but today, something was different. No. Not different. Something was unexpectedly familiar. That hill, and the line of trees running behind the big old barn.

Liz reached into her camera bag. The photos. That same hill rose behind the old couple. The same red barn filled the corner of one shot. The snapshots had been taken very near to this point. Liz studied the prints again, then looked once more out the window. Over to the left a little. And a little higher. Up that rise, if there was a road.

There was and it led to a small cluster of houses and a tiny church. Liz parked the car. Taking the photos, she walked to a small green next to the church. Yes, there was the barn. The shape of the hill was right. The photos were taken beside this church.

She leaned against the lych-gate. It was a beautiful place. Peaceful. She could take wonderful wedding photos here. If she ever got married, this was the place she would choose.

"Can I help you?"

Liz turned to face the speaker. A middle-aged man with a kindly face and a priest's collar was also leaning on the gate. She smiled mechanically, unwilling to be disturbed. Then she recognised her remarkable good luck. The priest might know her mysterious couple.

He listened to her story, then took the offered photos. Almost immediately, his face lit with a slow smile. "Yes, I knew them. Joan and Nigel Henderson. They lived just up that road."

"They're no longer..."

"They died. It must be five or six years ago now."

"Oh. I'm sorry." This wasn't how she had imagined her search would end.

"They were quite old. Nigel became increasingly frail. He passed away in his sleep one night. Poor Joan was heartbroken. She followed him just a few weeks later."

"How sad." Liz looked down at the faces that still seemed vaguely familiar to her.

But the Priest shook his head. "I don't think it is sad. I didn't know them well. I hadn't been in this parish long when they passed away. But I could see how happy they were together. Joan told me once they'd been married for more than 50 years. That's pretty amazing, when you think about it. And I believe that they're still together, even now."

They stood for a few minutes, the priest and the young woman, each lost in their own thoughts. Finally, Liz stirred.

"I must be getting on. One more thing. Did they have children? Do you know where they live? Perhaps they'd like the photos."

"There is a son. I do have his address. He'd love to have them. Are you sure?"

"Yes. I can print more." Liz handed over the photos. "Thank-you."

"You're welcome." The priest watched Liz walk back to her van, with something like determination in her step.

Liz was cleaning her camera gear when Stewart's car pulled up outside the house. Through the window, she watched him walk up the drive. Most people wouldn't call him particularly handsome, but Liz loved his open, honest face. Her heart gave an almost girlish flutter as she remembered the strong warmth of his arms around her. His eager, almost bouncy walk signalled his great love of life, and of her. Liz stepped to the studio door, and waved a greeting. Smiling broadly, Stewart raised one hand in reply.

Then Liz understood the strange familiarity of the old photos. It was the look on Nigel Henderson's face as he gazed at his wife of fifty years. The tall man walking towards her had the same look in his eyes. The same love. And she suspected that her own face carried a reflection of the love that shone from Joan's eyes.

Liz reached out to take Stewart's hand. "I've found the perfect church for our wedding."

I love old photographs. They are a glimpse into the past. Without photographs, so much of the past would be gone.

A friend of mine is a talented amateur photographer, who collects vintage cameras. I was with her one day when she went to pick up a camera she had bought on E-Bay. She always looks inside the camera – just in case there is a film waiting to be discovered.

And I thought – what if there was…

About the Author

Janet Gover is the author of three novels, published by Little Black Dress.  Janet is an Australian author, journalist and computer consultant, currently living in New York. She has in the past owned cats, dogs and horses, but is currently making do with a husband.

You can visit Janet online at www.janetgover.com and on Facebook