It was Tuesday 14th April, only two weeks to go until the start of the new thirteenth month; it had not been an April Fool’s joke. In the USA plans and celebrations were well under way to welcome Trumpril, the new late spring month.
In Israel it was 10 Nissan Anno Mundi 5785, in China it was Ding Wei Day, Geng Chen month, Yi Si year, Year of the Snake. Other lands were waking up to 9, Shawwal, AH 1446…
There were few countries who were well organised or willing enough to change to the new Trumpian calendar in such a short amount of time. In truth many were saying to themselves, whose idea was it anyway to start using the Gregorian calendar in the first place?
In Britain it was 3025 and soon time to celebrate renewal at Pink Moon. The return to the Druid calendar had been the subject of much discussion. Brexiteers and atheists alike took some pleasure in dismissing a calendar that was a European construct and classic example of the church telling everyone what to do. The Prime Minister reminded the people of the United Kingdom that they had already celebrated Ostara, the spring equinox, so there was nothing strange about the Druid Calendar.
The Druids had been a little uncertain, or felt no need to put a date on creation, so after consultation with experts from such Radio Four programmes as ‘The Infinite Monkey Cage’ and ‘More or Less’, a Cabinet meeting was held. It was decided the easiest way to work out the year the Druid calendar started was to round it up to the nearest thousand years. While BBC Verify were still checking out the facts, the Prime Minister had already announced that Westminster would be moving to Stonehenge. The Chancellor confirmed this would save a great deal of taxpayers’ money as Stonehenge needed less repairs than the Houses Of Parliament.
Joy had news for our art group, she had her new bus pass… at the age of eighty.
We all had something to say.
About time too, wouldn’t be without mine.
Why did you wait so long. I am looking forward to getting mine, but I’ve got to wait another thirty years.
Are you serious, you have never been on a bus?
‘Unless you count being born on one.’
Our imaginations went into overdrive…
‘At least my mother used to say You must have been born on a bus every time I left a door open.’
Buses have doors these days Joy, the Routemaster has been out of service for twenty years.
Our group varied in age and athletic ability and conversation progressed to discussion of various forms of transport from bicycles to E-scooters and back to cars and buses. Joy was joined at the hip to her car, but it transpired that Joy and the car had both failed their MOT.
‘I didn’t say I was actually going to go on a bus, the bus pass is just in case.’
You must at least have a go.
We all had bus stories, Mandy was expert at manoeuvring her double buggy and six shopping bags on board and I exclaimed how lucky she was to have floors that lowered and space to park. No folding up McClarren buggies for her. Maggie’s bus journey to the hospital to have her baby was equalled by Ron’s travelling from Land’s End to Berwick upon Tweed, using only his bus pass.
The next day I stood at the bus stop with Joy. She had reluctantly agreed to a trial run with moral support. We were at the second stop at the beginning of the route so Joy would be eased gently into the experience. The sunny spring day belied a sharp east wind and I prayed we wouldn’t have to wait long, having told Joy we had two frequent routes to choose from.
‘Why are we going into town, aren’t all the shops closing down?’
‘Not all of them, anyway that’s where the bus goes.’
‘How long do we have to wait?’
‘Not long, look at the bus ap on my phone, you can see the bus coming up the hill.’
Joy peered at my phone screen, failing to see the tiny toy bus shaped arrow moving along the map. We were so busy looking, a bus sailed by before I had a chance to put my hand out.
I always have my bus pass safely in my pocket, ready to produce immediately I’m on board. I hadn’t thought to prepare Joy for the operation. The next bus soon came along, but she spent five minutes fumbling in her handbag for her purse, then five minutes fumbling in her purse for her bus pass. It would have to be that grumpy driver.
I always head straight for the back half of the bus, or better still, upstairs on a double decker, smugly glad I don’t yet have to sit in the front seats with their little signs ‘Please offer these seats to elderly or disabled passengers’. Not actually forbidden so Joy happily plonked herself down in the front seat. I tried to tactfully urge her further back.
‘What was wrong with those seats?’
‘They’re for the elderly and…’
‘How old do you have to be, I’m a pensioner.’
‘But a spritely one, it’s only your eyes that failed the MOT.’
She crossed over the aisle and pulled down a folding seat.
‘The elderly won’t be wanting these ones.’
‘We can’t sit there, that’s the space for wheelchairs and prams.’
‘At least you didn’t make me go upstairs.’
Fortunately the bus soon started filling up with baby buggies, walking sticks and crutches to prove my point.
‘Goodness, how many more walking wounded are coming on board, oh surely she’s not allowed on board with that!’
A lady in a large designer motorised wheelchair/scooter contraption had just about made it up the ramp the driver had put down for her, but it looked as if she was also having her maiden bus trip. Grumpy bus driver set off looking firmly ahead, ignoring the fact that the embarrassed woman was having great trouble manoeuvring into the permitted space. Her face flushed with embarrassment, she pressed buttons and moved a few inches in each direction, ramming a passenger next to the aisle. Her ensuing panic resulted in her being firmly wedged in, preventing anyone getting on or off. I looked across the aisle at the emergency door and back to the window next to Joy, where a sign said In Emergency Break Glass with Hammer. Iwondered where the hammer was.
One passenger did get on and manage to squeeze by, or rather climb over the poor woman. To my horror it was our local ‘character’ Davo. We locals did not need to use the politically incorrect descriptions that came to mind with Davo. Just the mere mention of his name ‘Davo was in the shop’ or ‘Davo came up to our table in the restaurant’ was enough to illicit sympathy and horror.
‘Joy’ I whispered urgently ‘do not look that chap in the eye.’
Unfortunately he started talking in that bellowing voice of his to a young chap behind us, who obviously knew how to wind up Davo for entertainment. That’s when the baby, who had been sleeping peacefully strapped to his mother’s chest, started crying. By this time we had arrived at the stop planned for our disembarking, handy for the few shops in town that hadn’t closed down. It turned out the wheelchair was literally jammed and the driver was radioing his base for help. Luckily it transpired that Davo was an expert at smashing windows and opening emergency doors and the driver couldn’t reach us to stop him.
It was a long way down, but Davo helped us descend, albeit in a rather undignified manner, bellowing ‘Age before beauty’ before assisting the young mum and other passengers.
Once safely on the pavement, Joy tapped into her phone. ‘Thanks goodness my nephew put the local taxi number into my new phone.’
The White House has just announced changes to the Gregorian Calendar, the calendar most people are familiar with. President Donald Trump stated that it was time it was tidied up. From now on all months will be 28 days long as they were originally intended, marking the cycle of the moon. Thus it is now 6th April. The 29 spare days will become the thirteenth month which will be named Trumpril and follow April. When asked by a reporter how he justified causing a great deal of confusion he replied ‘If Pope Gregory could change the Julian calendar in 1582 without upsetting Julie what’s the problem changing to the Trumpian calendar?’
A BBC expert explained what these changes will mean. ‘Leap year has been cancelled, it was always considered to be unfair for those born on the 29th February. They will join all the people born on 29th, 30th and 31st of any month who will no longer have birthdays. BBC Verify is checking the facts and figures, but has already confirmed that April Fool’s Day has been cancelled.
The Ham Hub writers had decided to have something new to focus on, an exercise for fun, creating a fictional community. Each writer to bring along two or three characters and let them interact with each other. The setting to be remote and rural, between the wars so they would have no mobile phones or ready means of communicating with the outside world.
Charlotte enjoyed the task, a break from writing her novel about Lottie. She tried not to make it anything like Hambourne, though she couldn’t resist adding water. When it was suggested she go first she thought that would be easy, her plot could not clash with anyone else’s if they had not been revealed.
Ellie decided to take the towpath back to the farm, relishing the peace and freedom before returning to all her chores at home. Ellie was happy to volunteer to take newly laid eggs and milk to old Widow Brown in her tumbledown cottage. Mother said they had to be nice to her as she had lost both her sons in the war. It had been a busy morning as she had also taken a hearty breakfast to Tommy One Arm in the barn. Her father took pity on any tramps who had been soldiers in the war, especially those maimed or disfigured and unlikely to find work. Father called them all Tommy; there had been One-Eyed Tommy, he was a bit scary till you got used to him. Tommy One Leg had been a joker and popular locally as he could fix anything. Tommy One Arm was very quiet except when he was having a funny turn, which Father said was shell shock. He wore a hat and scarf all the time, only Mother and Father had seen his face properly as Tommy was very good at reading the difficult dusty old books that had been great grandfather’s. He read to their parents after the children were all in bed. Ellie hoped this Tommy would stay. Father never made them move on, but they often got restless and there would come a morning when the barn was empty. Ellie felt sorry for this Tommy, he wouldn’t be able to get married if he had to keep his face covered all the time and he didn’t seem to have any relatives to go and live with.
It was such a lovely morning Ellie skipped along the tow path…
‘Hang on, is that by the river or a canal?’
I don’t know, that’s why I just put tow path.
…thinking how good it was to be fourteen and never have to go to school again. She had not thought beyond leaving, though of course her parents had. Going to work as a maid at a big house far away
‘Hang on, in mine, it’s The Big House nearby so the characters can be tenant farmers.’
‘and have somewhere to work’ added someone else.
Okay, no problem, at the Big House nearby or to be a shop girl in town…
‘What town, thought they were isolated.’
That’s why she doesn’t want to work in town, too far away.
…were suggested, but she did not want to leave home and why should she when her big brother stayed on the farm. She had quickly found out that working at home was a lot harder than school. Helping her mother with the endless cooking and looking after the little ones, feeding the pigs and hens and milking the cows. But Father had promised her she could take the pony and trap to market. She loved Lucky the best in the family. He was called Lucky because he had been a colt when the war came and was not taken away to go to France. Ellie and Lucky had grown up together.
As Ellie wandered along picking spring flowers and watching out for the Kingfisher she was startled to hear a man’s voice.
‘I thought we were setting it in winter?’
‘No, it was autumn.’
‘It was definitely spring as it is spring now, we’ll be in the right mood’ Charlotte decided to be a bit assertive for a change.
‘Morning Miss.’
She looked up to see a young man standing on the bow of a colourful narrow boat. A new boat at the old mooring that hadn’t been used for years. Ellie knew all the river folk and he was definitely a stranger, so she was not sure if she should talk to him.
‘Thought you didn’t know if it was a river or canal?’
Well spotted, easy to change and we have to hear everyone’s story before we set details.
His smile crinkled up to his dark eyes and he had gleaming white teeth. If her father saw that mop of curly black hair he would have him sent off to the barbers or got her mother to get her clippers out, like she did with her brothers. He was taller than her big brother.
‘Oh I like him, watch out Ellie, my girl will be after him.’
‘This is a pretty sight on a spring morning.’
Ellie looked around to see what the pretty sight was.
‘Oh yes, this is the prettiest part of the river.’
‘That’s why I decided to moor up here yesterday evening and what a surprise to meet a pretty local girl so soon.’
Ellie looked around to see if a pretty girl had appeared
‘May I ask your name? I’m Jack, Jack of all trades.’
‘Hey, I’ve got a Jack.’
‘So have I, head gardener at the big house.’
‘And I’ve got a Tommy, who seduces the scullery maid.’
‘How long since the First World War War then, still got old soldiers wandering? ‘
‘Great War, they didn’t know there was going to be a second one.’
‘1928 I thought we said last week.‘
‘No, it’s going to be in the middle of the Great Depression’
‘When was that then?’
Do you go to a writing group? Do you enjoy doing exercises?
Tidalscribe Tales is now live as a paperback. If you want to know how to publish a paperback with KDP best not to ask me. I again followed Sam Kern’s book.
My second proof copy revealed I had ironed out a few problems subject to some compromises, at least I had managed to get some writing on the back cover…
Amazon always tells you if there is a problem, though you may not understand what the problem is.
You have submitted your manuscript in ( selection of incomprehensible numbers and letter ) format. Do you wish the Amazon Elves to change it to ( further set of incomprehensible numbers and letters ) format?
Yeah, whatever..
Looking at the nice large print I think they may have meant my manuscript would not have enough pages to fill the size book I chose, so they just made the writing bigger. Fine, I like the larger print.
While Team G were staying at half term I had help changing my photos to PDF so I could make another attempt to design my own cover. Alas the pictures were not the right size and the elves are not allowed to have scissors, so I returned to Amazon Cover Creator and the only template that vaguely made any sense. I like to think I am leaning towards the simplicity of the early Penguin books with a picture stuck on.
Can you tell the difference?
I noticed something slightly awry with the second proof copy. The colour was not as bright, the sea water not as clear and the sky not as blue! Which elf is in charge of paint? The colour choice was not very inspiring to begin with. But hey ho, the exercise was about producing a real book by myself and I have. My sister in Australia has ordered three copies, but has to wait till the middle of the month. We await with interest to see where Amazon Australia prints their copies. Perhaps the covers will appear in the rich red of The Pilbara or Uluru.
If anyone else orders a paperback why not follow her example and order two extra copies for friends.
I have dusted and vacuumed the Books and About pages on my website to welcome the new book, but have hit a brick wall editing my Amazon Author Page.. but you don’t want to hear about that on a Friday evening.
Do not be put off publishing on KDP, I’m sure plenty of authors know exactly what they are doing. There is also help available from various companies who will handle the technical side, some doing as much or as little of the whole editing process as suits you. I am also well aware that there are other places to self publish, but I can’t be bothered but I am enjoying producing whatever books I want, whenever as an independent boutique publisher…
Visit my Book and About pages to read about my previous books.
Are you an Indie Author? How do you like to tackle getting your books published?
Delia had read all the articles and listened to all the broadcasts and podcasts on sleep and health. She had been encouraged to get a Fitbit by her niece who was keen that she should find out her resting heart rate. The Fitbit alas, did not help her sleep more, only confirm that she did not sleep much. However, she persevered with following all the recommendations for winding down in the evening.
That night Delia had turned off the news and switched her television to the radio station broadcasting her regular late night music programmes, Night Waves and Round Midnight… Then she headed upstairs and was in bed and tuned to Radio 4 in time to be lulled by Sailing By heralding the late night Shipping Forecast. Delia pictured seaside places she had stayed and remote coasts she was never likely to see…
North Foreland to Selsey Bill – Strong wind warning
Ardnamurchan Point to Cape Wrath…
Tonight the mellifluous Scottish baritone of her favourite continuity announcer finished the forecast and bade her goodnight with his usual soothing words.
‘And that is the close of Radio Four’s broadcasting tonight. This is Alexander MacSmooth wishing you a safe and peaceful night.
Delia sleepily turned her radio off before the National Anthem could jar her serenity. She snuggled under the duvet, safe from the strong winds and waves pounding the coast…
Delia woke suddenly. It was dark, the radio clock showed 3.15 am, not unusual for her to be awake in the witching hour, but who on earth was frantically ringing her doorbell and what were those blue lights flashing on the ceiling? And who was yelling through a loudspeaker?
‘Emergency, this is the police, you must evacuate immediately. Leave your home now, do not stop to collect belongings.’
It was bizarre, but the only way to find out what was going on was to get wrapped into her velour dressing gown and head for the front door. When she looked outside she was stunned. The nearby streetlight revealed a huge hole where the road had been. Her first thought was ‘Bin Day’ how would she get her recycling bin out of that hole, how would the rubbish truck get down the road when there was no road. Before she could have another thought the street lamp plunged into the crater and the scene was plunged into darkness. A yellow arm grabbed her, at the end of another yellow arm was a powerful torch revealing a crack widening beneath their feet.
In a church hall a mile away Delia and her neighbours gathered round ‘next-door-but-one’ who had managed to grab his iPad on the way out. The live news showed next door’s car slipping into the sink hole and Delia’s front wall crumbling. She didn’t even recognise half her neighbours without their clothes on. They all reintroduced themselves and compared stories as it dawned on them that they would not be going home any time soon, if ever. The only possession Delia had with her was the Fitbit. She wondered what her resting heart rate was.
‘I don’t care where or how, as long as he is never ever found. You will do it as soon as possible and never contact me. When he does not return home I will assume it is done and after a few days I will report him missing and the second instalment will appear in your bank account. If a year passes with me receiving only sympathy from the police, you will receive the final substantial payment.’
They nodded in agreement and my aides entered the room to blindfold the three men again and escort them out to a waiting vehicle. It was a one hundred mile drive back to the outskirts of the city. I had every faith that the hefty first payment they were given a week ago would ensure they carried out their task.
I had never trusted Phillip’s partner, but for this plan I did. We had the same aim with neither of us getting blood on our hands. His contacts in the underworld had provided contract killers who could not be traced back to Phil or us. It was costing me very little as I had been syphoning money from Phil’s various bank accounts for years. His patronising assumption that I could just about manage the little personal and housekeeping accounts he had set up for me worked to my advantage. Phil also assumed I was only capable of using the old computer in my sewing room for dipping into social media.
It was on an ordinary shopping trip that an unexpected problem arose. I was just putting my shopping for one in the boot when a rough looking girl ran over to me crying that her bag had been stolen. She begged to borrow my phone to call the police. I wasn’t going to fall for that one and have my phone stolen, but she looked genuinely upset and reassured me I could keep my phone safely in my own hands and call the police, then put it on speaker so she could speak to them.
I weakened and let the false cosy image I projected 99% of the time take over. Ordinary anxious menopausal housewife meekly dialled 999.
‘Emergency, which service do you require. Fire, police or ambulance?’
‘Police, hurry’ cried the girl.
‘Police, how can I help you?’
To my astonishment the bag was not mentioned. The girl stammered in panic…
‘In the office in the old Jackson shoe factory you’ll find Phil Hardy’s body in a broken cupboard.’
‘Can I have your name please’ the calm voice spoke from my phone.
The girl looked directly at me, pointed at me, then whispered ‘Your phone, your name – goodbye…’
She was gone in a flash.
‘Caller’s name please’ the remote voice repeated.
The police are never around when you want them. I terminated the call, but already I could hear sirens. I didn’t know local big businessmen warranted such an urgent response, I had been pleased they hadn’t seemed interested in his disappearance. Now he was dead, or perhaps still a live body all three emergency services were turning up. Fair enough, the building was on the verge of collapse and I would not want anyone risking their lives for Phillip.
I was slipping into the driver’s seat to go home, play the shocked widow if they brought terrible news, but in seconds a uniformed chap was banging on the window.
‘So glad you’re here officer, I was just tricked into handing over my phone. This girl made a hoax call about my poor missing husband.’
‘Hopefully it is a hoax Madam, we will soon know, but prepare yourself, they are checking the building right this moment.’
I don’t think they were sure whether to arrest me or offer support with the Police Liasson officer. After a cup of tea at the police station it was decided to let me go home as a person of interest, with police protection in case whoever murdered my husband also wanted to kill me and presumably so I could not leave. They didn’t use the word murder or tell me any details, but it was soon all over local social media. My every day phone was kept at the police station, nothing incriminating on that one. I slipped into my ensuite bathroom with my iPad and read on the local Facebook page comments that would probably be rapidly deleted in the interests of good taste.
Decomposing body still recognisable as missing businessman Phil Hardy.
Urban explorers find more than they bargained for.
Teenage couple left traumatised as body topples out of cupboard.
His flesh was falling off his face.
His eyeballs rolled out.
Whatever possessed the killers to stick him in a cupboard in a building near our local shops and our house? Well, I certainly wouldn’t be using their services again, nor would they get the final payment next year. Maybe I should not have told them our address, but how could they have tracked Phillip down without knowing where he lived?
The other kids called him The Sponge because of the effortless way he soaked up information. His parents had thought he might meet his match at the large senior school, no longer top dog as he was at primary school, but he was soon a legend. Far from being an awkward genius his quick wit and sense of humour attracted friends and the fact he did their homework for them ensured a loyal following.
Mr and Mrs Nardo had followed family tradition of naming first born sons Leo. By the time he was four they had realised he was far cleverer than them and his younger siblings just took it for granted that Leo knew everything. They were not quite as clever as Leo, but their parents continued producing babies, considering it was their duty to contribute to the gene pool.
At school the teachers played down his abilities. As he appeared to have no syndromes, nor be on any spectrum they were not eligible for extra funding to get university professors in to keep Leo challenged. Instead, an afterschool club was started, for children with ‘extra interests’, it was not to be suggested that the little group were clever or cleverer than all the other pupils.
Leo was soon running the group and showing off his party tricks such as writing normally with his left hand and writing back to front on the other side of the paper with his right hand at the same time. He said it was easy, but nobody else in the group could do it. Parents were persuaded to contribute so the group could buy Lego and chemistry sets and all sorts of items that inventors would need. A teacher was present merely for health and safety reasons.
Dinner time at home was always lively and Mr and Mrs Nardo tried to make sure all the children got a chance to talk about their day, but somehow by the time they were eating pudding Leo had an intellectual conversation underway.
‘I was thinking it would be impossible to work out who the cleverest person in the world is, because nobody else would be clever or knowledgeable enough to understand how much that person knew or understood.’
‘Or she’ butted in his sister’ why can’t the cleverest person be a woman?’
‘They could be’ said Leo ‘but I was thinking it would be me, but how would I know?’
His parents sighed.
‘I don’t think it matters,’ said his father ‘all you have to do is use your talents for good, not for power or money.’
‘Yes I’ve already considered that. I will need a good deal of money for all my inventions, but I could get investors for that. I thought I could save the whole planet.’
‘Rather ambitious, but an excellent idea’ said his mother. ‘Will that be after university?’
‘No, soon, I’ve already written a book about how to do it. I just need to publish it. You can read it if you like.’
After dinner his parents sat at the state of the art computer they had given Leo for Christmas and started reading the word document of 300, 000 words. There were only about thirty words they understood.
‘The first few chapters are about metaphysics’ said Leo airily ‘I want readers to keep an open mind about the universe.’
His father hoped they would not be expected to proof read it and suggested as a joke he self published on Amazon first. Leo thought that a good idea and persuaded his father to open an account, then leave him to get on with it.
By Sunday evening he had borrowed his mother’s Kindle and showed the family his new book. By Wednesday a box arrived from Amazon with his weighty tome in paperback. He took a few copies to school.
The head of the science department was surprised and impressed with the cover design and happy and not a little amused to accept a signed copy as a gift, promising to start reading it in his lunch break.
In the afternoon science lesson Leo asked him what he thought of it so far. He responded by asking Leo what his parents thought of it.
‘Well to be honest, I don’t think they understood a word.’
The teacher was relieved as he grappled with the right words of encouragement.
‘Ah, I am managing to understand it so far, well the introduction at least…’
She had heard her mother talking to Aunty Lucy, a throwaway remark. They were in the garden, it was her tenth birthday party.
‘Of course poor Arabella has no imagination whatsoever.’
They were watching her younger sister Anastatia organize Arabella’s friends in some kind of fantasy adventure. Anastasia was playing the bold princess while Arabella was supposed to be a peasant girl hiding from the dragon and destined to be eaten.
‘Anastasia’s just like you were at that age’ said Aunty Lucy to Arabella’s mother. ‘We always knew you would be on the stage or become a writer.’
‘Or both’ twittered her mother.
‘I expect Arabella will take after Justin’ said Lucy unconvincingly.
The girls’ father was an artist, successful in several fields from high class book illustrations and theatre designs to proper paintings that people wanted on the walls of their homes.
‘She’s very good with her hands,’ continued Lucy ‘knitting and that little tapestry she made me.’
‘Well she has a logical mind, just following patterns…’
Thirty year old Arabella closed her eyes on the memory, closed her eyes to the television screen, then opened them long enough to press the off button on the remote control. It was Jack, her husband, who had reminded her that her mother and sister were appearing on yet another intellectual arts programme. Her family were always on television or radio, though not often together.
‘Have I missed it?’ Jack came bowling into the room.
‘No, or rather you haven’t missed much.’
She picked up her comforting knitting.
‘Is the baby asleep?’
‘Yes of course.’ Arabella laughed. ‘Just like me apparently, my mother used to say I slept through the night from two months old, always needed my sleep, then it was a shock when they had Anastasia. Mother reassured herself that the sleepless nights were because Anastasia had an overactive brain, highly intelligent.’
‘I am glad we have our ordinary little chap, heaven forbid he should turn out like your sister. I like our serene life and I am lucky to have you both.’
It was true thought Arabella, they were happy in their own little world and would snuggle up with a nice nature programme tonight, then turn over in time for Big Ben and welcome 2025. No wishes or resolutions, just thankful for what they had. Though as the bells chimed she couldn’t help wishing she had a little bit of imagination, just enough to know what it was like. Perhaps she would invent bedroom scenarios for her and Jack, she had read in magazines that couples did that. Or make up stories to tell the baby later on.
The next day they went to the big park for their traditional New Year’s Day walk, the baby safely strapped to Arabella and cosy inside her coat. A young child on a scooter whizzed by and she suddenly had a picture in her mind of the child hurtling off, hitting the bitumen head first and being attacked by the big dog she had just spotted. No sooner had this thought entered her mind than Jack suddenly bolted ahead, telling her to stay put.
A small crowd hid what was happening from Arabella’s view. Then Jack emerged with a firm grip on the dog’s collar. Several worried adults were rushing over, it was hard to tell who belonged to the child and who to the dog, until Jack handed the dog to someone waving a lead. He trotted back to his own family.
‘The poor grandparents couldn’t keep up with her…’
‘.. and she ran into the dog and fell off and seeing the creature lying on the ground revived the dog’s ancient hunting instincts and he went for her throat? And you’re a hero.’ Arabella concluded.
‘Not exactly, the dog was licking her face and she was crying because she hurt her knee.’
On the way home they passed the New Year fairground at the other end of the park. They looked up at the big rides.
‘Be a while before we take our chap on those rides’ said Jack.
‘Thank goodness, imagine if the big wheel got stuck when we were at the top’ said Arabella.
‘I’m sure the council makes sure all the rides are safe.’
‘I still wouldn’t take the chance.’
When they watched the local news that evening the fairground appeared on the screen.
Fire rescue teams were called when the big wheel stopped and could not be started. In view of the below zero temperatures, the difficult decision was taken to bring people down from the top on the fire ladders.
‘Oh I can’ t believe it, just what I imagined happening’ said Arabella.
Arabella was beginning to wonder if she had been granted imagination, was this what it was like, making things happen. She dismissed the thoughts from her mind.
The next day was an outing to the pantomime with Jack’s sister and family. Arabella thought the baby was a bit young, but had been reassured that it was a special calm performance for autistic children like Jack’s nephew or deaf children, or anybody that didn’t like screaming and shouting on stage or off.
‘Sign language, subtitles and miming, the baby will just sleep through it. We’re at the back of the top circle apparently, in case we do have to take the baby out.’
Arabella had not realised just how high up they would be in the top circle.
‘Thank goodness we’re at the back, I wouldn’t like to be in the front row and those steps down are so steep, if you weren’t careful you could go hurtling over.’
As soon as her words were uttered a small child flashed by running and whooping down the steps, ignoring his frantic mother who was yelling at him to stop. There was a collective gasp from others getting settled in their seats. Luckily the child was shorter than the barrier wall and collided with it, but the momentum his mother had picked up propelled her straight over. Any hope of calm had evaporated.
Times and Tides of a Beachwriter 