Stories

This is linda. Linda is a creative person. She has lots of hobbies and very little time. Linda teaches English to foreign students and immigrants. She loves her job and works full time at a local college. She enjoys being active; she cycles to work and visits the gym 3 times a week. Linda enjoys cooking. She also enjoys painting and decorating pages in her scrapbook. Linda lives in a city centre apartment with her husband and their daughter. Linda is very busy and does not feel there are enough hours in the day. She feels isolation would be the perfect time to start creative projects.

2^nd week quarantine.

Linda has lots of time. She has been learning to teach online with webinars and short online courses. Linda has lots of information and has started to build a stock of interesting online lessons. Linda has maintained a healthy fitness routine with YouTube videos, enjoying kick boxing, wrestling, and cage fighting, though her husband, a little concerned at the vocal expression, has offered a yoga training course with the gift of a mat. Linda has subsequently offered her husband several creative uses for the yoga mat none of which involved actual yoga and it has not been mentioned again. Linda has enjoyed exploring ingredients for soup and has created her own hearty recipes using wonky vegetables and the surprise component of wonky biscuits.

4^th week quarantine

After the 17^th webinar, Linda feels she knows far more than she needs to know about online teaching. She now has a healthy resource library which could last the next 2 decades and feels on reflection she could not possibly listen to another word. Linda is still creative in the kitchen and can often be seen making gin cocktails with boot polish and Brasso. Linda feels it is important to maintain 5 a day whilst also finding a use for Brasso. Linda also feels that the effect of these cocktails on her kick boxing prowess is hitherto undervalued by current marketing campaigns and has offered to create her own healthy drinking video. Applying her artistic abilities is important for Linda and she has produced copious painted canvases and almost completed her ZEN colouring book although the family feel the current black vibe could be replaced with a variety of colours used within the lines to better effect. The family feel Linda’s mental health is mental and suggest she returns to writing. Linda feels mindful that her mental health is completely mental and does not require any more discussion on the matter. Linda has made a Mexican out of a wonky beef tomato and a coffin out 12 cereal packets.

End of quarantine

Linda feels isolation has been beneficial. She has made lots of new friends in south Korea who follow her healthy drinking videos and has written a book on the health benefits of gin. She can swear profusely in 14 languages and has created a whole village out of empty boxes. She has also created a family of wonky turnips to live there. Linda has realised personal grooming is a choice and has been fascinated by the amount of body hair she can still grow at 58. She has shared this information with her Korean fanbase who have also followed her lead and the Instagram account posts daily updates. Linda will never do online teaching again and would like to focus on her new career as a full-time kick-boxing celebrity:’ The hairy fighter’.

Brian hadn't planned to lock himself in the isolation room. He was having a bad day at the college. His fingers had been rubbing the keys in his pocket again; a nervous habit he’d developed at the beginning of this extraordinary year. But as he walked past, he couldn’t resist. Now he was inside, with the door locked, he felt strangely calm; a weight lifted. He considered a nap on the stretcher.

Three hours earlier he’d left home in a reasonable mood. It was his last Monday at Bracknell College; two days before the summer break and the end of a year he was glad to see the back of. There were 2 tasks on his to-do list.

1. Welcome a 22-year-old plumber at 11:30 to re-sit his apprenticeship assessment.

2. Hand over the year’s final exam papers to the visiting External Verifications Officer at 1:30 this afternoon

As Brian pulled into the car park he realized he’d left his mask on the worktop in the kitchen next to his sandwiches. He would have to use the plastic visor with the elastic strap that irritated his scalp, and he would be forced to buy something beige from the coffee shop (the canteen had been closed all year)

He walked up to the entrance door, the visor already itching, and his mood clouded. Once in the staff room Brian stopped in front of his desk. It was a wooden desk, gleaming, possibly beech, Brian wasn’t sure he had ever seen the actual desk before. The papers normally hiding it were were piled on his chair apart from the box of exam papers. Brian’s heart skipped a beat, he looked across to his colleague puzzled,

“Deep clean. COVID,” Mike said without looking up.

Brian spotted his red exam box on the windowsill, and again, Mike with uncanny intuition,

“It was the only clear space.”

“The fucking window leaks,” stated Brian. He reached for the soggy box on the window cill, and saw the drips splashing into a puddle on the top paper. Brian told the rain to ‘fuck off’ and let out a tirade of abuse towards the mismanaged estate budgets as he lifted the box away from the leaking window. Finding nothing to mop the papers, he walked around to the staffroom to ask for the blue roll of industrial wipes they used for everything, but was met with resistance.

"We are responsible for all cleaning equipment; But I can’t just give it to you. That’s college policy. If you want us to clean something up you have to log a job into the My BC app on your desktop and one of us will respond when we’ve got time.”

Despite pointing out the obvious need for urgency and the willingness to take responsibility for approximately 6 pieces of paper towel, Brian was refused access and told to go back to his desk and send a message via the desktop app. Brian's visor responded to his headache with an itch.

Back in the staffroom, Brian logged the request and sent the 'Plumbing Assessment' pack to print. Then, knowing it would take a while to load, walked to the front of the building for coffee and a sandwich.

The coffee shop was deserted and the manager, Lee, was sat behind the Perspex shield that was taped to the counter. More tape was used to mark waiting lines in a clockwise rotation between the café entrance and the counter; 2m apart. Ignoring this, Brian walked straight to the counter and ordered a ham sandwich and an expresso.

Lee refused to serve Brian, until he approached in the correct manner, then explained he didn’t have any sandwiches, just toasties. Brian narrowed his gaze. "Perhaps, " ventured Brian, "I could have a ham toastie untoasted." but Lee said this wasn’t an option due to health and safety. Brian returned to the staff room, mouthing a string of his favourite expletives along the empty corridor.

Back at his desk, the laptop came to life: ‘mental health awareness training' The request to complete the survey was ignored as Brian felt already aware of his mental health.

He checked the printer. 9 pages printed, all with a heavy black line top to bottom making the exam questions difficult to read. Brian tried again. 3 attempts were unsuccessful, so Brian told the printer to ‘fuck off’.

Mike walked over casually, lifted the printer cover, removed a piece of string on the glass, wriggled it in Brian's face and returned to his desk. Brian imagined throttling Mike with the string.

The time was now 11:00 am and the assessment was ready, locked in his desk drawer. The laptop pinged. A reply from estates re cleaning job PC14325. The cleaning staff were sorry but they were unable to help today, due to staff shortages.

This was too much. Brian stormed round to the cleaner’s room and saw the 2 cleaners sat enjoying tea and ham toasties. Brian explained the need to 'save' the exam papers with some urgency but the cleaners looked back blankly.

“We finish today.”

“But you’re here now,” said Brian through gritted teeth.

“Yes but in order to take our full holiday allocation we have to finish in 20 minutes for the summer break”.

“It could be done in 5.”

“Sorry we are on a tea break.”

Brian watched the door close and turned sharply left down the corridor, ripped the visor off to have a good scratch of his scalp. “Fuck, fucking, fucketty fuckwits.”

Half-way down the corridor the lure of the word 'isolation' got to him. The Covid Isolation centre was formally the disabled toilet and ‘sick bay’. He let himself in, sighed and lay down to relax on the stretcher. A tap at the door, It was Mike. “Are you in there Brian?”

“I’ve got COVID,” Brian replied angrily. He realised immediately this response was irresponsible and regretted it, but he heard Mike’s receding footsteps and relaxed a little.

Mike, a long serving member of the plumbing teaching team, was a quiet man who preferred structure and planning, He was also very keen on protocol, policy and guidelines. He knew all about COVID isolation rules, and immediately reported the COVID contamination through the various channels. Almost instantly he heard the footsteps of the Head of department, prepared himself with full PPE as per guidelines and went to meet Julian Hargreaves outside the isolation room.

Julian was trying to talk to Brian who was still very angry.

Julian looked up at Mike, “What are you wearing?”

“Disposable apron, gloves, mask, shoe covers and hair protector as per college guidelines. I have a spare set if you need them Julian. He is probably contagious.”

“I don’t think so Mike, I think he’s just stressed.”

“COVID is highly contagious, we have to follow procedure.”

“No Mike, I don’t think he has it. He’s just having a bad day.”

“With respect Mr. Hargreaves, he says he has it and that means we must follow the rules."

At that moment a polite young man appeared down the corridor in overalls.

“Excuse me, have you seen Brian Seedley? I have an assessment today.”

There was a shout from behind the isolation door, “It’s in the desk drawer.”

Julian turned and smiled at the man and asked Mike to take him into the exam room, set him up and invigilate.

3 minutes later Mike returned.

“It’s locked”.

Brian separated the drawer key from the rest and passed it under the door without a word. Mike felt it might be contaminated and refused to pick it up until Julian reminded Mike that he was wearing gloves.

Mike walked away holding the key in the air between thumb and forefinger.

Julian stared at the closed door. Both he and Brian worked for the same council, were made redundant and applied to the college together. 12 years on Brian was a lead practitioner and Julian was head of department. Julian had been on enough management training courses to know exactly how to handle Brian.

"Brian!" he said, “What the fuck?”

Lisa answered the door to Julia; her probably perfect but grossly annoying neighbour,

“Sorry Lisa. Do you have our grocery delivery? Only they a left a note and we were at the wholesalers, and we’ve only just got back. Sorry to interrupt things at home.”

Lisa reached for the box, passed it to Julia and closed the door, managing the whole exchange with facial expression only. Why does she have to start every sentence with ‘I’m sorry’? It makes her sound pathetic.

Lisa returned to her daughter’s bedroom. It was a nice light room with big patio doors onto the garden but then it used to be the dining room. It was her favourite room in the house when they bought it. Was she sorry it is now her daughter’s bedroom? No. She wasn’t sorry for that. She had nothing to be sorry for. Lisa had sold the dining room furniture, didn’t see the sense in keeping it. They hardly used it anyway and they needed space for Jo. The hospital had recommended a motorised bed and Lisa had bought new curtains to make sure the room was dark at night.

Lisa checked the planner hanging on the end of the bed, for the 5^th time that day. One hour reading then one-hour bed bath and massage. 12:00 lunch, the afternoon play on the radio and a nap. After dinner, a quiz show, then maybe a film. Everything was on the planner.

It was 10:00am. Time to read. Lisa started to read a few pages of a novel aloud. It was one of the books Lisa had found in Jo’s old bedroom, so she assumed they would be OK. Lisa didn’t like them at all, thought they were utter drivel, but the doctor had said regular communication was important and he had suggested reading to her daily. So, she did.

Somewhere along the way Lisa had learned to read words on a page without actually reading anything. She found her mind drifting to a day exactly 2 years ago when Derek had insisted, they have Portuguese wine to celebrate their anniversary. Lisa had lost the taste for alcohol after Jo was born. She couldn’t understand why had he insisted on the phone call.

She put the book down, took the bed shirt off Jo and washed her methodically. The council had provided a hoist, but Lisa preferred to do the lifting herself. Jo was only light anyway, so she wasn’t much more than a bird. Well if you’re just lying there, you lose muscle, Lisa supposed.

She took a large, soft sponge and squeezed it in warm soapy water. A continuous sweeping motion, her eyes focused on the job in hand so as not to miss any part of the flesh. Limb by limb, body, neck and face. A feint smell of lavender. It wasn’t that Lisa avoided looking at Jo’s face. She just couldn’t. What could she say?

When she saw people in the village, the ones who were brave enough to actually speak, always apologised,

“I’m so sorry to hear about Jo. Such a pretty girl and so young. All her life ahead of her, it must be awful.”

Lisa, a master of facial expression, didn’t usually answer, but she wanted to. She wanted to scream at their pitiful attempts at polite concern. She wanted to slap them hard across the face to make them understand this was not something dismissed in an apology, like a few cross words or a missed coffee morning. That this lasted longer than the words, that this was now her life and possibly Jo’s. She wanted to shout.

“Why are you sorry? It wasn’t you that rang while she was driving”

“What age is appropriate to crash your car and become a vegetable?”

Lisa went into the kitchen to make soup. She saw Derek sat in his chair reading the paper but didn’t ask him if he wanted any, she just made it. She did not wish him happy anniversary. There were no cards anymore. She applied herself to the routine of chopping vegetables, fried them gently in butter slowly to release the flavours then added stock and reduce on a low heat for 40 minutes, stirring occasionally. 

Apologies are just throw-away words now, something you say when you bump into someone in the street or interrupt the waiter in a restaurant. Why are the really important words so hard to say? Derek had offered an excuse at the time of the accident. He’d said he was trying to make sure I got the wine I liked. The one we had on our honeymoon. He’d said he couldn’t remember whether he’d asked her to bring it so he told me to ring her. Was that supposed to be some kind of apology? It doesn’t even start to recognise how that one thought led to a chain of events that would irrevocably change our lives.

At that moment, the washing machine announced the end of its washing cycle with a set of beeps, so Lisa emptied the drum into a basket and went outside to hang the bedding. As she pegged the sheets, Lisa concentrated on the job in hand; doubling the corners then allowing 1 peg for one side in the centre to allow the wind to get through. She had always been pragmatic but now daily routine was quite rigid, dictated by Jo’s care, and it also offered Lisa some element of control.

Lisa had dealt with difficult times before; her mother’s death to cancer, her father’s stroke then subsequent fatal heart attack, selling the family home. She had learned to focus on the practicalities of the situation. There was a lot to do so she just got on with it, filled planners with lists, appointments and used her time effectively. She felt emotion was an option and didn’t want it to distract her from tying up all the loose ends.

Of course, there was a lot of emotion in the beginning. We were just getting ready for the anniversary dinner when the police came. Derek had invited the neighbours and we were waiting for Jo. I was busy in the kitchen of course. When I saw them, I couldn’t quite understand why they were in the sitting room. I couldn’t quite make any sense out of what they were saying. I understood all the words, but the sentence didn’t seem right. Then all I heard was screaming. Later when Derek brought me some tea, he told me what the police said. She’d answered the phone.

It wasn’t an accusation because he hadn’t realised. It was me that realised. It was a week later when he mentioned the wine from Portugal again; said he regretted asking about it; asked me not to blame myself. I haven’t really spoken to him since then; can’t bear to look at him. Derek and I dance around polite essential conversation but he has no idea. When Jo finally opens her eyes, what exactly does he expect? Are we all to sit around the bed discussing old times when I suddenly drop in with, “By the way, I’m sorry I ruined your life.”?

What kind of mother doesn’t protect her child?

Derek

Derek woke at 6:05. He always woke at that time. Had spent years getting up early to avoid the busy commute to work but since retirement the habit stuck. He got dressed quietly so as not to wake Lisa and went downstairs. He made coffee, silently entered Jo’s bedroom and sat in the chair next to the bed.

His daughter lay, apparently asleep, exactly as she had done for the last 18months since leaving hospital. He took her hand and held it while he drank his coffee. The doctor had suggested communication, but he couldn’t speak to her. Not like this. When she opened her eyes, he would speak. There was a lot to say. He cast his eyes down the bed and caught sight of the planner hanging over the end.

Derek hated the planner. It was Lisa’s idea. She had done it before, when her Dad was ill. Nigel came to live with them after his stroke so that Lisa could care for him, in the same room actually. It used to be the dining room, but Derek could barely remember eating there now.

Staring at the planner, Derek noticed the date and realised it was exactly 2 years since the accident. He knew because it was also their wedding anniversary, not that it was celebrated anymore. There would be no gifts or cards. What could he write in the card? Happy anniversary, at least we’ve not lost Jo!

What was the point of writing the same thing every day in a planner? Derek had never read the bloody thing but knew exactly what it said. Planning was Lisa’s way of dealing with the situation; writing lists, making appointments, but it didn’t help Derek. Derek didn’t get involved in caring for his daughter; not because he didn’t want to but because it was Lisa’s domain. She controlled it. She controlled most things to be honest. He wanted to help but recognised the effect on Lisa would be catastrophic. She bristled if he picked up a tea towel.

Derek rinsed his cup and left it by the sink, put on his boots and coat then left the house for a walk across the moors. He did this daily. The house backed onto the Peak District National Park and Derek enjoyed a 7 mile circuit that included the lake, open ground and a small copse of trees. During the walk he ran through the conversation as he always did. He needed to be prepared, when Jo wakes up.

As he left the trees, Derek was struck by the sunlight highlighting a spot in front of the lake. It reminded him of their wedding pictures. 28 years today. They’d celebrated 25 anniversaries but the 26^th was the day of the accident. Derek winced at the word accident. According to the dictionary and accident was an unfortunate incident, typically resulting in damage or injury. He couldn’t argue with the definition. It was unfortunate that Jo was in a coma. She was injured and there was a lot of damage. But there was also blame and guilt too

Derek got back, took a shower then collected the news paper and went to the sitting room. He could hear Lisa bathing Jo. It must be 11:00 he mused.

In the chair he read the paper cover to cover. Somewhere along the way Derek had learned to read words on a page without reading anything. He found his mind drifting to a day exactly 2 years ago when Derek asked Lisa to ring Jo and check she’d got the wine for their anniversary dinner. He remembered he was trying to be thoughtful. It was the wine they had in Portugal, on honeymoon.

Derek heard Lisa walk into the kitchen and start preparing soup. He could have taken the opportunity to look over his paper as she walked past. But say what? Do you want any help? Happy anniversary? Truth was he had no idea what to say to her anymore and the silence had taken such a hold that breaking it seemed the equivalent to lighting touch paper. As if offering to make the soup would invoke 2 years’ worth of anger and resentment. The noise emanating from the kitchen seemed loud in the silence. He listened to the pattern of her movements, chop, chop, scrape, chop, chop, scrape, chop, chop, scrape. Stir twice pause, stir twice pause.

 It was an issue. Derek knew when it had started, the obsessive behaviour. Looking after Nigel had been very tough on Lisa and Derek had been working then so couldn’t offer much practical help. At the weekend Derek had taken the paper in to Nigel and tried to read to him but it felt awkward so then he moved the bed towards the patio doors and sat next to him bird watching, pointing out all the birds he could see, describing them in detail. He quite enjoyed it and developed a keen interest himself during the 6 months. Lisa wasn’t interested in birds. She felt the open doors would encourage infection and insisted he was wrapped in scarves. He looked like he was wearing a turban.

She was quite rigid then, but Derek assumed it was doctor’s orders. She had a rhythm about her, never still, never rushed but always moving. If he was musically talented, he could probably have made something of the beat she created around her life, dancing at a distance to avoid interaction. The washing machine beeped her heard her load the basket. She took the washing outside.

She was very emotional in the beginning. We were just getting ready for the anniversary dinner with the neighbours. Jo was on her way when the police came. I invited them in. Lisa was in the kitchen of course. When she saw the police, she went into shock., They told us about the car, Jo was in hospital and it was very serious. Lisa wouldn’t stop screaming. At the hospital of course there was a lot to take in. We waited for news. There was a lot of waiting. The police arrived said they thought it was caused by the phone; said that Jo answered a phone call. I took Lisa some tea and told her what the police said. Nothing. I tried to talk about a week or so later, but she was like stone. As if she had built a wall.

Derek was brought back to the present by the draft coming from the kitchen door. Maybe he should go out too. Try to talk to her. He imagined he would take her some tea; they would sit on the bench in the sunshine and he would put his arms around her and they would sit comfortable that way for a while. Then he would tell her how sorry he was for not being able to say the right thing and they would talk about the accident, and how it had affected them and how they were the ones damaged and then they would share their gratitude that Jo was still here and share plans of their life together when Jo opens her eyes.

Truth was Derek had also lost the will to fight.

Not that Craig would remember that. Jo was feeling irritable and she wound the window down in the car. The silence was deafening after the row. Craig was pushing Jo to ask for more money out of her part time cleaning job and Jo refused to be told what to do and resented leaving their 3-month-old daughter with the neighbour. The subtext being Jo wanted Craig to earn enough to support them, this one time, while she was on maternity leave.

They arrived at the house. Beautiful. A modern 2 storey detached house in a large plot. A double garage to the left, entrance in the middle, and a large bay window to the right. Impressive. The first floor spread over the garage, easily 4 maybe 5 bedrooms. As she walked up the driveway, Jo admired the large, dark grey entrance door with horizontal panels. Craig sped away like a boy racer; the exhaust loudly misfiring.

Mrs Jefferson was watching at the window. She noted the time. Punctual, a nod of acceptance. She also noted the old car with a loud exhaust and immediately scanned the neighbours to check if they hd been seen. Keith wouldn’t like the noise. It was a long driveway, so Mrs Jefferson had time to watch Jo walk up to the house. She was tall, thirtyish slim, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. She had a natural graceful ease about her, and Mrs Jefferson found her unnerving but wasn’t sure why.

Mrs Jefferson opened the door and invited Jo into the sitting room, down the entrance hall and through the door on the right. The whole room looked grey. Grey carpet and curtains, white walls. There was one picture, a grey abstract, and a few family photos on a side table. They sat on the sofa. Mrs Jefferson was a wiry thin woman, possibly sixty? also wearing grey. Although she sat stiffly on the edge of the sofa, she blended into the background perfectly. Jo tried not to smile at this haughty caricature of a woman, who was clearly, extremely uncomfortable, though Jo had no idea with what or whom.

Mrs Jefferson explained about the products in a bucket in each room. Spray for paintwork, gloves, solution, and cloth for floors. Polish for wooden surfaces. She used language like, ‘you will…’ ‘I expect….’ and her favourite, ‘do not…’ She asked nothing and invited no response. Clearly Mrs Jefferson had a definite idea what a cleaner was; a kind of sub-person, seen and not heard. Jo was un-phased and thought about the cash payment.

Mrs Jefferson lead Jo to Bedroom 1, where a bucket sat in the doorway. There were identical buckets at each door along the corridor, six in all. Five bedrooms and one bathroom. Well that’s odd, Jo thought.

Bedroom 1 ran the length and width of the garage below. Feeling the carpet give under her feet, Jo could tell the furniture and fittings were of high quality, though lacking in imagination as this room was also grey with white walls, white bedding, grey curtains.

Jo wondered if Mr Jefferson went to work in a grey suit and a grey car. She put on the gloves, took the spray, and started on the paintwork. While she worked, she was thinking about returning to work in the department store at the end of her maternity leave. The cleaning job was just to tide them over, a bit of cash to help with the shopping. She blamed Craig. Though he was full of ideas on how to improve her income he had a complete blind spot when it came to his own limited capacity to earn a living. He was a mechanic, a motor bike specialist, but although their garage and sometimes the kitchen table was full of bike parts there was little cash to suggest he did anything with them.

Jo carefully cleaned each room methodically and returned the products with the gloves to each bucket. Five bedrooms all cold, unused, unloved. Jo wondered why they had chosen such a big house. Each bedroom had a bed, a wardrobe and bedside cabinet, no pictures, no ornaments. They were all grey, same carpet, bedding, and curtains. She also noticed how clean everywhere was. There wasn’t a mark on anything, and Jo wondered why Mrs Jefferson employed a cleaner, she clearly had it covered. The bathroom was like a hotel bathroom, not a watermark in sight.

While Jo was cleaning, Mrs Jefferson passed by periodically, silently checking she was using the correct products and more importantly not snooping. Keith would want her to check. She noticed Jo wore headphones and a gadget flashed a blue light from her back pocket. Mrs Jefferson didn’t have a mobile or even a computer and saw no use for them. Keith didn’t approve of modern technology. There were a lot of things Keith didn’t approve of, still as he said, she was lucky to have this house and he provided everything she needed. She had no reason to complain.

It took Jo three hours to clean the house and when she’d finished, she found Mrs Jefferson in the garden collecting the washing off the line; five shirts, all white. Before Jo could speak, Mrs Jefferson brushed past her.

” There’s an envelope in the kitchen. I’ll expect you at the same time next week.”

She handed Jo the envelope and placed a hand on Jo’s back to usher her out of the front door. This was comical, thought Jo. This woman is bonkers.

Outside with the door firmly shut, she phoned Craig to come and collect her, then sat on the garden wall to wait. Mrs Jefferson, watching from the window, worried about Keith’s reaction. She shouldn’t sit on the wall.

At home Jo was relaxing in a bath. She thought about Mrs Jefferson’s anxiety and wondered what her husband was like. Clearly a lover of white shirts. She wondered if he had a bedding or carpet business. She thought about Mrs Jefferson’s behaviour. Maybe she frightened of him.

The next week Jo asked Mrs Jefferson if she could make a drink. Mrs Jefferson was unsure at first, then agreed and rushed ahead to make a cup of tea. Jo noticed how methodical she was. When she reached for a cup, the cupboard was neatly arranged, not just cups all together on one shelf but all lined up, handles facing the same way. Making the tea was also a practiced routine. Mrs Jefferson didn’t have anything to drink but Jo decided to make conversation and asked Mrs Jefferson about her husband.

“Keith? director of a law firm” she said. “Very clever. I’m very fortunate to live in this house. He provides me with everything I need.” Jo agreed it was a beautiful house and saw how uncomfortable Mrs Jefferson was, talking about him. As Jo reached to place the cup on the draining board, Mrs Jefferson snatched it out of her hand, washed it vigorously with a sponge, dried it and placed it in exactly the same spot it came from, handle turned to line with the others. OCD? Jo wondered.

The following week Jo was early because Craig was collecting a bike for a service.

Mrs Jefferson didn’t answer the door, but Jo could hear the hoover. She went around to the back of the house and saw that Mrs Jefferson was hoovering the lawn. Jo waited silently, slightly puzzled but also aware that Mrs Jefferson hadn’t seen her. Jo cleared her throat.

“You’re early! “Mrs Jefferson snapped.

“You’re hoovering the lawn,” said Jo calmly

“Yes, well Keith says the garden should be kept neat and tidy. It’s difficult in October. You can go in this way.”

In bedroom no 1, Jo did something she knew she shouldn’t do. She opened the wardrobe doors. Inside everything was perfectly aligned, in its place just like the kitchen cupboards. There were 4 navy suits and 5 crisp white shirts. 6 pairs of shoes all polished and in boxes with the lids off, ready to use. Jo wondered whether Keith was the control freak. When she’d finished, she found Mrs Jefferson in the lounge, cleaning photographs (that Jo had also cleaned) and decided to ask a question.

“Can I ask you Mrs Jefferson why you wanted a cleaner, you seem to manage this house very well.”

“Yes I do. But it’s not clean enough. Keith always said I kept missing things. It’s not clean, so I ‘ve got you.

Mrs Jefferson, once again, was clearly agitated so Jo backed off. She decided Mrs Jefferson seemed frightened. Later, at home, she told Craig about her erratic behaviour. Craig thought she sounded ‘a bit mental’ and whilst Jo knew this was meant to close the conversation, she wondered if there might be an element of truth in it although she was also starting to believe they had an abusive relationship.

The next week, Jo was on time and Mrs Jefferson asked her into the kitchen. There were issues. She had a list. She handed it to Jo.

Issues

1. Three hairs in the corner of the en-suite floor.
2. The buckets not replaced in the same spot in the doorway
3. The buckets facing the wrong way.

Jo looked up from the list, straight at Mrs Jefferson.

“It needs to be exactly as I left it. It’s important to be thorough. Keith always said that. Whatever you do, do it thoroughly.” Said Mrs Jefferson, her voice escalating, anxiously trying to the erase the disbelief from Jo’s face.

Jo was now convinced Keith had control over his wife and that she was frightened of him. She took a step towards Mrs Jefferson,

“Do you need help Mrs Jefferson? Did Keith write this? Are you ok? Is Keith hurting you?”

“What? No! Of course not! Why would you say that? I have a beautiful home and everything I need. I’m lucky to live here. My life is perfect. I'm lucky to live here...” Mrs Jefferson was shaking, sliding down the face of the kitchen cupboards.

Jo took another step forward. "Where's Keith?”

It was like a gunshot. She was sitting on the kitchen floor, mouth agape, shaking violently. She couldn’t speak and the blood had drained from her face. Jo helped her to sit on one of stools at the breakfast bar and got her a glass of water.

As she handed the glass Mrs Jefferson started to cry. Jo spoke softly.

“Mrs Jefferson what is happening. Has Keith hurt you? Do you need to get away? Shall I call someone?”

Mrs Jefferson put her head on her hands and sobbed. Heart wrenching sobs that left Jo desperate to help. She sat next to her and gently placed a hand on Mrs Jefferson’s shoulder. She was running through scenarios of a beaten wife mentally abused for years, when Mrs Jefferson finally found her voice.

“Keith died 18months ago. I don’t know what to do.”

"It's OK Mrs Jefferson, I do."

Her bunions were killing and her knee ached from walking. She hadn’t found who she was looking for, or even a smattering of Christmas cheer. The weather was miserable, the people were nowty, traders were fed up. Even the dogs shivered in their reindeer headbands.

You’d think that would be perfect for a Christmas fairy – lots of people to throw fairy dust at. But things were hard these days. Dust doesn’t grow on trees and it dustn’t (see what I did there) go as far as it used to. Linda could remember the days when you could change a life with one bag, now you were lucky if it changed a face! Linda had 1 bag left and she wasn’t wasting it. Out of the 3 names on her list, she was positive she could make a difference to somebody somewhere. Just a little bit of magic could surely change a life.

fyi, the Christmas fairies can’t just produce stuff and give it away. Using wands to sprinkle immediate dress changes, turning toys into children, frogs into princes- those days are gone; ever since that court case where the prince wanted to identify as a frog and caused havoc in the swamp. (That generation of spawn will never recover). So, now they’ve got to be less radical. Just manipulate things, make things coincide, align for a better outcome - within limits. And Linda in particular is very limited; A she is old and grumpy and finds herself on a different page with current views, B; lost her spark as a direct result of A and C, failed to attend the crucial CPD courses that would have enabled her to solve A and B. Anyway back to story…

The trouble was, finding the target. You see in the old days Linda could just choose a random person and them upstairs would respect her professional judgement but oh no not anymore. There are rules, the worthiness committee decide who gets what then send a spreadsheet out. Linda has to download a copy to edit, select people from the list sprinkle a bit of magic then sign and comment before uploading to the cloud. Linda was old school. She wasn’t a fan of the spreadsheet and was subsequently prone to overuse of the comment box.

Inappropriate language had been cited in her last performance review and she’d had to attend a resource comment box awareness course for 3 sessions.

Back on the wall Linda was considering her options. The information on the spreadsheet was very limited- GDPR bollocks. She was to look for Jo. That was it…just Jo… FFS no age or description, male female, cat, nothing. Linda had no intention of wandering around searching, burdening the bunions anymore, so opted to send a quick email to HQ for more clues on how to recognise ‘Jo’ The out of office reply came back almost immediately, followed by a text asking her to rate the response.

Linda typed fuckoff even though she knew only numbers 1 to 5 were acceptable.

She was now forced to use her own dust to get a visual ID. What a waste of 50g. It would have to go on expenses. Linda wasn’t sure what was going on at HQ but would definitely lose her shit next time she was there. She might as well sign up for the ‘losing your shit’ awareness course now.

So, with ¾ of a sodden dust bag and a sore knee, Linda now had a visual for the target Jo. The spreadsheet said Jo had had a few setbacks of late (again no detail given) and could do with a little nudge of good luck. Linda thought she might follow her, drop a few quid off her shopping then use up the remainder wrangling a freebies in the coffee shop, or even a free hairdo at the local salon. She was just getting going with ideas when Jo took a seat beside her, on the wall. Obviously Jo had no idea that the bedraggled weather worn, almost invisible women next to her was indeed incredibly gifted and talented in the changing your life stakes.

Jo sat forward resting on her knees taking a long drag of cigarette, lost in thought, noise defenders on, flicking through images on her phone, as Linda scrutinised from the corner of her eye. She wasn’t impressed. First of all, she was smoking ‘happy’ cigarettes, well she shouldn’t be smoking at all in Linda’s book.

Second she appeared to be wearing her underwear. Totally under-dressed for the weather and thirdly her head was shaved and she had more metal in her face than Linda had seen in a cutlery draw.

Linda considered her magic dust was not to be wasted and offered advice in the form of 3 questions; whether smoking was a good long-term investment, if outdoor clothes might be better for outdoors and how noise defenders work.

Pleased with that, Linda walked around the corner and off to find the next target;

Target 2: Paul. Fish monger. needs uplift after recent tragedy.

Once again Linda growled at the lack of detail, but assumed the local fish market would be the place to start and set off limping across the street. The stall was busy, so she sat at the back ‘hiding’ in the queue hoping to work out who Paul was. As luck would have it, the fishmonger’s attracts a regular clientele and one of them asked why Paul wasn’t on today.

“Paul?” the server said, “ He’s gone doing one them private deals he does every lunch time.” “What, you mean door to door from a van?”

“No love. He’s in the pub across the road.”

Linda narrowed her eyes. What kind of worthiness committee was creating this list of worthless twits?.

Linda headed out and across the street to the pub in question. Paul could be clearly identified, propping up the bar, centre of attention, buying everybody drinks. His relaxed manner, red complexion and enormous girth suggested this was a regular event. He was laughing raucously.

Linda checked the spreadsheet again…needs uplift after recent tragedy…

At this point Linda was convinced the tragedy might involve the opening hours of said bar, or the closing of his bank account due to insufficient intension and left, dustbag intact.

She retreated to the wall. She felt absolutely exhausted. Why was it so difficult to spread a bit of magic. Linda screwed her face up to the sky to re-group. She let out a long sigh and when she opened her eyes, a young Asian man sat beside her offering her hot chocolate, with whipped cream decorated with little silver balls.

That’s not mine she snapped – no but you can have it said the man with the widest smile. No charge.

I saw you earlier and you looked like you were having a bad day, so I thought I’d spread a bit of magic. I try and help somebody every day- you see - A little bit of ALIMAGIC can change your life! Try it!

Linda wondered if she had managed to transport herself onto the different planet awareness course and she stared at the man waiting for answers.

Ali Magic – it’s the name of my coffee business. I’m an entrepreneur this is my first one but I’m going to buy more. I started 3 years ago. It was slow at first but people come back to me now. It’s going really well. I’ll have one in every city this time next year. His smile couldn’t be wider and Linda smiled back.

“I think you’ll find you already own one in every city.” Linda said as she threw the empty dustbag in the bin.

Since when was it a crime to watch people in a coffee shop? You can kill someone and get away with it but you can't listen to somebody's conversation without being arrested.

I was in to Costa, the one opposite Sainsbury's. Jack and I started going when it opened 5 years ago and then after Jack's death, I carried on. I get a cappuccino and watch the people coming in and out. Two years or more now. They know me there. I don't know them. I don't speak to them or anything , I just mean they recognise my order.

It's quite a plain café, decor-wise but the seats are comfy. I always sit at the side, "a wide angled view", as Jack used to say. He used to say a lot of things.

Most people that come in fade into the back ground, ordinary, sad little things staring into an abyss or fixated with phones, grey looking. That's why I noticed her. She was colour. So bright and full of life. 

I saw her the first time she came in. She sort of swished in wearing a red coat and she had that hair that bounces and shines. It was like copper under the lights. I couldn't take my eyes off her. She came with her friend. Chat chat chat, they never stopped and whatever story she was telling , her friend was glued.

They sat in the window and when she took her coat off, it flopped onto the contours of the back of chair, you know, like them expensive ones, and she had a gorgeous green sweater on underneath, high neck, beautiful shade, oh and a nice ring too, though I didn't see that at first. I've never had clothes like that. Jack wasn't into 'things'. He thought it was vain to want nice things.

She was telling a story, excited, her face was lit up, eyes enormous. I just thought she was so interesting and I couldn't quite catch from my seat, so I moved to the seat behind them in the window. Honestly it was fascinating. She was talking about her family and a relationship.

Anyway she must have been working locally because she started coming in every week at lunch time. So I started coming in a bit later, so I didn't miss anything. I brought a novel to pretend I was reading but it was just to hide behind really. It was like the three of us were best friends but I was the quiet one. I never really had any friends.

She was Irish. She had three sisters. Two of them were married into the same family and the third one worked in their family business.

Well, you wouldn't believe the shenanigans. Some of the things, quite private really. I had to lean in to catch the details, and then when I got home I started making a few notes.

Then it just seemed easier to take the notebook into the coffee shop. I pretended I was studying. I mean me! studying!. I barely finished school. I even brought a few books and spread them out on the table. I've seen people do that.

Honestly it was just harmless. Carried on for about 2 months and then it stopped. And I was gutted. I felt left out, like I'd lost a friend. Stupid really. I paced up and down at home. I even went down to the shed and shouted at Jack. Your fault.

Anyway, a few weeks later, I spotted her in another café down the street. So I started going there. I mean, it's a public space. Anyone can go.

I just took a reading book this time but I hid my notebook in the middle. And that's how it was..... until this morning. 

I was never going to speak to her. But when her friend didn't show and she looked so sad, I just sat down and I touched her hand. She jumped back, shocked then she stared at me and her face went ugly and she shouted that I was the crazy woman from Costa. And I was upset and I was trying to tell her everything was OK and then I dropped the book and she saw the notes.

And she was so angry with me.

I tried to explain but the words were wrong and I said I wouldn't tell anyone about all the things that she'd done and I just wanted to help and that she could talk to me. That I was her friend.

She didn't listen. She backed off, wrapping her shoulders in her beautiful coat. That beautiful voice shrill with rage. She knocked the chair as she left. Everybody was staring.

I don't know who called the police.

And now I'm here sitting in a waiting room. 'Harassment and stalking' they said. As if that's what brought me to a police station.

Two years ago I was convinced I'd be sat here. Stabbing your husband 6 times with scissors is something you expect to be arrested for. I spent a week hiding behind the curtains in the lounge waiting for cars to come screeching up to the house with sirens blaring. But nothing happened.

When you don't have friends nobody cares if you're missing.

You know I've never got round to replacing those scissors.

It was a strange day. A 41-year-old man, apparently healthy, dropped dead in his sitting room. An embolism. Could have happened any time. And here at the funeral half the people on this side of the church, wished it had. Mark, my niece’s partner was a poor choice.

They met when Mel was 16, when she was a beautiful, young, impressionable girl, when she had dreams of her own café, when she was in the wrong place at the wrong time, when she was fooled by his flash car.

Mark appeared to be somebody; somebody who owns a Rolex, somebody who has a house, somebody who drives a Mercedes, somebody who wears Armani.

But Mark was a nob. He was 20 years older, and he talked about his work using vague descriptions of sectors. I work in security. I work with legislation I work in exports.

While Mel mapped out their future in a dream world of luxury holidays, Michelin star restaurants, designer labels and affluence, he remained aloof to the family charms, and unbending to Mel’s wishes. But she was smitten, and for the next 10 years, she lived at home, worked in a local restaurant and visited Mark at weekends, blind to the unfulfilled promises of happy ever after, her future locked in his.

My brother Paul and his wife had tried to talk to Mel, about the relationship but it always ended in anger. They tried to nudge Mark too but that resulted in the suggestion that Paul should tap into his pension to buy the dream home for his daughter. Nothing about him was real and yet Mel idolised him. What could they do?

I went outside for a cigarette. The funeral car hadn’t arrived yet, but the church was filling up. I wondered if my brother knew any of these people arriving. They were certainly familiar to me. In my past life as jobbing journalist for the Daily Mail, there were certain faces and names you don’t forget. Stories of criminal connections, family feuds leading to factory fires and the odd homicide. These were the people entering the funeral. These were the people grieving Mark.

Mark the nob, Mark the fuckwit, Mark the criminal gangster apparently.

The funeral car arrived, Mel and her mother resplendent in swirl of black silk and faces hidden behind mesh and Paul, in the mourning suit he wore for Dad’s funeral. I saw his reaction to the people walking in, the cars they flaunted on double yellow lines, the tailored suits, the polished boots, the sunglasses. He didn’t know.

I caught his eye as I stepped in behind.

'Interesting mates your Mel.'

During the service 2 of these friends gave a reading. They talked of loyalty and strong bonds and strength of character, and they hugged Mel as they left the podium, and I wondered if she knew them as well as she knew their preferred designer label.

A year later there was a story in the Daily Mail about house raid in Didsbury. But we didn’t talk about it.