Stories

There is no one on the quay in Yowporth, fishing nets lie abandoned on the harbour wall, needles still dangling where their owners left them. If you look carefully, you can see shadows at a few windows. Otherwise there is no sign of life in the whitewashed cottages that crowd the narrow gorge. In the small harbour, there is a black-bottomed fishing boat with a bright red nameplate. Its net fans out behind it like a peacock's tail and sweeps up onto the quayside. Overhead a grey, black and blue dragon casts its shadow on the harbour stone like a straining kite. Its claws are entangled in the fishing net and, as the dragon starts to fly, it and the boat are pulled through and out of the water.

The dragon seems to find the boat heavy and has difficulty getting height. He flaps hard as if he's treading water, the boat swinging about below him.     His wings create a strong draught and crabbing buckets roll along the quay, their lines trailing behind. The warped icecream sign outside the village shop creaks and flaps in the wind. With a snort and a majestic push of his wings, the dragon finally lifts high enough to clear the harbour wall. He flies out to sea, almost disappearing against the dark sky. The black-hulled boat becomes smaller. It could pass for a bird, if you didn't know what it was.

    The door of the village shop is the first to open. Pasco bites down on a choc ice, as he walks out, his waders clumping on the stones of the quay. He looks at the horizon and then back at the shop doorway.

    “E's gone. There you are, what did I tell you? It went off alright, didn't it?”

    Pasco cracks some chocolate between his teeth and slurps up the icecream before it runs down his chin.

    “Are you sure? Is it really gone? What if it comes back?”

    Davy peers out from the gloom of the shop and scans the sky.

    “Course 'e'll come back, you daftie. That's the whole point, in't? But it won't be for hours yet. Come out of that shop now, you fairy.”

    Clinging to the doorframe, Davy keeps his eyes skyward and puts his right leg out into the open. He stays like that, half-in and half-out, frozen like a figure from Pompeii. Pasco looks at him in disgust and, grabbing his coat sleeve, pulls him out of the shop.

    “Don't be such a nancy, young 'un,” says Pasco. “E won't harm you.”

    “How can you be so sure?”

    Davy is standing on the quay looking up at the sky and not at Pasco.

    “I've been around almost as long as that dragon has and I'm still here, aren't I?”

    Davy looks Pasco up and down, checking him for bitemarks, burnt patches or missing limbs. He smiles when he realises that Pasco appears to be whole. Jamming his hands in his trouser pockets, Davy almost swaggers over to the fishing boat's berth. He sees something dull and metallic blue, thinks that it's a puddle and kicks. He gets a shock when it clatters against the stone. Pasco laughs and walks over to him, picking it up with both hands.

    “Dragon scale,” says Pasco. “It must 'ave come off with all that flapping he was doing to clear the 'arbour wall.”

    “That's a piece of it?” says Davy. “Just one piece of it? Oh, but it's huge! Look at the size of that thing.”

    He reaches out and fingers it.

    “Not at all like I thought it would be,” says Davy. “You know like a snake, I thought, but it's not. E's well-oiled, isn't he? Suppose he has to be really what with all that flying. Well, if that's only one of his scales, I 'ope you're paying him well in return.”

    “Don't be such a fool,” says Pasco. “I'm not paying him. We didn't even discuss it.”

    “You didn't even ... didn't even. Oh, what!? I can't believe you're calling me an idiot. It's you who's the idiot. Don't you get it – he's a blooming dragon, in't he? Do you think he's doing this for fun, just to help out his mate Pasco? You know what dragons like – they likes beautiful maids for breakfast, they do. He'll have all our women when he gets back. Especially beautiful, beautiful Tamsyn. Oh no, no, no.”

    Davy sits down, dangling his legs over the quay, and puts his head in his hands. He continues to mutter but Pasco can't make it out through the sobbing.

    “Come on, Davy lad. I'll buy you an icecream. Trust me, it'll be alright, I promise. No point crying all night until he comes back. What good'll that do anyone?”

    “Don't want no icecream. I have to go and see Tamsyn and warn her to hide. No, no, leave, that's better. I'll ask her to flee Yowporth tonight.”

    Davy stands up and runs. Pasco listens to the sound of Davy's boots clomping their way uphill, hitting the cobblestones. Sighing, he walks over to one of the tar-black bollards, sits down and feels in his pocket for tobacco. Pasco taps his pipe on his waders and a clump of old tobacco drops to the ground.     He concentrates hard while measuring out the flakes. He pauses, coughs and then pokes them down the pipe's barrel. Pasco strikes a match against the bollard and lights up. He draws on the pipe and it glows in the fading light. He feels the first splashes of rain on his face but doesn't move. When he exhales, the light grey smoke curls up to join the rain clouds. The spots of rain come faster now, but he stays on the bollard, smoking his pipe. When he hears the first roll of thunder, he pulls his collar around him and ambles off to the street behind the village shop.

    On the way, Pasco meets some of the fishermen's wives coming to take in the nets they were mending. They glare at him as they draw level but Pasco just smiles and waves his pipe.

    Pasco sleeps well that night, despite the storm that beats about Yowporth and the surrounding cliffs. The thunder claps and lightning flashes are faint background music in his dreams. He smiles, imagining the dragon bringing home the largest catch Yowporth has known. When he pictures the faces of the other villagers, including Davy's confused one, he laughs and almost wakes. He sees himself standing beside the dragon, patting its neck with one hand, holding a wad of banknotes in the other. Oh, what a laugh it will be to have the biggest catch ever from the comfort and safety of his own bed! He chuckles and rolls over.

    When Pasco wakes, he sits up in bed and looks out of the window. Through the thin curtains, he can see that it is a bright, sunny morning and the storm is over. He gets out of bed, pulls the curtain open and looks down to the harbour. Pasco cannot quite believe what he sees and blinks. No, he is right. His boat is not in the harbour, as planned, safe and secure. In fact, his is the only boat not there. All the others are moored and there is a gap where his should be. Pasco pulls on his jeans, waders and a jumper and runs out of the cottage. On the way, he meets the same fisherwomen from yesterday and, this time, they are smiling and nodding at him.

    He counts the boats when he reaches the harbour and there are only five. One – his Morvoren – is missing. His trusty little Mermaid is out there somewhere. But the dragon is here, stretched out on the end of the harbour wall, its tail dipping in the sea. Pasco clenches his fists and can feel the muscles in his neck tensing.

    “Sunning itself without a care in the world!” Pasco says, as he marches along the harbour wall. “Un-be-lieve-a-ble.”

    As he approaches the dragon, it opens one eye and pulls itself up, resting on a wing.

    “Oh, it's you,” says the dragon.

    “Yes, it's me,” says Pasco. “Well, would you like to tell me just what's going on here? I thought we had an agreement. Where's my boat and where's my lovely big catch of fish? You should have caught loads last night in the storm.”

    The dragon opens his mouth and dislodges a piece of driftwood from between his teeth with a talon. It clatters onto the stones of the harbour wall.

    “Ah yes, your little boat. I was afraid you were going to ask me about that.”

    The dragon inspects his talon for debri and yawns.

    “Frightful storm last night. I suppose you slept right through it? Well, it was terrible. Once I was out in the fishing zone, I recognised the other Yowporth boats. At first, they were too busy trying to keep afloat to worry about me. Then Kenwyn, the old fisherman, sees me and asks me for my help. He says that he and the others will share the proceeds of sale from their catches, if I get them all back home safely. Well, I thought about it and figured that it was a much better deal than you were offering. In fact, come to mention it, that's when I realised we hadn't actually discussed payment.”

    The dragon licks his teeth.

    “I suppose you just assumed we dragons always want maids. Were you planning to give up a daughter or something? I hope you weren't going to give me your wife. Yuk.”

    Pasco stares at him, not quite believing that he is confirming Davy's worst fears.

    “Oh, well, never mind,” snorted the dragon.

    “Never mind?” says Pasco. “You can't just say never mind when it comes to eating a maid. What on earth is Kenwyn paying you? I know for a fact he hasn't got a daughter.”

    “Oh, it's just too embarrassing,” says the dragon. “I've been having a few problems lately in the old fire-breathing department, you know. Most annoying. The maids don't take me seriously. Anyway, I want some cash, so that I can see a specialist and get it sorted out.”

    “I see. How awful for you,” says Pasco. “Well, of course, you ought to get it seen to. So, just where does that leave my boat?”

    “Well, as you know, I helped Kenwyn and brought the boats and their catch home one by one. Took me most of the night, I can tell you. I'm quite exhausted! Anyway, by the time I went back for your boat, I'm afraid it was a bit broken up by the storm.”

    “A bit broken up?” says Pasco.

    “In fact,” says the dragon, “you're standing on what's left of it.”

    Pasco looks down at the piece of driftwood under his feet and sees MORVOREN in bright red paint on a black background. He bends down and picks up the nameplate, holding it in both hands and staring at it.

    “Thought you'd want the nameplate for your next boat. Kenwyn tells me all your boats have been called Mermaid,” says the dragon.

    “Yes, yes, they have,” says Pasco, “Well, thanks very much. You really shouldn't have gone to the trouble of saving this and bringing it back. It's too kind of you.”

    “Well, really, no need for sarcasm,” says the dragon. “I was only trying to help...”

    But Pasco is already walking away with all that is left of his beautiful fishing boat.

[1938 words]

Standing here on the cliff, I can still see her, scuttling across the beach, flicking the knarled walking stick out in front of her. I remember how I crouched in the rock pools or behind a dune, watching her move, imagining her thoughts. Huwina, she was called. I don't think I ever knew her surname. She was always just Huwina and she lived on this cliff in Huwina's Cottage. Huwina. The name of a wise woman, a witch, a mystery. There were rumours about her in the village but no-one is sure anymore which were true and which were to scare us children into staying away. We all spied on her, some more than others, hiding behind walls or rocks or flinging ourselves in the heather or long grasses at the river mouth when she passed close by.

She was unlike anyone else we knew for miles along the coast. In those days, communities were strong. People were always in and out of each other's houses, visiting or calling. I remember there always being fresh scones in our house for the visitors, sometimes even cake. Going to church was a social occasion and a place for the weekly exchange of crofting and family news. Then there were the local dances and ceilidhs. Not that Huwina ever went to any. She kept to herself, paid no visits and received none in return. Even her groceries were delivered by van once a week. I think I was fascinated by her because she was so alone. With four brothers and two sisters, I longed for her to adopt me, so that I could move into Huwina's cottage and share the quiet loneliness.

    I can picture her clearly. Her workman's boots, heavy, black clumps laced up with string. Her skirt was always long, straight and narrow but sometimes, on the beach or the cliff, it would fill with air and billow up. That is when I glimpsed leather brown stockings on straw-thin legs. She wrapped herself in a fisherman's jumper, which sagged to mid-thigh and fell away from her neck to reveal skeletal shoulders. I never saw her face when she was walking, for she always wore an olive-green felt hat, pulled down tight over her head. Hanging dead-centre down her back was a thick corn-doll plait of white horse hair. I knew it was her own for it never moved in the sea winds like a horse's mane would have.

    I followed her once, when I was about twelve. The tide was out and the winter sun was weak on the glistening grey sands. I heard her before I saw her. It was the wet beach that betrayed her. The sands sucked and gasped, as her walking stick first pressed down and then drew out again sharply. I ducked behind a rock and watched her progress towards the cliffs. When she disappeared into the neighbouring bay, I stood up and ran, my boots slapping down on the sands, leaving temporary prints. At the cliffs, I stopped and picked up some shells and pebbles. They would be my reason for being on this part of the beach, should she catch me.

    I looked around the rocks and could see her a little way in the next cove. She was on her knees, digging in the sand close to the cliff face. It was strange seeing someone here. You could only access the cove from our beach at low tide. She stopped digging and sat upright, taking off her hat and wiping her forehead. Or so I thought. When I looked again, I saw she was wiping her eyes. Huwina was crying. She sat and wept for almost ten minutes. Then she replaced her hat and reached inside her skirt pocket. I wasn't sure what she pulled out. It looked brassy and could have been a box.     I could see a bundle of white and green on top and I knew that it was heather. Lucky white heather. Perhaps she was casting a spell? She was talking now and I longed to move closer. She was chanting, I was convinced, but there was no shelter, no way for me to get within hearing distance.

    She stopped talking and looked around. I pulled back behind the cliff and hoped she hadn't seen me. I waited a couple of minutes and then dared to look again. Her head was now bent over the sand and the box was gone. I saw her sprinkle some sand and knew where it was. She scooped up the freshly-dug sand and refilled the hollow. Huwina spent fifteen minutes patting and smoothing the sand over and over, almost combing it to leave no joins. Feeling in her other pocket, she brought out a handful of something. I counted six objects, which were carefully placed in a circle, each one driven down into the wet sand. Then she had stood up and walked around her creation. Huwina went back down onto her knees and adjusted two of the objects before pulling herself to her feet. This time she seemed satisfied and moved further off. She looked back and then out to sea. She seemed to breathe in the sea air, as if she needed to replenish her lungs after finishing a long overdue task. Huwina stood there for a moment staring out to sea and the weak muddy outline of Orkney.

    I didn't stay to watch anymore. I knew that she would soon be heading home and I didn't want her to catch me at the cliffs. I turned and ran along the sands below the cliff and into the rock pools. Crouched there, I didn't have to wait long before hearing the slurp and click of her walking stick. I let her clear the length of the beach before moving, even though water was seeping in at the toes of my boots. When she disappeared into the dunes, I clambered out of the rocks and ran down to the cliff edge. The tide was turning and I would need to be quick.

    I sprinted to the spot where she had been digging and found a smooth, dark grey patch of wet sand with six upright stones set on it. Three large smooth pebbles and three smaller flints in a rough circle, large, small, large, small, large, small. The smaller flints were slightly closer to the centre of the circle than the pebbles. A miniature pagan stone circle. Curious. I wondered what lay beneath. I looked behind me and could see the tide licking up the beach towards me. I doubted if I had enough time to dig up whatever it might be, and re-bury it, before the cove was cut off. So I decided to head home, saving the adventure for another day.

    The seas were restless that winter, as the northerly winds whipped their way inland. If my mother let me on the beach at all, she kept me close to the dunes. But the long grasses there swiped and cut your legs and the fine sand whirled around your head and stung your eyes so hard, you cried all the way home. I stopped going to the beach after the fourth time I'd stumbled home, my eyes clenched tight, red and scratchy from the sandstorm. I wandered through the village or up into the heather and the hills instead. By the time the weather improved, I had forgotten the stone circle and the treasure it marked.

    I had forgotten all about it until last night. I was sitting in my parents' kitchen, listening to my mother, bringing me up to date on the news, while she iced a cake. I am thirty-two now and have lived away for the past fourteen years. Not that I've settled anywhere for long. The last time I came home was five years ago for my father's funeral. I sat and glazed over, as my mother rattled through names, histories, intrigues. Some names I knew well, others I only vaguely remembered. Then her voice had changed and she had whispered, although we were the only two in the house.

    “She is dead.”

    I had stopped fingering the tablecloth and looked at her. My mother leant over the kitchen table, her mouth shaped ready to whistle.

    “Who is? Who's dead?” I had said.

    My mother often did this to me in conversations. She conducts most of it in her head and then lets me join in somewhere along the way, expecting me to follow who she is talking about.

    “You know who.”

    “No, no, I don't, otherwise I wouldn't be asking.”

    My mother sighed and looked about to speak, then changed her mind.

    “Hu-wina. It's her committal tomorrow afternoon.”

    My mother forced the name out and looked triumphant. I was confused.

    “But Huwina died three weeks ago. You told me in a letter.”

    My mother nodded. “Yes, but her ashes have been at the crematorium all this time. All because of her will.”

    “Well, what does her will say?”

    “It says that she wants her ashes to be scattered from the cliff top where Huwina's Cottage stands ..”

    “So what's the problem with that? It's not illegal, is it?”

    “I hadn't finished. No, it's not illegal or anything. But she wants her ashes to be scattered together with Sandy's.”

    I laughed then.

    “Oh what and Sandy's not dead and doesn't want to be scattered with her just yet?”

    My mother didn't laugh but sat down and sighed.

    “Sandy was her husband. He was killed in a road traffic accident, oh, years ago now. She must have forgotten that they put that in each other's wills and it was never changed. Anyway, those of us who knew her have decided we ought to go ahead with her committal after all. She should be laid to rest. She just can't have meant what was in the will to still have effect.”

    “I suppose,” was all I had said in response.

    I had a restless night in my old bedroom. Even after all this time, I still couldn't get used to having it to myself. I had shared this room with my two sisters and the house had never been quiet, even at night. I noticed that even my mother crept around it now. This morning, I woke early, dressed and left the house, knowing exactly where I was going. I walked down through the village and into the dunes. The grasses brushed against my calves, as I pushed my feet through the sands. I couldn't remember it being this hard going as a child. Coming out onto the beach, I smiled. It was low tide. Free of the dunes, I ran, hearing the thud of my trainers reverberate in my ears. I stopped when I reached the cliff edge, hesitating, half-expecting to see Huwina crouched on the sands in the cove.

    It took me some time to find the place where I had last seen Huwina's Standing Stones. I worked from the cliffs out and tried to remember where she had sat all those years ago. On the fourth dig, I uncovered the stones. Only the three large pebbles were still standing and they bent over at an angle facing the cliffs. I crouched down, just as Huwina had, and dug down, the wet grains scrubbing my fingertips. It was further down than I thought but eventually I hit something hard. A rectangular tin with a twig fixed on top by some string. I remembered the lucky white heather I had seen that day. I carried the tin to a rock pool and washed the sand away. Once clean, I saw it was a burnished gold colour, inlaid with pictures. Around the side were pictures of sailing ships and steamers and people waving and on the top was a picture of Queen Mary and King George. I never could remember which one he was – four or five, I thought, but it was definitely Queen Mary. No mistaking her.

    I sat for a while holding the tin, fingering its rim. It took me half an hour to get the lid off. When I felt it give under the pressure of my thumb, I took a deep breath before opening the lid. As soon as I looked, I knew I had been right and shut it back down, fixing the heather twig back as best I could. On the way back home, I stopped by Huwina's Cottage and walked through the peeling green paint gate. I found what I was looking for in the garden and walked home slowly, carrying the tin in both hands.

    When mother and I walked past Huwina's Cottage that afternoon, I was surprised how many people were already standing on the cliff. The minister held a prayer book and Jimmy from the post office held the urn. I left my mother and walked up to the minister.

    “Are you sure?” he said.

    “Yes, absolutely positive. Nothing else it could be.”

    “Very well,” he said and, opening the book, he began the service.

    I was nervous when the time came but the lid was looser this time. When Jimmy opened the lid of the urn, he looked over at me and nodded. I lifted the lid off the tin and stood alongside him. We gently shook our containers and the ashes of Huwina and Sandy were lifted up by the breeze. I threw the white heather I'd collected from the garden of Huwina's Cottage that morning over the cliff. Jimmy and I stood back, watching the ashes swirl and spiral together before disappearing.

[2278 words]

I am older now but sometimes I still leave the field where I am working and wander up to the riverbank. When there is hardly any wind, I almost believe I can still hear her singing. I have never since heard singing like her's. I remember clearly the first time I heard it. I was a child playing by the river, while my parents worked the fields that ran along its banks. It was a beautiful stretch of river, wide and deep, with weeping willows dipping their branches and stately white aspens lining the banks. It looks sad now though, like a garden that someone's stopped tending.

A little way upstream there was a small island in the middle of the river. It was surrounded by shifting water lilies, some the size of stepping stones, waving their cream and rosy heads above the darkness below. The island was carpeted with the most wonderful assortment of meadow flowers, blues, purples, reds and yellows, all scattered about. They stopped a few feet away from the grey walls of some fortification, afraid of the cold shadows it threw out. Four grey towers rose from the walls and it was from one of these that the song came.

    I walked a little way up the bank, sat down and listened to the singing. I hoped for a glimpse of her but she did not come to the casement window. As the sun began to dip, I heard my mother calling me. But her call was not as sweet as the song that floated down to me from the grey tower and I stayed on the damp bank until my mother found me. I thought she stopped for a moment and listened too before pulling me up and along the path towards home. I asked her who the singer was but she just laughed and told me that if I heard singing, I had been bewitched - not by any woman but by the fairy Lady of Shalott.

    I held my tongue all the way home but at dinner could do so no longer. “Who is she?” I asked. “Who is the fairy lady of Shalott?” My parents glanced at each other across the table. Then my mother stood up and started noisily clearing the plates away. Father glared at my mother's back and coughed. He hated my questions. He stuck to the same story as my mother. “She's a river fairy - just a figment of the fishermen's imagination.”

    “But I heard her,” I said. “I heard her singing today.”

    “Well, you were probably out in the sun for too long. You're just imagining things.”

    I gave up and left the table. I knew who would tell me about the Lady of Shalott. My sister, Becky. If she didn't know about it, it wasn't happening in Camelot. I crept out of the house and ran the three streets to where she lived. She laughed at first and asked if my father knew where I was and what I was asking. I lied and said he did. She poured me a beaker of warm beer and told me there were many rumours about the Lady of Shalott.

    “Mother and father think she's a fairy,” I said.

    Becky laughed. “Some people say that but my favourite theory is far more romantic. The Lady was a maiden, who once loved Sir Lancelot but in vain. She wanted to marry him but Launcelot had sworn never to marry, in devotion to Queen Guinevere. The Queen heard of the maiden, forced her father to lock her in a tower and one of the Queen's mystics put a curse on her. It is said that the Lady of Shalott can never look upon the world except through a mirror. If she does, Camelot will fall and she will die. So there she sits every day, watching life on the river pass by through a mirror, weaving what she sees on a great loom in her tower room.”

    I walked quietly home and went straight to bed. But my sleep was troubled and the Lady of Shalott's song disturbed me all night. I saw her in my dreams, pleading with Sir Lancelot and being rejected. I saw the Queen's anger and the moment the poor Lady was struck with the curse. I saw her sitting at her loom weaving life she could never take part in.     She worked them all faithfully into her tapestry world: swaggering village youths scuffing along the path; rosy-cheeked girls skipping their way to market; fine ladies trotting along on horseback; awkward shepherd boys shuffling their way behind their flock; some floridly dressed page striding down to Camelot. And, straining to see the detail on their colours, she watches and weaves knights riding alongside each other returning to the safety of the King's table. I hear her sighing and wishing she could weave herself in and become part of the world outside her casement.

    The next morning, I was up, washed and ready before my mother. She looked at me and asked me if I was well. “You look tired,” she said.

    “I just didn't sleep that well,” I said. “But I feel fine now. Let me carry the luncheon for you, mother.” She handed it to me without another word, but her eyes bore into me. I was anxious to be gone before she saw that I was haunted by the fairy Lady of Shalott.

    Each day for a week, I crept to my spot on the bank opposite the island and listened to her beautiful singing. It was like being enchanted. I forgot the workers in the fields, did not notice the travellers passing on the nearby road. All I heard was her wonderful songs. But then one day came shouts from further upstream. Voices were coming closer, as was the sound of horse's hooves. “Lancelot, Sir Lancelot, Lancelot.” I heard the name over and over, louder and louder. People left the fields, lining the path to watch the knight pass by. The sun bounced off his armour and dazzled me, as he came into sight. I saw the bobbing scarlet feather in his helmet and nothing else but white gold burning. As he drew closer, I saw the flash of his shield, a knight kneeling upon it before a lady. I thought of my lady in the tower but heard no sound from within. I knew she could see him too and was watching silently, as he moved across her mirror. The bejewelled bridle glittered in time with the bells that rang from it, while a bugle bounced silently against his back where it hung. Thick black hair tumbled from under his polished helmet and his face, set and determined, sensed his goal was in sight. He started to sing and a clear, deep voice sang out 'Tirra lirra', as his horse carried him down to Camelot.

    The song was drowned with the crash of glass that resounded from the tower. I thought I saw a figure at the window but the shadow moved away. Then I heard a terrible wail. 'The curse is upon me!'

It chilled me in the summer sun. My eyes were fixed on the tower but I saw no more movement at the window. Another groan and I stared hard at the casement. Nothing. It was no human groan. It was the old door of the tower being forced open and out of it flew a fairy queen, white gown swaying, golden hair flowing out behind her. She ran around the dark grey wall and underneath the branches of a willow and disappeared.

    I pulled my collar around me. I could feel the air chilling me and felt a spot of rain on my face. I looked towards the sky and saw the summer blue being pushed away by the east wind and his rain-laden clouds. There came a splash and a boat moved through the lilies, jerking forward until it was in the open water and found the downstream current. Inside was the snowy damsel. I found myself pulled towards her. I started running, chasing her boat as it was pulled down into Camelot. I thrashed my way through the overhanging willow branches and feared that I would lose sight of her. At one point, I did and when I next caught sight of the boat bobbing downstream it was empty. I thought she had gone overboard. But I ran harder and reached a higher point of the bank. I looked down upon the boat from there and saw her lying in the bottom. She was perfectly still except for her lips. What was she saying? I wanted to know what she was saying. I ran so hard that my chest ached but now I could hear her a soft, sorrowful song. She was singing once more but this time the song was sad, terribly, terribly sad. My chest hurt more.

    At the gates to Camelot, I lost her for a while. Just before the river meets the town, the road strikes away from it and heads straight up the hill to the main gates. I had to slow down when I was half-way up the hill. I was stopped at the gates and the guards had to wait sometime before I had enough breath to tell them my name and the house I belonged to. They let me pass, looking at me as if I were a mad man. I ran down to the marketplace, where the river comes through the metal grilles that protect us from attack by water. I fought my way through the crowds that were on the bank, knowing they were watching her. It was eerily quiet – no whispering, no murmuring, not a sound. The older people were motioning with one hand: crossing themselves and raising their crucifixes to their lips. Nobles slid out onto their balconies and stood motionless, staring at the river. I pushed my way through to the front of the crowd and saw her boat nearby. The lady's lips were still now. She lay peacefully in the bottom of the boat, as it drifted close to the bank. Her face was beautiful but sadness and death covered it. Her golden hair lay about her shoulders and touched her pale white hands. I walked along, following her until the boat bumped into the bank and stopped. As it lay there, nudging the bank, I could see some writing on the prow. It was uneven, not the work of a craftsman. It was her writing, I knew. I felt my chest ache again, as I read 'The Lady Of Shalott.'

    I felt the warmth of horse's breath in my ear and turned around, stumbling backwards away from the animal. Sir Lancelot sat upon his charger, gazing into the lady's boat. He looked at her for a long time until he said, “She is indeed a beautiful creature. God have mercy on her soul, the Lady of Shalott.”

[1972 words]

It is the last day of term. There are only four more shopping days to Christmas and this year I almost feel prepared. I have some last bits of food shopping to do and I must pick up the turkey on Monday but all the presents are bought, if not wrapped. Maybe that makes me a super-parent, more organised than most for the onslaught of wrapping paper and brussel sprout mountains that loom large.

I sit watching the schoolgates and wait for the children to flood out. There is one solitary figure standing just inside the gates. She stands proud and erect with her heels pressed together and her toes pointing outwards. Her hair is combed into two bunches and she looks straight ahead. It is Lydia. I often see her standing there, out of school before the bell rings. I talk to her occasionally but I get nothing back except a thin, watery smile. She continues staring across the road at the council houses but her aqua blue eyes don't see them. She flicks her hair over her shoulder, turns her head and glances up and down the road once. Usually, a sleek black car pulls up at the gate, the rear passenger door opens and Lydia disappears inside.

    Today is different. The school bell rings and Lydia is still there. She turns round to look at the school door and I can see that she is frowning. No car appears to whisk her away. She shifts on her feet and moves to stand a little in front of the gates. Maybe she hopes the children will run past her to their taxis. They do for the most part but I can see some girls catch sight of her and swagger past her with their fingers under their tilted noses. They are teasing her. She tries to ignore them and continues looking over the road. The girls stand around her shouting and calling out at her but the little ballerina only shifts slightly on her feet. She is frightened but brave and will not let them win. She will wait it out and hope that they get called by their parents to come home. Eventually, two parents open their car doors and girls run to them, breaking up the group. I smile. Brave Lydia is winning.

    I am distracted by the sound of the car doors opening and turn to greet my own two girls. Lunchboxes, scrunched up homework sheets, paper daubed with poster paints are waved in my face and I collect the litter of the schoolday and put it on the front seat. I can hear car doors clunking and pulling away but it is drowned by the cacophony in the backseat. The girls start their daily competition to tell me about their days the loudest and the fastest. I turn round and say, “That's good,” or “Mmm” in the appropriate places, trying to separate the two soundtracks in my head and looking from one to the other. When they come up for breath, I ask them what they know about Lydia. Shannon, the eldest by ten minutes, scowls.

    “Oh her. Why do you want to know about her? She's stuck up. Won't talk to us. We're common. Her parents are totally loaded.”

    I mention that their parents are neither common nor poor but this results in another noisy competition, as they shout out everything they believe Lydia to own. It's like Junior Generation Game and for a moment I can see Lydia's belongings pass in front of me on a conveyor belt. She appears to have everything. Except a ride home. I drive closer to the gate where one of the teachers is talking to Lydia. Rolling down my window, I ask if anything is wrong. The teacher, Miss Davies, smiles at me as she turns round and says that Lydia's car home has not turned up yet. She is going to go back into the school and phone to see if there is a problem, although if there was, the parents should have let the school know.

    “I'll wait, if you like,” I say. “We could always take her home, if there's a problem with her lift.” I try to ignore the groans coming from the back seat.

    Miss Davies thanks me and ushers Lydia back into the school. I put the radio on to pacify the girls and ask them questions about their day to pass the time. Luckily, this seems to divert them and they no longer seem to mind sitting in the car waiting for Lydia's return. Miss Davies comes back with her about twenty minutes later and I roll down the window. Apparently, the car that normally picks Lydia up from school is on its way to the airport with her parents. They are singers and have been invited to take part in a live show on Christmas Eve in New York. I am a little alarmed. I am quite happy to take Lydia home but the airport is miles away and in the opposite direction from where we live. I know the girls will want their tea in preference to a long drive to catch up with the little ballerina's parents.

    Miss Davies looks embarrassed. “It's terrible for a child to spend Christmas without her parents. Dreadful business. I know in their line of work they sometimes have to work over holidays but to just up and leave like this at such short notice. Poor mite. She said that they promised they would all be together this year. Would you mind very much, Mrs Mitchell, if you dropped her off at home? I spoke to her mother and assured her that Lydia would be quite safe with you. If you don't mind, I would really appreciate it. I have the address here. Do you know it?”

    I did know it. It was the village next to our's. The one with the golf club and pony-trekking stables and big detached houses surrounded by walled gardens and long drives. “No problem,” I said. “We'd love to take her home, wouldn't we, girls?” I half-turned towards the back of the car and was pleasantly surprised to hear the twins almost enthusiastic at the prospect. I smiled. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all.

    The girls even slid over to make room for Lydia, as I introduced them. She mumbled hello, slid onto the seat and quickly fastened her seat belt. There was silence in the car. Miss Davies smiled, thanked me again and slammed the door shut. We were on our own with Lydia. I started the engine and pulled away, hoping for a sound from the back seat. At the second corner, I heard Nicky's voice. There is another silence and then a light, low mumble. Nicky again and then Shannon chips in with a question about ponies and the three of them are talking. They stop muttering when we reach our village and start talking more loudly over the top of each other. They are surprised when we scrunch up on the gravel outside a large Victorian mansion. Suddenly my two can only manage to say “Wow”. I can see Lydia grinning in the rear view mirror.

    I get out of the car and take Lydia to the front door. I ring the bell and the door opens almost immediately. A smartly-dressed woman smiles at both of us and hugs Lydia. She is Mrs Mackenzie, the housekeeper. I didn't know they still existed. She looks calm and pleasant enough but I still feel for Lydia having to spend Christmas with her. She clucks around Lydia and thanks me for bringing her home every other sentence she speaks.

    Mrs Mackenzie telephones me the next day and tells me that Lydia promised Shannon and Nicky that they could come over and ride one of her ponies.  I already know this, of course. The conversation at dinner yesterday evening was about nothing else but whether or not Lydia would keep her promise. It appears that she will. The girls are dancing around me at the bottom of the stairs, squealing with delight. They chatter all the way to the stables. I just hope they won't ask for a pony for Christmas.

    Thankfully, they don't. But I am surprised by what they do ask for. They would like Lydia and Mrs Mackenzie to spend Christmas Day with us. Mark has no problem with the idea but then one of his waif bachelor friends is coming to have Christmas lunch with us, as well as his wonderfully eccentric father. He therefore has few supportable grounds for objection. I think I can stretch the turkey, if I pile everyone's plates high with vegetables. I still have time to buy a couple of last minute gifts, so that they have something from us to unwrap on the day. I drive over to Lydia's house to invite them for Christmas.

    We almost have a turkey mountain on the day, as Mrs Mackenzie brings the one that she and Lydia were to have. This keeps the men happy, as there is more than enough turkey to satisfy even their beer-fuelled appetites. Shannon and Nicky sit either side of Lydia at the table and the three of them chatter away, more interested in each other than the spread before them. Mark steals a little turkey from each of their plates, including Lydia's, which focuses them for a little while and they finish their dinner. Mrs Mackenzie has baked gingerbread men and decorated them all differently. She hands these out to thank us for the invite and as a token Christmas present. Shannon and Nicky surprise me by offering one of their presents each to Lydia. She, in return, has brought them a couple each from the stockpile under her tree at home. That's when I realise that we might actually have got Christmas right this year.

[1665 words]

  “And how are you today, Peter? Hard to believe that it's our fifth session already. Have you had a good week?”

    Carol holds herself between me and the door, pushing her face close to mine.

    “Yes, fine thank you, Carol.”

    She makes me nervous when she gets this close to me in public. I'm not sure I even like her but, somehow, she seems to think we connected at the first session. Now, every Tuesday, she stalks me like a disciple, nodding while I speak, flashing her eyes at me as if we enjoy private jokes, and occasionally winking. It would be flattering, if I weren't her counsellor. It might be an ego boost, if the others weren't finding it so amusing. I know they are just relieved that she hasn't picked them out for special attention. It is all they can do to attend the alternative therapy programme I run for addicts and obsessive personalities.

I come to my classroom, Room 5, where it says 'Will to Win Workshop' on the door. Underneath in tiny neat block capitals, someone has written 'Obsessional Sin Confessional'. I recognise it as Michael's tidy script and smile. He might well turn out to be my star pupil today, not that he knows what I have planned. I am going to try poetry on them.

    A couple of the patients are pacing the room when we enter. I stride forward, trying to appear confident. Carol and I bump against each other and the doorframe. She giggles and nudges me.

    “Careful, Peter,” she says. “People will talk.”

    She pushes herself forward into the room.

    “Hello Michael. Hello Reuben. How have you both been?”

    The two men look at her and say nothing.

    “Fine,” she continues. “Don't say a word. I know you want me really. Oh, hi, you two.”

    Steph slopes into the room, looking at her feet, her right hand clutching her left arm, scratching furiously. Behind her is Tina, slapping her jaws together round a sometimes-visible greying piece of chewing gum.

    “Okay,” I say. “I think we're all here. Shall we make a start? Could you all pull up a chair and form a semi-circle in front of me?”

    While everyone decides which chair they want to fetch and who wants to do it first, I look anxiously at the door. My guest speaker was supposed to be here ten minutes ago, so that I could prep her. No sign of her. I hope she's coming. A blur of purple cheesecloth passes the door and I leap up, anxious not to let her slip away. I am sure it is her.

    “Miss Cadenza. We're in here,” I call to her swaying purple backside, which stops.

    “Oh, call me Poesie, please. Miss Cadenza is too, too formal. Lovely to meet you at last Peter.”

    She holds out a puffy arm wrapped in turquoise and silver bangles like a plaster cast. I quickly shake her sweaty hand and lead her in by the elbow to meet the group.

    “Okay, everyone, welcome to the fifth 'Will to Win Workshop', where we're working to help you overcome your addictions and obsessions. Say hello to our guest this afternoon, Miss Poesie Cadenza. As some of you may know, Poesie is a local poet and she has very kindly offered to come here today and talk to us.”

    “Hello, Miss Cadenza,” they mumble.

    “Yes, well, perhaps we can all introduce ourselves. Carol, would you like to start?”

    “Love to, Peter, love to. Well, hello everyone. My name's Carol Watson and I just can't get enough of .... sex. Not that I have a problem. I mean, I'm just a healthy, young woman.”

    “Thank you, Carol. Now, tell me, what did we agree in Week One?”

    “Too much of anything is unhealthy, Peter.”

    “That's right, Carol. Now, Michael, how about you?”

    “Yeah, hi there, Michael Fisher's the name,” he says, leaning across to Poesie and plucking a loose, long red hair from her skirt. “I'm here because I believe that cleanliness is above godliness. I'm a dust-busting, bleach-toting tidiness junkie and I have problems being in non-sterile environments like this classroom. It's very unhygenic.”

    “Freak! My name's Steph and I'm the only real junkie in this room.”

    Steph sits back, slipping her right hand inside the left sleeve of her jumper. I don't think she realises anymore that she's scratching herself.

    Reuben glares at me. He is a large, muscular man, who always wears t-shirts at least one, if not two, sizes too small. The white one he is wearing today strains against his muscles, as he makes a move to get up.

    “My name is Reuben Crane and I'm an alcoholic.”

    “Hello Reuben,” say the others in unison.

    Reuben sits back down.

    Tina is still chewing her gum. I motion at her to take it out and she does, chomping noisily. She holds her gum out in front of her between her thumb and forefinger.

    “I'm Tina Jackson and I have a compulsive eating disorder. I chew gum to help me not to eat - six packs a day, eight at the weekends.”

    “Right, thank you everyone. Now, Poesie is going to recite a sample of her work. I'd like you to listen and afterwards we can discuss your response to it. Do you remember me suggesting that you try and write down how you are feeling, to help you work through your problems to overcome them? Well, with Poesie's kind help today, we're going to try and do just that and write some poetry of our own. I think you'll find it a terrific medium in which to express your emotions.”

    Reuben stands up again.

    The group automatically chimes, “Hello Reuben.”

    “Look, Peter, I'm not a blooming poof. You can't make me write poetry with the purple fairy here. You're supposed to be helping me stay on track, not drive me back to drink. Everyone knows poets are boozers – look at that Dylan Thomas bloke. He needed his own brewery, he did.”

    “Reuben, I really think you need to apologise to Miss Cadenza.”

    “No, really, not a problem,” she says, while a strawberry rash creeps up her throat. “Reuben, please sit down. Writing or reading poetry alone won't make you a homosexual or a drunk. Now, perhaps we can hear a few lines of Poesie's work?”

    Reuben snorts, crossing his arms and I think I hear his t-shirt groan with the strain.

    Poesie's voice is light and I briefly think Reuben might have been right in thinking her a purple fairy. She chirrups her way through a few lines,

    “You wake up filled with dread.

    There seems no reason for it.

    .... Where is it coming from, this echo,

    this huge No that surrounds you,

    silent as the folds of the yellow

    curtains, ..”

    Carol is the first to speak.

    “I so know that feeling, I know exactly how empty she is feeling. I hate it when I wake up in the morning and they're already gone. Men don't understand that women like to be held, do they? As soon as they've had their bit, they just disappear as fast as they can out of the door. Am I right?”

    She looks at Poesie, who is sitting with her eyes closed, smiling to herself.

    Reuben does not wait for her answer.

    “She's not waking up without a man at all, you dozy mare. You've got it all wrong. She's waking up with a hangover, knowing there's no more booze in the house. That's it, isn't it?”

Poesie still has her eyes closed but she has stopped smiling. Blinking, she takes a while to focus on us and seems surprised to find an audience.

    “Sorry, I just find sharing my poetry extremely emotional, draining. I have to rest a little afterwards, that's all. I'm back with you now. What was the question?”

    Michael picks another long red hair from her skirt and places it in the wastepaper bin beside him.

    “Are the folds of curtains regular or irregular?” he says.

    Poesie looks confused by the question.

    “Excuse me?”

    “Has she ironed the curtains?”

    Michael's eyes are gleaming and his cheeks are an excited pink, his mouth open like a baby bird waiting to be fed.

    “I ... I don't know. I think they're just hanging there, in folds, like ... um ... like curtains.”

    “Oh. Oh, I see. But what about the yellow? Yellow curtains. Not a very practical colour, now is it? Shows the slightest bit of dust or dirt. Are they peanut butter or daffodil yellow? Or maybe buttercup yellow?”

    Poesie looks at me and then back at Michael.

    “Um ... Daffodil?”

    “Don't you know? Why don't you know? It's important. How can I be expected to like your poem, if I don't know where the dust and dirt lurks? I need to know where it is, where it hides, waiting, waiting to jump on you and get under your skin and itch you to the point of distraction. Don't you understand? It's maddening, this not knowing.”

    He is scratching himself. Steph sits two away from him, scratching her right arm now, still watching her feet.

    “Steph?”

    I want to engage her, bring her into the conversation.

    “My echo doesn't say No,” she whispers. “It pleads with me. Does it more and more often. I used to be able to cope but I can't now. It's not happy for as long as it used to be. I want it to stop but it doesn't let me rest. I'm tired. I wake up filled with dread. That's worse than waking up alone. I would give anything to wake up on my own. I'd like it to be just me and yellow curtains, even if it's only the one time.”

    Steph looks at Carol while she is talking. She doesn't usually speak for so long and I know this is her lot for the session. Her head bends forward and she is watching her feet again.

    Tina is the only one of the group yet to say anything. I look at her and notice she is no longer chewing. Her mouth is open, but empty, and she is staring at Poesie, whose rash is flushing a deep raspberry and has now reached her jawline.

    “Tell them.”

    “Tell us what, Tina?”

    “She knows what I mean,” she says. “Go on, tell them.”

    I don't feel that the session is working out exactly how I had hoped and I am embarrassed for our guest. But Poesie is looking at Tina, blinking, her barely-seen eyelashes working hard.

    “I'm sure I don't know what you mean, dear.”

    She is smiling at Tina, head tilted to her left, palms upturned in her lap.

    “Don't any of you morons know?”

    Tina looks at each of us in turn. When she comes to me, she juts her chin forward, staring hard.  

    “Call yourself a poetry lover!”

    I can feel heat rising in my cheeks. I am under attack too.

    “I like to think I know my poetry fai ...”

    Tina doesn't let me finish, groaning, rolling her eyes.

    “She's a phoney, a fraud. It's not her poem. She didn't write it. It's called 'Up' and she's, shall we say, 'borrowed' it from the Canadian writer and poet,     Margaret Atwood.”

    “I have most certainly not done anything of the kind!”

    Poesie is so red, she's coming to the boil. There are slug-like tracks of sweat on her forehead and she is wringing her hands together.

    “If anything, she .. she ... she borrowed it ... from me!”

    I think Tina may be on to something.

    “Oh come on, is it your poem or not?”

    The class leans forward. They have all stolen something in the past to feed their demons. They recognise a fellow sufferer.

    “I ... I think I gave it to her.”

    Tina is half-standing, half-sitting, ready to pounce.

    “No, you didn't, you liar. God, you need this class as much, if not more than, the rest of us.”

    “You're being quite mean. I'm getting flustered. I shan't be able to write for weeks.”

    Tina looks at her and laughs.

    “You're no more a poet than I am! Come on, then, give us an original Poesie Cadenza, if that is even your real name.”

    “I .. oh, vicious, vicious, I can't I tell you .. oh! horrible.”

    Poesie crunches up her eyes and cries, her mouth wide open, gasping and panting.

    Tina crosses the room, motions for Michael to move out of his chair, and sits beside her, holding her hands and stroking them.

    “Come on, tell us why you're really here. Tell us the truth.”

    Poesie looks up at her, snorting heavily.

    “But I can't ... ” she wails. “I can't do that! I didn't mean to do any harm. I saw the hospital's advert for a poet to speak on this course and I thought, how lovely, they're looking for me. I'm a poet. They're asking me to join them. When Peter called out to me in the corridor, he thought I was Miss Cadenza, so I thought, why not? I can be Miss Cadenza, so I am, I mean, was.”

    My head is spinning with all this.

    “I thought you were Miss Cadenza,” I say, “because that's who you told me you were on the telephone. Why would I think it was anything else? So what is your name?”

    She stops crying and beams at me.

    “Margaret Atwood.”

    Tina presses her hand hard.

    “No,” she says. “Your real name.”

    “Oh, now let me think. It's ... it's Clarissa. Clarissa Jennings.”

    “Hello Clarissa”, says the group.

    She smiles and says, “Hello.”

    “Well, I think that's enough for today's session. Clarissa, if you'd like to stay behind, I can get you registered for the programme.”

    “Don't you want me to stay behind too?”

    It is Carol, standing by my side, leaning into me.

    “No, no thank you, Carol, really you can go home.”

    I follow Tina to the side of the room and wait while she stacks her chair away.

    “So how long have you been a Margaret Atwood fan then, Tina?”

    She looks at me and laughs.

    “Oh, I think, ever since the first year of my eating disorder. I suppose you could say that it all started with her book, 'The Edible Woman'. I thought it was written for me – and then, of course, being a compulsive, I just had to read everything else she's ever written!”

[2428 words]

Characters:

• Joy Noel - Reporter for TV News
• Michael Mass - Landlord at the Angel Inn (Bethlehem)
• Christine Mass - Landlady at the Angel Tavern (Bethlehem)
• Prof. Balthasur - Wiseman

Joy Noel: Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. This is Joy Noel reporting from the Angel Tavern in Bethlehem Old Town. Crowds have been gathering here since the early hours of the morning and the word is that a royal birth is alleged to have happened at this Inn two nights ago. I'm here with the landlord and landlady, Michael and his wife Chris Mass, and Professor Balthasur, who has travelled here from the University of Syria. Good evening, everyone. Michael Mass, let's start with you? This is your inn. Are the stories true? What happened here on December 24?

Michael Mass: Well, Joy, we were extremely busy that night. The census had brought crowds of people into town - far more than we usually have at this time of year. I'm not complaining, mind - it's been very good for business. I'm never one to turn business away.

Chris Mass: But that's just what you did, love. You did turn them poor people away - at first.

Michael Mass: Chris, I'm trying to talk to the young lady here. Do you mind? Anyway, as I was saying, we were very busy - the meal deals were a big hit and happy hour had been hectic. Two flagons for the price of one - that was a big success. We'll certainly be doing that promotion again. So, anyway, where was I? Oh yes, we were busy.

Joy Noel: I think we have established that, Mr Mass. I think our viewers would like to hear about the baby?

Michael Mass: Well, it was late. Most of the incomers had gone to bed and a few of the locals were still drinking. I was in the main bar, collecting empty flagons, and there was a knock at the door. I thought it was a bit unusual. People usually just come in and don't bother to knock. I thought it might have been a Roman foot patrol, so I put the glasses down and went to answer it. There was a man at the door - fairly young but tired looking - and behind him was a woman - his wife I assumed - sitting on a donkey. She looked very tired, poor thing, and uncomfortable. At first, I didn't realise that she was pregnant.

Joy Noel: And what was she wearing?

Michael Mass: It was dark, I couldn't really see her that well, love. She had a cloak wrapped around her. Couldn't rightly tell the colour of it or anything.

Joy Noel: Right, right, oh well, never mind. Do go on.

Michael Mass: So, the man says to me, have you got a room for the night, sir? He was nicely-spoken, very polite youngster. He said he and his wife, Mary, had travelled a long way from Galilee for the census but didn't have anywhere to stay. He told me his wife was expecting a baby and he'd be really grateful for anything I had. I felt proper sorry for him an' all but I had nowhere. We were full to bursting. We'd even squeezed in a couple of the wife's relatives we weren't expecting. He looked thoroughly dejected when I told him and I was right sorry for them. He turned the donkey's head and they started walking away. I watched them go a little way down the road and then called after them. I said they could sleep in the stable that night, if they had nowhere else. It was all I had but they were welcome to it. Well, the look on that young man's face said it all, he ran back up the street to me, gripped my hand and shook it and kept saying thank you, thank you sir over and over.

Joy Noel: Right, so they slept in the stable. Can you describe the stable for the benefit of our viewers?

Michael Mass: Well, there's stalls for the donkeys and cattle, and lots of straw for them to sleep on, and feed for the animals, and harnasses, and stuff. Is that what you mean, Joy?

Joy Noel: Sounds lovely. Is it stripped pine? I hear that's all the rage at the moment.

Michael Mass: No, love, its just plain old palmwood. I don't think the animals mind, you know. Don't seem to bother them, like.

Chris Mass: 'Course if this kid is a king, I suppose we could do it out.

Joy Noel: Yes, Mrs Mass. That'd be nice, wouldn't it? So Michael - you took the couple to the stable and they spent the night there. What happened next?

Chris Mass: Oh, I can take the story on from there. Mike came upstairs to bed that night and told me all about the couple and my heart went out to them, a young couple like that, travelling such a long way just to get to this census. And her so heavily pregnant. I went downstairs to the kitchen and put some food and milk together for them and took it out to them in the stables.

Joy Noel: Can you tell me what you took out to them?

Chris Mass: Let me think - there was some bread, I know there was some bread, and some cheese, and fruit. I had some oranges and figs, I remember.

Joy Noel: Great, great. And the milk? Chris Mass: Oh, that was cow's milk from our own herd. Beautiful it is, too. You'll have to try some before you go. Well, the lady - Mary her name is - she was very grateful for the milk but didn't eat much, bless her. She was exhausted. She'd had the baby by that time.

Joy Noel: Ooooh, how exciting. Can you describe him?

Chris Mass: He's a gorgeous little fellow - very small and all pink, but a fine pair of lungs on him, that one. He'd a little mop of dark hair and he was wide awake all the time I was there. Cute little man - and his dad, oh! his dad was so proud. He kept fussing over him and his wife and making sure she were comfortable. He was chuffed to bits. Joseph his name is. Nice man - very quietly spoken - I think he's a carpenter or something in Galilee.

Joy Noel: Oh, a carpenter. I thought the little boy was a royal. Everyone is talking about a royal baby born at your inn.

Chris Mass: Well, that's the strange thing, dearie. After I'd given them the food and was about to leave, I heard people approaching the stables and thought I'd stick around to see who it was. I didn't want to go outside on my own. Well, bless me, if the stable door doesn't open and some shepherds walk in, carrying a lamb. They nod at me as they walk past and go straight up to the mother and child and kneel on the straw in front of them bowing their heads. They lay the lamb down in front of the mother and child like an offering. I thought it was the queerest sight I'd ever seen.

Joy Noel: How odd. Did they say anything when they were kneeling down?

Chris Mass: They did indeed and the darndest thing it was too. They said that the Angel of the Lord had come down from on high - Gabriel I think they called him - and he'd told them that a baby had been born tonight in Bethlehem, who was the Son of God and would be the new Messiah. He would be the people's king. I don't know where people get such nonsense from. There's no such thing as angels.

Joy Noel: Indeed. And yet, you named your inn the Angel Tavern, Mrs Mass?

Michael Mass: Oh that! That was just my idea of a bit of fun. We didn't really believe in angels back then. We were just thinking of a name for the tavern.

Joy Noel: Are you saying that you do now?

Chris Mass: Ooh, I don't rightly know. But things have just got pretty wierd over the last couple of days. That little mite has had stranger after stranger visiting him and they all say one of two things - Gabriel sent them to see him or they followed the star.

Michael Mass: Yes, that's right. Ever since the night he was born, there's been a really bright star in the sky right overhead. I never seen it before.

Joy Noel: Interesting. So, Professor Balthazur, let me turn to you, finally. I understand that you are one of these strangers Chris Mass was telling me about, if you'll excuse the expression. Did you really come to visit the new baby?

Prof. Balthasur: I did indeed, Joy. I work at the University of Syria in the Astronomy department and wanted to come and observe the star. There is a prophesy attached to it that it signalled the birth of a new ruler. I had to come and see for myself. I came with my colleagues, Profs. Gaspar and Melchior, who both lecture in the History department. They were very excited about the visit and particularly wanted to see the child. We caught the first camel train out of Syria and came here as fast as we could.

Joy Noel: I understand that you brought gifts for the baby?

Prof Balthasur: Yes, Joy, we did. I brought gold, Professor Gaspar frankincense and Professor Melchior some myrrh.

Joy Noel: Wow, those really are quite some gifts, professor, for a baby you don't know and weren't even sure existed. I'd sure like to give you my wish list. What prompted you to make such generous gifts?

Prof. Balthasur: My colleagues and I are convinced that this child is no ordinary baby. We think he will be important to the future of mankind. The gifts are only tokens of this recognition, Joy. The birth of this child heralds a change in fortunes for the people of this land and will have significant repurcussions for many years to come.

Joy Noel: Interesting. Thank you very much, Professor. Well, that brings us to the end of this live report from the Angel Tavern in Bethlehem Old Town, where tonight it would appear we have a new king in our midst. Stay tuned to this channel for comment from the Roman Army spokesman, Judas Spindoctorus, who is live in the studio, and joins tonight's discussion panel - "King or Kid? Is there something Inn it?" This is Joy Noel reporting for the Bethlehem Broadcasting Corporation in Bethlehem. And now, back to Holly Day at the newsdesk in the studio.

Pen is not normally a morning person but today she is up and dressed before her mother knocks on the bedroom door. Her mother's face breaks into a broad grin when she opens the door, peeps round it and sees Pen fully-dressed, sitting on the edge of her almost-made bed.

    “Good morning, we're up early today, aren't we?”

    Pen smiles, making dimples in her flushed cheeks. Her brown eyes slyly look out of the window and then come back to rest on her mother's tired face. “I couldn't sleep, so I got up, that's all,” says Pen.

Her mother knows that's not quite all. She knows that Pen is waiting for him to arrive but she isn't going to tease her daughter today. She's just pleased that she's up and out of bed for once. Normally it's a battle of wills between them every morning. She walks across the room, kisses her daughter on the cheek and says, “Now hurry on downstairs before your sister eats your breakfast as well as her's.”

    Her baby sister, Gemma, has spread her breakfast over most of her bib, sleeves, high chair tray and carpet by the time Pen gets to the breakfast table. She is reaching forward and tugging at the tablecloth, pulling Pen's cereal bowl towards her. Pen swipes the bowl off the table with a flourish, holding it out of Gemma's reach and “Cheerios” rain down on the carpet below. Gemma opens her mouth wide and screws up her eyes. Pen knows what is coming any second and crams some cheerios into the open mouth. She ends up sharing most of her breakfast with Gemma but today she doesn't mind. She's too excited to eat much anyway. She's waiting for the sound of his car horn, signalling his arrival and giving her time to run out and meet him.

    The morning drags. She helps her mother clear away the breakfast things, plays with her sister and the new building blocks she got for Christmas, reads a story in her Sabrina annual, flicks through the cartoons on telly, eats a chocolate bar from one of her selection boxes, starts playing a DVD and then plays one of her new CDs. She can't concentrate on anything and looks towards the window at every sound. She sits on the sitting room floor going up on her knees and looking over the back of the sofa like a meercat each time she thinks she hears something.

    Shortly after eleven, she hears the first blast of the car horn and looks up in time to see the racing green of her grandfather's car flash past the window. She lifts Gemma into the playpen and runs to the back door. She already has her shoes on. She's been wearing them all morning but she pulls on the coat her mother wouldn't let her wear in the house and tugs the door open. She can hear short, insistent blasts now and runs round to the driver's door and pulls it open, launching herself at the driver and landing with her arms around his neck.

    “Grandad, Grandad, I thought you'd never get here. I been waiting all morning,” she says but it's muffled by his beard and scarf.

    The whiskers of his beard tickle her nose and she pulls away, tugging at his coat sleeve.

    “Come on, Grandad, come in the house. Did you bring me something back?”

    She is tugging harder now but Grandad is held in place by the seatbelt. He laughs and manages to loosen her grip, so that he can unfasten himself.

    “And how are you, my little Pen? Did you have a good Christmas?”

    “Yes, yes, it was cool. Come in and I'll show you all my new presents. Did you bring me something, Grandad? Did you?”

    “Yes, I did, young lady. If you bring in my holdall from the boot, you'll see what I brought you home.”

    Grandad pulls himself up and out of the car, buttoning up his coat against the chill wind. He walks slowly round to the boot, clicks it open for Pen and holds her up, so that she can reach in and pick up the holdall that Grandad takes on every one of his trips abroad. It is heavy and she has to hold it with both hands out in front of her to keep it from swinging and knocking against her knees. Grandad puts his hand on her shoulder and they walk into the house. He kisses Pen's mother on the cheek and hands her his coat, easing himself out of his heavy walking boots. He pads into the sitting room where he lifts his other granddaughter out of the playpen. It is the first time that he has seen her.

    Pen is still clutching the holdall but decides to put it down, while her grandad fusses over her sister. She is not a patient eight year old but sits still as best she can, fingering the worn leather of the bag. She fingers the zip and Grandad sees her.

    “Open it up then, Pen. I know you want to see your present.”

    She pulls and tugs the old zip across as slowly as she can and then pushes the bag open. She can smell grandad's tobacco. And chocolate, coffee, and a new scent she doesn't recognise. She holds up a perfume bottle and Grandad tells her to give it to her mother, who has brought in two mugs of steaming coffee and some biscuits. For once, Pen ignores the chocolate biscuits and feels around in the bag for her present. She pulls out a half-eaten chocolate bar and looks at Grandad, frowning.

    He laughs. “No, don't worry Pen. That's not it! Keep looking.”

    She feels around again and finds soft silk scarves wrapped around a hard-edged box. She knows this is her present and pulls the scarf and its contents out of the bag. The scarf falls away into her lap to reveal a bright blue foil-wrapped gift box. Holding it up to her ear, she gently shakes it and hears the tinkle of glass on glass. Instead of a bow, there are large grey and white feathers on top of the box, which tickle her nose as she rattles it and remind her of Grandad's whiskers. She plucks each feather off the box and lays them carefully to one side. Turning the box over onto its front, she runs her fingers under the folds of paper, tugging at them to loosen them. Her mother saves wrapping paper to make greeting cards and she is determined that she shall have this beautifully shiny paper to use. She eases it off the box and carefully puts it to one side out of reach of her baby sister.

    When she opens the box, what she sees lying there looks extremely odd. It is a wooden hoop sitting on a bed of coloured glass. She knows she ought to shout out her thanks and hug Grandad but she has no idea what she is looking at, so instead she just sits and stares into the box frowning and biting her lower lip. She is eight – old enough to know that it is rude to ask straight out what the gift is. So she sits there staring hard at it until her head hurts. That's when Grandad starts to tell the story behind her new present. He never starts a story with anything childish like 'Once upon a time..' or 'Long ago..'. He just starts telling the story of one of his travels and some of the extraordinary people he meets along the way. Pen holds the box in her hands, which rest in her lap, while sitting cross-legged at her Grandad's feet and listening.

    “When I was in America this year, I visited many places, one of which was the Grand Canyon. You've heard of that, Pen, haven't you? Well, I was so scared standing on the edge, looking down into the canyon because I felt so small that I took a walk down into one of the ravines. Once there, I put my hands to my mouth and called out my name. At first I heard nothing, but then it came echoing out of the darkness, growing louder and louder with each call. I kept shouting and shouting until my throat was dry and my voice hoarse. And do you know what? When I climbed back out of the ravine, I didn't feel so small anymore.

    “From the Grand Canyon, I crossed miles and miles of desert. I drove a turquoise convertible because of a silly dream I had when I was young of crossing America in a convertible. But the dust from the desert stuck to everything – my hair, the lines in my face, my beard, inside my collar, up my shirt sleeves, even the hairs on my chest were covered with the fine salty dust of the desert. The car went from turquoise to two-tone and back to one colour but it wasn't turquoise. It was the burnt sand colour of the nevada. My throat, already dry from my yodelling stint in the ravine, was parched when I met an old man by the roadside in the desert. He was sitting in the shade of a faded umbrella by the side of a trestle table. He waved at me as I approached and I slowed the car and stopped a few metres from his stall. I braked as gently as I could but it didn't stop the dust from swirling up around me and covering me in a fresh coat.

    “I walked towards the man and he smiled, beckoning me on. His face was deep, deep brown and creased like the leather of my holdall. I thought I could hear it cracking each time he smiled at me. He only had three teeth but they looked razor sharp and movie star white. If he had been sitting in the sun, I would have been dazzled by them. He said nothing but waved his hand over his stall and lowered his eyes. I moved closer and looked at the wares on his table. The sun played on multi-coloured glass and flickered across the stall, darting and dancing until I felt unsteady. The old man offered me a slice of watermelon and I drank the juices, letting them dribble down my chin. I wiped my sticky hands on my trousers only to collect more dust and had to pull out my handkerchief to wipe them off. I put the now saffron handkerchief back in my pocket and picked up one of the objects on the stall.

    “Holding string attached to a wooden hoop, I watched as shards of coloured glass tumbled down. I grasped at them as they fell but luckily they were attached to the hoop at the bottom. They shifted slightly in the whisper of a breeze that sometimes relieves the afternoon heat. The colours changed when the glass moved from dull metallic colours to a brilliant rainbow as the sun blazed through the pieces. Inside the wooden hoop was a web of jacob's ladders woven tightly together with a hole the size of a penny in the middle.

    “The old man moved closer to me and said, “My people call it a dreamcatcher.” He lifted another from the tabletop and twisted it round with one finger. “My people give them to our children to hang above their beds. The web catches the youngsters' good dreams, which guide them through life. The coloured glass wards off evil spirits and protects them at night when they sleep. It brings much luck.”

    “His voice was soothing and sounded even older than he looked. I asked him about the hole in the middle and he told me, “The web should only catch good dreams, so there has to be a hole in the middle to let your child's bad dreams and nightmares through. My people believe that way no bad luck or harm will come to your child from their dreams. They carry with them only the good or lucky dreams through their lives. It is a true gift you can pass on to them.” The old man patted the dreamcatcher after putting it back down on the table and slowly moved back to his seat in the shade. He seemed exhausted from the explanation but looked up once more and said, “She will like it, if you take her one. She looks forward to the presents you take her from your travels I know but this one will be even more special to her, as it will look after her dreams and hopes when you are away. She will treasure it.” He sank back into his chair and looked at me.

    “I knew he was right. So I took some time and picked out your dreamcatcher from the many different ones on the table. Your's has more purple in it than some of the others and I know how much you love purple. It will go well with your newly-painted bedroom.”

    Pen's grandfather sits back in his chair and slurps his coffee, sighing to himself. He closes his eyes and holds the warm mug in his hand.

    “A dreamcatcher! What a pretty name!” says Pen. “Thank you, Grandad. Thank you for bringing me my own dreamcatcher. But how did you know my bedroom is purple? Mum and Dad only painted it for my birthday in October. And how did he know? How did the old man know about me?”

    Grandad just smiles and says, “Oh, you'd be surprised at the things old men know, Pen, you'd be surprised.”

[2291 words]

“I'm waiting for you. It can't possibly be taking this long. Come on out and show me what you look like.”

    My mother's voice is raspy, edgy.

    “Er, no, if it's all the same with you, I don't think I will, thanks very much.”

    I mutter the words, not looking at the changing room curtain but staring straight in front of me at the creature in the mirror. I can't go out and show her what I look like because she might see the same thing that I am looking at now and I simply cannot allow that to happen.

At first, I see nothing but red. Then I distinguish hot, flushed cheeks and a warm forehead. Next, I see a matted fringe and hair clinging to the face. Sweat dapples the red forehead and tears chase down the inside of the red cheeks. Below them is a blotchy strawberry patterned throat that feels as if the hairy fruit is inside it. Underneath all this hangs the cause of the dishevelled state - a simple gypsy blouse. At least it looked like a simple gypsy blouse when it was hanging on the rail only five minutes ago. Now it resembles a kaftan tha