WEEK EIGHT: PETER; WHAT NED HATES.

What  does  Ned  hate?  He  hates  being  told  what  to  do.  A feisty  fifteen,  he  does  everything  for  himself  with  stubborn  pride.  When  his mother fusses over  him,  he  rebels  angrily,  shouting  at  the top  of  his  voice  and  thundering  up  the  stairs,  the  door  booming  behind him.

A poster  announces:  NED'S   KINGDOM.  Forbidden  territory  for  all  except  his  cat,  Zac.  The  kingdom  is  a  dream  factory.  Walls  are  plastered  with  pictures  of  the  Arctic.  Fantastic  landscapes, each  a  window  onto  a  fascinating  world  of  icebergs,  glaciers and  abstract  shapes  that  a  pitiless  wind  creates  with  the  ice and  snow.  There  are  photos  too  of walrus  and  seal,  polar  bear  and  fox  and  the  infinite  array  of  wild birds  that  inhabit  this savage  but  free  world.

Ned's  other  hate  can  be  summed  up  in  one  word  'oil'.   Oil  gushing  out  of  a  busted  rig like some  evil  geni  out  of  a  bottle.  Oil  spreading  itself  like  a  sinister  plague.   Oil banishing  the  light  and  life  of  the  sea  grasping at  the  fish , smearing  the birds,  leaving  them  to  languish  and  die.

Ned hates  the  engineers  and  miners,  the  servants  of  the  genii,   who  invade  pristine  places armed  with  bores  and  drillls,  bulldozers  and  pipes  ready  to  release  this  dreadful  scourge.   As  he  sits  on  the  edge  of  the  iceberg  with  Nochoska   watching  the  ship  on  the horizon  coming  steadily closer  to  his  kingdom,  the  kingdom  of  Ned,  he  vows  to  fight  them.   

Hilary _ Mills and Boon ?

Carrie Danby spent some time in the little bedroom that she shared with her two sisters She was preparing herself.  For that evening , she would be meeting James Purfuoy alone for the first time.
The small, tidy cottage had been left to her mother when her father had perished in the great war. A perfect home for the three girls and their mother Ellen, and in the two years following her fathers death, a sanctuary for Carrie.
As she lay deep within the perfumed water of her bathtub in the glow of the small hearth, her mind returned to the first time she had met the dashing young squire of Herford Manor who had recently taken up residence at the splendid house on the death of his father Edward.
It was Sir Edward Purfuoy who had seen the promise in young Carrie as she had led the group of village children on the Sunday school nature walks.Her determination to share her knowledge of the many trees and wild flowers had impressed him so much that when the opportunity arose for a teacher to take over the village school, Sir Edward had championed her cause so that at seventeen, she had found herself in charge of the primary education of thirty two children between 6 and 11.
Carrie was so grateful that at last someone had understood the need she had within her to share her knowledge. She was more than a flame haired, pretty girl. She needed to prove her worth.
She had been born with a physical flaw that would haunt her early years. Her sisters had tried to protect her from the taunts of the other children at school when they saw the deep purple birthmark which protruded above her collar and snaked around her neck. They would still catch her during a playtime, calling her the girl with the witches mark, or tell her that she had the Devils' curse. Her thick stockings at least ensured that not one person outside of her own family was aware of the expanse of the birthmark which ended at her knee and covered the right side of her otherwise perfect and voluptuous body.
It was the early rejection by most of her peers that had caused her reclusiveness as she reached her mid teens, preferring to remain within the confines of the cottage when she had finished her schooling at fifteen. There in the gentle warmth of the gardens she would immerse herself in books and imagine herself as one of the heroines of the novels that she loved.
Sir Edward had seen the potential of this shy and gentle young woman who coaxed the children into discovering nature, and in the past two years, also encouraged her charges to read the wonderful books that had so enchanted her own childhood.
The death of her Mentor had devastated Carrie.She stepped from the church at his funeral her eyes full of tears,cast downward, hiding from the world.
"My dear Miss Danby", a voice of such gentleness made Carrie start and as her eyes travelled up from a pair of leather riding boots, she saw a man of immense physical beauty standing before her. She blushed as she tried in vain to banish the thoughts that were rushing into her head, but James had already seen the redness creeping up from the frilled white collar of her blouse. He smiled and tried to alleviate her obvious embarassment by continuing with his earlier conversation.
"My dear - Carrie" he repeated. " My father spoke so highly of you and wished that we would one day meet; he would be so happy today had he known what fate had brought us together"
Carrie lifted her gloved hand to cover her neck, a  habit she had unconsciously practised from childhood. James eyes locked onto her own and he was mesmerised by the deep blue pools that shone with the residue of tears she had shed for Sir Edward. He gently eased her hand away and held it for a moment before letting it fall gently. " Please do me the honour of accompanying me to the wake" he whispered.
This was the first of many such meetings, always with one of her older sisters as a chaperone. Until tonight.
As Carrie stepped from her bath, she gazed at her reflection in the mirror. A smile traced it's way across her lips. She gently caressed the snake-like birthmark that writhed down the right side of her perfect frame.
She turned back to the mirror, her beautiful face contorted into a serpentine like mask, huge eyes turning from deep blue to yellow slits.
"We will have him - my Lord and Master. Tonight James Purfuoy will be ours, forever". A screeching unearthly laugh escaped from the hideous mouth before she turned her left side to the mirror, and Carrie returned.

Sandra: Fear

Ten year old May held her brother Jack's head in one hand and with the other administered his medicine. 
She wiped the nasty syrupy stuff off his chin with the corner of her apron. Jack was six now and it was getting increasingly difficult to persuade him to open his mouth. Jack might not know much but he knew about medicine and would shake his head vigrously from side to side whenever he saw May approach with the bottle.
May did not  know what was wrong with Jack the doctor called it a really long name that May could not pronounce. May just knew that Jacks legs were useless twigs and he had to wear a nappy because he couldn't get to the lavvy. Father had made him a wheelchair from the old pram wheels and Jacks greatest
pleasure was too get taken out into the lane for a walk.  Just lately though Jack had become even more floppy.
May had to get two scarves and knot them together to make a strap to tie him in to his makeshift buggy.
Jack could not talk but he did make noises and he seemed to understand May when she spoke to him.
His eyes follwed her around the room as she got out her boots and set about lacing them.
May smiled at him."No walk  today Jack. I have to go to school, its Saturday tomorrow though and if you are a good boy I will take you down to the duckpond to watch the ducks ". She kissed him lightly on his cheeks and ruffled his hair.
May did not know it but this was the last time she would see Jack.
When May got home from school  with her brothers and sisters Father was waiting for them by the door. May had no idea what was to come but knew it must be important
because Father was never at home at this time in the afternoon. Mother looked sad and kept wringing her hands on her apron. Father ushered them all into the front parlour and sat them down. The children all looked up at him with puzzled faces.
Father cleared his throat and with a sigh told them all that Jack had died that morning.  He had a fit and never
recovered.  Father then asked them all to bow their heads and he recited 'The Lords my Shepherd'. May could feel the tears welling up.  Her Jack gone, how could that be? He was here this morning and now she would never see him again.
Through misty eyes she vaguely remembered Mother taking the other children from the room and her Father
lifting her up and taking her to his chair. He sat her down on his lap and held her close she could feel his heart
beating through his shirt. " You must try hard not to be too upset May" Father said. "Jack is with Jesus now,
he has been specially chosen to be our angel.  Jack is happy now all his earthly pains have been taken from him and he is dancing amidst the heavens".
May thought about this. She liked to think of Jack with a pair of gossamer wings like the pictures of angels in her bible class book" Is that what death is then? A release from all your pains and worries....

Many years later May was sitting on the edge of her husband George's bed.  George was writhing around in agony, the pain in his head so intense that it sent him blind.  The doctor had just left, shaking his head and telling her to try and keep him quiet.  George did not deserve this pain, he should be chosen too. May could help him, how could it be wrong to ease her husbands pain and see him relax into the arms of his lord. May picked up the medicine that the doctor had left her and opening Georges mouth she poured the medicine down his throat.  After a couple of minutes the pain left Georges face, May took a pillow and reciting the words just as her Father had, " He maketh me lay down in green pastures" she pressed the pillow down onto George's face.

Julie - Fear

Cassie had always been afraid of water.  There was no defining moment in her past to support this irrational fear, she just didn’t like the stuff.  Her weekly swimming lessons at primary school had been unpleasant rather than traumatic - she had stood shivering in her yellow arm bands, refusing to lie back in the water, despite the cajoling of the teacher and the fact that, even at the age of eight, the water only came up to her thighs.  There had been few family trips to the beach, her mother not liking sand, her father never being around to take them.  Cassie had managed, at high school, to master a comical attempt at the doggy paddle, with her head held high, resolutely refusing to put her face in the water and disliking going far out of her depth. 

It had, therefore, been a great leap for her to agree to go sailing on her honeymoon, with the promise of being surrounded by water in a small yacht and the opportunity to experience the dubious delights of snorkelling.  Joe had been a good teacher, the flippers (or fins, as she had been told she should correctly call them) made her swimming stronger, and she had now progressed to a type of breast stroke with her arms.  The mask they had bought together the previous month was a tight fit and didn’t let any water in, and after a couple of practises at the local swimming pool, late in the evening when no-one else had been there, she felt mildly confident that she would manage well enough with the snorkel.

The trip to see the wreck was her first attempt in the sea.  Joe tied the dinghy to the blue mooring buoy and, after helping Cassie with her fins, and checking the angle of her snorkel, sat at the edge of the dinghy and leant over backwards until his feet went over his head and he plunged into the clear, blue water.  Cassie peered dubiously over the side as he re-emerged, his dark hair plastered to his head.  He blew a column of water from his snorkel and held out his hand.

‘I’m not getting in like that,’ Cassie declared firmly, and she stood up, reversing awkwardly over the side of the dinghy - the fins making the whole event a graceless affair - and lowering herself into the warm water.  She held onto the side of the dinghy while she assessed the waves which were lapping around her.

‘It’s a bit choppy, isn’t it?’

Joe removed his snorkel and smiled in a reassuring way. ‘You’ll be fine.  Once you’re lying in the water, you’ll go up and down with the waves.  Here, let me help you with your snorkel.’

After a few adjustments, Cassie put her head into the water and raised her legs behind her, as instructed, and holding hands, the pair drifted easily in the current towards the place where a small, white diving boat had moored, over to their right.  Grey, jagged rocks rose out of the water to their left and continued in a line beneath them, hidden under the surface, the cause of the shipwreck.  As Cassie drifted, she could see two divers below them with their yellow scuba tanks on, attached to the dive boat by lines, exploring the wreck. Joe tapped her on the shoulder and pointed down, to where a round green and yellow fish the size of a saucer was moving in and out of a large patch of spiky coral, chasing smaller fish which were purple, with bright pink dots.  With her head in the water, Cassie could hear nothing but her own breathing, in and out of her mouth, her mask covering her eyes and nose.  She raised her head a couple of times, looking back at the dinghy, which seemed far away, and drifted on.  The wreck wasn’t particularly impressive, just twisted, rusty metal, but the fish which were swimming around it were beautiful.  It was like swimming in an aquarium, the water was so clear, the fish so bright.  They swam through a shoal of hundreds of small, silver fish, which turned, in unison, and darted away.  Far below, lying on a sandy patch beside the rocks, Cassie could see the brown form of a nurse shark, harmless, but impressive all the same.

Suddenly, she felt a push from Joe.  She lifted her head and he pointed behind her, in the direction of their dinghy.  He wanted them to head back. Cassie turned around and, putting her head down, began to kick with her legs.  After a few kicks, she looked up, to check on her progress.  They had passed the rocks, which were now on their right and, heading towards open water, were being carried along by a strong current.  The dinghy seemed further away.  ‘Swim,’ Joe urged, over the sound of the waves, ‘Swim.  Use your arms.’

Cassie put her head down and tried again, this time pulling her arms through the water whilst kicking her legs and making an effort to push to the back of her mind the knowledge that, unlike Joe, she had never been a strong swimmer.  She tried hard, kicking her legs - the fins propelling her along - and pulling purposefully with her arms.  After a while, she looked up again and was dismayed to find that she was still in the same place.  The two divers had returned to their boat and were removing their wet suits.  The waves were larger now.  Cassie held herself vertical in the water and removed her snorkel from her mouth.

‘I can’t do it, Joe, I’m getting tired.’

‘You’ll be OK, just try and swim.  Put your legs out behind you and swim.’  He looked nervously behind them at the vast expanse of open water.

Cassie bit onto her mouthpiece again and put her head in the water.  The waves were lapping higher and, as she took a deep breath through her mouth, she tasted salt water which had splashed down her snorkel.  Trying not to think about how deep the water was underneath her, she tried again, pulling through the sea with her arms and kicking her legs.  Joe grabbed her elbow and tried to steer her away from the jagged rocks.  She felt her breathing becoming quicker and quicker, louder and louder, a sense of desperation was taking over and she lifted her head again.  The white dinghy bobbed in the distance, no closer at all. 

She struggled with her mouthpiece and shouted desperately to Joe, ‘I need help, I can’t do it.’

‘Head for the dive boat,’ Joe shouted, over the waves, pulling her towards him, away from the rocks.  Cassie could see the boat was preparing to leave.  One of the divers was packing the scuba tanks away, another had lifted the steps to tie up.  When they left, she and Joe would be alone in the water, three hundred yards away from their dinghy, with her becoming more tired and increasingly unable to get back.  Although Joe was a confident swimmer, she knew he had no experience of life-saving.  She put her head in the water again, she could hear her breathing, quick and shallow, tears were beginning to form as panic took hold.  She kicked her legs unconvincingly and tried to pull her arms through the water, lifted up and down by the relentless waves.  She breathed in a whole mouthful of salt water and, coughing and spluttering, lifted her head again. 

Joe was yelling and waving his arm towards the dive boat.  She looked round, trying to make sense of what he was shouting.

‘Throw us a line.  My wife can’t swim!’

Cassie bobbed in the water, petrified, her snorkel forgotten, hanging uselessly, as the waves washed over her.  She was taking great gasps of air and sea water now, her lungs aching as she sank below the surface, then thrashing furiously, to emerge and breathe again.  The diver seemed to be moving in slow motion.  The orange line, with a float on the end, landed a foot to her right.  Please don’t let me miss it she thought, as she reached out towards it, going under the surface again.  She kicked her feet frantically and shot out of the water, taking a large gasp of air.  Her arm flailed uselessly in the water before she was able to grab the rope in her right hand, gripping it tightly.  The diver began to drag her in.  She was coughing and spluttering, the taste of the salt water making her feel sick, her lungs feeling raw and fit to burst, wanting to scream but not having the energy.

Once safely on the boat Cassie lay down, exhausted.  She was shaking uncontrollably, unable to undo her fins, barely able to move.  The diver who had rescued her seemed angry.  His words floated in and out of her consciousness as he directed his rant towards Joe.

‘That’s why we use safety lines,’…  ‘Strong currents,’… ‘Irresponsible’…     .

In the fog that surrounded her, trying to make sense of it all, she was certain of only one thing: drowning would be a horrible way to die.

Tony: The dance (Mills and Boon "version")

Rushton walked slowly, almost casually, towards the glimmering marquee.  The rhythm of the dance music searched, it seemed, in his soul,for a response, for some answering enthusiasm.  How he wished he could summon it forth!  To escape from the daily treadmill of hopes and fears, to enter a world where for once he could forget the dismal trivialities of life, could walk in simple contemplation of beauty and joy!

“Sorry!”  A man brushed past him, tall, gangling, obviously the worse for drink.  Stooping to tie up his shoelace, Rushton noticed a girl standing hesitantly at the entrance.  There was something in her nervous but hopeful glance at him that stilled, for the moment, his gloomy thoughts.  He assumed a gentle, ironical manner, and smiled.

She had seen his tall, lean, gaunt profile as he sauntered so casually towards the music and the bright lights.  A man who, while nursing some private loss or sorrow, had sought this place for escape, for excitement?  His face was gentle, his gaze tentative and mild, and as he came over to her, she searched his eyes for some clue to his restraint, to his rather weary and soulful manner.

He asked if she was new here, or had she been before?  She said she had not, and had come here really by chance.

“My mother thought I might like it …” she said, “and you?”

“I’ve been ill!” was his answer, with a smile. “Chest trouble”, he added, “and it had me in hospital.”

It was believable.  His tired eyes were beginning to revive, she hoped, at the sight of her, but here was a man who, she felt, was not making any claims for himself, but was waiting, as it were, for some kindness and consideration.  Was it for her to provide them?

He knew he had not seen her before.  What was it about her that spoke to him of something different and unknown?  It was simply that she did not impose on him the necessity of providing some stock answer or manner – it was not an effort to talk with her.  Was he just being lazy, supposing that conversations on these occasions had to be arch, witty, self-deferential and all the rest?  He felt almost guilty at talking with her like this – so easily, so naturally.  Was there nothing more to do, no provocative gesture or suitable witticism?

No.  Nothing was necessary.  Yet there was something else that compelled him to make an effort, a pleasurable effort.  And that was simply – her.  It was not enough for him to play the part of ironical medical student with her.  There was a concern in her manner which he had not had from anyone else, which he knew he needed now.  He could not refuse it.

Sue. Mills and Boon Version

Charlotte watched Martin as he explored the rails of the second-hand shop. As ever, he had honed in on the men’s suit section and was picking out lurid waistcoats. She felt half-embarrassed, half-proud, that when attired in something bright green or yellow, he suddenly found more confidence. He would visibly change from the subdued, gentle man that most people usually saw, to someone able to strike up an instant rapport with anyone and brighten the lives of those around him.

As Martin removed his jacket to try on a waistcoat, she watched him in the mirror and felt the familiar surge of affection for his underlying vulnerability, whilst also admiring his slim, lithe torso.

She far was less prepared for the unbidden comparison that leapt into her mind of Max, the circus owner and ringmaster, attired in his red waistcoat, back tailcoat, top hat and accompanying whip. Her heart quickened and her pulse raced as she thought about Max’s solid, muscular body, piercing blue-black eyes, self-assuredness and mastery of everything around him. Charlotte blushed as she realised she was trembling from a mixture of shame, excitement and horror. She reminded herself that Max was a man she despised for his ruthlessness and the way he controlled and exploited the crew, including the good-natured Martin. Due to her natural feistiness and inner resilience, she had not yet succumbed to this control but she hated the atmosphere that was caused by her ongoing battles with Max.

With an effort, she refocused her attention upon the man she had long ago chosen above all others.

Peter-Mills&Boon version-Week7

“The Works” as Richard Delaney Esq. liked to describe them lay in a small, remote harbour.

They were surrounded by a chain of bleak windswept mountains whose rugged faces were  exposed through great carpets of snow.

As he stood on the top of the steps of the stationmaster’s house, Richard Delaney stared out momentarily at the harbour waters.  To his fastidious eye they had a pitiless, cold-blue steel quality, softened only by curtains of pale flickering reflections of the snow-clad mountains that surrounded them.   To his utter dismay there was no sign of a sail on the horizon, where a sea mist was beginning to gather.

Pulling up the collar on his fur coat, he decided to explore the deserted whaling station.

Aimlessly, he wandered amongst the ramshackle sheds and storehouses that lined the twisting, rusting rail track that wove its way between them.  Standing at the entrance to the huge hangar he gazed in despair at the machinery, bound in great coils lying motionless and the abandoned sheets of metal lay scattered about the floor.   Richard Delaney shrugged his shoulders.  To a man of his sensitivities, there was something eerie and haunting about this deserted place.   For the life of him, he could not understand why it had been chosen for their rendezvous.

His reverie was shaken by the insistent sound of a foghorn coming from seaward.  He turned, startled, and raced over to the quay.  The fog he had observed earlier had thickened and spread.  Putting his telescope to his eye, through the mist he was aware of a glimmering light from a ship that, like some phantom, lay at anchor there.

As the dim light faded he stood on the steps of the quay, straining to see and hear through the swirling mist.   At last there was the sound of muffled voices, the steady splash of an oar.   His heart beat faster.  Forms emerged from the mist:  a boat, a sailor rowing, a figure in a fur cloak and hood.   The boat banged against the quay and the next moment Lady Caroline was in his arms.   

ROS -HOMEWORK

Caroline slipped from the party and seeing an open door glided  through it into an elegantly furnished  room which she decided was the hostess' boudoir. The room glowed softly. She caught sight of herself in the mirror and  purred with satisfaction..  Her figure was svelte, her dress clung to her taut frame in just the right places.  "Not bad for - 45", she whispered.  She couldn't admit,  even to herself, her real age.   She settled down in front of the mirror and began to rhythmically brush her thick glossy hair.  It rippled down over her shoulders. But suddenly an overhead light was snapped on bathing the room in a hrsh glare. Caroline recoiled in horror. The smooth skin which had  reflected back  in the half light was replaced by an altogether less attractive and more wrinkled version.; an image Caroline denied herself daily.  "Turn the light off",   she screamed.  The unseen hand obeyed and her more youthful face re-emerged.

Caroline trembled from the trauma.  Was this how Neil saw her?  She must take urgent action.  The consultation with the plastic surgeon must be brought forward immediately.  In the meantime she must employ all her charms and skill to protect her situation. She thought of the luscious Gerda circling the room.  Caroline knew she was attracted to Neil.  Who wouldn't be? But what of him? She had better get back to the party quickly.  She took her few deep breaths to calm her shattered nerves and with a few deft strokes  adjusted her make up, pouting her thinning lips as she applied the gloss.  A  quick burst of J'adore and armed with her most seductive smile, she was ready to return to the fray.

Caroline scanned the room and soon alighted on Neil and, as she feared, he was engaged in animated conversation with that, that tramp, Gerda. Caroline sashayed across the room and slipped her hand proprietorially through Neil's arm.

"I hope you didn't miss me, darling" breathed Carline, planting a kiss on his cheek. " Gerda, you won't mind if I spirit Neil away, will you? There is someone who is dying to meet him. With a rueful smile, and barely a backward glance, Neil dutfully allowed himself to be steered away. Gerda took a leisurely sip of her champagne as she perused the room deciding  where to launch her next attack.

homework - reflection Sheila

Homework  Sheila  Reflection

Laura brushed her hair, her mother made her do this every night.  She dare not defy her mother, she was vicious and brutal when Laura offended her.  She felt she had homework, which was more important.

Laura brushed her hair, her mother made her do this every night.  She dare not defy her mother, she was vicious and brutal when Laura offended her.  She felt she had more important things to do but dare not say do and she really did not like being in this room on her own, even in the daytime, it fell strange, as if it was waiting for something to happen. When she came to bed at night it wasn’t so bad, because her mother was also there, and she closed her eyes and they stayed that way.  It was her mother’s bedroom, but she had to sleep there too, as her father slept in the next room.

She heard heavy footsteps on the landing, must be her mother coming to see if had finished,  she always walked like that.  She looked in the mirror, she could the door from there, and saw her own face looking back, framed with shoulder length glossy brown hair and bright hazel eyes shadowed by dark lashes and eyebrows.   No one had told her in all her 14 years that she was pretty, but one day she might be.   She didn’t smile much but her lips were full.  As she looked in the mirror she saw the bedroom door open behind her and raised the brush back to her hair.  It wasn’t her mother who came in.  She dropped the brush and stood, turning round as she did so.  She pressed herself back against the dressing table in fear, and opened her mouth to scream.

All she could see was a dark shadow drifting across the room towards her.  It had a face of sorts, with a wide gaping mouth, and it seemed to be whispering at her.  Every other sound faded, she could only hear that whispering, and the edges of her vision began to darken

Her heart raced, as she whispered over and over, “It isn’t real, it isn’t real.”  Just then, it reached her. It touched her and she felt such deep cold on her arms, she was shocked from her state of frozen fear and denial. At last she regained her breath, she screamed and the sound echoed in her head.  She heard the sound of her mother more important things to do but dare not say do and she really did not like being in this room on her own, even in the daytime, it fell strange, as if it was waiting for something to happen. When she came to bed at night it wasn’t so bad, because her mother was also there, and she closed her eyes and they stayed that way.  It was her mother’s bedroom, but she had to sleep there too, as her father slept in the next room.

Tony: Character profile

Pamela Rushton is the wife of John Rushton.  She has beautiful blue eyes, which a number of people have commented on, and a medium, well-formed, rounded nose.  She has a mouth which often expresses doubt or perplexity, but which can suddenly break into a spontaneously radiant, un-self-conscious smile, as if recovering some aspect of her character which has often been hidden or concealed, for whatever reason.  Her teeth were sound and well-formed when she was young, but she has had problems since, which have resulted in her having to wear a denture.  Her ears are medium sized.  When young she had abundant, beautiful brown hair, which she often wore “naturally” long and wavy as an adolescent, but which she styled more distinctly in her twenties and thirties.   She has long had a “thing against” facial hair in women, and will try to pluck out such hairs of her own!  She has always been of short to medium height, with a balanced figure, though the effects of arthritis have caused her to become shorter and more “stooped” in recent years.  Her arms are comparatively slim, and were even more so when she was younger.

As a young girl she was very shy, a quality which she was afraid would be interpreted as being distant or withdrawn, particularly by male company.  She is always grateful for a touch of humour in conversations to reduce tension (her husband’s often droll or wry humour is much appreciated for this reason).  Her voice was more “mannered” when younger, in the sense of being cultivated, official or “Queen’s English”, particularly when she was a secretary.

Her dress until late adolescence was much influenced (and sometimes made) by her mother.  She preferred subdued but delicate, subtle shades, for example darker check patterns which set off her long brown hair.  After marrying medical student John Rushton in 1949 she was influenced in her appearance by her husband’s professional aspirations, together with the general “new look” ambience of the post-war years.  Consequently, she adopted more ambitious styles, for example abstract designs, though she was also happy to wear simpler and more reticent styles such as longer skirts with delicate, dainty cardigans/tops.

Born in 1928, in this novel she is 73 years old.  Her background on her mother’s side was what might be called “genteel”, whilst she has inherited from both parents a practical, often humorous, attitude to life.  She was born in Essex.  Her father became a departmental head in a chemical manufacturing company, and her mother, like her, was a secretary.  After the birth of her first child in 1955 she became a housewife.  In later years, when her husband had become a consultant, she took a quiet but sincere pleasure in being “the doctor’s wife”.

She had done quite well at school, but had a considerable fear of maths and mental arithmetic (which she had to subdue as a secretary) together with a certain lack of appreciation of historical chronology and the relations between different historical epochs.

Pamela inherited a fairly conventional Church of England belief, and would often go to church, particularly in her middle age.  Her sensitivity to others’ suffering, particularly that of animals, has made her sceptical of a more “whole-hearted” faith, but she has remained keen to believe in some kind of final salvation and perhaps continuance after death.

Her husband has encouraged her interest in pictorial art.  She has enjoyed knitting and, more recently, introductory embroidery and tapestry work.  Her reading veers towards social observation and/or comedy, whilst she also likes books on bird-watching and natural history.

Her shyness has tended to make her cautious in forming friendships, though for this very reason she is drawn to more ”self-confident” women, and has formed deep relationships with one of two of them who combined social adroitness with tenderness and an appreciation of Pamela’s more gentle nature.

In her relationship with her husband, she has long been highly appreciative of his apparently calm and meditative attitude towards circumstances and other people, whilst appreciating the less obvious but considerable emotional side of his nature.  More practical in her own way than she likes to believe, she loves her husband’s level-headed approach to problems, together with his more indulgent interests in cars, paintings and antiques.  She greatly values his opinions, particularly when they confirm or support her own.

Jacqueline: Bomb, Verona

The queue was long and slow, and he wished - on a regular, 10-second basis - that he'd had time to check-in online.  As he drew nearer to the desk, he could see that the Ryanair reps were, without exception, Muslim.  Searching his mind for the latest stint of Michael O'Leary, he wondered how far a decision to employ attractive Muslim women might be connected to the terrorist threat, or the well-being of his airline.  You cynic, he thought, and signed.  He didn't worry unduly on that score as far as flying was concerned, although he could see that the apparent threats to European cities was a cause of concern for one or two of his fellow passengers who were eyeing anyone with darker skin than the average white European, with some intensity.

The flight, as he expected, was uneventful, and Verona appeared as tranquil as it always had.  The Veronese women, tottering in their heels, made their way purposefully along the pink marble pavements to shops, lunches, hair appointments... and the men - tall and immaculate, mobiles clamped to their ears - strode quickly along.  All was well with the world, in Verona at least.

As his taxi slowly circled Piazza Erbe, he watched the familiar bustle of stallholders calling to customers, who jostled in the darkening light of early evening.  It was always a busy time of day, when the workers of  Verona - the bankers, the waiters and the shopworkers - turned out in force to get the fresh fruit and vegetables for their dinner, and then perhaps sit for a while, sipping an aperitivo outside any one of the ten cafe bars in the Piazza.  He looked up, automatically, as always, to admire the ancient, fading frescoes adorning the walls of the buildings above the cafes.

The taxi drew up sharply, outside his hotel, and as he turned to the driver to ask the fare, a violent and impossibly bright light filled the car, and while his brain was attempting to establish its nature, the taxi shook with the force of the loudest explosion he'd ever heard.  The noise seemed interminable and he was aware of a clear thought.  So this is a bomb.  Beyond the driver's head, he saw the glass door of the hotel shatter like a windscreen, and something pale and indistinguishable flying through the air.  Then, silence.  The two men sat, mute and still, temporarily deafened, for what seemed an extraordinarly long time until the silence was broken - a few seconds later perhaps - suddenly, and horribly, by the sort of screams he'd imagined he would never hear.  While his brain was urging him to act, to at least open the taxi door, his eyes were unwillingly taking in the carnage in the small square.  The market stalls were no more.  A pall of smoke hung over the entire area and bodies, and pieces of bodies, and clothing, and vegetables, and bits of wood, and pieces of china and glass, littered the beautiful pale pink marble.  He was aware of the taxi-driver speaking soft, unintelligible Italian into his hands which now covered his face, and his own brain was slowly registering the fact that he needed to do something.  He groped, with shaking hands, for his mobile and before his fingers could make contact with the keys, he heard the familiar wail of sirens.  Thank God! Help was on its way.

Sandra: Character Profile

May Beatrice Pearson was born on 28th August 1930.  The second daughter to William and Alice Pearson who went on to have six more children. May's father was a methodist preacher who although strict was a fair and good man.  Mother.Alice ran the household with a rod of iron but always made sure the house was spotless and there was a hot meal on the table at the end of the day.
The children were given daily chores and none of them would have dreamed of complaining.  Least of all May who was a very biddable child.
When May was six years old her mother gave birth to Jack.  Jack was born severely disabled and it fell to May to undertake most of his care.  So began a lifetime of caring, of putting others needs before her own.
Much like her father in looks and disposition she simply believed it to be her god given duty and would not
have had her life any other way.
At age 57years her face belied the hard path she had chosen.  Not a wrinkle or line showed on her face.
Her cornflower blue eyes still as bright and alert as when she was 16yrs old. May's hair gave her age away once a lustrous brown it was peppered with grey and the last remains of a home perm gave her a tousled, windswept look.  Her figure once slim was now well rounded, no doubt the result of eating too many of her home made sponge cakes.  May was a very good cook and loved nothing better than setting out a 'good spread' for family, friends and neighbours too enjoy.
May also liked to look smart and though most of her clothes were hand me downs or jumble sale buys, she always looked clean and tidy. She never believed that a lack of money was an excuse for looking scruffy.
Apart from cooking her greatest luxury was too spend time in her cottage garden where hollyhocks fought for space amongst the roses and nasturtiums. In her garden May found the peace she craved and respite from the demands of the mentally ill men she was now caring for.
It was also in the garden that she did her praying and her thinking.  First in her prayers was George.
Dear George who died so young.  Just five years after they married he was diagnosed with a brain tumour and died weeks later, leaving her a young widow with a small daughter to care for and not a penny to their names. Poor George went to his grave never knowing May's guilty secret.  Doreen the daughter he adored was not his child and now fate had played a cruel trick and Doreens real father was once again back in May's life in a very different role.  May sighed and with trembling hands, cut the dead rose from the stem silently asking God for his forgiveness and praying for his guidance as to the way forward.

ROS - Character profile

Caroline looks good for her age.  Although she is over fifty she doesn't admit to being more than forty five and most of the time she doesn't feel or look that old.  Regular visits to the gym ensure that her body is well toned; but a glance in the mirror, in the wrong light, can tell a less flattering  story.  On these occasions Caroline books herself an appointment with the hairdresser and contemplates the surgeon's knife.  Her friend, Grace, talked her into having her first botex treatment.  Caroline had to admit that Grace looked great, quite natural , and her face still moved when she smiled. Caroline  took a couple of days off work on the pretext that she was visiting a friend so that she didn't have to tell Neal.  He did look at her curiously when she got back but he didn't say anything.

Neal rarely questioned his wife.  He was proud of her, her good taste and her excellent sense of style. Her wardrobe was packed with sylish, and presumably expensive, clothes.  He didn't know how much she spent and why should he worry?  Her salary as chief executive of a stationery company was generous,  considerably more than he earnt.  He just wished that she accepted his compliments at face value.  She had no reason to be insecure.  So, she was a few years older than him, but hadn't he pursued her, inspite of the attention he received from several other, younger, women?  He could have married any number of other females but he had chosen Caroline.  Surely she wasn't jealous of Holly?  Poor pretty, blind Holly?

Caroline's attitude to her daughter, his stepdaughter, worried him but on the rare occasion when he had tried to discuss it, Caroline's response had been so extreem that he had backed off.  He didn't want the two boys to live in an unpleasant atmosphere and after all she was an excellent mother to them.  He would have liked to have talked to her about Keith, Holly's father, but he daren't.  It was rough that there was so little contact beween Caroline and her mother, and Holly and her grandmother for that matter, but he had accepted that that's the way things were.  The little he knew about Caroline's early life had all come from Caroline's only sister who had her was only to happy tell him.  Apparently Caroline had been a wild child, which Neal found hard to imagine when he thought of his wife's self control and love of order.  Keith had been Caroline's first serious boyfriend.  She had been besotted with him.  Her parent's disapproved of him and tried to discourage the relationship, but Caroline was, as now, headstronged and not to be deterred.  Keith, a free spirit,  couldn't cope with the intensity of Caroline's feelings and disappeared, leaving Caroline heartbroken and pregnant at seventeen.  She refused to have an abortion or to have Holly adopted as the family had wished and they made it clear that she must live with the consequences of her actions with no support from them.

If Caroline was in the mood she could be excellent company.  They both enjoyed entertaining friends and in the summer they sailed and in the winter they skiied.  It was a shame that Holly couldn't join them.  He had to agree that the idea of an au pair to keep Holly company was an excellent one.  He at least wouldn't feel so guilty when she was left out of these family holidays.Yes, thank goodness for Marie,  Her presence in the homw would  make all the difference.

JULIE - CHARACTER PROFILE

Cassie Mitchell sat before the interview panel.  Her eyes - too green to be called plain blue, with just a hint of brown around the pupil which wasn’t quite enough to justify calling them hazel – darted between the three people who stared back at her.  Cassie bit her lip nervously, a substitute for biting her nails – a habit she detested and which she had tried for years to stop.  Her usual jokey and optimistic demeanour was notably absent.

‘Tell me a little bit about yourself,’ the woman in the middle said kindly.

Cassie took a deep breath.  ‘I’m sixteen.  I’ve just left school.  I’d like to go to college to study A’ levels and then become a journalist.  I live at home with my Mum, who’s called Helen, and David, my Dad.  Dad stays away from home a lot because he works as a sales rep for Timpsons, the agricultural machinery suppliers.  My Mum is a housewife, although she doesn’t cook or clean much.  I have a brother called Greg, who is two years older than me, and I’m very close to my Grandmother, my Mum’s mother.  Mum has a younger sister, who we never see because of something awful she’s done which no-one will tell me about.’

Cassie paused, and raked her fingers through her straight brown hair.  As it was shoulder length, she could pile it all up on top, which gave her the look of a school teacher, or she could plait it, which made her look about five, so she mostly left it loose.  As usual, she was wearing bright, casual clothes – an orange cheesecloth shirt and white flared trousers, with high platform sandals – it was the seventies, after all!

‘What are you interested in?’ the man on the right asked.

‘I enjoy listening to music, you know, pop music and stuff in the charts,’ she began, and then wondered if she would sound a bit shallow, so she added, ‘but I love reading, I’ve read all the classics: Dickens, Hardy, D H Lawrence, Orwell…’

‘Go on,’ the man prompted.

‘I like going up the pub with my mate Paula.  There’s one pub in Fircombe where we can get served even though we’re under age.  We’ve also been to a few parties recently, and I’ve just met someone who I think might be very special to me in the future.’

The woman leaned forward and smiled encouragingly as Cassie continued.

‘His name’s Joe Orton, he’s eighteen, with dark hair that curls over the collar of the leather jacket he always wears because he rides a motorbike.  He plays guitar as well and has lovely brown eyes.’

‘Where do you see yourself in ten or fifteen years time?’ asked the man on the left, who hadn’t spoken before.

Cassie tried to picture her slim, five feet four inch frame fifteen years older.  Thirty-one seemed a lifetime away.  So much could have changed for her.  How could she know what life had in store?

‘I’d like to be married, probably with children, but also to be a successful journalist.  I hope I’ll get a really good story which will make my name.  I worry quite a lot about things, what people think about me and whether I'm letting them down, but as I get older I hope I'll be more confident.’

The three interviewers lent back in their chairs and conducted a whispered conversation.  Finally, the man on the left cleared his throat.

‘Well, thank you for coming here today, Miss Mitchell,’ he said gruffly.  ‘There are a few gaps that need filling in, and there is still quite a bit of work to be done but, all in all, you could certainly be considered as a character in a novel.’

Hilary -Week 6 - character profile

Name: Carrie Danby.
Carrie is the youngest daughter of Ellen Danby. She is 16 years old.  She has two sisters. Annie the eldest and Sadie the middle daughter.  Sadie is nineteen and Annie is twenty three. The girls are of Irish/Engish heritage. She lives with her Mother and her Mother's current partner in a large Edwardian house in the better part of Hull.  The house is in Newland Park and Ellen constantly tells visiting friends that it was the former home of  Phillip Larkin. In fact, Phillip Larkin lived in the house next door.
All three girls are very noticeable due to them all having the same beautiful dark blue eyes , and Carrie has a shock of auburn hair, long and curly. Unruly, like it's owner.
 She has a birthmark which covers one side of her lean, athletic body. The birthmark stops halfway up her neck and she consciously has her hair long and loose at all times.
"They used to call it a 'port wine stain' It's not a burn or anything, It was there when she was born." Her mother always brought it up when she was a small child. Even at the tender age of four, she could pick up the disgust in Ellen's voice as she felt the need to explain the dark purple skin on Carrie's body to anyone who came within a metre of them either at the beach or in the local pool.
Her dress is thrift shop chic. Her style, however, is her own. She is a non conformist in every aspect of her life. She uses humour to deflect any criticism which comes her way, and usually wins her arguments.
She is artistic and clever academically and has a devil may care attitude toward her own self preservation. People will say of her that she takes unnecessary risks with her own and others safety.
She is well liked at her school, especially by the boys with whom she appears to have a strong fascination, as do they with her.
She is quite independent and wants to travel the world after completing her A levels. Carrie is passionate about art. She has already travelled to Paris on her own, buying a ticket for the Eurostar with her mother's credit card.
She spent a week sleeping in various hostels with young travellers she had picked up and walked every day to the Louvre, drinking in the beauty in each room until she was giddy with it all. Finally, like an alcoholic just coming off a bender, she tottered back home. She seemed oblivious to the fuss and worry she had caused back in England.
Her sisters fear for their younger sibling and take responsibility for her welfare. Her mother has a difficult relationship with her youngest daughter. She is frustrated that she has no control over her and this comes out in a number of hurtful ways. Carrie has developed a thick skin to deflect her mothers taunts.
Carrie has had several boyfriends, none of whom has lasted due to her becoming bored with them. None have yet matched up to her high expectations. She is presently in a dangerous relationship with a teacher. She knows it is wrong, but he encourages it. She is excited by the danger. No one is aware, or so she believes.

Peter-Character Profile-Week 6

Groselm has small, suspicious eyes.   The nose is flat and circular and punctured with  small holes.  Long hair sprouts around it like grass.   His mouth is in two parts.  A short horizontal piece at the front and two longer slits that run down  at angles from it.  Great  flaccid cheeks hang from side to side from which protrude foot-long  incisors,  tapering into  razor  sharp points.  His ears are hardly visible as they lost from view in the thick blubbery  skin at the top of his  head.  But make no mistake, the hearing is acute and he can pick up sounds from far across the miles of  snowy  wastes and the grey turbulent seas that besiege these inhospitable shores.

Groselm  is big:  nine metres high and ten metres in length.  The belly like an enormous barrel.   The smooth, powerful  back, tapers  into a powerful fan shaped tail.     Either side of the barrel like chest, two  bladelike fins project that could kill an enemy with one blow. Look carefully along the serrated edge of these and you will see rows of stubby fingers  with which Groselm can manipulate the most delicate of objects.  His booming voice  echoes around the cavernous home which lies beneath the sea.

How old is he?    One hundred, two hundred years.    Like the ice deep, deep beneath the  snow, Groselm seems to have been with us forever.   His children don’t know.  Only the ancient  Droye who lies a gibbering mess in an isolated pool, knows the answer to that question.  The passive offspring lie slumped, sleepless  all around him, watching, waiting with fear, eager to avoid the volcanic anger that can erupt without warning..

For all creatures know that here in this pitiless frozen  world   of jagged peaked  mountains and vast white plains where snow drifts like phantoms and icebergs are born in a furious roar,  Groselm is king - his power  supreme.   Yet deep down beneath the welters of blubber, you will find lurking in a corner of his cold uncompassionate heart, a fear,  that one day his sway  will dissolve and vanish like melting snow and the spirits of those held prisoner for so long will escape like flocks of Pintado petrels..

           

Julie - The Bomb

Cassie settled back in her seat as the pair of helicopters set off from Las Vegas airport.  The engine was deafening and she adjusted her headphones as they crackled into life.

‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.  I’m Ryan, your pilot for today, welcoming you to Grand Canyon Tours.  Our flight today will take around two hours…’

Cassie stopped listening and turned her thoughts back to the previous evening.

***

The two Middle-Eastern men at the bar had been vociferous in their condemnation of America – rather a brave stance, Cassie had thought at the time, as they were currently guests of that country.

‘Nine-eleven,’ the tall man said, ‘You deserved that.’

The American bar-tender they were talking to, understandably, looked shocked.

‘How can the deliberate killing of thousands of innocent people ever be justified?’ the bar-tender countered irritably.

‘No American is innocent,’ the smaller man interjected.  ‘You are all to blame.’

***

The helicopter Cassie was in swooped low over the Strip.  She had a grandstand view, sitting in the middle seat at the front, the pilot to her left.  He pointed out several of the notable hotels as they went along.  The Luxor, where Cassie was staying, was not as tall as some of the others, but was unmistakable; a black marble pyramid reflecting the image of the two helicopters as they passed in convoy, Cassie’s bringing up the rear.  The first one, Cassie had noticed as they boarded, contained the two Middle-Eastern men from the bar last night.

‘The International Hotel, now renamed the Hilton, is where Elvis Presley spent his Vegas years,’ the pilot continued.  He swung the plane away from the city and set off towards the Colorado, and the point where the river had been dammed in order, the pilot explained, to control the frequent flooding.  Almost as a by-product, the dam could generate electricity for 8 million people in three states.

The pilot flew the helicopter low over the new bridge which was being built over the river, 1,500 feet south of the dam.  ‘Due to fears of terrorism,’ he explained, ‘coaches and trucks aren’t allowed to use the road along the top of the dam, but instead have to take a fifty mile detour through Laughlin, which is why this new bridge is being constructed.  Once operational, it will also avoid the necessity for the security checks which are currently carried out on private vehicles crossing the dam.’

While the bridge was impressive, Cassie marvelled at the huge concrete dam, which had apparently cost the lives of over 100 people during its construction, and now pressed its 3,250,000 cubic yards of concrete against the might of the Colorado.  She was suddenly startled by an orange flash and a loud boom.  A shock wave radiated towards the helicopter she was in, causing it to dive to the left towards the dam.  Her fellow passengers, two Australian men - one of whom was sitting on her right side - and a Belgian couple - who were seated behind her with the other Australian - began talking excitedly to each other.  Cassie gripped the sides of her seat and expelled a small scream.  

The layers of the Canyon flashed past as their helicopter momentarily plummeted, surveying in passing the erosion carved out over thousands of years by the force of the great river.  The pilot righted the plane and uttered a muffled cry which Cassie thought she heard as ‘What the f***?’  He brought their helicopter round in a broad arc, away from the plume of black smoke which occupied the space where the other helicopter had been.  Lumps of debris were falling towards the road, the dam and the river, now only five hundred feet below. 

The pilot shook his head in disbelief as he picked up his radio transmitter.  Cassie could see people on the ground running around and pointing skywards as debris fell amongst them.

‘Delta one, come in, over,’ the pilot began, then swivelled in his seat to observe his five passengers.  ‘Dumb asses, should’ve done their homework.  The dam is bomb proof from the air.’

The radio crackled.  ‘Delta one, here, over.’

The pilot clicked his microphone and uttered the seemingly obvious and unnecessary statement: ‘Hi, Delta one, there’s been a bomb blast.’

Tony: Edinburgh bomb explosion

He had been intending to take a bus from the Royal Mile, and was walking north along South Bridge.  It was late morning.  A large number of buses were coming down the busy street towards him, and Redman noted, with little amusement, that three bore the same number and were travelling to the same destination.  He frowned absently.  It was that sort of morning.

What took place as the last of the identical buses reached him was at first impossible to understand.  Redman’s mind, which had been moving conveniently from one thought to the next, lost connection.  An experience so unprecedented as to be indescribable, took over.

He was aware of brilliant, violent light, bluish-tinted, as though someone had suddenly shone a bright torch in his direction.  He was attempting to raise his hands to shield his eyes, when an altogether stronger force hit him and threw him backwards, followed by a sound of such strength and suddenness that his senses were stunned.

His senses were stunned….  It would be easy to say that he was aware of this.  But he was not.  That predictable, normal world he was used to, generated by the senses, organised by mind and memory alike, had disappeared.

He was lying on his back, a nauseous dizziness and an excruciating pain in his head almost obliterating his attempts to register his surroundings.  He assumed his eyes must be open, but his ears were ringing, and a thick, choking smoke was rasping the back of his throat.  The ringing in his ears became one with a new sound – piercing, uncontrolled screaming – though Redman could only guess that it was made by a human being, and not some other, altogether stranger creature.

The screaming subsided for a moment.  The throbbing in Redman’s head, which had threatened to overwhelm him, eased slightly.  He strained to listen for any new sound which might explain his new situation, but there was only silence.  The smoke, as he tried to see through it, seemed slightly thinner.  A movement somewhere near his foot caught his eye – someone’s hand, wet with blood, was moving near his foot – his left foot….

His head fell back, and he was aware of dizziness  again.  What had he seen near his left foot?  He was preparing , in spite of all, to lift his head again to look, when a new sound came to him – the wailing sound of some sort of siren.  At the same time, being able to look to his right, he saw that the road – was it the road? – was covered with scattered shards of glass, some large, some so small that they gleamed like jewels.

“Don’t move!”  A voice, somewhere behind him, a man’s voice, shouted the command more than once.  The harsh, curiously mechanical voices of people speaking through radio receivers reached him.  His strength was failing, and his head once more settled onto whatever was beneath him.

Above him the sky was visible, but threads of white and grey were travelling through it.  Smoke threads, idly rising to a great height, fanned out above him.  So something was still on fire?  A sudden movement near his head made him look towards it - a man’s face was bending over him.

“Yes….  alive.”  Were they his words?  His own voice sounded dry, his words echoed in his mind.  A second man was attaching something to him – perhaps they were going to lift him?  Only time, measured out by the throbbing beating in his head, would tell.

Hilary -The photograph - Week four

Hilary - Photograph

I have been sitting in this box for so long I have almost forgotten the day it happened.

I had been out for a walk. It was only a short walk from our hotel to the pier and I had asked for an ice cream as soon as I had arrived. I remember the dark,chocolate ice cream running down my chin and my Daddy laughing as he folded his hankie before wiping it off. I laughed too. I was always a happy child.  Mummy and Daddy used to take me and my two brothers and sister out every Sunday, come rain or shine. This time we were on a short holiday in Southwold,

 “It’s healthy to have a good, bracing walk whatever the weather” Daddy used to say, and we would dutifully put on our wellies and mackintoshes  or our Sunday best depending on if it was raining or dry, and follow him and Mummy down the road like a little row of ducklings.

On the Sunday it happened, I had been straggling behind looking at the fairground that had set up on the Green opposite the pier. I was enthralled by the vibrant primary colours and the way the men were putting the pieces of metal and wood together which would finally form the rides that tonight would see young girls screaming, mostly to attract the attention of the young men who worked on the fair I suspected.

He walked up to me and asked if I was lost. “ No, Mummy and Daddy are………” I looked ahead and behind me but could see no sign of them. “Mummy!” I sounded like a little lamb, bleating. Tears started to well up in my eyes. The young man quickly held my hand in his and in a soft, Irish brogue,  said “ Don’t worry little one, it’ll be ok”.

He held my hand tightly as we walked along the pier. I trusted him to find my Mummy and Daddy and was happy to have his strong grasp protecting me. After a little while, I began to tire and consequently began to cry. “When are we going to find them” I sobbed. Suddenly he produced a camera from his jacket pocket.

“Do you want to take my picture ? “ he asked.  My tears immediately subsided as this new and exciting prospect drove away the tiredness.  “ Yes please”.  I smiled and took the camera from him. “ I’ll go stand over here, and I’ll take one of you too” he said.

He spent the evening in the makeshift dark room, which he used to develop all the pictures of the girls he had taken.  Over the past fifteen years, since he started working on the fair at the tender age of fourteen, he must have taken at least twenty pictures. He continued to take them until he died from liver disease at the age of sixty five. An alcoholic for most of his life, he ended his days in a hostel. No one knew him, or where he came from.  When they found him , his only personal possessions were a box of photographs. The faces of all the children obscured by a camera.  Untraceable.

I am witness to the others who came after me. All of the young girls whose lives were ended before they had properly begun. One day perhaps, someone will take me from this box  and my family will finally be released from their misery.

Meanwhile, I sit and look out from the little box of photographs in the window of the antique market on the green in Southwold. I watch, and I wait.

Hilary - Bomb.

Hilary  ( not sure if this is what was required …….)

Friday afternoon. 3pm. Time to pick up the girls from school.

Shari quickly finished the washing up. She had made a chocolate cake for Fabia’s 10^th birthday and wanted to remove all the evidence before they arrived home.

Shari enjoyed giving the girls surprises. She loved to see the look of complete delight in their faces when she presented them with something unexpected.

The cake was a departure from their usual birthday treat. Being a devoutly religious family of modest means, they were not used to celebrations of this kind and usually celebrated birthdays by visiting a place of local interest. This was followed by a family visit to the in laws where their Grandfather would sit the girls down and talk about the family history.  Shari had noticed how the two girls would show interest in their grandfather’s talks and was proud of the respect they gave him. However, once removed from his presence, Fabia and her sister would quickly start to discuss their plans for the next day. Shari would try to ensure that they did not lose sight of their past by asking the girls questions about what their grandfather had told them, but the moment was forgotten by the two of them in the excitement of planning their weekend with their school friends.

“ Hi Ma” said Fabia as she bounced down the path from the school. “ Had a good day today, I came first in the spelling test and fourth in the maths test.”

“ Hey, sweetheart, that’s great. Dad will be so proud of you” smiled Shari. She walked slowly with her youngest daughter to the bus stop where she waited for the school bus to bring her other daughter from the secondary school three miles away. “ What do you think Janna will say when she hears about your great school results?”

“ Oh, she will probably say that she did much better when she was ten and that Daddy was even more proud of her than he will be of me”  Fabia looked down at her feet and a little sigh emanated from her. Shari knew just how she felt. She was the youngest of four, and always felt that her efforts were less appreciated than those of her three brothers. She often felt quite invisible as a child and this carried through to her teenage years. Until she met the wonderful man who finally became her husband, she had never felt as if she belonged anywhere.

The whole family sat around the table as Shari bore in the chocolate cake which was decorated with sparklers. The lights had been turned off and Shari looked at the girls faces, expectant, excited, lit only by the glow from the sparklers. It was magic and she stifled a little sob that caught in her throat. She would remember this moment.

The following morning was Saturday. The girls had been invited to their Grandparents and Shari’s husband had taken them early before he set off for work. The taxi firm had asked him to do a further shift. 

Shari was used to being alone for much of the day, every day. But today was special. As she walked to the bus station with her large case she thought of the times the family had needed their faith. She remembered those times she had been ridiculed for her beliefs and her clothing; the time when she had been spat upon by one of a gang of youths on the bus.

She thought of the friends of her and her husband. These were the people who had kept her sane. The evenings they had sat and talked about their troubles and those of the wider community. She had basked in the love that they had showered upon her and her husband. And finally, the debt she had realised that she owed them was ready to be paid.

As she walked into the crowded waiting area, she looked up at the ceiling, whispered “Allahu akbar” then louder “Allahu akbar” before smiling and pulling the cord.