“Cindy’s Mum” by Bethan Worthington

Let’s get this straight from the word go. I never cut their toes off. Talk about exaggerating. At the very most I trimmed their toenails – thoroughly. Anyway, it all came to nothing – as you can see.

But that’s what people are like – so quick to believe the worst of someone like me! I mean, I bet you’ve never given the slightest thought to the real me – where I came from – what I’ve been through.
I came from nothing actually. No mother, a miserable existence, at best ignored, at worst given a thrashing - for my own good. But despite all that, I did ok for myself, for a brief moment anyway. And keep your eye on me, watch me carefully because I’ll be back up there again – one day. Someone like me, who’s put up with all the vicious blows fate has dealt me, well, I never say die, not personally anyway.

I thought I’d put my pathetic childhood behind me when I met Alfonso. OK so he was no oil painting (unless we’re talking Picasso with a hangover) but that just didn’t seem important. It’s amazing how the light of love can dazzle a girl as it glints off the casing of a 22 carat Rolex.

The pregnancy was a big issue for me though – bloody kids. But Alfonso seemed delighted and I just hoped I’d take to them when they arrived – that I’d get that wonderful motherly love at first sight thing as they screamed out into the world. Fat chance! Clearly their Dad’s genes were stronger than mine! Ugly just doesn’t seem a big enough word for them. I’ve seen prettier faces on garden gnomes. And fat? Well put it this way, you wouldn’t want one of them on the next lounger if you fancied a spot of sunbathing. Really, they were their own personal total eclipse!

You know that old phrase, ‘Don’t throw the baby out with the bath water!’ Why the hell not, that’s what I’d like to know! I really couldn’t take to the little brats. I mean little girl’s are meant to be cute and cuddly aren’t they. Well these two clearly hadn’t heard that one. And it’s not as if Alfonso was trying to make things any easier for me. He doted on the little vipers. I think he secretly blamed me (bloody cheek) for their less than perfect looks. All the cash he’d splashed out during our courtship seemed to have dried up and I think he may have been wondering whether I was actually going to make a good mother to his little darlings. He nagged me mercilessly; “When are you going to feed them? When are you going to wash them? When are you going to let them out of that box?”

Well, you have to understand that there was only so long that I could put up with that. And anyway he was really starting to get on my nerves. He was getting fatter and clumsier by the day and I really wasn’t surprised when he tripped over my stilettos – God I’d only left them at the top of the stairs for a few minutes!

So there I was, the merry widow. Mind you there were two hideously obvious reasons why no man would ever look at me.

That’s why I was so surprised when Valentine showed up. He was too good to be true – wealthy, generous and charming. I was swept off my feet, gone with the whirlwind. Yes I know, he did mention something about a daughter but frankly, I knew a good thing when I saw one and marched him up the aisle before bothering to take a look at her. She turned out to be a pretty little thing – vile and disgusting, she was a child after all, but pretty nonetheless.

I tell you something though, I really loved Valentine. Yes me, who never had call to love anyone before. I was starting to mellow, see the good things around me and then he died. Hit full on by a number 9 bus while he was helping an old bat over the road. Killed by kindness, his own, without a thought for me.
No wonder I was bitter and don’t you even think of blaming me. To make matters worse his fortune was tied up for his precious Cindy when she reached twenty one. (Did I say when or if? Well, no matter.)
At least she was too young to realise it so I could get a few years work out of her for my troubles. She turned out to be a handy little worker, especially if I fed her.

But it wasn’t enough. I needed a long-term plan you see. At 21 she’d be up to her vile blonde ringlets in readies and where would that leave me and the two little warthogs? High and dry, that’s where.

So when the tickets came for the Prince’s ball (and I’d established it wasn’t a raffle) I knew it was my chance and there’s no way I was going to let little Miss Perfect put in an appearance.

You can imagine my confusion then when they brought around the glass slipper belonging to the HRH’s dream girl. Honestly, I don’t know what they’re teaching them at finishing school nowadays – what girl in her right mind does a runner from a besotted prince. Anyway, why would my darling step-daughter want to try the slipper on at all, when she wasn’t even there, that was what I wanted to know. It was obvious that it was never going to fit either of my girls. Now if Charlie Cairoli was passing his boots around they may have been in with a chance, so you see, there was nothing else for it, I had to get the scissors out.
But that’s when I made my big mistake wasn’t it. I yelled for Cindy to come with a cloth and mop up the blood, oh and - well you know the rest. Their eyes met like a gang of colliding stars and a heavenly bleedin’ choir appeared from nowhere and the slipper fitted like a dream and blah blah blah…
And so here I am, stuck in the kitchen of her majesty my step daughter. She’s got the guy, she’s got the cash and I’ve got the hump.

But don’t you worry. And don’t make the mistake of writing me off just yet. I may be down but I’m sure as hell not out. Alfonso always said that there was only one thing I was worse at than housekeeping and that was cooking. And he was right. I was never brilliant at tidying up – poor Alfonso – and as for cooking, well it’s so easy to get muddled between angelica and ant powder. Looks like I’m in the right place at the right time again – just watch me!

 

 

                                  Christmas Is For Children by Rosemary Roe


“I’m off now Mrs. Withers”, said Elsie Brownlow as she popped her head round the classroom door, “all finished I’m glad to say. I’m looking forward to a nice bit of haddock for me tea, it’ll go down a treat with a nice bit of brown bread and butter, it’s my Arthur’s favourite”.

“Sounds lovely”, Adele replied, glancing up briefly, “Goodnight”.

“Your not staying much longer are you?” Elsie came into the room, buttoning her coat over her ample bosom and pulling on her hand knitted mittens.

“No”, said Adele carefully concentrating on filling her stapler without stapling her fingers in the process, “I should be through in about half an hour, with a bit of luck”.

Elsie paused; she hovered in the doorway. Adele stopped fiddling with the stapler and looked at her.
“Good… right then…I wouldn’t stay too long if I was you, I sometimes thinks it’s a bit creepy here, once everyone’s gone…….it’s that quiet, gets me down I can tell you. I likes to get me cleaning done double quick and then I’m out.”

Adele laughed, “I’m far too busy too worry about that, I’ve got to get all these pictures up before I can go home tonight. I’ve promised the little ones that the Christmas frieze will be all ready for them tomorrow morning.” Impatiently she brushed particles of glitter from her fingers. “See you tomorrow”.

Elsie sniffed pointedly. “You’d do well to remember Mr. Bartlett”, she muttered darkly. “He did too much as well, died in this school he did, in fact he was found in your very chair - dead as a dodo”. She nodded sagely, “that was Christmas time too, just before we broke up for the holidays.”

Adele heard the door shut as she resumed pasting and sticking. This was the best time of the year, she thought to herself; Christmas term for the infant class was magical. They still believed in Father Christmas; the story of the nativity was still fresh and bright and apart from the usual arguments as to who should play Mary, the weeks leading up to the 25th December were a delight. The only problem was all the work involved - hence the need for overtime tonight. Adele glanced quickly at her watch, goodness it was almost six o’clock. She had been working steadily since four. She pushed her hair back from her eyes and stretched – still there was not too much left to do.

It was then she heard the first faint noise - muffled, indistinct, a sort of a tapping. Adele paused, listening hard. Nothing. She smiled to herself. I’m getting as bad as Elsie, she thought ruefully. But she did have to admit it was strange being in the building alone. The school was old, built in Victorian times with tall Gothic windows and temperamental plumbing – old iron radiators and windowpanes that rattled in the wind. But it was always such a busy, noisy place. Her classroom was always buzzing with chatter, the sound of children’s voices raised in song or chanting tables. It seemed unnaturally quiet, the darkness of the winter evening seemed to press against the window panes; the skeletal outline of the tree outside took on a sinister look, faintly illuminated by the orange fuzz of the nearby streetlight.
She got up, her heels clattering on the hard wooden floor. The noise echoed and reverberated around the high ceilinged room and made her jump. Really, she thought, I must get a grip on myself; it’s just Elsie putting ideas into my head. Once more she busied herself, carefully placing the children’s artwork on to the corkboard that ran around the room. Merry Santas, dressed in bright primary reds smiled back at her, impossibly large white cotton-wool beards threatened to plummet to the ground at any minute. Reindeers, with wobbly legs and enormous antlers jostled for position on the frieze alongside Christmas trees covered in silver glitter.

She had just completed the back wall when she heard the noise again. This time it was louder. She stopped and listened, her ears straining to catch the sound, to identify it. It was definitely a tapping, faint and ill-defined, it would stop for a minute or two and then it would come again. There seemed to be no sequence, no order, just this muffled indeterminate sound. Adele stood very still; her eyes swept the room searching for the answer. She realised suddenly it was no longer warm in the room, in fact it was quite cold. She looked again at the dark window, could the naked branches of the tree be tapping against the glass? She moved closer to the window, the nearest branches were a good two feet away, and the strong wind was actually blowing them away from the building. She pulled her cardigan closer. Then, realizing what was happening she breathed a sigh of relief - of course that was it. The central heating was off now, the radiators were cooling down and that’s what the ticking sound must be. Her radiators at home made the same sound at night.

Her pulse returned to normal and she got on with her work. Elsie’s words about Mr. Bartlett re-surfaced in her mind. She really was impossible! Mr. Bartlett was in his sixties and due for retirement when he had his heart attack. It was very sad, but it was unlikely to happen to her for goodness sake, she was only in her thirties! Then she had a horrible thought. Perhaps Elsie was implying his ghost haunted the school…particularly this classroom where he died. Adele realised, as soon as she had given form to this nebulous fear, that it was a mistake.

She now felt very jumpy; she could still hear the tapping noise intermittently but had done her best to ignore it. She was very tempted to simply put her coat on and go home, there and then, finish off the frieze tomorrow. She had even got as far as picking her coat up when reason intervened. This was ridiculous she told herself sternly, another half an hour and it would be finished; and she reminded herself how disappointed the children would be in the morning. She put her coat down and picked up the next reindeer.

She had just put the first drawing pin into the top of the board when she heard it. The tapping was still going on, but in the background, there was a sort of dragging sound, laboured and painful. The thud of her heart beating in her chest seemed to fill the room, her hands started to sweat and she dropped the pins on the floor. She turned to the classroom door, and it was at this moment that the bright fluorescent lights snapped off. The room was now pitched into darkness, the streetlamp outside faintly illuminated the room, casting smoky cavernous shadows. The noise was getting louder; someone or something was coming along the corridor, getting nearer and nearer.

Adele crouched back into the far corner, there was no escape. The only way out was through that door, which would bring her face to face with ….. With what? She tried to control her breathing, to calm down, to be rational. Perhaps the caretaker was in the building, and he had turned off all the lights from a master switch, thinking everyone had gone home by now. Yes that was it, she told herself shakily, all she had to do was to go into the corridor and she would see for herself that there was nothing to worry about.

Slowly, dragging one foot in front of the other she got to the doorway. Her hands, wet with perspiration, slipped on the round brass handle, so that she had to grip it very hard to turn it. Her mouth was dry, her stomach churned and she tasted bile in her mouth. For a moment she stood completely still, she closed her eyes momentarily and took a deep breath. Screwing up her courage she inched the door open and looked down the corridor.

There was no light at all, the corridor was completely black, a velvet darkness enveloped her. The noise seemed to increase, but now there was a whispering – menacing and insidious, creeping up the corridor. The words were indistinguishable, meshed into each other. Adele, her hands clutched to her throat, tried to shut out these sounds but it was impossible. She tried to move, but her legs no longer seemed to obey her commands, they were leaden, a dead weight. She opened her mouth to scream for help but the only sound to emerge was a strangled whine.

Frozen into immobility she began to make out a shape forming at the end of the corridor. Her heart jumped and she thought it would break free of her body by its own momentum. The form seemed to give off its own light; a phosphorescent trail was left in its wake. Dear God, what was it? The whispering became more defined - it was singing. It was children singing, high pitched…. It was a Christmas Carol…Adele made out the words... 'Rest ye…gentlemen…nothing you dismay’. Imperceptibly the figure took on shape…..There were three children. Illuminated by a sort of pale glow Adele could make out a boy and two little girls. But the boy wore a thick tweed cap and big boots, the girls white smocked pinafores over serge dresses. Adele watched transfixed – they were children from Victorian times. But they were children, only children; surely they would not hurt her. She had always loved children. She put out her hand to them……………….

It was Elsie who found her, at eight-o-clock the next morning. Of course she was dead.

 

 

 

“ I thought we could sit here in the garden this morning,” I greeted her, standing up for once and more than happily taking her hand in a touch of affection rather than handshake. I gestured towards the wrought iron table and chairs on the patio. She chose to sit opposite me, bag on the ground, paper and pen to hand.

“Very nice,” she grinned. “And orange juice, too.”

“Help yourself, my dear.” I moved my chair slightly, just enough to stop her lovely long legs being out of my view. Well, a man of my age has few pleasures.

I hated journalists. They told lies, they interfered and meddled and then got it all printed. Bastards! This lady was different. She promised to let me read everything and would only write what I was happy with. She was too young to have much knowledge about me. Jenny Benson with the beautiful legs, mane of auburn curls and ready smile.

“Are you happy with yesterday’s work Mr Capone?” She poured juice. “You told me about your early life in Brooklyn and what took you to Chicago.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” I interrupted, “and I got my face slashed before I’d learnt never to be off guard. Yeah, it’s fine, honey. Hey, call me Al, yesterday it was Mr Capone, Mr Capone.”

“I like to be professional Mr…”

“Jenny, we’re both professionals, right? I’ll call you Jenny, you call me Al. I’m Mr Capone when I’m in the courthouse.”

I threw back my head and laughed out loud. Jenny looked momentarily shocked before grinning widely.

“Okay Al, let’s start, if you’re ready,” she sipped her juice. “When did you first meet Elliot Ness?”

“First time, I dunno.” I shrugged and sniggered; his name prompted sardonic mirth. “I really don’t know Jenny. It’s like he was always there, always around someplace. We played cat and mouse for a long time.”

“Go on,” Jenny prompted.

“Ness was head of the Prohibition Bureau and his mission in life was to nail me. He was convinced I was involved in liquor smuggling or something along those lines. You know about prohibition?”

“Sure.”

“And you know what I mean by speakeasy?”

 

“Illegal drinking joint, as far as I know,” she replied.

 

“Yeah, more or less,” I agreed. “Well, Elliot Ness had speakeasies raided. The tiniest rumour and he’d have buildings staked out and his guys swarming all over. He was easy to set up you know, send him somewhere away from any action. He was, er, there’s a word for this, obsessed. Yeah, that’s just what he was.”

 

“Was he just out for you, then? There must have been others.”

 

“Sure, there were guys bootlegging. There was gang warfare. He wanted to pin something on me more than anyone else.” I reached for more juice.

“What did he have on you then?” Jenny asked. She held eye contact longer than most people did with me. I noticed it yesterday and she did it again now.

“Nothing.” I regretted being the first to look away. “Nothing except instinct honey.” She seemed to like that. Her head was down as she was writing again but I saw the flash of her smile.

 

“So it got personal?”

 

“Jenny, he was good at his job, that’s how come he was boss. There were things going on that the Police Department called ‘Organized Crime and Protection Racket.’ Ness was sure I was involved that’s what I mean by his instinct.” I stretched out and put my hands behind my head. “He couldn’t prove anything. It wasn’t personal. I guess you could call it professional frustration.”

“Did you ever threaten him?”

 

“No.”

 

“He moved his family out of Chicago.”

 

“Hey, that wasn’t down to me, it was the whole thing. Someone was shooting at somebody all the time in every street, North side, South side. It got ugly.” I told her.

“Okay. Are you getting tired Al?” Jenny looked concerned. “Do you want to take a break?”

 

I glanced at my wristwatch squinting slightly to read the time. It was almost noon. “No, we’ll carry on,” I smiled. She was doing the gaze again, hazel eyes flecked with brown. “Lunch will be coming soon, then we’ll have a break from me and talk about you.”

“I don’t think so,” she laughed, “I’m boring.”

 

I shook my head and said nothing. A few things came to mind but this was and had to be a purely business-like liaison. No sweet talk.

 

“Let’s get on then,” she said. “I want to ask you about George Clarence Moran, are you okay with that?”

“Bugs Moran! That crazy son-of-a…! The bastard tried to kill me back in ’26!” I stood up, hands in the air and walked round the table twice. Then took a long drink of orange juice, wishing it was bourbon and sat down again apologising.

“No problem. We don’t have to talk about…” she said patiently.

 

“He’s one really crazy guy, totally nuts,” I interrupted and calmed myself down. “Like something happened to his brain before he was born, kinda nuts.”

 

“I heard that Moran wanted you dead because you had prostitutes working for you and he considered that to be highly immoral. Is that right?”

“I know two things about Bugs Moran,” I said, “ one, he’s mad; two, he wanted control over the South side and I was in his way, so he tries to kill me. In his book, prostitution is immoral, it’s okay to blow a guy’s brains out. I got back at him, eventually.”

 

“Go on,” said Jenny, writing quickly. “What happened?”

 

“It was a few years after,” I began. “Hey honey, this must be my favourite story of those days. Someone, I don’t know who double-crossed me and I got a tip-off that a consignment of liquor that should have been mine was being delivered to Moran’s gang in an empty garage on the North side. Remember what I said about Elliot Ness? This was another time I sent him on a goose chase. I phoned him anonymously and gave him all the details about the consignment but sent him way off into the South side. That put him and the Police Dept out of my way while I attended to business. Some of my boys disguised as police officers burst into the North side garage, lined Bugs Moran’s gang against the wall and machine- gunned them down.”

“St. Valentine’s Day Massacre,” Jenny said quietly as she stopped writing.

 

“That’s what the papers called it,” I sighed, “14th February 1929. I get forgetful these days but that’s something I’ll always remember.”

 

“How did you get away with that?”

 

“Same old story, Ness couldn’t prove anything. I wasn’t even there, at least I don’t think I was,” I smiled wryly. “The only thing that went wrong was Bugs Moran being late. He escaped death by minutes. Where is he now, the asylum?” The clanging of a tea-trolley signalled the arrival of lunch and the end of today’s interview. “Leave it with us Curtis,” I dismissed my butler. “We’ll serve ourselves.”

“You really look tired Al.” Jenny zipped her notebook into her bag. “Maybe I should go and let you eat in peace?”

“No, stay as we arranged. I’ll sleep all afternoon. Are you fine out here, not too hot?”

 

“I’m okay thank you.” I relaxed into lunch and easy conversation with Jenny. She was happy to tell me about growing up in Virginia, her horses and her desires. She made no attempt to revert to interview mode or catch me off guard. Professional Miss Benson.

“Last interview tomorrow,” she said, bringing me down to earth. I had been following the gold shimmers in the sunshine on her hair. She was ready to leave. “I’d like to hear about jail and what decided your move down here to Florida. Bring me up to date with anything you’d like to include or remove.”

“And I will get to read everything before it goes to press?” I double checked.

 

“Of course, that’s our agreement.”

 

“You know Jenny, I’m a sick man. My ailments make me an old man at forty-seven.”

“I know.”

Her slim, elegant hand reached across the table to touch mine. I noticed the delicate shine of her manicure as I patted it.

 

“I hope I’m not over taxing you.”

 

“Honey, that’s a real sore point!”

 

Jenny, realising what she said began to apologise in her embarrassment but I was laughing and so was she as I walked her to her car. “Thank you for lunch Al. I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said. “Do you know, you’re not as scary as I anticipated.”

“Really?” I said. Then thought, I must be losing my touch.

Jenny slid into the front of her Oldsmobile convertible, put her sunglasses on, waved and drove off leaving me with auburn coloured fragrant memories to last until tomorrow.