A Twist of Fate

A Twist of Fate

Daylight filtered through the thin, nylon curtains of the motel room. Beth lay on the bed, still wearing yesterday’s clothes. That split second each morning when she believed that everything was all right had passed, leaving her with the too familiar dragging sensation in her stomach. She rubbed her temples but couldn’t stop the pounding in her head. The room stank of stale cigarette smoke and alcohol, making her nauseous. She pushed herself up on her elbows and reached for the plastic cup of water on the shabby bedside cabinet. A half empty pack of Marlboro Lights lay beside the cup. She shook one out and lit it, then coughed as the acrid smoke filled her lungs. As she pulled on the cigarette her mind began to clear and she remembered why she was here.

            ‘Not long now sweethearts. Mommy’s coming,’ she whispered, as she swung her legs off the bed and padded over to the shower room.

She peered at her reflection in the dim light of the solitary light bulb over the mirror. Haunted brown eyes with dark shadows under them stared back at her. She splashed some water on her face and dragged her fingers through her short, brown hair. A small, white plastic bottle with a ridged cap lay by the sink, its printed label faded by constant handling. She hadn’t needed them for a while. She used alcohol to help her sleep these days.

Beth screwed up her eyes against the early morning, autumn sunshine. People hurried by, their coats wrapped tightly against the cold north wind. She tried to light a cigarette, but her hands were shaking too much. In front of her stood the tall, pentagon-shaped structure of the Baltimore World Trade Centre, dominating the skyline. She stared at it, oblivious to the jostling of people going about their business. It was Thanksgiving and the air was filled with the sounds of children, chattering as they stood in line for the National Aquarium. A man walked by with a child on his shoulders, another one skipping along beside him. Beth looked away, but not before her throat began to ache and the familiar feeling of emptiness settled in her stomach.

She sat down on one of the benches in the harbour. The cold of the stone seeped through the thin material of her old, black coat, but she was unaware of the discomfort. She lit up and, through the haze of the smoke, stared at the Baltimore 9/11 monument which lay in front of her. Sheltered from the sea breeze by the Trade Centre building, the rectangular, grey, marble base reminded her of a tombstone. Her eyes travelled up to the three steel beams lying on top and shivered at their twisted, fused appearance, their bronze colour a stark contrast to the grey of the marble. Designed to act like a sundial, the shadow of the World Trade Centre crept across the base. She watched until it reached six minutes past ten, the time that Flight 93 crashed and then, as if in a dream, she stood up and began to circle the monument. Her eyes scanned the names and dates of birth of all the passengers that had perished on that day; their names engraved forever on its marble surface, a sad reminder of their brief existence. Her heart skipped a beat as, at last, her eyes lit upon the three names she’d been looking for. Through vision blurred by tears, she lifted her fingers to her lips, and kissed the tips before tracing them over each name.

On the 11th September, Beth drove her husband and two daughters to the airport in Newark, New Jersey.

            ‘You better go honey. You don’t want to miss your appointment,’ Frank said, his grey eyes twinkling and she remembered noticing a few grey hairs that had appeared at his temples.

She’d tried to smile, but only the left side of her lips lifted at the corner. Her right cheek throbbed.

            ‘Bye Mommy. Miss you already,’ said Zoe, as she stretched up her arms for a hug.

            ‘Bye sweetie. You be good for Dad and Grandma. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

            ‘I’m always good!’

            ‘I know you are. I’m just kidding you.’ She’d laughed, rubbing the dark curls on her eldest daughter’s head. At five years old, she considered herself to be all grown up.

            ‘I be good too, Mummy.’

            ‘Course you are Jenna. You’re the best little three-year-old in the world,’ she’d replied. Then kneeling down, she’d kissed the top of her youngest daughter’s head. As she’d stood up, their cheeks had touched and she’d winced at the pain that shot through her swollen cheek.

            ‘Bye honey. I hope the dentist can sort out that abscess once and for all.’

            ‘Me too, I don’t know how much more of this pain I can take.’

Beth had watched as the three of them disappeared through security, Frank carrying Jenna, her face resting on his shoulder, Zoe skipping alongside him, holding his hand.

Five years on, she could still feel the softness of her daughter’s cheek as it had touched hers. Her face had been hurting, but she realised now that she hadn’t know what real pain was then.

            ‘Quite something, isn’t it?’

Startled, Beth stepped back and stumbled as her foot gave way underneath her.

            ‘Oh jeez, I’m sorry - I didn’t mean to scare you,’ said a man’s voice. ‘Are you OK?’

            She winced at the pain that shot through her foot as she turned to glare at the tall, blond-haired stranger standing behind her.

            ‘I’m so sorry. You’ve hurt yourself. Here let me help you.’

 ‘I think you’ve done enough already, don’t you?’ she retorted through clenched teeth.

‘I’m really sorry,’ he said, a tinge of red appearing under the golden tone of his tan. ‘My wife’s always telling me off for “accosting complete strangers” as she puts it.’

‘Look. I’m fine. I just need to sit down for a minute, that’s all.’ But as she tried to put her weight on her ankle, a sharp pain shot through it. ‘Ouch,’ she cried, tears of anger and frustration now falling down her cheeks.

‘Please, at least let me help you over to the bench?’

            ‘Look, I don’t mean to be rude but I just want to be left alone.’ She tried once more to put her weight on her foot, but stumbled as another sharp pain pierced her ankle. ‘Damn it! Well don’t just stand there. Help me if you’re going to.’

He reached forward and lifted her right arm and placed it around his broad shoulders. Beth’s foot barely touched the ground as he helped her hobble over to the stone bench.

            ‘May I?’ he said, pointing at the foot. ‘I know a bit about first aid.’

Beth nodded, and then flinched as he lifted her foot; the pain making her feel light headed.

            ‘Sorry. Mm … looks pretty swollen. You need to get this looked at. My car’s just parked over there. I can take you to the ER.’

            ‘No. Thanks. I’ll call a cab and go myself.’

            ‘That could take ages and how are you going to get yourself into the hospital? Please, let me take you. It was my fault after all.’

Beth looked down at her ankle. She knew he was right. ‘Ok,’ she sighed, ‘but I’d feel more comfortable if we took a cab.’

‘No problem. I’ll be back in a minute. I’m Ethan by the way.’

But Beth just closed her eyes and remained silent.

Ethan’s footsteps echoed on the polished, grey floor as he pushed the wheelchair along the corridor. The smell of antiseptic and polish were making Beth’s stomach heave. She subconsciously began to rub the scars on her wrists. Memories of another hospital corridor tried to push their way into her mind, but she stared at the signs on the walls, reading each one in an attempt to chase the memories away.

As they approached the reception desk, the young woman standing behind smiled at them.

‘Hi, how are you today?’ Ethan said, returning her smile.

But Beth looked down at her lap; she’d had enough of cheerful people today.

‘My friend’s had an accident. I think she’s done something to her ankle.’

‘Well you’ve come to the right place. I’ll need a few details, if you can just fill in this form for me please?’ she said, as she handed him a large white form. ‘The doctors are all with patients at the moment. There’s a bit of a wait I’m afraid.’

Beth looked around at the stark white walls and grey floor, the sickening smell of antiseptic seemed to cling to her. Her heart was pounding and she ran her tongue over her dry lips. The unwanted memories, quiet up until now, forced their way into her mind.

Later that day, she was in Newark hospital’s orthodontic department. She’d watched in horror as the television screen replayed the moment the first plane hit the north tower. She stood transfixed as they reported that Flight 93 had gone down with no survivors. Three days later, she’d woken up in a bed in a side room of the psychiatric department. Her wrists had white bandages wrapped around them, but she’d been too numb to feel any pain.

The sound of Ethan’s voice brought her back to the present as he handed her the form.

‘Sorry. I can’t do this bit. I don’t even know your name.’

 ‘Beth; it’s Beth. Look, you don’t have to wait with me, I’ll be fine.’

            ‘So you keep saying! You sure are one stubborn lady.’

‘I’m sorry. I’m just having a bad day.’

            ‘I’d worked that one out for myself!’ he laughed.

Despite herself, Beth couldn’t help smiling.

The waiting room was remarkably empty. Ethan placed her wheelchair beside one of the orange plastic chairs before sitting down beside her. It was so quiet that Beth was sure he could hear her heart. It was beating so hard, almost as if it was about to leap out of her chest. She hated hospitals.

‘Is it something to do with the memorial?’

Beth started at the sound of Ethan’s voice and shrugged her shoulders. ‘Why do you care? You don’t even know me.’

‘True. But I’m guessing that you were at the monument for a reason. I know I was.’

‘Well it’s my business if I was.’ she retorted as she pulled down the sleeves of her coat, once more conscious of the scars.

‘I realise that. But I think that we might have something in common. Look, we’ve got a while to wait. Why don’t I tell you why I was at the memorial today?’

Beth got the feeling that she wasn’t going to like what he had to say, but something in the tone of his voice made her nod her head in assent.

‘I was in the north tower when the first plane hit. I was an investment banker with Cantor Fitzgerald and worked on floor 101. I was lucky, but I lost thirteen friends and colleagues that day.’

He stopped and ran his hands, through his close-cropped hair. Beth saw that they were trembling.

            ‘I’m sorry, that must have been terrible,’ she murmured.

            ‘It was.’

He leaned forward and put his face in his hands, she noticed that he had burn marks on the back of them. Like hers, the scars were faded, but still visible.

‘I had nightmares for years,’ he said so softly that she had to lean in closer to hear. ‘Every time I closed my eyes I would feel the heat of the flames and taste the dust and smoke in my mouth. But the worst thing was the sound of screams and cries for help.’

            Beth waited as he took a deep breath before continuing. She seemed unable to tear her eyes away from his scars.

‘I have images in my head that no-one should have.’

Beth’s throat and chest seemed to constrict; she felt as if she couldn’t breathe. She continued to stare as he took a tissue out of his pocket and blew his nose. Her eyes were stinging as she fought to hold back the tears that had begun to well in them.

‘I’m sorry; it must’ve been very difficult for you,’ she sniffed.

            Ethan nodded his head, ‘The guilt’s the hardest thing to bear. You keep asking yourself, why me? Why did I survive when others didn’t? I was in therapy for a long, long time.’

He sat up and Beth found herself mesmerised by the brightness of his blue eyes.

‘A couple of months after the disaster I quit my job and moved my family out of New York. When you’ve been through something like that, it makes you think about what really matters.’

Beth clasped her hands together to try and stop their trembling. She wanted him to stop but instead found herself saying, ‘So what do you do now?’

            ‘I manage a holiday resort in Vermont. I plan my work around when the kids get home from school. I try to spend as much time with them as possible. I’d been a lousy husband and father; working all the hours God sent. Now I make sure I have time to do things with them.’

‘Sounds like fun,’ Beth whispered, a wistful note in her voice.

‘I guess what I’m trying to say is that, when something tragic happens, it is possible to move on.’

Beth shivered and tugged once more at her sleeves, but said nothing.

‘There’s one thing the therapist said that I’ve never forgotten. Would you like to hear it?’

‘Sure,’ she shrugged.

He took her trembling hands in his and continued. ‘She said that the best way to honour my friends was to live the best life I could, make each day count. I realised that that’s what I would’ve wanted for my family, if I’d died that day. I’ve been given a second chance and I’m taking it.’

Beth stared at the large tanned hands holding her small pale ones. ‘But what if you don’t want a second chance? What if there’s no family to live for?’ she whispered, tears now running unchecked down her cheeks.

‘Well in that case, you should live it for yourself, in honour of their memory.’

Ethan was in the waiting room when the nurse wheeled her back, his blond head nodding as he slept in the chair.

            She tapped him on the shoulder, ‘Ethan, I’m back.’

Startled, his head shot up, his eyes blinking rapidly. ‘What? Oh good, how did you get on?’

            ‘It’s just a sprain. I just need to rest up for a few days.’

            ‘That’s great. What’s that you’re holding?’

            Beth looked at the letter of referral she was clutching in her hand. ‘Oh nothing, I just had a little chat with the doctor. That’s all.’

            He nodded his head and she knew that he understood. ‘How about a coffee before I take you home?’

‘Coffee would be great thanks, but I could murder a cigarette. Do you smoke?’

            ‘Nope! Gave it up after 9/11.’

            ‘Funny, that’s when I started.’

They sat by the window in the cafeteria. Beth stirred her coffee as she stared out on the garden. Children played on small wooden animals as their parents looked on. A little boy sat in a wheelchair, his left leg encased in plaster. He laughed as his mum tickled his foot. Beth smiled.

‘That’s more like it! I was beginning to think that you didn’t know how to smile?’

            ‘I don’t think I did! Not for a long time anyway.’

            ‘Want to tell me about it?’

A father walked by carrying a little girl, her face resting on his shoulder. Beth watched them until they disappeared. She shook her head. ‘Not now. I’m tired. Can you call a cab please?’

As Ethan pushed her along the motel corridor in the borrowed wheelchair the hospital had insisted she use; he talked about his son and two daughters. Beth could see by the way his face lit up as he talked that he was a devoted father. As she listened she closed her eyes and waited for the familiar sharp pain, but, this time it was more of a dull ache.

Ethan opened the door and pulled her into her room. It seemed brighter than Beth remembered.

‘Thank you, I’ll be fine now,’ she said, as she watched him taking in the shabbiness of the room.

            ‘Are you sure? I can stay for a bit if you like?’

            ‘No thanks, I’m tired. All I want to do is sleep.’

‘Well, if you’re sure?’ he reached into his jacket pocket and took something out of his wallet. ‘Here’s my card. Anytime you want a holiday in Vermont, just give me a call. Or, just call. I’d love to hear your story someday. When you’re ready.’

            ‘Thanks. You’ve been really kind. Sorry for being rude.’

            ‘No problem. I get it. Just remember, everyone deserves a second chance.’

            ‘I will,’ she whispered, as he closed the door behind him.

Beth pulled herself up out of the wheelchair and hopped over to the shower room. She looked at herself in the mirror above the sink. Was it really possible? Could she really have a second chance? She closed her eyes and pictured the names on the memorial.

Frank Reynolds; 1956; Zoe Reynolds; 1996; Jenna Reynolds; 1998.

They’d been so full of life. She thought about what Ethan had said about living life for them. It was exactly the kind of thing that Frank would have said. She picked up the bottle of pills from where she’d left them that morning. She turned on the tap and opened the bottle. A solitary tear rolled down her cheek as she watched the contents briefly swirl around in the water before disappearing down the drain. 

Photos, Isabel's own.

Isabel Johnstone 2017 ©

Long covid

 Hi Everyone,

I realise that I've been a bit quiet for a while. Tbh, the pandemic really scared the life out of me. Having been told by my doctors that if I got the flu, it would kill me. I was convinced that if I got covid, I would die. Can you imagine the relief I felt when I got covid, and it was just like a mild flu? Fast forward a year, and I'm now using a mobility scooter as my leg muscles have become incredibly weak. Apparently there's a long covid syndrome where the virus has damaged the muscles in the legs. It takes 12 weeks to manifest itself, and that's exactly what happened to me. I had covid, mildly, in July last year, and in October I left my house to walk to Cogges, and my legs felt like they'd lost all power. 

I tried physiotherapy, but my legs got weaker. I also tried pushing myself, by trying to keep going. But my legs got worse. Eventually, the physiotherapist referred me to the long covid clinic. My gp is sympathetic, but has offered no help, even my Lupus consultant has offered no help. 

There's at least a year's wait to be seen at the long covid clinic. Meanwhile, I'm trying my best to keep going and live the best life I can. 

I'm aware that the longer I don't walk, the harder it can be at my age, to get it back. But what can I do? I also know that I'm only one of a very large list of people suffering from long covid, in an NHS, that is struggling. 

I'm lucky really. I can afford to buy a mobility scooter, albeit a reconditioned one, and I have a very supportive network. But I just wanted to write this to highlight that, covid is not just like the flu. It can have serious implications for the future. 

I don't know what else to say. Except, please think twice about getting your jabs, and doing all you can to protect your vulnerable friends and relatives. 

A New Short Story

A few weeks ago, before the coronavirus hit, I wrote this short story. I sent it off to a Writer's Magazine short story competition. The same one that, A Twist of Fate, had been short-listed in previously. I wasn't as successful this time, but as it's the first story, or even anything, I've written apart from assignments, in over two years, I guess it's not really surprising. The story is based on a strange encounter I had on a cruise. But the characters are completely fictional.

But I thought I'd share it here anyway. The feed back I got was positive. I'd made a few grammatical errors, but she said the dialogue was, 'well crafted', the opening had a hook that made you want to read on, that she enjoyed reading the story. She concluded that, 'it needed work, but had potential.' I'll take that. So her it is. Grab a tea or coffee, sit back and I hope you enjoy it.

The Promise.

Harriet sat huddled in a deck chair, a light breeze ruffled her short, auburn hair and her hazel eyes stared towards the horizon. The early morning sun warmed her pale cheeks, bringing the promise of another glorious day. Lost in thought, she was oblivious to the beauty of the Mediterranean Sea, calm now after the previous night’s storm; the haunting cry of the shearwaters following the ship the only sound breaking the silence. Harriet knew the peace wouldn’t last for long, but she was making the most of this moment of solitude. She was slowly getting used to being on her own, but the feeling of emptiness deep in the pit of her stomach seemed just as strong.

‘Good morning. Another glorious day and the air feels so fresh after last night’s horrendous storm.’

Startled, Harriet looked up. Standing in front of her was a woman of about sixty years old, the beaming smile on her round face matching the twinkle in her blue eyes. Her white hair was cut in a short pixy style. She was dressed in a white t-shirt, emblazoned with the face of a black cat which stretched over her ample bosom, white Bermuda shorts and matching white trainers.

‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ she replied, turning her gaze to look up at the cloudless sky.

‘I’ve never seen anything like it; both sheet and fork lightning at the same

time. It was like a grotesque theatrical show where Zeus and Poseidon were fighting for dominance of the sea. It was quite breath-taking. Oh listen to me prattling on. My husband tells me off for boring complete strangers. I’m Jean by the way.’

‘I’m Harriet,’ pleased to meet you.’

‘Well I’d better be getting on. I’m trying to do several circuits of the jogging

track before the serious runners appear. Lovely to meet you, Harriet. We’ll probably keep bumping into each other now,’ laughed Jean, as she started to jog on the spot, before setting off towards the stern of the ship.

‘Bye,’ called Harriet, as she watched Jean begin to power walk, her plump

arms jiggling as she swung them backwards and forwards. Harriet couldn’t help smiling.

Later that evening Harriet walked into the piano bar. She loved the smell of the polished wood of the bar. The walls, with their round, bottle-bottom shaped glass pretend portholes, made her feel as if she was on an old fashioned clipper instead of a modern cruise ship. She ordered a gin and tonic and made her way to one of the small round tables set back against the wall. The evening quiz was about to begin, but Harriet was quite content to just observe.

            ‘Coo-ee, Harriet. Don’t sit there on your own. Come and join us.’

            Harriet’s heart sank at the sound of the shrill voice of Bronwyn, one of the guests at her dinner table. She was one of those people who complained about everything and Harriet just wasn’t in the mood to have to listen to it. She thought about making some excuse and leaving, but struggled to come up with anything plausible.

            ‘Oh there you are, Harriet. Sorry I’m late. I had a bit of a wardrobe malfunction.’

            Startled, Harriet looked up into the smiling face of Jean. ‘N-no problem, I’ve just got here myself. What can I get you to drink?’ she replied, shooting Jean a smile of gratitude.

            ‘I’ll have what you’re having.’

            ‘Gin and tonic?’

            ‘Perfect, with a slice of lime please.’

            Harriet stood up and glanced over to where Bronwyn was sitting, her dyed black hair, shaking as she talked to the lady on her right. Harriet smiled in sympathy at the glazed expression on the woman’s face. She had intended to apologise, but Bronwyn had clearly moved on.

            A few minutes later, Harriet placed Jean’s drink on the table and sat down opposite her.

‘I hope you don’t mind me joining you. But I had a feeling that you might need

rescuing,’ whispered Jean. ‘I’ve come across Bronwyn before.’

            Harriet laughed. ‘I don’t mind in the least. In fact, I’m very grateful.’

            ‘Well don’t be too grateful yet. You don’t know what kind of company I’m going to be. It might be a case of, “frying pan and fire”,’ laughed Jean.

            ‘Somehow I don’t think so. I think we’re going to get along just fine.’

Harriet and Jean fell into the habit of meeting each night for a drink before dinner. Jean proved to be very entertaining company. They discovered a shared passion for mythology and Downton Abbey. Jean made Harriet laugh with her tales of some of the people she’d met on previous cruises.

            ‘The worst ones are the frequent cruisers, the ones who’ve “been everywhere and seen everything“, and don’t mind telling you all about it,’ explained Jean. ‘My Fred and I made a promise to each other that we wouldn’t allow ourselves to become like that.’

            ‘And have you? Managed it I mean?’ teased Harriet.

            ‘You tell me. Have I bored you with my tales?’

            ‘Not at all, I’m really enjoying your company,’ smiled Harriet. ‘And you did save me from Bronwyn, so I owe you one.’

            ‘Fred and I became very adept at avoiding the Bronwyns of this cruise world,’ chuckled Jean. ‘Stick with me and you’ll learn a trick or two.’

            Harriet picked up her drink and took a sip. She’d been wondering about Jean’s husband. He never joined them for a drink and she hadn’t seen them together on the ship. She didn’t even mention him when telling Harriet about the shore excursions she’d been on. ‘Perhaps Jean’s just being thoughtful as she knows I’m on my own?’ she thought. One thing she’d learned was that Jean had a heart of gold. Besides, he was probably one of those guys who preferred a pint in the sports bar watching the football, rather than a gin and tonic, and she wasn’t one to pry.

The next day was a sea day. After a light lunch of soup and salad, Harriet decided to sit outside and read her book. All the loungers around the pool were taken. But it didn’t matter as Harriet preferred to be somewhere quiet. She’d discovered a spot to the front of the ship, looking down onto the helicopter landing pad. It was in the shade, but she didn’t mind as with her fair skin she preferred to keep out of the sun. There was a small pool alongside the pad which was reserved for the crew, and a lone swimmer was steadily ploughing his way from one edge to the other. Harriet began to feel drowsy. But just as she began to drift off to sleep, she became aware of some new activity down below. The captain and several of his officers, their white uniforms gleaming in the bright Mediterranean sunshine, were making their way to the bow of the ship and in among them she could see the short, white spiky hair of her new friend, Jean. She was carrying something, but Harriet couldn’t make out what it was. The captain stopped in front of the bow and he and his colleagues removed their caps and bowed their heads. Harriet watched as a few minutes later Jean stepped up to the bow and, after a short pause, threw the object she’d been carrying over the side, followed by a red and white floral wreath. The object bobbed on the surface for a moment before disappearing in the churning white foam. Harriet clasped her hands to her mouth, tears pooling in her eyes as she realised what was happening. Now she knew why she’d never seen Jean’s husband.

That evening Harriet felt apprehensive as she made her way to the piano bar. The night before Jean had said that she would be there as usual, but Harriet wasn’t sure what she should do. Should she say what she’d seen, or should she wait for Jean to mention it? ‘I guess I’ll leave it up to Jean to tell me if she wants to. After all it’s not really any of my business,’ she decided.

            Jean was already at the table, a bottle of champagne sat in an ice bucket, with two flutes on one side. Jean smiled at Harriet as she sat down. But she looked pale and her eyes lacked their usual twinkle.

            ‘Are we celebrating something?’ asked Harriet lightly, determined not to let on what she’d witnessed that afternoon.

            ‘Yes, life, we’re celebrating life’ replied Jean, as she lifted her hand and gave a little wave to one of the waiters, who hurried over and opened the bottle.

Harriet watched as he poured expertly, just stopping before the bubbles spilled over the top of the glass.

            Jean picked up both glasses and handed one to Harriet. ‘To life,’ said Jean clinking her glass against Harriet’s. ‘Life in all its glory; good and bad.’

            Harriet sipped her drink, the bubbles tickling her nose. She didn’t really know what to say. But Jean seemed lost in her own thoughts anyway.

            For a few moments they drank in companionable silence. Then, Jean placed her glass on the table and looked directly at Harriet. ‘I haven’t been completely straight with you,’ she began. ‘I’m not just on holiday. I came on the cruise to scatter my husband’s ashes and I did so this afternoon.’

            Harriet leaned forward and gently took hold of both of Jean’s hands. ‘I know,’ she murmured. ‘I have a favourite spot just above the helicopter pad and I saw everything. I’m so sorry. I’d have come with you if you’d told me. I buried my own husband a few months ago. I know what it’s like.’

            ‘Oh my poor girl, I didn’t realise. I just thought that you were one of those modern, independent, young women, who liked to travel on their own. Although I must admit I sensed sadness in you, but I put it down to a touch of loneliness.’

            Harriet shook her head. ‘Not sadness, just regret. This was meant to be our second honeymoon. Dominic, my husband, had a brain tumour. They said that it was operable. So we booked the cruise to have something to look forward to after the operation. But there were complications and he died on the table.’

            Jean moved to the seat next to Harriet and put her arms around her shoulders and pulled her into a hug. ‘I don’t know what to say. At least Fred and I had forty years together.’

            ‘We had ten,’ sobbed Harriet, tears flowing freely down her cheeks. ‘Dominic was so positive that everything would be ok. But he promised that whatever happened; he’d never leave me. But I don’t believe in life after death.’

            ‘Fred said the same thing,’ smiled Jean. ‘We agreed on a sign. He said that, whenever I saw a white feather, it would mean that he was near, looking out for me. But apart from the ones on the birds that have been following the ship, I haven’t seen one yet.’

            Harriet wiped her eyes and a tremulous smile hovered around her lips. ‘Perhaps he hadn’t really left you until today, when you scattered his ashes?’

            ‘I never thought of that. You could be right. Let’s have a toast to Fred and Dominic. May they sail the seas together.’

            ‘I’ll drink to that. May Poseidon grant them a safe passage,’ replied Harriet.

            ‘That’s why I scattered Fred’s ashes here you know,’ Jean continued. ‘He wanted to spend eternity "cruising" the Mediterranean, and when it’s my turn, I want to join him.’

            Unsure how to respond to what Jean had just said, Harriet lifted her glass to her lips and drank deeply. ‘I wish I had that kind of certainty, that one day we’d be reunited’, she thought. But she wasn’t going to put her disbelief on Jean.

The last night of the cruise came all too quickly. Jean and Harriet had met for their usual pre-dinner drink, but they agreed to meet again later for one last time.

            ‘I thought I’d treat us to a cocktail as it’s our last night,’ said Harriet, as she placed two boat-shaped glasses on the table. ‘I hope you like Manhattans?’

            ‘I’ve never had one, but I’ll try anything once,’ said Jean as she reached for her drink. ‘Mm, nice. Not too sweet, but with a bit of a kick. Then, placing her glass on the table, she reached into her small evening purse and handed Harriet a card. ‘Here’s my mobile number and email. I won’t give you my address. I’m planning on selling up and moving to be near my daughter in Scotland.’

            ‘How exciting. Do you have any grandchildren?’ asked Harriet.

            ‘Yes, two. David’s three and Emily is a very precocious six-year-old. Heaven knows what she’ll be like as a teenager,’ laughed Jean. ‘I have a photograph here.’

            Harriet grinned at the sight of the two dark haired, cheeky faces.’

‘I have one of Fred too. Would you like to see it?’

            ‘I’d love to.’ Harriet stared intently at the photograph. A man with brindled hair, who was holding a pint of beer and smiling, looked back at her. ‘He has the look of someone who knows who they are, and where they’re going,’ she smiled.

            ‘That’s my Fred. It was taken in this bar, at the table over by the lifts. It was a tradition with him to sit in the bar on the last night and listen to the pianist until he stopped playing. Mind you, I think it was his way of getting out of doing the packing. But I didn’t mind,’ laughed Jean.

            ‘Dominic was hopeless at packing. I preferred to pack for both of us. It was much easier. You must miss Fred?’

            ‘I do; every day. But somehow being on this ship makes me feel close to him, as if he’s made his home here. Hark at me. I’m getting all fanciful in my old age,’ laughed Jean. ‘So, what about you? What do you plan to do?’

            ‘I’m not sure. I’ve thought about moving too. My old school friend, Grace, has moved to Canada and she’s been asking me to go for an extended visit. But I can’t bear the thought of being away from the home I shared with Dominic for too long. Does that sound crazy?’

            ‘Not at all. You need to do things at your own pace. You’ll know when the time is right.’

            Harriet didn’t reply. She absentmindedly twisted the ring on the ring finger of her left hand as it finally dawned on her that she really would have to face the future, one without Dominic in it.

Gradually the bar began to empty and the time came for them to say goodnight.

            ‘I’m so glad we met,’ said Jean as she wrapped her arms around Harriet and kissed her on the cheek. ‘I’m sure we’ll meet again and remember, you’re not alone, Dominic is with you.’

            Harriet returned Jean’s kiss. A lump had appeared in her throat and she couldn’t speak.

            ‘Everything will be ok, eventually,’ said Jean. ‘It really does just take time.’

            ‘I know. You take care of yourself, and let me know how you get on with your precocious granddaughter.’

            ‘Oh I will,’ laughed Jean. ‘I’ll be fine. After all I know that Fred will be looking out for me.’

            Harriet smiled, but said nothing.

The inspiration for the story.

Harriet made her way to the lift beside the piano bar. The ship was quiet apart from the clinking of the glasses and the cheerful chatter of the bar staff as they cleared the tables. The lights were turned down low as if the ship was putting itself to bed. Harriet glanced over to have one last look. She smiled as she thought of the many chats she’d had with Jean and thought how much she was going to miss her. They’d only known each other for a few days, but they’d become close.

            Suddenly, her jaw dropped as her eyes alighted on a man sitting at the table nearest the lift. She did a double take as she realised that he was the spitting image of the photograph of Fred she’d seen earlier that evening. A shiver ran down her spine.

            ‘Get a grip Harriet,’ she muttered. ‘You’ve obviously had too much to drink tonight.’

            At that moment, the lift arrived and as the doors closed she watched as he lifted his glass in greeting. As the lift swept her up to the tenth floor her mind raced as she thought about what had just happened. She’d never believed in the supernatural, but this encounter had really spooked her.

            When she reached her cabin, she swiped her sea pass card and opened the door. The cabin steward had left a swan towel sculpture on her bed. Smiling, she bent down to pick it up, intending to place it on the sofa. As she did so, out of the corner of her eye she saw something flutter to the ground. Curious, she bent down to have a closer look. Her heart skipped a beat as she realised it was a small white feather.

            She stooped down and gently picked it up, then carried it over to the dressing table drawer, from which she removed the small case containing her pearl necklace. A dreamy expression came over her face as she thought back to her wedding day, when Dominic had first placed the pearls around her neck. She could almost feel the warmth of his breath as he’d leaned in to kiss the back of her neck. She opened the case and gently placed the feather beside the photograph of him she kept there, her heart aching at the sight of his smiling face.

            ‘Hi Dominic,’ she whispered.’ ‘Welcome back. I’ve missed you.’ She reached down and gently touched the photograph. ‘I’m sorry I lost faith. I should’ve known that you’d find a way to keep your promise,’ she smiled. ‘You always did.’

Isabel Johnstone 2020 ©

Photos Isabel's own. 

Covid 19

I'm guessing that, at the moment, I'm not the only one for whom Covid 19, or coronavirus, is never far from their thoughts. At the start of last year if you had said to me that by March, the whole country, indeed most of the world, would be in lockdown, I'd have written you off as a lunatic. But I would've been very wrong. I remember watching the events unfold in China and being appalled at the measures the government were putting in place to try to contain the spread. But never in a million years did I imagine that, barely two months later, we'd be living through the same nightmare ourselves.

There have been times in my life, due to my Lupus, when I've been in my own personal lockdown. I've spent weeks and even months, either at home or in hospital, due to illness. But at least during that time the rest of my family and friends were able to socialise, go on holiday and even just work. These were all just things that we took for granted, and even from my hospital bed, I could dream of what I would do, or where I would go, when I recovered. There were a couple of occasions when the prospect of me recovering wasn't always certain. But then again, I knew that life would go on for everyone else.

Unless there's some sort of miracle, life as we knew it is going to be is going to be very different for a long time to come. We might have to find new ways to socialise and even work. Travel is going to be an interesting one to work out. I'm an avid cruise fan, but I think it's going to be quite a while before I'll feel safe going on a cruise again.

But for the moment, my main concern is that many, if not of all my friends and family, survive this terrible disease. Far too many people have lost their lives already, or are struggling with bereavement or the effects of long covid. This virus is causing problems, financially, emotionally and mentally, for many people, that will continue for many years to come. 

Of course it's not all been bad news. This pandemic has shown both the worst and the best of human nature. We'll never forget the key workers who worked tirelessly to nurse the sick, keep us fed and delivered our necessities. There are countless tales of local heroes, who've really stepped up to serve their communities, in so many different and imaginative ways, and who will ever forget Captain Tom, who at the grand old age of 99 years-old, captured the heart of the nation and raised millions for the NHS. 

I'm sure I'm not alone in admitting that I've struggled, both emotionally and mentally, throughout this time, and I've been one of the lucky ones. I had my daily trips to feed the cats at Cogges to add a sense of normality to the situation, and I've really come to appreciate the simple pleasure of a walk with a friend, and honed my skill of recording myself for the virtual choir videos.

It's not over yet, but there's light at the end of the tunnel. We just need to hold on a bit longer, washing our hands, wearing our masks and keeping our social distance. 

Together we've got this. 

I'm writing again.

Hi everyone. It's the missing blogger here. I've been going through a difficult time, where I've been questioning my ability to do anything. But now I'm back.

In January, I started a Future learn, Start Writing Fiction course, in the hope that it might get my mojo back and it's worked. I've written a short story based on an idea I've had for a couple of years, but couldn't seem to get it started. But I've finished it and I'm planning on entering it in the writer's magazine competition, where my story, A twist of Fate, was shortlisted. I'm not sharing it here yet as one of the conditions is that it hasn't been published anywhere else.

But, just as a taster, here is a short story I've written for the course I'm doing. I hope you like it.

Don’t Tell 

Rhona slowly approached the cold, dark structure that was her home. She took a deep breath and put her key in the lock. She walked into the lounge. The familiar smell of booze assailed her nostrils and made her heart sink.

‘What time do you call this? I told you to be home by ten.’ growled her mother.

Rhona said nothing. All that could be heard was the ticking of the clock on the old fashioned mantelpiece. She just chewed her nails, and stared at the empty gin bottle on the floor.

‘Well! What have you got to say for yourself?’ her mum hissed.

What could she say? It wasn’t her fault that the bus had broken down. But when her mum was like this, red in the face, a pulse beating above her left eye, nothing was going to stop the inevitable.

Suddenly, Rhona’s head snapped back as her mum grabbed her by hair and started pulling her across the room. One of the dining chairs fell as she stumbled into it, biting her lip as she tried to stop the tears that would only make her mum angrier.

‘I’m sorry mum. I couldn’t help it the bus broke down and my phone’s out of credit so I couldn’t call,’ Rhona gasped.

‘Don’t answer me back, you little slut. I know you’ve been with that Ryan,’ Rhona’s mum screamed, lashing out with her hand and striking Rhona so hard that she fell to the ground.

Rhona moaned as her mum’s right foot connected with her stomach.

‘Take that you little bitch, and don’t think that you’ll be allowed out again anytime soon.’

Rhona lay on the floor holding her stomach, softly crying. Her mum had passed out on the sofa and was snoring loudly, her mouth wide open. Rhona had been with Ryan, but the bus really had broken down. Most eighteen-year olds were allowed to have a boyfriend and could even talk to their mothers about it. But not her. Rhona understood that her mum had been badly let down. But surely, she shouldn’t take it out on her own daughter? Something needed to be done, but as a memory from her childhood popped into her head, she knew that she couldn’t ask for help. That would only make things worse.

                                                                ******

Rhona was seven years old. It was the first day back after the school holidays and the teacher had asked them to write about what they’d been up to. Rhona had written about the week they’d spent with her aunty on the island of Arran. She’d been very excited, as she’d never been on holiday before. The weather was perfect and she’d spent her days happily building sandcastles and paddling in the cold water of the Firth of Clyde. It did seem strange that her dad hadn’t come with them. But her aunty had explained that he had to go away for work. Her mum and aunty spent a lot of time talking and Rhona was sure that she’d heard him mum crying.

Her teacher had been very pleased with Rhona’s account. But when she told her mum, she became very angry. The next morning she’d stormed into the classroom and started screaming at the teacher.

‘You lot think you’re so clever,’ she screamed. ‘You should mind your own business and stop poking your noses into others. What goes on in our house has nothing to do with you.’

Rhona would never forget the shocked look on Miss Galbraiths’ face. It still made her cringe when she thought of her classmates turning to look at her, not even trying to hide the smiles of amusement on their faces.

Rhona had learned a valuable lesson that day and she wasn’t about to forget it. If things were to change, it was up to her to make it happen, but how?

A week later, Rhona sat in the lecture theatre idly doodling as the guest lecturer droned on. He was a novelist, who wrote psychological thrillers. It was a hot day and the stuffy room was making her feel soporific. Her stomach was still tender and this was making it hard for her to get comfortable. Suddenly, her ears pricked up as something he was saying caught her attention.

‘There are many techniques for making someone think that they’re losing their minds,’ he said. ‘But writing about it can be tricky. But there are certain techniques that I’ve found work well.’ Rhona felt excited as sat forward in her seat and paid rapt attention as he described ways to convince someone that they were going mad.

Strange things began to happen around their house. Books which hadn’t been touched for years would be found lying on the floor in the morning. The crockery in the cupboard moved, the plates ending up on top of the bowls instead of the other way around. The back door, which her mum had been convinced she’d locked, was found wide open. Her mum would look at her suspiciously.

            ‘It wasn’t me mum. You did it last night. Don’t you remember? Rhona would say, staring directly at her mum, until she turned away, a worried look on her face.

            One Sunday morning after a particularly heavy session, her mum, stepped out of the shower and saw the words, ‘I’m coming to get you,’ scrawled in the steamed up glass of the mirror. Rhona had smiled at the sound of her mum’s piercing scream. She’d had fun doing that one. Not all of her tricks had worked. Her mum hadn’t even noticed when she’d set the pictures on the walls at the same strange angle. But the mirror incident was the one that did the trick.

            ‘This is it, Rhona,’ her mum had sobbed. ‘I’m losing my mind. I need to stop drinking. I know I’ve said it before, but this time I mean it.’

            ‘I’m sure you do, Mum,’ Rhona said, a smile hovering around her lips. ‘It’s probably for the best.’

Isabel Johnstone 2020 ©