Malcolm  and  Sarah  Brookdale-Smythe  were  very  much  the archetypal  conservative  couple,  living  amongst  the stockbroker  belt  of  outer  London. Both of them  were in  their  middle  fifties  and their  lifestyle  reflected  sound  growth  from  university to middle  management jobs.  The  promise  of  the  oncoming  early  retirement  would  be  flushed  with  flourishing  private  pensions. Their  thirty  year  marriage had  almost  produced  the  ubiquitous  two  point  four  children, having  to  settle  for  something  less  in  Maurice  and  Jeanette. The  ten  bed roomed  manor  house, equipped  with resident  gardeners  and  household staff,  functioned  admirably,  applying  all  the  trappings  of  upper class living in  full  splendor.

Nothing  much  had  changed  throughout  their  marriage. It  had  started  with  meticulous  planning  and  followed  that  trend.   Although  maybe  dowdy  to  some  outsiders,  it  was  how  the  Brookdale-Smythes  channeled  their  lives. Even  the  family  planning  had  been  mapped  out  to  a certain  degree; a  boy  first,  then  a  girl  one  year  later.  How  the  sex  of  the  child  had  been arranged  was  possibly  down  to  the one  and  only  time  that  the couple  had  felt  at  the  mercy  of  a  somewhat  higher  echelon.

The  move  up  the  housing  ladder  had  been  possible  by  calculated  and  regimental  perusal  of  salary  figures  and  guidance  from  an  encouraging  bank  manager;  the sort who  looked  upon  the  Brookdale-Smythes  of  this  world  as  manner  from  heaven.  No  rash gambles  on  the  stock  exchange,  no  pie-in-the-sky  schemes  and  no  mid life  crisis  to  rock  the  steady  monetary  boat. All in  all, a  bank  managers  dream.

The  latest  theme  to  come  under  the  guidance  of the  family was  the  ever  encroaching  subject  of  old  age  and  medical  treatment.  Both  Malcolm  and  Sarah  were  aware  of  the  family  history  and  the  somewhat  early  demise  of  both  sets  of  parents.  Dying  at  the age  of  around  sixty  had  become  a common  denominator  and  now  that the  two  of  them were  reaching  towards  that  destination  it  needed  some  organization.  As in  life,  they  would  plan  for  death.  That  seemed  an  appropriate  line.

However  upbeat  the  Brookdale-Smythes  lives  were,  there  had  been  times  of  deep depression  regarding  their  particular  parents.  Sarah  had  lost  her  mother  many  years  previously  to  a  bout  of  severe  pneumonia  whilst  her  father  succumbed  to  a  recurrence  of  malaria,  apparently  contacted  in  his  earlier  years  when  he  was  stationed  in  outposts  around  the  China  seas.

Malcolm’s  mother  died tragically  from  what  at  first  seemed  an  innocuous  bite  from  a  stray  dog  whilst  holidaying  in  the  French  region  of  Burgundy.  The  rabid  infection  took  hold  quickly  and  despite  efforts  from  medical  staff  she  died  before  she  could  be returned  to  England.

Perhaps  the  bleaker  death  belonged  to  Malcolm’s  father.  Whereas  the others  had  not  really  suffered so much, his father  had  slowly  and  painfully wasted away in  agony  and  abject  misery  over  a  number  of  years.  It  had  been  difficult  to  pin  point any  cause  from  the  number  of  doctors  and experts  who  had  been  on  the  case, but the  last  year  of  his  life  had  seen  him  move  away  from  the  world  of  his  family  and….for  want  of  a  kinder  word…he  had  become  a  man  who  no  longer  existed. Vegetating  is  a  somewhat  strong  word, but  however  unkind  that  sounds, that is  what  happened.  Malcolm’s  father  had  ceased  to  be  alive  in  the real  sense  of  the word  and  for  that  last  twelve  months  of  his  life  there  had  been  no  communication. Drip  feeding  and  daily  drug  intakes  had  prolonged  what  had  at  first  been an  active  and  fulfilling  life. The  family  visits  to  the  rest  home  had  become  a chore  and  it led  Malcolm  into  a  state  of  deep  depression.  The  day  his  father  died  had  brought  thanks  instead  of  the usual  pity  and  sadness that  should  engulf  a  persons  death.

This  scenario  became  the  highlight  of  the Brookdale-Smythes  carefully  planned  world  and  it was  decided  that  if  either  of  them  unfortunately  met  with  this  slow  and  meaningless  death,  then  the  partner  would  try  and  do  anything  to  lessen  the  pain.  It  took  a while  before  any  of  them could  actually  say  the word,  but  they  knew  exactly  where  they  were  heading…Euthanasia.

The  following  years  brought  the  family closer  together  as  their  wishes  were   banded  around  the  dinner  table with  such mundane subjects  as  seasonal  crop  rotation or  protracted guest  lists  for  any forthcoming  party. It  was  all  in  the open.  They  even  sought  out  the  family  lawyer who  was  under  no  illusion.  It  would  tantamount  to murder.  Whatever the  good  intentions, it  was  illegal. Well,  in  England.

It  surfaced  that  it  could  be  possible  in  Switzerland  where  that  country  had  a  more  lenient  view  of  death.  He  quoted  Article  115  of the  Swiss penal  code,  whereby  it  only  considered  euthanasia  a  crime  if  the  motif  was  selfish.  The  solution, if  ever  needed,  was  there.  It  satisfied  the  Brookdale-Smythes.  They  closed  hands  around  each  others  and  smiled.  Once  more,  their  lives  were  clearly  chartered  with  everything  in it  rightful  place.

********

Many  years  later  Malcolm  Brookdale-Smythe  arrived  in  the  emergency  department  of  the  general  hospital.  He  had  kept  loosing  consciousness  but  was  still  aware  of  his  surroundings.  His  pulse  was  42  and  respirations  25,  whilst  blood  pressure  was  100/56.  The  vomiting  at  home  had  led  to  the  call  to   doctor  Langdon  who had  not  been  happy  with  expiratory wheezing  from the  lungs. Overnight  observation  was  prescribed  but  the  reports  later  showed  up  nothing.  Tablets  were  administered and  the  situation  abated. But  that  was  to  be  just  the beginning.

Throughout  that year, (although still  on  medication  and  dutiful  observation  from  his  doctor),  Malcolm  Brookdale-Smythe  never  returned  to  his  former self.  He  became  more  difficult to  arouse  from  the  constant slumbers  of  the  daily  naps.  A  few  months  later  he  had  lost  all  feeling  in  his  body  and  talk  became  meaningless. His  eyes  would  glaze over  then  sometimes  clear  but  he  had  now  become  fully  dependant  on  the  daily  visits  from  the  home  care  nurse.  Sarah  Brookdale-Smythe  accepted  the  inevitable with  a  heavy  heart.

Doctor  Langdon  sadly  informed  her  that  there  was  no way  back  and,  though  the  drugs  kept  away  any  pain,  there  was  nothing  more  to  do  than  watch  him  slowly  die.

She  made  the  decision  there  and  then.  All  the  relevant  details  had  been  in  position  for  months. She  would  take  her  son  and  daughter  and  transport  Malcolm  to  Doctor  Nitschladen  in  Switzerland. The  months  of  planning  and  the  previous  visits  to  his  clinic  were  now  to  become  a  reality;  a  reality  that  was  about to  take  away  somebody’s  life.

*******

Malcolm  Brookdale- Smythe  was  aware of  it some  months  ago. At  first  he  thought  it  was  an  overdose  of  some  drug that  was  being  forced  into  his  arm. He  had  drifted  into  what  can  only  be  called  a  slightly  hypnotic  trance.  It was  that  feeling  of  being  slightly  giddy  after  a  couple  of  gin  and tonics  when you  had  not  eaten all  day.  But,  anyway, that was  nothing  to  do  with  this moment.  His  brain  had cleared  sufficiently  to  realize  that  he  was  sitting  at  home  and  that  his  family  were  chatting  to  him. He  was  unable  to answer.  It  was  strange   because  he  thought  everything  was  functioning  properly. He  could  hear  Doctor  Langdon  speaking  about  no  way  back.

Some  time  later,  the  giddiness returned.  He  tried  to  evaluate  it  and  then  suddenly  there  seemed  to  be  a  rush  of  colour  filling  his  limited  vision.  The pain   that  had  been surging  around  his  body  simply  evaporated.  It  was  as  though  he  had  no  body  at  all.  This  was  surreal.  Moments  later  a  sort  of  tranquility  overtook  him.  There  were  movements  in  front  of  his  eyes  but  only  as  translucent  figures. His  brain  had  seemed  to  change  to  another  dimension.  The  months  of  anguish had  all  but  left  his  body. It was  as  if  nothing  else  mattered  now  except  his  thought waves.  The  cumbersome  and  agonizing  dealings  he  had  had  with  his  body  were  apparently  over.  Now  all  he  had  was  some  kind  of  inner  vision.

Day  after  day  he  drifted  into dark  and  light  but  this  was  nothing  like  the  routine  of  a  twenty  four  hour  day.  Now  he  could  see  images  of  childhood  memories, vivid  pictures  of  his  mother  and  father.  There  was  music  in  the  background.  It  was  as  if  someone  had  collected  all  his  favorite  sonatas, overtures  and  choral  music  and  somehow  managed  to  orchestrate  them  into  a  wonderful  pattern  of  temperance. His  brain  fulfilled  him like  never  before.  It  was  racing,  yet  able  to  define  all  things  clearly.  He  saw  a  picture  of  his  father.  It  looked  like  he  was  on  his  death  bed.  He could  see  his  mother  gently  crying  at  his  side,  but  his  fathers  face, (if  you  looked  closely)  was  at  peace  with  the  world. Malcolm  now  knew  why.  This  wasn’t  a death  as  everybody  seemed  to  know,  it  was  a  type  of  second  coming,  a  recharging  of   cells  that  had  never  been  used  before.  The  weighty  excess  of  governing  a body  had  been  lifted  clear  and  the  brain  had  gone  into  raptures  of untouched  and  untapped  beauty.  Was this  heaven?  Was this  what  everybody  was  reconciled  to  or  maybe  it  was  a state  of  mind  that  was  given  to  you  before  you  actually  died. Whatever  it  was  you  certainly  wanted  it  to  go  on  for  ever.  Maybe it  was  some  kind  of  reward  or  maybe  the  equivalent  of  a fireworks  display  at  the  end  of  an  outdoor  concert.  It  was beautiful.  And  he  was  still  with  his  family.  He  wanted  this  feeling  to  stay  and  never  end.

************

The  log  fire  flickered  and  threw  some  sparks  upwards  as  a  piece  of  wood crumbled  in  the kitchen  grate.  Today  had  been  an  exceptionally  cold  day  for  November.  The  small  gathering  gave  out  an  under  current  of  garbled  murmurings.  It  wasn’t  the  largest  of  meetings, unlike the chapel populous an hour ago. This  was  for  close  relatives  and  friends,  a  time  to  share  memories  of  a  satisfying  life.   The  two  Labrador dogs  snoozed  idly  away  by the  fireside  probably  unaware  that  there  would  be  no more  manly  slippers  to  nuzzle  up  against.  The  soft  panting  divulged  nothing  more  than  canine  contentment.

Sarah  Brookdale-Smythe  kept  her back  to  the  fire  as  she addressed  the  small  assembly. Her eulogy  was  tempered  with  obvious  sadness  even  though  she  tried  vainly  to  add  a  little  humour  from  their  lives  together.  Her  mention  of  euthanasia  caused  her  voice  to  break  slightly  and  the  words  fragmented  like  the  embers  behind  her. She  asked  people  to  raise  their  glasses  and  she  turned  to  a picture  of  Malcolm  Brookdale-Smythe  above  the  mantelpiece  and  ended  with  the  words… “It was  what  he  wanted.”

*************

FORTY THOUSAND YOUNG FROGS IN A LARGE PACKING CASE. MAN NEEDS HELP. That’s what the advert said. It certainly got my attention, as I suppose hundreds of other voyeurs. I was desperately searching, (and that’s not too strong a word) the personnel columns of my local paper. Being a twenty eight year old unmarried woman with no immediate prospects of romance on the horizon, I was prone to do this ritual each week. I’d even  divulged  my statistics  on  the  FIX-A-DATE  pages. Professional lady, cheerful outlook, non smoker, likes reading, theatre and holidays abroad.

Now, let’s be honest, would that really ensnare a potential partner? I couldn’t allow myself to give away my profession. I mean, who would seriously consider dating a woman who does autopsies in a morgue? I’m pretty sure, in those intermit moments, that a man might just allow his mind to wander about my day’s activities. It’s bad enough getting him aroused to my plain features, let alone having him think where my hands had been.

But the advert intrigued me. At least he’d given some thought to grab people’s attention, and at the bottom was one of those e-mail addresses. I think it was something to do with FaceBook or whatever they call these new fangled web pages. I’d never been one of those people who needed to seek solace in emptying their heart to hundreds of people about how they’d spent the weekend.

So, it was me that started the encounter, every few days offering up tit-bits about myself and receiving equal amounts of info from the Frog man. He didn’t actually sign himself as that. He carried the rather distinguished moniker of Gerald, a name that I’d once come across in my youth, but I mentally still referred to him as the frog man. It somehow lightened the situation.

Then of course after a few weeks, the dreaded phrase appeared on his emails.

“We’ll have to arrange a meet somewhere.”

I knew sooner or later it would come to this but I still wasn’t really prepared. Other relationships over the year had come to nothing and if I was really truthful with myself I was only playing around with this cyber space chat we had built up.

It was my best friend Georgina who giggled and taunted me about my new found acquaintance, telling me to take a chance in life and using tried and trusted expressions of “you never know what the future holds,” and “this could be Mr Right.”

Yeah, right!

The weeks went by and the imploring got steadily more intense from the amphibian. It eventually got down to a description of himself and a suggestion that he would wear a flower in his button hole so I’d recognise him. This was getting sillier. Surely this only happened in womans’ magazines. But, with Georgina egging me on more and more and my imagination getting the better of me, I resigned myself to a rendezvous at the city centre pub called the White Hart.

*

I’d reconciled myself that I would have a get-out-of-jail card for this meeting. Although I had given a pretty good description of myself, I told Georgina that I was going to change the colour of my hair, shorten it in length and use heavier make-up than normal. We both laughed at the idea, but at least I could view the Frog man from afar and if I couldn’t go through with the meeting, I could quite easily walk away from the scene. It made me feel safer. It also gave me a feeling of being in charge of the situation. City centre pubs were full of every known character from business men to down right villains; not that I thought my e-mailer was anything but a stalwart figure of society. Who was I kidding? My line of work gave me no authority on the people outside the morgue. If I told myself that I was street-wise I’d be fooling myself and making out to be somebody I’m not. Even Georgina was happy with my safety first tactics, especially as I’d insisted on going alone. Neither of us had been outgoing at school, in fact, quite the reverse, although it can be said that Georgina had found a much more confident attitude over the last six or seven years.

The dreaded Friday arrived.  The butterflies were rampant in my stomach, although I’m sure this was supposed to be the highlight of our brief but heavy correspondence. The black high heel shoes tightened with every step I made towards the White Hart, the loose fitting coat swished noisily as it rubbed against an altogether too high skirt whilst my hastily dyed blonde hair seemed to alienate my face. I was somehow conscious of my contrasting dark eyebrows; all rather silly really, as Georgina had complemented me on my choice of colours and demure outlook.

I know it still seems crazy to some people, but I am still nervous of entering a pub on my own. It really can’t be down to lack of confidence as I’ve always thought of myself as a bit of a loner, so I should be used to going in and out of places, but the stigma of a woman on her own still lingers. Maybe it is something handed down from my strict upbringing from my parents. Their values were deeply rooted into an older generation.

It’s now ten minutes passed the rendezvous time. I’ve done that deliberately so that the Frog man… no, I can’t keep calling him that, not on our first date to be… I’ve done that because… Gerald… may be watching the door. I now become just a woman coming into a pub looking for her girlfriends. My attitude actually seems better now.

On a Friday night at this time the pub is always bustling. Thankfully I can meander slowly towards the bar. Is he really going to be stood around with a flower in his button hole? The thought makes me laugh inwardly as I struggle to the far side of the pub. The barman quickly catches my eye and I mouth the words half a shandy. I’d kill for a double whisky at this stage but I keep my sensible head on slowly trying to avoid any eye contact yet straining to see my would be beau. I hand over some change as I try to decipher what the barmen said over the general noise of the pub. He takes the coins and doesn’t seem to want to proffer any change. I now rather foolishly hope upon hope that Gerald has failed to turn up. What seemed a good idea on the computer screen now seems a little foolhardy. But then it happens. For all my discretions my eyes meet his. He’s there, about twenty yards away with the same amount of people between us. I can see the flower. His eyes then look away. It must be the blonde hair. Then my heart misses a beat as something registers in my brain. I put both hands around the glass of shandy and hold onto it for dear life. I can’t bring myself to look at him again.

“A double whisky ” I call to the barman. I watch as the glass is moved up to the optics then placed in front of me. I give him a fiver and seek solace in the Highland brew. My head is awash with thoughts from everywhere but most of all the words from the dating advert. Forty thousand young frogs. The name Gerald… the name that is from my past, and the significance of the young frogs. Tadpoles. Innuendo. My mind moves on again. Sperm. Now the barman pushes some coins towards me. I pick it up, finish the whisky in one gut wrenching swallow and head for the exit.

*

It took more than that double whisky to settle me. In fact, back home, I’d finished maybe half a bottle of a strong mature malt. Gerald Larkins name reverberated around my head for the rest of the night spewing forth those long forgotten memories from my last few weeks at school; the day when he had followed me out of the school gates and down the narrow footpath of the local canal towpath. I still shiver when I remember in all my innocence that first kiss he planted on me as he stroked my hair and took me out of sight behind the dilapidated outhouses. The feeling I had as I returned the kiss, naively believing it to be a form of friendship. Nothing more. Then that horrible force of his body as he pushed me amongst the decaying grey walls and the feel of his hand across my mouth as he spread me amongst the loose gravel like some ranch-hand about to brand a calf. It was exactly that…animalistic. He actually laughed at the end of it insisting that I’d always wanted it. I never returned to school for the last week of term. The place held dirty memories for me.

There was more to follow when I had related the whole episode to Georgina. The look on Georginas´  tormented face jogged my memory back to those schooldays when I remembered the bullying he had dished out to my best friend, although it was vastly different than my circumstances.

The whole ugly incidents, and the feeling that he was now preying his deeds on a wider media, left the two of us disgusted. It also led to the disappearance of Georgina. The echoing words of “time to show this guy some retribution” rang loudly in my ears. I felt alone, hoping that nothing rash was going to happen. Georgina was a changed person from the one I knew in our schooldays.

*

The intercom buzzed loudly down in the morgue. I  pressed the button and recognised the broad northern accent of detective John Bennett.

“Sorry love…” I hated that terminology, even though I knew it to be some sort of endearment. He’d known me for years yet still referred to me like that, never ever  using my real name. His words began to fragment, due to the ageing system. I caught the words body, then something about a pretty young thing, and then “I’m wheeling the body in now…catch you in a minute.” The sound system crackled and went off.

I cleaned a space on the sterilized table cursing the timing of this late entrant. The sound of trolley wheels outside sent me to open the doors. He pushed the body towards me and uttered the words of “My boss needs a quick autopsy, anything in the next half hour. We’ve got the bloke  responsible, but he needs to know more facts.”

I nodded, feeling more tired than usual, but my job never kept regular hours.

“And also,” carried on the detective, “this one’s a bit weird…” His phone bleeped with some meaningless music. “Yes…Yes…OK.” He looked at me, shrugged his shoulders and said “got to go.” And with that he left me to go about the business of back-tracking some cold body and trying to catalogue a series of events. As I said, It’s my job.

I pushed the trolley to the side, donned the rubber gloves and proceeded to do a general overhaul of somebody’s girlfriend, wife or daughter. All routine, as usual. But not this time. I pulled back the zip to unveil the face. It was heavily battered with streaks of dried blood  around the nostrils. After brushing back the tangled hair from the face, I realised who it was. Missing for two weeks and yet I hadn’t really worried. Now the words of “show this guy some retribution” came hauntingly into my head.  Georgina would have known she’d have the upper hand on this bloke, but it had obviously gone tragically wrong. Meeting up with Gerald Larkins would have been a different encounter now than those far off schooldays.

I opened the body bag fully and looked down at the torn dress and tattered stockings. The bruises were all along the thin legs. I lifted the remains of the dress and saw the ripped panties. They displayed what looked like a savage attack on the nether regions. Georgina had suffered a horrific attack…I could tell from the swelling to the testicles and the blooded penis. This body had taken its last beating in this unforgiving world. It would never have to listen to such words as Puff, or later on in life, Gender Bender again. R.I.P. George.

********

CHAPTER ONE.

He strutted down the country lane with no care in the world. The midday sun made his fur coat glisten. Every now and then he’d stop and roll over amongst some freshly growing flowers, or even weeds. It didn’t make a lot of difference to this cat. He just loved the smell of the countryside.

A passing butterfly would fly tantalisingly close encouraging the cat to make darting strikes with his paws. If he really tried he may have been able to catch it. But not today. Today was a resting, leisurely day. Another quick roll in some buttercups allowed his white underneath to feel the warmth of the summer sun, a colour much in contrast to his top of dark chocolate. Apart from his neck, that too had a base of white as well as the very tip of his tale.

A flock of sparrows chattered merrily and then went quiet as the cat regained his upright position. He gave them a casual glance as they nervously sat in the hedgerows. Another day, maybe tomorrow, he’d give chase and send them scattering into the sky. Today however was a resting, leisurely, strolling and rolling day.

Crossing the meadow gave him a sort of treat. He would walk in a zigzag fashion, (because cats never ever choose to move in straight lines) allowing the tall grass to swish past his body. He could eat one or two bits or allow clumps of it to caress his fur. The feeling always felt good. Every now and then he’d sit, hidden from view of prying eyes, and scratch away the disturbed pollen seeds that had become attached to his back. Oh, the gentle rub of countryside followed by the satisfying scratch of his own claws against his skin. Today was a resting, leisurely, strolling, rolling and scratching day.

Crossing Farmer Gregg’s meadow, in his own good time of course, would once again take him to the ten or so cottages that he’d wandered across last week.

*

The tiny village of Calder consisted of a handful of cottages, two small shops, a disused barn and Mrs Herbert’s Tea Emporium. Nobody really knew what an emporium exactly was but it sounded quite elegant. The quaint meandering river at the side of her shop was crossed by a wooden bridge which took you into the next hamlet of Tewksly, maybe a mile or so away, (or four if you walk like a cat.)

This day in the end cottage, found seven years old Bridget in the back garden watering some plastic flowers with her own plastic watering can. Her nine years old brother Jacob mocked her.

“They’ll never grow, you need to have them in proper soil.”

She ignored the intrusion, and stayed squatting on the ground, pulling absent-mindedly on her blond tangled hair. Her dolls house lay to one side; minute tables and chairs perched on the lawn.

“That one needs cleaning,” said Jacob, eyeing the rather dilapidated orange table, the one with the scratched top. Bridget ignored him, thinking only of last week, when a gust of wind had unceremoniously lifted the doll’s table in the air and whisked it over the garden gate into the nearby stream. She remembered running to the fence and watched helplessly as the water threatened to carry her favourite table down stream. Then of course came the Knight in shining armour. Well, cat really. She had watched the big tubby cat bound after the table and jump into the cold waters. He scooped it out with his paws and then swished his body triumphantly side to side tossing a flurry of spray into the air.

Jacob had never believed her story, telling his sister that cats hate water. But she had seen it, seen it with her own eyes. And there was another thing. She’d thanked the cat as he wandered away and he’d said,  “your welcome.” As sure as eggs are eggs and Mrs Herbert’s Emporium sells tea, the cat had actually spoken to her. Again, Jacob dismissed this whimsical story. Those extra years of his seemed to bow to superior knowledge.

Bridget continued her chores on the dolls house, preferring to rearrange the tiny furniture than listen to the callings from her brother who was now leaning over the garden fence. His faint shouts brought her out of her daydreams as she turned to see what all the fuss was about.

“Is that him?”

“Who?”

“That cat that you’ve been on about. Come down here.”

Bridget carefully placed the miniature radio in the corner room and strolled to the garden fence.

“Look, over there at the end of the field.”

She couldn’t see anything. Today’s midday sun shone too sharply across her face.

“Looks like the one you described.”

She shielded her eyes with her hand and peered to the wooden poles that stood along the edge of Farmer Gregg’s meadow.

“It might be,” she said, he certainly looks big enough.”

“Hey, Tubby, come over here.”

“That’s not nice Jacob, don’t call him that, he’s probably got a proper name like…well, I don’t know.”

“Hey, Fat cat, Fat cat, come here.”

“Jacob.”

The cat plodded onwards, not really looking towards the garden.

“Maybe he’s deaf,” said Jacob.

“I don’t think so, he heard me say thanks to him last week when he jumped in the stream.”

Jacob scoffed slightly, then got bored and turned and walked back up the garden to the house.

“Anyway, I’m off to make a diary, do something useful whilst we’re stranded over here at Aunt Jenny’s.”

Bridget positioned herself on the gate; both legs straddled lazily either side. She fondled the small cloth badge that had been hastily sewn onto her cardigan. Her fingers traced over the letters. E.V.A.C.U.E.E. Mother had told her it was necessary for all children to have this kind of identification away from home. This war that the grownups talked about in hushed tones didn’t really mean much to her, only that her father was away fighting the enemy. She couldn’t really imagine him fighting. Not at all. Didn’t father always hug and kiss her and swirl her around in his thickset arms?

Maybe Jacob could explain more. He had told her that he had waved goodbye to father two months ago at the station. He’d told her the moist eyes were from the wind whipping across his face.

The summer breeze gently blew away her thoughts as her eyes focussed back on Fat cat. Oh dear, now that name had stuck in her head. Still, he was kind of fat, although tubby sounded a lot better if she ever had to address him. Some white clouds lessoned the glare of the sun and she stayed watching as he rested for a while, rolling slowly onto his back on the dusty track that led a few yards from the gate. The dust made him sneeze slightly. He enjoyed the occasional sneeze, the scent spewing across his nostrils. Today was indeed a good day he thought. A resting, leisurely, strolling, rolling, scratching and sneezing day.

Bridget gazed at his antics and then waved slowly towards him. Then to her amazement he sat on his backside in an upright position and waved a paw back at her. She nearly fell off the gate. She jumped off and ran to find Jacob.

“Jacob, Jacob, he’s just waved at me,” she shouted excitedly.

“Who?”

“Fat Cat, Fat Cat,” she squealed with delight, also cursing herself for calling him that. She dragged him down to the bottom of the garden again.

“He’s probably just pawing flies in the air,” said Jacob, not being too happy with his sister pulling at his shirt.

“There he is, look.”

The command lost a little of its authority as they both watched the cat try and catch some flies that were irritating his peaceful day.

“Told you, catching flies. That’s what cats do,” said Jacob, again underlining his extra years.

Bridget watched, and then decided to leave the cat to his own world and catch up with her brother who was duly fed up of everything. Then as she turned to go, Fat Cat looked her way and winked. She could honestly see the wink. Then he waved.

“Jacob,” she shouted. But it was too late; he was back up at the house. She shrugged her shoulders, turned and gave a halfhearted wave to the cat. As she started to walk away she could hear the faint voice of “Bye.” She turned back to look at Farmer Gregg’s meadow. Fat Cat had gone.

*

CHAPTER TWO

Bridget sighed heavily as she watched the faint raindrops start to trickle down the back window. Her dolls house had been left out over night and she knew Aunt Jenny would shout at her. Jacob watched, happy that his red and grey soldiers were safe and sound in the small roofed area at the bottom of the garden. Soldiers need a fort, but they also needed to look after themselves in emergencies. That’s why they were down guarding the gate entrance. Who knows what mischief lies in farmer Gregg’s meadow after sunset?

There was a paved path that wound to the bottom of the garden. It glistened with the quick pitter-patter of rain. Bridget pulled her cardigan across her head and ventured out into the garden, her mission to pull the dolls house from the grass and into the safety of the soldier’s retreat. Jacob watched again, probably thinking that at least he wouldn’t get a telling off from Auntie. Wet cardigans, dolls house in the rain; it all added up to an early bed for Bridget. He’d been down that road himself…or path, he thought, as he saw the rain begin to get heavier.

She slid, as one of her sandals became loose. Jacob smiled to himself at the problems like only an older brother would. He moved from the window and went to find his train set in the upstairs of the house.

Bridget pulled her footwear back on and then tugged at the dolls house, trying quickly to find the dryness of the soldier’s camp. Aunt Jenny must have built the little roof ages ago to try and shield some of the potted plants from the wind and rain of winter. The last few weeks they had made it their den, adding bracken and twigs to the side. It had worked well. So well, in fact, that both Bridget and Jacob used it as a retreat for their pastimes. In here, you could actually snuggle up against the sometimes-harsh wind that blew from Farmer Gregg’s field, or even find shade from the summer sun. Today it would offer protection from the rain.

She puffed and panted, but eventually made it to the dry floor, pushing some of Jacob’s soldiers to one side. The space wasn’t very big, maybe big enough to hold three dolls houses. But right now it was just right. She positioned her house to one side, allowing the soldiers to remain on sentry duty at the far end. The rain got heavier. A trickle of water ran outside, following the path to the gate at the bottom of the garden. She could imagine it flowing down the gentle slope outside the fencing and into the tiny stream below.

She stared as the rain became heavier, turning her mind to other places. That’s what rain does if you look long enough into it; it carries your mind away. This time it took her thoughts back to her house in the middle of London. The place didn’t really have good thoughts. Those awful sirens in the middle of the night; then the terrifying crashing of bombs somewhere in the distance. And after that, the smell of burning and fire engines going at full speed through the streets. Whatever Jacob said, this war was not a good thing. He could march up and down the house, shout orders at invisible people, fire his toy wooden gun at her or even play dead but her real memories made her shudder.

“You’ll both be safer with Aunt Jenny in the country side,” had said mother. Her words echoed inside the tiny shelter as the rain pounded downwards. She remembered the hissing of the steam engine and slamming of carriage doors at the station as mother tearfully said goodbye. An old tablecloth wrapped around her dolls house and Jacobs train set were all the thing that was needed. So said mother.

This didn’t mean that she was totally unhappy with Aunt Jenny’s. Far from it. You couldn’t wish for a nicer house or place to live. In London the air was always thick with smoke from all the chimneys and in winter the fogs filled the air with an awful fowl smell. At Aunt Jenny’s even the rain had a smell of freshness, but it was no compensation for being without mother and father. Why didn’t Jacob feel like this?

She recited her name and address to herself. Information that had been told over and over again by mother. Her date of birth. “Twenty first of July nineteen hundred and thirty seven,” she said out loud proudly. “Twenty first of July nineteen hundred and thirty…”

“Seven” came the lone voice.

Bridget swirled round just in time to see Fat cat pounce swiftly into the refuge of the den. He shook his coat, depositing rainwater here and there. “Oops sorry, manners.”

“Fat cat…” she stopped herself instantly, “I mean…” She made room, pushing her dolls house to the side where the bracken was thickest.

“Where have you been?”

“Certainly not anywhere dry that’s for sure.”  He carried on licking his fur and awkwardly placing one of his back legs into a position where he could pull at the wettest of his fur. “Can’t believe I didn’t see this rain storm coming. There I was chasing the odd field mouse about and I completely forgot about those damn clouds.”

Bridget wasn’t sure whether or not the word damn was a swear word or not. She was pretty certain it wouldn’t have been allowed in her London house. Maybe it was a country word that was used out here she thought. She watched intently as he recovered his posture.

“Would you like me to brush you with my dolls hand brush?” she said somewhat hesitantly, not knowing if this was an intrusion on his privacy. Fat cat eyed the ivory handled brush and nodded. Bridget gently pulled the small teeth of the brush backwards and forwards. Fat cat arched his back as the tingling sensation delighted him, reminding him of crawling under Farmer Gregg’s low wire fence. The purring sound grew louder, signifying his obvious satisfaction.

“I think that’s you done Fat cat…” Again she stopped herself.

He nuzzled up to her as an appreciation of thanks.

“Is that what you call me…Fat cat?”

“Er, no, or rather yes. It’s just a name that came up, I’m ever so sorry.”

“Sorry?” He said. “Why ever should you be sorry? I’ve never actually had a name before and I suppose I am on the rather biggish side aren’t I?” Bridget thought it best to say nothing. “Fat cat…Fat cat,” he said to himself, “yes, I think it is quite a grand name, and Fat cat I will be. Thank you. And what can I call you?” He looked at her badge. “Evacueeeee?” That’s rather strange isn’t it?” Bridget laughed, more at the long sounding eeee bit at the end. “No, that just means people will know I’m away from home, you know, because of the war thing.”

“Oh, that load of nonsense.”

“I’m actually Bridget, named after my grandmother.”

“That sounds like a posh name as well. I wish us cats had got the idea of naming ourselves.”

“Didn’t your mum and dad give you a name when you were young?”

“Me?” Fat cat tweaked his whiskers slightly in a kind of smile. “Goodness me no. We just go about our business as cats. No need for names. It’s only the house cats that get anything like that, the ones that actually get food from people on a daily basis.”

“You mean the cats that people have as pets?”

“Pets, pets?!” Fat cat nearly jumped up to the roof of the den. “Pets indeed. It’s us cats that adopt the humans. We’re a very proud race I’ll have you know. Pets indeed. Always independent, that’s us. I think you’ll find it’s only the lazy ones that stay at home and accept the soft life. Not for me.” He caught sight of his wagging tail and tried to stamp on it with his paw.

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” said Bridget feeling a little uncomfortable. The tail wagging stopped. He slowly blinked his eyes, then twitched his nose from side to side and wiped a paw across his face. He moved round in a circle then slowly nestled himself into the lap of his new friend. Being independent is okay some of the time, but every now and then it’s nice to be spoilt, especially when someone tickles you under the chin like Bridget was doing now.

*

It has taken maybe a couple of minutes to regain my thoughts. The hysterics have not helped. It is now time for rational thinking. The wide adhesive tape across my mouth gives off a pungent smell, mixed with what I guess is fresh blood and mucus from my battered nose. The shock of a man hitting a woman so violently has triggered off the shakes in my body. The ripping of my blouse as he manhandled me up the stairs gave credence to the severity of the attack. I take stock of the situation, sensing that I am now alone in the bedroom. The nauseous tape is around my ankles and hands, firmly holding me in the dressing table chair. The blackness is down to the heavy binding of more tape across my eyes. It presses into my sockets causing that sensation you get when you rub your eyes firmly with a hand after waking. The translucent colours form a background against swirls that remind me of bacteria under a microscope. My senses gain a foothold as the pumping of adrenalin, which had overdosed my body, subsides. I am aware of the wetness of my underwear. The staining of the woven fabric on the Chippendale chair takes precedence for a moment, but is quickly dismissed as I curse myself for prioritising that situation. Gerald, he is my main concern now as I gather the pictures in my mind of the evening’s events. The casual talk over cheese and biscuits as we tried to thrash out our domestic problems seems light years away. Alone in our country house retreat we discussed the past year and the inevitable outcome of our twenty year old floundering marriage. Then we heard the screaming shouts, reminiscent of some wailing banshee, which shattered the calmness of our conversation. He appeared from the hallway with one of those grotesque Halloween masks across his face, but the focal point turned to the gun in his hand. All the time I watched the gun, mortified, as he mumbled through the mouthpiece of the gargoyles latex features. Gerald said something as he rose from the table. The intruder swiftly brought the firearm down across my husband’s head. Then the eyeholes, black sunken orbits intent only on destruction, fixed rigidly on mine. The fist struck forcibly against my face. I calm myself further, imprisoned on my chair, as those thoughts begin to chill me. My breathing is uneasy. I can’t take deep breaths. The passageways in my nose are becoming blocked. Un-lady like sweat forms somewhere across my brow as I wrestle with the damned tape. I force myself to try and free the globules in my nose by pressing air downwards and then flinging my head from side to side in order to free the blood and snot. There! In my mind I have called it snot, but these are no times for ladies etiquette. The breathing becomes easier as I manage to discharge the stuff and then sniff chunks of it upwards. Voices, I can now hear voices downstairs. Gerald must have recovered. My head screams out ‘give him the cash, anything he wants…please.’

I calm myself again. Pieces of the jigsaw come together. Gerald is a bank manager. That’s what this is all about. We’re hostages. Voices again. I can hear the words from Gerald, something about a time lock on the banks safe. God! I inwardly despair. Tell him you can override it. The voices stop or go quieter. My mind wanders and then wayward thoughts gain control of me as I think of fragmented conversations before the upheaval. Back to years ago when we had decided (amicably) that if we ever split up, I would have this house and Gerald would have our savings. Such has been this last year that Gerald’s little pile has gone down the tube with his irrational stock gambling. I come back to the real world. Go to the bank Gerald, take the intruder, do what he wants…and help yourself to a bag of the stuff. If it were possible I would laugh at my thoughts. Maybe this is shock setting in. I try and make some more sense of things, and then another thought comes up. Why didn’t our alarm system go off? How did this chap get into the house? Did I leave the door open after watering the potted plants in the vestibule? Surely not? Voices again. One raised, one calm. I can’t really make out which ones is Gerald’s. I feel dripping onto my knees. Blood, I think, from my nose. Maybe I’m loosing more than I should. This would explain the illogical thoughts I’m now having. Am I about to pass out? The faintness comes and then passes as I rock my head in a circular motion. My mouth becomes free from the tape as I do it again allowing me to gulp in precious air. Then movement and thoughts stop abruptly. A gunshot erupts and echoes ominously around the house. More questions compound my mixed up mind. Delirium makes nonsensical mischief of my plight. Is this some kind of wicked plot from a destitute husband? Does he rob the bank with an aide from the nether world, or maybe he has me killed off in a bungled house robbery, thus getting my share of the house? Or maybe…more blood splatters onto my legs. I’m fully conscious again because now I can hear movement. The footsteps tread purposely up the stairs. The door opens and I weakly implore ‘Is that you Gerald?’ My head turns so that my ears are homed into the space between us, waiting for the relief of sanctuary. The silence stays for a moment and then stays for an eternity. Salvation or murder? Relief only comes with the involuntarily soiling of the Chippendale once more.

***

From childhood you learn to shield yourself from misfortune, cruelty and any abject encounters that will pull you from this cocoon of innocence. I learnt very early. There are no years in my young life when I can ever recall being happy, although, back in those days I knew no difference. The hellish life was all there was. From my maturity now, I have reasoned, assessed and sadly accepted that my position as a stepson to my mother’s partner was the catalyst for the beatings.

The smell of booze on his breath was the first alarm bell that would be triggered in my young head. The shouting downstairs and the smacking of my mother always preceded the oncoming violence. At that tender age, how was I to understand the frailties of relationships? I always heard my mother’s anguished whimpers, declaring her love for this man, but it did little to quell the onslaught I received. I also learnt another sad fact. The more I cried the more he hit me. It didn’t take long before I built up an immune system to lesson the attacks. No more tears, that was the answer. However severe his hands laid into me, there would be no more tears. In my head I would repeat the words ‘and the teardrop wouldn’t fall.’ over and over again. Faster and faster I would repeat the words to my inner self, until his debauchered assault had finished.

And the teardrop wouldn’t fall…thwack…and the teardrop wouldn’t fall…thwack…and the…

By the time I was eight years old I was well into the routine. I had become hardened to life. His fists were tolerated, and the beatings, although painful, decreased, as he gained less and less satisfaction from striking a seemingly lifeless corpse. In fact I actually drew some pleasure from him when he only kicked out at me like a dog instead of the usual tirade of fists.

The shields I had erected for survival, unfortunately, didn’t benefit me in later years. The scars of childhood stayed with me, even when he had left my life and found pastures new.

The early death of my mother is a good example. I was seventeen when I stood over her coffin in that dreary churchyard. Handfuls of dirt fell haphazardly into the pit. Someone nudged me into joining in the ceremony. My memory gave out visions of her soft blonde hair as she nursed me as a toddler, then memories as she looked on as I was beaten like an animal, then a vision of her deep blue eyes before they had become forever cold in her later life. The emotion welled up inside but then the over-riding protection system fell into place…and the teardrop wouldn’t fall…

By the age of twenty I had been advised to go for counselling from my doctor. My short temper, unsociable behaviour and overall attitude had become worrying. The therapy led to hours of reliving my past with conversations with white-coated do-gooders who thought they could unlock my past with help from a textbook. To no avail, and I wasn’t really bothered.

At twenty-four I was married to a woman who tolerated all my black moods, unruly behaviour and general apathy to life. She didn’t warrant the diagnosis two years later that would put her on life support systems. The days and nights that I sat with her were endless and the constant beeping of the machines at her side were deafening. Yet still I sat there, looking at this wonderful woman who had given her heart to me and all I could respond with would be the coldness of my dark interior and the chilling words stifling my true emotions…and the teardrop wouldn’t fall…

How I deserved the following years I’ll never know. My wife, through the grace of some God, had recovered and also given me a daughter. These were treasures I truly believed shouldn’t have come my way. I watched, nervously, as my fragile child suckled and then stumbled gamely upon its first months of life. Her chubby legs faltered along the path of an unknown future, clearly dependant on me and her mother. And then, that bizarre, never to be forgotten moment when she looked towards me as she opened her arms as if seeking comfort from a strange and bewildering world, the moment that a child looks for help. She mouthed her first words into my inquisitive face.

‘Da, dah… Da,dah.

I picked her up and held her close, so close it was nearly impossible for her to breath. Our cheeks touched, our noses rubbed and two lives became one, and then my life opened up.

‘And the teardrop fell…’

Rossi.

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