Circle Lives: Monument

Pic: Sunil060902

Monument: banking perks

 Jane worked in a City merchant bank as a receptionist and most of the workforce was made up of men wearing dark suits and flashy ties. "The suits", said her husband in a scornful tone and he probably meant "the pigs". Martin worked in a hospital and did not like bankers.

Flirting was part of Jane’s job description. She had been chatted up by messenger boys, the security guards, employees and visitors, but nothing much had ensued. Her marriage might feel stale at times, but she still had her moral standards.

Then Mr Falco arrived, wearing glorious designer pinstripe suits, surrounded by a special aura as the eldest son of a famous industrialist. He had been seconded from the Milan office and was soon the darlings of all the secretaries, young girls who, in Jane’s eyes, had applied for their jobs to bag a rich husband.

Mr Falco walked past Jane's desk several times a day, devouring the carpet with his long, sharply suited legs. He was handsome in a Mills and Boon alpha male kind of way with his dark curly hair, masculine jaw and the build of a sportsman. He had a deep voice, like an actor so anything he said always sounded meaningful. Martin was no match. He was short, balding and a couch potato.

Jane had always liked men in suits and Martin was wearing a smart one when they had met in a pub, nearly 12 years ago, when he still had all his own hair. He had been so funny and romantic, buying her a red rose from a street vendor and presenting to her on their way to the tube station.

Jane was sharing a flat with Eileen, an Irish girl who loved horses and hated men. She accompanied Jane to pubs because she liked drinking but disliked being chatted up. This did not stop her enjoying the free drinks men bought them. She kept drinking and glaring at the men. She would only open her mouth to order the next drink so Jane had to be extra bubbly to compensate for it. Only on one occasion Eileen had brightened up and joined the conversation after hearing about a polo match.

Jane had met Martin while Eileen was in the toilet. She had been away for a long while, probably throwing up after four pints of Guinness and two Tia Marias. When she returned looking pale but determined to have another drink, Jane introduced her to Martin and Eileen soon found out that he loved horses and monopolised the conversation.

Jane won Martin out of a competitive feeling. Of course, Jane lost Eileen's friendship in the process and had to move out. They got married. Their life together was all right. They hardly quarrelled, sex was not too bad but something was missing.

When did dissatisfaction step in?  When did their life as a couple start to be as flat as an ironing board?  Work was more exciting now. Nine to five and suits of all kinds, shapes and colours.

Since Mr Falco had arrived Jane was changing her outfit every day, applying layers of make-up that needed to be freshened up during her lunch break. Unfussy, ‘the little black dress will do’ Jane had vanished.

Jane could not see how to progress beyond the greetings stage. She kept smiling significantly, hoping that Mr Falco would understand. She didn't give her special smile to anybody else after all. At night he lorded over her dreams. Jane knew she wasn't being reasonable, but her sudden obsession was hard to dispel with moral considerations.  She dreaded weekends until Martin started to work every other weekend to earn extra money. He was thinking they could buy a house now and wanted to put together a good deposit.

One morning Mr Falco was standing by the lift with his back to Jane. Suddenly, he turned and asked her for a paper clip. He strode to her desk and bent very close to pick it up, his handsome face only inches away. She could only stare; her tongue was heavy and useless. She felt stupid, like she had failed some sort of test.

The director, Mr Arpini, rumoured to be the youngest son of a Count, was going to be transferred to the New York branch and the personnel department organised a lavish, no expense-spared leaving party. The boardroom was emptied of all furniture and given over to an event organiser. Mr Arpini gave a short speech, calling all the employees "a big happy family" and then the champagne and wine started flowing.

Jane took a plate and filled it with the delicious buffet food. She ate standing up, juggling the plate with a glass of white wine. Mr Falco was standing on his own, holding the thin stem of a champagne glass with his tanned, manicured fingers. He met Jane’s glance, smiled and joined her.

Jane got rid of her plate and tried to strike a pose with her half empty glass. They started a conversation about holiday destinations while their bodies communicated a different message. Jane could not believe how easy it was now.

She re-assessed him. Mr Falco was not a Mills and Boons hero, more like a primitive idol who had to be pacified with an offering. Jane was only too eager to do so in the unromantic atmosphere of the cleaner's closet of which Mr Falco had a duplicate key.

Jane could not stop wondering how many other women had been initiated in the closet. How many pagan priestesses had given themselves to this clay-footed idol?

Reality was not as exciting as fantasy. Mr Falco was an unimaginative lover. Perhaps handsome people did not need to try hard. Jane had read somewhere that unattractive people were good in bed to compensate, was it in Cosmopolitan?

Out of the closet and back in the boardoom with a fresh glass of wine, Jane looked around. Mr Wright, the bald and bespectacled accountant, was on his own, absorbed in the task of trying to stab at a cocktail onion with a toothpick. Jane remembered an article about the relation between hair loss and testosterone production. She moved closer and smiled, while caressing the key she had slipped into her jacket’s pocket.

Circle Lives: Embankment

Pic: 0x010C

Embankment: Mean Streets

'Do you mind if we squeeze in?'

Amy wakes up with a start. She sits up and looks at the anxious face bent towards her. A mongrel with a piebald coat stands by the girl.

'It's just for tonight,' she adds, her hand clutching the dog's lead like it were an anchor.

'All right,' Amy says in a gruff voice and shifts her sleeping bag towards one side of the shop's entrance.

The girl sits down with the dog in between her legs and sighs. 'I'm sorry I woke you up, but I was feeling lonely and you looked so peaceful.'

'Do you have a blanket or something?' asks Amy. 'It's going to be really cold when it gets dark.'

'No, I don't have one. I've been staying at a hostel, but the people there gave me such a hard time that I ran away. I know it was stupid, but I couldn't stand their bullying anymore.'

Amy rubs her eyes, picks up her rucksack and rummages inside. 'Here,' she says, throwing the girl a big towel. 'I'll need it tomorrow morning, but you can have it tonight. See that bin over there? You may find some clean newspapers and stuff your clothes with them. It keeps the cold out.'

The girl returns making crackling noises. 'Do you have a drink?'

'No. How old are you anyway?'

'I'm fifteen, Max here is five, 35 in dog years.'

'A bit too young to drink alcohol.'

'Don't start, I've had enough lectures to last me for a lifetime.'

'All right, then, I'm no preacher. Good night.'

Amy lies down with her rucksack under her head and zips up her sleeping bag to her neck. She closes her eyes and falls asleep. She wakes up a couple of times during the night as she isn't used to sharing her space. She checks on the girl, who is sleeping wrapped up in the towel, the dog lying at her feet.

A whining car alarm wakes Amy up. She stirs for a while, then sits up. The girl and the dog have vanished. 'She stole my towel, so much for being kind,' she thinks bitterly.

She rolls her sleeping bag and secures it on the top of her rucksack. As it is Saturday and the sun shines, she walks down Villiers Street towards the Embankment Gardens. A garish poster sellotaped by the park map reads Street Arts Festival in colourful, fat letters and Today in bigger, black type. 'Oh, goody.'

The tea house is open but still deserted. Amy whistles and, after a couple of minutes, Gino comes out with a mug of tea and a croissant. 'Morning, Amy. Can you give me a hand with tables and chairs after you had breakfast?'

'Sure, Gino.'

Amy eats her breakfast on a bench, soaking the sun rays and dunking the croissant in the milky, sweet tea. Then she walks to the park's toilets and has a good wash in the sink. She dries herself with toilet paper, mourning the missing towel. She hopes to make enough money today to buy another one at the charity shop in Drury Lane.

When she reaches the hut behind the tea house, Gino is already busy moving stacked chairs towards the front. Amy lifts a plastic table and carries it by the chairs. She doesn't stop until all the tables are surrounded by chairs and covered with paper cloths, topped with sugar, salt and pepper dispensers.

'Come back later and I'll fix you some dinner,' Gino shouts and Amy waves at him.

The street festival is to start at twelve, but a few stallholders are already unpacking their wares and arranging them on their folding tables. 'One hour to go,' thinks Amy, checking her watch. She lies on the grass by a flower border planted with yellow roses and dozes in the sun. A shrill trumpet makes her jump up. A clown is staring down at her. Amy frowns then she jumps up and hugs him.

'Alex, how are you?'

'I'm well. I'm off the street now. I started selling The Big Issue, then I got a flat through Shelter. Now between selling the magazine and doing street performing and kids' parties, I'm making a living.'

'You've still got bad teeth.'

'Not for long. I'm going to have them fixed as soon as I've saved a bit more money. You should try it too.'

'I don't need anyone's help,' says Amy belligerently.

'Still the same, aren't you? Are you doing your tricks today?'

'Watch out, I've got some new ones! I'm saving money too for the winter. There's a nice hostel around Westminster where you can stay for up to four months. I'm too old for sleeping rough in freezing weather.'

'Listen, if you change your mind about The Big Issue, come and see me in Covent Garden, I'm there almost every Sunday.'

'Thanks, but no thanks.'

'I'm off then. See you later.'

'Yes, see you.'

Amy looks around in search of a good spot. A mime is performing on the stage, watched by a group of families with small children, while stilt walkers dressed as butterflies, fairies and birds circulate among the crowd.

Amy walks past Alex, who is surrounded by Japanese and American tourists, two dancers mimicking a courtship with an enormous bunch of flowers and stops to listen the harrowing melody of a violin.

A man dressed in a bear costume plays the saxophone by the stalls. 'He must be having a sauna,' thinks Amy, throwing ten pence in the instrument case, opened at the bear's feet. The sun is getting warmer and warmer and she removes her shirt. She looks at her T-shirt critically and decides it's not too dirty. She needs to go to the launderette soon, she doesn't want to end up like a smelly bum.

Amy is returning to her shop door with a big grin on her face. The day's takings, converted into crisp banknotes by Gino, are safe in her money belt, tucked inside her trousers. Coins jingles happily in her pockets. If the good weather holds, she may go to St James’s Park tomorrow and earn her crust there. If it's bad, she will walk to Oxford Street and juggle by a department store's entrance. Whichever way, she'll treat herself to an afternoon tea at the crypt cafe.

The girl and the dog are back. Before Amy can say anything, the girl hands her a wrinkly carrier bag. 'Sorry, the bag is a bit squashed.'

Amy peeks in the bag and sees a lemon yellow bath towel. She touches it, it's soft, thick and smells new. She gets it out of the bag and the price tag catches her eye. 'Where did you get it?’ she asks staring hard at the girl.

'I bought it with my own money,' answers the girl proudly. 'I exchanged yours for two cans of beer and then I felt so bad, you being so nice with us and all.'

'Where did you get the money?'

'You're curious, aren't you? I earned it. Also my boyfriend is back in town and I'm staying at his place.'

'Thank you.' Amy strokes the towel and put her right cheek against it.

The girl smiles. 'Can I come back to see you, next time my boyfriend goes away?' she asks.

'Sure, if you want.'

'Friends? My name's Susie, by the way.'

'I'm Amy.'

'Max, says hi to Amy.' The dog lifts his right paw and offers it to Amy, his pink tongue lolling out.

Amy is worried. Susie should have arrived hours ago. Susie's boyfriend is away and she has been spending the last three nights with Amy. Perhaps he has come back earlier. Or perhaps Susie has been arrested for drunkenness or stealing or whatever else she does to get money.

Every time her boyfriend goes away, Susie binges on cheap beer and gin and comes back to the shop door drunk and giggly. Amy misses her when the boyfriend is in town, but, on the other hand, it's best for Susie when he's around because he can control her drinking.

'Once a friend bought me some drinks while I was working and when he found out, he beat me black and blue,' Sue told her once.

Amy has never met the mysterious boyfriend and Susie has never offered to introduce him. She can only wonder about that part of Susie's life as Susie only tells her what she wants to tell her and gets angry or throw tantrums if questioned.

When she disappears to drink, Susie leaves Max with her and Amy has taught him some tricks, so he can help her to make money busking. He's so smart and undemanding. He doesn't eat much and a scratch behind his furry ears goes a long way. Amy loves Max and misses him when Susie is with her boyfriend.

Amy is kicked out of her deep sleep by a man's boot. She sits up and is about to protest, but the big man who towers over her spells big trouble. Recalling a vicious attack committed by a thug, when she lost her savings and two teeth, she freezes. Then she sees Max, cowering behind the man's legs. 'Hi Max,' she says and the dog comes forward wagging his tail.

'You must be the old bag Susie was always nattering about,' the man says in a gruff voice.

'Something happened to her?' Amy asks, another kind of fear playing in her head.

The man scowls. 'Nope. Wherever she is now, she can't keep the poor bugger.'

Amy takes Max's lead. 'Has she been arrested?'

The man whistles. 'She propositioned a pig and he got her all right. Her parents were called and took her away. Fellow down the station is a special friend of mine and told me all. He kept the dog for a few days to see how things would turn out and then dropped him at my place.'

'Oh. I see. Can't you keep him?'

'Nope. I'm no animal lover, I'm a business man. Sue told me that if something ever happened to her, you should have him. Take this, for his keep.' The man takes a roll of banknotes from his trousers' back pocket and peels off two twenties and a tenner.

'Thanks.'

'Well, I must be going. I've got two new girls starting on tonight. You got to watch them, can't trust anyone.'

When the man is gone, Amy looks at Max and sighs, 'What am I going to do with you, now that winter is coming by? I can't keep you at the hostel. No pets are allowed there.'

Max licks her hand and his toffee eyes are full of doggy love. When Amy’s tickles him behind his ears, his tails starts wagging frantically. Poor mite, he must have been starved of affection for a few days. If she only had her own place, she wouldn't have to give him up. Remembering Alex’s promise, Amy walks briskly towards Covent Garden. She is not too proud to ask help for someone else.

Circle Lives: Great Portland Street

By Sunil060902

Silver linings

I was walking towards Great Portland tube station, thinking about work. That day I had quarrelled with Gill about something trivial, the disappearance of her Snoopy mug. I had seen our boss take it, but I was too angry at having been accused to tell her. Besides, I don't like Gill because she doesn’t pull her weight and always makes a point of leaving on time even when we are very busy. There is a rumour going round that she has an affair with the head of personnel so, unless their relationship turns sour, we'll never get rid of her.

Anyway, I was walking down a quiet alley to avoid the bustle of Oxford Street when a teenager wearing a grey hoodie stopped me to ask the time. I glanced at my watch and next thing I know I was on my knees on the pavement, while the boy was running away with my bag.

My spirits sank further down at the police station. My story had been told before and the policeman looked at me disapprovingly as though it was foolish to give anybody the time.

"It's a tactic, they weigh people up that way," he explained.

"How?" I asked, bewildered.

"The way you speak, the watch, the cut of your clothes," he said looking bored.

"So if I had a working class accent, cheap clothes and a scruffy appearance he would haven't bothered."

My sarcasm was lost on him. He advised me to go home, sit down and have a cup of tea. Exactly like in one of those Carry On films.

Sitting on my sofa, I tried to remember the contents of my bag. I was drinking a glass of red wine out of spite, even if a cup of tea was probably what I really needed. I had lost my keys. Luckily, my neighbour has a spare set and I could get in without too much fuss. Then, the wallet with my credit card, cheque book, supermarket card, video rental membership and other plastic. Cash? Twenty pounds, not too bad. There were some photographs, including one of an ex-boyfriend. We split up two months before and I had not thrown his photo away. An old picture of my mum that I liked - that was a loss. Some other photos I didn't remember, maybe holiday snaps. My Liberty address book: its loss, combined with that of the keys, meant a change of locks. A make-up sponge bag, an umbrella, a very nice pen, a gift from my sister, and my travelcard. That was it. I didn't recall anything else. I don't probe my bag's depths very often.

I tried to remember the face of the mugger. A policeman was coming to interview me again; apparently, shock makes people forget things. My mind was clear enough, it was my body that shook like jelly.

I’m at home, off sick. Gill will have to do her job and mine too. It's not a charitable thought, but it gives me some satisfaction. There is an expensive lock on my front door, emergency locksmiths are dead pricey in London. Today's emotion is anger: why me? Not that I wish the experience on somebody else, but, like everybody, I believed bad things only happen to others.

They say that some good can come out of a bad experience. My bag was not found, the thief was not punished, but I have met two wonderful people: Grace and Tony.

Grace is a volunteer from Victims Support. She came to see me two days after I had been mugged and we had a good chat. Talking to her I realised that I lost something more precious than my bag and its content: my confidence. Would I ever be able to walk down a quiet street without feeling threatened?

We ended up talking about office politics and how stressful my job is and she advised me to try yoga. I have followed her advice and I feel much better, less anxious and more positive about things. Grace has even made me see Gill in a new light. I am not sharp with her anymore and our relationship has improved. The irony is that by changing my attitude, I have changed hers. She is more helpful and has volunteered to stay late with me a few times.

And what about Tony? He teaches self-defence for women. He runs classes not far from the spot where I was mugged. We went out for a coffee after the third class and we spent hours talking. It’s early days but things are moving fast.

I looked up the meaning of silver lining in a book at my local library. The expression comes from thunder clouds, which are dark and menacing but have a silver gleam of sunlight along one edge. I’m doubly blessed as I’ve found two silver linings in my cloud.

Circle Lives: Paddington

Another story in the series. I have not edited any of these for a while and trying not to or I won't publish a thing! I am a bit picky and keep changing things!

Photo by Andrew on Flickr

The Little Magic House of Horrors

Although it was a cold November night, the streets around Paddington Green were crowded. People wearing winter coats and striped scarves, little children who puffed and deflated their cheeks pretending to smoke invisible cigarettes and dogs trotting along, sharing the general excitement, were converging towards the park entrance. At the gate, a man was playing with fluorescent strings to rouse children's desires. Adults who fished coins out of their pockets brought happy smiles to small faces.

Duncan was walking on his own, his cold hands thrust into the pockets of a bright yellow anorak. He had left his room through the window, walking down the fire escape metal staircase. Alison believed him to be in bed. To fool her, he had put two cushions under the duvet, in case she checked his room.

He cheered up at the thought of the coins he had entrusted to a small zip pocket at the back of his trousers. He had been saving his pocket money for weeks. But his parents were at a dinner party.

"Duncan, I am sorry we cannot take you to see the fireworks tonight. We are not going out for fun, it's a business function. You're a clever boy and I am sure you understand. Your father bought some fire-crackers," his mother had said hugging him.

"We'll bang them tomorrow," promised his father smiling down at him.

Duncan had smiled back, but he didn't understand why he had to spend the evening with the horrible Alison. She had arrived with a giant bag of chips and her TV magazine. Duncan, who didn't want to be defeated, had asked her nicely to accompany him to the park.

The horrible Alison had shaken her frizzy head and glared at him. "Little boys go to bed early. Besides, there's an interesting movie I want to see. Your parents don't even have a video," she had said in an accusing tone. Alison was fond of smoochie movies. She was a fat, ugly and vicious girl and Duncan was sure nobody would ever kiss her.

Duncan had shrugged. "All right, it doesn't matter. I will finish my book and then I'll go to bed."

"Yes, go to bed, darling," Alison had replied from the couch. Her jaws were busy munching crisps and little crumbs were stuck around her big wet mouth. She turned back towards the television screen and fingered the remote control to turn up the volume. Duncan walked to her side and looked at her absorbed expression. Her eyes were very round. He had seen the same expression on a man hypnotised by a magician. The magician had made the man do silly things, Duncan would have liked to have that power. He glanced at the screen. It was one of those smoochie scene and Allison was licking her lips. Her fat tongue looked liked a chewed burger.

All was not lost, he thought while walking to his room. Alison would not move from the couch for at least two hours. He had checked the time in her TV magazine while she was taking her coat off. He put on his anorak, dropped some coins in the zip pocket of his trousers, inserted his torch in one of the anorak's big pockets and wrapped a scarf around his neck.

He climbed on his desk and unlocked the window. There was a small gap between the sill and the fire escape staircase. Duncan walked down the metal steps trying not to make much noise. In the courtyard, he opened the small gate and joined a group of people who was walking towards the park. He checked his Mickey-mouse watch, the fireworks were going to start in fifteen minutes. He rushed along, only stopping to pat a friendly dog.

At the park gate he saw the man selling fluorescent strings. The thin tubes were attractive to look at in the dark, but Duncan knew they didn't last long. He had been deceived more than once in the past. Their coloured beams were appealing, though. He tightened his right hand into a fist. "No," he muttered under his breath. "Resist." He breathed harder. "Resist, resist." He turned his head away and walked past the man. He knew that there would be a fair and he wanted to spend his money on rides and candy.

When he arrived at the big clearing, where he played football with his father on Sundays, he stopped. There were many people already and more were coming. Some children were exploding crackers and holding sparklers. Their flames sizzled in the dark, oscillating when shaken. Duncan looked at the two women who were selling them and had to repeat his spell: resist, resist.

Soon the fireworks exploded in the dark sky. Lovely colours created patterns in the night and when they died small clouds of smoke littered the sky. Birds made frightened noises, flying from tree to tree, dogs barked. A small child near him started crying and his parents had to drag him away. Duncan wished storms were as pleasant to look at, lightning only came in one colour and was much more frightening.

Boom, bang, bang, boom; red, blue, yellow, green, purple... flowers, fountains, stars... Duncan stared at the sky, his mouth slightly opened. The previous year's fireworks were not comparable to this display. Quickly, he glanced at the watch and was relieved to find out that he had still a lot of time.

The crowd applauded, thinking the show was over. Suddenly, four Catherine wheels threw sparks of light in the sky, spinning in a mad dance. Then the frame of two big animals lit up. Two dinosaurs started to fight ejecting flames from their gigantic mouths. Children and adult cheered at the unexpected treat. Then all lights went off and a voice through the loudspeakers declared the end of the show. The crowd applauded. Duncan clapped his hands until they hurt. Dinosaurs were his favourite animals.

The crowd started to disperse. Some people walked towards the exit, others directed their steps towards the lights and music of the fairground, surrounded by tall dark trees. Duncan walked in that direction, attracted by the sweet smell of candyfloss.

A merry-go-round with wooden animals was whirling to the sound of gay tunes, dodgem cars were clashing against each other under fairy lights, blue, pink and yellow teacups were spinning around a giant white teapot. A gloomy house with skeletons and huge spiders painted on the front stood in an ill-lit corner, its little cars waiting for passengers. A yellow light illuminated the words "Magic House of Horrors". Duncan shivered and then laughed. He had been in one of those before: fake spider webs brushing your face, water jets and some not very scary scenes badly painted on the walls. His mother had screamed when a jet of water had taken her by surprise. But this house also claimed to be magic. It could only be a trick to attract more customers.

Duncan walked to the stalls. There was a "sweet chariot", a "shoot-and-win-a-prize", a "lucky dip" and the usual pyramid of prizes swinging from the stalls' roof. He bought a bag of tricolour candyfloss and approached the lucky dip stall. He read the "Everybody is a Winner" sign painted in gold letters, inserted his hand in the big glass bowl and held his breath. The woman behind the counter smiled and gave him a lollipop. Duncan looked at the green sticky candy with distaste and the woman took it back, turning to serve another customer.

Duncan was about to utter a complaint when the woman turned towards him and said in a harsh voice: "Another try? No? Off you go then, back to your parents." Duncan left hastily. He was still looking around nervously to see if anybody had spotted him going around on his own, when a squeaky voice made him jump.

"Hello young man, fancy a ride?" Duncan turned around and faced a boy just a few inches taller than him. He noticed that the stranger's hair was white and his face wrinkly. Duncan had never seen a dwarf, but he remembered the little creatures that live in forests in fairy tales.

"Are you an elf?" he asked.

The stranger's body shook with laughter and his piggy eyes filled with tears. But he soon regained his composure. "I see you are a special boy, a boy with imagination," he muttered to himself and rubbed his small hands. Then he added in a louder tone: "I like you boy, do you want a free ride at the Little House of Horrors?"

"I don't know," replied Duncan, remembering his parents' warning not to take anything from strangers.

"I can see you are tempted," said the dwarf and jumped in the air clicking his heels.

"How can you guess what I think?" asked Duncan suspiciously.

"I have my ways, boy. I have my funny, little ways to know what I want," the dwarf sang in a squeakier voice. "Aren't you worried I might offer the ride to someone else?" he asked coming nearer.

Duncan scratched his head as he did when he couldn't make his mind up. If he saved the money on this ride, he could buy more sweets, maybe a candy apple or liquorice strings to bring home. There were many people around, the little man couldn't trick him.

"All right," he said and took the ticket the dwarf was offering.

"Good boy, come along, this way," he said, galloping ahead towards the dimly lit corner where the ride stood. He stopped by the youth who was collecting the tickets from the small cars and announced: "There I am, to claim my free ride with my friend, that boy there."

"There is a queue here," said a woman indignantly.

"I am sorry madam," apologised the dwarf. He took off his cap and bowed to the woman who was holding a little girl firmly by her side.

"Let them go first, I don't mind waiting," said the little girl in a frightened voice.

"You do mind, Elsie, don't be coy, you'll enjoy it," replied the woman viciously.

When the woman turned to look at him, Duncan recognised her. It was Susan, his schoolmate Ronald's old babysitter. Ronald called her Susan the witch and she looked like one with her nose shaped like a hook and the big mole above her upper lip where dark hairs grew thick and shiny.

Ronald had pulled one of the hairs with his mother's tweezers while Susan was sleeping and she had made such a big fuss with his parents that they had to replace her. Ronald kept the hair in a match box and charged two pence to look at it and three to touch it.

"Don't you want to see a ghostie, dear?" Susan asked Elsie. "They come cheap at 50p a go."

"I want to go on the other ride with the cups and saucers," replied Elsie.

"You ungrateful brat, I take you at the fair and you can't stop whining all the time. One more ride and off we go to beddy-bye," replied Susan, twisting Elsie's hand.

"Oh dear, oh dear," whispered the dwarf in Duncan' ear. "That's not the way to treat a child," he added louder.

"Do you have a problem, shortie?" asked Susan. She approached the dwarf and knocked off his cap.

"Respect, off with your hat in front of a lady," she bellowed and laughed viciously.

The dwarf picked up his cap and brushed it to remove a mud stain.

"Oh dear me, this won't do," he muttered. "It's hardly lady-like behaviour, don't you think, boy?" he asked Duncan.

Duncan nodded. He didn't dare to be heard by Susan the witch, not even for a free ride. She had big arms like tree trunks and Ronald had told him she could detach the head of a child just by slapping his face.

"Lost your tongue?" asked the dwarf.

Susan pushed Elsie into a car. The dwarf and Duncan stepped into the one behind. The youth collected their tickets and the door of the house opened to swallow them in the darkness. Duncan could hear Susan laughing at Elsie's screams of fear.

"Please, take me out, I am afraid of the dark," pleaded Elsie.

"Ghostie, ghostie, where are you?" shouted Susan.

"That woman is horrible," whispered Duncan to the dwarf. The cars were slowing down and at every turning a red light illuminated a scary scene that made Elsie scream louder. Susan's big laughs echoed in the confined space.

"Ghostie, ghostie," she called.

All of a sudden the laughs stopped and Susan started to scream: "What's this, help, help, this isn't funny, help, help!"

"That's more like it," said the dwarf.

"What's happening to Susan?" asked Duncan.

"Help, help, something is touching my leg, help," shouted Susan.

"I don't hear Elsie's voice," said Duncan, concerned.

The cars speeded up and reached the exit gates. When the car emerged into the lights and sounds of the funfair, Duncan noticed that Susan's hair had turned white. She looked frightened and little Elsie was crying.

"Have you seen a ghost?" asked the dwarf mockingly.

"You mind your business," snapped Susan. "I think it's time to go home, dear," she said in a kinder tone to Elsie. They stepped out of the car and disappeared in the crowd.

Duncan was about to follow them, but the dwarf stopped him. "Don't leave yet, I have a couple of free rides left."

"What happened to Susan?" asked Duncan. "She sounded like she saw something inside, I thought it was all poppycock," continued Duncan, using his mother's favourite expression.

"Boy, don't let grown-ups tell you what to believe," warned the dwarf. "Think with your own head and heart."

"So she has seen something," said Duncan and wondered if it was a real ghost.

"Everybody gets what they deserve," remarked the dwarf.

"It's not always true. I have been good this week, but my parents didn't have the time to take me to see the fireworks."

"But you got here, somehow. Won't your parents get worried if they discovered you are not in your bed?"

"Yes, they would, but I'll go back on time before anybody will notice."

"Except your conscience," concluded the dwarf. "Call me a funny man, but I like to collect bad consciences. Should I add yours to my collection?," he asked.

Duncan thought about what had happened to Susan and got scared. "No, please, I will be good forever," he pleaded.

The dwarf's eyes shone and he rubbed his hands. "That's what I want to hear. Fancy another free ride?" he asked juggling three imaginary balls.

Duncan looked at his Mickey Mouse watch. "No, thank you, I'd better go home, it's getting late."

"Good, good, I have still plenty to do," said the dwarf mysteriously. "I guess I am through with you. Remember to be good," he said and stepped out of the car. Duncan followed his example and joined the families who were leaving the park. He walked home thinking about what had happened that night. He climbed the metal staircase and entered his bedroom. He locked the window, took his clothes off and wore his pyjama.

Duncan crept outside his bedroom to see what Alison was up to. The TV was still on and a woman was reading the news. The couch was empty. He tiptoed to the kitchen to see if Alison was stocking up on food. The light was on, but the room was empty. He checked the bathroom, nobody there either. Puzzled, he walked to the couch. A glass jar was propped up by a cushion. Inside a frog was walking up and down a red plastic ladder making gurgling noises.

Duncan couldn't believe his eyes. He picked up the glass and peered in. On the bottom laid a doll-size coat and a bag. Duncan recognised Alison's possessions. On the lid a label said: For Duncan, keep for two weeks, then let it go outside.

Duncan switched off the TV. The frog jumped up and down making gurgling noises. He switched all the lights off and carried the jar to his room. In bed, he heard the front door open and his parents coming in. He crept behind the door to listen to what they were saying.

"Honestly, John, it's the last time I call her. Look at the mess, besides, where is she? I told her to wait until I got back," said his mother wearily. "She has taken the money I left her on the table, though. We'll find somebody else. I am going to see if Duncan is all right."

"Do you want a glass of water?" asked his father.

"Yes, and alka seltzer, please."

Duncan run to his bed and pretended to be asleep. The door opened and closed noiselessly. He tiptoed to the door and heard his mother say: "He's all right. Let's go to bed, I am worn out."

Circle Lives: Westminster

Pic by By ed g2s

Westminster: Timepiece

For most people, Howard's life would appear monotonous and uneventful. Howard was perfectly satisfied with it; he enjoyed his job and did not ask for more. True, he would have liked to have a son to teach him his trade but he had never been able to approach women.

Howard was a watchmaker. The business had been established in 1848 by his grandfather, Thomas Jenkins. The shop still looked as old as the date printed in gold gothic ciphers on the front. Its carved wood frames looked incongruous, sandwiched between the steel and glass front of a video rental and the tatty frontage of a souvenir shop.

Inside, customers would have to approach a heavy oak counter, behind which loomed a large, tall chest of drawers reaching to the ornate, plastered ceiling. An old, uncomfortable-looking upholstered chair was on one side, for customers who wanted to wait for a new battery to be fitted into their watches. Above all, a glass chandelier shone but did not succeed to shed much light in the dim, wooden panelled room.

A door behind the counter led to a small back room, which served as Howard’s workshop. He only emerged from it when called to attention by a brass bell connected to the shop’s door. In this windowless room, Howard toiled away unaware of the passing of seasons, which, he could see, was a big irony as his trade ensured the smooth movements of the hands of time.

Howard was a middle-aged bachelor, devoted to his job, an expert in the tiny, fragile mechanism of watches but still innocent of human ones. His life was ruled by simple habits: his trade, his frugal meals, quiet evenings with his books and occasional outings with Mr Walker, whom he had met through the only shopkeeper networking event he had ever attended, organised by the local council. Howard and Mr Walker had been instantly united by a strong dislike of the younger and brassier shop owners in attendance and had vowed never to attend a meeting again.

Mr Walker was a bachelor ten years older than Howard, owner of an old-fashioned shop that sold umbrellas, canes and relics of a bygone age. They usually met every fortnight at Mr Walker's club off the Strand, had a few drinks, played chess and went out for a meal at an Italian restaurant. They had been eating there for years and the owner always greeted and served them personally.

"‘Us oldies we need to stick together’ and ‘rubbish, only rubbish nowadays’," were Mr Walker's favourite sayings. He used the latter on any occasion and for everything: politics, books, public places, the business world, the world in general. He had raged and fumed for weeks when a law had prohibited the sale of life preservers.

"What can a gentleman do if attacked by a thief?" he had asked Howard. "Nothing, just bear it - a good old-fashioned thrashing, that was the way," and he had resumed drinking his whisky with a sullen expression on his red face.

"There are martial arts, nowadays. More and more people attend self-defence classes," Howard said.

"Rubbish, rubbish," Mr Walker had spat out and gulped the rest of his whisky in irritation. "Not even whisky is what it used to be, only rubbish nowadays," he had concluded before ordering another one.

Howard could not feel as bitter about things. He had always been optimistic. His father and mother had been optimistic too, his sister Elizabeth must have received the whole family’s share of pessimism. He had always been a little bit afraid of her; she was a no-nonsense girl who grew up to be a formidable, interfering woman. She was a widow now and happy to fend for herself. "I don't need to re-marry, I don't need a man, I’ve had enough of men to last me till the grave," she would say, over and over again.

Howard wished she could change her mind so she could concentrate her attention and unsolicited advice on somebody else. He resented her intrusions in his life but was too polite to object. He could look after himself after all.

Elizabeth helped him in the shop during the summer. It was a busy period because tourists walked in to change the batteries of their watches or buy batteries for their cameras. Other watchmakers would be on holiday with their families and Howard would end up getting their repair work. He enjoyed repairing old watches - modern watches were predictably simple and often not worth repairing at all.

Overall, he was glad of Elizabeth’s help as he needed peace and quiet to concentrate on the fragile mechanisms of the old clocks and watches, but at times she was difficult to bear. She would interrupt him to complain about the rudeness of a customer, the woodworm eating away the counter or how hard it was to clean wood panelling. If he’d let her have a free hand, Elizabeth would change everything. After her husband had died, she had ruthlessly sold or disposed of everything and bought brand-new furniture in IKEA.

Howard sat at his work with a sigh of relief. Summer had not arrived yet and he could toil in his workshop without too many interruptions. His business was still doing well. People needed to know the time and it was imperative to have reliable clocks and watches. Time was money and time provided his income.

He had always been fascinated by clocks, watches, even sundials and hourglasses. He owned a small collection and displayed one or two pieces in the shop window. He spent most weekends at antique markets, always hoping to find a treasure to add to his collection, but it was getting more and more difficult to find pieces he could afford. He would not be parted from his collection, although customers had offered a lot of money for certain pieces. They had been annoyed at his refusal to sell. Why did he display his collection in the shop if he did not want to sell it? They didn’t understand that he wanted others to see the beautiful time pieces and admire their craftsmanship.

The most conspicuous pieces in his collection were a Swiss ring watch in gold and blue enamel dated 1790 and an enamelled watch with a mythological scene depicting Mars and Venus. The most curious timepiece was a replica, made in the 1950s, of John Hamson's first Marine Timekeeper in the shape of a ship with four dials.

Early in June, he received an unexpected call from Elizabeth. She was very sorry but she was not feeling at her best and she would not come to help for a few weeks. Her doctor had suggested rest. Her heart was not what it was. Howard thought it amusing as she had always been unfeeling. He hoped she would recover and come and help soon. He wouldn’t wish bad health on anybody.

The next morning, the door bell brought him into the shop from the backroom to serve a young woman who was holding a packet in her small, dainty hands. Howard was instantly attracted by her old-fashioned good manners and beautiful but sad face. She was wearing a faded floral dress and looked like an angel from a Renaissance painting.

"I have noticed your beautiful old watches in the window. I wonder if you would be interested in buying this," she said and unwrapped her parcel.

Howard held the timepiece carefully, looking at the minute details through a magnifying lens. It had a six-hour silver dial, an outer calendar ring, a plain silver inner, a red tortoise shell and silver piqué outer. He could recognise the work of Francis Stemper, an English watchmaker who had operated between the XVII and the XVIII century. "It is a precious specimen. I can't afford to buy it for myself, but I can find someone who might," he replied. "I'll give you a receipt."

"Very well," the woman said and produced a small card. "Here is my name, address and telephone number. Please contact me when you've sold it."

When she left the shop Howard felt her absence in the rarefied air. In the following days, he forgot about Elizabeth’s ill health and re-lived his meeting with the Renaissance angel again and again in his mind, his long, nimble fingers caressing the red and silver case of the precious watch.

One day while holding the watch, he closed his eyes and emptied his mind of thoughts, as if the timepiece could impart some secret knowledge, like an ancient augur. The timepiece must have breathed many lives by inhabiting several pockets, inhaling the humours - to use an old medical expression as old as the watch itself - of its owners, the red case looking remarkably like old blood.

Suddenly, an image formed in his mind: a dark plump hand, its knuckles covered with dark hairs. The hand was holding a small tool. Good God, it was the hairy hand of Francis Stemper!

Stemper had been a successful artisan. He had survived the Puritan Revolution and gained King Charles II's patronage. Howard had seen his portrait in a book and had been struck by his hairy knuckles. He had not forgotten those hands. He had been shocked by their plebeian appearance as he was proud of his white long fingers, blond hairs scarcely visible on the knuckles.

Howard locked the watch away and sat at his worktable in the airless back room. He tried to apply himself to repairing a handsome French table clock but he could not concentrate. He opened the drawer, clutched the Stemper’s timepiece and closed his eyes tightly. This time no image came. Disappointed, he locked the watch in the drawer and resumed his work on the table clock.

Later that day he wondered if old age was not playing trick with his mind and resolved to contact a collector who knew would be interested to buy the timepiece. The young woman must need money. How could she part from such a beautiful thing otherwise? At six o'clock Howard closed the shop, fighting and winning the impulse to take the watch home.

He found Mr Walker at his club, reading The Times in the smoking room. Howard picked up the club’s suggestion book, a heavy tome that dated from the 1920s. At the beginning the complaints were written with fountain pens, then modern pens appeared, alternated with the fountain pens of old members. It was a funny book, reporting outraged comments about the food, lost umbrellas, suggestions about the purchase of certain wines, cheeses and other amenities. There were no complaints about the dirt in the corners, the dusty books and the table tops stained by circles made by glasses and scarred by burn marks made by careless smokers.

When Mr Walker discarded the newspaper, Howard related the news about his sister's health. "Rubbish, Rubbish," his friend commented. "We aren't getting any younger and some people don't want to swallow the bitter pill. Myself, I can't drink as I used to. My housekeeper locks the bottles away. She even phoned the club's barman. The silly man listened to her all right. They are afraid I could die here, disgrace the club or something," he barked.

"A man isn't free even in his own club," Mr Walker added, lowering his tone, as though he was communicating a state secret.

Howard saw the gentleman behind them leaning forward to overhear their conversation. Mr Walker, who had seen him from the corner of his eye, glared at him. "They are like market-place, gossiping cats," he said for the benefit of the intruder. The gentleman retreated, burying his nose in The Telegraph.

After a hearty dinner with Mr Walker, Howard took a bus home. He made himself a cup of Horlick and went to bed. He was exhausted, but could not sleep. He kept thinking about the watch, the hands of the watchmaker and the woman who had entrusted him with such a beautiful specimen.

The next day he examined the watch carefully. It was in perfect conditions. Of course it had been repaired a few times, some pieces had been replaced, but nothing was untoward. He held the watch in his right hand and closed his eyes. Nothing happened. Then he remembered that the previous day he had held the watch in his left hand. He recalled the Biblical saying: "Let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth". The left hand was the unruly one, the hand of the devil. He changed hands.

A beautiful young woman was running around a carved wooden table, pursued by an older man in silk britches. She was wearing a grey silk frock trimmed with pink flowers and a tall wig swung perilously on one side of her beautiful head. The man bore a cold smile on his lips. He looked remarkably like King Charles II as portrayed at the National Gallery. They sat down on a chaise longue and the man presented the lady with a red spherical object. The watch! The image faded.

Had the watch been commissioned by the King as a present to a mistress? Howard closed his eyes again. A boy was peering at the time. The watch looked conspicuous in his small hand. The scene dated from a different century than the previous one. Who was the new owner? The youth looked bored. Sitting on his right hand side, an old man was reading aloud from a big book. He looked like a teacher or a tutor. The image faded.

“Get yourself together,” muttered Howard to himself. It was nearly eleven o'clock and he had a lot of work to do. Unwillingly, he locked the watch away and sat at his worktable.

Howard didn’t call the collector that day, nor the next day. The truth was that although he couldn’t afford to buy it, he could not bear to be separated from the watch. The horrid thought of cheating the young woman of its value and buying it for his collection crossed his mind. He was startled. He had never had a dishonest impulse before. The woman had not contacted him since her visit to the shop. Perhaps she was not in a hurry. “You don't find a good buyer straightaway,” reasoned Howard.

The watch had changed hands pretty often, having been in the possession of several devious individuals, among them a gambler who kept pawning and redeeming it. The money lender, a greasy man who handled money with a feeling similar to lust, had appeared every time.

Burdened by guilt, Howard forced himself to phone a collector. At first, the man sounded interested, then he refused without even asking to see it. Howard was relieved. Fate was favouring him. He clutched the watch in his left hand and closed his eyes.

A little girl was crying. In her lap, the watch shone with a cruel light. She picked it up and sobbed harder. Then, she pressed the red case against her cheek. Behind her, a man in uniform was smiling from a gilded frame. A woman, perhaps the mother, was holding a telegram in her still hand. Silent tears were slipping down her face. "Don't drop it," she said to the child in a pained voice. The little girl gently placed the watch by the frame.

Howard opened his eyes. The scene dated from the 1940s, judging from the woman's clothes. He was so close to discovering something about the present owner. Maybe the child was her mother. There was some likeness in her sweet face. He was so excited he could not work anymore. He locked the watch, closed the shop and went home.

He tried to read a book, but could not. He couldn’t talk about it to Mr Walker, his friend would have said "rubbish, rubbish" and called his experience a figment of his imagination. He could also imagine Elizabeth’s sarcastic comments. Restless, he went back to the shop.

Howard took the watch out of the drawer, closed his eyes and waited. Nothing. He closed his eyes again. Slowly, the figure of a middle aged man formed in his mind. Bewildered, he recognised himself. He was checking the mechanism of the watch. It was a hot day and beads of sweat were forming on his forehead.

What about the young woman? The sequence of the images had revealed a gap; the young woman was the missing link. He looked at her card: Miss Mary-Ann Howard-Jones, Heather Lodge, 73 Addiscombe Road, Thorncroft, Hertfordshire. He dialled the number. No reply. He called directory enquiries. There was a Mr Howard-Jones in Thorncroft, but he was on a different number. Howard Jenkins looked at his watch. It was half past eight. A bit late, but not too late for a business call. He dialled the number and a female voice answered.

"Hello?"

"May I speak to Miss Howard-Jones?"

"Speaking. Who is it?"

Howard Jenkins hesitated. The voice did not sound right.

"It's Howard Jenkins. It's about the watch you left with me."

"I am afraid you've got the wrong number." The voice sounded confident.

"I have your card. Miss Mary Ann Howard-Jones, Heather Lodge, Thorncroft."

"Is this a bad joke?" asked the woman angrily.

"I don't understand," said Howard.

There was a pause on the other side.

"Perhaps somebody is playing a prank on you. You see, Mary Ann was my father's cousin. She was killed during the war when her house was bombed. She was only a child."

"I am sorry to hear it, thank you for your help."

"You're welcome. I wish I knew who did this. It's not funny. Some people think everything is a joke."

"I am so sorry," said Howard and hung up.

He looked at the watch. It was real and heavy in his hand. Was it a devil's joke? Why wasn't the watch buried along with the remains of Heather Lodge? Perhaps, the watch could not remain without an owner. For more than three centuries it had inhaled people's humours and craved for more.