Quick... Dust Something!

Today is an exciting day for me; my two good friends, S and C, are coming for Lunch. I met these two lovely people through work, and we've remained friends even though I and S have now left.

I'm not a natural cleaner. I used to do better, before I married (is there a link, I wonder...?), and when I was working. But now I'm home more, it's almost as if I don't notice the piles of stuff accumulating around me.

Now, S is a bit like me when she visits; she doesn't go to look at the house, but to be with the people, and I'm always quite relaxed about S coming to visit.  C keeps her home immaculate in spite of a busy work and social schedule, and so I always feel the need to put on extra effort, although no doubt she'd tell me not to be silly if she knew!

C has just come back from Iceland (not the shop!) and I hope she'll be able to tell us wonderful things about the Northern Lights...  which, apparently, were visible in Leeds last night.
And I missed it.

My Other 'Music My Muse'... More Monday Fiction

Happy Monday Morning!

I read the following out on Thursday at WITR, and as I was reading, I had a few qualms. Some of the subject matter might just cause offence, might make it seem as if I'm being insensitive, making light of serious medical conditions...

Tom’s Girlfriend

Tuesday, she got in from work and started on him straight off.  All because he hadn’t emptied the bins.

‘Thomas, I’ve had enough! I mean it, if you don’t start treating me right, I’m leaving!’

‘Yeah, whatever, Luce…’

‘And don’t call me ‘Luce’! You know what it sounds like! I…’

Tommo tuned out Lucy’s voice. She got shrill when she was off on one, and it wasn’t like he really deserved it…

‘I mean it, Tom! When I say I want you to do something, it would be nice if you’d actually do it…’

He should do something nice for her, get her off his back…  McDonald’s, maybe? No, Nando’s .  Yeah, that’d do it.

‘…talk about stuff…’

Talk about stuff?

‘…because it’s too much!’

‘Yeah, yeah.  Look, sweetheart, you’ve been working too hard… you need a rest… Sit down, I’ll get the kettle on…  And we can talk.  About… stuff.’

‘You don’t even know why I’m upset, do you?’

What did she think he was, a mind reader?  He put the kettle on and clinked cups to give him time to think. Something he’d seen on TV once…

‘Could be lots of things, babe.  I know I’m no good at this stuff. But if you just give me a chance and tell me what you need…’

He pretended to listen to her while they drank their tea. He’d rather have beer, but it was nearly lunchtime and…

‘…thought that maybe, this is my flat and I’m working shifts and you don’t have a job and I can’t do everything for us…’

What did she want from him? He’d just made her a cup of tea, hadn’t he?  But she did seem upset. Maybe she needed more…

And it was then he had the idea. She wanted to talk about stuff – what if he rang the Kyle show, night in a hotel, nice break for her, go on telly…

*

By Thursday Tommo was all sorted. He’d phoned the show and a researcher had called back. He’d had to make up a story to get on – had to say he thought Luce was messing around while she claimed to be working late shift – and they said they’d want to talk to her, as well, and that might be awkward… he’d have to dodge that one somehow… he’d think of something.

Well, Lucy didn’t finish until two today. He’d tell her when she got in… and that left him time for a lunchtime bevvy with the lads.

She was already home when he got back… shame, he’d really wanted to be there first to surprise her with a brew or something, show he’d been paying attention to her… but she’d already made herself one, sitting at a stool in the kitchenette and looking fed up.

‘Hey, Loose…y,’ he said. One thing he had been remembering was not to call her Luce.  ‘I’ve been thinking… how d’you fancy a little trip somewhere? Nice meal, hotel for the night?’

‘What, a holiday?’ Lucy asked. ‘How can we afford a holiday?’

‘No, just a… a city break. In Manchester.’

‘Really? Manchester? Wow, shopping, the theatre… Tom, it sounds great! When? And…’ Her eyes narrowed.  ‘Hold on. You’ve no money, no job… What’s going on?’

‘Well, er…’ Best tell her the truth.  ‘I can get us train tickets to Manchester and a hotel and everything… but thing is, it’s… it’s that TV show. And to get us on I had to say I thought you were cheating on me, but…’

‘You said what? When do I have time, never mind the energy, to cheat? Although why I stick with you when…’

‘I was just trying to do something nice for you! That’s all. So when the researcher rings up, just say you don’t trust me either, and we’ll get on TV and stay in a nice hotel… You deserve a break and…’

‘Yes. Yes, I do deserve a holiday,’ she said, getting up and walking into the bedroom. She came out five minutes later with her big purple weekender bag stuffed full and her eyes sharp.  ‘You know what you can do with your TV show! I’m going away!  Goodbye, Thomas!’

Midnight, and Lucy hadn’t come back to the flat by the time Tommo got in from the pub. All his mates had been asking where was Lucy, how was she? He’s shrugged off the questions, but he was left with an uneasy, lonely sort of feeling. What if she didn’t come back? What if she’d left him?

Next day, he waited in long past the time when she should have come home from work. She hadn’t called or texted or anything, hadn’t even posted on Facebook…

Except, when he looked, she’d changed her status from ‘in a relationship’ to ‘single. What? Dumped on Facebook? Without even an ‘it’s complicated’ first?

What was he going to do, what would his mates say?

He stayed in, avoiding the pub, even though it was Friday. There were a few texts asking where he was, but he ignored them.  None of them were from Lucy.  She didn’t answer when he rang or texted or pmd… there was just that one word burning him on her profile: ‘Single’.

Saturday lunch in the pub and Dez bought him a pint. ‘How’s Luce?’ he asked. ‘Thought you’d be out together last night?’

He didn’t want to talk about her, didn’t want to think about it. She’d left him, and the thought of telling Dez or Billee or any of them stuck in his throat. Dez was waiting; he’d have to tell him something, but what would shut him up fastest?

‘She’s…’ Tommo gulped beer, playing for time. And then he had an idea.  ‘Dead. She’d dead, Dez.’

‘Oh, man! What happened?’ The sympathy in Dez’s eyes made him feel better for a minute. ‘How?’

‘Bulimia.’

‘What? You’re kidding me? That’s an eating thing, isn’t it? You don’t just die of that overnight…’

‘No… leukaemia, that’s the word.’

‘But you don’t just…’

‘Dez, can you drop it?’

‘But she was fine last week!’

‘Look, she’d been diagnosed and was so upset she walked out in traffic and this great big truck knocked her over and… I don’t want to talk about it, okay?’

‘Okay. But…’

‘And tell Billee and them, all right? Subject closed or I’ll go up the top of the flats and make sure I join her, right?’

‘Calm down, Tommo! Sorry, man, just… sorry.’

Over the rest of the weekend Tommo repeated his story, drinking up the sympathy and the free beers that always followed. Because someone always asked about Lucy, and he started to enjoy the looks on their faces as he told them. If they were friends of Dez, he’d stick to the truck story, sometimes adding to it to see them turn green as he loaded on the detail. He always felt better for telling someone, and it was a lot easier than saying she liked someone else better.

Because she must have been messing round, right? That had to be why she was so upset at the thought of the Kyle Show, she really had been cheating and didn’t want him to find out… What was it, when she left? ‘I’m going away,’ he’d thought she’d said, but could it have been ‘I’m going to Wayne’s’? Wayne had been her previous bloke, lived near where she grew up, miles away.

Monday and his mouth felt like the bottom of a fishtank. His phone ringing grimly, and he answered before he’d really woken up.

‘Yeah?’

‘Is that Tom? Hi, it’s Becks from the Kyle Show here… we spoke last week… I’ve been trying to ring your girlfriend but her phone’s off…’

‘She’s dead.’

He’d said it so much over the weekend that it took him a minute to realise just what he’d done. But by then, it was too late; Becks was gushing and fluttering and falling over herself to be nice to him.

‘Oh, my… Tom, I’m so sorry.  What a shock for you! And… and not knowing if she was cheating on you at the time and…’

‘I don’t want to talk about it.  People are asking me and I just feel like if I have to go over it one more time I’m going to do something stupid…’

‘Tom, don’t get upset… I mean, it must be awful for you… but… well… How would you feel about coming on the show after all? Get it all over and done with once and for all; you’d never have to speak about her again, then and…’

What?

‘But…’

‘Oh, not right away, of course.  Give yourself a little time to grieve… you know, I’m sure you’d feel better for getting it out there and we offer counselling… how about I’ll ring back towards the end of the week, see how you feel about it then?’

Wow. So it was still on, then, the chance to be on TV? A free trip to Manchester?  For the first time since Lucy…died, Tommo began to feel almost happy.

He set off for a lunchtime drink at the pub, but decided to have a wander round town first.  If he was going on TV, he might need a new shirt…

So he was late heading for the pub and just as he was about to cross the busy main road to get to it, he saw a familiar figure on the other side: Lucy.

‘Thomas, I want a word with you! Bulimia? Leukaemia?’ She walked to the edge of the pavement, fists clenched, shouting across the road.   ‘How sick are you, thinking of that? Knocked down and decapitated by a truck?’

‘Babes…’ Tommo spread his hands wide. ‘You left me! You said you’d gone back to Wayne!’

A bus rattled past between them, carrying away some of Lucy’s words.

‘…said you’ve been saying…’

‘Luce?’ he took a step backwards, away from the road’s edge.

‘A truck?’ Anger mounting, she advanced on him. ‘I’m not dead!’

A skip truck, chains rattling, hid her for a moment, then squealed to a stop, horn blaring. Tommo swallowed, feeling sick as people piled out of the pub and the driver of the truck staggered down from the cab.  Making himself cross the now-still road on legs of rubber, he looked at Lucy’s broken body. ‘You are now,’ he whispered.

 ******

Fortunately, my audience didn't seem to mind my references to leukaemia and bulimia; they got that it was how the character was responding. And, to my surprise, they laughed. Quite a lot. And one of the new members approached me afterwards and asked me what music I could possibly have been listening to to get that much story out of it...?

The answer? 'My Girlfriend's Dead', by The Vandals.

WITR Update

Phew.

I got my story finished and proofed and printed out before 10 pm on Wednesday. I read it out at the group today with some nerves (unusually for me) as we had three new members and two almost new members amongst us and I had a last-minute qualm about the subject matter.

I was surprised at how well it went down; they laughed in places where I hadn't expected anything more than wry smiles. Two of the three new members asked me what I was doing after - with a view to talking nuts and bolts of writing with them. But I was wiped out after an energetic and hugely fun morning spent with my friend and her children at Leeds Museum and so claimed I had to get home to cook.

I had a rubbish review of  'Fallen' on Authonomy today.  I know the reviewer meant well, and she was kind and constructive, if a little patronising. I really think there is an Atlantic Gulf, and US readers don't seem to get my MC's restrained Englishness. But I'm writing for a home audience, and so must bear that in mind when I get this kind of comment.

But ask yourselves this: If you found an injured angel in your shed, and you'd already coped with the strangeness of being insulted by him and bound up his wing, and you had the chance to go to work and escape for an hour's peace, you would, wouldn't you?

Nothing quite so inspiring as a deadline...

Tomorrow, Writers in the Rafters meets and I'm supposed to have an 1800 word short story written for them on the subject, 'Music, My Muse'. And I'm busy in the morning, meeting my friend and her four children in Leeds first. I'm really looking forward to seeing her and the children as, with one thing and another, we've not met up since before Christmas.
But it does mean this story has to be done tonight.
And it's not coming.
I have the characters - Tommo, a bit of a lad and Lucy, his long-suffering girl,friend.  And I have the song - one by The Vandals. I have the storyline.
All I'm lacking is the words...

It's a bit like having everything you need to make the best cake ever... but without an oven to bake it in. (I know at least one of you will get this analogy!)
But one thing I know; it won't get done while I'm grumbling about not writing it.
Ciao.

Music, My Muse - the inspiration behind today's story...

For Thursday's Writers in the Rafters, I have to present a short story inspired by the song or piece of music I always play on repeat... there are a few problems with this.  Firstly, I have eclectic, if not appalling, taste in music. Secondly, I tend to obsess over a track for weeks or months and then move on. Thirdly, at the moment, there are at least three tracks where one listen is never enough... My ring tones are the theme from The Muppet Show and the theme from True Blood. See my problem?

So here is  'Kostas and Jenny', which is not only a short story, but pretty much the outline plot of my next novel...

He walked in and it felt as if all the air had been expelled from my lungs, a bear-hug contraction leaving me breathless, drowning…  Above average height, hair the colour of corn and grey eyes , irises ringed with a dark oceanic blue, a memory of pain and fortitude in their depths…  Strong and muscular, but with just a few extra pounds to soften his frame, to make him perfectly huggable, holdable.

 Yes.    I knew he was exactly right for the job. But I went through the questions, just to see how he reacted.  It would help later.

First thing was to get him talking, see what he sounded like.

I made myself breathe again and found a professional smile.  ‘Hello.  What’s your name?’

‘Kostas.  They call me Kostas.’

‘Have a seat, Kostas.  Tell me a bit about yourself?’

‘I… I don’t know how I got here.  I don’t know what you want?’

‘Don’t worry about it.’  I had his voice now, a musical tenor, clear, with lots of inflection, a touch of an accent.  The sort of voice you could listen to as if it were your favourite song. ‘When you came into the room…’ I began.

He lifted his chin to look at me, hold my gaze.

‘I didn’t expect to find myself here,’ he said.  ‘I was just going for a walk… and then there is a building, a door.  You.’

‘It’s confusing, I know.  But it’s okay, you’re safe here. Have some coffee, or tea?’

There was a tray on a low table, flanked by easy chairs. I moved across to sit, inviting Kostas to join me with a gesture.  I hope the informality would relax him.

‘Coffee, thank you.’

I poured coffee for us both, most of my attention to the brew to give him a moment’s recovery time.

The truth was I didn’t have the first idea where I pulled these people from. I just sent for them, and they arrived.  They all responded differently, none of them sure how they got here, all claiming they’d been plucked from some quiet inactivity to find themselves in my office.  I remember, years ago now, when I interviewed Rhys… he’d walked in with nonchalant curiosity, and when I’d tried to get him talking about himself, instead, he’d held me in his handsome gaze and given me an almost edible smile.

‘I do believe this sofa converts to a bed, did you realise that?’ he’d said.  ‘Care to try it?’

Of course, that bravado had landed him the job, although I hadn’t let him demonstrate my furniture’s previously-unsuspected versatility.  Rhys had done good work for me, still was, in fact.  But no-one, before or since, had ever responded quite so calmly as Rhys had. Generally, like poor Kostas, they exhibited differing levels of bewilderment.

Kostas was looking a little better now, at least.  I decided not to ask any more personal questions.  I could find out later.  I always did.

‘So, Kostas, I have something I’d like you to do.  A job, if you like…’

‘A job? But I have things to do, places I must be and…’

Of course, it didn’t matter.  He would do what I asked; he had no option, really. Once I told him, he’d find himself set on the course of action I spelled out for him.  The only thing was how much to tell him and how much to let him find out for himself.  I always felt bad, keeping anything from them.

‘There’s a young woman. She’s alone and vulnerable and she really needs a friend.  But she’s damaged, and this means she might not behave the way you expect…’

‘A girl? But I have too much to do to be friends with some girl… I’m very sorry, but I have to go now.  Thank you for coffee.’

‘Okay, Kostas.  It was nice to talk to you.  I hope it works out.’

Once he’d gone, I sighed.   I’d taken to Kostas in a way I seldom took to the people I met in here.  Perhaps I was almost a little in love with him.  And I was responsible for what came next for this quiet, calm young man with the suffering eyes, and I felt rather bad about it.  He was going to be very unhappy for a long time, all because I’d summoned him and told him he was going to meet someone.

‘Oh, Kostas!’ I found myself muttering.  ‘I’m going to do so many things with you.  Bad things, sadly.

I gave it a few minutes before considering the next applicant.

‘You’re Jenny, aren’t you? Take a seat.’

Jenny shrugged.  She had energetic red hair and washed-out blue eyes. Something about her made my spine prickle.

‘I was in my room… I do it a lot, when it all gets too much. I don’t like to be around people… I just fill up with despair and seeing other people happy just disassociates me…’

‘How are you feeling, Jenny?’

‘Good days, bad days.  I thought this was a good day, and suddenly I’m hallucinating again…’

‘No, you’re not, Jenny, you’re fine.   I asked you here because I have a job for you.’

‘Me? You do know nobody will employ me? Go off sick with stress-related depression these days, you never work again!’

Her voice was sharp, full of the knives of her past, and as she lifted a hand to push her pre-Raphaelite hair away from her face I saw traces of scarring on her wrist.  Sometimes, I really didn’t like my work.

‘Would you like a coffee, cup of tea?’

‘No, thanks. Have to watch my caffeine intake, just in case it sets me off. So, what’s this job, then?’

‘It’s just flat-sitting, really.  Full board, a small wage. Somewhere warm.’

‘Good… one of the things they say makes me ill is British winters. So dark and cold!’

‘That’s settled, then.’

‘When do I start?’

‘We’ll be in touch.  Good luck.’

*

Kostas shook his head.  He’d been walking… he’d been interviewed for a job he knew nothing about…and now he’d woken up on the beach.  At least it was a beach he recognised, at the west end of Hersonissos, and about a mile from his lodgings. The sun was setting, and the air was cool. The surf shushed at the shore.  He scrambled to his feet, suddenly aware of the bite of shingle against his feet. His sandals were beside him, and he struggled up to a nearby slipway before putting them on.

It seemed to be that odd time of day where the afternoon tourists were gone and the evening ones not out yet. It wasn’t quiet, but neither was it busy, and certainly not so busy that he didn’t notice the flame-headed woman sitting on the wall at the side of the slipway.  She was closed in, shrinking to take up as little space as she could, he thought, looking forlorn and lost as she stared down at her feet.

‘Are you okay?’ he asked softly.

The girl looked up at the sound of his gentle voice.  She looked into blue-grey eyes that held kindness and somehow made her feel safe.

‘I’m lost,’ she said.  ‘I’m starting a new job today. Only I don’t know where to go… it’s up the hill at Hersonissos, only this is Hersonissos, isn’t it? And there’s no hill…  I’ve been walking for hours…’

‘Ah.  You see, it is Hersonissos… but there is also a village, up against the mountain, which is the real Hersonissos, here before Limenas Hersonissou – the port and the resort. So, if you have the address, I can walk you to the village, as I live in Piskopiano, not far away.’

‘Would… would you do that? It’s very kind…’

‘It’s no trouble.  What is your name? I am Kostas.’

‘Jenny.  Thank you, Kostas.’

It was only when she got up that he noticed she had a suitcase with her, tucked behind her against the wall. He took hold of it, glad it had wheels and he didn’t have to offer carry it; the village was a good walk away, and all of it uphill.

They broke their journey at a small blue and white bar, halfway between the sea and the villages on the hill, drinking beer to the soundtrack of a raunchy, twangy soft rock song. Jenny offered to pay, but Kostas refused.

‘No, it is my treat.’

‘But it’s not fair… you’ve been so kind…’

‘Then meet me for lunch tomorrow, and you can buy me a drink then.’

*

I knew how it was going to end, of course. The entire story of Kostas and Jenny’s romance, of how she confided in him that she’d had her heart broken once too often and it had broken part of her mind, she thought, too.  How Kostas would try to help, to save her from her demons, and they would have some good days, some happy moments.  But, ultimately, they were doomed.  Jenny was going to die and Kostas would be left with a small daughter to bring up and a huge sense of loss.

And now all I had to do was live with the knowledge that I’d brought them together, that I was responsible.

Sometimes I really don’t enjoy being a writer.

Song: ‘Bad Things’ by Jace Everett 2005

Monday Readtime - Flash Fiction today.

Hello.

Here is my entry for the Pudsey Library Writing Competition...

An Angel Returns to Pudsey

Having undertaken Pudsey’s previous semicentennial sweep, Leon had petitioned hard to do this one, too; he’d fallen in love with the little town.

Up here, on the rim of reality, he and his angel kindred had no physical form, existing as energy, intention, light, but as he gathered himself for the jump…

…and plummeted Earthwards, he felt himself change, solidify.  A body, limbs, hair…  And, of course, the wings…

Atmosphere, the top of the skies.  Newly acquired lungs sucked thin air, heart pumping. The air thickened, his wings snapped out, and Leon laughed, his senses soaring with joy.  He angled his pinions in for the drop Earthwards…

Three kilometres up, he slowed, stilled, hanging hawk-like in the sky.  Such change!  The town had spread and sprawled outwards, filling in the formerly-green fields.  He circled lazily, losing altitude.

Leon didn’t worry about being noticed.  Humankind rarely looked upwards these days – their lives weighed them down so much.  He extended his perceptions over the town… the mood was generally upbeat… some people struggling, most doing well.  The local tone was good.

He covered the skies, from Swinnow to Fartown, round to Owlcotes and over Troydale, making sure all was well before landing stealthily near Pudsey Park, sliding his wings away.

Leon glanced at his human reflection in the long library windows.  Tall and lithe, with coffee-coloured skin and cropped, dark hair, his eyes brown and his nose aquiline.  He wore trainers, jeans, a hoodie.  Hmm… fifty years ago, he’d worn a smart suit and proper shoes and a very different complexion.  The world had moved on.

His last visit had coincided with the library’s opening.  State-of-the-art glass frontage, sleek teak and fern wallpaper… he’d not been able to resist a look inside.  He envied humankind their books, the massed stories waiting for release…

The interior had changed.  The wallpaper had gone, but still there were shelves with books and he reached for one he recognised… Tolkien’s ‘the Hobbit’… A different edition, but the same title. He cradled it, stroked its covers with long fingers, inhaled its papery fragrance…  Reluctantly replacing it., he reached into the back pocket of his jeans, approaching the counter where the librarian looked at him over her spectacles.  He smiled.  Some things never changed.

He slid a tired paperback across to her.  ‘Sorry,’ he said.  ‘It’s a little overdue.’

Monday, Monday... Story time again...

Hello.
February, the shortest month, and halfway through, Valentine's Day.  With that in mind, today's story has a topical theme...

Valentine and Asterius

‘We’ve got ourselves a new guest, Asterius.  Take him this.’ Darius, her father, put the heel of a loaf and a strip of dried fish on a wooden platter and thrust it into her hands. ‘I’ll  give you water, too. He’s in the one at the end.’

‘What’s he like, why’s he here?’ she asked, her empty blue eyes bright with curiosity as Darius filled a wooden beaker with water and balanced it on the platter.

‘He won’t hurt you, but don’t get too close.’  Her father’s eyes crinkled at the edges, his way of smiling.  She couldn’t see, of course, not any more, but she could hear it in his voice. She hadn’t always been sightless. ‘Tell him – mind this, now – tell him the food will do him good.’

‘The food will do him good,’ she repeated in a sing song voice.

‘He’s the only one you’re to talk to,’ Darius said, a stern note creeping into his voice as she trotted off.  ‘They’re all a bad lot we’ve got now, except for him. Sooner we get rid of them, the better…’ 

He sighed.  Of course they were a bad lot.  It was a prison, wasn’t it?

Down a flight of cold stone steps, her bare feet making but a whisper as she went, Asterius carried the platter, her shoulder brushing against the wall to help her find her way. Past three doors on the left, and at the end of the corridor she reached another door set in the stone.

Setting down the platter – she needed both her small hands to move the huge bolts on the door  – she shot the bolts back with a resounding, echoing clank and clunk and shoved against the thick oak planking until it creaked open far enough for her to ease herself in.  Pressing her back against the cold wall of the cell, she listened intently for the clank of chains that would suggest the prisoner was looking at her. But there was nothing, no sound to guide her, so she remembered where in the cell the chains fastened to the wall, and turned her face in that direction.

 ‘Asterius, am I,’ she said, because even if he was a prisoner, still, her father had told her to always be polite.  ‘My father sent me with food for you…’

‘Food, you say?’

You could tell a lot about someone from the voice; this voice was well-spoken, wary. Automatically she turned towards the corner where she’d heard it.

‘He says - my father – that it – the food – will do you good…’

She backed out of the room and found the platter, pushing it across the floor towards him.

‘Can you reach?’

‘Thank you, Asterius, I have it. I’m called Valentinus. Please thank you father,’ he went on, and she heard something like a smile in his voice, ‘for the fish, and the bread.’

She nodded, but made no move to go.  ‘I’m to wait for the dish, and the cup,’ she told him.

 ‘Then please, get comfortable, he told her.  ‘If you can.’  He broke the bread in two.  ‘Would you like some?’ he asked.

‘No, thank you,’ she replied, lowering herself to sit cross legged on the ground. ‘It’s just for you.’

She couldn’t see what he was doing, of course, and so was unaware that he folded his hands and closed his eyes, his lips moving silently for a moment before he began to eat slowly, sipping at the water in between bites.

‘What did you do?’ Asterius blurted out, too full of curiosity to keep silent.

He paused in his meal and looked at her; it was obvious that she was blind; her open, blank blue eyes were bright and glinting with interest as they danced to their own rhythm in her small face. She couldn’t be more than about fifteen, her dark her long and tied only loosely back from her face, a smudge of ash or cinder on her chin and her clothes tidy, but grubby. He found he wanted to talk to her.

‘Ah, yes.  What did I do?’ He took a bite of fish and chewed at it.  ‘Well, I disobeyed the Emperor…’

She gasped.  ‘Why would you do that?’

‘I know,’ he replied.  ‘I did it because to obey His Imperial Majesty Claudius II would have been to disobey someone far, far more important…’

‘But there isn’t anyone more important than…’ She thought for a moment, her young brow creasing with effort. Oh. Maybe there was someone more important than the Emperor. ‘You mean his Imperial Mother?’

The prisoner laughed.

‘No, not his mother! You see, I’m a priest…’ He could confess it freely, the meal of bread and fish and the message Asterius had delivered from the jailer had been a sign that he was amongst sympathisers, ‘and Claudius has just decreed that young men cannot marry…’

‘But why does he mind it?’

‘He thinks he’ll get better soldiers from men who don’t have wives and children to worry about.’

‘But that’s silly! Wouldn’t they fight harder, so they can get back home to them safely?’

  ‘You would think so. But the Emperor doesn’t, and when he found out I was still performing marriages…’

‘What will happen to you?’ she asked. 

He fell silent, taking his time and chewing, chewing remainder of the fish. When he didn’t answer, Asterius flushed, and dropped her head to the ground.  Yes; she was a jailor’s daughter, she knew the sort of thing that was going to happen to him.

‘It’s not fair!’ she blurted out, and, forgetting she was meant to stay for the platter and cup, pushed herself up off the floor and fled from the room.

She repeated it again to Darius.  ‘It’s not fair!’

‘Don’t go in again, if it upsets you,’ he told her. 

But she did.

The night was long in passing.

It was cold in the cell, and the straw made but a thin mattress. The iron shackle on his ankle was cold and the chain clanked. One of the men in a nearby cell spent several hours of the night moaning and weeping and swearing. Valentinus crossed himself and prayed for the man, for himself, and then added prayers for the jailor, who was not an unkind keeper, and his sightless daughter, with her bright, enquiring, empty eyes.  He dozed at last, waking chilled and aching and stiff in the grey morning, hearing the far-off clank and shunt of bolts being drawn and doors opening. He pushed himself up off the floor and tried to ease the soreness out of his back.

Finally, the bolts on his own cell were drawn and he looked at the door expectantly.

It was Asterius, bringing more food and dragging a little, three legged stool into the cell so she could sit and talk to him instead of standing.

‘Tell me,’ she asked.  ‘Tell me why you kept on making people married when you knew…’

‘Ah…’ Valentinus thought for a moment before speaking. ‘Well, my cousin Julia was about to marry her soldier when the decree came.  But, you see, so sure had she been that they would marry, that he’d talked her into not waiting until they actually were married… so she’d already fallen into sin.  Not to marry would have made her sin far, far worse…’

He took a bite of the bread she’d set down for him.

‘So you did it to help her?’

‘To help her? To save her, really.  News spread, of course, and soon another couple came to me…’  He smiled and sighed at the same time.  ‘And then another…’

And more and more had come to him, and however hard he had pressed upon them the need for secrecy yet, still, somehow word had got out and they’d come for him, dragged him from his quiet home and before the Emperor, dragged him down to the jail with the threat of death over his head.  Not that he minded, not for himself. He had done all he could to be a good follower of his god, and he was sure of his future reward. It was just that the longer he lived, the more folk he could bring to the true way, the more folk he could save from sin.

‘And for that, you’re going to die? That’s not… it’s…’

‘That’s how it is,’ he said, and she clattered back the stool and fled the cell, her arm grazing the doorframe as she left.

But of course, she went back.

‘What is it, about this god of yours?’ she asked, and he began to tell her, a little every day. After three days, he told her a miracle story, about how the lame had been made to walk… and stopped abruptly.  He had been about to speak of how the blind had been made to see, also, but it would have been cruel to tell her. Instead, he chose a different topic.

            ‘Tell me, Asterius, how did your sight leave you? Do you know?’

            ‘Oh, that’s one of my favourite of Father’s stories,’ she said with an oddly happy smile on her face.  ‘You see, my mother died when I was born and Father raised me. When I was little, he says, I was the prettiest child ever, perfect, and the priestesses came from the temple.  They all agreed a little girl as pretty as I was had to be sent to serve the Goddess. My father didn’t want to part with me, but they said that was silly, and the Goddess wanted me because I was so perfect. That night…’ Asterius lowered her voice dramatically, ‘that night, there was an outbreak of the sickness. Many little children died.  I was spared, but it left me with eyes all empty.  When the priestesses came back, I was no longer perfect and they didn’t want me. So, while it’s sad that I can’t see, my father says it’s proof that I wasn’t meant for the Goddess and it’s a good thing because I was able to stay with him. That’s a miracle, isn’t it, like the ones you told me your God makes?’ she ended brightly, happily.

Valentinus smiled.  The jailor was a good man, good enough to not abuse his prisoners, good enough to make up a story to save his daughter pain. He didn’t doubt there had been illness that had taken Asterius’ sight, but the rest? He wasn’t so sure.

The next day, she had chosen to sit beside him, her shoulder companionably close to his, and she asked him again about his beliefs in her light, curious voice.

He was part way through a story when, unusually, she interrupted him.

‘Valentinus, you know that story about the man who was lame?’

‘Yes, Asterius? What of it?’

‘Do you think he felt, well, a bit odd at first? After he was healed?’

‘What do you mean?’

And she turned and looked at him.

For a moment, they just stared at each other. But as a smile grew on his face, so, also, on hers. Her bright eyes had stopped their odd dancing movements and now were focussed, direct.

‘What do you see?’ he asked.

‘I hardly know! I… there is sun shining on the floor from a place high up in the wall.  There is dust dancing…’ She thrust out her arms in front of her.  ‘These are my hands!’ She turned her head towards him.  ‘And this is you? Valentinus?’

He nodded, his heart full of praise for the miracle.  ‘This is me.’

The days began to run past them, now that Asterius could see again. Valentinus asked for pen and ink and hide, and sketched and wrote and drew for Asterius to explain his stories, and each day, she drew closer, and each time, Valentinus felt fonder of her bright, inquisitive glance and the days made weeks of themselves and it seemed as if the whole world had forgotten about him, the whole world except for his god and his jailor and his jailor’s daughter.

It was inevitable, of course, that they should fall in love, because who else was there for them to fall in love with? and in their delight in each other and in the miracle of Asterius’ regained sight, they almost forgot where they were.

But one morning, Asterius danced down the passage to the cells and found the one at the end empty. The blanket was folded neatly against the wall, the writing materials stacked carefully beside it, but Valentinus was gone.

‘Asterius.’

The voice was her father’s, and he put his big hand on her shoulder gently while she stood and stared and stared and stared at the empty place where Valentinus had been.

‘They came last night for him. Claudius offered him a pardon, if he would but give up his faith…’

‘He wouldn’t do that,’ Asterius said in a low voice. ‘Not for anything, he wouldn’t do that…’

‘He didn’t.  He left you this…’

Into her hand, Darius pressed a letter; she looked at it as blankly as if she were blind again, her eyes moving restlessly over the words until she came to the ending: ‘Do not forget,’ he had written, ‘your Valentine.’