Secrets In The Woods

By Pauline Garretty

Melissa is a 22 year old care home assistant, in the quiet town of Southwoods, Scotland. Her run of the mill life is transformed when she unexpectedly befriends Sarah, a mysterious resident at the care home. Her world is opened up to things she never knew existed, and her previous uneventful life becomes steeped in secrets, magic and dangerous excitement.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pauline Garretty
• Release date: Sep 21, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301240777

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Secrets In The Woods

by

P. S. Garretty

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 P.S. Garretty

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author

Cover Photo by AMQ Photography

Chapter 1

I had always found winter mornings difficult. Leaving the house and travelling to work when it was still dark just didn’t seem natural. I usually enjoyed my bus ride to Parkmore House, the care home where I work. It gave me time to gather my thoughts and ease into my day ahead. This morning however, the rain that was bouncing off the bus windows, made me desperately wish that I was back in my bed, in the comfort and cosiness of my bedroom. With my blackout curtains still drawn, and my heavy duvet pulled up so high that barely more than my nose stuck out, allowing me to just breathe and no more.

I didn’t have far to walk when I got off the bus, but even the short five minutes would be plenty of time for me to get drenched.

The bus windows had misted over, and a bit of condensation was starting to drip down the glass. With the steamed up windows and the early, winter morning darkness, it was difficult to see where we were on the bus route, but having made this same journey for over a year now, I knew that we were still about five minutes away from my stop; just enough time for me to send a quick text message to Michelle.

‘Still on 4 2nite? ’

She would still be at home, with her daily beautifying ritual well under way. She had started each day exactly the same way since the first time I met her eight years ago. She was the perfect example of a beauty therapist. Always immaculately made up, with hair that looked like she had just stepped out of a salon. Michelle was my best friend, and we did everything together. She was my only close friend really. I suppose that might sound a bit sad, and make me seem like a ‘Norma-no-mates’, but I had never been one for large groups of girlfriends. I guess I’m the kind of person that may seem shy at first, but I open up when I get to know people.

Tonight we had planned to meet for a quick bite to eat and then see a movie. There was a new bistro that had opened up not far from the cinema, and we had planned to check it out.

Realising that the bus was just about at my stop on Bridge Street, I made my way to the front of the bus. The doors opened and I was immediately hit with a gust of the icy wind that awaited me outside. I wrapped my coat and scarf tighter around me, and stepped out onto the pavement. As I made my short walk to Parkmore House, I longed for summer.

Southwoods, the town where I grew up and still lived, is beautiful in the summer. Being on the coast, the air was fresh and crisp, and the saltiness of the sea hung in the air. I longed for the early sun rises and the light nights, with the sun only setting around eleven pm. The longer, lighter days casts everything in a new light. Everything seems brighter. Simply waking up to the sunshine makes each day ripe with opportunity and hope.

Rounding the corner I could see Parkmore, with its red sandstone walls and sash windows. It was still a beautiful building. Unlike so many of the old, traditional buildings in the area, this one still held most of the original features. It had been well looked after by Mr and Mrs Jenkins, the owners of the care home. Their plan had always been to make Parkmore feel more like a real home to the residents, rather than a care home. This was because Trina Jenkins’s mother had been their first resident when they opened the care home in 2001, and they had realised how well she had thrived in a homely environment.

In spring there would be hanging baskets of brightly coloured Petunias and Lobelia. Larger potted plants, equally as colourful, would line the stone pathway leading to the main entrance of the house. Mrs Jenkins – Trina – did a lot of the gardening herself, but the majority of the maintenance was done by the gardener.

I hurried round the back of the house to the back door, which was primarily used by staff. Opening the door, I was immediately welcomed by the warmth, the comforting morning smell of coffee and buttered toast. It was Sunday, which meant that the residents would be having their ‘treat’ breakfast, which was normally a small English breakfast. During the week the cook was under strict orders to provide wholesome and healthy meals, like porridge and vegetable soups. The food was pretty good by care home standards.

Occasionally if we were having a bit of a quieter night, Margaret, the cook, would sneak me a small plate of whatever was on the menu. It was the kind of food that Mum would cook for me. The kind of food that only mums can make.

After locking my bag and coat in the office, I nipped to the bathroom to try and redo my hair, which was damp from the rain and had come slightly loose in the gusts of wind outside.

Using my fingers I combed back my wavy, brown hair into a ponytail. It was easier to work with my long hair tied back. Looking at my reflection in the mirror, I pinched my cheeks to add a bit of colour to my pale skin. Satisfied with my appearance, I hurried to the kitchen to help with the breakfast preparations.

Morning Margaret, I said.

Morning Mel, the familiar red cheeks and sweat on Margaret’s brow, proof of a busy morning in the kitchen.

It always amazed me how she could scurry about the kitchen with such ease, given her relatively large size. Being only five feet tall, she was quite petite in height, but large in every other sense. Everything about Margaret was big, bold and loud. You couldn’t help but smile when she was around. Her limitless enthusiasm and exuberance seemed to mesmerise you so that you couldn’t help but stand and watch her.

This morning she had her shoulder length, dark hair tied back, with a few strands sticking to her damp forehead.

Without shifting her focus from the tray in the oven, she informed me, Mrs Gordon is not feeling up to coming down for breakfast this morning, and has asked if she can eat in her room. Could you take her meal up to her?

Sure. Is it all ready to go now?

Yes, the tray is on the counter beside the fridge. All it needs is the tea.

Ok, I’ll get that and take it straight up to her. I told her.

Great. Could you tell Sally to come in now, that everything is ready to go through to the dining room?

Will do, I said as I placed the teapot and cup onto the tray, and made my way out of the kitchen to find Sally. After passing on the message, I went upstairs with the tray of food for Mrs Gordon.

Sarah Gordon had been a resident at Parkmore since 2011. Unlike most of the other residents, her mind was still perfectly sharp, even at 83 years old. Her dainty body was simply struggling to keep up. She was not ill as such, she was simply unable to get about or care for herself without assistance. She had initially been quite reluctant to come to Parkmore, as she was such an independent woman, and had never relied on anyone to take care of her. She had lived