Windmills in the Mist

By Robert William Saul Harvey

Completely re-written and re-edited.

I make no apology for the slow start as it is meant to reflect Carole’s slow, boring life, a life that changes as various events unfold.

After her employer vacates this life, strange feelings begin to interfere with Carole’s normal routine, which she tries to maintain as far as possible whilst all around her own private bubble is being is being slowly dragged into the real world—a world she has always tried to remain isolated from.

And,
Her new employer does not help matters. Far from it.

A host of suppressed, half-forgotten, doubts, fears and suspicions slowly begin to surface, revealing answers to something so...!

Oh!
Why could things not remain the way they were before—before all this happened?

The worst thing about being the subject of someone’s infatuation is; not knowing you are the subject!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert William Saul Harvey
• Release date: Apr 16, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311125231

Robert William Saul Harvey

Robert was born in 1949 in the small Scottish hamlet of Douglas West, Douglas in Lanarkshire, but moved to England when his father, a miner, had to move south for a job.Having left school at the age of fifteen, without any qualifications whatsoever, he started work in a small engineering firm. He soon got fed up coming home covered in dirty grease and having a spotty face so, after six months, decided that engineering was not for him. With nothing to lose, he ran away to sea, so to speak. He joined the Merchant Navy and happily spent three and a half years travelling the world and getting paid for it!Meeting his future wife at the age of nineteen convinced Robert to leave the sea and settle down. There were not many jobs around for a nineteen-year-old and he ended up doing bar/cellar work until deciding to get married at the age of twenty. That was when he joined the Royal Air Force, in which he spent nine years as a Clerk Secretarial, attaining the rank of Corporal before leaving in 1979.After applying for various jobs, Robert finally got one with the National Coal Board in a colliery Stores Department. Ok, this would do him for a while, whilst he looked around for something better. Thirty years later, as a Supply and Contracts Manager, he retired from the Coal Industry at the age of fifty-nine and now has an allotment where he plays at growing vegetables (very nice they are too), and spends his spare time dabbling on his laptop; bliss.Now, with seven books on Smashwords, an eighth under construction, and number nine in the pipeline, who knows where it will stop?Second in the series, Beryl's Pup is now also available.

Book preview

Prologue

Early morning:

It looks cool and damp outside my window.

My instinct is to stay in bed but I’ve been awake for more than an hour and I can’t settle.

It’s no good.

Time to get up and do something.

It’s too early to go to work.

So.

Only one thing for it—get my ass out of bed and go for a walk.

The sun has not yet risen above the surrounding hills.

The pre-dawn glow would be enough to see by if it were not for the thick mist hugging the bottom of the valley.

It will be at least another hour before the sun climbs high enough in the sky to cast its warmth upon the valley and burn the dirty gray mist away.

Warm clothes will keep the early morning chill at bay.

Being waterproof, the heavy overcoat keeps me dry and the multi-colored pom-pom hat keeps my ears warm and mittens do the same for my hands. Thick woolen socks and stout walking boots protect my feet.

On my back, a medium backpack holding nothing more than a cheese and tomato sandwich, wrapped in grease-proof paper, and a flask of hot black coffee.

Visibility is less than ten feet, yet above, I see clear blue sky—sky which stresses the deep gloomy stillness surrounding me.

I take a deep breath and make my way across a metal cattle grid spanning the full width of the narrow country lane. There is no pedestrian gate to enable one to circumvent the grid. Some mindless moron of a planner had forgotten to make provision for pedestrians!

I reach the other side of the grid without crippling myself and walk up the steep incline, each step taking me nearer to the clearer air above the swirling mist.

As I near the top of the rise, I stop and stare in wonder.

Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.

The sounds come, one at a time, a fleeting instance of silence between each.

As each Whoosh assaults my eardrums, I stare at the sight of something I’d often seen whilst walking along this road but which never ceases to amaze me; the tip of a giant blade, belonging to one of those monstrous, electricity-generating windmills, swirls overhead.

Whoosh.

I guess, four or five feet of each blade arcs up above the mist, curves over and dives back into the mist, before the following blade rises.

After watching the spectacle for a few moments, I carry on walking towards the summit. The higher I go, the more swirling blades appear.

Within minutes, these things fill my sight.

The noise is virtually unbearable.

Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.

I stand in awe, covering my ears with my hands.

What a wondrous sight it is, watching those windmills in the mist…

Chapter 1

Gasping for breath, Carole turned the shower off and climbed out of the bath.

She allowed her back to slide down the cool tiled wall, sat on the soft bath mat and drew her knees up to her chest.

Wrapping her arms around her knees, she leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes.

A low groan escaped from her lips.

Ugh.

Counting to fifty, she inhaled between each count of ten, exhaling on the count of eight.

It helped.

A little.

As she counted, she suppressed the nausea threatening to expel the contents of her stomach and splatter them over the bathroom carpet.

Satisfied she was in control, she allowed herself to relax.

Oh sod it, she muttered through clenched teeth. I’ll never touch a drop again. I promise. Just let me feel better, please!

The God of Hangovers must have heard her plea.

Her muscles eased their steel-like grip on her internal organs and she relaxed enough to allow her to doze, but a sudden violent shiver shook her awake.

Because she had not dried herself after getting out of the shower, the old rule of ‘evaporation causes cooling’ had kicked into play and lowered her skin temperature.

Her teeth chattering, she forced herself to get up from the floor, steadying herself by holding onto the edge of the bath.

When a fresh wave of nausea gripped her body, she lurched across the short distance to the toilet pan, and made violently sick.

After what seemed like an eternity of heaving and retching, with her stomach muscles trying to shove her intestines up into her throat and the rest of her insides trying to climb up after them, the unbearable pain of her overworked diaphragm cried out for relaxation.

She allowed herself to sink onto the bath mat, gasping for breath.

A few tears rolled down her cheeks.

She wiped the back of her right hand across her mouth and shuddered at the sour taste of vomit.

Shaking her head and shivering, she muttered, You daft sod, you know you can’t hold your drink. You bloody stupid cow.

Instinct made Carole raise her head.

Someone stood in the doorway, watching her.

She squinted at the out of focus, matronly figure of her mother, Freda, standing with hands on hips, a disapproving look on her face.

Freda made sad as she shook her head

I didn’t hear you come upstairs, whispered Carole, almost gagging from the effort of talking.

I should think not, said Freda, her voice bossy. With all the noise you were making, you wouldn’t have heard a herd of wild elephants in hobnail boots running up the stairs. Now, get yourself dried-off before you catch your death of cold. You look frozen.

She handed her daughter a large white bath towel, having taken it from the heated airing cupboard on the landing.

Then you can get yourself dressed and come downstairs, she added without a hint of sympathy. We’ll see what we can do about your hangover.

She made a heavily exaggerated sigh and frowned, shaking her head again in mock disapproval.

Freda knew exactly how Carole must be feeling because she had been in the same state herself on more than one occasion, when she was much younger of course, although, to tell the truth, not frequently.

As she turned and walked down the hallway, towards the stairs, Freda ‘tut tutted’ to herself, but made sure it was loud enough for Carole to hear.

A slight smile played at the corners of her mouth.

‘She’ll learn one day, maybe,’ she thought.

Carole sighed and gratefully wrapped the warm towel around her cold body before trying to stand up without setting off another bout of sickness.

Once she had shuffled slowly back to her bedroom, Carole did not turn the radio on as she would normally do, fearing her brain might explode at the sound of the stupid Irish guy spouting his usual overly cheerful drivel.

She sat down in her big comfortable armchair by the window and pulled the large bath towel tight around her body whilst also cuddling her favorite cushion to her stomach.

With her eyes closed, she tried to will-away the painful pounding in her head and the sickly feeling in her stomach, but failed miserably.

Moaning, quietly this time, in case her mother should hear—ears like a hawk she had, or is it, eyes like a hawk?

What the bugger does it matter?

‘Perhaps I ought to make the effort to get dressed?’

Dressed?

Really?

Work?

Joking!

Ha!

Not this morning.

Her body was not ready for work.

Not by a long way, mate.

This had to be the perfect time for throwing a sickie.

But,

The thing is; Carole is not the type of person to shirk off work for something as silly as a hangover.

It would take more than this to stop her from going in to work!

Besides,

No one would bother her if she were to take a few minutes to feel sorry for herself.

She could not remember the last time miserable old Mister Jones had taken the trouble to find out what she was doing.

And,

Her mother would not allow her to stay in bed all day.

Neither would she allow her to wallow in self-pity in front of the TV.

I’m not having you getting under my feet all day, young lady, she would say. You’re the one who got out of her skull at your friend’s hen-do last night, not me. So, you’re the one who can suffer.

Carole curled her top lip in a smile-cum-snarl.

She knew her mother would give her no sympathy.

So,

Yes.

She would go to work.

Definitely…

Chapter 2

Carole! Are you dressed yet?

Freda’s voice sounded like thunder in Carole’s ears, boring into her subconscious, forcing her out of her hangover-induced stupor.

Immediately, about half a million little men assaulted her head with big hammers, intent on destroying every living tissue inside her brain.

The muscles surrounding her skull went into spasm and made a vice-like grip on the fabric of her mind, squeezing until she felt as if her brain might be about to explode.

The slightest movement sent waves of searing pain through the back of her eyes and, apparently, out through her feet after traveling through every fiber of her body.

She gripped her head tight with both hands and made a silent scream whilst holding her body rigid and pushed herself against the back of the chair, afraid to move for fear of starting yet another spasm.

As the pain eased, she groaned inwardly and squinted at the clock on her bedside drawers, ‘Oh damn. Is it that time already?’

Okay, Mom, she called hoarsely. I’m up and ready.

Her voice sounded as if it were being dragged over a sheet of rough sandpaper. The effort of speaking started her muscles complaining again.

‘That’s not my voice, is it?’

She made a frown and immediately regretted it.

‘I sound like some haggard old cow calling from the depths of Hell. Surely, it must be someone else speaking?’

She wondered whether her mother had heard her.

She must have done, because she heard no comment from downstairs.

Sleep reached out and tried to drag her back down into its comforting depths. All she had to do was let go.

No.

This’s no bloody good, she moaned.

Struggling to pull herself back into the world of today, she pushed herself up from her oh-so-cozy armchair and, for fear of triggering further headaches and sickness, took care as she pushed the window open.

She gulped down lungs-full of cool, fresh air, which went some way to revitalize her tortured body, and got dressed.

Underwear.

Stuff the bra; she had little energy with which to fight those stupid fastenings.

Panties only.

Sweater, jeans and an old pair of trainers, which had seen better days, no socks—it would take too much effort to get them on.

She dragged a comb through her hair, staring at her sad reflection in the dressing-table mirror, and made a face as she drew a finger along the ugly old scar stretching in a curve below her left cheek.

She shuddered at the memory of how she gained the scar and put it out of her mind.

‘What a stupid state to get into. What an absolute shit!’

Twice, she had to sit down on the bed for a moment, before she fell down.

The fresh March air coming in through the open window helped her to stay awake.

Deep breaths and slow movements would definitely be the order of the day.

Getting downstairs was an effort.

Besides blurred vision turning the simple act of walking downstairs into a dangerous act, each step seemed to jar her brain and amplify the gigantic headache which had blessed her.

Think: Big Ben chiming inside her skull.

Nothing left in her stomach, but no one had told her stomach this. Suddenly it lurched when she was only halfway down the stairs.

Luckily, she stopped herself from being sick by sitting down on the stairs and cuddling her knees up to her chest.

She pulled her stomach muscles tight and held her breath until the feeling went away…

***

Tea and toast were ready waiting for Carole when she eventually made it into the kitchen.

Freda made herself busy tidying up the already neat room, leaving Carole to get on with her breakfast, but not before making a disapproving ‘clicking’ sound with her tongue.

Carole sat at the small kitchen table and made a face at the sight of margarine melting on the hot toast.

She picked up the mug of steaming tea and took a careful sip. The hot liquid made its presence felt as it made its way down her raw throat.

Again, she pulled a face.

A cartoon bear smiled back at her from the side of her mug, not the least bit sorry for her.

Tough.

Once she had helped herself to a glass of cold orange juice and two paracetamol tablets, followed by two mugs of now tepid tea and half a slice of cold toast, Carole felt better. Even the pounding in her head eased.

Perhaps the paracetamol were working already, or just the effect of having something in her stomach.

At least her stomach no longer wanted to throw everything back out again.

‘It might be a good idea to take some of those tablets to work with me,’ she thought.

She grabbed the packet of tablets and stuffed it into a pocket of her blue denim jeans.

The insurance man’s coming tonight and I don’t have any money left. Carole’s mother made a ‘sorry’ face. Could you pay him for me this week, dear? I’ll pay you back later.

Carole looked up at her mother.

Mmmm, sure, she said. My wallet is in the top drawer of my bedside cabinet. Help yourself.

She tried to raise a smile but managed only a lop-sided grimace when a sharp pain shot up her left cheek, past her ear and into the top of her head.

Freda made concerned.

You look like death warmed up, she said. Are you sure you feel well enough to venture outside? Maybe it’d be best if you didn’t go to work today. You don’t have to go, you know. Mister Jones won’t mind. I doubt if he’d even notice.

‘What’s this? Sympathy?’ wondered Carole.

No. I’ll be Fine, Mom, she said, with a weak smile. I’ve had a couple of paracetamol and I’ve got more in my pocket. I’ll be bright and breezy in a while, you wait and see. Besides, a walk in the fresh air will do me the world of good, blow the cobwebs away and wake me up.

Although she tried to look cheerful, Carole inwardly groaned as the little men with the big hammers pounded away on the inside of her skull.

Think: Blacksmiths and anvils.

It’ll get the blood circulating if I do some weeding around the garden, she added.

Well, if you say so dear, said Freda, doubtful about the wisdom of her daughter’s decision. Mind you keep wrapped up in this chilly wind, it’s enough to cut you to the quick out there. You look as though you might be coming down with something as it is. The two boys next door have got the flu awful bad. If you go down with it, I don’t think I could cope with running up and down stairs every five minutes.

Freda Wilson, a large, well-rounded woman, at fifty-six years old, with graying hair, looked a grandmother before her time although she had no grandchildren. With a round, plump face, tired, brown eyes and narrow lips, she appeared to be always deep in worried thought. However, her mind was as alert as her own mother’s mind had been. A hint of a Scottish accent emerged only on certain words, inherited from her parents who had originated from Edinburgh.

Carole made careful as she rose from the table and took her fleece-lined weatherproof coat from the hook behind the kitchen door.

I’ll be all right, Mom, she said. It’s just a hangover from last night’s party, that’s all.

Freda fussed with the zipper on her daughter’s coat.

Humph. I don’t know what you youngsters get up to with all this drinking. Before you know it, you’ll end up being an alcoholic or a drug addict or something. Then where will we be? Eh?

Carole took a step back and brushed away her mother’s fussing hands.

Don’t be silly, Mom. I’m thirty-three years old. Not what you’d call a youngster by any means. And I’ve no intention of ending up as a drunk. I hardly ever touch the stuff. I bet it was last Christmas when I had a glass of sherry next door, and the odd Stout now and again, same as you do. And another thing—I’ve never taken drugs in my life. I’m not about to start either.

She fumbled with the zipper on the front of her coat whilst assuring her mother, I’m quite capable of doing this up myself. Must dash now. I’ll see you later. ‘Bye.

With a quick wave of a hand, Carole ducked out of the door before her mother could utter another word…

Chapter 3

The ‘wind’ Freda had mentioned was only a gentle breeze. It blew cool, but not the howling gale Freda had made it out to be.

Anyway, on such a pleasant day, one should be out of doors, not cooped up in a stuffy house, with a hangover.

As she walked along the road, Carole ticked off the chores that needed doing now spring had sprung, so to speak.

The small swimming pool at the rear of Mister Jones’ cottage would need emptying and cleaning. She did this in early March, and here it was already past the middle of the month. The pool, left empty all winter and covered by a thick plastic sheet to keep dirt, leaves and rain out, might need cleaning out. Dirt had a way of working its way under the cover. Knowing Mister Jones, he would want to see it spotless and filled with clean water, chlorinated, so he could sit beside it drinking an ice-cold beer whilst reading one of those mucky magazines about which he thought Carole knew nothing.

The old man never swam in the pool nowadays. In fact, Carole had never known him to swim in it. She even doubted if he could swim. Still, he liked it kept clean.

It doesn’t do to have a dirty swimming pool, he would say. What would the neighbors think?

It never seemed to occur to him how, the nearest neighbors could not see his pool. They would need to climb onto the roof of their house and use a pair of binoculars. There was also the problem of a row of tall conifers, plus an entire field, between the two properties.

Next, there was the small conservatory. Although Carole considered the conservatory to be part of the house, not the garden and thought the ‘Daily’ should be the one to look after it, Mister Jones insisted it was part of the garden and Carole had to keep it clean throughout the spring, summer and early fall. She also had to make sure she stored the patio accessories inside for the winter.

So, clean out the conservatory, wash down the patio equipment, table and chairs, and arrange them on the patio. How the old man liked. He wanted everything positioned to his satisfaction, else he was apt to fly into one of his ‘tantrums’.

Not a pretty sight.

Think: Screaming Banshee!

Eighty-four-year-old Mister Jones was a bit of an oddball, in Carole’s opinion. He could be somewhat of a tyrant, when he wanted to be. However, she was used to his ways and tended not to take much notice of his sharp words or his sulky moods.

He did not poke his nose in much nowadays, left her to get on with things at her own pace.

Still, she was wary of him.

She could not but help feel slightly—what?

Afraid?

Or, perhaps, a touch apprehensive?

She got the impression there was something hidden away behind those stern bird-like features, something she could not quite put her finger on.

When he had his ratty head on, she would just smile sweetly and agree to do whatever he wanted doing, within reason of course. After all, he was paying her, not much granted, so she saw no point in arguing with him.

‘Miserable sod.’ She smiled to herself. ‘The old goat’s not happy unless he’s miserable.’

She continued with her list of things to do.

The grass needed mowing.

The first cut of the year. Not again for two or three weeks to allow time for it to perk up.

Put the cuttings into green plastic bin liners and stack them by the front gate, ready for the bin men to collect on Tuesday.

Mister Jones disliked bonfires. He had made Carole decommission the compost heap when he decided they should turn the vegetable garden into a lawn.

I can get vegetables from the shop and a lawn is much more pleasant to look at, he had said. Don’t like all those decaying plants and weeds everywhere.

And that was an end to it.

Besides, Carole would rather look after lawns and flowers than vegetables.

The flower borders around the edge of the patio, along both sides of the long paved path leading to the potting shed, needed weeding and the borders digging over. Keep them weeded until the middle to end of May or the beginning of June, depending on the weather, ready for planting the begonias, marigolds and geraniums which Mister Jones liked so much.

There were a dozen hanging baskets to sort out, filled with new moss and compost. She would hang them from a beam in the potting shed and there they would remain until May.

She would take a trip to the garden center just outside the village and buy some trailing geraniums, petunias and fuchsias—Mister Jones insisted on fresh plants every year and made her remove all the old ones come winter.

He might be tight with his money, especially when it came to paying Carole’s wages, but he was happy to fork out for new plants and flowers every year.

The only exceptions to his new plant philosophy were the two Bleeding Hearts, one red the other white, both of which made vivid displays of hanging flowers when in full bloom down at the bottom end of the garden, beyond the swimming pool, but still in full view of the conservatory.

Mister Jones insisted she kept the two Bleeding Hearts and made sure she cared for them, with plenty of water and plant food. She would cut them right back at the end of July and make sure there were no weeds anywhere near them during the growing season. They had already pushed up through the soil, so she needed to make sure she checked them when she reached the cottage.

‘Perhaps I ought to turn the soil over around them.’

She shuddered when another thought crept into her mind.

‘I hope he doesn’t come into the garden today. This hangover’s bad enough without him whining on about algae in the swimming pool or slime on the patio.’

Carole shrugged to herself and pushed the thought from her mind.

With the breeze blowing through her short, dark brown hair and the early spring sun shining from an almost cloudless sky, surprised by how much her hangover had eased, she felt better in herself although there was a long way to go before the hangover would disappear completely.

She thrust her hands deeper into her pockets and hunched her shoulders.

‘I’ll have another couple of those tablets when I reach the shed,’ she thought.

She had a slight spring in her step as she walked through the village.

Monday mornings, or ‘Muddle-day mornings’ as she preferred to think of them, were usually dreary affairs during the winter months.

Carole classed March as being a winter month because it was never warm enough or dry enough to be classed as spring.

Not in her mind.

This Muddle-day would not be any different.

At least, with this gardening job, she was her own boss. She could please herself what hours she worked and on which days, within reason. She only had to contend with Mister Jones on the few occasions he ventured out into the garden, usually when he was in a poor mood and he wanted to moan about something or other.

The weather forecast for the coming week did not look promising; Showers and a cold northerly wind.

Perhaps she would only do three days this week and make a long weekend of it come Thursday.

‘That’s not a bad idea.’

She turned the corner into Farm Lane and walked along the unpaved and uneven road. It was little more than a dirt track, winding its way between two overgrown hedgerows and around a small copse, before passing by the front of Mister Jones’ cottage.

From then on, the lane dipped downhill towards a stream and crossed a ford, usually fairly deep after prolonged rain, only passable in a tractor or one of those big four-by-four SUV things.

One could cross the stream on foot via a few slippery stepping stones someone had set up in the dim and distant past, using old curb stones.

The lane then climbed uphill towards some woodland which covered the surrounding area. This is where the lane disappeared from view.

Carole, going no farther than the cottage, carefully skirted around many potholes full of muddy water lying in wait for the unwary.

The fresh air must have done her good.

Her headache made only a dull continuous throb by this time.

The sick feeling in her stomach had diminished, and she only felt slightly queasy now, although she felt dizzy if she moved her head too quickly in any direction.

If she concentrated on looking down at the ground in front of her, it was not so bad.

As she followed the lane around the small copse of ash trees on the left-hand side, the picturesque cottage came into view—it had originally been a farmhouse, but the rest of the old farm buildings, had long since been demolished.

Carole smiled at the sight of a white cat sitting on the corner pillar of the garden wall.

Caspar, the cat, belonged to an old lady whose property backed onto the old man’s property, was a regular visitor.

Hi, puss, she said to the cat.

The cat said nothing.

Carole made to say something else, but stopped in her tracks and gasped in surprise when she caught sight of a police car and an ambulance, both complete with flashing blue lights, parked at the far end of the lane by the main entrance to the cottage grounds.

Fate…

Chapter 4

It was awful, Mom. I didn’t know what to do, or what to say. I stood by the conservatory, looking like a right prat.

Carole, tears threatening to fill her eyes, peered across the kitchen table at her mother, her hands clasped in her lap, trembling.

Well, I wouldn’t have known what to say, either, soothed Freda. I mean, being told the old chap was dead. Just like that. I would most likely have fainted on the spot. She paused for a moment before asking, Didn’t they tell you what caused it?

I don’t know, Mom. Carole shook her head and sighed. Someone muttered something about a stroke, but I’m not sure if they knew what they were talking about. I didn’t take in much of what was being said. I was so out of it. The police wouldn’t let me go into the house but I could see him through the window. He was just lying there, on the living room floor, and there was someone in one of those white paper suits kneeling over him. To me, it looked as if he’d tried to phone someone, maybe an ambulance or the doctor, because the handset was lying on the floor beside him. It wasn’t far from his hand. Someone mentioned an autopsy. Maybe they’re not sure themselves yet.

She nursed a mug of hot tea, both hands clasping it tight. She lifted the mug to her lips and took a sip, resting her elbows on the table.

With her head lowered, still in a state of shock, she shuddered. This caused the spoon in the sugar bowl to make a quiet tinkling sound as the table vibrated.

Freda sat opposite with her hands clasped in front of her, wearing a worried frown.

She said nothing.

I think I was in the way, really, Carole continued. No-one seemed to want to spare any time to talk to me. From what I could gather, the police didn’t think there was foul play involved. You know, murder. All they wanted to do was tie things up quickly and get back to their nice warm offices, I suppose.

Didn’t they ask you anything at all? asked Freda. They must have asked you some questions. The police always ask questions when someone dies. You see it all the time on the TV. Didn’t anyone want to know who you were?

Carole made a deep sigh and shook her head.

No. Not really. A uniformed policeman asked me why I was there. When I told him I worked there as a gardener, he asked for how long, what my name and address were, then he seemed to lose interest in me after he’d written something in his notebook.

Surely, they asked you more than that?

No. Just what I said. The policeman was a young lad, about twenty-odd years old. But it was just a routine to him. I mean, I was there, flesh and blood but nobody took much notice of me. I could easily have been a piece of the furniture. They didn’t even offer me a lift home. I was feeling like shit after last night’s party. As an afterthought, she added with a lopsided grin, At least my headache’s almost gone now, but I still feel queasy.

You poor dear. Freda leaned over and touched her daughter’s hand, showing affection. I’m sure they noticed you, really. I expect they were just too busy with all the things they have to do when someone dies sudden, like that. There must be quite a lot of paperwork involved.

Carole looked up at her mother’s concerned face and made a weak smile.

Yeah. I suppose so, she said. but at least the miserable assholes could’ve given me a lift home. That much wouldn’t have hurt them, would it? I had to walk all the way back on my own, thinking all kinds of horrible shit.

Carole lifted her mug