Collectanea Cygna

By Julie Swan

Collectanea Cygna is a collection of 25 short stories, ranging from humour to pathos, from fantasy to science fiction and time travel, and from love stories to tragedy. Each story is complete in itself. 

Travel back to the Second World War or forward to a virtual reality environment. Empathise with the loss of loved ones or rejoice in the finding of one’s true love. See inside the mind of a murderer or laugh at the antics of the newly retired. This book will take you on many journeys.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jun 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9781398477964

Julie Swan

Julie Swan’s background is an electronics engineer and mathematician, spending 20 years in industry, 10 years as a technical author. She began writing fiction after joining a local class. Julie is part of a local ladies’ writing group, Pink Ink, and writes articles and short stories, some of which have been published. Julie is now retired and has been recently widowed but has twin daughters and lives in a lovely spot between the New Forest and the sea.

Book preview

About the Author

Julie Swan’s background is an electronics engineer and mathematician, spending 20 years in industry, 10 years as a technical author. She began writing fiction after joining a local class. Julie is part of a local ladies’ writing group, Pink Ink, and writes articles and short stories, some of which have been published. Julie is now retired and has been recently widowed but has twin daughters and lives in a lovely spot between the New Forest and the sea.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to the memory of my husband, Robert, the inspiration for many of the stories included.

Copyright Information ©

Julie Swan 2023

The right of Julie Swan to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398477957 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398477964 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Keeping Watch

Elizabeth collapsed into the easy chair by the fire. The last guest had just left. Aunty Em’s funeral was over. A small affair; most of her contemporaries were gone now. Just as well really; the cottage wouldn’t have taken too many more than the ten or so people that had come back. There had been quite a few more at the church service and the graveside. Most of the village in fact. Aunty Em had been well‑known and loved.

For a few years now, Elizabeth’s thoughts of Aunty Em had been tinged with guilt that she hadn’t visited more often. After all, it wasn’t far to Walkhampton, only 15 miles or so and Aunty Em had been her only living relative. But whenever she had visited, she had stayed hours longer than she meant to, not only because Aunty Em was so welcoming, but also because Elizabeth felt so comfortable in the cottage. It meant that, much as she wanted to come, she often couldn’t find the time she knew it would take.

Now remorse battled with the guilt. She should have made the time. Elizabeth would have liked to have known Aunty Em better as an adult, hear all her stories, learn what she could about the family. She always thought there would be plenty of opportunity. And this might be the last time she would visit the cottage. Although it would probably be hers, there was little point in keeping it. A tiny one‑bedroomed cottage in the middle of a Dartmoor village wasn’t much use to a high‑powered television executive with a penthouse apartment in Plymouth and holiday home in France.

Elizabeth’s own life had been rather uneventful; no great passions, but then no great mistakes either. A working‑class upbringing, university, steady career, her lifestyle now she was in her early fifties was the envy of many of her friends. She had nothing to complain about. Her one possible regret was that she had never met her ‘other half’ and married and therefore never had children of her own. Oh, she’d had her share of lovers, but she would never have settled for second best. Her parents’ marriage had shown her what to look for in a life‑long relationship and she had never come close.

1

Everything was silent except for the satisfying ‘thunk’ of the grandfather clock by the door. Elizabeth had always loved that clock. Well, it was hers now, although she didn’t know how it was going to fit into her modern apartment. It wouldn’t be right there. Here, in the cottage, seemed to be the perfect place for it. The large wooden Napoleon clock on the dresser at the other end of the room would be wrong anywhere else too.

As she sat by the smouldering fire lit against the cold March day, Elizabeth looked around the room. The round dining table crammed into the corner under the front window was still covered with the detritus of the wake. She could remember perching precariously on cushions piled onto ladder-back chairs trying to reach her meals on that table when she was a toddler.

Aunty Em had moved here when her husband had died. Elizabeth barely remembered Uncle Fred; he had died in his early forties when Elizabeth was still small. Aunty Em had sold the farm but kept one of the cottages for herself.

‘Rose Cottage’ faced the village green, just around the corner from the church. Downstairs, it was one long narrow room with a lean‑to kitchen and a small garden at the back. A wooden, latched door led up the wooden stairs to just one bedroom and a bathroom. Bringing her favourite pieces from the farm, Emily had made it a cosy and peaceful, if slightly cramped, haven. She had become a leading light in the WI and the church rota and had spent her days doing anything she could to make other people’s lives easier.

The logs shifted in the fireplace, drawing Elizabeth’s attention to that side of the room. The chair was placed to get the best from the fire. On one side, she could see Aunty Em’s workbasket with her knitting protruding. On the other side, there was a small table with a book, a lamp and a coaster. Also on the table were Aunty Em’s rings and Uncle Fred’s pocket watch. Elizabeth picked all of them up. She considered putting the rings on her own hand but decided against it for the time being and put them back on the table. She studied the watch. She had not looked at it in detail since she was a child. Aunty Em had carried it with her since Uncle Fred’s death; not a usual thing for a woman to use but it gave her some comfort which Elizabeth had never fully understood. The undertaker had returned it and the rings to Elizabeth that morning and she had laid them on the table to think about later.

Sitting in the palm of her hand, the watch was about two inches in diameter. Opening the cover, she saw the familiar white face with its black roman numerals and hands. Closing the case again, she could see the fine tracery that formed intricate patterns on the outside. A heavy gold albert was threaded through the fob. Elizabeth had always been intrigued that there was no inscription on the inside of the cover where one would expect it. She assumed the watch had been inherited through the family somehow although, even though she’d asked, Aunty Em had never told her its history.

Although it was still quite early in the afternoon, the grey day and the emotional and physical demands of the funeral had taken their toll. Elizabeth sat staring into the fire, gently rubbing the watch case with her thumb. The only sounds were the clocks and the soft hissing of the fire. Elizabeth began to doze.

1

She was awoken by someone coming in the front door, straight into the living room.

Oh, hello, the intruder said. Are you our evacuee? Did Martha bring you straight here? I’m sorry, I should have met you at the church, but I was held up.

The woman was tall and well‑built and spoke with a West Country brogue. She was dressed most oddly in a cotton print dress with a wrap‑around apron over the top and a heavy cardigan that had seen much better days over the top of that. On her feet, she wore thick socks and sturdy work boots. Her dark brown hair was scraped back into a bun, and she wore no make‑up. But for all her strange appearance, she stood proudly, showing no lack of confidence. A look at her face showed that she was younger rather than older with a fresh, glowing complexion and no lines.

This all registered in a fraction of a second as Elizabeth stood unsteadily and faced the intruder. What did she mean evacuee? The woman obviously felt she had the right to be here, but Elizabeth didn’t recognise her at all. She hadn’t been at the funeral. Perhaps she had come to help clear away.

Elizabeth looked towards the table. It wasn’t there. At least the large round pedestal table she knew and loved wasn’t there. In its stead stood a utilitarian pine table with four corner legs. No white damask tablecloth, no cups and saucers, no left‑over food. Looking around the rest of the room, Elizabeth realised most of the furniture had changed. The dresser was gone. And the clocks. Most of what she could see was cheap wooden furniture and no frills. Even the chair she had risen out of wasn’t the chair she’d fallen asleep in. What was going on? How could anyone have stripped the house and brought all this in without waking her?

I’m sorry, she said tentatively, who are you? Why are you here? What has happened?

Oh, I’m sorry, my dear, jolting you out of you sleep like that, said the woman sympathetically. You must be exhausted. I hear it was quite a journey down from London, what with lines closed through the bombing and troop trains taking priority. I’m not surprised you’ve woken up not knowing what’s going on.

Elizabeth couldn’t understand the woman but thought it best to let her continue. ‘Always get as much information as you can before acting’ had been one of her most important tactics throughout her career. It could only serve her well now.

The newcomer placed the cardboard box she was carrying on the table and turned back to face Elizabeth. Why don’t we sit down and have a little chat, she said gently.

Elizabeth sat back in the chair she had vacated, and the young woman pulled up one of the hard chairs at the table to face her.

Well, I’m Emily Carter. My husband Fred has the farm just over the field at the back. This cottage belongs to the farm. We usually let it to our workers but since they’ve all gone off to war, we can offer it to evacuees. I understand you’ve had a really bad time in London. Martha told me you’d lost your home, all your possessions and all your family in one large raid and that you’ve not been well yourself since. Just come out of hospital, I understand. Martha said that you seemed a little lost some of the time. Don’t you worry, we’ll look after you now till you can stand on your own two feet again.

Emily Carter? With a husband Fred? And a farm. How could this be? Elizabeth was even more confused. She couldn’t trust herself to say anything and just stared at the young woman opposite her.

Emily reached across and took both of Elizabeth’s hands between her own. Finding the pocket watch, she placed it gently on the side table.

Now, this cottage is just for you, she told her. There’s only one bedroom upstairs and only this room down here. There’s a little kitchen out the back and the facilities, if you know what I mean, are out in the garden past that. There’s really only room for one person or a married couple so you won’t have to share. I came this morning to make the bed and light the fire so it would warm the place up a bit. And I’ve brought you some bits of food to keep you going. Some jam too. Martha gave me your ration books and they’re in the box. They were reissued because yours were destroyed when your house went up. And I understand you don’t have much in the way of clothes either, only what you’re wearing and what the hospital could spare. Lucky you were wearing such a decent outfit. Very elegant.

Elizabeth looked down at her own clothes. She was still wearing her funeral outfit, but it was a classic style. A dark grey tweed suit with a pleated skirt, pale grey cashmere jumper, white blouse and black flatties. Timeless.

The woman went on. When you feel up to it, we’ll take a trip into town – well, I mean Plymouth, it’s a city really, but we always call it town. Then we can see what we can get for you to wear. And I’m sure in the meantime I can find you a few rough clothes. You don’t want to ruin that nice outfit living here. Food‑wise, there’s no real problem. Mr Endersby in the village shop will give you all the standard ration but living on a farm makes things a lot easier, always eggs, milk and meat and veg, so we can let you have a little extra.

Emily gave Elizabeth’s hands a final pat and stood up. Well, my dear, think you can manage? If you don’t want to stay here alone, you can come to the farm for a while, but we are expecting more evacuees in a few days, and we’ll be really cramped for space then. How about it?

Elizabeth wanted time to think. She couldn’t do that with this woman talking. I’ll be fine, she muttered, hoping that the woman would leave.

Good, good. I’ll leave you to it then. The woman started towards the door. Now, if there’s anything you want, just find one of the village children and get them to bring a message. They all know Emily Carter. Get a good night’s sleep and I’ll call in tomorrow. And she left, closing the door behind her.

Elizabeth could make no sense of what had just happened. She didn’t appear to be dreaming, she felt fully awake. But she didn’t believe in ghosts either and that was surely what she had just seen. That must have been Aunty Em as she would have been during the war. And how could the cottage have changed so much? Standing and finding herself reasonably steady on her feet, she started to wander.

Everything appeared as she would imagine it would be like during the war. Basic furniture and not much comfort. Lighting was provided by gas‑mantle wall lamps. Rather than the modern kitchen, she remembered there was a large porcelain sink with only one tap, cold, and a gas copper with a mangle in the corner. There was also a simple two‑ringed gas cooker. The one large cupboard had a marble shelf for dairy and a meat safe. In other cupboards around the kitchen, she found flat irons, brushes and brooms, odd bits of cutlery and crockery (nothing matching) and various pots, pans and dishes. All in keeping with wartime living.

Practical as ever, Elizabeth went back to the main room and checked the contents of the box Emily had brought. There was a jug half‑filled with milk with a beaded lace cover, eggs, bacon, a loaf, small portions of cheese, butter and margarine, the promised jam and, contained in little twists of brown paper, a little tea and sugar. There was even a small piece of cake. Carrying the box through to the kitchen, she stored the dairy produce and meat and left the rest in the box until she had finished looking