Tales Behind the Glass: Freefall and other stories

By Jill Warrener

Often quirky, containing unexpected, sometimes unnerving twists, these tales can catch the reader unawares. A lonely boy on holiday with his absent mother; an elderly lady still living in her exciting, wartime past; a kindly, old gentleman, trapped inside a body which no longer works; a teenage girl who finds she might possibly be capable of murder, the central characters spring to life in our imaginations as each short tale unfolds. Sometimes you are with the character, in first person, living their thoughts, sometimes you watch from a distance in third person. Sometimes you realise with a jolt that the time frame in which the story is set is not modern-day but is the 1960s, in others you are part of today’s world. Wherever they take you, these are stories that will leave you wondering and may knock you off-balance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Mar 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9781398494886

Jill Warrener

Jill Warrener was born and grew up in Bath. She graduated from Leeds University in 1975, with a degree in English. Following a two-year stint on VSO in Nigeria, she taught English and Drama in a comprehensive school in Surrey before moving with her family to her current address in a village just outside Bath. She writes short stories, both for children and adults, also poetry, and has completed one novel.

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About the Author

Jill Warrener was born and grew up in Bath. She graduated from Leeds University in 1975, with a degree in English. Following a two-year stint on VSO in Nigeria, she taught English and Drama in a comprehensive school in Surrey before moving with her family to her current address in a village just outside Bath. She writes short stories, both for children and adults, also poetry, and has completed one novel.

Dedication

For Trevor, who played the piano, and Violet, who listened and sang her own tune.

Copyright Information ©

Jill Warrener 2024

The right of Jill Warrener 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 9781398494879 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398494886 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2024

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

I would like to thank my husband, Stuart, for his dedicated support, and my sister, Linda, for her unwavering faith.

Leaving Johnny on the Hill

Ten-thirty: Bernice took her blue mac from its peg in the hall, put it on, together with her red scarf, orange beret and purple gloves, picked up her shopping bag and opened the door. The sharp cold of the air outside momentarily took her breath away. February, the coldest and harshest of months. A month containing days which blew you sideways, when even the birds were muted and huddled on bare branches, waiting. She closed the door with a click, waited for one minute while checking her watch, then opened the door, stepped outside and set off down the street.

Ten thirty-five. She crossed the road and mounted the stone steps which took her up to the raised pavement on the other side. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight steps to the alleyway which led down past the church to the high street, Watling Street. She loved the name, it was so old: a highway built by the Romans and even before that, a way that the Celtic people had trodden. She liked that, that her feet were treading that same way, connecting.

Ten forty and right onto the high street. Ten-forty one: she was a little behind; she quickened her pace slightly. Of course, it didn’t matter what time she arrived, she knew that, but it was better to be on time.

There were so many cracks in the pavement. Avoiding them was becoming increasingly difficult. She would write to the council. The fourth lamp post. That was the one where somebody had attached some flowers last year in the spring. Maybe for a dog, maybe for a person. She hoped it hadn’t been a child. Such a precious thing, a child.

There, she was at the zebra crossing, still one of the old-fashioned ones with its orange Belisha beacons. Eight steps to get across the road, right at the other side and then nine, twelve, fourteen steps to the door. Moon’s Pet shop and Supplies. Ten fifty-nine. Bang on time.

The shop bell clanged.

‘Good morning, Bernice.’

Mr Moon was standing as usual behind the counter, dressed in his khaki shopkeeper’s coat and red scarf tied around his neck to keep out the cold.

‘Good morning, Mr Moon.’

‘Come for the usual, have you?’

‘Yes, just a pound please and I’ll take some of that liver sausage dog food as well, please.’

‘Have a wander round while you’re waiting. I’ve got some new-born rabbits at the back.’

‘Thanks.’

Bernice moved off down the aisle between the dog toys, hide sticks, vitamins, and the baskets and straw for bedding. Murmurings and cheeping were coming from the back of the shop. Some brightly-coloured, small birds hopped from one perch to another in one cage, while in another two black and brown guinea-pigs with whorls in their fur stared at her unblinking. The baby rabbits were in the corner cage underneath the large fish tank where orange, silver, and yellow and black striped fish hung suspended, their gills moving imperceptibly. Six baby rabbits were nestled close together: one white, two black and white, two brown and black and one peppery grey. She moved nearer and, in response, they also shifted their positions and looked at her, noses twitching, alert.

‘They only came in this morning.’ Mr Moon was behind her. His grey, wispy hair stuck out defiantly around the bald crown of his head, giving him the air of a mad professor and his glasses swung from their cord around his neck.

‘Would you like to hold one?’

‘Oh, could I, really?’

‘Of course.’

And he raised the metal catch so he could slide the door upwards. He scooped up the little grey rabbit and handed it to her. The tiny thing was so soft and fragile in her hands, so warm, so full of new life. She could feel his little heart beating hard as he assessed his new situation.

‘He’s the best of the bunch,’ said Mr Moon.

She nodded. Her heart was too full for words.

The shop bell clanged and Mr Moon