A Ghostly Visit, by Rosina Trotman

            There was nothing unusual about that January night, the north wind howled round the two hundred year old cottage, promising snow. Frank, my husband retired early. Then, having washed the supper dishes, and placed the guard around the remaining fire, I followed.

 Not wanting to disturb Frank, I undressed, and climbed into bed in the dark. I had lain awake for some time when, I heard the first creak, and then another. Someone was coming; coming up stairs. The fine hairs on my body became horizontal, every sense I possessed was alerted. Someone was listening at the door. I watched transfixed, as the latch lifted, and the door slowly and soundlessly, began to open.

Terrified, I dived beneath the covers, trying to silence my breath, and thumping heart. After what seemed an age, but could have only been a minute, I sensed whoever was in the room, was moving around the bed. I had to see who, so very carefully, and holding my breath; I eased back the eiderdown, and silently turned my head towards the figure looking down on, my sleeping husband.              

 I was aware of her Edwardian style, ringlets hung loosely at her neck and cheeks. The bodice of her pale green dress was pleated to the waist, with a collar of white lace. There was no malice in her face; it was pleasant and kindly, with the hint of a smile. Who is she? I thought, diving under the covers once more. When I plucked up the courage to peep again, she had gone.

My husband insists it had been a dream, but I know otherwise. Her expression intrigued me for days until, having told a friend, who suggested she maybe a mother, looking at her sleeping child. Then I understood.  

Crosed Lines, by Rosina Trotman

                 And the telephone rang.

I had been suffering all day with a tooth infection which had exposed a nerve; consequently every intake of breath was sheer agony when, the telephone rang. My husband was at a critical stage in his tiling project which could not be left, and yelled to me to answer it. Reluctantly I dragged myself off the settee and gave my number; there was what seemed like a long pause before a voice said,

“Is that you Ross?” I answered that it was in a tone injected with pain, and lacking anything resembling my normal cheerful telephone manner.

“It doesn’t sound like you said the voice,” I then asked who it was and the voice started to laugh and said,

 “It’s Pauline. We were together last night, remember? What’s the matter with you?”  I then began telling her how suddenly this pain had come on after leaving her and how I had not slept all night but had first thing that morning been to the dentist, only to be told it was infected. I then went on to say he thought a nerve might be exposed but because of the infection he couldn’t do anything until the antibiotics had done their job.

At this point I felt some relief at having someone making what sounded like sympathetic noises. So I continued on with all the other facts he had given me. One he may not be able to save the tooth and that would mean a day in hospital. Or on the other hand if the infection goes down as he hoped, then he could remove the nerve and not disturb the tooth. On and on I unloaded my depression and pain, when I suddenly realized how selfish I was; as I knew Pauline had so much going on in her own life at the moment.

          So I changed the subject and asked, “How are you managing?”

“Managing!” she said, “What do you mean?”

“Well with two children and another one due any day it must be exhausting,” I said.

          “Who am I speaking to?” said the voice on the other end of the line.

The strange thing was, her name was Pauline and she had been out the night before with her friend Ross just as I had. We both had a good laugh about my boring her with my tooth ache and parted like old friends. 

A Waspy Business, by Rosina Trotman

The sun was already hot and it was only mid-day as Sue started to deadhead the bountiful display of rhododendron. It was while she was thinking she had never seen them more strikingly beautiful, when her eye caught sight of something in the centre of the shrub. Parting the branches she could see a delicate paper pulped lantern that had been carefully constructed by its now angry inhabitants. Immediately realizing her danger she withdrew, and speedily headed for shelter of the house some distance away while under attack from the disturbed wasp warriors.

How her face had swollen after dunking it several times in a bowl of cold water and smothering the many stings in bicarbonate of soda, but it wasn’t until the early evening that the painful stings began to subside. When her husband returned he remarked on the swellings and said he would have to get rid of the nest at the weekend. Several times over the next few weeks Sue reminded him, and each time he said he would when he had time destroy it.

One day later that summer Sue having been shopping came home to find her husband George very red and swollen in the face. He too had been gardening near to the wasps’ domain and as a result had received their war like reception.

    “Tomorrow I will put paid to them!” he said amongst language he only normally used when enraged by a situation. Then he spent some time making serious plans on paper, for as he vocally put it, this was full scale war and the next day’s victory would provide him, George, with much needed revenge.

The next morning when Sue arose and realized George had slept on the sofa and had she suspected, spent much of his sleeping time considering the extermination and the preparation of defences needed to carry out this operation. George was taking no chances; he had suffered enough from their venom and was not prepared to allow those vicious varmints’ even the slightest chance to attack him again.

    Meticulously he dressed in his armour, which consisted of a black bin bag with open seams for the waterproof jacket arms to protrude. This he tied at the waist over a pair of waterproof trousers tucked firmly into green wellington boots coordinating with his balaclava. Hanging on his arm was a pair of ancient motor cycle goggles that had once belonged to his Granddad.   Apart from his hands which he explained would be inside the rubber gloves he had borrowed from the kitchen, he was well protected from their bombarding wrath should he not succeed with what he considered a perfect plan.

     Feeling pleased with himself at this stage in the manoeuvre, he then gathered the weapons needed for the massacre which consisted of; a large reinforced but flexible plastic bag, cigarette lighter, penknife, diesel he kept in a can for the lawn mower, and a length of frayed rope he had prepared in advance. Then checking the windows in case he needed to retreat in a hurry strode determinedly the hundred yards to the chosen cremation area.

     His next task seemed to Sue watching from the window with both amusement and concern, to be rather time consuming, as he proceeded to loosely screw newspaper into balls of paper around a fire lighter and placing shaven wooden sticks on top. She knew he had carefully selected them the previous night after destroying Grannies old chair, and now as far as she could tell was arranging them respectfully on the garden incinerator.

As she watched she saw that George was threading the frayed rope into the diesel can allowing it time to absorb the liquid.        After a few seconds he withdrew it and positioned one end deep beneath the paper and wood, then trailed the remainder with care down the lawn and closer to the house.

    Giving his wife the thumbs up sign he cautiously approached the enemies territory with the plastic bag and penknife at the ready, having dropped the lighter at the end of the rope. In slow motion he put first one foot and then the other just below the rhododendron bush, and then waited a moment mentally assessing the nest’s exact location, before he could take them by surprise. To Sue the scene in front of her eyes was like a TV comedy with George her husband playing the lead role.

Later he proudly explained the procedure performed inside the bush and the difficulties of wearing rubber gloves while struggling to cut through the cemented pulp securing the nest. How it was a race against time while he forced the bag beneath the sculptured master piece to ensure he captured it whole, as it dropped directly into the bin bag. George then had drifted in thought, before quietly adding, “I think maybe half a dozen got away”. All that was required of Sue was a few sympathetic grunts of acknowledgement for his heroic act, then to stifle her mischievous smile.

    But all Sue had seen was George running like never before while tying the bag of buzzing occupants securely and jamming them ruthlessly into the well prepared incinerator. She saw him turning with clumsy speed as he headed towards the house, disrobing on route. The adrenalin was flowing through his veins as he had breathlessly covered the ground between murder and survival, with a face inflated like a boiled beetroot.

    Sue laughed out loud at the spectacle taking place, it was good to see the funny side, although it was at George’s expense.  She did experience a smattering of guilt, which had soon disappeared as she witnessed the smile of self-satisfaction he gave her, before igniting the rope, and the crematorium became a raging inferno.