Phyllis McKenna

“Mom! Mom! Don’t forget! My school trip money for Friday.”

“I know, love, “ sighed Patricia as she attempted to literally force feed her two year old son, Toby. By foul means or fair, either aeroplane noises or just waiting until the wee lips opened to complain. They were tightly shut now, most of the blueberry flavoured porridge having found its way around Toby’s face, clothes, clinging to his hair and splattered on the tiled floor. Patricia herself had not escaped, dots of oats speckled her newly pressed shirt.

“Now, c’mon, baby boy, for Mummy.” The mouth remained mutinously closed. Just a vigorous shaking of the head showed his determination to thwart his mother.

Resignedly, Patricia set the bowl on the table and retrieved another from the cupboard as her seven year old daughter April slouched into the kitchen.

“What’s wrong, pigeon?” Patricia hugged her and was dismayed to see big tears rolling down her cheeks.

“My goodness, it couldn’t be all that bad, surely. What is it?”

“Everybody in my class are getting new trainers for the visit to the star place and mine are really old,” sobbed the little girl.

The school trip this term was to the Armagh Planetarium, the star place!

“No, they are not and I am sure not everyone will be changing their shoes, love.”

But April was crestfallen and her usual childish banter on the short journey to school was non-existent. Patricia knew then that another out of town bus journey was imminent and her spirits fell. Payment for the trip and new trainers loomed on the horizon not to mention next month’s rent.

As she approached the school gates she could feel the animosity of the waiting mothers, subtly at first, then intensifying as they became aware of her arrival. Patricia knew she was the victim of local gossip and had been for some time now, gave the bored young mothers and the bitter old grannies something to talk about. Two illegitimate children to different fathers, still unmarried. Oh, the shame! But she wasn’t ashamed. She loved her children, maternal to the core, she was. Her only sin had been falling in love with a couple of immature men. Once when she was merely seventeen and again at the ripe old age of twenty two. Innocent and naïve, she fell pregnant both times and both times the loving partner couldn’t or wouldn’t commit. Living now on benefits, cast aside by Christian opinionated parents, Patricia struggled to raise her family the only way she knew how but she was happy, her children saw to that.

Head held high she ran the gauntlet of disapproving stares and whispered comments, ensured her daughter was safely with her teacher and wheeled Toby out of the school playgrounds. She had an important phone call to make, one she thankfully didn’t make very often but one that would shock her tormentors to the core. If they only knew!

The following Friday morning, after delivering April to her teacher and depositing Toby with her only true friend, Brenda, Patricia stood at the town bus stop. Looking very smart and pretty she was, ready for a some window shopping maybe. No, that was not her destination, she was heading a little further afield. Actually as far away from her hometown as the bus would take her. She made sure of that on her first assignment. Standing straight and tall, the belted cream trench coat couldn’t detract from her slim figure, belying the birth of two children. She shifted uncomfortably in the unfamiliar clothes. Sparkling blue eyes peeped from beneath a shelf of blond fringe, golden tresses piled high on her head in a restrictive bun. Fresh complexioned, with the slightest hint of eye shadow and pale lipstick, Patricia turned heads and evoked wolf whistles from the builders across the road. If they only knew, she thought. But needs must and my kids are my priority.

She boarded her bus on arrival and chose a seat as far away from fellow travellers as she could manage. She needed to prepare for the coming ordeal, seal off her emotions and concentrate solely on the welfare of the children. It was a long journey, but to Patricia not long enough. This was a job, she should be thankful, really, she would do anything for her family. This thought carried her off the bus, occupied her mind on the taxi journey, all expenses paid, and pushed her forward to ring the bell of No. 16 Cypress Avenue.

“You called,” she purred seductively as the middle-aged, overweight businessman opened the shiny black expensive door.

Patricia slowly unbuttoned her coat as she stepped into the ornately decorated hallway, revealing her lush figure encased in a sexy, black and red lacy basque, suspenders, sheer black stockings and patent stillettos. Releasing her long blond hair from its restraints, she provocatively shook her head, silkily murmuring, “Where do you want me?”

Her work day had begun!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dark, dark ebony, black as night, deeply gleaming in the wavering candlelight. She admired her work, she was good. Coffin maker extraordinaire. Many a soul had gone to their rest in one of her creations. She was saddened when they were chosen and occupied because she knew her art was never fully appreciated. The intricate scrollwork designed by her, tapped delicately into the wood by her talented hand did not bring joy and gladness into the life of the owner. Their hearts beat no more, their eyes closed forever, senses sealed for eternity. How could they appreciate the beauty of her craftsmanship, lying cold and still and without thought. How could they know the painstaking hours spent perfecting the caskets, polishing the beautiful wood until it shone like a lantern leading to heaven or lit like a burning torch to Hell. Cremation was the cruellest form of torture to her, she watched as her work was condemned to a fiery furnace, turned to ashes in minutes. All for nothing. She wept as she remembered her losses. But not for long.

He would be coming. She would hear the clatter of horses hooves as she so often had on nights gone by. He had come to her silently one evening, the full moon silhouetting his dark shape as he glided into her workroom. She sensed his presence before he spoke: “You are the coffin maker, my Dear.” Not a question. He was all knowing. The seductive voice caressed her neck, sending shivers down her spine. She turned and beheld him. His eyes hypnotised her, burning into her soul, uncovering her innermost dark secrets, her craving for unadulterated lust. He stood tall and straight, his regal bearing obvious in his stance, clothed in an old fashioned black suit with a scarlet lined cloak draped around his shoulders. His face pale and aristocratic, sensuous red lips promising pleasures beyond measure. Jet black locks swept back from a high forehead, those deep set suggestive eyes were amused by her discomfort.

She swayed slightly, her vision blurred for a second as she managed to reply: “Yes, do you require my services?”

“Indeed I do, Ma’am. Black ebony caskets with folds of white satin, handles of deeper darkness. No metals. Delicately carved by your own hand. At least six, maybe more as days go by.”

Fear left her as she stated: “That would be expensive, Sir.”

“Payment is no problem, little one. Come, I will pay you now.”

………………………………………………………………..

Darkness was their time and evening found the vampire coven arising from their comfortable caskets to feed with their fledgling sister – the coffin maker.   Her loving hand crafted creations were appreciated now, used time and again to shelter her newly found companions from the daylight hours. She was recognised for her skill and would be for a long, long time.

 

 

 

Joe Ramsey was a familiar sight , cycling around the neighbouring areas of Ramoe in N. Ireland. With a cheery wave and a jaunty air he was the peoples favourite person first thing in the morning. Being the village postman, Joe took his position as Communications Officer very seriously indeed, and in forty years service, rain, hail or snow, Joe had been missing only one time – when he lost his beloved wife Edith to cancer some years past. The light had gone out of his life and he didn’t believe he could function anymore. But the good people of Ramoe requested his return and Edith would not have wanted him to let them down. So Joe donned his well worn uniform once more.

 

That was why, on this particular Tuesday morning, the residents of Crombie Avenue were puzzled. Joe was late – her was never late. Was he sick? Did he have an accident? Should they call the hospitals? He wasn’t just their postman, he was their friend and they worried about him. There was no need, around the corner came Joe, fifteen minutes late, on his trusty steed. His customers breathed a collective sigh of relief and returned to their morning rituals.

 

Joe swung his sack jauntily over his shoulder and whistled merrily. He was in a particularly happy mood this morning.

 

“ This is my last delivery, only three letters and I hang up my mailbag for good. I’ll miss my good friends but there is a place waiting for me, has been for a while.”

 

Three letters but three very, very important letters Letters to make or break a persons life and Joe had to deliver them. Joe sighed, knowing the contents of the missives, knowing the news bad or otherwise that he was bringing to lifetime friends. They lay at the bottom of his sack, two sparkling, bright, white envelopes sending out rays of love and hope but the other writhed and hissed like a black serpent, coiling and uncoiling with no apparent shape and emitting noxious fumes from Joe’s bag.

 

The first delivery was to old Mrs Carruthers in No. 36, it would lift her spirits no end. She had been so lonely since her husband died, a part of her gone with him, and then her only son had married , emigrated to Australia with a lovely wife, and now they were the proud parents of a bonny baby boy. She had seen photos and videos, had spoken to them on the phone, couldn’t be doing with those new-fangled internet thingies! Now they were coming home. Derek, her son , having found a new home and a new job here, they would be with her again. Joe smiled as he sensed the joy that would flood the old lady’s heart.

 

Joe’s thoughts then drifted to young Mrs Hughes at No. 26, his next visit. Widowed at the early age of thirty, she was the mother of two beautiful little girls. Joe, her husband was killed , an accident at work, at the tender age of thirty two and Jane missed him terribly.. A devoted couple, the loss was devastating to everyone. The sparkling letter in Joe’s bag promised hope and a new life for Jane and the children. An invitation to a party, where, Joe knew, she would meet a man who would become her second husband, who would love and cherish the girls as if they were his own. Joe’s heart glowed with happiness. He was nearly home. Just one more letter. At the thought his spirits sank, as he felt the evil thing writhing and squirming in his sack. He gazed heavenwards and sighed.

“Is this absolutely necessary?” he pleaded. But he knew it had to be done. With dragging steps he approached the steps of No. 54, the home of Mr and Mrs Roberts. Their son Thomas was serving in Iraq, had been for almost three years. He was due home soon, his tour completed. It was not going to happen. Tommy and three of his friends had been shot and killed two days before by insurgent rebels. The news had filtered through to his Mom and Dad about the tragedy but no names had been released until now. They had lived in limbo for 48 hours, now their intolerable grief would start.

Joe wept for them but he knew Tommy was happy and he swore that by some means, with a little help, he would deliver that message. His duty was done here now. His last post round completed. He deserved a rest and Edith had promised to wait for him.

 

“Joe, it’s time. Your place is ready. Your friends and family are waiting and a new friend Tommy thanks you for your concern for his parents. You will meet him soon. Take my hand ,Dear. We have to go”

Joe turned towards the brightness, towards a shining light emitting rays of love, peace and contentment and gazed into his beloved Ediths’ eyes.

The news spread sadly through the village that day. Joe Ramsey had been found lying peacefully at home, having suffered a massive heart attack. The delivery of the three letters was never explained.