Time and Tide

By Patricia Greasby

A collection of six short stories.  Phantoms and fairy tales, Wars of the Roses, World War II, Contemporary and Science Fiction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Grez & Co
• Release date: May 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393483038

Patricia Greasby

Over the last thirty years Patricia has slotted in writing as a hobby around her husband, three sons and a career in insurance and accountancy.  For at least twenty years she attended Creative Writing classes at a local college. Sons now married with families of their own she and her husband recently retired, she expected to have more time to dedicate to a hobby which has become a passion.  Now Patricia slots in writing between grandchildren, outings with her husband and other hobbies...but with just as much passion. Facebook: Patricia Greasby Author patriciagreasby@btinternet .com

Book preview

LOST AND FOUND

‘You kicked it over, you fetch it.’

Jamie poked a freckled nose over the cemetery wall.  The headstones nearest the wall, ancient and covered in lichen, leaning at odd angles whilst more recent monuments shone stark white, multi-coloured flowers at their base.  Attractive by daylight, if you gave no thought to what lay underground, but a setting sun, blood red through leafless trees, cast weird shadows.  The black and white football nestled amongst flowers placed at the base of a headstone in the third row. 

‘You could have saved it,’ Jamie argued.  ‘You should fetch it.’

Peter, a natural leader of the gang, was adamant.  ‘We all agreed,’ he turned to include half a dozen other boys waiting to continue the game, ‘that whoever kicks the ball over must fetch it back.’

‘I’m off,’ a lanky lad called.  ‘It’ll soon be dark and it’s almost time for tea.’

One by one the boys left for home.

‘You’d better get it back before tomorrow,’ Peter told Jamie, ‘or buy a new one.’

Jamie again peeped over the wall, the last weak rays of winter sun had shrivelled and darkness pooled around the humps and hollows of the cemetery.  He looked around to protest once more to his friend but Peter had also forsaken the field in favour of his tea.  ‘Great,’ muttered Jamie.  ‘I’ve no money to buy a new ball so perhaps I’ll nip over the wall very quickly –’ A breeze ruffled his hair, sang mournfully through the trees and whispered around the gravestones.  ‘Well, maybe I’ll check my money box.’

*

Jamie tipped a handful of coins back into his piggy bank.  ‘I’ll get up early in the morning,’ he decided.  ‘As soon as it’s light I’ll zip over the wall, grab the football and be back before...before you can say, whatshisname.’

*

A murky dawn crept stealthily across the field and into the cemetery.  Jamie found a toehold in the wall, hauled himself up and dropped onto the grass beyond.  Cold, damp mist swirled between gravestones and made him shiver.  Careful to step between the graves he soon lost his bearings, unable to identify the area where the ball lay.  Third row, he recalled, near a vase of fresh flowers.  He heard a faint whimper and stood still, ears on stalks.  ‘Nah.’ He took a tentative step forward.  Stopped, listened again.  Someone crying.  ‘To hell with the ball.’  He made to run and scramble over the wall, but which way?  Mist had thickened; it rose