Welcome to My World. Miranda Dickinson

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СКАЧАТЬ just curious.’

      ‘Considering becoming a spontaneity convert, eh?’

      ‘I didn’t say that. It’s just that I seem to be the only person in the entire world who can’t just do things.’

      His eyebrows lifted slightly. ‘And that bothers you?’

      Harri felt her defences prickle. ‘No, not really. It’s just – something I was thinking about, that’s all.’

      Alex’s grin was mischievous but not unkind. ‘Ah, well, you see, that’s where the problem lies, H: if you’re thinking about being spontaneous then you’ve kind of missed the point.’

      Harri shook her head. ‘Very funny, Mr Seat-of-His-Pants-Flyer. Forget I said anything, OK?’

      ‘Aw, mate, I’m sorry. You just make it too easy . . . Look, I can’t explain how to be spontaneous. It’s something you do, not something you psychoanalyse. Don’t question, don’t worry and certainly don’t deliberate. If it feels right, you just go with it.’

      ‘But don’t you ever worry about it all going wrong?’

      ‘Heck, Harri, you know me. Sometimes it does go wrong. Spectacularly wrong on several occasions, as you no doubt can recall. But I never worry about it: if it all goes belly up then I just deal with the consequences. If you think about things too much, you’ll never do anything, or go anywhere.’

      Harri could almost imagine a version of herself setting off happily into the unknown – but quickly the questions and contingencies returned, blocking out the possibilities. ‘Well, who’s to say that my way isn’t the best?’

      Alex thought for a moment, then lowered his voice as if to soften the blow of what he was about to say. ‘Nobody, I guess. You may very well be saving yourself from a shed load of failure by being cautious. But look at it this way, mate: would you rather be walking along a gorgeous palm-fringed beach somewhere or reading about it?’

      It hurt, of course, but he was right.

      Sitting in the cosy living room of her cottage the following Sunday evening, Harri stared at the completed ‘Free to a Good Home’ form in front of her. Though she said it herself, she had done a great job: Alex was well and truly described on the single A4 sheet. The woefully single readers of Juste Moi were going to tremble in their fluffy slippers at the mere sight of him. In fact, reading her description of him, even Harri was impressed.

      She was about to file it safely away behind the clock on her mantelpiece (just so she could have a final think about it that night to make sure she was doing the right thing) when a thought hit her. If there was ever a time to practise spontaneity, this was it. She wasn’t going to post it in the morning, she was going to post it right now. True, no self-respecting postie was likely to be collecting mail from her local postbox at 11.30 p.m. but at least the form would be in the box and therefore safe from Harri’s second thoughts, which would doubtless halt its progress if it remained behind the clock. Kicking off her slippers, Harri grabbed the envelope and purposefully licked the flap, sealing it with a confidence that shocked her. Then she pulled on her wellies (the closest footwear to hand – hey, that was spontaneity in itself, wasn’t it?), threw on her coat over her pyjamas, grabbed her keys and ran down the stone path from the cottage, flinging open the small, white creaky wooden gate and walking the five steps it took to reach the small, red postbox nestled in the dry-stone wall over the road.

      Five small steps for anyone else: five giant leaps for Harri-kind, she thought triumphantly, as she thrust the small white envelope decisively into the black abyss of the postbox . . .

      . . . and instantly regretted her decision.

      Harri stared at her empty hand, still hovering over the inky blackness of the postbox’s opening, feeling her heart sinking to the furthest end of her pink and white polka-dot wellies. ‘What have you done?’ a little voice demanded inside her head, accusingly. Harri felt her heartbeat pick up and an icy-cold pang shudder down her spine. Suddenly, spontaneity didn’t seem like the blinding idea it had been moments before.

      Maybe, she thought in desperation, if she stared hard enough at the opening, the letter would magically reappear and everything would be fine. Perhaps the postman would just inexplicably miss the letter and it would remain forgotten at the bottom of the box for years to come. Or maybe she would wake up any second and find that it was all a terrible dream . . .

      Harri’s train of thought was brought to an abrupt halt as the heavens opened above her. Large spots of rain began to pepper her head and shoulders, catching the light from the streetlamp as they fell: a shower of shimmering crystals splashing around her as she remained frozen to the spot. It’s done now: there’s no going back. As if to underline the sense of dread pervading her soul, a deep rumble of thunder rolled across the distant sky. Slowly, resignedly, Harri turned and walked back home.

      Chapter Six

       Hide-and-Seek

      The door to the ladies’ opens with an unwilling creak.

      ‘Is she in here?’ a female voice asks.

      ‘No, I don’t think so,’ a young man answers from the corridor beyond, his tone uncertain. ‘Maybe she’s gone home.’

      ‘Well, I never saw her leave, Thomas, and not much escapes my notice.’

      ‘You can say that again – ouch!’

      ‘Less of your cheek, sunshine, thank you very much.’ The door opens a little wider and Harri can hear a step onto the dull magnolia tiles. ‘Harriet? Am you in here, chick?’

      Harri holds her breath. She can’t face a conversation; not yet.

      ‘She isn’t there, Eth— Mrs Bincham,’ Tom whispers, his embarrassment as obvious as the acne on his chin.

      ‘Mmm. Well, maybe you’re right, Thomas, maybe she’s gone. Better just check the hall again then, eh?’

      Harri breathes a sigh of relief as the voices disappear and the door closes.

      Ethel Bincham was the cleaner at Sun Lovers International Travel. At least, that’s what it said on her contract. However, with eyesight as bad as hers, coupled with her penchant for long chats with the staff, and George’s unwillingness to let her go after her many years of more or less faithful service, cleaning was not exactly top of her list of priorities. She prided herself on her ability to listen and fancied herself almost a surrogate mother, provider of pure Black Country wisdom and nothing less than a soothsayer for the assembled workers each Monday, Wednesday and Friday morning, seven o’clock till nine. In days of yore, every village would have its local wise woman, a source of mystical wisdom, cures for all ills and an understanding ear in time of need; now, the fortunate residents of Stone Yardley had Mrs Bincham.

      ‘Would you run the Hoover round this evening before Mrs B comes in?’ George often asked Harri on a Tuesday afternoon (knowing full well that she would be the last person out of the office and probably the first in next morning).

      The irony of the request was never lost on Tom. ‘Doesn’t that kind of defeat the object of having a cleaner?’

      George couldn’t really argue with this reasoning, but knew that his initial lack of courage to let Ethel go when he realised she СКАЧАТЬ