Debbie Chase - Writing is Good!
Debbie Chase - Writing is Good
A Bit About Me
My name is Debbie Spink (writing name Debbie Chase) and I have been writing for many years now. Since I began writing I have achieved a Certificate in Writing for Children, Diploma in Copywriting, Diploma in Romance Writing and Editor's Choice Award for Outstanding Achievement in Poetry.
I have self published five novels which are available to buy on Amazon and other online book stores, these are, "You to Me Are Everything," a novel part fact/part fiction, "I Wasn’t There," a book of poetry, a murder mystery, "Whatever Happened to George England," "The Confessions of a Pet Sitter," and "What a Catastrophe (Teddy’s Tale)," both children’s books, although many of my adult friends have enjoyed them too.
I have had several pocket novels published with My Weekly magazine, DC Thomson & Co, “Planning on Love,” “Romance on the Run,” and "Puppy Love" which was published in April 2021. Another pocket novel "Esther Baby" was published in August 2021 as well as "The Doppelganger" (renamed "Double Trouble") which was published in October 2021. Another pocket novel "The Crying Game" was published in May 2022, "Rachel's War" out in March 2023, "Birdie" published in June 2023 and "Number One Fan" published in December 2023, followed by "The Unknown Soldier" in 2024. World Castle Publishing in Florida have published seven of my novels “Educating Maggie," "A Step Back in Time," "Ruby Tuesday," "The Haunting of Pear Tree Cottage," "The Gift," "The Mannequin Mystery," My Sweet Valentine," with "A Tale of Dogs and Bones" to be published soon. Please visit their website at www.worldcastlepublishing.net/debbie-chase
I have also had many children’s and adult’s short stories published in magazines (Girl Talk and Fiction Feast) and many poems published in books and magazines.
Customer Review for "What a Catastrophe (Teddy's Tale) -
"This book is a joy to read and is well-written and quite amusing at times!"
Customer Reviews for "The Confessions of a Pet Sitter" - "Well written book, great for animal lovers. Couldn't wait to read on to see what happened next."
"If only they could talk! This book is a refreshing change from wizards & ideal for any animal loving children."
Customer Reviews for "You to me Are Everything" -
"This is a really good book by a new writer - I think this book would strike a chord with most women. It deals with the death of a child, the affair of a husband and a teenager's first love. Very sad but at times very funny too!"
"I loved this book from beginning to end. The women in the story feel like living characters: their dilemmas, their choices, are totally believable, and as in life, it's not always obvious what the right path is to take. So I'm really rooting for them, I care what happens to them.
The book is a set of three first person narratives, by three women of different generations. There are a number of leaps backwards and forwards in time, it's not done in a confusing way though, and the narrative keeps its flow and its cohesion. Generally the structure is very well done. I would have liked a bit more of Jessie, as it's only in the final section that we become fully engaged with her story, but maybe I just need to read the sequel !
The author's command of the multiple interlocking storylines with her large cast of characters is impressive, and I particularly love the way that she gives us a soundtrack to each period that she writes about, by referencing songs that were in the charts at the time.
In contrast to the realism of the storytelling, we're presented with a symmetry in the three storylines: three accidental pregnancies for three 17 year old girls, who all have big decisions to make. Why the similarities in the stories, what's going on here ? One way of answering this would be to say that what's important here isn't the similarities in the stories, but the differences. Each woman has to face her own unique challenges, and make her own choices. In a deeper sense though, the similarities do matter. They're symbolic of a spiritual bond, stronger than their blood links, which unites the three women and makes us feel that their destinies are intertwined."
When Mandy Morgan sets herself up as a dog walker, the last thing she expects her dogs to find buried deep in the earth is a human hand, followed by a skull, and then the top part of an arm, each with a clue leading them to the next bone and perhaps the next. After three bones have been found, Mandy decides to take them to the police where she meets the very attractive Detective Inspector Jay Sutherland.
After forensic scrutiny, the bones are found to belong to Elizabeth Marks, a woman who has been missing for eight years, a deep crack on the skull pointing to her having suffered a violent death. As a concerned member of the public and in order to find closure for the family of the missing woman, Mandy works closely with Detective Inspector Jay Sutherland to follow all the clues, find all the bones and hopefully find the killer.
Meanwhile Mandy’s dad is suspected of having an affair, a fellow dog walker is behaving strangely and an ex comes back on the scene. Will Mandy and the Detective Inspector be able to bring all the little pieces of the puzzle together and find out who is guilty and who is not? Oh, and maybe find love in the process?
Free First Chapter of The Mannequin Mystery - Enjoy!
The Mannequin Mystery
Chapter One – Mid-June 1966 – Lambuck River
Despite it being summer, there’d been a lot of rain and the river flowed fast and deep, lapping at the grassy bank, slippery with mud, where ducks, geese and swans’ pad awkwardly on their flat feet. Alerted by a telephone call from a distraught walker, the Detective Inspector and I had met at the river’s edge and now gaze into the murk as the bird’s honk around our ankles. The area has been sealed off and a white tape flutters and beckons and the great bulk of an ambulance stands behind, it’s light turning slowly, throwing out a long blue shadow.
“Whatever it is, it’s caught in the reeds,” he said softly, as if to himself, and then turned slightly, looking at me from the tail of his eye, the dimples on his stubbly cheeks clearly visible, “Can you see Miss Day?”
I nodded as I watched what looked like a hand, its long thin fingers wrapped tightly around the dense greenery, as if holding on for dear life, the rest of what surely must be a body, with the long hair of a woman, submerged beneath the murk of the river. “Not a pretty sight,” I said, as I glanced at the Detective Inspector, a tall man, who boasted a broad chest tapering down to long slim legs and wore a black double-breasted overcoat open over black trousers and a white shirt with a patterned tie, a suit jacket just about visible. He wore a trilby hat perched rakishly on his blonde hair and, even though his highly polished brogues were flecked with mud, it in no way deterred from his unusual powerful look and style.
Turning to the paramedics, he said, “Be careful when bringing her up,” as he allowed them to step in front, and then watched as they slid down the bank and waded into the water, carefully feeling around in the reed bed, and pulling away the green muddy shoots that had wrapped themselves tightly around the trunk of a fallen tree that was lying half submerged in the river and half on the grassy bank, its glossy leaves shivering in the breeze. Our weather men had predicted an end to the rain and today, a weak sun had managed to peek out from behind fluffy white clouds reflecting a myriad of colours on the churning water.
“I couldn’t believe it,” I heard the distraught walker say to a reporter, a microphone thrust in his face, “Talk about a coincidence, but I’d just been thinking about that missing girl, you know Miranda Wilson, it’d had been on the news before I came out, so I thought I was imagining it, you know, what I could see. Almost gave me a heart attack … not something you expect to see on a nice walk, is it?”
A knot of interested onlookers had formed on the opposite side of the river, a group consisting of yet more walkers, people with restless dogs straining on their leads, everybody nudging and staring, whispering, and wondering what was going on. Sergeant Alf Cooper, our village’s local bobby, stood nearby, arms outstretched, keeping the crowd back from the dangerous muddy incline leading into the water which was deep and dense, an oily brown, filled I was sure, with all sorts of unsuitable items, items that maybe outnumbered the fish, ranging from old bicycles to shopping trolleys. I suppose you’d call it a scrap man’s paradise.
There was a sudden great whoosh and a splash and everybody turned to look, as the body, suspended in mid-air for a second or two, landed on the river bank face down, trickles of water running down its waxy skin, hair spread out from its head like black candy floss, closely followed by a vast intake of breath from the crowd.
The Detective Inspector, a frown marring his handsome face, pushed forward through the paramedics, where they stood, their green boiler suits damp now, their wellies covered in a green slime, “Good God,” he whispered, “It’s a mannequin!”A paramedic nudged him and, laughing a little, said, “No need for the recovery position then, Sir?”
His colleagues giggled and one made a pumping motion on his own chest with his hands as if resuscitating somebody. The Detective Inspector gave them a narrowed eyed glare. Peering over his shoulder I stared at the body laid before us, certainly not human, but a larger version of the Sindy doll I played with when I was a little girl. Fully clothed too in jeans, a blue shirt, a red and white striped tank top, yet only one shoe, leaving one foot, bare and white, yet each tiny toenail adorned with red polish like a splash of blood.
“Detective Inspector?”
“Miss Day, I …”“I’m just pointing out Sir,” I nodded towards the mannequin, “She’s dressed exactly like the missing girl.”
He gave me a quizzical glance as I pulled a note pad from the pocket of my trench coat and read my hastily scribbled writing just to confirm in my own mind that I was right.
“She was last seen in blue jeans,” I told the Detective Inspector, “A blue shirt and a red and white striped tank top. Even the shoes are the same, a white plimsoll with a red stripe, although supposedly she wore both. Turn her over,” I said, “Let’s look at her face.”
We both recoiled as the mannequin’s face was revealed, the Detective Inspector, saying, surprised, “The face of Miranda Wilson.”
“Yes Sir,”“Hmm, made by a specialist I suppose, not just a run of the mill mould here, eh?”
“Why no,” I replied, “Most mannequins have virtually the same face don’t they? So how is it possible to change a face like that? Wouldn’t the person have to know her to get a likeness?”
He nodded as he stepped forward and then hunkered down close to her, “Not necessarily, they could have sculpted a likeness from a photograph, and there’s plenty of those about aren’t there?” And then, “What’s this?”
Pulling on a pair of thin gloves, he reached out a hand and touched something that hung around her neck. I went closer and bending over at the waist, peered too.
“A piece of paper protected by plastic, Sir,” I said, “On some sort of a chain.”
There was a sudden kerfuffle as a man carrying a black bag came pushing through the amused paramedics and the few reporters loitering about behind the fluttering tape, cameras slung around their necks. He held out his hand to the Detective Inspector, “Sorry I’m late, so much traffic. Dr Patrick Wilmslow, Pathology. Is this the body?”
He'd obviously not looked hard enough as the Detective Inspector said dryly, “It’s a mannequin, I’m afraid, Dr Wilmslow. No need for pathology, although we’ve seen something around her neck enclosed in plastic which needs to be preserved.”
“A mannequin?” he spluttered, “Why yes, so it is, at first sight it looked so real.”
“It’s about as real as one of my daughter’s dolls,” piped up one of the reporters, trying to move forward, his camera at the ready.
“If only it could talk,” replied the Detective Inspector, “Maybe it could tell us how it got here.”
“Can we look at the paper enclosed in the plastic?” I whispered, “It might be a clue?”
“A clue?”
“Something that explains why a mannequin looking exactly like our local missing girl has been put in the river. It can’t have walked there by itself, can it, Inspector? Somebody must have put it there so that somebody might have left a clue in there.” I nodded towards the mannequin’s extraordinary necklace.
“Have a look on its back,” piped up the reporter, “It might have a string that lets it talk like one of them Chatty Cathy dolls.” He made a pulling and pushing motion with a hand.
“Shut them up, will you,” said the Detective Inspector quietly, to Sergeant Colin Gregory, another of our local police men as, gingerly, he pulled the folded piece of paper from the plastic around the mannequin’s neck. Taking a step or two back from the paramedics, and smoothing out the paper, he read it quickly, his eyes flicking over the words as I stood by watching.
Beckoning me over with his head, he put the paper in my gloved hands, “What do you make of this then, Miss Day?” Glancing at the typed letters on the page, I too scanned it quickly. “In the river our girl’s been found, dragged out of the water with barely a sound. Look for me again in the woods dense and dark, beneath a spreading oak, oh what a lark. You’ll see a stone angel, staring sightlessly at the sky, dig deep and long, it’ll be tough, I ain’t gonna lie.”
“You see,” I said quietly, so that only the Detective Inspector could hear, “it’s a clue.”
“It’s some sort of game,” he replied, his blue eyes boring into mine, “A trick.”
“It might lead us to the missing girl,” I suggested, “I think we should follow it,”
I gave it back to him, “Do as it tells us.” I glanced around to make sure nobody could hear, “After all, Inspector, this is the first real lead we’ve had in this investigation.”
“Yes,” he nodded and then suddenly, turned around and lifting an arm, said, “Okay ladies and gents, it’s time to go, there’s nothing more to see, move on everybody.”Grumbling, the crowd across the river began to disperse, to break away from one another bit by bit and slowly move away, Sergeant Cooper waving his arms as if he was herding them like sheep. A couple of brave photographers tried to take pictures, rapidly clicking their cameras, before being pulled away by Sergeant Gregory, “Come on now lads, pack your gear away, there’s nothing to see. It’s only a mannequin.”
The paramedics picked up the mannequin and putting her on a stretcher, slotted it easily into the back of the ambulance, as the Detective Inspector, furtively, so that only I could see, slipped the piece of paper into his pocket.
***Three Months Earlier – April 1966 – Lambuck Village
Early April and the air’s chilly, the sky one big white cloud, but there’s buds opening on the bushes and the trees, and green leaves unfurl as daffodils bob and sway in gardens and along grass verges, in public parks and window boxes, their splash of vibrant yellow hopeful after the months of long dark nights, driving rain and snow and an icy chill that soaks into your bones. I noticed everywhere posters of the missing girl, Miranda Wilson, in shop windows and on lamp posts, even on the doors of public houses, anywhere in fact where people would see her pretty face with its bright white smile and maybe recall where they’d seen her last.
The village is busy with people strolling in and out of the shops, bustling house wives baskets slung over their arms staring into plate glass windows thinking of dinner and tea, children on their way to school, some with their mothers holding tightly to their hands giving me a strange sort of pang, for I’d never had children, never been married either and, despite “seeing someone,” a local man named Robert Lund, lived alone with no hope of a future marriage as far as I was concerned, and him too I was sure of that. My mother and father died young, both of whom came from very small families so, to be blunt, with my brother gone too, there was nobody left but me. And to make matters worse, my up and coming 40th birthday loomed into my mind making my stomach clench and roll in a rather surprising manner.
I walked quickly, my heels tip tapping on the path. I wore a trench coat belted tightly at the waist, a pretty scarf adorned my neck and leather gloves covered my hands for it didn’t seem to matter what season, be it a cold one or a warm one, my hands were always deathly cold, “frighteningly so,” I remember my Secretary, Rowena, saying, “something for the doctor to deal with,” she’d said, “something to do with circulation …” which I’d brushed off and carried on wearing gloves, even fingerless ones just like that old rogue, Steptoe, when I needed to write or type.
I tip tapped past the village pond, ducks and geese squawking and fluttering, drops of water shining in the air, nodding hello to several acquaintances from the village. Mrs Best from “The Best Haberdashery,” (what a fortunate name for a shopkeeper I’d always thought), Mrs Mullins who ran the newsagents and Jack, landlord of the village pub, “The Rabbit and Bear” (boasting the actual nose ring and muzzle preserved from the cruel practice of “Dancing Bears,” that, chillingly I thought, adorned the misshapen wall of the pub. Even the wooden pole that the bear had been chained to as it “danced” its paws burning on hot coals, was preserved in all its glory).
I paused for a moment or two as I always did, just to savour the pride I felt as I gazed at my own business, situated between “Rod’s Fish & Chips,” and “Cryer’s The Bakers,” its sign painted in a dark green with thick gold letters saying, “Sylvia Day Detective Agency,” the same on its plate glass window, a flourishing business, myself and my secretary being kept busy with a varying workload consisting of domestic disputes, including infidelity, loyalty tests and divorce cases, as well as insurance claims and I’d worked with the police on several crime investigations including missing persons. The only drawback to the premises being, stuck as I was like a rose between two thorns, the tantalising smell of fish and chips and baking pies and cakes wound their enticing way around my office every day, being of a great temptation, when I really should be watching my waistline. I wasn’t fat by any means but, voluptuous might be the word, if you know what I mean. For me, it was a rich and rewarding way to earn a living and, whilst at work, the knot in my stomach relaxed and my failings as I thought of it, my lack of marriage and a family didn’t seem to matter so much. It was only at the end of the day, arriving home to my cold, quiet house, that once again the loneliness overcame me and the knot came back.
I envied Rowena hurrying home to “hubby” as she liked to call him and her two children whom she invariably picked up from school. “I’m harassed and, in a hurry, and not half finished yet,” she would often say as she rushed off home, I knew envying me and my quiet uncluttered life. Oh, why are we never satisfied with our lot.
I knew Rowena was already in the office as the door pinged open without the need of my key, so I made my way through to the main office, passing her at the reception desk on the way. “Morning,” I said warmly. Rowena had worked for me for a long time, more than fifteen years, both of us having been in our twenties when we met, Rowena being only a couple of years older than me and seeming more so really with her penchant for ankle length flowered dresses and flat sensible shoes, her hair cut very short and I knew curled every night with big plastic rollers held in place by grips and a pink hair net, the swinging sixties appearing to have passed her by.
“Morning Sylvia,” she said, standing up immediately and saying, “A lady was here this morning when I arrived, waiting at the door, desperate to see you.”She followed me through into my office, where I took off my coat and hung it neatly on a wooden coat stand and then unwound my scarf hanging it with the coat, I even took off my gloves and laid them on my desk just in case I needed them again.
“Do you have a name?” She shook her head, “No, but she said she’d call back, so I gave her your direct number. She seemed distraught, very upset. Would you like coffee?”
“Oh, please Rowena. If the lady comes back, tell her I’d be pleased to see her. Have you had chance to type up that report for Mr Glover, the domestic re the loyalty test on his wife?”
“I’m on with that and almost finished, just need to dot the “I’s” and cross the “T’s”, she said as she turned and made to go out of the door, to our small kitchen no doubt to make coffee, when she looked back at me over her shoulder, “The smell of fish and chips is so strong in here, Sylvia, I don’t know how you stand it!”
“Yes, I know,” I said with a cheeky grin, “And all I want to do is eat a large portion smothered with salt and vinegar …”
“What? Even at this early hour?” She consulted her watch, “It’s only nine o’clock.”
“Yes, even at this hour,” I shook my head sadly, “Can’t you tell? Look, the waistband on this skirt is getting tighter and tighter.” I lifted my top a little to show an overspill, like that new-fangled Pillsbury dough boy.
She giggled and said, “And that doesn’t even cover the smell from the baker’s …”
“Yes, but that’s stronger in your office,” I said with a grin. “If only we were smokers …
”Grimacing, I said, “Oh no, I hate the smell of stale smoke.”“Pipe smoke isn’t bad …”And when I grimaced again, “I need something to put me off the smell of the bakery,” moaned Rowena, “It’s so aptly named too, “Cryer’s,” I feel like crying when I think of all the calories. I had a Belgian bun every day last week,” Looking down she patted her stomach, “And hubby hates it when I put on weight.”
“Oh, never mind Hubby,” I said forcefully, “You should eat what you want to eat, Rowena. Please yourself first. After all, what’s it to him?”
She gave a small smile, “Easier said than done, Sylvia. It seems that nowadays men want a super woman,” She ticked off each point on her fingers, “They want them to bring in money, cook all the meals, keep the house clean, look after the children, oh and be cute and sexy in the evenings when really they’re too bone tired to be of any use.”I smiled and shook my head, “I’ll go get your coffee,” she said, “It’s no use telling you all this, you probably don’t understand, unencumbered as you are. Oh, by the way, how’s Robert these days?”
I pursed my mouth, “Okay, I suppose.”“Is he off the juice?” she asked.
“Oh,” I replied, sitting back in my comfortable leather chair, “He enjoys his “juice” as you call it.”“Yeah, but too much sometimes, eh, Sylvia?”I nodded as the telephone rang, cutting into our conversation, “Good morning, Sylvia Day speaking, how may I help?”Rowena stood in the doorway, still holding the door, watching and waiting just in case I wanted her to do anything for me, perhaps fetch a file, take notes.
“Oh yes,” I said, “My Secretary said you were at the door this morning. Well, I’m here now, please do call in, we can talk.”I listened again for a moment or two and then said, “Okay then, Mrs Leigh, I’ll see you in ten minutes.”
Replacing the receiver I told Rowena, “That was Mrs Natalie Leigh, the lady from this morning.”
Rowena nodded and said, “I’ll make a pot of coffee. The way she was earlier, I’m sure she’ll need it."
"Did she say what it was about?”
“Her sister’s gone missing; she’s been gone just over a week but Mrs Leigh is concerned the police aren’t doing enough. It seems as if the case is cold before they’ve even started their investigations.”“Yeah, well, they don’t seem to take these things seriously until a body turns up. They seem to link someone going missing with domestic disputes and always blame the husband. “It’s got to be someone they know,” they always say.“
"True,” I replied and then, “Yes, thanks, a pot of coffee would go down very well. Thank you, Rowena.”
She smiled and nodded as she stepped out of the office, quietly closing the door behind her. Feeling a sudden chill, I rubbed my hands together for warmth and then replaced my gloves. I glanced at the half-typed paper still inserted in my typewriter and read the last few lines, trying to clear my mind and remember what I needed to say next. Taking my diary from the desk drawer, I jotted down a couple of reminders for the week when the internal line of my phone suddenly rang making me jump. Picking up the heavy black receiver I said, “Hello?”I listened for a moment and then said, “Okay Rowena, please send Mrs Leigh in, along with the pot of coffee of course, oh and two cups.” I jumped up then and went to the door, holding it wide open, eager for my next case to begin.
Free Chapter One of The Doppelganger and Poems for you to Enjoy!
THE DOPPELGANGER
London - 1968
Chapter One
It was a filthy night, the rain falling in long silver sheets, the gutters gurgling and the paths slippery and shiny as ice. Cars whooshed past, tyres squeaking. I ran, ducking beneath my umbrella, heels tip tapping, glad I’d worn knee high boots to protect my precious skin tone stockings from dirty splashes. The lights of a café loomed ahead, spilling out onto the pavement, a welcoming sight in the murk. Without hesitation, I darted inside, the door pinging and my umbrella dripping all over the tiled floor.
It was warm and fuggy, the windows streaming with condensation, the air heavy with the smell of strong coffee and fried food. Mostly big, bearded men, wearing baggy jeans and checked shirts, sat at square red and black Formica topped tables, quaffing from mugs and eating egg and chips with triangles of limp white bread at hand to dip into the runny yolks. There was a burble of conversation overlaid with raucous laughter.
Shivering, I sat down and gazed around, shaking my chiffon scarf from my head. People turned and stared. I don’t usually frequent these sort of greasy spoon places but the rain was relentless and, for somebody who’d lived in Paris for the past year, a place like this made a refreshing change. I loosened the belt on my trench coat and took off my gloves. The waitress bustled over and I ordered coffee as the jukebox burst into song, “What am I supposed to do with a girl like Jessamine, though my eyes are open wide, she’s made my life a dream …”
A woman sat nearby, sipping at her drink, a glossy magazine open in front of her on the table. I could see her profile, her nose straight with a tiny tip tilt at the very end, she had shoulder length hair with a dangly fringe. Frowning, I peered closer, did I know her? Even the pretty blue and yellow scarf draped over the back of her chair looked familiar. The waitress came and, with a nod of thanks, I sat back a little as she placed a steaming cup on the table. The spoon tinkled against the cup as I stirred in a cube of sugar and, inhaling the fragrant brew with pleasure, took a sip.
“That’s it,” I thought, “Her scarf … it’s the same as mine …” Absentmindedly, I fingered the material soft and damp from the rain. Perhaps feeling my intense gaze, the woman turned her head and for one long heart stopping moment we stared at one another. I gasped, my hand over my mouth. I thought I’d made a mistake and that the wall was a mirror, but the woman didn’t move. Her hands stayed rigid as hooks clinging to the edge of the table. Apart from that one small thing, it was as if I was looking … at myself. “When Jessamine stays, though time goes fast, this is my world at last, beautiful days lost in her eyes, but then the whole world dies …”
***
“Sometimes we become our own doppelgangers … we still look the same, but behave like someone else …”
***
My smile creasing her face, she stood up and came over to the table, “More coffee?” she asked, “I don’t know about you, but I feel shaky, it’s not every day you meet your twin flame is it?” She nodded towards the waitress, as she rolled her magazine and put it in her bag, who nodded back and then rushed to the counter, to the hissing and steaming of the coffee machines.
“Don’t you mean your doppelganger?” I replied. I motioned with my hand that she should sit down.
“Ah,” she said, “Now you’ve made it seem like something scary … weird … when really it’s not …” She sat down opposite me, the chair scraping harshly on the floor as she pulled it out. I noticed that like me she wore a cream trench coat, a pale blue blouse with a pattern of white whereas mine was the other way around. We both wore skirts of a deep blue, very short with black boots that reached our knees. Our scarves were the same and our gloves of black leather, hers now on the table, mine scrunched nervously in my hand.
“What do you mean?”
“That word doppelganger … it sounds sinister …” She fiddled with the ends of her hair with her fingers, smoothing it, rubbing it on her chin, taking it near to her mouth.
I shrugged and smiled, said, “Did you know it’s a German word meaning “double-walker?”
She smiled again … my smile … the smile that I’ve seen in the mirror so many times. Her hair was the same light blonde and even her eyes, a bright green flecked with specks of gold that shone out from that identical face. Noisily talking some of the bearded men got up to leave, opening the door and letting in a blast of cold air. The waitress brought our drinks, hastily putting them down, as another group came in, diverting her attention away from us.
We faced each other again, unable to take our eyes away. I felt nauseous, as if I’d eaten or drunk something bad, my heart beating fast, having the strangest feeling that this was the beginning of something but not knowing what.
“What’s your name?” she asked me.
I smiled and said, “We’re so in awe of each other that I think we’ve forgotten common courtesies … Lucy Richmond … and yours?”
“Stella,” she told me, “Stella March …”
“Ah … Little Women … which one are you?” She held out her hand and we shook, our grip firm and hard.
“Um …” she said, her head to one side, seeming to thinking hard, “Jo, I think … practical, down to earth …”
I giggled and said, “Yes me too, although I may have a little of Amy’s selfishness.”
She nodded, “Yeah perhaps that too.” And then quietly as if an afterthought, “Not Beth’s goodness though.” She sipped her coffee and then, taking a sneaky glance at my hands, asked, “Are you married?”
“No …” I shook my head, “Almost … but I escaped … you?”
“No … I’ve been too busy for anything like that … I’ve been nursing both my Mum and Dad through illnesses … “
“Oh, I’m sorry …”
She shrugged, “They’re both gone now and … sometimes I don’t know what to do with myself … I wanted to be alone for so long … but now I feel guilty for getting my wish … it was stressful, I lost my job, my friends …”
I nodded at the loneliness in her voice, wondering why she’d said she didn’t have Beth’s goodness. She had it in buckets. “Yeah I can relate to that in a way. My escape plan, after my fiancé dumped me, was to run away … so I went to Paris … I’m living in a garret writing a book … just as F Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway did …”
She threw her head back and laughed, my laugh, robust and healthy. “Truly?”
“Yes,” I said, “I’m about half way through …”
“What’s it about?”
“It’s a romance …. boy meets girl, you know …”
“Oh how I’d love to do that,” she said sincerely, “You’re so lucky.” I watched all sorts of emotions flitting across her face … my face … it was bizarre, weird … as if I’d suddenly found my long lost twin sister. Thoughts jostled through my mind, strange thoughts that I didn’t know if I could put into words but, as if prompted to do so, I blurted them out.
“Well … you can if you want to … you could be me … and I could be you … wouldn’t that be a hoot?” I sat back in my chair, calm and relaxed as if what I’d said was really no big deal.
She sipped her coffee which must be cold by now. Mine was so I couldn’t drink it, with a thin film like oil on its brown surface. “You mean …” She pointed a finger from me to her like a child, “We could swop places?”
I nodded, “Why not?” I shrugged and raised my palms in the French way, “Pourquoi Pas?”
“Wow … it’s a mind blowing thought!”
“For six months maybe?” I gazed at her with challenge in my eyes. I noticed that the waitress was putting chairs on tables and had a bucket and mop ready to wash the floor. The coffee machine was quiet and the jukebox silent and dull without its flashing lights.
“Hey, you two … you gotta be sisters right?” said the waitress, and then peering closer, “Nah, gotta be twins,” Her jaw moved rhythmically as a cow chewing cud, “You even dress the same …” We looked up together and smiled, not wanting our friendly waitress to know that we were neither sisters nor twins but doppelgangers. Stella was right … the word did sound sinister … I felt a shiver run down my spine. “Five minutes then girls,” She pointed at the exit, “And I’m locking that door …”
Stella stared back at me, holding my eyes with hers, and, after draining her cup and swallowing hard, opened her mouth to speak.
***
I’m in Stella’s apartment … yes, me, Lucy Richmond … well, saying that I’m not Lucy anymore, I’m Stella March so will refer myself to that name from now on as I will refer to the real Stella as Lucy. I’ve stepped into another woman’s shoes and all I can do now is see how well they fit. It’s a big place in an old converted house, the rooms high ceilinged and white, bigger than my little garret in Paris making me wonder how she will adapt, how Stella, I mean Lucy, will fit in to the Paris lifestyle. The swinging sixties is oh so good in gay Paree as they say, but so it is in London too. That’s why I’m here now anyway, oh how I needed a break from Paris, from French voices and French ways, extended now thanks to my doppelganger.
I think of Lucy, wondering what she’s doing. Is she looking around my place just as I look at hers? Will she go for a walk around the local area, which is quirky, different, my little garret hidden in back streets with unexpected steps up and down, or will she stroll the River Seine and watch the Eiffel Tower light up the dark? I know that she will like the balcony that juts like a triangular shelf from my bedroom. I spend many hours there with a glass of wine gazing at the cobbled streets and the well-dressed people as they walk up and down like models on a catwalk.
Six months we’d agreed on when we’d met last night in the same café. The café called “The 7Up Cafe,” something that neither of us had noticed the day before. There was a different waitress, a young girl, wearing an overall of pink and white, who made no mention of us being sisters or twins. We exchanged documents … passports, birth certificates, car documents. She has a red mini with a Union Jack painted on the roof. I can see it now in the little car park at the back of the building. I have a 1964 Citroen 2CV, which, because it’s tipped one day to become a classic, makes me hopeful that Lucy will treat it with the respect it deserves.
It’s lucky that we’re both so much alone in the world, neither of us living near close family which will make this adventure, as I’m thinking of it, so much easier. Neither of us will have to lie or pretend. I suppose that’s the only way it will work. Lucy has no family now, no brothers, no sisters and her parents are gone. She has no current boyfriend and not even close friends. “I lost contact with everybody while looking after Mum and Dad,” she had told me.
On the other hand, I have family. I have a Mum and Dad and a brother but they emigrated to Australia a few years ago so, even if I do call once in a while, they won’t have a clue where I am. I could be calling from … I don’t know … Bangladesh, and they’d be none the wiser. It would be interesting though to see if, on catching sight of my doppelganger, they would know that she wasn’t their daughter. Would there be anything that would give it away? Looks wise I don’t think so … but character? Quirks? I wouldn’t like to take that risk.
As I already told Lucy, I ran away to Paris when Miles, my ex-fiancé, dumped me just before the wedding for my so called best friend, the dark flirtatious Anita. I knew that I could manage alone in Paris, I’d worked at all sorts of jobs, squirreling away money for just such a time as this. So being alone, nursing my fragile heart, whilst writing a romantic book about, funnily enough, fragile hearts, was my life … until now. Until I met my doppelganger and everything changed. My very own shattered heart has been put on the back burner for six whole months while I get the very unusual chance to pretend to be somebody else.
***
I decide to go out, I want to walk the streets of London, to see if they really are paved with gold. Maybe I can collect some in a pot. Peering from the window I see that it’s a typical April day, the sky blue and cloudy and a breeze, filled with raindrops, that’s shaking the trees so they gyrate like Go Go dancers. Pulling on my black wet look boots and belting my coat tight at the waist, I grab my shoulder bag and, closing the door firmly behind me, take the stairs down into the hallway.
Tying a chiffon scarf over my hair, I go out the main door and, running down the steps, find myself on the main street. A long street of grand houses, interspersed here and there with shops, a hairdresser, a newsagent, a couple of cafes, a pub on the corner, “Gales” written into the smart green tiles of its façade, the pub sign with a picture of a lamb, swinging backwards and forwards.
“Ah, so this is Pimlico,” I thought. A strong breeze blew, pulling at my scarf and my hair, getting even wilder as I approached the river Thames its water choppy and turbulent, the wildlife frantically swimming as if on a wild fairground ride. I took a few haphazard twists and turns down back streets where I noticed a couple of take-away places, the spicy smell of Chinese curry wafting in the air. Loud music came from the open doors of record shops and teenagers stood in groups laughing and chattering.
My heart rose at the thought of my six months here in London, although my half written book, the pages neatly stacked, gave me a pang of guilt. Oh, but that’s what I’d do. I’d buy pens, pencils and paper and finish it while I was here. In my mind I could smell the new pencils and notebooks and imagine myself writing on the lined pages, my handwriting long and looping. I looked around for a stationery shop but instead found myself on another long tree lined street with more majestic houses, some now turned into flats and others into shops, mainly antique shops I saw with pleasure.
I stopped at the first one and, gazing into its plate glass window, saw that it was very upmarket, the window full of all sorts of interesting items. My mum and dad had always been into antiques so I was used to the old and unusual objects that were strewn around the house as I was growing up. Gazing up at the shop sign, written in large gold letters on a black background, I saw that it was called “Freeman Antiquities.” A bell jingled as I walked into the plush interior, the air smelling sweet as joss sticks burning at a party. The atmosphere was hushed and I walked slowly, looking at the pictures hanging on the walls, my heels sinking into the deep carpet.
One of the pictures caught my eye, two babies snuggling in a crib, and peering closer saw that its name written in block capitals was “A Double Blessing.” It was a quaint picture, something to give to twin sisters or even perhaps your very own doppelganger. But then again something to keep for yourself.
A voice cut into my thoughts, “Can I help?” and I spun around to come face to face with a very attractive man. He was swarthy skinned and had very straight black hair that hung to his shoulders, middle parted and springing back from his forehead, yet his eyes were green, a beautiful clear green, lighter even than mine, and not dark brown or black as you might expect of someone with such colouring. His looks were so unusual, I couldn’t help but stare.
His face broke into a smile as he said, “Well, I don’t believe it, Stella March …” He frowned then and visibly paled as if something had just occurred to him or that he’d seen a ghost, “I haven’t seen you for years …”
My heart thumping hard, I must have looked mystified but quickly pulled myself together and said, “Oh hi … how are you?” Yet thinking, “How on earth does Lucy know this gorgeous creature …”
He seemed to collect himself and smiled showing even white teeth. His lips were very red in amongst a sprinkling of dark stubble on his cheeks and chin. “You don’t remember me at all really do you?”
“Well …” I shrugged and gave a little gasp of laughter. “Oh my God, how stupid he must think I am. Any woman meeting this man would never forget him.”
He held out his hand which suddenly enveloped mine, sending an erotic tingle all the way along my spine, from the very bottom to the very top, “Cole … Cole Freeman? I remember you from school … and then I used to see you around quite a bit, mainly in the bars in Soho, but not for a while now though … ages actually …”
“Oh … of course … sorry, school seems such a long time ago … ““Freeman? So this shop must be his … or his parents? He’s done so well for himself … far better than me … my poor fragile heart was beating so hard, it seemed to reverberate throughout my whole body …”
“Well yeah it is … the good old days, I can’t believe I’m twenty-eight, getting so near that thirty milestone …” I liked the way he dressed. The smart black suit with fashionable flared trousers, a white shirt tucked in and open at the neck, looked good on him. He wore a silver chain that rested lightly on his collar bones.
“Yeah … well I’m twenty-seven …”
“And not changed a bit … well apart from a slight twang … Australian?”
“Um, yeah, I did a bit of backpacking around that way …”
I felt a deep red heat rise up my face and neck. I definitely wasn’t used to such attention from good looking men that I’d only just met, but of course Cole hadn’t a clue that I’d only just met him. Hmm, interesting that Lucy had frequented bars in Soho. She said she had no friends, so who did she go with? Even so I felt quite dowdy and unadventurous for a moment or two, until Cole broke into my thoughts, “Anyway, is there anything I can help you with?”
“This picture …”
“Yes, lovely isn’t it … Bessie Pease Guttman … an American artist. She painted mainly children and young babies … apparently she used her own children as models ……”
“Really?” I glanced away from the picture to catch him staring at me, his green eyes fixed and almost yearning, “Yes,” I said as, quickly, I turned back, “A similar style to Mabel Lucie Atwell would you say?”
“Yes!” He gave me a quizzical look, “You seem to know something of art? Antiques?”
I shrugged, “Not really … although I do like both, but my Mum and Dad always had an interest so I suppose I grew up with it. Do you know how old it is?”
“Yes, this one was painted in around 1915.”
“Wow, so old, that’s great. How much is it?”
He gave me a price and, thinking mainly of myself and my doppelganger, I said I would take it. He wrapped it carefully and put it in a sturdy carrier bag with “Freeman’s Antiquities” written on it in large black letters. He gave it to me along with that smile again … that smile that lit up his whole face.
“It’s been great to see you again, Stella …but …” He ummed and aahed a bit, seeming unsure of what to say, “I don’t know if it’s up your street or even if you’re looking for work, but I need some help here … just one day a week, or sometimes two, mainly to serve and look after the customers. I’ve got a lot of cataloguing that I need to catch up on at the back. I was just about to advertise but if you’re interested … I have a feeling you’d fit in really well …” He must have noticed my inquisitive gaze because he added hastily, “I mean because of your interest in antiques …”
He let the rest of the sentence hang in the air as the door pinged and a group of people came chattering in. They talked in loud American accents exclaiming, “Hey, what a shop …” “Did you see that stuff in the window …” “Wow man …” They gave us both cheery waves as they pottered around, looking at the pictures on the walls as I had earlier.
“I’m sorry … I’ve put you on the spot …”
“No … it sounds good, um …”
“Look, take my card, give me a ring when you’ve had a think. I could do with somebody here within a couple of weeks though.”
I nodded and, putting the card carefully in my pocket and picking up the picture, said that I’d be in touch. We exchanged a long look as once again he gave me his lovely boyish grin and said, “It’s been wonderful to see you, Stella …”
With another hot blush suffusing my face, I turned and went to the door, the American people making a beeline for Cole straight away, “Hey, man, what’s the story on that picture,” And then pointing, “Yeah, that one right over there … the one with the dogs …”
Man on the Wall
Catch me now for I fear I may fall
In love with you, man on the wall,
Your sparkling eyes and ethereal face,
Your charm, your wit, your sexual grace.
Hear me now, but what do I say?
I don’t know you, so come what may,
Why do I have feelings flowing so deep
That wish you were mine to cherish and keep?
I dream of kissing your full soft lips
And feeling your gentle finger tips
Caress my skin, then stroke my cheek,
My body trembles, your eyes I seek.
I gaze at your picture for hour after hour
Til my passions rise as high as a tower
Which crashes and tumbles to the ground
So I scream and scream, yet make no sound.
For I realise, my love, my man on the wall
That I’ll never know you, no, not at all,
Though you seem familiar, you’re a hopeless dream
If I sought you out, would you be what you seem?
Debbie Chase
YOUNG JACK
Young Jack had an enemy, his name was Big James
He bullied the young ones and spoiled their games,
He pulled the girl’s pigtails and made them scream,
Then sat back and grinned like the cat with the cream.
It all came to a head one fine summer day,
Young Jack was determined to make Big James pay,
He confronted him, his fists clenched tight,
“Come on Big James, let’s have a fair fight.”
Big James sneered, “A fight indeed,
You’re nothing to me, you little weed,
I’ll get the better of you, easy as pie,
Come here Young Jack, be prepared to die.”
Big James struck out and gave Young Jack a punch,
“Hurry up,” he said. “It’s nearly time for lunch.”
Young Jack was angry, he gave a great thump
And Big James went down with a tremendous bump.
He lay on the ground not moving at all,
“Get up Big James,” he heard Young Jack call.
He tried to rise but felt too weak,
“You’ve won Young Jack,” said his voice so meek.
The children aren’t bullied any more by Big James,
They’re free to run and play their games.
Young Jack is a hero, his grandchildren he will tell
The story of the day that Big James fell.
Debbie Chase
RAPUNZEL
This is the Princess Rapunzel so fair,
With long, silky corn coloured hair,
Who is locked in a tower that reaches so high,
It almost touches the blue of the sky.
This is the witch ugly and old
Who has captured the Princess so we are told,
The Princess Rapunzel who is so fair
With long, silky corn coloured hair,
Who is locked in a tower that reaches so high,
It almost touches the blue of the sky.
This is the prince so much in love
Who will rescue the Princess from above,
Who hates the witch ugly and old,
Who has captured the Princess so we are told,
The Princess Rapunzel who is so fair
With long, silky corn coloured hair,
Who is locked in a tower that reaches so high,
It almost touches the blue of the sky.
This is the window from which hangs the hair,
So the Prince may climb it like a stair,
Yes the Prince who is so much in love,
Who will rescue the Princess from above,
Who hates the witch ugly and old
Who has captured the Princess so we are told,
The Princess Rapunzel who is so fair,
With long, silky corn coloured hair
Who is locked in a tower that reaches so high,
It almost touches the blue of the sky.
These are the scissors which cut the golden locks
So that the witch could laugh and mock
At the window from which hangs the hair
So the Prince may climb it like a stair,
Yes the Prince who is so much in love
Who will rescue the Princess from above
Who hates the witch ugly and old,
Who has captured the Princess so we are told,
The Princess Rapunzel who is so fair
With long, silky corn coloured hair,
Who is locked in a tower that reaches so high
It almost touches the blue of the sky.
Debbie Chase
I Wasn't There
I wasn’t there the day she went
I didn’t know she was only lent,
Like somebody quietly leaving the room
She went to her eternal tomb
Stolen by greedy outstretched hands
She was taken away to other lands
Angels posing as creatures of joy
Are like selfish children desiring a toy
From the day that she was born
They spied on her and said with scorn
“It’s written that one day without a fuss,
You will come and live with us.”
They have her now in a heavenly place
Where no one even has a face,
Like ghostly vultures in the twilight
They knew her fate at the very first sight.
Debbie Chase