A few years ago, a scene popped into my mind and I wrote it down. This happens quite a lot, and often these ‘snippets’ are just mental exercises which will never turn into anything. But this one was different.
In those five hundred words, a young woman with magical ability who’s suffering from unrequited love is asked to do something she’s not sure about and needs to decide whether to or not.
I knew the ‘snippet’ wanted to become a contemporary fantasy novel, but I also knew it wanted to be a romance. That was where I started to struggle. All my books have elements of romance in them to a lesser or greater degree, however I’d never written a straight romance and I didn’t really feel confident to try.
A year or so later Liz Hedgecock and I were talking about starting a new co-writing project to add to our others and began batting ideas about.
We both thought it would be nice to try a different genre, maybe fantasy, maybe romance, and we sat down with a large piece of paper and some post-its and jotted down ideas. At this point I mentioned my ‘snippet’ (which Liz had read) and wondered if it could be a prompt. Liz had already written some contemporary fantasy novels (The Magical Bookshop Series) and some rom-com novellas (Tales of Meadley), so had a much better idea than I did about how to proceed.
Several conversations later, we’d fleshed out the main characters and developed a skeleton plot and A Tale of Tea and Dragons was born.
As usual, we have taken a character each to feature in alternative chapters. This time however, one character is female and one is male, rather than both female. And the familiar (to me) plot beats of a murder mystery, have been replaced with the (new to me) plot beats of a romance.
In the end, with Liz’s expertise, we got there.
We had lots of fun writing A Tale of Tea and Dragons. Disappearing into it was a lovely contrast to current affairs.
It’s set in a world that’s ours yet not ours.
Some people have magic powers and some don’t. Some towns are ancient towns dripping in magic, others have no magic in them at all (I’m sure you can make your own list of which might be which). Both are populated by a mixture of magical and non-magical people.
Magical people may or may not have familiars (in this world they’re magical creatures who are part-protector, part-voice-of-conscience for the person they’re assigned to). Magical people will have a range of potential power which needs to be honed and trained – but are there enough skilled teachers left to help?
As it’s a modern world, it’s full of cynics.
Non-magical people from non-magical towns might visit magical towns for a kind of theme-park experience, but they may view magical people are viewed as at best charlatans and at worst suspect and needing to be kept under control. Magical people, especially in non-magical towns, may feel that they’re better hiding their abilities.
Against this background we start in Lulmouth Bay – an ancient magical town, but also a modern seaside resort.
Living there is Hannah, owner/manager of the teashop her grandmother left her along with more magical recipes than she’s prepared to use. She’s fed up, frustrated and pining for a man who keeps friend-zoning her.
Arriving from the extremely non-magical town of Mundingham is Max, magical but cynical, burnt from a failed romance. He’s also feeling trapped by his job, but he’s ready to get rich so he’s free.
Will either of them try to get what they want even when the cost may be too high?
Will anyone find love?
Come and visit us in Lulmouth Bay by clicking here – the sea’s warm, the tea’s sparking, and the magic’s lovely!
Words copyright (c) Paula Harmon 2025. Cover image created by German Creative 2025. These are not to be used without the authors’ express permission including for the purposes of training artificial intelligence (AI).
This was recorded a few weeks ago on a very hot day and I arrived flustered thinking I was late when in fact I was early! Once I calmed down though, this was a great interview. I had little prior knowledge of the questions, so this is all from the heart (and mind) and I didn’t even know some of it was there! (And no, I have no idea why I tend to stare at the ceiling while being video’d. I’ll have to stop that in case I ever become ‘A Lady Writer on the TV’!
We all look at the rock blocking the crossroads. Thrust into its centre is a large sword, its blade engraved in some unknown script.
‘How do you know it’s manmade?’ I say. ‘Maybe some other otherworld being did it.’
‘An elf like us would have put that sword in straight and enchanted it with proper runes that appear and disappear according to how annoying we want to be.’
Brendillion scratches his ear. ‘Tons of our stuff is manmade. That’s why we lure humans here, isn’t it? So they work and we don’t have to.’ He gives me an awkward smile. ‘Sorry Astrillia… you know what I mean.’
‘We don’t keep humans to do this sorta stuff!’ Norindis flicks the leather bound hilt and makes the sword twang. ‘And this is iron. How’m I gonna get my unicorns past? Flaming humans – coming here, polluting our… highways.’ He twangs the sword again.
Brendillion tenses, ready to dive in before Norindis gives it a third twang and releases something we can’t control.
‘Which human?’ he ponders. ‘We haven’t got many now apart from those hippies we nabbed at Woodstock in 1969 who think they’re still there.’
Pandotha frowns. ‘We’ve got a shedload of “misunderstood” teenagers.’
‘They’re useless,’ argues Brendillion. ‘We’d send them back if their parents didn’t prefer the changeling replacements.’
‘So it’s one of us,’ I insist.
‘No,’ Norindis snaps. ‘It’s manmade.’
At this point my human husband Derek appears. His only magic skill is making my heart flip when I see him, even after ten years. He wandered into our realm by accident and stayed by choice.
‘Wotcha Nobby,’ he says. ‘What’s with the new street furniture?’
Norindis clenches his fists. ‘Address me properly, stinking human!’
Derek makes a flourishy bow and declaims ‘Greetings Nobby. What wisdom too deep for my human brain has led to this impediment to traffic?
Norindis roars. ‘How’d you do it eh? Why’d you do it?’
‘Not me,’ says Derek. He inspects the stone. ‘Excali….Interesting,’ he says. ‘Hundreds of years ago, a boy pulled a sword out of something like this.’
‘An elf?’ says Pandotha.
‘Human,’ says Derek. ‘He’s supposed to come back if the world got into a pickle again, which…’
Norindis spots a teenage humans slumped in torpor against a tree staring into an object no amount of magic has yet prised from his hand. ‘You! Come here! Pull this out.’
The boy looks up and whines. ‘Why me? It’s not faaair! Don’t wanna.’
‘Tsk,’ says Derek. His eyes suddenly sparkle, his hand stretches out…
I can see what’s in Derek’s mind: us riding into the city on glimmering horses to… disappear into an angry world of iron. I reach to stay his hand but he’s withdrawn it.
‘No,’ he says, the sparkle fading. ‘This is bad magic. It’s not a sword that’ll put things right now. Besides,’ he glances at the truculent teenager, ‘You just can’t get the Once and Future Kings anymore, can you?’
The local women’s guild threatens to uncover what Rose is hiding. Who can she trust? Is it Sky who fears the guild? Or Rob who hates it?
As odd becomes sinister, Rose begins to wonder: does the Guild want them to leave…
or to die?
As a contemporary fantasy, ‘The Incomer’ may seem like a major diversion from murder mysteries, but if you’ve read some of my short stories, you’ll know that I have always had a fascination with the magical and mystical.
And while this book involves werewolves, shapeshifters and selkies (and a little romance), it is chiefly character driven as are all my books.
It is about what happens when people find themselves in an extraordinary situation. It is about brother and a sister coming to terms with and overcoming more than one grief. It is about fighting someone or something that is trying to destroy them. It’s about learning who you really are and starting again. And more importantly, perhaps, it’s about friendship.
I actually started it long before any of the characters in my other novels even popped into my head, and I thought you might like to know some of its background and how it reflects my writing – if not personal – journey. (Which, while it involves small towns, doesn’t – so far – involve werewolves, shapeshifters and selkies. As far as I know.)
Back in 2010, my husband gave me a laptop for my birthday. Up to that point, we’d shared a PC , but he knew how much I wanted to start writing again and this was his gift to make this happen.
I started a few stories, but one of those t I didn’t finish was called ‘Reverse’. It is now ‘The Incomer’.
It started much the same: Rose and her TV presenter brother Simon have moved to the Highlands to hide a secret. Simon has become a werewolf in an incident which killed Rose’s husband. There’s a possibility of a cure, but they need to keep their heads down for the time being.
Unfortunately no one will let them hide.
First Emmeline of the local women’s guild turns up, then a peculiar young woman called Sky who seems to fear Emmeline.
That’s as far as I got.
I realised that the story needed more space and I didn’t know what to do so it went in the cyber drawer and stayed there.
In 2016 I thought ‘Reverse’ might be a good project for Nanowrimo (a challenge to write a complete – if first draft – 50,000 novel in November). I got half way and… I can’t remember what got in the way at the time, but I stopped again.
Roll on five months. I’d taken leave from work to spend with my children during their Easter school holiday, but as teenagers they were more interested in hanging out with their friends (and of course, revising for that summer’s exams) than day trips with me.
I suddenly realised that I wasn’t remotely upset. On the contrary, I was ecstatic.
This was the first time for years when I’d have whole days to myself, to do what I wanted, without worrying about keeping other people entertained.
So I dusted off ‘Reverse’ and finished it. My husband came home from work on the Friday evening moments after I typed the last sentence.
It needed work and was way too long, but I was happy. In as much as I’d had a clue where it was heading in 2010, it had ended up somewhere much better.
The short story was going to be entirely about Simon and Sky with events seen through Rose’s eyes, with her in the background.
But as I wrote, Rose changed, and because she changed, so did the direction of the story.
The start is the same: Rose is a widow. She’s her brother’s PA and also his protector, because he’s not good at protecting himself. Simon is the extrovert celebrity. She is an introvert, perceived by others to be in his shadow.
But as I developed the story, Rose started pushing against other people’s perceptions and tackling the sinister things they’re facing by herself.
Suddenly the novel became as much about Rose and about her friendship with Sky as about anything else.
It wasn’t until I was reading the first chapter act to my writing group and discussing it afterwards, that it occurred to that Rose had changed, because I myself had changed.
When I started that short story in 2010, I was juggling a job and caring for primary school age children. I was lucky I found time to sit down at all let alone write. I wasn’t in the background in my job, yet I felt I was in my domestic life.
By 2017, my children were more independent. I was to, to a large extent, the good deal freer.
Also, I had joined a writers’ group, and ‘met’ writers on line. Many of these people are now my closest friends.
The creative side of me which had been stifled for a long time, was no longer in the shadows. I’d stopped worrying about trying to explain creative ideas, because I’d found a tribe who wouldn’t dismiss them as mad or stupid and laugh at me.
In fact, I had stopped being in the shadows and stopped letting life just happen. In the process, my characters had stopped being people who largely observe or suffer events, but instead take action even if their personality makes that hard.
Rose is still the introvert I imagined her to be. She is still a little shy. But she’ll fight for her brother, and she’ll fight for herself.
If I’ve whetted your appetite, you can pre-order the e-book here. It will come out on 1st July 2025. The paperback and hardback will be out on 30th June. Although there will be other books in the series, ‘The Incomer’ can be read as a standalone, so I hope you’ll give it a go.
And if you do, I hope you like it.
Words copyright (c) 2025 Paula Harmon. Image created using Canva. Book cover by 100covers.
In the last few months, life has been busy, hence getting out of the habit of blogging.
I’ve been working on A Justified Death (Margaret Demeray 5), and with Liz on Death in a Dinner Jacket (Booker and Fitch book 6). Both are now available for pre-order. That’s on top of a day job which is pretty trying (apply your knowledge of British understatement here); adult child wrangling; elderly parent/in-law wrangling; sad news from friends; talks; current global affairs.
Perhaps because I’m smouldering a bit at the edges, my eyes were recently drawn to a list of suggestions to counteract burnout. One took me right back to being six years old and Trixie and Trina:
Perhaps a year or so before I was six, my father read me an unabridged version of Alice Through The Looking-Glass and I loved it. To a girl who hated trousers and climbed trees in skirts; who got into trouble for backchat; who talked to animals, Alice was a kindred spirit, a role model and an inspiration.
Do we need trousers to have adventures? No! We can do it in frilly dresses.
Here’s a talking rabbit asking us to follow him. Let’s go!
Here’s a looking-glass we can step through. Let’s do it!
If I could have followed Alice through that mirror, I would have.
Perhaps that’s why I met/invented Trixie and Trina.
I’d recently moved school and my friend-making skills were terrible, so to begin with I was lonely and the target of older boys who’d threaten me, chase me and call me names. I reported it, but the teachers gave the standard response of the time: ‘Just keep away from them’.
I tried. I found a place to hide away: a corner by a glass door which was slightly shadowed, so I could see my reflection. In the absence of any other friend, I named my mirror self Trixie and my physical self Trina (or maybe the other way round). I decided we were twins who’d been forcibly separated and were stuck on either side of the reflection, desperate to rejoin each other.
We’d chat about bullies and loneliness and how we could be reunited. At least I think we did. I can’t really remember more than the names and sitting there talking to my reflection.
Eventually the bullies found me – clearly proving them right about how weird I was – and yanked me up by my anorak hood, nearly strangling me. I like to think a teacher spotted it and they were punished but can’t recall that either. I just knew it wasn’t safe to hide out of sight any more.
I started to make friends… and then after a couple of years moved schools again, which is another story. For a while, illogically, I felt guilty that I’d never gone back to visit Trixie/Trina before I left, that I never said goodbye. I half wondered if she remained trapped. Or if I had. After all, who’s to say which of us was stuck behind a reflection?
At nine years old, in a different place entirely, I forgot her and became fascinated by looking for ways into other worlds through the countryside near my new home. This was probably partly inspired Alan Garner’s books, but I like to think was partly instinctive as my ancestry comes chiefly from (in alphabetical not percentage order) Eire, England, Scotland and Wales.
It isn’t a good idea to cross into the realms of the Sidhe/Elves/Seelie/Tylwyth Teg nor to let them cross into ours. That’s why there are festivals and traditions around solstices and equinoxes, and an eerie edge to dawn and dusk when the wall between worlds is thin and the danger to humans is highest. But I didn’t realise that then.
Well before I heard of quantum physics, I sensed another world was just out of reach and all I had to do was find a way in. Was this because there really are other universes running alongside ours and I somehow knew it instinctively, or because I wanted to escape my reality? I don’t know, but I looked in the woods and the river for another couple of years without thinking of looking in mirrors instead.
By thirteen, the main ‘other’ world I yearned for was adulthood where I’d be in control, and mirrors were only for despairing over what I looked like in. While waiting for magical adulthood, I created alternative universes in my head and wrote about them: time-slips, fairy courts, aliens, ghosts. Of course, adult life didn’t turn out quite as controllable as I’d expected and I wish I still had the face and figure I used to about, but what teenager realises they’ll ever feel like that?
Then last week, when I was looking for something cheerful to counteract global politics, and read about avoiding burn-out by swapping places with one’s mirror self, I suddenly remembered Trixie/Trina and wondered what would happen if I sought her out to exchange realities.
When the bullies hauled her away from her side of the glass what happened next? I wondered. Is her world better or worse? Has she changed or stayed the same?
I remembered her as a small thin six year old with blonde hair, scabby knees and an anxious, serious, worried expression.
Now presumably, she’d be middle-aged, plump, greying with a pragmatic smile and sense of her own ridiculousness.
But what if she was no longer be my exact reflection but a different person after all these years of separation?
What if she were no longer there at all?
I looked at the news again, then the list of suggestions, then back at the news. We live in a world where everything – not just me – seems to be burning out.
IfI could climb onto a mantelpiece and enter a mirror and risk what was on the other side of the reflection, I thought, would I?
Would you?
(Actually, if you do it, can you pull me up? I’m not sure my knees could manage climbing onto a mantlepiece any more.)
Words copyright (c) 2024 Paula Harmon. All rights reserved. Not to be copied or used without express permission.
A killing winter it had been and a grasping one, reaching with frost crackling fingers to catch the young ones and the old ones and freeze the yet unknown ones in the womb.
Not a child under three years old survived that winter. And that winter dragged and bore down on the land so that at the turning of the year, when night balances day, the signs of spring were few, and those often rimed with frost.
Since the loss of our daughter, my wife had turned me only for warmth. The long dried tears had cut her deeper than any knife and severed, it seemed, the affection between us.
‘No,’ she’s say. ‘I couldn’t bear to catch with child again only to lose it.’
In vain I said that it was not to make a child that I wanted her, that I loved her and in that release we might find comfort together and heal, even though we couldn’t speak of the empty place under the covers where our little girl had once lain or the one under her heart where our son should had found haven.
But she would not agree and I am not a man who would not force his wife.
So there we lay, night after shortening night. And though the finest blade could not have separated us as we lay close for warmth, the longest bridge could not have spanned the gap between our spirits. And in the end as the nights grew a little warmer, I stopped turning towards her and dreamed of the days when we’d made love with all consuming passion and joy. And her face in my dreams stopped looking like hers and became wondrously strange and I tried to catch her but she was as elusive as a patch of light on the river wave and my longing burned.
And in the day, my wife was somehow even further away. When she’d finished listlessly grinding what little grain we had, or made my food, she’d curl back into the bed, her back turned to me, her face to the wall of the round house, curled like a babe in the womb, or a corpse in its grave.
Then when it came to the turning of the year, someone forgot to do what needed to be done, just as they had at Winter solstice. And though the winter had taken the old man who used to guard the gateway facing the stones had died, no one thought to find another to take his place.
On that day when promise of spring whispered in the chilly sunshine, the things that should have been done were left undone. The fires were not stirred up to ensure that fiery smoke filled the holes in our houses’ roofs, doors were left open, thresholds welcomed.
That day, I took my bow and went hunting alone. And in the woods, I looked into the mossy stone circle and saw nothing and no one and turned away, then turned back to see the woman from my dreams there, sitting astride a beautiful horse. And I knew that woman as if I’d known her my whole life.
Her hair was as dark and rich as Midwinter night and yet shimmered like water in the full sun, it flowed down her back as far as her waist, in thick curls and her waist was slim and her breasts were high under her linen dress. Her face was…. I can not describe it. Whenever I looked at her eyes I found mine straying to consider the angle of her cheekbones and then the berry fullness of her mouth.
She slipped from her horse, the horse whose hooves I had not heard. It was sixteen hands at least that horse, and stood tossing its mane at her side, standing without bridle or saddle, as loyal as a dog yet as independent as a cat. Powerful yet slender, all its strength a potential in the muscles shifting under the chestnut skin.
Will you help me? said the woman. Or I thought she said. I knew her so well that I knew what she was thinking.
‘What ails you lady?’ I made to step in towards her.
May I come to you instead? she said, or thought.
I beckoned. ‘Of course.’
And then… she stepped out of the circle towards me and smiled.
I am lonely, she said or thought. Will you walk with me? And we walked, side by side, and her hand slipped into mine and the warmth from her body warmed me and the horse followed behind without a sound, not even the crack of twigs underfoot or the swishing of young bracken as we passed.
I cannot say how long we walked till we found a grove where soft green leaves lay fresh and inviting under the curving bough of a silver birch and no, I never once wondered why there were green leaves lain down like a cloak, nor why when she asked me to sit down with her, they were warm as a blanket held by a fire. The scent of her filled my head. It was like spiced mead and rich berry wine – heady and sweet – driving out all other thought but the need to taste her mouth and curve my hand round her breast and her waist and every secret of her body until I had given her the joy she demanded and deserved. And I don’t know how long we rolled in those leaves, only that when she pulled away, she smiled.
I never wondered how at the turning of the year, on a day when the morning had started with frost, we could lay there naked and feel warm. My back was raked with her nails, and my own blood was salty on my lip, yet I only wanted her again and again until I died from the desire for her.
But she smiled and dressed and stood and wordlessly, climbed onto her horse’s back and without a backward glance, they galloped soundlessly away.
Night was falling and now she was gone, the leaves looked like ones that had lain there since Autumn, and the sweat on my skin started to chill me. I dressed, shivering, and made my way home. I made some excuse for bringing no food with me and turned from my wife’s sad eyes. And that night, I rolled myself in my cloak and lay on the other side of the fire so that I could not touch her even by accident and wondered how I could feel so empty and lost and if I would ever see the woman again.
The days drew out. The promise of green became rich foliage, the hunting was good once more and my wife now turned her face to the sky, and she bathed in the river and sat on the threshold shelling peas, the sun drying her lovely hair into waves of brown. She smiled a little. Shyly, she waited for me in our bed with the covers turned back, but though I joined her, I did not touch her. My longing for the woman was a sickness and I could feel the ribs through my skin as plain as the wheals on my back that her nails had left.
At Summer solstice someone remembered. Thresholds were closed, smoke holes filled.
But I was the one who offered to face the stones. And I took my bow and I walked towards them and waited. And there she came, riding once more from nowhere into the centre of them. Her horse was as wild as ever, its eyes flashing and green and the woman was petulant.
It did not work, she said, or thought. Your seed did not grow. I need you to try again. Or maybe I need a man whose children live.
‘All our children died the winter just gone,’ I said. ‘It was too bitter for them.’
The woman pursed her lips. It was too bitter for ours too.
I stared at her then, remembering my little girl fade in my arms. She had become strange in those last days of her life. And she was not the only child who changed in their final moments. Going to sleep like one person and waking as another, only to die a few days later.
Call me out of the circle, she said, or thought. I need you to… I want you. Her petulance changed into desire. The horse stamped its silent hooves. The air shimmered.
‘Did you exchange your children for ours at midwinter?’ I said at last, bile in my throat. ‘Did you take my girl?’
Your children are stronger than ours. Ours are weak, but our powers are great. Give me another child, mix your blood with mine then…
‘Wait!’ I said. ‘Where is my little girl. Is she alive?’
If you won’t call me out of the circle, then come with me and find out. She coaxed with her mouth but her eyes were cold. She patted the horse’s neck. See what wonders could be yours.
And for a moment I stood there, the burning of desire strong in my gut, the scent of her filling my head, but it was a cold scent and a cold desire a.
‘If you can bring back our children alive, maybe I’ll come with you. Maybe I’ll do as I ask.’
The desire dropped from her face and her teeth snarled. I cannot.
‘Then go back to where you came from,’ I said. ‘I have betrayed my wife enough.’
She hesitated for only a second, then wheeled the horse round and galloped into nowhere.
And since then, I have faded in strength, though the scars on my back have not. I yearn for the woman every night though the desire is nauseating and cold.
For I remembered who it was who was responsible for making sure we kept the gateway protected and the thresholds sealed at Winter solstice and turn of year in the Spring.
It was the chieftain. It was I. And I lost more than my daughter with my negligence.
I lost everything.
A song called ‘Ride On‘ by Christy Moore inspired this story. One day, I might expand on it.
‘Failed!’ shouted the new Head of Haunting, slapping a ghostly performance dashboard. ‘All you have to do was scare people witless. One night. Once a year. That’s it. We talked it through. We had a plan. But you failed.’
‘We didn’t have a plan,’ muttered the Elf Queen. ‘You did.’
The Head of Haunting flicked her a glare. ‘I’m getting the flip chart and sticky-notes.’ He vanished into another dimension.
‘Oh no,’ grumbled a spectral Train-Driver. ‘He’s going to do modern management. That’s what comes from recruiting fast-screamers. None of that rubbish in my day.’
‘When was your day exactly?’ breathed the Chief Ghoul.
‘Before the Romans,’ said the Train-Driver. ‘Started on a ghost chariot, then half a millennium later I got a carriage with skeleton horses, then in 1860, I started running the midnight special from Waterloo to Hades. Mwaha—’ He slumped. ‘My heart’s not in it this year. Not that I’ve got one. The druids removed it. Weirdos.’
‘Meh. Druids,’ said the Elf Queen. ‘They weren’t as weird as the Rock Shifters. All those stupid massive stones – “right a bit, left a bit, can’t have them misaligned or the elves’ll come in”. Like a lump of rock’s gonna stop The Fair Folk from crossing the veil.’
‘Unless the lump of rock’s got iron,’ suggested the Ghoul. ‘That does for you and witches doesn’t it?’
‘Like that’s logical,’ said the Spokeswitch. ‘The Rock Shifters didn’t have iron. And what do you think my best eye-of-toad boiling cauldron was made of?’
The Elf Queen sighed. ‘Life used to be simple. We crossed the veil, had a bit of a laugh and popped back again. My grandmother says… Oh hang on, he’s back.’
The Head of Haunting reappeared and pinned some transparent flip-chart covered in sticky-notes to the ether. One by one, the sticky-notes slid off and vanished. ‘Right!’ he snapped. ‘Ghosts, ghouls and witches: the Existential-Dreadograph didn’t shift one bit on Hallowe’en. What went wrong?’
‘We tried,’ said the Train-Driver after a pause. ‘But humans seem beyond scaring this year.’
‘Humph.’ The Head of Haunting turned his icy glare on the Elf Queen. ‘What’s the elves’ excuse? All you had to do was lure a few foolish mortals back to our realm. But I gather not one of you did. In fact-’ he flicked a ghostly finger down an eek-Pad, ‘-according to the data, none of you has crossed the veil since last Winter Solstice. Why not?’
The Elf Queen shuddered. ‘What fool would want to visit the human realm this year? And as for luring people back, we wouldn’t need to lure them. They’d be fighting to come here even if we admitted there was no gold or lover waiting, just… processing.’
‘It’s true,’ breathed the ghoul. ‘Hallowe’en was wasted this year. Everything is already too scary in the mortal realm. Put away your problem-solve mate and admit the truth. We just can’t compete with 2020.’
Words and photograph copyright 2020 by Paula Harmon. All rights belong to the author and material may not be copied without the author’s express permission.
Once upon a time there was a kind woman who lived in a brick house in a row of brick houses on the edges of a city.
Her garden was the prettiest in the row of gardens and the most welcoming. Every night, foxes came and knocked on the patio door for food. Sometimes they brought cubs. In summer they frolicked in the sun. In winter, the one with the limp tried to sneak inside. She fed them and talked to them, getting to know their characters and foibles.
The house was always warm and full of real treasures: books and photographs, souvenirs and memories. She was not old, but ailments meant the woman could no longer go out a great deal. When she had to, her town now seemed noisy and frustrating with detours and indifferent strangers misdirecting. But from her home, she could talk to the world on her computer and the world talked back. She was funny and thoughtful, offering wise or cheering words. It was impossible to feel sad when friends received her messages. She much loved, but sometimes the electronic messages were not enough. She yearned for someone to raise a glass with and have a good chin-wag. She longed for worlds without frustration and indifference.
One Christmas she sent out invitations for Christmas dinner, but no-one answered. She had checked the doormat, her phone, her computer every five minutes but no-one confirmed whether or not they’d be coming.
After a while, on the ‘watched pot never boils’ principle, she went round the house, trying to look at it objectively. The decorations were bright and pretty, her home welcoming. The fridge and cupboards were bursting with food.
She decided enough was enough. She called a taxi.
In her best coat and hat, the woman went to the community centre and looked at the bookclub ladies. They all seemed to be dressed the same and were talking over the top of each other. When she listened, they didn’t seem to be discussing a book but gossiping. The woman was not a gossip. She shook her head.
Then she looked at the toddler group. This was a possibility – some of the mothers looked rather lost and the children were sweet – but then the woman realised all her ornaments were choking hazards and decided ‘maybe next year’ when she’d had a chance to change the decor.
The next room held a club for pensioners. The woman was only in her middle years and nowhere near a pensioner. She was surprised to find that they were making more noise and having more fun than either the bookclub or toddlers. But then she noticed an old man sitting alone, hands on his walking stick, watching the others but not joining in. Their eyes met. His were bright and twinkling. There was still a little ginger in his neat beard.
After a moment’s hesitation, the woman went over to speak with him.
On Christmas Day, a taxi brought the old man round for dinner. The woman had a feast for eight in the oven but still had no idea whether anyone else would come. She poured two glasses of wine and expected the old man to settle down in an armchair but instead, leaning on his stick, he made his way through to the back of the house and into the garden.
From his pocket the old man withdrew a small package wrapped in silver paper and handed it over.
‘Go on, open it,’ he said.
Inside was a key made of glass. The woman held it up in the weak sunlight and it seemed to spark with fire. It was cleverly made to look like crystal or even opal. She stared at the old man in surprise.
‘It’s exactly what you want,’ said the man.
‘It’s very pretty,’ said the woman, wondering where she’d put it and how much dust it would gather.
‘Really,’ persisted the old man, ‘it’s what you want. Care to join me in another world?’
She laughed, but looking at him again, she saw that his twinkling eyes were serious and his mouth held a secret smile. ‘What does it open?’ she asked to humour him.
‘Close your eyes and turn it,’ said the old man.
The woman felt silly, standing there in the cold garden with her eyes closed, turning a glass key in the air. For a brief second she wondered if it was all a ploy and whether she’d been a fool and would discover her house burgled when she woke from being clubbed over the head with a walking stick, but then she felt warmth on her face and the sounds of the city replaced by birdsong.
When she opened her eyes, she found herself in a meadow near a tree bursting with fruit. The man standing before her was not old, but in his prime, red-headed, sparkly eyed, holding the bridle of a golden unicorn. She herself was young too, her limbs supple and she was wearing a riding outfit in rainbow silks. Something soft nuzzled her face and when she turned, another unicorn, silver, stood at her side.
‘But…’ started the woman.
‘Don’t worry,’ said the foxy man. ‘We’ll return when dinner is cooked and just before your guests arrive. The key will be yours for whenever you need it and who knows where it will take you next. But for here and now – let’s ride. Shall we walk them down to the river?’
‘Nothing so slow!’ said the woman. ‘Let’s gallop! And I have a feeling these creatures can do more than that. Let’s fly! And if we’re late and the guests really do come – they can serve up the meal themselves!’
Words and photograph copyright 2018 by Paula Harmon. All rights belong to the author and material may not be copied without the author’s express permission.
The story never tells, but I was there too: lady’s maid at the ball.
Watching the whirling glamorous dancers, awkward in my pretty dress, I yearned for our kitchen’s dark corners.
The shy, fine-liveried footman gave me a bright flower. In quiet shadows, we danced in each others’ arms, stealing kisses.
At midnight, she ran. We followed. Her crystal slipper fell into the snow, then my flower. She rushed on, but we stopped…
The carriage rattled away without us: two mice again, furred not clothed, scampering together from the frozen petals towards shelter, glad not to be fancy anymore.
Words and photograph copyright 2018 by Paula Harmon. All rights belong to the author and material may not be copied without the author’s express permission
Wedged into the seat at the back of the carriage with my case and bag, I’ve balanced my laptop and started to write. Even on the way home there’s no rest from work but at least no-one can read over my shoulder here.
‘Tickets please!’
Ten minutes into my journey I proffer my tickets with one hand, trying to stop the laptop slipping with the other.
‘That’s fine,’ says the collector, handing the ticket back having scribbled his approval.
An hour later:
‘Tickets please!’
This time, my laptop nearly slides to the floor as I open my purse.
Scribble scribble, ticket handed back.
Half an hour on:
‘Tickets please!’
Sighing, I take my time. Let him wait.
As I rummage, he says, ‘where to?’
‘Westbury, we’re nearly there,’ I snap, bending my fingernails on the recalcitrant ticket and handing it over.
‘Westbury is what’s on the ticket. Where would you rather it said?’
I close down my laptop with its drowning emails and impossible targets and look at him in surprise. The sunshine through the window is glinting on his poised pen.
‘The Bahamas would be nice,’ I joke.
As I bend to get my things together, he scribbles something on my ticket and hands it back, moving on, just as the train pulls into Westbury.
Only as I get out of my seat and look out of the window, the White Horse is missing. In fact the hill is missing, and so is the landlocked town. Instead, the platform is on the edge of a beach and there is a table on the sand under a sunshade. I can just make out my name on a reserved label.
Astounded I get off the train and find that someone is waiting to hand me a cool drink and a sunhat. Behind me the train moves on, my briefcase and work laptop still on board. I stand there in the blazing sun with nothing but an overnight bag, a credit card and the words on my ticket obliterated but for the words:
‘Bahamas – needs never return unless she wants to.’
NB There is a real story behind this, if not two. I used to travel regularly between Warminster and Bristol. The railway line runs through Westbury and as you approach the station, you can see the White Horse, so unbelievably surreal on the hill-fort, looking down as it has done for thousands of years (admittedly it hasn’t been looking down on the railway for that long). I was once on the train with a lot of tourists from hot, dry climes who thought they were seeing things and were frantically googling as we passed through. The horse did seem especially superimposed that time, as it had been newly repainted and the grass was particularly green around it. Another time, I was on the same journey with a bunch of students and a particularly persistent guard. The students referred to him as “The Ticket Dude” and I was sitting there after a fairly stressful day at work, thinking what a cool name that was and what a real “Ticket Dude” could do for his customers. Westbury is lovely and so is the whole train journey, but that particular day, if anyone could have whisked me off to a life of leisure in the Bahamas, I would have been more than delighted. The blurry face is me reflected in a different train’s grubby winter window (Poole to Winchester I think). The photo of the White Horse is from the English Heritage site as I don’t own an aeroplane (link below). So far, I’ve never been to the Bahamas, so the photo of the bird over water is a swallow over a Spanish swimming pool! But the train ticket is all mine!
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