Holy Cow! - #fridayflash

A whimsical story written for a Leeds Savages writers group task on the rather challenging theme of 'Heavenly Cows'. Hope you enjoy it!

HOLY COW!


Ever since he’d got his pensioners bus pass Frank had continued to bore and distress his family in equal measure with constant talk of his own mortality. After all their protestations that he was as fit as a fiddle and would without a doubt be winding them up for another twenty years yet, he was smugly pleased to have proved them wrong. Frank couldn’t recall what he had been doing when he died, only that everything went dark and he was overwhelmed by a sensation of weightlessness, as if floating away from his body on the gentlest of breezes. It was quite a pleasant experience really, the nearest comparison he could make from his mortal experience being the bliss he’d felt whilst having a full body massage performed at the skilful hands of a young woman on holiday in Turkey back in 2003, but on this occasion without the inappropriate erotic thoughts.

Although he may have once or twice in his seventy years of existence uttered the expression ‘Holy Cow’, Frank had never for a minute considered there to be anything divine about the bovine kind. Cows were useful, granted, in terms of their capacity to provide the creamy gold top in which he liked to bathe his rice crispies of a morning and the occasional Big Mac, but he had never had any interest in the hooved milk-bars beyond consuming their by-products. It came as a surprise, therefore, when he found himself staring straight into the big expressionless eyes of a Friesian, its black and white head surrounded by a halo of light In the back of his mind he seemed to recall hearing that certain religions believed cows to be sacred, but he certainly didn’t remember the sermons he’d experienced during forty years of weekly attendance at St David’s (or at least the ten percent which he’d managed to stay awake through) ever touching on the subject of being welcomed into the afterlife by a farm animal.

“Moo-oooo-oooooooo-ooooooooo” said the cow dolefully. “Mooo-ooooo-ooooo-ooooooooooooo.”

“Yes, I get it, you’re a cow;” replied Frank. “Mooooooooooo to you too. So what’s going on? Don’t tell me that those fellows wearing dresses and banging on tambourines outside Sainsburys were right all along with that reincarnation mumbo-jumbo and I’m now a mouse or something. I really have wasted a lot of Sundays if that’s the case.”

“Moooooooooooooooooooooo.” The cow broke its eye contact with Frank and pointed its damp pink nose down his body.

“Oh, what a relief, all four limbs appear to be present and correct. You got me worried for a minute there! So what happens next, girl? Is St Peter out at lunch or something? I’ve thought there’d be angels playing sweet ‘moo-sic’ on harps or something – ‘moo’sic, you get it? No, of course you don’t, I’m being ‘udderly’ stupid trying to crack jokes to a cow. I’m going to milk this for all its worth though, haha!”

With another languid moo the cow stepped back and Frank was bathed in the blinding light which had previously been casting an ethereal glow around the heifer.

“Oh lord, I’m sorry if it looks like I’ve not been taking the situation seriously, it’s just that I’ve always brought out the puns when I get nervous. Take me now, lord, I’m ready;” Frank prayed out loud, closing his eyes. “Ready for what I’m not quite sure, as this really isn’t what I was expecting, but I guess I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.” The last thing Frank felt was a big wet tongue licking his face, and then darkness swallowed him once more.



“Mum, mum, I think he’s waking up!”

Frank slowly prised open a lead heavy eyelid to see his wife, daughter and grandson all stood looking over him like some kind of museum exhibit.

“What the? What the?” Frank stuttered, the forming of each single syllable requiring an inordinate level of effort.

“Hush, Dad, you need to rest;” his daughter said. “You’ve given us all a scare, but you’re going to be ok.”

“The cow? Where’s the cow?”

“He remembers the cow, Mum!” his grandson said excitedly. “I thought the doctor said he probably wouldn’t remember anything?”

“Keep your voice down darling, I’m sure Grandad doesn’t want to hear you shouting.”

Unable to move his head having been wedged between a barricade of pillows on either side, Frank rolled his eyes from left to right, taking in a variety of tubes and beeping machines which all appeared to be attached to his body.

“I’m in hospital;” he stated, looking to his wife who nodded in confirmation. “I’m not dead at all. But what about the angel cow? I was dead, I’m sure of it.”

“I’m not sure if it was of the heavenly variety, but it’s probably thanks to that cow that you’re alive. You were walking through the field berry picking when you collapsed in some kind of fit – the doctors think you probably ate something poisonous whilst you were foraging, never could wait until you got home, could you? The cow kept nudging you which they reckon may have stopped you falling into a coma or even worse; and apparently it was making such a racket that it caught the attention of some walkers who went over to the animal thinking it was in some kind of distress only to find you prostrate on the grass with berries smeared all round your face.”

“I’m so sorry for giving you a scare;” Frank replied. “I may have joked with you before that I was on my last legs but I reckon that there’s actually plenty of life in this dog yet, and I want to spend as many years as God is willing to give me with all of you. Can you all forgive me for being a foolish old man?”

“Nothing to apologise for, Dad, you weren’t to know, although from now on you’re getting all of your fruit from the grocers!” his daughter replied. “So is it safe to say we’re going to see a more serious side to you after your near-death experience?”

Frank paused for several seconds with an expressionless face before bursting into a massive grin.

“You’d butter believe it!”

An opening chapter....

Been a little while since I posted anything on here but aim to change that from now on!

This is an opening chapter (untitled as of yet) that I wrote for a recent Leeds Savages writers group meet. Not sure whether to continue with it or not, but see it as being packed with twists and turns as the protagonist uncovers dramatic family secrets....


CHAPTER ONE

It was a damp, unremarkable Friday night and Kate was toasting the end of yet another unremarkable working week with a white wine spritzer in local watering hole The Black Bull. The prim cardigan that had been buttoned up to the neck all day had been shrugged off to reveal a slinky salmon pink camisole which nicely showed off the remnants of the tan she had recently acquired on holiday with her husband. Although marriage meant she was a firmly one guy girl these days, it was nonetheless satisfying to know that the wedding ring hadn’t rendered her completely invisible to the opposite sex, even if the only admiring glances she received came from a cluster of elderly locals who looked like they had been propping up the bar since long before she was born. Mike had never really minded her flirty ways; if anything he was worse, a real charmer once he had a few beers inside of him.


“Excuse me miss, are you Kate Scott?”

Kate looked up from her drink to face a tall, broad shouldered man with an unkempt beard; a bit scruffy looking for her tastes but probably nothing that couldn’t be sorted with a good haircut and shave. Kate’s initial thought was that her plunging neckline had finally worked its magic and caught the attention of someone under forty, but then it suddenly dawned on her that he had addressed her by name, strange given that she was sure that she’d never met him in her life.

“Do I know you?”

“I’m afraid not, but I’ve been asked to give you this package.” He placed a brown envelope on the table next to Kate’s drink. “I was just stopped outside by a woman who said that she needed to get this to you. She wouldn’t give me her name but she was probably eighteen, twenty at the most, short blonde hair, nice fitted red coat, good figure.”

“Whatever;” Kate replied, more interested in finding out the contents of the envelope than the method of its delivery. “So what is it?”

“Its a disc, a DVD I guess? She said to tell you to make sure that you’re sitting down when you look at it as it will change your life completely. She looked really on edge, as if she was desperate to get away as quickly as she could. Seemed a bit mental to me.”

“What the???” Kate snatched the envelope off the table and pulled out the contents; a clear plastic case containing an unlabelled silver disc. “I need to go find her. I don’t get it, who is she, what’s this big life changing message?”

Kate leapt to her feet and grabbed her cardigan, not bothering to bid farewell to the colleagues who were engrossed in their own conversations about the latest office gossip and oblivious to the drama unfolding beside them.

“I wouldn’t bother if I were you;” replied the bearded stranger. “As soon as she’d given it to me she leapt in her car and drove off. A silver hatchback it was, not sure what make. Anyway Kate Scott, do you fancy a drink?”

Without replying Kate pushed past him and ran out onto the street. November rain was hammering down and there was no sign of anyone, let alone the girl in the red coat. She glanced back through the door of the pub and could see that the man who had handed me the envelope was now imposing his questionable charms on her line manager. Holding the envelope above her head she ran around the corner to the taxi rank where she was fortunately able to leap straight into the dry comfort of a cab.

As the taxi wound through the town centre the words of the man in the pub spun around Kate’s head – ‘Make sure you’re sitting down when you look at it, it will change your life completely’. Thinking about this statement made her feel very nervous indeed; who was this woman to turn up and rock her previously comfortable world? Her thoughts quickly turned to Mike, Mike who worked in a trendy advertising agency surrounded by young, attractive girls, the kind of pert figured girls who could effortlessly rock an edgy blonde haircut and red coat, girls a world away from a thirty something wife kidding herself that she’s still got it just because she can wear a low cut top in public. She’d met some of the women that Mike worked with and imagined that they would grab male attention even if they were trussed up in a hessian sack. What if the red coat girl had been spurned by Mike and was now determined to make his life a misery somehow? Or maybe, even worse, he hadn’t spurned her at all and the disc contained evidence of an affair? Kate imagined sliding the disc into her laptop and being greeted with images of Mike and the mysterious woman in compromising positions. He’d cheated on her before, almost a decade ago, but at the time they had only been going out for a few months and she’d managed to bring herself to forgive him when he confessed the truth in a sobbing declaration that the guilt had been tearing him apart, that he’d never loved a woman before but had come to realise that she was the one he wanted to spend his life with – oh, and by the way would she marry him? She’d believed him at the time but now, in the face of the unknown, wondered whether she’d been right to put my trust in him given his chequered history. Amazing how thoughts of gowns and veils and fairy tales could warp the most rational of minds...

“Here you go love, that’ll be nine pounds twenty.”

Out of the window of the taxi Kate could see the light on in the living room; Mike was home and probably curled on the sofa next to the dog with a bottle of wine chilling in anticipation of her arrival. She looked down at the envelope on the seat beside her, then up again at the house, before slipping the envelope onto the floor of the taxi. As she stepped out of the cab she made sure that she speared the envelope with the heel of her stiletto, breathing a deep sigh of relief as she felt the satisfying crack of the CD. She didn’t want her life to be changed at all; she was perfectly happy with things as they were, thank you very much.



 

'Judgement Day' #fridayflash

This is an edited version of a story that I wrote for a Leeds Savages writers meet with the theme of 'winning', and the second story that I've based in the imaginary English village of Winfordshire.

JUDGEMENT DAY


It started with a marrow. With the girth of a tree and weight of a child, Teddy Ward’s pride and joy was certainly not the bog-standard squash you might pick up at your local greengrocer. This beast was far beyond the capacity of a shopping-basket, with two sweating flat-capped gentlemen and a large metal wheelbarrow employed in order to transport it to Winfordshire village green for judging. Young Eric Marmaduke had never seen such a thing before, but from the moment he first laid eyes on Teddy’s glorious green triumph he knew that he wanted in. Over the next few years he learned from the master everything there was to know about cultivating giant vegetables. When Teddy passed away everyone, Eric included, assumed that the lad would step into his shoes and win a clean sweep of rosettes at the next village fete. It was therefore a huge disappointment when he failed to cultivate anything greater than a distinctly average 18 incher the following summer, and saw the honour he had always dreamed of being his bestowed on smugly grinning Frank Porter.



As the years passed Eric became a husband and father but never faltered in his devotion to the giant veg cause. Mrs Marmaduke always said size isn’t everything, to which Eric would scoff “What? Of course bigger is better!” She would also tell the girls that winning isn’t important as it’s taking part that counts; this provoked indignant huffing from her husband who would respond that only losers could speak and believe such ridiculous sentiments. At the time Eric had accused Maureen of not taking his passion seriously, but looking back he realised she had only said these things in the hope that she could protect him from the disappointment that would inevitably hang over him like a dark, thunderous cloud for the months between judging and planting season. Now that she was gone, Eric decided to have one more stab at glory in her honour before hanging up his gardening gloves forever.



The spring weather had provided perfect growing conditions and Eric was optimistic that after fifty years of failure this would be the summer that he would steal the Vegetable crown from Frank’s bald head. He had always wondered what was the secret of Frank’s success but would never stoop as low as to actually ask his advice. There were countless rumours circulating including speculation that he watered his marrows with single malt whiskey and would play the mandolin to his tomatoes for hours on end. Eric had tested these methods, albeit on a slightly tighter budget with Best-Buy Brandy and a cassette recording of Cher, but to no avail. Eric’s vegetables were larger than most, but nothing compared to Frank’s progeny. With only a week to go before the Fete, Eric surveyed the allotment with tears in his eyes. Since Maureen had died he had kept himself going by imagining ascending the podium and dedicating a prize to his wife, but it was becoming clear that that was never going to happen - he would be lucky to scrape a bronze, let alone the coveted best in show. Frustrated, he kicked the marrows, tore down the creeping runner bean vines and threw handful after handful of tomatoes and strawberries at the greenhouse.



When Eric’s youngest daughter turned up at the allotment intending to catch the sun for a few hours along-side her Dad she was shocked to find him sat on the ground surrounded by a scene of vegetable carnage. Initially she thought that it must have been the work of vandals, but as she moved closer the stains all over his clothes and skin revealed the truth. Claire took his hand and gently helped him to his feet. “Let’s get you home. I think what you need is a nice cup of tea. Don’t worry, I’ll tidy up later.”



A week passed and Eric did not return to the allotment. As far as he was concerned, his life’s work was over - he’d had enough, and after years of labour his knees were knackered anyhow. It was time to put horticulture behind him and spend some quality time with his family. It was what Maureen would have wanted.



The day of the fete came around and Eric had no intention of leaving the house let alone going to watch Frank Porter gloat once again. It came as a surprise therefore when all three daughters turned up on his doorstep along with his four grandchildren demanding that he accompany them to the village green.



“Come on Dad, you’ll enjoy it;” Claire pleaded.



Reluctantly Eric pulled on socks and shoes. “Can’t we just go down by the river instead? You were never interested in the fete before, why the sudden change?”



“You’ll see;” Claire replied.



As the family strolled across the green a loudspeaker crackled to life.



“Great, sounds like we’re just in time for the judging;” his eldest, Susan, squealed enthusiastically.



“Brilliant” he mumbled in sullen reply as they took their place in front of the stage where the Mayor stood in full regalia.

“Today is a very special day for Winfordshire;” the Mayor began. “As you’ll know there is always a very high standard of entries here, but this is the first year that a villager has won seven gold medals in a single year, crushing the record of five previously held by Frank Porter. Mr Eric Marmaduke has for many years been growing fruit and vegetables, but little did we know just how wonderful they tasted. I am delighted to present Mr Marmaduke with the Best in Show award for his Marrow Cake – so moist, I’ll certainly be asking for the recipe! Mr Marmaduke has also won gold medals for his chutney, jam, carrot scones, tomato juice and berry pie, along with the photography prize for a most unusual image entitled Allotment Massacre at Sunset. Please put your hands together as Mr Marmaduke makes his way to the stage.”



Eric looked around at the smiling, appreciative faces of his family and felt on top of the world, ascending to an even higher state of nirvana when he saw Frank Porter’s ruddy face scowling at him.



“Go Grandad” urged his grandson. “Get your prize.”



As Eric ascended the steps he imagined this must have been how Bobby Moore felt when he lifted the World Cup back in 66. Having spent his entire adult life trying to grow obscenely large vegetables, it had never once crossed his mind to actually taste the things – he’d always been more a meat and potatoes man.



“Thanks, thanks;” he stuttered. “I’d like to dedicate my awards to the memory of my wife Maureen, the most wonderful woman in the world. And to three equally wonderful ladies, my beautiful daughters who I’m proud to have with me today.” He looked from one beaming smile to the next before winking at Claire.



“Thank you girls. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

Disappearing Act #fridayflash

This is an edited version of a longer story written for Leeds Writers Group.......


Disappearing Act


Excited at the prospect of attending her first school dance, Ruth Hennessy spent all her pocket money on cheap make up which she caked on with the subtlety of a clown. Seeing her little girl preening and pouting precociously in front of the mirror, Ruth’s mother decided that she could delay the inevitable no longer; the time had come to teach her the facts of life. Mrs Hennessy’s intentions were good, but when it came down to it she couldn’t bring herself to go into any level of biological detail and as a result Ruth spent most of the dance with horror on her face as she observed her classmates slow dancing and sharing awkward kisses, both activities she had been led to believe could make a baby if the participants weren’t taking what her mother obliquely referred to as ’precautions’.

A couple of weeks of secondary school were all it took for Ruth to realise she’d been duped; the contraband copies of Seventeen magazine pored over behind the bike sheds set her straight as far as sex was concerned, even if some of the practices referred to in the problem pages did leave her feeling repulsed. Although she was somewhat grateful that her Mum had spared her the embarrassment of a conversation complete with all the anatomical in and outs, she was livid that she’d been spun a lie which, had she had been unfortunate enough to repeat it, would have made her look like an idiot in front of her friends.

Several years previously Ruth had visited a magic show which culminated in the magician wowing the audience by making his assistant disappear. At the time Ruth was distraught, convinced that the girl had experienced some terrible fate and refusing to be consoled no matter how many times her grandfather explained that she hadn’t really been transported through time as The Great Magnifico had led her to believe. A disappearing act would, Ruth decided, be the perfect way to get revenge on her parents.

On Friday morning, Ruth ripped a page out of an exercise book and wrote a note which she left under her pillow. In her schoolbag alongside her usual books and pencilcase she packed her toothbrush, Gameboy and teddybear. Spending the night on the streets didn’t, she reasoned, mean that she had to live like a tramp – a few home comforts would make the night go a lot quicker. She wished that she could bring her duvet but there was no way she would be able to smuggle that to school without arousing any suspicion. Anyhow, she would be back in her bed tomorrow, with her parents so grateful to have her home that they would never dare to deceive her again.

When the school bell rang at 3.30pm Ruth made her way to the station and caught a train to the next town. Back home, her Mum sat watching the clock and wondering where Ruth had got to - she would usually have called if she was going to be delayed for any reason. By 6pm Mrs Hennessy was beginning to panic, and when her husband returned from work an hour later she was in a state of hysteria. At 7.15pm they found the scribbled note which struck fear into both their hearts;

‘Don’t look for me. I’m not coming back’.

For the first few hours Ruth kept herself entertained browsing the shops, but before long the only place open was a small supermarket and the suspicious looks that the security guard gave her as she traversed the aisles for the tenth time told her it was time to move on. She looked young for her age so even with make up on there was no chance of her being able to pass the evening in a pub, so the only remaining option was a fastfood joint. Ruth sat drinking a milkshake as slowly as possible whilst playing on her GameBoy until the batteries ran out. At 11pm the pizza-faced burger vendor apologetically told her that it was time to close, so Ruth reluctantly headed out onto the streets. It was freezing cold but she was adamant that she was going to stick it out; running away would be nowhere near as dramatic if she were to return home, tail between legs, before the night was through. Ruth sat on a bench and hugged her knees under her chin in an effort to keep warm.

“You should be careful around here, you know.”

Ruth turned to see a man looking at her out the window of a black car.

“Young girls on the street, well, sometimes they disappear. Why don’t you come with me and I’ll give you a lift home?”

“I’m waiting for someone” she replied, wishing that he would leave her alone. The way that he was staring, eyes wandering up and down her school uniform, was making her feel uncomfortable.

'Pretend what you like but it's true. Girls on the street disappear and never come back. Sure you don't want a ride?

Ruth shook her head.

'Your loss;' the man in the car muttered as he pulled away. Long after he was gone from sight the driver's words continued to echo around Ruth's head.

Disappear.

Disappear and never come back.

In that instant Ruth realised how flawed her plan had been. The magician on the pier, that had all been smoke and mirrors, and although the audience had marvelled at the fact that the girl had apparently vanished into thin air, they would not have been applauding if they had any doubt that she would live to perform the same act the next day. Out here however, in the strange and unfamiliar world of the night, tomorrow seemed very far away.

With tears in her eyes and regret seeping from every pore Ruth turned on her mobile phone and dialled.

This vanishing act was never going to receive a standing ovation or critical acclaim. It was time to bring the curtain down.

Mother's Day #fridayflash

Although this story stands alone, it could be the start of a far longer tale - let me know what you think and if you'd be interested in reading more......
Mother's Day


“I wish you weren’t my mother. I hate you.”

Laura rolled her eyes at her screaming daughter, refusing to bite, refusing to let the teenager gain the upper hand. Hours spent perusing parenting forums had taught her not to take this kind of behaviour personally, the thirteen year old who respected and appreciated their parents being a very rare species indeed.

“I wish you’d never had me. Or I’d been adopted at birth!”

It wasn’t a big surprise to Laura that Bethany had failed to get her a gift for Mother’s day. Any acknowledgement of gratitude would have been nice, but the relationship between them had been even more strained than usual of late and Laura had to be content with the fact that she was getting to spend some time with her today, even if it was more an expletive laden war of words than an affectionate bonding session.

As a child Bethany had sported a halo of blonde curls, although as she grew these gave way to a darker complexion which Laura attributed to her absent father. As they walked hand in hand people
had often commented how much the infant looked like her mother, Laura swelling with maternal pride at the beautiful daughter that she had once thought she would never have. After an acrimonious divorce Laura had flitted between relationships, the deep scars inflicted by her marriage causing her to run a mile as soon as the idea of love or commitment entered the head of either party. Hitting forty she was struck by the realisation that her body clock was winding down, the window of fertile opportunity closing fast. She stopped taking the pill and set about a mission to bed as many eligible men as possible. She couldn’t care less if they were good father material as she intended to raise her child alone; as long as the prospective donor was reasonably attractive and capable of holding conversation she had no further qualms. In spite of this lack of discretion the mission went on for five fruitless years and Laura had pretty much given up hope when, at long last, along came Bethany.
Beautiful baby Bethany. Mummy’s little miracle.

“Another slice of cheesecake, sweetheart?”

“No, what do you think I am, a pig? You trying to fatten me up, make me fat and ugly like you?”

“Now, Bee. That’s not a nice thing to say, is it? No matter how much you wish otherwise, I’m your Mum, and nothing can change that.”

“It doesn’t mean that I have to like you though, fat old bitch. I must have done something wrong in a past life to end up with such an old cow for a Mum.”

Laura rose abruptly, deciding to forego the wisdom of Mumsnet.com et al and give her daughter a piece of her mind.

“How dare you speak to me like that, after all I do for you? Get to your room now. I will not be spoken to like that. NOW.”

Without a further word Bethany left the room, slamming the door behind her.

Laura cleared the table before settling down in her armchair with a cup of tea and the Sunday paper. As the quality time with her daughter that she had hoped for clearly wasn’t going to happen she would have to make do with some quality time with herself. She flicked past the usual sensationalist articles about footballers’ indiscretions and philandering politicians, the same old stories as last week just with different faces. A ‘heart-warming’ spread showing the beaming faces of families who had triumphed against adversity put a grimace on her face; did the publishers not realise that by devoting column inches to these paragons of virtue they would serve to make ordinary Mums struggling with ordinary issues feel even more inadequate than usual? Laura turned the page with disdain.

On the next page there was a picture of a couple, ordinary looking people stood in front of a tired council house. They were nothing special to look at, but their sad faces were known by the nation, had been for well over a decade now along with the photo of a dribbling baby that they clasped tightly in every shot.

As today was Mothers Day, a new image had been released to the press using the latest technology to show what Lisa Davies would look like today. The silent majority were convinced that Lisa had been dead over a decade now and questioned whether it was really right for the tabloids to keep covering the story in this way, milking the tragedy for all it was worth and giving the sad faced parents false hope in the process. Laura had certainly had enough of the story; was there anything at all in this rag resembling actual news?

Hearing footsteps coming down the stairs Laura folded the newspaper and tossed it on to the open fire at her side. She regularly asked herself why she bothered wasting her money on such trash when it always ended going up the chimney, but it was a matter of habit and the morning stroll to the newsagents a welcome excuse for a bit of fresh air.

“Mum?”

The door creaked open and Bethany sheepishly entered.

“I thought I’d told you to stay in your room;” Laura said in what she intended to be a stern manner, but which was rendered ineffective by the smile that darted across her face the instant that she saw the envelope clasped in her daughter’s hand.

“I’m sorry about earlier Mum, I didn’t mean it. Happy Mother’s Day”.

Laura opened the envelope and was greeted by a card showing a cartoon bear holding a bunch of flowers underneath a banner reading ‘World’s Best Mum’.

“Come here, sweetie.” Bethany sat on the arm of the chair and Laura her pulled into a tight hug. “Thanks, it’s really lovely."

Bethany squirmed, embarrassed by the outpouring of emotion.

“That’s ok Mum, it’s nothing.” She wriggled free of the embrace and slid off the chair. “Is it ok if I head back to my room now? I’m going to get on with my homework.”

“Of course, Bee. You do that.”

As Bethany left the room Laura wiped a tear away from her cheek. She’d never believed it until she became a parent herself, but she knew now that it was true that no matter how petulant their behaviour and venomous their words, a mother’s love for her child is unwavering. Although it was inevitable that they would not always see eye to eye, she could say without any doubt that she loved Bethany just as much today as the day that she was born. The day that she was born - and the day that she snatched her from the hospital.