Flash Friday #52 'The Letter-writer'
Original flash fiction: Be careful of 'good Samaritans'...
Welcome to ‘Flash Friday’ where every week I share some of my original flash fiction.
I am so proud to announce that ‘Read ~ Write ~ Dream' has officially been live for one year! The ‘Flash Friday’ archive now boasts a full fifty two entries, one for every week of that year. Thank you to all of you for reading and supporting this project - it means a great deal, and I’ve been thrilled to have the opportunity to share my writing with you.
This week’s story was inspired by the writing prompt: ‘She turned and nearly fell over the bonnet of the car, which was crawling quietly along the street.’
This one surprised me, I didn’t see the ending coming until I was writing perhaps the last few paragraphs. It’s funny how that can happen sometimes, and things reveal themselves more slowly.
I hope you enjoy reading this one, and please leave a ‘like’ or a comment below if you’d like to share your thoughts - I’d love to hear what you think.
Cath turned and nearly fell over the bonnet of the car, which was crawling quietly along the street. Her peripheral vision outside of her glasses had never been great, but getting older had made it worse. And with these new electric vehicles, which made little or no noise, becoming more popular she was going to have to learn to take more care; her reactions were not what they were.
Somewhat flustered and shaken, she stepped back from the curb and allowed the car to pass, giving the concerned driver an apologetic wave as he moved on. At least he had actually been sticking to the residential area speed limit, rather than racing around like some of them. Folk were always in such a hurry now, always late, or just simply impatient.
Taking care to check properly this time, Cath crossed over and continued her slow shuffle to the postbox on the neighbouring road. Hardly anyone wrote proper letters these days, but she clung on to the antiquated practice with affection. She enjoyed keeping in touch with her small circle of relatives and friends in a slower, more considered, and personal way. And even if she never received a letter back, comments made during phone calls and in person reassured her that her efforts were always appreciated. People treasured letters and cards. No one ever treasured an email. Many simply appreciated the novelty of having something other than junk mail or Amazon parcels delivered.
Once her small bundle of pastel-coloured envelopes had been safely deposited in the tall red pillar box, Cath smiled as she turned and started ambling back. Amongst her correspondence this week was a birthday card for her great-niece, who was turning sixteen next week, and a thank you letter to her old neighbour and friend Katie, who had sent her a box of her favourite shortbread biscuits. She and Katie had kept in touch for decades, after bonding over their shared experiences as newly-wed brides living next-door to each other in the shabby Victorian terraces that had since been pulled down. Even after both couples had moved away, and life had moved on from those early married days, they had still maintained a regular exchange.
Cath led a quieter life now: the typical elderly widow living alone, but without any children or grandchildren of her own. Being alone didn’t worry her, she had her letter-writing and her garden, and her current neighbours were friendly and decent folk. Often, acquaintances would feel sorry for her and say something like ‘it’s a shame you’ve not got a daughter or son to come and check on you’, as if she were a cat which needed feeding by the pet sitter. She found such exchanges patronising and insincere. Trevor and she had remained child-free by choice, and even now he was gone, she did not regret their decision. They had enjoyed a wonderful life together, and when she finally ‘popped her clogs’ her estate would go to the Guide Dogs and make someone else’s life easier. Her extended family didn’t need the money, and they already knew not to expect anything.
The walk back to her bungalow always seemed that bit longer, being slightly uphill, and Cath paused for a moment by the bus stop to lean on her stick and rest her bad leg. Her left knee had been playing up recently and she made a mental note to ring the doctor about it. After a moment, a passing car slowed down and pulled into the bus stop, stopping beside her. She was surprised to recognise it as the electric car she’d almost fallen against earlier. A dapper-looking gent in his fifties hopped out and approached her with a cheery yet concerned smile.
“Hello! I hope I didn’t startle you earlier when I drove past, you looked a little shaken by it. Can I give you a lift back at all? Save you walking the rest of the way?”
His manner was polite and solicitous and Cath accepted his offer gratefully, yet wondered why he looked vaguely familiar. Something niggled at the back of her mind as she moved towards the passenger door.
“I’m Gerry,” he added as he helped her into the front seat, “I’ve just moved here and am finding new friends.”
Something about him seemed a little off: ‘finding new friends’? It seemed an odd thing to announce to a perfect stranger.
As they chatted in the car during the short drive back, Cath ascertained that Gerry was an accountant, newly divorced (evidenced by the slightly paler band mark on his ring finger) and without any dependents. He seemed friendly enough, indeed, to her mind a little too eager to find out her own personal circumstances, so she kept it vague but pleasant, talking instead about the weather and the latest tennis results from Wimbledon.
When he helped her out, beside her short driveway, he admired her little front garden and offered to take her shopping if ever she needed it, he was keen to help. She thanked him non-committally and waved him off, before walking the few yards further down the road to her own front door. She fingered the scrappy piece of paper he’d pressed into her hand with his phone number scribbled on it, and made sure to lock the door behind her. Once inside, she picked up the phone and dialled the police.
“I’ve got information about the man who’s missing and is suspected of killing his wife.”
Even with the new beard, and wearing different clothes to the ‘wanted’ photo, she had recognised him. The image of him with his late wife had been broadcast again on the breakfast news that morning, and had been featured in all the major newspapers; having seen it shortly before leaving to post her letters, it had been fresh in her memory. She didn’t know why he had chosen to stop and do the good Samaritan act, and frankly she didn’t want to know. People always underestimated little old ladies, but Cath was no fool and she wouldn’t be taken for one.
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