I Am Ella, Buy Me
Page 30
‘You won’t, Adam. I promise. ‘You make me too happy.’
‘Ella, will you …?’ he asks.
‘Yes, you know I will.’
His face fills with joy.
‘D’you love me, Ella?’
‘I do.’
He leans forward and kisses me.
‘D’you love me, Adam?’
‘I do.’
He reaches into the bag with his free hand and takes out a small white box.
Slowly, I lift the lid. He watches closely as I peer inside.
‘Oh Adam. It’s perfect.’
Very carefully, I take it out of the box.
Encrusted with jewel-like raspberries and elaborate swirls of white chocolate, it is the most beautiful cake I have ever seen.
I better tell Mum, she’ll want to buy a hat.
Chapter thirty-seven
End with a bang
I am Ella.
I am Ella Hart.
I am still a pain in the arse.
THE END
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Disclaimer: All persons are fictitious.
By the same author:
Autobiography / Memoir
The Things You Missed While
You Were Away
‘Being paired with a chair at the local National Childbirth Trust anti-natal classes did nothing for my ego. Unlike the other mums who were with their husbands, the only arms supporting me through the breathing exercises were wooden ones.’
My daughter’s childhood in the 90s was very different to my upbringing in the 60s. As neither of us knew what it was like to have our Dads at home, the book is written as a letter to my Father highlighting the moments he never got to share. It is for anyone who has been a child, if only to prove when we lose someone special, love comes from unexpected places to fill the space in our heart.
The Things You Missed While You Were Away.
by
Joan Ellis
Dear Dad,
Since you’ve been away, you missed so much - most of it funny, some of it sad, all of it magical. I know you would have been there if you could. You were always in my heart.
Like in 1967 when, against Grandad’s advice, I bet my pocket money on a 100 to 1 outsider in the Grand National, and won. And, years later, when I was showing-off my beautiful baby daughter, Sophie, only to be told she was her Dad in a dress.
I used to think you could see me from wherever you were. You knew I’d insisted on wearing my pink velvet dress on my fifth birthday even though I had outgrown it on my fourth. And you overheard me ask a nun if her head bled when she pinned on her wimple.
I don’t remember you being at home. But I do remember the first time I wished you were. I was six-years-old and delighted to have a part in the school play. Not blessed with chocolate box good looks, I was the peasant not the princess.
I strode on stage shaking my fist, determined to make the most of my one line, ‘Twas my bread, ’twas my loaf, now what shall we have for Sunday?’
When the curtain came down, it wasn’t the princess who got the biggest cheer, it was me. Sadly, not one of those voices was yours or Mum’s. She was working at the hospital. The day they filmed ‘Carry on Nurse’ on her ward, one of her patients mistook her for the pneumatic blonde actress, Barbra Windsor. Mum wiggled as she walked for weeks after.
I didn’t plan on following in Mum’s footsteps but Sophie was seven-months-old when I became a single Mum. Friends rallied round, pouring wine as I poured out my heart.
Looking back, being paired with a chair at the anti-natal class didn’t bode well. The other mums-to-be had their partners to help them through their breathing exercises. The only arms supporting me were wooden ones.
Your little grand-daughter is growing up fast and I don’t want you to miss out again.
Here are some special memories. I hope they make you smile. Picture yourself with your little girl and me with mine.
Chapter 1
Here comes Sophie
Sophie was born on 15th February 1996. After I had gained 4 stone. After her Dad had availed himself of the gas and air. After Sophie nearly died.
When 18 hours hard labour produced nothing but wind, an emergency Caesarean was the only option. Within seconds of me being rushed into theatre, my husband had scrubbed up, donned a mask and taken charge.
‘It’s okay, pal, I’ve worked in a hospital,’ he told the gynaecologist, forgetting to add, ‘as a porter.’
A team of medics opened me up but couldn’t find my baby. Given my insides were on the outside, sat beside me on the table, there can’t have been much left to obstruct their view. I could feel the surgeon rummaging around inside my womb like it was a messy sports bag.
‘Let’s see, I know there’s a baby in here somewhere. What’s this? Trainers? Shorts? Oh no, it’s my sweatshirt.’
‘Actually doctor, I think you’ll find that’s my spleen.’
Eventually, after an almighty wrench Sophie arrived but before I could hold her, she was whisked away amid shouts of:
‘We have a bleed.’
I had been called many things but never that.
Once again, I felt those same hands rapidly repacking me. Trainers, shorts and sweatshirt were rammed back in and wrapped around my intestines before my stomach was pulled back together and zipped up.
When I eventually awoke, one hand strapped to a saline drip, the other to a blood bag, there was no sign of Sophie but there was a Polaroid snap of my new-born on the bedside table. Still high on anaesthesia, I was convinced she had gone home with her Dad and, as befits the daughter of a true Scot, was doubtless enjoying a fish supper washed down with a bottle of Irn-Bru in front of the telly. Satisfied she was safe, I drifted back to sleep.
When I eventually came to, a nurse appeared clutching Sophie. She had not been deep-frying Mars Bars with her Dad as I had so fondly imagined but had been in Special Care, fighting for her life.
‘We didn’t think she’d make it,’ said the nurse putting Sophie on my chest. ‘But she’s a strong little mite and coughed it up.’
‘Coughed what up?’ I asked alarmed.
‘Her poo! She swallowed her own poo during the birth.’
I looked at Sophie. She smiled. The nurse said it was wind. Under the circumstances, she was probably right.
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Psychological Thriller
The Killing of Mummy's Boy.
‘I slit someone’s throat,’ the man told the woman on the 4.20 from Waterloo to Portsmouth.
Two strangers. One interest. Murder. Ben slit a man’s throat. Sandra’s son, Carl witnessed a stabbing. When Sandra discovers she is being stalked, she turns to the least likely person for help with horrific consequences. Hate, fear and lies boil over in this Isle of Wight-based page-turner with love at its black heart.
‘Terrifying’
* * * * *
Trish Jackson
‘Don’t read alone’
* * * * *
Lee Cradock
‘Gripping. A real page turner’
* * * * *
Mary G
‘I co
uldn't put this book down. It was impossible to guess the identity of the stalker, and the author did a wonderful job of projecting Sandra's terror, her protectiveness toward her son, and the emotional turmoil she experienced when she realised she was attracted to Ben.’
* * * * *
Trish Jackson. Author
‘Weirdly, I could put this book down. I had to. I didn't want to finish it too quickly. I wanted to savour its surprising twists and turns. I wanted to appreciate the very human strengths, weaknesses and foibles of its protagonist and the taut, tantalising plot. In the end, of course, I couldn't put it down and stayed up till 2am to find out what happened. If you're picking it up for the first time, you have been warned.’
* * * * *
Paul Burke. Author.
The Killing of Mummy’s Boy by Joan Ellis
Chapter one
[Waterloo to Portsmouth 2013]
‘I slit someone’s throat,’ the man told the woman on the 4.20 from Waterloo to Portsmouth.
It was Sandra’s first journey back to London since she had moved to the Isle of Wight a few years before. Having a stretch of water between her and the mainland made her feel safe. The Solent could be expensive to cross; some people thought twice before making the journey. She liked that.
Once on board, she had found an empty table and taken off her coat before absentmindedly plucking a stray blonde hair from her cardigan. A man was watching her from the aisle. She followed his gaze. To her embarrassment, her fingers were resting against her left breast. Flummoxed, she struggled with her case, making several unsuccessful attempts to lift it onto the luggage rack.
‘Let me,’ he said.
Now it was her turn to watch as he swung the case up over his head and positioned it on the shelf. His white T-shirt rode up revealing the lower half of his torso. Her eyes tracked the thin line of black hair that ran from his navel and disappeared under the waistband of his jeans. He flopped down in the seat opposite and honed in on the box of doughnuts she had put on the table. The glossy icing and the multicoloured hundreds and thousands glinted through the cellophane window. They were her treat. She couldn’t get them on the island and always made a point of buying half a dozen from the kiosk at Waterloo station.
‘Did you make those?’ he asked.
They were obviously manufactured; the brand name was emblazoned across the side of the box. She shook her head.
‘My sister bakes cakes for the café on Ryde beach. Do you know it?’ he asked.
She glanced at him, momentarily trying to picture where he meant before shaking her head and checking her phone. No messages. She sighed and slid the phone into the pocket of her handbag where she kept her Oyster card. The travel card wasn’t there. Panicking, she rechecked her bag and looked underneath the seat. Nothing. She must have dropped it after topping it up at the station. Luckily, the card was registered so at least she wouldn’t lose any money. Quickly, she took out her mobile again, scrolled down the address book and clicked.
‘Hello, I’d like to report a lost Oyster… sorry…can you hear me now?’ she shouted. ‘My name? Sandra, Sandra Williams…Dove Cottage, Isle of Wight. PO30 5AB.’
She bit her lip impatiently.
‘5A ‘P’? ‘P’ for ‘papa’? No, it’s ‘B’, ‘B’ for …’
The man smiled at her and her mind went blank.
‘Bravo,’ he whispered over the top of his newspaper.
She gave him the thumbs up by way of thanks.
‘‘B’ for ‘bravo’,’ she said. ‘Yes, the card is registered…hello…can you still hear me?’
The line went dead. Irritated to have lost the signal, she sighed and locked her phone. The man threw down his newspaper, making her jump and reached into the pocket of his jeans. Fanning out three Oyster cards on the table, he pushed one towards her.
‘Here,’ he said.
His nails were bitten, his cuticles ragged and bloody.
‘No, thanks, it’s yours,’ she replied.
‘Have it,’ he insisted.
‘No, I don’t need it. I’ll get a replacement. Why have you got so many?’ she asked lightly.
He shrugged, gathered up the cards and put them back in his pocket.
‘I always lose something when I go to London,’ he told her.
‘Where in London?’ she asked, leaning forward, seizing the opportunity to talk about her home town.
‘Leyton. Me girls live there.’
East London, of course, his accent was a giveaway. But a Dad? She would never have guessed he had kids. He seemed free, uninhibited by responsibility. Only someone with children knew the particular pain they could bring. As her friend had warned her when she had told him she was pregnant, ‘Congratulations! You’ll never be so happy or unhappy in your life.’ At the time, it had struck her as nothing more than a jaded comment probably the result of one too many sleepless nights. She had no idea what he meant. Now, sadly, she knew only too well.
‘How old are they?’ she asked, genuinely interested.
‘Eight and nine. Haven’t seen ‘em for years,’ he said dismissively as if ‘years’ was just another word for ‘hours’.
She raised her eyebrows at him.
‘Been away,’ he told her by way of explanation.
Based on his muscular appearance, she imagined him on an oil-rig, braving all weathers.
‘I’m Ben, by the way. Drink in The Lud, down the road from me in Ryde. Know it?’
She nodded.
‘Never seen you,’ Ben said. ‘I know it but I don’t drink there.’
‘Why not?’ he asked, offended.
She shrugged hoping her indifference would draw the conversation to a close but he was not easily deterred.
‘What’s wrong with it?’ he demanded.
‘Nothing,’ she lied.
Sandra had nipped in there once to use the toilet. She could still smell the inside of the cubicle and picture the misspelt filth scrawled on the walls. There was no paper left on the roll and she had resorted to using the inner cardboard tube.
Ben leant towards her, his elbows on the table and stared into her eyes. Alarmed, she recoiled and looked around for somewhere else to sit but the carriage was full. Four young race-goers on the opposite table were imbibing ready-mixed gin and tonics from cans. One of the two women lay slumped against her partner’s shoulder, her weight pinning him against the window. The other man was boasting loudly about his winnings.
Sandra’s ex-husband had been a gambler and would have lost the family home from under them, had she not divorced him when she did.
She picked up a copy of The Metro from the floor and flicked it open creating a barrier between her and her unwanted travelling companion.
‘Can I see that?’ he asked pushing his copy of The Times towards her. ‘I can’t read this.’
If her newspaper distracted him, she was happy to let him have it. She folded it and placed it on the table. Without so much as a glance at the front page, Ben jettisoned it onto the seat next to him.
‘You’ve kept yourself nice, for your age,’ he said addressing his remark to her chest.
She was wearing her low-cut, cream top. Her hand moved towards her throat and her fingertips felt for her rose locket. She rubbed it gently against her thumb, anxious to cover her chest with her arm as she did so.
His face was set in a permanent smile, like a dolphin’s. His biceps bulged under the thin fabric of his T-shirt. Despite herself, she smirked.
‘What you doing later?’ he asked.
‘My husband’s meeting me at Ryde,’ she lied without missing a beat.
He looked at her left hand and grinned knowingly. No wedding ring. He let out a little snort, disguised as a cough. Sandra inwardly admonished herself. She was getting careless, having removed the ring earlier and forgotten to put it back on. A cheap metal band, it made her fingers itch but she chose to wear it as part of her disguise of normality and respectability. Usually, it kept any unwanted attention at b
ay too.
‘Off to see my girl now,’ he told her gleefully.
Relieved she would soon be free of him, she smiled.
‘She’s a prostitute.’
Sandra gasped. It was clear from Ben’s ever widening grin he enjoyed her reaction.
‘She’ll do anything for me. Dresses up … got all the gear. Last time, she wore her Grand-dad’s sailor suit.’
From the tawdry description, Sandra pictured a scrawny blonde, dead behind the eyes, sporting an ill-fitting white shirt and blue trousers, a nautical cap at a jaunty angle, splayed across a crumpled bed waiting for Big Ben to strike.
‘Just doing what me Dad told me, ‘Never hurt a woman, Ben. If you want sex, pay her, don’t rape her.’
Sandra gasped but tried to mask how unnerved she was. She had to get away from him, stand in the corridor, if necessary. Before she could move, he jumped up.
‘Just nipping to the loo, watch my stuff,’ he ordered.