Angel of The Willows , livre ebook

Title Page
Angel of the Willows

by
Angela Gascoigne



Publisher Information
Angel of the Willows published in 2014 by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
The right of Angela Gascoigne to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998
Copyright © 2014 Angela Gascoigne
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any person who does so may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.



Chapter 1
Summer 2013
The late evening sun was beginning to set over the Elmwood Estate, streaking the clear, blue sky with a beautiful crimson-pink haze.
A crowd of small children, wearing nothing but vests and pants, scattered in various directions alerted by their mothers calling them in from their brightly coloured front doors. Bath time, no doubt, and not a moment to waste if the mums were to catch the late repeat of Coronation Street.
I watched as the children obediently ran to their houses like small, clockwork mice, their bare feet slapping on the hot concrete as they went. Not one of them complained, cried or demanded an extra ten minutes. Quite astonishing, I thought. It seemed after a long day playing in the sun they were, by now more than happy to have the day’s grime and sticky, black ice-cream residue soaked from their skin before slipping into fresh, clean pyjamas.
As I sauntered on through the expanse of newly built houses, I noticed that they all appeared to be virtually identical, each one with the same open-plan front garden. I couldn’t help but wonder how the owners ever managed to find their way home. Of course, the fact that the vast Elmwood Estate was broken down into smaller, more manageable closes or cul-de-sacs consisting of around four to ten properties, made it a little easier to negotiate - especially for a newcomer. Each little group of properties was given a name which had been etched onto a brass plaque on a stone wall at the entrance.
I noticed immediately that the allocated names left a lot to be desired: Cumberland, Wiltshire and Lincolnshire had clearly been named after sausages (my mind was momentarily whisked away to distant memories of char-blackened sausages stuffed inside a bread roll and smeared in tomato sauce and mustard. I felt hollow inside as the imaginary aroma of fried onions devoured me). And across from the sausage area there were: Stilton, Cheshire and Edam. Well...they didn’t take much working out.
The architect who’d designed the whole estate had clearly drained himself of any type of imagination by the time it came to address names; either that or he was a martyr to his belly.
The further into the estate I got though, the nicer the names became: Lilac, Lavender, Ivy, etc. I imagined that the areas with the most expensive houses were rewarded with the prettier names.
Another thing that hit me as I continued on my eye-opening journey was that almost every driveway on the estate came complete with its own highly-polished people carrier. The glare from each one was such that a pair of sunglasses would have come in very handy. Said people carriers came in every colour of the rainbow and each one was kitted out with a number of over-sized child seats and Winnie the Pooh window blinds.
There was clearly a severe case of ‘keeping-up-with-the Jones’ syndrome going on here. I supposed that was understandable, since I had now reached the ‘kings and queens’ area.
Victoria was splendid: not a blade of grass out of place, no dehydrated leaf nor cigarette butt littered the pavements. Every house sported window boxes and hanging baskets in full bloom and terracotta pots complete with mini-shrubs lined the driveways. The smell of car polish hung heavily in the air as the husbands cleaned the people carriers to a mirror-finish, whilst the wives cleaned the living-room windows until they sparkled. There wasn’t a child to be seen. Each one was by now tucked up in bed, dreaming about paddling pools and trikes.
I stopped a while to watch the couple at number nine and inhaled the invigorating scent of cut grass whilst I lingered. The young man, wearing nothing more than a pair of cut-off jeans and flip-flops had just finished packing his lawnmower away. The woman stood on a chair washing the window frames, her long black hair flowing, and her summer dress fluttering in the warm breeze. Her husband watched intently. “Higher!” he called over. She spun around, almost losing her balance on the chair. “What?”
“Up there, right at the top. You missed a bit.”
The woman stretched up as far as she could reach; far enough to reveal a flash of white knickers. “Perfect,” the husband laughed. “Now just stay there!” He made himself comfortable on the grass, crossing his legs. The wife, realising exactly what he was up to, turned and threw the sopping wet sponge which hit him full-on in the face.
It was all so romantic. I could have stood there watching them all night, but it would be getting dark soon and I still wasn’t any the wiser.
The young man jumped up and carried his lovely wife down off the chair and kissed her passionately as he carried her into the house. Her legs were wrapped tightly around his waist. The soles of her feet were black with dirt.
Well, this certainly wasn’t the place. I’d gone wrong somewhere. Maybe I’d taken a wrong turn. I’d gone through the whole estate and still hadn’t found it. The families on Victoria certainly weren’t falling apart at the seams. I could sense their vibes of love, happiness and kindness from where I stood, feeling all warm and fuzzy inside.
I turned to head back to where I’d started to see if I could work out where I’d went wrong, stopping along the way to examine a white smear of dried polish that remained on one particular black people carrier. Maybe these people weren’t so perfect after all, I thought.
My concentration was shattered then by a blood curdling scream which was closely followed by what could only have been the ferocious sound of dogs in full strike. I flinched at the sound and felt adrenaline course right through me. I just knew I’d found it.
My former feeling of euphoria was now smothered in a fog of gloom. Yes, there was definitely something wrong here. I could feel it in my bones (or at least I would have, if I’d had any. Bones, that is). So, instead of leaving as planned, I continued a short way to the farthest little cul-de-sac on the estate which I hadn’t noticed since the entrance was concealed by a variety of shrubs and bushes.
The brass name plate read ‘The Willows’. How nice, I thought, with a spark of hope and enthusiasm. I felt quite honoured that I’d been spared the shame of writing my address as Cumberland or Cheddar.
It had been a challenge but I’d arrived at last. This was definitely the right place. I could feel the negative energy all around me like an electrical charge. I was going to have my work cut out. I just knew it.
The Willows consisted of three identical detached houses and one bungalow. I noticed an elderly woman peering from behind the nicotine-yellowed curtains of the bungalow (number three). With her ointment coloured (think germolene) nylon overall, pearl necklace and tight bubble-permed hair, she bore an uncanny resemblance to the Queen of England, if not a tad more youthful.
She had clearly been alerted to all of the commotion that was going on in the neighbourhood as another blood curdling scream rattled every window pane of number two.
Outside number one, on the front lawn, the source of the commotion soon became clear. The young girl, petite and pretty, had a mouth on her that was much too vicious to go with her appearance. The air was blue as she swore and cursed as she used a sweeping brush as a lethal weapon to lay into the black and white mongrel that was latched onto the back end of the little Yorkshire terrier. “Shove off, you dirty skank! Or I’ll smash this broom shank over your back!”
No amount of prodding and shoving with the brush would force them apart. The two dogs were stuck like glue, a spinning, howling, yelping mass of fur and drool. “Max! Here, boy!” The obnoxious teenager patted her knees and tried to maintain her composure in a bid to encourage the little dog to obey without the need for force. Her wavy blonde hair broke free and hung in her eyes and she whipped it away furiously with the back of her hand.
Finally beaten by the whole terrible situation in front of her, she stormed off into the house and returned carrying an overflowing bucket of water before hurling it over both dogs. More yelping and squeals ensued as the dogs separated, much to her relief. “Now scat! And don’t come back,” she yelled, her face red with fury. “And you!” She turned her attention to Max. “Get in that house now! It would serve you well to remember you are a boy.” The little Yorkshire terrier stared up at his mistress with doe eyes. “I’m ashamed of you. Now get out of my sight,” she added before slamming the front door behind her.
I spun around as another paralyzing scream pierced the air. What the hell was going on here? What had I let myself in for?



Chapter 2
“My Gucci handbag!” Sylvia Blacklock (number one) snatched her designer bag up off the floor and began rubbing it vigorously with a tea towel. “It’s ruined! You’ve covered it in amniotic fluid!”
I slipped in through the front door that had been left ajar and took a seat on the red,