Day 19

Write a story that includes a gingerbread house, a stolen key and a surprising phone message.

The telephone rang with its usual nerve jangling burst of heavy metal rock music. I used that for my phone calls so that I would hear the phone above the sound of the kitchen equipment. This time, though, I was in the shower, and by the time I had grabbed a towel and rushed back into the kitchen it had fallen silent. The message light was blinking so rather than stand there shivering and dripping water onto the floor, I went back to the bathroom , dried myself properly and dressed in my usual casual wear of jeans and jumper – this was the weekend after all.

Brushing the tangles out of my curly brown hair, I returned to the kitchen to make myself a cup of coffee. Standing there, warming my hands on the mug, I looked at the message light, flashing there for the world to see and obey. Did I really want the outside world to intrude on my free time today, or would it wait till I get back into work mode. Trouble was, I couldn’t ignore that light. It was like a command – you will pick up this message or else!

I finished the coffee before it got cold; I felt like a disobedient child, watching the blinking red light and ignoring it for the moment.

Eventually, I knew that it would beat me into submission. I would have to pick it up and listen to the message, so grudgingly I grabbed the receiver and listened to the voicemail. The message was from my partner in the business.

He wanted me to know that he had lost the keys to the shop. What??? How the bleep can he lose the keys to the shop? When? Where? Now I was really worried. That’s the long relaxing weekend finished for me. My stress levels rose again, and my fingers wouldn’t dial his telephone number properly. Twice I tried to dial, and on the third attempt, managed to get the numbers in the correct order.

He answered on the first ring, and in answer to my frantic questioning, explained that he had been outside the shop when he realized. He had been putting the finishing touches to the new window display. He had gone outside and was standing back to admire his handiwork . The centerpiece of the newly designed gingerbread house looked beautiful, he said, and that was when he was nudged by the kid on the bike. He thought nothing of it then, except to shout after the little tyke to stay off the pavement. It wasn’t until he went back into the shop to put the alarms on and close up that he realized his keys were missing. His first thought was that he had dropped them inside the window while he was placing our goods on the shelving, so he had crawled back into the display and searched among the products on display. After an hour of searching the window, then the shop itself and cursing himself for his own carelessness, he put everything back in its proper place and phoned me.. Both of us panicked.

But a light went off in my head; the kid, the bike, could he have picked Steve’s pocket during that nudge as he went past on the pavement? Had the keys been stolen, not just gone missing. It seemed to be the logical reason for the loss.

Together we knew that we were going to have to get the locks changed, new keys for the shop, new keys for Steve’s home, and make sure the alarm systems were used regularly.

I didn’t think we’d ever see the kid again and personally , I felt real spiteful; he had spoilt my weekend off, I hoped his bike fell apart!

*********

“It’s perfect.” Mrs Lowe murmured, taking a step back to admire her handiwork. Hours of fussing and obsessing had revealed an intricately prepared gingerbread house that would take pride of place at tonight’s celebrations. No expense had been spared. The walls of the not so humble abode had been adorned with the finest sweets the local shop had on offer, each one painstakingly mapped out and held in place with icing she had made from scratch early this morning.

I’d like to see Mrs Renwich top that, the woman thought, pleased with the idea of besting her closest neighbour and greatest rival. Her husband never had understood the competitive nature of the housewives, much preferring the company of the wireless and a whisky to their bickering. If only he had noticed the pride the woman took in their homes, in their family, in perfection.

That was why every inconsequential detail became a competition between the two. Every baked good was judged; each child’s achievement ranked. Only one of the Lowe children remained at home now; the rest sent into the world of adulthood with more than a few tears and invitations to dinner. After Molly had... left, their mother had worked even harder to ensure her youngest was the best he could possibly be, whether he liked it or not. Mr Lowe knew his wife had been heartbroken when she had ‘thrown her life away’ but he hadn’t expected her to react so rashly. He had, of course, been disappointed, any parent would be. He had presumed it was a phase, a habit she would out grow in time.

Her mother had not given her the chance.

“Not while you are under my roof you won’t! Do you hear me young lady?” she had roared, her face blotchy with anger. She wouldn’t back down, so sure she was in the right. And it drove their daughter away.

She stomped upstairs, re-emerging minutes with a bulging bag over her shoulder and she had left. Without a word, without a goodbye.

Mrs Lowe was far too proud to apologise, to welcome her home. Before he knew it, it was too late. She had found a place to stay, a job waiting tables, much to her mother’s horror. She had a new life and they didn’t fit in it anymore.

A strange coldness had settled over the couple, each of them blaming the other. “You should have been firmer with her; she always listened to you.” The wife had crowed, desperately trying to avoid responsibility only to be met with a firm stare and silence. A silence she filled with fresh pies, homemade bread and her son’s success. They never spoke of it. Nobody did. It was as if they had had but four children, three boys, and a girl, but no raven haired child named Molly. Only her absence, the vast void she left screamed the truth.

On this particular night the silence was broken not by the sound of a busy kitchen, nor the consistent drone of a radio but by the shrill tones that came from the phone they kept in the hall. Mrs Lowe was running errands. Her husband locked away in his study.

It was their youngest who crept through the quiet house, a boy caught between child and man. It was his hands free of ink or flour that took the cold plastic in his hands. His newly deepened voice that called out. His mouth that fell in shock at the sound of a voice he had almost forgotten.

His bare feet hit the carpet quickly as he skidded through the halls before barrelling into his father’s sanctuary. As is customary for those not yet in control of their bodies, he landed in a heap. Before his father could question or scold him, he was speaking, the words tumbling from his mouth quickly.

“Dad! It’s Molly... she was mugged... they took everything. Her keys, her bag, her money. She’s ok but she’s in the hospital Dad. She wanted us to come and get her. I think she’s coming home.”

As his son’s hasty words sunk in, Mr Lowe rushed to his feet and in a tangle of coats and limbs to rival his youngest’s, he flew from the house, a paternal instinct awakened in him.

This was his little girl and she needed his help.

When Mrs Lowe returned home that evening, her arms like lead under the shopping they held, she felt a strange shame settle over her at the sight of her daughter. Nobody spoke for one tense moment while the two woman stared at each other, communicating what they knew they could.

The tension quickly dissipated when the eldest’s head nodded once. She knew she had been given a second chance, the opportunity to redeem herself and she wasn’t going to let pride repeat her mistakes. Not this time.

“You better set the table for four, boy.”