Welcome to My World. Miranda Dickinson

the five steps it took to reach the small, red postbox nestled in the dry-stone wall over the road.

      Five small steps for anyone else: five giant leaps for Harri-kind, she thought triumphantly, as she thrust the small white envelope decisively into the black abyss of the postbox . . .

      . . . and instantly regretted her decision.

      Harri stared at her empty hand, still hovering over the inky blackness of the postbox’s opening, feeling her heart sinking to the furthest end of her pink and white polka-dot wellies. ‘What have you done?’ a little voice demanded inside her head, accusingly. Harri felt her heartbeat pick up and an icy-cold pang shudder down her spine. Suddenly, spontaneity didn’t seem like the blinding idea it had been moments before.

      Maybe, she thought in desperation, if she stared hard enough at the opening, the letter would magically reappear and everything would be fine. Perhaps the postman would just inexplicably miss the letter and it would remain forgotten at the bottom of the box for years to come. Or maybe she would wake up any second and find that it was all a terrible dream . . .

      Harri’s train of thought was brought to an abrupt halt as the heavens opened above her. Large spots of rain began to pepper her head and shoulders, catching the light from the streetlamp as they fell: a shower of shimmering crystals splashing around her as she remained frozen to the spot. It’s done now: there’s no going back. As if to underline the sense of dread pervading her soul, a deep rumble of thunder rolled across the distant sky. Slowly, resignedly, Harri turned and walked back home.

      Chapter Six

       Hide-and-Seek

      The door to the ladies’ opens with an unwilling creak.

      ‘Is she in here?’ a female voice asks.

      ‘No, I don’t think so,’ a young man answers from the corridor beyond, his tone uncertain. ‘Maybe she’s gone home.’

      ‘Well, I never saw her leave, Thomas, and not much escapes my notice.’

      ‘You can say that again – ouch!’

      ‘Less of your cheek, sunshine, thank you very much.’ The door opens a little wider and Harri can hear a step onto the dull magnolia tiles. ‘Harriet? Am you in here, chick?’

      Harri holds her breath. She can’t face a conversation; not yet.

      ‘She isn’t there, Eth— Mrs Bincham,’ Tom whispers, his embarrassment as obvious as the acne on his chin.

      ‘Mmm. Well, maybe you’re right, Thomas, maybe she’s gone. Better just check the hall again then, eh?’

      Harri breathes a sigh of relief as the voices disappear and the door closes.

      Ethel Bincham was the cleaner at Sun Lovers International Travel. At least, that’s what it said on her contract. However, with eyesight as bad as hers, coupled with her penchant for long chats with the staff, and George’s unwillingness to let her go after her many years of more or less faithful service, cleaning was not exactly top of her list of priorities. She prided herself on her ability to listen and fancied herself almost a surrogate mother, provider of pure Black Country wisdom and nothing less than a soothsayer for the assembled workers each Monday, Wednesday and Friday morning, seven o’clock till nine. In days of yore, every village would have its local wise woman, a source of mystical wisdom, cures for all ills and an understanding ear in time of need; now, the fortunate residents of Stone Yardley had Mrs Bincham.

      ‘Would you run the Hoover round this evening before Mrs B comes in?’ George often asked Harri on a Tuesday afternoon (knowing full well that she would be the last person out of the office and probably the first in next morning).

      The irony of the request was never lost on Tom. ‘Doesn’t that kind of defeat the object of having a cleaner?’

      George couldn’t really argue with this reasoning, but knew that his initial lack of courage to let Ethel go when he realised she could hardly see the office, let alone the dust, had inevitably made a rod for his own back.

      The morning after her late-night bout of ill-judged spontaneity, Harri arrived at work to find Ethel attempting to water the artificial aspidistra in the window.

      ‘It’s looking a bit peaky,’ Ethel informed her cheerily, ‘and no wonder – it’s bone dry!’

      ‘It’s artificial,’ Harri began, but Mrs Bincham was having none of it.

      ‘No, it’s an aspidistra, Harriet,’ she corrected, tutting loudly. ‘You youngsters don’t know anything about plants these days.’

      Harri gave up and retreated to her desk. She switched her computer on and began to leaf through the morning post, most of which seemed to consist of stationery catalogues nobody could remember requesting and offers of business loans from banks she’d never heard of. As she worked, she was aware of Mrs Bincham surveying her carefully, although exactly how much Ethel could see was anyone’s guess.

      Harri picked up a pile of new brochures and walked over to the display units, wistfully gazing at each cover as she restocked the shelves: azure harbours with dazzling white yachts and jade-green waves lapping against white sand beaches, as smug couples stalked possessively along the shore. A sharp razorcut of longing sliced through Harri’s heart at their blissful expressions. If only she could step into the pictures and leave everything far behind . . .

      ‘Thought you might need this,’ Ethel’s raspy voice said right by her ear, bringing her sharply back to reality. Harri jumped and almost knocked the mug of super-strong tea from Mrs Bincham’s hands as she did so.

      ‘Oh! I’m sorry, Mrs B, I was miles away.’

      ‘I could see that,’ Ethel replied as Harri accepted the mug. ‘Where was it this time, eh?’

      Harri looked sheepish. ‘Grenada.’

      ‘Don’t they do Coronation Street?’ Ethel asked.

      Harri stifled a giggle. ‘Um, no, that’s—’

      ‘No matter,’ Ethel cut in, rummaging in her tartan shopping trolley and producing a large off-white Tupperware box that looked at least a hundred years old. ‘I’ve been baking again.’

      ‘Oh . . . you really shouldn’t have . . .’

      ‘Tsk, nonsense, I love it! My Geoff says I missed my calling in life – should have been a baker, he reckons. Mind you, he also used to fancy Margaret Thatcher, so what does that tell you? Now, clap your chops round one of these.’

      Harri peered dubiously into the fusty plastic-scented depths of the box and selected an overly browned, crunchy square of something. ‘Thanks,’ she replied, hoping she sounded convincing.

      Ethel’s face was a picture of gleeful anticipation. ‘Well, go on then,’ she urged.

      Harri took a bite. ‘It’s – um – different,’ she ventured, uncertain whether the odd concoction of tastes was pleasant or not. ‘What is it?’

      Ethel’s wrinkled cheeks flushed with pride and she patted her recently set blue-rinsed curls. ‘My own recipe,’ she grinned. ‘I love Bakewell tart, see, and my Geoff’s partial to Chocolate Crispy cakes – big kid that he is – so, I thought, why not combine the two? Proper bostin’ stuff, that.’

      Harri swallowed and reached for her tea. ‘So this is . . . ?’

      ‘Chocolate Crispy Bakewells!’ Ethel proudly announced. ‘Remarkable, eh?’

      Harri couldn’t argue with that. ‘Absolutely.’

      ‘Ta.’ Ethel’s smile morphed into solemnity. ‘Now, are you going to tell me what’s up?’

      ‘I’m fine, Mrs B, just a bit tired, that’s all.’

      Ethel’s eyes may have been lacking in physical performance but her perception was as sharp as ever. ‘Don’t give me