Room 2D

Story from Roué 3. We meet Ossie from  Reverend’s Reverse  again. Lucy had been taken away from home now, and was living with him, so now there would be four. He sat up at the attic window, looking out over the late autumn colours, seeing beyond the almost leafless branches the white walls and red tiles of Fairleigh. Twice a week, so Lucy had said. And now there were four. The sky looked heavy, and sodden with rain. The white walls were luminous against the overcast sky. So that would mean eight. Eight times a week, on average, now that there were four. The rain began to patter, quietly at first, then more insistently, trickling down the small glass panes and distorting the distant image. So that would mean that tonight, perhaps even right now, the probability existed that one of the four might — might be —. Statistically speaking, that was. He filled his pipe from his pouch. The rain trickled down the glass. The rain might have

Story from Roue 2 Ossie hummed as he walked briskly along in step with Matron, their footsteps squeaking in unison on the highly polished parquet floor of the long corridor. ‘You’re cheerful,’ said Matron, as if enquiring the reason why. ‘Am I?’ asked Ossie, and seemed to consider. ‘Oh, well perhaps I am.’ They squelched and squeaked to the angle of the hall and turned down another long corridor. A girl stepped deferentially to one side as they passed. Matron glowering at her and Ossie winking and making the girl smile in a rather confused way. At the far end of the second corridor Matron swung aside and wrenched noisily at the handle of a heavy, green-painted door. The door refused to open. Matron belatedly produced a key on a ring and rattled it in the lock. She smiled apologetically for her forgetfulness and pushed the door open for Ossie to precede her. The girl sitting on the hard wooden chair scampered to her feet

Story from Roué 11 IN THE PADDOCK Waiting for the race numbers to go up — Who’s my driver… who’ll be caning my bum…? The excitement is always there, every time the Pony Club meet at Mrs Finch’s place down in the country. Cars splash down the muddy lane, turn through the gate. Cars with smart-looking women at the wheel and younger, prettier passengers. Estate cars, Range Rovers, even a horse-box. They bump along the track, down by the copse, and hide themselves away at the back of the big barn, out of sight of anyone who might drive along the top road from the village. There is a carnival atmosphere as the cars’ occupants avoid the puddles and slip in through the little side door. Women calling greetings, some of them less lady-like than might be expected, only the girls a little quieter. Smiling at each other but treating the older women with what might be respect. Alongside the barn there is, surprisingly, a comfortably furnished room, with a bar. Drinks are sent round, conversati