BUTTERFLIES

He was eighty years old when he died and in those eighty years, he had lived life to the full. He had been married more times than anyone could care to remember but had settled down, finally, at the age of sixty-seven when he met and married Betty, a widow who attended his local bridge club.

He had only joined the club so he could get out of the house. His youngest son, my father, had moved in with him when his previous wife, Lilian, had died suddenly from a heart attack but the two soon started to bicker about what was best for my grandfather. He had never really been one for clubs and old people’s groups, but anything was better than sitting indoors listening to my father’s constant nagging, and he felt the bridge club was the best of a bad bunch.

Betty worked in the kitchen providing hot drinks and refreshments for the club members and he suddenly found himself drinking a lot more tea than he usually did. He had loved Lilian with all his heart and missed her terribly even then, but he knew his life couldn’t end just because hers had. He wasn’t getting any younger and he didn’t want to spend his old, old age alone.

He finally plucked up the courage to ask Betty out on a date, feeling very much like an awkward sixteen-year-old again, but much to his great relief, she agreed.

He took her for a meal at her favourite restaurant, having made sure he had discovered what it was during one of their many conversations, and then for a walk along the local canal. It had been a hot summers day but as the sun started to set, casting beautiful reflections onto the still water, a cool breeze started to blow, and Betty started to feel chilly.

“Must be my age,” she had said to him shyly, “I’m not as young as I used to be.” He gestured towards a bench and sat the two of them down, making sure he had wrapped his jacket around Betty’s quivering shoulders before he did so.

“Thank you,” she smiled at him. They sat in silence for a long time, watching the butterflies flutter to and fro in front of them, neither wanting to disturb the peace and quiet and it was then that he realised she was the woman for him. He hadn’t known her that long really and had they been forty years younger he would have been accused of rushing things.

“Betty,” he suddenly said, jumping to the floor onto one knee, “I know this is probably the most bizarre and irrational thing I have done or that you have probably witnessed but…..”

She looked around her, giggling like a schoolgirl, and then stared at the man perched on one knee in front of her.

“Betty Reynolds,” he said, taking hold of her hands in his, “will you do the honour of being my wife?”

She hadn’t needed to think about it. She said yes straight away and as he stood up, slowly, he pulled her to her feet too. He stared deep into her eyes, so that she could almost feel them burning into her soul, a feeling she hadn’t experienced in a long time, before he slowly leant forward and kissed her on the lips.

It had been their first kiss and it was the kiss that sealed their relationship. A kiss that meant they would now be together forever, till death do them part.

And after thirteen happy years together it was death that finally did part them. He was diagnosed with cancer of the colon just after his seven-ninth birthday and although he put up a great fight to reach his eightieth birthday, something he had been determined to do, he lost all his energy and fight and succumbed to the disease a few days later.

I had always been close to my grandfather and was very upset when I learnt of his death. I was only twenty years old and his was the first real death I had experienced. I sat in his garden, which was full of poppies, and watched the butterflies. He loved poppies and always made sure his garden was full of them. He also loved butterflies and would tease me by saying the white ones were called butterflies and the dark ones were called flutterbies. He particularly liked the white ones and they soon became my favourites too.

The day of the funeral was hard for me. I had to say goodbye to one of the two most important men in my life but at least I knew the other one, my father, would be there to support me through it.

I stayed behind at the graveside after everyone else had dispersed and just a few minutes on my own with him, something I came to do on a very regular basis. He was the person I went to with my troubles and I would talk to him as I cleaned his tombstone and weeded the flower beds.

“I’m sorry to disturb you.” It was Betty, or nanny Betty as I used to call her. She was the only grandmother I had known, and I think she regarded me just the same she did all her other granddaughters.

I shuffled long the bench I was sitting on so she could sit next to me and gave her a hug.

“I think now is the right time to give you this,” she said reaching into her bag and pulling out a small plastic box, “it was your grandad’s but he wanted you to have it. This is only part of it. There is much more back at the house.”

I took the box from her and found that it contained six tiny butterflies all mounted onto crisp white card, each with their name underneath in black writing.

“He spent a lot of time putting it together for you,” she said, “and he managed to finish it too. Just before he died. There was one he couldn’t get for a long time, but it flew into his bedroom literally the day before he died.” She smiled at me as she stood up, patting me on the hands, tears welling up in her eyes, “I’ll see you back at home.”

I watched her go and then stared at the box. I had no idea how many more of these boxes were back at the house, but this was obviously the first one. The six butterflies were all white ones, different varieties, different shapes, different sizes, and in the middle of them all was a small gold engraved plaque. I tilted the box so I could read the writing properly:

“To my darling Jess,

May the white butterflies guide you through life

And keep you safe and make you happy

I’ll be with you always

Grandpa Pops xx”

A white butterfly suddenly flew past my nose, circled above my head and landed gently on the box.

A single tear fell from my eye, rolled down my cheek and landed on the fragile wing of the butterfly.

“You’re with me now, pops,” I whispered, “I know you are.”

©DawnCoombe2023

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ONE FOR SORROW

No one knew when it was going to come back. The first time it came was three weeks ago, on the 14th December. It had been ten times since that night. No one knew when or if there was going to be a next time. Each time it came they prayed for it to be the last time, but their hopes were always dashed when they discovered the next body.

No-one knew why it killed. It just did. That was why it came. Each time it wanted another person. Someone else had to die. And it always knew who it wanted, like something or someone was telling it who should be next. One by one it was wiping out the already tiny population of the town and there didn’t seem like there was anything the townspeople could do about it.

Many people had seen it, but few could describe it. Big and black was all they could say. Ghostly yet real. No one saw its face though. It was just a movement in the darkness. A shadow in the blackness of the night. And it was silent. No one heard it arrive or leave but there were always motorbike tracks left behind in the mud. No one in the town rode a motorbike and if it was just a passing traveller someone would have heard or seen something. Some people thought it was a deranged psychopath that had escaped from the nearby mental institute, others thought it was some sort of sub-human, undead monster while those who believed, thought it was the Grim Reaper himself, come to wreck carnage on their little town.

But whatever it was, it was dangerous, and it killed. One slash with what seemed like a razor-sharp knife across the victims’ throat was all that it took. There were no screams, no cries in the middle of the night. It was an instant death just as all the terrified people hoped it would be. If they had to be the next victim, they hoped it would be quick.

St Peter’s was a fishing town, just off the coast of Norfolk, on the North Sea. It was a quiet, sleepy town that had hardly any visitors or sightseers. All the people who lived there knew each other by name and there was virtually no crime.

Everybody remembered the 14th December as the day the beast arrived, and everyone could feel its presence. Despite already being winter, the air turned cold and bitter. And then the rain started. Heavy, torrential rain that fell in sheets. Seeing was an impossibility. The storm lasted for three hours and then stopped almost as abruptly as it had started. But everything stopped. There was no breeze, no sound of the waves lapping onto the shore and all the night birds were silent. Nothing moved. It was like time had stopped everything. This period of timelessness only lasted about two minutes but for those who were awake, it felt like an eternity. They felt like they were immortal. They were trapped in a world where time didn’t exist. Time couldn’t age them, and time couldn’t kill them. They were going to live forever….and then it ended. The night birds started to squawk and squeal as they did every night and the sea resumed its gentle movements. A breeze quickly built up and soon it was morning.

It was one of the local fishermen that had perished during the night. His throat was slit cleanly and deeply from one ear to the other. His eyes were closed, and his hair was a matted mess where blood had split around his head. There was no sign of another person being there except the open window. The sill was wet from where the rain had come through the window and paper had been blown about the room. He lay on his bed, the white sheets turned red from the leaking wound, where the murder had taken place. No blood trails were found anywhere and there certainly wasn’t any sign of a struggle. A cross had been slashed into the fisherman’s chest; a mark that was to be found on all future victims of the savage beast.

And that was how it all started. Since that first night nine other people had been slaughtered in their beds, all with their throat cut and the mark etched on their chest. The people of the town were terrified. They had no idea who was going to be next. Doors and windows were locked and bolted to stop the beast entering their homes. But it always found a way. Nowhere was a hiding place. People hid in their cellars but after searching the rest of the house, it soon descended the stairs and found its prey. It was like it was stalking its victim. The beast in black. Silent but deadly. No-one could escape. It always got who it wanted.

Mary lived alone. It was the 10th January. There were no New Year celebrations this year. It didn’t seem right with all those people gone. It was late in the evening and she was in bed. She heard the front door being opened, the front door that she had locked and bolted at sunset. The beast never ventured out in the daylight. It was always at night. They were safe until dusk.

She didn’t know where to go. She knew all about the beast and she knew she was going to die. She knew there was no point in running. She fumbled about in a drawer and pulled out her bible. She gently kissed the leather cover and held it against her chest reciting prayers she had read, while saying her own, praying for safety.

But the beast was bigger than God. God couldn’t save her now. Her house was in darkness. She didn’t want to see it. But wherever she went in the house she could feel it. She looked round but there was nothing there. She heard nothing. No footsteps, no breathing, nothing. Suddenly she felt a gust of wind fly over her. Outside the storm had started up again. Rain fell, and the winds blew. And then she was dead, and the beast was gone.

A magpie sat on the roof of the old lady’s house and let out a tremendous cry. It sounded like a cry of victory. Then with a flap of its giant wings it flew out over the sea into the sunrise. Day never lasted more than six hours now since the beast had started to come. They never had a sunny winters day. It was always dark and cloudy. The birds had gone. All that remained were the night birds and crows. All the winter flowers had died, and bodies of dead animals lay everywhere. The town had turned into something out of a horror film. The streets became deserted. No one knew who was next. But they always knew someone had been. The beast had them under its control. Few people dared to go outside now, even in the daylight. They were prisoners in their own homes. The nearest town was five miles away and nobody wanted to be a target for that long, day or night. The town had acquired a deathly silence that was only shattered by the storms in the night or the crows in the day.

The twelfth slaughter happened five days later. It was the local butcher this time. A magpie sat on the roof of his house as the body was carried out of the house. It let out the same cry as the one sat on top of Mary’s house. Nobody noticed it, few people heard it. They had more important things to worry about.

There were more killings. More innocent people died at the hands of the beast in black. Still no one saw it. It was black as the night, as silent as a mouse but as dangerous as a poisonous snake. Fewer people thought it was human. It had extraordinary powers that allowed it to be as quick and as quiet as it was.

The magpie returned, unnoticed by the townspeople, with every death. Crying victoriously and flying off across the sea. However, one day it flew no more.

It was the twenty fifth body that had to be collected. The undertaker was used to seeing dead bodies, but so many of these people were his friends and they were butchered in such a way it was repulsive to look at. He couldn’t take it anymore and he had taken his gun with him just in case there was any sign of the beast. He was to be disappointed. The beast had long gone, just like he had with the other twenty-four deaths.

Frustrated he fired off his pistol as he left the house. He hadn’t intended to kill or hurt anything, but he caught a magpie as it flew off across the sea. The dying bird spiralled as it fell into the sea. As it drew its final breath, it let out a loud cry.

Black smoke rose as it hit the water, thick black smoke that choked the onlookers standing on the beach. And then an image rose from the middle of the frothing waves. At first it was just a blur but is soon became clear what it was. The beast! The monster that had inflicted so much pain and suffering onto the town was there, in front of them, floating above the sea. But still, its face couldn’t be seen. Its huge blade like arms were wrapped round its chest and the rest of its body was covered in what looked like black leather. It just stayed there, floating above the sea and staring at them. Then it unfolded its arms, which glistened in the dawning sun, and laughed, a haunting, cackling laugh that sent shivers down the spines of the townspeople.

“Come to me,” it called in a long, low, fierce voice and then, still laughing, it disappeared in a cloud of black smoke, as lightning lit up the sky.

Was this the end? Had the beast in black really gone?

The next day everything started to return to normal. The birds flew home, the flowers bloomed, and the streets were full of happy people talking about the previous day’s events. The past three months had been a nightmare. Now they could start to live their lives again.

A moving, emotional memorial service was held for all those that died, and a plaque was erected in honour of them. The seaside town become alive again. News of the drama had spread, and many people flocked to what was rapidly becoming known as the beast in black’s hunting ground. The people of the town would rather have forgotten all about it, but they couldn’t seem to get rid of the numerous reporters, photographers and sightseers.

The novelty and hype surrounding the events soon wore off and the people of the town could rebuild their lives in peace, until they read the recent headlines in the national newspaper:

“Terror as Beast in Black strikes again!”

This time it was in London.

©DawnCoombe2023

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THE RELIC

It stood in the corner of the shop, forgotten and lost. Around it were the more, glamorous, sportier, quicker models that people wanted. Nobody wanted an old has been that could barely stand up and dated from years gone by. Nowadays people wanted speed, they wanted colour and they wanted power. It just couldn’t compete with them. It was just too old. It had already resigned to the fact that it would see out its last years there in that motorbike shop. Nobody wanted an old BSA motorbike anymore. They wanted the Kawasaki’s, the Ducati’s, the Honda’s and the Yamaha’s of today. It was a relic from the sixties. A slow, unattractive, naked bike that just couldn’t keep up the needs of young bikers today.

It was in its prime in the sixties. Fresh from the workshop, with its blue petrol tank and chromed up pipework, it would be any biker’s pride and joy. Most rider owned a BSA motorbike then. Gangs would patrol the streets and the back alleys, dressed to the nines in their black leather and denim, scaring old ladies and children with their daredevil riding.

The bike was created in 1967, christened a BSA 250 and it looked a dream as it sat on the dealer’s forecourt. Its chrome piping glistening in the sun and he black, leather seat was hot to the touch. It sat facing the road and it watched in wonder at all the other bikes that passed it during the day. Its cousin, the BAS Goldstar, ad become very popular but not everyone could afford one and the 250 came a very close second, soon overtaking the Goldstar in the popularity stakes.

The bike spent its days watching and observing the world and its nights locked up in the showroom with all the other bikes. But it wasn’t happy. It needed something else. It needed to be free and liberated. It needed a rider. Someone to share life with. Someone who would love it and take care of it. It wanted to be ridden, it needed to be ridden. To feel the wind sweep through its exposed engine and the rain fall on its hot petrol tank. It was getting stiff in the showroom. It was only moved twice a day and it feared that the engine would seize up. It dreamt of wide-open spaces and beautiful countryside. And of fresh air and long journeys. Life was becoming dull and boring. It wanted excitement. The thrill of races at top speeds along the open roads…Maybe it was all just a fantasy. Maybe none of it was real. But what if dreams really do come true.

The bike was bought by a young lad of nineteen. All the bike’s prayers and wishes had been answered. This person was going to show it what life was really like. The sensation of speed and the feel of power. It could travel three times around the world with all the pent-up energy it had, stored up in its engine. It imagined all the journeys they would take together, all the scrapes they would get into and all the fun they would have together. Life would be great now it had an owner.

It wasn’t to be disappointed either. The boy took the bike everywhere. A special bond grew between man and machine and they soon became inseparable. They fitted together with such simplicity, they were meant to be together. Each was comfortable with the other and they knew how to handle each other. The bike settled into normal life with ease. It had its own parking space in the front garden and was kept dry at night by a protective sheet. It was oiled and watered every week and washed every other day. Its petrol tank was always kept spotless and its piping was always gleaming.

There was nothing more the bike could wish for. They spent their nights touring the surrounding countryside and it was just as beautiful as he had hoped. The stars shone brightly in the sky as the slight murmuring of the engine drove the two of them around the twisting, narrow roads. It let out a roar as it sped passed a slower moving vehicle and round the nearing bend. It felt good to escape everyday life for a while. The thrill of the open road was much more stimulating.

However, the dream couldn’t last. It was a clear night with lots of stars dotted around the sky. But the roads were dark. The boy didn’t see the car coming around the bend until it was too late, and the bike could do nothing but hit it. There was a screech of brakes, the boy was hurled from the saddle and the bike slid across the rough tarmac. The boy landed in a ditch just a few feet away from where the tangled mess that was once a beautiful bike had come to a halt. The boy died instantly, and the bike was seriously damaged.

It took months for the bike to be in working order again. Whenever something was fixed it would always break down again. It wouldn’t start, a chain would fall off or a tyre would puncture. But it didn’t want to get better. It had lost the only person who was prepared to show it what life could really be like. It now felt alone. It hadn’t felt this alone since the days on the forecourt. Who would ride it now? Who would take it for long journeys in the country? Who would make it feel like it was the best bike in the world? It had no one. No one was going to take care of it now and keep it spotlessly clean and polished and looking its best. The boy had done that. It had loved the boy and now it felt empty. No matter how much the pipework was polished, or the petrol tank was scrubbed it just didn’t see like the same bike that had come off the production line only two years ago. It had lost its sparkle, its enigma and it looked grey and matted all the time.

The bike eventually found a new home. After spending some time travelling from workshop to showroom to owner, it finally found someone it liked. But the relationship wasn’t the same and the bike spent weeks at a time sitting in the front yard not moving and not being cleaned. It was taken out for fewer and fewer journeys as time wore on until one day it was taken out no more. The owner suffered a broken leg and was unable to ride anymore.

When the owner eventually died, the bike was taken to a nearby auction. It was in a terrible state. Headlamps were smashed, the once immaculate chrome pipework had rusted, and the leather seat was torn. It looked older than it was and didn’t attract much attention at the auction. A bike dealer, keen on restoring old bikes, took and interest and offered to take it off the auctioneer’s hands.

The bike was rebuilt to its former glory and although it gleamed in the bright sunshine, there was still something missing. It had no one to love it. The restorer didn’t care. All he was interested in was the profit it would make now it was as good as new. The bike needed love and care. It was at its best when it received that. The engine would always purr like a kitten and nothing would go wrong. But the bike knew it wold never be like that again. It had lived its dreams and fulfilled its fantasies.

Now, it was an antique. And a priceless one at that. New, during the sixties, it would have been worth four hundred pounds. What would it be worth now? A useless piece of junk that would clutter this good man’s showroom for years. He had given it a home when no one else would. When no one else cared.

It wondered why it hadn’t been completely destroyed all those years ago in the crash. Maybe then it would have escaped all these years of heartache. Of uselessness and solitude. It wanted to go back to 1967 when the boy had first bought it. Those were the happiest years of its life. Two short years that had changed the course of its being forever. It was happy then…now it was alone. Forever as one. Two didn’t exist anymore. One had died so long ago, and one hadn’t made life go on since. Stuck for eternity in a time warp that would haunt it’s very being for years to come. Nobody wanted it, nobody needed it and certainly nobody loved it. No one would ever love it now. Not with the bikes of the twenty first century around.

It spent two years in the showroom. Surrounded by bikes it neither knew nor understood. It felt like a stranger. A foreigner in its own surroundings. For two years it watched bikes come and go as riders replaced their old bikes. But nobody was interested in a 1967 BSA motorbike. Nobody wanted a bike that couldn’t do more than seventy miles an hour. Nobody wanted the old-fashioned skeletal bike that could tell a thousand stories. It was sad but true. The bike had to spend its last years alone. In the showroom. With just todays youngsters for company.

That was until 1997. Thirty years after it was produced. A customer had wanted a new bike to keep up with the trends of today’s biker. He wanted a Ducati or a Kawasaki. He never intended to buy an antique. But he was smitten as soon as he saw it. It reminded him of his youth. 1967 was the year he had bought his first BSA and he hadn’t seen one since the day he sold his Goldstar. He had to have it. He would have paid a fortune for it. But the dealer accepted a smaller sum and bid farewell to the bike.

At last, the bike was going to feel at home wherever it was taken. They had come from the same era and had been through the same things. For both the sixties were a nostalgic period and together they brought back all those happy memories. The bike remembered the boy and the rider remembered his youth. Never since 1967 had the bike felt at home. At its final resting place. The little rust that had formed while it was in the showroom was quickly destroyed and soon the bike looked like it had come straight from the factory. Gleaming and shimmering in the sun light. And its youth was finally laid to rest when it was ridden around the same bend as that fateful night. It was hard going back but it had to be done. Ghosts from the past had to be buried and a future had to be sought. A happy future for bike and owner. And they fitted together so well. The bike was to its new owner what salt is to pepper. Two of a kind. A relationship in a million.

And both grabbed at it with both hands. They would be together until the end of time. No matter what!!

©DawnCoombe2020