Fiction

Pale Hands 4

‘Daddy!’ It was almost simultaneous. I dashed down for the phone, uncoiled what I had once thought were absurdly long lengths of cable, carried the phone up to the turn in the stairs, flipped the [more…]

Fiction

Pale Hands 3

9.  The continued ringing of the telephone brought us both abruptly out of the past and Cambridge. ‘Your Father!’ I exclaimed. ‘My Mother.’ She whispered. ‘Richard Conyngham here: we’re at Waterloo and due to arrive [more…]