The Barefoot Child ~ Retrospective

Little angel Heather
Now you are free
Dance barefoot forever
In the place you long to be.

Little angel Heather
The dark night has gone.
A new day has come.

Now you are free.

~ Heather by Alex Karas

Remembering Heather West ~ A Life Interrupted  

My journey began the moment I saw a photo of Heather Ann West.

Heather was a pretty dark haired teenager with elfin looks so reminiscent of the American singer Jane Weidlin. I glimpsed the terror behind her eyes. There was an instant connection. And I made a promise that I would tell her story. And so the long journey began.

I knew the journey would be fraught and distressing but I also knew that I was compelled do it. And I felt strongly from the very beginning that somehow Heather wanted me to tell her story. So I was determined to tell it as honestly as possible without editing anything out. The more research I did, the more convinced I became that Heather's story had to be told.

Frederick and Rosemary West loomed large in Heather's life. And their story ran parallel to hers. Frederick and Rosemary West were profoundly abnormal. They were the perfect storm. Frederick was the charming dullard who incurred extensive brain damage from three serious accidents. Rosemary was the volatile and unstable prostitute who almost certainly incurred brain damage from the electric shock treatment her mother received while she was still in the womb. Both had been sexually abused at an early age and would perpetuate the cycle of abuse in their adult lives. This is not written to excuse Frederick and Rosemary West but to get a handle on what they were. The Wests lived in an alternative universe where the normal rules did not apply. Horrifying and grotesque though it may be. And countless young women including Heather would be sacrificed to it along the way.

We may never know exactly how many young women died at the hands of Frederick and Rosemary West. But we can afford the ones we do know of the due respect they deserve. It was important for me that these young women were not simply portrayed as "victims" of "violent crime". They were real people who were expecting to go on with their lives. They had hopes and aspirations. The most compassionate thing I could do for these young women was to give them their humanity back. I could not escape the way they died but at least something of who they had been in life could be remembered. And there was a lot of incidental detail. For this reason I am most beholden to Marion Partington whose sister Lucy died at 25 Cromwell Street. Her book If You Sit Very Still was invaluable to me. As were the recollections of Caroline Roberts who survived.

The research for The Barefoot Child was extensive. I read every book I could find about the Wests. I read articles. I listened to police tapes of a rambling Frederick West confessing and retracting his confessions. I watched hours of documentary. I looked at blogs. There was a wealth of information. And gradually I gathered the fragments of Heather's life together. The more I learned about Heather from those who had known her, the more I grew to love her. Professionalism dictates that you keep an emotional distance between yourself and the subject. But I confess that this was difficult with Heather West. So much of her short life was affecting.

I am indebted to the many writers who covered the West case and the authors of invaluable books such as the late Gordon Burn, Howard Sounes, Geoffrey Wansell and Jane Carter Woodrow. These books helped form the back bone of my study and informed my work. I would have been lost without them.

All the people who featured in Heather's life came to life fully formed on the page. By the time I had finished my research and was undertaking the writing of The Barefoot Child - I felt as if I knew them all well. I can only express immense sympathy for all the West children. And I can only express my heartfelt condolences to the families of the young women who died at 25 Cromwell Street.

Heather 

There were countless times I was confronted by the kind of extreme abuse that rocked me to the core and horrified me to the pit of my stomach. "How can parents treat their own children like that?" I asked myself often. There were so many times I felt desperation and helplessness in the face of the appalling details. There were so many times I just wanted to take the West children and hug them. To comfort them. To alleviate their suffering. And I desperately wanted to save Heather from her fate. But I could not and this utterly devastated me. The locomotive had already started and was hurtling towards a horrible end.

Many tears were shed in the telling of Heather's story.There were so many poignant moments in Heather's brief life that were utterly heartbreaking. Such as the night before she died. Heather had been hoping to work at a holiday camp in south Devon as a chalet cleaner but the job was cancelled at the last minute. Heather was distraught and went to bed sobbing and wept all through the night so loudly that she kept her siblings awake. Her sister Mae had never seen her like this before. There were other things too. Heather was just a teenager on the cusp of adulthood. But in many ways she was also special. Heather wasn't like her other siblings and longed to be outdoors away from other people.Heather's ambition in life was to live in the Forest of Dean. This urchin quality really affected me. She loved the feeling of freedom and of being outdoors - it was very fierce in her. This spoke most to me about Heather. And she never wore shoes. She went everywhere barefoot. In the last known photo of Heather before she died, she can be seen in her half-sister Anne Marie's garden with Frederick West and her sister Mae. She is barefoot. It really touched me that Heather developed an intense crush on a male teacher at Hucclecote Comprehensive School. It really moved me that Heather and Mae understood each other and looked out for each other. They didn't need to say anything - they just knew.

Family photo. Frederick West is in the middle. Heather is on the far right. 

At times the subject matter was so extreme that I had to take a step back from it. But I couldn't shy away from it. I couldn't sanitise it. It was the stuff of nightmares and horror movies. And it was real. It really happened. And it happened in the county town of Gloucestershire in the South West region of England. Listening and reading Mae and Stephen West attempting to make sense of the nonsensical was at times heartbreaking. They were trying to understand the incomprehensible.The life they knew at Cromwell Street, however dysfunctional, was their reality. Frederick and Rosemary West were the only parents they had ever known. Most of the West children remained loyal to Frederick West simply because he was not as violent towards them as Rosemary West. Anne Marie had been sexually abused by father and her stepmother from the age of eight until she escaped at fifteen. Her recollections of the sordid life style at 25 Cromwell Street provided a window into the sexual deviancy and depravity that Frederick and Rosemary West indulged in. Only after Anne Marie had gone, did the degenerate couple turn their attentions to Heather. The raw, harrowing and at times deeply affecting reminiscences of Anne Marie were vital to The Barefoot Child.

Frustrating details began to emerge about negligent social services, hospital staff and police officers during my research, It is difficult to comprehend how the West children could slip beneath the radar on so many occasions. It is hard to understand how no connections were made. One of Rosemary West's clients even contacted social services to inform them that he believed Heather was being sexually abused. But nothing was done about it. Caroline Roberts later blamed the police for scaring her off after she reported her twelve hour ordeal at the hands of Frederick and Rosemary West. She had the misfortune to be interviewed by a particularly officious police officer who frightened her. Roberts was too afraid to press charges and Frederick and Rosemary West escaped with nothing more than a £100 fine. It is likely that had Frederick and Rosemary West been stopped at this stage, numerous lives including Heather's would have been saved. Enter DC Hazel Savage twenty years later. If she had not persisted in her search for Heather, it is likely that Frederick and Rosemary West would have continued to murder young women in the cellar of 25 Cromwell Street. It was surely her insistence that Heather be found that finally bought the horror train to an end.

Heather was almost certainly killed for fear of what she might say once she was out of 25 Cromwell Street. She had had the courage to defy her parents and would almost certainly have exposed the sleazy underworld of 25 Cromwell Street had she lived. And in many ways she did. There is some satisfaction in knowing that it was Heather reaching from beyond the grave who eventually bought down Frederick and Rosemary West.

Life at 25 Cromwell Street was the only life that Heather, Mae and Stephen West had ever known. Mae and Heather were particularly close. They understood one another. They talked about escaping 25 Cromwell Street together.There is some comfort in knowing that the three West children had each other. As Heather grew into a teenager, the relentless abuse she suffered began to take its toll on her. At home she was quiet and withdrawn and at school she veered between being a model pupil and a rebellious teenager. And she recoiled from other men. All things considered, this bears all the hallmarks of an abused child. If anyone had actually cared enough to look closer.

Three weeks before she died, a tearful Heather finally broke her silence and told her best friend what was happening at home. Denise Harrison had already seen the bruises and weal marks on Heather's body and she believed her. But tragically her parents did not. Denise never saw Heather again. Heather had tried to cry for help but there was nobody there to listen. One can only imagine the terror and desperation that Heather must have felt in the final days of her life. Her life depended upon finding a job that would take her away from Cromwell Street. Had she been able to secure a job she would have lived. But it was not to be. Heather had been brave to the very end. She stood up to her parents and it had cost her her life.

Heather 

The details of Heather's death posed me with a dilemma and the biggest challenge of all. What to keep and what to leave out. I had to treat Frederick West's own recollections of what happened to Heather with extreme caution. He would dangle the truth like a carrot and then embellish it with a tissue of lies.

Thankfully I had the reconstruction by writer Howard Sounes in his book Fred and Rose. The reconstruction is based upon expert opinion and the evidence. We know from her remains that she was not gagged like the other young women who died at the hands of Frederick and Rosemary West. A chord was found in her grave which suggests that her hands may have been tied and orange and green fibres embedded in the chord suggest that she was held down. But the exact details of her death are unknown. There is no evidence of sexual torture. All we know for certain is that Heather died in the hallway of 25 Cromwell Street in June 1987. The date - 19 June - is corroborated by Anne Marie West who made a  note of it in her diary and Mae and Stephen who remember seeing Heather before they left for school. It was two days after the third birthday party of Anne Marie's daughter Michele in which the West family turned up in force. Anne Marie had been struck by the behaviour of Frederick and Rosemary West. Heather was not herself and that there was obvious friction between her and her parents.

I also had the "eye witness" account from Barry West who was apparently only seven at the time. He allegedly witnessed Heather's death from a partially open door and gives graphic details of what happened to her.The account would only emerge two decades later in a down market newspaper supplement. According to Barry's recollection, it was Heather's last act of defiance that cost her her life. She would not submit to her father's relentless sexual attentions. Rosemary West would show little restraint with her children. The savage and brutal way in which Heather was dispatched therefore rings true. But there are problems with this account. According to Barry West, Heather had been out and had returned home at 3 am when her parents turned on her. This does not tally with what has already been established about Heather's final day. This confusion over dates and details does not automatically rule out Barry West's account but it does beg a question mark. Whatever happened to Heather, it was at the hands of Frederick and Rosemary West. We can easily discount his insistence that his wife was not involved in Heather's death. It is most improbable. Even if Rosemary West was not involved or even present at the time Heather died, she knew enough to play along with it when "Heather" began ringing the house some time after her disappearance.

Heather 

In light of all these details, I decided to place both the reconstruction of Heather's death by Howard Sounes and the allegations by Barry West as both viable interpretations of Heather's final moments. Even though West's account is not corroborated by what has been established about Heather's last day. All we need to know is that Heather died at the hands of her parents in June 1987 and that she had been been brave to the very last. I can only pray that Heather's end came quickly.

It was important to me that I accord due respect to the principle people in Heather's story. The recollections of Mae, Stephen and Anne Marie were vital. The pattern of abuse established with Anne Marie would be perpetuated with Heather, I am indebted to Anne Marie for her recollections and her bravery. Another person who deserved attention was Charmaine West. She was just eight-years-old when she died. And like Heather, she had been defiant to the end. I found Marion Partington's book If You Sit Very Still to be an essential part of the journey. The book is profoundly moving and incredibly beautiful. Marion's sister Lucy died at 25 Cromwell Street and this book is her journey of healing. But the book is all about Lucy and the legacy of her life interrupted.

The extensive research took just over six months. Piecing it all together required great patience and finesse. Choosing what to keep and what to discard was challenging. Thankfully, Heather had a strong character and this made the human story so much more accessible. I included everything I could find about Heather. I let the recollections of Mae, Stephen and Anne Marie speak for themselves. Their words feature throughout The Barefoot Child and they give an invaluable insight into life at 25 Cromwell Street and a first hand account of Heather's last few years. Factual information was essential in giving an account of what occurred but the personal reminiscences of the West children were fundamental in giving the work a beating heart. It was also because of the bravery of Anne Marie and Caroline Roberts that Rosemary West was eventually incarcerated. Their voices contributed greatly to this story. And above all Heather who showed such courage in the face of relentless abuse and terror. Her voice rings true.

Following your gut instinct is of paramount importance because this is what fuels your writing. There are the cold hard facts but within that is the beating heart of your work. The spirit of what you are writing. I believed strongly in my vision of Heather and of telling her story. But I soon discovered that her life had to be seen within the context of a larger story. I could not omit the looming presence of Frederick and Rosemary West, their chronically dysfunctional upbringing and ultimately their murderous career. The incest that was taken as de rigueur in the upbringing of Frederick and Rosemary West would be perpetuated in their adult life and would ultimately impact Heather's life with tragic consequences.

In the end, I was loathe to let go of Heather. I had felt so connected to her. And I felt that I had been on an intense journey with her which was at times very dark. I felt genuinely grieved at her death and I often wrote in tears. My biggest regret is that I never knew Heather. I am only a year younger than her. I would love to have been Heather's friend.

The Forest of Dean 

During the course of writing The Barefoot Child, I had two powerful experiences. I had a "vision" in which I saw Heather standing on a beach. It was sunset. Heather was dressed in white. She had her back to me. She was looking out to sea. It was a vibrant yet incredibly peaceful scene. The sky was a deep purple. The sea was silver and glistening. I was concerned that Heather was alone. But she was content. I looked closer and saw that she was smiling. Heather wasn't alone at all. There was a huge presence pervading everything. Heather was at peace. And she was free. Free of them all.

The second experience occurred towards the end of my writing. I looked up at a picture on the wall to see Heather reflected in it. She quietly entered the room. Heather was dressed in white again. Her head was slightly bowed. Heather did not speak. I felt a strong emotion being conveyed. A mixture of longing and loneliness. Heather's spirit had reached out to me. This was the connection I had longed for. Then Heather disappeared.

I am sincerely grateful to everyone who has joined me to remember Heather's brief but shining life. I am indebted to the West children: Mae, Stephen and Anne Marie. Without them there would have been no project. Marion Partington and all the writer's whose work so richly informed my own.

My sincere wish is that you will come to love Heather as much as I do.

Every single day, countless children are being abused within families in unremarkable homes on unexceptional streets all around the world. And nobody knows anything about it. Dark deeds committed in darkness.And these children have to live with the secrets and lies. They have to deal with the psychological and emotional damage in the aftermath. Relentless sexual abuse conducted in darkness must be exposed to the light. It must be shouted from the rooftops. Heather had the courage and strength of character to stand up to her evil parents and her story should be told. She should be remembered as a bright young girl whose young life was interrupted. And in remembering Heather we will shine a light for all the children taken from us so young and for all the children who are being abused.

Heather West has left us a legacy. Not as the teenage victim of Frederick and Rosemary West buried beneath the patio. But as the Barefoot Child.

This has been a dark night of the soul for me. I hope that Heather will be remembered as more than just a "victim" of Frederick and Rosemary West. The girl beneath the patio. I hope that people will remember her as the girl who yearned to live in the Forest of Dean and who never wore shoes. The pretty elfin teenager with a whole life ahead of her. A life interrupted before it had really begun. I will never forget Heather. And one day she will have a special place in my book.

Heather is at peace.

IN MEMORY OF HEATHER ANN WEST

(1970~1987)

LOVED ALWAYS.

NEVER FORGOTTEN.

                       

Shake The Tree

Death gave the caterpillar her wings to greet happiness in the clouds.

~ Orphan by David W Jones

The Lord preserveth the strangers; he relieveth the fatherless and widow: but the way of the wicked he turneth upside down

~ Psalm 146:9 (King James)

Falling (by cacodemonic deviantart.com)

My Little Gustav

Hemel Hempstead, South-East London

Earth Hand.

An elegant second-hand bookshop in the heart of town.

The eco-conscious bookshop where people donated their books and customers chose three books to take away free of charge.

A nobility in recycling.

The lure of a free book is an incentive for people not only to feed their minds but to help the environment too.

Peter Lojko had been managing Earth Hand since it opened three years before.

He was the only paid member of staff.

Lojko was a tall and charming forty-six year-old man with wavy brown hair and light blue eyes.

His birth name was Patek but he preferred to be called Peter.

Both his Polish parents had passed and he was still grieving for his mother Anka.

Peter Lojko was an accomplished musician who performed with the BBC Symphony Orchestra and Earth Hand was his labour of love.

He was a member of Greenpeace and supporter of Amnesty International and his large message board was full of slogans from Save The Children, Oxfam and Médecins Sans Frontières - amid the job adverts, rooms to let and fliers for the local theatre.

The quiet bachelor lived alone in a modest flat in Woodland End.

He had an on-off relationship with a pretty woman named Sandra Fields who worked at the BBC.

Today Peter Lojke silently observed his newest recruit: a sprightly older woman who surreptitiously tidied up the shelves with a deft hand.

The smooth running of Earth Hand was maintained by eight members of staff all working on a rota basis but Peter Lojko is the only one who is paid.

Margaret O'Reilly.

A homely looking Irish septuagenarian.

Mild mannered and reserved.

She was tiny with greying auburn hair, bright blue eyes and quick, birdlike movements.

O'Reilly was like a little sparrow.

A native of Dublin: she had been living in England since the age of eighteen but still spoke with a pronounced Irish lilt.

And she was unfathomable.

Nobody seemed to know much about her.

They only knew that she was a former nurse.

And that she lived alone in a small semi-detached house in Belmont Road.

That was all.

Three Weeks Before

"My name is Margaret O'Reilly and I'd like to speak to the manager"

Peter Lojko looked at the austere looking older woman before him.

She was wearing a green woolen coat and a small black cap.

She could have stepped straight of the 1950's.

By all intents and purposes, she reminded him of a school headmistress.

And she addressed him as if he were a naughty schoolboy.

He liked it.

He gave her an amused smile.

"I am the manager" Peter Lojko replied evenly.

"Oh my dear, I am sorry"

She seemed surprised.

Her face melted into a smile.

Like the sun melting an iceberg,

"That's perfectly okay"

"You could be my son" Margaret O'Reilly informed him with intense eyes.

Peter Lojko felt a stab of pain lurch in his chest.

His mother had died two years before of a massive stroke and he was still grieving for her.

There was something comforting about the diminutive older woman before him.

And something else ...

"How can I help you?" Peter Lojko asked her politely.

"Well, I saw your advertisement in the shop window for assistance and I would like to help"

"What can you do?"

"Anything you like" Margaret O'Reilly said.

And with that she glanced quickly around the shop and then back at Peter Lojko with a confident smile..

He eyed her warily.

It was unlikely that she could do any cumbersome jobs but she could do some tidying up and perhaps even some sorting out of the newly arrived books in the large storeroom upstairs.

She was a harmless older woman.

She would make a welcome motherly addition to the ranks.

"I'm retired you see, and I'm looking for something to do"

"When can you start?" Peter Lojko asked her with a smile.

Present Day

In the intervening three weeks Peter Lojko had become impressed with Margaret O'Reilly.

In spite of her eccentricity, she could not be faulted.

She insisted on working five days a week at Earth Hand.

And she was always in the shop by 9.30 am every morning.

Regular like clockwork.

She was dedicated, industrious and efficient.

And she was so quiet that people often forgot she was even there.

Margaret O'Reilly remained aloof and non-committal.

A mystery.

Peter Lojko watched as Abby Jenkins gave her instructions.

Jenkins had been working in the shop almost since it opened.

She was a short and plump woman with dark brown hair forever in a pony tail and small grey eyes.

Dapple (by cacodemonic deviantart.com)

Abby Jenkins had a learning difficulty and was territorial and obsessive about her work.

She had devised a system with the books and each one of them was stacked alphabetically into fiction and non-fiction.

Without asking her, Margaret O'Reilly had rearranged the books and separated them into subjects.

She had gone over Abby Jenkins head.

Jenkins threw a fearsome tantrum when she saw what the older woman had done.

She behaved like a woman possessed

Margaret O'Reilly hadn't reacted at all.

It took Peter Lojko over an hour to calm Abby Jenkins down.

This was the only hiccup since Margaret O'Reilly arrived.

In fact the dour Irishwoman had made herself indispensable.

Even bringing in homemade fruit cakes for tea.

And she was never more enthused than when she was talking about her son.

The other workers at Earth Hand would gather around her like little chicks around the mother hen.

The severe Margaret O'Reilly transformed into a storyteller.

Each one listening to stories about her exemplative son.

"My little Gustav"

She never tired of taking out the little faded photograph from her wallet and handing it around.

It didn't matter how many times she showed it.

Her eyes would light up and she would talk animatedly for nearly an hour.

Gustav was the perfect son.

A chip off his German father's block,

The apple hadn't fallen far from the tree.

An Oxford graduate.

An eminent surgeon.

Famous all around the globe.

Out of the little photograph stared a stern looking unsmiling young man with blond hair, sharp features and crisp blue eyes.

"My little Gustav" Margaret O'Reilly sighed.

He lived with his father now in Baden Baden, Germany.

And nobody sought to ask any further.

Margaret O'Reilly had a strange faraway look in her eyes.

As if she had been transported.

Little Gustav.

"She's a bit of a mystery"

Ian Hendly had joined Peter Lojko in his observation of Margaret O'Reilly.

She appeared to working closely with Abby Jenkins now.

The two were carefully sifting through a box of novels.

Ian Hendley was a nineteen-year-old media student at the University of Westminster.

He was tall and gangling with carrot hair and clear blue eyes.

"I think she's probably lonely" Peter Lojko answered "like a lot of older people who live alone"

"Well, I tried to speak to her the other day during the lunch break and she barely said a word"

"She's definitely a ... strange one" Lojko said "I wonder what the deal is with her"

"She wasted no time in showing me that photograph" Ian Hendley retorted.

Both men slowly looked at each other.

Three Months Later

It was 5 pm.

Peter Lojko decided to take a quick look around the shop before going upstairs to the storeroom.

It was immaculate.

The shelves were gleaming.

All the books were neatly stacked.

The hand of Margaret O'Reilly.

Thinking of the enigmatic Irish woman made Peter Lojko think of his mother.

Anka Lojko was a small woman with light brown hair and large hazel eyes.

Her diminutive stature belied her strength of character and unswerving faith in human nature.

She was devout Catholic with a strong maternal instinct and Peter Lojko could still not believe she had gone.

Anka Lojko was everywhere.

A loud commotion suddenly snapped Peter out of his reverie.

There was a loud crash and the sound of a woman shouting loudly.

It was the voice of Abby Jenkins.

Then he remembered.

Jenkins and Margaret O'Reilly were alone in the storeroom.

They were supposed to be sorting out the new influx of books before closing.

The sound of heavy footsteps coming down the steps stomping down the stairs forestalled Peter Lojko's next move.

Within moments a panting and sweaty Abby Jenkins was standing before him.

Her eyes were intense and her hair disheveled.

She looked crazed.

"She tried to kill me!" Jenkins screamed.

Peter Lojko stared at her in disbelief.

"She tried to ... to push me down the stairs ... she just flipped out and went for me after I told her to leave the books to me ..."

Abby Jenkins was clearly distressed and very shaken.

But she was a pathological liar who was known to make stories up as effortlessly as she breathed.

Fact and fiction merged into one.

Like the books she stacked on the shelves.

And Peter Lojko couldn't be sure whether it was because of her condition or a predilection to deception.

But he was distrustful of her tall stories.

Margaret O'Reilly had appeared quietly behind her.

She shrugged.

Peter Lojko looked from Jenkins to O'Reilly.

Something had obviously happened.

"Well, what do you have to say?" He asked the older Irishwoman.

"I don't know what she's talking about" Margaret O'Reilly replied calmly "I was just doing my job"

"Liar!" Abby Jenkins shrieked "You're a cow and a liar!"

"Now we won't have any of that!" Lojko said firmly.

"She wants to take over!" Jenkins railed "She wants to take over the whole shop!"

Peter Lojko frowned.

Abby Jenkins was behaving like a child and he would treat her like a child.

"Come, come" he said softly "let's all be friends"

"No bloody way!" Jenkins exclaimed "She tried to murder me! Tried to push me down the stairs"

"Nobody wants to murder anybody" Lojko assured.

He glanced quickly at Margaret O'Reilly.

She was too frail to push anyone anywhere.

Abby Jenkins shot the older Irishwoman a dagger look.

The older woman stared dumbly back at her.

Peter Lojko was silent.

"I ain't staying here no more!" Abby Jenkins shouted and with that, she strode out of the shop.

Lojko and Margaret O'Reilly watched Jenkins disappear.

Then he slowly turned to look at the older Irishwoman.

A fragile looking figure.

Spire I (by cacodemonic deviantart.com)

She was just a harmless septuagenarian.

"That woman is mad" Margaret O'Reilly finally declared.

Abby Jenkins never returned to Earth Hand.

Two Weeks Later

Peter Lojko glanced at his watch again.

It was 10.15 am.

And Margaret O'Reilly had still not arrived.

Usually she was in the shop by 9.30 am: making tea for everyone and quietly looking forward to the day ahead.

All the other Earth Hand workers were already busy preparing the shop for opening.

The first customers were due to walk through the door in fifteen minutes time.

And the absence of the dutiful Margaret O'Reilly was glaring.

At 1 pm, she had still not arrived and Peter Lojko was getting very concerned.

So he decided to go looking for the missing Irishwoman.

Lojko handed over the reigns of management to Ian Hendley and was out of the shop by 1.30 pm.

Twenty minutes later and Peter Lojko pulled up outside Margaret O'Reilly's small semi-attached house in his little silver Mini.

63 Belmont Road.

Lojko's first impression was that the pleasant house was very quiet.

He rang the house phone before getting out of the car.

There was no answer.

He strode up to the green door and rang the door bell.

But nobody came to the door.

He peered through the letterbox.

It looked very still inside.

No movement.

The house was empty.

Peter Lojko checked the piece of paper again.

63 Belmont Road.

He let out a long weary sigh.

Margaret O'Reilly was a puzzle.

A strange one.

"Excuse me, are you looking for Margie?"

An unmistakable Irish accent.

Peter Lojko turned to see a small older woman in a grey woolen coat.

She had a round open face, short grey hair and bright green eyes.

"My name is Aileen Cleary and I live across the road"

Lojko relaxed.

"Oh hello, my name is Peter Lojko and I manage the Earth Hand bookshop. I'm just looking for Margaret because she didn't show up today"

"Oh my dear boy, you don't know ..."

Lojko frowned.

"Margie had a massive stroke on Saturday evening but thankfully I was with her ...  she was taken to Hemel Hempstead General"

The bottom of Peter Lojko's world fell out.

Suddenly two years fell away and racing through the driving rain to get to the hospital.

His sister's words were racing around his head.

"It's mom ... she's had a big stroke ... she's in Watford General Hospital ... it looks bad ... please hurry"

Peter Lojko was in tears as he drove.

His mother had always been strong and independent but she had been frail and unwell in recents months.

"She's too young to go!" Lojko exclaimed.

He could see his mother's face smiling down at him as she gently brushed his face with her warm hand.

Hail Mary, full of grace. 
Our Lord is with thee. 
Blessed art thou among women, 
and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, 
Jesus

Tears had filled Peter Lojko's eyes as he stood outside the house of Margaret O'Reilly.

"Dear boy, why don't you join me for some tea" Aileen Cleary said softly as she placed a hand on his shoulder "My house is only across the road"

Lojko nodded silently.

Within ten minutes he was sitting in Aileen Cleary's modest but tasteful living room with its antique furniture.

She bought in the tea and Bourbon biscuits on a silver tray and poured it from a floral patterned china teapot into floral patterned china teacups.

Peter Lojko waited until Aileen Clear had settled down.

She resembled Margaret O'Reilly so much that they could have been sisters.

"Thank you for the tea" Lojko said.

"Don't mention it, son" Cleary replied "Visiting hours are from 4 pm and we can go together if you like"

"I'd like that"

Peter Lojko was already feeling much better in the company of the kindly Irishwoman.

"Have you always lived here?" He asked her.

"Now let me see ... I think it must have been 1975 when Patrick and I moved here and Margie had already been living in her house a year"

"You're good friends"

"My dear boy we worked at the Royal Free together as nurses and we became inseparable. My late husband always said we must be twins - two Irish lasses from Dublin!"

"I'm sorry about your husband"

"It's been ten years" Aileen Cleary sighed "God rest his soul"

She looked over at his picture on the mantelpiece.

A good looking square jawed man with wavy black hair, brown eyes and a fine moustache gazed out.

"I lost my mother to a massive stroke two years ago" Peter Lojko said sadly.

"It's still very early, son" Aileen Cleary told him gently as she patted his hand affectionately "God love her - she's in a much better place"

Lojko smiled sadly.

He felt like an orphan.

It was just he and his sister now, against the world.

The living had become very quiet but for the sound of the large ticking clock.

Cleary and Lojko silently sipped their tea.

It was the older Irishwoman who spoke first.

"She's a dark horse, our Margie"

A chill ran down Peter Lojko's spine.

But he didn't know why.

"I really think that we should contact her son in Germany if they haven't  contacted him already" Lojko informed her.

Her face suddenly fell.

Aileen Cleary placed her teacup on the silver tray.

"My dear boy, Gustav has been dead for over thirty years now"

Peter Lojko felt as if a bucket of cold water had been tipped over his head.

The room was deathly silent save for the ticking clock.

Lojko's hands were shaking.

The teacup tumbled from his hand onto the floor.

"Oh I am sorry ..." he cried as he jumped up.

"Don't trouble yourself!" Aileen Cleary cried picked up the fallen teacup and placing it on the silver tray.

She disappeared into the kitchen and emerged with a little kitchen roll and effortlessly cleared up the tea stained carpet.

Peter Lojko was picturing Margaret O'Reilly during her lunch break at Earth Hand.

She was holding court and surrounded by a little audience hanging on her every word.

She was proudly regaling them with tales about her perfect son.

"My little Gustav"

The words rang through Peter Lojko's brain.

"It was a strange case" Aileen Cleary continued as she settled back in her chair "happened the year after we moved here. Apparently Gustav fell down the stairs and broke his neck"

Bile rose in Lojko's throat and he fought the urge to retch.

"By the time Margie found him, he was quite blue" Cleary went on "she went a wee bit funny after that"

Thorns (by Spunkii deviantart.com)

Lojko's stomach was heaving.

"Nobody knows how it happened. he fell or was ... who knows"

Abby Jenkins words were crawling around his brain like a spider.

"She tried to murder me! Tried to push me down the stairs"

He squeezed his eyes tightly shut,

Margaret O'Reilly was just a dotty but harmless older lady.

"She tried to murder me!"

No

"Tried to murder me!"

It can't be true

"Are you sure you're okay, Mr Lojko?" Aileen Cleary asked him with a concerned expression on her face.

"I'm okay ... I'm okay .. I'm ...."

I'm going crazy

He took a deep breath.

"What about the husband?"

"There is no husband" Aileen Cleary replied "As far as I am aware, Gustav was the result of a fling with a German patient of hers"

"Hospital patient?"

"The mental hospital"

Lojko's hand shot to his mouth.

She's cracked

"I don't understand ..."

"Margie worked in a mental hospital before I met her and fell in love with one of the patients. She got pregnant and was so ashamed that she never returned to Ireland and that was why she stayed here"

The room had begun to spin and little sparks of light were darting across Peter Lojko's eyes.

"Are you alright, son?" Aileen Cleary asked "You look very pale"

He sprang to his feet and stumbled out of the living room and lurched towards the bathroom where he vomited into the sink.

At 4.30 pm Peter Lojko parked his silver Mini in the car park of Hemel Hempstead Hospital.

He had sufficiently recovered by now but he took a deep breath before following Aileen Cleary out of the car.

Margaret O'Reilly was full of unexpected surprises.

Aileen Cleary strode purposefully into the hospital.

Peter Lojko hurried behind her and as he rushed towards the hospital doors he collided with a young male nurse who was coming out.

Lojko watched as the medic's file flew into the air and a shower of papers rained down.

Like confetti.

Lojko scrabbled to help him.

"I am so sorry!" He cried as he began to gather up the papers "Please excuse me!"

That was when Lojko suddenly noticed the young man's face.

Then he froze as if he had been turned to stone.

Time had stopped.

The young man who smiled at him was the same man as the one in Margaret O'Reilly's photograph.

The same blond hair.

The same sharp features.

The same startling blue eyes.

The same impassive stare.

"My little Gustav"

Peter Lojko remained rooted to the spot.

"Are you alright, sir?" The young male nurse asked "You look like you've just seen a ghost"

Then everything went black.

"Mr Lojko! Mr Lojko! Mr Lojko!"

Peter Lojko stirred.

Gradually he opened his eyes, squinting at the light.

He felt completely disoriented.

It was as if he were waking from a coma.

Margaret O'Reilly was smiling down at him.

Peter Lojko was slumped slightly in his leather chair in the storeroom.

"It's 5 pm, sleepy head!" O'Reilly informed him cheerily "You've been sleeping all afternoon so you have. But  don't worry, I looked after the shop for you!"

"I'm sorry" Lojko groaned as he stretched.

His body ached and his head felt as if it had been held underwater.

"Well I can't stand around here talking" Margaret O'Reilly declared "My little Gustav is home again and he's waiting for me"

Old Books s (by akethesnake999 deviantartcom)

                       

Forever Love

For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you.
Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.
Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,
So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.
Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.
He threshes you to make you naked.
He sifts you to free you from your husks.
He grinds you to whiteness.
He kneads you until you are pliant;
And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God's sacred feast

~ The Prophet by Khalil Gibran

Dandelion rework (by BaxiaArt deviantart.com)

Mark And Nina

Perhaps it was a dream.

The most beautiful dream she had ever had.

Mark was waiting for her on the beach.

Tunisia.

The place they had spent many happy hours walking hand in hand as they strolled along the shore line.

Time had stopped.

The sky was a burnished gold.

Nina and Mark.

This moment was forever.

A kiss (by becoming death deviantart.com)

Now Nina rose from her bed and opened the window.

She could see Mark.

He was waiting for her on the beach.

Mark waved to her.

The kindest man she had ever met

Her life truly began the night she met him in a club in Birmingham.

He was tall.

And unmistakably Scandinavian.

With white-blond hair and the most beautiful blue eyes she had ever seen.

Mark Sander had the face of an angel.

And he treated her like a Princess.

She believed that nothing in life was a coincidence.

She was meant to meet him that night.

And from the moment he spoke to her she knew he was the one.

The moment the beautiful girl smiled at him, Mark Sander knew she was the one.

Nina Toscano.

Exotically beautiful.

Half-Spanish

With doe eyes and long raven hair.

She should always have flowers.

White Oleanders.

The ones she wore in her hair the day she married him.

White Oleanders.

The ones she placed on his grave.

Everything was white.

The beach seemed to stretch out forever.

Nina ran to him.

Mark was smiling and stretching out his arms to her.

Nothing else mattered.

Mark was waiting for her.

And she had to be with him.

It was so quiet on the deserted beach.

So still.

Only the sound of gentle lapping waves .

An azure blue sea.

Sparkling like diamonds.

And the beating of her heart.

She was running now.

Laughing and crying.

Her long raven hair tumbled behind her.

Dressed in a beautiful white satin Chloe gown.

And he dressed in a white Prada suit.

Looking like a Prince.

Her Prince.

Soon everything was going to be alright.

Mark and Nina locked eyes

Unable to control their emotions.

He held her.

roses .... (by BaxiaArt deviantart.com)

And she clung to him.

"I will never leave you my love" he whispered to her.

And she knew he meant it.

It was written on her heart.

They kissed.
And became one.

It might have lasted a few moments.

Or a thousand years.

But all life was in the kiss.

Mark cupped Nina's face in his big hands.

"I will never leave you my love"

She smiled through her tears.

"You are everything" Nina told him.

He took a white rose from his pocket and placed it in her silky hair.

"You should always have flowers" he said.

She reached out and gently touched his handsome face.

They were silhouetted against the burning golden sky.

Nina and Mark.

They were in another place.

Beyond time and space.

That only lovers traversed.

Nina and Mark.

Beautiful together.

Precious moments written on their hearts.

Nina stirred.

Light streamed in through the window.

When she opened her eyes, she wasn't sure whether she had been dreaming.

Mark had been with her.

She could feel him.

Nina looked out towards the beach.

It was empty.

Lonely without him.

But she could till picture him.

Tall and handsome.

In a white Prada suit.

Like the day she married him.

Mark Sander.

Her hero,

Nina Sander hugged herself against the rising winds.

She looked at the crystal vase on the ornate bedside table.

It was filled with white roses.

And the beautiful white satin Chloe dress was draped across a chair.

Upon the wall was a picture of Mark.

Posing beside his red Ferrari.

The most handsome man she had ever seen.

Selfless and kind.

Nina Sander closed her eyes.

She could see him now.

He was waiting for her.

And each day bought her closer to him.

Mark Sander was smiling giving her the thumbs up.

....(by BaxiaArt deviantart.com)

Like he always did before he got into his racing car.

She wasn't there the day he left her.

Nina had been spared his final moments.

"He knew nothing" they said.

Killed on impact.

She could see him now.

He was beckoning to her.

Soon.

Love never dies.

Nina Sander opened her eyes and the room was full of light.

Mark had gone.

But he had never truly left her.

He was present in every moment of her life.

She could feel him.

She could hear his voice.

"I will never leave you my love"

Nina Sander took the photo from the wall and clutched it to her breast.

"Ah, my love" she sighed.

Years had gone by.

Things had changed.

But things had stayed the same.

Nina Sander rocked herself gently on the edge of the bed.

Mark had gone.

But he had never truly left her.

And one day they would be together again.

Mark and Nina.

why does my heart feel so bad (by BaxiaArt deviantart.com)

                    

Where The Evergreens Grow

The fountains mingle with the river

And the rivers with the ocean, 

The winds of heaven mix for ever 

With a sweet emotion; 

Nothing in the world is single; 

All things by a law divine
In one spirit meet and mingle. 

Why not I with thine? -

~ Love's Philosophy by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Draw me, we will run after thee: the king hath brought me into his chambers: we will be glad and rejoice in thee, we will remember thy love more than wine: the upright love thee.

~ Song of Songs (King James)

Rose Wood (by nikkichicki deviantart.com)

White Oleanders

Bucklebury, West Berkshire

One last look around the house.

The grand Berkshire mansion.

Photographed a million times over by the worlds media.

Home to an adored couple.

Mark and Nina Sander.

The palatal residence was no longer glorious.

It was a mausoleum now.

Full of memories that echoed through its walls.

Once upon a time a Prince had carried her over the threshold. 

And life was but a dream.

The media.

Vying for them.

But they no longer camped outside.

No longer watched or waited. 

Poised to capture them.

To note their every word.

Every gesture.

The handsome racing car champion.

Role model to millions

And his captivating wife.

The beautiful couple. 

Loved the world over.

The dream couple.

And their golden world.

But that was then.

Now there was a ghost in the house.

Nina Sander.

Half-Spanish.

Stylish and elegant.

Graceful.

Lost without him.

Dressed in a simple black Betty Jackson shift dress. 

Her glossy raven hair tucked beneath a small black Philip Treacy cap.

Effortlessly beautiful.

But fragile.

With hazel large haunted eyes.

The house was too big for her now.

It was time to say goodbye.

She stopped in each room.

Rose V (by AgaSilva deviantart.com)

One last time. 

Every room was filled with memories.

Bitter sweet memories.

The master bedroom.

It felt so empty now.

Without him.

And yet he seemed to be everywhere.

The big designer bed.

She could no longer sleep in it.

Without him.

Everything hurt.

It was the little things.

His smile.

The way he seemed to know what she was thinking.

His touch.

His kiss.

The way he held her.

Made her feel safe. 

The big designer bed.

Silent testament to their love.

In a large bare room.

Empty.

Without him.

All the articles of their life together had been taken away..

Nina Sander could still hear his laugh as it rang through the house.

There was so much love for him.

She paused in the nursery.

Little Oliver.

It was where he had lived so briefly.

The most beautiful baby Nina had ever seen.

With the face of an angel.

Just like his father,

And now he was an angel.

The empty cot still stood beside the window.

A silent testimony to Oliver's short life.

Tears filled Nina's eyes.

She closed the door quietly behind her. 

And now she wept for the life that might have been.

She wept for her husband.

And the life she might have shared with him.

He had left her.

And yet he had never really gone.

Nina could feel Mark everywhere.

He was a part of her.

Somewhere she heard a baby cry.

"Oliver!" She cried.

Nina ran through the house.

"Oliver!"

She ran down the curling stairway. 

Her mother was standing at the large door to the house.

Holding the baby in her arms.

The golden haired baby.

Nina's sorrow turned to joy.

Baby Mark.

Mark Jr.

With his fathers stunning blue eyes.

Nina had conceived him just before her husband was killed in a racing car accident.

They said it was quick.

They said Mark had died instantly.

That he knew nothing.

They said that before he got in the car, he had vowed to give it all up and devote the rest of his life to her and the family they were going to have.

Then he died.

He left the room.

And Nina Sander discovered that she was expecting his child.

A part of him was growing inside her.

Living on through her.

The first time she ever held her son, she saw her husband's face.

Mark had gone.

But he had never truly left. 

She named the child after him.

And Mark Jr was so much like his father.

Kind and brave.

Now Nina ran to her baby.

He was crying.

And she had to be with him.

She took the child from her mother and grasped him for dear life.

"Hush now, hush now" Nina said softly.

And the baby quietened.

And she could hear Mark's voice.

"I will never leave you my love"

They were waiting for her.

The movers had taken everything.

Her new house was waiting for her.

A new Berkshire homestead.

Modest but grand.

Among the evergreens.

Serene.

A home for her and the child.

As the sleek black limousine pulled away, Nina said one last goodbye to the magnificent abode that had once been her home.

She clutched her child as her mother held her hand.

A new chapter was beginning.

Nina had determined not to remarry.

Mark Sander had been her true love.

Her only love.

And she would do right by him.

longing (by someonesaid deviantart.com)

She would bring up the boy.

And one day as she believed, she would see Mark again.

But until then she would live her life.

And visit his grave.

Placing white oleanders.

Like the ones she wore in her hair the day they married.

"You look absolutely beautiful" Mark had told her that day.

And now she placed the flowers on his grave.

And she would continue to do so for the rest of her days.

No one would ever be able to compare to him.

Men came and went.

Each one wanted to make her his own.

But Nina belonged to Mark.

And when they asked her why she never wavered.

She informed them it was because Mark had gone.

But he had never truly left her.

He was everywhere.

He was in her son.

He was inside her.

He was in the flowers.

Mark Sander was still alive.

And he was the only man for her.

Nina would watch Mark Jr grow in a tall and handsome man like his father.

With the same white-blond hair and startling blue eyes.

He was a gentleman just like his father.

And Mark Jr wanted to make his daddy proud.

So he became an athlete.

An Olympic gold medalist.

Nobody could outrun him.

He was like a flash of lightening.

And when Mark Jr spoke with pride about his celebrated father.

His great inspiration.

His reason for being.

And they said he resembled him.

As Nina quietly observed and wiped away her silent tears.

Mark had gone.

But he hadn't really left her.

He was there in his son.

He was inside her.

And when Mark Jr married a beautiful Spanish model named Inés Sofia Aldana, they said that she was exactly like his mother.

Dark and lovely.

Elegant and graceful.

Just like Nina.

They said that Inés and Nina could be sisters.

Time could not wither Nina Sander.

As beautiful as ever.

With her sparkling hazel eyes.

Aristocratic looks.

Her raven hair piled high upon her head.

Nina Sander was a vision of loveliness. 

She watched at the lavish wedding reception in Hawaii, as Mark Jr danced with Ines.

They were both dressed in white.

Just like she and Mark had been when they married.

She watched as her son danced with his wife.

Watched by an adoring world.

And it was as if she were looking at herself and Mark again.

Time evaporated.

As they glided across the floor. 

Only love mattered. 

Then Mark Jr danced with his mother.

And as Nina looked up into the captivating blue eyes of her son, it was as if she were looking into the eyes of her husband.

"I will never leave you my love"

Tears ran down her face.

Mark had gone.

But he had never really left her.

Time had stopped.

It was obsolete.

Nina was dancing with Mark again.

Love had conquered everything.

It was a golden world.

Full of promise. 

Sometimes Mark Jr caught his mother looking out at the sky.

Watching the sunset.

rose (by AgaSilva deviantart.com)

And he knew what she was thinking.

His father had gone.

But he never really left them. 

Now Nina retreated to her beautiful Berkshire home

Where the evergreens grew.

To walk bare foot.

And to write and paint.

They no longer camped outside.

The media no longer fought over her.

They admired her from afar now.

She lived quietly in her beautiful house.

Sometimes they came for her.

They remarked upon her beauty.

Her graciousness.

Time had frozen.

Mark Sander was still with them.

Epilogue

One day a reporter found Nina in Bucklebury cemetery. 

It was late afternoon.

Howie Stone.

Adept reporter. 

With his photographer - Matt Price.

Stone silently observed her from a short distance with his companion. 

Nina Sander,

Beautiful in white satin.

Christian Dior.

The beautiful widow. 

A raven haired vision of loveliness in the dying autumn light. 

She knelt beside his grave and lay a bouquet of white oleanders upon it. 

Mark Sander.

And there she lingered for long moments.

Affectionately touching the headstone.

Head bowed.

In silent communion.

And Howie Stone was momentarily lost for words.

The child of Mark and Nina Sander was buried just a few feet away.

He and his companion watched the scene from afar.

Time had stopped. 

Nina Sander.

So beautiful.

So tragic.

Finally Howie Stone composed himself.

And approached her.

She was gracious.

He asked her some carefully prepared questions.

And she responded.

And his companion photographed her.

She was so beautiful.

He was in awe.

Mark Sander had been the reporters idol.

Never missed a race as a kid. 

Howie Stone missed him.

Mark Sander had left a big hole in his life.

Never to be replaced.

And Nina Sander just knew.

He didn't need to say a word.

She just knew. 

The beautiful widow.

Had the grief become easier.

Had it become easier.

The grief.

What was life like.

Without him ...

Nina Sander listened.

Beautiful in white satin.

And she smiled.

Warmly. 

"Mark has gone" Nina replied "but he has never really left me"

The reporter fought the tears that sprang to his eyes.

He understood. 

And all the while Nina Sander smiled.

A little blue bird had started singing above them on the branch of a tree.

Nina Sander was looking right into his soul. 

Beautiful in white satin

Mark had gone.

But he had never truly left.

Autumn Sunset