Frank, Cordelia and Jose

Once upon a time there was a man named Frank Letras. He owned a farm located in a remote place, outside the city of Evora, in Alentejo, which in turn is situated in Portugal. His father got the wife of his servant pregnant, and since he had no more heirs, he left Frank the farm in his will. He lived in the farm with his wife, who had been married to him for two years…

- …three.

- What? It has not been three years.

- Yes it has Frank. I remember 'cause it was the "best" day of my life.

Alright, so they had been married for three years. Before they were married, they only met once.

- This is your future husband, C, Francisco Letras. I'll leave you two alone.

- Did he really have to do the flair and the wink when he introduced me?

- Uncle Herbert means well.

- You say that 'cause you don't have to live with him!

- So, why do you live with him?

- Why does he call you C?

- I asked first!

- My father died when I was nine. He left me a farm, but until I turn sixteen uncle and auntie will live here with me.

- Oh, this farm is yours?

- In paper. So, why does he-

- He says my name belongs to a cow, not a pretty girl like me. I'm Cordelia.

- I believe it's the first time I agree with him. From now on I shall call you C as well.

- I'm flattered.

Jose, one of Frank's farm workers, lived in a small house next to the mansion. The house had been built per the request of Frank's father, for the servants to live in. Frank and Jose had grown up together in the farm. They would play together, and while Frank taught Jose to read and write, Jose, in his turn, taught Frank all about cow milking and sheep clipping.

- So, Frank me good friend, how's the business goin'?

- A little slow this month, but I'm hoping my Cordelia will render me some money.

- The cow?

- No, my wife! Hah hah hah! She's been sowing some dresses to sell at the market. Once she is done with them could you take them to the market along with the food and wool and try to sell them for a good price?

- No problem at all. Just hand them to me when they're ready.

- I will, thanks. Speaking of Cordelia, she's been acting strange, you know, always avoiding me. Even in bed, and that was always her favourite time of day-

- I'm sure she's pro'bly jus' overworked. Believe me, hard work does get to you. Or I should say me.

- You're feeling overworked? Would like a little time off?

- Don' be daft! All I'm sayin' is give C a break.

Later on.

-How was your day, Cordelia?

- Average. Were you with Jose again? His stench is all over you!

- Yes I was with him. But the stench is from the cows.

- You were milking cows again? What do you have workers for, if you are the one doing the work?

- I was only helping him. He is my friend after-

- Friend? Hah! If he was your friend he would not be sleeping out in that little doll house. He would have his own farm!

- What are you implying?

- You know very well what I'm-

- I told you I never wanted to talk about that again. It's between me an' 'im/

                                                                                                                 - /Now you're talking like him./

                       - /an' me and him promised each other we would never talk about it agai-

- Well, I made no such promise.

- It's none of your business. It's between-

- Oh, yes it is. I am your wife. You have to admit it, Frank, you two are from very different worlds. And your whole friendship is based on your feelings of guilt because even though he is your half-brother, he will never have half the life you did because your father was not his.

- Are you done?

- Yes- No. What your father did or did not do is not your fault. And even if it was, being friends with Jose does not eliminate his whole life. Besides, you are not his only friend in this world, he is not alone.

- I know. He gets letters more frequently than me or you, or anyone else in this farm!

The farm was located in an isolated place, and they rarely got post, as the postman did not bother to deliver their mail regularly. Jose often received a lot of letters from friends he would meet at the market. Frank, although not admittedly, felt jealous for Jose's popularity, so he regularly asked his friend to share the content of the letters with him, when they seemed interesting. At one point the letters became more frequent, and Jose seemed reluctant to share them with Frank. This made him even more jealous and enticed his curiosity to find out what was in the letters. Frank went on asking his friend until one morning Jose offered:

- Frank, I'll give you one of my letters, as long as you pay me several week's wages. My clothes aren' exactly bran' new an' I haven' been able to afford much more than food.

- You know that is not a problem, Jose. I'll pay you now, and you give me one of your letters…

- I'm afraid I've opened all the letters I received last week. But I happen to know I'll be receiving a rather important letter later today. If you'd like I could sell you that one. You'll have to pay me now, but I'll only be able to give it to you tomorrow. I'm going to the market later today and that way I can buy the clothes then.

So it was settled, Frank payed Jose and went back home, anxious for the following day. The next day he got up and dressed, and went straight to Jose's house. He knocked but no one answered and the door was locked. He went home to get the extra key to the house. He went in and saw a note on the wooden table which read "Went out. Letter is in the mailbox." He went to the mailbox, in front of the main gate and opened it. Inside he found the letter. Filled with excitement, he could not wait to get home to read it. He opened it, and saw there was a small piece of paper, which he found strangely recognisable. The note was written in a delicate handwriting, which he also recognised. Holding the paper in his hands, he read:

Dear Jose,

I have already packed my bags. Frank remains ignorant. I feel terrible leaving him this way, but I can not stand this life anymore. I do not want to stay at home sowing and knitting and washing and cleaning for my husband, until I have his child, and then have to do all that with a toddler in my arms. I want adventure, freedom, romance, passion and I can not wait any longer. Can not wait to leave this stupid farm. Can not wait to be with you, without sneaking around. Can not wait for us to spend the rest of our lives together.

Love, Cordelia.

Sweet Red Kissingdale

The beginning of a short story.

He woke up that morning with a start. He pressed his eyes shut. Sun beams, coming in through his bedroom window, penetrated his pupils. He turned over, but unable to go back to sleep, sat up, with his feet on the fluffy carpet, trying to remember where his subconscious had taken him a few seconds before, but the more he strained to recall the fuzzier the image got. He picked up a gold ring from his bedside table and put it around his finger.

"Joseph, dear! Are you alright?" - a female voice shouted from a distance.

"I'm fine." - Joseph got up and walked to the kitchen. A strong smell of fried bacon filled his nostrils.

"I heard you screaming, dear."

"Oh, that was nothing. Just a bad dream. Good morning, darling." - he felt her smooth hair against his lips and turned to switch on the kettle. He sat at the table. In front of him the daily newspaper lay opened, on the sports section, next to it his reading glasses. He put on his glasses and held up the paper. As he did so he felt his hair being brushed back by a sudden breeze, and then a whooshing noise announced a harsh gust of wind. Not expecting the window to be open, he let one of the sections escape and land on the floor.

"The obituary section fell on the floor, dear." - the woman laid it back in front of him. He glanced at it before burying his nose back in the newspaper.

 His wife carried to the table a white mug with a cartoon of a man kissing the pink cheek of a well developed woman, with the words "Joseph, a  true gentleman" underneath. Absentmindedly, he raised the mug to touch his lips and felt the steam humidify his nose. He felt a tingly sensation on his tongue settled the coffee mug on the table. This was followed by a plate of brownish pink bacon next to a slice of freshly baked home bread with a gold-yolked egg. He began to chew through his food as he read the daily paper.

"Is it nice, dear?"

"Hmm?"

"Breakfast. Is it nice? Do you like it?"

"I suppose. Same as always. You use anything special?"

"Hm? Oh, no, dear. Like you said. Same as always."

Although he threw on the same old blue jeans, he put on his most expensive brown suit jacket. As much as his wife had begged him to buy the set, he had only bought the jacket, for "who needs a set when you can just wear the jacket with a nice pair of jeans, and still look classy!" He pecked his wife's forehead and left for work in his ford fiesta.

"Hey! Josey! / How's the missus?"

                     " / Joseph. She's just fine, thanks."

"Hey, sorry man. It's jus' last time we was at yours- Hey, Phil, d'you remember the last time we was at Josey's / here? Remember his wife?"

                                  " / It's Joseph. / What about my wife?"

                                                      " / 'Course it is. Nothin' man. She jus' reminds me of that film- what is it- Step Forward Wives or summin'!"

"Right. Phil, which am I using today?"

"Today you're stuck with the double decker. Sorry, mate."

"It's all right. I'll see you later."

"Wait. Mate. You alright? You sound a bit-"

"Yeah. Fine. Thanks. Well, just a headache. Nothing to worry about. Besides the fact that now I'm late. I'm off."

"Alright then. See ya later, mate. Down the pub?"

"Hey, Josey! Josey!"

Driving the double decker bus through his usual route, he picked up many familiar people. There was Mrs. Chit-chat, an eighty year old lady who enjoyed talking as much as tea. For her own benefit, her youngest grandson lived seven blocks away from her house, as she pointed out to every old or new passenger that got on. There was Mr. Late-a-lot, who ran, round the corner, towards the stop everyday, at the last second. Other recurring passengers were nicknamed after a more common physical trait, such as Miss Winky or Mr. Rudolph. But the stop which he enjoyed the most was the one Miss Sweet Kissingdale was at. She did not glance towards him, even as she was swiping her oyster card; her soft flowery perfume, pushed towards him by the breeze flowing through the open doors, brimmed his cabin.

As she swiped the card a beep emanated from the machine and a small red light appeared on the corner. She turned to face the cabin.

"Return ticket to Egham, please."

He froze. His eyes fixated on the top of her head as she tried to find change in her small red purse. She looked up, possibly noticing his lack of response. For the first time, he stared into her eyes. They were marine blue and accentuated by the light black line around it. Her eyebrows were two perfect black lines and her eyelashes, long and curved, had a slight hint of mascara. Her nose was petite and her lips were full and smooth, highlighted by her red lipstick.

"…Egham, please. Hello?"

"Yes. I'm sorry. Single?"- he readjusted his brown jacket and flashed her a crocked smile.

"I told you, no."

"Oh? Not, single?"

"No. Return."

"Oh. You meant- Ticket. / Right. Yeah. Two pounds thirty. Yeah, fine, thanks. Don't forget your ticket. Heheh."

                                     " / Yeah. Are you alright, sir? You look kinda pale. I got it. Thank you."

When he arrived at the pub, Phil was already sitting at a table with a loud crowd of guys in jeans and shirts. Joseph stumbled towards the bar, and trying to stand up straight by holding on to the counter, he asked for a pint of Foster's. He grabbed his drink and walked slowly to the table where Phil sat and settled on an empty wooden stool.

"Hey. Jo. I was just tellin' the guys about this morning. You and 'Johnny man'."- a roaring laughter surrounded the table.- "You alright mate? Seriously, since morning you look kinda off."

"Yeah, fine. Honestly. Must just be coming down with something. Man, I hate John. The guy has no brain."

"Yeah, but the ladies sure seem to get on board with that. Overheard someone say he left work today with a couple of passengers."

"Did they specify the gender?"- another thundering guffaw. Joseph glanced at the trembling drinks on the table. Around him, the group divided itself into smaller groups. Each side of the table had a different conversation going on.

"You goin' home early today, mate?"

"Nah! Janice is probably gonna be in with her hen- friends. I need a few drinks to handle them."

"So, how was your day, lad?"- Lee was the guys everyone laughed at, but eventually confided in. He had been the one in the group to invent nicknaming the recurring passengers.

"You won't believe it if I tell you!"

"Go on."- enticed Phil, moving in closer to hear Joseph over the explosions of laughter and arguments surrounding them.

"You know Mrs.-"

"Sweet Nightingale?"

"It's Kissingdale, mate!"

"Whatever. What happened this time, lad? Did she breathe?"

"She-"

"Walk?"

"Wel-"

"Smile?"

"Can-"

"Cough?"

"Do you wanna hear it or not?"

Joseph parked his car in his driveway. He staggered to his front door, unlocked it and went in. He felt queasy, and the sweet odour inhabiting the house did not help. A hissing sound came from the kitchen. Stumbling, he went in to see a fresh pot of water fuming at the cooker.

"Janice!"

Since there was no response, he went upstairs, to check their bedroom, holding on to the banister. On his way to the bedroom, he noticed the bathroom door was ajar. He pushed it open, to reveal Janice laying in a pool of blood.