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	First Prize VOICES IN THE NIGHT by Liz Richards “Christmas at Aunt Delphie’s was always something special, you see, she had these dolls…” Oxygen hissed through his nasal catheter but my father’s face was still a leaden grey. He clutched at my hand, his own spattered with liver spots. I leaned towards him, trying to hear his voice above the soft susurrations of the respirators in the high dependency unit. On the radio, driving to the hospital, the weather forecast had been doom-laden and, despite my concern for him, I worried in case I might not make it home. Gretchen was due in ten days and you never knew. They say that one soul departs this earth and another one arrives to take its place. I took a quick glance at my watch. I should get going soon. “What’s that you’re saying about Aunt Delphie, Dad? About the dolls?” But the morphine must have started to kick in. His voice was slurred. “Bloody dolls. All right when it started. Just a bit of fun. Then after that it got nasty. Voices in the night and all that. Delphie was a bit of…” His eyelids drooped and his chin fell forwards. I indicated to the ward sister that I had to be on my wa Sleet skewered my face as Gretchen opened the door, one hand cradling her swollen belly. “God, Henry. I’m so glad to see you back. I was worried to hell. There’s been a pile-up on the A12 with who knows how many casualties. Promise me that you won’t do that ridiculous journey to Norwich again.” I pulled her towards me. Held her tight, feeling the sudden kick of our unborn child. “Don’t worry, Gretch. They say that there’ll be a thaw tomorrow. And the doctors don’t think he’s going to last much longer. I absolutely have to go back. He’s got some sort of obsession about some old bird called Aunt Delphie and the dolls she used to have. “ I crossed to the refrigerator. Filled a glass with ice cubes, poured myself a slug of scotch and slumped into a chair. “He’s rallied slightly during the night.” The ward sister bustled me across to the bed. “But, mentally he’s not good. He seems agitated. You see it quite often in terminal cases like this. They seem to want to unburden themselves of final confessions, infidelities, illegitimate children, bigamous marriages. I’ve heard more death-bed confessions than I care to remember.” I pulled a chair up to my father’s side and slid the bag of grapes towards him. He was a better colour today and managed a watery smile. “Hello, Henry. Glad you could make it. Still bad out there, is it?” “It’s starting to thaw, Dad. Be gone in a few hours, hopefully.” “And how’s the lady-in –waiting? It’s not long now, am I right?” “A couple of weeks at the most if they’ve got the dates right. Gretchen’s getting a bit fed up, I think. Not surprising, really.” He nodded wearily and tossed his head on the pillow. “Henry. There’s something you have to know.” I leaned towards him to catch his voice which was little more than a whisper. “Those dolls. We just thought it was a stupid game at the time. And your aunt Margaret was only a little kid, of course, well, she must have been about seven the last time we went there. I put it down to an over-active imagination. You know, the voices in the night. Mind you, she got pretty upset about it all in the end, and the parents thought it best to stop the Christmas visits.” “I’m not with you, Dad. What voices?” My father shut his eyes and took a shuddering breath. “They thought it would be a good thing to send us away for Christmas. Give mother a bit of a break, what with father being wheelchair-bound. And, by heck, you could have a great time in Delphie’s wood, once you got used to the darkness out there. We built camps and scuffed our knees raw climbing trees. Mind you, we were always back by nightfall because we knew that there would be a special treat waiting for us. A steaming stew, fresh from the Aga – those casseroles were like nothing I’d ever tasted. And afterwards, the dolls.” His eyelids flickered open. “I’m not rambling, am I? Not boring you?” I shook my head. “Carry on, Dad,” I said. “Tell me about the dolls.” “Oh yes, the dolls. Didn’t I explain that yet?” He shook his head confusedly. “Well, I suppose there were about twenty of them when we arrived the first time. All children, a few in school uniform but most of them dressed in over-sized hand-me-downs, like the village children wore in those days. There wasn’t a lot of money around then and I reckon that most of those kids went around with empty bellies most of the time. In fact, I used to feel a bit awkward about the delicious supper that we ate every evening.” I glanced at my watch. It was getting late and Gretchen would be worrying.. “Go on, Dad. What happened with the dolls?” “Oh, yes. Perhaps there was nothing to it. It was just that they never seemed to come back after we’d found them guilty.” “Guilty? What are you talking about?” Well, that was what we had to do. Delphie would pick out three or four of them and line them up on the sofa. In the dock, she called it. Then she would put on a deep, scary voice and say things like, “Archie Burroughs. You stand accused of scrumping my apples. I saw you though my kitchen window last autumn. Or, Maisie Partridge, I put it to you that you stole a pie that I had put to cool outside. Or, Jimmy Mason, did you, or did you not, steal crusts from my bird table.” “And?” “Well, me and your aunt Margaret had to ask them questions.” “Ask dolls questions? That doesn’t make sense, Dad. They could hardly reply, could they? “No, of course not. Delphie did all the answering. Sometimes they had a good alibi, like hop picking in Kent with their family but others, Delphie made them snivel and beg her to let them go. We generally found them guilty, of course. I promise you, it just seemed like a game.” The rattle of a tea trolley crashed through my concentration. “Cup of tea, my love? Or a slice of cake? You look like you need fattening up.” “Not for me, thanks. Dad, anything for you?” He shook his head. “No thanks,” he said. “Do you know, I’ve never had the appetite again that I had when I was staying at that cottage at Christmas. Odd that. Now, where was I?” “You found them guilty, Dad?” “Oh, yes, that was the fun of it. So then Delphie would drape a black hanky over her head and say, “I sentence you to be taken from this place to a place of confinement and thence to a place of execution.” And we’d both giggle because we felt a bit nervous but we knew that it was all made up.” “And that was that?” “Oh, no. Delphie would take off the black hanky and put all the other dolls away. Then she would pick up the guilty one and pinch his arm very gently and croon. “You are just perfect my little dear. Auntie Delphie is going to look after you really well, and to start with, I’m going to warm you up a little on this cold winter’s night. And she would slip them into the slow oven of the Aga.” I stood up to go. “The woman was potty, Dad. Stop worrying. Get some rest and I’ll see you tomorrow. He called after me as I was leaving. “It doesn’t account for the voices that Margaret used to hear in the night, Henry. The children begging for mercy.” It was a good two months later that Gretchen and I walked up the path to the cottage carrying Madelaine, wrapped up in her fleecy pink snowsuit. Inheriting the place in Dad’s will had come as a surprise, but we thought that we might as well go and inspect it. After all, it might possibly do for a holiday home. I scrabbled in my pocket for the key and turned the lock. The place, with its lozenge shaped windows and candy-curled wood-work seemed almost derelict so the warmth of the room surprised me. And the mouth-watering smell of a delicious hot-pot emanating from the Aga. A discarded, yellowing local paper on the table trumpeted ‘New DNA Developments in Norfolk Lost Children Mystery, Read more about Archie, Maisie, Jimmy and their mates on page three.’ I tossed the paper down, looked across the room and there, propped awkwardly on the sofa, I saw, mouth wide as if in horror, a new-born-baby doll, dressed all in fleecy pink.

SECOND PRIZE

THE INTERVIEW
by
Diane Waters

Christmas at Aunt Delphie's was always something special, you see she had these dolls from all the countries in the world. Or at least that was how it seemed to me, but then I was only six the last year we saw her.

Is that loud enough for your tape recorder? Oh, good. Marvellous how they make them so small now, isn't it?

One's memory plays funny tricks; I'd thought we spent half a dozen or so Christmases with her, but I re-read the newspaper cutting before meeting you – to check the dates, you know – and we can't have. No one's interviewed me before. I told the girl at the Spar shop I mightbe in a book about ghosts, but I won't tell anyone else in case it gets back to the vicar. No offence.

We'd driven over in the morning; my mother had said something about 'catching Delphie early'. There was rather a mood in the car, which I didn't pick up on, but it's safe to say my parents didn't approve of either Delphie or Stan. They were quiet people - my parents, I mean - and they'd had me rather late. A teacher had once called me out of class because my 'grandparents wanted to see me', and of course it was my parents.

Well, no, this is relevant because I wanted to say how I'd sometimes dreamed that I was Delphie and Stan's daughter. I thought you might want to know that, in case you think I might have dreamed the whole thing that happened at Christmas.

Aunt Delphie was rather exciting; you could visit her one day and she'd be laughing and playing records rather loudly, and another time she'd be half asleep in her chair with her bun all sideways. She was impossibly glamorous; jet black hair (my mother said Delphie liked things out of bottles) and nails varnished – always the same colour, a sort of bronzed coral. My mother didn't wear cosmetics at all. Rather a dun sparrow, she was, next to Delphie.

My father parked such a long way from their house; he said that Stan was a menace on the road and he wanted to keep a good distance from his driveway. So we trudged along. I'd taken off one of my mittens to hold my new doll – a present from the couple at the post office – and my hand was red with cold. There had been a bit of a thaw that had frozen hard over and I remember trying to punch holes in the snow with my boots. Details like that are so clear to me.

My mother knocked at the door. There was a bell, but she never used it; said that tradesmen ring bells. She had some strange ideas.

Anyway, it was Delphie who let us in – like walking into the jungle, I thought! Bright lights, lots of noise and always so warm. That was why I loved going there. This was in the days before most people had central heating, remember, and her house was cosy everywhere – even in the bathroom.

That was the only thing that struck me as odd – that Stan's room should have been freezing cold.

I'm getting ahead of myself really, but yes I went upstairs after lunch. Nobody was watching the film. I suppose the television was on because we were waiting for the Queen's speech, but my mother and Aunt Delphie were in the kitchen and my father was fast asleep. He'd brought a book on gardening with him to read, but that was laid open on his lap and his glasses were in with the walnuts.

Stan's was the room at the end of the landing and he said, 'Come on in. I'm not asleep.' So I pushed open the door and there he was, laid on the rug by the bed – it was dark brown, real sheepskin. 'How was dinner?' he said. I told him it was all right, and I think he could tell from my voice that I'd not really liked it. 'Lots of sprouts?' I nodded. 'Horrible things, sprouts,' he said. 'Carrots are nice, with peas from the garden and roast potatoes, but -' he waved a finger 'they've got to be crispy.'

'What have you got there?' he said. I showed him the puzzle and the hat and asked if he wanted them because he hadn't been there to get his own cracker. 'That's very kind,' he said 'but you hold on to those, because with this head of mine I couldn't do any puzzles and I'm sure I couldn't get that hat on.'

That was when he told me about the dolls. 'This one's from Spain,' he said. 'The lace on her head is called a mantilla.' He went through each one, telling me about the different kind of bread they have in Germany and what colour the sea is in Australia. Neither of my parents travelled; quite a lot of people didn't have passports even, and so I'd no idea about foreign countries. Stan had been in the army, of course, where you do travel a lot, but even so it was the way he spun these tales – made me imagine I could see the places he was talking about.

If it hadn't been so cold, I'd have stayed talking with him longer; he was a nice old chap. But it was absolutely perishing and I was in my best dress – brown velvet, lace at the neck and cuffs – very pretty but no warmth to it. So I went back downstairs.

Nothing really stands out about the rest of the visit.

Well, no. I wouldn't have said anything like: Why was Uncle Stan on the floor in the bedroom? I was a child and just accepted as natural whatever the situation was. These days, people talk about all sorts of things – divorce, cancer, losing one's job. It's all out in the opennow, but my parents wouldn't have discussed a marriage breaking up. That's what they thought it was, I'm sure.

At some point in the years after that, I obviously realised that it was just Delphie, but I would never have asked where and why Stan had gone. It didn't puzzle me our not visiting again. If I thought about it at all, I assumed it was because my parents disapproved of divorce and I do know that Delphie wrote to tell us she was thinking of re-marrying. She didn't, apparently

Just the once I remember mentioning the dolls to my mother. Years later, that was – turned out to be shortly before she passed away. I said what a collection it was and did she think Delphie would have kept them. She remembered the dolls, but said they were downstairs in the sideboard, which makes sense really – thinking back, it would have been odd for Stan to have had them with him in the bedroom.

I was very surprised when the woman from the police telephoned last year. I had seen the story on the news and thought it was near where they'd lived, but the address was different: on the news they said it was 76 Thorpe Street, but when we knew it, it was just called The Malt House. Such a shame they dug the garden up, but I expect they thought there would be more bodies. There was just Stan, under the bedroom floorboards, wrapped in that sheepskin rug.

No, there's no doubt at all. I've gone over the dates time and again, checked them against my mother's diary: Stan was dead that Christmas.

The inquest didn't get anyone much further forward. Said that they'd both been drinkers – Stan probably went for Delphie during an argument and she got a lucky hit in with the casserole dish.

What do I think it meant? Well, Stan liked me – he was a pleasant man, always smiling, and he probably felt sad at not having children of his own. I think he just wanted a last chat, tell me about the exciting places he'd been.

After my father died – he made it to 98! - I'd thought I might try to see some of the countries for myself, but that hasn't worked out.

Well, that's about all there is. I've brought a photograph of Delphie, if you'd like to see her. She's like a film star, isn't she, and even knowing what I know now about what she did to Stan, I still can't think badly of her. And I don't think Stan did. He'd bought all those dolls for her, of course – every new place he went to, he made sure to bring back a national costume doll for Delphie, and there wasn't one of them looked as glamorous as she did.

You won't put our real names in your book, will you?


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3rd Prize

A PRESENT FOR MUNGO
by
Helen Lowry

‘Christmas at Aunt Delphie’s was always something special, you see she had these dolls…’ Mike paused, his finger on the ornate doorbell. ‘Lily, are you listening to me?’

‘Sorry,’ Lily mumbled, ‘but the snow’s so beautiful, and it’s Christmas Eve and this will be my first family Christmas ever, and...’

Mike looked at her sternly.

‘Dolls,’ she muttered, ‘you were talking about dolls.’

He shook his head. ‘Never mind. You’ll see them soon enough. But Lily,’ he said, ‘remember, this is important to me.’

‘Don’t worry,’ she teased, ‘I’ll behave myself.’

He squeezed her hand. ‘I know you will darling. It’s why I married you.’

Lily frowned. Was that how Mike saw her? Some nice biddable little creature who would do as she was told? She opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again. Nothing

was going to spoil this Christmas. It was going to be perfect.

Aunt Delphie was tall, olive skinned, with Mike’s dark hair and eyes. For a long moment she stared at Lily. Then she smiled.

‘She’s perfect, Michael, absolutely perfect. Now come in. I have a present for you both in the drawing room. I will leave you to unwrap it.’

‘There are no decorations,’ Lily murmured, trying to keep the disappointment from her voice, but Mike wasn’t listening. He had come to a standstill by a small table and

was staring transfixed at the large black parcel that lay there. He seemed to take a deep breath then picked it up and tore away the paper. Excitement flared in his dark eyes.

‘What is it?’ she asked peering round him.

He smiled and slowly turned the box towards her.

‘Ugh!’

Mike laughed softly then shook his head. ‘I can’t believe it - she actually gave me Mungo. He’s the oldest of all the dolls. He’s been in the family forever.’

Lily stared at the ugly thing. ‘Doesn’t she have any children of her own to leave it to?’

‘No. Aunt Delphie was married, but her husband died quite young.’

He propped the box upright against the table and they both stared at the doll inside. It looked more like a monkey than a human, Lily decided, with its wrinkled black face and small malevolent eyes. She shivered.

‘Maybe its worth something,’ she said hopefully.

‘I would never sell him.’

‘But Mike,’ she said, ‘its disgusting.’

Mike slowly stroked a finger down the wrinkled face. ‘Oh, I don’t know, I think he grows on you.’

‘Like warts, you mean?’

Mike’s dark eyes went cold, suddenly he seemed like a stranger and Lily felt a ripple of unease. ‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured, putting a hand on his arm. ‘Why don’t you tell me about it?’

Mike stared at her for a moment then seemed to relax. ‘You really want to know?’

She smiled. ‘Of course I do.’

‘Well,’ he said, ‘Mungo here was actually an ancestor of mine. He was hung, drawn and burned at the stake as a witch on Christmas day in 1666. Legend has it that the

family collected what was left of him and made the doll.’ He smiled. ‘Making dolls has become something of a family tradition since.’

‘That,’ Lily murmured, ‘makes me feel a whole lot better.’

She woke in the darkness. ‘Mike?’ she called softly.

There was no answer. She was alone but she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching her. She reached out with a trembling hand to switch on the lamp. It

cast a pool of dim, red light in which she could make out a small figure sitting at the bottom of the bed. For a moment her heart stopped, she couldn’t move. Then she

realised it was the doll, Mungo. It stared at her out of its dark eyes. Eyes as dark as Aunt Delphie’s, as dark as Mike’s.

She slipped out of bed and crossed the room, shivering in the cold air. She paused at the door, down the dark corridor she could see the glow of a light and almost without thinking she tiptoed towards it.

The door was slightly ajar. Inside Lily could hear voices.

‘I’m not sure I can go through with this,’ Mike said.

‘Don’t be a fool,’ his aunt snapped. ‘Do you really think you have a choice?’

‘But, I love her.’

‘Of course you do darling. But don’t you see, that just makes the present all the sweeter. Now, remember, it must be by knife, by fire or by the gallows.’

‘I don’t want her to suffer,’ Mike muttered.

‘She won’t, I’ll give you something that will help her relax. She’ll feel nothing.’

Lily frowned; she couldn’t make sense of the words, but then her brain had ceased to function after Mike had said he loved her. She tiptoed back to their room, gingerly

knocked the doll onto the floor and crawled into bed. She tried to sleep but Aunt Delphie’s words kept echoing in her head, “by knife, by fire by the gallows.

She woke late after an almost sleepless night to find Mike already gone. Either that or he had not returned. But the doll was also gone and she sighed in relief.

She dressed quickly and went downstairs. There was no sign of Mike and the house seemed cold and deserted. She found the kitchen, made herself some toast and then wandered back to the living room.

She paused at the door. Inside she heard Aunt Delphie laugh softly. It was followed by a high pitched giggle. She pushed open the door and looked around in confusion;

Aunt Delphie was alone.

‘I thought I heard voices,’ Lily said.

Aunt Delphie’s eyes flickered to the chair opposite and Lily stared at the thing propped against the cushions. Its small malevolent eyes seemed to stare right back at her and she shivered in revulsion.

‘It’s only a doll, Lily.’ Aunt Delphie said but her words held a hint of malicious amusement.

Lily forced herself to relax and look round the room. Other dolls were perched on bookcases, chairs.

‘Do you know,’ Aunt Delphie murmured, ‘according to family legend, if you give Mungo a present on Christmas day, then he will give you something in return.’

‘What?’

‘Oh nothing much, long life, certain powers.’

It occurred to Lily then, that Mike’s aunt was very probably insane. That the conversation she had overheard the night before had been nothing more than Mike humoring a mad old woman.

‘This is the first one I ever made,’ Aunt Delphie said picking up one of the dolls. ‘He’s called James, after my husband. James died very young and quite tragically.’

‘How did he die?’ Lily forced herself to ask.

‘By fire,’ Aunt Delphie replied. ‘On Christmas day.’

Lily shivered again. ‘Where’s Mike?’ she asked.

‘He had to go out. Some emergency, but don’t worry, he’ll be back, Mike knows his duty. He asked me to give you something.’

Lily took the box. Inside was a necklace, a diamond teardrop on a white gold chain.

‘Now I must leave,’ Aunt Delphie said. ‘The dolls will keep you company.’

Time passed and still no Mike. And no Christmas dinner. Lily felt frustrated, angry, scared. She needed Mike. Why wasn’t he here, looking after her, protecting her from his crazy aunt? Finally, she sank down onto the sofa next to Mungo.

‘You like presents?’ she asked. ‘Well, here, have mine.’ She took the diamond necklace from the box and draped it over the doll’s head. ‘There, you look beautiful. And you might as well have Mike’s present as well.’ Lily gently stoked her stomach. ‘We’re going to have a baby,’ she said.

She sat back then and soon she slept. She dreamt of a tall, dark man with flashing black eyes, who spoke to her of her heart’s desires and how she could get them.

When she awoke darkness had fallen and the fire was just a faint glow. She was going to leave, she decided, simply pack up and go. Then a figure moved in the shadows and she knew it was too late.

‘I made you a drink,’ Mike said, ‘it will help you relax.’

There was so much in his eyes; love, regret and a grim determination. Lily felt her heart crack. She slowly reached out a trembling hand.

Then she remembered her unborn child and at that moment the fire flared to life. Mike was framed in the red glow and the words from her dream echoed through Lily’s mind. “By fire, by knife, by the gallows.”

The air was heavy with the smell of smoke and the flames flickered and crackled as the old house was consumed. In the glimmer of light cast by the fire, Aunt Delphie seemed to have aged.

‘He was my nephew,’ she said bitterly. ‘I loved him.’

‘So did I,’ Lily replied sadly. Then she hugged Mungo to her breast. ‘But after all,’ she added, ‘doesn’t that make the present all the sweeter?’


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