2006 - Wildcat Moon by Babs Horton

kettle. The cracked leather couch in the corner was bathed in the last of the sunlight and dust motes fizzed in the air. There were yellow poppies drooping in a chipped blue vase and a wasp was busy in a box of windfall apples.
    She had watched him approach, making his way across from the house. She could still hear the sound of his feet on the gravel, the profile of his face as he passed the window and the sound of the door opening like an intake of breath.
    He had stood for a second, framed in the doorway, the pale moon rising like a halo behind his head.
    Then the feel of his arms around her, the smell of his warm skin and the first ever touch of his soft lips on her neck.
    She remembered the call of the haughty peacock from the lower lawn and then suddenly a squirrel chattering angrily at them through the window.
    The sound of their laughter ringing out.
    Standing there together in the gathering darkness, waiting for the soft fall of night…
    What a fool she’d been for thinking that anything could come of it or that it could ever have worked out between them. It was the arrogance and innocence of youth, she supposed, those headstrong days when everything seemed possible if only you wanted it badly enough. They’d loved each other with a passion, but they were poles apart a huge void of class and culture between them.
    It was doomed from the start and they should have known better, should have put an end to it, but they hadn’t and as a result lives had been blighted.
    The light went out in the drawing room of the house and a few minutes later a light was switched on in an upstairs bedroom.
    Gwennie watched, waiting impatiently for the light to go out when suddenly Margot Greswode appeared at the window. She stood with her nose pressed against the pane, the palms of her hands pressed against the glass like a woman in despair, a woman desperate to escape.
    If she was that unhappy all she had to do was come down the stairs and walk out into the night. But perhaps it wasn’t that simple for her?
    Gwennie watched the woman, tried to feel some sympathy for her but she couldn’t, she didn’t have it in her to feel anything other than hate and scorn for the Greswode family.
    Margot Greswode remained at the windowfor some time and then suddenly she stirred herself, closed the curtains and soon the light went out. There was only the faint glimmer of a night light in the nursery now; the rest of Killivray House was in darkness.
    Gwennie waited until she was sure that everyone was asleep, then she made her way round to the back of the house. She tried the kitchen door but it was locked. Taking a sheet of newspaper out from her pocket, she worked it underneath the door. Then she took out her penknife and stuck the blade into the lock and wiggled it around.
    After a few moments the key slipped from the lock and fell onto the paper. She bent down and carefully pulled the paper towards her. The gap at the bottom of the door was just wide enough to allow the key through.
    She picked up the key and let herself into the house and crept through the once familiar rooms to the hallway.
    If she hadn’t caught sight of her reflection in the mirror of the hallstand she could have fooled herself into thinking mat time had not moved on, that she was young again and full of hope. She glanced with disdain at her reflection, at the stoop-backed woman who looked back at her, a wizened old crone, eyes bright with a hint of madness.
    The house had barely changed in all the years since she’d last been here, except for the absence of the animals of course. What a madhouse it had been!
    The carpets were worn now and the furniture jaded but still the silver dock tinked in the drawing room and the old stag stared patiently from his place on the wall.
    She climbed the staircase one step at a time. The fifth step still creaked as it always had. The stuffed bear at the top of the stairs looked down at her enquiringly, as if to say, you’ve taken your