A response to one of the Some Kind of Wonderful (or SKoW) challenges. Set in London, England. Slang phrases/words are explained below. I’d advise you to read them first, together with the additional information.

# ‘Bullseye’ is a UK game show which showed from 1981-1995. Its last two series were shown during Saturday evenings from 1994-1995.

# ‘Toad in the hole’ is a traditional British dish (Yorkshire pudding baked with sausages within the batter). ‘Bangers and mash’ is sausages with mashed potatoes.

# While Manchester United FC’s badge only carries the words ‘Manchester United’ now, it used to include the words ‘Football Club’ till 1998. Eric Cantona and Roy Keane were former Man U players (the latter manages Sunderland now). Liverpool FC is considered one of their greatest rivals. Chelsea FC plays in the English Premier League too and was bought over by Russian billionaire Roman Abramovich for £140 million in June 2003.

# The Zutons is an English band. (I don’t know if they have T-shirts, but just pretend.) Coldplay… you should know them.

# Schooling in England is as follows: Year 11 corresponds to 16 years old, and all Year 11 students take the GCSEs before deciding if they want post-16 education. Year 12 and 13 are spent in Sixth Form Colleges or secondary schools with Sixth Form. Half-term is a week-long holiday in the middle of terms, usually in late October, mid February and late May.

# ‘Tie a Yellow Ribbon ‘Round the Ole Oak Tree’ is a song by Tony Orlando and Dawn. It was a massive worldwide hit in 1973. The symbol of a yellow ribbon became widely known in civilian life in the 1970s as a reminder of an absent loved one, either in the military or in jail that they would be welcomed home on their return.

# Leyton and Westminster are areas in London. Leyton Tube Station (the train) is in Zone 3 while Westminster is in Zone 1 according to the London Underground. Travelcards allow access to the London Underground, most London buses, National Rail etc. In Casey’s case (nice pun), she only needed to travel between Zones 1 to 4 and it’d allow her to use it during the period of validity and for any journey before 0430 on the day following the expiry date.

# Date follows the day/month/year format.

# ‘Giggs, Giggs will tear you apart, again’ is a chant by Man U fans during games, attributed to the player Ryan Giggs (shirt number 11). It was derived from the Mancunian band Joy Division’s song ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’.

TRANSLATIONS

(1) naff: tacky
(2) parky: chilly (weather)
(3) telly: short form of television
(4) arsed it up: messed/screwed it up
(5) scallywags: British term for playfully mischievous children (usually boys)
(6) grin on you: make fun of you
(7) gander: look
(8) muppet: a foolish or stupid person
(9) barmy: mad
(10) chippie: fish and chip shop
(11) Earl Grey: a kind of tea
(12) skint: broke, out of money
(13) cack: rubbish
(14) A cup’a char: a cup of tea
(15) Flipping hell: a milder form of ‘fucking hell’
(16) knackered: exhausted; also used for something broken
(17) tyre kicker: time waster
(18) slapper: a loose woman
(19) bottle: courage

--

Rain or Shine
by angels and effects

--

Casey sat on the swing, her short legs pumping to the rhythm of the rusty metal chains holding the seat up. Her ponytail bounced upon her back, perfectly in sync. Up… down… up. Never pausing. Never faltering. Her normal routine.

The air felt deliciously light for almost nine in the evening. No one else was around. She didn’t think anyone would care… least of all her mother. If it wasn’t for the fact that Grandpa couldn’t walk without his cane and that ’Bullseye’ was on, he would have called her back in. Nothing would entice Grandpa from ‘Bullseye’. Even his beloved little granddaughter out on her own at the playground at a time where robbers would be a-lurking.

It was funny, Casey thought, as she stopped herself with a foot in the sand and momentum. Her grandfather was a male, yet he acted like a fussy mother hen. Whenever she came back home from school with her skirt or dress dirty, he’d gently reprimand her for soiling her clothes before telling her to change out of them. At least he gave her cookies when she did well in school, which was more than she could say for her real mother. The only thing she didn’t like about Grandpa was his white cane. He used it frequently to cuff people he wasn’t happy with. If Mummy came home with a pile of papers to mark and told them she didn’t have time to cook dinner, he’d whack her with his cane and order in.

Casey’s smile wavered. They hadn’t had Sunday dinner for so long… she missed Mummy’s toad in the hole. She missed so many things about her and Daddy, really.

Tilting her head all the way back and looking up, a sigh escaped her lips. Above her, the dark evening sky seemed to swallow up the endless plethora of twinkling stars. At the sight, she felt an urge to break out into the rhyme ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’. Her mother used to sing it to her at least once a week before bedtime. But now, she didn’t have time. Such were the pains of being the child of two educators.

At this thought, Casey felt an inexplicable sadness overwhelm her. She had parents, but it was as if they weren’t there. So much for parental love.

The ominous dark clouds above didn’t abate, prominent even against the dark blue of the evening sky. She didn’t much care, though. She loved the feel of water drops soothing her tender skin, like a free bath given by nature. Soothing her aching soul. If Grandpa whacked her for coming home with her clothes wet, maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much then.

Casey continued staring up at the sky. Daddy would be home tonight. Maybe she’d go back soon, if that was the case. She wanted to see him – nearly a week had passed since she last had. Where had he gone to, anyway? She didn’t know. Probably overseas again to some poor African school. She wanted to empathise with the kids there, but if they stole her Daddy away from her, she didn’t want to pity them.

As Casey watched the grey clouds expand even further, her mood grew darker. What if Daddy never came back and left her alone with Mummy and Grandpa? They wouldn’t ever survive. He could get into a plane crash, especially if the plane was going through clouds like those. Bad clouds. Evil clouds.

Suddenly, she felt the presence of someone else.

“DADDY!” she cried in joy, hastily tearing her gaze from the sky and scrambling down from the swing. “YOU’RE—oh. You’re not my daddy.” She crossed her arms over her chest.

The boy didn’t reply. If anything, he seemed almost peaceful, like one of those monks Daddy had told her about, only those monks had set fire to themselves (why? What dumbos!) and this boy didn’t seem like he was going to do that. Casey only hoped he wouldn’t give her boy germs. They were bad. Evil germs.

She flopped back onto the swing in a huff, prepared to ignore the boy. Her obvious anger seemed to fill the air with a static sort of feel, sort of like the static from the worsening weather above. Where was her Daddy? He’d told her he’d been back by nine. Surely it was nine by now?

The light the street lamps cast upon them darkened. The air around them lightened in contrast, growing more frigid by the minute. Casey’s heart constricted at the thought of her Daddy really getting into a plane crash, and a thousand icy shards embed themselves in her. She counted on him keeping her promises, and if he wasn’t showing up… well, she’d gladly let Grandpa whack her.

A distant rumble of thunder made her feel uneasy. Her stomach felt like the liquid inside was gurgling, fueling her exasperation. What was this boy doing out so late here too, anyway? Wouldn’t his mother be worried?

Putting her pretence on temporary hold, Casey gave the boy beside her a speculative glance. He seemed oblivious to Casey’s irritable mood. He was also gazing placidly at the sky, which now seemed as if God had decided to finally fulfill the quota of ‘April showers’. As the temperature of their surroundings dropped even further, she felt her cheeks heat up instead at the thought of mistaking him for her father. What a dumbo she was.

She ventured to speak. “Hello?”

He didn’t reply.

Casey frowned. Did she dare to poke him and demand an answer? “It’s rude not to reply other people when they talk to you, you know,” she told him, leaning over.

His eyes continued raking the sky, like he was trying to find something in the ethereal heavens. Opposite, the lights went off in a house. Yes, that had to be it. It was like the light was off in his eyes. From Casey’s point of view, she couldn’t see the colour or shade of them, but she bet they were black, so black you couldn’t differentiate the pupils from the irises. That was what Grandpa had told her – bad people always had black devil eyes. And if this boy wasn’t replying, that meant that he was bad, right? Rude people were bad, after all.

A jagged bolt of lightning lit up the sky, illuminating his face for a moment. It was then that Casey suddenly felt like something had struck her in the gut, because when the light hit his face…

…She saw that he had the purest green eyes she’d ever seen. Even greener than Grandpa’s. And no one’s eyes could be greener than Grandpa’s… but his were.

So… was he bad? What an annoying scene this was.

Casey tried to get him to respond again. “HEY!” she shouted over the thunder that rang out after the flash of lightning, shaking the very foundation of the ground they were on.

He suddenly jerked, as if the thunder had woken him up. Casey felt a sense of relief, but not from the fact that the thunder had passed. He was alive. She was beginning to think he was a ghost, or someone who didn’t move at all.

“Are you deaf??” She half-yelled, hoping her raised voice would help.

He only stared at her blankly. Casey felt her mood darken even further as the wind picked up around them, blowing a happy gale down the yellow brick road. This was it: he was either daft, deaf, mute, rude or just… well, daft. Could he not have heard her words? Evil wind!

“Can’t you just answer me?” Casey asked, frustrated, and pushed her feet through the sand below her, feeling it crunch like un-popped popcorn. If she’d raised her head again, she’d probably see the already dark sky being rapidly swallowed up by inky-black mysterious bodies. But she didn’t – she was too busy feeling like her entire body was suffused in a sort of unutterable annoyance. Why was she feeling this way? Because he didn’t want to answer her, and she wasn’t used to being ignored, even if he were a total stranger?

He blinked, and Casey noticed that he had a pretty face. No, pretty wasn’t the word. A strong face. But Grandpa had told her that boys, no matter how good-looking they were, weren’t reliable, so she had to stay away from them. “You’re only 7, girlie,” he’d chided, twirling a lock of her brown hair with his calloused finger. “There’s so much time left in the world for you.”

She wondered briefly how old this boy was.

All of a sudden, she spied him opening his mouth. Was he was going to speak? She leaned forwards in anticipation, waiting to hear what he finally had to say.

Silence ensued.

“What?” she goaded, staring at him. He closed his mouth again and shook his head, looking as miserable as the atmosphere around them.

Casey felt both puzzled and annoyed. The threatening crack of thunder made her jump once again. Why was it that he couldn’t talk? Or was it because... he didn’t want to?

A water droplet hit her skin just as a tear slipped out of her right eyelid.

Her Daddy didn’t want to talk to her too. Every time she tried to get him to read her night-time stories, he would say he had work to do. Work was all he ever did. Even when Grandpa had whacked him once with that stick of his, telling him that a father had a job to accomplish by loving his daughter, he had merely replied that ‘Casey will understand that I work for her well-being’. Well-being? All she wanted was for him to pay more attention to her, not African children.

Casey swiped viciously at her eyes and looked at the boy again.

He was staring at her, an unreadable expression on his face. If she was more observant, she would have noticed that needle-like barbs of rain were starting to puncture the ground they were on. But she was suddenly captivated, held by the lush green of his eyes.

“You can at least tell me your name,” she told him.

He looked up at the sky again, as if God was there to do the deed for him.

“You don’t want to talk to me, do you?” Casey whispered, as the wind whistled around them like a ghost parade. The very aura around him was so… mysterious. It reeked of supernatural, but if she wasn’t completely sure he was real, she’d have run away a long time ago. “If you don’t want to, you can just tell me. I won’t cry. Grandpa told me that strong girls don’t cry, they beat up the bad boys who bully them.” She tried to stick out her chin defiantly to show her infallibility.

He looked back at her. His eyes were shrouded in sadness. She couldn’t fathom out a single bit of him, let alone know what he was thinking. It was like the world on his shoulders, the kind of sadness usually reserved for people at funerals. She’d seen it in Grandpa, when Grandma had passed away the year before last.

Casey looked up at the sky too. It was dark, too dark. She sensed the draft pulling at her, soothing the sting in her eyes from want of crying. She couldn’t cry. Daddy didn’t like people who cried for no reason. And he was coming back today, so all the more she couldn’t cry.

It was then that she felt a slight pressure on her shoulder.

She hesitantly glanced up.

It was him. He had his other hand jammed in the pocket of his jeans (the knees looked a little frayed), while his right hand rested delicately on the fabric of her shirt. The heat seemed to seep through the threads and straight to her heart, providing a welcome relief from the cold.

“You don’t have to humour me.” Her voice had turned nasal. She couldn’t cry! Why did she suddenly feel like crying so much?

He only stood there. Like a strong, silent type.

“Who are you?” she wondered out loud as a bolt of lightning lit the sky up again. Her eyes sought out the crest on his shirt as it was illuminated. She thought she’d seen it before – a devil carrying some sort of trident, like the one Zeus had. Just that this one didn’t have a long, flowing beard.

With her 7-year-old capability, she read the words ‘Manchester United Football Club’ in yellow print. It struck her then. Of course!

He blinked.

Casey wondered whose jersey he was wearing. Grandpa loved the Red Devils too, since he’d been from Manchester (in fact, all of them were—they’d moved to London following Daddy’s job transfer). His favourite player was Eric Cantona, whoever that was. When she had asked, he had tapped her lightly on the head with his cane and told her that girls didn’t need to know about football. If only the boy would turn around, then she’d be able to see.

“If you like Manchester United too, my Grandpa loves them.” Casey locked eyes with him. He looked down at himself, then back at her. He opened his mouth, as if he wanted to say something, then closed it again, looking infinitely frustrated.

The rain turned a little gentler. Like it didn’t want to interrupt them.

She raised her own hand (out of instinct or from pure want, she wasn’t quite sure) and put it over his. His fingers trembled, but he didn’t let go.

“If you don’t want to talk to me, it’s okay,” she started. Before she was interrupted by someone.

“CASEY!” A voice yelled out, breaking the almost hypnotic hold his eyes had on hers.

He started, jerking his hand off her shoulder like it was a disease.

“Where are you, you little rascal?” Grandpa’s voice pierced the silence. By now, the rain had drenched her dress. She didn’t care.

“That’s my Grandpa,” she told him. He had retreated back into the shadows once again, back on his own swing. His head was bent, his eyes closed. “He’s the one who likes Manchester United too. Maybe you can talk to him? Since you don’t want to talk to me.”

He raised his head and regarded her solemnly. Through the sheen of rain coming down now, she couldn’t quite discern whether the water on his cheeks was from the skies or his tear ducts. She felt ashamed. She didn’t want to make him cry, but he had made her want to cry too. This was confusing.

Why didn’t he want to talk to her??

“Casey? What are you doing out there?” her mother called. “Come on, you’ll get a cold! And Daddy’s coming home today; don’t you want to see him?”

She wanted to. But she also wanted to find out why this boy wouldn’t talk to her.

She yanked the ribbon keeping her ponytail together, feeling her hair tumble down her shoulders. To her, ribbons were kind of naff. She would let it loose, if it wasn’t for her mother.

Casey considered the pink ribbon in her hand for a moment as it got darker from the water pelting it before making her decision.

She stood up and made her way towards the boy. He continued looking at her, only now his eyes were lit with curiosity. His hair, a dark brown or black (it was hard to tell in the dark), was plastered to his forehead like a helmet. So were his clothes. She noticed the scuffed sneakers, and wondered if he played any football. Maybe. Would she ever find out?

“Here’s my ribbon.” She bit her lip and held it out hesitantly. “If you ever want to tell me who you are someday, you can tie it to the tree outside my house. It’s really small, so you should know.” She pointed towards her house, a semi-detached with a little baby tree extending its budding branches into the front window. Right now, the bark of the tree glistened with the soft caressing of its saviour seeping into the soil, feeding its hungry roots.

“I gotta go now,” she stumbled over her words as the rain came down harder. She could just spy her mother coming towards her, an umbrella in one hand and a stern expression on her face. “You can always tell me your name. Anytime. Mine’s Casey. Okay?”

He gazed mutely at the ribbon he’d taken from her outstretched hand, turning it over like it was a precious jewel.

The rain soaked through Casey’s clothes and she shivered. Tearing her eyes from his figure, she turned away, towards her mother.

“Why on earth did you go out, Casey? It’s so parky, and raining too,” her mother chided her, wrapping an arm around her and guiding her away. “Do you know who can be lurking around these areas? Who was that boy? And where’s your hair ribbon?” She clucked her tongue like a mother hen.

“I gave my ribbon to him,” she confessed, looking back at the playground. He was looking at them, his small figure barely visible through the sheet of rain coming down now. She felt a slight tug at her heart – he’d made her want to cry one second, then want to comfort him the next. It was peculiar, as Grandpa would say. “He didn’t want to tell me his name. Is Daddy home yet?”

“Not yet.” They trudged through the puddles, reaching the gate. “He’ll be home very soon. You better go change out of your wet clothes, or you won’t be able to hug him.”

Casey’s eyes widened and she forgot all about the mysterious boy in the playground. “But I want to hug Daddy! Will I be able to get dry?” She looked anxiously down at herself as they went up the steps.

“That will be the least of your problems, lassie,” Grandpa boomed as they stepped through the door. His cane was propped up beside the chair he was lounging in. The telly was on, but it was advertisements now. Now inside the house, the rain was but a steady drone on the roof, drumming a beat on the windows. “Didn’t Grandpa tell you not to go outside in the rain? If you catch a cold, Grandpa can’t give you cookies anymore. Good girls always follow their Grandpa’s words.”

“I’m sorry, Grandpa, I won’t do it again,” she murmured demurely as her mother rubbed her hair with a towel.

“There was a boy at the playground with her,” her mother declared. “Must be the Barlows’ son. A bit discreet they are, but still a nice family. I heard that the boy can’t speak at all. Casey gave him her hair ribbon; I can’t imagine what they would say about that.”

“Ribbons. They don’t do a girl justice. She’s better off without them.” Grandpa surveyed his granddaughter for a moment. “A boy? No time for them now, Casey. Wait till you’re older, aye?” He winked at her.

“I just wanted to know why he won’t talk to me,” Casey blurted out, her brown eyes wide and guileless.

“He can’t talk to anybody, darling,” her mother told her, bundling her up and ushering her up the stairs to her room. The rain continued its relentless assault on the tiled roof. Casey felt confused, yet a little worried. Out in that sort of downpour… would the boy accidentally lose her ribbon?

Then she decided that she was mad to worry about it. After all, he was a boy. A boy who hadn’t wanted to talk to her, of all things. If he arsed it up, she could just go on, albeit with a missing hair ribbon. Mummy could get her some more.

“Best not to care about those scallywags,” Grandpa droned on. “And don’t let ‘em grin on you. Always causing a ruckus these days, they are.”

“When David arrives, shout up,” Casey’s mother replied, just as another flash of lightning lit up Casey’s face and the ’94 calendar hanging on the wall beside them.

And as the ground was saturated with the tears of angels, a lone boy curled his fingers around the wet metal chains of the swing he was sitting on, staring at a soaked pink hair ribbon resting on the palm of his other hand.

His eyes revealed nothing.

--

“Moving, are you?”

The lady glanced up, wiping sweat from her brow. “Yes,” she replied cautiously. “Do you want to have a gander? It’s up for sale.”

“Oh, it’s alright, thanks. I’m from Number 45, across the street,” the old man answered, leaning on his cane. He cast a curious look about the place. “Didn’t you just move in a month ago?”

“We did,” she affirmed. “But we’ve decided to go to Leyton. The schools there are better suited for my boy’s needs.”

The old man nodded and sighed. “I wish you all the best of luck then.”

A moment of silence passed.

He suddenly spoke up again. “By any chance, just last Saturday evening… did your son bring back a hair ribbon when he went back home?”

“Why, funny you should ask that,” the woman declared, straightening and dusting her hands off. “Easton came in soaked to the bone and refused to tell us where it’d come from. We were so worried – the baby-sitter had fallen asleep, that right muppet, and he’d slunk out. We were just about to send out a team to find him when he walked in through the front door, shivering like a puppy. Wouldn’t let go of the ribbon. Might you know the owner of it?”

The old man stroked his chin with his other hand. “I might,” he finally answered. “But it’s not important, of course. I’ll leave you to your packing, then. Sorry to bother you, and have a good journey.”

The woman cast him a curious look but left it at that. “It’s no problem. Thank you.”

He tipped his cane to her and went away. “So, it’s like that…” he murmured under his breath, a smile forming on his face. “I must be barmy. But still …”

--

The teenager hurried across the busy streets of London, pushing her way through the throng of people. It was bloody, unbelievably hot for June – one would think it was August already, at this rate. Good thing she’d brought her sunglasses along, but it was the basic Londoner instinct that had made her slip them into her bag. Blast this weather.

She paused as she reached her destination. The bright, gaudy sign sitting on top of the shop proclaimed ‘Coffee, Tea or Me?’ A veritable play on the types of beverages and whatnot served in the shop. She allowed a wry smile to grace her face – only here would they be so blasé with their shop signs. Ah, the wonders of London.

“Hey, Casey,” her fellow worker behind the counter greeted her, wiping her hands and opening the ‘flap’ (what was it called again?) to let her in. “Guess what? Field’s out on a rampage again. I told him he should have opened a chippie; God knows it’d do better than this lump of junk.”

“Good morning to you too, Marie,” she tossed the greeting back wryly, depositing her bag. “What’s with him again?”

Marie snorted delicately. “Not enough caffeine and a little of the Monday blues, I think. If you’d mind making some for him…”

“No, I won’t,” Casey muttered, shedding her jacket. She just wore it to disguise the uniform they had to wear. At least they didn’t have to roller-skate around the shop like some doddery old fools and crash into Tony Blair. Field would have another field day. Huh, talk about puns.

“You know he only likes your coffee. He was going on and on about I can stick to making Earl Grey and would I sod off and leave him alone. No one drinks that except my mother.” She rolled her eyes.

“You got that right,” Casey grinned. “I’ll settle it then. When do we open?”

Marie checked the vintage clock hanging above their heads. “Uh, ten more?”

“Great,” she moaned, ducking under the counter to tie her shoelaces. “Why did I take this job again?”

“Because you’re skint,” Marie replied matter-of-factly.

“Thanks for reminding me.” Casey stood up again and patted Marie on the shoulder. “Come on, better make our rounds before Field goes off his rocker again. You know how he is about cleanliness.”

Marie nodded and complied. A few other waitresses were already flitting around the shop, adjusting table settings and arranging tables and chairs. In spite of Marie’s declaring the shop ‘a lump of junk’, everyone knew that it was Westminster’s darling – an old-fashioned sort of eatery with even more old-fashioned music. The weird thing was that it also had a telly mounted up above the counter, which was almost regularly turned on to English Premier League game broadcasts or repeats.

Casey smiled at the thought. Grandpa was still an avid supporter of Manchester United and had called the buying over of Chelsea FC a ‘disgrace’. Only last night, he’d whacked her over the head with that cane of his for predicting that Liverpool would win the Champions League in 2005. Still spry, the old man was.

“Hello, Casey!” Henrietta, another waitress (only she was considerably older than she was… okay, maybe only 15 years or so, but that’d make her 31, which in her books was quite old enough) hailed her. “Why weren’t you in last week?”

“Family matters,” she fibbed. It was true, to an extent. She’d seen her parents off at the airport on Friday before heading home to Grandpa, not feeling in the mood to go back and help at the shop. She’d told Field, so it wasn’t so bad. “You know how it gets.”

“Ah.” Henrietta nodded. “Only there was a gentleman asking for you. Pretty tall, not bad-looking at all, huh, Marie?”

“Yeah, Casey,” Marie chimed in, throwing her a playful look. “You never told us anything about a boyfriend.”

Casey frowned, puzzled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about… I don’t have a boyfriend; you know Grandpa'd whack me till I’m black and blue if I do.”

“He never spoke a word,” Henrietta mused out loud. “Just wrote your name on a piece of paper and showed it to us. When he heard you weren’t here for the day, he looked kind of disappointed, but he added below your name that he’d come in again today. Thought you’d want to know that.”

“That’s weird.” Casey stared at the salt-and-pepper shakes in front of her. “Did he leave a name?”

“Not at all. Wrote there that you’d know him.” Henrietta shrugged and headed off towards the kitchen. “I’d better go check if they’re ready for the day. It’s so hot outside; business is definitely going to be on the up.”

“Okay,” she replied absently, still turning this new piece of news over in her head. Someone who never talked? Why did that suddenly seem so familiar?

“Hey, we’re opening now,” Marie shouted across to her. “Don’t day-dream!”

Casey nodded and adjusted her uniform, thinking that she could only be thankful that it was the holidays now. GCSEs had nearly killed her and now, college was at her door. Working for some money was only her prerogative, as her mother loved to remind her so.

Her mind flitted back to Henrietta’s little revelation. He never spoke a word…

The bell above the door clanged. Sunlight streamed into the shop, brightening up the rose-coloured walls. And it was then that a light went off in Casey’s head.

The ribbon! The Manchester United boy! How weird it was to be calling him by that, for he had never gotten back to her. She’d waited in anticipation for a little pink ribbon to tie itself onto the little tree outside her house (she still lived there, after all those years), but nothing had happened. Kind of like how she’d waited for so long for her father to show her some love, but she always seemed to miss him. She’d never quite forgotten the haunting green eyes, but as studies and expectations had deluged her, it’d gotten pushed to the back of her mind. The Barlows had moved just one week later after she’d met him, to the mutterings of the neighbours. Something about the boy needing a special education the area couldn’t provide. Possibly a load of old cack, but it made a little sense. Maybe that was why he hadn’t spoken to her at all.

She rubbed her eyes irritably. What a time to remember him again. For all she knew, it could be someone else. He hadn’t even deigned to return her ribbon!

Okay, maybe that was just a little childish of her.

“Casey, what the bloody hell are you doing standing around?” Field had appeared in all his glory. “Go serve the customers!”

“Roger, sir.” She saluted him and headed off towards a couple of old ladies who’d just walked in, gossiping over the London Daily. Although what was there to gossip over in that, she didn’t know.

“May I take your order, please?” she asked politely.

“A cup’a char would be nice, thank yer,” the tallest one returned absent-mindedly. Casey took down the rest of the orders and took them to the back. Normal routine, really. It stabilised everything, even if it were boring. She wished something interesting would happen for once, especially in weather like this. Getting hot and irritated really wasn’t her thing if she wanted to hold onto her job.

As she retreated after serving them, she wondered whether the ‘gentleman’ Henrietta had mentioned would come in today. It’d been a long time – nine years, to be exact. She had changed a lot since she was 7. For one, she’d let her hair grow till it reached her mid-back, and she certainly didn’t wear any sort of hair ribbon now. She stood at 5’6”, not a bad height for a sixteen year old. Her skin was slightly tanned, her hair sporting a few strands of golden in the mass of brown now. She wondered whether the boy would recognise her should he see her once again.

“Psst, Casey!” Marie suddenly hissed from behind her, tapping her on the shoulder.

“What?”

“There he is. The one from last Friday.” Marie pointed towards the door.

Her heart, for reasons unbeknownst to her, skipped a beat. She looked towards the door, away from the bustle of the place.

The guy didn’t look old at all. From Henrietta’s description, he had sounded like someone out of Sixth Form College already. The boy hadn’t told him her age, so she hadn’t been sure if he was the same age, or a few years older. It hadn’t been easy to distinguish in the rain too.

“God, he’s fine,” Marie whispered. Casey, even if she didn’t approve of Marie’s choice of words, couldn’t help agreeing. He was tall – taller than Dad, so that put him around 6’0” or 6’1”. She could now properly make out the colour of his hair. In the sunlight, it was a very dark brown, bordering on black. He was too far off for her to see his eyes, but she had a niggling feeling in her stomach that they were still as green as ever.

She tore her own eyes away from him, chiding herself. There were so many English people who had brown hair and green eyes, after all. She hadn’t even found out his bloody name! What was his name? All she knew was that his last name was Barlow. That was all.

“Casey!” Henrietta’s voice suddenly carried over.

She glanced up, then froze. He was right in front of Henrietta, but he was looking down at the counter. “Yeah?”

“Someone’s looking for you,” Henrietta’s replied, sounding just a tad playful.

Casey swallowed. Wiping her hands on a cloth rag, she slowly made her way over, willing her heart to stop acting like a snakeskin drum. No luck, though.

“Yes?” She marveled over the fact that something had actually come out of her mouth when she wanted it to, at least.

“This gentleman here.” Henrietta gestured in front of her. “He’s the one I told you about just now.”

“Right.” Her mouth suddenly felt dry, but her heart was bubbling. Could this be him? The mysterious one? “I’ll take it from here.”

Henrietta nodded before whisking off to serve a party of four who’d just arrived. Casey tried to get hold of her nerves again (what was it all about?) and faced him.

He was staring at her, like he had nine years ago at the playground that rainy evening.

“Um, hi,” she tried for starters. Blimey, he was even cuter up close. Had she thought the word cute? Oh, for God’s sake, this wasn’t working. “You are?”

He looked hesitant, before plunging his hand into the pocket of his jeans. It was then that Casey noticed the informal wear he had on. You must be blind, she told herself. He’s wearing jeans and a The Zutons T-shirt. If that isn’t so obvious, Coldplay isn’t the biggest UK band there is out there!

As Casey watched, he extracted a pen and paper. She noticed that his fingers were long and elegant, like a pianist’s. She always had liked hands like those. Grandpa’s, although wrinkled and sun-spotted, were just like them. And as he wrote something and slid the pad over the counter to her, a smile lingering on his lips, the sun from behind him coloured his hair and made her feel exposed to him, as if she’d too much pudding and wanted to hide the (non-existent) extra inches on her hips.

This had to be him, right?

She took the pad and perused it. In a clearly legible, looping script, it read:

You’re Casey Sayles, aren’t you?

She looked up, startled. He was still watching her, a questioning look in his eyes. They were a clear emerald green, untainted and void of any other colour. Unchanged. Like him.

She grabbed the pen she used to take orders down from her pocket and wrote ‘Yes, how do you know me?’ before passing it back to him.

He read it and smiled again. Writing something back, he passed the pad back to her. As he did, their fingers brushed. Some sort of electric tingle passed between them, and she fought the urge to massage her hand.

You don’t remember me? I’m the boy from the playground. The one who wouldn’t talk to you.

Flipping hell! It was him! An odd sense of déjà vu overcame her. After all the years, hoping to see that pink ribbon around the tree, to hear his voice…

Was this coincidence or just... fate?

She wondered where all the mumbo-jumbo in her head was coming from.

You mean the retard?

He read it and looked amused.

Funny, I never pegged you for an insulting sort. His hand paused for a moment. I just came to say I’m sorry for hurting your feelings then – I wanted so much to talk to you but I couldn’t. I’m mute, if you didn’t know that.

Casey was horrified. Great, she had gone and hurt his feelings! She should have known, instead of acting like a big brat to him. What was she to write now?

He regarded her with those eyes of his before reaching out for the pad again.

It’s okay, you don’t have to feel guilty or anything. I just had to come and apologise when I heard you were still living here. Water under the bridge, alright?

Casey bit her lip and looked at him tentatively. He raised an eyebrow.

If he was mute… he could still hear her, right? He’d been able to, in the playground. Either that or he’d been one damn good actor.

She decided to try something.

“Can you hear me?” She raised her voice just a little bit.

He blinked and nodded slowly.

“Even like this?” She lowered her voice till it was at normal range.

I’m not deaf, Casey, he wrote before showing it to her. I can still hear pretty well. It’s just my vocal cords that are knackered.

Casey smiled sheepishly. “I’m sorry, I just don’t know much about this,” she offered as a very lame form of explanation. “So…” she fumbled, wondering how to phrase her next question. “Your surname’s Barlow, right? I still don’t know your first name.”

It’s Easton Barlow. And I’d really like a Mojito, if the pretty lady pleases; pretty hot out there.

Casey laughed, feeling a little more relaxed. The rush hour was nearly upon them, but there was still space enough for Easton (what a nice name that was) at the counter. He’d called her pretty! “Flatterer. Cocktail before lunch, huh?”

I’m a high-maintenance guy. He waggled his eyebrows.

She laughed again. He thought about how he liked her laugh. Nice, pretty, light. Like her.

“You sure are,” she added, turning away to serve him. “Tell me, Easton, how old are you? I bet you’re out of Sixth Form already.”

He shook his head. No, I’m in Year 12 at Leyton Sixth Form now, going on Year 13. What about you?

She tucked a lock of wayward hair behind her ears and plopped his drink in front of him. So he was one year older than she was. “Just did GCSEs, Year 12 next. Yay for me,” she added sarcastically.

He smiled, taking a sip. You excited?

This was a little weird. Talking (well, of sorts) to a guy she’d met for about a half hour nine years ago, and she wasn’t feeling awkward at all. At this rate, she might skip out into the London sunshine, twirl around and sing ‘Pretty Woman’. Why was she feeling so cheery all of a sudden? It wasn’t like they were ex-lovers. God forbid that! She’d only been 7 when she’d met him, after all.

He sure was good-looking, though.

“Not really, more like freaked out,” she responded. “I-”

“CASEY!”

She winced. Not again.

“Yes, Mr. Field?” she shouted back.

“GET THAT ARSE OFF THE TABLE AND GET TO WORK! I’M NOT PAYING YOU TO BE A TYRE KICKER!”

She rolled her eyes. “That’s the big boss. He’s a little cranky today, don’t mind him.” She hesitated. “So… are you staying here?”

Yeah, I’ll be boarding with the Greenleys at Number 57 for a few days. You can come over, if you want - introduce me to Westminster again. He looked up mischievously.

“Right on,” she drawled, not able to resist a laugh from bubbling up. “Sure, I’m free tomorrow. You want to visit the famous Westminster Abbey?”

Ah, the Abbey, my favourite place to hang out. Absobloodylutely. She wrinkled her nose at him. Whatever floats your boat, I’ll be there.

“Great,” she chirped. “D’you want my cell phone number? I—oh, sorry, I forgot.” Her face fell.

It’s okay. He smiled reassuringly at her. I can still text you, can’t I?

Casey blushed. “Of course.” She wrote it down on a slip of paper and passed it to him, which he tucked carefully into his pocket. “I better go or Field will have my throat. It was nice meeting you again. And I do forgive you, I should have known.” She looked contrite.

Easton didn’t write anything else. He just allowed a little grin to curl around his lips, his eyes sending out a mental message. Water under the bridge.

Casey, feeling like all the miracles in the world had just happened to her at once, spun around and headed towards a particularly raucous group of boys (they had to be in primary school still). Bloody hell, she could get used to the ups-and-downs of London weather at this rate.

After all, it was a particularly fine day…

--

“Where have you been, Casey?” her Grandpa inquired, looking up from the newspaper.

“I was out sightseeing,” she returned, shaking out her hair. It was drizzling a little again, but not enough to dampen her spirits. “Did you know Easton’s back? The boy I gave my ribbon to?”

“Has he really.” Grandpa didn’t seem very surprised to hear that. Casey thought about that, shrugged and flopped down next to him.

“Yeah, I went to the London Eye and the Abbey with him.” She looked at Grandpa in speculation. “It was kind of hard to communicate with him – do you know he’s mute? We had to type in one of those funky things. Maybe I’ll go learn sign language, he knows that. Whatever it is, it was fun to be out with someone who doesn’t giggle at every cute boy she sees. Even though he didn’t so much as mention the ribbon,” she murmured more to herself.

“Best you not forget your Grandpa here, all alone and lonely,” the old man huffed, reaching over and tapping her lightly on the head with his cane. “Will you, lassie?”

“Grandpa! Have you been listening to my P!nk album?” Casey asked, mock shocked. Grandpa only laughed but didn’t say anything else, only plastering an innocent look on his benign old face.

“I’ll be off to have a shower, then. I’ll make dinner in a while.” She stood up, kissed the top of Grandpa’s head and went off, humming a tune which sounded suspiciously like ‘Tie a Yellow Ribbon ‘Round the Ole Oak Tree’.

The old man smiled softly and looked back at the front of the London Daily.

This would be one interesting week, indeed.

--

“I mean, could this be worse?” Casey spun around in her chair and sighed loudly. “I should have just gone to Leyton instead of here. This stinks.”

You know, most people will just carry a conversation on MSN or something, but you have to do it through webcam. If that’s not funny, I don’t know what it is.

She read the note he stuck up and pretended to be offended. “What is it to you, then, Mr. Barlow? Can I not be funny? Besides, I haven’t had the time to learn sign language… it’s been so messy here…”

Easton stuck his tongue out. Fine, you win. Hey, half-term is coming, you know. Do you want to come visit for a while? Maybe just a day or two, it’d be fun. What d’you think?

Casey froze in her seat before reading it over again.

He wanted her to go over to Leyton? A sort of feeling she couldn’t decipher swelled up in her, like a balloon ready to burst. It was twilight but still, she felt like the sun had just emerged once again from its hiding place at those words.

It was weird. Ten years ago, she’d been willing to ignore him because he’d ignored her. She hadn’t so much as figured out what was his name, let alone his age or nationality. Over the course of a half-year or so, she’d found out that he was more than three-quarters English – his father was a Londoner while his mother was from Manchester too, which had started his passion for Manchester United FC. His favourite player was Roy Keane, but she had a niggling feeling that it was really Ryan Giggs. (Just that gut feeling and all.) He didn’t have a middle name, and his hair was in fact black, but had been bleached by the sun such that it looked sort of brown and sort of black at the same time. He’d been born mute, but why they still weren’t sure. Being forced to shift from county to county since young, he’d settled in Leyton when he’d left Westminster, attending a special ed school. However, when he’d finished Year 11, he had been granted a place in Leyton Sixth Form College. He’d grabbed at the chance for a further education and was now doing English and Arts.

She marveled at how… upfront he was about being mute. And how strong he was. But of course, from the time he’d gone to place a hand on her shoulder in the playground, she’d known he was the strong and silent type, was he? Just not in the silent way she’d imagined.

“Um…” she cleared her throat, hoping her voice wouldn’t come out like a wizened old woman’s. “Are you sure? I don’t want to be a burden on you…”

Don’t be daft, he scoffed. You’re more than welcome here. I can always just pass you off as my twin sister, huh?

It was then that she felt a distant ache in her heart. It had nothing to do with the fact that she’d just stubbed her toe on the bottom of her table.

“OW!” she cursed. “Sorry, Easton, just that bloody…” She bent down and looked at her toe. Not much damage, at least. “Okay, you can stop grinning like a maniac there. I don’t look a thing like you, if you must know.”

Ha ha, you’re just too cute when you do that. So, what’s your answer?

After she read that, she made the mistake of looking straight into his green eyes.

Boom. Ka-bang. Her heart nearly stopped. The look of eager anticipation in his eyes made her realise just how much she wanted to go, how much she wanted to look at his face again. It was like trying to make up for that rainy Saturday evening. And even though the weather was getting parky again, she felt like heat had just suffused her every vein.

Could she be…?

“I’ll have to ask my mother,” she blurted out, averting her eyes away from his.

He looked disappointed, but smiled all the same. Sure, just tell me when you’ve got your reply. I’d better be going, I bet you my arm that my roommate’s going to be stumbling in piss drunk later. He sure likes to hang around slappers, let me tell you. Have a good night, Casey.

Casey felt a slight twinge of disappointment, but hid it well by waggling her fingers in a good-bye gesture into her webcam. “Okay. Night night, Easton, don’t let the bed bugs bite. I’ll text you!”

He nodded, flashed a bright smile and stuck his hand up to wave it. Then the screen went off.

She suddenly felt like crying. It was weird, these mood swings of hers. She wanted so much to go to Leyton and visit him, but her parents surely wouldn’t allow it. Maybe if she pleaded them. Goddamn the February weather! And she was old enough to make her own decisions, wasn’t she?

A knock sounded at her door.

Startled, she tried to calm herself down. Shutting down her computer, she called out, “Come in.”

Her mother entered, looking drawn. “Casey, do you want supper?”

No, I want you to sing ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ to me once again, just once. “I’ll be right down.”

Her mother peered into her eyes. “Are you okay? You look… confused.”

Casey bit her lip again. Maybe she could try her luck and see if could make it. Easton had come to Westminster to see her… she wanted to go to Leyton to see him. They weren’t a couple, but still. She just wanted to go somewhere else other than within Westminster itself. A chance.

With him?

Don’t be daft. Or so she told herself.

“Easton asked me if I wanted to go visit him in Leyton for half-term,” she burst out. Dear God, let Mum be kind for once and let her treat me like the daughter I am… “Can I go… please?”

--

7 Day Travelcards
London Transport Visitor Tickets
London, United Kingdom

1 Travelcard (Adult) - £33.20
Total Price: £33.20 GBP

Start Date
Mon, 16th February 2004
Dispatch
Worldwide - see restrictions
Zones
Zones 1-4

--

hey, easton, guess what?

easton?

come on, boy, you can just answer… don’t be an idiot!

easton?

--

CaseyTheSnazzy signed in at 10:02 PM on 9/2/2004.

CaseyTheSnazzy signed off at 10:04 PM on 9/2/2004.

--

Please leave a message after the tone.

Easton, where the bloody hell did you disappear to? I texted you two hours ago, you should have gotten them by now… I mean, your phone is switched on, after all. And I logged onto MSN but you weren’t there either. Where ARE you? I’ve got news to tell you! Mum’s allowing me to go to Leyton to visit you!! Isn’t that brill?? I mean, I thought she’d never agree, but I pleaded and even had to drag Grandpa in… she just booked my Travelcard online—I could have just bought it at the tube station, Mum’s weird, but whatever. It’s going to be so cool! If only you’d answer… maybe it’s too late there…

“Hello? Hello?”

“Easton?” She sucked in a breath. That couldn’t be! He couldn’t talk! “Is that… you?”

“Miss? Do you know the owner of this phone?”

“I’m a friend of his.” She felt her heartstrings twinge upon saying the word ‘friend’. “What’s happened? Why do you have his phone?”

“I’m sorry to tell you this, Miss, but your friend’s got into a road accident… he’s currently in Whipps Cross Hospital near Leytonstone. We retrieved this from the wreckage, amazing how it survived…”

Her own phone clattered to the ground, oblivious to the breaking of her heart.

--

“Easton!”

The teenage boy lay on the hospital bed, his eyes closed. Guarded, controlled, not knowing what was happening around him. Impervious to the heavy snowfall outside of the antiseptic enclosure he was in. The snowy white, a perfect match to the sheets of his bed, the paste-like colour to his face.

“Oh, my God…” Casey pressed a hand to her mouth.

The doctor glanced up. The white of his coat seemed to close around her, suffocating her very being. Her throat closed up. The person lying there so peacefully couldn’t be Easton…

No, this wasn’t happening. She was going to wake up and it would be Monday the 19th, the day she’d set off for Leyton. She was going to wake up in front of her computer and find out that she’d fallen asleep while in the middle of webcam-ing with him. She was going to look right into those peridot-green eyes and know that nothing bad had happened, nothing bad would happen. Right?

“Miss?”

Casey opened her eyes. The sharp tang of assorted drugs hit her, sealing reality with finality.

“His condition’s quite critical,” the doctor informed her. She could tell that he wanted to be kind, but at the same time, he was a professional. She couldn’t really blame him. “The fact that he’s survived so far... He shouldn’t have been out in this weather, snow’s been almost three inches. The car he was in skidded off the ice and hit the road block, driver died upon impact.”

Even through her disbelief, she couldn’t help thinking that he sounded more like a policeman than a doctor.

I’m a high-maintenance guy.

“Can you save him?” she asked hoarsely, almost fearful for the answer.

“We’ve operated on him,” the doctor replied, flipping through a file. “But we’re not sure of his chances yet. It was a bad hit he took.”

Casey’s hand clutched at the Travelcard in the pocket of her thick winter coat.

“Visiting hours will be over in twenty minutes,” the doctor added. She raised her gaze from his face and met his sympathetic eyes.

“Thank you.” Her voice came out exhausted.

The doctor exited. She was left alone with a wide array of medical equipment, beeping sounds and confusion.

“Easton…” she pulled the chair up by his bedside. Her gaze raked over his scraped face, the bandages almost swallowing his entire being. “Why were you out? You knew the weather was dangerous – I told you school shut down for the week because of that. You knew your room-mate was drunk… Whycouldn't you have gotten a ride from someone else for your therapy class…?”

Casey stopped and swallowed. The lump in her throat had gotten too big for her to handle.

He lay there serenely, not moving a muscle. The snow outside continued to assault the cars and various vehicles struggling to make their way through the London streets.

“I never told you how I felt about you, did I?”

Only the beeping of the heart monitor answered her.

“See, I thought you didn’t have the bottle to answer my questions.” She smiled, bitterly. “I thought you couldn’t hear me. I thought you didn’t want to talk me. Actually, I don’t really know what I thought. But at least I knew you were real, because your eyes…” she stopped and swallowed again. “They were so… sad. I couldn’t get them out of my head for days to come. You made me want to cry, you know? God, you make me want to cry now.” She pinched her nose. “What’re you doing to me, huh?”

Only the slight hum of the air-conditioner answered her.

She gazed sadly at him. She didn’t notice it, but the sheets were stained by another substance. “You kind of changed my world from then on. I didn’t ask why you moved, because Grandpa would have gotten ideas in his head.”

God, she felt like crying.

“I never had a boyfriend, you know? I don’t really know why. Maybe it was to do with you.”

Only the ticking of the clock on the wall opposite her answered her.

Casey sat up straighter. “When Henrietta told me someone was looking for me, I didn’t think it was you. But I felt so happy when you walked through that door. Why? Because I wanted my ribbon back, or because it was you?” She choked back something she couldn’t identify. “Why is it you never mentioned my ribbon? Did you forget about it?”

Only the hissing of the various tubes connected to him answered her.

“You don’t have to humour me.” She tried to smile, but found that her cheek muscles weren’t complying with her want. “Just wake up and tell me your name. Please.”

His chest rose up and down steadily. Carbon dioxide and oxygen exchanged through the machine. Snow plundering her senses, freezing her every vein in a time-stopping standstill.

“If you don’t want to talk to me, that’s okay. Just know that the year was perfect. I mean it.” Casey touched his cheek gently, afraid to brush some part of him that would hurt.

She closed her eyes. “Giggs, Giggs will tear you apart, again…” she started slowly, softly. Her voice washed over them, like waves lapping at the sand they’d never got to sift through with their feet.

Once again, she failed to notice the pearly water droplets seeping past her eyelids and dropping silently onto the cotton bed sheets. The strong, silent type.

Her unknown saviour.

And finally, silence was the one who answered her.

--

Her eyelids fluttered open.

He wasn’t there anymore.

She started to scream.

--

Delete this contact from your instant messaging list? Yes/No

...

You have chosen not to delete EastOn from your instant messaging list. He/she will still be able to send you instant messages and see your online status. Do you still want to delete EastOn?

--

It was still snowing. Dreary London weather. It would never change.

Casey peered up at the sky from under her somber black hooded T-shirt. She hadn’t wanted to wear a dress to his funeral – not that it would be feasible, what with the amount of snow they were getting. It deluged the buildings, covered the sidewalks, sizzled on the porches of houses.

She felt numb.

“Are you Casey?” Someone suddenly asked from her right.

Casey turned her head. She looked familiar. Too familiar – she had Easton’s eyes. Those eyes. Only red-rimmed. “Yes, I am.”

The lady regarded her for a moment before pulling something from the front of her heavy coat. “Easton left you something.” It was a plastic bag, green in colour. Like his eyes. “We found it in his room with your name on it. I thought... that you might have wanted to have it.”

Casey accepted it with hesitant hands. ‘Thank you.” The load weighed heavily in her hands, and she felt the distinctiveness of fabric through the plastic.

You won’t tell me… would you?

Easton’s mother smiled wanly. “He’ll understand,” she whispered. “Go.”

And she did.

--

Casey shook out a Manchester United jersey. The number 11 and Giggs were clearly emblazoned on the back. Against her will, she smiled.

Of course. She’d known it all along.

Putting it to her nose, she felt the beginning of tears start to fall. She swore she could smell the scent of fresh rain on it. Mint. Peppermint.

There was nothing else but a piece of paper. It was wrinkled and folded over many times. Old, like it’d been preserved for a long time. The faint smell of notebook paper wafted past her nostrils as she tried to maneuver her fingers such that she wouldn’t tear it apart opening it.

There was writing on it - his, the childish loop morphing into the neat script she was so familiar with.

Her eyes ran down. She couldn’t help a tangle of knots forming in her throat, right where her larynx was.

My name is Easton Barlow.

I can’t speak, but I want to.

Today was the first time I met you, but I think you’re really cute (strike-out) adorable (strike-out) pretty (strike-out) beautiful. I think I can listen to your voice forever.

I never wanted to hurt you. Can you forgive me?

You think your papa doesn’t love you, but he does. So does your mama, and your grandpa.

I really like Man U. My favourite player is Ryan (strike-out) Roy Keane. He's the best.

I don’t like to see you cry. You look nicer when you smile.

I like your eyes. They’re really big and round, like the moon. They're the same colour as your hair, too - or are they?

I love bangers and mash. It’s the best food in the whole of England.

I plan to return to Westminster someday when I’m older. Will you still be there…?

You’re the first person ever to accept my condition so quickly. You don’t mind that I can’t talk, and you didn’t mind that at the London Eye, you had to say everything for me. You’re the first person I can ‘talk’ so freely to... you do something to me, and I can’t say what.

It hurt that I can’t tell you what I want to…

Why do I feel this way?

Till the end.

--

She couldn’t run fast enough. Her breath came in short gasps, the wisps furling in the February air. Snow fell onto her shoulders like whispers of white crystal, coating her hair. The piece of paper was clenched in her hand and the jersey clutched to her chest, like she’d never let them go.

Number 41. Number 43. Number 45.

I’ve finally figured it out.

She came to a skidding halt in front of her house. Her Grandpa was on the porch, rocking in that chair of his. He looked at her enquiringly, yet with a twinkle in his eye she couldn’t discern.

She fell to her knees in front of the tree by the window, her eyes seeking out the one thing that mattered the most to her now.

A narrow pink ribbon, slightly faded, fluttered in the cool winter breeze, the knot attaching it to one of the delicate branches as gentle as the wind.

I think I love you, Casey Sayles.

No, I don’t think. I do.

--

The End

9,952 words

--

Requirements:
1) Must be a one-shot. Maximum 10,000 words.
2) Weather reflects mood of protagonist (must be subtle, but obvious enough that I can recognize it).
3) Include this line somewhere: "Ribbons. They don't do a girl justice."
4) Insert the soccer team Manchester United somewhere. Passing references count.
5) One of the characters can't speak a word of English (being mute is allowed). Whether they are able to convey what they wish to communicate is up to you.
6) A character that is a wise, old man with a cane. Likes to whack people with it.
7) Somehow incites tears from reader. Whether it be tears of laughter, sadness, or at how cute the story is.

No:
- phrases like, "soft patter of rain". Be creative.
- situations like this: Girl catches boyfriend kissing his ex, runs away in tears, boyfriend sees her running away, goes to catch up with her, she doesn't believe him, calls him a lying bastard, break up, make up, etc. No. Overdone and overused. Again, be creative.
- using the word "said". At all.

A/N
I disclaim anything I shouldn’t own. Any factual disparities are due to the fact that I’m not from England, let alone London. If you’re from there, feel free to slam any of my mistakes! I understand that different parts of London have different ways of saying things, but I used an online ‘dictionary’ of London slang so I might be wrong.

I’ll really love a review, comments, anything! Just something so that I can improve. Much thanks! (:

-Louisa