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Sample:
It was a morning like any other down in Faraway Wood. The last drops of dew faded from the bluebells as the sun peaked through the fluffy white clouds. A gentle breeze softly toppled the last remaining leaves from their branches. The dawn chorus had sung their final verse and were going about their daily business. The night watchers were on their way to bed and the day was ready to begin.
In the distance you can just make out a clearing in the trees. Follow the crudely made path and you will find a little white cottage lying rather meekly by itself. It has a little green door with a big black knocker, two wooden framed windows back and front, and on the roof the chimney pot stands.
Gaze through a window and you'll see Mrs Pucklewick busying herself grinding the herbs to make her special remedies which she sells door to door and at the local market on a Friday. Mrs Pucklewick is a stout, well rounded lady, with rosy red cheeks, soft brown eyes, and auburn hair, neatly arranged in a bun. She lives as she has done, as far back as she can remember, in The Little White Cottage in Faraway Wood.
The day in question, a Wednesday I recall, was as I've said no different from any other Wednesday, but for the parcel the postman delivered. Mrs Pucklewick placed the parcel squarely on the kitchen table and went to make some tea. As she carefully measured out the tea into the teapot, her mind wondered; I must get round to my spring clean she thought to herself, as she wiped a cob-web away from the top of her Dresser. I don't know where the days go she added.
On her return she noticed a ray of sunshine coming through her small wooden framed windows. The warm glow illuminated the package as if by spotlight, Mrs Pucklewick was intrigued. She set the teapot on the table and left it as she always did to brew for three minutes exactly. Mrs Pucklewick was not by nature a fussy person, but there were things in her opinion that should be done properly, leaving the tea to brew sufficiently was one of those things. She pulled up a chair and lowered herself thoughtfully into it. What could it be she muttered to herself. It has to be said that since the passing of Mr Pucklewick some years ago, Mrs Pucklewick had taken to muttering to herself quite a bit. She stared intensely at the parcel. It was quite an ordinary parcel she pondered; about the size of a shoe box and wrapped in brown paper. She couldn't quite make out the post mark Bichester, Dichester, something along those lines, she concluded.
By this time Mr Tibbs had made his first appearance of the day. I suppose you'll be wanting your breakfast Mrs Pucklewick speculated. Mr Tibbs purred expectantly and positioned himself at Mrs Pucklewick's fluffy red slippers. "Alright then, you know where it is," she said. Mr Tibbs meowed appreciatively. And then as if by magic, there appeared a small bowl of fishy looking food waiting for him in the corner of the kitchen.
"Oh this is just silly" Mrs Pucklewick muttered, returning to the matter at hand. "May as well just open it and solve the mystery, not as if I've never received a parcel before she grumbled." The fact was Mrs Pucklewick hadn't received a parcel or a letter since Mr Pucklewick passed on fifteen years ago.
Mrs Pucklewick decided that if it had taken fifteen years for a parcel to arrive then another few minutes wouldn't matter. She picked up the parcel and placed it on the mantelpiece over the fire. Mrs Pucklewick drank her tea and went about the rest of her chores.
The day made way for evening song and shadows cast as the night crept in. In the distance the sound of an owl tuning up for his evening performance. The little cottage shone in the early evening moonlight and all was well in Faraway Wood. And if you strained your eye, you could just make out Mrs Pucklewick through the cottage window, pacing up and down and muttering to herself, the parcel laying on the mantelpiece, still unopened.
"That's it," she cried, in the general direction of Mr Tibbs, "Time for bed." Mr Tibbs started, and wondered what all the fuss was about. Deducting that it was indeed bedtime for Mrs Pucklewick; Mr Tibbs stretched and readied himself for a night's hunting.
It wasn't clear when Mr Tibbs actually arrived at The Little White Cottage, or where he had come from. He appeared on the doorstop one frosty morning about the time Mr Pucklewick passed on. His silky black fur glistened in the sunlight and the patch on his chest was white as freshly fallen snow. He had four white paws which gave him a rather ghostly appearance when he walked. A gold disc hung from his neck with a single inscription Mr Tibbs, it read. Mrs Pucklewick thought that someone would come looking for him, a tearful child perhaps. But that was fifteen years ago and as yet no child, in fact no one at all. Mrs Pucklewick contemplated that point for a while. fifteen years ago, she muttered, shaking her head. I wonder how old you are, she said, looking at Mr Tibbs intently. Perhaps we should make tomorrow your birthday, and we can start afresh from then, she said happily. Mr Tibbs purred in agreement and sprang through the window to go about his nightly pursuits. Mrs Pucklewick made her mug of cocoa and climbed the stairs to her bedroom, momentarily stopping to glance at the parcel as she went.
Since the passing of Mr Pucklewick she had found it difficult to sleep. She often woke in the night and would sit and listen to Flaherty the owl recite his haunting melody. She thought she would have a dog for company, but in her heart she knew that would not be the answer. Mrs Pucklewick sipped her cocoa and wondered what she would arrange for Mr Tibbs's birthday tomorrow.
Mrs Pucklewick was awake bright and early the next morning. She prepared a special birthday breakfast of sardines and pilchards for Mr Tibbs's return. And as if by magic, Mr Tibbs appeared just as she had placed the well filled bowl on the floor. "Happy Birthday Mr Tibbs," she said merrily. Mr Tibbs meowed thankfully.
Mrs Pucklewick went into the living room and stared at the package once again. After a few minutes she took the package from the mantle and sat in the armchair. She placed the parcel on her lap and examined it once again. No, she couldn't see anything more which might help her determine its content. Nothing for it, I'll have to open it , she concluded. She slowly loosened the tape which bound it together. She removed the paper to find a shoe box. It was white in colour with the name Brown's of London written in bold black type across the middle. I don't know anyone from London, she said nervously. She lifted the lid of the box. Inside were three objects: a silver locket, a birth certificate, and a newspaper cutting. The rest of the box was packed with old newspaper as if to conceal its real contents. Mrs Pucklewick set the objects down on her writing table. She looked at them for a while before picking up the locket. She opened the fastener to reveal two pictures positioned opposite each other. One was a likeness of a beautiful young woman. She had dark hair and green eyes, with skin as white as snow. The other was a picture of a young boy which had been partially damaged to hide his true features. Mrs Pucklewick returned the locket to the table and examined the berth certificate; Jack Alexander Pucklewick, born June 21st, 1951. Father: James Pucklewick Deceased. Mother: Alice Pucklewick occupation, seamstress.
Mrs Pucklewick slumped in her chair, astounded at what she'd just read. Thoughts rushed through her head as she tried to take it in. 1963 now, that would make him twelve, she calculated. She studied the locket again. The boy in the picture could be about twelve years old. But how could this be she muttered to herself.
James was the name given to her brother who she thought had died at birth. The whole thing was just too much to comprehend. Mrs Pucklewick felt sad for the brother she never knew. Tears rushed down her face as the intensity of the moment overcame her. I'm glad he married and had a family, she thought, as she brushed the tears away from her eyes.
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