Misty pushed the final pile of paperwork to one side and sighed with relief. No matter how much money it made her, accounts day was, without doubt, her least favourite day of the week. She heard a warning knock then the antique, oak door squeal as it opened. The scent of strawberries wafted in from the factory. The foreman appeared in coat, cap and scarf. “All ready for you,” he said, easing the two-inch thick slab of old wood backwards and forwards in an attempt to identify the source of the high-pitched complaints. “I’ll try some more WD40 on this for you before I leave.” “That’s all right, Pete. I’ve got rather used to it,” she told him with a smile. The mental shrug was plain on his honest face as he relegated the small job to a non job. “The keys?” she reminded him. “Oh, right.” There was a loud jingle and a small scrape of metal on metal then a, “Best of luck tomorrow,” and the thunk of the door closing behind him. Misty stood and stretched, feeling the ache in her back that meant she’d been sitting badly again. The bespoke, ergonomic chair had been purchased specifically to support her dodgy lumbar region, but it didn’t seem to be much better than the seventeenth-century throne it had replaced. It didn’t squeak and squeal, though, she reminded herself. She looked around the office with pleasure, the ultra modern aluminium cabinets, the colourful seating area and ludicrously expensive lighting creating the perfect backdrop for the awards and accolades that dotted the oak-panelled wall. Her stiletto heels left dents in the thick-pile carpet as she went across to look up at that first one: the crumpled certificate proclaiming her to be Berthan-on-Sea WI’s sixth place finisher in ‘Jams, Jellies and Preserves’. She remembered the look of smug derision on the other five competitors’ carefully made-up faces as the too-young, too-new and too-single upstart grabbed her pot and ran, the image of grandmotherly bosoms shaking with suppressed laughter imprinted on her brain. It had spurred her on, though, she’d give them that; none of this would ever have happened without them. She moved along the wall to the Women’s Institute National Competition results from the following year and felt the usual frisson of pleasure as she read her name at the very top. She’d showed them, all right. The phone rang while she was entering the combination on the safe’s keypad. “Oh, have I missed you?” a crackly version of her secretary said. “Em… In case you’re still there, Miss Archer, I just had a call from the television people. The car will be arriving at two pm and not three. I told them that would be fine because I know how much you were looking forward to meeting Mr Norton and his guests, but let me know if it’s inconvenient and I’ll ask them to reschedule… Em… If I don’t talk to you before then, I hope it goes really well… And, em… You will remember to ask for Mr Hanks’ autograph for my mum, won’t you? Em… Right… I’ll see you on Thursday. Good luck!” She’d thrown off her high-powered heels and danced barefoot after that first call. “Everyone wants to meet the reclusive owner and inventor of the astonishing new product that’s taken Europe by storm… What better stage than Mr Norton’s show?… It’ll launch you straight into A-list celebrity…” All of that was very nice, but the fact that the show was aired in the US had been the clincher. Walmart would cave on the price once their customers started to demand Misty Archer’s award-winning jam. The walls creaked and groaned as she opened the safe door and took out a small, blue, plastic container. Irritated by the noise, she slammed the heavy door closed and watched in horror as it rebounded, heading straight for her precious cargo. Her hand moved just too late. The box landed upside down on the abstract carpet. She crawled to the orange square and, heart in mouth, turned the blue plastic upright. “Oh, thank God,” she breathed, seeing the lid tightly in place. She sat there, legs splayed, her eyes closed, the tub held against her thumping chest until it went back to a normal, steady background noise she could easily ignore. Not so the laughter from the walls. That was new. She remembered the last and only time she’d heard it before. That night in the woods. That stupid tawny owl who wouldn’t accept there was no mate within earshot and sod off somewhere else. “Hooo… hu… huhuhuhooo,” again and again, all bloody night. It had been the final straw after the disaster of the WI winter fete. She’d got out of bed, shoved a jacket and her wellies over her pyjamas, grabbed a torch and a pile of her father’s fishing nets and crept into the forest. An icy wind had whispered through the trees, bringing the faint, fresh scent of snowdrops and the sound of tinkling laughter and song. She was so sleep-deprived she hadn’t realised it wasn’t coming from the distant village hall. She’d worked it out in the morning, though. The rays of light breaking through the canopy had lit up the middle portion of the net as if full of impossible mackerel, their shimmering bodies now still, starved of air. She’d cursed as she plodded her way through newly-fallen snow, angry that she’d caught something other than the annoying owl. The anger had faded to astonishment and disbelief when she’d seen the silvery wings and tiny bodies. It had taken five minutes of deep breathing to touch one. It was rigid, frozen in place, its wings torn by the net, its skin ripped bloody by the heavy thread. She didn’t remember dismantling the trap, didn’t remember getting home, didn’t remember anything until she’d come to standing over her father’s neglected fish freezer, her hands pressing down on the heavy lid. She’d gone inside to fill a large glass with her mother’s Scotch. When she woke, the bottle was empty and she’d decided the whole thing was a bad, whisky-induced dream. It was only when the WI’s summer fete was announced and her early attempts at a better jam were still last place ordinary that she’d wondered. Telling herself she was mad, she’d made her way over to her father’s workshop and put her hands on the big handle. It would be empty, she’d told herself before yanking the lid up. Lifeless, accusing eyes stared up at her and she’d jumped back with a shriek, letting the lid fall with a loud bang. Desperation made her go back. She’d flung the strawberry-stained wooden spoon in the sink in disgust and stormed through the garden, the incredible display of colour and fragrance from her mother’s careful planting lost on her. She’d stopped seeing their ethereal faces after she’d gutted the second, her knife moving as efficiently as it had when it had been her job to process the day’s catch. The greenhouse was empty of strawberries before she’d worked out that the wings worked best, and it took the contents of an entire shelf from Tesco to understand that it had to be grated, quickly, before the fine gossamer defrosted. A second outing to Tesco revealed that using the finest side of the grater produced the most effective silvery dust. She’d rummaged in her mother’s baking cupboard to come up with something to keep it in; the old Tupperware box had been used ever since. She ran her fingers over the black ink on the lid. ‘Secret ingredient!’ she’d written, gleeful with absolute confidence that those condescending, patronising women who’d she’d turned to in the hope of friendship would be the ones scurrying away with embarrassment. The next three years had been a whirlwind. Winning the Nationals, setting up a stall in the market, taking on her first employees, moving back to London, securing contracts with every major retailer at a price previously unheard of for a lowly jar of strawberry jam, European outlets begging for product, having to find bigger premises, and now, television and the world. She grinned as she set the box on the coffee table. Finding the level of powder not quite deep enough to fill her scoop, she decided another trip to the family home was long overdue. Her diary was so full, though… If only she could find them somewhere closer to London… Still, these were the trials and tribulations of a successful entrepreneur. She smiled as she looked at the bronze statuette in pride of place in the centre of the table then lifted one end of the box, inhaling deeply as the fairy dust flowed down to the other end, earthy, grassy motes floating towards her. She inhaled deeply and laughed, euphoriant from the rush of magic to her brain and the gleam of the shiny plaque proclaiming her ‘Businesswoman of 2020’. Pocketing the vial of glistening powder, she picked up the keys from the top of the filing cabinet and turned to press a hand against the old oak door. She caressed the ornate carving and leaned in to whisper to it. “This is your official eviction notice. My appeal against that ridiculous Listed Building Order is up for consideration next week and the Mayor and the head of the Planning Committee are bought and paid for. Every splinter of wood will be out of here by the end of the month. And you with it.” She heard their wails as her Christian Louboutins soundlessly travelled past the half-panelled walls to the shiny metal door into the factory. Inside, the pristine production lines were silent apart from the bubbling vats and the brisk strike of metal heels on metal floors. She laughed, her mind still flying high from the dust. “There’s no wood on these walls,” she shouted, hoping they could hear her. She climbed the stairs to the top of the final vat on the line, pressed the button to open the lid and prised the stopper from the vial. The powder drifted downwards to be whisked through hot, sticky jam until it had been transformed into a substance just short of addictive. A sudden crack echoed through the factory and she frowned, looking around for the source. It couldn’t be an employee; it was a sackable offence to stay while Miss Archer added the secret ingredient. “Hello?” she called. Hearing nothing, she shrugged and put the vial back in her pocket. A second crack startled her hand away from the button that closed the lid. She pirouetted a full three hundred and sixty degrees, suspicious eyes narrow with anger at the possibility of an intruder. She didn’t think to look up. She didn’t hear the heavy chunk of the oak ceiling fall. She did, however, hear howls of tinkling laughter before her eyes and her lungs started to melt and the giant stirrer tore the flesh from her bones. Photograph courtesy of congerdesign via pixabay
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