Gretchen Scribbens got her coat on, checked her list, and picked up her bag, determined that today would be the day she would get past the front gate without going back for something she’d forgotten.

She performed her usual checks. Gas taps firmly turned off, windows shut, back door locked and bolted. Cold water, hot water, an extra twist of both taps; she'd waited, making sure there were no drips. She had straightened the curtains and cushions in the front room, or had she? Better do it again to make sure.

Upstairs was ok. Gretchen glanced at her list; yes, ticks against bathroom, airing cupboard door and landing light. Ok, just the bag to check again then. Purse, tick, phone, tick, keys, tick, list, LIST? Oh silly, in her hand. She took a very deep breath in, counting for seven beats; then let it out for seven. In and out, counting precisely, ten times.

'Everything A-ok,' she said to herself, 'off we jolly well go then.' Ten steps up the hall. Open the door. She repeated the breathing as she looked out at the orderly garden.

'Come on Gretchen old girl, you can do it. Just remember to look at the list. You know you’ve done it all. Today is the day. A short walk, only a short walk. Tomorrow a little further. Remember what the key worker says.

Every day a few more feet, a little further up the street, get yourself a little treat, something sugary and sweet.'

Gretchen laughed to herself as she pictured the nice young man from St Martins singing the rhyme to her and to her surprise found that she had not only walked up the garden path but was out of the gate and waiting to cross the road. She turned, anxiously looking to make sure she had latched the gate behind her. Yes, tick. A car had slowed to allow her to cross. The man behind the wheel smiled. It was a red car.

Father used to have a red car. He took her on trips to the seaside in the summer holidays. She had fun; donkey rides and candy floss, the helter skelter. Gretchen loved climbing the steps, up and up, the feel of the rough coconut mat under her bare legs and then, whizzing down, around and around. Dad laughing as she landed in a dizzy heap with her frock rucked around her waist and her hair sticking out from her head.

'Like you've been dragged through a hedge backwards, me scruffy little angel,' he would say as she jumped up to do it again, trying to make the day last forever, to put off the journey home.

A little toot on a horn; her attention snapped back to the car.

'Sorry, sorry, miles away,' she shouted, holding up her hand to show her appreciation at the man’s patience and kindness.

'A red car, a red letter day old girl,” she muttered, 'now we’re cooking with gas!' An expression her mother used to use. Gretchen always wondered about this when she was little. They had always had a gas cooker as far as she knew. Mother used to boil up great big pans of water on Sunday nights to fill up the tin bath in front of the range. After seaside days Mother would stand her in the bath and scrub all the sand off her legs. Scrub and scrub, while Dad watched Sunday Night At The London Palladium in the front room. Mother was very thorough, fussy. She always seemed so cross when Gretchen trailed in, tired, sticky from the candyfloss and seaside rock.

Breaking from her musings Gretchen suddenly felt the panic rising. Gas! Oh Lord, had she? Fighting down the urge to run back across the road, fly up the path and run indoors to check the cooker she did her breathing. In, two, three, four, five, six, seven, out, two three……… calmer now, in, two, three, ………look at the list. She rummaged in her bag Where was it, where was it?,She felt dizzy and realised she was holding her breath. The list sprang into her hand and yes; there was the tick in bold red ink. Gretchen exhaled and tried to gather her nerves.

'My Gretchen’s a nervous child.'

She could hear her Mother’s words in her head.

'Sickly too. Loves her trips to the seaside with Father but he fills her up with sweets and cakes. The ride home usually makes her sick. Always quiet and pale after their days out. I don’t much take to the sea air myself. Too much to do indoors. Such an untidy girl. I’m forever after her to neaten her room and brush her hair.'

Gretchen managed to fight down the anxiety that had threatened her red-letter day. That’s what Father used to say when something exciting happened.

'It’s a red letter day today miss.'

The local post office shop was only at the end of the road and by doing the breathing and clutching her list, which she glanced at frequently to reassure herself, she got there with no further panics or day dreams.

Mr Taylor, purveyor of groceries and newspapers, welcomed Gretchen in his usual hale and hearty manner. He was cutting bread for the lunchtime sandwich trade. The Postman called over from the other side of the shop where he was collecting the registered mail and parcels.

'Cheese and pickle for me Geoff, please. After you've served the lady of course.'

'Ok, cheese and pickle it is Gary.

Good morning Miss Scribbens. Nice to see you out and about. You’re looking well. What can I get you? I’ve just stocked up all the sweetie jars. No, don’t tell me, let me guess, a quarter of sherbet lemons and a quarter of chocolate éclairs? I know just what your favorites are. Creature of habit you are Miss Scribbens, a creature of habit. I said to the wife, we must make sure we’ve got Miss Scribben’s sweeties in for when she’s feeling better.'

Mr. Taylor turned from his sandwich making to wash his hands.
'I must say you’re looking very nice today in your summer frock, very fetching.' Frock? Did people really say frock nowadays Gretchen wondered.

Her father had always made her wear a frock on the seaside days. The memories flooded her head again. The helter skelter, the sweeties. Mother fussing and tutting as she washed Gretchen clean of sand. Then sending her to bed.

'School tomorrow young lady.'

Mother and Father downstairs; raised voices. She could hear them quite clearly if she pressed her ear to the gap in the floorboards under the red rug in her room. Every week there would be this argument and as Gretchen got older, became ‘a woman’ Mother’s anger and distress seemed to get worse. Eventually her Father left the house. Slunk away in the night in fact but even then Mother was not happy.

'Its all your fault,' Mother had said. 'Now what are we to do?'

Mother’s obsession with Gretchen’s health and her frenzied cleaning and re-cleaning of the house had been brought to the attention of social services by a concerned neighbor.Mother had been taken away in an ambulance and Gretchen had spent the rest of her teenage years in a municipal children’s home.

Mr. Taylor was weighing out the sherbet lemons.

'I’ve put a few extra in for you Miss Scribbens. Special sweeties for a sweet lady.' He put his hand to the side of his mouth and said in an exaggerated stage whisper, 'it’ll just be our little secret. I’ll say it again; you’re looking grand today. Nice to see you out and about. Must be a red letter day.'

The man who had run the home had not been a nice man. The price for Gretchen’s silence had, once again, become sweets and cakes, her obsessions began to mirror the madness of her Mother.

Mr. Taylor moved from behind the counter to hand the sweets to Gretchen who was breathing in, two, three, four, five, six, seven and out, one, two……but it was no good, the panic was rising. She could feel it spreading from her toes, racing up her legs, engulfing her belly and across her chest. It started to take over her arms, her hands. In front of her stood her father giving her sweeties, looking at her in the summer dress, saying,

'It’ll just be our little secret.'

Mrs. Taylor screamed as she came through from the back and saw her husband lying on the floor, the sandwich knife protruding from his neck. The postman dropped to his knees, the registered delivery letters spilled out of his bag and landed in the widening pool of blood.

'Call an ambulance, the police, hurry, I can't stop the blood, there's so much blood.".

Gretchen stood by the newspaper stand. She had tidied up the daily papers and was neatening the line of women’s magazines. Her mouth full of sherbet lemons as she busied herself. She mumbled her little rhyme.

'Every day a few more feet, a little further up the street, get yourself a little treat, something sugary and sweet. A red-letter day indeed old girl. Breathe in, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Breath out, one, two, three………………….'