**Little Joys on Stony Palms**
For thirty years, Timothy and Beatrice Whitmore had been married. Three decades of quiet, measured existence, stitched together from routines, silent understanding, and that particular, hard-worn tenderness that replaces passion. They had resigned themselves to the idea that their union was an island for two, cut off from any future that held the sound of childrens laughter. Then, in their thirty-first year, life surprised them.
Beatrice was fifty-four. Doctors tapped their temples, friends shook their heads between mouthfuls of Victoria sponge, muttering, «Why put yourself through it at your age?» But Beatrice just rested her hand on her growing belly, feeling the mysterious flutter beneath her palm. She didnt consider an abortion. She walked the springtime streets, swaying side to side like a ship carrying its most precious cargohope.
And she did it. She gave birth to a daughter, tiny and pink, with almond-shaped eyes wide open to an unfamiliar world. They called her Lily.
But soon, the joyful excitement gave way to a cold, clinging dread. The baby was too quiet, too listless. She struggled to feed, and her breath sometimes hitched into a wheezing whistle. The GP, avoiding their gaze, delivered the verdict: «Downs syndrome.» The world shrank to the size of a fluorescent-lit office and that word, heavy as a tombstone.
They drove home in stunned silence to their dying village. The doctor, trying to be kind, suggested they consider a specialist facility. «Theyll help her develop, teach her»
«And then what?» Timothy asked, gripping the seat. «A care home? A psychiatric ward?»
«A residential home, most likely,» she corrected, and in that correction lay the systems chilling cynicism.
The journey home felt endless. Timothy was the first to speak, his usually steady voice trembling:
«It cant be She wasnt born to fade away in some sterile room, surrounded by strangers. She wasnt.»
Beatrice exhaled as if shed been waiting for those words. Tears spilled over, but they were tears of relief.
«I think so too. Well raise her ourselves. Love her ourselves.»
And in all the years that followed, the Whitmores never regretted their decision. Lily grew. Her world was small but dazzlingly bright. She found joy in simple thingssunlight through the window, sparrows dust-bathing. She had her own little garden patch where she grew peas and beetroot with her mother, getting better each year.
And she adored the chickens. Not just feeding themshe guarded them like a knight, chasing off the neighbours cat if it dared approach her feathered kingdom. She chattered to them in her own language, and they seemed to understand.
In summer, the village briefly came alive. Grandchildren visited from the city to soak up country air, thick with cut grass and woodsmoke. Among them was Jake Harrington, the local troublemaker, a daredevil with a heart of gold. He broke slingshots boys used to shoot at birds and stood up for the weak. One day, he saw local lads teasing Lily, mimicking her and pelting her with pinecones. She stood pressed against the shed wall, quietly crying, not understanding why they were cruel.
Jakes anger was swift and terrifying. He chased them off, then gently wiped Lilys dirt-streaked cheeks and said, «Dont worry. No ones hurting you again.» From that day, he became her guardian. Because of him, the Whitmores let Lily play outside, trusting Jakes wordwhich was ironclad.
But the village was dying. First the school closed, then the nursery. The bus to town, once running hourly, dwindled to twice a day, then vanished. The final nail was the shuttered village shop. Life clung on in vegetable patches and the few homes still keeping chickens.
Elderly neighbours passed, their houses crumbling into skeletons, swallowed by nettles. Jakes grandmother fell ill and was taken to the city. The blacksmith, Khalid, a kind man whod moved from Leeds years ago, left for work elsewhere. Only a handful remainedthe Whitmores, with nowhere else to go, living on Timothys pension and the pennies Beatrice earned baking her famous sourdough. Once a week, she fired up the old brick oven and made loaves so good people came from neighbouring villages just for a taste.
Lily was kept away from the fireBeatrices one lingering fear.
Then, the roar of machinery shattered their quiet. Bulldozers, like prehistoric beasts, tore through empty homes. A developer, some bloke named Harrington-Wells, had bought up the abandoned houses. The land was primepine forests, clean rivers, perfect for killing the peace.
Locals rarely saw Harrington-Wells himself, but they felt his presence in the buzz of chainsaws felling ancient oaks and the crunch of bulldozers flattening history. He cleared a hectare and fenced it off with three-metre walls, barbed wire, and cameras that whirred ominously at movement.
When his monstrous mansion was finished, the noise turned to fireworksHarrington-Wells loved hosting parties no one else wanted. The only upside? New lampposts and a gravel road. Crumbs from the masters table.
One summer morning, Timothy and Beatrice drove thirty miles for supplies. Lily, now eighteen, was left with strict orders: *Stay inside.* Beatrices eyes held an odd fear. «Those people in their metal monsters they wont see you. Theyll kill you without noticing.»
They returned at dusk to silence. A ringing, icy silence. Beatrices heart plummeted.
They rushed to the neighbourshad Lily visited? No one had seen her. Then Timothy, dark with dread, led Beatrice to old Tom Draper, the local oddball whod always given Lily sweets. What if? Rumours said he poached deer with a crossbow.
But Tom was dead drunk, incoherent.
Their last hope was Harrington-Wells estate. Music and drunken shouts spilled from the gates. As they approached, a spotlight flared, cameras whirring. No doorbellTimothy hammered on the wrought iron.
Eventually, a hulking security guard appeared. «What dyou want?»
«We need to speak to the owner,» Beatrice begged.
«Not happening,» the guard sneered.
«Its seriousour daughters missing!» she cried, clutching the bars.
A voice, neither male nor female, called from behind: «Rusty, let them in.»
Harrington-Wells emergedshort, silver-haired, with cold, curious eyes. He led them to a cedar gazebo. Beatrice sobbed out the story. Timothy watched his face, seeing boredom, not sympathy.
«You have people, vehicles!» Beatrice fell to her knees. «Please, help us find her!»
«Calm down,» Harrington-Wells stepped back, wrinkling his nose. «Rusty, organise a search.»
All night, quad bikes roared through the woods. Beatrice sat on the porch, muttering, «How could she leave? I told her not to» Timothy said nothing. He knewthis was theatre. These people knew something.
Tom Draper found Lily by the old marsh, a scrap of yellow ribbonjust like the one on her cardigansnagged on a bush. The body was nearby. Police said drowning. Bruises? «Just lividity.» The Whitmores didnt believe it. But fighting meant money, connectionsthey had none.
After the funeral, whispers spread. An old woman claimed shed seen Lily climbing onto a quad bike with «some lads.» The rumours were smothered. The old woman backtracked: «Mustve imagined it.»
A year later, Beatrice took to her bed. At night, Timothy heard her whisperingnot praying, but *cursing*, invoking vengeance with an ancient, pagan fury.
Three years passed. Jake Harrington, now a doctor, returned with Khalids son, Amir. The village was worsecrumbling cottages on one side, Harrington-Wells rusting fence on the other. Jake carried a gift for Lilya microscope. He remembered her delight examining a dragonflys wing through a magnifying glass.
The Whitmores door was unlocked. Inside, Timothy lay still.
«Alive?» Jake checked his pulse. «Timothy? Its me, Jake Harrington.»
The old mans eyes fluttered open. «Angel? Here for me?»
«No, Im Jake. Were taking you to hospital.»
«Not leaving. My place is here. With Beatrice. With Lily.»
Jake froze. «Theyre gone?»
«Lily was murdered,» Timothy rasped. «Beatrice died three years later. But she got revenge oh yes, she did.»
Jake gave him an injection, then went to the neighbours, the Drakes, for answers. Over tea, they spilled it all: how Harrington-Wells nephews had confessed to himsaid it was an accident, theyd «gone too far.» How hed covered it up with bribes and threats.
«But howd the truth come out?» Amir asked.
«His empire crumbled,» Edith Drake said darkly. «His son was embroiled in scandal, business collapsed. They say he became a recluse, terrified of something. Then he crawled to Beatrice. Word was, hed seen psychics who told him this was punishmenthed never escape unless she forgave him. He begged her that night, offered money, confessed everything.»
«Did she forgive him?»
«Who knows?» Edith shrugged. «She was nearly gone But he never made it home. Found with a crossbow bolt in his heart.»
Jake remembered Tom Draper and his crossbow. «So it was him?»
«Speculation,» Ediths husband muttered. «No proof. Couldve been a hired hand.»
«It was Justice,» Edith said firmly. «The kind Beatrice begged for.»
«No,» Jake said. «Big money, big enemies. Just business.»
Edith shook her head. «It was *Her*. What Beatrice summoned.»
As they left, Edith called after Amir: «Tell your dad I remember him. Alright?»
Amir noddedthough hed forget. Edith watched them go, smiling into the twilight, sure that somewhere, Khalid remembered her tooand the life left behind rusting fences.
