Harlan Covington

I still recall that cold winter wedding in the great hall of the Savoy, a night when I, Eleanor Finch

Every evening for the past fifteen years, precisely at six oclock, Margaret Shaw places a steaming plate

Im a exhausted single mum working as a cleaner. On my way home I spot a newborn abandoned on a cold bus stop.

I promise to love your son as if he were my own. Rest in peace Harry Hart was a man who seemed to have it all.

Eleanor Finch sat in her drafty cottage, the air thick with damp and neglect. No one had tended the place

He staggered through the midnight streets of London, his steps unsteady after a generous nightcap.

A young woman hunched on a hospital bed, knees drawn up, muttered to herself in a jagged rhythm: I dont need him.

June 14th It was the day Lily, the village postwoman, was to be married. Oh, what a wedding not a celebration

Hey love, youve got to hear the wild story from Aunt Margarets cottage down in the Cotswolds.

After saying that, do I really have to sit here, pretend everythings fine and keep smiling?