The Cradle of the White Lioness E-Book

Bea Eschen

• Herausgeber: tredition
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 178

Beschreibung

Homeless Sofia Waters arrives at a hospital suffering from exhaustion and severe leg pain. She meets Angela, who works for a charity, and tells her story of being a once famous children's author who lost everything when her family took advantage of her financially. Sofia later meets a dying woman named Avril, who gives her the key to her villa and instructions to find a valuable diamond and have it appraised by a certain person. Sofia sets out to find the diamond appraiser, but discovers that he has been murdered. She meets a man named Jamie Jamieson, who was the appraiser's business partner and knows the identity of the killer. Together they work to bring the killer to justice and expose a nationwide cartel of diamond dealers who buy diamonds from clients at undervalued prices and sell them on the international market at much higher prices. With Jamie's help and connections, the diamond is exhibited in galleries and museums, and The Cradle of the White Lioness, Avril's estate, becomes a place for street children and the homeless. Sofia takes over running The Cradle of the White Lioness and shares her experience with the homeless, young and old. Yana and Timmy are two of the children seeking refuge at Sofia's shelter. Yana was forced into an arranged marriage with her older cousin but managed to escape with Timmy's help. While at the shelter, she becomes embroiled in a string of puzzling dog killings. To help solve the case, Yana joins forces with detective Jack Renna, and over time, the two develop a romantic connection.

Leseprobe

THE CRADLE OF THE WHITE LIONESS

SOFIA AND YANA

BEA ESCHEN

Copyright © 2022 by Bea Eschen

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Printing and distribution on behalf of the author: tredition GmbH, An der Strusbek 10, 22926 Ahrensburg, Germany

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Foreword

Life of Sofia

Part I

Chapter 1

Part II

Chapter 2

Part III

Afterword

The Cradle of the White Lioness

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Foreword

Foreword

Afterword

Afterword

The Cradle of the White Lioness

Cover

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FOREWORD

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

LIFE OF SOFIA

PART I

1

I walk aimlessly through the back streets of the city. The night fog is coming in and the cool damp makes me shiver. My aches and pains are as bad as ever and my backpack feels heavier than ever. Everything I own is in it, everything that is left of the life I had before.

I stop at the next bus stop and sigh with relief as I put my bulky backpack on the built-in seat. The tiny space under the partial roof could give me some protection, but the light and openness expose me to the bad guys, the ones who like to kick and rape old, defenceless women like me. So I just sit there for a while and then move on to where my legs can take me.

It is one of those days when nothing goes right. The people in the chapel shook their heads when they saw me approaching, so I didn't even ask. They could at least have offered me a place to sleep on the veranda, but since the police chased us all away, no one dares to sleep there anymore.

One of the new mayor's promises was to clean up the city. There were enough complaints and talk about the homeless to make it one of his most effective promises; a promise that gave him the votes to win the election. Now he has to deliver on a promise that has started a war between the rich and the poor.

Nobody expected this, except me. I know that wealth is built on the poverty of others, but there comes a time when the impoverished fight back. Except me. I am leaving the fight to the younger generations. I am too tired to fight and take my fate as it comes.

I like to be alone, away from the noise, the aggression and the fear. Not that I'm not afraid. I'm afraid a lot when I don't know where to go. Like now. But I like to avoid the fear of others, and I don't want to share the worry with others because it makes it worse.

My body aches to lie down and stretch out in a comfortable, warm bed. I have counted the last coins in my pocket so many times today. I let my fingers touch each one and count them again. I am two coins short of a stay in the Morgue. It's a strange name for accommodation, but it's built like drawers for corpses. Each drawer, or capsule, is just big enough to lie down and sleep. The more expensive ones have TV and internet access, but I don't have enough coins for even the cheapest.

So I walk on. My swollen feet hurt in my shoes as they take me to the public hospital around the corner. I have stayed there before as a last resort for the night. The waiting room is big, with lots of chairs and sofas. It can be noisy, with drunk and drugged people, injured and bleeding from senseless street fights. But it is a place to go, to sit down in relative safety and, if I am lucky, to be offered a cup of hot soup.

AS I ENTER, the glare of the bright light hits me. My eyes have become more sensitive to light over the years, I think it is a matter of age, but my eyesight has also faded considerably. I still have a pair of glasses in my backpack, but I prefer not to wear them for fear of breaking them. I have nothing against the bright light, though; my sunglasses broke a long time ago, so I look around for a darker spot elsewhere.

I let my gaze wander over the heads of the others, trying to avoid eyes. It's difficult because almost everyone is staring at me. What do they see when they look at me, apart from an old, untidy woman with a big backpack? I am painfully aware of my grey, unwashed hair that has grown wild, my dirty, broken fingernails, and my old clothes that have turned to rags. The coat I was once proud of is torn in places, dirty and smelly. Since I have been sleeping rough, I have also lost a lot of weight. My once shapely and firm body has turned to skin and bones, and my face shows deep wrinkles of suffering and sorrow. Yet I still feel alive inside. My heart is full of compassion for others. I enjoy watching children play and bathing in the feel of a breeze and the sound of splashing water.

There's a bit of happiness left in me; that bit I've been saving for the few moments of joy I sometimes bring up to survive the dull days of existence. But as I stand here and now, I feel ashamed. I am in the spotlight and my appearance frightens the smaller children, who turn away from me and cling to their mums and dads for protection. Some point their fingers at me and make comments that I can't and don't want to hear.

I enter the waiting room of the hospital and don't know where to go, as every corner of the room is lit up and filled with people sitting and standing.

The scene before me suddenly becomes blurred. Is it my eyesight getting worse? Are my eyes filled with tears or am I feeling dizzy? I feel my legs shaking and I want to sit down more and more. The nurse calls for a family and at least three seats in the middle of the room become available. Dragging my feet, I shuffle towards them, feeling all eyes on me. Two teenage girls, both heavily made up and chewing gum, rush towards the seats. I know they have been watching me and are trying to get there before me. I feel a wave of anger rise up inside me, leaping forward and grabbing the middle chair the second they get there.

“Bloody stinking bitch,” one of them says.

“Bitch yourself,” I hiss at her.

“What did you say?” She asks, taking an earphone out of the one ear.

“I said, bitch yourself!” My words come out loud and clear, making everyone around us look up. The girl stares at me, stunned. She was expecting an answer, at least not one like that.

The other teen, looking equally stunned but more compromising, says, “Why don’t you move to the left or to the right, so we can all sit?”

“Okay,” I say, and move to the left.

Now the girls have a problem. None of them wants to sit next to me. I remain silent and enjoy their struggle. They both walk away, leaving me satisfied with myself.

Slowly the seats around me become empty as everyone prefers to go somewhere else. I feel happy and sad. Pleased and annoyed. I put my heavy backpack in front of me, stretch my aching legs on it, close my burning eyes and nod off.

SOMEONE TOUCHES MY SHOULDER. Am I dreaming? I open my eyes. A nurse with a friendly face asks me to come with her.

"Oh no," I say, annoyed, "I'm not here for that."

"Then what are you here for?" She asks.

"For shelter.“ I reply, looking down.

"Never mind madam, I think we need to have a look at your legs. They are very swollen."

I look at my legs. They are twice as big as usual. "Okay."

The friendly nurse helps me up and carries my backpack.

The waiting room of the hospital is almost empty now; I must have slept for hours. My legs are killing me and I struggle to follow her. The nurse takes my arm and leads me into a lift. We go up to the second floor, then down a corridor. We enter a room with two beds separated by a curtain.

"I suggest you take a shower before the doctor examines you. Put all your clothes in this basket and put these on."

She hands me a pile of clean clothes and leads me to the communal bathroom. I haven't had a shower or a change of clothes in a long time and I'm looking forward to it. The bathroom is large and smells of bleach. I take off my dirty old clothes and dare to look at myself in the wall mirror. Apart from my legs, which now look blue, I am as thin as a toothpick. Folds of loose skin hang from my torso. The skin on my arms and face has become leathery. My breasts look like dried sausages, almost down to my navel. My pubic hair is gone and the front of my vaginal slit is open. How, I ask myself, can a human body change so dramatically from beautiful to ugly? I am delighted to discover that this is a walk-in shower, turn on the hot water and forget myself in the golden rain of water.

At first it runs off me in brown rivulets, carrying the dirt of weeks of walking the streets of the city, and only after a long while does the water become clear. I lean against the shower wall with both hands and let the drops massage my back. I have never felt so good. After what seems like an eternity, I lower the shower head and direct the water between my legs. It's the moment I've been waiting for. The hard jets hit my clit. Oh my God, I'll never get too old for this! I feel a wonderful satisfaction as I wait out the tingling after the climax.

Feeling somewhat rejuvenated, I slowly leave the shower cubicle, but my legs soon remind me of the physical dilemma I am in.

What a good nurse she is, recognising the medical emergency I am in, which I finally realise. I dry myself and put on the clean white clothes, consisting of a vest, padded underpants and a long nightdress open on both sides. There are several creams and oils on the shelf. I take my time, choosing a homeopathic face cream and body oil for my arms. My hair is frizzy and it takes a lot of effort to comb it.

Finally I am finished and look at myself in the mirror. Better now, but a new sudden attack of weakness consumes me. The bed is white, clean and soft. I lie back and fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

I WAKE up to the sound of hail hitting the window. The storm outside immediately brings me back to reality. Where would I go in this weather, especially now that the new mayor has announced that he wants to rid the city of the homeless?

My legs feel heavier than usual. I pull off the blanket and am surprised to see that they are covered with stockings. Just then the friendly nurse walks in. "Oh hello, you had a nice long sleep!"

"Hm, yes."

She stands in front of me and looks at me sympathetically. "The doctor examined your legs while you were asleep and diagnosed you with severe oedema of the lower limbs. Do you know what that is?"

"Yes, sort of. Too much fluid, right?"

"Correct. So we're going to keep you here for a few days. You need a lot of rest, also because you are very exhausted."

"Okay." I am not unhappy about it. It means a nice warm bed and good food for a few days.

"I have also arranged for one of our social workers to contact you."

"Oh, but why?"

"Because you are homeless and we want to help you."

"I want to stay homeless."

"Well, you can discuss that with our social worker. Even if you stay homeless, we have services for people like you."

"Thank you."

I am surprised at all the attention I am getting. The nurse turns to leave, but then remembers something. "Oh, we need to do some blood tests to check your kidney and liver function."

I sigh. "Well, if you have to."

"Yes, we do," she says with a cheeky smile and disappears.

I am exhausted but get out of bed. My legs feel somehow stronger. Could it be that the stockings are helping?

As I walk to the door, I realise there is someone else in my room. The curtains around her bed blocks my view, but I can hear her breathing. On my return I will have a look.

• • •

THE BATHROOM IS OCCUPIED, so I stand at the door and wait. I can not stand still as I have to relieve myself. Another woman comes, makes a face when she sees me waiting and gets in line behind me. I'm glad she doesn't strike up a conversation because I'm not in the mood for one. I've never chatted with anyone in all these years, so why now? We stand there in silence for at least ten minutes. Finally the door opens and I rush in, just managing to make it to the toilet. This time I avoid the mirror on the wall.

On my return I smell a perfume in the room. It is delicately floral and reminds me of a spring meadow. I can also hear a faint chattering from behind the curtains. I've always had a problem hearing in crowded places. If there are more than two voices, I cannot make out the words. I crawl back to my bed.

There is a covered plate on my bedside table. Two slices of bread, butter, pieces of meat and tomatoes! I don’t have much of an appetite, but my empty stomach rumbles; I haven't eaten for at least two days and so I start slowly. Bite by bite I feel stronger and my stomach calms down.

Two sisters who look like nuns appear from behind the screen of my neighbour’s bed and now focus on me. “Hello, we hope you have recovered.”

I nod my head.

Each holds a pen and paper. “Please give us your name and date of birth.”

“Why?”

“Well,” one explains, “we need to register you here in the hospital.”

My name. It feels strange to say my name, to give myself an identity. I used to be nothing out there somewhere. Since I have been in hospital, I seem to have become someone again. “Sofia Waters.”

“Thank you. And your date of birth?”

“29th of June 1958.”

“Oh, your birthday tomorrow!” One nun says.

I shrug my shoulders. “Who cares anyway?”

“We care.” They say it in unison and leave.

The next person comes to my bed. She looks formal and introduces herself as Angela from the Social Support Charity Group. “How are you feeling today?”

“Better.”

“I would like to ask you some questions, Sofia. The Social Support Charity Group launched an initiative to help homeless people after the new mayors election and his new policy regarding the homeless. There are some new services I would like you to know of, which will help you should you stay homeless.”

“I have no choice but to stay homeless. I have no home.”

“Would you like to tell me your story?” Angela asks nicely.

“What story?”

“How did it come to that? Why are you homeless?”

I stare at her. “It’s a story I’ve been trying to forget for years, now you are asking me to remember it all and tell it to you?” This is the longest sentence I have spoken in a long time.

“Well, you don’t have to tell me all the details. Just a summary of what happened.” She pulls up a chair, pushes it close to my bed and looks at me expectantly.

I fall silent. I can feel my old rage rising again. Tears threaten to come up but I push them down. I cough. “My children …” I stop. Now the tears roll down my face.

Angela passes me a tissue. “Take your time,” she says softly.

I fall silent again, not knowing where to start.

“What did you do for a living when you were younger?” Angela asks.

“I wrote.”

“What did you write about?”

“Children’s books.”

Angela looks at me. Then she reads my name again on her paper and realises.

“Are you Sofia Waters, the author of The Cradle of the White Lioness?

I don’t respond. It’s all too much for me. I feel exposed and vulnerable.

As if she could read my feelings, Angela says:

“Do not worry, Sofia, whatever we talk about here is confidential. No one will know what or who you were except me.”

Somehow I like her and I want to confide in her. I want to share my story.

“So, I suppose you have become rich from your stories. I mean, every child knows The Cradle of the White Lioness. My daughter has read every part of the series.”

“Yes, the royalties kept coming in for over a decade. Then, with the onset of self-publishing on the Internet, the children’s book market flooded with new children’s books.”

In my memory I go back to my past and see myself as a rich woman, living in a big mansion, wearing expensive clothes and jewellery. How naive I was then; I knew nothing about anything but writing. I knew nothing and was completely indifferent to what was happening in the world and in my own country. I used to flirt with married men, who were aware of my vulnerability and took possession of me and then dumped me.

“But where has all this wealth gone to?” Angela asks.

“That’s another story,” I answer. “I blame my daughter and my daughter-in-law, but I also put a lot of blame on the banks.”

“Let me guess,” Angela said. “Your children took up home loans and used your property as security.”

I am startled. How does she know? Oh yes, it was common practice in those days and there was no control over the banks. I am probably not the only parent to have suffered this fate.

"Yes, but the worst thing is that they defaulted and the bank seized my property. Of course, they owe me the value of my lost property, but my daughter's husband, who is a banker himself, came up with the clever trick of disowning me. My daughter and daughter-in-law conspired against me, threw me out and don't want anything to do with me. I still don't understand how children can do this to their mother.

“What about your son?”

“He left for South America and never came back. I don’t even know if he is still alive.”

“And the father of your children?”

“I was a single mum right from the start.”

Angela looks pale. My ugly story affects her, as it affects me and everyone else, because it is a miserable story.

“I presume since then you are traumatised, and you have never recovered.”

“Traumatised is a mild expression for how I feel. I feel worthless, non-existent. I wonder why I am still around.”