Никоненко Тамара Петрівна

    When I was a child, I was afraid of many things. I was afraid of the dark, of dogs, of older boys, even of people shouting. My mother was always trying to teach me not to be afraid. She often told me: “What will you be doing when you grow up if you are afraid of everything? How will you be living? How will you be working?” One day she told me a story about herself. A story that I remembered so well.

   Once upon a time in a small village there lived a young man. His name was Jack. He had a wife and old parents. The family was so poor that there were no nice things in the house. One day Jack went to town to look for a job. Some time passed and he came back with a box full of presents for everybody. He gave his mother a shawl, his father a warm cap and a shirt, his wife a beautiful dress. All of them liked the presents very much and were glad to have them.

   In the early hours of 5 April 1989 a motorbike was speeding along the A20 in Kent. The night was dark and there was very little traffic on the road. Clive Taylor was in a hurry to get home. He had left London later than he had expected. As he approached Wrotham Hill, he glanced at his watch. Exactly two o’clock. A minute later he reached the bend at the top of the hill. It was a dan­gerous place for accidents. Suddenly, he saw a girl. When he had stopped, the girl calmly walked up to him and asked him if he could give her a lift. He asked her what she was doing in such a lonely spot. She said that there had been an accident. Clive looked around, but he couldn’t see a car or any other people. Clive told her to get on the pillion and to hold tight. As the girl climbed on, Clive suddenly felt very cold, but he noticed that she was only wearing a light dress. They rode on down the hill and Clive talked to the girl over his shoulder. At the bottom of the hill there was a telephone box. Clive pulled off the road and stopped. But when he turned round, he froze in horror. The girl wasn’t there.