He stood at the roadside – he came as a man – he looked like a man – O yes I knew him well. From the depth of the Marsh he came – he stood, he listened – and he smiled. Come now let us tread gentle into his thoughts as he surveys his domain. He's here to offer succor to the needy and bring hope where dejection stalks the byways of our life - to guide us towards the Light of the Evening Star amongst the great Standing Stones of our true Faith. Come listen to the voices of the confused and the afflicted seeking their salvation. Listen carefully now…as deep from the Marsh a curlew called.

'Please listen God, without death, where is my living?'

Jones our village undertaker, an alcoholic by choice and Christian by default, was praying. In itself it was not unusual Jones prayed automatically, second nature some would say. He prayed for fine weather for funeral days and for damp misty days to boost trade. On this day he was desperate.

'Dear God,' he entreated, 'I am in earnest, I have to drink like everyone else. Dick Dinam Arms is threatening to close the slate on me, and worse, my Doctor says I've caught something foreign called – 'Delirium Tremens' – so I need a little drink to get better. You've overdone the sun this year - it's not good for the trade you know.' Tears came to his eyes as he remembered the great 'flu' epidemic the year before. To remind God of the good times, he continued.

'Last year they were queuing up for my service - now anyone from any denomination will do, I'm not biased. Call them all into your service up there, but try and space them out a bit, please.

'Prayer is of no use to you Mr Jones.'

Startled, he turned around, he had not heard anyone approach, yet here was a perfect stranger - who appeared as if by magic, and who addressed him by name. The stranger was well dressed too; Jones always noticed how people dressed. It was a good indication how much to charge for his services, should it arise.

'No good you say, and why not if I may ask? And I a good Christian man, I'll have you know.'

Indeed you are Mr Jones none better, it is the theology I was questioning, could we discuss it over a drink?' The stranger took out a bottle of Napoleon from his bag. 'We specialise in helping business people in time of difficulty, you know?'

'We? Ah! ...Yes of course,' He had no idea what this stranger was on about but the sight of the bottle cleared his mind – a little.

'Holy water Mr Jones?' He held the brandy bottle up to the sunlight, the amber liquid glistened, and Jones' conversion was instant.

Overcome by the sight of the bottle Jones smiled at his two Welsh cobs, they had been newly dyed black that morning, just in case, and were restless from the inactivity.

'Steady on Arion,' he muttered addressing his favourite, 'after a hot Summer I hoped something would turn up and it looks as if it has. I'd welcome 'Himself' from 'Down there', if it helped the business, right now.'

'Shall we drink to a happy business relationship Mr Jones? Mind you, I'm only here in an advisory capacity you understand. Inside knowledge you might say,' he held out his hand and Jones shook it with gusto.

Jones whispered to his horses, 'any moment now boys someone is going do us a favour, I feel it in my bank book.'

Jones looked at his hearse which he been polishing before his devotions, it was his pride and joy –no undertaker could match it. Its frame was of black lacquered wood trimmed with silver. The glass side panels were decorated with etchings of angels blowing trumpets surrounded by rays of sunshine coming down from Heaven through thick dark clouds. On the door, the likeness of the goddess Libitina had been etched, even though Anglesey had wall to wall Calvinism, it paid to be cautious. Spiritually uplifted, he stood bareheaded, his head elevated towards his Patron, his right hand placed on his heart while the other pointed to his hearse, he said, 'We are ready Lord.'

At long last the debilitating drought came to a sudden end with the demise of a deacon from Soar.

God was good.

'Respect for God's sake, that is the foundation of our life here, got to have respect,' the Minister said. The Reverent Davies, a weasel of a Dyfed man, with gravitas etched on his face, was agitated.

'How this will look in the Anglesey Herald, I dread to think? I shall be the laughing stock of the Island's quarterly meeting of Ministers. Then there's the collection to consider. Who will honour the plate if we are not respectable? Bloody man,' he snarled, twiddling his gold watch chain, and then hurriedly looked around to see if his lapse from grace had been overheard. Satisfied that his respectability was still intact he went indoors for the funeral tea, served on this memorable occasion with the deceased lying in state in the parlour.

Jones had driven his hearse up to the house. Pulling hard on the reigns, he brought Arion and Arioch to a halt. More by luck than judgement the hearse's business end came to stop alongside the front door. High up on the hearse's driving seat Jones looked about him, and with a satisfied smirk, he resigned himself to wait. Appropriately dressed for the occasion, he wore a silk top hat with a wide silk band, the ends draped over the back of his black frock coat like two shiny black pigtails. Smiling at the mourners, he waved his whip, and said.

'This is ceremonial, boys.' The overall effect was sombre and respectable.

Friends and neighbours who had been unable to get inside the house, listened bareheaded as the Minister rambled on and on. A hymn was sung, Jones joined in, it helped to pass the time. Following a long prayer by the Minister - and by prior arrangement, neighbours known to have little regard for the truth and chosen for that reason, came forward and gave the customary eulogies.

It was half past three, and there was still no sign of abatement in the proceedings. He was bored. Muttering to himself Jones said, 'Bloody Methodists, give me a Baptist funeral any day, they have less to ask forgiveness for. I couldn't manage with this hold-up in a busy season, upset my schedule it would.'

Arion pricked up his years and moved his weight from one leg to another. The horses were getting restless.

'Steady on boys,' he called, 'won't be long now, I hope.' He took out a flask of Napoleon, unscrewed the silver top and drank heavily from its contents. He burped. He groaned as he heard a voice he recognised.

Old Hughes, the shop, levering himself into a long eulogy, was not going to miss an opportunity, such as this, with a captive audience. He spoke highly of the dead, while cleverly making bleak references to his own possible resurrection in the coming Council elections,

'I had the deceased wholehearted approval.' he dribbled, 'he was going to vote for me. Now he is with God.' With his thin anxious smile he scanned the mourners as he counted their votes.

'And voteless.' Jones muttered.

Time dragged on. Jones looked at the darkening sky,

'O God,' he thought, 'It's going to rain.' Taking out his flask he took another long drink.

Then the rain came; Jones panicked. Some of the less grief stricken mourners standing by the hearse, who were only there for the funeral tea, turned and gaped.

'Look! There's respect for you.' exclaimed one, pointing at the road immediately beneath the horses, 'even Jones' horses pass black water at funerals.' They gazed in amazement,

'It's a miracle.' said one.

'It's a sign from God,' said another.

Jones drained his flask. His despair deepened as the deluge descended from the heavens. His mind wandered, as the pleasant memories of his life passed before his eyes, like drowning men are said to see before they go. Professional unto the last, he smiled as he recalled the Western he had seen at the local picture house. He had taken a keen interest as it showed the town Marshal riding on a hearse like his, but not deluxe of course, to Boot Hill.

'Damned funny name for a cemetery,' he muttered. With his mind firmly set in a saloon bar in some remote Texas town, Jones laughed aloud as he remembered that last ride to Boot hill. The mourners were horrified. It wasn't respectable to laugh.

Holding on to the reins Jones stood up, his eyes shone.

'Eyes like demons he had, frightened us he did.' a mourner later recalled.

'That's it,' Jones screamed, 'Bugger the corpse. Stand clear for the Boot Hill Special.' He whipped his startled team; his Welsh cobs, soaking wet and now restored to their natural colour stampeded towards the cemetery.

'Gallup you bloody cripples,' he shouted as they raced along.

A mile past the cemetery outside Dinam Arms, his spiritual home, they found Jones slumped in the driving seat while Arion and Arioch grazed contentedly by the road side.

He stood at the side of the road, making a face at the tail of the departing car and clenching his fists. Lifting blue eyes to grey skies he shivered; his head was bare and he had no coat. Like this, he cursed the threatening rain. But traffic was sparse along this part of the A38 at this time of year, the trail of visitors` cars to the West country had not yet begun. Ridiculous row, her stupid reaction and she had flipped for no reason at all, he was only trying to help. The exasperation in her voice as she told him: "Get out" and the indignation in his own when he answered: "O.K. I will. Goodbye." The speed with which she had parted from him, made him think she had no heart, no love for him at all.

Ten minutes passed and the rain started. A car came by but he didn`t lift his thumb, it was going in the wrong direction. When a smart car with tinted windows loomed he prepared to hail the driver. However it swept past him, drenching him and he gestured to its opulent rear. It was chilly and his shoes were thin. Then he changed position, planted his feet wide apart and thrust his hands deep into his trouser pockets where he found neither coin nor handkerchief. But he fingered his driving licence, brand new and unspoiled. That driving instructor, he had told him he was a natural, that he had a light hand on the steering wheel, that he didn`t drive on his brakes. Not like the way she clung on to the wheel with her foot on the brake most of the time. He couldn`t stand that sort of carry-on. His very words to her were: `Relax, don`t grip the wheel like that and when you get to a corner, change down, brake a little but then take your foot off the pedal and accelerate.`

`Who`s driving this car, Michael?` (She said that in her schoolteacher voice).

`You might be good in the domestic science class, Mum, but you sure as eggs don`t know how to drive a car.`

`And you know everything, do you, son?`

`I passed the test with flying colours.`

`But you have had no experience. What`s more, this is my car, not yours.`

`Let me drive now Mum, please. You said I could. Then we`ll get on better.`

`Not now that you`ve been so cocky my lad. I can`t be happy with you in control.`

`And I`m not happy with you in control, either.`

`Then get out,`

`O.K. I Will.` She stopped the car and he had got out. `Goodbye` he rasped.

`See if you can get a lift back home. I`m going on by myself,` she sounded really peeved.

And that was it, a whole hour ago. Mother would be at his sister`s by now, having a sherry. And if he were there he would be enjoying a can of lager with Bill. He wondered if his mother would be ranting on about him, calling him big-headed and telling them how wicked he was and how he had defied her so left him by the side of the road. Then a sudden thought came to him - was she really at his sister`s? What if she had had an accident? Because she was angry with him had she driven the car really dangerously? Tony down the road lost his Mum in a road accident; he had actually seen her lying by the side of the road, dead. Michael shouted out "Be careful Mum`. But he was all alone beside the road, where she had left him.

The man stood by the side of the road. Kirsten had first seen him there a week ago, when she’d been watching for the delivery van bringing her new computer. She had been struck by the carnation in his buttonhole, its shocking bloodstain such a contrast with the drab surroundings.

She took a sip of coffee and watched him look up and down the street as though waiting for someone. He looked kind, she thought, like a favourite uncle. A fantasy began playing in her mind. She goes down to the street “Uncle Matthew! How good to see you!” Uncle Matthew smiling, embracing her “Kirsten, how well you look! I'm in town to solo with the Royal Phil. Thought I'd look you up!” They return to the flat, magically made-over into a tidy, minimalist loft conversion where they drink Espresso from tiny stainless steel cups. Kirsten describes how exciting her life has become since her novel hit the bestseller list.

A car stopped briefly and pulled smoothly away with the man inside. Kirsten turned and looked at the new PC silently waiting for her words to fill the empty screen. Kirsten’s insistence on giving up her job to write had caused friction - fiction friction? - between her and Martin. 10:15, time to start work .

She made another coffee and returned to the window. A light rain left droplets on the lintel. They formed, hung gravid for moments before dropping to the windowsill, instantly replaced by embryonic progeny. Kirsten imagined they were some alien life form growing unnoticed, until at maturity they torpedoed down in a kamikaze mission to obliterate the unsuspecting civilisation that lived on the sill below. A police-car siren broke her reverie and she realised that her coffee had gone cold.

She poured the untouched drink down the drain. She was shocked to see the time was 11:00. Where on earth was the morning going? Now it really is time to start work she lectured herself as she loaded the washing machine. No more excuses.

The telephone rang. The local bookshop. Her copy of How to Write a Bestselling Novel was ready for collection. While she had the phone in her hand she called her mother. They chatted for a while about nothing at all. It was a daily ritual that made Kirsten feel better about living so far from her home town.

The cup of coffee Kirsten had drunk had taken its natural course and after using the lavatory she gave it a quick clean. As she did so she made up a poem in her head that she was quite pleased with, about a walk through a pine-scented glade. However, by the time she’d cleaned the bath and the shower she’d begun thinking about an episode of Eastenders and the poem got forgotten.

She realised she was hungry and fixed herself a healthy tuna salad. She ate it balanced on her knees in front of the TV with a packet of crisps, a kitkat, a cigarette and the remains of a Terrys chocolate orange she found in the fridge. She watched a programme about exercise and diet though she felt it was all common sense really.

Having washed up and written a note to ask the milkman to bring skimmed milk from now on, Kirsten sat down at the PC. The cursor flashed in the top left corner of the screen. Right, to work. Better just check my e-mail, though . There were eleven messages. Four were just junk mail, although she read them anyway. Four were digests of writers’ discussion boards she was a member of. She replied to one or two of the more lively threads. Two messages were jokes forwarded from friends and one was from her sister asking how the bestseller was coming along. Kirsten sighed as she typed her reply “There just aren’t enough hours in the day, and its so hard to find ideas to write about…”

The woman stood at the side of the road, watching with detached horror the lorries and buses flowing past her. She had been there for a few minutes now, trying to steel herself for what she had determined she must do.

She had decided she must walk in front of one of them.

Her life was now no longer worth living, since her husband and two young children had been taken from her in a horrific air crash.

She had survived, with remarkably few injuries, but her world was shattered, she couldn't face having to run her husband's world-wide business on her own. What was the point? No amount of money or power could bring her family back to her, and she didn't want to live without them.

There was an easing in the flow of lorries, no vehicles were passing her, and the road was empty. She looked down the dual carriageway for the inevitable resumption of traffic, but all she could see was a gradually brightening light that appeared to be moving at speed towards her. She stared at it like a rabbit caught in the headlights of a car at night. Her mind went blank, and she felt a strong tugging sensation as the light reached her.

A young couple, who had been watching the woman were distracted by a flash of lightening, and a loud peal of thunder. When they looked back, the woman had gone.

She was back home.

How it had happened, she had no idea. Then her husband walked into the room, and she realised that she must be dreaming. His touch was so real though, his arms were around her, he was nuzzling her hair, teasing her in the way only he knew how to. She turned her head, and kissed him full on the lips. Oh! If only she could make the dream turn to reality.

He smiled and pushed to arm's length, and studied her. She felt wonderful. She gazed around the room. Her touch was everywhere, the curtains they had so carefully chosen to match the new carpet, and the expensive furniture that filled the room.

"I've asked Josephine to bring in tea," he said as he led her to one of the large settees. He studied her closely, "Do you feel okay?" He seemed very concerned, and she wondered why.

She laughed, and replied, "I couldn't be happier, I thought I had lost you and the children for ever in that horrible 'plane crash." She hugged him close, and then asked, "Where are the children anyway?"

David, her husband, smiled, replying, "They're at school of course. Where else would they be at this time of day?"

Just then a petite lady entered the room pushing a hostess trolley, which was loaded with tea and cakes.

This must be Josephine. She looked like Maria, spoke like Maria, and was doing her job. A tinge of doubt crossed her mind, but perhaps she was wrong. The main thing was that she was home, and had decided that she was not dreaming.

David passed her a teacup, and she sipped contentedly from it, the tea warming her body. "Cake Mrs Stephens?" Josephine was offering a plate, and had tongs poised to lift her selection from the stand on the trolley.

"Yes please Marie, er Josephine, I'd like the strawberry tart."

No one seemed to notice her gaffe, and the cake was delicious. Afterwards she wandered around the house with David, and everything was in it's place. The cleaner had obviously done a good job that day, as she knew it had been a bit of a mess when she left home earlier.

She suddenly felt exhausted, and she told David that she would have a lie down for a while.

It seemed like only five minutes later when she heard the voices of her children shouting excitedly from downstairs. She hardly had time to rise from the bed when the door burst open, and the twins burst in. "Mummy, Mummy!" They chorused in unison. "You're Back Whoopee!" They flung themselves at her, and she fell back on the bed, engulfed by the two six year olds.

Jonathan and Rebecca dragged her downstairs, and soon they were all having their evening meal.

She settled back into her normal routine over the next few weeks, all her friends came over as usual, she went out to the company's parties, and took up the reins of her old job at the office.

She was blissfully happy, and although there were some niggling differences in her surroundings, they were so insignificant individually that she didn't put them together to notice how her life had subtly changed. She forgot the air crash, considering it as a bad dream. It couldn't have been anything else, her family were around her, and life was moving on as normal.

It was six weeks before David went before the Committee.

The Chairman shook his hand warmly and said, "Well David, has it been successful?"

The beam on David's face answered the Chairman before David spoke. "It is everything I could have wished for," he stated joyously. "She is wonderful, and she's identical to Belinda, there's no difference as far as I am concerned."

The Committee members cheered, and the Chairman breathed a big sigh of relief. "Thank goodness for that then, perhaps we will look for other subjects in the future, to keep our influential friends happy!"

He rose, and struck his gavel on the table. "I hereby declare this meeting of The Alternative Dimension closed, and long may we continue to help citizens in either world to regain their happiness.!"

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