The Strand-on-the-Green Strongwoman, Chapter Three (standard:drama, 2207 words)
Author: Brian Cross	Added: Aug 10 2026	Views/Reads: 1/0	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
The powerful Maggie Wells is having a bad day, and woe betide anyone who gets in her way.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

Maggie let herself in, dropping her holdall on the floor. It would be a
suitcase next time, she reflected. On a one-way trip. The lounge door 
was open, but all was silent apart from the monotonous ticking of the 
clock, which she hated, but Bill loved. Just about summed things up, 
she thought. Maggie checked her watch. Nine forty-five. Back earlier 
than she'd thought. Well, traffic had been light, early morning and 
all. At first sight, she thought Bill was out; his shoes weren't in the 
hall where he normally left them, and his coat wasn't on the peg. And 
then a familiar sound winging its way from the lounge. A snort, 
followed by a resumption of the snoring that so annoyed Maggie about 
Bill. 

But in the ten years they'd been together, Maggie could never recall
Bill asleep on the living room couch with his boots and jacket on.  And 
from the sound emanating from his mouth, he had been downing the hard 
stuff. Maybe it was the awakening of some sense that lay smothered by 
his drunken state, but Maggie's sudden presence in the room seemed to 
arouse him. Bill's eyes opened, one outstretched leg hit the floor,  
the other followed but failed to make contact with the lounge carpet. 
Bill's brain, however, or what was left of it after his apparently 
boozy night, thought it was okay to walk.  Bill stumbled forward,  eyes 
fully open but unseeing. Maggie rushed forward, broke his fall before 
he could collapse face-first onto the floor, placed one arm below his 
leg and the other behind his back, and then carried him into the hall, 
up the stairs, and into the bedroom where she flung him onto the bed. 
Maggie stood over him, hands on hips – waited for his eyes to open once 
more. “Okay, what brought this on – if you're sober enough to put it 
into a few words? 

Bill's glazed eyes slowly focused. “Maggie ... what the ... you've had
your hair cut ...” he mumbled. 

“Nice observation. Now answer my question. What's this all about?” 

“Doesn't–” Bill rubbed a hand over his face, shook his head and
grimaced. “Doesn't suit you.” 

Ignoring the remark, Maggie reached down, loosed Bill's laces, her
muscles rippling as she almost ripped the shoes from his feet. 

“Oh, for fuck's sake!” Bill lurched forward, propelled by the power of
Maggie's arms. “Go easy, what the hell's got into you?” 

“I might ask you the same question,” Maggie responded with a sneer,
dumping his shoes on the floor. 

“Except my answers won't include lies,” Bill said, becoming more
coherent. 

“What?” 

“Don't act like you don't know.” Bill forced himself into a sitting
position. “I checked up. The way you've been acting lately, I just knew 
that wasn't work-related, as you put it. So I phoned the care home – 
they told me you booked a couple of days leave, nothing work-related 
about it.” 

“You did what?” Maggie's teeth clenched, her muscles tensed. “So out
with it ... what's your game?” 

Maggie sighed, stepped back. Rarely did she step away from anything, but
this was different. She should have realised Bill would check up. The 
way he'd reacted should have given her a heads-up on that. Now she may 
as well come clean and run the risk of Bill stirring things up for her. 
Not as if she was flush with options. 

“In a nutshell, I'm leaving, Bill.” Bill shook his head, tried to jump
off the bed, but in his current state, thought better of it. 

“What's brought all this about,” he snarled, “you've been acting bloody
strange for fucking ages. Are you losing your marbles?” 

Maggie turned away, needing the time to think. “I'm not discussing this
right now; not with you in this state – we're finished, and that's it.” 
Maggie turned and marched out of the bedroom before Bill could muster a 
reply. Time for fresh air; she may have been back for just a few 
minutes, but the atmosphere in here was as foul as the alcohol-infested 
air. 

Things weren't going Maggie's way at all. She couldn't leave until
things were set up – nowhere to go that didn't involve extra expense – 
her parents had moved to Benidorm a few years back, and if there was 
one thing she hated about the place, it was the heat. So, the only 
alternative was to endure an uneasy period until she was in a position 
to move, and to do that she needed to keep calm, not an easy prospect. 
The only course was to talk it over with Bill, once he was sober enough 
to communicate properly, and try to convince him that they'd been 
drifting apart for some considerable time. In point of fact, that 
wasn't entirely true. She and Bill had encountered difficulties like 
any couple, and until recently, they weren't unsolvable. But that was 
before she'd envisaged her new goal in life, and that was to effect 
retribution upon those that tried to abuse folks in their care; folks 
that had worked hard all their lives, and just when they needed help 
the most, suffered torment and humiliation. 

The powers that be let the guilty ones off the hook – dished out stupid
sentences – community service and suchlike – so Maggie Wells, the 
Strand-on-the-Green Strongwoman, would enforce more appropriate 
penalties herself. 

And anyway, this Strand-on-the-Green Strongwoman label was beginning to
attach itself to her in a way that wasn't as distasteful as she at 
first thought. Maggie could almost feel it consuming her identity. She 
could practically feel its pull on her as she set course for Chiswick. 

*** 

Maggie was aware that shortening her hair would make her less attractive
in some eyes. Her long ginger hair had softened her strong physique, 
making her powerful body less noticeable. But having it cut emphasised 
her determination to pursue new goals, worthwhile ones admittedly, that 
could bring forth a heap of trouble, but Maggie Wells was going to take 
it all on. She wasn't about to shirk from anything or anyone. 
Strand-on-the-Green was where she'd carried out her first act of 
retribution, and she intended it to be the first of many. She no longer 
cared whether she might be recognised, and besides, apart from the 
length of her hair having altered her appearance, the aftermath of her 
confrontation with Mark Saunders would surely be dying down. So, on 
this occasion, she'd walk the entire length of Strand-on-the-Green, put 
her thoughts in order before going back and having it out with a 
hopefully sobered-up Bill. 

She parked up past a parade of shops near Kew Bridge, locked up, and
strode down to the Thames waterfront. Back in Peterborough, the morning 
had started bright, if a little breezy, but now, returning to West 
London, the clouds had rolled in, and spots of rain were in the air. 
Not that such things bothered Maggie; she had plenty enough to 
contemplate as it was. For instance, the scene of her confrontation 
with Mark Saunders lay ahead, some thirty metres away, and just as her 
thoughts were returning to that encounter, she heard quick footsteps 
behind. Maggie felt a hand touch her shoulder, and immediately her 
thoughts were on Saunders – that he'd somehow traced her, but the 
second she swung around, a hand grabbed her arm and pulled her forward. 


“Need some change,” a rough, gravelly voice said, “All the change you've
got.” 

“Which is none.” Maggie stared up at the figure, a man a good eight or
nine inches taller than her and of hefty build.  His dark clothes were 
tattered, his hair long and greasy, and his breath stank. It struck her 
that she'd had the bad fortune to be accosted by a vagrant – an 
aggressive one. 

“Take your hands off of me, I'm warning you ...” 

“Warning me?” The man barked out a laugh. “Look, just hand over your
change, and there'll be no ...” 

The vagrant didn't finish – instead, he let out a grunt as Maggie's knee
struck his groin, and as he bent low, her fist connected with his jaw, 
sending him reeling back. 

“Why you little ...” He lurched forward, but Maggie drove a piledriver
into his midriff, doubling him up once more before she launched another 
blow to the jaw, sending him sprawling on the towpath. 

Maggie stood over him, hands on hips, sighed. Now what did she do,
report him? But how badly had she hurt him, and what of the 
ramifications of this? His word against hers, probably go her way, but 
with this Strand-on-the-Green Strongwoman business, who knew? Maggie 
looked around. Unlike the previous occasion, the riverside wasn't 
deserted. A couple was approaching, a small white dog on a lead. They 
appeared to be engrossed in conversation, so she hurried around, 
grabbed the vagrant's arms, and heaved him behind some bushes. He 
uttered a few curses, felt around his jaw, and his reactions told 
Maggie he wasn't seriously hurt. She delved into her jeans pockets, 
took out some coins, and flung them beside him. “Okay, I was lying 
about the coins. But next time, ask politely.” 

Maggie turned and walked away, back to her car, not looking over her
shoulder to check on the approaching couple. Walk aborted, but the 
encounter, as well as having possible unforeseen consequences, had done 
little to improve her temper for the forthcoming chat with Bill. 
 


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