My challenge this time was to write a short story (1000 words max.) on the theme of Timekeeping and this where I have reached so far - please comment!
Do Me A Favour
Alex Neville scanned the queue of traffic, noticed a prickly sensation in his calves, and suppressed the desire to leave the car and run, and keep running. He wondered whether he would have time to make a will before being executed.
Alex, known as Nev to his friends, was driving to a funeral. As joint owner of Neville Funeral Services, with his sister Rachel, he didn’t normally don the chauffeur’s hat but he was short staffed. He glanced in the rear view mirror to look at Mr Gambin and his sons. He could just about remember Mr Gambin’s father, whose unanglicised name had adorned ‘Gambini Ice Creams’.
Nev spoke into the intercom, “The radio says the Water Board are just finishing. We’ll start moving soon and we’ll be there in about 30 minutes, with luck.”
He heard Mr Gambin issue instructions in Italian, and felt the panic subside in an instant. This was it then.
Two hours previously Nev had driven his best black Mercedes up the Gambins’ brick-lined gravel drive and parked it in front of an even bigger model, wondering how many ice creams it was worth.
The Gambin boys, Georgie and Ricardo, were waiting for him.
“Hi Nev, how’s business?”
Georgie held out his hand.
“Good thanks. And on a glorious day like this it’s great to get out from behind the desk. I should do it more often.”
Ricardo slapped him on the shoulder.
“We’re off to the races this afternoon. Wanna come? Make a day of it?”
“It’s tempting, but no thanks. I’ve got to get back. Bodies don’t bury themselves you know.”
Nev started to apologise but Ricardo touched his cheek before he could speak.
“Pazienza Nev. Never mind. I’ve said the same thing a few times myself, you know?” He winked, stooping to get into the back seat, next to his father.
As the car inched past his old school Nev tried to contemplate his life without the Gambin family in it. If he had not been asked to bury the boys’ grandmother, back in the early days, he might never have learned how to run a business.
“Look” Mr Gambin had said, “you’ll be doing us a favour. A big favour. We don’t want strangers doing this for Nonna. You’re almost family. We’ll be very – what’s the word? Grateful – we’ll be very grateful.”
After that Mr Gambin had given him regular business advice. The family seemed to know everyone, and always recommended Nev when someone died, and no-one ignored advice from the Gambins.
That’s when he had earned his nickname, when he started the early morning jobs for the boys. They would wake him up, “Nev, can you do us a favour? We’ve bet this guy we can get his paralytic friend a ride home in a hearse. It’s a nice cash deal, and you’ll get your share.” They never gave him much notice so he had to get there quickly, and Alex Neville became Nev, short for ‘Never Late’.
He had quickly realised that his passengers were more dead than drunk, but by then he knew the Gambins’ lifestyle was paid for with a different type of Magnum.
With cars hooting all around him in a flurry of frustration, he remembered Mr Gambin telling him that punctuality was the reason he favoured him over his only serious business rival, Dalton.
“Being late is very bad Nev. It’s rude, it says that you think your time is more precious than other people’s. It’s something selfish people do. Non-caring people. Disrespectful people. Not people like me. Someone only makes me late once Nev. No second chances. Speak to the boys, they’ll tell you that.”
Nev suppressed the lump in his throat and started to plan the future of Neville Funeral Services. It was a sound business, and Rachel knew as much as he did about the back office, but she would have to get more involved with the public. Nev had always been diligent about promoting the business and Rachel had always been shy. That would have to change.
Her biggest problem would be Dalton, because he was a charmer, a presser of flesh, a smile for rent. He knew Dalton’s sympathetic sales pitch would have been more successful but for Nev’s reliability, because that was Dalton’s weakness. Being gregarious, generous, and forgiving to his staff led to regular slip ups. Flowers left behind, arriving late, taking days to reply to messages, these were small things but they did not go unnoticed. Dalton would certainly take a lot of business if Rachel didn’t up her game, and that wouldn’t be easy.
Nev drove past the cemetery, on to the wake at the hotel. He picked up his hat from the passenger seat but by the time he reached the back door, they were already standing in line.
Ricardo gripped his shoulders as he shook his head, “I am so sorry my friend, but you know how it is.”
Georgie held Nev’s head between his hands as he whispered in his ear, “For you Nev, it will be quick.”
Nev turned to Mr Gambin, held his gaze, and shook hands. “Mr Gambin, thank you for everything you have done for me.”
“Alex, I should call you Alex now, is there anything I can do for you before we say goodbye? Maybe it’s time for one last favour, this time from me?”
At that moment Nev realised what he must do. “Yes, there is one favour you can do for me. Don’t let Rachel arrange my funeral. No matter how much she insists, I don’t want her to do it. Tell her it would be too stressful. I want you to give the business to – Dalton. And whatever happens after that is in your hands.”
Mr Gambin raised his eyebrows, examined Nev’s face, and smiled. “Of course Alex. For you, anything. I will do as you ask. I understand - completely.”
Tuesday 6 December 2011
Monday 21 November 2011
My holiday, a short story in 983 words
The brief this time was to write a story up to 1000 words on the theme 'My Desert Island' - here is my first effort - what do you think?
Mr Cave, my psychiatrist, is once more saying that it’s important to remember who I am because the people who love me are very distressed about my condition. I tell him, again, that they shouldn’t worry because I am very happy right now, even if I don’t know who they are.
“It’s like being on a really good holiday. I think whoever I am didn’t take many holidays and I’m enjoying the change of scenery.”
“Tell me more Kenneth. What’s this holiday like?”
“It must be one of those all-inclusive holidays with food and drink whenever you need it, as long as you don’t mind tea and coffee instead of wine and whisky. There’s plenty of time for reading, and thinking, and no-one asks you for anything. I have a room on the ground floor with a big picture window, and my own bathroom. There are no reports to write, no people to see, and my time is my own, except when I come to see you of course. I have no responsibilities. It’s nice being me for a change.”
Mr Cave writes in his notebook, puts down the pen, removes his spectacles and gives me his amused look, the one that makes me feel like a wayward child.
“I think you must have been very tired before your accident Kenneth.”
I do not reply because I know what comes next. I’ll say I don’t know what he means, then he’ll try to force me to remember, then I’ll start to cry, and he will say goodbye till the next time we meet.
“You see Kenneth, you were tired and stressed before the accident. You are an important person with lots of responsibility. There are people waiting for you to get better. Some of them can’t have a holiday until you’ve finished yours. That’s not very fair, is it?”
“No, I suppose not.” I hang my head and feel a tear growing into a tiny bubble behind my eye. I stare down, trying not to blink because that will make me drip on the carpet and he will see that I am crying.
Mr Cave ignores me, like he always does when he’s about to lecture me.
“You’ve had a frightening experience, not to mention a bump on the head, and your mind has put a strategy in place to avoid thinking about it, because it’s painful. It’s persuaded you that you can escape reality by building a construct that you are in a place you always wanted to go. It’s a sanctuary, a world away from real life, where nothing bad happens. This holiday of yours is a fantasy Kenneth. Until you let it go you will never remember who you are.”
I stare into the distance and refuse to listen any more. I like this holiday. I feel safe. I have no expectations. I never feel disappointed. Most of all, I do not have to remember anything. Without memories I can just be myself.
When I first met Mr Cave, when he still called me Mr Sinclair, I had some memories that wouldn’t go away. I could remember a close up view of Tottenham High Road. It was as if I had been doing press ups on the pavement and several people were standing on me, pressing my face into the concrete slabs. I pushed into my hands to raise myself up but I lacked the strength. I saw the horse above me and the horseshoe coming down in slow motion. I remember admiring the surprising symmetry and beauty in the underside of a horse’s foot. Why had I never seen this before? I blinked. The next thing I saw was the face of Mr Cave.
This memory triggers another and I start talking.
“Last night I remembered something. I was watching a mob throwing bricks through shop windows. I was shouting instructions to people wearing uniforms. They did what I told them and it felt good. Then I was standing in front of a row of microphones and people were asking me questions but they never listened to the answers. They just kept asking more questions. That made me angry inside. Then I woke up.”
I stop talking. I did not mean to reveal any of this because I knew Mr Cave would want more, and I had no more to give.
Mr Cave scribbles in his book and nods at the clock on the wall behind me.
“That’s excellent Kenneth. We can work on this in tomorrow’s session. Why don’t you go back to that memory and focus on the uniforms? What colour are they? Have you ever worn a uniform? How did it make you feel? The answers could be the keys that open the portal into your real world, revealing the real you. Tomorrow could be an exciting day!”
“Goodbye Mr Cave” I shake his hand, leave the room and follow the nurse back to my room. As we pass through a reception area I pick up the evening paper. Inside my room I spend the next hour reading every word of every article, paying particular attention to the photographs, with my scissors and my scrapbook ready but once more, there is nothing worth saving.
I open the scrapbook and look at the first page, the only page that isn’t blank, and read out the caption below the photograph.
“Assistant Commissioner Kenneth Sinclair was seriously injured on the first night of the riots.”
I have a strong urge to take this to Mr Cave. I should tell him this is the picture of a man who deserves a holiday but I know he is incapable of appreciating the refuge I have found. Although he is an intelligent man he would not recognise my oasis. In his hands my desert island would become a mirage. He would not listen. He would not understand. Mr Cave doesn’t understand holidays.
Mr Cave, my psychiatrist, is once more saying that it’s important to remember who I am because the people who love me are very distressed about my condition. I tell him, again, that they shouldn’t worry because I am very happy right now, even if I don’t know who they are.
“It’s like being on a really good holiday. I think whoever I am didn’t take many holidays and I’m enjoying the change of scenery.”
“Tell me more Kenneth. What’s this holiday like?”
“It must be one of those all-inclusive holidays with food and drink whenever you need it, as long as you don’t mind tea and coffee instead of wine and whisky. There’s plenty of time for reading, and thinking, and no-one asks you for anything. I have a room on the ground floor with a big picture window, and my own bathroom. There are no reports to write, no people to see, and my time is my own, except when I come to see you of course. I have no responsibilities. It’s nice being me for a change.”
Mr Cave writes in his notebook, puts down the pen, removes his spectacles and gives me his amused look, the one that makes me feel like a wayward child.
“I think you must have been very tired before your accident Kenneth.”
I do not reply because I know what comes next. I’ll say I don’t know what he means, then he’ll try to force me to remember, then I’ll start to cry, and he will say goodbye till the next time we meet.
“You see Kenneth, you were tired and stressed before the accident. You are an important person with lots of responsibility. There are people waiting for you to get better. Some of them can’t have a holiday until you’ve finished yours. That’s not very fair, is it?”
“No, I suppose not.” I hang my head and feel a tear growing into a tiny bubble behind my eye. I stare down, trying not to blink because that will make me drip on the carpet and he will see that I am crying.
Mr Cave ignores me, like he always does when he’s about to lecture me.
“You’ve had a frightening experience, not to mention a bump on the head, and your mind has put a strategy in place to avoid thinking about it, because it’s painful. It’s persuaded you that you can escape reality by building a construct that you are in a place you always wanted to go. It’s a sanctuary, a world away from real life, where nothing bad happens. This holiday of yours is a fantasy Kenneth. Until you let it go you will never remember who you are.”
I stare into the distance and refuse to listen any more. I like this holiday. I feel safe. I have no expectations. I never feel disappointed. Most of all, I do not have to remember anything. Without memories I can just be myself.
When I first met Mr Cave, when he still called me Mr Sinclair, I had some memories that wouldn’t go away. I could remember a close up view of Tottenham High Road. It was as if I had been doing press ups on the pavement and several people were standing on me, pressing my face into the concrete slabs. I pushed into my hands to raise myself up but I lacked the strength. I saw the horse above me and the horseshoe coming down in slow motion. I remember admiring the surprising symmetry and beauty in the underside of a horse’s foot. Why had I never seen this before? I blinked. The next thing I saw was the face of Mr Cave.
This memory triggers another and I start talking.
“Last night I remembered something. I was watching a mob throwing bricks through shop windows. I was shouting instructions to people wearing uniforms. They did what I told them and it felt good. Then I was standing in front of a row of microphones and people were asking me questions but they never listened to the answers. They just kept asking more questions. That made me angry inside. Then I woke up.”
I stop talking. I did not mean to reveal any of this because I knew Mr Cave would want more, and I had no more to give.
Mr Cave scribbles in his book and nods at the clock on the wall behind me.
“That’s excellent Kenneth. We can work on this in tomorrow’s session. Why don’t you go back to that memory and focus on the uniforms? What colour are they? Have you ever worn a uniform? How did it make you feel? The answers could be the keys that open the portal into your real world, revealing the real you. Tomorrow could be an exciting day!”
“Goodbye Mr Cave” I shake his hand, leave the room and follow the nurse back to my room. As we pass through a reception area I pick up the evening paper. Inside my room I spend the next hour reading every word of every article, paying particular attention to the photographs, with my scissors and my scrapbook ready but once more, there is nothing worth saving.
I open the scrapbook and look at the first page, the only page that isn’t blank, and read out the caption below the photograph.
“Assistant Commissioner Kenneth Sinclair was seriously injured on the first night of the riots.”
I have a strong urge to take this to Mr Cave. I should tell him this is the picture of a man who deserves a holiday but I know he is incapable of appreciating the refuge I have found. Although he is an intelligent man he would not recognise my oasis. In his hands my desert island would become a mirage. He would not listen. He would not understand. Mr Cave doesn’t understand holidays.
Sunday 23 October 2011
Kismet, a story in 990 words
It's been a while since my last post, but I've been busy earning a crust!
Here's another Work in Progress for you to help me out with. I'm juggling two writers' groups at the moment, with one setting homework as a Ghost story, and the other on travel, so I have attempted to write something I can share with both groups. What do you think? Please Comment below!
Kismet
Sheila had not felt this uncomfortable since her car broke down on the way home from her 50th birthday party, when she had to walk home, facing her fear of the dark.
This time she couldn’t blame the car. It was her satellite navigation system that was letting her down. She had little faith in ‘Jane’, the disembodied voice of her satnav, but she was determined to embrace new technology, and equally resolute in her belief that the universe would deliver her to her destiny, so she complied with Jane’s instructions despite her misgivings.
“In 300 yards turn left.”
Wondering where Jane was leading her, Sheila scrutinised the display. At ten yards she squinted through the windscreen and sure enough, she saw a narrow lane. As she turned the steering wheel Jane announced, with more than a hint of triumphalism, “You have reached your destination.”
Sheila stopped the car and the outline of a small cottage glowed faintly, as if it was an afterthought of her imagination. As she opened the door the glow increased in intensity until she had to shield her eyes from the bright light.
“Hello m’dear. Lost are we? Do you need any help?”
Sheila stumbled behind the apparition into a tiny kitchen. The table, already laid for two, was warm and welcoming. Sheila visibly relaxed.
“Yes, I think I am lost. I’m looking for a holiday cottage called Kismet. It’s not around here, it’s in a village called . . . .”
“This cottage is called Kismet m’dear. So you’re not lost after all.”
Sheila was momentarily confused but, distracted by the smell of a casserole, she allowed herself to be led to the table. Fate, thought Sheila, it must be fate.
The next thing she remembered was waking up in a strange bed with a teddy bear in her arms that closely resembled her childhood companion, Tedward, so she held him close, and dozed. She became aware of a low humming that grew louder until she couldn’t stand it a moment longer.
She tucked Tedward in, and tiptoed down the stairs into the kitchen. The sound was coming from a large refrigerator. She knew that opening the door would silence it, so she did, and found herself staring into a large cavernous yellowish-white interior. Her eyes focused on the empty egg rack on the inside of the door and she was immediately transported to the dark days of her adolescence.
She was fourteen again. She was back on the industrial wasteland near home with Billy, a strange boy who lived next door. They were sharing an illicit cigarette and joking around. As they gently pushed each other she stumbled backwards into an abandoned industrial sized fridge. Billy was forcing her inside and in her panic she reached out for something to defend herself with. She picked up a broken bottle and lashed out, stabbing Billy on the wrist. He recoiled, his eyes ablaze with fury, and slammed the door shut. Placing her hands on the egg rack Sheila pushed and screamed, and screamed and pushed ,but the door stayed shut.
Sheila ran her fingers around the oval recesses as it all came back to her. The darkness. The silence. The fear. The acceptance that she was going to die. The door opening. The policeman. The light. The ambulance. The police station. The court. The judge and the jury. And the look of hate and contempt in Billy’s eyes as they led him away, ranting, “I’ll never leave you Sheila. I’ll always find you.”
Sheila jumped at the sound of someone approaching the kitchen.
“Hello m’dear. It looks like you’re ready for breakfast. I’m afraid we’ve no eggs till we collect some more but I can make you a nice bacon sandwich.”
By the time Sheila had showered, dressed and eaten a hearty breakfast she had regained her composure. She drove into town, visited a museum, had a light but satisfying lunch, and bought presents.
Returning to Kismet she was greeted in the kitchen by a tall smart-looking gentleman tucking into an enormous slice of cake. He stood up and shook hands.
“Hello. I’m William. I’ve just arrived. I’m staying in the room next to yours I think. You must be Sheila.”
They sat at the table for the next two hours, helping themselves to more tea, and left it as friends. It turned out they had a lot in common, with many shared interests. William even knew a little about her home town, sharing her distress at the demise of local landmarks.
As they climbed the stairs to their rooms William asked “Are you going to the bonfire tonight? We could go together, if you like.”
Sheila had forgotten it was Guy Fawkes Night. She normally ignored it, treating it like any other winter’s evening, staying safely inside, away from intimidating crowds, so she surprised herself when she heard her own reply.
“That would be lovely.”
Several hours later Sheila and William had shared a fireworks display, hot chocolate, and a gentle stroll into the woods where they could observe the celebrations from afar as they kissed and cuddled.
Sheila was stunned at the weekend’s turn of events. She was sure she was not in the cottage she had booked, and was shocked at her behaviour with this stranger, but she felt so content. It felt so right.
William bent down to kiss her forehead.
“You look pensive. Seen a ghost?”
“No, not tonight. My ghosts are all gone.”
As she leaned up to kiss him on the lips her hand brushed his wrist and her fingers followed the trail of a long scar.
“Are they Sheila? Are you sure your ghosts are all gone?”
He held onto her hands as she struggled to get free. Her eyes met his and she recognised the hate in his eyes.
“Yes Sheila. It’s Billy. You sent him away but he’s come back, just like he said he would.”
Here's another Work in Progress for you to help me out with. I'm juggling two writers' groups at the moment, with one setting homework as a Ghost story, and the other on travel, so I have attempted to write something I can share with both groups. What do you think? Please Comment below!
Kismet
Sheila had not felt this uncomfortable since her car broke down on the way home from her 50th birthday party, when she had to walk home, facing her fear of the dark.
This time she couldn’t blame the car. It was her satellite navigation system that was letting her down. She had little faith in ‘Jane’, the disembodied voice of her satnav, but she was determined to embrace new technology, and equally resolute in her belief that the universe would deliver her to her destiny, so she complied with Jane’s instructions despite her misgivings.
“In 300 yards turn left.”
Wondering where Jane was leading her, Sheila scrutinised the display. At ten yards she squinted through the windscreen and sure enough, she saw a narrow lane. As she turned the steering wheel Jane announced, with more than a hint of triumphalism, “You have reached your destination.”
Sheila stopped the car and the outline of a small cottage glowed faintly, as if it was an afterthought of her imagination. As she opened the door the glow increased in intensity until she had to shield her eyes from the bright light.
“Hello m’dear. Lost are we? Do you need any help?”
Sheila stumbled behind the apparition into a tiny kitchen. The table, already laid for two, was warm and welcoming. Sheila visibly relaxed.
“Yes, I think I am lost. I’m looking for a holiday cottage called Kismet. It’s not around here, it’s in a village called . . . .”
“This cottage is called Kismet m’dear. So you’re not lost after all.”
Sheila was momentarily confused but, distracted by the smell of a casserole, she allowed herself to be led to the table. Fate, thought Sheila, it must be fate.
The next thing she remembered was waking up in a strange bed with a teddy bear in her arms that closely resembled her childhood companion, Tedward, so she held him close, and dozed. She became aware of a low humming that grew louder until she couldn’t stand it a moment longer.
She tucked Tedward in, and tiptoed down the stairs into the kitchen. The sound was coming from a large refrigerator. She knew that opening the door would silence it, so she did, and found herself staring into a large cavernous yellowish-white interior. Her eyes focused on the empty egg rack on the inside of the door and she was immediately transported to the dark days of her adolescence.
She was fourteen again. She was back on the industrial wasteland near home with Billy, a strange boy who lived next door. They were sharing an illicit cigarette and joking around. As they gently pushed each other she stumbled backwards into an abandoned industrial sized fridge. Billy was forcing her inside and in her panic she reached out for something to defend herself with. She picked up a broken bottle and lashed out, stabbing Billy on the wrist. He recoiled, his eyes ablaze with fury, and slammed the door shut. Placing her hands on the egg rack Sheila pushed and screamed, and screamed and pushed ,but the door stayed shut.
Sheila ran her fingers around the oval recesses as it all came back to her. The darkness. The silence. The fear. The acceptance that she was going to die. The door opening. The policeman. The light. The ambulance. The police station. The court. The judge and the jury. And the look of hate and contempt in Billy’s eyes as they led him away, ranting, “I’ll never leave you Sheila. I’ll always find you.”
Sheila jumped at the sound of someone approaching the kitchen.
“Hello m’dear. It looks like you’re ready for breakfast. I’m afraid we’ve no eggs till we collect some more but I can make you a nice bacon sandwich.”
By the time Sheila had showered, dressed and eaten a hearty breakfast she had regained her composure. She drove into town, visited a museum, had a light but satisfying lunch, and bought presents.
Returning to Kismet she was greeted in the kitchen by a tall smart-looking gentleman tucking into an enormous slice of cake. He stood up and shook hands.
“Hello. I’m William. I’ve just arrived. I’m staying in the room next to yours I think. You must be Sheila.”
They sat at the table for the next two hours, helping themselves to more tea, and left it as friends. It turned out they had a lot in common, with many shared interests. William even knew a little about her home town, sharing her distress at the demise of local landmarks.
As they climbed the stairs to their rooms William asked “Are you going to the bonfire tonight? We could go together, if you like.”
Sheila had forgotten it was Guy Fawkes Night. She normally ignored it, treating it like any other winter’s evening, staying safely inside, away from intimidating crowds, so she surprised herself when she heard her own reply.
“That would be lovely.”
Several hours later Sheila and William had shared a fireworks display, hot chocolate, and a gentle stroll into the woods where they could observe the celebrations from afar as they kissed and cuddled.
Sheila was stunned at the weekend’s turn of events. She was sure she was not in the cottage she had booked, and was shocked at her behaviour with this stranger, but she felt so content. It felt so right.
William bent down to kiss her forehead.
“You look pensive. Seen a ghost?”
“No, not tonight. My ghosts are all gone.”
As she leaned up to kiss him on the lips her hand brushed his wrist and her fingers followed the trail of a long scar.
“Are they Sheila? Are you sure your ghosts are all gone?”
He held onto her hands as she struggled to get free. Her eyes met his and she recognised the hate in his eyes.
“Yes Sheila. It’s Billy. You sent him away but he’s come back, just like he said he would.”
Saturday 3 September 2011
Over the Garden Wall, a short story, 548 words
My writers' group set homework of a 500-word piece entitled 'Over the Garden Wall'. I struggled with this until we had lunch at Compton Abbas Airfield in Dorset and I took my notebook out and the first draft just flowed. On that afternoon these characters really existed for me - did they have the same effect on you I wonder? Please post your Comment below.
Val finished her Battenburg and wondered where it had come from. There was nothing wrong with it. It tasted the same as it did every month. But she couldn’t remember where she had ever seen it for sale. So where did her parents’ never ending supply come from?
They were sitting on the old settee, staring blankly at the broken television. It had stopped working during the opening credits of the Saturday afternoon repeat of Morse, interrupting the weekend ritual of Val’s regular visits home to keep in touch and tell her parents about her not-so-hectic life in London.
Every visit was the same. Heinz Tomato Soup and a cheddar cheese sandwich, ten minutes chatter about the people she worked with, then two hours listening to her mother relate the goings-on in the village. Tea and cake heralded the comfortable silence that accompanied John Thaw.
But not this week. There was a distinct possibility they might have to talk to each other, if only to prevent the embarrassment of admitting they had nothing to say.
“Let’s get the photo albums out.”
‘Good old Dad’ thought Val, ‘you can always rely on him in a crisis‘.
“Here’s some of number nine. Remember when we lived there Val?”
Val remembered number nine. It had been her favourite home, the one she thought of at the very mention of the word. She had been happy there, till near the end.
“Remind me why we left there Dad.”
Val took another slice of Battenburg as Mum snatched the album. “We left because of the neighbours. We all loved that house but they made our life unbearable. We were friendly with them until their boy started playing his radio as loud as you like into the early hours.”
“Then they chopped down the apple tree” said Dad, pointing at a photo of a garden against a back drop of an old brick wall. “And that boy started pestering you, didn’t he?”
Val felt her heart go ping. Was that their garden or the neighbours’? She couldn’t be sure but it didn’t really matter any more. All she could remember was the boy next door, his leather jacket, the smell of cigarettes and the sensation of his mouth against her neck. And the notes. She had forgotten about the notes. Last thing at night they would write long lingering love notes on the back of old homework books and scrap pages from the NME, then toss them over the wall. First thing in the morning they would read what the other had written and spend all day deciding how to reply. When she stopped getting notes back, her heart nearly broke.
Dad turned the page. “Of course the final straw, the reason why we eventually moved, was all that rubbish.”
“Rubbish Dad? What rubbish?”
“You must remember? They started throwing rubbish over the garden wall. Every morning there would be old magazines and used up paper, just thrown over to annoy us. We threw it away every day but the next day there would be even more. They denied it of course. We had a right bust up over that I can tell you, all over the garden wall.”
Val shrivelled up inside and finished her Battenburg.
“Yes Dad, all over the garden wall.”
Val finished her Battenburg and wondered where it had come from. There was nothing wrong with it. It tasted the same as it did every month. But she couldn’t remember where she had ever seen it for sale. So where did her parents’ never ending supply come from?
They were sitting on the old settee, staring blankly at the broken television. It had stopped working during the opening credits of the Saturday afternoon repeat of Morse, interrupting the weekend ritual of Val’s regular visits home to keep in touch and tell her parents about her not-so-hectic life in London.
Every visit was the same. Heinz Tomato Soup and a cheddar cheese sandwich, ten minutes chatter about the people she worked with, then two hours listening to her mother relate the goings-on in the village. Tea and cake heralded the comfortable silence that accompanied John Thaw.
But not this week. There was a distinct possibility they might have to talk to each other, if only to prevent the embarrassment of admitting they had nothing to say.
“Let’s get the photo albums out.”
‘Good old Dad’ thought Val, ‘you can always rely on him in a crisis‘.
“Here’s some of number nine. Remember when we lived there Val?”
Val remembered number nine. It had been her favourite home, the one she thought of at the very mention of the word. She had been happy there, till near the end.
“Remind me why we left there Dad.”
Val took another slice of Battenburg as Mum snatched the album. “We left because of the neighbours. We all loved that house but they made our life unbearable. We were friendly with them until their boy started playing his radio as loud as you like into the early hours.”
“Then they chopped down the apple tree” said Dad, pointing at a photo of a garden against a back drop of an old brick wall. “And that boy started pestering you, didn’t he?”
Val felt her heart go ping. Was that their garden or the neighbours’? She couldn’t be sure but it didn’t really matter any more. All she could remember was the boy next door, his leather jacket, the smell of cigarettes and the sensation of his mouth against her neck. And the notes. She had forgotten about the notes. Last thing at night they would write long lingering love notes on the back of old homework books and scrap pages from the NME, then toss them over the wall. First thing in the morning they would read what the other had written and spend all day deciding how to reply. When she stopped getting notes back, her heart nearly broke.
Dad turned the page. “Of course the final straw, the reason why we eventually moved, was all that rubbish.”
“Rubbish Dad? What rubbish?”
“You must remember? They started throwing rubbish over the garden wall. Every morning there would be old magazines and used up paper, just thrown over to annoy us. We threw it away every day but the next day there would be even more. They denied it of course. We had a right bust up over that I can tell you, all over the garden wall.”
Val shrivelled up inside and finished her Battenburg.
“Yes Dad, all over the garden wall.”
Friday 19 August 2011
3 a.m.
My writers' group set summer homework, and one of the challenges was to start a piece of writing with 'When the doorbell rings at three in the morning it’s never good news'. The first draft was written on the clifftop above Alum Chine near Bournemouth. Tell me what you think by posting a Comment. Is this worth doing more with or shall I just leave it as a one-piece wonder?
“When the doorbell rings at three in the morning it’s never good news” says the policeman, beaming all over his face. “Not for you anyway.”
“Oh, it’s you again”. I yawn as I hold the chain that protects me from the outside world.
“Asleep again?”
“Yes, of course I was. Apparently it’s three o’clock in the morning. What’s this all about?”
“It’s a dawn raid, that’s what it is. But we’re early.”
I peer over his shoulder to see who he means by ‘we’ but there’s no-one there.
“Are you on your own?”
“Yes – and no” says the policeman, with a supercilious smile.
“It’s too early for mind games – where’s the rest of you?”
“Never you mind. Just let me in. We need to talk.”
“Not tonight thanks. When the doorbell rings at three in the morning, don’t let them in unless you know who they are. That’s my rule.”
I slam the door, double check the door chain, and turn on the tap to fill the kettle.
“I suppose you’ll be wanting a cup?”
The policeman sits, cross legged, at the kitchen table, “Go on then.”
The noise of water hitting the kettle makes me want to pee, so I unzip my fly and take aim at the waterfall next to the fridge.
“That’s done it” I think. “When a policeman rings the doorbell at three, it’s not a good idea to take a pee.”
I suppress a giggle because I’m determined to take him seriously. I cannot afford to let anything slip.
“What have I done wrong then?”
The policeman has replaced his uniform with a suit and aged a couple of decades. “And you’re not a policeman are you? You’re a magistrate.”
“So what if I am. It’s still bad news for you. You should expect policemen at your door at three in the morning because they work 24/7. A magistrate who works the night shift – that spells real trouble. How do you plead, Guilty or Not Guilty?”
”What’s the charge?”
“What do you want to be charged with? What do you deserve to be charged with? To what charge would you plead Guilty?”
“So you’re giving me the rope and expecting me to hang myself. That’s tonight’s gambit is it?”
“If that’s the way you choose to see it, who am I to argue?”
Every night, that’s the conundrum I face. What can I admit to that will not count against me? To claim to be completely free of guilt would not be credible – I’m only human after all. But I cannot admit to the crimes that brought me to this time and this place because the shame would kill me. And I do not know what the penalties are, so it would be reckless. But what does this man know? Which misdemeanours, which indiscretions, which secrets does he want from me?
I start to cry and the man in my kitchen who was a magistrate turns back into a policeman, then he’s a priest, and then a bishop.
The kitchen timer rings out and at the third strike I feel sleepy, close my eyes and hear a soft voice slowly getting louder.
“I don’t believe it. He’s coming round again. Every time we try to turn these damned machines off he comes back.”
The doctor in my dream asks me the same questions again. Who is the Prime Minister? What is the name of your eldest daughter? What colour is a post box? I pause so I can add strength to my voice, and confidently assert the answers. The doctor turns aside with an almost apologetic smile.
“There, you see. He’s still with us. I’ve known cases like this go for years. It’s probably worse for you than it is for him.”
I try to focus on the people he’s talking to but the picture fades, and I wake to the sound of a kitchen timer by the side of the bed. I watch the clock until it says 02.59, then I get up to answer the door.
I know who it will be, and I know what he wants, but I am determined he will get nothing out of me except a cup of tea, not at three in the morning.
“When the doorbell rings at three in the morning it’s never good news” says the policeman, beaming all over his face. “Not for you anyway.”
“Oh, it’s you again”. I yawn as I hold the chain that protects me from the outside world.
“Asleep again?”
“Yes, of course I was. Apparently it’s three o’clock in the morning. What’s this all about?”
“It’s a dawn raid, that’s what it is. But we’re early.”
I peer over his shoulder to see who he means by ‘we’ but there’s no-one there.
“Are you on your own?”
“Yes – and no” says the policeman, with a supercilious smile.
“It’s too early for mind games – where’s the rest of you?”
“Never you mind. Just let me in. We need to talk.”
“Not tonight thanks. When the doorbell rings at three in the morning, don’t let them in unless you know who they are. That’s my rule.”
I slam the door, double check the door chain, and turn on the tap to fill the kettle.
“I suppose you’ll be wanting a cup?”
The policeman sits, cross legged, at the kitchen table, “Go on then.”
The noise of water hitting the kettle makes me want to pee, so I unzip my fly and take aim at the waterfall next to the fridge.
“That’s done it” I think. “When a policeman rings the doorbell at three, it’s not a good idea to take a pee.”
I suppress a giggle because I’m determined to take him seriously. I cannot afford to let anything slip.
“What have I done wrong then?”
The policeman has replaced his uniform with a suit and aged a couple of decades. “And you’re not a policeman are you? You’re a magistrate.”
“So what if I am. It’s still bad news for you. You should expect policemen at your door at three in the morning because they work 24/7. A magistrate who works the night shift – that spells real trouble. How do you plead, Guilty or Not Guilty?”
”What’s the charge?”
“What do you want to be charged with? What do you deserve to be charged with? To what charge would you plead Guilty?”
“So you’re giving me the rope and expecting me to hang myself. That’s tonight’s gambit is it?”
“If that’s the way you choose to see it, who am I to argue?”
Every night, that’s the conundrum I face. What can I admit to that will not count against me? To claim to be completely free of guilt would not be credible – I’m only human after all. But I cannot admit to the crimes that brought me to this time and this place because the shame would kill me. And I do not know what the penalties are, so it would be reckless. But what does this man know? Which misdemeanours, which indiscretions, which secrets does he want from me?
I start to cry and the man in my kitchen who was a magistrate turns back into a policeman, then he’s a priest, and then a bishop.
The kitchen timer rings out and at the third strike I feel sleepy, close my eyes and hear a soft voice slowly getting louder.
“I don’t believe it. He’s coming round again. Every time we try to turn these damned machines off he comes back.”
The doctor in my dream asks me the same questions again. Who is the Prime Minister? What is the name of your eldest daughter? What colour is a post box? I pause so I can add strength to my voice, and confidently assert the answers. The doctor turns aside with an almost apologetic smile.
“There, you see. He’s still with us. I’ve known cases like this go for years. It’s probably worse for you than it is for him.”
I try to focus on the people he’s talking to but the picture fades, and I wake to the sound of a kitchen timer by the side of the bed. I watch the clock until it says 02.59, then I get up to answer the door.
I know who it will be, and I know what he wants, but I am determined he will get nothing out of me except a cup of tea, not at three in the morning.
Tuesday 2 August 2011
Death Came Third, A Short Story in 498 words
I had been thinking of this as an idea for a story for some months, so I used it when my writers' group, in conjunction with another group in Bournemouth, held a competition for a 500-word story with the theme 'Fear'.
I was extremely pleased when it won that competition, but what do you think of it? Please post your Comment below.
Jack Adams drew a long slow breath, located the knot in his stomach and focused on it, before confidently starting the final speech he would ever make.
He used to hate public speaking, before joining Manhattan Toastmasters.
Encouraged by his wife, Nancy, every other Thursday night he watched his compatriots make speeches, and listened to the Evaluators’ feedback.
The thought of actually making a speech made Jack’s skin tingle with dread, and the prospect of being evaluated took him back to school, and the humiliation inflicted by his teachers’ taunts.
His first speech was a disaster. He developed a stammer, forgot his name, and stood rooted to the spot, as if awaiting a firing squad. Afterwards he rushed home, and didn’t go back, claiming ‘pressure of work’ gave him no time to attend.
Business was tough and customers constantly demanded more bang for less bucks. Jack was the back office guy, making sure the paperwork was right, working out how to implement his partner’s wild schemes. Spike was the deal maker, and they tolerated each other, just, until the day a journalist called the office.
“Jack, I’m working on a story about loan sharks for The Chronicle. Spike’s name came up. Did you know he’s using your business as collateral to fund his gambling?”
Ten minutes later Jack was yelling down the phone:
“Why Spike? I’m the one mortgaged to the hilt. This could ruin me!”
By the time he hung up, Jack had decided that Spike would have to go, and he had the germ of a plan. There would be a fight, a death, and a plea of self defence. There would also be a court appearance, which he needed to be ready for, so he returned to Toastmasters, with new motivation and enthusiasm.
He read the New York Times study asking what people feared most. Death came third. The top two fears were walking into a room of strangers and public speaking. He learned to use his words and body to get his point across, to use logic to convince, and emotion to persuade.
One night he asked Spike to meet him at home, walked him to the garage, stuck a chisel in his chest, and called 911. He was arrested, and charged with Manslaughter.
Nancy, enraged by the sight of the muscular corpse which had thrilled her on every other Thursday night told only one lie in her statement to the police, that Jack had known about her and Spike.
Jack’s trial was now for murder, a capital offence, and the Evaluators in court pronounced him a cold, calculating coward. They said he made an eloquent defendant, but he should avoid contradicting his lovely wife.
Sentenced to death, several years later he hobbled along the corridor to the execution chamber, and stepped out to face the audience.
Jack Adams drew a long slow breath, located the knot in his stomach and focused on it, before confidently starting the final speech he would ever make.
(Word Count 498)
I was extremely pleased when it won that competition, but what do you think of it? Please post your Comment below.
Jack Adams drew a long slow breath, located the knot in his stomach and focused on it, before confidently starting the final speech he would ever make.
He used to hate public speaking, before joining Manhattan Toastmasters.
Encouraged by his wife, Nancy, every other Thursday night he watched his compatriots make speeches, and listened to the Evaluators’ feedback.
The thought of actually making a speech made Jack’s skin tingle with dread, and the prospect of being evaluated took him back to school, and the humiliation inflicted by his teachers’ taunts.
His first speech was a disaster. He developed a stammer, forgot his name, and stood rooted to the spot, as if awaiting a firing squad. Afterwards he rushed home, and didn’t go back, claiming ‘pressure of work’ gave him no time to attend.
Business was tough and customers constantly demanded more bang for less bucks. Jack was the back office guy, making sure the paperwork was right, working out how to implement his partner’s wild schemes. Spike was the deal maker, and they tolerated each other, just, until the day a journalist called the office.
“Jack, I’m working on a story about loan sharks for The Chronicle. Spike’s name came up. Did you know he’s using your business as collateral to fund his gambling?”
Ten minutes later Jack was yelling down the phone:
“Why Spike? I’m the one mortgaged to the hilt. This could ruin me!”
By the time he hung up, Jack had decided that Spike would have to go, and he had the germ of a plan. There would be a fight, a death, and a plea of self defence. There would also be a court appearance, which he needed to be ready for, so he returned to Toastmasters, with new motivation and enthusiasm.
He read the New York Times study asking what people feared most. Death came third. The top two fears were walking into a room of strangers and public speaking. He learned to use his words and body to get his point across, to use logic to convince, and emotion to persuade.
One night he asked Spike to meet him at home, walked him to the garage, stuck a chisel in his chest, and called 911. He was arrested, and charged with Manslaughter.
Nancy, enraged by the sight of the muscular corpse which had thrilled her on every other Thursday night told only one lie in her statement to the police, that Jack had known about her and Spike.
Jack’s trial was now for murder, a capital offence, and the Evaluators in court pronounced him a cold, calculating coward. They said he made an eloquent defendant, but he should avoid contradicting his lovely wife.
Sentenced to death, several years later he hobbled along the corridor to the execution chamber, and stepped out to face the audience.
Jack Adams drew a long slow breath, located the knot in his stomach and focused on it, before confidently starting the final speech he would ever make.
(Word Count 498)
Wednesday 20 July 2011
How to Live Forever, a short story in 499 words
My writers' group's End of Term Competition was for a 1000-word story with the theme 'Journey into Space'. The science fiction genre does not come easily to me and this is the result of several weeks of struggle. Was it worth it? Please post your Comment below.
Being President of a major corporation specialising in interplanetary travel had its benefits.
Jenny was trying out the latest innovative vacation for the busy executive, before launching it to the marketplace.
That’s how she came to be on a planet where time was slower by a factor of three, allowing her to take a three-month holiday in just one month away from the office.
That’s how she came to be on a planet where time was slower by a factor of three, allowing her to take a three-month holiday in just one month away from the office.
Jenny’s holiday was about to be tarnished. She noticed an anomaly in the hologram masquerading as a magnificent 18th century chandelier. The very latest virtual home fitting had been invaded by something as prosaic as a cobweb. She remembered her great grandmother’s stories about domestic drudgery, before self-cleaning homes existed. She also remembered the antidote - a ‘feather duster‘ - so she consulted the House Computer, which would access the InterWeb and replicate one.
“Wise One”, she said, directing her voice to a point about an inch in front of her face, “Instruction: Search. Feather duster. Buy. Quantity: one.”
“Hello Mistress. Would you like a feather or a duster?” spoke the slightly husky, and very human voice.
“Not a feather. Not a duster. Instruction: Phrase Search. Feather duster.”
“Apologies Mistress, but clarification is required: what is a duster?”
“Wise One: Instruction: Search Historical Databases for appliance used in mid 20th century homes to remove cobwebs. Feather duster.”
“Searching databases” said the voice. “I have located 576,962 references to feather duster. When I add the search term ’buy’ the number of results is zero.”
Jenny slumped into a chair and was immediately regaled by Robby, who was programmed to tell her on the hour, every hour, his imminent duties. “It is 4 p.m. At 4.15 I must serve party food to the young master and his birthday guests. At 4.30 I must introduce the entertainer, a replication of a famous 20th century comedian and his entourage. At 5.45 I must - “
Jenny immediately switched priorities, missing the end of the report as she rushed into the kitchen to greet her guests. Fifteen minutes later the butler interrupted the party, shepherded the children into the lounge, and announced, “Girls and boys, Ladies and Gentleman, I have the greatest pleasure in introducing one of the most versatile and long serving virtual comedians of all time.”
Before he could finish, a dozen tiny men with buck teeth rushed in, followed by a man with uncontrollable hair, wearing a red jacket, baggy trousers, and enormous shoes. Jenny relaxed and smiled, thinking of the old fashioned Blu-Ray discs in her family vault.
The first thing the entertainer did was to announce how tickled he was, to be here so very far from his home in Knotty Ash.
The second thing he did was to produce an implausibly large feather duster from behind his back, stretch up to the corner and brush away a small spider and his comfy little home.
Finally, he winked at Jenny, who beamed at everyone - how wonderful it was to live in civilised times!
Word count: 499
Sunday 3 July 2011
Written in Black, a short story in 498 words
My writers' group homework was a 500-word crime story. I wrote the first draft of this several years ago so I re-worked it to fit the required length. Any comments?
Brian looked at the diary and wondered why Joe had left it to him.
Joey Johnson used to run a Used Car dealership with Brian Ryan, who was surprised to inherit such a peculiar, and completely valueless, bequest. The two men had not parted on good terms when the business went bust. Certain financial irregularities had been revealed, and although Joe took the blame, he had never forgiven Brian for not owning up to his part in the creative accounting.
It was Brian’s wife, the eagle-eyed Brenda, who spotted the distinctive pattern in the diary entries, along with a series of names and numbers, disguised in a clumsy code. On the 25th of every month Joe had taken an early morning ferry to Ostend, then a bus to to Amsterdam, before returning home before breakfast the following day. On the 26th there was a coded message written in black – GBS25K.
Now the plan could take shape, and the clock started ticking.
Twenty four hours later Brian made a call, posing as Joe’s half-brother, breaking the news of his early death, suggesting he continued to smuggle diamonds for a monthly commission of £25,000.
Three days later Brian was leaving the lobby of an Amsterdam hotel, the proud owner of a new rucksack and a wash bag with a disposable razor, a shaving stick, and a plastic dish containing a diamond encrusted bar of soap. He would not have been so cheerful if he had seen the e-mail being sent at that very moment to Essex Police, from an anonymous source in Amsterdam, tipping them off about his activities, just as Joe had instructed.
Four hours later Brian sipped a pint as he chatted to an attractive middle aged woman dressed in the classic little black dress, black shoes, and a wide brimmed black hat.
Two hours after that they were sharing a cramped cabinette and Brian was revealing other items of clothing – all of them black.
Three more hours passed, and Brian woke to find he was alone – no sleeping partner, no rucksack, and no wash bag.
He visited the toilet, then the Purser’s Office to report the theft, then the shop, where he purchased a small netted bag containing 6 marbles that weighed about the same as the diamonds, then the toilet again.
Back on dry land, Brian was nervous as he approached the rendezvous and his mood was not lifted when he was tapped lightly on the shoulder and escorted to a police car.
Twelve hours later, after an embarrassing body search, a long interview about marbles, and a rather begrudging apology, Brian Ryan left the police station and made his way home.
He entered the house by the back door, kicked off his shoes, then climbed the stairs to the bedroom where he was met by his wife, naked save for a pair of black gloves. The diamonds were cradled in her outstretched hand.
“Well well, Detective Constable Brenda Ryan – what do we have here then?”
Monday 20 June 2011
Memories of breakfast, a short story in 515 words
My writers' group homework was 500 words on an evocative smell. I hate the smell of porridge and this is the result. Does anyone think this is worth developing? Post a Comment below!
“Go on Aunty, it’s porridge today, our favourite!”
Aunty Gwen forced a smile and backed away toward the patio doors that led into the garden.
“No thanks, not today, I’ve got to make a phone call and I’ll do it outside - you carry on and finish it all off.”
Please, please finish it all off, thought Gwen, as she took a long breath out, a very short breath in, and then another, very, long breath out, which was her normal way of preventing obnoxious smells getting any further up her nose than they had to.
She was generally keen on breakfast but the very mention of the ‘P’ word started the search for an excuse to avoid sharing the room with the foul smelling substance. No matter, she would just have to insist on treating everyone to pastries if she could engineer a coffee break later. At least she hadn’t caught sight of the congealed lump of milky mud that her twin sister loved so much.
“Hi Mum, Gwen here, I’m at Pam’s this weekend. Just thought I’d ring to see how you are.”
She closed the doors behind her and sent a silent prayer of thanks to the gods who had kept the rain away.
“Really? Oh, dear. How’s Dad?”
Dad would be reading the paper and would not interrupt his daily ritual, which was just as well, as the last thing she wanted was another interrogation about her lack of a husband.
“Of course, no, don’t disturb him. I was just admiring Pam’s garden. I don’t know where she finds the time.”
Gwen caught sight of the children through the window and waved. The image sent her back to the school refectory, with bowls piled high with white sludge, and the smell came back. She retched inwardly and reflected that she might as well had stayed in the kitchen.
“I didn’t know Pam had a gardener. She kept that quiet. It explains a lot of course. And there was I thinking she was Superwoman.”
The smell came back, but this time her thoughts wandered to the dormitory where she had been caught stuffing chocolate in lieu of breakfast. The teasing from her classmates changed to taunting, and in the garden, her shoulders rounded and her knees bent as she crouched in the corner and put her hands over her ears.
“Yes Mum. Bye then.”
Gwen turned towards the kitchen door and stopped dead to prevent herself bumping into a man stepping through the doorway. No, she decided, not a man, a God, and she was born again. Without moving her head she scanned six feet three of tanned muscle and entered a dream world where this was the beginning of a wonderful relationship. But where to begin?
Gwen had removed her shoes and was paddling in his ocean blue eyes when she was startled back into the garden by a disembodied voice.
“Sorry I startled you. I just have to get out of that kitchen. I can’t stand the smell of porridge.”
“Really” said Gwen. “You don’t say . . .”
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