50 Short Stories
Page 1
Foreword.
The following pages contain many stories saved from my old computer when it was consigned to the bin. After all, we are all encouraged to recycle these days. Whether or not they should have gone to the bin with it, is for you, the reader to decide.
If you get as much pleasure from reading just one of them as I had at the time of writing, then it will have all been worthwhile.
Many were written from the female perspective, others from the male, while a few were written in the third person.
Some are vignettes rather than stories, I question; does that matter? I learned most of the rules for good writing, long ago, but regrettably, I still keep writing in my own sweet way.
For the good points I thank my friends at Alsager Writers Circle for advice and encouragement; especially John who set the book in printable form.
For any bad points or silly errors I take full responsibility.
It is the pleasure of writing that matters to me.
Happy reading
Martin Bourne.
Contents
Peggy's Tale 4
The Flying Car 11
Dodgydot 15
Slow Down 23
A Nice Cup of Tea 28
A Rose by Any Other Name 32
Everything Comes to She Who Waits 34
No Monkey Business 38
Lesley's Inheritance 42
Unusual Christmas 49
Major General 56
Friends 59
Dragged Through a Hedge Backwards 63
No Toys needed 68
Something Different 74
Celia's Cycle Ride 80
Wild Night 84
Nine leg Farce 88
The Old Red Bag 95
Be Prepared 97
Sun, Sangria and Something Else 100
I Wish 106
Judy 109
The Good Old Days 113
Keeping Up To Date 115
That Wasn't Fun 120
Playing Away 126
Rain Again 131
A Lonely Time 136
My Special Day 141
Uncle Charlie's Multi Purpose Gadget 145
Party Spirit 149
My Latest Love Affair 155
Last Day of Term 164
Maria 170
The Bitter End 174
The Ups and Downs of Everyday Living 180
Windows 2010 183
Way Back in Grandma's Time 188
The Empty Flat 193
Just Acting 198
All Show 203
Drink To Me Only With Thine Eyes 206
A Lesson in Life 211
A Good Book 213
The Parish Magazine 218
Country Ramble 223
Wishfull Thinking 229
The Competition 233
No Change 238
Caught. 243
Peggy’s Tale.
It was Wednesday afternoon. It was also St. Valentine’s Day. There was a skittering of snow on the ground with the threat of much more to come. Despite the weather, all but one of the Middlegate ladies’ ‘Morning coffee club’ turned up for their fortnightly meeting.
Madam Chairman, Ena Jarvis, was extremely embarrassed; having to tell the assembly that the guest speaker had cancelled her engagement due to the weather. However, it was plain to see that Mrs. Jarvis had her own ideas when she announced,
“We will be our own orators for the day.”
She went around the semi circle of chairs asking each lady their most outstanding personal memory, hoping to arrive at a subject for discussion.
First off, Ena herself told how she had been expelled from boarding school aged just fifteen years and three months.
Next, was Christine Jones who told that she had passed her driving test just two weeks after her seventeenth birthday.
Betty Jones, no relation, beat that by saying,
“I was a widow ten days after my seventeenth.”
Urged to be a little more explicit, she told the group that after a hurried wartime wedding; her first husband had been killed when his parachute failed to open.
Mrs. Jarvis decided that marriage at a very young age would make a good discussion. She soon changed her mind.
More than once in fact.
Next person to be asked was Milly, a new arrival in the village.
“I joined the Women’s Land Army at the beginning of the war. Within two years I was head rat catcher for the whole of Leicestershire.”
That attracted a few giggles.
Cicely Hubbard proudly boasted that she had been a debutante and when she was presented at court the King had winked at her. Everybody laughed, whether anyone believed her or not is another matter.
Looking at an empty chair, Ena said,
“That covers everyone except Peggy and I doubt whether she has ever seen anything interesting, living on her own for all those years.
By the way, where is she?”
“Just changing her shoes” somebody answered, before continuing,
“Here she comes now.”
Peggy Young shuffled behind her walking frame, her slippers dragging across the carpet.
“Good Morning Peggy, we are just collecting ideas, Have you ever done anything worth telling us about?”
“Nah, not really.
Well, one thing you may or may not think interesting.
I did elope with Father Christmas when I was nineteen.”
The entire group gasped, Ena loudest of all.
The vicar’s wife had to put in her two penny-worth.
“But surely, you have been Miss Young all your life. I happened to see your Baptism records only the other day. I was looking for something else at the time.” Peggy soon put her straight.
“Alright clever clogs, eighty four years I have lived on this earth.
For eighty-three of them I have been Miss Young. For just twelve months I was Mrs. Young. Work that out how you wish.”
That was the deciding moment. Ena resumed her role as Madam Chairman. Peggy’s dubious nuptials were up for discussion whether she wanted it or not.
“Please start the ball rolling Peggy. Take your time but do tell us your tale.”
“Well.” Peggy began hesitantly.
(Peggy always started a dialogue with ‘well’)
“I had a very generous childhood. Whatever I wanted I had, cost didn’t matter at all. To put it bluntly I was a spoiled child.
When I was seventeen I was sent to a finishing school in Switzerland. At first I was very reserved but once I had settled down, I became a rebel and always seemed to be in trouble.
Eventually I was sent home in disgrace. My parents having tried everything; didn’t want to know. They rented a small flat in town and told me to make my own way in the world. Unused to work, unwilling to take orders, I drifted from job to job. One count revealed that I had eleven different employers in nine months.
My latest job was as a waitress in a small café next to Hargreaves’s department store. One dismal afternoon it was cold, raining, and the windows were running with condensation. As usual I was fed up, ever moaning and wishing for pastures anew.
Then the atmosphere lightened a bit. Father Christmas from Hargreaves’s had sneaked in through the back door for a drink.
Like me, he was fed up.
“Squawking ungrateful kids, stroppy parents and an employer who expects maximum output for peanuts”
Regardless of the black looks that I kept on getting from my supervisor, I sat and talked to Father Christmas for about five minutes.
“I’ll come here again,” he said. “Management think that I’m on a toilet break.”
He just welcomed someone friendly to talk to.
That is how it started, he
began calling in at about the same time every day. One day, we were both equally as grumpy.
Hoping that he would ask me out that night, I asked
“What can we do to cheer ourselves up?”
His reply left me speechless.
“We could always get married.” He said.
Just like that. I didn’t even know his name, but thinking to myself,
‘I can be as daft as you can’
I gave him a non-committal answer.
“When?”
His answer was equally disconcerting.
“Being Father Christmas, I reckon that it should be on
Christmas Day. What do you think?”
Whatever possessed me I shall never know, but I said,
That will be a good idea. By the way, what is your name?”
“Fred Young, what’s yours?
“Peggy Young, how’s that for coincidence”.
The chances of getting married on Christmas Day faded when we found that there was neither Vicar, Priest or Rabbi would be prepared to perform the ceremony on that particular day. All claimed to be too busy.
Fred would not be beaten.
“Then we’ll have to elope. We can get married over the anvil in the smithy at Gretna Green. The blacksmith is a friend of mine.
Gone was my life-long dream of going to my wedding in a horse and carriage. I just had to imagine a sleigh and two reindeer.
That, my friends, is precisely how it happened. As soon as it was over I stuffed my wedding certificate in my rucksack and said, ‘That’s it. We’re married now, let’s get out into the world and enjoy ourselves’”
At that point, Peggy paused for a glass of fruit juice before continuing.
“Then we had the honeymoon of a lifetime. We travelled the world, staying in exotic places that I had only read about. I used to wonder where the money came from but Fred kept telling me “Don’t worry” so I didn’t.
I suspected that there was some dishonesty somewhere along the line but didn’t give a damn. I was so happy.
Well into the year I fell pregnant and we were both overjoyed.
In late September, Fred insisted that we should return to England as he would soon be preparing for his Father Christmas stunt again.
Then, sadly at five and a half months I lost my baby.
While I was devastated, Fred shrugged his shoulders and continued as though nothing had changed. Except, he did start going out on his own rather a lot.
Then he didn’t come back one night.
Next morning he called round to collect his things, saying that he had found someone else.
“The rent is paid so you can stay in the flat till the end of the month. Then it’s up to you.”
That is the last time that I saw Fred Young.
Straight away I decided that I wanted a divorce.
My solicitor, Mr. Underwood smiled when I told him the circumstances, exactly as I have told you today. I was wrongly under the impression that if a marriage had lasted less than a year, a divorce could be had within three weeks.
“I think, Mrs. Young, that you would find it much cheaper to have a solicitor from the place of the marriage. That, I believe is Gretna Green
So I will make a contact for you.”
Mr. Underwood was as good as his word. He rang me two days later to tell me that he had made an appointment for me to see a solicitor in Gretna.
I was horrified when I arrived for my appointment. The man I was introduced to was a young lad, barely out of college. My first impression was,
‘I bet he doesn’t know much. Can’t have had any experience’.
He fussed around making sure that I was comfortable then sat down himself behind a gigantic mahogany desk. He breathed on his glasses then polished them, smiled at me, then did it again.
At last he spoke,
“Now then young lady, I understand that you want a divorce. Quickly.”
“Yes, Sir, in three weeks if that is possible.”
“Sadly it is not. I’m afraid you can not have a divorce in three weeks.
Or three months. Or even three years I’m afraid.”
“Why ever not I wailed.”
“You can’t be divorced,” he paused, “Because, my dear, you have never been married.”
“Oh yes I have, I have my marriage certificate to prove it.”
I waved it desperately in front of him.
“No my dear, the man who performed that ceremony was an imposter, a rouge and villain. The certificate you have there is merely a souvenir, sold readily in the shop for a few pence. Go home, enjoy life, you are a free woman. It has been such a pleasure meeting you that I will waive my fee.”
Peggy concluded.
“I came home as Miss Young and have been ever since.
It was long afterwards that I learned that the ‘solicitor’ was actually an office junior, nephew of my own solicitor.
With hindsight, I wouldn’t change a single detail.
That dear friends is my story”
By this time, the snow was quite deep outside the hall but nobody had noticed. They had all been to busy listening to Peggy’s tale.
The Flying Car.
Maud Brooke’s faithful Morris Minor swung precariously in the branches of a silver birch tree.
Her nephew Ted was very embarrassed as they both gazed at it.
“Oh dear.”
“Oh Dear.” Ted said it a second time with some conviction.
“Is that all that you can say? . . . Oh dear,” snapped Aunt Maud
Actually, the matronly old lady was more worried than angry.
“Well,” answered Ted, “I could have said oh dear, oh no or oh bother, but that would be pointless. You always say that I waste words. I could have used some swear words, I certainly know enough. You wouldn’t have liked that either. Now, if I had said what I really thought, like ‘Sorry Auntie,’ it would have sounded so inadequate.”
White haired Aunt Maud looked every minute of her seventy
three years as she wailed,
“Just you think about that scene outside my lounge window.
My car, . . . my only means of transport, . . Hovering in the top of a tree like a bird’s nest. It’s just not on. Poor as we are,
I reckon it will cost at least a thousand pounds to get that car down. A thousand pounds that I don’t have and that doesn’t account for any damage to the car.
I simply can not think what possessed you.”
“The insurance will pay won’t they?” Ted asked hopefully.
“No Chance.” Aunt Maud was emphatic about that.
“With the keys left in the ignition and a sixteen year old schoolboy around. They would laugh at our claim.
It is an insurance company, not a benevolent society.”
At any time, no matter what Ted said, no matter what he did, Maud Brooke absolutely idolized her nephew. Yet he could manipulate her like a puppeteer with a doll on a string.
“I did it for you Auntie. You asked for it.”
“I did what?” she cried in disbelief. “You must be mad”
“Just think” Ted countered,
“How many times have you said, ‘I wish this car could fly?’ Even yesterday when we waited at the railway crossing for ages, you said it. Remember, “I wish this car could fly.”
“That was merely a figure of speech you silly boy.”
Aunt Maud said it without raising her voice.
“Well I made your car fly didn’t I? I just made one simple mistake that I certainly won’t make again. You will have your flying car.”
“So you think my car is Chitty- Chitty Bang- Bang and you are Caractecus Potts do you?”
“Not at all. Potts is history now . . . . . so twentieth century.
What I have achieved is decades ahead of anyone else.”
“I would question that.” Maud shook her head.
“Having said that, you got a car wedged in the branches of a tree, I think that you mu
st be unique.”
“Oh, look on the positive side Auntie, at least the caravan wasn’t hooked up to the back of it at the time. Now that would have looked comical.”
At that, they both had to laugh, and that was the mood as they bid one another good night and returned to their bedrooms.
Bed was rather a pointless exercise as neither of them slept.
Maud Brooke was worrying about the future, mainly with finance in mind.
Ted’s over active brain was churning over further modifications to his idea, though it wasn’t technology, rather the simplest of errors that had caused the current disaster.
The following morning Ted went into school as though nothing had happened.
Loitering as he passed the offices of the Evening Sun, he read the poster in the window advertising a national competition.
Your Last Chance to Enter.
Big Prize for the Best Photograph Submitted.
Theme: - Unusual Things That Happen’
What better opportunity could there possibly be. Ted turned back and caught the next bus home. With the light being just right, he took a perfect photograph of Aunt Maud’s car, still balanced between the silver birch boughs.
Before the chemist’s had closed, Ted had taken advantage of the one-hour service, had the film developed, and subsequently lodged in the Sun office, with the three pounds entry fee.
Talking about money, Aunt Maud’s estimate of a thousand pounds to hire a crane to remove the car was woefully inadequate. Double it and one would be more accurate. However the bill was paid somehow, and after that, the subject was talked about light heartedly with no bitterness or acrimony.
Weeks later, life for young Ted took a turn for the better.
He received a letter informing him that his photograph had won the top prize in the competition; that was his first good news. This was very soon followed by an amazing offer to publish it in a worldwide magazine.
The advance payment would be exactly two thousand pounds.
Ted was happy that the debt to Aunt Maud could be repaid.
Even that paled into insignificance with what came next.