50 Short Stories

by Martin Bourne

  *

  One concession was forced on to me. I had to get a new fangled telephone. To me it was a waste of money, but I needed to make some urgent calls one day and continually hit the proverbial brick wall.

  You all know the routine; to do this, press one, to do that, press two, to speak to one of our advisors press star.

  Nobody ever says what to do, if, like me at the time, one still had a traditional dial phone that had served its purpose for more years than I could remember.

  It had digits nought to nine but no hash, no star.

  My business that day was so urgent that for the first and last time, I had to go next door and ask if I could use my neighbour’s phone. The following day I got a new press button type phone, needless to say, I bought the cheapest in the store.

  The next move towards my ‘conversion’ came when I had a telephone call from the Town & Country Bank.

  One of the younger staff members started in the usual cheesy way,

  “Good morning Mr. Smith, How is your retirement going?

  I hope everything is to your satisfaction.~~~Yes,~~~ Good.”

  Without pausing for breath, she continued,

  “If you could spare a moment of your time, I would like to make you an offer that you can’t possibly refuse. We are way ahead of our competitors in offering a series of tuition classes. The object is to teach our more mature customers how to use a computer for on-line banking.”

  She concluded her recorded speech with,

  “And before you say that you haven’t got a computer, the Bank is offering the permanent lease of suitable computers at a ridiculously low rental.”

  “I’ll think about it.” I replied rather half heartedly.

  Later that week, I had a chat with our Tommy. He really is, what do they say? With it?”

  He sounded very forceful when he said,

  “At last, maybe you’re seeing common sense. For goodness sake dad, you simply must try to get up to date with modern technology.”

  I managed a grunt before he added,

  “One thing though, forget about the computers that the bank has on offer. They will be obsolete and suitable for Bank’s purposes only. Dig deep and buy yourself a decent lap-top. You can get a good one for about three-fifty.”

  “How much?” I bellowed. . . . . . .

  Eventually, a compromise was reached when he decided to buy one for himself so that I could have his old one.

  I really enjoyed the course offered by the Bank. Even more so I enjoyed going for a drink with the tutor afterwards.

  She, Stella that is, was a stunning red haired widow about ten years younger than me.

  To use modern-speak once more, we hit it off.

  It didn’t take much effort for her to talk me into signing up for a computer course that she was running as an evening class at our local college.

  By the time that course was over, I was in a position to teach her a thing or two You can interpret that how you like.

  After that, I suppose that I thought that I knew it all, but when my seven year old granddaughter asked me if I had seen her eye-pod, I had to reply,

  “I don’t even know what one is.”

  *

  Stella bought me a mobile phone for my birthday. I had firmly assured all and sundry that the last thing that I ever wanted was a mobile. I’d never had one, never wanted one and never needed one. Having said that, I accepted it with good grace, but only because it was Stella who gave it to me.

  “You will have learn how to text now.” She told me.

  “No way!” I responded very quickly.

  I made the excuse that my fingers weren’t steady enough and I stuck to my guns for a month or two. Eventually though, I asked our Tommy to give me a bit of guidance, just so that I could accept messages from Stella, as by that time I was besotted with her.

  After persevering, I managed a few two word messages to start with, but, surprisingly, it wasn’t long before I was as good at texting as she was.

  It is funny how so many things in life turn full circle. A few weeks ago, I sent our Tommy three texts and two e-mails without any response.

  When I challenged him, I was flabbergasted at his reply.

  “Oh come off it dad, I haven’t switched my computer on for over a week now, just can’t be bothered.”

  “What about the texts?” I asked.

  “Same thing really, I leave my phone at home more often than I take it with me these days.”

  Seeing as he was the one who criticized my lack of interest in technography in the first instance, I felt bound to respond angrily.His answer to me was a cracker.

  Just listen to this,

  “It is alright for you old codgers. You have all the time in the world to mess about with computers and things. I lead such a

  busy life that I don’t have the time to bother with them any more.”

  I give up. I’m seriously thinking that I would need my Sat-Nav to find his brains.

  That wasn’t Fun.

  To be honest, I had nothing to complain about, but I was getting bored with the repetitive regularity of meals on wheels, so last Friday I decided to go out for my midday lunch.

  Being Saint Georges Day, the obvious choice was the George and Dragon.

  Just as the Church clock was striking twelve noon, I was the first guest of the day in the newly refurbished restaurant.

  I won’t dwell on the meal other than to say that the roast beef and Yorkshire pudding followed by two helpings of apple pie were perfect.

  The problem was that I ate far too much; certainly more than I was used to. Afterwards I had a job to carry my glass of beer to one of the luxury arm chairs in the lounge.

  Once seated, I caught the tail end of a television programme, which, to put it bluntly, was absolute rubbish.

  Doubtless, somebody might have enjoyed it. It was when a charming young presenter appeared on the screen and said,

  “That was fun” that I became really annoyed.

  Fun indeed.

  I was so incensed that I looked up the definition of fun in the pocket dictionary that I always carry with me.

  It said very briefly,

  ‘An amusing diversion, enjoyment, or pleasure.’

  What it did not say, was how ones definition of fun changes over the decades. But, as happens to me far too often, it started me reminiscing and. I was surprised how my idea of fun had changed throughout my lifetime. Perhaps that young lady presenter was correct.

  The programme might have been fun to her age group.

  I thought back to when I was seven years old and the time that I went into forbidden territory. Rosie Bright told me that there was loads of frog spawn in Black’s pit and she wanted some. What Rosie wanted, Rosie had to have.

  Black’s pit had claimed the lives of two boys from the children’s home the previous year so it was strictly out of bounds.

  But, to get some frog spawn in a jam jar and watch the tadpoles hatch or whatever they did would certainly be an amusing diversion. It was a great idea, until on the way home from Sunday school we tried it. Armed with a jam-jar, no longer host to the classroom daffodils, I set about my mission.

  It was fine till Rosie fell into the water.

  Her new white skirt was soon a different colour, mud with green and white streaks. Trouble was she panicked and couldn’t get out, so I tried to help. Within moments my grey shorts had taken on the same colour.

  If it hadn’t been for a very angry fisherman, the story would probably have ended there for both of us. However, his skill and fitness ensured that we were rescued, if only to face the music.

  I know that the frog spawn was lost but still, thinking about the episode, It was fun.

  Forward a decade. There was a general election in the offing but to my annoyance, age denied me the right to vote.

  Rosie Bright, who was by now my girl-friend was also too young. We decided to make our protest in. . . . shall I say, a different way. We obtained photo
graphs of the three main candidates from the widely circulating literature.

  Then, in the art room at college we modified them.

  The Labour candidate was easily transformed in to a pirate with the caption, :-

  “I’ll look after your money for you”

  The Conservative bent lovingly over the most luxurious motor car imaginable, with the caption, :-

  “Free petrol for all, -- If you have a big car”

  We placed the Liberal Democrat in a very romantic position with a jewellery laden lady from the sub continent, complete with sari and head scarf. His caption was, :-

  “I’ll guarantee arranged marriages or purchased wives for everybody within ten years.”

  Each was then given the most ridiculous manifesto summary.

  Bert Black, the Labour man promised that he would try to stay sober most weekdays. He was a local business man and bent as an Easter egg even without a skin full of lager.

  The Conservative, Nigel Doddington-Smythe guaranteed that he would spend no more then three months abroad on holiday between now and the July Parliamentary recess.

  He was son of the local squire and was noted for his playboy lifestyle, especially on daddy’s yacht.

  I felt sorry for Isaac Aylot, The Liberal Democrat. His assurance was that whatever the other candidates offered, he would knock it. He seemed such a nice bloke and his missus was an absolute stunner.

  For no particular reason, the remaining candidates were left alone.

  Saturday afternoon and Sunday saw four reams of paper printed and folded so that my brother, and his horrible fourth form pals from Greystone Grammar, could be press ganged into helping with a mass leaflet drop late one night.

  We caused uproar. Seemingly, the candidates were not happy, neither were the diehard supporters of each party

  Television was still in its infancy but News of the prank soon reached the reporters and to my sorrow, not long afterwards, I was identified as the instigator.

  I was hauled before the court, charged with Public mischief and misusing college property. The magistrate was quite cross as he told me that I had been a very naughty young man. He asked me what made me do such a stupid thing so I told him, That was fun.

  Fast forward another decade. I was twenty seven and guess what: there was another general election in the offing.

  I thought back to my antics ten years before and it seemed so juvenile and pointless. Now, I needed a man’s hobby.

  I was into motor bike scrambling. Rosie wasn’t bright any more if you get my meaning, but the excitement of being a newly wed was long past. I used to spend my weekends ripping up the countryside on a motorbike whilst Rosie stayed at home with the twins and a barrel full of nappies. The thrill of flying mud and the potential danger excited me. The noise of the bike was perhaps a fewer decibels than a shrieking wife and two squawking kids but believe me,

  That was fun.

  After another decade, at thirty seven, I had calmed down and moved to live near the coast, so my highlight was playing with the kids on the beach. They were still not quite past the sandcastle stage. That is provided that I did all the work. But I enjoyed it. There was also cricket in the sand dunes and paddling in the sea. We had great times and afterwards I could always say, That was fun.”

  Forward yet another ten. I was now forty seven. The twins were both at university so I reckoned that it was time for Rosie and me to have a nice holiday on our own. Probably abroad

  Not so. Rosie’s parents had reached an age where if we didn’t take them on holiday, they wouldn’t have one.

  I said “So what” but Rosie was insistent and as always she won. Grandma and Granddad joined us in a six berth luxury caravan down on the south coast.

  The typical English weather dominated the holiday.

  It absolutely poured down every single day. If it had been a house, we would have been housebound. As it was, we were confined to a tin box for a full fortnight. We watched telly, we argued politics, we played cards and dominoes and even more surprising, we played scrabble till I think we had used every word in the dictionary.

  Yet, talking in the car on the way home we all agreed that despite all the difficulties, that was fun.

  Ten years after that, my life had changed a lot. Rosie and I had parted company. The divorce nearly saw me off financially so my new life was very restricted. I started writing monologues, schoolboy type poetry, and a few short stories.

  You might say how boring, but it passed the lonely evenings away. Then one day, at the factory, the personnel manager heard about my writing and asked if she could see some of my work. Anxious to keep in her good books I sorted out some of my better stuff and left it in her office. Next thing that I knew, she called me in with a special request.

  “Would you do me a favour and read some of your work to the residents of an elderly people’s home at an entertainment evening?”

  After a very apprehensive start, I did just that and enjoyed myself much more than I had expected.

  Requests from three other similar homes in town soon followed and I enjoyed each, more than the previous one.

  I quickly learned that the technique of developing quite a rapport with the punters was inspirational. That was fun.

  .

  Finally, we fast forward rather more than a decade. I am now a doddering septuagenarian. At home, the lawn is not mown, the breakfast dishes will still be in the sink, Fido hasn’t had his walk, but, I have just spent a couple of hours reliving the highlights of my life. Now to me, that really was fun.

  The next thing that I was aware of was a light kiss on my forehead and a sweet voice saying,

  “Wake up Mr. Smith; we are closing now, till six o-clock.”

  As I opened my eyes I was faced by the most beautiful young lady I had ever seen, poised to help me out of my chair.

  Now, that wasn’t fun, . . . . . . . it was Heavenly bliss.

  Playing Away.

  When I found out, nobody can imagine how hurt I felt.

  My Peter had the seven-year itch after barely two, However, he promised on his granny’s life that his first affair would be his last..

  Six months later, when I was told that he was doing it a second time I glanced skywards and offered a silent

  ‘Mother you were right’, but once again I forgave him.

  By the third time, I knew that the finale was near.

  Of all people, virtually on our own doorstep, he started escorting Polly Potts from the corner shop. Common as muck she was.

  It was a widely known fact that anybody could have her for three artichokes and a wet tea bag.

  I didn’t wish to know, but one of my own machinists enjoyed telling me in great detail what the shameless couple had been doing behind the boathouse in Ashlea Park.

  That was when my decision was finally made. I saw a solicitor.

  I was too embarrassed to use my own company solicitor so a friend recommended a lady who specialized in divorce matters

  Though she was only a junior partner in Wilson Thomas and Whiteside, she had an excellent record.

  Tearfully, I explained to her that I still loved Peter dearly, but no way could I take any more of his philandering.

  Stern faced Miss Whiteside reassured me.

  “Easily sorted. An amicable divorce, takes about five minutes and it shouldn’t cost you too much,”

  An amicable divorce. I had difficulty trying to imagine such a thing, yet it happened as easily as that.

  It was when the judge emphasised,

  “All assets to be divided equally.” that alarm bells sounded.

  “What about the business?” I wailed. “That is mine, started with one sewing machine in my bedroom. Since then I’ve put twenty-five years of sweat and toil into it. Peter’s input has been minimal, after all, he is only a second rate salesman.”

  “I’m afraid it doesn’t matter,” the solicitor said.

  “That isn’t how it works.

  Either you need to
buy out your ex husband’s interest, or you will have to find a way of working together even though you are no longer married.”

  I tried everyone that I could think of who might possibly agree to be a sleeping partner in the firm. Nobody wanted to know.

  Next option was the bank. After much prevaricating, the manager referred my application to his head office.

  That took ages and my nerves had taken me to the verge of suicide by the time I had my answer.

  Yes, I could have my loan, but not a penny more, and the terms and repayments were draconian.

  There was no option, I had to accept them, making the comment,

  “It looks as though I shall have to live on porridge and weak tea for the next three years.”

  His sarcastic reply was,

  “So be it then. I’ll wish you good luck . . . and I hope that you like porridge.”

  Mind you, I knew full well where his sympathy lay, he was one of Peter’s golfing pals.

  That was it. I was just getting used to my new status when I had yet another cruel blow. The accountant’s bill for all the valuations, plus my solicitors bill, and an interim tax demand all came through my letterbox on the same morning. The three came to just short of eight thousand pounds.

  This time there seemed nobody to turn to for help. Later, lying in bed spending yet another sleepless night I thought to myself,

  ‘I wonder’.

  Peter’s Uncle Ted was a retired sea captain, absolutely dripping with money and I knew that he had a soft spot for me.

  He was an outcast from the family, mainly because he was a very unsavory character where females were concerned. He just could not keep his hands to himself, that’s why we all avoided him.

  However, I was desperate.

  His reply to my request stunned me,

  “My dear Marie, of course you may have a loan, why ask me such a silly question. You can have as much as you like for as long as you like.”