Now the next nearest thing to consider is wishful thinking.
Now that is a subject that I do know something about.
It reminds me of my old friend Peter Hughes.
Wishful thinking ran with him for most of his life. Mind you, with what he wished for, he wasn’t on his own. You might guess, there was a female involved.
Peter’s burning desire was Ruth Allison. She was in the same year as us at senior school and it is easy to understand why nearly everybody was after her attention. She was petite, slim without being skinny, she had beautiful strawberry blonde hair and if that wasn’t enough, she had the cutest pair of tits that any schoolgirl ever had. No wonder everyone fancied her.
Many tried and failed, wheras Peter persevered and she played him along like a toy. When he did finally manage a snog behind the school greenhouse, he was cruelly cut short.
It was sports day, and our last day in school. Peter was really managing to express his feelings in a very passionate manner when they heard a mistress calling,
“Has anybody seen Ruth? She hasn’t been to collect her cup for the swimming events.”
Poor Pete, they both knew that Ruth would have to go and claim her cup or else there would soon have been a search party out. And most people would know where to look.
Straight after that, Pete went on holiday with his folks, then Ruth went away with hers. After that, apart from a couple of brief meetings in the supermarket, they were separated more permanently. Pete went to engineering college and Ruth went to a finishing school for young ladies. It was all a long time ago.
Whilst at college, Pete got into surf boarding and was quite successful. He started buying and selling surf-boards and then small sailing boats. By the time he left college he was doing well enough to make a full time career of it. After a year or two he took a massive bank loan and bought a boat building yard. It was hard work but once he had managed to repay his loan he continued to work hard and soon became a wealthy man. With all his success, he never forgot Ruth but was always too busy making money to do anything about it.
Ruth, on the other hand did not have such a happy tale to tell. She returned home for a party, had too much to drink and got in with some bad company. In fact, she fell pregnant to Ben Wilkinson, a loud mouthed drunkard who never did a days work in his life. They got married, had three kids in two years and the gossip was that he used to give her many a good hiding. Very rarely did she go out other than to the post office to collect her family allowance which he used to snatch off her as she came out.
It must have been about seven years later when I saw Pete again.
He had come up to help sort some of his grandma’s stuff after she died. He called round at our house and his first question was,
“Where is Ruth living these days? Whenever I ring up anybody round here, nobody seems to know anything.
I couldn’t get out of it, I had to tell him,
“She is living at the bottom end of the Aston Brook council estate. You know, the rough end. She is married to Ben Wilkinson, remember him, he used to be the best fighter in the school but thick as pig shit, They say she is very unhappy.”
Pete asked me if I thought it would be ok to visit her.
“If you do, for Christ’s sake don’t go in that car. If they don’t put a brick through your windscreen, at least someone will nick the wheels off it.”
In the end he borrowed my old bike. I haven’t used it for years.
Even having been warned, Pete still had a shock when he made his visit. Ruth was scruffy, obviously terrified, and clearly hadn’t had a decent meal for a very long time.
“Oh Peter”, she said, “It’s lovely to see you, thank you for coming but please don’t stay, if he comes back from the pub and sees you there will be hell to pay.”
Pete took pity on her.
“At least let me give you some money to help you out a bit.”
He took fifty pounds out of his wallet and gave it to her.”
“I daren’t” she told him. “If Ben finds it he’ll drink the lot. I’ve nowhere to hide it. And before you say it, it definitely wouldn’t be safe down my bra or in my knickers. In fact, I’ve only one pair which I have to wash at night and dry ready to wear again next morning.”
Just then, the shouting started. “Whose bloody bike is that by our gate?”
“It’s mine, I just called to see Ruth, we were friends at school.”
“She’s not allowed friends so fuck off.”
He was obviously well drunk.
“No need to use language like that,” I told him.
He reached into the cutlery drawer.
“Just fuck off before I knife the pair of you.”
Not bothered about himself but fearful of what he could do to Ruth, Pete left the house, only to see two hooligans tearing off on his bike.
“Bring that here now” Pete shouted “That is mine”.
“It’s ours now; Big Ben gave it to us so hard luck.”
Pete made for the nearest telephone box to report the theft to the police, only to find it vandalized and useless.
He called round at the police station later only to be told,
“If we answered every complaint that we get from Aston Brook estate there wouldn’t be time to see to anyone else at all. The advice is, just keep away from the place.”
After telling me what had gone on, Pete went back down south to his boat yard a very unhappy feller. He had loads of money, yet he couldn’t do what he wanted with it.
He had always carried a burning torch for Ruth, but it was burning brighter than ever now. And there was nothing that he could do but wish.
Two years after that, Ben gave Ruth another good hiding and went too far. She ended up in hospital and Ben got himself locked up, quite rightly, for ten years. Pete offered and eventually did pay for her to get a divorce. In fact, he gave her every attention till she was fit and well again. He was genuinely sorry for her, his own feelings, though still strong, had to take second place.
One day, when he felt the time was right, he asked her to go out for a meal with him. Instead of the reply he was expecting and hoping for, she started crying.
“Peter, I do so appreciate everything that you have done for me and I truly have feelings for you, but: - I just daren’t be alone with a man, any man. I’m just too frightened.”
Pete accepted it with great sadness till she spoke again,
“Maybe sometime.”
Those two words made all the difference.
Peter went home, still with his wishful thinking.
The Competition .
After always having been a keen theology student, Alan Archer was delighted to be given his own parish at the young age of twenty three. It wasn’t because he was the best student of his year, though he was, neither was it because the Bishop had a soft spot for him even though that was also true. Alan was given his parish because no one else would accept the living of St Barnabas at Higher Upton. Despite its high sounding name, Higher Upton was by far, the most undesirable parish in the diocese. Remove the thieves, vagabonds and women of ill repute and the village would be sparsely populated. Mind you, at his induction service there were people in most of the pews.
It was only on reflection afterwards that Alan realised that most of the congregation had been his relatives or fellow students, there just to be nosey.
By the end of the first month, Alan realised that his task was not enormous as he had been lead to believe, it was impossible. Congregations were miniscule, the collection plate rarely topped the two pound mark and Mrs. Perkins from the post office had threatened to resign as Churchwarden unless things altered.
Worst of all, Alan’s wife Marjory couldn’t cope with their cold rambling vicarage as well as looking after their four month old daughter. Margery had been a beauty Queen and was not gifted with much practical ability.
That one was soon sorted, The Bishop had already pre-empted this difficulty and arranged for another C
hurch owned property to be dedicated as vicarage instead. The two bed-roomed Glebe property was the answer to a prayer, but even the day after they moved in, Alan had another dilemma that he had to tell the Bishop about. Thieves had stripped the lead from the Church roof during the night. Alan had consulted Ted from the local builder’s yard only to be told that repairs would cost in the region of two thousand pounds plus the cost of new lead; which would likely be another couple of grand. He had expected the Bishop to go ballistic but was very surprised at his response.
“Fear not my boy, the good Lord in his wisdom has set you this little test. You raise this money and your goodwill in the parish will soar. You ask people for money in the right way and you will bring them all closer.”
“How on earth can I raise that sort of money in an area like this, your worship, be reasonable.”
The answer to that was,
“You’ll do it easily, with the lord’s help, thought, and prayer.
Add your own natural ability and I have every confidence in you.”
Alan thought and thought, he even set aside one hour each day as thinking time. Just how was he going to raise that sort of money, Alan didn’t have the Bishop’s confidence.
Two parishioners had sent him e-mails. The less savoury kind, that one would not usually expect to be sent to a vicar, even if he was only ten months out of Uni. But Higher Upton was different to anywhere else. Scruples, modesty, and decorum were merely words in the dictionary, not the accepted practice.
Then Alan had an idea. What about an e-mail competion. Throughout the diocese, even more widespread maybe. Charge a pound a time, two thousand entries and the roof repairs could start.
Of course the idea had to be run past the Bishop. He thought it a great idea and even offered to chair the judging panel. He would also scrounge prizes and offer help with the advertising.
Though grateful for the offer, Alan was concerned. The Bishop would doubtless be horrified at some of the funnies in circulation, even disgusted and angry perhaps.
“We need rules Sir,” Alan stated in a phone call.
“There must be some criteria to work to. There are some very dodgy people out there who certainly have no respect for the cloth.”
“I know that only too well my boy, you want to see some of the ones that I get. I laugh to myself but no way could I forward them to anyone else.” He continued, “Bearing in mind the laws of the land, also the rule of God, I think that if we stick to the Ten Commandments we shall not go far wrong.”
Alan then thought about his own parish. Probably about two per-cent of the population had even heard of the Ten Commandments, even less could name them.
They had all been brought up to respect the one that Moses forgot to write down; generally known as the eleventh, namely thou shalt not get found out.
Alan’s analysis of the rest as related to Higher Upton would be:-
1) Thou shalt have no other gods before me. The computer is god these days
2) Thou shalt not make any graven image etc. Not applicable unless you include graffiti which is quite acceptable.
3) Thou shalt not take the lord’s name in vain. Come off it, blasphemy is the local dialect in Higher Upton
4) Keep the Sabbath day holy. Yes, in the pub mid day as well as evening.
5) Honour thy father and mother. That puts a ban on jokes about the old man, the old woman and that bastard next door.
6) Thou shalt not kill. I quoted that to a lout one day, his reply, “Thou shalt not be a killjoy then.”
7) Thou shalt not commit adultery. Hey, mate, we are talking about Higher Upton.
8) Thou shalt not steal. No, just thieve, borrow indefinitely or starve.
9) Thou shalt not bear false witness. Does that mean no jokes about Irish men or Pakis?
10) Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s house. Not his house, just his bed with his wife in it.
After musing and pondering Alan was convinced that the e-mail idea was doomed. A potentially good money-maker ruined by draconian out dated rules.
After Alan had consulted the Bishop again it was agreed that the Ten Commandments would be printed on the entry form to help the uneducated masses. (The Bishop’s very words)
Despite publicity and encouragement, one week before closing date, there had been eight entries submitted. In despair and without consulting the Bishop, Alan made a bold decision. By the use of fliers and a slot on local radio, he extended the period by another week and emphasised,
There are no constraints. If you think it will do, It will.
After that entries poured in. Faster than they could be scrutinised and the two thousand pound target was soon reached.
Sam Black, the blacksmith from a neighbouring village won first prize, a weekend for two in Paris. He openly declared that as he and his wife were not speaking to one another, he would be taking Mrs. Perkins the post mistress instead.
Actually, Alan’s favourite was one e-mail that was not in the prize list, only because it was anonymous. It showed a picture of a head master clad in cap and gown with his cane poised above a miscreant’s rump.
The caption was No sir, I don’t know when, why, or who, but I do know where. The vicar’s lead is in the tin shed in Brewer’s Coppice.
That knowledge was worth another two thousand pounds to the Church, and work starts on Monday.
No Change.
From the day that I retired the misus has been on at me to go to the Darby and Joan club down in the village.
Naturally I fought against it. Not my scene.
However, when there was talk of a big millenium bash with lots of freebees thrown in, I changed my way of thinking, and went along with my mate David Dodd.
During the meeting, the vicar, who was both chairman and guest speaker, asked everyone present to think back over their life.
“If you could have your time over again what would you change?” He said.
"Bloody Everything" I muttered to David.
Unfortunately the vicar heard it. Surely you don't mean that Tony---
do you.?
I replied "Let me tell you about my life then you can judge for yourself".
As far back as I can remember I hardly ever saw my mum, and certainly never recall her ever giving me a loving cuddle. I had a series of nannies who cared for me very adequately, but as a child I never knew love.
Because my folks had plenty of money I didn't go to school with the other kids that I was just getting to know. I was sent to a boarding school that I hated. Like I said, my parents had loads of cash but it appeared that all the other toffee nosed prats at that school had even more and I was always made to look inferior. When I said I hated it; that was an understatement.
The fact that I was a mixed race child didn't help either.
When the time eventually came to leave school I knew what I wanted to do. Having driven the Range Rover up and down the back lane it was obvious to me that I was a born driver so I wanted a career as a racing driver.
My hopes were soon shattered. Dad insisted that I entered the family business. Learn it from the bottom and rise to the top quickly with his help I was told many many times.
I worked in every department and learnt about as much as I could.
I wasn't happy, though life did have compensations.
Dad taught me one thing about the business and one thing only.
When in my early days I was put to work in the ladies department,
the old man said
"Learn how to handle women and you've cracked it."
I did! And it worked. But it was the hardest lesson that I ever had to learn.
I was a young man, and without modesty I think that I can say that I was quite good looking. I went out with all the attractive assistants that I could, and after getting my fingers smacked many a time I went out with the unattractive ones as well, age or status was no barrier either. I regarded married ones as more of a challenge. I learnt a lot and enjoyed myself but it seemed
that the more that I enjoyed myself the more that I got into trouble.
Some girls thought that going out with the boss's son meant a commitment; others had the idea that favours to me would be rewarded with concessions at work.
THEY were wrong.
Most women thought that I was just a philandering rotter.
THEY were right!
If anyone thought that I used my position to gain an unfair advantage
THEY were also right.
The routine continued for quite a few years and indeed I did learn the business from top to bottom, having fun with the women along the way.
Even when I got married it didn't make much difference. I still played around and life went from one row to the next because I was continually getting found out.
At the age of twenty eight I was made store manager and moved into the main office. The big problem was that I inherited my father's dolly-bird Tracey as my personal assistant. She was a terrific looker, petite with her ash-blonde hair styled in a seductive wave over her right eye. She also had the type of figure that men would leave home for.
Naturally I tried it on, but Tracey was having none of it. At first that is. Like I said, I had learnt how to handle women and eventually my persistence paid off. We started going out together.
She was passion personified. For the first time in my life I found out what happiness was, even if it was illicit. Any time, any place, anywhere.
One day it took us two hours to go to the bank a couple of blocks away,
and very often we were caught in the stock room together.
As you may expect, it wasn't long before the old man found out..
50 Short Stories Page 19
