Tales for the Fireside - Five Stories of Love and Friendship

by Lisa Dyer

  Porphyro smothered her hand with his and then entwined his fingers and hers.

  MADELINE: Porphyro?

  He kissed her hand.

  MADELINE: How white you are? Are you ill?

  Fearful of breaking the spell, Porphyro shook his head.

  MADELINE: Then speak and tell me this is a fairy dream.

  Porphyro raised himself slightly and bending over, kissed her so passionately as to leave her in doubt that she was not dreaming.

  She rose into his embraced, kneeling naked above the covers. With shaking hands, she began to slowly undress him and all the while he stared intently at her face, meeting gaze for gaze.

  They kiss and Porphyro pulled her to him and they became joined in union.

  ***

  Sated and exhausted, Porphyro and Madeline lay in each other’s arms, bound together by their love.

  Close to the bedroom door came the sound of drunken men, who shouted, swore, and banged on doors as they passed.

  PORPHYRO: We’ve got to get out of here. It’s nearly morning.

  MADELINE: And go where?

  PORPHYRO: My dad’s got this place, in Scotland. They wouldn’t think of looking for us there.

  He felt her body go limp in his arms.

  MADELINE: You don’t know my father. Or Brand.

  PORPHYRO: This is our only chance, our one chance.

  ***

  Ears stretched for noises alien to the growing day, Porphyro and Madeline exited her bedroom. They hugged the walls; crept in ever shortening shadows, as they made their way down the backstairs to freedom.

  The man stepped out of the shadows and watched them as they ran down the passageway. Their tail draft lifted the tapestries that adorned the walls, causing the embroidered figures to move and shake as if alive.

  MAN: Everyone’s in bed, or passed out pissed.

  Down the stairs the lovers came. The guard dog raised its head and cocked its ears but made no fuss.

  Quickly and quietly, Madeline slide the bolts and turned the key.

  Porphyro turned Madeline to face him. He put up the hood of her jacket and held out his hand. She glanced down, her final chance to turn back but she did not. With a smile, she grasped it.

  Outside a heavy snow storm raged blanking out field, lane, road, and path. Eyes almost blinded they created a course across the fresh fall, their footsteps soon covered.

  The Man appeared at the door and could just make out, through the white, the two figures as they disappeared.

  MAN: Well, that’s that then, these lovers fled into the storm.

  ***

  In his bedroom, Big Mo slept but fitfully.

  His nightmare, the party where he held court, eating, and drinking too much. His sycophants leering into him like grotesque comedy figures, closing in on him and he laughs maniacally.

  The guests move closer to him and as they turn his laughter stops to be replaced by a gagging horror that sticks in his throat.

  The guests have turned and their faces have assumed distorted aspects, witches, demons, rotting, being eaten by maggots.

  Big Mo looks at his meal, only find it crawling with maggots.

  The room closed in on him, suffocating him with the rank stench of decay and decomposition.

  He screams but the noise is drowned out by the buzzing of a million flies.

  ***

  Angela, dead in her bed, her eyes open look unseeing to the ceiling. Her hands have clawed the bedding up as she, in her desperation, tried to reach for her inhaler.

  The man gently closed her eyes and kissed her forehead.

  From somewhere deep within the house a cry of anguish rings out.

  MAN: Big Mo, havin’ his nightmares again. And this one, she sleeps wiv the angels now, bless ’er.

  Harry, dead on the floor, a needle in his arm.

  MAN: And ’Arry, after a thousand aves told, sleeps amongst the devils.

  THE END

  III

  It had all started so well.

  Alice had decided, since it was a lovely Sunday afternoon and she had nothing better to do, to go for a walk in the countryside. What could be more wholesome, more invigorating, than a trip through Mother Nature; she would pet the lambs through the fence, find a nest of baby birds in a hedgerow (but not disturb them, of course), and pick wild flowers, some of which she may put in her wild tangle of curls. It was all too…Disney Princess. So, Alice took herself off and did exactly that. In fact, so enthused was she about the whole thing she decided to channel her inner Julie Andrews and run up the hill, arms thrown aloft and do a bit of a twirl. Glorious!

  A few seconds later, however, she was running full pelt back down the hill being pursued by an angry cow. Who knew they could even run that fast?

  Now, Alice wasn’t really one for running unless it was for a bus or maybe, at a push, the ice cream van and it appeared that the cow, pretty much had running sewn up.

  If the run up the hill had left her breathless with an odd pain in her chest, then the run down was ten times worse. For a start, it was downhill which meant physics was probably involved. She wished, for an instance, that she had paid more attention in Mrs. Finnigan’s class.

  The cow was gaining on her. Ahead, she could see a wall and what was that in front of it. She squinted and saw a gaggle of chickens pecking the ground.

  “Out of the way!” she yelled out, waving her arms in a ludicrous fashion.

  In her mind, she was going to gracefully straddle the dry-stone wall and make good her escape from Raging Cow

  She pushed her already jellified legs to go faster and then disaster struck. Her foot hit a clump of grass. Over she went. She rolled a few meters, with gravity doing its thing. Several times she went over. The side of her face hit a cow pat but that was the least of her worries. As she turned her head she could see that the cow had decided to bring some mates.

  She also noticed an unfortunate stain on her cheesecloth skirt. Too late she realised that she’d hit something on the way down.

  “Oh crap.” The last words uttered by Alice Mutton on this earth.

 

  ***

 

  Alice had never really given much thought to what Heaven would look like. Oh, of course, she’d had R.E lessons in school and they’d done the usual junior school Nativity Play at Christmas. She’d never been picked to be Mary but she did play fourth angel one year. Mostly she was consigned to being an animal which she was sure never featured in the bible (penguin at the stable anyone?).

  Pretty much she’d describe herself as an agnostic, or rather, she would if she had even heard of the word. Anyway, here she was, dead and about to find out the truth behind one of the most enduring mysteries of mankind. Does heaven exist?

  “Would all new arrivals please make their way to the check in desk. That’s all new arrivals to the check in desk. Thank you.”

  It seemed that to reach heaven, one had to ride an ascending staircase – she’d look, there didn’t appear to be a descending one – at the top of which one was greeted by a crew of what could only be described as bossy, spotty and with an overdeveloped sense of self-importance tour reps.

  These, it turned out were The Dominions and it was their job to make sure that the newly arrived Just, were collected, collated, registered and dispatched to the correct department in Heaven.

  That’s right folks, forget fluffy clouds, heavenly music (unless you count the piped music in the arrivals lounge – more of that later) and wings. No, heaven, is a bureaucrat’s wet dream.

  Alice arrived at the top of the staircase, dazed, confused and sporting a massive clump of cow shit on the left side of her face. Her tights were ripped to shreds, her pretty, lacy cardigan had the imprint of cow hooves on it and her hair was full of dried grass and leaves. That stain? It looked organic in a pleasing shade of blood splatter and brown. It was not how she’d like to be seen for eternity. With glazed eyes and stunned expression, she joined the queue. On the w
all to her left was a poster of The Seraphim, the heavenly equivalent of One Direction, a trio of angels with chiselled cheekbones, gelled hair, and perfect teeth. One had been smothered in lipstick kisses but a second had been vandalized with the word The Cherubim 4eva scrawled across it. Clearly even in heaven boy band rivalry existed.

  Alice reached the head of the queue and was greeted by A Dominion who wielded a clipboard and pen like a lethal weapon. His name badge said Malcom.

  “Name?”

  “Huh?” replied Alice who had been slightly disarmed by the fact that there was an angel called Malcom.

  “Name?” repeated Malcolm in the same bossy tone as before. “That which you are known by!”

  Alice was, by now, doing a credible version of a stunned fish as she took in her surroundings.

  Malcolm gave out attitude.

  “Who are you?”

  “Alice... Mutton. Alice Mutton Where is this?”

  Malcolm chose to ignore her and flipped over his list of names.

  “Mutton. Mutton. Mutton. P. Hmm. No. Sorry, not on the list. Can you come this way?”

  He led Alice to a sort of metal detector and with a brisk manner said: “Through here.”

  Alice, still drunk on her surroundings, obeyed, and wandered through the metal frame and (excuse the expression) All Hell Broke Loose. Lights began to flash. Alarm bells sounded. The Dominion remained calm under pressure and without saying a word, pressed a big red button to his right. A trap door flew open and Alice disappeared through it. Satisfied that he’d dispatched her correctly, The Dominion looked at the shocked faces in front of him and yelled: “Next.”

 

  ***

 

  In a grotty basement office, like something out of the nineteen thirties with old-fashioned manual typewriters and carbon paper, George and Julian were passing their day in much the same way as they had for the past, oh-I-don’t-know-how-many-years.

  George was in his mid-60s and going bald. Well, I say going bald, he was as bald as he was ever likely to get given that he was, in fact dead, and thus, for all eternity, trapped in the state in which he died. Well, I say in the state in which he died, that’s not strictly true of course because he died by being blown up therefore, technically, he would be a jelly mess. No, I suppose what I mean is, he is the spiritual embodiment of the George that was alive moments before he…died.

  Julian was in his early twenties and, given that he had passed in the early 1960s whilst going through his Mod phase, doomed to stay in a tonic suit and winkle pickers forever.

  George and Julian were total opposites.

  George’s side of the office was neat and ordered. His desk was clutter free and he kept a shelf full of well-ordered filing boxes on them. George was never happier then when he could break out his label writer and set up a new file.

  Julian’s was a mess; crumpled up paper, loose sheets that should be in folders and a stack of unread documents littered the desk. He sat with his feet up, chewing on a piece of paper which he loaded into a straw and fired at a poster of The Seraphim attached to the wall opposite him. The poor things had been subjected to additional horns, blacked out teeth and one had a bogey hanging out of his nose.

  “She’s late! I knew it! I knew this would happen. Upstairs are not going to be happy and I’ll be damned if I’m taking the blame for this one.”

  George consulted his watch, which was, quite frankly ridiculous as time didn’t happen in heaven and besides, his watch was permanently stopped his time of death. Still, that didn’t stop George consulting it at least fifty times a day, or what passed as a day as time…oh forget it.

  Anyway, George was a very officious man. In life, he had been in the army and boy, did he let everyone know it. There wasn’t a single free thinking bone in that man’s body. He was eternally bound up in rule and regulations, time keeping, record keeping, you name it, it obsessed him.

  He was also a bit of a bully. Disagree with George AT YOUR PERIL (that’s the only warning you’re going to get; don’t heed it, you’re on your own). He would see it as a challenge to his view of world (or heavenly order). The finger would be raised, the unfortunate opponent would find themselves being slowly and literally backed into a corner as George took no prisoners in explaining why he was right.

  Being too old to go to war this time around – although it was a commonly held belief amongst George’s neighbours that the War Office had missed a bit of trick there by not sending him to Berlin to explain to Mr. Hitler why it was all such a terribly bad idea – George had enlisted in the local Home Guard. It was during one such meeting, when he was being particularly bossy and insisted on correcting the Captain that he met his demise.

  “You know there are days when having to appease the Almighty can very stressful. Very stressful. I don’t know why...well, I’m going to say it and please Lord (he looks upward) forgive me but I don’t know why He gets His pants in such a twist.”

  “Ah well, first rule of free will, that. Don’t mean He don’t care but you, sunshine, need to chill out. Stop taking it all so personally. It’s just a job.”

  That just about summed up Julian. ‘It’s just a job’. He’d been born just a few years before the war ended but had been fortunate enough reach his teenage years in a time when people had teenage years. Some of the older folk (like George f’rinstance) thought it was an American import and possibly a major threat to the British way of life.

  For Julian, it had meant coffee houses, juke boxes and Friday nights at a club. It meant record stores with booths and the Hit Parade, shopping in Carnaby Street and going down to Brighton.

  “I’ve heard that the Other Place has a special room for people like us.”

  Julian pulled his skinny legs off his desk and wandered over to a wall chart of DOSE successes. It was a simple affair: a column for God and one for the Devil. Under each name was a tally of souls and it appeared that the Devil was winning.

  “Reckon it wouldn’t be a bad deal,” said Julian wistfully.

  George was horrified.

  “Oh, come on, Georgie boy, you seriously think it can get any worse than this dump? And what do we have to look forward to? Save enough souls and we get promoted. No thanks! I’d rather take my chances with old Beelzebub. At least he knows how to throw a party.”

  George, to distance himself from such blasphemous talk, took up his duster and began to polish a row of plaques neatly affixed to the wall about his desk. Each contained a star and his name and he was awfully proud of them.

  “Well, I for one am looking forward to going up to the next floor. It’s what keeps me going.”

  Julian smirked. “I can just see you as an angel. Running around, interceding on behalf of humanity. Telling ’em what they ought to be asking for. Be right up your alley that. Still, not likely to happen, is it? How many souls have we lost to the other side in the last six months?

  “And not likely to change now we have her to deal with. I knew this one’d be trouble. I said, I told ’em but oh no they know what they’re doing up there. Didn’t I say? I did.”

  George was getting unduly agitated. It happened from time to time and stemmed from having his memos roundly ignored by the next floor.

  “Was that before or after The Thrones told you to piss off and never bother The Almighty again?”

  George went red with rage. He loathed The Thrones; the only way into The Presence was through The Thrones and boy could they throw their weight around. They were like Heaven’s doormen complete with clipboard (weapon of choice), shades and sharp suits.

  “The trouble with The Thrones is they think they own the top floor.”

  “Yeah well, technically they do and your name, sunshine, is on the blacklist so get used to it. Personally, I don’t give a rat’s arse so long as I don’t have to deal with them; jumped up bunch of doormen. Head down, nose clean, get your fun where you can, that’s my motto.”

  “And that, Julian, is precisely what’s wrong
with this department. When I was in the war – the Great War...”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know! Trouble is, last time around you managed to blow yourself up. It’s small stuff George. All we’re legally required to do is sort out the crap left by those whose own gross stupidity in the manner of their death causes the Father of Mankind to repeatedly have a Very Bad Day. Easy. We’re here for ten thousand years, not like we have anything going off the boil.”

  Julian resumed his spot at his desk and proceeded to make a batch of paper planes to throw at George.

  “But we’re bogged down with paper work and now, thanks to Ms. Fanny Pants, we’re going to be explaining this in triplicate.”

  “Oh, come on, everyone knows you get off on the smell of carbon paper.”

  And he wasn’t wrong there, as sadly George did have a bit of a habit and it was being noted in the Stationery Dept. where some jobsworth had realised that more than normal was being ordered by DOSE.

  “Anyhow, not likely to be Missy’s fault now, is it? Cock up in the Angel Division I should think. If they spent less time swooning after The Seraphim and more doing as they ought maybe we wouldn’t have a lost soul to go and find.”

  At that moment, a deafening alarm began to sound and the red warning light above the door pulsated.

  George leapt out of his seat, donned ear defenders, a hard hat and grabbed his clipboard.

  “Hold up! Sounds like this could be the lady now.” Julian popped on his ear defenders and made for the door just as Alice shot out from a hatch in the end wall, on her back, legs in the air, a look of horror on her face. The two followed Alice’s progress down the corridor where she came to an unceremonious halt by hitting the end wall with a winded ’ompf’.