50 Short Stories

by Martin Bourne

  Mary’s interrogation began again.

  I continued,

  “He’s home again. Half term this time. And what do you think that he brought with him this time?”

  “Go on tell me. Then I’ll make us a cup of tea and put the heater in my spare room. You seem quite determined.”

  “A baby monkey. And he let it loose in the pantry. I had spent all week working hard to replace all the stuff that he destroyed the previous weekend only for master Rupert to let his monkey run amok along all the shelves; and he had the audacity to laugh when the damned thing knocked my jars flying everywhere.”

  “That’s distressing enough. But is it enough to give up your home and job for?”

  “We…ll” I hesitated.

  “You haven’t told me everything yet have you our Celia?”

  “No.”

  It was bed time before I plucked up the courage to tell Mary the full story.

  “I worked till eleven o-clock clearing up the mess and fell into bed exhausted. Then that article of a human being, --”

  “You mean Rupert?” she interrupted.

  “That’s right.” I sobbed. “He came straight from his shower with just a flimsy towel round his middle. I asked him,

  “What the hell do you think that you are doing in my room? This room is private. It is my home.”

  “The hard faced so and so whipped the towel off showing his all, then he said, ‘Move over, I’ll give you something to make up for my sins’ and he tried to pull the covers off me. Luckily I had my umbrella handy and I whacked him with it and darted into my bathroom and locked myself in. I stayed till morning then waited till there was nobody about then came here.

  I left a note for My Lady just saying that I had left due to circumstances. Nothing specific.

  By then, my tears were flowing freely again.”

  Once she knew all the details our Mary couldn’t have been more helpful. She prepared my favorite meal then suggested that I went for a lie down, as I was absolutely exhausted. I slept and slept, only waking up when I heard a violent hammering on the front door.

  I was shocked to realize that it was four-o-clock. Time for afternoon tea at the Manor. However I wasn’t at the Manor any more. That was when I first missed it. More tears followed.

  I pulled myself together and went downstairs.

  In the lounge I discovered who had been hammering on the front door. Lord Ashby himself.

  As soon as he knew that I had gone he suspected that young Rupert was involved and had wrung the truth out of him. Whether he had the full story I never found out but Rupert was severely punished and Mary and I were given a luxury holiday paid for by Lord Ashby. After the holiday I returned to the Manor at an increased salary and instead of my rooms I was provided with a furnished cottage, guaranteed for my lifetime.

  The whole sad episode is now history. I wish it had never happened but it had, and I was better off for it.

  That just proves the saying that out of all evil there could be some good outcome if you look for it.

  Lesley’s Inheritance .

  One thing is certain, it is doubtful whether I shall ever have to pay inheritance tax.

  Yet when I consider what I inherited, I always start reminiscing.

  From my father: -......

  I had a keen enthusiasm for sport. All kinds of sport, the rougher the better, he was an Oxford rugger blue as well as a motorbike trials rider. With daddy it was more like an obsession, that’s why at first he was so disappointed when I entered this world as a baby girl.

  From my mother: -......

  It was curly blonde hair and a grim determination to succeed whatever the cost.

  She had unorthodox ideas about rearing children. She was hard and unsympathetic. One example I quote, when I was learning to ride a bike

  I kept falling off. My friends did the same, their mums used to pick them up then give a kiss and comfort before trying again. My old dear would stand aside and scream “You must persevere.” She must have used that expression at least ten times every day. But I always did persevere and always succeeded.

  From them both: -...

  Together with a perfect athletic body, I was blessed with potential Olympic legs according to daddy. With my legs and mum’s determination, there could be no limit to the possibilities.

  Mum didn’t particularly like my interest in sport. I remember once when I told her that we would be boiling eggs at school tomorrow she was made up.

  “We never did cookery at the little school.” was her comment.

  I left it for daddy to tell her that the eggs were for use in the egg and spoon race the next day.

  If you think that you can form an idea of my life pattern from what you have already heard, you would doubtless be wrong.

  My life had no gentle curves. Sadly, only sharp turns denoted the changes that took place. Having said that, I had a happy childhood despite mum’s harsh ways.

  The first turn in my life, by far the most traumatic, was the accident.

  For a long time afterwards I considered that my life was over. Daddy died in the crash, mum only lasted another three months and I spent the next two years in hospital wishing that I could go with them as well. I only saw, nothing to look forward to and too young to have much to look back on.

  I was fourteen when I left hospital.......minus legs. My potential Olympic legs; no chance of my making the Olympics now. Mind you, before long I could do almost as much in my wheelchair as many teenagers did on their feet, or rather backsides. I wasn’t into hand held gimmicky games, and board games left me just that ............bored. And before you say it, I could see no incentive to ‘persevere.’

  With mum and dad gone, options were limited. Either I moved forty miles away to live with an elderly aunt who didn’t really want me, or go into the children’s home at Corbridge Green, and I knew that they didn’t want me either. I chose to go and live with Auntie Dora and after a frosty first two weeks, she mellowed and I became less resentful. I decided to ‘get on with my life.’

  It was rather a change after two years in hospital repeating the phrase,

  “I wish that I was dead.”

  Auntie Dora’s house, being an old farmhouse, had wide doorways and long passages, so in my wheelchair I could whizz around the house at what auntie called “an unhealthy speed.” I went to Oakwood Comprehensive rather than the local school as the facilities there were more suitable. Though some of the staff had reservations, I was allowed to take part in any activity that I could manage. The sports master was great, he even allowed me to create my own events. I remember once, borrowing some wheelchairs from the Red Cross and setting up my own racetrack around the rugger pitch. It was a hell of a laugh, five able bodied girls and me doing the 400 and 800 metres on wheels. Talk about a farce.

  Me, ........ Legless Lesley, the handicapped one, had to be given a further handicap make it fair and give the others a chance. Life began to take on a new meaning, I gradually realised that I was happy again, for the first time since the accident.

  When I was sixteen I left school and went to the sixth form college nearby. The trouble was that I had left most of my friends behind and just didn’t settle to the new life very easily.

  At the same time, the local Church opened a youth club on two evenings a week in the village hall. I joined, but the vicar, nice old bloke that he was, was overbearing. He was scared stiff of me hurting myself. Instead of letting me fend for myself it was a case of,

  “Will someone make sure that Leslie has a cup of tea.”

  or even worse

  “Don’t try to join in that game Lesley in case you hurt yourself”.

  I was accepted as a member, but never integrated to become one of the crowd. Even John, the good Samaritan who saw me home each night used to give me a gentle peck on the cheek as though he was afraid of me. How I longed for him to bung his tongue down my throat and give me a passionate kiss, or even a harmless snog. From the vibes that I picked u
p, I’m certain that, had I been an able bod it would rather have been a case of me having to slow him down. Depression set in again and I could see no reason to live. I never actually tried to commit suicide, yet made up my mind to do it on numerous occasions.

  My depression lifted enormously when I was allocated a motorised tricycle. It was a Thundersley Invacar, the traditional pale blue vehicle issued to many handicapped people during the nineteen seventies. I took to driving it as the challenge that I needed. Though not exactly fast, it was capable of speeds far in excess of the safe limit for the country lanes that I was so familiar with.

  Before I had had it two months I recorded one speeding ticket and two police cautions. To be honest I drove like a hooligan and didn’t give a damn about the consequences. If I killed myself ....... so what. Now it was a machine and me, but still no people, and that is what I needed most.

  One weekend during the long summer holiday, the youth club members decided to go camping in Buckley’s Wood. It was a very disorganised affair. That is if you can disorganise something that has never been properly organised in the first place. They had bought an old tent at a knock down price. That would sleep a dozen at a push. Others had grouped together and borrowed frame tents and two had even borrowed garden play-tents off the kid next door. Everyone intended taking their own food and drink, with no intention or facilities for cooking anything. Flasks of hot soup would doubtless revitalise stomachs chilled with cans of cooled lager. What hurt me was when I overheard someone say,

  “Don’t tell Lesley as she wouldn’t be able to enjoy it. Best if she stays at home”.

  Like Hell I thought to myself.

  Come Saturday morning I watched some of them set out on their bikes, others hiked, ....... not forgetting the Winterton twins who were taken in daddy’s four by four.

  I shed a few tears and had never felt so lonely in my life.

  Even Auntie Dora had gone to the city on a shopping spree saying,

  “Don’t be surprised if I stay overnight. You’ll be alright won’t you?”

  I certainly would be alright. After dinner I tossed some old clothes into Alfie, my pet name for my Invacar, and set out for Buckley’s wood. Call me a gate-crasher or whatever you like, I intended to join the others and camp for the weekend. When I arrived, some of the crowd were skinny dipping in the reservoir; others were lozacking round doing the usual nothing. Some of the more energetic ones were trying to ride their bikes up the almost dried up river bed. It was every bit as interesting as a purpose built race-track. What they could do I could surely copy. With a softly murmured “Sorry Alfie.” I aimed at the makeshift track and opened up the throttle.

  Momentarily I had a vision of a newspaper headline about my dad that I kept at home.

  ‘Fearless Ferguson hugged the rough track as though life itself was that very moment.’

  Two generations, two completely different people with the same name (well almost), yet the same quote applied equally to both.

  Disregarding looks,....the flying mud and grim determination would indicate to anyone whose daughter I was.

  My father Les Ferguson had been the world champion motor cycle trials rider and I had had racing in my blood from birth.

  Mud flew everywhere, the engine was screaming for mercy whilst I was screaming with excitement. As the wheels spun we slid all over the place. At that moment I was my father........

  ‘Les Ferguson rides again.’

  John, the friend who I mentioned earlier shouted,

  “Give us a ride.” I did just that. There was no seat for him but crouching down on the floor, he shouted,

  “This is more thrilling than any fair-ground ride.”

  Others soon wanted to do the same, so I started giving hair raising rides for any reward I could get. Cans of lager and sandwiches were the main currency, and the day ended with me having sufficient supplies to last the entire weekend. Not only had we integrated, but it appeared that Alfie and I were the most popular items on the site.

  So why go home? John evicted his mate from the tent and welcomed me to his canvas abode.

  The fun of that afternoon and evening was only surpassed by the pleasure that I had drifting off to sleep in John’s arms.

  Life had taken on a new meaning.

  At that time I had no idea how much my life was to alter.

  In the next few weeks I discovered that new medical thinking had determined that I was now well enough to have a second try at using artificial legs.

  “You must persevere.” the consultant said.

  How often had I heard that in the past.

  It took a lot of perseverance but I eventually mastered them.

  Just tin and plastic, they certainly weren’t Olympic legs, but that doesn’t matter. I shall be going to the Olympic Games anyway. I’ve just heard this morning, I have been selected to train for the UK wheelchair basketball team.

  It Was An Unusual Christmas

  The over used cliché tells us ‘always look forward, never back’.

  A very good sentiment, yet as another Christmas approaches,

  I find myself looking back on Christmas’s past.

  As Christmas day is also my birthday I have distinct memories of many more dates and presents than would normally be the case.

  Of course I had dolls and the family doll’s house that has been handed down through the generations but as my parents were never short of a bob or two, gifts were always generous. Like the new bikes at eight and twelve, followed by a pony at thirteen. Even better, driving lessons at seventeen and for my eighteenth birthday a shiny new car showed just how much my family loved me. Please don’t get me wrong, I’m not really so materialistic, the good times that we had every Christmas meant much more than any of the gifts. The family get togethers, with Grandma and Granddad in the early days were as good as anybody could have wished for.

  Then, of course, I met John. Love at first sight. We were married and John immediately blended in as a close member of the entire family. Christmas was just the same, even better after little Lennie was born, only now. Instead of Grandma and Granddad it was now my mum and dad who became the doting grandparents.

  For years and years history repeated itself. Nobody could have been happier than I was. Then one year, Lennie announced that he was getting married at Christmas. Not only that, we ourselves would be grandparents in the spring. Life had turned full circle once more.

  Sadly, after forty five perfect Christmases, my life changed for ever. Whilst I was cooking the turkey, John and Lennie went to deliver one or two parcels to friends who lived the other side of town. Just about the time I was expecting them back, I heard a commotion outside. On investigating, I saw our neighbours Fred and Daisy with a lady police constable.

  Dammit, I thought, our sheep had got out again. Today of all days.

  No, the sheep were safe but. . . .

  Within moments I thought my life was over. There had been an accident on the viaduct ---- no survivors ---- very sorry, etc. It wasn’t Lennie’s fault but he had had a drink or two too many that morning.

  For the next two years I just lived; mainly with the aid of a gin bottle. I was like a zombie most of the time, hardly ever leaving the house. And now, I’m ashamed when I think of the number of times that I contemplated suicide. I was treated for depression and though the drugs worked wonders, I needed some incentive to get out and about again.

  Two years after the tragedy, the charity shop where I used to work were desperate for volunteer assistants. After refusing three times, I relented and agreed to try it three afternoons a week.

  I bought some raffle tickets one day and to my amazement I won the coveted first prize. ‘Spend Christmas day with a celebrity’. I was given a list of seven names to pick from, five male and two female. That immediately narrowed my choice down to two, I couldn’t face men at any price.

  Arrangements were made and I really looked forward to my Christmas with Tracey Overton, the singer. The famous million
airess had recently bought a castle as her main residence and according to reports it had been fully refurbished with no expense spared. I had a couple of telephone conversations with Tracey, who easily put all my worries to one side. Like I said I was really looking forward to it. You can imagine my disappointment when she phoned again early on Christmas Eve.

  Due to a family problem she had to fly out to South Africa that morning. She was good enough to offer me a substantial cheque but that would be wasted on me. I already had more money than I needed. Realising my distress, Tracey then said, “Then I’ll contact a friend of mine, I don’t think that you will be disappointed.”

  Within the hour the phone rang again.

  “I believe you would like to spend Christmas Day with a well known personality.”

  When I said yes, the caller continued,

  “Then you shall. Would you like a day with Sir Raymond Franklyn?” Would I. . . . .

  I know I said I couldn’t face men, but this was different

  Sir Raymond was everybody’s heartthrob, Comedian, actor, and singer of the most romantic ballads ever heard. He was my own age group as well.

  I heard conversation in the background and then the unmistakable voice of Sir Raymond.

  “I believe that you would like to spend the day with me tomorrow young lady. Is that correct?” Though I would rather be with my husband, I’m a widow. I can’t think of anyone that I would rather be with

  than yourself.”

  “Then I’ll just ask you three questions.

  Can you eat plenty?”

  “Sure as hell beats spending the day on my own, and at this moment

  “Of course.” I lied. I didn’t eat enough to keep a sparrow alive.

  As the next question was,

  “Do you mind a bit of work? I had visions of mountains of dishes to be washed... I didn’t mind. The third question was apt.