The manager called me the next day and confirmed that indeed there had been three definite bookings for May 1st. But as the venue was so popular, they could cope with another one provided that I didn’t mind having my reception in ’The Long Gallery’ I didn’t mind at all, especially when I discovered that the gallery cost much less. I knew that I would be expected foot the bill. So long as I could have my day never to forget, with something different, I didn’t mind.
The great day arrived. It was just five months and five days after we first met. I had butterflies aplenty. There were many things about Nigel that I still didn’t know. Perhaps I had been too hasty. The ceremony went perfectly, though the reception was cut short because both Nigel and my dad wanted, no insisted, on watching England play France on the television. The other men folk decided to join them and the ladies wanted to take a walk on the terrace outside, an opportunity that rarely occurs.
That was alright till the football was over and the men returned.. Then, my dad and Nigel started arguing violently about some confounded penalty that had been missed. My attempts as peacemaker were to no avail In fact they both started fighting. Meanwhile I cowered in a corner ashamed and crying my eyes out.
It was so bad that eventually they were both carted off to the hospital to get patched up. My day was ruined.
What a way to spend my wedding evening. Sitting waiting at casualty for my new husband to have his wounds dressed.
A kindly nurse asked if there was anything that I wanted. The only thing that I could think of was some A4 paper and a pen. My writing instinct kicked in and I decided to write the account of my wedding day, hopefully to read and laugh about in years to come.
Then I overheard the arguing start again in the treatment room. Voices raised, the language was terrible and even worse, Nigel was using words that I wouldn’t even have expected him to know.
Enough was enough. I could stand no more. There was a bit of space left at the end of my page so I started writing again. Making a list of names.
The kindly nurse passed again and commented,
“Still writing then?” My reply: -
“I’ve finished my account of the wedding, I’m now making a list of people who I’d like to invite to my divorce party.”
After always wanting a wedding day different to anyone else,
I certainly had that.
I’ll guarantee nobody else ever made such a list on their wedding day.
Celia’s Cycle Ride .
I managed to cook Christmas dinner for six using a knackered old gas cooker and a camping stove. A bit of help would have been appreciated but sadly had not been forth-coming.
That’s usual in our house.
Everyone else seemed to enjoy their meal but I only picked at a small helping. I was feeling just a bit out of sorts, in fact I’d not been too well for a week or two. A visit to the doctor in the new year was called for.
Immediately the meal was over, the in laws announced that they were off to visit their other son. That was true to form, in that house, there was so much drink on the sideboard that they’d even had to move the goldfish.
Our two children couldn’t wait to get back in the other room to play with their new toys and not surprisingly my Bert decided that it was the ideal time to take Tizer for a belated midday walk.
That left me alone . . . . . with a mountain of washing up to do.
The dishes were completed and put away about five minutes before the Queen’s speech was due.
Bert very conveniently got back at the same time.
I was just about to flop down on the settee when he demanded,
“Hey Duck, get us my pipe out of the other room before you sit down.” I duly obliged.
Then I made myself comfortable, only to find that someone who shall remain nameless had pinched the batteries out of it for one of the new toys.
“Bert, will you just reach over and switch the telly over please so that I can watch the Queen.”
“Shift your idle backside and do it yourself. A bit of exercise will do you good.” he grunted
I saw red, and it had nothing to do with Santa Claus. But, it was Christmas day and I didn’t want yet another row to spoil the day for the children so I suffered in silence.. . brooding on what he had said.
If I wasn’t so scared of him I’d give him exercise.
We live in a third floor flat with no lifts. The washing machines and driers are in the basement.
I go up and down to wash, iron, take the kids to school, do the shopping. Even taking Tizer for his walk often falls to me. Exercise, I think I get plenty.
A day or two later, about the twenty eighth or twenty ninth, I was sitting trying to catch five minutes well earned rest when a bad fairy landed on my hand.
“You haven’t been very honest about your exercise have you?” The voice told me.
You don’t take the kids to school so often now that they are growing up do you?
And the shopping. Yes, it used to be a chore, but nowadays you just get Mary’s laptop and type out your list, make it up to forty quid and Sampsons Super Sales deliver within the hour.
Another thing, just think, how often do you take Tizer for a walk?
I had to admit that I had developed a great technique.
If I opened the door at dead on twelve-o-clock Tizer would charge down two flights of stairs and race up the snicket like a greyhound. Five minutes later I just had to call him and he would return at a similar speed.
The bad fairy’s voice had another snipe at me,
“And the washing is not the chore that it used to be is it? Now that you and the neighbours have started sharing machines, one trip up and down sees the weeks wash done more often than not.
It wasn’t a bad fairy at all, it was my concience.
To be honest, though only thirty two, I felt absolutely worn out.
I thought no more about it till New Years Day. Bert came home from a car boot sale and said,
“I’ve bought you a rowing machine and a stand still bicycle so that you can get yourself fit again. The bike’s OK but the rowing machine just needs fixing, I’ll do that in a few days.”
Now, if you don’t know my Bert, in a few days means that it will still be untouched in five years time, watch this space.
Sure enough though, the standstill bike was very good. Excellent in fact, and very much top of the range. It had a screen on the handlebars with three hundred and sixty five programmes. You could opt for a ten mile ride through the Yorkshire Dales, a five minute whizz round the centre of Leeds, Even London to Brighton if you wanted to.
Better show willing, I thought. Next day, even though I was feeling rough again, I went down to the cellar and gave the bike a try out. Six miles through Snowdonia sounded ideal.
I started pedaling and a voice like a sat-nav kept telling me where I was and where I may pause if I wished. The first four miles were great, then the pedals got harder and harder to turn. The sat-nav voice informed me that I had had the down hill and level, now it was all uphill to the end of the course.
I struggled on till I almost blacked out and decided to pack it in.
How I got back up the stairs I have no idea but on the top landing, I just collapsed and rolled back down a few stairs.
The commotion soon got neighbours out and I was helped into our flat. I heard Bert’s voice mumbling
“Lazy bitch is just after a bit of attention, leave her alone.”
Another neighbour was more considerate and rang for the Doctor.
As luck had it, Doc Hampson was in the next block, so he was with me in next to no time.
After examining me, he said,
“Now then young Celia, I think that you have something that urgently needs investigating, but first of all let us deal with today’s injuries.
You have quite possibly got a couple of broken ribs. Whether you have or not doesn’t matter, these days the treatment is just the same.
Comfort and rest. Let Bert
pamper you.
Looking across at my husband; he emphasised
Look after her, wait on her hand and foot. If nothing else, the exercise might help you to get rid of that beer belly.”
My ribs were hurting like hell but I had to break out into a peal of laughter at that.
Wild Night.
Is fifty miles too far to travel to a Carol Concert?
No, Then what if you add a party of pensioners and a vague weather forecast that suggested, ‘possible snow, maybe heavy’.
If that equation isn’t enough, throw in a borrowed mini-bus with no heater and a wonky headlight.
That was the scenario.
Me of course being the muggins who had proposed the outing.
Some people expressed doubts regarding the time that we would arrive home. Especially diabetics, who were concerned about getting back in time for their evening meal. A little research indicated that the concert would finish at four o-clock; that meant that we would be out of the city, and on the ring road before the rush hour. The decision was made. Fifteen of the more active British Legion pensioners accompanied me to the widely publicized event.
The day started well, the concert began on time and everyone was happy. Then proceedings were delayed by a forty-five minute power failure.
The inevitable delay meant that it would be at least five p.m. before we got out into the rush hour traffic. When I explained my problem, the Concert Hall management treated us excellently.
A complementary meal was laid on in the theatre’s restaurant.
Everybody left the restaurant contented. The fact that there were a few snowflakes whirling around troubled nobody. If there was a downside, we were in the thick of rush hour traffic and progress was very slow. Snow and sleet alternated, that is till we left the bye pass and headed across the moors. The wind turned to gale force and the snow thickened. I was aware of a few murmers of discontent in the back but generally the punters understood. However, after another hour battling against the elements I realised that getting home at all was doubtful.
It was a wild night. I was cautious enough not to let my passengers know how worried I was. Then I saw a chance of possible salvation. The typical blue lamp and words, County Police.
Would they help? Could they help?
After thinking for a moment, the lone constable told me.
“You need the Fiery Dragon; I’ll ring and let them know that you are coming.”
Then, pointing, he said,
“Turn left by that lamp and keep going, it’s a long drive then there are gates but they are rarely closed”
I relayed the information to the lads, being honest with them,
“The Fiery Dragon sounds like a pub. I just hope they can cope with an invasion.”
I turned down the drive as directed. Something didn’t seem quite right,
then I saw the gates. And the sign,
Riverbend home for retired ladies.
An old people’s home, that was a laugh. However, at the time it didn’t seem very appropriate.
Where the Fiery Dragon came in I had no idea, but I soon found out.
My call on the doorbell was answered by a charming old lady, probably in her late sixties. After I explained my mission she said
“I’ll get the Fi---. I’ll get Joan. She’s the boss.”
As Joan appeared, I could see reason for the Fiery Dragon title straight away. She had the most gorgeous red hair that one could imagine.
It appeared just like a blaze of fire. She looked about thirtyish, same as myself and to put it bluntly, she was a stunner.
“Welcome to Riverbend on this awful evening” she opened, “You are in luck. We shall be opening a new wing just after Christmas All the rooms are finished even if a bit spartan. I can certainly offer help in your hour of need. We’ll rustle up some coffee and biscuits first, then your chaps can introduce themselves.”
After coffee and biscuits and introductions, Joan suggested,
“How about if we have a jolly sing-song. A few carols would be very suitable seeing as we have just finished putting the Christmas decorations up”
Another voice piped in, “Would our visitors fancy a session of Bingo.”
“Stuff the perishing Bingo, and the sing-song”
yelled another white haired charmer,. who continued
“Sixteen fresh men, I say it’s a gift from heaven. Our Christmas has come early. Let’s have some dancing.”
Another voice then chimed in,
“I’ve got some suitable gramophone records in my room, We can’t let an opportunity like this pass by.”
That is exactly what happened. Willing hands soon found the energy to move easy chairs and low tables to the edge of the large sitting room. Even the well decorated Christmas tree was relegated to the hall.
Though the elements outside were doing their worst, the excitement in the home was like never before.
Of course, not one to be left out I asked the Fiery Dragon,
“May I have this dance?”
“Not this one. Later, maybe, but our dishwasher is on the blink. There are a lot of cups and saucers to be washed up by hand. first”
“Can I help then?“ I asked
“Too true you can. You wash, I’ll wipe.”
And did we have fun. The most flirtatious dish washing session I’ve ever known. I flicked suds at her, she flipped me with the tea cloth and so on.
We had done about half when Joan decided to have a look how things were going in the sitting room. It was getting very noisy in there.
She came back saying,
“That Frank, the one with the military blazer seems to be having a whale of a time with our Minnie Sherwin. She’ll show him a thing or two given half a chance.”
I flippantly muttered quietly, but not quietly enough.
“I could show you a thing or two given half a chance.”
“What did you say?”
“You heard. I could show you a thing or two given half a chance.”
“Oh, you’ll get the chance alright.” She smiled”.
Once we finish these dishes I’m off duty.”
And I did. We had a fantastic time. I said earlier on that it was a wild night. That was an understatement. It was a hell of a night.
After that I became a regular visitor to Riverbend especially at Christmas and New Year. I gave a lift to most of my British Legion friends at the same time. One or two romances looked likely.
So much pleasure, all following one disastrous outing.
Sadly things didn’t work for me out long term with Joan but think about the old cliché ‘It was nice while it lasted’.
The Nine Leg Farce.
Be it weekday or weekend, on the first day of every month I always clean my brasses and silver. My routine never varies.
Brass first, followed by silver, then I polish the cutlery, finishing off with my most memorable possession, my Jasper Unwin Cup or as my husband sarcastically calls it, “My Unwon Cup.”
I have to do the cup last because without fail I start reminiscing.
My mind goes back to June nineteen fifty, when I was head prefect at the EGGS. If you’ve never heard of the EGGS, it stands for the Eastleigh Girls Grammar School, a place that has been very dear to me for over half a century.
After the exams were over, the last fortnight of summer term was dedicated to sport. Our school was unique, having what was called
‘The Excused Decathlon.’ As the name suggests, it consisted of ten events. The difference being that if desired, we girls were each allowed to drop one element. Naturally we always chose our weakest.
Much to the teacher’s annoyance, we always dubbed it
‘The nine leg Farce.’
I had come close to winning it in the previous two years against older competition, so this time I was hoping for third time lucky.
Without being big headed, I reckoned I stood a very good chance.
Apart from Susannah Lexington, my only c
oncern was my two weaknesses, cross country running and climbing the rope ladder. The rope ladder was a new innovation. It replaced putting the shot as our new headmistress deemed that unladylike.
I had an unexpected lucky break. Our Billy came home on leave from the Navy after three years in the Pacific. He soon told me,
“The secret of climbing a rope ladder is to treat it not as a ladder, but as a single rope with steps.”
“How do you mean?” I asked.
He showed me, scaling the ladder in seconds Within the hour I had mastered it and was full of confidence.
The idea of the competition was that each element had a standard. Either a time or a distance. Achieve the standard and you were awarded ten points Fall just short and you got eight, whilst if you were well below, it attracted a mere five points for entering.
However, should anybody go well above the standard, bonus points were awarded on a percentage basis, an extra five being possible.
In the rare event of anyone beating the school record in any element, the points total would be doubled to thirty.
Mind you, that only happened once whilst I was at school.
I had already decided to drop the cross country, hoping that I could easily rack up enough points without it.
During both sports weeks it rained relentlessly but our skins were waterproof and all but a few wimps got stuck in and we did our best.
As expected, I only got eights for the throwing events, javelin and tennis ball.
I was disappointed to get only eights in the swim and cycle races, but I was more successful in the rope ladder, the 100 yards sprint and the long and high jumps, getting ten, plus bonuses in each.
50 Short Stories Page 7