50 Short Stories

by Martin Bourne

  Having dropped the cross country, that only left the white water kayak which was by far my best task. Secretly, I hoped to achieve double points in that, as I had exceeded the record time unofficially more than once.

  Then came disaster.

  Because of the rain, the river was in full flood and the school governors decided to cancel the white water event on safety grounds.

  Maybe I had racked up enough points already.

  Nobody had done brilliantly. But Susannah Lexinton must have been very close to me on the points table. I was worried.

  Even more worried when I had a terrible dream.

  I saw the three stage podium with a triumphant Susannah grinning on top, and me on the bottom, a tearful third.

  That just couldn’t happen. . . . I felt that I had earned it.

  “What the hell’s up with you this morning?” asked our Billy.

  I told him about my dream and added,

  “I shall have to take part in the cross country and try to score five points for finishing.

  I can’t hope for any more. I always get stitch, cramp and even a migraine when I try that event”

  “Hey, listen up girl. I heard a very good saying once.

  If the task seems too hard,

  Never admit defeat.

  When you think that you can not win,

  Get out there and cheat,”

  “But I couldn’t” I wailed. “I just couldn’t.”

  But in the end, I did. Me and Billy got on our bikes and went for a ride round the cross country course. When we got to the level crossing, Billy had the solution. He suggested,

  “Hide behind the signal box till all runners have passed, then gently stroll down the railway track to the Honeysuckle Lane bridge. After that, it’s a simple trot up the lane back to school. Cut out at least a mile and a half.”

  That is what happened. I trotted gently back into school with the tail enders and surprise surprise, I got eight points..

  All was well till Susannah challenged,

  “You cheated you cow.”

  “I never”

  Hattie Hatton the gym mistress heard it.

  “Can you prove that accusation?” she fumed.

  “There was five of us, we saw her walking down the railway line miss.”

  said Susannah.

  “If you could see the railway line so clearly, where were you?”

  asked Hattie, rather puzzled.

  “On the canal tow . . . . .well, up near the canal miss.”

  “On the towpath maybe?”

  “Oh no miss, no way.”

  “Susannah, . . . the only way that you can see the railway line is from the canal towpath. I know that only too well. If you saw Jennifer, you must also have cheated yourself, by going along by the canal.

  You weren’t the first, and doubtless you won’t be the last.”

  “No way Miss. We never cheated.”

  “This . . . is something for the headmistress to sort out.” said Hattie.

  We were each sent to the head. Me first. Sister Anne was a friendly looking Nun, though she could be very stern.

  It was the first time that I had entered her office, other than too receive praise, but that day I was prepared to admit my misdemeanor.

  Sister Anne stared into space for what seemed an eternity whilst I stood trembling.

  “Jennifer Mackenzie, what . . . have you to say, for yourself young lady?”

  I put it as tactfully as I could, that though I was very sorry, I felt inwardly that circumstances had cheated me.

  “Please be a little more explicit.” She said.

  “I felt that I could get a certain thirty points in the white water event ma’am. I was robbed by the decision to cancel it.”

  “Since you have been honest enough to own up, and considering the circumstances, I will be lenient.

  She thought for a moment before announcing,

  “You will receive no points for today and in addition, you will have ten points deducted from the total already earned.

  Promise me faithfully that you will never cheat again throughout your life and we will say no more about it.”

  Apparently, the others continually denied any wrong doing.

  Eventually however, one of the Ashton twins broke down in tears and confessed, implicating the others as well.

  They were all severely punished.

  Presentation time that day was very different to any other year.

  One could tell from the undercurrents of conversation that all was not well.

  Sister Anne herself mounted the podium, microphone in hand.

  She began,

  “Ladies and gentlemen, Girls of Saint Mary’s,

  Sadly I am ashamed to tell you that in this year’s decathlon there have been allegations of cheating.

  To her credit, one girl has owned up and has been punished.

  Five more have told untruth after untruth and have been disqualified from the competition. The matter is over. It will never be mentioned again.

  Having said that; there will be no presentation today.

  However, I can take pleasure in telling you that the Jasper Unwin Cup has been awarded to Jennifer Mackenzie ”

  Although feeling guilty, I still felt that I had earned it.

  It was some years later, when I applied for a teaching post at that same school. I learned that I would still have won the cup easily, even if nobody had cheated at all.

  Needless to say, . . . . I didn’t get the job.

  The Old Red Bag.

  I’ve had a good life. Mind you I have worked hard for everything that I’ve got. I have never gone short of anything and usually had whatever I wanted. Everything had to be top of the range and brand new of course. Nothing second hand for me.

  Come to think about it, there was one exception, isn’t there always?

  One day, James, my chauffer wanted something for the car and took a detour round the back streets. Whilst he was getting whatever he needed, I happened to look in a ‘charity shop’ window. The first thing that I saw a bulky red handbag and for some reason that I shall never know, on impulse I went in and bought it.

  I treasured it for years even though it caused me many problems.

  When he first saw it Sid, my husband went mad. Bulky, ugly and probably holds more than an army kitbag were some of his angry comments. Of course, it didn’t go with anything in my wardrobe so I had to buy more clothes. Not that that was any grievance. although the colours was offensive to Sid’s politics if you get my meaning. Every outing, no matter where, I took my favourite bag. All others were relegated to the cupboard under the stairs. Many was the time that Sid bought me new ones as a treat but no, my red bag became an obsession.

  As time passed, more and more clutter found a home in my bag. My best friend Joanne once said at our ladies’ group,

  “Whatever you need, ask Julie, she will have it in her handbag.”

  Sure enough, be it a lighter, tin-opener, tape measure or so much more, I could usually produce whatever was required.

  One day, we were invited to a special ball in London. Everybody who was anybody would be there, even the Prime Minister.

  My instructions were to buy a new ball-gown, regardless of cost and even get my diamond tiara out of the bank safe. Of course the snide quip,

  “And don’t dare bring that bloody handbag.”

  I had my own thoughts about that.

  Joanne went down to London with me on the train and expressed her concern.

  “Sid will be furious with you for taking that bag.”

  She was right, I thought it tactful to leave it in the cloakroom with the coats. It was a great evening and I was introduced to many important people.

  Just before midnight, Sid and myself were talking to the Prime Minister and his wife when he coughed violently then collapsed onto the floor.

  “Damn, he’s having an angina attack and his spray is at home.”

  In moments I retrieved
my bag from the cloakroom and produced an angina spray, just in time to save the PM from any further consequences.

  I was forgiven for taking my red bag to the ball and for many years after that I was even encouraged to take it wherever I went.

  I still have it to this day but it got very heavy. So I have seen sense in my old age and have a much lighter one now.

  Still red of course.

  Be Prepared.

  My brains left this planet the moment my mother told me,

  “Donald Birchwood is coming home.”

  I immediately got my mobile phone out and started to text him.

  She saw my reaction, and waving that finger she added forcefully,

  “It’ll end in tears. . . . Let me spell it out for you young lady,

  It-will-end-in-tears.”

  Donald Birchwood went away, supposedly never to return.

  He found fame and wealth as a country and western singer. When on the North American circuit, he shortened his name to Donnie Birch. We had exchanged texts regularly but I hadn’t actually seen him since school days.

  And who could forget that?

  Especially that last snogging session behind the bike-sheds.

  I’m sure I would have given myself to him that day if fate hadn’t intervened.

  Fate in the form of two prefects seeking out errant smokers.

  And now he was coming back. Of course he was going to see me on his first night home. I knew that. He said as much in his next text.

  Whatever he wanted to do that night, I was well prepared.

  If he fancied a high speed whiz up the motorway on his motor bike that would be fine. I go to work on my little phut phut so I had my crash helmet and leathers in readiness.

  Now, if it was my choice, we would spend an evening in my little cottage. That would be perfection. With two microwaves I could turn the contents of the freezer into a banquet in a quarter of an hour, twenty minutes at the outside.

  Then I could envisage us cuddled up on the sofa whilst the logs crackled in the fireplace. Absolute magic.

  Mind you, should he even think of straying towards the door at the foot of the staircase, I was also well prepared.

  ---No, not the way you think.

  It was already arranged. The moment the landing light got switched on, my sister, who lived across the road, would send little Katy round to borrow something

  Not surprisingly, Don made the decision. He wanted to go down to the Cade Lamb for a drink. Actually, I think he was keen to see what it is like now There have been so many alterations done to the place since his Granddad had died.

  Hoping to impress, I wore a very low cut net-over-nylon full skirted pink and lilac dress. I felt really good.

  Not for long though. Don saw one or two of his old mates as soon as we entered the pub. After getting me a port and lemon he grunted,

  “Back in a few minutes.” and proceeded to the dart-board with his old pals.

  About every half hour he would bring another drink across and ask,

  “You alright doll? I won‘t be long” then return to his darts.

  To add insult to injury, at the end of the evening, Don came across again and told me,

  “I’m just going with Pete to see his new motorbike, I’ll see you around. Cheerio.”

  I was tough enough to get home without showing any emotion but then the floodgates opened. I cried all night.

  I should have been prepared for it.

  “It will end in tears” my mother said. And she was right, wise old girl. I lay in bed thinking about Don.

  Cad, spoilsport, selfish, arrogant, how many more bad words could I think of to describe him?

  Yet, if he knocked at my front door next morning I would welcome him with open arms.

  And, sure enough, . . . . I did. . . . .Oh yes I did.

  Sun, Sangria and Something Else.

  For me, life at work changed when Pauline Fairchild announced that she was getting married. Someone in the office said,

  “We’ll have to make sure she has a good hen night.”

  I thought to myself great. I needed a good night out.

  My life was in a rut. Not quite the seven year itch. Indeed, it was now over eight years since Dave and I tied the knot.

  Since then, two kids who came earlier than planned, plus helping Dave to get the farm back on its feet after his parents died, there wasn’t much excitement for me.

  I just felt that I was merely another head to be counted.

  Dave couldn’t object to me going. After all, he had his college reunion last month and came home in a taxi absolutely plastered.

  Then reality hit me, trawling round the pubs of Nottingham at

  two o clock on a bitter freezing November morning didn’t really inspire me. I said as much to Rosie the tea girl, who promptly went round the entire office repeating what I had said.

  I was soon aware of the general buzz. Ellie is misery guts, a wet blanket and other comments with even less taste.

  Needless to say, the others must have thought about the cold weather and the whole idea went flat. Well, not quite. No idea involving a bit of fun was ever shelved in our office.

  About ten days later, Kathy from the computer section called out,

  “Hey up girls, get a load of this.”

  We all gathered round her screen as she read out,

  Have your own beach barbecue on the Costa del sol.

  Reading on, it described a break that sounded fantastic.

  Return flights, bungalow accommodation, floodlit barbecue on the beach with everything provided, including food, and even someone to cook it. Friday/Saturday would cost five hundred pounds or Saturday/Sunday for six-fifty. Parties of ten persons required. And there were ten of us in the office.

  The only fly in the ointment was cost, voiced by Vera, a single mother who was always struggling to make ends meet. She wasn’t exactly on her own either. Even taking the Friday option, fifty pounds, seven weeks before Christmas. It would take a bit of finding. Then Sandra, Pauline’s bridesmaid, came up with a brilliant idea.

  “Tomorrow starts the next accounting period. If we all knuckle down and work harder than ever for the next four weeks,

  the extra bonus will easily cover that without us even noticing it.

  Let the firm pay.”

  So it was agreed. We all committed ourselves, and Kathy booked it on the internet straight away. One comment in the background did utter the fear It’s to be hoped that nobody drops out now.

  How close it came to somebody dropping out was soon evident when I mentioned it to Dave that night.

  “Not bloody likely” he roared.

  “We’ve heard all about all those beach parties in Spain. Fellows get you drunk on sangria and then anything can happen. Even if I say that I trust you, Can you trust yourself?”

  To me that was a stupid question. I’d never even looked at anyone else since we were married. Yet there was plenty of temptation, especially when I was working in packing last summer.

  When I said as much to Dave he retorted angrily with,

  “Don’t think that you will be able to act like a bloody nun with all those daft single women.”

  “Christ, I’ll go dressed as a nun if that’s what it takes.”

  Dave laughed, then played a trump card.

  “Bet you fifty quid you don’t.

  In fact, if you’ve got the mettle to go, and remain dressed as a nun till you come back, I’ll give you your fifty quid and maybe buy you that fitted kitchen that you keep harping on about as well.” (He omitted to say that I was getting that for my Christmas present anyhow).

  The bet was on. I told the others at work and after much mickey taking, two of the others agreed to support me and dress as nuns for a laugh. The outfits were ordered, and Rosie’s boyfriend agreed to borrow his firm’s minibus and take us all to the airport. There wasn’t a lot of time to talk about it during the next month, we were all too busy working hard to accumulate the
extra bonus.

  Then came the day. The second Friday in November. The boss was furious when ten of us requested a lieu day on the same day but he had the sense to know when he was beaten.

  Instead he wished us all good luck.

  We certainly raised some eyebrows at East Midlands airport.

  Imagine, three nuns, with seven rather scantily clad women who were actively propping up the bar. The flight however was uneventful.

  The accommodation was fine and the barbecue was excellent.

  The same syndicate had a string of barbecues right along the beach and as we expected, sangria flowed freely. Not surprisingly all ten of us were well inebriated by midnight, which at that time we thought was the end of the evening.

  About a hundred yards down the beach at the next barbecue were a party of golfers who were staying at the nearby golf resort. Just when the two parties merged isn’t quite clear, but that is what happened. At first the only difference was that the sangria flowed even faster.

  Having eaten and drunk more than enough, we started playing soft ball cricket on the sand. Somewhere along the line, after one or two long hits, cricket changed into kiss chase - - with nobody objecting. Despite being very athletic myself, running in a nun’s habit meant that I was soon caught by a dishy looking American named Rory. Now who ever taught Rory to kiss deserved the congressional medal of honour. Within moments I was like putty in his hands. After a snogging session like I’d never known before, I put it to him that he had taken an unfair advantage, and suggested that if I removed the lower half of my habit I could out run him any time. He joked,

  “I don’t know how fast you can run, I do know that I have to be one hundred per-cent fit for my job. Nobody ever beats me.”