I retreated to a beach-bar toilet to remove the long thick skirt, knowing that it would reveal the frilly next to nothings that I was wearing underneath. But I didn’t give a damn I only wished I could remove the top as well to show off my long rich auburn hair. Damn Dave and his bet. Mind you, I did feel a bit embarrassed when I overheard two of the others talking.
Dominated by Vera’s voice the conversation went something like:-
“By heck, Ellie’s pulled well, the jammy cow.”
“Has she? Who”
“That blonde Yank. Didn’t you see them He’s already undressed her with his eyes. And massaged her tonsils with his tongue.
His hands haven‘t even started yet.”
“The lucky bitch. All I got was a peck on the cheek”
“Yes,” Vera continued. “Brad was telling me that his name is Rory Tapp, He is a famous racing driver. And multi millionaire.”
I had to feel guilty but steadied myself with the thought,
‘Well we are on holiday aren’t we? I deserve a bit of fun.”
It was only my thick nun’s habit that kept Rory’s hands at bay, and that was about to change. There was little doubt that things would go further than they should. I was only too willing.
So what! said the sangria within me.
Back on the beach, I challenged Rory to chase me again, but first he and I talked for a while under the romantic moonlight. When he asked what I did and where I lived, I told him that I lived on a farm, his eyes lit up, and he drawled,
“Oh yea, my folks have a ranch back in Texas. It’s so big we can drive all day and still not get to our boundary fencing”
I mused about us struggling on our ninety acre holding and thought ’You big headed sod’
He was so good looking, so passionate but his attitude really took the edge off it. I saw him differently.
Looking at my watch I noted that it was already four o-clock. Another hour, and back at home Dave would be just getting up to start milking. A hundred and twenty cows, Then get the kids up, breakfast and take them to my sister’s for the day.
Poor Dave, - - - I couldn’t cheat on him. - - - No way.
I had to let Rory down gently. Though I could have easily outrun him, I let him catch me without too much effort. His intentions were obvious, but he soon found my reception cool when I squared up to him and said,
“Rory, there is something that I simply must tell you.”
He thought for a moment, hesitated and lit a fag, then said,
“Go on, tell me - - - you really are a bloody nun?”
“No, not at all. But I am a married woman, with two children.
A happily married woman I might add.”
His response was very different to the one I expected.
“Gee. There’s no winners and no losers then. I’ve got a missus and five kids back in Texas. If she found out that I’d been playing around with a chick it would cost me millions.”
As we walked back to the bungalow, he still had his arm round me, I didn’t mind that.
* * *
It was midday and almost time for our plane before most of the crowd woke up. Each was keen enough to talk about their own adventures the previous evening, but all seemed more concerned as to whether I had made it with Rory or not.
I never lied, just gave non committal answers to their questions.
Questions that are still being asked to this day.
And will be for a long time.
You see, Kathy had taken a photograph on her phone camera.
Me, top half in the nun’s habit and the bottom half in my frillies. She played about with it on her computer and turned one nun into five. She put a letter below each one so that it read E.L.L.I.E.
Then the bloody little minx pasted it up on the wall in the ladies loo. Well, we were on holiday weren’t we.
I Wish. Or Do I?
Even to her dying day, my mother was very strict. I shall always remember, when I was a little girl, she made every fault or misdemeanor rhyme with something. And each time, she drove the point home with such force that I remembered it for days afterwards. Weeks even.
For instance if ever I was late she would say,
“You know, late rhymes with wait.” She would always justify that with the anecdote,
“When I was a nurse, if I was late going on duty, someone else had to sacrifice their valuable leisure time and wait for me.”
Then if ever I said I needed something she would say,
“Need rhymes with greed. Don’t forget, with your father being a prisoner of war, there is no money to spare for what you think that you need. Once again I would feel really told off.
I developed a very subdued personality but clearly remember one day when I did feel a bit challenging, I asked her,
“Mum, what rhymes with disobedient?”
“It does not rhyme with anything. A smacked bottom is what you deserve for that.”
I soon learned that my thoughts were best unspoken.
One day however, I did forget myself. At the time my best friend had just had a new pink fairy cycle and I just happened to say,
“I wish that I could have a pink bike like Mary Parker.”
As soon as I had said it I knew what was coming.
“Young lady, I wish rhymes with selfish. You should be thankful. If I didn’t scrimp and save you would not have a bicycle at all. Be satisfied.”
I remembered that one more than any of the rest of her many rants.
I wish rhymes with selfish.
Time moved forwards. The war ended and daddy came home. Mum ruled him with a rod of iron. It certainly wasn’t the happy household that I had looked forward to for so long.
I lost count of the times that daddy said,
“I wish to hell that I was back in Germany, it wasn’t nearly as bad as this.”
When he said it after yet another row mother was quick to add.
“Be careful what you wish for, it may come true.”
Not much chance of that I thought. I reckon mum was thinking the same thing.
But it did. After suffering her for so long he cleared off with a young red head from the council offices. They both went to Germany, got themselves good jobs and more importantly, they found happiness.
Again, time passed by. I passed the scholarship for the Grammar School and made fair progress. Then, much to mother’s annoyance, I got myself a boyfriend.
One day we were strolling along leafy lane when something caught my eye.
“I wish that we had a bird table like that, let’s have a closer look.
Without thinking about any traffic I dashed across the road. At that very moment Slater’s bread van came round the corner and knocked me flying. My life was never in danger but my left leg was shattered and for some time there was a danger that I would lose it. Clever surgeons did their best and saved it but it looked horrible. Ghastly. Ugly. And of course in those days it was only very rarely that ladies ever wore trousers and girls ~~~~ never.
One day when I was feeling depressed I said,
“I wish they had amputated it,”
Sympathetic as ever, mum answered,
“Just you remember, never even dare to wish any such thing.
Be thankful that you have two legs and can walk.”
“Yes, with a terrible limp.” I replied.
It didn’t matter, my wish never came true. Eventually though, I did have cause to be thankful.
After working with injured servicemen during the war, plastic surgeons developed their skills to such an extent that with a few operations and skin grafts my scars almost disappeared.
Yet, I could so easily have been a one legged adolescent.
The moral of this is, just think twice before you wish for anything.
It may come true.
Judy.
When asked about memories over the last five years I thought right back to the beginning.
I was twenty four and had the job of my dream
s as PA to the Lord Mayor. I also had my own house and car plus a sizable inheritance from my aunt. The one thing that I didn’t have was a boyfriend but that never seemed to bother me.
I had a great social life and couldn‘t have wished for more.
Then, one day, I was checking out the local chemical works ready for the Lord Mayor’s visit when my entire life changed.
With a bang.
After the accident, . . . everything bad, I had the lot, worst of all, I had lost my sight.
There’s no need to tell me about depression.
Feeling sorry for myself, . . suicidal, . . why should it happen to me. Yes, I know.
Looking back I must have been a right wet blanket.
Pain in the backside, call it what you will.
Yet everybody was so kind to me. Perhaps that was the trouble, people were too good. Even one day as I stood in confectioners getting myself a cream cake a complete stranger said,
“I’ll buy that for you my love.”
For all the good intentions, I felt embarrassed and found it patronising. It only added to my depression. I couldn’t help myself, I sat on the church wall and cried.
Then I heard a voice that I recognised immediately. My friend Darren Mackintosh. Never a boyfriend, yet he had been my soul mate since play school.
“What’s up this time?” he asked rather curtly.
“Everything.” I answered. “Absolutely everything.”
Instead of the sympathy that I naturally expected from him,
he gripped the shoulders of my coat and said sternly,
“Now look here Tina, you’ve got two choices. You can either be
‘That nice looking blonde from the council offices’,
or if you prefer to spend your life being a miserable cow you could be just ‘that blind girl from Acacia Avenue’. Please yourself.”
And at that he stalked off in a huff. My tears flowed more freely than ever.
I was alone. Darren had made it evident that he had no sympathy for me whatever.
When my tears eventually stopped I sat there bewildered. Thinking how callous my best friend was. Thinking about what he had said, Then I decided, . . . no way was I going to be simply known as the blind girl, I wanted something out of life.
I arose and started walking, firmly yet not knowing which direction to take. It was the first time that I had really been alone since the explosion. After my first few steps I heard the familiar voice again. Darren hadn’t gone far and as soon as I made a move he was once again by my side.
“I can tell by the way that you are moving that you have made a decision and I can make a reasonable guess what you have decided.”
“Yes, I want to move forward.”
“Then I’ll help all I can.” he replied.
What I didn’t know, was that Darren had already started the ball rolling to obtain a guide dog for me.
In a very short space of time I was called to a training centre and introduced to Judy. My eyes of the future. I worked hard and the cuddly white Labrador and myself were as one within a couple of days. She was well trained and I was determined.
As forecast by Darren, my life was back as near as possible to how it had been before I lost my sight.
One day just after Easter, I went to the hole in the wall to draw some money. As usual, it was busy and I had to wait in a queue.
When it came to my turn, Judy held me back, barking loudly.
As I tried to comfort her she became aggressive. I had never even heard her bark in anger before. She kicked up such a fuss that young David from reception in the bank came out to see what was up. He soon spotted that someone had fitted a magnetic false front to the cash dispenser. Obviously with fraudulent intent.
The police were called and were on the scene within what seemed to be seconds. A young sounding constable asked me if I saw the person in front of me doing anything suspicious.
Naturally I said “no”.
His colleague cruelly chimed in,
“Don’t be daft, can’t you see that she’s blind?”
“Sorry love,” was the brief apology.
To me it was the wrong policeman that apologised.
Then sergeant Coates appeared on the scene.
Knowing me well, he tactfully asked whether I could describe the man who stood in front of me in the queue.
I told him:-
“He was about two inches taller than me, that would make him five foot nine. If it matters, his mobile phone rang with the William Tell Overture and he spoke with a broad Liverpool accent.
I also said that he was a pipe smoker. It smelt like the St Bruno that my dad always smokes. He was quite likely a mechanic or the driver of a heavy vehicle as his clothes reeked of diesel.
As I was adding that he must have had a scruffy appearance as Judy was restless while we queued, Judy broke free and chased up the street. She stopped and waited by a coal lorry, barking madly again.
The driver was soon questioned and fearful of Judy’s reaction, confessed to fitting a magnetic front to the cash machine.
Both the police and the bank officials were overjoyed with the result of the foiled crime and heaped praise on Judy and myself.
I had to emphasise that it was down to Judy though I agreed that I had her well trained. That was the day that I met my future husband. The young police constable.
The Good Old Days.
I pose the question:- Were they the good old days?
Surely, that is a topic that can’t seriously be debated for two reasons.
For one thing, be they good or bad, to refer to the olden days is talking about such an indeterminate period in history.
Much more importantly, the whole topic is little more than one’s frame of mind at any given time.
For instance, take the Lord of the Manor.
Struggling financially, he has to sell parts of his family estate to raise money for the maintenance; either of the Manor House or his ex wife,
He will look back on the good old days.
Now, at the same time, the decidedly poorer honest workman, homeward bound in his Ford Fiesta after a day’s work, would think back forty years to when he had to work a longer day, then do the same journey home on his bicycle.
He is going to look back on the bad old days:
Add to that, think that his arrival at home would maybe met with a loaded clothes horse dominating the fire, probably with condensation streaming down the window panes. Not nice.
Take that scenario back yet another generation; his father would quite likely have made the same journey on foot, the luxury of a bicycle being little more than a pipe dream.
Would you describe those as worse than the bad old days? I don’t know, but it is almost certain that today’s pessimists would prefer to look forward a few decades and say,
“Those three men were lucky to have a job at all.”
They were all . . the good old days.
A completely different slant on the same subject concerns school children.
Today, education is aided by computers and calculators. Fifty years ago, success was achieved with brains and canes.
Another thing, in the playground, the teacher would supervise proceedings armed with his cane or belt.
In these enlightened times, that is regarded as brutal.
`The modern ideal has thugs ruling the playground with knives and guns while Sir stands by with a notebook.
I ask, which are the good days and which the bad?
Now, while we mention education, one subject that can be discussed, is some of the facts that pupils were taught.
I refer to one subject in particular.
Well, in earlier times, it wasn’t exactly taught but when the inevitable question,
“Where do babies come from?” was asked, a hurried answer was,
“The stork brings them, or from behind a gooseberry bush.”
Nowadays, every minor detail is taught, probably too much.
Judgin
g by the morals these days there must be a happy medium between the two.
Finally, in a completely different view of the subject, the prophets of doom try to frighten everybody, asserting that before so long, global warming could reduce the land mass throughout the world by up to a fifth.
In the good old days, there was a very disturbing weather forecast. A very optimistic gentleman called Noah loaded animals two by two into a home-made boat, never stopped smiling and got on with his task.
I rest my case.
Keeping up to date .
I may be old and my few grey hairs have plenty of space between them but one thing that I’m pleased about is that when it comes to modern technology I am up to speed with it.
See what I mean, I’m even talking young-speak now, up to speed indeed.
Mind you, it hasn’t always been like that.
When Lazlo Biro patented the ball pen in nineteen thirty eight, and Logie Baird perfected his television in the same decade, I felt proud to have lived through an age when the height of technology had been achieved.
I was wrong. After the war things went a bit too fast for me.
When somebody developed multi channel television with remote controls, I honestly thought that technology couldn’t go much further, in fact, I didn’t want it to.
You could say that I was a proper ‘stick in the mud’.
I shall never forget my embarrassment when a little girl in the doctor’s waiting room asked me if I had got a Wii.
I thought that she was being very rude and far too personal but fortunately, her mum twigged my train of thought and explained to me what her daughter meant. I told the good lady,
“I’m not into technology at all.” and she just gave me an understanding smile as if to say,
‘you old people’.
I didn’t say any more but I thought to myself,
I never need a calculator to work out the VAT, I bet you do.
50 Short Stories Page 9