50 Short Stories

by Martin Bourne

  And he wrote a cheque out there and then.

  About three weeks later I received a phone call from Uncle Ted,

  “Would you like to have dinner with me on Friday night?”

  I was very apprehensive, reluctant in fact, yet I owed him so much.

  Not just the money, but the peace of mind that he gave me during my traumatic hours.

  “Yes I’d love to.” I lied.

  Then I realized that it would be Friday the thirteenth.

  On Friday night his chauffeur driven Mercedes picked me up and we proceeded to the Golden Fleece, the most high-class venue in the city.

  After the usual bowing and scraping, the Maitre-D led us towards our table. Then I froze in my tracks. Seated at a table by the window were three men. Peter, my accountant, and worst of all, my bank manager.

  That ~~ was the time for a swift exit.

  I spun round, almost knocking Uncle Ted flying.

  “I can’t go in there.” I wailed.

  I’d prefer a coffee and a sticky bun in the station buffet.”

  When I explained my reasons, the Maitre-D tactfully said,

  “Follow me.”

  He escorted us to a quiet alcove, out of sight of the rest of the diners.

  As expected, the meal was perfect. Uncle Ted had roast beef while I chose baked salmon with a richly flavored hollandaise sauce. Sadly, I only picked at it nervously.

  I was too worried; not only about the trio in the main restaurant, but also what I might be faced with in back of Uncle Ted’s car afterwards. After all, I’m not daft, he must have had some ulterior motive, and the randy old devil would never change his ways.

  While we were waiting for the sweet trolley, Uncle Ted was called away to answer the telephone. Whilst I sat there pondering whether to make a run for it, I heard a familiar voice,

  “I hope that you like porridge.”

  It was Peter.

  “Have this on me,” and from behind his back he produced an expensive looking bottle of wine.

  “Mind if I sit down till Uncle Ted gets back?” he asked.

  Without waiting for my response he sat on the vacant chair.

  We talked and talked. Within a few minutes his topic was how he missed me and mine how I was missing him.

  The sweet trolley never arrived, but nobody noticed.

  Despite my determination not to, we decided to get together again and give our relationship another try.

  Many weeks later, that I found out that that scheming Uncle Ted had contrived all the events of Friday the thirteenth; it was his way of getting us reunited.

  Even the Maitre-D and the sweet trolley waitress were in on the act.

  So what. It doesn’t matter. It worked.

  Peter and I are gloriously happy together again.

  Rain Again.

  Every Tuesday I meet my granddaughter Gemma from school. She likes to watch children’s TV then she has her tea and afterwards I take her to brownies.

  A few weeks ago, the usual routine was spoiled by a violent thunderstorm. Having a good mackintosh and wellies ensured that she arrived at my house with no more than damp hair to worry about. However, just after we had got our wet clothes off, a savage bolt of lightening cut off our electricity supply.

  Of course to a seven year old, that was the end of the world ~~~ No telly.

  Every suggestion that I offered about how we could pass the time away failed. Each idea that I had was wrong.

  In her eyes, they were either babyish or boring. It was when she said,

  “You’re so not cool grandma,” that I flipped.

  That, coming from a seven year old, was a bit too much. As the rain bore down relentlessly, I responded with,

  “You think of something then.”

  Quick off the mark she answered

  “Tell me a story.”

  Apart from the usual children’s fairy stories that she had heard far too many times before, I didn’t know any tales suitable for a child of her age.

  Then I had an idea. Thinking about the weather at that time I decided to tell her a true story. However, to make it more interesting, I jazzed it up with a lot of fiction.

  At least, that made it sound better than the nightmare that really occurred.

  * * *

  I began,

  “A long time ago, when I was just twenty one, I went on my own on a camping holiday.” Already Gemma interrupted.

  “But surely grandma, you must have had some friends to go away with?”

  I answered,

  “Oh yes, I had plenty of friends, good friends. We had all camped at St. Luke’s Cove many times before but that particular year they all wanted to go abroad for a holiday. It was something new to have what we now call a package holiday.

  I would have dearly loved to join them but it cost forty nine pounds. That was such a lot of money in those days. It was not long after my father had died and I just couldn’t afford it. There was no choice as I was giving mum a lot more for my board than my friends had to give their parents.

  We still had dad’s old canvas topped Land Rover so I loaded my camping gear, plenty of books and my sketch pad, and headed for the coast. The sun was shining and I had the top open and drove along pretending that I hadn’t a care in the world.

  About five miles before St. Luke’s Cove the sky clouded over and there was a hint of drizzle in the air. It wasn’t enough for me to close the top although I did think about it. However by the time that I had arrived at the camp-site and unloaded my stuff it was raining steadily. That didn’t really matter, I had pitched tents in the rain many times when I was in the Girl Guides.

  Once pitched, I made my tea then settled down with my transistor radio and a good book. Of course, I knew that in the morning the sun would be shining again. But I was wrong. The rain was still coming down by the bucket-full. When I peeped out of my tent I could see that many campers were packing up and going home.

  Not me. I was tougher than that. I spent the day visiting a ruined castle about six miles away, enjoying the hike despite the rain. To avoid cooking in the wet I stayed in a café for my evening meal. The trouble was that the rain never stopped.

  By the fourth day I hadn’t even got a dry pair of socks to put on and my sleeping bag was getting wet. To make matters worse, the wind direction changed and it was blowing a gale right across the field. I remember putting on a post card to my mum, ‘if it blows any harder the seagulls will have to walk’.

  That was then that common sense prevailed. I decided that enough was enough. I sadly loaded my sodden gear into the Land Rover and headed for home. I had to stop in the village for some petrol. In those days John from the garage used to come out and put the petrol in for you. He was on the phone when I drew up to the pump but he indicated that he would be with me in a minute. I went round the back to use the toilet and spent a few moments looking at some of the scrap cars that were dumped haphazardly in what had once been the garden. Then, I saw something different. What used to be called a council living-van. Like a green shed on a trailer. The road workers used to pull them behind their steam roller and use as a dining and rest room as well as a place to store their tools. This one was looking very sad and was full of junk but it was dry.

  My mind was working nineteen to the dozen. I had the camping gear, could this be used instead of a tent?

  John came round the back to see where I was and told me,

  “Aye, somebody left it to have new tyres on it then ne’er came back for ’er.” He then quipped flippantly, -

  “Want to buy ’er?”

  “How much?” I asked.

  “Give me t’ price of t’ tyres and a nice kiss and ’ers yours.”

  It was as simple as that. The deal was struck. John and I shifted all the junk out of it and I hooked it on the back of the Land Rover and made my way back to the camp-site.

  Then, there was a problem that I hadn’t expected. The farmer who owned the site, who was usually so nice, was very cross
.

  “You can’t bring that blooming thing here. Where would you put it?

  The caravans wouldn’t have it with them because it isn’t a caravan. You can’t go on the camping field because it isn’t a tent. I’m sorry, cart it away.”

  When I pointed out that there were no campers left anyhow, he relented and agreed.

  “OK just for a day or two then.”

  I was really content though I did wonder whatever mum would say when I got home. After having beans on toast for tea, I settled down once again with my book and radio whilst the rain outside still beat down. By then it didn’t matter, I was really snug in my new home.

  About half past seven, I was startled by a knock on the door.

  I had never had visitors when camping, so was both curious and concerned. On opening the door, I was amazed to see John from the garage.

  “I just thought I would pop up and see how you were coping with your new toy,” he opened.

  Then before I could answer, he continued,

  “But while I’m here, would you like to come down the Welshman’s Arms for a drink with me? Or if you prefer it, I have a nice bottle of wine in th’ car.”

  It was so cosy in my van that we agreed to do justice to the bottle of wine and also the last of the home made cakes that I had brought from home.

  It was such an enjoyable evening that we did the same thing again the following evening and indeed every evening till it was time for me to go home.

  As I had my sketch-pad with me, I spent hours planning and drawing how I intended my van to look by the time I had done what I wanted with it. John was also very artistic and between us we had designed the ultimate luxury.”

  Then, Gemma interrupted me once more,

  “I bet you were sorry when it was time to go home weren’t you grandma?”

  “I was indeed, especially as that was the day that it stopped raining for the first time. But the story didn’t quite end there. John came all the way to my home many weekends after that to help me to do the work that we had designed. Then, when at last it was finished, he patted the bright green paintwork as if it was a real person and said,

  “Tha’t a bonny lass although I say it mysen.”

  At that Gemma interrupted again, bubbling with excitement.

  “Do you know Grandma, that’s just what my granddad always used to say to me.”

  I enjoyed telling her, “Yes, my darling, the year after it was finished, John and I were married and if you haven’t already guessed, John was your granddad.”

  I had only just finished telling her the saga when I saw my son walking up the path to fetch her home. Apparently, brownies had been cancelled that night.

  I think that she went home a happy little girl.

  A lonely time .

  After the break up of what I had always thought was a happy marriage, living on my own was not very pleasant.

  I had been reduced to living in a one bedroom flat above the greengrocers. The house had been sold, the car had gone, and after paying high bank interest, I was just about making enough money to live on. That is if one could call it living. However, it was the sacrifice I had to make, otherwise the business would have gone into receivership and not only me, but forty other people as well would have been unemployed.

  My former wife, (I hate the expression ‘My ex’) had bled me to the limit, or at least, her cowboy lawyers had.

  I was lonely. Yes, I had company at work, including a pool of thirty girls and young ladies, but I hardly dare speak to any of them lest they assumed that I was either wanting a date, or even more. The definition of harassment in the workplace is frightening, so, like I said, I lived a lonely existence.

  The very thought of Christmas on my own was even more depressing. To me, Christmas Eve seemed like the longest day of the year rather than one of the shortest. I worked right up till half past five, then had to force my way through the last minute city shoppers in order to catch my train.

  By the time I arrived at my home station, the sleet that had been falling all afternoon had turned to snow. As I crossed the road by the Building Society, I noticed an elderly looking lady, crying. In fact she was almost hysterical. Being covered in snow, she looked even more pathetic. I was in no hurry so I tried to establish the cause of her distress. In between sobs she managed to tell me,

  “Some lout snatched my bag and ran away. A youth who was close by supposedly called the police from a mobile phone and gave me the message,

  ‘Stay just there and wait, someone will be along in a minute’. That was three quarters of an hour ago, nobody has arrived yet.” The poor lady was soaked through and frozen. It would have been inhuman not to offer help.

  “I doubt whether anyone will come now,” I told her.

  “You’d better come with me and get that wet coat off. My flat is only just up there”

  I pointed to the windows, with the blinds still down.

  Compassion definitely took the place of common sense. Other than learning that her name was Carol and that she was sixty nine that day, I knew nothing about her. Once in my flat, she removed her anorak. I then realised that the anorak was useless and that every other garment that she wore was equally soaked.

  Now what could I suggest? It was a situation that I had never faced before

  Having established that she lived in Willowdell, a village, two miles away, I ought to have put her in a taxi and sent her home.

  Silly me, never thought about that.

  “I’ll think of something for you.” I offered.

  It would have been ludicrous to offer any of my clothes; me, six foot four and former captain of the rugger team, whilst she was about five two and no more than eight stone wet through, (which of course she was). She was in the bathroom, stripping her wet things off, still crying, when I located the overall that my cleaning lady used. That inspired another thought. There was the Santa Claus suit that I had borrowed for the works party last Saturday. I gently tapped the bathroom door and said,

  “See if any of these will do for you to wear whilst we put your wet things in the tumble dryer.”

  The bathroom door opened just enough for me to pass the few items through.

  A couple of minutes later, as I was making a pot of tea, Carol emerged. I had to laugh. She was wearing red trousers, furry boots that were obviously at least two sizes too big, and Jenny’s floral pink overall. She really looked the pantomime clown.

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t laugh,” I said. “We are both the victim of circumstances.”

  Mind you she had dried and brushed her long white hair and as I

  looked closer, I thought to myself, ‘Carol you are one hell of a good looking woman.’ She looked twenty years younger, whilst I felt twenty years older. Ironically, that would make us both forty nine. A fleeting thought, ‘Bingo, watch this space.’

  But, I assure you, that’s all it was, only a passing thought.

  Maybe I was depressed but certainly not desperate, or daft.

  I was wondering what the next move would be when Carol casually asked,

  “What do you usually do for your evening meal?”

  I told her, “I was thinking of having egg and fried bread, you’re welcome to have the same if you can put up with my cooking.

  I always manage to give my eggs a charred lattice halo.”

  The reply was very concise.

  “I think that if you will allow me, I can present you with a nicely cooked egg. After all I have had about sixty years practice.”

  That is exactly what happened. For once, egg and fried bread was like a banquet to me. I didn’t tell Carol that I was planning to have beans on toast for my Christmas dinner.

  A couple of hours later, the comical attire was consigned to the wash basket. Her clothes were dry and she was dressed again.

  I tried every phone number that I knew but all taxis were pre-booked and not available. Attractive as she was, staying the night was not an option, the only alternative was to walk
the two miles to see her home safely. Fortunately it had stopped snowing, so with much light hearted banter, the walk was not so bad as I had feared. Once there, I declined the offer to go in for a drink but as I left her at the door of her bungalow, she openly said,

  “At least let me give you a kiss before you go.”

  And she did. It wasn’t exactly passionate, but a really meaningful kiss. Certainly, it was something for me to think about on my walk home.

  Next morning, though it was Christmas day, I just couldn’t be bothered to get out of bed. As I lay, feeling sorry for myself, I thought about Carol and the previous evening.

  Eventually, I slipped on a tee shirt and track-suit bottoms and made a cup of tea. My concentration was disturbed by a knock on the door. Who the dickens could that be, Christmas morning. At least it wouldn’t be the postman with yet more bills.

  On the doorstep stood the smartest, dishiest young blonde that I had seen in years. She spoke first,

  “Are you Peter? I nodded. She offered me a bottle wrapped in Christmas paper and continued.

  “My name’s Heather Blake. May I thank you most sincerely for the help that you gave Auntie Carol last night, a kindness that she will remember for ever. I am taking her to the Feathers for Christmas dinner and we wondered if you would like to join us rather than being on your own.”

  Without hesitation I accepted the offer and, may I say it, I had the best Christmas that I ever had. Besides being very attractive, Heather was very good company, with intelligent conversation and a wicked sense of humour.

  I decided to return the compliment and invited Heather and Carol to a company dinner dance in the city. Then of course, a few days later we celebrated the New Year. This time, it was just Heather and myself; her aunt (great aunt actually) tactfully developed a migraine and left us to enjoy the celebrations on our own.