50 Short Stories

by Martin Bourne

  After that I saw Heather at every opportunity; it developed into a whirlwind romance. In fact, we got engaged on St. Valentines’ day. I had never known such happiness and the situation has not altered even to this day.

  My Special Day.

  The first time that I ever attended the counting of votes after an election will stay in my mind as long as I live. I could never forget hearing the returning officer’s words,

  “And so I declare that Oswald Ackroyd has duly been elected.”

  That was it. My Ozzie had been elected Mayor for the next twelve months. Yes, I know that he is nothing more than a lecherous bumbling twit. Other people also knew it. I intended to use that to my advantage.

  The important thing is, from the following morning, as Mayoress, I would be entitled to a four thousand pounds dress allowance.

  Ozzie would be allowed the same but I had already decided, a couple of new suits would be good enough for him; I could easily spend the rest on myself.

  I was sitting musing and pondering just how and where I would be able to spend my new found fortune, when Nellie Hollinshead came across.

  Nellie was the retiring Mayoress.

  You certainly could not say that we were friends, her politics and mine were as opposite as it is possible to get.

  But . . That is only a minor detail.

  The thing is, Nellie is my Ozzie’s bit on the side. I know that and she knows that I know. The brazen cow even talks openly about things to do with my husband that I alone should know.

  For example, only a couple of nights ago when he was first proposed, she said

  “Maybe a Mayor but never a stallion.”

  Mind you, that’s why people like Nellie, she always says it like it is.

  However, as it turned midnight, I said to myself, never mind Nellie, never mind Ozzie, this is to be my day.

  I thought, well, it is a special occasion. The very idea of spending somebody else’s money . . . . What a novelty.

  Nellie started, in her fancy Dorset twang,

  “Hi Sis, I have just popped over to put you in the picture, how the system works, or rather, how to work the system.”

  Trying to express my disinterest without being rude, I just nodded. Naturally I was more interested in my dress allowance.

  She continued.

  “You know Parkinson’s warehouse on the industrial estate?”

  “Yes” I replied.

  “Saturday, that’s today,” She said checking her watch which said five past midnight,

  “It’s the last day of their sale. Go there, ask for the manager and tell him who you are. He will let you buy everything wholesale. Shop till you are fed up.

  You may think that’s not possible, but believe me it happens. When you’re done, pay the bill with your plastic and keep the receipt.

  That, (Now listen) is your private property, nobody else must see it.

  Then, Sunday morning, type out each item listed, with code numbers but not the price.

  On Monday, go to Parkinson’s store in High street with your list.

  Get them to price everything up retail, then submit your account to the treasurer’s office. I did that last year and was fifteen hundred quid up straight away.”

  I liked what I was hearing. My morals soon went through the half open window.

  Sod the hundreds of unemployed on the Brightpool Estate,

  Forget the thousands who were starving abroad.

  This was my special day and I was going to milk it.

  Then, even better, Nellie offered,

  “I’ll take you if you like. We can go in the Mayor’s Rolls Royce. I’ll order the chauffeur for nine o clock.”

  I just could not believe my ears. But we went, shopped like demons then had lunch on expenses and then shopped some more. Nellie reckoned that I would be well over two grand up by the time my bill was recovered.

  We loaded the civic Rolls till it would hold no more.

  That still left two cartons to be delivered by carrier.

  After dropping Nellie off first, I began to savour the luxury of travelling in the Rolls Royce.

  After all, it would be my transport for the next twelve months.

  As we turned into Acacia Crescent I twigged that there was something wrong.

  Not one, but two police cars outside our house.

  A young wet behind the ears constable greeted me,

  “Afternoon Mrs. Ackroyd I’m sorry but I have some bad news for you. Councillor Ackroyd is down at the police station answering questions.

  In fact, we’ve locked him up.”

  That in itself didn’t bother me at all, I would be better off with him out of the way, but I panicked when the copper said

  “I must ask you for his computer, it may contain evidence.”

  “And if I say no?”

  “Then we’ll take it anyhow.”

  That was when I thought, if this is serious. I wonder how he I stands as Mayor, and more importantly how I stood as Lady Mayoress with all its’ trappings.

  It was late that night before I found out that there had been suggestions of vote rigging and other illegal practices.

  All were proved beyond doubt to be unfounded and Ozzie was freed,

  but whatever, . . . . nothing could have spoiled my special day.

  Uncle Charlie’s Multi Purpose Gadget

  From when I was very young I can always remember going to visit Uncle Charlie and Auntie Claire on a Saturday. Not every week, but usually alternate weeks. I used to love it. Uncle Charlie had a haulage business, sending lorries all over the country, and often abroad as well. He also had a few fields where he reared calves. I would sit for hours in the cab of a big lorriy making a noise and pretending that I could drive it. I also liked playing tricks on Violet in the transport office. I didn't like her much and often used to put a toy mouse in her pockets or a rubber frog on the desk when she wasn't looking.

  Auntie Claire spent all her life in a wheelchair but she was always happy, and what is more, always busy. People used to ask "How does Claire manage to do all the cooking and sewing?" I never heard the answer but she did it all, and when it came to growing plants in the greenhouse there was nobody anywhere who could do better.

  Uncle Charlie did everything that he could to make life easier for Auntie Claire by inventing all sorts of gadgets. You see, besides being a successful businessman, he was a brilliant engineer. He had a workshop at the back of the garage and spent all his spare time in there. His pride and joy was his

  'Multi purpose gadget'

  It was like a big blanket chest on wheels. It's main functions were cleaning, It would clean the quarry tile floors in the kitchen and conservatory, yet press a switch and it was equally at home on the deep pile carpets in the rest of the bungalow. Take it outside and open a wee tap and it made short work of the neat flag-stone path between the bungalow and the garage and even tackled the oily garage floor. There was a strap that fastened to the front of Auntie Claire's wheelchair so that it pulled her around with it. She looked as if she was on an ice-cream vendor's tricycle as she hoovered round. Fortunately there were no steps anywhere. The bungalow had been especially built for Auntie Claire years before she was married to Uncle Charlie. When the gadget was not in a cleaning mode, it's powerful batteries could pull Auntie Claire along at a frightening speed and she loved it.

  All that was just for starters.

  There was a small computer type keyboard. Type your own name and the machine dispensed your favourite drink. Uncle Charlie told me that it could be programmed to take up to twenty different drinks. Collect all the dirty cups afterwards, put them in a small drawer and press a red button. Two minutes later the cups were sparkling clean. Work was always going on to try new ideas. Some worked and many other ideas were a complete failure but Uncle Charlie never gave up trying.

  There was one task that Auntie Claire couldn't do, that was change the beds, and that is a job that mum always did for her on the Saturday visits.


  My visits to Uncle Charlie's stopped abruptly when I was twelve. Auntie Claire became very ill and sadly died on my twelfth birthday.

  On the first visit after the funeral we found that Violet from the office had moved into the bungalow with Uncle Charlie and was living as his mistress.

  I was sent out to play as usual but was aware that things were not happy and eventually I heard mum shout out "I'm not comming here to help that woman so there". She stormed out of the house, grabbed my arm and said

  "Come on we're going home". I found out that Uncle Charlie had been carrying on with Violet for some time before Auntie Claire died but didn't quite understand what that meant at the time. I did know that I really missed my Saturday visits.

  I cried for Auntie Claire, I prayed for Uncle Charlie but it seemed that nobody cared. I grew to be very bitter and confused.

  When I was fourteen life changed for the better. I got home from school on my birthday to find a twelve speed racing bike propped against the coalhouse wall with a note that simply said

  'Happy Birthday from Charlie.' I had been brought up properly and knew that the right thing to do was to ride over to Ashcroft and say thank you but I waited for mum to come home from work first. She was not very happy but didn't forbid it, so next day that is what I did.

  Everywhere looked so different. In the conservatory where the 'Multi Purpose Gadget' used to stand, there was just a pile of clutter. Once in the kitchen, where Auntie Claire used to sit, there was a great big chest freezer that looked as if it had never been wiped down since it was new. Gone were all the nice cooking smells that I was used to. All that you could smell now was chips, pizzas, and that distinctive smell of cardboard when it has just come out of the microwave. It was so depressing.

  I had to go down to the garage to find Uncle Charlie. As usual he was in his workshop. I noticed that his 'Multi Purpose Gadget' was covered over with a sheet, obviously not having been used for a long time. When I asked about this he simply said "That cow is too bloody hidle to use it" refering to Violet. he added

  "She would sooner pay someone to clean up rather than do it herself. Perhaps it was rather a depressing scene but it turned out to be a good day for me. Uncle Charlie offered me the one thing that I wanted more than anything in the world.

  A Saturday job. Helping in the garage with cleaning and repairing the lorries. I used to work hard and learned as much as I could, so much so that when I left school two years later I became a full blown apprentice, day release, the lot.

  By the time that I was nineteen I was quite capable of running the business on my own. Well, not quite, there was a new lady in the transport office now. Monica had worked at the same job years ago before she left to have a family. When given the opportunity to return and fill the gap left by Violet she jumped at the chance. I don't think that even Uncle Charlie could manage without her now.

  Life was great from that time onwards. I worked hard and took on more and more duties as Uncle Charlie eased off .

  Violet disappeared from the scene, having taken a sizable amount of money out of the bank first. My uncle merely commented that he would have willingly paid double the amount just to see the back of her.

  I met, and started courting Monica's daughter, Sally and as far as I was concerned, life was perfect.

  Sadly, Uncle Charlie was killed in an accident two years later and although I was shattered at first, it was nothing to the shock that I had when I discovered that I had inherited everything. The business, the bungalow, and such money as was left after the death duty people had taken their plunder.

  I was still a young man, quite wealthy and with so much to be thankful for.

  I felt inclined to write my life history because this morning I opened an envelope addressed to Uncle Charlie. In it was an inventors magazine that he subscribed to. I couldn't help but be nosey and have a look. On seeing the first page I gasped!!

  Lo and behold, somebody has 'invented' something almost identical to

  Uncle Charlie's Multi Purpose Gadget.

  The Party Spirit .

  I was standing in the bus queue the other day when I heard a couple of young lassies talking about their office Christmas party.

  I felt like interrupting and telling them that they had no idea what a works party was like.

  If the breathalyzer and political correctness aren’t enough, the Health and Safety at Work act would ensure that the old fashioned party has gone for ever. However, I didn’t interfere, instead, I started reminiscing.

  Oh the parties that we used to have at Mathew Dobbs and Company in the nineteen fifties and sixties.

  Dobbs’s nut and bolt factory was the main employer in the town, and a very good firm to work for. The one downside was that promotion was difficult. That was a pity because I had always been ambitious. Changing departments just never happened. Once in the packing shed, always in the packing shed. The same applied to the machine shop and the office block. There weren’t usually any opportunities to cross from one to the other. I was one of the lucky ones. When I returned from National Service my job no longer existed so I was fortunate to have been given a trial in the accounts office. It was emphasized that I was only given that chance because I had been in the army pay corps.

  That is how I came to know so much about the office parties.

  To me, the last one ever was by far the most memorable. Mind you, the form had never varied over many years. On the day that we broke up for the festive break, we all worked as normal till about half past three, the usual afternoon breaktime. Then everyone descended on the typing pool and moved all the furniture to the end wall. The stock room was also cleared to make way for the food and drinks. The party spirit started while the preparations were being made.

  Dress code never varied. Men wore their working suits as usual but the ladies used to tart themselves up as seductively as if it were a fashion show. Even the aptly named Miss Frost managed to look coquettish for the occasion. Christmas decorations, many home made, were produced from somewhere and put up methodically by the taller men; the nails already being there from the previous year. An artificial tree was made to look very Christmassy when adorned with tinsel and strips of coloured paper. The supply of mistletoe, which seemed to be never ending, was well distributed throughout the room, especially the dark alcoves.

  Then just after four we would help the canteen staff to carry the goodies upstairs and the party would start with everybody eating as though they hadn’t been fed for months. The spread was lavish, always a whole turkey and a large ham with the local butcher present to carve as much as you wanted. One year I remember, there was a whole salmon as well. Take home bags were provided as required.

  At first, liquid refreshment was only tea, coffee and soft drinks, but then at about same time every year, Sir Mathew would turn up, always saying the same thing,

  “Hey, fellows, there are a few boxes in the Bentley, fetch ’em up will you.”

  We all knew that the boxes would contain enough drink to stock a pub, with the exception of one which would contain a substantial gift for each of us. It is quite a few years since I stopped smoking but I still treasure my cigarette case, two or three lighters and a cup full of Parker pens, all inscribed

  ‘Merry Christmas. With the compliments of Mathew Dobbs and Company’.

  Once the drink started to flow, the dancing started and the party atmosphere became very lively. There was always a lot of horse play. Without fail, at the very least, one or two of the young office girls would get ‘paid with thanks’ stamped on their bottoms.

  Probably, these days it would be considered as bullying but that was never the intention and was always taken in good spirit.

  The mistletoe was put to good use, and not surprisingly a lot of the men managed to make advances towards women who they had fancied during the year. Having said that, all behavior was kept within certain limits.

  Sir Mathew saw to that. What he missed, his spies would delight in telling
him.

  If anyone transgressed, they would more than likely be unemployed by New Year.

  I nearly came unstuck once in my younger days. I was with Dawn, a raven-haired beauty from the printing room. We were cuddled together on a desk in a dark corner, perhaps a bit too passionate.

  I soon twigged that she was game for anything, and I mean anything.

  All too soon, I was aware of Sir Mathew himself addressing us angrily with,

  “What’s going on here, some people just don’t know how to behave in public.”

  I virtually froze. My job, my career, even my entire future gone for certain, and all for a quick fumble with an inebriated teenager.

  To my relief, Quick as a flash, Dawn saved the day.

  “I’m very sorry Sir Mathew, Nathan has just asked me to marry him and when I said yes we got carried away a bit.”

  That changed things. The old man located and shook both our hands before announcing the fact to the entire assembly. (Incidentally, my so called engagement to Dawn lasted about three weeks,) We were as different as chalk and cheese and I soon discovered why they called her Dopey Dawn.

  All good things come to an end. A few years later, Sir Mathew died. The business was taken over by a multi national company and my job content changed. I never went near the works for months. I was either at head office or somewhere miles away.

  The new set up was a hard company to work for and meanness and unrest were always evident. You can imagine my surprise therfore when I had a phone call one day asking if I was going to the Christmas party at Dobbs’s. (Everybody still called it that) Naturally, I went and was amazed to see that the fayre was equally as good as it always had been. The drink was plentiful from the beginning and it looked as though a good time was being had by all.

  At about the time that Sir Mathew would have usually put in his appearance, the doors opened and his widow, Lady Helen announced,