50 Short Stories

by Martin Bourne

  “ Please, ladies and gentlemen, may we have a moments silence while I introduce Miss Margery Pearson, your new managing director.”

  She looked so young, yet as she walked in, one glance told you that she was class, real class. Her clothes, her hair, her entire demeanor were absolute perfection.

  No other way to describe her except to say that she was a stunner.

  However, nobody was more stunned than I was when, after saying a few words to the assembled guests, Miss Pearson made her way straight across to me, saying,

  “Nathan, come into my office for a moment will you please.”

  I followed meekly, wondering whether I was Nathan Smith or Father Christmas. Once inside, she removed her jacket and hung it on a coat hanger before sitting on an antique chaise longue.

  She indicated me to sit beside her. As if her looks weren’t sufficient, her perfume was enough to make me weak at the knees.

  After commenting about the heat in the small office she undid the top button of her pristine white blouse and I wondered ‘what next’

  What next indeed. Certainly, I must emphasize that common sense was deleted from my vocabulary. I’m afraid that morals went through the window and I thanked my lucky stars that I was no longer married.

  Maybe it was wishful thinking, but I was very wrong.

  Miss Pearson, reached behind and picked up a buff file which I soon realised was my full service record from right back to my training days. After highlighting some of my achievements she calmly sat there and said,

  “I’m offering you the general manager’s job at this factory, will you accept?”

  Manager at the factory where I had spent so many happy years. What a way to end a Christmas party. It definitely wasn’t the end that I expected.

  Then I thought to myself . . . . I shall be in charge at the next party. . . . . . Wow, that is progress

  What happened after that defies comprehension.

  Remember me saying that I had deleted common sense from my vocabulary, To prove the point, I calmly sat there and said,

  “Yes, I’d be honoured to accept the position.”

  Then like a fool, I immediately tried to get a date with her

  I used to be flippant in my younger days but this time it was probably the drink talking.

  Naturally, she told me in no uncertain terms not to be so silly.

  I apologized for my stupidity and no more was said at the time, .However, I also persevered with Margery Pearson and after three months she finally agreed to go out for a meal with me.

  Regrettably, after a disastrous strike at the parent company, it was decreed that there would be no more parties. I was saddened, but nobody, not even head office, could take away my memories of Christmas office parties.

  My Latest Love Affair.

  Thinking back over the years, I reckon that I have had a good life. My career has followed an ecclesiastical path, so progress has not been as swift as I might have wished, but it has been steady and very satisfying. For most of the time anyway.

  If I quote from the creed: We have done things that we ought not to have done and left undone things that we ought to have done. That is me.

  Yes, I’ve made mistakes; I’ve certainly done things that I regretted afterwards.

  However, one thing that I regretted at the time subsequently turned full circle and became the best thing that ever happened to me.

  A widow at the age of twenty three, I beat my grief by concentrating on little else but work for far too many years.

  Then came the time that: - for diverse reasons, I decided that I would like to take early retirement. After I had posted my letter of resignation to the Bishop I walked home from the letter-box with a heavy heart. If only I could open that box and withdraw the letter I would have been happy. But, of course I couldn’t.

  It is difficult to describe my reasons for wanting to retire. Perhaps I had been in the same parish for too long. I got the feeling that people were standing me on a pedestal.

  Rather than being an ordinary human being doing a job that I loved, I was so used to hearing comments like, hey up, the Vicar’s at the door, put a clean cardigan on, or hide that pile of washing quick. The number of times that I saw people rapidly getting rid of their fish and chip papers or football coupons is unbelievable. Another thing, nearly everybody swears these days. I don’t like it; but I like it even less when somebody accidentally slips up in front of me then bows and scrapes as though they had committed some mortal sin.

  To put it bluntly, I just wanted to be an ordinary person.

  The Bishop’s response to my letter was as expected. He was difficult, raising all sorts of objections, however, in the end he knew that he was beaten. I began to say my goodbyes in the parish and think seriously about what to do with the rest of my life.

  Then, one morning I had an unusual phone call from the Bishop himself.

  “Victoria, I’m about to make you the proverbial

  ‘offer that you can’t refuse’. I’m sure that you would love a semi retirement position.”

  “Tell me more.” I eagerly interrupted.

  “A vicar is urgently needed in the parish of Greystone Bridge in the very north of the diocese. It is a scattered rural parish with a very low population. At present it is administered by a vicar who runs two other parishes as well. That is a situation that was always hated by the parish veteran Lady Annabelle Worthington-Smythe.

  When she passed away recently she left an annuity for the parish to employ its own vicar once more. There is a retainer in the village, called Mr. Taylor, also paid by the parish, who will do any heavy work that needs doing.

  The salary isn’t great but I believe that the new vicarage is one of the most luxurious barn conversions that anyone could wish for. Please say that you’ll consider the post.”

  As he put the phone down my head was in a whirl. The offer sounded too good to be true, I had almost made my mind up to accept the living when the phone rang again. Once more it was the Bishop.

  “By the way Victoria, I forgot to mention that there is a car that goes with the job.

  You won’t get it straight away as some nephew wanted it for himself and contested the will. That, I believe, has now been resolved.”

  The chance of a car made my decision a lot easier. Going round my own patch on my shaky moped has been hard going this last year or so.

  I rang the Bishop just after lunch and provisionally accepted the offer.

  “Then I’ll take you up there tomorrow for a look round. We’ll have a day out. And by the way, I have known you, in fact I’d like to think that we have been friends, for over twenty five years; please call me Philip.”

  We arrived at Greystone Bridge in a heavy thunderstorm, not a good start. Then we saw the Church, talk about neglect, it was unimaginable. It was what I call a timber and tin building, Borders were overgrown, brambles everywhere and the Church itself had never seen a coat of paint in years.

  I was close to tears when the Bishop offered,

  “Come on then lass; let’s see what the catering is like in the local pub.”

  Now that was a contrast beyond belief. Old world charm, yet everything was perfect. All the woodwork and brass were polished and gleaming and the meal itself was divine, that was the Bishop’s description not mine though I fully agreed with him. Before the meal was over, I told him,

  “I reckon that you have found yourself a new vicar.”

  Two months later I moved to Greystone Bridge, arriving in an even heavier thunderstorm than on my previous visit. However, the vicarage was so spacious and convenient that I had made it a home within a day.

  Early next morning I was wakened by a loud knocking on the front door. On the step was a very unusual looking chap. A rustic if ever there was one. He was at least six feet tall, bald yet with longer side whiskers than a sheep, and spectacles like bottle bottoms. His attire suggested that he was a tramp though something about him suggested that I was wrong.

&
nbsp; “Are thay t’ new vicar?” he enquired abruptly.

  “I certainly am, and who might you be?”

  (Adding under my breath, “At this unearthly hour”)

  “Ahm t’ Grave Digger. . . . . No JCB, just spade an’ sweat.”

  “And the name is?” though I had already guessed.

  “Syd Taylor. Call me Sailor, everybody else does.

  Then he got straight to the point of his visit.

  “We’m got trouble Vic. You know old Mrs Harris from t’ garridge. ‘Ers gone jed, and I dunna know where ‘ers agoin be put. There ai’t nowhere left.”

  This was too much for a doorstep conversation; I invited him in and put the kettle on. Then I asked him to be a little more explicit. It transpired that the widow of a former garage proprietor had passed away and there appeared to be no room in the church-yard for her to be buried.

  “Surely she would wish to be interred with her late husband.”

  I volunteered.

  “Not bloody likely Vic, ‘Er allus said as ‘er would never go down t’ same hole as that two timin git.

  Let some o them as lay beside ’im when he were alive lay with ‘im now ‘e’s jed.”

  “Oh dear,” I mocked, Like you say, “We’m got trouble.”

  “Sure have Vic.

  I wasn’t happy about the way that he kept calling me Vic whether it was short for Victoria or vicar and I resolved to speak to him about it later. Then I thought to myself why? Isn’t that just what I had wanted to get away from, everyone being so formal?

  If he wanted to call me Vic then I would just have to get used to it.

  While Sailor supped a second cup of tea, I hurriedly dressed then offered to walk down to the church-yard to see what could be done.

  “What is under that patch of brambles?” I asked.

  “Nowt” he registered firmly.

  “Used ter be a gate there but it i’nt no more.”

  I couldn’t understand a gate leading to nowhere, so I had to ask even more questions.

  “Used ter be, years ago. Lord an Lady Greystone from th’all would come ter front o’t’ church in t’carridge an’ pair,

  but t’ servants ad ter walk across th’ fields an’ go in t’back way.

  Then wen t’owd folks died, young Mr. Ted got a motor car an he would give any servants a lift ter church just like the good Christian as he were.

  Back road never got used no more, and then it got growed o’er like what it is now.”

  I saw a possible solution to our problem.

  “Do you think that if you cut those brambles away there might be room to bury poor Mrs. Harris there?”

  “Appen” was his brief reply. And that is exactly what happened. With some help from me and countless cups of tea, Mrs. Harris was finally interred in the church-yard at the furthest point from her dear departed.

  Then with a little coercion I persuaded Sailor to dig the borders whilst I weeded the paths. Then I visited the local garden centre and scrounged enough plants to make the church entrance very attractive. One day when it was raining I was in

  th’tin shed round t’ back when Sailor uncovered an ancient mowing machine.

  “Appen ar could fettle that up an get er goin if we can get the bits,” he offered.

  “Brilliant” I replied. “You are a treasure, I could kiss you.”

  “Nowt stopping tha lass.” He offered his face towards mine.

  Slightly shaken, I went to give him a peck on the cheek.

  With split second timing he turned his head so that the kiss was full on, both sets of lips.

  He hung on to me, I thought Wow, and then, he casually broke away and said,

  “Eeh tha makes a good cup o tea Vic.”

  I thought about that kiss quite a few times during the next few days but said nothing.

  With the borders in full flower, the church looked quite attractive and noticeably the congregation began to swell. I had offers of flowers for inside the church, one lady offered to repair the many hassocks that were only really fit for the bin and one man even offered to paint the outside woodwork if we provided the paint. I felt that I was really settling in.

  About a fortnight later, I looked in the tin shed which Sailor now used as his brew room. Shining brightly was the mower, obviously now in full working order.

  I expressed my gratitude then discussed one or two other parish matters. I was aware that Sailor wasn’t too happy.

  “What’s up Sailor, I can see that something is troubling you.”

  “Sure thing Vic. Appen ar thought as you’d give me another kiss for fettling t’ mower. P’raps ar were wrong.”

  “Come here you old softie,” I said and gave him the reward that he expected. Again he hung on, like a limpet this time, and kiss, I’d never known anything like it in half a century. After another Wow, my next thought was, What next, and then, surprisingly enough Who cares?

  After that, every minor task, every favour, always required a kiss. I began to realise that I had feelings for Sailor. I didn’t want a relationship at my time of life, but to be honest, I wasn’t quite sure what I did want.

  It was getting on for three months after I arrived in the parish before I got the message that the executors had released my car and I could fetch it any time. Sailor and I went up to the Hall next day. I nearly cried when the garage doors were opened.

  There stood a big filthy old relic.

  “Only fit for the scrap-yard.” I told Sailor.

  “Dunna be daft Vic, ‘ers a real classic motor’.

  A Harmstrong-Siddley Just look past the muck and cobwebs. You got class there.”

  I did, and Sailor was quite right. Apart from requiring a good cleaning, there appeared to be nothing wrong with it and when Sailor started it up it ran as sweetly as any car I had ever seen.

  We took it back down to the church and made room in the tin shed for it. During the next two days we scrubbed and scraped and got it looking presentable. As we were busy cleaning, Sailor dropped a bombshell.

  “Ah be agoin to t’ doughters weddin a Friday.

  Er lives in Cyprus so I be avinn a fortnit there.”

  I was devastated.

  A fortnight without Sailor. -

  That, was when I realised just how strong my feelings for him were.

  When I took him to the train on Friday morning, it was the first time that I had seen him other than ‘in his rough’.

  Now, he was wearing a beige suit with a dark brown cravat. He did look smart. If I hadn’t already fallen for him, I would have done then.

  I watched his train depart then I cried like I’ve never cried before.

  How have I dealt with problems all my life? Work.

  I went back to the tin shed and rubbed and polished till that car looked even better than when it left the show-room fifty years before.

  I was polishing as though my life depended on it when I heard footsteps, then a familiar voice calling,

  “Victoria, Are you there”

  It was the unmistakable voice of Bishop Philip. I was in full dirt, with a filthy headscarf covering my hair and an even filthier surplice protecting my dress. . . . Oh dear.

  “A true labour of love” was his opening.

  Without thinking I replied,

  “Yes, your worship. You could say that this is

  ‘My latest love affair.”

  “That answers a lot my dear. My journey has been worthwhile.

  I have sensed a great change in your demeanour lately, your phone calls have sounded so bubbly and happy, and then I hear stray rumours of romance. Now, I can see for myself that your latest love affair is no more than a lump of shiny metal.”

  *~*~*~*

  Believe you me, yon Bishop is going to get such a shock when Sailor comes home.

  We shall have to pay him a visit and announce that our love affair is the real thing, not the car at all, even though I wouldn’t part with it at any price.

  The Last Day of Term.
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  You have all heard of Macbeth. The three witches, and their amazing predictions. I have no wish to disappoint anybody, but none of that actually came from the fertile imagination of the famous playwright.

  Believe it or not, it all originated with a five year old girl.

  Marybeth was a lovely little girl, so easy to please. She lived with her parents in a quaint little cottage in the middle of the forest.

  Like all little girls, she was looking forward to Christmas.

  As I said, she was so easy to please. A few coloured pens and pencils would make her very happy. If a book on birds or maybe dogs could be added, that would be marvellous. In two days time she would be hanging her stocking up by the inglenook fireplace, and she knew that there would be one or two coins in the toe of it. Grandma had promised that because Marybeth was so clever at reading. She could read what it said on the coins, one penny, and ten pence, and could even manage twenty pence if Granddad was there to help her.

  She hadn’t been to school for a few days because mummy had been poorly, but they said that she should go for just one more day, the last day at school before they broke up for Christmas,

  Marybeth had to walk to school on her own. Mummy was still poorly in bed and Daddy had to cut plenty of logs to keep the fires burning brightly right through the holiday period.

  She had walked on her own before and didn’t mind one little bit. After all there were no busy roads to cross. One couldn’t imagine a smarter looking child. Highly polished black bootees with a bright red coat, topped by an embroidered black bonnet.

  She was such an innocent little girl, no show was necessary with her. Paper decorations meant nothing. The cobwebs, with the dew frozen on to them made a much more Christmassy vista. Likewise, no need for a tree with gaudy baubles. The sun, filtering through the almost leafless trees as she walked along, lit up a scene to stir her vivid imagination.