50 Short Stories

by Martin Bourne

  This particular morning, as she passed the clearing where the gypsies sometimes camped, there were three odd looking ladies cooking their breakfast in a big iron pot over an open fire.

  They did look funny.

  Marybeth knew lots of people, but had never seen anyone who looked like that before. She was not the type of person to just walk past so she opened the dialogue.

  “Hello, I’m Marybeth, who are you?”

  One of the ladies bent down to her level and whispered,

  “It’s Christmas time. Have you heard of the three wise men?”

  “Ye’es.” Marybeth hesitated.

  “Well,” the lady answered, “We are the three ladies. We don’t claim

  to be wise, that would be big headed. We don’t have big heads,”

  “I can tell that by the size of your hats. They are such a funny shape.”

  She then added,

  “What are you doing here?”

  “We’re here to look after you and to make sure that you have a lovely Christmas. I can tell you that before nightfall you will go to a banquet. There will be more food than you could dream about.”

  Then the second lady tasted some of the food out of the pot, sniffed then turned to Marybeth.

  “And I can tell you that before you see any more stars in the sky, you will have seen the baby Jesus.”

  The third lady smiled and bent down till she was level with Marybeth’s face.

  “Best of all, I can tell you that before long you will have treasure like you have never known before. Go on your way with our blessing.”

  Marybeth was puzzled. Three ladies telling her what was going to happen.

  It was spellbinding. She was used to Grandma telling them that it was going to rain, and she was usually right, but this was much more involved.

  She arrived at school just in time. Teacher held her hand and said,

  “I‘m glad that you have come to school today Marybeth; you are in for a treat.”

  They had singing first. Teacher played the piano and they sang Christmas carols till playtime.

  After playtime, they all had to go into the top classroom.

  In there was all the food for the Christmas party.

  Marybeth thought it was like a banquet, then she remembered what the first lady had said. Her prophesy had come true.

  Still ---she hadn’t breathed a word about it to anyone. The ladies had told her that she mustn’t tell, . . and she hadn’t.

  The party went on till dinnertime. They played games and had a quiz, then they ate so much jelly and cakes that nobody wanted much dinner.

  After dinner they all went across to the big school to watch a show. Marybeth had never seen a play acted before and took everything very seriously.

  Then, one of the shepherds came to the front of the stage and said in a loud voice,

  “If any of the little children in the front row want to come up onto the stage, we will lift them up and they can see over the stable door. Of course, Marybeth was one of the first up.

  As she looked over the door, it was a bit dark, but she saw two donkeys (She didn’t know that they were blown up plastic ones) and the old stone sink that used to have flowers in it.

  Inside the sink was a big white towel and then someone shone a torch and . . . Yes, . . .she was sure that it was baby Jesus lying there. So still and peaceful.

  The second lady had been right. Two out of three predictions had come true. That was good enough, because Marybeth knew very well that there was no chance of the third, she would never have any treasure.

  She came from a poor family.

  After school Marybeth ran all the way back to the clearing.

  The three ladies had gone.

  There was no sign that they had ever been there, not even ashes from their fire.

  She wondered whether she should tell mummy when she got home. After all, she had promised the ladies that she would tell nobody. As it happened, when she got in, Grandma was there cooking a nice hot tea for them all. Marybeth was so excited about that that she forgot all about the three ladies. Grandma asked Marybeth what she had done at school that day. First she told about the singing.

  We sang some Christmas carols. One about Good King Wesley’s lass and one about somebody called Noel. Then we sang

  We wish you a merry Christmas and went out to play.

  After a few prompting questions, she told Grandma all about the party and all the jellies and the cakes.

  “Is that all?” asked Grandma, as if she knew that there was more to come.

  “Oh yes, lots more. After dinnertime we all had to go across to the big school. Teacher said that we were going to watch a maternity play.”

  The old lady smiled and corrected her.

  “I think that she meant a nativity play. Was it good?”

  Marybeth took a deep breath and said,

  “Grandma, do you know what? They lifted me up to look over the stable door and guess what I saw,”

  “What did you see my darling?”

  “Baby Jesus wrapped in a towel in a sink.”

  “Well . . . Do you like babies then?”

  “Oh yes Grandma, I really do.”

  “Then come with me.”

  Grandma took Marybeth’s hand and led her up to mummy’s bedroom. Along side Mummy’s bed was a white cot and in it she saw the tiniest baby that ever was.

  “Come closer and have a look.” said mummy “Isn’t she a treasure. Her name is Carol”

  Marybeth knew then . . . . all three predictions had come true.

  And she knew that they would all have a lovely Christmas, and they did. The thing is:-

  Now you know where Shakespeare got his idea for Macbeth from.

  Maria

  I hadn’t seen my mate Ted for about three weeks. Even then it was him, who saw me first. He asked,

  “Are you moving into your new house or not?”

  I knew that Ted was interested, rather than nosey but I answered him without any confidence,

  “I still don’t know but I’ve got to make up my mind before tomorrow morning, the contract is due to be signed at half past nine.”

  I had taken an option on the new house while they were still digging the foundations. At that time Joanne and I were an item.

  When we split a couple of months later I never told the builders just in case we got back together again.

  “Why the doubt, “says Ted,” It seems to me to be the bargain of a lifetime.”

  “If you want the full story mate, have you got five minutes.”

  “Certainly.” Ted enthused. “Ten if you like, Your yarns are always worth airing.”

  I didn’t start at the beginning. Mindful of events the previous evening, I began when I first met Maria.

  I had just got out of the bath and was preparing to watch the telly when there was a knock at the door. On answering, I was faced with this five foot nothing blonde beauty. She shook me by asking if she could come in. After a moments hesitation I agreed.

  “Can I clear something up that puzzles me” she asked.

  I was all ears.

  “Well, I have recently inherited this block of flats from my granddad and there were four letters on his desk, all from you. Two, giving notice that you intend to vacate the apartment and two withdrawing that notice. What is going on?”

  So, if she was the new landlord I decided to let her have a few home truths.

  “There is nothing that I would like more than to continue living here but as any of the tenants will tell you, the Brassingtons are the cause of all the unrest.

  “The Brassingtons.” she asked. Tell me more. Who on earth are the Brassingtons?”

  “The neighbours from hell. . . Downstairs flat, . . own all the cars in the courtyard . . and the litter.

  Nobody dare speak to them without getting threatened with violence.”

  Maria bristled.

  “I’ll speak to them alright. I didn’t even know that they were tenant
s. Come with me.”

  When we got to the bottom of the stairs she told me,

  “You wait there.”

  I waited as she strode across to where young Brassington had his head under bonnet of a big red American type rust bucket.

  “Hey, you” she commanded.

  I cringed as I plainly heard “eff off” emanate from under the bonnet.

  She no more than grabbed his ear and pulled his head clear.

  “Don’t you ever dare to address me like that. I suppose an apology is too much to expect.”

  Just then Brassington senior appeared on the scene. Now he really is a nasty piece of work.

  A tattooed thug with a monosyllabic vocabulary.

  “What’s this ere, we don’t do interfering neighbours. Eff off or I’ll make trouble for you.”

  Maria opened up again,

  “You’ll make trouble for me will you? Then I’ll make trouble for you, heaps of it. I’ll have the noise abatement people down about you revving up cars late at night, the DVLA because not one of your cars has a tax disc, Health and safety because that car rests on a pile of bricks, not a proper stand. And for good measure the health office about all the half eaten take away cartons that are bound to attract vermin. And that’s before I get started”

  As she paused for breath, I thought to myself Is this woman real?

  But she continued,

  “This is my property and I want you out of here by this time next week”

  Brassington junior chipped in ,

  “You can’t touch us, we got squatters rights we have.”

  Maria continued, “You haven’t been here long enough to claim squatters rights but in any case, squatters rights would give you the right to a roof over your head, not to run a dodgy car business in my courtyard. You have till next Friday to clear out”

  At that she came back to rejoin me. After that outburst I expected her to be shivering with rage but no, she had a beaming smile on her face.

  “I reckon that must be worth a meal. Come on, up to the Lamb, my treat. On the way, I asked her if she was a lawyer as she knew all about squatters rights.

  “I don’t know a damned thing about them,” she said “But I was quite aware that Brassington didn’t either.”

  Maria and I got on famously and not surprisingly we both returned to my apartment afterwards. And oh my, when we got to the bedroom, wow, say no more.

  At five o clock I thought, Is this woman real,

  by ten o clock I was thinking, This, is a real woman

  So Ted, you were asking why I can’t decide about the new house.

  I love my apartment and could see myself living happily with Maria, but it simply isn’t big enough for two, on the other hand, with the Brassingtons gone, it will have everything else in its favour. . . . . . . I don’t know what to do.

  The Bitter End.

  All good things come to an end, and that rarely happens without sadness; so you will understand my feelings when my employment at Wren’s Wire works came to an end.

  Though it was a closely guarded secret, I had known for two years that Sir Robin Wren intended taking early retirement, and that he had sold the site to a housing developer.

  Even so, it was not until the final month that the truth really hit me.

  Twenty seven years I had worked there.

  I can say with all honesty, twenty five very happy years -- No, I didn’t make a mistake, I didn’t fail A level moths and I can count, It is just that I try to forget my first two years there, in my opinion they were not only absolute hell but also two years wasted.

  I joined the company along with half a dozen other girls. We all left college at the same time, but my voice was the one that always stood out in a crowd. I was an active member of Ladies Living, a group that was demanding equal pay and promotion opportunities. I suppose you could say, we were a tamed down version of the suffragettes.

  Robin Wren hated me for that and the feeling was reciprocated.

  He still thinks to this day that I was responsible for the red painted graffiti that appeared on his door one morning. It was signed Erithacus Rubecula,, the Latin for robin redbreast.

  It wasn’t me but I knew who it was. Only two of us had taken Latin at school.

  For a young man, he was so old fashioned it was unbelievable.

  Only men were permitted to work inside the factory. Outside, there was an imaginary chalk line down the yard with women one side in packing and paperwork, whilst on the other side were men and boys in loading and transport. Cross that line at your peril. In fact it was only very rarely that anyone was permitted to change jobs within the firm. We always used to say,

  “Once a packer, always a packer etc.”

  I was one of the exceptions who did make the transition. It was a case of being in the right place at the right time with a bit of nepotism thrown in for good luck.

  My mother ran the tea trolley in the offices and when she broke her leg I was asked to stand in for her.

  It was extra to my job but still, I was delighted. I was happy to do anything to get away from the typing pool for even an hour or two.

  Then followed the most amazing coincidence; the type that rarely happens in a lifetime. Irene Fairbrother, Sir Robin’s PA, knocked over my neighbour’s gate post whilst driving her car.

  By the way, he was plain Mr. Wren in those days, sometimes Mr. Robin.

  However, Irene had been drinking and was well over the limit. She was shaken, but not hurt so I quickly drove her car home then later called on the neighbour to apologise and offer to pay for the damage I said that I had caused.

  The policeman who had been called, grumbled at me for not remaining at the scene but as I explained to him,

  “It was very early in the morning and everyone was in bed. The damage was so minor that it seemed pointless disturbing anybody.”

  It was a bit touch and go at first, but I got away with it. The big thing was it went no further so Irene didn’t lose her driving licence.

  When she called round a few days later to thank me, also to see my mum, the conversation got round to my career and ambitions. We all agreed that the typing pool was well below my capabilities.

  “Be patient and I may possibly be in a position to help you in a few weeks time.” She told me. “After all, you helped me.”

  I waited, and waited, and waited; till I could wait no more. I began posting batteries of job applications far and wide.

  After I had almost given up hope, the PA sent for me one morning.

  “The time has come,” she said, “for a little bit of subterfuge.

  I shall be retiring soon and I’m pretty certain that Mr. Wren’s secretary will get my job, leaving hers vacant.

  Now listen very carefully to what I am going to say.

  I will see that you get all Mr. Wren’s letters for typing. Take the utmost care with them, also read and memorise as many details as you can from each one. Being armed with knowledge could be very helpful to you.”

  She was right.

  The usual routine with Sir Robin, was knock and walk in, unless his red light was on, so the following Monday, she told me to push the tea trolley into his office at exactly eight minutes to eleven. She emphasised that split second timing was everything. I soon found out why.

  As I entered, he was just about to put his phone down and I heard him say to someone,

  “Right then, I’ll meet you in the Feathers Friday morning.”

  I gave him his tea and biscuits then I hesitated for a moment.

  “What is it Girl?” he asked “I’m extremely busy”

  “Excuse me sir, I couldn’t help overhearing you agree to meet someone in the Feathers on Friday.

  Have you forgotten that you will be in Paris on that day?”

  “How the devil do you know that?” He stormed.

  “Because I typed the letter confirming your intention to attend the conference Sir” I replied.

  “Incidentally, I also sent your b
ooking to the Metropole Hotel at the same time.”

  I don’t know if he was angry or not when he said,

  “Young lady, you seem to have an uncanny knack of knowing my business, do you have any reason for this?”

  “No Sir,” I said. “I just like to keep abreast with all that happens here. I’m not just your average nine till five girl you know.”

  “H’mm” He muttered, “Away you go.”

  I was dying to ask him why he had booked a double room at the Metropole, when I knew that his wife, Olga was staying with her parents in the Lake District. Of course I had more sense.

  I could guess the reason anyhow.

  The following week I was still on the trolley run. Sir Robin said,

  “Finish with your cart then come back and see me.”

  I did just that, and as I hoped, he offered me the position of private secretary.

  I enjoyed that job for ten years, then, I was promoted to Personal Assistant, a position that I held for fifteen years.

  He has changed very much for the better during that time.

  For goodness sake, please don’t tell anybody, but I have also been his

  ‘Bit on the side’ for most of that time.

  The gossips assert that it goes with the job as indeed it did with his father before him, but do you know what?

  I don’t give a damn.

  Being one of Lady Olga’s best friends makes it very risky, but it certainly adds to the excitement. It has been much more fun than being married; especially as I had an operation when I was twenty six, so there was no fear of any unplanned little Robin Wrens appearing on the scene.

  I even flew out to Vienna recently to spend the night with him while she was at the opera. And I couldn’t count the number of nights we have attended none existent conferences at the Metropole in Paris.

  Sir Robin was always so generous as well.

  Even now, I only need to dress in my old school uniform; provocative short pleated skirt, pristine white blouse and straw boater and he is like putty in my hands. He will buy me anything that I ask. With the demise of the company; I fear that all that, has come to an end. More is the pity.