Ironically, we went by train.
The under manager of the biggest car franchise in town, going to a motor show, and calm as you like, he tells me
“We are going on the train. The seven fifty-five will get us there before the crowds arrive.”
As it happened, he was quite right, we certainly were there before the crowds. And I mean crowds, where they all came from I have no idea, there seemed to be millions of them.
Before long, I realised that because John knew almost everyone in the motor industry, we would not go short of hospitality.
We had a ‘wee sherry’ here and a few cans further along, besides countless nibbles and biscuits. It was evident that I wouldn’t be paying for any booze all day.
And John was right, there certainly was plenty of crumpet.
By mid morning we had covered most of the ground floor except for the Sabre stand. At that time, Sabre cars were the butt of everybody’s jokes.
Biscuit tin with an engine in. . . or
skip on wheels, were just two of the names given to the Asian made rattle boxes. But their stand! It put the rest to shame. It was so impressive that even the most sceptical members of the public were drawn to it.
That included me.
And the talent, phew I was breathless. Especially so when the most attractive of the attendants came talking to me whilst John was quizzing one of the men about cars.
This gorgeous blonde chatted to me as though we had been life long friends.
John gave me the eye and nod when he had finished his business and almost dragged me away. As a parting shot I said to her,
“By jove I bet you’re fit”
Her reply was to grip the front bumper of a car on the stand and lift the complete car to shoulder height while I stood gaping like an imbecile. Her boss mustn’t have liked her fraternizing with a member of the public and immediately sent her on an errand.
I walked away mesmerised.
As an afterthought, I turned back and sidled up to the same car.
“Impossible” I said to myself. Then without a thought I bent down and lifted it the same way as the blonde had done.
Shock. . Show. Sham.
It was made out of polystyrene, cleverly coated with plastic and painted and polished to look realistic. The entire thing probably only weighed about twenty pounds.
In spite of that, I would still have given my soul for a night with that blonde. John had a bit more business to do during the afternoon so when he was talking I retraced my steps and headed back down to the Sabre stand.
“Hi miss fitness, I’m back.” And much to my surprise, I eventually managed to get a date with her.
I never cracked on that I knew about the polystyrene car,
preferring to let her think that I was a bit slow.
The date was a great success and she looked even more glamorous than ever. I really felt proud to be seen walking along with her.
For the next date it was a more casual arrangement. She told me.
“I’m free every night next week. Come round when you want.”
I did, very early one evening. I gaped when she opened the door.
Uncombed, that beautiful blonde hair looked like straw, she had no make-up on, and was dressed in clothes that I would hesitate to give the rag and bone man. I thought about how she had looked when we were our a few nights previously.
All show and sham, Just like the pseudo car that she had at the motor show.
It didn’t make any difference, I still married her and had forty of the happiest years I could have wished for. That’s life.
Drink to me only with thine eyes .
My real name is Annabelle but years ago I was saddled with a less salubrious nickname. . Alcoholic Aggie.
The reason: - Because of a series of traumatic events whilst I was at uni, I got in with the wrong type of company, and started drinking.
Drinking excessively,
I was into trouble with the law many times. I had police warnings, fines, more warnings and even counseling, before the ultimate disgrace. The local coppers were always on the lookout for Alcoholic Aggie. My last court appearance was a terrible ordeal, and l was sent to Heathside Detention Centre for three months.
My brief (see, I am talking criminal language already) reckoned that going
‘down for three’ was excessive and said so.
The presiding magistrate, the same old dolly who was always there, replied,
“Maybe you consider this a heavy punishment. I consider that we are doing her a favour. She must learn that continual drunken behaviour, slouching about in our streets, will not be tolerated. . . . Send her down.”
The regime at Heathside was harsh and the prison was very overcrowded. I had to share a cell with Maisie and Collette, two foul mouthed prostitutes. Maisie was inside for violence and Collette for child neglect. I was a misfit, both in that cell and in the entire nick. I hated it. I hated myself, and what’s more I hated the feeling of injustice.
My cellmates were nearing the end of their sentences, each only having another month to serve.
How I got through the first three weeks I shall never know.
By the end of the third week depression had really set in.
The other two, who had both proved to be evil people were in their last few days and taunted me with that fact.
Collette, out of the kindness of her heart offered,
“You’ll never stand a chance of getting a job when you get out of here but if you like, I will introduce you to our profession. It gives a good living.”
I had already cried till I could cry no more. That comment emphasized just how low I had sunk.
I had a shock when a screw told me,
“You have a visitor”
I hadn’t even qualified for a visitor’s pass, so thought that there must have been a mistake.
I was shown into the library and introduced to the Hon. Hilary Hill, owner of the town’s biggest clothing factory, She was the local do gooder and into everything.
“How are you my dear” that was a patronizing start.
“Terrible, you can’t imagine how awful it is in here.”
“Oh I can. You know, but, I can get you out of this place by the weekend. And find you a job in my factory.”
“Oh no,. that sounds too good to be true.”
I tried to hide my excitement.
“No” she went on,, The magistrates feel that you should have learnt your lesson by now. You can be released on parole provided that you keep off the drink. I suggest you join our group. The Greystone Happy Women’s Temperance Group.”
I knew all about them. They had tried to make me see the error of my ways more than once.
That title was a misnomer. They were not happy. Not one of them.
No drinking, no smoking, no fun.
Just be happy being miserable.
But I was desperate. Desperate to get out of that place. I would have agreed to anything.
Actually, it wasn’t too bad.
I didn’t have to play an active roll. Simply turn up at fortnightly meetings and reaffirm my promise to abstain.
I got used to that and tried to put memories of Heathside to the back of my mind.
Then came a big rally. We were to spend a weekend trying to convert as many people as we could to our beliefs.
That wasn’t easy for me, I didn’t believe in abstention,
I was there on sufferance.
However, loaded with placards, banners and plenty of bottled water, we set up our stall outside the biggest pub in town The Dog and Gatepost, and the brewery adjacent to it, My placard said ‘invest money in your own house, not the public house‘.
All was quiet and sedate until the football crowd started to arrive.
Then the taunts began.
The louder the football fans shouted, the louder we retaliated. One yob shouted,
“You can’t live without a drink.”
We responded by producing
bottles of water. You know the type, The sort that students seem to carry everywhere as a status symbol. We chanted
“Drink pure clear water. The water of the Lord. Drink and enjoy.”
And we drank. Bottle after bottle.
It became noticeable that some of our group were not shouting, rather bawling.
Some raucous comments as well. Very uncharacteristic.
Then words were becoming slurred, even incoherent.
I was fine. Then I twigged what was happening.
My colleagues were drunk Bloody drunk.
They started to fall about like nine-pins and ended up in a writhing mass on the floor resembling a rugby scrum.
Of course, the cops arrived and soon spotted me.
“Alcoholic Aggie. There’s the ringleader.”
There were one or two disappointed police officers when they cottoned on to the fact that indeed I was the only one that was sober.
There was no harm done and it was assumed that fumes from the brewery had had an overcoming effect.
Absolute tosh, I knew that.
Then everything went quiet.
A couple of days later, I was approached by Nigel Hill, Hilary’s son. Last time that I saw him was as a prefect at Greystone Grammar.
He was just developing a yearning to drink.
He had passed the stage of a six pack from the offy and thought himself ready to do a bit of serious drinking.
He was also embarrassed by his mother and her goody-goody ways.
“ Do you know what happened last Saturday” he asked
“No.”
“Well, . . Me and my mate had a bit of fun. We distilled some pure alcohol. Colourless, odourless and tasteless.
“And?” I was already getting his drift.
“We got a hypodermic syringe and injected a small amount of alki into each bottle of water.
The happy teetotalers were drinking water with a kick like a mule. Your insides are still conditioned to spirits so it had no effect. To the others it was like a silent assassin.”
I gasped, “You crafty devil, I could kiss you.”
“I was hoping for more than that.” he said.
“It must be worth a night out at least.”
I agreed. We had our night out. He took me to a quiet country pub for a meal and of course . . . A few drinks.
We went out together quite often after that.
Hillary expressed her disapproval many times but the more she objected the more defiant we became.
When the inevitable happened, Hilary did reluctantly attend the wedding, but when it came to ‘toasts’ she drank pure clear water whilst we slurped down the champagne.
By the way, the mill owner’s son and his jail bird bride are still together forty years on.
A Lesson In Life
You have heard it all before. I can’t for the life of me, think what I came into my study for.
Yet, I can remember as if it was half an hour ago, something that happened over sixty years ago.
It was way back in nineteen hundred and never mind, and the day before my tenth birthday. Mum had left me in the house on my own while she popped down to the chemists to get a prescription. She didn’t often leave me alone but when she did, she knew that I was always safe because she made sure that Mr. Smith next door was at home. I liked Mr. Smith. He used to take me for walks in the country, him walking his beagle Lemon, and me with my spaniel Judy.
The day that I’m talking about, I was not to go out to play at all as mum was frightened of Judy getting out. She was in season and I was told that if she got near any other dogs she would end up having puppies. That thought excited me but Grandma said that and Judy was far too young for that.
I was happy enough sitting on a chair by the window watching Mr. Smith throwing a stick down his long garden for Lemon to fetch back for him.
Then the postman came with the second delivery. I looked through the envelopes that came through our letterbox to see if there was any birthday cards for me. There were not, but there was a letter for someone else.. I opened the door and ran after the postman shouting,
“This one isn’t ours. It is for four Acacia Avenue, ours is four Acacia Close.” The postman thanked me and just as I was about to go back inside he said, ”Are you the young man who is having a birthday soon?” I told him “Yes.” and he wished me a happy birthday.
When I went back inside, I froze with horror. There on the settee were Judy and Lemon sitting grinning at me. My first thought was ‘this is going to be interesting. Then I thought more seriously, Oh dear, was I too late? Would Judy have puppies? I managed to scoot a reluctant Lemon out of the house then panicked. What would the puppies be like? I’d heard of a cross between a labrador and a poodle, the Labradoodle.
What would a Beagle crossed with a Spaniel cross be called?
A spangle maybe?
Mum came back and asked if everything was alright.
“Yes of course it is” I told her. But I must have looked guilty, you know how little boys do.
I was extremely quiet for the rest of the day.
Mum knew that there was something wrong and kept asking me what was up.
“Nothing I shrugged each time.”
When Grandma found me in the toilet crying, the truth came out.
I told her “I let Judy get with Lemon and I was afraid that Judy would have puppies because she’s in season.”
Of course Grandma diffused the situation in seconds. She assured me that Judy wouldn’t have any puppies for a long time yet.
“How can you be so sure?” I asked her
“Because there are never any puppies when two lady dogs get together”
I learned one big lesson that weekend.
A Good Book.
Some people manage to have trouble free romances.
Others seem to be fraught with difficulty.
One such couple were Frank Halfpenny and his girlfriend Janet. To be honest, they didn’t have that much in common. Janet was all for playing children’s games at the pony club wheras Frank was more interested in reading a good book and even writing a bit. The liaison was initiated by both sets of wealthy parents who preferred an amalgamation of fortunes rather than risk seeing third parties taking a share. Mind you, the romance wasn’t proceeding at a great pace. Janet and Frank both wanted things to go further, in different ways. Her idea of further, involved rings, vicars, and wedding cars, while to Frank, further, meant more achievements in the bedroom department. And that was a subject that was strictly taboo as far as Janet was concerned.
The chance of progress loomed on the horizon when Janet won first prize in a local competition. A four day break for two on the Costa Del Sol.
Why it mattered so much is unimportant. Frank or Janet could have had any holiday any time, anywhere in the world, money no object. It was the idea of getting something for nothing that had great appeal.
The outward flight was very early on Friday morning, so Janet had arranged for her friend Debbie to run them to the airport.
After standing in a long queue, they were nearing the check-in desk when Debbie asked,
“Is there anything else that I can do for you before I go home.
Frank replied,
“Just one small favour if you don’t mind. Go across to
W H Smiths bookstand and get me a book to read on the plane.”
“I would if I knew what you preferred.” she answered.
“Oh anything, anything at all. Tell you what, if in doubt, go for the extreme left, third shelf down . Whatever it is, I’ll be grateful.”
The check-in girl was just handing Frank his passport back when Debbie returned. “Here’s your book, it’s called
‘The Last Mountain’ and three pounds and a penny change.”
With a quick “Thanks” he stuffed it into the outer pocket of his hand baggage.
* * *
Then it was time to jump to Janet’s tune.
“Come on, dawdling
.” She whined. “There won’t be any time left to look in the duty free if it’s left to you.”
“Too true. There’s nothing that you need is there?”
No answer, just a glare. Needless to say, Frank then spent a futile half hour whilst Janet rooted round the duty free shop buying all sorts of things that she neither wanted or needed.
Once on the plane, Frank sat quietly while the stewardess gave the usual arm waving speil about exits and life jackets.
He then fished out his book.
The Last Mountain, by Penelope Farthing.
The front cover depicted snow capped mountains.
An inset picture showed a tasty looking woman with shapely legs and a nice pair of tits. Frank assumed that she would be the heroine. How wrong he was.
Janet was already having a sulk because she didn’t have a window seat, so Frank ignored her and started to read.
Before the plane had crossed the English Channel, he realised that the book was going to be one of the best that he had ever read.
The title had nothing at all to do with physical mountains.
The Hero, called Harry, had taken the most appalling knocks in life and was repeatedly put back to rock bottom.
An almost fatal illness, bankruptcy, a horrendous car crash and then a very unfair divorce settlement were among the blows that left him penniless, and each time he climbed the proverbial mountain and achieved success. The turn of every page showed either tension, excitement, or suspense.
Janet slept all the way, so Frank was not disturbed.
He reluctantly put the book in his pocket when the plane landed, but it was out again once they were on the transfer coach to their hotel.
It was the same again once they had settled in. Janet wanted to enjoy the pool, whilst Frank wouldn’t move from his sun lounger, where of course he was reading. He couldn’t put the book down, so you can imagine the atmosphere between them.
Day two saw a slight variation in the pattern. Frank continued reading by the pool. Janet went on a shopping expedition with some girls that she had become friendly with.
50 Short Stories Page 17