Great Short Stories

by Stan Mason

  Before long, the gang arrived at the football stadium to watch the match between Hamburg and Liverpool. As far as Schwarz was concerned it was a waste of a ticket. His mind was miles away and, even though his eyes watched the players on the pitch, he was unable to register what was happening on the field. The moment of truth had shattered all his ideals and ambitions and he was no longer certain how to proceed or what to do.

  When the game was over, the gang left the stadium ready to carry out their planned operation. However, Scwarz shocked them by deciding against it.

  ‘We’re going home,’ declared the New Fuehrer, much to the surprise of the others.

  ‘What about the bombs?’ he was asked firmly. ‘Why aren’t we going to set them off as planned?’

  ‘Because I’ve changed my mind, that’s why!’ he responded sharply. ‘This is not the time. We’re not going to bomb anything... not today, not ever!’

  They journeyed home together miserably, giving up the plan, although to say their mood was under a cloud was an understatement. The members of the gang couldn’t understand why the operation had been cancelled and some of them started to lose faith in their leader. It didn’t matter one iota to Schwarz. He merely wanted to get home intending to deal with his change of heart in his own way.

  As soon as he entered his bed-sit, he tore down the German flag with the swastika and then threw the large photograph of Adolf Hitler across the room so that it was damaged beyond repair. He sat on the bed thinking hard about the issue before removing the Iron Cross from around his neck and replacing it in its box in the dresser. After a while, he stood in front of his grandfather’s photograph staring hard at the face of his relative with an apologetic expression on his face.

  ‘Sorry, grandfather, I hope you’ll forgive me for I now know the truth. I witnessed the horror on my own account although I have no idea how it happened. But one thing I do know... the right side won the war. I thank God that they won the war!’

  The next day would be an epiphany for him. His first task would be to have the swastika tattooed on his forehead removed. Then he would go to the Indian kebab take-away and apologise for his behaviour, offering to pay the cost of the window smashed by the gang. After that he would disband the gang so that peace reigned in the neighbourhood. There were many things he could protest about that were more topical of the day. Quite clearly, he would take up the baton and protest about one thing or another because that was his way of life... however, in the future, such events would be peaceful in their nature and there would be no need for any more moments of truth.

  The Great Divide

  Some Councillors are worth their weight in gold. They know exactly what needs to be done and go to it. Others have cotton-wool in their heads as well as lead in their boots and they haven’t a clue what needs to be done. Together they make up a miscellany of fits and starts, occasionally causing havoc and despair although like Shakespeare’s words in Julius Caesar? ‘The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred in their bones’.

  Indubitably, most local councillors aim for a career in politics but too many of them soon recognise their limitations and fall bleakly by the wayside. Great Molton was no exception. It was a large town located in the heart of the West Country, well-loved by all its inhabitants and a target for tourists during the summer period who came in their droves. Formed in Anglo-Saxon times, it was the lodge of many nobles and barons, comprising miles and miles of fields, orchards and common ground all of which was eventually sold off to farmers, builders and industrialists. The town prospered extremely well over the centuries, enjoying a very mild climate as well as famous sites and castles, which attracted people from all over the British Isles. As a result of its popularity, the number of houses built there, to accommodate all who migrated to the region, grew to enormous proportions while factories proliferated on the outskirts enlarging the town until its population multiplied substantially.

  To be fair, the authorities took great care to ensure that all the major facilities were in place to cater for every aspect of the community. This included education, medical facilities, police, a large shopping mall, as well as other major facilities required to assist the population. However, the Liberal Party which had won the seat at the last General Election by a handsome margin decided that gerrymandering was the wisest way for it to progress in a political sense. The reason for this was that they had their eyes on gaining two seats for the Party in Parliament if they split the town in half to turn it into two separate constituencies. After all, such changes in boundaries had occurred in the past in different parts of Britain where areas had become large or where towns had grown haphazardly. In normal circumstances there would be no real problem in arranging for such a division. One simply had to split the town in half. However, the geography was less than sympathetic to the planners. As a result, in the case of Great Molton, there was a grave problem in how the division was to occur mainly because housing had been allowed to proliferate all over the place without due regular planning.

  The Councillors, in their wisdom, decided to draw a line down the main street which would have been the ideal solution had it continued all the way through the town, in which case there would have been no contention. This proved to be follow because, as luck would have it, the road curved two thirds of the way through the town leading swiftly to the right towards the main motorway. The problem arose from that point because, beyond the main road, a multitude of houses had been built, several hundred of them in particular. The Councillors tended to ignore this fact by drawing the line directly through them which caused great concern to many people who lived in the town. The plans were on display at the Council offices for the public to examine them and a meeting was arranged at the town hall to discuss it, and for the inhabitants to comment on the proposal.

  In the initial stages, dividing the town seemed to be an innocuous affair for the Councillors believed that, following approval by the members in the chamber, the plan would be rubber-stamped and go through without any serious problems. In normal circumstances, the public were extremely apathetic to most actions carried out by local councils unless the plan was to extend an airport or to build a new motorway. However, if the Councillors believed that would be the case in Great Molton, they were to be proved entirely wrong. To their dismay, approximately ninety per cent of the people living in the town quickly showed their strong objection to the plan. Not surprisingly, they became incensed that their town was to be divided into two separate parts. Their true feelings were soon apparent by their demonstration they held in front of the Town Hall whereby they held placards which read: ‘Great Molton: two small Moltons’, ‘Great Molton is doomed!’, ‘Lose the plan! Sack the Councillors!’, and ‘Say no to the plan!’.

  On the evening of the meeting, the hall was packed to the rafters as the issue had become so contentious. The audience was extremely restive, making harsh comments at the top of their voices even before it started. Five Councillors and Michael Fulton, the Liberal Member of Parliament, sat behind a trestle table on a stage at one end of the hall facing a hostile audience, realising that they would have a hard task in reconciling most of those in attendance. Frank Blake, Great Molton’s Chief Councillor, hammered the gavel sharply on the table to maintain silence before rising to his feet to address the audience.

  ‘Before I ask Mr. Michael Fulton, your Member of Parliament, to speak, I presume that you’ve all seen the plan to divide Great Molton into two constituencies... East and West Great Molton,’ he began in a sonorous voice.

  ‘Why the hell do you want to divide the town?’ called out someone from the rear of the hall.

  ‘A very good question,’ retorted Blake sharply. ‘Great Molton has grown very large over the centuries, attracting tourists each summer from all over Britain. We are sound in all areas with regard to facilities, having sufficient resources to cater for medical health, education, the police, and s
o on, but the town has become far too big to manage as one single entity.

  ‘Yorkshire’s much bigger!’ came another voice from the side of the room.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Blake, ‘and it’s been split into a number of Parliamentary constituencies. I’m glad you mentioned that fact. By using that example, you can see why Great Molton needs to be split into two separate sections. The Council intends to submit the plan to Parliament for approval before the next election takes place so that it may be possible for... ..’

  ‘So that it may be possible for the Liberals to gain an extra seat in the House of Commons!’ interrupted someone rudely in the middle of the hall.

  The comment brought howls of rage from everyone in the room.

  ‘That’s hardly a fair insinuation,’ rattled Blake although everyone knew that he was avoiding telling them the truth. ‘All the figures add up to Great Molton becoming two constituencies and that’s a fact of life.’

  ‘By who’s reckoning?’ came the critical response from someone in the middle of the hall.

  ‘If you’d taken the time to examine the situation in detail,’ continued the Chief Councillor, becoming slightly hot under the collar, ‘you’d know the true situation.’ He paused for a moment to catch his breath. ‘I’m not here to discuss figures. I’m here to listen to your responses to the plan. As I said, the division is a fact of life!’

  John Makin, one of the local butchers, stood up to put in his two-penny worth bitterly. ‘A fact of life!’ he repeated with contempt. ‘It’s bloody ridiculous! The line that you’ve drawn goes directly through my house... right through my bedroom. If I roll over to make love to my wife I’ll be moving from one constituency to another.’

  The room erupted with laughter.

  ‘Any time your wife wants to roll over to my constituency,’

  cut in another man at the rear of the hall, ‘it’s all right with me.’

  Makin stood up to try to find out who had made the comment. ‘Who said that?’ he demanded angrily. ‘Show my wife some respect, for Heaven’s sake!’

  ‘I’d like to show her something else,’ returned the wag cheekily. ‘Something much more personal.’

  The butcher almost went mad trying to find the culprit until the man next to him put his hand on his arm to calm him. ‘I’ll give him a fat lip when I find him,’ he muttered irately.

  ‘You’re looking at this the wrong way,’ continued Blake boldly. ‘You see, just because the town is split into two divisions doesn’t change your way of life by any stretch of the imagination. There’s no need for anyone to restructure anything, or make any other changes. It’s simply a division in name only... that’s all. Just in its name!’

  Peter Smythe stood up before anyone else could speak. ‘If I cook my bacon on the stove and then go to the table to eat my cornflakes, I’ll be going from East Great Molton to West Great Molton. It don’t make any sense.’

  Blake felt like looking up to the ceiling to ask for divine guidance. He had already explained that the division could be carried out without affecting any one in the town. It was merely a notional division for Parliamentary use at election time.

  Graham Jones was the next to get to his feet. ‘My house has a line going through it as well. It seems that I’ll be paying three-quarters of my Council tax to one authority and one-third to the other.

  ‘No, no, no! That’s not the case at all,’ came the sharp reply. ‘Everything will be dealt with by one single Council office... by one Town Hall. As I said, it’s only a change of name.’

  ‘Then why bother to change it at all?’ demanded a from the back of the hall. ‘If it doesn’t make any difference there’s no point in doing it.’

  ‘I’ll be honest with you,’ continued Blake dourly. ‘The division is purely for Parliamentary reasons. And rightly so. When a town becomes too large it needs to be divided so that the people have the support of more Members of Parliament to serve it.’

  ‘That’s not the reason you gave just now,’ claimed a voice from the front. ‘You said it’s become too big to manage as one entity. Now you’re telling us a different story. Make up your mind, will you!’

  ‘In any case,’ yelled someone from one side of the room, ‘what’s our Member of Parliament ever done for the people of this town, except collect his highly-inflated salary and the expenses that go with it!’

  There was a rumble of assent from the rest of the audience causing the Member of Parliament to squirm in his seat. As the Chief Councillor became flustered and paused in his oratory, the woman sitting next to him got to her feet. Blake gave way very readily and sat down as the woman faced the irate crowd.

  ‘I’m Councillor Margaret Winslow,’ she began with a degree of authority in a very haughty voice. ‘I know that change is hard to swallow but we’ve given a great deal of thought to the matter and I assure you that it’s absolutely necessary to divide Great Molton into two separate parts.’

  Her words caused some booing to start in one corner of the hall which eventually grew louder as the rest of those in attendance joined in. As the sound reached a crescendo, the female Councillor resumed her seat and waited for the hubbub to die down.

  ‘How can it be in name only?’ demanded one of the protesters angrily. ‘You’re going to have to knock down houses otherwise it’s a pointless exercise. No Parliamentary authority is going to agree to a notional divide.’

  His words brought even more anger towards the Committee and the volume of the disruption became loud and long.

  ‘If you’re going to divide the town,’ suggested one of the audience, ‘why don’t you draw a line from east to west across the middle. There are less houses affected that way.’

  ‘How do you suggest we do that through a dense housing population?’ asked the female Councillor.

  ‘We zig-zag through the outsides of the houses until we come to the other side of town,’ continued the man suggesting the idea.

  ‘Don’t be daft!’ yelled someone else in the hall. ‘What’s the point of zig-zagging. It all comes down to the same thing in the end. They’ll have to knock down houses!’

  ‘How about drawing the line so that it follows the main road until it reaches the motorway,’ joined in a woman on one side of the room.

  ‘I’m afraid that it’s not possible,’ explained Blake flatly, getting to his feet again. ‘Each constituency needs to have twenty thousand people. If we followed the main road around, that part of Great Molton would be almost two thousand people short. As such, the plan wouldn’t be accepted by Parliament.’

  ‘Why do we really need to do anything?’ questioned a man at the back of the hall. ‘Let sleeping dogs lie! Fiddling with a town of this size is not a good idea.’

  ‘He’s right,’ exclaimed a woman at the front. ‘Let sleeping dogs lie!’

  A chorus of ‘Let sleeping dogs lie!’ ran through the crowd for a short while indicating the reluctance of those in attendance to accept the plan. However, the Liberal Party Member of Parliament was adamant and he rose to show his resentfulness in public.

  ‘I’m Michael Fulton, and I stand here this evening as your Member of Parliament...’ he began before being rudely interrupted.

  ‘Well I suggest you sit down, Mr. Fulton, unless you suffer from piles,’ yelled someone from the middle of the audience which caused a great wave of laughter to echo throughout the room.

  Fulton was not perturbed by the comment. He had been the victim of numerous hecklers during his many campaigns on his way to the House of Commons and he was very adept at dealing with them. ‘We invited you to this meeting to give us your comments on the plan not to destroy it,’ he continued staring at the unruly crowd with a miserable expressing on his face. ‘This plan has got to go through for reasons of Parliamentary amenity. Towns like Great Molton have proliferated throughout Britain and, in time, t
hey’ve been segregated or divided accordingly. We have six hundred-and-fifty seats in the House of Commons...’

  ‘Far too many, if you ask me!’ cut in another man in the rear without hesitation.

  ‘That’s as maybe,’ countered Fulton sharply, ‘but each constituency is represented by a Member of Parliament and I’m telling you that Great Molton is too big for one MP to manage.’

  ‘Then get yourself some help. Find and assistant,’ came the reply from the rear of the hall which caused another round of approval from all and sundry.

  The Chief Councillor then got to his feet, holding his hands high in the air to commit the audience to silence.

  ‘Perhaps it might be wise for the Councillors to re-examine the plan again with a view to coming up with an alternative scheme,’ he suggested, hoping to obtain some kind of positive result.

  ‘Perhaps they ought to go back to square one and forget all about it!’ yelled someone in the middle, which was accompanied by unanimous approval by the rest of the crowd.

  The meeting ended quickly as the Member of Parliament and the Councillors left the hall to go immediately into a chamber to discuss the matter at length.

  ‘It seems that we’re facing a great deal of opposition,’ stated the Chief Councillor unnecessarily. ‘We need to do some serious revision to get them on our side.’

  ‘Nothing short of a missile would do that,’ declared the Member of Parliament solemnly.

  ‘Why not make the division from East to West,’ cut in one of the Councillors. ‘That might be the best idea. I mean there are less houses to be knocked down.’