Super Short Stories

by Stan Mason

  ‘Where’s the grand piano and all the furniture?’ I demanded. ‘The kitchen’s stripped. No microwave oven, dishwasher, coloured television... nothing!’ And I suppose my computer’s gone as well. How am I going to finish the work for the bank? As a senior manager at Imperial Bank it’s my duty to show a good example.’

  She stared at me as though I were insane. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ she asked with concern showing on her face.

  I turned to the newspaper and then a strange thought occurred to me. Perhaps it was the other way around... the year was 1968 and I had dreamt I lived in 1998, having married a woman called Angela, through whom I had two children. Perhaps I’d also dreamed that Harry Middleton lost his legs in an aeroplane crash. I went to a mirror and stared at my face. If it was 1968 I would be twenty-five years old, yet I looked well over fifty. Surely Ellie could see the lines on my face... the small pouches under my eyes... the grey forming at the temples... and the weight I had acquired over the years. Yet she didn’t seem to notice I was any different!

  ‘Don’t you see anything different about me?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘You look very tired. I think you’re overdoing it these days. That job takes more out of you than you think. You work all the hours God sends you. It’s not good for your health.’

  Outside stood an old battered car where my modern limousine had been parked. It was Old Faithful back again... the car I had personally despatched to the scrapyard after her death!

  Suddenly, I wanted more proof that I had switched back in time. I went to my jacket and took out my wallet. It contained old banknotes which were no longer in circulation. Then I turned on the radio to listen to the morning news.

  ‘The news headlines on Friday the twenty-eighth of June. It was announced Washington yesterday there has been a lull in the fighting in Vietnam over the past week. U.S. forces have carried out offensives in the Mekong Delta but the Viet Cong confine their operations to shelling and ambushes. The number of Americans killed was the lowest number for any week of the year. At the first open Wimbledon yesterday, Rod Laver, the top seed, reached the last thirty-two by defeating Stanley Smith of the United States...’

  I dressed quickly and left the house, climbing into Old Faithful. Despite a full choke, the starter engine turned over time and time again reluctantly before it started. It had always been like that. I switched on the car radio to listen to the rest of the news.

  ‘A search is being made for Alec Rose and his vessel Lively Lady which is missing off the south coast. Mr. Rose left Portsmouth last July in the 36-ft. ketch to sail round the world single-handed. On the foreign exchange markets, sterling close at a new record low of two dollars thirty-eight cents to the pound. In a speech to the Supreme Soviet yesterday, Mr. Gromyko, the Russian Foreign Minister, reversed the previous Soviet hostility towards American proposals for a moratorium. In Washington, Mr. Dean Rusk, the Secretary of State... ’

  I could stand it no longer. I was convinced. The news was forty years old. I switched off the radio and stopped the car at the local park. I needed some fresh air and time to review the situation. As I sat on a park bench, a man passed by carrying a large sandwich-board which proclaimed THE END IS NIGH! I mused, having lived well into the future, I could assure him nothing was likely to happen for at least thirty years. When Ellie died, I had been studying to take the examinations of the Institute of Sales Managers. Harry Middleton had arranged to come to a farewell dinner party with Ellie and myself before flying to the United States in an attempt to make his fortune. It was the last time I saw him on his legs. When I thought about it in the clear light of day, having switched back thirty years, I had the opportunity to change his life. If the plane crash didn’t happen... if he didn’t lose his legs... he would remain physical well and marry to enjoy all the happiness of family life that he missed. But of greater importance was Ellie! I could prevent her from being killed in that awful car accident. Her infectious laughter echoed in my mind as I remembered it. She was always laughing. And it was very infectious! Oh, Ellie! How much I had loved her! Yet there were other matters to consider. If I saved her, I would never meet Angela. And what about my children? Would Ellie have given birth to my two sons instead of Angela? Maybe that’s what should have happened in the first place. Perhaps that was the reason I had switched back thirty years!

  A tramp sat on the park bench next to me and tendered a cigarette. ‘No thanks,’ I explained. ‘I gave up smoking in 1974.’ He gave me a strange look which forced me to explain. ‘I was living in 1998 and suddenly found myself back in time by thirty years... to 1968.’

  ‘You come from Mayberry,’ he returned philosophically, pointing to a mental institution located a short distance away.

  He was right of course. I had to be out of my mind! If I continued to talk like that to people they would definitely commit me to an asylum. I returned to Old Faithful and drove to the churchyard where Ellie had been buried. The same vicar was there in attendance. As expected, he didn’t remember me. ‘I’d like to check the Register of Burials,’ I requested. ‘The entry was for Mrs. Ellen Bellamy dating back almost thirty years ago.’

  He hauled a large tome from a shelf and opened it. ‘Do you know the exact date she passed away?’ he asked solemnly.

  ‘June the twenty-ninth, 1968,’ I replied quietly.

  ‘June the twenty-ninth, nineteen...’ he tailed off regarding me with an odd expression. ‘No, no,’ he laughed, believing me to be in error. ‘That’s today’s date!’

  ‘That’s the date she died,’ I told him, suddenly realising that her death had not yet come about. Under his watchful gaze, for he must have regarded me with great suspicion, I excused myself and hastened away to visit Ellie’s grave. I had been there many times before to lay flowers in front of her headstone. But now there was only plain grassland with no evidence of a grave. I recalled arranging for the local mason to carve the headstone. It read: ‘Ellen Bellamy, died 28th June, 1968. Mourned by her beloved husband. Rest in peace.’ And I had seen it there so often, reading the words with guilt and grief, for I had been the one who caused her death. I examined the dates on nearby tombstones but none of them was later than 1968. As I stood in the cemetery, her infectious laughter echoed in my mind again so strongly I was forced to place my hands over my ears to stop it. It was as though she were mocking me for having been switched back. Shortly afterwards, I returned to the car again and continued to listen to the news.

  ‘The final amendments to the Decimal Currency Bill are expected to be agreed in the House of Lords today. In February this year, Mr. Roy Jenkins, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, announced that Decimal Day will be 15th February 1971. At Bow Street Magistrates Court, Ramon Sneyd denied that he had assassinated Dr. Martin Luther King, the civil rights leader.’

  I stopped the car at a local betting office and went inside. It was drab without signs of any modern equipment. As a salesman in 1968 I had tried to supplement my income by winning on horses-racing. On the day before Ellie had died, there was a horse running called Young Nick which I remembered had won at odds of ten-to-one. I emptied my wallet and bet everything I had on it.

  ‘The bookies must love you,’ laughed a nearby punter. ‘The favourite’s a cert. Never mind! We all live and learn!’

  ‘Look,’ I told him sharply. ‘Thirty years ago I bet on the favourite Venezia in this race and Young Nick won, beating it by two lengths. I’m not such a fool as to do the same thing again!’

  As the race ended, a voice came over the loudspeaker.

  ‘Result at Lanark. First, Young Nick. Second,

  Venezia. Third, Hula King. Distances, two lengths

  and six lengths.’

  The man stepped back slightly and stared at me as though I might do something dangerous, his eyes never leaving my face as the race-commentary proceeded. He retreated to the rear of the betting sho
p and kept his eyes on me from there.

  I bet on the next three races winning three hundred pounds, watched carefully by the other man. He was convinced I was insane, yet marvelled at the fact that I picked the winning horse in every race. I collected my winnings and left to go to the Imperial Bank where I was employed as a manager. It was as impressive as usual built in Georgian style with elaborate wrought ironwork across the windows and all round the outside of the building. The bank was very conventional. Nothing much had changed in the last fifty years. As I walked across the banking hall towards the lift, a security officer approached me.

  ‘Can I be of any assistance, sir?’ he called out. ‘The lifts lead to the departments of the bank reserved for bank staff only.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ I told him. I’m Roger Bellamy, Manager of Corporate Development Department.

  ‘Corporate Development Department,’ he repeated in a puzzled fashion. ‘I don’t think I’ve heard of that one before. If you’ll just wait here a moment, sir.’ He went to the main desk and picked up a small volume which listed all the departments. ‘I thought not,’ he continued. ‘We don’t seem to have a department of that name. Nor is there a Roger Bellamy listed. I think you’ve mistaken us for another bank, sir?’

  It was all running true to form. Thirty years ago I was still a salesman. I wasn’t on the staff of the bank at that time. As I had switched back into the past, it wasn’t surprising my name or the new department formed couldn’t be found.

  When I returned home, I poured myself a drink and sat on the lumpy horse-hair sofa. Proof was all important. That much was clear. If ever I switched forward to 1998 I would need concrete evidence to prove what had happened. Otherwise no one would believe me. In fact, I felt sure I wouldn’t even believe it myself! I took the daily paper, some money from my wallet and a brooch belonging to Ellie, and set about writing a note.

  ‘Being of sound mind on the twenty-eighth day of June, 1968, I declare I have switched back in time from the twenty-eighth of June, 1998. This document will attest to the fact that I have been the victim of such circumstances.

  Signed: Roger Bellamy.’

  But where could I hide the items? If I switched forward thirty years, how could I be sure I would find them? Then I remembered the flue. At the side of the fireplace, there was an old flue with a flap that lay flush with the plaster. A short while after Ellie died, I had the house redecorated and installed central heating. Everything was covered up with a high-grade wallpaper, including the flue. It was never opened. Yes, that was the place! I peeled away the existing wallpaper, put the items inside, and then glued it back in its normal position. Would I return to 1998? There was an enormous question-mark over the future. Perhaps it was my destiny to remain in the past. It would be boring to have to relive history all over again. On the other hand, there could be tremendous advantages on which I could capitalise for, this time, I knew exactly what was going to happen... and I could remember most of the dates!

  The hours were fleeting by and I recalled that Ellie and I had gone to the seaside the day before her death. In my wisdom, I decided to emulate everything that had happened on this particular day. She was as bright as a new penny when I asked her and agreed with delight to spend the afternoon on the beach. For some reason, the silly things one did in youth was much greater fun in those days. People became far more serious as they grew older, conditioned by the harsh realities of life. Thirty years ago we ran happily long the shore in the warm breeze throwing stones into the sea. This time, she ran on and I walked at a steady pace behind her. Then Ellie wanted to go the the funfair and we watched people enjoying themselves on the rides for a while before she stopped outside a fortune-teller’s tent.

  ‘I want my fortune told, Roger,’ she told him, causing the blood to freeze in my veins for I knew she was going to die later the same day.

  ‘Not a good idea, Ellie,’ I rattled. ‘Let’s go to the back to the beach as we did before.’

  ‘Before?’ she enquired. ‘Before what?’ I failed to answer so she pressed harder. ‘We don’t come here often, do we? I want my fortune told.’ Without waiting for me to say anything further she entered the tent.

  I followed her inside, hoping the fortune-teller was a charlatan... a seaside voyeur who spun stories of love and romance to the gullible people who paid for her services. In that case, all would be well. Madame Gaza welcomed us, professing to be able to unveil the mystic secrets of the future, although no one ever held her responsible if reality veered wildly from her predictions. She was dressed in the usual garb of a fortune-teller, with strange colourful clothes embellished by motifs of stars, moons and suns, and wore a red-spotted handkerchief tied with a knot at each corner on her head. ‘I am the soothsayer of the north, the Cassandra of the east, the prophet of the west, and the visionary of the south,’ she boasted, as Ellie sat in a chair opposite her. The woman rolled her hands over a crystal ball and then looked up. ‘There is an unbeliever in this room,’ she commented in a dull tone, obviously referring to me, ‘but you will soon discover the truth. Cross my palm with silver and all will be revealed as it is written in the stars. Your destiny awaits you.’

  I placed a number of silver coins in her palm which seemed to satisfy her and she returned to the crystal ball.

  ‘I can see a man and his wife,’ she went on, her eyes becoming glazed as she went into a trance. There was also a change in the tone of her voice. ‘There are two children. Fine children. The wife is playing a grand piano. She plays it extremely well, like a concert pianist. I see the date of nineteen ninety eight. Nineteen ninety eight. Angela is playing the piano for Harry.’

  Ellie looked up with a curious expression on her face. The name ‘Angela’ triggered an impulse which went through her like an electric shock. She had not forgotten I had mentioned the name when I woke her.

  ‘Don’t go, Harry!’ the crystal-gazer continued. ‘Don’t go, Ellie! But they’re not yours. Neither of them. They belong to Angela. You’ve gone... gone... gone! Nineteen ninety eight! Rest in peace, Ellie!

  I pulled Ellie off the chair and away from the table as a high-pitched tone started to hum throughout the booth. It increased in intensity as we reached the flap of the tent. No sooner did we get outside and establish a short distance between ourselves and the tent than an explosion occurred, the blast almost knocking us to the ground. Pushing Ellie back, I returned to the collapsed tent and peered underneath. The crystal ball had shattered into hundreds of tiny slivers directly into the face of the fortune-teller. The sight was horrendous with blood spattered all over the inside of the tent.

  ‘Take me home!’ screamed Ellie, in a state of shock. ‘Take me home!’

  I had no alternative but to drive back. We didn’t speak at all during the journey. Ellie was too confused by the course of events. I was none too pleased with them either. When we arrived home, Ellie occupied herself by preparing the food for Harry’s farewell dinner party. It would be the last time I would see him fit and well. I realised a decision would be imminent. Should I stop him from going to New York, saving him from that awful plane crash? Had I the right to interfere or to prevent the success he would enjoy later? If the accident was avoided, Harry might remain a nonentity all his life, perhaps suffering a poor marriage and then divorce. And Ellie? Well she might not be able have children. Who knew? If I saved her from being killed in that fateful car crash, was my interference creating serious problems for the future? Suddenly, I recognised my anguish was all in vain. There was no power that could change the future. Whatever I said or did would have no real effect. I had simply been accorded a special privilege to switch back into the past to meet the people I had loved so much at that time... the way they were then!

  After Harry’s dinner party, I lay in bed wondering what would happen in the morning. Would I wake up with Ellie or Angela? This could be my last night with Ellie. In 1968, I had no idea she
was going to die very shortly. This time I did. It might be my last chance to love her... to hold her... to recapture those intimate feelings we enjoyed so much together. I snuggled up to her closely in a passionate embrace and made love to her for perhaps the very last time. Then an awful thought crossed my mind. On this day... in 1968... she had died in a car accident. But we had spent a pleasant evening and now lay in bed together. No accident had taken place! This led me to believe that history had been changed and I would wake up in the morning, in 1968, with Ellie by my side. I would relive history all over again.

  In due course, I fell asleep with a shaft of light streaming through a slit in the curtains which cut across my face. I twisted and turned, writhing in terrible pain. The sound of heartbeats drummed in my ears and perspiration leaked from every pore in my body. When I awoke, it was Angela who lay beside me, not Ellie. I left the bedroom and peered into the lounge. It was 1998. Everything was back to normal. Taking a letter-opener from the study, I cut through the wallpaper which covered the old flue by the side of the fireplace. The items were there... all of them! I read the note I had written and shook my head slowly. It was still unbelievable but it had happened. It had actually happened! I dressed and drove to the bank. There was a restaurant on the fourth floor where I could eat breakfast, and the Executive Rest Room to wash and shave. As I accelerated along the road, the car telephone rang. I lifted the receiver wondering who would ring me so early in the morning. To my astonishment, it was Ellie’s voice.

  ‘You could have saved me, Roger,’ she accused. ‘You could have saved me the first time. But you didn’t! Worst still, on the second occasion, last night, there was no car accident so I didn’t die. It means I’m still alive but I can’t return to live my life again. So I’m going to bring you here. It’s my turn to claim you!’ Her infectious laughter echoed loudly along the line.