Super Short Stories

by Stan Mason

  ‘O.K.’ continued the coach, showing no signs of emotion. ‘The next tactic is the foot movement. I took a real close look at the photographs and it seemed to me that you guys just hung on the rope like deadweights... not doing anything. It’s no good hoping your weight will slow down the other side. You’ve got to make ground all the time to pull the other team over the line. You weren’t doing that. As soon as they started to pull, you kept your feet in the same place and hung on with your bodyweight. It didn’t work. The laws of physics prove it can never work. You have to practice moving your feet on the orders of “Left, Right, Left, Right!” It means that when you’re pulling you’ll be moving your feet at the same time... .digging in with the metal heels of your boots. More like a caterpillar working its way backwards. What is most essential, is to use your hands and feet at the same time. So I want you to listen carefully when I shout: “Pull... Oom! Pull... Oom!” That’s how you’ll keep the momentum going. Hands and feet at the same time. Left... Right... Left... Right, Pull... Oom... Pull... Oom! Does everyone understand what I’m saying?’

  ‘You’re going to take us through a hell of a lot of training for an annual charity event that’s usually over in a couple of ore?’

  The anchor man held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘Forget that comment!’ he conceded quickly. ‘Just imagine I never said it!’

  ‘Are those the main tactics?’ asked another man. ‘Or will there be more? We have a right to know.’

  Hackett laughed lightly. ‘Yes, you have that right. If you really want to know, I have a surprise in store for you.’

  ‘Something that’ll knock the socks off the Camborne team?’ laughed the anchor man.

  ‘That’s right. The next stage in the plan is to make you all learn how to recite poetry and sing.’

  There was silence for a moment and then someone spoke in the confusion that followed. ‘Poetry and singing? You’re kidding of course.’

  ‘He’s joking,’ commented another man. ‘It’s a tug-of-war contest not a ruddy talent competition.’

  ‘I kid ye not,’ returned the coach. ‘We’ll win but we’ve got to do it the American way. I’m not prepared to answer any more questions now. You’ll find out all about it in due course.’

  Jim Castle went to Hackett’s cottage for dinner the following week and handed him a small folder. ‘I think this is what you want,’ he ventured, ‘but, for the life of me, I can’t see how it’s going to solve the problem.’

  The coach cast his eye over the contents of the file and nodded approvingly. ‘You’ve done a good job, Jim!’ he congratulated. ‘A good job!’ Now’s the time for the team to recite poetry and sing. I’ve heard a lot about good Cornish voices. I hope they’re up to it.’

  ‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing?’ asked the organiser hesitantly.

  ‘Why, Jim,’ laughed the American, ‘how can you say such a thing? The idea came from your own mouth!’

  Castle stared at him with concern, racking his brains unsuccessfully to recall what he had said to inspire the coach. ‘I don’t understand,’ he added finally. ‘All you have there is a load of gossip. A member of the Camborne team having trouble with his wife. A normal marital problem. There are dozens of cases like that in the town. The brother of another one is in prison for contempt of Court. What’s so special about that? He’s keeping his mouth shut to save someone else from getting into trouble. The leader of the team has just been made redundant from his job. Unemployment in Cornwall is higher than anywhere else in the country. How can that piece of information help you? Another is in trouble with the police for a minor offence. I mean, every family has its troubles. What use is any of this to win a tug-of-war contest. We all have skeletons in the cupboard. Everyone.’

  ‘Exactly!’ replied Hackett, ending the conversation without further explanation, much to the bewilderment of the organiser.

  In the remaining period before Brea Day, the coach fielded the team every evening, regardless of the weather. They were given metal-heeled boots and pulled on the rope according to the orders Hackett despatched through a megaphone. It soon became clear to them that when Americans engaged in sport they gave it one hundred per cent effort. There were no excuses for those who gave less than that. As for the team, they were somewhat puzzled and confused by the strategy and tactics for a while, but Hackett had engendered within them a spirit which made them no longer willing to be identified as losers. For the first time in many years, morale in the Brea team was high.

  Brea Day fell on Midsummer’s Day that year. In the early hours of the morning, the American stood in the fairground considering how much he would invest in a wager on his team. The odds would be very favourable but had he done enough to work the oracle? After all, by his own admission, he was a marketing executive not a sports coach. No one was around at this time of day. It was strangely silent and mournful in the light morning mist. The ferris-wheel towered at the centre of the fair with the wind whistling lightly through its empty cradles. The other rides were still and quiet, resting rigidly in a kind of mechanical hibernation. He closed his eyes momentarily, experiencing the nauseating effect of the sky-rider machines turning round and round incessantly, and the impact of the dodgem cars as they crashed against each other. Then he opened them to view the miscellany of stalls which lent themselves towards less active events. They were embellished by brightly-painted pelmet boards and coloured signs.

  Everything was quiet now, looking very ordinary in the cold light of day. The spectrum of gloriously-coloured lights waited patiently to flash and blaze brilliantly. They would turn night into day late that evening and in the early hours of the following morning. Silence prevailed as the music machines rested mutely, but it would not be long before they strained the decibel barriers of every human ear. All the side-shows, which included a rifle range, darts, archery, coconut shies, amusement arcade machines, and the like, were tightly secured with large wooden boards to prevent vandals inflicting serious damage and causing disruption to the pleasure of the visitors. On the perimeter were stalls which included a fortune teller, confectionery and ice-cream, hot dogs and beef-burgers, and, most popular of all, the beer tent. It was now all in the hands of fate!

  At the appointed time, the Brea team marched smartly on to the field in single file like drilled soldiers, in contrast to the casual way they normally entered the contest. This time they were chanting loudly over and over again: “We’ll beat Camborne out of sight, they’ll soon find out we can bite!” The Camborne team were extremely amused by the chant. They were so over-confident of winning they hardly noticed their opponents had turned out with the proper gear this time. As far as they were concerned the result was a foregone conclusion as it had been for so many years in the past. Some of their fans had even brought banners which read: “Camborne Town... the winners again!” The crowd loved every second of it. They roared and cheered and shouted advice uninhibitedly.

  After the preliminaries, and the final bets made by the hopefuls, a hush drew over a large crowd of more than a thousand people. The contestants rested the stout rope on the top of their feet, prepared to bend and take a firm grip at the start, while each anchor man threw the loop at the end of the rope over his shoulder. The referee assured himself that the white marker was equidistant between the two teams and then put the whistle to his lips. In previous years, the contest had been over in a matter of less than two minutes. This time, the American stood by the side of the Brea team ready to go into action. ‘O.K. Start!’ he shouted into the megaphone and, to the astonishment of the crowd, the Brea team began to recite and sing in the style of recruits marching in file in the U.S. army. Their delivery contained the names of the members of the Camborne team and the chant was in unison.

  “Duggie King can’t find his wife, he is full of pers’nal strife. She met a man she thinks is right, now she sleeps with him at night. Jimmy Jones get tons
of mail, his brother’s in the county jail. He’s guilty but he won’t say naught, so they say it’s contempt of Court! Harry Smith, his job’s no more; he is lazy that’s for sure. He’s a man who just got fired, the reason is he’s always tired.”

  As the Camborne team listened to the chant they checked in anger to protest. The referee blew his whistle to start the contest and the American urged his team through the megaphone to dig in their heels and move backwards, shouting: “Left, Right, Left, Right!” And whenever there was a pause he yelled: “Pull... Oom! Pull ... Oom! The result was devastating. For the first time in many years the Camborne team were in total disarray, shouting and waving their arms at the insults. After losing the first ‘pull’ very quickly, they surrounded the referee to lodge complaints about the tactics of their opponents. Not surprisingly, their pleas fell on deaf ears. The second ‘pull’ was a farce. The Brea team continued chanting the private details of the lives of the members of the other team, and Camborne threw down the rope to give up in disgust. As the cheering from the mighty crowd continued, the Brea team lifted the American on their shoulders in victory to the beer tent.

  ‘Brilliant!’ shouted the anchor man, with absolute delight. ‘Brain over brawn in a tug-of-war. And we did it!’ He turned to the team. ‘We went and won! What did we do?’

  ‘We went and won!’ They chanted in unison.

  ‘What did we do?’

  ‘We went and won!’

  ‘It wasn’t difficult to work out,’ related the American at a debriefing session later. ‘Camborne had natural fluency and rhythm. So we had to upset it and find our own rhythm. The boots were one element. But Jim Castle put me on to their real weakness. Pride! As soon as we told that huge crowd their personal problems it affected their pride. And with it went the fluency and rhythm. Now you know how it feels to win.’

  The Brea team made merry that night and they could be heard chanting in the distance at midnight. ‘All the team is full of beer, but we’ll win this time next year. We are now the winning team; next year we will reign supreme!’

  The American lay awake in bed listening to them with a smile on his face. He would have to work on a new strategy and different tactics if they were to win next year. After all, winning wasn’t everything. It was THE ONLY THING!

  No Place Like Home

  Everyone loves a wedding! It is a many-splendoured occasion bringing together two people in love with each other, and two families who become connected by law... not only for the duration of the marriage but ad infinitum. And despite anything that happens with regard to the couple in the future, no one can erase that fragment of history for any reason whatsoever. The decision to marry is one of the greatest joys in life for any man or woman... a commitment which starts with an engagement ring, and thoughts which dwell on love, affection, family life and the pursuit of happiness. It is a glorious period of life which delightfully focuses on emotion, euphoria and excitement, spurred on by the amiable wishes of friends and relatives alike. However, the path to the altar is not always littered with rose petals. There are many obstacles, hurdles and problems which hamper the devoted pair, while the state of marital bliss is all too often affected by the trauma of the realities of life.

  When Beth and Roger decided to marry each other they hardly realised the pressures and demands to be made on them. It was so easy to fall in love; to experience the aura of romance enjoyed by two young passionate people. In the wake of ecstasy, however, came a cascade of fundamental tasks, assignments, duties and problems... not only concerning the wedding itself but also in respect of their lives after the ceremony had taken place. It wasn’t long before they began to sink under the great weight of arrangements and protocol, sensing the speed of passing time as it raced headlong towards the date of the wedding. Most of their difficulties could have been minimised if they had chosen a civil ceremony conducted at a register office. The limited number of guests would have been easy to handle at a small simple reception afterwards at a local inn. Roger, like most men, would have been delighted if that had been the case. He wasn’t particularly eager to wear a grey coat with tails and a top hat to match at a pompous function. Although marriage to Beth was the most important thing in his life, all the frills in-between were incidental. However, to his dismay, it was Beth’s wish to have grand church wedding followed by a large reception for their families and friends at a big hotel. Such a function... such a wedding... would live for ever in her memory. She had toyed with the idea of being wed at a Register Office but she was influenced by her aged aunt who insisted on full white wedding. Sadly, the parents of both the bride and bridegroom had passed away some years earlier. Beth had been brought up by her aunt and still lived with her... and the old lady insisted on a magnificent wedding. Beth really had no option but to agree to her aunt’s wishes. After all, every bride wanted her wedding day to live in a special place in her heart for ever. Despite the absence of family, they had numerous friends they wanted to invite to help them enjoy their important day. For his part, Roger soon discovered he had unwittingly reawakened some old feuds when he sent invitations to his family. Relatives began to open ancient wounds, voicing disenchantment with cousins, uncles, aunts and nieces, ignoring the feelings of the two people who created the auspicious occasion. Others insisted they would come only if cars were sent to collect and deliver them. Roger soon learned to his cost that a person could choose his friends but had to endure his family. The former were honoured to be invited and willing to attend with love, affection and goodwill: the latter regarded it as a duty.

  Eventually, all the relatively mundane matters were dealt with... the church, the photographer, the wedding car, the bride’s bouquet, flowers, bridesmaids, and the wedding dress, the ring, suits for the bridegroom and the best man, presents for the best man and bridesmaids, the caterers, the hotel, and many other things. But there was one item of priority, at the top of their list, which had been most difficult to achieve. An Englishman’s home is his castle... they needed somewhere to live. Until now, Beth had stayed with her aunt since the death of her parents in an aircraft disaster. Roger’s father had died when he was six years’ old in a mining accident. When his mother died, he rented a room in a large house. The ad hoc living arrangements caused both Roger and Beth to recognise the importance of owning their own home and they set about resolving the problem. Shortly after the engagement, they started searching for a property, spending a great deal of time visiting estate agents and houses in the area. Their efforts were in vain, however, because they couldn’t find a property to suit them with regard to location, price, or suitability. The search continued for some time and they were about to give up when, one day, Roger came across a tiny advertisement in the local newspaper which advertised a two-bedroom bungalow for sale.

  ‘Listen to this,’ he cried, on spying the advertisement. ‘Two bedroom bungalow for sale. In reasonable condition. Usual facilities exist including small garden. Main feature: Expensive electronic shelter to safeguard purchaser against falling meteorites or nuclear attack installed at foot of garden, nestling deep in the bowels of the earth.’ He read out the price and raised his eyebrows. ‘Very reasonable. Very reasonable!’ An expensive electronic shelter against falling meteorites or nuclear attack. The curious feature attracted Roger like steel to a magnet. ‘Do you know what?’ he called out to his prospective bride. ‘In the news yesterday, scientists said that a number of large meteorites would strike the earth over the next fifty years. This place is worth viewing, if nothing else.’

  Beth shuddered as an awful premonition flashed before her eyes. ‘But why should we want a meteorite shelter at the bottom of the garden?’ she enquired.

  ‘Why not?’ he riposted enthusiastically. ‘At this price it’s thrown in for nothing. Anyhow, there’s no harm in having a look, is there? I’ll make the arrangements.’

  Trevelyan, the owner, was a very strange character. A wiry, wizened, grey-haired
old man with a weather-beaten face and dark sunken eyes, he spoke in short sharp tones as though the words came in spasms. Beth thought him very odd and she felt extremely uncomfortable in his presence. The old man took his time to show them round the property and they were surprised it was in excellent condition both inside and out, especially as the price requested was so artificially low. After completing the tour of inspection, he took them to the bottom of the garden to examine the prize feature... the shelter. Trevelyan struggled as he lifted the dense steel outer door on its hinges which rested in thick reinforced concrete in the ground, and they clambered down some steps into the outer chamber of the shelter. The entrance was quite narrow but perfectly dry and made entirely of tensile steel, containing elementary equipment. A bookshelf had been fitted on one side which sported two large manuals relating to the working of the electronic system of the shelter. The three of them proceeded to another thick steel door at the end of the chamber to which an electronic combination lock was fitted to keep out intruders. Trevelyan tapped out a numerical code and the internal door opened slowly with a hissing sound by means of a hydraulic system. A set of steps led downwards to the main chamber itself. It was larger than the outer chamber but also dry and made of the same steel. It was clear that a great deal of expense had been made to fit it out with space-saving furniture and electronic equipment, allowing it to offer adequate living accommodation for four people. In addition, life-support equipment had been installed to provide sufficient lighting, heating, ventilation and water for a period of six weeks. Roger was amazed... he was entranced... it was a new world to him and he revelled in it.

  ‘The great advantage of this system,’ related Trevelyan, ‘is that it has a manual control console as well as an automatic operation. Once you know the programme you can transfer from automatic to manual and sit at the console tapping out the keys to do anything you want. It’s all so very simple.’