Welcome to a selection of my writings - I hope you find them entertaining.
Here are some recent vignettes:
Bathroom mirror
“Oh, no. Not you again!” Said my reflection, as I peered into the bathroom mirror.
“Who were you expecting?" I countered. "Greta Garbo? H from Steps?”
“Anyone else would do, for a change. But it always has to be you. Don’t you have any friends?
"Not the sort of friends who ‘d find themselves looking into my bathroom mirror. I do have principles, you know.”
“What about girlfriends? They’d need to check their appearance after spending any length of time with you.”
"What d’you mean?”
You’re the sort of person who rumples women. Leaves them all mussed up. Disheveled. “
I’m not. Why would you say such a thing?
Actually, I meant it as a compliment. Trust you to take it the wrong way.
I can’t see any other way to take a remark like that.”
That’s because you have a narrow mind. And your eyes are too close together.
How dare you? And anyway, you’re a fine one to talk. You’re all spidery round the edges. And covered in toothpaste.
That’s your fault. You really ought to know by now how to clean your teeth without spraying everywhere.
I put my back into it. That’s why I still have an excellent set of gnashers.
All the better to eat you with.
What on earth do you mean?
I don’t mean anything. I’m just your reflection. By the way, watch out when you’re shaving. You have a rather nasty spot just under your chin. One careless nick, blood everywhere.
Thanks for the tip. Actually, it’s a mole - not a spot.
Oh, yes? How come it wasn’t there yesterday?
It was. It’s always been there. You can’t be very observant.
Most of the time I can’t bear to look. Have you ever considered cosmetic surgery?
Oh, shut up. If you can’t find anything nice to say, don’t bother saying anything.
It’s no bother.
I’m going to get a new mirror.
Goodbye
What do you do when every last grain of hope and joy and interest in the future has perished? In J’s case, make for the nearest pub. But not waste time searching around for one with old world character and authentic oak beams, or the promise of excellent home-cooked food and a selection of real ales from the wood. Just any old pub, the nearest one available at short notice.
In this spirit of defiance mixed with despair J shoved open the door to the saloon bar and slunk, eyes down, towards the bar. If there were other people present he chose not to notice them. Generally, in his experience, the regular patrons of country pubs off the beaten track were not interested in new arrivals. At least, etiquette dictated that they shouldn’t appear to be interested. Though it was acceptable to radiate an atmosphere of passive hostility, until the interloper should happen to offer everyone present a drink at his or her expense – or leave promptly. J, however, was not in the mood for offering drinks all round.
He reached the bar and stopped, only because it prevented him from going any further.
“Evening.” Said the bartender, his voice just on the friendly side of neutral. “What can I get you?”
J didn’t look up. The effort of doing so might well have killed him outright.
“Beer.” He replied, as if the word hurt. “And whisky.”
“Any particular beer, sir? Any particular whisky?”
“No.”
“Right you are, sir. One beer and one whisky coming up.”
The bartender went about his business with deft precision. In no time a perfectly poured tankard of Spittlebank’s Best Bitter rested on the bar, with a shot of Glenfidget single malt alongside it; bringing to mind an image of Aragorn accompanied by Gimli. J dragged his eyes up from his bootlaces, fixed them on the two drinking vessels and quaffed them both in rapid succession. He belched, but without it being the slightest bit amusing.
“Again.” He said to the landlord. Despite his economical choice of words and abrupt style of delivery, his tone came across as tragic rather than rude or arrogant. He downed the second batch as hastily as the first.
“Again?’ Enquired the landlord, saving J the bother of speech.
J nodded.
As he was about to swallow the third round, a figure detached itself from the shadows and bent down so that it could meet J’s eye level.
“Are you alright, dear?” Said the figure.
“Yes.” Said J. “Or rather, no.”
The figure’s brow furrowed with concern.
“I thought not.” She, for it was a she, placed a small hand on J’s shoulder. His first instinct was to shrug it off but, even in his present state of darkness, he couldn’t quite bring himself to sink to that level of offensiveness.
“Why don’t you come and sit down?” She said.” It’s comfier over by the fire. You look a bit done in, if you don’t mind me saying?”
J couldn’t ague with this. He felt done in; as if by a professional, well-trained and extremely conscientious doer-in. Rather against his better judgment, he allowed the woman to take his arm and guide him into a well-padded seat next to a raging log fire. Another person, as yet unknown, placed his beer and whisky glass on a small round table in front of him. Gradually he became conscious of a number of faces hovering at various different levels around him, illuminated by the glow of the firelight. They all seemed to be wearing identical rural clothing and expressions of mild concern. Finding himself unable to look directly at them without bursting into tears, J applied his eyes to the drinks, which were twinkling gently in the fire glow.
His escort settled into the next-door chair and leant in towards him.
“There.” She said. “Isn’t that better?”
J managed a slight nod.
She patted his arm.
“Would you like to talk about it?”
Without quite knowing why, J nodded again, gulped and then did burst into tears. For a while he cried as if someone had opened his sluice gates without warning him first. Sobs rasped out of him; jagged, rending, savage. They didn’t sound like him, at least not the him he remembered. They were primordial. Uncivilised.
“What will they think of me? “ Wondered a part of him. The part that usually ran the show. But this outpouring was not that part. It was a part that usually lay buried in a dark recess, in the depth of a cupboard at the back of some forgotten corner of his soul. Not a part of him that normally mattered, or normally had any say in the matter.
“Lost.” He gasped through the deluge of his tears.
“You what, love?”
“I’m lost.”
“I see.” Said the kind lady. “Where is it you’re trying to get to?”
“I … I don’t know.”
“Oh. So, where have you come from?”
“The station. I had to get away. Just caught the first train. Got off here, for no particular reason.”
“So, it wasn’t on account of our charming scenery and fascinating button museum?”
“No. Could have been anywhere.”
“So be it. No offense taken.”
“I got off the train. It was dark. No one about. I walked down the line. Stood on the track. Waited for another train to come. When it came, I lost my nerve. Fell on my face. It passed straight over me. Not a scratch.”
“You was lucky, then.” Said another, deeper voice.
“No. Not lucky. Just weak. Too weak to go through with it.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, love. “ Said the kind lady.
“Bet you gave the driver a scare.” Said the deep voice.
“Be gentle with him, Harry.” Said the lady. “He’s just a lost soul.”
“I … I didn’t lose my soul. I sold it. For next to nothing. And now that’s all I’ve got left.”
“How do you mean, love?”
“I’ve blown it. Out of the water. Wrecked my life, and everyone else’s. Torn my family apart. Broken up another home. Embezzled funds. Lost my job. Hurt people I ought to love. Broken the law. Run away from justice. Run away from myself. Tried to end it all and failed. I’ve failed at everything. The only thing I haven’t failed at is failure.”
“Well, at least that’s something.” Said the deep voice.
“My heart feels like a whirlpool, dragging the rest of me into it.”
Gradually the regulars (an old-fashioned crowd) drew him out, Got him talking. Passed on advice and sound philosophy. He left the pub and found a nearby B & B, feeling uplifted and prepared to make a new start.
*
The next day, after his best sleep in ages, he goes for a long walk; to clear his head mentally and physically. At its end he really fancies a pub lunch and hopefully more uplifting chat with the locals. He walks to the pub, but finds it boarded up. Puzzled, he stops a passer-by to enquire when it will open.
“You’re out of luck and out of lunch, pal. It shut down over a year ago. The building’s owned by a developer. Reckon it will be turned into unaffordable housing soon.”
“But what about the people …?”
“People?”
But somehow he knew the answer to that already.
Anna
There was this kid, see. At our school. Anna, her name was.
She was one of them natural born victims.
We enjoyed winding Anna up about her marriage prospects – like she had any.
“Maybe you’ll find a painter/decorator, named Glypter.”
“Or a bloke what makes up crosswords, called Gramm.”
“What about a body builder, called Bollick-Steroid?”
“Yeah. He’d probably have a double-barrel chest.”
“Or you could go for a geezer with a nut allergy, named Fillactic Shock.”
We could laugh. We was all slim and pretty. And intelligent. Leastways, we was compared to Anna. She was fat and spotty and had braces on her teeth (but not cool ones). And these thick black-framed glasses. And she was stupid, too. Never had nothing to say for herself. Just went round with this pissed off look of despondency on her great fat greasy face. Like she wasn’t happy for some reason. Well, if I’d looked like her, I’d of been pissed off too.
I guess it was just about our favourite pastime, picking on Anna. Well, it was something to do. Kept us out of mischief. Took our minds off stuff what was going on in our own lives. Sometimes we’d push her around. When we got tired of saying stuff to her. You know, back and forth between us. Like some great flabby ball. In the playground. It were a good workout. For her as well as us. Sometimes she’d fall down. Graze her knees a bit. Tough. You had to laugh, though.
Then one day Anna didn’t come into school no more. Rumour was going round, she’d got so fat she’d exploded. Or she’d run away to join a freak show. Or she’d got a job in modelling, as the ‘before’ picture in a slimming advert.
Then we heard. Stupid cow had tried to top herself. We wasn’t surprised to hear she’d failed at that too. Someone said she’d taken some kind of overdose.
“What of?” said Sonya, the most cynical of us, and probably the most stunning too, if it wasn’t for the slight twist in her mouth. “Pies?”
The rest of us giggled, kind of nervous. Underneath I guess we was kind of shocked.
I ran into Anna’s mother in the street soon after. I didn’t see her till it was too late. She had these mad staring eyes, kind of red round the edges. She gets up much too close to me. Then she opens her mouth and there’s this spit string stretched between her teeth. Dead gross!
Then she goes:
“How could you?”
So I go:
“You what?”
So she goes:
“Treat my daughter like that?”
So I go:
“Like what?”
“Bullying her.”
“Never touched her.”
“You abused her. You and your friends. Made her feel so small, she couldn’t bear it any longer.”
“Small?”
“Inside.”
“Like, whatever.”
“Is that all you can say?”
“What d’you want me to say?”
“Sorry?”
“I said, what d’ you want me to say?” Dead witty, that.
“Forget it. Actually, it’s you I feel sorry for. And your friends.”
“Random.”
I move on. She’s, like, weird. No wonder her daughter turned out to be such a loser.
So, like, six months pass. No sign of Anna. Maybe she died after all. Then one day this new girl shows up. Tall. Slim, but with some great curves. Kind of athletic. Cool hair. Eyes to die for. She seems kind of remote. But we are all, like, drawn to her. Like, you know, flies round a turd. Except there’s no way she’s a turd. Up close, she’s real pretty. There’s something about her that’s, like, kind of familiar.
“What’s your name, doll?” Says Sonya, purring.
The new girl turns to face her. She’s got this weird little smile on her face. Kind of unscrutable, like.
“Don’t you recognise me?” Says the girl.
“Nah.” Goes Sonya, trying to look unimpressed. But she’s stopped chewing her gum, and she don’t do that for nobody. “Should I?”
“I think you should.” Says the girl, smiling wider. Her teeth are so snowy white and even, it hurts your eyes to look at them. “Look a bit closer.”
Sonya screws up her eyes. It kind of suits her, seeing as she’s pretty screwed up all round.
“Hold up.” She says. Then the colour drains out of her face, like water down a flushed toilet.
“You ain’t. Is yer?”
The girl laughs. Sonya seems to shrivel in front of her. Or maybe the girl just gets a bit taller.
“I know you well enough, Sonya Binks.” She says. She seems to find this funny. We all move in a bit closer. I never seen Sonya look so small. “We go back a long way. Don’t we?”
Sonya just stands there, mouth kind of open. To be honest, she looks a right div.
“Anyway, I’ll see you around. Maybe.”
The girl turns on her kitten heels to walk away. Then she stops and looks back over her shoulder at Sonya, kind of contemptuous.
“Surely you can’t have forgotten me so easily, after all the fun we used to have together? I’ve come back specially to catch up with you.” She tosses her long mane of golden hair, so that it flicks Sonya in the face.
“I’m your old friend Anna.”
Here's a new story that's been simmering at the back of my mind for a while:
A Timely Intervention
John Wellington always stood out from the crowd, mainly because he was a foot and a half taller and a good deal wider than any of the other ten year olds at his school. The other children at Knaggs End Primary viewed him as a figure of fun; calling him names like galoshes and gummy, and sometimes hacking him in the shins, chanting: “Boot, boot!”
John took all of this in his stride, as nothing ever seemed to trouble the gentle giant. His peers knew full well that he was freakishly strong, because he could lift things that even some of the teachers struggled with. Nevertheless they continued to taunt, poke and punch him; like dogs bating a bear - the difference being that they knew he would never strike back. John seemed happy to amble through life in some sort of private dream world; sometimes grinning for no apparent reason and occasionally humming a tune of his own making.
There were rumours that his father drank heavily and, when in his cups, knocked John and his mother about. Certainly he would sometimes arrive at school with a split lip or cauliflower ear, but no one liked to ask him about them and he never volunteered any explanation. His teachers despaired of ever extracting a response from him in or out of class, other than an amiable shrug of the shoulders. He never caused any deliberate trouble; but was frequently late for lessons, always inattentive and never knew the answer to any of their questions. More than once they had discussed the idea of asking his mother to find him another school.
One Tuesday morning John’s class was doing PE in the school gymnasium. As was usually the case Mrs Havers, the steely-eyed gym mistress, had sent John to stand in a far corner - for humming, or chuckling or fiddling with the apparatus.
While the rest of the class was involved in some absorbing activity or other, a strange-looking man slipped through the open door of the gym without anyone noticing. His face was twisted - with anger, perhaps, or hate; or maybe he was simply cursed with a permanently twisted face. Whether he was some sort of terrorist or an embittered former pupil or just a common or garden homicidal maniac was not immediately evident. What was evident, however, was the wicked-looking knife in his hand.
Initially Mrs Havers had her back turned to him, but something in the widening eyes and gaping mouths of her pupils told her that something behind her was not right. She spun round to find the distorted face and vicious blade moving steadily in her direction. Instantly and frantically she started to round up the children in her care into a tight knot behind her.
“What do you want?” She demanded, her normal authoritative tone undermined by terror. Instead of replying, the man with the knife made a wild slash in the direction of her face. She just managed to throw up an arm in time to protect herself, but the blade cut a deep gash in her forearm. The sight of blood set the children screaming. The knifeman struck again, this time across her thigh. She collapsed to the floor, moaning; leaving the children dangerously exposed.
The attacker studied the cowering group in front of him with interest, as if choosing a bun in a baker’s shop. At length he seemed to make his selection and drew back his knife arm, ready to strike again. The children shrank into the smallest space possible, wailing and clutching at each other. The knife began its descent, towards a small pretty blond girl with pigtails - but before the blow could reach its mark something arrested it in mid air.
The knifeman turned, eyes wide with surprise and consternation, to see his wrist gripped from behind in a meaty fist. He swiveled round to find a large dark-haired boy scowling at him. Despite the boy’s height and weight, which was not much less than that of the scrawny would-be assassin’s, his unformed features betrayed the fact that he was no older than his terrified classmates.
“Let go!” Began the man, but his words were cut off abruptly by the boy’s other fist hitting him smack in the mouth. Such was his pain and astonishment that the man dropped the knife, shoved the boy aside and ran headlong for the exit. After three days on the run, the police apprehended him and returned him to the violent wing of the local mental hospital.
Once Mrs Havers had recovered sufficiently from her injuries, the school held a special ceremony in the gymnasium to honour her for so bravely defending her class against the horrendous knife attack. Children, parents, teachers, governors, local dignitaries and distinguished alumni all applauded wildly as the limping PE teacher mounted the rostrum to receive a certificate, a specially engraved medal and a new laptop computer donated by a grateful parent.
Towards the back of the assembled throng, John Wellington stood a little apart; smiling to himself and humming a quiet, mysterious tune. Next to him, holding his hand, was the small pretty blond girl with pigtails.
This one appeared in a recent issue of Magnet:
A Change of Use
“George. George! Where are you?”
“I’m over here, Sir Hubert. Where I normally be.”
“Ah, there you are, George. Brace yourself. I’ve got some terrible news.”
“What be that, Sir Hubert?”
Hubert runs an agitated hand through his unruly hair.
“It’s the manor.”
“What be the matter with it?”
“I’m going to have to sell it, George.”
“Sell the manor, sir? Surely that don’t be right?”
Hubert sinks into a leather armchair. “I don’t have any option. I just can’t afford the upkeep any longer. The builders are threatening to sue me. Sue is threatening to leave me. The bank is threatening to foreclose on me. I don’t know where to turn.”
“There, there; Sir Hubert. Don’t you take on so. I’m sure but what we can come up with a solution.”
“I really don’t think so, George. This time I think we really are snookered.”
“But the manor has been in your family for eight generations.”
“Nine, George. Nine generations.”
“Nine, is it? I must of missed one out along the way.”
“It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I’m going to be the last. I feel so ashamed.”
“It don’t be your fault, sir. It takes a lot of money to run a big old gaff like this ‘un.”
“You’re telling me.”
“But what about the silver? The family portraits? The fixtures and fittings? Could you not be selling them? To buy yourself a bit more time?”
Hubert springs to his feet and starts to pace back and forth.
“They’re gone already, George. All gone.”
“I didn’t be aware of that.”
“Yes. I’m sorry. I couldn’t bear to tell you. It was too mortifying.”
“There’s no cause to be ashamed, my boy. You done your best. But we can’t let it go without a fight. That we can’t.”
“Yes, but what else can we do? There’s a hotel chain interested in buying it. They’re sending over their representative this afternoon.”
“Hotel? They can’t turn the manor into no hotel. That don’t be right.”
“What else can I do?”
“You could open it to the public.”
Hubert gives out a laugh that contains more than a trace of hysteria.
“But there’s nothing to see, George. Everything’s gone, apart from a few bits of flat pack furniture I bought in the sales as an emergency measure.”
“What about the gardens? They be mighty handsome. That young Capability Brown was a dab hand at the landscaping.”
“It’s all overgrown now. A wilderness. I had to let the outdoor staff go a while back. I couldn’t afford their wages. I’ve tried doing it myself, but the sit-on mower’s broken and I can’t afford a new one.”
“Darn and blather it. Well then; there be only one answer.”
“The hotel?”
“No, Sir Hubert. Not the dratted hotel.”
“Then what?’
“Ghost tours.”
“What?”
“Charge people to come and see the ghost. People love a good ghost.”
Hubert stops his pacing so suddenly he almost gives himself whiplash.
“Wait a minute, George. You don’t mean …?”
“I don’t see no alternative.”
“But …” Hubert hesitates. “No! I can’t allow it. It would be too demeaning.”
“I don’t reckon that be your decision, Sir Hubert. I reckon that be for the ghost to decide.”
“Yes, but …”
“Come on now, sir. You do be wanting to save the manor, now don’t you?”
“More than anything.”
“Well, then. All you need is a short articulation in the local newspaper. Perhaps something on that there interweb.”
“Internet.”
“Ar. That new-fangled business, whatever it be. ‘Genuine authentic ghostly twilight tours’. Tenpence a ticket, and worth every penny. You’ll be solvent again in no time.”
Hubert laughs again, but this time with slightly more conviction.
“Ten pounds a ticket, more like.”
“Whatever you say, sir. I can’t keep up with that there inflatulence.”
“Inflation, George.”
“Ar, That and all. Well, sir; what do you say?”
Hubert rubs his chin with one hand and massages the back of his head with the other.
“It could work, George.” He replies at length. A tentative smile begins to erase some of the worry lines etched into his face. “I really think it could.” He desists from rubbing and massaging. “But it’s an awful lot to ask.”
“But you don’t be asking, Sir Hubert.” Says George, tucking his head into a more comfortable position underneath his arm. “I be volunteering.”
Here's a seasonal interview, the latest of my monthly Magnet Meets series:
Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer
For the past seventy-eight years Rudolph the red nosed reindeer has been leader of the team that pulls Father Christmas’s sleigh. To find out more about this legendary character, I arranged to interview him at his Lapland home. After a short flight to Rovaniemi airport in Finland and a high-speed sleigh ride across the virgin snow, drawn by four of his grandchildren, I arrive at Rudolph’s luxury log cabin-style stable to be greeted by the world’s most famous reindeer. The first thing that strikes me is, of course, his nose. It is the richest crimson in colour and glows like a fairy light. I try not to stare at it for too long.
Rudolph, and his delightful wife Clarice, are hospitality personified. I soon find myself tucked into a comfortable leather chair and bundled up in colourful blankets woven by the local Sami people.
“That’s where Father Christmas sits when he visits.” Says Clarice. I feel a surge of pride. Soon I am sipping a warming glass of gluhwein, prepared by one of their house elves; while Rudolph and Clarice suck greyish smoothies through drinking straws. To be honest the concoction doesn’t look very appetising. I ask about the ingredients.
“Mostly mushrooms. “Says Clarice. “With a dash of apple, carrot and Arctic char.”
Involuntarily I wrinkle my nose. I had been wondering where the fishy smell was coming from.
“We’re strictly teetotal.” Says Rudolph. “Many people believe that I get my shiny nose from drinking too much aquavit. In actual fact, I was born with a genetic mutation that causes it to be bioluminescent - a bit like a firefly.”
Rudolph first entered the public consciousness when, as no more than a young fawn, he became Santa’s ninth reindeer. Due to the extra severity of the winter weather that Christmas Eve, the luminosity of his nose allowed the team to see their way through the poor visibility – saving millions of children from terrible disappointment on Christmas morning. Initially the other eight reindeer were suspicious of his unusual appearance and extreme youth – especially Blixen, who Rudolph replaced as team leader. However, after he had guided them successfully through the stormy night, they took him to their hearts. He has led the team ever since. Despite his advanced age, Rudolph has no plans to retire.
“I keep myself in good shape.” He says. “I do a lot of running, eat well and even go to local yoga and pilates classes. Round here, outside of the festive season, I’m treated as just another reindeer – it helps me keep my hooves on the ground.”
That can’t always be easy for a reindeer who has featured in numerous books, films and TV shows, several hit records and even on a postage stamp. I ask him how he stays so grounded.
“I don’t, always.” He grins. “I do quite a lot of flying too.”
It wasn’t always easy for Rudolph as a young reindeer either. Growing up with a shiny nose made him stand out from the crowd and he was subjected to much bullying and name-calling – so much so that he sometimes used to cover his nose with dirt to disguise it. It came as a huge surprise to him and his peers when Father Christmas selected him for such an important role. The other members of the team thought him far too small and inexperienced, but he showed such courage and determination – not to mention illumination – that he became a hero and a legend overnight.
As well as pulling Santa’s sleigh on Christmas Eve, Rudolph is now involved in training young reindeer; so that, when he finally hangs up his harness, others will be able to take his place – though there is no sign of this happening any time soon. His son Robbie hasn’t inherited Rudolph’s luminous nose but, after a rather unpromising start, has proved himself a successful athlete at the Reindeer Games.
“We’re very proud of him.” Says Clarice. “He’s had to step into some big hoof prints.”
I ask Rudolph how long he can go on doing such heavy work.
“Put it this way.” He replies. “Father Christmas isn’t showing any signs of retiring, and he’s a lot older than I am.”
After a quick tour of the nearby toy workshop, I bid Rudolph and Clarice farewell.
“Make sure you look out for me on Christmas Eve.” Calls Rudolph as my sleigh disappears into the snowy night.
This is a short story that also appeared in Magnet
Distant Thunder
I look at the stranger sitting next to me. There’s something vaguely familiar about him, but I don’t think we’ve ever met before. I turn back to the stage, if you can call a two-foot high podium a stage. Esmerelda is fiddling with her microphone, as she always does. It was fine when she started, now it’s all over the place. Geoff gets up to help her. I’m certain there’s something going on between them. She plunges into Rainy Night in Georgia. It’s better than anyone might have expected. At the end she bows slightly, smiles shyly, trips over a cable and returns to her seat.
I glance at my neighbour. He remains deadpan. Two more acts - a five-piece blues combo and a husband and wife folk duet - come and go without leaving a lasting impression. I turn to the man next to me, feeling I ought to be hospitable.
“Not from round here?” I enquire.
“Nah.” He answers. His greyish face has the dried out look of a heavy smoker, his reddish nose the hue of a heavy drinker. His skin is the texture of parchment, his long hair like wisps of cobweb. I notice his glass is empty.
“Can I get you a refill?”
He looks at me for the first time - as if he’s drowning and I’m offering to throw him a life belt.
“Go on, then.” He says.
I fetch him a double whisky.
“Cheers.” He says, as I place it before him.
“Don’t think I’ve seen you at open mic night before?”
”Nah”
“D’you sing, or play anything?”
“Not any more.”
I’m curious.
“So you did once?”
He doesn’t reply. I leave it.
The music comes and goes. Nothing original. Just old classics and the odd curiosity.
Then Hank gets up. During daylight hours at his accountancy firm, he’s known as Henry; but on Thursday nights he’s Hank. I give my new pal a gentle nudge.
“I should listen to this fella. He’s good.”
Hank plays a couple of songs; a Bruce Springsteen and a John Lennon. He retunes, clears his throat and leans in towards the mic.
“Okay. This next one’s an old Frank Oxley number. Remember him?”
The crowd murmurs its assent.
“The best singer songwriter never to make it really big-time. Here goes.”
Hank surpasses himself. It’s a beautiful song - Distant Thunder - full of sadness, and just a grain of hope. It gets much the biggest cheer of the night. Most of the ladies are snuffling, even some of the blokes. Inevitably, the next two players are something of an anticlimax. At last it’s my turn. I do my usual and they all know my limitations well enough to join in and help out as soon as I get into difficulties. I sit down to sympathetic applause and a bit of good-natured joshing. I wipe some imaginary sweat from my brow.
“Thank God that’s over.” I say to the stranger.
He nods, as if in agreement.
“Another whisky?” I ask him. He doesn’t look as if he has the wherewithal to reciprocate.
“Cheers.” He says.
I put his replenished glass down and he sinks it in one gulp. I start to feel I’m in the company of a desperate man. I try to lighten the atmosphere.
“D’you fancy having a go?”
“Nah.” He says, economically.
“Go on. Why not? Everyone else has. You can’t be worse than me. Geoff can lend you a guitar, if you need one.”
He turns his battered face towards me. I can read a lifetime’s troubles in the smoky eyes.
“Right you are, then. I will.”
He gets to his feet as if his joints are rusty and makes his way through the tables and chairs to the stage. I follow him, with Geoff’s guitar.
He stares at the microphone as if he’s never seem one before. I hand him the guitar and he eyes it with suspicion. For a moment I feel a pang of guilt. Am I forcing him to make a fool of himself? Is this going to be a major embarrassment for everyone? But then I think of the two double whiskies I’ve bought him. Hell, he ought to sing for his supper - liquid or otherwise. I retreat to a safe distance.
He’s still looking at the guitar as if wondering which end is which. Then, as if coming out of a trance, he throws the strap over his shoulder, runs his left hand down the neck and takes a step towards the mic.
“Er …” He starts, unpromisingly. “This is another one by Frank Oxley.”
Oh, hell; I think. After Hank’s earlier effort, this is bound to be pretty lame. Why did he have to set the bar so high? I can feel real sweat prickling my forehead. I glance towards the door. Perhaps I can slip away unnoticed.
But then he hits the opening chord and around the room the muttered conversations cease in mid sentence. He plays a few more chords, with a couple of small but elegant flourishes. Then his voice kicks in, and it’s like a kick - in the solar plexus. I can’t believe his shriveled old frame could contain such rich, honey-brown tones; starting soft and sweet, then rising through the octaves and decibels to a climax that almost tears the roof off. And then, on a final heartrending note, he’s done.
Gently he lays down the guitar and, with head lowered, walks slowly out of the pub and into the night. Everyone is too stunned even to applaud. Someone lets out a whistle that sounds as if it’s been building up inside and needs to escape. Soon the whole room is buzzing. Geoff seizes me by the shoulder.
“Where the hell did that come from?”
“I don’t know.” I reply.
“You were sitting next to him. What did he say?”
“Not much.”
“I never heard anything like it. It knocked old Hank’s lights out.”
“Yes.” I agree. “If anything it was better than the original. It could almost have been Frank Oxley himself.”
“Almost. Yes.” Geoff pauses, mouth slightly ajar. “You don’t think …?
“What?”
“That it really was him? He was about the right age.”
“Blimey! D’you reckon? I though he looked kind of familiar.”
“We’ve got to find out. Go after him.”
“Really?”
“You’ve got to.”
So I head for the door. Once outside I scan the street in both directions. No one. I take a couple of hesitant steps, stop, then turn back towards the pub. I think I hear a low rumbling laugh. But it may just have been the call of a night bird, or wind in the trees.
Or distant thunder.
... and another
Bird Talk
“Hello.”
I look round. A pale blue parrot is eyeing me quizzically from inside a large cage in one corner of the room.
“Hello.” I reply.
“Nice weather.” The bird continues. He has a husky voice, suggesting that a previous owner must have been a heavy smoker. Actually, it’s raining quite hard, but a parrot can’t be expected to know much about meteorology. Unless, of course, he was being sarcastic.
“Nice weather for ducks.” I say in response.
“Nice weather for ducks.” He mimics and gives out a cackle. No one normally laughs at my jokes, so I find myself warming to him. I give him a friendly smile and turn back to my work.
“Not so good for humans, though.”
I start. Did the bird really say that, or am I imagining it?
“What did you say just then?” I ask him, keeping my voice down in case the lady of the house overhears and thinks I’m mad.
“I said ‘not so good for humans’. Nor parrots, neither; for that matter.”
I drop my chisel.
“You can … talk!” I exclaim.
“Yes. A lot of parrots can. Some of us are brighter than we look.”
“Of course I realise that parrots can talk. But not hold a proper conversation.”
“Maybe you’ve only met stupid parrots up till now.”
I scratch my head. It doesn’t help much.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Tony.” He replies.
“Tony? That’s an odd name for a parrot.”
“What would you prefer me to be called? Polly?” He gives me a withering look, head on one side. “Anyway, I wasn’t always a parrot.”
“What on earth do you mean?”
“You know that Mrs Beltain?”
“Yes?”
This is the first time I’ve done any furniture restoration for her. She seems very pleasant and friendly, and owns several pieces of quality furniture in need of some attention. She’s also rather attractive.
“She’s a witch.”
“A what?”
“A witch. They don’t all have straggly hair and broomsticks, you know.”
I’m starting to wonder if I’ve inhaled too much methylated spirit.
“You were wise not to accept a cup of tea from her earlier.”
“I don’t drink tea.”
“That’s lucky for you. If she offers you anything else, turn it down.”
“Why?”
“She puts stuff in it.”
“What stuff?”
“Potions.” Tony pauses, as if deliberating over something. “I used to be a heating engineer, you know.”
“You what?”
“Corgi registered. She should really have turned me into a dog.”
My mind wobbles on its axis.
“Are you trying to tell me she turned you into a parrot?”
“Yes. And I’m not the first to fall under her spell, neither. See that ginger cat over by the fireplace? That’s Frank. He used to be an electrician.”
“No!”
“And the goldfish in the bowl on the windowsill? Kevin. Painter/decorator.”
“You’re joking!”
“If you don’t believe me, go ahead and ask them.”
“Okay, I will.”
Feeling rather foolish, I call out:
“Hey, Kevin. Is it true you’re really a painter/decorator?”
The goldfish doesn’t reply. Tony lets out another cackle.
“Got you there, mate. Whoever heard of a talking fish? Anyway, he probably can’t remember. He’s got a memory like a goldfish.” He cackles again.
I’m starting to feel distinctly spooked. I decide to get the job finished as quickly as possible and scarper.
I’m underneath a kneehole desk, fitting a new escutcheon and trying not to think about witches, when a female voice jolts me out of my reverie. I bang my head on the underside of the desk.
“Sorry if I startled you, Mr Jefkins. I thought you might like a biscuit?”
“Pieces of Eight! Pieces of Eight!” Says Tony from his perch across the room and cackles loudly.
“Oh, do be quiet, Tony. Honestly, that bird!” She proffers a plate of delicious-looking chocolate biscuits.
“Er … no, thanks.” I say. “I’ve given up chocolate for Lent.”
“But it’s the middle of October.”
“Already?” I heave myself upright. “Actually, I’m almost finished.”
Hastily, I start gathering up tools and dust sheets.
“It looks jolly good.” Says Mrs Beltane. “You have done well. How much do I owe you?”
“Pieces of Eight!” Goes Tony again.
“Oh, no. Nothing. No charge.”
I snatch up my equipment and head for the door.
“What? But that’s ridiculous. You’ve been here several hours. I must pay you for your time.”
“Pieces of Eight!” Repeats Tony.
“No, really. It’s on me. Anyway I must be going now. I’ve got another urgent job to get to.”
“Well, really. That’s very odd. At least let me get you something to drink before you go? You must be parched.”
“No!’ I reply, far too loudly.
I push open the front door, hurry across the drive and almost tumble headlong into my van. I think I can still hear Tony from inside the house, cackling fit to bust.
Here's a very short story for Christmas 2016 - season's greetings to you all
The Night Before The Night Before Christmas
“Hello.” Says Charlie to the man in his kitchen. “Who are you?”
The man shifts from one foot to the other.
“I’m … Father Christmas.”
“But it isn’t Christmas Eve yet.”
“It is tomorrow.”
“Why are you in our house?”
“I’m, er … checking the chimney. See if I can fit down it alright.”
“You don’t look like Father Christmas. You haven’t got a red suit. Or a white beard.”
“Well, no. But I will have by tomorrow.” The man gives Charlie an accusing look. “I thought you was all asleep. What you doing up in the middle of the night?”
“I wanted a drink of water.” A cloud passes across Charlie's face. “I’m not supposed to see you, am I?”
“Er, no. But if you don’t tell no one, then I won’t neither. Alright?”
“Alright. What’s in that bag?”
“This bag? Just some, er … presents.”
“For me?”
“Well … yeah. If you been good?”
“Oh, yes. I have been good, most of the time.”
“Well, then. Maybe I better leave ‘em with you now. Save meself a trip tomorrow. But no peeking, mind.”
“I promise.”
“Well, I best be off, then. Night, night; little fella.”
The man puts down his sack and opens the back door.
“Would you like a drink of sherry, before you go? And a carrot for Rudolph?”
The burglar turns and grins at the boy.
“Nah. You’re alright, son. Merry Christmas.”
Mind the Gap
Of all the people I worked with in my first office job, only one was greener than me. Sally was as junior as you could be without still being at school. She had bubbly blond hair, done in last year’s style, skirts that were twice as long as the next shortest and a completely disarming gap-toothed smile that caused her to speak with a lisp. Although several of the girls were prettier, and certainly worldlier, I found Sally much the most adorable.
I never really knew what she thought of me - she treated everyone with the same air of puzzled wonderment. In any case, she had a fiancée called Kevin. I met him once, at an after-work party. He was small and ferrety and, in my view, didn’t treat Sally with the consideration she deserved. Despite this, she seemed devoted to him; as if grateful that anyone would take an interest in her.
Sally was easily the most conscientious worker amongst the secretarial staff, frequently covering for the other girls if they stayed out too long over lunch or came in late and hung-over after too many tequila slammers. She’d also stay on to take dictation or stuff envelopes after all the others had gone home. One evening I found myself alone with her in the office. Rather sheepishly, I asked her if she’d like to go for a drink.
“It’s very kind of you.” She lisped. “But I really should be getting home. Kevin will be expecting his supper.”
“Ring him.” I suggested, before I had time to lose my nerve. “Tell him you’ve got to work late.”
She giggled, hand clasped over the gap in her teeth.
“I can’t do that. He’d have a fit.”
“Come on, Sal. Just a quick one.”
She hesitated.
“Okay. But just one.”
Once at the pub, we talked - first about work, then about home. I tried to convey, through subtle innuendo, that her ferrety fiancée was nothing like good enough for her. But, typically, Sally was a paragon of loyalty; waxing lyrical about how good he was at football, pool and darts and how popular he was with his friends.
“He’s so loyal. He spends most evenings with them, even though he’d rather be with me.”
I felt a strong urge to seek out the ferret and put him straight on a few points. I offered Sally another drink but she was anxious to hurry home to fix his supper, so it would be waiting when he returned from supporting his friends.
The week came to an end. When we returned the following Monday, Sally wasn’t there. Word circulated that she’d been in a car accident. I felt a wave of dread spread over me. The thought of her being hurt in any way was too horrific to contemplate. But, happily, she hadn’t come to serious harm - only minor damage to her front teeth. She was at the dentist and would be in later.
When she did arrive, I was relieved that she seemed just the same as usual. When I asked how she was, she smiled and assured me all was well. But there was something about her smile that sent a chill through me. Her gap had vanished.
“What have they done?” I asked.
Sally ran her tongue over the remodelled front teeth.
“They capped the two that were chipped.” Her voice was different too. The enchanting lisp was gone. “They said they could get rid of my gap. I’ve never really liked it.”
I decided against voicing my honest opinion.
“Very nice.” I said, and made my excuses. Without knowing why, I felt ill at ease for some days afterwards. Gradually this abstract feeling materialised into a distinct change in Sally’s demeanour. She began to assert herself and was even quite snappish with her late or hung-over colleagues. If anything, her work was more efficient than ever. This soon caught the attention of the office manager, who promoted Sally to be her assistant.
Everyone began to treat her with greater respect. I discovered she had broken off her engagement to the ferret. Oddly, this piece of news didn’t give me the satisfaction I might have anticipated. My own relationship with Sally also changed. She began to point out the odd imperfection in my appearance and suggest that my desk needed tidying. More than anything, I regretted the passing of her lisp.
She had her hair restyled and bought herself a new, ultra fashionable wardrobe. She started seeing one of the brokers but soon dropped him in favour of the firm’s chief analyst. Her own career was going from strength to strength, leapfrogging her immediate boss to become Senior Administration Manager. She started wearing wide shouldered power suits in a range of primary colours and barely noticed me when our paths occasionally crossed in the corridor. She didn’t smile nearly as often anymore but, when she did, there was something unnerving about its icy perfection.
The next time I had a real chance to talk to Sally was a few months later at the Christmas party. I found myself next to her at the bar.
“Congratulations.” I said. Sally turned her twenty/twenty smile on me, but there was no echoing warmth in her eyes. “You’ve had quite a year.”
“Yes.” Replied Sally, her voice as sound as a bell. “And next year looks like being even better.”
“Really?”
“I’m in line to become General Manager. And Sir Toby has invited me to stay on his yacht. In the Maldives.”
“Wow. That sounds wonderful. You must be well chuffed.”
Sally looked away.
“Of course.”
“Shall we sit down with our drinks for a moment?” I suggested.
Sally’s eyes scanned the room. As there wasn’t anyone more important on the horizon, she followed me to a table in a dark corner.
“Are you really happy, Sal?” I asked, once we were seated.
For a moment there was no answer. Sally looked around to check no one was eavesdropping, then leant in closer.
“I know I should be. But, if I’m honest, I find the whole thing kind of scary.” She let out a heartfelt sigh. “It feels like I’m playing a part in a film. Acting the high flyer. The femme fatale. It’s not really me at all. And I don’t know that I really want to go on with it. My old friends reckon I’m acting stuck up. My new friends think I’m a social climber. I honestly don’t know what to do next.”
“Why not just be true to yourself?” I suggested. I reached across and took her hand. For a moment she froze, but then allowed herself to relax. “And one other thing, Sal. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I think you should do something about those teeth.”
The office closed for Christmas. When everyone reconvened in the New Year, it became clear that Sally was no longer with the company. Some time later I was surprised to see a picture of her in the paper. She had just won a prestigious award for her charity work. Her smile was on full beam, the way it used to be. But it must have been an old photo, as there was a visible gap between her teeth.
I've just finished my second novel - A Dangerous Game. It's set on the eve of World War II and features the reluctant heroics of Charles Archibald Vernon Inkwater, a cross between Richard Hannay and Bertie Wooster. Here's how it starts:
Chapter One
Charles feels far more cheerful than a man who has just lost his job, his girl and his inheritance in quick succession has any right to be. But, at the wheel of a six cylinder Tempest Rapide with the wind in his eyes and a few verses of a popular song on his lips, his troubles seem all of a sudden quite remote and unthreatening. He slides through the gears with the natural coordination of a sportsman and eases the powerful machine into a tight bend. To his left is a characteristically craggy rock face, to his right a wide silver expanse of loch. To Charles the road is his friend, a long grey carpet spread out in front of him expressly for his enjoyment.
Pity old Chubby wouldn’t come too, he muses. Bit of a stick in the mud these days. How different from their time together at the old college - rugbymen and drinking companions, in tune and united in their pursuit of pretty girls and policemen’s helmets. But a fine man, nonetheless. And heavens, what a cracking car. Charles bets himself the old buffer never takes her over thirty, in case his pipe blows out. Wasted on him. Charles tickles the accelerator and angles the Tempest into another tight, blind corner. And then, all of a sudden, everything is where it shouldn’t be.
On the other side of this bend is another coupe, travelling with equal velocity in his direction. But, whereas the motoring convention of the British Isles advocates use of the left side of the road, this driver is vehemently adhered to the right hand carriageway. With a violent wrench of the wheel, Charles pulls the Tempest out of harm’s way with no more than a demi-second and an inch or two to spare. They spin through 180 degrees and come to a screeching stop just in time to see the other car head straight off the road, over a low wall and nose first into the loch. Transfixed by a horrid fascination, he watches the pilot of the open-topped model leave the comfort of the driving seat and fly like an unwieldy pink bird clear of the car and headlong into the water. Car and driver make asymmetrical splashes as they break the surface one after the other.
For a few moments Charles’ scrambled senses won’t allow him to take any action. But then he finds himself vaulting out of the Tempest and running like a gazelle toward the stretch of water. It must be pretty deep, he calculates, as the other car is already fully submerged. He can see a pale shape further out, floating inertly on the surface of the loch. Throwing off his jacket, he plunges into the chilly water and strikes out in the direction of the floating thing. Even burdened by a pullover, plus fours and stout brogues, his strong freestyle brings him alongside in next to no time. He hastily inspects the object. It appears at first sight to be a female human being in some kind of flimsy nightdress. Charles decides to put the unsuitability of her motoring attire out of his mind for the moment. There are more pressing issues than negligées to deal with. He pulls at the inert body and an arm swings round at him, inadvertently cuffing him on the ear. This is followed by a mass of waterlogged hair. Feeling a little panicky, he pushes aside the heavy locks and finds himself staring into a face. An attractive face. A more than attractive face. Pale, with a few artistically sprinkled freckles around the bridge of the nose. Eyes firmly closed, but undeniably the face of a more than attractive young woman. He hopes fervently she isn’t dead.
At some point in his chequered past Charles has undergone rudimentary training in life saving. But, as with so many elements of his education, he remembers only isolated figments and fragments - and not necessarily the important ones. He knows he has once rescued a brick from the bottom of an indoor swimming pool. He recalls something about tilting heads and pinching noses, but not much more than that. Better haul her onto dry land, he thinks. Can’t do much out here. He tries tipping her onto her back, but she is too slippery. Instead he takes a portion of her thick hair in one fist and, using a mixture of sidestroke and the doggy paddle, kicks for shore.
After what seems to Charles an age, but is only in reality a couple of minutes, the two former motorists are lying side by side on the heather-clad bank of the loch. Wheezing from his exertions and involuntary intake of water, Charles pulls the woman onto her side and begins pummelling her back as if she’s just scored the winning try. Despite its lack of medical efficacy, this crude first aid yields immediate results. With a violent contraction, the woman lets out a groan, lurches sideways and spews a lungful of water over his shoes. Good, thinks Charles. Not dead.
He wonders what to do next.
Despite his keen interest in the female of the species, Charles has always suffered from a tendency towards self-consciousness around members of the opposite sex - especially when they aren’t wearing many clothes. He retrieves his jacket and drapes it over her. He then smooths down his sodden hair and squeezes some of the water out of his jumper. The woman begins to surface from the depths of her unconsciousness. She peers about her through half-closed eyes and tries to push herself upright. Charles hastens to her assistance. With the help of his beefy arms she is able to sit up, supported against the dry stone wall that she and her car hurdled earlier. Charles squats down in front of her.
“Are you all right?” He enquires, using his best bedside manner.
“What?” She stares at him, trying to concentrate. “I don’t know. What happened?” She seems to be having difficulty focussing on his face. To be fair, his face is slightly out-of-focus at the best of times.
“You, er … had a bit of a prang.” He responds. “In your car.”
“Car? But I don’t even possess a car.”
“That’s true enough. It’s now at the bottom of the lake.” He peers at her more closely. “Are you … hurt?”
The woman feels her head.
“No. Not particularly. Where are my clothes?”
“I … don’t know. They may have come off when you were thrown clear.” Although unlikely, this seems the most feasible explanation to Charles. Even in the relatively emancipated late nineteen thirties, motoring in one’s nightdress has still not caught on widely amongst well-brought up young ladies.
“Look here. There’s no need to worry about the car for the moment. We can probably arrange for it to be towed out later. And I can give you a lift in mine.”
Charles looks at the woman more closely. She has dark hair and a pale complexion that shows off the freckles around her nose to good effect. Sea blue eyes. To Charles’ untrained gaze, she looks very pretty indeed. The part of her that isn’t concealed beneath his tweed sports coat strikes him as distinctly shapely.
“D’you think you can stand up?”
“Probably.”
“I’ll help you to the car. Take you home.”
“I … can’t go home.”
“Really? Well, you can come back with me if you like. To Chubby’s place.”
Charles tucks an arm under hers and helps her to her unshod feet.
“Look here, you can’t walk across this prickly stuff without any shoes. I’ll have to carry you.”
“No.”
“It’s all right. I can easily manage.”
Charles hoists her in his arms. She feels surprisingly light. About halfway to the car she begins to shake so vigorously that he nearly drops her.
“Don’t worry.” Says Charles, hanging on tightly. “I should imagine it’s the shock. And the cold. Let’s get you inside and put the roof up.”
Once back at the Tempest, he lowers her gently into the passenger seat and goes round the back to fetch a travelling rug.
......
I also write radio plays. Here's the start of a recent one:
Keeping The Score
Act 1
INT ACC
FX Click of cricket ball on willow. Distant applause, shouts. Crash of door opening and shutting. Chair scraping on a wooden floor
FIONA Oops! Sorry.
DENNIS (grumpy) Don’t mention it.
FIONA Have I missed much?
DENNIS Nothing life-changing.
FX Rustling and more scraping
FIONA Oh, crap.
DENNIS What now?
FIONA I’ve broken my pencil.
DENIIS Already? You haven’t even started scoring yet.
FIONA I happen to be pathologically clumsy. Do you have a problem with that?
DENNIS No. But I’d imagine you do. (beat) Here, have one of mine.
FIONA It’s all right. I’ve got a sharpener. (beat) Somewhere. The sooner we stumble into the Twenty First Century and start using laptops or tablets or something half sensible for scoring, the happier I’ll be.
DENNIS Look. We’re already two and a half overs into the game. Your team are on twelve for no wicket. We’ve had two fours, two singles, a wide, a leg bye and a rather optimistic lbw appeal. If you don’t get going soon, it will be the tea interval.
FIONA Alright. Don’t sprain your abacus. I’ll catch up in no time.
Silence
FX Cricket sounds in the distance
DENNIS Sorry.
FIONA For what?
DENNIS For being ratty. (beat) I’m not having a particularly good day.
FIONA Join the club. (beat) Was that runs or byes?
DENNIS The umpire signalled byes.
FIONA Piss! Can I borrow your rubber?
FX Cry of Howzat! from the pitch. Cheers and applause
FIONA Was that LBW or caught behind?
DENNIS Run Out, actually.
FIONA Oh, hell. That means Gareth’s in.
DENNIS Gareth?
FIONA Yes. My fiancée. If he’s out cheaply, he’s insufferable. If he gets a big score, he’ even worse.
DENNIS Then we better hope it’s somewhere between the two.
FX Distant cricket sounds. Applause
FIONA Good. He’s safely off the mark. If he’s out for a duck, there’s only one thing you can do.
DENNS What’s that?
FIONA Duck!
Pause
DENNIS How did you get roped into scoring? Somehow you don’t come across as a massive cricket fan.
FIONA I’m not, really. I wouldn’t want this to get out, but I actually don’t like cricket much. I mean, let’s be fair. In terms of raw excitement it’s got to rank somewhere between eating a rice cake and listening to a speech by Gordon Brown.
DENNIS So why are you here?
FIONA You have to understand my circumstances. My father is the team captain. My brother is the opening bowler. And my aforementioned fiancée is the star all-rounder. I’ve two choices. Follow the cricket side or leave home.
DENNIS And are you ever tempted to do the latter?
FIONA Sometimes. In fact, I did leave home once. (beat) But it didn’t work out.
DENNIS What happened?
FIONA I came back.
DENNIS What made you come back?
FIONA I’d rather not go there, if you don’t mind.
DENNIS Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.
FIONA That’s okay. It’s just that it’s a long story and, if I start telling it now, we’ll never get any scoring done. And then there’ll be trouble.
DENNIS True. (beat) Look out! There’s a six coming our way.
FX Crash of cricket ball on roof
FIONA You see? I should never have admitted I don’t like cricket. Now they’re trying to kill me.
Fade down
Fade up
FX Shouts of triumph from the fielders
DENNIS That’s bad luck. Out for forty-nine.
FIONA Gareth will not be happy.
DENNIS He looks happy enough. In fact he’s coming this way.
FX Footsteps approaching
GARETH Not bad, eh Blondie? First fifty of the season.
FIONA I’m afraid it was only forty-nine, honey.
GARETH What d’you mean?
FIONA Forty-nine. One short of a half century. Rotten luck.
GARETH Don’t be daft. I got fifty. I always keep my score - in my head.
FIONA I’m sorry, my love. I only make it forty-nine.
GARETH Then you’ve got it wrong, Blondie. You never could count. Change it.
DENNIS I make it forty-nine too.
GARETH Oh, yes? And who the hell are you?
DENNIS The other scorer.
GARETH Yeah? And village cricket’s answer to Albert Einstein, I presume? Or Carol Vordermann?
DENNIS Not exactly. Though I do have a Maths degree.
GARETH Oh. (beat) Well, you’re both still wrong. What a bloody shambles.
FX Angry footsteps receding
FIONA Thanks.
DENNIS For what?
FIONA For supporting me.
DENNIS Well, the books tally.
Pause
FIONA You’re probably thinking he’s a total arse.
DENNIS He was just disappointed, I suppose. Everyone likes to get a fifty.
FIONA He can be a bit of a bully sometimes.
DENNIS Oh. (beat) So, why do you stick with him, then?
FIONA Oh, you know. The usual reasons. He’s well fit, brutally handsome, has an expensive job, a flash car and the most enormous … ego.
DENNIS (laughs) Yes. I noticed that. I thought at first he must still be wearing his box.
FIONA He doesn’t think I’m very bright. None of them do. That’s why they call me Blondie.
DENNIS I noticed that too. But you don’t actually have blond hair.
FIONA I know. On top of everything else, I’m a ginga.
DENNIS I wouldn’t call it ginger. It’s more auburn. Titian, perhaps. I think it looks rather … stunning.
FIONA Seriously? (beat) No, you’re just kidding around. Like the rest of them.
DENNIS I mean it.
FIONA Whatever. Anyway they reckon I act blond. It’s worse, somehow.
DENNIS What is?
FIONA Being blond on the inside.
My first novel - THE GIRL IN THE CHEESECLOTH SHIRT - is the story of an aspiring ladies' man much hampered by the size of his willy (it's a kind of antidote to FSG). Here's an extract from somewhere near the middle:
One morning soon after losing my job I was alone in the house, pondering the train of events that had led me to my present state of derailment. Gradually an overwhelming sense of gloom settled over me. On careful reflection I concluded that, though things looked extremely bleak, there was no earthly reason why they shouldn’t in time become immeasurably bleaker. Was it really worth the effort of carrying on, I wondered? All hope of ever achieving anything worthwhile seemed infinitely remote. Perhaps my mother had been right all along – and Corelli. I was a failure. A hopeless case. One of life’s pratfall artists, destined to lurch from one ridiculous and humiliating disaster to the next.
On a whim I rang the Samaritans.
“Samaritans, can I help you?”
“I don’t know.” I said. “I’m feeling a bit down.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Said the lady at the other end. She had a warm voice, slightly husky. I wondered what she looked like. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“I think so.”
“My name is Steph. Would you like to tell me yours?”
“It’s er … Todd.”
“Okay, Todd; fire away.”
So I did. She listened attentively, making sympathetic noises at all the right moments. When I had finished she said:
“I have to ask you this, Todd. Have you ever considered taking your own life?”
I gulped.
“No. But, now you come to mention it, that’s not a bad idea.”
I hung up. I wondered how you go about it. Pills? I opened the medicine cupboard. An almost full pack of painkillers. I looked more closely at the packet. Damn. Past their sell-by date. I considered other options. Hanging? No rope. Cutting my wrists in the bath? Too gruesome. A single bullet to the temple? No gun and, in any case, I had always been a lousy shot. Disgusted with my own incompetence, I gave up. I was in the process of burying my face in my hands when the doorbell rang. I peered through the stained glass panel. An unfamiliar-looking fair-haired man in a conservative suit stood outside. I opened the door a fraction.
“Hello?” I said.
“Good morning.” Replied the blond man. There was just a trace of foreign in his accent.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes, please.’ Said the man.
“In what way?” I deduced that he was either doing market research or selling life assurance. Or possibly a religious nut. He was too smartly dressed to be there to read the meter.
The stranger smiled politely and cleared his throat.
“By dying.”
I assumed I had misheard or misunderstood.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I am here to kill you.” Just for a moment the man allowed me to see the tip of a long-barrelled revolver.
“Oh.” I said. I had heard correctly. This was a situation outside my previous range of experience. I wondered what to do next. I toyed with the idea of making a run for it, but I could see that my visitor was watching me closely for any sudden movements. In any case I couldn’t think of anywhere to run to. I considered slamming the door shut and bolting it from the inside, but noticed that the stranger had taken the precaution of slipping the toe of his robust-looking Chelsea boot into the opening.
“I suppose you better come inside, then.”
“Thank you.” The blond man stepped over the threshold and closed the front door behind him.
“Come through to the living room. Can I … get you anything? A drink?”
The gunman smiled again.
“How kind. A soft drink would be most agreeable. Obviously I cannot take alcohol while I am working.
“I suppose not.” I made my way towards the kitchen.
“Do you mind if I accompany you? I am sure you are an entirely honourable and trustworthy person, but I would not want to put temptation in your path. To use the telephone, for instance.”
“What? Oh, no. I’m not going to call anyone. There’s no one left to call.”
“Nevertheless.”
“Right. Of course. You can’t be too careful, I suppose. In your line of business.” I rummaged inside a cupboard. “Is elderflower cordial all right? With a dash of sparkling mineral water perhaps?”
“That sounds extremely pleasant and refreshing.”
“Ice?”
“As long as it is no trouble?”
“None at all.”
I handed the cordial to the hit man and ushered him back into the living room.
“Have a seat.”
“Thank you so much.” He chose a leather armchair and stretched out his long legs. “I do have a little time to kill.”
“I can’t imagine that’s much of a problem. In your profession.”
“I beg your pardon?” And then the penny dropped. He laughed. “Ah, yes. I understand. Most amusing.”
I took an upright seat opposite my unexpected guest.
“So, how do we proceed? Will you finish your drink first or save it for afterwards?”
“There is no hurry. I have recently received a message informing me that my next appointment has been postponed.
“In that case, you may as well make yourself comfortable.”
“Thank you so much. I will, with pleasure.
For a moment we sat in silence. My mind seemed to have slipped into neutral. On one level it felt odd to be sitting opposite a man who was there to kill me. On the other, it all seemed so normal and routine that I was surprised it had never happened before.
“My name is Ralph, by the way.”
“I am aware of that. I have a comprehensive dossier on you.”
“Oh, right. And you are?”
“I go by many names. You may call me Stefan.”
Just then, the phone rang.
“Do not answer it, please.” Said Stefan.
“I wasn’t going to.” I responded. For some reason, this exchange made us both laugh for a moment.
Once we had finished, my sense of good manners again took over. My guest was clearly in no particular hurry. It seemed to me necessary to make small talk.
“It must be interesting work.”
“Assassination? It can be, I guess. Often it is quite dull. But well rewarded, of course.”
“Of course. How did you get into it, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Not at all. I feel can tell you anything. You have, I think, a very open face. And, after all, it will go no further.”
“I suppose not.”
Stefan linked his hands behind his head. He seemed very much at ease.
“I was originally in the military. In my home country of Sweden. You may have noticed a trace of accent?”
“Hardly at all. You speak English very well.”
“Thank you. I did not see any action, however. My nation never seems to go to war with anyone. But then I joined SAS.”
“The Special Air Service?”
Stefan laughed politely.
“No, no. Scandinavian Airline Systems. Chief purser. It was so dull, I can tell you. But then one day there was a hijacking on one of my flights. A man with a gun. I don’t know what possessed me. My military training perhaps. Or something deeper inside me. I killed him, with a single blow to the neck. I was not trained in karate, or any other martial art. It just seemed to come quite naturally to me.”
“Good Lord!”
“This next remark may strike you as odd perhaps, but it was such a great feeling. I so enjoyed the sensation that I could hardly wait for the opportunity to do it again. But there are few chances for such things in the airline business. Even in this day and age.”
“I suppose not.”
“I had no desire to take life indiscriminately. Random killing holds no appeal for me. There has to be a sound reason. A justification. So, I decided to become a freelance operative and set up shop as a contract killer. Business is good. Mostly by referral. Word of mouth, you understand? Satisfied customers.”
“Yes. I see.” I frowned. “But does the morality of it never trouble you at all?”
“Thou shalt not kill, you mean? That I would consider a very valid question, my friend. A fair point indeed. But, in compensation, I make a special effort always to follow the other nine Commandments to the letter. How many people can truthfully claim to follow as many as nine out of the Ten Commandments?”
“Not many, I expect. Certainly not me.”
“I adhere to the others religiously. And also, I hope, to their spirit. I honour my father and mother. At least I did so, whilst they were still alive. Instead I now honour their memory. I have never committed adultery. Not even once. I am helped in this by being strangely asexual. You have perhaps noticed this?”
“I beg your pardon?” I said. My mind had started to wander. “Oh, no. I hadn’t.”
“No matter.” Stefan continued. “I do not steal, I do not blaspheme. I never worship any other gods, nor graven images, though I did keep a small statue of the Buddha on my mantle shelf for a time. But no longer. I never work on a Sunday. I have never born false witness against my neighbour, nor indeed have I coveted my neighbour's wife. Both for the aforementioned reason and the fact that she is fortuitously not a physically attractive woman - though perfectly civil. Neither do I covet his ox nor his ass. As we live in an apartment block, the practicalities dictate against him keeping livestock of any sort. “
“I’m not religious.” I interjected, feeling I should at least try to keep up my end of the conversation.
“No more am I. In a conventional sense.”
I leant forward. I had never before really formulated my spiritual philosophy into words. This seemed an apposite time to do so.
“I do believe in something, though.” I said. “Another life. A chance to start over. Try again.”
Stefan pursed his lips.
“Indeed? You know, I am so enjoying our conversation. You are, I think, an extremely interesting person. How should I say this? I feel in some strong way drawn to you. Very often, I do not have the chance to get to know my victims. It is generally not such a good idea. Better, I feel, to keep matters at a distance. Clinical. Impersonal. Professional.”
“I can see your point.” I moved closer and spoke in a more confidential tone, even though there was no one to overhear. “Actually, I’m rather glad you dropped by.”
“You are?” Stefan raised his eyebrows. “That, in my experience, is most unusual.”
“The fact is, Stefan; my life’s in a bit of a mess.”
“Is that so? I am sorry to hear it.”
I took a deep breath.
“Well, more than a bit of a mess, actually. A complete shambles. Total meltdown. “
“Would you like to talk it through? You will, I feel sure, feel so much better to get it off your breast.”
“Chest.”
“Of course. Forgive me. My command of the colloquial still leaves something to be desired.”
“”If you don’t mind?’
“Fire away, my friend.”
“Well, the fact is, in the last week and a half I’ve lost my father, my job and my girlfriend. I’m also in some financial difficulties and am suffering from a painful and recurring ingrowing toenail.” I paused. “In addition I have been cursed with an unusually small penis.”
Stefan gave a snort of laughter, then controlled himself.
“I beg your pardon. A slight head cold.”
“Don’t worry. I ought to try and see the funny side of these things too. It might help to take the sting out of them. Only the other day my doctor warned me I could be heading for a heart attack if I don’t cut down my stress levels. And I’m only twenty-eight. Quite frankly, life doesn’t seem worth living any more.”
By the end of this statement, I could feel my face turning quite pink with emotion.
“You are becoming heated, my friend. Please try to relax. Although I can understand how you feel under such circumstances, even though I do not personally know the meaning of stress.”
“Don’t you? I’m surprised. While I appreciate that English is not your native tongue, you speak it extremely well. Stress is the –
Stefan chuckled gently.
“You misunderstand me. I know quite well the literal meaning of the word. I merely meant to convey to you, by means of an euphemism, that I myself do not, and have never, personally suffered from stress.”
“Really? In that case you’re a lucky man.”
“Indeed. But surely, my friend, there must be some faint pinpoint of light at the end of your tunnel? A glimmer of silver lining along the edge of your black cloud?”
“Not as far as I can see.”
Stefan sat for a moment in silence, as if toying with a weighty decision. He then reached inside his jacket and removed the revolver that I had briefly glimpsed earlier.
“As a gesture of goodwill between us, I will place my weapon on this table, an equal distance from us both.”
“But what if I try to grab it. And shoot you?”
“I trust that you won’t. In any case, my friend, I am fortunate to have the reflexes of a cobra.”
My eyes filled with tears. I had rarely felt more comfortable in the company of another human being. This man I hardly knew seemed to like me more than most people I had known for a lifetime. I looked away, to avoid embarrassing my companion. Stefan seemed to sense my discomfort. Adroitly, he changed the subject.
“I see you have a most handsome chess set.”
“Yes. It belonged to my late father. Do you play?”
“A little. I am familiar with the moves. You?”
“Not really.”
“Shall we play, perhaps, while we talk?”
I shrugged. A mere game of chess could hardly increase my feeling of surreality any further.
“If you like.” I fetched the chessboard and set it down on the coffee table between us. “Black or white?”
“I will take white, if you don’t mind?”
“Not at all. First move to you, then.”
“Thank you.” Stefan moved the king’s pawn forward two squares and sat back to admire his handiwork.
“So, you were telling me about your life. How it has regrettably gone awry.”
“I don’t want to bore you with my troubles.”
“Fear not, my friend. I have a very high boredom threshold.”
“You know, this rather reminds me of that film.”
“To which movie do you refer?
“You know the one. The Seventh Seal.”
“Ah, yes.” Stefan smiled. “Directed by my distinguished compatriot, Mr Ingmar Bergmann and starring another cultural giant amongst my race, Mr Max Von Sydow?
“That’s it.”
Stefan closed his eyes.
“An existential 1957 film about the journey of a medieval knight across a plague-ridden landscape. Its best-known scene, as you intimate, features the knight playing chess with the personification of Death, his life resting on the outcome of the game. It is, of course, a movie that has long been regarded as a masterpiece of world cinema.”
“Yes. So you’ve seen it?”
“In fact, no.”
I laughed. “Me neither.”
“Another curious thing we have in common. As in the movie, I would like to be able to offer you clemency if you were to win. But I must remain faithful to my contract. You understand?”
“Of course.” I fondled the head of my one remaining bishop. “I wouldn’t want you to betray a confidence, but I would like to know why you have been commissioned to kill me?”
“I’m sorry, my friend. I must of course maintain discretion at all times. It is my stock in trade.”
“I appreciate that. Perhaps if I were to mention a name, you could give some subtle indication? A nod of the head? The flicker of an eyelid?’’
Stefan looked at me without speaking across the chessboard, his face inscrutable to an almost Oriental degree.
“I can think of several people who’d rather I was dead. But I expect it’s Gordon Corelli?”
“Why do you assume that?”
“He’s my boss, or at least my former boss. I used to work for him. I gave him what I thought, and was led to believe, was a red-hot tip. It backfired rather dramatically. So he sacked me. I also know a couple of pieces of information about him that he would rather keep to himself. It would probably be much more convenient for him if I was no longer around.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. He did suggest that I should watch my back. I forgot to.”
“Rest assured, my friend. It would not have made any difference. I have erased a number of people who paid a legion of bodyguards and minders to watch their backs. It did not help any of them in the least. Your move.”
“What? Oh, yes. Sorry.”
I hastily pushed my remaining knight into the path of the gunman’s oncoming queen.
“Are you quite sure that you wish to do that?”
“Hell, why not? I’m doomed anyway.”
“But perhaps you have a subtle master plan that I have thus far failed to fathom. Perhaps this seemingly thoughtless sacrifice is merely part of a trap you have set for me.”
I laughed.
“If only.”
Stefan viewed me with suspicion.
“There is, I think, more to you than one can ascertain with the naked eye.”
“I wish. In actual fact there’s probably a lot less.”
“I enjoy a game of cat and mouse, my friend. But who is the cat here, and whom the mouse?”
I felt a mild spasm of pride. This clear-eyed, cool-headed killer appeared to have rather more respect for me than most of the people I had encountered in my shambolic existence thus far. Perhaps I wasn’t after all quite the lurching disaster that popular opinion seemed to suggest.
Stefan moved a white chess piece and then looked up at me.
“I can tell you, my friend, that you are mistaken.”
“How d’you mean?”
“Whilst the name Corelli is certainly not unfamiliar to me, he is not in this instance the architect of your misfortune.”
“Really?” I frowned. “I would certainly have placed good money on it being him. How odd.”
Stefan chuckled.
“So, who then did commission you to liquidate me?”
“I am afraid I can not in all conscience mention any names.”
“I’m so small-time in every respect that it’s a surprise anyone would bother to go to such trouble, not to mention expense. I’d imagine your services don’t come cheap?”
“Far from it.”
“Then I’m completely stumped.”
Stefan formed his fingers into a triangle and rested his lips on them for a moment.
“I think I might be permitted to reveal that it is all to do with a certain young lady in whom my client has an interest. A keen interest. And apparently the same young lady has been displaying an interest in you. From my slim acquaintanceship with the gentleman, he appears to be a man who dislikes to find obstacles in his path. Whilst he did not volunteer a name, he did describe her quite graphically. Tall. Lithesome. Lustrous dark hair. Eyes like the barrels of a shotgun. Body like a Grand Prix circuit. These were his exact words, if I recall correctly.”
“Candida.”
“If you say so, my friend.”
“So, in that case, your employer must be Mr X.”
“That is not the name he signed at the bottom of my cheque, I am happy to say. It must be assumed he uses an alias.”
“But wait a minute, Stefan.” I said, putting a hand on his arm and arresting him in mid move. “Candida has only just this moment dumped me.”
“You mean that your relationship with her is at an end?”
“Completely and utterly.”
Stefan let out a low and tuneless whistle.
“That certainly puts a different physiognomy on matters.”
Complexion.”
“Pardon me?”
“We normally say complexion.”
“I see. I will remember that. Thank you.”
Stefan rose to his feet and began pacing the room with long lithesome strides; back and forth, back and forth.
“And what are your feelings now towards this Candida?”
“Quite frankly, I’m still mad about her. I know now she has been using me all along, but I simply don’t care.”
“She certainly sounds as if she has the power to bewitch a man. So, you are still fond of her?”
“Yes. I am still fond of her. I have been fond of her from the moment I first knew she existed. I will continue to be fond of her up till the instant you pull that trigger. And beyond - if there is a beyond.”
“It seems though that she does not … reciprocate in full?”
“I thought she did. Until a couple of days ago. It turns out that I was making a total fool of myself.”
“I sense that you are becoming distressed, my friend. Please consider the advice of your doctor.”
“Hang my doctor!”
“I would be happy to do so. If the remuneration is satisfactory.” Stefan gave a short laugh. “I think your very evident natural flair for dark humour is beginning to infect me. I am not normally so … droll.”
I sprang to my feet and also began pacing the room. This put Stefan under pressure to cease his own pacing. The room wasn’t really wide enough for two to pace in comfort and, as it was my room, Stefan clearly deemed it diplomatic to surrender his pacing rights. He sat down again and instead followed my pacings with the keen attention of a spectator at a tennis match. Suddenly I halted in mid pace, causing Stefan to jar his neck slightly.
“But look here.” I said. “If X only wants me dead so that he can get his hands on Candida, then there’s no need for you to kill me.”
Stefan sighed.
“There you have a point, my friend. I should imagine that all bets are now off. The contract is rendered null and void. I will of course return the deposit payment to the man you refer to as Mr X.”
I put an end to my pacing.
“Not so fast, Stefan.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“There’s an irony to all of this, you know.”
“In what respect?”
“As I mentioned earlier, my life is in a complete mess. So much so, I’ve actually been giving serious consideration to the idea of killing myself. I had pretty much come to the conclusion that death was the only sensible way forward.”
“Is this really true, Ralph?”
“Very.”
“It is certainly a striking if somewhat macabre coincidence. Would you not agree?”
“Yes. In fact, just before you arrived I was reviewing various methods of ending it all. The trouble is, though, I wouldn’t know how to go about it. I’d be certain to bungle the job. Shoot myself in the foot, rather than the head. Swallow an overdose of laxatives rather than painkillers. Jump off a tall building and land on a carefree passer by; killing them outright, but only rendering myself quadriplegic. However, if I were to find myself in the middle of the road and a bus was bearing down on me, I’d certainly be inclined to stand my ground.”
Stefan winced.
“That is a most unsettling pronouncement, my friend.”
“Not for you, surely? You must be well accustomed to sudden death.”
“In general, yes. But death by bus takes me outside my comfort zone.”
“This may sound ridiculous in the circumstances, but I’ve always thought of myself as a cheerful person. True, I’ve never amounted to much. My past is liberally sprinkled with small disasters and minor humiliations. I’ve always set my sights on high achievement. I seriously believed that one day I would achieve great things. It just hasn’t happened. Nevertheless, until quite recently I’d even go so far as to call myself reasonably contented. But not any more.”
“So, what action did you propose to take to resolve this unfortunate state of affairs?”
“Quite frankly I was stumped. Until, that is, you turned up. Like some kind of guardian angel.”
“Me? A guardian angel? I don’t think so, my friend. An angel of death, perhaps.”
“Exactly. You are an expert in the field. I feel sure I can trust you to make it as swift and painless as possible.”
“Forgive me, my friend. Are you suggesting that I should after all exterminate you?”
“Yes, of course. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
“It was. But we have now established that this is based on a false premise. I can hardly continue with the contract when the reason for it has already been removed. Integrity is my watchword. Mr X would no longer feel happy to settle my account, I am thinking.”
“Then I’ll pay you to do it. I can’t afford much, I’m afraid. But perhaps I could give you some of my possessions as well? This chess set, for instance. You admired it earlier.”
“Indeed. But I find that, in reality, I am not so very fond of chess. And we have both, I think, proved ourselves to be extremely bad players. The most likely outcome to our game would be for one of us to put himself into checkmate.”
“You’re probably right there. But, to return to the point, Stefan, you would be doing me a considerable favour. I’m not frightened of death itself. But I don’t much like the idea of dying. And I’ve also heard it said that suicides are forced to come back and live their lives all over again. Without the benefit of hindsight. I’d rather not risk having to go through all this a second time. I think I’d rather start afresh with a blank canvas. Have another go from scratch.”
“I am genuinely sorry, my friend. I sympathise with your most unfortunate plight, of course. But I fear I cannot be of help to you.”
“Why ever not? It’s what you do, isn’t it?”
“The fact is, Ralph, over this short period of time together I have come to like you too much. I feel strangely in thrall to you. If I was of a more sexual disposition, I sincerely believe that I would find myself almost overcome with attraction for you. To kill you now would be anathema to me, akin to slaying mine own brother. In any case, I must now be going. My next assignment, you understand?”
“But it’s you who doesn’t seem to understand, Stefan. You’d be doing me an enormous favour. I can tell you are an honourable man. Kindly do me the honour of despatching me from this world. I simply haven’t the guts to do it myself. And I know I can count on you to make a good job of it. What were the words you used? Clinical. Impersonal. Professional.”
“Thank you for the most generous compliment. But I’m sorry that I must disappoint you. For the first time in my career I find myself quite unable to execute my commission. To terminate you in cold blood, after the most excellent hospitality you have extended to me would not be the behaviour of a gentleman.”
I stood over the assassin, hands outstretched in appeal.
“Please, Stefan. I’m begging you. I insist that you complete your assignment.”
“I’m sorry, my friend. I find it impossible to do so.”
“But you must. I no longer wish to go on living. You are here to kill me. I fail to see the problem.”
“I am empathetic to your point of view, of course. But the truth is, I now see you as a friend. I never, repeat never, combine business with pleasure. It is a strict rule of mine.
“Alright then, I’ll do it myself.”
I leapt forward and snatched up the revolver from the coffee table, dislodging a few chessmen as I did so.
“No!” Exclaimed Stefan, his pristine coolness disturbed for the first time. “Put the gun down please, my friend.”
I felt a surge of elation and power as I brandished the pistol like a hero of the Old West.
“Sorry, Stefan. No can do.”
Stefan reached out an open hand towards me.
“Please, Ralph! It is my gun. I gave you my trust.”
I giggled.
“But our circumstances were different then. You trusted me not to shoot you, rather than myself.”
“You are endeavouring to confound me with semantics. I ask you, as one bad chess player to another, lay the gun down. Please.”
“I’m afraid it’s too late for that. Goodbye Stefan. It was nice to know you.”
“Stop!”
I raised the gun to my head. The silencer made it difficult to work with. While I was wrestling with this problem, the Swede launched himself in a low rugby tackle, taking my legs from under me. We rolled across the carpet, Stefan making grabs for the gun while I tried with difficulty to keep it out of range.
“Jävlar!” Gasped Stefan, lapsing into his native tongue for the first time. “You are stronger than you look.”
“Well, I’m fighting for my life.” I panted, my face pressed against the leg of a mahogany sideboard. “Let ... me … go!”
Stefan shifted his grip till my gunless arm felt in danger of parting company with its shoulder.
“I can’t … do that … my friend.“
Suddenly, with a discrete phfffttt, as the gun went off. Stefan fell backwards across the rug.
“Oh my God!” I gasped. “Stefan! Are you all right? What have I done? Stefan! STEFAN!”
For a moment the Swede lay still. Then, with a groan, he pulled himself upright.
“It’s okay.” His voice sounded groggy. “The bullet has only grazed my forehead. Around the temple region. The impact knocked me senseless for a moment or two. There is a fair amount of blood, but it is, in truth, no more than a flesh wound. But please. No more madness. Now I must leave. I have work to attend to. The gun please, my friend.”
Chastened by this near homicide, I handed Stefan the gun. Stefan returned it to the discrete holster beneath his left arm and turned towards the door, holding a handkerchief to his head.
“Don’t go.” I was almost weeping with frustration and despair. “You have work to do here. You can’t just leave. You have got to kill me!”
“Enough. I cannot do it. I am sorry.”
I could feel an anti-cyclone of hysteria rising up inside me.
“But you must. Don’t walk out on me.”
Stefan continued towards the door. I snatched up a vase and threw it wildly at his departing back. It missed by a whisker and smashed to pieces against the wall. I picked up its matching pair and prepared for another attack.
Stefan turned back towards me, a look of exasperation troubling his placid countenance. I let fly again. He ducked.
“Hey! Stop throwing stuff. You are one crazy guy!
“Kill me.” I yelled, reaching for another missile. “I beg you!”
“Easy, Ralph. That last vase nearly hit me.”
“Well, shoot then.”
Stefan let out a sigh.
“Very well, my friend. You win.”
He withdrew the gun from inside his jacket, took two steps towards me and put the barrel to my head. I closed my eyes and braced myself for oblivion.
Here's some more of my shorter fiction
Meeting The Celebrity
Famous people have always filled me with both excitement and dread, in roughly equal measure. It’s not that I move in the kind of circles that stars generally frequent. Rather the opposite. The nearest I come to most celebrities is the wrong side of a TV screen. Once in a blue moon I recognise someone famous in the street - a pop star or a comedian. I’d never dream of speaking to them, only of gawping as they disappear in the opposite direction.
I’m not that I’m odd or anything - at least not in any ordinary way. My wife Jean doesn’t understand my obsession with famous people, or why I like to hang around outside theatres and night clubs and the Houses of Parliament. If I was any good with a camera, I might make a successful paparazzo. But I’m not.
As a matter of fact, I’m an ombudsman by profession. From a very early age I was strongly attracted to this career, even though I never really understood what it entailed. Initially, I thought it must involve the management, rounding up or collecting with a view to selling on at a profit, of ombuds. By the time I realised my mistake, it was too late to change tack. Don’t get me wrong. It’s a job with many benefits. Prestige. The satisfaction of representing the small man against the system. But that’s another, duller story.
Let me return to the main thrust of this narrative. Every Christmas, two friends of ours, the Appledores, invite us and all their other friends to their Christmas party. I’m not all that good in company but normally, after a couple of drinks, I can relax sufficiently to make reasonably coherent conversation.
Anyway, the Appledores have another friend who appears quite often on television. We’ve been going to this party for the last five years, and so has he. Each year I feel a strong urge to go up to him and say hello. But then my natural reticence gets the better of me. For all I know, the Famous Guest may be a thoroughly pleasant chap with no airs and graces and a ready line in show business anecdote and reminiscence.
Dogged by insecurities too numerous to catalogue, I decided to bypass the famous guest the first year our paths almost crossed. As the following year’s party approached I resolved to take the plunge, break the ice, grasp the nettle, seize the bull by the horns and other clichés of that ilk. However, when the opportunity presented itself I pulled out at the last minute like a startled show jumper faced with a triple oxer, earning myself three imaginary penalty points for a refusal. Of course no one but me noticed this shameful performance. Nevertheless, the feebleness of my effort lingered on stubbornly within me for some time afterwards.
By the time the next Christmas party rolled round, I was hoping for a blizzard, a flu epidemic, a freak attack of killer locusts or anything else that might force a cancellation. The day drew closer and with it a feeling of mounting dread. I considered a succession of possible opening gambits:
“Come here often?”
“Known the Appledores long?”
“Saw you on the box the other day. You’re a lot shorter in real life.”
Each one caught my fancy for a moment before crumpling itself into a ball and throwing itself into my mental waste paper basket. I was in despair.
“Jean?” I ventured, on the night of the party. “Are you sure we remembered to book a baby-sitter for this evening?”
“No.” She replied calmly. “But then, we don’t have any children.”
I could see her point. I tried another tack.
“I’m not sure I can make it after all.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not feeling too well.”
“Since when?”
“Oh, just now, actually.”
“Nonsense. You don't look any worse than usual. You’ll feel better once you’re out.”
One of the things I resent about Jean is the way she always insists on winning every debate. It would be more sporting, in my view, to let me win occasionally.
So we went and, as expected, it was a nightmare. I spent the early part of the evening avoiding the FG, sometimes retreating from a conversation in mid sentence when he gravitated too close for comfort. Once I even took cover underneath the cloth on the table where the buffet was laid out, startling a female guest by reappearing unexpectedly next to her ankles a few minutes later. Then, feeling ashamed of my cowardice and fortified by a few drinks, I adopted the opposite tack. Somehow, however, I just couldn’t get a word in sideways. People kept interrupting, pushing in front of me, or thrusting canapés into my mouth just as I had opened it to speak to the great man.
Then, all of a sudden I found myself with a clear shot at him. The room parted and our eyes locked. He peered at me, head slightly on one side, a half smile toying with his lips. For a moment I fought the urge to turn tail but then the inner steel in my soul, for so long dormant, asserted itself. I executed a couple of throat-clearances and plunged.
“Hello.” I said, with barely a wobble.
As opening salvoes go, it was hard to fault but, from the slightly raised eyebrow that greeted this witticism, I could tell that he expected more of me. With mounting concern, I scoured my cranial databank for follow-up remarks. Something had clearly crashed on the hard drive. Maybe a virus had gobbled up the spontaneous repartee for which I was known and admired in the confines of my own bathroom. But then inspiration came. Beaming with relief and newfound confidence, I opened my mouth to give utterance. But, before I could speak, I felt my elbow seized in an intransigent and pincer-like grip.
“Come on, George.” It was Jean. “Time to go home.”
My mouth shut with an audible snap. The moment had passed. The melee closed round us, sweeping the FG away for another year.
“And I suppose you expect me to drive?”
“No.” I replied, sulkily.
“How many drinks have you had?”
“Not many.”
“Several too many, by my calculation.”
Had she really been keeping count all evening? Well, she would certainly have missed the one I had under the buffet table.
The next year passed. November gave way to December, and this time I knew I could do it. On my initiative, we were the first to arrive. Jean never likes being early for things. Or late. But I closed my ears to her mutterings, pulled back my shoulders and composed my features into an expression as close to urbane worldliness as as a face like mine can manage.
It was clear that the FG had not yet arrived. In fact, no one had. Jack Appledore was still in his dressing gown and Margery in curlers. Jean could hardly stop apologising long enough to fix me with a dirty look. But I felt resolute. I was there for one reason alone. This was my time. I took up a position close to the entrance that gave me ample cover but a wide field of fire.
“Your friend, ah, Whathisname … coming this year? Is he?” I lisped casually as Jack hurried by on an errand. Of course he was. How could he not be?
And yes, he did come. And so did Mrs FG. And it was … wonderful! I plied the great man with some of my best lines. And he laughed like a madcap, countering with his own inimitable stories and japes. And I laughed like a whole roomful of madcaps. We toasted each other copiously in our host’s best liquor, agreed that we’d not enjoyed the party nearly so much in previous years. The atmosphere never flagged, even when Jean said it was time to go home and did I expect her to drive again?
The FG and I pledged to meet for lunch in town as soon as the Christmas holiday was over. I half expected him not to turn up, but he did. Apparently he’d never met an ombudsman before and seemed to find the whole notion hilarious. We soon took to meeting regularly. He even offered me a column in his satirical magazine – ‘An Ombudsman Writes…’. He and his colleagues apparently love it, as do their readers.
This Christmas we will be holding a party. And the FG and his wife will be the Guests of Honour.
Exeter
“Oh, and this is Urqhart.” Said my brother, as we walked out of Southampton University. I looked at his companion. He had long hair above an expressionless face. I wondered if anyone had ever told him to get his urqhart.
We strolled up the hill to where my car was parked. My brother pointed at it and laughed, as usual.
Now. I’m fond of my car and I don’t like fun being poked at it. Added to this, I had agreed to drive Piers and his friend Urquhart all the way to Exeter. Piers can always get me to do exactly what he wants, however inconvenient. He has enormous powers of persuasion. In this case, he convinced me that it was a perfect opportunity to visit my boyfriend, who was in his first term at the university. So convincing was he that I almost came to believe this was the main reason for the journey, rather than the fact that he wanted to play in a rugby match with some old school friends who were also studying there. It transpired that his own far superior car was in dry dock, as a result of its highly strung sporting instincts or delicate sensibilities or something.
We set off in the traditional manner; with me behind the wheel pumping the pedals like crazy and Piers and Urquhart pushing. Whenever possible, especially when alone, I would make sure I was parked pointing downhill, so that I could execute a jump start unaided.
The journey to Exeter took us about five hours, not including three short pit stops; two for refreshments and one to retrieve a windscreen wiper that flew off during one of several intermittent showers. During the journey, Urquhart said barely a word, merely emitting an occasional burst of gruff laughter from the back seat at some idiotic utterance from my brother. Piers compensated in full for his friend’s taciturnity by talking incessantly about anything and everything. To be fair, he is articulate and funny; as befits a law student heading for the bar. But he is not, in my view at least, quite as articulate and funny as he thinks he is.
On several occasions he tossed in throw-away comments that struck me on a raw nerve. He has a habit of making disparaging remarks about our father in front of other people, referring to him as ‘the senile old buffer'. Father is in fact a senior High Court judge and, despite occasional efforts to prove himself otherwise, nobody’s fool. I’m fond of him and find this lack of respect offensive. But it’s fruitless to challenge Piers, as this only encourages him to become still more caustic. Furthermore he quickly latched onto the admittedly very conspicuous spot that had surfaced on my left cheek as soon as the idea of a romantic trip to the West Country had arisen. I hadn’t seen James for six weeks, so I was particularly anxious to look my best. The spot had reared its ugly head a few days earlier. Initially I had hopes that it would run its course before the weekend. But, far from fading, it grew in diameter and angriness until it practically glowed in the dark. It seemed to eclipse the rest of my face, which I like to think is normally reasonably pleasant to behold. I showed admirable restraint for as long as possible in resisting the urge to attack it head on. But then, in a burst of frustration, I succumbed and gave it a vicious squeezing. When the pain had subsided and the tears stopped streaming from my eyes, I inspected my handiwork. The spot was now about twice as visible and throbbing like a nuclear reactor.
Now, every time I happened to glance in the rear view mirror, I’d catch another glimpse of this monstrosity. I’d tried to conceal it with make-up, restyle my hair to cover it and wear my glasses so far down my nose that it was obscured by the frame. These ploys only served to draw attention to it. Piers, typically, found it highly amusing.
“Wow, Lou! That’s a humdinger of a shag spot you’ve got there. Thinking of exhibiting it at the County Show?”
I ignored him, but inside the bloody boil was making my blood boil.
We made it to Exeter eventually. James was living in Hall on campus, in a tiny room with a ludicrously small bed, as I had discovered on my one previous visit. Every movement had to be synchronised, otherwise one or both of us would end up on the floor. I had arranged to see him that evening, after his final lecture. My excitement was tinged with slight nervousness. Conducting a relationship from such a distance wasn’t all that easy. We’d been going out together for half a year, and had spent a month travelling together round Greece during the summer holidays. I’d stayed at home and gone to the local art college. I couldn’t help wondering how having a distant girlfriend fitted into his new and alien environment.
I dropped Piers and Urquhart off at the cottage their friends shared on the outskirts of the city and headed onto campus. After several wrong turns and misleading directions from passing students, I found my way to his hall of residence. When I reached his room James was hovering anxiously, like an expectant father outside a maternity ward. I hoped this tension was due to eager anticipation. He kissed me on my unencumbered cheek, considered braving the other one and decided against it. I could understand him feeling a little nervous. I certainly was.
We made a bit of small talk. I passed on some messages from home, told him a couple of anecdotes from my life at art college. He gave me a few details of his academic and sporting life. Once we’d exhausted the social niceties, I stood up, assuming we’d be heading out on the town for a few drinks and a bite to eat; before returning to his rooms to make up for lost time.
“Well;” I started, retrieving from the bed my new cream jacket, bought especially and extravagantly for the trip. “Where are you taking me?”
James shifted uneasily, but remained seated.
“Lou, sit down again for a second; could you, please?” His normally humorous face was tense. For a moment, I wondered if he was going to propose. Wow! I hadn’t anticipated anything like that. We’d known each other for years, before we started going out. I knew I loved him, but I wasn’t quite sure I was ready to make such a big commitment so early on in my further education. Still, a longish engagement wouldn’t do any harm. I smiled encouragingly.
“The thing is, Lou;” continued James, taking both my hands in his and trying not to look at my spot. “I don’t know how to say this, but …”
“Go on, James.” I urged him.
“Well, in a nutshell … I’ve met someone else.”
I felt my smile atrophy. Had I heard him correctly? Perhaps he was joking? No. I could read all too clearly in his eyes that he was serious. For a bizarre moment I wondered whether it was the spot. But it was evident that he had been steeling himself for this moment.
“Look, I’m really sorry, babe. I was going to tell you when I next came home. But when you said you were coming down …”
A strange emptiness filled me, almost like being frozen. James’ eyes filled with tears. I felt a little sorry for him. He’s a kind man at heart.
“Well.” I said. It’s all that really came to mind. “So.”
”I’d like to stay friends.” Continued James, looking increasingly like a Labrador that has just eaten the Sunday joint. “You’re such a great person, and I’ll always love you. But …”
“It’s okay, James. I understand. Don’t worry.”
“Look, we can still go out tonight. If you’d like to?”
“No, no. It’s fine. I’ll … head on back.”
“To Southampton? You can’t do that.”
“No. I suppose not. Well, then; I’ll stay with Piers’ friends. They’ve got a big enough place. Anyway, I think he’s relying on me for a lift home on Sunday."
“God, I’m sorry. What a mess!”
“Forget it. I hope you’ll be very happy.”
Then he did have a bit of a blub. I’d not seen him cry before. He’s a public school type and looked faintly ridiculous, which is probably why I didn’t join in. I was glad I’d left my overnight bag in the car.
“Well, bye then; James. I’ll probably see you around. In the holidays, or something.”
I let myself out, feeling rather stunned.
For a while I sat in the car in the dark. Then, slowly and with exaggerated care, I drove back to the cottage. Oddly, the car started on first turn of the ignition, as if it sensed that this was not the time for any nonsense. Piers and his friends greeted me with some jocularity. They’d clearly already drunk several beers as a prelude to taking in the town.
“What’s up, Lou?” Chortled Piers. “Been dumped already?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“He’s found someone else”
“Seriously? Shit! The bastard. Shall we go round and beat the crap out of him?”
“No. But thanks for the offer.”
“No trouble. Well, in that case you better get your drinking boots on and come out with us instead.”
So I did, and had a surprisingly enjoyable evening, all things considered. When we returned to the cottage, each of them in turn insisted on me having his room. Several were even prepared to sleep elsewhere. Considering my more than passing resemblance to the Elephant Man, I thought that pretty sporting of them, Eventually I opted to sleep on the sofa, covered in an eclectic mixture of bedclothes; including a quilt, various sets of curtains and the threadbare hearthrug. Even so, I was only just warm enough to drop off to sleep. I dreamt, contentedly, that I was someone else.
In the morning I awoke as soon as daylight dribbled through the uncurtained windows. I went to the bathroom straight away, to inspect my spot. It was clearly visible even without the light on, glaring angrily back at me from the spidery shaving mirror.
One by one, the residents surfaced. It seemed appropriate that I should cook them breakfast, from the oddly assorted ingredients on offer. They finally settled down to a spam and anchovy omelette, with fried parsnips and maple syrup. Graciously, they claimed it was the best breakfast they’d eaten as students.
Afterwards, so as to avoid becoming a nuisance, I decided to take myself off round the shops.
“Hey!” they chorused. “Don’t forget that we’ve got a rugby game on this afternoon. We’ll be mortally offended if you don’t come and support us.”
I wandered from boutique to boutique, lonely as any twenty year old spinster with a skin problem, trying not to catch my reflection in any mirrors or shop windows. Bit by bit, the first real feelings of desolation began to creep over me. I took an armful of clothes into the changing booth of one shop, drew the curtain, sat down facing away from the full length looking glass and burst into noisy sobs. After a while an anxious shop assistant peeped round the curtain.
“Not found anything you like?”
At that point I decided to give clothes a miss and browsed several book and music shops instead. Without fail, everything seemed to bring back some unwelcome memory of James. It was a relief when the morning finally came to an end. After coffee and a sandwich, I went in search of the rugby fields.
The weather had taken a turn for the worse. By the time I had located the pitch, an icy drizzle had set in. Watching rugby hadn’t been part of my original weekend game plan, so I was not equipped with the right outfit. I was wearing a blouse, a thin cardigan and my new and expensive cream jacket. My shoes were more designed for dancing than muddy spectating.
There weren’t many other spectators. I found myself alongside a hearty, red-faced young woman who seemed to belong to one of the opposition. She had come better prepared than me, with a large umbrella and a sheepskin coat that looked as if it could repel bullets; plus matching hat, scarf, gloves and boots. I could feel the dampness seeping up through the soles of my shoes and in through my flimsy clothing. After half an hour I was soaked right through and shaking like a road drill operator.
“Cold?” Enquired my companion, peering at me curiously from inside her thermal–plating. A rivulet of rainwater ran off the tip of her umbrella down the back of my neck.
“No.” I shuddered. “It's early onset Parkinson’s.”
She edged away quickly, in case it was contagious.
By the half- time whistle I had had more than enough of rain, rugby and ruddy faces and quit.
I returned to my car and, pausing only to have another good cry, bump started it down a convenient incline and drove back to the cottage. Still shivering, I lit the fire, which seemed to be the house’s only source of heat, and draped my soaking jacket over a leatherette poof to dry. I was in the process of changing the rest of my wet clothes when the front door opened and an unusually pretty girl wandered in.
“Don’t mind me, “she said. “I’ll make us a cup of tea.”
By the time she returned, I was dressed in my spare outfit and huddled under some of my erstwhile bedclothes in front of the fire.
“You look kind of miserable. What’s wrong?”
So I told her. She was a good listener, offering sympathetic noises, comforting words and a handkerchief at appropriate moments.
“So, what’s the name of this dirty dog, then?” She asked, once I had poured every last drop of confidence into her absorbent ear.
“James.”
“James?" She looked startled. "James what?”
“James Drake.”
There was a silence.
“Oh, dear!” Said my new friend at length. “That is rather awkward. I’m afraid I must declare a personal interest at this point.”
No. Surely not. Surely she couldn’t really be the scarlet woman? The vile temptress? The siren that had lured my man onto the rocks, or into the whirlpool, or whatever? We were about to proceed to the next level in our discussions when a smell of burning plastic stopped us in our tracks simultaneously.
“What’s that smell?” She asked, wrinkling her unnecessarily pretty nose.
“It’s … my jacket!”
Sure enough, a column of smoke was spiralling ceilingwards from the back of my brand new fashion statement. I snatched it up, taking the melted poof with it. The two items were now indelibly melded to one another. I tore them apart, leaving a ragged hole in the lining. I turned the jacket round. Its cream perfection now featured a vivid orange blemish in the exact area between the shoulder blades where an assassin would stick a sharp blade.
By the time we had cleared the room of acrid smoke, we had almost forgotten about our entwined histories and unfinished business.
“Phew!!” I remarked, taking off my steamed-up glasses and slipping them into the front pocket of my jeans.
“Let’s have a drink.” Suggested my fellow fire-fighter whose name, it transpired, was Amanda.
“Good idea!”
I slumped back onto the sofa. There was a soft crunch.
I felt in my pocket. My glasses came out in two roughly symmetrical pieces.
Now I can muddle through fairly adequately in a social setting without my glasses but anything requiring precise vision, such as driving a car, is pretty much out of the question. Unless my schedule was to change drastically, I needed to be on the road back home early on Sunday morning. I inspected the pieces. The divorce was absolute, It was as if they had never been once joined in matrimonial harmony, or even on nodding terms.
“What’s happened now?” Asked Amanda, returning with two lurid cocktails.
“I’ve broken my glasses.”
“You’re not having much luck are you? Glasses, jacket, heart. Well, at least that’s three things. In my experience, troubles always seem to come in threes.”
“I’m glad to hear it. They tend to come in multiples of three in my case.”
At that moment, all hell broke loose.
The front door burst open and a canister came rolling across the floor towards us. Within seconds we were engulfed in dense smoke. I stumbled blindly about, choking; until I cannoned into something soft. It was Amanda.
“What the hell is going on?” I gasped. At that point I felt myself swamped by something that wasn’t quite liquid and yet not quite solid. Through the confusion I could hear whoops and hysterical laughter and see flashes of coloured light through the smog.
And then, as suddenly as it had started, it was over.
The noise abated. The smoke dispersed. I found myself standing in the hall, covered from top to bottom in white foam. The door of the hall cupboard opened tentatively and Amanda peered out. She burst into peels of laughter.
“Sorry! But you look like the abominable snowman.”
“What happened?”
“Oh, just a raid. They’re a fairly frequent occurrence. Nothing to worry about. This lot probably did them last week. No hard feelings. Just a bit of fun.”
I inspected myself. My eyes were smarting. My only change of clothes was plastered to me with damp foam.
“You do look a sight.”
Just then a convoy of cars pulled up and a high-spirited crowd of mud-spattered rugby footballers, led by the ever vociferous Piers, bustled inside. Between them they sported a variety of black eyes, fat lips, bloodied noses and cauliflowered ears.
“Hey!” called out one of the housemates, surveying the damage with critical appreciation. “They got us back then. I knew they wouldn’t let it lie.”
“Yeah, but no one was in. How hilarious is that?”
“We were in,” Said Amanda.
“You don’t count. You’re only visiting. It has to be us to register.”
Piers removed some foam from my fringe.
“What a gas! You’d never have had this much fun with that boring prat James. You’re really a lot better off without him, Lou. I wonder what kind of air-headed bimbo had the poor taste to take him on?”
I tried to convey by semaphore that he was on sensitive ground, but Amanda was taking care not to listen.
“So, girls; if you wouldn’t mind clearing up your mess, we’ll get cleaned up and hit the town again.”
“Sorry. I’ve got to go.” Said Amanda, retrieving her coat. “I’ve got a …well, you know. An assignation with a certain party. Bye, Lou. Nice to meet you. Sorry about … you know what.”
So I cleaned up the house. And then myself. And then we went out. I found myself thrown together with Urquhart. He was no more forthcoming than previously; but amiably so. Underneath his hair, he was a pretty good-looking guy. I talked to him and he smiled. And sometimes laughed his throaty laugh. And occasionally grunted. Once in a while he would volunteer the odd monosyllable. He wasn’t shy exactly. Just very economical with words.
Later, when curled up underneath my oddly assorted bedclothes, I heard light footsteps approaching. Then a body slid in next to me.
Early on Sunday morning, we set off for home. Piers had a lunch engagement to keep. I managed to rig up my glasses so that they perched precariously on my nose, held in place with paperclips, elastic bands, tape and part of an old scrum cap. The overall effect was faintly grotesque, but worked okay in practice.
We dropped Urquhart off first. I could tell from the smile he gave me that I’d be hearing from him again.
“He seems to quite like you, for some reason.” Said Piers, as we set off again.
“D’you think so?” I kept my voice dispassionate. I desperately wanted to bombard Piers with all sorts of questions about him, but couldn’t risk incurring his mirth.
“What does he do?” I eventually asked in a throw-away manner.
“He’s some kind of medical student.”
“Oh, yes?” I tried to remove any interest from my voice. “What branch of medicine is he going into?”
I could feel Piers looking at me hard from the passenger seat. “Dermatology, I expect.”
My last glimpse of Piers was in the rear view mirror, standing indignantly by the side of the road with his overnight bag; in the middle of nowhere, becoming smaller and smaller as I drove away.
The Same Coin
There was something about them, John Chalk and Edward Cheese. Not their real names, of course. But that’s what they ought to have been called (if you've ever tried writing on a blackboard with a piece of cheese or eaten a chalk and pickle sandwich, you'll know what I mean). From the moment they laid eyes on each other, it was hate at first sight. And then, when the issue of Ms Luscious, or Ms Gorgeous (or whatever her real name was) reared its beautiful head, their respective fates were sealed.
The three of us all started at art college on the same day. Evie Gorgeous or Luscious (take your pick) was our tutor. Not much older than us. Not that long out of Art College herself and apparently quite unaware of her aesthetic effect on men. I too could feel her gravitational pull, but not quite to the same extent as Ed and Johnny.
Let me try and describe the two of them to you. Edward was stocky and just below medium height. He looked and dressed older than his years. His hair was short and properly parted. He wore frameless glasses and would have seemed more at home in an accountancy firm than an art college. His ambition was to go into advertising. He produced perfect still life, landscape and portrait paintings in minute detail with impeccable technique, but precious little soul. In his spare time he drank real ale, played cricket and golf and secretly lusted after women on bicycles. Despite all these shortcomings, he was a pleasant enough companion; with a soft voice, a loud laugh and an open pocket in the student union bar.
Johnny on the other hand, was tall and lean with dark flowing hair, designer stubble, cheekbones and a damn-the-consequences attitude. He openly made fun of Edward’s work, his appearance, his politics, his interests. To be fair, Edward often joined in the laughter, outwardly happy to lampoon himself. But you could tell that many of the barbs hit home.
To say that the two of them competed for Evelyn’s affections would be a graphic understatement. I recall they both did portraits of her, in their own individual styles. Ed’s head and shoulders oil painting showed every nuance and detail, even as far as the tiny blond side-whiskers and the thin livid scar above her right eyebrow. In real life these small imperfections only served to enhance her allure but in Ed’s picture they took on a perverse importance that threw out the balance of the finished work. Also, even though he represented her luminous green eyes with painstaking faithfulness, they lacked the vitality that made her face so captivating in real life.
Johnny’s offering, on the other hand, resembled a particularly nasty head-on traffic accident between Francis Bacon and Lucien Freud as a result of Roy Wittgenstein's reckless driving and Jackson Pollock’s appalling weather conditions.
Evie accepted both favours with characteristically charming detachment.
“How lovely.” She purred. This was an expression that, on her day, she could apply to any situation she hadn’t been following with any real interest, however catastrophic.
The two protagonists were prepared to go to any lengths to outdo each other. In fact, I eventually reached the conclusion that Evie was becoming an almost incidental element in their rivalry - merely a convenient bludgeon with which to beat each other.
You didn’t need a Geiger Counter to record the escalation in tensions. In a fit of near homicidal vindictiveness, Edward squirted an entire tube of cadmium yellow across a painting that John had been working on for several days. Once the deed was done, Ed felt shocked and appalled by his own small-mindedness. Fortunately no one, especially John himself, could distinguish the random yellow streaks from all the other assorted blobs, daubs and splashes already there. If anything the extra vibrancy added a certain quality of lawlessness which John was rather proud of. Unable to recall doing it himself, he assumed he must have been drunk or stoned at the time. Edward shelved the plans he had made for a full confession.
John was no more scrupulous. During a mid term assessment he slipped a savage but clever caricature of the senior lecturer into Edward’s coursework folder. However, the academic’s vanity was so great that he failed to recognise himself as the unnamed but alarmingly ugly and lecherous-looking subject and gave the drawing a respectable mark for technical merit.
My money was on Johnny; on the grounds that he had more style, attitude, flair, front, looks, talent (in all probability) and definitely fewer scruples. Edward’s assaults were crude full-frontal affairs, easy to spot and dodge. Johnny was entirely unpredictable, equally prone to acts of unexpected generosity or vindictiveness He once put glue inside the assistant principal’s beret, framed Edward by leaving the gluepot on his desk and then saved him from serious retribution by owning up to the prank himself. He wept so pitifully and begged for clemency with such passion (he was also a talented actor) that the executive committee not only forgave him but awarded him an alpha minus for the hat-gluing project.
This war of attrition continued throughout the winter semester. John put acid in Ed’s paint, causing him to burn holes in an almost finished canvas. Ed painted a green moustache on one of John’s Picassoesque portraits. John paid the female model to let him scrawl ‘Ed was here’ across her buttock before a life class.
Other students began to take sides. No one could concentrate fully on their work. One of the Chinese students started to run a book on whom would emerge victorious. The only person to remain detached from the unfolding drama was the lovely but other-worldly Evie Juiceworthy herself. Something had to give and, before too long, it did.
It was Friday, lunchtime and also someone’s birthday - a volatile combination. Everyone had repaired to the Laughing Vampire. Drinks were drunk and, by the by, so were we. We stumbled back to college, our artistic sensitivities dangerously over-stoked.
I think it was John that started it. Or possibly Edward. It was certainly one or the other. Either John remarked to Edward that Dante Gabriel Rossetti was in reality a talentless nancy-boy with an unhealthy liking for women’s clothes. Or Edward suggested to John that David Hockney was no more than a northern buffoon who could barely cut it as a painter/decorator. Whoever was in fact the perpetrator, whichever was the truth, it was a comment intended to wound. And it did.
Edward (or was it John?) rounded on his tormentor, brandishing a fully loaded paintbrush. With a vicious slash, he sent a streak of blood red acrylic diagonally across the other's clean white shirt. Reeling from this assault, his opponent snatched up the nearest canvas and smashed it down on (let’s say) John’s unprotected head.
For a moment John staggered under the blow, but recovered himself sufficiently to seize a pallet knife and slice a jagged gash in Edward’s slacks, from knee to groin. Stopping only to stare in horror at this close brush with circumcision, stout Edward stepped back into the breech once more, slamming a handful of modelling clay into John ‘s copious dark locks. Yelling like an art critic, John tipped a pot of gentian emulsion over Edward’s head. Ed countered with a volley of oil pastels in an assortment of colours. By the time the rest of us had reached them, they were rolling about in a sea of paint and canvas, pummelling, gouging, pulling hair and swearing like West Bankers.
And then, into this cauldron of artistic fervour stepped the subject of their angst. Miss Evangelina Bountiful stood in the doorway, inspecting the scene of chaos in front of her with exquisite head on one side and a faint smile playing asymmetrically across her extremely kissable lips.
“Well, well.” She intoned. “What have we here?”
The two pugilists stopped in mid haymaker and turned towards their muse.
“Hmmm.” She mused. "Yes. I like what you've done. But what are you going to call it?”
They looked blankly at her through paint-strewn eyes.
“I think something like ‘Men On Heat’. Maybe ‘Testosterone Rising’. Or possibly ‘Antlers at Dawn’. It’s good, but perhaps needs a dash more Crimson Lake. I don’t know how it will translate into an installation, though. Is anyone filming?”
She looked around at us. We stared back at her. Edward and John slowly hauled themselves to their feet, a kaleidoscope of conflicting colours. They inspected each other for a moment, then burst out laughing.
By some strange quirk they became friends after that. Edward adopted a more bohemian style. John curbed his wilder excesses. The last I heard of them, they had started a creative hot-shop just off Soho Square and were winning big accounts and awards by the dozen.
Me? Who cares about me? And Evie Sumptious (or Lascivious or Voluptuous) or whatever her name really was? Reader, I married her. After all the kafuffle, I had no other option. I may as well come clean. I was that Edward. I was that John.
Dream
I was attending the Oscar ceremony - happy just to be there as someone else’s guest. Savouring the atmosphere. Recognising famous people. But then the actress I liked and admired most in all the world came onto the stage, carrying a gold envelope.
“And the Oscar for Best Original Screenplay goes to … Ralph Bolton!”
“But that’s me!” I thought, staring about me incredulously. I felt stunned. I hadn’t even realised I’d written a screenplay, let alone been nominated for an Oscar. Kisses and slaps on the back rained down on me from the people at my table. They hoisted me to my feet. In a trance of astonishment and pleasure I found my way to the stage. The wonderful actress stood there, beaming at me. The room resounded with applause.
She held out the little gold statuette towards me. Smiling as if I’d swallowed a piano, I reached out to accept the award. Before I could take hold of it, however, she deliberately let it slip from her fingers. The figurine smashed into a thousand pieces on the floor of the stage. She threw back her head and laughed, revealing her perfectly capped teeth and the tiny marks of cosmetic surgery on her neck. The room laughed too. I stood there in the spotlight, bemused and confused. The actress moved smoothly towards me and, in one elegant motion, kneed me hard in the groin. As I slumped, she snarled into the microphone.
“That’s what happens if you think for one moment that a pathetic loser like you could possibly deserve to win an Oscar.”
Cheers rang out around the hall.
I looked to my table. They were laughing as hard as anyone. In the distance I spied an illuminated Exit sign. Slowly, but with determination, I made my way towards it.
Afternoon Club
It was my mother Claudia’s sixtieth birthday. Her ideal companion would have been my older brother Geoffrey, but he was away blowing up bridges in Belize or slitting throats in Sierra Leone, it fell to me to take her out for the day. Despite her reservations, Claudia had evidently decided to make the best of a bad job. As the weather was clement, she chose to visit the gardens of a nearby stately home. Afterwards, while we were sitting in the attraction’s café waiting for our cream tea to arrive, Claudia struck up a conversation with a cheerful lady at the next-door table. Despite being on the verge of middle age, slightly plump and artily dishevelled, I found her strangely attractive. She introduced herself as Bettina Bean, the honorary secretary and unpaid custodian of the Liversedge and Ruffage Afternoon Club. She had brought her party of elderly villagers to Largestone Manor as one of their regular cultural outings.
“We’re always trying to find new places to go and new people to give talks.” She confided in Claudia over a scone. “You’d be surprised how difficult it is to unearth a good speaker.”
She looked across at me in an interrogatory sort of way.
“Oh, it’s no good asking Ralph.” Said Claudia, waving a dismissive hand in my direction. At that precise moment I was lost in the middle of a daydream that featured Ms Bean in a romantic leading role. “He doesn’t seem to know anything about anything.”
“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true!” Gurgled Ms Bean. “I’m certain we could find a subject for him to talk to us about. What does he do for a living?”
“Ralph. Ralph! Wake up.” Shouted Claudia, poking me out of my reverie with a forefinger. “What exactly is it that you do for a living? Aren’t you something in the City?”
“Me?” I said, emerging with a start from my brown study. “I used to be something in the City, until fairly recently.”
“How marvellous!” Effused Mrs Bean. “You must be terribly clever.”
“He’s not remotely clever.” Said Claudia. “He’s practically a simpleton.”
Ms Bean ignored this.
“What exactly do you …. did you do?”
“Investment consultancy.” I said, determined to prove my mother wrong.
“Perfect!”’ Chirruped the honorary secretary. “Most of the club members have accumulated a few stocks and shares over the years. They’d love to hear some pearls of financial wisdom straight from the horse’s mouth.”
I felt a light surge in my self-esteem.
“Would they?” I said doubtfully. “I … er suppose I could do something. When?’”
“Oh, not until later this summer. We already have speakers lined up for the next few weeks.”
I gave Ms Bean my address and telephone number, and the matter no further thought.
Two months later an innocuous-looking postcard fell through the letterbox., It was from Ms Bean, reminding me of my commitment. At the time of its arrival I was busy filling in my unemployed existence by helping with a voluntary community project to tidy up flowerbeds in the local public park. As a result, I hardly gave the correspondence a second thought. A couple of days later the author of the postcard, having heard nothing in response to her overture, followed up with a telephone call. While her manner was charming to a fault, I thought I could detect a hint of reproach in her tone. Sensing I had failed a simple test of courtesy, I confirmed I’d be there with more enthusiasm than I felt. It was a whole fortnight away, after all.
And then suddenly it was Tuesday the fourth and the talk was on Thursday the sixth. Bettina Bean called again.
“We’re so looking forward to your little talk.” She warbled. “The members are always rather concerned by the fluctuations in the value of their modest investments and will be hanging on your every word.”
My heart sank. I realised I would have to put my job-hunting and voluntary activities on hold and rustle up some kind of slide show. Technology wasn’t my strongpoint and, ever since my catastrophic performance in the school play, I had harboured a secret fear of public speaking. I spent a day and a half pulling together forty five minutes of fact, anecdote and pontification, illustrated by a succession of slides that bore no more than a passing relevance to the text.
After an hour’s hard driving, I arrived at Ruffage Village Hall just before twenty minutes to three; carrying a tray of slides, a borrowed projector and a sheaf of notes. I always liked to give myself plenty of preparation time. A surly caretaker appeared from round the back of the hall and informed me that I was at the wrong place. At just after ten minutes to three I reached Liversedge Village Hall. Despite the detour I still appeared to be the first arrival, as the main entrance was securely locked. Having circumnavigated the building, I found a back door with a buzzer. After a few minutes, a lady in glasses appeared.
“Yes?”
“I’m here for the Afternoon Club.”
“Really? You look a bit on the young side.”
“I’m the guest speaker.”
“Oh. I thought that was yesterday. Maybe it's the knitting circle. You better come in anyway.”
She pointed me in the direction of a foyer with a small kitchen attached to it and returned to her office, closing the door firmly behind her.
With no one else to offer any guidance, I began to unpack my equipment. There was no sign of a projection screen, though I was sure Ms Bean had alluded to one. Still, one of the walls was blank, apart from a large picture of a windmill. I was in the process of removing it when a voice hailed me.
“Hoy!” The voice belonged to an elderly lady wearing a wool hat and a stern expression. “What are you doing with that painting?”
I started guiltily, as if I had actually been intending to steal it.
“I … I was just taking it down.”
“Why?”
“For the presentation. You see …” I ran out of steam. “I was expecting Ms Bean.”
“Ms Bean?” She laughed derisively. “Never heard of her.”
“But she’s the secretary of the Liversedge and Ruffage Afternoon Club.”
“Oh, that Ms Bean. She’s not here yet.”
Just then, several other women arrived, along with a solitary gentleman. This fine example of octogenarian manhood was clearly the king’s gizzards amongst the blue-rinsed circles of the Afternoon Club. With a sheet of silver hair, bronzed skin and alarmingly pearly teeth, he attended to his female companions as if on hire for the day from the local escort agency.
A kindly old bird detached herself from the rest of the group and patted my arm.
“Are you the man from London?”
I admitted that this was so.
“It’s down there.” She said, pointing back along the corridor. “We’re always in that room on Thursdays.”
Experiencing a sensation akin to drowning, I began to gather up my equipment for the move. The aged stud, grinning like a solar panel, carried my spare cable for me as if it was the royal mace. We arrived at a small meeting room. I unravelled my stuff again and began to plug it in. I was about to fire up the projector when a new female bustled up to me.
“No, no, no. Not here. The school children are in here today. We’re down the other end. Come with me.”
I jammed all of my half-assembled kit under one arm and set off in pursuit. On route, she hoovered up various stragglers and chivvied them along in front of her.
“You have brought a screen, haven’t you?” She quizzed me over her shoulder.
“Er, no. I was told there’d be one here.”
“Oh, really. Well, that really is most inconvenient.”
“I think there may be one tucked away under the stage in the concert hall.” Offered the kindly lady, eager to make amends for having sent me on a snark hunt.
The three of us veered off to the right, across a large auditorium and into a cupboard beneath the front of the stage.
Sure enough, after some rummaging and the transfer of quite a lot of dust and cobwebs to my cream suit, I emerged with a foldaway screen. I carried it to the foyer, where a couple of dozen newly arrived oldsters were chatting to each other. They all stopped and peered at me as if they’d stumbled upon something of entomological interest. Ignoring them, I set to work on the screen. I pulled the stem up out of its cylinder, hooked the end onto an upright support and stood back to inspect my handiwork. I just had time to notice its rather crinkly surface before it snapped shut with a crack that made everyone who wasn’t stone deaf jump.
I approached the screen again with caution, re-attached it and let go carefully. It held. I turned away. It crashed down again. I hauled it back up and gave it a twist so vicious that some of the spectators gasped audibly. But this time it stayed in place. After some fiddling with knobs, buttons, bulbs and lenses, I switched on the projector. A tiny image appeared on the corrugated and slightly sepia-coloured backdrop. I adjusted the focus. Anyone located within a range of nine inches or less would have no difficulty in recognising it as a pie chart.
By now almost all of the seats contained an expectant antediluvian. Two elderly ladies clad entirely in black staggered in supporting each other and sat down noisily towards the back. They looked as if they’d just come from a funeral. One appeared to be half cut, the other completely.
A plumply pretty face appeared at my elbow. It was Bettina Bean.
“I'm so glad you could make it. They’re all agog. Would you like a cup of tea?”
As my throat was by now distinctly dry, I accepted. While the tea was being decanted by four of her aged sidekicks (one to pour, one to add milk, a third to stir in sugar and a fourth - the one with the least steady hands - to hold the saucer), I shuffled my papers into some semblance of order and prepared to hold forth.
“We usually do the formalities first.” Piped Ms Bean. “Just a few agenda items. Then I’ll introduce you. Now I must make sure that I have your name correctly. It is Mr Barton, isn’t it?”
“Well, actually it’s Bolton.”
“Of course it is. How silly of me. Bolton. That’s it. Just like the place in Lancashire. I won’t forget.”
She called the meeting to order and launched into a long and baffling list of housekeeping notes, apologies for absence, matters arising, points of order and any other business. Just as my grasp on reality was starting to slip away altogether, she turned and made a dramatic gesture in my direction.
“And now ladies, and not of course forgetting Denzil, I’m tremendously pleased to be able to introduce this week’s special guest speaker, all the way from the City of London. Mr Ralph Batman.”
I made it through, somehow; though it was doubtful whether they enjoyed the experience any more than I did. As I droned on and on, I sought to make eye contact with members of the audience, as once instructed to do on a presentation training course. At any given moment, I couldn’t help noticing that two thirds of the club members were fast asleep. But never the same ones. I later calculated that everyone must have heard at least some of the talk, but none of them all of it. I didn’t care. Considering the endless list of obscure and boring investment facts and the tiny, corrugated, illogical slide show, I wouldn’t have blamed them if they’d fished out their knitting, played a few hands of gin rummy or hangman, or just buggered off home. At last, after what seemed like hours but in reality could only have been about fifty minutes, I finally ground to a halt.
Ms Bean bounced to her feet and led the hearty applause.
“Now. Any questions, ladies? And Denzil, of course.”
An ancient lady put up her hand.
“Yes, Cynthia?”
“How do you do a bowlin’ on bite?”
“That was last week, Cynthia. Anyone else?”
Denzil stuck up his hand and grinned at me so brightly I had to avert his eyes.
“What should the P/E Ratio be for a Beta stock held on NASDAQ in a bear market if the rate of inflation is lower than the gross annual yield quotient?”
I muttered something, God knows what. And then, like a boxing referee who has witnessed enough punishment for one day, Ms Bean brought the meeting to a close.
“Thank you so much, Mr Barton. We did so enjoy that. Now here’s a small cheque for you to give to a charity of your choice. And another cup of tea. “
She and her minions bustled round, making me feel dizzy and slightly nauseous.
“I’m very much hoping to organise a special investment symposium in the autumn.” Ms Bean beamed up at me, her eyes twinkling with innocent enthusiasm.
“Perhaps you could do another little talk for us then?”