Wednesday Games by David Gower, coke float

Rob was on his usual Wednesday high horse ‘I hate Wednesday afternoons. I hate the walk to the station, I hate the train to the sports ground, I hate the cross country running and I hate the journey back. It’s all a waste of time!’ Rob was always careful to make sure that Stokie the gym master was out of earshot when he revisited his hatred of Wednesday afternoons.

Mike, his best mate, replied, ‘Running is better than rugby. We can stop for a fag and take the short cut along that footpath. They hardly ever check up on us and at least we are away from Stokie and his whistle. He’s a sadist. How did we ever get an ex-Army PT instructor as a gym master? That man is a monster, Rob, just a monster!’

‘He is,’ said Rob, ‘but I suppose we should think ourselves lucky we can run on our own.’

‘You mean walk so long as we use the short cut and no one checks.’ Mike said.

From Mike’s blazer pocket appeared cigarettes, a book of matches and a small cotton bag on a string.

‘I pinched the fags and matches from behind the bar in our pub. Dad will never notice and if Stokie pats us down the book of matches won’t rattle and give us away.’

After changing into their kit Stokie gathered together Rob, Mike and their classmates. He stood ramrod straight in his rugby gear.

‘You boys will run the usual cross-country route. I will be refereeing the other lads but before you set off, I want you all to hold out your hands with the palms facing down. Now, not next week. I said now!’

The boys comply. Stokie takes the hands of each in turn and sniffs their fingers.

‘Michael, I smell tobacco on your fingers. Any dim wit can see how yellow they are from nicotine. Do I look like a dim wit to you, Michael? Do I? I have consulted the finest medical brains in the country. They confirm that I am neither a dim wit nor cabbage looking. What did they confirm, Michael?’

Michael could not respond even if he had the courage to say that he thought Stokie was a dim wit and cabbage looking.

Stokie relaxed and his voice moderated. ‘Before you set off, we will go back to the changing rooms, where you will empty your bags and school clothing. Smoking is bad for your health but sport, especially running, improves your fitness. If I find any smoking materials then that boy, or boys, will still be allowed to run. After all, I am not heartless. That boy, or boy, can run circuits around the pitch whilst I referee. It will be good exercise and I will probably remember to tell you to stop…eventually.’

‘Let’s stop for a fag, Rob.’ Mike was puffing.

‘How did you fool old Stokie? He never found anything when he searched our stuff.’

‘Do I look a dim wit or a cabbage, Rob? Do I?’ Mike did a good impression of Stokie.

Reaching behind his neck he pulled up his St. Christopher necklace. A watch and a simple religious symbol were the only jewellery allowed by the school. The string holding the cotton bag was looped through the chain. Inside the bag nestled the cigarettes and matches. They inhaled deeply on their symbols of victory over the monster, Stokie and puffed smoke rings.

 

About the author 

David has been a contributor of several stories to Cafelit following his introduction to his local creative writing group. Back after a long break struggling with technology! 

 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

Picnic Party by David Gower, lemonade

‘I knew we should have all gone together. Now we are late, you take so long getting ready.’ Angela scolded her sister as they pedalled the last hundred yards to the Old Meadow.

The boys were bringing a picnic for this glorious summer day in wartime Suffolk. Perhaps the last for some time in what the papers called the Phoney War. Against the gate was evidence that errand boy Ronnie and his brother Jimmy had arrived. Jimmy had borrowed his mother’s old Rudge and Ronnie brought his grocer’s bike. The wicker basket was absent. It would contain the promised treats and tablecloth.

‘Come on before they scoff everything.’ Angela cajoled. They dropped their bikes, passed through the gate and along an uneven footpath to the hayricks. The picnic was to be behind the end hayrick furthest from the road. A wooden pitchfork leaned against it.

Laid out before them was an old curtain, assorted blue and white plates, three cups, one mug missing a handle, a bloomer loaf, four slices of ham and a pot of jam, four eggs (hard boiled?) and cutlery. A veritable feast but where were the boys? The wicker basket was empty but for a small booklet lying face down, a sheath knife and a catapult.

‘They’re not here, Angela.’ Maureen had an instinct for stating the obvious. She seemed oblivious to the annoyance this caused her sister.

‘Well, they must be somewhere. They have laid all the food out. They must be nearby, Maureen. They can’t have vanished into thin air, can they?’

‘Where are they then?’ Maureen epitomised the sibling born to annoy.

‘Ronnie! Jimmy! Where are yooouuuuu?’ Angela called out. The birds flew off startled. Her shout was more effective than the immobile ragged scarecrow nearby. She called again, still with no apparent result other than the birds keeping their distance.

‘What shall we do, Angie?’ the younger sibling asked. ‘Where are they?’

Old Meadow was a large space dotted with the hayricks from harvest time. Along the edges ran hedges and woodland. There was nowhere for the boys who had laid out the picnic to go.

Angela must lead in this situation. Where were the boys? There was no one visible as except for the farm workers on a distant hillside. An answer came to mind.

‘Perhaps they have had to answer a call of nature and gone off to do ‘their business.’ This seemed a logical solution. It would explain their absence and naturally the boys would want privacy.

Time passed with no sign of the boys returning.

‘Where are they, Angie?’ Maureen’s voice became a querying whine. This tone always irritated her older sister.

Angela was unsettled by the situation but as the older sibling she must look after Maureen.

‘We can eat while we wait for them to come back.’ This course of action would distract Maureen, give time for the boys to return and teach them a lesson for being so inconsiderate. The church clock struck the quarter. They had already been here for fifteen minutes. The skylarks sang high above breaking the silence.

As Maureen picked up an egg. Behind them a voice shouted, ‘Hands up!’

The girls screamed. The hayrick had erupted, and Ronnie stood clutching the pitchfork. To their left the scarecrow – now they could see it was Jimmy - ran towards them laughing.

Boys! How could they do this? It was the sort of stupid things that boys did!

The answer lay in the basket in the booklet called ‘What to do in case of invasion. Camouflage!’

 

About the author

David has been a contributor of several stories to CafeLit following his introduction to his local creative writing group. Back after a long break struggling with technology! 

 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

Seaside Card by David Gower, hot chocolate like a French breakfast

 Dust hung in the air as rays of sunlight lit the bedroom. Sunday morning was always slow in the Lewis household. The couple lay in that state somewhere between sleep and bleary-eyed consciousness. A condition best described as each hoping the other would weaken first and get up to make the breakfast. Eventually the need to visit the bathroom broke the stalemate.

               So it was that Mrs Lewis rose from the bed, donned her dressing gown and slippers to make her way to the bathroom and then negotiate the stairs down to the kitchen. Mr Lewis smiled quietly to himself in the knowledge that today his wife had drawn the short straw. He knew that now was the time he could rise from beneath the covers and go downstairs to start the day. It was a slow process. Covers moved back, legs drawn up to swing over the edge of the mattress and feet searching for slippers which he knew were close. Then the push upwards and slow unbending into what passed as upright. A casual observer might have seen a similarity to a Nature film showing a chrysalis shake off its outer casing. Mr Lewis never sprang from the bed nowadays.

               The Lewis kitchen was at the rear of the house. After breakfast that they moved into the hallway towards the lounge. On the doormat lay the Sunday papers with a plain white envelope devoid of any script beneath.

Mrs Lewis picked these up the newspapers continued into the living room. Placing the papers on the coffee table she began to open the envelope.

Assuming the envelope to be the bill from the newsagent Mr Lewis spoke.

‘The nerve of that shop sending the bill this early. They can wait till the end of the month.’ Mr Lewis was a man of routine when it came to bills. Paid in full at the proper time but never, never in advance. He felt himself to be fair but nobody’s fool when it came to money.

Inside the envelope Mrs Lewis had found a greetings card showing a cartoon seaside scene. Beach hut, children making sandcastles, fishing nets, buckets and spades, seagulls, speedboats in the distance, deckchairs and all the traditional elements of a day at the seaside. Who did they know who was on holiday? Since when did the post come on a Sunday morning?

The sender had written a few words which read as follows.

I had such a nice time as we walked along the beach. I hope we do it again soon.

It ended with a few crosses, but no name or initial.

Mr Lewis was an occasional dinghy sailor. He knew the sea could change from calm to stormy but usually gave signs to warn a good mariner. In the case of Mrs Lewis there were no helpful signs. She transitioned from calm to storm in an instant. Her questions came like a hailstorm and stung.

‘Who sent you this card? Where were you? How could you do this to me? Why would you be so hurtful?’ The card flew towards his eye. High emotion aided Mrs Lewis in her aim.

Her outburst took him aback. He had never seen her temper switch so quickly. He read the card for himself. Her accusations had rattled his composure.

‘I know nothing about this. It could just as easily be for you rather than me!’ were his words of defence. Not the wisest choice of words under the circumstances.

His wife grew even more incensed at her husband’s ill-advised words.

‘Me? Me? How could it be for me? Who would send me a card like that?’ her voice climbed ever higher in pitch.

Mr Lewis re-joined ‘Well, how could it be for me? Who do I know that would send that sort of card. I mean. Look at me for pity’s sake.’

He had a point. Neither was in their first flush of youth, and both had been home birds for longer than they cared to remember. The argument reached an uneasy stalemate. Neither one being able to accuse or defend with any real hope of success. The atmosphere at number 16 Victoria Gardens was tense for the rest of the day.

Mr Lewis blessed the day he had bought the shed. It was his refuge in times of stress. His model railway outfit was at least in his control. The trains ran on time, the figures on the platform reflected a world of his choosing. Today he edged the figure of a woman who was not unlike his wife in appearance closer to the platform edge. At every circuit of the slow goods train he moved her just a bit more. It was a symbolic revenge for the awful morning without permanent harm to Mrs Lewis.

Indoors Mrs Lewis banged anything metal in the kitchen imagining it was her husband’s head. What a stupid man he was. Then the cat’s dish in the corner caught her eye. Rather than waste what the cat did not eat she would slip it into her husband’s packed lunch next day.

Further along Victoria Gardens Jeannie Lambert came face to face with Roger. She was surprised to see him as she walked her dog. He had not been in contact since their date and her girlfriends had comforted her in their sisterly way. ‘They only want one thing.’ ‘They are spineless and just disappear.’ ‘You know you can do better.’ They knew such words would help her through feelings of rejection.

Roger was surprised but pleased to see her. He had hoped they would meet again but shyness made asking her difficult. Their date had been awkward, and they found out little about each other apart from basics such as hobbies and addresses. Perhaps they were too old for this sort of thing.

Roger beamed a genuine smile and said ‘How lovely to see you. Are you well?’

Jeannie was polite but cold. ‘Very well. I thought you had just disappeared.’

Flustered Roger replied ‘I came to your house to talk but lost my nerve just outside. The sight of those gnomes guarding the front door in the half-light was quite off putting.’

‘Gnomes? What gnomes? Are you being funny?’

‘The gnomes on the rockery under the window. You can see your house from here.’ He continued ‘Number 16 Victoria Gardens. I put a card through the letter box early this morning.’

‘I live at number 60; you went to the wrong house. Have you got wax in your ears?’

‘I must have misheard. Lucky I booked at the clinic next week,’ was his reply.

Neither ever knew of the effects of Roger’s card on the Lewis household that day. 

About the author

Encouraged by members of my writing group and Cafelit I hope this submission may bring a smile to readers.

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

Tom’s Homework by David Gower, sloe gin toddy

‘How was your class? First day back with familiar faces or new people?’

The enquiry was genuine but sounded strange to Tom as an adult. It was a long time since anyone had asked him a similar question. A very long time. It came from Sam – his mate - as they sat in the garden enjoying a beer in the last of the summer sunshine. Tom made no reply to his friend. He seemed lost in thoughts of his own.

Class was, of course, session number one of the new writing season. Tom had waited all summer for the booking season to open, then the scramble to register in time to make sure of a place – last year had been very near the wire. After all that came the wait to hear if the reward of membership would result.

There were some familiar faces and a few new ones but the character of the group – friendly and encouraging seemed to have survived the summer break. At the end of the session Miss had set the group their homework – write something about your own experience.

It was always the same question for him. Write about what? There had been the usual mulling over of ideas, discarding some, kicking others about within the grey matter but reaching no satisfactory conclusion. Like there were the rich and the poor – so there was another equal and opposite pairing. This was the group who when given a blank sheet would launch into a flight of creativity bounded only by a word limit versus those who craved an air traffic controller of the written word able to guide the writer through the fog of part formed ideas with clear instructions for a safe landing.

Last night Tom had an old nightmare again. Always the same type linked to anxiety, like an unwelcome school bully whenever there was homework due. Sometimes, he saw himself as a child holding lots of balloons. Each one had a story title printed on the surface. There were so many, and they lifted him into the atmosphere drifting over the landscape far below. Always upward and ever closer to the sea. No one heard his cries for help. He told himself that he must let go of some balloons and save himself before being lost at sea.

Which balloons to let loose? They all had potential for a story. The longer he held on the less time he had to save himself from disaster. He had to let something so he could arrive in class with his homework. He knew that he had to choose but how could he decide?

Some people had the same nightmare every time. Not Tom. His grey matter devised twists in the torture of his bad dreams. Not for him the dread of a looming fate and waking moments before inevitable doom. His nightmares had variations. In one version he saw himself sitting in his usual place in class. Miss would smile and look in his direction. His stomach would tighten as the others in the group gazed benevolently towards him. He would hear himself say

‘The dog ate my homework, Miss.’ Laughter would erupt while Miss would smile kindly and say, ‘Never mind, my dog is a hungry beast too! They will eat anything not nailed down.’

In another version he would blame technology - always a sure-fire winner to direct enmity towards machinery. Worst of all was another balloon fantasy. However, many balloons he tried to blow up no amount of puff would inflate them. Their empty skins remained limp in his hands providing an unhappy metaphor for his lack of creative ideas. In the still hours of the night, he was sure that Jung or Freud would explain them as related to earlier life experiences, probably sexual. Those psychiatrists had more issues than him!

Last night’s dream was the one where none of the balloons would inflate. Worse still as he began to wake from his slumber, he felt a heavy weight on his chest. A heavy weight on the chest could only mean a heart attack. Terrified he opened his eyes. There, only inches away were two eyes, a nose and whiskers. The cat was signalling that any caring owner should feed her no matter time it was.

‘Hello. Anyone at home? Tom. Are you all right mate?’ Sam’s voice brought Tom back from thinking about his dreams and heart thumping awakening.

‘Me? What? Oh, er, yes, I was miles away thinking about what to write for class next time.’

Sam also had an interest in writing and always wanted to be helpful. Even if he could not help then at least he could give his opinion on any subject whether it was invited or not.

His suggestions came uninvited ‘Look around a room for ideas. You know, the books on shelves – why did the person buy them? Have they ever read them or are they just for show like economics books. Who ever reads those? Or those little paragraphs in newspapers that never give you the end of the story. Did you see the one where the escaped python slithered across a roof into the people next door? What happened to the owner? Did they face any consequences? Why would anyone, anyone at all keep a python in a terraced house? How can it be legal? You know me, mate, I never judge anybody but what is the world coming to?’

‘I know Sam. Sometimes I have a no inspiration at all and then at other times I write lists of thing but never seem able to decide what to keep or throw out. It is all interesting so how to decide?’

‘Tom, it might all be interesting to you, but you must make decisions. It doe not really matter how you do it. Even tossing a coin – a random method that lends to a story reliant upon whether it lands heads or tails. Make your list and then toss a coin for what stays and goes till you get to one remaining. Your story can be about how you chose the topic!’

The sound of car tyres on gravel at the front of the house carried into the garden. The slamming of car doors, the sound of high pitches voices and a harassed adult gave an audible account of event otherwise out of sight.

‘That will be Jane bringing the grandchildren to play but stay and finish your beer, Tom.’

‘I’ll drink up and be off. Never leave a glass with beer in it. You know I always obey the slogan on the detergent adverts, Sam.’

‘Slogan? What slogan?’

Tom smiled with the confidence that his reply would appeal to his own sense of humour and said, ‘Always keep away from children.’

The gate into the garden from the driveway opened and through it came a child holding a huge bunch of balloons each jostling its neighbour in the breeze. On the table was a half full glass of beer glinting in the sunshine and Tom was already through the gate.

About the auhtor 

David has been a contributor of several stories to Cafelit following his introduction to his local creative writing group. Back after a long break struggling with technology! Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

Poor Charlie by David Gower, hot tea milk but no sugar

 Condensation ran down the steamy windows of the café. Behind the Formica covered counter what had once been a gleaming coffee machine hissed and bubbled. Long established stains ran down the sides towards a discoloured drip tray, it was evident to any eye – trained or untrained – that this   greasy spoon was greasier than most. Nevertheless, it provided Inspector Rivers with somewhere away from the station and his never ending pile of forms and cases to process. It had the benefit of being close enough in case he was needed but too far for colleagues to drop by casually. They had the station canteen and cheap grub available. Here offered a haven for thinking things through.

He sat alone toying with the half-drunk cup of tea in front of him. Had he been at home or in his office he would have poured the liquid into the saucer and blown across the surface to cool it. People frowned upon that sort of thing nowadays even in a place as down market as the Sunbeam Café. It was the kind of thing that betrayed his origins now he had a position to uphold. Reluctantly, he conformed and sipped from the cup whilst watching his cigarette burn between his fingers. Strange stuff smoke. It rose into the air, becoming the plaything of any passing draught until vanishing into nothingness. Eventually all that smoke would, somehow, join the smoke deposited over the years adding to the overall sepia tone of the café’s painted surfaces

Not even the sunniest of summer bank holiday in Brighton would make the Sunbeam look welcoming but it offered a place to reflect upon the discovery of the body earlier in the day. He had always been very fond of the victim and the level of violence seemed senseless, almost spiteful. Poor old Charlie, lying beside the pond with only one clue to the identity of the killer immediately available.

That clue lay in front of the Inspector on the Formica covered table. He put down his cup and stubbed out his cigarette. Now both his hands were free he could examine the item again. For all the world it was a charm, the kind that a woman would wear on one of those bracelets bedecked with tiny sewing machines, ten bob notes in a lantern and heart shaped fobs. This was just a simple letter of the alphabet. No hallmark just a yellow metal letter left beside Charlie’s mangled body. No witnesses to the event and any footprints of the killer already burnt away by the summer sun. Turning this over time and again told him no more that it had earlier. How many times had he fingered this trinket since Charlie had been found but no solution offered itself? The Inspector smiled to himself, any self-respecting detective in literature would experience a moment of clarity at such a point. That was the difference between real life and fiction. Life was a mix of random events whilst an author could lead the reader along a winding road and solve the mystery at a stroke. They should live in his world.

Time for the Inspector to get back to the station. Doreen was behind the counter of the Sunbeam Café today. Someone less able to project a sunbeam would be hard to find. An ever-present cigarette hung from her lips, her beehive hair set rock hard by hairspray and a voice flat and emotionless from years of the daily grind. Behind her on the wall was a framed picture of her terrier on the Brighton beach. She took his money for tea, a packet of fags and some matches. As he reached the café door, she called him ‘Inspector, don’t forget your hat love.’

Emerging into the sunshine he almost bumped into a smartly dressed woman. In her hand she had several sheets of paper. She seemed to be trying to pin one to a telegraph pole with little success. Always one to help a lady the Inspector smiled, took the sheet and between the two of them completed the task. Smiles were exchanged and the Inspector walked off in the direction of the station. What an overwhelming scent she wore. No time to chat to strange women, the mystery of Charlie still topped his thoughts. Senseless and probably never to be solved with just one clue.

Back at the station life had returned to what passed as normal. Charlie’s body removed and no sign of anything amiss where the corpse had been discovered. It seemed to the Inspector that no one was bothered about poor Charlie other than himself.

Constable Martin greeted the Inspector with a cheery grin. ‘Something fishy about all this, guvnor.’

The Inspector ignored the poor taste of his junior’s words.

‘Fishy indeed, Constable Martin. Nothing to do except show your limited wit to the world?’

Martin continued undeterred ‘A large scale crime wave about to begin if you ask me.’

‘Enough, have you no work to do?’

‘No need to be coy about it, boss,’ was Martin’s final barb.

There was an uncomfortable silence in the office as Inspector Rivers returned to his paperwork. The little yellow metal letter taunted him still. How had Charlie met his end?

Time in the office dragged. The shadows moved relentlessly across the Inspector’s desk indicating the approach of his shift. To break the monotony the Inspector went to light a cigarette beside the ornamental fish pool. Often he had sat here with Charlie and his mates. Now Charlie was no more. The emptiness seemed to be magnified whilst an uncaring world continued.

Back into the stuffy office and the hands of the clock, at last, indicated the end of the Inspector’s working day. His route to the street took him via the reception area. A strong perfume hung in the air which the Inspector recognised from earlier in the day. Strong perfume, smart woman and there on the notice board was a familiar sheet of paper.

It was a lost animal poster. A grey, short hair blue cat. Lost in the area recently and a reward available to anyone finding Kitty. The animal sported a jewelled collar with a yellow metal initial K clearly visible.

The Inspector’s prize Koi carp Charlie had been fished from the pond by Kitty during the previous night on the Brighton railway station platform outside the railway police office. Poor Charlie.

About the author

David has been a contributor of several stories to Cafelit following his introduction to his local creative writing group. Back after a long break struggling with technology! 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

Music (and Dance); Food for Love?

 

by David Gower

Irish coffee

They met when Mike and his friend Tom had decided to go to popular dance classes. What had once been ‘ballroom dancing’ - a staid and formal display of men with numbers on their backs and women whose dresses boasted thousands of sequins all sewn by hand - was now big time Saturday evening required viewing.

Beginners’ night for the September class at the community hall was like many beginners’ nights. People unsure of what would happen, nervous giggles and stiff bodies moving clumsily to the music.

The dance teachers were friendly and enthusiastic as first they demonstrated the necessary moves slowly and then the couples tried to follow suit. They made it look smooth and effortless. Mike and Tom were partnered with Sandra and Sheila. The women had come ‘for a laugh’ and the men as part of their ‘something new every year’ challenge.

Mike counted in his head as he tried to keep to the beat of the music. How many times had he heard this tune on the radio but now it hard was for his legs and feet to maintain some semblance of co-ordination? Harder still to hold a strange woman as she also tried to move to the music. Mike had always believed that dancing was high on the list of subjects taught to girls at school. It was clear this had never been on Sandra’s school timetable. Mike felt clumsy and awkward. This was the reason that he had never had the confidence to dance at social events but Tom had persuaded him to sign up for the evening classes. It looked so easy when other people did it but was so hard to when he tried?

Mike’s feet seemed to have grown to huge proportions. How else could they keep treading on Sandra’s toes? Apologise, laugh politely and tread again seemed to be the pattern. He held Sandra at arm’s length so that he could look at his feet but without appearing to stare into her cleavage.

Week by week the steps became easier. The instructors called it body memory, like the struggle to co-ordinated hands, feet and other movements when driving. At some point, one never knows quite when the movements become easier and flow more freely. The relationship between those in the class became more relaxed.

In the breaks between dancing Mike and Tom would sip their drinks with Sandra and Sheila round a small table. The two women had agreed to come to the classes and look out for each other.

Sandra voiced their thoughts ‘You never know who you might meet or what they are like.’ Sheila nodded in agreement and added

‘We could tell you things about dates that would make your hair curl!’ The two women laughed at their shared experiences of men. Tom’s hair could not curl, it had long ago departed from his scalp. Mike retained a full head of hair but what had years ago been jet black was losing the battle against ever more ‘natural highlights’ of grey locks.

It was only natural that at some stage the relationship of the group would deepen. Mike wanted to invite Sandra for a meal and as they discussed food it was then that she explained her limited diet. Not for any clear medical reason but purely because she preferred two particular foodstuffs over others. Sandra enjoyed fish and she loved Chinese meals. As a child she had driven her parents to distraction with her ‘faddiness’ especially when she found on the internet that one child lived only on bread and jam!

The old saying that opposites attract appeared to be true in this case. Mike hated Chinese food and had never been a great fan of fish. He had memories from his own childhood of fish being boiled for what seemed like hours at home. Ever since he had always seen fish as slimy and smelly. He had not told Sandra about his aversion to her favourite foods. Instead he had nodded and smiled as he encouraged her to tell him more. The more she said the greater the turmoil behind his smile.

‘I think her parents should have been firmer with her. Can you imagine bringing up a child only wanting to eat Chinese or fish?’ Mike said to Tom as they drove from class one evening.

‘You worry too much. She has grown into a good-looking woman on Chinese and fish.’ came Tom’s reply from the darkness of the car.

‘I hate Chinese and I loathe fish more. What am I going to do, Tom?’

‘You should have said something mate. All you did by just sitting there and smiling was encourage her. Now you have got yourself into a problem. Can you imagine any child that you two produced? What would the poor mite eat?’ Tom had a point but it was not helpful.

‘I like her but come on, how can I cook anything for her if I invite her round to my place?’ Mike continued his agonising but Tom remained silent.

‘Are you listening to me Tom? What am I supposed to do? How can I feed a woman whose taste in food is the exact opposite to mine?’

After a few moments Tom asked ‘Is it the end of the world if you have Chinese one night? Have you tried cooking any fish apart from boiling like your Mum did?’

‘You’re no help to a man with a problem, Tom! No help at all’

Tom began to laugh quietly to himself prompting Mike to ask ‘What’s so funny?’

‘Nothing, Mike, just thinking to myself’.

‘Tell me, what’s so funny?’ Mike continued as the annoyance in his voice grew.

Tom’s tone was a mix of stifled amusement and apology as he tried to compose himself to explain.

‘You know what you are Mike, my man? You are as they say’ the following words he exaggerated as heavily as he could to underline his point, ‘You are caught between a wok and a hard plaice! Get it? Wok and a hard plaice!’

The journey continued silently broken only by Tom’s laughter at his joke till Mike dropped him off.

Mike thought that the meal with Sandra would be a long time coming. Hell might freeze over first.

Eyes Across a Carriage

by Davd Gower, 

strong tea - milk no sugar

Eyes are the uncontrolled messengers of the body. They tell so much in such a short time. They convey love, lust, fear, hate or coldness passing their message to the recipient instantly. Eyes give away the secrets that the body wishes to keep within. They are part of the body outside physical control and signal to the outside world the innermost thoughts of the individual.

Such florid thoughts related to the events of earlier in the day when two pairs of eyes met across the space of the 10.42 slow train from Ragwood to Churchdale Central, a small market town in what was a rural backwater of England. This slow train replaced an earlier and quicker service which was non operational due to yet another breakdown of the locomotives at the far end of the line. As a result, it was crowded with passengers who were already late for whatever appointments or adventures they had planned. Nevertheless, it was a train providing a link where buses were few and far between. People without cars depended on the train.

The carriages rocked and swayed in response to the undulations of the track and the set of points where the lines intersected. Some people chatted to each other, a few had their heads down as they gazed at mobile phones and laptops answering e-mails, filling in spreadsheets or watching tiny figures gyrate to tinny sounds which leaked from headphones.

Sarah sat in a window seat squeezed by the passenger beside her. He filled his seat spreading beyond the edge of it into the gangway on one side and against her arm and thigh. This man had no unpleasant agenda towards her; it was simply a matter of bulk as gravity spread his weight into the available space regardless. Opposite her another man sat with eyes closed and head resting against the window trying to sleep yet fighting the motion of the carriage. She was trapped in this corner until the next station when she would be free. It was only a few minutes more before she would feel the tension ease and she could be safe.

At the far end of the carriage the door hissed and slid back to open and allow the man to enter the compartment. He steadied himself as the train jolted and his gaze took in the people ahead of him. He looked relaxed and began making his way along the aisle stopping and chatting to passengers. Clearly, he knew some of them and exchanged pleasantries. Although he was at the far end of the carriage when he looked at her, she felt his eyes bore into hers. She felt uncomfortable and fearful. His gaze held hers for longer than was necessary. She knew that he knew her thoughts. Slowly, so slowly he was coming closer and she was sure that he would reach her before she had time to escape.

Jeff had steadied himself when the train lurched as he entered this carriage. He saw ahead of him rows of faces and the backs of heads. Most of these people were in their own world reading, working or watching the scenery pass by as the train followed the tracks which stretched ahead like a metal scar carved through the landscape. Not all the passengers. That woman at the far end in the corner had caught his eye, for longer than was usual. She looked tiny when compared to the giant of a man next to her. The seats of a railway carriage were designed for that mythical being an average – usually an average man – and as a result never really suited anyone. This carriage was no exception so the big man spilled over his seat and the sparrow like woman seemed to be moulded between him and the contours of the carriage wall.

She looked uncomfortable, not just physically but fearful. He was curious and looked for some message in her eyes. He made his way towards her slowly, always watching for a sign in her eyes. Jeff’s progress towards her was stopped by a foreign holidaymaker who asked him a question in broken English about the railway journey. Jeff did his best to answer, in the tradition of the English speaking with a foreigner. Slowly and in a louder tone but in English. It seemed to do the trick.

Sarah saw that the man talking with a foreigner. He was halfway along the carriage. Her station was next and she began to think about how she would move this man mountain behind her and escape the train. In a minute or so she would be free from the fear.

The train was slowing but instead of rolling into the station it stopped. The motor died away. The silence was broken only by the sound of fingers tapping on keyboards and the tinny headphones somewhere nearby leaking music. It was clear that the train would not move. The man had reached her row of seats and she had no avenue of escape. Not enough time. If only the train had not stopped so close to the station. If only the man had spoken more to the other passengers. If only she had not taken this train but the faster one then what she feared might never have happened. No beginner’s luck for her.

He looked directly into her eyes and his lips began to form the words she had feared since the moment she saw him. The words to which she had no answer came as she knew they would.

“Ticket please.”

The Man Next Door

 by David Gower

iced tea

Mrs. Woodley, had moved into the semi-detached property a few months earlier following the death of her husband. He had not been the nicest of men but she had taken the marriage vows and stuck with him for ‘better or worse’. Most of that time had been for the latter. He had been a man who knew only two means of communicating his feelings moody silence or shouting. Not a nice man.

Since his death Mrs Woodley had blossomed into an individual rather than a servant in her own home. She had ‘downsized’ and for the last month had been busy making her new house into a home. All was lovely in the metaphorical garden with the exception of The Man Next Door.

Mrs. Woodley was a quiet woman cowed by years of living with Mr. Woodley. The Man Next Door kept himself to himself. He had acknowledged her when she spoke to him in the garden but not been over friendly. He tended his flowers and vegetables but made no attempt to engage with her otherwise. She felt sorry for him living alone.

The wall separating Mrs. Woodley from the Man Next Door was thin. She believed him to live alone but very often she would hear him shout at unknown people. She never heard these people reply to his hurtful comments.

Over the weeks since moving in she had noted some of these insults to unknown people next door. These included “How can you be so stupid!” and “I knew that when I was seven years of age, did they teach you nothing at school?” The Man Next Door became especially annoyed with his mystery companions about sport or music. “How the hell do I know who played centre half in the Cup Final? What does it have to do with the price of fish?”

Mrs. Woodley had become more concerned. Not only for The Man next Door but for her own safety. The shouting reminded her of Mr. Woodley and she feared that her neighbour might be – she hesitated to think the unthinkable – unbalanced and dangerous. After wrestling with her conscience her hand picked up the telephone handset.

“Hello, can you send the Police please? I am worried about my neighbour. He lives alone but I am frightened. I hear him shouting most days.” Her voice was nervous, as she had never dialled the Police before.

She did not want to ‘interfere’ but at the back of her mind was the phrase she had seen in an article in a magazine. Some actress had reported a family ill treating their child and had used the phrase ‘safeguarding is everyone’s responsibility’. If a soap star said that was the case then who could argue against it? It was not an ‘emergency’ but she justified to herself that she had concern for the gentleman’s welfare rather than her own.

When the young policeman arrived his first action was to speak to Mrs. Woodley.

“What seems to be the problem?” asked the officer. Mrs. Woodley looked at this young man.  Policemen certainly did seem to be getting younger. This one had cropped hair, tattoos on his arms and a belt heavy with the tools of his trade – handcuffs, gas spray and a mobile phone. Nevertheless, he looked so young. Should he really be in such a job?

Mrs. Woodley began to voice her concerns.“Well, officer. I am just a bit worried about the man next door. He keeps himself to himself but he seems to shout very loudly most afternoons and I know he lives by himself. I am concerned for him and well, you know for myself. I am not sure whether he is right in the head. He might be dangerous.”

P.C. Eldridge – the young policeman - had taken someone to a ‘place of safety’ before under mental health legislation. He had not been popular with his sergeant. Everyone understood the need to protect the vulnerable but the system was strained. Once at the police station they had called the out of hours social worker who arrived to begin an assessment. The process – if done properly - was always a lengthy one. P.C. Eldridge hoped this would be a simple ‘welfare’ check, perhaps with ‘words of advice’ given to The Man Next Door.

Stepping across the low hedge which separated the woman from her elderly neighbour he rang the door-bell. No reply. He rang again and banged the door with the flat of his hand. Still no reply.

No sign of anyone in the rooms to the front of the house. He followed the pathway running along the side to the rear garden. Looking through the window he saw a male figure slumped on the couch. The head lolled, the grey hair was untidy and the screen of a television flickered but without a conscious audience. An arm hung limp.

No response to banging on the window frame and the back door of the house was locked. P.C Eldridge gave a start as he realised Mrs. Woodley was close behind him. Her curiosity had overcome her fears. The sudden movement of the officer made Mrs. Woodley step back. Both were tense. Eldridge made his decision.

“Step back, please. Have you a key or do you know of any relatives with a key?”

She shook her head.

Eldridge saw himself as the man of action, his fellow officers referred to him behind his back as Action Plod. Older coppers had learned to let those in pub fights tire themselves before wading in. Young bloods like Eldridge were still keen and not yet cynical as their ‘old sweat’ colleagues.

He broke a pane of glass on the back door and put his arm through feeling for a key. There was no key. This door was not one of those plastic multi lock doors that would need a ‘big key’ battering tool used in raids. This door should give with a good shove from the shoulder of authority.

Eldridge stepped back and then barged the door. Wood splintered noisily; more glass broke but entry had been gained. He was in. It took a few seconds for Eldridge to make his way through the clutter towards the room where he had seen the old man. Here was the home of a hoarder. Probably a dead hoarder but a hoarder nevertheless.

Eldridge woke several minutes later. His head ached. Mrs. Woodley’s face was above him. The old man who Eldridge had thought dead was red faced and agitated. Full of life now. Mrs. Woodley had tracks of tears on her face as she fussed over Eldridge holding a cloth to the officer’s temple. The remains of a heavy glass bottle lay on the floor amid a general litter of small change.

Like some Greek play the tragic actions could be explained in hindsight. The elderly man had dozed – as he often did whilst watching the television. Having lost much of his hearing he watched television with subtitles. This was in part to avoid noise disturbing his new neighbour, Mrs. Woodley. Better to not to give neighbours cause for complaint and keep his privacy.

It was the vibration, rather than the noise, of the breaking door which had woken the old man. Not seeing who it was but fearing the worst he had grabbed the bottle of coins and standing behind the door had brought it down on the head of the ‘intruder’. Too late to stop the swing of his arm the heavy bottle felled the powers of law and order with a knockout blow.

When the dust settled it was felt no charges could be brought against the old man. The door was repaired and paid for by the police. P.C. Eldridge took some sick leave and suffered the teasing of his colleagues. Now the worried neighbour understood that why the old man shouted. Now she realised that he usually shouted in the late afternoon and during the news. He shouted at the people on quiz shows when he knew the answers. He shouted at the politicians who ducked and dived with weasel phrases. If he knew the answers then how could they not know? Why go on a quiz programme in front of millions? The more frustrated he became the louder he shouted not realising how his voice carried and knowing nothing of Mrs. Woodley’s traumatic marriage.

Simple ingredients mixed together are a recipe for complicated outcomes!

Heads or Tails

By David Gower

A large gin and tonic!

The spinning coin rose into the air, the light catching it as the eyes of its owner followed. It slowed, the battle between the initial upward force and gravity would turn into the overwhelming, inevitable victory of the latter. In moments like these time seemed to freeze. It could not be more than a second, two at the most between the flick of the thumb which had launched it into the air and the smack of it landing on the hands below.

When it was uncovered the decision would be made. Whether heads or tails showed would decide the fate of the two individuals that were the latest acquisition for Lewis.

‘How did they get here? They have to go. Where are they?’ Sarah had said when first her brother, Lewis, had told her of his experiment.

‘I want them. I want to keep them forever. They’re just things, like little pets,’ Lewis had replied firmly showing steeliness in his eyes that Sarah had seen many times over the years.

‘No. It's cruel and they don't belong here. They should be free. Forever, is a long time and they will die. What will you do then?’

She wanted to use emotion and logic with Lewis. Sometimes, reason would bring him round to her way of thinking and draw him away from his selfish, immature, short term desires.

‘They are mine. I want them and you can’t make me let them go.’ Lewis stiffened in his resolve to have his own way regardless of anyone else.

‘You'll get into trouble.’ Sarah’s voice implored her brother Lewis to reason.

‘I don’t care, let me show you them. Then you will see what I mean. They don't know that I want to keep them for ever and ever.’

Lewis seemed to be willing to talk. A good sign.

‘Why not toss a coin and see what happens? Heads you keep them forever and tails we let them go.’ Lewis always liked the randomness of tossing a coin or leaving the outcome of events to some ‘other’ power. It allowed the blame to be placed elsewhere sometimes.

If Lewis left the fate of his latest prisoners to the coin he could save face. Sarah would also have a 50/50 chance of resolving the issue without the argument escalating.

‘All right, have you got any money?’ Lewis never had any money but Sarah had a shiny pound coin in her purse. She had confidence in her ability to spin the coin high and whilst Lewis watched she could make a swift movement and release the captives.

Lewis caught it and shrieked with glee. ‘Heads. Heads, I win and keep them forever. Come and look.’

Lewis lifted the glass tank lid. Inside was a branch and some leaves. Two dried husks of what Lewis had wanted as pets lay on the floor of the old aquarium. He had expected to see two figures encased in silken wrappings but now two butterflies jinked this way and that past his face. Lost forever.

Sarah explained to him that caterpillars change into butterflies and then have very short lives. The larvae had been hedge browns, also called gatekeepers, and they had entered a new phase of consciousness flying off for the next stage of their short lives. They were free of the dastardly Lewis – aged seven years – whose older sister Sarah had battled yet again to keep him out of trouble before Mum got home. School projects always seemed to be more trouble than they were worth.

The Thing on the Beach

by David Gower

strong, Yorkshire tea with biscuits

                 

A sunny afternoon on a shingle beach with the waves of a gentle North Sea lapping against the strand line. Two figures sit amid a picnic. Not a wicker hamper, champagne, linen cloth and crustless sandwich style of picnic but one of a more spontaneous nature. Sparkling wine cooling in the foamy water, a ciabatta loaf, olives, lollo rosso leaves, hummus, fancy cheese and fruit comprise this informal feast. Gone are the days of salad cream and tinned salmon for this pair.

He gazes at the waves rolling in from the east. One after the other as they had done for millennia and would do until the end of days whether in calm or storm. His hand searches for another pebble to throw into the foam. He had never mastered the art of skimming stones and even as an adult this failure irked him. Every stone that had left his hand that day had plopped ignominiously into the shallows. She picks up a flat disc of a stone and effortlessly skims it across the wavelets to sink to the bottom and at some time in the future wash up on the beach again. She turns and smiles at him knowing that she has scored a hit on the most sensitive part of any man – his ego.

The man picks up another stone. Her hand grasps his and prevents him throwing this piece of the planet into the waters.

‘Look at what you have in your hand’ she said.

Before beginning their picnic, they had looked in a half-hearted way for shark teeth and amber. Both could be found on this coast and he had always wanted to find something more exciting. Why was it that every year some middle-class kid on holiday with their parents at Southwold would always, without fail, absolutely guaranteed, always found an unexploded bomb or shell? It never happened to him after all these years. Good fortune wasted on middle class posh kids. So today, he had wanted more than teeth or amber to find something of military origin.

‘What do mean, look at what’s in my hand?’ By now she had removed the stone and held it in the bright sunlight.

‘Do you know what it is? It is quartz? Milky quartz.’

‘It is a stone on the beach that I was going to throw into the sea.’

‘Be honest, you are annoyed not to find any little treasures and throwing things into the sea to vent your frustration.’ She was right as women always were. How annoying was that?

‘Your childhood prejudices always boil over when you come to the beach. I know exactly what was going through your mind. You never feel quite middle class but have moved away from being working class.  You are a classic imposter syndrome victim.’

He bridled at the accuracy of her comment. His own insecurities brought home to him yet again. This time by a piece of stone he had found on the beach and that no one else would have noticed.

‘I simply wanted to chuck some stones into the sea. What can be so special about this piece of rock?’

The moment these words had left his lips he regretted uttering them. Never challenge someone who organises pub quizzes with such a question. The answer would be comprehensive and irritating – people who knew it all were annoying. That should be his role in life as a man!

She began ‘Where shall I start? Before the Bronze Age, Australian aboriginal mythology knew quartz as Maban. It was believed to have had therapeutic powers. People claim that even now.’

‘Pah! Stuff and nonsense, magic crystals my eye.’

She continued, ignoring his antagonism. ‘Pliny and Theophrastus referred to it as a form of ice because it was found high in mountain areas but never in marshy low ground. It is the second most common mineral in the world after feldspar and has posher relatives such as agate, amethyst, onyx and citrine. This milky type contains molecules of liquid. If you had enough pressure you could squeeze it out. Like blood out of a stone. It makes the sand they use in sandpaper and was vital in the war effort.’

This was too much for the man whose childhood of gluing Airfix kits had made him an expert in such things.  ‘How can a simple bit of stone be a wartime resource?’

‘I am glad you asked that.’ Was her mischievous reply. Her eyes shone, she was on the case and espousing her knowledge whilst putting her friend gently in his place. What fun this picnic had become. She continued unabashed. ‘You know they have quartz in watches. Well, they were experimenting in the early 20^th century in Germany making artificial emeralds. The electrical qualities of crystals were valuable for radio, making industrial gems and those squeezy things for lighting gas stoves. Quartz was so important that when the world’s greatest supply in Brazil was threatened by U boats in the war the Americans and British had secret agents working on the case looking for supplies in Allied countries with easier transport links.’

‘You need to get out more.’ The man growled but beneath his negativity he was surprised by how useful this little stone could be.

‘Now, you need your negative energy to be reduced. What could we use to do that?’ She smiled as she held the milky stone in the palm of her hand.

‘I tell you what will reduce my negative energy. A glass of that wine and a piece of cake before the sun melts the cream inside it.’

‘Have another glass and lie back in the sunshine whilst I put this stone somewhere safe. It will look nice on my little finds shelf.’

She retrieved the wine from the surf line and poured the chilled liquid into their plastic picnic glasses which balanced precariously on the rug.

The man moved his hand to balance better and take the glass. The fingers on his free hand settled into the shingle. He felt a cold metal surface, smooth but with some surface rust. He swore quietly and removed his hand looking for any cuts. Finding none he started to remove shingle to expose this piece of rusty metal. Those middle class, do good volunteer beach cleaners could not clean a simple beach. He would have to take it to a bin, what if some dog cut a paw on it later?

Now he saw a dull grey green metal casing.  It was unmistakably a wartime relic, perhaps buried by the Home Guard all those years ago. It had been a good day for the woman to show her knowledge and now it would be his turn to be the centre of attraction. The beach would have to be evacuated, the bomb disposal team would arrive, and he would be in his rightful place – the focus of attention!