Deaf Aids by David Rudd, green tea

‘Dad, you’re going to have to … DAD?’

  ‘What Anna?’

   ‘You’re going to have to get some hearing aids, Dad.’

   ‘Earrings?’ Bernard scanned her face. ‘Yes, they’re very nice. New ones?’

   ‘You’re proving my point, Dad. Not earrings. HEARING AIDS!’

   ‘Deaf aids, you mean.’

   ‘No one calls them that nowadays. They help you hear. They don’t help you go deaf!’

   There had been many conversations like this of late, and Anna was losing patience, which is why she’d booked her dad a test at the local Specsavers.

   ‘Specsavers?’ he queried. ‘They do eye tests.’

   ‘They also do deaf- er, hearing tests, Dad.’

    ‘There should be special branches then. ‘Earsavers’. His hearty laugh filled the lounge.

   The deafer he gets, thought Anna, the louder his laugh. It was good, though, to see him in a jolly mood. So often, nowadays, she found him morose and depressed. Ever since Mum’s death, in fact.

   Bernard went ahead with the tests and was informed that, in the upper range of his hearing, he had substantial losses.

   ‘That explains why I never hear you anymore,’ he informed Anna. ‘That squeaky voice of yours.’

   She bit her tongue and forced a laugh.

  ‘Wearing hearing aids,’ the audiologist had told him, ‘should arrest that loss.’

   Two weeks later, Bernard had them fitted.

   As he’d told the audiologist, he’d imagined something like the old, leather-cased packs that used to hang round people’s necks with a wire running up to one ear. His own father had one. Deafness seemed to run in the family.

   The audiologist had explained the aids to him, showing Bernard how to insert the tiny batteries and clip the compartment shut, thus turning the devices on. They sat behind each ear from which a thin plastic stalk, ending in a small plastic flower, was inserted into his ear canal.

   The aids were certainly light and discreet, but they were also a bit small and fiddly for Bernard, such that he had to rely on Anna much of the time. He’d found it all too easy to comb them loose, especially as the only hair he had was round his ears, of which he was quite proud.

   Worst of all, he would forget to put them in or change the batteries. It was only when Anna stood in front of him, mouthing, pointing to her own ears, that he’d remember (though sometimes he’d just compliment her on her earrings). But when he was on his own at home, which was most of the time, he’d forget all about them. Anna was forever railing at him:

   ‘What about when someone rings you, or the doorbell sounds? What if the smoke alarm goes off?’

   When he did wear them, though, Bernard was impressed at the difference. He could hear birdsong again, leaves rustling, rain splashing. And, most important, as far as Anna was concerned, she no longer had to repeat herself.

   One day, though, things changed dramatically, as Bernard later told Anna. He’d been sitting in Mum’s armchair (which he’d taken to occupying– it made him feel closer to Suzie, he said), enjoying a cup of tea and a biscuit.

   ‘And when I took a bite of it – it was a digestive – I heard this voice in my ear. “Mind those crumbs,” it said. It was Suzie, your mum! That Scottish lilt. It was as though she were there, right beside me.’

   Anna decided not to engage with her dad’s claims. ‘Poor Mum,’ she said. They’d lost her to Hodgkin’s lymphoma less than a year ago. Anna had tried to do her best for her dad, but life just wasn’t the same for him. She knew that.

   ‘Didn’t you hear what I said, Anna?’ Bernard persisted. ‘Mum was speaking to me, through those deaf aids.’

   ‘Hearing aids, Dad!’

   ‘As she spoke,’ he blithely continued, ‘I was reaching for a sup of tea to wash down the crumbs. But one was tickling my throat and I began coughing, and I slopped my tea.’

   Anna smiled obligingly.

   ‘That’s when your mum spoke again. “Och,” she told me, “now you’re making a real mess, ya corrie fister!” – that’s a left-hander,’ he confided to Anna, as if she hadn’t heard it many times before. ‘“Remember,” your mum told me, “that’s my chair your bahookie’s in!”’

   That broke through Anna’s cynicism. She laughed liberatingly alongside her dad.

   ‘See, Anna,’ he continued, no doubt thinking he’d convinced her. ‘It was definitely Suzie! Broader than ever, she sounded, because, she said, she was with her old kin.’ He paused for a while, then chuckled again. ‘Then she said,’ Bernard raised his eyes to the ceiling, ‘she was looking forward to me joining them.’

   Anna had to admit, she hadn’t seen him so upbeat in ages – perhaps since Mum’s death. But she had to be realistic. ‘It’s a lovely idea, Dad,’ she said.

   ‘But it’s true. You do believe me, don’t you Anna?’

   She couldn’t meet his eye.

   ‘Here,’ he suddenly said, ‘You wear them. Try for yourself.’

   ‘Don’t take them out, Dad. It’s been hard enough getting you to wear them!’

   ‘But don’t you want to speak to her? I’m sure she’d love to hear your voice.’

   ‘They’re hearing aids, Dad, not speaking aids!’

   She bent down to kiss him before leaving.

   Anna struggled to hold on to the fact that her dad was now happier than he’d been in ages. He no longer needed prompting about wearing his aids or replacing the batteries. In other ways, though, his demeanour worried her. She’d often find him chattering to himself, oblivious of her presence, as though in a delirium.

   It wasn’t long before other problems arose. From earlier struggles persuading him to wear the aids, her dad now refused to remove them – even at night. He said that’s when she – Suzie – most frequently came to him, speaking about the old days amongst the clan McTavish. Bernard had all the old photo albums out, scattered over the floor, and he delighted in pointing out different individuals and locations to Anna. Most worryingly, he frequently spoke about joining them.

   ‘They’re all up there,’ he’d say, ‘with a place saved for me.’

   And then came the day he complained his hearing aids no longer worked. When she saw them, Anna immediately knew why. He’d worn them in the shower, though he’d been repeatedly warned against this. The aids were replaced several times before it was decided it was a waste of time.

   Bernard finally accepted this, but begged Anna to let him wear his ‘death aids’ when he died. She was sure that’s what he’d called them, though he was confusing many of his words nowadays. For his sake, she approached the funeral director. Cremation was certainly not an option as all electronic devices (pacemakers, etc.) had to be removed, but her dad had never wanted this anyway. He wanted to be buried, alongside Suzie, and the funeral director was happy with this as long as there were no batteries in the devices.

   Bernard was overjoyed.

   ‘Why?’ she asked him, knowing she’d regret it.

   ‘The death aids will help me find her,’ he’d said, that verbal slip present again.

 

   It was the start of a speedy dementia, and carers were soon visiting several times a day. As they supervised his showers, though, he was allowed to wear his hearing aids again, which delighted him, and made talking to him slightly easier.

   Then, one morning, his carers arrived to discover him in his kitchen, complaining of a burning throat. They discovered that he’d swallowed two of the small, circular, hearing-aid batteries. He’d obviously confused them with his regular pills, which were the same size. The carers were apologetic but, although they supervised his medication, they couldn’t guard against him putting other things in his mouth, much like a toddler.

   Fortunately, Bernard had been discovered in time, and A & E had removed the batteries before permanent damage had been done. However, it was a turning point in his decline. He was no longer safe to live alone.

   A care home was found, which he took to surprisingly well. As long as he had his ‘death aids’, as he persisted in calling them, he seemed content. The staff said he wandered around much of the day, chatting away to himself. However, being predominantly young things, frequently sporting their own ear buds, they didn’t find this behaviour that strange.

   Bernard was only there a few months. All too soon, Anna found herself standing by her dad’s graveside. She was pleasantly surprised to see how many had come to his funeral. He’d been a popular man, she realised. Not only were there old friends and work colleagues, but also some of Suzie’s Scottish relatives, who’d travelled down specially.

   Anna spent much of the time at the reception on the question of him being buried with his hearing aids, ‘Or,’ as she related, ‘“death aids”, which is what he called them!’

   They were amused. ‘Does he think he’ll be able to hear us?’ one of the Scottish clan asked.

   ‘No,’ said Anna. ‘But he’s hoping to hear from someone else.’  

   ‘Perhaps,’ said a man in a kilt, ‘they really are “death aids”!’

   As was the case at many funerals, the laughter was therapeutic.

   But Anna suddenly had a thought that arrested her amusement. She pictured herself in her dotage, needing hearing aids for the deafness that seemed to run in the family. But it wasn’t the disability that worried her. It was the thought of putting them on and hearing her dad’s voice crackling in her head.

   ‘At last, Anna. Now do you believe me? Welcome to the clan!’

About the author  

 

Dr David Rudd is an emeritus professor who, after 40 years, turned from academic prose to creative writing. He has published some sixty stories, several appearing in ‘CaféLit’. A collection of his short stories, Blood Will Out, and Other Strange Tales was published in 2024 (available Amazon and elsewhere). 

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The Battle of Brighton, or Mods & Rockers Reunited by David Rudd, an instant coffee from a transport caff

 Nothing like it, the chug and throb of that four-stroke beneath your thighs. But my Royal Enfield rarely came out nowadays, except on dry summer days and special occasions like today. I mean, fifty years since the Brighton bundle! Where’d it go?

   We’re down to three now, from the original Ghost Riders of Benny’s Caff. Ironic, most of them have become just that: ‘Ghost Riders in the Sky,’ as we too often croon for our lost pals. In fact, Bomber, riding alongside me, looks well on his way to meeting them. He still tries to cruise like an easy rider, but it takes Tommy and me to help him on and off his Harley. To think, he once rode a Triumph Bonneville in the TT races!

   This year, Bomber took some persuading even to leave his old armchair. It was his missus, Jean, who eventually riled him enough to shift his fat butt. Endless choruses of ‘Born to be Mild’ finally got to him.

   Tommy, on my other side, is more your man. He’s still up for it – a bit too much so, in fact. Thinks he’s still the likely lad, though his dyed sideboards aren’t very convincing against those hairy old ears of his.

   We should have been four, but poor old Jimmy hadn’t made it. Not a motorcycle ending, but cancer. In fact, I was wearing his old white silk scarf today, as Mary, his wife, had asked me to give it one final outing.

 

***

It’s just outside Crawley that we spot them. Four mod dudes at the side of the road, bent over a poorly Vespa.

   We’d passed them long before I finally get us to pull in.

   ‘I think we should go back and help them lads.’

   ‘Those poncy Mods?’ protests Tommy.

   ‘Come on guys,’ I insist. ‘We can’t commemorate this event without some mods to ritually insult.’

   I’d already turned my Enfield and was heading back. Reluctantly, they follow.

   They still leave it to me to do the talking, though. ‘Hi dudes. What’s up?’ I ask.

   As the tall, thin one pulls back the hood of his parka, I’m shocked to see it’s a black lad, his hair cropped in a two-tone. ‘It keeps misfiring, cutting out.’

   Tommy, who’s only just dismounted, can never resist a mechanical challenge, even though he’s anything but a Good Samaritan. He starts poking around the engine. ‘Ow!’ he yells. ‘Still hot in there!’

   ‘You should get yourself a proper bike!’ Bomber can’t resist telling the black lad. ‘None of this foreign rubbish!’

   I manage to respond before the mods get their oar in. ‘Like that oh-so-British Raleigh Davidson of yours, Bomber’ (I make ‘Raleigh’ rhyme with ‘Harley’).

   Excepting Bomber, everyone laughs.

   Tommy, meanwhile, has removed the spark plug and is tutting. ‘No wonder you were going nowhere, mate. State of this!’

   He starts cleaning the plug, having pulled a wire brush from the saddlebag of his BSA Goldflash.

   While Tommy works his magic, I try to build bridges. ‘So, lads, off to replay the Battle of Hastings, are we?’

   ‘Er, Brighton,’ corrects the mod who most resembles Bomber in shape.

   ‘Joke,’ I say.

   ‘Oh,’ says he, scratching his bald head. ‘And “ha-ha”!’

   The tension notches up a fraction.

   Tommy, meanwhile, is firing up the Vespa. It sounds healthy enough. He straightens, his leathers creaking.

   ‘Tell me,’ says the one who has more mirrors than scooter. ‘Why’d you wear that old creaky stuff?’

   ‘Creaky?’

   ‘Yeah. Those leathers. They sound kinda arthritic. Creak, creak.’ He bends his arms and knees like a monkey. The other Mods laugh.

   Tommy stands as upright as he can manage, all 6’ 1” of him. ‘Well, when you’re doing a ton, and you come off your bike, these can be lifesavers. Whereas,’ he waits a beat, ‘that poncy dress with the fur collar wouldn’t protect you from a puddle.’

   ‘It’s called a Parka,’ responds mirror-man, pausing to unzip his coat to reveal its orange lining, let alone a maroon mohair suit, high-collared white shirt and slim, knitted tie.

   ‘Yea, about as British as your mopeds,’ says Tommy. ‘Parkas are Russian, as you’ll know, of course.’ It was easy to underestimate our mechanic. Bit of an autodidact, he was. But then we’d both done Open University, back in the day.

   Tension’s winding up again. I could see fists being twitchily balled. Fortunately, the young black dude dissipates things.

   ‘Er, I never said thanks, Mister, for sorting my bike. We’re really grateful.’

   I respond. ‘Yep. Be a shame to miss the fifty-year anniversary of ’64, wouldn’t it?  I’m Johnny, by the way, this is Tommy, ace mechanic – as you know – and that’s Bomber, our easy rider.’

   ‘Baz,’ ‘Colin,’ ‘Dave’ and ‘Sam,’ they recite in turn, the last being the young black lad.

   ‘You were never there fifty years back, Sam,’ I say. 

   ‘No. It’s in honour of my dad,’ he pauses. ‘This was his old Vespa.’

   ‘Well, good lad,’ I reply, and the others mumble agreement.

   With that, we wish each other a fun day and go back to our machines.

   Of course, Tommy makes sure we’re away first, burning rubber as he accelerates off on his Goldstar, leaving us to choke on the afterburn.

   We motor on towards Brighton, our pace sharper. No doubt Tommy is keen not to let the Mods get there first; or, more particularly, not to let them overtake us. Tommy barely lets anyone go past him, not even a fellow Ghost Rider.

   I start thinking about us all, Rockers and Mods. I suddenly realise I’ve never seen a black Rocker. Was it something to do with our music? The Mods’ tastes did seem more, well … colour blind, perhaps? Soul, ska, Motown, R&B. Whereas ours was, well … more white, maybe, with a few notable exceptions (Little Richard, Fats Domino)? Were we the dinosaurs, I wondered. The, er, racists?

   Come to that, Mods had female riders, too – though, with their cropped hair, it was often hard to tell the difference. Yet I couldn’t recall any female bike riders. I mean, there were lots of chicks, but they always rode pillion …

 

***

 

We finally arrived at the seafront. And there, unbelievably, amongst hundreds of other Parka-clad figures, were the four Mods we’d met earlier. But for Sam’s presence, I wouldn’t have recognised them.
   Tommy’s beside himself. ‘Impossible,’ he keeps muttering. He would clearly like to ask them about their route, but that would mean admitting defeat. So we just have to listen to him yawping on.

   I leave them to it and wander over. ‘You made good time,’ I say.   

   ‘Yeah,’ says (I think) Baz. ‘Dave used to live round here. Knows all the back-roads.’

   After a while, the other three drift away and I’m left talking to Sam. ‘So, where are you from?’

   ‘Dagenham.’

   ‘The Ford factory?’

   ‘Yeah.’

   Next thing, the two of us head off for a coffee, though it’s queues and bustle everywhere. Quite a sight, I can tell you, Rockers and Mods chatting like long-lost friends. And there’s me, thinking I’m the exception, holding out the olive branch. How the world has changed! This said, as I look around, Sam and I are the only mixed-race people chatting. I feel quite smug about this, but I’m also a bit thankful me mates aren’t present.

   ‘So, was your dad one of the original Mods? Down here on that Vespa in ’64?’

   Sam suddenly starts talking about the weather and the crowds, and it’s quite a while before he comes back round to my question. It was a lie, he confesses. His dad never did have a scooter. His dad had been a Rocker, just like us. Used to hang out at the Ace Café – which I knew well (it was from there we went up the North Circular to try and pull a ton on our customised machines). His dad, so Sam tells me, rode a Triton – probably the meanest machine around in those days – and, sadly, he’d paid the ultimate price.

   ‘Your dad was, er, a black Rocker then?’ I ask hesitantly. This was getting weirder.

   ‘No, he was white. Mam’s black. Caribbean.’ I nod. ‘It was she who made me swear never ever to ride a motorbike. But then this event comes up, and I really wanted to do it as me dad was always going on about it. So I bought that old Vespa.’

   ‘A bit too old, perhaps!’

   He chuckles, then pulls a little wooden box out of his Parka. ‘Some of his ashes,’ he says, opening it to reveal a little pouch inside. ‘I was going to scatter them from the pier. It’s what made Mam agree to me coming.’

   ‘Let’s go and do it, then,’ I say, standing up. ‘Scatter Gary’s ashes.’

   ‘Gary! How did you-?’

   ‘Soon as you said he had a Triton and rode out of the Ace Café’ (and that he was white, I don’t add). ‘He was a great guy!’ I give Sam a friendly punch on the arm, and suddenly have an idea. ‘Is there room in that box for this?’ I pull off Jimmy’s scarf with its little skull-and-crossbones motif at the centre. Sam lets me lay it in his box.

   ‘Me dad had one just like that,’ Sam stutters, choking up.

   I throw my arm round the lad’s shoulders and give him a hug. Of course, at that moment, Bomber and Tommy come creaking our way, giving me a very funny look.

   ‘We’re off to the pier,’ I say. ‘We’re gonna chuck someone in.’

   ‘As long as it’s a mod,’ says Bomber, with only a mild hint of sarcasm.

   ‘No, this guy swings both ways,’ I say. ‘Rod the Mocker!’

   With that, Sam and I waltz off, laughing, though less at my remark than the utter bewilderment registering on my mates’ faces.

 

 

About the author

 

Dr David Rudd is an emeritus professor who, after 40 years, turned from academic prose to creative writing. He has published some fifty stories, several appearing in CaféLit. A collection of his short stories, Blood Will Out, and Other Strange Tales was published in 2024 (available Amazon and elsewhere). 

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.)

The Cloud by David Rudd, London Fog tea

Martha would clamber aboard her ‘magic Wishing-Chair’ and ask it to take her upstairs. Since her legs had become unreliable, it had been a boon. Before that, she and Albert had struggled. They’d found themselves increasingly confined downstairs, each sleeping in an armchair in their back room. It was fortunate that they still had a privy, accessible through the kitchen.

 

   It was Albert’s stroke that had brought things to a head. A team of carers had arrived to support them, and the chairlift had been installed. Martha had soon christened it the magic Wishing-Chair, recalling a favourite childhood book by Enid Blyton. The stories featured a chair that would whisk its occupants off to exciting fantasy lands. Nowadays, though, Martha found it exciting enough to go up and down the stairs.

 

   They’d had a few good months before Albert deteriorated further and couldn’t manage the chairlift. A bed had then been set up in the lounge, which, before that, had been little used — kept ‘for best’. As Albert became increasingly bed-bound, Martha forsook her own bed, spending the nights by Albert’s side in what had been his favourite chair, a high-backed Windsor. To help her keep warm, she left the heating on all night.

 

   But one morning, she found that her feet had swollen out of her slippers like freshly baked loaves. Agata, Martha’s most favoured carer, had told her off. Agata had had to prise out Martha’s feet, and Martha had never found her old slippers fitted after that. She’d felt like one of the ugly sisters in Cinderella.

 

   Thereafter, Martha always did what Agata advised. Having given Albert his goodnight kiss, Martha would strap herself into the Wishing-Chair and, taking hold of the control toggle, order it ‘Up the apples and pears.’ It was something her Dad used to say to her when, as a child, he would carry her up to bed.

 

   When Albert died, which he did not long after, Martha found herself more dependent on the caring team, Agata especially. It was she who’d first mentioned the Cloud. She’d been showing Martha pictures of her own family: her husband and young daughter, together with her relatives, back in Poland. Martha had watched in amazement as Agata prodded at what looked like a compact mirror nestling in her palm. Martha was mesmerised at the way Agata scrolled through screen after screen, each containing a wealth of gem-like images. When Agata touched any one of these pearls, it would magically spring out, filling the screen.

 

   However, despite all the new technology, Martha was moved to see Agata make the sign of the cross whenever she came across one of her older relatives, someone who had clearly passed on. Agata would complete the sign by pointing to the ceiling with her index finger, her eyes glancing upwards. Agata’s ties with her family were clearly very strong. In turn, Martha found herself adopting this pointing gesture, but only to indicate the boxes of photographs up in her attic. Martha imagined the Wishing-Chair transporting her there; or, even better, whisking her off to this magic Cloud.

 

   ‘I keep whole life on Cloud,’ Agata had informed her. ‘Life there — it has better time than me!’ Agata had laughed and Martha had joined in, even though she didn’t quite understand the joke. What she did realise, though, was that it had been a long time since she’d exercised what Albert used to refer to as ‘your chuckle muscles’. Agata had broken this spell of despondency.

 

   The carers called several times a day. It was not quite as hectic as it had been towards the end of Albert’s life, but Martha knew she’d never manage to stay in her home without their support. After helping her to bed at nights, Agata or one of the others would be back first thing in the morning to prepare her for the day. She loved seeing these young things about the place. Without them, life would have been not only impossible but joyless. The girls kept her cheerful and seemed genuinely interested — well, some of them, anyway — in Martha’s family history.

 

   She would have liked to show them — Agata in particular — some of those photos of herself and Albert back in their heyday. Thanks to Albert having acquired a camera for his twenty-first, there were pictures going back to their first date. There were also countless photos of Johnny, their son, who now lived in Canada. Martha had occasionally asked the Wishing-Chair to transport her there, but it wouldn’t cooperate.

 

   ‘Take me to the Cloud, then,’ she’d say. She recalled that Johnny’s favourite childhood reading had been Rupert the Bear, an enthusiasm that Albert had passed on from his own childhood. Rupert, she remembered, occasionally travelled up to the clouds and was pictured strolling about on them. The Rupert annuals, Martha thought, should also be somewhere up there, in their loft.

 

   Martha sighed. It was all so long ago, and now Martha seemed to have come full circle. She was aware that she was increasingly dependent on others, needing help with the most mundane of tasks. As Agata bathed and dressed her, such thoughts were always on Martha’s mind. Agata would then follow Martha’s chair as she trundled downstairs, before she’d help Martha with her breakfast.

 

   One day, they’d barely finished this routine when there was a knock at the front door. ‘That is manager,’ said Agata, going to answer it. But the two didn’t return to the back room. Instead, Martha could hear them talking in the hallway. She caught something about being put in a home.

 

   ‘I’m already in one,’ Martha shouted through.

 

   There followed a brief silence before she heard them move into the lounge. That room had been mothballed since Albert’s death.

 

   After what seemed an age, Agata came to fetch Martha, leading her through into her own parlour, where she could see the care manager ensconced in Albert’s Windsor chair. It made Martha feel as though she were the interloper, as though she were there attending an interview. Having helped her into the only other chair in the room, Agata took herself off to make tea. As soon as the door closed, the woman began speaking.

 

   ‘How are we today, Mrs Hilton — Martha, isn’t it?’ The woman was older than Agata, Martha thought, though she wasn’t sure by how much. Fortyish, perhaps? She found it difficult guessing the ages of younger people. ‘I’m here to do an assessment,’ continued the woman.

 

   On hearing the word ‘assessment’, Martha was off: ‘Martha Alice Hilton,’ she said. ‘Twelve twelves are 144. Caracas is the capital of Venezuela. The Nile is the longest river in the world …’ She’d always had a good memory but, she had to admit, she’d surprised herself with the way all these facts, learned over seventy years ago, tumbled out so readily.

 

   She managed no more, however, for the woman intervened. ‘That’s very good, Mrs – er, Martha. But I’d like you to tell me something far simpler. What day is it today?’

 

   Martha was nonplussed. How was she supposed to know that? I mean, the Nile ran for a predictable 4,000 miles, whereas the days, well, they just ran on meaninglessly, one into another. Martha tried to explain this to the woman occupying Albert’s chair. She hadn’t even introduced herself, had she? Martha might have drawn attention to such impoliteness, but she had an inkling that she might have met the woman before. Martha knew she was not good recalling recent events.

 

   Instead, Martha suggested that it would be a good idea to be given advance notice of the questions that needed answering. That, explained Martha, was what proper tests did. You were told what areas to learn, and then you could prepare accordingly. None of these sudden surprises from strangers armed with clipboards and tick boxes! She didn’t say this last bit, though.

 

   While they were talking, Agata had sneaked in with a tray of tea. Martha was pleased to see that there were three cups, so Agata would be joining them. As Agata passed them round, Martha took in the rest of her front parlour. It had been ages since she’d been in here. Having been reserved for ‘best’, it had become ‘the worst’ after Albert had died in here, so she’d avoided it ever since. However, as Martha looked towards Agata’s small frame propping up the mantelpiece, she spotted two framed photographs there. One was of herself and Albert, standing outside the church on their wedding day, all dressed up in their finery; and next to the young couple was a photo — in colour! — of Johnny. He would have been eleven, dressed in his school uniform for his final year at primary school.

 

   It was catching sight of Albert, so young and so dapper, that caused Martha to interrupt the care manager’s script. ‘Albert!’ she cried out. ‘God rest his soul!’

 

   The manager looked at Martha as though the old woman had just confirmed she was losing it and needed putting in a home. Agata simply crossed herself, ending with that habitually raised finger. The manager frowned at the younger woman before concluding her ‘assessment’ and packing up her papers.

 

   Martha, though, had more to say. She moved across the room, blocking the care manager’s exit. She was determined to voice Agata’s praises — ‘Agata’, as she stressed (not ‘Agatha’, as the care manager persisted in calling her). The manager finally managed to extricate herself and left.

 

   Agata and Martha exchanged a smile. Agata reached behind her and took the two photographs from the mantelpiece. ‘We put these in other room,’ she said, ‘to see every day, just like photos on my phone.’ 

 

   Once again, Martha started quizzing Agata about the Cloud. ‘It’s all over my head,’ she admitted.

   Agata looked perplexed. ‘You make joke?’ she asked. ‘Clouds over head?’ She pointed upwards, and they both tracked her upraised finger.

 

   This time it was Martha who led their laughter, her facial muscles again familiar with the manoeuvre. Wiping away her tears, Martha felt cleansed, even if the Cloud still mystified her. How did you get your photos up there, she wondered, as she looked at her own, newly rediscovered treasures.

 

   That evening, Albert shared the ride up to bed with her, their wedding photo in her lap. Agata stood it next to Martha’s bed, giving her a goodnight peck on the cheek, something she’d recently taken to doing.

 

   Lying there, Martha found she couldn’t sleep. That framed photograph had whetted her appetite. She thought of the many other images mouldering in the loft, just over her head. How wonderful it would be to have all those pictures cradled in the palm of her hand, at her beck and call, especially those of Johnny growing up! How she longed to see them again. If only she could gain access to this Cloud … Once more, she gazed up at the ceiling. She could almost hear the photos rustling up there, calling to her.

 

   It seemed an age that Martha lay there. Her mind wouldn’t rest. She knew that the care manager was planning to have her moved into a home. A home, indeed! Her home was here, and she had no intention of leaving it. Just because she didn’t know what day it was! What did that matter? She still knew who she was, and who Albert and Johnny were, let alone her late brother and two older sisters. Tonight, she felt particularly close to them. Not that that woman had shown any interest in either her or her family!

 

   Suddenly, Martha had an idea. She hauled herself out of bed and shakily made her way to the landing where the Wishing-Chair glimmered in the dark, just waiting for an adventure. Naturally, it was locked in place, positioned round the corner from the stairs to avoid accidents.

 

   Martha fastened herself in. As the chair cradled her in its arms, she asked it to carry her to the Cloud. Of course, from its current location, the chair could only go downwards, but Martha didn’t seem to notice. She simply enjoyed the chair’s embrace, the comforting whir and lilt of its mechanism. She imagined herself back on the fairground at Blackpool, where she and Albert had spent their honeymoon. They’d been to the Pleasure Beach, where they’d ridden the Big Dipper. It felt like Albert’s arms were holding her now.

 

   Martha must have sat on her chair at the bottom of the stairs for quite some while before she once more became aware of Albert’s arms about her. He suggested she’d be more comfortable up above. Yes, she thought, up on the Cloud! She took hold of the toggle and, tread by tread, they ascended. They did not halt at the top stair, however. Martha felt them continue to climb, up through the loft hatch and out into the night sky.

 

   Martha discovered that Agata had been right about the Cloud. Everything was up there. Not just pictures, either, but people. Her parents, aunts and uncles, old neighbours and schoolfriends. They were all there waiting to greet her. And at her side was Albert. It was only Johnny who was absent, but that was because he was still down below. One day, though, he’d join them.

 

#

 

After receiving a distraught call from Agata the following morning, the care manager had returned to Martha’s house. The two women stood in the hallway, awaiting the police. Agata was openly tearful. Martha had been her favourite.

 

   ‘She must have frozen to death in that chair all night. What was she thinking of?’ said the care manager. ‘If only she’d listened to me, she could have been safe in a home.’

 

   ‘She was in home,’ replied Agata, ‘and Wishing-Chair now taken her to new home.’ Agata crossed herself and pointed heavenwards.

 

   ‘Must you keep doing that? And what’s all this ‘wishing-chair’ nonsense?’

 

   But the care manager didn’t stop to hear. There was a rap at the door. She went to answer it.

 

   Agata looked across at Martha, slumped in her chair, a smile on those thin lips. Agata hugged the small figure before pushing her way past her manager and the policewoman and out into the street. Tears were in her eyes, but they were ones of joy. She pointed up at the clouds and smiled.

 

About the author 

Dr David Rudd is an emeritus professor who, after 40 years, turned from academic prose to creative writing and found fulfilment. Recent stories have appeared in Aphelion, Bandit Fiction, The Blotter, Corner Bar Magazine, Dribble Drabble Review, Jerry Jazz Musician, and Literally Stories. 

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The Strange Case of the Missing Bikes by David Rudd, black coffee

 They’d dealt with mysterious events before, but none so close to home. This had happened not just in the village, but in their clubhouse.

     ‘We know it was locked,’ said Daniel.

     ‘That’s the strange thing,’ piped up Diana. ‘The door was locked with the key still under the flowerpot.’

     ‘So,’ Barney chipped in, ‘it sounds like an inside job.’

     ‘Of course it was inside,’ said Diana. ‘It was in our garden shed!’ She ignored the older ones’ laughter.

     At ten-years-old, the twins were the youngest. Clara, whose father owned the butcher’s, was the oldest at twelve. In between was Barney, Clara’s cousin, who stayed during the holidays, which is when their adventures occurred. And, of course, there was Rusty, the Bassett hound, who, in human reckoning, was forty-two but, in dog years, was a sprightly six. Together, they were The Five Fixers.

     It was a bit crowded in Clara’s treehouse, but it was private. No grown-ups around. The Fixers had been forbidden entry to their clubhouse until the police had inspected it, although they’d already been in there that morning to get their bikes, which is when they discovered they’d gone.

     ‘Brand new they were, too,’ said Diana. ‘Birthday presents from Mummy and Daddy.’

     ‘And that was all they took?’ enquired Clara.  ‘Definitely sounds an inside- … I mean, a job done by someone who knew where the key was.’

     ‘It’s strange,’ put in Daniel, ‘that Uncle Leo was so upset.’

     ‘He was, wasn’t he?’ reflected Diana, ‘And yet he didn’t want Daddy to contact the police.’

     ‘Even though Chief Superintendent Craven is a friend and neighbour,’ said Clara.

     ‘So, what’s Uncle Daniel’s job?’ asked Barney.

     ‘Not sure,’ said Diana. ‘He travels a lot.’

     ‘I think I heard Daddy say,’ interjected Daniel, ‘he works for MFI.’

#

Uncle Leo was in the garden, smoking. He’d had an exhausting morning. Last night was bad enough, socialising with his sister and their socially clambering friends. His boredom threshold had been severely tested, so he’d drunk far more than he’d intended. Then he’d been woken this morning by the twins shouting.

     Going in search of caffeine, he’d found Judy, the ‘help’, preparing breakfast. She’d insisted he sit down while she brewed some coffee. He was impressed. He usually got instant.

     ‘You’re a wonder, Judy. They don’t deserve you,’ he said.

     It was a heartfelt remark. She cooked, cleaned, washed, and did maintenance work, yet remained largely invisible. She’d make a good intelligence officer, though Leo.

     ‘Why are the twins shouting?’ he’d asked.

     ‘It’s their bikes,’ Judy had replied. ‘They say they’ve been stolen. I think they’ve just left them somewhere. Wouldn’t be the first time!’ While she talked, Judy had deftly transferred glistening stacks of bacon, sausage, mushrooms and tomatoes to some chafing dishes. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, Mr Peters, I must get on.’

     Leo had taken the hint and wandered outside with his coffee. He’d repeatedly asked Judy to call him ‘Leo’, but she always reverted to ‘Mr Peters’. And who was he to disturb Little Baddercombe’s medieval sense of social order?

     In the garden he encountered the twins sitting in one of the apple trees. Rusty was running around below, looking for a way up.

     The twins clambered down to tell Leo about their missing bikes. They insisted he saw the scene of the crime. Once inside, Leo detected an all-too-familiar odour.

     ‘They were right here, Uncle Leo,’ Diana exclaimed.

     ‘Mysterious,’ Leo replied, lighting another cigarette to conceal the pong.

     ‘And we’re meant to be having our Fixers meeting in here,’ added Diana.

     As discreetly as he could, Leo ushered them out of the cramped space, expressing a keen interest in the Fixers’ adventures.

     Daniel scampered ahead, leaping into Leo’s open-top MG. ‘Can we have a ride, Uncle Leo?’ he begged, making revving noises as he gripped the steering wheel.

     ‘Later,’ said Leo.

     ‘Awww!’ complained Daniel, inquisitively fingering the controls.

   Once the twins were called for breakfast, Leo went back to the shed and uncovered the crystal meth. It was in a plastic bag that had got punctured, whether by accident or design, Leo didn’t know. It stank of cat pee. He swept up the spillage, leaving the door ajar, and hid the bag under his passenger seat.

     Back at breakfast, the talk focused on the missing bikes. Their father agreed to contact their neighbour, Chief Superintendent Craven. Then the family dispersed: the children to meet their friends; Leo’s brother-in-law to his chambers; and Leo’s sister, Mandy, to a fund-raising meeting.  

     Leo agreed to liaise with the police, despite Mandy’s assurance that Judy would be there. Leo made himself comfortable in the garden, reminding himself that this was meant to be a holiday.

     Some twenty-minutes later, he heard voices: ‘Those bleedin’ kids give us more work than any crook. But Craven’ll have none of it.’

     ‘Middle-class cronyism,’ said the other, before Leo appeared. They were about to apologise when they saw his smile. He escorted them to the ‘crime scene’, nervously wafting his cigarette, just in case.

   Once Leo established his credentials — name-dropping MI5 — PCs Matthews and Summers were only too happy to let him make some enquiries. They provided him with the names and addresses of known, local bad lads, including, on Leo’s request, drug dealers.

     Having enjoyed a chat and a coffee, the PCs were keen to depart before the children returned. They promised to liaise later.

#

Leo visited the addresses they’d provided, quite enjoying his holiday now. Better than hobnobbing with his sister’s G & T set!

     At his fourth call, Leo struck lucky. When one of the Langley brothers opened the door of their caravan at a nearby park, Leo dropped the bag of meth into a receptive pair of hands. ‘Thought I’d return this.’ 

     ‘How the bleedin’-?’ began Mick, the bigger brother.

     ‘Shut it, kid!’ Jim had yelled.

     Leo pushed his way in, waving his Drug Squad card (one of many) before their eyes. Jim was on the far side of the van, tinkering with some children’s bikes.

     ‘Now lads,’ Leo had said. ‘We can make this simple or difficult. I’ll swap you this stash,’ he pointed to the bag, ‘for those bikes.’

     ‘You mean, you ain’t gonna shop us?’ Mick had queried.

     ‘It’s your lucky day.’

     ‘And where does Craven come into this?’ asked Jim.

     ‘Craven knows nothing about it,’ Leo replied.

     ‘You’re not with Craven?’ Jim asked.

     ‘I’m on holiday, visiting my nephew and niece — Members of the Five Fixers Gang — whose bikes you’ve nicked.’

     ‘Five Flamin’ Fixers!’ Mick exploded. ‘We did time thanks to those little pricks!’

     ‘Shut it!’ hissed his brother.

     ‘So,’ began Leo, ‘is that why you nicked their bikes and planted this stash in their shed?’

     ‘Their shed?’ Jim had looked perplexed. ‘You mean Craven’s shed.’

     Leo laughed. ‘Craven lives next door.’

     Jim started slapping his brother. ‘Dickhead!’

     Leo was still perplexed. ‘But why plant dope in Craven’s shed? Suicidal, isn’t it?’

     After a lengthy chat, it emerged that Craven had been taking backhanders for dealer protection. However, he’d been getting greedy, so the syndicate threatened to shop him. The dope was a warning. The Langley brothers had been the delivery boys. The bikes were simply a surprise perk they couldn’t resist.

     Leo, though, suggested a more fruitful way of dealing with Craven, which quite appealed.

     As for the bikes, despite the Langleys wanting to trash them, it was agreed they’d deposit them at the Old Quarry. Leo followed the brothers, to make sure he knew where the bikes were.

     ‘One more thing,’ Leo asked. ‘How did you know where the shed key was?’

     ‘Lucky guess,’ Jim said.

#

Back at his brother-in-law’s, Leo found his nephew, niece, and the dog awaiting him. ‘You promised us a ride, Uncle Leo.’

     Leo forced a smile and took them for a drive.

     ‘Look at Rusty,’ Daniel shouted, watching the wind fill Rusty’s jowls and levitate his ears, ‘he’s being swept by the wind, Uncle.’

     ‘Windswept!’ corrected Diana.

     Having reached a long stretch of country road, Leo thought he’d impress them by putting his foot down.

     ‘Oooh!’ shrieked Diana, ‘You’ve broken the speed limit!’

     ‘Chief Superintendent Craven would arrest you!’ added Daniel.

     ‘Little pricks!’ The Langleys’ words echoed in Leo’s head.

     When some clouds started to gather, Leo stopped to put up the hood. But that seemed to make Rusty slobber and snuffle. He became increasingly agitated.

     ‘Car sick?’ Leo asked.

     ‘Not usually,’ said the children, but Leo drove at a more sedate pace with the window flaps wide.

#

When they got back, the twins went to find the other Fixers. They were in Clara’s treehouse. The twins went up, leaving Rusty down below, given his peculiar behaviour.

     ‘Anything to report?’ Barney asked.

     ‘Yes,’ said Daniel. ‘Uncle Leo was out in his car early this morning. It came back with muddy tyres.’ Daniel passed across a piece of paper with ‘18,308’ written on it. ‘This is his milometer reading before our ride.’

     ‘That’s very good,’ said Barney, ‘but not much use unless we know what the figure was before he went out this morning.’

     ‘But we do,’ beamed Daniel. ‘I sat in his car before breakfast. It then said 18,300 miles exactly.’

      ‘Brilliant!’ said Clara. ‘So, he’d driven eight miles, which means that it was somewhere no more than four miles away.’ She circled a four-mile radius with her compasses on a tattered OS map.

     ‘The mud on his tyres was an orangey colour,’ added Daniel.

     Clara immediately poked a finger within the pencilled circle. ‘The Old Quarry,’ she announced.

     ‘Great work, twins,’ said Barney.

     Their conversation was halted by Rusty’s barking. ‘I’d forgotten about him!’ said Diana.

     The dog was running around the base of the tree, shaking his head, and sneezing.

     ‘I think he needs another drink,’ said Diana. They fetched him a fresh bowl of water, his third since the car ride.

     After drinking, he looked up at the twins, seeming to say, ‘No more sports cars, thank you!’

#

The Fixers didn’t reconvene until the following day, having regained possession of the garden shed. As customary, they started their meeting with their favourite refreshments — ginger beer and fruitcake — an idea borrowed from their fictional counterparts.

     Then Diana noticed a piece of paper wedged between two door panels. She pulled it free and read it: ‘Yor biks are in a shed at the Old Quarry.’     

     ‘The place where Uncle Leo’s car was, with the mud!’ exclaimed Diana.

     ‘Although,’ said Clara, ‘his tyres weren’t muddy first thing, were they?’ She looked at Daniel, but he couldn’t remember. ‘So, Uncle Leo couldn’t have taken the bikes.’

     ‘They wouldn’t fit in that car, anyway,’ added Diana.

     ‘Perhaps he had an accomplice,’ suggested Daniel.

      ‘Someone who can’t spell very well,’ said Clara.

     ‘Or someone who wants us to think that,’ said Barney. ‘I mean, ‘yor’ and ‘biks’ are misspelled, but ‘Quarry’ – a more difficult word – is correct.’

     ‘Let’s go to the Quarry!’ said Diana, a gleam in her eye.

     ‘Yes,’ said Barney. ‘Another adventure for the Five Fixers!’

     They were interrupted by Chief Superintendent Craven knocking at the shed door. He looked unusually serious. They told him about their stolen bikes but were reluctant to share all their intelligence at this stage. However, they had no compunction about pointing the finger at Uncle Leo.

     ‘He made Rusty car-sick,’ said Diana.

     ‘He doesn’t like dogs at all,’ said Daniel.

     ‘And he broke the speed limit in his car,’ said Diana.

     ‘Very interesting,’ responded Craven. ‘What does your uncle do, anyway?’

     ‘He works for MFI,’ the twins declared.

#

Laden with one of Judy’s picnics, the Fixers set off for the quarry, the two older ones wheeling their bikes.

     To their delight, the bikes were there, as the message had said. Before the twins could touch their machines, however, Barney pulled out his detection kit and ordered everyone to stand clear. He inspected each cycle with his magnifying glass, looking in vain for prints.

     ‘They’re clean,’ he announced.

     ‘Apart from this mud,’ Daniel pointed out.

     Outside, they followed the snaking tyre treads, along with three sets of footprints, which led to some larger tyre tracks, from two different vehicles.

     Once again, Barney deployed his magnifying glass. ‘I think this tread pattern is from Uncle Leo’s MG.’

     ‘It doesn’t make sense,’ said Clara. ‘Why move bikes from one shed to another?’  

     ‘And send the owners a note,’ added Diana.

     They discussed this over their picnic, then enjoyed a leisurely ride home. Rusty appreciated taking turns in the baskets of the girls’ cycles.

     At home, there was no sign of Leo’s MG. They’d wanted to examine its tyre treads. They also wanted to monitor his reaction when he saw their bikes. But he didn’t reappear all day.

     Clara, deciding that ‘The Strange Case of the Missing Bikes’ was almost solved, spent the evening writing up their adventure. It was their eighth, she noted, gazing at the neat row of exercise books on her bookshelf.

#

Leo was also working hard at resolving things, only returning to his sister’s early the following morning. As he parked his car, he was relishing the thought of Judy’s cooked breakfast, with lashings of black coffee. He greeted her before going upstairs to freshen up.

     What he didn’t know was that the Fixers had also been busy. In his absence, the twins had searched his room and discovered, in his bin, some sheets of paper from the pad on which he’d made the note about the missing bikes, one sheet of which bore the imprint of that anonymous note.

     Before breakfast, the twins had run round to let Clara and Barney know. Barney had used a special powder to make the hidden message stand out. Although it was legible without this, they were impressed at his forensic skills — apart from Rusty, that is, who started sneezing again. He wasn’t enjoying this adventure.

     Rusty and the twins then ran home for breakfast, having assured Clara that they’d inform Chief Inspector Craven about their Uncle’s guilt.

#

      ‘Where’s your uncle?’ asked Barney when they met after breakfast.

     ‘Upstairs,’ the twins answered.

     ‘Did you let Chief Superintendent Craven know?’ asked Clara.

     ‘He wasn’t at home,’ said Diana.

     ‘Well, we mustn’t let your uncle escape,’ Barney emphasised.

     ‘He won’t,’ Daniel piped up. ‘We let his tyres down.’

     ‘The ones with the same tread pattern!’ added Diana.

     The twins led the others to Leo’s car, which was standing forlornly in the gravel.

     ‘Well done twins!’ said Barney.

     As if keen to contribute, Rusty cocked a leg against one of the MG’s wheels. They giggled.

     ‘And Rusty!’ added Clara.

     Suddenly, they spotted Uncle Leo. He was peering into the shed. Barney launched himself at the man, shouldering Leo inside and slamming the door. Fortunately, the key was still in the lock. Barney secured it.

     ‘We’d better phone the police,’ said Clara. ‘Perhaps Chief Superintendent Craven is at the station.’

     They went into the kitchen, surprised to see their mother there.

     ‘Having a busy morning?’ she asked. ‘Have you seen Uncle Leo, by the way? I heard his car.’

     ‘Er…’

     Barney, alert to Leo’s banging, turned up the radio. ‘Sorry,’ he apologised to the twins’ mother. ‘Just wanted to hear the, er, music.’

     Before anything else was said, another car arrived, quickly followed by a rap at the door. Chief Superintendent Craven, thought the children.

     They ran to greet him, but two other men stood there. One was PC Matthews, who’d called about the stolen bikes. The other was a plain clothes man. ‘Inspector Hanson,’ as he introduced himself, shaking hands with each of them, even accepting Rusty’s paw.

     ‘Is Mr Leo Peters in?’

     ‘He’s somewhere around…,’ began the twin’s mother, only to have the twins interrupt.

     ‘He’s locked in the shed,’ they beamed.

     ‘What?’ She turned to Barney. ‘Will you turn that radio down?’

     But Judy, returning, pre-empted him. The banging became more audible.

     ‘He’s ready for handcuffing!’ announced the twins.

     The inspector followed the Fixers to the shed, where Barney unlocked the door and stood to one side, though remaining vigilant. They were all hoping Uncle Leo would attempt to make a getaway in his car. However, the wind was taken out of their sails.

     ‘Good morning, gents,’ said Leo. ‘I’d invite you in, but it’s a bit cramped!’

     ‘What’s all this about?’ asked Hanson, as they gathered in the back garden, Judy having supplied some home-made lemonade.

     The story emerged, albeit slightly edited. The children listened in surprise as Uncle Leo explained how he’d traced the bike thieves and made them write a confession.

     The Fixers were dumbfounded. Not what they’d expected. Where was Chief Superintendent Craven, they wanted to know.

     ‘Busy,’ said the Inspector, ‘helping us follow some leads.’

#

The children were dispirited the rest of the day. Clara, the Fixers’ chronicler, was particularly downhearted, especially when she came to write the conclusion to their adventure. For she’d already detailed Uncle Leo’s suspicious character: his dislike of dogs, upsetting Rusty, his disregard for speed limits, his heavy smoking, his lack of a wife, etc.

     And what they’d subsequently learned only seemed to confirm the Fixers’ suspicions: that tell-tale note, the quarry mud on his tyres, staying out all night before breaking into their clubhouse.

     He just had to be guilty, Clara decided, ending her story in the traditional manner, with Chief Super Craven praising The Fixers (‘And that includes you, Rusty!’).

#

Leo, back in the city, was also busy writing, and also having difficulties. It was a brief report about his ‘unofficial’ involvement in a drug-smuggling racket in Little Baddercombe and surrounding villages. Central to it were details of Craven’s backhanders — which, this time, had involved some marked notes.

     Leo was also aware that his report would probably never see the light of day, let alone The Little Baddercombe Courier. If anyone was at risk, he feared it might be the Langley brothers.

     Leo sighed. “Give me the honest and open world of national espionage any day!’ he muttered.

 

About the author

Dr David Rudd is an emeritus professor who, after 40 years, turned from academic prose to creative writing and found fulfilment. Recent stories have appeared in 'Aphelion', 'Bandit Fiction', 'The Blotter', 'Corner Bar Magazine', 'Dribble Drabble Review', 'Jerry Jazz Musician', and 'Literally Stories'. 

 

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