Alfie Likes Penguins

 by Emma Robertson

12 year old single malt

 

Alfie picked up his dram (a supermarket single malt; he was keeping the good stuff for Hogmanay) and raised it to his wife. ‘Slainte!’

‘Cheers!’ Kate lifted her G&T back at him, smiling when she noticed the glass he’d selected. ‘You’re using it!’

‘Aye, well, it’s Christmas.’ Alfie was gruff, slightly embarrassed to have selected the penguin-design glass that his mother-in-law had gifted him the previous year. It had stayed in its box since then, stashed in the cupboard that stored such assorted ephemera – shot glasses from their trip to St Petersburg, a bell printed with ‘Ring for Wine’ – and many, many penguin-themed novelties.

Kate put down her drink on the mantelpiece next to the penguin Christmas countdown ornament and picked up her phone. ‘Let me take a photo of you using it.’

Alfie groaned; he knew this would happen. ‘Come on, Mum will love it!’ Kate cajoled, gesturing for him to stand by the tree, so she could also fit in the penguin tree decorations from two years before. ‘Say penguin!’

‘Get tae fuck,’ said Alfie, but he did smile. Kate took the photo and kissed him on the cheek.

Alfie wasn’t really sure how this had happened. One day, about ten years ago, Kate had mentioned to a few people about how much Alfie had enjoyed a documentary about chinstrap penguins and someone, he couldn’t remember who now, had said, ‘Oh, I didn’t realise you liked penguins?’ Alfie honestly couldn’t remember confirming or denying whether he did indeed like penguins, but the following Christmas, not one, not two, but three penguin-themed gifts found their way to him.

‘Ah, of course! Alfie likes penguins!’ his sister-in-law had exclaimed, after he’d unwrapped penguin socks, a wind-up waddling plastic penguin and – what proved to be a Christmas staple from thereon in – a big chocolate penguin. Alfie had shrugged good-naturedly and Kate had found it hilarious, so there began a new Christmas tradition.

‘Buckle up, penguin-boy!’ Kate grinned, uploading the photo to Facebook. ‘It’s your time to shine!’

Soon came the likes, the laughing emojis, the teasing comments and the dancing-penguin gif from Alfie’s uncle, who’d recently learned how to use gifs and now put them everywhere. Alfie sighed and drained his dram, glaring at the glass as he did so.

The next day at Kate’s mum’s house, after unwrapping penguin bubble bath, penguin face masks (very 2021!) and a penguin-shaped box of shortbread, Alfie video-called his family north of the border, too far away to visit this year, and told them what presents he’d received.

‘Strange, I dinnae mind you liking penguins when you were wee,’ his mother mused. Alfie shrugged; he didn’t remember ever really having an opinion on them at all.

Back in the living room, Kate’s brother, a teacher, unwrapped a penguin tie from his pupils and everyone exploded with laughter.

‘You should give that to Alfie!’ Kate’s mum cried. ‘Alfie likes penguins!’

Everyone laughed again and Alfie decided to break out the good whisky early this year.

About the author 

Emma Robertson is a dance tutor and writer from London, UK. Her pieces can be found in Sledgehammer Lit, Funny Pearls and Lunate plus several flash fiction websites. In 2021 she was longlisted by Cranked Anvil and Furious Fiction and published in a number of anthologies.

 

 

Lady Luck

 

 by Emma Robertson

port and lemon

I was just six years old when I first killed a man. Not physically – a heart attack did the job – but I combed my hair when my da and brothers were at sea and their skipper hit the deck as they were returning to Peterhead. I should have known better, even at that age. Aye, superstition was a way of life for fisher folk where I came from.

I say were because it’s been many a year since I lived that life. I escaped when I was seventeen, tired of being blamed for all my family’s woes. “You’re a bad luck charm, quine,” Da said when my oldest brother slipped on salt that I had spilled on the floor of the curing yard, leaving him a man short for two months.

My first boyfriend Gregor concurred. The night we met, dancing at the beach ballroom, his wallet was stolen and his ma broke her ankle the day after I first went round there for tea. Once we were enjoying a wee bosie as we strolled home (I couldn’t bring him in; he was terrified of my da and brothers) when he leant too heavily on a parked car and broke the wing mirror.

“Seven years bad luck.” He looked at me in dismay. I knew he blamed me.

That was the last time I saw him. He didn’t even come to see me off but I heard later that he’d been down with shingles, so it wasn’t his fault. Anyway, I met Ruaridh on the crossing to America and we had a wonderful week under the Atlantic stars. He was a lovely boy; it was such a shame that he lost his papers and couldn’t pass immigration.

I threw myself into work when I arrived in Manhattan, paperwork intact. It was 1965 and my bespectacled supervisor at the telephone exchange sat on the edge of my desk and asked me if I knew The Beatles. “What with you being English an’ all.” I started to point out that I was Scottish but was cut off by the clanging of the fire alarm. A lit cigarette had been left on his desk and he was fired on the spot; we never had chance to finish the conversation.

No one has ever stayed in my life for long. An accident here, a misfortune there. I’ve outlived three husbands; many would say that was awfully bad luck. I’m not sure that I would.

I don’t believe in superstition anymore; a woman makes her own luck. Just this morning, some poor fella collided with me on the street, and his wallet somehow found its way into my handbag – good luck for me, bad luck for him. Then later, the woman across the hall who always gossips about me was taken ill with food poisoning – that had to be pure bad luck. I baked those cookies myself and I was absolutely fine…

I have high hopes for my date tonight: Tony, 76, from Queens. Might he be a candidate for husband number four? With a little luck, he might be.

 

About the author 

Emma Robertson is a dance tutor and writer from London, UK. Her pieces can be found in Idle Ink, Sledgehammer Lit and Eucalyptus & Rose plus several flash fiction websites. In 2021 her stories will feature in a number of anthologies and she was recently longlisted by Cranked Anvil.

The Boy With the Van,

 

by Emma Robertson

Tequila Sunrise

It was the snatched hint of a song, emanating tinnily from someone’s phone as they passed the door, that made me think again of the boy, the beautiful boy with the translucent skin and hazel eyes. Mellow Yellow; I haven’t heard it in years. It made me think of all the long-haired boys of my youth, but that one in particular. I wish I could remember his name.

There’s no music in here other than the arhythmical beeping of machines and the occasional soft shoe shuffle of passers-by. My breathing, amplified by the – whatever it is – on my face creates a two-time beat of sorts, but not one you could dance to. I sing the song to myself in my head to pass the time and conjure up the memory of the boy I’d loved when I was a girl.

He’d had a van, I recall. We used to go all over, listening to bands, and then make love for hours in the back of it. He had this awful purple rug; I laugh now at the thought of it, as much as anyone can laugh with all this gear on their face, but it had seemed so cool then. Lit by the psychedelic glow of a lava lamp, the air infused with the sweet aroma of joss sticks and spliffs, I’d consider it an assault on the senses now, not to mention a fire hazard, but for teenage me, it was paradise, as long as he was there.

George, that was his name, I remember now. He’d had that narrow-hipped androgynous look that was so fashionable at the time, all eyes and lips, pretty as a peach but masculine with it. I was so skinny myself then, he used to pour dribbles of wine into the hollow above my clavicle and sip it slowly, stopping every now and then to look me right in the eye, as if drinking in my very soul.

I remember the birthmark on the back of his hand, shaped like a swallow in flight. I used to stroke it and wonder what would become of us. My mother constantly warned me that a man like that wouldn’t stay around for long, that I should find a nice boy with good prospects.  ‘Excitement’s all well and good, but excitement doesn’t pay the bills,’ said the woman who, I was convinced, had never experienced a moment’s excitement in her life.

The nurse’s voice brings me back to the present. ‘Mrs Morris. George is here to see you.’

My heart leaps, wondering if my daydreams have somehow manifested themselves until I see that it’s just some old man, not the boy from my memories. ‘Hello love,’ says the stranger.

I ignore him, too disappointed to answer.

The nurse sighs. I hear her say to the old man, ‘She has good days and bad days,’ before turning to me again. ‘Mrs Morris.’ She raises her voice. ‘Your husband has come to see you.’

He places his hand over mine and I spot the faded shape of a swallow in flight.

About the author

Emma Robertson is a dance tutor and writer from London, UK. Her pieces can be found in Idle Ink, Sledgehammer Lit and Eucalyptus & Rose plus several flash fiction websites. In 2021 her stories will feature in a number of anthologies and she was recently longlisted by Cranked Anvil.