At St Medard's by Guy Pratt, peppermint tea

It had been the occasion of the year at St Medard’s – the Bishop’s Visitation. It had been decided that the service be held on the Sunday afternoon so that those from other churches in the benefice and indeed in the whole deanery, could attend if they wished. Ministers from other denominations were also invited. The mayor and councillors were invited too, together with the local Boy Scouts and Girl Guides. Everything was done to make this an auspicious event.

St Medard’s was a large town church, and the response to the invitations was excellent, all the pews were filled to capacity for the occasion.

The Vicar and his wife entertained the bishop to a hearty lunch, which he seemed to thoroughly enjoy and partook of a second helping of the ginger pudding, Mabel, the vicar’s wife’s speciality.

Everybody was assembled at the church in good time and the choir and the clergy proceeded up the main aisle at the beginning of the service. Members of the clergy were all regaled in their finest vestments and the mayor wore his chain of office. Choristers were all in freshly laundered white surplices. Everything had a touch of pageantry about it. Visitors were welcomed and preliminary announcements were made before the opening hymn. Everything was running very smoothly.

It was pleasing to see the other churches in the benefice well represented and friends from other denominations had turned out as well.

Of course, the vicar was very keen to impress the bishop. He had heard that there was soon to be a vacancy for a canon at the cathedral and he had promotion hopes in mind.

The bishop was known to be a softly spoken man and the person responsible for audio equipment, which most large churches have today, had been primed to turn the pulpit microphone up to full volume.

When the bishop climbed up into the pulpit, he gave an inspiring address which held the congregation in rapt attention. You could have heard a pin drop when at the end he stepped back to sit down.

Everything had gone extremely well apart from one incident and the vicar felt it incumbent upon himself to address this matter from the pulpit the following Sunday.

He stood and thanked all those who had contributed in various ways to make the bishop’s visit such a success. He had delighted in seeing the church packed with so many people.

He then launched into a sermon on forgiveness which seemed to be very focussed on forgiving our youngsters for their foolish pranks. He recalled the time when he discovered his young son shaving the hairs off gooseberries and trying to sell them to the neighbours as grapes, but of course he’d been forgiven. Then there was the occasion some choirboys had smeared glue on the choirmaster’s chair and he was unable to stand up at the appropriate time, but the choirmaster had been very forgiving – boys will be boys.

Other similar instances were related all ending in the forgiveness of the miscreants.

Then, however the vicar’s face darkened like thunder and his voice rang out loudly “But if anyone ever again put’s a whoopee cushion on the chair a visiting bishop sits on after his sermon, I swear I will call down fire and brimstone upon them.”

Some of the congregation looked startled at the vicar’s outburst, but others nudged each other and exchanged knowing winks. They knew it was all a cover up job.

 Anyone who had partaken of second helping of the vicar’s wife’s ginger pudding knew it was most likely to produce a Celia Imrie moment, but could a bishop openly admit to that from the pulpit at the end of a sermon, like Celia did on Traitors.

About the author

Guy Pratt is a retired octogenarian second hand bookseller who enjoys gardening, long walks with his dog and travel. He gravitated into the book trade after earlier years in farming, the army Intelligence Corps and the civil service. 

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Broken Night by Guy Pratt, a can of beer

It was Saturday night, but he retired early to bed. He had to be at the hospital by 6 am in the morning to start one of those long, thirteen- hour shifts on the busy Accident and Emergency unit and with nearly an hour’s travelling to get there, he’d set the alarm for 4.30.

The boys said they were turning in after Match of the Day. He always called them boys, but they were young men now; both had left school and were started on apprenticeships.

He had dropped off to sleep easily enough, but woke with a start when a loud bang disturbed him and caused him to sit up. The bang was followed by the noisy whirring of what sounded like a helicopter. He put his head down on the pillow and tried to get off to sleep again. Sleep would not come; he buried his head under the blankets, but it would not shut out the sound of raised voices.

Then he was just beginning to drift away when a volley of shots rang out. This time he pulled the pillow out from under his head and put it over his head instead, but it still wouldn’t muffle all the noise. It was becoming one of those nights when once deep sleep is broken,  you can’t get off again and every five minutes seems like an hour.

Some music now that rose to a deafening crescendo, then a woman screamed and another shot rang out. It seemed as if he had been awake for hours, and he began to fret about whether he would hear the alarm when the time to rise came. He was getting really angry and frustrated now. He was still the master of his own home.  Had they lost all respect for him? They knew he had to get up early, even if they didn’t.

Finally he leapt out of the bed, not pausing to put on slippers or dressing gown, rushed out of the bedroom, cursing as he stubbed his toe on the newel post at the top the stair, thundered down and threw open the lounge door. James Bond’s Aston Martin raced across the screen in the late night movie. Not pausing to locate the controls he strode across the room and yanked the plug out of its socket. Silence was restored.

 He swung round angrily to release a string of invectives at his tormentors. One lay full length on the sofa, a couple of empty beer cans on the floor beside it. The other was sprawled in the tilted back recliner, two more empty cans and some empty crisp packets on the coffee table beside him. They were both sound asleep.

He walked out of the lounge to a cupboard in the hall and took out a couple of blankets, quietly returned to the lounge and gently covered each of the boys. Then switched out the light and tiptoed silently up the stairs.

As he slipped back between the sheets, Jean half stirred on the other side of the bed and said sleepily, “Where have you been?”

“To turn off that infernal racket downstairs, ” he muttered.

“Didn’t hear a thing, ” mumbled Jean, drifting back into her dreams.

He did hear the alarm at 4.30 and climbed out of bed quickly, fearing if he didn’t, he might drop off again. Once under the shower he felt invigorated. Jean, woken by hearing him stir, slipped on her dressing gown and went downstairs to put the kettle on and prepare some breakfast. She always did this for him when he was on an early shift and would say “I don’t know how you can eat at this time in the morning. I’ll get mine later.”

Breakfast over, he gave Jean a peck on the cheek and picked up his car keys. “Try not to be late” she said “I’m cooking something special for you this evening.” He left and Jean feeling wide awake, decided to sort some laundry and do some ironing before she walked the dog. The boys would be shouting for clean shirts on Monday morning. Perhaps she’d have time to go to church this morning; she hadn’t been for weeks. Or maybe call in on Mrs Francis, who hadn’t been at all well. With such an early start she could get round and still get lunch for the boys.

He turned on the radio in the car. At least the roads were clear at this time in the morning and he’d have no problem finding a parking place when he got to the hospital. He knew it would be a busy day. It always was at weekends. As well as the usual everyday cases there would be the hungover, nursing the injuries of Saturday night brawls, they weren’t conscious of until the numbing effects of the alcohol wore off, then the endless string of sports injuries. At least the day went quickly when you were permanently on your feet tending to somebody.

Jean, having had a long day had cleared away the remains of that special meal, put the crockery in the dishwasher, put the empty wine bottle out and had given the dog his short evening walk, then retired to bed with her book. She too, had had a busy day. Was a woman’s work ever done? She nodded over the book which dropped to the floor as she drifted into a peaceful slumber.

The boys came in from their evening at the youth club at 10 ‘o’ clock; they would have to be up early for work in the morning.

As they came in the front door a light was on in the lounge and the TV was on loudly. They looked in and saw him stretched out in the recliner, his feet up on the stool; an unopened beer can on the coffee table.

One went across the room and turned the television off whilst the other went to the cupboard in the hall and took out a blanket.

They covered him gently, then tiptoed silently up the stairs to bed.  

 

About the author 

Guy Pratt is a retired octogenarian second hand bookseller who enjoys gardening, long walks with his dog and travel. He gravitated into the book trade after earlier years in farming, the army Intelligence Corps and the civil service. 

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 Angel by Guy Pratt, lime juice

Kenneth Hardman was known as ‘Hardman’ by name and by nature amongst the captains of industry. He’d come up the hard way, starting as an almost penniless assistant in a clothing shop, somehow, he’d acquired some cash and before anybody knew it, he’d taken over the shop, then he was opening branches in other towns, he launched a public company which was to lead him to becoming chairman of a national retail chain.  He had a ruthless determination to add wealth to wealth, cut out the middlemen, get control of the manufacturing end as well, and all the profits along the line would be his.

Takeovers, asset stripping, causing redundancies – it was all part of the game to him. He had taken over several small clothing manufacturers and now they were brought together under one brand label that was soon one of the leaders in the country. He had 25% stake in Wonder- Wear and the way he could conjure up profits and increase dividends, ensured he was annually re-elected to chair the board.

Then factory workers started to strike for higher pay and cheaper foreign imported clothes were beginning to compete for the home market. Kenneth Hardman was one of the first to start closing down the factories he controlled and transfer production to the Far East. Massive redundancies were just numbers on paper to him. There was no line in company accounts for human compassion.

He sent out his emissaries to establish where in Asia labour was cheapest and industrial health and safety regulation the weakest. In those countries he established his factories where managers were paid high production bonuses and the shop floor workers increasingly exploited.

The shareholders rejoiced when the dividends were announced each year and applauded the chairman. Kenneth Hardman self-made multi-millionaire, heading towards the top of the rich list, hoping for a knighthood for services to industry, though a Panorama special, still in the production stages, on conditions in Asian clothing factories was threatening to scupper that. The Rolls and a Bentley too, the Mayfair apartment, the country house and estate in Berkshire, the yacht down at Monte Carlo - all his, and three failed marriages.

Kenneth Hardman so materially rich was abysmally poor, because in spite of it all, he lacked happiness and peace of mind. He’d been to his club that evening and eaten a large supper and had lingered over his port and the cheeseboard. He sat up in bed reading the share prices in the Financial Times before falling into a heavy sleep. Then something unexplainable disturbed him. He woke and saw there was a dim light in the room. A girl who looked about thirteen years old stood by his bed. She had large dark eyes, a dark complexion, her black hair was long and straggly, her dress looked a bit grubby and ragged and she had no shoes on her feet.

He sat up startled and yelled “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I’m an angel, mister” came her reply.

“Angel! Angel! You look more like something the cat dragged in”

“Now, now Mister, just because you’re wearin’ silk pyjamas, no need to talk to me like that. You’re going to come with me.”

Despite his protests as she took his hand he seemed to bodily rise and float along behind her. She led him through the bedroom door, but instead of coming out onto the landing they were in a large barn   filled with children like herself, some looked younger. They were all sat at tables with old treadle operated sewing machines, sewing. A little girl, who was new there, turned to an older one sitting next to her and said “I’m getting tired and hungry.  When can we go home?” The older one looked down sadly “Not till six o’clock; we have to complete our twelve-hour shift and stay later if we haven’t fulfilled our quota, so keep working.”

“What are they doing?” said Hardman.

“They spend all day sewing buttons on jeans and trousers” said the angel and picking up some buttons dropped them into his pyjama jacket pocket “Take home a souvenir Mister.”

They passed through another door and were in a small, sparsely furnished hut. The angel pulled back a threadbare blanket curtain to reveal a pallid woman lying on a primitive cot. “This is that little girl’s mother, she’s very sick and the little girl has to work so they can eat. Unfortunately, there are no local medical facilities and they cannot afford to call a doctor.”

Kenneth Hardman awoke the scene still in his mind. It was just a silly dream; maybe he’d eaten too much cheese the night before. He’d get up and get on with the day; there was money to be made. As he got out of bed something tinkled in his silk pyjama jacket. He felt in the pocket and brought out a handful of metal buttons each one embossed with the logo “Wonder-Wear.”

Still in a state of shock, at nine ‘o’clock he rang his PA; he was going to be away for a few days. Straight to Heathrow he was on the first non-stop flight to the Far East. He found the factory and he found the little girl and her mother. He arranged the mother’s transfer to a hospital and for some-one to care for the child.

Within a short time back in England he called a special meeting of the shareholders. He announced that there were to be no dividends paid this year. Instead, he outlined plans to update the factories in the Far East, provide medical care, improve working conditions, end child labour and pay adults a wage sufficient to bring up families and educate them without the need for children to work.

The faces of the other board members and shareholders dropped. “Hardman’s gone mad” they muttered. “We’ll never be able to maintain our standard of living”.” My dividends pay for my annual cruise holiday,” said one. “I was going to put mine towards a second home by the sea,” said another. Within days an extraordinary meeting of shareholders voted Kenneth Hardman off the board; he had lost influence and control. He went quietly away into seclusion.

Nobody noticed when he sold his Mayfair flat, his yacht and his Berkshire estate. The stock market didn’t comment when bit by bit he disposed of all his shares in the retail chain and stepped down as chairman. He’d upset the shareholders in Wonder-Wear; perhaps he was better gone than introducing any hair brained schemes into the retail sector.

Then the Panorama special on working conditions in Wonder-Wear’s Asian factories hit the small screen. Overnight Wonder-Wear became less popular. A newspaper headline quipped “Dirty Wonder-Wear needs Laundering”. Share prices started to fall rapidly and everyone wanted to get rid of them, but as they fell, through an intermediary an unknown person was buying them all up. Kenneth Hardman had been doing some homework and on the same day it was announced that he now owned and controlled Wonder-Wear he announced his reform plan. He had studied the work and achievements of the Frys and the Cadbury brothers, the Quaker confectioners and immediately started to put into action the plans that had got him voted off the board a year previously.

Now he lives modestly, the wellbeing of the Asian workers is his main aim. He has lost the desire to be materially rich but he has a wealth of happiness and contentment. When bigger profits are made, they are ploughed back into housing and leisure facilities for the workers. All Wonder-Wear clothes are now tagged “Fair Trade” and they only use organic raw materials. Kenneth is no longer called ‘Hardman’ by nature, but he’s sometimes called ‘Softie’ Hardman in business circles.

He never actually saw the angel again, but recently he’s certain he woke once in the middle of the night and out of the darkness he heard her say “Thanks Mister, well done.”

About the author

 

Guy Pratt is a retired octogenarian second hand bookseller who enjoys gardening, long walks with his dog and travel. He gravitated into the book trade after earlier years in farming, the army Intelligence Corps and the civil service. 

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 Missing Key by Guy Pratt, a flask of coffee

 Hill House at Long Greenford, as the name suggests, stood at the top of a hill, some distance apart from the village street that lay below it in the valley. It was a timber framed Elizabethan house with a brick façade that had been added in later times. Set a little back from the road in well maintained gardens it was a typical middle-class country house.

Marjorie Grimshaw sighed with frustration. It was a big rambling old house filled with furniture that had been handed down through several generations. She’d looked everywhere for it in vases on mantle shelves, at the back of drawers, she’d even looked in the pockets of some of his clothes. Trust Humphrey to go off and not tell her where he had left the key to the bureaux. It was a fine 18^th century one, highly valued and the last thing she wanted to do was to damage it by forcing an entry. It contained papers, an amount of cash and the cheque book to which they were both signatories. The end of the month was approaching; there were bills to paid and the gardener’s and housemaid’s wages would be due. Neither she nor her brother Humphrey had married and they had lived on in the house since their parents had died many years ago. Although Humphrey usually dealt with the household accounts both were familiar with them and if either went away the other simply took over. Where had Humphrey left that key?

Ernest Gathercole had been an insurance agent in the area for as long as many people could remember. Like the postman, the vicar, the policeman and many people in the early 1950s he still cycled on his rural rounds covering the villages that lay within a seven- mile radius of his home. The company he represented was not one of those prestigious ones to which wealthier people paid their annual premiums for their cover. His company served the lesser weekly paid folk who paid their insurance premiums by weekly or monthly instalments. Ernest peddled his cycle round the villages collecting the instalments and occasionally picking up a bit of new business.

His routes, he carefully planned, every one of his customers knew the day and almost the hour when a knock on the door would announce his arrival to collect their payments. No matter the weather Ernest had a clockwork regularity, whether in shirtsleeves on a hot summer’s day, muffled up in winter or draped in a yellow oilskin in the pouring rain he stuck to his timetable.

Even those who were not Ernest Gathercole’s customers all knew who he was and he was something of a respected and trusted member of the community. Amazingly, having cycled his rounds on weekdays he would still be seen out on his cycle at weekends. On Saturdays he refereed local village football games and cycled to matches. On Sundays as a nonconformist lay preacher he would often be seen pedalling off to conduct services at distant village chapels.

It was about mid-day when Ernest reached Long Greenford village street that Thursday and as was his usual custom at that time and place, he stopped, propped his cycle up against the bus shelter, took a flask and sandwich out of his saddlebag and sat down in the shelter to a brief lunch. As he munched his sandwich he took out a notebook checking that he had missed no calls in the morning and reminding himself where the afternoon was to take him.

Engrossed in his notebook Ernest didn’t notice a pallid man in a dark suit cross the road from the churchyard gate until he was seated beside him. Ernest looked up and the man said “You are Ernest Gathercole, I believe? I thought you would be here at this time and I need somebody I can trust. Will you do me a great favour please?”

Being of a generous nature Ernest replied that he would if he could and wondered what was coming.

The dark suited man hurriedly explained “I have not got much time; I should not really be here at all today, but I want you to deliver a message for me. As you ride out of the village can you stop at Hill House and ask for Miss Marjorie Grimshaw and tell her Humphrey, her brother, says the bureaux key is in the bottom of the grandfather clock in the hall.”

Ernest listened, his eye on his flask cup as he poured his second coffee. He looked up to say “Why can’t you…” but the man had disappeared, there was no sign of him.

Ernest finished his lunch break and mounted his cycle again and rode out of the village. He dismounted and walked the last steep rise to the top of the hill and leaving his cycle at the gate walked up the path to the front door of Hill House. He heard a bell jangle inside as he pressed an old porcelain button and the housemaid answered the door and he asked to see Miss Grimshaw. Marjorie Grimshaw soon appeared and Ernest explained that Humphrey had asked him to inform her that the bureaux key was in the bottom of the grandfather clock.

“Well, wait a minute and let’s see” said Marjorie opening the door into the clock and peering into the cavity below the weights and the pendulum. “Oh! I’m so relieved, here it is” she cried. She thanked Ernest for calling to tell her and added “Were you in hospital with my brother Mr Gathercole?”

“No” replied Ernest “to tell you the truth I’ve never been in a hospital. Cycling every day seems to keep me very fit and healthy.  Your brother Humphrey came and sat down beside me while I was having my lunch today and asked me to convey the message.”

Marjorie Grimshaw’s face darkened “I’m not sure that I like your sense of humour Mr Gathercole. Humphrey died in hospital eight days ago. He was buried in the churchyard yesterday.” 

About the author

Guy Pratt is a retired octogenarian second hand bookseller who enjoys gardening, long walks with his dog and travel. He gravitated into the book trade after earlier years in farming, the army Intelligence Corps and the civil service. 

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 PHANTOM FIDDLER by Guy Pratt, a BBC canteen coffee

The Radio Big Band was taking a long tea break in between recordings. Young Gerry Hawthorne, a promising young percussionist, had only just joined the band and sat at a table with Giles Herbert. Giles was one of the older members, the lead saxophonist well known for his solo pieces.

Giles had been with the outfit when it was the BBC Dance Orchestra back in the 1950s under Cyril Stapleton in the heyday of the big dance bands led by the likes of Joe Loss and Ted Heath. He had played with the great singers like Matt Munro, Frank Sinatra and Nat King Cole. By the 1960s it had become the Radio Big Band and was part of the larger BBC Radio Orchestra under Barry Forgie.

Now in the early eighties Giles had become something of a legend himself and could relate many anecdotes of the stars he had worked with in the music world.  Young Gerry had been told that the strangest story of all was the one Giles related about his beginnings in the music industry and now seemed an opportune time to ask him about it. “Giles, how did you get started in all this?” Gerry queried.

Because he knew it always intrigued the listeners Giles agreed to relate his life from the beginning. He explained how he had been brought up by a great aunt in London who he always knew as Mabel and when he was small it was explained that his mother had died in childbirth, which later turned out to be true, but nothing was ever forthcoming about his father. They lived in a small terraced house in the East End of London, survived the blitz during the war when Mabel made ends meet by doing tailoring alterations and clothing repairs at home, with her sewing machine. When clothing was rationed women were often happy to have old dresses refashioned when new ones just weren’t available.

At the end of the war Giles left school just before he was fifteen and started work at a local grocer’s, often doing deliveries by bicycle with a large carrier on the front. It was at this time he had found the old violin on top of a wardrobe and Aunt Mabel had said he could have it if he wanted. He had a bit of a flair for music and gradually learnt to play the violin. They couldn't afford lessons and his efforts were certainly not very polished, but it was a spare time amusement.

Over the next five years Aunt Mabel’s health declined and she could no longer take in work and Giles' earnings were barely enough to pay for rent and groceries. Christmas 1947 looked like being a bleak one for them and Giles decided to take his violin up to the West End and try busking. He found an open square busy with Christmas shoppers and setting his cap on the pavement in front of him started to scratch and scrape on the strings, ignored by everyone except a café proprietor who was coming out to tell him to move on as he was driving his customers away.

It was just before the café proprietor reached him that it happened. The old gentleman appeared. He was dressed in rather an old-fashioned style – frock coat, spats, a top hat and a muffler round his lower face. He took the violin from Giles and with a twinkle in his dark eyes, adjusted the pegs, took the bow, played a note or two and adjusted the pegs again. Then he started to play Dvorak’s Humoresque followed by Bach’s Ave Maria. Pavement walkers were stopping to listen and soon a crowd was gathering quite transfixed by his playing. He almost danced round the square playing the Flight of the Bumble Bee. He paused briefly to tell Giles to take his cap round and while the cap filled with the listeners generosity the old man launched into a medley of popular songs and Christmas carols.

Then suddenly it was all over. The old man had disappeared, the shopping crowds moved on and Giles was sitting on his own on the pavement with his violin. Had it really happened or had he dreamt it, but his cap was full of money, silver and even some notes.

He went home and told Aunt Mabel what had happened. She smiled and said little other than “Take care with the money; we might need it soon.” And it was to be a Godsend to them over the coming two years. They had a better Christmas than they had expected but Aunt Mabel was not going to see many more. She died two years later.

When Giles went to see the solicitor, it became clear that Aunt Mabel had left a small sum, but little was left over after the simple funeral expenses were paid. However, the solicitor had other news for him. He explained that although his Aunt Mabel did not know, his mother had not confided in her who his father was; many years ago he had been approached by an old man who was his grandfather who wanted to make provision for him when he grew up. His eldest son Bartek had been something of a playboy and after a wild fling with Giles’ mother had been killed in a road accident in Paris. Bartek had told his father before the accident that he intended to do the honourable thing and marry her. The solicitor continued “Your grandfather was Cezary Kaminski.”

“Not the Cezary Kaminski, the Polish violinist” exclaimed Giles. 

“The very same” responded the solicitor “and as you may know he left Poland to make London his home. He was a widely acclaimed concert violinist and with the considerable wealth he earned established a Music College here. He left a £1000 pounds for me to pass on to you when I thought you had reached an age of responsibility and in addition a free place at the Music College should you wish to take it.”

Listening to Giles' account of his early life Gerry gasped in surprise “So you are the great Cezary Kaminski’s grandson. I expect you took the place offered at the Music College then.”

“Yes, I did after I got over the surprise and shock of it all. Aunt Mabel never knew all this and as I had been brought up with the surname Herbert, I kept it.” Giles went on to explain that although he had musical talent, he never was a success with the violin, but at the college he experimented with the wind section and soon found he was natural with the saxophone and from then on it had been plain sailing.”

“However, there was one other great surprise” continued Giles. “The first day I entered the college hanging at the end of the imposing entrance hall was a full- length portrait of the founder, my grand-father, the great Cezary Kaminski in frock coat and top hat with those dark twinkling eyes. The very same man who had unexpectantly taken my violin and played to the crowd in the street that Christmas many years ago.”

“So now all the questions about your past had been answered and no mystery remained” responded Gerry.

“Not quite” replied Giles “That Christmas was in 1947. Cezary Kaminski had died in 1938.”

About the author 

 

Guy Pratt is a retired octogenarian second hand bookseller who enjoys gardening, long walks with his dog and travel. He gravitated into the book trade after earlier years in farming, the army Intelligence Corps and the civil service. 

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.)

ROSIE GREY by Guy Pratt, cup of tea

Rosie stood close to the cracked mirror and applied the crimson lipstick. In her high heels, shortest of mini-skirts and top with a plunging neckline she’d soon be off to the far end of Dock Road and she hated herself for doing it. How had it come to this?

Rick had been fun, he knew how to spend money, how to go out and enjoy life and they’d had a whale of a time and then the first of the kids had arrived and the second within less than twelve months. Rick had walked out, vanished seemingly off the face of the earth – no maintenance payments and here she was in a two up and two down terraced house in the poorest part of town. She was struggling and it was old Trixie next door who’d put her up to it. Trixie had confided that she had been on the game herself when she was young – she schooled Rosie in the trade and said for a few quid she’d babysit when Rosie was out.

The neighbours began to guess what she was doing and then when she was fined for soliciting and her name appeared in the local press their assumptions were confirmed. Any attempts now to find alternative employment were thwarted. She had applied for a part-time job at the Oven Fresh Bakery in the High Street, but Meryl Evans, who ran it with her husband said bluntly “We can’t have harlots handling our Hovis.” A crude humourist down at the Red Lion dubbed her “a contractor for the demolition of temporary erections.”

The terrace in Albert Street was owned by an absentee landlord and managed by a local estate agent and their man Reggie Bates had called round for the rent that afternoon - she’d pleaded with him to leave the last twenty pounds till next time or it would leave her with nothing. Reggie was aggressively firm and had insisted on the full amount. So tonight once again she’d dumped the kids with Trixie and was on her way out.

The same evening Edward and Meryl Evans left their flat above the bakery and cut through Albert Street to the Evangelical Mission Church. It was Prayer Meeting night and Meryl prided herself on never being late. Half way along Albert Street they saw a groaning figure lying in the gutter and Edward Evans was about to respond but Meryl insisted, “No Edward don’t go across the road and touch him. You don’t know where he’s been and we run a very hygienic bakery. He’s probably a drunk we’ll ask everyone to pray for the poor man’s soul. Now hurry up. We mustn’t be late.”

Pastor John and those assembled that evening at the Mission Church listened to Meryl’s account of the man in the gutter and her request for prayer for him. Pastor John whispered into the ear of one of his elders, donned his coat and left the gathering.

Like his namesake, a blasphemous seaman over two hundred years before him Pastor John had had a remarkable conversion experience. John Newton’s experience had come during a violent sea storm which was eventually to lead him to becoming Vicar of Olney and penning the ever popular Amazing Grace. Pastor John had been a young delinquent in and out of Borstal Institutions and joining the army had saved him from a prison sentence. It was in an ambush in an overseas war that he’d called out to God for the first time in his life and crawled out unscathed amongst his dead limbless colleagues and his life’s direction and purpose had changed from then on.

He raced down Albert Street expecting to find someone who may have fallen among thieves. Muggings occurred often in that area. A mini-skirted young woman was trying to help the man to his feet. Pastor John’s first words were “Has he been robbed? Have you called the police?”

Reggie Bates, the rent collector, looked up with a bleeding nose and a closing eye and muttered through a split lip that he had not been robbed and in no way did he want the police involved. Rosie suggested they get him to her place just up the road and get him cleaned up.

While Rosie dabbed at Reggie’s face with damp cotton wool and Pastor John put on the kettle and found some mugs and teabags, Reggie began to pour out his sorry tale. “I should never had done it. What will my wife say.  I’ve been a fool, I’ve been a fool. I’ll not do anything like this again.” The story slowly came out. Reggie who lived with his wife over in Moss Wood, the better area of the town, had felt his relationship with his wife was drifting apart. She’d been flirting with the manager at the office where she was a typist and thinking what’s good for the goose, Reggie had been finding some comfort with Cherry Burns who lived at 49 Albert Street. Now Cherry Burns' husband Bill, nicknamed Barnacle by his mates down at the Red Lion, was a merchant Seaman on a regular cross Atlantic run. Unfortunately for Reggie and Cherry due to favourable weather and winds Barnacle Bill’s ship had docked two days earlier than expected and he’d entered unannounced.

“What shall I do Pastor John?” pleaded Reggie. “Do you know the Reverend Wilshaw at St Marks over at Moss Wood?” queried Pastor John. Reggie affirmed that he did, the Reverend Wilshaw had conducted his wedding a few years ago, though he seldom went to church now. “I know Don Wilshaw well” continued Pastor John “and he runs an excellent marriage guidance course. I suggest you go home and have an honest heart to heart talk with your wife, and if she agrees attend one of those courses.”

Cleaned up a bit and steady on his feet now, Reggie stood up to leave thanking Pastor John for his advice. Then pulling out his wallet took out two twenty pound notes and pressed them into Rosie’s palm. “Call it a rent rebate, and thanks for being a Good Samaritan tonight Rosie.” Pastor John rose to leave too, but Rosie asked him to stay she had things she wanted to ask.

Pastor John sat down again. His eyes wandered to her cleavage and exposed thighs. He consciously tried to check the lascivious thoughts invading his mind, situations like this had been the downfall of better men than him. “You passed no judgement on Reggie, but gave him helpful advice and hope” said Rosie “But I feel I’m a totally hopeless case, Pastor.”

“Rosie, I’ve lived on both sides of the fence so to speak, and needed my share of forgiveness too” responded Pastor John “No one’s beyond hope.”

“Everyone knows what I do when I go down Dock Road” wept Rosie, “I’m terrified when I’m down there. A week ago two fellows picked up a girl, roughed her up, robbed her and dumped her ten miles from town. Last time I was down there a pimp with knife threatened me because I was on his girl’s beat. I hate old Trixie for talking me into it. I hate myself for doing it, I feel disgusting. I hate the neighbourhood for not giving me a break.  I just feel trapped in it all. If it wasn’t for my kids I think I’d end it all.”

Pastor John sent up what is known in his business as an arrow prayer. “God I’m stumped what do I say?” and almost before he had thought it through he was saying “Rosie we need a church cleaner and odd job person and I think if you would take it on for a few hours a week I might be able to find you some house cleaning work with a few better off folk over in Moss Wood who would be prepared to give you a chance. Would you give it a go?”

Rosie wept tears of gratitude “Yes, I’ll take it on and try my best to please.”

Pastor John walked back towards the Evangelical Mission hoping that his congregation would back his decision to engage Rosie, but knowing he’d get trouble from Meryl Evans, the Hyacinth Bucket of their community. Years ago when the modern English translations of the Bible had been introduced it had been “If the King James version was good enough for the apostle Paul it’s still good enough for me” and when a more casual dress style came in it was “I know we have to reach out to the riff raff but do we really need to dress like them.” When the humourist went to buy a bloomer loaf and cracked a mild double-entendre joke about her bloomers Meryl called him a disgusting pervert and banned him from the premises. In the Red Lion he related the tale and dubbed Meryl the “starched fart in the bakery”.  Though he never repeated it Pastor John couldn’t resist an inner smile when he heard the term; it seemed to suit her.

Back in his church the meeting had finished and those assembled were chatting over coffee and biscuits. He called for silence and a somewhat startled group listened as he announced that he had just been talking to Rosie Grey and she had accepted his offer to become the new church cleaner. The first to respond was Meryl "Really Pastor, you’ve abandoned a prayer meeting tonight and neglected praying for that poor soul lying in the gutter – instead you’ve been consorting with a known prostitute and now you have the gall to tell us you’ve appointed her to a position in this church.” Then turning to her husband she continued “The time has come for Edward and I to resign from this establishment and find somewhere more respectable to worship.”

Before Pastor John had finished expressing his sorrow at their decision they had left the room, though inwardly he was having difficulty suppressing a mixture of joy and relief. A short mention of Mary Magdalene becoming the first disciple to proclaim the Resurrection of Jesus and he had won over those remaining.

It proved a successful decision. Rosie finished up with a paying cleaning round. At first she would come to services and sit quietly at the back, but she could play a guitar and sing, eventually becoming part of the music group. When she belted out “Oh Happy Day” her face shone with the reality of her experience. Her kids grew and joined the youth group that helped keep them off the streets and away from knives and drugs.

Reggie Bates went home that fateful night and after he and his wife shared some tearful confessions they decided to go and see the Reverend Don Wilshaw. They attended one of his marriage guidance courses and at a special service for those who attended they renewed their marriage vows.

Some live and learn and some do not. Barnacle Bill returned from the sea again and heard in the Red Lion his wife had been entertaining the milkman and Bill’s now serving eighteen months for causing grievous bodily harm to an innocent dairy employee. Cherry hadn’t told him she’d switched from the Co-op to Express Dairies. A sad business – everyone blames Cherry and she’s been as ostracized as Rosie used to be. Meryl calls her a “Jezebel” if she goes in the bakery but Rosie invites her in for cuppa and some sympathy sometimes.

Old Trixie mocked Rosie for going all religious saying she’d soon be back on Dock Road again. But, when Trixie, who had been brought up a Catholic was diagnosed with a terminal disease, for the first time in nearly sixty years she went to the priest and made her confession. She spent her last months in a hospice run by the Catholic Sisters of Compassion. Rosie was her only regular visitor.

Meryl and her husband now go to St Marks at Moss Wood – nicer class of people there. Pastor John prays that God will give his pal Reverend Don Wilshaw patience to cope with Meryl. Meryl has asked the Reverend Wilshaw to include Pastors who consort with prostitutes in their intercessions. Don Wilshaw wonders what Meryl will say if she ever finds out Rosie Grey spends every Thursday morning at the Vicarage efficiently cleaning it from top to bottom.

About the author

Guy Pratt is a retired octogenarian second hand bookseller who enjoys gardening, long walks with his dog and travel. He gravitated into the book trade after earlier years in farming, the army Intelligence Corps and the civil service. 

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The Amazing Tale of Ivan Plodsky by Guy Pratt, Russian vodka

Ivan Plodsky was a very ordinary copper on the beat in Moscow during the nineteen sixties. Walking the pavement in the city one day, his thoughts faraway, paying little attention to where he was walking, he tripped on an uneven paving slab and fell heavily forward. As he fell, he clumsily knocked a pedestrian to the pavement who was rendered unconscious as his head hit the stone. Perchance the man happened to be an assassin with drawn revolver on the point of firing at the head of the KGB whose car was passing. Before Plodsky knew it the place was swarming with KGB agents and he was hailed a hero for saving the life of the KGB boss. He was duly rewarded with a placement in the KGB.

Plodsky eventually arrived at the Russian embassy in a Western capital as second assistant to the trade attache. In fact he did not have a lot to do. His main duty, because of his simple nondescript appearance was to collect messages from dead letterboxes. Embassy staff were usually closely watched by the security services in the countries where they were located and any contact with agents already spying within those countries had to be avoided, so the dead letterbox system was a simple way of passing information on, hopefully without detection.

The trade attache, Igor Evetkin, was in fact a KGB colonel responsible for clandestine operations in the country they were located in. He was a nasty piece of work who had risen through the ranks by regularly shopping his colleagues. Only Evetkin knew the full details of the agents, but his first assistant Peter Rodnikov was responsible for sending coded messages to the agents. These coded messages were posted to box number addresses and would request what information was required and detail the time and specific whereabouts of dead letterboxes the replies were to be left at. Evetkin thought the system was fool proof.

For poor Plodsky things never seemed to go quite right. There was the day when someone was to appear casually reading a newspaper seated on a park bench, then get up and leave the paper behind for Plodsky to pick up a few minutes later; the paper contained leaves of secret information hidden between its pages. Just before Plodsky reached the bench someone else sat down picked up the paper and turning to the back page pulled out a pen and started doing the crossword puzzle, then turning to Plodsky muttered something about completing it on the train and stuffed it in his pocket and walked off.

Then there was the microfilm hidden in a tennis ball and dropped on the edge of a playing field. Just as Plodsky was about to pick it he was beaten to it by a big black Labrador dog who with wagging tail raced off with it to his owner. His owner kept throwing it for him to retrieve before they walked off home the dog possessively retaining the ball.

Incidents like this continued with Plodsky failing to collect the goods. At the same time the country’s small but effective security service were starting to round up and arrest Evetkin’s well placed agents. Evetkin began to suspect Plodsky had been turned and become a double agent. His office was next door to Plodsky’s and Rodnikov’s was on the far side. In typically Russian orderly style the layout of each office was identical and if the thin plasterboard walls were removed the desks of the three men would be seen in a precise row.

A loud shout from Evetkin summoned Plodsky to his office. Although lacking proof Evetkin stormed at Plodsky airing his suspicions. He was warned that anymore failures would result in his immediate return to Moscow where he would be interrogated by the dreaded Olga Korsitsoff, feared throughout the service. If Olga didn’t liquidate him he’d probably end his days in a Siberian gulag. However Plodsky was to be given one more chance to redeem himself.

In a quiet backstreet on a neglected building plot was a forgotten pallet of bricks. If Plodsky lifted the brick at the top right- hand corner he would find a small canister lying in the frog, the indentation of the brick below. All he had to do was retrieve this – no crossword addicts, no Labrador dogs, it all sounded simple.

Plodsky entered the deserted street going towards the derelict building plot, only as he arrived he watched with dismay as a forklift raised the pallet of bricks onto a lorry which drove off before he could reach it.

It was late afternoon when Plodsky got back to the embassy and most of the staff had finished work, though light seeping under their doors indicated Evetkin and Peter Rodnikov were still there. Plodsky entered his own office quietly. He pulled a vodka bottle from his pocket; he’d had several swigs at it on the way back and now he drained it to the last. He sat down at his desk thinking of what Olga could do was too much to bear He opened a drawer and took out the standard issue pistol, flicked off the safety catch and stared down the barrel.

With a very shaky hand he squeezed the trigger and was almost deafened by the explosive sound of the shot and sat at his desk in a dazed state of half- drunk bewilderment, a small round hole in the plasterboard behind him. Poor Plodsky could he get nothing right – he couldn’t even terminate his own being.

He must have sat there for three or four minutes in total confusion expecting Evetkin to come storming in, but it was Peter Rodnikov who entered. As the bewildered Plodsky looked vacantly on Rodniknov picked up the pistol and with a cloth carefully wiped off all the fingerprints. Then taking another pistol from his pocket put it in the drawer of Plodsky’s desk. “Come with me” said Rodnikov “and don’t hang about.” Still in a daze Plodsky followed him into Evetkin’s office. The drawer where Evetkin kept his pistol was open and empty and Evetkin was slumped on his desk, a small red hole in his forehead oozing blood across the papers he’d been working on. A fearful Plodsky suddenly realised his shot must have passed through the wall to find a different victim. Rodnikov laid Plodsky’s wiped clean pistol close to the late Igor Evetkin’s hand.

“I’m about to defect” said Rodnikov.”I think you might be looking for a way out too now. Want to join me?” Dull as he was, it didn’t take Plodsky much thought to nod in agreement. Seated in a taxi speeding to the other side of the city, Rodnikov said apologetically “I’m afraid I am in some ways the cause of your predicament, so the least I can do is help you out of it. Shortly all will be revealed.”

The taxi dropped them off and after walking a short way they entered an office in a plain undistinguished building. Two men were seated in the office and Rodnikov said to them “Can you look after my friend for a few minutes while I go and chat with the Major.” Plodsky was given a chair and a sobering coffee he was sorely in need of. As he gazed at the two men he thought he had seen them before and slowly it began to dawn on him – the fork lift operator and the lorry driver.

Then Rodnikov called from an inner office “Plodsky, come through and meet the Major”. Plodsky went through and was soon seated beside Rodnikov facing the major across his desk. Again Plodsky thought there was something familiar about the Major, a paper folded to an unfinished crossword on his desk and a black Labrador dog sprawled on the floor beside him.

The Major looked cheerfully across his desk and said “Mr Plodsky we are a small country not a super-power and our counter-intelligence service too is small but we pride ourselves on our efficiency and between you and your comrade, you have helped us rid ourselves of a network of spies and traitors so we are prepared to offer you asylum, new identities and employment. Mr Rodniknov will enlighten you a little bit more.”

Peter Rodnikov continued the story “Soon after I arrived here I committed a most unfortunate indiscretion. If it had become public knowledge it would have caused a major diplomatic incident and if the embassy had found out I would have been sent home to face a terrible fate at the hands of Olga Korsitsoff.  The Major most kindly offered to arrange for the whole matter to remain secret if I would switch sides. What else could I do? I gave the Major the code and every time I was detailed to send out a message to an agent, which would of course have included details of the dead letter box to be used, I also sent a copy to the Major.”

The Major interjected “…and then it didn’t take long for our small team to put the pieces together and round up all the agents operating in our country”.

In Russian Intelligence circles today when Evetkin’s name is mentioned someone will usually remark “Oh yes, wasn’t he the chap who lost all his agents, then his assistants defected, so he did the only honourable thing.”

In their country of asylum under completely new identities Rodnikov and Plodsky were employed by the local postal service in an area seldom if ever visited by foreigners. Rodnikov goes from door to door delivering the mail. Plodsky has been given a little van and a bunch of keys and travels round emptying public letterboxes and he’s never missed a collection yet.

About the author 

 

Guy Pratt is a retired octogenarian second hand bookseller who enjoys gardening, long walks with his dog and travel. He gravitated into the book trade after earlier years in farming, the army Intelligence Corps and the civil service. 

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.)

Father Francesco by Guy Pratt, a glass of Chianti

Father Francesco’s parish was up in the hills a cool, pleasant retreat from the heat of the distant city in the summertime. He was young and this was his first parish, but he was establishing himself well – he would frequently walk out to the outlying farms and minister to the frail and elderly who could no longer make it to the village. He would spend a morning at the village school telling the children stories and encourage them to draw pictures with their crayons to illustrate them. He was becoming popular with young and old and all in between and he loved the place and the people.

Although really only a village they had appointed Enzo as mayor; an affluent, educated man who owned a business in the city which he left in the capable hands of his manager, while he stayed in the village always trying to write novels that never got published. Once a quarter Enzo would leave his wife and go to the city for a week to briefly ensure all was well with his business.

In the centre of the village Antonio, who worked part time as the postman, and his wife Isabella kept what is best described as a coffee shop – come patisserie – come bistro. It was mainly patisserie by day with coffee for any of Isabella’s friends who wanted to drop in and gossip and meals were served in the evenings when the wine flowed freely.

On Sunday mornings when more of the women than the men attended Mass, the men tended to gather in the shop and drink coffee and yarn. It was at Isabella’s suggestion, with Father Francesco’s enthusiastic agreement and the rather reluctant agreement of Antonio, that a speaker was installed in the coffee shop and on Sunday morning’s Father Francesco’s sermons were relayed to the men in the coffee shop. The sermons were usually short and to the point and the menfolk still went to coffee shop Sunday mornings without complaint.

Father Francesco had engaged a cleaner who cleaned the church and did odd domestic jobs for him. Unfortunately Bianca, his cleaner, was becoming overweight, a little lazy and prone to taking short cuts. For example when Father Francesco felt in need of an espresso coffee and a croissant mid-morning and would ask her to walk down to the coffee shop and fetch them; she would instead go into the church, pick up the radio microphone, switch it on and say, ”Isabella, the usual for Father Francesco please”. Isabella would receive the message over the speaker in the coffee shop and shortly appear bearing coffee and croissant.

On Wednesday mornings Father Francesco would make himself available to hear mid-week confessions. This week the first to appear was Lucia, a very sad faced, but attractive smartly dressed young woman. She lived with her husband, a much, much older man, wealthy and long retired in an opulent villa at the end of the village. A tear trickled down her cheek as she seated herself in the confessional “I love my husband, but now he is old and frail and all I can be is a nurse to tend him,” she whispered ”And Leonardo, our chauffer is so young and kind and handsome and virile. I encouraged him; it was my suggestion – I know we shouldn’t have ………” We must move on.

Next to enter the confessional was Matteo, who owned the delicatessen. Matteo had a reasonably profitable business, but also a very demanding wife who always wanted a new dress or new curtains or a kitchen makeover. He delighted in her charms but sometimes it was difficult to please her and make ends meet. Matteo had recalibrated the scales in his shop, and not in the customers favour and now his conscience was catching up with him.

When Matteo departed Enzo appeared. He had just returned from his quarterly visit to the city to ensure his business was still running smoothly. Father Francesco knew exactly what was coming from Enzo – his quarterly dalliance with a lady of dubious reputation in the city, which Enzo vowed every quarter he would never repeat. Such is the frailty of human nature.

It had been a long day and Father Francesco looked forward to the evening when Antonio had invited him to eat at the bistro, as the coffee shop became at dusk. He sat that evening with Antonio and friends, the food was good and the wine and the company were pleasant too. As more wine was drunk tongues loosened, all sorts of tales were told and they finished up singing songs that were not in the hymnal and when Father Francesco woke next morning he was still in his socks and underwear not his pyjamas.

Not many days passed before something wrong became apparent in the village. When Lucia appeared anywhere in the village people turned aside and whispered and sniggered. Regular customers stopped going to Matteo’s shop. It was rumoured that Enzo’s wife was threatening to leave and divorce him. Then one day in Matteo’s shop Lucia expressed some doubts about Father Francesco and Matteo said he shared them and overhearing them, Enzo said “Me too.” And so they decided Enzo should write to the Bishop.

The Bishop arrived in the village the very next weekend. Father Francesco was suspended from all duties. He buried his head in his hands in abject sorrow thinking “Oh no! surely not, surely I didn’t say what I should not that Wednesday night in the Bistro”. If ever a man was filled with grief and pain and remorse he was then. The thought of having to leaving the place and the people he’d grown to love was awful.

The Bishop announced that he would conduct Mass on the Sunday morning, and before Mass he would hear confessions. The first two people to arrive at the confessional were Isabella from the coffee shop and Bianca the cleaner and in spite of the Bishop’s protests “Ladies one at time please.” They insisted on squeezing into the confessional together and started speaking very tearfully at the same time, until finally Bianca spoke alone. “It was my fault on that Wednesday morning,” she lamented. “I had the microphone in my apron pocket switched on ready to call for Father Francesco’s coffee and it must have dropped out when I was cleaning the confessional and I could not retrieve it until later.” Then Isabella interrupted “I was alone in the coffee shop and when I heard the voices, and I soon guessed what had happened and should have switched the speaker off, but curiosity got the better of me. After all I heard I just had to tell Giovanna and Arianna on strict condition that they told no one else, but they were like me and it just kept getting repeated.”

The Bishop announced before his sermon that Father Francesco had been totally exonerated and reinstated and explained there had been a great misunderstanding. Father Francesco was relieved and joyful, though like many in the congregation he was unaware of what had earlier transpired. The Bishop said something about greenhouses and throwing stones and a woman taken in adultery whose accusers had slunk away. Then he preached from the Epistle of James on how difficult it was to tame the tongue, how a spark of gossip can set a community on fire. He spoke so powerfully it must have left all gossipers in fear of hellfire and eternal damnation.

A few years have passed now and life in the village continues. The Christmas after the Bishop’s visit Matteo gave all his customers a generous Christmas hamper. They have all come back to him now and the turnover of his business has increased. His wife has had a new dress and new curtains and this year work has started on revamping the kitchen.

The old man at the big villa died and Lucia married Leonardo the chauffer. Her face shines with happiness as she walks through the village taking her two small children to school.

Enzo’s wife recalled a minor indiscretion of her own from her youth and decided to forgive him. Enzo has sold his business in the city to the manager and no longer goes away. He has at last written a best- selling novel; maybe it was the lurid cover illustration or the salacious opening chapters that helped it sell. It was called Confessions of the Indiscretions of a Middle Aged Writer and a bold disclaimer at the front stated that the work was completely fictional and the main character bore no resemblance to anyone the author knew. In fact the book was a bit tamer than it appeared ending more as a morality tale, the central character becoming penitent and  retiring to the country with his forgiving spouse and both living happily ever after.

Bianca has done a slimming course and now she walks to the coffee shop each day to collect Father Francesco’s coffee and croissant as part of her fitness regime.

Isabella at the coffee shop has become a tight lipped soul of discretion, the trusted confidante of half the village. Sometimes one of the men who has sat in the coffee shop pretending not be listening to the sermon still relayed on the Sabbath morn will return to the shop when Isabella is there alone. They usually enter looking rather sad and the conversation will go something like this. “Isabella you go to church on Sundays morning?” and Isabella replies “Yes”. “Isabella can I ask you a purely hypothetical question?” and the hypothetical is stressed, and Isabella says “Yes, fire away.” Then the unhappy looking questioner will mention the breaking of a commandment or a grave misconduct and ask “Does God forgive things like that?” Isabella is not given to hypothetical replies, but answers simply “Well, he has forgiven me.” Then the man’s face will lighten up and a spring will return to his step as he walks out into the street as though a great burden has been lifted.

Father Francesco has not become a teetotaller but when he goes to the Bistro to eat with Antonio and his friends, he’s developed a great partiality for mineral water. I suppose according to the rules the Bishop may never have told him what Bianca and Isabella confessed that Sunday morning, but whenever Father Francesco is due to hear confession he first takes the microphone to his study and locks it securely in a safe to which only he knows the combination.

About the author  

Guy Pratt is a retired octogenarian second hand bookseller who enjoys gardening, long walks with his dog and travel. He gravitated into the book trade after earlier years in farming, the army Intelligence Corps and the civil service. 

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.)