100-worder - Be Careful What You Wish For by P. A. Westgate, tea, with a cup and saucer

Red telephone boxes were back, with working telephones. Constables walked the beat; sometimes in pairs, sometimes with bicycles. Older people liked that. Schoolboys wore short trousers and schoolgirls wore pinafores. Youngsters didn’t like that. Post Offices, grocers, tea rooms and banks were on every high street. Trains and buses went everywhere. Everyone approved. Office workers wore suits and bowler hats which they raised to ladies. People greeted each other when they passed in the street and apologised if bumped into. Children skipped, played hide and seek, hopscotch and tag, and Morris Dancers danced. Britannia World was open. Tourists were everywhere!

About the author  

P. A. Westgate is an enthusiastic but sporadic writer. He lives quietly in his native Essex.

Trial and Error by P. A. Westgate, whisky and soda,

  

 Thwack!

Watch the ball. Just watch it. You’re concentrating. Don’t concentrate. Just watch. Let the information pass to the subconscious. Let the unconscious mind see how the spin and the wind move it. Now, say out loud “fifteen feet past the hole, ten feet to the left.” You know that’s how to do it.

And that’s how you should have handled the last case. Letting the subconscious select, evaluate, include, reject and finally deliver to your conscious mind. The famous ‘letting go’ technique you’ve dined out on more times than you can remember. A pity this time that you didn’t leave it to what your unconscious had worked out. But, no, your conscious mind knew better.

Without a jury! Cocky bastard, taking advantage of that change in the law. Making it a contest between you and him. And you agreed. What were you thinking? Was it vanity; the thought that you could be judge and jury?

Thwack!

Ten feet short, five feet to the right. Say it. You put too much conscious thought into that. You’ve four left now from the six you allow yourself each morning. Another vanity that. Six to get within easy putting distance at least, if not better.

Vanity, or showing off? But you come when no one else is here. Oh, it’s not that it’s the only time you can manage. You could come a good hour later. It’s because no one else is here and there’ll be no one to see.

Thwack!

            Five feet short, six, no seven feet to the left. That gust as the ball rose. Don’t analyse it. Just wait for the wind to settle. Let the mind and body work it out between them.

The prosecution made a good case. Incisive; cutting away the doubts, presenting a compelling argument. You liked that. And the lead was a protégé. Someone you’d watched develop; had helped to develop, to mould. If not in your image, at least into something you recognised. One or two nice turns of phrase as well. Some familiar ones too.

Thwack!

You’ve got the rhythm now. No thought, just action. Just a quick glance around, letting  the unconscious evaluate the conditions, and then the arms slowly back, held and then whipped forward, the club head driving through the ball. The unconscious mind telling the body what to do, how much force to use. There, say it out loud. “Three feet short, four feet to the left.”

What did you think of the defence? Oh, not the arguments, we’ll get to them, but the lead. Not your cup of tea at all. What is the profession coming to, letting people like that practice in England? Wouldn’t have happened in your day. Spoke well, but that accent. No, not one of the chaps. The arguments now. Well that single weakness in the prosecution’s case was certainly identified, eh! Mercilessly exposed in fact. The one where the police had been sloppy and the witnesses didn’t agree and the prosecution couldn’t explain away. That should have been enough by itself.

Thwack!

Ten feet short, four feet to the left. Not too good, you tensed up a bit there. Only one ball left now.

It’s doubtful that you can recall the concluding arguments. But you didn’t really need them by then. You’d made your mind up. The defendant watching you, with that condescending smile and the bored air as if to say that this was a waste of his time and the sooner it was over the better so he could get on. Like your father, when you were trying to explain, stumbling over your words and him with that same smile, wasting his time. You were going to wipe that smile off his face.

Thwack!

You knew. At the moment you spoke. As was your habit, your trademark, you looked the defendant in the eye. At that moment, the moment when your subconscious delivered its conclusion and you ignored it, at that very moment you knew. You knew with an absolute certainty that you were wrong. Completely and tragically wrong. From that point, each succeeding step was inevitable. There was no going back, no second chance, no final ball to try to get it to come right.

 

About the author

P. A. Westgate is an enthusiastic but sporadic writer. He lives quietly in his native Essex.

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At 4.00 am

 

by P. A. Westgate

 

a gulp of rough red wine

 

At 4.00 am blood pressure and body temperature are at their lowest and the risk of death is at its maximum. They say that more people die at 4.00 am than at any other time. At 4.00 am you’re lying in bed, your stomach in knots, praying that an unguarded remark hasn’t been reported. This is when you hear cars screeching to a halt in the street and heavy boots on the staircase. When you hear hammering on the door and harsh voices, 4.00 am is when you thank God that it’s someone else’s door this time and not yours.

 

About the author

P. A. Westgate is an enthusiastic but sporadic writer. He lives quietly in his native Essex.

 

The Wife

 

by P. A. Westgate

a glass of Champagne

 ‘Well, that really could have gone better.’ Alex had said. A typically calm understated comment. Alex is John’s Parliamentary Assistant and calm understatement is his forte. If you can keep your head when all about you, and so on and so forth.  But he was right. Indeed it was difficult to see how it could have gone any more badly.

Truth be told, I hadn’t been looking forward to the reception. It was Alex’s idea of course. Sort of part celebration, part reassuring the masses he’d explained. I don’t think John was that keen. Naturally, I wasn’t consulted. My approval was assumed and simply rolled out as an additional argument. ‘I’m sure that Carol will agree with me on this’ and so on.

The reason for the reception was that John had been given a Ministerial role some months earlier. Quite a senior one, which was surprising as, other than an undistinguished stint as a Junior Minister, he had done nothing of note. It was necessary, Alex had argued, to reassure the local Constituency Party that he’d still be working on constituents’ concerns. Constituents’ concerns being Alex’s own primary concern. So a small drinks reception was proposed. An occasion for John to press the flesh and so forth. Just the party faithful of course. The local Party Chairman and the small army of volunteers who worked so tirelessly come election time.

We had had warning. Even before the papers had arrived, Alex’s press contacts had been in touch. How many times had he been told, had I told him, ‘Don’t put anything in an e-mail that you don’t wish to see on tomorrow’s front page.’ And there it was, in all the Sunday’s.

To be fair, at any other time it might have passed, not exactly unnoticed, but deemed not worthy of promotion above other stories. But a combination of there being no other political news of note and a desire to embarrass a Government already under fire had tipped the balance. The e-mails appeared to show – no not appeared to, they were actually quite unequivocal – to show John pressuring some junior official and being quite blatantly threatening. Surely, the papers declared, this didn’t so much break the Ministerial code as smash it to pieces.

They, the Principle Private Secretaries that is, hand out pre-prepared advice for such situations. A sort of FAQ sheet. John could, for example, talk about ‘a poor choice of words’ or that ‘taken in the right context’ and that ‘it had never been his intention’ and so on.

No one at the reception had been ill-mannered enough to raise it except the journalist - who it transpired had actually been invited, Alex’s idea of course - had planted himself in front of John brandishing the newspapers. ‘Would the Minister care to comment?’

The stand-up row had lasted five minutes before Alex had managed to shut John up and usher the journalist away with the promise of a more in-depth briefing later. The photographer, happily clicking away, hadn’t helped.

 

It was embarrassing not to say a little humiliating. Apparently, there was a briefing paper for this as well. Two, in fact. One for John and one for me. More FAQs. ‘Was I sticking by my husband?’, ‘Had this damaged my trust in him?’, ‘Was I, in fact, considering divorcing him’. All good questions I had to admit. ‘No’, ‘Yes’ and ‘Absolutely’, crossed my mind but the prepared sheet did not offer these answers.

He could have chosen a supermodel or some gorgeous sex symbol, all tits and bum. Someone who looked good straddling a chair perhaps. Someone his colleagues might be envious of behind their hands. But no, instead of a supermodel he chose a supermarket checkout girl. That’s not even a skilled job these days. God knows how he met her. I don’t think he’s ever been in a supermarket. Certainly not since he became an MP. Far too much risk of meeting a constituent, a real person. Strangely for such a public role, some MPs and nearly all Ministers don’t quite know what to do when confronted with real people.

The most important thing, the paper had concluded, was to minimise any embarrassment to the Government and any embarrassment to the Prime Minister. I did point out that this was actually two things and had asked, in a spirit of genuine enquiry, if there was any priority between the two, if push came to shove as it were. This was met with the sort of fixed smile as if I’d asked who had farted.

The press conference, on the steps of our London house, was thankfully brief and, I gather, went much as these things usually do. John made his apology. Lapse of judgement, carried away by the moment, regrets that he’d let the Prime Minister down, the Country down and his dear wife down. I noted the order. I fielded the few questions addressed directly to me and which seemed to be covered quite adequately by the FAQ sheet.

Of course, he will have to resign. In fact, a draft resignation letter had been included in the briefing pack. No one survives a sex scandal, however laughable it may be. This is Britain after all. A pity he wasn’t a Minister in the French Government. Having at least one mistress under your belt, so to speak, seems almost a requirement for office.

As well as his current appointment this has finished his ministerial career for the foreseeable future if not forever. Not because he’d likely be rubbish at the job - after all that’s never been a barrier to advancement and no one gets sacked for making a hash of things -  or even the regrettable jack of judgement with the shop girl. Others similarly embarrassed have simply kept their heads down until someone else’s scandal focuses attention elsewhere. No, it was simply that the PM has more than enough ‘yes men’ available for Cabinet posts.

 

 

The fuss has subsided now. John is yesterday’s news. Life has settled down here, for now at least. John, of course, doesn’t have his ministerial responsibilities any more, but I never thought that was important to him. It was merely a necessary step towards the ultimate prize. I sometimes wonder if he wouldn’t have been a better MP and a better Minister if he’d devoted as much energy to those roles as to his own advancement.

It wasn’t so much that he was having an affair as that he’d taken so little trouble to hide it from me. A single telephone call had told me that he wasn’t where he was supposed to be and let the cat out of the bag as it were. It was as if I was of so little consequence that I didn’t merit even a minimum of decent lying. I suppose I felt what most betrayed wives feel. I was upset, I felt hurt, I wondered if it had been my fault, had I not been a good enough wife and so on. I’d sacrificed my life and career for his and attended countless boring receptions, dinners and events over the years. I’d been a bloody wonderful wife.

Everyone has been very kind, of course. ‘You’ve been so brave’ and ‘John doesn’t deserve you.’ The latter, at least, was certainly true.

I had hoped that the leaked e-mails would have been enough. When the Prime Minister had said that John had not broken any rules and that he had his full support I thought that was it, job done as it were. In the old days this would have meant that John had better draft his resignation letter pretty quickly before someone did it for him. Now, of course, it means exactly what it says and if anything put John in a stronger position. Also, I’d forgotten how short the public’s collective memory is and before too long the affair had been forgotten.

I was therefore forced to reveal, anonymously, to a suitable journalist – actually the one he’d taken to task at the reception and who had almost wet himself with excitement - John’s affair with little Miss Checkout. This, naturally, made me look a little pathetic and an object of pity but it did allow me to tell the local Party Chairman, somewhat tearfully, of all John’s misdeeds and general appalling behaviour towards me. It was quite a performance, if I say so myself, if largely fictitious. But by the end of it the Chairman would have believed John capable of anything and thought what an absolute swine he was.

The Chairman is very keen on family values in public life. I’ve heard that John will not be selected as the Party’s candidate for the next election. When I start divorce proceedings I’m confident that he’ll be asked to resign his seat well ahead of that.

To misquote Alex, it really couldn’t have gone better.

 

About the author

Paul is an enthusiastic but sporadic writer. He lives quietly in his native Essex.

 

Magic by Moonlight

 

by P. A. Westgate

a glass of warm Ribena

 

Emma wasn’t asleep yet. She should have been. It had been a long, exciting and tiring day. It had been intended to be tiring. First there was decorating the tree, with Emma carefully selecting the decorations one at a time and handing them solemnly to her dad, to be placed with much pointing and explanation in just the right place. Then there was the party where her dad works, with new, if temporary, friends to make, and too much to eat and drink. Later on there had been the pantomime – Aladdin – with heroes and villains and magic. And then it was bath time with some of her mum’s special bath salts and finally time for bed. Emma had been told that Father Christmas didn’t come if you were awake so she should go to sleep. Christmas Day would be here soon enough.

Miss Reid, Emma’s teacher, had told her that Aladdin lived not far from where she would be staying when she visited her friends this Christmas. So adventurous and such a long way Emma had thought. From Emma’s home to where she would be going it was nearly 18 inches on the big map. Auntie Jane’s house was only a quarter of an inch away and that took ages to get to. Emma wondered if Miss Reid would meet a Sultan or perhaps a wizard.

Emma’s Santa letter had contained an impressive list of presents. Her mum had warned her not to expect everything. There had been quite a bit of “I’ve been very good all year” and “helped mum ever so much”. “Pretty good, most of the year, and helped out a bit” would have been more accurate. Pretty good, yes, but tomorrow it will have to be “very good, all day”. Come what may there would probably be tantrums and tears and not just from Emma.

It’s quite late now and a full moon has come out from behind the clouds. It’s turned Emma’s room into a wonderland of black and white and silver. The moonlight is sparkling on the bedspread’s intricate hand-stitching - put on especially for tonight – and the planets, moons and shooting stars on it have come alive in the light. It’s now a magic carpet every bit as good as Aladdin’s. The dark shadows are mysterious and the carefully arranged ornaments, pictures, little keepsakes and knick-knacks lit up by the moon are somehow not quite as they are in daylight.

Teddy is propped on the chair next to the cupboard where he usually sits. He can keep an eye on the mince pie and the carrot by the fireplace from there. She can’t remember when he arrived; he’s just always been there. He looks just a bit careworn now. You can’t be dribbled over, tucked under an arm or dragged along by one leg, your head bumping on the ground, without something showing. He’s smiling. That’s strange because Teddy never smiles. There’s no time for smiling usually. Not with all the whispered confidences he hears and the tears he cuddles away and the good advice he gives. It’s a tough life being Teddy.

What’s that? It sounded like a thump. As if a box had been dropped. Emma’s not sure if it’s from inside or outside her room. She wonders if it's mummy and daddy as her friends have been saying but perhaps, just perhaps, it might really be Him. Mindful that in either case, presents won’t come if she’s awake, Emma closes her eyes and pretends to be asleep.

She wonders if he really has a long white beard and is wearing a big red coat. Where has he put Rudolph and the sleigh? Does he park it somewhere and visit a number of houses on foot like the postman does? Or perhaps… What would her first wish… How do hold on to a magic… perhaps the sleigh is…

Emma is finally, truly, asleep now. The moon has gone back behind the clouds and her room is just an ordinary room once again but it’s no longer the same. There are presents at the foot of the bed now and the sock is no longer empty. Teddy is still in his place but the mince pie and carrot are gone.