Firing Line by Firing Line, byPeter Lingard,a swift half

 

Firing Line

 

Jack lightly elbowed me in the ribs as he took the next stool at the bar. His dog settled on the floor between us. ‘How’s it hangin?’

‘Ugh. You?’

‘Same. It’s bloody criminal the way women are turning guys down these days.’

‘What? Where did that come from?’

‘You know. Who needs a man and all that independence shit.’ ‘I was gonna say I hadn’t noticed, but when I thought about it, women have been scarce lately. ‘That’s why I came in here,’ he continued. ‘This place used to be busy with skirt.’

I nodded. ‘Used ta be. I just come in for a beer, or two these days. Everyone’s hooking up on The Net now. I had to get Sally to write a profile for me. I’d been using my writing bio but she said it was far too pedestrian.’

‘How’s she doing, your Sal?’

‘She’s good. Got a good job. Making shitloads of money.’

‘Good for her. She seeing anyone?’

‘Nah. Reckons she doesn’t have the time.’

‘See what I mean? Maybe I should ask her. She wouldn’t need time to get ta know me.’

‘She’s my sister, Jack.’

‘You puttin’ her off limits, Dave?’

‘Sounds a bit harsh when you put it like that but, seeing as how well I know you, yeah.’

‘You’re shittin’ me!’

‘Jack, let’s face it, you treat women like shit.’

‘Says who? Oh, look, there’s Connie. Now she is what I came in here looking for.’

‘To answer your question, me, yer mum, my mum, Denise, Rachel, probably others.’

‘What? Oh. Since when?’

‘Since forever. Yer mum reckons you’re just like your old man. You treat me an’ Rufus well, but that’s it.’

Rufus, who had been lying on the floor between us, stood at the mention of his name.

‘Sit, boy.’ Jack said. The dog did as told. ‘Rufus! How does he come into it?’

The dog stood again, confusion in his eyes.

‘Hey guys,’ said Connie as she sat on the stool next to me. How’s it hangin’?’

‘Magnificently,’ we said, almost in unison.

‘How you doin’ Con,’ I asked.

‘I’m good. You?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Hey, I’m sat here too ya know. Don’t you have an ’ello for me?’

‘I included you in the question about how it’s hangin’ and you answered. What more do ya want, Jack?’

‘Now you ask, I do have a question for ya.’

Connie smiled tentatively, seemingly regretting her question and warning herself to be careful. ‘Oh yeah. Shoot.’

‘Have I ever treated you badly? Dave, here, says I treat women badly.’

‘Well, I’ve never let you close enough to treat me badly, but, yeah, you do. Ask Denise or Rachel.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Ask Sam as well, while you’re at it.’

‘This is unbelievable! What did I do to any of them?’

I leaned back, out of the line of expected fire.

‘That, Jack, is the whole problem right there. You have no idea.’

‘So, tell me. What do I ’ave ta do?’

‘Stop taking us for granted, for one. Wise up to your emotional connection, the intimacy.’

‘Oh, give me a fucking break.’ I moved my stool further back. ‘You wanna turn me into a woman?’

‘No, Jack. I want you to stay a man, but one with some emotional response.’

‘I’m a fun guy, aren’t I?’

‘Fun isn’t everything, Jack. And that’s it. I didn’t come in here for a debate.’

She turned to me. ‘You can bring your stool back to the bar now, Dave.  The war of the sexes is temporarily over.’ Once I was back in place, she put a hand on my knee. ‘It’s you I came here for. I know I blew you off last Tuesday, but I’d had a bad day at work. Today’s a good day and you could make it better. So, we on? We could leave this place and go somewhere else for a drink, if you like.’

I turned to Jack. ‘Sorry, mate. Later.’

He shook his head. ‘I don’t soddin’ believe it!’

 

 

About the author 

 

eter Lingard, p born a Brit, served in the Royal Marines, was an accountant, a barman and a farm worker. He once lived in the US where he owned a freight forwarding business. An Aussie now because the sun frequently shines and the natives communicate in English 

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Librarians by Peter Lingard, a glass of flat beer

 I fancied Philomena until I found out she was a librarian. I told my mate, Jasper about her and her job and he said I was stupid. ‘Ya read books, dontcha?’

‘Well, yeah, but …’

‘But nothing. Get in there.’

I rummaged through my wallet and found an old library card. Was it still valid? Is the issue date in the code at the bottom? It bears an instruction to report its loss to the library. That could be an excuse to go to the place. Rather than get a book?  I didn’t see an expiry date. If I get a couple of books, won’t Philomena see in her computer that I haven’t taken one out in years? Should I apply for a new card? No, she’d go into her computer and come up with the same info on me. It has to be the reported loss routine. It was weak, but it’d get me in the door.

 Why hadn’t I rummaged through my wallet before? What else is in there? A telephone number without a name – how old is that! A bakery’s loyalty card. Two hundred-dollar notes. I must do this more often.

               

‘Excuse me, I want to report a lost library card.’

‘Well, you’ve come to the right place.’ The brunette’s eyes narrowed. ‘Wagner, isn’t it?’

‘Er, yes. Do we know each other?’

‘Not exactly know, but I gave you my number a couple of years ago and you never called.’

I took out my wallet and extracted the paper with the number. ‘Would this be it?’

The librarian smiled. ‘Yes. How come you kept the number, if you didn’t want to call?’

I shrugged. ‘To be honest, the paper got stuck behind a baker’s loyalty card and I’m not even sure what I was doing with that.’

‘Really. So, you kept your bakery card but lost your library card? Not sure we can trust you with a replacement of such an important document.’

‘Perhaps if I take you out to dinner, I might be able to convince you of my ability to look after things. I did keep your number safe for a couple of years.’

‘Hah! Have a big presentation in mind, do you?’

‘No, just a pleasant evening. Are we on?’

‘How about Friday?’

‘Friday’s good.  By the way, does Philomena work here?’

‘How would you know about Philomena? Yes, she’s a friend of mine. That’s what all this is about, isn’t it? You came hoping you’d meet her and you got me, someone who recognises you. Put a spanner in the works, did I?’

‘No, not at all. I, er …

‘Never mind, Wagner. Your card will be ready in a few minutes, if you’d care to wait.’

I look at my watch. ‘I can’t, I’m afraid. Can I pick it up tomorrow?’

‘Of course. Philomena will be on the desk then. I’ll tell you finally showed up to ask me out.

About the author

  Peter Lingard, born a Brit, served in the Royal Marines, was an accountant, a barman and a farm worker. He once lived in the US where he owned a freight forwarding business. An Aussie now because the sun frequently shines and the natives communicate in English. 

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.)

Home by Peter Lingard, a glass, no a bottle of bubbly

‘Forget the new carpet and curtains, Cara. We’re going home.’

‘We’re going back to Rome?’

Manchester, Cara. Manchester, my home, and the home of cotton shirts, revolution, meat pies and fish and chips - not that I’ll be eating any of it.’

‘No, no, nooooo Roberto. I want to go to Rome. Can’t you play for Roma again?’

‘I’m going up in the world, not down. Manchester City are going to pay me a hundred-thousand pounds per week. How do ya like them apples?’

‘Apples?’

‘Better apples than trying to work out how many euros it is. Manchester’s a great city, full of history. You’ll love it.’

‘More history than Rome?’ She flicked her long black tresses to emphasize her point. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Different history. You didn’t want to come to Hoffenheim, did you? But we’ve had fun here for the last two years, haven’t we, Bella?’

‘Not a lot. I came here because Roma sold you, not because it’s like Rome, or Parma or Napoli or any other Italian city with a football club. Why can’t you play for one of them?’

‘I’m under contract, Chiara, you know that. I have to go to whatever club bought me. We’ll buy a nice home and you’ll be able to decorate it any way you want from top to bottom. You’d like that. You could even change the toothpaste we use.’

‘But it rains so much in Manchester. It’s famous for its rain. I want blue skies and sunshine. Rain is bad for my hair and all that industry must be bad for my complexion.’

‘No. Cara. English weather is perfect for your hair and complexion. It’s famous for it. English women have the best skin of any country in the world, believe me. I learned that at school.’

She put on a spoilt air. ‘I don’t believe it. Anyway, how far is Manchester from London?’

‘Depends on where you want to go. A couple of hours plus by car, if I remember.’

‘Mama mia! Un paio d’ore! You are crazy. How could I live in such a place? No, Roberto, I shall go back to Rome and my family.’

 

When I returned to the living room, after giving Chiara time to mull things over while I packed a suitcase, I found her was watching television.

‘Come on,’ I said. ‘There’s a flight to Manchester we need to catch. My agent will be waiting. He’ll be anxious to see me put my signature on the new contract so he can get his fifteen per cent.’

Chiara turned down the volume and swivelled to face me. ‘Listen, Roberto,’ she said coyly. ‘I don’t want to live in Manchester or even in England. I am Italian.  Please don’t go.’

‘Did you hear how much I’ll be earning? When my football career is over, I’ll have enough money for us to live anywhere you want. But I have to earn it first. So, I’m going. If you don’t want to come with me,’ I was wary before uttering my next words, but I blundered on, ‘I’ll expect you gone when I return in a couple of days to shut this place down. Capiche?’

Her face turned to stone. ‘Gone, huh. No problem. Like they say, it’s been real. I’m going home to bella Roma and I’m taking the car with me. How would a Lamborghini look in stinky, rainy Manchester anyway?’

She could have the car. It was only worth two or three weeks, perhaps four, of my new pay-packet anyway. ‘The are plenty of beautiful cars in Manchester, Chiara. Tell me, given you moved with me from Rome to Hoffenheim, why is it such a big deal to move on the Manchester?’

‘Why? Because I got smart, that’s why! Capiche?’

There was no comeback to that. At least I’ll get a proper set of wheels and continue using the same toothpaste.  

About the author

  

Peter Lingard, born a Brit, served in the Royal Marines, was an accountant, a barman and a farm worker. He once lived in the US where he owned a freight forwarding business. An Aussie now because the sun frequently shines and the natives communicate in English. 

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.)

Hard Rubbish by Peter Lingard, a glass of champagne

Ramona meant to walk through the court, across the vacant plot and into the park.  However, piles of hard rubbish awaiting collection caught her eye.  There was an old peddle car showing rust undoubtedly accumulated in a garden shed.  She felt for the mother who must have resisted ejection for as long as was practically possible.  Had the boy left home and his parents had a clean-out of his no-longer treasured childhood possessions?  What was that expression?  Something to do with becoming a man and putting aside childish things.  Perhaps. 

She moved on and saw an old, heavy computer and its equally heavy monitor.  She remembered when monitors had been called a visual display units.  Who thinks these things up?  There was a bedside table.  Didn’t they come in pairs?  Where was the other one?  Had somebody come by, taken one and rejected the other?  Why?  Maybe there wasn’t enough room in the car?  Are they going return for this second, matching piece?  Was that a pogo-stick?  How long’s it been since she saw one of those?  Do kids have pogo-sticks today?  She hadn’t seen one in a long while.

            On the next nature strip stood a brown leather settee.  Are they still called settees?  Couch, sofa, lounger?  The colour had changed.  Colours. She saw many different colours, some light, some dark - several shades of dark.  The arms were the darkest, well, the tops of the backrest were dark too.  How many people had rested their heads against it?  It was a lot like the one she and Juan had had at the start.  They’d picked it up from the street.  They’d been starting out and couldn’t afford much furniture.  They’d planned to replace it once they had the money, but they’d never got round to it. They had made love on it that first night.  She felt a tinge of excitement in recalling the event.  She had found the raised edges of the seat cushions too uncomfortable and had thrown them onto the floor. 

            Afterwards, she’d been convinced that they’d conceived a child and had told Juan.  He’d laughed and asked how she could possibly know that.  They’d picked up the cushions and had been about to replace them when they found a penny lying on the settee’s seat.  Juan had said it must be an omen and if they had a baby girl as a result of that night’s loving, they’d call her Penny.

            They hadn’t got rid of the settee until Penny moved to Adelaide with her husband and Juan had helped pack the settee into the U-Haul along with the newlywed’s meagre possessions.

            She circled the nature strip, inspecting the piece, irrationally wondering if there might be some remembered mark.  But her settee was in Adelaide wasn’t it?  She smiled at her foolishness as she headed to the park.

About the author

 

Peter Lingard, born a Brit, served in the Royal Marines, was an accountant, a barman and a farm worker. He once lived in the US where he owned a freight forwarding business. An Aussie now because the sun frequently shines and the natives communicate in English. 

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Supply Chain by Peter Lingard, an ice-cold Schnapps,

It was my first day in a new job. Management had chosen me, so I was confident in being the right man. My eyes swept the room and I saw nervousness in the eyes of some as I strode to my office in the corner. Not a windowed corner, but still a corner. I wasn’t here to grow the company directly, just manage the office. I couldn’t care less about what the company’s product was, only that the office ran smoothly and efficiently. My last job had been despatching trucks around the city and state. If you can handle truck drivers, you can handle anyone. This gig should be a trip.

              I stopped at my office door and turned to face everyone. I asked them to interrupt whatever they were doing and pay attention. ‘I’m Dave Cratchit, the new office manager. I’m not concerned with the plastic ducks this company manufactures but with the running of this office. I’ve been advised that one problem is the constant disappearance of office supplies. This will stop. Anyone found stealing will be fired on the spot. I’ll be looking at who signed for said supplies, that is, who lost (I raised my hands and wiggled my first two fingers on each one) a lot. If you find you have superfluous staplers, et al, return them to my office by nine tomorrow and we’ll start out with clean sheets.’

‘Signed?’ a woman said. ‘We don’t sign for stuff.’

‘Well, you do now. Just return all your excesses by nine and we’ll be right.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

             When I got to my office the next morning, it was as if a tsunami of office supplies had surged in. My seat was covered in memory sticks, paperclips, staples and a letter opener that someone probably hoped I’d sit on. My desk was awash with computer mice, mousepads, cables, chargers, Stickum pads and a keyboard with a dab of red nail polish on the letters f,u (two dabs), c,k,y and o.

Someone had made a notice board in the shape of a triangle with requests for new computers, service and parts. The most urgent at the apex.

When I turned to look at the office, I found everyone silently staring at me.

We had sent messages to each other and now we all knew where we stood.

 

About the author  

 

Peter Lingard, born a Brit, served in the Royal Marines, was an accountant, a barman and a farm worker. He once lived in the US where he owned a freight forwarding business. An Aussie now because the sun frequently shines and the natives communicate in English. 

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.)

Grandma’s Christmas Cake by Peter Lingard, egg nog

Grandma puts the cake on the table

then retreats to the hot kitchen.

Feeling the stress of Christmas catering,

she can’t witness the cake being cut.

 

She gathered the fruits in their seasons,

carefully dried them and set them aside.

Then, on a cold and bitter January day

she mixed and baked the holiday loaf.

Her creation dwelled in dry darkness

of brown paper and an airtight tin.

Fruit, eggs, nuts and drops of whiskey

maturing and growing full flavour. 

 

On Christmas Eve, she unwrapped the paper

and searched cake’s surface for flaws.

She spread a thick layer of almond paste,

then a snow-white crown of icing.

 

 

Eldest grandson has a duty.

Before the opening of presents,

he stands on a chair in the pantry

and rummages for the special platter

that sees daylight once a year.

When found, it’s dusted, washed and dried

and graced with a large white doily

before the cake is carefully placed on top. 

 

The knife is thrust downward

and back to make the first cut.

Turn the cake around, slice it again

and the moment of truth has arrived.

 

Grandma’s ears are alert as she waits

to hear diners assess her skill.

She grips eldest grandson’s shoulders,

prays the centre will be good and firm,

the cake moist and full of rich flavour. 

 

About the auhtor 

 

Peter Lingard, born a Brit, served in the Royal Marines, was an accountant, a barman and a farm worker. He once lived in the US where he owned a freight forwarding business. An Aussie now because the sun frequently shines and the natives communicate in English. 

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.)

Assembly Required by Peter Lingard, strong lemonade

Everybody except Jones drank sparingly and acted with decorum at the office party on Christmas Eve afternoon.  Decorum is the last thing Tim and I like at parties, so, once we persuaded Melanie and April to accompany us, we high-fived our friends and important bosses, wished them whatever they wished for themselves, and headed for the bars.  The girls like a bit of fun so it was no surprise when they went topless at Pete’s Place around nine-thirty.  Their frivolity earned them too much attention and so Tim and I, heroes without hidden agendas, had to help them escape.  Well, Tim didn’t have any hidden agenda – he’s married with kids.  I hoped to get horizontal, vertical or askew with either or both of our companions.  When it turned out that the girls were inseparable, I told Tim to tell his wife not to expect me too early the next day. 

             June, Tim’s wife, said I looked bad.  ‘You look like death warmed up, Harry.’

            ‘I feel like it, too.  How’s Tim?’

            ‘The same.  Merry Christmas, by the way.’

            ‘Oh yeah!  Sorry.’  I gave her a hug.  ‘Merry Christmas to you, too.’

            ‘Phew!’ she said.  ‘You smell like a brewery.’

‘I smell like Christmas cheer,’ I said.

She gave me an insincere smile.  ‘A rose by any other name.’

The children realised I was at the door.  ‘Harry!’ they cried with painful enthusiasm.

‘Shhhhh,’ I said, ‘you’ll wake the baby Jesus.’

‘That’s silly,’ said Diana.  ‘They killed him last Easter.’

‘They couldn’t kill him before he was born,’ said Charles.  ‘They’ll kill him next Easter.’

‘Actually, they claim it was a few years later,’ I said as I handed each a present.  Charles looked askance at his sister’s much larger gift.  ‘Size isn’t everything,’ I said.

They ooohed and aaahed and said ‘thank you’.

‘That has to be assembled,’ I told Diana.  ‘I’ll help you do that later.  Okay?’

‘Okay,’ she said with a disappointed air.

I shook hands with Tim’s dad and kissed his mum on the cheek.  I found Tim in the kitchen, sweat rolling down from under a floppy red hat with a damp white fringe.

‘That’ll improve the taste of the gravy.’

‘You’re late.’

‘I did say.’

‘You know how to carve?’

‘I’ve been known to.’

‘So do a guy a favour and take that thing apart, will ya.’

I found the tools and started slicing.

‘How’d it go with April and Melanie?’

‘Good.  They’re a fun couple.’

‘I don’t wanna know.’

‘You just asked,’

‘I know I did.  But now I don’t want to know.’

‘Bad day?’

‘Nah.  How can Christmas Day be a bad day?’

‘But you don’t wanna know.’

‘No.’

‘Okay.’

 

‘Speech.  Speech.’

‘I just want to say how nice it is to have friends and family here on Christmas Day.  It’s been a good year.  We paid off the mortgage, had a great vacation...’

‘The turkey’s getting cold.’

‘Come on, Dad.  We wanna eat.’

‘Yes, well, as consensus of opinion seems to be I should shut up, I will.  Dig in folks.’

 

‘This wine is good.’

‘I’m glad you like it.  I’ve got some special port for afters.’

 

‘Jeeze, I’m stuffed.  Great meal, June.  Thanks.’

‘You’re welcome, Harry.  Why don’t you plonk yourself on the settee next to mum and relax.’

‘I’ll help you clear away first.  Tim and I’ll do the washing up.’

‘Did you check that with Tim?  What am I saying?  I accept.  Thanks.  I’m so glad you offered before you saw the kitchen.’

 

‘Come on, Uncle Harry.  You said you’d help put my pressie together.’

‘I know I did, Di but you gotta let me take five.  I’ll get to it later.  You’ve got plenty other stuff that Santa bought.’

‘Leave him be,’ said June.

‘Muum!’

‘Leave him.  Go on; off with you.’

‘Thanks, June.’

 

‘The taxi’s here, Harry.’

‘What?  What time is it?’

‘Ten.  The children are in bed.  You owe Diana a date to assemble her present.’

‘Oh, God.  What must she think?  Next weekend?’

‘Next weekend’s New Year, Harry.  I think you’re celebrating with Melanie and April.’

‘What?  Oh yeah.  Well, the weekend after that.  I promise.’

 

Melanie and April weren’t around the following Christmas.  Celebrating Christmas Eve with Tim didn’t happen as one, it was a Saturday and two, June made him and the kids attend a carol singing session.  Poor sod.  I had acquired a semi-permanent companion who preferred sober celebrations.  Semi-permanent because she wanted us to be permanent and I didn’t.  She told her friends she was working on me and felt she’d achieved some success when I invited her to Tim and June’s place on Christmas Day. 

‘You actually don’t smell like a brewery,’ June said by way of greeting.  She turned to the semi-permanent one.  ‘You must be doing something right.  Merry Christmas!’

The kids laughed and clapped when I gave them presents that the semi-permanent one had helped select.  Tim said she had a nice arse.  June said she was delightful.  The woman was amassing points at an alarming rate.

After the meal and after the semi-permanent one and I washed and dried the dishes, Tim unpackaged some indoor fireworks.  ‘Where’s Diana?’ he said.  She won’t want to miss these.’

‘She went down to the cellar,’ Charles informed him.

‘I’ll go and tell her,’ I said.  I strode to the door, opened it and proceeded down the carpeted steps.  Diana was on her knees singing ‘Happy Birthday to you,  Happy Birthday to you’ in her sweet melodic voice and I thought she was singing to the baby Jesus until I saw she was looking at the yet unassembled gift I had given her last Christmas.

 

About the author  

Peter Lingard, born a Brit, served in the Royal Marines, was an accountant, a barman and a farm worker. He once lived in the US where he owned a freight forwarding business. An Aussie now because the sun frequently shines and the natives communicate in English.

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.)