Dare to dream by Rob Molan, flathchch chamapagne

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                                             DARE TO DREAM

As our roadie unloads the van, we wander into the pub. It’s a cavernous joint with a long bar and a high ceiling. It could do with a fresh lick of paint and the stained carpet has seen better days.

‘Can I help you?’ asks a weedy guy standing behind a till.

‘We’re ‘The Flames’ and I’m Jack, the lead guitarist and vocalist,’ I reply.

‘I thought you weren’t going to turn up,’ he says, looking at his watch.

‘How big do you think the audience will be?’ asks Steve. His greyish ponytail is tucked into his collar.

‘Around a hundred and fifty.’

Disappointing but it’s more than we got at some recent gigs.

‘I hope you’ll be playing your old hits. The punters will want that.’

‘Of course,’ snaps Tim. The guy steps back at the sight of my six-foot, shaven headed bandmate. 

Our roadie enters pushing the equipment trolley towards the small stage which has two spotlights above it.

‘When did the three of you last play in Leeds?’ asks the manager.

‘1970,’ I reply.

‘A lot’s changed in the last thirty years.’

Indeed. There was four of us then.

 

After getting off the train, we bounded across the station concourse towards the limousine chased by photographers. We clambered inside and were whisked off to the Metropole Hotel.

‘They’ve got a great cocktail bar there,’ said Ray. ‘Let’s hit it before dinner.’

‘As long as you’re paying,’ retorts Steve.

Ray gave him the finger.

Within a couple of minutes, the terracotta façade of the hotel came into view and we spied a group of female fans gathered outside. I got out first, followed by Tim and Steve, and when Ray’s high-heeled boots hit the pavement the murmurs of excitement turn into screams and a few girls rushed over, surrounded him and pawed at his Afghan coat. He was a good-looking guy with boyish looks and shiny black curls cascading onto his broad shoulders.

Arriving in the lobby, our path is blocked by the broad figure of our manager, Derek.

‘Ray, you’ve got an interview with a journalist now. The rest of you are free to do whatever you want before dinner.’

‘I’m sick of talking to hacks,’ groaned Ray.

That was the price he played for being such a gifted songwriter.

We had sunk champagne and were finishing our starters by the time Ray was free to rejoin us.

‘That reporter was a pain. He knew little about our music and asked me stupid questions. Then he started quizzing me about my love life,’ he said with a smirk. ‘I gave him a few titbits to chew on.’

‘Shut up!’ I said, filling his glass with fine, red wine.

Four waitresses appeared carrying plates of T-bone steaks and we tucked in.

‘While you guys were gassing on the train, I was finishing off the lyrics for that new song I’ve been working on,’ said Ray. ‘I’ve named it ‘Dare To Dream’ and I think it’s one of my best.’

We’d been working on a riff for the song in the studio before the tour.’

‘Let’s have a butchers says,’ said Tim. He sported a blonde mullet then.

‘I’ve given the sheet to Dave for safekeeping. Knowing me, it would probably end up in the bin otherwise!’  He was a disorganised guy and frustrating to work with but a genius none the less.

 

The sound check in the pub has gone well. The acoustics are surprisingly good.

‘Anyone fancy fish and chips?’ asks Steve. ‘There’s a place nearby.’

‘I think our budget can stretch to that,’ says Tim. ‘We can try and cadge some free beers here afterwards.” He could do with cutting back as his belly looks bigger than it was when the tour started.

Once we’re settled in the eatery, we order tea to go with the fish.

‘It felt strange travelling through those streets earlier,’ I say.

‘I asked myself why we’d agreed to include Leeds in the tour,’ comments Steve.

‘Yeah, we had a few fights last time we were here,’ recalls Tim.  I remember him throwing me up against a wall and screaming in my face.

‘We all said things we later regretted,’ I add. ‘But now we’re the best of friends.’

‘Don’t push it,’ says Steve with a laugh.

The fish is barely edible and the chips are overcooked and we eat them in silence.

The rain is lashing down when we step outside and the three of us jog through the puddles, arriving back at the pub breathless and looking like drowned rats.

Our entrance the last time was more dignified.

 

After dinner, the limousine took us to the Queen’s Hall. It’s since been demolished but back then it was a huge venue holding five thousand people. Security staff formed a guard of honour letting us enter the building unmolested by the fans outside.  We changed in the dressing room, putting on our lycra bodysuits which boasted every colour of the rainbow and showed off our skinny frames.

A roar of anticipation greeted us as we entered the dimmed stage. The decibels increased further as the bright lights came on, revealing us in our technicolour glory, and hundreds of fans rushed to the barrier at the front to see us up close and personal.

We got things moving with ‘Black Widow’ - always a crowd-pleaser – Tim opening up on drums, followed by Steve’s melodic, powerful bass, Ray picking up the beat with his rhythm guitar and me coming in on lead with the song’s killer riff. Ray and I leaned into our microphones and belted out the opening lines:

‘All dressed in black so nobody sees you
Smile in the wings, tell me I please you’

Within seconds, the audience turned into an enormous choir singing along with us, taking the roof off the place and setting the scene for a tumultuous ninety minutes, during which our adrenalin soared sky-high and we worked up a helluva sweat.

Halfway through the set, a girl climbed over the barrier and got on stage and ran over to Ray and snogged him. The rest of us kept playing as security prised the her off him before he effortlessly rejoined us on the chorus behaving as if nothing had happened. He was a class act.

We were on a high when we got back to the dressing room.

‘Is everyone up for a visit to Tiffany’s?’ I asked.

There was only one dissenting reply, from Ray who had a leggy brunette sitting on his knee.

‘We’re going back to the hotel first. We’ll catch you at the club.’

That was typical of Ray.

 

Only one of the pub’s spotlights is working but we still start the gig at eight. Most of the audience have had a skinful by then and sing along loudly with me. I spot a few youthful converts to the cause among the bobbing grey heads out there. At one point, a drunk guy leaning on the stage suddenly slumps forward and the beer from his glass forms a big puddle which I step over and keep playing to the sound of cheers.

After performing for an hour, we leave the stage to an ovation and I make my way to the bar. As I’m sipping my pint, a young bloke approaches me sporting a T shirt bearing a photograph of us in our pomp. I hardly recognise the thin faced guy that was once me.

‘Do you mind signing this?’ he asks, brandishing a battered copy of a paperback about the band.

‘Sure.’

I take his pen and scribble inside the cover.

“I read Ray Hunter died in Leeds back in 1970. It was an overdose wasn’t it?”

‘Yeah, it was tragic.’

I found him in his hotel room, lying limp in an armchair with his head slumped to one side and his eyes wide open. The girl was sitting on the edge of the bed with her head in her hands and weeping.

The tour was cancelled and we hung around until the post mortem. Much alcohol was consumed during those days and a break up of the band seemed on the cards.

‘You should have stopped him going back to the hotel,’ shouted Steve. ‘Then we wouldn’t be in this mess.’

‘I wasn’t his keeper,’ I snapped. “’the oldest here doesn’t make me a father figure.’   

Thankfully, Dave got us to see sense and persuaded us to stay together.

‘It was brilliant that you performed ‘Dare To Dream’ as the encore’ says the young fan. ‘It’s my favourite.’

And our last hit.

‘We’d better get going,’ shouts Tim. ‘Our bed and breakfast locks up at eleven.’

‘Are we sharing a room again?’

‘Sadly, yes.’

We’ve hardly written a decent song between us since Ray died. Maybe our old music will come back into fashion or a number will feature on a film soundtrack and win us new fans. We can only dream.

ABout the author

 

Rob lives in Edinburgh started writing short stories during lockdown. To date, he's had several tales published by Cafe Lit and others in various anthologies. He likes to experiment with different genres and styles of writing. Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee?. Half of what you pay goes to the author th otrht eehalf goes to expense se.g. Miantaining rhhthe web siter and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.

Eye in the Sky by Rob Molan, flat champagne

They can’t see me but I can see them. They don’t mind as they think of me as their guardian angel looking down from above providing them with protection. I’m known as the eye in the sky.

Sitting in front of bank of twenty screens, I can see what’s happening in each branch of YouBet through the CCTV cameras which they’ve installed. I monitor what’s going on and watch for problems such as customers arguing with or threatening staff, or fighting amongst themselves. If I see something kicking off, I switch on the microphone in the shop and listen to what’s happening and intervene if necessary.

 ‘You are being recorded on CCTV,’ I announce over the loudspeaker. ‘Leave the shop or I’ll call the police.’

That usually does the trick. Some panic and run out. Others look up and give the camera the finger before casually strolling out. The staff usually provide a thumb’s up.

There is a button under the counter which colleagues can discreetly press if they feel under threat and catch my attention. On one such occasion, I saw a pair wearing balaclavas with baseball bats shouting at a female colleague who was cowering behind the screen.

‘Hand over the takings or we’ll climb over.’

I stepped in immediately.

‘The police have been called and you are being filmed.’

I dialled 999.

They were not deterred and waited while the girl nervously took the takings from the safe and the till and transferred them into a bag. Luckily, a squad car was in the immediate vicinity and officers arrived just as the thugs were leaving. After a tussle, they were arrested and taken away.  When they’d gone, she blew a kiss to her unseen saviour. I’d liked to have given her a hug.

Most days though nothing happens. Moving from screen to screen, I see the expectant looks on the faces of punters who thought they’d backed a certainty and their crumpled looks as they watch their horse disappoint. And I watch staff take money from these eternal optimists and –very  occasionally – put a big smile on someone’s face.

I feel really sorry for the losers. Last Christmas, I saw my neighbour, Carol, place a bet in the local branch. I was surprised as she’s on her own and has young kiddies. She watched the race on the TV and tore up the betting slip before leaving. I didn’t think she’d be back. But I was wrong. I spotted her two days later and listened in as she stood at the counter.

‘Number three at Kempton, twenty pounds.’ That’s a lot for her, I thought. ‘It had better win or they’ll be no Crimbo in our house.’

Her luck was out and she left in tears after the race.

Christmas day wasn’t the disaster she feared though. She found a box on her doorstep that morning packed with prezzies for the children and a turkey.  I watched her from my window as she looked around wondering where it had come from. The following day I started volunteering for the gamblers’ helpline and am still doing it six months’ later.  I haven’t told my employers. If they found out, they’d probably sack me because it’s a conflict of interest. But that’s a gamble I’m willing to take.

 

About the author 

 

Rob lives in Edinburgh started writing short stories during lockdown. To date, he's had several tales published by Cafe Lit and others in various anthologies. He likes to experiment with different genres and styles of writing. 

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.)

Disclosure by Rob Molan, Pinot Grigio

It’s feels so good to get it out there. It feels a bit unreal though as I’ve been thinking about it for so long but never found the courage until today to pull the trigger.

I re-wrote the final paragraph several times.

‘My experience at Hamilton’s was not an isolated case but a reflection of the culture of misogyny and bullying in the company. Many of my colleagues were also victims of harassment and intimidation and were threatened with dismissal if they complained. I hope sharing my story will encourage others to come out and say what they went through and Hamilton’s are held to account for their mistreatment of staff.’

It was painful writing that stuff. I lost two stone in my last year there with all the stress I suffered. That so and so Mr Welsh thought it was amusing.

‘Are you planning to be a model, Carol? That prisoner of war chic suits you.’ The big fat git enjoyed trying to get a rise out of female staff.

But now it is out there on social media for all to read about. I’m going to have glass of wine and put on some music. I get a bottle of Pinot Grigio out of the fridge, grab a glass and go into the lounge where I’ll put on Abba’s greatest hits, pour myself a large one and flop on the sofa.

A few glasses later, “Voulez Vous” is playing at full volume and I’m up on my feet singing along. I’ve got a rubbish voice but I don’t care who hears me. When it finishes, I head unsteadily towards the little girls’ room and spot a letter lying on the door mat. I pick the envelope up, wander into the kitchen and tear it open. It’s from a firm called Smith and Hibbitt.

‘I am writing to remind you of the terms of the Non-Disclosure Agreement (NDA) which you signed when you left the employment of Hamilton’s on 31 May 2023.

In return for a severance payment, you undertook not to disclose to any third party information either related to (a) the circumstances relating to your departure from the company or (b) its management practices.

I must reiterate that my clients will not hesitate to take legal action in the event of you disclosing such information and will seek damages in court.’

I don’t remember any NDA but I recall Mr Welsh walking into the workshop on my last day waving a piece of paper with his sausage fingers.

‘Sign this, Carol, before you go. You don’t need to read it. It’s just a formality.’ He stood over me breathing heavily as I autographed it.

Lying bastard. But Hamilton’s can go whistle if they think they’re going to get anything off me. I spent their lousy payoff ages ago and don’t have any savings.

I scrunch up the letter and throw it in the bin. I’m going to crack open another bottle and put Gloria Gaynor on.

About the author

Rob lives in Edinburgh started writing short stories during lockdown. To date, he's had several tales published by Cafe Lit and others in various anthologies. He likes to experiment with different genres and styles of writing. 

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.)

Join the Club by Rob Molan, bitter lemon

I estimate that the combined age of the four of us on the committee is at least two hundred and fifty years but the others have not got any wiser as they’ve aged. The meeting has dragged on much longer than necessary due to Stanley’s pedantic chairmanship but thankfully we’ve reached the last item.  The heat in the room is becoming insufferable.

‘You’ve all seen, I assume, the recent editorial in the 'Gazette'.” Stanley opens up a copy of the paper. ‘As you know, this made some disparaging comments about us.’ He wrinkles his nose and reads from the offending publication. ‘Specifically, it commented how odd it was that Tatsby Social Club has never been known to have any members from the nearby village of Haston. Do they have a ban in place, we wonder?’

 

‘That new editor is trying to make a name for himself,’ mutters Harold before striking a match to light his pipe.

 

‘He's got a bloody cheek,’ snarls Ken. ‘Probably been got at by some sod in Haston, who’s envious we can buy a pint for fifteen pence while they have to pay a few pence more in their local.’  His shock of unkempt, white hair is more unruly than usual tonight.

 

‘Indeed. He’s clearly an over-promoted scribbler who's trying to stir up trouble.’ Beads of sweat are now appearing on Stanley’s bald head. ‘There has been a shocking decline in newspaper ethics in recent times.’

 

‘We have been advised in the past that there is nothing in our articles of association which prevent a resident of Haston from joining our club.’ I have to remind the others of this fact.

 

Stanley leans forward and studies me through his horn-rimmed glasses.

 

‘That maybe so, Les, but we don't want to broadcast that, do we?’

 

I hate the condescending way he talks to me.

 

‘No one has applied from there in the forty odd years I've been coming here.” Ken’s back is so straight it doesn’t touch the back of the chair. “If one of them rang up enquiring about membership, they were told that someone would get back to them. That never happened, of course, and they soon got the message.’

 

‘Having new members would bring in an extra few bob in takings. We're barely covering our costs these days.’  This is the umpteenth time I’ve reminded them we’re barely solvent. It’s hard being the treasurer in this place.

 

‘We don't want their bloody money,’ snaps Harold through clouds of smoke.

 

‘But the two communities share a lot of history. It would be good to intermingle.’ When I was a child, I loved it when we used to visit my uncle there.

 

‘Get away with you.’ Ken jabs a finger at me.  ‘The place is full of inbreds and they like a bit of fisticuffs after they've had a few pints. This place would go to rack and ruin if they were admitted.’ 

 

‘My late mother-in-law was born inl Haston,’ says Harold, lowering the corners of his mouth.

 

‘Enough said,’ murmurs Ken.

 

Stanley leans towards me.

 

“I think you have a rosy-eyed view of the place, Les. I remember when we held the joint jamboree to celebrate the Coronation, the Haston lot gobbled up the meat sandwiches before we could get a look in and then helped themselves to the biggest cream cakes.’

 

‘And they didn’t pay their share of the marquee rental either,’ adds Harold, raising his bushy, grey eyebrows.

 

Stanley clears his throat.

 

‘I think it is agreed that this scurrilous article should be ignored.’ He looks me in the eye as he speaks. ‘This week's Gazette will be fish and chip paper in a few days’ time and their pompous editor will no doubt have moved on to some other spurious campaign.’

I bite my tongue.

 

‘I call the meeting to an end. We can now adjourn to the bar for a pint or two of mild.  'A Question of Sport' will be starting soon on BBC1 and young Bobby Moore is on the panel this week.’

There must have been a function in here earlier as the room stinks of ciggies and stale beer. I notice the picture of Her Majesty on the wall is hanging askew.

 

The door opens and Stanley waddles in looking flustered.

 

‘Apologies gentlemen for being late. My moped wouldn’t start and I had to walk here.’

 

He hangs up his coat, sits down and pulls some papers out of his briefcase.

 

‘Thank you for attending this extraordinary meeting of the committee. I've received two vexatious letters which we need to consider. The first is from a man called Collins from Haston applying to join our club, together with a postal order for fifty pence to cover the membership fee.’

 

‘No doubt he was put up to it by that bloody paper,’ Ken snarls.                  

 

‘It was certainly most improper of him to have applied without talking to me first,’ says Stanley.

 

‘Typical Haston behaviour,’ mumbles Harold. The white shirt which he is wearing is too tight for him and his double chin hangs over the collar

 

‘Can't you just pretend you never received it?’ asks Ken.

 

‘Not really. It was hand delivered,’ responds Stanley with a frown.

‘Just tell him we're full up,’ says Harold.

 

‘The place is empty during the week,’ I pipe up. ‘Anybody passing could tell that by looking through the window. The takings on those nights don’t cover the heating and lighting costs and….’

 

Stanley jumps in.

            ‘But if he came on a Friday or Saturday night, the queue for the bar would be that much longer. We're already getting lots of complaints already about the slowness of service.’  He shakes his head.

 

‘If we let one in, the floodgates would open,’ says Harold.

             ‘A point well made,’ comments Stanley. ‘I suggest we now turn to the second letter which arrived by post this morning from a solicitor called Alan Jones claiming to represent Collins.’ Stanley lays the letter out in front of him. ‘It says that if we refuse his client's application without good reason, he will take legal proceedings against us. He claims the courts have ruled against a number of clubs who refused to accept applications for membership from certain groups in society.’

 

‘What’s the world coming to if men can’t decide who they drink with?’  Harold rolls his eyes.

 

‘He's a flaming Quisling that Jones.’ Ken bangs the table with a fist. ‘He was born and bred in Tatsby but developed hoity-toity ways after going to university and opening his own practice in the city.’ Judging by the smell of his breath, he’s already had a few.

 

‘He's bluffing,’ says Harold.  ‘Collins won't have the brass to pay the legal fees.’

 

I have to correct him.  ‘I wouldn't be so sure about that. He's a coal merchant and owns several lorries.’ 

 

Harold looks daggers at me but I plough on.

 

‘We would have to pay a lawyer to defend any action against us and we’ve not got the money to do that.’

 

The room falls silent for a few seconds before Ken erupts.

 

‘Which side are you on, Les?’ he shouts. ‘Always worried about the pennies but not about doing what’s right.’ His spittle goes flying over the table.

 

‘Calm down, man,’ says Stanley sharply.

 

Ken grunts and falls back in his chair.

 

‘I’m sure any judge with a shred of common sense would refuse to hear the case as it would be a waste of the court's time."  Stanley pulls a pocket watch out of his waistcoat and glances at it. "Some of us now have a darts match to take part in. I don’t think we should be rushed into deciding how to respond to these letters so I propose we reconvene in a week's time to determine what to do.’

 

 

My resignation letter is sitting on the sideboard. It was hard to write as I've been a member for decades, following in the steps of my father and grandfather. But I've had enough of the place.  I can no longer remain on a committee of dinosaurs who can’t see they’re heading for extinction. Furthermore, the last two nights I've popped in the bar nobody spoke to me, no doubt because someone (probably Ken) had been blabbing about my comments on admitting members from Haston. I'll pop down to the Post Office after lunch and get a stamp for the letter.

 

The telephone starts ringing and I get up from my armchair to answer it.

 

‘Tatsby 1586,’ I say.

 

‘Good morning, Les. It's Tracey from the ‘Gazette’. Remember we spoke a few days ago?’

 

‘"I do.’ She was trying to get me to comment on their editorial but I kept schtum.

 

‘I understand you were unable to attend last night's meeting of the Tatsby Social Club management committee.’ I could hear the relief in Stanley’s voice when I rang him to tender my apologies. ‘They've just faxed us a statement which I'd welcome your comments on.’

‘

"What does it say?’

            ‘’The committee have decided that, with immediate effect, existing members will be able to bring wives and girlfriends with them to the club and, to that end, the bar will start to stock Babycham and Dubonnet; and in anticipation of increased numbers being present on the premises, new applications for membership cannot be considered for the foreseeable future to comply with fire regulations.’

 

The cunning beggars.

 

‘It’s great they’re moving with the times. Don’t you agree?’

 

I take a deep breath.

‘

‘I’ve got nothing to say on the matter. As a widower, the change will not benefit me. Thanks for calling.’

 

I put the telephone back down on the receiver. If I'd ever suggested letting lasses in, they would have shouted me down. They’ll be moaning before you know it about giggling young women spoiling the atmosphere and their wives talking too much. Still, they’ve made their bed and they’ll have to lie on it.

 

I’ll go down to the British Legion tonight. My brother will be there and I’m sure he’ll be happy to sponsor me if I apply for membership. They’ve got a better range of ales on offer there.

 

About the author

  Rob lives in Edinburgh started writing short stories during lockdown. To date, he's had several tales published by Cafe Lit and others in various anthologies. He likes to experiment with different genres and styles of writing. 

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.)

Waiting for Her by Rob Molan, cold tea

I didn’t get a good send-off when I left home this morning.

‘Helen, your mother and I are not happy about you going to London.’ She was sitting beside him looking downcast. ‘You know our views on the matter and we’re disappointed you are disregarding them.’ He gave me a withering look as he spoke.

However, they both know that stubborn is my middle name.

‘I’ve booked my ticket and packed an overnight bag,’ I told them. ‘So, I’m going.’

Now, I’m sitting by a window in the coach station overlooking our meeting point outside the Post Office across the road. She doesn’t know what I look like and I want to give her the once-over when she arrives before crossing the street.

I look up at the clock. She should be here in a few minutes. The butterflies in my tummy are getting worse. There is so much I want to ask her and many things we need to discuss. It feels a bit overwhelming and I need to get my act together, otherwise she’ll think I’m a blabbering idiot.

I don’t want to disappoint her and hope she doesn’t think that I’ve overdressed with the burgundy trouser suit I’ve put on. I’ve toned down my makeup and my new page boy hairstyle is much tidier than my old cut.

That must be her. She said she’d be wearing a short, red coat. A woman wearing one has stopped by the post box. Her blonde hair is scraped back tightly into a pony tail at the back, tightening the skin on her face, and she is sucking on a vape. Her stony face throws a death stare in my direction before turning to watch the passers-by.

My skin starts to crawl. This is a big mistake.

‘Last call for the 15.00 hours coach to Manchester,’ says the announcer over the loudspeaker.

I jump up, grab my bag and race towards the departure gate.

I won’t have anything in common with that woman and wouldn’t give her a second look if she crossed my path anywhere else. I don’t want to know why she gave me up for adoption all those years ago or why she didn’t reply to the letters I sent her when I was younger after tracking down her address. If she wants to meet me now, she must have an ulterior motive. I already have a mum (and a dad) and don’t need another one. I’d rather remain as the person I was brought up to be and not have to face being the person I might have been.

About the author

  

Rob lives in Edinburgh and started writing short stories during lockdown. To date, he's had several tales published by CafeLit and others in various anthologies. He likes to experiment with different genres and styles of writing. 

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.)