Ministering Angel by Lynn Clement, a pint of bitter and a packet of crisps

You wouldn’t know it to look at him, but Ian De’ath was an angel.

That’s what his ‘clients’ thought of him anyway. ‘A visiting angel.’

Ian regularly helped with Eileen’s shopping. He couldn’t drive a car, but he would ensure plastic bags full of crisps, beer, and cigarettes were delivered to order.

‘Thank you, angel,’ Eileen would say to the sky, on receipt of the goodies.

Home delivery was a Godsend!

 Ian was a man of few words. He knew his job and enjoyed it.

In the past six months, a new fella had moved into the same block of flats as Eileen. She and he shared the odd fag at the bottom of the stairs. Eileen had designs on him.

 Ian had spotted him in the pub at the end of the road.

One day, 6th June to be precise, Ian stood at the end of the bar. Watching.

The man looked towards Ian, and Ian sent a pint up the bar.

The fella, who was called Jim, sank whisky chasers with his bitter. He began to get 'lairy.’

‘Alright, Jim,’ said the landlord, levering him out of the double doors. ‘Your time is up.’ Jim landed, bottom first, on the pavement. The doors closed with a bang.

Ian had followed him outside. The street was deserted. It was eerily quiet, considering the jukebox was on inside the pub.

Grey clouds cloaked the sky like a shroud. Jim shivered as Ian bent down to help him.

Two weeks later, Eileen sat at the bottom of her block, in what constituted a garden ― a puny apple tree surrounded by barbed wire and a patch of yellow scrub masquerading as grass. Her bench, as Eilleen thought of it, was covered in graffiti. SKANKS LIVE ‘ERE, it said in bold red letters. Fake blood dripped from the painted words.

Eileen tried to cross her chubby legs as she read her local newspaper, but to no avail. She held her cigarette between her thin, wrinkly lips. The ash dropped onto her bare, purple-streaked thighs, and she brushed it off nonchalantly.

Turning to page eight, she sought out the Births, Marriages, and Deaths section. There were very few of the former notifications.

‘Bloody hell,’ she said aloud. The cigarette fell from her mouth and burned a hole in the newspaper. She dashed it to the floor.

James Bartlet, known as Jim, died on June 6, 2025, according to the notice. Funeral to be held at 11:00 a.m., St. Paul's Church, Anytown. All are welcome to attend. No flowers.

‘You alright down there, Eileen?’ shouted her neighbour from two floors up.

‘Aye,’ shouted Eilleen. ‘It’s just that Jim Bartlet has passed. I thought I hadn’t seen him for a while.’

‘Bleedin’ hell,’ was the shocked reply. ‘Jim, the beer?’

‘Yeah,’ let loose Eileen, ‘and he was only the same age as me. Fifty-three is far too young!’

The upstairs window closed with a clunk.

Smoky clouds enveloped the sun. Eileen shivered.

 She folded her newspaper and attempted to shift her bulk from the bench. She felt hot and yet clammy at the same time.

‘Let me help,’ said a smooth voice from behind her.

Eileen tried to turn her fat neck towards it.

 Ian M. De’ath laid his hand on her shoulder, and he helped her …

 into a different world.

Another job done in his role as a ministering angel.

About the author

 Lynn is a regular writer for Cafelit. Her first flash fiction collection, The City of Stories,' is published by Chapeltown Books. See 5-star reviews - #amazonthecityofstorieslynnclement Lynn has stories in The Best of Cafelit 11,  12 , 13 and 14.

 

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Echoes by Peter Lingard, a pint of best bitter

For a fraction of a second, I see her smile, but it passes so quickly I cannot be sure if it was a trick of my imagination or an actual memory.  I am not even sure if I saw the smile in her eyes or on her lips.

 

I remember more of Anne, the farmer’s daughter who smelled of soap.  Her hazel eyes sparkled when she smiled.  Her large frame, muscled torso and short, curly hair come easily to mind.  I swapped Anne for Frances, an accountant’s daughter who smelled of perfume.  Why is it I can recall Anne with relative ease, but only have smoky, wispy glimpses of Frances?  Did I make a mistake?  Is my memory telling me I should have stayed with Anne?

 

If I had stuck with Anne, would she and I still be together?  What of the women who have loved me since then?  Their influences have helped forge the man I am.  If Anne had been my last and enduring love, I would be a different me.  I would probably like myself more, but I would miss all the fabulous females who have filled my life since then.  

 

Anne liked to carry my kit to rugby games.  My older girlfriend and status symbol cleaned my boots after every game and rubbed dubbing into the leather.  Not trusting my mother to do a good enough job, she washed and ironed my strip.  (I felt uncomfortable when teammates grinned at my clean strip with creases down the shirtsleeves and the front of my shorts.  I threw the items on the floor of the changing room to scruff them with my feet and Anne occasionally asked why my strip looked dirty before the game started.)  We travelled by public transport to the stadium, my kit securely held by Anne.  She always gave me a good-luck kiss on my cheek before tucking her hair beneath the edges of her scarf and taking her cold and lonely seat in the empty stands, waiting an hour or more for the game to begin.  Sometimes, she embarrassed me by vocalising her less than knowledgeable encouragement during the game.

 

In the club bar afterwards, she stayed constantly by my side, leaving only to purchase more beer for her underage boyfriend or to attempt to convince the cub reporter from the local newspaper that my name should be included in his summary.  When older teammates tried to impress Anne by telling her age equalled experience, she told them she was true to me and they laughed.  Whenever I received a lump or a scratch, her loving care embarrassed me.

 

I tried to change her and she tried to change me while Frances beckoned from the wings. 

 

Schooling ranked high on Anne’s priorities list.  While she studied for summer exams, I put sugar in the petrol tank of the math teacher’s car, ordered a ton of manure delivered to the English teacher’s house on a c.o.d. basis, and sent a letter of resignation to the head master in the name of the physics teacher.  For these acts, I was encouraged to abandon my scholastic endeavours.  While Anne did her homework, I drank beer and hung out in the town’s toughest bars.  When the police arrested me for underage drinking, disturbing the peace and causing mayhem, Anne secured my release and made promises for me that I had no intention of keeping.

 

Good, kind Anne wore knee-length dresses, white blouses and sensible sweaters.  Sultry Frances wore short shorts and revealing tops.  I suppose it is telling that I can remember the shorts and tops, but not the person who filled them.  When my friend, Allen Doyle told me he wanted to date Frances, I got there before him.

 

Sorry, Anne but you made me treat you so.

 

Frances seemed sophisticated, but her money went on cheap rooms in hotels where the proprietors never questioned what a pair of fifteen-year-olds was doing there.  In those dark and dusty rooms where the curtains were forever closed, she taught me more about sex than a girl of her age should know.

;

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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When the Words ‘that I’ are Missing by Dawn Knox, a pint of bitter (perhaps with a slice of Humble Pie)

 Does anyone else pay attention to apologies?

For most of my life, if I heard someone said to me, “I’m sorry…” I assumed they were apologising for causing offence.

One day, I thought about the words spoken and realised that,

“I’m sorry you’re hurting.”

“I’m sorry mistakes were made.”

“I’m sorry that happened.”

Are all expressions of sorrow but not admittance of guilt.

After all, I’m sorry when it rains and floods people’s houses but I’m not responsible.

I think the correct wording for anyone who’s apologising should be, “I’m sorry that I…” and then fill in the appropriate words.

About the author

Dawn’s three previous books in the ‘Chronicles Chronicles’ series are ‘The Basilwade Chronicles’, ‘The Macaroon Chronicles’ and 'The Crispin Chronicles' published by Chapeltown Publishing. 

You can follow her here on 

https://dawnknox.com 

on Twitter: https://twitter.com/SunriseCalls 

Amazon Author: http://mybook.to/DawnKnox

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Best Behaviour

by Roger Noons

Pint of best bitter

    It was my brother who pointed him out. One Saturday lunchtime, we were on our way to the match; thought we’d enjoy a pint in The Hollybush.

    “You see that chap there?”

    I nodded.

    “He used to work at Jennings Brothers, well, he turned up now and again, I’m not so sure he was keen on work, but he got nicked.”

    “What for?”

    “Receiving. A bit unlucky really. His wife reported having seen a rat in the back garden and when the Pest Control Officer went round to check, he found thousands of fags in the shed. He rang the Police and they raided before Danny had a chance to shift ‘em. Players, they were, untipped.

    “Worth a few bob, I bet?”

    “About ten grand, according to the write up in the paper, when it went to court.”

    “That’d be a lot of money in those days?”

    “Yeah, mind you it was a big shed.”

    “How long did he go down for?”

    “Two years, I think. Of course he wouldn’t have served that long, always on his best behaviour, Danny.”

    “It sounds like it.”

    Tom looked at his watch. “I reckon we’ve time for another, especially as it’s your shout.”

    By the time I returned from the bar, Danny Collis had left. After we’d taken the tops off our bitter, Tom said. “Fancy a cigar?”

    I took a King Edward from the hinged box. “Where’d you get these from?”

    “I just said hello to Danny, asked him how he was.”

Another piece from Roger, one of our regular contributors.

Caspian Days

Robin Wrigley

Ringwood best bitter 

Maryam lay wide awake; it was one thirty in the morning. She had that dream again. The dream about that encounter in her early childhood while on a family holiday at the end of the war, at their house by the Caspian Sea.

     She was only eight years old free to roam in the early mornings. She had gone down to the sea-shore while the family stayed sleeping. It was so refreshing, wading in the sea after their stuffy house. Spotting a bright blue dinghy pulled up on the beach she climbed inside. Sitting at the bow like a boatman, she pretended she was at sea placing her hand above her eye-line scanning the horizon.

     A dog barking nearby startled her and instinctively she crouched down and peered over the rim. She saw the dog alongside a shepherd-boy, who was starting to undress only a few metres away, unaware of her presence.

     The whiteness of his body, contrasted with his sunburnt arms and face as he stripped completely. Maryam had never seen a naked boy. She marvelled at how different his body was to hers. Once undressed, he ran and dived into the surf; Maryam clambered out of the boat and ran for home.

     It was the only time she was to see a live male form. The Ayatollah’s obsession with the war against Saddam Hussein, had taken her brothers along with thousands of young men and boys she might have known, perhaps married.

     Now she had only the dream.