So Far Away by Robin Wrigley, pink gin

When you live in Dunkirk, a small town on the banks of Lake Erie, you really don’t understand much about the world and the peoples in it. That all changed on Thanksgiving this year when I drove over to Boston to stay with my older brother Andy. He had an Australian guy called Michael staying with him.

            This was the first year that I was spending out of Dunkirk as I lost my Mom back in the summer. Dad had already passed two years earlier. Andy usually came to us on Thanksgiving and sometimes at Christmas.

            That was two weeks ago and this morning as I was putting the coffee on it struck me for the first time, that I’m going to drink this on my own. Meeting Michael made me feel lonely for the first time in my life. Usually, my life teaching maths at Dunkirk High kept me busy and always had. That, looking after Mom in her last years and keeping her guessing about the apparent lack of a man in my life.

            But now little old me has gone and fallen hook, line, and sinker in love at the age of forty-eight with a damned guy who lives in a place I know nothing about, Australia. When we met, I felt such a parochial dummy I was even surprised we spoke the same language.

That’s what living in a small town in nowheresville in New York State, does to you.

            ‘So, this is Andy’s little sister Mary all the way from Niagara Falls.’ Michael was a bit short for my liking in men. But his wavy dark hair and the most piercing blue eyes made up for all that lack of height.

            ‘Correction,’ I stammered as we shook hands. ‘I live in Dunkirk, a fair drive from Niagara.’

            ‘Dunkirk? Isn’t that in France?’

            ‘Sure, that one is but my Dunkirk’s where Andy and I were born and on the south shore of Lake Erie. That’s one of the Great Lakes in case you never heard of it.’

            It wasn’t one of best starts to a relationship but the welcoming group of Andy’s family, his wife Maggie and their two boys were definitely enjoying it and mainly at my expense.

            That night at the dinner table where Maggie had put me next to Mike, I got the chance to find out a little more of this foreigner. He lived in Melbourne lectured at university in geology. That was his connection with my brother, a geologist with a mining company.

            The following morning, I was up before everyone else, or so I thought, when I walked into the kitchen Mike was at the table on his laptop.

            ‘Gee Michael, I’m sorry I expected to be first up.’

            ‘No worries, Mary. I’m pleased in many ways but at this moment, are you allowed to start the coffee percolator?’ That smile. Those eyes.

            ‘I think I might manage that, Michael. How do you take your coffee?’

            ‘Firstly, it’s Mike. I haven’t been called Michael since I was a boy. Just plain old black please.’

Now, taking my coffee into the veranda overlooking the lake I sat down and reviewed my time in Boston. I suppose it was inevitable that my affair with a married colleague ending when his wife discovered our affair and Michael’s recent divorce made late night room changes in my brother’s house inevitable. Leastways that was how I looked at it.

            Now I’m drinking coffee on my own and thinking doesn’t anyone stay in one place anymore?

About the author 

Robin'd short stories have appeared in CafeLit both on line and in print on a regular basis. He has also entered various writing competitions but has yet to get past being short listed. 

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.)

Cruising with Cougars by Robin Wrigley, pink gin

 Giuseppe Fontana untied his bowtie and hung it carefully over the shoulder of his jacket on the cabin door and dropped back onto his bunk. It had been a long day and not one that he had particularly enjoyed which in all honesty was unusual.

            He allowed himself the luxury of falling asleep for a short nap. It was not something he liked to do otherwise the next thing he knew it would be morning and he would have slept in his clothes. Pepe as he was known since a small boy was very particular about clothes. Something many of the other stewards and staff were not. Particularly the British ones. As far as he knew he was the only one who didn’t wear a clip-on bowtie. He doubted if any of the others even knew how to tie a real one. He on the other hand having reached the level of senior Maître d throughout the ship had a very high standard to maintain.

            The moment his eyes closed he slipped into a very realistic dream about his daughter and her mother, his brother’s wife. It was a recurring dream that came all too often and he awoke instantly shaking as though he expected to see one or the other relations actually there at the foot of his bed.

            This dark secret that he has kept to himself for twenty years now has haunted him ever since she was born. Only Pepe and the girl’s mother shared this knowledge and has been the reason why he has spent his life at sea and single, flirting outrageously with rich women all looking for a romance on the oceans of the world.

            In spite of the disturbing content of the dream the half an hour’s cat nap was just what he needed, and he came to and jumped off the bed, finished undressing before cleaning his teeth and climbing into bed. Tomorrow is another day, possibly another dalliance.

            The following evening Pepe spotted Mrs. Clarke across the casual diner floor deep in conversation with two other ladies. In his usual fashion he walked across the room as though he was actually walking past their table, heading somewhere else and spotting the Mrs Clarke at the last minute. It worked perfectly as he stopped by their table and gave Mrs Clarke one of his best smiles and a slight bow.

            She stopped mid-sentence and returned his smile with interest. Maeve Clarke from Houston was an attractive brunette considerably younger than her dining companions. In her late fifties she was  unmarried and wealthy from her inheritance from the family engineering company in Houston. Her early love life had been complicated as a young wealthy woman of beauty, but now she was quite happy and fulfilled in the opulence her position afforded her. A husband or permanent partner would, in her mind mean halving what she wanted to do.

            ‘Good evening, ladies,’ Pepe spoke to the trio, but his eyes were intended for Maeve, and she knew it. ‘I trust your evening’s dining has lived up you expectations?’

            All three nodded in agreement and the elderly one, a Miss Passmore, even managed a small clap to endorse her happiness at being given the opportunity to express herself.

            ‘Thank you and just to advise you we will be passing through the Straits of Gibraltar later this evening before docking in my favourite port Casablanca. I’m quite sure you all saw that wonderful film of that name. I thought I would remind you of the Straits because it is a sight worth seeing if you can spare your beauty sleep which I’m quite sure everyone of you can do easily. Anyway, I will bid you Buona notte signorias.’

            Bowing slightly Pepe turned and left the ladies’ table and walked swiftly to other tables occupied and bade them good night calming one table who thought he was asking them to leave. Leaving the dining area, he went into the kitchen for a quick coffee with the head chef as was his habit. The head chef was French and Pepe always won him over by conversing with him in French. They were not always on the same trip, but it pleased both of them whenever they were. He didn’t stay long because he had his mind on other things like viewing the Straits of Gibraltar from the upper deck.

            But first he went to his cabin and removed his jacket and bowtie replacing it with a light cashmere sweater recently purchased on his last voyage. After a small number of ablutions, he smoothed down his hair and took his evening cigarette and lighter from a drawer and left the cabin.

            Reaching the upper deck as they were east bound, he walked around to the starboard side. Once there he leaned comfortably on the railing, turned his back to the sea for a moment and light his evening cigarette. It was his daily ritual and the first moment of real relaxation. Just as he turned to view the shore lights of Morocco his momentary peace was disturbed by a soft female voice.

            ‘Well Mister Fontana I never put you down as a smoker, I really didn’t.’ The voice belonged to Maeve Clarke as she approached the railing alongside Pepe.

            ‘Good evening, Mrs Clarke I’m not what you would call a real smoker as this is the only cigarette, I ration myself to. There was a time when I was but that is long behind me now. I stopped because I realised guests do not like to be served by a smoker – that’s all.’

            ‘Would you mind if I have a puff?’

            ‘Sorry but I only have this one cigarette.’ He brandished it towards her.

            ‘I realise that. It is that one I would like a taste of,’ she said reaching out and taking the cigarette from his hand and taking a deep inhalation before handing it back.

            Pepe was stunned but before he could put words to his amazement she exhaled and said. ‘That was so good Mr Fontana, I didn’t realise just how much I miss a smoking at moments like this, thank you. But before I go any further my name is Maeve, there is no Mr. Clarke.’

            Again, he was speechless. He simply received the cigarette back and for several moments was at a loss of what to do or say. He prided himself of being able to instinctively react to any situation, but this lady had put him totally on the back foot and he was at loss as to how to respond. The simple action of sharing a cigarette created a very special mutual feeling between them.

            Maeve broke the silence of the moment. ‘So, is there a Mrs. Fontana?’

            ‘Ah, no nor a Mister also,’ he laughed at his own embarrassment. Actually, it was an embarrassment back at his parent’s house where his sexual preferences were often discussed with his lack of neither wife nor children. If only they knew!

            Maeve placed a hand lightly on his forearm as she smiled in return both to break the silence and a sense of relief. ‘Thank you for sharing your cigarette. But I must leave you because in spite of your kind remarks earlier I really do need my beauty sleep. But before I bid you goodnight, I hope to see you in Casablanca in the morning?’

            With that she turned on her heel and walked away from Pepe who was still lost for words but took the last drag on his cigarette before flicking it into the night and watching its flight down into the water conscious of how careless and contrary to ship’s regulations that action was. That woman, that Maeve Clarke had been the most disturbing woman he had met since his sister-in-law had enticed him into her bed all those years ago.

            He walked once around the entire deck before returning to his cabin. Sleep did not come easily to Pepe Fontana that night.

            The next morning Pepe did not have any breakfast duty to perform and as the ship had docked during his restless night, he dressed in casual but smart summer clothes checked with the purser and left the ship into the hustle and bustle of Casablanca port. He waived away all the would be offers with the art of a professional, neither brusque nor timid. In many ways it was no worse than the scene in summer at the Amalfi resorts in his own country these days with so many foreign imports.

            He wasn’t precisely sure of what he was going to do but he had one project in mind: to buy a pair of camel skin slippers for his daughter, his young niece to the family. She was his brother’s only child, and he never made any attempt to discover the reason for that. In fact, he had never had a single private word with his sister-in-law since the day she quietly told him that he was the father of the child she was carrying.

            Having found the trader he knew had exactly what he was looking for he bought the slippers surprising the Moroccan seller that he paid the asking price with no attempt to barter. He put his purchase safely into his small backpack and continued down the alley fending off other traders in his usual affable way.

            Retracing his steps back to the port he found the small well-known restaurant with a balcony on the upper floor that gave him full view of the gangways of his ship. Fortunately, being a small ship, capable of docking in such a place there was only one such gangway to observe, the other was for staff and supplies. He ordered a coffee and sat back to wait totally unsure of what he would do if, and when he did spot Maeve.

            It took the order of another espresso before he saw her. She was dressed in a full white dress topped with a broad straw summer hat with a vivid red band that flowed over her shoulder and sunglasses. She looked absolutely stunning rather like pictures of Princess Grace of Monaco.

            Pepe’s mind flew back to his indiscretion with his brother’s wife and in an instant decided to do nothing. After all he was the prey. He continued watching Maeve as she reached the shoreline, turned, and headed in his direction.

 

About the author            

Robin short stories have appeared in CafeLit both on line and in print on a regular basis. He has also entered various writing competitions but has yet to get past being short listed. 

 

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.)

Milly and her Iridescent Pantyhose

by Robin Wrigley

pink gin

The first time I spoke to Milly was at the check-out counter at Sainsbury’s. I had seen her just about every day as she passed my house on her way to sit on the bench seat outside the village church, but until today the opportunity to speak had never arisen.

     The first time I saw her I nicknamed her ‘of iridescent panty hose’ as it was an Australian journalist’s description of Rudolf Nureyev’s appearance when he first performed in Sydney in the seventies.

     I learned her name was Milly simply by asking the fellow in the village newsagents who seemed to know everything about everybody including myself and I had only been in the village a matter of days.

     She was an elegant lady in her late seventies, always well turned out with much attention paid to her make-up and the different bright coloured stockings carefully colour coordinated

with her outfit.

     ‘Excuse me young man but I couldn’t help noticing that your shoelace was undone.’ The voice came directly from behind me. I turned to see Milly.

     ‘That is of course unless you had intended them to be undone as I understand it is a fashion with young people today,’ she continued.

     I thanked her and bent to tie my shoelace.

     ‘You live in Arnmouth don’t you? Just moved into the Ivy House I understand,’ she continued   before I had a chance to reply as I returned to standing.

     By this time the lady at the till had passed all my purchases through and asked me if I needed help with packing as I had so far not managed to put my few purchases in my bag. I got the impression she was more interested in Milly’s interrogation of me than serving me.

     I put my items into my bag, paid and turned to Milly.

     ‘Would you like a lift back to the village?’ I nearly added her name to the invitation but stopped short realising how improper that would be. ‘My car is in the car park and I am going straight back to the village.’

     ‘Thank you, that would be very kind and save me both the walk to the bus stop not to mention the exorbitant fare the bus company charges these days.’ This was said more to the cashier than me, who nodded approvingly. They then started a conversation as if between old friends, so I retired to a seat close by and waited for her.

     Milly and I walked slowly over to my car. I offered to carry her shopping, but she declined even though she struggled with a walking stick.

     ‘No that’s kind but I manage this quite well every Thursday by myself and prefer to do so even though my son does offer to do my shopping for me. Heavens only know time passes slowly enough as it is and if I don’t get on and do these things under my own steam I might as well pack up and move into the nursing home. Of course, that is what my son would like me to do but they’ll have to carry me there kicking and screaming before that happens, I can tell you.’ She allowed herself a brief smile.

     As I opened the passenger door for her, having been permitted to put her shopping bag into the boot, the first thing she said was, ‘This is rather a grand car, what do you do that allows you to go shopping in the daytime?’

     The drive home was short and pleasant during which time Milly managed to extract from me my life history and only stopped short from asking how much I earned and how come I lived on my own. At one point I felt she was going to ask if I was gay. About all I learned from her was that she had been a widow for ten years and had a son, an agricultural estate agent who lived in the next village.

It was quite extraordinary, from that simple conversation in a supermarket counter a friendship developed over the next five years until Milly passed away. She managed to avoid the threat of the nursing home. Her walking stick became her constant companion and I proved useful by offering and been finally accepted to giving her a lift in both directions to town on Thursdays.

     When I once inquired as to how she managed when I was away from time to time all she said was, ‘I managed it before you came Roger and I will manage when you leave, which of course you will.’

     She was right, of course as I did leave but it was eighteen months after she died. I attended her funeral as did most of the village. She was buried in the churchyard next to the seat where she sat dressed in her iridescent stockings on any day fine enough to do so.

     About a month after her death I received an official looking letter from her solicitor informing me Milly had named me in her will and that I should contact his office.

     She left me her walking stick and the instruction that I might need it one day if I ever walked further than my garage.

About the author 

Robin, a relative newcomer to short story writing, has spent the majority of his adult life as a land surveyor and later a country manager working in over twenty countries world-wide. The variety of the situations he has faced and the people he has met inspired him to create many of the stories he creates. His stories have been featured both on line and in print with CafeLit as well as two other short story collections. He is a member of the Wimborne Writers’ Group.

    

A Seven Letter Word

Robin Wrigley

a pink gin

‘You know I’m meeting Angela this morning darling?’ Jane was talking to her husband Harvey while applying lipstick with the aid of the lounge mirror and watching for his reaction from his armchair across the room.

     ‘Are you? Can’t say as I remember, not that it’s a problem.’ He looked up from his paper where he had been tackling his daily crossword with moderate success. His wife said that in his case crossword had a double meaning in that he invariably became irritable with whom-so-ever the compiler was, especially on Thursdays.

     ‘The trouble is you never do remember darling but I should be back by dinner time and I have done all the prep. So we will eat on time if that’s what bothering you.’ She finished applying the lipstick, turned side on to the mirror and smoothed the back of her recently dyed hair and then turned to smile at Harvey who was oblivious to this attempt at remote affection. He was still trying to answer a very simple clue that had appeared before he was sure, but he was damned if he could remember. It really was so frustrating when solutions kept buzzing around in his mind but defied retrieval. He was certain he knew the answer but it continued to elude him, ‘A summer bird in adverse weather conditions’ – seven letters.

     ‘Right I’m off, you’ll be able to find something suitable for a sandwich in the fridge darling; see you later.’ She blew him a kiss that landed in a similar place to the smile earlier as he continued to do battle with the crossword.

     ‘Yep, okay say hello to Angela from me,’ but his words simply hit the inside of the front door as Jane had already closed it behind her and was fishing for the remote control for the garage door in her handbag.

     As the crosswords in Harvey’s life went, this wasn’t too bad and by a quarter to twelve he had finished it all except for two connecting words; one up and one down and if nothing else he knew when he was stumped. He prided himself at not being a quitter but enough was enough and once he left it alone the answer would come to him later in the day. It nearly always did.

     He continued reading the rest of his newspaper and the phone rang. He ignored it knowing it would either be for Jane or some charlatan from the sub-continent wanting him to inadvertently divulge information that might lead to his financial disadvantage while pretending to help him with a non-existent computer virus. Whoever it was they didn’t leave a message on the answering machine so he felt vindicated. 

     Strange really that Jane had managed to get him to ignore phone calls. Back in his working life he wouldn’t dream of ignoring a call even though there were times when he wished he had. His decision was influenced by the fact that so many of his calls to Jane when he was overseas went unanswered and she admitted she was in at the time but thought it was probably a ‘cold caller’.

     There was a period towards the latter part of his working life when overseas trips became more frequent and lasted longer that the unanswered phone calls played on his mind in spite of Jane’s explanation. That and the fact that he sensed they were growing apart and didn’t share the same likes and dislikes anymore. He often felt that they would have had more in common if they had had children but they didn’t and somehow neither of them was able to discuss this fact.

     Many a time he mulled it over in his mind to bring it into a conversation in their early married life; but every time he lacked the courage fearing that it was a taboo subject. He was afraid that she would interpret the lack as her fault when in actual fact it had never been established whose fault it was as they had never sought medical advice. 

     Having finished with the paper and somewhat at a loss as how he should spend the rest of the day he phoned his friend Patrick to see if he fancied a pint and a sandwich. His call went unanswered so he decided to go out anyway. It was definitely preferable to sitting around the house. Moreover he decided to treat himself to the new lunchtime special they were advertising in the hotel in town. At least the prospect of dining alone never bothered him greatly as he had plenty of experience in doing so. The prospect of the visit into town began to please him so he decided to make an effort in his attire by changing his trousers for a smart pair of silver grey corduroys and putting on a tie, something he rarely did in the daytime since retiring.

     The journey into town took a little longer than normal as he indulged himself further by going the pretty way. He parked in the central car park and stopped off on the walk to the hotel and bought a magazine in the newsagents off the square. It was just a current affairs weekly that would compensate for the lack of conversation during his lunch. In the past he would eliminate the silence at meal times alone by reading novels. He was particularly fond of spy stories especially those written by Le Carré.  But since retiring he found he had lost the appetite to tackle anything of length even though he now had plenty of time to do so. He put it down to his reading a daily newspaper, struggling with crosswords, listening to the radio and of course the biggest waster of all time, television. He often wondered to himself where the time disappeared to.

     Entering the hotel he was just about to turn into the dining room when, glancing along the corridor leading into the bar, he saw Patrick engaged in conversation. The person he was talking to was obscured by the narrowness of the corridor so he decided he would at least go and say hello. As he walked further along the corridor the legs and dress of Patrick’s guest came into view just before he announced his arrival.

     An icy chill ran through his body as he recognised who it was and he turned around, quickly walking away he turned into the lobby and headed for the restrooms. He was in a blind panic as he shoved open the swing door failing to see the small yellow sandwich-board warning that the floor was wet. His feet went from under him, his only thought before his head cracked on the porcelain washbasin was the one word across he had not finished. Cuckold.

     At a little after six o’clock Jane entered the house and called out. ‘I’ve left the car in the driveway darling as I might go out early tomorrow.’ There was no answer and just as she noticed how strange it was that Harvey had not put any lights on, she saw the little red light blinking on the answering machine.