50 Short Stories Read online

  The largest technical engineering company in the county offered Ted a design apprenticeship on the strength of his idea of the flying car. Of course he accepted the offer.

  During an informal discussion that followed his interview, he was asked how his technology worked.

  His brief answer,

  “Perfectly.”

  One of the interviewers then asked,

  “Please let us into the secret. If your technology was perfect as you say, pray tell us what went wrong?”

  “It’s so silly.” replied Ted.

  “I forgot to check the tank.

  Aunt Maud’s car ran out of petrol on take off.”

  Dodgydot

  Can you remember the moment with your beloved when you realized that ‘this is it?’

  I can even remember the one word that answered that question for me.

  It’s a long story, so unbelievable, yet so true.

  Way back in the last century, there was a time when I was working late.

  Numbers were bouncing back and forth between my eyes and the computer screen like tennis balls. Figures just wouldn’t add up. The clock on my desk said nine fifty. I didn’t need the little red dot to indicate that it was p.m.

  I should have gone home hours ago, but our financial year ended at Easter, and I wanted everything to be perfect well before then. My first wife deserted me claiming that I was a workaholic, while Mum says it is the Hancock blood in my veins.

  What I really needed was a holiday, or at least a short break away from it all. However, that was not possible.

  A very expensive divorce had nearly bankrupted me, and even worse, had taken Edward Hancock and Sons to the brink of disaster.

  When I detected a tear run down my cheek, a voice in my head said,

  “Pull yourself together man, get a night’s sleep then come back and do it in the morning.”

  Saturday working had been abandoned at Hancock’s since my granddad’s time, but common sense prevailed and I began to shut the computer down.

  As I was putting my coat on I heard the familiar whistle and the a message appeared on the screen

  YOU HAVE E-MAIL.

  At that time of night, it must be important. I had to open up again to read it.

  Addressed to me personally, it read,

  Hi there good friend,

  DO you need a break?

  IS your passport up to date?

  WOULD you like a holiday absolutely free?

  If you tick all the boxes, e-mail me,

  dodgydot@mayfair dot com.

  I deleted it before shutting the computer down again. So much for the new filter that I bought to eliminate junk mail. Then as I drove home I wondered, was it a scam? Yes, it must be. But there was just something. Perhaps I was a bit slow.

  I couldn’t quite put my finger on it but there was an element of doubt somewhere.

  For a moment I wondered if Maisie, my ex was playing tricks on me.

  I soon discounted that notion, she was a cow, but even she wouldn’t stoop so low.

  Next morning when I opened the computer up, the first thing that I did was to look at deleted items. That one e-mail in particular. I read it again.

  Even then, I was old enough and intelligent enough to know that absolutely nothing in this world is free.

  Though convinced that it was a scam, I thought,

  ‘What the hell, risk it . . . . . .? For free’

  That was it. My moment of madness was over.

  I then got on with the work in hand and the previous night’s monumental task was completed in a very short space of time.

  Monday morning brought another e-mail from dodgydot.

  Hi there,

  You have seen sense. Your holiday is booked. Four days at Easter.

  No need to lose time from work either. Just go to the airport on Thursday afternoon and report to the VIP lounge by five o clock...

  You will fly to Vienna, Ski, Friday, Saturday and Sunday, then, you travel back to Paris on the Orient Express on Monday. And YES! It is all free.

  Best wishes

  dodgydot.

  p.s. By the way, the ticket is for two persons.

  If ever there was a cruel wind-up that was it. But I still had a feeling that something was about to happen. I spent the next ten minutes looking through the window down into the workshops.

  Instead of seeing dozens of operatives working noisy machines, all that I could see were snow-capped mountains with dozens of skiers travelling up and down the piste.

  The next worry, if indeed it was true; who could I take with me?

  As far as I knew, the eldest daughter was still in Canada and the twins each had a husband and brood of kids to look after.

  I had nobody.

  Then Paula Partridge, my PA, called in with the post. Good old Paula, with her lightly freckled face and cute snub nose. As always she was immaculately dressed. That day, she was wearing a dark blue two piece suit; her fair hair pinned tightly to her scalp and held with two plastic combs.

  Fifteen years an army officer and didn’t everyone know it.

  The men on the shop floor called her the fiery icicle, yet she was the best employee that the firm ever had. By far.

  I had just finished dealing with the post when Paula came in again.

  “I’m sorry sir; your ten o clock appointment has just been on the telephone. Yes, he’s cancelled. Surprise…surprise.

  He blames heavy traffic on the M1.”

  That suited me fine. He only wanted to renegotiate his contract; obviously, it would not be in my favour.

  As Paula was leaving my office I called her back.

  “Hey Paula, how do you fancy a skiing break at Easter? Free.”

  “I wish” she replied. “Luck like that never comes my way.”

  “If I invited you, then at the last minute I found that the trip was off, how would you react?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t break down in tears. That’s certain.

  You’d probably hear some words that I haven’t used since I was in the army; then I’d tell you that you were a flaming idiot to fall for a silly trick . . . but what the heck? It’s worth a try.”

  Then I showed her dodgydot’s e-mail.

  Who could imagine a more unlikely couple, The Icicle and me?

  With much apprehension I got Ernie, the firms Chauffeur to take us to the airport. We duly arrived at the VIP lounge where all was revealed.

  We were faced with my three daughters, two with husbands, and all five of my grandchildren. From what I could gather, the twins had jointly had a sizable win on the lottery and with a bit of help from someone else, had thought up the elaborate scheme to get me away for a break.

  Regrettably I slept through most of the flight, and then later, conversation was rather limited as I concentrated on the road. I had to drive through a blizzard during most of the hour and a half’s drive from Vienna airport to Semmering-Hirschenkogel.

  It was well past bedtime when we finally located our chalet which, we discovered, was sparsely furnished with just the bare essentials, two bedside lockers, a rail for coat hangers, and twin beds. There were two internal doors, a red one revealing a small galley kitchen whilst a blue one opened into an en-suite shower room and toilet.

  After a quick cup of hot chocolate, we literally fell into bed absolutely shattered. Paula was asleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow.

  There was no doubt about one thing; it was definitely going to remain twin beds.

  All through Friday, Saturday and Sunday we had fabulous skiing. The conditions were perfect. Paula and I got closer and closer and I did begin to wonder what might develop.

  Actually, we got on more like brother and sister than Managing Director and PA.

  After a late lunch on the Sunday, we handed back the hired equipment then Paula went for a sauna, and I had a dip in the resort’s swimming pool.

  When Paula returned to the chalet, I saw that instead of fastening her hair tig
htly to her head, she had brushed it out and it dangled in long tresses over her shoulders. Instead of seeing the Icicle, who I had known for however many years, I was faced with a dishy young blonde.

  I felt proud to be with her as we sat in the bar enjoying our final meal.

  Even her steel blue piercing eyes looked romantic.

  It was later than I planned when we finally turned in. Again, Paula was asleep within seconds, her long blonde hair a striking contrast to the bright red duvet. As I lay in bed half-asleep, much to my delight, the distance between the two beds gradually seemed to get narrower and narrower.

  Sadly, when I woke up, that gap hadn’t altered one little bit.

  That was reality.

  On Easter Monday, we had a very early start. Three thirty on a bank holiday morning wasn’t usually in my bible. Once again, there was an hour and half’s drive to return the hire car, then a short taxi ride before boarding the Orient Express headed for Paris.

  Everything that I had heard and read about that train was true. It would take far too long to describe the absolute height of luxury.

  We caught up with a bit of sleep before going for a first class breakfast.

  The delights on the train, then, as dawn was breaking, the beautiful scenery made such a romantic setting as we sped along past snow covered mountains, especially when dotted with verdant pastures on the lower slopes.

  Paula still had her tresses hanging freely. Often my attention was with her rather than the scenery.

  After a particularly delightful meal we entered one of the many long tunnels. To put it mildly, the lighting was dim.

  I looked at Paula, took hold of her hand and smiled,

  “Isn’t this the height of romance?”

  We both gradually got closer to each other. Then, as I was looking wishfully at her ringless fingers, she extracted a gold pen from my jacket pocket.

  “I’ve been thinking,” She said, “We could streamline the factory with very little expense.”

  She doodled many figures on the back of the menu.

  Admittedly she had some brilliant ideas; however they were not the romantic ones that I had in mind.

  An almost perfect weekend and I didn’t even get a kiss.

  By the time we reached Paris I was rather depressed and back in my workaholic mode. Nineteen hours on a train is a long time when your spirits are broken. Then it was a quick flight home. It was way after midnight when we landed. Almost the first person that we saw as we reached the arrivals hall was Ernie, the chauffeur. In his usual cocky manner he called,

  “Evening boss. Your place or hers?”

  I didn’t have chance to speak, Paula was so quick with her answer,

  “Mine” she said with such force.

  One word and I twigged what she meant. Everybody around knew,

  Major Partridge had spoken.

  She added,

  “And don’t slow down for the bloody roundabouts.”

  By this time we were holding hands and Paula’s attitude had completely changed. I got that long awaited kiss even before we got into the car.

  I didn’t go to work on the Tuesday. In fact, I think that we only emerged from the bedroom for tea and biscuits.

  Losing a day’s work however, meant that Wednesday was a very busy and long day. I even broke my golden rule and took some work home with me to do in the evening.

  Using Paula’s laptop after tea, I finally got the week’s work up to date.

  With just a final twiddle before shutting down the laptop I happened to hit the e-mail tab on ‘sent items’. Two were signed . . . dodgydot.

  I had always felt that there was something not quite right, but couldn’t quite put my finger on it, now I knew.

  Wasn’t she a crafty young so and so?

  I remember thinking to myself at the time,

  ‘Just wait till I get her upstairs’.

  Slow Down.

  It’s so many years now since my accident. Some details are rather hazy whilst others are as clear as if it was yesterday.

  After I woke up in hospital, I learned three things, though I’m not quite sure in which order. My right leg had been reconstructed with more metal than a construction kit, my left leg had been amputated, and my fiancé terminated our engagement.

  You can imagine, I wasn’t the happiest of people. Of course some tactful git decided to tell me quite bluntly that I would never be able to walk again. I had enough sense to realise that already, but when put into words it made me more determined to prove him wrong.

  After nine weeks physiotherapy I could stand with the aid of crutches and after another three I could take about ten faltering steps. And that was it. Neither cussed determination, stupidity or anything else would make any difference. That was my limit and I was brassed off. I can never apologise enough, but at the time I must have been an absolute pain to everybody.

  Eventually, it was decided that I could go to Saint Wilfred’s a convalescent home on the Isle of Wight.

  I didn’t want to go, then I overheard a nurse telling someone that it was near Cowes. That was enough.

  I was going nowhere near a farm I hated cows. Gardens yes, but not farms. After my next verbal outburst, that same nurse explained to me that Cowes was a town on the coast so I calmed down a bit.

  I was taken in an ambulance with the windows frosted half way up. Just before we reached our destination I saw a sign Parkhurst Prison ½ a mile. That would suit me fine, I might as well be locked up for life, I was finished.

  It wasn’t like that however. I was met by a charming uniformed lady. She was quite a bit older than I was, but still attractive and so pleasant.

  Getting me out of the ambulance wasn’t a five minute job but with the experienced help, it was quite painless. The Ambulance driver called,

  “See you soon matron” and was gone.

  So she was the matron was she.

  But when I addressed her as matron she quickly told me,

  “There is no need to be so formal, just call me Mary. We are all friends here. Are you Anthony, Tony or what?”

  I gave her name, rank and serial number then added,

  “It’s Tony to my friends.”

  Next morning I had my best surprise of all. It was occupational therapy, something that I was not looking forward to.

  Probably basket weaving like I had had in hospital. I never wanted to see another basket as long as I lived.

  I was wrong. I was separated from my new found friends and taken to a little courtyard outside the gym. Mary met me there with a brand new electric scooter.

  “This will be your legs from now on so look after it. Are you up for your first driving lesson?”

  I was. Round and round that courtyard, out on the drive, in and out of cones till I could do it with my eyes shut.

  She then showed me the controls for travelling further afield.

  “Be very careful, high speed forward will take you at about eight miles an hour, you have been warned.”

  EIGHT MILES AN HOUR. Now, I ask you,

  They reckon that my motor bike was doing one hundred and twenty eight miles an hour on the autobahn when that German lorry ran into me.

  After a few days practicing on my scooter I was told that I could go anywhere that I wanted provided that I did no more than twenty miles altogether in one day, as that was the range of the batteries.

  “Where can I go that is interesting?” I asked.

  “You say that you trained as a landscape gardener so why not have a look at the gardens at Osborn House, the former home of Queen Victoria.”

  When I agreed that it was a good idea, Mary rang and asked if it would be alright for me to visit on my scooter. The answer was favourable. In fact, I was to be given a guided tour of the gardens by the head gardener.

  I couldn’t have wished for more. And I wasn’t disappointed. I spent one of the best mornings of my life. Then the head gardener took me to lunch with the rest of his staff. Afterwards he asked,
r />   “Fancy a look round the house?” I did, but was dubious about entering the palatial residence on my scooter. No problem. One of the guides was given the task of accompanying me on a tour of the house.

  Once again everything went well. Fair enough there were one or two rooms that I couldn’t go into because of the layout, but I was happy enough with that. That is until I tried to enter one lounge a bit too quickly. Bash against the door post. Back up and try again, crash into a china cabinet directly behind me.

  “Don’t worry, no harm done” I was told, though I could tell by the expression on the faces of people around that I must have done irreparable damage to something.

  I’m sure that a previous resident of the property would not be amused.

  I was again reassured that everything was fine and that I would be welcome to visit again anytime.

  I was starting my journey home when the lodge keeper hailed me. “I have just had a phone call from Mary at Saint Wilfred’s. Would you please stop at the supermarket on your way home and pick up one or two things for suppertime.”

  I was only too pleased to oblige. At least it was another chance to show my independence with my new possession.

  My visit to the supermarket would have been fine if it hadn’t been for the gorgeous young lady who was reaching a tin of baked beans from the top of a display. She was petite, blonde, pretty face, nice pair of tits and she was dressed immaculately.

  And her left hand was free of rings

  O..hh yes, I thought, forgetting my disability for a minute.

  I wasn’t so excited when she walked across the aisle and placed her beans in the bag on the back of a baby’s push chair.

  So, she had baggage. My devastation was short lived.

  So what. I realized that I wasn’t exactly God’s gift anymore.

  I was so busy gawping at her that I collided with a large display of Easter eggs which was taking up half of the aisle. Eggs, boxes and tins came crashing and smashing around me making a noise reminiscent of a steel band.