50 Short Stories Page 3

  Then the manageress approached.

  If you could imagine a female rugby player in her fifties, wearing typical national health glasses and trained to scowl, then you’d get the picture.

  I felt I wasn’t welcome and would have beaten a hasty retreat but my way was obstructed by the debris that I had created.

  The pretty lass who I had been admiring, tried to console me and also calmed down misery guts the manageress.

  She was an angel that day.

  In fact she still is. I know because I married her a year after the supermarket incident.

  A Nice cup of Tea.

  Life has its ups and downs. My downs usually come at the weekend and at first it seemed as though last week was going to be no exception.

  After yet another shouting match, my soon to be ex slammed the front door in my face. As I turned dejectedly to walk away, the door reopened and my mother in law called me back.

  I must add, at that time, my opinion of the mother in law was roughly on a par with her opinion of me, and that is pretty low.

  “Michael,” she began, “the kids are crying for you, come back in and talk. Have a nice cup of tea.”

  Now what difference a cup of tea would make, I have no idea but I accept that to some people it is the panacea of life and the cure to all ills.

  It just so happens that I work in a tea factory, yet I have no such faith.

  However, desperate to see my children again, and even more so, desirous of peace in our time, I went inside with her.

  John was sitting on the stairs crying whilst Josie had gone to the bathroom, her usual retreat in times of stress. My ex was sitting at the dining room table as if nothing had happened, yet the frosty look on her face suggested that she would be happier if I was dead.

  Mother in law addressed her;

  “Put th’ kettle on Ang.”

  That indicated that she wanted me on my own.

  “Mike, I have observed and learned a lot since we last met. Maybe I have misjudged you: possibly; my daughter is mainly to blame for the precarious state of your marriage. Call it interfering if you wish but I believe that I can help. I want to see a happy home for the children’s sake. At least we all think the world of them.”

  “You are not quite right there you know,” I added.

  “You and I idolise the two that I fathered but Angie only has eyes for that yapping snapping half-grown mutt in the basket down there.”

  Clarice, the snapping poodle, wasn’t a pet, it was an obsession.

  I must emphasise that Angela is one of those people who regard animals, birds and reptiles as being far superior to all humans:-- except herself that is.

  Conversation ended abruptly when Angela entered with three mugs of steaming hot tea on a tray. I could have probably sorted out world wars one and two, maybe Afghanistan as well by the time it was cool enough to drink.

  Whether we could reason with Angie was a different matter.

  Mother in law took the role of chairman.

  “Angela, please just tell us in a civil manner, why you don’t want Mike to see his children today.”

  “Because of where he intended taking them. I’m not having my children upset by being forced to gawp at distressed animals vainly trying to escape from their tiny cages. That’s his sad idea of a day out not mine.”

  “Were you planning to take the kids to the Zoo Mike? Not that I regard Zoos in the same way as Angela”

  “Indeed. Whether I agree or not, Angela’s feelings have to be considered. I definitely would not clash directly with her wishes. I am hoping to take them to the safari park at Bromcaster.

  No distressed animals, no cages, just a pleasant and interesting educational day out that they will remember for a long time.”

  “Very commendable,” mother in law interrupted.

  Angela, unable to accept defeat gracefully, stormed,

  “We all know Mike’s idea of a day to be remembered for a long time. John and Josie will never forget Boxing Day last year when he stooped to the lowest of the low and took them fox hunting of all things.

  Thinking what to say next, I took a sip of my tea which was barely down to drinking temperature by this time.

  “As usual, you took that outing completely out of context.

  We had never intended going there at all.

  However when I saw the huntsmen assembled on the village green having the stirrup cup, I delayed my journey long enough to let the children see a spectacle that they will probably never have the chance to see again. Don’t forget, the hunting ban was due to take effect very soon afterwards. It was interesting and educational. We continued on our journey before the hounds left the green.

  To see the picture that John drew and painted afterwards showed how he was impressed with the scene. It took something like that to draw out his marvelous artistic talent.”

  “I did see that damn picture and burned it straight away. It was obscene. John still cries when hunting is mentioned.

  Again mother in law intervened.

  “If you burned his picture, ever likely John gets upset. I would as well.”

  As she poured some of her tea into the saucer, she shook me by saying,

  “I think it would make a very nice day out at the safari park,

  I’d like to come with you if I may.

  That is what happened. We had another cup of tea then went to the safari park leaving Angela sulking at home.

  Mother in law’s quip of the day,

  “Did you notice that Angela never drank any of her tea?

  Perhaps that is why she is so miserable.

  The story isn’t quite over yet. We had a fabulous day at the safari park. I bought Josie a soft toy which she straight away called Effalump. With John, being more practical, I got him a sketchbook and packet of coloured pencils. Both children soon found their gifts an asset as we had a very slow journey home due to heavy traffic. John’s drawings of animals from memory were worthy of any adult competition. I expected trouble when we got home as it was well past the children’s bedtime. It didn’t happen that way. I was just about to drive away when Angie shouted,

  “Hang on a minute Mike; come in for a cup of tea before you go.” The tea was made in a teapot and served in cups and saucers. She had even laid out the best china, indeed. Whilst mother in law put the rebels to bed Angie and I talked. . and talked. In the end, I stayed the night and we agreed to give our marriage another chance. Oh the magic of a nice cup of tea.

  A Rose By Any Other Name

  There is one thing that I will never do. That is, buy flowers for a woman. I say this without any bitterness, rather from a disappointing experience.

  It started when my boss, Ernie Washington decided to stand for Parliament. I hadn’t the slightest interest in politics, never did have. Ernie thought that as his second in command I ought to attend his adoption meeting. He knew that my political views differed from his like north and south poles. But,

  “It is your duty,” he said.

  I don’t know about duty, but the very fact that Ernie was shacked up with my ex, I reckoned that he needed a bit of sympathy.

  So reluctantly, I went to the Guildhall to his blasted meeting.

  I was bored stiff and would have left early, but I was fascinated by some bigwig who had come down from party headquarters to support him. Not only did she talk a bit of sense, she was a raving beauty. Slim, blonde, petite, even her clothes were immaculate. And she was a Miss. Miss Telly Watson, single and unattached. Apparently she had been christened Matilda, which was soon reduced to Tilly.

  Tilly changed to Telly when she started to dabble in politics and she wanted to draw attention to herself. ~~~~ I digress.

  I stayed till the end of the meeting solely to keep feasting my eyes on Miss Telly. I even addressed questions to her when given the opportunity, and possibly misread the smile that she gave as she answered.

  I became so stupidly besotted with that woman that when I got home, I studied her
website and charted where her forthcoming appearances would be. Next Wednesday she would be speaking in Lower Greystonecliff, a mere thirty miles away.

  If only they hadn’t taken my driving licence away when I smashed the firm’s van into a bridge. ( I wasn’t that drunk either.) But never mind. I checked, and discovered that by using bus and train, followed by a longish walk, I could get to Greystonecliff straight from work. And make it in time.

  I made a supreme effort, ~~~ and failed. By the time that I got there Telly had made her speech and gone on to speak somewhere else. ~~~~~ Damn Damn Damn.

  Three days later, I had another chance. Telly was due to speak at Tomorrow Heath. Now that is only four miles from the Burton Arms where our darts team were playing. Dressed in my Sunday best I scrounged a lift to the Burton and started to walk.

  Then the rain came.

  But just to see a dishy bird like Telly, what’s a bit of rain.

  However, when the thunder and lightening raged, I had to shelter in a barn. Then I missed the timing and had to turn round and head back towards the Burton without even getting to Tomorrow Heath. Everything was against me.

  Next time I made sure. A taxi was expensive but at least it was reliable. Add to the cost of the taxi the most expensive red rose that I could buy, in a fancy gold coloured tube, and you get the idea of how keen I was. I got to the meeting on time. Listened to all the speeches, never took my eyes of Miss Telly, ~~ and waited.

  At the end of the evening I was preparing to make my move when the local mayor presented her with the most fabulous bunch of flowers. After all my efforts, how would she take to my single rose?

  I never found out. Just after she had been presented with her bouquet I saw her turn to her agent and whisper

  “I bloody Hate Roses”.

  Everything comes to she who waits.

  If the last straw broke the camel’s back, Lady Annabelle certainly broke my spirit. And many a time, even my will to live.

  For almost seventeen years I slaved for that evil witch without a word of appreciation.

  Lady Annabelle Hartley was a First World War widow, who, though literally rolling in money, was so mean that it was unbelievable.

  I went into service when I was thirteen.

  Fourteen was the usual age for leaving school but, because

  Lady A. wanted another young slave girl, strings were pulled and I went to live in the Manor House. I cried bitterly on my last day at school and Miss. Rigby my headmistress was very sympathetic but said that her hands were tied.

  Lady A. was Madam Chairman of the school governors.

  Miss Rigby did suggest that I might like to go back to school on my half day off each fortnight. My reading and writing were so good.

  “It just needs a bit of polishing,” she told me.

  Lady A was furious when she heard about that.

  “You learn reading and writing and you’ll be getting ideas above your station young girl.” And she made sure that I didn’t get a half day at all for the first six months. I was the lowest of the low, cleaning fire grates and preparing vegetables and of course endless scrubbing floors.

  After about three years I was just like a zombie, bed, work and nothing else. Nothing to feed my mind. Then lady A. Inherited her uncle’s motor car. That meant having a chauffeur, Bert He and I hit it off from the start. I helped him with his reading and he taught me to drive. For a while life was bliss. But all good things come to an end.

  Lady A. Found out and immediately fired Bert on the spot.

  “You’ll have to drive me now” she told me.

  I did, only to find out that taking her shopping was merely added to all my other duties.

  When she discovered just how good my reading and writing skills were, I also had to help in the office and eventually became a proficient typist.

  Because she was such a tyrant, I decided that I had had enough. More than enough. The trouble was, every time that I tried to get another job I failed.

  Each time, as soon as a possible employer contacted her for a reference, the bitch blocked my move.

  The years passed by, almost blending into one another. Then came the war. Cook died and Lady A. proudly told me that I would be expected to cook as well. I’d had more than enough.

  I know that I have said it before but this time I really meant it. This time, come hell or high water, I was off.

  When it happened, . .was quite unpredictable.

  I was in town, waiting outside a ladies outfitters for madam when in a neighbouring shop I saw a big advert.

  Join the Women’s Land Army.

  Why not. If I wasn’t too old at twenty nine, I was away.

  And it happened, as quickly as that. I signed up there and then and was ordered to report to the same premises at five thirty the following Saturday.

  I packed all my meagre belongings during the week and took great satisfaction in keeping the news from her ladyship till Saturday lunchtime.

  “You selfish little runt, Who do you think is going to look after me in my hour of need?” My reply, “Some other mug”

  She pretended to faint, something that she always did when things didn’t suit her. I was so keen to get away that I was nearly an hour early reporting for duty. Even at that I wasn’t the first. The young ladies who were already there seemed a pleasant group. We were loaded into the back of an army lorry and taken to an old stately home that was to be our hostel and training centre. The six weeks training was hard work but good fun and surprise surprise, I passed out as the best recruit.

  My elation was to be short lived. Of all the agricultural establishments in the country, where did I have to be sent?

  Lady Annabelle Hartley’s Home Farm. I tried to get my posting changed without success, Lady A’s need was classed as urgent.

  One didn’t question orders, there was a war on.

  I’m certain that the old cow was instrumental in my posting, and I don’t mean the Dairy Shorthorn that I learned hand milking on.

  Once back, I soon learned many things about my lady that didn’t surprise me at all. None of her farm staff were paid the minimum agricultural wage, but let anyone voice an opinion and they would receive the usual threat.

  “Shut up or you will be homeless and jobless; I will have your furniture in the lane before nightfall.” She no longer had the same hold over me, yet was even more horrible than when I lived in the big house. Animals went short of food because of her meanness.

  That distressed me. Then, when twin calves died because she was too mean to send for the vet, I decided yet again that I’d had enough. On my day off I retraced my journey to the hostel and spoke with my Commander.

  “Can you type?” she asked. When I told her that I could she motioned me into another room and asked me to type out a full report about the situation, omitting nothing. My report was shown to another visiting commander who gave me a bit of an interrogation.

  “So - you can type, you can drive and you passed out as best recruit, correct?” “Yes Ma’am”

  “Then, you’re not going back there. I have another job for you.

  As of now, you are an officer, reporting directly to the War Agricultural Executive Committee. We are known universally as the War Ag. Your job will be to visit farms in the county who are not maximising the use of land for food production.”

  My first call was to Lady A. This time, I was in charge. She didn’t like it but I made her correct every thing that was wrong

  Everything. OH, for the first time in my life,. .

  I did enjoy my work. Justice at last.

  No Monkey Business .

  There was a gale blowing into my face and it was raining heavily as I trudged up our Mary’s long drive. But that was nothing to the tears that were streaming down my cheeks.

  Then the wait seemed interminable as I pounded on the front door. The door had barely opened when I pleaded,

  “Mary, can I please stay with you for a few days, I’m homeless.”

&nbs
p; “What do you mean homeless? You’ve lived up at the Manor for thirty years.”

  “I know” I sobbed “But not any more. I’ve left, finished, resigned.

  Gone for ever.”

  Mary snapped.

  “I can’t understand why, it was only last week that Lord Ashby was singing your praises. ‘Never in the history of Ashby Manor, has there been a better housekeeper’ he said. ‘Thirty years and never once a cause to criticize, that record can never be bettered’. He meant it too.

  “Well, I’m telling you, I have walked away from there for ever.

  “There must be something seriously wrong then.” She said. “Tell me more.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Our Mary should have been a detective. She kept up the barrage of questions relentlessly. After so long, I caved in.

  “It was that lad again, young Rupert.”

  “Oh the wayward sixteen year old, what has he been up to this time?”

  “Well,” I began, “He came home from boarding school for the weekend just before half term. While he was home, the young devil got into my pantry and pinched six jars of bottled fruit and two jars of raspberry jam.”

  “That can’t be that serious.” Mary didn’t seem to be very sympathetic.

  “Maybe not, on its own but he replaced the jars with jars full of tadpoles. In fact I think that he had thrown the fruit away and used my own jars again. In fact, I’m certain of it.”

  “What did you do about it?”

  “Nothing. Lord Ashby is away and if I told her ladyship certainly wouldn’t believe me. She thinks her little darling can do no wrong.

  “Maybe not but surely, it still isn’t enough to quit your job over.”

  “Perhaps not but there’s more. Lots more.”