Appointment with Theft (A short story.)

“Are you having a coronary?”

            Small pieces of Albert’s scone flew over the table cloth.

“What, dear?” Albert spluttered, dabbing at the spewed crumbs with his napkin whilst reluctantly looking away from the buxom young lady at the adjoining table.

“Your eyes are bulging.”

            “Are they? But there’s nothing wrong with me. I was just thinking about…strawberries.”

“Strawberries?”

“Yes…this is fine strawberry jam indeed. The best I’ve ever had!”

Martha sighed. Albert was so predictable. He could home in like a pigeon on any pair of breasts over a 36c. She’d never quite forgiven him for that moment at Brighton beach in 1965 when, after a whole day drooling like a rabid dog over Doris Fleming’s bosom, Doris had slapped him across the choppers.

Albert’s obsession was humiliating, but at least it allowed Martha to focus on her own projects. Currently, her interest was solving mysteries. Detective work was very rewarding and she was becoming quite skilled at it. She’d already returned several lost gloves, found a stray poodle and reported several incidents of suspicious looking cars. She’d even witnessed Doris shoplifting at the chemists and, perhaps, taken rather too much delight in getting her arrested.

It was important for detectives to look innocuous, thought Martha. However, she was simply not going to wear a silly tweed hat like Miss Marple. Her grey beret was infinitely better. She pulled it down further; it looked rather fetching with her matching grey mackintosh. She could almost be a secret agent.

“Are you having a stroke, Martha?”

“Pardon?”

“You’re pulling some very strange faces. You keep raising one eyebrow and twitching your mouth.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Albert! I was just thinking…what a lovely day it is for our anniversary coach trip!”

“Really?”

“Yes…and you’re right, this jam is delicious. It must be made homemade. It’s as good as Lucy Avery’s preserve which won first prize at the WI in 1974.”

“Ah…Lucy. It’s twenty years since she passed on. Damn fine woman. Excellent strawberries…I mean strawberry jam.”

Martha gazed over the restaurant veranda at the nearby park and surroundings whilst smiling at yet another of Albert’s verbal faux pas. He’d never make a secret agent. She could imagine him being interrogated like Dustin Hoffman in Marathon Man. He’d submit at the merest mention of dental floss let alone a drill:

Oh God, not the floss. Anything but the floss! I’ll tell you everything. My name is Albert. I have a wife, three children, seven grandchildren, two goldfish and I like women’s breasts… and underwear…

“Look over there!”

“What?” Martha coloured. She’d been so busy fantasising she’d forgotten to be observant. All the best detectives were observant.

“There’s a youth climbing through that factory window!”

“Oh yes! I see him. Let’s go down and see what he’s up to!”

“Don’t be silly, dear. Let’s call the police.”

Albert emptied his pockets looking for his phone: wallet, handkerchief, indigestion tablets, penknife, a bottle of pills, an old tobacco tin containing his Fisherman’s Friends, the new compact camera the boys had bought for their anniversary and which he had no idea how to use…but no phone. Where was it? Maybe he’d left it…

“Oh stop wasting time Albert! I’ve got my phone so let’s get down there. We can get a proper description.”

“I’m not going. It’s police work. You’re just obsessed with spying.”

“I’m not!”

“You are. Every bloody night it’s Agatha Christie or Murder, She Wrote. If I have to see Angela Lansbury feigning surprise one more time I’m going to top myself. And stop dressing like Miss Marple!”

“I don’t dress like Miss Marple! And I’m not spying, I’m merely observing.”

“So that’s what you call peeping between curtains and looking through keyholes.”

“I don’t!”

“Oh yes you do.”

“I don’t! Anyway, how dare you ridicule me when for the last forty years I’ve put up with you eyeing every pair of breasts within a ten mile radius!”

“I don’t!”

“Oh yes you do.”

“I don’t!”

“You do! And I’m going down there whether you like it or not.” 

Martha got up and marched down the steps from the veranda towards the factory. Damn her, thought Albert, pocketing his belongings and hurrying after her. She was still as infuriating as the day he’d met her at the local Am Dram auditions and he’d been cast as Lord Fancourt Babberley in Charley’s Aunt and she as his love interest. Three months she’d played coy both on and off the stage and it hadn’t been until the after-show party that he’d finally planted a proper smacker.

“Wait for me!” called Albert, eventually catching up with Martha hiding behind a wall.

“You could’ve waited. I could die being this short of breath.”

 “You get short of breath every time you see a picture of Oprah Winfrey.”

 “You’re a heartless woman at times, Martha.”

Martha ignored Albert’s pitiful look and peered round the wall.

“The door’s ajar. He must’ve opened it ready for a quick getaway. Let’s go in and see what he’s doing.”

“No way. He might be a druggie.”

“Ssshh.”

“Look, dear,” said Albert, lowering his voice. “I don’t want to end my days knifed by a teenage hoodlum. I want to die in my own bed.”

“Hallucinating about vast breasts I suppose,” Martha whispered under her breath.

“What? Speak louder. You know my hearing’s not so good.”

“I said ruminating about last requests. You want to die ruminating about last requests.”

“Yes, yes. Last requests. A double scotch perhaps. Maybe a cigar.”

“Oh whatever, Albert. Now get out that camera, we’re going in! Let’s get some pictures.”

“I can’t work that camera!”

“Well, figure it out. The boys said it was ready to use. Now follow me.”

Martha silently pulled the door open and tiptoed inside. Albert followed, fumbling with the camera. Once inside, they were surrounded by numerous rails of clothing. Martha grabbed Albert’s arm and pulled him in between some garments so they were hidden from sight.

“I can’t see him,” whispered Martha. “But I can hear movement from beyond that door.”

“Oh my God!”

Martha looked at Albert. His face was as red as a plum tomato, sweat glistening on his forehead.

“What’s the matter?”

“It’s…a…basque,” whimpered Albert.

On the clothing rails hung ladies underwear of every conceivable type. Every size, material and colour possible. And right at this very moment Albert’s nose was planted between two giant double D cups of a black leather basque.

Martha looked at Albert’s tortured face; it was like he was still a drooling adolescent. Would he ever get over his obsession with breasts? She’d inscribe on his gravestone; “I give them eternal life, and they shall never perish; no one can snatch them out of my hand.” Only she would know the real meaning. And Doris perhaps.

“Oh grow up, Albert! Now get out the camera!”

Martha peeked back through the clothing just as the youth appeared in the room. He began ransacking desks, pulling out drawers and tipping them out. He unplugged some phones and a laptop computer, pausing briefly to admire them, and then shoved them in a holdall. Martha gestured to Albert for the camera. But he was still turning it over in his hands, looking bewildered.

“It’s not working!” Albert whispered.

“Oh for goodness sake - I’d better phone the police then,” said Martha irritably, opening her bag for her phone. But it wasn't there. She looked again.

“It’s not here!”

“Are you sure?”

“I put it in this morning. But now it’s gone!”

“You mean you forgot it. I told you your memory was going! Now look what a mess we’re in.”

“Nothing‘s wrong with my memory!”

“Your memory’s kaput. And your mind is going. The first stage of Alzheimers is believing you’re a spy you know.”

“What rubbish! Anyway, you can hardly talk. Where’s your phone then?”

Albert wiped his sleeve across his brow, his heart beating furiously. The excitement was all too much for him.

“I don’t care where it is. I’m dying!”

Martha peeked back through the clothes again.

“He’s gone into another office. Let’s get out of here and sort you out, you silly old codger.”

Martha crept out of the building, pulling Albert by the sleeve. Outside, Albert gasped for breath, his chest heaving with exertion.

“Look, there’s a bench opposite. Let’s get you seated,” said Martha.

“Give me my pills!”

“For heaven’s sake, Albert, you’ve just seen a few pairs of knickers. Now get over it!” Martha handed him the bottle she’d extracted from his pocket. “Besides, these pills are just for cholesterol.”

“Look, there’s your man,” mumbled Albert, stuffing the pills in his mouth.The youth was outside the factory adjusting his bags.

“I’ve an idea,” whispered Martha.

“Oh dear God,” groaned Albert.

“Just stay calm and play along. Remember your am dram days."

“Oh dear God,” groaned Albert again.

“Excuse me!” Martha shouted, waving furiously. The youth tensed, looking as if he might run off.

“Excuse me!” shouted Martha again in her most distressed voice and waving her handbag. “Could you please help us?”

The youth still looked reluctant to help so Martha began to sway on her feet. Sullenly, he crossed the road towards them.

“I’m so sorry to trouble you,” whimpered Martha. “I can see you’re busy. Moving house?”

“Um…yeah. That’s right,” the youth mumbled. “Moving in with my girlfriend.”

“Oh, how delightful. You lucky young people. My husband and I have been together for forty years. In fact, it’s forty years today.” Martha took the youth aside and continued; “My husband’s not feeling so well today though. It’s his weak heart. Would you mind taking a photo of us? You know, just in case…it’d be such a shame not to have a memento of our special day.”

“I dunno.” The youth shifted his bags around impatiently. “I've got things to do.”

“Oh please, please. I’d be so grateful,” begged Martha, casting a concerned look at Albert and giving him a wink.

“I really ain’t got time, granny.”

Martha winked desperately at Albert. As the youth turned away it finally clicked with Albert what Martha was up to and he started to cough and splutter.

“Oh no! I think he’s having an attack!” howled Martha after the youth.

“I can’t breathe!” cried Albert, clutching his chest and rolling his head from side to side.

The youth hesitated, looking back towards them.

“Oh please help,” sobbed Martha. “Can you help him while I call the police?”

“You don’t want the police,” said the youth alarmed and walking back. “You want an ambulance. Look, I’ll take that photo and maybe he’ll calm down.”

“Oh you sweet, sweet boy,” said Martha, pretending to wipe away her tears and turning back to Albert. “This lovely young man is going to take a photo of us. Have you got your camera, dear?”

“No idea how it works,” gasped Albert dramatically, enjoying the ruse.

“No worries, guv. Got one of these myself.”

“Oh my goodness, I don’t think you’ll manage that tiny camera with those leather gloves you’ve got on,” said Martha.

“Yeah, you’re right,” replied the youth, slipping off his gloves and handing them to Martha, who took her seat beside Albert. They held hands and smiled innocently. The youth looked down at the camera, flicked a couple of buttons and took a photo.

“Oh my goodness, that was so simple,” said Martha, rising from her seat. “You are so clever. My husband has been trying to figure it out all day!”

“Easy when you know how,” said the youth. “Here, you just open the shutter. Turn to “auto,” focus and shoot. It does it all for you.”

“You mean like this?” Martha grabbed the camera from the youth’s hands, placed it up to her eye and started taking photos…of Albert, the sky, the factory and finally the youth. She laughed delightedly. “This is amazing! We must take lots and lots of pictures of our special day, my dear. And thank you so much, young man, for helping us. You’re so very, very kind.”

“No worries,” said the youth, accepting his gloves back from Martha and picking up his bags. “He looks okay now.”

“Thanks to you!” said Martha. “Have a lovely day with your girlfriend!”

The youth walked off.

“You deceptive cow,” said Albert.

“Yes, I was rather good, wasn’t I?” replied Martha.

“Hmm. Bloody brilliant actually.”

“Yes, I’ve his photo and his fingerprints. Miss Marple couldn’t have done better!”

“I suppose not,” Albert grinned. “And I’m feeling much better. Let’s find a police station and then get back to the coach.”

“Yes, let’s go.”

They linked arms and headed back to the restaurant in amicable silence.

“Look what I’ve got,” said Albert after a few minutes, pulling a lacy bra out of his pocket.

“Albert, you’ve stolen it!” gasped Martha.

“Call it a reward. Besides, no one will miss it. It’s tiny.”

“What size is it?”

“A 34a.”

“That’s my size.”

“I know.”

“You old devil.”

“I can’t wait to get home,” replied Albert. “Because you know what they say?”

“No?”

“You can never keep a good man down.”

Albert winked and put the bra back in his pocket.

_________________________________________

The End.

 (And yes I have been watching too much Miss Marple.)

Caught Short (A slightly saucy story from the pen of Mrs T.)

Terri’s bike wobbled as the Lamborghini whipped past her doing about sixty mph, sucking the breath out of her and almost making her career into Lisa on her inside.

“Stupid idiot!” yelled Lisa as the slick silver car flew past. The swarthy male driver, eyes shielded by dark sunglasses, made not even the slightest indication of seeing the two shaken cyclists.

“Twat,” said Terri, regaining her breath and pulling a strand of her long black hair that had escaped from underneath her helmet from her mouth. “What a jerk driving at that speed down a country lane. He could’ve killed us.”

“I’ve scratched my arm on those thorn bushes,” replied Lisa, gently rubbing her left arm which now bore a cluster of bright red grazes and a trace of blood. “We were lucky though. It could’ve been worse.”

“Maybe he’ll plough himself into a lamp post and do the world a service by making one less moron with a flash car on the planet,” continued Terri, watching the sleek form disappear, tail lights flashing and tyres screeching as the driver negotiated a tight bend. “Let’s stop at that lay-by ahead and have a drink. I could do with a breather after that fright.”

“Okay, I’ll race you,” Lisa replied, pushing down hard on her pedals, her tanned legs and arms taut as she raced away. “I’m gonna beat you!” she screamed as she took the corner.

Terri’s legs pumped furiously up and down, her knuckles white and her hair flying loose again as she closed the gap.          

“Hey, the Lamborghini,” panted Lisa, slowing down as Terri caught up with her.

The car was pulled up in the lay-by a short distance ahead with the driver’s door wide open and the radio blasting out disco music into the quiet countryside.

“Let’s see what’s up,” said Terri. “Maybe we’ll have the chance to get our own back.”

The girls raced up to the car and dismounted. Taking a good look around and peering into the car, they couldn’t see any signs of the reckless, speeding owner.

“Wow, look at that interior!” said Lisa, pulling off her helmet to reveal her blonde bob and pixie face. She slipped into the smooth leather seat and ran her fingers lovingly around the steering wheel. “Just imagine having enough cash to buy one of these.”

“Yeah, that guy must be loaded. Pity he’s such a clown, otherwise it might have been worth making a move on him. But I think we should give him a lesson instead,” giggled Terri with delight. “Do you see what I see?”

“Oh you mean these?” Lisa pulled the keys from the ignition. “And what about this?” Lisa picked the mobile phone off the passenger seat and tossed it out to Terri with the keys. “How careless leaving a car like this open. He must be totally arrogant or so rich he doesn’t give a damn if anyone nicks it. Where do you think he’s gone?”

“I don’t know. But hardly anyone comes this way. Maybe he was caught short and thought it was safe to leave the car for a moment,” replied Terri, jangling the keys with a wicked smile. “I’ve got a plan; let’s hide further up the road before he comes back.”

Positioning themselves at a safe distance, the girls soon spotted a leg appearing over the stile in the lay-by followed by the body of a tall athletic man in his late thirties with film star looks.

“He’s a dish,” whispered Lisa.

“He sure is. All the more reason to make him suffer,” said Terri, perusing the jean clad demi-god. “And I know just how to do it.”

The man climbed back into the driver’s seat, pulling the door shut behind him. After a brief moment he began to search his pockets. Then his head disappeared down into the footwell and then over to the passenger seat. Finally, he got out of the car and started to retrace his footsteps towards the stile.

“COO…EEE!” Terri held the keys high in the air and waved them to and fro like a tempting treat for a puppy. “Were you looking for these?”

The man swivelled around towards the girls, and removed his glasses, assessing the situation, and the girls’ clinging attire.

“And maybe this?” said Lisa, tossing the phone high in the air, catching it and sticking it down the inside of her bra as the man looked on with interest.

“Geez, he’s seriously hot,” said Terri, speaking through gritted teeth as she dangled the keys. “I’m just gonna love this.”

“I see you ladies have me compromised,” said the man with a slight twitch of his mouth.

“You could’ve killed us back there,” said Lisa.

“I’m sorry. I’m on my way to a meeting and took a wrong turn. I’m running late.”

“That’s not a proper apology. Just excuses,” said Terri.

“Sorry again. Now can I have my keys back now you’ve had your fun?” said the man. “I need to go.”

“He’s a pretty cool dude,” said Lisa. “He doesn’t look in the least perturbed. If anything he’s amused.”

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to work for your keys. Let me see…twenty press-ups should do it,” said Terri.

“Are you serious?” replied the man.

“Yep,” said Terri, trying to keep a straight face.

“And then I can have my keys and phone?”

“Maybe.”

“Jesus. Women.” The man sighed, squatted down on the floor and quickly did twenty press-ups with a practised efficiency. Then he sprang upright and held out his palm. “Right, job done. Hand them over.”

“I’m not sure if that was good enough,” said Terri, turning to Lisa. “What do you think? Shall we give them to him? I think he needs to work harder.”

“It’s very hot today though. Maybe he needs to cool down first?” said Lisa, suggestively.

“Hmm…I believe you’re right,” said Terri, turning back to the handsome stranger. “Okay, Mr Speedy, strip off.”

“For God’s sake, what are you girls playing at?” said the man with exasperation. “Just give me my keys back before I lose my patience.”

“Oooh, you’re soooo gorgeous when you’re angry,” said Terri, revelling in the man’s annoyance. “Now do you want your keys back or not? It’s a long way home.”

“I don’t believe this,” said the man, his impatience soon replaced by tacit compliance as the clinking of the keys caught his attention again. “But you’d better give me my keys back this time, or I won’t be responsible for my actions.”

“It’s a deal,” said Terri, grinning.

Looking uncomfortable, the stranger undid the buttons on his shirt, revealing a muscular torso, and placed it neatly on the bonnet of the car. Terri waved the keys once more as his fingers fumbled over the buckle on his belt.

“Yes, and the trousers,” said Terri, unable to contain her laughter, “And don’t forget the pants. You can leave the socks on though - I like a man in the buff with his socks on. It speaks so much of his style.”

Lisa erupted with laughter.

“Bitch,” said the man, pulling his off his jeans and flinging them into a nearby bush. Then with a dramatic flourish he whipped off his underpants and hurtled them across the car bonnet into the lay-by where they caught on a fence post, hanging in the air like a white flag of defeat.

“I hope you like what you see,” said the man, his sarcasm turning to humour as the girls giggled out loud.

“He’s a big boy,” said Lisa.

“Yes, and if he gets any bigger I’ll be able to hang my washing out,” replied Terri, admiring the man’s assets.

At that moment the high pitched voices of the Bee Gees and a disco classic reverberated from the car.

“Okay, pretty boy. Dance. Travolta style,” said Terri, inspired by the thumping music.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” said the man, raising his eyes to the heavens in bewilderment.

“Nope. Dance. Come on, get moving. We haven’t got all day!”

The man stared at Terri’s resolute face, and then reluctantly started to sway his hips while the sexy beat that had swept generations onto the dance floor blasted out into the countryside.

“I’ve seen more movement in a corpse,” shouted Terri. “You can do better. No need to be shy!”

The man stared vehemently back at Terri, speeding up his gyrations as Terri continued heckling him.

“Come on, baby. Shake that booty. You know you want to!”

Lisa was bent double with laughter, tears running down her cheeks, as wearing only his socks, the man started exaggerating his hip movements to the chorus of Saturday Night Fever.

“Move those hips. Put some passion into it. Shake that butt!” said Terri.

The man turned around and wriggled his bottom furiously at the girls.

“That’s more like it,” cried Terri, enjoying her role. “Now the arm actions. Show us your groove!”

Up went the man’s right arm pointing to the sky and then down to the opposite hip. Turning back around to face them, up went his left arm and back down to his right hip. Now completely uninhibited, the man performed to the girls like a disco king.

“Oh my God, I think I’m going to wet my knickers,” said Lisa, now prostrate upon the floor, clutching her stomach and gasping for breath between bursts of uncontrollable giggles. “I think I’m gonna die and go to heaven.”

“I’m already there,” grinned Terri, casting her eyes over the stranger’s naked body. Returning her grin, the man gyrated his pelvis for her appreciation. “Boy, he can really move.”

“Oh my goodness, I think I’m going to pass out,” said Lisa, wiping away her tears.

“Come on, it’s the last chorus, give it your all. We want to see some real effort!” cried Terri.

The man continued dancing with abandon until the song came to an end. Terri held out the keys. Breathless and rosy cheeked, the stranger strode unashamedly over to the girls. Bending down, he retrieved his phone from Lisa’s bra as she lay curled up in a ball in the middle of the road, still laughing.

“Naughty girl,” said the man before turning to Terri and holding his hand out to receive the keys. “And you, young lady. I guess you’d like to see more of my moves?”

“I…um…ah…” Terri’s eyes flicked downwards, her cheeks turning crimson. When she looked up the man was grinning with amusement. Terri dropped the keys in his palm.

“Hmm…lost for words,” said the stranger. “That makes a change. Now unfortunately, I have a meeting to attend. A pity. I was just getting into the mood.” The man’s eyes twinkled with merriment. “But who knows, maybe we’ll meet again.”

Collecting his scattered clothes, the man put his clothes back on with no sign of his earlier embarrassment. Then, with a farewell salute, he jumped back into his car, fired up the engine and pulled out of the lay-by. As the car approached Terri and Lisa, the driver’s window slid down. The man leaned out of the window and handed Terri a business card.

“See you around, girls,” he winked and, with a roar from the engine, he sped off into the distance.

“Who is he?” said Lisa.

Terri looked down at the card. “It says, ʽMike Morgan, Car Valeting Service. Whenever. Wherever. We dance to your tune.ʼ ”

“Oh my God, do you think it wasn’t his car?” said Lisa. “And he isn’t rich?”

“Who knows,” grinned Terri. “But I’m not complaining. He certainly danced to our tune.”

© Jane Turley 2009.

Caught Short is now part of my short story collection A Modern Life which can be found on Amazon. It contains thirteen short stories of varying styles, including some as equally daft as this one!

Experimenting with writing.

As some of you are aware I have been experimenting with my writing. A while back I wrote a short story which was published on The View From Here which I've now also published below it's called In the Wink of an Eye. It marks quite a different departure for me as it's a war story which has quite a surreal element to it. It is also written in the Second Person; an idea which I'd been toying with for sometime but finally got the push to do it when I read that Georgie was experimenting with it too.

I'm sure that this story won't be to everyone's taste, especially as people are used to me being pretty silly, but any feedback is welcome, either positive or negative. I enjoy exploring different ideas, situations and emotions as much as I like writing humorous material. In fact, my book is turning out to be a combination of the humour and suspense - so I'm not exactly sure whether there will be a market for it! On Gary's advice I've sent the first 3 chapters to a professional critique service that he has used; I guess it will be pretty interesting to hear what they say. In the meantime I'll just keep on writing!

( Ps: There's plenty more silly stuff to come. And you won't believe this but I had one of those strange mystical experiences again the other day when I took the young masters to the zoo - I discovered something quite amazing... but you're gonna have to wait to find out! In the meantime you can always check out my latest BBC article Easter Bunny Blues for a giggle or two.)

In the Wink of an Eye

Caterpillar tracks. Fresh, impressed deep in the sucking mud. The enemy lurks nearby, somewhere close. You can feel them in your bones, taunting you.

A stench of sickly sulphur, fetid corpses and manic fear hangs in the air. Rat a tat tat, rat a tat tat. Your heart pounds, trickles of sweat run down your grimy face. Anxiously you glance around, dilated pupils flickering over ravaged trees, burning trucks and smoldering wreckage. You pause only a second longer on the decapitated head of Sean Watts. Poor bastard.

You take another look. Fuck. Did he wink at you?

Sinking down into the mire, wet sludge clings onto your combats like curds of brown rancid butter. The heavy backpack weighs you down pushing you deeper into the sodden earth. Stay alive, stay hidden. Rat a tat tat, rat a tat tat. Duty calls, there’s no time for sentiment or grief. Remember your training. Block out Sean’s face stricken in macabre astonishment.

But you wonder if he knows something that you don’t.

Fight, not flight. You crawl across the slime, belly wet, face blackened with stripes like a serpent of death and find Sergeant Hughes crouched in a shell hole. Where to now Sarge? No reply. You push his shoulder. Now what Sarge? Then you notice the warm stickiness on your fingers, the hands clasping a split stomach, slippery entrails protruding through bloody fingers. You slump back, breath short.

So Sean did know.

An eerie whistle screams overhead, the earth shakes, explodes. Mud rains down like a plague of locusts, consuming you. Pinpricks of rainbow light appear before your eyes and the sun begins to shine through the wetness. Heat spreads through your limbs and torso.

Ring, ring ring. You shake your head furiously. Ring, ring, ring. It’s 8.50 am. Your knees are grubby from the fall. Don’t get messy before school Robbie. Clean up quickly before the teacher sees you. Hurry, before you line up. You struggle to your feet, body aching as a voice calls across the playground. Robbie! Robbie! Too late. You’re in trouble now.

But it’s not the teacher, it’s Karen. She runs towards you, arms outstretched, white veil billowing behind, the train of her dress catching on thorny shrubs. A small boy follows, thumb in mouth, clasping a toy rabbit by the foot, the long soft ears stroking the uneven ground. You drop your gun and reach out to greet them, overjoyed. Karen, Tommo, I’m here! But Karen runs passed, across the pitted clearing and back into the woods. Tommo trails after her, mud squelching through his toes.

And Superman on his pyjamas winks at you.

The ringing fades as you hear the crushing of undergrowth, the tearing of branches, an unmistakable throbbing, pulling engine. Rat a tat tat, rat a tat tat. Shouts, screams, rise above the shuddering ground. A grey, hideous monster appears, compressing debris, churning the earth. It strikes fear in you standing defenceless in its deadly shadow. Rat a tat tat, rat a tat tat. You turn to run and wonder if God is on your side.

When you awake you hear gentle murmuring in your ear and distant echoing voices. You feel warmth, comfort. Safe at last. Maybe God was on your side. Slowly, you open your eyes, blurred shapes move to and fro. Gradually you begin to focus on the black silhouette at your side, the white collar, the familiar face.

And then he winks at you.

Hello Mate.


© Copyright Jane Turley 2009

Photograph courtesy of K M Ellen/Flickr

Epiphany

It was Epiphany.

Later this evening he’d switch off the Christmas lights and the garden would be shrouded once more in the dark January night. On the weekend he’d return, remove the lights and put them safely back in the loft where they’d been stored for as long as he could remember. But now he gazed out of the window watching his mother sitting upon the garden bench, shoulders hunched, collar upturned, alone in the naked garden.

Maybe it was time.

He snapped open the clasps of his briefcase, the sound reverberating in the stillness of the room. His actions, his feelings, seemed magnified as he slowly withdrew the creased envelope. His secret.

“Maybe you should come on in Mum. It’s freezing.” He sat down beside her. The cold, damp fingers of the night already penetrating his thick Aran sweater.

“I will in a minute Dear. I was just thinking about your father.”

“I know you were. You’ve been thinking about him for 6 whole years. Maybe it’s time to let him go.”

She turned towards him, the red Christmas lights reflecting off her hair. She looked different bathed in the colourful illuminations.

“I’ve got something to show you,” he said, watching her breath blossom in the wintry air.

“And I’ve got something to tell you,” she replied. “Me first.”

“Okay then.” He began to feel nauseous; the envelope felt like fire in his hands.

“I’ve met someone I really like; his name is Alan. I’ve been seeing him for about two months… I hope you’ll like him… I know how much you loved your father.”

“Oh Mum!” He threw his arms around her shoulders and pulled her close. “Of course I’ll like him. If you like him he must be pretty special; I can’t wait to meet him! I’m so pleased for you. It’s been too long.”

He kissed her on the cheek and squeezed her tighter. She did look different. He could see it now; she emanated beauty, radiance.

“I know, but I loved your father so much. It just seemed such a futile waste of life. I never even found out where he was going.”

“Maybe that’s just as well. Having a focus or someone to blame might have made it harder,” he reasoned. “It was just a tragic accident.”

“You’re probably right. Now, what’s this you’ve got to show me? Good news?” A smile spread lovingly across her face.

“Oh, this is nothing special,” he waved the envelope nonchalantly. I’ll save it for another day. Let’s go inside and celebrate your news!”

“I’ll be there in a while. I just need a little longer.”

“Well okay,” he hesitated... perhaps this moment was her making peace with the past. “But I’ll stoke up the fire and break out the champers. So don’t be long.”

He threw another log on the fire and withdrew the letter out of the envelope; the letter addressed to his mother which he’d accidentally opened the morning his father’s car had slid on the icy road. He remembered the panic, the pain in his chest as sobbing he’d read the unexpected words.

A request for a divorce citing irreconcilable differences.

But he knew there had to be more to it. Especially when he'd seen Her standing slightly apart from the other mourners at the funeral. He could see it in her eyes. Her guilt, her loss. The Other Woman.

He tossed the letter, followed by the envelope into the fire. The flames leapt up, the paper curled, sizzled, and shrank into glowing embers. Suddenly, he felt a huge burden leaving him.

Because he knew that now, no matter what the future held, he would never break his mother’s heart.

Copyright Jane Turley 2009

This story was the first short story I'd written since a teenager and was first published on The View From Here on 6.1.2009 (The feast of the Epiphany.)