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Let Me Tell You a Story
If you missed the Bards latest story published in the Lancashire Post recently then here is your chance to realize just what you might have missed!
A Modern Christmas Story!
"Oh my God, I don't believe it," bellowed Joe as he opened the official looking brown envelope that along with his overdraft statement, final demands for credit card debts and unpaid utility bills were the extent of the mail delivered that morning to the small but neat terraced house in downtown Nuneaton. "What's up now?" responded Mavis, his long-suffering spouse from the kitchen as she silently cursed the ancient and temperamental toaster. "It's only the blasted Tax Office again about last year's underpayment of VAT and income tax. If I've told them once I've told 'em a thousand times, I need more time to sort it all out - But they're not having any." "What are they saying now?" she replied despondently as she finally got to spread the last of the marmalade on their half-done breakfast toast. "They're telling us we have to go to the head office in Bermondsey of all places, and in the depth of winter as well - it's just not on." "What! Both of us - Don't they realize we live in Nuneaton and that I'm nearly nine months pregnant?" "Oh, Mavis lass, do you think Tax Collectors are bothered about mere trivialities like that? They'd get you over from the other side of the world and drag you from your deathbed if they thought they could wring another penny or so out of you - They're heartless - that's what they are - blooming heartless." Joe replied grimly. "Well, I reckon you should ring and have another 'do' with 'em - and tell 'em you want to speak to the organ grinder this time not the monkey." She added sternly.......... An hour or so later, Joe slammed the phone back into its cradle in undisguised frustration and announced angrily. "Knew it would be a waste of bloody time. We have to go and that's the end of it - There's just no reasoning with 'em." "Did you talk to the top man or did they fob you off - again?" "No, they didn't fob me off again. They put me through to a Mr Herod, top dog there I reckon, and a right officious blighter he was as well, spoke like he owned the place." "And so!" replied Mavis impatiently, "What was the outcome?" "I bet that guy frightens babies," proclaimed Joe furiously. "I'm sorry love but there's no getting out of it I'm afraid. We both have to go. I only hope that temperamental old Datsun of ours can get us there in one piece without breaking down." "Can't understand why they want to see both of us though; you're the head of the family joinery business after all." "That's as maybe pet, but remember I had to put your name on the agreement as a guarantor for any debts that the business might incur and that's why they want to see you as well."
"Don't you 'pet' me; JOE'S JOLLY JOINERS, I told you it was a daft name; it's no wonder you hardly get any orders - and another thing......." Joe held up his hand to cut off his wife in mid-sentence. "Look! It's no good us falling out about it - again. Let's just get ourselves to Bermondsey and sort this flaming mess out once and for all........" The old Datsun made heavy weather of the long drive but eventually a snow-covered road sign informed them that they were 'Now entering the Borough of Bermondsey - Please drive carefully.' The journey had taken much longer than they had allowed for and as the garish streetlights flickered on, they realized that the tax office would be well and truly closed for business. There was little they could do now but find a cheap hotel or guesthouse for the night. "Another one full up," announced Joe crossly as he trudged back to the car. "It seems that there's a top artist performing in the local theatre tonight and there's not a room to be had anywhere in the town," he added. "Charming!" moaned a now disconsolate Mavis. "So, what's the grand plan nowwww!" Mavis clutched at her stomach in agonizing pain as the first contraction caught her completely unawares. "I just knew this would happen," moaned Mavis through gritted teeth. "Well Mr Clever Clogs joiner, just what do you propose to do now?" she added as her waters broke, making a complete mess of the little car. "We'll get you out of there for a start," replied Joe calmly. "Look! There's a bus shelter over the road. Let's get you inside while I ring for an ambulance," he added reassuringly. Joe helped his wife over to the rather grubby shelter that smelled strongly with a combination of sweat, fish & chips and stale cigarette smoke. There was a grubby wooden bench in the far corner of the shelter to where Joe guided his somewhat distressed spouse.
"Tell them to hurry; the contractions are getting closer," Mavis whined, gripping his hand tightly. Ten minutes passed, which seemed like an eternity to the frantic couple - And then a bright light shone above them. "What we got 'ere then?" spoke a rather strident voice as the owner shone his torch at the pitiful duo on the bench. "Who are you?" barked Joe defensively, thinking perhaps they were about to be mugged. "Calm down laddie; I'm PC Shepherd and this 'ere is my assistant PCSO Lamb. We've come to tell you that the ambulance has got stuck in traffic due to this show that's on in town tonight. Meanwhile we've been directed 'ere from on high to keep an eye on you both till it arrives. Stop nosey folk from flocking round yer and the like......" The words were hardly out of his mouth when with a screech of brakes, a large white van came to a halt at the entrance. At first Joe thought it was the ambulance - But no such luck. The large red writing on the side of the van proclaimed that it belonged to 'Wiseman & Sons - Gifts for All Ages.' Moments later, three rather anxious looking men entered the grubby shelter. "Thank the Lord," said the elder of the trio with a sigh of relief - "See you two doubters, I said it was a police car parked outside. Now perhaps the two 'bobbies' 'ere can direct us to the theatre before we miss the show completely." "If it weren't for that dodgy Sat-Nav of yours Uncle Goldie we would have been at the right place ages ago," retorted his nephew, Frankie. "Fancy anyone buying a GPS called 'Bright Star'" added Frankie's younger brother Merv', "Call yourself wise? I think we'd have got from East Grinstead quicker if we'd followed an actual star rather than that useless piece of electronic rubbish."
Before anyone could add further comment, two more people entered the now rather congested shelter, introducing themselves as Gabriel and Angela and declaring that they were 'Street Pastors' or as they were more commonly called by the good people of Bermondsey, 'Angels of the Night' and that their duties were to help people in distress. "Well, you've come to the right place tonight Gabe' and Ange', there's no one more distressed than me at the moment." Mavis moaned from her prone position on the hard and very uncomfortable bench. "Don't worry ma'am, we're both trained in midwifery skills and if the worst comes to the worst, then we can assist at the birth. Once again, the grimy and smelly shelter was bathed in light from above. This time it was from a Police helicopter, hovering above the somewhat ramshackle building to inform them by loud hailer that the road had now been cleared and that the ambulance was on its way. It continued to hang there in the night sky like a flaming star, offering guidance for all who wished to follow its beckoning light. Moments later the impending arrival of the ambulance was confirmed as, from the far distance, the assembly heard the reassuring wail of a siren - However, Mavis feared it would not arrive on time. With a wail that would have done justice to a demented banshee, she clutched frantically at Joe's arm before declaring to all and sundry - "Oh my Lord - It's coming!" Gabe' and Ang' did what they were trained to do and seconds later the silence that had now descended on the shelter was broken by the cry of a newborn child. The assembled humans let out a collective sigh of relief and clapped and cheered at the safe arrival of the newcomer. From the rafters above was heard a fluttering of many wings as the previously disturbed pigeons finally settled and cooed their own non-human greetings. The soft squeak of a somewhat bedraggled mouse and the gentle mewling of a rather mangy alley cat accompanied this salutation as in perfect peace and understanding all the shelter's occupants paid homage to the child. It was then that Joe emerged from the group and held aloft the tiny bundle of humanity who had arrived in such dire but nevertheless welcoming circumstances and announced to the world with fatherly pride, joy, and exultation,
"It's a girl! - We're going to call her Jessica!"
The End
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The Dying of the Light
Day 1
The idea came to me during the night. I had been experiencing the terrible torment that visits even the greatest storytellers from time to time. It is commonly known as ‘writers’ block’, but in my case it was more of a personal literary cul-de-sac. My last story had been completed almost a year earlier and I had never gone so long before another masterpiece would pop into my head. Indeed there had been periods in the past when ideas and story plots were tumbling from my brain faster than I could commit them to paper (or the PC).
However, last night had been different from my usual dreamless slumbers. It was as if all the Muses from ancient Greece had visited my bedside and imparted their combined wisdom, giving me the idea for a unique story that would have universal appeal, gaining me legendary fame and perhaps fortune as well and might even be published in the Lancashire Post.
I could not wait to rise from my bed as the first feeble fingers of dawn crept through the window. I dressed quickly, washed and shaved with alacrity, devoured my breakfast with unnatural haste and in record time I found myself seated in front of my trusty computer.
I realized that speed was of the essence. The once vivid words and images were already beginning to blur and fade despite the continuing presence of the Muses who anxiously urged me to type in my password and commence committing to the machine that fantastic plethora of words, sentences, paragraphs and chapters that would surely herald my overnight literary success; an accomplishment that had taken me many decades of blood, sweat and tears to attain. Flirting with fame had been a dream that appeared to be just out of reach; achieving it now in my twilight years was a distinct possibility.
I logged into my computer and opened my STORY FILE. All my previous stories were set out before me in alphabetical order. I created a new document and was about to commit all those wonderful block-busting words to the opening page when I realized that before commencing, my magnum opus would require an eye-catching title - Mmm.
It was proving difficult to place the story in a suitable category. It contained aspects of virtually all human emotions including romance, humour, pathos, drama, but most of all it was undoubtedly the nerve-wracking suspense that each carefully crafted word would promote, holding my readers in that literary spell beloved by all writers of not being able to set aside the tale until the last word had been read.
The task of creating a suitable title for my story was proving daunting and though I grappled with a number of possibilities, none of the ideas that raced through my brain gave me any great satisfaction. The tension was eased somewhat when my wife Daphne brought me a cup of tea and a fig roll.
Feeling refreshed, I resumed my task. Somewhere in the far reaches of my mind was a belief that a line from a poem by Dylan Thomas would make a suitable title. I vowed to do a little research on his works in the sure and certain believe that this would reveal the line that I was searching for; in the meantime I knew I must commit at least the opening words of my story to the machine before they deserted me. I had already been aware that the once clear vision of the nine Muses was beginning to blur around the edges and without their assistance then I knew my literary task was doomed to fail.
It had been a struggle, but at least I had committed the opening paragraphs of my story to the safety of the computer. As I signed off for the day, I comforted myself in the firm believe that during my coming slumbers, those nice Grecian ladies, the daughters of Zeus, would work their magic for me once again.
Later
I awoke a little later than usual and spent the first five minutes trying to work out what day it actually was. After a hurried breakfast I switched on the PC and wasted another five minutes trying to remember my password, fortunately Daphne had remembered it. I read and reread those opening lines a thousand times; knowing even then that their composition was as good if not better than anything that the Bard of Avon himself had ever written. It was unfortunate that the words that followed, although satisfactory, were nowhere near as ground-breaking. There had been little help from the Muses over the past few nights. Oh they had appeared as expected but seemed more intent in spouting poetry or playing their music rather than helping me.
Despite the setbacks, I somehow managed to compose a couple of sentences but if anything they were of a lower standard than my earlier efforts. Even the appearance of my wife with a cuppa and a biscuit failed to revive my listless spirits. I decided to call it a day and retired to my bed early.
Much later
I was roused from a deep and dreamless sleep by whatsername shaking me vigorously. I missed breakfast, mainly because I forgot where the cornflakes were kept. Again I struggled to open the thingy and for the life of me couldn’t locate the STORY WOTSIT until that kind lady did it for me. As I once again read what I had written, I realized that the opening lines made little sense to me although the rest of my tale was promising. I had just finished deleting them when the lady came again with a drink and a snack. She was not best pleased when the cup fell from my shaking fingers onto what she told me was a new carpet. The incident made me angry so there was no more writing that day and again I retired early.
Later still
The woman was shaking me again and asking if I intended to stay in bed all day. I gave it some thought but after seeing the look on her face decided I had better get up. I didn’t shave that day as someone had hidden my new safety razor. When I told the woman (who is she anyway) she just laughed and said I was going doolally and that my electric shaver was where it had always been.
I knew there was something urgent that I should have been doing but couldn’t for the life of me remember what it was. I decided I’d ask mum what it was I should be doing – she always knows.
It was then I noticed the new ‘telly’. I didn’t like it. There were no buttons to press or knobs to twiddle with, just a board in front of it full of numbers and letters. The woman (I don’t like her) came over and did something with the numbers and suddenly there was a picture, but it was just a lot of writing. Then I remembered; I was writing a story – but why was it on the telly? I got mad ‘cos I couldn’t understand.
I asked the woman for some paper and a pencil so that I could write my story, but she just laughed and said something about it being on the ‘comb peter’ (I really don’t like her; she’s to bossy. I’m gonna tell dad when he gets home from work at Dick Kerrs).
I threw the tea on the floor when that bossy woman brough it in. She knows I always have orange squash in the afternoon. Then she started to cry but it was all her fault anyway. And where’s mum? She’s always home from Vernon’s Mill before now. I’m frightened as everything is so strange and unfamiliar and I can’t find my school satchel anywhere. Mr Hunt will be cross if I don’t do my homework and I’ll probably get the cane. It’s not fair; it’s not my fault either.
Much, much later
Why am I in this strange house in this big bed. This is not South Meadow Lane; we’re out in the country somewhere; are we on holiday? I like holidays but not in the country. I like Blackpool best, down at Uncle Tom’s Cabin, fishing for crabs in the big pool. Mum doesn’t like it much as she says that the pub gets more attention from dad than she does. I always laugh when she says this, only I haven’t seen her or dad for ages. That silly woman is always fussing about though. Saw her yesterday talking to a man about a home; perhaps were going back to South Meadow Lane again and mum and dad are sure to be there. Yes, that will be it.
The stupid woman has given me some sheets of paper and says that it’s my story. I don’t remember writing it. She says it hasn’t got a title yet, but I can’t see it very well – It must be the dying of the light!
If you like stories with a twist then our resident bard has written a number of books with tales more twisted than a corkscrew. To find out more then go to Page 4d for a list of all his very readable books.