Mixed Bag
A collection of short stories
Gary Weston
Copyright Gary Weston 2011
Smashwords Edition
Silly Beggar
I must admit, I was looking forward to knocking off work. This was my fourth job of the day, and it had been a full on week. My mind was on the big game of the weekend, rather than fitting another carpet, but I still had a living to make. A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do, and all that. Pulling up outside number seventeen Turners Drive, I decided the sooner I got the job done, the better. Number seventeen belonged to an old widow called Mary Potts. I had quoted for the job, fitting a new carpet and underlay in the lounge, three weeks previously. Fairly straight forward, a decent sized room with not too many awkward bits. Just throw down the underlay, lay out the new carpet, a few whacks with the stretcher, and hey presto, job done. I reckoned an hour tops. Looking at the clock on the dashboard, I should be away again by four at the latest. Mrs Potts seemed a nice old lady, all grey hair and smelling of lavender.
“Hello, Mrs Potts,” I said, cheerfully. It doesn't hurt to smile, even if you are in a hurry.
“Oh, hello, there. Is it three o'clock already?” she asked.
“Just after,” I replied. I went inside and checked the room out. She had made a start of clearing it out, removing ornaments and small items of furniture.
“I couldn't manage the big stuff, not on my own,” she said.
“Not a problem, Mrs Potts. I'll soon have this lot moved out of the way. I'll just put in the conservatory for now, shall I?”
The conservatory was next to the lounge and sparse of furniture, so it was ideal to put the beggar items in there.
“If you wouldn't mind. I'll put the kettle on, shall I?” she said, disappearing into the kitchen.
I busied myself for the next ten minutes, taking things into the conservatory. Most of it was on casters, so that was easy, but the old oak sideboard was a bit of a challenge. I got there in the end, though. The last thing to move, was the bird. It was a little blue and yellow budgerigar, who resided in the corner of the room in one of those old fashioned wire cages on a stand. The bird squawked a little when I picked up the cage and swung back and forth on its little perch, like a feathered high-wire act at the circus.
“Silly beggar, silly beggar,” said the bird.
“Don't call me silly,” I told it. “You're the one stuck in a cage.”
I tried to keep the cage steady, and the bird stayed silent as I carried into the conservatory and found a safe place for it. A shady little corner, where it wouldn't be too hot. I had just finished, when Mrs Potts came back, carrying a mug of tea and a slice of cherry and chocolate cake.
“That's very nice of you,” I said, “Much appreciated.
“You're welcome. Is Bertie okay?”
I assumed Bertie was the bird. “Fine. I put him over there. You know, the cheeky little thing called me a silly beggar?” I said with a chuckle.
“Everyone's a silly beggar to Bertie. Even me. It was my late husband who taught him to talk. You're lucky that's all he called you,” she said with a grin. “He knows a lot worse than that, believe me.”
“Oh, well. He's company for you, I suppose.”
“Better than nothing,” she agreed.
I finished the cake and tea and said I had better get on with the job. Mrs Potts made herself scarce in the kitchen, and I went to work getting the old underlay and carpet up. It had seen better days and was threadbare in places. The Axminster replacing it would be a big improvement and would probably last the old girl out. With the old stuff out of the way, I went back to the van to get my tools and new underlay, then I made sure the floor was nice and clean. Lovely wooden floorboards they were and would have looked good sanded and varnished, but I'd be out of work if everyone did that.
It only took a few minutes to lay the underlay, then it was back to the van for the carpet. The Axminster weighed a tonne, but then the room was pretty big. Fortunately, most of the existing gripper was okay, so I only had to put a few new pieces down. The gripper held the edges of the carpet in place. Another half hour, and the new carpet looked great. After all that effort, I needed a cigarette. Thinking Mrs Potts wouldn't be too happy with me lighting up in her home, I decided to go outside in the back garden. It was a nice quiet lawned area, with roses for a border, and a bench made of old driftwood at one end, but I decided I shouldn't get too comfortable, otherwise I'd never get going again.
I was in for a disappointment. When I checked my overall pockets, I couldn't find my smokes. I figured they were back in the van. With a sigh, I decided to get the job finished, and have a smoke on my way home. Back in the lounge, I gathered up my tools, and was about to get the furniture back in place, when I noticed a lump under the carpet, right slap bang in the middle of the room. Now I knew where my smokes had gone. To retrieve them, meant taking up half the carpet again and I wasn't that desperate for a smoke. So I got my hammer and flattened it. There was no sign of the lump after that, thank goodness. I stowed my gear away in the van and got the chitty book for Mrs Potts to sign the job off. Mrs Potts was standing in the hallway.
“Right. If you wouldn't mind signing this to say you are satisfied with the job, then I'll be on my way.”
“Yes of course,” she said, leading the way into the lounge. “It looks lovely. And thanks for putting the things back.” She happily signed the book. “By the way. Are these yours? I found them in the hall. You must have dropped them.”
“My smokes,” I said, a little surprised. “Thanks.”
“Oh. You left Bertie in the conservatory. Would you mind putting him back, only it's too heavy for me?”
“Not at all, Mrs Potts,” I said, obligingly, going into the conservatory to get the cage. As I went to pick it up, I suddenly had a sick feeling in my stomach. The door of the cage was open, and the bird was gone. Feeling the packet of smokes in my pocket, and looking at the empty cage, I suddenly realised, what the lump under the carpet had been.
So I said, then she said
“Marge? Marge? Is that you, dear? It's me, Mavis. I thought I'd dialled the wrong number, for a minute. It didn't sound like you at all. Well put your teeth in, dear, and I will hear you better. Right. That's much clearer. Anyway. How are you, these days? Oh, I know. Ages. I've been meaning to call you, but you know how it is...How's that hip of yours? Good. Now, listen, Marge. I need a bit of advice....what? My cat? No, Boris I fine. He's still a little bit jittery after being rescued out of that drainpipe. The little devil gave that nice young fireman a really nasty scratch, poor chap. I felt so bad about it, I took a big box of biscuits to the fire station to...what dear? Assorted. I thought that was best, then they could all have what they liked. Well, the thing is, there's been a bit of an accident and I was wondering...No. I don't like those ginger biscuits either. Hard on your teeth? Yes. I suppose they would be.
The thing is, Marge, I think it's rather serious, and with you being a Justice of the Peace....well I know you used to be. Twenty years ago....my, how time flies. I was just saying to Emma Gilberts, only last week...Yes. She's still alive. At least when I was talking to her she was. She's still doing her little voluntary job in the Salvation Army shop, would you believe? Three husbands she's seen off, although I don't think she was actually married to that last one. Well I said it didn't seem seven years since we had that over sixties night at the pensioners club and poor old Mr Dribble choked to death on a pickled onion. Actually, his name was Dibble, but he always seemed to be dribbling, so we all called him...No, Marge. It was definitely a pickled onion. It was Mr Harringway who choked on his dentures, and that was way back in two thousand and three. So, she said to me...Emma Gilberts, dear, that's right, she said she could remember the commotion as if it were yesterday.
Oh. That reminds me what I was calling you about. There's a strange man in my house. Well, not exactly in the house, more like on it, to be more precise. He landed on the roof with one of those parachute hang gliding thingy's. Can you tell me why they do that, throwing themselves off a cliff trying to fly like a bird? No, I don't know, either. It's daft, if you ask my opinion. I mean, my house is the only one for miles, other than that little place down the lane, and they ony use that at the weekends. And the silly man goes and lands on my blessed roof. It must have been a freak blast of wind that took him off course.
It frightened the hell out of me, and poor Boris ran out of his cat flap like his tail was on fire. No, Marge. I didn't say his tail was on fire, I said like it was on fire. I do hope he hasn't gone over the cliff in a panic. It only happened about ten minutes ago. I was just on my way to see Heather Chambers in hospital and take her some grapes and...Gallstones, Marge. You've had that too, have you? That doesn't surprise me. You've had everything else, dear. Well, anyway. There was this almighty crash in the dining room. It wouldn't be so bad, but I've just had the blessed room decorated. Sort of magnolia, with a hint of pink. No, dear. I don't like loud colours, either. It was white before, with just a red feature wall. That's magnolia as well, now. Of course the chandeliers a write off. I think that's what caused Boris to run off, when the whole thing came crashing down on the table...Yes, dear. Scratched to bits. Glass everywhere. Over a hundred years old, that table. It belonged to my grandmother.
Well. When I ran into the room, there was this pair of legs dangling from the ceiling. I can see them from here, while I'm talking to you. Dirty great hairy things with boots on. Marge. Really. Don't be so vulgar. Of course I didn't touch his legs. I could see they were hairy. He's got these tight little shorts on. Well, I dare say you might have touched his legs, but I'm certainly not going to. What are you like? So anyway, I said to him, what on Earth do you think you're doing, and he said...No, Marge. Of course I couldn't hear him with me being in the dining room and him with his head still outside, now could I? No. So I went out, and called him from there. I said, what do you think you're doing young man? and he said...Oh, I don't know. He's about twenty something I suppose. I didn't stop to ask. Anyway, he said, get some help. So I said, quite reasonably I thought under the circumstances, can't you get out and climb down and he said, well actually, I won't tell you what he said, because it wasn't very nice, and I'd rather not repeat it. I haven't heard language like it since Fred Sherlock had that altercation with Peter Ramsden over the scoring in the bowls ornament. So I said, If that's your attitude young man, you can jolly well stay up there.
What? I put the kettle on, of course. Made myself a cup of tea. I have some of that tea from the health food store...You do know it. The one next to the fish and chip shop, in the precinct. He does a lovely fish in there. I think it's the batter he uses. No. The tea tastes awful, to be honest, but it's supposed to calm people down. I much prefer Darjeeling. No, Marge, I didn't make him one. How on Earth could I give him a cuppa anyway? I'm not climbing ladders at my time of life. Besides. I'm not very pleased with the damage he's caused. Those are the original clay tiles and I bet they'll be impossible to replace. The thing is, should I call the police or....Because it's breaking and entering, isn't it? I mean you being a JP, I thought you might know the technicalities. That's why I called you. I would have called my son, Nigel, but he's on a touring holiday of Australia with his family.
I had a postcard from them yesterday. From Darwin. Lovely picture on the front. The twins will be five in November. Lovely kids, but a bit of a handful. So anyway, I thought you would know...Well, true dear, he didn't mean to break in I suppose, but he was rather rude to me. No. I realist being rude isn't a crime, but it jolly well should be. This is the problem with society today, no manners at all, some people. We were brought up differently.
Call an ambulance? What ever for? Oh. You mean for the young man. Well, I suppose he could be hurt, now you come to mention it. He did hit the roof with a bit of a crash. No, I can't see any blood, just a few little grazes on his shins. He does rather kick his legs about a lot when he touches the electric wiring where the light fitting used to be. I thought maybe the fire brigade might be the best people to to come and get him down. They are so good at that sort of thing with all those ladders. That young officer was very good about Boris, even though he did scratch his nose. Well, I tell you what. I'll just pop outside and see if he's okay. Don't hang up.
Hello again, Marge. Marge? Oh. There you are, dear. You just went to the toilet...I see. I tell you something though, it's just as well I went out and had a look. Boris, the little horror, was up there, hanging onto the poor chap's ear with his claws. Getting his own back, I shouldn't wonder. The man couldn't get Boris off, because his arms are all tied up in the para thingy. He was shaking his head about, trying to get the blessed cat off his ear, and the pair of them were making a right old racket. So I threw a pebble at him. No, dear. Not the man. Boris. It wasn't a good shot, though. I missed the cat and hit the man on the side of his head. Now, both his ears are bleeding. Then Boris ran off again.
Then the man gave me another load of verbal abuse and then he just sort of moaned a bit, and went strangely quiet. No. I don't think he's cold. He has that parachute thingy covering most of him up. I can only see his head poking up out of it. At least the parachute is stopping the rain coming in the dining room. Oh, it is, Marge. Shocking weather. It's absolutely hammering it down. The front garden is a swamp. It has completely ruined the flower beds. You know, I don't think we've had a decent bit of sunshine in weeks. Well, I'm glad it's nice where you are. So, do you think I should call an ambulance, then? Not the police or the fire brigade. I suppose if I call the emergency number, they'll sort it all out. They won't fix my blessed roof, though. It'll take ages to get the insurance money, I expect.
Oh. Hang on. He's okay, thank goodness. He's just walked in the house and took himself off to bed. No, Marge, Boris of course, not the man. Anyway. I suppose I'll have to hang up now, and call the ambulance. Yes. It's been lovely talking with you, too. I really will have to have a drive over to your place, one of these days. Okay then. I had better go, because his legs have stopped twitching. Bye Marge.”
Character Stains
I do worry a lot. I might be just a daft, middle-aged woman, but I just can't help it. It's my nature. It starts off as a little niggling doubt at the back of my mind, and builds up into something of Earth shattering importance. A trip into town in the car, for instance, can quickly turn into a nightmare, and have me in a cold sweat before I get there, wondering if I locked the front door on my way out, knowing full well I checked it three times, just to be sure.
Then I worry about whether or not I took my medication. I can't risk taking another lot just in case I'd forgotten, because too much is worse than not enough. And so it goes on. I even worry about library books. Are they overdue? Did I re-new them last week?
Not only that, but I even worry about the stains on them. Surely that's not normal? Sometimes, I am so concerned about the strange little stains on those dog-eared pages, I can hardly follow the story. I swear, if I could afford new books, I'd never use the library at all. But I can't, so I must.
I like to read in bed, mostly. Usually historical romance, (hysterical, my husband calls them), used and abused by fifty other readers. Corners of pages folded over, little squiggles and initials to identify if they had read it before. Telephone numbers and messages in the margins, where I imagine the reader getting a phone call and using the book to jot things down, because it was convenient. Very inconsiderate, in my opinion.
Then of course, there are those stains. This one, on page twenty three. I think it's tea or coffee. Somebody sitting there, reading away, all comfortable, picking up a cuppa, and spilling it on the book. They probably dabbed it with a cloth or tissue, but the damage had been done. Page thirty two has tomato seeds stuck on it. A lunchtime reader, book in one hand, ham and tomato sandwich in the other, consequences inevitable. Then the juice dries, leaving the seed glued to the paper forever.
After years of study, I have become quite a detective of these things. My husband tells me not to be so stupid and just read the damned thing. It's okay for him, he just reads a page or two, and then he's away, snoring like a drain. Then I'm wide awake, listening to his awful racket, trying to read myself to sleep. He's not snoring now, thank God.
Some stains are very unpleasant. Insects are quite common. Many an irritating fly or mosquito has come to a sticky end in the pages of a Mills and Boon. Not all the marks or stains are insects, though. Page forty eight. Snot. Oh, yes. I can tell snot when I see it. Now, if I'm feeling generous, I imagine somebody sick in bed with influenza, nose running like a tap, eyes all weepy and red, trying to find solace in a good book as they lie ill. A sneeze comes on, and before they can grab a tissue, out it comes, all over page forty eight. If I'm in a cynical mood, I can see some unpleasant individual, picking their nose in deep contemplation, then wiping the residue onto the page. I may be being ungenerous, but that is definitely snot, and it got there somehow.
Of course. A few stains are, well, a little harder to discern. Chocolate, for instance. Brown and permanent But is this stain on page fifty four really chocolate? There are only two things I can think of that leave brown stains like this one, and only one of them is chocolate. I'd rather not think of the alternative or how it would have got there. I know some people hog the toilet for hours, reading books. My husband used to be one of them, until I knocked it out of him, after we were married. Men. But this is a “woman's book,” so I have to believe it's chocolate, or I just couldn't read it, otherwise.
Red stains can be one of a number of things. Tomato sauce, red wine or blood. Actually, blood dries more of a reddish brown. And how does blood get on the pages, anyway? Haven't they heard of sticky plasters? Or was somebody casually reading after slashing their wrists, hoping to get to the end before they finally go to the big library in the sky? In these days of HIV and AIDS, it is all a bit of a worry. Can you get AIDS from a blood stain in a book? One day, there will be a little disclaimer sticker on the cover, stating the council and the library will not be responsible for any communicable diseases contracted from reading one of their books. Honestly. It's getting to the point when a person won't be able to read a library book without wearing surgical gloves.
This novel has a life of its own. Six years old, so it's been through a lot of hands and has been all over the country, maybe all around the world. It has been on more holidays than most people get to go in a lifetime. Like human beings, it has picked up wrinkles and scars that make it unique. If some forensic scientist did a few tests, it would probably be covered in enough DNA to be classified as a new life form. I expect some clever individual has already done a science degree on the back of it.
I try to be careful with property that doesn't belong to me. I always use a book-marker and never dog-ear a corner over to mark a page. I don't bend a book backwards, damaging the spine, not even a paperback edition. I never eat while I'm reading, except perhaps a ginger biscuit, because a few crumbs won't do any harm, and I'm very careful with drinks. I'm not a saint, by any stretch of the imagination, it's just that I was brought up to respect other peoples property.
Unlike my awful pig of a husband, who drops the books on the floor by the side of the bed as he falls off to sleep. An inconsiderate sod he is. Disrespectful of everything, including me. No consideration or courtesy for anything in his life, especially for me. Not in twenty nine years of marriage has he put me first. Only himself. Selfish, ignorant and generally unpleasant. Twenty nine years. Affection is not a word in his vocabulary. Even our children grew up and moved away without as much as a hug or a kiss from their dear old dad. A waste of time, that soppy stuff, he'd say. The kids don't call much.
So I take comfort from books, escaping my empty life, finding romance of a sort in the 'strong manly arms of the handsome hero'. Is that why romance books are so popular with women? I suspect so. Real life can be so drab; we need to fill that gap with artificial lust and love.
In my mind, it is so easy to be a girl of twenty one again, to imagine myself to be beautiful and a free spirit and to love a handsome stranger, to be swept off my feet by a carefree, muscular young stallion of a man, on a whirlwind trip to some tropical paradise. I can almost feel his firm embrace and soft kisses, warm and passionate on my lips, my heart pounding and my knees weak from excitement.
There is always a picture on the cover showing the beautiful young couple, she slim and gorgeous, looking adoringly into his eyes, usually dazzlingly blue or dark and mysterious. His hair, thick, long and wavy, his body lean and perfect with a golden tan. Would they sell many books if the picture was of a balding old fart with a beer belly or if she was a frumpy old-maid with curlers in her Grey hair and a luminescent green face-pack spread liberally over her wrinkles?
Sadly, at my time of life, these books are the only place I can ever expect to find those words I long to hear, words I have never heard from him. This is why I am so careful with books. To me they are my escape to an impossible world of love and wild adventure.
And yet, oh dear, I have defiled this book. For the the first time ever I have ruined a book. The back cover, wet and sticky, dripping red all over the duvet. It was an accident, I swear. I would never have done such a thing intentionally. I'm so considerate, normally. It must have happened when I slit his throat with the carving knife as he lay there, and the blood gushed all over the place.
Thank you for reading my shorts. I hope they amused you. Check out the novels by Gary Weston, AKA Shannon Le'Vin.