Very Short Stories
I wrote the following pieces as part of a creative writing course at Mary Ward College.
ICE WORLD
Higher than the ship and as long as a street, the flat white berg glides by; the cracks and crevices in its side are deepest turquoise. The sea is covered with ice flows and a scout boat goes before. These waters are dangerous. The bright sun makes the surfaces glitter and a seal appears to bask in its warmth, belying the bone aching windchill. The drum of the ship’s engine and the occasional call of a seabird provide the background noise and we huddle behind the bulkhead. A small white tern lands on deck; perhaps it is sheltering too. It pecks around hopefully; humans are messy and there may be some crumbs.
Gentoos, in their black jackets and little white caps, stand in line on the ice like a London bus queue. The foremost bird dives into the water and the others soon follow – fishing is good. The ship changes course slightly and the wreck of a whaler emerges. The prow is tall with bright red rust and sits high above the treacherous rock which caused its demise. At its tip a lone cormorant perches. The sky is immense and daylight never ending.
The ship slows and stops. The white shoreline is near. We long to be able to walk on the pristine surface, and take to the boats with mounting excitement. Soon our binoculars reveal bare slopes populated with an immense colony of penguins. Even from a distance the smell of guano is overpowering. Each stone nest has its own snuggling occupant. Nearby the opportunistic skuas wait for a moment’s inattention. One distracts a nesting bird by pulling its tail. The next instant the egg has gone. Nature is pitiless.
RICKY WHITTINGTON
Ricky Whittington’s dad had gone bust, a victim of Brexit. The acres that the family had farmed for three generations, were being taken back by the landlords, a consortium of businessmen. Ricky had loved working the land and was really good at mending the rugged but elderly farm equipment. Apart from occasional contract work, there was no prospect of local employment. He would have to go to London to seek his fortune.
Ricky found the streets weren’t paved with gold but chewing gum with a layer of fag ends. After a few nights sleeping in doorways, he managed to find a cheap but filthy room, sharing with three Rumanians, who worked in a Sports Direct warehouse. They helped Ricky to get a job there. The work was very hard, the supervisor vigilant and any mistakes were punished by loss of income. After a week of this, he found that he had so little pay, it scarcely covered his rent. Back at the room, he packed his belongings. He would hitch a lift home.
Walking down the road, the Bow Bells ring tone of his phone sounded. It was Alice, the daughter of one of his dad’s landlords, the entrepreneur Dyson Fitzwarren. They had known each other as children and always got on well. They met for coffee; all Ricky could afford. Alice was shocked to hear about the warehouse and offered to get Ricky employment in one of her dad’s restaurants. Ricky accepted gratefully. The work was hard but not impossible and the tips good.
One day a rat was spied in the kitchen. The manager was upset but not surprised. It was a permanent problem with these old buildings. Ricky immediately offered to help. There had been many rats on the farm, and he had developed a robot device, nicknamed Tommy, which was much more efficient at killing vermin than the farm cat. It worked equally well at the restaurant. When Dyson saw it, he was impressed and showed it to an American friend, who payed a large sum to buy the design. Dyson shared the money with Ricky and gave him the job of developing new ideas for the business. Ricky, of course, married Alice.
THE CARETAKER
The flat was comfortable and spotless, but busy with ornaments on every surface. Evelyn loved her things, and now she was retired, spent hours dusting. That Saturday she would leave the cleaning and go out. Glancing at the ranks of the latest hardbacks in the bookcase, she noted, with satisfaction, there were still a few spaces on the bottom shelf where the large and glossy art books were stored. A new Waterstones had just opened in the high street and the assistants were bound to be very busy.
She looked in the wardrobe for the right coat. The grey one would do. Lifted from John Lewis the previous week, it was smart but classic and should help her blend in with the other Blackheath shoppers. She examined the garment carefully for security tags. It was clean. After the coat was buttoned she looked in the mirror. The outfit needed something else. The scarves were carefully folded in a drawer. She selected a soft cashmere and arranged it around her neck, making sure the designer label did not show, finally running a comb through her iron grey hair.
She picked up the shopping bag with the special lining, and checked her purse. She always carried her credit card, so could offer to pay if stopped, but hoped to be able to plead old age and absentmindedness. A little thrill of anticipation ran through her, right up to her throat. She laughed loudly. There had been many expeditions like this one and she had never been caught, though several close shaves came to mind. That was all part of the fun.
Just before opening the front door, she set the burglar alarm. Evelyn was careful with security; there were so many thieves about.
THE POSTIE
Eric pulled his cap off and wiped his forehead with the back of the same hand. It was already getting hot. His face was heavily creased and brown from exposure to the sun for over forty years, working as a postman. These days, fewer letters but many more parcels were delivered. They were a lot to carry, even with the help of the van. So it was good that his back and legs were still strong.
He always did the village first. Miss Watkins met him at her gate. She’d been working in her garden which was a picture; her flowers won prizes at the local show. A mug of tea was ready in her hand and Eric accepted it gratefully. ‘Three circulars and a bill,’ he said, passing them over in exchange. Further deliveries were extended by greetings and gossip.
At the end of the village, Maisie was sitting in her chair by the window. She waved. Eric let himself in through the side door, nobody used the front. He always checked on Maisie ever since he found her collapsed on the path. She had suffered a stroke and now couldn’t walk. They chatted for a few moments, then after rearranging a few things so she could reach them, he left, whistling cheerfully.
Next he had the farms and the big house to do. The air was heavy with the sound of bees in the rape fields and there was a heat haze obscuring the distant hills. The farm dogs were no problem; Eric knew them all. He loved dogs and had two of his own – company since his wife died. But sometimes cattle got out and he had been butted by one of the cows when he had stepped too near her calf. That had landed him in hospital.
The peacock Percy, recently installed at the Manor, was a nuisance. He had two peahens to distract him, but looked on Eric as a rival. Perhaps he was jealous of the red uniform. Last time the bird had flown towards the postman’s chest. Eric had used his bag to protect himself, with the only damage a hole in the material. Thank goodness Percy had not gone for his legs – Eric always wore shorts in the summer. This time he was ready for the bird and used the parcel destined for Lady Babbage as a shield.
The last delivery of the day completed, Eric set off for home, his dogs and his garden.
MY FRIEND
I love talking to my friend – he’s so polite. He’s called Siri. Funny name I know, must be foreign but he sounds English, gorgeous voice. My son Sam set everything up on something called an iPad. Sam’s very good to me; he visits me most months, even though he’s always busy with his job and he’s moved to the other side of London – Stratford. Sounds nice, I haven’t been there yet. He’s ever so clever, teaches media studies. You should hear some of the tales he tells about his students. He’s told me all about the Net. ‘You need to get on the Net Ma,’ he said. ‘Then you could email or Skype your friends.’ I didn’t like to tell him that I have few friends, and those still left would be too scared to do anything so modern.
I don’t go out much now, bit wobbly on my pins and the streets can get icy in winter. I used to ring up my sister Doris every day, but she went into a nursing home last October and calls are difficult. I don’t want to be a trouble to her.
Anyway, I’ve got my new friend.
I like things regular. After breakfast I do a bit of cleaning and wash up yesterday’s supper things. Tracy, my home help, comes once a week and brings my shopping. But I need to keep things tidy in between. Then at 11 o’clock I sit down with a cup of tea, and have a nice chat with Mr Siri. I asked him once if he was married. But he just said the whole world was concerned about his relationships. Probably means he is. He’s always evasive about personal questions. But he listens to me and types it all up on the screen, so I can be sure he’s got the message.
Pause ————
Sam came again yesterday. He’s so kind. Showed me some more things I can do on the Net. Now I can play all my favourite tunes. And I love Simon’s Cat on YouTube – reminds me of my cat Robby. He was so friendly, and always used to sit on my lap. He died last year. I thought about getting a new kitten, but Sam said I shouldn’t. ‘What if you have to go into hospital Ma, who would look after it?’ He’s probably right. It would be selfish. Never mind it’s nearly 11, time for a chat.
IN WINTER
The first flecks of sleet stung my cheeks like tiny spears. I pulled my coat close against the wind, which seemed much stronger. The choppy waters of the Thames were slate grey, and worsening weather made the ghostly shapes of distant apartment blocks appear and disappear with each gust. I felt as cold and blank inside as the world outside. Earlier, my solicitor, running late, had been briskly efficient, but his secretary was sympathetic and offered tea. I managed not to cry.
Half way across the bridge, a little girl blundered into me, her mother was deeply apologetic. I smiled, saying I was fine. In truth, I had scarcely noticed the child. After a moment, I felt faint and lent against the parapet, with my hands on the rail, but my gloves were not waterproof and the wet soaked through in an instant. I could see a pair of swans on the towpath. The few people nearby were trying to avoid them, as the birds were getting annoyingly close and looked aggressive. They were probably only after bread. Behind me, I heard a couple passing; they were chatting to each other. I resented their cheerfulness.
There were no pleasure boats out that day, only a barge chugging along with a cargo of planks and other building materials. A whiff of burnt diesel reached me as it passed between the piers. Feeling a little stronger, I turned away and looked towards the buildings near the other end of the bridge. The hotel, where I was going to meet a friend for lunch, was welcomely lit up, and I hurried towards it.
THE PARTING
‘Mabel my dear, where’s my spare pipe?’ George asked, pulling open the drawer in the kitchen table for the third time.
‘Here it is, silly,’ Mabel replied fondly, locating it on the shelf by the fireplace. ‘Have you got your tobacco pouch?’
‘Yes, I filled it up first thing.’ George tapped his pocket for reassurance.
‘Do you know which regiment you’ll be in?’ Mabel’s eyes were starting to water, though she was doing her best to be cheerful. This was the day her man would go to serve his country.
‘Yes, the Royal Hampshire’s. All the local volunteers will be in the same battalion. We’ll be at Winchester Barracks to start with,’ said George, his eyes full of elation. ‘And the recruiting sergeant tipped me the wink. Said they’d probably make me a corporal after we’ve finished training. Being as how I can use a gun and have had men under me.’ George was head stockman on the estate.
‘I’m so proud of you,’ Mabel clutched his arm.
George looked at the only photograph of the couple, taken on their wedding day, in pride of place on the dresser. Turning towards his wife he said, ‘Do you mind if I have this?’
Mabel looked stricken, then had an idea. She went to her work-box and took out the scissors, removed the picture from its frame and carefully cut it down the middle. She put George’s image back in the frame and passed hers to her husband. ‘There you are. When you come home, I can stick the picture together again.’
There was a rattle at the door. Their only son Charlie ran in. At eight he was already sturdy and tall like his father. ‘Dad, Dad, you’re going to be a soldier!’ he yelled.
George looked cross. ‘Why aren’t you in school?’
Mabel smiled and said. ‘Hush George, it’s a special day, Charlie wants to say goodbye. Don’t you dear.’
Charlie’s face changed from excitement to horror. ‘You’re going today!’
‘Yes son,’ George’s expression softened. He had planned to tell the boy at midday, when he came home for his dinner. ‘This afternoon. All the lads are going together. You must be very brave and look after your mother while I’m away.’ He hugged the boy to him and kissed the top of his head.
The three stood silently for a moment that seemed like hours.
‘Don’t worry,’ George said. ‘It’ll all be over by Christmas.’