Here are a few of my own short stories and pieces of prose.
Page One.
I can still see him.
At least, I can see his tail through the branches, flapping wildly like some sort of berserk, floppy metronome. And I can most definitely hear his barking; when will that absurd creature learn? I am too fast, too agile and far too clever for him!
Oh, what’s this? He has pulled himself up on his back paws to his full height, front paws resting on my tree, and he’s looking for me. I’ll stay quiet, I think. If I hiss he will only begin his barking again.
If that canine nose comes any closer I’ll send him yelping home with his ridiculous tail between his legs!
Humans!
Why do you adore these buffoons so? They are big and loud; or small and yappy, but generally noisy. They lack any shred of dignity. Show them a ball or a stick and you have their undivided attention. Feed them and they will lay down their lives for you, and they only have one! They foolishly chase their own tails, and like nothing better than to humiliate far worthier creatures – cats. At least, this grand example of the canine species below me does; and the cat he particularly enjoys hounding (pardon the pun)?
Me, of course.
Apparently he is a mongrel, (not even a pedigree, can you imagine my shame?) I know his name is Allsorts; I’ve heard them calling him. What I don’t know is, why does he feel he must do this? He has never caught me yet! Perhaps I should let him catch me – like I let that big oaf ‘Red’ catch me last year.
Red is a long and loping Red Setter, normally quite placid. Perhaps strolling past his nose as he lay stretched out in his garden enjoying the morning sun, was too irresistible? Anyway, he surprised me! He was much faster than I realised, and he soon had me cornered – I had no choice but to turn and face him.
I arched my back, extended my claws and hissed a very real warning. Red was completely bemused. He gave a few half-hearted ‘woofs’, and then backed off. He hasn’t dared come near me since, and rightly so!
Allsorts here is a different matter maybe. He’s not brave, and I’m not sure he’d know what to do if he caught me either. But he is stubborn – very stubborn. I know that I’m up here in this tree for some time now.
Yes, I can see him plainly now – lying like an awkward sphinx, feigning interest elsewhere, but still keeping his eye on me, waiting for me to move. It’s not right you know. I should be asleep now, curled up on a soft quilt with a full stomach in preparation for tonight.
And that’s another thing! I am expected to prowl the streets at night. I admit my night vision is excellent, and my hunting skills second to none, but really! Allsorts will be curled up, warm and dry, next to someone’s feet, no doubt. The only thing he will have to hunt down is a free space on the sofa. It’s only my natural sophistication that prevents me from protesting too greatly.
Now what is he doing? Why must they scratch all the time? If they would only keep themselves clean! When was the last time you saw one of us cats roll in wet mud, or leap into a big muddy puddle with an inane grin on our faces? I am embarrassed to be in the same street as this dog!
Now that really is the last straw! Against my tree too! Why don’t you use a litter tray, like a civilised animal? Oh no! I’ve started him barking again!
Perhaps he will leave now? He is looking towards the house. Maybe he is hungry.
No. He has settled down again, still not giving up. Oh well, I suppose I should try to get comfortable. Allsorts has rested his head on his paws and is watching my every move with those big, brown eyes of his. Another day wasted with this game of cat and mouse…er…dog. (Is that what you humans would call a Freudian slip?)
That’s it then, until he gets bored, or hungry, or both. It’s a dog’s life.
Er… that is…
S. P Oldham.
Something a little more 'serious!'
In sobriety he is a quiet man. Not a great thinker, nor yet a fool, he keeps his own counsel.
Always scrubbed clean, crisply ironed shirt-sleeves rolled up like tourniquets around still hard biceps, black hairs standing like a proud army on permanently tanned, tattooed arms; there is more than a vestige of the young man remaining. If you ignore the rasping, rattling breath, the rheumy, red-yellow eyes and the stay-pressed nylon trousers. The constant channel-hopping, endlessly burning cigarette ends and demands for strong, sweet tea the only indications that he is still functioning independently, he sits on his tattered, foam-backed throne beside the fire, spending his day watching life pass him by.
Occasionally, when he has grown tired of his own thoughts, of listening to long-departed voices in his head, he offers gruff, rigid opinions, or takes up on some unfinished scenario from the screen-play of his life. Something like, ‘I told him it would never work like that, see.’ Then he sits, waiting for one of us to ask for more, to prompt the story he is longing anyway to tell. And he is always the hero. Or the villain. Never anything in-between – no indifference.
We sit and nod or ‘Hmm,’ and ‘Aah,’ like we’ve never heard it before, too lethargic or understanding to challenge him, and he orates, center-stage, grateful for his audience and making us feel privileged indeed, until his voice runs out, his inspiration flags and he sits in silent soliloquy again.
We all know what’s next, but we have no way to stop it. Would we, even if we could? I have wondered.
A day. Putting the kettle on. Nipping to the shops. Egg on toast for tea. Us, of course, not him. He sits in supervisory observance of us and is waited upon grudgingly by those who love him.
And then night falls.
A night that holds escape for some, with the promise of cheery company, a different set of four walls to hold them in, or the sweet escape that is sleep. If you are lucky, you might not even dream.
He sits there, while the shadows lengthen and the flames shorten; while the house grows quieter and colder. He grows ever more silent and is noticed more for it. The requests for tea stop, and a bottle of something unfound appears at his table.
I seek out the only retreat available to me. My bed is old and too soft and more embracing for it. I let it engulf me, let my eyes grow heavy and close, allowing the worries of the day not to slip away, but to wander some way from me, my sleeping sub-conscious keeping a firm hold on their leash, lest they stray too far. It doesn’t do to escape fully. Not yet.
When I awake, it is dark but for a thin line that underscores my bedroom door, which is shaking gently, impatiently, against its catch, caught in fitful gusts of wind that should not be exploring our home so voraciously, uninvited.
It is happening again.
‘I wish he’d shut up,’ I think, as I strain to understand what he is saying. I don’t need to go downstairs to see him standing, like a skyscraper in an earthquake, in our front doorway. I can hear the wide-open door banging against the mirror in our hallway and I wonder again how it remains on the wall.
‘I can’t hear him.’ I tell myself as I listen to him shouting at the stars, berating the night, carrying out some spirit conversation that would give any half-decent philosopher pause for thought.
It is late. And he is loud and obstreperous. Yet the neighbour’s front doors remain adamantly closed, their curtains stubbornly drawn. Their thoughts kept firmly to themselves. Amongst themselves.
I feel the pressure on my bladder grow more insistent, but I am loathe to leave my bed. It is not the chill night or the late hour that impedes me; no, I just do not wish to be seen. To become the object, or subject, of my father’s drunken monotone. He knows this house so well, that any tell-tale groan from floorboards would give me away. If I turn the landing light out, even from his dark perspective, he can tell.
He pauses for breath and clears his throat and I can smell the cigarettes and beer from here.
Still in my bed, I can see him leaning on the lintel. His slippered feet – always so correct – are on the cheap square doormat. He has lost his thread and is trying to recall what prompted such an impassioned speech from him. What offended his high moral standards so, that he felt forced to deliver such an argument in defence that would have made any politician proud? His speech far from conservative, his breathing laboured, his confusion liberal, he governs me, dictates even, from his doormat podium.
My need is growing and with it, my anxiety. He must relent soon and be content ruling from his armchair throne, mustn’t he?
And then, at last, I hear him take leave of his glittering audience. Ungraciously, the door slams, and mumbling, shuffling (embarrassed now?) he seeks the sanctuary of the living-room.
I am still straining to hear him. The knowledge that my torture is almost at an end is almost unbearable. I am afraid to sneeze, afraid to think beyond translating the sounds that reach me from downstairs.
Familiar sounds. His armchair creaking in protest as he settles into it, his slippered feet knocking over the silver-plated hearth brush, to send it clattering noisily over the tiled hearth, his loud ‘Sssh!’ as if someone else were responsible.
And now I must move. I tiptoe to the bathroom unobserved, my cheap, synthetic, snagged blue nightdress crackles electrically with each static step.
I am still listening, but at last all I hear is his loud, repetitive snoring; the illiterate, voiceless shadows of his earlier ranting. Sleep has taken him.
I have made it.
Sweet relief for us both.
S. P Oldham.
(This was published in the New Fiction (Forward Press) anthology 'It's In Your Eyes.'
April 2002.
Mrs. Barnston slowly stood upright again, rubbing the small of her back with one hand and using the pew to her side for support with the other.
She allowed herself a moment to catch her breath, before reaching down for the tin of polish and the cloth she had left on the seat. The cloth, her hands and every visible piece of wood within her reach now gave off the reassuring smell of polish; not the frivolous spring-fresh scent or the cloying sweet perfume that seemed to be favoured these days, but an earthy, strong wooden fragrance. One that seemed to her suitable for the solid and serious business of a church.
For that was how she viewed the church and all its’ functions. Serious business. Weddings, funerals, whatever it may be, all were equally solemn occasions in her opinion. Excepting Sunday School, which she had no reason anyway to attend, Church, in her view, was not a place for laughter.
She was not a severe woman, nor even humourless, she merely prided herself in the fact that her respect for God did not allow even the mildest display of irreverence whilst in God’s house.
She had mentioned this to the Vicar once, during the course of a conversation. A young man, mid-thirties or so, and married with three children, he had taken a moment to reply, seeming to study her face for her reaction when he did so.
“Mrs. Barnston,” he had smiled, “It’s heartwarming to come across such respect for the church in these times, but you know, I’m sure God would forgive a few smiles. In fact, I’m sure he would welcome any harmless expression of happiness amongst man, especially in this day and age.”
Mrs. Barnston’s expression set. “I’m not talking about gales of raucous laughter,” he hurriedly added; then with a sigh, “We are only human after all.”
“Seems to me to be more of an excuse than an explanation.” She had retorted, and for a moment things had become awkward between them, until she had brusquely announced that she had ‘better get on’ and began bustling about, allowing the Vicar a quiet retreat.
“Laughter reaps no quiet reward.” She added, not quite as a parting shot for they hadn’t truly been arguing, but it was near enough.
The Vicar stopped but didn’t turn round, for he would not be able to hid the grin on his face at yet another of her obscure sayings. She seemed to have a wealth of them, yet he never heard them from anyone else. He allowed it to pass, and went on.
‘A young man with much to learn.’ She reflected, as she gathered up her cleaning materials and packed them neatly into the plastic basket she had bought especially for the purpose.
She stopped as usual just inside the doorway to give the church a final run over with her still sharp eyes, in case she had missed anything. All seemed up to her usual standard.
She closed the heavy wooden door and rested the basket on the cold stone seat inside the porch while she locked it. The old adage about the doors of the church always being open no longer applied. ‘It’s a sad state of affairs when a church door has to be locked.’ She said aloud to no one.
It was only the inner door that was locked. The outer door was merely pushed closed, but that wasn’t the same, was it?
The bright, late March sunshine hurt her eyes, and she had to shield them with her hand until they adjusted from the relative dimness, almost gloom, of the church interior.
She always found the short walk to the lych-gate and on to the village a pleasant one, regardless of the time of year. The tulips and daffodils and other blooms placed on the graves looked almost cheerful.
Over the low stone wall that bordered the graveyard, the gentle slope of the hill gave way to the picturesque little village that lay at its’ feet to the front, and farm land, dotted with houses and laced with roads behind it.
Even from here, the constant whispering, or in stormy weather, roaring of the sea could be heard, waves slapping against the harbour walls. The continuous ‘tin-can’ jangling noises of the moored boats, the plaintive cry of cruising seagulls; all this, like the smell of the polish, was reassurance to Mrs. Barnston.
Situated on top of the hill as it was, the church was open to the full effects of the wind. It had in fact lost its spire just three years ago, and it had only recently replaced it. The vicar had involved the local newspapers in his quest for donations, and they had been only too pleased to help.
The quaint old church had been eagerly accepted and ‘touted’ almost as a symbol of all that the town stood for. It’s prominent location helped. They even shared a name, the church and the town; St. Mark’s.
As a supplementary feature, one of the local newspapers had run a short serial on the history of the church, and in the course of research, had dug up the inevitable ‘ghost-story’ connection.
To most of the locals of course, including the children, this was nothing new. In fact, it shouldn’t have been a surprise to any British resident – every respectable church should have a ghost.
But this story was, apparently, exceptionally well documented, and public interest grew, and spread, far and wide. For a while at least, St.Mark’s had been famous.
Mrs. Barnston pursed her lips and, despite the sunshine, pulled her shawl closer round her shoulders. Grey Lady indeed! Couldn’t they have come up with something more original than that?
A young couple dressed more for summer than for spring passed her by with not even a glance, although the small dog running loose at their heels yipped at her before scampering on between their feet, almost tripping the young man up.
She noticed that his hand was low on the girl’s hip. Off to ‘Lover’s Lane’ she surmised, raising a disapproving eyebrow.
A breeze rose and blew Mrs. Barnston’s silver hair into her eyes, whispered loudly in the trees. She pushed her hair back behind her ears and turned into the gate concealed by the row of hawthorn and holly bushes on the left, and proceeded on down the path into her cottage. She had always loved it here; it was so convenient for the church.
*
Reverend Newcombe was coming to the end of the service. It had been a particularly pleasant one he felt. The sun was warm on the back of his neck, even through the stained-glass windows behind him. His ‘flock’ although mostly strangers whom he seriously doubted he would see again unless there was a wedding or a funeral in the village, were happy.
The young couple seemed pleased with the way things had gone, and the baby had been an absolute joy; no tears, barely a murmur, save a contented half-sigh in his mother’s arms. Perhaps it was the feeling that spring always instilled in him, coupled with the new life that he himself had held a while in his own arms. Each one a metaphor for the other. Promise. Hope. New beginnings.
He had seen the party out into the sunshine, regretfully having to decline an invitation to a glass of sherry and a bite to eat, and had returned to the church, collecting the ‘Order of Service’ booklets as he went, smiling again in recollection of the tiny life in he had held his arms, the tightly shut eyes and searching, suckling lips. It had been a long time since his own were babies. They all had children of their own now.
He ran his fingers through his thinning hair.
Janice Morgan, the organist, was still there, although preparing to leave. She said nothing, but gave the vicar a warm smile. She too looked content. He was about to smile back, to pass a comment; he didn’t know what, he just wanted to share this peace he was feeling, when he stopped.
His nostrils filled suddenly with a scent he recognised but couldn’t immediately place. His brain raced to match the scent, identify it. And then it came to him. It was the heavy smell of wood polish. His smile faded and he looked at Janice.
She had stopped in her tracks too, and was looking up, sniffing the air around her. She drew in a sharp breath. “Vicar…” was all she managed to say. So she had heard the stories too? Of course she had! She was church organist” Besides, who hadn’t heard them? Maybe she never gave them much thought. Until now. Her face was clouded with fear.
Reverend Newcombe shook himself. “This is nonsense Janice, do you understand me? This is merely imagination.”
“What? Both of us Vicar? But how?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he put a comforting arm around her shoulder and escorted her back down the aisle to the door. He was thankful for the thousandth time for his strong faith. It was all he needed; yet he knew Janice needed the bright day outside, and the warmth of the sun.
She had her faith, he knew, but at times she was uncertain still. He made to open the door and bathe her in daylight, but it wouldn’t budge. His heart sank as he turned the iron hoop that made a handle a second time. “It’s jammed again!” he announced in what he hoped was an exasperated voice. “Let’s go out through the vestry instead.”
Janice looked alarmed again. “I really must get that door seen to.” He added with as casual an air as he could muster.
He saw Janice out safely, but even as he did he knew that this would be all round the village in a day or two. Yet more ‘evidence’ of the Grey Lady; more enigma to add to the church’s history.
It had proved a good thing once, but now the stories were beginning to frighten people off. Another reason, perhaps, why he had felt so happy earlier. It had been a long time since he had performed a Baptism. He had been pleasantly surprised to have been asked to do so.
Once out of his vestments, he had locked the Vestry and circled the church on its broader path to the gate. The rows of headstones were as much a part of the church to him as the building itself was. But one stood out from the others, even though it was a part of the ordered rows.
He paused, turned to look at it. An unexceptional headstone, granite, rounded into an arch, chiseled words still easy to read.
‘Ivy Barston.
1910 – 1977
Aged 67 years.
“Listen in Silence,
Live in Harmony”
R.I.P’
“Ivy old girl,” Newcombe whispered, then corrected himself. Never once had he addressed her as Ivy, always as Mrs. Barnston. “Mrs Barnston, it was a Baptism! A happy occasion!” he sighed and mentally reprimanded himself. His faith, his beliefs should not allow him to believe in all this, yet he had seen and heard and smelt so much of the ‘evidence’ first-hand down the years. And of course, he had known her too. Poor old Ivy.
Not even old really, just five years older than he was now when she died. He remembered her still. Even now he could picture her, marching briskly up the hill from her pretty little cottage, long since demolished and given over to nature once more. He could still see the stern expression on her face, the grey shawl that seemed to permanently be about her shoulders.
But most of all he recalled her devotion to the little church. She cleaned it twice a week for years, never missing a day. “Cleanliness is next to Godliness” she would say. At least that was one saying he had heard of.
“I’ll say a prayer for you.” He promised. It wouldn’t be the first time he had said a prayer in Mrs. Barnston’s name.
And he had a feeling that it wouldn’t be the last.
S.P Oldham.