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| ISBN-13: | 9781466905795 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Trafford Publishing |
| Publication date: | 01/20/2012 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 120 |
| File size: | 515 KB |
Read an Excerpt
TO BE A THIEF
AND OTHER FATEFUL TALESBy John Margeryson Lord
Trafford Publishing
Copyright © 2012 John Margeryson LordAll right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4669-0580-1
Chapter One
DESPERATIONA heady mixture of determination and anticipation drove her on. She had embarked on this commitment and she needed desperately to succeed. Failure, she felt, would stain the rest of her life. The very thought of not succeeding made her feel physically sick. It was at this moment simply the most important thing in her young life.
From the very first instant she read the press announcement, she had been able to think of little else.
Both her loving parents were firmly set against it. Her father especially had no understanding of her desperate need, and tried in every way possible, short of forbidding her, to prevent it. Her mother, however, whilst expressing her grave doubts, did appear to understand why it was so desperately important to her.
So then, here she was about to leave the comforting protection of her home to make her way, as best she may, to Britain's capital city on this once only journey. If she were to succeed she would need every single penny of the money she had so carefully put aside for the bus and train fares—but a significant part of the trip would essentially need to be on foot. In his attempt to discourage her, her father had refused point blank to take her by car, or to advance any extra funds. He was, it has to be said, unhappy that his actions would probably increase the risk to his daughter.
'Well if you must go through with this mad idea, you will do it without my help.' Her father had said—and he had matched words with deeds.
She did not feel badly about his attitude, she felt that in some way she understood.
If their roles had been reversed she may well have acted just as her father had. He was after all only trying to protect his only daughter from what he saw as a possibly risky venture.
And so with a grim face she shouldered her burden, said goodbye to her folks and turned up the street heading for the railway station. Avoiding the bus saved her money but it was just over a mile—a mile not without its own risks. But it was May 1992 and the day had been warm and dry, and the evening was still lit by a smouldering sun sitting just above the roof tops, and she had allowed herself plenty of time for the ten-past-seven train to London.
Gratifyingly the weather men had had said that it would remain warm with only a small chance of the odd light shower.
On she trudged.
The first hazard was the pub on the corner, the Dog and Gun, where a group of youths with not much money and nothing to do were hanging about outside clutching precious bottles of alcoholic refreshment, and were intensely and loudly arguing the merits of various football players and teams. They would show little respect for a girl obviously on her own and vulnerable.
'Hallo darlin' any chance of a romp with me?' 'No need to go any further—what you need is already here.' 'Come with me and I'll cook you breakfast in the morning.' 'I can promise you a good time gal.'
Then one of the gang grabbed hold of her and tried to kiss her. But she was saved from this and any further ordeal by the sudden appearance of the landlord who had ventured outside to see what all the fuss was about. He had the decency to offer her an apology whilst threatening to ban the lads.
The incident upset her greatly, and what was worse it had caused her some delay, but she bit her lip and tried to walk faster—the train wouldn't wait, and to her relief she arrived at the appropriate platform with a few minutes to spare. Unfortunately her joy was short lived, an announcement over the loud-speaker system advised that the London train was delayed by engine failure and would be at least thirty minutes late. Upsetting though this was, she had no choice but to wait.
At the booking window she ordered and paid for her ticket, some of her precious cash gone. When asked, the railway official had no better information about the train.
'This one's nearly always late,' he stated unhelpfully.
As she sat on the hard wooden seat she reflected on the lead up to this adventure. When the realisation as to what it meant in commitment and risk dawned on her she felt at first that she stood no chance. Her courage almost failed her even before she had made the decision. She had tried to persuade her best friend Enid to join her, the trip being much safer with two people, but Enid's father had reacted in a similar manner to her own—and Enid had given in.
She had made a number of enquiries and had concluded that this would be the very last chance and if she missed it the opportunity would be gone for ever,—
Gone, lost, irretrievable, missed, unrecoverable, finished, ended, vanished, never to be, and she would always know that she could at least have made the attempt.
She had decided therefore to go for it. And having thus decided her whole attention was taken up with planning and it was only now when the journey had barely begun that serious doubts began to make themselves felt. One by one the things that could go wrong popped un-requested into he thoughts. Some were so perilous that her heart shrank at her contemplation of them. The train was nowhere in sight so there was ample time to turn back. The temptation was great. Her parents would be delighted to see her. The desire to return home with its familiar surroundings was almost overwhelming. She could cope with the 'I knew you couldn't do it.'
And she almost gave in.
She stood up and took just one small step towards the exit.
But it was only one.
She sat down again clutching her ticket to wait for the train.
It was simply that the pain of disappointment that she would forever know she had missed would stay with her for the rest of her life. She would always remember that she had failed. She wanted this thing to the exclusion of any arguments or reasonings.
And now she was back on track, and would remain so from now on. She dismissed any further thoughts of going back, all her attention being given to the task in hand.
The day began to fade and to cool.
Time seemed to stand still.
The only activity at the station was the arrival of a couple of trains on the opposite platform disgorging workers and shoppers returning home from the city.
Then after what seemed a lifetime the sound of an approaching train on the city line reached her ears.
This was it—she felt that now she was definitely on her way—no turning back now.
She boarded and found two empty seats, sat and rested what she had with her on the other seat and for the first time relaxed. Peace was however denied her.
Opposite her on the facing seat was one of those irritating individuals who insist on starting a conversation. In his case it was only a one way discussion as he began to relate the story of his exceptionally dreary life. He began with his days at school where his only notable achievement seemed to be that of falling off the roof of the science block whist retrieving a mis-kicked ball—and surviving.
She profoundly wished he hadn't.
His job as an output checker at a local electrical wholesaler warehouse was even more uneventful. Every now and then he would check to see if she was still paying attention by asking her a question about herself, but before she could reply he would continue to relate his life story.
She was grateful when they arrived at his station and he simply got up and left without so much as a goodbye.
However her new peace of mind was short lived as the guard's harsh voice over the speaker system interrupted her thoughts with an announcement that because they were running late the train would be diverted to a different terminus. '—apologises for the inconvenience caused,' the voice finished. This meant that she would have much further to go with a subsequent loss of time. Her heart sank but strangely her determination hardened.
The train drew to its final halt and as she walked out onto an unfamiliar street she was almost overwhelmed by a feeling of sheer panic, as she realised that she had no idea how to get from here to her intended destination. It was now quite dark and the streets were emptying, but in any case she did not know who to ask. This was London, a vast conurbation, not her comfortable home village and the passers by looked forbidding and uncommunicative. It was still quite busy but they completely ignored her, she might just as well have not been there. As she stood undecided what to do a passing taxi spotting a possible customer drew up beside her.
The cabby shouted through the open window—'Want a taxi love?'
Taken aback she stammered her question—
'Er, can you tell me how to get to ...?'
The driver did not wait, there would be other clients. He simply drove off.
However her luck had not run out entirely, a passing pedestrian had heard her question.
'Excuse me,' he began, 'I am going your way, and I can show you to an appropriate bus stop where you can get a bus which will drop you off within easy walking distance.' She looked him over. In his sixties she guessed and smartly dressed he seemed to be trustworthy. She was relieved and reflected that there were still a few people about willing to help, when needed.
'Yes thank you, that will be most helpful.'
And so they set off together.
At first her self appointed guide told her little about himself.
'Call me James,' he said, But somehow she knew that this was a lie. 'And what do they call you?' he asked.
A warning light went on in her brain.
'How far is it to this bus stop?' She asked.
'Oh it's not very far. Are you meeting someone?'
Again—that question. Why should she tell him?
'Yes,' she said simply.
At that moment they were approaching the warm lights and open door of a typical
London tavern.
'Look you have some distance to go, how about I treat you to a refreshing drink to help you on your way?' The man called James said.
The warning light in her head was now flashing red.
'No thank you,' she replied. 'I'm already late and dare not stop, my friend will think that I'm not coming.'
James must have sensed her hostility—he really did not want trouble.
'It's OK,' he said, I just thought I would ask. Please don't take it wrongly. We are nearly at that bus stop. Just a couple of corners more to go. You should be all right there are plenty of busses at this time of day taking workers home to their families and there is more than one bus that will take you where you want to go.'
And then they were past the pub.
It was however a tidy way and she was just getting suspicious again when they came out onto a very busy street and just there was a row of four bus stops. The street was alive with scurrying people and each stop had its own queue. She found it somewhat bewildering.
Indicating the stops the man called James produced a pen and an empty envelope on which he wrote several numbers, and which he handed to her.
'As far as I know any of these buses will take you close to where you are heading.' and he told her what bus stop to ask for. 'Sorry again about the misunderstanding—goodbye and good luck with your adventure.'And with that and a kindly smile he strode off and was soon lost from view.
She breathed a sigh of relief and joined the shortest queue on the list.
But even now her troubles were not yet over.
The bus arrived, but as she was about to board the guard put his hand out to prevent her from doing so.
'Yer can't get on 'ere wi' that,' he said, pointing at her burden. 'Sorry love.'
Time was running out and she was wondering if she was going to succeed. Her face reflected her concern and she was close to tears.
The story was the same on the next two busses.
However the guard on the next one was not on the platform to stop her and she managed to squeeze on. She hoped that the bus would take her near to her destination before she was turfed off. The guard was busy dealing with a separate problem of a very fat lady who clearly had too much to drink and who was unable to find the exact fare in her vast bag. When her turn came to pay the guard told her that hers was the next stop and as she alighted she found herself in a much quieter street. And there approaching with dignified steps was a policeman. He smiled at her and held up his hand to stop her. She felt an overwhelming feeling of relief as he asked her very gently where she was heading. On being told he gave her clear instructions and what to look out for.
Don't worry it's only a few yards your nearly there.
'You can't miss it, there are a few others in place already. But you should be in good time. I see you are well equipped. Now don't worry, either me or one of my colleagues will be keeping an eye on things from now on throughout the night. I hope you have a good time. Good luck,' he added.
And as he had said round the next corner there they were, about a dozen, all girls. The scene was animated by several cheerful discussions and much happy laughter.
YES, THIS WAS IT.
She reached the end of the short queue, sat gratefully down on her rolled—up sleeping bag, so rejected on the busses, placed her thermos flask and sandwich box on the pavement beside her, smiled at the girl who arrived next and settled down for a very, very long wait.
She had made it.
Tomorrow was the 31st of May 1992 and with luck she would be the owner of a ticket to attend the very last performance in Britain at the Albert Hall of her heartthrob Frank Sinatra with the Johnny Dankworth Band and Clio Laine. And her life would be complete.
And so it was.
JML 3/10/2010
Chapter Two
THE WAR OF THE ROSES
It was peaceful for a good many years in the Avenue, the residents being well disposed towards one another. A number of local events, coffee mornings and the like would see neighbours getting together to share problems and offer assistance where needed without being asked. Such was the age of the Avenue that each house was now occupied by retired couples who had seen their families grow up and leave home to make their own way in life. It would be an occasion for all when one or more children paid a visit which they often did. Each household exhibited a good standard of living and good modern cars nestled on the roadside or on drives. Gardens were on the whole well tended with lawns regularly mown and flower beds tidy and clear of weeds. Small trees planted when they first moved in were now quite tall with wide spreading branches.
The place had a comfortable, easy going feel about it.
However—
All this good will and peaceful living was about to vanish in a dense cloud of bitter animosity.
The unwitting catalyst in this disaster was the annual village show, known locally as The Flower Show, although it was much more than this name would suggest. There was a section devoted to jam making, another to cake decoration, yet another one for would be budding artists, and lots more.
Now the manner in which the houses were occupied was fortuitous.
There were nine houses in the avenue. And as was normal the odd numbered houses, that is numbers, one to seven, were on the left and faced south, whilst the even numbered ones, two to eight, were on the right facing north. The ninth house, that is number nine, stood at the very end of the road looking straight down over all the others—in command as it were.
As each young family left, and the old folk retired with lots of lovely time on their hands, they looked round for something interesting and absorbing to do.
Strangely, motivated partly by the many TV programs on the subject and partly by discussions at the coffee mornings there was a universal move to take up gardening, as a pleasant and fruitful way of spending the days. This desire to grow stuff took seed in each household. Greenhouses of various sizes were purchased and mounted on well founded concrete bases. 'How To Do It' books were obtained. The domestic routines would be broken by happy days out at one or other of the many local garden centres, browsing for new and different items to grow. If it was not a plant or shrub that was found it would be other garden assets for weed control or plant nourishment.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from TO BE A THIEF by John Margeryson Lord Copyright © 2012 by John Margeryson Lord. Excerpted by permission of Trafford Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Table of Contents
Contents
DESPERATION....................1THE WAR OF THE ROSES....................9
THEN HE GREW UP....................17
THE INVENTOR....................25
THE WOODWORKER....................32
TO BE A THIEF....................40
TIME AND SPACE....................49
TERRIFIED....................57
THE CHEMISTRY SET....................67
SANITY MISLAID....................72
KING CANNILOPE'S BEARD....................78
AN UNWANTED FIND....................82
QUILT....................91
TO BUY A WIFE....................100