Pause for Thought Short Story Colllection Volume 1

PAUSE FOR THOUGHT

SHORT STORY

COLLECTION VOLUME 1

By

Chris Wilson

Copy Right Notice

Copyright © 2015 by Chris Wilson

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author, addressed Attention: Chris Wilson, at the address below.

Chris Wilson

46 St Catherines Close

Douglas

Isle of Man

IM1 4JB

E. Mail chrisn@manx.net

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work of this author.

A Few Words Of Thanks

The Stories you see before you are born out of my mind and of all I have experienced in life, yet without the help of so many around me none of them would have ever seen the light of day.

It is very rare that the opportunity comes along whereby full recognition can be afforded to all those who have helped you in life, so it is with real pleasure that I can do so now.

So to whom is this book dedicated?

To my dear wife, Miki, whose patience, support, love and understanding, and occasional editorial home truths, have brought me through to this day.

To my family, and to their support and forbearance during repeated bouts of depression.

To my English Teacher, Mrs Hunt, who instilled the love of the English language within me.

To Chris Lyons, who showed me how a heart, even a troubled heart, can sing.

To Barbara Standish, whose enduring friendship brought me to the Isle of Man, and who has supported both myself and Miki over so many years.

To Helen Broadbent, who has supported me as a writer, and who has kindly contributed the foreword to this book

And to so many others, too numerous to mention. God bless you all, and I hope your eyes delight in what you are about to read.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Foreward

Preface

Feel Good Stories

A Question of Style

Dance With Me

Heavenly Indulgences

Slip, Slop, Plop, and Gurgle

The Little Pot of Jam

The Onion Bubble Tree

The Red Headed Mermaid

What’s up Popsi?

A Walk on the Darkside

A Lifetime of Happiness

Cock Robin

Grandma B.B.Betty’s cookie jar

Lone Star

The Family Man

Play Chicken

Paranormal Stories

A Nice Day for a Funeral

The Ghost Tour

Stepping Stones

Contemplative Stories

Hopscotch on the Prom

My Friend Jeannie

My Wife and I

Paddling in the Sea

Reading Between the Lines

The Wise Man and the Fool

The Yoghurt Pot Musketeers

A Final Word of Thanks

About The Author

Contact Details

Foreward

As a writer myself, I find short stories very challenging to produce because the author does not have the luxury of allowing the plot to develop slowly over time. The reader needs to be instantly drawn into whatever situation the characters find themselves in and to be engaged enough to want to find out what happens next.

I met Chris several years ago through our shared love of the written word and am thrilled that he has finally found enough self belief in his work to produce this collection. Some of his work is extremely thought provoking, some of it will make you smile and one piece I read yesterday brought a tear to my eye.

My husband used to take groups of school children to a museum in Spain dedicated to the work of the surrealist painter and sculptor Salvador Dali. Many of the students did not like the pieces on display, most of them did not understand it, but love it or loathe it - it could not be ignored. It made everyone feel something.

I think Chris's work potentially has the same affect on people as he plays on the reader's emotions with deceptive ease. The stories suck you in and then spit you out, emotionally shaken and stirred. Read on and experience a Pause for Thought .....

Helen Broadbent

31st May 2015

Preface

WHAT is this life if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare?

These few words, written by W.H Davies, at the start of his poem Leisure, sum up my whole philosophy of short story writing, and it is a philosophy that I hope to carry to my grave.

In the modern, vibrant, and at times chaotic world that surrounds us, it is all too understandable, if not inevitable, that we miss the quieter moments that surround us all. In doing so, we deprive ourselves of so many stories, of so much happiness, and, yes, at times so many tears.

What if we were to stop and look around us, and what if we were to follow the advice of W.H Davies and to stand and stare?

What would we see, what would we smell and hear, and what emotions would flood through our minds?

These stories are all about such moments, and such emotions, and at times they may transport you to an unknown and a very different destination. Do they all have happy endings, no, not all of them; and might some of them bring forth a tear? Some stories have already done so, but then they are stories that are born out of all life that surrounds us.

So it is that I present you with, what I hope will be, an engaging collection of short stories. All of life is here, as all characters within these stories are, in part, drawn from many years of life that have swirled around me. As such some readers may recognise part of their own life and character within these pages. In advance of such recognition, should it occur, I ask their forbearance should any misinterpretation be conceived, or occur.

All I can say is read, enjoy, grab yourself another coffee, and then, please, come back for more.

Chris Wilson

A Question of Style

Two 10-year-old boys, one burnt out bonfire, one finished yet, still smoking, display of fireworks. Beside each of the boys, a neat napkin wrapped set of cutlery, and a half eaten plate of rapidly cooling food. They looked at the darkened gardens, at the floodlit house behind them, and then, conspiratorially, they began to plan.

Great bonfire Andy.

Fantastic gardens!

Brilliant fireworks, great band and a wicked presentation.

But shame about the food.

Andy and Percy huddled together. Percy’s gardens were perfect for bonfires and fireworks, but next year’s bonfire night would have to be different. It was all a question of planning, and a question of style.

#

What do you mean Andy; you want me to do the cooking on bonfire night! Doesn’t Mrs Fitzpatrick now how to use a knife, an oven, or a chopping board? I’ve got our house to run, as well as the church and W.I functions, isn’t that enough to do?

Lizzie Simmons had been furious with her son Andy and in no uncertain terms she told him so. Mrs Fitzpatrick was a lady of leisure; she had a cook cum chef, and a huge kitchen, so why couldn’t they do their cooking, but Andy had cleverly worked on her. Now, standing alone in that pristine and gleaming kitchen, she suddenly felt very afraid.

It wasn’t the amount of food that bothered her; she had been the village’s Lizzie and Mrs there-for-everyone for years. It wasn’t the food that she was cooking, as she had always kept it simple, and the village had never complained. It was just the fact that she was at the manor house and cooking for Mrs Fitzpatrick. She was the Lady of the Manor, and she knew all about style. Deep in thought she looked at the sack of potatoes, and a tray of sausages that lay beside her. Then looked at the huge fridge where lay mounds of cheddar and lashings of butter on the side.

Keep it simple mum!Andy had pleaded with her.You know how it’s done, you’ve cooked so many times before.

But Lizzie was still worried. This wasn’t her kitchen, this wasn’t a knees up in the village, and she wasn’t an expert on style.

It was time to get going, however, as the King Edward tatties needed scrubbing and crossing, and three large trays of sausages were reproaching her for her delay. Tying up her piny, she was soon elbow deep in the mire. She was happy now as dressed in jeans, jumper, and her favourite, if stained, cooks apron, this is what she was used to.

All that meat and no potatoes- Just aint right, like green tomatoes- Here I’m waiting palpatatin’-for all that meat and no potatoes.

She sang cheerfully to herself while trays of potatoes and farmhouse sausages soon stacked up beside her, and the blocks of cheese and slabs of gleaming butter lay quietly in reserve. She loved Fats Wallah, and although she did have a large sack of potatoes, they, along with the rest of the food beside them almost sang back to her, as they had done so many times before. Lizzie grinned and looked at the food with pride and anticipation. She would soon get the kitchen smelling hot and wholesome, and then, once the food was already and waiting, the real party could get underway.

#

Patricia Fitzpatrick, beautifully manicured and dressed in the latest country fashion, looked at Lizzie without saying a word, and took the time to look at the kitchen that she had rarely seen before. This hadn’t been her kitchen for years, despite the fact that she had paid for it, as it belonged to Arnaud Fournier. He was her Grand Chef de la Maison, as he liked to term himself. He was the tyrannical master of the kitchen, but as Patricia looked at the remarkable piles of food that lay around Lizzie she couldn’t help but smile. Great Arnaud food was all about Pate de Foie Gras, Tarte Tartin, wafer-thin flaming Crepe Suzettes, Winter Black Truffles and gossamer light sweet and savoury soufflés. While she enjoyed such indulgences Patricia, wondered what he would say if he were standing by Lizzie’s side. Arnaud was on holiday, so he would never see such simple delicacies, but Patricia felt unhappy, for deep in her mind, she had fond memories of enjoying this kind of food before. Then she was a child, and she wasn’t the Lady of the Manor. She’d hidden in the haystacks, she had enjoyed complete freedom, and she had laughed with her village friends in the sun.

Now it was different, now she was an adult. As her mother had drummed her, she was a lady now, and her life was all about style. She had a rigidly defined role in the neighbourhood; she was the Lady of the Manor. It was a pity, as even in her mid-thirties, all she wanted to do was to join the villagers, to go outside and play.

Time was marching, the pyrotechnic technician, or fireworks team, were asking for her, and the hired band were curiously short of both an amplifier and a set of drums. Reluctantly, and grumpily she stomped away from the kitchen. She knew that it was her duty to resolve such difficulties, but all she wanted was a match and a sparkler, and as regards the seemingly forgetful band leader, maybe a whizz-bang or two. She just wished that someone would one day call her Patsy. She was sick of her official title, of being called Patricia, or even worse Mrs Fitzpatrick; and Patsy sounded much more fun.

#

Lizzie whacked an old brass cook-house-call table gong that her grandmother had given here, and grinned as everybody surged towards her.

Ok, who’s first for a tattie and a banger! They’re on this table and for those that wants it, there’s cheese and butter on the table by its side! Come on Folks, fill your boots and stuff your stomachs! Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs Fitzpatrick, I didn’t see you standing over there!

Patricia didn’t want Lizzie to apologise, as she hadn’t had so much fun in years.

This night was the childhood that she remembered; this was the happiness and earthy warmth that she had missed for so many years. There was still one difficulty; she had forgotten how to join in with the fun. As the Lady of the Manor, should she really take tattie and a banger, as Lizzie called out so cheerfully, should she really eat both butter and cheese? Where had Lizzie put all the cutlery and crockery? As far as she could ascertain there was only a pile of paper plates and cheap plain napkins. All her fine dining plates and decorated cloth napkins that she had offered were nowhere to be seen.

Standing at to one side of the buffet, as she had been taught by her mother, she looked on enviously. She wanted to join in; she wanted to sink her teeth into a hot sausage and potato, but she found herself at a disadvantage. Drilled in table etiquette, and fine dining, such simple joys had been banned, so she simply didn’t know how such things were done. It was like being Alice when she fell into Wonderland, but though Alice never got any jam from the white queen, she still had fun. She still got a share of the goodies, while Patricia, as Lady of the Manor, ended up with revolting squealing and squirming malodorous piglets, or nothing at all. Deep down, she suddenly felt very empty and lonely, and for one awful moment, she felt that nothing could or would ever change.

#

Cheese and a Tattie for Milady, a couple of chunks of butter and maybe a sausage or two.

Deep in her thoughts and her personal nightmare, Patricia hadn’t even seen her son Percy and Lizzie’s son standing beside her. Let alone Lizzie come up behind him, with a steaming hot plate of food. There was no cutlery though, just a paper plate and a double napkin. She moved back, confused and disorientated, but then stepped forward, for she was hungry. The food was calling, and, it would be rude to hesitate or to refuse.

Oh, go on mum, take a mouthful!Percy merrily sang at her."It won’t hurt you, and the spuds are wicked with all that butter and cheese inside!

She grinned as she looked down at Percy. She had never eaten spuds, and never knew that they were wicked, but how could she possibly refuse. He was a real boy now, and he was openly laughing at her. A trail of butter swept across his cheekbone, and a thick greasy trail of cheese, potato and sausage fat ran across his hand. All he needed was a wooden bowl, a flat cap, a bit of soot and a stack of chimney brushes; and then he could ask for more.

Why not Percy, Patricia replied, laughing, Thank you, Mrs Simmons, sorry, I mean Lizzie, maybe I should give it a go.

#

Delicately and slowly, like an immaculately groomed and perfectly mannered royal swan swimming in children’s overcrowded and noisy paddling pool, she picked up the napkin cradled heavily filled tattie. Eyebrows raised, she cautiously held the food before her. It was crude, rough, and simple, yet as she drew it towards her mouth a new sensation overwhelmed her. The rich bouquet of the filled piping hot potato swept her back over so many rigidly segregated years. As she bit into the potato, she didn’t care about its crude humility. She wasn’t bothered about the grease of the sausage or the thick hot buttery cheese. She was happy; so happy; and eyes closed, she was submerged and lost in a world that she had thought long gone and impossibly far away.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, she was a little girl all again.

She sunk her teeth into a sausage. Her tongue, her chin and her cheeks protested violently but then came the cheese, then the butter and even her frazzled tongue said that all was right with the world.

Three cheers for our Lady of the Manor, three cheers for Patsy, and good health to one and all.

It was Lizzie, who made the toast, and it was both sons who led the cheering, and all Patsy could do was to look at them, blink and smile. Then someone gave her a mirror, and she began laughing. She was the scruffy little ragamuffin now, she covered in tattie cheese and butter, and, at last, she had called Patsy. Now she had been welcomed into the village. The fireworks burst, the bonfire burnt brightly, and the band kept on playing. As she took another large bite if cheesy and buttery tattie, she understood what it was like to be happy; as well as finding an answer to the eternal question of style.

Next year she would be in the kitchen with Lizzie, she would help wash and cross the spuds and tatties if Lizzie would allow her to do so. She would help serve the food to all and sundry, as they surged around her and Lizzie for their food. A great idea, she thought to herself, but what about Lizzie. How would she react if an interloper came into the kitchen? Would Lizzie welcome her, or would she chase her out of the kitchen with a rolling pin or a broom?

That was next year, and she was still hungry, so she took another large bite of her spud or tattie, or whatever it wanted to call itself, and allowed herself to dream.

#

All that meat and no potatoes- Just ain’t right, like green tomatoes- Here I’m waiting palpitatin’-for all that meat and no potatoes."

It had been a good night, better than she had anticipated, and once singing to herself softly, Lizzie gave one last wipe to the gleaming metal Kitchen tables that lay in front of her. She also looked at the huge stack of plates and beautifully wrapped sets of cutlery that quietly sat by their side. Stupid things to have on bonfire night, she thought to herself, so much washing up to do afterwards, and what a waste of time.

She grinned as she remembered Patsy as she first held her tattie, and then looked at the contents that lay inside. Patsy had been magnificent. Like