Black Pepper and Strawberries: A Selection of Short Stories and Verse

Copyright © 2011 by Geoffrey Kennell.

ISBN:          Softcover                                 978-1-4628-6340-2

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4628-6341-9

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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302024

Contents

 Those in peril… .

The Writer.

 Possessed.

Love and Hisses… from the Missus

 The Boot.

Reflections on a dead mouse… .

 ORBIT A glimpse into the future

End of an era

 Tail Gunner

My Giddy Aunt… That standby plant.

 A Troll Named Boorgat

My Vuvuzela

 Early Morning Edition… .

Boy talk…

 Entrance Barred

Man Talk

 The Messenger

Girl Talk

 The Medal

Woman Talk

 Allegro Appassionato

Smoke… gets up your nose.

 Sugar Daddy

The Office Christmas Party

 No Hard Feelings

Farewell to a dear friend

 Three Little Words

 Mr. Angel

Those in peril… .

Cunningham eased the telescope seawards and focused onto a tiny fishing craft that had ‘hoved to’ a mile off shore. Its foredeck was piled high with lobster pots set earlier and now dredged from the English Channel. A little less in length than a trawler, the ship pitched and swayed with the ebbing tide and like so many times of late, the yearning to feel the sea beneath his feet gnawed unmercifully at Cunninghams gut. It had been ten years since he took command of a Royal Naval frigate, and like an excited schoolboy had hunted U boats in the North Atlantic playing cat and mouse games with an unscrupulous enemy. Now even his memory played tricks and he wondered whether perhaps it had all been a dream?

Henry Chandler, bank manager and life long friend sat quietly behind Cunningham. His unexpected visit bought the kind of news that he had been expecting for more than a decade. Somewhat nonchalantly Cunningham attempted to shrug the problem off.

You can see through to Dieppe on a clear day, of course today is pretty hazy.

Chandler smiled as he swirled the twenty-year old brandy around in its goblet.

He had known the Commander since he was first commissioned in the early days of the war and had marveled how quickly this gentle giant of a man had climbed Through the ranks. Now it hardly seemed fair that five years after his retirement from the Royal Navy, Commander James Cunningham was up to the hilt in debt and about to be pronounced bankrupt.

You’ll have to sell this place Jim, and soon because I can’t hold the wolves off indefinitely. What’s it been, four years since Jill passed away and you’ve done nothing to fill the hole she left you in. Dammit Jim, you haven’t even tried to find work, all you do is look out to sea with that stupid telescope and wish you were there.

A fisherman appeared from the wheelhouse. Stripped to the waist he lifted the latch of the trap and emptied the creatures into the hold. A wave of self pity swept over Cunningham as he watched another trap hoisted and emptied.

Chandler was right, he thought grimly "He was like the lobsters, trapped by a life style he could ill afford and fast heading for a pan of boiling water. Despite all his efforts to right things, almost everything had gone wrong after Jill passed away. Luckily she had left the property to him, but the poor woman was hardly cold when he was obliged to borrow on it.

Sell Rose Cottage? The thought was preposterous. There must be an alternative Henry, couldn’t we sub-divide the property?

Chandler shook his head. Less than half an acre, its out of the question Jim, the Borough of Bridport are very strict on that count.

So what’s the alternative, rob a bank?

The banker laughed. As long as its not mine Commander.

Cunningham was about to pour another brandy when the phone rang in the lounge. Half a jiff Henry, I wonder who the Hell that could be?

Ducking beneath the low doorway Cunningham padded across the carpeted lounge to the telephone set on a small coffee table beside the fireplace and lifted the phone. Cunningham. he said quietly. Can I help you?

That you Commander? Without doubt the voice was cockney. A split second passed before he was able to place the voice. But something was wrong, very wrong. He himself had placed a wreath on the gun carriage for the fallen caller five or six years back in Portsmouth Harbour at his full Naval funeral.

Clarke? he queried.

That’s right Sir, Nobby Clarke C.P.O. You remember, I drove the X 23, Operation Gambit, Northern French Beaches back in ‘43?

But… . Confusion flooded through Cunningham. He had stood on the bridge of H.M.S. Terrapin and watched the midget submarine that he had towed some two hundred nautical miles strike a magnetic mine and sink. Had he been mistaken? No, there could be no mistake, the X 23 went down with all hands, all four of them including C.P.O. Nobby Clarke. My God, the man had died in battle and had been given full naval honors for his part in the operation.

Cunningham raised his voice a tad. If you are the Clarke that served under me in nineteen forty-three, then you died at sea, together with three other naval ratings, I watched your submarine sink… . So who the Hell are you?

It really is Clarke Sir, sorry to scare the life out of you. You were mistaken Sir, you saw the X 20 set off a maggy mine and sink, not the X23… . But listen, could we meet?

Meet?

Yeah, I’m close-by you in Weymouth. I have a surprise in store for you, guaranteed to knock your socks off.

Cunningham was rattled. His memory wasn’t that clear on details so far back, especially memories at sea when all Hell was let loose and at any time.

Listen whoever you are, I have no interest in that side of my naval career, I am retired now and have settled comfortably here in Bridport, but thank you all the same.

The voice on the other end of the line sighed. Pity that Commander, its worth a packet I can tell you. Anyway, take down my number in case you change your mind, and I sincerely hope you do. Its 03239796950.

A sudden change of heart prevented Cunningham from replacing the receiver, What was that number again? he asked.

03239796950.

Thanks.

Henry had poured another scotch from the decanter by the time he returned.

What was all that about, an old sea faring friend?

More than perturbed, Cunningham was unable to answer. His mind was back at Naval Headquarters Portsmouth and the pomp and ceremony of the full-blown Naval Funeral held for the men who lost their lives in the midget submarine X23. It was so clear now, he remembered reading the name carefully engraved on the small brass plaque. C.P.O. Gerald Clarke. 14921069.

He took the cut glass goblet off the side table with a trembling hand and drank its contents in one single gulp. Not really Henry, stupid bugger got the wrong number, he lied.

After the banker had gone, Cunningham returned to the telescope mounted on the seaward patio. The fishing trawler was no longer visible but a small Easterly adjustment brought a modern diesel driven ketch into view. He scanned its prow.

Suliman 3, now where would you be off to so late on a Friday evening?

The ketch had its decks awash with scantily dressed women holding glasses of evil looking plonk. Some were sprawled in low deck chairs and it was obvious that the trip they were taking was heading for a weekend of hard drinking and sexual decadence.

Cunningham sighed. What the idle rich get up to these days.

The ketch moved slowly out of view and now only its stern was in view. The royal crest emblazoned in crimson and gold could not be missed. Hazir El Hassim 3. The seventy-one year old Sheikh was reputed to be the richest man in the world, who knows? Perhaps the old lecher had picked up a boatload of young fillies from Le Havre and was heading hot foot towards his Middle Eastern harem?

Sitting alone in the twilight hours, and watching the sky paling into darkness were the worst for Cunningham. Since Jill had died, it was the time he dreaded most, and all the awful hours of waiting for her to die were never far from his memory. Yet he knew full well that drinking vintage brandy was not the solution to the problem, he poured himself another anyway.

Clarke… Nobby Clarke, he said aloud. The episode earlier was more than disconcerting. Raised from the dead… oh no… what in the name of thunder are you up to… and what have you got that will knock my socks off? The last time Cunningham had seen the C.P.O. was somewhere in the English Channel off the coast of Northern France ten years back. Operation Gambit was the exercise, and he had towed the midget submarine to a release point some hundred miles from Portsmouth Harbour. C.P.O. Clarke was a tubby little man with a perpetual cigarette pressed between his lips and a willing smile. He had waved a hand as he stepped down into the conning tower. Tell my Ma not to wait up Skipper. he had shouted above the howling wind. Cunningham ordered Full astern, and moved out the area fast knowing that the Terrapin had ventured deep into un-chartered waters. Ten minutes later the metal pod of the X 23 detonated the magnetic mechanism of a German laid sea mine. The brute force of the explosion rocked the Terrapin from stem to stern.

Oh shit those poor sods have bought it, were Cunninghams first words. What was left of the miniature submarine was hardly worth mentioning. He had written in the ships log words to the effect that the X23 went down with all hands. He had even convened a short prayer meeting in the Officers Mess later that evening. Now, out of the blue Chief Petty Officer Nobby Clarke was seemingly very much alive.

Unable to contain his avid curiosity and perhaps a little drunker than usual Cunningham plucked the telephone handset off its cradle and dialed the number.

It rang for several seconds before it was answered, then the all too familiar noise of a drunken public bar party invaded his ears. Hello Clarke, is that you?

Sir?

Its Cunningham Clarke, Commander Cunningham, when can I see you?

The Chief was barely audible above the background noise. I’m here in Weymouth, meet me at The Ship tomorrow morning around eleven and we can chat.

The ship? Is that on the jetty?

That’s right Sir, you can’t miss it.

The following morning it was blowing a gale and raining. One slice of toast and a cup of black coffee sufficed for breakfast and by half nine Cunningham was on his way towards Weymouth. He remembered Jill’s parents house set high on a cliff overlooking the lighthouse and Nothe Fort. Just commissioned, Jill had fallen for Sub Lieutenant Cunningham hook line and sinker. That first stripe of gold braid on his epaulette had made all the difference to their relationship. Cunningham had run up the eighteen red brick steps to Jills house and hammered on the front door. Guess what I have in my pocket? he had asked.

Jill wore a pretty floral dress that day. Her blonde hair hung shoulder length and she looked absolutely gorgeous. Forefinger to her lip she tried to guess.

Ticket to the Ice Follies?

Nope.

Mars Bar?

Nope.

Give me a clue.

It’s gold.

Jill had caught her breath. She wasn’t ready for marriage, well not yet anyway and this young sailorman had a lot to learn about etiquette, especially table manners. Hmm gold you say, it wouldn’t be a bangle by any chance?

Cunningham broke her suspense by plunging his hand into his pocket and showing her the six lengths of gold braid still to be sewn onto his uniform.

Relieved, Jill threw her arms about his neck. That’s absolutely marvelous, she had said. So now you are an officer and a gentleman?

Sub Lieutenant Cunningham at your service Ma’am. He said, throwing her a fair specimen of a naval salute.

Later that morning Jill had sewn them onto his epaulettes and completely botched the job. The one on the left shoulder was crooked, and it stuck out like a sore thumb. Never mind darling, I’ll get Stevens to put the others on.

Stevens, who is Stevens? She asked.

Oh, didn’t I tell you, I have a batman assigned me, he does odd jobs like running my bath, and ordering refreshments and…

Jill for some reason was furious. A what? she screamed.

Batman darling, all Officers have batmen, I mean, they are part and parcel of becoming an officer. The frozen silence between the two was broken by Jill’s Dad who was delighted by news of his Commission. Bill Stacey seemed a lot more enthusiastic than his daughter, but the Officers Ball, held in honour of the young men being commissioned broke the ice in more ways than one. On the way back from the function Cunningham had tied the knot with Jill and they announced their engagement to her parents the next morning. Forty-eight hours later, he was heading for Portsmouth and made second in command of a corvette. Mine-sweeping operations in the North Sea took him away for several months at a time and he wouldn’t want it any other way.

Swinging off the coast road, Cunningham turned into the suburb of Rodwell and took what he thought would be a short cut. Of course, he was wrong. The Ship just happened to be on the North side of the estuary. Damn, he swore. Nobby Clarke, you had better have a good story to tell for me to come all this way.

He sat in his car until three minutes to eleven then headed for the Public Bar, where he imagined C.P.O. Clarke would be waiting. A quick scan of the patrons made it abundantly clear that Nobby Clarke was not there and he wasn’t in the Saloon Bar either.

Damn, where are you Nobby? Trying to find someone you haven’t seen for years was not as easy as Cunningham had imagined. Two Private Bars and a Ladies Lounge later and C.P.O. Clarke had still not turned up. In desperation he called to the bar tender of the ladies Lounge and ordered a large scotch. The eight or nine patrons already in the bar were all in their early twenties. Clarke, Cunningham fathomed, would be in his forties.

The barman bought a barrel of ice and placed it beside his drink. Thats six shillings and four pence, thank you Sir.

Thanks, er… perhaps you can help me, I was to meet an old naval friend here this morning, he was my Chief Petty Officer by the name of Clarke, Nobby Clarke to be more precise, I wonder if you might remember him?

The barman smiled. You wouldn’t mean Mr. Clarke would you Sir, Gerald I think his name is… he is the owner of The Ship?

Cunninghams eyebrows raised an inch or more. Owner?

That’s right Sir, in fact he owns quite a few properties in Weymouth.

The first gulp of scotch burned all its way down to his stomach. He was taking a second when the bar tender announced, Here he is now Sir.

He turned expecting to see the Petty Officer he once knew aboard ship. The large and sinewy hand that was extended towards him was perhaps the only part that did he recognize. Clarke had slimmed down appreciably. He was well dressed in a light gray suit, silk shirt and a blue tie that matched the sailors piercing blue eyes. Commander, so glad you could come. They shook hands warmly. How long has it been… five years, nearly six?

Cunningham laughed. "Sometimes it