Last Moon Boat

Mike Hoinville

Description

The Last MoonboatA small village in a valley reluctantly welcomes a solitary man who wishes to spread love and happiness among the local children; with rather unexpected results. And what about dabbling with the Great Magic in your attic? It can be done obviously...but....There again we have all been students trying to make a little extra money for minimum work haven't we? It's lucky we did not end up in this 'highly des. Res ' perhaps! And the power of the Moon - still working her timeless power it seems in this modern tale.....while other ancient forces are at work in Russia after a trip to the ballet no less. While in a cultural mood - maybe a trip to a Cathedral would prove less than boring. And remember not to waste time - the hero of this next tale was an expert on that topic; for a while at least. And, finally, back to the Mother Moon's influence for the book's title story. More memories for you, more mysteries to intrigue you!

Sujets

• Short story

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 15 avril 2015
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781785381713
• Langue: English

Extrait

Title Page
THE LAST MOON BOAT
by
Mike Hoinville



Publisher Information
Published in 2015 by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
The right of Mike Hoinville to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998
Copyright © 2015 Mike Hoinville
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any person who does so may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.



Child’s Play
Later, hardly anyone could remember many of the details.
Like all small valley towns they were reluctant to explain to outsiders and so their habitual silence grew in on itself and became a reluctance to talk amongst themselves. Least said soonest mended seemed the order of the day
When I was last there - almost accidentally really - someone was keeping some books for me and I just happened to be passing nearby - most of the real story was so overlaid with rumour and second-hand embroideries that the truth was hard to fathom.
Some things were agreed upon after several evenings and many beers bought and drunk by me and others in the snug of the “Black Dog”. He had been a distant relation of the family and apparently had only been found after prolonged searching and advertising by the executors and solicitors. He had appeared late one weekend evening and seemingly had the keys to the gates and the house itself. Some days later several removal wagons had arrived with French writing on the sides - no one seemed to remember exactly what writing - and there he was; ensconced, alone apparently, in the Vicarage. It wasn’t actually a vicarage at all but some neo-Gothic eccentricity from the turn of the century that a vicar had once rented from the penurious owners and it had subsequently changed hands several times until coming to rest in the care of an old couple who had inevitably followed each other to the grave with as little fuss as they had followed each other when alive.
The new owner soon became somewhat of a favourite with the local tradesmen such as there were. The painting and decorating, glazing and puttying, odd slates and flower beds were renewed and tidied accordingly and paid for in cash and often with generous bonuses which pleased them no end especially as much of the work was in the autumn when the long, coldish and work-scarce months lay ahead. Tall some said, dark-skinned certainly, with or without a beard, sometimes with glasses, sometimes without.
All quite vague stuff really but hardly surprising as, by the time I arrived there, many of the tradesmen had retired and moved (their sons inevitably seeking greener pastures), or died and their widows gratefully surviving in other, warmer, places.
Winter came and delivery vans were seen - all from the nearest big town that delivered provisions. Once or twice a Harrod’s van. Milk and bread were used sparingly it seems and money often left in an envelope pinned to the garden door.
Spring arrived and it was then that all agreed that a surprising thing happened.
A small white table appeared just beside one of the open, ornate gates. Like a card table - X-legged, with a neat white cloth carefully arranged with its points equally spaced between the table corners. On the table; a crystal vase completely filled with a bouquet of - Barley Sticks... glorious things of reddish-brown spiralled sweetness, the likes of which had rarely been seen even by the older inhabitants and certainly far beyond the imagination of the local Post Office stores. With the barley sticks, neatly written in a semi-copperplate hand on white card, in a silver edged photo frame, was the message
“Please take one and Welcome, but please remember the others.”
This caused some discussion - no one took one at first of course, it was too new, too strange, too unexpected. Which “others” did he mean? Other barley sticks? Other people?
At last someone took one - or several people took one - or one person took several. Whichever it was, the little bouquet gradually grew less. Considerately, when it threatened rain, a large stripy umbrella appeared over the table anchored by one of those water-filled white bases as if for a picnic.
Everyone was well aware of this strange affair and equally reluctant to take the last stick for fear - of what?
Still, of course, someone did take the last one. Or did HE take it to show that he knew what they were thinking?
Everyone agrees that the last stick went after church on a Sunday; and everyone agrees that Monday morning the vase had been replaced by a most handsome fruit bowl, again of good crystal and absolutely filled with assorted wrapped sweets. The card now read “ Hopefully you will enjoy these. Please share your happiness with as many as possible.” . At least this was less cryptic than the first and the bowl soon emptied. John and Ellen Blake even wrote and coloured a little card which they weighted with the empty bowl - “Thank you sir - they were luvely. John and Ellen Blake, Town End Farm.”
This seemed to start a little fashion among the younger ones and soon all sorts of messages and drawings, paintings and even plasticine models appeared on the table in gratitude for each, seemingly endless, offering of candies, chocolates, gums and drops.
Then it stopped.
For a week no table appeared on a Monday and no explanation. Some parents even discussed knocking on the door to see if he was alright, but they never got round to it when someone actually had to do it.
Then a strange van appeared with a Bristol name on it and seemed to deliver a lot of stuff. Or at least the driver was there most of the morning according to the barmaid who lived nearby.
Then the table reappeared but instead of sweets there was a neat box and a large typewritten message in a larger silver edged frame saying “ You’re welcome to take one but only one for each family’s children.” - and inside the box.
An invitation!
“The Grand Opening of the Vicarage Playground.
Children only, Entrance Free.
Refreshments provided.
Sunday 21 st March from 11am.”
This time several parents did knock but got no reply. Those more nervous or busy ones who telephoned were told that the number was now Ex-directory. Many children were warned not to go - and take the invitation BACK ! But many weren’t warned. After all, it was a small village. What could happen with a lot of children. the gates were always open... “.we could always surprise him on the day and go in and we have to meet the kids anyway when it’s all over. “
Sunday came.
So did the children.
The church was reportedly surprisingly empty that day and the vicar, Mr Parsons - oh, he suffered for that name - made gentle enquiries and considered it “ No harm done really.” which is what he almost always said.
Some mums did go and a few protective dads too and they were politely encouraged not to worry by means of a large notice on a wooden stake on the front lawn just inside the gates.
And it seems that there was really no need for the garden of the Vicarage had been largely transformed into - a children’s playground.
And what a thing of wonder it was.
Swings and roundabouts and bouncy things. Sandpits and digging things and shaping things; a slide; a monkey frame, ropes and a tree house - a real tree house in a real tree !
All brightly coloured and safely installed (by the man from Bristol it seems And - what refreshments! Everything for children and encouragement too for healthy eating with some salads and dips and sugar free this and that. Indeed some of the mums were hoping for recipes from this surprisingly modern man... if he had appeared at all that is.
It was all quite remarkable. And all the more so as the village had never had proper children’s facilities except for the rather dangerous ponds and streams with the usual perpetual parental warnings and fears and the equally usual -
“Yes, Mum.” as a response
Of course, the darker muttering from the parents of those children that didn’t go was largely concerned with WHY?
They were not entirely convinced by the easy answer - that he just loved children, having none of his own they supposed.
Still - the mums and dads who had gone, left their loved ones to the abandon of the amazing playground with strict instructions to be at the gates by six. This was greeted by a great chorus of Hooray and wild shrieks as a crowd of happy youngsters fought over food, tree-house and rope ladders. It has to be said that there was not a little relief in the faces of the parents as they walked home. the general opinion was that he must be a nice man anyway and a generous spirit had come to the village and, hopefully , would stay.
No one remembered his name though... something with an H perhaps... or perhaps not?
Six o’clock came uneventfully. Kids duly arrived or were collected and one parent received a little girl with a neatly plastered knee and proud explanations of how she got it - followed by a polite phone call about half and hour later explaining the minor mishap and hoping that all was well.
All in all a satisfactory day for everyone and one which had greatly entrenched the man at the Vicarage in the affections of the children and parents alike.
And so it continued through that Spring.
The gates w