Serendipity

John Butler

Description

An avid reader of short stories myself, I have enjoyed journeying along with the likes of Mark Twain, O'Henry, Maupassant, Frank O'Connor and others of such ilk. Nearer home, writers like Keith Waterhouse, Bill Naughton, Sid Chaplin, Stan Barstow are among my favourites and of course the inimitable P.G.Wodehouse.In gathering together over the years, this collection of short stories, I feel somewhat like a campanologist with his carillon of bells - ringing the changes.In 'Serendipity' there is something for everyone. If your taste is humour there are plenty including 'It's No Laughing Matter', 'Stop! ...Don't Go Any Further'. There are slices of real life in 'Arthur', 'Lanky Franky', 'Death of the Hindenburg' and 'My Only Sunshine'. There is satire and irreligious ones - written without any malice. In the animal stories 'The Dog', 'The Gulls' Court' and 'The Camel' I have given myself full rein and enjoyed exercising anthropomorphism. In short 'Serendipity' is the word - take a dip and find your winner. I hope while reading these stories you will be able to share the enjoyment that I felt when writing them.Book reviews online @ www.publishedbestsellers.com

Sujets

• Short story

Informations

• Publié par: Pneuma Springs Publishing
• Date de parution: 06 décembre 2012
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781782282358
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Serendipity

A miscellany of short stories



John Butler
Copyright
First Published in 2012 by: Pneuma Springs Publishing
Serendipity - A miscellany of short stories Copyright © 2012 John Butler
John Butler has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this Work
Pneuma Springs
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Butler, John. Serendipity : a miscellany of short stories. I. Title 823.9'14-dc23
Kindle eISBN: 9781782282464 Epub eISBN: 9781782282358 PDF eBook eISBN: 9781782282570 Paperback ISBN: 9781782281856
Pneuma Springs Publishing E: [e-mail] W: www.pneumasprings.co.uk
Published in the United Kingdom. All rights reserved under International Copyright Law. Contents and/or cover may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written consent of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, save those clearly in the public domain, is purely coincidental.
Acknowledgements
Many thanks to Grace and Helena Young for the sketches in 'Charlie is mi Darling' and 'The Saga of Lanky Franky'.

Many thanks also to Adam Singleton for his cartoon in 'Shame about the Boots'.
Contents
It’s no laughing matter
I had a dream
Dog
Charlie is mi darling
Two of a kind
The whistle
Life is just a bore
A curly tale
A gullible tale
A load of jollop
A train of thoughts
Stop! … don’t go any further
The anniversary
Alternative medicine!
If only we were rich
‘It gives me great pleasure’
Only a nail
The job
The wedding day
Would you believe it?
Just a job
Shame about the boots
The saga of L anky F ranky
The sale of the century
It must have been a C onservative
A case of sharp knives
A false spirit
Double drainers
‘Elementary my dear Watson’
Fait accompli
Life’s a dream
My year of discovery
Ashes to ashes
I don’t believe in ghosts
My only sunshine
The camel’s story
The last time I saw Paris
The room
The seven deadly sins
Is this goodbye?
Late availability
Oh no! not for L ily
The bicycle
The day I came to earth
The death of ‘the H indenburg’- May 6 th 1937
Who’s there?
We’ve all got one
A most useless present
Arthur
I should have seen it coming
What’s trumps?
The wedding knight
The announcement
Well now, what d’y know?
1. It’s no laughing matter
I always look forward to Friday night. It is then our debating society meets at the Lord Nelson to hone its skills.
Our usual ploy is to listen to the topic of conversation that is flowing and quietly muscle in to demonstrate our powers of articulation over the common herd.
Tonight though, something different was afoot. The topic was the latest film, ‘The King’s Speech’.
It had evidently been very moving and this affliction of stammering had touched a tender nerve. Members clamoured to give their personal views and encounters of it.
I felt I had to tell them of my own fight to cure myself, too.
From early childhood I had this terrible stammer and when it came round to having to make a living, I decided I must do something about it. I went to London to see a specialist.
“Yes?” said the specialist.
“I-I-I-I-I,” I spluttered.
“You were saying?”
“Woo-woo-woo-woo.”
“Sing it,” said the specialist.
“S-s-s-s-s-s?” I said, puzzled.
The specialist was a kindly man with moth-eaten side whiskers and an eye like a meditative cod fish.
“Many people,” he said, “who are unable to articulate in ordinary speech find themselves lucid and clear when they burst into song.”
It seemed a good idea, so I tried.
“I love a lassie, a bonny, bonny lassie. She’s as pure as the lily in the dell.”
“Ah,” said the specialist, “sounds a nice girl. Is she?”
I nodded and drew a deep breath.
“Yes, sir, that’s my baby,” I sang.
“There is only one cure,” said the specialist, eyeing me benevolently.
“W-w-w-w-what’s that?”
“Stammering,” said the specialist, “is mainly mental and caused by shyness. The advice I give to all young men sounding like water- syphons is to go out and make a point of speaking to at least three perfect strangers every day and soon you will find your shyness wears off and you can speak clearly.”
So, after handing him £50, I set out into the world.

My train compartment was empty but just as it was about to set off a large, fierce-looking man got in. I would have preferred someone a little less formidable to practise on but as I was about to start he leaned forward and spoke:
“N-n-nice w-w-weather.”
I sat back and gasped. I could not reply, “Y-y-y-yes” to such a man. My silence seemed to exasperate him.
“I-I-I-I asked you a c-c-civil qu-qu-qu-estion,” he bristled, “Are you deaf?”
I pointed to my mouth and uttered a gurgle. He understood and buried himself in his paper.
I had to change trains and as I was waiting on the platform a strange figure emerged. It was a large man dressed in pyjamas , brown boots and a raincoat. He carried a top-hat into which he kept dipping his fingers, taking them out and nodding most amiably in my direction. I spoke to him.
“N-nice w-w-weather,” I sang.
“Yes, I ordered it specially.”
“Might I ask what you are doing with that hat?” I trilled.
“Oh, just scattering largesse to the multitude. Devil of a bore but it’s expected of me. I’m the Emperor of Abyssinia and that’s my castle over there.”
He held my arm in a vice-like grip. “We are alone at last.”
He led the way to an old lamp-room; it was dark and gloomy.
I leapt back and slammed the door on him, then finding an empty compartment on the train; I flung the door to and dived under the seat. After a while the door opened and I was relieved to see a pair of feminine ankles before me…
A voice asked, “What was that disturbance I heard just now?”
“Oh, a patient escaped from the nearby asylum ma’am.”
I had never travelled under a seat before and I was aware that scrambling out might alarm the lady so as quietly as I could I wriggled my way out and unobserved, seated myself on the seat away from her. She was an elderly lady and engrossed in her paper and to all intents and purposes alone.
I cleared my throat.
“Ah-ah-m!” I coughed, then gave, what I thought was a winning smile. I waited for my companion to make the next move.
The move she made was in an upward direction and measured from six to eight inches. She rose from the seat like a rocketing pheasant. If there had been an award for the sitting High Jump she would have won a gold. She dropped her paper and looked at me with undisguised horror. Her face worked but she made no remark. I was at a loss as to what to do next. I glanced at my watch… four thirty… tea-time. Women loved a cup of tea and fortunately I had brought my flask with me.
I wanted to say, “Pardon me, but would you like a nice cup of tea?”
The woman continued to stare at me; her eyes looked the size of golf balls and her breathing suggested the last stages of asthma.
I remembered the advice of the specialist.
“Tea for two and two for tea, and me for you and you for me.”
I was shocked to see the lady turning Nile Green. I tried to make my intentions clearer. I sang;
“I have a full thermos; won’t you share it with me? When skies are grey and you’re feeling a bit blue, tea sends the sun smiling through. May I pour one out for you?”
She gave me one last agoni s ing look, closed her eyes and sank back into her seat.
At that point, my thermos flask fell from the seat and exploded like a bomb. She screamed and pulled the communication cord. The train drew to a grinding halt. Without a second’s hesitation I flung open the door and fled across the open fields beyond.

The trauma cured my affliction and I have n-never s-stammered since; not m-m-much anyway.
2. I had a dream
Always it was the same. Living as I did in the turbulent, wild unreality of the great City, I longed for the time when I could buy my cottage in the country and begin my life.
Peace, beautiful serene peace and solitude are what I sought; now I have it.
My cottage is perfect. I have my home at last. The exquisite quiet of this room! I have been sitting in utter idleness watching the sky, viewing the shape of golden sunlight upon the carpet, which changes as the minutes pass, letting my eyes wander from one framed print to another, and along the ranks of my beloved books.
Within the house nothing stirs. In the garden I can hear the singing of birds; I can hear the rustle of their wings. And thus, if it pleases me, I may sit all day long and into the quiet of the night.
By great good fortune I have found a housekeeper, no less to my mind, a low-voiced, light-footed woman of discreet age, strong and deft enough to render me all the service I require, and not afraid of solitude. She rises very early. By my breakfast time there remains little to be done. Very rarely do I hear even a clink of crockery, never the closing of a door or window. Oh, blessed silence.
I have my home at last. When I place a new volume on my shelves, I say, “Stand there while I have eyes to see you,” and a joyous tremor runs through me.
I have been thinking of those years of mine in London, when the seasons passed over me unobserved. I never looked upon a meadow, never travelled further than the tree bordered suburbs. Now it is spring and every day that passes is like a jewel in my new-found crown. Today, almost continuous rain, yet for me a day of delight. I had breakfasted and was pouring over a map of the local countryside when a knock came at my door. Mrs M bore in a great brown paper parcel that I saw at a glance must contain books. I had not expected my order so soon. With not a mild excitement I set the parcel on the table, eyed it whilst I tendered the fire, the