Bryan Islip's Blog, page 52

Creating many stories

Soon it will be ready: an author website devoted entirely to my literary efforts. Of course it encapsulates all my fiction - the novels More Deaths Than One and Going with Gabriel and the anthology of short stories, Twenty Bites, but it will also offer a new and possibly unique element about which I am both challenged and excited.

The idea was first floated in my blog, Creating a story, 10th December. In that blog I showed how, to kick off a new fiction, whether a novel or a short short story I begin by (a) establishing a character with a problem and (b) his or her physical / geographical situation. Over subsequent blogging days I put this into practice by beginning, developing and completing a story, then showing how it could have been extended and modified into a full length novel. Now to practice what I preach: the new website (details to follow next week) will offer a brand new short story on the 1st of every month. As the site says; the story will make you smile or even laugh, or make you cry, or want to, or will make you think new thoughts or just make you feel better. Or all of the above...

I just hope I can keep up with this firm commitment! I have always responded best to deadline pressures. We shall see ...

Boxing Day

So this was Christmas! There is an inevitable sadness about Boxing Day. Apart from the physical, that is. Don't know from where the 26th December acquired its title but an awful lot of us will be feeling today as if we had gone a few rounds with Cassius Clay / Mohamed Ali. However the pain does diminish as the years progress and one learns not to challenge oneself quite so much with the over-eating, the over-drinking, the other shenanigins and the general making of merrie.

We had a very good Christmas. Just Dee and me and a tiny little 'mini-Yorkie' type dog called Lottie. Lottie had been brought north for the holidays by the parents of a local friend. Unfortunately same local friend has a troupe of very large canines, one of whom showed every inclination to treat poor Lottie as either a toy or a meal! We were glad to afford her refuge and  I hope we please her as much as she pleases us. She has taken away some of the pain of Dee's trapped sciatic nerve (which I would have blamed on Elna's Burns Club Hieland Dancing regimen the other day were it not for the fact that Dee was photoing the action rather than participating in it.)

Owing to a cock up at the butcher's (no pun intended) we seem to have a plethora of  stripped down birds around the place. (no, not those; I mean the now featherless sort.) Apart from a great fat duck, only a quarter consumed during our yuletide dinner, we possess two fresh guinea fowl and a plump pheasant. As declared the lady in Gone With The Wind (how appropriate was that?) 'I'll never go hungry again'!

But with a roaring coal and yulelog fire in our sizeable grate and the opening of parcels and all Dee's tree and other decorations and a few glasses of this and that and phone calls to and from friends and family, (sorry we couldn't reach you, L,  but left a message) Christmas was, well, Christmas. The high ceilinged rooms in this old stone manse house lent an almost Dickensian flavour to the day. Oh, and not to forget Winchester Cathedral's marvellous carol service.

We awoke to news of Australia's humbling by England's cricketers, so all is well with the world. All I need now is Man Utd 5 Sunderland 0 this afternoon.

A Merry Christmas

Twas now Christmas Day in the manger
And the snow was falling fast
Put another twig on the fire, dear, she said
Let's just make this moment last

He fondly grasped her well-chapped hand
'Twas as cold as any old stone
You've never been lovelier than this, he said,
God bless us, every one

What is for our pleasure this day? cried he
What surprise awaits me now?
What tidings of comfort and joy bring thee?
What, a babe? Pray tell me how

She wrapped him in swaddling clothes and replied
I know not from whence he came 
But the Lord has so blessed us, my Joseph dear
And there's no man, no man to blame

The great stable door flew open wide at that
And three crowned heads came in
Yes, We three kings of Orient are, they sang
And gifts for the newborn we bring

There's frankincense rare from me, said one
And my Kingdom shall be His alone
And the second said 'myrrh' for His only son
And this babe for my race shall atone

And the third offered gold for His story's told -
He'll go forth with His flag unfurled
And though nought of worth can be bought or sold
This Jesus shall rule o'er the world









 

The Spirit of Christmas

I've been trying to find and to analyse the spirit, as opposed to the fact of Christmas, thus far without definitive success. However, after 76 years I think I've established to my own satisfaction at least that which the Christmas spirit is not ...
It is not to be found in any bottle, glass or cupIt comes not through feasting (or the consumption of a bird)It shines not through any TV screenIt cannot be purchased in shops with moneyIt does not depend on winter or snowfall or even calendar dateIt is not truly expressed in popular song It appears not printed on folded cardIt is not dependent on rank, gender, age, race or title... although all such things tell us that it is still alive and that it is right here, right now.

So what do we know of it? We know that Christmas is literally a celebration of the descent onto this, our insignificant planet earth, of that 'He' who, some suppose, picked out and plucked us - alone of all 'His' supposed creations - from a perfect Garden of Eden. But even we/those of the the western world majority who have cast aside religion know there really is such a thing as the spirit of Christmas.

The closest I have come to any kind of personal understanding came when I realised that there actually is an innate goodness within this species of ours. Buried as it might be beneath a mudslide of  consumerism, greed, worship of false (celebrity) idols  etc, etc, it is still there. You can see it in the innocent eyes of small children as much as in the faces of those soldiers of World War One who ceased shooting each other, climbed from their opposing trenches, met in the middle to shake hands and exchange small gifts on Christmas Day, 1915. You can see it everywhere if you really want to. And/or feel it.

And this ephemeral, beautiful, elusive Spirit of Christmases Past, Christmas Present and Christmases Future are one and the same. (Sorry Mr Dickens / Eberneezer.)
  

Rabbie Burns

So yesterday we finally had our Burns Club Christmas get-together. It took place at Elna's beautiful house overlooking the Badachro Inn and the Bay, with Gairloch laid out beyond. Mirror flat seas, cold blue skies and snow lying all around was the order of the day. Magical!

As we haven't had the car out of our snow-bound drive for more than a week the Bard of Fernbank was kind enough to drive us to Badachro, displaying the casual skills of a Norwegian rally driver en route. Warmed up considerably when the mulled wine and highland dancing set in.

I meant to read out the following short short story as my contribution to the proceedings but we felt it wise to get back on the road before dark, so here, now, it is ...


For All That
The Globe Inn proved to be a most popular venue this market day. My travelling companion told me what he would like to drink. I eased myself through the crowd and up to the servery. Loud Scots voices and shouts of laughter overlapped and over-rode each other. A part-shaven, apparently early day victim of the demon drink ensconced in the corner was singing as if to himself about his 'luve being like a red red rose'. Seemingly he missed this lassie very much, did this fair looking man in well-worn clothing. The fellow had a good enough voice on him but at mid-day?
'Wha's for thee?'
'Two of your finest drams, innkeeper,' I replied, revelling in my own use of the vernacular; 'If it should please you.' The drunken singer had hauled himself upright, gesticulating extravagantly. He sang on: 'And fare thee weel, my only luve / and fare thee weel a while! / And I will come again my Luve / Tho' it were ten thousand mile.' He stopped at that and, as some applause broke out, looked all around, nodding, smiling a trifle crookedly. He bowed low in acknowledgment. In spite of the drink and the well worn state of his clothing the fellow was most surely possessed of a certain dignity. 'Innkeeper,' I added, 'And give that man whatever he may be drinking. It was a fine song.'
'Aye, we know it and we know him weel enough here,' was the response.
The singer must have overheard the exchange. 'Fee, fie, foe, fum,' he proferred, looking along the bar top directly at me, 'For I smell the bluid of an Englishman; a rich one, by heavens!'
'Come come, my good man,' I said. 'This one wishes you no ill'.
'Aye?' He accepted the glass of whisky seemingly with good grace, still on his feet though staggering a little. 'As no more do I, you, my lord,' he says. Now I am no lord, simply an ordinary citizen of the realm with my friend on tour around these northern parts. But the man raised his glass; 'And in thankful compensation for this I have some words for thee, my lord,' says he, striking a heroic pose, supported in part now by a passing serving girl, a comely lass. The babble had stopped. In a new and clearly expectant silence the man drew himself to his full height, threw wide his arms, recited … (and I shall try the dialect here, for better or worse) …
Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,
Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that;
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof for a' that:
For a' that, an' a' that,
His ribband, star, an' a' that:
The man o' independent mind
He looks an' laughs at a' that.

He drained his drink in one, shrugged off the girl, took to the centre of the floor, went on …
A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an' a' that;
But an honest man's abon his might,
Gude faith, he maunna fa' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,
Their dignities an' a' that;
The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth,
Are higher rank than a' that.
I felt I should protest; should aver that events overseas had no place in these bejewelled and thus far peace-filled islands of ours but I had become as if entranced by both the man and these revolutionary words … He continued, looking now more to my companion that to myself …

Then let us pray that come it may,
(As come it will for a' that,)
That Sense and Worth, o'er a' the earth,
Shall bear the gree, an' a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
It's coming yet for a' that,
That Man to Man, the world o'er,
Shall brothers be for a' that.
I knew this to be very, very fine poesy! With a final flourish he weaved his way in an extended silence back to his seat at the corner of the bar. Then came the clapping and the cheering, and I have to say endorsed by myself and most emphatically by my companion, whether the verse be politically dangerous or no. The reciter was as if deaf to all now. How quickly had he re-engaged with his serving girl!
When I could finally make myself heard I caught the innkeeper's attention. 'A fine poem,' says I, 'And one I have not heard before. 'It is by the speaker?'
'No,' says the man. 'The speaker is Rabbie Carsin, but he's the son of the poet in all but name, or so it is said. He doesn'a mind being known as such. Look at him yonder! Like father like son if you'll see him now! Yes, Rabbie Burns is the poet, or he was, and as well known here in the Globe as this other. They called Burns the ploughman poet. He died here in Dumphries twenty and four years since. But you have heard no word of Burns down in England?
I shook my head. 'But I have now,' I said. I addressed my companion; 'You have heard tell of this Rabbie Burns?'
'Yes I have, and you may be sure that the whole world will come to hear much more of him,' replied Lord Byron. 'Do you not think so, Shelley?'
The end  
1820 is the year of this story. Burns died in 1796, Shelley in 1822, Byron in 1824

Crime and punishment

Yesterday there was a pre-view piece on BBC TV that interested me. It seems they have re-made a series of Richmel Crompton's immortal Just William. I look forward to viewing it, but it took me back a wee bit …
Soon after I was installed as a 12 year old school boarder (yes cheeky, I can remember that far back!) my friend Sidney and I slipped away one summer's afternoon, leaving the school environs without permission. This was an offence punishable only by a caning from our housemaster. But of course one had first to be found out.
Furtively we hurried through Abingdon town and down to the banks of the river Thames. There we climbed a willow tree overhanging the river to get a better view of just what that couple were up to down there in the long grass. (Some may remember a similar incident in my novel, More Deaths Than One .) All was going very well on the sex education front until my buddy was stung on the leg by an angry hornet. His shout would have woken the dead but, conversely, killed the male/female proceedings down below stone dead. I think they call it coitus interruptus.
Up jumped an extremely angry 'himself'. His language appalled us. It was clear he was going to wait for however long it took for us to come down out of the tree and take our punishment. She, by then, had re-arranged herself before running away red-faced. There was nothing for it but  … 'Come on' said Sidney, and jumped from a not inconsiderable height into the cold black waters of the Thames, closely followed by yours truly. I can only assume that 'himself' either could not swim or was living in hopes we could not swim. If so he was unlucky.
You know how some things when you were young made such an everlasting impression on you? No I'm not talking so much about the shenannagins in the grass as much as the plunge from on high into the depths and the panic as waterweed brushed by my hands and face. Everyone knew how underwater weed would wrap you up, consigning you to a most horrible end.
Anyway we made it to the opposite bank of the river, dragged ourselves out to a cavalcade of awful threats from he who had been frustrated and ran back through Abingdon. Unfortunately we were apprehended en route by a sixth form prefect, muddy, soaking, cap-less. We were escorted straight away to the housemaster's office. Six of the best - actually, the worst  - ensued, but of course you neither protested false innocence beforehand nor cried during, much less after, the caning. And the multicoloured weals across our gluti maximi were admired by the other boys for days on end.
But I decided against a life of crime, preferring later to write about it.

More on Tommy Barlow

I promised to do something today as a postscript to my short story, One Cold, Cold Day. So here goes with some thinking aloud …
1. Expansion into a full length short story (say 4,500 words from the current I,800) 
To expand the narrative I would develop Tommy Barlow's character. (See 2 below) Sketch in how he feels about life in general and his Gloria in particular. What does he like to do other than deliver letters? What is he like physically? Where the current narrative finishes I would write forward. Tommy would be faced with another problem. In spite of all, he is beginning to have designs on nurse O'Reilly. But … she has spent time with hospice director McCorquodale - who also fancies her and who makes a more direct approach. Will she come and supervise the hospice for him - and of course fall for the big etc? She does like the job offer and also the man. Even though she has developed a soft spot for her patient, Tommy, she is professionally inhibited in that direction and besides that is put off him by his drinking. The twist in the tail of this longer short story comes when he is allowed out of hospital. Belinda has rounded up the neighbours' support for a big party in honour of their long-serving postie and incidentally to say goodbye to the neighbours on her own behalf. WELCOME HOME, TOMMY PRESLEY reads the banner across Napier Street. (Presley? See below)
2. Expansion into a novel.
Here I think it would be necessary to go back a bit; show how postman Tommy's life had developed with his wife Gloria. Tommy has been a lifelong Elvis Presley fanatic, often dresses the part, competes in Elvis Lookalike contests etc. I begin the novel with the scene where he gets home off shift and finds her goodbye letter ref. Anglelo the plumber propped up on the kitchen table. Descent into drink etc. Then the full length short story narrative above. Picking up from there, during the welcome home street party he ends up performing his full Elvis repertoire. He is now certain that he is falling for Belinda. He enlists her help in taking stock of his life. Unfortunately the drink is still on him. He forces his sexual attentions on her and, although through no intention of Belinda, the police become involved. Some letters have gone missing whilst he was in his heavy drinking phase after Gloria 'left' and before his accidentm. He now is faced with two major problems (possible rape and theft of the mails) and a third when the post office fire him. Tommy gathers his finances and resolves to disappear. Where to? America beckons.  Graceland of course.
(That's takes us up to about chapter four … after that? No idea … yet.)

Finis: One Cold, Cold Day

Well you saw the first imaginings and the start and the growth of the story and now this is the final version, ready to be the first short story on the upcoming (some weeks away yet) www.bryanislipauthor.com  ... remember, you saw it here first!
One Cold, Cold Day 
Roger the barman pulled to top up the glass, spatula'd off an excess head of beer, handed him his next pint. 'You OK, Tommy?' he said, then, 'Sorry, sorry. Stupid question. Listen mate, cheer up. What is it - three months now and not a word? She just cannot be worth it.'
Tommy shifted on his bar stool, said nothing. He'd said enough. He was trying not to think about Glo and her new man; Angelo the plumber! whoever that bastard might be. Snow had piled up outside in the corners of the pub's window panes like on all the poxy Christmas cards. No sooner that postman-breaking Christmas gone than yet more cards today; bloody Valentine's. All the coloured envelopes, some with stuff on the back: SWALK, BURMA, ISYU. Most of them obviously husband to wives or more likely wives to husbands or more likely wives to someone else's damn husband. Had Gloria sent this Angelo one? He fingered the unopened envelopes in his pocket. There were always a few for him; all of course anonymous, some of them really crude. Most postmen got them. Well, this postman for one couldn't give a damn.
'You finished for today?' Roger asked.
'Yeah.'
'Good. Listen Tommy, mate, you've just got to get a grip.' He wiped off the bar top. 'Shit happens. 'Postman drunk in charge of a push bike' - that wouldn't help, would it? He laughed. The man in the suit sitting along the bar momentarily raised his head from his newspaper. Roger went on, 'If it snows much more you'll be having to dig your bike out. Leave it there. I'll see it's OK. You're best off home on good old Shanks's pony today.'
'Maybe; bike belongs to the Post Office. Let them come and dig it out,' Tommy muttered. The room was moving. He concentrated on keeping his head still. Didn't help. There was a good fire in here. Nice and warm but those sickening smells of yesterday's booze and today's fried food! He was not hungry. He wasn't thirsty either but he was set fair to getting himself outside a whole lot of beer today. Like most days since Glo had gone. To hell with her and her Italian bloody stallion. Plumber, she'd said! Angelo the plumber. Sounded like some stupid Ninja Turtle. Well, he'd plumbed Gloria all right, the bastard! He blinked back tears of self-pity. Twenty seven years married and she hadn't told him anything about it. Not a blind thing 'til he'd got home that time, picked up the envelope off the kitchen table. Nothing. Not how long it had been going on for nor any damn thing except she loved the man and, 'I don't want to hurt you Tom, because you know I've always loved you as best I could in my own way. I'm so sorry there have not been any family. I'm so sorry!!!' No address where they'd buggered off to. Nothing!
The rest of his new pint disappeared in one long swallow. He banged down the glass for another and the bar stool somehow tipped over sideways. He went down hard. Something seemed to be breaking; something other than his heart.

The black became white and the white became shapes and the shapes became faces, the faces of strangers dressed as medics. The youthful face under its green hair cover moved its lips. 'Well hello there. Welcome back, Mister Barlow.' it said. 'Don't move now. You're going to be all right but best to keep still for a bit. You had a fall.' An index finger moved from side to side in front of his eyes. 'You're in Southampton General and I'm Doctor Sikorski and this is Nurse O'Reilly.' The young man smiled down at him. 'Just testing now, Tommy. What did I say was my name?'
'Silosky. Doctor Silosky?' What the hell's the guy to smile about? His tongue seemed too large for his mouth and he would never have recognised the gravelly voice as his own. 'Or Sikosky is it?' He groaned.
'That's near enough for anyone with your amount of alcohol aboard. You're going to be fine. You took a bit of a bang on your head and your hand's suffered some laceration but nothing permanent.' He straightened up, stethoscope swinging, then moved out of sight. 'Nurse, help him sit up. Back in an hour or so.' 
He felt the nurse moving around the bed, tucking in and arranging the covers. Finally she crooked an arm around the back of his neck, helped him to sit, plumped up the pillows, lowered him gently. She smelled of flowery deodorant, liquorice, lipstick, antiseptic; woman. Yes, plenty of woman beneath the blue hospital dress. She drew up a chair, took out and shook down a thermometer, inserted it into his mouth. 'You don't recognise me then, Mr Postman Tommy Barlow?' She smiled. Tawny blonde hair curved out from under the cap: nice lips, friendly eyes with just the right network of the finest lines, about his own age, mid forties maybe. Pretty lady.
In spite of his aching head and the pain in his bandaged right hand Tommy felt the attraction and how long since the last time he'd felt that? He managed to speak around the device lodged under his tongue. 'Don't think I would have forgotten, nurse. But can't say I remember you, no. Should I?'
'Thirty nine Napier Avenue?'
The response came as if on automatic; 'Mrs Belinda O'Reilly! The one with all the heavy catalogues. Right, of course. We're near neighbours.' 
She leaned forward to remove the thermometer, looked at it, shook it down, replaced it in its case and the case into its correct breast pocket position 'Yes, neighbours so we are, Mister Barlow. But the Mrs? Once upon a time, maybe. So the Mrs is what you might call a courtesy title. …' There was a soft and pleasing Irishness in there somewhere.
'Please, I'm Tommy,' he said.
'Tommy. Yes of course. I -' she hesitated, then, 'I heard about your wife. I am sorry.'
Christ, had the whole world been in on it? On the shame of it? 'Don't be,' he muttered. 'There's nothing to be sorry about.' He wanted to say shit happens. 'Things happen,' he said.
'Yes.' She stood up, smoothed her nice blue uniform over her nice round thighs and then, more briskly; 'Perhaps, Mister Postman, you'd like to open your own mail now? You had these in your pocket.' She handed him the three envelopes. 'It would seem you have yourself a bit of a fan club.' She smiled. 'I'll leave you to it now.'
The two coloured envelopes obviously contained Valentine cards; one of them even bore the inevitable capitals on its reverse. The third envelope was addressed to him at home in formal type. It contained another, smaller envelope and a letter headed St Stephen's Hospice, Lower Dobden, West Sussex. His overworked heart skipped a beat or two and his headache ratcheted up several notches as he began to read …
Dear Mr Barlow, It is my sad duty to advise you as next of kin that your wife passed away here at 08.15, today the 12th of February 2011. On behalf of all at the Hospice I would like to express our deepest sympathy. Gloria was a fine and a brave lady and was universally liked and admired by the staff.  Your wife was expressly concerned that you should not know of her condition until it had led to its inevitable conclusion, at which time I was instructed to send you the enclosed private communication. If it is your wish, I can see to the funeral arrangements on your behalf. To this end I shall travel, hopefully to meet with you immediately following your receipt of this letter. However sombre an occasion I shall look forward to that.
Yours most sincerely.
Michael McCorquodale, Head of Hospice.
The typed sheet with its torn open envelope fell from his fingers. Stupidly he turned over and over the sealed envelope bearing Gloria's beautiful handwriting.
'Are you all right?' He lifted his eyes. The nurse's face betrayed the depth of her concern 'Is there something I can do, Tommy?'
He shook his head. The pain grew in intensity.
'There's a man would like to see you,' she said' He's the one who called the ambulance and came in with you. He was in the bar when you - when you fell down?'
'No. Not yet. Just leave me alone.' He looked up. The nurse's image was blurred by tears. 'I'm sorry, Belinda. Would you thank him for me, ask him to give me a little time? Please?'
Dearest Tom I am sorry. By the time you read this I shall be wherever it is we all go in the end. I'm going to say straight away that I love you and have always loved you and only you since we met. (Writing that made me just think about that first night at the funfair and then afterwards down by the river! Sweet sixteen?) but I'm not sad now except for causing you pain. I knew I had to go and that type of cancer would not be any easier for you than me. That's why I used some of mother's inheritance to go away to this place quietly. They are brilliant here, Tom, and have looked after me wonderfully well. Dearest darling Tom I just could not bear to have you see me - well you know. Even my make-believe "Angelo" has to be better than that!! The only Angelo was my angel in heaven Tom! I don't know if he is or was a plumber but I had to make him something for you to focus on didn't I. Otherwise you would worry even more about me and where and why and everything. As I sit here writing this I am thinking of how wonderful our life together really and truly was. Some people would think our lives were ordinary but what do they know?! I thank you from the bottom of my heart, dear husband mine! I must close now. Before that I want to say one more thing. Find yourself someone. PLEASE. I hope you do and that you spend many happy years with her. It wont be the same as you and me, Tom, it cant be but it can be as good in other ways. And you will still be mine as well as hers if there really is a hereafter. (I shall find a way to let you know if so!) You are a good man and I will love you forever, whatever forever really is.Your Loving Wife
Gloria Barlow
He dropped the note, picked it up, read it through again and then again. After a while he looked up and out of the window. It was still snowing. In spite of that, rooks like black rags sailed and wheeled on the wind, nest building already within winter-bare treetops. From out of the cold would come new life.
Ends
I promised to show how this tale could have become a long story or even a complete novel. Tomorrow, will do. Thanks for staying with me thus far.

Part 4 Titled One cold cold day

This has all been edited so, if you can stand it, it's best to read it as if for the first time. Today it leads into part four of four - that is, to its close.
One cold cold day  (Provisional title)
Roger spatula'd off the excess head of beer, pulled to top up the glass, handed him his next pint. 'You OK, Tommy?' he said then, 'Sorry, sorry. Stupid question. Listen mate, cheer up. What is it - three months now and not a word? She just can't be worth it.'
Tommy shifted on his bar stool, said nothing. He'd said enough. He was trying not to think about Glo and her new man Angelo the plumber - whoever that bastard might be. Snow had piled up outside in the corners of the pub's window panes like on all the poxy Christmas cards. No sooner that back-breaking Christmas gone than yet more cards today; bloody Valentine's. All the coloured envelopes, some with stuff on the back like SWALK, BURMA, ISYU. Most of them obviously husband to wives or more likely wives to husbands or more likely wives to someone else's damn husband. Had Gloria sent this Angelo one? He fingered the unopened envelopes in his pocket. There were always a few for him, all of course anonymous, some of them really crude. Most postmen got them. Well, this postman for one couldn't give a damn.
'You finished for today?' Roger asked.
'Yeah.'
'Good. Listen Tommy, mate, you've just got to get a grip.' He wiped off the bar top. 'Shit happens. 'Postman drunk in charge of a push bike' - that won't help, will it? He laughed and the business type sitting along the bar momentarily raised his head from his newspaper. Roger went on, 'If it snows much more you'll be having to dig your bike out. Leave it there. I'll see it's OK. You're best off home on good old Shanks's pony today.'
'Maybe; bike belongs to the Post Office. Let them come and dig it out,' Tommy muttered. The room was moving. He concentrated on keeping his head still. Didn't help. There was a good fire in here. Nice and warm but those sickening smells of yesterday's booze and today's fried food! Tommy was not hungry. He wasn't thirsty either but he was set fair to getting himself outside a whole lot of beer today. Like most days since Glo had gone. To hell with her and her Italian bloody stallion, both. Plumber, she'd said! Angelo the plumber. Sounded like some bloody Ninja Turtle. Well, he'd plumbed Gloria all right. Bastard! He blinked back the tears of self-pity. Twenty two years married and she hadn't told him anything about it. Not a blind thing 'til he'd got home that time, picked up the envelope off the kitchen table. Nothing. Not how long it had been going on for nor any damn thing except she loved the man and, 'I don't want to hurt you Tom, because you know I've always loved you as best I could in my own way. I'm so sorry there have not been any family. I'm so sorry!!!' No address where they'd buggered off to. Nothing!
The rest of his new pint disappeared in one long swallow. He banged down the glass for another and the bar stool somehow tipped over sideways. He went down hard. Something seemed to be breaking; something other than his heart.

The black became white and the white became shapes and the shapes became faces, the faces of strangers dressed as medics. The youthful face under its green hair cover moved its lips. 'Well hello there, welcome back, Mister Barlow.' it said. 'Don't move now. You're going to be all right but best to keep still for a bit. You had a fall.' An index finger moved from side to side in front of his eyes. 'You're in Southampton General and I'm Doctor Sikorski and this lady is Nurse O'Reilly.' The young man smiled down at him. 'Just testing now, Tommy. What did I say was my name?'
His tongue seemed too large for his mouth and he would never have recognised the gravelly voice as his own. 'Silosky. Doctor Silosky? Or Sikosky?' He groaned.
'That's near enough for anyone with your amount of alcohol aboard. You're going to be fine. You took a bit of a bang on your head and your hand's suffered some laceration but there's nothing permanent.' He straightened up, stethoscope swinging, then moved out of sight saying, 'Nurse, stay with him for a while, yes? Help him sit up. Back in an hour or so.' 
He felt the nurse moving around the bed, tucking in and arranging the covers. Finally she crooked an arm around the back of his neck, helped him to sit, plumped up the pillows, lowered him gently. She smelled of flowery deodorant, liquorice, lipstick, antiseptic; woman. Yes, plenty of woman beneath the blue hospital dress. Finally she drew up a chair, took out and shook down a thermometer, inserted it into his mouth. 'You don't recognise me then, Mr Postman Tommy Barlow?' She smiled. Tawny blonde hair curving out from under the cap, nice lips, friendly eyes with just the right network of the finest lines. About his own age maybe. Pretty lady.
In spite of his aching head and the pain in his bandaged right hand Tommy felt the attraction, and how long an age since the last time he'd felt like that? He managed to speak around the device lodged under his tongue. 'Don't think I'd have forgotten, nurse. But can't say I remember you, no. Should I?'
'Thirty nine Napier Avenue?'
The response came as if on automatic; 'Mrs Belinda O'Reilly! The one with all the heavy catalogues. Right, of course. We're near neighbours.' 
She leaned forward to remove the thermometer, looked at it, shook it down, replaced it in its case and the case into its correct breast pocket position 'Yes, neighbours so we are, Mister Barlow. But the Mrs is what you night call a courtesy title. Once upon a time, maybe …' There was a soft and pleasing Irish twang there somewhere.
'Please, I'm Tommy,' he said.
'Tommy. Yes of course. I -' she hesitated, then, 'I heard about your wife. I am sorry.'
Christ, had the whole world been in on it? On the shame of it? 'Don't be,' he muttered. 'There's nothing to be sorry about.' He wanted to say shit happens. 'Things happen,' he said.
'Yes.' She stood up, smoothed her nice blue uniform over her nice round thighs then, more briskly; 'Perhaps, Mister Postman, you'd like to open your own mail now? You had these in your pocket.' She handed him the three envelopes. 'It would seem you have yourself a bit of a fan club.' She smiled. 'I'll leave you to it now.'
The two coloured envelopes obviously contained Valentine cards; one of them even had the inevitable block letters on its reverse. The third envelope bore his typed name and address. It contained another smaller envelope and a letter headed St Stephen's Hospice, Lower Dobden, West Sussex. His overworked heart skipped a beat or two and his headache ratcheted up several notches as he began to read …
Dear Mr Barlow, began the letter, It is my sad duty to advise you as next of kin that your wife passed away here at 08.15, today the 12th of February 2011. (Paragraph.) On behalf of the Hospice I would like to express our deepest sympathy. Gloria was a fine and a brave lady and was universally liked and admired by all our staff.  Your wife was expressly concerned that you should not know of her condition until it had led to its inevitable conclusion, at which time I was instructed to send you the enclosed private communication. (Paragraph.) If it is your wish, I can see to the funeral arrangements on your behalf. To this end I shall travel, hopefully to meet with you immediately following your receipt of this letter and the enclosed. However sombre an occasion, Iwill look forward to that. (Paragraph.) Yours most sincerely. (Paragraph.) Michael McCorquodale, Head of Hospice.
The typed sheet with its torn open envelope fell from his fingers. Stupidly he turned over and over the still sealed envelope bearing Gloria's beautiful handwriting.
'Are you all right?' He lifted his eyes. The nurse's face betrayed the depth of her concern 'Is there something I can do, Tommy?'
He shook his head. The pain grew in intensity.
'There's a man to see you,' she said.'The one who came in with you?'
'No. Just leave me alone.' He looked up. Her image was blurred by tears. 'I'm sorry. Give me a little time? Please?'
Dearest Tom, she had written. By the time you read this I shall be wherever it is we all go in the end. I'm going to say straight away that I love you and have always loved you and only you since we met. (Writing that made me just think about that first night at the funfair and then afterwards down by the river!) but I'm not sad now except for causing you pain. I knew I had to go and I knew that type of cancer would not be any easier for you than me. That's why I used some of mother's inheritance to go away to this place quietly. They are brilliant here, Tom, and have looked after me wonderfully well. Dearest darling Tom I just could not bear to have you see me - well you know. Even that "Angelo" has to be better than that!! The only Angelo was my guardian angel, Tom! I don't know if he is or was a plumber but I had to make him something for you to focus on didn't I. Otherwise you would worry even more about me and where and why and everything. As I sit here writing this I am thinking of how wonderful our life together really and truly was. Some people would think our lives were ordinary but what do they know?! I thank you from the bottom of my heart, dear husband mine! I must close now. Before that I want to say one more thing. Find yourself someone. PLEASE. I hope you do and that you spend many years with her. It wont be the same as you and me, Tom, it cant be but it can be as good. Because you are a good man and I will love you forever, whatever forever really is.
Some while later nurse O'Reilly knocked and came in followed by the man he had last seen reading his newspaper in the pub. 'Tommy,' she said. This is Mr Michael McCorquodale. He'd like to talk to you for a while. And so would I,' she added.


The end - but needs tidying up. At 1868 words it is longer than I had intended. Tomorrow I'll explain how I might have made this unto a full length (4-5000 word) short story or even as the basis for a novel.

Part 3 Untitled # 1

This has all been edited so if you can stand it it's best to read it as if you had never read it previously. Today it leads into part three of four (I thought it would be to a close but there are a couple of things on which I have to clear my thinking. So, tomorrow …).
#1: No Title
Roger spatula'd off the excess head of beer, pulled to top up the glass, handed him his next pint. 'You OK, Tommy?' he said, then at once, 'Sorry, sorry. Stupid question. Listen mate, cheer up. What is it - three months now and not a word? She's just not worth it.'
Tommy shifted on his bar stool but said nothing. He'd said enough. Right now he was trying not to think about Glo and her new man, Angelo the plumber - whoever that bastard might be. Snow had piled up outside in the corners of the pub's window panes like on all the poxy Christmas cards. No sooner the postman's back-breaking Christmas gone than yet more cards today; bloody Valentine's. All the coloured envelopes, some with stuff on the back like SWALK, BURMA, ISYU. Most of them obviously husband to wives or more likely wives to husbands or more likely wives to someone else's bloody husband. Had Gloria sent this Angelo one? He fingered the unopened envelopes in his pocket. There were always a few for him, all of course anonymous, some of them really crude. Most postmen got them. Well, this postman couldn't give a damn.
'You finished for today?' Roger asked.
'Yeah, finished'
'Good. Listen Tommy, mate, you've got to get a grip.' He wiped off the bar top. 'Shit happens. 'Postman drunk in charge of a push bike' - that won't help, will it? He laughed. The business type sitting along the bar raised his head from his newspaper, his scampi and chips and his glass of white wine. Roger went on, 'If it snows much more you'll be having to dig your bike out. Leave it there. I'll see it's OK. You're best off home on good old Shanks's pony today.'
'Maybe; bike belongs to the Post Office. Let them come and dig it out,' Tommy muttered. The room was beginning to spin. He concentrated on keeping his head still. Didn't help. Roger shrugged, moved off to talk to his only other customer. There was a good fire in here. Nice and warm. Sickening smells of yesterday's booze and today's fried food. Tommy was not hungry and wasn't thirsty but he was well outside a whole lot of beer today, like most days. To hell with Glo and her Italian bloody stallion. Plumber, she'd said! Angelo the plumber. Sounded like a bloody Ninja Turtle. Well, he'd plumbed Gloria all right. Bastard! He blinked back the tears of self-pity. Twenty two years married and she hadn't told him nothing about it. Not a blind thing 'til he'd got home that time, picked up the envelope off the kitchen table. Nothing. Not how long it had been going on for nor any damn thing except she loved the man and, 'I don't want to hurt you Tom, because you know I've always loved you too in my own way. I'm so sorry there have been no children. I'm so sorry!!!' No address where they'd buggered off to. Nothing!
The rest of his new pint disappeared in one long swallow. He banged down the glass for another. His bar stool somehow tipped over sideways. he went down hard. Something seemed to be breaking; something other than his heart.

The black became white and the white became shapes and the shapes became faces, the faces of strangers dressed as medics. One of the faces spoke. 'Well hello there, welcome back. Don't move now. You're going to be all right but best to keep still for a little bit. You had a fall and you're in Southampton General. I'm Doctor Sikorski. This is Nurse O'Reilly.' The young man smiled down at him. 'Just testing now, Tommy. What is my name, did I say?'
His tongue seemed too large for his mouth and he would never have recognised the gravelly voice as his own. 'Silosky. Doctor Silosky? Or Sikosky?' He groaned.
'That's near enough for anyone with your amount of alcohol aboard. You're going to be fine. You took a bit of a bang on your head and your hand's suffered some laceration but there's nothing permanent.' He straightened up, stethoscope swinging, then moved out of sight. 'Nurse, stay with him for a while, yes? Help him sit up. Back in an hour or so.' 
He felt her moving around the bed, tucking in and arranging the covers. Finally she crooked an arm around the back of his neck, helped him to sit, plumped up the pillows, lowered him gently. She smelled of flowery deodorant, liquorice, lipstick, antiseptic; woman. Yes, woman.Finally she drew up a chair, took out and shook down a thermometer, inserted it into his mouth. 'You don't recognise me, Mr Postman Tommy Barlow?' She smiled. Tawny blonde hair curving out from under the cap, nice lips, friendly eyes with just the right network of the finest lines. About his own age maybe. Pretty lady.
In spite of his aching head and the pain in his bandaged right hand Tommy felt the attraction, and how long an age since the last time he'd felt like that? He managed to speak around the glass tube lodged under his tongue. 'Don't think I'd have forgotten, nurse. Can't say I remember you, no. Should I?'
'Thirty nine Napier Avenue?'
The response came as if on automatic; 'Mrs Belinda O'Reilly! The one with all the heavy catalogues. Right, of course. We're near neighbours.' 
She leaned forward to remove the thermometer, looked at it, shook it down, replaced it in its case and the case into its correct breast pocket position 'Yes, neighbours so we are, Mister Barlow.' There was an Irish twang in her voice.
'Tommy.'
'Tommy. Yes of course. I -' she hesitated, then, 'I heard about your wife. I am sorry.'
Christ, had the whole world been in on it? On the shame of it? 'Don't be,' he muttered. 'There's nothing to be sorry about.' He wanted to say shit happens. 'Things happen,' he said.
'Yes.' She stood up, smoothed her nice blue uniform over her nice round thighs. More briskly; 'Perhaps, Mister Postman, you'd like to open your own mail now? You had these in your pocket.' She handed him the three envelopes. 'It would seem you have yourself a bit of a fan club.' She smiled. 'I'll leave you to it now.'
The two coloured envelopes obviously contained Valentine cards; one of them even had the inevitable block letters on its reverse. The third envelope bore his typed name and address. It contained another smaller envelope and a letter headed St Stephen's Hospice, Lower Dibden, Northumberland. His overworked heart skipped a beat or two and his headache ratcheted up a couple of notches as he began to read it …
Dear Mr Barlow, began the letter, It is my sad duty to advise you, as next of kin, that your wife passed away here at 08.15, today the 12th of February 2011. Paragraph. On behalf of the Hospice I would like to express our deepest sympathy. Gloria was a fine and a brave lady and was universally liked and admired by all our staff.  Your wife was expressly concerned that you should not know of her condition until it had led to its inevitable conclusion, at which time I was instructed to send you the enclosed private communication. Paragraph. If it is your wish, I can see to the funeral arrangements on your behalf. To this end I shall travel south, hopefully to meet with you following your receipt of this letter and the enclosed. However sombre an occasion, I do look forward to that. Paragraph. Yours most sincerely. Paragraph. Michael McCorquodale, Head of Hospice.
The typed sheet fell from his fingers. Stupidly he turned over and over the envelope bearing Gloria's beautiful handwriting.  
SO TOMORROW THE FULL DENOUEMENT - AND OF COURSE A TITLE!