This Old Thing?

1,200 words This Old Thing.
By Diane Rayburn

It had been warm and sunny with no mention of rain on the weather forecast when they left home that morning. Then, as Ann left work, the skies had opened, but there was no time to shelter. Jamie and Sara her children were due home from school at any moment.
Ann shivered. The movement shifted the collar of her thin summer coat letting a dribble of icy rainwater down her neck. Luckily, the entrance to the cul-de-sac where they lived was across the road.
While she waited for the traffic to thin, Ann tried to plan what to cook for that evening’s meal. It ought to be something warm and nourishing, but it would take too long; she didn’t have the energy.
While she guiltily settled on unhealthy but fast, a passing car hugging the kerb drenched her with the contents of a rainbow hued puddle that had formed over a clogged up drain.
Ann gasped. The sheet of dirty water cascaded over her head, down her face, soaked the front of her coat and grit, half-rotted leaves and black silt stuck to her legs filling her already sodden shoes.
Smelling of petrol and shuddering to think what else the water contained, she dabbed ineffectually at her face with a limp square of tissue and squelched unhappily home.
‘Mum, wait for us,’ Sara and Jamie’s voices called out from behind her as she stumbled into the narrow bleak hall of the small terrace house they had moved into after Ann’s divorce.
‘What happened to you?’ For once they were both looking at her.
‘Careless drivers and what you get for day dreaming.’ Ann was about to kick the door shut, but stopped when she heard someone calling from the front gate.
All she could see was a gaudy golfing umbrella, and the bottom of a snazzy brown rain coat over two long, twill clad legs.
‘Ah it is you.’ A voice muffled by the rain pounding on the umbrella called out. ‘I’m very sorry I honestly didn’t realise how near I was to that puddle. I stopped to apologise, but you’d crossed before I had a chance. You must let me pay to have your coat cleaned.’
Ann stifled a yawn. Once she would have given the driver a piece of her mind, but she had no energy to spare since Steven had walked away from them. The initial feeling of anger and all the emotions that accompany even the friendliest divorce had finally settled into a sad dullness. Each day felt like the last and although the children and her job kept her busy, it seemed as if nothing special happened to her anymore. Ann couldn’t remember the last spontaneous thing she had done.
At that moment a gust of rain blew into the hall flinging a random pattern of raindrops down the dingy cream wall.
Fighting off another yawn Ann invited him in and studied him as he stepped over the threshold. He had a neat nose, kind blue eyes and slightly thinning dark brown hair. He wasn’t good looking, but somehow his face escaped being ordinary due to a humorous twist at the corners of a generous mouth.
Her ex husbands mouth was pinched. When she had proudly taken him home to meet her parents her mother said he had prissy lips and predicted he would be hard to live with. Ann, blissfully in love for the very first time was deeply hurt and hadn’t spoken to her mother for months.
He hesitated on the doorstep. ‘I’d better not come inside; I don’t want to ruin your carpet.’
Ann was trying to peel away a lock of hair irritatingly clinging to her cheek. Tucking it behind her ear she looked down at the dirty wet patch dripping into the carpet around her feet.
Suddenly, he put his hands over his mouth, and as he turned away his shoulders began to shake.
It was only a coat for heavens sake. It wasn’t that bad! Embarrassed, and wishing desperately he would go away, Ann was about to awkwardly pat his shoulder when muffled snorts escaped from behind his hands. He was laughing! Then Sara and Jamie began to giggle. ‘Oh mum, you do look funny.’
Ann glimpsed her face in the hall mirror. Her thick blonde hair dotted with debris from the gutter hugged her scalp in mousy strands. Her mascara had run and her face, deprived of that mornings light coat of foundation was red and blotchy.
Feeling the beginnings of a sob catch in her throat Ann took a deep breath and fighting for control turned towards the stairs.
‘While you’re all falling about with mirth I shall go and get changed. James, see this – this - person – out,’ but then she ruined her careful exit by sneezing and tripping on the bottom stair.
He came towards her. ‘I’m sorry. My sense of humour gets me into all sorts of trouble; I wasn’t laughing at you.’ He cleared his throat and fought to control his face. ‘Well, technically I suppose I was - but I wasn’t if you see what I mean. I suspect you’re remarkably beautiful when you’re clean and dry. Oh God listen to me I’m making things worse! Here’s the money for your coat.’
He fumbled in his wallet, put a twenty-pound note on the telephone shelf at the bottom of the stairs, and backed out of the door.
Ann’s temper snapped. Forgetting all about being wet and miserable, she snatched up the twenty pounds, and telling the children not to follow kicked his forgotten umbrella into the garden, and ran after him.
The rain was coming down harder than ever. Ann dodged between cars and then slowed her pace when she recognised his bedraggled figure standing helplessly by the side of the road.
Despite its expensive appearance his raincoat was obviously letting in water and his trousers clung to the front of his legs like a second skin.
Childishly pleased to see how wet he was, Ann felt her bad temper miraculously leak away and a long silent imp of mischief slide into its place.
‘I’m Ann Carter, divorced with two children. You left your umbrella behind … I like your legs,’ she said calmly.
He looked distractedly over her shoulder. ‘Someone’s stolen my car. I’ve only had it for two months. I know I parked here. Oh sorry; I’m Sam Black, unattached - I really love that car … ’ Bemused he looked down at his legs. ‘Do you?’
Ann began to laugh. She pointed at the double yellow lines shining cleanly against the wet tarmac. ‘Not stolen – probably towed.’
Laughing, her eyes met his and then, stunned into silence she felt the knot of unhappiness that had been part of her for so long slip away.
Laughter,’ she thought. All I needed was laughter,’
then, remembering that he had said she was probably beautiful, I’ll have to dry out and show him.
‘My mobile’s in the car,’ he protested weakly, but then he smiled and gently touched her face.
‘Your coat’s ruined.’
She laughed again and put her hand over his. ‘What this old thing? Come on, let’s go home and get dry.’

Dark Green with Black Trim.

'Get off! If you can’t help at least keep out of my way,’ Moira shouted. He was always creeping up on her. This time she had her head and shoulders in the cupboard, hunting for the canteen of cutlery they only used once a year.
In answer a second hand joined the first and tugging her out of the cupboard, began to gently massage her ribs. She felt his warm breathe on her cheek and despite her annoyance, shivered as his lips investigated her ear. Soft wavy hair tickled her neck. She reached a hand over her shoulder and tugged gently on a long, silky beard.
‘Silly thing,’ she croaked as his warm tongue began to trace wet patterns in her ear. ‘Fancy dressing up as Father Christmas. Whose idea was that, or need I ask?’
About to slap away the hands curling possessively around her waist, she glanced down. Green? Since when did Father Christmas wear green? And it wasn’t her husband Gerry’s hand. Giving a muffled shriek she twisted from the embrace and spun around.
‘You’re not Gerry!’
‘Who said I was?’
‘But – but you were kissing me.’ Moira desperately grabbed a tea towel and began scrubbing at her ear.
‘And very nice too,’ smiled the stranger.
‘Oh very funny.’ Moira was exasperated. Gerry, who taught at a nearby comprehensive only seemed to have friends who were on their own and down on their luck. He was fond of pronouncing that if you couldn’t show a bit of kindness to your fellow man then you didn’t deserve to live, consequently, at times like Christmas to Moira’s disgust, they always had a houseful of strays; but she’d never seen this one before.
‘I suppose you’re another of Gerry’s lost sheep. Where does he find them?’
‘Do I look like a lost sheep?’
‘You look ridiculous. Whose idea was a dark green with black fur trim Santa suit? With your black hair and beard you look like a negative.’
‘But better looking you have to admit,’ he said seriously. ‘That is unless you particularly wanted a fat old man smelling of reindeer and with a red nose and cheeks that match his outfit?’
Negative or not at six foot tall, green eyed, slim and with that lovely black hair, Moira grudgingly agreed he was by far the better option; and he smelled nice: a sort of heathery, smoky fresh air smell, with a just a hint of lemon and musk.
‘Don’t look so desperate,’ he said. ‘I’m here to give you your Christmas present.’
With her ear still tingling, she didn’t care to call how she was feeling desperate, but managed to pull herself together and said, ‘That is kind of you, but you shouldn’t have; I know you’re probably short of funds…I’ll pop it under the Christmas tree and open it after lunch.’
In two lithe strides he barred her way to the kitchen door and said, ‘You must have it now.’
Moira clutched her hands to her chest and nervously waited for him to hand her the present, but he didn’t. Instead, he leant against the kitchen door, stared quizzically at her with his clear green eyes, held out his arms and said, ‘Come on then.’
Moira’s blood ran cold. The house was silent and still….She could no longer hear the TV that Gerry kept on from the time he got up to the time he went to bed. And where was the chatter and laughter that gave her no peace when his friends were here?
‘What have you done?’ She whispered.
‘Just held up time for a wee while so we aren’t interrupted while I grant your wish.’
Moira sank to her knees. ‘Oh my God, you’re kinky. You’re going to rape me.’
He moved swiftly away from the door and lifted her to her feet. Kinky? Rape? No, no, you’ve got the wrong end of the stick. I’m different I’ll grant you that, but honestly I’m as gentle as a kitten.’
Her thoughts flashed to the ginger farm kitten they had tried to give a home to last year. Untamable the vet had said, and she and Gerry still had the scars to prove it.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘I can’t hold time forever. Can we get on with it?’
‘On with what?’ Moira began to cry.
‘Hush now.’ He patted her awkwardly on the back. ‘You’re supposed to be enjoying this. You did ask for it when you visited Limerick. You’re a very lucky girl you know. There aren’t many that manage to catch, or in your case sit on a leprechaun and keep him pinned down until their wish is complete. They’re slippery little devils normally. Anyway, here I am, your tall dark, beautifully made and rich Father Christmas.’
He held out a small leather pouch. 'Here are the riches. It’s only one coin, but as you know Leprechaun gold never runs out. It re-appears as soon as you’ve spent it. We don’t have too much time for the other part of your wish though, so dry your eyes, and let’s get on with it.’ He tugged at the crotch of his trousers. ‘It’s very uncomfortable being this shape. How do humans put up with it?’
Moira did remember Limerick. There’d been an awful row because as they were about to go there for the day, an old college friend of Gerry’s had turned up and her darling husband had insisted on taking him along.
The lovingly prepared picnic of brown bread and smoked salmon, a lemon cheesecake she’d sweated buckets making the day before; linen napkins and the expensive bottle of wine with two crystal glasses, had all been wasted. The two of them had just chucked the food down their throats while they shared private jokes, and made sly references about long ago girl students and made a date for him to spend Christmas with them.
She had seen red that day and had a hazy recollection of throwing the empty wine bottle at Gerry. She also dimly recalled showering all sorts of curses on her thankless husband's head, and wishing all sorts of changes in her life that made her blush to remember them, but how on earth however briefly, had she failed to notice she was sitting on something other than grass?
She gave a final sob and began to pull herself together. This was silly. There were no such things as Leprechauns, or wishes being granted, or Father Christmas for that matter.
How could this be a wish conjured up on an Irish hillside last summer? This person, whoever he was, was flesh and blood because with her cheek pressed to his chest, she could feel the steady thud of his heart.
But what about the silence? No. Moira’s common sense kicked in. It was one of her husband’s childish pranks. He and his pals were probably hiding and any minute now would come bursting through the door laughing their silly heads off.
But did she know for sure? The thought niggled: refused to go away. She looked up. Santa smiled down. She could drown in those eyes.
Oh well --- it was Christmas and a girl was entitled to a little fun. She wrapped her arms around his waist and snuggled closer.
‘I hope I didn’t flatten the dear little fellow,’ she said. ‘Now tell me Santa, what do you find so uncomfortable about the human shape?’

Ivy, Blackbirds and Birthday Surprises

It wasn’t until you got right on top of it that you noticed the old garden shed. Hidden behind dense shrubbery and tucked against the red brick garden wall, over the years ivy and honeysuckle had crawled unhindered over its corrugated tin roof and weather twisted wooden sides, covering it with an impenetrable blanket of twisted stems and the thick, glossy leaves.
In spring blackbirds reared their young on the shed’s south facing side and John had lost count of how many generations of wobbly young he’d seen testing their wings as they made ready to join the world beyond the garden walls. He’d watched blue tits hustle and bustle as they plucked juicy caterpillars from the honeysuckle leaves and lost track of time whenever he sat in a battered armchair inside the shed and dreamed about the past.
Today he needed to slide another sheet of corrugated iron onto the roof due to a nasty leak that had developed over where he sat.
‘Sorry old chap. I won’t be long.’ John apologised to a large black spider as it scuttled indignantly to safety. Fighting the ivy that had wormed its way between past layers of rusting iron, John was sweating by the time he’d pushed the new panel in place and had, as best he could, pulled the ivy back into its original position.
Inside the shed, spots of winter sunlight danced over cobwebbed walls and flickered hypnotically over the back of John’s armchair. Sinking gratefully into its dusty embrace, he wiped his forehead and breathing in the shed’s own particular smell, an ancient mixture of sawdust, creosote, damp earth and linseed oil, closed his eyes and sank into that half way zone between dreams and hazy awareness that any sunny afternoon lends itself to so readily.
At the top end of the garden, the roomy Edwardian villa John had inherited from his grandparent’s had been ruthlessly modernised by his wife Emma.
Thankfully, her passion for gutting perfectly comfortable rooms and slavishly imposing the latest interior design fads on them didn’t extend to the garden.
John paid a pensioner for a few hours work a week to keep the lawns and shrubbery tidy, and prayed that when she ran out of rooms, Emma wouldn’t be seduced into bringing the garden into the house, or some such rubbish that he’d seen on TV only the other week.
As it was, he tried to ration his shed time to coincide with when she was out of the house, or at night while she slept, in order not to draw her attention to it.
If you passed over the threshold of his hideaway, you wouldn’t find mucky magazines hidden under a heap of potato sacks, or a portable radio to help while away the hours as he repaired a piece of furniture. There wasn’t even a tiny primus stove to make a welcome cup of tea between bouts of labouring in the garden, because John didn’t do any of those things. Orphaned and brought up by his doting grandparent's the shed was his only contact with the past. It was the last visual touch of childhood. To disturb the row of chisels hanging from a dusty board, or move the glue pot one inch from its place on the battered workbench, or take down the pine kitchen chair hanging from a beam, its replacement leg still clamped in the teeth of a rusting vice, would be sacrilege. In here, time as they say, stood still.
He came to with a start, checked his watch and sighed. It was time to get changed. Emma had invited the neighbours around to celebrate his birthday. He rubbed a finger on the tiny window pane that looked out onto the shrubbery and longed for the one present he knew Emma, his well meaning, but butterfly brained wife twenty years younger than he, could never give him. To turn back the clock and once more stand by his grandfathers side as he worked at the bench.
An hour later, desperate for a pee, John broke into his neighbour Sheila’s interminable monologue about the school she’d selected for her moronic son and throwing apologies over his shoulder, locked himself in the downstairs cloakroom.
Too late! Emma had followed him and rapped on the door.
‘John, hurry up, we’re about to cut your birthday cake.’
He groaned. ‘Do we have to?’
‘Yes we do. Now come along. Reaching fifty five isn’t the end of the world, and besides you have presents to open.’
Forcing a smile as he laid aside Sheila’s gift of a chrome desk tidy, John bent over to gather up the pile of discarded wrapping paper.
‘Wait a minute Darling, there’s one more.’ Emma handed him a large envelope. ‘From me to you. Go on, open it!’
The card said, Congratulations on becoming the proud owner of a brand new garden pavilion.
‘It’s all arranged,’ Emma said. ‘The men will be here at eight tomorrow morning to pull down the old shed. By the time you get home from work, the pavilion will be up. We shall have such fun with it once that depressing shrubbery’s been cut down and paving laid. It’s a shame your birthday’s so near Christmas, otherwise we could have held a barbecue to christen it.’
Speechless, John stared at the card and then ripped it to shreds. ‘You couldn’t even make it a plain old garden shed could you,’ he shouted. ‘Oh no, we had to have a bloody pavilion. Well, I’m warning you; anyone who touches my shed is dead!’
He stormed out of the house, pushed the shed door open and slammed it shut.
Above his unsuspecting head, the rotten roof timbers, loosened when John repaired the roof, began to sag and the new, sharp edged metal so lovingly put in place earlier that day, unfettered by clinging ivy roots, slid gracefully down and sliced cleanly into his neck.

It's over a year since I sent a load of short stories about my childhood to 'Best of British' magazine. They accepted five for publication straight away, but as I hadn't heard from them in such a long time, I thought the rest weren't suitable.
However, I have just heard that another, which is about our trips to the local theatre including a disastrous trip to see Jack and the Beanstalk, is in this months 'Best of British Magazine' and I shall receive the small but welcome payment in January. Patience is the name of the game I guess.

Well another Christmas is upon us.
This year as well as the other half's pet hate advert for Boots, I can include the Iceland ad. I don't mind the Boots one, but I have to agree with him on the other. Jason Donavan must be really hard up for money to appear in it.

I wonder if the advertising agencies realise just how many people press the mute button during the commercial breaks, but at least here in the UK we don't get as many ad breaks as they do in the States.

This year I'll be boycotting Quality St. Macintoshes who used to make them, were taken over and now if you're faced with a Christmas tin of Roses, Celebrations or Quality St, there's nothing to choose between the three, whereas Quality St, the more expensive and different, was heads and shoulders above the other two.

I hate that we're letting the multi-nationals suck us into a world of sameness, and although for the rest of the year, I'm lazy enough to let them get away with it, with my memories of Christmas past and the sheer pleasure of the taste of a Quality St. chocolate Praline, I refuse to lower my standards...I'd rather go without! The shame is our younger generation will never know what they're missing.