Spindrift

Spindrift

  Stories and Poems

  Edited by Jonathan Broughton

  Written, compiled and published by St Leonards Writers

  Copyright © of all writings belongs to the individual authors. May 2016

  Cover Copyright © Melvyn Grant May 2016

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.

  These stories and poems are works of fiction. Any similarity to actual persons and events is purely coincidental.

  St Leonards Writers are a group of enthusiastic members who have been meeting weekly since 2007 for lectures, workshops, creative exercises, writing practice, discussions and constructive criticism, and to help one another create the best possible writing.

  St Leonards-on-Sea is on the south coast of England, UK.

  You can contact us at: https://www.stleonardswriters.co.uk/home

  Table of Contents

  The Environment Talks

  by Jonathan Broughton

  One Man and his Dog

  by John Ballard

  Piranha Woman in the Supermarket Checkout

  by Melvyn Grant

  Rapunzel

  by James Betts

  Kids!

  by Christine Dale

  The Fisherman’s Tale

  by John Ballard

  Memory Stick

  by Janet Nott

  Rumpelstiltskin Twenty Years Later

  by Charles Menzinger

  Timing

  by Pat Cochrane

  Smugglers

  by Robin Grady

  Snowfall

  by Christine Dale

  Active Service

  by Rosamond Palmer

  Fresh Whelks and Winkles

  by Rayne Hall

  I Smelled Kerosene

  by William J. Stevens

  The Devil’s Diet

  by Melvyn Grant

  A Hastings Tale

  by John Ballard

  Conflict of the Heart

  by William J. Stevens

  The Man who was Robbed

  by Melvyn Grant

  Cargo

  by James Betts

  A Fantasy

  by Pat Cochrane

  Mountain...

  by John Ballard

  The Guardian

  by Robin Grady

  The Marsh

  by Rosamond Palmer

  Ariadne

  by Charles Menzinger

  The Telephone Rang

  by John Ballard

  Cinderella: The Story from a Beach Dog

  by Melvyn Grant

  Teeth

  by Christine Dale

  The Warrior of Warrior of Warrior Square Gardens

  by Jonathan Broughton

  About the Authors

  The Environment Talks

  by Jonathan Broughton

  Heavy rains fell in the UK during the winter of 2013/2014 and caused widespread flooding. Tight government budgets led to general neglect, but suppose the bad flooding had been cause by something much more unexpected...

  Montague Sibley, Head of the Hastings Environment Agency, checked the Residents’ Concerns Agenda. A Miss Ripple of Dane Road, St Leonards-on-Sea featured first.

  With all the rain of the last few months, her concern centred on the rising water in her garden pond and its effect on the gnomes who lived around its banks. Could the Hastings Environment Agency send round a dredger right away to drain her pond, please?

  Montague Sibley’s fingernails tapped the glistening veneer of his office desk. Really! Such obtuse demands lathered him into a fury. What did the front office mean by green-lighting the ramblings of some crazy spinster and then to compound their idiocy, have the nerve to pass it on to the top of the chain of command?

  His days of being on the front line and subject to the mania of the general public had passed some ten years before. Job descriptions for the staff emphasised that a necessary ability to sympathise with and at the same time deter time-wasters must be prerequisites for any successful candidate. The agency had put aside large amounts of tax-payers money to hammer these edicts home in their many and varied training programmes. All staff went on at least six a year.

  A massive failing must have occurred with Miss Ripple.

  He picked up his phone to give the front office Duty Superintendent a foretaste of the fury that he intended to unleash across the whole department, but before he had a chance to punch in the first number, a knock came at his door. Damn! “Enter,” he yelled and slammed the phone back into its cradle.

  Samantha Purley, his PA, appeared. Her fingers caressed the door handle and as the light from the afternoon sun shone through a distant window, it turned her blonde hair into a golden halo. The soft light also outlined her lithe body and all its contours to their best possible effect.

  Montague Sibley forgot all about training programmes. “Yes?” he squeaked.

  “There’s a Miss Ripple to see you, sir.” She spoke each word with a husky breath.

  “Yes?” he squeaked again.

  “Shall I show her in?”

  “Yes.”

  Samantha stepped to one side as she made room at the door. Her profile ravished his senses and he gripped the edge of his desk, torn between desire, guilt (he celebrated his tenth wedding anniversary this weekend) and fury.

  Miss Ripple ambled into view and his desire and guilt wilted, but his fury boiled.

  Samantha Purley’s teeth flashed as she smiled and left.

  The spell broken, Montague Sibley attempted to regain his professional poise. “Good morning, Miss Nipple - Ripple! Please, take a seat.”

  Miss Ripple resembled a small tank. Short and broad, she carried a large selection of plastic bags that bulged. She wore a dun-coloured waterproof coat that reached to her ankles and a hat whose design fishermen in the nineteenth century once favoured. Her approach, more of a shuffle than a walk, came punctuated with gasps and wheezes. She flopped into the chair and placed her bags with care around her feet. “Good morning.”

  Montague Sibley picked up the phone, but as his finger hovered over the first digit for Security, Miss Ripple gave the sweetest smile and with a gentle wave indicated that he put the phone down. To his surprise, he obeyed.

  Miss Ripple twinkled. “I shan’t take up much of your time. I just want to bring you up to date with the situation.”

  Montague Sibley attempted to smile back, but his upper lip twitched and he feared that he leered. “What - what situation?”

  Miss Ripple’s hand went to her mouth. “Oh! Haven’t you read my letter?”

  “Well I - yes of course. I have the details here.” He held up the Priority Agenda.

  Miss Ripple rose and snatched the paper out of his hand. “Let me see that.”

  “What are you doing? Give it back.”

  “This isn’t my letter,” and she crumpled it into a ball and tossed it to the far side of the room.

  “How dare you,” Montague Sibley retorted. “That is council paper.”

  Miss Ripple leaned across the desk and her voice deepened. “Now, you listen to me.”

  Montague Sibley arched backwards, but he stayed seated and he listened.

  “There’s going to be catastrophic floods and fearful storms,” Miss Ripple intoned, “if the work that I laid out for you in my letter is not accomplished.”

  Her beady eyes glittered as she waited for his response, but he said nothin
g. “The doom that will befall us all will be due to your tardiness. Do you want to be remembered for the man who didn’t dredge my pond and whose negligence unleashed the tempests in all their fury?”

  Montague Sibley didn’t understand a single word, nor did he understand his inability to order this woman out of his office. She possessed some strange aura that defied reason, but commanded attention.

  “No, I don’t.”

  Miss Ripple raised her hands skywards and sang. “Hallelujah!”

  Such an emotional display burned Montague Sibley’s face with embarrassment. What if the front office heard? What if Samantha did? “Please, tell me what was in the letter. I promise to listen.”

  Miss Ripple slumped into the chair, her face white with exhaustion. Water dripped off her coat and onto his Moroccan rug. He glanced at the window swathed in net curtains. Light shone bright and gold. Perhaps Miss Ripple had caught a shower that he hadn’t noticed. He worried that the water might stain his Moroccan rug.

  Miss Ripple muttered. “It might be too late, but I can but try.” With both hands, she reached into one of her bags and lifted out a brightly painted garden gnome. She slid it onto his desk and revolved the base until the gnome and Montague Sibley faced one another.

  “This is Sid,” said Miss Ripple.

  The gnome’s sculpted features beamed the widest smile, its puffed-out cheeks glowed with the brightest rose-coloured hue and the merry eyes twinkled with pleasure.

  Montague Sibley recoiled. “Take it off. It’s scratching my desk.”

  “Don’t you speak so sharp to Sid,” Miss Ripple retorted. “It’s taken a lot of nerve for him to come here today.” She tapped the gnome on the shoulder. “You tell the man what’s going to happen if he doesn’t dredge my pond.” She sat back, her hands clasped in her lap, a smile of satisfaction on her lips.

  Montague stared at the gnome and then at Miss Ripple. Had his mind tripped into some unknown region where insanity ruled? He attempted to take control. “Look Miss Ripple, I’m a very busy man...”

  Miss Ripple’s eyes blazed and then her face crumpled. “There, you missed it.” She leaned against the desk. “I’ll tell you what he said- he said, ‘If the waters rise anymore, then Elton’s toes will drop off and cataclysmic torments will rent the world.’”

  She reached into a second bag and lifted out another gnome. She placed it next to Sid. “This is Sid’s wife, Nancy.” Miss Ripple wiped her nose. “Poor love, he lost her two weeks back. I didn’t see how high the waters had risen. Once a gnome’s toes are submerged under water, it’s only a matter of time.” Miss Ripple pointed to the brown stubs that protruded from underneath the gnome’s red tartan smock. “I tried to save her, put her in the airing cupboard to dry out, but it was too late.”

  Montague Sibley, aware that his mouth hung slack, engaged his tongue to speak, but a succession of grunts that might have suggested pain proved to be his best effort.

  “I know,” Miss Ripple agreed. “It’s tragic. That’s why I wrote you see. If too many gnomes are wiped out by toe-rot, like poor Nancy, then without the gnomes’ magic powers to keep them in check, the music of the spheres that controls our elements will run riot.” She shook the drips from her raincoat sleeve and droplets spattered the desk. “I take some of the blame, of course. I didn’t notice the water creeping up. Nancy’s passing was a terrible wake up call.”

  Montague Sibley snatched a paper tissue from the box beside him and his hand trembled as he pressed it hard against his mouth to stop the scream that threatened to erupt.

  Miss Ripple wagged a finger. “The real worry is Elton. If he succumbs, then heaven help us. He’s very popular you see, commands a great following. The gnomes won’t stand for it if toe-rot bites.” She lowered her voice. “I didn’t bring him with me. He causes such a sensation when he’s out and about and at my age I have trouble keeping the crowds at bay.”

  She lifted Nancy off the desk and rocked her backwards and forwards, much as a mother cradles a baby. Her tone sharpened. “You do see what a terrible predicament we are in, don’t you, if the gnomes revolt, the world is doomed?” She pointed a finger. “Head of the Hastings Environment Agency gives you the responsibility to authorise immediate action.” She placed Nancy on the floor. “So, when can I expect the dredger?”

  Montague Sibley whimpered and the paper tissue, now a sodden mass after he’d sucked at it like a comfort blanket, disintegrated into wet lumps that dotted his blotter. His attempt to keep control failed and his head shook with the frenetic action of an overwound clockwork toy.

  Miss Ripple’s face creased with alarm. “No? What do you mean no? Haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve been saying?”

  Montague Sibley spluttered. “I don’t have a dredger. Please, get out. You’re mad.”

  Miss Ripple’s eyes opened in wide surprise. “The Hastings Environment Agency does not have a dredger?” She covered her face. “Then how are you going to clear my pond? How are you going to save the gnomes? How are you going to save the world?”

  Montague Sibley slipped off his chair, crawled under the desk and curled up into a ball where a sensation of damp spread across his face as his cheek pressed into the Moroccan rug.

  “You can’t pretend it’s not going to happen,” Miss Ripple admonished.

  Montague Sibley heard a rustle from one of the plastic bags and when Miss Ripple spoke again, she sounded very close.

  “Look. This is Justin.”

  Montague dug his fingertips into his skull to stop his mind from exploding.

  “He’s young. How will you live with your conscience if he perishes because of your laziness?”

  “Lalalalalalalala...!” he shouted.

  “Have you no compassion?”

  Montague Sibley’s stomach tightened with fury. With the speed of a coiled spring set free, he reached for Miss Ripple’s throat. Justin, the gnome, dropped from her grasp and broke into three large pieces.

  Outside, thunder cracked so loud it shook the desk.

  Miss Ripple choked as Montague Sibley’s hands squeezed. She wriggled backwards, but he followed, shuffling on his knees to keep up.

  She kicked his leg which threw his balance and he flopped sideways.

  He didn’t hear the knock at the door, didn’t see Samantha Purley as she stepped into the office. He heard her voice when she called in shock. “Mr Sibley. What are you doing?”

  Miss Ripple stopped fighting, her limbs lay still and the harder he squeezed the less resistance he encountered. He glared at her face, waited for it to turn blue, but her expression softened and her translucent skin shone as her body diminished and then dissolved into a pool of water that soaked into the rug.

  The plastic bags dissolved too. Each one revealed a different gnome, their sculpted faces moulded into a wide smile or a cheeky grin. Every pair of eyes fixed on his with a permanent gaze.

  Samantha Purley gasped and sank to the floor in a faint.

  Montague Sibley splashed at the water on his rug, felt its damp through his suit and its cold against his skin. His fury abated and his calm returned, though he wondered if it might be the calm that madmen experience. He glanced at his PA. So vulnerable, so inviting, she might be asleep she lay so still. She needed help and this unexpected opportunity to wrap his arms around her, stroke those blonde strands from off her face; revive her with love and gentle care, proved irresistible.

  He struggled onto all fours and his shoulder banged the desk. Sid, the gnome, wobbled, tipped sideways by the shock. Montague Sibley heard the sound, paid it no attention, all his devotion focused on Samantha. As he crawled out, he hit the desk again.

  Sid unbalanced, toppled, fell, whacked the back of Montague’s head and smashed into half a dozen pieces.

  Montague Sibley didn’t move. Lightning flashed and thunder cannoned. Sid’s cracked face beamed. Daylight dimmed along with Montague’s consciousness. He slumped to the floor and wondered as he passed out, that all the gnomes’ eyes glitt
ered with such malice.

  One Man and his Dog

  by John Ballard

  How many of us can say with honesty that when forced into a corner, the thought of ‘murder’ has not crossed our minds? Should the means be at hand and the possibility of detection unlikely, might such a drastic course of action be given some consideration? ‘One Man and his Dog’ is the story of an ordinary, elderly man...

  A lead grey sky. A steady drizzle of early morning rain. The elderly man climbed the shallow ramp to the police station door. Hatless, cold, soaked to the skin, he moved as though half-asleep. The glass door slid soundlessly open. He stepped into the yellow warmth of the reception area and crossed slowly to the desk. The sergeant, engrossed in form filling, didn’t look up.

  The elderly man stood for a while, head bowed, watching as water dripped from his raincoat, making small puddles on the floor. Then, as though suddenly remembering why he was there, he raised his head.

  “I am Arthur Martin. I think you’ve been looking for me.”

  The sergeant looked up. A brief, frozen moment, then an explosion of sound and movement. He leapt to his feet. Papers flew from his desk. His chair crashed onto its back. “Constable. Constable. Get out here. NOW!”

  It was all over in seconds. The elderly man was thrown face down onto the floor, hands cuffed behind his back. A rough, thorough body search.

  “No weapon, sergeant.”

  “Right. I’ll caution him. You call the D I.”

  *

  Interview Room Two.

  A drab beige box. Its single window set high in the wall framed a small patch of sky. A detective inspector and a detective constable sat at the table. Arthur Martin, dressed in a shapeless brown overall, sat opposite, back straight, face expressionless.

  Since his arrest some twenty-four hours earlier, his clothes had been taken away for forensic examination. He had been examined by a doctor who found that, while in reasonable health, Arthur was ‘in shock’ and needed rest before interrogation. He had advised medication. Arthur refused. He had been offered food, but had eaten very little and for four hours he had slept, a deep dreamless sleep born of exhaustion. The doctor had called again that morning. A brief visit. He considered Arthur ‘sufficiently recovered to undergo questioning.’