Dad Comes to Visit, Page 2

  Shortly after Dai bowled up from work, herding a thin haired man of about fourty in to the front room. He was wearing a long brown duffle coat that sported a small badge on the front, and was carrying a small black sports bag. With an increasing feeling of gloom I noticed that the badge on his coat read, “Ghost hunters do it in the dark.”

  “This is Vinny” Dai said. “He’s come to have a look at our little problem.” and from behind him Dai winked, looking mightily pleased with himself, I must say.

  Vinny looked a little nervous, though I thought that this was probably more down to having contact with real people rather than spooks. Removing his duffle coat he rooted though his black bag and took out a small tape recorder and a few other bits and bobs as well as a small notebook and pen. “Good evening, Mrs Jones” he said in a slightly timid voice. “Just lead me to the manifestation and leave me to it please.”

  With a sigh we led him up the stairs and opened the door to the spare room. Several loud voices could be heard disputing something or another to do with the card game as the door swung open. Dai pushed Vinny in to the room and slammed the door shut. All was silent inside but eventually we heard voices began to be raised again.

  We sat down on the stairs to wait.

  The first hour passed before I got fed up and went and made a cup of tea. A small ghost mouse squeaked from inside the kettle as I opened the lid to fill it up with water. I shooed it and it vanished. After our cup of tea another hour passed and I got fed up and went and watched an episode of East Enders on the telly, leaving Dai on watch. It was about half an hour after I had returned from that that the door suddenly flew open and Vinny emerged from the room grinning like a lunatic. There could be heard the sound of several farewells from inside the room and the door swung shut all on its own. What appeared to be a ghostly parrot suddenly fluttered past swearing at us and vanished through the back wall.

  Vinny beamed from ear to ear and began to descend the stairs. Three at a time he took them, and grabbing his bag from the front room made his way to the front door as we descended after him.

  “Well now!” he almost shouted, opening the door and stepping on to the path. A small white something moved in the bushes behind him. “I am totally shocked. Amazed, in fact! So far this evening I have recorded” He hesitated for a moment as a small transparent mouse scampered across his feet before disappearing into the hedge, “Yes. Erm, where was I? Oh yes! So far I have recorded four instances of total materialisation, one case of ectoplasm; two prolonged experiences of what are best referred to as advanced other worldly experiences. Most gratifying!” He tapped his notebook before placing in to his black bag which was now slung about his shoulder. “He paused for thought, seeming to be completely astonished at his experiences. It was if all his Christmases had come along at once.

  “On the down side” he continued, frowning, “I have also had to endure a conversation of what must have been an hour and a half concerning the best way to grow cucumbers.” He paused to think for a while and he looked a little embarrassed. “I also discovered that I’m not very good at poker.” He frowned once again, and patted his pocket. “Lost ten quid, I did.” With that he went down the path with a cheery goodnight and as he turned in to the street called back, “I’ll be back tomorrow.” and he was gone.

  “Don’t you even think of bringing him back tomorrow night” I snarled at Dai and closed the door.

  ***

  That night and the rest of the day it got worse. It seemed as if I could not walk in to any room in the house now without coming across (or walking through - and believe you me, that isn’t pleasant at all) yet another ghost, whether it be human, animal or in some very odd instances vegetables as well. I even threw the eggs away out of the fridge as a precaution. Mind you, three of them seemed to have left of their own accord anyway. I even noticed that the postman seemed to be leaving our mail by the garden gate instead of putting it through the letter box.

  I had had enough. Dragging a reluctant Dai upstairs we went to have a word with dad.

  “Now dad” I said, “We’ve had enough now. I didn’t mind the fuss before because it was nice to see you.” The four cards players had stopped mid game and were looking at me in surprise. Dad dropped his ghostly cards on to the table, where they lay shimmering in just the kind of way that playing cards don’t. Dai seemed to be hovering by the door just in case. “But all you do is sit there playing cards all day.” Dad looked disappointed at me when I said that, but I had had enough by now. “So I want you to go. There’s spooks and ghosts and what have you all over the house. You’ve opened a doorway dad and I want to close it after you on your way out.”

  Dad looked even more disappointed now but then he just sighed and picked up his cards again.

  “It’s about the sandwich, isn’t it? He said, and smiled. “Well if it makes you feel any better I’ll have a cheese and pickle. I would imagine the boys here would enjoy one too.” The other three ghosts nodded eagerly and started their game up again.

  “Not that we’ll be doing much eating of them” giggled Thomas, and the other three joined in.

  Dai heard the snort from me and instinctively backed away a pace or two. “That’s it!” I yelled, and the card game stopped briefly, before one of them (I am not sure which one. The red mist had descended by now) tutted loudly. As loud as I could (and I saw Dai flinch from where he now stood by the door) I roared. As loud as I could. I could take no more. This had to be sorted out here and now.

  “MOTHER!” I yelled, as loud as I could. In front of me the card game came to a sudden, blinding stop. There was a sound like the tolling of a bell and a stiff wind shook the curtains in the room. At least dad had the sense to look afraid, and Dai didn’t seem to be having any trouble joining in either.

  Slowly, before me, the shape of my mother began to materialise until she stood in front of me, though I must say that she was no more solid looking than dad was. She definitely looked a lot crosser however.

  “Howell?” She growled, using dad’s Christian name. “What on Earth do you think you are doing?”

  Dad looked just more than a little taken aback.

  “Well now, Mother” he started but she was not having any of it.

  “Don’t you mother me, you annoying little man. Now get you back to where you should be!” and with a wave of her hand dad - and the card game, suddenly vanished. All at once the whole house felt, well, more peaceful somehow.

  “And just you wait until I get back there” she shouted at nothing at all, but everything at once. “You’ll be for it!” and then she turned and smiled at me. Besides me Dai looked as if he was approaching the beginning of a short but eventful fainting fit.

  “Sorry about that darling.” she smiled at me, and reached to stroke my face. Of course, I felt nothing. But I did. I felt all of it.

  “You know what he is like. Never known a man get bored so quickly. But don’t worry about him sneaking back. Believe you me; I’m going to keep him more than busy!”

  Slowly she began to fade, and as she did so she gave me one last smile.

  “Mum? I asked eager to clear something up. “What’s all that about the knitting, then?”

  Just before she went she smiled even broader. I recognised the smile from when I was little. That and the tone too.

  “Don’t be silly, Gwen darling” she said as she faded to nothing. “Where on Earth do you think clouds come from?” Then she was gone.

  Beside me Dai swooned and at last succumbed to the forces of gravity. Luckily the bed caught him.

  ***

  Now all this was a few years back now and since then not a single unusual thing has happened in the house to either of us. Just as well, too! Strange really, but it took us both a bit of time to get back to normal what with all that had gone on and all. Vinny took some convincing not to come back as well, though I put my foot down about that one!

  Funny thing is that to this day neither of us can bear to watch a horror film on t
he telly or anything to do with ghosts or the like. Even on Halloween when the trick or treaters come around we turn all the lights off and hide. Dai was a bit disappointed at first. Used to look forward to his annual presenting of his chocolate covered sprouts to all the kids, he did. Great big kid himself as well though, if you ask me!

  One thing both of us have begun to enjoy together though also brings us a bit of a laugh and sometimes we both stand in the garden, wondering. It’s clouds, of course.

  Aren’t clouds just wonderful?

  SAMPLES

  There now follows a small advertising broadcast! I have included several snippets from some of my other stories for you to have a look at. Feel no obligation – browsing is more than welcome! If however you decide that you like what you see then all of the following are available either in the full version of, “Paul McCartney’s Coat and Other stories” (which contains ten short stories of varying lengths, paperback size is just over 300 pages). They arew also available to purchase separately as well.

  The links are as follows:

  UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Michael-White/e/B006Y7JHCK/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1

  US: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Michael-White/e/B006Y7JHCK/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1

  I hope that you enjoy at least one of them and look forward to seeing you in the future.

  Michael White

  (27th January 2012)

  Paul McCartney’s Coat

  Old Todd was a right old card - I’ve never met a bloke before or since who was more up for a laugh, I can tell you! But now he’s gone and passed over I can tell you a secret he told me years ago, and as far as I know, I think probably it’s only him and me that knows all about it. Course, he ain’t telling now so it’s up to me. This is what he did.

  Best place to start would be with the music. Todd was a bugger for it. Rock and roll, pop. Strictly sixties stuff. None of this bloody head banging boom boom boom that seems to be all you can get these days. No idea what’s going on in kid’s heads listening to that kind of crap! Gives me a right old headache, it does. No, for Todd It had to be sixties music. Golden age, he called it, and he had no shift at all with anything that came after that. Used to get misty eyed about it, he did. Yeah, music was his thing, and he had a particular soft spot for the Beatles. He knew all the tunes, had all the albums. This was back in the days when they were proper albums you had to put on a turntable to play , and if he’d had a few he would sing along to all of their songs, word perfect. Not note perfect, I’d say! But that was Todd for you, though. Dead keen on the songs even if he couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket!

  Went to all the concerts too, he did. Not for the Beatles like, they hadn’t been in front of an audience for at least a year, and even that was in America. Nice work if you can get as far as I can see, but he said he remembered the early days and he had seen them once or twice back then. I think the way he looked at it was once they got popular you couldn’t even hear then playing because of the God awful row of all the girls screaming at them. Pretty much ruined it for Todd did that. Course it looks like it ruined it for them as well!

  So Todd was a big fan. He didn’t have the bloody Beatles wigs and what have you, but he had all of their albums, all their singles. It looked like he couldn’t have been a bigger fan. Well, on the music side, anyway.

  All that changed though, on the day that he found Paul McCartney’s coat.

  An Inspector Calls

  From the corner of Hesketh Street to the tree lined lane that wound its way towards Grantham's Walk is a swift passage of not more than say, five minutes. Generally a pleasant walk, with trees just the right height waving in the breeze, the traffic here is neither too heavy nor too light. In general suburban terms it could be said that it was pretty much an idyllic area. The houses are generally well moneyed, and if the general area could be said to have any problem whatsoever (and it had to be a little bit of nit - picking, it has to be said), it was a small problem. If a problem at all. If forced to express a derogatory opinion, the general consensus would be that the area was just a little too middle class; a little bit well, twee.

  Which in itself is not really any kind of problem at all. If the worst offence that an erring politician could summon was that he was in most opinions, decidedly middle class, or that the military dictator whose latest grand plan involved a lot of: a) drugs, b) lots of money, and c) a certain amount of neat plutonium sitting around doing nothing much at all somewhere in the general area of the Ukraine, (and not necessarily in that order), and if the worst that could be said of such a dictator was that he was, when all was said and done, a little bit, well...twee... then the world would most certainly be a much better place. There would certainly be a lot more Ikea stores, for certain.

  So, when all is said and one, not a bad area. The trees were nice. The way the sun set just above the crest of the hill as it climbed back towards the town (Strictly May to August - the locals banked on it), all is pretty much as it should have been. Even the lampposts - evenly spaced, cast iron (very old school), were pretty much pillars of good taste.

  Down the hill, towards Cressington Gardens, across the small green and there is the village pub. Much has been written about the place of the modern public house in the role of the community, and much has taken place over the last number of decades to change the role of such a building in society. Amongst other things, the advent of the cheap family car, the rise of the out of town shopping centre, the lures used by the modern public house were many. Cheap food and play areas for the family. Dusty the Clown party bags and endless variations of Pizza and chicken nuggets for the kids. The traps were set, and the public fell into them. So the way went, and so the pub - centre of the community, excluder of children, most women and those financially embarrassed - changed. Or most did.

  Charles Horse, licensee, proprietor and landlord (his preferred title), of the Bucket and Shovel public house thought that all of this, of course, was complete and utter bullshit. Not for him the modern pub with Sunday lunch for eight pounds, the quiz night on a Monday and Wednesday. No Siree, Charlie ran a traditional public house, and that meant darts, pool, a nineteen sixties / country and western music jukebox and no food whatsoever. (Apart of course from crisps, nuts, pork scratching’s and pickled eggs. But they of course, don't really count. (Particularly the pork scratching’s and pickled eggs)). As well as these treats there was always fresh sawdust in the bar once a week (whether it was needed or not), tournaments on a rolling basis for darts, pool and a Race night every last Thursday in the month. Charlie believed in the old values. The good old values. And not necessarily family ones, either.

  From the outside, the pub looked like any other. This was of frequent embarrassment to carloads of distressed parents on sunny summer afternoons. Keen to offload the kids into the nearest play area, stuff themselves with a good old fashioned pub-produced Sunday roast and the kids with either pizza or chicken nuggets, entering into the Bucket and Shovel could be a salutary experience.

  "Excuse me", would stammer a travelling parent, car still outside from where the sound of raucous children could just be heard, "Do you serve Sunday lunch?"

  Such a question posed to Charlie would inevitably lead to a smug grin that didn't so much spread across his face as burst its banks and threaten to flood the entire local area.

  "Food?" would boom Charlie, pausing to lift a glass from above the bar and polish it with his Cellar man’s apron, "Nah," he would pronounce, and that was it. The potential customer would usually stand there waiting for the next bit of the conversation, but it never actually arrived. No directions to the nearest pub that did sell food, no advice on the best route to take; nothing at all, really. Which would inevitably lead to a small-embarrassed silence, and the eventual departure of the slightly disgruntled, if not confused, customer.

  Which most entrepreneurs involved in the management of small businesses would find most odd. But that was the thing with Charlie. It was not that he didn't want to serve customers, or
that he did not want to make a decent living. Few people would come to the conclusion after examining Charlie's behaviour that he would love to run a chain of pubs. Simply put, he did. It was his dream. But all of his day dream pubs would be run on the same principles. No food. No kids. No play areas - and definitely no designer beers or wine of the month.

  The brewery representative had given up on Charlie in this and most other areas now, instead concentrating on the merits of various manufacturers’ pickled eggs or scampi fries. It wasn't that Charles Horse didn't want to be successful. It was simply that he didn't want the 20th Century. "Nothing wrong with pubs that have food", he would often comment over the bar to any of his locals who would care to listen. "But not in my pub. Not while I'm the landlord."

  By appearances most people would assess Charlie as surly. (This opinion would usually be arrived at after a conversation that would commence with an uninformed customer approaching the bar, speaking to Charlie and vocalising something along the lines of, "Good evening, Proprietor. May I order a White Chablis, a Taboo Spritzer beer with ice and a packet of Bombay Spice to nibble on. Oh, and whilst you're at it, can I have a look at the menu?" Charlie would smile his wide smile and positively boom,