Take
A Break
A.
W. Lambert
awl@awlambert.co.uk
Excerpt
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at: www.roguephoenixpress.com
Within these pages you will find twenty-five
short stories. You will find each different, each hopefully a pleasant little
read. Some involve ghostly goings on, others a little detective work and still
others are a tad goofy; just a little nonsense with something, hopefully, to
raise a smile. When taking that welcome break, cup of tea or coffee in hand,
this is a little book which can literally be dipped into at any point for a ten
minute relaxing read.
Excerpt:
WAITING
FOR CHALKY
Do
you believe in ghosts? No? Well I don't blame you. No rational minded person
would, would they? And as a lifelong
soldier, there was no one more rational than me.
Thirty
years; boy soldier to Lieutenant Colonel. Northern Ireland, The Falklands,
Iraq, I'd seen them all; life and death in the raw you might say. No room for
wishy-washy thoughts of a life thereafter where I came from. No, it was enjoy
life while you can because when your times up; it's up, isn't it? It's over.
Finished, right?
Yeah,
well…Maybe.
When I retired my wife and I chose carefully.
We had seen the rough side of life, now was the time for peace and quiet. And
the public house in the little Norfolk village was just what we were looking
for. It was in the perfect rural location and its projected takings, though
nothing to write home about, when augmented by my military pension, would give
us the comfortable retirement we had planned for so long.
My
wife immediately joined the WI, helped out at the church and generally
integrated into the local scene. I concentrated on running the pub and enjoying
my retirement to the full; my evenings filled with the local characters and
their stories, my spare time spent walking Buster the dog and exploring my new
surroundings.
It
was mid September; the 13th to be exact. I remember it well because
it was my birthday and six months to the day since we'd taken over the pub. The
evenings were beginning to draw in and there was a hint of a change in the air,
a lessening of the sun's strength. But it was still warm and I'd been walking
since closing the pub after the lunchtime session. So engrossed was I in my
exploring that I walked much further, stayed out longer, than I had intended.
Feeling a little weary, I settled to rest on a grassy bank, my back against a
large oak. I relaxed in the warm afternoon sunshine, as Buster, head down,
foraged relentlessly among the undergrowth, darting from one spot to the other,
investigating every sound, every smell.
I
have often asked myself since; did I doze, even rest my eyes for just a second?
If I did I was unaware of doing so and yet suddenly he was there, standing over
me, looking down, and smiling a sad, tired smile. He was young, no more than
twenty or so and pale with soft, fair hair drifting over one eye. He wore a
waist length, jerkin style, leather jacket and a scarf wound untidily around
his neck. His trousers, a thick, dark worsted material, were tucked into heavy
fur-lined boots. But what took my eye most of all was the nasty gash that ran
from the hairline above his right temple to his chin. It was no longer
bleeding; the blood thickly congealed and crusted, but I'd seen many wounds in
my long military career and knew instantly that this young man needed medical
attention and quick.
I
scrambled to my feet, my mind racing; the jerkin, the heavy boots, it had to be
a motorcycle accident. I instinctively reached toward him, offering support,
but he moved back a pace; out of reach. I stood, arms still extended,
uncertain. "Are you okay?"
He
nodded, the sad smile persisting. I noticed his eyes, focused on a point just
above my head. I had seen the signs before. Concussion.
"Yes,
we're all okay," he said, his words soft and dreamlike. "It's Chalky.
We're just waiting for Chalky."
"Chalky?
Was he with you? Is he hurt too?"
His
head turned, his eyes now scanning the woodland behind me. "No, Chalky got
out before. There was only time for him. But we can't leave him. We have to
wait." He frowned, his eyes narrowing as if he had seen something in the
undergrowth. He gave a half wave of his hand and shuffled uncertainly toward
the trees.
"Wait,"
I called after him. "You need to see a doctor." I pulled out my
mobile and held it up for him to see. "I can make a call, get an
ambulance."
He
hesitated, looking back, shaking his head. "Don't worry, old sport,"
he said. "Just waiting for Chalky, that's all." He turned and in
seconds was lost among the trees. Common sense urged me to go after him, bring
him back and call for help, but an inner something held me back and I just
stood staring stupidly at the spot where he had disappeared.
Feeling
pressure against my leg, I glance down. For some reason Buster cowered at my
feet, his ears flattened to his head.
That
evening, behind the bar, the vision of the young man haunted my thoughts.
Earlier, immediately after returning from my walk, I'd telephoned the local
police and reported the accident. Remembering the young man's words,
"we're all okay", I reported that, although I had only
seen one person, there were probably more involved in the accident.
"Oi,
what's this then?" I was snapped back to the present by the sharp retort.
Old Len Bartlett, the pub's oldest and most faithful regular, stood before me,
his pint pot extended. "I asked for mild. You know I always have mild.
This isn't mild, it's bitter."
I
took the pot from him. "Sorry Len," I apologized. Things on my
mind," I emptied the pot, refilled it with his favourite and handed it
back.
Len
supped at the fresh liquid and smacked his lips, satisfied. "That's more
like it. So what's the problem then?"
I
related the story of my encounter with the young man. Slowly, as the tale
unfolded, a smile spread across the old man's face. "And you reported it
to the police?" he said, when I had finished.
I
nodded. "Strange though, they said they'd had no reports of any accidents
in the area."
Len
pursed his lips. '"Sright, 'Cause there weren't none."
"Sorry?"
"You're
privileged, lad," he said with conspiratorial wink. Us that know, us
old'ns don't talk about it, but looks like today you met one of the Romeo
Victor crew."
"The
what?"
"The
Romeo Victor crew."
I
studied the old boy across the bar. "What the hell are you talking about,
Len?"
He
took another long draught from the pot before answering. "I think it's
time for you to meet our Arthur," he said finally.
The
following day, after the lunchtime session, I closed the pub and followed Len
to a tiny cottage on the outskirts of the village. A woman who I guess was in
her late fifties answered our knock. She ushered us through to a tiny sitting
room at the back of the cottage.
"Dad,"
she said, as we entered, "You've got visitors."
The
old man was sitting in a high backed, winged armchair facing the window looking
directly down the garden and out across open fields beyond. Despite his obvious
age, he had a full head of pure white hair, a broad smile and eyes that
sparkled mischievously.
Len
dropped into a chair opposite the old man. He grinned up at me. "I'd like
you to meet our Arthur," he said. "Arthur White." He turned back
to the old man. "Arthur, this is our new publican," he said.
"Yesterday he was out walking and guess what?"
The
old man turned his twinkling eyes toward me. He chuckled happily. "Met the
boys, did you?"
"Sorry?"
Confused I turned to Len for an explanation.
"Just
the one, Arthur" Len said, his eyes still on the old man. "The blonde
lad."
"Ah,
that'll be the Skipper. Must be getting impatient."
"I'm
not surprised," Len laughed. "They've waited long enough."
Totally
mystified, I looked from one old man to the other.
Old
Arthur pointed to a hard backed chair, motioning me to sit alongside him,
waiting for me to settle before raising a bony finger and pointed to a spot in
the sky above the distant field.
"We'd
made it to about there," he said. "Pretty shot up, we were; only the
two engines at full power. But old Romeo Victor was a wonderful Kite and the
skipper had nursed her all the way; we were nearly home." His arm dropped
back into his lap and he was silent for a moment, memories flooding back.
"But then," he continued finally, his voice little more than a
whisper. "The damn rudder decided to fall off." He shook his head.
"Even a Lancaster can't fly without a rudder."
As
they held mine, old Arthur's eyes, just for that moment, lost the mischievous
sparkle and became deep, dark pools of sadness. I felt myself drawn to that
day, that perilous moment. "So what happened…? How did you…?"
"The
skipper ordered us out," the old man continued. "I was the first to
go and as I left, Romeo Victor went into a violent spin." He heaved a
heavy sigh. "They never stood a chance. Twenty-one missions," he
muttered, almost to himself. "Same crew, twenty-one missions. Brothers, we
were. Always together. Always." His voice had dropped to a whisper.
"But it all went wrong that day, lad. You see, they went without me. They
didn't mean to, couldn't help themselves, but they did. They went without
me."
~*~
We've
been here for three years now and we couldn't be happier, every year better
than the last. It's winter now and as I stand looking out of the window, a
roaring fire in the grate, the surrounding fields, covered with a light dusting
of snow, look as beautiful as ever.
Earlier
this year, September the 12th it was, I remember it well because it
was the day before my birthday. It was also the day that Arthur
"Chalky" White died. He was ninety-two and as they lowered him into
the ground I was there at the graveside. As the coffin came to rest something
tugged my eyes sideways, toward a raised hillock beyond the adjacent field.
Bathed in the red glow of a softening September sunset lounged a small group of
young men. My heart skipped and I looked around at the other mourners. Nobody
else was looking that way. Most had their heads bowed, listening to the vicar's
last words. But they were there, honestly, I can assure you, all six of them.
They were too far away for me to see the expressions on their faces, but I
would have wagered anything that they were all smiling. Well they would be,
wouldn't they? They had waited for their comrade for a very long time and now
all seven would be together again. And I'm sure wherever they went from there
they would stay that way.
No,
I'm like you; I don't believe in ghosts either. When your time's up it's up,
finished, right?
Yeah,
well like I said…Maybe.
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