Character sketch: Billy Tadcome.

Billy spent most of his time wandering round the village talking to anyone who would listen. He would then try to pursued them that all rich people were inherently evil, and that one day the working class would rise up to take their rightful place as rulers of the country. During this process everyone would get a bigger house and a newer car, and horrible things would be done to the queen. People called Billy a Commie, but Billy called himself a Worker. Everyone thought this self-imposed title was a little odd since nobody could ever remember Billy having a Job.

Copyright © 2011 All rights reserved.

THE AUCTION ROOM

Dad was especially proud of his bidding skills, and had refined them over his long auction room career. They required not only a working knowledge of current antique prices but sharp observation, a keen analysis of human behavior, and a good dose of trickery. At no time were these skills brought into play more than when dad was selling, rather than buying something, and wanted to bid for it himself. Although this seemed like an odd practice when first observed, once dad’s true intent became understood, it made more sense. He did not bid in order to own it, but to encourage others to bid higher. This was called the “Run up,” but it was a dangerous game because sometimes the other bidder lost interest in the purchase as the price increased, leaving dad with the winning bid, and the obligation to purchase his own junk back. Too many times I have seen my father driving home with the same stuff that he took to sell, and a wallet lightened considerably after paying buyers commission on his own sale. I safely assumed that dad had now learned his lesson and abandoned “the run up,” because in recent months he had refrained from trying this risky maneuver, and developed a new tactic. The new approach required another family members help, and was about to be performed on his own box of “miscellaneous sundries.” It was called “the expert opinion.”

“What’s in there?” I asked my father, innocently pointing at his merchandise.

“I don’t know,” said my father in a voice loud enough to be easily overheard. “It’s heavy though!” Then picking up one of the broken tennis rackets from the top he said, raising his voice a little higher in fake excitement, and trying to sound as much like an expert as he could. “Wow! Who on earth would be foolish enough to sell this!”

Several bystanders had now stopped talking and started listening to my father.

“What?” Said I, playing my part just as we had rehearsed.

“This looks like a very rare ‘Jeffery Westerton’ tennis racket.” My fathers eyes were wide as he cradled the dusty racket and delicately brushed his fingers over the patches of mold beginning to form on the handle. He tugged on the loose strings and turned it over to look at the still damp signature. “Yes, and its even signed!” He exclaimed. Then placing it carefully back on the box, he said to me, more quietly now that he had everyone’s attention, “You wait here boy, I’m going to sell your mothers wedding ring to raise some money so we can buy it.” With that he disappeared into the crowd to find a cup of tea.


From "Hot Heads." Stay tuned for release details.

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Copyright © 2011 All rights reserved.

The Other Grandmother

The heavy door swung open to a dimly lit room where grandmother sat stern and motionless in a high backed chair, chin held high and sharp gray eyes residing behind horn-rimmed spectacles. A brass handled walking stick, leaned against a round polished cherry wood reading table on which resided a large leather bound well worn bible with a tattered gold ribbon marking a passage that we would no doubt have to listen to during our visit. 

On the wall were several photographs. One used to be of Dad and Mum on their wedding day, barely visible through the fog as they leaned against their borrowed car, but Mum had been carefully cropped out of this. The rest of the wall decoration consisted of pictures of Methodist ministers from a number of different parishes. A large portrait of Winston Churchill enjoyed a privileged spot over the mantelpiece, and on the opposite side Queen Elizabeth bestowed her royal blessing upon the dimly lit room.

After bowing to Grandmother and saluting Winston, Pete and I sat motionless, side by side like wax dummies on the couch. Only the sound of rain on the window and the occasional crackle of the fire broke the stony silence.

Eventually, Dad tried to start up a conversation. It began by talking about the weather, my father offering an opinion about the Pilchard's terrible timing for their Scottish Holiday. Then the mother and son pair once again fell silent. I knew Dad wanted to offer a highly opinionated comment on the offshore fishing strike but politics, or anything perceived as such was forbidden. For fear that we would all be cursed into hell, religion was also a taboo subject. It was difficult to find any common ground. Neither of the two had any interest in sports, Dad did not know any hymns, and grandmother had never ridden a motorbike.

Mud Lane

by Stephen R Drage

ISBN: 13 : 978-1466291805

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Copyright © 2011 All rights reserved.

THE HORNETS

Dad had a similar arrangement with Farmer Giles last summer, but it was not entirely successful and I was astounded to find that he had chosen to repeat a potentially hazardous experience.

“Never again!” I remember him shouting the day he returned from the woods, limping, soaking wet, with the burns on his legs visible through the singed holes in his trousers and angry red welts on his face arms and neck. As he sat down and consumed more tea and cigarettes than I had ever seen him do before, the disastrous story began to unfold. Apparently Dad had been swinging an axe to remove a particularly stubborn tree and in so doing dislodged a hornet’s nest. The hornets had viewed the destruction of their place of residence in a very unfavorable manner and attacked him with a determination and resolve seldom seen in woodland creatures. Luckily Dad had been able to seek refuge by jumping into the pungent choking smoke of the fire where he had been burning some brushwood. After proving his superiority over the winged aggressors by tolerating the flames and smoke longer than they could, he sprinted a short distance to a nearby lake and jumped in to extinguish his burning clothes. Despite his well planned strategy he received multiple hornet stings. He had also twisted his ankle as he exited the lake.

Mud Lane

by Stephen R Drage

ISBN: 13 : 978-1466291805

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Copyright © 2011 All rights reserved.

Granny's Budgie

Besides the deck of cards and the glass of rotgut whiskey, Granny’s only other companion was Joey. Joey was a blue-green budgie that resembled a baby parrot. Budgies were a popular pet among older people because they were readily available at almost any pet store, and because they ate only a few seeds a day, they were cheap to feed.

     Joey was a noisy little bird. This annoyed most of us, but Granny, by carefully controlling the volume of her hearing aid managed to tolerate the fowl quite well. When she did decide to permit the squawks to shatter the peace and quiet of the small room, she insisted that she could understand the staccato avian language.
     Joey would squawk loudly and Granny would look at him, nod her head vigorously, and with excited enthusiasm say,
     “Listen, Dad, he’s talking to you.”
     Dad would look up with a mouth full of biscuit crumbs and nod politely and curtly towards Joey.
Joey lived in a chrome wire framed round topped cage supported by a single steel pole. A single span of round wood across the interior served as his perch. The choice of wood as a construction medium was probably an attempt to try and fool the bird into thinking it was a branch, thereby creating the illusion that he was living happily in the wild, inside a shiny steel tree. Joey shared the cage with Jimmy. Jimmy was about the same size as Joey and similar in color, but made of plastic with springs for legs. His feet would be snapped onto the perch, and he would sit there all day motionless, looking wistful, with eyes fixed upon some imaginary horizon. Occasionally Joey would do a little sideways shuffle along the perch to where Jimmy sat, and peck him viciously. Jimmy would sway back and forth on his spring legs but other than that, he would show no sign of interest in Joey. I think that both Joey and Granny were beginning to suspect that Jimmy was not a real bird.

Steve R. Drage
Mud Lane. http://www.mudlane.net/

 

Copyright © 2011 Stephen R Drage

All rights reserved.

The Pork Pie Van

   The Hillman was our current transportation and Dad had not owned it for very long. Despite it’s unreliable engine, and decaying bodywork, Dad still referred to it as his “new’ car. Prior to Hillman our principle mode of conveyance had been a Ford pork pie van. Although it had high mileage, it was mechanically sound, and Dad had managed to strike a good deal with the local butcher to acquire it. It had the advantage of being able to carry a large payload on Dad’s regular trips to Bollington’s, and almost every week he would set off to the auction house with a truckload of good saleable items, and return with an equally large cargo of skillfully negotiated useless junk. It was the ideal vehicle for Dad.
If the pie van had any disadvantage it was the large sign that graced the side panels and back doors of the vehicle that read, “Smith’s Pork pies.” It was beautifully scripted in gold with a large picture of a steaming pork pie over block-lettered text that read, “The best in the land.” There was also a picture of plump pork sausages, visible behind the pork pie. They looked to have been fried to perfection and their swollen crispy skins were golden brown. The skillful artist who created the picture had even drawn wisps suggesting the mouthwatering aroma of well- seasoned meat rising gracefully from the food. Whenever we parked the vehicle we would return to find numerous people gathering around the van demanding that we sell them pork pies. Even our cat would sit and stare at it for hours. Some people, seeing us drive by would actually follow us home and pull up behind us in the driveway requesting the tasty dish advertised on the sides. Dad would often have to open the back doors and show them that the area they expected to be full of pork pies was actually used for building materials, fire wood or the latest batch of Bollington’s treasure.
Dad eventually assigned Pete the job of painting over the signs but several weeks passed before he completed the task. Until that time, we continued to fight off hoards of hungry people clamoring for some of Mr. Smith’s delicacies.
Prior to the Pork Pie Ford was the Austin.
My father purchased it in a moment of madness after Mum’s declaration that she liked the color. In the several months that Dad tried to drive it, we were plagued by constant mechanical breakdowns. The engine made a loud knocking noise that drove Dad crazy, and if you exceeded twenty miles per hour a whining sound emanated from the gearbox and got louder as the car’s speed increased. The rear door on Pete’s side did not close properly, and I always suspected that Dad secretly hoped that Pete would one day fall out. My job was to gaze out of the back window, which was cracked, and watch for road bumps or potholes. If we hit any, which we almost always did when Dad was driving, the boot would open by itself and anything inside would fall out.
Dad finally gave the car a decent burial by driving it past rat barn and deep into the sea of stinging nettles and brambles beyond. That’s where it remained to this day, rusting and overgrown with weeds and creeping vines. It served out the remainder of its life by being a source of engine parts, spare wheels, bolts, brackets and many other improvised solutions to my father’s needs.

Steve R. Drage
Mud Lane. http://www.mudlane.net/

 

Copyright © 2011 Stephen R Drage

All rights reserved.