More stories

I feel I ought to write something, just to keep this blog alive, and, while I have more stories and narrative poems, I think they need a bit more work before I put them on here. At least this blog has kind of forced me to write more, so I am putting more effort into finishing stories I have started or starting stories I must finish. Some of my stories are so old that they are definitely past their sell by date and should really be scrapped, but I can't bring myself to do that in case they might one day come in useful. It's a bit like never being able to throw a book away; I may never read them again, but it feels like sacrilege to bin them. I used to be unable to even lend a book without knowing that it would come back to me, but now I think I might be able to allow the books out of my sight so long as I believe them to have gone to a good home.

Anyway, this will have to do as an interim blog until I have written another story.

Blind Date - John's Story

OK then, here's the sequel.  I guess if you haven't read Tracey's story then you need to go back and read that before you read this.  I've never tried it, but I suspect they don't read the wrong way round.  You could try it and let me know.

I did wonder if I could write some more Tracey stories and might give that a go.  Anyway here's Blind Date - John's story

Blind Date

John

The truth is that I had managed to double book myself for that night.  I’d got a call asking me to pop in after work.  Well I thought I could manage a quicky before I went to meet Tracey, so I agreed.

I had originally planned to just pop in for a cup of coffee, but she insisted on me staying in spite of my protestations that I had to leave.  She said she had already prepared a meal for the two of us.  I was in a complete dilemma.  I was enjoying myself, but wanted to meet this Tracey; her photo had looked really nice and we had chatted well on line.  I decided to stay for the meal and made an excuse to sneak out and make a quick call to Tracey to tell her I was running late. 

The meal was wonderful, and the invitation was definitely there to stay a bit longer, but I still reckoned I could make it to see Tracey if I hurried – that is if I really wanted to.

In the end I considered that it wouldn’t be right to just leave Tracey in the lurch like that, so I made up my mind to make an excuse to leave and get to Tracey as soon as possible.  In any case, if it turned out that Tracey wasn’t my cup of tea after all, I knew that if I handled things right here, I would still get a warm welcome if I chose to come back later.

By the time I managed to get away, bidding fond and loving farewells, I was even later for my meeting with Tracey.  I wasn’t going to tell her that I’d already had dinner with someone else, so I told her that I had been held up in traffic and would be about half an hour.  I suggested that she went round to the pub around the corner from the restaurant we were to meet at and get herself a drink.  Better that than hanging around on a street corner waiting for me to turn up. 

It was then I realised that I had left my wallet behind.  I had no choice but to turn round and head back the way I had come.  I dashed in saying that I had forgotten something, retrieved my wallet and, avoiding all entreaties to stay, leapt back into my car.  Back on the phone as I tried to make up time, I told Tracey that I had been caught up in a diversion set up by the police to avoid an accident on the M4 and was now sat at temporary traffic lights near Hungerford.    I could hear the sounds of the pub in the background, so I guessed she had taken my advice and was having a drink while waiting.

I was beginning to make up a bit of time now, but still very late when, would you believe it, I was caught up in a diversion set up by the police to avoid an accident on the M4.  I couldn’t tell her that I was held up in another diversion, particularly as I was supposed to be somewhere near Hungerford at some temporary lights, so I told her that I was about 15 minutes away and would join her in the restaurant.  15 minutes later I said that I was still looking for a parking place and would be with her soon.  I could hear noises in the background that sounded like a restaurant, but she sounded a bit weird, almost like she was drunk.  I remember hoping that I hadn’t taken all this trouble to meet a lush.

I finally managed to make it into the restaurant and was being shown to Tracey’s table when the most amazing fracas erupted.  I have no idea how it all started.  All I remember is that someone (who turned out to be Tracey) seems to have slipped as she got up from the table and reached for a waiter for support.  The waiter then poured soup over a lady seated at a nearby table and she in turn stood up in a hurry and upset the table she was sat at, thus showering her partner with the contents of the table, which included a full pint of beer.  Understandably, he shifted backwards to avoid the mess and bumped into the chap behind.  I couldn’t see exactly what happened next except that this chap rose from his chair roaring like King Kong and started laying about him with rather large fists.  I remember noting that he must have been part of some kind of fancy dress party because his face was made up with some kind of brown make up plastered all over it and he was wearing what looked like a cherry on his nose.  Anyway one of his fists must have made contact with the chap in front of me who collapsed like a felled tree.  I tripped over him, and in an attempt to steady myself reached out with both hands and found myself clutching the top half of a lady’s dress, much of which followed me down as I fell.  I stumbled and started to get back to my feet to apologise to the lady, when she aimed a very painful kick at my groin which doubled me up again. 

So there I am crouched on the ground clutching my nether regions and the chap who had tripped me lying spark out on the floor in front of me and all about us bedlam is raging.  The girl whose dress I had inadvertently ripped and who had revenged herself so painfully on me was clutching her dress with one hand and laying about her with a half full bottle of wine in the other.  Wine was slopping about and people were slipping and sliding on the floor in an attempt to reach her and disarm her.  The big man with the face mask was still thrashing about him and I could see people trying to get out of the door onto the street.  I felt that the safest place at this moment was away from the main action, so, still in a near foetal position, I crawled under a nearby table.  From my position of relative safety I could see the kitchen staff coming into the restaurant led by a large and corpulent man in dirty chef’s whites bearing a kitchen knife of huge proportions.   In his wake came the rest of the kitchen and waiting staff bearing whatever weapons they could lay their hands on. 

The chef (as I took him to be) had obviously set himself the task of subduing the man in the mask and was striding determinedly towards him head and knife held high.  Unfortunately the downed man was directly in his path.  Inevitably the chef tripped over him, crashing to the floor still clutching the knife which embedded itself in the floor together with the hem of the dress that I had already torn.  So close were the kitchen and waiting staff to the chef, that they followed his tumble with much clattering of saucepans and rolling pins and created a pile of bodies and kitchen utensils.

The aching from between my legs having abated, I crawled out from beneath my table and began somewhat tentatively to get to my feet.  As I emerged from my place of safety, I came face to face with the girl who had assaulted me.  She and I recognised each other immediately, and I moved towards her to greet her in a formal manner, she, on the other hand screamed “YOU” in a very loud and strident tone, swung her wine bottle in a wide arc and stepped towards me.  In so doing, her dress, trapped as it was by the chef’s knife, was ripped from her grasp and fell to the floor leaving her naked apart from a pair of skimpy panties.  Unencumbered now and obviously undeterred, she launched herself at me with renewed vigour.  I responded in the way that any sane man would who had already suffered potentially permanent damage to his reproductive equipment.  I ran.

I guess the sight of this young lady in naught but her panties waving a bottle of wine and chasing me out of the restaurant must have had a calming effect on the rest of the battle scene, as it seemed to me as I fled that everyone had stopped what they were doing and were concentrating on the pair of us.  I made it through the restaurant door just as a police van pulled up to the kerb and a number of helmeted policemen leapt out of the back.  They apprehended Tracey and took her away in the van and kept the rest of us back for questioning.

It was late by the time I was released without charge and I was pleased that I had taken my mum up on her offer of dinner before meeting up with Tracey.  Isn’t it strange how mums are always right?  She had said earlier in the evening that even though she had never met the girl, she felt there was something not quite right with Tracey and that she hoped that she was wrong, but that she was sure the girl was trouble. 

Perhaps I should pay more attention to her in future.

Blind Date - Tracey's story

I wrote this story fairly recently and thought that it lacked something, so I wrote the sequel to it (coming soon).  I suspect that, like so many movies, this original is better than the sequel, though I think that both together they make a nice little tale.  I hope you like it.

Here's Tracey's Story

Blind Date

 Tracey

Let me explain.  He had called me on my mobile a few times to tell me that he has been delayed and would be with me as soon as he could, and more recently that he’s caught up in traffic but, if all goes well, should be with me in about half an hour.  In the meantime, he says, just wait in the pub around the corner, get yourself a drink and I’ll be with you as soon as possible.  Has he no idea how acutely embarrassing that is; walking up to the bar in a pub where everyone is in a crowd or in couples, and ordering yourself a gin and tonic.  I was a little aggressive with the barman when he asked me if there was anything else.  I was sure he was just highlighting the fact that I was on my own, drinking on my own, and wouldn’t be buying for anyone else.  He probably wasn’t but I bought a pint of bitter anyway.  I don’t even like beer much, but I bought it anyway.  Of course now I’m stuck with two drinks so I can’t just stand around, I need somewhere to put the drinks down.  I found the end of a bench seat with a couple taking up most of it.  I asked if the seat was taken, but they weren’t really interested so I took his grunt for assent and sat down, putting my gin and tonic and pint on the table. 

Now I am stuck with the awkward situation of appearing to be a girl who has been stood up, abandoned or simply one whose “date” has been delayed.  In spite of this being the truth, it doesn’t make it any better.  In an attempt to belie that impression, I start in on the beer.  It really isn’t my kind of drink but I put on a brave face and gulp it down as if it is my normal tipple.  I even exhale after the first gulp and wipe my mouth on my sleeve.

I feel that everyone is pretending not to look at me; everyone that is except the couple whose bench I am occupying.  I now understand why the seat was available.  They appear to be exploring each other’s dental cavities with each other’s tongues, and I refuse to look at their hands in case they catch me looking and think that I am some kind of perverted voyeur.

The mobile rings.  It’s John again.  Apparently there has been a major accident on the M4 and the police are directing the traffic around Newbury, and now he and the rest of the divertees are held up at some temporary traffic lights at some road works on a minor road near Hungerford.  He now has no idea when he is likely to get to me.  Am I OK?  I don’t tell him.  I say I am and tell him to get here when he can.

I’ve finished the beer and have gulped the G & T to take the taste away.  I think I may be feeling a little light headed.  I haven’t eaten anything tonight and I’ve just downed two drinks in a record time.  I fight my way to the bar and order a bag of peanuts and another G & T; well bugger it I might as well.  Drink and peanuts in hand I weave through the lively crowd to my seat.  Well it was my seat; it now seems to be occupied by a chap in a rather scruffy shirt and jeans.  He is perched on the end and is chatting to a bunch of other men who are standing around him.  I hover.  He looks up at me.  Then he ignores me.  I contemplate pushing past him so that I can sit on the small area between him and the snoggers.  Why not.

The snoggers are not very impressed.  I think I may have sat on her hair.  Anyway they are now less horizontal and more vertical on the bench, which leaves me a bit more room to manoeuvre.  I open my packet of peanuts and start to pick at them and sip my G & T.  I am starving and focus my attention on not emptying the whole packet of peanuts into my mouth, but nibble each one slowly and delicately.  Thus preoccupied, I do not notice the chap on the end of the bench turn around and address me.  “Hello”.  I think, don’t you hello me you dickhead, you just took my seat and then ignored me when I wished you to move, but I say, Hello.

He asks me if I am waiting for someone.  I tell him I am.  He turns his face up to his audience who grin down at him.  He suggests that, since I have obviously been stood up, I run away with him.  Once again he looks up to his audience for approval, they grin and leer back down at him.  I suggest a sexual act for him to perform on himself that is, quite frankly, impossible.  His audience think this is highly amusing and clap him on the back saying that I had told him.  I realise I am on a hiding to nothing here, so ask to be allowed to leave.  Not before I buy you a drink says my would-be Don Juan and sits squarely and unmoving at the end of the bench, blocking my exit.  OK, I say thinking that he will have to get up to get the drink and then I can make my escape.  What’ll it be?  “A double Jack Daniels.  Straight up.”

He calls to one of his mates to get the drink.  The mate turns away obediently.  Bugger.  There goes that plan.  He introduces himself as Brando, but he says his real name is Nigel.  His mates call him Brando because he looks like Marlon Brando.  Perhaps Brando in his later years, I think to myself, but much more Nigel now.  He says he is a city broker and he is expecting a six figure bonus this year and will buy a new Porsche when he gets it.  He has made no attempt to engage me in conversation, simply talked at me.  My drink arrives.  OK, I say, you bought me a drink now I have to go.  But you haven’t drunk it, he says.  I pour it into my mouth and swallow it in one gulp.  Now I have, I say, and stand up.  He is a little put out.  Good.  He swings his legs to one side and I make my escape through the channel made by his mates; it is like the parting of the Red Sea.

Outside the pub, the cool air hits me.  I stand amongst the smokers swaying like a willow in a gentle breeze.  My mobile rings.  John has got clear of the diversion and the road works and is on track to be at the restaurant in about 15 minutes.  He will go straight to the restaurant to save time, so why don’t I get a table and order a bottle of wine, pour one glass for him and one for myself and take a look at the menu.  He will be with me almost before I have sat down.  At last, I think, food.

I enter the restaurant and ask for a table booked in John’s name.  I may be slurring a bit because the waiter had to ask me to repeat myself twice.  He showed me to a table and I explained that John would be with me in few minutes; that he was just parking his car.  I order a bottle of chardonnay, and pour two glasses.  I sip at mine.  The mobile rings.  He is trying to find parking but the place he usually parks is closed, so he may be a bit later than he thought.  Just relax he will be with me soon.  He is very very sorry.  He has no idea how relaxed I am.  I seem to have drunk my glass of wine.  I pour another. 

The waiter asks if I would like to see the menu while I am waiting.  I say I would and he opens one in front of me with a flourish.  I find I cannot read it, so I close it up and put it to one side while I take another drink.  John’s glass of wine is getting warm so I feel duty bound to drink it before that happens.  The bottle is still in the ice bucket.  He can have a glass from the bottle when he arrives.

I need the toilet.  I get up from my chair and for some reason my legs will not hold my weight.  I stagger a little and reach out for a waiter who is passing.  Unfortunately he too has trouble keeping his feet and staggers into a nearby table spilling soup all over the lady sitting there.  She screams as the scalding liquid falls in her lap and leaps to her feet upsetting the table and tipping its contents all over her dinner partner’s nice herringbone jacket.  He pushes his chair backwards to avoid the flying cutlery and crockery and his newly replenished pint of lager and crashes into the chair behind, forcing the rather large male occupant face forward into his black forest gateau.  He is not amused and stands up to his full height, face mottled with chocolate and cherries and takes a swing at the nearest person.  This turns out to be the manager who had hurried to the scene of the fracas.  The haymaker hits the manager squarely on the chin and he falls like a felled tree, tripping another person who was following the manager.

I realised later that this person was John, my datesareus.com date for the night.  It seems that it was totally accidental that he grabbed at my breasts as he fell, and that I now owe him an apology for the kick in the groin that I gave him.  I face a hefty fine for being drunk and disorderly and I understand that the restaurant may wish to take a civil action for damages.  I would also like to point out that contrary to reports in the press, I did not remove my clothes in an attempt to gain publicity or indeed to further my career as a topless model, although the money from the subsequent photo shoots has been welcome.

Screamer

This very short story I wrote many years ago.  My daughter said she liked it, but then she was (and is) Daddy's girl......  I read it now and am very critical about the way it is written.  In fact I believe that I lost the original version and rewrote it; I never regained the drama or menace of the original.  Ah well, for what it's worth, here's Screamer.

Screamer

When they took him away he was screaming.  He didn't stop screaming till they sedated him in the ambulance.

It was because he had a car.  The girls were always impressed by a car; or at least it was a way of getting about that didn't involve buses or a lift from a parent.  It meant independence, and that's what he represented.  Anyway, whatever the reason, it helped pull the girls, and that's what really mattered.

As soon as he got the car there was no shortage of girls who wanted to go out with him.  He knew that it was mostly because of the car, but he didn't really care.  At first it just meant that he was the most popular guy around.  He liked that.  It was amazing what people would do to get a lift.  Except Joanna.

Joanna was the girl all the boys wanted, attractive, intelligent, popular, and classy.  She never seemed to have a steady boyfriend, just accepted dates for company.  The boy really wanted to go out with her. Even though he hardly knew her, he thought he was in love with her.  It was probably for Joanna that he scrimped and saved for the car, but she was totally unimpressed.  She was independent in the extreme.  Whenever she went out with a guy she would meet him at the venue, wherever it was.  Nobody knew much about her, but the boy had fervently believed that the car would win her, and that he would be her first steady boyfriend.

It was the occasion of the exam results, traditionally a time when all the kids from the class went out to a night club.  The kids all turned up, with or without a partner, and just hung out together.  The boy didn't have a partner that night, and nor did Joanna.  Most of the "single" girls wanted to be with him for a lift home or somewhere, but the boy only wanted to be with Joanna.  They got on great.  For once he didn't talk about the car as that had seemed to bore her in the past.  They talked about everything, and they had an awful lot in common.  They danced well together, and when they kissed, it was like nothing he had ever experienced before.  It was like a dream come true for the boy.

He had completely forgotten about his car all evening, and he really didn't care whether he had one or not.  Indeed, he would have gladly sold it at that time if Joanna had asked him to.  Instead, she asked him if he would give her a lift home.

He was stunned.  At first he couldn't speak.  When he found the words, they came out in a kind of stammer.  Of c-c-course he would.

They left the night club together.  They found his car.  He opened the door for her and she sat in the passenger seat.  He got into the drivers seat.  He felt so big, so proud, so happy, he couldn't stop smiling.  Joanna was smiling too as she told him where she lived.  They kissed again and set off into the country in the direction of her home.

He hadn't wanted to impress her in the night club, but once he was behind the wheel of his car, he felt an irresistible urge to impress her with his driving skills.  As he went racing through the country lanes, squealing round corners, he felt in charge and in control.  Joanna was appealing to him to slow down, there was no hurry.  He would not listen.  He was the man.  He had won Joanna.  He was in love and so was she.  She began to sound a bit frightened.  He told her not to worry that he had excellent control of the car, and drove even faster; not recklessly he told himself, just faster.

He was going round a bend, fast but in control, when the car started to spin.  He wrenched at the wheel to straighten it, but it carried on.  He stamped on the brakes to stop it, but it seemed to go faster in the spin.  Then, as he heard Joanna scream, the car hit the kerb and started to roll over.  He was thrown out of the car, and landed in a field bruised and shaken, but miraculously unhurt.  He saw the car roll over one more time and come to rest right side up in the field he had landed in.  Joanna was not screaming now.  He rushed over to the car to see to Joanna, but before he could get there, the car burst into flames.  In the light from the fire, he could see Joanna's head forced through the windscreen facing him.  Her eyes were closed and there was no expression on her face.  The flames caught her clothes and flicked around her eyes, burning her eyelids away.  Her sightless, lidless eyes stared out from her burning skull and a look of total hatred and accusation came on her face.  She did not make a sound as the flames took her.  She just kept looking at him.

That was when he started screaming.

Lycanthropy

This is a little poem that I wrote some time ago.  For some reason I seem to have developed a fascination for werewolves (Lycanthropy means the transformation of humans into wolves).  I have no idea why, but this poem follows similar lines to The Big Night Out that I posted earlier.  Anyway, here it is for anyone who is interested.

Lycanthropy

I’ll tell you of a Saturday the 19^th of July

When the full moon shone down coldly like a blind accusing eye.

I was sitting reading quietly before my old log fire

And the tongues of flame licked softly at the dead wood on the pyre. 

I could hear the noise of night creatures, the hooting of an owl

And then far in the distance a wolf began to howl.

I knew then that my time had come, that I must surely change,

As my old familiar features began to rearrange.

I could feel the fur start growing from my head down to my tail

(Which didn’t fit inside the suit I’d bought in Burton’s sale).

With a rip my suit gave way and fell down to the floor,

And so I padded silently out to my own front door.

Just then my wife came down the stairs and said “Is that you Fred?”

I tried to say “It’s only me”, but gave a bark instead.

My wife, dear absent minded thing, mistook me for our dog

And let me out to go and do my thing against a log.

Then with a bound I leapt the gate and landed on my paws.

My ears were pricked, my tail was high, my tongue hung from my jaws.

Well morning came and I was slowly making my way home,

Thinking what a change it made to be allowed to roam.

I stopped off at a lamppost (I simply had to go)

But was spotted by a constable who said “Hello, hello

“What is it with you perverts running naked in the street?

“You’d better put my helmet on, you should be more discreet”

“I’m only lycanthropic; you can’t bust me for that”

“You say that word again” he said “I’ll take away my hat.

“Not only are you standing there with nothing on at all,

“You’re also swearing at me now, my word you’ve got some gall”

Well they took me and they charged me and the court fined me as well

And my wife thinks I’m a lunatic as far as I can tell.

The moral of the tale is clear, if you’re a lycanthrope

On full moon nights when change is nigh you’ve got to try to cope

With staying in and making do with howling at your wife,

‘Cause being caught without your pants can really spoil your life.

I'm on the train

“I’m on the train.  Yeah I just left Kings Cross.  I reckon it went well on the whole, but no thanks to Bill.  What a plonker!  Asked the customer if he was happy with the service he was getting.  Well of course he wasn’t but there’s nothing he can do about it.  Yeah it’s OK we tucked him up like a kipper. Yeah.  Yeah.  Yeah.  Yeah......Damn tunnel”

The man opposite me looks at his phone as if somehow he can make the signal come back if he looks hard enough at it.  The tunnel is certainly causing him some anguish.  He is fidgeting and looking out of the window to see if there is a glimmer of light.  Whoosh.  We shoot out of the tunnel.

“Sorry about that.  Tunnel.  Yeah they should get rid of them all”

I think he means it, although if challenged, he would say that it was just a joke.  He and I have the window seats in one of those four seat configurations with a table between two sets of seats.  He is facing forward and I am facing backwards.  I like the backward facing seats because you can see more of the scenery going by.  If you face forward, as soon as something catches your eye it’s gone before you can focus on it.  By travelling backwards you can study it as it rushes off into the distance. 

Next to me is a middle aged lady in a smart dark suit, and opposite her is an old man in a smart but shabby suit and a bow tie.  We are all keeping ourselves to ourselves and reading or gazing out of the window.  Under normal circumstances these would be very nice companions for the journey – except for the man on the phone.

I have quite long legs, and enjoy stretching my legs out under the table if no one is sitting opposite me, but right now I have my legs tucked under my seat because the man on the phone opposite me has stretched his legs out.  He is getting agitated on the phone now and his feet are wiggling around and sweeping back and forth and side to side.  My legs are getting stiff, tucked under as they are, and I make tentative movements to relieve the pain, but come into contact with his thrashing feet.  I look up and mutter an apology.  He glares at me and carries on talking on the phone.

“I think you need to deal with Bill.  I’ve done my best with this account.  I don’t think we need to give them any more training; they just need to honour their side of the deal.  Bill says that some of the users are not using the kit and a bit of training will help them.   I say that it’s just hard luck if they don’t use it.  Bill must have been talking to Tom Neville about it because he is now saying that he would like more training AND a help desk that knows what they are talking about.  He also says that his users have to wait up to 20 minutes to get a response from the help desk.  Ha ha.  We promised them a help desk, but not one that knows what it is talking about or even one that answers the phone....”

I know this route and am pleased to note that there is another tunnel coming up soon.  Personally I think that if you supply a help desk then it should be able to help, but what do I know, the business I operate is only a relatively small one; maybe they do things differently in large organisations.  Oh good the tunnel.  He looks at his phone again and then at the black walls of the tunnel, then pushes his feet right out and under my seat where he manages to make connection with my shins.  I wince, but offer him a slightly offended look.  He ignores me and violently pushes his laptop across the table so that there is hardly any room for me to put my coffee cup down.  He picks his phone up and looks at it.  It obviously still has no signal.  He puts it down in front of him on the table and stares at it.  It must have a signal again.  He stabs a stubby finger on the send button and holds the phone to his ear.  Oh dear, it must be engaged.  He has moved his feet back to his side of the table now.  I stretch mine out.  He has a face like thunder staring blankly out of the window.  The phone rings.  He kicks his feet out again and pushes mine out of the way.  I smile an apology.

“Bloody tunnel.  Yeah.  Yeah.  Yeah.  Mmm. OK.  Well of course if you say so.  You’re the boss.  I just thought....  Yeah OK”

He clicks the phone off and stares at me as if it is my fault.  I wonder what that was all about.  He pulls his laptop towards him and pulls some papers from the briefcase next to him and, pushing away the carrier bag belonging to the old man next to him, lays them out across the table.  The old man looks up from the book he is reading and glances at the man with the phone, but says nothing.  I doubt if the man with the phone would take any notice anyway.  He is dialling a number.

“Tom.  Hi.  John Barlow, Blantyre Services.  Nice to meet you again today.  I understand you have some issues with our meeting.  You rang Phil Benson.  Phil wanted me to call you to explain.  Hmm.  Yeah. Yeah..”

So his name is John Barlow is it. And he works for Blantyre Services.  If I behaved that way, I don’t think I’d give my name away so easily, you never know who might be listening.  I’ve just been down to London doing some business as well – quite successfully as it happens.  I have a good team about me.  Unfortunately for John Barlow his visit appears to have been less successful.  It sounds as if the customer has rung his boss to complain about something and he has to call back.  His face is getting redder and redder.  I think he is getting angry, but he’s keeping a lid on it – just.

“...OK I’ll look into it.  I can only tell you what I know.  I think Bill might have been talking out of turn and had no right to offer you that level of service.  Of course if you think you may be entitled to this level of service under the terms of your contract, then I’ll be happy to honour it, but I think you’ll find that we don’t have to.  I’m sorry you feel that way, but we are very careful how we word our contracts and I can only suggest that you check it out with your lawyers, as I shall.”

He looks at his phone.

“Put the phone down on me.  Rude git”

He addresses this last comment to the window.  The old man next to him looks up again and seems to study the man on the phone.  The man on the phone turns round and catches the old man looking at him.

“What?”

The man on the phone addresses this aggressively to the old man, but before he can respond, the woman next to me pipes up.

“Young man.”  I love that; a great patronising put-down. “I think you should apologise to this man” she indicates the old man “and while you’re about it perhaps you can moderate your tone on the telephone or make and take these calls in the lobby area of the train”

He stares at her in disbelief.

“Listen.  I bought a ticket and I’m entitled to use the phone and sit where I like, so if you don’t like it, you can find somewhere else to sit”

He turns back to his phone and starts stabbing the keys with his fingers.  The lady next to me gets up and struggles to reach her bags from the overhead rack.  I stand and help her down with them.  She has tears in her eyes, but she is fighting the embarrassment.  She speaks to me.

“I’ve just been to my son’s funeral.  He was killed by a hit and run driver.”

I don’t know what to say.  I offer to go with her to find another seat.  She declines the offer, and walks off down the swaying train without a backward glance.

I know that the man on the phone has heard her, but he is totally indifferent.  His call has now connected.

“Yeah it’s me.  I’m on the train.  Have you any idea what you have done?  I’ve just been on the phone to Tom Neville and Phil.  Yeah Phil isn’t happy with what you’ve been saying to Neville.  I’ve had to sort it out with him.  Lucky I’m so bloody careful with the contracts isn’t it or you’d have screwed me and my commission.  In future you don’t speak unless I tell you to.  Neville will just have to live with the level of service we’ve given him and so will you.  I don’t care that they aren’t using the bloody things properly, that’s their problem not ours.  If they can’t get their fingers out of their backsides, that’s their fault.  I’m going to make sure you never get near my accounts again.”

He clicks off the phone.  He looks lost for a minute then dials again.

“Hi yes, I’m on the train.  I should be in by about 9 tonight.  I’m going to pop in to the pub for a pint before I come home, just to unwind.  What’s for dinner?  Oh OK, I’d rather it was Spag Bol, but whatever.  My day?  Yes OK, except that plonker Tom landed me in it again and I had to ring the customer and tell him how it really was, and now I’m sat with a bunch of old gits.  I managed to get rid of one of them; some old woman who didn’t know how to mind her own business.  Yes I reckon they can hear me.  If they don’t like what they hear, they can go away.  I don’t care.  OK I’ll see you later.”

He clicks the phone off, looks defiantly at me and stretches his legs out a bit more.  I have managed to sit a bit sideways so that I don’t have to tuck my legs so far under the seat to avoid him, but he is being deliberately provocative.  He then turns his glare on the old man next to him.  He addresses us both.

“Well you heard what I said.  If you don’t like it you can sit somewhere else.”

The old man gathers up his carrier bag and gets up and leaves, leaving me on my own.  I very nearly join the old man, but something makes me stay.  I guess I just don’t want this oaf to win.  He’s already made the lady next to me cry and driven her and the old man off. 

He glares at me and hacks about with his feet, but I stay put.  I don’t even move into the aisle seat to avoid his feet.  After a short while he turns his attention back to his precious phone.

The train is busy and the seats vacated by the lady and the old man are soon noticed by two youngish men in what I would describe as working clothes.  They look clean and respectable.  One of them asks me if the seats are taken.  I indicate with a sweep of my hand that they are available to them, and simultaneously feel a little guilty for the lady and old man in case they return.  The man on the phone glares at the newcomers and returns to his phone.

“Hi Tony.  I’m on the train.  Fancy a pint tonight?  I should get to the pub at about 7.  No it’s OK I’ve cleared it with her.  She’ll have my dinner ready for me when I get in.  Well if you’re there I’ll see you, but if your little wifey won’t let you out..........  Ok mate catch you later.”

“Jonny.  Hi.  Yeah I’m on the train.  Fancy a pint tonight?  I should be at the pub at about 7.  Tony’s going to try to make it too, but you know how under the thumb he is.  Yeah OK then I’ll see you some other time.”

He puts his phone down on the table and starts drumming his fingers.  To me he says.

“What are you looking at?”

I transfer my gaze to the window.  The phone rings again.  His relief is visible.

“Hi.  Yeah.  I’m on the train”

Perhaps the look on my face gives me away.  Why is it important that his correspondents know that he is on the train.

“You coming to the pub tonight?  Cool.  Not been a bad day.  Had a run in with the boss, but I reckon I’ve sorted him, and I nearly managed to get a table to myself on the train, but I’ve still got one old git and couple of hairy arsed builders on the table”

The newcomers exchange a surprised look at this, and then glance at me.  I shrug my shoulders and nod slightly.

The man on the phone continues loudly.

“Anyway, I’ll see you tonight and you can tell me all about it.  Cheers”

He smiles to himself and is about to dial another number when the newcomer to his left reaches over and takes the phone from his hand.

“Oi.  What you up to.  Give that back”

The newcomer stands up and drops the phone to the floor and, lifting one large steel toed boot, stamps on it leaving a mangled mess of plastic lying on the chewing gum stained carpet.  The passengers in the foursome opposite ours look up at this, smile, and return to their books and newspapers.

The man on the phone is dumbfounded, and doesn’t notice in time that the man next to me has reached over and taken his laptop from the table.  He drops it to the floor and stamps on it in its turn.

The man on the phone has finally found his voice and begins to berate the two newcomers.

“You’ll pay for those you bastards.  I need those for my work.  How am I going to let people know where I am....”  There is a sob in his voice.

The newcomers don’t say anything, they simply pick up the remains of the phone and laptop and put them into the man on the phone’s bag and then return to their seats. 

The man on the phone has his head in his hands and is sobbing uncontrollably.  He has tucked his feet under his seat.

One of the newcomers addresses me.

“There you go guv.  That should give you a bit of peace and quiet.”

I thank him.  They are both good lads.