Band of Gold And Other Short Stories

By Terence Gibbons

I have given a list of contents in this volume to assist the reader but I would strongly advise to read them all. They all have a distinct taste of their own. The genres range from romance through crime and horror. Quite a mixed bag with a triplet of humorous stories to lighten it a bit. My regular readers will soon get used to my often dry and sarcastic wit.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Terence Gibbons
• Release date: Dec 6, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301417605

Terence Gibbons

I have been writing seriously for many years having some success with BBC Radio Humberside who broadcast some of my short stories. I have lived a very complete life having done many things others don't have a chance to do. This, together with my avid reading habit, have served to provide me with knowledge of the world which is a great tool to a writer. Having said this, I still maintain that a writer worth his salt should do thorough research and not try to rely on his own experiences alone. I am rapidly approaching pension age now but my hunger to write has if anything increased. Who knows what the future has in store for me?

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Band of Gold and Other Short Stories

by Terence Gibbons

Copyright Terence Gibbons 2000

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Contents:

Band of Gold

The Stowaway

A Chunk of Nothing

A Grave Error

After the Storm

Agatha’s Story

Just Desserts

Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

Monday Morning

Sister Catharine

Snow White

The Falklands Invasion

The Green Door

The Night of the Grey Lady

The Pendle Cup

The Prowler

The Round Mirror

About the Author

Band of Gold

The Second World War had finally ended. Sam had returned, after spending several painful months in a military hospital in France, to a so-called land fit for heroes. Not that Sam had done anything brave, or of great distinction, during the war years. He had donated four prime years of his life, and his healthy body, fighting to maintain the freedom the Nazis had threatened. He had gained very little in those years and lost a great deal more.

He shuffled painfully through the snow, along streets which had formerly been associated with happy times. Those same streets were now depressing with great gaps in them where German bombs had ruined the geometry of the neat straight rows of sham-fours. When he reached the remains of one terrace he paused with a lump forming in his throat. He had to find this place. Something inside him had driven him here to where he and his wife Eileen had set up home at the outbreak of the war, the humble beginnings for their married life together. Now it was difficult to make out the once prim houses with their small gardens at the front. Only two remained upright, and both were burned out carcasses.

A solitary workman was busy among the rubble clearing hazards to allow the main builders to get in. Sam approached him slowly, his artificial leg leaving an unnatural trail in the powdery snow. The workman looked up.

Howd’y’do?

Howd’y’do? Sam returned, not for the first time thinking what a strange word it was. It was a question that folk always answered with the same question. The workman slowly looked around him, his lips pursed.

Right mess ain’t it?

Yeah, Sam whispered as he too looked around at the real destruction to his life, recognising the plots of those neighbours he’d had little time to get to know before he left to fight.

Are you from round here?

Sam nodded, fighting the hard lump that swelled to choke him. Once I was. That was my house where you’re standing now.

Oh. Er. Sorry mate. The workman looked around him again but this time his eyes were seeing things how they had been that fateful night. It were a real bad night that one. Terrible. The whole terrace was gutted. Everyone on that side bought it. And here a young woman... Oh... That’d be...

My wife.

Both men fell into an awkward silence that embarrassed each for his own reasons: Sam because he found it hard to talk about his loss; the other because he felt too much sympathy and sometimes it didn’t do to show it. Folk were funny about people feeling sorry for them. He had been a part of the team that had fought the fire that night and had recovered the charred bodies from the rubble. It had been bad that night. They all hated the incendiaries, probably more than the doodle-bugs, certainly more than the ordinary bombs. They should all have been confined to military or industrial targets not the homes of civilians.

Sam had been informed while he was in the French hospital. It had been tough enough losing his leg but the news of his wife’s death had almost finished him; only the skills of the nurses had given him the will to live on.

The workman cast sidelong glances at Sam’s back as the crippled soldier picked his way back to the street. Sam had long since abandoned his longing to bridge the gap left by the war. His only brother had been killed at Dunkirk serving with the East Yorkshire Regiment. Now he had no one. Totally alone in the world he shrugged his greatcoat against the cold biting wind feeling somehow akin to the buildings on each side of the street - broken and war-torn.

Walking aimlessly on, his head bowed against the elements, his eyes were attracted by something that glittered in the thin covering of snow on the pavement. Stooping awkwardly he retrieved the wedding ring and wiped it clean on his sleeve. He blew the small plug of snow from its centre before carefully turning it round, searching for an inscription. There was nothing.

It was a simple, plain band of gold with nothing to distinguish it from millions of others that had been sold during those turbulent years. He had never been dishonest in his life but then he had never been in the dire straits he now found himself in. He knew he should hand it in at the police station on Gordon Street but the rumble in his stomach made him continue in the direction of the Boulevard then on to Hessle Road. It was his intention to pawn it thereby providing himself with a few pounds to tide him over for a while.

Hessle Road was busy with people getting on with life. It suddenly filled him with pride in his community and some shame at himself; that they could laugh as though the war had never happened was a tribute to their tenacity. Or was he just bitter in himself? Was that why there was such a marked contrast between them and him? He found himself looking intently into the faces of passers-by, trying to make out if any of them had suffered anything like the losses he had. Nothing showed on their faces but the determination to get on with life, to keep personal grief hidden from the common eye.

Slowly a change came over him after months of brooding and self-pity. His heart had ached at the thought of Eileen’s funeral. In the mix up of administration he had not learned of it until weeks afterwards and he wondered if their neighbours had attended. She also had no living relatives and Sam had been tortured by the thought of her not getting a good send off. Now, as he looked at the people around him, that fear was dispelled. They were a community; people bound to each other by a common suffering; they would always look out for each other. He smiled within himself, content that his wife had not gone to the grave like a pauper.

As he trudged along his cold fingers toyed with the small change in his pocket; perhaps now he could afford the luxury of a packet of cigarettes. As a light sprinkling of snow began to fall he turned into a small shop but the doorway was blocked by a stout woman and a tribe of kids making their noisy exit. Stepping back he allowed them to pass. It was only then that the postcard, in a rack in the window, caught his eye:

Wedding Ring

Lost in the Gordon Street area

Reward offered for its return

He felt a pang of conscience as he read it, then beamed when he realised that the crime of theft had only as yet been committed in his mind. He went into the shop and still made his purchase then, once outside again, made a mental note of the address on the card. As he inhaled on the cigarette he felt peeved that the card bore no name.

When you go to the house of someone you’ve never met it never seems so bad if you at least know their name. With a marked spring in his step he set off in the direction of Wassand Street. This took him past the pawn shop where he smiled to himself; at least he found himself in a position to do something to bring a little sunshine into somebody’s life.

Wassand Street had also taken a hammering from the bombers but it made itself evident only in the ragged buildings; the people, typical of their kind, had returned to a kind of normality. Boys kicked an old ball; girls gathered in groups skipping with an old length of rope.

Finding the house he hesitated before knocking. He had a feeling of isolation similar to the sensation he had experienced in France when he had regained consciousness among the rubble of that farmhouse. He was alone with the rest of the patrol killed. He knew they were all dead because, despite his horrific injuries, he had dragged each one out, one by one, into the yard.

In the foot of his artificial leg he felt the pain all over again as he recalled dragging himself out on to the road where he could be found. When he was found they all said he’d been lucky; he wasn’t so sure. Death might have been better than this. He grimaced at the trick his mind and memory played on him, stamping the leg to drive the phantom pain away.

He rattled the letterbox. After a few moments the door was opened by an old woman wearing a worn grey dress covered by a flowered apron. Her swollen feet were thrust into a pair of hand-knitted slippers.

Yes?

I’ve come about the lost ring.

The old woman’s face lit up causing Sam to glow inside. Eh lad, you’d better come in. You look nithered. She moved aside allowing him to pass her in the narrow passage. Closing the door she squeezed her bulk by him and waddled towards a door leading to the back of the house.

Sam followed, conscious that he had not wiped his feet, afraid that he might be leaving a trail of slushy snow on the scrubbed floor. The strong smell of lilac polish was evidence enough that it was freshly cleaned. The aroma of food cooking tormented his empty stomach until it growled louder.

In the small kitchen a young woman stood working at the sink with her back to them.

Lad here has found your ring, the old woman said in a voice that bubbled. The young woman turned, her gasp muffled by her hand which shot to her mouth.

Sam!

Eilie?

I thought you was...

The old woman looked from one to the other then back again, her face mimicking her confused thoughts.

Is this your Sam?

Eileen staggered to a chair, shaking and fighting the sobs that choked her. Sam almost leapt across the room while through the shock came the old woman’s voice. You were reported missing, believed dead, Sam. Eileen still has the telegram.

Sam allowed this to penetrate his confusion.

Then who...who was the woman they found in our house?

Oh Sam, Eileen wept, that was Ada from where I worked. Her house was bombed so she came to live with me. I was on the night shift when our house got hit. At first they thought it was me.

Sam thought of how he had searched in vain for her grave. He had looked so hard, trudging every cemetery in town. Now he knew why he couldn’t find it.

But they thought it was you. They told me it was you, Sam gasped.

I didn’t know you was alive Sam. When the mix-up was sorted out...I didn’t know. There was the telegram...Oh Sam. What you must have been through.

He took her shaking hands in his and smiled the first real smile for many months. Maybe it was worth it for this moment. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the ring. Slowly he slipped it on to her finger which he noticed was much thinner than when he had first placed it there.

"My God, Sam. What if