A Fistful of Diamonds

By Christopher Forward

From the pen of Chris Forward come nineteen tales that illuminate the pages of “A Fistful of Diamonds”. A man is in the twilight of his existence, looking out over the seascape that is the Indian Ocean. With the help of a guarded drink from his hip flask, he casts his mind back over “A Flask full of Memories”.
This is just the opening work in an anthology of fictional short stories that will leave you asking for more. In an “An Affair of the Heart”, David Cole gets more than he bargained for after inviting a young woman to share a bottle of claret with him.
“Oh Danny Boy”, “Forty-Love” and “Stumped” take the reader into the world of football, tennis and cricket, each with its own unique ending. In “Icon”, Paul Sutton embarks on a twenty-year journey as one of the greatest pop stars of all time.
From Boston to Bangkok, “Essence of a Woman” and “One Night in Bangkok” lends an international flavour to this collection of fictional narratives.
Finally, “A Timeless Profession” gives an insight into the oldest profession known to man. In addition, a final twist will leave the reader wondering what really happened that night in Paris!
These are just some of the stories that make up “A Fistful of Diamonds”. If you read only one story before retiring for the evening, each one will leave you with a deep sense of satisfaction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christopher Forward
• Release date: Jun 17, 2015
• ISBN: 9780620624534

Christopher Forward

Author’s Biography Born in Altrincham, on the outskirts of Manchester, in the United Kingdom, Christopher Forward spent his formative years in the English educational system of the late 1960’s early 1970’s. Barnsley in Yorkshire and Deal in Kent would provide an early platform for his school years. His first experiences of watching Barnsley Football Club would lend him to support the club until this day, while experiencing copious amounts of grief from friends and family alike. Spending two years at catering college and then another three as a chef at various hotels on the Kentish coastline, he went on to make an interesting career change by training as a croupier in the mid 1970’s. In between this he would spend one interesting summer season, working as a car hand, with the cross-channel hovercraft company, Seaspeed. Twenty-six years in the gaming industry would lead him to spend time in the provincial casinos of southern England, Lesotho and the old South African state of the Transkei. He currently works on a casual basis at the Wild Coast Casino, calling Bingo regularly on Thursday afternoons and hosting promotions for their slots department. His hobbies include the game of lawn bowls, where he was honoured to be awarded South African Protea colours in 2006. Golf is another casual hobby, where he has been known to occasionally don a pirate patch! Chris has been married to his wife Marie for thirty-four years and now resides in the small Natal coastal town of Port Edward, spending his time chasing literary success and playing his sporting passion of lawn bowls.

Book preview

A Fistful of Diamonds

Chris Forward

A Fistful of Diamonds

Copyright & Notes

Copyright 2014 Chris Forward

First edition published by Chris Forward Publishers 2014

The text of this publication, or any part thereof, may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright holder.

The Author/Publisher has made every effort to trace and acknowledge sources/resources/individuals. In the case of any information being incorrectly attributed, the Author/Publisher will endeavour to correct these omissions at the earliest opportunity.

ISBN 978-0-620-62453-4

Edited by Yvonne Dimbleby for Chris Forward Publishers

Cover design and short story headers by Johan (Boet) Taljaard

E Mail – [e-mail]

A Smashwords Edition 2015

Also by Chris Forward@ Smashwords.com

Ebony & Ivory (Novel)

Two Kinds of Courage (Novel)

A Fistful of Diamonds

Author’s Foreword

I was once told the genre of short story writing is the most difficult to master, and a field that is reserved for literary luminaries such as Jeffrey Archer and Frederick Forsyth.

That comment served to light a fire in the distant recesses of my mind. When I hear those kinds of remarks, my hackles rise and I immediately want to prove them wrong.

In A Fistful of Diamonds I have undertaken to create nineteen short stories, which I sincerely hope will keep everybody enthralled. If I have come anywhere near meeting the exceptional standards of the above-mentioned authors, then I will be over the moon.

As always, I will let you the reader be the final adjudicator on whether this has been achieved.

Chris Forward 2014

A Fistful of Diamonds

Index

A Flask Full of Memories

Oh Danny Boy!

Love at First Sight

Peter & Susan

An Affair of the Heart

The Gospel According To Yousef

Twilight World

Uncle Jim

Billy Bates

Jasper

A Scabbard Full of Vengeance

Stumped

A Timeless Profession

Forty-Love

The Road to Abaddon

Essence of a Woman

Icon

One Night in Bangkok

One for the Road

A Fistful of Diamonds

Short Stories

Return to Index

A Flask Full of Memories

At the ripe old age of eighty-four, Anthony Carson was sitting in his recliner watching the ever-changing tableau of the Indian Ocean while a bottle of his favourite whiskey stood invitingly on a small table by his side. Anthony Carson had lived life to the full and his ritual of imbibing a couple of sundowners in the early evening had stayed with him since his army days.

It was getting difficult for him to indulge in his preferred tipple because the young housekeeper he had engaged just over ten years ago, had strict rules on what he could, or could not do! As he sat watching the ocean from the balcony of his flat, Anthony lent over to pour himself a drink!

He was just about to unscrew the cap when he heard an admonishing exclamation over his shoulder. Now, now, Mr. Carson, you know the rules about drinking. We agreed that you could have two every evening and not a drop more.

Anthony Carson had a scowl on his face while he withdrew his hand and watched as Annie Frampton picked up the bottle and tucked it under her arm. Anthony had too much respect for his housekeeper to take offence, because she had been a godsend ever since he had taken her on. Nonetheless, he still managed to utter a few choice words under his breath: Bloody hell woman! It’s not as though I’m a raging alcoholic, you know?

What was that, Mr. Carson? Annie said sternly, but with a kind smile crossing her face.

Seeing her inquiring look, Anthony quickly went on the defensive. I was just thinking how kind and considerate you have been to me over the years, Annie. Shame there aren’t a few more kind souls like you in this world. It would make life much more pleasant.

Annie just gave Anthony a playful look, before replying with: I’ll put this away, Mr. Carson. Enjoy the rest of your evening!

Watching the young housekeeper walk away, Anthony was thinking that if he had been a half a century younger Annie Frampton would have been in serious trouble! Then again, that was in his wildest dreams. When he saw Annie had left the balcony, he quickly retrieved a silver hip flask from his breast pocket, unscrewed the cap, and took a long draught. As the whiskey began to do its work, Anthony Carson’s mind began to wander back over a lifetime of memories.

Anthony Gladstone Carson was born right in the middle of the Great Depression. His first recollections were of being wheeled around London in a rickety old pram. When he turned five, in 1934, Britain was coming to terms with a period of austerity that had severely restricted any form of economic growth.

Hitler was also rattling sabres in Western Europe, which had Britain and France on tenterhooks. Over the next few years this, somehow, revived the fortunes of many British businesses, especially those connected with the arms trade. Germany was readying itself for round two of its global aspirations and the then British Prime Minister, James Ramsay Macdonald, was taking no chances that Britain would be unprepared.

When hostilities broke out in earnest in the summer of 1940, Anthony Carson was on the verge of continuing his formative tuition at Charlton Grammar School. The next five years gave him an education that could never have been achieved in modern times. How he managed to leave school with 2 O levels and 5 A levels was mostly beyond his teachers’ beliefs.

For the first two years of his schooldays bombs were raining down over London. More time was spent in air raid shelters than looking at school blackboards. Luckily, when the tide of the war turned, Anthony managed to make up for lost time and devoted himself to his studies.

This was not the only thing he dedicated himself towards, because a fateful meeting with a family uncle opened up an avenue, and possibilities, he would never have thought likely!

Uncle Ned came into Anthony’s life one gloomy day, when they were forced to vacate the family home for a shelter at the end of Charlton Road. Most of the road’s residents were crammed into the communal shelter and Anthony found he was sitting next to Uncle Ned. It was one of those evenings when Hitler threw the kitchen sink at London. Heavy ordnance was falling incessantly, with the shelter quivering as bomb after bomb whistled down from above.

A couple of pensioners were singing some old Flanagan and Allen songs, and when they broke into a rendition of Underneath the Arches the shelter went deathly silent, allowing the harmonious strains of their voices to envelop everyone present.

Anthony began to quiver like a leaf when a bomb exploded and caused the shelter to vibrate deafeningly. There was a brief lull in the singing, but within seconds it had started up again with renewed vigour.

Uncle Ned, who had the look of the archetypal East End spiv - pencil-thin moustache, Saville Row suit, and trilby to boot - put his arm around Anthony and said: Don’t worry son! Those sauerkrauts couldn’t hit a cow’s arse with a banjo. They’ll be off back home shortly, you’ll see! As if listening to Uncle Ned’s words, there was a brief lull in proceedings before a loud siren indicated the All Clear.

When they exited the shelter, the first thing they saw were houses ablaze and flames shooting out from shattered windows. It could have quite easily been mistaken for a scene from the Great Fire of London! Everybody rallied around and for the next few hours every effort was made to salvage precious belongings from infernos that were once called homes.

Anthony’s house had somehow escaped the onslaught and was now being used as a relief station for neighbours who had lost everything. The women were serving endless cups of tea and coffee, while the men continued to battle the fires.

By dawn the following morning, Charlton Road looked like any other South London street, bar the smouldering remains of burnt-out houses and rubble that was scattered everywhere. London had taken a serious beating the night before. Nevertheless, it would take much more than that to break the spirits of the residents of this small suburban road!

After that first night, Uncle Ned took Anthony under his wing and gave him a lesson in life skills that could have never been taught by the layman. The governors of Charlton Grammar School would have been particularly shocked if they had come across Uncle Ned’s teachings. In no way would it have been part of any curriculum they would have recommended.

For the next four years until the cessation of hostilities, Uncle Ned would teach Anthony trickery that would blow the mind of any law-abiding citizen. Anthony’s education started with a Shell game every other Saturday afternoon at the Valley – Charlton Athletic’s home football ground. Uncle Ned would lure some unsuspecting supporters and fleece them of a few shillings while they tried in vain to guess which shell that small pea was under. Find the Lady was another variation and Uncle Ned always had a deck of cards concealed on his person.

Anthony started out as Uncle Ned’s lookout and would always give him a shrill whistle on spotting a wandering policeman. It verged on the comical when this happened, because within seconds Uncle Ned would conceal all his props inside his long coat and steal into the crowd. This was only one example of Uncle Ned’s sleight of hand, which always found Anthony sixpence better off at the end of the day.

There was little Uncle Ned was not prepared to dabble in. From booze and cigarettes to nylon stockings, he could lay his hands on virtually any product for the right price. Of course, that right price would include a nice little commission for him and anybody else’s palm he had to grease!

By the end of the war, in late 1945, Uncle Ned had a tidy little bankroll. With an end to hostilities looming, he knew he would have to diversify and find something more in keeping with peacetime.

This led him to invest in a bomb-damaged shop at the end of Charlton’s high street. There were a few sceptical comments when Uncle Ned started to trade as a greengrocer under the banner of Grainger’s, but that was Uncle Ned’s surname and he was as proud as a peacock when it opened.

The gossipmongers posed questions when it was seen that there seemed to be an unusual tendency for the male gender to shop at Grainger’s. Quite regularly, men would be seen entering and then leaving with all kinds of vegetables. When the local bobby decided to ask questions, he got a quite unexpected reply from one male customer. Mind your own business, plod! It’s bad enough that I’ve got to shop for the old-trouble-and-strife without you poking your nose in!

Charlton’s police superintendent knew something was afoot, but for the life of him he could not pin down Uncle Ned. It was very simple, though! Uncle Ned was using the shop as a front for his illegal bookmaking business. Every time a male customer came in and bought some produce, he would hand over an extra amount of money with a note indicating on what and where it should be placed.

Uncle Ned even had a drop-off point at the local pub for any vegetables his clients did not want, and these were quickly recycled back to Grainger’s for their proper use. Anthony was put in charge of reclaiming the vegetables, amongst other small duties. On one occasion when that same persistent bobby collared Anthony in a back alleyway and asked him what he was doing, Anthony cheekily replied: "The Red Lion made a mistake on their order. You have a problem with that, officer?

The bobby was so bemused that he did not know whether to cuff Anthony round the ear or just laugh! All he said, as Anthony left, was: I’ll be keeping an eye on you sonny boy! I know you and your uncle are up to something and I’ll get to the bottom of it.

Fortunately, Uncle Ned was not averse to distributing a few backhanders. This kept quite a few noses from prying into his business, while allowing him to gradually expand. By the turn of the decade, Uncle Ned had a Grainger’s in Croydon, Bromley, Eltham and Woolwich.

National Service was the last thing Anthony Carson had on his mind. All the same, it came calling in the form of a buff envelope. Anthony was far from amused when he saw he had just one week to report to Aldershot Army Barracks.

Uncle Ned was also disappointed to be losing Anthony, but promised him he had a job waiting after the completion of his compulsory service. When Uncle Ned waved Anthony off at Charlton railway station, a tear was battling to escape his eye. His young nephew had proved his worth at Grainger’s and it would be a gap that would be hard to fill.

Aldershot Barracks had served Britain well during the war years, turning out soldiers who were trained to a high level of professionalism. Nothing had changed too much since the end of World War Two, with Aldershot continuing to churn out a highly skilled defence force. It was also a way of giving the youth of England training in life skills.

Sergeant Major Hugh (Taffy) Jones welcomed his new charges in a no-nonsense tradition that would instil in them the importance of army routine. His upbringing in the Welsh mining town of Merthyr Tydfil, and subsequent exposure to the harsh realities of working on the coalface, had given him a grounding that had kept him, and many of his subordinates, out of the clutches of the Germans during the Second World War.

He was steadfast in his intentions to pass on his knowledge in a manner that would leave the raw recruit under no misconception of what was required. This would lead him to be not the most popular non-commissioned officer at Aldershot Barracks, but that would be the last thing Sergeant Major Hugh Jones would ever care about.

Basic training was eight weeks of hell. Reveille was sounded at four-thirty every morning, and from then on it was as though the sergeant major had sadism coursing through his body. Ten-mile hikes with full backpacks, numerous circuits of the assault course, and constant drilling on the parade ground, were just a few of the routines that had to be endured. By lights-out, at nine o’clock in the evening, more groans were heard than snores!

If anybody thought an injury, feigned or otherwise, would get them off the hook, they were sadly mistaken. There were no easy exits from basic training and you had to be on your deathbed to receive any form of sympathy. Even if a recruit were invalided out, he would spend the remainder of his two-year service pen pushing in some supply store in a remote part of the country.

Luckily, Anthony Carson benefited from this tough regime. Even to the extent that he was identified for officer training. His body was developing to such a degree that even Uncle Ned did a double take when he saw Anthony for the first time in three months. Bloody hell kid! You been training with Captain Marvel, or what?

Uncle Ned’s reference to the famed comic book character made Anthony smile, but he was also conscious of what Sergeant Major Jones had said to him at his passing out parade.

Private Carson! The sergeant major barked out just as Anthony was leaving the parade ground. Anthony swiftly turned and saluted the sergeant major before waiting to hear what he had to say. It was a parting comment that would leave Anthony stunned. Good luck son! You’ve got something that I rarely see in a recruit. With that, the sergeant major turned away and marched off.

Germany would be Anthony Carson’s next destination. The country was still wearing the shackles of a defeated nation and Britain was still providing a small task force, along with other Allied powers, in an effort to make sure there would be no resurgence of any nationalistic zeal.

His promotion to captain, after the completion of officer training, would lead him to be in charge of a small detachment of men who were responsible for the well-being of the commander of the British sector, Colonel Peter Havers. Anthony’s responsibilities were very simple. Whenever the colonel was out in the field on official business, he was accountable for all aspects of the colonel’s safety.

Anthony had come to the attention of the colonel, when, in the first week of his posting, he saved his life. Colonel Havers had been visiting a local steel foundry, which had just been re-opened after years of disuse. It was part of an accord that Britain was hoping would lead to the slow recovery of German commerce.

While the colonel was addressing a small group of German workers from a podium just inside the front gates, Anthony, who was filling in for the colonel’s incapacitated driver, was scanning the crowd just out of curiosity. He noticed that they were mostly disinterested with nearly everyone refusing to make eye contact with the speaker addressing them.

It probably did not help things too much when Colonel Havers switched into fluent German and asked every worker present to dedicate themselves to the job in hand. Anthony, who was standing to the right of where the colonel was speaking, did not understand a word of what was going on, but could see immediately by the sullen murmurings of those present that the speech was going down like a large dose of castor oil.

Captain Anthony Carson was still eying the brooding workers when he got one of the biggest frights of his young life. Out from the gathering came what looked like a large stone that was curving in a high loop towards the colonel. Anthony had perhaps a split second to react, because he knew from his basic training it was a grenade!

Snatching up an iron pipe that just happened to be leaning against the wall of the factory, Anthony rushed over, shoved the colonel out of the way, and hammered the flying grenade. It would be a wallop Denis Compton, the English cricketer, would have been very happy with. Exactly halfway, on its return journey, the grenade exploded in midair scattering workers in all directions.

When Colonel Havers rose to his feet, with the aid of two of his bodyguards, he had a disbelieving look etched across his face. Thank you, Captain! For a moment there I thought you’d completely lost your mind. Your bravery is to be commended. Two days later, an ever-grateful Colonel Havers informed Captain Anthony Carson of his new responsibilities.

Things went well for Anthony and he earned the respect of his compatriots while impressing Colonel Havers with his dedication. There would be one more incident that would leave Anthony with significant memories of his time in Germany, and one he would never forget.

Anthony had three months to go before he was hoping to return to London and rejoin Uncle Ned at Grainger’s. Just after midnight, on a moonless Monday morning, in late September 1952, Anthony was awakened from his slumbers by a loud knocking on his door. Answering the summons, he was taken aback to see Colonel Havers with a stern look on his face.

Get dressed Captain! You and I are driving out to Potsdam. There seems to be one hell of flap over a plane that has crashed into a forest close to the town. I’ve been told it’s all very hush-hush and to only bring one person with me, and that’s you!

Anthony was still rubbing the sleep out of eyes when the colonel added: Well, make it snappy Captain, we haven’t got time to waste!

Yes sir, Anthony said, quickly saluting the Colonel in his vest and underpants.

It took him two minutes to throw on his uniform and follow the colonel out to his waiting jeep. A corporal was sitting behind the wheel, engine idling, waiting patiently for the two men to appear. As they jumped into the rear seats the colonel quickly barked out an order: Potsdam Forest, Corporal, and don’t spare the horses.

Potsdam Forest had been around for countless millennia. It had once been part of a vast expanse of forest that stretched from the steppes of Russia right down to the Mediterranean Sea. With civilisation continually expanding all over the European continent, Potsdam Forest was now just a fraction of that once abundant woodland.

In the early hours of the morning,