Life, in a Grain of Sand

By Geoff Le Pard

These 30 short stories are a mixture of genres and points of view: they cover horror, espionage, through thrillers, humour, romance and MG. There is something for everyone. They were written in a month, one a day, approximately 1667 words each. They can be read over breakfast and will have you laughing and crying, thinking and cringing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Geoff Le Pard
• Release date: May 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311900777

Geoff Le Pard

I have been writing creatively since 2006 when at a summer school with my family I wrote a short radio play. That led to a novel, some more courses, more novels, each better than the last until I took an MA, realised you needed to edit, edit and then edit some more; the result is my first published book in 2014. I now have 4 books and 2 anthologies of short fiction. I once was a lawyer; I am now a writer. When I'm not writing and thinking about writing, I'm blogging (which is a sort of writing); I cook, I walk, I read (but not enough) and I walk some more. The dog approves of my career choices. More novels are in the pipeline so watch out.

Book preview

Every year, there is a challenge for writers: during the month of November they attempt to write a novel of at least 50,000 words. This is called the National Novel Writing Month, or Nano to its adherents. It is a major effort and one I have undertaken several times.

For November 2015 I decided I would attempt my own version: could I write a short story every day and publish them on my blog, each one approximately 1667 words (the daily Nano word target).

To achieve my goal, I asked friends, family and fellow bloggers to provide me with prompts – pictures, themes, opening words and titles.

I am hugely grateful to everyone who provided me with the prompts – you will find a list at the end of this anthology.

I also committed to incorporating as many genres, tenses and points of view as I could.

I called the resulting story collection: My Nanthology

In compiling this anthology, I removed the prompts, letting the stories tell themselves without the triggers. I have let the word count slip too, if the story required more or less.

While each story is intended to be standalone, you will soon realise there are links between some, though not all of the stories. Mrs Pickwick appears in several as does Derek Dongle and other members of the Dongle family. That is deliberate, and I hope adds to your enjoyment.

Copyright, etc.

Life, In A Grain Of Sand

Copyright © 2017: Geoffrey Le Pard

Author/Publisher: Tangental Publishing and Smashwords

The right of Geoffrey Le Pard to be identified as author of this Work has been

asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs

and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the author. You must not circulate this book in any format.

While the settings in this book are reasonable representations of real places, the characters and situations described are the product of the author’s imagination and any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, and situations past, present or future is entirely coincidental.

For more information about the author and upcoming books, please visit www.geofflepard.com

Contents

About This Book

Copyright, etc

Mrs Pickwick Takes a Chance

Spy’s Surprise: A Derek Dongle Mystery

1667 - A Difficult Year for Builders

Second Person

Filling the Gap

Final Journey

Moving in Mysterious Ways

The Great Cattle Trough Raid at the Cooley Road Allotments

I Am Death

Looking Back For Answers

A Question of Position

Alice In Cognito

A Knock at the Door

The Houdini of Hounslow

A Truth Universally Acknowledged

The Competition Winner

Steps into the future

Mean Girls

Derek Dongle takes a Beating

Where Now?

The Monitors

The Joy of Steam

Gods or Flannelled Fools?

The Power of Love

Unexpected item in the bagging area

One Pair of Size Elevens, Never Used

Forging Ahead

Mr Dandy and the Chalk Door

Derek Dongle – Uncowed

Till Death Do Us Part?

About The Author

Acknowledgements

Mrs Pickwick Takes a Chance

Mrs Pickwick had not used the park at weekends for months. The sounds of children playing disturbed her, but this Saturday something made her turn in through the gates, dragging her dog, Pollen after her. The trees were nearly bare now and the grass green again after the searing summer heat. As she turned the corner she did a double take. Someone had chained what looked like Jimmy's old bicycle to a tree. No one seemed interested in it, so, taking a deep breath, she threw a tennis ball towards the bicycle and followed cautiously, hoping no one would notice. Pollen, who never chased the ball, ambled slowly in her wake.

As she bent and checked the frame, she spotted the residue of a sticky label clinging to the underside of the crossbar. Jimmy had tried to remove the Thomas the Tank Engine label from his after he was teased about it; surely it couldn’t be the same, could it? And if it was, how had her son's bike turned up here, in this park, chained to this tree?

Mrs Pickwick scanned the park for the likely owner. Over towards the far fence a game of football was in progress. Perhaps it belonged to one of the players. There were some coats in a heap nearby.

Shrill cries of boyish fun bit into her like ice cream on damaged teeth. Voices at once young and confident told of unbridled enjoyment. She scanned the faces, looking for something even she didn’t know what, as she took in a smile here, a frown of concentration there, furious shouts of encouragement everywhere. The bike had to belong to one of the players but which?

It took her only a few moments to spot him: a gangling youngster on the fringe of the play, tucked away on the left-hand side. He seemed to have disproportionately large knees and elbows. Nothing of his appearance reminded her of Jimmy save his stance: hunched, arms tightly folded, eyes staring at the ground. Jimmy would have hated being here too. Somehow – and she had no idea how – it had to be his.

A shout and the boy looked up as the game approached his part of the pitch. Surprise followed by terror filled his face as it became clear he would become involved in the action. He looked ready to run, to dive on the ground, but somehow, he held himself rigid and let the ball hit his head. It appeared to envelop his whole face before springing away back the way it had come.

Cries told both the boy and Mrs Pickwick that he had done a good thing though it was clear to her that neither of them were sure what.

No one paid the boy heed as he rubbed his pink-glowing cheek and tested his nose for bruising.

Mrs Pickwick threw the tennis ball towards the touchline and followed it. She called Pollen who seemed more interested in an iron post on which coats, and tops had been slung. A few parents watched the game on the far side of the pitch. She studied the supporters carefully for a moment or two; it was pretty apparent no one was interested in the hapless young lad.

After another five minutes Mrs Pickwick collected the dog and ball and headed for the gate. Here she bought a tea from the little stall and sat and waited. For no real reason she thought the boy would leave this way rather than through the back gate. Anyway, it didn’t matter, she told herself; just a little harmless curiosity about the bike’s new owner.

It’s unlikely he will survive. We’ll do what we can to make him comfortable. It’s not something we can explain. I’m sorry.

Mrs Pickwick snapped back to the present. Some boys jostled while their parents told them to be careful. They mumbled apologies, being at an age where their exuberance and confidence with each other dissipated instantly in the presence of an adult. She ignored them, straining to see the boy, sure he would have Jimmy’s bike, but he didn’t appear.

The grey November day began to close in; the park would shut soon. She released Pollen and set off on one last circuit, wondering where the boy was. Twenty minutes later she knew for sure that she had missed him and the bike.

***

Mrs Pickwick tried not to think about the boy, but she failed as she knew she would. The following day and every day after, she went to the park, but she saw no one like the boy or the bike. Why did it matter? He must have bought the bike second-hand from whoever had cleared Jimmy’s things. She wished she knew who that was; she had left the clear-out to her husband, one of the last things he did before he, too, left.

I’m not saying you need to get over it, but I can’t live like this. He’s gone, and I need more than your silences.

She understood him. She needed more than her silences too. The fact he couldn’t fill any of the spaces left when Jimmy died made a separation painful but essential for both their sakes.

***

The next Saturday found Mrs Pickwick standing by the tree. The game of football had already started, but she could not see the boy, nor the bike. Cautiously, she approached the group of spectators, gripping Pollen’s lead tight, even though both owner and dog knew he would never chase the football. She spoke to the man nearest her. He concentrated furiously on the progress of the game, clearly irritated to be interrupted. ‘The boy who played fullback last week. Tall, seemed out of place. Is he ill?’

‘Who? Oh Rupert. Nah, he was just filling in. He hates football.’

Mrs Pickwick nodded. She didn’t know what else to ask, but as she turned away the man said, ‘That’s his mum. Over there.’ He pointed at a woman standing apart, near the goal mouth. ‘Her other lad is the centre forward. Got class that one. OH WELL PLAYED.’

Mrs Pickwick leapt back at the bellow and moved away. The man soon turned his attention back to the game. She hadn’t a plan, hadn’t really thought this through, but soon enough she stood at the woman’s side.

‘Excuse me. Are you Rupert’s mum?’

The woman – she looked frozen from the way she shrank into her coat – smiled easily. ‘Yes. Has he done something?’

‘No. Not at all.’

‘Only he’s always poking into this and that, always going off.’

‘On his bike?’

‘That bloody bike. My husband thought it would be a good thing, make him get some exercise, but I never see him. Independence is one thing, but, well, it’s a worry, isn’t it? At their age.’

‘Does he enjoy it? The bike?’

‘Enjoy it? Yes, I suppose. I - sorry - do we know each other? Which one’s yours?’

‘Oh no. My son isn’t playing. I just… he mentioned Rupert, he’s a friend, and I saw his brother playing and someone said you’re their mum.’

The woman frowned. ‘Rupert has a friend? He’s not mentioned anyone. Bit of a loner, really. What’s your son’s name?’

‘Jimmy. He’s with his friends. I think it’s recent, them being friendly. They both love their bikes, I think.’

‘Well, Jimmy tells you more than Rupert tells me, that’s for sure. He gets quite shirty if I ask. ‘Stop going on, Mum.’ She pulled a face. ‘You know the sort of thing. Maybe Jimmy would like to come round for tea?’

‘Jimmy’s the same. You know, keeps things to a need to know basis. Maybe we should let them just get on, on their own for now. See how it goes.’

The woman smiled; Mrs Pickwick thought she saw relief. ‘Well, let me give you my number and address. If your Jimmy says he’d like to come over, you’ll know where to find us. I’m Constance by the way. Constance Cloud.’

***

It took Mrs Pickwick an hour to find the courage to set out for the Cloud house. Pollen, who carried some excess weight and had a generally indolent approach to life, found the idea of a second walk both strange and unenticing, but he knew better than to resist. He sensed the purpose in Mrs Pickwick’s preparations that told him all he needed to know about her mood.

The Cloud house, a rambling rather dilapidated building with a slate roof and a whitewashed pebble-dashed exterior, sat between two small bungalows. As Mrs Pickwick counted down towards number 23 she could feel her doubts setting in. What had she expected? It would soon be dark and the chances of a twelve-year-old being out on his bike at this time on a Saturday seemed remote.

Mrs Pickwick hesitated, taking a step away; perhaps she should rethink her strategy, not that she had exactly anything as grand as a strategy. As she did so, the front door opened, and Rupert Cloud emerged, pushing Jimmy’s bike.

Mrs Pickwick waited, holding her breath, not that she noticed. Rupert, hood up, did not appear to have seen her either. His gaze fixed on the far side of the road, preparing to cross. For a crazy moment she thought he would walk into her when he stopped abruptly. He blinked and blurted out, ‘I like your dog. I’ve seen him in the park.’

Mrs Pickwick took a moment. ‘Yes, I’ve seen you playing there. Football. You didn’t look like you enjoyed it.’

Rupert nodded. As he did so Mrs Pickwick began to walk the way he had been heading and he fell into step with her. He said, ‘I hate football. Love dogs. What’s yours called?’

‘Pollen. He shed dust when we first had him, and my husband thought it was like pollen.’

To her surprise Rupert laughed - he-hawed would have been a better description. ‘That’s brilliant. Can I, you know, stroke him?’

Mrs Pickwick’s heart leapt. ‘Of course.’

‘I’m off to the chippy. Mum makes rubbish chips, though her burgers are ace.’ Rupert stroked the dog, who was grateful for the rest.

They began walking for a while in silence. Then she said, ‘Do you have a dog?’

‘Naw. Mum is allergic to most of them. Comes out in a rash. I like Pollen.’

‘If you wanted, you know, if your parents were happy, you could walk him for me. I’d pay. He needs more exercise than I can give him.’ She knew it was a silly idea. After all, his mother would realise she had lied about her son and Rupert being friends and stop any dog walking quickly. Still, maybe she could explain.

Pollen looked up, aware that something was going on to his disadvantage but unsure what.

Rupert nodded. ‘Cool. Since Dad left Mum’s been going on about me getting a job.’

‘I like your bike. You look after it well.’

‘It’s really sad, you know. A boy had it and died. My dad told me when he got it for me. I kind of feel I should keep it clean, you know? Respect.’

Mrs Pickwick stopped. ‘Yes, Rupert. I think he’d like that.’ She smiled and offered him Pollen’s lead, taking the bicycle from him, a familiar swapping of roles. ‘He’d like that a lot.’

Spy’s Surprise: A Derek Dongle Mystery

'Is that you, Derek?'

Derek Dongle sighed. Bloody neighbours.

'My name’s Kreed, Mrs Pickwick.'

Derek hated how he couldn’t shake his good manners. Spies weren’t polite.

'Kreed?' She handed Derek a parcel. 'The postman left this. I like the dinner suit. Very smart.’

"Thanks.’

‘What’s that?’ She pointed at his lapel. ‘Lunch?’ Mrs Pickwick moistened a fingertip and wiped away the stain. Derek imagined his gold-plated Beretta trained on her forehead. ‘Your mum would be proud of you,’ she said. ‘Looking so dapper.’

He nodded, but she had already turned to go, dragging that awful dog after her. He regretted thinking about killing her. That wasn’t very nice. She’s only an old lady, harmless and lonely, he thought.

Why hadn’t he had the suit cleaned after he picked it up at Oxfam? he thought as he looked at the addressee. Another for his mother. He felt angry and then guilty. She’d been dead four months and still everything was for her. It was so annoying. Especially as he’d yet to find anything on the boring list of jobs sent by the solicitor that might stop all these packets coming.

He detoured to her study to add it to the unopened heap and paused by the mirror. It had never reflected properly, he thought. It made him look fat and about seventeen, not rippling and thirty. He needed to have a word