Deja Vu!

By Nigel Grundey

More entertaining words from the pen of Nigel Grundey.

Fifteen engaging tales set to brighten even the dullest day.

 These are the author's very personal take on those vagaries of life, be they good, bad, or worse.

 Come inside for some gentle humour, nostalgia and maybe, even some inspiration!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Q G S Publishing
• Release date: May 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386056508

Nigel Grundey

Nigel Grundey was born in Warwickshire England, but brought up in Kent. He first qualified as a Mechanical Engineer; however at age twenty-one, he joined H.M.Forces, serving in the Far East and West Germany as an Aircraft Engineer. Unsure of what to do next, a stint in college followed, furthering his qualifications.  "You do realise there's a war going on out there." is not the normal opening line of a job inerview,but it led to nearly thirty years service with the same company in the Middle East and the U.K. Always a voracious reader, he didn't consider writing until retirement, and is delghted that many of his stories have now been published. Never fans of cold weather, he and his wife now live in Southern Spain.

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DÉJÀ VU!

Copyright © 2017 Nigel Grundey

All rights reserved

The right of Nigel Grundey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents act 1988. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

Published with the assistance of

Q G S Publishing

https://qgspublishing.com

CONTENTS

WEEKEND AT FYFE CASTLE

THE BEHEST

OBJECTS OF DESIRE

A RED ROSE

A THREE PENNY BANKNOTE

BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR

THAT DAMN VILLAGE

THAT DAMNED VILLAGE

PART ONE

PART TWO

PART THREE

ANGELO

SATURDAY NIGHT

SUMMER HOLIDAY

DÉJÀ VU!

COFFEE ANYONE?

THAT'S LIFE

A GOOD DAY?

A POLICEMAN'S LOT

MORE BOOKS FROM NIGEL

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

A REQUEST FROM THE AUTHOR

WEEKEND AT FYFE CASTLE

Water's Reach Lane doesn't end with a real castle: the building was constructed in response to all those Gothic style houses, so popular at the time. True, there is an impressive twin-towered, stone built frontage complete with battlements, longbow slits and portcullis; but the rest of the building is a comfortable, six-bedroomed, residence.

Grounds of just one acre maybe hardly impressive, but due to its elevated position, the views are magnificent. The front looked out over the wide River Flude, while the rear displays a rural scene of ordered fields and woodland. Unfortunately, earthworks and the construction of a bridge are now spoiling all this (for a high speed rail link, no less.).

Because of the above, this Friday evening saw the Hon standing outside ready to welcome her guests for the weekend: friends, who she hopes can do something about this eyesore.

A psychedelically painted Rolls-Royce wended its way along the circuitous driveway, (her ancestors either needed to scrutinise every visitor, or abhorred straight lines.) spraying gravel as it slid to a halt.

What ho, old thing. called the owner as he alighted, a bottle of champagne in each hand; only to go sprawling on the driveway.

Ooh, cried three young ladies inside the car, spilling out to help him up; bottles unbroken. Viscount Seymour de Fondue (I kid you not.) and his wifelets had arrived.

My darling, how are you and these wonders? he asked, after recovering to greet his hostess, and fondle her impressive bosom. The Honourable (no-one knows where that originated.) Blanche Fyfe-Hunnerd had her slight swoon interrupted by squeals, as Seymour addressed the wifelets.

Come my lovelies, let's go and find the bedrooms!

History is important here: in their younger days, Seymour and the Hon had a torrid romance which scandalised Cannes for a summer. Their wish to marry was denied by both families, the Hon being forced into a union with the rich but dim-witted Albert Hunnerd (for his money, of course!).

Hardly had their daughter, Cynthia, entered this world, when Albert somehow managed to shoot himself whilst on a stag hunt in Scotland. Since then, this still handsome woman has held a torch for the, as yet, unmarried Seymour.

He, on the other hand, has had a successful career as a society photographer, the many affairs with his subjects being the stuff of legend. This ended when forced to settle down and manage his ailing father's estates, though notoriety followed when the wifelets came to stay.

They remain near neighbours to this day, as do the two other guests, Barry and Daphne Wantall, whose Jaguar saloon next approached the castle.

This family owns a chain of department stores, the flagship of which is in the nearby city of Greydton; where Barry's brother is the current Lord Mayor. Add to this, their cousin is leader of the County Council: ergo, men of power and influence!

Lovely to see you again, is his greeting, pecking the Hon on her cheek; while his wife tried to untangle herself from the passenger door handle. The expensive sound of tearing material had her appear minus skirt; long, shapely legs revealed.

Blanche, darling, how are you? is her unflustered call. Typical of our perennially accident prone, but beautiful Daphne; everyone's favourite ditzy blonde!

How do I know all of this? Well, I am John Dark, butler at Fyfe castle for the past thirty years; as such, very little has escaped my attention. While the purpose of this intimate little gathering is a last ditch attempt to derail the building of this transport link.

My mistress considers Barry and family could literally stop it in its tracks, for it will speed necessary tourists (and potential customers) away, let alone scar their county's natural beauty. Seymour, of course, has links to the aristocracy, thereby making a House of Lords veto another possibility.

However, to achieve this, it will take charm and persuasion, qualities the Hon lacks. Self-opinionated and arrogant, her defence against the world remains, attack. Sadly, this rabid dog attitude has done her no favours; in recent times I have lost count of the cancelled visits, unanswered telephone calls and all those ubiquitous brown envelopes that have been destroyed, unopened.

It's fortunate that my mistress has always been an excellent cook, for it might soften up the targets of this crisis meeting; an evening meal duly enlivened by Daphne. Not content with inadvertently spraying the wifelets with red wine; when they moved to the drawing room for coffee and brandy, she took the tablecloth with her. The sudden crash of cutlery and glass signalling yet more work for me!

With the post prandial drinks consumed, my mistress's attempts to steer the conversation to her concerns, failed miserably. Seymour managed to magic a pack of cards and gambling chips from nowhere; so, before you could say 'Monte Carlo', money was changing hands.

The Hon, Seymour and Barry are hardened gamblers, while the wifelets had been tutored well, leaving poor Daphne to lose her allowance within an hour (well, would you trust her with money?). Dropping out, and rebuffed by Barry when offering her assistance (eh?); she became cocktail waitress for the evening, coping well with this task.

Time, high consumption and a habit of tasting every concoction I was ordered to make, eventually had her flirting with everyone, including the wifelets. Not long after, she began to sway dangerously, finally to slip on a spilt drink and make a grab for safety.

Unfortunately, it was the card table; which promptly spun round, depositing her into Seymour's lap, while showering everyone else with playing cards, banknotes and a copious quantity of drink.

After an hour of acrimonious disputes about who had what, where and how much, plus accusations of Daphne's latent desires for any man; all six retired to their bedrooms.

All that is, except the Hon, who waylaid Seymour on his way back from the bathroom.

Darling boy, come here and ravish me, she breathed huskily, her nightdress sliding off to reveal a voluptuous body.

Alas, old thing, the libido won't stretch to a foursome! he managed, after half-complying with her wishes.

Their tryst ended as I bade them goodnight, and strode past heading for my quarters.

Saturday morning: with breakfast over, my mistress herded her guests up onto the battlements, to view the impending scar this rail link would make on the countryside.

Time and strategic planting will soften the look, offered Barry, it will be barely noticeable then.

I can hardly miss that monstrosity, replied the Hon, waving imperiously at the bridge, and why does it point straight at my home?

Ah, I have to talk to you about that. (Oh, oh, that sounded like trouble!)

Seymour, darling boy, you have to do something, is commanded. Wake up those old crocks in London; get them to cancel this loathsome project.

I've told you before, old thing; it's too late for that. The trouble is, you haven't been listening, he reiterated. Did you read the letters the planners sent?

From those impertinent beggars; certainly not!

Did you even read the letters my lawyers' sent you? Seymour asked.

No, why? queried a smiling Hon. Darling boy, I know you have been after this house for years; but it's not for sale.

Oh look, they're moving some equipment into that field, interrupted Barry, eager to change the subject. Dear God, look at the colours those bulldozers are painted?

Lime green and fuchsia pink. exclaimed his remarkably perky wife, how very fashionable.

Oh, so cool, cooed the wifelets in unison.

Okay luvvies, shall we go downstairs and have a drink, suggested Seymour, sensing an awkward conversation brewing.

Oh goody, piped up Daphne, can I have one of those delightful screwdriver thingies?

The arrival of lunch saved her from intoxication, she only managed two 'screwdriver thingies' before being presented with marmalade stuffed venison and a stilton cheese salad (don't mock until you have tried the Hon's unusual, if not downright bizarre creations!).

Enjoyment of this meal was sullied, for the hostess continued to browbeat her guests about the hated rail link. These demands for immediate action were only silenced by a tempting bowl of raspberry ripple ice cream appearing under her nose.

Desperate for something more distracting, Seymour suggested, nay demanded, they should play tennis that afternoon.

Yippee, I can wear my pink tutu. cried Daphne. (There was no answer to that!)

So it was I became umpire, line judge and ball boy! Predictably, after being soundly thrashed by two of the wifelets, the Hon was berating their loss with her partner, Barry.

What deranged idiot dreamed up the scoring for this, twenty, thirty, forty then game? As for juice and love; the mind boggles. and What did he shout 'net' for, it's bloody obvious the ball hit it, isn't it?

Not far away, Seymour was just enjoying things, watching a nubile wifelet and the shapely Daphne prance ineffectually around the court. Well, that was until a powerful but misguided shot felled him; there being some confusion when he regained consciousness.

Oh, I've gone to heaven, he mumbled, ravishing both ladies as they rolled around on the grass.

Things degenerated from then on; the Hon would only play to her rules, though she still lost, barely concealing the displeasure. Elsewhere, Daphne's efforts resembled some erotic kind of ballet practice, while Seymour resorted to making lewd comments to distract the wifelets.

(Let it go on record, I will never again preside over any sporting event with this lot, ever!)

Salvation came when Cynthia arrived, the 'players' abandoning rackets and balls in their rush to greet her.

The prodigal returns! What ho, young thing. Time for a celebratory drink, methinks, came as Seymour picked up and carried the young lady into the house.

Super, I can have another screwdriver thingie! added Daphne, as she was swept along by the others.

Before the party became too raucous, The Hon ordered everyone to go and dress for dinner in her usual acidic tone; while she and I left for the kitchen to cook up a feast. 

Bathed and perfumed, the guests assembled, the yellow bow-tied, green suited Seymour and identically attired wifelets contrasting nicely with a plainly dressed Cynthia. The conventional Barry had on a black suit, while Daphne's bosom was in constant danger of escaping from the low neckline of her startlingly red dress.

The Hon's appearance was dramatic,