The Green Cathedral: A Collection Of Short Stories

By Dale Parnell

The Green Cathedral is a collection of contemporary-fantasy short stories that each pose a ‘what if?’ question.
In ‘Rain’, the United Kingdom has been subjected to twenty years of continuous rainfall and one journalist thinks he has found the reason why. In ‘Photographs’ a young burglar takes on a mysterious group of people who have been stealing people’s personal belongings. And in ‘The Jewellery Box’ a lonely woman finds that a gift from a stranger has the power to change her life.
Seven stories, seven what ifs?
What if your house was haunted?
What if it never stopped raining?
What if a gift from a stranger could mend your broken heart?
What if we stopped talking to each other?
What if you met God?
What if babies really did grow under the gooseberry bush?
What if someone was stealing your photographs?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dale Parnell
• Release date: Sep 8, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463197721

Dale Parnell

Dale Parnell was born and raised in Norwich and now lives in Staffordshire with his wife and their imaginery dog, Moriarty. Dale has been writing, in various forms, for most of his adult life and finds short stories the most enjoyable. His first collection, "The Green Cathedral" includes some of his oldest works along with more recent pieces.Following on from his acceptance in two charity poetry anthologies, Dale published his first collection of poetry, "If I Were Not Me" in February 2019. He has been reading his poems at a few local open mic events and festivals and enjoys being a part of the local poetry community.Dale released his second collection of short stories, "Bramble and Other Stories" in 2019, this time exploring science-fiction and horror as well as contemporary fantasy.

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The Green Cathedral

By Dale Parnell

Copyright © Dale Parnell 2017

Smashwords Edition

All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, is a coincidence.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any way without prior permission of the author.

For my wife, Thelma

With love and endless thanks

&

In memory of my Grandmother

Ivy Smith

Who taught me how to grow things

Contents

The Haunted House

Rain

The Jewellery Box

The Things We Hear In the Silence

The Green Cathedral

Under The Gooseberry Bush

Photographs

The Haunted House

Of course haunted houses exist. But it's not the spirits of the dead that linger, it's memories. Houses remember everything.

Anon.

The house felt different.

Have you ever re-arranged the furniture in your house, and then for the first few days when you come back from work it doesn't quite feel like home. You recognise the rooms and the things in it, but something is off and it doesn't feel right.

That was how it felt, or something close. It was colder for a start. Not freezing, the heating had been set to the minimum, so that condensation didn't form on the windows and the house wasn't overrun with mould. Could that happen in so little a time? How long had it been? A few days, a few weeks? Walking into the hallway you could almost smell the cold, if only by the lack of any other scents. There was no smell of food, no dry smell of the heating or the gas fire. No smell of soap or perfume. Old scents that I now realised had been in this house for years, decades. It was now only by their absence that I truly acknowledged how long they had been a part of the house.

I slipped through the rooms slowly, my suit and tie forcing me into an unnatural straight backed posture that felt ill fitted for the house. Had everything always been this small, this threadbare? I struggled to recall the last time I was here. It hadn't been all that long ago, but there had been nothing extraordinary about the visit, just the usual tea and small talk that marked so many similar visits, so that now they had all blended into one generic memory. Was that wrong? Should I remember the last time separately, more vividly? Surely if I had known it was to be the last time I would have committed it to memory more thoroughly.

I passed through the empty rooms to the back door, the solid Bakelite handle so familiar. And then down the step into the conservatory. The French doors are new but I don't know how new. I don't remember being told the doors were being replaced. Maybe I had been told, maybe not. I unlock the doors and pass through out into the garden.

As impressive as the garden is for the area, this too feels smaller, suddenly much smaller than I remember. But that doesn't make sense either. I had always come out into the garden to check on progress and cast my eye over any new developments and additions. It became almost a ritual, to slowly walk the length of the garden, nodding and muttering approvals to myself, occasionally stopping to pull a weed from between the cracked paving slabs.

So much of my life has been planted and grown in that garden. So much of my childhood has been witnessed by this small patch of shifting ground, the only enduring constants the two ancient apple trees at the far end, standing sentry over my memories.

And whether I want to or not I can remember it all, every bright sunlit morning spent digging, every low, wet afternoon painting fence panels under cover. The sentries stand old and proud, gnarled bark and lichen that looks ready to collapse under the weight of so much sadness. Sadness and so much guilt for the days that weren't spent here.

This isn't right, so much has been left to go to seed. Every path is spattered with weeds and grass, the earth needs turning and the flower beds have all but died, unrecognisable plants left to yellow and wilt. The tomato plants in the greenhouse are dying too, every stalk thick with spoiled fruit, with only the wasps and flies content to feast on them.

And then, there, midway up the garden, nestled at the base of the fence panel sits a long, low trough, and a flash of recognition stops me. Barely visible beneath the leaf mold and overgrown grasses I see a familiar leaf shape. I gently free the trough from the overgrowth and pull away the dead leaves and there ... strawberry plants. They look small but healthy, having been sheltered I suppose from the worst of the weather they have fought to hang on in a garden that has all but given up its old life. And I know without a moments hesitation that it has to come with me. Something has to live, something has to come out of the garden that my grandmother so lovingly planted and kept for so many years. The garden that I worked in, where I learned to appreciate a simple meal at the end of an honest day’s work, cooked using so many of the things that we had planted, and tended, and harvested together.

I take the trough back through the house, closing and locking the doors behind me, being in the spaces for the last time as they are, undisturbed as yet by clearing and sorting relatives.

I left the strawberry plant with my mother, setting them up in a sunny spot in her own small, humble garden - more a sun terrace than anything really. I don't know if they will last the year, whether they will bear fruit or not, and whether they will survive this coming winter.

Perhaps I should care, to keep something going from the garden, to have something to remember and honour my grandmother. But I don't think she would mind too much, in truth I don't see how she could mind one way or the other. She’s gone, and that’s the simple, harsh truth. But on that day, walking the garden for the last time, it did me good to take something with me, something alive. To save something, to make up for all the things I couldn't save.

Rain

Thursday the thirteenth of October; looking back now it would have been more fitting if it had been a Friday. Maybe we would have noticed something was wrong sooner. As it was it took a few weeks before anyone really started to question what was happening. Not that it makes much difference. We couldn’t have done anything then just as we can’t do anything now. There's talk of marking the anniversary this year, which sounded perverse when I first heard it, but I guess people find odd ways of coping. So in a few weeks’ time we'll all swap greeting cards and novelty umbrellas and we'll remember the day, twenty years ago, when it started raining.

---

Phil, I still need your piece for the weekend edition, deadline was thirty minutes ago!

Craig Forster was stood over my desk with his arms folded, a sign that always meant he was agitated and wasn’t in the mood to hear any bullshit.

I know, I'm just finishing it up now, be on your desk in two minutes, I answered without looking up. Craig huffed a little then marched off to harass someone else. The truth was I had finished the piece just over an hour ago, but I didn’t want Craig to know that I had been sat at my desk doing nothing, waiting for the clock to hit five so I could leave. I kept an eye on him as he wandered around the various departments and once he had gone into the assistant editor’s office I grabbed my bag and left, dumping what I knew was a mediocre article on his desk, with the certainly that he would hate it and have me re-write it tomorrow. It was 4.59 PM and I didn’t really care anymore. Someone shouted my name as the lift doors closed and it was only when I got to the reception desk when I realised it would have been John telling me I'd forgotten my umbrella again. It sounds ridiculous to most people that after nearly twenty years of none stop rain I could regularly forget to take an umbrella with me when I left the house or office, or anywhere really. Call it wishful thinking if you want, or just plain stupid, either way I don’t know why I do it. I buttoned both layers of my coat and pulled the hood up before pushing through the heavy revolving door, out onto the angled pavement.

Multicoloured Dukes sloshed through the downpour and I noted that my own Dukes Classic were looking a little tired and dull compared to the thirty plus different designs currently being modelled along Oxford Street. The latest fad was a line of bright LEDs along the edge of the sole which made the surface water sparkle as you walked through it. I hated them almost as much as the umbrellas with a smiling cartoon sun printed on the inside. There’s making the most of the situation and then there's just taking the piss. The car park was swamped again and without my umbrella changing shoes wasn’t going to be possible. Luckily I'd had plenty of practice driving in Dukes, so I simply climbed into my battered Range Rover and headed for home. As the wipers squeaked across the windscreen I thought of at least two different ways that I could re-write the article tomorrow, hated them both and decided to listen to the radio for the rest of the journey home.

---

Dukes of Wellington

Since Rain Day, sales of the humble Wellington boot have increased year on year and at present there are twenty three companies producing the historic footwear in ever increasing colours and designs. But the most notable company attached to this recent sales boom is Sunny Smiles UK, who first appeared on the UK market with their breakthrough Sunny Smile Clinics.

Ian Smithson, head of marketing at Sunny Smiles was head of manufacturing at the time and recalls those early days.

It was odd that no one had thought of the idea before us so we were lucky in terms of marketing and getting the brand name out there. Of course you can’t copyright a shoe, but we were happy for other companies to follow our lead and once the name Dukes was out there we were able to secure a loyal customer base and we've gone from strength to strength.

This Christmas will see the release of Sunny Smiles latest range of Dukes, with some of the UKs most well respected fashion designers adding their own personal touch that already has many shoppers in a frenzy.

Sue Blythe, editor of Rain Fashion magazine knows the impact the new range of Dukes will have on the UK sales market.

Dukes are the brand name that everyone wants and rightly so. Each new range showcases the best in UK design and production. It’s something to be proud of that UK companies have risen from the ashes and are able to become successful at times like these. The latest spate of celebrities snapped in Dukes has only increased their popularity and has finally given us something in the fashion world we can all aspire to again.

So with the latest range of Dukes waiting to hit the high street and Sunny Smiles continued success with the Smile Clinics and Sunny Smile boxes, what new developments can we expect from Sunny Smiles?

Ian Smithson admits that next year will be just as busy for them. We have next year’s Dukes to work on, and there will be some very exciting new names coming in on the design team. We will also be launching a competition for people to submit their own design ideas and will be working with the very talented team at Rain Fashion magazine to choose the winners.

When asked if Sunny Smiles have any intention of moving into the ever increasing rain coat market, Ian Smithson leaves us with a tantalizingly cryptic clue.

We've looked at the idea from several angles and we think... well, you'll have to wait and see!

Article: Philip Green

---

It’s good Phil, honestly, I really like it! Lucy was smiling hugely but I still wasn’t sure.

Yes I know, it's ok but it's just going over the same old news. It’s... boring.

Lucy poked me softly and smiled again. It was a Sunday morning ritual to sit in bed with the paper and let Lucy read my article. I didn’t like her to read anything until it was printed, it was a habit I picked up whilst at university, although some days it felt more like a superstition.

Have you heard any more about them giving you a chance with a bigger story? Lucy asked the question from behind the supplement, perhaps knowing that I didn’t actually want to talk about this again and letting me ignore the question. After a long pause Lucy dropped the paper and looked up at me, waiting.

No, they haven’t said anything. Craig told me it could be a while longer, I've only been there a few months. I didn’t want to sound despondent but from Lucy's expression I could see that I hadn’t hidden it very well.

You need to push a little Phil, no one is going to hand you this on a platter, you have to go after it!

I know, I know, I will. I promise I'll speak to Craig about it. I tried to make it sound convincing but Lucy didn’t seem impressed.

You've said that before Phil, I’ve heard the whole fucking thing before!

She was shaking and as I tried to move closer she shrugged me off, slipped off the bed and into the bathroom. I waited a moment before following to the doorway.

I will speak to Craig, I promise I will.

Lucy was sat on the edge of the bath and looked up, her eyes red and sad. I’m sorry, I know you will. I just... I don’t feel...

As she started to cry I realised that I still hadn’t replaced the Sunny Smile box, and that it had been two weeks since Lucy's last session.

I crouched down beside her, ignoring the complaint from my knees and gently squeezed her hand. Oh god, I'm sorry Lucy, I know you've been missing the sessions. Tell you what, why don't we have breakfast and pop down to the Riverside Centre, I heard they just opened a new clinic there.

Lucy lifted her head and smiled. Are you sure? You said we'd have to wait for the New Year sale before we could replace it.

Don’t worry about that, I can always catch up on some freelance work for a few months. The important thing is getting you happy.

Lucy threw her arms around my shoulders and hugged me fiercely. Moments later she was a whirl of movement, shooing me out of the bathroom so she could have a shower before starting breakfast. I shuffled back into the bedroom and scooped up the discarded newspaper. What Craig had forced me to remove from the article was that the benevolent Sunny Smiles UK had recently bought out Rain Fashion magazine and that Sue Blythe was one of their own. The former editor had apparently resigned suddenly, leaving the way clear for Sunny Smiles to bolster their marketing arsenal and no doubt pad the bank accounts of its shareholders. I folded the newspaper and dropped it back onto the bed, then switched the radio on, hoping it would drown out the feeling of journalistic ennui.

And now the rain forecast, today will be light to mild, leading to medium-heavy this evening. Monday will start medium-heavy and progress to heavy downpour, which is expected to last until Thursday.

A heavy downpour lasting for four days was nothing new, but I knew that Lucy wouldn't be able to cope unless we replaced her Smile box. I switched the radio off and found a CD for the car journey. I didn’t want Lucy hearing the rain forecast until she'd at least got a new box, maybe not until after her first session. She took it hard when it first started raining, hell a lot of people took it hard and it could have been a lot worse, but she was doing better and I didn’t want her to relapse. I could hear singing coming from the bathroom, which was a good sign. I pulled on my dressing gown and headed downstairs, hoping we hadn’t run out of tea again and decided that I would start breakfast and hopefully have it ready by the time Lucy came downstairs.

Two hours later we were pulling into the carpark at the Riverside Centre, already teeming with eager shoppers decked out in old Dukes and umbrellas looking for new Dukes and better umbrellas. I had remembered our large golf umbrella this time and escorted Lucy to the main door and into the outer lobby, or wet room as most people called them. I swapped our Dukes and umbrella for a cloakroom ticket, declining the surcharged clean and dry service, whilst Lucy pulled on her indoor shoes and we headed off into the shopping center. I didn’t actually know where the new Sunny Smile Clinic was and we had to find one of those 'You Are Here' maps first. I could feel Lucy pulling at my arm and when we saw the sign outside the clinic she practically dragged me the last fifty meters and through the double doors. Lucy signed in at the desk and was given a questionnaire to fill in whilst she waited to be seen, which we were assured would be within the hour. We found a seat and Lucy began scribbling her details onto the form.

The waiting room was expensively furnished and the walls had been adorned with black and white renditions of Sunny Smiles previous advertising posters, a minimalist history stretching from their very first campaign right up to the most recent Smile and the world smiles with you! poster that had been released earlier this month. Looking around there were perhaps ten or twelve other people; couples whispering to each other, loners staring blankly at the latest brochures and one young girl idly rocking a pushchair back and forth. She didn’t look any older than twenty-one or twenty-two and as I sat watching her I realised that she might not have any real memories of what it was like before the rain, only what she's seen on television or read about in books. She looked up and caught my stare. I tried to smile and invoke some kind of telepathic sympathy but she simply turned back to stare into the middle distance, still rocking the pushchair, still looking so lost and sad that I had to take Lucy’s hand and squeeze it tightly. She looked up and grinned, seeming to take my gesture as enthusiasm for her imminent appointment, and I didn’t have the heart to correct her.

We sat there for a while longer as one by one the other people were called in to see the Sunny Smile therapists, Lucy becoming more and more impatient. The girl with the pushchair was called in and I avoided looking up as she shuffled past us, and then finally Lucy's name was called and she followed the receptionist through to the furthest examination room, giving me a final, cheery wave before disappearing down the corridor.

I had intended to start writing notes for a new article when, looking across the room, I realised I wasn’t actually alone. I hadn’t seen him enter, but sat in the far corner was a greying gentleman in freshly ironed navy trousers and a thick blue and red tartan jumper. His thin, silver framed glasses balanced precariously at the end of his nose as he appeared to finish his crossword and carefully fold the newspaper away. I decided against writing any notes, since anytime I do try to write in public someone inevitably wants to talk to me about what I’m writing, and instead I pulled the novel from my bag and started reading.

I don’t suppose you have the time at all do you?

I looked over the book towards the far