Trish's Tea Time Tales

By Patricia Smith

A compendium of short stories for tea-time reading or whenever you have a spare moment. The stories come in all genres from historical, to environmental and even murder. From story number one where we meet Muriel on her Mission through to Maisie in the final story on her Journey Home. In between we find o

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookTrail Publishing
• Release date: Nov 18, 2020
• ISBN: 9781953731135

Patricia Smith

Patricia Smith is the author of eight books of poetry, including Incendiary Art;Shoulda Been Jimi Savannah, winner of the Lenore Marshall Prize from the Academy of American Poets; Blood Dazzler, a National Book Award finalist; and Gotta Go, Gotta Flow, a collaboration ion with award-winning Chicago photographer Michael Abramson. Smith is the winner of the 2018 Kingsley Tufts Poetry Award, a four-time individual champion of the National Poetry Slam, and a recipient of fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation and the National Endowment for the Arts, among other honors. She is a professor at the College of Staten Island and in the MFA program at Sierra Nevada College, as well as an instructor for Cave Canem, the annual VONA residency and in the Vermont College of Fine Arts Post-Graduate Writing Program.

Book preview

Patricia_Smith-Trish's_Tea_Time_Tales-Front_Cover.jpg

Copyright © 2020 by Patricia Smith

Paperback: 978-1-953731-14-2

eBook: 978-1-953731-13-5

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020919428

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of nonfiction.

Ordering Information:

BookTrail Agency

8838 Sleepy Hollow Rd.

Kansas City, MO 64114

Printed in the United States of America

Dedication

I should like to dedicate this book to my grandchildren, Jason, Isabel, Zara and Oliver Smith

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

The Mission

An environmental tale

Whispers In The Dark

An historical tale

Henry,s Secret

A Cat’s Tale

The Bare Bones

A tale of murder

The Violin

A spooky tale

One Man’s Best Friend

An environmental tale

Murder - Sch-Murder

A Tale of Murder

Rain

A tale of the West

The Freedom Fighter

A Woman’s Tale

The Last Laugh

A proverbial tale

The Goldfish

A tale of childhood

All That Glitters

A proverbial tale

Have A Nice Day

A funereal tale

The Heatwave

A ‘show-biz’ tale

The Room With A View

A holiday tale

Halloween

A Spooky Tale

The Backer

A business tale

The Sales

A shopper’s tale

The House

A spooky DIY tale

Valentine’s Day

An eventful tale

Never Say Die

An eternal tale

The Photo Album

A nostalgic Tale

The Chair

An ageist tale

A Nice Cup Of Tea

A Doctor’s Tale

Jail Bait

A Talking Head tale

Granma’s Diary

An ancestry tale

The Village

A time-slip tale

The Refugees

A distaster tale

The Journey Home

An ‘end’ tale

Acknowledgements

I should like to express my sincere acknowledgement to my tutor, Sandie Traveller, without whose excellent teaching I could never have written a word and to my talented artist friend Emma Horsfield who designs and paints my beautiful book covers. Also my thanks go to Sheila Ringshaw, Maureen Ager, Shirley Dillimore, Tina D’Eath, Kelly Goode, Jean Challis, Barbara Jennings, Loretta Smith, and Derek Hull for their kind encouragement and critique.

The Mission

An environmental tale

THE MISSION

Muriel was a woman with a mission. She’d spent over 40 of her 60 or so years as a schoolmistress but now she was retired and lived in a small bungalow on the edge of the Common. She wanted to do something useful with her remaining years and hopefully, something that would combat the encroaching loneliness.

She walked on the Common every day and noticed the amount of litter everywhere.

It wasn’t like that in my day she thought but then what was?

There were no litterbins as the Council had decided long ago to abandon the Common to its fate, despite the exorbitant amounts of money they extracted from each of its long-suffering citizens. They weren’t going to spend any of it on the Common. It was then that she decided to do something about it herself.

Armed with a black plastic bag and a long handled pick-up stick with pinchers on the end, which would save her from bending down too much; she set about cleaning up the Common herself. She started near her home and picked up everything she saw until the bag was full. Then she returned home and placed the bag with her own household rubbish. Every day she could go a little further despite the fact that there was always some new litter on the part that she had cleaned the day before.

She’d started this clean-up in the Spring, when spring-cleaning was a natural urge, but she’d continued throughout the summer and was often delighted whenever pangs of conscience prickled some mothers who told their youngsters to take your sweet wrapper or empty carton of juice over to that lady and put it in her plastic bag

I’m glad I’m still teaching something to some people she thought.

She continued through the Autumn and when November came, dark, cold and misty self-preservation nagged at her to stay indoors but the self-discipline of the school-mistress prevailed and she still set out each day on her ‘mission’.

One particular evening she was passing the derelict Council hut when she heard a rustling noise.

Oh my God she thought rats!! I’ll leave them where they are

She was about to move on when there was something else –what was it? A whimper! She moved a little closer. Yes – there it was again. Perhaps some animal had become trapped in there. She must be careful in opening the door in case it rushed out at her. So she pushed the door open slowly and stood back – but nothing happened. She peered inside and when her eyes became accustomed to the darkness she saw them. A small boy about 8 or 9 years old clutching a large pale-coloured puppy.

What on earth are you doing here?

She enquired but there was no reply. Going a little closer and, not wishing to appear too intimidating by towering over them, she bent down to their level, despite the sharp protest she received from both her knees.

Stroking the puppy’s head she said:

You’re a lovely dog aren’t you? What’s your name?

The boy looked up then I call him ‘Buster he said.

"Well, Buster why are you in here?

My Mum said she was going to get rid of him – take him down the Vet’s

Why would she want to do that?

’Cos she said I couldn’t keep him in the flat. It wasn’t allowed.

Why not?

’Cos we live on the 6th floor of the Mandella Block and she said we can’t keep dogs there and she was going to get rid of him

The tears began to roll down his grubby face.

How did you get him in the first place?

She asked gently, rubbing the puppy behind his ears and getting her hand licked in appreciation.

My friend at school, Joe Simpson, gave him to me. His dog had these puppies, you see, and his Mum got tired on them and said she’d have to get rid of them ’cos she couldn’t sell them ’cos they was all Heinz’s and no-one would pay anything for Heinz’s.

What on earth are Heinz’s?

Heinz 57 - dogs what has no pedigree. No-one wants them

Oh you mean mongrels, corrected the school-mistress dogs of mixed breeds.

Yes he rambled on. They was all different and no one wanted them so he gave this one to me and I kept him in my room for a week. I fed him and looked after him alright but he made too much mess and noise and then my Mum found him and…and…… more tears…. she was going to take him to the vet’s today so I run off with him and came here

And now you’re both tired and hungry I expect

The puppy licked her hand again as the boy nodded.

Well, why don’t you both come home with me? We’ll have something to eat and decide what to do, shall we?

The boy wiped his cuff across his tear-soaked face and got up, still clutching the puppy close to him.

Ok, well I’m Miss Phipps, and this is Buster so what’s your name?

Jake, Jake Cameron

He sniffed as they left the hut and walked off together.

After beans on toast had revived the boy and the rest of the stew that she had been saving for her supper now resided in the bulging stomach of the sleeping puppy, she suggested:

How about we leave Buster here and I take you home to your mother? She must be frantic with worry by now. Buster can live with me. I could do with a bit of company.

The boy began to frown.

Don’t worry - he’ll always be your dog and you can come and visit him everyday after school, take him for walks and play with him. What do you think?

Jake nodded. So she washed his face, combed his hair and together they set off for the Mandella Block.

She didn’t enjoy the journey up to the sixth floor in the noisy, smelly lift but a short walk along an open balcony and Jake pointed to his front door. It was opened by a slim, redheaded woman who scooped him up in a bear-hug saying:

"Jakey, Jakey – where have you been. I was