Short Stories by Peter Roberts

By Peter Roberts

Short Stories by Peter Roberts. . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jul 30, 2019
• ISBN: 9781728391007

Peter Roberts

Patrick Ronald Roberts was born on July 4th 1931 in London. The second of four children. The family moved to Liverpool in 1943 to escape the constant bombing of the city by the Germans, and the terrible poverty in which they were living. Patrick and his elder brother Evan, 95, are the only remaining siblings. He lost his sister Betty to suicide aged 28, and his brother George died aged just 21 in an army accident in Egypt. He is buried in a military cemetery in Cyprus. Patrick, almost 91, enjoys bowling, playing chess, and writing short stories, and has only recently stopped playing golf.

Book preview

Bringing the House Down

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As 88 year old Albert Drummond made his slow, laborious way home in the drizzling rain, he became aware of somebody following him. His crippled foot hurt tremendously tonight, and he had great trouble keeping his balance, relying heavily on his stick.

He had stayed too long at the cemetery talking to Emily and now it would be dark before he reached home. To be out after dark in this neighbourhood was asking for trouble.

His house was the last terrace of a block of six. The other five had long been evacuated and boarded up. There was just this tenacious old man stopping this dingy street from sliding into history, being demolished and built upon.

As he hobbled down his path way, he remembered how beautifully Emily had always kept the front garden. Masses of neat, colourful flowers. It had been a showpiece in the neighbourhood. Now it was a patch of mud surrounded by broken neglected fences, and overrun by rats. Thankfully, he opened the faded door of the dark gloomy house and hurried inside. The house smelt damp and musty, but to him it was home.

As he put the light on and started to close the door, he heard the scuffle of running feet, and, with a crash the door burst back open. He staggered back and fell awkwardly under the impact.

A youth of about 19, with a skinhead style haircut stood belligerently over him wielding a small club. Come on now pops, I don’t want any trouble outta you. He held the club threateningly in front of the old man’s face.

Shaken, Albert climbed to his feet. What do you want young man? There’s nothing here for you.

Yeah, that’s what they all say. We’ll have to see about that wont we? I know you’ve got money, and the sooner you hand it over, the better it’ll be for you.

The old man put the dining room light on and laughed hollowly. Money! he indicated around the cold squalid room, if you can find any money here, I’d be very surprised. But you’re welcome to a cup of tea and a sandwich if you’re hungry.

Don’t give me that garbage, Terry Hurst crashed the club down on the table, I know you old fogey’s starve yourselves to death and have fortunes stashed away, and I need it man."

Albert studied the pupils in the skinheads angry, pock marked face.

What is it son, drugs?

Terry Hurst ignored him and pulling out the sideboard drawers dumped the contents on to the sofa, rummaging through the few items. Presently he held up a medal scornfully. What’s this then grandad? ‘to Albert Drummond, awarded twelfth of September 1916 for gallantry!’ He slung it disdainfully into a corner. Better not try any of that John Wayne stuff on me, he sneered.

Cupboard after cupboard was tipped unceremoniously onto the floor. Come on, come on, where’s the bloody cash? he shouted angrily.

There’s no money for you, Albert said quietly, sitting up straight and dignified.

How can you live like this? Terry waved his club at the dilapidated furniture and threadbare carpet. And a bloody war hero too! I bet it was the war what crippled you aswell. Don’t you think they owed you something pop? If it was me, I’d make sure the bastards paid.

Albert said nothing and gazed at a picture of Emily on the table.

Are you listening to me? Terry screamed, and smashed the picture onto the floor with his club.

Albert went white, and the look in his eyes frightened Terry.

You shouldn’t have done that son.

Where’s the money? Terry blustered, grabbing Albert by the coat front, and breathing foul breath into his face. Give! give! give!. He shook Albert backwards and forwards then pushed him viciously onto the floor.

You stink of glue, Albert struggled to his feet. Don’t you know that glue sniffing can kill you?

Albert was beginning to get an idea. Terry was ransacking the bedroom, and emerged carrying some £1 coins and a rent book.

No money eh? he snarled. What’s this then?"

That’s rent money, and money towards my gas bill. If I don’t pay my rent, they’ll have an excuse to evict me.Well you couldn’t be much worse off than this, Terry sneered. Me, I’d sooner live hard and die young. Go out with a bang, that’s me!

Oh, I’m sure you will. There was a gleam in Alberts eye.

As Terry retuned to crashing around the bedroom, albert slipped into the kitchen. Opening the oven door, he turned all the gases fully on.

He tapped the lightbulb lightly with his stick a couple of times, until he heard the element break, then quickly closing the door he returned to his seat.

A while later, Terry emerged from the bedroom triumphantly carrying a locked box. "No money eh? Well what the hell’s in