Calls and Cries in the Night: and Other Short Stories

By Barry Appleby

This book of short stories, has been 22 years in the making. You will find within the book 10 short stories, all different, but all as gripping as the one before. If you are looking for a relaxing read, then this is the book for you. The stories range from:-

A couple's chance meeting
When the Present Meets the Past

Further into the book you will follow, The Lives of Two Young School Friends. Then you will meet, "The Stranger" (who is he?).

The story which is the main title of this book, "Calls and Cries in the Night" will make you wonder where this story is taking you.

Take a trip to the "Seychelles" for the next story. 

Then on to "The Lord of the Glen", tells you the struggle of survival in the Highlands of Scotland. 

The last 3 stories are completely different but will hold your attention.

I hope you enjoy this book, as much as I enjoyed writing these stories. It is an ideal sized book for you to put in your hand luggage, and it will keep you entertained on your travels or when you are relaxing and want to be involved in the mystery and intrigue of the characters. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Jul 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9781803133522

Book preview

9781803133522.jpg

Copyright © 2021 Barry Appleby

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Matador

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ISBN 9781803133522

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

I dedicate this book to my wife who spent time proof reading my stories. Also my friends in Cambridge, Lancaster, London and Stoke-on-Trent. All who encouraged me to get my short stories published. Thank you to you all.

Contents

YOURS FOR ETERNITY

THE SALLY ANN

UNTIL SUN-RISE

THE STRANGER

CALLS & CRIES IN THE NIGHT

THE TRADE WINDS TO PARADISE

LORD OF THE GLEN

THE MUSIC TEACHER

THE GIFT

WINGS TO FLY

1

YOURS FOR ETERNITY

A Young Couples Chance Meeting

The warm summer sun shone through the kitchen window, where Peter was finishing off his breakfast. Peter, a thirty three year old architect, lived in a beautiful Georgian house, which had been turned into flats. It was situated a five minute walk from the Roman Baths, from which the city has taken its name, Bath. Peter’s flat was tastefully decorated with furniture, which complimented the Georgian exterior. He bought the flat about three years ago, shortly after his Mother and Father’s estate was wound up after a fatal accident on the M4, in which the couple both died. Peter being the only child and living relative inherited their somewhat sizeable fortune. His peace, not to mention his last morsel of breakfast, was disturbed by the telephone ringing. He reached for the wall phone, just to the right of him.

Hello, Peter Archer speaking.

The voice on the other end was his boss, who worked from the company’s Head Office up in Coventry.

Good morning, Peter, Graham here.

Morning Graham.

Peter said, somewhat surprised to hear from him so early in the morning, What can I do for you?

Peter, I wanted to catch you before you left for the office.

Peter ran the company’s office in Bath.

We have a big meeting on Monday morning, got some Norwegians coming over to the office. They are very interested in seeing your designs for the all glass and wooden dwelling houses.

That’s great. I’ll drive up first thing Monday morning. He said, with a hint of excitement in his voice.

Graham stopped him in his tracks.

Just hold on. I want you fresh and sharp Monday morning. I tell you what, take today off.

But what about the office? He said, a little concerned.

Forget about the ifs and buts, Julie, your secretary, can handle anything that comes up. Look Peter, it’s about time you had a break, Graham said with a hint of firmness in his voice.

You haven’t had a break since the accident.

I am all right, said Peter, only to be shouted down by Graham.

Have today off, drive up country and spend the week-end in the Cotswolds. Then you’ll reach us bright eyed and bushy tailed Monday morning. And just to underline his point, he added, No ifs or buts, just do it.

All right, you win, you are right I do feel a little tired. I’ll give Julie a ring and explain what’s happening.

No you won’t, I’ll do that. Just concentrate on packing. See you Monday morning. Bye for now.

With that Graham put the phone down.

Peter showered, then started to sort what clothes to take with him.

It was about 10.30 when the slim, six footer placed his suits, portfolio and his brown leather week-end bag into the boot of his metallic blue Jaguar.

The heat from the sun, was teasing the mist from the damp tarmac, folding the soft top of the car down. Glancing up at his first floor flat an inexplicable cold shiver ran down his back.

He fastened his seat belt and turned the key to start the car. The powerful four litre engine sprang to life. Driving through the city, in which he was born and bred, he saw coach loads of tourists queuing to go into the attractions. The smell of diesel fumes wafted over him as a large articulated lorry passed him. The few cotton wool clouds darkened the sand stone buildings as they passed over them, dancing from one to the other.

The A4 out of Bath was quiet, as most of the traffic was trying to get into the city for the week-end.

The drive to the M4 through Chippenham was quiet. Passing over the motorway, and taking the A429 towards Malmesbury, the road was inviting. Peter put his foot down and the car responded. The front end raised a little then they were on their way, apart from the humming of the engine, the rumble of the tyres moving over the surface of the road and a lone bird singing its song, the country was as quiet as the grave. The smell of fresh mown grass reached Peter’s nostrils, one of his favourite smells. Over in the distance a tractor ploughing a field could be seen, the corrugated effect left by the plough was eye catching.

To the north of Malmesbury, a few miles from Tetbury, Peter pulled over to the side of the road. The tyres running over the gravel made it rustle, crack and spit. Leaning against his car, he unwrapped his sandwiches and drank from a bottle of mineral water he had bought earlier, when he had stopped for fuel. From his vantage point a panoramic view stretched out in front of him. The rolling Cotswold Hills set the back drop for the moving collage, a tapestry of fields with a silver thread running through it. That was where he and his father went fishing. Thoughts of his childhood came rushing back of the times when his parents had brought him to the Cotswolds. His eyes scanning the view he saw the wheat fields dancing to the tune played by the breeze, as it moved amongst its stems.

His thoughts and peace were broken when an old, weather beaten man, came riding by on his, what seemed an even older, black bicycle. One of God’s finer days, the old man said, as he wobbled by on his cycle squeaking and clattering. Peter watched the old timer disappear into the distance.

I’ll do a few more miles before I start looking for somewhere to stay, Peter thought, as he climbed into his car. The rest of the journey was uneventful passing through such picturesque places as Bourton-on-the-Water and Stow-on-the-Wold. A couple of miles past Stow, Peter turned left off the main road down a winding lane with tall hedges on both sides. This brought him to the old Roman road. After turning right, a couple of hundred yards on the left was an Old Coaching Inn. Peter parked across the road on the hard standing which the hotel used for their guests to park.

He took his luggage out of the boot and went to see if they had any rooms available. Peter entered the Inn, which was called The Post Horn. The reception hall had a polished wooden floor. In front of him was the reception desk, to his right was an old wooden staircase, its wood darken with age. To the left was the residence’s lounge which had wooden panelled walls and low beamed ceiling. This theme ran through all the down stairs rooms. The receptionist entered from the cocktail bar, which was also the entrance to the restaurant.

Good afternoon sir, she said, with a welcoming smile. How may I help you?

I would like a room please with en-suite. Peter said, resting his bag on the slightly uneven floor.

Will that be a single or a double, and for how long will you be staying with us?

Oh! he said a bit startled. He had been studying the design and intricate carvings on the staircase.

I am sorry, he said, flashing his best smile at her. A single for three nights, thank you.

Peter was shown to his room. It was tastefully decorated as to the style of the rest of the hotel. There was a large forbidding looking wardrobe which had a full length mirror on the door this reflected the light from the facing window. The only other pieces of furniture that were in the room, apart from the bed there was a set of draws and a dressing table. The door to the bathroom was on the right, and two windows overlooked the countryside. In the corner of the room, the second window, which was a bay, had a seat from which you could watch the comings and goings in the courtyard.

Peter opened the window to let some fresh air into the room then went for a long soak in the bath. After the refreshing interlude, he lay on the bed listening to the sounds of the country and soon drifted off to sleep.

All of a sudden he awoke with a start. Glancing at his wrist watch he noticed that it was 19.30. Dinner was served at 20.00 in the restaurant. Changing into a polo shirt and a pair of fawn trousers, he finished tying his shoe laces and walked