Mellow Tales

By Mike O'Donnell

A heartwarming collection of thirty tales for those of a tender, sensitive or more gentle disposition.
Those who, in the olden days, would have been referred to as the gentler sex.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mike O'Donnell
• Release date: Oct 12, 2013
• ISBN: 9798215741399

Mike O'Donnell

Mike was a slow starter at the writing game. For the first two years of his life he seemed intent on eating and sleeping. Once these skills were mastered he did begin to make his mark, mostly with dirty fingers, lumps of mud and soft crayon. His father was in the RAF (as was his Sergeant Mum during the war) which meant that every so often the family moved on. He was therefore very nearly educated at a lot of schools; two weeks and three days at one lucky establishment. He did eventually learn to wield a pen, but mostly for activities other than writing. As all his forebears, he entered the Armed Forces. Three grandparents in the Army, both parents in the RAF, so he joined the RN. (Historical note: Great uncle George Rowe survived the Titanic and surprisingly he wasn't to blame. He was ex-RN.) The RN was extremely educational. Mike learned how to get blisters on his feet from marching and tabbing across Dartmoor, the Brecon Beacons, and a variety of parade grounds; and on his hands from sawing, chipping and filing cast iron and lumps of steel. He was professionally sick in the Atlantic, the North Sea, and up in the ice during the contretemps with Icelandic fishermen. And, because he was young he wasn't too well in a couple of ports like Hamburg and Amsterdam - water wasn't involved. He left the Navy, tried as many jobs as possible to see what made the world work, and sold a few pathetic stories. After four years servicing the Sultan of Oman's Navy and ten years trying to keep some of the Royal Army of Oman's radio equipment going he had a BA(Hons) and an MBA and sold about fifty stories.

Book preview

MELLOW TALES

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by

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Mike O'Donnell

Copyright © Michael O’Donnell

First Edition

The author asserts the moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, uploaded, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

These are works of fiction and any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental

www.mikeodonnell.co.uk

A heart-warming collection of thirty tales for those of tender, sensitive and gentle disposition. Those who, in the olden days, would have been referred to as The Fairer Sex.

Dedicated to the memory of

Vera Inez Faulkner O'Donnell J.P.

who epitomised the old values and virtues.

All these stories had First British Serial Rights and were written for UK magazines. They first appeared in People's Friend, My Weekly and a few, now defunct, publications.

Most appeared under the pen name of Linda Chloe Elmon.

They contain no violence, no bad language, no zombies nor vampires, but I hope nonetheless they are entertaining.

Table of Contents

TALKING TO STRANGERS..........................................6

GETTING ON......................................................9

HOT STUFF.......................................................12

MAMA MIA.......................................................14

LAUGHING.......................................................17

THE BENCH......................................................19

DREAM HOUSE...................................................22

THE KELLY FAMILY..............................................26

A BIRTHDAY GIFT................................................29

HEAD AND HEART................................................34

RHYTHM.........................................................38

RAZZAMATAZZ...................................................42

DECISIONS.......................................................45

PIECE OF CAKE...................................................49

GOOD FRIEND....................................................53

WHAT A SAUCE...................................................57

CONKERS........................................................60

FAMILY PRIDE....................................................64

GIFT OF LOVE....................................................68

FAMILY FEELING.................................................72

FAMILY CONCERN................................................77

HIDDEN TREASURE...............................................81

TO SAY GOODBYE................................................85

TRINKETS........................................................87

DANCING ON AIR.................................................91

UNDER FALSE COLOURS..........................................96

COST OF LIVING.................................................100

LOVE MISSION..................................................103

PEPPERCORN RENT..............................................107

A SPOT OF PAINT................................................112

TALKING TO STRANGERS

Betty Faulkner eyed the grey sky suspiciously. It would probably be raining by tea-time. There had been nothing to stop her making a morning trip into the city, when it was still warm and sunny, but she always went to town on Thursday afternoons. She’d been a schoolteacher for forty years and it had made her a believer in routines – unlike the bus driver apparently.

The bus was late. It often was nowadays. The drivers didn’t seem to pay any attention to routines such as timetables. Young people were like that. Her grandson, Matt, used to be dependable, always there when she needed him, but now he was off out at every opportunity.

Betty plonked herself and her shopping bag down on the slatted bench. The wooden bus shelter looked like a byre – someone’s bright idea of blending in with the countryside she supposed. The council probably referred to it as a 'rustic-style bus waiting facility'. It was a modern trend to call things by fancy names. Matt’s young lady, Sarah, was in ‘Human Resources Performance and Evaluation’. Betty wondered what had happened to ‘Personnel’.

A few more minutes passed and her feet began to tap impatiently. What had happened to the bus? She smiled to herself as she suddenly remembered Ally Campbell, who used to drive the bus years ago. He hadn’t bothered much about timetables – or bus stops, rustic or otherwise, come to that. He’d always dropped her off at the farm gate. Not just her, of course, it was virtually a door-to-door service in those days. Perhaps, now she came to think of it, the bus had never stuck rigidly to any times.

There wasn’t actually a timetable in the little square frame on the bus shelter wall, so you couldn’t tell. If you really wanted to, you could probably call up and check the official bus times on one of those mobile phones that all the young people seemed to have their ears glued to, or their thumbs flicking away at. Matt used to chat to Sarah for hours on his. Nowadays, of course, he was mostly with her in person.

Betty was just contemplating the fickle behaviour of modern youth when an extremely young example of the species peered round the corner of the bus shelter. He examined the wooden hut, bench, and Betty, with a critical eye before venturing forward and sitting down at the other end of the seat. Betty waited expectantly for his mother to put in an appearance, but nobody else arrived. The little boy sat, letting his wellington boots swing back and forth, his hands gripping the slatted seat on either side of him. He seemed perfectly self-assured. It was another trait of the young which Betty could never remember herself feeling when in the presence of adults.

She watched the boy, who was about seven years old, from the corner of her eye whilst pretending to look straight ahead out into the road. The bus couldn’t be much longer.

I’m not supposed to talk to strangers, the boy declared.

The sudden statement caught Betty by surprise.

Well, that’s all right then. Because I wasn’t actually talking to you, young man.

There was a pause.

I know that. But I was telling you so as you didn’t think I was being rude if I didn’t answer you when you did speak to me.

His wellingtons paused in their swinging and Betty could see the rather wobbly letters written in blue biro on the inside of his boots. I-A-N.

Well I have to say that is very polite of you, Master Ian.

The boy looked at her with a faint frown puckering his smooth forehead.

Ian? There was a question in his voice. My name’s Adrian.

Oh, I thought it was Ian because that’s what’s written in your wellingtons.

No it’s not. The boy peered into the left boot. It’s Adrian. But there’s a gap because there’s a big bump in the way and you only saw the end of it. See?

He held up his leg and folded the top of the boot down so she could see the whole word.

I’m sorry. I should have read the whole boot, Betty said solemnly.

That’s all right.

They sat in companionable silence for a while.

I only wrote my name in my boots so that my brother won’t take them by mistake when he gets older.

Ah! Good idea. How old is your brother?

He’s two-and-a-quarter. Well, almost two-and-a-half now. That’s Craig. And now there’s the twins. They was only born last week. Again there was a pause. Did you have any children?

Betty looked at the enquiring upturned young face, but in her mind’s eye saw another.

Yes, she replied softly. I had a daughter. Adrian obviously expected her to continue. Betty wasn’t sure how. But she was in a car accident, she added eventually.

Did she die? The question was matter of fact.

Yes, I’m afraid she did.

That’s sad, isn’t it? But I expect God needed her. He sometimes does you know.

Betty smiled at the lovely thought But she had a son. Matt – my grandson, she added more brightly.

Does he live with you?

Well...mostly. But I’m not sure you could say he does any more.

Why not? Did you have another baby and forget about him so he didn’t want to stay?

Betty looked quickly across at the boy who’d resumed swinging his wellingtons rhythmically backwards and forwards.

Why would you think that?

Adrian didn’t answer but began swinging his boots from side to side for a change.

Betty could imagine the effect of the two new arrivals in the household. There would be less time for Adrian, particularly with twins. He would be feeling forgotten, cast aside. New relationships always meant less time for others, she mused. Matt’s Sarah, for instance. She seemed to monopolise his life, leaving no time for his gran any more. There was never any knowing when he would show up – like the bus drivers.

A heavy lorry thundered past and Adrian looked up expectantly.

Betty suddenly realised that she didn’t recognise the boy, and the description of his family didn’t ring any bells.

Are you waiting for the bus? she asked.

Ballancrae was a small place and Betty had lived there all her life. She’d been a teacher in the primary school and there weren’t many people she hadn’t taught or who she didn’t know at least by sight.

Where do you live? I don’t think I know your mum and dad.

We’ve only just come here. We couldn’t stay in our flat in Queens Road. Mum said it was too small and there’s fresher air in the country. All my friends live in Queens Road, except Billy – he lives in Commercial Road. There’s a bus stop there. There’s only him and his mum, and she’s out most of the time. So I’m catching a bus to go and live with them.

He sounded so practical and brave, but Betty could imagine the deep hurt he was feeling. Two new babies giving his mother no time for him. All his friends suddenly gone. A strange small-town environment after life in the city. A new school when the fresh term began. It was a big load for one so young.

I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Adrian, she said carefully.

Why not?

Mummy’s had two new babies – that makes your job much more important. You’re not only Craig’s big brother, but big brother to the twins, too. This is a new place. You’ve got to learn all about it so that you can show them when they’re older.

Show them what?

Well... Betty thought of Matt’s childhood which had been so boisterous and different from her daughter’s. You’ve got to know where to find the blackberry bushes, where the conker trees are, the best places for exploring, and making a den. The rocks and trees you can climb, where the fish are in the river. Oh there’s so much to discover here. You can see deer, squirrels and rabbits and maybe a fox. You’ll find that it’s just as interesting as the city, only in a different way.

Deer and foxes? Do you know all the places? Adrian's eyes were wide.

Oh yes. Matt didn’t have a brother to show him, so we had to find out together.

Adrian looked thoughtful. There was a tree in our back street, but it didn’t have many leaves, and you couldn’t climb it. The park was okay, but you weren’t supposed to walk on the grass.

Well, here you’ll be able to walk almost anywhere you like. You can even ride. I live on a farm and we’ve got a little pony.

Adrian’s eyes bulged. He edged a shade closer on the seat.

Betty smiled. Matt was grown up now and preparing to leave the nest as children must. She just hadn’t wanted to admit it to herself. She’d begun to feel a bit lonely, but there was no need. He was leaving with the confidence and knowledge she’d given him; she wasn’t losing him. And he was serious about Sarah, so eventually there might be more children.

For a teacher, even retired, there were always children to be helped, especially in a little town where you’d lived all your life.

I think we should go back home. Your parents will be worried. I can meet your mum and dad and see what they think about ponies.

The smile which lit up Adrian’s face banished all thoughts of grey skies, late bus drivers, and empty nests.

GETTING ON

When my daughter, Jan, announced she was pregnant, my first thought was, I’m too young to be a granny! I felt quite miffed that she and Sam should do this to me. That was until Sam sent a picture of his son taken a few hours after he was born. My grandson, Josh. He was so beautiful.

I still didn’t like the thought of being ‘Granny Eve’, though. I always pictured grannies as being like my own Grandma Vera – old, wise, grey-haired and sedate. I wasn’t even forty-five, had only an average amount of grey matter, no grey hairs, and was anything but sedate, because I could still stride six miles across the downs. I obviously wasn’t granny material yet.

My husband, Jim, however, wasn’t being a great help.

Okay Grandma Eve. Have you got everything for the trip? Shawl, slippers, tonic wine? He chuckled, just as he’d done on the night after learning of Josh’s birth. He'd climbed into bed with the comment, Never considered spending the night with a grandmother until now.

I didn’t mention it would have been my first night with a grandpa, as well.

He picked up my case and we went out to the car. In the twenty-five years we’d been married I’d never gone away for a whole month before. It seemed a long time to be away from home. But, of course, I was excited at the thought of the trip to Germany, where Sam worked at his bank’s branch in Berlin. And the thought of holding baby Josh for the first time gave me such a thrill.

While you’re away, it’ll give me a chance to clear up a bit round here, Jim said.

There was a pile of sand by the garage left over from building the porch, and our little white picket fence and gate could do with a fresh coat of paint.

Okay, I agreed happily. The garden does need tidying up. But don’t overdo it. I’m not the only grandparent round here now.

That's right. He grinned. I'll have to practise nodding off in my armchair in front of the telly ready for Jan and Sam coming back home next year. Or maybe I’ll look in the attic for the kids’ old bedtime story books for Josh. I quite fancy the role of wise old storyteller. Perhaps I’ll get a gnarled pipe to puff, and grow a beard.

I grimaced at the thought, but I could see he’d obviously been thinking a lot about having Josh staying with us. He swung the little gate open with a light nudge of the suitcase.

Come on, it's a good couple of hours' drive to the airport. You don’t want to miss your flight.

I had a wonderful time in Germany. Little Josh was a joy, and it was a bit like being a mum all over again – without too much of the hard work. Jan and Sam spoilt me outrageously and I enjoyed every minute.

The good feeling was torpedoed just a tad in the airport departure lounge at Berlin. A little boy of about seven was having a minor tantrum.

Why do we have to go and see Gran and Granpa? His voice was petulant. It’s so boring, and their house smells funny.

It smells of lavender, Tommy, and it’s nice, his mother said reasonably. Now will you please stop kicking the chair.

For some reason that made me think about Grandma Vera again. Her dresses always smelt of fresh lavender. I hoped that wouldn’t be Josh’s attitude to us in a few years time. Besides, I smelt more of French perfume than lavender, and I didn’t think I was at all boring.

When Jim greeted me at the airport with a hug and a long, welcoming kiss, I felt more like myself again.

I've missed you so much, he said as we went arm in arm down the ramp to the car park. If you’d been gone any longer there’d be nowhere left in the sink to stack the dirty dishes, and I’d have to buy another laundry basket to hold all my dirty shirts.

The house looked a picture in the afternoon sun. Jim heaved the front gate open and ushered me inside the shining, newly painted white and green fence. The heap of sand had gone, the lawn was trimmed and the flower beds freshly weeded.

I’ll get the rest of your stuff and put the car in the garage, he said, opening the front door. You can check I haven’t wrecked your precious kitchen.

Of course, everything was shining and in its place for my return. I looked out of the kitchen window and could see the back lawn had been mowed, the edges trimmed, and the patio table and chairs looked as if they’d been newly washed. It felt wonderful to be home.

But the trip had definitely had an effect. I returned with lots of photos of little Josh and the knowledge that I really was a grandmother. I don’t know why it should have affected me so much. My life hadn’t changed one jot. The daily routine would be exactly as before but I suppose my attitude to things must have shifted.

The thing was, that inside, I still felt as chirpy as a schoolgirl, not at all like I guessed a mature grandmother should feel, and certainly nothing approaching my memories of stately Grandma Vera.

When Jim had gone to work as normal, I gave the house a good going over.

I was surprised to find myself feeling a bit weary after vacuuming and dusting the front room and the bedroom. I suppose I’d just had four weeks' holiday, so I probably needed to get back into the swing of things. I had a short sit-down late in the morning to give my back a rest. It was most unusual.

Since it was such a lovely day, I decided to walk down to the shops and get some groceries in. I went out through the back and noticed a sprinkling of loose sand underneath the patio table. Jim must have spilt some while shifting the pile by the garage. I’d sweep that up later.

I met old Mrs Matthews on the way, which was a bit unfortunate. She always sets off on a long catalogue of her woes, and trying to cut her off in mid-flow, without seeming rude, is a skill which few possess. I wasn’t one of the few.

I can’t seem to water the flowers as easily as I used to. The watering can feels a bit awkward. I suppose you do lose some of your strength as you get older.

I nodded, although Mrs Matthews, who was seventy-five, still carried a full shopping bag and didn’t even bother putting it down when she stopped to chat.

I did my shopping and went home the front way. I gave the little garden gate its customary nudge with the shopping bag, but it swung less than an inch. I had to give it a hard shove. I frowned at it needing the effort. I may be a grandmother but I wasn’t seventy-five. Surely I couldn’t be losing strength like Mrs Matthews, even after the walk up the hill?

I forgot about it until I came to sweep the patio. Our set of white garden chairs and table is moulded plastic with hollow legs, and usually I can lift the chair by its armrest easily with one hand. Even our Jan, when she was less than a year old, fell on her face because she sent it sliding away as she tried to stand up. Today I had difficulties. I felt a bit like Superman after a dose of Kryptonite – weaker than I should be.

It preyed on my mind. Age had never bothered me before, and I’d certainly never noticed any physical shortcomings until today, but I suppose being a grandmother gave it an entirely new perspective.

Whilst cleaning the bathroom I actually peered in the washbasin mirror to see if I had developed any grey hairs. I remembered Grandma Vera’s head of silver hair, so it probably ran in the family, although I couldn’t find any.

I was going to clean the bath when I realised I hadn’t bought the cleaning fluid back from Maggie Hammond’s corner shop. I’d put it down on the counter while she brought me up to date with the local gossip and then I’d forgotten it. Forgetfulness is another sign of ageing, I suddenly remembered. I didn’t have time to dwell on it, because the front door bell went.

It was young Nicky Hammond on his mountain bike. His mum had found my bathroom cleaner on the counter and sent Nicky up the hill with it. He was ten years old and puffing from the climb.

That’s a long ride in this heat, Nicky. Come in and have a coke.

We headed into the kitchen.

Coke, Orange squash, or would you prefer some ice-cream? I asked, opening the fridge door. "There’s some chocolate or raspberry ripple. In fact, you can