Tile Tales

By Martin Conway

When young I often wrote stories, either to fulfil the requirements of school or for my own pleasure. At one point I joined a circle of budding writers; we never met but circulated our tales by post. This was a short-lived experience. The rather harsh criticisms dampened my enthusiasm, it would appear. Thereafter, a working life and family needs pushed the idea of writing largely out of my mind, until that light-bulb moment arrived. Like so many others, I had been playing the popular word game, Scrabble, with family and friends over many years, and more recently a similar internet-based game using a tablet. I decided that, by keeping note of the final medley of words from each game, it might be possible to write a short story utilising some of these words, which might trigger in my mind a setting, a plot or characters of a short tale. One more constraint I imposed was that each story should be no longer than one printed page. So, this I set out to do, and while not every game produced words that fired my imagination, many did. This collection of short stories is the result.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jul 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9781398439054

Book preview

About the Author

Martin Conway was born and raised in North London. After more than two years of compulsory military service, he started a working life in insurance broking, married and raised a family. His innate creative flair was not given free rein until retirement when he became a self-taught sculptor. At the age of 86, he rekindled a passion for writing that he had had as a young man, and he set himself the task of writing at least 50 short stories.

Dedication

For Simon and Jane

Copyright Information ©

Martin Conway 2023

The right of Martin Conway to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, 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.

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

ISBN 9781398439047 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398439054 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Foreword

When young, I often wrote stories, either to fulfil the requirements of school or for my own pleasure. At one point, I joined a circle of budding writers, who never met but circulated their tales by post, in order to receive criticism of one’s own tale and to remark on those of others. This was a short-lived experience. The rather harsh criticisms dampened this budding writer’s enthusiasm, it would appear.

Thereafter, a working life and family needs pushed the idea of writing largely out of my mind, until that light-bulb moment arrived. Like so many others, I had been playing the popular word game, Scrabble, with family and friends over many years, both face to face, using a board and tiles with letters, and more recently a similar internet-based game using a tablet.

Each game produces a jumble of random words, which are always discarded with no further thought. I decided that by keeping note of the final medley of words from each game, it might be possible to write a short story utilising many, if not all, of these words, one or two of which might trigger in my mind, a setting, a plot or characters of a short tale. One more constraint I imposed was that each story should be no longer than one printed page.

So, I set out to do this, and while not every game produced words that fired my imagination, many did, and this collection of short stories is the result.

A Dog’s Life

Dan wept when his great friend, Glen, died. Glen was a dog. When Dan was not in school, Glen was his constant companion and it was at such a time that Glen sadly met his fate under the axle of a huge lorry carting vats to the local distillery, the driver having no chance of avoiding the dog running into its path.

Dan’s parents were sympathetic and talked about getting another dog to assuage the misery Dan was experiencing and making him so sad. They suggested buying a puppy, an idea resisted by Dan who wanted a dog he could immediately take for walks as he had done for so long with Glen. Dan’s older sister, Louise, was often catty in her relationship with him. He would call her Loo whilst holding his nose. She was, unexpectedly, both sad and helpful.

She said that she had read a ream of stuff about rescue dogs and that perhaps they should make enquiries as a dog of similar age to Glen might be found, awaiting rescue by Dan. Their parents took up the idea enthusiastically and scoured the internet for animal rescue homes near to where they lived. The very next day they set off to find the charity they had found on the internet, which specialised in rehousing dogs rescued from various distressing circumstances. Dan wanted to find a dog identical to Glen in every feature, from the texture of its fur to the length of its tail.

Needless to say the dog he chose was completely different in all respects. Dan had immediately fallen in love with a large lolloping Old English sheepdog. His parents considered the large, long-haired dog to be unsuitable but could see the boy was determined in his choice and felt they should not disappoint him. The home assured Dan’s parents that the dog will have been snipped, vaccinated and microchipped when they collected him in a week’s time. A joyful Dan immediately named his new friend, Rex.

In due course, they collected Rex and introduced him to his new home. Because of his size, Glen’s basket was discarded and an old lilo was spread on the floor to accommodate his girth. Very quickly, Dan and Rex were inseparable. Louise joked that Rex was just a great woolly cur and that when Dan discovers how interesting girls were, Rex would lose his constant companion. There was truth in what his big sister had said, in that Dan did acquire a girlfriend to whom he would talk endlessly on the telephone. During such times, Rex would lie patiently at his feet gazing up at him, each eye a dark orb, almost unseen beneath a tangle of hair, silently awaiting the next walk.

Eventually, the day came when Dan gained entrance to university. He knew that from then on there would be fewer opportunities to enjoy those long walks with Rex. He consoled himself with the thought that he would occasionally zip home to be with his beloved Old English sheepdog. Of course, his studies did not allow for such indulgence and thus his time spent with his dog became less than he had imagined possible. No doubt Rex, now, missed his young master. It is, however, quite certain that his life since having been chosen by Dan has been one of love and affection. Such is the life of a fortunate Old English sheepdog.

John Eves

John Eves had been a blacksmith all his working life. Now in his eighties, still fit and strong, he was working on the body of a car, well sought after as a classic of its time. His granddaughter, Zoë, called Zo by friend and family, often stood and watched him at work. She always had a grin on her cheerful face and likened John, because of his sturdy stature, to the local tor on which were the ruins of an old bailey where once a castle stood.

On this occasion, the car was set aside while John worked at the anvil, shaping metal to replace a section of the boot of the car, and a jet of sparks and fire flared as he hammered the piece into the desired shape.

John often asked Zo to fill pails of water from the tap so as to make her feel useful but he hadn’t done so today. At a loose end, she asked her grandfather whether she might sit in the car, to which he agreed.

Grandad, she called, who owns this lovely car?

He looked like a villain to me, John grunted as he laboured at his work. I’ve had my quota of low life come in here over the years to do jobs for them but I never look a gift horse in the mouth. If they’re prepared to pay, I don’t ask questions.

Zo was fascinated by all the nooks and crannies she discovered in the car. She pushed and pulled all the knobs and levers, and was filled with elation when the horn made an unexpected loud beep. By removing a tray by the gear lever below it, she found a key. Being of a curious nature, Zo discovered the key fitted a locked section under the dashboard. Without hesitation, she opened a small door. Inside, she found a package.

Zo called her grandfather to inspect her find. He looked at the package, sniffed it suspiciously, and said, It be drugs! He scratched his head and said, Eh, I always had a yen to go to the Caribbean and this package could keep the wolf from the door for some time. Ee, it’s a temptation!

John smiled at Zo and told her that honesty is the best policy and that he should call the police. He explained to Zo that even though he had turned a blind eye to some suspect requests in the past, for him to sell the drugs would be dishonest and would haunt him forever.

When the police arrived, they asked many searching questions relating to who had brought the car to the forge and they used a camera to video the evidence, which afterwards Zo likened to a crime scene in a TV drama. Then the car was towed away.

John looked at Zo with love in his eye and said what a clever girl she was. He rummaged in a bag and produced a jar of boiled, cube shaped sweets.

Who cares, he said, we won’t be going to the Caribbean just yet but your detective work may put some criminals behind bars. Have a sweet, my lovely!

Roadkill

Punky had acquired his nickname during the era of punk rock music. He was considered locally to be a bit of a rogue having appeared in court on numerous occasions, mainly for drunken behaviour. He was a strange looking man, very thin, with spider-like long legs and arms. He was never physically challenged as he was reputed to be a black belt in one of the martial arts and had served in the French Foreign Legion.

He lived in an old, almost derelict, converted barn, on the edge of a marshy quag that few visited. One road traversed the fen but was now rarely used since the new bypass was built. Punky lived on a small pension and the occasional sale of sculptures he made from wood gathered locally.

That evening, he was chopping a log with an old adze when there was a knock on the barn door. On opening it, a man and a woman staggered into the barn. The man’s face was streaked with blood and that of the woman was a picture of distress. Punky was, from long-past warrior service in the Algerian deserts, quickly able to discover no injury had been suffered by the man but that the stag had been thrown over the car bonnet and had smashed the windscreen, resulting in the car running into the quag. The blood on the man’s face was that of the unfortunate deer.

Punky quickly produced a jar, from which he poured each of the travellers a generous cup of rum. He ran water into a bowl and wiped the gore from the man’s face. Although badly shaken, the man had called the rescue service on his mobile immediately after escaping from their vehicle. Punky seemed to be much more interested in the body of the stag than any distress suffered by the travellers. He had poured a tot of rum for himself and sat back in his chair as he surveyed the pair sitting before him on an old sofa. He asked the man where they had left the stag; was it on the road or in the mire? When he learned it was lying on the road, he told them he