The Road Taken: & other stories

By David Brelsford

David Brelsford is a shameless dog lover as is evident in many of his short stories. He is currently the joint owner (with his wife) of a gentle springer spaniel, but has fantasies of one day owning a Bernese mountain dog. He has undertaken charity runs to raise funds for motor neurone disease, but at 81 his running days are over. He now content

• Language: English
• Publisher: Debbie Lee
• Release date: Sep 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9781761096129

Book preview

The Road Taken

THE ROAD TAKEN

& other stories

DAVID BRELSFORD

Ginninderra Press

The Road Taken & other stories

ISBN 978 1 76109 611 2

Copyright © text David Brelsford 2023

Cover image: Katerina Holmes from Pexels

All rights reserved. No part of this ebook may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the copyright holder. Requests for permission should be sent to the publisher at the address below.

First published 2023 by

Ginninderra Press

PO Box 3461 Port Adelaide 5015

www.ginninderrapress.com.au

CONTENTS

A Pie in Time Saves Nine

Creeping Frost

Deliver Us From Evil

Free Fall

Isolation

Liability

Malinka Park

Our Town

The Boring Machine

The Grace of God

The Life and Loves of Thomas Keats

The Radio

The Ring

The Road Taken 1

The Road Taken 2

You bet your god-damned life

Motor neurone disease

Also by David Brelsford and published by Ginninderra Press

All royalties from the sale of this book will be donated to the Motor Neurone Disease Association of Tasmania.

See the last page for information about motor neurone disease.

A PIE IN TIME SAVES NINE

My grandmother told me this story, and said she heard it from her grandmother. I don’t know if it is true. I hope it is.

It was a hot day and the judge was irritable.

‘Why did I ever decide on this job for a career?’ he complained to his clerk. ‘Dealing with thieves and murderers and lowlifes. It’s degrading.’

The clerk, a younger man, said nothing. He’d heard it all before.

‘I’ll be glad when I’m retired,’ continued the judge. ‘I’m looking forward to relaxing. Not too long now.’

The clerk was looking forward to that day too. Perhaps I’ll be assigned to a happier person after the old man’s gone, he thought.

The judge struggled into his robes, muttering about the tightness around his waist, and already sweating unhappily. ‘Who have we got today?’ he asked his clerk.

‘A couple of thieves. You’ve seen them before. They’ll be guilty, you know that. A few vagrancies. And some character being sued because he’s not paid his rent.’

‘Hmm. Well, let’s get on with it. Lead me towards the detritus of society.’

The thieves were, indeed, guilty. And they were typical lowlifes, cringing and pleading not to be sent to prison.

‘You deserve to be sent there!’ snapped the judge. ‘You are the scum of the earth!’

Such an action didn’t improve the judge’s temper. Then the vagrancy cases came. They waited before him with trepidation.

‘Twelve months in prison! Six months for you! Nine months might straighten you out!’

Sweat poured off him in the small courtroom. God, I wish I was retired, he said to himself again.

Meanwhile, the clerk was being busy. He had slipped round to the local bakery. ‘Give me a nice pie: you know the sort, the ones that the judge likes.’

The woman behind the counter grinned up at him. ‘Being grumpy again, is he?’

‘Yes,’ said the clerk. ‘Now hurry with that pie.’

The clerk got back to the courtroom just in time for the lunch break. He placed the pie in front of the judge and stepped back.

‘Ah, thank you, my man,’ said the judge. ‘I was looking forward to something like this.’

As he ate, he spoke to his clerk again. ‘Who have I got this afternoon again?’ he said.

‘Only one case,’ said the clerk. ‘A man being sued for not paying his rent.’

‘Good. Should be an early afternoon.’

The man stood in the dock clutching a bundle of papers under his arm. His hair was long and he looked as grumpy as the judge had been. He didn’t cringe before the judge; in fact he looked the judge in the eye and waited for his chance to speak.

‘Why have you not been paying your rent?’ asked the judge.

‘I’ve been too engrossed in my work, your honour. Once I sell my work, I’ll be able to pay my rent quite easily.’

The judge contemplated. He was feeling much happier after his lunch. ‘Well, I’ll give you one more chance. Get your work finished and pay your rent. Don’t you forget what I’ve said, now. Case dismissed.’

Back in his rooms, the judge sighed with relief. ‘An early day,’ he smiled to his clerk. ‘It did improve as it went along.’

He stepped out ready to take his carriage for home, when suddenly he started in surprise.

The man was waiting for him and stepped forward. ‘I want to thank you for giving me another chance,’ he said.

‘I only let you off because I was feeling good after my favourite meal,’ said the judge. ‘I like those pies the shop makes.’

‘In that case,’ said the man, unsmiling, ‘I’ll go and give my thanks to the woman in the pie shop.’

The judge nodded, just to show him he had heard. Then his curiosity got the better of him. ‘What’s that bundle you’ve got under your arm?’

‘That’s my work, your honour. It’s the only copy I’ve got.’

‘Well, it would have been destroyed if I’d sent you to prison,’ said the judge.

‘Yes,’ said the man.

‘What sort of work is it?’

‘Music, your honour. I’m a musician. This is my greatest work. It’s my latest symphony. I’ve written nine now.’

‘Hmmph. Well, I don’t know a thing about music, it doesn’t interest me. Now I must be getting home. Don’t let me see you in court again, Mister Beethoven.’

CREEPING FROST

Some people can repel you as soon as you look at them. Joel Frost was one of them. He was of medium height and medium build, but he shambled around, his feet hardly ever lifting more than a couple of centimetres off the ground, and his eyes would dart from side to side, taking everything in, not missing a thing.

Then his voice! He spoke with a falsetto squeak, like that of an unbroken thirteen-year-old. He always seemed to know everything that was going on in the village even though no one told him anything outright. They used to joke that if Mrs Atkinson sneezed at one end of the village, he knew about it before her husband could say ‘Bless you’, and if, just thirty seconds later, old Harold Broughton stubbed his toe at the other end of the village, Frost would be there grinning to himself before Harold could say ‘Ouch!’ Everyone called him Creepy Frost, or Creeping Frost, and people tended to avoid him.

Major Lindley Stuart Edwards was a different man altogether. The first impressive thing about him was his straight shoulders, the sure sign of a military man. He stood tall and fit, and he looked you in the eye when he spoke. He worked in the Public Service in the city, but it must have been a position where he started early in the morning, because he was always home by three fifteen, which was when the local primary school came out. Major Edwards lived only a few doors from the school and usually got home just in time to observe the school-leaving rush.

It was a cold and windy afternoon when Major Edwards came out of his house and walked up to his front gate just as the children were pouring out of school. Many of the children walked home in the small village, and the major noticed little Glenda Shiner slowly sauntering along. He knew that her mother usually managed to get home from her job at the supermarket in time to pick up her daughter, but was occasionally delayed by a late customer. Glenda knew to walk home on occasions when her mother wasn’t there.

Glenda was idly picking at some grass, watching a cockroach scuttle away, when the major walked up to her.

‘Hello, young lady,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘I’ll walk you to your house. You’ll be safe with me.’

Glenda got up to go with him, and suddenly there was Creeping Frost taking her other hand, saying, ‘Yes, she’ll be safe now, won’t she, Mister Edwards!’

‘Yes, certainly, Frost,’ said the major, and looked straight ahead, unsmiling, straight-backed.

Frost and the major saw Glenda Shiner home safely that afternoon and the incident was forgotten by the girl. But not by Major Edwards, or by Creeping Frost.

The major went to the local tavern that evening and sat talking to a few acquaintances, including a local councillor. ‘That Frost,’ he said, ‘is a public nuisance. He ought to be put away.’

The councillor shook his head. ‘He may be a bit simple,’ he said, ‘and he can sometimes be a nuisance. But he’s not a criminal and he’s capable of looking after himself. He can’t be put away for that.’

‘Hmmph,’ said the major, straightening his already straight shoulders and giving a little shiver.

It was nearly three weeks later when Major Edwards arrived home earlier than usual. He was conscientiously working in his front garden when the school bell went at three fifteen. From his vantage point, he could see the children as they rapidly dispersed, until only six-year-old Melanie Tomkins was left, standing rather forlornly waiting for her mother.

Major Edwards walked up to her. ‘Is your mother late, my dear?’ he said.

Melanie nodded unhappily.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’m sure she’ll be here soon. Why don’t you come and help me in my garden while you wait? We’ll be able to see her when she arrives. Come on.’

And suddenly there was Frostie standing next to him. ‘I think we can both stand here and wait for her mother, don’t you think, Mr Edwards?’ he said in his falsetto voice. ‘I’m sure Melanie doesn’t like gardening anyway.’

Major Edwards turned up the corners of his mouth. ‘Yes of course, Frost. We can stay here. But I was going to make a drink for her too.’

‘No need,’ squeaked Frost. ‘Here’s her mother now.’

And little Melanie Tomkins was escorted safely to her mother’s car by the two men; one with his usual