Haibun for Christmas Day

 

  48 a very Good Year. 

By Len Morgan

  I have fond early memories of 1948, and my childhood, just after the war.  The production of munitions stopped and the production of cars resumed at Dagenham.  So after demobilisation, Dad got a job in the River Plant at Briggs Bodies, soon to become a subsidiary of the Fords Motor Company.

 Rationing was still in force and shortages were the norm.  There were four hundred houses in Western Avenue, where we lived, but only two cars.   One belonged to Doctor Smithers, the other to Bill Roach a neighbour.   Bill had been in the RAF, as aircrew, and lost both legs when his plane was shot down.  He drove a Ford Prefect that had been converted to operate with hand controls.   At that time the streets were still safe for children to play in, and that was where I first discovered I had a sense of humour.  In 1948 I was an ancient three-and-a-half-year-old.

.-...-. 

 It looked like a tea cosy but it was a hat.   Grass green inside, orange, red, green and blue outside, with a large blue pom-pom on the top.   Mum religiously planted it on my head whenever I went out to play.   But, as soon as she went in, I removed it and stuffed it up the drain pipe.   When I returned I would retrieve it and nobody was any the wiser.   One blustery day I returned but forgot to retrieve the hat.  When mum asked where it was I said the wind had blown it away. So she bought me a brown French Beret (see photo). 

 That winter we had a series of heavy rainstorms and the gutters overflowed.   Dad decided to clean them out, but first, he checked the downpipes, where he discovered the remains of my hat.   He solemnly announced, to Mum and me, that a small furry creature had got trapped in the pipe and died.   He made us turn our backs whilst he extricated it and buried it with full ceremony. 

“Heh heh heh!

.-...-.

    In the spring of 48, Dad told me off for calling our next-door neighbour Arry!

“You mustn’t call him Harry, that’s disrespectful.   Call him Mr Thomas!” he said.

Next morning, I was in the garden when out came Mr Thomas to do some gardening.

“Hello Lenny,” he said with a smile.

“Ello Arry.   Mustn’t call you Arry, aye Arry.   Mr Thomas aye Arry?

Dad looked as if he would suffocate attempting to stifle his laughter.   Harry had no such inhibitions. 

Here I am, good job they didn't know what fiendish plots were hatching behind that cherubic face.

 

Copyright Len Morgan

 

 HaikuKATHA

By Robert Kingston

This one was published in the haikuKATHA journal. India.

 

Have a merry Christmas and new year.

See you in 2024

 

time warp

telling the youth

I was young once

 

Copyright Rob Kingston

 

 Miracle Child

By Len Morgan

At a time when women were shorter than men, shy, pretty, and demure, Ivy Melsom was none of these.  She was 6’ 2”, a plain, slim, swarthy, woman with four redeeming features. She had kind brown eyes that drew people in; she was a shrewd businesswoman and a good judge of character.  She owned and ran a successful General Store and when times were hard she knew who she could extend credit to, which endeared her to her neighbours.   

  But, what she most desired in all the world was a child of her own. At 54 she knew she was long past childbearing but she retained her hope and prayed.

.-…-. 

Michael Cambell owned a truck in which he hauled goods and disposed of rubbish.  He also worked on building sites, did odd jobs, anything to buy a few pints.  At 42 he employed his good-natured blarney to get work, or to charm the pants off of women.  He was homeless by choice but seldom slept on the streets or in his truck.  His Irish charm always seemed to get him a bed for the night; sometimes with willing female company.  He moved around the country, often with regular stopovers where he was sure of creature comforts. 

.-…-. 

Patrick Cambell, Michael's son, possibly the result of one of his many dalliances was 10 years old; old beyond his years. He had become the ace up his father's sleeve.  More so now that Mick was on the wrong side of forty, Patrick became his foot in the door.  Sympathy was just one of the many tricks he used to gain entry into the lives of unsuspecting women.

.-…-. 

And so it was that young Patrick was delivering fliers advertising his father's business.  He entered the ‘Melsom Emporium’ and delivered a flier, then on his way out he snatched a couple of mars bars. 

Ivy saw it and grabbed his arm.  “That will be a shilling or, you could work it off?” 

“What would ye be wantin of me missus?”

“Well, in my backyard, there's a pile of rubbish that needs moving outside the back gate.”

“Sure I’ll do dat fer ye missus…”

“My name is Ivy, call me Aunt Ivy, or just Aunty.”

“I’m Patrick, Da calls me Paddy, aunty Ivy.” He held out a grubby hand, she was surprised at his politeness but shook it anyway. She led him out back and undid the latch on the gate, half expecting him to run…  But he began picking up the boxes and carrying them out the gate forming a neat pile. 

“Are you hungry Pat?” 

“Famished. I scrumped some apples on me way here but dey wuz cookers sour as lemons, urgh!” 

Ivy smiled, “Did your Dad not give you breakfast?” 

“Nah he says workin on a full stomach makes ye lazy.”

“Well, we can soon fix that my lad.  Finnish up out here and be sure to lock the gate. I’ll see what I can rustle up.  Do you like eggs bacon and crusty buttered rolls?” She smiled when she saw the hungry look in his eyes. “Wash your hands at the sink, don’t want you catching food poisoning…” she hurried back inside and set a table for two. 

“Thanks, Aunty, dat was scrummy…” he was interrupted by the jingle of an old school bell, “Dats Mick me Da, drummin up business. He’ll take your rubbish to the tip fer a few shillins?” 

“Go call him over, then you’d best get off to school.”

“Uh?  I don’t go to no school, me an Mick belong to da University of life.”  He left the shop to hail the truck.

“Where’ve ye bin Paddy, I’ve had to drive as well as ring da bell …”  Ivy followed him out to the storefront. 

“Aunt Ivy has a pile dat needs shiftin Mick.”

“Aunt Ivy is it?  Mmm, dats quite a pile ye have der miss-aunt Ivy if I may be so bold.  I’d say ooh ten bob…” 

“Well, Mick you’re a businessman like myself, with a family to feed?  So I’ll make you an offer.  Five bob to take it to the tip; won’t take more than a thimble full of petrol or half an hour of your time.” 

“Ah! You’re a hard woman,” he spat in his right palm and offered his hand. She shook her head and smiled. 

“Right, get it onto the truck Paddy, then ye can take de bell.”

At that moment two customers arrived, so Ivy handed Mick two half-crowns and followed her customers into the store. 

.-…-.

A few days later, at nine o’clock on a cold drizzly evening. just as Ivy was closing up, Pat entered the store. “Ten Senior Service please Auntie,” he said offering her a ten bob note, then seeing the look on her face said,  “Dey’re fer Mick, not me.”

“I should think not, you’re far too young to be smoking.”

“Would ye know of a nearby lodgin house aunty?  We need somewhere to stay…”

“Open the back gates and tell him to drive his lorry in, it’s much too late to be knocking on doors, I have a spare room.  You can stay here for the night.” 

“Thank you, Aunty.”  While Pat let Mick in she finished locking up.

“Tanks missus, you're full of de milk-o-human-kindness,” Mick began… 

“It’s only for one night you understand?”

“Oh, we do, Dat’s grand.” 

I’ll show you to the room, but there’s only one bed so you’ll have to share, and no smoking.” 

“It’ll beat our leakin cab on a night like dis, so it will.” 

“I’m up at six to open the store, I have breakfast at seven so I’ll want you out by eight, don’t want tongues wagging.”

.-…-. 

The alarm clock went off at six, Ivy got up, and Mick stirred beside her.  “Come along Mick time to get up!  Patrick starts school today and I don’t want him to be late. You’ve been here a month now, so you should know the routine.  You came in at eleven last night, drunk as a Lord and you woke us both up…” 

“I was totin fer business, and I got offered a job fer six months makin' muck at a site in Barnsley, So Paddy will not be goin ta school here in Barkin, he’ll be comin wi-me!”

“ I think Patrick is old enough to make his own mind up about that…” 

“Make me mind up bout what?” 

“We’re movin to Barnsley, I got a job der, so ye can ferget about schoolin!”

Pat looked at Ivy, and at the new school uniform she'd purchased, “I’m stayin here wi Aunt Ivy, if she’ll have me? ye can go to Barnley or Timbuktu if ye like, I'm stayin!” 

“She’s not your Aunt ye know, she’s nothing to ye Paddy, I’m yer Da…”

“Are you?” Ivy asked, “so, where’s his mother?”

“She’s dead!  Died in childbirth halfway down the A1, she thumbed a lift then went into labour beside the road.  I ran to a call box, the amberlance arrived half hour later, took her to the hospital, and I followed em…”

“So do you have his birth certificate?  Did you even register his birth?” 

“No…” Mick said stony-faced. He dressed, packed his grip, and stormed out of the store, without saying another word. He grabbed a box of two hundred cigarettes, and a bottle of whiskey as he went! His truck roared off in a cloud of exhaust fumes, Neither to be seen or heard from again…

.-…-. 

Seven years later Patrick Melsom received 6 ‘A’ grade GCE passes and his application for a place at Oxford has been accepted.

“I’m so proud of you son, you came into my life as if in answer to a prayer,” said Ivy.

“Thanks, Mum, what I’ve accomplished is all down to you.  I could never repay you for what you’ve given me.”  He put his arms around her and gave her a hug.  

She smiled through her happy tears and squeezed him affectionately, 'my miracle child' she thought.

Copyright Len Morgan 

Riddles 09

Riddles 09

 

By the Riddler

 

The Riddler has two puzzles for us today:

 

No 1. Multiply all the numbers on you phone.  What is the total?  

 

No 2.  3 1 2 8 ? 5 2 ?  What Number is missing?

 

                                                                                                         Keep em coming Riddler 

A few more haiku

 A few more haiku  (read at last meeting)

Have a lovely Christmas and a happy new year everybody.

From Rob Kingston

 

world famine

the billionaire’s loose change

rattles the bucket

 

bee hive

each cell

its own summer

 

Blithe spirit, Museum of literature award (runner up) December 2023 

post football

rain soaked scars all over

the pitch

 

And one for Christmas. 

Christmas morning 

a trail of paper follows 

the dog

 

THE HAUNTED HOUSE 2

 THE HAUNTED HOUSE 2

By Bob French 

He stood in front of the old decrepit three-story Victorian house where he'd grown up with old Uncle Bill and Aunty Milly.  A flickering street lamp cast shadows across its facade, telling those who wanted to know, that its days as a grand house were over.   

"Is this place haunted dear?" 

John gripped his wife's hand. "Of course not, it's just old." 

They stood very still in the cold evening wind for a minute or two, then she asked the question. "We sold our lovely house in the suburbs for this?  Are you sure it's not haunted?"

"Of course not."

"Then can you tell me who that faint white face in the top left window belongs to?" 

“I don’t know, but let’s get inside out of this cold.”

As they approached the front door, it suddenly creaked open, causing them to stop.

After a while, they slowly climbed the steps into the dark interior of the house. The sound of the door slamming behind them sounded like thunder.

“Oh God John! what the hell is going on?”

They stood perfectly still allowing the dank smell of age to surround them. 

A door slammed up-stairs causing them to jump.

“Come on Brenda, we have to find out who’s in here?”

Holding hands, they hurried up the stairs and along a dark corridor.

“Look!” At the far end of the corridor, a dim light shone under the door.

The silence was shattered as the muffled sound of several police and ambulance sirens sounded outside.

Then the door at the end of the corridor slowly opened allowing a faint light to illuminate a figure that moved forward them.

“John, Brenda, welcome.  We have been waiting for you.”  The figure seemed to fade back into the door.

John and Brenda followed it until they became aware of others in the room.

“Dad, Mum, Uncle Bill, Aunty Milly. What are you doing here?”  Then he heard Brenda gasp, “Mummy, oh my god, Mummy.” 

A hundred yards up the road from the old Victorian house the emergency services were surrounding a badly smashed up BMW which had left the road at speed.  A Medic approached the police sergeant.

“Sorry, but they are both dead.  They were John and Brenda Coventry from Billericay.

 

Copyright Bob French

 How Much Do I Love Thee

By Len Morgan 

It’s Thursday, half-day closing, I can tell.  She’s getting all excited.

She's putting on her war paint, Lippy, Rouge, and a dab of chanel No5 behind her ears. 

There was a time when she would do that for me, now it’s for somebody else.  

Is it platonic?  I doubt that.  She was ever the warm passionate woman.

It’s been three years since I left, but as yet she hasn’t moved on. 

But, she has to move on!  It hurts me to see her tear-stained face, day after day. 

It’s a testament to our love that she lasted this long, and I know she will never forget me. 

But, at the weekend they will spread my ashes by my beloved Thames, and then we can all move on…

 The Begining...

The Haunted House 1

By Jane Goodhew

He stood in front of the old decrepit three-story Victorian house where he'd grown up, with old Uncle Bill and Aunty Milly.  A flickering streetlamp cast shadows across its facade, telling those who wanted to know, that its days as a grand house were over.  

"Is this place haunted dear?"

John gripped his wife's hand. "Of course not, it's just old."

They stood very still in the cold evening wind for a minute or two, then she asked the question. "We sold our lovely house in the suburbs for this.  Are you sure it's not haunted?"

"Of course not."

"Then can you tell me who that faint white face in the top left window belongs to?"

“You’re seeing things, my dear, its just the light shining in the window, lets go in and start making it our home”.

 

That was two weeks ago and since then I am beginning to think that maybe my wife was correct in thinking this house is haunted and there is someone other than the two of us living here.  It’s little things like flowers appearing in a vase on the table yet neither of us put them there.  Floorboards creaking in the night long after we have gone to bed.  Lights being left on although we know we have turned them off.  Yes, there is definitely someone else in this house and before too long I intend to find out who it is.

I know a priest and although I don’t believe in exorcism, I think he might be able to help us come to terms with these unexplainable events.

Father 0’Donnel was prompt, and his arrival couldn’t have come at a better time for it was Halloween.  We asked as many questions as we could about the history of the house and its occupants prior to my aunt and uncle but there was nothing spectacular.  The usual married couples with children who had then moved on to downsize.  None had ever complained of feeling that the house was haunted although they suspected because of its age that there would have been at least one death.  People in the Victorian times tended to die at home and often in childbirth so would have been young. 

Father O’Donnel left without giving us any clues as to what was happening within our home. It did seem to be a benevolent spirit not malevolent.  So we decided we could accept it and make it part of our forever home.

 

Copyright Jane Goodhew

 

                                                              

 Fortune Cookies

Jane Goodhew

I might have known with my luck lately, what am I saying; lately?  Don’t I mean for centuries, or it seems that way so why would a fortune cookie wish me good fortune in love, money, or luck and yes you guessed, it didn’t, it foretold what could be my demise and told me to get out post haste. 

Don’t be ridiculous you’re thinking how a cookie could know what will happen to you or anyone, it can’t but perhaps it can put the idea into your head, and you will react accordingly viewing everyone and everything with suspicion.  Walk around a ladder instead of under and then get knocked down by a bus or whatever…. Anyway, it isn’t Friday 13^th that was last week. 

I would not go along with this, after all, I have always considered myself to be extremely lucky especially in comparison to for the moment those in the line of the last few hurricanes or forest fires or worn torn countries or those hit by famine or lack of clean water or those in need of a McMillan Nurse.  Just watch the adverts asking for money and you will see how lucky you are but then isn’t there a saying not to compare yourself to others or you will become bitter, twisted and vein or words to that effect.?

The sky outside the restaurant is continually changing as it naturally does and deep silver-grey clouds sit amongst pink, that foretells a beautiful day tomorrow but had this happened yesterday I might have believed it, after all it did look as if the end was nigh. 

The sky had been flat and dark and menacing and a bright blood reddish orange orb sat in the sky, it couldn’t be the sun for you could look at it and it did not seem to hurt your eyes (but then of course only time would tell if it had) and this ’orb’ it was so round it looked like the harvest moon but it was daytime?  Was it not?  Even the birds were confused as it was more like dusk or was it dawn when they either went home to roost or left home looking for food but although they at first flew in formation with military precision they were not sure which way to go so seemed to circle and hover whilst the leader of the squadron decided.  Whilst they just circled and hovered as the wind blew harder and the by now milk a magnesia sky was replaced by blue and the real sun now sat not directly south but had moved to the west where it would settle for the evening.  Life as we and the birds knew it had been resumed so forget the cookie and its forebodings, I am off to meet that stranger and talk to all and sundry after all we have already had my Zemblanity moment, for you see I am a ghost.  

The cookie had been correct but it got the wrong week!

Copyright Jane Goodhew

Rayleigh Mount (Nature 02)

 Rayleigh Mount 

By Sis Unsworth

 

A haven is nestled in the center of town,

a place to escape, when you’re feeling down.

The changing seasons bring, visions to behold.

From the clear glow of spring, to Autumns' pure gold.

The mysteries of nature are, too diverse to count,

Blend with pure harmony, in our Rayleigh Mount.

The image of life we all like to see,

a sanctuary for wildlife, abundant and free.

But fear is restrictive, when you go there alone,

I’ve heard some avoid, going there on their own.

Scared for their safety, in that secluded place,

the Mount would be empty, if fear had its way.

They should feel protected, then people would stay

if there were park keepers, protecting the mount,

It would be used more, on every account.

It may banish fear, and help others to see,

the beauty of nature, so natural and free.

But sometimes it's better, the devil you know,

To save Rayleigh Mount, from being a ‘no go’.

They have to save money, that may well be true,

If we can’t pay Park keepers, what else can they do?

I look to the future, and in my mind's eye,

I see it protected, by drones and AI.

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

 

VALUE (Nature 01)

 VALUE 

By Richard Banks 

It was seventeen years ago that I first came to Wyburns Avenue. I arrived on foot, an estate agent’s leaflet in my pocket, to view a house on the edge of town, backing onto an industrial estate. Neither of these factors encouraged me to think that this was the place for me, but, at least, it was worth a look. Indeed, having viewed nearly twenty properties, and found them all for different reasons unsuitable, I was beginning to despair of finding one that was.

         It had to be the right house in the right street; not one or the other - both. While I was not hopeful that my quest was about to end I at least had the consolation of a sunny morning in April that had finally shrugged off winter and was slowly, but surely, warming the air about me.  

         The corner into Wyburns Avenue unfolded slowly, no sudden turn, rather a slow unwinding, with a grass verge on one side of the tarmac pavement and a high privet, interspersed with laurel, to my right. With the view ahead restricted by the hedge my first sight of Wyburns was of a concrete road pleasantly aglow in the sunlight and, beyond it, a corner bungalow next door to two post-war semi’s. OK so far, but could it be a yes?

         What came next, as I finally turned the corner, was probably going to make-up my mind as to whether this street was a contender or a definite no. What I saw next was a cherry tree, pink sprays of blossom against a blue sky, a light breeze silently trembling it’s wide spread branches. There were two more to come and further along, on the other side of the road, two stately sycamores on a grassy corner that none-the-less had room for a road that I later discovered looped around to join up with itself.

         My tree count extended to an oak as high as the sycamores and, like them, beginning to clothe its winter skeleton with a first scattering of leaves. There were other much smaller trees in some of the front gardens, along with bushes, large and small, some in bud but for now preceded and upstaged by daffodils, yellow trumpets silently exulting in the miracle of Spring.

         Some of the gardens contained people, tending flower beds and lawns while others were washing cars on paved driveways; one of them, having ventured beyond his garden gate, was mowing the grass verge outside his house.

         This was a road that people liked living in, took pride in. A black and white cat was crossing the carriageway at a leisurely pace, knowing that there was little or no traffic and that the chaffinch it was stalking was only too aware of its approach not to flap its sheeny green wings in ample time to escape. A nest in one of the sycamores testified to the existence of other, larger birds, presently unseen. There would, I felt sure, be squirrels, no doubt a fox or two.

         I was hooked, and as I drew level with the house in the leaflet I was fervently hoping that this was not going to be the wrong house in the right place. That would have been cruel, but then how could a neat, well maintained house called Holly Lodge with stained glass windows in the front door be cruel? No, that could never be.

Copyright Richard Banks

Think On

 Think On

Anon 

Sometime when you’re feeling important,

sometime when your ego’s in bloom,

sometime when you take it for granted,

your the best qualified man in the room.

Sometime when you feel that you're going,

would leave an unfillable hole,

just follow this simple instruction,

and see how it humbles your soul.

Take a bucket and fill it with water,

put your hands in up to your wrists.

pull them out - and the hole that remains

is a measure of how much you’ll be missed.

You may splash all you please when you enter

you may stir up the water galore

but stop, and you’ll find in a minute

That it looks just the same as before.

The moral of this is quite simple,

Just do the best that you can.

Be proud of yourself but remember-

there is no indispensable man.!!

I told My boss, on his retirement, that he would really be missed.  He smiled and handed me the above poem.  We never found out who penned it, but it is a truism…

 

 WHEN AT FIRST YOU DON’T SUCEED…

By Bob French

NB; For effect, words in italics are spoken in an East London accent.

Monica hurried across the thick pile carpet of the Clove Club in Shoreditch, and eased herself into the plush chair that was being held for her by a young waiter, then begged the forgiveness of Shiela for being late.

            “Anthony was using the Jaguar and it took Jim, his chauffeur ages to get back through the tunnel. So sorry darling.”

            Sheila nodded at the young waiter who quietly poured Monica a half glass of 1984, Domaine Pontifical Chateauneuf du Pape.  The most expensive wine on the list.

Monica Hollingsworth and Sheila Thornton had known each other ever since they sat together at the London Fields Primary School in Hackney, aged seven. They had become life-long friends;’ true Eastenders to the end,’ was their chant whenever they got drunk together, which was often.  The minute the young waiter left, they dropped their posh Knightsbridge accent and reverted to their Eastend dialect.

“Aint seen you for ages luv.  How’s your Harry doing?”

Sheila laughed, “They don’t call him fat Harry for nothin’. He’s putting on a lot of weight poor bugger.  He tried one of those diets but chucked it in after a week.  Said it made him feel hungry would you believe.  And your Tony?”

Monica smiled.  “Workin’ all the hours God sent, but he’s good.”

Sheila smiled. “So, what ya gonna get for ya birthday then?  Given it any thought luv?”

“Well as it ‘appens, I was down Oxford Street a coupla weeks ago and had a good look around Tiffany’s, but nuffin grabbed me, so I ‘ad a look-see in some of the other top-end jewelers, but not even a twinkle caught me eye.”

“You aint got long luv, better shift yer self.”

“Well as it happens, I wondered dan Bon Street and after avin a look around some of the usual jewelry shops I came across Frampton and Frampton, an who do you think I bumped into?”

Sheila searched Monica’s face for a clue, then gave up. “Dunno, who’d ya bump into?”

Do you remember Bob Hillsworvy?  You know, we both ad a crush on him during our first year at Hackney Secondary Modern when he was in his last term.” 

Monica studied Sheila’s face to see if she remembered. “You know, ‘e had lovely blue eyes and went out wiv that blond kid, Jill Samson.”

“Sheila gave a short scream, “Yeah, I remember him.  Didn’t ‘e get her pregnant or sumit?”

“Yep.  So getting’ back to the story.  I fancied the really nice necklace that was on display in the window so decided to wander in and have a shuftty.   I was a little shocked when I stepped into this Frampton un Frampton.  They had heavy security doors and a big bloke just inside the shop. Asked me what I was doing ‘ere?  So I told him that I was interested in the necklace in the window.”

“Wait ere miss, is all ‘e said, and went to get the manager I suppose.”

“Well I nearly wet me knickers, when who should enter the room but Bob Hillsworvy.  Well, ‘e introduced himself in a real posh accent as ‘Robert Hillsorthy, the manager,’ and enquired as what madam was interested in.”

“Did e remember you then?

“Na, don’t fink so. I described the necklace and the turned and instructed one of his staff to go get it from the window. Very impressive.   Sheila luv, it were gorgeous.   Ah remembers that if ya haveta ask the price, ya shouldn’t be in the shop, so we danced about its make-up, you know, its history, how many diamonds and who owened it before until he real discretely like, shows me the price tag.”

With excitement in her voice, Sheila whispers,“’ow much then?”

“Ten big ones.”  Before Sheila could scream out, Monica interrupted her.  “I had to ‘ave it luv.”

“So, what happened?”

“I tried to knock ‘im down, but he emphasized in his posh accent that ‘Frampton and Frampton were not in the business of bartering.  ‘The price was as stated Madam.’ So I thanked him and said that I may return, and left.”

“Well, looks like you’re stuffed.  Tony aint gonna pay out ten grand is he? so what ya gonna do?”

After they had finished their lunch, Monica suggested that they meet up in a month’s time, to celebrate her fortieth birthday.  They left the most exclusive restaurant in the East end, and after kissing each other’s checks, Sheila climbed into a waiting taxi, whilst Jim held open the rear door of her husband’s Jaguar.

“Where to Mama?”

“Do you know where my husband is at present Jim?”

“Yes Mama.  He’s at a meeting with the directors of the London Stock Exchange.  It will finish at six o’clock.  Do you want to wait for him, or do you wish me to take you home?”

“Home please.”

Once she got home, she showered, carefully applied her make-up then put on the sexy underwear and transparent night gown he had presented her for last Christmas and after chilling a Bordeaux 78, turned down the lights and relaxed to wait for him.

Tony had had a demanding meeting at Paternoster Square, the headquarters of the Exchange and felt mentally and physically tired.  A drink, a light meal, then early to bed was uppermost in his mind as Jim opened the rear door of the Jaguar.

No sooner had Tony stepped inside the front door, when Monica pounced upon him.

Tony was a little shocked at the sudden attention his wife was showering him with and as he struggled to remain upright whilst she roughly removed his clothes, immediately understood what was going on.  After what appeared to be nearly an hour on the plush rug in front of a raging log fireplace, and several glasses of wine later, he sat up and took a deep breath and stared down at her.

“Alright darling, You’ve found what you want for your birthday, is that it?”

“Oh, darling, you can read me like a book.”

“Can we leave it until Friday, then I promise you we can go and have a look at it.  Is that alright?”

Monica smiled as she took his hand and started to drag him upstairs.  “First my darling I want to thank you for being… just you, then we can have something to eat and maybe watch a movie.”

Tony was not only late for his meeting the following day, but was starving as he had missed the evening meal and breakfast.  Jim was a little surprised when asked to stop at the McDonalds on the way up to the city and grab a sausage and egg McMuffin.

Friday came and Jim dropped them off just outside Frampton and Frampton.  The heavy doors opened and the guard, who recognized Monica, buzzed for the manager.

Robert Hillsworthy appeared from the office and smiled.

“Good morning, Madam.  It is good to see you again.  Would you like to view the piece you were looking at the last time you visited us?”

“Yes please.”  Before he turned to instruct one of his staff to retrieve the necklace, Monica introduced her husband. “This is my husband, Sir Anthony Riddlesworth.”

Tony nodded to the manager and waited to view the trinket his wife fancied for her birthday.

“Good to see you Sir Riddlesworth. I must applaud your wife on her choice of jewelry.”

Robert carefully laid out the necklace then stood back.

Tony picked it up and studied it very carefully.

“How much?”

“Ten thousand pounds Sir.”

“I shall give you five.  That’s my final offer.”

“I am sorry Sir, but the policy at Frampton and Frampton is after careful inspection and consideration, the price awarded to any item is the final price.  There is no further negotiation of the price.  Ten thousand pounds is the price Sir.”

After ten minutes of discussion Tony, started too loose patience. “Look I shall make out a cheque for you right now for five thousand pounds and leave it with you.  Take it or leave it.  I shall date my cheque for next Friday.  That should give you enough time to think about it, then cash the cheque.”  With that, they left.

On the following Monday, Monica was having lunch with Enrico, the Charges d’affaires of the Spanish Embassy, an old and close friend.

“So my dear Monica. I see that your birthday is only a few weeks away.  Have you decided what you would like?”

Monica flashed her eyes at him. “Enrico, you are such a dear. I have actually.  After lunch if you like I can show you.”

Enrico smiles and raised his glass to her. “My dear, it will be an honour.

That afternoon, Enrico and Monica were greeted at the heavy door of Frampton and Frampton; shown into the viewing room where Robert showed him the necklace.  Enrico studied it for a few minutes, then turned to Robert.

“It is a beautiful piece, but not worth ten thousand pounds my friend.  I shall give you five thousand pounds for it.”

Robert went through the same arguments that Tony had, but Robert would not move.

“I shall write a cheque this moment for you for five thousand pounds.  Take it, or you may leave it.  The decision is yours. 

Robert asked Enrico to wait whilst he said he was going to speak to head office.  Five minutes later, he returned and nodded.

“Sir I have been advised by my head office that I should accept your cheque of five thousand pounds.”

As Enrico was ushered into the inner office to complete the transaction and provide his cheque, Robert quietly moved over to the counter and started to wrap the necklace in front of Monica.

When he had finished, he slid the package across the counter.  At that moment their eyes met.

“Well Monica Holingsworth, I congratulate you on acquiring such a beautiful neckless for ten thousand pounds.  I do hope you’ll enjoy wearing it.”  He paused for a second, smiled and quietly said, “Well done Luv.”

Copyright Bob French