Lucky Day by Sarah Swatridge, A pot of tea

 

‘Lucky Day’ by Sarah Swatridge

A Pot of Tea

Everything changed that day. The day the piano tuner came.

Heather’s son, William, still lived at home and for some time he’d been dating Katie, a single mum.

It was a Sunday when Heather and Joe met Katie for the first time. They took to her straight away. She was warm and friendly and above all, a gentle and loving mother. Little Tia was seven and painfully shy.

‘She’s usually so chatty,’ William laughed. ‘It’s hard to get a word in.’

‘It can’t be easy meeting strangers, and we’re all adults,’ Heather reassured her son, although she’d gone to the trouble of providing a box of toys and had offered her chocolate ice-cream for pudding which, according to Katie, was her favourite.

Heather was confident Tia would relax once she began to get to know them. Perhaps next time they met she’d be more comfortable?

As they’d eaten a big roast at lunchtime, Heather only served tea and cake for tea, in the lounge. It was, as she was pouring the tea, that she noticed Tia looking at the piano.

‘Would you like to have a go?’ she offered. Katie looked worried, ‘Don’t worry, it’s old, and probably out of tune. She can’t do any harm.’

While the adults continued to chat, Tia climbed on to the stool and lifted the lid. Tentatively she played a note or two, gradually gaining confidence and making more noise. It was the happiest she’d been all afternoon.

Over the next few months Katie and Tia became regular guests. Tia lost her initial shyness and Heather loved having her around. William said he’d arrange piano lessons for her, and so Heather decided it was high time to have the piano looked at.

Not surprisingly the piano tuner tutted and sighed as he inspected Granny Pearl’s treasured instrument.

‘Would you like a cuppa?’ Heather asked him.

‘Yes please.’

‘Heather?’ he called a few moments later. Heather rushed in from the kitchen expecting to be told it was past repair. ‘I’ve found this.’

He handed over an old biscuit tin, covered in a good layer of dust. Heather blushed and wondered what he’d think of her housekeeping skills.

‘It was at the bottom of the piano. A small glass of water is more effective. It counteracts the effect of central heating.’

Heather felt a little confused, but took the tin and returned with a glass of water which was duly placed inside the bottom of the piano.

‘Kettle’s boiled. How do you like your tea?’ she asked.

‘Milk, no sugar, thanks.’

Having served his tea, she returned to the kitchen and opened the ancient tin. And that’s where she found Granny’s jewels!

Granny Pearl had never been wealthy but various members of the family had expected her to have a string of pearls if nothing else. No one had ever thought to look for them in the piano.

‘My goodness, there are rings, chains, old watches and loads of necklaces,’ Heather grinned as she showed Joe. ‘They’re all a bit tarnished, but not plastic.’

The whole episode, although exciting, caused Heather a sleepless night. She was sure, when her grandmother died, that she was her Granny’s only living relative. Her will had specifically mentioned she was to have the piano. But in her dream, she imagined that someone else had a claim on the biscuit tin of old chains. What if somewhere out there, there was a distant second cousin, twice removed?

The following day she and Joe took Granny’s jewellery to be valued.

‘Do you want a valuation for insurance purposes or are you thinking of selling?’ he asked.

Heather looked at the rather ugly hoard knowing she’d never wear it. She didn’t think Pearl would be upset if she sold it. Granny had never been one to wear much jewellery.

‘I’m thinking of selling,’ she told him.

She left the stash with the jeweller and went for a coffee with Joe.

‘What will you spend the money on?’ he asked. Heather was quiet for a while, stirring her coffee again and again.

‘If it’s not worth that much, perhaps we could go for a meal, although I dare say Granny would see that as being extravagant.’

‘It’s up to you.’

‘If they really are of value then maybe we could have a holiday and if it’s worth a fortune then I’d love to buy a beach hut on the coast – but of course we would share it with our friends and neighbours. Tia would love it.’

As they ate their cake and splashed out on a second coffee, they thought of all the things they could buy if they were rich.

‘I’m being so selfish,’ Heather said after a while. ‘We ought to give it to William to help him get a place of his own. It’s so hard for youngsters these days. Do you think he’s serious about Katie?’ Joe shrugged. ‘I like her and she’s good for our William.’

‘You’re right there,’ Joe agreed. ‘He’s certainly matured since she’s been on the scene. And, I think he’d be a good father to Tia.’

‘I tell you what,’ Heather said. ‘I’m feeling lucky today so I’m going to see if I can win anything on the tombola.’ She looked across to the charity table in the corner of the café. It was full of prizes in aid of Cat Rescue.

‘I’ll have some tickets please,’ she told the woman behind the counter and was delighted when she won a book token, even though she made a point of using the library. She didn’t want their village to lose it.

A while later Heather and Joe sauntered down the high street calling in at the bookshop and then at the newsagents.

‘I’ve been lucky so far today so I may as well buy a scratch card,’ Heather laughed as she scratched away at her card a few minutes later.

‘Hey, I’ve won ten pounds, and you know what they say? Good luck comes in threes.’

However, when they returned to the jeweller, he told them the jewels were mainly paste, copper or at best gold plated. There was only one item of any value.

Heather fingered the gold St Christopher. It was the only piece of jewellery she could ever remember her grandmother wearing. That was because her grandfather had given it to her. It had been to keep her safe.

Heather decided she couldn’t part with the St Christopher. And it looked so much better now the jeweller had cleaned it up. Joe fixed it round her neck. She was offered twenty pounds for the rest which she accepted.

‘Shame we weren’t lucky,’ Joe said on the way home.

‘Oh, but we were,’ Heather corrected him. ‘We’re thirty pounds better off and I have Gran’s necklace, which I’ll always treasure.’

‘You’re right. We could put it toward a meal out or a cream tea?’ he said, ‘But what if we started a ‘Spur of the Moment’ fund? And give ourselves the occasional treat?’

Heather laughed. ‘I like the sound of that. Granny would definitely approve. And when we get home I’m going to empty my coin jar and add that to our fund.’

At home Katie and Tia were waiting for them. Tia had just had her first piano lesson and was keen to show them what she’d learnt. They’d never seen her so enthusiastic or chatty.

They all listened to Tia practising her scales through a couple of times and clapped.

‘I’m glad you enjoyed it because I won a book token today and got you this music book, Piano for Beginners.’

‘Thank you,’ beamed Tia as if she’d been given the Crown Jewels.

‘And we have something to tell you,’ William announced. ‘I’ve asked Katie to marry me and Tia to be my daughter – and they’ve said yes!’

There were hugs all round. ‘You were right,’ Joe told Heather. ‘It has been a lucky day.’

about the author

Sarah Swatridge writes short stories for women’s magazines worldwide. She now has a collection of twenty uplifting short stories called Feel-Good Stories along with her large print novels available in libraries and online. Visit www.sarahswatridge.co.uk and sign up to her monthly one page newsletter. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the author the other half goes to expenses e.g. Maintaining the web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.

Was by Steve Gerson, water

I used to be the driver. I was the pathfinder, the trailblazer who sought frontiers beyond the horizon. I opened doors. I flew kites in lightning storms to feel the thrill. I smoked pipes to think beyond thought. Once.

Then, it hit. Age, early dementia, Parkinson's, reality.

I picked up the keys, but Louise said, "Uh uh, Bill. You know the rules."

Damn right I did. Sit and take it. Be a vegetable in a cart.

So off we drove, to one of my many doctor's appointments, Louise navigating while I sat and stared and misremembered and trembled.

I reached for the radio dial, my finger shaking like Tantalus seeking a taste of apple.

"Let me, Bill."

I tried to sip from my Stanley water bottle.

"I've got it," as Louise picked it up for me, placed the straw in my mouth, and held a tissue under my dribbling lips.

We arrived. Louise jumped out of the car, her body not failing, to open my door. Then, she helped me out, reaching under my arm for support, a quiet smile radiating from her tired face.

I stood and teetered, swaying like a storm-tossed dinghy, oars cast overboard.  And I walked, each step a stutter, my brain in synaptic spasms, an electrical cord frayed, light intermittent.

"How are you today, Bill?" my neurologist asked, his voice wooden, as he looked at my chart, never in my eyes.

I didn't respond. I couldn't get words out. I was in a jar, lid tight. The pressure in the jar was building. An explosion awaited. I wanted the explosion—release, my last frontier.

about the author 

Steve Gerson writes poetry and flash about life's dissonance. He has published in many journals plus his 11 chapbooks: Once Planed Straight; Viral; And the Land Dreams Darkly; The 13th Floor; What Is Isn’t; There Is a Season; Have Not; Who Am I Today; Dystopia; Grim; and Through Shadows 

 Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the author the other half goes to expenses e.g. Maintaining the web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.

We Are All Trying by Xinyi Koay, Sikhye

After Hyun-woo dropped two Yonsei students off in front of their dorm, he looked longingly at the guitars on their sweaty backs before driving off. It wasn’t like him to linger. Yet the guitars reminded him of a distant past.  

  

He used to be well known in his neighbourhood for his soulful lyrics and melodic voice. But after moving from Pohang to Seoul to chase after his dream, he quickly learnt that Seoul was filled with other young men who could sing and play the guitar too. Other young men with deeper voices. Other young men with quicker fingers on the guitar. After months of trying, he finally found a small entertainment company willing to take him in as a trainee. But his dream ended almost as soon as it began when the company went bust. He ended up trading his guitar for a steady income behind the steering wheel to pay his growing bills.

When can I sing again?  

Jeongsin charyeo. He shook his head hard to pull himself together before planting his hands firmly back on the steering wheel. 

He drove towards his favourite gisa sikdang, hoping that a piping hot bowl of bibimbap would bring him back to his senses. As he waited for his rice to cool, a charming new shop adorned with bright pink fairy lights caught his eye. He found himself drawn to the tarot shop and its promise of answers. 

He tried to take a bite of his bibimbap but it was still too hot to swallow. Maybe that was the sign he needed. He laid his chopsticks on the table and strode across the road. 

Yu-jin’s first customer had a defined jawline, high cheekbones and a wonderfully symmetrical face. He was conventionally handsome, but he had an unspeakable sadness in his eyes. 

“What question do you have?”  

“When can I sing again?” 

His words were desperate, but Yu-jin appreciated his deep and warm voice. She was sure any song he sang would sound lovely.   

The first card he chose depicted a beggar. When he saw the card, the man’s eyes looked sadder than they were before. They reminded Yu-jin of her own lifeless eyes that used to greet her in the mirror when she was still working her old job as a receptionist. 

“Go forth and chase your dream.” 

Yu-jin knew that wasn’t what the card meant, but she couldn’t help herself. It was probably the man’s first time at a tarot shop. He deserved to dream again, just like she did when she opened her shop. 

“How can that be true?” 

 “It’s true,” Yu-jin assured him, “A beggar has nothing to lose, and neither do you.” 

Hyun-woo quickly walked back to his cab, eager to get back to his guitar and his long-forgotten dream. 

He had told his mother not to worry about him, so even after the company shut down, taking his savings with it, he refused to return home. He couldn’t let her know he was struggling. She had sacrificed too much already, toiling away on the family farm while her only son was off in the big city chasing after his dream. 

He dusted off the guitar hiding in the back of his closet and started strumming as he sat on the barren floor. He sang of his hopes, his dreams, and how he wouldn’t give them up again. He was out of practice, but by the end of the night, he could feel his heart beat with purpose once more.  

After his fateful visit to the tarot reader, Hyun-woo’s life still moved like clockwork. He’d start the day with some banchan along with instant rice. He’d then walk down the steps from his second-floor apartment to his bright orange cab, his trusty companion for the day. But every night, he’d return home to his guitar, his voice, and the passion he thought he had lost forever. 

 

After a few months, he started to upload his music to SoundCloud, one song after another, wishes into the void. For weeks, he barely had any new listeners. But one day, a DJ chose to play one of his songs on her morning radio show, and his music started to find its audience.  

Yu-jin was listening to the radio before she started her workday, a short reprieve before customers began streaming through the door. 

“This next song is Kkum”, announced the DJ. 

She recognised the deep, warm voice immediately — it was the voice of her very first customer all those months ago. She never thought that she’d end up lying to a customer, much less her first, but as his dreamy voice filled her shop with light, she was grateful she did. 

They were all trying. 

Koay Xinyi is a writer from Singapore. Her ideal afternoon is one spent in a library, a good book in hand. Her work has been published in Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, ScribesMICRO and Star 82 Review.

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the author the other half goes to expenses e.g. Maintaining the web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.

THe Hostage Siege by Maxine Flam,beer

            ‘Joe, if you have some spare time after work, you wanna stop for a beer to unwind,’ said his partner, Bill Kelby.

            ‘Yeah, that sounds good to me. It’s been a long day and a beer would hit the spot.’

            They went to the local bar around the corner that had a British atmosphere called Robin Hood. All the boys went there because the food was good and kitchen was open until ten.

                                                                             

            Joe grabbed a handful of peanuts from the bowl in front of him as he sipped his beer. ‘You know, I really should call home. I need to let my wife know I’m out with you.’

            ‘I called my wife earlier and told her to let yours know we would be stopping off for a beer. Look, I know something’s been weighing on you. Talk to me, please, I’m your partner.’

            Joe looked at Bill, then at his beer, then back at Bill. ‘Okay,’ he mumbled.

 

            Joe gathered his thoughts and spoke. ‘Five years ago today, I was forced into doing a hostage negotiation solo. It was a Saturday night. My partner was at a wedding and couldn’t be reached. Nobody had first-hand negotiation experience. Sure, I had seen it done but never did one by myself. SWAT was there and they wanted to storm the place, but in this case, you couldn’t do that. I’ll get to why they couldn’t in a minute. Reno wasn’t the captain then. It was a guy named Grainger and he had just transferred in from Sex Crimes. He had no experience in Homicide.

Grainger called me into his office. ‘You have to go there and do the best you can to resolve this situation.’

‘I’ve never done a hostage negotiation solo before.’

‘I know. I’ve read your file. I’ll continue to try to find your partner but you need to assess the situation and do the best you can to get those kids out of there alive.’

Joe stopped speaking. Tears formed in his eyes.

            ‘Calm down Joe, just tell me what happened,’ said Bill.

            ‘That day changed my life forever,’ said Joe.

            ‘I’m listening. Take your time.’

            ‘I needed someone to go with me so I took Bob Johnson with me.’

‘But Bob Johnson works Robbery,’ said Bill.

‘Not then he didn’t. He worked with me in Homicide,’ replied Joe.

 

We got there and we walked up to the officer in charge at the scene. I showed my badge, and introduced myself. ‘Joe Miller, Homicide, what is the situation?’

            ‘The situation is a man blew his wife away with what appears to be a .38 semi-automatic and took his three kids as hostages and barricaded himself into the apartment next door.’ said the officer.

            ‘Have you set up negotiations?’

            ‘No, we waited for you to show up.’

            ‘You waited? Why? Do you have your head up your ass? There are kids in there. Their lives are at stake. Get me a phone set-up now and take me to the guy,’ I said.

 I was so angry.

‘He’s on the second floor.’

‘Let’s go.’

            The two of us went upstairs together.

            ‘What is the suspect’s name?’

‘Peter.’ he replied. I positioned myself on the side of the apartment door.

            ‘Peter,’ I shouted. ‘My name is Joe and I’m from the police. We are going to set-up phone negotiations so just pick up the receiver to talk to rather than having to shout.’

            ‘Not interested in talking by phone. Go away.’

            ‘I can’t do that,’ I yelled.

            ‘Leave me alone.’

            ‘I can’t. You have your three kids with you. I’d like to help you if you’d let me. I’d like you to give yourself up.’

            ‘No.’ Peter laid his gun down on the table and lit a cigarette.

            ‘Will you at least give up your kids?’

            ‘Why should I do that?’ he said angrily.

            ‘So, they will be safe and I can get them something to eat.’

            ‘You could bring food here.’

            ‘I could but you would have to give up something for the food. How about your gun?’

            ‘No way. You think I’m an idiot?’

            I changed the subject.

 ‘How about some burgers and fries?’

            ‘Sounds good. What do I have to do for that?’

            ‘Give me one of your kids.’

            ‘No.’

            ‘Peter, everything is a give and take. You give me a child and I give you some food.’

            Peter thought on it awhile and said’ Okay.’

I sent Bob out to get the food and he came back 45 minutes later.

            ‘The food is here. Now you have to send out one of your kids.’

            ‘No.’

            ‘A deal is a deal.’

 I held firm. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing but I went with my gut instinct.

            ‘Okay… but if you try anything, I’ll kill all of them.’

            ‘No, I won’t try anything. Pass one kid as I pass the food bags to you’.

            I was perspiring and my gut was in knots as I held out the three bags of burgers and fries and he passed me his oldest child, a nine years old girl. I grabbed her and passed her to Bob.

            ‘Hey, where is the beer? There’s no beer.’ Peter yelled.

            ‘The deal was burger and fries, nothing else, but if you want beer, it will cost you another kid.’

            ‘Shit…I should just kill everyone now.’

            ‘No, I’ll get you whatever you want to drink but you have to give up another kid. That’s the deal.’

            ‘You know, I should just end this now. I need to keep a hostage so you don’t come in.’

            ‘You can surrender. We will sort out everything that has happened at the station and I’ll get you an attorney.’

            ‘Attorneys are shit,’ Peter exclaimed as he lit another cigarette.

            ‘You’ll need one to help you.’

            ‘There’re just going to put me in jail for the rest of my life.’

            ‘No, now let’s not think like that.’

I had a six pack of beer and soda brought up for the kids.

‘Okay, I brought you some drinks. A deal is a deal. Send out one kid.’

Peter hesitated but finally gave in.

I handed him the drinks and he sent out his second child, another girl aged 7. I grabbed her and gave her to Bob.

            ‘Okay Peter, it’s time to send out your son. You need to put the gun down and do the right thing.’

            ‘And what is the right thing, Detective?’

            ‘Send your son out, drop your gun, and face the situation like a man.’

‘Maybe I’m not a man. Maybe I’m not the person you think I am.’

            ‘No, you gave up your two girls.

‘I bargained them for food and beer. What kind of father does that?’

‘One who doesn’t want anything to happen to them. So, now it’s time to give up your son.’

            ‘So, he can be raised by her relatives or mine? No way. No, Joe, I can’t let him go. He’s staying with me.’

            I don’t know what I was thinking but I knew he was going to kill the boy. I lunged for him. Peter reached for the gun on the table. I had the boy in my arms but before I could pass him to Bob, one shot rang out. The bullet went through the boy and lodged into my abdomen. I pushed Peter down and struggled with him for the gun. He was determined to kill himself and take me with him. I don’t remember what happened but I must have turned the gun on him and shot him in the chest…dead.

             I jumped from the force of the blast, fell back, and landed on the floor. SWAT stormed the apartment when they heard the shot. Medics were on top of me in seconds tending to my wound. The boy was taken to Children’s Hospital where he later died of the wound. That bastard killed his own child. An innocent five-year-old little boy. And I somehow felt responsible for the child’s death.

Joe stopped talking and started sobbing bar counter.

The whole place had stopped to listen as he told the story. Some had no idea what happened behind the headlines they read years ago. Joe saved two kids that day out of the arms of a wife murderer but all the papers talked about was the child that died and the cop who was responsible.

Bill pulled a hanky from his pocket and handed it to his partner. Little by little the bar patrons started talking among themselves again. The owner, Philip Cantrell, came over to Joe and said, ‘Listen, I’m sorry. I had no idea you worked that case.’

‘Two children were saved; one died. It wasn’t considered by the LAPD Detectives as one of their finest moments. They felt it was best to forget it. Maybe they were right.

 …Bill, do you mind if we go. I have a place I need to be,’ said Joe.

 

Joe and Bill left the bar and stopped by St. Joseph the Worker’s church. The boy’s service was held there five years ago. Joe made it a point to go there on the anniversary and light a candle for the child. The two walked in and Father Juan welcomed them.

‘Hello Father. This is my partner, Bill Kelby.’

‘Hello Joe, Bill. Joe, I’ve been expecting you.’ They walked to the candles while Bill waited in the back. ‘Five years, isn’t it?’ said Father Juan.

‘Yes, it is,’ said Joe softly.

‘Time moves on.’

‘He’d be ten now. He’d be in little league, growing up, playing, being a normal kid.’

‘You can’t think about that, Joe, because he’s with God.’

‘Is he Father?’

‘I know you don’t believe that, Joe, so I’ll believe it for both of us. He is.’

‘Thank you, Father.’

Joe lit the candle and pulled out a $10 bill as a donation.

‘You don’t have to,’ said Father Juan.

‘Yes, I do. Someone has to think of him and I will for the rest of my life.’ Joe put the money in the poor box and walked back to Bill. ‘Let’s go home,’ said Bill.

They got in the car and left.

           

About the author

 

Maxine has been disabled for the past eleven years spending time writing books and short stories. She has been published several times and had a book published by Bridgehouse, called Miller and Kelby, and OtherwiseEngagedLit, CafeLit, Maudlin House, TheMetaworker.com, and BrightFlashLiteraryReview,. 

 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the author the other half goes to expenses e.g. Maintaining the web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.

DEREK AND DAISY by Guy Pratt,Cappuccino Coffee

 

Derek Walker worked as a draughtsman and designer for a general construction company that undertook anything from home extensions to small housing developments. Their offices were located on the edge of town and most of the white-collar staff were located in a large open plan area on the second floor where movable screens separated design and planning from accounts, typing and clerical personnel.

Derek was dark and handsome, though he never seemed to realise it. A little blonde filing clerk made a habit of always bringing him coffee whenever he needed it, but it never occurred to him that her head was filled with wild fantasies about him. He was so shy and reserved that neither did it cross his mind that Irene, the shapely brunette in the typing pool was always trying to attract his attention too. When his thoughts wandered from his work, they were usually focussed on the team’s prospects in their next fixture, he played both cricket and football for local sides, or where he might take his next hiking holiday or what the ending might be of the latest thriller he was in the middle of reading.

Daisy had straw coloured hair and a sprinkling of freckles around her slightly turned up nose. Her hair was usually tied back in a pony tail and she seemed to be permanently dressed in jeans and baggy woollen sweaters. I don’t suppose you will be surprised when I tell you she had recently completed her studies as an art student and was now struggling to establish herself as an artist.

Daisy’s uncle, Ernie Smith, was a second-hand dealer who cleared the homes of the deceased and bought almost anything he thought could be sold for profit. A little way from the main shopping street he owned a store proclaiming itself Ernie’s Emporium Old Furniture and Bric-a-Brac. To assist his niece to get started on her career Ernie had taken on Daisy for a low wage to mind the store while he was out regularly attending auction sales and clearing houses. Ernie’s wife Freda would usually pop into the shop around lunchtime to give her a break. So, Daisy was usually sat at a desk at the front of the store sometimes reading a paperback off the second-hand bookshelf, but frequently surreptitiously sketching customers, unbeknown to them, as they browsed the shelves of bric-a-brac.

At lunchtimes Derek preferred to get away from the office. Rather than use the canteen, he would take a stroll round the town, drop into a café for a coffee and sandwich, read a bit of his latest novel, then gaze in shop windows as he made his way back.

It was on a day like this that he stopped to gaze into the window of Ernie’s Emporium and was stunned by the sight of Daisy sitting at her desk. Her hair, the freckles reminded him of an old film he’d seen in which Doris Day starred as Calamity Jane. He couldn’t take his eyes off her, until she suddenly looked up and straight at him. He quickly averted his stare and continued back to the office.

From then on when his thoughts wandered, it was no longer to next Saturday’s match or the plot in his novel, but to the vision in the window of Ernie’s Emporium. He was to be drawn back to it like a pin to magnet. How could he overcome his shyness and speak to her. He would have to go in and buy something and converse with her and hopefully make a date.

Next day at lunchtime he entered the shop and Daisy looked up and smiled at him thinking “I’m sure that’s the handsome fellow who gazed at me through the window yesterday.” He smiled shyly and said “Do you mind if I browse?”. She replied cheerily “Feel free, shout if anything isn’t priced.”

The shop was large, with old furniture stacked up in the centre, sofas and armchairs and tables with dining chairs stood on top. Around the walls the shelves were packed crockery, ornaments, discarded holiday souvenirs and all the sorts of nicknacks one finds in such establishments. Derek proceeded round the shelves stopping now and then to pick up something and examine it more closely. Occasionally he would steal a glance across the room through the maze of chairs on dining tables to the object of his growing desire, until she looked up at him and he quickly returned his attention to what he was holding.

After a while Daisy called across to him “Have you found anything you like?”

Startled Derek responded “Er! Yes, I think I’ll take this please.” Then looking down at what he was holding realised it was a large red, chipped, enamelled teapot and wondered what on earth he was going to do with it.

He walked across to the desk in the window and Daisy looked at the price tag “One pound fifty, but it is rather chipped, I think I can knock the fifty pence of for you and call it a pound.”

Derek fished a pound out of his pocket and handed it over to Daisy, noticing as he did so that a long bookcase full assorted books and paperbacks stood next to the desk. He walked out into the street thinking he would look a bit silly going back into the office with a large red chipped teapot and wondered what to do with it.

On her way home that evening Daisy smiled when she saw a large red, chipped, enamel teapot in the window of a charity shop. It must be the same one, she thought, it can’t be coincidence. He did seem shy, but he was very handsome. If he came in again, perhaps she’d try and get him talking, but maybe she’d sketch him first.

A couple of days later Derek returned to the shop determined this time that he would browse the bookshelves which were close to the desk where Daisy sat. He could probably find a book he could read and not leave with a white elephant this time, and hopefully he might pluck up courage to start a conversation.

As he browsed the upper shelves of the bookcase occasionally pulling down a paperback and reading the blurb he’d steal a sideways glance at Daisy. Each time she seemed to be looking intently at him, smiling then scribbling something in a notebook.

Each was about to open conversation when the door opened and she greeted the woman entering. “Hallo Auntie Freda, you’re early today.”

“Yes” replied Freda “Now off you go and grab a sandwich and coffee and don’t be too long I’ve an appointment this afternoon.”

Daisy disappeared and Aunt Freda stationed herself behind the desk. Derek lingered and lingered hoping Daisy would return soon. Then glancing at his watch, he realised he was going to be late back to the office. Panicking he grabbed a couple of paperbacks, which were offered at 75p each or two for a £1, and put them down on the desk in front of Mrs Smith and pulled out his coin.

Mrs Smith looked down at the books planted in front of her “A Manual of Breast Feeding and the Kama Sutra” she exclaimed and looking up with raised eyebrows added “Amazing what you young men read these days”.

Derek’s face reddened as he looked down at the books “Oh dear! I’ve picked up the wrong two”. He stammered and hastily returned them to the shelf and grabbed a couple of Ian Fleming’s titles and placed them on the desk. Mrs Smith looked down at them and up at Derek again “Are you sure you want two copies of Diamonds Are Forever?”

Derek picked one up took it back to the bookcase and returned with a copy of Octopussy, apologising for being a nuisance. “Sorry, I’d forgotten what the time was and I should be back at work.”

Mrs Smith laughed and said to him “I think you must have something else on your mind today. You’re like a young man who has just fallen in love.”

A flustered, red-faced Derek exited the shop just as Daisy was returning. He courteously held the door open for her to enter and tried to return a smile as Daisy thanked him.

Before Freda Smith left the shop, she turned over Daisy’s sketchpad on the desk and asked “Daisy were you drawing that young man when I came in this morning?”

“Well, you must agree, he is rather good looking.” Responded Daisy, blushing a little.

“He seems a little shy and nervous, try chatting to him next time he comes in” advised Freda, giving Daisy a wink “I have a feeling he’s going to return and wants to say something too, with a little encouragement.” She left for her appointment and Daisy gazed dreamily at the open page in her sketchbook.

It has been said that a man chases a woman until she catches him. Sure enough, Derek was back two days later. This time Daisy was quick to open the conversation, introducing herself and as the ice broke up, they were quickly learning a lot about each other. Soon they started sharing their lunch breaks at a café in the town. Daisy went along to watch Derek at football and cricket matches and taking her sketching pad with her, she soon found a ready market for individual illustrations of the players in action. As often the case with draughtsmen, Derek liked to do some architectural and landscape sketching. They would go on long hikes together taking their sketchbooks. While Derek focussed on the scenery and buildings, Daisy drew birds and animals and flowers in close up.

When the day came to visit the vicarage to arrange for the banns to be read, Daisy had spent half the morning helping her uncle clear a house. It had been left for months gathering dust, awaiting a solicitor’s go ahead for clearance after the legal formalities had been completed.  She arrived to meet Derek on the vicar’s doorstep with a smudge of dirt on her forehead and traces of dust all over her baggy sweater and jeans.

When the vicar asked how they met, without much thought Derek replied “I found her behind a desk in Ernie Smith’s second-hand shop.”

“It looks like it” thought the vicar, though he didn’t express it, and they all laughed anyway.

Today Derek still works as a draughtsman designer for the same firm. Daisy established herself as a portrait artist and has a small studio attached to their home where they are bringing up their two children.

Occasionally they will combine and produce a picture in which Derek has painted the background scene and Daisy added the foreground figures. These pictures have an almost 3- dimensional effect and are becoming quite sought after. If you look out for them Daisy always initials them D & D W and for some peculiar reason always adds a little red teapot beside the initials.  

About the author 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

uy Pratt is a retired octogenarian second hand bookseller who enjoys gardening, long walks with his dog and travel. He gravitated into the book trade after earlier years in farming, the army Intelligence Corps and the civil service. Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the author the other half goes to expenses e.g. Maintaining the web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.

Green Around the Gills by : Peter Lingard, lime juice

Green Around the Gills

 I hate spinach, yet my wife serves it regularly. When I leave it on my plate, she complains. It happened again today. ‘I went to the trouble of cooking that for you, so you should eat it!’

‘You already know I can’t stand the stuff, so why do you cook it?’

‘I like it. Most people do!’

‘That’s fine. You can eat it by the bucketload but don’t expect me to do the same.’

‘You could eat it every now and then.’

‘Do you watch football every now and then?’

‘That’s different.’

‘How?’

‘Spinach is good for you.’

‘Football is good for me.’ Stupid! I wanted to strike the words, but it was too late.

‘Football is good for you?’ Her eyes widened and her eyebrows headed north. ‘Pray tell how football is good for you.’

I opened my mouth to say it calms me but managed to stifle the words before they got out. “It takes my mind off spinach.’ That’ll put an end to the argument.

Except she’d seen my mouth open before I changed course. “I can understand that. Football is so boring, it’d chase everything from anyone’s mind.’

I let her words go. ‘Look, can’t I just exist without spinach ever appearing on my plate?’

‘It’s good for you. I’m trying to look after you.’

‘And I appreciate it. I would prefer it though if you could look after me without the involvement of spinach.’

‘How about Brussel sprouts? Would you vote for them instead’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘Cauliflower? How about a vote for cauliflower?’ I shook my head vigorously. ‘No? Cabbage?’

‘No way.’ Then I figured out how to resolve the argument. ‘Look, we’re just going around in a circle here. You know I like spinach in a salad and cabbage in coleslaw. Isn’t that enough of the stuff to keep me healthy? I surely don’t have to eat every dish ever invented using those vegies. Eating them raw must be healthier, especially as none of the goodness has been stewed out of them.’

 

About the author

Peter Lingard,, born a Brit, served in the Royal Marines, was an accountant, a barman and a farm worker. He once lived in the US where he owned a freight forwarding business. An Aussie now because the sun frequently shines and the natives communicate in English.

  Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the author the other half goes to expenses e.g. Maintaining the web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.

e