No Smoke Without Fire
Phil Whitehead
Take a seat. Hope the blindfold wasn’t too uncomfortable? No? Lovely job. Thanks for your understanding, hah-ha! Ten minutes or so, you said?
‘Busy?’
We're always busy here mate. No, none of them electronic devices, if you don’t mind. Strictly chitchat. Yep, fine there. We call that the ‘hot seat.’ Our little in-joke, hah-ha!
‘No smoke…?’
Our motto...what we’re all about. You want smoke - we give you the fire, hah-ha. Suppose these days you’d call it our, er, mission statement or part of the company vision. See, I’m right down with the whizz kids on the business jargon, hah-ha.
Family business this is. That’s what it says up there behind me, and on the website, if you’ve seen it. No? Not easy to find, I’ll admit. Young Terry sorted it – don’t Google search, or so he says. Celebrated 50 years last year. Big do that was. Some of the lads sourced a fireworks factory. Looked like the Jubilee all over again, hah-ha.
Old Nellie got it going after the war. ‘Chip-Pan Nellie’ they called her. Great granny on me ma’s side. Bit of an old devil she was. Probably sharing a round or two of burnt toast with Auld Nick as we speak, hah-ha! Here’s the thing, it was an accident really, what gave her the idea. Always chips with the fish on Fridays. None of your oven chips in them days. Lard went in the pan - and stayed there until it went off. Fried up a mean pan of chips did Nellie. Not much she couldn’t cook with a bit of hot fat. Anyways, this Friday, took her eye off the ball, she did. Rent man at the door. He was late, been visiting Eileen Stornaway at number 17. She was short on the rent money that week on account of her old man’s preoccupation with the gee-gees. Givin’ her a helpin’ hand, he was, if you take my meaning, hah-ha. He was always good on the gossip that rent man, usually featured in it too, and Nellie wasn’t one for missing out.
‘What’s that smell, Missus?’ he says to her after a while.
‘Reckon that fryin’ pan’s jumped into the fire. Best be on me way, runnin’ late tonight!’
Chip pan caught good an’ proper. Scullery went up and half the furniture before the fire brigade flooded what was left of downstairs. Co-op paid up, no questions and that’s when she got to thinking. Rest is history, as they say, at least in this family.
Right, kindling’s caught, clock’s ticking, that’s how it all started, what else do you want to know? Josh! Cup a tea for the gentleman. Milk, two sugars? Milk and two, Josh. Some of them chocolate digestives too. Always a pleasure to entertain the quality press. Sorted out a few of them others in me time… and done a few jobs for ’em too! Now, where were we? Ah, yes, fire away then.
Yep, you spotted it. Right up there on the wall, all framed, Investors in People. Observant ain’t cha! We got the I.i.P. gong. Not from them of course; did our own assessment; followed the guidelines. Proper training, qualified staff, apprenticeship scheme – don’t get no government money for that mind. We got a couple of electricians on the books, a gas fitter (Corgi approved), chimney sweep, locksmith… even got a fireman who does a few ‘foreigners’ for us now and again. Well, keeps his hand in after all, and it’s jobs for the boys (and girls) back at the station.
He says to me just the other week, ‘It’s like this, Brendon, we’re all sat tight at the station, bored, odd training day, false alarms, once in a blue moon the real thing. Then you boys (and girls) get on the job and it’s busy-busy for us. Keeps the stats up, the crew sharp and the locals happy they’re payin’ for the service. Happy days!’
The pictures and paintings?
They’re me favourites. London in the Blitz… fire ships sorting out the Spanish Armada… Yeah, that’s one of Nero. Can’t really keep a brochure or anything, photos from the jobs, can we, hah-ha. Inspiration them are, you might call it. The younger lads have no idea when they start. Think it’s a right old game of Guy Fawkes. We got standards, standards and values.
Dangerous game?
Course it is. You don’t make good money these days without taking risks. You heard about young Jesse? You read about that? Kids, you know. Think they’re indestructible. Never use petrol myself, too volatile, bit of red’s better, you know, the old farm diesel. Always telling ’em. It’s in the guidelines. We haven’t lost many staff over the years though and that’s a fact.
How much do we make?
You’re not messin’ about are yer? Straight in with the big ones. Good question though. Minimum is £10K per job. We negotiate from there on. You want a rough guide? Between 10 and 20% of the value. Depends on the job and who takes the call. Well, for instance, Toby loves a good pub and so the client gets a good rate if he’s on the ‘switchboard.’ I prefers the factories. Cleaner and we work as a team on the bigger units. I like working with others. It’s more…creative. None of us like domestics. Well, saying that, and I don’t like to be sexist, wouldn’t have got the I.i.P. but the girls are best at the habitable projects and they pick ’em up.
You want to know more about domestics?
Well, they can get messy. Clients aren’t always truthful, you know, upfront about the detail. We don’t ask many questions. Best not to. The address, the time frame, anything else we should know. That's it, really. No, never names, never ‘Who?’ nor ‘Why?’
What do I mean by ‘anything else’?
Well if someone’s gonna be in the property, or if there’s a dog, say. We likes to get the pets out if we can. Not always possible, might be a biter or doing a turn on the barking, bringing all the neighbours out, bit of a palaver then.
People!
Come on. We’re not that sort of opo. Buildings is our niche. I’m not saying there isn’t no collateral damage occasionally, nor the lack of intention on the clients’ part, hah-ha, but that’s not the kind of service that we see ourselves as providing. That’s what I means by lack of detail. If the punter omits a bit of key intel, like old Uncle Arthur’s tucked up in the spare room with his will under the pillar, then, like I says, it can get very messy.
Barns?
You have been doing your homework! Goes without saying. We all love a good barn on a Saturday night. Most of the youngsters start there. I’ve got an agent, talent spotting in the juveniles (courts, yes) right through the late summer and autumn. Nah! No money in it. You can’t charge £10K for a barn. It’s for the sport really. Keeps your hand in when times are a bit slack, or for training purposes. Mind, given the price of hay these days…
Cars?
I’ll tell you about cars if you like. People think it’s the sexy end of the market, James Bond an’ all that. Not much call for them at the moment though. When I first started, it was all the rage, in a manner of speaking, hah-ha! Northern Ireland and all that. People see things on the telly and we get a burst of interest. Free advertising, you might call it. The ceasefire killed it off. Flares up again occasionally with your modern terrorists, but they’re strictly independent operators. Not great for the trade, that lot, in my view, really.
Travel?
We run to a 50-mile radius – that’s our exclusion zone. ‘Don’t do it on your own doorstep’ (unless it’s a barn), that’s another one of our mottos. Don’t tend to do overseas jobs neither. Did a sheep farm in Wales, once. Not nice. Can’t touch lamb to this day.
The police?
You’ve got to be sensible about this. No point in takin’ the piss – oh sorry – you probably can’t print that! What?
Quality paper, so it’s alright.
Fair enough. Anyways, if it’s a client wants to make a bit of a point, you know, send a message to the punters sort of thing, useless me sending in the electrician to rig up a bit of dodgy wiring, or the gas fitter… Too easy to spot these days. Na, straight firebomb’s the ticket. Police put it down to gang warfare, or terrorists – that’s always a good cop out these days. ‘Thank God for the Jihadists’ my brother says. Not my view, as I said, and no disrespect or nothing, looks like you’ve got a bit of overseas in you? Family from where?
Mumbai!
Mum what? Ah, Bombay! Best not print any of that neither.
You got to be so sensitive these days. Other times… accidents happen. No, we don’t get no bother from the fuzz. Did a job for Special Branch a few years back and so long as we’re not being stupid, we’re off the record - don’t exist so to speak.
Excuse me, er, I need to take that call...
Hello? Yep, that’s us. How can I help you, Sir? Saturday? A bit tight, but depends on the nature of the job. If I could just take a few details… yeah… the address please… Best time in your estimation? Anything else we should know about the premises? Well, like any pets or is the property otherwise inhabited? A dog? Well, we’ll do our best, but if it’s a biter… Payment up front if you don’t mind, Sir… The job’ll get done, don’t you worry… Well, we operate on trust, Sir. If there’s any problem with the payment, we’ve got your details… All confirmed now… soon as you ring off that’s it, yep… Bit of a motto here Sir, just to bear in mind – Get cold feet, warm ‘em on the ashes tomorrow, hah-ha! You can always go to the police Sir, hah-ha! Just my little joke… Very security conscious… no this phone number’s finished after your call… login with the details you’ve got and… yep, that’s it. Feedback? No, we don’t do feedback Sir; everybody’s usually satisfied with the outcome. No, no! Not recommended. Go for a late curry’s my advice. Knock your lager over – bit of a scene, be noticed… I’ll switch you over so you can confirm payment… Nice to do business with you too, Sir.
There, nice little job for Toby on Saturday night.
The curry?
Well, he wanted to go and watch didn’t he, plonker!
All done then.
Good. Been a pleasure to talk to you too. Say it’ll be in the supplement, might even be next Sunday? Not expecting a birthday honour or a gong or nothin’ but it’ll be nice to get a bit of recognition - nice for the gang too, hah-ha. No, you can’t take any bloody pictures!
One more thing… How would I like to be remembered?
Ain’t goin’ anywhere yet mate! Oh, I see what you mean. Well, I been called all manner of things in me time but I reckon I’ll have ‘PCE’ carved on the headstone when they put me in the ground.
PCE?
‘Professional Conflagration Expert.’ Yep, I likes the sound of that, lovely job.
Buried?
Yep, that’s the ticket. We got a nice family plot on the go near Chepstow and I’ll have Chip-Pan Nellie for company.
Cremation?
You must be joking!
PHIL WHITEHEAD was born in Salford quite a while ago, moving later to Oxford. He now lives in Lyme Regis with his family. Phil’s poetry has been published in several anthologies for children. His ambition is to write long and short stories for whoever might read and enjoy them.
Pink Fingers
Rachel Vickery
By the time Ivy Grimshaw thought about getting married the only things she could cook had been rationed. Eggs and bacon.
Ivy had learnt some harsh lessons during her impoverished childhood: don’t ask for anything, don’t expect anything, and - the only one she took any notice of - if you want something, you have to work for it. Except the word work she interpreted creatively. She learned how to bat for England, for instance. Her eyelashes, that is.
This had almost achieved the desired effect on Ernie Green, bachelor of the parish who no-one thought would settle down. They had been ‘stepping out’ for almost a year now but the aisle still seemed a long way off to Ivy. Ernie was in the fire service, which was dangerous, but not as bad as being called up to fight, and at least he didn’t have to go away.
Ivy wanted to be the wife she thought Ernie deserved. So with a determination to be just that, she wasted no time joining up when she saw a notice go up in the church hall advertising cookery classes with Mrs Duprée.
Mrs Duprée was neither French nor married, but she had an air of the exotic about her, and a presence that demanded everyone’s immediate attention. She spoke with an accent which probably wasn’t French - no one knew. She wore a red scarf wrapped around her brunette tightly-curled hair and tied in the front.
Mrs Duprée tied a red gingham apron in a bow at the back as she addressed the room. ‘Good morning ladies! Welcome to my class. You are lucky to be ’ere. Today we will be making ze pink fingers, but,’ and she lowered her voice, leaning forward over the counter, ‘zey come weeth a warning. No man can reseest zem, and once eaten, ’e will be putty in your ’ands.’
‘Perfect,’ thought Ivy.
‘Do not be fooled about cake making,’ Mrs Duprée continued, waving her index finger as if telling off a small child. ‘If you do not cream ze butter with ze sugar weeth love in your ’eart, caress the mixture weeth egg and mix in ze flour with ze passion, the results weel be less than parfait.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ said Hilda, standing at the neighbouring cookery station. ‘A cake is just a cake; it’ll take more than that to make my Alfie put a ring on my finger.’
Desperate times call for desperate measures, thought Ivy. As she creamed sugar into butter, she closed her eyes for a second and thought of the first time she saw Ernie, dancing with Kathy Cook, and the overwhelming feeling that he was the one. As the mixture turned paler in colour she conjured up dancing at the Palais with Ernie’s arms around her. As she caressed the mixture with egg, she felt his breath as he whispered in her ear, ‘Say you’ll step out with me Ivy Grimshaw.’
‘Remember ladies, love is ze key to success!’ Mrs Dupree’s voice interrupted her trance. She looked across to see Hilda beating her mixture to death with a bored look on her face.
‘Psst! You haven’t got a ciggy have you?’
Ivy giggled, reached into her bag and threw her a Woodbine.
‘Zat’s it. Now eet’s ze flour, we are introducing it into ze creamed mixture. Be gentle; let zem get to know each other.’
Hilda raised her eyes in disbelief to the ceiling, whereas Ivy imagined that the flour was Ernie and she was the sugar mixture. ‘Ernie,’ she said to herself as she stirred, ‘meet Ivy, your future bride.’
‘Now ladies, eet ees time for ze ’eat. Spoon zees magic potion into ze tin. Do not dollop, ’ilda! Say your wish, and put eento ze oven.’
Ivy lovingly coaxed her mixture into the tin and wished with all her heart that the love of her life would ask her to marry him. As the oven door on her future closed, she crossed her fingers and whispered, ‘Let the magic begin.’
Ivy glanced across at Hilda’s bench which literally looked like a bomb had hit it. Hilda was in the corridor having her ciggy and the half of her mixture which had hit the baking tin was in the oven.
‘Now ladies, ze best part ees ze icing on ze cake!’ Mrs Dupree was standing at the front of the class again. ‘Take ze cakes out of ze oven,’ she instructed, like a magician telling his assistant to pull the rabbit out of the hat.
Everyone was eager to see the product of their labours, and sounds of both delight and disappointment filled the room.
As Ivy bent down and looked in the oven, Mrs Duprée peered over her shoulder. ‘Very nice, very nice, see eet ees parfait! Eet just needs the final ombollishmont.’ And sure enough, Ivy had to admit that hers was a very tempting looking cake, risen and golden, crying out for its finishing touch.
‘And now,’ instructed Mrs Duprée, ‘we need ze patience! The cake ’as to be cool. More ’aste, less speed.’
Ivy took her cake to the open window and blew on it to speed the process. ‘Don’t spoil it, Ivy,’ she said to herself. ‘Don’t spoil the ship,’ said her father’s voice, coming out of nowhere.
Hilda had no such patience: the icing was done and poured onto the cake. Almost as quickly, it was seen running right off it.
Ivy lovingly spread her icing all over the cake. It looked like snow had fallen and had yet to be trampled.
‘Well done, everyone. And now zis will make ze magic ’appen!’ Mrs Duprée shook a few drops of cochineal into a dish of coconut, and drifting from bench to bench sprinkled the vibrant pink topping onto the cakes as if spreading fairy dust.
Ivy gasped when it came to her turn: her cake was transformed into pink perfection, ready to be cut into pink fingers when she got home. Hilda’s looked like the ash of her cigarette had been dropped on it.
Ivy carefully placed her cake in its tin and covered it gently, picking it up as if it were a new born child.
Hilda was already out of the door. She threw her tin into the basket of her bicycle and shouted, ‘See you next week Ivy!’ before pedalling off.
‘Now zat ees a girl oo weel not be marrying ’er Alphie,’ said Mrs Duprée knowingly, with the barest hint of a smile towards Ivy that somehow filled her with exciting anticipation.
RACHEL VICKERY was born in Bristol and spent many a happy holiday at the Timber Vale Caravan Park, vowing one day to return to Lyme on a permanent basis. Many moons later, with a few diversions along the way, the dream became a reality and Rachel is now settled in Uplyme with her husband Derek. During a long career in Social Work, Rachel became used to writing about real people, and now she writes about fictional ones!
Preying on a Dream
Pat Dench
It was Thursday again. Moira straightened her elegant green dress, rebrushed her hair and checked her make-up before setting off to the teashop.
Jack was already sitting in the corner. He rose to greet her with that engaging smile she couldn’t resist. She had the money ready in a blue Basildon Bond envelope which she slipped out of her bag and passed to him under the table. His young, eager hands briefly caressed her old arthritic ones, causing her to shiver with girlish excitement.
Moving his chair closer, he took her hand. ‘I’m really sorry Moira,’ he said, stroking her fingers lovingly. ‘I’m going to have to leave early. But can we meet on Tuesday? I’ve got a new project I want to discuss with you – I’m really excited about it.’
Moira smiled indulgently at him, and when he left, she stayed to finish her tea. She thought back to their first meeting: their ‘fight’ over the last piece of Victoria sponge, the first laugh she’d had with a man for a long time.
He’d seemed attracted to her immediately, asking her to join him the following week. That was the beginning of their regular meetings at the teashop.
Walking home later she wondered what the new project would be – and how much it might cost her.
On Tuesday she virtually danced into the tearoom to show off her new purple velvet suit. Jack was always complimentary about her looks and clothes.
No sign of Jack.
Jane, the teashop owner, directed her to a policewoman waiting by the window.
PAT DENCH is married to Peter and has three grown up children and three grandchildren. She spent her early married life travelling with her husband’s work around Britain and Germany. When the family settled back in Kent, she became involved in the playgroup movement and worked in a national pre-school charity. Pat and Peter retired to Uplyme to run the Old Black Dog B&B. Pat was unsure about joining the group as she had never done any creative writing before, but soon caught the writing bug.
Phil Whitehead
Take a seat. Hope the blindfold wasn’t too uncomfortable? No? Lovely job. Thanks for your understanding, hah-ha! Ten minutes or so, you said?
‘Busy?’
We're always busy here mate. No, none of them electronic devices, if you don’t mind. Strictly chitchat. Yep, fine there. We call that the ‘hot seat.’ Our little in-joke, hah-ha!
‘No smoke…?’
Our motto...what we’re all about. You want smoke - we give you the fire, hah-ha. Suppose these days you’d call it our, er, mission statement or part of the company vision. See, I’m right down with the whizz kids on the business jargon, hah-ha.
Family business this is. That’s what it says up there behind me, and on the website, if you’ve seen it. No? Not easy to find, I’ll admit. Young Terry sorted it – don’t Google search, or so he says. Celebrated 50 years last year. Big do that was. Some of the lads sourced a fireworks factory. Looked like the Jubilee all over again, hah-ha.
Old Nellie got it going after the war. ‘Chip-Pan Nellie’ they called her. Great granny on me ma’s side. Bit of an old devil she was. Probably sharing a round or two of burnt toast with Auld Nick as we speak, hah-ha! Here’s the thing, it was an accident really, what gave her the idea. Always chips with the fish on Fridays. None of your oven chips in them days. Lard went in the pan - and stayed there until it went off. Fried up a mean pan of chips did Nellie. Not much she couldn’t cook with a bit of hot fat. Anyways, this Friday, took her eye off the ball, she did. Rent man at the door. He was late, been visiting Eileen Stornaway at number 17. She was short on the rent money that week on account of her old man’s preoccupation with the gee-gees. Givin’ her a helpin’ hand, he was, if you take my meaning, hah-ha. He was always good on the gossip that rent man, usually featured in it too, and Nellie wasn’t one for missing out.
‘What’s that smell, Missus?’ he says to her after a while.
‘Reckon that fryin’ pan’s jumped into the fire. Best be on me way, runnin’ late tonight!’
Chip pan caught good an’ proper. Scullery went up and half the furniture before the fire brigade flooded what was left of downstairs. Co-op paid up, no questions and that’s when she got to thinking. Rest is history, as they say, at least in this family.
Right, kindling’s caught, clock’s ticking, that’s how it all started, what else do you want to know? Josh! Cup a tea for the gentleman. Milk, two sugars? Milk and two, Josh. Some of them chocolate digestives too. Always a pleasure to entertain the quality press. Sorted out a few of them others in me time… and done a few jobs for ’em too! Now, where were we? Ah, yes, fire away then.
Yep, you spotted it. Right up there on the wall, all framed, Investors in People. Observant ain’t cha! We got the I.i.P. gong. Not from them of course; did our own assessment; followed the guidelines. Proper training, qualified staff, apprenticeship scheme – don’t get no government money for that mind. We got a couple of electricians on the books, a gas fitter (Corgi approved), chimney sweep, locksmith… even got a fireman who does a few ‘foreigners’ for us now and again. Well, keeps his hand in after all, and it’s jobs for the boys (and girls) back at the station.
He says to me just the other week, ‘It’s like this, Brendon, we’re all sat tight at the station, bored, odd training day, false alarms, once in a blue moon the real thing. Then you boys (and girls) get on the job and it’s busy-busy for us. Keeps the stats up, the crew sharp and the locals happy they’re payin’ for the service. Happy days!’
The pictures and paintings?
They’re me favourites. London in the Blitz… fire ships sorting out the Spanish Armada… Yeah, that’s one of Nero. Can’t really keep a brochure or anything, photos from the jobs, can we, hah-ha. Inspiration them are, you might call it. The younger lads have no idea when they start. Think it’s a right old game of Guy Fawkes. We got standards, standards and values.
Dangerous game?
Course it is. You don’t make good money these days without taking risks. You heard about young Jesse? You read about that? Kids, you know. Think they’re indestructible. Never use petrol myself, too volatile, bit of red’s better, you know, the old farm diesel. Always telling ’em. It’s in the guidelines. We haven’t lost many staff over the years though and that’s a fact.
How much do we make?
You’re not messin’ about are yer? Straight in with the big ones. Good question though. Minimum is £10K per job. We negotiate from there on. You want a rough guide? Between 10 and 20% of the value. Depends on the job and who takes the call. Well, for instance, Toby loves a good pub and so the client gets a good rate if he’s on the ‘switchboard.’ I prefers the factories. Cleaner and we work as a team on the bigger units. I like working with others. It’s more…creative. None of us like domestics. Well, saying that, and I don’t like to be sexist, wouldn’t have got the I.i.P. but the girls are best at the habitable projects and they pick ’em up.
You want to know more about domestics?
Well, they can get messy. Clients aren’t always truthful, you know, upfront about the detail. We don’t ask many questions. Best not to. The address, the time frame, anything else we should know. That's it, really. No, never names, never ‘Who?’ nor ‘Why?’
What do I mean by ‘anything else’?
Well if someone’s gonna be in the property, or if there’s a dog, say. We likes to get the pets out if we can. Not always possible, might be a biter or doing a turn on the barking, bringing all the neighbours out, bit of a palaver then.
People!
Come on. We’re not that sort of opo. Buildings is our niche. I’m not saying there isn’t no collateral damage occasionally, nor the lack of intention on the clients’ part, hah-ha, but that’s not the kind of service that we see ourselves as providing. That’s what I means by lack of detail. If the punter omits a bit of key intel, like old Uncle Arthur’s tucked up in the spare room with his will under the pillar, then, like I says, it can get very messy.
Barns?
You have been doing your homework! Goes without saying. We all love a good barn on a Saturday night. Most of the youngsters start there. I’ve got an agent, talent spotting in the juveniles (courts, yes) right through the late summer and autumn. Nah! No money in it. You can’t charge £10K for a barn. It’s for the sport really. Keeps your hand in when times are a bit slack, or for training purposes. Mind, given the price of hay these days…
Cars?
I’ll tell you about cars if you like. People think it’s the sexy end of the market, James Bond an’ all that. Not much call for them at the moment though. When I first started, it was all the rage, in a manner of speaking, hah-ha! Northern Ireland and all that. People see things on the telly and we get a burst of interest. Free advertising, you might call it. The ceasefire killed it off. Flares up again occasionally with your modern terrorists, but they’re strictly independent operators. Not great for the trade, that lot, in my view, really.
Travel?
We run to a 50-mile radius – that’s our exclusion zone. ‘Don’t do it on your own doorstep’ (unless it’s a barn), that’s another one of our mottos. Don’t tend to do overseas jobs neither. Did a sheep farm in Wales, once. Not nice. Can’t touch lamb to this day.
The police?
You’ve got to be sensible about this. No point in takin’ the piss – oh sorry – you probably can’t print that! What?
Quality paper, so it’s alright.
Fair enough. Anyways, if it’s a client wants to make a bit of a point, you know, send a message to the punters sort of thing, useless me sending in the electrician to rig up a bit of dodgy wiring, or the gas fitter… Too easy to spot these days. Na, straight firebomb’s the ticket. Police put it down to gang warfare, or terrorists – that’s always a good cop out these days. ‘Thank God for the Jihadists’ my brother says. Not my view, as I said, and no disrespect or nothing, looks like you’ve got a bit of overseas in you? Family from where?
Mumbai!
Mum what? Ah, Bombay! Best not print any of that neither.
You got to be so sensitive these days. Other times… accidents happen. No, we don’t get no bother from the fuzz. Did a job for Special Branch a few years back and so long as we’re not being stupid, we’re off the record - don’t exist so to speak.
Excuse me, er, I need to take that call...
Hello? Yep, that’s us. How can I help you, Sir? Saturday? A bit tight, but depends on the nature of the job. If I could just take a few details… yeah… the address please… Best time in your estimation? Anything else we should know about the premises? Well, like any pets or is the property otherwise inhabited? A dog? Well, we’ll do our best, but if it’s a biter… Payment up front if you don’t mind, Sir… The job’ll get done, don’t you worry… Well, we operate on trust, Sir. If there’s any problem with the payment, we’ve got your details… All confirmed now… soon as you ring off that’s it, yep… Bit of a motto here Sir, just to bear in mind – Get cold feet, warm ‘em on the ashes tomorrow, hah-ha! You can always go to the police Sir, hah-ha! Just my little joke… Very security conscious… no this phone number’s finished after your call… login with the details you’ve got and… yep, that’s it. Feedback? No, we don’t do feedback Sir; everybody’s usually satisfied with the outcome. No, no! Not recommended. Go for a late curry’s my advice. Knock your lager over – bit of a scene, be noticed… I’ll switch you over so you can confirm payment… Nice to do business with you too, Sir.
There, nice little job for Toby on Saturday night.
The curry?
Well, he wanted to go and watch didn’t he, plonker!
All done then.
Good. Been a pleasure to talk to you too. Say it’ll be in the supplement, might even be next Sunday? Not expecting a birthday honour or a gong or nothin’ but it’ll be nice to get a bit of recognition - nice for the gang too, hah-ha. No, you can’t take any bloody pictures!
One more thing… How would I like to be remembered?
Ain’t goin’ anywhere yet mate! Oh, I see what you mean. Well, I been called all manner of things in me time but I reckon I’ll have ‘PCE’ carved on the headstone when they put me in the ground.
PCE?
‘Professional Conflagration Expert.’ Yep, I likes the sound of that, lovely job.
Buried?
Yep, that’s the ticket. We got a nice family plot on the go near Chepstow and I’ll have Chip-Pan Nellie for company.
Cremation?
You must be joking!
PHIL WHITEHEAD was born in Salford quite a while ago, moving later to Oxford. He now lives in Lyme Regis with his family. Phil’s poetry has been published in several anthologies for children. His ambition is to write long and short stories for whoever might read and enjoy them.
Pink Fingers
Rachel Vickery
By the time Ivy Grimshaw thought about getting married the only things she could cook had been rationed. Eggs and bacon.
Ivy had learnt some harsh lessons during her impoverished childhood: don’t ask for anything, don’t expect anything, and - the only one she took any notice of - if you want something, you have to work for it. Except the word work she interpreted creatively. She learned how to bat for England, for instance. Her eyelashes, that is.
This had almost achieved the desired effect on Ernie Green, bachelor of the parish who no-one thought would settle down. They had been ‘stepping out’ for almost a year now but the aisle still seemed a long way off to Ivy. Ernie was in the fire service, which was dangerous, but not as bad as being called up to fight, and at least he didn’t have to go away.
Ivy wanted to be the wife she thought Ernie deserved. So with a determination to be just that, she wasted no time joining up when she saw a notice go up in the church hall advertising cookery classes with Mrs Duprée.
Mrs Duprée was neither French nor married, but she had an air of the exotic about her, and a presence that demanded everyone’s immediate attention. She spoke with an accent which probably wasn’t French - no one knew. She wore a red scarf wrapped around her brunette tightly-curled hair and tied in the front.
Mrs Duprée tied a red gingham apron in a bow at the back as she addressed the room. ‘Good morning ladies! Welcome to my class. You are lucky to be ’ere. Today we will be making ze pink fingers, but,’ and she lowered her voice, leaning forward over the counter, ‘zey come weeth a warning. No man can reseest zem, and once eaten, ’e will be putty in your ’ands.’
‘Perfect,’ thought Ivy.
‘Do not be fooled about cake making,’ Mrs Duprée continued, waving her index finger as if telling off a small child. ‘If you do not cream ze butter with ze sugar weeth love in your ’eart, caress the mixture weeth egg and mix in ze flour with ze passion, the results weel be less than parfait.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ said Hilda, standing at the neighbouring cookery station. ‘A cake is just a cake; it’ll take more than that to make my Alfie put a ring on my finger.’
Desperate times call for desperate measures, thought Ivy. As she creamed sugar into butter, she closed her eyes for a second and thought of the first time she saw Ernie, dancing with Kathy Cook, and the overwhelming feeling that he was the one. As the mixture turned paler in colour she conjured up dancing at the Palais with Ernie’s arms around her. As she caressed the mixture with egg, she felt his breath as he whispered in her ear, ‘Say you’ll step out with me Ivy Grimshaw.’
‘Remember ladies, love is ze key to success!’ Mrs Dupree’s voice interrupted her trance. She looked across to see Hilda beating her mixture to death with a bored look on her face.
‘Psst! You haven’t got a ciggy have you?’
Ivy giggled, reached into her bag and threw her a Woodbine.
‘Zat’s it. Now eet’s ze flour, we are introducing it into ze creamed mixture. Be gentle; let zem get to know each other.’
Hilda raised her eyes in disbelief to the ceiling, whereas Ivy imagined that the flour was Ernie and she was the sugar mixture. ‘Ernie,’ she said to herself as she stirred, ‘meet Ivy, your future bride.’
‘Now ladies, eet ees time for ze ’eat. Spoon zees magic potion into ze tin. Do not dollop, ’ilda! Say your wish, and put eento ze oven.’
Ivy lovingly coaxed her mixture into the tin and wished with all her heart that the love of her life would ask her to marry him. As the oven door on her future closed, she crossed her fingers and whispered, ‘Let the magic begin.’
Ivy glanced across at Hilda’s bench which literally looked like a bomb had hit it. Hilda was in the corridor having her ciggy and the half of her mixture which had hit the baking tin was in the oven.
‘Now ladies, ze best part ees ze icing on ze cake!’ Mrs Dupree was standing at the front of the class again. ‘Take ze cakes out of ze oven,’ she instructed, like a magician telling his assistant to pull the rabbit out of the hat.
Everyone was eager to see the product of their labours, and sounds of both delight and disappointment filled the room.
As Ivy bent down and looked in the oven, Mrs Duprée peered over her shoulder. ‘Very nice, very nice, see eet ees parfait! Eet just needs the final ombollishmont.’ And sure enough, Ivy had to admit that hers was a very tempting looking cake, risen and golden, crying out for its finishing touch.
‘And now,’ instructed Mrs Duprée, ‘we need ze patience! The cake ’as to be cool. More ’aste, less speed.’
Ivy took her cake to the open window and blew on it to speed the process. ‘Don’t spoil it, Ivy,’ she said to herself. ‘Don’t spoil the ship,’ said her father’s voice, coming out of nowhere.
Hilda had no such patience: the icing was done and poured onto the cake. Almost as quickly, it was seen running right off it.
Ivy lovingly spread her icing all over the cake. It looked like snow had fallen and had yet to be trampled.
‘Well done, everyone. And now zis will make ze magic ’appen!’ Mrs Duprée shook a few drops of cochineal into a dish of coconut, and drifting from bench to bench sprinkled the vibrant pink topping onto the cakes as if spreading fairy dust.
Ivy gasped when it came to her turn: her cake was transformed into pink perfection, ready to be cut into pink fingers when she got home. Hilda’s looked like the ash of her cigarette had been dropped on it.
Ivy carefully placed her cake in its tin and covered it gently, picking it up as if it were a new born child.
Hilda was already out of the door. She threw her tin into the basket of her bicycle and shouted, ‘See you next week Ivy!’ before pedalling off.
‘Now zat ees a girl oo weel not be marrying ’er Alphie,’ said Mrs Duprée knowingly, with the barest hint of a smile towards Ivy that somehow filled her with exciting anticipation.
RACHEL VICKERY was born in Bristol and spent many a happy holiday at the Timber Vale Caravan Park, vowing one day to return to Lyme on a permanent basis. Many moons later, with a few diversions along the way, the dream became a reality and Rachel is now settled in Uplyme with her husband Derek. During a long career in Social Work, Rachel became used to writing about real people, and now she writes about fictional ones!
Preying on a Dream
Pat Dench
It was Thursday again. Moira straightened her elegant green dress, rebrushed her hair and checked her make-up before setting off to the teashop.
Jack was already sitting in the corner. He rose to greet her with that engaging smile she couldn’t resist. She had the money ready in a blue Basildon Bond envelope which she slipped out of her bag and passed to him under the table. His young, eager hands briefly caressed her old arthritic ones, causing her to shiver with girlish excitement.
Moving his chair closer, he took her hand. ‘I’m really sorry Moira,’ he said, stroking her fingers lovingly. ‘I’m going to have to leave early. But can we meet on Tuesday? I’ve got a new project I want to discuss with you – I’m really excited about it.’
Moira smiled indulgently at him, and when he left, she stayed to finish her tea. She thought back to their first meeting: their ‘fight’ over the last piece of Victoria sponge, the first laugh she’d had with a man for a long time.
He’d seemed attracted to her immediately, asking her to join him the following week. That was the beginning of their regular meetings at the teashop.
Walking home later she wondered what the new project would be – and how much it might cost her.
On Tuesday she virtually danced into the tearoom to show off her new purple velvet suit. Jack was always complimentary about her looks and clothes.
No sign of Jack.
Jane, the teashop owner, directed her to a policewoman waiting by the window.
PAT DENCH is married to Peter and has three grown up children and three grandchildren. She spent her early married life travelling with her husband’s work around Britain and Germany. When the family settled back in Kent, she became involved in the playgroup movement and worked in a national pre-school charity. Pat and Peter retired to Uplyme to run the Old Black Dog B&B. Pat was unsure about joining the group as she had never done any creative writing before, but soon caught the writing bug.
