Mellow, by Peter Morford

 Nobody can expect to have the same friends for life. The relationship, however intense for a while will be disturbed by changing tastes, departures to remote places, boredom, quarrel or inertia.

Sarah and I were talking about this the other evening until it was time for Newsnight. The inquisitor was harrying a rather under-prepared spokesman to commit his department.

“When will you complete HS2? Will you live long enough to ride on it?”

Our phone rang. I didn’t recognise the number and thought it would be some Oriental spiv calling himself Kevin or Arthur, wanting to warn me that my Prime Account had been compromised. I knew how to deal with hackers so I took the call.

The caller said, “Jimmy here. How are you Pete?” I didn’t recognise the voice at first.

“ Jimmy McPhail, your old chess partner.”

Of course, Jimmy, old friend from 20 years ago when we’d looked after each other’s kids, dined and holidayed together as a foursome until he’d gone North and we’d lost touch. I asked him how he had found us. “With difficulty,” he said.

We talked for 30 mins; or rather I listened because that described conversation with Jimmy. He told us about his son in Australia; his daughter teaching in Glasgow; his new grandchild; his golf handicap, yoga and the successful sale of his business. He modestly added that he could concentrate on spending now. He took a kind of breather.

“And what about you two – what are you doing these days?”

Grinning at Sarah, I told him that in January I’d swum the Irish Sea to Dublin when I missed the ferry. Last week I’d climbed Everest without oxygen. And next week…

“So you’ve been pretty idle for a man of your age,” he said. “Pat and I are coming your way next week. We’re moving back to Dorset because Pat misses the sea– so you’ll need to polish your chess-board. We’ve sold-up in Halifax and we’re going to buy a house on the Esplanade. The seller’s being a bit greedy but I’ll wear him down. I’ll remind him it’s a cash deal and I can always walk away."

“Meet for a beer? Bring Sarah. Have dinner. What about the Kings Arms? Thursday evening at seven? Yes?”

“If I’ve finished the marathon in time,” I said, wondering if he’d heard ny brief contributions to our conversation.

We’d missed the best or worst of Newsnight so Sarah made some more coffee and we reminisced about the McPhails He loved to argue politics. Surrounded by left-wingers he would fight for the right. Put him in with business men, like him, and he would side with the mythical working man. He liked to say that he was a Gorbals lad whose parents got him educated out of their station. He’d worked himself lucky.

**

And now, we are sipping wine, admiring the sunset and waiting for the soup. Jimmy has aged little but well. Patricia looks as glamorous as ever. We stare at each other, making the usual assessments. I wonder what he thinks of us although I’m not sure I want his real opinion. I know he’ll be all-too-frank. I don’t expect Jimmy to mellow with age.

Goodbye in November, by C.F.

 The leaves that are falling now

will be renewed next spring

but she,

she will never return.

My novel, by Peter Shilston

 My online historical novel is now completed, after 37 weekly chapters! It can be read in its entirety at

pgvshil.blogspot.com

or by following the link on the right of "View my complete profile" to "The Shadow of the Past: being the memoirs of Charles Huntingdon, M.P.". 

Any comments would be gratefully received!

Beyond the call of duty, by Peter Morford

 Jack started to grumble as soon as he reached the station car-park. It was unusually full that dark and wet morning and he had leave his car a good 50 metres from the cash machine. Collar and umbrella up, he splashed his way to pay, scurried back to the car, put the ticket in the right place and ran to the entrance as his train drew up. Of course it was crowded and he had stand up for fifty minutes in the puddle from his umbrella. It was not the best start to his day.

He told himself that he’d had enough. It was time to retire. He meant it. He’d see Human Resources today. He could be a man of leisure doing what he couldn’t do in the last thirty years. He’d travel without being tied to a timetable; sleep-in with no 7.42 train to catch; dine earlier than the customary 8 pm; spend more time with Marian if she could be persuaded to stop teaching; visit their far-flung children and their families; learn the violin and read some of his books.

**

Now, five years later he’s more pushed than ever. Look at them now. It’s Sunday morning at the breakfast table. They’ve enjoyed their fruit salad, full English carbo-hydrated grill and fresh coffee. It’s already ten o’clock but who cares? It’s taken them an hour so far and they’ve barely started on the day’s crosswords.

“Before we get too involved we’d better check our diaries for the week,” she says.

Jack dutifully puts The Guardian aside and opens his week-to-view planner.

Marian puts on her glasses. “I have the Gentlewomen’s Guild Lunch tomorrow.”

“I’ll be at the PROBUS meeting – men only, and I’ve said that we’d both be at the Town Council meeting to fight the new development plans.”

By the time they got to the following Saturday with its Mayor’s Charity Dinner their diaries were full.

“I want to see the latest Spielberg film,” she said. “What about the following week?”

Just as bad. Jack has the bird-watching Club. Between them they have the Cricket Club dinner and dance; a school governors meeting; tree-planting for the rewilding project; a planned walk over Tuxford Hill. It goes on. Marian has a dental appointment and Jack really ought to see Doctor Pearson about his sciatica.

“Luckily, Speilberg is on at the Reel for three weeks,” she says. “What about the Thursday the 16 th ?”

“Looks good, let’s book it.” He opens his smartphone.

The house-phone buzzes. Marian hurries to answer. A few words and she’s back,

“Would you believe it, that was Martin Hawk. He wants us to join the Grey Squirrel and Pigeon Protection Society inaugural shindig on the 16th at 7 oclock.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I said you’d be there but I had an appointment with Stephen.”

“Call him back and tell him I hate squirrels and pigeons and it would be beyond the call of duty for me to be involved.”

Freddie Freeloader, by Alex G.

 A cold sidewalk

paves the way to

a club:

Blue Note on 52nd.

Tunes lift from the paper

on the glassy updraught

from beneath his feet.

It's hot here in Birdland.

A shot stings the

cool as he lifts

his horn to play.

Where's Lester?

Shootin' up in the

road as the band 

stays silent.

No money tonight, Miles.

James's lists, by JVC

 James liked to compile lists. Ever since he was a schoolboy he'd carefully noted down places he'd visited, movies he'd seen, records he'd bought, books he'd read, letters he'd written and received, money he'd earned and spent; even notes on the weather. He never deleted a single email. His lists grew to fill many exercise books, and on occasion he'd look through them and reflect on how, like the great diarists of the past, he was compiling a valuable document of social history. Even in his final illness he was able to record, with a shaky hand, how he'd spent the past three days in hospital.

    After James died, his lists were all thrown away.

Information overload, by Peter Morford

We’re about to take off. Now, in a window seat with two empty places beside me I look forward to the flight. I’ll read my new Grisham until dinner; then I’ll spread myself out for a comfortable nap.

I reach into my brief case but there’s no book. Damn. I must have left it on the counter. Why would I do a daft thing like that? I’ll have to read my Kindle instead.

A man’s coming down the aisle, peering short-sightedly for the seat numbers; coming my way; stopping; checking the number again; nodding; saying; “We will be companions for the new few hours Mr Parsons.”

“Do I know you?” He’s putting his overcoat into the locker, placing his briefcase on the spare seat.

“No Mr Parsons, but I know you. You were born in Bradford on 10 th June 1970. You and Elaine have two children. Kenny – at Oxford, and little Julie."

“Are you spying on me?” I may sound petulant.

The plane’s moving. He buckles himself in. “I’m so sorry, let me introduce myself. My card.”

I read Mr Tom, Senior Partner of Tomdickenarry Progressive Headhunters Inc. There’s an address in Canary Wharf.

“That’s a crazy name,” I say.

“Not really. I’m Mr Tom, Director of European Office, Mr Dicken looks after Americas and Ari - Mr Aristotle- is EU. As I was about to say, we’re interested in you professionally. Your feud with the Managing Director is getting nasty. He wants you out; you’re fighting for a golden handshake and he’s doing his best to get your resignation. That’s why you’re doing these rather menial jobs for him. This trip to Dallas could be done by a junior but it keeps you out of the office. Next week you’re off to Tokyo. No wonder that Elaine is looking for companionship. But then you have a pretty-bird’s nest in Paris, when you can get there. Ah, drinks.”

The flight attendant is ready to take our order. Mr Tom orders Merlot. “And I think my friend will enjoy tonic with slice of lemon.”

“Certainly, Sir.” She leaves.

He speaks very softly. “I will have steak and salad but I know you will be happier with pasta and mineral water. Right?”

“So far.”

“I rescued your book in the Men’s Room. I also read Grisham.” I thanked him, wondering.

“You had £13,517 in your joint account last night. Your private account is down to 4398 euros – that’s the fund for Parisian rents. Your personal investment account has just received your BP dividend but perhaps you will sell.

I’m beginning to dislike this man.

“Elaine wants to move. Do you really want a penthouse in Battersea now that your mortgage is cleared?”

“You’ve been busy,” I say.

“Busy enough. We could be looking for a man like you, Mr Parsons. You’re fit, despite all that flying. You could be at the peak of your career with the right guidance. I have a proposition for you.” He puts down his glass and brings his alcoholic lips to my ear to whisper.

“But that’s illegal,” I say.

Mr Tom takes another sip of his wine and daintily wipes his mouth. “You will be amply compensated Mr Parsons.”