A Short, Though Very Welcome Break!

My apologies for the unannounced leave of absence – I needed a break from computer screens and storytelling, so went for walks and too many pub lunches. Kicked a ball with the kids and talked with my wife about anything other than writing; looked at spring flowers, the rain on stone walls and miles of open moorland, all the things that normal people do. Anyway, I’m back behind my pc and already the wheels are grinding. Balance has gone through the window and that maddening, right eye tic has resurrected; all is as it was – time for that little boy in Africa to get on with his story...

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An excerpt:

So every Friday night we trundled clubwards in our now, sun-faded, patchy-black Morris Minor. Dad even used the same parking space; we were conforming. Like other Friday-nighters, we would climb out from our car and crunch across the gravelled car park, lured like mindless moths for glass-panelled, overly curtained front doors. Some people said hello and some didn’t. Once inside we were absorbed then ignored. People talked, drank and waited en masse for the draw; that magical ten pound note was all that mattered.

For thirty miles in any direction, this was it – a weekly high point contrived by company hierarchy to keep the workers happy. This was mining life, Rhodesia style; as long as the beer stayed cold and the crisps crunchy, no one gave a toss. An hour later and our usual legless, master of ceremonies shouted for quiet and spun his company workshop manufactured, lottery drum – steel thick enough to fend of Howitzer shells, shaft mounted and held in place by two pillar block bearings, it would, if allowed to, remove several fingers with one, single spin.

The drum slowed, with every pair of wanton eyeballs glued to it. Incantations were whispered, prayers said, coughs stifled and lucky coins were clutched and fiddled with. Like some giddy, fairground ride it rocked to a standstill. Wing nuts were slipped from a steel access door and in went the hand of fate.

‘Number thirty nine – Missus Oberholtzer!’

Silence. Everyone held their breath. To claim the money you had to be there – in the club. Relieved sniggers. Save for waiters bringing drinks, no one moved. The Oberholtzers were missing.

‘Spin it again, she’s not here!’

So he stuck back the lid and for a second nail-biting time, spun the killer drum. ‘Number 8 – Mister and Missus Whittam!’

Mother shrieked, spilled her drink and stabbed me with her cigarette – albeit, accidently. Up went her hand.

‘That’s me!’

Like a tornado she made for the stage to claim her ten quid. My dad sort of tried to shrink and when I grinned at him, pretended we weren’t related. My ear throbbed from the fag burn.

Mother collected her winnings, promised half to my dad, told me to rub some spit on my ear and waved for the waiter. Dad disappeared back to the bar; I could hear him singing Nellie Dean because he was rich now, and because it was Friday night...

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