Harry and the Egg E-Book

Susan Duxbury

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 37

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

5 short and humorous stories; also suitable for language students. Harry and the Egg. Mr. Tiddles' Prize. Two of a Different Kind. Uncle Lewis' Revenge. The Short-Legged Flamingo

Leseprobe

Table of contents

Harry and the Egg

.

Mr. Tiddles' Prize:

Two of a different kind

Uncle Lewis’ Revenge

.

The Short-Legged Flamingo

Harry and the Egg.

When people ask me how I find the energy to walk up that steep road, six-days-a-week and at my age, I offer them one of those Gobstoppers I keep in my pocket, those that change colour when you suck them. Mind you, I don't get them mixed up with the 'Wuffies' I also keep at the ready; a reliable distraction for vicious dogs, and those that insist upon licking your ears.

I start at the 'Moor Valley Spinners & Dyers Ltd', where registered mail must be signed by Miss Jackson, a charming lady who has been Mr. Chapman's secretary since I started walking up this Yorkshire hillside. I often stop at her office for a chat. When I mentioned that Nelly was taking classes on home-dressmaking, she gave me a beautiful length of finely woven mohair-tweed.

''It'll make a lovely skirt for your wife,'' she said.

I cross the bridge over the river, which looks even more picturesque now that the trees along the embankment are budding into different shades of green. Opposite the mill and built parallel to the river, are three streets of 'back to backs' where most of the workers live. To be honest, it took me a while to get used to the tongue-twisting names of those who have come from foreign countries to work here. Take Mr. and Mrs. Mikolaiwicz for example, living in old Grandma Mason’s house along Alma Row. He works in the weaving and she is in the canteen. Now how can anyone get their tongue around a name like that?

Further up the road is the Catholic Church and good old Father McCarthy. At this time of the morning, he is usually out on some godly mission: driving his old Bentley and causing traffic-jams. I hand over the mail to Mary, his Irish housekeeper, who invariable enquires after my health, since I mentioned the doctors had advised me to get an outdoor job, because of gas that got into my lungs during the war.

Although I enjoy working as a postman, I must admit that the stage is my passion. You see, in my spare time, I'm a 'stand-up' comedian with the 'Happy Hours Concert-Party', which I've been with since it was founded, twenty years ago. Some say I'm a born clown, and even though I enjoy a bit of slapstick now and again, I strongly appreciate a good practical joke. For such purposes, I often borrow an odd item from the concert-party's prop-box; like the big-black-hairy-rubber-spider we used for the 'Miss Muffet sat on her tuffet' sketch. No, I never expected them to call the fire-brigade when they found it lodged between the mill's post.

At our open-air concert in the park last summer, I did a successful imitation of Charlie Chaplin, which gained much applause and a couple of encores. Of course, I couldn't resist wearing the baggy trousers the following day, and letting them drop as I handed Mrs. Saunders a letter from her daughter. Her eyeballs nearly fell out, when she saw my ‘Union Jack' underpants. That had been a successful gag at the 'Soldiers and Sailors Annual Christmas Dinner' too.

Dave, who has been my good friend for many years, keeps a flock of about ten 'Rode Island Reds' at the top of a wooded hill behind his house, half-way up the road. On a Saturday morning, I always stop for a cup of tea; to talk about poultry-keeping and politics. Sometimes, on a Friday evening, we’ll meet for a game of dominoes at the ‘Junction’. I'll never forget when he told me his hens had gone off-laying. ''If things don't improve, they'll end up in the pot!'' he said, which made me suspect that he'd been at his elderberry-wine again. He never kills any of his hens, and I'm pretty sure he wouldn't eat them if he did. Then my thoughts turned to the concert party's propbox, and I remembered the 'Ugly Duckling' sketch we did at the Sunday School picnic, last July.

…

Dave's wife had gone shopping when I arrived at their house that Friday morning.

At least that's one hurdle got over, I thought, as I pushed the electricity bill through the letter box: and another when I discovered that the neighbours weren't home either. So nobody saw me climb those over-dimensional self-made steps leading up to the chicken-run, which are more suited to Dave's long legs than mine. It's a lovely spot up there. I do appreciate the pretty countryside around the village, the carpet of