The Mad English E-Book

Katharina Flowers

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 146

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

In the Cotswolds and beyond, far out to Africa Way back in the sixties, in the good old times May it be in civvy street or in the Army I will remember with you my friend Just what a treat life could be A lovely collection of funny short stories that will bring you back to a by gone time and leave you with a smile on your lips...

Leseprobe

Laughter is the sun that drives winter from the human face. — Victor Hugo

With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come. — William Shakespeare

Preface

Sincerely regretting that this book was not written in its due form, a Stand-Up Comedy script, I nevertheless hope you will discover quite some enjoyment between its pages. Throughout my childhood, I had the honor of seeing my father performing all these stories from his past. My sister and I would often sit at meals watching him and laughing so badly that tears would run down our faces. We were unable to take one bite! He would act the parts as authentic as anyone could possibly be. Though the mimic and intonation have disappeared in this version, I hope your imagination will fill the gap.

Katharina Flowers

CHAPTERS

The Bike Ride

The Oven

The Trench

The Rifle

Hanging on a Nail

The Piano

The Rotten Food

“Where's my Shirt?“

The Grand Party

The Wrong Way Up

The Fancy Dress Party

Flat out

Guard on the Gate

An Ordinary Day

The Sky is the Limit

Lightening and Explosives

Watermanship

The Tug

That's the British Army

Towards another Horizon

Food and Lions

With a Cooking Spoon

The Rhino

The Uproar

Bathing in Africa

The Scalp

On a cold winter's evening in 2021, the wooden fire is crackling as the flames dance in the old chimney. The antic high back cushioned armchair is perfectly positioned to allow the occupant to soak all the warmth while excluding the slight chill of the draft that passes behind him towards the passageway. The wind is blowing outside, letting the branches of the nearby tree crack. With a faint gaze towards the flames, I allow my thoughts to drift.

Set a long way down the path, sat in contempt of the past, I see a long flow of jolly memories in my mind's eye. Let us stroll along together and rewind time.

The Bike Ride

With a slight grin on my face, I fall in the year 1965 in a quaint Cotswold village named Bourton-on-the-Hill. A stroll along the main street will let you perceive the village had apparently stood still in time. On this particular street, the typical Cotswold stone cottages were lined in a row. Each of them displayed the characteristic features one would expect to encounter there: the white sash-windows on the first floor, outlined through the surrounding stone lintel, and the dark wooden entrance door down below. Several homes had a lovely wisteria covering the face of the cottage yet letting the bare stone-work peek through in some places. Other dwellings were laid a touch further back from the road, allowing some space for a small front garden. A great diversity of flowers would sprout up every spring, enlightening the complete village to the delight of the odd passerby.

Back in the sixties, the village shop at the end of the main street would incorporate the center of social meetings. Most villagers would step in there at some moment of the day to collect the papers, buy some cigarettes and, most importantly, discover the new local gossip. A little further down the road, the pub was to be found. The villagers would gather of an evening in the White Swan and let the day unwind pleasantly with a pint of beer in their hands.

Further again down that same street, in this magical little village, came the house where I was to stay in lodgings for almost one year. Two miles away, laid the harbor where I was boat building. The location being the main reason I chose to move here, I must confess I was not to be deceived, for the Misses and Mister of the House were also magical in a very special way.

On this Sunday morning, the main road was empty. Sitting in my bedroom, I could hear the hustle down below as Oliver and his wife Olive made their way out onto the street with the small new motorbike he had bought for her. The local shop was located on the other end of the village, as we have previously realized while strolling by. Therefore, Oliver had wished a motorbike would help his wife with the shopping and save her from having to carry the heavy bags all the way home. Opening my sash-window to watch, I poked my head outside, knowing this was an occasion too good to be missed.

Nobody was about. Oliver held the bike upright for his wife while mumbling some comforting words to help Olive gain confidence for her first ride ever. She was quite a short woman, always wearing a flowery dress with an apron. For this ride, her curly blond hair was carelessly heaved together in a bun. One strand would always peek out and lie over her left eye. With a frequent upward blow, she would clear her vision. Setting quite a contrast to his spouse, Oliver was a tall man with broad shoulders and dark, neatly combed hair. He dressed distinctly and fancied himself to be a ladies' man. He held the bike upright for his wife. She staggered as she passed one leg onto the other side of the BSA 1/50.

Her husband glanced anxiously down the street, maybe hoping secretly the entire village would be still asleep and spare him a witness. In the borough, curtains would frequently fold back as one would pass by. If this was the case this sunny morning, I could not tell.

Still holding the motorbike, Oliver started it as Olive let a small yelp out. She quivered before the bike even began to move. They sat off with Oliver running behind, helping to keep it upright. He was shouting encouragements over the loud thumping of the bike:

"You are doing well!" and "Keep it up!"

Of course, the bike was soon going too fast for him to keep up. So, he shouted louder and louder:

"Carry on darling, you're doing fine! "

By now, Olive was advancing without assistance. She was zigzagging. The puffing Oliver called even louder.

"Keep it up darling, I'm still holding you!"... "I'm still there!"

As she finally realized he was no longer holding the bike, she suddenly wobbled badly and fell off. The bike tipped to one side and fell slightly against a wall. Whereas Olive sat in the middle of the main street with her stockings showing and her frock over her head.

Oliver was quite a way back by then. Out of breath and jogging as fast as he could, he finally regained his wife, only to be badly told off for not helping her. She heaved herself onto her feet and remained in her temper while walking all the way back down the street, her husband pushing the bike along. This was Olive's first and last ride ever.

The Oven

January was striding along. The days were cold. The nights were outstretched. Every morning I undertook the journey to the boat building site next to the river. And every evening I would make my way home after a long day's work. Stepping into the entrance hall of the dwelling, the warmth covered me for the first time in hours. I hang my coat in the small cupboard, the only piece of furniture in the rather tiny hallway. As I glanced through to the living room, the tall grandfather's clock in one corner was already showing 6 o'clock: time for our evening meal. Lodgings brought a kind sweet touch: Olive would at this very moment already be preparing the food in the kitchen. All I had to do was to take place in the dining room as swiftly as possible.

Entering the room, I discovered Tom, who was already seated at the table. He was to be my comrade for the largest part of this coming year. Greeting me with a broad smile, I couldn't help being glad this young lad had joined me here in civvy street. It was no piece of cake to leave the forces and find an ordinary job and ordinary accommodation. The long army years had forged a structure in an entirely different world. Nevertheless, we were to find out what we already expected: this was no ordinary accommodation!

Quite some noise was coming out of the kitchen, as we sat waiting. Some pans and pots seemed to have hit the tiles and echoed through the house. A faintly audible moaning reached into the dining room. My mate and I exchanged looks. The hustle and banging started again. Ignoring this, we began a small conversation about our day's work. A substantial amount of time elapsed. The old grandfather's clock struck 7. As the last gong fainted, we started to wonder if we should peek in the kitchen and offer our help. Our rapidly savored lunch sandwiches seemed a long time ago by now. Our stomachs were crying out with hunger. It all seemed quiet, as if Olive was not even in there anymore. Had she left the house?

Suddenly, we heard a terrific bang. The door blew open. Close to falling, a staggering Olive came up the few steps towards our table. Her hair was singed. Her eyebrows were gone. So were her eyelashes. Smoke was still evaporating from her clothes. Her remaining hair seemed to have curled even wilder around her profile. Very white and pasty looking, her lips slightly trembling, she said:

"The oven's blown up!"

Her face was drawn of any expression. She seemed puzzled. Tom grabbed her outstretched arm as she quivered once more. He seated her swiftly by pulling a chair under her wobbling legs.

"The oven..." she sighed again, "just... whop!"

Her scorched hands were faintly waving through the air, as hoping to bring sense to her failing words.

My gaze caught Tom's eyes. We both thought the same. I just knew it! No words were needed to grasp the situation. Olive may have begun the meal behind time. In a hustle, she had most certainly started the gas oven. After several other confusions in the kitchen, she would have wondered why the meal was still not cooked. To investigate the dark oven, she would have struck a match and peeked in with the twinkling flame at the end, advancing closer and closer to the inner of the oven...

At quarter past seven, there we all sat around the table with a mug of tea I had just made. Tom, Olive, and I all had a plate with a single, white bread sliced sandwich in front of us. The motionless Olive remained sitting; her face still blank. And last but not least, on the faces of my mate and mine, a secret grin was to be found.

The Trench

February came along. The days were getting brighter. To improve my income, I started working as a subcontractor on another building site. The work situation in the Boat Building Company allowed me to spare some time for a second activity.

Now, as everyone knows, building sites are the best place for pranks between colleagues, hilarious situations and quite some muddle-ups. Frequently, I was to work with quite a special guy named Chris. Even though each lad here was "one of the kind", our Chris may have met this definition more than anyone. He was still young, a tall fellow with mid-long blond hair that would fall to one side while leaving his ears and back head cleared. He would usually wear an over-sized shirt under his overalls and roll his sleeves up. One would frequently see him wandering around the building site, whistling a hit we had all just heard on the ever-roaring radio. Most of these albums were love songs letting the romantic peek through. Our Chris, with his well-known artichoke heart, always had a darling. He was famous throughout the whole site for taking and making phone calls during working hours.

On one particular morning, I arrived at the building site at 8 spot on. We had splendid weather; the sun had dried up the rain of the previous days. The blue sky was punctuated only by a few lonely clouds. My mood was equally brightening up. I looked around me and sensed that everyone seemed joyful. The crackling radio was playing Haley's "Rock Around the Clock" as the workers moved in pace. Each arriving craftsman was greeted merely.

At this instant, I caught the sight of Chris. He was walking towards the end of the house under construction, carrying some wooden timbers over his right shoulder. The guys on the scaffolding called down to him:

"Hey, Chris! I heard you have a new girlfriend! Didn't one just leave you last Friday?"

Looking up, Chris answered:

"Mind your business! You are always taking the mickey! You just don't understand! Holly is so special. And she really loves me."

He continued his way as the bricklayers laughed. As they then whispered, I knew something was going on. So, I kept my eyes open that day.

Approximately two hours later, I was sanding some trusses behind the house in an elevated area. Beneath where I stood, the removal of the building material, helped by the rain, had created trenches that were still full of mud, left from the previous rainy days. Several planks had been laid over the deep holes to keep swift access to the house's entrances and to the log cabin the workers would use to have a break out of the rain or cold. This cabin also served as an office. The architect's plans would be kept there to end any disagreements about the construction.

Working along, I glanced up to see several bricklayers mumbling to each other and then dropping low behind the half-built-up wall. I turned around to see Chris appear behind me, again carrying building material. The telephone in the cabin suddenly rang. Chris let all his arm load fall to the floor. He started to run. Having accurately balanced over the first slim plank, he placed his foot on the next one to gain the cabin. The timber slid off on the other side and fell sideways into the trench. Chris had tried to step backwards onto solid ground. He quivered for an instant, lost balance, and also fell into the first trench. He seemed to have twisted his leg and moaned. The phone was still ringing, so he jumped up onto the other side and strode off again. He had reached half of the next plank as it snapped in the middle. Chris went flying into the deep mud in trench number two. He swore as he pulled himself out of the mud and onto the bank. He rolled over and rapidly onto his feet as the phone continued to ring.

For the last trench, the plank was missing. Chris glanced hastily around and saw one laying nearby. He bent over to pick it up. As he moved it upwards, an enormous sack of gravel came tipping forwards, spilling all over the ground. Chris emerged from the powdered cloud, coughing. He then balanced over the last trench.

Puffing, Chris reached the door of the cabin. He turned the doorknob, but nothing happened. The door seemed locked. He swore even louder, his cheeks turning bright red, while pulling hard on the knob. With a clack, it came off in his hand. To a disgusted, frustrated and slightly helpless looking Chris, the phone rang one last time and ceased.

Chris just stood there, full of mud. He wiped his face with his sleeve and looked around, trying to catch the sight of the culprits. He knew the planks had been fixed, probably even sewn in the middle. What he didn't know was what I was about to find out: his darling didn't call him that day. That was also fixed!

The Rifle

A few weeks at the most had passed. On another sunny but brisk morning, I rapidly packed my sandwiches and made my way out of the door of “the magic place“ as I had begun to call my lodgings. I swung a leg over my Triumph Motorbike, opened the throttle, and kicked off. After a ride down the main street, I soon reached the open fields and hilly countryside. It was a true delight to feel this freedom. The engine roared as I gained speed. I leant into the bends.

Leaning into the left turn, I suddenly felt a strange sensation in my left leg. A warm patch was spreading into my entire thigh. The road curved to the right. I tossed and twitched. The burning impression started to transfer into pain. It felt like a hundred bee stings. Losing control of my motorbike, I quivered while jerking my leg, as an attempt to shake off the numbing heat. At that instant, my bike hit the curb. In a subjective slow motion, I flew into the air, my bike spinning away from me. My brain pictured the scenery on the other side of the stone wall, as taking a photograph. And then I descended again and hit the ground.

The owner of the nearby house, an old lady with grey hair, came running out. She called aloud:

"Oh dear, I saw you coming down the road and I didn't think you would make the bend! Are you alright?"