An Ill Wind and Other Short Stories , livre ebook

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd - Eartha Brooks

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49 pages

English

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This is a collection of short stories of events and emotions of everyday folk, humorously told, based on the author''s experiences and observations covering work and relaxation. The first is set in the Yorkshire Dales involving estate agency and farming and includes a mystery and romance. The second and third stories cover the less attractive side of human nature. The two stories preceding the last one relate incidents in childhood during WWII whilst the last covers the author''s teaching experiences in a variety of schools and related recollections.

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Short story

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Publié par	Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
Date de parution	28 février 2020
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781528952224
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	4 Mo

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Extrait

An Ill Wind and Other Short Stories
Eartha Brooks
Austin Macauley Publishers
2020-02-28
An Ill Wind and Other Short Stories About the Author Dedication Copyright Information © Acknowledgements It’s an Ill Wind Behind the Scenes The Gilded Cage Those Were The Days Life at the Chalkface
About the Author
Born before WWII the author always wanted to teach. She has taught all ages in a variety of state schools and a private school, mostly in Special Needs.
Whilst raising her family she founded a mothers’ club and ran a silver threads club for 18 years. She has a deep love for the countryside and animals, especially dogs, enjoyed caravanning on small sites and finds humour in most situations.
Dedication
For all those who appreciate the humour in everyday life.
Copyright Information ©
Eartha Brooks (2020)
The right of Eartha Brooks to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781786938473 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781528952224 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2020)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ
Acknowledgements
Thanks for the help and support of my immediate family.
It’s an Ill Wind
Wham! Eleanor woke with a start. What on earth was that? She sat up in her bed and looked at the clock. Two fifteen a.m. Switching on the light she could see everything was in order; nothing had fallen down. She listened. This was no wind. Everything was quiet. Her nearest neighbours were a good three-quarters of a mile away across the Dales. It had been an exhausting Monday so she slipped down under the duvet and was soon fast asleep.
When her alarm went off, she cancelled it, intending to have another quarter of an hour but she overslept. Scrambling into the same clothes she had worn the day before, she swiftly combed her hair, seized her car keys, dashed out, locked the door and drove as fast as she dared to Sprost’s Estate Agency in Mecklesham.
Eleanor was five minutes late. She crept in, taking off her coat as she went, settled at her desk and started up her computer. Within a couple of minutes her boss, Theodore Prost, staggered in, wheezing and coughing. He was well over seventy but refused to retire. He was mean, always miserable and had no interest in, or compassion for, his two female staff.
“Get those visits you did yesterday typed up and circulated today,” he ordered. He puffed on his inhaler.
“With Christmas coming up, they need to be out and make sure you get them into the press.”
Gasping, he struggled back to his office and left the door ajar.
Ann, Eleanor’s colleague, grimaced at Eleanor. “I’ll give you a hand,” she said.
Eleanor concentrated hard, typed up the details and put in the photos while Ann collated them, addressed the envelopes and filed copies away, in between dealing with customer enquiries. Mr Prost took most of the phone calls as he wanted to always be in control.
The women were only allowed half an hour for lunch and with Prost ever present there was little hope of any relaxing conversation, but Eleanor noticed Ann looked pale and drawn and didn’t seem her cheerful self.
As soon as the half hour was up, Prost appeared and handed three addresses to Eleanor.
“Get those done this afternoon,” he snapped. “The weather’s on the change. That farm could sell for quite a bit.” With that he shuffled back to his office, wheezing noisily.
Eleanor glanced at the list. Two addresses were close, the first a terraced house in the town. Number two was a bungalow on the edge of town whilst the farm, Hill Top Farm, only had a phone number; Prost hadn’t bothered to get directions. Eleanor phoned the vendor, Mr Alan Haskins, but there was no reply. She left a message then she set off and noticed the weather was significantly colder. The visit to the terraced house went well but she was held up longer than she had hoped by the owner of the bungalow, who was recently bereaved and very lonely.

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After a few enquiries, having failed to find Hill Top Farm marked on the map, Eleanor found herself driving up a steep hill. She had already taken a couple of dead end tracks and hoped her intuition was right. She was relieved to see a sign, ‘Hill Top Farm’ and a farmhouse and outbuildings built into the hillside.
As she approached the heavy farmhouse door a dog barked. It was now dusk. The door was opened by a sturdy, tall man.
“Mr Alan Haskins? I’m Eleanor from Sprost’s Estate Agency.”
“I’d given up on you today,” he replied in a strong Yorkshire voice. “I got your message when I returned from dealing with the sheep.”
“I’m sorry I’m late, but Mr Prost was keen for me to get here today.”
“Right, well, we’d best take a quick look round outside first.”
He picked up a lamp and followed by Meg, his Border Collie, they did a quick tour of the barn and outhouses. A frost was already forming. Eleanor was glad to get into the warmth of the farm kitchen.
“You look round the rooms and I’ll make you a cup of tea. You could do with some warming up, by the look of you,” remarked Alan. Eleanor made a mental note that she must look out her winter boots, scarf and gloves. She relished the hot cup of steaming tea as she made notes of the other particulars, noticing the bright blue eyes and rugged features of the vendor as she did so. She promised to get the details sent out as quickly as possible, including a copy for him.
Alan saw her out. “Take care down that hill,” he warned. “It’s getting very slippery.”
Eleanor drove gingerly down the hill, reached the main road and realised that Alan’s farm was on the other side of the dale where her isolated shepherd’s cottage, ‘Ramsthorn,’ was.
Felix, her rescue cat, was sitting on her doorstep and delighted to see her. She fed him and took out her last meal for one from the fridge. “Must shop tomorrow,” she thought. She made her sandwiches for tomorrow then sat on the sofa, and with Felix purring on her lap, fell asleep. She awoke late and cold.
“Drat!” she thought. She intended to have a shower and wash her hair, but the heating had gone off and the cold had woken her. She stumbled up the steep stairs and was soon sleeping soundly.
Wham! It went again. Time, two fifteen a.m. Everything still and silent. Oh well! She’d investigate in the morning, and set her alarm a little earlier.

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On Wednesday morning she forced herself out of bed, despite the frosty windows, showered and dressed, climbed down the stairs, opened the door at the bottom and stepped straight into a cat’s mess. “Oh Lord,” she said to herself, “I forget to put Felix out for his constitutional before I went up.”
By the time she had cleaned up and had thrown her shoes out, made a quick cuppa, and eaten a small bowl of cereal, she went out and discovered her car was covered in ice. After warming up the engine and frantically scraping off the ice, she finally set off up the hill.
Prost came up to her desk just as she sat down. “I see we’re almost on time this morning,” he sneered. “Now get these visits you did yesterday typed up and sent off.”
Once more the women worked hard together. When it was lunchtime, Eleanor discovered she’d left her sandwiches behind so Ann shared hers with her and again Eleanor noticed she wasn’t as cheerful as normal.
About two p.m., Prost came wheezing in. “I’m off to the doctor’s,” he announced, throwing down his keys. “If I’m not back, make sure you lock up properly and, as the weathers not good (another puff on his spray) there probably won’t be many customers wanting viewings, so you can sort out and update the window displays.” As he stumbled out of the door the women exchanged smiles of relief. As they worked on the window, a young engaged couple called in, looking for a small property. After taking down their particulars Eleanor noticed tears in Ann’s eyes as they left.
“Whatever’s the matter?” she enquired.
“Well, it’s Roger, my fiancé. I think he’s seeing someone else,” Ann replied, the tears welling up in her eyes. “It was my birthday on Monday. He never took me out or gave me a present, not even a card! I thought we would be getting married in the spring but every time I raise the subject he refuses to discuss it and says I’m paranoid.”
“You could do with some cheering up,” Eleanor stated. “After work we’ll go for a drink.”
They shut up promptly and headed for the Red Lion in the square. They ordered drinks and sat down comfortably in a snug corner of the bar. The food smelled good so they ordered a cooked meal. While waiting, Ann revealed that she’d met Roger in the spring. He worked in a local bank and was very ambitious. He had a flashy sports car and throughout the summer Ann had enjoyed trips through the Dales, to York and Harrogate and sometimes the coast. Recently, he had claimed he was doing a lot of overtime to put towards a house.
They were just finishing their meal, when a man and woman came into the bar.
“What are you drinking, Helen?”
Ann froze. She looked at Eleanor and mouthed, “It’s him. It’s Roger.”
Pulling her hood up over her face, she fled out of the door. Eleanor paid the bill and followed as swiftly as she could. She found Ann crying bitterly against a lamppost.
“How could he? How could he?” Ann kept repeating.
“Look, I can’t leave you like this. Let me take you home.”
Ann lived in a small bedsit above a shop just around the corner.