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Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd - Isla Plumtree

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126 pages

English

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A retired rose grower faces up to a life-long lie, a trainee undertaker undertakes his first solo assignment, Mrs Santa takes revenge, a church organist is late for a most important wedding, a trouble shooter wishes he wasn't, aging aristocrats relive their hippie youth... all are navigating the benefits and perils of auld acquaintance. Pause for a moment and listen to their stories. Their lives may be trying, but unkindness meets its comeuppance. Set mainly in Scotland, this is a book for your pocket, your briefcase, the glove compartment of the car or the bedside. It's for dipping into when you're waiting at the dentist, or on the commute, or just want a cuppa with a friend. The author hopes it makes you laugh sometimes, maybe recognise or empathise, and go back to whatever you were doing feeling you've had a break but haven't had to eat chocolate to do so.

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Publié par	Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
Date de parution	08 janvier 2021
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781528964074
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

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Auld Acquaintance
Isla Plumtree
Austin Macauley Publishers
2021-01-08
Auld Acquaintance Auld Acquaintance Author’s Note Sunshine Later 20/20 The Amor Vincit Omnes Epic Or a Caterwaul of Epic Proportions The Visitor Auld Lang Syne Child’s Play Bedtime Story Adonis in the Spring 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 The Cutting Edge of Freedom A Small Dose of Death The Epic of Twelfth Night and Nothing Much Ado Some Time Later: Post Scriptum: Apple Strudel Sunday Roast The Hub of the Wheel The Shipping News Accountant Millstones Ho Ho Ho A Marriage Is Announced Grown-Ups! Challenging the Expectations of Youth Ode to Joy Let’s Meet for Coffee The Power of Names Heart Attack Love Song for Orsino The Picnickers By Royal Appointment On the Shock of the Royal Birthday Dishonour King John Reflects on Eight Hundred Years of Magna Carta Magna Carta changed the world, says PM David Cameron, June 15 2015 Fin The Long Game Annual Leave From the Memoirs of an Artist Supply and Demand The Education of an Astrophysicist I’m Dancin’ Ms Colquhoun The Epic of Ratputin the Rat and Boney the Cat: A Case of Mistaken Identity and a Little White Lie The Harvester 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 Coming Home
Isla Plumtree lives in a cottage on a hillside in Sutherland overlooking forests, fields and the sea. Rich diversity of wildlife, glorious landscapes and the sense of history around every corner are the backdrop to daily life in this beautiful highland area of Scotland. A retired headteacher, Isla enjoys photography, studying moths and gardening.
This book is for Catherine, Glynis and Joyce, of course.
Copyright © Isla Plumtree (2021)
The right of Isla Plumtree to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author 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 unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781528923217 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781528964074 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2021)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ
I wish to express my gratitude to Austin Macauley for their willingness to consider the work of new authors, and for their ready help and encouragement.
Author’s Note
To all my auld acquaintance: don’t worry, you are definitely not in this book. If you are disappointed, I’m sorry, but all these characters are imaginary, except for one or two public figures who have walk-on parts. I hope they don’t feel unfairly treated. They have my utmost respect.
I have very early memories of being told made-up stories by my mother while she ironed, and of being read to by my father as he recovered from pneumonia… read it again (and again and again) Daddy… The selection of precise words to express an idea, or the shade of an idea, was explained and encouraged by them both. Once I could read for myself, Rosemary Sutcliff, Mary Stewart, E. Nesbit, Rumer Godden and Mary Norton were among the authors I loved, and still do! How fortunate we are to have such riches as these, and others of the more recent era, for our children and young people to delve into. To family, friends, pupils and colleagues who encouraged me to tell stories, whether in letters, on the stage, or in this book, thank you. Sharing thought-pictures in this way is a magic, and a privilege.
My computer sickened and died early in the process of making this book. It was elderly, and the effort required of it proved just too great. I am therefore extremely grateful to my brother Iain, without whose stand-in computer, and cups of tea, nothing would have been accomplished.
And finally, acknowledgement is due to the great Mark Twain, who not only gave the world Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, but who also legitimised the spelling of alright.
Sunshine Later
The Newspaper was already seated at the table in the sunroom. It always was there, waiting, scattering her thoughts with its crackling page turning. She looked at it across the table: it had no arms as such, just a hinged torso with two hands, a domed inch or two of dark, wavy hair above the centre fold, and quite long, rather spindly legs, ending in polished black leather shoes. It could speak; occasionally it did speak in short bursts and mostly to issue instructions. It had no visible ears, and evidence suggested it had none at all, as it would rarely respond to conversation from her end of the table. She didn’t remember agreeing to marry a Newspaper. All that discussion about whether or not she would OBEY. Her father siding with her, and her mother weeping about what people would say if she didn’t make her vows ‘properly’. Her mother was always weeping about what people would say. She wondered what people would have said if she had announced her engagement to a Newspaper. Her mother would have been pleased that it wasn’t a tabloid – she could have met all sorts at university – her grandmother would have been concerned that she was marrying a Scottish national instead of a British national, while her father would have been worried that she would find the Newspaper boring as the years went by. He’d have been right. At the very least, she should have waited until a book came along. She wondered what book she might have liked to have looked at across a table for years and years. The Newspaper cleared its throat, indicating it was getting impatient.
She put out her tongue at it. Once she had felt totally exhilarated when she had made a rude gesture to it with her fingers, but then she had worried that she might get into a habit of that and do it unthinkingly one day. Some habits grew like weeds – bad habits. Good habits, like remembering to take your pills, were sickly plants that withered just days after you planted them.
She brought through the coffee pot and the orange juice. Once she had put the orange juice in the coffee pot and the coffee in the fruit juice jug to see if the Newspaper would notice. It had been very funny. But only up to the point when the Newspaper had sighed, and said that obviously her dementia was getting worse, she’d better make an appointment with the doctor for stronger pills. That hadn’t been funny. She had cried in the kitchen behind the tea towel. The Newspaper didn’t like her to cry. It seemed to exasperate it, but she supposed that was because being paper it was afraid of water. The doctor said it wasn’t dementia, it was depression, but the Newspaper knew better.
She poured coffee into the outsized mug that the Newspaper required for breakfast time. Three sugars, no milk. She stirred it and placed it conveniently for the Newspaper’s right hand and then sat down again and poured her own coffee into the pretty china cup she had chosen for this morning from the many cups and saucers in the kitchen cupboards. She bought them at the charity shop. It was such a shame people didn’t use these lovely cups and saucers anymore. She bought as many as she could, but only one of each design, and the ladies in the shop were used to her now and set aside any they thought she might find particularly pleasing. Today’s was so thin she could see the outline of her hand through it when she held it up to the light like this. The Newspaper rattled and she jumped, spilling coffee on her blouse and on the tablecloth. The Newspaper sighed and turned two pages, one straight after the other. It was definitely getting cross. A hand groped for the mug, which disappeared behind the page. Gulping noises ensued. The nearly emptied mug reappeared and was put down. She refilled it. The Newspaper grunted – strange that a Newspaper’s mouth should be behind its face, at the back of its head, really. Like its eyes. It didn’t have eyes that looked at her but it could see the clock, which was behind its chair, so it must have had eyes at the back of its head. She wondered what colour they were. She couldn’t remember.
“What colour are your eyes?”
“What?”
“What colour are your eyes?”
“The same as they always were.”
“But what colour is that?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, can’t you even remember that now? Are we going to have any breakfast or have you forgotten that’s what we do when we sit at this table in the morning?”
“No. I haven’t forgotten what breakfast is. Just what colour your eyes are.”
“Brown.”
“Brown? Are they? That’s nice. I’ll make omelettes. Eggs are brown.”
And yellow. Beautifully yellow . She might paint this afternoon – a still life. Her eyes saw it taking shape. She’d use the big salt glaze jug that she loved and that appeared in so many of her paintings. She’d bought it as an art student on her first visit to Holland and she’d used it in her Degree Still Life which had won her the Study year award. Beside it, there’d be one of the wide shallow earthenware bowls with cream set to rise in it. She’d use the dairy setting she had created before in her studio. Butter? Yes, there were two packets in the fridge. Fortunately, she always bought unsalted, so it was the authentic colour for farm-churned butter. She would mould the two packets into one large, apparently hand-worked piece, sprinkle it with water and have it on the marble block. The butter pats would be smeared and wet, and some butter balls, or maybe butter shells, would be heaped on a wet wooden platter. She was gathering implements from the kitchen d