Third Book of Short Stories , livre ebook

Andrews UK - Lyn Funnell

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22 pages

English

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Description

The Third book in the Short Stories by Lyn Funnell series of easy reading stories that cover a variety of situations, places and characters. My Box, Village People, Neddie the Nerd, The Newsmaker and more will keep you entertained while your on the move, enjoying a quite Sunday or reading in bed.

Sujets

Short story

Informations

Publié par	Andrews UK
Date de parution	10 juillet 2014
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781849893671
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0100€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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Title Page

The Third Book of Short Stories

By
Lyn Funnell

Publisher Information

The Third Book of Short Stories published in 2011 by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

Copyright © Lyn Funnell

The right of Lyn Funnell to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

My Box

I live in this box.
It’s not just any old box; it’s my Special Box. My Home. My Permanent Residence, in a Pedestrian Subway.
Sounds posh, doesn’t it?
I don’t know how long I’ve lived here. Days blend and blur. I’m not sure how old I am now. The postman doesn’t deliver birthday cards to my box!
Over the years I’ve collected things; rags, newspapers, clothes, that bottle there. Nice shape isn’t it? It’s Portuguese. And my tin. People drop money in it as they hurry past. Funny, they never look at me or talk to me. It’s like I’m invisible. I used to talk to them. They’d pull a funny painful face, lower their heads and rush away without answering. I don’t bother now. And they never touch my stuff. I can leave it all day and nobody nicks a thing!
Once I was beautiful. I was! Could get any bloke I wanted.
And what did I do? Picked the wrong one, that’s what I did. Boy, did he change after the wedding! Drank like a fish and beat me black and blue.
Couldn’t spare a fag while I’m telling you this, could you? It upsets me, the past. Cheers mate – and I’ll take one for later if that’s alright. You’re a star, mate. Nice lighter. Disposable isn’t it? That’d come in handy for lighting fires to warm me up. Oh thanks! I appreciate it.
Anyway, I started having a few drinks before he came home – to ease the pain. And one day he didn’t come home.
I only found out he hadn’t paid the mortgage or any bills for months when the bailiffs chucked me out. Then Social Services took our kids into care. I haven’t seen them since.
Vaguely I remember walking around and crying. I bought some gin and aspirins. I think I was going to top myself.
Some bloke asked what was the matter, then he took me against a wall. I didn’t care any more. He said he’d pay me, but he stole my handbag instead, with the aspirins in it and all my money.
So I staggered along. Everything was dark. No daylight. Then I collapsed beside the river and waited to die.
And they found me. The people who live in the streets. No, we’re not homeless. We’ve all got homes. And if we don’t like them, we move! Or get moved!
Anyway, they took me to their fire and shared their food and drink with me. (We share everything – well, most things!) And they taught me how to survive. And that’s what I do – survive.
We all get on well. We never row. We argue – you know, ‘You shut up!’ ‘No, YOU shut up!’ But we never fight. We push each other sometimes, but nothing violent. Mostly we can’t be bothered!
Any bottles and sarnies get passed round as we sit by the fire. I’ve never had such good mates.
There was a Scottish bloke. He took care of me; kept me warm in doorways. He went home. His brother found him and said their mum was ill. So he left. He promised to come back for me when he’d got things straightened out. I missed him. I cried a lot.
Couldn’t spare another fag could you? Oh thanks mate!
Those were the dark days, the only time I took meths – well, mostly the only time. I don’t like it. Makes me feel bad.
He came back to find me once, but I was doing time and he went home again. The Others said he looked dead posh. He’d dried out and got a job.
He wouldn’t have wanted me any more.
Yeah, it’s cold in the winter. There are hostels and things round the city, but they don’t let us in if we’ve had a few drinks. And how could we get through the night without a few drinks, eh? I don’t like sleeping in a room with a load of other people. Some of them have disgusting habits! Keep me awake half the night! I prefer my box. It’s more personal.
Lots of places are closing down due to costs and cutbacks. Bloody Government doesn’t care about the likes of us. We’re the Invisible Minority Group. We don’t exist in their eyes. They don’t like us talking to the tourists. But it’s our country too! I didn’t pay all those taxes to be treated like muck! I’ll go where I like and talk to who I like, and if it upsets them, they can stuff it!
Some days I go round the phone-boxes. I check them for faults, vandalism, dirty messages or muck and litter. Then I phone 151 and say, ‘Send a man round with his mop and bucket.’ It’s disgusting what some people do! They all know me at 151. They have a little chat and thank me for my Community Spirit.
It’s not the sort of spirit that I prefer though!
I was doing my phone-box rounds when I found my box. Outside an electrical shop. It’d had one of those upright freezers in it and hadn’t been torn or squashed at all.
Three days or more I carted that box round with me.
One day there was a really rotten storm and I ended up under here. And that’s where me and my box have stayed.
I filled it with bedding from outside charity shops. People leave bags there at night and we go through it. Well why not? Charity begins at home doesn’t it? And if it doesn’t, it should do!
It’s funny, but however bad I am, I always come back to my box at night.
In the morning I make my bed and tidy up. Then I go out for the day.
If I’m hungry or ill I go shoplifting. I take a bottle and wait outside to get nicked.
Most times the staff can’t be bothered so I hang around for a while, then I keep the bottle.
Once I felt really bad. I hadn’t eaten for days. No-one gave me any money. And I’d caught the flu or something. Funny, I don’t usually get things like that – must be the healthy outdoor life! Anyway, I kept taking bottles outside and hiding them, but the staff just ignored me. No pride in their jobs any more, people!
When the Security Guard came back from his tea break of chatting up the birds or something he wouldn’t touch me! I begged, ‘Call the police, I’m a shoplifter!’ Then he got on his radio and the police came and took me away.
They know me. They’re mostly kind. They usually just give me a cup of tea and a sarnie and put me in the cell for the night. They don’t even lock the door. Sure, you get the odd Little Hitler, but they don’t last long. The others don’t like them. They get moved on.
The magistrates make me do porridge for a week or two, depending on how they feel, and I get showers and proper meals, then they boot me out onto the streets again.
Last time, the doctor told me if I don’t stop drinking my kidneys’ll pack up. Yeah, right! I must tell my butler not to serve me any more Champers! Or I can plug my kidney machine next to my box!
You’ve got to have a laugh haven’t you? To survive.
The odd drink doesn’t hurt. Stuff like wine and ciders good for you. It’s made with natural ingredients. Trouble is, it’s too pricey. And it doesn’t work quick enough. When the weather’s bad you need a good shot of whisky to warm the bones!
I’d never take drugs. Drugs are destroying the standards in our country! A lot of the younger ones are on drugs. They’re not like us and mostly keep to themselves. They laugh at us. They think they look better than us with their long matted hair and their studs and tattoos. They think they’re trendy.
I see the people hurrying past my box all dressed in their fine clothes and they never look happy. You never hear laughter echoing down here – not sober laughter anyway!