Pares , livre ebook

Troubador Publishing Ltd - B. Victorson James

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82 pages

English

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When Thomas, a 50 year old bachelor, goes out shopping on his birthday and ends up in an old fashioned toy store, he doesn't expect to meet a talking bear... The bear seems wise, offering Thomas guidance on love and tips on how to get in touch with his heart. So Thomas takes the bear home.When he falls in love with Hanna, it's the bear who guides him through the ups and downs of this new relationship, steering him every step of the way as he navigates this new and unknown territory. Thomas is considerably older than Hanna, but with the bear's wisdom and gentle guidance, he's able to open his heart and embrace his new relationship.A perfect merger of drama and comedy, of light-hearted humour and deeper experiences, Pares is a heartwarming tale of what is possible when you open yourself up to a new adventure.

Sujets

Contemporary romance

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Publié par	Troubador Publishing Ltd
Date de parution	28 janvier 2021
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781800468924
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	2 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0200€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

PARES
The story
of
Thomas and Hanna
James B. Victorson
Copyright © 2020 James B Victorson

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events 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.

Matador®
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Tel: 0116 279 2299
Email: books@troubador.co.uk
Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador
Twitter: @matadorbooks

Author email: jbvictorson@gmail.com

ISBN 9781800468924

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

‘You are the apple of my eye’ Hanna said.
‘You and I are mates for life.’
‘Call it peers’ Thomas answered. ‘Pares in Latin.’
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 1
Santa was afoot. The inner city was a hive of shopping crowds buzzing like a swarm of bees. Colourful Christmas lights painted the streets with a soupy palette of magic. The peeling bells in the church tower generously sprinkled various Christmas melodies as crystal flowers across the rooftops. Thomas was standing at the window of his house staring out. His back slightly arched and his head bent forward. A smudged sallow shirt partly hanging out of his trousers. With his hands he was clutching his swollen belly. Constipation! The waistband of his jeans annoyingly pinched his bladder. Groaning he let out his belt a notch. With slow angular movements he massaged his abdomen and burped loudly.
The central heating tapped for attention. The room was warm and stuffy. Droplets of sweat itched his forehead. He took one step sideways and turned down the thermostat a few degrees. Then he stationed himself at the window once again. He moved his hand through his hair that was hanging down almost to his shoulders in grey-blonde stringy curls. A bit worrisome he felt the crown of his head, noticing that yet again the bold patch had widened.
The gleaming tiles of the pavement indicated that it was raining, but he saw no droplets fall. It was more like a slow haze pulling a blurry curtain through the street. A grey mass ruthlessly dissolving all colours. A vague feeling of despondency was oozing into his stomach at the sight of this foggy world. Although the afternoon was still young, dusk was already hovering. At the emergence of a dark cloud he suddenly noticed the flashing of the streetlights which cheered him up a bit. Behind him the rusty voice of Chris Rea sang “Coming home for Christmas”. A bit bored he switched off his stereo installation that dominated the room like a mini apartment building. The sudden silence pressed like cotton wool against his ears.
From the cherry wood secretaire, an heirloom from his parents, something white fell to the floor before his feet. Laboriously he picked it up, an envelope which he had not opened yet. Using the nail of his thumb as a paperknife he pulled out a smudgy greeting card: “Hi Tom, twenty one again? Half a century more like? All the best from neighbour Harry”. It reminded him that he just turned fifty today. He straightened up musing for a while with the card in his hand.
The phone shook him out of his reverie. Not saying his name he answered: ‘Hallo?’. A deep smoky growl came up like the hoarse sound of an old lion that had lost its roar. ‘Well, Harry’ Thomas said with a dull voice. ‘No, I am not celebrating today. No, not now and not tomorrow either.’ He wasn’t in the mood for his intrusive joviality and tried to discourage any attempt at conversation.
It was silent for a while.
‘How about a pint?’ Harry’s sandpaper-like voice scoured his eardrums.
Thomas considered it for a moment. The inevitability of a social gathering was increasingly forcing itself on him.
‘All right, pencil it in for the coming weekend’ he finally gave in with a sigh and put the phone down at once. A conversation with Harry usually made head nor tail and always had to be terminated firmly. He never got offended or deterred. Mostly he unloaded his spirit for a while as a stray firecracker until the powder was spent.
Thomas stretched out with a yawn. In recent years he had paid little attention to his birthdays. Since his parents passed away celebrating certain days had lost its meaning. Including his birthday. Because it fell right before Christmas he used to combine it with a visit to his parents. Now his calendar was a set of blank spots. Moreover he had been unemployed for a while, victimised by a round of downsizing in the graphic design company to which he had dedicated the best part of his life. The board couldn’t even afford a farewell party.
By default he decided to put on a coat and headed downtown to window shop. Not that he planned to buy anything, because whenever he went out shopping intentionally he rarely managed to succeed. Faltering from store to store he would return home emptyhanded. Fortune prefers to present itself as a fluke.
As it is Thomas had nothing special in mind. In the inner city he parked his bicycle in the designated brackets pulling two key chains through it. It had become a habit since once his new two-wheels had been snatched away behind his back, just as someone kept him talking, distracting him from paying attention. In the meantime the rain had turned into waves of fine sleet. Stirred up by the wind they became a real blight. People hastened past the overloaded display windows with retracted necks and sulky faces finishing their obligatory Christmas chores. Some holding a reluctant child with one hand and a heavy bag in the other.
Thomas turned up the collar of his coat and pushed his hands deep into his pockets. He had no idea which way to walk. He was just standing around indecisive for a while as if he were waiting for something. He just stood there not feeling altogether at ease. Actually it simply didn’t occur to him what he came to do.
Just when he thought that it would be better to get back home he had a hunch, instead of looking around, to look up. Above him at the canopy of a shop he spotted a little Santa Claus, dressed in a red suit with white piping. It was hanging there with one hand attached. With the other he waved around him randomly, as if he was on traffic duty. The wind played with him. He seemed totally subjected to its whims.
At the very moment that Thomas was about to avert his eyes the little puppet suddenly froze. His arm which had been aimlessly flapping around now pointed decisively across the street despite the tugging of the wind. Looking in that direction he saw a shop which was unfamiliar to him. In a flash he got the impulse to follow this lead. Crossing the street he looked over his shoulder. Little Santa had resumed his former habit of waving lively gestures to the passers-by. No one took notice of him.
Standing in front of the window he didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. It appeared to be an old fashioned toy store with assorted small items. It was all a bit of a jumble, as if the window-dresser had been interrupted in his work and had forgotten all about it. Little farm animals, nostalgic jigsaw puzzles, a cardboard castle with knights made of gypsum, looking a bit haggard. It was a sweet bunch, a frippery shop. It all had a kind of clumsiness which he found rather amusing.
After hesitating for a moment he decided to enter. The stubborn big brass latch jammed a bit, but upon a little insistence it succumbed with a soft grinding noise, as if it was rusted shut for ages. When the door swung open a coquettish little bell welcomed him in. Engulfed by a warm exhilarating wave of ancient scents he was taken back in time with a tug. Abducted to his early childhood when the world was still fresh and exciting and all things left a deep impression.
The counter was unoccupied and no staff present. Entranced he slowly shuffled through the shop. The old oak plank floor creaked with little admonishing noises under his feet. Each step took him further back in time. With growing astonishment he observed that the furniture and the toys appeared to originate from the distant past as well. Antique cabinets with little toy cars and dolls made of tin. Minuscule steam trains of old. Boxes filled with Meccano. Colourful children’s books. It was a feast of recognition. He indulged intensely in this unexpected bliss until it almost ached. Gradually losing all sense of time he was languidly carried away on this journey through the past. He was a little boy again, looking about with eyes wide with amazement, enchanted by a world where imagination and reality coalesce.
‘I see you’ came a gentle humming voice out of nowhere, ‘but you didn’t see me.’
Initially Thomas assumed that it was a child playing hide-and-seek behind the boxes. But upon a second look he detected a fluffy pale brown bear, checking him out with