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73 pages

English

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Gracious Lies is a collection of five delightfully unsettling short stories that take a lingering peep behind the net curtains of everyday life, love and marriage. In Hand, Foot & Finger, imperious Leonard and his pale wife Audrey head once again to Aunty Lynne's West Country guesthouse. Can Audrey endure another week of toil on the beautiful beaches of Weston-super-Mare? The New Mrs Barefoot is en route, but for faithful family retainer, Dobbo, life may never be the same as he discovers his employer's new wife is not quite the heavenly creature he was expecting. In Lemon, knife-sharp tensions erupt between Claire and husband Trevor, when his reminiscences and red wine consumption look set to ruin a dinner party designed to impress her new boss. While in Upper Rugless, a life of bucolic tranquillity and Victoria sponge is simply not as delightful as it promised to be - as high-spirited Jemima is about to find out. And in Sixty-Six Steps to Mother Gerald and Angela ascend for Christmas lunch. Will it be a case of like mother, like son? And will it be a step too far for the impeccably attired Angela? Peel back the nets and enter, if you dare, the darkly delicious world of Gracious Lies...

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Publié par	Creative Content
Date de parution	30 juin 2013
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781908807106
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0250€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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Gracious Lies
Hilda Lolly
GRACIOUS LIES
First published in 2013
By Creative Content Ltd, Roxburghe House,
273-287 Regent Street, London, W1B 2HA.
Copyright © 2013 Creative Content Ltd
The moral right of Hilda Lolly to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher nor be otherwise circulated in any form or binding or cover other than that in which it is published.
In view of the possibility of human error by the authors, editors or publishers of the material contained herein, neither Creative Content Ltd. nor any other party involved in the preparation of this material warrants that the information contained herein is in every respect accurate or complete and they are not responsible for any errors or omissions, or for the results obtained from the use of such material.
The views expressed in this publication are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the opinion or policy of Creative Content Ltd. or any employing organization unless specifically stated.
Typesetting and cover design by HCT Creative
eISBN 9781908807106

Contents
Sixty-Six Steps to Mother
Lemon
The New Mrs Barefoot
Upper Rugless
Hand, Foot & Finger
Acknowledgments
About the Author
For Mothface & Shmoo
Whatever I have said or sung,
Some Bitter notes my harp would give,
Yea, tho’ there often seem’d to live
A contradiction on the tongue,
Yet Hope had never lost her youth,
She did but look through dimmer eyes;
Or Love but play’d with gracious lies,
Because he felt so fix’d in truth . . .
from In Memoriam
Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Sixty-Six Steps to Mother
Gerald de-gloved and leant forward to squint through his glasses at the cluster of numbered buttons in front of him.
‘I should warn you,’ he said, ‘mother can be a little brusque with strangers.’
‘Oh, marvellous ,’ replied Angela, adjusting her scarf. She looked up at the enormous building. It was a pinkish, greyish colour and at least twenty stories high. As her eyes ascended and danced across the hundreds of windows and balconies, they caught the sun in the white December sky and she felt a tickle behind her nose. Gerald pressed one of the buttons determinedly and quickly re-gloved.
‘She’s completely harmless, of course. As long as you say nice things about her mince pies you’ll be perfectly fine.’
His companion was now fumbling in her handbag for a tissue, but this remark caused the impending sneeze to ebb away and she laughed instead.
‘Oh, goodness!’ she cried, ‘in that case I’ll make sure the compliments come thick and fast.’
As with most of Angela’s quick-witted – and slightly sarcastic – retorts, this one was completely lost on Gerald. He assumed that she was being serious – as was he – and gave her a solemn, ‘Thank you, Angela.’
Although it often felt much longer, Angela had only known Gerald for three months. For the first two of those months it had been a strictly professional relationship and Angela was perfectly content to keep it so. She once, however, in a moment she never forgave herself, congratulated Gerald on his choice of tie and from that point onwards he had pursued her affections with a relentless determination. How she actually ended up agreeing to spend Christmas Day with him, she didn’t quite know. Her original plans had been scuppered by a last-minute holiday deal: ‘Simply too good to miss’ according to her son-in-law, and as soon as Gerald got wind that Angela would be spending the festivities alone he was adamant that she should accompany him to his mother’s. Of course, Angela objected to the idea the instant it was broached: ‘Oh, I couldn’t intrude!’ she’d wailed with vehement shakes of the head, but Gerald’s persistence was as exhausting as ever and, ultimately, the only way to silence him on the subject was to give in.
To say there was no attraction whatsoever on Angela’s part would be a fairly accurate statement. She thought he was pleasant enough, in a strange sort of way, and during the past three months had grown rather accustomed to his face, but to feel anything more than a friendly regard was inconceivable. They were too dissimilar, not least physically. She was a tall, slim, impeccably attired creation, while he was a short, almost pyramid-shaped creature with wild, balding hair and perpetually scuffed shoes. They made for an odd couple and Angela knew it. The problem was she felt sorry for him. Every time he telephoned to invite her to dinner, she felt sorry for him. Every time he just happened to be passing and thought he’d call in with a limp bunch of flowers, she felt sorry for him. She always felt sorry for Gerald. And now, standing beneath the shadow of one of the most depressing buildings she had ever seen, Angela began to feel sorry for his mother, too, and the expensive box of chocolates that could barely fit into her handbag seemed rather an ostentatious offering.
Angela’s own parents had died many years ago, and she would have viewed the situation – and perhaps Gerald – more favourably if he had been closer to his mother, but this visit to the pinkish, greyish tower block was his first in a very long time. For the past eight years Gerald had been running (or rather running into the ground) a small bed and breakfast establishment in a seaside town that has no cause to be mentioned by name. It was the last in a long line of business ventures that had nearly ended in disaster, and it was only thanks to the sagacity of a recently appointed financial advisor – Angela – that he managed to escape bankruptcy yet again. Such were Angela’s talents at the spreadsheet that he even emerged with some capital to sink into another flight of fancy just as soon as one should come along. In the meantime, now that he was free of the shackles of the hospitality trade, and had something to ‘show off’ – again, Angela – he was keen to start building bridges. His brother and family had recently endured a three-hour long visit and the time had now arrived, at long last, for the reunion of mother and son.
A loud, rasping noise made Angela jump. It was Gerald’s mother’s voice, which, thanks to the archaic intercom system had been distorted into a robotic-sounding, incomprehensible squelch.
Gerald leant forward. ‘Hullo, mother. We’re here!’ There was a slight pause before a buzzer signalled the release of the door and it clicked open.
‘We better take the stairs,’ he said, reaching up and putting his arm clumsily around Angela’s shoulders, ‘from what I can remember the lifts are very temperamental and we don’t want to risk getting stuck over the festivities, do we?’
‘No, we don’t,’ replied Angela, a little curtly as they entered the cold, drab foyer of the tower block. She didn’t enjoy being touched without prior warning, especially when it interfered with a carefully positioned pashmina, and the miserable surroundings with their faint smell of public lavatory only served to make her less receptive to Gerald’s charms than usual. The arm was promptly shrugged off the moment they began the long climb up the fragrant concrete stairwell.
The door was wide open as they approached.
‘Ah! Good! Here we are then,’ said Gerald, panting as he lunged towards it. The sixty-six steps (which he’d insisted upon counting) had turned his face into something unattractively pink and moist. Angela was a little out of breath, too, but had fared a great deal better, thanks primarily to many hours of self-induced torture with an exercise bike. It was moments such as these, she thought, when the evenings of agonising cramps felt vaguely worthwhile. Gerald stepped over the threshold, calling out, ‘Mother?’ and instantly forgetting about Angela. She sighed deeply and followed him into the hallway, stretching her neck to see into as many rooms as possible. It was nothing like she’d imagined at all. The décor was old lady-ish; there was no surprise there. The floral patterned wallpaper and gaudy carpets were exactly as expected, but a distinct lack of ‘stuff’ made the place feel austere and unwelcoming. It even had an echo. Indeed, as Gerald called, ‘Mother?’ for the fourth time, Angela’s mind flashed back to when she moved house after her divorce and how hollow and miserable it had sounded when there were only a few bits of furniture left.
‘Ah, ha!’ said Gerald, as he entered his way nose-first into the sitting room, ‘there you are, mother!’
* * * * *
Blodwyn was stood, slightly lopsided, in the centre of the room with her arms at her side. Her face wore a blank expression and behind her spectacles her wrinkled eyelids were firmly closed. Her complexion was so grey and lifeless that if she’d been lying or sitting down the onlooker would have been forgiven for thinking she had quietly slipped away, but she was actually asleep.
Angela looked with concern over Gerald’s shoulder: ‘Is she all right, Gerald?’ Again, this was not at all what she’d imagined. She’d envisaged a plump, aproned lady offering a plate of freshly baked mince pies whilst the smell of a well-basted turkey wafted through the air. There was no apron, there were certainly no mince pies and the only smell she could detect was a faint odour of cigarette smoke. Gerald stepped forward, waving his hands: ‘Hullo? Mother? Mother? Anyone home?’ Angela winced; it was a strange, uncomfortable situation and she wondered if she’d be better to wait outside.
The old lady snuffled. She slowly opened her eyes and drew back her head.
‘There she is!’ Gerald cried, as though he had just discovered his mother under a rock, ‘merry Christmas!’ and he plunged forward with a toothy grin to swamp the poor creature in his winter coat and press his