Upsy-Daisy , livre ebook

Troubador Publishing Ltd - Jack Barratt

Découvre YouScribe en t'inscrivant gratuitement

Je m'inscris

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

112 pages

English

Vous pourrez modifier la taille du texte de cet ouvrage

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

A propos
Informations
Extrait

Description

When Wally Watson applies to the local Council for a job as a tree surgeon he is introduced to a host of colourful characters who inhabit the villages of Daisy Hill, Down Daisy and Upsy-Daisy. There's the attractive Reverend Miriam Peach who tries her best to resist his advances; Dick and Jo Coningsby who are getting used to their new life on a caravan site; Major Mearryweather who carries out his role as a lollipop man with military precision; and Professor Sparrow who reveals a surprising namesake.During the annual Brass Band coach outing three horn players, Mona, Shona and Iona, are up to no good. Chaos, calamity and comedy ensue as an unlikely hero makes his debut. All the while, the Brass Band continue to try to play in tune.

Informations

Publié par	Troubador Publishing Ltd
Date de parution	28 janvier 2021
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781838596385
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

Copyright © 2020 Jack Barratt

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
9 Priory Business Park,
Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,
Leicestershire. LE8 0RX
Tel: 0116 279 2299
Email: books@troubador.co.uk
Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador
Twitter: @matadorbooks

ISBN 978 1838596 385

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

I dedicate this novel to Edward Reece: actor and writer, who read his own stories on the BBC.

Sadly, by the time Upsy-Daisy was published, Ted had passed away.
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
About the Author
One
Wally Watson stood to attention as though he were still a squaddie. He stood tall, exuding confidence. Before him, behind the grill, sat a contrasting species, Mr Julius Grimshaw – thick lenses, overweight, unfit. To Wally, used to vigour and vitality, his interlocutor seemed insipid like cheap beer.
‘I’m sitting in for Mr Gregory who’s unwell.’ Julius twirled a pencil between his fat fingers.
Wally nodded understandingly, seriously. In fact he almost saluted, then quickly realised he was in the council offices, and not a military mess.
‘So I’ll deal with your application,’ continued Mr Grimshaw, who then coughed, and phlegm rattled round his throat like in a pinball machine. ‘What job have you done during the last few years, Mr… erm…?’ He glanced at the application form.
‘Watson. Walter Watson. Most of the time I was in the army.’
‘Really. Well, that’s interesting.’ Julius chanced a little quip. ‘Nobody will try it on with you, will they?’
‘Yes, they will. But only once. Have you served, might I ask?’ ventured Wally.
Julius looked up at him. ‘Still serving, Mr Watson.’
Surprised, Wally stood even taller. ‘Which outfit?’
‘The Lord’s.’
A frown creased Wally’s brow; his eyebrows met like dark wool on knitting needles. ‘The Lord’s…? The cricket pitch?’
‘No. Higher than that.’ He tapped a silver cross on his lapel.
Wally smiled out of respect. ‘Ah, the Sally.’
‘No,’ said Grimshaw. ‘Superb though the Salvation Army are, my mob is higher.’
Again Wally frowned, an elongated twitch. ‘Er… on the roof?’
Julius Grimshaw looked quickly about him, as though eavesdroppers might be lurking. ‘No. Higher! The sky.’
Then the working man’s wisdom of Wally clicked in: This chap’s a religious nutcase. But he didn’t want to offend, so he said, ‘The sky! Well, you can’t climb higher than that.’
A change visited Mr Grimshaw’s jowls like sparse mist settling on tiny hillocks and his eyes became dreamy. ‘You could climb with us on Sunday mornings at The Sanctuary in Daisy Hill.’
Wally swallowed and thought quickly. ‘Ah, on the Sabbath I try to help others. I often visit my mother in Yorkshire.’ This, in fact, was quite true. He was due to go. ‘But I’ll think about your offer. Now, about this grass-cutting job.’
Mr Grimshaw reluctantly abandoned the unknown vague future for the council’s active present. ‘Ah yes. Clock on at the old gas works, eight o’clock sharp, Monday morning.’
Not relishing recruitment for anything else, Wally presented a neat soldier’s dismissal and marched from the council offices, rolling his eyes as he passed a young waiting couple.
*
Dick and Josephine sat in the council offices, in the housing department, waiting for Mr Grimshaw, the housing officer. They seemed to have been waiting for two long weeks, perhaps three, and were fidgeting like bored children with impatience. Eventually he arrived just as Dick hummed, ‘Here Comes the Bride’ . Jo elbowed him.
Mr Grimshaw was a roly-poly, and carried a cup of hot coffee and biscuits.
‘Sorry I kept you waiting.’ His double chin wobbled in time with his half-truth. He raised his coffee cup as if to propose a toast but sat down instead and nibbled on a custard cream. ‘Got to keep the pecker up, eh!’
Jo was fascinated by the double chin, which had a life of its own. ‘Well, we all need our caffeine shot at times.’
‘What can I help you with?’ He gulped his coffee; the chin wobbled, syncopating with the words.
‘We’d like a council house,’ Dick said. Jo tapped him with her foot. ‘Please,’ he added.
‘I’ll bet you would.’ Mr Grimshaw’s voice was grimmer than his name. ‘So would hundreds round these parts. It’s a problem for us all,’ he added, fondly stroking his stomach. ‘I’m afraid we haven’t enough houses to go round. However, I’ll put you on the list.’
Dick, rather partial to Gilbert and Sullivan, whistled a strain of ‘I’ve Got a Little List’ . Once again Jo kicked him.
Mr Grimshaw stretched out a burly arm, dipped into a box and extracted a form. ‘Where are you living at present?’
‘At hers.’
‘But we are overcrowded since my brother returned from Afghanistan.’
‘We’ve been kipping in his bedroom, but now we’re back on the sofa.’
‘What, all three of you?’
‘No!’ You old fool , thought Dick, but said, ‘Me and the wife.’
‘It’s only a two-bedroom terrace,’ Jo explained, ‘and my parents sleep in the front bedroom.’
‘Well, at least you’re not on the street,’ observed the housing officer.
‘That’s true,’ Dick agreed. ‘But I’ve got my eye on a covered alleyway if that happens.’ He felt suddenly cheesed off and wanted to shout, ‘You dozy, bloated bleeder.’ But feared a red card from Fatty and a kick from his wife, so he just sighed.
Mr Grimshaw nibbled another custard cream, slurped his coffee and his chin wobbled with ecstasy. ‘State your current address, and if anything turns up I’ll inform you.’ He scribbled away, the biro ran dry and Dick’s patience expired.
‘What a bloody clown.’
‘Pardon?’ Mr Grimshaw peered over his glasses.
Jo kicked Dick. ‘Get some… muddy brown… paint… for my dad’s shed. We’re painting it. Thank you. We’ll be off.’ She manhandled Dick from the building, and whispered, ‘ You’re the clown. We depend on berks, er, clerks like him to help us.’ During their brief interview, a client in the adjacent cubicle had heard all that ensued and laughed lightly at some of it. He’d merely called to pay out an employee’s fire claim. He rose and followed the housing hopefuls into the car park and watched as they climbed into a white van. Before the ignition had been turned, the stranger caught them up and tapped on the driver’s window.
*
In the council offices car park, Wally cocked a long leg over an ancient sit-up-and-beg bike and pedalled smartly away. He loved his cycle, which was cheap – free in fact – to use and kept him healthy. Head down he pedalled towards Daisy Hill, Down Daisy and Upsy-Daisy. He pedalled at a steady fifteen miles an hour and arrived at the crossroads, where a pleasant briny smell told him he was almost home.
He was about to turn left and head for the caravan park when he noticed a young woman leaning over her cycle with frustration written all over her. He dismounted and walked across.
‘Hiya… Problems?’
‘Yes, but I don’t know exactly what.’
Wally leaned his own wheelie against a wall then took hers and stooped over it.
‘The chain keeps coming off,’ she explained.
He walked back to his own mount, and from the carrier bag under the saddle took out a rolled leather sheathing which he spread on the ground, and unrolled it, displaying an array of implements and gadgets. He selected a small spanner.
‘See this bolt going through the centre of the back wheel?’ He tapped it with the spanner. ‘Well, the nuts on either side have to be kept tight, otherwise the wheel moves towards the front of the bike and the chain becomes slack.’ He pulled back the chain and tightened the nuts. ‘There y’ are. Job done.’
‘Oh, you are kind.’
‘I know that, love. It’s my weakness. Well, that and lovely lasses. Any road, it’ll take you home.’ He gazed at her. She had green eyes. She was lovely. Oh yes. I fancy her , he told himself.
‘Thank you. I’ve just got to go as far as the church in Daisy Hill,’ she said.
He grabbed his own bike and bounced away, calling, ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’
*
Dick wound down the window and glowered at the person interrupting his irritation.
‘Sorry to accost you, sir, but I couldn’t help but overhear what the fat fellow said.’ He thumbed back over his shoulder towards the ostentatious council offices. ‘If they had spent less on that buildings they could have built more council houses. However, I might be able to help.’
‘With a house?’ asked Jo.
He nodded and smiled.
‘What’s the catch?’ demanded Dick.
‘No catch. Just step outside so’s we can talk.’
Jo was out and round the back of the van in a flash. Dick, weary of it all, clambered out slowly.
‘