Village stories | The World of Sunny Banks

The Blossoming of Steven Dawson - part 3

Wed, 14 Jun 2017 12:03:47 +0200

It is almost axiomatic that, if even a good friend speaks critically of a matter concerning family, one will defend the matter and the family member, and it makes no difference that one privately has previously held the same critical view as the good friend. Thus it was that Edna Dawson, in the company of her very good friends, Nora Hopkins, Doris Fellows, Wally Herbert and Charlie Fetcher, all members of the choir, found herself defending her son, Steven, in his choice of partner, notwithstanding that she had herself, as recently as last night and in the privacy of her own home, been extremely critical of the relationship.

"I saw them looking at the Village Hall," said Nora. "So where does she come from? Looks very oriental if you ask me."

"She's Japanese," answered Edna Dawson.

"I'd never trust a Jap. My Alf's dad was taken by the Japs somewhere over there. Had a terrible time, he did, so he said."

"Well, if it was your Alf's dad, then it was probably Misaki's great granddad on the other side, so we can hardly hold her responsible for what he did to your Alf's dad." said Wally.

The Blossoming of Steven Dawson - part 2

Mon, 12 Jun 2017 16:55:32 +0200

Steven Dawson grabbed hold of Misaki Kagamura's hand.

"How do you think she's going to react?" he asked.

"She" in this case referred to Dr Kagamura, a high-profile scientist and, as it happened, mother to Misaki. Dr Kagamura had found out about the developing relationship between her daughter and Steven, who also happened to be Misaki's teacher of EFL, English as a Foreign Language. Normally a relationship between teacher and pupil would have been cause for a serious review of the teacher's position, but in the case of EFL students, most of whom were fully mature, the same criteria did not apply. Misaki, for example, was twenty six years old.

Dr Kagamura had stumbled on the two of them the previous evening, when they returned from dinner at Misaki's local pub, and imperiously instructed them that she wanted to talk to them both. She actually wanted to do it then and there, whilst the blood was hot, so to speak, but Misaki had pointed out that Steven's last train home for the day would leave in twenty minutes, and their sentence had been commuted to today.

The Blossoming of Steven Dawson - part 1

Sat, 10 Jun 2017 17:43:42 +0200

Steven Dawson took up his laptop and laid it on the pull-down table in front of him. In about thirty minutes he would arrive at Winstable station, and usually he could write a few hundred words in his current story before he arrived. But today he just couldn't concentrate, and the computer sat on the table, its cursor blinking and ignored.

Misaki, he thought. What a beautiful name. For a beautiful woman. She had recently joined one of his classes in EFL, English as a Foreign Language, intended for new arrivals from overseas who spoke little or no English. She was Japanese, from some place whose name he had a problem to remember, had arrived with her mother, who was apparently a high-powered research scientist, and Misaki had grown up to be her mother's assistant - housekeeper was what it amounted to.

Steven had met the mother, when she brought Misaki along to class for the first time. The word 'samurai' had sprung to his mind as being the best description of her. Proud, ruthless, single-minded - well, she would have to be to have become what she was. He had googled her. The description of her research was Greek to Steven, or perhaps he should say Japanese, he thought wryly, but she was here at the request of a prestigious research institute in the nearby university town..

Wilf Thackeray returns home

Thu, 23 Feb 2017 18:54:21 +0100

The opening of Patricia Trevor's café, Patty's Pans, marked a significant upswing in her business. She had started the café with a staff of two, one for the breakfast rush who stayed until lunch was over, and another who arrived just before lunch and stayed until closing time at five o'clock. This was in addition to the staff who helped with the baking of bread and cakes for sale at Evelyn's store and other outlets.

It was not long before she was made aware of another potential rush, this one in the early evening. So many people came hurrying in at a quarter to five, and a number were very disappointed when they arrived perhaps a few minutes after five o'clock to find the 'Closed' sign in the door.

"Can you not make it six o'clock instead of five?" she heard regularly. "It would give us time to tidy up after work, and still come in for a coffee and a bit of chat with a friend or two."

Patty was not one to turn down a friend. She did her sums, worked out what would be needed to make the extra hour a success, and hired a part-timer to help out. She finally decided to extend her hours not by one hour, but by two and see what happened.

Big Girl

Wed, 22 Feb 2017 17:48:01 +0100

She was glad the section of the coach in which she found herself was relatively empty, and for the first part of the journey she wept quietly intermittently for the loss of what she had experienced the last couple of days. As the train began to fill up, the nearer they got to the city, she forced herself to take control of her breathing, so that it no longer came in sudden hiccoughs, and by the time they arrived at the city terminal, she was more or less recovered. Sad, but recovered.

She took a bus to the office and settled behind her desk to begin the day's work. Checking her diary she was relieved to see that she had no appointments for today. Cecilia, her boss, passed by her desk with a cheerful good morning, and gave her a quick look when she replied in somewhat subdued fashion. As usual, she was alone in the office she shared with three colleagues, as the other editors usually worked from home, although one of them came in for a meeting with Cecilia just before coffee time.

The three of them took coffee together after the meeting, and Cecilia wafted a packet of biscuits under her nose, but she waved them away. Coffee over, the colleague left to get back to his editing work at home, and Cecilia called her into her office.

The Teacher

Wed, 22 Feb 2017 17:47:35 +0100

Nora Gilham is a teacher at the village school. She teaches the lower grades from their start at age five until they finish their third year, when she hands them over to Mrs Henshall. Most of the children are well-behaved, for in our village traditional values are still observed. There is the occasional 'bad boy' - it is nearly always a boy - who requires a firm hand, but by the autumn half-term holiday she has cast-iron control over her classes. Her lot is eased by her having all three classes at the same time and in the one room, for the newcomers have two earlier classes to show them the ropes, and Miss Gilham receives help from these older pupils, who explain to the new ones just how things are done around here.

For a teacher to have more than one class is an anachronism, of course, and needs explanation. But the local council is pragmatic. They have neither sufficient pupils in the village school's catchment area nor sufficient money in the coffers for each year to have its own teacher. So the five, six and seven year olds share Miss Gilham, eights and nines Mrs Henshall and tens and elevens Mr Allsop. So it has always been, and parents are glad that their young children do not need to take the train or bus into the nearby town of Winstable at an ungodly hour of the morning. Everybody turns a blind eye to this anomaly and nobody admits its existence, and all are happy.

The New Arrival

Wed, 22 Feb 2017 17:47:11 +0100

"We have a new arrival in the village, Mr Norris," said old Mrs Evans one day. "The old Palmer place is taken at last."

"Tell me all, Mrs Evans," said Peter Norris.

"Well, I don't know his name," she said confidentially, "but I've heard he's a writer. Looks to be in his thirties."

"What kind of a writer?"

"Fiction, I heard."

"Famous? What's he written?"

"I haven't been able to find out yet, but the rumour has it he makes a good living at it."

"Come, come, Mrs Evans," he said. "This is only half a tale. You don't know his name. You suspect he writes but you don't know what. Is he married?"

"No sign of a better half," she replied.

"Well, he must be brave or foolhardy to take the Palmer place," Peter went on.

"Or he's not heard that it's haunted," she continued.

"Or doesn't care if it is," he finished. "We must keep our ears to the ground, Mrs Evans, and our eyes peeled. Not to mention the other senses."

"Exactly, Mr Norris," she said. "All senses alert."

It was not long after this that Peter Norris finally saw the new arrival for himself. He had taken his girl-friend, Evelyn Pelham, to the Stonemason's Arms for dinner - they do a very good boeuf bourguignon on Wednesdays - and a stranger came up to the bar just ahead of him when he went to refill their glasses.

Miss Pelham's Boyfriend

Wed, 22 Feb 2017 17:46:11 +0100

"Damn."

"I heard that, Mr Norris."

Peter Norris turned round to find old Mrs Evans carrying her lazy poodle.

"Sorry, Mrs Evans," he said. "Just a bit annoyed. Miss Pelham’s done a bunk."

He waved at the note taped inside the glass door of the village shop and post office.

Closed early today. Sorry.

No reason, just the plain fact, which his rattling of the door handle had already confirmed.

"I promised a customer to send this packet by special delivery today," he said, indicating the small parcel in his hand. "What should have been a fifteen minute brisk walk is going to take me a couple of hours at least if I have to drive to Winstable."

"Oh, dear," said Mrs Evans. "And I did so want some more of those biscuits with jam in the middle. Bundle loves them, don't you, Bundle?"

She looked down at her poodle, who totally ignored her. Peter Norris grunted and tried to show that he regarded the disappointment of her dog as of equal import to the disruption of his working day. He hoped, without conviction, that he had succeeded.

The Market Gardeners

Wed, 22 Feb 2017 14:17:05 +0100

Leonard Pearson did his best to hide the doubt he felt. Robert could not seriously be considering buying this place. Run down was the best one could say about it. Both the greenhouses were in serious need of maintenance and re-painting. The irrigation equipment, the ventilation system, the tractor and other equipment, all were singing their swan-song, and he couldn't even begin to guess at the state of the electricity supply.

Even the nearby three-storey dwelling house was showing the signs of age. The outside walls were flaky and needed re-pointing, and the window frames and eaves were nearly devoid of paint. Inside was not much better, with faded paint, and wallpaper curling away from the walls at top and bottom.

Robert had qualified as a horticulturalist several of years ago. During the summer vacations he had come to this smallholding to gain som work experience in his chosen profession, but after qualifying had worked at other sites on a project basis. He had maintained contact with Walter Thompson, the owner of this smallholding. Walter was old, well into his sixties, and had suffered from ill health the last year, and the one full-time employee, Susanne Fielding, had done nearly all the work, but without the authority to take rational decisions. Now Walter wanted to retire, and had offered to sell the business as a going concern to Robert.

Wilf Thackeray leaves home

Wed, 22 Feb 2017 13:32:47 +0100

Wilf Thackeray looked out through the rain-spotted panes of his parlour over the back garden with its four apple trees marching smartly abreast behind the neat ranks of raspberry bushes, currant bushes and gooseberry bushes, with the solitary pear tree nearest the house, like a sergeant-major at the front of his troops.

This was the hard part of leaving his home, he thought. Who would now look after the garden? Not that it was as tidy as it used to be, when his wife, Maisie, had looked after it. If you looked closer at the troops in the garden you could see the signs of neglect: unclipped shoots, wrinkled fruit from last season. Maisie would never have allowed that.

She used to take the fruit and make apple pies and must, currant jelly, raspberry and gooseberry jams, and she made something from the blackberries in the forest behind the fence. The pears they simply ate as they came from the tree.

Busy for weeks, she was, in the autumn. Much of what she made went to friends in the village, nicely packed, mostly in little glass jars with a bit of ribbon round. Some of it went to the church harvest festival where it was auctioned for the benefit of local charities. But there was always enough left to see them through the year until autumn came round again.

Christmas Story

Sun, 18 Dec 2016 23:45:46 +0100

Wally Herbert, on his way to the Stonemason's Arms, came to a standstill outside the village hall and listened. It was a long time since he had heard choir music in the village. Once, long ago, he and Elsie had sung with the church choir, back in the days when old Oliver Barton had led them, before the choir collapsed.

But this was not the church choir resurrected. For one thing there were many more voices, and for another they could tell one note from another. And they had music, too. He could hear the tinkling of a piano. This was real music.

Somewhat unwillingly he moved towards the building, stepped inside, and peeped round the doors into the main hall. There were some thirty people inside, plus Harold Mason conducting, and his son, Richard, accompanying on the piano. There were also three or four people sitting and listening. The choir was singing 'Gaudete', one of Wally's favourite Christmas songs, and making a good job of it.

He listened through the song, then turned to leave. One of the choir had seen him, but Wally ignored him and went on his way to his evening pint.