The short story below is unusual in that I do not, as a rule, publicise or post (as here) any of my written work - meaning stories, prose, even poems. Why? Well, I suppose that this is going to sound big-headed, but it's because I think my stories are worth stealing ... or at least some of the plots or ideas in them. - But I am also cocky enough to think that, oh well, if I lose one or two here and there - so what? I have a deep cavernous brain - there's more knocking around in there. The only worry is ... how long will my brain function well for? - And, of course, how long will I be around for at all?
OK - 'I takes me chances' ...
So here you are folks - a short story for Bonfire Night written over the last couple of days and vaguely edited, so this is, I guess maybe a second or third draft - so not a masterpiece but worthy of a read, I hope. It's actually L O N G for me as my short stories are normally around 1k to 2k words, but this is quite a bit more.
A footnote before you read and wonder about paragraphing: when copying and pasting from a WORD document into a Blog-post the line breaks disappear - so paragraphs look odd but I am too lazy to go through the (below) 3.5 k words to tidy it up - its the message that matters.
Happy reading:
The Last Bonfire Guest
By Tim J Rhohn-Sayers
(A short story in
3,687 words)
The damp twigs and leaves hissed with their delicate steamy
vapour as the flames clung to life.
“We should have got more dry timber Harry. Give us a beer
mate.”
Harry and John were both Australians and they met in The
Outback when working at a sheep station twenty years ago. Now in their forties.
they shared a grubby run-down Victorian terraced house in Fulham, London with
three other Aussies. This was the only way they could survive financially in
London. Only one of the five had a proper job; that was “Twiggy”, a skinny
bloke from Melbourne who worked in I.T. the others got by as best they could in
‘the gig economy’ doing anything that came along.
“I wish the others could’ve come, don’t you?” said John,
looking down at the dirt and ash by his feet.”
“Ah, here we go; girls – a load of ‘em by the looks of it.”
Harry always liked the girls – more than John – not that
John was gay or anything but they were so different with John being so shy,
still, even after years of ribbing in The Outback, still he wouldn’t say boo to
a goose. They were good friends and always looked out for each other. This was
the first time they’d ever been out in the countryside like this, miles from
the metropolis, thanks to someone’s chance remark.
Harry had overheard someone at work saying that she was going
to a bonfire party out in the sticks somewhere. He’d listened carefully.
Sounded good, he thought. He knew the girl, Rachel, fairly well – even gone on
a date with her once but it never went anywhere.
Harry was never lost for it; cheek, that is. He waited until
he gleaned all the facts, thought about the date, Saturday November 5th.,
the location, bloody Lincolnshire – a place he knew nothing of but what he did
like was the idea of camping out. He and John both had tents they’d crazily brought
all the way from Oz – big buggers – they’d all fit in, and, with a bit of luck,
Harry had thought. - So would a few girls too.
It was an old school friend of Rachel’s that was throwing
this bonfire party. “Bring a few fireworks, some booze, a bit of tucker and a
box of matches and the rest we’ll make up as we go along guys.” – That’s what
Rachel’s friend, Mandy had said when agreeing to invite the boys from Oz. “The
more the merrier. Just make sure that you can find the place. We’re like the
outback, but up near a castle,” she said. Mandy was a good sport. They’d met
her a couple of times before, in London, when she had been staying with Rachel
but at heart Mandy was a country girl, grown up on a farm, watched all the
animals doing it and she wasn’t’ afraid to say she liked the boys – all the
boys and she wasn’t afraid to show ‘em either. She lived with a bloke, Tom, but
they seemed to be more like roommates. – Lived in the same cottage, slept in
the same bed, ate together but didn’t seem bothered if either went off with
someone else occasionally.
As the flames grew stronger and higher, more guests
appeared, all looking ‘dead cool’ and a real mixed bunch. Some sounded posh,
well-spoken, well kitted-out, carrying spotless cool boxes, and those daft fold-up
seats, like they were going to a forest concert or something. Others arrived
smoking joints and carrying crates of beer, “fucking this and fucking that and
fucking the other” – but nobody seemed to mind who was who or how they got
there or who they were friends with. In fact, it was a lovely open and free
atmosphere.
By now the Aussies were joined by a dozen strangers, but
acting like friends and a few people actually bothered to introduce themselves
– others sat slightly apart and chatting to their little band of bruvvers as
there were certainly more fellas than girls – which might be a problem, Harry
thought.
It was made clear to all guests that nobody got into the
house, nobody was sleeping there and the only exception was to use the little attached
but outside loo around the back of the sweet little thatched cottage. Oh, that
was the other thing – no rockets – afraid that the thatch might go up, one
supposes.
This place was called Harlaxton and, luckily for all
concerned was near a main line station, Grantham, so nobody needed to worry
about cars or driving, although a few cars did arrive, spilling out another
five or six people, again, mostly blokes Suddenly the noise of a powerful motor
bike was heard coming up the winding drive, but it turned out to be a trike and
amazingly who was on it? Three bloody girls in leather. Harry was riveted and
they weren’t half bad, he thought.
“John, see that – mine’s the blonde, yours can be the bloody
ginger one.”
“Harry, that’s what’s called auburn, mate – she ain’t
ginger.”
Out of the trike’s boot – yes it had a boot – came two cases
of Stella.
The girls, all three of them, immediately sat next to Harry
and John, with John edging away as the third girl sat partially on his right
leg, he wondered whether intentionally. They were all on a rickety old bench
which groaned and creaked and threatened to collapse at every slight movement.
The music started playing. It promised to be an evening of
rock but then, after protests from a couple of young girls, some Radio One
stuff started. The drinks were shared out unselfconsciously, regardless of who
came with them and so John and Harry shared their Fosters around about but most declined, preferring,
in most cases, something stronger. Even the few older people were drinking scotch
like it was going out of fashion (which it had of course). People started
getting up. A few danced garishly – others clinched seductively and nobody knew
if they’d only just met but things were moving at a pace.
The headlights of a large car appeared down the nearby lane
and then they shone towards the cottage as the car drew into the drive and the
gravel gave
out sudden noises like the sea rushing over shingle as it arrived just beyond
the bonfire in the moon shadows of the overhanging trees.
“Bloody hell Harry, it’s a Rolls Royce – a new one.”
A large driver’s door opened and an immaculately turned-out
chauffeuse, in scissor sharp pressed navy blue tightly fitted and pleated
trousers and oddly wearing a bright red beret slid her slender, trousered legs
out sideways. Her delicate ankles showing above, again, bright red, high-heeled
shoes and Harry’s and even John’s eyes popped for a moment at this rather ‘stimulating’
sight.
Then, all eyes swivelled in the direction of the car’s rear
door as it was swishly opened by the chauffeuse.
It turned out that this gleaming 16 plate ‘Roller’ was
carrying the last guest to arrive at the party but we only knew that later, when
we were discussing the events of that evening and overnight, 5th. and
6th. November 2016 and that was over brunch on the Sunday morning.
John returned to the tent after queueing for the small
outside toilet. It was 10 a.m. and the smell of frying bacon hung in the air
and conflicting sounds of variously tuned radios criss-crossed the misty
atmosphere between the scattering of a dozen or so tents and a few campervans dotted
about the large garden.
John had not noticed anything odd when he had slid out of
the large 6-man tent en route to the loo. Harry was somewhere under a pile of
coats and sleeping bags; well at least, so John thought. As he re-entered the
tent a noise emitted from under the covers. It was human, certainly. Then very
white flesh appeared in contrast against the damp grass in the corner of the
tent. Delicate toes, slim, too slim to be Harry’s, emerged as the covers parted
a little. Then part of the leg, still white-looking.
“Harry?” came from what was obviously a female human.
“No, it’s John. I don’t know where he is. I thought it was
him under the covers.”
Her face, white neck and long brown hair appeared above the
sleeping bag. She was beautiful, John thought. His mind was filled with
thoughts of what Harry had got up to the previous night. He couldn’t even
remember going to bed and certainly couldn’t remember Harry bringing someone
‘home’ – but where was he and who was she?
He made small-talk for a short while, made more awkward not having
no clue as to who she was. – This was a ‘first’ for shy John and gradually he
became aware that she was kind of saying that Harry had suggested that she use
his sleeping bag and his corner of the tent – with me fast asleep – on the
other side. – All very confusing. Still John wanted to know where Harry was.
John found his mind wandering a little, wondering what, of anything, she was
wearing underneath the sleeping bag. He could see enough of her to know that
she wasn’t wearing a bra but she seemed relaxed and either had forgotten her
lack of clothing or just didn’t care and he began to think of a third
possibility which he found somewhat arousing, that she might be teasing him.
John sat, fully clothed on a little fold-up stool near the
zipped-up tent entrance whilst she, still nameless, sat diagonally across from
him. It was cold both inside and outside and she was now visibly shivering.
“I’m sorry it’s so cold for you – here have my sleeping bag
as well.”
“No; I’ll get dressed.”
Those words resonated in John’s mind instantly. He thought
that if she needed to get dressed that she must be … and he vaguely hoped for …
un-dressed and before he could ponder a second longer she threw back the covers
and tucked her long legs under her bottom and catapulted herself to full height
which John assessed quickly as being approaching six foot but his gaze was
lower down than her full height as she was, shockingly, near-naked, except for
a bracelet and a skimpy pair of thong type pants. He was stunned at her
uninhibited exhibition but then as she turned, he noticed too, a tattoo on her exposed
buttock – a butterfly and some vague thoughts and recollections came fluttering back to him… but not enough.
Suddenly the tent zip opened and Harry’s face appeared in
the opening.
“All OK here, guys and gals?”
The nameless girl grabbed a throw and pulled it across her
body and bare breasts, in shame and John reflected on the fact that she was
happy to be half-naked in front of him but not in front of Harry – further proof,
as if he needed it, that it was he, not Harry who had slept with her last night,
but he, infuriatingly, had zero recollection of any of it except the butterfly
seemed teasingly to be triggering vague memories of something, but what exactly
– he knew not.
Harry grinned broadly, not taking his eyes off the mystery
girl.
“Well say something, somebody”, Harry added.
John was embarrassed for a host of reasons:
He had no idea who this girl was but he vaguely remembered
her buttock butterfly from the night before – or was it the night before? – He wasn’t
sure. He had no idea too, how Harry ended up sleeping somewhere else, where
he’d been, with whom and what was presenting itself, that he’d slept with a
stranger, with his shyness, was almost unthinkable. He did know that they’d all
had a vast amount to drink and some had had more than alcohol too, but that
wasn’t his style, or maybe he’d got carried away as well.
The whole thing was a serious test for his equilibrium – his
well-being.
The silence was broken from an unlikely source.
“You must be Harry. I’m Rosalind Harper. You, Harry, at
least, may recognise me.”
She stared at John as she spoke in a rather ticking-off
manner. John felt even more stupid. He had slept with her and he didn’t
recognise her or her name.
“I’m sorry Rosalind but I don’t. Why should I?” Harry looked
awkward and John knew him so very well that he understood exactly why he felt
uncomfortable. Harry had had a reputation with women for years and everyone
knew what he was like. Harry simply feared that she was one of his forgotten
conquests from way back. She wasn’t.
“You’re my brother.”
John knew that Harry had a long-lost sister; he’d spoken of her
years ago but they hadn’t spoken or seen each other for almost a decade. He
waited for Harry’s reaction to this bombshell.
“Then you’re Rosie, not Rosalind. What are you talking
about?”
“I married a man called Harper and he hated the name, Rosie,
so he renamed me Rosalind and then we called our brand leader perfume Rosalind.
He’s gone but the name had to stay – so I am Rosalind – get used to it.”
Harry looked incredulous. For once in his life he was
speechless. He had tears rolling down his cheeks. It was all too much. His
sister turns up, after all these years but in ‘the bed’ of his shy best mate,
John. - Too much to take in.
At last he summoned enough composure to speak. “Rosie, why
now?”
There was not a moment’s hesitation when she burst out …
“Dad’s dead.” She said it in fury as if he had let her down
by dying, rather than in grief.
John knew that Harry’s parents separated and then divorced
years ago. His dad had returned to England in 2008 and his mother had remarried
in Oz. His sister Rosie had gone with the father whereas Harry had stayed with
his mum and later, step-dad. Harry hadn’t seen his father for years.
Harry wiped the tears from his face and asked “how did you
and John …” He broke off, not knowing the words to use.
“How did we what?”
“End up in bed together – it’s not something John does.”
“Whatever gave you the idea that we slept together?”
“Well, it was obvious, wasn’t it? You were almost naked when
I opened the tent zip.”
Rosalind laughed out of joy and ridicule of her brother. She
knew what a ridiculous farce this situation had grown into but all she was
thinking about right now was how honest she dared be, about herself, and her
life as it was now.
“Let’s take this back a few notches, little brother …
… D’you recall a lovely purple Rolls Royce arriving late
last night with two lovely women in it, when all the eyes swivelled from first
the chauffeuse and then to the leggy woman that emerged from the rear seats?”
“Yes, of course I do - so?”
“Well”, she emphasised … “Little, think you’re so clever,
brother – the leggy one was me, only you didn’t recognise me with my clothes
off, did you?”
John stayed quiet, looking down at his feet, waiting for
more from her.
“The girl driving was my girl. I mean my lover”. She laid
heavy emphasis on the word, lover. “– Has been for three years now and we’re
very happy, thank you. She looks after me … protects me … from men like you …
and from …” She broke off. She had tears rolling down her left cheek and her
voice was cracking.
“What’s wrong? What is it? – So why did you sleep with John?”
“I didn’t fucking sleep with him you juvenile idiot pervert –
you just thought I did and even he seemed to think that I did”.
“After Dad died last week I’ve had so much to do – finding you
– arranging for him – sorting our company out. I was at my wits end by the time
we drove into this Godforsaken primitive backwater. I just hit the bottle last
night – everyone here did – I was out of my brains – still am probably.”
“I still don’t get it Rosie – what made you sleep with him?”
“How many times do I have to tell you – I did not sleep with
him.”
“You ended-up naked in our tent.”
“Half-naked maybe – not with him though
– in the other sleeping bag. I slept the other side of the tent and when I
ended-up in there it was with supposed to be with Butterfly – my wife-to-be.”
“What?” He elongated every sound
of the word in sheer disbelief of her explanation.
“Butterfly is her pet name. She calls me Wasp – she has a wasp on her bum – I have
a butterfly on mine. We’re in love, John – we’re getting married – you can
come.”
John suppressed a near giggle at
that whilst she wiped the tears now flowing from both eyes and she sniffled and
clenched her eyelids together for a moment as she drew a deep sigh.
“When I fell asleep, well
collapsed really I thought I was with Butterfly – she’s Elaine really but we
always use our pet names. John won’t remember but he said as you weren’t there,
he would get out and we could have the tent but Butterfly went and got him back
and she said she’d sleep in the car – she’s an angel – selfless.”
Harry interrupted …
“What d’you mean we
could have the tent. Does he know about you two? How?”
“Yes, he’s knows more than you
do. I tried to contact you but he took the call on your phone – I don’t know where
you were. He was supposed to tell you everything but then he phoned back and
said he couldn’t do it. He didn’t want you to hear about dad from him – so he
kept quiet and I knew I had to do it all – but yes – he knew about Elaine and
I. He also knows about the money.”
“Money? What money – what are you
talking about?”
“Never mind about that – I still
can’t think how I didn’t realise that John was there in the tent – God knows
what he must think of me – I just thought it was B under the other covers when
I stood up – shit – bare tits – hell – poor man.”
“No, bloody lucky man.” – As soon
as he said it – he knew it was a dreadful thing to say.
“Yes, that’s what I mean – she protects
me against you filthy-minded male chauvinists – thank God.”
“Come on – what’s this about
money?”
“Later … let me get dressed
properly – oh here’s B.”
“Did you sleep OK sweetie? The
car was a bit cramped even with the seat back but the mini-bar was useful for
knocking me out, darling. – Morning … John … isn’t it or are you Harry?”
John thought that she looked as
though she had just come from a high-class beauty salon – immaculate skin, perfect
nails, eyes, make-up, no tired lines, clothes as though she had just bought
them at Harrods, smelling sweetly too – no doubt wearing “Rosalind” perfume … John
mused on. - Missing red beret though. He wondered why.
“Can we all have breakfast,
please?” At least Butterfly was calm, sensible and not a drama-queen, John,
thought.
The four of them wandered down to
the bottom of the garden where a plume of steamy smoke suggested a breakfast
barbecue was in full swing. They sat on two of the many blankets that were
strewn around from last night’s activities. Wasp and Butterfly sat together,
holding hands and John and Harry looked on slightly awkwardly.
Rosalind spoke first. “You better
be nice to me. I have some news for you.” Harry just stared at her in
resignation but he had no idea of what was coming, but John did and his slight
smile gave a clue.
“Father had a small but very
successful scent business that he’d started with our mum way back in Oz even before
we came along.” Harry knew about it but he never knew much as his mother always
seemed reluctant to discuss the business and that was because her husband had
effectively stolen it from her when he moved to London and set-up home with a
new woman.
“That small business turned into
a leading fashion and perfume house and dad became a millionaire. Mum got nothing.
You got nothing but I got invited into the business a few years ago and I
promoted the perfume side, hence our leading brand “Rosalind” that you’ll see
in all the best places from Harrods to Prada. I am rich, dad was rich and now
little brother, so are you.”
“How?”
“There’s a trust set-up. You and even mum, get an allowance,
every year.”
“How much?”
“A lot.”
John had stayed quiet all this time, chewing burnt bacon
sandwich and he had had enough of all this protracted mystique. He interjected …
“You’re a bloody millionaire Harry – you get £500 k a year
for two consecutive years. Your mum gets a lump sum of a million. Guilt money I
would guess.”
This would prove to be a very memorable Guy Fawkes night
after the last bonfire night guest fluttered by but there was a sting in the
tail of this waspish tale …
Rosie got nothing. Her father had changed his will after Rosie
had announced that she was marrying Elaine. He didn’t believe in gay marriage –
or any marriage, really. He was a clever man though. He stated in his will that
if she married a man within six months of his death, she would be entitled to a
one-off payment of one million pounds, just like her mother.
Elaine and Rosie had a pact. They knew where they stood.
Elaine would wait for Rosie to marry – a man, then divorce and then they could
be together as spouses. and the dead father couldn’t do a thing about it.
The first move on this was with John, in the tent.
Three months later shy John and manipulative Rosalind
married. Harry, mum, Elaine and another forty-five guests were there to witness
the meeting of the conditions of the will.
The final twist?
They never divorced. Poor
Butterfly.
