Saturday story - 'The Trilby Hat'

Here’s a Christmas story in two parts; it was read on the radio… I’ll explain about it at the end, tomorrow.

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THE TRILBY HAT 

 

[Part 1 of 2]

Nik Morton 

 

It was a snow-laden Christmas Eve. Police Constable Paul Reeman was approaching the end of his shift and glad of it as he rounded the corner of Fenchurch Street.

            Then he saw them. Two youths. Faces partly covered by woollen scarves, they were leaning threateningly over an old man in a snow-heaped gutter. Paul broke into an unsteady run, careful lest he slipped on ice. It looked like Alfred Munro, the loner.

            Wisps of breath gushing out of his mouth, Paul lifted the cold whistle to his blue lips.

            The two muggers froze at the shrill noise.

            "The filth!" one of them yelled.

            Paul was barely yards from them when his boots slipped. Although he retained his balance, the few seconds delay gave the two thugs time to scurry off.

            He was tempted to follow, but Alfred seemed in a bad way. There was no blood or obvious injury, but the old man was sobbing.

            "It's all right, Alfred," he said. "They've run off." He helped the frail old man up.

            Alfred wiped his blood-shot eyes. "I - I'm all right," he wheezed, "But - it's my hat - they stole my trilby."

            Thinking back, Paul did recall one of the youths had worn a hat. They must have been baiting Alfred. He flushed hotly. "I'll see what I can do," Paul promised, not holding out much hope.

            But Alfred didn't seem to hear. "Must get it back… You see, I've had it nigh on fifty-two years.  Christmas..."

***

            The war was in its fifth Christmas. Alfred gazed at the 1943 calendar with its popular scene of skating on the Thames in the days of Queen Bess. He thought about Liz, his wife, who died six years ago. Thank God she missed this terrible war.

            He looked around the cosy room: utility furniture, an embroidered pouffé, a whicker basket sewing box and a well-placed chintz-covered suite that concealed the thread-bare carpet's many patches, whilst the dining table stood cluttered with the remains of their frugal evening meal.

            The tiny coal fire flickered warmly in the tiled fire-place, its firelight reflected from the far corner where stood the proud Christmas tree, a battered fairy perched precariously on top; sparkling tinsel was draped over the branches. The tub, tightly packed with fresh black soil was wrapped with brown paper, which had been painted by Connie, his grand-daughter.

            The other decorations were sparse, but for all that the festive season shone from wherever Alfred looked.

            There was a gaiety, a family warmth, an atmosphere here that no war could possibly destroy.

            Beyond the shielding hills of their small Hampshire town, air-raid sirens wailed.

            Alan, his son-in-law stopped playing with Connie on the hearth-rug. "They seem closer tonight, Pop," he said.

            Denise, his daughter, paused from her knitting and her troubled eyes sought Alfred.

            He forced a smile of reassurance. "We've nothing worth bombing." Accepting this, they returned to their own amusements, whilst Alfred smiled contentedly to himself and looked at his daughter.

            She's grown into a fine woman, he thought. Liz would have been proud of her. A full- no, a comely - figure, married so young, with her mother's auburn hair and hazel eyes aglow in the firelight. But she possessed his stubbornness.

            And the memories flooded back. With an effort he blinked them away.

            Yes, and Alan made a good husband. Denise was lucky to have Alan home, in a reserved occupation in the dockyard. Alan stood by her side, his thick spectacles reflecting the fairy lights.

            He just had to look at young Connie there, the best of both of them already noticeable in her. Precocious, certainly, with a will of her own at times, but a little darling with it. He spoiled her unashamedly. And Denise scolded him, but she didn't mind, not really. Surely all grand-fathers are the same.

            In a few more hours they would be opening their gifts. But he couldn't face that yet; it still sorely reminded him of Liz and how they used to dote over Denise... Perhaps next year the wound would have healed sufficiently, though of course never completely; he didn't want to forget her, just to deaden the hurt at times like this.

            Reluctantly he rose from his comfortable chair. "Denise." He cleared his throat. "Denise, I think I'll be off now. It's getting late for me - and for you, Connie - Father Christmas will want to climb down the chimney soon..."

            Connie giggled excitedly at mention of Santa.

            Denise bundled her knitting into an embroidered bag. "As you wish, Dad." She helped him on with his great-coat.

            "Granda!" Connie shouted, crushing herself against his legs. "You can't go yet. You haven't had your present."

            Alfred patted his coat-pockets, each filled with a package from Denise and Alan to open first thing tomorrow morning before his return here for lunch. "But I have. I wouldn't forget these."

            Connie shook her head vigorously. "No, Granda! No, you haven't had mine!"

            Alfred noticed a puzzled look between Denise and Alan. Apparently, then, their daughter had kept her secret well.

            Perhaps their neighbour had bought the present. With great ceremony his grand-daughter walked to the under-stairs cupboard and tossed out two gas-masks in cardboard boxes then handed over a large brown-paper parcel. It seemed to be a gift-wrapped boot-box.

            "Thank you, darling," he said and he leaned forward to kiss her.

            But she backed away, lips pouted. "Aren't you going to open it now, Granda?"

            "But it isn't Christmas yet." He pointed to the mantel clock. "A few hours to midnight, you see?"

            "Please, Granda," she pleaded, face slightly pulled.

            "Well... all right, but only if you promise to stop making faces."

            She stopped almost at once, changing her grimace into a mischievous smile.

            Slowly and carefully he unwrapped the gift.

            "Hurry, Granda."

            It was an old boot-box. He lifted the lid and the sight took his breath away. Nestling amidst a bed of tissue paper was a brown trilby hat, its brim slightly bent so it would fit into the confines of the box.

            "Put it on, Granda!"

            He swallowed hard but the lump in his throat persisted. Alan and Denise smiled.

            Removing the hat reverently from the box, he knelt in front of her. "No, you put it on for me, Connie."

            She almost knocked him over as she dashed to do just that.

            As it finally sat snuggly, a perfect fit, he held Connie at arm's-length and asked if she thought it suited him.

            "Oh, yes! You look just like a Granda. Really important."

            And they all laughed.

            Then he suddenly lifted her high, almost touching her head to the ceiling. Connie shrieked happily.

            Presently, he lowered her and kissed her flushed cheeks.

            "Well, merry Christmas, everybody," he wished them as he walked to the door with Connie's small hand in his. He carefully wrapped his long woolly scarf round his neck, criss-crossed his chest then buttoned up his great-coat. "I must go now, Connie."

            Denise opened the front door.

            The cold air made them all gasp. The snow still fell silently, lending a bright peaceful glow to the otherwise drab street.

            "I'll keep this hat always. I promise," he said.

            Connie's little chest swelled and her smile seemed to fill the doorway. Alan held his daughter back. "Merry Christmas, Granda!" she said.

            Shivering in the cold air, Denise whispered, "Is the hat all right, Dad?" He nodded. She then whispered, "It was a gift to Alan from his poor Mum, but he doesn't like hats... We didn't know Connie'd planned this - "

            "It's all right, love. It's a smashing present. Now, go back in, it's cold out here. I'll see you tomorrow for Christmas dinner..."

            Quickly he stepped onto the crisp snow. Flakes whisped onto his shoulders and the brim of his new hat. He waved. "Merry Christmas!"  His voice echoed through the snow-filled night.

            Far-off could be heard the crump of bombs and ack-ack, but not here.

            At that moment a whistle shrilled. An ARP warden came running up the street. "Put that light out!" he called.

            Turning, Alfred noticed the hall light on and his family silhouetted in the doorway. Hurriedly waving, they closed the door and the house darkened.

            Further over to the east he spotted searchlights. The snow was like dust in a light-beam. Tracer and ack-ack blossomed, more reminiscent of Guy Fawkes than Christmas Eve.

            He then took off his hat and wiped the snow-deposits away. It was a beautiful hat. Really good quality and hard-wearing. Yes, it would last for years.

            The sudden whistling alerted him first. A terrible coldness clutched his heart. The bomb cluster was close and there wasn't an air-raid shelter near.

            He froze fearfully to the spot, panic weakening his limbs.

            Seconds later, the explosion's impact reached him, blinding yellow and red, the shock waves throwing him painfully to the sludge on the road.

 

… To be concluded tomorrow…

***

If you liked this short story, you might like my collection Spanish Eye, published by Crooked Cat Publishing, featuring Leon Cazador, private eye in 22 cases.

 

http://www.crookedcatbooks.com/

 

US: http://amazon.com/dp/B00GXK5C6S
Canada: http://amazon.ca/dp/B00GXK5C6S
UK: http://amazon.co.uk/dp/B00GXK5C6S
France: http://amazon.fr/dp/B00GXK5C6S
Germany: http://amazon.de/dp/B00GXK5C6S
Austria: http://amazon.at/dp/B00GXK5C6S
Italy: http://amazon.it/dp/B00GXK5C6S
Spain: http://amazon.es/dp/B00GXK5C6S
Japan: http://amazon.jp/dp/B00GXK5C6S

 

 

Going South-2 - Going South To The Costa Blanca-2003

Yesterday, I offered a shortened article about our emigration from the UK to Spain December 2003. At landfall, we’d driven off the P&O Portsmouth-Spain ferry the Pride of Bilbao and headed out of the port area, Jen navigating from the AA route planner obtained off the Internet plus the Michelin map. 

Bilbao is dominated by the green slopes of the surrounding mountains, even beyond the high-rise buildings.  The city’s busy reinventing itself, its steel mills and shipyards being transformed into conference centres and luxury flats, and of course there’s the famous Guggenheim Museum (opened in 1997 and featured in the Bond movie The World is Not Enough) which has generated a tourism boom.  The city celebrated its 700^th anniversary and is worthy of an article in its own right.  We drove round the edge of sprawling Bilbao as the dark receded.

It’s strange how quickly you adapt to driving on the other side of the road – even with a right-hand drive car.  Reading the smaller numbers on the speedometer’s kph dial soon became second-nature.  We had no intention of falling foul of speed restrictions here – though there were very few speed cameras in evidence.

It was overcast and dull.  Not surprising, really, as the north of Spain gets more than its fair share of rain and is green most of the year as a result.  One motorway sign we came across was of a raining cloud and a ‘100’ kph limit – warning motorists to reduce speed from the standard 120 on this section when it rains.  As we climbed into the surrounding mountains it did start to rain.  Another motorway sign showed a huge snowflake, warning of possible snow.  We saw two snow-ploughs driving up an adjacent road.  (Less than four days later this journey would have been through heavy snow, these selfsame ploughs working overtime to keep roads clear).

We turned onto the A68 or E80 – many roads have a European number as well as a national one. 

The only toll booth we encountered in our 530-mile drive south was at Junction 3 where we picked up an entry ticket and would be charged further south.  We now met mist and low-lying cloud.  Our daughter Hannah rang on the mobile so we gave her a weather report as we drove through fog.  A ten minute stop at a service area exotically named Area de Quintanapalla where we enjoyed tortilla and coffee. 

A few years ago some Eurocrat busybodies tried to get the enormous black Osborne bull-silhouette advertisements taken down; a sensible compromise was arrived at whereby the company name would be removed but the bulls could stay since they were synonymous with the image of Spain.  We passed the first of five of these bulls on the Burgos southern bypass signposted Valladolid, Madrid and the second on the approach to the N1, the end of the motorway, and paid the toll. 

 

Burgos was the home of El Cid in the eleventh century and was the base two centuries later for Fernando el Santo to reconquer Murcia, Cordoba and Seville.  Fernando started the building of Burgos’s cathedral, one of the greatest in all Spain.

Still keen to find the sunshine we’d promised it, our trusty car climbed to one of the highest points in the Puerto de Somosierra area – 1440 metres - and met sleet and snow.  One of the tapes we played was Placido Domingo, singing the American Hymn from East of Eden, and the words held a little significance for us both: ‘I dreamed of Eden all my life and now … where  ever I go across the land I stand so proudly in the sun and say “I am home”’ – though the sun still had to make an appearance!

 
Now we joined the toll-free motorway M40, the Madrid western bypass and followed the signs for the Aeropuerto – not that we were considering flying out through lack of sun or anything, just following directions … Essentially, this ring-road round Madrid was clear for us though vehicles travelling in the other direction were at a standstill, echoing our beloved M25 no doubt. 

Eventually we turned onto the A3 for Valencia – the Avenida Mediterraneo - for a short while, joining the A31 and stayed with this road for some 176 kilometres following the signs to Albacete.  From a psychological standpoint, you feel you’re covering a lot of ground as the kilometres rather than miles count down on the road-signs.

 
Now – at last! - the land was filled with sunshine, the ploughed fields a deep russet colour contrasting with the green trees and cultivated hills.  Rise after rise displayed modern wind turbines, graceful against the blue skyline, like small armies frozen in time while on the march.  Here you could imagine a modern-day Don Quixote tilting at these windmills.

After 275 miles we filled up with CEPSA petrol and soon afterwards sighted two more bulls. 

 

At about 3:50pm we joined the N301 until we hit Albacete – the fifth bull was sighted at the junction for Albacete.  Because our car was fully laden we didn’t stop, but this small city is worth a visit.  It was called Al-Basit – the plain – by the Moors but apart from a few old back-streets it’s a modern city.  The museum is renowned for its archeological and ethnographical collection, including five small Roman dolls perfectly sculpted and jointed and an array of local Roman mosaics.  Like Toledo, Albacete is famous for its high-quality knives, an industry that can be traced back to the Moors.

We passed under the hill-top fortress of Chinchilla de Monte Aragon but didn’t linger for the view as we still had over 150 kilometers to go.  A short run down the N430 then onto the N330 for seventy-five km and we were in familiar territory, the Alicante region and arrived at 6:30pm as dusk turned into night.  We’d covered some 815km in ten hours, with stops.  It was a lot easier unloading than loading the car.  We’d arrived at our temporary residence, a base from where we would seek a permanent home under Spanish skies.

And just a week later on Christmas Day we were sitting with friends on the roof under those clear blue skies eating a traditional turkey meal with all the trimmings. 

 

[Note: Not every Christmas lunch can be eaten out, sometimes it's just a bit too cold; the nights are cold too. But the skies are usually gloriously clear blue! Then, petrol was about 81 cents a litre, now it's 1 euro 41 cents!]

The long tale of the Adventures of Super Scoop the Penguin

Long before Pingu (1986), there was Super Scoop. At the outset, he didn’t have a name. He was just a drawing of a penguin, along with a sketch of sheep (!) that Jen put on her letters while we were courting. After a while, I started drawing the penguin in different situations, slipping on ice, swimming, birthday cards etc. Slowly, it dawned on us that this character had the potential for a children’s story, so Jen began writing the adventures. In the second episode, the penguin gets his name, and thus Super Scoop was born. Six adventures were written, and I illustrated in colour a few scenes from each episode. We tried getting children’s publishers interested, but the response was less than enthusiastic, one actually citing Watership Down, stating that anthropomorphic animals don’t sell! I approached Penguin Biscuits and the makers of a super scoop ice cream, and sent off the drawings – fortunately, I’d made black and white photocopies because the drawings mysteriously got ‘lost’…

B&W copy of one of several lost illos

Then we were married and shortly afterwards I was drafted to Malta, taking Jen with me for a two-year tour.  I worked in the cash office of RN Hospital Mtarfa, just across the valley from Rabat. (The island inspired me to write a vampire novel set there, though its gestation took several years thereafter!)

Super Scoop’s first adventures were read over the BFBS Malta radio by Jen in 1975.

 

On our return to UK, we intermittently attempted to evoke interest in the character, but had no success. I wanted to establish some kind of publishing history for Super Scoop, as I thought he was quite a unique creation. I was serving in Faslane, Scotland, and edited the establishment magazine, so I wrote and drew the Super Scoop adventures as a black and white comic. It seemed well received by the families stationed there…

Faslane comic...

Leapfrog forward to 2003 and Super Scoop appeared this time in a full colour comic strip in the monthly magazine, the Portsmouth Post.

Beginning again - in colour...

 

He featured every month thereafter until that magazine’s demise in 2007. His adventures involved dinosaurs emerging from icebergs, an attack of leopard seals, encountering humans (scientists), shipwrecked polar bears, a friendly arctic tern, a long-lost relative, a journey to the centre of the earth, and fun with pals and even snowflakes. The strip is laced with humour, too.

Since then I’ve approached some children’s publishers and their interest is astoundingly non-existent. I say ‘astoundingly’ because I’ve shown and read the Portsmouth Post comics to our five-year-old grandson and he not only remembers the stories in great detail, but asks for them again and again – despite being strongly attracted to Angry Birds and Batman online games (under supervision!) His response is everything we hoped it would be – but clearly Jen and I are in a minority and publishers know best!

So I’m now thinking that rather than let these adventures gather dust in a drawer or sit unloved on a computer disc, I’ll self-publish, even if it means the illustrations won’t be in colour.

Watch this space.

One of Those Moments

KateMarie Collins is on a blog tour and is stopping by here today. So without further ado,  I'll hand over to KateMarie now:

First off, I’d like to thank Nik for giving me space today! This is stop # 4 on my current blog tour to promote the upcoming release of my second novel, Mark of the Successor.

Everyone has moments in their life that they replay in their heads. A birthday, graduation, wedding, and holding their child for the first time are all memories worth savoring. As an author, though, there’s a single day that stands out. It’s the day we get news of our first contract offer.

The story of mine is a little convoluted. I live in the Seattle, WA, USA area. Notorious for rain (though it’s not nearly as bad as you’ve heard), we don’t get lots of snow. It generally skips years. A good, cold, snowy winter in 2004 generally meant it’d be warmer and damp in 2005. Granted, anything beyond a very mild dusting can send drivers around here into a panic. We’re used to driving with wipers going, not having to use a broom to get white flakes off the windshield before we can even scrape off the ice!

2011/2012 was one of those winters. For three days, the area was hit hard by back-to-back storms. First significant snowfall (over 3” in a single day) hit, followed by freezing rain, small warming trend just enough to melt the top layer of snow, then it froze and snowed again. My van was encased in ice. Tree limbs were snapping all over the region due to the weight on the branches. Our house backs up to a wilderness area. We could hear the cracking and popping in the house. Two of our neighbors lost trees. One was about to walk out her front door when her tree came crashing down – across her porch.

The school district had already cancelled classes for the following day, so I stayed in bed and slept in a bit. When I woke up, the house was slightly chilly and the alarm clock stared blankly at me. We’d lost power. I wasn’t too concerned. The lines coming to our neighborhood go underground about two blocks from us. The longest we’d ever been without power is six hours.

I reached for my cell phone, thinking I’d check my email to make sure my husband had made it to work fine. That’s when I saw the email I’d been waiting over six months for.

I remember taking a deep breath, telling myself that I’d have to look up a new place to submit to once the power (and Internet) were back. I expected a rejection. It’s such a part of this business, and I’d had at least a dozen by this time. It was my default expectation.

I had to read the email three times to realize it said something different.

My point is this: you’re going to get the rejections. It’s part of the learning curve with this business. But that one email that says “yes” instead of “no” makes you forget the pain of the past. Your stomach’s going to do acrobatics, your hands will shake, and you’ll be almost unintelligible when you call people to share the news.

But you’ll have one of those memories that’ll stay with you forever.

KateMarie Collins is the author of ‘Daughter of Hauk’ and the upcoming ‘Mark of the Successor’, both with Solstice Publishing. You can find her on her blog (http://www.katemariecollins.wordpress.com), twitter (@DaughterHauk), and FaceBook (https://www.facebook.com/pages/KateMarie-Collins/217255151699492?ref=hl). Her books are available at the Solstice Publishing website, Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Smashwords.

Good to have you visit, KateMarie. I've been getting rejections for over 40 years, but that doesn't deter me! It seems your wait for acceptance was worthwhile: you’ve had a blizzard of praise from reviewers on Amazon alone for Daughter of Hauk (see below).

Blurb for DAUGHTER OF HAUK

What would you do, if you found out your life was a lie?

After you were dead?

Arwenna Shalian spent her life in loyal service to a God she was never meant to serve. Tricked by her fellow priests, she betrayed a man she thought she loved by binding a demon to him. One that would send him to the brink of madness.

Can she find a way to forgive herself? And what of Hauk, the God she was Marked to serve? Will He find her and give her the chance to undo what she’s done, or leave her at the mercy of the creatures that torture her soul?

Here’s a condensed selection of reviews for Daughter of Hauk.

KateMarie Collins has created a wonderful hero in a fantastical world of elves, faeries, orcs, gods and monsters. This highly imaginative book is a pleasure to read and draws you in from the unexpected twist in the first few pages. From there you are taken on a fabulous thrill-ride through a delightful new realm. Don't get me wrong, this author hasn't written a fluffy fairy tale - she does not shy away from the grim realities and has a keen knack for capturing the terror in a situation - but this serves to heighten the journey that the protagonist, Arwenna, must take - a journey the reader follows without wanting it to end. – E.J. Harrigan, author of Where the Dead Go

This was one of the best stories I've read in a long time, with the perfect blend of fantasy, action, adventure, drama, and romance. Collins has a wonderful writing style that is easy to follow and hard to put down. - Andrea Buginsky, author of Open Heart

Collins fills each chapter of Daughter of Hauk with heart-throbbing action that keeps pulses racing and pages turning until the last paragraph. But don't fret; book 2 is in the works. -Michael Thal, author of The Legend of Koolura.

From the opening pages the author placed me in a world filled with armor-clad elves and half-orcs wielding mighty swords and casting magical spells. In short order I began cheering for the protagonist, Arwenna, as she and her gang carry on an epic adventure while battling their evil enemies. I particularly enjoyed Collins' vivid descriptions to not only paint the scenes in the book, but also to portray the characters' use of magic. - Daniel Springer, author of The WILCO Project

Collins invests the tale with all the mythic power it suggests and deserves. The legends and secrets are numerous and intriguing. The battles are epic, their outcome often in doubt. And, whatever you do, do not skip the epilogue. Without that, you're left without the heart of this very engaging novel. – Carl Brush, author of The Second Vendetta

KateMarie Collins has proven herself a master storyteller in her exciting novel (… and) has given each of these characters traits that evoke strong emotions in the reader. Some you will love. Some you will despise. Collins’ novel reads like a Greek tragedy as she explores themes of loyalty, friendship, valor, revenge, betrayal and the pain of an impossible choice. - Nancy Curteman, author of Murder Down Under.

The author has created a dark fantasy world... These dark characters are driven by hatred, revenge, ego and a consuming lust for power, and you feel (all) that as you turn the pages. You start to really develop a hatred for Bohr and his ilk, and want Arwenna to deliver some justice. Arwenna and her band are fleshed out characters with depth and complexity that is refreshing. You feel for these characters as if they were your own close circle of friends. If you're looking for a fantasy novel that makes you want to hate evil and cheer on the good guys who are more than just two-dimensional place-holders, then this is a book you want to pick up and read. – Tony Rudzki, editor

And here’s the

Blurb for MARK OF THE SUCCESSOR

Dominated and controlled by an abusive mother, Lily does what she can to enjoy fleeting moments of normality. When a break from school only provides the opportunity for more abuse at home, the sudden appearance of a stranger turns her world even bleaker.  Disappearing without a trace, he has left a lingering fear in Lily. His parting words to her mother, “Have her ready to travel tomorrow,” is something her mind refuses to accept.

Running away is the only answer. But before Lily can execute her plan, a shimmering portal appears in her room. Along with two strangers who promise to help keep her safe. With time running out, she accepts their offer for escape and accompanies them into a brand new world. A world in which she is the kidnapped daughter of a Queen, and the heir to the throne of Tiadar.

Can she find her own strength to overcome both an abusive past and avoid those who would use her as a means to power?

I wish you every success with both books, KateMarie, and your blog tour!