Wonderful Short Stories Page 3

  ‘I really can’t understand how you could have married such a man,’ challenged her friend, Deirdre, one afternoon while they were drinking tea in her lounge.

  ‘He wasn’t always like that,’ returned Helen sadly, her mind flitting briefly back into the past. ‘When we first met, I considered him to be a man with a future. He was bright, reasonably ambitious and had a lot of bezazz at times. The change seemed to happen when his parents died. After that, he seemed to lose a lot of his dazzle.’

  ‘That’s all very well,’ retorted Deirdre sharply, ‘but where’s the passion, the love, the caring, the tenderness. He’s become a robot. How long have you been married?’

  ‘Twenty five years this year. It’s our silver wedding anniversary shortly.’

  ‘And what have you to show for it?’ went on Deirdre perniciously attempting to destroy her friend’s marriage. ‘It’s all very sad. Have you not considered going to a marriage counsellor for help and guidance. With hand on heart, you can’t let it continue as it stands.’

  ‘No, we haven’t done anything about it yet,’ Helen told her. ‘I’m not sure how he would react.’

  ‘Well, a marriage involves two people,’ went on Deirdre persistently. ‘It takes two to tango.’

  Helen nodded sagely. She was at the watershed. After all, Norman was such a nice man and he supported her generously even though his wages were low. She didn’t have to work and he was meticulous in paying all the bills. When weighing up the advantages and disadvantages, she felt it was probably far wiser to count her blessings and allow things to continue as they were, regardless of the advice from her friend.

  And that’s exactly how life continued until one day when Norman was searching through the racks in a charity shop looking at men’s clothing. He came across a bright red shirt which he examined very carefully. As an extremely conservative man in nature, he normally wore only dull buff, brown and black clothes. However, on sighting the red garment, he decided that perhaps it was time for a change! The price was reasonable and he dwelt for some time before taking it to the counter to purchase the item. Helen would be most surprised the next evening when he took his shower and came down to dinner in a bright red shirt. He could hardly wait to see her reaction. Indeed, she was absolutely stunned when he preened himself in the doorway of the dining room the next evening.

  ‘What do you think of this, eh?’ he asked, his face breaking into a smile which she hadn’t seen for quite some time.

  ‘Norman!’ she gasped with admiration. ‘It’s terrific! You look so handsome. What possessed you to buy it?’

  ‘I really don’t know,’ he replied calmly, delighted at her response. ‘I saw it in a charity shop and it seemed to beckon to me. I couldn’t resist it.’

  ‘Well it’s certainly an improvement,’ she told him, moving towards him lovingly to examine it closer. To her surprise, he took her in his arms and kissed her passionately on the lips. ‘Wow!’ she exclaimed excitedly. ‘That’s like the Norman I used to know. You ought to buy coloured shirts more often.’

  ‘Maybe I will,’ he commented warmly, kissing her again in a highly passionate embrace which made her body tingle all over.

  After dinner, during which he spoke most of the time, giving her endearing looks across the table, they sat down to watch television as usual. The first programme was the evening news which they always viewed avidly in absolute silence. However, on this occasion, Norman suddenly burst into an educated oration which completely stunned her. They were watching an item concerning the Middle East where Palestinians and Israelis were in violent conflict with each other once more.

  ‘Do you know,’ he ventured, ‘there’s a sound way in which both sides can sue for peace if they really want to.’

  She stared at him in amazement for he had already spoken more words to her in the past hour than he had for the last three months. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked looking at him in a strange new light.

  ‘Well, it seems to me that a treaty could be established between the two sides providing there’s firstly an agreement by both of them to prevent the Islam right wing Hamas, or whatever they’re called, to make unprecedented attacks on Israel and its people. Clearly, the conflict always begins because the Palestinians provoke it. Therefore, such an agreement would have to be agreed by both sides. Then peaceful discussion could resume to arrange for demarcation for both sides on settlements where Palestinians and Israelis have built homes and businesses. After all, there has to be room for such negotiations to take place. If they were to proceed on those lines, then both sides would be able to sit together in discussion and sort out their problems successfully without any further lives being lost or people being injured. I don’t think anyone has proceeded down those lines as yet although it’s the most obvious solution to the problem... if it’s ever going to be resolved.’

  ‘It’s the first time I’ve ever heard you give an opinion,’ she told him in surprise as they listened to the next item of news which related to details about the law identified by the Government as ‘two strikes and out’ for anyone guilty of two violent or sexual crimes whereby they were automatically jailed for life.

  ‘It’s a good law,’ declared Norman sagely, ‘but it’s being reduced to a ridiculous state by the judiciary which is passing a life sentence on such criminals but then recommending that they’re released in a very short period of time... sometimes as low as eighteen months.’ He turned to Helen appealingly. ‘Do you know that some of these criminal have intimidated, beaten up and even stabbed people on numerous occasions yet despite the law of two strikes and out they’re sentenced to only about three years in jail. It makes a mockery of the whole procedure! The Government should take steps to prevent judges from diluting sentences because it suits them to do so!’

  ‘Where is all this coming from, Norman?’ Helen deigned to ask eventually. ‘I mean you sit here in front of the television for years on end without saying a word and suddenly you come up with all these arguments... all this sagacity. What on earth is going on?’

  He shrugged his shoulders aimlessly. ‘I don’t know. I just felt I had to give vent to my feelings and the words simply came out of my mouth. I’ve never even thought about the Middle East crisis before. Not seriously. And my knowledge of the law could be lost within the confines of a thimble. I really don’t understand any of it either.’ He stared dolefully at the television set pondering his actions. The announcer began to talk about the National Health Service which prompted Norman to voice his opinions once more. ‘These waiting lists are absolutely diabolical,’ he stated. ‘A patient has to wait a whole year before receiving treatment which is astonishingly accepted without serious reaction by the British public. Why don’t they reciprocate with countries abroad so that patients can be treated over there? In Germany and France, for example, there’s a wealth of spare bed capacity. The hospitals are only three-quarters full. It might cost the NHS more money to send patients abroad for treatment but at least they’d be treated far quicker. And there would also be a distinct reduction in the waiting lists. If not, the situation will worsen in Britain and people will start to take action on their own account. The situation will become more and more desperate as time goes on. You see, the British population is aging fast. The greater part of it is in the forty-five to ninety age. Or, put another way, there are less young people than older ones. Perhaps I ought to write to the Secretary of State for Health to advise him on the matter.’

  Helen stared at him is astonishment, her mouth wide open, as the words of wisdom poured from his lips. Suddenly, he was a new man... a changed Norman Carrington... someone completely different to the person she had married. His knowledge of facts and the solutions he put forward were those delivered normally by a politician. In addition, his manner was forthright and decisive, and he wasn’t at all afraid to voice his opinions.

  The next day he went to work in the nor
mal manner, kissing his wife gently on one cheek and saying practically nothing as he left. It seemed that a good night’s sleep had knocked all the stuffing out of him and he was back to normality again. Helen watched him walk down the garden path holding his executive briefcase, which contained sandwiches and an apple for lunch. He walked aimlessly towards the bus-stop and waited there for the vehicle to arrive. Much to her disappointment, he had become the old Norman once again. So what had caused him to assert himself so vehemently the previous evening? What had suddenly made him so erudite in the ways of the world? The only difference was that he wore a red shirt which he had bought in a charity shop. Nothing less, nothing more! Perhaps its audacious nature caused him to throw caution to the winds and allowed his mind to freak out. She gave a wry smile at the thought. Maybe wearing the red shirt allowed him to open his mind to reality. She thought about the passionate embraces and the kisses he had given her, then she shrugged her shoulders and put the idea out of her mind. At least he was back to normal. That was all that mattered. However, to her surprise, it was only the start of the matter. When he returned home that evening, he put on the red shirt again and took her boldly in his arms to kiss her fully on the lips in a very passionate embrace which made her feel like a woman again.

  ‘How about you and me having a really good night out,’ he ventured with a smile on his face. ‘We could go to that new restaurant in town for that barbecue dinner they have on offer with a fine bottle of wine, and then come back here and make love to each other. What do you say to that?’

  Her eyes opened widely at the suggestion. They had been married for nearly twenty-five years and the last twenty had been pretty dull in all respects. In fact they had been downright boring with no sexual relationship between them at all. Suddenly, he was more than a man... a gigolo... trying to woo her all over again. The more she thought about it, the more she realised it had to be the red shirt which was causing the change in her husband’s personality.

  Indeed, it appeared that every time Norman wore the red shirt he changed from an introvertial silent docile ambitionless person to an extrovertial passionate decision-maker full of bright ideas. On the third day of wearing it, Helen broached the subject bluntly.

  ‘Why is it that every time you wear that shirt your personality changes?’ she asked boldly as though he would be able to answer the question to her satisfaction.

  ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,’ he responded in amazement. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because it’s true. When you wear it, you become passionate, you break the silence, and you come out with the most outrageous solutions to the problems of the world. You’ve never done that sort of thing before.’

  ‘This red shirt is only a garment I bought in a charity shop,’ he told her, screwing up his face enigmatically.

  ‘Well, I don’t know what happens when you wear it but as soon as you do you become a completely different person. One I’ve never seen before. Don’t you realise it?’

  He scoffed at her comments. ‘Oh, come on, Helen! How can it change me? Look, I’ll take it off and prove it to you.’ He removed the shirt and stood silently before her. ‘There,’ he said finally, ‘it makes no difference at all. I’m the same man, when all’s said and done.’

  ‘I dare you to leave it off!’ she ordered.

  ‘What?’ He was astonished at the order.

  ‘I said leave it off. I want you to realise what happens when you wear it. I want you to see what it does to you.’

  He laid the shirt down neatly on an old chair in the corner of the room and returned to his armchair in front of the television. ‘Ridiculous!’ he muttered to himself, falling into silence.

  She watched him carefully and when the news programme came on, he sat quite still in his armchair without saying a word.

  ‘It’s true,’ she said towards the end of the evening. ‘There’s something about that shirt which changes you. I’m going to make enquiries tomorrow about it.’

  ‘About a shirt!’ he laughed, scoffing her again. ‘What are you going to do, take it to the police and have it charged with some form of crime?’

  ‘No, I’m going to find out who it belonged to and why it changes your personality every time you wear it.’

  ‘But it doesn’t!’ he insisted. ‘I’m the same person whether I wear it or not. It’s all in your imagination!’

  ‘Oh no it isn’t!’ she challenged. ‘Not at all! There’s something about it I have to find out.’

  The next day she went to the charity shop where he bought the item and asked the volunteers about it.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ returned the first woman. ‘People bring in stuff all the time and they never leave names or addresses.’

  ‘Nor me,’ added the second one before something triggered her mind. ‘Wait a minute!’ she went on. ‘I believe it came in a black bag full of clothes and there was a label attached to it. I think it’s still in the back room.’ She disappeared into the back room for a short while to look for it. When she returned, there was a triumphant expression on her face. ‘You’re very lucky, do you know that? Usually we scrap the black bags but this one still had some clothes left in it. It came from a Mrs. Brenden of twenty-two Devlin Avenue. Does that help you?’

  ‘I should say,’ replied Helen gratefully, and after thanking the woman she left for the address straight away.

  She arrived at a pleasant detached cottage on the edge of town which was embellished with a beautiful garden, well-laid out with trees and bushes. Approaching the front door with a nervous feeling in the pit of her stomach, she rang the doorbell and waited. Shortly, an elderly woman opened the door to face her.

  ‘I’m sorry to trouble you, Mrs. Brenden,’ began Helen apologetically. ‘I’m enquiring about some clothing you gave to one of the local charity shops.’

  ‘Oh dear!’ exclaimed the woman in surprise. ‘I hope there was nothing wrong with any of it.’

  ‘No, no, not at all,’ retorted Helen quickly, dissipating the woman’s fears. ‘It’s just that something unusual has occurred. May I talk to you in private about it?’

  ‘Well I suppose so,’ returned the woman, happy that someone had called to break up the boredom of her day. ‘Why don’t you come in? We can discuss it over a cup of tea.’

  Helen went inside and was shown into a spacious lounge where she sat on a comfortable settee waiting for the woman to return with the tea. Eventually, they sat down together as Mrs. Brenden poured the liquid into two cups and passed one to her.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ she asked inquisitively.

  ‘Well,’ continued Helen hesitatingly, ‘it’s all rather absurd really. You see, my husband bought a red shirt which came from the black plastic bag which had a label with your address on it.’

  ‘My husband did have a red shirt,’ confirmed the woman. ‘A scarlet one, as it happens.’

  ‘Whenever my husband wears it, his personality changes completely. He’s normally a very quiet moderate man who never says boo to a goose, yet when he wears the red shirt he becomes assertive, knowledgeable... a completely different person. So I thought I’d track you down in order to find out the reason why such a thing might happen.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’ asked the woman enigmatically.

  ‘I’d like to learn a little bit about your husband,’ declared Helen quietly before taking a sip of her tea.

  ‘My husband?’ related the woman sadly. ‘There’s not much to say really. He died two months ago. He was a scientist working for a government agency and he was a well-informed man on all kinds of topics. Not an agitator mind you. He recognised the limits to which he could go, especially as he worked for the government. They’re very keen that everyone they employ conducts their lives in moderation. However, he was larger than life and very assertive. But how can this information be of any val
ue to you.’

  Helen paused to mull over the facts for a moment before proceeding. ‘Tell me honestly,’ she asked quietly,’ has anything unusual happened in this house since your husband passed away?’

  Mrs. Brenden looked at her strangely before replying. ‘Well I have to say there have been one or two incidents which I can’t explain,’ she said. ‘The bathroom door seems to keep locking itself and, after a while, it unlocks on its own. And then there’s the sound which I keep hearing from the second bedroom.’

  ‘What kind of sound?’

  ‘It’s a hissing noise like I’ve never heard before. Yet when I get to the room it stops. And every evening there’s a creaking on the staircase. I’ve no idea what makes it happen.’

  Helen nodded sagely. ‘I know it sounds absurd,’ she went on , ‘but it’s my belief that the spirit of your husband still exists in this world. They seem to hang around for a while in the home after death. It happens quite a lot, you know.’

  ‘I understand that much,’ stated the woman bluntly, ‘but I can’t understand what the red shirt has to do with it.’

  ‘I truly believe that part of his spirit is embodied in the shirt. I mean, there’s no way my husband could change his nature when he wears it. Even more astonishing is the fact that he returns to his normal nature when he takes it off. May I ask whether it was one of your husband’s favourite shirts.’

  ‘He liked it very much as it happens,’ exclaimed the woman. ‘I’m not sure whether it was his favourite. ‘But I understand that after a few months the spirits of the departed disappear. At that time they leave this earth for good. If what you say is correct, my husband’s spirit will disappear very shortly.’