Read Online A Trick I Learned From Dead Men by Kitty Aldridge - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kitty Aldridge
Tags: Contemporary
Ads: Link
to sing down at the crem.
Newsflash. A text from Lorelle has landed.
He he he! C u l8er. L.
A definite improvement on He he. More than twice as many words. A step in the right direction, I’d say. Meanwhile, on the subject of love, Derek has some advice. Standing there stirring his tea: Date a midwife, he says. Same type of graft, he says, same hours, same wavelength. Off he strolls, leaving me gobsmacked, holding the kettle. Cheers, then.
We are even stevens today. Four gents, four ladies. Mrs Lomax is being viewed later. Good afternoon, Mrs Lomax, I say. Talking to yourself again. Sign of madness. Where’s my screwdriver? Derek doesn’t stop for an answer. His waistcoat and collar are undone; his face is shiny after only minutes in the workshop. One day he’ll topple into one of the coffins and that will be that. Talk of the town then. He wouldn’t mind, chuffed probably. Picture in the
Advertiser
.
Death is expensive. Cheaper to stay alive. Unless you’re Derek, with his weakness for patisserie items and baked goods.
I’ve worked all my life, he says, and all I’ve got to show for it is this gut.
Derek is a contradiction in terms, he can be light on his feet when he wants to. The only time things get hairy is when we’ve got a rush on. No one’s fault, but it can get a bit brisk. I only saw Derek lose his grip once, not the whole gentleman, just the top half. I don’t like it when clients get a knock, especially the head. You feel bad, but it can happen when there’s a rush on. Can’t be helped. You apologise. Very sorry about that, Mr Anderson, you say. That was his name.
We are magicians, Derek says, but not miracle workers. Our task is impossible, he says. Our task is necessary. He waggles his fingers in the air, then he says, Fetch me a magic wand, Lee.
*
L ORELLE’S VAN IS parked up. Olé. No sign of her. I lean on the van, arms out, wait for her to mosey along. I think on. I remember my hair. I lean in quick, check in one of the wing mirrors.
All right, Lee?
Whoa. How-do. Hello-hello. What brings you here this fine day?
Same as usual. Flowers.
Flores, flora, florals. How’s it going?
Fine, thanks. You?
Pretty good, I say. All pretty damn good here at the ol’ ranch.
Great. Gotta go, Lee. See ya.
She opens the door, climbs in. I jump around to slam the door for her.
God, Lee. No need to wham it.
Sorry about that. Don’t know my own.
Bye then.
I watch the van until it veers around the corner, out of sight.
Arrivederci, mi amore.
My luck’s in. I can feel it.
11
A dry evening, with some clear spells and cloud increasing through the night
SHE FOUND WEBSITES based in America, Mexico, Australia. She sat at her screen day and night. No fat, no animal protein, no milk. She ate only fruit, berries, vegetables, like someone visiting from the Stone Age. This was the true path, she said. It’s up to me. I can cure myself if I choose. It comes from within, she said.
We found ourselves wading in information. Pamphlets, cuttings, leaflets, keeping us in the picture. Many foods feed cancer cells! Other foods virtually destroy the energy of almost all cells! Starve the cancer cells!
Giant containers of distilled water stood stacked in the kitchen for cooking, rinsing, washing. Ned carried them in one at a time. No plastic wrap or tinfoil allowed because they were the enemy. Old fillings and cavitations were also a cause of breast cancer. Who knew? Who would’ve guessed? You start to see cancer lurking in everything. Up and down the motorway she went with her fireman, Les, at the wheel. Dental appointments, oxygen treatment, ozone treatment, hydrogen peroxide. She knew to stay away from qualified doctors at all cost. The evil white coats of the NHS. Everyone knows their game. A plotting tribe of neo-fascist bullies, she called them; she got that off a herbalist. Not just that. The pharmaceutical companies want profits not cures, she said. And there was evidence. The aromatherapist at the
Newsflash. A text from Lorelle has landed.
He he he! C u l8er. L.
A definite improvement on He he. More than twice as many words. A step in the right direction, I’d say. Meanwhile, on the subject of love, Derek has some advice. Standing there stirring his tea: Date a midwife, he says. Same type of graft, he says, same hours, same wavelength. Off he strolls, leaving me gobsmacked, holding the kettle. Cheers, then.
We are even stevens today. Four gents, four ladies. Mrs Lomax is being viewed later. Good afternoon, Mrs Lomax, I say. Talking to yourself again. Sign of madness. Where’s my screwdriver? Derek doesn’t stop for an answer. His waistcoat and collar are undone; his face is shiny after only minutes in the workshop. One day he’ll topple into one of the coffins and that will be that. Talk of the town then. He wouldn’t mind, chuffed probably. Picture in the
Advertiser
.
Death is expensive. Cheaper to stay alive. Unless you’re Derek, with his weakness for patisserie items and baked goods.
I’ve worked all my life, he says, and all I’ve got to show for it is this gut.
Derek is a contradiction in terms, he can be light on his feet when he wants to. The only time things get hairy is when we’ve got a rush on. No one’s fault, but it can get a bit brisk. I only saw Derek lose his grip once, not the whole gentleman, just the top half. I don’t like it when clients get a knock, especially the head. You feel bad, but it can happen when there’s a rush on. Can’t be helped. You apologise. Very sorry about that, Mr Anderson, you say. That was his name.
We are magicians, Derek says, but not miracle workers. Our task is impossible, he says. Our task is necessary. He waggles his fingers in the air, then he says, Fetch me a magic wand, Lee.
*
L ORELLE’S VAN IS parked up. Olé. No sign of her. I lean on the van, arms out, wait for her to mosey along. I think on. I remember my hair. I lean in quick, check in one of the wing mirrors.
All right, Lee?
Whoa. How-do. Hello-hello. What brings you here this fine day?
Same as usual. Flowers.
Flores, flora, florals. How’s it going?
Fine, thanks. You?
Pretty good, I say. All pretty damn good here at the ol’ ranch.
Great. Gotta go, Lee. See ya.
She opens the door, climbs in. I jump around to slam the door for her.
God, Lee. No need to wham it.
Sorry about that. Don’t know my own.
Bye then.
I watch the van until it veers around the corner, out of sight.
Arrivederci, mi amore.
My luck’s in. I can feel it.
11
A dry evening, with some clear spells and cloud increasing through the night
SHE FOUND WEBSITES based in America, Mexico, Australia. She sat at her screen day and night. No fat, no animal protein, no milk. She ate only fruit, berries, vegetables, like someone visiting from the Stone Age. This was the true path, she said. It’s up to me. I can cure myself if I choose. It comes from within, she said.
We found ourselves wading in information. Pamphlets, cuttings, leaflets, keeping us in the picture. Many foods feed cancer cells! Other foods virtually destroy the energy of almost all cells! Starve the cancer cells!
Giant containers of distilled water stood stacked in the kitchen for cooking, rinsing, washing. Ned carried them in one at a time. No plastic wrap or tinfoil allowed because they were the enemy. Old fillings and cavitations were also a cause of breast cancer. Who knew? Who would’ve guessed? You start to see cancer lurking in everything. Up and down the motorway she went with her fireman, Les, at the wheel. Dental appointments, oxygen treatment, ozone treatment, hydrogen peroxide. She knew to stay away from qualified doctors at all cost. The evil white coats of the NHS. Everyone knows their game. A plotting tribe of neo-fascist bullies, she called them; she got that off a herbalist. Not just that. The pharmaceutical companies want profits not cures, she said. And there was evidence. The aromatherapist at the
Similar Books
