Read Online Stories of the Strange and Sinister (Valancourt 20th Century Classics) by Frank Baker - Free Book Online
Authors: Frank Baker
Ads: Link
out. Except that it’s a bit darker.
And that is what is so awful.
No. That is overstatement. It isn’t ‘awful’. It’s plain ordinary. And yet, the very ordinariness of everything can be frightening. And of course, I’ve had such a horribly ordinary life. And now, being ‘redundant’ – that’s about as ordinary as you can get in days when inflation drains you and catches you in the stomach, and Mr Rising Price, to use an old-fashioned term, gets you by the short and curlies.
Why did I write ‘short and curlies’? Nobody uses that phrase any more. As I see it written down, I realize how out of everything I am – a redundant old fool in his sixties who spent years trapped on the wrong side of the Post Office counter. Not even one hold-up to give an edge to any day.
Years. Yes, years. All those years gone now, and Dorothy gone, and both girls in Canada with their families, and letters on my birthday and at Christmas. They think I’m all right. I suppose I am, really. Just lonely. Is it even worth telling them that I got the sack – which is what being ‘redundant’ means?
The sack . . . The word has crept in. No. It’s leapt in, in a way I didn’t expect. I’d never even thought of other meanings of the word until I wrote that.
But that is exactly what the thing does. Creeps, and leaps. For all I know, it might strangle.
I don’t smoke. I don’t drink. And sex is something of the past – not that I ever had much. Oh, I think of sex often. Who doesn’t, particularly in these days? Who can escape from it? Playboy and so on. And now, Knave. I’m sick of it all. I try to read serious books, like Lucretius. Yes, I’ve tried him, God knows why, except that I remember reading him when I was a lad of sixteen, and other classical writers. Juvenal, for example. Yes, I try to keep my mind on serious matters.
But that Sixth Satire of Juvenal – God! it’s strong stuff! And how he hated women . . .
It’s no use. I’m getting nowhere. I said to myself – I’ll sit down and try to relate quite simply what has been happening in the last few days. So I’ll start again – perhaps send a copy of this to Pam or Cynthia in Canada.
Are you listening, either of you? Four thousand miles away. Can you hear your old father? If you want the truth, he’s crying out loud for help, and doesn’t know how to make you hear. I suppose there’s nothing really wrong with him. But he doesn’t want to be slotted into a home for MDs – he doesn’t want to have this electrical treatment they give people like me nowadays, like putting them in a mental cage, it seems to me.
Here are the bare facts.
It began with my neighbour in this respectable avenue in this vile town of Hadderminster where all they do is make carpets and pull down old houses and cottages, and dig up the roads, exposing drains and gas pipes, and generally make a foul mess of what was once not so bad a little place in the Midlands. Here I’ve lived all my life.
Why did this man have to become my neighbour? He’s called Knowles – Kenneth Knowles, but we’re not on Christian name terms. It’s Mr Knowles and Mr Patch, and always will be. Better that way, really. I can’t see him calling me Ted, or me calling him Kenneth, or Ken. No. In the Avenue it’s Mister, Mrs, or Miss. Still, there’s a feeling of neighbourliness. If I was trapped in the bungalow at night with a fire raging in the hall, Mr Knowles would be on the scene before you could say knife. And I suppose I’d come to his rescue too, if needed.
But why did he have to become my neighbour? I never liked him from the start, when he came here a year ago. Nobody knew anything about him; and his grim-looking sister spoke to nobody, only made me mad with her hideous little yapping dog she keeps locked up all day and only lets out at fixed times to do his jobs. And I know the times; I’m keyed up for them. I can hear that yap in advance, time it exactly.
But all this has nothing to
And that is what is so awful.
No. That is overstatement. It isn’t ‘awful’. It’s plain ordinary. And yet, the very ordinariness of everything can be frightening. And of course, I’ve had such a horribly ordinary life. And now, being ‘redundant’ – that’s about as ordinary as you can get in days when inflation drains you and catches you in the stomach, and Mr Rising Price, to use an old-fashioned term, gets you by the short and curlies.
Why did I write ‘short and curlies’? Nobody uses that phrase any more. As I see it written down, I realize how out of everything I am – a redundant old fool in his sixties who spent years trapped on the wrong side of the Post Office counter. Not even one hold-up to give an edge to any day.
Years. Yes, years. All those years gone now, and Dorothy gone, and both girls in Canada with their families, and letters on my birthday and at Christmas. They think I’m all right. I suppose I am, really. Just lonely. Is it even worth telling them that I got the sack – which is what being ‘redundant’ means?
The sack . . . The word has crept in. No. It’s leapt in, in a way I didn’t expect. I’d never even thought of other meanings of the word until I wrote that.
But that is exactly what the thing does. Creeps, and leaps. For all I know, it might strangle.
I don’t smoke. I don’t drink. And sex is something of the past – not that I ever had much. Oh, I think of sex often. Who doesn’t, particularly in these days? Who can escape from it? Playboy and so on. And now, Knave. I’m sick of it all. I try to read serious books, like Lucretius. Yes, I’ve tried him, God knows why, except that I remember reading him when I was a lad of sixteen, and other classical writers. Juvenal, for example. Yes, I try to keep my mind on serious matters.
But that Sixth Satire of Juvenal – God! it’s strong stuff! And how he hated women . . .
It’s no use. I’m getting nowhere. I said to myself – I’ll sit down and try to relate quite simply what has been happening in the last few days. So I’ll start again – perhaps send a copy of this to Pam or Cynthia in Canada.
Are you listening, either of you? Four thousand miles away. Can you hear your old father? If you want the truth, he’s crying out loud for help, and doesn’t know how to make you hear. I suppose there’s nothing really wrong with him. But he doesn’t want to be slotted into a home for MDs – he doesn’t want to have this electrical treatment they give people like me nowadays, like putting them in a mental cage, it seems to me.
Here are the bare facts.
It began with my neighbour in this respectable avenue in this vile town of Hadderminster where all they do is make carpets and pull down old houses and cottages, and dig up the roads, exposing drains and gas pipes, and generally make a foul mess of what was once not so bad a little place in the Midlands. Here I’ve lived all my life.
Why did this man have to become my neighbour? He’s called Knowles – Kenneth Knowles, but we’re not on Christian name terms. It’s Mr Knowles and Mr Patch, and always will be. Better that way, really. I can’t see him calling me Ted, or me calling him Kenneth, or Ken. No. In the Avenue it’s Mister, Mrs, or Miss. Still, there’s a feeling of neighbourliness. If I was trapped in the bungalow at night with a fire raging in the hall, Mr Knowles would be on the scene before you could say knife. And I suppose I’d come to his rescue too, if needed.
But why did he have to become my neighbour? I never liked him from the start, when he came here a year ago. Nobody knew anything about him; and his grim-looking sister spoke to nobody, only made me mad with her hideous little yapping dog she keeps locked up all day and only lets out at fixed times to do his jobs. And I know the times; I’m keyed up for them. I can hear that yap in advance, time it exactly.
But all this has nothing to
Similar Books
