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the philosopher has been extremely helpful , thank god!

TITLE NOT CHOSEN YET!


   “Ow! Watch it Peters!” exclaimed Watson when the young lad crashed into him with his
baggage trolley.
    “Sorry, Watson. Not my fault. These blooming French trolleys are crap!”
    Watson furiously rubbed the back of his legs where he had been hit, continuing with texting the new girl he had met at the Solange’s vineyard, whilst trying to keep his eyes on the group he had been put in charge of. He was getting fed up with this job of caring for these lads and shouted after Peters who had just hit him “You are the reason many men have vasectomies!”
    He was getting to the end of his tether with this trip as he had been landed with having to translate (his mother being French Charles was bi-lingual) for everyone most of the time, since the lads couldn’t be bothered to use their meagre G.C.S.E. French; even the teachers accompanying them were useless. On top of all this he had to take charge of many of the 14 year old lads, as he was to be head boy next term Charles was considered to be the most dependable senior who had joined the school holiday to the various battlefields and war graves in France and Belgium.
     Having heard many stories since he was young he had always been anxious to actually go to these places. Also he was asked by his favourite great-aunt Sara to take some photographs of her brother’s grave and visit the vineyard they had found during their time there just before the war.
He managed to do theses favours for her and was enchanted with the Solange’s vineyard, and even more so with their daughter.
    Normally Charles, as head of house, could handle the pressure but if any difficult problems arose he could send them to the master of the house. With his two younger siblings at home he could always send them to mother or father who would deal with them.  However on this trip he had no help since the teachers assumed he could handle any problems, thereby leaving him on his own.
    On top of everything he was expected to deal with his father’s request, needing him to sort out the deliveries which were over at the freight depot at the Eurotunnel. His father was head of the wine merchant company his family has started before the First World War.          
    Charles loved this industry and his dream was to own a vineyard in the Dordogne region, as well as run the family company. He had loved the small family-run vineyard his great- aunt had asked him to find. He had dutifully taken photographs of his great uncle’s grave and surroundings. He adored his aunt and would do anything for her. The vineyard was fascinating and the owners were the same family who had been there when his great aunt had stayed before the war. They still had pictures of his aunt and her brother from their time there. He had in his case a couple of bottles they had insisted Charles take back to her, one was really old. The best part of it all was the meeting of Marie Claire. Such lovely hazel eyes, tall and willowy with amazingly long chestnut hair all the way down to her bottom! They were texting each other a lot and he had her Facebook details and e-mail address too, thank God for modern technology, Charles was thinking.

    Charles sternly told the group of lads to stay where they were for a minute and rushed over to the leader of the whole trip, the uninspiring History teacher who’s French was non-existent. “Sir, I need to pop over to the freight yards to see to a couple of things my father needs me to do. The train is delayed for three hours..”
   “What? Not again? When did they tell us that?”
   “Just now, Sir, over the system, ” explained Charles doing his best to be polite.
   “Well I don’t know Watson. We might need you to explain things to the frog...erm I mean French, who don’t speak English. Although I am sure they do, they just don’t want to. Really I think..”
   “Please, Sir. I could bring you a couple of my father’s bottles he is sending over to the warehouse back home.”
The teacher looked slightly more interested.
   Charles was expert at knowing when he was onto a winner and went for the kill and pulled his trump card. “Only if I don’t go and sort things out now it would mean that at the end of term farewell party he won’t be able to supply the headmaster with all the champagne and wines he promised,” replied Charles swiftly.
   “Oh, very well then,” sighed the teacher exaggeratedly,” be quick. Put Sneddon in charge of your group. Make sure you have all our mobile numbers in case of any problems.
    Charles ran back and told young Sneddon he was in charge and the history teacher was keeping an eye on them all.

    He was running towards the yards when his mobile blazed out La Marseillaise, signalling his Marie Claire was calling, his heart was already racing from his exertions but raced even more so,” Ma cher!”
      “English Charles, only English!”


    Charles smiled to himself thinking for the umpteenth time during this holiday that no wonder the English didn’t bother to learn the language, everyone always said to just talk in English as they needed to practise it.
    “My love, whatever you say. I am really sorry but.....” his phone started to chime Big Ben, signalling that his father was calling. “I will call you later, cherie,” blew her a kiss down the phone, hung up on her and answered his father.
    “Where the blazes are you? Alf has been waiting for you for over half an hour?”
    “Father, you seem to forget I am on a SCHOOL TRIP!!! I have duties to perform here!”
    “Damn your duties there boy! The company needs you. Give the teachers some wine to appease them. Get over to the freight depot. Alf has a problem and his French is appalling. Go and do what needs to be done!”
    “Will do. Now will you do what I suggested and make all the guys driving learn French? It really puts them at a disadvantage.”
    “We’ll see..We’ll see. Now get a move on!”

    Charles made his way from the Eurostar passenger station across to the Freight depot to meet up with hapless Alf. Poor beggar always seems to land in trouble. Last year he got to the terminal in Dover only to be pulled aside for a spot check and lo and behold his dad’s wine crates had been replaced with immigrants trying to sneak into Britain, believing it to be a better place to be than the one they had escaped from. Fortunately immigration in Britain had been working with the French side and there was proof that Alf had nothing to do with it. Charles’s father was furious at the loss of his wines, which never appeared; in spite of officers keeping a close watch and having ample film and photos. The Usual Gallic shrug was their answer.
    “Alf,” Charles greeted holding out his hand grinning widely.
    “Boy, am I glad to see you young Charles! These frog...oops sorry mate, force of ‘abit. They just doin’ my nut in! See, I didn’t want to be caught out again like last year so I decided to take a look at yer dad’s shipment. Guess what I found?”
    “Not more immigrants?”
    “Just the one. But not wanting to sneak into England, just fiddling about with the crates of wine! I got him tied up in my cabin. Didn’t want to do nothing and create more trouble for your pa’ without checking, seeing as you’re ‘ere ‘n all.”
    “You tied him up?”
    “He don’t speak no English, as usual. So, fought it better to tie him up ‘n wait for you!”
     Charles couldn’t help but smile at Alf’s logic and behaviour. Alf led the way to the front of the truck and opened the door; suddenly a big lump threw itself at the pair making growling noises. Charles neatly rugby tackled it to the ground and sat on it. Alf swore and promptly sat on the bottom end. Charles realised that he was sitting on top of a large man and spoke rapid French. The “bundle” stopped wriggling and squirming. Charles got off and indicated to Alf to do likewise. The “bundle” sat up and Charles could now see the man. Longish coarse grey hair wearing a beret, raincoat over a thick Breton jumper, trousers held up over it with a thick belt and workman’s boots. He was struggling to get out of the ropes tied round him and shaking his head from side to side in an attempt to get the tape over his mouth off. Charles lent over and ripped it off.
    “Ouuuuw! Bleeding m..”
    “Yer bloody English!”
     “What are doing in my Father’s truck? What were you looking for?”
The man stayed silent, glowering at Alf and Charles.

                                                 
 
PETER AND THE WITCH

    Peter took in a deep breath, held it for as long as he could, and then he looked at the pink piece of paper again and exhaled loudly. Rubbed his eyes and re-checked the numbers they had just called out. It was true... it really, really was true! With shaking hands he fumbled for his mobile and pressed a number, then “ select” so it instantly dialled his mother’s number.

    “Mum? It’s me. You are not going to believe this, but have you seen on the T.V. the lottery numbers? Did you hear them saying the winner lives in Oxfordshire? I hope you are sitting down. Are you? Well... it is me! Little old me! O.K. I am not so old, but you know what I mean! I’m rich! WE are rich! Of course I mean “we”! You still there mum? Mum? Mother..?

    “Well I never.. I.. never..well.. I mean.... well..”

    “Go and put the kettle on I will be round in about half an hour. Do not tell anybody, I mean ANYBODY. No calling Aunty Janice or next door and if your carer gets there before me...DO NOT SAY ANYTHING! Take some deep breaths, go and put the kettle on, I won’t be long. Love you!” With that he snapped the mobile closed took all the lights off, grabbed his car keys and coat and skipped (he realised he was skipping like a kid and grinned to himself) down the path to his hybrid car.

    His mind was teeming with thoughts and ideas. What to do first? How to be fair to everyone, give cash to them? Pay off the credit cards, of course. Pay mum’s bills....oooh buy her a bungalow fully equipped and adapted for her. Peter’s mind had so many ideas and thoughts, it was like being on a carnival ride in those chair like things that spun round and round one way whilst the whole machine spins the other passing from here to there, seemingly never ending. He realised he had just shot past his mother’s house and braked hard, did a three point turn in two and a half, such was the adrenaline rush carousing through him. He threw himself out of the car, ran as fast as his long lanky legs (only useful for long distance running, which he hated at school) would take him and let himself into his mother’s house calling out to her only to be greeted by Annie, the next door neighbour. Peter looked behind her to see his mother struggling with the walker-chair coming from the kitchen, she looked at him vigorously shaking her head, to which Peter gave a small sigh of relief and exclaimed to Annie that how nice it was to  see her and how kind of her to look in on mum.

    “Aw, I can’t just leave the poor wee soul to fend for herself, if I am able to be here to help her I always come round. She’s a brave wee soul, so she is.”

    Peter thought to himself that not many people would describe his five foot seven, twelve stone mother as ”wee”, but smiled and followed her into the lounge where “Strictly Come Dancing “ was blaring out of the television. His mother mouthed “Not my choice!” To which he smiled and shrugged his shoulders, thinking to himself that he would have to somehow keep a lid on the giant bubble inside him that was desperate to burst out. His mother looked at him signalling with her light grey eyes that she understood.

    Two hours later Annie went back to her house promising to pop in for tea mid-morning the next day. After closing the front door firmly Peter turned and leapt into the air so high he hit his head on the ceiling. Whist rubbing his head his mother laughed and asked if it was true.  To which Peter tuned the television to Sky news where they were reading out the winning numbers saying that there was only one winner who lives in Oxfordshire. Peter went over to his mother and pulled her to her feet taking her into an embrace that was so hard she had to pummel on his back and demand she be allowed to breathe and to go and get the champagne out of the fridge.

     “Now you see why I always leave a bottle in the fridge; one never knows!”

     “Ah, but mother, to you any excuse for a bit of bubbly! Remember when my hamster died, you said we had to have a wake!”

    “Well you were only ten and you were inconsolable as you realised it was your fault since you had left the door open after cleaning it, and how were you to know that next door’s cat would slip in through the kitchen window! And even though you didn’t like the bubbles, it certainly calmed my nerves and guilt, as frankly I couldn’t stand the critter!”

    Peter went and sorted out the necessities for the celebratory drink whilst his mother quizzed him on what he was going to do with such an amount of money.

    “Well mum, of course all debts will be paid off. We will find you a nice bungalow that will be totally adapted for your needs. I will give a lot of money to Stem-Cell research, as that seems to be the way forward in finding a cure for Multiple Sclerosis. Then I will give family members some money as well as a couple of mates. And finally, I am going to buy some land up in the Scottish Highlands to build myself my own extremely high-tech laboratory to enable me to build the flying machine that I am sure is the way to go for people to get out and about in which won’t kill the earth off with gas, petrol or diesel pollutants and the like.”

    “Well, it seems to me you have thought a lot about this! How long have you been planning this?”

    “Oh, mum for so, so long I have had this dream of my own lab. To find a mode of transport that won’t pollute the Earth as well as be able to be used by people such as you with mobility problems, wheelchairs will become obsolete!”

    With a loud pop followed by a tinkling of glass Peter let the cork fly from the revered Crystal (mum’s favourite) into the chandelier. Giggling, Francis just put her goblet in front of the bottle indicating that he was to pour some and ignore the damage. It took a few minutes for Francis to calm down enough to speak and she had to have a good long sip from the special goblet before she did so.

    “Oh my, I take it you can easily replace the wonderful IKEA ceiling decoration pretending to be a chandelier now!”

    Laughing, Peter sat on the edge of his mother’s chair with his arm around her shoulder squeezing hard.

    ”Ouch, ooh, gently, am a wee bit sore today dear,” said Francis, grimacing.

    “Oh, mum, so sorry. Why haven’t you told me? Shall I get you some Tramadol?”

    “No, prefer this wonderful fermented grapes drink we are having, it will soon pass. Don’t fuss so.”

    “Oh, mum, I am so going to put all I can into research for a cure to this God-awful disease. I wish I had been as clever as Dad and been able to do research like he did.”

    “You are every bit as clever as your dad was, he was so proud of you. How many 23 year-olds get a PhD? Never think you are any less than your father. So, go on tell me your plans.

    They called the night time carer to inform her that Peter would help sort his mother out, opened more Crystal (as usual Francis had plenty in the wine rack) and talked into the early hours where Peter explained why he thought Scotland the best place to build his laboratory; asking Francis where she would like her own bungalow to be; continuing with all other matters pertaining to the use of his amazing luck. He still was shocked that using the numbers of his parent’s birthdays and his own had given him this fortuitous windfall.


Message to Sara; referring to past event.

Great aunt Sara, greetings from your great nephew! I took the photos of your brother’s grave-stone as you asked and from the places around. This trip has been really interesting. And amazingly enough the vineyard you used to go to is still there, run by the same family! I have a couple of bottles they have sent you, they had photos of you and your brother still! I think dad will be interested too for the business. See you soon.xx


Message referring to future event.

Hi again Aunt Sara! I have decided to come and work at the vineyard you told me about. Don’t tell mother or dad yet. They think I should do volunteer work in Africa but I don’t want to. I loved this northern part of France and the Solange’s daughter is gorgeous! See you next week xx