Mark Flatterby, a man in his late fifties, lived moderately, surrounding himself with colleagues, friends of largely respectably character apart from myself, a wife and two children. All good on the Flatterby front then until a certain Maureen Cartwright turned up to work as an intern in his department. She was a student at the local university, yet seemed to have a character unsuited to scholarly pursuits.
What is of interest is that she had a flighty way with her and a manner of ducking her head to the left and smiling at you as if she and you had discovered a special connection. She had a “look” which I understand could slip the moorings of the most grounded man.
It seems the solid dependable Mark had taken young Maureen out to lunch to discuss her future, after purchasing a significantly expensive diamond and ruby necklace which he said would remind her of the glorious times they had shared during the course of her summer job, which in reality meant no more than the odd coffee in the canteen and quick remarks shared by the water fountain. Needless to say, she accepted the necklace without hesitation and took to wearing it at work and rewarding her gallant superior with more coy head movements and a small helping of shy and bashful simpering.
The necklace was followed by a matching bracelet because, as Mark had told her, it seemed a bit half-hearted not to give her the whole set, and so it might have continued had his wife not allowed her eyes to stray across her dull husbands credit card statement where she spotted two items amounting to four and a half thousand pounds with the name Buttermere jewellery against them. Not having received any surprise gifts in the last thirty-four years her suspicions were aroused.
Following a short conversation on his return from work he could be seen leaving the house, suitcase packed, and with his ears still ringing from his wife’s choicer observations about his character, also including “incidents” from their distant past, kept in her mental “trophy cabinet” where records of his previous crimes were preserved in undimmed glory.
That’s where I enter the story: after a phone call outlining the situation, I had gone to the bar of the Railway Hotel, sited in the town centre, to find Mark holding up a glass of wine, clearly not his first, and smiling at me with a mixture of hope and resignation.
“Come with me Nige” said Mark and his vocal chords slid around the “G” demonstrating it was no longer safe for him to drive. “Where are we going?” I asked and he told me, “I‘ve burnt my boats and now I must propose to Maureen.” He had decided to throw himself at the mercy of Adventure; a goddess of uncertain character it seems. “Is that wise?” I said but he told me that he had discovered his inner fire: love had called from the shadows and he must visit her and other nonsense believed by those who think fate might save us from our character.
A ring had been purchased, at Buttermere Jewellers of course, and we were set to travel to Maureen’s home, with me providing the gallant romantic with a steady supply of Dutch courage. When we arrived I settled discreetly out of sight but near enough to hear the speech we had rehearsed on our brief dream-filled journey.
After peeking indiscreetly round the corner I saw a guy open the door. He was built like a rugby player come boxer, who it quickly transpired was her current fiancé: he made his displeasure felt by means of a short but pointed demonstration of fist flexibility, after which Mark and I returned to his new abode.
Not all was lost, because Mrs Flatterby always believed that if you are going to marry a fool, you might as well stick with the fool you know. Apparently, love can survive the impact of an occasional reckless impulse and I am pleased to say that, following further purchases of jewellery and a “surprise” holiday for two in the Caribbean, he was allowed back inside the marital home, whilst this most grievous and recent crime took pride of place in his good ladies trophy cabinet, ready to be exhibited at the first sign of a transgression: let us hope that never happens
Do men like that often learn by their mistakes?
Hugs
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There is a possibility, I think we might agree, that they don’t. Mind you, many mistakes are apparently so enjoyable that we determine to repeat them at regular intervals during our lives 🙂
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” . . .and his vocal chords slid around the “G” demonstrating it was no longer safe for him to drive.” What a delightful way you have with words!
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Always so nice to see a comment one of my top editors.
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‘Delightful’ really is the right word for your prose – ‘felicitous choice of words’ also comes to mind. Nice to have a relatively happy ending for a change!
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He seems to have just about got away with it, although her residual displeasure may still have revealed itself in the catering department don’t you think ? 🙂
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Can words roll off silk any smoother 😉 What a massage for the ears!
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Thank you very much for the lovely comment
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What an idiot Peter. I’ve known a few like him. Good yarn by the way. 🙂
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Me too. As a father with three daughters I wouldn’t like to see him roll up in my family !
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Pure poetry in prose! “Delightful” truly does feel like the most appropriate description. I absolutely love the melody of your writing, Peter, the music created by the flow, cadence, and turn of phrase. What a blessing to have found you here! 🙂
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I love your poetry as well, and meeting other writer’s I admire in the blogosphere is one of my great pleasures
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Mine as well, sir, and so I am lucky to have found your site! 🙂
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You compact so much…and seamlessly at that…into these wonderful short story tales of yours.
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You certainly tell a cracking tale yourself sir:)
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Oh, your fellows do find themselves in sticky places, now don’t they?
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I love your understated irony! And enjoyed the Buttermeres element…
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By the time he started buying jewellery, he certainly had “Slipped his moorings.” Lucky he as to get out of that scrape in something like one piece !
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An hilarious and a delicious stroll through the personal world of the Flatterbys. “A look which could slip the moorings of the most grounded man.” I had to recompose myself after reading that line so I could continue!
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Ah! that mental trophy cabinet! Brilliant story!
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perhaps she is not the only lady to either have or need one. who can say? 🙂
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How often, I wonder, does this sort of thing happen? Good story, Peter.
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I’m sure it happens quite often in a less extreme form
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I did have one guy who thought gifts would win me over. Just doesn’t work that way. I waited for something better!
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A neautifully told ‘better the devil you know’ tale. Let’s hope there is a little gentle retribution to be had! Your characters are, as ever, delightfully flawed – which makes everything so much more real.
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Flaws are what makes us human. At least that’s what I tell myself !
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You and me both, then!
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Oh for sure. I think I would more easily forgive my husband for an affair than for buying her jewelry.
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I think the jewellery was probably taking things too far. Possibly one of the tastier sandwiches in the canteen might have been a little less risky, even of that gesture would impress the lady less !
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Maybe a chocolate bar would have done the trick.
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I think before taking him back, I would have asked the flawed Mr Flattersby for some jewellery at least to the value of that given to the lovely Maureen. Are men really that stupid. Great prose and as somebody said a gentle stroll through the lives of Mr & Mrs Flattersby.
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A very understandable viewpoint
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I love how you can pack so much story in so few words!
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an elegant tale of man’s timeless troubles.
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Like Maureen, I do like my trophy cabinet.
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This was definitely one of the most beautiful way of telling that story!
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