Quicklinks:
|
Great Writing - Home > Short S. > Sergeant Peterson (retired)
| READING ROOM | ||||
|---|---|---|---|---|
|
| COMMUNITY | |||
|---|---|---|---|
|
| ABOUT GREAT WRITING | ||
|---|---|---|
|
| WORK AWAITING REVIEW |
|---|
|
| GW IS... |
|---|
|
Great Writing creative writing community is designed to prompt ideas
and provide inspiration and motivation within aspiring and amateur
authors. Whatever your topic; from love poetry to Doctor Who or Harry
Potter fan fiction, Great Writing's online writing group is where you
can make new friends and improve your creative writing. |
| WHO'S ONLINE |
|---|
| We have 1406 guests online and 5 members online |
Shorts
| print friendly version | |
| Sergeant Peterson (retired) | |
| By Snodlander | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| 29 April 2007 | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||
|
Whimsy Peterson grunted as he bent over, leaning heavily on his walking stick. Sweet wrappers! Children today had no respect. When he was a lad he would never have dropped litter, let alone in someone else’s garden. Not that it was any surprise. Their parents were no better, swearing and shouting in the streets like animals. Peterson straightened up and surveyed the garden for other evidence of the decline of the country’s morals. His wife, God rest her soul, had been so proud of the garden. She would weed and plant and water while he was at work, then in the summer evenings they would sit out in deckchairs, her with a glass of lemonade, him with a glass of beer. He shook his head. No point dwelling on the past. He tried to keep it the way she had, but he lacked the knack she had had. Still, he mowed the lawn when it needed it, and kept it free of litter. It gave himself something to do, now that he was retired, and it gave him what passed for a social life. He would nod and say hello to the odd passer-by that looked respectable, and kept a wary eye on those that didn’t. Like the yob walking up the street now. Honestly, what did they think they looked like? A fur draped over his shoulders, bare chest on display for all to see. And what sort of man wore a leather kilt? He hoped it was a kilt. You read about folks nowadays, would never have been allowed in his day. A man was a man and a lady was a lady, and if you weren’t a man National Service made you one. This one was old enough to know better. He was in his thirties, a foreign slant to his eyes, his hair long and tied into a pony tail. He slowed to a stop by Peterson’s low garden wall and nodded uncertainly. “Morning,” said Peterson, curtly, because he felt he had to say something. The stranger nodded again, and said something in Foreign. Ah. That would explain his odd dress then. Peterson had been abroad once with the army, and hadn’t cared to go there again. In the barracks was OK, but Johnny Foreigner was an odd creature and Peterson hadn’t cared to meet him any more. Yet here he was in Peterson’s own street. The Foreigner spoke again, hitting himself in the chest then encompassing the housing estate in a slow arc of his arm. Finally he pulled from a pouch hanging from his belt a yellowing sheet of thick paper. His finger stabbed at the drawing on it, then he indicated the estate again. His voice ended in an upward intonation. Realisation dawned on Peterson. “Oh, you’re lost! You… Lost,” he said slowly and loudly. “Let me have a look there. Where are you after?” Peterson took the paper from him. There was a map, with crude pictures of hills and trees. A wiggly line might have represented a river, or possibly a road. The stranger pointed to a symbol at the end of the line. It was a circle with a bear standing in the middle. It seemed oddly familiar. Where had he seen it before? “You… want… go… here?” he asked. The stranger stabbed at the symbol again and said something equally slow and loud. Why didn’t these people learn to speak English? It wasn’t like it was a hard language to learn. “Oh, wait, I’ve got it! That’s in the park, that is. Carved on the old drinking trough. You… meeting… friends… here? Yes?” The stranger pointed at the symbol again. “Wait… here”, ordered Peterson, and held his hands out, patting the air to keep him in place. “I’ll be right back.” A minute later Peterson was back, writing pad and pen in his hand. The stranger had stepped over the low wall and was sitting on it. He had his large leather hat in his hands, absently twirling it around. Peterson started to draw a map on the pad. “Don’t know how you managed to get all the way up here. You’re miles out, you know. We used to go down there of a Sunday, my wife and I, when we were younger, of course. It’s nice there, always been a park since Saxon times, apparently. Reeks of history it does, not that anyone cares now. Full of drug addicts now, I shouldn’t wonder. “OK, look. You go along here, this is Myrtle Road, what you’re in now. See that pillar box? Yes? Turn right there, go down the hill for, oh, about half a mile, I guess, and you come to a roundabout. See this? It’s a roundabout. Now turn left and the park is on your right. You can’t miss it. And the trough is there, right by the road.” And all the way through the explanation he was miming directions in the manner of roadside cartographers everywhere. The stranger repeated the mimes, accompanied by his foreign lingo. “That’s it. Best of luck. Good… Bye…” The stranger stood and nodded decisively. He gave a short speech then turned, lined A4 sheet in hand, and strode off purposely towards the pillar box. Well, he seemed a decent enough chap, for a foreigner. Nothing a short back and sides and a suit wouldn’t put right. Plus a course on how to speak properly, of course. *** Mr Peterson was having a well-deserved cup of tea when he heard the knock on the door. The Foreigner stood there. He was considerably more untidy than when he had passed before. His hands were stained with soil, as though he had been digging with his bare hands. Over his shoulder was slung an old leather bag, caked in dirt. “Did you find your friends?” Johnny Foreigner gabbled in his unintelligible tongue and dropped the satchel on the door stop. He opened the top to reveal what looked like coins and jewels. He thrust a dirty hand inside and presented Mr Peterson with a handful of yellow coins. “Erm… Thank you. Thank… You…” Mr Peterson accepted the coins. They were foreign, of course, but he didn’t want to offend. “Do… you… want… to wash…?” He mimed washing his hands, and pointed to Mr Foreigner’s hands. He didn’t seem to understand, so Mr Peterson showed him to the bathroom, then poured another cup of tea. Hands across the sea, and all that. Buggered if he’d get the fancy biscuits out, though. Twenty minutes later Mr Cheung (for exchanging names was the sum extent of their communication) went on his way, and Mr Peterson went back to his newspaper. *** It was a week later, and Mr Peterson was again in the garden, when the knight walked his horse along Myrtle Road. He assumed the rider was meant to be a knight. The armour, for one, was a bit of a clue. It shone mirror-like in the morning sun, Mr Peterson noted with approval. He had spent many an evening during National Service polishing brass and balling boots and he appreciated the effort that must have gone into that. The knight reined his horse in and removed his helmet. This was not an easy thing to do in heavy metal gauntlets, but he managed at last, and tucked it under his arm. “I am under a geas, a quest for the grail, and I request all loyal subjects of this realm to aid me in my holy mission.” “Oh yes?” Mr Peterson wasn’t at all confident on the subject of ornithology. A goose he might be able to recognise, but a grail? Wasn’t that like a partridge? “Hast thou seen a cup, a goblet of pure gold fit for My Lord?” Oh. An actor, then. They must be having a medieval day somewhere. Mrs Peterson and he had gone to the pictures when they were courting. Back then, they had proper actors, like Bette Davis and Errol Flynn. But ‘actors’ nowadays couldn’t compare. It was all computers and special effects now. “A gold cup?” Mr Peterson shook his head. “Nothing like that round here, not unless someone stole it. Your best bet would be High Street. You should try Angel’s jewellers.” “An angelic jeweller? Truly an omen, think you not? Where might this artisan be found?” Mr Peterson supposed that the actor had to keep in character, but all the ‘hath’s and ‘verily’s were beginning to grate. Still, he had asked for directions, and to a man like Mr Peterson the opportunity to be useful was irresistible. “Just wait here a moment.” He went and fetched his A4 pad and a pencil. Two minutes later the knight was on his way, map flapping in his gauntlet. *** Mr Peterson was still in the garden when the knight returned. The horse galloped up to the wall and the knight slid off the saddle as fast as his armour allowed him. He knelt on one knee before Mr Peterson. “Oh great and wise one, I cannot thank thee enough for granting me the way to my quest’s end. Thou art indeed as worthy as any high-born.” Mr Peterson was embarrassed. What was this young fool thinking? Real men just shook hands. “That’s fine, I’m sure. Just get up, will you?” Between the knight and Mr Peterson they managed to get him to his feet. “That must be a bit of a pain, wearing all that heavy armour.” “A knight is always prepared.” “Really? I thought that was the boy scouts.” “Sir, if there is any way that I may repay you, you are just to name it.” Mr Peterson eyed his roses, then the horse. “Well, you’re not in a hurry, are you?” *** Some days later, and Mr Peterson watched the young man, sword by his side, march up the road at the head of small column of men. There was a banner, he noted, and a man with a long trumpet. They halted outside the house. “You’ll be on a quest, then?” asked Mr Peterson. “I am to slay a fearsome dragon that holds my love the princess in thrall, and bring back its head.” Mr Peterson nodded. “You’re some sort of prince, then?” “Indeed. And you are?” Mr Peterson reached for the A4 pad and removed the pencil from behind his ear. “Me? I’m the mapmaker. Now, the Dragon’s Head is a managed pub, not like the old days, of course…”
Only registered users can rate and write comments. Powered by AkoComment 2.0! |
||||||||||||||||||||||||||
.
 Previous item
|
Next item
|
|---|