The Tomb and Other Stories Read online

  THE TOMB

  and FORTY

  Other Stories

  by

  Stanley Salmons

  Copyright © Stanley Salmons 2014

  The right of Stanley Salmons to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission in writing of the author.

  All characters are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Preface and Dedication

  Biography

  Alexei’s Tree

  Talk to the Flowers

  Mrs Fairhaven’s Visitor

  Domestic Goddess

  A Doll Called Sally

  The Magic Marker Mystery

  The Assistant

  On the Brink

  A Short Tale With No Morality Whatever

  Changes at the Lights

  The Diamond

  Mountain Walk

  The Statue

  Molly

  FLAUBERT

  The Gift

  The Magnolia

  Benson

  MURDER IN THE JUNGLE

  A Good Pull

  An Interesting Case

  Banquet

  The Procession

  Roadhogs

  A Fantastic Painting

  Something in the Cellar

  The Pill

  FLASH FICTION

  At The Walls

  “Melanie” by Harold Marlow

  On the Shuttle

  Robbery With Violence

  The Cross

  Xenophobia

  The Creation Committee

  The Lecture

  With You in Spirit

  When the Party’s Over

  The Tomb

  Homecoming

  FISHING WITH PADRAIC

  Preface and Dedication

  Nineteen of the stories in this collection were originally published as “Alexei’s Tree and Other Stories” (Matador). This is the first opportunity to read them in electronic format, and they are joined here by twenty-two new stories.

  “Alexei’s Tree” was dedicated to my cousin, Professor David Baum. David worked with extraordinary energy to improve the health and welfare of children, not just in the UK but all over the world, including Brazil, Russia, the Balkans, and Gaza. His academic brilliance was matched by his humanity; he even learned to perform magic tricks to amuse and distract his young patients. He had a smile that could light up a room, and he put joy into, and derived joy from, everything he did. His life was cut short by a heart attack during a charity cycle ride to raise money for children suffering in regions ravaged by war and disaster.

  David was always delighted with anything that was new or unexpected, and I think he would have enjoyed this anthology. Once again I dedicate it to his memory.

  THE TOMB

  and FORTY

  Other Stories

  Also by Stanley Salmons:

  A BIT OF IRISH MIST

  FOOTPRINTS IN THE ASH

  NH3

  THE MAN IN TWO BODIES

  THE CANTERPURRY TALES

  THE DOMINO MAN

  www.stanleysalmons.com

  Stanley is on Amazon, Goodreads (http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1526436.Stanley_Salmons)

  and Inkflash (http://inkflash.com/StanleySalmons)

  Biography

  Stanley Salmons graduated in Physics from Imperial College London and went on to gain a D.I.C. in Electronics and Communications. A Master’s Degree in Physiology at University College London was followed by a Ph.D. in Anatomy and appointments at the University of Birmingham, Harvard Medical School, and a Chair at the University of Liverpool, where he is currently Emeritus Professor. He lives in North Wales with his wife, Paula, a physician and artist. They have three children and eight grandchildren.

  Stanley is internationally known for his work in the fields of biomedical engineering and muscle physiology, published in over two hundred papers and nine books. Since his retirement from full-time research he enjoys the freedom of writing fiction, in which he frequently draws from his broad scientific experience.

  Alexei’s Tree

  Once, many years ago, a forester lived with his wife and three children in a remote part of Upper Silesia. The children’s names were Nicolai, Katya, and Alexei. The forester and his wife loved all their children very much, but most of all they loved the youngest, little Alexei. Alexei was not strong and well as the other children were. They had rosy cheeks, but his skin was snowy white. When he tried to run about as they did, he would have to stop and gasp for breath. But he never complained, and his disposition was so sweet and loving that the forester and his wife clasped him to their hearts. Nicolai and Katya were also very fond of their little brother, and did not tease him in the way that children will often tease one of their number who is less able to defend himself.

  When Alexei was seven years old the illness became worse and he had to stay in bed all the time. He would gaze longingly out of the window, but still he never complained. His mother looked after him and his father went to the town to try to find a doctor who could treat him. Several doctors came, but all shook their heads and left. Still the father persisted, and as he was leaving the town after yet another fruitless visit, his heart heavy and his eyes cast down, he came across an old man selling books by the side of the road. He picked up a book and thought that Alexei would like it to help him pass the boring days in bed.

  “How much for this book, old man?” he asked.

  “To you, respected sir, I offer it for just two groschen,” the man replied.

  “Here,” said the father, “take fifty groschen for the book, for what use is money to a man whose cherished child is so deathly ill?”

  “Thank you, sir, a thousand times thanks,” said the old man, and raised his head. Although his face was like creased leather, his eyes were a brilliant blue. He looked deep into the forester’s eyes and said:

  “And may it be for a blessing with you.”

  When the father gave the book to Alexei, his pale, wan features shone with pleasure. He loved the book, turning its pages again and again, and he held it close to his chest when he fell asleep that night and every night after.

  One month later, on the twenty-first day of November, Alexei died, fading peacefully away before their grief-stricken eyes.

  The father made preparations for burying his dead boy. With tears streaming down his ruddy cheeks he felled a strong pine tree. He hollowed out a section of trunk as if he were making a boat, and fashioned a rough-hewn lid. They laid Alexei’s small body in the hollow of the trunk, and he looked like a fairy of the forest, curled up to go to sleep. In his lifeless hands, clutched close to his chest, was the favourite book.

  Winter passed, and Spring, but the edge of their grief was still keen as they remembered all the happiness and love little Alexei had brought into their lives. Each day they placed fresh flowers on the grave. And then, one day, they noticed a strong shoot growing there.

  “Should we not take it out?” the mother asked. “It is growing directly over his grave.”

  “No, we will leave it there. Life renews. It shall stand as a living memorial to him.”

  Although the father knew all about trees, this one was strange to him. The shoot grew and grew more quickly than he had ever seen a tree grow before, and in one season it had reached fifty feet. Yet strangely no leaves had unfurled from its branches.
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  The following year it continued to grow and as it soared ever higher it drained the grief and the sorrow from them, so that they smiled again and the forester remembered the old man’s blessing. And Nicolai and Katya played games of chase around the tree that all of them now called “Alexei’s tree” and brought their friends too, and the sound of their laughter gladdened the hearts of the forester and his wife once more.

  In May, leaves appeared all along the branches. The leaves were the size of a boy’s hand, and were a beautiful pale green in colour. But most remarkable of all were the leaves at the ends of the branches, for these were large and snowy white.

  People heard about the tree and came from far away to see it. Some collectors offered the forester money to save the seed for them. But he replied:

  “This tree will never grow anywhere else in the world, for its seed was a lovely boy and it was nurtured by all the love that died with him.”

  When the autumn came, the leaves fell, except for the white leaves. The tree stood tall and stark with the white leaves fluttering like flags on the ends of the branches and the sight of it was truly amazing. The old leaves around the base of the tree turned brown, yet still the white leaves remained on the branches. And then, on the morning of the twenty-first of November, the forester looked out of his window and saw that every white leaf had fallen to the ground.

  He hurried out to find the ground thick with the white leaves, and as he looked more closely he rubbed his eyes in disbelief, for each leaf was a page, with writing on it. He gathered all the pages together and took them into the house.

  It was winter now, and snow soon covered the ground and it was too cold to go outside. The forester spent many hours putting the pages together in their proper sequence. When he had finished, he bound them carefully as a book, and showed it to his wife. She opened the book and read from the first page. Then she gasped and sat down suddenly, her hand to her chest. For it was the book that her husband had bought for Alexei, and that he had treasured so much in the last months of his short life. It started:

  “Once, many years ago, a forester lived with his wife and three children in a remote part of Upper Silesia…”

  [First published in Alexei’s Tree and Other Stories, Matador, 2005]

  Talk to the Flowers

  “Henry…”

  Here it comes. Don’t forget the flowers for that woman she’s visiting tomorrow. Like I’ve got nothing else to think about on my way to work…

  “Don’t forget to buy some flowers for Mrs Herman,” she called. “You’re always forgetting.”

  He started to say, “When did I last forget…?” but he stopped himself.

  “And while you’re passing the Deli get some more of that nice herring, we’ve run out. And some tomatoes.”

  “Tomatoes? How many?”

  “‘How many?’ he asks. Use your head. Do I have to tell you everything?”

  He grimaced. “I’m going.”

  “All right. Don’t drive fast. You drive that car too fast.”

  “Yes, dear.”

  Henry Kaplan sought the inner sanctuary of the car and sat back with a sigh. Out of habit he ran his hands over the middle of his head, where there used to be hair. Most people he knew didn’t enjoy driving to work. He loved it. It was almost the only time he got any peace. But now he had to stop by the florists and the Deli. He’d tried to challenge her on the florist, but she was too quick for him.

  “Oh, so you’d prefer to visit Mrs Herman yourself, would you, who’s too sick to get out of the house?”

  “No, all I’m saying is most men don’t have to go shopping on their way to work…”

  “If you want to visit her instead it’s fine by me. But if I’m doing the visiting, the least you can do is buy her a few flowers.”

  All right, he’d stop by the florist.

  He started the car and manoeuvred out of the garage and onto the road.

  It hadn’t always been like this. When did it start? They’d been happy when they were first married. Well, wasn’t everyone? Then the children came along, and somehow they were too busy for each other. And then, one by one, the children left home. Antonia was married with two kids of her own. Josh had met a girl at university and now she’d moved in with him. Kate was with a law firm in Edinburgh. In fact none of them lived around the corner. That was the whole point, surely? The children had been at the centre of Clara’s universe for so long. Now they’d gone and left a great big void behind, with only him to fill it. Evidently he wasn’t doing it too well.

  There was one other place he could find a little peace. Not the toilet: she always seemed to want him to do something the moment he sat himself down in there with the paper; her timing was impeccable that way. No, it was his little garden, and especially his greenhouse. Clara had a cook’s understanding of vegetables but no interest whatsoever in their cultivation, and she preferred her flowers gift-wrapped. The garden and greenhouse were small but he made sure that maintaining them took a disproportionate amount of what spare time he had.

  The sun was still shining when he got home that evening. He loved these long summer days. He placed the jar of herring, tomatoes and flowers on the kitchen table, shouted that he was home, and retreated to the calm of the greenhouse before she could come in to inspect what he’d bought.

  The staging in the greenhouse fairly groaned with the weight of plants, and at this time of year it was a riot of colour. Geraniums, fuschias and petunias vied with calceolaria, cyclamen and amaryllis; even his orchid was flowering. The tensions of the day ebbed from him. He filled a watering can and visited each plant, pausing only to remove a few dead heads or an enterprising, but ill-advised, aphid.

  They say talking to the flowers helps.

  He cleared his throat and addressed a handsome brick-red amaryllis. “You’re looking very fine, aren’t you? And another bud to open next week! Keep up the good work.”

  He’d passed to a bowl overflowing with surfinias when he was startled by a voice. It was not unlike his wife’s, but more high-pitched.

  “Well so long as you’re talking maybe you’d like to do a bit of listening, too?”

  He looked round furtively. No one there.

  “Over here, dummy.” The voice was coming from the amaryllis. He stared in disbelief, shook his head and went back to the surfinias.

  “Come back here. Listen to me when I’m talking to you!”

  His head jerked up. The voice was very insistent. He licked dry lips.

  “What do you want?” he whispered hoarsely.

  “What do I want? Well, let me see. A little decent feed would be nice. Those sticks you put in the pot went months ago. Look at these leaves! I’m ashamed to wear them! How about a nice bit of liquid fertilizer – and don’t palm me off with that drek you used last year; I couldn’t get rid of the smell.”

  At this point the fuschias joined in. “We should have been potted on months ago. There’s no soil left in here, only roots. Can’t you see that? How are we supposed to manage? It’s all very well you swanning around with a watering can. You need to do a little solid work for a change.”

  A trumpet vine piped up. “Look at me; a complete mess. You should be tying my shoots in. Do I have to do everything myself?”

  Now they were all talking at once. He put his hands over his ears and ran out. He stood there, shocked and panting. Slowly a change came over him. He straightened his back. His eyes glinted with purpose. He strode back into the greenhouse, back into the cacophony of little voices.

  “Shut up! Shut up right now!” There was a stunned silence. “Now you listen to me. I’m a busy man. I work hard; I’m tired at the end of a day. It’s good enough what I do for you. I support you. I don’t abuse you. It’s enough. Now if I hear one more lousy peep out of you, one more miserable carping criticism or complaint, I’m out of here and you can fend for yourselves. Do you understand?” He paused. “I said, ‘Do you understand?’”

  But the flowers were silen
t.

  He gave a grim smile, squared his shoulders and without pausing strode into the house.

  His wife was in the process of picking over the flowers. “Are these the best you could get…?”

  She was truly astonished by his reaction.

  [First published in Alexei’s Tree and Other Stories, Matador, 2005]

  Mrs Fairhaven’s Visitor

  “Mum? I’m home! Come and meet Phil.”

  I wipe my hands, take off my pinny and go out into the hallway. My daughter is standing there with a six-foot villain. He’s wearing a black leather jacket and black jeans. The jacket’s not fastened and underneath it I can see a black T-shirt with a large grey circle on the chest. It looks as if he hasn’t shaved for three days. If I saw him coming towards me on the pavement I’d cross straight to the other side of the street.

  Deirdre says, “Mum, this is Phil.”

  I feel his eyes on me. I meet them briefly – dark, calculating eyes – and I give him a guarded nod. He nods back. By this time I’ve managed to manoeuvre my lower jaw back to its customary position. I moisten my lips.

  “Well, this is a surprise,” I say, with commendable understatement. “Deirdre, why don’t you take Phil into the living room and I’ll make a nice cup of tea.”

  I retreat to the kitchen, amazed at my own sang-froid. My mind is racing. Oh, I know, I know, you shouldn’t judge people by appearances; Deirdre’s told me that often enough. And dress codes are different these days. That fund-raiser Henry and I attended at the weekend – the young man who gave the keynote talk wasn’t even wearing a tie, let alone a jacket, and his shirt was unbuttoned half-way down his chest. And he was supposed to be a professor! Disgraceful, really. It’s like I tell Deirdre, we’ve achieved a certain standard of living and I don’t see that it’s all that wrong to expect people to dress and behave decently. It’s a question of values.

  Whatever possessed her, bringing him to the house? You only need one look to know he’s a terrorist. Which lot does he belong to? Black September? I think that’s Middle Eastern. He doesn’t look Middle Eastern. Black Panthers? Or is that a basketball team?