Spicy Green Ginger

By Andrew Reid Wildman

Spicy Green Ginger is a collection of short, punchy, and deliciously misanthropic short stories by Andrew Reid Wildman. The author is a native of Beverley, and the stories are set in the East Riding. The stories invariably contain a wicked twist and are evocative of the East Riding, Hull, and Beverley, spanning the centuries and decades.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Mar 21, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481787574

Andrew Reid Wildman

Andrew Reid Wildman was born in Beverley, East Yorkshire, and has lived in Luxembourg, Scotland, and Israel. He now lives in Loughton, Essex, with his husband and two cats. Andrew is a full-time teacher and part-time artist and writer. When not writing and painting, he enjoys travelling and the finer things in life.

Book preview

Contents

Such An Ugly Word

Marjorie and Marmalade

The Stolen Yorkshire Childhood

Hedon Road

Betty Bridgenorth’s Wonderful Cakes

Dutch Treat

Harry’s Wisdom Teeth

The King of France Lived in Bransholme

The Strange Tale of the Pelham-Wood Siblings

The Secret Life of Edwina Cowal

The House at Withernsea

Innocent Until Proven Guilty

Land of Soft Cotton

The Kardomah, 1965

Never Go Back

The Hotel Inspector

A Brief Spell in York

The Two Sisters

The Guests from Kensington

8.36

Gallows Lane

Edna’s Train Journey

The Summer of Morris Potter

The Rise and Fall of Horace Claremont-Hampton

Dinner at Powolny’s

The 25p Chicken

Acknowledgments

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Such An Ugly Word

Hull, East Yorkshire, 1956

Good morning, Miss Slight, sang Melanie Anderson, the deputy manager of the local Willerby building society.

Good morning, Miss Dansby, replied Miss Slight with a warm smile. Miss Slight always had the warmest of smiles for everyone she met.

Actually, it’s Mrs Anderson now, grinned Melanie, flashing a gold ring and laughing.

What a lovely ring, my dear, exclaimed Miss Slight, her beautiful old face lined with years of kindness and wisdom. I am so pleased for you. She peered myopically at the ring, her beady eyes calculating its value.

Thank you, Miss Slight, replied Melanie. It was a quiet morning and she had the time to chat. And what can I do for you today? Melanie asked.

I just want to make a deposit, replied Miss Slight, her tiny, bony fingers unclipping her frayed handbag. Miss Slight had had the same bag since 1939. It was a perfectly good handbag, purchased at Hammonds. It was filled with the paraphernalia that Miss Slight needed on a daily basis. There was a small compact, a lipstick, a packet of Mint Imperials, and, of course, her keys. She retrieved her dog-eared bankbook and handed it to Mrs Anderson.

Make a deposit, Miss Slight? Of course, said Mrs Anderson. How much today?

Just £50, my dear, replied Miss Slight. Her hair was silver and wispy, and her blue eyes twinkled. Mrs Anderson took the notes and signed the deposit. She then stamped it with a resounding rubbery bang.

Quite a nice sum you have there, said Mrs Anderson, a hint of envy in her singsong voice, a dash of jealousy in her smiling eyes. Mrs Anderson was not quite as sweet as she liked to think.

Yes, simpered Miss Slight. It’s a gift, from my nephew in Canada, she said. The bell rang as a new customer entered the small building society. It was Mrs Purvis from Elms Drive.

Good morning, Mrs Purvis, said Miss Slight, her ancient face creased and gentle. She brushed a stray hair from her cardigan.

Good morning, Miss Slight, replied Mrs Purvis, flushing. She fished rapidly in her handbag for her bankbook as Mrs Anderson pushed Miss Slight’s bankbook across the counter. Nothing escaped the sweet, deceptive eyes of Mrs Anderson, and she studied Mrs Purvis’ face with interest.

A withdrawal please, Mrs Anderson, said Mrs Purvis.

Miss Slight was an early riser. She always had been. She held no truck with those who wasted the whole morning lying in bed, or lounging around in their bedclothes. Miss Slight’s father, a bullish man with a taste for blood sports and choral music, had instilled in his daughter a rigorous sense of self-discipline. Poor Daddy, thought Miss Slight, with a fleeting nostalgia for the great man. She was waiting for the bus that would take her into the city. Her banking done, Miss Slight had some more errands to run. She had a cardigan to return at Hammonds, she needed to buy some new knicker elastic, and she had an appointment with the hairdresser. It just needed a trim and of course Miss Slight eschewed all offers of a makeover, citing her advanced age. The bus conductor grinned and helped her up onto the platform of the blue and white bus, waiting patiently until Miss Slight was comfortably seated before pulling the bell cord.

Good morning, Miss Slight, said the vicar of the local church, lifting his hat. He was sitting three rows further down.

And you, Vicar, said Miss Slight, raising her gloved hand and waving.

She alighted outside the Royal Station Hotel, deciding not to take tea there, but rather to wait until later. She had an appointment at Carmichaels for elevenses, and two cups of tea a day seemed extravagant. Daddy had always hated extravagance. He had once beaten mummy with a riding crop for buying new curtains, recalled Miss Slight. It had been quite a kerfuffle, she chuckled. After completing her errands, and with her thin hair neatly cut, Miss Slight walked into Carmichaels, inhaling the smell of polish and leather. She debated whether to purchase a new ceramic figurine for her lounge, but decided against it. It seemed frivolous.

Mrs Clarice Beachford was already sitting at the table when Miss Slight arrived. A plate of cream cakes was set out, and Mrs Beachford was sipping tea from a rose-patterned cup. They exchanged greetings coolly, and Miss Slight took her place, a waitress rushing off to hang her coat and hat. Miss Slight produced a manila envelope and placed it on the table.

I am afraid I am compelled to alter the figure we had discussed, sighed Miss Slight. Inflation, don’t you know?

That is unfair! gasped Mrs Beachford, blanching. You blackmailing old witch.

Blackmail is such an ugly word, don’t you find? said Miss Slight, stirring her tea and carefully placing her spoon on the saucer.

But we agreed it would be fifteen guineas, hissed Mrs Beachford. That’s not fair, she repeated. Her eyes were wide with fear and anger, reminding Miss Slight of her ancient cat Mitzy the day she’d been taken to the vet’s. The cat had not returned.

Do let’s not fall out, replied Miss Slight. I think you will find that is still a reasonable price. Miss Slight raised a pencil-thin eyebrow. Considering what is in the envelope.

You are a wicked, wicked woman, sniffed Mrs Beachford, her eyes red with unshed tears. She pushed some notes across the table and Miss Slight grasped them with her talon-like fingers.

Most kind, said Miss Slight. I do fancy a brandy snap, she added. Can I tempt you?

You bitch, hissed Mrs Beachford through clenched teeth, her colour rising in her cheeks. I’ll get you, just you wait and see. She rose to leave.

Good day to you, Mrs Beachford, said Miss Slight, dabbing her tiny lips with a linen napkin. And do consult a physician about your blood pressure. You seem positively highly strung, my dear.

I wish you were highly strung, you blackmailing cow, hissed Mrs Beachford turning to leave the plush cafe. She flounced out.

Might I have some fresh tea, my dear? asked Miss Slight, craning round to catch the waitress’ attention.

Miss Slight sat in her battered armchair by her fireside. She watched the single log burn gaily but she refused to add a second. Thrift was a value she had never lost. She was listening to the radio, her ancient Yorkshire terrier at her feet. Miss Slight’s house was snug and cosy. It was a modest house, built during the building boom of the 1930s along with all the other houses on the upmarket estate. Miss Slight chuckled to herself. It was quite, quite unforgiveable but she was hopelessly mired in her vice. Though she would not admit to such feelings, blackmail was terribly exciting and she did feel so very powerful.

The doorbell tinkled imperiously and Miss Slight rose from her chair.

Why, Vicar, exclaimed Miss Slight. What a pleasant surprise. I imagine you have come to settle up, she added. Do come in. The elderly terrier looked up, whimpered, and returned to sleep.

It was the postman who found her. He needed her signature, he explained to the detective, a thin-faced man in a trilby and brown raincoat. The door had been ajar and he’d pushed it open.

Mrs Purvis appeared on the scene carrying a tray of steaming cups of tea and some digestive biscuits. She handed a cup to the postman and to the various policemen who were milling around.

Thank you, Mrs Purvis, said the postman, shaking as he sipped his tea.

Did you see or hear anything? asked the detective, his face grim and suspicious.

Heavens, no, replied Mrs Purvis, her mouth downturned, her eyes dancing merrily. She was wearing her best lipstick and a string of pearls.

It is shocking, is it not? said the vicar, who had stopped to greet his parishioners. Strangled to death, I believe, he tutted, shaking his head sadly, scarcely able to comprehend such an act of savagery. His cheeks flushed warmly.

It is pure wickedness, agreed Mrs Purvis. She exchanged a warm look with the vicar. The vicar’s eyes widened playfully as he shook his head in assumed grief.

Pure wickedness, he agreed, straightening his tie. Quite inexcusable.

Marjorie and Marmalade

Hornsea, East Yorkshire, the present day

It’s rather sweet, I suppose, sighed Marjorie Dandernelle, a divorcée of 50 and the leading light of the Hornsea social scene. Her emerald eyes narrowed with resigned, feigned enthusiasm. Marjorie was usually a scintillating hostess, throwing perfectly lovely little soirées and brightening the long winter evenings with her generous spreads. The current object of her dutiful admiration was a tiny, shivering, panting dog that her archrival Rebecca Briggs-Saxonby was proffering for adulation. The dog’s eyes bulged unpleasantly like marbles in a Yorkshire pudding, and it was emitting a whiny, dangerous growl. Marjorie, never one to be bullied by small, snarling creatures, as her ex-husband had discovered to his considerable cost, put her manicured fingers to the dog’s nose. It bit her. Ouch, cried Marjorie, noting the pin pricks of blood on her skin and the glint of the dog’s tiny, razor-sharp teeth.

Gosh, said Rebecca, assuming an expression of surprised regret. He doesn’t normally bite, do you, my little poodle-woodle? She looked terribly stern, her mouth curled mockingly. Bad boy, she chuckled, as though the whole event were one big joke.

What an ill-tempered dog, noted Marjorie, sucking her finger.

Not really, purred Rebecca. He just gets startled by large objects looming into his field of vision. As if on cue, the fuller-figured Tabatha Drake loomed.

Are you alright? asked Tabatha Drake, the leader of the local Hornsea Ladies’ Guild. The organisation was by no means large, and to date comprised seven members, eight if one included Mrs Pam Brickworth who had been in a coma for two years, her eldest daughter quite unequal to the task of having her switched off.

Yes, replied Marjorie, secretly fuming. She entertained a perfectly delicious fantasy involving the dog, a bucket of water, and a long pole. But thank you for asking, she murmured, loudly enough for the dog’s owner to hear.

I’m sure it is just a scratch, said Rebecca tickling the dog’s chin. She had been chatting to another guest and had spun around upon hearing her hostess’ words. Agamemnon has such little teeth he couldn’t hurt a soul. The assembled ladies eyed the beast, unconvinced.

Quite, said Tabatha Drake a woman who, had she lived 60 years or so earlier, might well have driven a tank or mercilessly dispensed tea to Blitz victims against their will.

Do have another sandwich, urged Marjorie, retrieving her sans froid.

Say thank you to the nice lady, urged Rebecca as she took an expensive smoked salmon and cream cheese canapé and stuffed it into Agamemnon’s blood-hungry mouth. The tiny dog chewed and swallowed noisily.

Once Marjorie’s guests had left and her large Victorian home was returned to her own company, Marjorie reflected on the idea of obtaining a pet. Dogs were clearly vile, she thought with a shudder. The idea of bending down to scoop up steaming piles of soft excrement in a plastic bag was an anathema to her. She also did not wish to bathe the animal, feed it offal, or take it for bracing walks along the front in all weathers as did the other denizens of the small seaside town.

However the idea of companionship did induce her to visit the local cat home the following week, upon which occasion she was presented with a ginger tomcat. It’s our longest term resident, as you requested, said Elizabeth Chuff, the manager. Ms Chuff gave Marjorie a quick, appreciative, and, above all, discreet glance. After all, this was Hornsea. Marjorie was Elizabeth’s ‘type,’ as the scriptwriters of lowbrow TV programmes might have put it. Oblivious to Elizabeth Chuff’s rising libidinous urges, Marjorie hugged the animal to her chest and smelt its fur. Elizabeth chuckled in a manner she felt was seductive. Marjorie ignored Elizabeth’s gaze, and instead put her nose to the cat’s fur once more.

He smells of cat home, sighed Marjorie.

I know, sighed Elizabeth. They all do. She undid her ponytail and shook her grey hair loose. I usually find a really long soak gets the smell out. She winked awkwardly. She had tried practising the art of winking but had never quite successfully pulled it off.

Can you do that to a cat? gasped Marjorie, horrified. Wouldn’t that distress him? What kind of oddly chuckling monster was this, thought Marjorie?

No, I meant me, guffawed Elizabeth. She tried winking once more.

Marjorie kissed the cat’s head and loaded him, protesting, into the basket. The two of them drove home together, the tomcat sat wearily on his haunches behind bars, and Marjorie whistling the tune to Dambusters. She unloaded the animal in the hallway and then allowed him to take his first tentative sniffs around

Reviews for Spicy Green Ginger

[sallyawolf · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I can only describe this as a collection of fables about various individuals in strange and usual situations. Once again I am glad that I am a perseverant. If I had judged this book by the first story, I would have stopped due to the extreme dislike of it. Not that I didn't give it a fair chance. I even read it twice just to make sure I had not missed something. Maybe there is a back story about the characters that I needed to know in the first place in order to understand what was happening. Like always, I suffered through, however, and I am glad I did. If I had not I would have missed reading the rest of the stories with their quirky dark humor and clear plots. If you like stories about people then this collection is for you. This is a great group of stories about the oddity of people and how their surroundings can affect how they act. Or if you are familiar with Spicy Green Ginger then you may find these enjoyable. I would, however, recommend that you read the first story last or even skip it all together.