Patrick's Tales

By Patrick Hopton

A selection of 37 short stories on a wide variety of subjects, all originating from tasks set by Wells U3A Writing Group. Humour, pathos, intrigue, romance, and much more...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jul 23, 2014
• ISBN: 9781291960662

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Patrick's Tales

Patrick’s  Tales

Copyright

First Edition

Copyright ©2014 Patrick Hopton

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ISBN: 978-1-291-96066-2

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A Selection of Short Stories

by Patrick Hopton

The assortment of stories in this volume were all written in response to tasks set by Wells U3A Writing Group, of which he is a member.

Upon retirement after thirty-three years servitude in the employ of the Bank of England, in 1992 Patrick Hopton purchased a computer. Having purchased the thing he had to find something to do with it; so he decided to to try his hand at writing. A foolish enterprise? You be the judge.

As well as short stories Patrick has written four novels. Three of these - Echoes of Innocence, Echoes of Conflict and Echoes of Deception were published by Citron Press in 2000. The fourth – Something in the Air was never submitted for publication.

All are now available as eBooks. They can be purchased at the Amazon Kindle Store; at the Apple iBook store; at Lulu Books (http://www.lulu.com); and at various other eBook stores.

The Rise and Fall of Jack Porthpoint.

(Patrick on how he got into Writing!)

When I decided to try my hand at writing, the grind of graduating through essays, articles and short stories was not for me. I plunged straight in at the deep end. With the arrogance of the foolhardy I set out to write a novel. Incredibly, some two years, seven hundred pages, and three-hundred thousand words later I had managed it.

Throughout those two years my novel consumed me utterly. I set myself no targets; there was no need. I devoted my every spare second to my writing: I devoted seconds that were not spare to it also.

Nor was I free of it in bed at night; in my waking moments my mind was a ferment of ideas. Sometimes in the wee small hours a particular story-line or phrase would come to me that would compel me to get out of bed, grab pencil and paper, and get the words down lest they be forgotten by morning.

After two years of such intensity, the sense of loss that engulfed me when my story was done was immense. The characters featured in my book were more than just that; they had become my friends. To me they were real people whom I had known intimately, day in day out, for many months. I felt lost when I was separated from them. In the case of my heroine, it went deeper. I fancy I was even a little in love with her. (Kinky or what?!)

Reluctant to sever contact completely, for months afterwards I was tweaking the story - changing a word here, a phrase there; adding a passage here, deleting one there. I would probably be fiddling with it still, if events hadn’t taken a turn that precluded the possibility of making further alterations. But I am ahead of myself: that came later.

My story done, I came up with a title that I thought had a nice ring to it - Echoes of Innocence. Putting my own name to it seemed pretentious, so I used an anagram to invent a nom de plume behind which I could hide. Patrick Hopton became Arphon Pickott for a while, but the name sounded phoney. So I cheated by employing my middle initial, which allowed the emergence of Jack Porthpoint.

Who was I kidding? My family and friends knew it was me; and no one else was likely to read my tale.

I crudely bound my printed draft and turned it loose on them.

Oddly, when they read it the closest members of my family all said the same thing - namely that initially they were all too conscious that the story had been written by me; but gradually this awareness ebbed away and they found themselves treating it exactly like any other novel they had read. And they liked it. (Well they would say that, wouldn’t they?) And my friends liked it. (Well they would say that too!) But later, it began to find its way into the hands of friends of friends - beyond the range of mere sycophants. Still it found favour. No one was more surprised than I.

Then something truly remarkable happened. In May 1996 I received a letter from a gentleman named Alan Earney.

From the outset, my sister, Gwen, an avid reader, had been my biggest fan. Consumed with sisterly prejudice (and without my knowledge) she had passed the manuscripts round the ladies of her bridge circle. By chance the late husband of one of these ladies had been a writer (of westerns I think) and she enjoyed my story enough to bring it to the attention of his former publisher - Alan Earney.

If I was surprised to receive a letter out of the blue about my work from a person of whom I’d never heard; I was positively astounded by the content.

He wrote:’ I do congratulate you for writing a most readable novel, which I believe would benefit from being entered for the Catherine Cookson Fiction Prize.’ WOW!

I was a trifle dubious about my story being classed in the same genre as Miss C’s - but WOW nonetheless!

Praise for one’s work from any stranger is pleasing. It got better. Mr Earney went on to explain that, though now in semi-retirement, for seventeen years he had been Editorial Director of Corgi Books, and subsequently for six years Catherine Cookson’s own editor. He was actually one of the judges of the very competition he was urging me to enter!

And this guy liked my work! He truly did, for he went on to ask my permission for him to enter it for the competition on my behalf. Well, I was hardly going to turn down the request of a man of such experience and influence, was I? Jack Porthpoint was heading for the big time.

I gave my permission by return of post. BIG MISTAKE! At that stage the book was little more than a draft, and still needed much work.

It was on this lack of finishing polish that the panel of judges homed in. I was informed that, though it had been ‘a strong contender’ and had ‘passed all of the preliminary rounds of the competition on the strength of its colourful plot and realistic background,’ the work still required on it precluded my story from making the final short list of four.

Still, by passing the preliminary rounds I can legitimately claim that my story was short listed for the Catherine Cookson Fiction Prize. Just think, Jack Porthpoint might have become the Catherine Cookson of Somerset!

I had not written my story with publication in mind, but for the first time I considered it might be a worthy candidate. So I plucked up courage to approach two publishers in turn. On both occasions my manuscript was returned to me with comments of bland politeness and in pristine condition. I truly believe that it had been consigned to the infamous ‘slush pile’ unread.

Yes, I know that the some of the most successful authors have had their work rejected many times and that I should have persisted in my efforts. But I had only written my story for fun and was content to let the matter rest there.

Then one day in 1999 I read in the Sunday Telegraph about Citron Press, a self-styled authors’ co-operative. For a fee of fifty pounds they guaranteed at least to read my work and offer a detailed critique. What had I to lose?

There was the chance of more. Eighty-five per cent of the manuscripts they received were returned thus; but the remaining fifteen per cent they published. Long odds, certainly, but considerably better than those offered by the mainstream publishers. So I dusted off my manuscript and submitted it.

To my delight Citron Press liked my story and wanted to publish it. The Managing Editor, Nicola O’Shea, wrote ‘I very much enjoyed reading your books, in fact I was hooked and had to take the mss home over the weekend to keep going!’  WOW again!

She wanted to publish the story not as two novels, as I had offered them, (they divided easily that way) but as three. Their production processes were geared that way.

Well who was I to argue?

I also bowed to family pressure and agreed that the books be published under my own name. Contracts were duly signed and I was promised a publication date of January 2000.

A period of sustained excitement then commenced during which I maintained a steady contact with my personal editor, a young lady named Julia Silk, sometimes contesting but generally conceding docilely to her suggested alterations.

Meanwhile the web-sites of all the major booksellers began to advertise the books. I felt almost like a real  author.

Even more so when Citron invited me along with all their sixty authors to a mammoth book signing followed by a party. They were seeking an entry in the Guinness Book of Records. (Whether they made it I never found out!) There was I, a bumbling amateur, mixing with dedicated professionals discussing our respective works – and feeling at home! These were heady times indeed!

In the event the promised January launch slipped to April and ultimately to July. Finally, on 1st July 2000, my books were published. Was this to be my springboard to fame?

Sadly, no. It was all over as suddenly as it had begun. Barely a month after publication, I tried to access the Citron Press website only to be met with a blank page. On telephoning Julia to enquire why, I was answered by a stranger who told me he had been called in to wind up the affairs of the company.

I never did find out how many books I had sold. I certainly have never received a penny in royalties, nor do I expect to. A schedule arrived from the company’s receiver revealing that their authors were at the very bottom of their list of creditors.

I wrote other novels, but purely for my own amusement and without seeking publication. The first of these slipped out effortlessly, the second was more difficult, and the third ground to a halt after some thirty pages. My enthusiasm drained away with it. Writing of any kind had lost its appeal.

And then our local U3A writing group came to my aid, spurring me to blow the cobwebs off my keyboard once more, setting me targets, providing a focus for my efforts. It has also disciplined me, because I always was an impetuous writer, rushing down thoughts as they came into my head.

Who knows? If I can but find the right mix of spontaneity and discipline, Jack Porthpoint may yet rise again and so claim his title as the Catherine Cookson of Somerset.

Brief Encounter - the Alternative Version

You must have seen the film Brief Encounter. Surely everybody has seen Brief Encounter. No? Incredible! Well, I suppose I'd better explain it to you then. Otherwise the subtleties of my little tale will be lost on you.

In the England of the mid nineteen-forties, Laura, a very proper middle-class housewife meets Alec, an idealistic doctor, in the refreshment room of the local station. She says to him, 'Oh, I've got something in my eye.' He says to her, 'Here, let me look at it; I'm a doctor.' The consequence is that they embark on an affair - an affair never quite to be consummated: oddly, much of which takes place in the station buffet!

It all gets too much for them: Laura returns to her boring husband, who lifts his eyes from The Times crossword just long enough to say something like, 'Anything bothering you old girl?' Alec goes off to Africa to do something noble there.

Between times trains rattle by, Rachmaninov's 2nd Piano Concerto swells in and fades out of the soundtrack, and Laura wears some dreadful hats.

There you have it! That's Brief Encounter in a nutshell. Sounds corny - is corny, but gets me every time.

Brief Encounter – the Alternative Version

(The story that couldn't be told in 1945)

http://www.u3awells.com/writing/anthology/briefe1.jpg

With apologies to Noel Coward and the

J Arthur Rank Film Organisation.

Alec sensed Laura's eyes burning through the glass of the refreshment room door and into his retreating back as he hurried for the safety of the ramp that led down to the subway and out of her vision. Ahead on Platform 4 his train was hissing in anticipation of departure, promising him escape: escape from Milford, escape from Laura.

It was time to cut his losses and renew the hunt in fresh terrain. Not in Africa. Most certainly not in Africa. He wouldn't be seen dead in Africa! He was grateful to it, though. That continent already provided him with a place of escape - that mythical refuge he had conjured up to head off the credulous Laura.

No, it was Madeleine and domesticity for him . . . at least until next Thursday, when he would move the scene of his weekly sexual safari to Bradford or Leeds. The prey was always more plentiful in the cities. Women seemed to lose their inhibitions in the crowds.

He settled himself in the seat of an empty First Class compartment and stretched out his legs to rest his feet on the seat opposite. He smiled. Africa! Yes she had certainly swallowed that one! But then the most endearing thing about Laura had been her gullibility.

As a car salesman of long experience (a master of a trade well practised in the arts of trickery) passing himself off as a doctor had been almost too easy. It was a source of profound irritation, though, that his expertise had failed to land the ultimate prize this time; it had never let him down before. Oh his doctor routine had won her heart all right; but her body had remained stubbornly beyond his reach. That was the only thing that hurt him about leaving Laura Jesson - unfinished business

Poor Laura! She possessed the unhappy knack of collecting the most appalling people about her. Yes, Alec cheerfully admitted to being one of them, but, cad though he might be, he at least was not boring. The same could not be said of that misery of a husband of hers, judging by Laura's accounts of him. And if the husband wasn't bad enough the poor woman then had to contend with their two quarrelsome and demanding brats!

And as for her friends! Well, Laura's taste in friends was on a par with her taste in hats: a comparison that said it all. Even so, Alec found himself uttering a prayer of thanks to that ghastly creature whose interruption in the refreshment room, minutes before, had saved him from an embarrassing and potentially dangerous goodbye.

Other equally awful friends of Laura's had not been so welcome: for example that pair of busy-bodies in the restaurant a few weeks back. The chance encounter with those two scandal mongers had been the point where his scheme to bed Laura had begun to go awry. They had fuelled the spurts of guilt that Stephen Lind's untimely return home last Thursday had fanned to a flame. It was Lind's own apartment, of course, and at any other time he would have had every right to be there. But Alec had carefully negotiated the loan of the place for the night in exchange for a generous discount on a new Austin 10, and had prepared it as a love nest in which to entice Laura.

The prize had been almost within his grasp and had been wrenched cruelly from him at the last by his host's inopportune return. Curse Lind! He could whistle for his discount now. And curse those two gossiping old bats before him!

Still, if they had been the catalysts of Alec's downfall at least the ghastly Dolly Lessiter, back in the refreshment room, had in part redressed the balance. Her sudden appearance had spared him from a ghastly scene of final parting on the station platform, where he was sure that his insincerity would have shone through at the last. God knows what terrible fuss might have ensued. Good grief, Laura might even have made trouble for him at home!

Of course Madeleine knew only too well what his Thursday excursions were all about, and was tolerant about them as long as they were carried out at a discreet distance. But if her reputation within her own circle of stuffy friends were threatened then dire retribution would be brought down on Alec's head. Yes, God bless you, Dolly Lessiter . . . just keep talking

He looked at his watch. The train should have left minutes ago. A shrill whistle blast from the platform outside dispersed his moment of anxiety. It was answered by a strangled shriek from the engine up ahead and the train stuttered into motion. Alec blew an imaginary kiss in the direction of the refreshment room.

Goodbye Laura with your cow eyes and dreadful hats. May you find solace in your hideous domesticity.

Fred Jesson liked his Thursday afternoons, with Laura out of the way in Milford supposedly at the pictures.  Ha! who was she kidding? Stephen Lind had alerted him to that little charade after the farce at his flat. He had even returned the hat and scarf that Laura had left there. Poor, stupid Laura! She was doubtless suffering agonies of conscience over her pathetic little affair with that car salesman acquaintance of Stephen's - a smarmy devil and a right Lothario by all accounts.

Fred prayed that his wife's conscience would not get the better of her and that the affair would continue. He prized his Thursday afternoons, when both his wife and the maid were out of the house. Their departure was the opportunity to grant himself leave of absence from the office and to return to a home that was his alone, free to indulge in his fondest fancies - at least until the children got back from school.

Thankfully that was several hours away yet. And even then they would not be inflicted on him for long; soon afterwards Laura would be home to get the tea and put them to bed. An evening of contentment would ensue in which he could smoke his pipe in his favourite armchair and muddle with The Times crossword.

He frowned at the thought of the habitual threat to this cosy prospect. Unless he could head her off somehow, once she had finished the washing up and ironing, Laura would dig out that sewing box of hers and insist on joining him.

Then he would again be subjected to that infernal music of hers. Oh God, not Rachmaninov again!