A Life in Short Stories

By Mike Murphy

Mike Murphy wrote his first short story at the age of 17, was published for the first time when he was 22 and is still writing at the age of 80. In this anthology he has brought together a selection from the profusion of stories he has written, with an introduction to each story revealing when and how it came about.Spanning a lifetime from the 1

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Murphy
• Release date: Jun 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9780994414878

Mike Murphy

Mike Murphy is a successful entrepreneur, speaker, coach, and philanthropist. He is the founder of the Love from Margot Foundation, which supports women with cancer, and Mountains of Hope, a transformational retreat center in Colombia. His first book, Love Unfiltered, was a Wall Street Journal bestseller. He divides his time between Northern California and Colombia.

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For my great-grandsons Cooper and Noah and

my daughter, Bec, who has made all my books possible.

A Life in Short Stories

by Mike Murphy

First published 2021 by Mike Murphy

ISBN 978 0 9944148 7 8

Copyright © Mike Murphy 2021

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction.

None of the characters or places in it are real or have

any relation to existing people or places.

Also by Mike Murphy:

A New Era For Manny Youngman

The Man Who Didn’t Like People

INTRODUCTION

As an eight-year-old at primary school in England in the late 1940s I was known as the writer because the teacher called upon me to read out my compositions as an example to the other children.

I claim no credit for this. Other children were good at sport, other school subjects or social interactions. I loved words and I could write.

The earliest story I remember writing was a version of puss in boots. I have no idea what it was about, just that there was a cat and it wore boots. I remember standing up in class to read it and it may have been meant to be funny because I have a quirky sense of humour that intrudes frequently into my stories.

My family came to live in Australia in 1952 and I wrote my first short story with the intention of getting it published in 1959. It was not published and, unfortunately, I have not kept a copy. I revisited the idea several times and ‘A Wish Upon A Falling Star’, which appears here, was a version I wrote in 1975 to submit to Women’s Weekly.

The first of my short stories to be published was ‘That’s For Angelo’, a story about an Italian working with Australians that appeared in K&G Murray’s Pocket Man magazine in 1963. I wrote it as a comment on the xenophobia targeting European migrants in those days and had the idea of submitting it to the University of Western Australia’s magazine, Westerly. Ivan O’Reilly, a colleague in the ABC’s Perth newsroom, suggested it was not literary enough for Westerly and recommended K&G Murray Publishing. So it came about that I first appeared as a published author between photographs of nude women and risqué cartoons. Of course, the readers of such magazines bought them for stories like mine, not the more salacious content.

I kept a copy for many years but somewhere along the way it got lost. I would love to have had it to include in this anthology.

Over the years I have written many stories and bits of stories that didn’t get finished for one reason or another. Ideas are always bubbling at the back of my brain and sometimes I sit on a train or bus, or in a crowded shopping mall, imagining stories attached to the people I see around me. Occasionally when I get home I write them into a story. Some were the genesis of my second novel ‘The Man Who Didn’t Like People’ and others, recorded while I was preparing this anthology, inspired the last story here, ‘Incident On A Coach’.

My style has changed over the years, hopefully for the better, but I haven’t worked in any consistent genre. Each time I set out to write an entertaining story to the best of my ability.

It was pointed out to me early on that stories needed a beginning, middle and end and that is the basic structure I have followed. Most frequently I started with a beginning, but in some cases I knew the end before I began writing. As other writers have said, the beginning and end are often the easy parts, it’s the middle that can be difficult.

One thing I have always favoured, as will be seen in many of the stories here, is having a twist at the end of the story.

But this isn’t a book about how to write short stories. I wanted to give some idea of where my stories came from and why I wrote them.

I hope the result is entertaining.

THE LAST GLEAM OF LIGHT

In 1961, at the age of 19, I travelled from my home in Perth, Australia, to London to seek a career either in journalism or publishing. The first job I was offered was as a reporter on a chain of suburban newspapers based at Ruislip in Middlesex and so my destiny was decided. I have often wondered whether my writing would have taken a different direction if I had found a position with a publisher.

I wrote a number of short stories at that time. One was ‘The Fortune Teller’ which you will find later in this anthology in a version I rewrote some 40 years later. Another was this one. I am not sure if its origins but for the first ten years of my life my blind grandfather lived with us and that may be part of its ancestry.

The noise of the world changed as the shops began to close for the night. The office buildings grew silent as the city’s workers left their daily haunts and headed for their homes, the women to warm stoves and the rattle of pots and pans, the men to comfortable chairs by warm fires surrounded by the confused jumble of noise which was their family.

The old man had been listening to the cars go by. From his years as a motor mechanic he kept a possessive pride in his ability to tell a car’s make by the sound of its engine. He could tell a Mini Minor by its light hum, a Jaguar by the latent power which vibrated in every pulse from beneath its bonnet. A heavy, powerful sound indicated the big American cars, variations in tone distinguishing Buick from Chevrolet.

He once tried out his powers during a walk with his son-in-law and was gratified by the young man’s amazement when he identified cars nearly half a mile away. Now he was listening for the sound of his daughter’s Austin A40.

Mary had driven him to the lakeside earlier in the afternoon. She had left him at the north end of the path that led round the water’s edge to the car park where she would collect him later. It was one of his favourite walks in the summer.

Happy in the warmth of the sun he wandered along the familiar path. Now and then he sat on one of the seats at the edge of the grass. At one seat he sat for nearly half an hour enjoying the sound of the birds in the trees overhead.

A thrush sat on a bough near his head, chirruping for a long while. Then it flew away. Another bird took its place, but the old man waited and was rewarded when the chirruping started again. His friend had returned to keep him company.

At another seat he spoke to an elderly lady who commented on the fine weather they were having. It was a pity that the young people had to work in stuffy offices and shops on such beautiful days, she said.

He agreed but at the same time he thought of the days after he’d stopped work. Then he would have given anything to be back in the garage, with the solid feel of a spanner between his fingers, the old feeling of confidence in his work and the pleasure of a job well done. Now the weather was warm and kind and he found a new contentment.

Yes, he told the woman. It certainly is a pity.

Passing a group of children playing at the edge of the lake, he stopped to listen. The slip-slop of the water was disturbed by the splashing of small feet. There was a loud plopping noise and two boyish voices rose in argument. They were squabbling over a yacht they were pulling along at the end of a piece of string.

At the end of his circular walk, the old man sat on the last seat and waited for his daughter to come for him. He listened to the cars being driven out of the car park. Two businessmen walked past discussing last-minute details for a conference in the morning. Then they got into a car and drove away. He wondered whether Mary would drive into the car park or walk across from the main road.

The noise of the traffic grew louder as cars began heading southwards, out to the suburbs. Occasionally he could pick out the sound of one car above the competing roars of the traffic. There was a bubble car, with its tiny, throbbing engine cheekily answering back to the solid pulsing motor of a big Bentley.

If Mary walked across the gravel of the car park or along the concrete of the path he would recognize her step. There would be the quick determined click of high heels, a confident step which was unmistakable.

An hour later the traffic was starting to thin out. Only an irregular stream of cars headed south. He could pick out the taxis as they headed down to the railway station. One taxi with a sick rattle in its muffler made the journey several times.

It grew colder. He could no longer feel the drowsy warmth of the sun on his face. The birds seemed to have gone. Perhaps they too had left for the suburbs where breadcrumbs and scraps might be found after evening meals.

Only one or two cars passed along the road. The old man heard two or three leave the car park and then everything became still.

From the city a light hum drifted across the road. In the other direction the lapping of the lake water seemed more intense. With the sound came a cold evening breeze so that it seemed the air grew colder with each wave that rippled over the surface. The railway station in the distance occasionally let out a low grumbling as trains arrived or departed.

He half turned his head as the sound of footsteps came to him across the car park but the step was not Mary’s. Perhaps she had forgotten. It was unlike her to be late. He wondered what the time was. Certainly 5.30 had gone long since.

The night was quiet now. The old man sat in the quiet and waited.

The young girl was on her way home. She had stayed late in town talking to the girls from the office. They had giggled together, talked of their boyfriends, drunk several cups of coffee.

As she turned onto the path by the lake the girl looked about her. The water looked cold and dark, the path before her hung pale and ghostly, a white ribbon stretching into the distance. She felt a shadowy fear sitting on her shoulder but she shrugged it off and began to walk faster. Laughing a little at her own fear of the dark, she reached the last turn in the path and started the last lap to the lighted car park which looked warm and welcoming in front of her.

A dark figure loomed out of the blackness, lurching towards her. A hand was outstretched. A quavering voice called to her.

She screamed and ran as fast as she could, up the path, through the lights of the car park and on into the lighted road. She did not look back.

The old man listened to the running footsteps. As the sound died away its place was taken by the lower, slower sound of the lake. He sat down again. In his fear of being left alone he had called out too loudly and had frightened the person he had hoped could help him. It was foolish and he was sorry for doing it, but he could not tell her that, could not bring her back.

What time was it? Where was Mary?

Perhaps there had been an accident The idea began to seem more probable. Accidents were becoming more common.

He heard a car pass on the main road. It was a Hillman, the same model as the car he had been driving on that day.

The Hillman was speeding along a straight road. The luminous green dial of the speedometer stared at him from the dashboard. Sixty, seventy …. Fast, but I can handle it. Can’t be late. Mary is waiting for me. I have to be there to look after the children so that she can go out. Too fast. Too fast. Too late.

The corner seemed huge and wide as he approached it, but then it narrowed viciously, ready to take its prey. It waited, ready to snap its jaws closed. The Hillman grew larger. It grew heavier. He clawed at the wheel. It was heavy and sluggish.

Then he was no longer at the wheel. He was no longer in the car. Mary was driving. He was watching her from far away. He called a warning. He tried to stop the car. He could see it growing larger, heavier. Mary could not handle it. The screech of tyres grew louder, pounding in his ears, battering at his mind. A new noise, a sickening crunching noise, throbbed through his body. There was a splintering tinkle of glass as it splashed from the screen and probed out towards the driver, groping for her eyes.

As Mary took her father’s hand she felt it trembling.

Come on Dad. I’m sorry, but Betty has been sick. I’ll explain as we go home.

When he did not respond immediately, she looked more closely at his face, grey as ashes in the shadows of the poorly-lit carpark.

Dad? Your hand is trembling. Have you been thinking about that accident again? Don’t Dad. It upsets you. Come on home by the fire.

He held her hand tightly as they walked toward the car. She did not know and he would not tell her that he had seen not one but two accidents. The last sights he had seen that night were in his subconscious. Monstrous sizes, ghastly colours re-emerged for his mind to use in creating this new vision.

An accident in which Mary had been through all that he had suffered. An accident in which she had been taken away from him forever.

Mary. His daughter. The last gleam of light left in his dark world.

THE BIG LAUGHING APE

After I returned to Perth in 1963, I continued writing short stories and had the first published when ‘That’s For Angelo’ appeared in the Pocket Man. As I recall I was paid $40. Enthused by that success and possibly by my marriage in April 1964, I continued submitting stories to K&G Murray and was rewarded when ‘The Big Laughing Ape’ was published in Man in December of that year. This was the time of the Vietnam War. Among my colleagues in the ABC newsroom were some who had been in that war but refused to talk about it. I was not among the unfortunates who got drafted, so this is not a first-person report of the war. Rather it is my imagining of what it might have been like from watching it on TV and stories I had heard of the Kakoda Trail, along which my new father-in-law, Bert Wells, had fought against the Japanese in World War 11.

It had been so easy, so ridiculously easy, that’s what griped Bill the most. He had been snatched from the track without a sound. The patrol had continued on ahead, not knowing anything had happened. Their eyes, of course, were always looking ahead, to the sides, above.

The guerilla who had grabbed him was a big man who obviously knew his job. Bill had been gagged, bound and carried off through the forest almost before he had time to realise that he had been caught. Everything was unreal, like a cut from a World War 11 movie in which only the incredible happened.

Now the two of them, captor and captive, stood in a hut in a small village about two miles from the spot where he was taken. In front of them, sitting at a make-shift desk, two enemy officers were discussing what to do with him.

Although his knowledge of South East Asian languages was good from working in an export agency before the war, Bill was careful not to let his captors know that he understood what they were talking about. As they casually discussed whether to torture him or not he tried to look unconcerned and turned to examine the man who had caught him. The man was unusually tall for one of his country, at least 6ft 3ins. In his lighter-coloured hair and the squared-off lines of his face, there was a hint of other blood. Dutch perhaps. His father or grandfather may have been a visiting sailor or soldier.

The officers stopped talking in their own language. The one who looked to have the most authority turned to face Bill and smiled. He was a small man, at least a foot shorter than the guerilla.

My friend. His English was stilted and spoken slowly. You know we have taken you for information we are needing. Is simple. Supply information and you will be take to prisoners camp. Stay there with no annoyance.

Bill shrugged. You know the rules.

The officer’s smile did not waver. He appeared pleased that his English was going so well. But my friend, it was not us who make these rules. You Westerners make them.

He paused and when Bill did not respond, the smile disappeared and his voice became less genial. We have rules which have results unpleasant if you not co-operate.

Bill shrugged again and still said nothing. He saw the officer nod and sensed the big soldier move round behind him.

The officer’s eyes were now hard and cold. He nodded again.

Bill wasn’t expecting the pain. The soldier had grasped his hand and, with a quick flick, had broken the little finger.

Cursing and hugging his damaged hand to his chest, he turned towards his torturer, but the man had taken a step back and was standing stiffly to attention, as though he had performed a routine drill movement and was ready for the next order.

The officer spoke again. There my friend. Our rules. Is better you co-operate. Tell us troop movements and you will not be hurting again.

The finger was hot with pain, but Bill forced his expression not to show it as he stared straight in front of him.

The officer now spoke rapidly, too rapidly to follow completely, but Bill understood enough to know it was instructions for more ‘persuasion’.

A blow sent him flying to the floor. Instinctively he jack-knifed to protect himself, but too late to stop the first kick smashing into his groin. He rolled sideways, curling up tightly, but the soldier was expecting it. The next kick came from behind, smashing up between Bill’s legs. Then the man used his heel, lashing his heavy boot again and again down and sideways into Bill’s chest and stomach. He stepped back, grabbed Bill’s hair and jerked him to a sitting position. A thick ruler taken from the desk sliced down the side of Bill’s head, making blood pour from his ear. A series of blows chopped down on the side of his neck, then the ruler smashed across the bridge of his nose.

Bill gritted his teeth and fought to stop crying out loud. When the enemy soldier stood back, replacing the ruler on the desk, he remained lying there, silent and unmoving, fearful that any movement would initiate another attack. He could hear the officers giving more orders, but pain was throbbing through his head and blood was filling his ears and mouth. He could not summon up the concentration to understand what they were saying.

Something smashed into his mouth.

The officer was standing over him. When Bill didn’t answer, the officer spat at him. He felt the saliva dribbling down his face, and he felt sick. He leaned forward, opened his mouth, and retched. There was nothing to do it with, just a hard rasping feeling in his intestines. The soldier who had captured him laughed - a deep throaty laugh that faded into a snigger.

The officer snapped an order and the laugh stopped. The face of the officer came closer.

Speak.

Bill stared back. Blood was streaming from cuts in his lips and face. His swollen tongue filled his mouth. How the hell could he talk?

A fist crashed into his eye. A stinging slap across the face told him that one of his teeth was broken. He swallowed several pieces of it.

In a remote part of his brain, away from the areas that processed pain, he nursed his pride that he had not talked and would never talk, no matter what they did to him.

Some hours later he was sitting in a room looking at a barred window high above his head. The guerilla had brought him there and had returned several times since the officers had given up asking him questions. On each occasion he had either slapped or kicked Bill and laughed that obscene laugh that broke off into a snigger.

Bill’s tongue was still swollen and his tooth was completely gone. He hadn’t eaten for nearly a day, but he couldn’t have eaten if they had offered him food, and they hadn’t.

He had grown accustomed to the fact that he was almost the personal property of the soldier he had begun to call the big ape.

The door crashed open and the man was there again. He yanked Bill to his feet.

Come.

Bill came, was dragged, pushed, pulled, shoved, and if he didn’t move fast enough, kicked. Finally he was pulled up short. His captor grasped the back of his neck, opened a door and half lifted him inside. There were the two officers again.

Well my friend, unfortunate for you there is no more time here, the more senior officer said. You go to where they have more time and more ways to make you talk. He was smiling again, but the coldness was still in his eyes. Before you go we give something for you to remember us.

This time Bill knew what to expect, but there was nothing he could do about it. He was pushed flat on his face on the floor and his arm was levered up behind his back until he heard the sharp crack and felt the excruciating pain. The big ape stepped back and stood to attention again.

One last chance, my friend. Talk.

And still Bill remained silent, not given them the satisfaction even of hearing the futile curses that were trembling on his lips. At least the break appeared to be clean