The Grass Whistle

By John Caulton

Political and personal, tender and tough, John Caulton's first short fiction collection presents tales of degeneracy, defiance, revenge, regeneration and love. Often darkly humorous and sometiames supernatural, these stories range from the diabolical to divine.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ukiyoto Publishing
• Release date: Nov 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9789361725418

Book preview

The Grass Whistle

44 Short Stories

John Caulton

Ukiyoto Publishing

All global publishing rights are held by

Ukiyoto Publishing

Published in 2023

Content Copyright © John Caulton

All rights reserved.

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

The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated, without the publisher’s prior consent, in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.

www.ukiyoto.com

For my lovely wife

Many thanks to Matt Potter for guidance, Alan Berger for sharing work and ideas and Zea Perez for proof-reading, endless help and great kindness.

Cover illustration and design by the author.

Contents

Garden Of Edenists

Marlon’s Mint Choc Chip

Email The Landlord

Ovid For Covid: Tales Of Metamorphosis

The Grass Whistle

Sugar And Spice

Call The Knackermen!

New To The Street

Hagthorn Witch

Ready Or Not

The Brothers

Lambs’ Tails Stew

Souls Of Their Feet

A Winter’s Tale

Photograph

Spirit Of Truth

Portal

Yes Dear, Yes

Black Op Blog

Fox Cemetery

I, Venus

Hillside Village

From The Folk Isles

Birthday Boy

Room 37

Vintage Year

Well Done

Sing Lodit, Sing!

Patched Up

Cadaver Episodes

It’s Like This

A Visitor

Grave Concerns

A Dog’s Life

Cactus

Piss Takin’

She We Us I

Two Shiners

La Planta

Safe Islands

In February, Maybe

Stinging Nettle Day

Dancing Dog

Vintage Paperbacks

Garden Of Edenists

Brian dug for victory. The lawns and flower borders disappeared. The invasion of potatoes, cabbages and onions began. ‘Soil for the stomach,’ became his mantra. In those lean times he became a master at producing giant vegetables. ‘Making the most of sun, earth and water,’ he told his neighbours. Wanting to do his bit, he freely gave away most of his prodigious produce to rationed families. In the post-war years, he became famous in the local circle for his prize marrows and leeks. Awarded many cups and rosettes, his sisters made sure he was buried with all of them.

A retired army officer named Teddy returned the garden to its floral state. With his wife Vera under his command, they grew regimented rows of Salvia, Antirrhinum and Delphinium.  Enemy weeds were instantly repelled and every plant knew its place. But, after Teddy’s fatal heart-attack in the Dahlias, Vera let the garden be at ease. The weeds, which had lost many battles, finally won the war. Vera became very fond of gin and found a great drinking friend in Marge from the WI. From that time onwards, the only thing that really blossomed in Vera’s life was Marge; sweet, fragrant Marge.

Come the Summer of Love, the garden turned native. Where once stood Lupin and Heliopsis, there was now Cow Parsley, Wild Carrot and Teasle. And this being the Age of Aquarius, the uncultivated Eden was happily embraced by Sandra and Tony. They had no intention of denying the natural rights of woodbine, brambles and ivy. The shed became Sandra’s meditation retreat and Tony cultivated his favourite weed in the greenhouse. The garden was regularly used by the commune for love-ins and naked freak-outs. Concerned neighbours were relieved when both Sandra and Tony suffered a string of bad acid trips and were relocated to an institution with a tidier garden.

In moved Ronald, a young Anglican clergyman; his mind firmly fixed upon the devil and all his works. He had no vision of transforming the garden into Eden anew. Like Adam’s fallen race, nature itself had been twisted and deformed by sin and there wasn’t much sense in trying to rectify that with secateurs and a spade. Indeed, stinging nettles and tearing thorns were to be encouraged; reminding tea-drinking guests of the vile corruption caused to God’s creation, through man’s rebellious transgressions. Such constant promotion of undiluted theology finally led to Ronald’s own expulsion from the garden; the bishop moving him on to a quieter, country parish.

During the reign of three consecutive families, the greenery was deemed more a nuisance than a delight and hacked back to the edges. In came timbered patios, barbeque pits, crazy-paving and a pebbled drive. What was left of the lawn, after years of mis-use and neglect, was eventually replaced by artificial turf. The plum trees were felled and replaced by a concrete base for a trailer-caravan; and the pond was filled-in, so a hot tub could be erected. Trampolines, paddling pools and rabbit hutches occupied the rest of the encroaching dead space. Once the last family had gone, it took all the remaining energy of an ex-school mistress to help nature reinstate itself within the garden. To her daughters she said, ‘This garden will probably finish me off, early doors.’ It did.

In Jerry’s time, the garden was less a private place and more a park for the neighbourhood children. The gate was always open and the garden was often filled with the sound of happy youngsters climbing trees, playing hide and seek and making daisy-chains. Jerry helped them to construct dens and, once inside, the children would get close as he told enchanting stories. One evening, when a mother was reading ‘The Selfish Giant’ to her daughter, she was informed there was a really nice man at number thirty-seven who also had a lovely garden and liked to share it with little children. A day later, Jerry answered the door to two police officers, asking many questions and forcing him to surrender his laptop. Thereafter, the garden gate was shut and bolted.

Now Jane arrives, escaping the city and the divorce. The garden is blooming, though unkempt. She surveys the mess. Holding her hips and nodding her head, she is optimistic. With time and TLC, the garden will regenerate. Her first job is to clear the shed. Ridding it of cobwebs and rusted tools, she replaces them with her paints, brushes and blank canvasses. Satisfied, she takes a relaxed walk around the garden, breathing deeply the verdant scent; refreshing her senses on Willowherb, Foxglove and Honeysuckle. And, in an abandoned corner, finding Forget-me-not and Selfheal; emerged from hiding.

Marlon’s Mint Choc Chip

‘Any sauce, sir?’ asks the ice-cream man.

Marlon shakes his head. He takes his ice-cream neat. All his dessert buddies know that!

Tub in hand, he spoons the mint choc chip into his mouth. Smacking his lips, he says to me, ‘Not bad, but I’ve had better. Remember that place in Frisco, back in ’54? Down on the waterfront. Damn, that was the best; a fine balance of liqueur crème de menthe and California cream.’

‘Spearmint, not peppermint,’ I say.

‘Correct, Doc. They had it just right.’

Finishing his first serving, he’s already ordering seconds.

‘Hey, fella! Two birthday cakes for me and my partner. And please, make ‘em doubles.’

‘Coming up, sir! Wafers too?’

‘No, thank you. Say, are you new here? I ain’t seen you around before.’

‘Yes, sir. I started a week ago.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Romeo Ricci.’

‘Really? Sounds Italian. Is it Italian?’

‘I’m not sure, sir. I’m from Boise, Idaho.’

‘Well, you should know, Romeo Ricci from Boise, Idaho. All men need to be acquainted with the blood that runs in their veins. Here, get yourself an ice-cream, young fella. It’s on me.’

‘Why, thank you, sir. I’ll have a pistachio, if you don’t mind.’

‘I don’t mind at all, but I had you down for a tutti fruitti.’

‘To your health, sir!’

‘And yours.’

Marlon begins on the hard stuff: Neapolitan, rum raisin, and a pumpkin-watermelon twist.

I try my upmost to keep up, but the raspberry ripple leaves me reeling.

‘Think I need the men’s room, Marlon. I may be some time.’

‘That’s okay, Doc. I’ll partake in a triple cookies and cream. That’ll keep me good company ‘til you get back.’

When I return, fifteen minutes later, Marlon has moved on to a maple and oyster special. His eyes are bulging and there’s stains on his jacket. I pass him a napkin to wipe his chin.

‘You’re a wild one,’ I say.

Marlon smiles. ‘Romeo made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. I’ve never had oyster ice-cream before.’

‘Any good?’

‘Stick to the bacon and banana, Doc. That’s my advice.’

Bud suddenly appears.

‘Hey, Bud, where the hell have you been?’ asks Marlon.

‘Stopped for a quick one at Sugar & Sprinkles, down on 37th. One became two became three. Y’dig?’

‘Sugar & Sprinkles? I thought the parlour on 37th was named Creamy Confections. Owned by what’s-his-name, Guisseppe. That’s right, ain’t it, Doc?’

‘Yes. Guisseppe Gentile and his brother Gerardo.’

‘Well, it ain’t now. It’s called Sugar and Sprinkles and run by some Sicilian named Stefano Savellini.’

‘Well, damn me,’ says Marlon. ‘That’s a lot of alliteration for one ice-cream parlour! Anyhow, what was your poison, Bud?’

‘I had me a cake batter chaser.’

‘Chaser?’

‘Blue moon and then a bubblegum.’

‘You animal!’

‘Says you!’

Bud orders a round of butterscotch and is the first to wolf it down.

‘Ah, reminds me of Chicago in ’52. The Palmer House. Picked up a hot waitress called Katie in the Chin Chin Cream Club. Remember, Doc?’

‘Sure do. I spent the week with a German dancer named Gerda. You too, Marlon. You fell for that Irish singer. The redhead. Freckly face, long legs and swinging hips. That doll had it all. Was it