All stories

I'm a bucket man

by James

I’m a bucket man

The first thing she bought was an Eames, price through the roof for a leather and chrome chair that wasn’t even that comfortable, but it was a thing Ian always wanted. Of course then it looked out place against their beige carpets. Hardwood floors sorted that, and no bad thing, Ian with his allergies so why not their son?

The light fittings were all her - a little bling. Chic matt steel and she could have bought the ones with real diamonds but not with how they ran with blood. When the neighbours put up for sale she swooped and together this pair of ordinary three bed semis made the man from Architectural Digest magazine drop his lower jaw and say wow three times.

In silence his gaze drank in the soft Travertine floor, the light oak of the staircase finished by hand, the exotic plants clustered at the foot of the stairs.

And his mouth fell again.

He squinted his eyes, he moved for a closer look. She could see the start of Ian’s grin.

The reporter said, ‘Is that an orange bucket holding that ficus tree?’

Through into the sun flooded morning room for the interview. As it drew to a close the reporter set down the bone china coffee cup.

He said, ‘I’m impressed, I really am. You bounced back. You used that unfortunate windfall to build all this, to build your company.’

‘Oh that, that was all Ian’s idea. But then I had the money, so why not?’

‘But you did it. Head of a company worth fifty million. Housewife, mother. How do you manage it?’

A pair of bright eyes topping an oh so like Ian grin watching it all through the glass doors of the orangery.

‘For my son,’ she said.

Once more in the hall the man stopped to stare at the bright orange bucket Ian said he got from B & Q, five of them for a pound.

The reporter said, ‘After this piece, I wouldn’t be surprised, every well dressed home that takes our magazine with a bright orange quirk like that.’

Ian’s grin was blinding.

Alone at last, stood there in the hall holding her son looking at the ficus plant lush in health ready to bloom. Stood there looking at that awful garish bucket that Ian marched in with when she was locked in the delivery cradle, knees past her ears and the Doula telling her that breathing was the river that flowed away the pain.

Ian with that little grin. The plan for the placenta to nourish the roots of a favoured plant so why not get something big enough to simply plant it straight in?

Holding out that bright orange bucket for her approval, and then as she began to flare, him looking mystified and saying, ‘Well I put a bow on it.’

She kissed her son’s cheek, and she murmured to him, ‘Daddy would have been so proud of you.’

Heroes and villains

by Enigmatic Paul

My daddy was a soldier. My daddy was a spy. My daddy worked as the captain of a huge ship that sailed all over the world, delivering exotic goods to sultans and princes. My daddy was an explorer and was probably, right this second, hacking his way through dense jungle seeking ancient treasures. My daddy was brave and strong and generous and heroic. I knew he was all of these things because my mum told me.

My mum was a nurse. I knew she was a nurse because I only ever really saw her wearing her nurse’s uniform and the weary-eyed expression of someone who’s had too much coffee and too little sleep for far too long. She used to tell me stories about dad, where he was and what he was probably doing, even when she was so tired she could barely keep her eyes open.

I was nothing much. Certainly nothing worth writing home about, or writing home to, apparently.

I used to play at being my daddy. I had a plastic sword, an old bucket for a helmet and a headful of stories concocted by the overtired brain of my overworked mother. She used to watch me playing in the garden through the window, but even when she smiled she looked sad.

I thought my mum was boring. I wished my dad would come home from the war, or the jungle, or the South Pole and play with me, but he never did. Mum said he was a hero with a national duty - he couldn’t let his public down, which I supposed I understood. Sometimes I wished my mum was a hero too and we could all go on adventures and get rich and famous together.

Once I went on a mission of my own: to find the newspaper clippings of my dad’s adventures that mum said she was saving up to show me when I was older. I was intrepid, I planned it right down to the last detail: Mum was asleep on the sofa. The stool was in place and ready to go. I had my sword and bucket helmet. I clambered to the uppermost peaks of Mount Wardrobe and hauled down Mysterious Cardboard Box. I sat on the floor to peruse my treasures.

Only there were no treasures. There was just a jumble of tat: an old photo of a skinny man in rolled up sleeves with a cocky cigarette in the corner of his mouth; a black and white picture of the same man with my mum, who smiled shyly at the camera; a couple of ancient cinema tickets and a beer mat with a phone number scribbled hastily across it.

There wasn’t even a photo of the spectacular wedding mum had described so often, with the queen waving from the crowd of happy wellwishers and her magnificent dress of silver and gold.

In the living room I heard my mum get up and start to get ready for work.

Your William

by Enigmatic Paul

And how’s your William? ‘Ah he’s doing so well, he has a new job, in finance he tells me, just this Saturday he came to visit me and he bought me a new mobile phone, brand new, and it already has his phone number in it, so I can call him whenever I like.’ ‘Oh really?’ ‘Oh yes he’s a good boy, always thinking of his mother. And how is your Connor? ‘Oh Connor, he’s just grand, he has a lovely girlfriend you know, he’s doing sowell’ ‘Oh how lovely - and will we be hearing the wedding bells soon?’ ‘Well I do hope so, it would be so good to see him settled down’ ‘And what’s the lucky girl’s name?’ ‘It’s Becca O’Brian, she’s a lovely girl from the village - do you know her?’ ‘Oh yes, I’ve heard, well my William tells me, they call her something awful funny in the village - Bucket O’Brian, yes that’s what he said, though I can’t imagine for the life of me what he meant’ ‘Oh really?’ ‘Yes, my William said she’s verywell known in the village’ ‘Oh he said that did he?’ ‘He did.’ ‘You know I saw your William yesterday’ ‘Did you?’ ‘Yes, I was putting the bins out the back and he seemed to be climbing out of your kitchen window. I thought it was very strange, but I guess he must have forgotten his keys or..I wasn’t going to say anything but-’ ‘Oh well now are you sure it was my William?’ ‘Yes quite sure Myra, I saw him with my own eyes’ ‘Well come now Elaine your eyes are not what they once were; age comes to us all, it’s nothing to be ashamed of’ ‘I know what I saw - I imagine he didn’t want you to know he’d been there’ ‘I don’t know what you mean - and I would have known, he would have let me know -’ ‘And nothing has, by any chance, gone missing?' 'I don't know what you’re suggesting Elaine? My William is a good boy..of course he's no angel - ' 'Oh yes well given that awful trouble with the police-’ 'You know that was a misunderstanding, he was going to pay for that petrol' 'And that money that went missing from the church' ‘Oh now Elaine that was a long time ago’ ‘It was last year’ ‘Well you know it was not his fault, he couldn’t help himself, it took him over at times, but he’s getting help now, he’s getting better.’ ‘Yes well I’m sure he is and now don’t be upset Myra, I’m sorry, I know the trouble you’ve had’ ‘Yes, well thank you Elaine’ ‘It’s a terrible shame that he didn’t get help sooner.’ ‘That’s kind of you to say’ ‘And Heaven knows my Connor has not been much better’ That’s true’ ‘These challenges, they’re sent to try us’ ‘Well thank you Elaine, you’re a good friend.’ ‘And you Myra.’