Tell Tale: Short Stories

Three years later a judge finally ruled that the council should take charge of the car park, but any profits were to be divided equally between the two. A typical British compromise, where only the lawyers benefit, was Joe’s opinion when he read the latest news coming out of Yorkshire.

“I’m only surprised,” said Molly, “that they’ve not come after us.”

“No chance,” said Joe. “I reckon that’d make council look like a bunch of wallies. No, least said, soonest mended. And you can be sure of one thing, no one will stand up and take responsibility. Don’t forget, that lot will be coming up for reelection in May, so mum’s the word.”

* * *

When I last had dinner with Joe and Molly in Pollença, I couldn’t resist asking him how much he thought he’d made over the years, as a car park attendant.

“Supervisor,” he corrected me, not answering my question.

“Three million, four hundred and twenty-two thousand, three hundred and nineteen pounds,” replied Molly.

“That sounds ’bout right,” said Joe, “but next time you’re in Barnsford, Jeff lad, take a look at the zoo’s new aquarium. Summat the missus and I are right chuffed about!”

* * *

Joe and Molly Simpson are buried next to each other in the churchyard of St. Mary the Immaculate in Barnsford. Something else Molly insisted on.

A WASTED HOUR

KELLEY ALWAYS THUMBED a ride back to college, but never told her parents. She knew they wouldn’t approve.

Her father would drive her to the station on the first day of term, when she would hang around on the platform until she was certain he was on his way back home. She would then walk the couple of miles to the freeway.

There were two good reasons why Kelley preferred to thumb a ride back to Stanford rather than take a bus or train. Twelve round trips a year meant she could save over a $1,200, which her father could ill afford after being laid off by the water company. In any case he and Ma had already made quite enough sacrifices to ensure she could attend college, without causing them any further expense.

But Kelley’s second reason for preferring to thumb rides was that when she graduated she wanted to be a writer, and during the past three years she’d met some fascinating people on the short journey from Salinas to Palo Alto, who were often willing to share their experiences with a stranger they were unlikely to meet again.

One fellow had worked as a messenger on Wall Street during the Depression, while another had won the Silver Star at Monte Cassino, but her favorite was the man who’d spent a day fishing with President Roosevelt.

Kelley also had golden rules about who she wouldn’t accept a ride from. Truck drivers were top of the list as they only ever had one thing on their mind. The next were vehicles with two or three young men on board. In fact she avoided most drivers under the age of sixty, especially those behind the wheel of a sports car.

The first car to slow down had two young fellows in it, and if that wasn’t warning enough, the empty beer cans on the backseat certainly were. They looked disappointed when she firmly shook her head, and after a few raucous catcalls continued on their way.

The next vehicle to pull over was a truck, but she didn’t even look up at the driver, just continued walking. He eventually drove off, honking his horn in disgust.

The third was a pickup truck, with a couple in the front who looked promising, until she saw a German shepherd lounging across the backseat that looked as if he hadn’t been fed in a while. Kelley politely told them she was allergic to dogs—well, except for Daisy, her cocker spaniel back home, whom she adored.

And then she spotted a prewar Studebaker slowly ambling along toward her. Kelley faced the oncoming car, smiled, and raised her thumb. The car slowed, and pulled off the road. She walked quickly up to the passenger door to see an elderly gentleman leaning across and winding down the window.

“Where are you headed, young lady?” he asked.

“Stanford, sir,” she replied.

“I’ll be driving past the front gates, so jump in.”

Kelley didn’t hesitate, because he met all of her most stringent requirements: over sixty, wearing a wedding ring, well spoken, and polite. When she got in, Kelley sank back into the leather seat, her only worry being

whether either the car or the old man would make it.

While he looked to his left and concentrated on getting back onto the road, she took a closer look at him. He had mousy gray hair, a sallow, lined complexion, like well-worn leather, and the only thing she didn’t like was the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. He wore an open-neck checked shirt, and a corduroy jacket with leather patches on the elbows.

Her supervisor had told her on numerous occasions that if she wanted to be a writer she would have to get some experience of life, especially other people’s lives, and although her driver didn’t look an obvious candidate to expand her horizons, there was only one way she was going to find out.

“Thanks for stopping,” she said. “My name’s Kelley.”

“John,” he replied, taking one hand off the wheel to shake hands with her. The rough hands of a farm laborer, was her first thought. “What are you majoring in, Kelley?” he asked.