THE STRANGER

‘Have you seen that new feller who’s moved into Barbara Green’s cottage?’

            Julia Ashley was addressing a comment to her friend Alison Winter as they queued one Friday morning in the post office of their small Cornish village.

            ‘No. Why?’

            ‘Well they say he’s rather odd.

            ‘How do you mean?’

            ‘According to Fred Allsop, he’s quite surly,’ explained Julia, ‘or at least he doesn’t say much. He went into Fred’s shop to buy some tools and Fred said it was like talking to a robot. You know what Fred’s like. He’s very chatty but he couldn’t get a thing out of him. He’s quite good looking though.’

            ‘How do you know that? Have you seen him?’

            ‘Yes, I was passing by Barbara’s old place and he was just putting his key in the door. I should say he’s in his late thirties, maybe forty. He looks a bit like Sean Connery but without the cheeky smile – well, as Connery used to look in those James Bond films.’

            ‘He’s too young for us then, Dear,’ replied Alison with a chuckle, ‘but he might set a few young hearts fluttering. There aren’t too many Sean Connery look-a-likes round here. What’s he called, this young chap?’

            ‘I haven’t a clue.’

            ‘At least not yet,’ laughed Alison, ‘but I bet it won’t be long till you find out. Not much passes you by Julia Ashley.’

****

On Saturday morning the stranger was looking round Jim Brown’s boatyard and showing particular interest in a Monterey 256 Cruiser.

            ‘Nice little boat that, Sir,’ said Jim, anxious to make a sale.

            ‘Not bad, but needs a bit of work doing. How much is it?’

            ‘Well, let me see now, I could let you have it for £15,000.’

            ‘No doubt, but it’s more than I want to pay, particularly with the work it needs.’

            They quickly settled on £13,000.

            ‘Would you deliver it to the harbour here, please.’

            ‘Certainly, I’ll do it on Monday if that’s all right with you. Incidentally have you got a berth there?’

            ‘Yes, I have.’   

            ‘Planning on doing a little fishing?’

            ‘Yes, and scuba diving.’

            ‘Take my advice, Sir, and be careful. There’s a very strong current out there, particularly just off the headland.’

            ‘I’ll remember that.’

            The deal was finalised in the office and Jim Brown was left scratching his head, having just completed his quickest sale he’d ever done to the most taciturn buyer he’d ever had.

****

            The stranger had moved into Barbara Green’s old cottage only one week previously and yet his reputation was already spreading throughout the village. The cottage was on the harbour front and it was here that he was now regularly setting up his easel to paint the harbour and its activities. People stopped to look at his work and tried to strike up a conversation but in return got only monosyllabic responses.

            On Sunday morning he went to church and afterwards was persuaded by the Reverend Tim Blake to stay for a coffee with a few of the regulars. He reluctantly did so but was almost as withdrawn as before. He declined an invitation from Letitia West to join the local art club and another from Brian Westlake to consider joining the scouting movement, although surprisingly he did agree to run a session on survival outdoors at some time in the future. At least the vicar elicited that the stranger’s name was John Kent. He also opined to his wife that John Kent’s hands seemed to shake when he drank coffee. He sensed there was a nervous tension about him.

            Of course rumours circulated about John Kent, mostly around a common theme that he had a disreputable past and that he’d come to the village to start a new life. However, even if he was reforming, it would be wise to keep children away from him. His reputation was not enhanced one day after he’d positioned himself outside the local supermarket with a chair and a table, stickers and badges, and a collecting box for the Royal British Legion.

            Onlookers said that a young man had told him there was no longer any need for the Armed Forces and that he should clear off. War mongering was not welcome. Whilst the onlookers favoured John Kent’s charitable drive, his reaction was thought to be unacceptable. Apparently he’d grabbed the young man by the collar and whispered something into his ear. The man had left with a look of abject fear on his face. He was not from the village and had not been seen since.

            Matters came to a head on the day of the village fete. The fete itself was a jolly event with a good turnout, a wide range of stalls, plenty of colourful bunting and music by a local band. John Kent took a walk around, bought a couple of books and went into the beer tent to buy a half a pint of real ale. Ahead of him in the queue were two young, rough looking men at the counter and John noticed one of them hand over a £10 note for two pints. When the girl served him she gave him the change but he complained he’d given her £20 and a disagreement broke out. Eventually John intervened.

            ‘I’m sure you’ve made a genuine mistake,’ he said, ‘but I saw you give the young lady £10.’

            ‘Mind your own bloody business,’ was the response from the larger and the fatter of the two.

            John suggested to the girl that she should not give him change for £20 and that if the troublemaker wanted to make a formal complaint he would support the girl.

            ‘You’re the troublemaker mate,’ replied the thug, ‘and if you don’t back off you’ll regret it,’ at the same time putting his hand around John’s throat.

            What happened next was so fast it was almost a blur but John appeared to put his right hand behind the thug’s left ear. In fact John had pressed a knuckle into the hollow behind his ear, putting considerable pressure on the parotid lymph node. The effect was that the thug squealed in pain, let go of his hold on John and doubled up clutching his head.

            ‘What have you done to ‘im?’ shouted the smaller thug, surprised but not anxious to get physically involved.

            ‘Oh, don’t worry. He’ll be all right before very long. I suggest you take him home.’

            ‘You’ll pay for this,’ groaned the large one, still clutching his head and being led out by his friend.

****

            In the evening of the same day, John was quietly drinking a pint of local real ale in the Royal Oak when the two local roughs came in and made a point of staring at him as they made their way to the bar. It was clear that they’d been drinking quite heavily during the afternoon and were now ready for an evening session.

John ignored them and got on with his Telegraph crossword. As he was within walking distance of his house in the harbour, he decided to have a second pint, which would hopefully give him time to solve the remaining four clues. It did and he was able to put away his pen with some satisfaction before leaving to walk home. He was not aware that the two roughs were hot on his heels.

George Harper, the owner, was surprised but pleased to see the two louts, Fred and Bill Gundry, leave so early. They were a couple of local farmworkers who frequently drank too much and made a nuisance of themselves. This promised to be a quiet evening with them out of the way. He did hear some shouting outside but paid no attention since youths were not unknown to make a noise walking about in groups.

Five minutes later, John Kent came back into the bar and suggested to George that he should call an ambulance. There’d been a little trouble outside and the Gundry brothers needed medical attention. He himself had a cut on his face but otherwise seemed all right.

****

            The story was soon passed round the village, giving rise to two principal viewpoints. In the minority were those who saw the episode as a further example of the malpractice of the suspicious newcomer. Most saw it as just retribution for the long- running loutish behaviour of the Gundry brothers. However, none was as incensed as the father of the brothers, Mr Bert Gundry, who decided to take the matter to court, citing grievous bodily harm as the charge against John Kent.

            John decided to find a solicitor to represent him in the magistrates’ court and was recommended by George Harper to see a Miss Penelope James in the local town. George had been impressed by John’s action against the brothers who’d been a constant problem for him.

            Penelope, in her late thirties, was a divorcee who’d had a very difficult first marriage. When John first met her in her office, she was dressed in a smart mid-blue suit which set off her strawberry blond hair. She had pale blue eyes that stared fixedly at him when he spoke as though challenging him not to deviate one iota from the truth, and a no-nonsense manner that obliged him to think carefully before speaking. John quickly came to the conclusion that he was glad she was on his side.

            As it happened she had an assistant who lived in John’s village. Consequently, when John had finished giving his account of the incident outside the Royal Oak, she was already forearmed in asking about his relationships with others in the village. His rather non-committal reply prompted her to summarise the position at that point.

            ‘On the whole, we have a good case. You were acting in good faith and the Gundry brothers are known to be troublemakers. Unfortunately you, too, have acquired a less than sympathetic reputation among some people in the village which, as things stand, will not act in your favour. I need to ask you some personal background questions.’

            Initially John was reluctant to provide details but, as Penelope pointed out, there were no witnesses to the fight and if the magistrate saw fit, he or she could remand the case to the crown court with a charge of grievous bodily harm and a heavy penalty if he was found guilty.

            With that, John recounted his career as a captain in the Strategic Air Service and his service in Iraq before and during the war against Saddam Hussein. He was captured, tortured but survived. Later he served in Afghanistan, where he also had a difficult experience.

            When he’d finished, Penelope paused and then said,

            ‘I need your agreement for you to have a medical examination’.

            ‘There’s no need,’ sighed John. ‘I’ve had plenty of examinations by a variety of specialists, including psychiatrists and psychologists. I have PTSD: post-traumatic stress disorder.’

            ‘Which can cause you to lose your temper very easily?’

            ‘It can, although I’ve learned to walk away if there’s a problem. Outside the pub I couldn’t walk away. I was attacked.’

****

            In the magistrate’s court, John was exonerated and the Gundry brothers were found guilty of common assault, fined and ordered to do community service. To celebrate and to show his appreciation, John invited Penelope to dinner. Normally she kept her private and professional lives separate but she made an exception on this occasion and this marked the start of an ongoing friendship. The case was widely publicised in the area and, as his background became known, John was accepted warmly into the community. The Grundy brothers on the other hand felt obliged to maintain a low profile and they certainly sought to avoid another run-in with John Kent.

Michael W. Brookes © 2025

POUNDING THE KEYS

In my dimly lit room of my cramped apartment, I sat hunched over my cluttered desk, staring blankly at the blinking cursor on the darn computer screen. The soft glow of the monitor illuminated my face, highlighting the bags under my eyes and the dishevelled mop of hair on my head. I am feeling the weight of my writing inadequacy pressing down like a lead blanket.

I always fancied himself a writer—a wordsmith capable of crafting eloquent prose that would captivate readers and leave them spellbound. I dreamed of penning novels that would stand the test of time, earning me a place among the literary greats. You know, Hemingway, Angelou, and the rest. Yet in reality, I am little more than a bumbling fool with a penchant for misplaced modifiers and run-on sentences.

My fingers poised over the keyboard, but the words refused to come.

Every sentence I type felt clumsy and forced, lacking the poetic grace I so desperately sought to achieve. It felt as if a sack of potatoes had replaced my brain, with each thought clumsily tumbling over the next in a jumbled mess of nonsensical gibberish.

In a fit of frustration, I slammed my fists furiously down on the keyboard, sending a cascade of letters and punctuation marks flying across the screen in a chaotic whirlwind.

I look at the screen and there, in front of my eyes, is a short story completely written.

The story followed the journey of a curious young girl named Emily, who stumbled upon the secret world of these extraordinary cats while exploring the hidden corners of her grandmother’s attic. There, amidst forgotten trinkets and dusty relics, Emily discovered an old journal filled with tales of the enigmatic felines.

‘Hot darn, I hit the jackpot! I am going to be famous for this story. I can see a contract coming my way. Even a movie deal. Hollywood, here I come.’ Is all I am screaming aloud.

‘Is this all I need to do in the future?’ I think to myself. ‘Just get the keyboard in front of me and give it a good whack? Is it that simple? Has it always been this simple?’ as my thoughts flood my mind.

If this is the way all the old Masters of Literature did it, no wonder it has worked for so many.

‘Formidable,’ I say aloud. ‘That is what I call pounding the keys.’

 José F Nodar © 2024