heatwave-in-the-city-25

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Subject: Heatwave in the City Chapter 25 This is a work of fiction. Everybody in it is entirely my own creation. Don’t even think of suing me for putting you in a story, because I haven’t. If you happen to be resident in one of the places mentioned, or to belong to any of the institutions mentioned, don’t even think about telling me I haven’t portrayed them accurately. Work of fiction. The name of the institution only occurs because it is common knowledge so I couldn’t get away with pretending it was otherwise. If I’ve borrowed your Church, school, police station, laundrette – I haven’t. I’ve merely used the name on the building because people walk past and see it every day. Work of fiction. None of the people in the story exist, so none of the things that happen in the story can have happened to them. The world, however, is the one exception to this – the world which has in it so many wonderful people that writing fiction of this sort becomes an obligation – for me; not for everybody. You’ll have found your own place in the scheme of things, and can be wonderful in your own way. This is a story of love. It isn’t a story of sex, though that might get mentioned. There is no pornography here. Some of it is cross-generational, but it isn’t about perverted love either. Some is what nowadays is termed “gay”, but the same applies. If you think you might be offended by that, the time to go and read something else is now. Still reading? Then enjoy, and remember, you don’t pay to read these stories, but it does cost Nifty money to bring them to you. Please consider donating to Nifty fty/donate.html Heatwave in the City by Jonah Chapter 25 The brakes of the big Co-Co diesel groaned as it came to a standstill in platform 2 at Weybourne Station. We clamboured out onto the platform. We stepped out and clambered over the footbridge with the other passengers. As soon as we had asembled on the station forecourt I told the others to wait there, as I had a job to do. I walked round to the shed and was met by Big Jim, who looked set to bar my way, but instead his face broke into a smile. “I know you, Mr. Cummings,” he told me, ” and I know who you’ve come to look for. Come on – he’s round here. I reckon you might just still recognise him, but only because he had a black face to begin with.” I smiled at that, as I followed him through the shed building and into the yard the other side. Racism is bad, but it’s even worse to see it where it isn’t intended. To be afraid to refer to race or colour, or to imply that any reference to it is racism is, in fact, the worst kind of racism. trabzon escort There can be no racism where racial differences are accepted and people aren’t afraid to mention them and even to joke about them. Jim wasn’t afraid to make such a remark because he thought of Simon, not as somebody different, but as a friend with whom he could, unselfconsciously, say such things. He was right though. The big 9F that had drawn our train yesterday stood cold and lifeless in the yard. Between the huge smoke deflectors the smokebox door stood open and inside Simon, having filled a wheelbarrow with char from the box, was dilligently sweeping it clean with a brush and dustpan. He wore overalls that had once been blue, and safety boots of a similar hue. Everything about him was coated with soot. “It’ll only get dirty again.” I told him. “I tell you the same about the dishes at home,” he reminded me, ” but you still want them washing.” I couldn’t help smiling. Over the past six months I had seen Simon take rapid steps, moving from childhood to adulthood. This was one more. The moody teenager act had been part of the transition, but he was certainly becoming an adult to be proud of. On a personal level he was also making the transition from a child, for whom I was responsible, to an adult whom I was proud to call a friend. “We’re going for a drive down the coast a bit, probably to Blakeney, or Cley.” I told him. “Dinner’s at six.” “Right ho!” he said, then replaced the neckerchief that was meant to stop him getting a lungful of char. I walked back round the huge locomotive and met Jim by the tender. “You’ll be wanting him scrubbed up before you get him back to Mr. Taylor’s posh house,” he observed. “He’d stay here for the night shift if you’d let him,” I replied. “Oh, I reckon he would,” he said, “but we don’t have one of those. I’ll probably have to turn the hose on him before we let him go.” “Would that be to clean him up, or calm him down?” I asked. “See you later,” was the only response I got. Jake had got the rest of the clan marching to the village, so I had to stride out a bit to catch up. In fact we were in the village before I did so. The big, Kia Grand Carnival was where we had left it and we took a drive round the coast to Westward. The A149 twisted and turned around the coast. It twisted through Kelling, and Salthouse, and eventually arrived in the much larger village of Cley-next-the-Sea. This is a beautiful village, of imposing buildings, many of them flint or shingle faced, and some with dutch gables, or other adornments. We had already tunalı escort noticed the imposing windmill (now used as holiday residences) and the boys were intrigued by almost everything they saw. The artist in Luke kept him excited. He kept turning corners and going “Wow!” We parked up and sat in Cookes of Cley’s tea rooms. Proper English afternoon tea was not something I expected Americans to appreciate, but I was wrong. Buttered scones with jam and cream was very acceptable, and a proper pot of tea to rinse it down with met with unanimous approval. We then left the car where it was and walked through the village. It was a lovely village, though I suspect you need a few pennies in the bank to be able to afford to live there. There were several more eating establishments, including the George Hotel, and we had to purchase our supply of kippers from the Cley Smoke Room. At the far end of the village was a combined delicattessen and wine shop that professed to cater especially for picnics. As we turned about to retrace our steps, I made a mental note to put this to the test. We were not allowed to retrace our steps immediately however. Peter observed that the far end of the picnic shop advertised Norfolk ice cream. That had to be done, given the continued hot weather. Back at the car we were a fairly talkative lot as Jake drove us back to Weybourne. We drove into the drive immediately after Simon cycled into it so Jake had to stop and wait for a moment. Simon was in his usual shorts and long sleeved shirt but he wore a battered grease-top cap with “M&GN” on the front, which he had acquired from somewhere, and a plastic carrier bag hung from his handlebars. As soon as he parked his bike in the garage, Jake swung the car around and parked in front of it. I had obtained a quantity of dressed crab in Sheringham, so, as soon as Kori had finished mashing tea, I set about preparing dressed crab with caesar salad for everybody, with a banana split to follow. I served this up on the back patio, since it was still a warm evening. We decided on a quiet evening reading or playing board games, of which there were plenty in the cottage. I had no sooner settled to read when the telephone rang. This startled me as I didn’t realise anybody knew we were there. “Jonah Cummings,” I said to the instrument. “Mr. Cummings,” it replied “Henry Blythe here. Is Kori about?” “Yes, just a moment,” I said, bemused. “Kori, there’s a Henry Blythe on the phone for you.” “Thanks!” said Kori taking the phone from me. “Hi Hallelujah!….. Really? …… I don’t know….. tunceli escort Yes, I’d like that….. If you’ll wait a minute, I’ll find out,” He held the phone away from hs mouth and said, “Simon, what time do you have to be up in the morning?” “About half past five. Why?” “I could do with being in Sheringham at quarter to six, if somebody can get me there….” “I can do that if you need to be there,” said Jake,” but then I need to get straight back here ready to take everybody else where they need to be.” “You don’t need to do that Jake,” I said. “We can catch the train to Sheringham and meet you there.” “Great!” said Kori. He spoke into the phone again. ” Hi Hallelujah, I can do that. Yes good. Thanks, see you in the morning.” I settled back to my reading, though I’d have quite liked to have been playing chess against Kori. I don’t win many chess tournaments, but I could have won that one easily. No way would Kori have been able to concentrate on his game. Bedtime saw everybody showered, then piled onto the same enormous bed. Only the lightest of covers were draped over anybody at all. Luke was clinging to me as usual, while I snuggled up to Kori’s lovely, soft feet. Not much else happened that I’m aware of. Once during the night I swiped Kori’s hand away from where it shouldn’t be, but I’m not even sure he knew what he was doing. I woke earlier than usual on Wednesday morning. Simon, Jake and Kori were all stirring. I realised that they could all do with breakfasting, and I also realised that I had the breakfast. I showered quickly and dressed. Quickly I showed Kori how to grill four brace of kippers while I buttered bread. Simon produced coffee while we did that. By half past five we were breakfasted and Jake was out of the door with Kori. Simon picked up his carrier bag and crammed his cap on his head. “See you later,” he said. I grabbed his arm and pulled him in for a quick kiss. “Have a good day,” I told him. He smiled, then departed. I was all alone. Not wishing to go back upstairs and wake anybody else I settled down with a book. I woke two hours later when Luke said, “What’s for breakfast?” TO BE CONTINUED If you’ve enjoyed this story, you’ll probably enjoy other stories in this series by the same author. This is the latest in a series that includes “A letter from America”, “Stranger on a train,” “Marooned”, “the Boston Tea Party”, “Immigrant,” and “A Cantabrian Operetta”, all the foregoing are on Nifty’s Adult/Youth site. “The Pen Pals” is on Young Friends. You might also like “A Neglected Boy”, by Jacob Lion, also on Adult/Youth. You can find links to all these stories, as well as some illustrations on Jacob Lion’s website bly/jonah-stories.html My thanks go to Jacob for providing this facility as well as for his kind and generous support without which I would never have written any of them.

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