Oggbashan Stew Pt. 01

Copyright Oggbashan October 2019

The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons.

I have realised that I am NEVER going to complete all my part-written stories before I die, so I have decided to upload all the incomplete works as a set so that others could mine them for plot ideas. Despite my copyright notice anyone can complete these stories or use them for ideas. All I ask is an acknowledgement that the story was inspired by oggbashan. I will try to finish some of the longer drafts and part-written sequels which are not included here. Some are no more than the start. Others are longer. This is the first part with story titles up to 'e'.

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Story 001

1950s Apron

It was in a basket on the floor of the charity shop. I had been looking for an apron for Phoebe. She was very specific. It should be an apron with a bib, long enough to extend below her knees, and cotton not plastic or PVC. She wanted it to wear when she was sewing at her machine.

This apron was dark blue, nearly black, and looked ideal. I pulled at the exposed skirt. As I pulled almost the whole contents of the basket came out too. If the apron was what Phoebe wanted I could stuff everything else back. I looked. There was a small logo on the bib for a hotel chain. That wouldn't matter. The apron looked nearly new, practical and the right length. I stood up and held the apron against me.

"Suits you, sir," the charity shop volunteer said from behind me.

I turned around. The volunteer was one of my mother's friends. She had known me since I was a toddler.

"It's large enough, Mavis," I said, "but not for me. It might be too large for my girlfriend."

"Phoebe? I think it would fit her, Andrew. The neck loop adjusts. She's only a couple of inches shorter than you."

"You are probably right. How much?"

"For you? Fifty pence, Andrew."

"I'll take it, please."

"I'll fold it for you if you could tidy up that basket."

"That's a deal, Mavis."

I knelt down to stuff the items back into the basket. I thought it would help Mavis if I folded the things as I put them back. Most were tea towels. But there was a long ribbon for another apron. I pulled at that. I was startled at how much was on the end of the ribbon. What I had was another much fuller apron, totally impractical for what Phoebe wanted, but massive. I put it aside as I folded the tea towels.

I reached for the large apron and held it up while I was still on my knees. It was a flowery print with frills at the side, layered tiers in the skirt, and a heart shaped front pocket edged with lace. The bodice had an appliquéd red satin heart outlined with a white lace trim. The apron was a real cover-all. The bodice tied at the back of the neck and at the waist. The skirt was so wide it would wrap over itself at the back. The waist ribbons were fed through slits in the waist band but were long enough to cross at the front, tie in a bow behind and still dangle nearly to the skirt hem. It was modern, obviously unused with a new style wash label but it was 1950s pastiche.

I could see it as a prop in a Stepford wives movie or an advert for a 1950s kitchen. It was gloriously over-the-top as a kitchen apron.

"How much for this one, Mavis?" I asked.

"It's wonderful, isn't it, Andrew? I wouldn't wear it, nor iron it. It would take forever to iron those tiers and frills. Two pounds?"

"Yes, please, Mavis."

I stood up. The hem of 1950s apron fell almost to the floor. It could cover a ball gown. I handed it to Mavis. It took her nearly a minute to fold it carefully and add it to the other apron in the bag. I paid her.

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Story 002

Armourers

"We are the Armourers."

That is our arms company's unofficial motto and the first words of a ritual speech declaimed at the start of every Annual General Meeting of the family owned company.

The whole speech was spoken by a youngest son back in the 17th Century. Our factory for producing hand guns and long arms had been forcibly taken over by the corrupt government of the country that was our manufacturing base. Our best craftsmen were effectively enslaved to produce arms for an imminent war. It nearly destroyed our company except that we had set up a small base in a neighbouring country.

The whole speech was a call to arm ourselves. If we were the best Arms makers in Europe, surely we ought to be able to defend ourselves against a badly equipped and poorly led conscript army?

The speech went on to insist that we kept our best and most lethal weapons for ourselves and that we should always be capable of defending ourselves and our workforce.

That youngest son, manager of the factory in the neighbouring company, had created a works militia that became the nucleus of that country's army. When the government who had taken over our main factory invaded, their forces were repelled apparently by the local army but trained and reinforced by the company's militia. The government fell and was replaced by one that was sympathetic to us.

That was then. Since that time the company had always kept a small standing army who were described as arms demonstrators but now? In the early 1930s our force would be useless against tanks and dive-bombers. We were vulnerable, yet the family members of the Board were just sitting, listening to the traditional speech given by the youngest son, currently me, without hearing the message.

I finished the traditional speech as every year for centuries. The family board members were arranging their AGM papers prior to the real business of the meeting. The chairman, my grandfather, looked surprised when I remained standing after the last word. I paused for about ten seconds and then spoke again.

"Gentlemen," I started - the board members had traditionally been men and still were, "you didn't listen to that speech. You should have. War in Europe is coming again and we are as vulnerable now as we were when that speech was first made. We have factories in several countries. We know that one or more of them is likely to be taken over by Fascist governments. This room is in Austria, now part of Greater Germany. We have factories here in Austria, in Germany, in Italy and in Spain. The governments are Fascist or Nazi.

If we are to survive as Arms manufacturers, and even as a family, we need to prepare for the war. We should move our research facilities at least to a location away from the likely site of hostilities. We need to develop weapons against tanks and bombers. We make and sell anti-tank rifles. We know they are not very effective against modern tanks. We make and sell anti-aircraft guns. We know they do not have the accuracy and height capabilities to tackle modern bombers.

Our factories are unprotected against bombers such as those that attacked Guernica. They have thin roofs that wouldn't stop a rifle bullet. Even a small bomb would break through before exploding.

Mr Chairman, I have tried to include our vulnerability as an item on today's agenda but without the backing of at least two other members of the Board it was not considered suitable. As the speaker of the traditional warning I think you should listen and discuss how we can protect and defend ourselves as a matter of extreme urgency. In a couple of years time it could be too late. As a company we might cease to exist, taken over by the warring governments. Please? Please discuss the threat at least."

I sat down. Several of my uncles were glaring at me for interrupting the normal order of the meeting.

"Alfred," the Chairman said, "I hear what you say..."

My heart sank. Those words usually precede a rejection or deferral.

"...and I agree with your concerns. As Chairman I have decided to include our vulnerability as the third item on the agenda immediately after the financial report. As well as your statement now I have read the very cogent report prepared by you and your cousin Marion. The meeting will have a quarter of an hour's break before that item to allow the board members to read that report before we discuss it. Now? Apologies for absence?"

I was surprised that the Chairman acted so quickly. I was startled when the proposal was passed unanimously. The Board agreed to set up a sub-committee of the Chairman, myself and Marion to consider our future, to have a considerable amount of capital available, and to have power to act. Maybe I had underestimated the Board members? Or just the Chairman? He must have discussed the issue before the meeting to get such instant approval.

When we reached Any Other Business I was shocked again.

The Chairman announced the George, Marion's father, was resigning from the Board with immediate effect. I knew he had been injured in Abyssinia. He had gone to investigate defective artillery shells used by the Italians. One had exploded prematurely and he had been in hospital for months. What annoyed him most was that the shell, and all the defective ones, were not our manufacture but made by a lower-cost competitor. All our shells worked perfectly whether fired by the Italians, or fired by the Abyssinians. He need not have been there.

The Board accepted George's resignation with regret and formally recorded their wishes for a speedy recovery. But there was now a vacancy on the Board.

"George has nominated his daughter Marion to replace him," the Chairman said. "Anyone second her nomination?"

I raised my hand instantly. Three other hands followed.

"Thank you, Alfred," the Chairman said. "Anyone object to Marion?"

There were a few disapproving looks. Were they because Marion was a woman, or because she was even younger than me? I don't know but no one spoke to object.

"Very well," the Chairman continued. "Marion is elected. She will attend the next Board meeting in three weeks time but she is a Board member from now. That concludes our Annual General Meeting. Thank you, gentlemen."

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As we drank coffee after the meeting the Chairman asked me to come to his office at three o'clock. Of course I agreed. When the Chairman's Secretary let me into the office I was surprised to see Marion there already.

"Hello again, Alfred," The Chairman said. "I have just told Marion she is now a Board Member and that you seconded my nomination. She wanted to know why you were so prompt to second her. I told her I knew why and so do all the other members of the Board..."

"They do?" I asked.

"Yes, Alfred. They know. Marion doesn't know. Why did you?"

I gulped. I looked at Marion. She was smiling.

"Because I love her," I said bluntly.

Marion's smile vanished. She hadn't expected a declaration.

"Marion? Everyone on the Board knows he loves you," The Chairman said. "The silly boy hasn't told you that, has he?"

"No. Not until now," Marion replied.

"Now he has. I will leave you two here for ten minutes to sort yourselves out. Remember! Ten minutes."

He stood up and walked out of the room.

Story 003

Ask Madeleine

I had woken from a nightmare several times this week. I was walking down our local High Street beside Madeleine and suddenly I was completely naked. I was embarrassed because everyone was looking at me. My erection, almost always constant whenever I was with Madeleine, was waving in the breeze.

Each time Madeleine came to my rescue, producing an item of clothing that she was wearing, or from out of her large handbag. She had produced a large scarf I could wear as a sarong, a long-sleeved top she had tied around her waist, or had shed a waist petticoat from under her skirt. With my erection inadequately concealed by Madeleine's clothing I was still embarrassed. If it had been Madeleine who was naked? That would have been a great dream, not a nightmare. But it wasn't. I was the naked one.

Story 004

Away With The Fairies

"Go on, Henry, try it." Phoebe repeated.

"I don't want to..." I said hazily.

We were both more drunk than either of us had intended to be.

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We were both naked, sitting on the edge of the large four poster bed in my so-called studio flat in part of Pimlico that estate agents said was near Chelsea. It was the Swinging Sixties in London when anything seemed possible.

But getting anywhere with Phoebe had seemed an insuperable challenge. She and her three sisters lived in a large apartment a couple of streets away from my flat. I had met Phoebe during a bus strike. I had seen her in the local corner shop a couple of times, and sometimes on the bus from Pimlico to the City of London.

The morning of the bus strike I had decided to drive my ancient Ford V8 to work. I knew a bomb site just South of the river where I could park, walk across a bridge, and be at work easily. It was raining hard as I started my car. I was just about to pull away when I saw Phoebe trudging past under an umbrella. I rolled down the driver's window.

"Want a lift?" I said.

"Yes, please, Henry," she replied.

That was a surprise. I didn't think she knew my name. She went to the passenger door, climbed in, shutting her umbrella.

"How did you know my name?" I asked as I started to drive.

"Simple, Henry. James is my sister's boyfriend."

James is one of my colleagues at work. He sometimes stays overnight at my flat, sleeping on an airbed when he or us were out late, too late for him to get back to his parents' house in a suburb.

"I'm sorry," I said, "I don't know your name. I only know you live near here and your office is close to mine."

"I'm Phoebe," she said. "I live in Clarendon Street and work on Ludgate Hill."

"OK, Phoebe. I'll take you to Ludgate Circus before I park the car."

That was easier said than done. The traffic was heavy because so many people were driving. As I drove Phoebe told me more about herself. By the time I got to Ludgate Circus I had arranged to pick her up after work and we would be meeting for lunch. I found that she worked in the same Civil Service department as James and I but in a different building about a hundred yards away. The junior staff from each office never met but our very senior managers ran both.

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That lunch led to another date. After several weeks Phoebe had accepted me as her boyfriend and I had met her sisters several times. James' girlfriend was Angela, Phoebe's next younger sister. The eldest sister was Helen, already engaged and planning her marriage to Andrew, a stockbroker. The youngest sister was Elizabeth, usually called Betty. Betty's boyfriend was a junior banker in the City.

All four men worried sometimes about the sisters' social activities. They were the 60s wild children. They took us to places we would never have taken any woman by choice, where drugs and sex were plentiful. Yet the sisters were reluctant to go too far with us. We were kissed and hugged but despite the parties they dragged us to, none of us were getting sex.

We suspected that the sisters were not as wild as they pretended to be. They were observers of the scene, not participants. Sometimes we had to protect them from other men (and sometimes women) who were out of their heads on various substances. Perhaps that's why the sisters had chosen us. All four men were large and muscular and active in team sports.

Over the months that Phoebe had been my girlfriend we began to find out more about each other. The four girls had been brought up in a fairly affluent London suburb, had gone to a private grammar school, and all had degrees from the University of London.

My parents had lived in a Kent village on what had been a small holding. My mother and my sisters were keen on horses. We had enough land for the horses, a stable block, and permission to ride across most of the local farmers' lands. There were several bridle ways through the local woodland. They could ride for miles rarely needing to cross a road.

Once a week I used to have a meal at Phoebe's flat. Her sisters might be there. Sometimes they weren't. Another night Phoebe would come to my place for a meal.

One evening when they were all there, I can't remember why, Phoebe, her sisters and I were talking about fairies. I mentioned that in a field behind my parents' house there was a large fairy ring. As children we had been told to avoid it and never to walk widdershins around it. I had to explain that 'widdershins' meant anti-clockwise. Walking widdershins around any sacred place, including a church, was considered dangerous as it could raise evil spirits. Going widdershins around a fairy ring could raise fairies you wouldn't want to meet. You could disappear for years, trapped inside fairyland.

I had to explain more traditions about fairy rings. If you went to one on a significant night, stripped naked, and danced clockwise seven times around the ring, you might be able to see the fairies dancing inside it. If you were considered acceptable they might invite you to join them. If you were invited, and joined their dance, you would be lucky in love that year. If you weren't invited but just watched, you might be fortunate in other ways.

If you weren't naked, or had iron anywhere about your person, or were wearing a crucifix, they would disappear shrieking in dismay. You would have bad luck that year. But fairies could be very fickle. Your good or bad luck might not happen.

However, later on, when I was an adult, my father had explained that fairy rings were created by mushroom spores. If I had trodden on the edge of the ring I might have transferred the spores on my shoes to start one or more fairy rings. Livestock couldn't eat grass in or close to a fairy ring so I would have damaged pasture land. That explanation seemed rational but boring.

"Boring?" Phoebe said. "You can be boring, Henry. You and James never talk about your work..."

"Nor do you," I retorted. "What James and I do is covered by the Official Secrets Act. I assume your work is too."

Phoebe actually blushed.

"It is," she said, almost whispering.

Her sisters laughed at her.

"I don't even know your rank," Phoebe continued.

"That's not a secret," I said. "I'm listed in the Imperial Calendar and Civil Service List."

"You are?" Angela asked. "If so, you outrank Phoebe, and James."

"I'll look you up tomorrow morning," Phoebe said.

"You won't see much. My rank, seniority date, and you know the department because you are in it too."

"So why not tell us now?" Angela said.

I did. Phoebe was shocked. I'm one of the youngest at that level in the Civil Service. She had expected me to be one rank higher, not three.

"I suppose you go to CDEE sometimes," Phoebe said after a longish silence.

"We don't mention that place," I said quietly.

"What place?" Betty asked.

Neither Phoebe or I answered. We knew we shouldn't have said the code name. We were both embarrassed.

Angela hurriedly returned the conversation to fairy rings.

Later Betty asked:

"If you are so high in the department, Henry, why are you in such a cheap grotty flat?"

"There's a simple explanation, Betty," I replied. "I own it outright but I have a mortgage on a house in Salisbury. It's currently leased out to the department. Their rent pays my mortgage, the bills and they maintain it. In a few years' time I'll own that house too."

"Will you live in Salisbury?" Phoebe asked.

"I might have to. I don't know yet."

+++

A few weeks after we became boyfriend and girlfriend Phoebe had told me she had liked what I looked like before we had met properly. I was tall, solid and well-dressed even at weekends. She had known that I worked near her before I had given her that lift to work. She knew from Angela's James, that I was a Civil Servant too. She hadn't known that I was in the same department as her.