Short story

In Competition No. 2485 you were invited to submit a short story entitled ‘Can You Forgive Her?’ The standard of the entry was mixed, but none was worthy of the mockery heaped on Anthony Trollope’s novel of the same name by Punch, which, infuriated by the indecisiveness of the heroine Alice Vavasor, referred to it as ‘Can You Stand Her?’ Henry James wasn’t much of a fan of Alice either, reputedly remarking that he could ‘forget her too, for that matter’.

The unforgettable prizewinners, printed below, get £35 each. Hats off to Peter Smalley’s beguiling if bemusing Pinteresque two-hander, but the bonus fiver goes to Brian Murdoch’s compromised priest.

***

‘Father,’ came the whisper. ‘I need a quick favour.’

‘I thought you had someone in your own confessional just now, Father,’ the second priest whispered back.

‘I have, and that’s exactly the problem.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, Father, she says she’s been a little bit naughty but she is sorry now.’

‘But you’re the one talking to her. It’s up to you.’

‘Well, shall we say she was, well, let us say involved. With a gentleman of the cloth.’

‘These things happen, Father. But if she has repented, surely you can deal with it.’

‘Ah, there we have it. I might — how shall I put it? — have to come to you with my own confession a little bit later.’

‘Oh, I see. Bit of a theological problem for you, then.’

‘Exactly. But I don’t want her wandering around unshriven, which is why I need you to do me a favour. Can you forgive her?’

Brian Murdoch

They sat in the window. The sun glanced dazzling off the wet street. The smell of coffee was rich and disturbing, like incense. Like blood. ‘Start again. Begin at the beginning.’ This bloody phone, the battery is always flat. Sorry, what?’

‘Tell me all about it.’

‘They say switch it off in here anyway. Tell you what, exactly?’

‘What you were just saying.’

‘Oh, her.’

‘If you want to. If you like.’

‘What d’you mean, if I like? I don’t like your tone.’

I’m only trying to get down to the facts. For your sake.’

‘My sake? You bloody liar.’

The waitress brought their espresso. She tore off the chit, and left it on the table.

‘I saw that waitress the other night, in the street. She looked lovely. After her shift, I should think it was.’

‘Which one? That one?’

‘The other one. She looked lovely. A vision of loveliness.’

‘See her naked, did you?’

‘You what?’

They drank their coffee. It was bitter in their mouths, on their tongues.

‘You what?’

‘Nude. The other one.’

‘You filthy sod. I never went near her.’

‘In your mind. You saw her in your head.’

‘I bloody saw her all right, mate. A glorious vision of femininity and grace.’

‘An apparition.’

‘No. No.’

‘You want to talk about it?’

‘Her? Why? To burn my guts out? Kick myself in the balls?’

‘I know where you’re coming from.’

‘Where?’

‘I do.’

‘Chingford. Bloody Chingford?’

‘Yes, well. I do.’

It began to rain again, and neon bled across the pavement like electric lubricant, like death.

‘What I mean is. Can you forgive her?’

‘Her?’

A taxi went past, its yellow light like a warning of horror in the rain. ‘You had a regard for her.’

‘Piss off.’

‘You regarded her with reverence. Your eyes did.’

‘At the time?’

‘Yes.’

‘My eyes were full of poisoned pus. I couldn’t see a thing.’

‘See that van? That one? I bet it’s full of illegal Chinese.’

‘Chinese what?’

‘Asians.’

The van moved off and was lost in the rain, like a blank sheet of paper sinking in a pond.

Peter Smalley

The story of Holmes’s second and final encounter with Irene Adler is as tragic an episode as anyone could imagine. Its harbinger was my friend’s quickened though secretive attention to the Personal columns of the Times. His silence pricked my curiosity; having learned something of his methods, I was able to trace as the source of his interest a prolonged exchange of messages between ‘Naughty Lola’ and ‘Hawkeye’. Tantalisingly written in a code I could little decipher, they concluded with what appeared to be a rendezvous.

That was all I could deduce, however. The details remained beyond my reach, so I only learned when the world learned of Fräulein Adler’s ‘intimate soirée’. Holmes had expected to be her only visitor, and his face on the front page of several low, vile newspapers shows how utterly shocked and betrayed he felt at learning his mistake. For once the dispassionate mask had slipped. Yet the beautiful, corrupt woman lying beside him in her déshabillé regards the press ‘snappers’ with wanton, shameless amusement.

It was after this that Holmes resorted more frequently to the needle, though its effects never prompted him to discuss the affair that had made a mockery of his reputation and caused street urchins to call her name after him. All he would say to me was, ‘If a woman finesses you once, shame on her; if she finesses you twice, shame on you,’ and I could never bring myself to ask the obvious question.

G.M. Davis

Emma paused in her plucking of the minute birds and thoughtfullly rested her forearms on the scrubbed kitchen table. There were dull, brown feathers sticking to her fingers and tickling her nostrils, and the tiny pile of plucked carcasses would barely provide dinner for one, never mind six. A brace of pheasants or guinea fowl would have been preferable. Still, this was clearly Charles’s choice. The eggs that had accompanied them, carefully packed in ice, had been too far gone and the maid had discreetly disposed of them. Now all Emma’s culinary talents would be needed to add flavour to these unexciting little shapes and display them imaginatively. Carrots, perhaps, for colour, and a little parsley garnish?

She was worried about Charles; he had been overworking, determined to use material from his journey to proved a revolutionary theory. Emma had heard whispers about fellowship in the Royal Society and she knew this dinner was decisive. Cheese soufflé was her pièce de résistance and, as a starter, would compensate for the disappointingly meagre bird fricassee. Charles would be flattered that she had appreciated his gift and presented it elegantly. Until now, he had always been too preoccupied with research to contribute to the household management. The arrival of the hamper with these delicate little creatures neatly encased in ice had been a delightful surprise. She continued plucking.

Her reverie was interrupted by the maid. ‘Begging your pardon, Madam, but will Mr Darwin and his guests take their port in the smoking room?’

Shirley Curran

No. 2488: Hard sell

You are invited to write a publisher’s press release (150 words maximum) for one of the following real titles, which will be ‘spearheading its spring campaign’: ‘Weeds in a Changing World’; ‘Bombproof your Horse’; ‘How Green Were the Nazis?’ Entries to ‘Competition 2488’ by 29 March.