Age is just a Number

Foreword from Beck Hilliard.

Originally, my book had gained the working title of ‘Jigsaw.’

“Inside my mind's eye, I watch you, the reader, raising a solitary eyebrow.” There is; funny enough, ‘pun intended’ a reason this had happened.

Like most authors. I'd often wondered whether there was an all-encompassing formula I could use for my latest tome. After waking early one morning and looking into the conservatory, the other side of the kitchen window. I felt my eyes drawn towards the jigsaw, lying on the folding table originally purchased for dining purposes.

My wife and I have always shared ‘a love’ of the humble cardboard riddle. I don’t mind the ones with cats and dogs or colourful scenes of daily life. But my favourites are definitely the ones where, everywhere you look, there is yet another amusing, possibly improbable vignette. Hundreds of characters, human or not, are busy acting out their own little isolated tale — All related somehow, within a larger picture.

Sometimes. When I pick up the jigsaw illustration, hoping to identify the location of a particular shaped part. I will momentarily smile as I spot a close-by engaging scene carefully planned and crafted by the artist, similar to the loosely interlocking stories within, written by myself.

So, dear reader, if you have let your eyes take the trouble to meander through this text. I hope you don’t mind me thanking you for your interest in the rest of the book. I sincerely hope the tales within amuse and entertain you — Enjoy!

Beck Hilliard. (My friends, simply call me Bex.)

#01 The Journey

Geraldine rubbed gently in the corner of her eye. As she Meticulously erased the vestige of the misapplied blue eyeshadow from view.

She flicked a lock of errant hair from across her forehead and pursed her lips in a pout to examine the coating of Charlotte Tilbury lipstick passed muster.

Satisfied, she reached across to switch off the light illuminating the bathroom mirror. Geraldine shimmied to loosen her ever-tightening skirt and flushed the toilet before closing the creaky door.

“Dad, are you ready yet?”

She banged on his bedroom door and was about to step inside. Her progress became impeded when the door opened inwards, revealing Terry Spencer, dressed in a white evening suit, complete with a velvet cummerbund tied tightly around his expanding paunch.

He stepped backwards a couple of feet, politely intending to ensure his daughter had an unobstructed view for comment.

“Well, what do you think?” He asked brightly.

Without thinking, she breathily sighed. “I think you are a little overdressed for a reunion get-together, Dad.”

Terry’s face reflected disappointment. He looked down towards his highly polished shoes and adopted a nervous attitude. Lifting his left heel, he slid his shoe slowly backwards.

Geraldine Spencer stepped towards her father and flung her outstretched arms affectionally around his shoulders. Pulling him toward herself, she leant forward to softly whisper into his ear.

“My mistake. I think you will knock those other losers into touch, Dad.” She sensed him begin to relax a little. “Also, I hear Lorna Greene is going to be there. Remember the last time you went? I thought the rest of us would have to use fire hoses. To remind the both of you — That there were other people there, as well…”

Terry twitched slightly. Muscle memory also remembered the incident.

His daughter watched the corner of his lips. They rose slightly, evolving into a full-blown grin.

“Yeah, sod them all, let's make a move. I don’t want to be late. More smooching time, you know.”

His impression of ‘Scooby-Doo meets the running man.’ Making her chuckle to herself in relief.

She turned to make her way down the narrow staircase. “C’mon then, you daft bugger. I suppose I have to drive again?”

Her father held up a hand, flat palm, towards her. “Reminder alert. You will know full well. Any diabetics who use insulin will have mini-buses removed from their licence.”

He squinted slightly. “It will be a dark day in hell before I drive a car with those other idiots riding along again. Having to take Big Barry is bad enough. But there is no way I could squeeze in the other three as well…” He said in mock venom.

Geraldine resisted the urge to remind him it was a cold day in hell, not dark.

“Look, I’m driving the rented van — And.” She found she was talking to herself as her father slid down the stair bannister, emitting a squeal of excitement, “Cool dude coming through.” The door quickly unlatched, and he was outside in a flash with the van keys dangling from his index finger.

Geraldine made her way down the wide staircase. Pausing, she reached out. Tenderly, she touched a framed photograph affixed to the wall. “It’s okay. I’ll make sure he’s looked after, Mum.” She blew a kiss towards the frame and continued down the stairs to make her way outside.

She climbed into the driver's side and started the engine. “Right then. What order are we collecting your mates?”

“They all said they would wait by their front gate. Ringo is the nearest, so it makes sense to pick him up first.” He pointed left, as she pulled out of the drive.

A few short minutes later. A skinny man with a horseshoe moustache wearing a crumpled deerstalker hat opened the rear door and jumped in, noisily slamming the door behind him.

“Big Barry next.” offered Terry as he turned to greet Ringo with a high five.

Without acknowledging her dad’s instruction, Geraldine put her foot on the accelerator pedal and headed towards her next pick-up location.

Three stops later, all of her passengers were aboard.

“How long till we get there?” Asked Stumpy. A short bald man with one arm.

Geraldine looked up at the Satnav display. “According to this, we should get there at about seven thirty-ish. Two and a half hours, I suppose?”

A posh voice spoke up from the rear seat. “That’s a bit early, isn’t it?”

Geraldine smiled to herself. She already knew the answer to that. “Sorry, Biggles, any particular reason why?” She counted silently to three.

“Well, Gerri — If you wouldn’t mind?”

“Here it comes,” she said to herself.

“The boys and I have been talking.” A dapper man in a blue pinstripe suit. Waving his arms in a circular motion to emphasise he was talking about the ‘occupants’ of the van.

 “There appeared to be a consensus. We thought it might be an idea to call into an off-licence and pick up a couple of bottles. Purely as a social offering, you know.”

“Yeah, that was what we all thought,” said Mick in a Liverpudlian accent.

“I second that.” Big Barry offered in a falsetto voice. His voice had never broken. ‘Something to do with a violent childhood,’ he would cheerfully offer as an explanation.

“There’s an off-licence about three hundred yards down the high street. I’ll just make a quick diversion.” Geraldine swung the van sharply to the curb to park outside.

Thanking her with a simple wave. Her male passengers alighted and marched into the shop.

Winding down the window, Geraldine extracted a tubular device from her handbag.

Owen Smith at work had recommended this model of vaping device. Her regular Cig-alike was becoming too much hard work. Like normal cigarettes, they were ‘very simple’ to operate. Just suck — and that’s it, you were away. She looked at herself in the rearview mirror. Her cheeks were looking drawn, probably because of the need to suck especially hard, to get a bit more nicotine into her lungs.

Placing the new vaping machine onto the dashboard, intending to examine it closer. Apparently, she could calibrate the Vaper using the LED display to regulate the amount of nicotine dispensed. Geraldine now felt a little confused about its correct operation. The guy in the shop had carefully advised her of the correct way to make any adjustments. But his unintelligible eastern accent meant Geraldine hadn’t actually understood a word, he said.

“How do I adjust this damn thing?” She asked herself. In her head, she imagined a translator interpreting the shopkeeper's gobbledygook for her.

“It’s simple. You must turn the knob first and then push the button.”

Twisting the inferred knob left and right a couple of times. Geraldine shrugged her shoulders, “Okay, adjusted.”

“Here goes — Standby, Houston.” Geraldine pushed the ignition button and sucked for all she was worth. Nothing. Perhaps she needed to increase the flow or something? Another random rotation took place before trying again.

“Inhale, exhale — JESUS CHRIST.” She began barking a hacking cough, “What the hell?”

Geraldine lost sight of the steering wheel. Everything had disappeared into a blue-grey fog, even though the window was still wide open. The worst part was the smell. It was just like when you go wild with the air freshener in the loo, and forget to leave the door ajar a fraction.

“Who knew that they could use the smell of pansies as nerve gas?” She thought, frantically trying to get her hoodie off to use as a fan. Praying to herself that she would be able to expel the fog from the van before the lads returned.

BANG!

She Jumped in terror as someone slapped the flat of their hand against the side of the vehicle.

“Hello, Hello. Is everything okay there?” A squeaky voice inquired.

“Shit — They're back…” With a last-minute flurry of waving clothes, she called out to anyone listening. “It’s okay. ‘Technical mishap’ only. You know how it is?” She waited for the sarcastic replies.

A simple “uh-huh” met her ears. Followed by some muffled chatter, a creaking noise, and then total silence.

Geraldine felt on edge. She knew something was about to happen. “Why the hell? Do I always leave myself open wide with this lot?” Holding her breath, she could see something moving outside. Waiting for the fog to clear a little more, Geraldine stared hard to see who was about to appear.

It was a young acne-encrusted police constable.

“Good evening, madam. Is everything okay?”

Geraldine frowned. That was the last person she expected to see from the transparent world outside. She wiped away the annoying wisp of hair for the umpteenth time today. “Yes, thank you, officer. Is there a problem?” Beyond her control, she fluttered her eyelashes, trying hard to deflect any trouble coming her way.

The policeman pressed his lips together as he drew from a top pocket a notebook and pen. He smiled. “Actually, no.” He pointed towards the passenger side.

She turned and nearly jumped out of her seat. Big Barry sat there grinning like a demented bunny, with the other four reprobates leaning over his shoulder from the rear seats.

“What?” They chorused in mock innocence.

She nodded to the smirking officer and wound up the window. He put the notebook and pen back in his pocket.

Geraldine turned to face her grinning tormentors. “Okay, you lot. Sit down. Safety belts on.”

Smiling to herself, she accelerated extra-hard — To make sure they fell uncomfortably back into their seats.

Geraldine felt suspicious of the empty silence from those sitting behind. Keeping her eyes on the road ahead, she vocalised her concern.

“Okay, you unscrupulous lot. What the heck is going on back there?”

A childlike and guilty voice piped up. “Nothing — Why? Is there a problem?”

Squinting in concentration, she replied. “I don’t know — That’s why I asked, and don’t you dare answer back with another question.” Looking in the rearview mirror, she watched three individual arms., poking Biggles Insistently to act again as their spokesman. Geraldine lifted her foot off the accelerator pedal. Until the roar of the diesel engine became a mere rumble.

“Well?”

“We are all looking at Ringo’s new thingy,” Biggles offered. He looked at the quizzical expression reflected in the rearview mirror and expanded on his ambiguous statement. “You would love it. It's soft and furry. Stumpy keeps prodding it and making it jump up and down…”

Terry coughed. “It’s not what you think, Geraldine. Ringo has paid good money for it.”

His daughter swung to the left and pulled up onto the pavement. Four sets of ears heard the driver's door open and slam shut. A deathly silence hung in the air. The rear door handle crept downwards and bounced back up again. The tension in the air became palpable.

** Bang **

The sliding door at the side flew open. Hitting the rubber stops hard. Geraldine directed the beams of her powerful torch inside, temporarily blinding them. “What furry thing?” She hissed.

Ringo became agitated, “Hang on, Gerri, I’ve just got to prise Stumpy's spindly fingers from around it.” Stumpy looked disappointed and pushed his bottom lip into a pout.

“Gotcha,” announced Ringo. “C’mon Gerri, have a look at Betsy. She loves a stroke.”

Geraldine hesitated before she stepped into the van and leant closer towards Ringo. Scared but hoping to identify the creature he had contained within his large, calloused hands.

The gamekeeper lifted his hands towards her so she had a better view. He carefully uncupped his hand to reveal Betsy.

Geraldine screamed. “It’s a Tarantula. Are you flipping mad?” She wrapped her arms around herself as she felt a shiver of naked fear wash over her. The warmth of unbidden tears forged a trail across her cheek.

Terry stood and hugged her close to him. “Sorry, love, I thought you’d ‘got over’ your fear of spiders. I saw you dangling a long-legged one out of the bathroom window the other morning…”

His daughter dropped her eyes and looked guilty. “Dad. I had already stamped on it — hard. It was a very flat, long-legged one.” She couldn’t help glancing at Betsy, unconsciously tightening her protective grip around herself.