Eight times four Sweet Samarlan child of War
written by: Russell Colclough
I had a walk down to the town on a grey rainy day. There’s a little shop that sells pies, a favourite that is loved by the locals . . . I indulged my hunger by having a meat and potato pie in a tub, accompanied by mushy peas and topped with rich brown gravy. After my meal, a pint at the pub was needed to wash it all down, so what else could I do? I called into the pub for a pint of beer. I was minding my own business, trying to write a story on my phone, which I called: Finding Doc Sunshine. It’s about a snake-oil salesman in the deep south of the USA in the 1920s . . . The opening account I could not find, just an empty absence of mind, which was about right for me.
The lady at the next table introduced herself and asked me about what I was trying to write. I gave her a brief explanation, and it was great that someone from the outer circle of a rat race town was interested in my writing. It was a refreshing change from football, politics, or the local gossip of the day. She told me her life story. I thought it was going to be, a life is like a box of chocolates dragged out yarn. However, it was a breath of fresh air. She was born in Samarlea in a time of war, and she came to the UK when she was seven. Her father died when she was four, and her mother was a diplomat. She said she could speak Arabic and Italian as well as English, a fantastic yarn, I know. She did sound well educated and spoke better English than me, which is not that hard to do. She said she had lived in my home town for the last six months and before that, she lived in Surrey, which sounded right with her accent. She worked for the Crown Prosecution Service in forensics. She had high cheekbones, tanned skin, slim yet curved in the right places, and a way of confidence about her. She looked very beautiful.
She was divorced with an eight-year-old child. She had a holiday home in Italy. She said her age was eight times four, and we talked for most of the day. It was great to meet someone from a place that exists, whether it be in their mind or reality. I had quite a few drinks, she asked in a charming voice, “Do I buy you a drink, or do you buy me one?” Being a sucker for a pretty face and being stimulated by her conversation, I bought her a large glass of wine. After all, it made a refreshing change from the usual dead town crap on a suicidal winter’s day.
I didn’t believe her story. I saw her book that she kept in her rucksack, which was on the table when we first met. I think she might have been a law student. If you lie for long enough, you start to believe those lies. It lifted me out of a miserable place of reality where my lazy backside would rather stay beneath the bed covers, dreaming about happy times and maybe finding the elusive Doc Sunshine opening an account. I didn’t fancy my chances of romance, she was far too young for me, especially me being a bloke approaching the last ten minutes of to journey’s end. It was nice to just sit and talk with the phone put away, even if it did cost me a glass of wine.
I’ve forgotten her name, so I will call her, Eight Times Four, Sweet Samarlan child of War. I returned to my home, being out of pocket with my unrivalled generosity of a double glass of wine, I began to write the opening account of Finding Doc Sunshine.
I learned a few weeks later that she had been barred from the pub due to an emotional outburst, and my flashbacks of being out of pocket to the tune of a double glass of wine remain to the present day.
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