Greengage Farm

This is an exercise in flash fiction. (VERY short stories, great fun!)

Greengage Farm

What a load of old tosh,what a pathetic superstition, the vicissitudes of life grinding him exceedingly small, despite his unshakeable belief in the talismanic icon which adorned the stable door of his beloved Greengage Farm. Waves of self pity washed over him as he contemplated how things had gone from bad to worse in the last few years in his life, three years poor harvest, the death of his favourite mare in the course of foaling, the loss of two fingers in a baling machine accident. The list was endless, it seemingly being his fate to endure the downsides of everything in his miserable existence, although he tended to cling to the one positive, the day his wife ran off with the farm hand. Twenty five years of domestic disharmony with his harridan spouse, she of the Neanderthal grunt, the art of conversation between them long since consigned to life’s recycle bin, never to resurrect.

He gazed with rheumy eyes at the horse shoe nailed to the stable door, informing the inanimate rusting piece of iron that it’s days were numbered and its relocation was imminent. To the nearby crossroad to be precise, as per the advice of a lady friend, a part time white witch, to whom he had confessed, post coitus, one evening, his fears that the horse shoe was the anti-Christ in his life. At the appointed hour of midnight, at the crossroads, which at one time had been the scene of a gibbet where the bodies executed miscreants were left to rot as a warning to others considering the commission of misdemeanours. The witch suggested the one time presence of the gibbet would add mystical powers to the ridding him of his misfortunes. He buried the shoe at a depth of exactly eighteen inches as directed by his pagan lover. He looked around sheepishly, before executing her final direction, of turning thrice round whilst uttering the words, “Back to Beelzebub, o false prophet of fortune, whence thou came.” Not sure if the use of Olde English was necessary, he nevertheless less he followed instructions to the letter.

His task complete he headed off back to Greengage Farm, certain within himself that his luck would change and soon things would be on the up. A short while later he heard the banshee wailing of an emergency vehicle approaching at a rate of knots, all flashing lights and roaring Diesel engine straining Equus like at the bit. The tender flashed by him in the direction of the crossroads, he caught a glimpse of the uniformed firefighters in the surreal half light of the cab punching coordinates into the Sat Nav. Some poor sod has got problems he mused as he wound his way back to the farm, sniffing up the bitter sweet smell of burning timber, thankful fire engines was raving away from the direction of his home.

Maybe this was his first tranche of good fortune, lovely pagan lady thank you thoughts filled his mind, why he might even consent to her request of coitus on the altar she had built in her basement, surround by burning candles, complete with a pre-recorded Gregorian chant in the background. His rumination was interrupted by the approach of the fire engine from the direction of the crossroads, it halted next to, the passenger window slid down, out of which leaned a firefighter, “Excuse me sir, which is Greengage Farm?”