Smoko At East Seaham Read online



  SMOKO AT EAST SEAHAM

  By Ken Blowers

  ****

  Editing by Eagle-Eyes Editing Solutions

  Cover Illustration by Paulien Bats

  Copyright (c) 2014 by Ken Blowers

  ****

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy.

  CONTENTS

  1.Rhonda’s Christmas Wish

  2.The Odd Couple Of Sheilas

  3.Self Defence

  4.Nightmare At ‘Cosy Corner’ Online

  5.De-Bagged

  6.The “You Know”

  7.The Man With Two Left Feet

  8.Long Time Missing

  9.Getting On Online

 

  CHAPTER 1

  RHONDA’S CHRISTMAS WISH

  It was Christmas Eve and turning dark; with the wind getting up and the trees already showing their displeasure.

  Rhonda, who lived in a nice little cottage in the rural village of East Seaham, New South Wales (Australia), had just emerged from the shower, was putting on her best bright red dressing gown and talking to herself - as she was apt to do. Saying aloud, but softly: 'Oh, Lord - I do so wish I didn't have to be alone again on Christmas Day...!'

  She was then immediately startled and alarmed by the sound of what she thought might be someone moving slowly through the shrubbery along the east side of the house. But she dismissed the idea and continued drying her hair and looking at her clothes trying to decide what to wear for Christmas Day.

  Sadly, she wasn’t expecting any callers, but the house, as usual, was spic and span. As usual, she had put up a few home-made decorations. Christmas, she always said, just wouldn’t be the same without little things like that.

  Suddenly, she thought she heard that noise again. ‘Yes! There…, there it is again.’ It was a rustling, shuffling, sort of sound like something, or someone - moving about outside. ‘Oh, no,’ she thought. Has someone out there been peeping through the gaps in the curtains – and… and watching me? Watching me getting changed?

  Rhonda was not generally a nervy person and certainly not the sort of woman to cower in fear. In fact, her reaction to danger was more likely to be the most practical response imaginable. For instance; after a dreadful car crash many years ago, she had emerged from the wreckage badly shaken, but not injured. She had then calmly picked up the lifeless form of her baby, wrapped it in a travel blanket and left it with a passer-by. Then she turned and went back to help the injured and dying from the other vehicle! ' Plenty of time for tears later,' she had confided to those who wondered at her fortitude and great strength of character.

  Some years later, when her dear husband Alfie, died suddenly, on the bus from Brisbane to Sydney, she had sat quietly, nursing him in her arms, as if he had fallen asleep, nothing more. For hours she sat waiting still until all the other passengers had disembarked before informing the driver: 'I must tell you, my dear husband died – a few hours ago. But I saw no need to alarm all the passengers unnecessarily. My Alfie, wouldn't have wanted that, either, I know.'

  Outwardly dominant and strong, she used to say she kept her tears, like her prayers, for the privacy of her pillow. That was Rhonda!

  She hurriedly finished dressing and moved out of the bedroom, down the hall and into the kitchen. The noise outside seemed to follow her, dragging through the miniature ivy and brushing against the trailing bougainvillaea. Her alarm was beginning to mount. ‘I must keep my wits about me’, she thought. Then: 'Would you like a cup of tea, Alfie, dear?' she called out, somewhat loudly. 'I'll just pop the kettle on,' she added - feeling just a wee twinge of shame at her blatant attempt at deception.

  'Oh...' she groaned softly as the fierce pain of arthritis stabbed her left hip joint with enhanced savagery. Divine retribution perhaps, she thought, for telling fibs. But then, Arthur-Itis, as her dear Alfie used to call it, was her only close companion these long, lonely, days.

  She passed into the lounge room, which still bore strong reminders of Alfie's presence - photographs of him in and out of uniform, sports trophies he had won, a pewter mug, a Squadron crest or two. This was the one place on earth she could sit and not feel alone. ‘This room is your monument, Alfie dear' she thought. A place where she can sit, dream and remember. But one recurring memory would never leave her; the memory of an awful day back in Wales, so many years ago now - when a huge moving mountain of dirty black coal-waste had swept down to engulf the local primary school in Aberfan, killing more than half the children inside, including her small son Rhys. This dreadful event, more than any other, had been instrumental in their decision to start life anew, in Australia.

  The raucous shriek of her whistling kettle quickly focused her mind back on the problem in hand. 'I'll get it, dear!' she called out loudly. Memories, warm and comforting as they may be, could not blot out her awareness of the circling danger closing in, as there came the further sound of movement, now dragging at the ornamental grapevine and the wisteria draped around the front porch.

  But no thoughts of crying out for help or ringing for aid crossed her mind - she did not relish being classed as 'some silly, frightened, old woman!' She would, as usual, prefer to put her trust in God. That could only mean a thoroughly practical, Rhonda type, response!

  She kicked off her shoes, crept silently down the hall towards the front door, pausing to select a heavy walking stick from the hall stand - one she had bought for Alfie but, unfortunately, also one she had come to rely on herself in later years. 'Oh, how I wish you were here now, Alfie dear,' she thought.

  She crept on until she reached the front door. With 'butterflies' in her stomach - but with a hint of fire in her eyes, she switched on the light and flung the door open! 'Who is it? Who's out there?’ she bravely called. There was no response... She hesitated, but didn't venture out. Then, just as she turned to go in she was suddenly hit, rather heavily, from behind and knocked to the wooden floor. She lay there, completely winded and in shock, her glasses gone, her stick gone - but she didn't scream. No! She had never screamed in her entire life. It just wasn't her and she was not about to start now!

  Rolling on to her back, she found herself completely blinded by the porch-light immediately above her and with her hip-joint hurting terribly; she was frightened she might not be able to get up without her stick. Then to make matters worse, there was the sudden shock, the horror of a heavy weight bearing down on her chest, followed by the trauma of hot, smelly, breath upon her face. Instinctively, she recoiled in revulsion - drawing her back, hard against the wall. Luckily, as she did so, one hand touched her glasses on the floor and she was able to snatch them up and put them on, bravely determined to look her assailant in t
he face: a dirty face... a hairy face... with big, black eyes.

  'Oh My God...' she gasped, 'It's not a man, but a dog! A Welsh Corgi dog, too!’

  Rhonda managed to drag herself into a more upright position as the dog thrust its warm muzzle at her, sniffing as it went, as if searching for the odd crumb of food or a hint of affection. She put her arms around him and hugged him tightly and lovingly.

  'Oh, you did give me a fright, boy-oh,' she said warmly. 'Wherever did you come from?'

  She ran her hand around his neck, searching for some indication of ownership but there was no collar. The poor dog huddled closer, apparently happy with the protection her frail body afforded. As she smoothed down his coat she became acutely aware of his prominent ribs. She knew then that it had been quite a while since the poor creature had last enjoyed a good feed. 'I think you need a friend,' she said, 'as well as food and shelter.’

  As the dog licked her face she added: 'Yes, yes, you're right. I need a friend too.'

  Rhonda struggled to her feet, ignoring the nasty pain in her hip and limped through to the kitchen, with the dog following closely behind. She opened the fridge and took out the imported Olde English Pork Sausages she had been saving for her Christmas breakfast. She cut them up and put them in a dish for the dog and sat down and watched as her new found friend ravishingly devoured the impromptu meal. After supplying him with a bowl of cool, clean, water she lead him through to the lounge room where she sat down on the settee - and the dog immediately leapt up and nuzzled into her lap.

  'Hey!' she exclaimed. 'Now don't you get too cheeky!'

  She twisted a little piece of red and gold tinsel around his neck in lieu of a collar. 'I think it's rather wonderful,' she said. ‘Now I won't be alone on Christmas Day and neither will you; that's lovely.'

  She happily petted her new friend some more.

  Then she said 'Do you know what you are, boy-oh?’

  ‘You're my Christmas Wish... come true!'