This is one of my short stories that I wrote a few years ago. I wrote it for a competition on a poetry site, where we had to write a story based on a book title. Coincidence is a funny thing, as there is a Tracy in my story and a Tracey working in one of our betting shops in the High Street, in my home town, but long after I wrote this. Comments welcome.
Phil Watson wasn’t a heavy gambler - well not normally, but he’d had a very trying morning at work and was relieved to pop to the bookies in his lunch hour. His boss, Dave Masterson had been in a foul mood all morning, moaning about everything and everyone. He ran a house clearance business, complete with a sprawling junk shop - or “Dave’s Emporium” as he preferred it to be known. They’d only cleared a couple of houses so far this week and the pickings from the last one didn’t look up to much.
The elderly lady who’d owned the house had been a bit of a recluse and the house was in a poor state of repair as were most of the contents. The house was extremely dark with tattered drapes covering the shabby latticed windows; its contents and ancient furniture all covered in decades of dust and cobwebs, mingled with its secrets and memories. It reminded Phil of Miss Havisham’s house in Dicken’s "Great Expectations" and he couldn’t help feeling upset about the fate of the old lady, who it seemed had nobody in the world to care about her. It was only when the neighbours complained about the putrid smell that the police were called. She had been dead well over a month and this was the height of summer. Although the bedroom where she’d been found had been cleared and fumigated, it still reeked of decay and the odd dead fly remained, embedded in the remnants of a grubby carpet, an unwelcome reminder of its inhabitant’s sad demise. Her funeral was a sad affair as no living relatives could be traced.
Phil glanced up at the screen to check the runners in the 2 - 50pm at Chepstow. He didn’t know that much about form and mostly went by the odds and names of the horses he fancied. He was feeling fed up and more than a little reckless and decided to put £20 to win on a 50/1 chance, something he’d never done before, as the most he’d ever betted was £5 each way on a horse that at least stood a chance of a place. He had a weird, excited sort of feeling in his gut about this particular horse, for some reason. His wife Mia had never approved of gambling. God knows what she would have to say about this, Phil thought to himself and smiled wryly. He took a deep breath as he handed over his betting slip and cash to Tracy, the attractive cashier.
“See you later Trace, when I pick up me winnings!” he joked, as he furtively ran his eyes over what he could see of her breasts. She was wearing a very low necked pale blue top which showed off her cleavage and complimented her deep blue eyes.
“Yeah, you can take me out for a slap-up meal at Alphonso’s if that one comes in first, Phil!” She smiled at him and giggled, as she tossed her long strawberry blonde hair back with a flick of a wrist.
As if she could read his mind, Phil felt himself redden. He’d always rather fancied Tracy; she was half the reason he came in here so much. As he walked back to “Dave’s Emporium” he felt guilty about his lustful thoughts and vowed to buy some flowers for Mia after work, on his way home.
“You took ya bloody time, you’re five minutes late!” growled Dave, as Phil walked through the old door, which was in dire need of a lick of paint, in order to smarten the dingy shop frontage up a bit, which might have possibly attracted a more discerning clientèle. Still, there were quite a few customers rummaging through the junk, which was encouraging, not that it made Dave’s mood any more pleasant.
Phil ignored the remark; it was pointless arguing with Dave as he always thought he was right about everything and conveniently forgot about all the unpaid hours that Phil often put in after the shop had closed and the many errands he’d made to the local tip, which was not exactly on his route home.
“ I’ve sorted out some bloody rubbish from that old dear’s house” snarled the disgruntled Dave “Mostly broken crockery and other bloody useless bits; you can drop it off at the tip on your way home”
A please would be nice, thought Phil, but he just sighed and muttered “OK” He couldn’t afford to lose his job by telling his boss to flaming well sod off, stick the boxes where the sun don’t shine, and stop being such an ignorant, ungrateful, miserable bastard!! - well not with the way things were at the moment, credit crunch and all. He lugged the two large boxes of rubbish that the churlish Dave had stacked up in the yard at the back of the shop and loaded them in the truck. When he arrived there was nobody else using the tip, so he had plenty of time to have a little snout through the boxes.
He was just about to throw the second one in when he noticed something glinting in an old broken jug. It was wrapped in some torn and faded, yellowing tissue paper. Phil carefully unwrapped the object from the paper and gasped. The object was a pretty heart-shaped box, possibly made of gold, he thought. It appeared to be beautifully enamelled and encrusted with stones of some sort. He looked around quickly and shoved it in his pocket and drove home, completely forgetting Mia’s flowers. When he got home he took it out and viewed it under his jeweller’s eye glass and confirmed it was indeed gold, but more importantly - and he could hardly contain his excitement, discovered the maker’s name.
That magical name of names “FABERGE”
Phil decided to find out more about the little box; he couldn’t locate anything like it on the internet and thought about contacting the big auction houses. He knew that Faberge pieces fetched very high prices, especially the rarer ones and he hoped this might possibly be one. He got the number of Christie’s Auction House in London and spoke to a very helpful man, who seemed interested, but slightly cautious, pointing out that forgeries were rife in the antiques trade. Of course this fact had crossed Phil’s mind also, he’d seen a few fake pieces in his line of work, but he agreed to bring the box up to London for official authentication the following week, when he had a couple of days holiday and leave it with the experts for a while.
“Well, blow me, here he is at last” said Tracy “ thought you’d emigrated or something. I’m still waiting for that slap-up meal you promised me Phil”
“What! It actually flipping won, well blow me!” In his excitement over the “Faberge” box, which he’d not mentioned to a soul, he’d completely forgotten about the bet he’d put on two weeks ago and had hardly expected it to win anyway. He’d not been in the betting shop since and they all wondered why.
“You must be so well off, you don’t really need this money” laughed Tracy as she handed over his winnings.
“I wish” replied Phil “to be honest, it slipped my mind, I’ve been a bit busy and preoccupied the last couple of weeks, but I’ll book a meal at Alphonso’s for tomorrow night, if that’s OK with you? “
“You’re on” she replied enthusiastically and Phil said he’d arrange a taxi for them both at 7 30pm the following evening and go for a couple of drinks first. He felt rather nervous as he had not dated anybody since Mia. It had been two years now, since she had died from a rare and undetected heart condition. Her totally unexpected ending had been a terrible shock, especially as she had been a couple of months or so into her first pregnancy and looked a picture of health. He’d not only lost his wife, but their unborn child.
As he left the betting shop he suddenly remembered the flowers for her grave that he’d promised to get a week or so earlier and felt very guilty, so decided to take some to the cemetery on the way home. He picked the largest, prettiest bouquet he could find - money no object today!
He decided he would take things slowly with Tracy, he really liked her, she was a lovely girl, but he didn’t want to hurt her. It was very early days for him, as Mia’s death had hit him so hard. He knew Tracy liked him too and who knows, she may turn out to be just what he needed to make changes in his life. He had ambitions to open his own antiques and collectibles shop, but needed funds to do this and was it really practical in a financial slump? Would he even be considered for a bank loan? It was hard enough trying to sell the junk in Dave’s Emporium at times, but he thought his employers off - hand, unsociable manner had more to do with lack of sales than the current financial climate!
The following evening he and Tracy had a great night out. The meal was delicious and a complete success as they both loved Italian food, washed down with a bottle of fine red wine. Phil explained his situation and Tracy said she already knew about his late wife and understood how he must feel. She’d just come out of a relationship herself so “taking it slowly” suited her too.
“The main thing is we have a good laugh and enjoy each other’s company” she said and Phil had to agree. Tracy had a wicked sense of humour that matched his own. They didn’t know it yet, but they were really made for each other.. They both liked the same rock bands and had so much more in common, it was uncanny. He felt he'd known her for ages.
The phone call came earlier than expected. Phil had just got in from another harrowing day at Dave’s Emporium; his boss seemed to get grumpier and grumpier and more insulting every day and Phil didn’t think he could continue working for him much longer, without decking him! He wasn’t a violent man, but Dave could try the patience of the most saintly person on earth.
Phil could scarcely believe what the Christie’s agent was telling him and had to ask him several times to repeat what he’d said.
“You’re telling me it’s genuine then and could be worth as much as a quarter of a million pounds at auction?” Wow! - Blimey - and something that small - I can hardly believe it!”
It actually went for over a million, as two wealthy Russian clients battled it out in the auction room, in front of an awe-struck Philip Watson. He turned a whiter shade of pale - as the song goes.
“Bloody hell, I’m a millionaire!”
The other thing was the name of his unlikely 50/1 winning horse that lucky day, a couple of years ago now of course. It was - and I’m sure you’ve all guessed…
“ Russia with Love”
Philip Watson became a very successful businessman and a great benefactor to many charities and always remembers to make sure that the grave of Miss Leila Kaminska, (the original owner of the little box) is well tended and has a beautiful headstone, where once was a plain wooden cross.
AS for Dave - well, he went bust!
Phil Watson wasn’t a heavy gambler - well not normally, but he’d had a very trying morning at work and was relieved to pop to the bookies in his lunch hour. His boss, Dave Masterson had been in a foul mood all morning, moaning about everything and everyone. He ran a house clearance business, complete with a sprawling junk shop - or “Dave’s Emporium” as he preferred it to be known. They’d only cleared a couple of houses so far this week and the pickings from the last one didn’t look up to much.
The elderly lady who’d owned the house had been a bit of a recluse and the house was in a poor state of repair as were most of the contents. The house was extremely dark with tattered drapes covering the shabby latticed windows; its contents and ancient furniture all covered in decades of dust and cobwebs, mingled with its secrets and memories. It reminded Phil of Miss Havisham’s house in Dicken’s "Great Expectations" and he couldn’t help feeling upset about the fate of the old lady, who it seemed had nobody in the world to care about her. It was only when the neighbours complained about the putrid smell that the police were called. She had been dead well over a month and this was the height of summer. Although the bedroom where she’d been found had been cleared and fumigated, it still reeked of decay and the odd dead fly remained, embedded in the remnants of a grubby carpet, an unwelcome reminder of its inhabitant’s sad demise. Her funeral was a sad affair as no living relatives could be traced.
Phil glanced up at the screen to check the runners in the 2 - 50pm at Chepstow. He didn’t know that much about form and mostly went by the odds and names of the horses he fancied. He was feeling fed up and more than a little reckless and decided to put £20 to win on a 50/1 chance, something he’d never done before, as the most he’d ever betted was £5 each way on a horse that at least stood a chance of a place. He had a weird, excited sort of feeling in his gut about this particular horse, for some reason. His wife Mia had never approved of gambling. God knows what she would have to say about this, Phil thought to himself and smiled wryly. He took a deep breath as he handed over his betting slip and cash to Tracy, the attractive cashier.
“See you later Trace, when I pick up me winnings!” he joked, as he furtively ran his eyes over what he could see of her breasts. She was wearing a very low necked pale blue top which showed off her cleavage and complimented her deep blue eyes.
“Yeah, you can take me out for a slap-up meal at Alphonso’s if that one comes in first, Phil!” She smiled at him and giggled, as she tossed her long strawberry blonde hair back with a flick of a wrist.
As if she could read his mind, Phil felt himself redden. He’d always rather fancied Tracy; she was half the reason he came in here so much. As he walked back to “Dave’s Emporium” he felt guilty about his lustful thoughts and vowed to buy some flowers for Mia after work, on his way home.
“You took ya bloody time, you’re five minutes late!” growled Dave, as Phil walked through the old door, which was in dire need of a lick of paint, in order to smarten the dingy shop frontage up a bit, which might have possibly attracted a more discerning clientèle. Still, there were quite a few customers rummaging through the junk, which was encouraging, not that it made Dave’s mood any more pleasant.
Phil ignored the remark; it was pointless arguing with Dave as he always thought he was right about everything and conveniently forgot about all the unpaid hours that Phil often put in after the shop had closed and the many errands he’d made to the local tip, which was not exactly on his route home.
“ I’ve sorted out some bloody rubbish from that old dear’s house” snarled the disgruntled Dave “Mostly broken crockery and other bloody useless bits; you can drop it off at the tip on your way home”
A please would be nice, thought Phil, but he just sighed and muttered “OK” He couldn’t afford to lose his job by telling his boss to flaming well sod off, stick the boxes where the sun don’t shine, and stop being such an ignorant, ungrateful, miserable bastard!! - well not with the way things were at the moment, credit crunch and all. He lugged the two large boxes of rubbish that the churlish Dave had stacked up in the yard at the back of the shop and loaded them in the truck. When he arrived there was nobody else using the tip, so he had plenty of time to have a little snout through the boxes.
He was just about to throw the second one in when he noticed something glinting in an old broken jug. It was wrapped in some torn and faded, yellowing tissue paper. Phil carefully unwrapped the object from the paper and gasped. The object was a pretty heart-shaped box, possibly made of gold, he thought. It appeared to be beautifully enamelled and encrusted with stones of some sort. He looked around quickly and shoved it in his pocket and drove home, completely forgetting Mia’s flowers. When he got home he took it out and viewed it under his jeweller’s eye glass and confirmed it was indeed gold, but more importantly - and he could hardly contain his excitement, discovered the maker’s name.
That magical name of names “FABERGE”
Phil decided to find out more about the little box; he couldn’t locate anything like it on the internet and thought about contacting the big auction houses. He knew that Faberge pieces fetched very high prices, especially the rarer ones and he hoped this might possibly be one. He got the number of Christie’s Auction House in London and spoke to a very helpful man, who seemed interested, but slightly cautious, pointing out that forgeries were rife in the antiques trade. Of course this fact had crossed Phil’s mind also, he’d seen a few fake pieces in his line of work, but he agreed to bring the box up to London for official authentication the following week, when he had a couple of days holiday and leave it with the experts for a while.
“Well, blow me, here he is at last” said Tracy “ thought you’d emigrated or something. I’m still waiting for that slap-up meal you promised me Phil”
“What! It actually flipping won, well blow me!” In his excitement over the “Faberge” box, which he’d not mentioned to a soul, he’d completely forgotten about the bet he’d put on two weeks ago and had hardly expected it to win anyway. He’d not been in the betting shop since and they all wondered why.
“You must be so well off, you don’t really need this money” laughed Tracy as she handed over his winnings.
“I wish” replied Phil “to be honest, it slipped my mind, I’ve been a bit busy and preoccupied the last couple of weeks, but I’ll book a meal at Alphonso’s for tomorrow night, if that’s OK with you? “
“You’re on” she replied enthusiastically and Phil said he’d arrange a taxi for them both at 7 30pm the following evening and go for a couple of drinks first. He felt rather nervous as he had not dated anybody since Mia. It had been two years now, since she had died from a rare and undetected heart condition. Her totally unexpected ending had been a terrible shock, especially as she had been a couple of months or so into her first pregnancy and looked a picture of health. He’d not only lost his wife, but their unborn child.
As he left the betting shop he suddenly remembered the flowers for her grave that he’d promised to get a week or so earlier and felt very guilty, so decided to take some to the cemetery on the way home. He picked the largest, prettiest bouquet he could find - money no object today!
He decided he would take things slowly with Tracy, he really liked her, she was a lovely girl, but he didn’t want to hurt her. It was very early days for him, as Mia’s death had hit him so hard. He knew Tracy liked him too and who knows, she may turn out to be just what he needed to make changes in his life. He had ambitions to open his own antiques and collectibles shop, but needed funds to do this and was it really practical in a financial slump? Would he even be considered for a bank loan? It was hard enough trying to sell the junk in Dave’s Emporium at times, but he thought his employers off - hand, unsociable manner had more to do with lack of sales than the current financial climate!
The following evening he and Tracy had a great night out. The meal was delicious and a complete success as they both loved Italian food, washed down with a bottle of fine red wine. Phil explained his situation and Tracy said she already knew about his late wife and understood how he must feel. She’d just come out of a relationship herself so “taking it slowly” suited her too.
“The main thing is we have a good laugh and enjoy each other’s company” she said and Phil had to agree. Tracy had a wicked sense of humour that matched his own. They didn’t know it yet, but they were really made for each other.. They both liked the same rock bands and had so much more in common, it was uncanny. He felt he'd known her for ages.
The phone call came earlier than expected. Phil had just got in from another harrowing day at Dave’s Emporium; his boss seemed to get grumpier and grumpier and more insulting every day and Phil didn’t think he could continue working for him much longer, without decking him! He wasn’t a violent man, but Dave could try the patience of the most saintly person on earth.
Phil could scarcely believe what the Christie’s agent was telling him and had to ask him several times to repeat what he’d said.
“You’re telling me it’s genuine then and could be worth as much as a quarter of a million pounds at auction?” Wow! - Blimey - and something that small - I can hardly believe it!”
It actually went for over a million, as two wealthy Russian clients battled it out in the auction room, in front of an awe-struck Philip Watson. He turned a whiter shade of pale - as the song goes.
“Bloody hell, I’m a millionaire!”
The other thing was the name of his unlikely 50/1 winning horse that lucky day, a couple of years ago now of course. It was - and I’m sure you’ve all guessed…
“ Russia with Love”
Philip Watson became a very successful businessman and a great benefactor to many charities and always remembers to make sure that the grave of Miss Leila Kaminska, (the original owner of the little box) is well tended and has a beautiful headstone, where once was a plain wooden cross.
AS for Dave - well, he went bust!
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