Try Again, Ollie

St Peter had not been long in charge of the Pearly Gates, which give access to Heaven if you meet his strict criteria, before he became aware of a tricky issue that was raised by a number of would-be entrants.

This was when a recently disembodied soul, faced with the prospect of doing a considerable amount of time in Purgatory, asked St Peter if they could not possibly be given a second go at Life. They had made a hash of their first attempt, for one reason or another, and would quite like to show that, if given the opportunity, they could pass muster for direct entry if allowed the chance.

Being a reasonable sort of saint, Peter pondered the mattered for a few centuries and then came up with the answer. He decided to institute an Office for Reincarnation and appointed the Angel Gabriel to run it, seeing that he had far less to do these days now that all the most important Heavenly messages had been delivered to potential parents of Biblical characters.

Gabriel’s office, just down the road from the Pearly Gates, was soon doing a roaring trade and there always seemed to be a steady queue of souls hoping to be given their second chance.

It has to be said that Gabriel did not always get it right, and he made some appalling mistakes down the centuries. Genghis Khan was one such example, when Gabriel delivered his soul, after a suitable break, to a couple in Upper Austria called Alois and Klara. The boy began well enough, having distinct artistic tendencies, but it all went horribly wrong when he grew a silly moustache and started throwing his right arm upwards at a 45-degree angle.

On the other hand, it was nothing sort of genius giving Lucrezia Borgia another go as Florence Nightingale, and who else could Isaac Newton return as other than Albert Einstein?

Never let it be said that Gabriel did not have a sense of humour. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was full of complaints that he had been cut off in his prime and had plenty of great works up his sleeve, but surely turning into Mick Jagger was far from what he had in mind. No wonder he would lament in his new incarnation that he “could get no satisfaction”.

Gabriel had a particular challenge when Oliver Cromwell turned up. St Peter had been sorely tempted to point him straight down the road to the fiery furnace, but allowed himself to be persuaded otherwise. Oliver was quite convinced that he deserved direct entry in the other direction, but Peter had no intention of going that far. Instead, it was down the road to the Office for Reincarnation for the former Lord Protector of England.

Gabriel looked down the latest applicant’s CV and was distinctly unimpressed.

“Let me see if I’ve got this right”, he said. “You made war against the official King of England and Scotland, and eventually had his head cut off. A King, I might add, who has gone straight through the pearly Gates and is even now knocking back the ambrosia and twanging a harp. Give him a few more centuries and he might even learn to play it in tune.”

“He opposed the will of the people and the legally elected Parliament of the land”, said Oliver.

“So what?” said Gabriel. “Kings can do that if they like.”

“But they shouldn’t be allowed to”, said Oliver. “They should only rule with the consent of the people, as expressed through their elected representatives in Parliament.”

“I see that you then took over as ruler in his place”, said Gabriel.

“Indeed so”, Oliver replied. “But I refused to take the title of King.”

“And presumably you then allowed the rule of the people of England to determine your actions, said Gabriel”.

“Absolutely”, said Oliver.

“As expressed through their elected representatives in Parliament?”

“But of course”.

“On the other hand”, said Gabriel, “I see that one of your first acts after gaining power was to chuck out of Parliament all the members who opposed your intention of cutting off the head of King Charles.”

“So what if I did?”

“And you seriously want a second chance?”

“Why not?”

“Tell you what”, said Gabriel, “I’m in a good mood, so I’ll let you have another go if you’re prepared to wait a few hundred years.”

“Well, thanks for that”, said Oliver, “But can I ask you one more favour?”

“Which is?”

“I always hated the name Oliver. Could I be called something else when the time comes?”

“No problem”, said Gabriel. “I’ve got a great idea. How does the name Boris sound to you?”

© John Welford

Red Stains as the Sun Sets

It had been a beautiful late autumn day, but the sun was now setting fast and throwing a livid red glow across the thin clouds near the horizon. This was the view that Albert was privileged to enjoy from his clifftop home whenever the weather conditions allowed. I envied him that at least. 

However, given his advancing years, I often worried about how safe he was on his own, at least a mile from his nearest neighbour. That was why I called round frequently to see how he was. I had told him many times about my concerns for his well-being, but he always shrugged them off. I had nothing to worry about, he said, but that did not stop me from doing exactly that. 

Albert did not even have a telephone, mobile or landline, so what was he going to do if an emergency arose? “I’ll be fine”, he kept telling me, “I’ve been fine living here for more than 50 years, and I’m sure I’ll be fine for as many years in the future as the good Lord chooses to give me.”

On the day in question I knocked at the door of the old one-floor coastguard cottage but got no reply. This was strange, because Albert was always there when I called round, which I did at least once a week, and sometimes more frequently. I assumed that he must have gone down the rutted track to make a call from the telephone box on the main road. Hardly anyone used that phone box these days, apart from Albert, and another of my worries was what he would do when it was taken away, which was surely bound to happen before long. 

But what if my assumption had been wrong? I therefore thought it best to check all round the cottage just in case Albert had had some kind of accident. I peered through the windows and had a shock when I looked through the window of Albert’s lounge. There was a pure white woolen rug in front of the fireplace, with what appeared to be a sizable dull red stain on it. 

The first thought that came to my mind was that this was a large bloodstain. The second thought was that I was being ridiculous, and it was probably nothing worse than the result of spilled red wine or red paint.

The third thought was to dismiss both these possibilities, on the grounds that Albert never drank wine and there was no evidence of any part of the room having been painted red.

My fourth thought therefore reverted to my first, namely that Albert had indeed had an accident and was lying somewhere in the cottage having been seriously injured – or worse. I had to get in and find him.

I reckoned that Albert belonged to the generation that keeps a spare key under an overturned flowerpot next to the back door. I was not wrong. I was therefore soon able to make a thorough search of the cottage, looking for Albert, but he was not there. I went back to the lounge to have a closer look at the red stain, and was still trying to work out what it was when a key turned in the lock of the front door and Albert came in. He was a bit surprised to see me there, but welcomed me all the same.

“Hello, John”, he said. “I see that you’re looking at my new rug. I had it delivered today, but I don’t think it’s the same as the one I ordered at the shop. It’s got this horrible red mark on it – I wonder what it is?”

I said that I had also had the same thought, but I did not tell Albert that I had just searched the cottage looking for his mangled dead body.

Albert explained that he had just come back from the phone box, where he had phoned the carpet shop to complain and arrange for the correct rug to be delivered the next day.

He then had some more news for me.

“I’ve been thinking over what you keep going on to me about – whether I’m safe here”, he said. “I’ve done something about it. Wait here a minute and I’ll introduce you to my new friend.”

Albert then left by the back door and returned a minute later, holding a large rottweiler dog by its lead. 

“I reckon that Buster here will keep me safe and protect me from any intruders. What do you think?”

I had no choice but to agree, this being because Albert promptly let go of the lead and Buster leapt into action to protect his new master from an unrecognized stranger.

Buster’s particularly sharp teeth were soon embedded in my hand, which later needed eleven stitches at the local A&E to close the gaping wounds. Needless to say I bled profusely, all over Albert’s white woolen rug.

So when the rug was collected by the man from the carpet shop the following day, it did indeed bear a deep red stain caused by blood, as I had suspected. I just never imagined the blood in question would be mine.

© John Welford