Dominic Butler
Dominic Butler is an author and English teacher currently living, writing and teaching in Hungary. It could be said that creativity runs in the family, as his elder brother Matthew is a film director and his younger brother Graham, an actor. Educated in a traditional grammar school in the north of England, Dominic went on to hone his interest for literature at Sheffield Hallam University. A fan of all forms of fiction, Dominic has previously specialised in the crime genre, having created four collections of murderous tales for PONS readers. Now, however, he has chosen to put aside his ghoulish plots in favour of a second volume of short humorous stories with a twist; though he occasionally finds that even his most light-hearted stories may hide a shadowy surprise.
It was, in Gerald’s opinion, a perfect day. The sky was blue, the sun was high and there was a cool breeze1 coming from the North.
Also, the location was fantastic. Bolton Abbey, in the heart of2 the Yorkshire Dales, was one of the most picturesque3 places in Britain, because the old Abbey was next to a gentle4 river in a green and beautiful valley.
Yes, perfect, thought Gerald.
So why did he look so unhappy?
He was sitting on a picnic blanket by the river, the ruins of the old Abbey behind him.
Sitting opposite him was his girlfriend Emma, and on the picnic blanket there was a selection of sandwiches, some summer fruit, and a bottle of champagne.
“Are you okay, Gerald?” asked Emma. “You seem very quiet,” she said as she finished her second cucumber sandwich.
“What? Me? No, I’m fine. Perfect. It’s a perfect day. A perfect location. A perfect picnic,” he said.
However, it was obvious that Gerald was not fine. He was usually very talkative5 and cheerful, but today he was silent and nervous.
Also, every few minutes, when Emma was not looking, he quickly put his right hand into the pocket of his shorts and touched the small black box that was there.
“Really?” asked Emma. “Because you seem…I don’t know, nervous.”
“Nervous, me? No, I’m perfect, it’s a perfect day,” he said, putting his hand into his pocket again and touching the small black box.
But Gerald was not perfect. In fact he was incredibly6 nervous. He was incredibly nervous, because today was the day he was going to propose7 to Emma.
“More champagne?” he said, pouring Emma another large glass and trying to smile.
“Er, okay,” she said, “but are you sure there’s nothing you want to talk about?”
For a moment Gerald hesitated8, then he looked around for some distraction9. “Oh look, Emma, stepping stones!”
He pointed to a line of stones which crossed the gentle river, and the small group of children who were jumping from stone to stone and laughing.
Emma smiled. “Oh yes, that does look fun10. Should we have a go11?”
Gerald said nothing for a few seconds. Instead12, he imagined how romantic it would be to ask Emma to marry him while they were in the middle of the river on the stepping stones.
Perfect! He thought.
“Yes, I think we should,” he said calmly. “Come on, let’s go!”
They stood up together and began to walk slowly towards the edge of the river and the grey stones that crossed it.
“Oh, actually13, it looks a little more difficult than I thought,” said Emma.
However, Gerald did not hear this, because he was once more checking that the small black box was still in his shorts pocket.
“You go first,” he said to Emma.
“Okay,” she said, carefully stepping onto the first stone.
Slowly, they began to cross the river, and Gerald was happy to see that Emma was smiling and laughing.
Yes, this was certainly the perfect time. Now, he just had to think about how to ask her the big question.
“Emma,” he said, while carefully following her across the large stones. “Actually, I do have something to speak to you about.”
“Oh, really?” she asked, as she reached14 the middle of the river.
“Yes, I wanted to speak to you about, well, about our future, about us. Do you understand?”
“Er, I don’t really…” she began to say, but before she could finish her foot slipped15 on a wet stone. For a moment she wobbled16, but then regained her balance17. Laughing, she moved to the next stone and turned round to warn18 Gerald. “Gerald, that next step…”
“The next step! Exactly!” Gerald said, not understanding. “Yes, I want to talk to you about the next step, and I want to ask you…”
“No, Gerald. Be careful19!” Emma shouted.
But Gerald was concentrating20 on the small black box which he was taking from his pocket. He stepped onto the wet stone, slipped, then fell with a scream of surprise into the cold water of the river.
He was so surprised, in fact, that he threw the small black box up into the air and it landed directly in Emma’s hands.
“Gerald? What’s this?” said Emma as she opened the box, a huge smile21 appearing on her face.
“It’s…” he said, struggling22 to stand, a smile appearing on his own face. “The next step?
My name is Major Wallace Wilt, and this is the story of the May Day mystery.
St Ives, in the South West of England, is normally a very peaceful1 town; and when I woke up this morning at seven o’clock it seemed that today was going to be no different.
I am a very respectable2 man, you see. My life is quiet and ordinary and today, as always, my morning routine was entirely normal3. I took a quick cold shower, combed my short silver hair and beard, put on my grey suit and then left my small cottage and went for a morning walk to the harbour. For a while I watched the fishing boats returning to the town, smoked my pipe4 and enjoyed the fresh, salty breeze5.
After some time, I walked back towards my house, stopping at the bakery to buy some bread, then stopping at the newsagent to buy my newspaper. I do this every day, because I am a respectable man with a normal routine.
At home, I prepared kippers6 and toast and a large pot of tea, which I ate and drank in the garden while reading about the local news. A perfectly normal morning indeed7.
Of course, I knew that it was May Day. I always enjoyed the festival when I was a child, and to be honest I think that I enjoy it more now that I am a pensioner8.
So, at about twelve o’clock, when the sun was high in the clear summer sky, I left my cottage for the second time and walked to the town square where the celebrations were beginning. It was a wonderful sight9! The young girls of the town were all carrying flowers, the young boys holding old trumpets10 or penny whistles11. The mayor12 and the town councillors13 were dressed in their smart clothes, and there were smiles on the faces of everyone I saw.
Then, at about one o’clock, the brass band14 began to play and the whole town followed the parade through the streets to the harbour. I saw Mr Morris the butcher, John the newsagent, old Bill the barman from the local pub, Mrs White the baker and many other familiar faces.
So, it seemed like the whole town was at the parade; but we now know that someone was not.
And then, when the parade was nearly at the pier of the harbour, we heard the scream15.
The person screaming was a young girl, because she was the first to see the terrible sight16. However, when other people saw it, they began to scream too.
You see, there was something very wrong with the maypole17.
The long red ribbons18 which the girls normally used to dance around the pole were now lying on the floor next to the two parts of the useless, broken pole19.
Well, there was chaos.
The mayor and the councillors called for the local police and asked everybody to be calm. However, in only a few minutes, people began to suggest possible culprits20.
Bill the barman said that he thought it was probably some of the young children. Mrs White said that she thought it was probably someone from the next village. And John from the newsagent said he thought it might be Mr Morris the butcher.
Soon, the police arrived and they tried to ask people some questions, but it was impossible. There were only three police officers and there were hundreds of people to speak to.
I stayed for more than an hour and waited for a police officer to ask me a question, but nobody asked me anything.
So, at about three o’clock I walked back to my cottage, made a cup of tea and began to read my newspaper again.
Now, my window is open and I can still21 hear the mayor and the councillors and all the people from the town arguing about the May Day mystery.
So I sit here in my quiet cottage and I smile. Next to my chair is the saw22 that I used to cut the maypole down23, and I occasionally look at it and laugh24.
Yes, it was me. I am the culprit that they are all arguing about and trying to find.
How did I do it? Well, I walked to the town square with the saw in my hand. I didn’t hide25 it under my coat or carry it in a bag. You see, when you are my age, people don’t look at you very much. Then, before the parade began I walked to the pier, cut the maypole down, then walked back to my cottage and put the saw next to this chair.
After that, I walked back to the square and followed the parade to the pier with a big smile on my face.
And why did I do it? Do I hate festivals? Do I hate St Ives and the people who live here?
No.
I did it because everybody thinks that I am a respectable, ordinary pensioner. I did it because nobody really looks at you26 when you are an elderly gentleman27. I did it because I know that people think that old people never do this type of thing.
Well, my name is Major Wallace Wilt and this is the story of the May Day mystery.
I hope you enjoyed it28.
I know I did.
Duncan tried2 not to look at his wife while3 he read his newspaper, but he knew that she was looking directly at him, and he knew that she was not happy.
“It could be worse,” he said quietly, not looking at her cold, angry, blue eyes.
She was a small woman with short brown hair, a tiny nose and a kind smile. When she was happy, Duncan thought that she was possibly the most beautiful woman in the world, but when she was angry, Duncan thought that she was terrifying4.
“What?” Liz asked. “What did you say?”
They were sitting opposite each other at a small table in a tiny caravan5. Inside the caravan there was one tiny bed, a tiny oven and a tiny window which was covered by an old white curtain6. It was so small that even Liz could not stand up straight.
“I said, well, you know, it could be worse.”
“How?” asked Liz. “How could this be worse? It’s our ten year wedding anniversary7. You promised me a romantic8, exotic9 location, but instead we’re in the middle of the Lake District in the smallest caravan in the world!”
“This is romantic,” Duncan argued10. “You saw those fantastic hills, those beautiful lakes, those green forests. And the location is perfect, right next to Lake Windermere. Go on11 Liz, look at the view,” he said, moving the curtain to reveal the countryside.
The countryside, however12, was not visible, because large black clouds were now covering the fantastic mountains, the beautiful lakes and the green forests.
“Oh,” said Duncan, then he looked at his wife again. “But it could be worse, it’s not…”
But before he could finish speaking there was a loud crash of thunder13, and it began to rain.
His wife’s face was terrifying, but Duncan was determined14 to be positive about the situation. “Well, a little rain is no problem for us. We’re warm and dry in here, so we can watch the storm, open a bottle of wine. Quite romantic, really.”
Liz opened her mouth to speak, but suddenly15holes16