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    A Sense Of Smell and other stories
    A Sense Of Smell and other stories
    A Sense Of Smell and other stories
    Ebook117 pages1 hour

    A Sense Of Smell and other stories

    By Richard Newell

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    About this ebook

    The power of the sense of smell as a trigger for memory is explored in the title story. An unexpected relationship on a Connecticut beach develops between two women who have lost their husbands in another story. A further story explores a disturbed adolescent boy's path to resolution.

    These are some of the themes in the eight short stories in this little book by novice writer Richard Newell, a retired physician with 'an incredible gift for writing and story-telling'.

    "Beautifully written – I hope a novel will be next."
    Sylvia Whu.
    "Loved the raunchy bit! Not cheesy at all."
    Erica Ling
    "Sensitive characterisation."
    Bartholomew B.

    "These interesting and intriguing short stories show an incredible gift for writing and story-telling; the author is clearly proficient in the art and technique of both with a rich imagination and life experience. I got quite caught up in these stories and wanted for more."
    Editor's note

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherRichard Newell
    Release dateApr 25, 2019
    ISBN9780463241288
    A Sense Of Smell and other stories
    Author

    Richard Newell

    I was born in England shortly after the bombs were dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and educated at Oxford and London Universities. After nearly thirty years practising medicine in hospital and general practice, mostly in South Africa, I went to sea as a cruise ship's doctor until I had to dry my feet and hang up my stethoscope aged sixty-seven. Those last several years were the most interesting and enjoyable of my whole life: I saw the whole world, my wife travelled with me most of the time, and the children also managed several trips with us, all for a dollar a day. After my retirement, the decision to try my hand at writing was easy: much of my early life was spent writing essays – mainly literary criticism on German and French works through the centuries (that was the Oxford stint); I had done a fair amount of lecturing; and I had written a series of articles on travel health for a specialist travel magazine. Besides, it makes a nice change from just washing the dishes and mowing the lawn! My interests are reading (books, magazines, the back of cereal packets, anything!), classical music, travel, bridge, food and wine – in any order, and even at the same time. Once upon a time I played the violin (I even had a string quartet going while at university, just for fun), had a private pilot's licence, shot small-bore rifle for Oxford and rowed for my college. I believe in the importance of good manners and respect for others.

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      Book preview

      A Sense Of Smell and other stories - Richard Newell

      A Sense Of Smell

      And Other Stories

      A Sense Of Smell

      And Other Stories

      Richard Newell

      Copyright © 2019 Richard Newell

      Published by Richard Newell Publishing at Smashwords

      First edition 2019

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system without permission from the copyright holder.

      The Author has made every effort to trace and acknowledge sources/resources/individuals. In the event that any images/information have been incorrectly attributed or credited, the Author will be pleased to rectify these omissions at the earliest opportunity.

      Published by Richard Newell using Reach Publishers’ services,

      info@richardnewellbooks.com

      Edited by Frankie Kartun for Reach Publishers

      Cover designed by Reach Publishers

      P O Box 1384, Wandsbeck, South Africa, 3631

      Website: www.reachpublishers.co.za

      E-mail: reach@reachpublish.co.za

      Contents

      Introduction

      Official Secrets

      Trust

      The Train

      Brief Encounter

      The Bench

      A Sense of Smell

      The Schoolmaster

      Paradise Lost

      Biography

      Introduction

      This little collection of short stories is mostly set in England in the 1960s, ’70s and ’80s. All are pure fiction, although there will be some who may think that they recognise themselves – we all seek to be central in the outside world – just because some of the stories are about life experiences that may be common to many of us in our younger days.

      I hope you enjoy them. There may be more to follow, perhaps drawn from my life as a doctor. Watch this space, but don’t hold your breath – it’s going to take a while!

      Lastly, if you enjoyed these tales, please would you write a glowing review? And if you did not enjoy them, please write a constructive review anyway, saying why not. It all helps.

      Thanks so much.

      Richard

      PS. Please visit my website:

      www.richardnewellbooks.com

      Official Secrets

      My son and I were sitting peacefully after dinner, sipping an excellent single malt and talking the usual gentle nonsense that goes with a little too much to drink.

      ‘Dad, you promised you would tell me the story about when they approached you at Oxford,’ said Sam, pouring me another tot.

      ‘So I did,’ I replied. ‘It is over fifty years ago now, when bags were made from brown paper and buckets were galvanised iron, but I remember it well. Here goes, then.’

      Good evening, Mr. Thompson.

      I turned round and saw that a stranger was offering his hand and a friendly smile. I had seen him wandering around the college for a couple of days, wearing a trilby and overcoat, occasionally stopping and chatting with some of the undergraduates. But it was early February, I was hungry, and a freezing drizzle did not encourage socialising in the open.

      You are Charles Thompson, aren’t you?

      Well yes, I am.

      Good. I’ve been told that you have a talent for languages, so far French and German, but apparently you once spoke Malay better than English.

      That really astonished me. How on earth could he have known about the Malay? As you know, Sam, I had spent my very early life in an obscure corner of what had then just become part of Malaysia and had learned Malay while playing with all the local children. Now here I was, just turned eighteen and enjoying my second term at Oxford, and this man knew more about me than anybody other than my mother. Others only knew me as a rather shy, fair-haired, blue-eyed youngster, who rowed for the college and shot target rifle for the university. But I was on my way to dinner in Hall, so I started to edge away; besides, I was rattled.

      I see you are surprised. But before you disappear, I wonder if you would be prepared to sign the Official Secrets Act?

      Now I was thoroughly alarmed. I knew nothing about the Act, but my curiosity was piqued, and I thought I would find out more first. So I asked if the man, who had still not introduced himself, would wait until next day. He could come to my rooms in the morning after my tutorial, but before lunch.

      Once I had sat down to my meal with other members of the boat club, I was oblivious of anything but my hunger. The college offered a special diet to its representative oarsmen: two main courses of meat and a free pint of milk stout, in the hope that this would both build up strength and inspire team spirit.

      One of my friends noticed my pallor and preoccupied behaviour. What’s up, Charlie? You look all discombobulated, he said. When I had explained my encounter outside with the stranger, the whole table started to tease me about how I was probably about to be recruited to inform on all the goings-on in the junior common room and perhaps even on the dons themselves: who had political girlfriends, who knew any MPs, who belonged to the communists, who was sleeping with whom, who – perish the thought – preferred boys.

      Later that evening, my room-mate, John, and I were enjoying a cup of instant coffee and a glass of college port and talking over the stranger’s curious question. John was studying law and looked up the Official Secrets Act in one of his textbooks: basically, it prohibited unauthorised acquisition and distribution of information that might be prejudicial to the security of the country, and it was legally in force. This meant that signing a copy of the Act meant nothing in itself, but was presumably intended as a reminder with a veiled threat attached. While I had an essay to write for my tutorial next day, John went out to the local pub with his girlfriend, Anna, who was one of a fairly large contingent of Swedish girls studying English at some of the language schools in the city. Later, the pair of them returned, and the usual noises of an amorous encounter could be heard through the wall separating our bedrooms.

      You understand, Sam, that it was strictly against the rules to entertain young ladies or anybody else from out of college overnight, and in those days all the Oxford colleges were single-sex. The monastic tradition still applied, even after several hundred years. However, it was well-established that a ten-shilling note – that’s fifty pence to you, Sam – left on the table in the sitting room would be found by the college servant who tidied up, cleaned, washed up and made the beds for the young gentlemen. If he was feeling benevolent, he would knock on the bedroom door and offer tea for two, sir? but, at any rate, he would pocket the money and not report the culprit to the college authorities.

      Next day dawned bright and clear, with a washed-out watery sky and ice visible on the paths and flagstones, and tiny glistening icicles hanging from the bottom of the quadrangle lamps. John and Anna did not put in an appearance, but I forced myself out of bed and went to my meeting with my German tutor, read out my essay and endured the critique that followed, which always made me feel very dim-witted. But as Dr Marks explained, it was all part of training the brain to think and, anyway, I was no more stupid than any of the others doing languages.

      And incidentally, has anybody been chasing you yet to sign the Official Secrets Act? Because you don’t need to be worried about it.

      He did not elaborate on that, but sent me on my way.

      Back in my room with the kettle on for coffee, and with a toasting fork loaded with crumpet held before the electric fire, I waited for the stranger’s arrival. A glance round the room showed that John was up and out, and Anna had left.

      As time passed, I thought perhaps that the man had forgotten, but at a quarter to one there was a knock at the door and there he was, clutching a briefcase from which he extracted a paper which he flourished under my nose.

      Please, Mr. Thompson, if you would just sign at the bottom of each page – after reading it, of course.

      I skimmed through it and duly signed.

      Thank you very much. What follows now is confidential in terms of the Act. Now I can introduce myself: my name is John Smith – I raised an eyebrow at that – "no, don’t laugh, it really is – and I apologise for all the cloak-and-dagger stuff.

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