martinsmithstories

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In a quaint, green village there lived a young man whom the local vicar had baptised William Lawrence Field, yet his fellow villagers christened him Luckless Larry. Some may think young William earned such a nickname because of his misfortune at being orphaned when a youth. This was not the case. Others may surmise he’d been bestowed this epithet because the good Lord had short-changed him at birth, leaving him many shillings short of a full quid. Again, not the case, though some called him Silly Willy. No, Luckless Larry was so called because of his misfortune when partaking in his baddest of habits.

A stringy beanstalk of a man, William had a reputation about the village as a young man of many bad habits. In no particular order and with a wanton disregard for the sensitivities of others, William picked his nose with his thumb, chewed with his mouth open and spoke with his mouth full. He coughed without covering his mouth and sneezed without covering his nose or blessing himself. He swore and farted, belched and spat, scratched his bum and cracked his knuckles, ground his teeth and bit his nails and wiped his food-encrusted lips upon his sleeve. William seldom bathed, rarely changed his clothes, let alone his underwear, and never washed and combed his hair. He walked with a slouch, never said please or thank you and never, ever went to church. And none of the villagers could remember seeing him without a cigarette hanging from his lips and a half-drunk pint of beer in his hand.

William was a bachelor, for what woman would wish to marry, let alone live with, a man of such bad habits. He was also a layabout, idle while the rest of the village went about their arduous daily labours, as his dearly departed parents had bequeathed him a minor fortune—enough to put a roof over his head, food in his belly, fire in his hearth and temptation in his wallet.

And so it was that William, armed with his parents’ hard-earned wealth and the need to fill his idle days, took up one bad habit far worse than all his other bad habits combined: a love for a punt. Some would say, why, what man or woman doesn’t mind a little wager, a little flutter, every now and then? But William’s habit was compulsive, all-consuming and, true to the appellation bestowed upon him, luckless. William bet on horse races, cockfights and all manner of sporting events. He played cards, rolled dice and spun roulette wheels. He entered lotteries, fed poker machines and bought raffle tickets; why, he even once took a bet he could beat a goldfish in a game of Blink. And every time he gambled, William would say, ‘This is it!’ And every time he lost, which was every time, he would say, ‘And that was that.’

Late one afternoon, Luckless Larry, for that name is more appropriate for the misfortune that lay ahead for him, sat at his local pub, alone and with dishevelled hair, slouched shoulders and his fortune all but gone. Earlier that day, he had pawned the last of his worldly possessions except the clothes on his spindly frame, and taking up his regular drinking spot at the pub, he set about on a lucky streak at the races. A Pick 6 he took, placing all his cash on the counter. ‘This is it!’ he said. And ‘it’ it was, for his picks cantered across the finish line in first place. One, two, three, four, five races; one, two, three, four, five winners. Just one race, one horse, one winner stood between him and an absolute fortune. And that horse’s name was Lucky Last. If Luckless Larry could will the nag across the line, then no one would call him Luckless Larry; no, it’d be Lucky Willy. And the race was run and won, and true to its name, Luckless Larry’s horse finished a distant last. ‘And that was that,’ Luckless Larry said. He threw his betting slip in the bin and walked towards the exit.

But a jingle in Luckless Larry’s pocket caught his ear, and he reached into his pocket, and—blow him down—he was rich! Well, not broke, anyway, for he pulled out three copper coins. Lucky Willy, he thought as he headed to the bar. Why not shout himself a nightcap to wet the whistle before heading off to search for somewhere dry and warm to sleep? He placed a coin on the bar and said, ‘A pint of your finest, Fergus.’ And the publican obliged. Luckless Larry raised the glass, toasted his good health and good luck and downed the pint. ‘Another, my good man,’ Luckless Larry said, and he smacked his lips and plonked another coin on the bar.

‘Certainly, my Lord,’ Fergus said, picking up a glass and placing it under the beer tap. He looked up at Luckless Larry and smiled as the frothy beer filled the glass. ‘I say, William, would you be interested in buying a ticket in my daughter’s school raffle? It’s being drawn soon.’

Luckless Larry’s ears pricked. ‘A raffle, you say?’

Fergus passed Luckless Larry his pint. ‘Aye.’

Luckless Larry turned his last copper coin in his fingers. ‘How much?’

‘Don’t you want to know about the prizes? First prize is—’

‘How much?’

‘That copper coin in your hand will do.’

‘Done.’

And Luckless Larry handed the coin to Fergus, and the publican handed him a ticket. Luckless Larry carried the ticket and his pint to his table at the back of the room. And there he sat for a good hour, sipping his pint and clutching his lucky ticket and praying that, just this once, Lady Luck settled herself upon his shoulder and whispered in his ear, ‘You’re a winner.’ A win with a nice little pawnable prize would set him up on a hot streak; a loss, and he’d be penniless, homeless, hopeless and—if Fergus didn’t hurry and draw the raffle winner—pintless.

‘Right, you lot,’ Fergus said, ‘a bit of shush.’ A belch came from the end of the bar. ‘Lovely, Sean. Right. Time for the raffle draw. And thank you all for supporting my daughter and her school. Two prizes, two lucky dips. And first prize—free beer for a month—goes to …’

Free pints, Luckless Larry thought. For a whole month. His breath shortened and his palms moistened as he held his ticket at the ready.

Fergus plunged his hand into a glass jar, pulled out a ticket and said, ‘Ticket 015.’

Luckless Larry looked at his ticket. Not 015. And he said, ‘And that was that.’

‘Do we have a winner?’ Fergus said. A belch and a yippee came from the end of the bar, followed by the waving of a ticket. ‘We have a winner. Well done, Sean. I’ll be needing to order a few more barrels, I think.’

The patrons laughed and chinked their glasses.

‘Right. The second prize is a week’s accommodation at The Idyllic Inn, all expenses paid.’

Luckless Larry tightened his grip on his ticket. A roof over his head. For an entire week.

‘And the lucky ticket is … ticket 291.’ And a clap and a cheer came from the table in front of Luckless Larry.

‘And that was that,’ Luckless Larry said as he tore his ticket in half. It was over. He was broke, homeless, and, worst of all, his glass was empty. He stood to leave.

‘Patrons,’ Fergus said, ‘before you all rip up your losing tickets, I’ve added a consolation prize, given the wonderful support provided by you this evening. I won’t tell you what it is. It’s a mystery prize. So, without further ado, the consolation prize goes to … ticket 122.’

Luckless Larry looked at his two ticket halves: S and SI. ‘And that was that was that,’ he said as he ripped the halves into quarters. Hold on, he thought. He placed the quarters on the table, sorted and joined them and turned them over. 122. 122! Good God, 122! He was the winner. That wasn’t that. That was it. It! He’d won the consolation prize, the mystery prize. He gathered the ticket pieces and rushed over to the bar. ‘Fergus. It’s me. I’m the winner.’

‘Congratulations, William,’ Fergus said. ‘I’ll just go out back and get your prize.’ And Fergus disappeared through the kitchen door.

Luckless Larry shook with excitement and anticipation. What could it be, this mystery prize? Money? A weekend away? A dozen free pints? His breath shortened when Fergus re-entered and, with a beaming grin, placed the mystery prize on the bar in front of Luckless Larry.

Luckless Larry looked down at a small silver can.

‘What’s that?’ he said.

‘The consolation prize. And now no longer a mystery. Enjoy.’ And Fergus resumed wiping the bar.

Luckless Larry picked up the can and read the label: Three Bean Mix.

‘And that was that,’ he said.

***

Luckless Larry wandered about the village later that night in search of a bed, but again his luck failed him until he came upon and entered an abandoned barn. He lit a small fire and settled himself upon a bed of straw. ‘Lucky me,’ he said. ‘A roof over my head and a cosy fire at my feet. All I need now is dinner.’ He pulled the can of Three Bean Mix from his pocket and ripped off the pull-top. He looked inside the can and sighed in disappointment as the can contained but three beans, each of a different hue: silver, white and gold.

‘Oh well, bottoms up,’ he said.

He poured the contents of the can into his mouth. The three beans slid past his tongue and down his throat as he swallowed. He smacked his lips and said, ‘And that was—’ But to his feet he shot, and grabbing his throat, he gagged and coughed and choked. His eyes watered and his nose dripped and his face paled. With his stomach spasming and his breath shortening, he staggered to the entrance of the barn, pushed open the door, stuck his head out and released an almighty barf. When finished, he staggered back to his bed of straw and collapsed into a fitful sleep.

All night, Luckless Larry tossed and turned. Outside, the wind howled, the rain poured and the barn groaned. And he prayed that long night for his luck to change.

Next morning, Luckless Larry staggered outside the barn, bleary-eyed and buggered. And his eyes widened and whitened and his mouth gaped, for before him stood three beanstalks: one silver, one white and one gold.

Despite Luckless Larry being the most uneducated man in the village, he knew his fairy tales, and as he shaded his eyes and followed the beanstalks up into the sky, he knew he’d hit the jackpot. Beanstalks meant booty. Lots of booty. Just ask that Jack fellow. And he, poor chap, only had one stalk to climb, whereas he, Lucky Willy, was spoilt for choice. But which beanstalk to climb? Silver, white or gold? Well, why not take the words of wisdom of those tale-telling old wives? He vaguely recollected them suggesting that when taking a multiple-choice quiz, if in doubt, pick B. Well, if it was good enough for the old girls, it was good enough for him. ‘B it is,’ Luckless Larry said. He stepped forward, placed a foot on the lowest frond of the white beanstalk and said, ‘This is it!’

Up he climbed, higher than the barn roof, higher than the larks in dawn song, higher than the wispy morning cloud, until the beanstalk thinned, and Luckless Larry stepped out onto a meadow covered in snow of the purest white. Before Luckless Larry wound a white path leading to a pair of white doors guarding a white castle.

Luckless Larry followed the path until he arrived at the doors. He pushed them open and gasped, not only because a blast of ice-cold air rushed past him and chilled him to the bone but also because he stood at the entrance to a grand hall, and at the other end of the hall stood a majestic white throne, and upon the throne sat an old, stooped woman dressed in a regal white robe.

‘Enter,’ the old woman said with a frail voice, and she beckoned Luckless Larry forward with a feeble wave. He accepted the invitation and walked the length of the great hall until he stood before the throne. Icicles hung from the woman’s outstretched fingers, upon which glittered many fine jewels.

‘Welcome, Chosen One. I am the Snow Queen.’

Up close, Luckless Larry realised the woman was not old. No, she was ancient, with snow-white hair, a pallid and wrinkled face and icy blue eyes. As she spoke, her words vaporised into the dark, chilled air of the grand hall.

Luckless Larry shivered. The old girl must be a tad tight, he thought, what with all her bling and glam rags, not to fork out for decent heating.

‘Hello,’ Luckless Larry said.

‘I have waited all my life for you, Chosen One, to open that can of Three Bean Mix. A lifetime. How my bones ache! How my hands numb! How chilblains curse my being! I’ve spent a lifetime freezing my royal arse off. You’d think Fergus could have dished up a good chilli con carne or minestrone soup as a counter meal. But no, not old Fergus. He just kept on serving bangers and mash or, when being creative in the kitchen, mash and bangers. And that can of Three Bean Mix sat there in his larder, gathering dust as it had long passed its use-by-date. But now, thanks to a little tampering with that raffle by yours truly, the can has fulfilled its destiny and delivered the Chosen One. Come, what name do you go by?’

‘William.’

‘Ah, William. Lucky Will. Here to collect his prize.’

‘My prize?’

‘Why, yes, you don’t think you climbed all the way up here just to enjoy the view?’

His prize! He knew it. Winning that consolation prize had changed his luck. The streak had begun.

‘What is my prize, Snow Queen?’ he said. What was she going to give him? A castle? With dungeons full of jewels? And kitchens full of gastronomical delights? Maybe even the hand in marriage of a princess with a rich dad on his last legs?

The Snow Queen waved a rickety wand with her gnarled hand and said, ‘Behold, your prize.’

And before Luckless Larry appeared a yellow duck. The duck released a befuddled honk that suggested it was more than a little confused about having been whisked away from wading in a tranquil, blue pond bathed in warm sunshine to be standing shivering in a cold, dark hall.

A bloody duck! Luckless Larry thought. That’s a tad disappointing. Not quite what he’d hoped for, but, hey, beggars can’t be choosers. Besides, who hadn’t won the meat tray at the pub and not gone home with a swagger in their step?

‘Umm, well, thanks for the duck, Snow Queen.’

‘No, not a duck, Chosen One. Before you stands a goose. A golden goose.’

The duck released a second befuddled honk, suggesting that going from being a white drake wading in a tranquil, blue pond bathed in warm sunshine to being a goose—a golden goose, no less—standing between an ice queen and a beanstalk of a man was even more confusing.

‘Treat her kindly,’ the Snow Queen continued, ‘and she shall reward thee well. For her true worth lies within. Each morning, she shall bless you with prosperity.’

Mmm, Luckless Larry thought, goose eggs. Poached on a bit of toast every morning sounded like a pleasant way to start the day. Things were looking up.

‘And now, having completed my task, I bid you farewell, Chosen One. I seek warmer climes to thaw out these chilled bones of mine. Enjoy your prosperity.’ And with a click of her fingers and a swish of her robe, she disappeared.

Down, down Luckless Larry climbed, and all the while the goose honk-honked under Luckless Larry’s arm. Below the wispy clouds Luckless Larry descended, below the larks settling in the treetops at sunset, and below the barn roof until he set foot on the ground outside the barn.

He relit his fire and searched the barn until he found an old and rusty iron pot. ‘Perfect for cooking tomorrow morning’s breakfast,’ he said as he rigged the pot beside the licking flames. The goose snuggled her head under her wing, and Luckless Larry bedded down under his coat, and soon they were asleep.

But Luckless Larry soon woke. Having not eaten that day and in eager anticipation of the egged feast that awaited him at daybreak, his mouth salivated and his stomach groaned. ‘Patience, William, patience,’ he said. Again he settled, but fitfully he slept until again he woke—still hungry, but now also cold, for the fire had died to glowing embers. Luckless Larry added a log to the fire and stoked it, before pulling up the collar of his coat and settling a little closer to the fire.

Again, Luckless Larry slept fitfully, only to be woken by a loud honk. He looked over at the goose. Her eyes were wide and white, suggesting what was occurring within her nether regions was not quite what he, as a drake, had dreamt about when blissfully wading about the pond. ‘Honk, honk,’ she moaned. She placed her wings upon her belly and began a series of short, shallow breaths. ‘Honk, honk,’ she groaned.

‘Ah, breakfast is on its way,’ Luckless Larry said, and he settled again upon his bed of straw.

But no sleep, not even fitful, came to Luckless Larry, for on and on the goose honked. And what with the honking and the biting cold and his hunger pangs, Luckless Larry’s only wish was for dawn’s rays to shine upon the barn so the goose’s honking would cease, and he could sit beside a roaring, bone-warming fire and fill his stomach with the poached produce of his golden goose.

But dawn was a laggard and delayed its arrival, and on and on the goose honked. Never had a bird writhed in such pain nor honked in such agony to lay an egg. She lost all dignity, all composure and all pride to her oviparous labours.

On and on the goose honked. Luckless Larry tossed and turned. On and on the goose honked. Luckless Larry cussed and cursed. On and on the goose honked. ‘For goodness’ sake!’ Luckless Larry shouted at the goose. ‘It can’t be that bad. It’s not as if you’ve got Drake flu or something.’ But on and on the goose honked. Luckless Larry placed his hands over his ears. On and on the goose honked. Luckless Larry stuffed straw in his ears. On and on the goose honked.

‘Enough!’ Luckless Larry said, and he grabbed the bird, wrung its neck, and within an hour he was licking his greasy fingers, having devoured the last of the cooked goose.

‘And that was that,’ Luckless Larry said, and with a full stomach, warm toes and blissful silence, he settled into a deep sleep.