Story Time

I don't just write poetry, but like Rudyard Kipling, I write stories as well....... 

Little ones that are mostly for the entertainment of my friends and family, but also to entertain anybody else who might like my quirky tales. I offer one below for your enjoyment. 

Happy reading!

OLD MR STEPHENSON

  

As a small child, I can remember old Mr Stephenson sitting every day in his rocking-chair on the front verandah of his cottage. Incessantly rocking, and puffing on his pipe in the morning sun, he was definitely what you would call a local icon.

I would trot past the cottage on the way to school each day and call out to him as I passed, "Good morning Mr Stephenson!"

Upon hearing my greeting, he would rock even harder, puff even more furiously, raise an arm in a friendly wave and call in return, "Grmph, grack, urgle, ahhh!"

I never worked out what he actually said, but presumed that it was a polite, adult greeting of some sort. I would wave back and smile, then hurry on by.

The aromatic smell of his pipe tobacco would follow me all the way to school.

Thirty years later I happened to be back in the place of my childhood, visiting relatives who still lived there, when I decided to take a walk down our old street. There was our old weatherboard house looking quite smart with a new coat of paint, and just along the road, the cottage with old Mr Stephenson still rocking and puffing away at his pipe on the front verandah.

Hey! Hold on a moment.

Mr Stephenson still puffing?

But that was all of thirty years ago and he was an old man then.

He should have been dead and buried by now, but here he was, large as life, rocking away in a cloud of aromatic smoke the same as ever.

It was all quite impossible of course, and being an adult with adult curiosity, I decided to tackle this growing mystery head-on.

I vaulted the low picket fence and strode briskly up the short path and onto the verandah where the old man rhythmically rocked and puffed his pipe.

"Mr Stephenson," I said, but the old man just ignored me and carried on puffing and rocking.

I called his name again and once more there was no response.

I moved around until I was in his field of view, and it was at that point that I realized that he was not a living being! I leaned forward to take a closer look. His face and hands were painted metal.

A mechanical man!

"He's quite old, you know."

The voice behind me caused me to jerk upright in surprise.

" He'll be one hundred and forty-nine years old next week," the soft female voice continued.

I turned around.

She was beautiful. I could feel my face getting hotter and hotter as I held her gaze. I stammered as I tried to introduce myself but was failing miserably. I didn't know where to look or what to say.

She laughed lightly and said, "Sit down and I'll get you a cold drink. It is rather a warm day."

Corny as it sounds, it was love at first sight, and feelings, as it turned out, were mutual.

She came back with a frosty glass of lemon cordial, handed it to me and then sat down beside me on the verandah steps and told the story of old Mr Stephenson.

The family was actually related to George Stephenson, the designer of Rocket, the world's first passenger train steam locomotive. The old tin man was steam powered and gas fired. He was also topped up daily with pipe tobacco.

He was made in honour of George and his son Robert, who also designed steam locomotives.

The big rock in the front garden disguised a parabolic mechanical ear which, when sounds within human voice range were detected, would trigger old Mr Stephenson's pre-programmed cams and levers which caused him to further animate with a friendly wave and verbal greeting.

Ha! Mystery solved, or was it?

Two weeks after we met, I proposed marriage to Judith Stephenson on the front verandah.

Just as she said, " Yes, oh yes," old Mr Stephenson started to rock faster and turned his painted metal features towards us.

We both witnessed him give a large, slow wink and then chortle through his pipe smoke,   "Grmph, grack, urgle, ahh!"

He laboriously turned his head back and continued to rock at his usual pace.

To this day nobody has ever seen old Mr Stephenson do anything like that again. He just sits and rocks on the front verandah, smoking his pipe and occasionally returning the greetings from someone in the street.

-end-