Caroline Deacon
Journalist and author based in Scotland, UK

Short story

Cliché

“How’s that sister of yours getting along now Jack?”
Jack was sipping his lunchtime pint, making it last. He slowly lowered the glass onto the bar, deliberating. He was frequently asked for anecdotes about his lottery-winning family and wanted to savour his celebrity status.

“Well they are definitely divorcing now... The only thing left to fight over is the car, what with the house being `Closed’ on them, or whatever they call it.”

Jack’s sister Sheila and her husband Bob, hadn’t become millionaires, but had received a large cash prize for selecting five out of six winning numbers. However, the sudden influx of capital unsettled a long, shared life of penny pinching. The first arguments had been about who had actually chosen the lucky combination and was therefore entitled to spend the winnings. Later, as a sort of winners’ madness seized them, money had poured out of their account almost faster than it had gone in.

“Doris agrees with me that money just doesn’t buy happiness.” Initially Jack had felt bitter when none of the fortune came their way, but now he felt they were better off without it. Certainly the thrill of playing the lottery had palled, indeed they often forgot to pop into Woolies with their slips.

Around 2pm, as was his habit, Jack’s thoughts turned to the afternoon tasks in his small garden, and he made to take leave of the Rose and Crown. He’d not missed a day in thirty years, yet still took pleasure in swinging the heavy doors on the gloomy interior. Folks came and went, but the regulars knew what to expect. Drink - bitter, or occasionally Guinness, and conversation - the weather and gardening.

Today, however, Jack was delayed as Bill Noakes began to inform the world at large that the early spring had done marvellous things to his marrows. Before the story of the lottery win, Bill’s gardening anecdotes had held centre stage at the pub. His garden won prizes at county level, and this, together with his newly installed D.I.Y meteorological equipment, had given him the edge. Jack, whose garden had been runner up to Bill’s on previous occasions, was trying to think of a suitably witty put-down, but as usual, he failed to come up with anything better than pretending not to hear him, and miserably made his exit.

He was still fuming as he made his way to the potting shed to start work. Poking in the back for dahlia stakes and trying to find last year’s netting to cover up the ripening blackcurrants, he noticed a small, very discoloured metal can. It was too small to be a watering can. Puzzled, he fished it out. After staring for a moment trying to place it, he began rubbing vigorously at the tarnish with his sleeve. Just as the unmistakable shine of brass began to appear, a puff of smoke made him jump and draw breath. Inhaling the smoke, a coughing spasm gripped him.

“Oh I am dreadfully sorry. This happens every time, you know. Oh dear, oh my, are you all right?”

Jack struggled to regain his breath. He peered through watering eyes and clearing smoke to see who had spoken. He found a slight gentleman, sporting a pointed goatee beard such as Bill the retired maths teacher at the Rose and Crown proudly wore. Jack stepped back, knocking over the neat pile of empty flower pots and saw the rest of the attire. Definitely not Rose and Crown material: shiny, rather lurid colours, strangely cut, and held up at the waist with what appeared to be a sash.

Jack stared, astonished. The stranger drew himself up to his full height (about 5ft 2ins)  and tried to sound majestic. “I am the sprite of the can, and I can grant you one wish.”
“Go on, a genie?!” Jack continued to gape.

The gentleman deflated and adopted his original, slightly petulant tone. “No, not a genie, a
sprite. Genies live in much grander accommodation, if they exist at all, which I doubt.
Anyway, you can have one wish....”

“Don’t you mean three...?”

The sprite looked peeved. “Rumours get around, things get exaggerated, and before you know where you are, people aren’t happy with your services. Three indeed! It’s always been one, and always will be one. You are all so greedy! Roll on 2010, that’s all I can say!”

Jack looked interested. “Why, what’s going to happen then?”

The sprite looked coy. “No... I’ve said too much already. That’s the drawback of being cooped up in these bottles, you do get starved for conversation, I must admit.” Here he looked rather disparagingly at Jack. “Well, what will it be? Do you want to be wealthy beyond your wildest dreams? That’s dead easy these days with the Pools.”

Jack shuddered as he thought of Sheila and Bob. “No, no lottery wins thank you...”

The sprite interrupted to ask what the lottery was. It seemed he had not been let out for
sometime, and had missed this latest development.

“How about marrying the most beautiful woman in the world? I can help you by arranging a meeting, and getting her to fancy you dreadfully for a few hours. That’s as far as I can go. It used to work really well, but nowadays, with these quick divorces and sex before marriage, you’ve got to be able to follow it up with something yourself. I mean, look at Elizabeth Taylor. I’ve helped a few unlikely characters there, but they just didn’t have the staying power.”

Jack considered exchanging Doris for Liz Hurley. He doubted his ability to oust other suitors even with supernatural help, and decided to stick with what he knew in that department.

“I’m not sure I want anything... What about ending all wars?” he queried.

The sprite assessed Jack more favourably. “Now that would be a good one. Unfortunately, I’ve only got limited powers. I can’t interfere with the world at large, with natural laws. I can’t say, change the weather.”

A thought struck Jack. He didn’t often get good ideas, but this time he felt he was onto something. “How about making me able to predict the weather? That would help the gardening, apart from giving me real clout at the Rose and Crown.”

The sprite considered Jack with renewed contempt. “Is that all? I mean, here is the
opportunity of a lifetime, and you just want to know what the weather is going to do?” As Jack nodded his agreement, the sprite snorted and disappeared.

Jack wondered if he had dozed off and dreamt the whole episode in a post-Rose and Crown stupor. “Probably too much beer and not enough food.. still I’d better get some strong stakes on those dahlias with the winds tomorrow.”

He stopped, realising the implications of that thought. Yes, he knew without a doubt that there would be strong winds tomorrow. He knew it absolutely. He felt he’d always known it, yet he realised that he had not possessed this skill an hour ago.

           *************************************************

The following year, Jack was really miserable. His garden had improved with very little effort since the sprite’s visit. He knew precisely what to plant and most importantly, when. He no longer lost anything to the vagaries of the British weather. The tiny plot was the most outstanding in the district and really had no room for improvement. If he wanted, he could spend most of his day at the pub. However, since he had won nearly all the prizes at the garden show, he discovered a rather unpleasant fact about his neighbours. They didn’t like a winner. They favoured the underdog in everything, and in his village there were now plenty of underdogs.

No one wanted to discuss gardening with him, and the other great topic - the weather - seemed closed to him too. If there was one person his neighbours hated more than a winner, it was the know-all. Conversations about the weather were no fun with someone who always seemed to know exactly what was going to happen. Conversely, since Jack had known what to expect, he had found the national pastime, weather prediction, acutely boring. He was now a very lonely know-all who was beginning to irritate his wife by constantly getting `under her feet’ at home.

        ****************************************************

Once again, he was fruitlessly searching the potting shed for the brass can. He tried rubbing other bottles in the vain hope of finding some being who could help in his predicament. Just then, he saw Doris marching up the garden, followed by two men with large cameras slung over their shoulders.

“These gents are from the press - they want to talk to you about your weather predictions.” she explained.

Not wanting to discuss genies, sprites or any other dubious topic with the tabloids, Jack fobbed them off with vague talk of twinges in knees and swallows. As good newsmen, they could sense Jack was holding back, but could get no further. They departed reluctantly, muttering to each other. Jack heard one of them say “That guy could make a fortune if he really can predict the weather”.

The thought was lost as he found Doris waiting for him. “What’s all this about - how do you suddenly know what the weather is going to do? I mean, you always know these days when I should hang the washing out - what’s going on?”

It was with a feeling of relief, of a problem shared, that Jack unburdened himself to his wife of 30 years. He explained about the sprite, and why he had chosen his wish, and how miserable he had been ever since.

“You did what...?” Doris gasped in disbelief. “Do you mean to stand there and tell me that you passed up the chance for us to be rich, really rich, because of Sheila and her petty problems, and instead you wanted to know what was going to happen to your beastly garden?!”

Jack could see that perhaps he had misjudged his wife slightly. Maybe she wouldn’t be the confidante he had hoped for. That feeling was confirmed when he saw her storm into the car and screech down the drive, destination unknown. He did, however, know that she would be rained on later that afternoon.