The Hut by the Hole #writephoto #flashfiction

Sue Vincent’s writephoto prompt this week is this 


The winter of 1962/63 was bitterly cold in north Surrey. The snow first covered the ground in early January and didn’t disappear until March. I was 6 and curious.

Dad made a sled for my brother and me but it saw most use as a means for bringing shopping home. Mum would pull it to the shops and back with we boys, once out of school, trailing in her wake. Sometimes she let us ride along.

The route took us across a busy road where we would often have to wait to cross. On the opposite side of the road someone – the council maybe, or utility company – had dug a hole and put a canvas covered hut over it to keep the weather out and stop people falling in. Occasionally we would see workmen around the hole but mostly it just remained a tented hole.

Some days, coming back from school and if mum had had to do some shopping so we were late it would be getting dark. Sitting outside the hut was a man, perched on a low three-legged stool – a bit like a milking stool – and in front of the man was a metal basket in which he had started a fire. Oh, those beautiful flames, fiery colours dancing against the monochrome world. I was entranced.

Mum understood my fascination. On about the third or fourth occasion she paused by the crossing, oddly since there was no traffic. Instead of pulling the sled home she crossed diagonally to where the man sat. We boys followed.

The man looked up, his eyes moist and bloodshot – looking back he probably drank a lot – and smiled. To my horror, and I think secret delight, he had no teeth. ‘Hello missus.’

‘It’s very cold.’

‘Tis that but this ‘ere fire does for me.’

‘They say it’s going to get worse.’

‘I seen worse. Italy, 43. That were bloody – pardon my French – very cold, missus. Hey young‘un,’ suddenly he was staring at me, ‘you like chestnuts?’

I nodded. My gran roasted them on the fire at home.

To my amazement, the man – he seemed ancient what with his sparse hair and deeply gouged skin – stuck his bemittened hand into the fire and pulled out three blackened nuts. He tossed them between his hands for a few moments before offering them across. I glanced at mum; her nod was all we needed and before you could say ‘chestnuts’ my brother and I were cracking the super warm skin to reveal the delicious sticky sweet centre.

While we ate, luxuriating in the unexpected glory of al fresco food, mum and the man chatted. About the war and his life and why the hole just stayed a hole. ‘It’s them pipes see. Until the temperature increases they can’t be covering them up. Or some such. I ain’t complaining, like. Gives me a job.’ For some reason he found this really funny and began to laugh which turned into a cough which turned into the grossest and greenest globule of phlegm I have ever seen, before or since.

After that we always stopped. Occasionally mum would share a kitkat with him or offer him a biscuit but he seemed suspicious – ‘I ain’t having no charity, missus’ – so mum was careful what she did. One time he wasn’t there, even though his fire was blazing. As we hesitated, wondering if we should just go home he emerged for the hut, buttoning his fly. We boys loved that, giggling about it until mum made it clear we needed to stop.

It became colder, if that was possible and twice school closed. We moved more quickly now, there being no incentive to be outdoors any longer than necessary.

And then, one evening the fire was burning but he wasn’t there. It was the bleakest, coldest day of that winter – minus a lot, they said – and we boys thought he must be relieving himself in the hole. Mum seemed unsure but we didn’t stay. And then, the next morning, the fire basket was still there – he usually emptied it and hid it inside the hut after he went home, in the early hours – with the embers still glowing slightly. As we took in the scene mum began to hurry and then run. We crossed the road rapidly, following her. As we reached the hut she turned, worry embedded into her forehead, ‘Wait there, boys.’

She did her best to stop us seeing but little boys are man’s meercats and we could see what we weren’t meant to. He was lying on the floor, his face a distinct blue and his hair covered in frost. I think both of us knew he was dead.

While mum did whatever she had to do, we spoke in hushed whispers. Had he frozen? Could we melt him on the fire? Should we bury him in the hole? The idea of death, the image of death, it didn’t seem to affect us then. But now, whenever I see a brazier burning, or smell roasting chestnuts, that old gentleman and his hut around a hole comes back to me.

I was reminded of him one day, many years later, when I was with mum. ‘You remember the old guy by the hut? In that cold winter?’

She did. She smiled at the memory. ‘You know, it should have been a tragedy, dying like that, but he often spoke about the mates he lost in the snow and cold of the Italian mountains. Maybe I was being naïve but I always thought he would probably have been happy to go like that, like his chums.’

I hope so.

About TanGental

My name is Geoff Le Pard. Once I was a lawyer; now I am a writer. I've published four books - Dead Flies and Sherry Trifle, My Father and Other Liars, Salisbury Square and Buster & Moo. In addition I have published two anthologies of short stories, Life, in a Grain of Sand and Life in a Flash. More will appear soon, including a memoir of my mother's last years. I will try and continue to blog regularly at about whatever takes my fancy. I hope it does yours too. These are my thoughts and no one else is to blame. If you want to nab anything I post, please acknowledge where it came from.
This entry was posted in #writephoto, creative writing and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

51 Responses to The Hut by the Hole #writephoto #flashfiction

  1. Ritu says:

    This is so sad but sweet at the same time His Geoffleship

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Quietly tragic story, beautifully told, Geoff.

    Liked by 2 people

  3. I expect he was glad to go the way he did. There always seems to be a particular character from our childhood that sticks with us. Mine is an elderly man on an old bicycle who always wore short sleeved shirt, shorts and open sandals, but no socks, regardless of the weather.

    Liked by 2 people

  4. trifflepudling says:

    Oh blimey, that is awful sad. I remember that winter well (we were in Yorkshire) but fortunately nothing like that happened. My lasting memory is of my mother, clad in the fur coat her father had given her, digging the car out of the snow on the town moor. My sister and I had been waiting for her at school and when she didn’t appear we started to walk. She looked like Ratty or Moley in the distance! The Textiliste’s tales of that winter are also interesting, like another world.

    Liked by 1 person

  5. Sue Vincent says:

    I was in Yorksire that winter too and remember being carried to school by my mother who had to wade through the couldn’t walk on it. Lovely story, Geoff. I wonder how many lose their lives to cold, even today?

    Liked by 2 people

  6. This is lovely. Reminds me of the story of My Naughty Little Sister about the workmen so some reason. One of my favourite story memories.

    Liked by 2 people

  7. Sad story, beautifully told, Geoff. I was mesmerized from beginning to end.

    Liked by 1 person

  8. Beautiful. Loved the line ‘I was 6 and curious’ and felt sorry for yr mum carting that sledge about with kids on it!

    Liked by 1 person

  9. jan says:

    I love this story – so beautifully told. “boys are man’s meerkats” – how true! Bravo!

    Liked by 1 person

  10. willowdot21 says:

    This is wonderful Geoff, I can remember both the winter and the the old night watch men who used to guard the holes in the road. With their tents and their braziers….. they are no more ………..

    Liked by 1 person

  11. Truth is so often stranger than fiction. Another aspect of your beguiling mum revealed! Beautifully told Geoff and your line about boys and meerkats will live on……. 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

  12. stevetanham says:

    Very touching, that…

    Liked by 1 person

  13. This is so sad, but saddest to me is dying alone. 😀 ❤

    Liked by 1 person

  14. Well told story of hard life and death. Things like that stick in the memory banks forever.

    Liked by 1 person

  15. Pingback: Photo prompt round-up – Flame #writephoto | Sue Vincent's Daily Echo

  16. A lovely story, Geoff. Even if very sad, you told it very well. I can’t imagine winter’s like that anymore.

    Liked by 1 person

If you would like to reply please do so here

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.