JG's Pages for Poets 

( and the occasional prose)

Page No S17

A Short Story by GORDON LINNELL

MRS McRUNT GOES TO THE CINEMA

        Mrs McRunt’s neighbours, the Cornplasters, who lived on the other side of town, were a quite ordinary couple.  Mr Cornplaster, for example, spent many happy hours standing in his half-filled wheelie bin, his pig-tailed head draped in old banana skins, singing arias from Donizetti and Rossini and wolf-whistling provocatively at any passing French poodles.  His main hobby was collecting his beloved wife’s toenail clippings which he stored in a 1958 milk bottle in the attic.  He had quite a collection now and he would often climb up to the top of the house to sit and gaze for blissful hours on his prized hoard.

        For her part Mrs Cornplaster liked to think she had perfect poise when she walked through town.  She would pile half a pound of liquorice allsorts on top of her head before she began her promenade and if one of them should happen to fall off as she went along she would punish herself by taking a grilled kipper from her magenta Tahitian handbag and administering an almighty smack across her face, screaming out “You stupid bitch!” as she did so.

        Poor Mrs Cornplaster’s eyesight was not what it had been and she wore glass-free spectacles now to aid her vision.

        “I’m so glad I got these glasses,” she confided one day to her husband as she sat reflectively on their toilet, “they’re worth their weight in gold!”

        The Cornplasters had heard of the demise of Mrs McRunt’s apple and, being kind-hearted, determined to help their friend.  One day they knocked on Mrs McRunt’s door and presented her with a kiwi fruit.

       “We know it can never replace your apple,” said Mrs Cornplaster, “but we hope you like it.”

        From the first moment that Mrs McRunt set eyes on the kiwi fruit her heart was captured.  She felt a shiver of excitement run through her as she ran her finger over its rough, furry surface.

        “Ooh, you’re lovely, you are,” she swooned, “you’re coming to the bathroom with me!”

        Mrs McRunt ran the shower and took off her Egyptian Army uniform.  Stepping under the strong jet of American cream soda, she held the new love of her life against her cheek, tingling as its thrilling furriness ran over her skin.  Soon her whole body was rejoicing in the sensation as the rough fruit touched every inch of her nakedness.  Mrs McRunt had never known such joy.

        “Ooh! She exclaimed, “Ooh, my clever, clever kiwi!”

        Back downstairs Mrs McRunt announced breathlessly, “We’re going to the pictures tomorrow night, just the two of us!”

        And so the following evening Mrs McRunt and the kiwi fruit arrived at the Gaumont box-office.  This week an aristocratic romantic comedy was showing.  The film, set in Barnsley, starred Hopalong Cassidy and Brigitte Bardot.

        “Two seats on the back row, please,” said Mrs McRunt.  The girl in the box-office looked in vain for a second person.

        “Did you say two tickets?” Mrs McRunt showed her her kiwi fruit.

        “I certainly did,” she replied.  The girl took the money and gave the tickets.  She understood perfectly now and even had the temerity to wink at Mrs McRunt who grinned sheepishly and trotted off to the auditorium holding her fruit cupped gently in her left hand.

        She sat down on the back row and placed her kiwi fruit on the seat next to her, looking down fondly on it before raising her eyes to watch the screen.  Soon Hopalong and Brigitte were kissing passionately.  A Hottentot couple occupying the seats immediately in front of Mrs McRunt began to follow suit. Suddenly emboldened Mrs McRunt took hold of her kiwi fruit and drew its now so very familiar skin near her mouth.  She kissed it tenderly, sighing with contentment.  She had never been so happy in her life.

        “I love you, kiwi,” she whispered, “I adore you.”

        All at once the atmosphere of romantic love was shattered.  A man was shouting behind her,

        ‘Let me in! I’ll teach that woman a lesson!’

        Mrs McRunt, horror-struck, recognised the voice and there he was, snatching the fruit from her – Mr McRunt, her betrayed husband!

        “You Jezebel! he roared.

        “Kiwi!” screamed Mrs McRunt, “My love!” Too late.  Mr McRunt hurled Kiwi mercilessly at the screen and the hapless fruit splattered into the backside of Hopalong’s horse.  The startled animal promptly deposited his bewildered rider in the Barnsley high street and galloped off into the Yorkshire Dales.

        Then Mrs McRunt felt herself being dragged out of the cinema, down the street and back into her house.

        “How long has this been going on? her husband shouted furiously, “How long?”

        “Kiwi came into my life yesterday.  He was a gift from the Cornplasters.  And now you’ve murdered him!”

        “And if I catch you again with any item of fruit I might just murder you, too!”

        Mrs McRunt collapsed to the floor in paroxysms of grief.  Her husband retired to the Polynesian gazebo at the end of the garden and made glorious love to a luscious Bengali pineapple.

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