Peter Ellinger Short Stories

THE BIRTHDAY KID   I             William, whose taxi I booked on special occasions, rang to tell me that he had arrived. With my devoted live-in maid supporting me by holding my left arm and with the walking stick firm in my right hand, I proceeded to our lift. Within a few minutes, Ati and I boarded the fine Mercedes limousine. After another few seconds we left Mandarin Gardens, where I resided, and started the 35 minutes trip to the Gordon Grill in the downtown Goodwood Park Hotel. “Why are you going out on Saturday, Sir? The traffic is heavy.”             “It’s my 93 rd birthday, William. And I want to celebrate it.”               Before long, it was clear that William’s observation proved right. Usually, the trip down Marine Parade takes about five minutes.   But, as we passed the first traf...

  A CALL OF NATURE                When the train approached an underground station in central  London , I felt an urgent call of nature. As I disembarked and left the station, I looked for a facility. A signpost directed me downwards. For a minute I hesitated. A few days earlier, an armed robbery had been carried out in that type of place. Still,    a pressing need forced me to proceed. In any event, my fears were allayed by the sight of an urbane looking London policeman, wearing a helmet, a navy-blue uniform – known as a bobby in those days - strolling with dignified calm through the busy square adjacent to the station. I was further comforted when a casual passer-by muttered to his companion that, usually, two members of the force kept the peace in this place. Could any criminals dare to show their hand just when the city of  London  furnished such excellent guardians for the protection of ...

      THE OLD CLOCK ( DIE ALTE UHR )   I           Nowadays, I can afford to get up at 8.45 a.m. Being fully retired, I no longer need to rise early to get to work on time – a ‘must’ in industrious and conscientious Singapore.   And I can indulge myself. After a quick shower and a hearty breakfast, I   sit   in an armchair, in my comfortable flat on the East Coast,   and admire my   porcelain mantel clock. As she is an antique, I no longer expect the clockwork to tell the time. The spring may snap and damage the case and the rich embellishments. But I derive real pleasure from contemplating her. The clock is crafted in an ornate Rococo style. At her centre is a round dial framed by delicate gilded detailing and Roman numerals, surrounded by lavish sculpted flowers in soft pastel shades of pink, blue, lavender, and cream. The white porcelain case curves gracefully, adorned with intricate...