Author John Foley has produced a new short story. Foley has written and voiced more than 600 radio and educational programs for the BBC, and has produced more than 100 audiobooks. This creative man considers himself an actor first, and once called Nebraska home. Read more about Foley's background in our October 2020 feature here.
Enjoy this short story, "The Umbrella's Tale," written by John Foley in early 2021:
The Umbrella’s Tale
It was my first day in the window. Newly-made the week before, I had arrived that morning at the London shop sheathed in plastic. With my ebony handle and dark grey colouring I thought myself as handsome as anyone with taste could wish for.
A red, green and black tartan umbrella in the display to my left was the first to address me, in an accent I’d never heard before: ‘Och, you’re distinguished.’ ‘Thank you.’
‘Huh!’ scoffed a pale green and beige umbrella to my right. ‘Distinguishedly dull, if you ask me.’
‘No one did,’ said a bright green from the row above.
‘What’s “dull”?’ I asked. Fresh from the northern factory my knowledge was limited. While I was beginning to understand (or at least to guess) the meaning of some words and phrases, there were many others I didn’t, and ‘dull’ was one of them. ‘Dull is boring, like you,’ said the green and beige.
‘Take no notice, laddie,’ said the tartan. ‘He’s forever the grrrump because he’s not a parasol.’
Another new word. ‘A what?’
‘Parasol,’ said the grump. ‘Don’t they teach you anything nowadays?’ ‘Many years ago,’ the green explained, ‘there were two types of us: “parasols”, that’s French “for sun”, and “parapluies”, also French, but “for rain”. ‘I had no idea.’
‘Hardly surprising. No one has parasols anymore.’
‘Well, they should!’ cried the grump.
‘But now that I mention it,’ said the green, ‘ours is a rich and interesting history. It began a long, long time ago in China…’
‘Ohh,’ groaned the grump. Clearly he’d heard it all before.
Ignoring him, the green continued. I was fascinated as he detailed the centuries of culture and innovation. I wanted to ask questions (not least, ‘how do you know all this?’), but dared not interrupt.
‘… which brings me to the present day,’ said the green eventually. ‘About time, too,’ said the grump.
‘Even without parasols, there are all sorts here, and more to some of us than meets the eye.’
‘Take me, for instance–’ began the tartan, his accent now thicker than before. ‘Do we have to?’ said the grump.
‘Take me, for instance,’ the tartan repeated: ‘I am of the Clan MacDonald.’ Here was a word I recognised (I’d heard it often enough at the factory). ‘Ah, yes. Of the hamburgers.’
There was a snort of disgust from the tartan, a snigger from several others, and a triumphant ‘Ha! That’s telling you!’ from the grump.
‘Oh, did I say something wrong?’
‘You certainly did,’ said the tartan huffily.
‘I only meant–’
‘Probably best to say no more,’ said the green. ‘He’s very sensitive about his heritage.’
‘Too sensitive, if you ask me,’ muttered the grump.
‘We didn’t!’ said the green and the tartan together.
I kept quiet. Being an umbrella was a lot more complicated than I’d expected. Sensing my embarrassment, the green explained: ‘This is not just any old brolly shop, you know.’
‘He’ll be telling you next we’re “by appointment”,’ said the grump. ‘And so we are,’ said the tartan proudly.
‘By what?’ I asked.
‘“Appointment”,’ said the green. ‘We were once favoured by a royal personage.’ ‘Only a minor royal,’ sniffed the grump. ‘And foreign at that.’
‘Misery bucket,’ said a maroon umbrella from the end of the row. ‘Can’t you ever say anything nice?’
‘It’s all right for you lot. You like rain,’ said the grump. ‘I don’t. To be needed only in foul weather, all cold and wet. So undignified. And as for funerals. Ohhh!’ Yet another new word. ‘What’s funerals?’ It took some explanation but once I understood I said: ‘I don’t like the sound of them at all.’
‘Part of our duty, laddie,’ said the tartan.
‘Even I might be called on to do that,’ said the maroon with a shudder. ‘We all have to do that at some time or another,’ said the green.
‘Parasols don’t,’ the grump protested. ‘Oh, to be out in the sun, shielding a pretty girl’s head. Is that too much to ask?’ And now he burst into loud sobs.
‘Pull yourself together,’ snapped the tartan. ‘Making a spectacle like that. Most unseemly.’
I was about to ask what ‘spectacle’ meant when there was a commotion in the street outside. It was raining (I’d never seen rain before) and people were hurrying to escape.
‘At last,’ said the green. ‘Now perhaps we’ll get some customers.’
The rain in fact brought five customers, all of whom bought umbrellas from various parts of the shop, but none from the window display.
‘That’s the trouble with being stuck here,’ said the maroon. ‘Everybody sees us but nobody buys us.’
These were the first customers since I arrived, and I watched them with interest opening their purchases almost before they were back out through the door. One young woman in particular caught my attention as she struggled with the release button on her umbrella. Finally it sprang open to reveal a transparent dome with a red polka dot design.
‘Oh, that’s pretty,’ I said, using one of my new words.
‘Frightfully vulgar, if you ask me,’ said the grump.
For once no one contradicted him.
I was puzzled by ‘vulgar’ but it didn’t sound good. ‘Pretty’, on the other hand, had a much more pleasant ring to it.
‘Quite apart from the dots,’ the grump continued, ‘it’s plastic. Foreign, no doubt. How standards have fallen. It would never have been allowed in the old days.’ ‘So what’s “pretty” then?’ I asked.
Eager to show off his knowledge, the green replied: ‘They say that “pretty”, like “beautiful”, is in the eye of the beholder.’
‘Oh,’ I said (none the wiser).
The grump gave a snort: ‘Fat lot you know.’
‘More than you ever will,’ said the tartan. And thus began an argument that continued for the rest of the afternoon and into the evening.
Unfortunately, umbrellas don’t sleep, and over the next two weeks I had to listen to constant bickering, especially between the grump and the tartan. ‘Is it always like this?’ I wondered, and ‘Will I ever get out of here?’ Then a worse thought struck me. If and when I made it into the outside world, what would it be like? My companions in the display had their differences, but on one thing they were all agreed: ‘humans, young and old, are careless’. And as for the stories they told!
‘But how do you know all this?’ I asked.
‘From those brought back for repairs,’ said the maroon. ‘We had one last month. Top of the range he was, but in such a pitiful state.’
‘Seven funerals in less than a year,’ the green remembered. ‘Five in the rain–’ ‘And one in a storm,’ said the maroon. ‘Talk about battered.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘He came in, was repaired, went out again.’
‘Aye, to more rainy funerals.’
‘Ohhh, that word again.’ I was now thoroughly disheartened.
‘If that’s your lot in life,’ said the green, ‘that’s your lot. You just have to bear it.’ I didn’t think I could bear it. I began to dread the outside world. Would I end up in a litterbin, torn inside out by gusts of wind? Or abandoned on a bus or park bench, then doomed to spend weeks, months, possibly forever, in a dusty lost property office? I shivered and shook with the appalling possibilities, and more than once started to cry out, ‘Why was I made an umbrella?’ Just in time I stopped myself, ashamed, embarrassed (and wary, too, of ‘Pull yourself together!’ from the tartan who still hadn’t forgiven me for the hamburger insult).
Such were my fears in my unhappiest moments. However, apart from the bickering and tales of woe, life in the window and in the street outside was quiet. It was the height of summer: dry, stuffily hot (what the shop manager described as a ‘heatwave’), and business was slow.
‘Serves ’em right for not selling parasols,’ complained the grump. ‘Give us a brrreak!’ said the tartan.
‘Uh-oh, here we go again,’ I thought. And yes, once again they started arguing. Shortly before closing time towards the end of the second week of the heatwave (and with business almost non-existent) the manager decided to change the window display. Scarcely were we all removed and placed on the counter than there was a brilliant flash of light in the street and immediately after that a deafening bang. ‘What’s that?’ I cried.
‘English weather,’ moaned the grump. ‘Typical.’
Rain began to fall even more heavily than the time before, and with it came more flashes and bursts of noise. Once again the sudden downpour brought customers, among them a smartly-suited gentleman and a young girl.
‘Most inclement, sir,’ said the manager by way of welcome. ‘The change in the weather.’
‘Indeed,’ the man replied. Being of few words he came straight to the counter, examined me briefly and said: ‘This’ll do.’
Held in the man’s hand I was able for the first time to see the rest of the shop, and in particular a colourful display on the far wall where the girl was inspecting a polka dot design like the plastic one the young woman had bought during the previous rainstorm. ‘Not that one,’ I cried. ‘It’s vulgar.’ And then (red being my favourite colour): ‘Take the red one next to it!’
Did the girl hear me? Impossible. And yet she put back the polka dot and picked up the red one. She was about to open it when the man stopped her. ‘No, no, Elspeth. It’s bad luck to open an umbrella indoors.’
‘Allow me, miss,’ said the manager. ‘If one can’t unfurl in a brolly shop, where can one?’ So saying, he took the umbrella, clicked the release button, and it sprang open. It was definitely not plastic; nor was it just red as I’d supposed, but blue and green and yellow and purple and other colours, too, and when I saw the rainbow effect in all its glory I gasped: ‘Oh my!’ And my heart (such as it is) leapt. Elspeth gasped, too, but the man was not impressed.
‘A trifle bright, don’t you think?’ he said.
‘Oh yes, but I love it.’
And she did, and I loved her for it. More than that, I loved the rainbow umbrella, which I felt to be the prettiest – no, the most beautiful – sight ever. ‘Can I have it, Daddy?’ asked the girl. ‘Can I?’
‘If you’re sure that’s what–’
‘It is. It is!’
‘Very well. But I expect you to take better care of it than the last one.’ ‘The last one?’ I thought. ‘What on earth happened to the last one?’ ‘We’ll take them both,’ the father told the manager.
‘Very good, sir. And may I say, miss, an excellent choice on your part. One of my favourites. Now would you like me to wrap them or will you carry as is?’ ‘I think in the circumstances we need to–’ the father began.
‘I believe you’ll find the weather has changed for the better, sir,’ said the manager, gesturing towards the rain-speckled window and the street, now bright again in the summer sun.
‘Typical,’ sighed the father, and for a moment it seemed as if he might cancel the purchase.
‘Oh, don’t cancel,’ I cried. ‘Please don’t.’
The man couldn’t hear me of course, but he didn’t change his mind and while Elspeth clutched her rainbow he took out his wallet and handed over some paper. ‘We’ll carry them,’ he said. ‘Just in case.’
‘Very wise, sir,’ said the manager.
When the transaction was complete the man turned to his daughter: ‘We’d better hurry if we’re to make that train.’
For the rest of that afternoon I was in a whirl – first in a taxi to the station and next in a train, where I found myself dumped in an overhead luggage rack in the first class carriage. I had hoped the rainbow would join me there, but Elspeth insisted on holding her new best friend, so I had to be content with watching as she twirled it backwards and forwards, until her father said: ‘Don’t fidget so.’
‘Sorry.’ But then she said: ‘Polly.’
‘Polly?’ he asked.
‘Polly the brolly,’ she replied, as if nothing could be more natural. ‘What’s yours called?’
‘Elspeth, it’s an umbrella,’ sighed her father. He returned to his evening newspaper. A moment later he lowered it and said: ‘All right. Edward.’ ‘Edward?’ Elspeth giggled. ‘That’s a funny name for an umbrella.’ ‘Is it?’ I thought.
‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ he said, and went back to his paper.
‘Edward,’ said Elspeth, waving the rainbow up at me, ‘say hello to Polly.’ Little did she know I had already said hello to Polly several times. Sadly, in spite of her vibrant appearance, she was no more talkative than the girl’s father, and the rest of the journey was spent in silence.
The silence gave me time to think. Life was suddenly so much brighter: I had a name (I liked it), I had escaped from the shop and I was together with Polly. Even so, as we neared our destination I began to feel anxious.
I needn’t have worried. Upon arrival in our new home we were placed in a mahogany stand in the hall. Smelling of brass and furniture polish the place had a solid, respectable atmosphere. As for our neighbours, they couldn’t have been more welcoming.
‘Hello, hello, hello!’ said a cheery but scary-looking heavy blackthorn stick in the slot next to me. ‘I’m O’Neill. Delighted to have you know me!’
‘And I’m Fraser,’ said a tattered umbrella to Polly’s left. Red, green and black, I recognised it as another tartan. ‘Uh-oh,’ I thought. ‘I’d better be careful.’ ‘You’ll be thinking I’ve seen better days,’ said Fraser. ‘And so I have, but the family keep me on as an old friend and for that I’m grateful. At least I won’t get lost like your predecessors.’
‘Predecessors?’
‘The ones you’re replacing,’ said O’Neill, before explaining that Elspeth had lost her brolly a few days earlier.
Here a much larger umbrella (I learned later it was specially for the game called golf) interrupted from the middle of the stand, ‘A pretty thing she was.’ And then to Polly: ‘Though not as pretty as you, of course.’
‘He’s Golf,’ said O’Neill. ‘A bit of a bore. But quite harmless.’
‘Oh, I say!’ Golf began, but O’Neill cut him short: ‘Yes, the girl lost hers, which peeved the old boy no end. But then he lost his! In a taxi, on the train… who knows?’ ‘Old or young, humans can be so careless,’ muttered a handsome silver-knobbed malacca cane in the slot next to Golf.
‘Oh dear,’ I thought, ‘I’ve heard that before.’
‘That one,’ O’Neill continued, referring to the malacca, ‘is Carruthers, and the rosewood stick next to him is Snuffbox.’
‘Snuffbox?’
‘See the little gold box on the top? That flips open–’
‘Used to flip open,’ Snuffbox reminded him.
‘–to reveal snuff.’
‘I don’t know what that is.’
‘Disgusting habit is what it is,’ said Carruthers.
‘Hard to believe I was once considered the height of sophistication,’ said Snuffbox, adding in a mournful tone: ‘Now I’m just a museum piece.’
‘And a very fine piece, to be sure,’ said O’Neill, before continuing with the introductions. These included another walking stick (Oswald), and two more umbrellas (Hadrian and Albert). Finally he said, ‘So that’s us. Now your turn.’
I hesitated. After such colourful names my ‘Edward’ felt rather dull. ‘Och, you do have names, do you not?’ said Fraser.
‘Yes, of course. Well… I’m Edward. And this is Polly.’
‘Edward, eh? Excellent name. Strong, sturdy. As for Polly–’
‘Polly! And jolly delightful with it,’ said Golf. ‘That’s it: Jolly Polly. Haha! Or how about Pretty Polly or Jolly Pretty Polly?’
‘Take no notice, lassie,’ said Fraser. ‘That’s just his way. You’ll get used to it.’ These then were my companions in the hallstand when Polly and I first arrived. An odd bunch, but good-natured and interesting. I never tired of their stories of times past when the house was so much busier. The most entertaining was the stout O’Neill. Known in his native land as a shillelagh he could, in the wrong hands, be a formidable weapon.
‘And have twice been used for that purpose,’ he said with pride. Then he laughed: ‘But I’m retired now. A family heirloom.’
My new home was all I could have wished for (not that I ever proceeded farther inside than the hall). And always of course there was Polly. My sweet Polly. Did she feel for me what I felt for her? I think she did. Anyway, for the rest of that summer and for much of the following year we nestled side by side. Except when either of us was ‘on duty’ outdoors.
Elspeth’s father was something in the City. During the week I accompanied him on the train journey there and back, and though I enjoyed the excursion I was always fearful as I lay in the luggage rack that I might be forgotten and find myself consigned like my predecessors to a lost property office, never to see the light of day again. This fear was especially strong on the return journey when I longed to be in the comfort of the hallstand with Polly. To my relief she was always there to greet me, except on one wintry night when I was alarmed to find her space empty. ‘Dinna fret yourself. It’s just a sleepover,’ said Fraser.
‘A what?’
O’Neill explained: ‘It’s where the young’uns get together to chatter so late they have to stay the night.’
Sensing my concern Fraser said: ‘She’ll be back on the morrow.’
In spite of this assurance I spent a worried night. But Fraser was right, and on the morrow Polly was back.
For me, weekends were the best. Occasionally, if it rained, I was out in it and Polly was in, or vice versa. But sometimes we were both out together, side by side, furled or unfurled as father and daughter walked down the wooded lane or across the fields to the village shop. When that happened I didn’t mind how wet I got, though I often wished to be as large as Golf to shield Polly.
After a frosty winter when we were scarcely needed there came a spring of squalls and showers in which we were regularly in demand, and in which (I’m proud to say) we behaved impeccably. After that came summer again, and another hot and dry one it proved to be. Although I was rarely called upon, Polly was often out with Elspeth (they were still best friends), and I began to fret that she might become exhausted, or even lost. But no, back she always came, sometimes with tales about what she had seen and heard.
This blissful relationship lasted until one September morning when there was a buzz of excitement and a trunk and something called a tuck box appeared in the hall. ‘What’s going on?’ I asked.
‘The lassie’s off to school,’ said Fraser (he’d witnessed many such scenes before). ‘And by the looks of the luggage, somewhere far away.’
‘Far away? But she goes to school here.’
‘Och, this is different.’
‘Oh,’ I said. I thought no more about it until the afternoon when the trunk and tuck box were carried out to a car in the drive and father and daughter left the house to join them. Suddenly Elspeth ran back in and before I could protest or say goodbye, she grabbed Polly and was gone. A moment later the car drove away. ‘B-but… but,’ I stammered as the sound faded down the drive.
‘Dinna fret,’ said Fraser. ‘She’ll be back.’
‘You think so?’
‘Don’t count on it,’ said O’Neill. ‘With children you can never be sure.’ ‘Couldn’t agree more,’ said Snuffbox. ‘Dreadfully unreliable.’
‘Ignore them. She’ll be back,’ said Fraser again.
This time I was not comforted.
The weeks and months passed. Autumn changed into winter. And then one day towards the Christmas festival I felt the house once more in a state of excitement.
‘That’ll be young Elspeth returning,’ said Fraser.
‘And Polly, too?’
‘Nae doot.’
But while Fraser was right about Elspeth, he was mistaken about Polly. She did not return. As for the girl herself, I sensed she was different now, altogether quieter and more…
‘Grown up is the appropriate term, I believe,’ said Fraser.
‘Oh. Is that good or bad?’
‘Depends on your perspective, laddie.’ Realising that this was perhaps not the most helpful comment, he continued in a gentler tone: ‘Dinna fret. Nae doot Polly will be back next time.’
The holiday ended; Elspeth went away again. Three months later she returned for another short break. Polly did not.
In the years since, whenever the girl – and the adult she became – reappeared in the house I hoped Polly would also reappear. She never did, and her place in the hallstand has remained empty.
There’s an old saying: ‘It’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all’. Wise for some perhaps, but sadly not for me. Although I’ve served the family well for many years now (and to my dismay at an increasing number of funerals), I’ve never ceased yearning for Polly. And such is the pain of missing her that there are times when I wish I’d never seen her.
Read more of John's work on his site here. He can be reached at: quizzicalworks@gmail.com
