Angels Don't Have Wings - Take 4
by Ron A. Sewell
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: One mild one.
Description: Wedding bliss is not guaranteed when Doris and Elsie are around.
_____________________________________________________________________
Doris knocked on the door of Elsie’s room and when there was no answer, she went in. From the bathroom, she could hear the sound of running water. Turning, she caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror. Looking intently at her bust, she attempted to adjust her bra, but it did not matter what she did, they still appeared to be in a race to reach her waistline. With her dark hair set in a bob, she stared at her white face; without make up it gave away her years.
“Oh, it’s you, Doris.” Elsie sounded surprised as she stepped into the room wrapped in only a towel.
“Have you asked?”
“No, but I will soon.”
Doris gazed lovingly at her friend. She was still a beautiful woman. Tall, slender, and somehow she always managed to hold herself erect. Her blonde hair exhibited streaks of grey but would forever remain luxuriant. Her large eyes were a deep vivid blue and set wide apart.
Elsie was a woman who for eternally remained young in spirit. “Get dressed and we’ll go and see Gabby together. After all, he can only say no.”
They each carried their large handbags which, if ever used in anger, would cause mass destruction. Together they climbed the narrow, twisting, cloud-encased staircase that led to that holy of holies, Gabby’s sanctuary. At the top, the door, as always, remained open wide.
Archangel sat, as he always did, upright in his chair. He was on his feet in an instant, beaming at them. “I knew you were on your way and the answer is yes. You can both go to Elsie’s granddaughter’s wedding but please stay out of trouble. Every time you go back, I end up with a mountain of paperwork.
Although somewhat taken by surprise, Elsie managed, “That’s nice of you, Gabriel. Thank you very much.” She was excited as she exclaimed, “I can get that new dress now.”
The following Saturday afternoon, Elsie and Doris sat proudly behind the choir of St Andrew’s Church in Bethnal Green. At two forty-five, the guests began to arrive. Elsie jabbed Doris in the ribs and whispered, “Look over there, behind the pillar at the back. It’s Fag Ash Lil from down under. How come they let her out? And she’s smoking.”
“Do you know she never smoked until she got married? She was on sixty a day at the end. Pound to a penny, someone put a packet of fags in her coffin for the journey! Anyway, your granddaughter, Tiffany, is marrying her grandson, Peter,” said Doris.
“Oh well. Hey, do you remember when Lil threw her old man’s dinner at him in the pub and shouted for all to hear, if you like it down here so much you can ‘ave your meals here. And as for that bitch you fancy behind the bar, we all know what she did for a packet of Smarties behind the bike shed.”
“With my old man, every Friday afternoon I went down the builders’ yard and took his wages off him before he pissed it up the wall,” said Doris
“Well you had to, didn’t you? Move along a bit, she’s coming over.”
“Lovely day, Lil. Bit cold for you up here but glad it’s stopped raining.”
Lil laughed, her green eyes crinkling up in the corners. “Wait till you see the bride; she’s a blooming picture.”
At five past three, the organist began playing as the bride, on her father’s arm, Elsie’s son, walked down the aisle.
“Oh dear,” remarked Doris. “She’s got a cheek wearing white, look at her, she’s like a pregnant hippo about to drop its load. I’d say at least eight months!”
“And she’s wearing lacy red underwear,” said a shocked Elsie.
“That’s not all; my Peter is not the baby’s father,” said Lil. “They say she’s had more men than hot dinners.”
“That reminds me of someone,” said Doris, her eyes looking at Lil.
“Shut up. Is it my fault all the boys liked me?”
“Only on your back!” said Elsie cheekily.
“Look, the bride’s even fluttering her eyes at the vicar,” said Doris. “The brazen hussy.”
“I wish he’d get on with it and take his eyes off her breasts,” said Elsie.
The rest of the ceremony proceeded without a hitch and the three women stood together on the steps outside the church, unnoticed, except for the vicar’s cat that disappeared faster than a rat up a drainpipe. The photographer, a bald-headed fat man who reeked of sweat and beer, took as many pictures as he possibly could in a short space of time.
With a twinkle in her eye, Doris pointed her dastardly middle finger at the bride, who suddenly screamed, “Me water’s broke, the bloody thing’s coming.”
“Well how about that?” said Doris, “The first one comes any time the next takes nine months.”
Elsie turned and looked at her friend but said nothing.
The reception turned out to be a long drawn out affair in a large drab hall above Burtons the Tailors. The meal, powdered soup followed by a ham salad and a few drinks, was disappointing. The bride was in hospital giving birth and no one had seen the groom since he disappeared with one of the bridesmaids.
As they got up to leave, Doris said, “Well I suppose all things considered, it wasn’t that bad.”
Elsie smiled. “You know life never turns out as you think it should. I suppose it’s time we made our way back upstairs. Where’s Lil?”
“Oh, she had to go back down after the ceremony. They don’t get much time off down under.”
“Makes sense. It’s not like the good old days. Look at this lot; they’ll all be down the pub until it closes. At least every time God closes a window on life, he opens a door in heaven. Let’s go home. Oh by the way, Tiffany’s just had a boy and guess what, it’s black.”
Swearwords: One mild one.
Description: Wedding bliss is not guaranteed when Doris and Elsie are around.
_____________________________________________________________________
Doris knocked on the door of Elsie’s room and when there was no answer, she went in. From the bathroom, she could hear the sound of running water. Turning, she caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror. Looking intently at her bust, she attempted to adjust her bra, but it did not matter what she did, they still appeared to be in a race to reach her waistline. With her dark hair set in a bob, she stared at her white face; without make up it gave away her years.
“Oh, it’s you, Doris.” Elsie sounded surprised as she stepped into the room wrapped in only a towel.
“Have you asked?”
“No, but I will soon.”
Doris gazed lovingly at her friend. She was still a beautiful woman. Tall, slender, and somehow she always managed to hold herself erect. Her blonde hair exhibited streaks of grey but would forever remain luxuriant. Her large eyes were a deep vivid blue and set wide apart.
Elsie was a woman who for eternally remained young in spirit. “Get dressed and we’ll go and see Gabby together. After all, he can only say no.”
They each carried their large handbags which, if ever used in anger, would cause mass destruction. Together they climbed the narrow, twisting, cloud-encased staircase that led to that holy of holies, Gabby’s sanctuary. At the top, the door, as always, remained open wide.
Archangel sat, as he always did, upright in his chair. He was on his feet in an instant, beaming at them. “I knew you were on your way and the answer is yes. You can both go to Elsie’s granddaughter’s wedding but please stay out of trouble. Every time you go back, I end up with a mountain of paperwork.
Although somewhat taken by surprise, Elsie managed, “That’s nice of you, Gabriel. Thank you very much.” She was excited as she exclaimed, “I can get that new dress now.”
The following Saturday afternoon, Elsie and Doris sat proudly behind the choir of St Andrew’s Church in Bethnal Green. At two forty-five, the guests began to arrive. Elsie jabbed Doris in the ribs and whispered, “Look over there, behind the pillar at the back. It’s Fag Ash Lil from down under. How come they let her out? And she’s smoking.”
“Do you know she never smoked until she got married? She was on sixty a day at the end. Pound to a penny, someone put a packet of fags in her coffin for the journey! Anyway, your granddaughter, Tiffany, is marrying her grandson, Peter,” said Doris.
“Oh well. Hey, do you remember when Lil threw her old man’s dinner at him in the pub and shouted for all to hear, if you like it down here so much you can ‘ave your meals here. And as for that bitch you fancy behind the bar, we all know what she did for a packet of Smarties behind the bike shed.”
“With my old man, every Friday afternoon I went down the builders’ yard and took his wages off him before he pissed it up the wall,” said Doris
“Well you had to, didn’t you? Move along a bit, she’s coming over.”
“Lovely day, Lil. Bit cold for you up here but glad it’s stopped raining.”
Lil laughed, her green eyes crinkling up in the corners. “Wait till you see the bride; she’s a blooming picture.”
At five past three, the organist began playing as the bride, on her father’s arm, Elsie’s son, walked down the aisle.
“Oh dear,” remarked Doris. “She’s got a cheek wearing white, look at her, she’s like a pregnant hippo about to drop its load. I’d say at least eight months!”
“And she’s wearing lacy red underwear,” said a shocked Elsie.
“That’s not all; my Peter is not the baby’s father,” said Lil. “They say she’s had more men than hot dinners.”
“That reminds me of someone,” said Doris, her eyes looking at Lil.
“Shut up. Is it my fault all the boys liked me?”
“Only on your back!” said Elsie cheekily.
“Look, the bride’s even fluttering her eyes at the vicar,” said Doris. “The brazen hussy.”
“I wish he’d get on with it and take his eyes off her breasts,” said Elsie.
The rest of the ceremony proceeded without a hitch and the three women stood together on the steps outside the church, unnoticed, except for the vicar’s cat that disappeared faster than a rat up a drainpipe. The photographer, a bald-headed fat man who reeked of sweat and beer, took as many pictures as he possibly could in a short space of time.
With a twinkle in her eye, Doris pointed her dastardly middle finger at the bride, who suddenly screamed, “Me water’s broke, the bloody thing’s coming.”
“Well how about that?” said Doris, “The first one comes any time the next takes nine months.”
Elsie turned and looked at her friend but said nothing.
The reception turned out to be a long drawn out affair in a large drab hall above Burtons the Tailors. The meal, powdered soup followed by a ham salad and a few drinks, was disappointing. The bride was in hospital giving birth and no one had seen the groom since he disappeared with one of the bridesmaids.
As they got up to leave, Doris said, “Well I suppose all things considered, it wasn’t that bad.”
Elsie smiled. “You know life never turns out as you think it should. I suppose it’s time we made our way back upstairs. Where’s Lil?”
“Oh, she had to go back down after the ceremony. They don’t get much time off down under.”
“Makes sense. It’s not like the good old days. Look at this lot; they’ll all be down the pub until it closes. At least every time God closes a window on life, he opens a door in heaven. Let’s go home. Oh by the way, Tiffany’s just had a boy and guess what, it’s black.”
About the Author
Ron A. Sewell was born in Leith, Edinburgh. At the age of fourteen, he ran away from home. Heading for the south of France, he found work as a deckhand on luxury yachts. On his return to the United Kingdom, he enlisted in the Royal Navy, eventually becoming a commissioned officer. During his career, he travelled the world, qualifying as an engineer, deck officer, boarding officer, a diver, and parachutist and for a time part of an Air Sea Rescue team. This has given him much experience and many ideas.
Ron has been writing for twenty-three years. He has written numerous short stories (many of them published) and five complete novels to date. Two of the novels, entitled The Collectors, are currently with his agent, who is attempting to sell them to a publisher.
Ron has been writing for twenty-three years. He has written numerous short stories (many of them published) and five complete novels to date. Two of the novels, entitled The Collectors, are currently with his agent, who is attempting to sell them to a publisher.