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Mr Price - Part 3

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A fictional short story written by the David Lloyd, all about a frequent member of a Welsh Bingo Hall.

Mr Price - A Short Story By David Lloyd - Part 3

The jovial look was starting to return to his face, and he laughed in a crackled spurt. "Huh! They thought I was dead, with me head caved in and covered in blood."

He grinned, sending deep furrows kaleidoscoping across his face, and suddenly he slapped in himself firmly on his capped head, laughing he leant forward and spoke loudly, " but this Welsh nut was to tough to crack, oh yes Ha! Ha!"

Sian was shocked, but moments later joined him in his riotous laughter. She had heard how much of a rascal he was from the customers, and the older members of staff. For some reason they did not like him, annoyed by his gruff manner and lucky streak. But she liked him, and could not help but feel a bit motherly towards him, even though he was four times her age.

They continued chatting, the air of the hall now floated with wispy phantasms of spiralling grey smoke, catching the glare of the neon's. The hall was not busy, but the regulars were all expert smokers, filling the air in moments. The barmaid was now busying herself as an orderly line had formed at the bar, she didn't look happy to have her plans for the night and love interrupted by the thirsty club members. The pace was picking up, the first of the sessions would shortly be starting, but she still felt languid, hypnotised by the old mans reminiscences which filled her imagination like the billowing smoke in the hall. Sian asked him how long he had been coming, he was happy to oblige her questions.

"Oh, I've been playing bingo since the first day it opened as a bingo club, and I came here before that when it was a cinema, that wasn't very often though. Cur, you wouldn't believe how this place has changed. I don't like it as much these days, not with all those fancy computers and machines. It never used to be like that, they never used to rush the numbers. All they want these days is your bloody money, and the staff are never as happy or friendly as they used to be. It hasn't got the same old atmosphere like it used too, but I still enjoy my game, I don't know. Oh enough of my moaning, like I said, every night for thirty years, in my same old lucky seat." He smiled and then whispered. "They don't like me here, I get on there nerves with my stories and jokes. But I don't care, this is more of a home than my house is."

"Get away!" Replied Sian. "I now why you come here, your chasing after old Lil Jones and her life's savings aren't you. She's been here from day one as well, and I bet this is your secret rendezvous, I've seen you two chatting like old buddies."

He laughed, not offended but mirthful, as if he had found a new sparring partner. He tapped his nose and winked, "well ai! If you don't use it you lose it." He grinned provocatively. "The stories I could tell you about the women here, hooof! But that's for another time, its almost time for the first session, I must take my seat."

He left, taking his books in his bony fingers, and strode off tall and manly to his lucky seat, only stopping by old Lil's table, to give his greetings. He turned back to Sian, who was watching and winked, whilst giving a long and bony thumbs up when Lil wasn't looking. She smiled, finding it hard not to laugh at the charmer.

The caller had taken the stage, shiny and elegant in his fancy evening suit with bow tie. He walked over to his console and switched the mike on. In a deep and thick Welsh accent he called the assembled members to order. His manner annoyed Sian, as it always seemed false and forced like a third rate celebrity's. But for the old customers he was just that, he had been calling their numbers for as long as the place had been open, and although they swore at him a lot when he did not call theirs, deep down he was an old friend. He continued with his opening announcements, it was time for Sian to her post and steward the claims. She quickly locked her money drawer and went up to the main counter to get her clipboard.

Her supervisor was there to help her on the floor, and before the game started she spoke to Sian. "I see that Mr. Price has been annoying you. He's a bloody nuisance ain't he?"

Sian was unsurprised by her supervisor's unpleasantness, having worked there for many years, her boss had developed a deep disrespect for the finicky regulars of the bingo hall. But Sian felt that she must defend her Mr. Price, after enjoying his company. "No, I think he's lovely, a bit strange, but what do expect? He is rather old."

"He gives me the creeps, I mean, every bloody night he's here, hasn't he got a home to go to. I don't know where he got the money from either. And he never bloody moves from that seat, his arse is rooted to it." The supervisor seemed very uneasy about Mr. Price, she continued with a lowering voice. "And he used to win every night, and never once gave us a tip, stingy bastard. Every bloody night for thirty years. We used to joke that he'd still be back to play after he died! You can imagine our shock when the day after his funeral he turned up to play. Frightened the bleedin' life out of us the old sod."

Sian turned white, unsure whether to laugh or be scared, in a strained voice she asked. "What?"

"Aye, two years ago that was, and the bastard hasn't left us alone since. He's still the same bloody nuisance that he always was. but at least he doesn't win anymore. We just ignore now, but it looks like he's taken a shine to you. You look shocked. Don't worry, every bingo hall's got its ghosts, just ignore him and he'll leave you alone. Come on the games about to start. Don't you worry about it, come on."

The caller began in his rolling stage voice. "Eyes down, we're looking for the line. Your first number." Sian was dumb struck, and didn't hear the first numbers. She was too busy staring across the wispy atmosphere of the hall at Mr. Price, who sat poised to mark off his numbers, looking like someone had forgotten to tell him that he had died.

Next Story >>

Mr Price - Part 3

Mr Price - A Short Story By David Lloyd - Part 3

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