THEN AND THERE. HERE AND NOW. by EDMUND JONAH Contents 1. The Kiss Story 2. Blue Verse 3. Shirley Story 4. Circles Verse 5. The Savile Row Suit Story 6. Love’s Other Face Story 7. When I Begin a Poem Verse 8. The Bequest Story 9. The First Time She Saw Paris Story 10. The Hindu’s Lament Verse 11. Mrs. Jacobson’s Niece Story 12. Infinity Verse 13. Mammon’s Daughter Story 14. The Bombshell Story 15. Jerusalem Verse 16. At the Beach Story 17. Falling In Love Verse 18. The Other Twin Story 19. No Time To Cry Verse 20. A Case of Self-Defence Story 21. William Re-Shakespeared Verse 22. The Creeper Story 23. The Table Short 24. The Literate Lover Verse 25. Homecoming Story 26. Incident at Ghum Loop Story 27. The Runaway Story 28. If You Remember Me Story 29. Triumph of a Writer Story 30. Love Resurrected Story 31. A Shake-up of Shakespeare’s Shylock Essay 32. The Western Wall in Jerusalem Essay 33. Jesus, the Messiah? Essay Published by Turner Maxwell Books First published 2008. Copyright © Edmund Jonah 2008 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in a retrieval system in any form or by any means without permission in writing by Edmund Jonah or Turner Maxwell Books. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which this is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. The purchase of this book is a private sale between the reader and the publisher; at no stage will indemnity be claimed against the publisher. The moral right of the author has been asserted. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental and may be more the work of your own imagination. Why not write a book yourself? Turner Maxwell Books are an alternative co-operative of new writers, working towards publishing inspirational literature. Printed and bound in the United Kingdom for Turner Maxwell Books. An extract from The Kiss Story... “Is this the first time you’ve kissed a girl?” she asked. “Of course not,” he said, reddening. “I can’t count the number of girls I’ve kissed.” “You’ve a lot to learn!” A teasing twinkle lit her eyes. Shimmering stars reflected brightly on the still waters of the pool by which they stood. Parked cars blocked the driveway. Native drivers squatted by the entrance gate, smoking beedies (the Indian cheroot), chatting with the night watchman. The sound of balls being thwacked: a tennis game on the floodlit court. The swish of a shuttle-cock: the badminton court also in use. White uniformed bearers in elegant turbans, flitted about bearing titbits on trays. The gardens were a profusion of winter flowers: multi-coloured snap-dragons, red and white dahlias and purple pansies. Sweet peas, pastel blue and pink, crept up the wire netting around the tennis court. Globe lights, perched on low concrete pillars, shed their glow on the lush grass and flower beds around the driveway. Jazz music and laughter floated down to where they were alone by the pool, hidden in the darkness under a tree. It was half-an-hour to midnight. At the witching hour, everyone would don bathing suits and trip down to splash and squeal in the chill water of the pool. “A handsome boy like you,” she chaffed, “with all this to offer, should have girls falling at his feet.” “I’m not short of girls,” he said. “And besides, all this is not mine. It isn’t my Dad's either. It belongs to the Company he works for. He just lives here because he’s the manager.” “That’s neither here nor there,” she said. “I have to live in town with my uncle. I go to college. I come here only on weekends,” he said, unable to stop himself rattling on. He began to feel the largest kind of fool. “Poor little man!” she said with a mocking pout. She was in her mid-twenties, with the fair, smooth skin from her English blood and the black hair and firm figure of the Indian. Her bright green eyes flashed with eastern fire. “I’m going to teach you to kiss,” she whispered as she brought her mouth close to his. “I mean, really kiss. Just part your lips a little and don’t open so wide.” His heart was pounding. She nibbled at his lower lip. “Try to do what I do,” she said huskily. He placed his tentative lips on hers and followed her lead. He was an eager learner and she taught him how to hold her, where to put his nose, the right amount of lip pressure and how to use his tongue. Under the girl’s skilled guidance, he was soon kissing with the expertise of a practiced lover. She felt a certain triumph; he a pride in his manhood. He knew now, at sixteen, he was at last grown-up. “Come,” he said abruptly, “let’s show my father.” She smiled. “Do you really want to?” “Yes! Yes!” he said. Then anxiously: “Do you mind?” Her eyes searched his and she saw only innocent eagerness. “No.” “You see,” he said, “he thinks I’m a child. Do you think I’m a child?” “No, I don't. You’re a handsome and exciting young man.” “You won’t mind kissing me in front of him?” “Not one little bit,” she said, each word sharp and separate.

THEN AND THERE.

HERE AND NOW.

by
EDMUND JONAH

Contents

1. The Kiss
2. Blue
3. Shirley
4. Circles
5. The Savile Row Suit
6. Love’s Other Face
7. When I Begin a Poem
8. The Bequest
9. The First Time She Saw Paris
10. The Hindu’s Lament
11. Mrs. Jacobson’s Niece
12. Infinity
13. Mammon’s Daughter
14. The Bombshell
15. Jerusalem
16. At the Beach
17. Falling In Love
18. The Other Twin
19. No Time To Cry
20. A Case of Self-Defence
21. William Re-Shakespeared
22. The Creeper
23. The Table Short
24. The Literate Lover
25. Homecoming
26. Incident at Ghum Loop
27. The Runaway
28. If You Remember Me
29. Triumph of a Writer
30. Love Resurrected
31. A Shake-up of Shakespeare’s Shylock
32. The Western Wall in Jerusalem
33. Jesus, the Messiah?

An extract from The Kiss...

    “Is this the first time you’ve kissed a girl?” she asked.
    “Of course not,” he said, reddening. “I can’t count the number of girls I’ve kissed.”
    “You’ve a lot to learn!” A teasing twinkle lit her eyes.
    Shimmering stars reflected brightly on the still waters of the pool by which they stood. Parked cars blocked the driveway. Native drivers squatted by the entrance gate, smoking beedies (the Indian cheroot), chatting with the night watchman. The sound of balls being thwacked: a tennis game on the floodlit court. The swish of a shuttle-cock: the badminton court also in use. White uniformed bearers in elegant turbans, flitted about bearing titbits on trays.
    The gardens were a profusion of winter flowers: multi-coloured snap-dragons, red and white dahlias and purple pansies. Sweet peas, pastel blue and pink, crept up the wire netting around the tennis court. Globe lights, perched on low concrete pillars, shed their glow on the lush grass and flower beds around the driveway. Jazz music and laughter floated down to where they were alone by the pool, hidden in the darkness under a tree. It was half-an-hour to midnight. At the witching hour, everyone would don bathing suits and trip down to splash and squeal in the chill water of the pool.
    “A handsome boy like you,” she chaffed, “with all this to offer, should have girls falling at his feet.”
    “I’m not short of girls,” he said. “And besides, all this is not mine. It isn’t my Dad's either. It belongs to the Company he works for. He just lives here because he’s the manager.”
    “That’s neither here nor there,” she said.
    “I have to live in town with my uncle. I go to college. I come here only on weekends,” he said, unable to stop himself rattling on. He began to feel the largest kind of fool.
    “Poor little man!” she said with a mocking pout.
    She was in her mid-twenties, with the fair, smooth skin from her English blood and the black hair and firm figure of the Indian. Her bright green eyes flashed with eastern fire. “I’m going to teach you to kiss,” she whispered as she brought her mouth close to his. “I mean, really kiss. Just part your lips a little and don’t open so wide.” His heart was pounding. She nibbled at his lower lip. “Try to do what I do,” she said huskily. He placed his tentative lips on hers and followed her lead. He was an eager learner and she taught him how to hold her, where to put his nose, the right amount of lip pressure and how to use his tongue. Under the girl’s skilled guidance, he was soon kissing with the expertise of a practiced lover. She felt a certain triumph; he a pride in his manhood. He knew now, at sixteen, he was at last grown-up.
    “Come,” he said abruptly, “let’s show my father.”
    She smiled. “Do you really want to?”
    “Yes! Yes!” he said. Then anxiously: “Do you mind?”
    Her eyes searched his and she saw only innocent eagerness. “No.”
    “You see,” he said, “he thinks I’m a child. Do you think I’m a child?”
    “No, I don't. You’re a handsome and exciting young man.”
    “You won’t mind kissing me in front of him?”
    “Not one little bit,” she said, each word sharp and separate.

.....

Published by Turner Maxwell Books

First published 2008.
Copyright © Edmund Jonah 2008

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in a retrieval system in any form or by any means without permission in writing by Edmund Jonah or Turner Maxwell Books.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which this is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

The purchase of this book is a private sale between the reader and the publisher; at no stage will indemnity be claimed against the publisher. The moral right of the author has been asserted.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental and may be more the work of your own imagination. Why not write a book yourself? Turner Maxwell Books are an alternative co-operative of new writers, working towards publishing inspirational literature.

Printed and bound in the United Kingdom for Turner Maxwell Books.