2498. Inheritance

John-Claude was a widower. He had one child, a son called Peter. His son was the epitome of laziness, but nonetheless John-Claude tried to cheer him (unsuccessfully) into doing some work.

John-Claude’s property was a few acres with a couple of cows and a few goats and a pet pony. The cottage was straight out of a book of fairy-tale illustrations, with a beautiful garden of hollyhocks and petunias and grape vines that ran around the thatched eaves. Things always seemed to be in flower!

John-Claude had a sneaky suspicion that he was on his last legs. He was getting on. “I think I hear an approaching death rattle,” he told his son. Well! Was the son excited or what! He suggested to his father that all should be put in his, the son’s, name. That way, there would be little to worry about when the dreaded moment arrived. John-Claude did that. The house and property was now in Peter’s name. All John-Claude need now do was die.

But he didn’t.

Son Peter was annoyed as anything. He still did no work, but the place was looking nice because John-Claude still laboured hard. In fact the relationship between father and son was more slave to slave owner. Peter made his father sleep out in the garden shed. He didn’t want to be woken with a racket in the early mornings when John-Claude rose to do some work on the property.

John-Claude developed an idea. For years he had been friends with the bank manager. They had been Friday-night drinking companions at the pub for yonks. The bank manager printed off a pretend document. It was a bank statement. It said that John-Clause had eleven million eight hundred and seventy-two dollars and seventeen cents in his account. John-Claude accidentally left it on the dining table.

After that son Peter worked his guts out. He couldn’t have been more helpful, more cheerful, harder working. John-Claude reverted to occasionally pottering in the garden as befits a retired gentleman. The place retained its picture-postcard look thanks to Peter’s back-breaking efforts.

Eventually, when John-Claude died, the fortune-expecting lazy son discovered there was zilch to inherit.

2242. Cultural appreciation

There I was going on fifteen years and part of a scheme whereby we Portuguese youths get “adopted out” for a year with a family overseas. It is a way of exploring and appreciating other cultures. This is the second time I have been accepted for the scheme. The first time I went to Germany, and the second time I went to the United States; North Dakota to be precise. The American family are very well off, in fact very rich indeed, and have a daughter just two years younger than me. Believe me, she’s an absolute brat.

I’d been in North Dakota a little longer than a month when I was kidnapped and taken away and held in secret. Naturally my parents were out of their tree with worry, and my host family were exceedingly distraught and over time offered my parents monetary compensation for my apparent demise. Of course, money wouldn’t bring me back, but the host family was sparing nothing to show their concern. My parents accepted the money as a way of recognizing the genuine concern shown by the host family.

Now a problem has arisen. For my next adopting out to a foreign family I want to go to Greece, but my parents think we’d get more money if I went to Argentina.

2208. The husband and lover

(This is the first of a week’s worth of re-telling traditional folktales. The folktales retold this week are possibly not overly well-known – perhaps for a reason.)

Theodora was having an affair. Her lover was still in the house when she heard her husband arrive home. She hid her lover behind the door.

“Husband dear,” said Theodora, “I have the most wonderful news. The hawks have been frightening your chickens, but I have discovered how to put an end to it. I have a chant to recite, and while I chant you must put your head in a bucket.”

With that, Theodora put a bucket over her husband’s head and recited a nonsensical chant.

The lover escaped from behind the door.

The hawks still hassled the chickens.