Greenfield Acres

Flash Fiction from the Vault

Tom and his father, George Howarth, worked hard in the new development of Greenfield Acres. Houses stood well spaced amid an expanse of greenery. They manoeuvred a telescopic handler, transporting rubbish and timber to a nearby recycling yard.

Their neighbour, Robin Patrick, whom everyone called Dippie, though rarely to his face, asked for Tom’s help to move him into one of the new properties.

Tom began hauling boxes, working hard and being as dutiful as possible. However, Dippie’s attitude soon became unbearable. He criticised every choice Tom made, his tone sharp and ungrateful.

At last, Tom could take no more. “I won’t bother then,” he snapped, frustration evident in his voice. “I’m only trying to help; I have better things to do.”

Dippie, taken aback by Tom’s reaction, stuttered, “I... I didn’t mean to...”

But Tom’s stride took him out the door, leaving Dippie to ponder his behaviour.

That evening, Tom stepped out, hoping to unwind at the local bar. He met up with a lively bunch, and his half-dozen friends proved the perfect antidote to his frustrating day. A new blonde barmaid, Anna, caught everyone’s attention with her great personality.

“Here’s to best mates and good times,” Tom toasted, his mood lightening. His troubles with Dippie seemed a world away.

As the night wound down, Tom chatted with Anna. “Where are you from?”

“Not here, but I think you know my Dad: Robin Patrick.”

Tom swallowed—Dippie’s daughter from a previous relationship.

“I’m staying with my father. I graduated from college and decided I needed to spend some time with him. Catch up on missed years.”

Tom glanced at his best friend, Peter, who looked back with a wry grin.

Anna clocked off. “Peter, Tom, everyone, why don’t we continue this at my Dad’s new place?” Anna suggested, her smile infectious. “Call it a flash housewarming.”

Peter winked at his wife, Sally. “Thanks, Anna, but I—”

“Dad’s away on business,” Anna said. “This is for me.”

Tom went along, and the atmosphere carried over from the bar, and everyone relaxed. In stark contrast to the tension he recalled enduring in the same house only hours before.

The front door swung open. Dippie returned much earlier than expected—his reaction shifted from surprise to fury.

“What is this?! A party in my home without my permission!” Dippie seemed to swell, his face red with anger.

In his ranting rage, Dippie became unsteady, losing his balance, and he stumbled, crashing into the glass coffee table.

Panic took the form of stunned, paralysed silence.

Everyone stood still except Tom. “I’ve got this.”

Dippie hit his head as he fell, but the most pressing issue pulsed in plain sight: a deep cut in Dippie’s arm bled profusely. Tom applied firm pressure to the wound to stem the flow. “I need to keep this elevated.”

With his free hand, Tom dialled for help while addressing the room. “A bandage or something?”

Anna snapped out of her shock. She grabbed a tea towel from the kitchen. “Dad suffers from vertigo; it makes him irritable, but if he gets too agitated, he can have a severe attack.”

Tom fashioned an impromptu dressing.

As they waited for the ambulance, Dippie regained his senses.

“Thank you, Tom,” Dippie muttered, his voice genuine. “I... I’m sorry.”

When the paramedics arrived, the lead responder, Dave, praised Tom. “Quick thinking and first aid. Well done.”

They stretchered Dippie out and took him to the hospital.

Anna looked at Tom. “I am so glad you kept your head; we all froze with the shock of it,” she said, her face sad and tired, but her eyes lingered, heavy with appreciation.

Tom grinned, sensing a connection. “It’s okay, Anna. I’m just pleased I could help.”