(first published in Potato Soup Journal, February 2nd 2022)
In the town chess club, the final of the annual Earl’s Cup competition was about to start, the finalists being Willie Anderson, the holder, and a new member, Archie Drummond. The club was a friendly, welcoming place, but there was a surprising coolness between Willie and the new member. Although Archie Drummond was indeed a new club member, he wasn’t new to the town, having been born and raised here before going away to spend his working life (profitably) in Hong Kong. Apparently, as young men, Willie and Archie had fallen out over a girl: there had been a memorable stramash in the Gents toilet at the old Mecca Ballroom. Forty-odd years on, one gathered that the ballroom bout was regarded by both parties as inconclusive.
Willie was setting the electric clock, with each player to make thirty moves in an hour, plus twenty minutes each to finish. Archie was studying the inscription on the solid silver cup, the oldest chess trophy in Scotland, presented to the club in memory of the Earl’s eldest son, Captain Albert Abercrombie-Smith, club champion 1876 & 1877, slain by Zulus at the Battle of Isandlwana, 1878. Silently, Willie showed the set clock to Archie for his inspection and was rewarded with a grunt of agreement. The traditional hand-shake at the beginning of the game was perfunctory in the extreme.
Other games were being played in the clubroom that night. But, as they ended one-by-one, the players clustered around the black-and-white battlefield where Willie and Archie were joined in silent struggle. The pawns clashed and fell, the knights leapt forward and fell back, the bishops obliquely threatened, the castles took up their defensive positions, and the overbearing queens stalked the board. The clock ran on, the moves became more urgent and the competition entered the endgame: the kings emerged from behind their defensive ramparts and began a dancing duel. A couple of stray pieces fell here and there, but to no clear advantage. With less than a minute left on his clock, Archie managed to force his last remaining pawn to the back rank, converting it to a queen. Unsportingly, Willie played on, hoping to avoid mate long enough for Archie to lose on time. Archie mated him with just three seconds left on his clock. The audience, hushed until that point, now erupted with exclamations, congratulations and rival theories of how alternative endings could have been contrived. In the hubbub, the customary concluding handshake was somehow omitted.
After a short delay, the club president presented Archie with the cup and a photo was taken for the website. Willie had left the room, but his prostate often required sudden temporary absences. The night was concluded and we all streamed out of the club. Archie Drummond bore off his cup in his BMW, like a Russian Prince in a horse-drawn midnight sleigh. Willie Anderson watched the tail-lights dwindle down the Kirkgate: ‘Weel, weel, he’s carried awa’ the cup, but I carried awa’ Dorothy, bless her.’
Biography:
Michael Bloor lives in Dunblane, Scotland, where he has discovered the exhilaration of short fiction, with more than a hundred pieces published in Literally Stories, Everyday Fiction, The Copperfield Review, Litro Online, Firewords, The Drabble, The Cabinet of Heed, Moonpark Review and elsewhere (see https://michaelbloor.com).
Saragun Springs 
Mick
I was ready to help Willie. Know nothing about chess–but I learned pro wrestling via my brother watching it every chance he had. I was going to hit Archie with a folding chair until I saw he really wasn’t the winner.
Nice little twist, so well planted, which saved the rich jerk from a nasty blow!
Leila
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Pro-wrestling used to be on UK daytime tv years ago, assaults by audience members were a definite occupational hazard. But your folding chair attack would’ve been both a chess club first and a stronger ending.
Thanks again for commenting and the republishing opportunity – mick
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All my thanks to you Mick!
Two in a row I salute for catching me by surprize! (I wonder how often wrestling has been sued by parents?)
Leila
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Dear Mick
Your words always have an intriguing effect of taking the reader far away to a place that feels familiar (even if one has never been to Scotland, but also for Scottish readers, I do believe).
This combined notion of traveling somewhere and arriving at a recognizable destination is a doubling effect only ever achieved by the best story-tellers.
You always have a great way with the twist of an ending, too.
A nugget of true perception (or human truth) is always there for the reader to contemplate, but you never beat them over the head with it, either, which makes your way with an ending much more artful than the more strident (and less accomplished) ones.
Also glad to hear (from yesterday) that you were once a connoisseur of the mushroom, that mysterious plant that is sometimes (but not always) magical.
When I dabble in its magical effects lately, it’s usually in the mode of the “microdose,” which is to say, not a full-on serving but more like a taste that creates more of a mild sunlight glow than a full-on head trip. Usually in the second half of the day while contemplating what I wrote in the morning (but not daily).
Thanks again, great work so far this week!
Dale
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No thanks needed, Dale. I was pleased to see the piece republished, after it’s previous disappearance. Indeed, It’s I should thank you for your kind comments.
And it’s a great compliment to be told that I can convey a sense of Scottish place: born and raised in England, I’ve nevertheless spent most of my working life in Scotland, I married a Scot, my daughter was born here, and Scotland is my home. So you can guess how pleasing it is to be told that I have and can convey a sense of the place. bw mick
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Hi Mick
I liked this word “(stramash) in the bathroom.” A new word is always a bonus in reading a story (Scottish word). It fits very well for these two.
This captures the attention right away because of the conflict. It’s a classy story but underneath is this seething ageless rivalry. It seems to say, no matter how old people get bitterness never goes away. Time doesn’t heal old wounds they just fade a bit, until that person walks through the door, lol. And no handshake…
Chess is a game of attrition and strategy (understatement). “Who’s left standing” is a good way to hook the reader.
I thought another bathroom brawl might ensue. Nice ending with the beamer’s taillights disappearing and Dorothy on the mind.
Christopher
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Thanks, Christopher. I’d always assumed that ‘stramash’ was one of those words that found their way into Scots from Scots Gaelic, but I’ve just looked it up in the Scots dictionary and there’s no mention of a Gaelic origin. It’s certainly one of those fine words (onomatapeic – sp?) that strongly convey their meaning by their sound.
Glad you enjoyed the piece, I’m pleased myself that it’s resurfaced after the previous publisher disappeared. bw mick
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