THE DEMISE OF POOLE STREET UNITED

 THE DEMISE OF POOLE STREET UNITED

By Bob French

It was starting to get cold on a late September day as Lucy stopped dead in her tracks, then looked up into the darkening evening sky.  She had heard the familiar noise many times and instinctively knew what to do.  Then she heard the sound of whistles,  some close by, others a long way off.  As if by magic, everyone started to run for the shelters.  No one screamed but for the hurried voice of a mother calling for her child.

          Lucy turned and yelled at her younger brother Thomas, who was carefully climbing down a huge mound of rubble that had, until five days ago, been their school.  A place where, according to Miss Jenkins, their class teacher, if they concentrated, they would learn more things about sums, famous people, music and countries far, far away, than their parents would ever learn.

          “Run Thomas Run! It’s the Germans. Head for the bridge!”

          Thomas, usually challenged his sister’s advice, but on this occasion, he dropped a cricket bat he had found in the rubble and started to run for the old railway bridge that spanned the River Lea. Just as it joins the Bow Creek. They had just made it under the iron posts that held the bridge in place when the first of the bombs hit a row of houses not far from Poole Street.  The ground shook; flames quickly spread across the street, sending scorched dust, splintered wood and glass everywhere.  Amidst the horrors of the explosions Lucy could hear the faint screams of those who were too slow or old to find shelter.  She hated this period, when the bombers had gone and all that was left was the dirty thick mist of debris and the faint wailing of those who had just lost everything they possessed.

          They both sought safety deep into the foundations of the old iron bridge.  As Lucy landed, she instinctively turned and grabbed hold of Thomas, pulling him in close to her and putting her hands over his head.

          After the first bomber had passed overhead, dropping its payload, the second was close behind and they felt the impact of the bomb much closer.  Lucy whispered into Thomas’s ear to reassure him.

          He forced his head above his sister’s protection and spoke.           “Blimey, was that Poole Street Lucy?”  When she didn’t reply to his question, he looked up to see his sister start to cry. With tears in her eyes, she replied.

          “Yes luv.  I hope Mandy and Victoria are safe.”

          “Blimey, if they aren’t, we’re short of two players for next Saturday’s Street footy against the Three Mills mob.”

          The sound of the bombers started to fade as they travelled further into the capital’s centre.  Lucy knew that what would follow was a walking nightmare.  Once the whistles sounded people would scamper up from their shelter and walk slowly through what was left of their homes. People would sink to their knees or stand and stare in shock at the total destruction of their street. A place where they had been born, a place they had played, danced and laughed with their friends, a place where they had got married. But that was a week ago and now several of their friends didn’t come out to play anymore.

          Lucy and Thomas, picked their way through the ruins of what had once been their home. It had stood proudly in East London, red-bricked and warm, until one of the many bombs of the Blitz had turned it into a skeleton of scorched beams and broken glass. Their parents were gone, evacuated, missing, or worse and the siblings had returned from their billet in the countryside without telling anyone, drawn by something unspoken.

          Lucy, the elder at twelve, led the way. Her coat was two sizes too big, the sleeves flapping like frightened birds. Thomas, just eight, clutched a wooden toy soldier in his pocket, fingers rubbing it smooth from habit.

          “I think it was here,” Lucy whispered, pointing to a half-collapsed corner of the house. The Parlour. The place they used to gather for tea and stories.

          They stepped over fallen timbers and twisted pipes, crunching glass underfoot. The fire had blackened the wallpaper, and the ceiling was open to the grey sky. And yet, as they stood there, a strange warmth crept in. The scent of toast and lavender, impossible, but real, floated on the evening breeze.

          “Do you hear that?” Thomas asked suddenly, tilting his head. A soft humming, like a lullaby. Lucy shivered. “It’s just the wind.”

          But it wasn’t. A woman’s voice, faint but familiar, sang a tune their mother used to hum when they were sick. The melody curled around them like a shawl.

          “Let’s go upstairs,” Thomas said, his voice hollow with curiosity and trepidation

          “There’s no upstairs,” Lucy replied, but Thomas was already climbing the splintered remains of the staircase. Lucy followed heart thumping.  At the top, or what was left of it, they found their old bedroom. The floor was mostly just a few sturdy boards clinging to the walls. But something shimmered in the air: a faint outline of beds, books, the teddy bear Lucy had lost.

          Thomas stepped forward. “Mum?” he whispered. Then they saw her. Or thought they did. A figure, more light than flesh, standing at the window, looking out as if watching for someone’s return. She turned, and for a breathless moment, smiled.

          Lucy reached for Thomas’s hand, squeezing tightly. The ghost, if that’s what it was, opened her arms, and Thomas made a move toward her. But Lucy held him back.

          “No,” she said softly. “We can’t.”

          The woman’s smile faded. Her form dimmed like a candle flickering in wind. And then she was gone. The humming stopped. Silence again. They stood there, cold and small against the vast, broken sky.

          “Do you think she was really here?” Thomas asked.

          Lucy didn’t answer right away. She stared at the space where the ghost had stood, then turned toward the stairs.

          “She was,” she said finally.”

          They climbed down carefully, the house groaning with every step. As they carefully made their way out into what was left of their street, the wind picked up, scattering ash like snow across the empty bomb site of Poole Street.

          Thomas stood for a moment looking at what used to be the street where the footy was to be played.  Then he spoke to no one in particular and Said;

          “Dya think Harry and the Three Mills mob are going to let us play with seven players?”  Lucy smiled down at him.

          “Maybe.” then gently took his hand and walked on, hand in hand, into the smoke-thick dawn.

Copyright Bob French 

 UNCLE GEORGE       [Part 6 f 10] 

By Richard Banks

All this is very dramatic and exciting but at the same time very much yesterday’s news. I need to focus on the here and now and after making yet another journey to the tip I phone Ally and ask her to join me for the weekend. I need her to see the house and give her approval to it and all the things that will be needed to improve it. I also want to show her the local branch of the insurance company she works for. Even if she can’t get a transfer there there’s other firms nearby that might have vacancies she could apply for, or failing that she could commute into London like I might be doing. The future, uncertain as it is, is exciting and I can’t wait for it to get started. The past is over and done with and although tales of Uncle George may become a cherished part of family folk law they are not going to distract me from what is more important.

          Three days later I pick-up Ally from the station and take her back to the house. While she unpacks I order a take-away. When she comes back downstairs I can see she’s less than impressed, but then I tell her about all the improvements I have in mind: double glazing, central heating, a new kitchen, new everything I tell her, furniture, carpets, the lot. What we can’t afford from the sale of my flat we will pay for by taking out a loan; another forty to fifty pounds might be needed but what’s that compared to the average mortgage. She agrees on the condition that she gets to choose the décor and the kitchen, plus she must have the two piece suite she saw in Debenham’s. Ten minutes later she’s added a new bed to her list and we spend Saturday morning buying it and disposing of the old one. By tea time we have booked-in visits from two double glazing companies for the following Saturday and spoken to the wife of a heating engineer who says he will phone me back. Suddenly it’s too late to do anything else, tomorrow’s Sunday and, unlike London, there’s nothing much open.

         “Good,” says Ally who’s now determined to see the positive in everything. “You can show me the countryside and the stretch of beach where you say that storehouse is. Fancy your uncle being mixed-up in a big money smuggling operation. Do you think that some of what went missing might still be there?”

         “No chance of that after twenty years. Anyway,” I say, “I have next to no idea where this storeroom is.”

         “But you do,” she says, “it’s close to Gratham Wood. That’s what that reporter chap said. We’ll soon find it on Google.”

         We do, and an hour later we’re stood on the beach outside a large derelict building, sprayed with graffiti and minus a front door. We venture in but there are no windows and, away from the door, its soon becomes too dark to see. There’s a torch in the car, which I wasn’t going to mention, but Ally does and, despite my protests, she insists we retrieve it and continue our search.

         “For what,” I say, “anything valuable will have disappeared long ago,” but she tells me not to be a wuss, so we venture in a second time and pick our way across a floor strewn with broken glass and other debris. Something scuttles by which I’m guessing is a rat, but my intrepid companion continues on undeterred, shining the torch in a wide arc in front of her.

         “Any chance you’re going to tell me what exactly you’re up to?” I ask.

         “Keys,” she says, “hasn’t it crossed your mind that the keys you found in the kitchen might be for here.”

         “Hardly,” I say. “I didn’t know anything about this place until a few days ago. Anyway, as you may have noticed, the front door is missing so there’s no way we can test your theory.”

         “But there are two keys,” says she, “and one rather larger than the other. If your Uncle was keeping a watch on the storeroom it’s more than likely he had keys, and the one’s you’ve found don’t fit any locks in the house. So what if one key was for the front door and the smaller one for a room within?”

         “Which I’m seeing no sign off. Look there’s the back wall. This is just one empty space.”

         “What about over there?” She’s shining the torch to her right where the side and back walls should be meeting but don’t, at least not at ground level.  “That’s our room,” she shrieks. “What did I tell you.”

         While I’m touched that she wants to make this room mine as well as hers I’m struggling to match her enthusiasm for a shadowy shape that looks not much bigger than my father’s garden shed. When we get over to it the ‘room’ turns-out to be a large metal cupboard, solidly attached to the ground and outer wall. There’s a handle on the front which when turned to the right frees two doors that part and swing open towards us. We peer in at four shelves piled high with an assortment of rubbish spilling out of decomposing cardboard boxes. It’s no Aladdin’s cave but Ally isn’t giving-up yet. She means to see every square inch of this cupboard and nothing’s going to get in her way. Having dragged everything out onto the floor, including the shelves, she begins a forensic examination of the cupboard that at one point requires me lifting her up so she can peer into the top shelf.

         “It’s not here,” she mutters disconsolately.

         “Absolutely,” I say. “You’ve tipped everything out. When there’s nothing left, there’s nothing  to find.”

         “Not even a keyhole?” she agrees. “A keyhole for the key that might have got us into the space behind it.”

         She’s got a point. What’s in the seven or eight feet behind the cupboard? Probably something mechanical like an air conditioner or generator, but a something that someone occasionally needs to get to, but how? There’s no moving parts to make this happen except the handle that’s already been turned once to the right, but what if we give the handle a further turn to the right? What would happen then? The answer is probably nothing but if I suggest we give it a try I’ll at least get a few Brownie points from Ally for trying to prove her right. What I haven’t taken into account is that for Ally one more turn is never going to be enough.

         “What about two to the right,” she says when one fails to make anything happen. Then we’re into two turns right and one left and then one left and two right. The number of combinations seem endless, especially when, after awhile, you’re unsure what you have already tried. We’re becoming combination junkies when after thirty minutes our efforts are unexpectedly greeted with a loud hum that’s not coming from either of us. Was it two right, two left and three back I’m thinking, but it doesn’t matter now, there’s a click followed by more humming and the back panel of the cupboard starts to slide down to the floor. This is our eureka moment when we should be shouting ‘wow’ but the concrete staircase on the other side is only worth the “oh” we give it. There are eight steps down to a landing where a left turn takes us down another eight steps to a handle-less door that successfully resists Ally’s vigorous attempts to push it open - but she’s not seeing the thing she most wants to.

         “It’s there,” I tell her, grabbing the torch and pointing it at the keyhole in the door. “Have you got the key?”           

         Her hands are shaking so much she can hardly pick it out from the loose change in her purse, and when she puts it in the lock it doesn’t fit because she’s got it in the wrong way up. She takes a deep breath, says a word I’ve never heard her use before, and tries again. This time all that’s needed is a single turn to the right and the door swings inwards to reveal an intense blackness that the torch does little to pierce. We are about to venture in, regardless, when it occurs to the both of us that anyone spending time down here must have had more than a torch to light the way. Surely there must be lights overhead, and, to our relief, the switches that turn them on are found where light switches are usually to be found, at the side of the door. A dozen florescent tubes splutter into life and we find ourselves looking across a large space of similar dimensions to the one above. It’s empty except for a heap of cardboard boxes in the far corner to our left and, in mid floor, a table and chair. We examine the boxes first. There’s thirty of them and after finding nothing beyond the paper dividers that once fitted around the bottles, we make our way over to the table, which on closer scrutiny turns out to be a desk.  

         Ally sits down on the chair ready to pull open the several drawers on either side but she doesn’t get that far. On top of the desk is an envelope. It has my name on it and a message that reads: ‘The cupboard door closes automatically after ten minutes. If you don’t remember the combination grab this envelope and get out now!’

         We’re out in one of the longest, most traumatic minutes it still pains me to remember. Back above ground the sight of sunlight through the missing door has never been more welcome and, as we walk towards it, we hear a click followed by a hum, along with the heavy beating of our hearts.

          

Copyright Richard Banks

 UNCLE GEORGE        [Part 5 of 10] 

By Richard Banks 

         I arrive five minutes early to find him already there and halfway through a scotch and ginger. Suddenly apprehensive at what was to come, I sensed that he was too. We shook hands.

         “What are you drinking, Mr Jones? I have a feeling you may be needing one. You are, I take it, the beneficiary of your uncle’s will?”

         I replied that I was and that if he was buying I would have a Guinness.

               “Then that’s what you will have. To be sure, the lady at the bar is already pouring it. Bring it over Gladys when you’re ready, and another Scotch for myself. Now Mr Jones, what do you know about the London Run? And I don’t mean the marathon.”

         “Not as much as I would like to,” I said, fearing that my ignorance on that subject might dissuade him from sharing what he knew.

         He laughed. “Oh, don’t worry Mr Jones I’m going to tell you the whole story irrespective of what you have for me, although I’m anticipating that your visit to the bank yesterday is likely to be of interest. Anyway, I’ll go first and after that I’ll be wanting to hear everything you know. I’m sensing it may not be much but after all these years every last scrap of information is like gold dust to me.

         I settled into my seat and, on Gladys bringing over our drinks, he began his tale.

         “Twenty five years ago, Mr Jones, I was a young reporter on the Echo doing the usual round of weddings and lost dog stories and dreaming of that big scoop that would get me noticed by the dailies in London. I was aware that some low level smuggling had been going on, mainly booze, which almost everyone in these parts was in on, even the mayor took a few bottles. Well, what was the harm in it? Smuggling along the Wash has been going on since the Stuarts were on the throne. It was almost like we had an unwritten charter to do it. Then, in the late ’80s, things changed and what had been a side line for a few fishermen and those who took two or three bottles became an altogether larger operation. Serious criminals were now involved and little of what they brought in was being sold locally. That’s when I decided to become the daring young reporter who was going to uncover what was going on and reveal all in a front page exclusive that would make my name.

         It didn’t take a genius to work out that Frankie Beale was involved and that his usual crew were doing the legwork. One of these was a farmhand called Johnny Bragg who after a few pints tended to live up to his name. My idea was to ply him with a few drinks at the Green Man on a Saturday evening and coax him into blabbing out what he knew, but as he was seldom very far from his likely accomplices this was never going to be easy. However, when I saw him buy a round from a roll of ten pound notes I knew beyond a doubt that he and his pals were making more money than they knew what to do with. What’s more, Frankie Beale was also in the house.

         Usually he stood at the bar with the rest of them but this evening he was sat by himself showing little interest in the lager in front of him. A few minutes later it all starts to make sense; who should come in but Roy Callow, our recently appointed Inspector of Police who without so much as a sideways glance crosses the floor and disappears into a corridor where there are two doors, one into the Gent’s toilet and the other, marked ‘No Entry’, giving access to the private rooms of the pub. A minute or two later Frankie follows on and when I check-out the toilet neither of them are in there. So now I have the Inspector and one of the biggest villains in Norfolk together in the same room where, I’m guessing, Ernie Spall, the landlord of the pub is also to be found.

         If only I was a fly on the wall, but maybe, just maybe, if I put my ear to the keyhole I will hear what they are saying, but when I do there’s nothing to be heard. I peer in and see an empty room and on the other side of it a door into another room where I’m assuming the meeting is under way. I creep in and park myself down by the door. There’s a key in the lock but that don’t matter, I can hear everything that’s being said. Callow is not in a good mood and everyone is speaking louder than is good for them. As usual Johnny Bragg has been saying too much and Callow wants him given a good beating and dropped from the team. Frankie doesn’t like being told what to do but knows only too well that Johnny is more trouble than he’s worth. If there’s been any blabbing, he says, he will put a stop to it, even if it means putting an end to the dickhead who’s doing it. Just make sure you do your job, what we’re paying you for.

         Callow responds with a terse, ‘no problem’ and they move on to what Spall refers to ‘as the next big event’. There’s a consignment of brandy coming into Anderson’s, an abandoned wharf, on Sunday, some of which is to be taken by road two days later to Spall’s contact in London. The rest will be kept under lock and key until Spall secures another order.

         ‘Where are you storing it?’ demands Callow, but Frankie won’t tell him. ‘It’s safe,’ he says, ‘that’s all you need to know. Just keep the boys in blue out of our way, that’s your job, storage and transport is down to me.’ Callow snaps back and, as their voices become louder and more acrimonious, I retreat back into the corridor. I’ve been lucky, and I’m not even on their radar.

         Come Sunday, I watch from a safe distance as hundreds of boxes are unloaded from a barge. Beale’s men load them onto two lorries and drive off along the coast on a private road built by the businesses along there, most of which are closed down or moved on.  There’s no way I can follow on without being noticed but they can’t go far; the road’s less than a half mile long, and the only way inland and onto the road system, is where I’m hiding.

         The next day I take my dog for a walk along the beach looking for their storeroom. There’s no end of buildings at the back of the beach, mostly wooden sheds, much vandalised, doors missing or flapping open in the breeze. Then I come across a place larger than most with solid, breeze-block walls and a door with a padlock on it - a shiny, brass padlock that’s not long out of the shop that sold it. This could be it, I’m thinking, then I’m more than sure. The building has a minder, some fifty yards away but near enough to observe anyone taking too close an interest. But maybe he’s not a minder, maybe he’s just an old guy in a deckchair, reading the ’paper on a warm Summer’s day.

         I decide to make his acquaintance; it might look suspicious if I don’t, so I amble over to him and make the usual observations about the weather. That’s when I realise I might have seen him before, and, if I have, maybe he’s thinking the same about me. Perhaps he knows exactly who I am,  but if he does there’s not a flicker of recognition on his face. On an otherwise deserted beach he seems pleased to have someone to talk to, but not for long.

         ‘If you’re wanting a walk why don’t you try Grathham Wood,’ he says, ‘it has a lake, ancient woodland and a colony of beavers. It’s only five minutes away, down that path on the other side of the road.’

         I thank him for the information but say it’s time I was heading back. We bid each other goodbye; I turn-about and, in unhurried fashion, return to my car.

         So far so good but a story that started-off no more serious than some smuggled booze has now expanded to include police corruption. Any thoughts I had of tipping off the local bobbies and being on hand to witness the villains’ arrest has got altogether more complicated. I need advice from someone more experienced than myself, so next morning I waste no time in telling Bill Frindley, the Editor, what I have been up to. I’m nearly done when the News Desk ring through with breaking news: a young farm worker Johnny Bragg has been killed in a hit and run accident. For the first time since I joined the paper Bill seems stunned and less than sure what to do. No doubt he’s thinking who he can trust and who he can’t but to his credit his first concern is about me; if Beale has had Bragg killed then I too could be in danger.

         ‘Do you think the man on the beach knows who you are?’

         I say ‘no’, then ‘maybe’, I really don’t know.

         Bill says I’m to stay in the building and out of sight. If necessary I can bed down there for the night, but at 4.30 in the afternoon he summons me back into his office. He’s dug deep into his contacts book and spoken to a guy he once knew in Essex who is now in the Serious Crimes Unit of the Met. As the brandy is bound for London they will take the lead and follow the consignment all the way to London where Beale’s gang and those taking delivery will be arrested. The Met needs someone who knows the local area and can identify the targets to be followed.

         ‘Will you do it?’ says Bill.

         I tell him, yes. I know the lorries used at the wharf and where we can wait for them unseen as they come off the coast road and onto the B1158. This is shaping-up nicely, the cavalry’s been summoned and is ready to go, and I’m about to get the story that will make my name. What’s more, if Frankie and his crew end up in prison, which they surely will, they won’t be doing me any harm.

         At 11.30 the following evening I’m in the front passenger seat of an unmarked police car, just off the coast road, with three coppers who look every bit as desperate as the villains they’re pursuing. There’s a van further on with armed back-up inside that will be following in our wake and sometimes taking over as the nearest pursuit vehicle. We’re all set and when a lorry shoots past us I  know, for sure, it’s one of those I saw being loaded at the wharf. Twenty minutes later we’re on better lit roads and heading south. There’s nothing more for me to do now but enjoy the ride and get some photos at the other end. This is a dream come true, my ticket into Fleet Street.

         An hour later we’re on the A10 and passing through Ware when the lorry takes an unexpected left and accelerates away before taking another left into a suburban road and screeching to a halt. By the time we catch-up, the doors of the lorry are open and everyone inside has fled into the night. The support van arrives and the coppers spill out, guns at the ready, but with no one in sight their pursuit is as good as over. But it’s not done yet, I’m told, a police helicopter is being scrambled and a message has gone out to every police car within miles to be on the look-out. But no one knows how many men we’re looking for, what they are wearing or anything else about them. The cops try and put a good face on it. They have the contraband and there will be fingerprints, they say, no matter how careful those in the lorry think they have been there’s bound to be fingerprints.

         At first light the police break into the storeroom on the sea front but find only a dozen boxes inside. But there should be more, I say, much more, I saw them load-up two lorry loads of the stuff. Three of Frankie’s gang are apprehended next day but only one of them has left fingerprints in the lorry and he claims it’s a hire vehicle he sometimes uses for rubbish removal. Any other prints found in it will probably be those of pals who help him out from time to time. As for the storeroom the police keep talking about he knows nothing of it.

         It’s not looking good and despite pulling-in Frankie and everyone else likely to be involved no one’s talking. Ditto Callow and Spall. But Callow’s mobile has been taken from him, and what do you know, there’s a call on it to Frankie five minutes before the lorry was abandoned in Ware. Did he find out what was going on and warn Frankie who in turn phoned through to the guys in the lorry? The Met think so, and if they can find Frankie’s phone they will likely have their proof, but no one’s surprised when it can’t be found.

         It’s as satisfactory as a no score draw in football. A crime’s been prevented, the contraband seized, but there’s insufficient evidence to charge anyone with a criminal offence; a young reporter gets only half a story and Callow survives an investigation but agrees to resign, later reinventing himself and returning to Buremarsh as a genial member of the gentry. As for the man on the beach, three months later I see him again and follow him, all the way back to his home at Petherdale.    

         Yes, Mr Jones, the man I saw on the beach was your uncle and having ascertained his name informed my Editor who duly told the Met. A police raid on his home recovered a single bottle, and after a long interrogation he admitted his part in their unlawful importation.

         If, like the others, he had denied his involvement he would probably have got away with it but unlike them he was not a street wise criminal and soon confessed his guilt. However, one thing he wouldn’t do was name any of his accomplices even though he would have escaped a custodial sentence had he done so. Whether this was out of loyalty to Frankie and Co or because he thought time in prison preferable to the retribution that might one day come his way, I can’t say. What I do know is that in 1994, after serving eighteen months of a three year sentence, he was released. He returned to his previous life as a casual labourer whose periods of employment were now even less than before. It was at this time that I contacted him requesting an interview which he unsurprisingly declined. A pity that, there’s so much he might have said, things we may now never know. Two hundred boxes were recovered from the lorry, with a street value of sixty grand, but that’s only half of what I saw unloaded two days before, and who knows how much was in the warehouse from previous shipments. So what happened to it all, Mr Jones? Do you have something to tell me?”

         His long monologue was at an end.

         “No idea, Mr Cummings, my uncle left me his house and everything in it, his furniture, furnishings, a few books, even an unopened box of teabags, but bottles of brandy there were none. He was a poor man struggling to get by. Far more likely it was Frankie who kept hold of what was left, but how he did so I have no idea.”

         Cummings looks disappointed, but not altogether surprised. “If only I could prove that and put him away; even after all these years, there is nothing I would like better. What happened to Billy Bragg will always be on my conscience. I should have warned him that he was in danger but I didn’t. Otherwise I’m an old dog with a large bone he can’t crack. It should have ended so well for me, the arrest and imprisonment of the villains, including a senior policeman, and the recovery of valuable contraband. It should have been my big break, but it wasn’t. It was only half a story, and not until five years later was I able to escape the shackles of grass route journalism. Well, there’s no changing that, but nevertheless I need closure. So tell me, please do, how did you fare at the bank? Could it be, despite what you say, that your uncle once had some serious money, money he chose to count rather than spend, money he has now passed onto you. Is there something I should be telling the police, Mr Jones?”

         “Tell them what you like! There’s no money, it’s gone, where to I have no idea.” For a few moments I’m irritated by what he’s just said, then even more annoyed when I realise I have told him more than I intended. The man’s obsessed, there may be no getting rid of him now, but then, what do I have to hide, so I tell about the money in my uncle’s account, how he withdrew every penny of it in cash and did who knows what with it. I say I will get Matlock & Wells to write to the bank and get them to confirm what I have just told him. “Will that satisfy you, Mr Cummings, otherwise there is little I can tell you. My uncle and Frankie have occasionally been seen together, once with Callow, and that although nothing was heard of their conversation my uncle appeared less than easy in their company. One thing I’m certain of is that my uncle never made any serious money from the brandy otherwise there would have been no need for him to live in poverty for the rest of his life. The one occasion on which I’ve met Frankie he went out of his way to praise my uncle; if he ended up with the money in uncle’s account he would have had good reason for doing so. I wish I could tell you more but, after twenty years, I suspect that only a death bed confession is going to solve this particular mystery; unfortunately for the both of us Uncle died in his sleep.”

         Cummings looks dejected but appears to accept what I say. We finish our drinks and he gives me his private mobile number. “Let me know,” he says, “if anything else comes to light.”

          I assure him that I will, and we go our separate ways.

 

(To Be Continued)

 

Copyright Richard Banks    

 

Riddles 26

By the Riddler

 

The Riddler has two puzzles for us today:

 

No 1.  What vowel does not appear in any of the numbers between 0 & 21?

 

No 2. Which month, spelt backwards, is a vegetable?

 

Keep em coming Riddler

 

 Fred, our resident ghost. 

By Barbara Thomas

Let me tell you about our ghost, Fred.

We moved into the Lodge on December 24

The day we moved in it poured, with rain lashing down against

The windows. Our furniture was soaked, we were soaked through. Good start for a move, this carried on all over the weekend.

We went to put the electrics and central heating on, nothing worked. 

So we had no option to go into a nearby hotel.

I phoned the company that had installed our boiler but they couldn’t come out until Monday

Strike 1 to Fred!

 

Strike 2. After the plumber had sorted out the heating and told

us how to turn the electricity on.

We woke up 3 days later to find we had no water.

 

I spoke to our next door neighbour who told us about the man

who not only lived here but had built the Lodge.

Apparently when his wife went into hospital and later sadly

died, Fred became a recluse not allowing anybody to help

him.  The garden is a wrap around garden and eventually

Became a wilderness.

He refused the council to add cladding and in general

never went far and stayed in doors most of the time.

It was very much his Lodge.

 

Then I realised that “Fred” was not going to give up his home

Lightly, even in death.

 

Once I realised what I was up against, when ever things

went wrong without any reason, I knew it was Fred.

The shower flooded. The taps in kitchen and bathroom

Leaked. That we sorted.  Strike 3

 

We got the plumber to replace taps etc.  Sorted!

Next we noticed water in the passage it turned out the mastic, for

What ever reason, had perished.

Once more in came the plumber. Sorted!

During the winter we were told that BT would supply

Internet and landline. We then got a text that they were unable

to carry out the job until the middle of January

That meant no TV or Landline. UGH!

So, again we moved to a Hotel.

 

The strangest thing was I had used the 2nd bedroom

as my office and dressing room.

Both my computer and my printer broke down?

My husband purchased a new computer and printer

that worked in the living room but not in 2nd bedroom!?

My great grandson will not go in that room, he says there

Is a man in there. My granddaughters’ dog won’t go in there either

he will race around but stops dead at the door.

 

I believe “Fred’s” being is still in our home but, things are getting better. I think he has finally realised what ever he throws at us we are prepared…

 

Copyright Barbara Thomas

 

THE BUCKET LIST

 THE BUCKET LIST

By Bob French

The main sitting room of the Dickens Care Home just outside Purleigh, was buzzing as Jane, the head nurse sounded the evening gong.  Those who had booked their place to watch ‘Gone with the wind’ in the upstairs lounge, for the eighth time, started to make their way out of the sitting room.

          The card and domino players left by the west wing to play in the conservatory, whilst Nancy and Albert waited for the mass exodus to settle down.

          After a few minutes, Albert stood and addressed the remaining eight gentle folk as he sometimes referred to them.

          “Right, everyone, we have just two months left before we declare the winner of the Dickens Care Home Bucket List Champion of 2019.”  Everyone applauded their achievements. Nancy stood, and with a huge grin on her face read from her millboard. “Pamela, you have completed two of your quests, Billy you have completed three; Owen you have only completed one, but as you know it is still being adjudicated by the committee as stealing ladies’ underwear from washing lines is not considered in keeping within the rules of the competition. Jill, you Harry and Mavis have yet to complete any of your challenges. Frances and Paul, you both have four a piece and William and Janet you both have nine each, so it looks like it’s between you two.  The first to complete their last quest will become this year’s champion.”  Everyone applauded again as some of their challenges were rather scarry.

          Nancy looked at William. “I understand that you are being held up by the weather for your tandem parachute jump, and Janet,” She paused as she re-read from her notes. “I don’t understand. “A walk into the past?”

          Janet smiled and gently nodded to Nancy. “It’s a surprise, so I shan’t let on love if that’s alright.”

          That night Janet paid a visit to her closest friend, Gwenavere, who dabbled in the dark arts. Tea leaves, dice and tarot cards.

          Gwenavere could see the pain in Janet’s eyes and nodded her towards a soft arm chair.  “How you feeling Love.” Janet had been suffering from osteoarthritis for a long time and found sanctuary in the little bags of herbal medicine that Gwenavere would dispense to those who needed to get through the day.  Without being asked, she put the kettle on and passed Janet a small bag of marijuana and watched her sprinkle it into a warm cup of Chamomile tea. This, she found that it would drive away the pain and allow her to sleep peacefully. “Now what date are you planning your last quest my love?”

          Janet looked up at her friend. “I was thinking of All Hallows’ Eve. I wouldn’t stand out.”

          Gwenavere nodded.  How you getting out there then.  Tis a long way?”

          “It’s only two and a half miles and I have walked it in the day time and during the night, so I think I can do it.”

          It had just past eleven forty-five on a cold and frosty night in late October as Janet reached the outskirts of the forest.  She paused while she took a breath, then moved along the muddy path until she came to the old rickety bench which she had found five years ago, just on the fringes of the dead Forest of Mundon.

          With a smile, she eased herself down onto the bench and felt a sense of achievement as mentally she crossed off the last task from her bucket list; to visit the ancient oaks of Mundon.

          After about ten minutes, she took the flask from her coat pocket, unscrewed the cap and drank the warm Chamomile tea then lent back to allow the tiny leaves to do their magic. Feeling the peaceful sensation start to take hold of her old and frail body, Janet took a deep breath and felt the cold night air start to seep deep into her lungs until she felt invigorated as though her old body was coming to life.  She stood and slowly walked towards the skeletal monuments that held secrets of the past that no man would ever hear.

          Under a veil of frost and moonlight, the petrified oaks of Mundon stood like ancient sentinels, their gnarled limbs twisted in eternal agony. Silver ice clung to barks long dead, glinting faintly in the cold starlight. A spectral hush hung over the marshland, broken only by the whisper of wind through hollow branches. Each tree, lifeless yet looming, casting long skeletal shadows across the frozen earth.

          As she slowly moved amongst the tombstones of oak, time felt suspended, her breath visible in the still night air. The oaks, remnants of a forgotten forest, seem to watch her in silence; ghosts rooted in soil, frozen in time.

          The further she moved into the centre of the forgotten forest, the more she felt younger, as though some medieval force was gradually occupying her body and soul. Then she saw them. A series of shooting stars, streaking across the deep black heavens, leaving their Icey trail briefly before fading into the distance. A message from the gods she thought as she glanced at her watch.  It was midnight.

          Without thinking she fell to her knees and started to recite a prayer she’d read in a book of ancient pagan rituals many years ago.  Her mumblings were interrupted by the sound of people singing and playing musical instruments in the distance.  Her inquisitiveness got the better of her and she stood and started to follow the sound of merriment. Her steps increased until she felt herself running flat out towards the noise.  Suddenly huge bon fires burst into bright flames in the four corners of the field as though protecting those who had chosen to celebrate the festival.

          The sounds grew louder, yet she could not see anyone. The pain in her chest started to burn, but she knew she had to get near to the fire for it to work. The closer she got to the noise, so the smoke from the huge fire burning in the centre of the celebrations, started to thin and she could now make out faces.  Her breathing started to labour and the pain was increasing, forcing her to stumble and she felt herself falling. Then she saw him, her Jack, the man she had fallen in love with and lived together for some fifty years before he moved to the other side as Gwenavere explained to her.  He ran towards her and cradled her in his arms.

          “You came my darling, you came.”

          “Oh Jack, I’m hurting my love.”

          “Tis alright my darling, we are together now, it will pass.”

          Jack glanced into the huge fire, then looked into her eyes. “We have but a few minutes before all this ends, Will you marry me?”

          Janet smiled and nodded.  Suddenly they were standing at the altar of the thirteenth century church of Saint Mary’s on the corner of the ancient forest.  The old priest went through the ceremony of handfasting; gently binding their hands together with a cord.  They exchanged their vows, kissed, then carefully jumped over the broom.  As their feet touched the ground, everything vanished. Only the stillness of the cold night remained.

          The faint sound of the gentle moaning wind as it passed through the tormented limbs of the ancient oaks was all that was left of the gathering.  In the stillness of the dawn came the sound of the single bell of Saint Mary’s, together. With wind and bell woven in a haunting symphony, solemn, and strangely beautiful in the stillness of a forgotten world.

          Janet was reported missing the following day and after the briefest of searches, was found sitting up against one of the huge old oak trees in the forest of Mundon with a smile on her face.  That night the committee of the Dickens Care Home Bucket List Championship declared that even though Janet had passed away, she had achieved her quest and was voted the winner. 

Copyright Bob French

 UNCLE GEORGE    [Part 4 of 10?]

By Richard Banks 

On the Monday, after breakfast, I set-off with my uncle’s will, his death certificate and proof of who I was. The cashier at the Upshire Bank declared herself unable to deal with my enquiry and after disappearing ‘off-stage’ to consult a colleague showed me into the office of a Mr Woodrow whose weary expression indicated that my arrival had not, from his point of view, been well timed. He examined the documents I brought before declaring that any money belonging to my uncle could only be disclosed to his solicitor.

         “But surely,” I said, “you can tell me if the account is open or not. It seems a pity to waste your time and the solicitor’s if it’s been closed.”

         He nodded in a begrudging sort of way and, taking from me the bank’s letter, typed out the account number and examined the client details on his monitor. “I’m afraid you’re out of luck Mr Jones, the account was closed twenty one years ago, a pity that.”

         “Oh, why so?” I asked. “Much in it?”

         Mr Woodgrove raised a disapproving eyebrow. “That I couldn’t possibly say, Mr Jones but if I was to tell you that £30,000 was a significant amount back then you should not construe me as meaning that such a sum was in your uncle’s account when he withdrew it all in cash. Now, Mr Jones, if you will excuse me I have work to do.”

         So, uncle had walked out of the Upshire with a bag or suitcase full of banknotes. How had he got his hands on such a large sum and what had become of it? If this wasn’t a mystery nothing was, but my growing optimism that the Echo would be able to provide me with further information was all but quashed within minutes of entering their premises. The young guy on reception did not know the person signing their letter or what the interview was about, assuming it ever took place. No doubt, he said, it was something to do with a story they running at the time but what that was he had no idea. They only kept their back numbers for ten years. I could speak to the Editor when he was back in the office but as he had only been with the paper five years it was unlikely he would know any more than himself. Perhaps, he suggested, the best course of action would be for me to leave my mobile number, along with a note saying what I had just told him, and if Mr Thorpe could be of assistance he would, no doubt, give me a ring.

         I did as he suggested but with little expectation that a call-back, if it happened, was going to add anything to what I had found out at the bank. Was the Echo’s request for an interview linked to the money in my uncle’s account? I felt sure it was, but if the paper was unable to tell me this, who else could? The Beale’s? My imagination was in overdrive. Stick to the facts I told myself, but of these there were far too few.

         I was having lunch in a pub nearby when the ringtone of my mobile heralded a call from Matlock & Wells informing me that a life assurance policy lodged with them when uncle made his will would be adding a further £300 to his estate. If I was less upbeat about this than the solicitor’s clerk appeared to be it did at least bring me down to earth. The purpose of my visit was to decide what to do with uncle’s house and its effects. With only a few days left before my return to London I was better of getting on with that rather than chasing a pot of gold that in all probability no longer existed. I had a big decision to make and a girl friend I was rather fond of. Did we have a future together and, if so, did it lie in London or here? The time to find out was very definitely now, and that evening I made the longest and most important telephone call of my life at the end of which I was engaged and living in what was likely to become our first house.

         Unsurprisingly sleep didn’t come easily that night. The feeling of euphoria when Ally said yes was soon followed by the realisation that there was now even more to do than before. In addition to binning uncle’s clothes and linen I had also to dispose of much of his furniture. Some of it would come in useful until we could afford better but most of the rest would be giving the tip a bad name. We would be needing a freezer, a washing machine, a TV, none of which uncle had. The house would need rewiring and central heating installed. I awoke, with an aching head, to the ring tone of my mobile. After lying awake for most of the night I had overslept, it was 10am.

         “Mr Phillip Jones?” the voice was unfamiliar, businesslike, a certain tension in his voice indicating that for him this was an important call.

         “Yes, that’s me.”

         “My name is Fred Cummings. I gather from Eddie Thorpe at the Echo that you’ve been asking about a letter I sent to George Jones in 1994. No doubt you’ll be wanting to know why I  wanted to speak to your uncle. I have much to tell you and in return you might be able to fill in a few gaps for me. I suggest we meet at the Wheatsheaf in Craventhorpe. Are you free this afternoon?”

         I replied that I was, my commitment to the practicalities of setting-up home suddenly put on hold in favour of a treasure hunt that was almost certainly going to end in disappointment. But who would know, I told myself, and if Cummings had nothing worth the telling that would be an end to it with only an afternoon wasted. Having eased my conscience by dropping-off more stuff at the tip I set-off for the Wheatsheaf trying to suppress my boyish excitement for a mystery about to be revealed, or so I hoped.  

(To be Continued)

Copyright Richard Banks