CLAIREX

 CLAIREX

By John Abbott

Briiing... Briiing, Briiing... Briiing, Briiing... Briiing,

“Damn !”  The phone downstairs was ringing. Briiing... Briiing. God knows what the time was.

Briiing... Briiing.

I rolled right and yawned as I dragged myself out of my slumber and rushed my body into action. The phone was ringing again. 

I rapidly descended the stairs in the dark; fortunately, I knew the house well enough. The landline was on the wall.

Briiing... Briiing. I slapped my right hand on the telephone and lifted the receiver. A voice spoke out from the other end.

"Hello. Is James there?"

The voice was soft and female.

" No, sorry. You must have the wrong number. " I responded.” My mouth was very, very dry.

" Are you sure ? It sounds like the right number to me” Her voice was pleasant.

" No, I'm afraid not. " I replied.

" Are you on your own ? " She asked.

" Er ... Yes. " I replied with a quick thought. " What a waste ... eh ? "

" Yeah, I suppose so. "

" What are you doing ? " she questioned. " Uh ? ... I was in bed. "

" Really ? "

" Yes. "

" Do you want to know what colour underwear I'm wearing ? " she asked. I was mildly shocked. I found the question a little perturbing, but I must admit that a tiny tingle of excitement ran through my body.

" Erm ... Yeah ... Whatever. " I replied, unconvincingly.

“ White. I'm wearing white. " she stated, unequivocally.

“ White ... why white ? " I queried.

" Because I'm pure. " she purred back.

I swallowed hard, feeling excited and intrigued, but still somehow subdued. She asked me another question.

" What have you got on ? "

" Nothing ... naked. " I answered.

" Really ? Hmmmmh ... That's nice, " purred the voice. I decided to find out what was going down here.

" So, how come you're ringing me up at this time of night ? " I said, realising almost immediately that it must have, in fact, been early morning.

" I was bored. " she answered. " Sorry... ?

" I was bored. " she repeated. " Bored ? "

" Yeah ... I was bored sitting here. "

" Do you often ring up strange men at odd times of night ? " I queried, again not registering that it was morning. Her soft response sounded honest, although repetitive. " Only when I'm bored. "

My dry throat attempted to splutter out the next sentence. " Strange habush ? " Uh ... " Hobit ... "

She interrupted, " Hobbit even. "

I laughed, " Yeah ... even Hobbit. " I continued, " Isn't it an expensive habit ? " " Hmmm ... " She murmured back.

It felt very eerie talking to someone I didn't know in the dark at this time of the morning. By now, I was really curious, so I asked her a more general question.

" Well ... Tell me something about yourself ? "

" What do you want to know ? " she answered, happily. " What's your name ?”

" Claire. "

" Nice ... My names John." I questioned her again. " How tall are you ? "

" Five-foot-five. "

" What colour hair have you got ? " " Blonde ... Short. "

" How short ? "

" Erm ... Down to my neck. " she said, as I imagined her face.

" Are you attractive, unattractive, or somewhere in-between ? “

" Well ... I think somewhere in-between, but I leave that to other people. "

" I can't quite believe this. "

" You mean you can't believe your luck ? "

" Ummm ... It could be a wind-up of some sort. "

" Well, it isn't. "

I decided to ask a few more questions.

" I know you're not supposed to ask women this question, but how old are you ? " " I'm twenty-nine. " she answered.

" And ... How old are you ? " 

" Guess. "

" You sound young ... "

" Yeah ... Thank you, " I retorted, " Well, guess then ? “ 

" I'd say you were ... Twenty-six. "

" Ha ! ... I wish ! "

She laughed. It sounded really sweet. " I'm thirty-three. "

She hesitated, then asked me a more personal question. " Are you slim ? "

" Yes ... very slim. " I checked my own answer, " I mean, not skinny, but still slim. "

"Are you muscly ? "

I quipped back quickly,

" Yeah ... I've been to the gym-every day this week. " As she quietly purred approvingly, I said,

" Well, I don't suppose you can believe your luck this time can you ? "

" Mmmmmh ... " came back her wonderful murmur.

She asked another question,

" Where do you live ? " I hesitated.

" C'mon ... Where do you live ? It must be nice, because you sound posh. "

" Posh ? ... Nah, not me. I think I'm relatively intelligent though. "

" C'mon ... We could meet ... Now. " She sounded like she wanted it to happen. I felt a mild shock of excitement zip up my spine, but I resisted.

I laughed and said, " No, I don't think so. "

" Wouldn't you like to meet me ? " she asked,

" We could go for a drink or something ? ... What do you think ? " She sounded genuine, but I avoided answering.

A brief pause, and I continued. " Where do you live ? "

" Plaistow. "

" That's close ! ... What street ? " 

" Balaam Street. "

" Christ ... That's just around the corner. "

" Are you sure you don't want to meet ? " she repeated.

I became a little cautious. I knew nothing about her, so I asked yet another question. " Are you married ? "

" Separated ... Almost divorced. "

"What about your husband ? "

" He's not around. He doesn't come around. "

" I'm divorced. " I stated.

" Yeah ... Well, I'm nearly divorced. I decided to wait for the ... er ... Two year bit. "

" Umm. " was my response.

I thought I heard a sound at her end. " Who are you whispering to ? "

" Uh ? "

I lowered my voice. " Who are you whispering to ? "

“ Whispering ? ... You, silly ! " she whispered back. I must have been wrong.

" Can I ring you again ... sometime ? " she asked.

" Yes. " I replied excitedly. " But you'll have to call me at a more reasonable hour. Not at this time of night. "

I made the mistake of mixing up night and morning again. " I'll ring you again then ... When ? ... What time ? "

" Erm ... Tomorrow ... Sometime tomorrow. "

" What time ? Are you in all day ? "

" Erm ... I dunno. Er ... Six O'clock. "

" What ? In the morning ? "

I laughed. " No ... Six O'clock in the evening. "

" Are you sure ? "

" Yeah ... I think so. "

" I'll ring you again tomorrow then. "

I thought on it for a few more seconds and decided that six wasn't actually convenient. " Nah, make it Nine O'clock. "

" What ? "

" Not in the evening. Nine O'clock in the morning. A.M. " 

" Alright ... I'll ring you again at Nine O'clock. "

" Good ... "

" I've got to go ... There's someone at the door. "

" Uh ? I muttered. " Someone at the door ... At this time ? "

" Yeah, I've got to go. It's been really nice talking to you. What's your name again ? "

" John. "

" Yeah ... I'll ring you again John. "

Click ... Burrrrrrrrr ... She hung up and I replaced the receiver. 

My heart was pumping hard and I felt elated, but I wasn't sure why. I slowly slinked back to my bed. I checked my digital clock; one-twenty-one, precisely. I didn't sleep much, I couldn't.

I continuously tossed and turned. Only one thing filled my mind. Claire ... I had a prolonged, delighted feeling.

By the time daylight arrived, I hadn't slept at all since I'd spoken to her. When I climbed out of my bed at around seven-thirty, I was still thinking about her. I hadn't even thought of taking her number ... Why not ?

I waited two days obsessively for her to ring. She didn't. I never thought to ask for her number nor did I have a method to identify this.

However, I was never to receive that call.

Copyright John Abbott

 

Guy Fawkes Remembered

 Guy Fawkes Remembered

By Sis Unsworth

The flames so high did light up the sky, so well I do remember,

Way back then in the old East End, every 5^th of November.

Families would meet in their own backyard, to savour the fun of the night.

Others would gather round a huge bonfire, they’d built on an old bombsite.

There was no health and safety then, and the fireworks gave such thrills,

from high flying rockets that went off bang, to the colourful Catherine wheels.

Children would build their own Guy Fawke’s, then ask a penny for the Guy,

That would help pay for fireworks, they would use to light up the sky.

But the best bit I loved for the old folks, was something I now understand,

It’s great to just sit by a bonfire, with a large glass of beer in your hand!

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

WHO IS THIS MAN?

     

The Temporal Displacement Machine

    “I know he’s a genius and all that, but did you understand anything he said in that lecture?” Two students descended the steps of the auditorium together towards the platform at the front, arms laden with books,.

    “Well, Jennings, what did you expect? Physics at this level was never going to be easy”.

    “I expect a teacher who can actually teach! Not a genius whose knowledge is locked away behind those tiny oval spectacles he wears. What’s more, I now have an hour's worth of tutorial with him, alone. Wish me luck, Bamford!”

    “Then do, try to stay awake, for heaven’s sake. I must admit it was rather dull; I almost dropped off myself. They say he can become quite animated when you get him alone and on a subject that he’s really passionate about. Some people are just not good in front of a large audience, too introverted, I expect”.

    “He didn’t look up from his notes once during the whole lecture”. The clock chimed the quarter hour. 

Bamford glanced at his watch and said, “You had better be off, Jennings; everyone knows he’s a stickler for timekeeping”.

    “Yes, I know, he was very insistent that I come exactly on time. ‘Do not be late, Jennings, even by one minute, do you hear?’ Softly spoken though he is, he almost barked at me. Very unlike him, I thought, a bit alarming actually. Oh well, I had better go; perhaps I can salvage something on temporal displacement theory from him after all, if I can keep awake. Where are his rooms?”

    “He lives alone in college, south-east staircase. Did you know he was the youngest don in the history of Trinity, so I read somewhere. Spends all his spare time playing with pointless inventions that don’t work!”

    At exactly five and twenty past eleven, Jennings knocked on the heavy door; a small brass label read, Professor Nicholas Butterworth BSc PhD.

    “Enter”. Came the reply in a clipped, precise English accent from somewhere deep within. As he pushed open the door, a blaze of morning sunlight caught his eyes. The aroma of old books, polished oak panelling and an assortment of dusty old leather chairs filled his nostrils. A familiar smell, which gave him a sense of foreboding. And, like the pipe tobacco which hung in a cloud, it made him feel slightly befuddled. A blackboard was covered in drawings and calculations, scribbled and crossed out as if in a frenzy of thought.

    “Ah, Jennings, please come in,” said Professor Butterworth from behind a large desk. There on the desk sat a whirring, quietly humming machine about the size of a large clock with all the mechanism exposed. The thing emitted a pale violet light and pulsated with what felt like barely contained electrical energy. The professor did not look up as he adjusted small brass dials, making meticulous notes in a thick leather-bound book. He wrote with an old fountain pen in a small, neat script without unnecessary flourish. The notes covered the whole page in precise lines of even lettering. Once he had finished, he sprang to his feet with surprising agility and said,

    “Sit yourself down, Jennings.” But the student was staring, open-mouthed at the fascinating machine.

    Butterworth surveyed his pupil, and slowly sat on the corner of the desk, removed his spectacles, placing one arm into his mouth absent-mindedly. A suppressed smile played across his face, as if he could barely contain a secret. The student sank into an armchair, mesmerised by the fascinating object. Wheels and cogs were spinning like a tiny model of the solar system.

    “Yes, it’s quite a marvellous thing to behold, if I say so myself”. As he spoke, his face lit up with boyish enthusiasm, very unlike the rather expressionless, dry and dusty delivery he gave in his lectures. “Have you guessed what it is yet, Jennings?”

    “No sir, I, I don’t think I...”

    “Come now, Jennings, you have attended my Lectures.” Pointing, he said, “That part is a Faraday Cage. It’s the containment field into which any object may be transmitted”. The young professor took out a half-hunter watch from his waistcoat pocket and began counting down. The clock in the Great Court outside began to chime. Pointing a long finger at the wire container at the base of the machine, he said, “Look.” A blaze of bright light, a small pop and a silver cigarette case appeared inside.

    “Why, that’s mine!” Jennings exclaimed, getting to his feet, “I lost it a month ago. It was a gift from my father for gaining a place at Trinity. I was rather reluctant to tell him I had lost it”.

    “Oh, you didn’t lose it, Jennings, I stole it!”

    “You, you stole it. But why, sir?”

    “Congratulate me, Jennings, I have finally succeeded in creating a Temporal Displacement Machine. After years of failure, I have at last refined the targeting mechanism to a precise instance in time.

    “Was it you then, behind all those thefts in college last month?”
    “Yes, yes!” he said dismissively. “It was all part of the experiment I have been conducting”. He then strode around his desk, picked up his book, scanned through his notes and said,

    “Here it is. I stole your cigarette case on the fifth of May nineteen hundred and twelve, placed it into this device and sent it to today at exactly half past eleven. As you can see, it has just reappeared. For a whole month it has existed, but outside of time.

    “Err, I, I don’t quite follow, err, existed where, sir. How can a thing be in space but not in time?”

    “Come now, Jennings, don’t you see, I have created what is commonly known as a time machine. The possibilities are endless. This, of course, is only a prototype. I am having a full-size working machine constructed in the basement of the physics laboratory, and soon it will be finished”.

    Several months later, a crowd of students waited outside the lecture hall, but Professor Butterworth did not show up. Rumours were rampant: had he drowned in the River Cam, had he run off to America with the Dean’s daughter. This was the favourite theory among students, but this seemed very unlikely for a timid man like Butterworth. Or perhaps he had been murdered. He was known to be conducting secret experiments for years; had one of these gone horribly wrong, was he lying dead somewhere in college?

    Only Jennings suspected the truth. Time travel takes its toll on the body; just ask Prof. Stephen Hawkins of Cambridge.

Copyright Christopher Mathews – October 2026

ADVICE

 ADVICE

By Peter Woodgate 

He said, chill out,

Go meditate

And take no notice,

Of the lunacy

That surrounds the world today.

 

My answer to him was:

 

That I could rid my mind of those

Damn thoughts of  blind hypocrisy

And meditate instead and choose

Each one with positivity

I would be one, with greater mind

And innocent philosophy

Who slept without the worlds harsh truth

But then, that one would not be me.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

WHO IS THIS MAN?

 

WHO IS THIS MAN?

Write a characterisation based on this image. Between 500 and 1000 words.

A Day Remembered

A beautiful Spring day, and the pretty village was buzzing with activity. A stranger in the village always got noticed by the well-heeled ladies who lunch and shop at their leisure. So when Megan parked her car and started to walk along the High Street there were sidelong glances. They were discreet looks, and Megan was not at all aware. An affluent area, the hanging baskets around and about were stuffed full and overflowing with the abundance of narcissi, pansies, crocus and primroses. She had read in a magazine at the hairdressers that there was a new bridal shop recently opened that sold beautiful dresses, some handmade. She had driven the 12 miles from home to have a look. She was not familiar with the village, but liked what she saw as she started to casually stroll. Bigger than she had anticipated, the High Street had a number of well-presented independent shops. When she saw the pale pink and white paintwork of Wedding Belles, she looked in the window and was immediately blown away by the dress on display. Pure white lace and silk with such gorgeous embroidered detail, and tiny pearls on the bodice. She could not help but stand and take it all in for several minutes. The dress of her dreams. Without hesitation, she stepped inside the shop and was greeted by the young woman at the desk, adjusting pale pink roses in a crystal vase. The lighting was soft and the carpet cream and luxurious. Megan was relieved she had dressed smartly and paid attention to her clothes, hair and makeup. She felt she had stepped into another world of exclusivity, a fairytale, and was so happy. The young woman stepped forward and welcomed Megan with a smile. Megan could not think of anything to say except ‘Wow, I love your shop’ as she surveyed the velvet armchair and wedding dresses hanging on a rail under the soft light of a crystal chandelier. Feeling like a schoolgirl with a crush, Megan felt a bit overwhelmed. She had waited so long for this day when she would walk into a bridal shop and be surrounded by glorious dresses in such luxurious surroundings. But she had not anticipated the strength of her emotion. 

The young woman Carolyn, was clearly pleased by the impact on Megan and, smiling, replied ‘Thank you, I have dreamed for the last two years of opening my own bridal shop. My Grandmother lives in the village, and when she told me this shop had become vacant, I knew it would be perfect. It has taken me three months to prepare and decorate, and I love it. Three hard months, as I did it mostly by myself. I do some of the sewing and alterations too, so I am a Jack, or should I say Jill, of all trades. Her tinkle of happy laughter was infectious, and Megan relaxed. Before long Megan had looked at all the dresses on the rail and asked if she could try two of her favourites, together with the one in the window. Carolyn was really helpful and attentive, giving her lots of encouragement and telling her, quite truthfully, that she looked lovely. Two of the dresses would need a little adjustment if she were to choose one of them, but Carolyn, with a pincushion on her wrist, was on hand to pin and tuck and assure her that the alterations could be done very easily within a day. Feeling more confident, Megan asked if she could try on a veil and a crystal tiara. Carolyn was immediately at her side with a selection, delighted that a sale was almost certain. Megan really did look good in her dresses and was thinking she would ask her if she could take some photos for her promotional material. Megan could not quite decide on which dress she liked most, so agreed to return the following week to try them on again.

Outside the shop, Megan was still on cloud 9 as she walked to where she had parked the car.

Sitting quietly before starting the ignition, she thought about how she had dreamt for a long time about the day she would choose a beautiful wedding dress, choose the perfect venue and reception and walk down the isle as a bride. She was still deep in her thought when her mobile phone rang in her handbag. It was her mother.

‘Megan? Where are you?

‘I’m out in the car, why? There was a pause before her mother replied

‘Because you were supposed to be back here nearly an hour ago’

‘Oh, sorry Mum, time just slipped away’

‘Well, hurry back, will you. I've been worried about you’

‘I’m OK, Mum, really I am’

‘OK, love, but hurry up so we aren’t late’

‘Late?

‘Yes, for the church..You know, Martin’s memorial service?’

Silence

‘Are you there, Megan?’

‘Yes, Mum, I’m on my way’

Megan slumped in the seat and felt her emotions rise to the surface, and she became tearful.

As soon as she was composed, Megan drove home, and her mother greeted her with a hug and a cup of tea, before they sombrely set off for the church.

Sandwiched between her Mum and Dad, Megan wept into a series of handkerchiefs passed to her by her mother throughout the service. The music and the flowers were beautiful, and Megan almost felt it could be a setting for a wedding.

After the service, she stood with her parents as family and friends came over to speak to her. She tried to make sense of it all as she heard them speak in hushed tones

‘So sorry, Megan’

‘ I’m here for you, Meg, if you need me’

‘Sorry for your loss, Megan.

‘ Martin will always be remembered love’

‘He was a good man, Megan, and loved you so much’

‘Such a tragedy Meg, he will be remembered in my prayers’

The words washed over her and taking her arm, Megan’s Mum led her to the car and home.

In her bedroom, Megan was left to rest, she seemed shell-shocked, although it had been a month since her fiancé had died in a tragic accident. They had been together six years.

There would be no one else for her, she was certain. He had always been the only one for her. She thought of the bridal shop and the joy that had been snatched away from her. She would never go back to that beautiful shop. What had she been thinking? Her dreams of being a bride would never be fulfilled. Her memories of those beautiful dresses and her joy of trying them on would be her only memory of what was not to be.

Copyright Jane Scoggins – October 2026

Summer of 69

 Summer of 69

By Jane Goodhew

Shakespeare may have written about our Winter of Discontent but for me, I prefer to remember the summer of free concerts and love in the Royal Parks in London.   It was 7^th June 1969 when four of us made our way to Hyde Park, the sun shone and over 100,000 people attended without any fights or disruptions just music, peace and love.    It was to herald the birth of the super group of rock and roll, Blind Faith whose members were like a list of Whose Who in music.

Eric Clapton guitarist, who it has been said was not happy with their performance due to lack of rehearsals.    Ginger Baker with his flame red hair was on drums, known from the Cream and Stevie Winwood vocalist from Traffic and also an organist. Then Rich Grech from the Family.   Unfortunately for them although they went individually to become famous Blind Faith only lasted a short time before disbanding.  Yet no one can take away the memories of their first ‘gig’ even if they were not sure of its success.  For those there it was brilliant.  How can anyone forget Ginger Baker with his mop of flaming red hair as he bashed away on his drums or Eric Clapton who appeared to be both unsure and yet confident in front of 100-125,000 people.  They did not perform until after 5pm but the crowd just waited patiently enjoying the lead up to it with Donovan making an impromptu appearance and Mick Jagger and his then girlfriend Marianne Faithful amongst the crowd at the back of the stage. ‘Under my Thumb’ being sung in recognition of Mick’s presence and Mick would later that year have his own concert at Hyde Park but for me this was my first and last.

                        

                                     

I do not remember the other bands although Richie Havens, Edger Broughton Band and Third Ear Band played, I have to confess I haven’t a clue as to any songs they may have sung that day or since.   I was more into Talma Motown but had gone along for the experience and will never regret doing so.   The 60s were a memorable time even if ‘they ‘whoever ‘they’ are, say if you remember it then you were not really there.   I was there throughout the whole decade but that day of blue skies, the occasional cloud, sunshine and peace was the most memorable.

The 60s were remembered by many for flower power, hippies and free love but I was still in my mid-teens and more into freedom and ‘love’ in the broadest sense of the word as I was very much one of life’s innocents.  I doubt if my parents even knew where I was as I had a fairly Victorian upbringing in many ways as my dad would turn the TV off if anyone so much as kissed which as we mainly watched The News, Panorama, University Challenge, Coronation Street and Dad’s Army in those days there was not much to offend his sensitive mind or corrupt his children!  I somehow think if he had known where I was going I probably would not have been allowed and my mother had been known to lock me in my bedroom.  Rather a waste of time as we lived in a bungalow and I was more than capable of climbing out of the window.

I can still see our merry little band as we met outside Leigh Station to get the train to London and find our way across to Hyde Park.  Until about a decade ago I thought a throng of a few thousand had attended but it was well over 100,000.  It hardly gained a mentioned in the newspapers although the DJ John Peel thought it was the best of the Free Concerts that took part in the Royal Parks.   It was almost as if it had been a hazy dream, I had worn a bright red French Connection jumper and a very short mini skirt, the love beads, long dresses and hair which I hid behind came later in the 70s.  But this was the end of the 60s and as we all packed together in the midday sun I began to appreciate how warm it was and Mick not of the Jagger fame kindly removed his bright yellow shirt and let me wear it.  

I can still remember, not every moment but if I close my eyes can be transported back there and feel the warmth not just from the sun but all those that were there that day.  The small stage swamped by the group and their equipment, the inadequate speakers which meant the noise levels were not too loud which suited me.  I sometimes wonder what became of Mick and his yellow shirt or the others that made up our little band of freedom lovers.  I know my friend Sue who I kept in touch with through the decades sadly died in 2015 but I still see her sat in the Park, smiling and enjoying the moment as I sit in my own little park with the sun shining but instead of Blind Faith I hear the song of the birds, the buzz of the bee and the hum of the lawn mower in the distance and the radio blaring out from next door but I block that out and remember that day, No Winter of Discontent for me…

Copyright Jane Goodhew