Marilyn

 Marilyn 

Peter woodgate

You were a perfect bastard

until the world’s impurities

tainted your soul.

 

Insecurity and exploitation

tore virgin flesh from your bones

and exhibited dreams to the world.

 

They moulded you into a celebrity,

your face peering from every magazine,

you were a star!

 

Shining in the heavens of Hollywood

your light pierced the gloom

of shadowy streets

illuminating a public, eager

to sample the image you had become,

exuberance personified.

 

But, tragedy lay behind the facade of fame

your beauty, disguised by the cosmetics of life.

 

Did you feel sadness as cameras laid you bare

your smile stolen by a million hearts?

 

Was the absence of love a bitter pill to swallow?

Did you find comfort in the arms of sleep?

And did you leap into that final abyss?

 

Or, were you pushed?

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

Judy’s Present?

 Judy’s Present?  

John Abbott 

I accelerated away from the drive and almost immediately concluded that my senses were not exactly what I'd call bloody perfect at the moment. I'd had a few pints already, I didn't really want to climb into the car, but I didn't have much choice, did I?

 

Judy had phoned about ten minutes ago. All she'd said was that her Dad was in hospital and that he'd been hurt in a car accident. I always had thought he was a soppy bastard; now I was certain. He'd probably had too many beers, climbed in the motor and half-way up the road realised that he couldn't handle it. And ironically enough, here was I, Mister hypocrite himself, slagging off her Dad for driving under the sodding influence whilst I continued the festive trend. Still, as I told myself before, didn't have much choice, did I?

 

The lights of London's East-End sparkled and twinkled outside as I sped up the Barking road. I glanced at my watch; twenty past eight, good job it was a pretty straight run, eh? I reminded myself to concentrate harder. I realised that I'd had a drink but, at the same time, I didn't want to over-compensate. Five minutes more and I should be at the Hospital, down to the Greengate, turn left at the lights, then up and over the hill, down Prince Regents lane and I'd be there. Christ knows whether Judy meant that George would actually still be in Casualty. I'd just have to hunt around for him, wouldn't I?

 

As I began to dip over the hill in Prince Regents lane, I suddenly realised. Shit !, I still hadn't got Judy's Christmas present and only one more day left. Sod that !, shopping for her present on Christmas Eve, and I was hoping to go and have a drink with the lads at work. Oh well, " C'est la vie", as they say.

  

I slowed down rapidly, changed down into second and turned left up to Newham General Hospital. Fortunately I knew I wouldn't be allowed to park right outside Casualty, so I swerved gently left again into the car park, silently hoping for a clear parking spot not too far from Casualty. Some chance! Twenty-third of December and the hospital car park was chokka! A couple of minutes later I found a spot a good five to six hundred yards from Casualty. Sod it ! I pulled up, parked and jumped out into the cold night air. Christ ! its harry and willy out here I thought, as I jogged towards Casualty. I slowed to a walk as I approached the automatic doors. Swish - I stepped inside. The warm interior was a big contrast to the cold outside. I went to the admission window and enquired after George.

 

" George Mansfield ?, car accident ? I don't know much else luv. Sorry."

" Yes, sorry, er, who are you ? " was the response." Son-in-law luv."

"Oh, I see. Turn left, then right and ask one of the nurses - O.K? "

 

"Cheers, luv." and I strolled off to find Judy and her Dad. Left, right and I was just about to ask a nurse when I heard Judy's voice. I took three steps forwards and poked my head around the cubicles edge.

 

" John!!" was her tearful word.

 

"Hello, love. How is he?" Stupid question, I thought - she was crying. Can't be good, can it?

 

" Its bad John," she said, "They don't think he's going to make it."

Christ, I thought, that's a bastard, at Christmas as well. I hugged her, as she cried gently on my shoulder. I couldn't believe it. We sat down, and whilst I held her hands to calm her, she looked deeply at me and began to tell me what she knew about the accident.

"John, all Dad kept saying was - I had to swerve, I had to swerve."

Slowly, ever so slowly, she recounted what her father had told her. Apparently, there had been a group of people crossing the road, following a man holding a lantern. This was what George had had to swerve around and he had ploughed head first into the stream of oncoming traffic. It all seemed a little odd... Fanciful, almost. Alcohol? Who knows.

 

A nurse arrived with bad news. George was dead. Judy cried but seemed in control - I mean she wasn't hysterical or anything like that. Me?... I was just sad. Sad for her, sad for George. I hadn't known him that well but he seemed a good enough old soul.

Judy said she wanted to see her Dad once more. I felt she needed to be alone, so we decided she would stay at the hospital and pick up George's personal effects while I tried to get the copper's name, and a bit more info. I said I would drive home, make a few calls, then come and pick Judy up when she was ready.

 

I found our friend the policeman vainly trying to enjoy a cup of vending machine tea. I explained who I was and he told me the few facts he had. Indeed, George had an excess level of alcohol in his bloodstream when he died. Apparently, he claimed to have seen a group of people in fancy dress or similar holding mock pikes and muskets etc crossing the road ahead of him. One man dressed almost monk-like and carrying a lantern had suddenly appeared and tried to wave him down. George didn't have time to stop. He had swerved, to avoid him, hence the head-on collision with the oncoming traffic. The copper said that no witnesses had seen the group in fancy dress, and, as it had occurred less than a hundred yards from the Denmark Arms in East Ham, there would have been plenty of people about because the pub had opened only a few minutes before. Although I was obviously greatly saddened by George's death, I couldn't suppress a passing thought about drink-driving: We ought to be thankful that no-one else had been hurt badly. The fact that I'd been drinking earlier crossed my mind. The thought made me feel a little queasy.

I left the hospital, and feeling the cold night air again on my way to the car, I thought to myself, don't feel so bad now eh?

I climbed into the car, backed out of the car park, and headed home. Out onto Prince Regents lane, right at the Greengate and then a pretty straight run home down the Barking Road. The accident and George's vision struck me as a little strange as I approached East Ham. The Denmark Arms is a large pub. I passed it, on my left. 

" Oh my God !! " I couldn't believe my eyes.

I swerved left to avoid the man with the lantern and everything went black ...

 

EPILOGUE

"Mrs Austin, Judy Austin?, there's been an accident."

Judy replied "I know, I've been here for hours."

The nurse lowered her voice "No!, Judy, its your husband."

 

 

Copyright John Abbott  1,188 words   Circa 1980’s

THE FOX

 THE FOX

Peter Woodgate

 

I saw him again today

Head down and slow of pace

Against the rain, this was no race,

It was as if

This wasn’t relished

Something he just had to do

But, in his mind, hellish.

 

He would stop now and then

Look round at me

What does he see?

I thought.

 

Whatever it was

I’m certain that

He remained uncaring

His beady eyes staring

At a being that would not understand

The world that he lived in.

He shook his head

As if to indicate

This was his thought

But no,

It was simply to clear his head of rain

Before climbing the fence, again,

Then, he was gone.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

The Celebration!

 The Celebration! 

By Sis Unsworth

It was such a celebration, the like not seen for years,

they gave out the news in the morning, Mrs Jones burst into tears.

We never believed it would happen, the country celebrated as one.

Farmer Brown heard the news in his sickbed, jumped up & joined in the fun!

Mary turned on her gas oven, and cooked the whole family a meal.

“There’s plenty more where that came from,” the thought of it gave her a thrill.

Spontaneous party’s started up, the atmosphere lit up the sky’s.

When it sank in what had happened, many wiped tears from their eyes

but, why did it take years to happen, they asked all over town,

they could not believe in their wildest dreams, the price of petrol & gas had come down.

Copyright Sis Unsworth

 

Founding of the RNLI

 SIR WILLIAM HILLARY 

By Richard Banks                                               

‘Sir William loved the sea, knew how important it was to the Manx but knew also its cruelty, how it sunk ships, drowned brave men and made paupers of their wives and children. Us fishermen told him about the terrible storm that killed twenty-six of our fathers and grandfathers, said that when the waves were at their worse the sea would always have its way. He said no, that with courage nothing was impossible and on 6 October 1822 he showed how right he was.

  In the midst of yet another storm we watched from the quayside as a navy cutter floundered on the Conister Rock in Douglas Bay. Battered by the waves, rudder damaged beyond repair, its destruction was as sure as night after day. While others prayed, Sir William gathered us fisherman about him and promised a reward to every man who went to the rescue. So, we rowed out in two  boats through waves so high I thought each one would surely drown us. And he fearless, like the soldier he was, urging us on, shouting out his orders in a voice so loud that not even the shrieking wind could silence him. His plan was to put ropes aboard the vessel and tow her back to harbour, and this we did though Lord knows how we managed it. We felt like heroes but our work was not yet done; other vessels were in trouble so back we went, finally saving ninety-seven lives.  

  In March 1824, at Sir William's urging, a national lifeboat institution was founded. The first boat was at Douglas and he its coxswain. In the years that followed he helped save over 300 people, winning three gold medals for bravery. Not bad, I'm thinking, for a landsman who couldn't even swim.’

 

[The memoir of a Southend lifeboat man formerly of Douglas, Isle of Man. Dictated at his lodgings in the Ship Inn, 25^th of March 1848.]

 

 

 

 

 S

John Abbott

The old man was dressed in a dark, threadbare suit, which, like its owner, had seen better days. He was standing, trying not to look too dis-spirited about his plight. His battered, old cap was upturned on the ground with numerous shiny coins within. London’s pedestrians passed to and fro, some cast only glances, whilst others, on occasion, stopped.

The little girl was dragging slightly behind her mother, who was gently tugging her left arm to persuade her into more ardent forward motion.

“Mummy, Mummy, can we give the man some money?”

The mother accepted the inevitable without repining.

“OK, OK, Yes” as she delved into her handbag.

Releasing her young off-springs hand for a moment, she dipped into her purse.

“Stay there Trudi,”

She found a small golden coin and passed it to her daughter.

“Give the man the pound, Trudi” she said as she bent her knees to move closer to young Trudi.

Trudi carefully placed the pound coin into the old man’s cap. The old man gave his usual response.

“Thank you and may god bless you.”

He smiled at the little girl, knowing that this universal gesture would achieve the necessary effect. The girl with her blonde pony-tail smiled a friendly, toothy grin back. The old man had seen it all.

Hell and heaven, life and death … and still he found the gift of a smile.

                         ……………     

Life is just a long, weary journey.

However, not if you begin each mile with an ’S’ …

Copyright John Abbott

A TIME AFTER MIDNIGHT 

By Richard Banks                     

                      

        I said to the man who stood at the gate of the year, “hi”. A friendly sort of hi to someone I’m hoping will put me right and answer the questions I’m going to ask: ‘where the hell am I?’ and ‘how do I get home?’ is not the best way to start a conversation. Mind you this wouldn’t be the first time I’d woken-up after a New Year’s party not knowing where I was, but usually it soon makes sense. If I’m lucky I’ll be on someone’s sofa, if not, on a park bench or somehow balanced on the narrow bum rest of a bus shelter; once it was in the middle of a road propped-up against a pedestrian refuge. So, where am I this time? 

        It’s pitch black or would be if it wasn’t for the lantern the man’s holding. He’s stood by a gate in a wall. As gates go this one’s big enough for a giraffe to walk through except that right now nothing’s getting in or out because it’s shut. As for the wall I can’t see the top of it, or the sides come to that. Is he a bouncer? He don’t look like one, but one thing I’m sure of is that he has the key to that door, it’s on a ring hanging from his belt. His job is to let me in or see me off.

        Another friendly “hi”. This time I’m only a few yards off. Time for him to have responded to my first hi but two hi’s in he’s still got nothing to say. I come to a halt in front of him. If he’s pleased to see me he’s sure not showing it but neither is he unfriendly, as best I can tell. As dead pan expressions go his is the best I’ve ever seen. Perhaps he’s bored, no job satisfaction. He’s a man who’s seen it all before. Show me something new he might be thinking, something I haven’t seen before. If he is, he’s not seeing it in me. So, what happens now?

        At last he’s ready to say something. He’s got questions to ask, but he don’t, those lips of his aren’t made for talking. He peers into my eyes and without asking extracts the information he needs – name, age, where found. He observes my bewilderment turning to fear, but this, he knows, is no time for long explanations and pointless discussion, they serve no purpose, he is the gatekeeper who opens the door to those he knows are coming.

        But maybe, just maybe he doesn’t exist. Maybe this is nothing more than a bad dream. Yes, that’s it, I’m having a mare and if I try real hard I will come-to probably with the mother and father of hangovers. Better that than this. Wake-up, wake up I tell myself, but I don’t. The man shakes his head. There is a weariness about him, he’s seen it all before. He takes the key from his belt and with no inclination to hurry turns towards the door; he has all the time in the world, but what sort of a world is this? I need to know. I’m not going through it until I know exactly what’s on the other side.

        Nothing’s said, but he hears my thoughts. He shrugs his shoulders and turns back towards me. His thoughts now to me: what other choice do you have? You can’t stay here.

        That’s fine, I don’t want to stay here, I want to be back in Romford where I belong. I’m only going through that door if it’s the way back, but it ain’t is it? I knows that and you do too, so unless this is one big upgrade on Romford I’m turning around and walking back in the direction I came.

        Walking? He seems almost amused. On feet? He thrusts out the lantern so that it lights-up the ground on which I’m standing to reveal neither ground or feet. He should not, he thinks, be having to explain all this, but he does. It’s new rules now, and you don’t make them. Listen to me when I tell you this is the way. Doors there are many in this wall but only one is for you and this is it. Either pass through it or stay here forever in this place darker than the grave, for that it will be after I leave.

        He’s had enough of explaining, has said more than he intended, more than he should. Does he know what’s beyond the door? If he does he’s hiding it well, but when he tells me this is the way I can no longer disagree. He mimes the turning of the key and I attempt to nod the head I no longer have. He understands my intention and turns back towards the door. And, as I ready myself to enter, I remember where I was before I got here, in front of another door, the entrance to a tube station that’s been shuttered off preventing me from getting in; me drunk as usual seeking shelter from the snow laden onslaught of a winter storm.

        What happens now I have no idea, but it’s the future, the only one I have.  

 

Copyright Richard Banks