NUESTIA SENORA DE LA MERCEDES

NUESTIA SENORA DE LA MERCEDES

By Phillip Miller

The Odyssey dived into the blue in search of hidden treasure

It found a ship sunk years ago with gold, you could not measure.

Nuestia Senora de la Mercedes, went down in 1804,

Sunk by the British Navy, causing Spain to re-enter the war.

Six men leapt from that burning wreck before it slipped away,

Climbing aboard an old rowboat, they thought it their lucky day.

Under the cover of darkness, they drifted out of sight,

Unaware of what lay ahead, on that fatalistic night

They woke in the morning, the burning sun upon their faces

So made some lines to catch some food, from old belts and laces.

They fished at night and slept through the day, dreaming of freshwater.

Ten days passed, one went mad, swearing he’d seen his daughter.

He laughed and joked and started to fit, sadly the poor wretch died

They committed his body to the sea and the youngest sailor cried.

“We must be strong, Carlos my lad, or our maker we’ll surely meet”

“We’re  going to die anyway Sir, as there’s not enough to eat.”

“Tell you know, we’ll make a pact if you can get this round your head.

We’ll drink the blood and eat the flesh of any man that’s dead.”

“Be damned you, butcher, I’d rather die, than feast upon a mate.”

But, as the others agreed, for Carlos it was too late.

As he lay in the sun, with his face all burnt and chapped

The first in charge put his hands around his throat, choking him as he napped.

In came a storm, tossing them high, so under the water, they went.

Only three came up, and one smiled, as down to the depths he was sent

30 days passed till they spotted land and with the current riding them in.

They fell on the shore, looked up to the sky, thanking God for the strength within.

But something was wrong with this plush little isle, all was not as it seemed.

A dark native, with a spear in hand, looked down and broadly beamed.

“You are so thin, but I’ll tell my kin, and we’ll eat you for our tea

We’ll roast you with roots, and fresh bamboo shoots, you Devils from the sea.”

Trussed up like pigs and taken away, they were basted with oils and seeds

Covered in clay, except for their heads, which were wrapped in tasty seaweeds.

The fires burnt long and ever so slow, so painfully did they cook

Finally, they died, and out fell their eyes, swiftly gobbled up by a rook.

Their flesh was eaten and their bones were beaten against an old skin drum,

To ward off sea devils and please their God, washing them down with old Navy rum.

They say this tale is as old as the hills

But no trace has ever been found

Yet on an island across the seas

There stands a manmade mound

And in a cage upon that earth

Guarded by the village ladies

lies a tattooed drum inscribed

Nuestia Senora de la Mercedes.

Copyright Phillip Miller

SHIPS IN THE NIGHT

SHIPS IN THE NIGHT

By Bob French

It wasn’t until I had reached the winding path that led down to the edge of the pond in St James Park, that I realised it was raining; not the hard wintry rain that stung your face, but a fine drizzle that felt refreshing.  As I nonchalantly kicked aside the bright coloured autumn leaves that now littered the path, I became aware of the stillness that surrounded me. Over the tops of the tall majestic white buildings of the Foreign Office and Downing Street, Big Ben’s toll suddenly shattered the dawn silence.  It was six o’clock.

          The bench was wet, but it bothered little to me as I sat down and ponder my surroundings; the annoying flocks of noisy birds that constantly harassed the tourists for food had long since left for warmer climes; leaving behind the grey Canada Geese to face the winter alone; their honking echoing eerily in the early morning mist.  I had come here in search of peace and tranquillity; to try and calm down, sort my mind out after a demanding watch at Naval Operations Center, based in the lower basement of Admiralty Building. The war was going badly.

          The chill of the morning soon penetrated my damp uniform and as a feeble attempt to keep out the cold, folded my arms.  It was then that the lone figure of a man; a naval officer, caught my attention.  He had been sitting on a bench on the other side of the pond, about fifty yards up from where I sat.

          At first I ignored him and stared down at the still surface of the pond that reflected the beautiful backdrop of the trees in their full autumn glory and thought of the Wrens under my command who had outdone themselves during the last few weeks.  They were responsible for providing intelligence to the Royal Navy warships sent to protect the merchantmen on the Arctic convoys.

          I recalled that this last one had been particularly bad, loosing eight merchantmen on the way up to Murmansk and two on the return leg.  Thankfully no Royal Navy vessels were lost, though many had sustained considerable damage from enemy ships, aircraft and submarines.

          One ship in particular, HMS Ashanti, a Tribal class destroyer had engaged, then chased off the Eiger, a German pocket battleship; sunk her escort, the Minden, a light cruiser and destroyed two submarines, but not before taking a mauling herself. Although the admiral was please with the result he, like me and the rest of the watchkeepers were please that the Tirpitz had remained in her Fjord.

          I casually glanced across at the lone figure, who had now lent forward, burying his face in his hands.  He appeared to be shaking his head, probably blaming himself for something.  I contemplated going over to him, but thought that it would be inappropriate for me, a mere sub lieutenant in the WRENs to approach a captain, even though all I wanted to do was help.

          Suddenly he stood; thrust his hands deep into his pockets and started to pace up and down. My curiosity drew me to study him and his behaviour until he stopped and stared directly ahead of himself, as though he had come to a decision; turned and walked back towards Admiralty Building. 

          I suddenly found myself panicking as he approached me; do I ignore him or should I stand up and salute.  My eyes followed him until he was opposite me, then without thinking, stood and threw him one of my best salutes.  My actions must have caught his attention because he stopped and looked across at me, then smiled and returned my salute.  It was surreal.  We both stood there looking at each other in the middle of a cold and misty empty park. I noticed that he had bright blue eyes and his hair was starting to grey at the temples, yet he looked no older than I was, then I saw the bandaged hand.  His smile was infectious, but what moved me was the sadness in his eyes. He then gave a curt nod and was gone. 

          That night as I wrote to my parents, I found my concentration was being interrupted by my thoughts of those few minutes in the park this morning; trying to relive them; to capture as many details of him as possible.  I knew he was a three ring captain and he had a chest full of medal ribbons and he wore his cap at a rakish angle like a Destroyer captain, but my tired body soon surrendered to sleep and my letter home and thoughts of my mysterious Captain quickly faded from my memory.

          The following day I was briefing the watch when the admiral came in and caught my eye.  I quickly brought the briefing to a close, leaving my ratings to get back to their duties.

          “Sorry to interrupt your briefing Miss Mason, but we’re having some drinks aboard the Colchester this evening; Trafalgar Day and all that, and thought that you and your ratings might like to attend, they’ve certainly deserved it.  Please invite Lieutenant Corrington and her watch as well. Transport will leave from the south door at twenty hundred hours sharp.” 

          I thanked the admiral, who always took care of his own, particularly when there was a run ashore.  Within minutes tired minds and fatigue bodies had disappeared and everyone was talking about this evening.

          The Colchester was an old county class Cruiser, a relic from the Great War, yet still a potent weapon.  As I entered the Ward Room, expecting something similar to the cabins on modern ships, I was pleasantly surprised to find it not only spacious but comfortable.  Mandy Corrington, a Canadian WREN who had come over in 43 with her countries contingent had only just stepped inside the Ward Room when she was grasped by her arm by a Canadian pilot and dragged off.

          A cheeky faced mess steward approached me with a tray full of drinks and leant towards me and whispered.

          “The younger officers are over to your left mama.” I nodded my thanks and took a glass of something dark from his tray.  Before I could take a sip, an elderly Commodore extended his arm, inviting me into his circle and after the briefest of introduction, which got lost in the noise of the chatter and laughter surrounding me, he continued to reminisce about his time in battleships.        

          I took a sip of the warm liquid and felt the Pusser’s Rum slide down my throat and burn my stomach and secretly cursed myself for not eating at lunchtime. I then felt someone gently taking my elbow and steering me away from the circle of elderly admirals and Flag Officers. 

               “Do come and join us.  We’d rather you celebrate Trafalgar Day with those who are here to remember it, rather than those who took part in it.”  I smiled at the fresh faced young Midshipman, who must have been the same age as my younger brother, as we entered a circle of officers who were more my age and seemed much livelier.

               After he introduced the officers in the circle he extended his hand.

          “And my name is Timothy by the way.”  I took his warm hand and felt his insecurity and was pleased that I wasn’t the only one who felt nervous in such surroundings.  We chatted and laughed until I felt my elbow being eased away again.

               It was as I was joining the new circle that I looked across to my left and there, looking at me through the crowd, was the young captain I had seen in the park that morning. I smiled at him and he nodded, but then he had vanished as bodies moved across him like huge Atlantic waves that surged and moved, breaking our eye contact. 

          The circle was loud and quiet jolly as the three Navy flyers and an Army captain tried to recall who did what at the Battle of Trafalgar.  When the jokes started to get rude, I nodded my thanks and turned away.

          Before I had moved a few passes, a huge bearded RNR captain took my hand.

          “Hay lassie, we canna have you wandering around the Ward Room with an empty glass.”  Before I could object, he had swung me around into his circle of friends and another warm glass of rum was thrust into my hand.

          “Jock Mackintosh of the Ajax.” His huge hand covered mine and I felt the roughness of his style of living in it.

          “You dinna want to ken this bunch o’ pirates un blaggards young lady.”  His comment brought a robust cheer from the men in his circle.  As they quickly introduced themselves, I was surprised to see that not only were they were all captains but they all looked so young.  Then my eyes settled on my mysterious captain from the park. 

          He smiled and extended his hand and I felt its warmth and strength as I took it.

          “Jammie Buckingham of the Ashanti.  So glad you could come Lieutenant….?”

          I suddenly felt like a young schoolgirl on her first date; my mind went blank and felt my heart leap as I took in his blue eyes; his young boyish face and his smile.  The noise in the room seemed to fade into a muffled drone and I felt that we were the only two in the room.  I suddenly realised that I was staring at him.

          “Um, sorry Sir; sub Lieutenant Mason. Operations, Western Approaches at the Admiralty, Sir.” My duty station instantly brought a cheer from the group and I felt several of the officers slapping my back.  I heard the big Scot saying that they considered us as guardian angels, always watching over us, and I felt for the first time that my watch were appreciated.

          Jammie excused himself; gently took my elbow and nodded me towards the bar.

          “Do you fancy a real drink Miss Mason?  I somehow feel sure that the officers of your mess don’t go around drinking Pusser’s?” He spoke quietly with no real accent and it made me feel comfortable.

          “I’d murder a cup of tea if that’s alright Sir.”  He turned and smiled at me and I felt my heart leap again.

          “I think in such surroundings, we can dispense with the formalities.  You can call me Jammie, as long as I can call you…..?” He tilted his head as though demanding an answer.

          “Jennifer.” He nodded as though storing my name secretly away in his tormented mind.

          “Right then Jennifer, one cup of tea it is?”

          It was when he slid the tea across the bar towards me that I noticed his hand and recalled that when we had met in the park it had been bandaged.  There was a ugly red scar where he must have been hit by shrapnel and without thinking I took it gently in my hand.

          He seemed to stop and study my face. Then he spoke quietly and caringly so that only I could hear him.

          “It’s alright, I’m afraid such things go with the job.” I could see the pain in his eyes as though he was reliving the carnage and death on board his destroyer and instantly I wanted to hold him, cradle him from the dangers he selfishly faced daily in those bitter arctic waters.

          “You should really take care of yourself you know.” then felt myself blush as I looked up into his eyes and saw the happiness in them for the first time.

          “I shall try my best next time…for you.” He tilted his head and smiled.  I wanted to hold him close to me, never let him go and knew from the expression on his face he felt the same way.  It was then that I realised that I was still cradling his hand and went to remove it when he gently placed his hand upon mine and quietly said.

          “I promise Jennifer, just for you.”

          As we stood their staring at each other, the tall bearded Scott interrupted us, shattering our private moment.

          “Come on Jammie lad, it’s not every day you get a second bar to your Distinguished Service Cross.  Our hands remained in contact until, like a ship slipping her moorings, they gently drifted apart and he was gone, but I knew that I would see him again and prayed that it wouldn’t be too long.  

Copyright Bob French

These Thoughts

These Thoughts

by Shelley Miller

Copyright Shelley Miller

THE PHOTOGRAPH

THE PHOTOGRAPH ON THE MANTELPIECE       

by Richard Banks

It belonged to Granny Walker, my maternal grandmother, who claimed that it was a hand-me-down from a long-forgotten ancestor, in other words, a family heirloom. Ever since I can remember it had hung from a nail firmly embedded in the chimney breast of Granny’s parlour, a framed photograph of an unknown road empty of both traffic and people.

         Now she is no more.  Her downstairs maisonette had to be cleared of her possessions and those not considered to be of any use or value were unceremoniously consigned to a skip. Had the photograph been allowed to stay there until the following day it would have been collected by the skip man and never seen again.

         According to my father, that would have been no bad thing. What, he said, was the point of an old black and white photo when you can have something modern and in colour.

         My mother disagreed. It was a valuable antique, she insisted, a link with the past, part of our family history. Father, who was not in the best of moods, snorted his disapproval but reluctantly consented to its removal from the skip on the condition that it did not sully the walls of their 1960s semi. This did not, of course, exclude other walls including those of my new flat which is why a week later my mother arrived at my door with a home warming present that comprised a cheque for £50 and the photograph.

         “It would look so nice over there,” she said, pointing at an oblong of unfaded wallpaper previously shielded from the light of day by a picture or photograph hopefully better liked than the one being foisted on me. “Oh look!” mother continued with the enthusiasm of someone gripped by divine revelation, “there’s even a hook in the wall.”

         Although nothing was said that implied that the £50 was conditional on me accepting and displaying the photograph it seemed ungrateful to take one and not the other. Having inserted the cheque into my wallet I put the picture on the mantelpiece and departed to the kitchen to make a pot of tea. I returned to find mother attempting to hang the picture on the hook only to discover what I had already discovered, that the metal chain at its back had come adrift from one of its fastenings. I returned it to the mantelpiece promising to make the necessary repair but a month later it was still there, unfixed and unappreciated.

         I mean, I did try to like the photograph, after all, it was a family heirloom but what this view of an unfamiliar road had to do with my family was far from obvious. It was a grand sort of street, the kind you would expect to find at the centre of a large city but what it was called and where it was to be found were questions to which I had no answer. Another unanswered question was why the street was devoid of traffic and pedestrians; on what was obviously a warm, sunny day surely someone would have been about. Was this, I conjectured the view of an event rather than a street? But what could cause a city centre road to be so empty? As my curiosity grew my need for answers finally stirred me into action.

         On a wet Sunday afternoon, I completed my ironing and with nothing else to distract me examined the photograph in the light of my dining room window. If there were secrets to be found the photograph was keeping them well hidden, but then this was not entirely the fault of the photograph. After many years of coal fires in my grandmother’s parlour, the glass cover of the frame had acquired a grimy film that in time might have completely obscured the image behind it.

         Armed with a bottle of Windowlene and a jiffy cloth I set to with a vigour that in addition to removing some of the grime also parted one side of the wooden frame from the rest. My initial horror that I had irretrievably damaged my mother’s gift was soon replaced by the realisation that the damage could be made good by a single application of glue. All that was needed was the separation of frame from glass cover and backing, the insertion of said glue and the reassembling of the several parts. It was a blessing in disguise I told myself. Once the glass was free of the frame it would be so much easier to clean. And so it proved, but another blessing was soon to follow. Having removed the wooden backing, for the first time I saw the reverse side of the photograph and two of my questions were instantly answered. In dark blue ink was neatly written, ‘Me on the Boulevard Du Temple, Paris 15th of June 1838, the first man to be photographed’ There followed an exclamation mark and below this the writer’s name, ‘Frederick Hunter Ayling’.

         My heart skipped a beat. Ayling was granny’s maiden name. So this really was a family heirloom. But where was he? This was the picture of an empty street. With trembling fingers, I teased the photograph away from the glass and carefully turned it face up. If I expected to see the photograph transformed into one of my ancestor I was at once disappointed. Although now much clearer it was still that of a deserted street. For the best part of a minute, I stared at it taking in only what I already knew to be there, and then I saw it, a matchstick silhouette in the left foreground that had been rendered invisible by the smoke and dust of many years. A tall, slimly built man was standing at the pitch of a shoeshine boy, one foot on the platform provided the other firmly anchored to the pavement, an unremarkable scene made remarkable by the claim of my ancestor and the eerie solitude of the two persons there present.

         In the space of a few minutes my indifference, bordering on dislike for the photograph had been replaced by an eager determination to find out everything I could about my ancestor and the photograph that had captured his image.

         The research I undertook before the days of internet search engines was initially conducted at my local library which had a microfiche copy of the International Genealogy Index compiled by the Church of Latter Day Saints. While the index was by no means comprehensive it contained the event I most wanted to see - the baptism of Frederick Hunter Ayling at Holy Trinity Church, Clapham on the first of July 1816. In what seemed like a windfall of good fortune the same microfiche also recorded his marriage to an Elizabeth Badham in 1840 and the birth of a son, George Frederick, in 1842. After this, the Aylings featured only infrequently in the index with no obvious link to the persons already mentioned.

         My research shifted to the Family Record Centre then located in Finsbury near Sadlers Wells. Here were located the Victorian Census returns and the register of births, marriages and deaths began in 1837. Within a year I had discovered other landmark events in Frederick’s life, the births of three more children – two girls and a boy - the death of the second son, the addresses of their houses in Kennington and Camberwell and Frederick’s profession which in 1841 was described as a civil servant and in later censuses as a diplomat. The personnel records of the Foreign Office in the Public Record office yielded the additional information that in 1838 Frederick was working at the British Embassy in Paris. Between 1855 and 1857 and again in 1866 he was in Prague. Otherwise, he worked in Whitehall, no doubt commuting to his work across the Thames in a horse-drawn omnibus. Back at the Family Record Centre, I traced Frederick’s descendants through the male line until I came to the birth of Caroline Annie Ayling, my maternal grandmother - Granny Walker.

         So, Frederick was my great, great, great grandfather. That much was proven but what of his claim to be the first man to be photographed. Nothing at the Family Record Centre was going to tell me that but a friendly member of staff suggested that the Victoria and Albert Museum might be able to help.

         I arrived there with the photograph back in its frame intending to say nothing about Frederick’s claim which I reasoned would label me a crank. Instead, I asked what, if anything, they knew about the photograph - a photograph, I added, that had been in my family for many years. The young lady at reception knew nothing but on phoning their photography section a Mr Northcote consented to see me. He was, he later told me, only intending to give me ten minutes of his time. When I left at half-past four I had been in his company for over two hours.

         It is, he said, one of the earliest known photographs and in its way the most remarkable. Taken in 1838 by Louis Daguerre, it was reputedly the first photograph of a human being. The following year Daguerre demonstrated his photographic method to the French Academy of Science at which time he issued a limited number of prints. If this was one of them it would be a significant artefact of interest to collectors in this country and abroad. He asked if he could detach it from the frame and, on my consenting, immediately came across the notation made by my ancestor.

         “Is this true?” he asked, his voice rising several octaves.

         I told him what I knew, that my ancestor was a middle ranking civil servant who in 1838 was working at the British Embassy in Paris. What he looked like I had no idea. Even if I knew, the man in the photograph was too small and indistinct to be identified.

         “Would it be possible,” I asked, “to enlarge the photograph so as to produce a larger, clearer image of the man?”

         Mr Northcote smiled. “Yes, it’s been tried many times but the clarity, or rather the lack of it, remains the same. We will, I’m afraid, never know for certain the identity of the man but in the absence of any other contenders, your ancestor’s claim can never be disproved. Tell me, how old was he in 1838?”

         “Twenty-two,” I answered.

         “About the same age as yourself,” he said, “and every bit as tall and lean. What a pity we don’t know more.” For a few moments, he seemed lost in thought. “He must have enjoyed his time in Paris. Then, as now, it was one of the ‘go to’ places to visit. So much to see and do. In 1838 the Boulevard du Temple was at the centre of Parisian theatreland. Possibly your ancestor was on his way to a show when he stopped to have his shoes polished. Perhaps he had a young lady he was wanting to impress.”

         Mr Northcote seemed flustered by his flight of fancy. “I’m assuming, of course, that he wasn’t married.”

         I smiled and assured him that in 1838 my ancestor was a bachelor and would remain so for another two years. “Does the Boulevard du Temple still exist?” I asked.

         “Indeed it does, much changed of course but still, the busy, vibrant place that it was then.”

         “Busy?” I said. “But the photograph shows it to be almost deserted. It’s a bright, summer’s day but apart from the two persons in view there’s not a soul to be seen; the road should be full of horses and carriages, but it’s not.”

         “Oh, but I assure you they were there. You see the taking of a photograph then was not the work of a split second as it is today. Daguerre’s method required an exposure time of seven minutes.  Seven minutes for the light of day to register an image on the silver-surfaced plate that he used. Anyone or anything in motion would not have been in the same place long enough for an image to form. But the man having his shoes polished and the boy doing it were sufficiently still for them to appear. One wonders if the shoeshine boy knew anything about his moment in history; he, of course, was the first boy to be photographed. As for your ancestor, he was an employee of the Foreign Office and better informed than most about what was happening in Paris at that time. Perhaps he was at the Academy of Science when Daguerre announced his invention to the world, or maybe he just read about it in a newspaper. Either way, it was probably then that he put two and two together and identified himself as the man in the photograph. Let’s hope he made four. It’s a fascinating tale. Keep digging, sir, who knows what else you may discover.”

         I took his advice but, after my early success, new information proved difficult to find. Twenty-two years after my meeting with Mr Northcote there is no further evidence linking Frederick with the photograph.

         In 1879 after a long and successful career he retired from the Foreign Office having achieved the rank of Senior Principal. Frederick lived on for twelve more years. His grave can be found in Camberwell Cemetery at the foot of an imposing monument featuring an angel with outstretched wings and an inscription which, while listing his many virtues including truth and honesty, has nothing to say about photography.

         As for Daguerre’s photograph, it now hangs on my dining room wall beside one of my own showing Frederick’s inscription. They are my most treasured possessions. 

Copyright Richard Banks

Beaky

Beaky

By Sis Unsworth

Beaky was a blackbird, a courageous one at that,

the only one I ever knew, that could terrify my cat.

Beaky took on every cat in our vicinity,

in fact, the time I intervened, she even turned on me.

She seemed to snap out orders through her very active beak,

and we could not escape her, when solace we did seek.

Her divebomb skills did scare us when she was in full flight,

the only peace we ever had was, when she retired each night.

We had some friends stay over, they couldn’t believe their eyes,

as beaky marched across our shed, they heard her angry cries.

We found out she had young nearby and was causing a distraction.

As a mother I could understand, why she took such drastic action.

Beaky’s young did safely fledge, & peace did reign again

But, somehow I did miss her, It’s hard now to explain.

Once more the cats roamed freely, to catch or chase the birds

but Beaky was successful, none of them got hers.

Beaky never did return, but my memory is so clear

Whenever birds made panic calls, when a cat may get too near.

Yet still I wonder in the spring, when blackbirds make their nest,

If a descendent of old Beaky, will put us to the test!

Copyright Sis Unsworth

A Death in the Family

A Death in the Family 

by Len Morgan

Family and friends were falsely hearty.   I listened in on their stories, and could hardly believe they were talking about the same person!   They talked of his generosity and of missing him…

I walked away, sickened by the cloying sentiments and sugary expletives.

“Don’t speak ill of the dead.”  They say.  Why the hell not?   He was a shifty lazy good for nothing…  But, I miss him like hell.

 With the realisation came a yawning chasm in the pit of my stomach, as it hit me, I’ll never ever see him again.   Who’s perfect anyway?   He was fun to be with; he had an irresistible charm, a ready wit, and just the right turn of phrase for any situation. He could change tears, into uncontrollable laughter, with a look.   Yes he smoked, and he drank, Guinness (ugh), and he was totally incapable of resisting a bet.  He would pay back a fiver at tea break then borrow it again, at lunchtime, for ‘a sure thing’ that’s still running to this day!   

“But, what the heck, he was my brother.”

 In the weeks that followed his passing, I found myself doing all manner of crazy things, totally out of character.   Like ordering a Guinness at the local, strangely, it didn’t seem to taste as bad as I remembered.   I caught myself cadging a ciggy from a friend, just as he used to do, but I don’t actually smoke.   I continued to experience crazy urges to do things I’ve never done before.    I couldn’t stop myself putting ten bob, on a horse, and it came in first; I could feel his joy in that moment.

“You know, your brother used to tap a pencil on his teeth like that.” An acquaintance commented.  

“Just like Joe!” Another remarked on the way I balled my tongue into the side of my cheek when concentrating.  

During that period I experienced many foreign emotions, and cravings; I roamed the streets late one night in a quest to buy pickled eggs. 

   The alien feelings slowly faded with time.   Looking back it seemed as if Joe was saying goodbye to us all, the world in general but his friends in particular, through me.   For weeks he shared my life and thoughts, contributing of himself.   Who would begrudge him that?   A belated drink, a fag, a flutter, or even the odd stray thought.

  “But the strangest thing of all is that I still feel like he’s here with me, in my mind, I can ask him any question and he answers, with his old familiar wit and candour, in that worldly-wise manner he cultivated so painstakingly; and you know something?   I’ll never forget him, or mum, dad or any of the others, who passed before me, because they still share my life.   They won’t let me forget them and I wouldn't want to.   Because, when it's my time, I know they’ll be there waiting to welcome me.”

“God bless ya kiddo!”    He’ll say, with that familiar lopsided grin on his face…

   “You know, I never really told him, how much I love him, but it doesn’t matter, because I guess he knows; I guess he always did!”

Copyright Len Morgan

WHEN (A Parody)

WHEN

(A Parody)

By Peter Woodgate

When you have been transmuted

from the very essence of time

yet find yourself just one amongst the many.

When you have existed for a countless million years

and will exist for countless millions more.

When you can take the chemical elements

and bake them into the most exotic of dishes

and still, produce a surprise for dessert.

When you can shine more brightly

than the brightest of most precious jewels

and yet me no more thought of than the air we breathe.

When you can feed the multi-million life forms

that co-exist in organised confusion

yet still have heart enough to warm them too.

When you have done all this

with no more guidance save for Nature’s plan

then you deserve a little praise, at least,

and which is more, you'll be a Sun, my man.

Copyright Peter Woodgate

The One That Got Away

The One That Got Away

By Peter Woodgate

I will always remember the day I let a fortune slip through my fingers.

I remember it as if it were yesterday, which is ironic because had it been yesterday, I would almost certainly have forgotten about it.

It was 1948, sweets and other foodstuffs were on ration.

We had a bath, if we were lucky, on a Sunday. We listened to events such as the Boat Race,

The Grand National and the Cup Final on a radio powered by an accumulator.

We, my Mum and Dad, my brothers Donald and Alan, my sisters Alma and Sheila and I,

lived in the top half of a large house in North West London.

The only mains power supplied was gas which is the reason the radio needed the accumulator. They were basically like a car battery, very heavy and in need, periodically,

to be re-charged. This was my older brother Don’s job. He would take them to a local shop

where, for a few pence, they would be charged. This usually took a couple of days which is why we had three of them ensuring one was connected to the radio at all times.

Like most families, at that time, we struggled to make ends meet and luxuries were almost non-existent. I think our near-poverty was exacerbated by the ongoing need of our parents

to renew the gas mantles required for lighting.

These extremely fragile gauze filaments were regularly destroyed by the over-exuberant games played by my brothers, sisters and I.

With finances in mind, my mother had recently obtained a job in the local Pepsodent factory.

It didn’t mean much at the time but whenever I hear the word Pepsident now, I cannot help

but remember the strange advert played on the television during the early days of ITV. it was a little song that went “you wonder where the yellow went when you brush your teeth with Pepsodent”.

I was very naive at the time and wondered how cleaning your teeth could affect the population explosion that was happening in China and, judging by today’s statistics it appears I was right.

I digress, which seems to happen more frequently these days. Anyway, as now, both my mother and father were working, my oldest sister, Alma, was in charge during school holidays.

It was on one of these non-school days that my brother Donald, my sister Sheila and I had decided to visit one of the many bomb-sites that still littered the landscape of London.

Alma stayed at home to look after my younger brother Alan.

We’d seen many posters that gave warnings about the dangers of these bomb-sites as unexploded detonators were occasionally unearthed. However, to us they remained a constant source of fascination as we sifted through the flotsam found floating on these seas of destruction.

Despite the magnet-like attraction these derelict sites had, we seldom found anything of significance and usually resorted to hurling bricks at the rats that occasionally broke cover to dash across No-Man’s land to vanish down one of the cracks in the concrete.

The day in question was no different and, after a short burst of brick-throwing, we decided to make our way home. It was a route we knew well and we were buoyed with the knowledge, that on the way, we would pass the White Heather laundry.

Not a particularly exciting place, you may think, and you would be correct. It was not the laundry that caused great expectations, it was the hedge that ran along one side of it.

We didn’t know why, but this hedge, in Summer, was always covered with ladybirds. As we neared the hedge we prepared ourselves for a game of “spot the spots” and who could spot the ladybird that had the most? Normally this didn’t last too long as we suffered with “spots before the eyes” and ended up by encouraging some of the beetles to fly home convincing them that their houses were on fire.

On this particular day, we had only just begun spot spotting when my brother gave an almighty whoop!

“Look here”, Donald was extremely excited, “it’s one of those Colorado Beetles, I’ve seen them on the posters outside the police station”.

Don then explained that there was a hefty reward for the capture of one of these beetles.

Apparently, they had been decimating potato crops throughout Europe and the government wanted to ensure they did not spread in the UK.

We looked to where Don was pointing. Sure enough, it was slightly smaller than the normal red and black sort and was yellow with black stripes. Donald was older than Sheila and me so he had to be right, didn’t he?

Well, that was our logic and our heads were immediately filled with dreams of luxuries, like sweets. Yes, sweets were on ration but Ex-Lax and cough candy were considered as medicinal and available and, as far as we were concerned, tasted just as good as sweets.

The after-effects  from Ex-Lax was a small price to pay.

With our heads full of dreams Don gently coaxed the strange-looking beetle into his cupped hands and we set off for home

As we neared our house we suddenly realised that both Mum And Dad were at work. Not having the confidence to go to the police station without an adult, we decided we would ask Auntie Gert. She wasn’t a real auntie but lived just two doors away and had often looked after one or other of us if we had been ill and off school. As was usual we approached Gert’s via the back gate situated in the narrow alley that ran the length of the terraced houses.

The fence and gate were tall and, on this occasion, the gate was bolted from the inside.

“ Don’t worry”, Don had already thought of what to do,” I will lift Sheila up so she can reach over the fence and slide the bolt open, Peter you will have to hold the Colorado Beetle”.

Don then carefully slid the precious cargo into my hands and my knuckles turned white as I enclosed the item of anticipated wealth.

“Look what we’ve found”, Auntie Gert jumped in surprise as we burst through her door, “It’s one of those Colorado Beetles, we’re rich, show her Pete.”

Don couldn’t suppress his excitement as I slowly opened my hands that had now begun to resemble a state of Rigor Mortis.

There was a hush as my hands reached the fully open position revealing . . . nothing

It had gone, the object carrying the dreams of three small children had vanished.

I stood there for a moment, wishing the floor would swallow me up. Suddenly, Auntie Gert started laughing, “cheer up”, she said, “I have just made some rock cakes, they are still warm”.

I have since convinced myself that it was not a Colorado Beetle I let slip but can never be sure.

What I can be sure about is that for years after I was reminded that I had managed to lose a fortune and, whenever there was a shortage of spuds, I got the blame for that too.

Copyright Peter Woodgate