Free Choice 

By Janet Baldey 

As Betty opened her front door, she saw her usual half pint hadn’t been delivered.  Sighing, she looked up and saw the sun was already burning off wisps of high cloud. It was going to be a hot day.  A glance at the thin gold Rotary on her wrist confirmed there no time to ask, she could only hope that her neighbour would notice and take it in for her.

         Hurrying down the street towards the bus stop, she saw the gleam of headlights.  Milkman was late, bus was early what else would go wrong she thought as she started to run.  Jumping on the bus, she flopped down on the nearest vacant seat, adjusted her hat, smoothed her gloves and sat looking out of the window until the bulky outline of her Ministry building appeared.   She stared at its rigid exterior; something was up at work, she’d realised that for the past few weeks. Its usually quiet corridors were teeming with harried-looking men, carrying document cases and disappearing into conference rooms.  Her own immediate superior, Mr Goodwin, normally so laid back as to be almost comatose, was scurrying around, a sheen of perspiration on his forehead.  Her girls noticed it too.  “Blimey”, one said.  “Old Goody looks as though he’s got a rocket up his jacksie.”  The other girls craned their heads and giggled.

“That’s enough,” she called. “You’ve all got work to do. Face the front and get your heads down.”

         Gratified, she heard the clacking of typewriter keys as the girls complied.  They were a good lot.  It seemed a shame to keep them all but chained to their desks in this grim building. Like keeping a cloud of butterflies in a cellar. Never mind, they had their whole lives in front of them, soon they’d meet their young men, marry and disappear from the work-place.  She often wondered what it would have been like if Graham had survived the war. She’d be married by now with two or three children clinging to her skirts.

         Lost in her own thoughts, she jumped as a hand touched her shoulder.

         “Miss Henderson, your presence is required in Boardroom One. Immediately, please.”

         She looked up to see Mr Goodwin looming over her, and her throat clenched as she smelled his sweat.  His face looked pinker than ever and what remained of his hair was awry.  This was unthinkable, he was normally so dapper.  Her heartbeat quickened as she cast her mind over the past few weeks.  Had she made some terrible mistake? Was this the end of her career?

         With an effort, she kept her voice steady. “Of course, Mr. Goodwin. I’ll be along right away”.  Rising she addressed the sea of faces she knew were staring at her.

         “Finish what you’re doing girls and then you can take your break.  Half an hour and no longer.”

         Boardroom One was the biggest of the conference rooms and as she entered, she saw it was crammed with men in suits, together with a meagre scattering of women.  She shot a quick glance around the room, recognising several familiar figures, but nobody looked at her, their attention was fully fixed on a man with close-cropped dark hair and rather prominent ears, sitting at the far end of the highly polished table.  Astonished, she realised it was the Minister himself, Manny Shinwell.

         Seconds later, the Minister leaned forward and tapped his pen on his water glass and waited until silence was complete. “Is everyone here?”  He glanced at his aide, who gave a brief nod. “Right. Could somebody stand against the door please. As from this moment, no one will be allowed to enter or leave.”  He paused, drew his fingers through his thinning hair and took a sip of water.

“You will all be wondering why you’re here and I’m afraid I have some disturbing news.  However, firstly I want to remind everyone that you’ve all signed the official secrets act.  Under no circumstances, should anything you hear this morning, leave this room.”

The hairs on the back of Betty’s neck rose as his words began to fill the silence.  Her jaw dropped open as she learned reliable sources had alerted the government to the fact that Russia was planning a nuclear attack on London.

         “We believe it will be three-pronged.  Croydon to the south, Uxbridge to the west and Romford to the east.  Massive casualties are inevitable with the resulting firestorm causing catastrophic damage to buildings and, it is feared the rest of Britain will be affected by radioactive fallout.

         This is truly a disastrous scenario and we can only pray it can be averted.  Our Prime Minister is, at this very moment, pressing for urgent talks with Mr Kruschev. 

All of you here have been invited for a special purpose and I will now hand you over to your various heads of departments, to explain.  Remember everybody, panic is to be averted at all costs so ‘Mums the word.”

         Nobody spoke as the Minister gathered together his papers and left the room. Through the stunned silence, Betty could clearly hear the chirp of sparrows and their cheerful innocence made her want to cry.

         In the anteroom, coffee was being served and Betty gratefully sipped at the bitter liquid, hoping it would clear her head. She looked around for Mr Goodwin and saw him beckoning her towards the door.

         Once seated in his office, he leaned towards her, his face grave.

         “These are dark days, Betty.  As the Minister implied, Britain is in a desperate situation but the government have made certain contingency plans.  A building, especially constructed to withstand a nuclear attack, has been built in a secret location in the Essex countryside.  This is intended to house senior members of the government and others especially equipped to re-build society once the attack is over.  We believe you can help with this.”

         “Me? What can I do?”

“Most of the occupants of the bunker will be fully trained military personnel but certain civilians will be necessary in order to acquaint such individuals with other duties and as a longstanding member of staff, your expertise will be of value. Think carefully about it, Betty.  We are well aware you have no immediate family so this is your free choice, albeit a difficult one.  But, before you make up your mind, we have arranged for you to visit the bunker and transport has been booked for you tomorrow morning.  Arrange for one of your girls to stand in for your absence.”

He stood up and Betty understood that she was being dismissed.

***

Betty’s eyes felt sore and gritty as she stared out of the window of the car, part of an irregular convoy of nondescript Fords, Austin’s and Hillmans.   Last night, she hadn’t slept a wink, feeling every spring in her bed as her mind refused to shut down. To think, the only thing she’d been worried about that morning was whether her milk would spoil.  In the event, it had and its silver foil top had been peppered with tiny holes where the cream had tempted the blue tits.  They were welcome to it, she thought. If what was feared, happened, there would be no blue tits.  She couldn’t stop herself going over the events of the day obsessively and looking at the haggard faces of her companions, she guessed they’d been through the same sort of ordeal.  Beyond superficial greetings, none of them spoke. Nobody was in the mood for small talk. 

Just after they passed through the village of Kelvedon Hatch, their driver made a quick right turn down a track leading towards a wood and as they bumped along the rutted ground, Betty clung on for dear life.  They seemed miles from anywhere, yet she realised they must be in easy reach of London. Small birds were flitting in and out of the trees and Betty couldn’t bear to think that this lush Essex countryside might soon disappear under layers of noxious ash.  It was the worst of nightmares.

At last, the car stopped in front of an odd- looking building tucked into  the side of a hill.

“Here we are ladies and gents – a bureaucrat’s idea of a country cottage. Just the place to spend your ‘olidays.”

The driver’s words were met by a nervous titter.

Inside, it was even odder, the outside being merely a façade, as their guide took pains to explain.

“This bunker has been designed to withstand all but a direct hit from a nuclear missile.  We have tunnelled under the hill to a depth of 125 feet and its walls are ten feet thick and made of reinforced concrete.”

They followed him through massive steel doors and one hundred yards down a long bare corridor to where the bunker itself was located. The guide walked fast and Betty had trouble keeping up, while trying to take in what he was saying.

“We have enough tinned and dried food, plus our own water supply, to enable 600 people to survive for a bare minimum of three months. You will notice the Geiger counters stacked by the entrance. After three months, the air will be tested daily before the doors are opened.

  Until then, we have a canteen, a sick bay, dormitories and the hub of it all is the information centre, where we can plot which way the wind is blowing the clouds of radiation.”

Betty shivered, and misunderstanding, the guide looked at her.

“You may find it cold now but with 600 living bodies packed inside a relatively small space, our main problem will be the heat.”

His voice continued relentlessly as they followed him through a honeycomb of chambers.  One room was packed with typewriters, teleprinters and switchboards. Betty guessed she would be based there but before she had chance to have a real look round, they were off again. 

‘These are the dormitories.  We will operate a system of hot bedding – I take it you know what that means?  But you will also be issued with your own sheet so it should be relatively hygienic.”

As they followed him around, Betty began to feel more and more claustrophobic.  She couldn’t imagine spending at least three months in this overcrowded space.  There were washing facilities, eating facilities, medical facilities but what facilities had been provided for leisure?  Almost immediately she felt an overwhelming feeling of shame.  She was one of the privileged, she was being offered the chance of life when millions would be annihilated.  She had no right to quibble about non-essentials.

On the return journey, once more the silence was deafening.  Betty felt as if she was inside a glass bubble as she mulled over her choice.  The guide had said public information broadcasts would alert the general public on steps they should take to protect themselves.  They should retreat to basements, or other enclosed spaces, with enough food and water to last them out.   In truth, she realised, that was all hot air. Most had no hope of survival. They would either be blown to pieces by the blast or die from radiation sickness.

And what of the people who did survive?  What life could they expect?  Poisoned earth, no wildlife, plummeting temperatures as a nuclear winter gripped.  Britain would become a dead zone. Her brain felt numb; were those held prisoner in the various nuclear bunkers to be envied or pitied?  She had no idea.  

As they entered London, she suddenly saw a swirl of bright skirts; there was a group of girls laughing in the sunshine.  They should have the chance of life, she thought, not a dried-up old maid like herself.  It was at that moment, she made up her mind.

Copyright Janet Baldey  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

        

        

 

 

        

 

 

        

        

        

        

 

        

        

        

 

 

THE LAST OF THE OLD GUARD.

By Rosemary Clarke

Let's hear it for the Scotsman who delighted all our screens
The one who was so naughty with his plotting and his schemes.
His bicycle is silent now, but then it was so used.
I'll bet he's up there watching plotting yet another ruse!
He's with Marina now, just like he thought he should, but Pearl is up there also so it won't do any good!
I'll bet the angels love it, up there must be feeling fine.
They've only bagged all of the cast of Last of The Summer Wine!

To Robert Fyfe, his family friends and all who made this wonderful series possible; thanks for the laughs!

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

 New Term Nerves 

By Sis Unsworth 

With summer almost over, the new term’s drawing near

the thought of it did fill, poor Rupert with some fear.

Being new to the district, as they’d just moved there in June,

and the time had passed so quickly, September came too soon.

He was feeling rather nervous, the new kid on the block

leaving all that was familiar, had given him a shock.

But, he’d had the opportunity, to go and view the school.

He'd felt apprehensive, but played it rather cool.

His future did depend upon, how he performed this year,

he wondered how he’d deal with it, now the time was near.

His white shirt washed and ironed, now hung behind the door,

highly polished shiny shoes, were placed upon the floor.

He was well-groomed with confidence, he headed out that day,

he notice many students, were also going his way.

Then as he reached the school gates, his heart was beating faster.

But he knew he had to go inside, as he was the new headmaster.

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

 

 FREE CHOICE    (Part 1 of 2)

by Richard Banks

“To choose is to be free,” says Theo. After three Seattle Shakers, he is becoming philosophical, after four he will have great thoughts and after six there will be no remembering them. His headache the next day will be a reminder that no choice is free of unchosen consequences. But for now, everything is good, the drinks are free, his round yet to come, and he senses that his witty, insightful conversation is attracting the attention of Ella. She is, without doubt, the most attractive of the three girls in their group.

         No one, he thinks, has been gifted more free choice than her. Free in that she has never been known to buy a drink either for herself or anyone else but still the choice of every man seeking the enchantment of female company; that Theo is such a man is a secret he is trying to keep to himself. It is an impossible dream. She has an army of devoted followers from which to choose and when she does it is invariably a six foot plus Adonis, the star player or captain of one of the college teams. Clearly, Theo’s membership of the debating team is not enough, especially as they have lost their last three contests. At five foot six, he is scarcely taller than the lectern.

         Luke and Harry also suffer from the disadvantage of being ordinary, although somewhat taller. Accepting his fate Luke has taken up with Cynthia who he rates a six but with her make-up on will sometimes pass as a seven. They sit together, gradually merging into each other as one drink follows another. After four they are sometimes known to kiss.

         The sixth and final person at table 32 in the Stardust Club is Lorna, a friend of Cynthia who has been brought along in the hope that she might prove to be a suitable companion for Theo and distract him from drooling over Ella. So far they have spoken only once to exchange names, their mutual indifference only less obvious than Lorna’s scarcely concealed interest in Cynthia.

         “That’s crap,” says Harry. Harry is not a member of the debating team and tends to express himself in the on-field vernacular of the Sunday league football team for which he plays stopper, centre half. No fancy dan passing out of defence for him, he is old school and when he isn’t booting the ball fifty yards down the pitch he is usually questioning the parentage of the opposing team’s centre forward. For him, words are a blunt instrument, a cudgel not a rapier, and their purpose is to end debate not prolong it. The world is how it is, how he knows it to be, not how Theo thinks it should be.

         His membership of their Group is an alcohol shrouded mystery that no one remembers in quite the same way. Table 32 used to be his table, that’s where he sat, keeping it to himself and repelling all unwanted borders until this really fit bird asked him if anyone was sitting there. “No, be my guest,” he said. Then it turned out she had four friends who plonked themselves down before he could tell them to bugger off. Nevertheless, the fit bird sat next to him rather closer, he thought, than she needed. If she was pleased to meet him she was even more pleased when he brought her the most expensive cocktail on offer. He had read about girls like her, posh birds slumming it in bog-standard clubs, desperate for a bit of rough like him.

         On learning that her name was Ella and that she was a first-year student at the Uni, he had volunteered the information that he was a professional footballer with United. This never failed to impress the girls and was a fiction he was usually able to sustain until the following morning. In case this was not enough he raised the stakes by announcing he was also in England’s Under 23s. This she did not appear to understand but, having supplied the necessary clarification, he was able to achieve first base by placing his hand on her surprisingly cool knee. By the time his imagination had conjured up David Beckham and Victoria he was up to second base and contemplating his next move when she took hold of his little finger and hauled it and the rest of his hand onto the tabletop. In case he had not got the message she smoothed down the mini she was wearing so that it now covered most of second base. Other girls would have made a fuss, slapped his face, but she said nothing, her switched-on smile undisturbed, only a flinty look in her eyes signalling that what he wanted was not going to happen.

         To be repulsed with such style and subtlety seemed almost a distinction, and although he later felt anger it was never at her. Next day he took it out on the other team’s centre forward. Having rendered him unconscious with a head butt and threatened the referee he was sent off the pitch and fined £50 by the Association. To this dent in his wallet, he added the cost of the overpriced drink he had brought her, reflecting that some choices were anything but free, even for those that didn’t get past second base.

         A month later these are memories he has largely succeeded in pushing to the back of his mind. With Ella, it is as if nothing ever happened. There is no awkwardness between them. They have established a boundary and that is that nothing is said, nothing is needed to be said. It would be fine, water under the bridge if only Theo would stop going on about choice making people free. OK, it’s different to his own thoughts, he gets that, but nonetheless, it’s stirring up stuff he would rather forget. It’s crap, total crap, and he has stunned Theo into silence by telling him so, but not for long. Any moment now he will be drawn into a debate in which he will be expected to articulate a point of view that he can’t define beyond knowing that he is right and Theo a pretentious twat for thinking different. This is an argument that must be ended before it begins.

         “It’s crap man, it stands to reason and if you can’t see that I’m not going to waste my time putting you right. Now, it’s your round you tight bastard, so choose yourself a drink, and while you’re about it get me a pint.”

         There is an edge to his voice not usually present in his rough banter and Theo isn’t slow to pick up on it. “What is everyone having?” he asks, and on being told, makes his way to the bar with Luke. By the time they are back the conversation has moved on to Game of Thrones and Harry is back to being their streetwise older brother who is a good laugh and keeps them out of trouble.

         On a Saturday night, there will be at least one minor skirmish at Stardust and if the bouncers are quick in ejecting those responsible that might be the end of it. For now, they have only to man the doors while Steve, their boss, monitors the many screens in the control room. Presently the focus of his attention is table 32. No threat there, just a group of students who have formed an unlikely alliance with Harry Deeks. Harry is a good lad, knows the score, settles his disagreements in the alley outback. No harm in that unless you’re on the receiving end of Harry’s fists. Tonight there is a new face at their table, a girl he hasn’t seen before or has he? It’s her first time in Stardust, of that he is sure, but the frown that surfaces briefly on her unremarkable face seems familiar.  Just the frown, nothing more, but where. A flashing light over monitor eight diverts his attention to the Zodiac Bar where an argument is threatening to get out of hand. He dispatches two of his team to sort it out and watches them escort the culprit off the premises. The girl he does not remember until it is too late.

[To be continued.]

        

Copyright Richard Banks

Cheilin Saga ~ 20

 Cheilin Saga ~ 20 The Search

By Len Morgan

“This is where you lost them?”   Aldor asked gazing across the street from a second floor window.  Kalle nodded slowly.   “Do not feel you are in any way to blame, you could not know they were so well organised.   You have not been off duty in twenty hours” he observed “you should be resting; we may have need of your talents in the near future.   You did well to discover their back door; I doubt they even suspect it has been compromised.   Does it open from both sides I wonder?”

“The mechanism was unfamiliar but I suspect it does,” said Kalle.

They were in clear view of the alley on ‘Circle15’, in a safe house they had entered via ‘C14’.

“It is a good lead Kalle, the only one we have at this time, with luck it will provide us with the edge we need to preserve his life.”

Kalle knew that even now, at this late hour, all their agents would be looking out for Bordek and Hestor, and any of their known associates.   Once spotted, the news would spread like a heath fire on the wind.   All that could be done tonight had been done, so Kalle took Aldor’s advice and went home.

.-…-.

“You’re sure Hestor didn't return to the palace?” Sloan asked.

Aldor shook his head, “but as soon as ever he surfaces, I will know.   In the meantime all my people can do is search the rooftops and the gutters and keep their eyes and ears open hopefully a clue will come to light, sooner rather than later.”

Sloan nodded, “their descriptions have been circulated, I’m kinda taken with Dan, I’d hate anything to happen to him.   I like this job too but, how long would it last if he were gone I wonder?”

“Then ensure he stays right where he is.”

“Ah!   There you have it.   My mistake has always been in overcomplicating matters; well thank you for putting me straight” Sloan shook his head.

Aldor shrugged and left the small watch post, striding into the night, ‘the man is completely mad’.

.-…-.

“Why so angry Mawld?   It was never Bedelacq’s policy for us to befriend and make peace with our enemies, you know that,” said Mawgwrr.    “He just wants their blood spilled, and we have a mandate to do that.”

“But, what of our own people who die needlessly in the process?   Good loyal subjects with potentially long and productive lives ahead of them.” He said.

“We the elite are charged with the responsibility of ensuring that our lord receives his quota of blood at the appropriate times.   He doesn’t mind who provides it…”

“So it comes down to that!   We exist to feed him with blood?”

Mawgwrr did not reply to his taunt.   “I’m sorry we cannot count on your willing co-operation, and that makes you a dangerous man,” she added.   “You have more than a passing resemblance to a man we must discredit so, help us you will,” she said, mentally summoning another Bride.   “Sister Efelel will accompany you to the Cheilin Empire to ensure that you carry out your mission to our satisfaction,” she said, leaving them alone together.  

“Drink this!”   Efelel commanded.

He raised his arm to dash the beaker from her hand, but their eyes made contact.   It was as if he had been transfixed.

“I am now going to make you mine,” she stated in a quiet voice.   She entered his head, savouring the look on his face, like a trapped animal, his eyes revealing the terror.

“Drink!” she repeated.

He watched as his hand took the beaker. He felt the pale yellow liquid pass through his gullet; against his will.

Within seconds, itching began inside his skull, as though ants were building a nest there, burrowing and expanding with impunity, becoming familiar with their new abode.   He shivered in horror, his free will departed, and he submitted to his fate.   His brain was numb.  He began moaning involuntarily and slavering like a rabid dog.   Scratching frantically at his face and skull, crying and making pitiful mewling animal noises.  Finally, he gave voice to a primordial scream then lost consciousness.

“There, there my pet,” she cooed, snuggling him to her breast, enfolding him in her arms even as she spoke she was plumping his mind, making it feel more comfortable prior to taking up residence.  He would be the host; her pet.  She soothed his pain and calmed him until he was close to sleep, “Kiss me,” she whispered, he obeyed.

That kiss betrayed him; he was hers, and nothing he could do about that.   He was first domesticated, then indoctrinated, and fed full of propaganda.   He may have seen through it in his past existence but now he believed everything he was told.   She was curled up safely in his mind, for the most part just observing, directing his thoughts and actions when necessary.   Efelel was quietly pleased with the degree of success and control she now exerted over him.

Mawgwrr chuckled, “you see, the more wilful they are the more obedient they become.”

It seemed that he was in full control, as before, but at a moment's notice, she could take command and lead him every which way.  They enjoyed sex, he was good, it bound him ever closer to her In thought and deed, she provided him with purpose direction and motivation.   Though satisfied with their bonding, Mawgwrr continued to oversee their development.   Mawld & Efelel were given an intensive training program designed to test both to their limits and forging their bond even closer.   They were bound for the Cheilin Empire, to spy for Blutt.   They were taught how to deceive, threaten, persuade, and inveigle themselves into the hearts of others.   They learned many clandestine techniques including how to use the minds of others as weapons against them.   Dreams, desires, prejudice, jealousy, and greed were just a few of the tools at their disposal.   Their instructions were simply to lay the groundwork for the assimilation of the Cheilin Empire.

.-…-.

 It was close to dusk when they entered the Eternal City, through the Southern gate.   They had the code names and locations of key contacts in the Blutt advance mission, established in Cheilin a century earlier, to insinuate themselves into society.   They ran a spy network that had spread throughout the city and outlying countryside.

At the junction of ‘Circle18 & East3’, they found ‘the Porters Ease’ an Inn of renown.

‘Here it is’ she spoke by mind link.   They entered the establishment and sat, as instructed, in a corner booth marked as reserved.  

“Ale for two,” Mawld called out to a passing waitress, as they sank into large upholstered easy chairs.  “Are there rooms for hire?” he asked when their drinks were served.

“Just one double at the top,” the girl replied.

“We’ll take it,” he said, “Is food available?”

The waitress left, returning with a menu from which they both selected venison stew.   They ate two helpings before retiring.   At thirty minutes past noon the following day they were picking over the remains of two roast chickens when the curtains to their booth were parted to reveal a young woman in her early teens.

She looked critically from Mawld to Efelel and back again.  

“If you are newly arrived in the Eternal City, I would stop and ask for news of home.” 

“It would depend on where you call home,” Mawld answered, glancing at Efelel.

 

‘She is O’Keffe, our contact.   She has never seen Bluttland, never even left this city, she was born here.’ 

“O’Keffe what kept you?” he asked.

O’Keffe answered his question with a thought, ‘She is one of his Brides,’ she gazed in awe at Efelel.

Efelel did not give an answer, it was not required, ‘will you be taking us to our contact now’  she sent that thought, while probing gently for information, but her probe was met by a firm block.

“Best not,” said O’Keffe.   ‘I know three contacts, outside my own cell; they each know two others besides myself.   If any of us are compromised we cannot be forced to give up more than those three.’

‘You will know of us.’

‘Yes, but you will wipe that, as soon as I deliver you safe to your destination,’ was her matter-of-fact reply.   “Now if you have finished your food we can go.”

“Lead on,” said Mawld.

They left the Tavern, with O’Keffe some thirty paces behind.   They went East then South then West and finally North, with frequent forays into Taverns where they tarried a while before leaving.   All the while O’Keffe remained outside watching for signs of pursuit, passing instructions to Efelel through the mind link until eventually, they arrived at their destination.

.-…-. 

Over the months Mawld began to familiarise himself with the man he was to become.   As a test, he began to frequent places know to have been visited by Aldor.   He tried to be innocuous and to go unnoticed but responded in a friendly manner to any who thought they recognised him.   Then, when Aldor was recalled to Sanctuary at the time of Sanko’s demise he roamed abroad becoming Aldor in reality.   Unbeknown to him, he even fooled some of the Tylywoch agents who should have known better.   Luck was on his side, and he began the process of blackening General Aldor’s name prior to his return to the City.   He had planned to shadow Aldor, in another guise, and improve his technique but, Aldor returned and departed for the cloistered Abbey of Samishaan before that could happen.   So, he continued to sow unrest amongst the normal populace by continuing to act in a brutish and arrogant manner.   He never actually gave his name but most people he contacted found him to be aggressive & abrasive, with more than an undertone of danger around him.   Then he forced his first duel and killed a man, out of hand, acting as though it were a joke.   Even regular acquaintances whom he had courted, to higher his standing, became uncertain and nervous in his presence.

That was when his accomplices began spreading rumours about his exploits.   Only occasionally did he actually do anything but it was invariably high profile and in poor taste.   Of course, the Emperor and his officers knew it could not be Aldor, but proving it was quite another thing.   All members of the Tylywoch were briefed to apprehend the impostor on sight but, somehow he was able to evade them and frustrate their efforts.   He remained at large and in the public eye flaunting all their attempts to get him.   Mawld knew one thing the Tylywoch and the Red Guard did not.   Prior to each appearance, the minds of all those present were scanned thoroughly and if there were any doubts, about those present, Mawld did not appear. 

(to be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

 

 

Personal Well-being ~ 13

A Sweet Tooth

By the Barefoot Medic

Have you ever noticed that young people show a marked affinity for sweet things?  "Mmm".

As we grow older our tastes do change and become more discriminating, or more likely we just get set in our ways.  Or, do our tastes simply change in line with our needs? 

“Each according to his/her needs?” 

Indulge me a moment…  Do you occasionally have urges/cravings for things you would not normally eat or drink?

It’s a well know fact, (so I’m told), that expectant mothers experience wild cravings in the middle of the night, for things that would normally seem revolting to them! 

When the body is undergoing radical changes, new building materials may be required; do you suppose the body has an awareness in addition to that of the brain, a mind of its own?  Could it be that unaccountable urges, cravings and dreams are the outward manifestations of the body attempt to communicate its needs to the conscious mind?

“Hormones are defined as chemical messengers.” 

At ‘THAT’ time of the month, a woman may get ‘Cranky’!  It’s her hormones you may say - excusing her tantrums, mental/physical attacks on your person.  This is of course the upper extreme.  No two people are built the same though, I've known quite a few cranky men; take me for instance.

Is it possible that hormones have even more subtle effects on us than currently supposed?

Radical life changes may bring on similar effects.

For example a couch potato of 10 years standing, suddenly taking up physical exercise, could possibly bring on a craving for sweet things…

Conversely, if you suddenly start craving ‘Pilchards in tomato sauce’ & pickled onions/eggs, should you be seeking changes in your life?  Are you pregnant?

Family break-ups, retirement, bereavement, stress, a lottery win.

Would a change in diet help you deal with those?

How could we test such a theory?

Maybe seek out people undergoing unexpected life changes.

Get them to identify any activity changes resulting (if any).

Analyse the chemical content of the dietary changes resulting…

Could a pill be created to provide the missing components?  Then when other people are undergoing similar life changes we could administer that pill…  No this is getting silly… Or, is it?

Comments will be Welcome:

Sunset

 

The Rayleigh Scattering

By Carole Blackburn

Sitting in her fragrant garden with its decorative and concise edges, with Henri her devoted husband, they had continued to enjoy this pleasure in life, until one summer ago. Maggie had promised him she would watch the sunset with a glass of something and enjoy their garden, forever. The warm air caressed her aging bones and her thoughts drifting into a different world and time.

The wooden tatty desk in John Strutt’s study was covered with his paperwork: A clutter of his many thoughts on a fascinating theory. Outside in silence, the sun was setting, a huge canopy of fading warmth, in the evening sky.

His supper arrived, as regular as clockwork, carried in by Mrs Matterson. This last of her evening duties for Lord John, 3^rd Baron of Rayleigh. There was no conversation at this hour, apart from,

“Thank you, Matterson.”

Her curtsey and a gentle nod were her reply.

On leaving his study, her words were always the same,” Will that be all, my Lord?”

“Yes, Mrs Matterson, it will be.”

John sighed as he reclined back in the leatherbound chair, another day had gone. The gas lamp would soon be needed. He was driven to continue with his thoughts, after his supper of rye bread, cheese, and a glass of the deepest red wine.

The inner glow from his wine soothed his thoughts that had been screeching for his attention. His need for calming solitude came as he raised his eyes to the spectacular sight of the Sun melting behind the rooftops, above Maldon. The river Blackwater ebbed and flowed nearby in obeyance to the pull of the Moon. Forever, this relationship with our planet has shaped our world, our lives, as does the Sun. 

His gas lamp flickered with shapes that pranced around him. Illuminating his world, as the outside darkens. His supper concluded with crumbs that littered on top of his papers; he had nibbed in italics. Diagrams altered with an urgency to follow his train of thought. The glowing sight in the sky had become his main thought together with the reason for its occurrence, over the past few years.

Why can we witness the splendour of a sunset?

How does this seemingly natural display occur?

What makes sunsets possible?

Always, the sunset colours vary, reflecting through the clouds as the sinking sun ignites the horizon. He never tired of these safe visual pyrotechnics in his daily life. He was told the colours could vary from shades of blue and green. A learned colleague, Edward Routh had sent word of his ideas that very week from his own experiences from the University laboratory.

Edward days and nights flowed and melded into one. His slumber would often be broken as the night warden gently shook him as the next day dawned. No beginning, no ending for him.

John and Edward would pool their ideas as their individual gas lamps flickered while outside a globe of fire, with its intense heat lowered in the sky. Lord Rayleigh’s thoughts hinted at a possible transferring of its heat with the presence of substances in the atmosphere. A potion maybe, that was a presence in the sky. A catalyst of some sort. His thoughts were missing a vital thread, John pondered.

These two men with their insatiable curiosities of the techno-coloured skies fuelled their notes, debates, and presentation papers to the numerous faculties around Europe.

The night curtain fell on this spectacular sky show, once again. Now, the night stars were waking up. Their mother, the crescent moon glowed. The atmosphere was translucent between him and the free light display in the sky. For many these dusk displays were taken for granted. Unlike Lord John, the fascination of the skies kept him awake most nights.

John picked up his calculations with his current thinking. His scribbled ideas all over them as he read aloud,” A sunset has three stages; Civil, Nautical and Astronomical twilights and the last one I have calculated as being 12-18 degrees below the horizon. He continued as he turned the page, “Dusk occurs at the very edge of this stage. The night is defined when the sun reaches 18 degrees below the horizon and with the Sun no longer illuminating the skyline”. He concluded.

Rubbing his chin, he recalled not every evening sky was a picture to behold. Something was making a difference.

The night carried on as his thoughts drew the threads of his theory together. John sent word to Edward; he would have stirred by now.

A gentle tap on the study door behind him signaled that Mrs Matterson needed to carry in his breakfast tray. It had been Evelyn, his wife’s decision for this unusual eating arrangement. The time when they had shared mealtimes together had become a distant memory. She knew him too well to demand anything when his every grain of thought was required elsewhere. For John, he did not need the additional distraction to be present in the dining room and Evelyn would never contest her needs over his.

An enquiring mind brings sheer joy to its owner and for those around a profound sense of awe at hearing the words from such a person.

Such a brain as John’s which calculated and revisited the Cul de sacs of all the unfinished equations had led to a life for his wife Evelyn, few women would contemplate. It would have not been considered, at this time, a proper marriage, let alone continue with a marriage of such solitude. Looking in on their relationship, the outside world would have had eyes of envy. A lifestyle of the well to do and all their needs met. Although few words were spoken, Lord John was forever in Evelyn’s debt. Never taking her faithfulness for granted. This guarantee in their relationship was as solid as a rock, like granite. In this way they love and understanding for each other was immeasurable.

Now, John was determined to prove his thoughts to the World and he would not disappoint, this physicist needed closure. Eventually, John’s Sunset theory was tested and was finally accepted. John’s thinking had urged Edward to concur, that the removal of the shorter wavelengths of light due to the scattering by the air molecules which were much smaller than the wavelengths of visible light. These came to be known as “Rayleigh scattering”, named after him, the sunset hues with a spectrum ranging from the yellows and reds to greens and blues. That burned as the Sun lowered in the sky and appears like a wonderful act of nature, for most.

Back in her garden, Maggie blinkered as the last of the day’s sunset vanished below the horizon once again. Taking herself inside knowing that her distant relative, Mrs Matterson had witnessed an amazing theory unfold in the study, of Lord John, the 3^rd Baron of Rayleigh.

  

All of Lord John’s work concluded on his death on the 30^th June 1919 in Witham, Essex.

Copyright Carole Blackburn Aug 2021

 PADSTOW 

Peter Woodgate 

As masses weave their way

through narrow streets

what do they think?

as face to face with history they meet.

Is it just to walk the dogs

that brings them here?

or to appreciate the architecture?

No, nor any other pastime, I fear.

It appears before Rick Stein arrived

with fancy menus,

it was just a quiet place,

local residents,

living hand-to-mouth,

a little fishing boat

to catch the seafood that,

kept them afloat,

and, paid the rent.

Good old Rick,

he saved their lives,

his food, it’s said,

could raise the dead

and many shops then sprang to life,

selling, chalk and tiles and clay

and anything that came their way.

as customers flocked

across thresholds of excitement.

It’s progress, so they say,

the modern world, this is the way.

But I am sad, for Cornwall’s magic

fades rapidly within the queues

of traffic, as it quickly spews

it’s frustration through our heads

and on our brows, beads form

to trickle down to meet our chin,

anxiety it will begin

and all this takes away the bliss,

euphoria, a gentle kiss,

and other wonders that I miss.   

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate       

 Rhododendrons

Janet Baldey

Mornings are always the worst.   At the first shrill chirp, I awake and lie listening to the rising crescendo of birdsong.   From the way the sun slants through the curtains, I know it will be a fine day.  I know the branches of the tree outside my room will be hazy with new leaf and the creamy swell of the magnolia buds will be spearing a sky of the purest blue.   If I were outside, the cool air would feel like satin against my skin and the soft breeze would carry the scent of blossom at this time, it would be quiet and I probably wouldn’t meet another soul.   If I went out.   But I know I won’t.   I won’t, because I haven’t for so many years that I can’t remember the last time.

         Instead, I lie with my eyes closed.  My mind starts to drift but I control it.  There are places I won’t allow it to go.   Sometimes I lie in bed all day.  I don’t get up because there is nothing to get up for. I turn my face into my pillow and taste salt as tears run down my face.   Then, through my misery, I hear my dog whining softly and I know I have to make the effort, for her sake.

         In the bathroom, I glance into the mirror, expecting to see a young girl’s face, clear-eyed, with alabaster skin and cherry lips.  Instead, I see a woman whose puffy eyes and grey complexion testify to many years spent inside.   Mechanically, I run the tap and afterwards meticulously wipe away every silvery drop of water clinging to the basin’s surface.

         As I enter the kitchen, the old dog rises slowly and stumbles, stiff legged, towards me, the tip of her tail twitching.   She licks my hand, pathetically glad to see me.   I look at her and sorrow chokes me.   She is nearing the end of her life and suddenly I feel tentacles of panic begin to tighten. Who will I get up for when she is gone?

         My father always blamed my mother. Even though every muscle in my body screamed in agony, I sensed this as soon as I opened my eyes that morning, a generation ago.   She sat, foundering by my hospital bed, her face wrecked by weeping but my father was standing, not by her side but, ostentatiously, some way distant. He stood stiffly, a totem of disapproval, the skin of his face stretched tautly over the planes of his face.  It was obvious that he felt vindicated.  According to his doctrine, all through my childhood, my mother had been too soft with me. 

 ‘Children need discipline, the same way that dogs and horses do.   They must be trained to respond immediately in case they stand into danger’.

 All through my childhood, this message was directed at my mother in a vain attempt to wear her down and as I became a teenager, their conflict escalated in line with my growing independence.  

‘You must be mad to allow her to go out dressed like that!’ 

His rage was futile.

A day or so later, I waltzed into the kitchen, my face garish with a clown-like application of make-up, my mini-dress barely skimming my knickers.   As I waved goodbye, I saw him glance at my mother and his mouth open, but I was out of the door and away before he could speak.

         What did he feel as he stood at my bedside?  Did he feel vindicated, or was he, too, frozen with sorrow as he looked at the bruised and battered body of his little girl forced to grow old before her time?

       Dad left us a few months later. I think Mum was glad that he went. There had been too many recriminations. Night after night, the thin walls of my bedroom echoed with the hammer of raised voices.  Now that he was gone, she was free to assuage her guilt in the only way that she knew. I became her baby again and as the days slipped by, we would sit in front of the telly watching the soaps and gorging on cream cakes and lemonade until my belly began to swell. In my innocence, I thought I was merely getting fat.

         Then, as now, I spent a lot of time in the safety and comfort of my bed.   But I am not always safe, sometimes I dream. They are happy dreams at first. I am a child again, a young girl of thirteen, watching my feet, in my new pair of scarlet, patent leather shoes, flashback and forth as I hurry down the street.   My tote bag is crammed with make up and magazines.  My friend Lucy’s parents are out for the evening and we’ve got the house to ourselves.  We can do whatever we want.   Experiment with make up, try on clothes, read trashy magazines, giggle about boys and gossip.  Then, the dream speeds up into a kaleidoscope of blurred images merging into each other with lightning speed.   Lucy’s hair, my face, scarlet lips, panda eyes, narrow hips gyrating in time to Abba, being played full blast on the record player.  Insidiously, there is a change of mood and a growing sense of foreboding.   I am on my own and the street is dark. Full of terror, I try to turn back but cannot and wade through treacle towards my destiny.   My mouth opens as I scream and when I awake my soaked sheets are knotted around me.   I lie there and feel a tide of depression overwhelm me as I realize it wasn’t a dream at all.  Mercifully, my mind has obliterated most of that night but I do remember his guttural voice and the rotten-egg stink of his breath.

             Lucy used to come and visit me after I got out of hospital. Sometimes it was almost as if things were back to normal.   She used to chat about school and bring me get-well cards the other girls had made.   But gradually the times between her visits lengthened as her life moved on.   I never hear from her now.

         The worn brass doorknob fits perfectly into my hand, it feels smooth and cool as I twist it and tug the door open. The old dog slips out and I stand there waiting. There isn’t much of a view; I can just see the bricks of next door’s house.  I remember the garden when my dad lived here.   It was his pride and joy.  In the Summer he used to be out there night after night, not coming inside until it was too dark to see.   The lawn was his special pride, like a living carpet it stretched away from the house all the way to where the rhododendron bushes lurked. Flowers flanked the lawn. Like jewels, they exploded with colour.   Pinks, scarlet peonies, marigolds, ox-eye daisies and banks of purple anemones.   It isn’t like that now. The grass is knee high and the flowers have long ago been strangled by the weeds.   The rhododendrons are the only ones that have thrived; they have seized their chance and have spread almost to the kitchen window.

         Leaving the door open, just a crack, I retreat further into the kitchen.  I feel safer there.   Maybe one day I will follow the old dog out into the garden.   Maybe one day, but not today.   The police did their best but he was never caught and there are too many dark places where he could still be hiding.   The rhododendron bushes, the dark alleyways, hidden corners in forgotten places.   And I will always remember his fingers, like iron on my arm, and the tone of his voice.

         ‘If you tell, you will be dead’.

Patiently, she waited for me to recover, but I never did.   Not in her lifetime anyway.  Maybe it would have been better if they had let me keep the baby…

                 

Copyright Janet Baldey

 

 

      [There could be more, what will happen next?  It is for you to decide...]