The Beach Hut

By Sis Unsworth

Bob did so love to decorate, he really was a treasure,

he’d painted out this old beach hut, to him it was a pleasure.

It really looked a picture, the best hut on the beach,

he thought the new girl on the block, may now be in his reach.

Kay was such a pretty girl, who’d just moved down his street,

but all the local lads around, were also keen to meet.

Bob heard she owned a beach hut, in need of loving care,

with little hesitation, he was the first one there.

He helped her pick out colour paints, they found it so much fun,

For sure she would be pleased with him, when the job was done.

He had arrived this morning, on such a perfect day,

he knew she’d call in later, so he started right away.

There were so many beach huts, stretched along the sand,

certain this would be the best, he’d made it look real grand.

Bob cleaned it out so thoroughly, and painted it with care,

Kay said she’d come this afternoon, so would meet him there.

He thought she would go out with him, when the job was done,

So worked hard through the afternoon, until the setting sun.

Suddenly he saw her, as she came across the sand,

things were going perfectly, just the way he’d planned.

she looked so pleased to see him, it made him feel so good,

admired his work with wonder, just how he’d hoped she would.

Kay said “It looks so beautiful, the best one that’s for sure,

The only problem I can see is, my hut’s the one next door!!!”

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

 

DECORATING

By Bob French

Private Henry Mulhoon, Paddy to his mates, shivered as he shrugged his shoulders and slowly turned to complete another twenty paces out and twenty paces back outside the Headquarters building.  He had been on sentry duty since eight last night and was cold, tired, and hungry; all because his platoon sergeant found mud on his boots. 

He had tried to explain that the mud had got there because he had crossed the grass to get to the parade ground, but his platoon sergeant was having nothing to do with it.

The guardroom corporal relieved him at six in the morning so he could get changed into his work fatigues.  After breakfast he would be ready for his next round of fatigues; the painting of the barracks' main gate. A punishment he had been given by the Regimental Sergeant Major for smoking in uniform downtown. 

At nine o’clock on the dot, he presented himself to the guardroom orderly sergeant, and along with five other men, were taken outside and told exactly what do to.  Paddy who had painted most of the signs and fences inside the barracks, quickly took control and showed the rest of the men how to do the job properly.

At half past ten, the guardroom corporal called the men in for a mug of tea.  Just as they were making their way towards the main gate, a scream cut through the morning air, followed by the sound of a horse in distress. Everyone looked towards where the noise had come from.  It didn’t take long before everyone realised what was happening.  A hot-headed idiot had raced his new-fangled motor vehicle past the young girl who was sitting in her carriage and spooking the horse.  She had screamed as the horse had reared up, then bolted.

No one moved as the horse, which was now completely out of control, raced towards the main gates of the barracks.  Now, not many people know this, but Henry Mulhoon, before he joined the army, worked on a farm and knew how to deal with frightened horses. Whilst everyone dived for cover, Henry slowly moved out into the street, raised his arms, and walked towards the horse.  The horse continued to charge towards him, then, to everyone’s surprise, it stopped and Henry cradled its head and gently spoke to it, then turned to the young woman who looked a little disheveled and embarrassed.  

“Are you alright Missy?”

“Yes, and thank you for helping me.  That idiot in the motor vehicle ought to be reported to the constable.”

Paddy picked up the reins and slowly passed them to the young woman, who took them, then smiled at him, adjusted her hat, and slowly moved off.  Paddy stood stock still as he realised what he had just done.  His hands had been covered in black paint which he inadvertently covered the horse’s reins with, then as the young woman had taken the reins, she too had covered her gloves with the paint and to crown it all, she had adjusted her had.  Paddy did his best not to laugh but quickly headed for the guardroom.

The sergeant met him at the door with a huge smile on his face.

“Well done Mulhoon.  That took some courage.  I will make a point of informing Major Guthrie about your bravery today.”

“Major Guthrie?  Why corporal?”

“Do you know who that young lady was?”  The look on Paddy’s face told him he had no idea.

“That was Elizabeth Gutherie, his only daughter and a really nice young woman to boot.  I’m sure the major will be more than pleased with your conduct today.  He might even give you a medal for your bravery.”

Paddy suddenly felt very proud.  ‘A medal,’ he thought.  ‘For bravery. Me a lowly private getting a medal for bravery.’

The following day Paddy was on gardening fatigues, out front of the Headquarters building when the Regimental Sergeant Major and Major Guthrie came along the pavement and went to enter the building.

The Major stopped and looked down at Paddy with a smile on his face.  “Mulhoon is it?”

Paddy looked up and nodded.  Before he knew what was happening, the Regimental Sergeant Major bent down and screamed into Paddy’s face to get to his feet, salute and address the officer properly!

Paddy stunned by the sudden outburst, scrambled to his feet and mumbled an apology.

“Thank you for saving Elizabeth’s life yesterday.  That was very brave of you.”

He then turned and continued to walk with the Regimental Sergeant Major.  As they moved off, Patrick heard him say the word decorated.  His mind rushed back to what the guardroom sergeant had said about him being given a medal for his bravery.

A week had passed when Paddy, who had just finished cookhouse fatigues was summoned to report to the Adjutant’s office.  He knew that anyone asked to report to the Adjutant was either in real trouble or going to receive something special like a promotion or a medal.

He quickly cleaned himself up, brushed his uniform down, then hurried across to the Headquarters building.  He knew he had to report to the battalion Chief clerk first, then wait outside the Adjutant’s door.

Twenty minutes later the door opened and Major Guthrie stepped out and nodded to Paddy then left.  Minutes later Paddy was ordered into the office. 

After marching in and slamming to attention and giving the Adjutant one of his best salutes, he was told to stand at ease.

“Mulhoon. I understand that you saved the life of Miss Elizabeth Guthrie last week.  Well done.”

“Thank you, Sir.”  Paddy’s mind started to go into overdrive; The Military Medal, or maybe the Distinguished Conduct Medal.

“Major Guthrie has suggested some form of reward, so for the next three weeks you are to decorate the fencing and gates of Major Guthrie’s married quarters. 

At ten o’clock on Monday morning, Paddy stood back to admire his handiwork, when he was interrupted by Miss Elizabeth.  In her hand, she had a tray of freshly baked scones, jam and cream, and a mug of tea,

“Good morning Private Mulhoon.  I brought you some refreshments.  I hope you don’t mind.”

“Why thank you, Miss Guthrie, that’s very kind of you.”

“Look, whilst you are here, please call me Elizabeth.”

Paddy nodded with a huge grin on his face and extended his hand. “I’m Paddy Miss.”

Elizabeth laughed and lent down and carefully examined his hands before taking them.

“I know what happened the last time we touched hands Paddy.”

Do you know?  It took nearly five weeks to paint Major Guthrie’s fence and gates”

May 2023  

 Copyright Bob French

 

Geranium 

Len Morgan 

Way back in the 1980’s, I worked in Dagenham near some wild uncultivated land.   There was nowhere to go for lunch, apart from a burger van and a greasy spoon where I ate egg chips & sausage, once a week. 

   Mostly I took sandwiches and ate them while roaming over those wild fields. During that spring and summer, there were all manner of plants flowering there.

   While serving alongside the United Nations Peacekeeping forces in Cyprus (UNFICYP).  I purchased a 35mm camera which I used to record my plant discoveries.  Then after a few weeks, I wanted to know the names of the plants, their medical uses, and which were edible, or in some cases both!  Others I became aware of were poisonous, so to be on the safe side, I purchased a book ‘The Wild Flowers of Britain & Europe’ at last I was able to name them!  

  But, I didn’t really have much further information, so, I drove into Barking to visit the Central Library.

There were all manner of books containing information I could harvest regarding
my finds.  

   I took out an Ordnance Survey Map of East London (sheet 177) 1:50,000 (2^nd series).  I marked out the area’s I'd been surveying they covered just 2 squares (¾ inch by 1½).  I marked each as I found it in my book, highlighting if they were poisonous Edible or Medicinal plants.  By the middle of summer, I had made quite a thorough survey and by summer's end, I was anticipating resuming my work in the spring. 

   Unfortunately, the company I was working for was taken over and the site closed down, so I had to find alternative employment some way away from my area of investigation.  When next I returned, the local council was in the process of building a housing estate on the land.  So, I bowed to the inevitable and took up playing the guitar instead. 

One plant I had never been able to find which I was assured should have been in my area was the wild Geranium known as Cranesbill. 

Coincidentally, while on a holiday to Harlech in Wales, in 2003, we visited a garden center, and there, in a neglected heap of soil and rubbish, I found a broken flower pot containing a single specimen of Cranesbill.  

The owner must have thought, we’ve got a right mug here, when I asked to buy it. “50p” he said. 

I’ve had it in my garden for a number of years now, and it quickly spread, giving us a fine pink display.  This year I noticed it was all over Hullbridge, and now I wonder if I am responsible for importing an invasive species to Essex...

Copyright Len Morgan

 wonder if I am at fault in some way? 

FORWARD THINKING

 FORWARD THINKING                                                                  

Richard Banks 

Foresight is a wonderful thing, my mother used to say and while it meant that there were few surprises in her life it also ensured that she was prepared for every emergency that came our family’s way. When Billy fell off his tricycle and cut his arm there was mother on the scene within seconds with a bowl of warm water to wash the wound and, once the blood had stopped flowing, apply an appropriate sized Elastoplast. A fresh handkerchief would then be produced from the pocket of her pinafore to wipe away the tears and once they had been turned into smiles the same pinafore was found to contain a chocolate soldier.

         Five years later when my other brother, George, broke his arm playing football an ambulance arrived on the scene within several minutes as a consequence of mother phoning 999 a quarter of an hour before the accident occurred. By this time, being the oldest of my two brothers and Leila, our sister, I was fully aware of mother’s amazing ability to see into the future and mitigate life’s vicissitudes; a talent that unfortunately did not extend to their prevention. 

         “Why didn’t you stop George from playing?” I asked. “If you had told him not to, or sent him on an errand, it would never have happened.” 

         Mother smiled. She liked it when I asked questions. An inquisitive mind is a clever mind was another of her sayings and she was always ready to listen to our questions and answer them as well as she was able. There was, she said, nothing that anyone could have done to prevent George breaking his leg. Even if she had kept him from the football match it would have happened elsewhere, and in some other way. Just consider how much worse it might have been if she had sent him on an errand; he might have returned home through the forest or across fields. Who there would have been about to help him, not the football players that’s for sure. And how would she have known where to send the ambulance. No, it was better to let things happen in the way they were meant to.

         “Will I have an accident?” I asked. As a Boy Scout, my watchword was always to be prepared and mother’s early warning system seemed likely not only to offer me protection from life’s misfortunes but to advance my progress through the ranks to Troop Leader. After all, if Mother knew when I was about to have an accident surely she would also be able to tell me when one of my fellow Scouts was about to suffer a misfortune. Forearmed with the correct time and coordinates I would be the first to his aid and having worked out in advance exactly what needed to be done would easily win my First Aid badge and possibly, depending on the generosity of the Scout Master, a life savers badge. 

         My day dreaming was interrupted by the sound of Mother’s voice telling me that she had no intention of telling me, or anyone else, that they were about to have an accident. It would do no good at all, she flatly asserted. Why worry someone about a misfortune they had no way of avoiding. Better just to let it happen and deal with the consequences as best one could. Observing me to be unusually pensive she sought to reassure me by asserting that some people went through life without so much as a scratch and that, who knows, I might be one of them. Best to think that, she said, even though it may not be true.

         Better still, I decided to put it to the test and after crossing Epping High Street several times with eyes tight shut decided that what I had unwisely inferred from my mother’s words was true, that I was immune from harm. Forty years on that has indeed been the case. 

         I was into my third year of Secondary School when mother assembled us children to tell us that father was to die from a heart attack at eleven-forty five the following morning. She had decided that this should happen in the Co-op store away from ourselves and other family members who would understandably be distressed by witnessing such an alarming event. She knew that the people in the shop were good folk who would do their unavailing best for him and that he would not die alone which was a misfortune that no one deserved. As for the future she had, the week before, insured his life for a substantial sum of money that would enable us to continue our lives unaffected by the loss of father’s wages. We were to say nothing of all this to him, or anyone else, and that all that was required of us was to be at home when he set-off on his final journey. This we did, lining the garden path, bidding him an earnest, and in some instances an emotional farewell. Needless to say, this was very puzzling to Father who assured us several times that he was only going to the Co-op and, thereafter, Baxter’s shop where his boots were being mended. Half an hour later Mother set-off to collect our shopping, arrange his funeral, and collect Father’s boots which she correctly surmised would soon be a fit for my own feet.

         It was a year later that mother acquired a suitor and although she clearly had no great liking for the man consented to marry him which she did less than a month after his proposal. Us children were all of one mind in thinking this was a dreadful betrayal of our father whose kindness to us in life had almost been matched by the pecuniary blessing of his departure. We needn’t have bothered ourselves, for within a month stepfather was run over by a number nine bus, and the family benefited from another life policy that my mother had taken out shortly before their Registry Office service. Having paid little more than thirty pounds in premiums on both policies and collected over £100,000 from the same insurer there can be little doubt that they smelt the proverbial rat but with no evidence of wrongdoing they had no choice but to make payment. 

         Happily, Mother had no further suitors. Indeed it was observed that the menfolk of the town, especially the widowers and bachelors, did all they could to give her a wide berth. Although mother was aware of the gossip circulating about town she was too busy bringing up her four children to pay it any heed.  Having done nothing wrong, as far as she was concerned, she thought it no more than her right to spend the money that had liberally come her way. She invested heavily in the education of all her children enabling three of us to attend university, while George was brought a small factory where he established a successful business making football boots. Leila, perhaps the cleverest of us, was jettisoned into the social gatherings of fashionable society where she met and married a Baronet, who, happily, is still living. 

         It was with considerable trepidation that I introduced mother to the girl I was wanting to marry knowing that she would surely warn me if accident or ill-health was to be her lot in life. When my mother’s only comment was that Connie was a pleasant girl who would do well enough, I knew that there was no barrier to our union unless my proposal was received with a no. Fortunately for me, and our children, that was not to be the case and we have since enjoyed happy and healthy lives. My siblings have also been fortunate in that respect, including George who was thrice married and therefore claims to have had as much marital bliss as the rest of us put together.        

         In 2017, the year of the late Queen’s Sapphire Jubilee, Mother took to her bed and, in the presence of her housekeeper and Leila, died. That she was fully aware of her imminent demise was only too evident from the letter she left bidding us farewell, and every happiness in the years to come. There was, she wrote, very little for us to do but to attend her funeral and think kindly of her. The Co-op had been instructed as to the arrangements for her funeral and interment, while the family solicitor was to convert all her assets into a cash sum that was to be divided between her three sons. Leila, who had no need for money, would receive nothing, nothing that is but her mother’s extraordinary ability to foresee her family’s misfortunes. This, she asserted, was her most valuable gift, one she had inherited from her mother and the one hundred mothers that had preceded them. She had no guidance to give her daughter beyond the example of her own life. Leila, with her much polished brain, would find her own way and be more than an adequate custodian of powers that were to be used for the benefit of her own children and those of her brothers. That Leila had yet to give birth to a female child was her only concern but intuition told her that one would come, they always did, and that when born should be named Freya which had been told to her in a dream, which she believed was a vision. 

         Six years after mother’s passing Leila has no sense that she is the recipient of mystic powers and has yet to give birth to a daughter. Indeed it is eight years since her last child when it is rumoured her husband removed the possibility of siring another by submitting to a medical procedure he apparently has no intention of reversing. 

         We await developments, as they say. In the meantime, we continue to give thanks for a loving mother whose special powers may be all the more remarkable for being hers and hers alone.

The End.

Copyright Richard Banks

 MY FRIEND

By Bob French 

It was Frances’s twentieth birthday and we had arranged to meet in the Red Lion pub on South Street in Manningtree around seven to be thrilled, spooked, or even frightened by an evening with Matthew Hopkins, the Witchfinder General, and his ghost hunters.  The Red Lion was our local, loved, and cherished by everyone who used it, especially the ladies' hockey team when playing at home. To come in out of the cold and sit by the fireplace with a nice drink with your mates was out of this world.  This old wood and stone building was, according to our town’s history, established in 1605, the same year Guy Fawkes tried to improve the interior decoration of the Houses of Parliament. 

          Sue and Frances had organized the food from the Dragon House Chinese restaurant next door, which went down a bomb, then Sammy our talented goalkeeper, started to tinker with the keys of the old honkey-tonk piano when without warning, the lights dimmed and a hushed spooky voice appeared to come from the shadows of a corner in the room.  Instantly the room fell silent and we could all sense the atmosphere change.

          “Tis the last day of October in the year of our Lord, 2020.  Not only is this night ‘all hallows eve,’ when the dead walk amongst us, but a full moon.”  The voice grew even eerier. “Not only is it a full moon, but it's a Blue Moon and to be honest, I do not know what will happen out there tonight.  They say that on such a night, Matthew Hopkins, the Witchfinder General himself, sometimes roams these parts, so if you take my advice, stay close and don’t wander off alone.”

I could feel the tension growing around me and my head started to throb again, which I put down to the bang I took I got from a hockey ball during this afternoon's game. The evening turned out to be great fun as we had our fortunes told, Tarot cards read and we even played with a Ouija Board. 

It was whilst me, Sue, Frances, and one of the ladies organising the entertainment were playing the Ouija Board that Frances asked the board if any of us on the board were witches.  We were all in high spirits as our fingers started to move around the board, then I suddenly felt a chill rush through my body as Frances suddenly gripped my hand, and in a whisper called out. “My God!”

The woman who had introduced the board was staring at me.  The pupils of her eye seemed to narrow as though she was trying to read my mind. Then in a voice that scared me, she quietly asked me.

“Is your family name Hocket then love?”

I sensed the room fall silent and felt as though everyone was staring at me.  I tried to answer her, but I couldn’t, so just nodded.

“Do your folks come from Manningtree then?”

With a sigh of relief, I recalled Dad saying that he and Mum used to live in Rayleigh and broke eye contact with the woman.

At ten, one of the women who was involved in the cards stood and explained that outside this evening’s entertainment, for five pounds, she would be leading a walk out to where the original St. Mary’s church had stood and the ducking pond in Mistley where the ghost of Matthew Hopkins sometimes walks. Without exception, we all donned our coats and shuffled out into the bitter cold October evening.  We were pleasantly surprised at the tantalizing smokey tang of the air, so reminiscent of autumn, met us.

 It was amazing. Even though the street lights had been turned off by the town council, as energy efficiency measures, I found that our path was brilliantly illuminated by the huge blue moon that shone directly above us, casting ghostly shadows everywhere, which the woman used to her advantage as she wove her tales of the ghosts and witches that roamed these parts as a result of the dreadful deeds committed by Matthew Hopkins.

It was around midnight when the woman had started to lead the girls away from the ducking pond, having explained the methods that Hopkins used to determine the guilt of the unfortunate people. But, Frances and I chose to remain.

For some reason, we were mesmerized by the silence and stillness of this lonely place.  I had visited it during the summer when the tranquil beauty of the surrounding trees and the gentle ripple of the pond was a magnet to visitors to the town, but now I only felt fear.

We stood in silence, just staring out over the pond.  Then we heard them, the voices, moaning softly as though calling out to us. My nerves were tingling as I gripped Frances’s arm, then gave a sudden jump. “God, can you see them?”

Frances gave out a short scream, turned, and quickly made her way towards the rest of the girls, leaving me staring at the ghostly faces that slowly appeared from under the trees opposite me. I tried to move, but I felt as though I was frozen to the spot.  I could feel my heart pounding inside my chest, and for a minute or two, all I could do was just stand and stare back at the poor souls who had met their fate in this desolate place. 

Then it dawned on me. It was an illusion.  The wind had picked up and was moaning through the wire fence, and what I took to be faces moving in the darkness was the moonlight shining down through the branches of the trees.

I took a deep breath and tried to shake myself when I felt the hairs on the back of my neck start to rise; a tingle rushed through my body and I felt a shiver run down my spine.  Someone was watching me.

Without thinking, I turned and looked out across the dark empty pond.  I could see the mist starting to rise, then something caught my eye; a sudden movement.  There, standing just inside the tree line was the figure of a woman.  My whole body shivered with fright as I studied her and realised that she was probably thirty or so years old, but her clothing that was not of this century appeared a little worn.  We stared at each other for a while, then I called out to Frances.

“Can you see her?  Over there, just under the trees.”  My voice was no more than a whisper. Then I realised that Frances had left me for the safety of the rest of the girls. I was all alone. The ghostly figure then slowly raised her arm and pointed to the path that led to where, according to the woman, the old church of St. Mary had stood hundreds of years ago. 

Without thinking, I turned and slowly walked towards the path.  My mind was in overdrive. The ghostly figure had started to move as well. I thought that if this was some sort of prank, then it was a good one.  But the question the woman put to me in the pub haunted me.  “Was I a witch?”

We reached the path at the same time and I was surprised to find myself calm and relaxed.  We stood not ten paces apart and I could see the expression on her face as clear as day. She looked at me and pointed towards the path.  Suddenly I heard the distant voices of the girls, calling out to me from across the pond, but I chose to ignore them. Soon we were walking side by side down the path.

Without turning, I spoke.

“My name is Caroline Hocket and many hundreds of years ago, I think my family used to live in this town.”

Not knowing if she could reply, I turned and looked at her and felt calmness creep through me.  She was no threat.  The woman turned, and smiled at me, then put her ghostly hand over her heart then placed it on mine.

“Are we related?”  To my surprise, the woman slowly nodded.  We continued walking along the path in silence until we came to the abandoned graveyard.  The woman pointed to the gravestones across the other side of the old church grounds.  I followed her as she wandered about the stones looking for someone.  Then I realised that she was probably looking for a relative, so I joined the search. I found one very old and faded stone to a Hocket, but when I pointed it out, the woman smiled and shook her head.

After what seemed like an hour, we both retired to a stone bench amidst the gravestones and sat down.  She had sat next to me as though it was perfectly normal.  Suddenly my head started to throb, which caused me to frown.  Without warning the woman, very slowly raised her hands and carefully massaged my bruise.  To my surprise, the pain that had been bothering me since the game, faded away.

“What did you do for a living?” I asked, and the woman went through the motions of sewing, then cradling a baby.

“You were a seamstress and a mother?”  The woman smiled and nodded as though proud of what she had done during her lifetime.

“Did you have a husband?  Did he work the land around here?”

The expression on her face changed as she shook her head.  I gathered from her hands, that he had worked the land, then gone off to war and never returned.

“Is he buried here?”

The expression did not change as she shook it, then she pointed to my ring finger.

“No, I don’t have a man or a job.  I look after my mum, who is poorly.”  The woman seemed to understand, then patted her hip.  The confused look on my face told her that I didn’t understand, then she rubbed her thumb and index finger together.

“Money. No, we have little money. My mum used to be a school teacher in the town and dad is a carpenter but work is scarce these past few years.”

Our conversation was interrupted as the chattering of the girls appeared to be getting louder as they were obviously moving down the path towards us. The woman took my arm and pointed to the moon, then drew a circle with her hand.  She had to do it a few times until she saw that I understood what she was saying.

“You want me to meet you here at the next blue moon.”

She nodded, leaned across and quickly kissed my cheek, just as Frances came around the corner of the path, she was gone.

“What are you doing here all by yourself?”

I lied. “My headache was giving me hell, and I just wanted to sit down quietly for a bit.  How did the tour go?”

Sue leaned down and took a quick look at my bruise. “Mmm, seems to have cleared up.  I Can’t see the bruise anymore.”

As I sat there on the stone bench at midnight on the 22^nd of August the following year staring up at the huge blue moon, the ghostly figure of the woman gradually appeared next to me.  This time I had brought a plastic writing board and a magic marker so we could communicate.  We sat there for over an hour chatting away.

I still hadn’t got a job and my mum’s health had not improved.  I scribbled that the doctors didn’t know what was wrong with her.  My friend, as I referred to her now, asked what my mum’s symptoms were and I wrote them down.  She studied them for a while, then nodded.  She patted my knee and waived me to wait then wandered off.  She had been gone for nearly an hour.  When she returned, she had a bundle of what looked like herbs.  Slowly she took me through what I had to do with each herb, then leant forward and kissed my cheek, smiled at me, before slowly fading away.

At the end of September, on a bright sunny afternoon, Mum suddenly got out of bed and walked around the house. The following day, she and Dad went for a long walk.  When she returned, she explained that she felt as fit as a fiddle.  I made an appointment with the doctor, who after carefully examining her, declared that the strange illness that had plagued her had simply vanished.  She was as fit as a twenty-year-old.

A week later she got her old job back as a teacher at a local school. With time on my hands, I got a job in our local Tesco’s and Dad found work on a building site just outside Colchester, building a hundred new houses.  Our problems were over.

I often wander out to the stone bench in the grounds of the old St Mary’s churchyard, hoping that my friend would reappear so I could thank her, but she never did.

Copyright Bob French

 

 STARSTRUCK   (Part 2 of 2) 

by Richard Banks 

         “Tell it to your folks,” he growls.

         We do, and that’s when we find out we’ve been missing for nearly a week. No one’s seen us during that time and no one believes a word we say.

         “Damn those drugs,” says my Dad, and that’s it. It’s all down to the drugs, and my allowance is cut and bank card cancelled. It’s much the same with Leroy and I’m told not to see him again. So I don’t for the next two weeks. After that we meet up in Allis where no one knows us and there’s little or no chance of our folks ever finding out. It’s me and Leroy against the world, at least that’s how it feels. All we want to do is move on and forget the whole thing ever happened, but that’s not the way it’s going to be – at least not for now.

         Someone’s tipped off the press and a ratbag of reporters turn-up on the doorstep wanting to talk to me. Dad calls the police and they’re sent on their way but not before they take my photograph and ask me a whole lot of questions I would have been better off ignoring. Next morning I’m on the front page of every comic pretending to be a newspaper, some of which have a picture of my head on the shoulders of this other girl who’s underdressed and over endowed. What’s more they’ve managed to get hold of our statements to the police, to which they’ve added some fevered speculations of their own. The headline in the Daily Reveal says it all, ‘College Kids Drug Fuelled ET Romp’ which picks-up on our exchange of tops. Dad goes ballistic and joins forces with Leroy’s old man in suing the Reveal and every other paper running trash stories. But that don’t help me and Leroy who are on the end of every bad joke going.

         But two guys who aren’t laughing are Griff and Theo who also claim to have been abducted, and are now founder members of an organisation claiming that aliens are not only in the skies above  but down below in every tier of Government up to and including the White House. This they tell us in the College car park, while looking furtively about them for those they call, the ‘Cover-up Crew’. They’re as mad as hatters but whose to say they’re wrong. All we know is that they’re not as entertaining as the X Files and we would rather they weren’t around reminding us of something we’d rather forget. Leroy says thanks but no thanks and, when they persist, tells them less politely that he doesn’t want to see their faces again.

         “Phone us if you change your mind,” says Griff. He hands me a card with a mobile number on it beneath the words, ‘Alien Survive.’

         It seems that for every Griff and Theo there are as many folks wanting to explain them away. No it wasn’t a space ship they say, it was, a satellite, a balloon, a meteor – you’ve heard it all before. Maybe it’s all in the mind others say. Hilary is a shrink from New York with a theory she’s determined to prove, and I’m just the kind of person she wants to include among her case studies. This might be someone who can help I think, so I arrange to meet her in a hotel lobby in Milwaukee. I tell her what happened and she nods her head and says she believes me - then come the buts. Subtle buts that play with words like ‘perception’ and ‘reality’ and muddle them up with guilt and other emotions I don’t have.

         “What do you think about the slave trade?” she asks. How is this relevant I think, but don’t say because I know she’s building up to telling me. Instead I tell her what she has probably worked out for herself, that I don’t approve of slavery, past or present, and that if she’s got a petition I’ll gladly sign it. I say this with sufficient irony to make her realise that I don’t like being played. If you got something to say just say it is the message I’m sending out and by the expression on her face she’s receiving it loud and clear. So, she gets round to saying, what she hoped, with a little prompting, I might start thinking for myself. As theories go it’s rather neat. It goes like this. I’m a white affluent American whose ancestors owned slaves or if they didn’t own slaves profited from their exploitation. This, she says, is deeply troubling to me. So, to overcome my feelings of personal culpability I have created a new power dynamic in which African slaves, now in the form of alien abductors, are oppressing me.

         “Could this be you?” she asks, “after all your boyfriend is Afro-American. Is it a co-incidence that your abduction occurred soon after you started dating?”                                                                                                                                                I tell her that I’m a second generation American whose grandparents came over from Norway. If I were to have guilty feelings it would be for the Viking raids in Europe. But as there’s nothing now I can do about them I’d rather concentrate on the here and now. “Anyway,” I say, “how does Leroy fit into your theory? He was there too.” Hiliary says she’s not sure; she will need to speak to him separately, but never does. She departs for another appointment and I don’t see or hear from her again.

         Whose next, I’m thinking and they’re not long in coming, two guys in uniform with short cropped hair and ID cards that say they’re from military intelligence. They’re not slow in coming to the point. The country, they say, is under threat from an enemy seeking to seize control of American airspace. But it’s not the aliens trying to do this, it’s the Chinese. First they sent over their lanterns, then the so called weather balloons and now it’s new aircraft types with advanced weaponry capable of reducing American cities to ash.

         “Are you sure?” I ask.

         It appears that they are and what’s more they have a dossier of unassailable evidence which proves that my abduction was only one of numerous incidents attributable to the yellow peril.

         “But my abductors were aliens,” I tell them, “eight foot tall reptiles with green scales. How can they be Chinese?”

         “Think about it,” they say. “Consider the evidence, one of them was called Chog and the other Mog. Aren’t those Chinese names? And when you say they were green, are you sure? There’s many shades of green and in the dead of night a dull yellow is bound to look darker than it actually is. Anyway whose to say they weren’t in disguise.”

         “This is evidence?” I say.

         “Everything you say Miss Gilsen is evidence. Now think carefully. Did you at any time hear them speak in a language that might have been Chinese?”

         I tell them that Mog didn’t speak once and that Chog spoke English - in a voice that sounded kind of familiar.

         “Familiar?”

         “Yes, couldn’t place it at first,” I say, “then I did. It was Jimmy Stewart, he was talking like Jimmy Stewart.”

         “But Jimmy Stewart was a patriot!” they exclaim in shock horror.

         “Perhaps the alien was too,” I say.

         They leave having probably put me on a watch list of alien sympathisers.

         When three weeks pass without any further visitors it seems that our ‘fifteen minutes of fame’ are over and we can get back to normal. Leroy’s folks get-together with mine and decide that they will allow us to see each other again providing we abide by a 101 conditions, chief among them being that we let them know, at all times, where we are and what we’re doing. This is good news and saves us the bother of sneaking off to Allis twice a week.

         Then after one accident too many we give our folks the ‘glad tidings’ that they are about to become grandparents. The fathers go ballistic again and our mothers silent and stony faced. When the noise subsides it’s the mothers that take charge and the two families meet to discuss ‘our options’. Number one on their list is,” I tell them, “one big no; I’m keeping my baby and Leroy’s standing by me.”

         “Then” says mother, “it will have to be a yellow wedding.”

         “A yellow wedding?” I say.

         “Well it can’t be white.”

         I don’t believe what I’m hearing, but when I say we’re not so sure about the whole wedding thing a compromise is struck and arrangements made for us to get hitched in a low key civil ceremony at the Court House. At first it’s going to be held at midnight in front of an uninvited audience of nil but gradually it becomes the big Cinderella event that both our mother’s want and my Dad can well afford to pay for. Then not to be outdone Leroy’s father announces that he has bought us a furnished apartment in Milwaukee near the university we’ll soon be at.

         I should be grateful, and I am. It’s going to be OK, better than OK, amazing! And all I have to do is buy a dress that isn’t yellow or white and turn-up on the big day. I choose a peach evening dress that’s fits loosely over my small but expanding waistline.

         All this is a vast improvement on being abducted by aliens. That’s yesterday’s news and from being in my thoughts every day of the week it’s now as relevant as a discarded email in Trash. Maybe Hilary was right, perhaps it was all in the mind, or maybe nothing more complicated than a bad smoke. Who knows, who cares, all that matters are the special things to come. I’m counting down the days. Bring it on!  

 

                                              *****

         Six months later we’re at Uni and my waters break two weeks early and I’m rushed off to a maternity hospital that’s only a few blocks away. This would be embarrassing if it wasn’t so painful and I pass out in the ambulance. When I wake-up it’s all over and no one’s looking pleased. I’m in a small, white tiled room with two nurses, and a fat guy sat down on a chair, smoking a cigar. He tells me that I’m in a temporary medical unit and that he’s the guy in charge. He speaks in a flat, southern drawl that has neither warm or empathic. This doesn’t feel right and I panic. “Where’s my baby!”

         The guy pulls a disapproving face and, cigar in hand, motions me to calm down; but there’s no chance of that.

         “I want to see my baby,” I scream. I try to sit up but there’s a searing pain across my stomach which throws me back onto the bed.

         “Best lie flat,” he says, “you don’t want to be straining those stitches. Want a pain killer? You only need ask.”

         I tell him that the only thing I want is my baby. “Please, please show me my baby!”

         “Wish I could,” he says. “The ambulance arrived too late, there was nothing we could do, nothing anyone could do, the child was stillborn.”

         “I don’t believe you,” I say. “I want to see it, hold it, I need to know if it’s a girl or a boy!”

         “And you will,” he says, “but not now, best you rest up for a while.”

         “No way,” I shout, “Not later, now! I want my baby, now!”

         He looks rattled and appears not to notice the ash falling from his cigar onto his shoes.

         “I demand to see my baby. My Dad’s an attorney, my husband’s father knows Mayor Stevens. If you don’t show me my baby we’ll sue you for every dollar you got.”

         “Yeah,” he says, “I know who they are, you don’t need to say. I also know you’re smart and feisty enough to keep shoving until you get what you want. Only wish I could oblige. Had you been expecting a black or white baby, no problem, even at this short notice we could have come up with something. But an inbetweenie, that takes longer and as of now we don’t have one.”

         “So my baby’s not dead. Is that what you’re telling me? Where is it then?”

         “There never was a baby.”

         “Then what the hell was inside me?”

         “I think you know the answer to that. It’s in the zoo with the other freaks. Want to be known as the mother of a freak? No way. So, you listen to me. This is what happened: your baby was a normal child, born dead. Be grateful we’re here to help you and make this whole thing go away. Do as you’re told and no one beyond you, me and these ladies will know how it was Your husband and family have been told the sad news and that you’re not well enough just now to receive visitors. When they come you tell them that you wanted the child cremated and, if by then we still haven’t got an appropriate stiff, we will say we messed-up and had it done before getting the father’s OK. After that you get some ashes and you scatter them, or do whatever. End of story, and you get on with the rest of your life.”

         “And if I don’t do what you want?”

         “It won’t be good, Missy. We can’t have you stirring up a panic. If you’re not prepared to co-operate we’ll have no choice but to declare you insane. People like that are put in institutions. Once in there you won’t be getting out. And before you start telling me again about all the important people you know let me tell you that they count for nothing next to the people I answer to. Believe me you don’t want to be on the wrong side of them. So, if you value your freedom the deal is this: you had a baby, a normal child, still born, cremated at your request. This is what you tell everyone, no exceptions, not Leroy, not your mother, no one.”

         “That’s a hell of a secret to be keeping to myself.”

         “If you want to live normal again that’s the way it’s got to be. Why settle for less?  Life’s good, especially for an uptown girl like yourself. Have fun, enjoy the glad times to come. And just one word from you will make it happen. So, what’s your answer? I’m asking you one last time. Do we have a deal?”

         “Yes,” I tell him, “we have a deal.” What else can I do?

         A nurse puts a needle in my arm. “You need to rest,” she says, “tomorrow evening you can have visitors, for now it’s best you sleep.” My eyes close shut, but for a few seconds more I hear them talking.

         “Is she out?” says the man.

         “She’s out,” replies the nurse.

         “Let him in,” says the man. A door opens and someone else draws near. He says no more than a dozen words, but that’s enough. Jimmy Stewart’s back in town.

 

The End.

 

Copyryght Richard Banks