TO ABSENT FRIENDS

 TO ABSENT FRIENDS

By Bob French

Jim smiled as he heard his name called out by the club secretary.  He had been selected to participate in the Essex Christmas Race; an annual race from the council buildings in Rochford to Webster's car park in Rayleigh, 'in aide of The Homeless'. The way things were going, he thought, he and his family would soon be homeless.  Then he heard Malcolm Withers name called out and inwardly groaned. 

Malcolm wasn’t an outstanding runner, he wasn’t even good, but he held a position of authority in council as the Town Planning Officer of Rochford District Council and was instrumental in granting permission for the club house to be built.  This favour allowed him to run in some of the important races.

The club coach raised his hands.

“This year the race will take place on the 20^th December and we have five other local running clubs competing in the race, so I will expect those whose names I have called out, to start to beef up their evening runs, and on that note, I must warn you all to be especially aware of running in the dark.”  This was followed by cheers as everyone raised their glasses to big Frank, who had got lost out on one of the country roads and become entangled in some barbed wire and wasn’t found until the following morning.

As everyone started to relax at the bar, Jim eased himself down next to Jean, one of the clubs Triathlon stars.

“Hi Jean. What time do you think you’ll complete the course this year?”

Before she could reply, Malcolm slumped down next to her with a large whiskey. “Hi Jean.  Fancy doing a couple of evening runs with me?”

Jean smiled.  “OK, but I’ll have to give you a couple of hours start.”

We both laughed, but Malcolm frowned. “I’m not that bad.  At least I beat Frank back last year.”

  Jean smiled, caught the eye of one of the triathlon team, made her excuses and left Malcolm staring at me.

“Whilst we are here Malcolm, any news on my neighbour Shawn’s application to build his extension?”

He stared at me and I could see the hatred in his eyes for my laughing at him. “Not a chance.”

“Why?  Could you tell me what is holding it up, so I can tell him?”

Malcolm pulled a face, stood up and went off to the bar without a word.

That night I told Shawn of the conversation, at which point he swore in his broad Irish accent.

“God, I’ll give anyone five thousand pounds to get rid of that waste of space.”

I stared at him.  “Are you sure mate. That’s a lot of money. Do you mean it?”

“Sure thing. He is costing me money by holding things up.  No, five thousand pounds to anyone who can rid me of this person.”

That night I sat looking at a blank TV screen thinking how I could do away with Malcolm. Five thousand pounds would keep the banks off my back and before Christmas too, Jill and the children would be so pleased.  The chimes on my old carriage clock reminded me it was time for my bed.

The training started in earnest in the middle of November, time enough for everyone to become accustomed to the route, which was basically the B1013 from Rochford to Rayleigh with the exception of a few short detours to make up the five miles distance. But so far, Malcolm had not been seen on the course.

Then one evening the coach called me over and asked if I would take Malcolm around the course so he knew the route.

“Alright, I’ll take it really slow.”

The coach smiled and nodded his head.  “He’s getting changed. Try to be back by midnight.” He laughed, turned, and vanished into the dark.

Malcolm appeared and without a word we started to jog back to Rayleigh. As we approached each of the small detours, I warned him that we had to take these detours because it helped to make up the five miles, but more importantly if we stayed on the road at these places, it became too dangerous, especially in the dark. 

When we finished, he seemed relaxed. “Fancy doing it on Wednesday?”

Malcolm nodded. “A little faster this time if you like.”

Sure enough we made it back by ten thirty and both the coach and I were secretly impressed.

The following week Malcolm met me at the club house. “Let’s make a race of it this time.”  I stared at him, then nodded.

“You sure Malcolm?”

“Yes.  Let’s start at seven.  First back buys the first round.”

As I was getting changed, I casually told the coach that Malcolm had just challenged me to a race. 

The coach grinned, shrugged his shoulders and wished me luck.

We started slow, but soon I picked up the pace and left him in my wake.  To my surprise, he was stretching out against a wall as I came into the car park. He had beaten me by five minutes and I couldn’t believe it,

“What kept you, slow coach?”

After buying him a whiskey, I went off and sulked in the corner by myself.  As I was contemplating my failure, the coach came and sat down beside me. He took a drink of his pint then turned and faced me with his back to the bar and spoke quietly.

“I followed you two after you left. Then saw him cut down the track after the farm.  That’s where he made about 20 minutes on you.  Just thought you ought to know.  Mum’s the word.”

Two days later, Malcolm challenged Big Frank to a race and beat him by fifteen minutes.  Then it came to me.

That night, I spoke to Shawn and explained that Malcolm was cheating when he was training for the big race.  Shawn looked at me with a frown.

“About a quarter way along the course, there is a narrow track that leads down to a field.  If you follow it, it takes about a mile off the course.”

Shawn grinned and asked me if I could show him where this track was, so the next day we drove out there and he had a really good look around the place.

The evening of Saturday, the 20^th December came and runners from the six running clubs were assembled outside the council building, eager to start. 

A huge cheer went up when the starting pistol went off and everyone started to race down towards the T junction and out into the dark countryside.

Malcolm’s boss realised that his town planning officer had not turned up for work on Monday and had probably decided to leave early to go on his Christmas holiday out to Cyprus for two weeks and would probably not appear until the end of the first week of January.

On Tuesday afternoon, I met Shawn sitting outside Costa Coffee in the High Street. He called me over.

“Hay Jim.  Tis good to see you.  I’ve just had a call from the council offices.  They have granted permission for me to build my extension, would you believe that.” 

“That’s good.  I am happy for you mate.”

Then he very discretely slid a used newspaper across the table. “If you pop across to the bank, you may catch them before they close.”

I stared at him, then slowly picked up the newspaper and without saying a word, strolled across to the bank.

I was met by one of the staff.  “Hello Mr. Wilson, how can I help you?”

I quickly opened the newspaper and took out the envelope and seeing the wodge of fifty-pound notes, told the young lady that I wanted to settle my mortgage account.

On Christmas day Jill and the children had a fabulous time; my worries were over.  On Boxing Day, I invited Shawn and his family over for lunch.  As we stepped outside for a cigarette, I asked Shawn why the council had changed their mind.

“Well, to be honest, it would appear that Mr. Malcolm Withers didn’t turn up for work on Monday, so someone else dealt with my account and seeing no problems, granted me permission.

“I grinned at him.”  Now tell me what happened.”

He smiled. “Well, I had a good look around the track, and worked out that I could load one of my mini-diggers on a trailer and drive it out to the field.  I knew the race would start at seven, and it would be pitch dark by the time yer man would arrive, so I dug a nice big deep hole, about ten yards into the track, and waited.  Sure enough, Malcolm came racing down the path and fell right into the hole.”  He smiled.  “I gave him an 8 out of 10 for style, then filled the hole in, made sure the track looked undisturbed then left.  I was home by eight thirty.”

At that moment Jill called out to us that she was serving up.  Shaw and I raised a glass. “To absent friends.” 

Names and places in this story are purely coincidental.

Copyright Bob French

Three Tanka

 Three Tanka

By Robert Kingston

Personal Wellbeing 23

 Night Cramps

 Barefoot Medic

Painful cramps in the upper or lower leg.

More common with age, women are more susceptible than men.

 

There are many causes:

Overuse or underuse of the muscle.

Sitting for long periods.

Standing or working on hard floors for long periods.

Certain medications can cause cramps; Diuretics for one.

Dehydration.

Flat feet.

Diabetes.

Narrowing of arteries (Arterial Sclerosis).

 

There is no known cure, but cramps may be alleviated by stretching the cramped muscle(s), straightening the leg while pointing your foot towards you & away from you alternately, and corkscrewing it from side to side; one or all of these may help.

Other suggestions are:

Drink 6 glasses of water daily (or equivalent Tea/Coffee/Juice)

Loosen bedclothes around your legs.

Wear properly fitted footwear (comfort before Fashion).

Vitamin E Supplement. (just passing a suggestion by others)

Vitamin B Complex.      (just passing a suggestion by others)

 

Salt may be a much-maligned substance, but I find a little salt in my diet is helpful…

Your suggestions in the comments would be gratefully received!

(If all else fails or if it persists, consult your doctor...)

Haibun

 

Flash Improvisations

 Flash Improvisations: 1. A Stone 

By Len Morgan

  As he walked along the river bank, he idly picked up a handful of stones selecting ideal shapes for scudding across the stream. He was aiming for six bounces, but the best he’d accomplished so far was five. 

  He spied an ideal stone half buried in a patch of blue-green soil.  He washed it in the stream, the water dripped off as if it were oil, leaving the stone completely dry. He took a closer look, it was smooth round, milky blue-white.  It was the perfect shape but felt a little light for a skimming stone. So, he dropped it in his pocket and selected another that skimmed two three four times then sank.  He realised it wasn’t his day; he wasn’t going to achieve six today.   

On his way home he was stopped and searched by the Kimberley Security Police.  They took him into custody despite his protests

“But, it’s a stone!  Just a stone…” 

 

 

Flash Improvisations: 2. A Leaf

 

By Len Morgan

 

On Father's Day, I view a leaf pressed between the pages of my Concise English Dictionary 4^th edition.

It was gathered by my daughter on her seventh birthday.

  It was one of her most treasured possessions; she gave it to me in her thirty-seventh year; on one of her more lucid days. 

“Happy Father's Day Dad.”

She’d framed the golden leaf on a pale rough linen swatch, on which she’d embroidered: ‘With all my love on Father's Day’.

She is sadly no longer here, but the memory of her love returns every ‘Father's Day’.  Just a leaf in time.

 

Copyright Len Morgan

 

 

The Appointment 2

The Appointment

 By Sis Unsworth

 George was feeling quite poorly, and not sure what he   should do.

 So he rang for a doctor's appointment, and was told he   was now in a queue.

 At first he was quietly patient, just waiting for his turn

 but after half an hour, he was showing some concern.

 A voice told him they were busy, but would answer him real soon,  

 so frequently they said it, that it filled poor George with gloom.

 He heard the postman knocking, but wouldn’t leave the phone

iIt surely must be his turn soon, he silently bemoaned. 

 George was feeling hungry, his breakfast had gone cold 

 he wanted that appointment, so still continued to hold 

 He noticed through the window, it had begun to rain. 

 He’d put his washing out earlier, it would now be wet again.

 The dog was rubbing round his legs, impatient to go out, 

 why don’t you get the washing in, he heard his wife then shout 

 George was feeling so irate, when the voice did say,

“All appointments have now gone, please call another day!”

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

The Scream (Flash Fiction)…

 The Scream…

By Len Morgan

“AH OOH AAAH…” he cried. 

“Oh my god Pete!  Are you alright!”

He lay still, unmoving beside her.  She moved to the opposite side of the bed creating as wide a distance between them as possible. 

He lay still and silent…

“Shreeeek!…”  The sound woke their neighbours on either side, the couple opposite, as well as those above and below.  Lights came on all over the student dorm.

“Was it that good?” asked Pete. 

“A-a-uh?” She said, falling silent, feeling foolish, allowing the urgent knocking on their door to be heard. “Oh my god, why did you lay like that?  So still…?”

“Just savouring the moment, you were great,” he smiled “Guess I’ll have no trouble getting layed from here on in…”

 

Copyright Len Morgan

 MARISA

By Janet Baldey

She was sitting in the window-seat, her silhouette framed by an aureole of gold.  As he crossed the room towards her, he saw her eyes were misty and far-away as she gazed into the garden and Harry thought he had never seen anyone more beautiful.  He felt a rush of tenderness as he thought of how much he loved her.

           “I’m off now love.”  He planted a kiss on her forehead.  She started and an almost imperceptible frown marred the perfection of her face before she lifted her head to acknowledge his embrace.

           As she heard the slam of the door, she felt a rush of relief.  Rising, she ran up the stairs and into her bedroom; standing in front of a full-length mirror, she stretched voluptuously, relishing the way her kimono clung to her figure.  Heat flooded through her; she wished Steve was with her now and she looked towards the bed feeling a tingle of delicious anticipation.  She couldn’t wait to see him again, last evening had been so perfect.

          She stood in the shower feeling the spray hard against her body.  With dawning delight, she remembered that Harry was due to start night shifts tomorrow.  It was perfect timing; she and Steve could spend the whole night together.  She didn’t have his telephone number, he was always forgetting to give it to her, but she knew where he lived, so she would drop a discreet note through his door.  Impatient now, she switched off the shower and grabbed a towel.

          Outside, the sun beat down on her unprotected head like a bar of iron as she swung along the street, her short skirt flirting against her thighs.  Clutched in her hand was a scribbled note and two letters for the post.  As she neared the familiar red post box on the corner, she darted a quick glance left towards the road junction and gasped as her heart started to pound.  She recognised the sleek, green Jaguar held by the lights – it was his car and if she was quick, she could catch him.  She thrust the letters into the box and raced down the street.  

 

          The back of Harry’s shirt was dark with sweat and damp rings circled his armpits as he heaved himself out of the van into evening air heavy with humidity.  Last box, thank God.  He licked his lips; he could almost taste the ice-cold lager he’d treat himself to when he got home.  As he unlocked the post box, an avalanche of letters flowed into his sack.  With a grunt he stooped to pick it up and as he did, he noticed a slip of paper caught in the grill.  Shopping list he thought, they were always being posted by mistake.  Plucking it out, a name caught his attention.  It was an unusual name and he’d always liked the exotic images it conjured when he whispered it in her ear.  Marisa, his wife’s name.  He looked closer and smiled cynically, not a shopping list it was obviously a lover’s tryst.  He was about to screw it into a ball when he froze as he recognised something else, the telephone number.  It was the one he dialled every time he was late home.  For an instant he stood very still, then mechanically, he closed the post box.  As if in a trance, he put his van into gear and drove to the sorting office, where, with a smile glued to his face, he responded to the banter of his colleagues until it was time to leave.

          Several pubs and several lagers later, he dragged himself home.  Inside, the house was in darkness except for a thin, yellow line underneath the kitchen door.   Without turning on the lights, he turned into the living room and flung himself down in an armchair and sat watching creeping shadows change familiar furniture into hump-backed monsters.

          Eventually, the door opened and light flooded in.  He heard her give a little gasp then,

          “Whatever are you doing, sitting in the dark?”  He didn’t answer and she shrugged and went back into the kitchen.  He heard her moving about, heard the clattering of plates and the hiss of the kettle.  Still, he sat, dull-eyed, staring at nothing.

          Impatiently, she swept into the room again.  “Are you coming, or what?”

          He sat at the table, pushing food about his plate.  Marisa sat opposite, eating with quick, economical bites.  At last, she put down her knife and fork and looked at him, a brittle smile stretching her mouth.

          “So, what time are you leaving for work tomorrow?”

          “Not going to work.”

          There was a pause; he kept his eyes fixed on his plate.

          “I thought you were starting nights?” 

          “Change of plan.  I’m taking a few days off.  Thought we could go away for a break.”  Even to his own ears, his voice sounded thick and unnatural.  He waited as silence deadened the room.  Eventually, he looked up and it felt as though someone had punched him.  She was staring at him, disappointment etched into the contours of her face.  It was all the proof he needed.

          “What’s his name?”

          Her eyes widened.

          He flung the crumpled note towards her.  “His name?”

          As she sat motionless, he noticed a small pulse beating rapidly in the base of her neck.

          Suddenly, he rose and pounded upstairs to their bedroom where he began wrenching open drawers and burrowing his thick hands into the froth of her lingerie.  At last, he found what he was looking for.

          “What are you doing?”  Behind him, her voice was high and razor sharp.

          Flicking through the pages of her diary, he took no notice.  Suddenly, he stopped and his shoulders slumped.  “Steve.”  Anger twisted his features.  “You whore.”

          “Give me that.”  She grabbed for the book.

          His arm pistoned towards her and she fell backwards onto the bed.   His face reddened and veins knotted his neck.  “I trusted you and you creep around like an alley cat.  Why Marisa?  I’ve bought you everything you ever wanted.  I’ve worked my fingers to the bone for you.  I thought we were happy.”

          She scrambled off the bed, her eyes blazing.

          “You fool” she sneered.  “You thought you could buy me?  Well, let me tell you, Postman Pat, you are just a joke.  An ugly, clumsy joke.  I’ve never loved you.  How could anyone love you?  You say you’ve bought me things but I’ve paid for them.  I pay for them every time your stinking body comes anywhere near me.  I lie there in the dark, with you on top of me, paying for them.  Here, give me that!”  She snatched the diary out of his hands and riffled through its pages and held it out towards him.  “Look.”

          He stared in horror as one scarlet nail traced a list of names.  He recognised most of them, some friends of his, others pillars of society.  Her voice rose, becoming strident and ugly.  He stared at her contorted face; this was someone he didn’t know any more.

          “Everyone was better than you!  They satisfy me more in one hour than you have in the whole of our marriage…..”  Her voice stopped abruptly as his hand knifed towards her and caught her full in the throat.  Bunching his fists, he hit her again and again until she fell to the floor.  He loomed over her, breathing heavily, sweat pouring down his face.  Gradually, he brought himself under control.  She lay very still and he noticed that her head was twisted to one side.

          “Marisa?”  Tentatively, touched her fallen body with his foot.  She never stirred.  He dropped to one knee and tried to straighten her head.  Tenderly, he brushed back her hair that had fallen over her face.  “Marisa?” he repeated, panic trembling his voice.  Bitter bile erupted into his mouth and he retched.  He felt weak and dazed.  Groggily, he got to his feet and went into the bathroom where he turned the shower full on and thrust his head under its icy spray.  He perched on the edge of the bath for a long time feeling so weary he could have slept for a week.  He tried to think but thoughts buzzed around inside his head like a swarm of angry bees.  Finally, he returned to the bedroom and looked down at his wife.  She looked so young and vulnerable lying where she’d fallen.  Gently, he picked her up, laid her on the bed and lay down beside her.  As if an invisible hand had snapped off a switch, he was instantly asleep.

          Harry woke as the first birds heralded the new day.  At first, he wondered why he was lying fully dressed on the bed.  Then, he remembered and sat bolt upright.  Nothing had changed, the room was still in turmoil and Marisa was still lying beside him, as stiff and white as a marble statue.  He gathered her into his arms, and sat with his head bowed, a storm of sobs shaking his body. Eventually, he became calmer and when he next looked up it was as if, along with his tears, his soul had flooded out of his body.  His eyes were dry and hard and his face was grim.

          He looked at his dead wife and love disappeared as resentment took its place.  He had never been a violent man but he could only stand so much.   She had brought this on herself and he had no intention of paying the price for something that was not his fault. 

          After a cup of hot, black coffee, his head cleared.  He looked at his watch, he was already late for work.  Over the phone, he had no trouble convincing his supervisor that he was ill, his hoarse croak did that for him.  He sat, deep in thought, a few months earlier he had arrived back home to find Marisa watching one of her favourite television programmes – Price Drop TV.  She had sat avidly watching he screen, her hand hovering over the telephone.  He’d sighed.  Already the house groaned with the so-called ‘bargains’ she had accumulated.  As she put in a bid for a set of heavy-duty steel knives, including a cleaver, he had jokingly asked if she was thinking of taking up butchery.  Now, he grinned sardonically.

 

          Three days later, he went back to work.  His colleagues were shocked at his appearance, gone was the spruce, genial giant with twinkles in his eyes, now his face was gaunt and morose and stubble clung to his chin.

          “Are you alright, mate?  You look really rough.  ‘Flu was it?”

          “Wife’s done a bunk,” he muttered, picking up a mailbag, he shuffled out of the door.

          From then on, he avoided his friends and sat alone in the canteen.  Conversation at the adjoining tables grew stilted as he ate his solitary meal, only picking up again when he left the room.

          “Poor bugger.  He doted on that floozie…” the voice trailed away as it was kicked into silence for fear of its carrying power.

          As the days passed, no-one took any particular notice of the little red post van as it buzzed around the countryside, delivering letters, parcels, and packages.  No-one noticed the number of times it was to be seen parked near woods, copses and lonely fields.  No-one noticed the mud that frequently stained the bottom of his trousers and coated the soles of his shoes.

          Summer had fled, autumn was dwindling, soon it would be winter and the ground would freeze.  Normally, winter is hard on wild animals, but this year, they would feed well.

 

Copyright Janet Baldey

Five monoku (single line haiku)

Five monoku capture the moment.

 By Robert Kingston

 

Eton mess will these clowns ever leave parliament 

 

 

foolish enough to miss sticky fingers

 

 

a back of the hand view of the licked clean spoon

 

 

even the shit shovelers see it coming

 

 

crumbling concrete a universe circles the paper trail

 

Copyight Robert Kingston

 

 The conclusion of a century

By Peter Woodgate

 

Dawn breaks with breathtaking beauty

A golden glow from mountain to moorland

The sun’s rays settle on Earth’s loveliness,

Illuminating superior civilisations of the world.

 

City after city awakes,

To find affluence, squandered,

Veiled by exhausted pyrotechnics,

And urinated merriment.

 

Last night’s celebrations

Lie in the gutter,

Crushed and discarded,

Sunlight shimmering from twisted shapes.

 

Deep into war-torn territories

The morning sun glistens,

On a child’s tearstained cheek

And the barrel of a gun,

With a magazine of death,

Contributing wealth,

To superior civilisations

Of the world.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

The Appointment 1

The Appointment

By Jane Goodhew

When I think of an appointment the first thing that comes to mind is the book by Agatha Christie and Appointment with Death. I rather hope that this will not end that way but will lead on to bigger and better things for it is some years since I went on a date let alone one that could take me on a voyage of a lifetime.

The advert in the paper had just said ‘If you are someone who likes an adventure through travel and being a companion to a stranger then phone 333 246 66000 before 6pm today.’

Naturally, I jumped at the chance, as I had just left a very mundane job and wanted to see the world and although this seemed too perfect to be true there was only one way to find out.  My friends thought I was mad and foolish to take such a risk, after all, what did I really know about life.  So far it had been a rather sheltered one living in the countryside and meeting mainly people who were related to me or my family.  I was what one might call life’s innocent and far too trusting for my own good, but you can’t go through life seeing only the bad and mistrusting everyone or can you?

I do try to look at life from all angles but that sometimes just confuses the issue as you might see things that aren’t there and miss out through fear of the what-ifs.  Now please don’t jump to the conclusion that I am a complete fool, I would do my homework once I had met the person and then make a calculated decision based on, well, probably how I felt on the day.

Today was that day for I had made the call and the appointment was to meet at 3pm at the café along the embankment so fingers crossed that we would both like what we saw, and I would soon be travelling to distant shores.

I sat there full of anticipation and hope that it would be all that I could wish for and I, all that whoever it was could want.  A tall, distinguished looking gentleman came in and made a beeline to my table, surely it couldn’t be him, he could easily find a companion without the aid of an advert.

I smiled but with eyes lowered so as not to appear too forward as he pulled up the chair opposite me.  After the initial exchange of names and necessary information, we both seemed to relax and enjoy the tea and cakes and people watched as they walked along the embankment taking in the last rays of the sun.  We felt completely at ease and silence no longer needed to be filled with unnecessary chatter.  It all seemed to be going too smoothly as I was jolted back into the land of reality when he said “I am so glad you kept the appointment as I have been looking for many months for the ideal person to keep my mother company since she was widowed and finally, I believe I have found her.  Would you accept the position as travel companion and hopefully friend as the worldwide cruise leaves next month so time is short to get all the documents and vaccines necessary for yourself before departure.  That is, of course, if you accept?”

 That was over a month ago and naturally, I accepted, so Bon Voyage, and to all those who thought I was mad, just wait till you receive all those postcards from me as I relax on deck and realise my dream life has come true.      Or has it?  Only time will tell.            

Copyright Jane Goodhew

An Interlaced Haibun

 Home ground

 

By Robert Kingston

 

I take people's comments lightly these days.

a twister

 

of course, I listen to each word as if it were a chant let loose from the local chapel

begins and ends

 

often they'll repeat the same ole thing they’ve said so many times before

 

in the hay field

 

Copyright Rob Kingston

Worst Holiday 02

 MY MUM’S WORST HOLIDAY   

By Bob French

(My Mum and Aunty Frances go to America)

Billy sat looking at the travel brochure of Cyprus.  “Nana, this place looks fabulous.  Is it where we are going on holiday?”

          “Maybe love. But Mummy is not coming with us.”

A frown crept across Billy’s face as he looked at his Aunty Frances, then at his sister, then back at his Aunty.

“Why.  Doesn’t Mum like going on holiday?”

Mary, Bill’s eldest sister nudged him in the side and gave him one of her fierce stares, telling him with her eyes ‘not to ask such questions.’

But Billy wanted his Mum to go on holiday with them.  He was aware that this September he would be going up to senior school and he would no longer be a little boy, but a ‘grown up,’ and according to his sister, who had turned eighteen and had already been on her first holiday with her friends, ‘it was only grown-ups who went on their holidays with their friends, not their parents.’  This bothered Billy.

“It’s a long story Billy and I don’t have time at the moment.”

“When will you have time then Aunty?”

Aunt Frances thought for a moment, then said in a quiet voice; “I will tell you both your Mum has gone out.

Three hours later, Billy heard his mother call from the front door. “OK, I’m off to keep fit class.  Be good for Aunty Frances. Love you.”

Billy and Mary were watching the TV when Aunty Frances came into the room with a tray of cocoa.  It was Mary who spoke first.

“Are you going to tell us why Mum doesn’t like going on holiday with us?”  Aunty Frances could sense the hurt in Mary’s voice and quickly put the tray down.

“Listen.  Your Mum loves you both very much.  No love, the reason she doesn’t go on holiday was because on my hen party, we got very drunk.  She saw the question in Billy’s eyes, then paused to explain what a hen party was.

“We were due to fly out to Philadelphia in Pennsylvania in good old US of A for a week packed full of fun, eating, drinking and sunshine. There were eight of us.”

“What happened?” Mary, leaned forward, eagerly wanting to compare her exploits of her holiday with her friends in Wales to her Mum’s.

“Well, the plan was that we all booked into the Three Willows Hotel, just on the outskirts of Stansted airport.  That night we partied until the early hours of the morning, then we had to make our way to the departure desk.  Because most flights to the east coast of America were busy, we were to purchase our tickets and get out to the States as best we could. Problem was Your Mum and I were very drunk and we slept in.

Needless to say, we were very late in getting to the airport.  Neither of us could think straight, let alone see straight.  Anyway.  Your Mum saw a sign for Philadelphia and dragged me along to a boarding desk where we purchased a return ticket to Philadelphia. 

As we sat in the cool of the cabin, feeling the gentle hum of its engines, we relaxed.  The worries of missing the flight to the USA were over, we could, and did, lean back and sleep off a huge hangover in comfort.

The jolt of the wheels hitting the runway brought us both out of our deep sleep and instantly we could feel the excitement around us.

We decided to wait until the rush to get out, had passed, then slowly rose, collected our bags from the overhead locker and made our way out to the door.

The first thing that hit us was a 120-degree blast of hot air rushing into the cabin.

I recall your mum saying; “Wow, boy am I going to get a suntan to die for.”

It was then things seemed to go wrong.  Firstly, we couldn’t find our luggage and when we started asking people at the various desks, no one seemed to understand us. 

We then found a British Airways desk and asked how we could find our luggage.  After an hour of filling out forms, we were both fed up and tired.  All we wanted to do was find a hotel, have a shower, then a drink, and not in that order. The gentleman on the desk pointed us to the taxi rank and said that we should look for the blue taxi service.

Once we managed to find one, your mum explained that they wanted to go to Philadelphia. As we sat back we both wondered why the driver was dressed as an Arab, but thought that due to the intense heat, everyone dressed that way to keep cool.  This was confirmed as we drove through the busy streets of the city

Our interest faded after the second hour as the buildup part of the city slowly faded behind us. 

I started to think that something was wrong and asked the taxi driver where we were going.

“Missy going to Philadelphia, no?”

“Yes, but this does not look like the brochures we were given back in England.”

“Yes Missy, we go to Philadelphia soon. Maybe in three hours, Inshallah.”

Your mum thought that America had been nuked and what we were seeing was the wasteland left after a nuclear strike.  Total destruction leaving nothing but burnt-out desert.

The taxi driver seeing the looks on our faces turned and asked if this was our first time in the beautiful country of Jordan?

We both said Jordan together.  “What do you mean, Jordan.  We are supposed to be in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania in America.  Not in Jordan!”

“This is Philadelphia Missy. In city of Amman, the capital city of my country. Very nice here. What hotel you staying at.”

“We don’t have a hotel booked here, we…”

“No problem.  My brother Abdullah, owns a very nice hotel.  He give you good tourist rates.”

Things got decidedly worse when your mum asked where she could get a drink, to which the taxi driver frowned at her.

“No Missy, woman not permitted to drink in public and we do not drink alcohol in Joran.  It is forbidden,” then seemed to say a quick prayer to Allah above him.”

The cab fell into silence as we contemplated a week of no drink or entertainment for that fact and no escape from the stifling heat, dry humid air with a constant sweaty feeling.

Things started to look up as we slowly began to pass through built up areas and soon, we could see skyscrapers and wide avenues with palm trees and we even a few people dressed in European clothes.

The taxi driver pulled up outside a hotel in one of the back streets, jumped out and vanished in through the front door.  We just sat there sweating and disheartened for half an hour.

Suddenly, the door burst open and two young boys dressed in smart uniforms rushed down the steps to the taxi, opened the doors and assisted us out.  One had a large golf umbrella which he popped and we were ushered into a cool reception area.  Here we found our taxi driver and the hotel manager, Abdullah, sitting in the cool of the room drinking black coffee.

“Ah ladies, welcome to my humble hotel.  My brother tells me that you have chosen to holiday in Philadelphus in Jordan rather than America. A wise choice. Believe me, you will never forget your holiday.”

“I have to say the week’s holiday was a little unusual; no drink, no socializing or fraternizing in public, and the food was very spicey so we had to be careful. We did manage to meet up with a German couple who were out there digging up old relics for some museum back in Germany. We quickly learnt that during prayer times we had to be off the streets and we had to cover our heads, arms, and legs when we went walk-about.  Come the evenings, the temperature dropped down to 10 degrees. But felt like minus 20.

We spent most of the time just wandering around the town of Philadelphia carefully tasting the food, but never asking what was in it and trying to converse with the locals, who eagerly nodded and took our American dollars for souvenirs we didn’t need.

“What happened when your week was up?  How did you get back to England?”

“The kind taxi driver came and collected us and took us back to Amman International Airport and made sure that we were booked onto the flight to London Stansted.”

Mary, with a hundred questions in her eyes, looked carefully at Aunty Frances.

“So, what were the good things you both enjoyed on your holiday?”

“Well none of it really.  On the flight back we both swore an oath that we would never drink again and that we would never go on holiday where it meant catching a plane and lastly, we lost so much weight out there, we promised to keep fit.”

Billy jumped up.  Does that mean you and Mum can go on a walking holiday this summer?”

Thinking that Mary would go along with his idea, he turned to face her only to be met with one of her fierce stares.

Copyright Bob French