Her Secret Garden

By Sis Unsworth

 

Jill Made a secret garden, when her boys were young,

it was just behind the apple tree, sheltered from the sun.

She used to leave small presents there, as a special gift,

and the pleasure it created, always gave her such a lift.

Whenever the boys found one, excitedly they’d shout,

while Jill pretended she never knew, how those gifts came about.

Like sunrise and sunset, the clouds of time roll by,

you wake and realise, how fast the years did fly.

But nothing lasts forever, and so the past was laid,

then grandchildren came along, and in the garden played.

Again she loved to leave them gifts, behind the apple tree,

so when they found their treasures their faces filled with glee.

The secret garden filled her life for many many years,

The sounds of their excitement, brought music to her ears,

but once more the mist of time, swept away the laughter.

Though Jill was quite content, with the world that followed after.

She still sits in the garden, where she made that special place

As often treasured memories, are gifts we can’t replace.

Copyright Sis Unsworth

 TRANSGENIC PETS

(FOLLOWING A NEWS ARTICLE ON ALLERGY-FREE PETS)

By Peter Woodgate

A GENETICALLY MODIFIED CAT,

NOW HOW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT THAT?

ONE WITHOUT FLEAS THAT WON’T MAKE YOU SNEEZE

AND CAN SAFELY SIT ON YOUR LAP.

 

OR A DOG THAT DOESN’T BARK,

NO NEED FOR WALKS IN THE PARK,

YOU WON’T NEED A LEAD FOR A DOG OF THIS BREED

OR HAVE TO GET UP WITH THE LARK.

 

THERE’S A HAMPSTER WHO’S NICKNAMED KEITH,

HE COMES WITH A LITTLE MOTIF,

THIS CREATURE CAN’T BITE AND WON’T PICK A FIGHT

WE’VE EXTRACTED ALL OF HIS TEETH.

 

WE HAVE PETS FOR ALL HUMAN WHIMS,

PARROTS THAT DON’T SIT ON SWINGS,

MICE THAT DON’T BREED, GUINEA PIGS THAT DON’T FEED

AND A BIRD WITHOUT ANY WINGS.

 

SO, VISIT THE PET-CLONING SHOP,

WE DO A JOLLY GOOD SWOP,

TRADE YOUR HUSBAND OR WIFE FOR ONE WITHOUT STRIFE

AND YOUR TROUBLES AND HEARTACHES WILL STOP.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

  THE BREAKING OF THE WINDOW 

 By Richard Banks

In June 1912 the window of the post office in Rayleigh was broken in an act of vandalism that was part of the Suffragettes’ campaign for women’s suffrage.

The subsequent trial of a Miss Bertha Brewster for this offence was held in Southend. The Chelmsford Chronicle reported proceedings as follows: 

Miss Ellen Judd, postmistress at Rayleigh said that shortly before midnight she was awakened by the smashing of glass. On getting up she found three large pieces of lead [presumably within the post office as well as broken glass from the window]. 

Arthur Ager, draper, said that he heard the smash and saw a young lady who he believed was the defendant, jump on her cycle, which had no lights and ride off. 

PC Pryke, alerted by Ager, cycled after the defendant and caught up with her one mile along the road towards London. She had no lights and told him that the lamp had just gone out. He told her that she answered the description of a lady who was supposed to have broken windows in Rayleigh post office. She replied, “that will have to be proved.” 

Defendant was remanded until Wednesday 3^rd July, when she said, “nobody had seen the windows broken and it could not, therefore, be proved that she had broken them.” 

The Chairman [a Mr Wedd) said that the bench was unanimous in finding the defendant guilty of an outrage on society. Fined £5. and £1.7s and 6d for damage and costs.

Was it an open and shut case or could the culprit have been Miss Ruth Curnock, the youngest of ten children born to Nehemiah Curnock, the local Methodist minister, who, it was rumoured, had been seen near to the scene of the crime by a policeman who, recognising her as the Minister’s daughter, told her to go home. If he did, this important piece of evidence was never mentioned at Bertha Brewster’s trial. Could it be that the unnamed policeman, and possibly other local people, withheld this information to protect the good name of the Minister, who in addition to being a much respected resident was known in this country and overseas for his work in deciphering John Wesley’s diaries.

While this is feasible there appears to be no evidence that any such cover-up happened. Although it has been alleged that Ruth was a suffragette there is no record of her in suffragette records. She was 33 when the window was broken, eight years older than Bertha.

The evidence that Bertha committed the crime is, in my view, perfectly sound. She was a prominent suffragette with a string of previous convictions for causing criminal damage. Perhaps her most infamous exploit was the breaking of windows at the Sun Hall in Liverpool, in 1909, disrupting a speech by the Secretary of State for War. Along with six other suffragettes she had gained access to the roof of the Hall from where they threw bricks and stones through the windows with a dexterity, that the reporter for The Courier described as ‘nothing short of marvellous’. On their way to Walton Prison they sang The Marseillaise, broke the windows of the vehicle they were travelling in and pushed a Votes for Women flag through the ventilator in the roof. During their stay in prison [they were sentenced to one month imprisonment] they broke further windows, went on hunger strike and were released over the next few days ‘owing to their emaciated condition’. Bertha appeared in court a second time in Liverpool for the breaking of the prison windows and was sentenced to six weeks imprisonment with hard labour. In 1910 and 1911 she was convicted at Bow Street court of two more charges of criminal damage following widespread disorder in London. 

There can, therefore, be little doubt that Bertha was responsible for the breaking of the post office window. However, what was she doing in Rayleigh on the night of her last recorded crime? Was she cycling for pleasure as many visitors to Rayleigh did at that time (although probably not at that time of night) or was she here on suffragette business visiting local activists of which one might possibly have been Ruth. Almost certainly her sole intention was not to break the insignificant window of the Rayleigh post office – that was decidedly small fry compared to her previous exploits.

Could it be that having roused Ruth to the need for violent protest she inveigled her into breaking the window while Bertha stood by encouragingly, or assisting in the breaking. This, of course, is speculation verging on fiction, but then speculation is probably as valid as rumour.                

 

Copyright Richard Banks   

 

BILLY CROMPTON’S WAGER 

By Bob French.

It was Friday the 11^th of November 2011, a special day for Billy Crompton, a veteran of the Korean War and the Suez Crisis, who like many of his pals, quietly stood at the war memorial at 11 o’clock in the rain to pay homage to those who did not return.  It was a good turn out and Billy was pleased to see a few of his pals from his old regiment had turned out. 

It had stopped raining by the evening, as he pushed open the door to his local, The Duke of Wellington, in Hatfield Peverel. After raising his hand in appreciation to the many who called out his name, he took his seat at the end of the bar.

          “Usual Billy?”

“Thank you, Harry.” 

The chatter and the sound of music grew as the night went on, until eight o’clock, when Harry rang the bell, informing those who had paid their five pounds, that the buffet was ready. 

Billy was looking forward to his evening meal and as he queued, he felt a tap on his shoulder, and turned.  There, standing in front of him was his old platoon commander, Mr Hawthorn Jarvis-Bollthrop, wearing his old regimental tie. 

“God, what are you doing here?” Billy’s tone was disrespectful to his old boss, but he didn’t care.  Ever since the man, who was a second lieutenant during the Korean war, had deserted him and his platoon leaving them stranded in no-man’s land, to fight their way back to their lines.  From that moment on, the lads from the second platoon refused to recognise him as their platoon commander. 

Billy ignored him, took his meal and sat down with some of his old pals and began chatting.  Much to Billy’s annoyance, Javis-Bollthrop joined the table where Billy sat and started to tell everyone how he had grown in status and wealth after the war. 

“What happened?  Did daddy give you lots of money?” 

“No, as a matter of fact, I started to work for Lloyds in London.  After a while, I began to work on stocks and shares, then moved to trading in foreign assets.  Have to say I made a packet. 

“So, what do you do now then?” One of Billy’s friends asked? 

“I trade on the stock market these days, having made a killing on the foreign assets desk. I also like to gamble at the Grosvenor Casino in Russell Square. It’s a very select establishment you know.” 

On hearing this, Billy put down his fork and stared at his old boss. 

“So you think you’re a good gambler then?” 

Jarvis-Bollthrop gave Billy a smug look, then nodded 

“OK, I bet you 50 quid, that I can lick my eyeball.”

Laughing, Jarvis-Bollthrop agreed.

Billy then carefully removes his false eyeball and licks it.

The people around them suddenly started to cheer as Billy extends his hand, ready to accept 50 pounds.  Jarvis-Bollthrop reluctantly takes out a 50-pound note from his wallet and hands it to Billy.

“Fancy getting your own back?”

Jarvis-Balthrop grins and immediately accepts the challenge.

“OK, I will bet you 500 quid that I can bite one of my ears.”

          Jarvis-Bollthrop doesn’t trust Billy, so he leans across and gives each of Billy’s ears a tug.  Happy with his inspection, he agrees to the wager.

Billy then leans forward and carefully takes his complete set of false teeth, and proceeds to bite his ear.  The people who had started to gather around the group erupt with laughter and cheers as Jarvis-Bollthrop hands over ten crisp 50 pound notes.

Billy, with a straight face, turns to Jarvis-Bollthrop. “Fancy winning your 500 quid back then?”

Jarvis-Bollthrop thinks for a minute, then stands up. “No thank you,” and makes his way to the exit, followed by jeers and shouts of “chicken.”

In his frustration, he turns. “I shall return tomorrow and we shall see who is the better man.” 

Billy smiles.  “Be here at nine and I shall be waiting.”

Jarvis-Bollthrop nodded then left.

Saturday night The Duke of Wellington pub was heaving and as usual, Billy was chatting with Harry at the end of the bar.

“How many do you reckon you’ll get in tonight then?

Harry thought for a minute. “Saturday night…um....  I’d say 70 to 80, it could be more, say 95, if there is no football on the telly.”

As expected, at 8:50, Jarvis-Bollthrop enters the busy pub and makes his way towards Billy at the end of the bar.

“Glad you could make it. Fancy a drink?”

After some small talk, Billy brings the conversation around to the wager. 

“Right then.  Are you ready to win back your 500 quid?”

Jarvis-Bollthrop studies Billy’s face.  “Are you confident Corporal Crompton?”

Billy paused for a second to give the impression that he was not totally sure of the outcome of the wager, then says slowly, “Sure. Let’s get on with it.” 

Jarvis-Bollthrop seeing Billy’s reaction, smiles.

“Look, let’s make it worth my while.  Shall we up the stakes to say, a 1000 pounds?”

Suddenly those who had gathered around Billy’s table fell silent. Billy saw the flash of the challenge in Jarvis-Bollthrop’s eyes and realised that he may have bitten of more than he could choose.

“Right then.  Let’s make it really simple.  I bet you a 1,000 quid that you are wearing maroon underpants.”

“Haha, I’ve got you.  I’m wearing white underpants.”

Billy looked shocked and a little downcast, then asked to see the proof.

Jarvis Bollthrop grinned and feeling elated that he had finally beaten Billy, turned to him.

“What do you mean. “Want some proof?”

“Simple really. I want to see you wearing your white underpants.”

Javis-Bollthrorp considered what Billy was asking and seemed to come to a decision, then nodded, and with a grin on his face undid his belt, and dropped his trousers.

Everyone in the pub cheered as Billy glanced at the clock, then handed Jarvis-Bollthrop the 1000 pounds which Harry had arranged from the till earlier that night.

“I don’t understand. Why are you and everyone cheering?  You’ve just lost 1000 pounds?”

“Simple really. I bet every person here tonight 50 quid that at exactly nine o’clock I would get you to drop your trousers in front of everyone in the pub. Aint that right Harry?”

1060 words July 2024

Copyright Bob French

  

 THE NIGHT SHE DISAPPEARED

By Richard Banks

It was in 2002 that I lost her. It was all very sudden. One moment she was as right as rain the next she wasn’t. Sepsis they called it. The doctor at the surgery tried to explain it to me, but I was too shook-up to take it in, told me I had done right in phoning 999. Nobody could have done more, he said, but I knew, deep down, that wasn’t so.

         It was around teatime that Mary started to feel unwell. She thought she had caught a chill, was feeling a bit hot and bothered, but nothing, she said, that a couple of aspirins and a good night’s sleep wouldn’t fix. At nine she went early to bed but by eleven was still awake and even more unwell.

         “I’m going to call an ambulance,” I said.

         “What, at this time of night?” she said. “Best wait until morning, I’ll be better in the morning.” But half an hour later she was even worse so I dialled 999 and although the paramedics arrived only ten minute later she was gone her hand slowly cooling and become cold in mine.

         “Better than a lingering death,” said Jenny, desperately trying to find something to say that might console me. I agreed - cousin Jimmy was not long dead from Parkinson’s; I wouldn’t have wanted her to go through what he did. Nevertheless, we both knew that Mary had left us too soon and too quickly; no time to say goodbye. After forty years together we should at least have had that.

         And, so it was that me and everyone else said our goodbyes at the funeral. Kenny flew back from New York and Mary’s brother took the train down from Dundee. There were fifty other folk who said they were coming so Jenny booked the large hall at the crematorium and arranged a reception at the WI where Mary was a member.

         The service was to be a celebration of her life, and the good times we shared with her, of which there were many. Jenny said we should all dress in something colourful because her mother had always liked bright colours and hated black. She was right up to a point but, like me, Mary was ‘old school’ about funerals and would have thought it disrespectful not to wear black. So, in the end we agreed that it should be a black suit and tie affair but that everyone coming should wear a red rose. Mary would have liked that being a Lancashire lass - at least she was before she came south to marry me.

         Anyway it all went as well as could be expected. Kenny did the eulogy and Jenny said a prayer and everyone I spoke to tried to say the right things or didn’t because they were too upset or unsure what to say. Their faces told me all I needed to know. Of course they were sad, and after the reception they all went home no doubt glad they weren’t me.

         The kids were great, as I knew they would be. Kenny paid for me to go to the States and spend Christmas with him and his new wife, and Jenny, who only lives a mile away, was in and out several times a week. It was tough to begin with, especially when life settled down into the new norm. I had never done the shopping before beyond driving Mary to the supermarket and loading and unloading the car. Cooking I learned through trial and error. Housework I hated and all the jobs I was use to doing, like decorating the house and keeping the garden trim, seemed utterly pointless. But after a year everything began to fall into place. I paid for a cleaner to come in twice a week and made full use of a long, dry summer to paint the outside of the house.

          Keep busy, take consolation in friends and children, that seemed to be the best way forward, and on a warm March day, in whatever year it was, I saw the first daffodil burst into bloom and realised that the worse was over. I had my memories, my children, two grandchildren and the best kept house and garden in the street. What’s more Spurs were riding high in the league, and as a seventieth birthday present Kenny brought me a subscription to Sky. Blimey - football, cricket and tennis every day of the week!

         But what Jenny got me was even better. I wondered what she was up to rummaging through the junk in the spare room. It was full of stuff I scarcely looked at but couldn’t bear to throw away, including packs and packs of photographs which Mary and I intended putting into albums but never did. But what we didn’t do Jenny did. Not all of them, of course, but enough to fill three books, not only with the original prints but also with ones made better by a photographer who took the best parts of some and made them as clear as clear could be.

         What a story they told: me and Mary before we were married, our engagement, our first holiday together, the wedding at St Jude’s and then the children, Kenny born only seven months after the ceremony - what a furore that caused – and two years later, Jenny. Had we been better off we would have had more kids – at least one - but we weren’t, so we stuck at two and what a grand little family we were. Too hard-up to go on holiday, my first snaps of us were taken in the garden of our maisonette or the local park, but no one was happier than us, we had each other and that mattered more than anything else. Anyway it wasn’t long before I got a promotion that enable us to put down a deposit on a house and, a year later, we put-by enough money to go self catering in Bognor, followed the next year by a B&B in Scarborough and then a hotel in Torquay.

         We were going up in the world and with the kids now at Primary school and better able to travel, we ventured abroad to Madeira. What great times they were, so many wonderful memories, and the album captured so many of them: more holidays, school sports’ days, Kenny in the team photograph before the football final they lost – no photographs after that!

         Jenny, not the sporting type, took to acting and was in the school play; Twelfth Night it was. Didn’t understand a word but by all accounts she did really well and toyed with the idea of becoming an actress until coming back to earth and opting to go to the City & Guilds where she  trained to become a dressmaker. By this time Kenny was at university studying economics. He was not a kid any more and neither was Jenny. There was a certain sadness in that, but also a sense of pride that Mary and I had brought up two children to be so full of promise and keen to get on in life. Inevitably both flew the nest. Within a year of leaving Uni Kenny accepted a job in America, where he still lives, while a few years later Jenny moved into a flat near the London fashion house she worked for. Kenny married and we flew out to San Francisco for the ceremony along with |Jenny and the young man who later became our son-in-law. Briefly reunited we again went our separate ways. Kenny’s job sometimes brought him back to Europe and from time to time would stay with us for a day or two before jetting off again, while Jenny, also busy with her work, was also an infrequent visitor.

         It might have continued so, especially when Jenny and Harry finally got round to tying the knot. Then suddenly it was all change and Jenny phoned us to say that we were to become grandparents. It was not what two career minded wannabes were intending but they decided to keep their ‘little surprise’ and reorganise their lives in a way that kept their dreams alive. They sold their flat in north London and bought a semi only a mile away where Jenny set-up an on-line business selling dresses that she not only made but designed. Harry, who worked for Nat-West, commuted into London before becoming Chief Clerk of a branch he could drive to in less than an hour. And, of course, Mary and I were nearby and able to look after baby John when needed, which I suspect was all part of their cunning plan. Unlike those of Baldwick in Blackadder it worked a treat and the years that followed, in which a second child, Emma, was born were among the happiest of our lives. Far from being put upon grandparents we took to the role with a relish that gave new purpose to our lives. Even more photographs! Many, of course, were of the grandchildren but I always made sure that there were plenty of Mary. Despite having the best daughter and grandchildren in the world no one was more important to me than her.

         Apart from myself, who was largely behind the camera, Kenny’s residence abroad meant that there were less photographs of him than seemed fair; something I did my best to put right when in 2014, on my eightieth birthday, I flew out to see him again, this time with Jenny, Harry and the grand-kids. What a fine time we had staying with him and wife number three in their holiday home in Martha’s Vineyard. I liked number three, a sweet girl, twenty years younger than himself with an odd sort of name I could never get my tongue around. Was there, I wondered, the possibility of another grandchild? Three years later they divorced and when wife number four came along it became obvious, even to me, that Kenny was more interested in acquiring wives than children. Well, it takes all sorts. At least he wasn’t short of a bob or two, and having no children of his own became increasingly generous with his money giving much of it to charity and setting-up trusts for his nephew and niece, who, I suspect, will have further reasons to be grateful to their uncle.

         So, I suppose, that pretty much brings the story up to date. It’s the big nine-o tomorrow. How fortunate I am to have lived so long and not be too much of a burden on my children. My only regret is in losing Mary when I did.  Could I have done more? I will always regret not calling out the para-medics sooner. Would it have made any difference? People tell me no, but they’re just being kind. Nobody knows for sure, but at least the album has kept her memory alive. In the first two books Mary features on nearly every page.

         They say you should never dwell on the past, but when so many good things have happened it’s hard not to. It’s amazing how many recollections a photograph can conjure: Kenny, age eight, in his new trousers, the one’s he chose himself which a week later he put his knee through playing football; Jenny’s magic cottage birthday cake which Mary stayed up half the night icing so it would be a surprise on the day. We didn’t have the money to buy one, as some parents did, but none of Jenny’s friends had a better cake, of that I’m sure.

         There was a time when the past seemed as solid and real as the present, but not now. It started a year ago when I was looking at this photograph of Mary and me with friends at this posh London restaurant. There was Bob and Hazel, Steve and Anna, ourselves of course and this woman sitting by herself because her husband was taking the photograph. He was George but what was her name? She was no stranger, I knew her face alright, but her name had gone and despite many hours of trying to remember it I never did. She was the first one in the album to become a memory forgotten. Since then there have been others, far too many, and the album has become an unwanted test of memory which I fail only too often. Gradually the number of people I am able to put a name to have become less and less. Worst still I have almost forgotten the faces. Did I ever know these people? Logic tells me that once I did; if not, why on earth are they in the album!

         Even photographs of Kenny began to look unfamiliar although thankfully when he turned-up unexpectedly, with Jenny and the kids, it was only too obvious, even to me, who he was. Even so, I faltered once or twice with his name and everyone went a bit quiet, although nothing was said - at least not while I was around. Since then the number of people who I once knew and can still recognise have dwindled to close family. Mary would always be in my thoughts; how could I forget her, but one night in the early hours of the morning I wasn’t so sure. Only by getting out of bed, there and then, and finding her in the album could I be sure she was still in my head. So, that’s what I did. There were six weddings in the album, six faces that could have been hers and six faces that could have been mine. I had lost her a second time, disappeared without a trace, except for a feeling that I had loved someone very special and that our time together was the happiest of my life.

                                                *****

          Some days are better than others. This one has started well. Could I be getting better? But no, there is no cure, only moments of clarity that can last for minutes, sometimes longer, but never long enough. If I don’t try to force them, if I just let it happen, a few precious memories may return tomorrow, if not tomorrow then sometime soon. Just one more time, I plead - let me always have that hope.

 

Copyright Richard Banks

                   

 

 The Night She Disappeared

By Jane Goodhew

It seems unlikely that she would have just up and left without a word of goodbye? Lucy was a polite, sensible young woman who hated to see people upset, so this was out of character. I just had this feeling that something untoward had happened to her. She had been incredibly quiet of late as if she had to think things through and wanted to do it for herself. Whatever the something was we have yet to find out, but we will and bring her home, to Lace Wood Hall.

The family gathered in the drawing room and each one in turn recounted the last time they had seen her, what she wore, what she said, no matter how small or insignificant it seemed. I took it upon myself to make notes and put them into some sort of chronological order. Anything to make myself feel less useless than I did.

Outside the sun shone in a bright blue cloudless sky and the birds sang to one another, it seemed the perfect day but inside was a different scenario, it was doom and gloom. Each one had the expression of someone who had lost a diamond and found broken glass. After about an hour we recapped and it would appear she had been wearing her dark blue dress with the dainty golden heart pattern, a hat, ballet style shoes and had her handbag with her. Her blonde, shoulder length hair was loose, and she had a strange smile on her face as if she had a secret that made her happy but would keep to herself.

 

That was 3 years ago and so far, nothing, not a word from her and no-one seemed to have seen her, it was as if she had disappeared without a trace. The police had been informed and photos put up in the places she used to go. Friends had rallied round and been out looking but drawn a blank. No money had been withdrawn from her account since the day she walked out the door, her mobile charger was still next to her bed so her phone would eventually run out. Whatever had happened was not planned and everyone was fearing the worse. I thought of all the other families who had been in this position and wondered how they coped without driving themselves mad with the what-if's. Going over and over the last thing that was said to her, what type of frame of mind she was in.

Her computer had nothing out of the ordinary on it, she had not used dating sites or written to strangers, in fact for a young woman she was remarkably 'some would say' boring. To us she was a loving, thoughtful young woman with a tremendous sense of humour and a generous heart who was always there for everyone and anyone.

The papers had stopped mentioning her as there was no evidence of her being missing in suspicious circumstances, no ransom note or call. I often wondered what it would take to make it a suspicious disappearance, as far as I could see, there was nothing normal about it.

Alas, there is nothing more I can say on the night Lucy disappeared or why she chose to leave the house never to return. If anyone out there sees her or hears from her, please contact us. If you see this Lucy remember you are loved by all of us and when you are ready either come home or at least contact one of us. We are just so lost without you and not knowing if you are dead or hopefully alive is unbearable?

According to statistics on the internet a person goes missing every 90 seconds, 170,000 per year, of which 70,000 are children. The most common reasons are:

Diagnosed/undiagnosed mental health issues 8 – 10.

Dementia 4-10

Financial problems 1-10

Escaping violence         Homelessness       Relationship breakdown

Problems at home       Risk of suicide.  

From what we all think we know of you Lucy, none of these are relevant and in your own time you will come home. We will never give up on hope for that is all we have now and we all hope you are happy wherever you are.

 

                       

Copyright Jane Goodhew

 INDECISION

By Richard Banks 

Elections are not for the indecisive. For the afflicted - me included - they are a multi-choice torture equivalent to being stretched on the rack or roasted over a red hot fire. It’s bad enough when the choice is between one or the other but there are at least six of them, parties I mean, saying different things and appearing not to get on. If only it was a matter of deciding which party has the best policies – whatever they are – but it seems that should you get it wrong you’re not just guilty of voting into office a party less suited to govern but one that will wreck the economy and bring civilisation crashing to an end!

         It’s all too difficult; I shouldn’t be asked to decide. Nevertheless I will do my democratic duty and endeavour to make an informed decision. So, that’s why I’m sat in front of the TV for the first of the candidates’ debates.

         My first sensation is of relief. It seems that all I have to do is choose between a weaselly looking man who intermittently morphs into a Rottweiler or one who could be a body double for Fozzie Bear. There is a studio audience who ask questions and a lady who tells off the candidates  when they keep on talking after she has told them not to. But at the start it’s all sweetness and light, the candidates smile ingratiatingly at the audience and when one of them asks a question they call the questioner by his or her first name like he knows them and wants to be their new best friend. The audience stare back like parents meeting an unsuitable young man who wants to marry their daughter.

         The candidates are of the opinion that although they are no longer young they are, at least, suitable and attempt to convince the audience of this by telling little stories about themselves. They both have parents who were [and hopefully still are] paragons of virtue who brought up their sons to be the fine upstanding chaps they are today. The bear discloses the information that his father was a toolmaker which in less salubrious company might not be considered a recommendation. Perhaps fearing this to be a tactical error he endeavours to give the impression that his father was so unsuccessful in this endeavour that he was unable to pay the family’s telephone bill. The weasel sensing the odium of unpaid bills tells the audience that the bear man and his party want to increase everyone’s tax by thousands and thousands of pounds and make them so poor they won’t be able to pay any of their bills. The bear man at first looks thoughtful as though he hadn’t quite realised that this would be the effect of his policies but later gets really narky with the weasel who he says is making it all up.

         At this point they not only talk too much but also at the same time which really gets the goat of the lady, who nonetheless manages not to turn into one. When it calms down the weasel decides to tell everyone that he has a plan. He says this in a jubilant way reminiscent of Prince Monolulu, a racing tipster, who use to appear at the Derby each year proclaiming “I’ve gotta horse.”  Sartorially the weasel is much less colourful than Prince Monolulu and not so much fun. Indeed, no fun at all according to the bear who since their disagreement over tax is more Grizzly than Fozzie. At the end of the debate the bear walks over to the weasel and just when I think they are going to fight to the death and make all choice between them unnecessary they smile and shake hands.

         So, it’s one out of two I’m thinking, that shouldn’t be too difficult but then it is; the programme’s not over, there are four more candidates waiting to make their pitch – three dogs and a bird. This time the format’s different, they are interviewed separately which doesn’t stop them talking too long as well as answering their own questions instead of the ones they’re been asked.

         First up is a sparky Jack Russell who would much rather be having fun falling-off surf boards or riding fairground attractions than sitting in a TV studio talking serious stuff about politics. Nevertheless he smiles throughout his interrogation and just to prove he’s not barking mad explains that the cost of his policies - having less elastic budgets than those of the last two parties – will definitely put-up taxes. However, if he should be at the helm when the ship of state goes down we will all have lots of fun frolicking in the sea.

         Next on is a Dobermann Pinscher whose leader is this blokey self-made man who, when not at home, is often to be found in his ‘local’, or someone else’s local, sampling the real ales on offer. The Dobermann is a self satisfied sort of a dog who is convinced that the world would be a much better place if everyone was just like him. Global warming doesn’t exist and all that is necessary to ensure prosperity for the nation is to allow dogs like himself, and chaps like his master, to make as much money as they can with a minimum of regulation. He growls in unfriendly fashion at the next dog who is a Border Collie representing a party you can only vote for in Scotland. Quite what he’s doing south of the border on a show watched mainly by Sassenachs not even he is too sure but he submits to the experience with the indulgent good humour of a missionary in a far off land who’s been invited to take part in a bizarre, but harmless, ritual. He plays along with an easy charm that suggests there are rituals north of the border more important to his political aspirations. Long gone are the days when his ancestors crossed the border to help steal sheep and crack a few heads. Today he has come in peace and not even the appearance of a turtle-dove, who wants to sit on the seat where he is now sat, is sufficient provocation to make him growl.

         The bird, whose turn it now is, does believe in global warming. He wants to save the Earth and everything in it, even if this does include the Dobermann. He is a dainty bird, with a distinctive livery who speaks in a gentle purr. Despite the cats and humans who have made his kind an endangered species he will continue to persuade all those with ears to listen that only his party can turn down the thermostat and heal the world. True to the instincts of his party it is co-led by himself and a lady turtle-dove.

         The programme ends and I am left to ponder on everything that has been said, which has been much, and as all the animals are equally insistent that they are the best I am as undecided as before. However, there is a body of people much wiser than myself who will, I’m sure, be able to advise me so I will put off my decision until seeing them again at the next meeting of Rayleigh Writers.   

 

Copyright Richard Banks

 THE NIGHT SHE WENT MISSING

By Peter Woodgate 

Tom woke up from a fitful sleep. He had been dreaming about his wife Kate and immediately turned over and reached out to the other side of the bed.

It was where Kate should have been, but it was empty.

He jumped out of bed whilst calling her name but was met with silence. Where was she, he asked himself, and began to panic. A quick look in the other bedrooms gave him no answers and he went downstairs three at a time. The rooms downstairs were empty too and Tom began to shake.

He suffered with his nervous disposition and Kate was his rock. He worried just about everything and it was Kate who would calm him down and sort out the problems he seemed to think were gigantic. ”Well, this was super gigantic," where was Kate? If he didn’t find her the world would end, of this, he was sure.

It was 6am and Tom decided to ring the police. They told him not to panic and said it was too soon to treat this as a missing person and told him they would contact him later in the morning.

This was no good to Tom, he needed answers now and thought of Nosey Nicki from number nine. She had one of those spy cameras, you know shows a range of 50 yards in all directions from the front door. She knew everyone’s business and she, almost certainly, knew something. It was only 6.30 but Tom couldn’t wait and marched over to her door and rang the bell.

The usual trumpet sound blasted out 'And did those feet in ancient times walk upon England’s mountains green'. Within 30 seconds Nicki had answered the door, “What the bloody hell do you want?” She grunted.

She was wearing a flimsy night dress and Tom was surprised and embarrassed thinking, 'she must have had a boob job'. Nicki pulled her nightdress under her chin in order to avert Tom’s gaze as he stuttered the words, “can you have a look at your camera, as Kate seems to have vanished into thin air.”

“Don’t need to have a look at the camera,” Nicki had a wry smile on her face, had enough of you, mate, probably with her fancy man at no 51.

Surprised if you find her there though,” Nosey Nicki was now milking the situation, “I’m sure I heard them talking about a holiday abroad, evening flight if I’m not mistaken.”

Tom returned home and sank into his armchair. He'd had suspicions about Kate for awhile but refused to accept that it was true. She was his rock she wouldn’t leave him now, would she?

It was about 8am when the police arrived and Tom could only explain that Nosey Nicki at number nine seemed to have all the information they needed. Following the visit to number nine the police returned and explained to Tom that they could not take this any further as it appeared to be a domestic break-up. Tom acted heartbroken but thanked them for their visit without mentioning the two patches of disturbed earth by the side of the shed in the garden. Shortly the shed would be extended.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate