Followers

Monday, 30 December 2024

It’s a week before Christmas

 It’s a week before Christmas

By Jane Goodhew

It is a week before Christmas and there is so much to do but first, I shall sit by the tree and remember. Your first steps, your sweet smile, the laughter in your eyes and the sparkle that shone around you where ever you went.  Life was magical with you in it, and I wanted so much for you to love me as I loved you and not just because I was your mother. I had waited so long to have a child of my own but finding the perfect man was not that simple or easy to do.                                                         

  I eventually did when I wasn’t even looking, he walked into the office and as he strode towards me my heart missed a beat, and I felt as if I would faint.  It sounds far fetched and straight out of Mills & Boon but that was how it was. From that day forth he was mine and I was his. We were married within a year and by the end of the next, Sebastian our son you were born. You was perfect as perfect could be in every way and rarely cried, so life was bliss. We had moved into a cottage in the village and the garden seemed to stretch for miles with a small lake towards the bottom. Trees grew along the side, so we were secluded and protected from the rest of the world. It was idyllic especially for the first few years, I had remained at home to be a mother and wife and keep house. I never thought it would be enough to satisfy me, but it was, as I learnt to cook and sew and make jams and preserves for the autumn. I joined the mother and baby club and took you swimming and for walks in the park. We had it all but that was all about to change.

  Your father started staying out later and later until he stopped coming home at all. Whilst we were out, he would return and take his belongings and then he left a note saying we were over. He was sorry but he realised that marital bliss was not for him, and he would leave us the house and enough income to last until you finished full time education and then a small amount to keep me going until I found appropriate work. I sat on the sofa totally stunned by what I read after all we had only been married a few years and we had always seemed so happy together. We didn’t row, we were loving and romantic and had time to ourselves, so it was not all divided between work and being a parent.  What had happened to make him just walk away? Perhaps I will never know and a part of me didn’t want to find out, so I didn’t, I just accepted it and got on with life, just you and me. 

The years past quickly and you enjoyed school and made many friends who often came over to play. We built a tree house, and you would spend many happy hours in the evening playing with your friends and imagining far away places that you would one day visit. I tried to show you as much of the world as I could, and we would holiday in a different country every summer and Christmas. I never liked the idea of Christmas at home just you and me and the tree. I know you sometimes would have wanted a more traditional time with family and friends and presents around the 'over decorated' tree, with a plate left out for Santa. I just couldn’t do it; it was too painful as your father, and I would be like children with presents and surprises for one another.  We laughed and sang and played charades and Scrabble and occasionally invited the neighbours in for a drink or two.

  One year we even threw a New Years Eve party and had lights all through the garden, it was like a winter wonderland, and I loved all he did to make our life perfect. If only I had known what the following year would bring but I didn’t as I had worn rose coloured glasses and lived in a dream, a fantasy.   I had thought of selling our home once he had made it perfectly clear that he would never be returning but I didn’t know where I   would go, and you were happy here.

  Your Grandparents would visit once a year and bring family photos and videos so we could see what your father was like as a child. The years blended one into another and your teenage years were filled with nights out and parties. I hoped you would work harder at school as you seemed to be an academic rather than a craftsman. Although you did like painting and music so had piano lessons, but they soon went the way of everything else and became part of your past. You did enjoy sport, and weekends were filled with rugby and football and in the summer cricket or tennis. Then the girls started to call, and you would drive off with the roof down and the wind in your hair and I wouldn’t see you until late Sunday night.

                                                                  

  I guess that just about covers your life in a nutshell.   I look around the room at the photos of you over the years and the smile on your face the day you graduated and wanted to get all those moments back. There were no more moments, no more memories, no photos just letters of condolence and flowers and mumbling messages left on the answer phone. How sorry they were for my loss. How tragic that his life had been cut short just as his future was opening up for him.

 

All I have now are my memories of life as it once was before that fateful day when you leapt into your car and without a care in the world drove off never to return until the hearse bought you home in a box.                                         

 

That was a lifetime ago and now there is just me and this rambling old house filled with memories of you my son and the tears stream down my face when I realise you will never walk through the door again.  You have no tomorrow, you only had your yesterday and I hope they were happy, that you were and that one day I will see your smiling face and your sparkling eyes and hear your laughter fill the air once more.  Til then I shall just sit here and remember a Christmas when life was good and we had fun.  

 

                  Copyright Jane Goodhew                                                                                                        .                                                   

                                      

                                                                                                                                                             

 

 

Limerick?

 Limerick?

By Robert Kingston

 

there was a tree named oak

he’d shed all his leaves, no joke

he stood there all bare

throughout winters austere

then in spring, he grew a new cloak

 

Robert Kingston

 

Thursday, 26 December 2024

ENDORA

 ENDORA

by Richard Banks


During her long life Endora has seen many things and met many people, including Elizabeth I and the Duke of Wellington. Since her entry into this world she has ‘been there’, ‘seen it’ and sometimes taken a hand in the making of history. How she yearns to tell everyone what really happened to the Princes in the Tower or the name of the Polish seaman who was Jack the Ripper. These things and many others she knows, but having no proofs to satisfy the demands of academia must keep them to herself.

         During her lifetime witches have become an endangered species. Many have been burnt at the stake while others, in fear of their lives, have consented to become the wives or mistresses of mortal men, and by doing so lose their powers and become human. Not that Endora has ever been tempted to do the same. When danger threatens she hops unnoticed into the warm body of another creature and looks out through its eyes until it is safe to become Endora again. By doing so she has escaped death from insurrection, plague and persecution, often fleeing from danger in the body of a magpie or crow before abandoning this host for the safer refuge of a household pet.

         Through her good judgement she has survived many generations of man and confidently expects to live out her normal span of years which, she thinks, are only half spent. Knowing the location of many lost places she has recently become an archaeologist, establishing a glowing reputation by her unerring ability to rediscover the past. Despite having no formal qualifications for what she does, no one can deny that she knows more about the nation’s history than anyone else in academia. Where and how she has gained this knowledge is a mystery that has become unimportant; clearly she is a genius and geniuses once identified have no need for certificates or diplomas.

         These years of celebrity and history have been the best of her life but to her horror the bedrock of her existence has been shaken by the BBC which has invited her to appear on a popular TV programme dedicated to tracing the family history of well known people. Having already begun their research and drawn a perplexing blank the programme’s researchers have been more than normally curious to find out from Endora the identity of her parents so they can begin to trace the generations before.

         Sensing the closing of a net Endora has once again sought safety in flight. Forgoing the uncertain transport of magpies and crows she has bribed O’Keefe, the owner of a small aircraft, to take her incognito to the northern isle of Stackle Steady which has recently advertised for a school mistress who, when not teaching the island’s children, will have charge of their museum, recently established with lottery money. Here in this remote location beyond the reach of TV she will be safe from discovery and free to write the book that might one day re-establish her celebrity under an assumed name.

           On arrival Endora submits her application in person citing her wealth of knowledge in all the requested areas of learning and many more besides. While the islanders are surprised that someone so well qualified should not have the usual papers confirming their excellence they are nonetheless impressed by the person who purports to be a Professor Smyde. As no one else has applied for the post or is likely to do so they appoint Endora with immediate effect on a modest salary augmented by free accommodation in a croft adjacent to the school house and the loan of Dougie Muir’s cow for milk and butter. Her contract agreed and written into the back of an exercise book Endora takes up her new post, bewitching her sixteen charges on the first day of term so that they forget nothing she tells them and obey her every whim as if they were commands.

         The islanders are duly impressed and congratulate themselves on the success of their selection process; they might be far flung, country folk but they are more than able to cut a good deal when one is needed. However, none of them are entirely convinced that she is who she says she is. Their worse conjecture that she is a desperate criminal on the run from the police becomes less and less likely when no one is murdered and the museum’s donations’ box continues to rattle when shook. The consideration of lesser offences is also inconclusive until the answers they are seeking are discovered in the cargo of the monthly supply boat; there in a batch of back issue magazines is found a photograph of their teacher and the story of her unexplained disappearance.

         Mystery solved the islanders are as one in deciding that if Endora wants to be known by some other name that’s OK with them. The mainland folk are a strange lot to be sure and the Prof – as they call her – is no doubt better off with them. So life goes on much as before except that the crops grow larger and the fish in the sea never fail to fill the nets of the island’s fishermen. And all this, they note, had happened since the arrival of their teacher; what a good luck charm she is!

         But as the Feast of the Renewal draws near they are by no means certain what role Endora should play. Had she not become a valued addition to their ranks her role in that ritual would have been an obvious one. Already plump on arrival the constant invitations to lunch or dinner have since added an extra band of fat around her middle and her breath now smells sweetly of the cherry brandy that is their cottage industry. Expertly roasted she will make the Renewal a very tasty affair indeed. But then, do they really want to lose the person who has made their children so clever and brought them so much good fortune? Surely these are signs from the island’s deities that she should be spared and become one of them. Reasoning that actions rather than words is the best way forward Mr McTavish, the Chief Clerk, who is also the islanders’ Grand Master, invites Endora to join him and his good wife on the beach for a barbecue at which he has decreed that the entire population of the island appear unannounced from behind a sand dune in a state of unclad revelation he hopes will be appealing to their intended convert.

         Endora has seen many initiation ceremonies and, once she gets over her surprise at the unexpected arrival of the islanders, is not unduly perturbed to find herself fully exposed to the chill sea wind and daubed with the same blue colouring they have applied to themselves. This, she realises, is a joyous occasion, an expression of affection and acceptance into the inner sanctum of their community. It is not until she sees Mr McTavish advancing towards her, his lance at the ready and in advance of his unusually flushed face, that she realises that seven hundred years of witchery are within moments of ending. Never has a spell been uttered so quickly, and having frozen the island in time and motion she detaches herself from restraining hands and retreats to her croft where she releases the islanders from the game of statues she has obliged them to play.

         She wonders what next to do until it occurs to her that she and the islanders both have secrets they would rather not divulge. If she wants to stay on the island – which she does - it is cards on table time. Summoning the town moot by the sounding of the community gong she confesses to what she is and they, thinking she understands more than she does, let slip more than they need to. Confronted with a secret every bit the equal of her own she loses no time in pledging her silence in exchange for theirs. Indeed she quickly realises they can be of mutual assistance. If the islanders keep her supplied with the large number of frogs and toads needed for her spells she will ensure that a sufficient supply of tasty mortals visit them each year. There are, she observes, far too many of them in the outside world, tasty or otherwise, and few serve any useful purpose.

         More than that - far more than that! - they have been responsible for the deaths of many thousands of her kind, including her aunt Alveira who - had she not been drowned in a ducking stool - would now be within a decade of her treble 0 birthday. Suddenly the sacrifice of a few dozen humans to satisfy the infrequent rituals of the islanders is not enough. This, she realises, could be the turning of the tide, an all conquering alliance of witchery and cannibalism that over the course of the millennium will relegate the rest of mankind to the farmyard where its sole function will be to fill supermarket shelves.

         It is no more than they deserve! Never again will they make war and pollute the atmosphere. Never again will they decimate habitats and the animals that dwell in them; for the first time they will become givers, not takers. The islanders will do better, far better, of that she is sure. At present they have no ambition beyond the farming of their crofts but this she will change. As their teacher she will reveal to them their destiny and stiffen their resolve for the task ahead by witchery spells that will take root in their DNA and strengthen with every passing generation. 

                                               *****

         Thirty years on Endora has begun the history of her chosen people. She writes it in advance of the facts but knows that every word will come to pass. With more than enough to eat and drink the birth rate of the island has rapidly increased necessitating the migration of surplus population onto the mainland where they farm the land of those they honour by the eating of their flesh. The newcomers dominate local government and law enforcement while subtly controlling social media. When bad things are discovered it is others who get the blame.

         Endora’s most gifted pupils are now in London where they have become indispensable to Government, while ensuring that mankind is blind, deaf and dumb to the march of the new order. By the end of the century Britain will be theirs and the crossing of the Dover Straits will mark a new period of expansion. Nothing will prevent the islanders' domination of each and every landmass – it is only a matter of time and arithmetic.

         For the moment Endora has stayed her pen. What follows will be complex requiring much thought but she is determined that the final triumph of the island people will be accomplished within her lifetime. They will cleanse the world of its poisons, a single united people living in peace and harmony. They will be a new people for a new age... 

Copyright Richard Banks   

Wednesday, 25 December 2024

Christmas Visitors

 Christmas Visitors 

By Jane Scoggins 


 It was a crisp cold December morning. Dan opened the back door, his hands cupped around a mug of strong hot tea, and surveyed the garden. It had its winter coat on as Meg would have said. He would have said it looked bedraggled. But Meg loved her garden whatever the season, and she was a good gardener. He, not so good, but was happy to help out with the digging under instruction from Meg. She made him laugh. She was always so happy in her garden, planting, growing, weeding. She said that talking to the plants made them grow better. She was always successful whether it be flowers or vegetables, and throughout the year there would be a posy of something in the blue delft jug on the table. Likewise, there weren’t many weeks of the year when there wasn’t at least one lot of fresh vegetables brought into the kitchen, often with bits of soil still hanging from roots or stems.  Coming originally from Wales Megan loved her leeks and grew them every year. So successful she had been some years she had twice won first prize at the local winter harvest festival. It was leeks and brussel sprouts that Dan had on his mind this morning as he closed the back door and finished his mug of tea. He put on his old warm jacket and rubber boots and stepped outside. It wasn't a big garden, longer than it was wide. Apart from a small patio with table and chairs the rest was taken up with beds for plants and produce. At the upper end nearest the house were the flowerbeds and shrubs. At the lower end was the vegetable patch. In Spring and summer it was full of carrots, spring cabbage, lettuce, spring onions, aubergines, a big container of tomatoes, and beans dangling from tall cane frames. In autumn there were onions. Calabrese, more beans, potatoes and sweet corn. In winter the leeks, parsnips and brussel sprouts came into their own and the traditional Christmas meal fare. Dan walked down the flagstone path between the beds until he reached the leeks. They had grown strong and green, another successful year.  The bright green brussel sprouts clustered tightly together on the sturdy stems looking healthy and ready for picking. The parsnips were ready for digging out,  but looked rather smaller than usual. ‘Never mind’ Dan said kindly to them, and smiled to himself at the thought of him consoling parsnips! ‘I'm sorry Meg isn't here to chat to you, she would have known what to say to give you the encouragement you need’ At the sound of his voice and his feet on the path a robin appeared on the bean frame and began to sing.  Dan watched him for a few seconds, enjoying the sound and sight of the cheerful little bird. ‘Waiting for me to dig up a few leeks are you little fella, so you can find a worm or two?’ The robin stopped singing and cocked his head to one side as if he was taking note.

Dan gently dug up a couple of leeks and snapped of a couple of handfuls of brussel sprouts from the thick stems, leaving plenty more for another day. Standing up straight after putting the leeks and sprouts in the wicker garden basket Dan surveyed the vegetable patch and watched as the little robin landed without fear on the soil near his feet, cocking his head again to listen for the sound of worm or beetle activity just below the surface. Dan waited and watched as the robin pecked away and retrieved a plump wriggling worm from the newly turned soil. Looking up Dan saw Megan and heard her laugh softly as she too looked at the confident little robin, so trusting of them he was in touching distance. He reached for her hand and felt the warmth of her fingers. Theirs had been a long and happy marriage and quite often there was no need for words. They had met at a party on Christmas Eve, and their romance had started there and then. 

‘‘Come on, its getting cold standing here,” she said. “Lets go back to the kitchen for a hot cup of tea and a warm scone.’’ Dan watched Meg as she turned to walk back up the path and disappear through the back door. The robin, having feasted on a fat worm took his leave and fluttered back up to the bean frame, where he proceeded to sing heartily, in thanksgiving for his meal.

‘You are welcome Mr Robin, Happy Christmas to you’ called Dan as he walked back up the path.

The kitchen was empty, with a smell of warm scones in the air, and the sound of Meg's lilting welsh voice came from upstairs. She was from the valleys where everyone sang she had told him soon after they had met.

‘Meg! Dan called, smiling. But there was no answer of course. Megan had passed away nearly six months ago but Dan felt her presence all the time. Today was Christmas Eve and Dan was filled with memories of his girl from Merthyr Tydfil.

 

Copyright Jane Scoggins

Tuesday, 17 December 2024

A VISIT AT CHRISTMAS

 A VISIT AT CHRISTMAS

BY BOB FRENCH 


The judge at Edmonton Crown Court cleared his throat, thanked the jury, for their service, then glanced up at the young man standing in the dock.

“You have been found guilty of grievous bodily harm against Miss Victoria Smith.”  The judge stared down at his papers then adjusted his glasses.”

“Charles Alexander Fenwick, you have been convicted of the offence of manslaughter, by the verdict of a jury.  The court has heard that on the 31st of December 2023, You and the victim, Miss Victoria Ann Smith, caught the 11:10pm train from Bristol Temple Mead to Exeter. According to several witnesses, you were both drunk and arguing.  At around 11:30pm, you were seen swearing and fighting in the carriage corridor of the train with Miss Smith, and that during this fight, you opened the carriage door and pushed Miss Smith out onto the track whilst the train was moving.”

“I have considered the aggravating factors in this case, including the fact that you were both drunk and fighting in a public place, I have also considered the mitigating circumstances, and the evidence of Doctor Yellington regarding the medical state of Miss Smith.”

He turned to the Doctor. “Doctor, as of nine o’clock this morning was Miss Smith still in a comma?”

The Doctor stood. “That is correct Your Honour.”

“And is there any indication as to when she will recover?”

“I am afraid that only nature can tell us Sir.”

The judge turned his attention back to Alexander. “Your lack of remorse about the health of Miss Smith’s condition is plain to see.  I therefore sentence you to a term of twelve years imprisonment. You will serve half of this sentence in custody before being eligible for release on license." 

That night in the Duck and Pheasant, Alexander’s second home, everyone felt sorry for their star rugby player.  Some gave their penny worth about a fair trial, others thought Victoria should have been in the dock and some thought that Alexander should have been given a much longer sentence, whilst the majority of his friends thought that Victoria had it coming to her.

 Victoria Ann Smith had arrived in the small town hoping to get a job at the Bristol Royal Infirmary.  She had qualified as a nurse in Liverpool, but decided she wanted to live and work down south.  It didn’t take her long to find, then mix in with the ‘in crowd’ which centered around the local rugby team.

On a cold, wet and windy Saturday afternoon in November, some of Victoria’s friends decided to go and support the local rugby team on the understanding that the third half was always a great hoot, with good food and drink. Victoria had never been to watch a game of rugby and was surprised how rough it was. Half-way through the second half, three players collided with each other and spun across the muddy touch line, knocking three of Victoria’s friends over.  All six ended up in a deep muddy puddle. 

Without thinking, Victoria donned her nurse’s hat and jumped into the pile of groaning bodies, quickly administering medical advice to those who followed her.

Two of the players were classed as walking wounded, but one player, a tall six-foot blond-haired man had to be stretchered off the pitch.  Victoria stayed with him until he reached the dressing room.  The coach, an elderly man who by the state of his nose, was an ex-rugby player, thanked her and asked if she could stay and help administer first aid?

“Sure.  Let me examine him properly first.” 

The coach, whose name was Bert, dug out a rusty old tin with a white circle and red cross on it.  “This is all we have.”

Victoria grinned and thought ‘when had the health and safety rules changed the marking on first aid boxes to white with a green cross.’

“Alright Bert, help me get this muddy jersey off him, but be careful, it looks as if he has a dislocated shoulder. After a great deal of gentle pulling and pushing, Bert swore.

“Sorry love.  We are going to have to cut him out of it.”

“No! it’s my favorite shirt.” The player shouted.

“What’s you name?” Victoria looked him sternly in the face.

“Alexander.  Do you really have to destroy my jersey?”

“No, not really.  I can leave you in your stinking, muddy shirt and wait until infection sets in.  Then I doubt you will ever play rugby again.  Your choice?”

Alexander reluctantly gave in and lay back down on the physio bed.

“Now just relax.  I will count to three then you will feel a sharp pain as I put your shoulder back in its right place, OK?”

“One, Two,” then she pulled his shoulder back into its original place.

What followed was a string of foul language, including some words that Victoria had never heard before.

“Right, lets look at the rest of your injuries. Bert, can you sponge his legs down so I can get a good look please.”

“umm! This looks bad. I think you are going to need stitches.  Do you have the kit to do this Bert?”

“Yes. Not sure if it’s clean and sterile though.”

“Have you any antiseptic?”

“Yeh, got that in a bottle over there. I’ll get it.  Do you need some cotton wool?”

Victoria thanked him and continued to study his legs.

Once Bert had finished cleaning the mud from his legs, Victoria completed her inspection.  She noticed that Alexander had so many scars from playing rugby; it was little wonder that there was any space left for more scars.

After the game had finished, the bar, club hall and dressing room started to fill up.  Bert suggested that he’d bring Alexander out once he’d got him sorted.

From that moment on, for over a year, Victoria and Alexander became an item.  They were never seen apart. Then in the summer, he invited her to move into his flat and for a few months’ life was bliss. They even decided to pool their resources and open a joint account.

Alexander gradually became aware of her variable behaviour and was a little surprised.  She was not slow in coming forward so that she got her way. Alexander was what one may call a gentle giant, a bit of a push over and he thought it was just first or second date nerves.

At Christmas, he wanted to take her up to London, take in a show and then have a nice meal at one of the posh restaurants. But she had other ideas. She wanted to go dancing down at Chinnerys in Southend.

A few months later they were contemplating a spring holiday. Alexander suggested Cyprus, but Victoria vetoed that idea and they spend two weeks in Val d’lsere, costing a fortune. On the last day of their holiday Alexander decided to have it out with her.  What was suppose to be a discussion between two people who were in love, it quickly turned into a real fight. To defend himself, Alexander had to pin her down until she relaxed, leaving bruise marks on her wrists and upper arms.

Alexander knew many of Victoria’s friends and one evening met up with them in a local pub.

“Thanks for meeting up with me and please forgive me if I cross over any boundaries of friends trust.  Since we got married, Victoria’s behaviour has deteriorated to the extent that on our last holiday we ended up actually fighting each other, and it wasn’t nice. One friend suggested that she might be on some sort of drug, but the other friends shouted her down.

A week later Alexander suggested that they follow the rugby team down to Bath staying at a really nice hotel.  To his surprise she agreed and the train into London was without problem.  Then on the Great Western Railways train she found a bar on board and started to have a drink, then another until she was tipsy. Then they started fighting.  He chased her down the corridor.  Then they started to struggle and without reason, they crashed against the door which suddenly flung open.  He tried to grab her but the suction caused by the rushing air past the open door sucked her out. That evening the Bristol police arrested him in the hotel and took him back to London.

It was the late afternoon on the 24th of December and Alexander was about to start his eight years in prison.  Alexander kept himself to himself, but the word got out that he had beaten his wife into a coma and she had died.  As he watched the rugby game one of the Prison Staff touched him on the shoulder and quietly said that he had a visitor.

“Who is it? No one ever visits me.  Are you sure?”

“Just get a move on. I want to watch the game as well.”

Alexander went to the visitor’s room, sat down in the cubical and waited.

Then the door opened and a woman entered the other side of the glass.

When she took off her scarf and glasses, Alexander stood up and stared at the woman.

“God! I thought you were dead.”

Victoria grinned. “No.  I just popped in to wish you a happy Christmas before we, that’s Manuell and I are off on a holiday in the sun.”

“But have you told my solicitor that you have come out of your coma and that I want to challenge my sentence. I still have money you know.”

Victoria gave a quiet laugh.  “Alexander sorry but you have no money any more.  Remember we had a joint account and I took great delight in spending it all.  As far as your solicitor knows, I died last year.  I have a new identity now and my boyfriend is taking me to Spain on his yacht, then onto the Caribbean.  Goodby Alexander have a happy Christmas.

Copyright Bob French  ~  Dec2024

Friday, 13 December 2024

Time out

 

Time out

Barbara Thomas

After it had been heavily advertised in the local paper.

My mother, myself and my late husband decided to visit Aldi’s supermarket in Southend on Sea Essex to see what all the fuss was about.

 

As we entered the new surroundings picking up our baskets and looking forward to checking all the goods on show.

 

Mum picked up several items then picked up a large jar of pineapple, all excited she explained she hadn’t seen that fruit for years, so without fail it went in her basket.

 

Then she was gazing at other jams and noted something that made her frown then she turned to me and asked me a question “was Aldi’s a German company” I replied, “yes it was, why?”

 

Well! before I knew what had happened this smart quiet 88 year old lady, took everything out of her basket.

 

Then looking round she glimpsed the elderly old man on the opposite aisle.

She immediately went up to him and said that was he aware that the shop was German owned. He said, “no he hadn’t realised”, then Mum asked him had he served in the forces during WW2

A bit taken back at first after being accosted by this little lady, he said quietly that yes he had served for 6 years in the Royal Engineers during World War 2

 

Now this was the time out moment:

 

My Mum then told this innocent man to immediately put his goods back and go leave the shop, as in her words, “we lost too many of our good men in that war to start giving money to the Germans”.

 

He obeyed my mother and without another word, walked out of the shop followed by, you guessed it, my mother.

 

Although weeks later my mother saw a music centre she had seen advertised in Aldi’s and would I get it for her?

My reply was “No! I thought you didn’t give money to Germans”.

 

Copyright Barbara Thomas

 

Friday, 6 December 2024

Haiku Collaborations :

Haiku Collaborations :

By Rob Kingston & Christina Chin 






Enjoy...

Wednesday, 4 December 2024

Are we there yet?

 Are we there yet?

By Jane Goodhew

“Are we there yet, are we there yet?” they repeated the words over and over until I thought if I heard them one more time, I would open the car door and shove the pair of them out!  What was I thinking of, not about shoving them out the door but in taking them to a pantomime.  A pantomime used to be exactly that a mime meaning actions speak louder than words but how they have changed and now they are loud, brash and not my idea of comedy or fun in any shape or form.  I tried to control my temper, to refrain from taking the next left and going back home after all it was Christmas.  The season to be loving and giving and suffering, after all isn’t childbirth suffering and Mary had given birth to Jesus, which was why we celebrate, isn’t it?  Although I think the meaning has been lost in translation over the last century and now it appears to be a time for greed and overindulgence and pantomime.  I could almost hear myself say “BAH Humbug” as I was beginning to sound like Scrooge.

“Which one are we seeing,” they ask in unison, and I have to think hard for which one we are seeing.  “Cinderella” I say and then the song Cinderella rock a fella keeps on repeating itself in my head and how I long for the Sound of Silence.  I keep driving telling myself to still be calm, and at peace, it will soon be over, and they will be back at school and normality will prevail.  For they are not even my children but my sisters, away at the moment taking a restful holiday in the sun with her workaholic husband who could only take this period off from his busy schedule.  How convenient!

I remind myself to be more charitable and less hostile towards them after all they are delightful, polite, well mannered, no problem at all.  Who was I kidding they were little monsters, they awoke early,  and even when sent to bed they continued chattering away until late and if I went upstairs to ask them to be quiet they just looked at me as if butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths and as soon as my back was turned begin again.

“Aunty, Aunty” they scream in delight, as they see the sign for the theatre.  We are almost there but, first we stop off to buy some sweets at the corner shop; as they are always extortionate in the foyer.  I am Scrooge!  They stock up on all that would be banned the rest of the year, and they look so angelic when they smile sweetly and say, “Thank you Aunty, we do love you and enjoy staying with you.”  How they manage to say it with such a straight face I don’t know perhaps they are psychopaths in the making.

Back in the car, they resume their game of Eye Spy and that was when I spied another sign, the billboard for Cinderella and a poster straight across it with the words CANCELLED DUE TO SICKNESS.                                                                                                                                         

                                                                                                        

My prayers had been answered as I turned the car around and headed back home with two very subdued and forlorn children who would now have to finish decorating the tree instead and go to bed early whilst they waited for Santa to call.  

 

Copyright Jane Goodhew

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              

Tuesday, 3 December 2024

NO TIME TO RUN

 

NO TIME TO RUN - (out of time)

By Bob French


It was a crisp February morning, the mist still hung over the meadows and fields that led into the High Street of Little Easton, in Essex. The air smelt of pine and damp grass.  Roddy Crocket, ‘Davey’ to his friends, ignored the early morning dog walkers and paper-boys as he strode purposely down the High Street towards the little cottage next to the bus stop, adjusting his large military ruck-sack as he went.

He knew not many people would recognise him.  When he left five years ago, he was a pimply, five-foot three-inch boy who was always being picked on in school.  Now he stood six foot two, sported a tan that some would die for and was well built.  He felt sadness creep throughout his body, knowing that his mother’s neighbour had written to him, to tell him that his mum was very poorly. Once his platoon sergeant heard about it, he was on the first flight out of Afghanistan.

When he reached the bus stop, he glanced down at the little cottage set back from the high street and was angry with himself. The peeling paint, sagging porch, and the rose bushes and shrubs that his mother cared for since his dad had passed, looked wasted and desolate.

He rang the door-bell, then realized that it didn’t work, so he banged on the door a couple of times.  Within minutes he heard the “ow-ee” from Mrs. Jones, her next-door neighbour.

“Can I help you young man?”

“Mrs. Jones. It’s me Roddy.  I have come home to see what’s the matter with Ma; I can’t thank you enough for your letter.”

“Come around the back.  The front door is a little warped.”

Roddy followed her around the side of the cottage and his eyes picked up more neglect; windows cracked and drain-pipes leaking, then he caught site of the once beautiful garden.  It now resembled some of the sites he’d passed through on patrol in the Helman Province.

Mrs. Jones pushed open the kitchen door and moved quickly into the front room.  The stench of body odour and dampness stung the back of his throat.  There sitting in his Dad’s old arm-chair was his mum.

“Angie.  I got someone who wants to see you.”

Roddy’s eyes filled with tears as he stared down at his mother. 

He had to really look into her face to find the woman who had brought him up, then cared for him when her soul mate and his dad had passed.

In a frail voice, Angie called out his name. “Roddy love, is that you.  What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come home to care for you Ma.  Help get you back on your feet, thanks to Mrs. Jones.” 

“Roddy love, I’ll let you get acquainted with your Ma.  If you want anything, I’m only next door.”  With that she quietly left.

True to military fashion he stood.  “Let’s get you a cup a tea, then we can talk.”

   It took him a few minutes to find a couple of clean tea-cups, then glanced around the kitchen and thought that the place needed a major renovation job.  Then his eyes fell on a bundle of unopened letters underneath her old green cardigan.

He scooped them up and put them on the top shelf of the kitchen cupboard, promising to read them once he had got his mum sorted.

Sitting down opposite her, Roddy gently asked what has been going on. Has she been poorly?

“Roddy Love, it’s the new land lord. He said that I had signed a new contract which gave him the right to take over the upkeep and maintenance of my home.”

“Did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Did you sign the new lease?  Have you got a copy of this new contract?

He could see his mother struggling with question.”

“Don’t bother just yet Ma, Let’s get you sorted out.  Do you mind if I have a wander around the place and see what needs sorting first?”

She smiled with her eyes and nodded.  “Will you be staying long?”

“As long as it takes Ma. Don’t you worry.” 

It took him nearly two hours to have a good look at the damage that had been caused by neglect, then he came and sat down next to his Ma.

“Ma, it’s going to take me a little while to get this sorted, but I don’t want you to worry.  Who collects your pension?”

“Mavis, next door. Why”

Roddy had to think who Mavis was, but his thoughts were interrupted when she explained that Mavis was Mrs. Jones.

“And what standing orders do you have, like the gas and electricity?”

“Oh, its that nice man, Mr. Green down at the Natwest.  He sorts all that stuff for me.”

“What about the rent.  Do you pay for that through the bank?”

Her voice quietened and he could see fear in her eyes. “Ma, what’s the matter.  Don’t you like the man who comes and collects the rent?”

“No.  I don’t trust him.  Every few months he tells me that the rent has gone up.  I tell him that I won’t pay any more rent unless he comes and fixes the gutters and windows.”

Roddy was beginning to see where this was going and had to really control his anger.

“OK Ma, but don’t you worry.  I will take care of things.  But I want you and Mavis not to say they have seen me to anyone who knows you, including people you don’t know.  I can sort all this out if the people who are hurting you, don’t know I am here, is that OK?”

For the first time his mother smiled and he knew that she was on the mend.

“Right then, breakfast.”

Later that morning, Roddy climbed over the back fence onto the road.  He walked for about half an hour until he came to a car hire garage and hired a non-descript hatch back. Then he went through the local paper and jotted down various tradesmen who could repair and redecorate his mother’s cottage.  He explained that it was a cash in hand job.

That afternoon, having done a mega shop at Liddle’s in Colchester, he drove home and parked his hire car next to the cemetery, along-side several other cars.  Then spent a couple of hours helping his mother sort out the laundry, bedding and clearing out the kitchen. After dinner, he sat down and started to go through the pile of letters that his Ma had received.

By ten, it was time to crash.  He had assembled those letters demanding payment; those from the land-lord’s company and those who were responsible for the upkeep of the cottage. he settled down to go over the letters. 

Something nagged him.  It was a name; Duggan. Then it came to him, Harry Duggan was one of the gang leaders who had made his life at school unbearable. He grinned as he read that Duggan was part of the landlord organization who took the rent. Then, to his surprise, he read that Bert Duggan, the younger sibling of the Duggan empire, ran the maintenance company responsible for the up-keep of the eight small cottages on the edge of the village.

He asked Mrs. Jones if she would act on behalf of his mother when any tradesmen came to repair things around the cottage or the grounds. He gave her the names of the companies who would be doing the job. She understood why the need for secrecy.

He then recalled that Ann, a girl he had a crush on in the senior year of his school, had taken an apprenticeship with a legal firm in Colchester, so he chanced his luck and once he’d found the firm on the internet, called her.  After a brief chat, he made an appointment to see her.

 They met at the Wimpey Bar and to his surprise they hit it off.  Once he had explained what had brought him back from overseas, she was angry and promised if there was anything she could do, all he had to do was ask.

“Ann, Can I ask you a huge favour?”

“From what you have told me you don’t need a favour, you need to hire my firm to represent your mother in court.”

Roddy took his time explaining what he wanted her to do, which she quickly agreed to.

Her first call, after checking with the Inland Revenue to see if the Duggan’s had submitted their tax returns for this year.  Within an hour they had called her back and explained that the firm had avoided any returns for the past four years.  Before hanging up, she warned the officer that the Duggan’s would almost certainly try to destroy their accounts, and leave the UK for Spain. The legal wheels had started to grind. Then she wrote to Harry Duggan.

It was three o’clock on Friday afternoon when Harry read the letter from Ann.  It was a very formal and straight forward demand:

‘It is noticed that your company has failed to present your accounts for the past four financial years. You are there for required to have all your accounts and supporting receipts for the past four financial years ready for inspection by Wednesday next week.’

Harry’s face went white and quickly lunged for the telephone and dialed Frank, his accountant. The phone was answered by one of the clerks who explained that Frank was away for a week; funeral of his brother or something.’

Harry, knew that he had to destroy everything and then warn his brother to do the same before Monday morning, then head off to Spain.

It was reported in the local newspapers that the two Duggan brothers had been arrested on Friday evening trying to destroy evidence required by the Inland Revenue.  They were expected to receive a lengthy jail sentence each.  It was also reported that the three local tradesmen who had been shut out of the village had now formed a new company who would care for and look after the original eight cottages in the village.

Roddy pushed the door open to his mum’s front room and was greeted by a smiling face; the face he remembered before he left home all those years ago.

Copyright Bob French