Love at first sight

By Jane Goodhew

Dark eyes, long lashes

Love at first sight

How could I resist

The gentle way she moved

The way she just accepted her fate

And on their first date

Fell pregnant with a wild and unmanageable child

The first of several who skipped through the grass

Until it was time for them to leave

But then my favourite one had a son

being a September birth

He was named Virgil

It was not a name that suited for he was a large and clumsy male

Who even when fully grown would run to his mum to be pampered and spoilt

She loved him so much she just gently obliged his every whim

But now he’s alone for dear Pixie died a tragic death and was taken unceremoniously legs in the air to her resting place.

The knackers yard

For my beloved Pixie was a cow but oh how I cried the day I heard she had died.

Copyright Jane Goodhew

Virgil and Pixie

GUSTAVE  (Part 3 of 4) 

By Richard Banks 

Ethel, otherwise known as Mrs Skinner, regarded me with a befuddled expression that suggested she had been imbibing too freely from a near empty bottle in her grasp.

         “Don’t you know us Dickie, it’s Dot and Ethel from the Empire, you know, the one in Hackney. Blimey, fancy meeting you again and in a stately home too. Got left some money did you? More than we have, but who’s complaining, this is the life, ten times better than that poxy ale house you and Gusie use to take us to after the show, you know the one, the Dog and something, with the upstairs room you could hire by the hour. What a lark it all was. So, what you up to now Dickie? You look quite the part in that suit, got it from a broker did you?”

         Dot took breath and awaited my reply; her hand dipping below the table top and settling on my knee. In an ideal, blameless world I would have said, ‘I am Mr Richard Thomas, Assistant Manager of the Holborn Branch of Bryson’s Bank, I have a respectable position in society, I am a member of the Herne Hill Rotary Club, my wife is the daughter of an Archdeacon, of course I don’t know you’, but even after twenty years I knew them only too well. Deciding that an indignant denial would likely bring forth a further raft of recollections I restricted my reply to saying how nice it was to see them again though regrettably in such sad circumstances.

         Dot, who was looking remarkably cheerful said she had been at livelier wakes but nevertheless there was plenty of booze and once everyone had warmed-up a bit she felt sure they would all give Gusie a send-off to remember.

         “No doubt he is looking down on us as we speak,” I said, glancing benignly at the ceiling. 

         Dot hastened to set me right.

         “Not much chance of that, Dickie, he only came out of the ice house this morning. Right now he’s thawing out in the greenhouse.

         “In the greenhouse?” I repeated.

         “Yeah, with the tomatoes and cucumbers. They had to do something to keep him from going off, well, he’s been dead over two weeks.”

         “Are you sure?” I asked, suddenly feeling the need for a steadying glass of wine.

         “Oh yes, dear. Had a front row seat. That’s why we’re here. You see Gusie had got the notion in his head that some German fellas were planning to kidnap him and put it about that he had died, when the stiff in the coffin was only someone who looked like him. How anyone was going to get away with that I’ll never know, but nonetheless that’s what the silly sod thought, so our job was to make sure it was him by searching his body for the marks on his body that most people don’t get round to seeing. Mind you, after all these years how was to be sure, never mind Ethel who can’t remember what happened the day before yesterday. Anyway, there was no turning down the fifty quid on offer, so up we came on the train and the two of us did the necessary after breakfast today, the easiest money we’ll ever earn.”

         “And it was definitely him?”

         “More than likely, dear. I certainly hope so, wouldn’t want to meet anyone else with a face like his. It wasn’t much to write home about twenty years ago, and dying ain’t improved it.”

         “Poor Gustave,” I said searching desperately for something to say in favour of his face. “He was not the happiest of men.”

         “You can say that again, face as long as a kite, even when he was plastered. Only time I saw him smile was when you and Ethel slipped over in the mud and nearly got run over by that tram. Do you remember that Ethel? You and Dickie arse over head in the Shoreditch Road. What did you say? Nothing. You just want to go to sleep. But they’re serving dinner soon. You don’t want to be missing that, there might be some more of that nice pheasant pie you liked. Wake her up, Dickie, before she slides down under the table. Quick now! Oh dear; never mind, all the more for us. So, what brings you here, Dickie, inherit the estate did you?”

         I replied that unfortunately that had gone to a family member living in Prague.  I was here in the capacity of Night Sitter and would be watching over the deceased from eleven o’clock that evening until nine in the morning.

         “Blimey, how much are they paying you for that? Hope it was more than what we got for the searching, that only took half an hour.” Dot peered short sightedly at the long case that was striking the hour. “Let’s hope they serve up the nosh soon or you won’t have time to eat it all. Be a pity to miss out, it’s a long time ’til breakfast.”

         The clock chimed for the ninth and last time, and as it fell silent the double doors of the dining room parted and two liveried servants entered pushing trolleys on which twelve lamb cutlets had been set out on what looked like the third best china. Having placed the cutlets in front of the diners and dishes of vegetable down the middle of the table, the servants departed with a rapidity that suggested they were not keen on remaining. The silence that greeted their entrance was now, on their departure, replaced by a loud and disorderly competition as to who could fill their plates with the most vegetables, those attempting to do so with spoons being less successful than those using one or more hands.

         A sharp tug on my trouser leg signalled that Ethel, sensing the arrival of food, was attempting to raise herself to the table by climbing up me in the manner of a mountaineer ascending a lofty peak. Feeling a vice like grip on my free knee and fearing where next Ethel might lay a hand I reached down and, grasping her beneath both arms, pulled her up onto her feet and from there back onto her chair where, wonderfully revived, she joined in the contest for the vegetables. Meanwhile Dot, successful in the overfilling of her plate, was now attempting to devour it all while disputing with her neighbour over the ownership of a potato that had rolled from her plate. The dispute settled in Dot’s favour her attention shifted to me and my plate containing only the lamb cutlet.

         “What’s wrong Dickie, ain’t you hungry? Come on now, dig in, it’s all free you know.”

         Salvaging a potato and several sprigs of cauliflower from the spillage of an overturned dish I did as I was bid while observing with horror the antics of my fellow diners. The main course finished the same two man servants re-entered with three large trifles and a pile of dishes which they abandoned mid table and fled. I did too, finding refuge in the smoking room where a housemaid discovered me, and at my request furnished me with both a coffee and a cigar.

         “Is Mr Brownlow about,” I asked. At nearly ten o’clock I was anxious to receive the final instructions I had been promised before taking up my station in the greenhouse or wherever Gustave had now been put. “Will you tell him please that I’m here and ready for our meeting, if it’s not too soon.”

         The maid departed and within minutes a polite knock on the open door heralded his entrance. On enquiring whether I had enjoyed dinner, and receiving the reply that I had eaten lightly but well, he handed me a schedule listing the actions I was to take and the exact time of their undertaking. Tweezers, he said, had been provided for the opening of his eyes but if I preferred to do so with my fingers I could do so safe in the knowledge that his face and other parts had been thoroughly cleansed with Port Sunlight soap. The operation of the stethoscope he assumed I was familiar with and must only be applied to his chest, while any sign of life was to be immediately signalled by the ringing of the servants’ bell. Otherwise I was expected to stay awake at all times and to protect the corpse from the molestations of the several rats known to frequent the basement room where the deceased now lay.

         The room, Brownlow continued, had once been one of the dudgeon cells and the rats were direct descendants of the ones that many centuries before had nibbled the extremities of noble prisoners, such as the black earl of Longwithy and Robert the Brusque. They were, therefore, distinguished rats to which no hurt should be inflicted beyond the occasional chastisement of a poorly aimed shoe. Instructions at an end we wiled away the time in the company of a good malt until at ten minutes to eleven we set-off by lantern light on the downward journey trod by so many, never to return. Thinking my misfortune was little compared to theirs I took up my position at the foot of the open coffin on a low backed chair of the hardest, roughest oak I never wish to sit on again. Brownlow lit the lantern in the room and after bidding me a cheery goodnight made his departure, closing the door behind him with a disheartening clang. 

(To be Continued)

 

Copyright Richard Banks

Riddles 28

 Riddles 28

By the Riddler

The Riddler has two puzzles for us today:

 

No 1.  What Type of fruit is hidden in the sentence below?

A parent had to type a charming letter to the school requesting more fruit in the lunch menu.

 

No 2. Which vowel appears only once in the spelling of all the months of the year?

 

Keep em coming Riddler

 

 The Optimist

By Sis Unsworth

Summer has now ended, and autumns come too soon,

they’re just a distant memory, the golden days of June.

Evenings are getting darker; the moons eclipse was seen,

It’s just one month to go now, before its Halloween.

Around that time remember, that’s when the clocks go back,

the weather will be changing, we’ll need our boots and Mac.

Guy Fawkes Night will light the sky; the next day will be bleak,

We need some inspiration, that’s what we really seek.

I had to smile just last week, at what someone said:

”One hundred days to Christmas, there are long dark nights ahead.”

But we must be optimistic, that really is the thing,

100 days to Christmas means, “just 200 days till Spring!”

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

Meanings of the flag

 Meanings of the flag

 

By Barbara Thomas 

 

It could mean to flag a person down or to wave your flag in an act of patriotism.

 

Unfortunately through the centuries the flag has also been used to terrify and control people.  A good example was the Nazis Swastika flag.

 

Just lately, the domestic view has been to fly the flag to show others this is our country and we want to claim our borders back.

 

Flags are flown down Pall Mall to celebrate, for instance:

The coronation of Queen Elizabeth II.

To celebrate the end of WWII.

And, to welcome foreign dignitaries when they visit our shores.

Politicians stand in front of the Union flag, cementing the fact that they are talking to the British people. 

Lately, according to the Prime Minister Sir Keir Starmer, any person(s) who rally to the English, Welsh, Scottish, or N Ireland Flag are Right wing. He was referring to ordinary citizens, of multicultural differences, when their families congregate in public places to let the Government know we are proud of our country and do not agree with his policies regarding illegal immigrants. 

The flag would be used in a battle to rally the troops. 

In some countries if the flag is defaced in anyway it could mean prison or death for the perpetrator. 

In Britain, a very diverse country, we should all rally round our Flag and once again cement the meaning of unity.

 

Barbara Thomas

The Room (Flash fiction)

 The Room 

By Len Morgan

It was a sparse room.  Only a worn rug adorned the floor, a desk, a chair, a journal, and an assortment of writing implements sat on the desk. By the door, a dog's basket… 

The wall above it held seven pictures of children displaying a familial similarity, except for their ages.  They were each hugging a small dog; the same dog. The pictures were arranged in chronological order, the first child was aged one, then two, three, four, five, six, and seven. The dog aged in each successive picture. Then came three pictures of the dog alone, followed by two blank frames.

I wonder if he had survived the knife attack, would our marriage have survived?  The final straw was when Milo passed… 

The killer got six years, due to his mental state, but as a model prisoner only served three years.  Today, he is to be released to murder again…

I checked my service revolver, loaded it with three bullets, and left my house for the final time!

Copyright Len Morgan

 

 

GUSTAVE (Part 2 of 4)

  GUSTAVE  (Part 2 of 4) 

 by Richard Banks

The journey from Euston although long was not unpleasant and on arriving at Penrith I was duly met by Brownlow, Gustave’s man of business, and conveyed to Whinfell Castle in a carriage that would not have been out of place in the royal mews. Learning that I had not seen or spoken to his master in many years Brownlow proceeded to tell me all that was necessary for the role I was to undertake, beginning with the turn of fortune that had begun his fortune.

         On the election of Wilhelm I as German Emperor his niece, who was also Gustave’s cousin, petitioned her uncle for the restoration of her family’s estates in Saxony. The request granted, Gustave, the senior male member of the Von Wern family, returned to the land of his birth only to find that it was not the idyllic place of his childhood memories. The populace was unwelcoming and when riots occurred, threatening to erupt into revolution, he made over his feudal dues to a Dresden banking house in exchange for a large sum of money which, after his return to England he tripled or possibly quadrupled by judicious investments in the Manchester cotton mills.

         “Oh, what a shame,” I said, referring to his unhappy return to Saxony. “He always spoke so warmly of his native land. That must have been a sad disappointment.”

         Mr Brownlow nodded his head in agreement, but made no comment except to say that his unruly subjects were once again subject to Prussian rule.

         “Well, serves them right,” I replied in spirited defence of ‘my friend’, whilst thinking that Gustave’s morose disposition would not have made him the most popular of rulers. Perhaps Mr Brownlow felt the same way for he quickly moved on to my duties as night sitter. These had been devised by Gustave himself, and his instructions would be given to me on arrival at the castle, along with the implements needed to carry-out the checks he considered necessary.

         “Implements?” I said, fearing what might next be said.

         “Oh, nothing worth the mentioning: a mirror to catch his breath, if any, various needles for the drawing of blood, a stethoscope, a feather to tickle his feet and a magnifying glass for peering into his eyes. Nothing to worry about, all perfectly straightforward.”

         I murmured my agreement, the remuneration for these tasks now seeming less than generous. The thought that he had died of a contagious disease and that his final act would be to reunite us forever in the afterlife produced in me an involuntary groan that had Brownlow enquiring if I was “alright”. Ignoring his question, I responded with one of my own. “And what did he die of?” If I was blunt and a touch indelicate Mr Brownlow’s reply was equally blunt and to the point.

         “He fell from his horse, Mr Thomas, a tragic accident. We managed to get him back to the castle but he died of his injuries a week later.”

         “How awful,” I said, my relief at his reply giving way to genuine remorse. “I hope he didn’t suffer?”

         “His doctors saw to it that he was largely free of pain but there was nothing they could do to save him. Told that he had only a short time to live he put his affairs in order, gave directions for his funeral and in the presence of myself and his doctors, passed away quietly in his sleep.”

         Mr Brownlow fell silent and when he spoke again it was to point out the distant hill on which stood the grey stone walls of Gustave’s castle, slowly becoming larger but less clear in the fading light. We arrived after sunset to a reception party consisting of Chambers, Gustave’s butler, and two man servants, one of whom was holding a lantern.

         The house was mostly in darkness, only the entrance hall and several rooms leading off it being lit, while anyone needing to go further afield had to light the way with a paraffin lamp. On being ‘told’ by Chambers that I no doubt wished to go to my room before dinner I was also informed that it would be served at nine o’clock in the Prince of Wales Room.

         Taking his leave of me with a stiff, dutiful nod of his head he abandoned me into the care of the man servants who without speaking began mounting the stairs, one carrying my portmanteau and the other lighting the way with a lantern. Having shown me to my room on the third floor landing and, at my insistence, leaving me the lantern they disappeared into an impenetrable darkness, clinging grimly to the bannister.

         The room although less welcoming than the Margate boarding house I had recently stayed in at least had the modern conveniences of a wash basin and running water. I therefore lost no time in unpacking and, after washing and shaving for the second time that day, I changed into my dinner suit and, with lantern before me, carefully descended the stairs to the entrance hall. Relieved of the lantern I was ushered towards the dining room where a half dozen persons were soon joined by another five. They were an odd bunch to be sure, few if any of then appearing to be persons of quality. Indeed most of them would not have been allowed beyond the threshold of a City bank. Disconcertingly several of them were beginning to look vaguely familiar.

         Our placements at table were indicated by paper name cards. Mine was between a Mrs Green and a Mrs Skinner who had already taken their seats. On joining them the former greeted my arrival with a squeal of surprise followed by the exclamation, “luv a duck, Ethel, look who’s here, its young Dickie.”

(To be Continued) 

Copyright Richard Banks

 GUSTAVE (Part 1 of 4) 

by Richard Banks

When I received the letter about Gustave’s death my first reaction was of puzzlement. Why tell me, who had not clapped eyes on him for nearly twenty years? Even then we were no great friends, fellow clerks scribbling away at our high desks in the office of Shadwell & Potter, suppliers of black mourning cloth to a Queen who wanted no other colour. Discouraged from talking to each other on any subject unconnected to the business of the company we nonetheless discovered a mutual interest in the frowned on pleasures of the music hall.

         Well, why not, we were young men who after a long week of suffocating tedium deserved our Saturday night fun. But fun in Gustave’s company was not easily had and usually only got to after three pints of stout and a whisky chaser. So, why Gustave? he of the brooding disposition whose small talk consisted almost entirely of bitter sweet memories of Lower Saxony. But who else could there be when my days were taken up by work and my evenings shut away studying for the commercial diploma I hoped would change my life.

         At least Gustave had the distinction of being the first born son of a Saxon baron with extensive lands and a favoured position at court. But all had been swept away by the Prussian invasion of ’66 and he and the rest of his family were now penniless refugees, forced to scrape a living in the countries to which they had fled. He had travelled to London in hope of finding favour with the Prince of Wales to whom he was related through the Prince Consort, but his letter of introduction although delivered by himself to the Palace had not even been acknowledged. Fate had not been kind to Gustav and those who listened were, more often than not, ‘treated’ to a long litany of his misfortunes.

         Our association ended when on the passing of my exams I was successful in applying for a junior position at a City bank where I am now Assistant Manager of its Holborn Branch. It was shortly after my promotion to that position that I received the letter about poor Gustave, who was so faded in my memory that it took me several minutes to recollect who he was. He, however, had not forgotten me. There was to be a reading of his Will to which I was invited. The reason for my invitation was not stated only that my attendance was necessary under the terms of his will to be read at a Westminster hotel at 2pm, the following Tuesday.

         Had Gustave regained his family’s lands I wondered, and, if so, was I to receive some part of his fortune? The only way of finding out was to attend the reading, but as that was to take place on a day during the working week I had first to seek the permission of old Jessop, the Branch Manager, offering to make-up the lost time later that day or in the days that followed. He was, I could tell, less than keen on giving me permission, insisting I submit a written request to head office. This I did and, to Jessop’s obvious disapproval, they replied that I was to take off whatever time was necessary and that as a senior member of the Branch I would not be expected to make good the lost time.

         The fact that this message was conveyed to me in person by the Secretary to the Board was as much a surprise to me as it was to Jessop who could hardly conceal his annoyance. The Secretary sensing there were ruffled feathers to be smoothed volunteered the information that the testator, Mr Gustave Von Wern, had been a valued customer of their Penrith Branch and that I would, therefore, not only be attending in a personal capacity but as a representative of the Bank which, not unnaturally, was desirous of retaining the business of the Von Wern family. Indeed, anything I did to ensure this happening would be duly noted on my staff record.

         An opportunity had opened that seemed likely to be to my financial benefit as well as furthering my career with the bank. My reply to the letter was, therefore effusive of the usual pleasantries as I attempted to endear myself to the legal representatives of my ‘dear and esteemed friend and former colleague.’ The next opportunity to shine was at the reading itself which I attended in full mourning dress hired at considerable expense from a Piccadilly clothier. Arriving early I wasted no time in finding out who everyone was and handing out my card to those likely to be more important than myself, but of Jardine, the person who had written to me, there was no trace until, on the stroke of 2pm he entered, placing himself at the centre of a table facing a seated audience of some fifty persons. What followed was a long recital of Gustave’s bequests beginning with his lands and properties both in this country and abroad, and continuing on to lesser bequests of money and possessions. By the time Mr Jardine was down to individual items such as Gustave’s hall clock and an oil painting of his favourite racehorse my hopes of financial advancement were all but extinguished. Indeed, extinction occurred when on the bestowal of a silver plated spoon to a housemaid Mr Jardine announced that the reading of bequests was at an end.

         He was, however, not yet finished. There were things that Gustave wanted doing and payments to be made to those agreeing to do them. Having escaped responsibility for looking after an elderly relative, and offering up prayers each day for the salvation of his soul, I found myself charged with the office of ‘Night Sitter’ for which I was to receive the sum of one hundred pounds. My pleasure in receiving this useful addition to my worldly wealth was tempered by apprehension as to what was expected of me. Sitting I could certainly do but why did this have to be done at night, and for what purpose? Clearly, I needed to understand the nature of my office before accepting the money.

         Mr Jardine was evidently of a similar mind and, on asking me to identify myself, requested my presence in the room from which he had emerged.  After briefly expressing his sympathy to me at the loss of such an esteemed and much missed friend, Mr Jardine began to enlighten me of certain details about his client that any good friend would know but that he would tell me none the less. Gustave, a man of business and noble birth, valuing life as a God given opportunity to make ever increasing amounts of money was haunted by the knowledge that his father had been interred in the family vault while still alive, a circumstance discovered when his coffin was found the day after the funeral shaken from its plinth by the frenzied efforts of the occupant to free himself. Not unnaturally, Gustave was anxious, not to say terrified, that the same thing might happen to him. My commission therefore was to sit with my friend in the hours before his funeral to make sure that he was truly dead. Indeed if I should discover that he was still alive his payment to me would be raised to £500. In the meantime Mr Jardine’s instructions were to give me a cheque for £100 in exchange for my written agreement to comply with the testator’s request.

         While the duty of Night Sitter did not seem the most agreeable of tasks my refusal to do it was not only going to deprive me of the signed cheque presently residing on Mr Jardine’s side of the table but the goodwill of the bank who employed me and had power of preferment. It was, however, with a faltering hand that I signed the legal document thrust at me and, on receiving the cheque, was also given a rail ticket to Penrith Station with instructions to be there the day after next at three in the afternoon from whence I would be conveyed by carriage to Whinfell, Gustave’s castle home.

         The Bank’s willingness to see me undertake the duty assigned me was not reciprocated by Helen, my wife who thought I might fall foul of whatever disease or ailment Gustave had died off. My reply that he may have died of nothing more catching than old age - when he was only in his forty-third year - did little to ease her fears, or indeed mine. So, what had he died of? Whatever the cause it was too late to back out now, so equipped with two bottles of Dr Surebright’s tonic and an aromatic spray for my handkerchiefs, I took my leave of her with the gravity of a soldier going to war.

        

(To Be Continued)

 

Copyright Richard Banks

 Two Haiku (from Rob)

 

Robert Kingston

 

I am pleased to let you know that the following pieces have been accepted for publication within Issue #111 of Failed Haiku.

 

foundry floor

steelworkers dance about

the overspill

 

bonfire night

the Roman candle finishes

with a puff

 

 THE RAYLEIGH SET

by Richard Banks

[Written in 2017, a year after the publication of Essex Tales V, this spoof history mentions present and past members of the Group but, regretfully, not those who have joined us in the last eight years.]

 

Article from The Times Literary Supplement, published on 15^th July 2124        

         At a hastily convened press conference the British Library yesterday stunned the literary world by announcing that a small blood stain on their copy of Essex Tales, Volume V, is that of Richard Banks, a founder member of the legendary Rayleigh Set.

         The book, which is one of only three surviving copies, has the further distinction of being signed by Banks and W.R. French, the First World War novelist. Their signatures appear below a brief dedication to someone called Linda to whom the book was presumably sold. Judging by its pristine condition the book appears to have been little read by Linda, or anyone else. Remarkably there are no finger prints on the inside pages beyond page eleven.

         Discovered five years ago by a second hand book dealer in the loft of a terraced house awaiting demolition, it was purchased by the British Library for a fee believed to be in the region of £25m. Now worth over £40m the blood stain, previously regarded as a minor blemish, is likely to double or treble the book’s value.

         The suggestion, first mooted by art historian Julian Gray, that the blood may once have flowed through the veins of one of its authors prompted the RSS (Rayleigh Set Society) to oversee DNA tests on two of W.R. French’s descendants. When these failed to match his blood with that on the book a worldwide search ensued for descendents of Banks which eventually located his two times great grandson, Wang Hai Lei, on a tea plantation in the Chinese protectorate of Sri Lanka. Blood samples taken from him confirmed beyond doubt that the blood stain was that of the author. Although the copyright on the stories and poems of the Rayleigh Set expired in 2097 Wang’s new found fame should soon enable him to develop revenue streams that in the case of Tobias Lewis- Woodgate, the 2x great grandson of Peter Woodgate (Poet Laureate In Aeternum) has earned Lewis over thirty million pounds from endorsements and public appearances.

         Sadly none of the original authors benefitted financially from the five volumes of Essex Tales produced in the first two decades of the last century. Published by the Rayleigh Set in print runs totalling no more than 600 copies, the authors sold their books at fairs and bazaars, donating their profits to charity. This might have been the extent of their fame had it not been for an employee of Penguin Books who, coming across a copy of Volume III at a jumble sale, persuaded her employers to publish. Its instant success in the early years of this century sparked a nationwide search for other volumes which so far has failed to uncover the first book in the series.

         Credited with reawakening public interest in the short story the books have now been published in over eighty countries selling 200 million copies. Their success has spawned a commercial bandwagon which at the present time includes seven major films as well as theme parks in London, San Francisco and Tokyo. Further parks in Paris and Beijing are scheduled to open in 2127.

         In less than twenty years the literary creations of the authors have sometimes blurred the line between fact and fiction. In a recent poll to identify the ten most famous Britons, Pitsea Pete, the comic creation of Bob Watson, was voted into third place narrowly behind Elizabeth I and Sir Winston Churchill. Had there been a poll for the most famous dog this would almost certainly have been won by Jack, Jane Scoggins’ WWI messenger dog, the number one visitor attraction at the London franchise in Battersea Park. The recent escape of one of the three Labradors trained to impersonate Jack triggered a nationwide search for the dog, real name Scoggy, which was eventually found trying to deliver a letter to the Battersea Dogs’ Home.

         Another animal creation of Essex Tales, the injured fox of Leonard Morgan’s story ‘Foxy Magic,’ is commemorated in the fox sanctuary at Hullbridge, Essex on the banks of the river Crouch. Yearly enactments of the classic story attract more visitors than the Summer Solstice at Stonehenge. A further two million persons regularly log on to the sanctuary’s web site of which a select one hundred viewers are allowed to sponsor individual foxes for annual fees that only the super rich can afford.

         Undoubtedly the place profiting most from the tales of the Rayleigh Set is Rayleigh itself which in recent years has doubled in size with the building of over twenty high-rise hotels. The flood of visitors, which during the summer months threatens to gridlock the pedestrianised streets of the town centre, have no shortage of attractions to visit. The High Street now mainly given over to souvenir shops and cafes still contains a number of buildings with known connections to the authors. The library where they met is probably the most photographed building in the world, while the branch of Iceland’s where Banks did his food shopping now sells only the beef curry convenience meal to which he was allegedly addicted. Purchasers of these are allowed a single perambulation of the perimeter aisle before exiting the building close to the British Heart Foundation shop that will forever be associated with W.R. French.

         Further attractions include the Post Office which issues commemorative stamps bearing the heads of individual authors, and the former home of Dorothy Chiverrell, now at the centre of the ‘Sitting Tennant’ visitor attraction featuring interactive 3D images of Jan and Betty and other characters from the eight stories she is known to have written. The recent opening of Unsworth Boulevard (formerly Cheapside East) is another major attraction that will only increase visitor numbers. Dedicated to the memory of Sis Unsworth, the ‘Downhall Bard’, it contains her house and garden, now a UNESCO World Heritage Site, and six other buildings dedicated to her much loved poems.

         As we draw close to the one hundredth anniversary of Banks’ death we may well reflect on the moment in time when a drop of his blood splashed down onto the book purchased by Linda. How this happened is an Essex Tale that may never be told. Should it appear in a yet to be discovered copy of the fabled volume VI it will have no shortage of readers. The world waits and hopes.   

Copyright Richard Banks

In the blackbird’s wake

 

Sleep is not something I am good at. Listening to yet another dawn chorus is a commonality I share with the birds. Today is no different to yesterday as I read and tune into noise from others around the globe

 

whale song

weaving my way back

into a dream

 

Robert Kingston, UK

First published, Pan Haiku review 5 2025

 

 UNCLE GEORGE  [Part 10 & Resolution]

By Richard Banks  

We awake to find the window wide open and the sun streaming in between curtains we have neglected to draw. It’s ten thirty and after a half hearted attempt to clear-up we begin the journey back to London and our jobs, which despite the upturn in our fortunes may still be needed.

         On Wednesday we read about us in the on-line editions of the Chronicle and Echo, and by Friday we have reporters from the London papers wanting to speak to us. Of Carew there is no mention. This can only be good news. For him our meeting on Saturday will be about what he thinks can be salvaged from his shabby attempt to defraud us. We can hardly wait to see the look on his face now we have the better of him, but when we get to the road running past the Gallery we find it taped off and a policeman on sentry duty. There’s smoke in the air and ash on the ground. A short distance away a thin plume of smoke is wafting up from the blaze that, although hidden by the bend in the road, can only be that of the Gallery.

         A fire engine departing the scene pulls up on the other side of the tape and the policeman lets it by. We, however, are informed that the road is closed and that we can not pass. We turn around, find a parking place several streets back and return on foot to find the tape back in place but the policeman missing. A trickle of people are taking advantage of his absence to slip by unchallenged. We join them and on arriving at the entrance to the Gallery stare across the car park at the charred remains of the gutted building.

         The wrought iron gates at the entrance to the car park are closed and one of the two policemen standing there tells us that the road is shortly to be reopened and that, for our own safety, we must stand on the far pavement. Any hope of this happening is thwarted by the arrival of further sightseers who finding no space on the pavement have no choice but to spill out onto the road. Among them is a familiar figure who, is walking boldly down the centre of the road. On being saluted by one of the policeman he addresses them in the genial fashion for which he’s now well known. It’s Callow who takes it upon himself to address the crowd and request their dispersal. The fire, he says, is as good as out and the embers must be left to cool. An official statement will be made later that day, until then there is nothing more to be said or seen. The crowd evidently agree and after taking the usual selfies begin to drift-off in the direction they have come. As the crowd thins he spots us and saunters over.

         “Thought I would find you here,” he says. “As you can see your 2 o’clock has been cancelled. I’m afraid you will have to make do with me instead. Why don’t we have a bite to eat at that nice restaurant we were at last Monday. I’ve got quite a lot to tell you.”

         “What’s happened?” asks Ally whose initial bewilderment is beginning to give way to panic. “Has everything been destroyed?”

         “You mean has your precious picture perished in the flames. Alas, the fire spread too quickly, for anything to be saved. But before we get on to that, and while there’s no one within earshot, let’s talk about that letter informing your uncle of his lottery win. You might have got away with it but for the fact that criminals like the Beale’s know many other criminals and once they decided to check-out your story it didn’t take too long before they came across the forger who did it. Unsurprisingly, this led them to believe that the picture had been purchased by your uncle with money they regard as belonging to themselves. A subsequent meeting with Carew was more than enough to confirm their suspicions. Sadly it appears that he was still in the building when the fire took hold.

         “You mean, he’s dead?” Says Ally struggling to get the words out.

         “No doubt about it, I have it on good authority.”

         “You mean the Beale’s? Was it them who did this?”

         “Let’s walk. There’s someone I want you both to meet - the reason why we are having this conversation. Mr Kovac is his name, not his real name of course, but it will do. Mr Kovac is an art dealer on the black web, with clients in the far east, who is keen on adding your picture to the many others he has sold into private collections. While he is not adverse to a fire sale he is less than convinced that what we are offering him is what was in the Gallery until yesterday. We thought that if he was to meet you, the present owner and hear you say that we’re acting on your behalf we would then be able to agree a deal.” 

         “And why should I do that?” I say.

         “Why not. It’s win, win. You receive the insurance money for the picture while the Beale’s get to keep the money Mr Kovac will be giving them. Anyway, what’s the alternative? Do you really want to get on the wrong side of the Beales? You know what they can do. Why put yourselves at risk? No, better if you meet Mr Kovac, tell him that you are willing participants in our little enterprise, then we all walk away much better-off than we were before. Come on now, you know it makes sense. Indeed, given the circumstances, the Beale’s have been unusually generous.”

         It was an offer not to be refused, so we said yes, what else could we do? Our meeting with Mr K, his accountant and a large, muscular man with a boxer’s face lasted little more than thirty minutes, and on eating next to nothing of our meals, we returned to Petherdale.

        

                              

                                    UNCLE GEORGE      [Final Resolution]

The prospect of remaining in Norfolk was now less than appealing and having put Uncle’s  house up for sale we departed back to London hoping against hope that we had seen the last of Callow and the Beale’s. The insurance claim that Mr Wells submitted on our behalf was settled a year later after the various investigations into the fire found no evidence of wrong doing. Of Carew nothing was found beyond charred fragments of bone from which it was not possible to extract DNA.

         We invested our ill-gotten gains in a Surrey mansion but otherwise did nothing likely to come to the attention of the Beale’s who we feared might still do us harm. Thankfully they never have. Others have not been so lucky. In 2021 Seth Beale, the second son of Frankie, was tried at the Old Bailey for murder but discharged when the main witness for the prosecution went missing, never to be seen again. It was in newspaper coverage of the trial that we learned that Frankie had died of a heart attack. While this at first seemed like good news the downside was that his sons were now in charge and, with no fond memories of ‘good old George’, might be thinking that our deal with their father was too generous to ourselves. Six years on from our altercation in a narrow country lane will not have been forgotten.    

         When my firm decided to set-up a new office in Prague I volunteered to help set it up, and Ally, who was in between jobs, came too. It was at the Havelska Market that we made fleeting contact with someone who had even more reason than ourselves to be keeping a low profile. The look of horror on his face when our eyes met was more than enough to tell me that this was no doppelgänger; Carew was alive and, judging by the way he was dressed, doing very nicely. On the crowded pavement he was past us and out of sight in seconds.

         It did not take us long to realise that if Carew was ever to be apprehended by the police what he had to say might well invalidate our insurance claim and send us to prison. Did the Beale’s know he was still alive - they who were supposed to have murdered him? Was there anything that made sense and might not, one day, become a danger to ourselves? It was with a sense of things unravelling that we returned to England in 2023 determined to live our lives to the full and without fear of things we were powerless to prevent. We cherish every day.                                                                    

                                                      *****      

         This document, relating mainly to the events of April 2015, has been lodged with the HSBC bank along with our separate wills which Ally insisted we make following the birth of our son, David George. It is to be handed to him, or his guardian, on the passing of both his parents.

         Having set out the circumstances by which we acquired our fortune my intention has been to both inform and forewarn. If read many years from now, its only function will, I hope, be to entertain - a ripping yarn in which his parents had the starring roles. As outcomes go there can be none better.

 

                                                                                          Phillip Jones

                                                                                            14^th March 2024.

 

[This paper handed to Mr Joseph Jones, executor of Mr Phillip Jones and guardian of his only child, David George, at the reading of the testator’s will on 12^th February 2025 – Caldow & Brent, sols.] 

 Copyright Richard Banks

 

Riddles 27

 Riddles 27

 

By the Riddler

The Riddler has two puzzles for us today:

 

No 1.  What is the fewest number of coins you can pay 99p with?

 

No 2. What digit has appeared in every date since 30.11.1999?

 

Keep em coming Riddler

 The Day the Rains Came Down

By  Sis Unsworth 

I am sure I heard the trees sigh, as I gazed up at the darkened sky

The flowers seem to bow and pray, in hope the rain would come today. 

All the earth was parched and dry, I heard the seagull’s eerie cry.

What they needed now had come, as angry clouds blocked out the sun.

The rain fell with sheer delight, continuing throughout the night.

Following the summer storm, lightning flashed till early morn.

The world became a different place, the trees stood tall & full of grace.

The grass revived began to grow, and mother nature seemed to glow.

The ponds and lakes so full of pride, now complement the country side

The rain cascading from the leaves, make music of the summer breeze.

I know how long we had to wait, but when it came it sure felt great!

I’m glad it rained, I really am, it saved me from a hosepipe ban.

Copyright Sis Unsworth

UNCLE GEORGE [Part 9 of 10]

 UNCLE GEORGE  [Part 9 of 10]

By Richard Banks

We arrive back to find John vacuuming his car. He’s the first to receive the good news. “We’re celebrating at the Wheatsheaf I tell him. He’s invited and everyone he knows, the more the merrier, I say. I phone Fred Cummings who, I discover, is now Editor of the Norfolk Chronicle. I have a story for him, I say. It’s not the one he was hoping for but nevertheless it relates to my uncle so maybe of interest. Cummings declares that it’s the best good news story he’s heard in years and that every paper in Norfolk will be running it as well as the London dailies. He wants a photograph of the lucky couple, so I invite him and a photographer along to the pub. But before then he wants an interview. Better to do it now, he says, rather than when you’re half cut and not knowing what day of the week it is. I agree and with the unfaltering clarity you would expect from someone relating a recent, life changing event I tell him how we found the letter in the loft. We were really lucky, I say, it was in a cardboard box under a pile of magazines and I was taking it down to the bin when the bottom of the box gave way and everything in it spilled out down the stairs. You can imagine our surprise when we found it. My uncle never spoke of winning any money and, of course, our first thoughts were what had he done with it all. He had always lived a very frugal life. Clearly he hadn’t spent it on himself or the house he lived in. We would never have discovered the truth but for the business card to which it was stapled. Mr Alexander Carew of the Swaffham Gallery it said, so earlier today we took ourselves down there and Mr Carew gave us the wonderful news that my uncle’s money had been invested in a work of art which is now worth considerably more than the amount paid for it.”

         “And you’re quite sure it belongs to you and not the gallery?”

         “Oh yes. My uncle was the sole owner and there are legal papers confirming this. He wanted the picture to be on display in Norfolk where the artist lived and worked which is why he made it available to the gallery on loan.”

         “That’s very generous of him, but why didn’t he tell you what he had done?”

         “My uncle was a very private person and towards the end of his life increasingly eccentric. The publicity of being identified as the gallery’s benefactor was something he would have found very difficult to deal with. It was a secret he was content to share only with Mr Carew, knowing that he would contact me on my uncle’s demise.”

         “But you contacted him?”

         “Yes, Mr Carew was unaware of my uncle’s decease until we informed him of it. They met every other month in Swaffham and it was their firm understanding that if Uncle failed to turn-up at one of these that Mr Carew would drive over to his house to check if he was OK. As they last met only a month ago he assumed my uncle was alive and well; he was, of course, very upset to find otherwise. Is there anything else you would like to know?”

         Mr Cummings thinks that will do for now. He will see me later at the Wheatsheaf.

         Call over, we shoot off to the solicitors’ office where Mr Wells reluctantly agrees to see us. After a few minutes he’s very glad he did; we have become clients of note, our value to his practice much increased. “And you say that the owner of the Gallery has confirmed your uncle’s title to the picture, and that there are legal papers confirming this and the loan arrangement with the gallery.”

         “Yes, that’s what Mr Carew told us, so it must be so,” I say, suddenly not so sure of myself, but determined not to show it.

         Mr Wells beams at me with a benevolence not evident at our previous meeting. The papers, he assures us, if correctly filed, can easily be found. He had a similar case five years ago which was resolved with a minimum of fuss. He will contact us again as soon as the relevant papers are in his possession.

         Meeting over he escorts us to the front door and waves us off with a cheery goodbye. It’s nearly five pm and with only three hours to go until the big celebration we decide to fortify ourselves against the alcohol to come by dining out at Cromer’s swankiest restaurant. We’re almost finished and ready to pay when who should come in but Callow.

         “Hi,” I say, and for a moment he looks at me as though he doesn’t know me, then he does. I introduce him to Ally. “This is the man who came to my aid when I was attacked.”

         Ally looks suitably impressed while Callow insists that he did nothing worth the mention. “Just a silly misunderstanding,” he says. “Glad to have been of assistance.”

         Not at all,” I say, “We’re having a celebration this evening at the Wheatsheaf in Craventhorpe. If you’re free, you’ll be more than welcome.”

         Callow thanks me politely for the invitation and asks what we are celebrating and we spend the next few minutes telling him about Uncle’s lottery win and his purchase of an expensive painting which is now ours. This, I think, is working out well. Whether he comes or not he’s bound to mention this to the Beales. If he believes us he will likely convince them, and any thoughts they might have going back to the missing brandy will be ended before they begin.

         Callow congratulates us on our good fortune. Is there a flicker of doubt in his face? Does he believe me? I think he does. His presence at our celebration may, however, indicate otherwise. If he suspects we have something to hide he will come to observe and listen, to catch us out if he can, but when he opts to send us a bottle of champagne rather than attend it seems he has taken us at face value.

         Cummings arrives with photographer in tow, and we pose for pictures brandishing a photocopy of ‘Uncle’s letter’. The pub is full of our new found friends who soon get very drunk at our expense while we stick to low alcohol lager. The celebration ends at 5am when the after-party at Petherdale comes to an end and our remaining guests stagger home apart for one who is carried outside and abandoned in a bus shelter. We, also, are in an abandoning mood and, ignoring the multitude of bottles and cans left by our guests retreat upstairs to bed where we discover more cans and a pair of pants that aren’t mine. We’re beyond caring and fall asleep utterly exhausted. 

(to be Continued)

Copyright Richard Banks