Riddles 26
By the Riddler
The Riddler has two
puzzles for us today:
No 1. What vowel does not appear in any of the
numbers between 0 & 21?
No 2. Which month,
spelt backwards, is a vegetable?
Keep em
coming Riddler
Wednesday, 6 August 2025
Riddles 26
Monday, 4 August 2025
Fred, our resident ghost.
Fred, our resident ghost.
By Barbara Thomas
Let me tell you about our ghost, Fred.
We moved into the Lodge on December 24
The day we moved in it poured, with rain lashing down against
The windows. Our furniture was soaked, we were soaked through.
Good start for a move, this carried on all over the weekend.
We went to put the electrics and central heating on, nothing worked.
So we had no option to go into a nearby hotel.
I phoned the company that had installed our boiler but they
couldn’t come out until Monday
Strike 1 to Fred!
Strike 2. After the plumber had sorted out the heating and told
us how to turn the electricity on.
We woke up 3 days later to find we had no water.
I spoke to our next door neighbour who told us about the man
who not only lived here but had built the Lodge.
Apparently when his wife went into hospital and later sadly
died, Fred became a recluse not allowing anybody to help
him. The garden is a wrap around garden and eventually
Became a wilderness.
He refused the council to add cladding and in general
never went far and stayed in doors most of the time.
It was very much his Lodge.
Then I realised that “Fred” was not going to give up his home
Lightly, even in death.
Once I realised what I was up against, when ever things
went wrong without any reason, I knew it was Fred.
The shower flooded. The taps in kitchen and bathroom
Leaked. That we sorted. Strike 3
We got the plumber to replace taps etc. Sorted!
Next we noticed water in the passage it turned out the mastic,
for
What ever reason, had perished.
Once more in came the plumber. Sorted!
During the winter we were told that BT would supply
Internet and landline. We then got a text that they were unable
to carry out the job until the middle of January
That meant no TV or Landline. UGH!
So, again we moved to a Hotel.
The strangest thing was I had used the 2nd bedroom
as my office and dressing room.
Both my computer and my printer broke down?
My husband purchased a new computer and printer
that worked in the living room but not in 2nd bedroom!?
My great grandson will not go in that room, he says there
Is a man in there. My granddaughters’ dog won’t go in there
either
he will race around but stops dead at the door.
I believe “Fred’s” being is still in our home but, things are
getting better. I think he has finally realised what ever he throws at us we
are prepared…
Copyright Barbara
Thomas
Tuesday, 29 July 2025
THE BUCKET LIST
THE BUCKET LIST
By Bob French
The main sitting room of the Dickens Care Home just
outside Purleigh, was buzzing as Jane, the head nurse sounded the evening
gong. Those who had booked their place to watch ‘Gone with the wind’
in the upstairs lounge, for the eighth time, started to make their way out of
the sitting room.
The
card and domino players left by the west wing to play in the conservatory,
whilst Nancy and Albert waited for the mass exodus to settle down.
After
a few minutes, Albert stood and addressed the remaining eight gentle folk as he
sometimes referred to them.
“Right,
everyone, we have just two months left before we declare the winner of the
Dickens Care Home Bucket List Champion of 2019.” Everyone applauded
their achievements.
Janet
smiled and gently nodded to
That
night Janet paid a visit to her closest friend, Gwenavere, who dabbled in the
dark arts. Tea leaves, dice and tarot cards.
Gwenavere
could see the pain in Janet’s eyes and nodded her towards a soft arm
chair. “How you feeling Love.” Janet had been suffering from
osteoarthritis for a long time and found sanctuary in the little bags of herbal
medicine that Gwenavere would dispense to those who needed to get through the
day. Without being asked, she put the kettle on and passed Janet a
small bag of marijuana and watched her sprinkle it into a warm cup of Chamomile
tea. This, she found that it would drive away the pain and allow her to sleep
peacefully. “Now what date are you planning your last quest my love?”
Janet
looked up at her friend. “I was thinking of All Hallows’ Eve. I wouldn’t stand
out.”
Gwenavere
nodded. How you getting out there then. Tis a long way?”
“It’s
only two and a half miles and I have walked it in the day time and during the
night, so I think I can do it.”
It
had just past eleven forty-five on a cold and frosty night in late October as
Janet reached the outskirts of the forest. She paused while she took
a breath, then moved along the muddy path until she came to the old rickety
bench which she had found five years ago, just on the fringes of the dead
Forest of Mundon.
With
a smile, she eased herself down onto the bench and felt a sense of achievement
as mentally she crossed off the last task from her bucket list; to visit the
ancient oaks of Mundon.
After
about ten minutes, she took the flask from her coat pocket, unscrewed the cap
and drank the warm Chamomile tea then lent back to allow the tiny leaves to do
their magic. Feeling the peaceful sensation start to take hold of her old and
frail body, Janet took a deep breath and felt the cold night air start to seep
deep into her lungs until she felt invigorated as though her old body was
coming to life. She stood and slowly walked towards the skeletal
monuments that held secrets of the past that no man would ever hear.
Under
a veil of frost and moonlight, the petrified oaks of Mundon stood like ancient
sentinels, their gnarled limbs twisted in eternal agony. Silver ice clung to
barks long dead, glinting faintly in the cold starlight. A spectral hush hung
over the marshland, broken only by the whisper of wind through hollow branches.
Each tree, lifeless yet looming, casting long skeletal shadows across the frozen
earth.
As
she slowly moved amongst the tombstones of oak, time felt suspended, her breath
visible in the still night air. The oaks, remnants of a forgotten forest, seem
to watch her in silence; ghosts rooted in soil, frozen in time.
The
further she moved into the centre of the forgotten forest, the more she felt
younger, as though some medieval force was gradually occupying her body and
soul. Then she saw them. A series of shooting stars, streaking across the deep
black heavens, leaving their Icey trail briefly before fading into the
distance. A message from the gods she thought as she glanced at her
watch. It was midnight.
Without
thinking she fell to her knees and started to recite a prayer she’d read in a
book of ancient pagan rituals many years ago. Her mumblings were
interrupted by the sound of people singing and playing musical instruments in
the distance. Her inquisitiveness got the better of her and she
stood and started to follow the sound of merriment. Her steps increased until
she felt herself running flat out towards the noise. Suddenly huge
bon fires burst into bright flames in the four corners of the field as though
protecting those who had chosen to celebrate the festival.
The
sounds grew louder, yet she could not see anyone. The pain in her chest started
to burn, but she knew she had to get near to the fire for it to work. The
closer she got to the noise, so the smoke from the huge fire burning in the
centre of the celebrations, started to thin and she could now make out
faces. Her breathing started to labour and the pain was increasing,
forcing her to stumble and she felt herself falling. Then she saw him, her
Jack, the man she had fallen in love with and lived together for some fifty years
before he moved to the other side as Gwenavere explained to her. He ran towards her and cradled
her in his arms.
“You
came my darling, you came.”
“Oh
Jack, I’m hurting my love.”
“Tis
alright my darling, we are together now, it will pass.”
Jack
glanced into the huge fire, then looked into her eyes. “We have but a few
minutes before all this ends, Will you marry me?”
Janet
smiled and nodded. Suddenly they were standing at the altar of the
thirteenth century
The
faint sound of the gentle moaning wind as it passed through the tormented limbs
of the ancient oaks was all that was left of the gathering. In the
stillness of the dawn came the sound of the single bell of Saint Mary’s,
together. With wind and bell woven in a haunting symphony, solemn, and
strangely beautiful in the stillness of a forgotten world.
Janet
was reported missing the following day and after the briefest of searches, was
found sitting up against one of the huge old oak trees in the
Copyright Bob French
Monday, 28 July 2025
UNCLE GEORGE [Part 4 of 10?]
UNCLE GEORGE [Part 4 of 10?]
By Richard Banks
On
the Monday, after breakfast, I set-off with my uncle’s will, his death
certificate and proof of who I was. The cashier at the Upshire Bank declared
herself unable to deal with my enquiry and after disappearing ‘off-stage’ to
consult a colleague showed me into the office of a Mr Woodrow whose weary
expression indicated that my arrival had not, from his point of view, been well
timed. He examined the documents I brought before declaring that any money
belonging to my uncle could only be disclosed to his solicitor.
“But surely,” I said, “you can tell me
if the account is open or not. It seems a pity to waste your time and the
solicitor’s if it’s been closed.”
He nodded in a begrudging sort of way
and, taking from me the bank’s letter, typed out the account number and
examined the client details on his monitor. “I’m afraid you’re out of luck Mr
Jones, the account was closed twenty one years ago, a pity that.”
“Oh, why so?” I asked. “Much in it?”
Mr Woodgrove raised a disapproving
eyebrow. “That I couldn’t possibly say, Mr Jones but if I was to tell you that
£30,000 was a significant amount back then you should not construe me as
meaning that such a sum was in your uncle’s account when he withdrew it all in
cash. Now, Mr Jones, if you will excuse me I have work to do.”
So, uncle had walked out of the Upshire
with a bag or suitcase full of banknotes. How had he got his hands on such a
large sum and what had become of it? If this wasn’t a mystery nothing was, but
my growing optimism that the Echo would be able to provide me with further
information was all but quashed within minutes of entering their premises. The
young guy on reception did not know the person signing their letter or what the
interview was about, assuming it ever took place. No doubt, he said, it was
something to do with a story they running at the time but what that was he had
no idea. They only kept their back numbers for ten years. I could speak to the
Editor when he was back in the office but as he had only been with the paper
five years it was unlikely he would know any more than himself. Perhaps, he
suggested, the best course of action would be for me to leave my mobile number,
along with a note saying what I had just told him, and if Mr Thorpe could be of
assistance he would, no doubt, give me a ring.
I did as he suggested but with little
expectation that a call-back, if it happened, was going to add anything to what
I had found out at the bank. Was the Echo’s request for an interview linked to
the money in my uncle’s account? I felt sure it was, but if the paper was
unable to tell me this, who else could? The Beale’s? My imagination was in
overdrive. Stick to the facts I told myself, but of these there were far too
few.
I was having lunch in a pub nearby when
the ringtone of my mobile heralded a call from Matlock & Wells informing me
that a life assurance policy lodged with them when uncle made his will would be
adding a further £300 to his estate. If I was less upbeat about this than the
solicitor’s clerk appeared to be it did at least bring me down to earth. The
purpose of my visit was to decide what to do with uncle’s house and its
effects. With only a few days left before my return to
Unsurprisingly sleep didn’t come easily
that night. The feeling of euphoria when Ally said yes was soon followed by the
realisation that there was now even more to do than before. In addition to
binning uncle’s clothes and linen I had also to dispose of much of his furniture.
Some of it would come in useful until we could afford better but most of the
rest would be giving the tip a bad name. We would be needing a freezer, a
washing machine, a TV, none of which uncle had. The house would need rewiring
and central heating installed. I awoke, with an aching head, to the ring tone
of my mobile. After lying awake for most of the night I had overslept, it was
10am.
“Mr Phillip Jones?” the voice was
unfamiliar, businesslike, a certain tension in his voice indicating that for him
this was an important call.
“Yes, that’s me.”
“My name is Fred Cummings. I gather
from Eddie Thorpe at the Echo that you’ve been asking about a letter I sent to
George Jones in 1994. No doubt you’ll be wanting to know why I wanted to speak to your uncle. I have much to
tell you and in return you might be able to fill in a few gaps for me. I
suggest we meet at the Wheatsheaf in Craventhorpe. Are you free this
afternoon?”
I replied that I was, my commitment to the practicalities of setting-up home suddenly put on hold in favour of a treasure hunt that was almost certainly going to end in disappointment. But who would know, I told myself, and if Cummings had nothing worth the telling that would be an end to it with only an afternoon wasted. Having eased my conscience by dropping-off more stuff at the tip I set-off for the Wheatsheaf trying to suppress my boyish excitement for a mystery about to be revealed, or so I hoped.
(To be Continued)
Copyright Richard Banks
Friday, 25 July 2025
UNCLE GEORGE [Part 3 of 10]
UNCLE GEORGE [Part 3 of 10?]
By Richard Banks
I
concluded my work for the day by burning the papers in the hearth and, after
feeding myself again, made ready for the gig. We departed in John’s car about
seven for a pub called the Green Man where there was live music most Saturdays.
My first impression that he was a likeable sort of guy proved only too true,
and it came as no surprise that he knew my uncle rather better than most people
know their neighbours.
“George,” he assured me, “was a grand
old chap, always ready to lend a hand when one was needed. He did a lot of jobs
for me and other people around here, only taking money to cover the cost of the
materials he used. In return I would run him over to Cromer when he had
business there, or to the Hare and Hounds on a Sunday when the bus there don’t
run.”
“So he liked a pint then, my uncle?”
“Not particularly. But he liked the
company there, fellows like himself if you get my drift.”
“You mean he was...gay?”
“Well, he never said as much, but there
was no hiding it. Not that he ever attempted to, though it would have been
better for him had he tried. It wouldn’t have been an issue in
“So they gave him a hard time?”
“Yeah, much was said, sometimes to his
face, other times in not so quiet whispers behind his back. When the farmers
were hiring he was always the last to be asked. How he managed before he got
his pension I’ll never know. It couldn’t have been easy.”
“Did he ever mention me?”
“Only once and then not by name. Said
he had made a will and left everything to a nephew he hadn’t seen in twenty
years. Said you were a bright boy with a curious mind who would exceed all
expectations, including your own, if you were prepared to go the extra mile.”
“Meaning?”
“Work hard, I guess. That’s what I
thought at the time, proud uncle hoping his nephew would do well and have the
breaks he didn’t. Left school at fourteen your uncle and was often out of work.
He would have been pleased to see you doing better.”
By the time we arrived at the Green Man
I was feeling more than a little guilty of being the beneficiary of a poor man
whom I had done nothing to help in the twenty three years our lives had
overlapped. Whatever else I did that evening I was definitely going to raise a
glass in his honour and say a quiet, but sincere thank you to my uncle and
benefactor.
The pub was the largest within five
miles and, on a live music night, full to the rafters. Under the stern gaze of
its landlord, a former commando called Hikey, it had a surprisingly diverse
clientele of all ages where the upwardly mobile rubbed shoulders with the rough
and ready, and feuding biker gangs maintained an uneasy truce with each until
off the premises.
On discovering that John, like myself,
was partial to a Guinness we got served and sat ourselves down at the last
table with unclaimed seats. The Rocket Boys were a man down on their original
line-up. Barely recognisable from their heyday they were still a good turn and going down well with the locals when, to my horror, I
spotted my assailants of the previous day standing together near the stage.
Having inadvertently made eye contact with one of them, he and the others were
now returning my gaze with surly expressions that while not exactly friendly
were at least an improvement on what they were showing me the previous day. Had
Callow’s intervention been enough to ensure my safety? I was soon to
find out.
The Group’s first set over, the oldest
guy among them beat a straight line towards me beer glass in hand. About fifty
years of age he was someone you wouldn’t want to be upsetting. Tall and
thickset he had the build of a man who spent much of his time lifting weights
in a gym. His patronage of a tattoo parlour was also evident from the
decorations on his arms and chest which the hang-loose vest
he was wearing did little to hide. The hell’s angel face on his chest was
scarcely less threatening than his own that, from
below a shaven head, was staring, in unfriendly fashion, at everyone about him -
everyone that is but myself who was now being favoured by his best attempt at a
smile.
“Hi, I’m Frankie Beale,” he said,
extending his free hand for the shaking. “I gather you’ve already met my boys.
Sorry about the misunderstanding. Now we know you’re George’s kith and kin it
won’t happen again. A great bloke your uncle; we got on well. He knew my Dad
way back, were in the same class at school. Always stood by his friends did
George even when it did him no good. But that’s the sort of guy he was, and we
did well by him when we could. Let me know if you need any help taking stuff
down to the tip, I’ll send one of the boys over with the van.”
Having no wish to renew my
acquaintanceship with his sons I thanked him for his ‘kind offer’ but declared
myself, as yet, undecided what to do with Uncle’s effects. He nodded
thoughtfully and after further expressions of regret over, “the passing of good
old George” returned to the company of his sons. Relieved to see him go I was,
at the same time, puzzled by some of the things he had said. Even though I knew
next to nothing about my uncle it seemed unlikely that he and Frankie had ever
been friends. If that had been the case why hadn’t he come to the funeral? And
what was he alluding to when he said that uncle stuck by his friends, ‘even
when it did him no good’, a strange turn of phrase. Had uncle got too close to
the Beale’s and suffered as a consequence? If Frankie had said a little more
than he intended it was probably not a good idea to be asking him any awkward
questions. I was at peace with the Beale’s, no point in risking that!
It
was not until we were heading back to Petherdale that John expressed surprise
that I should know the Beale’s. On assuring him that I didn’t I recounted my
encounter with Frankie’s sons and Mr Callow’s intervention.
“Good grief,” he exclaimed, “you’ve had
a narrow escape. It’s serious grief for anyone who gets on the wrong side of
them. People around here don’t even talk about them in case they get to hear
what’s said.”
“Did my uncle have any involvement with
them? It won’t go any further than ourselves.”
“That’s OK mate. I know I can trust you
to keep it to yourself, but there’s not much I can tell you. Your uncle knew
Frankie Beale that’s for sure; I saw them talking in the street several times.
Your uncle was never at ease when they were together. As to what they were
saying I was never close enough to hear.”
“And he never spoke of Frankie, or his
sons?”
“Never. He would have known better than
most not to do that. The only other thing I can tell you is that I once saw
Frankie give your uncle something from his wallet, probably money, but I can’t
say for sure, so maybe what he said about doing well by George wasn’t so far
from the truth. However, if I was you I would let it go, some things are best
not to know.”
It was, of course, good advice, and
well meant, but not enough to put me off making enquiries at the bank and the
newspaper. What could be the harm in that?
Copyright Richard Banks
Friday, 18 July 2025
UNCLE GEORGE [Part 2 of 10]
UNCLE GEORGE [Part 2 of 10]
Richard Banks
Mother was right not to expect too
much, but while it was no palace, and little in it less than twenty years old,
it was clean and well maintained, a pot of paint and some brushes in the
kitchen indicating that uncle had been busy at his DIY shortly before his
death. The lounge in the front, no more than a metre back from the road, was
both broader and longer than I expected, and upstairs there were two bedrooms,
one big enough to take a double bed, and a bathroom with an emersion heater
that supplied hot water to the sink and bath. Without central heating and
double glazing it wouldn’t be worth much if I chose to sell, but no one could
claim it had been neglected. On the hearth of an open fireplace there was a
pile of logs and a scuttle full of coal. Never having made a fire before, I was
less than certain how to go about it, but with an evening chill developing I
determined, with the help of mother’s matches, to give it a try. Working on the
principle of Daily Mirror first, followed by wood and progressively larger
pieces of coal my efforts were soon rewarded by a decent blaze that very
definitely warmed the air, providing one didn’t stray too far from the
fireplace. Too tired to do much else but unpack and eat the remaining
sandwiches mother had made me, I settled down for the night on the sofa pulling
it close to the hearth and observing the fire slowly burn itself out.
I slept well and on waking found the
sun shining in my eyes through the middle of uncle’s thick woollen curtains
that, despite my best efforts, could never be made to meet in the middle. The
spartan chillness of his bathroom was even less to my liking and, once I had
established that there was no food in the house a trip to the nearest
supermarket quickly became number one on my ‘to do’ list.
I had decided to stay in the house
until the following weekend returning to
my
next door neighbour out back washing his car was the opportunity I needed, not
only to find out where the nearest supermarket was, but to check him out, along
with the rest of my neighbours. Were these people I wanted to be living cheek
by jowl with? If not, the house would definitely go up for sale, but right from
the start nothing could be clearer than that I was going to get on well with
John. What’s more in the twenty or so minutes I spent talking to him I found
out nothing likely to put me off my other neighbours, one of whom was only
there at weekends. The good news didn’t end there. The
On arrival I was much taken with what I
found, and having done my shopping and eaten brunch in the pub returned to
Petherdale somewhat later than I intended. John’s Mini Cooper was missing but a
note pinned to my back door invited me to join him that evening to see a local
group called the Rocket Boys who had once had a top ten hit and been on Top of
the Pops. Having added the word yes and pinned the note to his back door I
started on my second task of the day which was the sorting of my uncle’s
papers. Had my mother been present this would have been achieved in less than
an hour but left to my own devices I was all for a more cautious approach.
There might, I reasoned, be something of value among them, an insurance policy,
premium bonds, evidence of a bank or post office account that no one knew
about. If unlikely, it was not impossible and I resolved to look through
everything at least once.
I was also intent on solving a mystery,
in finding out what my uncle had done that could not be spoken of. Whatever it
was, he had done me a favour and if I could do something to restore his
reputation that was, perhaps, the least I could do. Whatever his faults he had
not been an idle man and, in addition to the paint pots found, his kitchen
cupboards were full of brushes and cleaning products. He was also a man with a
library of some thirty to forty books on art and art/history, including the
catalogue of an art gallery in Swaffham. Evidently there was more to my uncle
than might have been expected from an agricultural labourer of limited
education.
It was one
o’clock and with nothing much done I adjourned to the kitchen for a snack I
neither needed or deserved. It was there, while rummaging through his cutlery
drawer that I found the two keys that further delayed my sifting of his papers,
one large and rusted while the smaller of the two was much like a key I used at
work for the opening and locking of a metal security cabinet. That it served no
such purpose in Uncle’s house was only too apparent, but nevertheless they both
had to fit something so, on eating the pie and beans I had been cooking, I went
from room to room trying in vain to find the locks they fitted. It was with a
sense of annoyance at time wasted that an hour later I returned to the
gathering up of uncle’s papers determined to do at least one useful thing that
day before tea and the gig to follow.
Having put
every last sheet of paper into a bin bag I worked my way through them all
putting everything to be burned on the hearth and those papers worthy of closer
scrutiny onto the rug behind me. Two hours later only two papers had made it
onto the rug, a standard pro-forma from the Upshire Bank regarding an account
on which the rate of interest rate had changed and a letter from the Cromer
Echo requesting an interview on an unspecified subject for which the newspaper
was prepared to pay ‘a sum to be agreed’. Curiously both papers had been
dispatched within a few days of each other in September 1994. Was this the
glimmer of a mystery that might also produce an unexpected windfall? Was the
account still open? If so the capital sum it contained would be much increased
by over twenty years of compound interest. As for the letter that was certainly
worth looking into.
(To be
continued)
Copyright
Richard Banks
Thursday, 17 July 2025
UNCLE GEORGE [Part 1 of 10]
UNCLE GEORGE [Part 1 of 10]
by Richard Banks
When
I stood up in church and did the eulogy it was only too obvious to the dozen or
so persons present how little I knew about my uncle. We had met only three
times, at my christening and twice when I was a small boy not yet at school –
at least that’s what I’m told. If so, then uncle would have been in his late fifties, an unmarried
man, who my mother described as a confirmed bachelor. Father puffed hard on his
pipe when she said that, always a sign that something had met with his
disapproval, a something that might be shared with his brothers at the Feathers
but nothing that could be said in the presence of the womenfolk. Not that they
didn’t have chapter and verse on whatever it was but to them the good name of
the family demanded that knowledge of the miscreant, and his misdeeds, be
hidden away inside them, in a part of the brain
labelled ‘private, keep out’.
Thus in 2015 when the solicitor’s
letter arrived informing me that Uncle had left me his house in Norfolk, and
everything in it, mother was not as pleased as I thought she would be. The
property, she said, would likely be rundown and in need of repair. Uncle George
had no money, never did have, was nothing more than a casual labourer working on
farms when there was work to be had. He only had the house because it belonged
to his father who brought it up cheap as a sitting tenant. Nothing in it was
likely to be worth a penny piece and I would probably have to pay someone to
take it all away. As for his papers they must be burned unread. No good, she
said, ever came from reading a man’s private papers. Indeed, she would come
with me to make sure this was done. Given her aversion to lengthy car trips
there was little prospect of her doing so and, once she had my assurance that I
would do as she decreed, her involvement was restricted to the buying of a
large box of matches.
I set out, on a Friday morning from my bedsit
in Clerkenwell for the offices of Matlock & Wells in Cromer with the uneasy
feeling that they might have more to gain from my uncle’s demise than myself.
However, by the time I pulled into the car park at the rear of their premises I
was in a more optimistic mood. The day was unusually warm for May, a clear blue
sky, and the sun shining brightly on a countryside bursting into life after a
long winter. The thought occurred to me that if my uncle’s house was in
reasonable condition it might be possible to both live and work there. Why not
I thought. Other people do it, why not me? Almost all my work was done on
computer and it mattered little where it and myself were located. Even if I did
have to show up at the office once or twice a week it was definitely doable
and, who knows, Ally, my girlfriend of nine months, might well be amenable to
life in the country.
My meeting with Mr Wells did nothing to
dent my good mood and having been given a road map of the local area and the
keys to the house I was soon out of Cromer and making my way down country lanes
scarcely wider than the car. Nothing in
Four young
men dressed in army camouflage tops and slashed jeans spilled out onto the road
and advanced towards me shouting abuse, the most vocal of them brandishing a
crowbar. With the prospect of worse to come, and neither fight or flight being
an option, I locked the doors and sat tight. It was time for soothing words,
but my opening observations that everything was cool and that no damage had
been done were not having the desired effect. A guy with a tattoo on his face
was pummelling my bonnet with clenched fists while another was threatening to
break my nearside window if I didn’t open up.
It is at
moments like this that you wish you had a Guardian Angel who would
suddenly appear and make everything OK. Thankfully for me such beings do exist,
although not usually at the wheel of a Ford Mondeo, clad in plus fours and a
tweed jacket. Having pulled up behind the jeep my saviour was now striding
fearlessly into the fray demanding an end to hostilities. Remarkably his
intervention could not have been more successful, my assailants now as quiet
and inoffensive as a turned-off alarm clock.
“Get back in your vehicle,” demanded my
deliverer and, without so much as a whimper, they did as they were told. Having
dealt with them he proceeded, stern faced, towards me.
“You’ll have to back-up,” he said.
“There’s a passing bay thirty yards back. You will need to pull into it and let
them through.” He was, evidently, a man used to being obeyed and although he
spoke civilly enough he seemed no better disposed to me than he was to them. It
was time to put myself on the side of the good guys so I thanked him warmly for
his intervention. He looked a little surprised but made no comment except to
say that he would walk back with me and that I was to tuck-in as close to the
hedge as I could; they weren’t, he said, likely to be too careful on their way
past.
A minute or so later the jeep roared
past with my benefactor observing their departure from behind my rear bumper.
“Have you business here?” he asked, his voice wary but not unfriendly. Bearing
in mind that his car was still parked in the middle of a narrow country lane I
wasted no time in telling him that my uncle had died and that I had come to
take possession of his house in the
“So, you’re Phillip Jones’s, George’s
kin. Yes, you’re not unlike him. The house is two
miles along on the right, but there’s no village, Petherdale is a row of
cottages built by a farmer of that name. There’s a driveway at the side and
parking spaces at the back. I’m sorry for what happened back there. You’ve just
made the acquaintance of the Beale boys. They’ve been having a little trouble
lately with a gang from
A few minutes later he was by and I was
on my way again, thankful that my journey was soon to end. Ten minutes later I
was parked at the rear of Uncle’s house and using the key so often in his hand
to open what was now my back door.
(To be
Continued)
Copyight
Richard Banks
Tuesday, 15 July 2025
HARRY’S SURPRISE
HARRY’S SURPRISE
By Bob French
It was a usual Friday afternoon when the factory
hooter sounded, heralding the end of the busy day shift. Within
minutes, the wide open space leading to the main gate was filled with loud
chatter and laughter as the five hundred or so workers of Jimsons and
Wentworth, the furniture factory in Hounslow, slowly made their way out of the
premises and into an exciting weekend. Their local football team was due to
play Brentford on Saturday and the Chipies, the factory ladies netball team was
due to play their arch enemies, the Twickenham Owels. As usual, old
man Jimson had laid on busses to and from both events. Regardless of
the results, he’d promised his workers that after church, he would throw a
barbecue on the field behind the factory.
Watching the happy band of workers pass
through the main gate was Harry Thornton, a tall, well build man who had served
his country in the Royal Navy for some fifteen years. Harry was well respected
within the community; the coach of the under tens mixed football team and a
story teller at the local infants and primary school, and of course, come
Christmas, he secretly played the role of Santa Clause.
Over the years, he had become the person
to go to if you had a problem. He had got to know nearly
everyone who worked at the factory including their families. Now and
then he would pick one of the workers at random to step into his small, but
comfortable security office for a chat and discretely find out if anyone was on
the fiddle.
As he stood nodding to those who managed
to get out of the factory early, he noticed Alf Pilkington, a jovial man who
worked on the metal frame side of the furniture shop. As he drew near, Harry
grinned and held up his hand.
“What ya got there Alf?”
“Sawdust
mate. Jean is going to try and make toys for the school Christmas
party.”
Harry lifted the huge bags of
sawdust from the wheelbarrow, then satisfied with his inspection, turned to
Alf. “What a good idea. How are the kids?”
“Fine. Little Freddy and our
May are both looking forward to the football training tomorrow afternoon.”
With that they parted company and Harry
went back to his scrutiny of the workers. Harry noticed that Alf didn’t always
have a wheelbarrow full of sawdust and must have thought that Jean, his wife,
had completed the toy making for the school.
A fortnight passed before Alf appeared
again and for a catch-up rather than a security check, Harry nodded to Alf.
“Jean making some extra toys then Alf?”
“Yeh, the headteacher asked her if she
could make a few extra for the kids down at the orphanage. She couldn’t say no,
could she?”
For the following two weeks, Alf stopped
and had a chat with Harry, who would discretely check out what Alf had in the
wheelbarrow. Sometimes it was old balls of twine and others, sawdust, and
after a chat about the chances of their football team being promoted this
season, Alf was allowed to leave the office.
On the twentieth of December, spirits
were high as the workers passed through the gates to begin their two weeks
Christmas holiday. As usual, Harry was nodding to the masses as they
made their way home. then he saw Alf and called him over.
“Fancy a cupper Alf.”
With a grin on his face, Alf nodded and
made his way over to the little office.
“As it’s Christmas, fancy a dram?”
“That’s very kind of you Harry; don’t
mind if I do.”
After pouring a shot of Glenfiddich into
his coffee, they sat chatting for about ten minutes. Then Harry
looked up at Alf. “OK mate. I’ve been watching you for some time and I can’t work
out what your scam is?”
Alf laughed. Wheel barrows Harry,
wheel barrows.
Copyright
Bob French
Wednesday, 9 July 2025
The Wheelbarrow
The Wheelbarrow
By
Jane Goodhew
It was still early Spring, but the sun was shining and the birds
singing. So, time to make use of it and get out into the garden which was in a
very sorry state after a long and wet winter.
In the corner, hidden beneath years of growth and garden refuse, I'd kidded myself was a nature reserve for wildlife, like the resident hedgehog
and anything else that cared to live there I spied the remains of my beloved, but past its prime, wheelbarrow.
Unfortunately, it was rather dilapidated with its wheel missing so not
much use as they were rather hard to replace but, waste not want not. I dragged it out and hosed it down and
already it began to look more presentable after a good scrub and with all the debris
removed. In the shed was an old pot of
paint so out came the sheet which I spread over the patio and placed the barrow
upon it and started to sand it down and then give it a coat of paint. That wasn’t enough so rifling through the
cupboards and finding more pots of unused paint I got them all out and began
with a mural on the sides. Flowers,
trees and fairies floated around the sides and the inside was a vivid green
that rose in layers till it ended in the deepest blue for the sky. Left in the sun to dry I went off to the
garden centre to buy some potting soil, plants and new pots. By the time I
returned my wheel barrow had taken on a new lease of life as the paint had
dried and the mural looked like something from an Enid Blyton book combined
with the Flower Fairies or at least it did to my biased eyes.
Now to decide where to place it before putting in the newly potted
plants to finish off my project. After
some deliberation, I decided near the Weeping Willow overlooking the pond and
near the rustic bench was the perfect spot especially as I had some left over
patio slabs that I could put down for it to stand on and not sink into the lawn
or topple over into the pond. The end
result was just what I wanted so with a freshly made cup of tea I sat down to
admire my handy work and catch the last rays of sun before it left for the day
and listen to the birds sing. Bliss.
Copyright Jane Goodhew
Monday, 7 July 2025
A CHRISTMAS STORY OF LONG, LONG AGO
A CHRISTMAS STORY OF LONG, LONG AGO
By Bob French
The people of the little town of
Edward,
who was making his way home on leave from the war for the first time, pulled up
the damp rough collar of his great-coat to around his ears and lowered his face
into the bitter cold wind that cut across the
Edward
was twenty one when he enlisted into the Essex Regiment during the summer of
1915. He felt it a sense of duty to fight for his country, which his father
understood and praised him for, whilst his Mother did not and scolded him. Then he remembered the day
he told Grace, his young lady friend and grinned to himself at her reaction. She had stared at him for a
few seconds, then slapped his face hard, Then, with compassion in her eyes, she
reached out and held his stinging face gently in her hands and kissed him. It had been their first
kiss.
He
had left the family farm just outside White Notley and within six months had
passed through basic training. During the bitter winter of 1916 found himself
in
His
thoughts were suddenly distracted by the sound of jangling chains and the crack
of a whip that cut through the silence of the vast white and empty countryside.
Edward’s eyes followed the sound until they settled on four steaming horses
that strained against the straps and chains that imprisoned them. He stopped
and returned the coachman’s wave, then grinned to himself. ‘That must be the half past
three coach from
His
heavy breathing caused the air around him to billow like a steam engine pulling
away from the station as he struggled up the last few yards to the crest of a
familiar hill. Then he
rested, and looked down onto a small valley, hidden partially by the snow laden
trees, his eyes began to sting as he fought back the tears. Here was the place where he
had started life, where he had grown from a scrawny boy to a man, under the
protection of people who loved and cared for him. Where he had sweated and
broken his back on an unyielding land; where he had given his love for the
first time to someone other than his mother. Then
it dawned upon him. Here
was home.
As
he adjusted the shoulder straps of his haversack and began the perilous descent
towards the small clump of cottages and barns, someone shouted his name. It
carried clearly through the cold afternoon air.
“Edward!”
He stopped, and through tired eyes
quickly searched the snow covered farm in front of him.
“Edward!”
He felt excitement rush through his
body as he frantically searched the countryside. Then
he saw her stumbling up the field toward him. A grin spread across his face as
he lurched down the slope, slipping and sliding as he went. They met in each other’s
arms, at the edge of the small brook which had frozen over to allow her to
cross in safety.
“Oh
my dear Grace.” His first words were uttered through sobs of happiness. They
held each other close ignoring the bitter cold wind that tugged at their
clothes. Grace,
cradled in his arms, her face buried in his chest and her muffled sobs, brought
happiness to his heart.
“Edward. Thank God you are safe. I have loved and missed you
so much.”
A few minutes later they heard the
familiar voices of his parents through the winter air, as they hurried towards
them. Amongst sobs and
laughter they hugged him until his father had insisted that the welcome should
continue inside, rather than out in the cold and within minutes they were all
standing in front of a raging open fire in the parlour. Edward
looked at his father, who grinned back at him with a nod of proud approval, as
his mother and Grace clung to him as though he might suddenly vanish.
“Welcome
home lad. It’s good to
have you back, and just in time for Christmas.”
His
mother, who had remained uncommonly silent during the welcome, had suddenly
started to openly weep, drawing Edward and Grace around her, embracing them
with gentle arms.
“Edward
lad, come and sit down. You
must be tired.” His
father recognised the expression on his son’s face. He
had seen it many times before, when they had been ploughing the fields till
late, or bringing in the harvest. His
mother clung to his hand as he sat and listened to what they had planned for
Christmas Day.
In
the corner of his eye, Edward watched Grace as she prepared a sandwich; his
heart leapt at the way the afternoon sun shone on her shoulder length hair and
the smile of her calm angelic face. He had made his mind up. This Christmas he would ask
for her hand in marriage.
The
morning brought Christmas Eve, and with it another bitter cold day. Edward, who was not
accustomed to the comfort of a proper bed, had risen early and helped his
father with the milking before being spoilt by his mother with a cooked
breakfast that could have fed three. She
watched him as he ate and with an intriguing grin on her face, confronted him.
“Well
Edward, what is it?”
Edward
knew he could never keep a secret from her for long and chose silence as his
defence.
“I
recognise that look on your face. When
have you got to go back?”
Edward
pondered on the thought of that far away place; the stench of rotting bodies;
the cold; the mud and the ever present threat of death, but quickly cast it
from his mind.
“No
Mum it’s that…..” The
back door suddenly opened, admitting his father and a gust of ice cold wind.
“Right,
lad, when you’ve finished you can help me with the fencing, up in the top
field, if you like.” Edward
grinned, secretly thanking his father for intervening. As
he moved toward the back door he paused and kissed his mother on the cheek.
“I
will tell you tomorrow, Mum, I Promise.”
The
excitement of what Christmas Day might bring slowly built throughout the
morning, with the rich smells of cooking drifting through the house and the
jubilant sound of Edward and Grace, amidst bouts of laughter, as they decorated
the Christmas tree.
After
lunch, Edward asked Grace if she would accompany him into
To
their surprise, the expected wind, that howled across the desolate countryside,
was absent as they stepped out into the yard. In
its place, nature had prepared a spectacular show for the young couple. The large, warm sun that
hung in the vast, blue, empty sky ignited millions of diamonds, that lay in the
gentle blanket of white snow. All around them was total silence, as they
trudged up the
The
cramped buildings on the Rayne Road, which led into the market square of
Braintree, offered them sanctuary from the cold and soon they were amidst the
jostle of humanity; smells of roasting chestnuts, carol singers, peddlers and
busy shoppers, who smiled and greeted Edward as though he were a long lost son.
As
Grace bartered with the fruit and vegetable seller, Edward knew the time had
come and leant across and whispered that he had seen one of his friends and
would only be a minute. She smiled at him with her eyes.
“Don’t
be too long.”
As
he eased himself through the busy square he paused and glanced at the White
Hart public house and thought that a little Dutch courage might help, but
thought better of it and continued to walk purposefully toward the tobacco shop
on
He
paused and glanced briefly at the gold lettering printed neatly above the door
of the shop. Edward
felt his heart start to pound, as he realised what he had to do, then, pushing
the large wooden door open, he felt the waft of warm sweet- smelling air rush
past him. He allowed
himself a few seconds to revel in the warmth and let his nose grow accustomed
to the smells, when a tall, well-built man with a mop of grey hair appeared
from behind a curtain.
“Why,
Edward. It is good to
see you back safely. How
are you?”
Edward
had rehearsed the lines over and over in his mind and took a deep breath.
“Sir.
I come into your shop on a false errand.” A
sudden frown crept across the tall man’s face.
“As
you know Sir, I had been walking out with your daughter for over a year before
I enlisted and I would like to ask your permission to take her hand in
marriage.”
The
tall man narrowed his eyes and searched Edward’s frightened face. Time seemed to stand still
as the tall man contemplated his decision, then slowly smiled.
“Edward,
son. You have my
blessing,” he said as he extended his hand, which was eagerly taken.
“Her
mother, God rest her soul, would have wanted it also. Have you any idea when
you intend marrying her?”
Edward
had not been prepared for the question, but knew that to marry Grace before the
war ended would be folly.
“Upon
my return from the war Sir.” The
grin that spread across the tall man’s face was quickly followed by the nodding
of his shaggy head.
“I
know she spends most of her day across at your parents’ farm and I am sure she
will do you proud, son. Go to her, Edward, and may God bless you both.”
Christmas
morning was filled with the smell of roast turkey, home-made wine and the
singing of Christmas carols. After a huge lunch, excited screams and laughter
followed the opening of presents. Edward
felt his eyes water as he unwrapped a watch, engraved with love from his
parents, to replace the one he had broken in the trenches.
Suddenly,
the room fell silent. His
parents gazed at Edward, who had knelt down in front of Grace.
“Grace
Thompson. You are my only true reason to live and I don’t think I can live on
this earth without you by my side. Will
you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”
What followed was a cacophony of screams and tears of joy as Edward’s parents
embraced the young happy couple. Grace and his mother clung to each other
in tears. Edward, with bright tearful eyes, smiled at his father, then stepped
forward and embraced him. They both knew it was going to be the best
Christmas ever.
Copyright Bob French
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)