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 London on the Sunday in order to be ready for work the following day. There was much to do and only eight days to do it in and find out what sort of place Buremarsh was. The sight of

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 village of Craventhorpe was only three miles away, a local beauty spot with two tearooms, a Waitrose and a large pub-restaurant called the Wheatsheaf.

         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

  

 

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 London had prepared me for this and, as I slowed down to negotiated a bend in the road, what I feared might happen very nearly did. The roar of an on-coming vehicle was followed almost immediately by the sight of a red Jeep Wrangler coming full pelt at me. There was nothing do be done but slam on the brakes and, with the driver of the jeep doing the same, we screeched to a halt no more than a foot apart.

         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 village of Petherdale.

         “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 London. No doubt they saw your plates and concluded you were one of them. I’m Roy Callow, local councillor and JP. No doubt their father will be bending my ear tomorrow telling me it was all a misunderstanding. I’ll tell him who you are and why you’re here. You won’t be bothered again. So, welcome to the district of Buremarsh, Mr Jones. Wait here until I’m past and then take it steady to your destination.”

         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

 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

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                                                                                                                   

A CHRISTMAS STORY OF LONG, LONG AGO

 A CHRISTMAS STORY OF LONG, LONG AGO

By Bob French 

The people of the little town of Braintree woke to find that during one night, just before Christmas 1917, snow had silently fallen, altering the bleak countryside to one of beauty and tranquillity. 

            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 Witham Road.  He trudged on through slit eyes, his cold hands thrust deep inside his pockets.  The soft crunch of his boots as they trod the virgin snow; the haunting sound of the wind as it howled through the wire and the distant squawk of a crow high in the blackened leafless trees, brought his memory sharply back to home, the home where he had spent twelve months, but it felt like a life time.  The home, where he and his mates survived in a small muddy trench, day after day.  Where he lived on his nerves just to stay alive.  Where around him, grown men openly wept when one of their own quietly passed away from the bitter cold or hunger in the darkness of the night. Yet, strangely enough, it was a home he had become accustomed to, where he was happy.

            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 Belgium with his regiment at a place called Plug Street Wood, a desolate and cruel place, where creature comforts were virtually nonexistent and where both the weather and the enemy seemed determined to kill him.

            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 Chelmsford,’ he thought.

            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 Braintree, where she had grown up. Grace nodded enthusiastically, but insisted that he wore his uniform.

            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 Witham Road towards Braintree Town and civilisation.

            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 Coggeshall Road. 

            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

 

 Pandoras Box (Revisited) 

By Jane Goodhew 

Pandora often thought about the day Zeus had left and told her he was entrusting a box into her care and under no circumstance should she open it.   Of course, the worst thing he could have done was to tell her not to and needless to say she did and all the world has suffered the consequences ever since. 

Although Pandora had desperately tried to shut the box she did not succeed and only hope was left and many see this as a curse not something to give people the will to continue in whatever it is but in fact as a cause of ‘deceptive expectation’. How a person interprets it will depend very much on the individual and frequently we hear people say, ‘never give up on hope.’  Is this leading the person to further pain and suffering or is there a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow.  Who knows all we do know is curiosity killed the cat and he/she unlike humans has nine lives.  

‘Pandora, Pandora why could you not listen and contain that natural curiosity of yours but then why did I give it to you when I knew full well you could not?  So perhaps I, Zeus, the greatest of them, as I defeated the Titans, am to blame for the misery that has been brought into the world not you Pandora.   Forgive me, I have no excuse and it is wrong that mankind has tortured you for eternity by blaming you for all the woes here on earth.   Perhaps if I take it back and fill it with the good there is in the world, with love and peace and harmony and of course hope can remain for it seems people do so like to hope and see it as a symbol of good not bad?’

‘So, my dearest Pandora tonight whilst you sleep, I shall gather all those evils together and replace them then next time when you open it which I am sure you will only the goodness will escape and we will all live in paradise again?’

Unfortunately for Zeus, Pandora had been too traumatized by what had happened the first time that when she saw the box next to her bed she ordered her servants to take it far out to sea and drop it to the bottom of the ocean but first they were to have it set inside a stone slab so that it would never again float to the surface and contaminate the world.

 

        Copyright Jane Goodhew                                                    

 A BIRD IN THE LIBRARY

By Bob French,  

Dedicated to the late Frederik Forsyth

Colonel Vladimir Milkovich of the State Office of Intelligence sat sipping his ice tea in room 3019 of the sub-basement of the east wing of the Kremlin.  The only sound in his sparsely furnished office was the ticking of an antique mantle clock, claimed to have belonged to the late Tsar Nicholas the second. Infront of him stood three members of the Politburo who, according to the head of department 22, had been suspected of spying.

Before he could speak to Voslott, the incompetent Ukraine, who had been head of department 22 for as long as he could remember, had  got himself killed by, according to witnesses, being very drunk and falling down the stairs in the opera house last Friday evening.

BezeIt, who headed up the security department of the Kremlin, had carried out one of the fastest investigations in history. Which, once Colonel Milkovich had read his report, decided it was time for the incompetent Bezelt to spend a little time out in the wastelands of Siberia and was contemplating asking Department three to eliminate the fool, when suddenly his thoughts were interrupted by one of the three men standing in front of him.

“Comrade Colonel Milkovich.  I demand to know why I’ve been publicly humiliated by being arrested in the State Library and dragged down here in front of hundreds of people? I am a deputy minister of the State Politburo and have an important meeting to attend to this morning, with the Comrade Deputy regarding the vote so.……”

Colonel Milkovich gently put down his ice tea, looked up and cut him short. “Listen, all of you.” His voice was calm and just audible above the ticking of the ancient clock.  “Your names have been brought to my attention in matters relating to a breach of state security. You were all seen at the Opera last Friday evening, and two of you were seen drinking with Comrade Vislott at the end of the first act.”

 Colonel Milkovich paused for a minute allowing the tension in the room to build.  “And you,” he nodded to the last man, whose complexion was starting to turn an unhealthy shade of grey. “You accompanied Vislott to the toilets. Where you spent fifteen minutes.” He paused. “Don’t you think that was a rather long time?” Implying that some sort of sexual activity had taken place.”

With fear in his eyes he started to explain, but the Colonel raised his hand demanding silence.

“I am not interested in your alibies. I shall wait until my men have had a chance to have a quiet chat with you.  Only then will I really understand why you were there with Comrade Vislott and why he died.”

Just then there was a knock on the door and a tall rugged looking man entered the room.  Came to attention, and briefly explained that they were ready.  The three men turned and looked at the intruder and couldn’t help noticing the blood stains on his shirt and his hands.

“Thank you, Gregor.  They will be ready for you in five minutes.”  The man turned, smiled at the three politburo officials, then left.

The grey faced man turned to Colonel Milkovich. “What evidence do you have to arrest us.  It is not a crime to attend the opera.”

“Simple.  I have known Comrade Vislott for many years.  I know for a fact that he never drinks, he hates, no he loathes the opera and every Friday evening, without fail he always visits is elderly mother. Yet for some reason, you three seemed to have lured him away.  Got him drunk, then pushed him down the stairs. Was it because he’d accused you of treason? To me, that is enough to arrest you.”

All three stood, stunned at the charges just laid against them. Then the door to his office opened and two guards carrying Kalashnacoff rifles entered the room.  Without a word, the three men were ushered out of the Colonel’s office.

Three stories up in the Kremlin, where floors had plush carpets and smart furniture, and expensive drapes covered every window, Comrade Dimitry Medvedev, President Putin’s deputy, relaxed as he  took another sip of his Jack Daniels Old Number 7 Whiskey.  His thoughts were interrupted by his secretary who informed him that Colonel Milkovich wished to see him.

Before he could answer her, The Colonel pushed open his office door and strolled in as though he owned the place,

“You still drinking that gut rot Dimitry?  You do know it makes you go blind.”

Dimitry stood and came to meet his friend of some twenty years and took his hand. “You look well.  And how is Mienya?

“She and the children are very well, thank you.  You must try and drag yourself away from your desk and come and stay for a weekend at our Dacha. I am sure you will be utterly spoilt by my three children.”

Dimitry returned to his seat and invited Milkovich to take the luxurious Chippendale armchair.

“So, what brings you up here from your dungeons? Have you come to tell me you have found who has been steeling toilet rolls from the politburo washrooms?”

“Sadly no, but let me give you an update on my investigation to track down where the leaking information about the President’s future special operational plans was coming from.”

“Was this part of one of your covert operations?”

“Yes, Operation Cyanopsitta.”

“Ah yes I recall.”  Demitry’s expression slowly changed as his thoughts went back to the time when everyone was suspected of treason, even those on the top floor.  No one was safe in the Kremlin.” “God, I can never get the hang of your code-names.  What is a Cyanopsitta?”

Milkovich laughed.  “It’s a macaw, a parrot.”

Dimitry, with a smile on his face, shook his head.  “So the sudden disappearance of Voslott’s deputy and some of his staff was the work of you and Department three, am I right?”

The Colonel grinned. Yes, and with the coming release date of the invasion of Ukraine, I used a fake date to lure Voslott into my trap, and within three days my contacts in Poland, confirmed that the fake date had been received and was being circulated. 

“But his Deputy and some of his staff went missing, what, three weeks ago, why did you leave Voslott till last.? Did you have doubts about him being your spy?” 

Milcovich smiled. “I needed him alive until Last Friday so he could play his part in my rouse.” 

“Not sure what you mean?” 

“Do you recall last week you asked me to ensure that the important vote taking place this afternoon went in favour of the President? Well, I have temporarily arrested three of the deputies who were going to vote against the President, but I needed an excuse and the death of Comrade Voslott gave me the perfect reason.”  He paused to let his achievement sink in. “To my reconning, this gives you a clear two vote advantage, so the President will get his way.” 

Demitry suddenly pushed back his chair and rushed around his huge desk and dragged his friend up and hugged him. “How can I ever repay you for your dedication to the state?  I will make sure the President gets to hear of this.” 

“Not necessary my friend, but the decoration; the Hero of the Russian Federation would look good on my uniform. 

“Consider it done.  What about the tree deputies down in your cells.”

“Oh, I shall release them with a warning the day after the vote has been confirmed and formally ratified.” 

Dimitry quickly poured two glasses of his contraband Jack Daniels Old Number 7, passed one to his friend and raised his glass. “To your bird in the library.”

Copyright Bob French

 FIRST LIE 

By Richard Banks

Mother had told Charlie to always tell the truth and that bad things happened to people who told lies. He assumed that she held fast to this advice until one day Granny arrived wearing a new hat full of brightly coloured feathers that would not have been out of place in an Indian headdress. Her contention that it was new seemed unlikely as it was well known within the family that Granny did her clothes shopping in charity shops. What happened next was definitely a lie. When asked what she thought of the strange object on Granny’s head mother replied, without a flicker of guilt, that it was the best hat she had seen that year.

Charlie took a sharp step back, expecting his mother to be struck by lightening, but nothing happened. He watched her take another sip from her tea cup and waited for her to choke on a tea leaf, but nothing happened.

At the end of Granny’s visit mother saw her to the front door saying that she hoped Granny’s friend, Mrs Geraldson, was recovered from the flu and to thank her for the delicious cake she had made for the church fete. That was another lie, the cake was mouldy, and mother had thrown it in the bin.

These were lessons well learned and when Charlie broke a window in father’s greenhouse he was able to say without a twinge of conscience, “it wasn’t me, Dad, it must have been some other boy”.

 

The End.

Copyright Richard Banks