THE CASE AGAINST FRANCES HOPKINS

By Bob French

Margaret Simpson, a 38-year-old clerk of Barkingside Magistrates Court stared at the door behind the Bench waiting for it to open. When she saw it move, she stood, cleared her throat; and in a crisp sharp voice said “All rise. Justice Henrietta McDonald presiding”

          Whilst the public were noisily taking their seats, Margret Simpson turned to the bench and went through the motions of informing the judge, who she was dealing with today. The judge, who never heard a thing due to the noise of those trying to be seated in the public gallery, nodded her thanks. As she glanced up she noticed that the public galleries and some of the isle seats were packed with females and made a note to find out why there were no males.

          After Mr. Frances Hopkins confirmed his name and address, the judge nodded, then looked up and glanced down at the barrister who was prosecuting Mr. Hopkins.

          “Where is Miss Newton?”

          The young-looking barrister coughed and in a rather timid voice apologized and said “she was called away suddenly.”

          She then nodded to Mr. Jones, who was defending Hopkins. He had impressed her having been appointed to the Bar a year or so ago and was doing rather well.

          The barrister for the prosecution stood, held his lapels as they did on television and began laying out his case against Hopkins.

          Justice McDonald interrupted him and leant forward.

          “Sorry, forgive me, but I didn’t catch your name?

          “I do beg your pardon Your worship. William Thornton, I was appointed to your chambers last week your worship”

          She stared down at Mr. Thornton and made a mental note to have a stern word with her chambers.  “Please carry on.”

          After ten minutes, the judge interrupted Mr. Thornton.  “I would be grateful if you would get to the point of the case or we shall be here untill lunch time.”

          “Sorry your worship.  Mr. Hopkins is being charged with…… He paused and looked down at his notes which were scattered across his desk. “Um, Ah, Theft your worship.”

          “Go on.”

          Thornton didn’t understand the judge’s question.  He was now panicking.  His mind was racing.  Did she mean that I should start my case or explain the case against Hopkins? 

          It was then that she realized that before her was a young man who should not be in the court room and was going to make sure that his first case would be remembered by many of those who practiced law.

          Before he could come to a decision, the judge banged her gavel.

          “Mr. Thornton please sort out your briefing notes, then take a deep breath and begin please. Now what is he being charged with?”

          James Thornton had read Law and gained a first at Oxford and had been granted a two-year apprenticeship, but as he was the ‘new boy,’ he was given menial tasks such as filing and diary keeping.  His father, Sir Wentworth Buckingham Thornton, a prominent Old Baily trial judge had pulled a few strings and once James had completed his apprenticeship, his father applied for his son to be admitted to the Bar Standards Board.  Of course, his application was approved without question and young James Thornton was admitted to the Bar. This upset many of those who had been practicing law for years.

          James had a secret?  He had spent all his teen years swatting for exams, and then when he went up to Oxford, where most students lost their virginity, James hid himself in the college library.  In short, he was afraid, no petrified of females, not older ladies, but those in their twenties who thought nothing of their promiscuous behaviour.  Their confidence and over bearing attitude frightened him.  He looked at his notes again, then took a deep breath. 

          “He is charged with the theft of, he paused, ‘dames sous les vetements’.”  The court room suddenly fell silent.  The judge looked up and stared at Thornton, who was now wishing he was a thousand miles away.

          “Mr. Thornton, in English if you please.”  She waited for a minute or two then realizing as she studied his face that he was blushing.  She smiled as she understood now why Miss Newton had suddenly made herself unavailable for today’s case.

          “For the sake of clarity and understanding, I am to believe that Mr. Hopkins is being charged with stealing ladies underclothes.  Is that right Mr. Hopkins?”

          Hopkins stared at the judge, then down at his barrister, who had sat down and was trying to hide himself amid his case files, then back up to the judge.  “Naa, sorry luv. It was Knickers!”

          The public galleries burst in to laughter; some were shouting abuse at Hopkins until the judge used her gavel to gain control.

          “I beg your pardon Mr. Hopkins”

          “Knickers. I wus caught wiv a suitcase full of knickers.  But them was me own property see.”   

          The Judge banged her gavel once more, then looked down at Mr. Thornton. “Are you ready to continue your opening statement?”

          He thanked her, then stood. “Members of the jury. The only crime Mr. Hopkins is guilty of is to have been caught with a suitcase full of… he paused………knickers.”   As those in the public gallery started to titter he sat down.

          Mr. Jones stood, glanced down at his notes then began:

          “Do you plead guilty to the charge of theft, in that on the morning of the 12^th of May 1998, you were seen selling these…. garments, out of a suitcase at Shepherds Bush market?”

          “No I don’t! The knickers I was selling on that day were me own collection.”

          “But you were seen by a Miss Davenport, Mrs. Luke and Mr. Smith.  In Miss Luke’s statement she states that she recognized her… underwear.

          Suddenly from the public gallery a woman stood up and shouted.

          “Come on Frankie, last week you tried to sell me, me own knickers, and Joseys at number 23.”

          The judge could see that the two young barristers were out of their depth and decided to intervene. “Mr. Hopkins. Do you make it a habit of stealing ladies underwear?”

          “Yes me lady.” 

          “And how many pairs of knickers do you have at present?”

          “Depends your honour.  If thems in good nick, I keep them for a couple of weeks, then gives em back.”

          “Why do you steal them in the first place?”

          “Some people saves stamps, cigarette cards or coins.  I collect knickers. Sometimes I gets lucky and find a pair from Paris, so I takes a photo of em, then I washes them un pops em them back through their letter boxes.”

          So you only steal from houses that are close to you?”

          “That’s right. School Road, Orchard Road and Oval Road North, yer honour.  They are all in one place and have a back alley, so I can pop in and out before anyone sees me.”

          The judge looked up into the public gallery.  “Is this correct”.  Do you get your underwear back from Mr. Hopkins?”

          Those in the public gallery erupted with some cheering and some demanding that he had not returned their knickers.”

          “Mr. Hopkins.  Do you keep an address of where you steal these garments from?”

          “Yes your honour.”

          “So, let me see.” She smiled to herself as she looked down at the personal information of the two barristers. “How about 21 Orchard Road?”

          Mr. Hopkins pulled out a scruffy little note book, flipped over a few pages, then looked up.  “One pair ov em belongs to Mrs. Black yer honour.”

          The judge looked up into the public gallery. “Is Mrs. Black here?”

          An elegant woman in a smart brown overcoat raised her hand.

          “Would you please stand.”

After some shuffling of chairs, the woman stood.

          “Thank you Mrs. Black.  Can you describe your missing underwear.”

          “Yes Miss.  They were red lace with butterflies on them, from Woolies.”

          This brought some cheesy comments from those around her, but she ignored them.

          The judge looked down at Mr. Hopkins. “Is Mrs. Black’s description correct?”

          “Yes yer honour.”

          “One last try shall we?  Mr. Hopkins do you have underwear from say number 19 School Road.

          After a minute or two thumbing through his book, Mr. Hopkins looked up at the judge and grinned.

          “I haves a couple o’ pairs from that address yer honour.”

          “Could you describe them please and tell me who they belong to.”

          These are special My lady. Real posh. Designer label from New York.  Ang on a mo, as he flicked through his little book, he grinned up at the judge.

          “They belong to a Mr. Thornton.” Suddenly the whole court room was in hysterics. The public gallery was standing and pointing at James Thornton.

          It took a good ten minutes before the judge could bring order to the court room.

          “We are here today to try Mr. Hopkins for stealing your underwear.  What Mr. Thornton wears is of no interest in this case.”  The judge looks down at Hopkins.

          “What happens when you cannot return the garments to their rightful owner?”

          Hopkins shrugged his shoulder.  “It’s rare that I don’t hand em back, but if I can’t, I pops alf a nicker through their letter box yer honour.

          Everyone in the court cheered and laughed at Hopkins’s reply except the

Judge, who gave up using her gavel.  When silence was achieved, she asked Hopkins to stand.

          “Frances Hopkins, you have been found guilty of petty theft, have you anything to say?”

          “Only that I am sorry yer honour, but I didn’t intend stealing only borrowing, honest.”

          Justice Henrietta McDonald stared at Hopkins for a while, then seemed to come to her senses and smile. “Firstly, you are to choose another hobby, one that does not involve stealing.  Secondly, I am giving you a custodial sentence of 6 months, subject to you returning every single garment you have stolen, and lastly, I appoint Mrs. Black, if she does not mind, to report to me in six months-time with a record showing that you have returned every pair of knickers.  Those items you cannot return, I order you to pay, she paused then chose to speak in his language, a nicker, to compensate those whose knickers were not returned. Do you understand?” 

          He nodded.  Then suddenly the court room erupted into cheers and chaos. No one heard Hopkins’s reply or the judge closing the case against him.

Copyright Bob French

A HAIKU & three TANKA from Rob

 A HAIKU & three TANKA from Rob 

Robert Kingston 

still autumn all corridor-long squelching children

Published HaikuKATHA January 2026

 

Christmas greetings

through the market

a small dog

in a woman’s arms

yaps at Santa 

Published HaikuKATHA January 2026

 

bathed in sunlight

the first whooper swan

drifts to a pause

a bow wave rippling

its way ashore

Published HaikuKATHA January 2026

 

amongst the din

of the pie and mash shop

a toddler

expressing her dismay

at her dropped spoon

Published HaikuKATHA January 2026

My Life (in 300 words)

 My Life (in 300 words)

Len Morgan 

I joined a group in 1957s as their vocalist. We played rock (Elvis, Buddy Holly, Eddie Cochran, etc) all the pop stuff from the US & UK. 

 I still amuse myself (at home) with 1940~60s stuff plus Folk, Country Western, Blues, Comedic Tales, Old not so well known songs.

So, my question is, where's the market for that stuff these days? I'm 81, don't have transport, other than the bus. 

I play an acoustic guitar (Yamaha APXT2) & Sing the music I love. I have a list of 400+ songs I could sing & play 10 years ago, but find I can't remember the words to all of them now (thank you, YouTube; for the mind jogs). 

 I live in an expanding town in the UK, Hullbridge, Essex, England... 

I think that's about all I can say, if you think I should add more ~ Answers on a postcard!    (if anybody remembers them.) 

I’m also a writer, and member of the Rayleigh library writers group:

http://RLWG2020.blogspot.com 

I run the blog and regularly contribute stories but not as regularly as I did in past years.  124,618 visits to date and we’ve posted 1370 stories & poems.  We have visitors from all over the world, except from Australia & Canada, curious why? 

I’m a mediocre painter in all mediums, but I enjoy the crack (craic), at the Windermere Centre Art group, in Hullbridge. 

We have seven (7) Chihuahua’s, who bring joy to our lives, 2 boys (Milo & Jack) & 5 girls (Lilly, Saffy, Ruby, Poppy, & Truffles).  We take walks with them, weather permitting.  But I’m limited by hardened arteries (arterial sclerosis). I used to love walking, ten years ago, now I have to take 2 mins rest every 100yds, guess that’s life ~ I’m still here…

 Len 😉😌

 

 

 

IN SEARCH OF MYSELF

 IN SEARCH OF MYSELF

Barbara Thomas 

Daughter, sister, Mother, Grandmother and Great Grandmother. 

Oh those year’s, from child to Adult.

Counting the days, weeks months years.

Where did it all go? 

Pain, tears, joy, sadness.

The pain of childbirth the tears and the joy of birth.

Motherhood in all stages seeing the babies toddlers,teenagers, taking them to college, University then eventuality marriage. Job done.

I look back to all above

From wife mother, widow

Now Old age, illness’s 

Then Abandonment, not all at once but gradually

visits stop, phone calls and texts stop. 

Had I known the pain of being excluded in later life I would never had gone through the pain of motherhood.

I would have maybe followed my dreams 

If i could look into the future I would have completely denied and scoffed at being the complete blank rejection without ever knowing why? 

Unfortunately I am not on my own it appears our offspring’s are becoming like the Inuit or Indians of years ago.

When parents get to a certain age they are discarded, left to fend for themselves, until in most cases die.

The compassion I grew up with in my opinion is missing in this Woke world. 

I believe in Karma, what goes around comes around.

 

Barbara Thomas ~ 11.01.26

Two HAIKU from Rob

Two HAIKU from Rob

Robert Kingston

 

antique store

viewing the world

through a rifle’s barrel

 

First published at the haiku foundation January 2026 

 

church fair

a hint of mulled wine

in the confession booth

 

Published HaikuKATHA January 2026

 

Body in the Thames

 Body in the Thames

Jane Goodhew

As she opened the curtains to let the sun shine through she noticed that her garden was covered in a carpet of snow.  How beautiful it looked, glistening and sparkly like diamonds with no footprints to spoil the image, how unfortunate that she would be the one to destroy it.

She needed to get a move on if she was to be there on time for her first day in the office of Hartman & Sons as Private Secretary to the executive of overseas   purchasing.   If there were two things she liked most of all it was travel and clothes, this position would fulfil both.  As she went up in the lift she recalled the first time she'd entered the building.  She had looked like a bedraggled, drowned rat, with windswept hair plastered down by the rain.  Today was different she had her hair swept up and held in place by clips and hairspray and her makeup was subtle but flattering.  Her outfit was navy with pink piping around the wrists and neckline complimenting her silk blouse.

Good morning, Miss said the concierge as he held the door and showed her the way to the lift. Good morning she responded with a smile that would melt frozen butter.  She could not help but marvel at the view she had from her office especially on such a day as today.  The Thames looked splendid with the boat taxis going up and down taking people to work or just on sightseeing trips on the river.   She thought about the people who had travelled along it over the centuries and in winter when it froze over how the children would go skating on it.

How many people had ended up sinking into the murky waters when a crack appeared in the ice without warning, and they were swept away by the undercurrent.  Swept out to sea never to be seen again, no goodbyes, just gone.   What was wrong with her thinking in such a negative way on this her first day at work?  Who knows the workings of a mind once it goes into fantasy land but it was time to snap out of it as Mr Hartman had just entered extending his hand for her to shake. She was not used to such manners she blushed, feeling like a teenager on a first date.   Wake up, this is not a date, its work, and time you came down to earth and showed him how efficient you are.

The days passed and turned into months and now it was summer and the Thames was busy with holiday makers and she was often distracted by all the toing and froing on the river.  It was during her coffee break, she was sitting stareing out  the window when she saw what looked like a large black bag, it was stuck by the steps leading down from the tow path and what was that sticking out the side?  It looked like a hand but it couldn’t have been, because if it were the bag must contain a body and that was just too gruesome to contemplate.  It was probably a mannequin from one of the shops and children had found it amusing to toss it into the Thames.

 She called Mr Hartman over and asked him what he could see on the other side of the river?  His face went white as he too had seen what looked like a body in a bag.  He picked up the phone and called the police. Within minutes they arrived,  a police boat arrived soon after.   They dragged the ‘body’ up onto the boat and sped off leaving onlookers wondering what was going on and how long had the body been there.  Also, who was it, surely someone would be reported missing? 

The police asked the usual questions of those in the office, but nothing of any consequence came to light. It would seem that this morning was the first time the bag had been noticed by anyone, either in the office or anywhere else  along the embankment.  It hit the headlines, ‘Body in a bag found in the Thames.’  Anyone knowing of a missing person please contact Detective Spencer 07778 675 433 with details.   Weeks turned into months and no one heard who the person was or even their gender.  It bothered her that someone could go missing and no one show any interest.  Perhaps it was a foreigner, someone on holiday who hadn’t been due home for several months.  Perhaps no one cared enough to make inquiries.   After awhile she too stopped thinking about it and then there it was, body named and case re-opened.  It was a young woman from Switzerland and several months pregnant which made it even more tragic.  There was also a photo of the young lady, smiling happily on a bright Spring morning as daffodils could be seen along the Embankment.  She stared long and hard at the photo and then it came back to her, where she had seen the face before.  It was here, the day of her interview, the young lady had entered the cloakroom, just as she was leaving. They had smiled and exchanged pleasantries then gone their separate ways.   She looked in her purse for the detectives card and rang the number.

 ‘Detective Spencer can I help you?’  She explained why she was ringing and he thanked her and said he would be there straight away to talk to the staff so make sure she made herself known and he would meet her at the reception desk.    It seemed like an eternity before he appeared and they went into an empty office to discuss what she knew which really wasn’t much.  It was strange that no one else had recognised the lady as others must have seen her.  Perhaps she too had been there for an interview, but if so, why had Mr Morgan not mention it? He must have seen the headlines...   

Copyright Jane Goodhew   

Riddles 32

 Riddles 32 

By the Riddler 

The Riddler has two puzzles for us today: 

No 1.  If January is 131, and February is 228, and June is 630, what is December? 

No 2. .  How many times does the word “by” appear in the following sentence?

Bobby waved goodbye to a nearby baby wallaby by the labyrinth lobby

 

Keep em coming Riddler

 

Spike Milligan Comedian legend:

  

Spike Milligan Comedian legend:

from Barbara Thomas 

Smiling is infectious you catch it like the flu

when someone smiled at me today I started smiling too

I walked around the corner and someone saw me grin.

When he smiled I realized, I’d Passed it on to him

 I thought about that smile awhile, I realized it’s worth.

 A single smile like mine, could travel round the earth

 So if you feel a smile begin, don’t leave it undetected,

 just start an epidemic, and get the world infected!

 

SPIKE MILLIGAN The man who wrote on his gravestone: 

“I TOLD YOU I WAS ILL”                                 

To answer a longstanding Question...

A longstanding Question...

 

Rayleigh Library Writers Group

 started ~  6th April 2019

Youth is wasted on the young (300 words)

Youth is wasted on the young

By Len Morgan 

“Shuddup yer noisy little scrote, or I’ll give you a right slappin!” she grabbed the girl by her hair, dragging her closer to the pushchair, occupied by a screaming, grubby faced infant with candlewax running from his nose. “Shutit Jamile or I’ll sort you too!”

Jamile increased the volume by a few decibels.

“Bloody kids! Can’t you shut em up? They’re doin me head In!” 

“Maybe if you got a job you’d have somethin else to screw wiv it!” 

“Work? Wots that? Last refuse of my famlee.” 

“My parents worked all their lives. They got a house, a pension, and a proper lifestyle. They don’t avta wait for handouts from the dole.” You’re spunging on their taxes…” 

“Wot I’d pay if I wos mug enuf to work? Anyway my dads gota penshun.”

“I didn’t know your dad had a pension.” 

“He doesn’t, it’s me granddads.”

“I thought he’d been dead for years?” 

“Yea, but the penshun cumpernee don’t know that.”

“How old was he when he… (Shut it Jamile) ~ Died?”       

“Ninety free!” 

“Aint they twigged it yet?” 

“Nah we jus showem his telegram from the queen; innit.” 

“Wot about his death certificate… (Jamile!)”

“Nah we didn’t report is def, we put Im on a bomfire, 5^th November, made a grate guy…” 

“Sasha, come back here!” She grabbed Sasha and hauled her back to the pushchair.” 

“But I wanna see the puppies in that cage,” she tried to pull away again. 

“Honestly, I akst you to do one simple fing; stay here wive the chair…” 

“But I want…” she received a resounding slap.

.-...-. 

“Kelvin? When’s bomfire night?”

“I told yer it’s the fifth.” 

“Three days… Does the guy have to be male?”

“Ha ha ahh!        Fault yer wer gonna…

 

(Youth is wasted on the young ~ Kevin Andersson)        

 

 

 

  

TIMETABLE OF GROUP MEETINGS FOR 2026

 TIMETABLE OF THE RAYLEIGH

LIBRARY WRITERS’ GROUP MEETINGS 2026

 

The Rayleigh Library Writers’ Group meet on the second and fourth Thursday of each month.  Date and meeting places are as follows:

                    At the Library                           Member’s House

          8^th January at 2:30pm               22^nd January at 7:15pm

          12^th February at 2:30pm           26^th February at 7:15pm

          12^th March at 2:30pm                26^th March at 7:15pm

          9^th April at 2:30pm                     23^rd April at 7:15pm

          14^th May at 2:30pm                    28^th May at 7:15pm

          11^th June at 2:30pm                   25^th June at 7:15pm

          9^th July at 2:30pm                      25^th July at 7:15pm

          13^th August at 2:30pm               27^th August at 7:15pm

          10^th September 2:30pm             24^th September @ 7:15pm

          8^th October 2:30pm                    22^nd October @ 7:15pm

          12^th November 2:30pm              26^th November @ 7:15pm

          10^th December at 2:30pm                        No meeting

 

 

 Mrs Bobbin, afternoon tea, and sawn off shot guns.

By Christopher Mathews

“I don't get why you don't understand the plan Spike, it really ain’t that difficult, son.

“Just go over it again, please Charlie, for my sake, please!” Charlie frowned at him, and said in a slow frustrated voice,

“I ring the doorbell – to distract the old bag with some blag - you break in at the back, nice n quiet like, and find ‘er stash - got it?”

“Can't I ring the doorbell, Charlie, please. Why do I have to do the break in every time. To tell the troof, I've put on a few pounds since Christmas, and I don't like climbing up drainpipes ‘n in fru windows no more, it’s my back Charlie see.

“Yeah, but you aint got the brains Spike old son, you gota sweet talk the old girl, soft like, see, lull her to sleep, stuff like that needs brains Spike, and you don’t hav em.”

“You're always sayin that, just 'cause you got O level woodwork, and I aint. Anyway, wouldn't she keep her dosh stashed in the bank like normal people.”

“The bank!” Charlie gave a hollow laugh. “I told you before Spike, old ladies like that keep wads of cash under the bed, or stuffed in the mattress, they don’t trust banks! You just have to remember not to spill the chamber pot all over you when you go fumbling under her bed. NDA on your clothes, and you’d be down the nick, soon as. Besides, her old man didn’t like banks - famous for it - he was!”

“You are clever Charlie, you’ve fought of everythin.”

“Brains, that’s what a job like this takes. Anyway Spike, there’ll be loads of jewels, n silver, gold, n stuff somewhere up there. Then, off down the pub with a bag full of shiny. Micky the Fence melts it down, and bosh, we are rolling in clover. And the best part, it’s all untraceable, no prints, no family heirlooms for the Plod to track down. Nufin to flog down Doggy Frank’s Pawn Shop, nufin, nufin comes back to us see. The Old Bill can’t pin nufin on us.”

“I fought she was just a sweet little old lady livin in that big old house on Cable-stich Street.”

“Just goes to show what you know then don’t it! She's the widow of a textile tycoon, worth millions, and she aint got no kids to squander all that lovely dosh on niver. It’s all there just for the pickin. I bet she’s half dotty too. So, by the time the Old Bill arrive, she won’t tell ‘em nufin.”

“Can’t’ we do over a post office instead. I don’t like the idea of gaggin and tying up the old dear, what if I have to… well you know…”

“What?”

“You know, I have to hurt her?”

“Then make it look like an accident - you know, fell down the basement steps tripping over the cat, all old bag’s got cats. That reminds me – balaclavas, gloves, and come tooled-up too, got it!”

“Do we have to Charlie, what do we want wiv shooters? It’s just one old dear. And another fing, why do we have to do it in the afternoon, can’t we do it at night, like decent burglars.”

“Never go to a job without adequate insurance Spike, you know that! Anyway, no one will suspect nufin. Before she knows it, you will be off with the swag, while I’m still drinking tea wiv the old bag, then we meet back at your gaff to count the takings.”

“But won’t she give your description to the Old Bill.”

“I got a false beard and make-up nicked from the market.”

“I will say it again Charlie, you are clever, I give you that!”

The two parked up a block away and Spike sneaked off down a back alleyway.

The ancient doorbell rang somewhere deep inside the gloomy hallway. The sound of shuffling feet and the slow tap, tap, tap of a walking stick echoing on the black and white tiles could be heard from deep inside the house.

“Coming dear,” called an old woman, followed by some indistinct mumbling. Finally, a croaky old lady’s voice came through the letterbox.

“Who is it?”

“It’s Inspecta, err, Smith - the gas safety, err hoficer from, err from British Rail, I mean Gas. Is that Mrs Bobbin of number one Cable-stich Street.”

“What do you want dear, could you speak up a little dear, I frightfully def.” Charlie raised his voice a little saying,

“We had reports of gas leaks coming from your err, water pipes, err plumin, err under your floorboards.” He flashed an identity card past the letterbox. It looked a lot like a Guinness label. “I’ve come to inspect your gaff, err property madam.”

“Oh dear that does sound dreadful, you had better come in. Just a moment please dear.” The sound of keys scraping in rusty locks, chains being unfastened and bolts being drawn back, then, several minutes later the door opened a fraction. Somewhere inside the dingy house, a gramophone was playing Boccherini’s minuet in E major. A warm musty smell like old cabbage wafted out through the gap in the door which took Charlie back a little.

The visitor looked down to see a pair of watery grey eyes looking up at him. They belonged to a little old lady of about ninety, back bent double, with a lace shawl across her shoulders, fluffy slippers, lace gloves and an enormous sapphire necklace, which winked invitingly at Charlie.

She drew the door wide open and said,

“Do mind the step dear. I was just going to make a pot of tea.” She showed him into a large richly furnished drawing room. Charlie’s eyes hungrily scanned the room taking an inventory of the valuables on offer. Mrs Bobbin shuffled off saying,

“Won’t be a moment dear, the kettle has almost boiled. Do you like hobnobs dear.” Her voice tailed off and Spike could just hear her mumbling, “I might have some homemade fruit cake left if you…”  Charlie sat down clumsily, his sawn-off shotgun sticking out awkwardly from under his heavy overcoat. A handgun in his back pocket making him jump up again. He stifled a squeal, but out in the kitchen the old girl heard nothing as she made the tea.

His quick scan of the room revealed a nice haul of valuables, antique furniture, paintings and the like, but too difficult to shift quickly. He would pass the intel onto an associate who specialises in that stuff. Intel like that is worth a mint down his boozer, even if it is to just keep the ‘big fish’ like The Pike Brothers off his case. Never mess with the Pikes!

Mrs Bobbin came shuffling back into the room carrying a tarnished silver tray, solid silver cutlery and chipped crockery. The stale fruit cake looked unappetising. Spike, seeing the silverware, mentally adjusted his estimation of the haul upwards a little.

“The tea tastes funny love.” He said.

“Oh yes, it is camomile tea dear, very soothing, have another piece of my fruit cake dear.” After ten minutes of small talk, his head was starting to spin. The room was stiflingly hot. He took a bite of stale cake, but that too was odd.

The sound of banging could be heard from upstairs.

“I wonder what that was dear,” she said, beginning to rise.

“It’s probably your pipes banging, err from the err, the gas leak, err they do that.” He put a heavy hand on her shoulder and gently pushed her back down.

“Don’t trouble yourself luv, I will go and inspect. Gas can be dangerous to the untrained,” he added. His head was aching, and he staggered out of the room and up the stairs calling softly,

Spike, Spike! Keep it down Spike!

From the drawing room, a stifled argument could be heard upstairs somewhere. The old lady suddenly appeared at the door of the bedroom with astonishing speed. The two men froze, mid-sentence in a comical tussle, Spike’s fists were full of jewels. Both were amazed at how such an old lady could have managed the stairs so quickly. She stared at both men with an expression which could be accusation or simply confusion. “Finally,” she said, with a slight smile,

“Perhaps your colleague would like some tea too.”

“I aint found no gas leak yet neiver love! Honest love.” Spike blurted out, his face riddled with guilt at being discovered red handed.

“Play along Spike, I don’t think she noticed,” Charlie whispered. She led both men downstairs again.

“Stupid old bag!” Spike said under his breath. Mrs Bobbin insisted that he have some camomile tea and cake too.

“Play along Spike,” Charley muttered again under his breath. “But shut up and let me do the talking! And say you want the loo, that will give you a chance to finish the job.” The stale air, her monotonous hypnotic voice with its endless string of petty irrelevance and the hot fire seemed to overtake them.

Within ten minutes both men were slumped fast asleep in armchairs. Mrs Bobbin picked up the old telephone and said,

“They are both fast asleep Mable.” An indistinct old lady’s voice came from the receiver and Mrs Bobbins replied,

“Several hours I should think dear, I gave them a very strong dose.” This was followed by more indistinct questions.

“Yes, two sawn-off shot guns, and two revolvers and plenty of ammo. And yes, their dabs are all over the shooters, and I did wear gloves.” A muffled cheer could be heard from the telephone and Mable said something else.

“How else could six old ladies get hold of guns like that, it was a great plan and it worked! Contact Maureen, Elsie, Joan and the other members of the Lavender Ladies Mob, we are on tonight.

The end

Copyright Christopher Mathews – Jan 2026

 

 

 IN SEARCH OF SELF

 By Richard Banks

One day I ventured back to where

I lived a life so free of care

 

To my first house in Bedford town

I thought the past could there be found

 

Might I remember and reclaim

the hope and joy of one who came

 

to lose all faith in God and man

so try I must and if I can

 

refind the me who once I liked

well meaning, upright, good and bright.

 

The house was smaller than I thought

its former merit all but nought

 

old, neglected, paintwork peeling

through window eyes as if appealing

 

to make it good as it once was

to save it now before all’s lost

 

What me? I said, who like yourself

is cut-adrift from his true self

 

Could we together push back the years

and recreate a time so dear.

 

Restore yourself, replenish me

saved united we will be

 

So thus I brought that empty wreck

and rescued it, my old homestead.

 

But true to say it rescued me

and happy now I am to be

Copyright Richard Banks