TONIGHTS IT’S MACDONALDS

TONIGHTS IT’S MACDONALDS 

By Bob FRENCH

    Old Uncle Ted had served for over thirty years in the Royal Navy, and although he was starting to become frail, it had never dulled his discipline. After his beloved wife Margie, passed away, he moved in with his daughter, Mandy, and her children, bringing with him a lifetime of naval habits that amused everyone in the house, especially little Henry and Clair who giggled at his strange ways, but loved his stories about those who lived on the sea. Ted was a neat, wiry man with silver hair, a clipped white moustache, and bright blue eyes that missed nothing. He favoured pressed trousers, polished brown shoes, a checked shirt, and a navy-blue cardigan, no matter the season. On Sunday’s he would attend church wearing his navy-blue blazer and Royal Navy tie. On Remembrance Day he would don his medals and for the following months he would be the talk of the little village. Every morning began with a cold shower, a shave, then he’d make his bed so tightly you could "bounce a coin on it," followed by inspecting the garden as though it were the quarterdeck. His funniest quirk was his devotion to time.

Breakfast, or ‘scran’ as he referred to it had to be served at 6 bells, that was 7 am. Lunch was to be served at 8 bells which was 12 o’clock and supper was to be at 8 bells or at 8:00 p.m. as Ted proudly announced, "8 Bells into the first dog watch!" He would glance at the clock on the mantle piece, clear his throat dramatically, then declare, "Eight Bells! Time to pipe the hands to supper!" Even if dinner was only a minute late, he would grin, tap his watch, and mutter that standards were slipping. His routines never changed, but neither did the warmth and laughter he brought to his daughter's family. Once he had finished lunch, he would take his plate and cutlery into the kitchen and wash them clean, then leave to dry. On the week ends when the children were not attending school, he would invite them to go for a run ashore, which was the term for let’s go for a short walk around the village -green. Here he would tell them stories of pirates and those ruffians who made a living off the seas. When Henry asked him about his time in the Royal Navy, he would create an exciting story that would discretely drift off what young Henry wanted to hear. Mandy would always ask him if he wanted to do something different in the afternoon, but he would always smile at her.

“No, my dear, if you can get a copy of the Times newspaper, I would be grateful. Once the newspaper had been delivered, she would arrange the dinner table and spread the newspaper out for him. She would watch him as he carefully unfolded the paper opened it to page 8, then ask for a cup of tea. By the time she got back to him he had taken out his pocket-watch and made himself comfortable.

“Thank you my dear.” Was all he would say, and then he would start the crossword. Sometimes talking to himself.  Mandy would know that if she came back into the room after 10 minutes, he would be finished.  Only once could she remember that he had been stumped by a clue and had not finished the crossword. On that occasion he took Mandy and the children out and treated them to a Wimpy meal with a milk shake.  

     Uncle Ted quickly scanned the clues, then started. Mmm, the opposite to noise?  7 down. Silence.  Purpose of a scale. Balance?  The old Roman name for the capital of Britannia?  9 across, Londinium. What piece of material is awarded for the achievement in Epicurean? Michelin Star. No too many letters. Blue Ribbon.

 Perfect. He gradually ticked off the clues until he came to one that stumped him. The Latin name for Hedgehog? 

     He studied the blank wall wracking his brain for a good two minutes. Then out of nowhere he gave a satisfying grunt. 9 down, Erinaceus. 8 across. Total lack of light? Darkness. What name was the Irish Monk of the 6^th Century better known by?

Uncle Ted grinned. “that’s easy” he muttered to himself. Saint Brendon the navigator and the saint for sailors.”

    “Last clue.” He said quietly to himself. A Phantasmagoria when moved, a complex pattern of changing scene.

     He felt a shiver of ice-cold air rush through his body. He did something he rarely did, he started to panic. Then he glanced at the pocket-watch.  He had run out of time. No matter what he did, he could not answer the clue.

 

     Suddenly the door to the dining room burst open and little Clair came in carrying something in her hand.

    “Look Uncle Ted.  Mummy bought me a super present.”  She held up the Kaleidoscope.

      With a huge grin on his face, he bent down and hugged little Clair. “That’s it. My deal Clair you are a genius.  How did you know? 

      Hearing the commotion, Mandy came rushing into the room. “Oh I’m so sorry Ted, I thought you may have finished.”

      Still laughing, Uncle Ted stood up.  “No, it alright. I got stumped on the last clue until Clair came in and I recognised what she was holding in her hand. So I still completed the cross word but not in ten minutes.”

    “Tonight, we are eating out.  I am treating you all to a meal at Macdonald’s.”

 

Copyright Bob French 

THE FREEZER

 THE FREEZER

by Bob French

A week before Christmas, all Billy could think about was the Galaxy 500. Not just any skateboard. The Galaxy 500. It had soft rubber wheels that hardly made a sound, shiny silver trucks, and the best suspension you could imagine. Gary said you could jump kerbs without rattling your teeth loose and Jemma swore she'd seen one fly down Miller's Hill faster than a bicycle.

          Billy wanted one so badly it hurt. Every evening, after school, he would stop outside Mr. Collin’s sports shop and stare through the window at the bright blue board perched on its stand. Sometimes he imagined it was already his. He could almost feel the grip tape beneath his trainers. But dreams didn't cost anything, the skateboard did.

          His mum worked long hours, and her boyfriend, Alf, seemed to spend more time sitting in the kitchen with a can of lager than doing anything useful. When Alf had been drinking, everyone learned to keep out of his way, that included Pongo.

Pongo was Billy’s scruffy brown dog with floppy ears, muddy paws, and a tail that never stopped wagging. Billy loved him more than anything. Pongo loved Billy too. Unfortunately, Pongo also loved chasing cats, stealing socks, chewing shoes and, every now and then, knocking over the living room coffee table while racing around after an imaginary squirrel.

          "That dog's going to be the death of me," Alf would growl whenever he found another cushion ripped open.  Billy would hug Pongo tightly and whisper, "You don't mean it, do you?" Pongo would lick his face as if to apologize.

          Whenever Alf’s temper started to rise, Billy disappeared. He hid in the cellar. Not against the back wall, never there. The back wall was always in partial darkness and belonged to the enormous white chest freezer. It sat beneath the tiny window like some sleeping monster, humming quietly to itself. His mum kept all the meat inside it. Every payday she'd fill it with packets wrapped in paper and plastic before carefully locking the lid.

          The cellar only had one weak light bulb that buzzed overhead.  What made the room scary was that when people walked past his house in the evening, street lamps outside created shadows that drifted through the tiny window, stretching into long black shapes that slid silently over the walls and the cold floor.

          To Billy, they looked like ghosts. He would sit in the darkest corner with Pongo curled beside him until the shouting upstairs stopped.

          As Christmas grew closer, the house grew noisier. Money was tight and Alf drank more. His mum looked more tired every day. Billy stopped asking Father Christmas for the Galaxy 500 because he could see the worry in her face whenever she counted coins at the kitchen table; Still...Every night he whispered the same wish before falling asleep.

          “Please. Just this once.”  Three nights before Christmas everything exploded. Pongo had pulled the Christmas turkey off the kitchen table. The bird landed on the floor. At that moment, Alf came home already drunk. When he saw the ruined dinner, he exploded with rage.

           "You useless mutt!" Pongo ran behind Billy. Alf grabbed for him. "I'll kill the stupid dog!"

Billy threw himself in front of Alf. "No!" Alf shoved him aside.

His mum rushed between them, pushing Billy behind her.

          "You leave him alone!"

Alf was shaking with anger. "I'll dump the stupid dog in the freezer!"

Billy felt every word like ice inside his chest. The freezer, the place where his mum always put all the dead meats in. The humming white box in the dark cold cellar.

          His mum stood firm. "For the last time... get out!"

Alf shouted for another minute before slamming the front door so hard the windows rattled. Billy sat on the stairs holding Pongo for what felt like hours.

          Christmas morning arrived cold and silent. Billy woke before sunrise. For one magical second, he forgot everything.

          Christmas. He raced downstairs in his pyjamas. His stocking hung over the fireplace. His heart pounded. He reached inside. An orange. A pair of socks. A chocolate coin. Nothing else.

          His stomach sank. He tried not to cry. He really did. But the tears came anyway. He carried the stocking upstairs and buried his face in his pillow. Maybe Father Christmas hadn't been able to find his house. Maybe the Galaxy 500 had always been impossible. Nearly an hour later there was a gentle knock on his bedroom door.

          "Billy?" It was his Mum. "Can we talk?" He wiped his eyes and followed her downstairs. The house felt different. Quiet, too quiet. Alf’s jacket was gone. His boots had disappeared from beside the back door.

          "Where's Alf?"

          "I asked him to leave," Mum said softly. "For good." Billy stared. Then another thought struck him. "Where's Pongo?"

His mum turned away, avoiding eye contact. His heart began racing. "Where is he?"

His Mum reached for his hand. "Come with me." She led him slowly down the stairs toward the cellar.

          Billy tried to resist.  "No..." The stairs creaked beneath their feet. The weak bulb buzzed overhead. The familiar humming filled the cold room. The freezer waited in the shadows.

          Billy couldn't breathe. His fingers tightened around his Mum's hand. She stopped beside the huge white lid.

          "I need you to be brave," she whispered. His eyes filled with tears.

“Pongo. My Poor Pongo.”

He buried his face against her skirt. "I don't want to see him Mum..."

          She stroked his hair gently, then She lifted the lid. Tommy looked.

For one terrible heartbeat he felt his legs give way as he screamed.

The sound echoed around the cellar. He stumbled backwards and landed hard on the concrete floor and began to sob. His Mum hurried to him.

          "It's all right love. It's all right."

          She helped him to his feet and gently eased him towards the open freezer. "Look again."

          Slowly...Very slowly, Billy peered into the freezer. There was no dog. No horrible secret.

Only a huge cardboard box wrapped in bright Christmas paper. Across the top was a silver label. GALAXY 500, Complete with soft rubber tyres. Super suspension. Exactly like the one from Mr. Collins' shop.

          Billy stared. He couldn't speak. He looked around wildly. Suddenly Pongo came charging from behind a stack of old boxes, barking happily before jumping up and licking his face.

Billy laughed through his tears. He hugged Pongo, then he hugged his mum even tighter.

Copyright Bob French

 

 Number 95 Hawthorn Drive

By Bob French

At the far end of Hawthorn Drive sat an old stone cottage; number 95.  The cottages around it had all been purchased by YUPYs and torn down and replaced with smart town houses.  The land upon which the old stone cottage sat was surrounded by idyllic ancient oak trees and wrapped in climbing ivy. For more than sixty years it had been the home of Mary Duval, a gentle widow whose only wealth was the cottage she loved and the memories it held. After her husband had not come home from the war, she was left with bringing up her son who was now the manager of a city bank.

        One autumn afternoon, a young couple arrived claiming to be sent by the council. With convincing smiles and forged documents, they told Mary that the cottage was dangerously unstable and would soon be condemned. Frightened and confused, the elderly woman believed every word. They offered to buy the property immediately, promising enough money to help her live comfortably for the rest of her days. They even allowed her to remain in her cottage until the deeds were signed.  This kindness clinched the deal. 

        Desperate and trusting, Mary accepted a small deposit, while the couple assured her that once the bank had confirmed the deal, the balance would be paid to her within a month. Feeling unsure, she wrote to her son and explained what had happened, but heard nothing.

        The payment never came.

        By the time Mary realised she had been deceived, the couple had legally changed the deeds into their own names and disappeared behind expensive solicitors. She remained in her beloved cottage until early winter had set in.  Then on the 10^th of November, storms and high winds hit the region causing much structural damage.  Mary knew from past experience that her little cottage would easily survive the storms, so she remained in her comfortable parlour; refusing to leave.  As the howling of the storm raged outside, Mary sat and took stock of her situation.  She knew she was frail and was about to become homeless.  Heartbroken, and too frail to fight, the establishment, she wrapped her shawl around herself and quietly passed away.

        The young couple celebrated their good fortune in secret, not wishing to let on how they had tricked Mary.  Within a few weeks, they had arranged a loan from the bank, increased their mortgage and quickly moved to have their newly acquired property torn down and a new town house built on the same lines as those around them.

        Within a week things started to change, much to their surprise. The bank were questioning the legality of the paperwork regarding the sale and the manager of the mortgage lender firm wanted to speak to them urgently.  The couple realised that any plans to demolish the old cottage would have to wait until all the paperwork had been sorted, so they moved into the old stone cottage. 

        On the first night the couple were woken by the sound of footsteps in the kitchen. The second night, the kitchen window was opened, causing a cold draft to rush throughout the cottage.  The couple decided to tough it out claiming that these old cottages moved with the heat and cold.  Then on the weekend, a door slammed and when the couple went to investigate, they heard the ghostly sound of Mary’s voice whaling throughout the cottage.

        “You will never live in my cottage.” 

        This appeared to be the last straw for the couple.  In the morning after a sleepless night, someone rang their front door bell.  When they opened the door, they were met by a tall gentleman in a smart suit.

        “Good morning. I have an order from the Bailiff’s Court.” and held out the envelope. “Consider yourselves to have been served. Good day.” He left without another word.

        By mid-day the bank had called and informed the couple that their loan had been refused on the grounds that there were some inaccuracies in their application.  They were now completely penniless. The manager took pity on them and agreed to allow them to stay in the cottage until they got their affairs in order. In the late afternoon they discovered that their electricity had been cut off.  As they sat in the darkness, the haunting sound of Mary’s voice crept through the cottage again causing the couple to break into screams and tears of fright. 

        They managed to stay in the cottage for another two days, then they cracked. The people who lived next door to them called the police after hearing screams and thought that a domestic disturbance was taking place.  The police didn’t waste their time and called the local doctor, who after listening to their gibbering account about the cottage being haunted, approached the NHS regarding temporary custody in the nearest mental institute.

         James, the son of Mary, was a senior bank manager in the city.  He was also a member of the Territorial Army and held the appointment of Commanding Officer of the Special Signals Detachment. After he had heard that the couple who had caused the death of his mother had been removed from the scene, he called his son.

        William, it’s Dad.  Are you still interested in living in Grandma’s little cottage?”

        “Yes please Dad.”

        “Good. Can you contact Sergeant Phillips and ask if he can pop down to the cottage and remove the hidden cameras and bugs, including the piped voices.

Copyright Bob French

 

THE LONDON MARATHON ESCAPE

THE LONDON MARATHON ESCAPE

By Bob French

          As a boy, Daniel had always felt something missing; an edge, a hardness he couldn’t quite define. While others drifted through life, he wanted to understand it, to test himself against it. That hunger for maturity drove him to the Merchant Navy and eventually to South Africa. It was there, on what would be his final trip that everything changed.

          What began as another reckless venture ended in violence. He was ambushed; beaten so badly he was left for dead. Broken ribs, shattered confidence, and months of slow, painful recovery followed. It took nearly a year before he could stand tall again. But the man who rose from that year was not the same boy who had fallen.  He made himself a promise: never again.

          Revenge, at first, was a vague idea; more feeling than plan. But over time it sharpened into purpose. He returned to Britain and enlisted in the Royal Marines. If he was going to survive in a brutal world, he would do it properly. He would learn discipline. He would learn control. And, if necessary, he would learn how to kill.

          The Marines gave him structure, but they also revealed something darker within him; a talent for strategy, for reading people, for anticipating weakness. When he left the service, that talent found its natural home in the shadows.

          For the next ten years, Daniel moved through the underworld like a ghost. He didn’t lead gangs or make any noise. He observed, waited, and exploited. Petty criminals with sloppy plans became his targets. He let them do the work, then quietly took their rewards. A botched robbery here, a poorly executed con there, he refined his craft until it became almost effortless.

          Eventually, he returned to South Africa, not as a victim this time, but as a man in control. With the wealth he had accumulated, he bought an old fishing boat. It was modest at first, but it gave him something he hadn’t had in years: a cover, a routine, a semblance of peace.

          He hired himself and the boat out for deep-sea fishing charters. After each lucrative contract, he upgraded—selling the old vessel, buying a bigger one. The progression mirrored his life: always moving forward, always expanding.

          Years passed. Then, one morning, standing on the deck as the sun rose over the horizon, Daniel realised something. He was tired. Not physically, but deeply, fundamentally tired of living for other people’s expectations, other people’s plans, even if he was the one exploiting them. He wanted one last job. Something clean. Something decisive. That decision took him to Amsterdam and for six months, he kept his ear to the ground; bars, docks, backroom conversations. He listened more than he spoke, invisible as ever. Eventually, he heard whispers of something big: a gang planning to steal a massive diamond consignment from the heart of London and traffic them back to Amsterdam.  It was at this point he decided to move to London, closer to the action.

          Daniel didn’t approach them. He didn’t need to. He simply listened and learned. The plan was ambitious but flawed. Their surveillance was sloppy, their timing predictable, their escape route amateurish. Daniel smiled the first time he mapped it all out. They weren’t professionals; they were opportunists, which made them perfect.

          He followed the details carefully, identifying the weak point: their getaway plan. On the day of the heist, London buzzed with the chaos of the marathon. Streets were closed, crowds thick, police stretched thin. It was the perfect cover, not just for the gang, but for him.

          He watched from a distance as they moved into position, each step confirming his assessment of their incompetence. Daniel already had their getaway van under surveillance and when the driver left the van to buy some cigarettes, He slipped into the back of the van and waited. On his return Daniel quickly took out the driver and Minutes later, Daniel sat behind the wheel, wearing the man’s mask. Beneath it, concealed, was a lightweight military gas mask of his own.

          The robbery went exactly as he expected—loud, clumsy, alarms blaring. The gang came running, adrenaline high, unaware that their plan had already been compromised. They piled into the van laughing and screaming, no one took any notice of Daniel who drove calmly away, merging into traffic with practiced ease. No sudden movements, no panic; just another vehicle in the chaos of the East End. Then he triggered the gas which spread silently throughout the van. Within minutes, the euphoria gradually stopped as one by one the men collapsed into unconsciousness.

          Daniel didn’t rush. He drove to a quiet, deserted car park near Liverpool Street Station. There, he tied up the three men, sprinkled a few of the stolen diamonds around so that when the Police found the van and the diamonds, the search would be called off. then packed the rest of his newly found wealth into a common sports bag; left the van behind with its sleeping passengers. Once he had deposited the sports bag into one of the numerous deposit boxes he went to the Men’s and changed into his running gear throwing his shoes and clothes into a rucksack.

          A taxi took him to the start point where thousands of runners had already started to stream past the start line. Before he joined the throng, he called the police and gave them directions and descriptions of the thieves who had just robbed the Diamond Store.  Then he threw the burn-phone into a nearby bin and slipped into the crowd unnoticed, just another late participant. Hours later, he crossed the finish line with the stragglers, collected his medal, and disappeared into the city.

          He waited for a few days to make sure things had died down.  During this period, he arranged for the sale of his boat and requested that the proceeds be transferred back to his account in South Africa. He then caught the ferry over to Amsterdam and agreed to meet with the diamond merchant who had agreed to buy the diamonds from the gang in the first place.  Once the sale of the stolen diamonds had been made, Daniel asked the dealer to transfer his proceeds back to South Africa.  Once that was done, he caught a train to Zurich in Switzerland and made an appointment with one of the more famous banks.  Here he transferred all his money he had made in South Africa and from the sale of his boat and the diamonds into the Swiss Bank account.  The day after that, he bought a first-class ticket to the Bahamas and vanished.

Copyright Bob French

  

Mable my Love & News of Roddy (2 flashes of fiction)

Mable my Love (100 words)

By Bob French

Albert knew he had to rush.  The train was never late and he had promised to say good bye.

As he rounded the corner, he ran into the people who had just gotten off the train.

          “Scuse me! Oh, for Heaven’s sakes, get out of the blooming way!”   But few took any notice.

Reaching the platform only to see Mable in the arms of another man.  Without thinking, Albert charged the man knocking him to the floor.

Mable screamed at him, then yelled, “Albert, get off my brother!”

Copyright Bob French
 

News of Roddy (200 words)

Bob French

William Ackroyd, was a proud Devonshire hill farmer who had fought alongside King Edward III of England on numerous occasions.  As he stood watching over the new lambs skipping and jumping across the lush green grass of the foot hills, his thoughts wondered back to the day his eldest son, Roddy, left to fight for Edward the III, just like he had, only he had gone to war with his father’s broad sword, whilst Roddy had proven himself as a bowman.

          Then, on a cold June morning, just as he was about to let out the sheep into the high fields, a man hailed him from yonder path.

          “Be you William Ackroyd?”

          William froze as the traveler started to make his way down the path towards him.

          “I bid you good morning’ William Ackroyd, and beg if I may for a crust of bread, for I still have a  ways to go.”

          William could see from the traveler’s garb that he was wearing the tabard of the King and assumed that he had come bearing news of Roddy.

          “Come fellow, come inside.”

          “Sorry, I can’t stay; I’m just here to say your son Roddy is well and sends his love.”

Copyright Bob French 

 THE COMING OF SPRING

By Bob French

Second Lieutenant Edward Cunningham of the second battalion, the Royal Cumberland Fusiliers called his men around him, pulled out a map he had found in a partially damaged tourist shop in the main square of Ypres and began spreading it out.

          “Listen up.  Well done lads for getting here without any casualties or pushing off on a personal looting spree, but we still have a job to do before the rest of the battalion gets here. He knelt on one knee and spread out the map, then looked up. “John Thorpe, come round here, and using this tourist map, create the area around this town which is called Ypres, and out towards the east so the rest of the lads can understand what the lay of the land ahead of us looks like where we need to go.”

          As John Thorpe, a 40-year-old ex farmer, poacher and an excellent shot could start to create the map of the ground ahead of the platoon, he needed the tools to create the land by using twigs, stones and sand or soil that Thorpe would use to create his master piece.  Whilst he studied the map, the rest of the men went about picking up the bits and pieces for John.  Whilst this was going on, Cunningham looked up.

          “Prof, sort out the sentries. Patric, see what you can scrounge in the way of food and Jonesy, try and acquire some beer.  No spirits understand.”

          Once Thorpe had constructed a perfect diagram of the land around Ypres and out to the east using the soil, twigs and rocks to create a three dimension of the area, Second Lieutenant Cunningham explained using the created map what they were going to do.  Once he had finished, he and the rest of the platoon destroyed Thorpe’s master piece.

          This method of survival had become second nature for the men of the 13^th Platoon, the labour platoon of the battalion. To everyone else in the battalion they were the scum, the dregs.  No one wanted them in their rifle company for the exercise, so when the Labour Platoon form their own unit, then won the competition, the hatred increase. This had caused a real upset within the battalion. It wasn’t until the Second in Command approached the Commanding Officer and explained the consequences of awarding the trophy to the labour platoon.  After some discussion he decided that this year the trophy would not be awarded, but instead, He’d award the distinction of granting the labour platoon a formal position on the battalion Order Of Battle.  On Monday, on Daily Routine Orders it was declared that with immediate effect, the labour platoon were to be known as the 13^th Platoon, of the Royal Cumberland Fusiliers.

          When Second Lieutenant Cunningham, who had drawn the short straw and was given the job of commanding the labour platoon during the exercise, attempted to raise his concerns about fairness, his company commander discretely took him aside and explained that whilst he had done a good job, he should leave the matter there.  If he continued to make a fuss, he would end up commanding this new platoon of misfits.

          Within the first ten days of taking over the 13^th Platoon, Henry Cunningham had realized that the men of the 13^th were here, because they didn’t follow orders, disrespected senior NCOs and officers’ and really didn’t care about the battalion.  As far as they were concerned, the battalion had turned their back on them. Henry realised that if he was to command these men, then he had to make some changes.  The first thing he did was to get the men to wear the proper uniform of the fusiliers, then, when a task came down from the Adjutant, he would sit down with them and explain the job.  He then left it to them to sort out the best way to do it and, by whom, then crack on and get it done.  This proved to be the best way for everyone. And from those early days, they had survived by sticking to this tried and tested procedure.

          After outwitting the German 1^st Army and leading the charge that pushed the Germans’ back from the River Marne then on to the town of Aisne, the commanding officer decided to appoint the 13^th Platoon as the recce platoon. It was at this point the war underwent a complete change.  Instead of being a war of movement, it became a war of attrition, a battle of artillery and trench warfare, and regardless of how brilliant a soldier or officer was, if a shell had your name on it, then that was it.

          As the battalion caught up with the 13^th Platoon, who were now employed as the recce platoon, working ahead of the main body, The battalion operations officer told Second Lieutenant Cunningham to move forward to Zonnebeck and dig in.

          As the platoon moved out at dawn towards Zonnebeck some of the men were in high spirits.

          “At last spring has arrived.  Early morning light, birdsong, dry ground fresh drinking water, decent bogs and regular rations, hay Patric?”

          After the men added their ten penny-worth Old John Thorpe raised his hand. “Sorry lads, but I got some real bad news for you. The change in nature, especially for the likes of us, wondering around a field which has a high-water table, is no joke.”

          Second Lieutenant Cunningham respected what John Thorp had to say.  He had lived rough for years before he was found and lured back into the Army. As  the men muttered amongst themselves, he nodded to Frank Gregson, who had been a damn good sergeant, until his platoon commander, broke down in front of his men whilst being outflanked by the Germans and accused Gregson of cowardice.  The Commanding Officer had to do something, so he reduced him to Lance Corporal and sent the young second Lieutenant back to UK for leave. Gregson acknowledge the nod, then shouted;

          “Enemy to the right!  Number 1 section cover 3 Section, Jonesy, get that machine gun over to the left and take out their retreat.”  Cuningham stood still and observed his command and felt proud that if they ever came face to face with a much larger formation of Germans’ they would make mincemeat out of them.

          After he had blown his whistle, and complimented his men he pointed to small hillock. ”We are going to set up shop on the top of the hillock and extent our trench lines either side of it.  Alright lads, talk it through and ask Corporal Gregson for any advice. Now, let’s get a shift on.”

          Les McAllistair turned to Jonesy. “Did ya manage ta get some tins un string like?”

          “What for, the booby-traps?”

          “Ay, they’re in the sack over there.  Do you want ta give me a hand then?”

          As the two of them stood and started to leave the group, Gregson turned to the three youngsters. “You follow these two and watch how they set up a warning system with tins and stones, hanging from a piece of string.”

          Once they had dug their trenches and fitted their fire step and dug the bogs, they settled down to the food and drink provided by Paddy and Jonesy. Who had gone ‘walk about’ in Ypres.  As they sat there in silence, one of the younger men turned to John Thorpe.  “Hey John, what did you mean when you said that the beginning of spring is a terrible time?”

          John Thorpe filled his pipe and thought for a minute.

          “In early spring, the winds around these parts tend to come from way up north so they’re blooming cold and once you get wet, your body sometimes can’t cope.  Now, if you’ve had a good look around, you will see that the closest trees or cover is at least three hundred yards, so we have no cover to rely on and no warmth to speak of.

          The ground is hard as a rock, but come spring, it starts to soften and the dew caused by the change of temperature helps to turn the grass and the soil into a sticky mud.  This makes it bloody hard to keep your feet dry. Next our support, once the battalion gets settled in to Ypres, we will start to get our rations, water or mail but it is going to take twice as long for them to navigate the land and if its too difficult, they won’t come.  Don’t forget, they know who we are.  We ain’t the most popular people in the battalion. When it rains, and it does a heck of a lot this time of the year, it will rain, and when I mean it rains the rain and the cold will quickly get into your bones.  

          As the temperature slowly rises, so the mosquitos and all the other insects that live off the water, see us as a free meal, especially ants, and of course once the rainy season sets in, that’s normally March and April, you get dragon flies and rats. The rats don’t hibernate during the winter, they sleep and live off their food hoards. If you take a deep breath right now, you will smell fresh grass, and a faint pong of maybe manure or the person standing next to you.  Once the rats realise that their winter stocks of food have been exhausted, they will eat anything else that is out there.  That’s dead bodies, or live ones if they are desperate.

          Now Ypres is very close to the Sea, so surrounding areas have a high-water level and when it rains, the bloody rain has nowhere to go, so within an hour, your trench is knee deep in ice cold water. On top of all the things I have just mentioned, rain can be totally debilitating. It saps your energy, interrupts your sleep, destroys any comforts you may have managed to rig, and lastly it affects your morale, so much so, that there will be times you will want to kill yourself. Then there is how we live. To keep clean will be a mammoth task, if you don’t, you can catch at least eight diseases, three of these can, and will kill you, so bloody well keep yourselves clean. Now on to the bogs, to those of you who do not know what the bogs are, in the Army they are toilet huts. If you mess up or put any of us in danger, then guess who will be digging the bogs for a week. Now this is important.  When you do go, remember to keep low because enemy snipers know that any person wanting to go to the bogs, has only one thing on his mind. And of course, once you have relieved yourself, you will feel a different man and will have nothing on your mind except total relief.  And you all know, the saying. No one ever hears the bullet that hits you, so stay very low, got it?  Now you are wondering why we have two bogs. Any one know?  No one spoke.

          Lance Corporal Gregson raised his hand and spoke without being invited.

          “Simple really. If the wind blows from the right of our trench, we all need to use the bogs on the left and if the wind blows from the left, we all have to use the bogs to the right..”

          “Ah, but what happens if the wind is coming directly towards us eh?”

          “Then everyone should be alerted to the use of gas by the Germans, so we always have our gas mask on, and before you ask, if the wind is coming from behind us, we simply desert the front trench and move to the back wall of our trench.”

          “Thanks John. Is there anything else that you want us to know?”

          No one spoke, then Second Lieutenant Cunningham stood up.  All right I have written up the sentries’ rosters. Lance Corporals’ Kent, Hampton and Gregson please report to me once you have finished your meal.”  He then turned to the rest of the men of the 13^th Platoon.  “Listen up all of you.  During the retreat from Mons and the couple of battles on the way up from the south, we had the battalion and the brigade supporting us.  Now we are by ourselves. One of the reasons we seemed to have come off lightly was because it was the Saxon brigade we were up against.  Any one know anything about the Saxons?”

          Allan Clifford raised his hand. “Sir, the Saxons, down the centuries are the closest European relative to us, here in England.  It would be like shooting our own people, hence the easy ride we had.”

          “Spot on Prof. Well done.  Now remember when you are on sentry duty.  We have erected a simple warning system which is facing our east.  If you hear the tins rattle, that means someone has walked into our trap.  I do not want to be told that you think someone is coming, just work out where you think the sound came from and put a magazines worth into who ever it is. Corporal Gregson and his raiding party will rush out towards the suspected enemy, so try not to shoot them please.”

Copyright Bob French

 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