THE CHALLENGE OF NATIONS

 THE CHALLENGE OF NATIONS (The New Olympic sport.)  

By Bob French

I was in a bad mood.  If Mavis bloody Hetherington had not caught chicken pox, I would be down on the east stand of Craven Cottage watching Fulham kick the stuffing out of Accrington Stanley.  Instead, I’m sitting listening to the forty-nine or so delegates whose countries they had represented and participated in the 2028 and 2032 summer Olympic Games, and was trying to filter out whose ten penny-worth of ideas were both logical and possible. 

The Chair of the Executive Committee of the Games of the Olympiad, that’s the summer games to the likes of me and you, had open the meeting with only one agenda item, which ended up a free-for-all shouting match, which, if my ears didn’t fail me, the Germans were just a little bit louder than the French, which didn’t surprise me.

          As I slowly glanced around the room, I was impressed at the shape of everyone. They all looked young, fit, and well-groomed. I knew many of them from my participation in the 2024 and 2028 games, and guessed that most were the same age as me, but it was quite noticeable that there was a distinct lack of spare tires, baggy-eyes and cheeks and double chins, even those whose hair had turned grey did their level best to hide it with heavy duty hair dye.

          The agenda was only one item; it was felt that most of the events that took place in the past two Summer Games had reached their human performance ceiling; No one could jump higher than 2.68 meters any more, or sprint the 100 meters faster than 8.75 or to complete the marathon in under 2 hours. And to compound the decision there some sports now banned because it was felt they were too dangerous; such as boxing, wrestling, long distance running, white water canoeing, rock climbing and due to the EU wide ban on the use of horses in sporting events, all equestrian events were scrapped. The purpose of this meeting was to come up with a new set of sports for the 2036 summer games.

As I glanced around the room, I suddenly felt, not uncomfortable, but a little out of place, and grinned as I took a quick look down at my spare tyre.  I felt proud of the time and money I had invested into creating this master piece, and of the time felt pleased that I no longer spent lifting weights or pounding the track day after day. 

A loud voice caused me to look down to the head of the table.

“Je ne comprendess passsst Woman, for God sakes!” and smiled as Mr. Azlaney Yilmaz, the Turkish national swimming coach, whose turn it was to chair such meetings, was gradually losing his temper with Madame Charlotte Montpellier, who had won gold in the wrestling in 2028 games. You see the admin language of the Olympics movement is French and try as he may, old Azlaney’s grasp of the French language was absolutely pants. He tried to talk over her and I felt like discretely warning him that Madame Montpellier had a bit of a reputation for slapping any person who was upsetting her, and by the look of things, that wasn’t very far away.

The person on my left was a woman who should really have been on the cover of Vogue or Cosmopolitan.  She was Swedish and had a smile to die for. I had already met her at the bar and we struck up a decent conversation.  Her name was Helga and I quickly forgot her surname as I couldn’t pronounce it. She and I had participated in the 2032 games in Australia. She had won two silver medals; I got drunk and missed the finals.

We talked for a few minutes about what she was going to propose and thought her idea would probably be alright, but her proposal still centered on the athlete being ultra fit to compete and win, which I then tried to explain to her that the reason we were here was to discuss some alternative sports.

Suddenly, Azlaney lost his temper with Madame Montpelier.  Stood and began bashed the gavel several times to bring some order to the meeting.  It was the Norwegian representative who tugged at Azlaney’s sleeve and quietly informed him that everyone in the room was already silent.

“Oh, thank you. We are here today to suggest alternative events for future summer games. You have all had ten minutes to test your ideas with representatives from other nations, yes? So I shall start with you Heer Dr. Karlstadt from Germany.

The tall and elegant man stood and in perfect French spoke.

“Firstly, I would like to retain the fitness elements of all events and…”

Before he could finish the sentence, be was instantly interrupted by several other representatives who shouted him down.

“This is not what we are here for,” seem to be the cry. Some simply banged the table in protest.

Azlaney gradually worked his way around the table until he came to the Irish delegate.

“Mr. chairman, I would like to propose that instead of the 100-meter sprint, the 200 and 400 meters and the 110 hurdles. The athletes line up as usual, on hearing the pistol, they race to the first hurdle and drink a lemonade, then onto the second hurdle and drink a spritzer and so on with the drinks getting stronger as they move down the course until they reach the finish.  The winner is the person who drinks all the drinks and spills none of it.  This method can be used for the steeple chase, the 800, the 1500 meters and by four-by-four relay.

This proposal was met with an outcry as it virtually destroyed the ethos of the Olympics.  Madam Montpelier stood and clapped her hand to bring silence to the meeting which was really getting out of hand.

“Mr. Chairman, I would like to suggest that we each put our names on a piece of paper and you select the name from a hat. The person chosen then stands up and gives a brief description of his proposal. That way there is no cheating, but everyone must agree to the changes to be introduces and agree to adopt them.”

The room fell into silence. Azlaney stood and glanced at each person around the table. “Well, what do you think?  We need a method of selecting the new events or we shall be here all week.”

There was an unhealthy murmur starting to build up in the room, but I picked up from looking around the table, that most of the delegates thought it was a fair way to arrive at a solution.

Azlaney turned to one of the secretaries and asked her to provide each representative with paper and pencil, then asked the woman who had just brought in the coffee to empty one of the ice buckets, and dry it thoroughly, then go and stand at the other end of the table.

When he thought that everyone had completed the task, he asked the coffee lady to slowly go around the table and allow each delegate to drop their name into the bucket.

“Now, I shall ask…..” 

“Excuse me Sir.”  It was the coffee lady who had interrupted him and was looking a little bit flushed.

“Yes, what is it my dear?”

“How many pieces of paper are each delegate permitted to put into the bucket?”

“Only one, why?”

“Well, the gentleman sitting next to the man in the brown suit put three pieces of paper into the bucket.”

You could have heard a pin drop as everyone turned and looked at the Russian delegate.

Azlaney asked the coffee lady to bring the bucket to him, then carefully sifted through the pieces of paper until he found the three pieces of paper with the Russian’s name on them.  He slowly took them out and ripped them up in-front of everyone.

“Mr. Yashkenski, kindly leave this room.  I shall brief the Executive committee of your conduct and strongly suggest that your country be barred from the next two Olympic games.”

In total silence, Yashkenski slowly stood, turned, and left the room. Once the door had closed, everyone in the room burst into cheers and poor old Azlaney had another ten minutes of trying to bring some sort of order with his gavel.

He then reshuffled the bucked and invited the coffee lady to pick one piece of paper from it.

She moved forward, rose up onto her tip toes and picked a piece of paper.

“Mr. Ron Jenkins of Great Britain, please stand up and give the meeting your proposal?

“Mr. Chairman and fellow delegates.  I suggest that events where brute strength is used to win, be replaced with board games. Each nation to provide a variety of their national games with a warm-up period where other nations can learn how to play them.”

There was an eerie silence as each delegate pondered what I had said, then, without any warning, the room erupted into applaud.

Copyright Bob French

 A STRANGE PARADISE

By Bob French

It was my tenth birthday and my Mum had arranged for some of my class mates to come over for a birthday party. Halfway through stuffing my face full of birthday cake and sweets, my dad appeared dressed in some sort of explorer’s outfit.  He had a slouch hat, dark glasses and sandy coloured jacket and slacks.  I noted that his boots were desert boots and had seen some service by the state of them.

He waived his arms around until the room fell into silence.

“OK, Who’s for an adventure?”

Everyone started cheering as I looked at my Mum.  Dad never did anything spontaneous before.  He usually just sat in front of the TV while Mum rushed around the house doing things like making the beds, doing the washing or cooking.  Anyway, he told us all to make a line in the hall way and wait until he was ready.

We must of stood there for nearly ten minutes, then the front door opened, letting the bright warm sunshine flood our hallway.

“Right follow me.  No one must get left behind, so keep checking behind you to see if your friend is there.”

With that we followed Dad out of the house, marching as we went.  He turned down the side of the house and up to the back of a small lorry.

“Right, everyone in.  Once you are in, seat yourself down on the cushions and get comfortable.  The ride won’t take long.”

We’d gone no more that five minutes before Jimmy, the boffin of our class, started to look a little green.  Then without warning he vomited up most of the birthday cake he had stuffed into his face.

Frank, who had been complaining about the amount of cake Jimmy was eating at the party laughed. “That’ll teach you to be such a porker Jimmy.  I think we should call you ‘oink’ from now on.”  This brought laughter from all his friends, where the fear of being sick once filled the back of the lorry.

Suddenly, the lorry started to bump around as though it was driving fast over a ploughed field.  The boys cheered and the girls screamed as they were thrown all over the place.

Then without warning, the lorry came to a halt, bringing a sigh of relief of everyone. The back doors were opened and Dad laughed as he peered into what looked like a mass of bodies scattered all over the place.

“Anyone hurt?  No! Right then get back onto your cushions and put these face masks on.  You must not play with them or take them off or try and sneak a peep.  If you do the magic spell which is about to be cast upon each of you will not work.  The last time a party came this way, one of the boys took his face mask off.”

He left a pause until Joan asked. “What happened to him Mr Jenkins?”

Dad simply said in a quiet, haunting voice “I don’t know.  He vanished.  No one ever heard of him again, so follow the rules and no peeping. Now line-up.

Once we were in a straight line, Dad started to chant some foreign gibberish language which I assume was the magic spell.  When he finished, He asked us all to shout “Ingo Alohomora,” which I recalled reading in one of Harry Potters books.

Once we had yelled the magic spell we were told to turn to our left.

“Now please put your left hand on the shoulder of the person in front of you and start to march.” We could hear the sounds of laughter and music, and Frank yelled out, “We are going to the fair.” But without warning the party turned a sharp left and suddenly the warmth of the sun had left us.  Now it was cold, and there was a wind that rushed over us, ruffling our hair, and the sounds we had heard before had gone.

We walked for about ten minutes until Dad yelled to everyone to stop. The suspense was killing me, something my dad always said when he was watching the TV. Then one by one he flicked a switch on our masks.  Everyone gasped.

“Stand still and one of my hunters will assist you into the chief’s hut.  Whatever happens, do not panic, or attempt to take off your mask.

I could hear most of my class mates chattering nervously. Then I felt someone take my hand and carefully guide me into somewhere warm.

My hunter adjusted my mask and suddenly I was transported into the deep undergrowth of a massive rain forest. I heard Joan scream with delight behind me.  Without warning a huge warrior looking man approached me and pointed me to follow him.  Fear took over and I did as I was told.  He took me deep into a beautiful forest where a huge array of brightly coloured butterflies fluttered around my head.  Very gently I raised my hand and they settled on it. Frank was ahead of me and I smiled because he had found a stump of an old tree and had sat down and was talking to a pair of monkeys who had come down from the trees to speak to us.

Over to my right I could see Joan and Margaret, gently stoking a huge python snake that had, like the monkey’s, come down from the canopy to investigate who the new guests were to their part of the forest.

I heard my dad calling us back to the Chief’s huge mud hut.  He smiled at me. “It’s time to go hunting.” And before the rest of my friends could protest, they were given bows and arrows and spears. 

Without warning, the chief hunter raised his hand and we followed him deep into the jungle. At first, we walked slowly and carefully, not wanting to give our position away to the pray.  We heard a variety of wild animal sound, but nothing charged us or frightened us. Then as if by magic, the bushes opened up and we stood and stared at a small lake surrounded by a variety of wild animals.  The chief hunter told us where to stand and not to move.  I was totally fascinated by the variety of animals that stood side by side and drank from the lake.  

The chief hunter then looked up at the sun and nodded, then quietly, we moved back into the lush green jungle and made our way quietly back to the Chief’s encampment.

Dad met us and explained that it was dinner time and we had all been invited to eat with the chief. He reminded us that if we refuse the food offered you will offend the Chief and his people.”

I could see the expression of fear on my friends faces as the invite sank into their minds. It was Frank who broke the silence.

“I think we should ask Oink to taste the food first as he seems to be the expert.”

No sooner had he said it, than Jimmy had taken a bowl from one of the serving maidens and started to munch his way through the food.

“Frank, this is really good food.  I think it tastes like trifle.”

That was all it took to change the minds of everyone.

Once they had finished the food offering, The Chief then explained to my dad that it was time for dancing.  Now I might be good at football, cricket and even swimming, but I can’t dance to save my life.

The drums started to beat to a rhythm and we were all dancing around a huge sparking fire, screaming and laughing, except Oink, who had eaten too much and was slumped down beside the Chief’s daughter. 

My dad took me and Frank aside briefly and warned us that what ever happens, Jimmy was to leave with us two or he will end up being either married to the Chief’s daughter or their next meal for the Chief’s tribe.

The evening became darker as the time dragged on and then dad raised his hand.

“Right everyone.  It is time to get back home.  Frank. Remember what I told you about Jimmy.”

We danced for a few minutes more then we were told to get back into a line, put our hand on the shoulder in front of us and we started to move again.  The journey back in the lorry was just as rough, but we didn’t mind.  The party and the adventure out into the strange paradise had been something I would never forget.

“Alright everyone, please carefully remove your face masks and hand them to Harry, our driver.  I hope you enjoyed the expedition and remember; no one must know that you have been deep into the rain forest. And met up with Chief Monoluggo and his tribe.”

That night my dad sat down in front of the TV and drank his tea. “You know luv, hirering those Virtual reality masks for the party were a good idea.

Copyright Bob French

BILLY CROMPTON’S WAGER 

By Bob French.

It was Friday the 11^th of November 2011, a special day for Billy Crompton, a veteran of the Korean War and the Suez Crisis, who like many of his pals, quietly stood at the war memorial at 11 o’clock in the rain to pay homage to those who did not return.  It was a good turn out and Billy was pleased to see a few of his pals from his old regiment had turned out. 

It had stopped raining by the evening, as he pushed open the door to his local, The Duke of Wellington, in Hatfield Peverel. After raising his hand in appreciation to the many who called out his name, he took his seat at the end of the bar.

          “Usual Billy?”

“Thank you, Harry.” 

The chatter and the sound of music grew as the night went on, until eight o’clock, when Harry rang the bell, informing those who had paid their five pounds, that the buffet was ready. 

Billy was looking forward to his evening meal and as he queued, he felt a tap on his shoulder, and turned.  There, standing in front of him was his old platoon commander, Mr Hawthorn Jarvis-Bollthrop, wearing his old regimental tie. 

“God, what are you doing here?” Billy’s tone was disrespectful to his old boss, but he didn’t care.  Ever since the man, who was a second lieutenant during the Korean war, had deserted him and his platoon leaving them stranded in no-man’s land, to fight their way back to their lines.  From that moment on, the lads from the second platoon refused to recognise him as their platoon commander. 

Billy ignored him, took his meal and sat down with some of his old pals and began chatting.  Much to Billy’s annoyance, Javis-Bollthrop joined the table where Billy sat and started to tell everyone how he had grown in status and wealth after the war. 

“What happened?  Did daddy give you lots of money?” 

“No, as a matter of fact, I started to work for Lloyds in London.  After a while, I began to work on stocks and shares, then moved to trading in foreign assets.  Have to say I made a packet. 

“So, what do you do now then?” One of Billy’s friends asked? 

“I trade on the stock market these days, having made a killing on the foreign assets desk. I also like to gamble at the Grosvenor Casino in Russell Square. It’s a very select establishment you know.” 

On hearing this, Billy put down his fork and stared at his old boss. 

“So you think you’re a good gambler then?” 

Jarvis-Bollthrop gave Billy a smug look, then nodded 

“OK, I bet you 50 quid, that I can lick my eyeball.”

Laughing, Jarvis-Bollthrop agreed.

Billy then carefully removes his false eyeball and licks it.

The people around them suddenly started to cheer as Billy extends his hand, ready to accept 50 pounds.  Jarvis-Bollthrop reluctantly takes out a 50-pound note from his wallet and hands it to Billy.

“Fancy getting your own back?”

Jarvis-Balthrop grins and immediately accepts the challenge.

“OK, I will bet you 500 quid that I can bite one of my ears.”

          Jarvis-Bollthrop doesn’t trust Billy, so he leans across and gives each of Billy’s ears a tug.  Happy with his inspection, he agrees to the wager.

Billy then leans forward and carefully takes his complete set of false teeth, and proceeds to bite his ear.  The people who had started to gather around the group erupt with laughter and cheers as Jarvis-Bollthrop hands over ten crisp 50 pound notes.

Billy, with a straight face, turns to Jarvis-Bollthrop. “Fancy winning your 500 quid back then?”

Jarvis-Bollthrop thinks for a minute, then stands up. “No thank you,” and makes his way to the exit, followed by jeers and shouts of “chicken.”

In his frustration, he turns. “I shall return tomorrow and we shall see who is the better man.” 

Billy smiles.  “Be here at nine and I shall be waiting.”

Jarvis-Bollthrop nodded then left.

Saturday night The Duke of Wellington pub was heaving and as usual, Billy was chatting with Harry at the end of the bar.

“How many do you reckon you’ll get in tonight then?

Harry thought for a minute. “Saturday night…um....  I’d say 70 to 80, it could be more, say 95, if there is no football on the telly.”

As expected, at 8:50, Jarvis-Bollthrop enters the busy pub and makes his way towards Billy at the end of the bar.

“Glad you could make it. Fancy a drink?”

After some small talk, Billy brings the conversation around to the wager. 

“Right then.  Are you ready to win back your 500 quid?”

Jarvis-Bollthrop studies Billy’s face.  “Are you confident Corporal Crompton?”

Billy paused for a second to give the impression that he was not totally sure of the outcome of the wager, then says slowly, “Sure. Let’s get on with it.” 

Jarvis-Bollthrop seeing Billy’s reaction, smiles.

“Look, let’s make it worth my while.  Shall we up the stakes to say, a 1000 pounds?”

Suddenly those who had gathered around Billy’s table fell silent. Billy saw the flash of the challenge in Jarvis-Bollthrop’s eyes and realised that he may have bitten of more than he could choose.

“Right then.  Let’s make it really simple.  I bet you a 1,000 quid that you are wearing maroon underpants.”

“Haha, I’ve got you.  I’m wearing white underpants.”

Billy looked shocked and a little downcast, then asked to see the proof.

Jarvis Bollthrop grinned and feeling elated that he had finally beaten Billy, turned to him.

“What do you mean. “Want some proof?”

“Simple really. I want to see you wearing your white underpants.”

Javis-Bollthrorp considered what Billy was asking and seemed to come to a decision, then nodded, and with a grin on his face undid his belt, and dropped his trousers.

Everyone in the pub cheered as Billy glanced at the clock, then handed Jarvis-Bollthrop the 1000 pounds which Harry had arranged from the till earlier that night.

“I don’t understand. Why are you and everyone cheering?  You’ve just lost 1000 pounds?”

“Simple really. I bet every person here tonight 50 quid that at exactly nine o’clock I would get you to drop your trousers in front of everyone in the pub. Aint that right Harry?”

1060 words July 2024

Copyright Bob French

  

MY NEW COAT

 MY NEW COAT

By Bob French

It was the best of times, as Christmas was just around the corner.  It was the worst of times, as the bitter cold winter had already taken the frail and infirm.  It was a time of fear and betrayal for those who lived on the edge of society, it was a time of personal endeavors to survive through to the Spring. 

The ice-cold winds that swept the dirty and empty streets of Canning Town in east London in late November 1879, bore no favours to those who lived in the gutters. 

Jimmy sat huddled in the corner of a shop door-way trying to keep warm. His body ached as the cold had already bitten deep into his bones causing him to worry that this would be his last year.

The clear night sky above his head was very slowly heralding a new day. Yet, he knew, if he didn’t get across to Harvey’s the baker on Wellington Street, there would be no handouts left, and he would have to get through the day on an empty stomach.

He hated this time of the day, when the peace and tranquility which surrounded him would be shattered as the world awoke, and the ritual of lighting fires would quickly contaminate the air with foul, stinking and choaking smoke that hung in between the slum dwellings of Canning Town, igniting his hacking cough.  

As he moved from shadow to shadow towards Harvey’s, he noticed other people moving in the same direction and tried to increase his pace, but found the effort too much.

His dirty and tired face grinned as he realized that in the next few minutes, he would hopefully meet up with the last of his friends he had made at the Crompton Street Work House.

He always looked back on the days he had spent in the work house; they were harsh and brutal, but he had made friends with six other kids and together they looked after each other, until that day, not a year past, when Old Biggins, the warden, had called out their names at morning assembly and told them that they were to leave the work house the following morning, to make their way in the world. Alice had asked him why, and was told that we had all reached the age of sixteen and were no longer the responsibility of the work house.

As the huge wooden doors slammed behind them, Jimmy tried to raise the spirits of his friends, telling them to trust no one and keep dry and safe. He reminded them of their pact they had made the night before; to try and meet up at Harvey’s Bakery on Wellington Street early in the morning on the last day of each month for a free handout.

Then, very slowly, they hugged each other and one by one, they slowly made their way down the steps and into town.  Jimmy had taken off his coat and given it to Humf, warning him to keep warm and dry.  As Alice waved to Billy as he turned the corner and vanished, she spoke softly to Jimmy.

“That was kind of you Jimmy, but you’ll need to get yourself a coat.”

“I’ll be alright.  Humf needed it more than I did.”

Alice smiled. It’s just me and you now Jimmy. I wonder how many will make it to next Christmas?”

They had decided to stick together, but a furious argument caused Alice to go her own way at the end of Summer. As much as Jimmy had tried to warn her about the dangers of a young girl on the streets, she ignored him and left.

It had been a while since he had made it to Harvey’s, and he was pleased to see two of his friends ahead of him in the queue; Billy, who had managed to get a job in the stables of the King’s Head tavern, and Josey, who with her good looks and confidence had found a job as a scullery Maid in one of the big houses out East Barking way. As they chatted, Jimmy caught sight of Alice at the head of the queue. She still wore the pink cardigan he had given her last summer and called out to her, but she ignored him.

His attention was drawn back to Josey, who told him that Humf had passed away within three months due to his bad cough, and Jill, who was a frail little thing, had died within a month of leaving the work house.  It was Billy who told Jimmy and Josey that Alfy, with his limp and stutter, was found face down in the river and that Alice had fallen in with a bad crowd.

Jimmy asked where she worked, but Billy didn’t know for sure.  He thought she worked down near the docks. 

Once they had thanked old man Harvey for his kindness, they hugged each other, then left, agreeing to meet up at the end of November. Jimmy felt lifted by the meeting as he made his way back to his manor, and promised himself that he would look-up Alice before Christmas.

Dawn was gradually making an appearance as he turned down a narrow ally way.  Suddenly he stumbled over something and knelt to see what it was. 

As he did, it groaned and he knew that whoever it was had just come away from Harvey’s.  It was the old trick.  Watch the queue for anyone who looked weak, then wait until they had picked up their hand out, then jump them in an alley and steal everything of value, including their bread. As he turned the body over, he realized who he was looking down at.

“Alice!  God! are you alright?”

She just moaned again and as he lifted her head up off the damp ground.  She had been badly beaten, her shoes were gone, her fancy frock had been torn in an attempt to remove it and there was no sign of her pink cardigan or her bread.

“Jimmy love, get me back to my digs.”

“Where are they? I don’t know the way.”

“Help me up.  I’ll show you.”

Jimmy threw her arm over his shoulder and staggered off towards the docks.  As they reached the start of the docks area, she pointed to a large tavern.

“Over there Jimmy.”  As he lifted her up again and started to move towards the tavern, a couple of rough looking men appeared out of nowhere.

“What’s goin’ on ‘ere then mate?”

As Jimmy turned to face the two men, Alice called out.

“Harold. I’ve been turned over.  They took everything.”

Before Jimmy could take in what was happening, one of the men hit him hard in the face.  When Jimmy came too, Alice and the man who had hit him, were kneeling over him.

“You alright lad? Sorry about that. Alice has explained everything. Come on let’s have you up.”

They took Jimmy into the tavern where he was given a drink.  Alice sat with him until she felt that he was alright to make his way back up to Canning Town. 

She was concerned about him.  She could see that he had lost a lot of weight and when she took his hands, they were ice cold.

“Look love, you ain’t taking care o’ yerself are ya.”

Jimmy nodded. Just then the man who had hit Jimmy appeared with a plate of freshly cooked bacon, eggs and toast.

“’Ere lad, get this down you.  Want another drink?”

Jimmy and Alice sat in the warm tavern for over an hour before the man returned and winked at Alice.  It was time for him to go.

“Alice love, pop up stairs to Martha. She’ll give you a new set of clothes.” Then he turned to Jimmy.

“Here lad.  Try this for size,” and handed Jimmy a long woolen overcoat. 

Without a second thought, Jimmy stood, tried on the coat, then turned, smiled at the man. 

“Thank you, Sir.  That’s very kind of you.”

The man stood and stared at Jimmy for a while, then smiled, pulled out a pound note and handed it to Jimmy.

“Thank you for taking care of our Alice.”

As Jimmy slowly made his way back over to Canning Town, it started to rain, but he didn’t mind.  His new coat kept him warm and he had enough money to feed himself until Christmas, when he would meet up with Alice again, and maybe Billy and Josey.

 Copyright Bob French

 THE FINAL DECISION

By Bob French

We had expected them to return, but did not know when.  They had landed on the planet in their period called 1969; danced around like children, planted a flag, then left.  Since then, our intelligence systems have monitored five further landings where they attempted to remove rocks of no scientific value. Each time, we closely monitored their behavior and distorted any research and samples they attempted to remove from the surface, to preserve the integrity of the planet we observed from, named Moon. 

There have also been many machines aimed at the Moon, with no man on board.  Those that made a successful landing were intercepted and treated in the same way by our scientists as those machines that were manned. Those that crashed into the surface, we studied the remains and found them to be poor quality and inferior to our technology.

It took over a hundred-man years, since their period of 1510, when we first set up our observation platform on Moon, for the Elders, who guided and directed our mission from many solar systems back into the cosmos, to decide to infiltrate the planet named Earth with our own people to increase the gathering of intelligence.  

Our original findings found that the atmosphere on Earth was poisonous to our people, though the behavior of the weather pattern was perfect for our way of life.  After receiving instructions from our Elders, we began to slowly dissipate the Nitrogen Dioxide from the atmosphere then gradually thin the protective layer of ozone gas that protected Earth from the star they called Sun. We knew from experience that if this process was done slowly and carefully, no harm would come to the construction and environment of Earth.  Once Earth has been cleansed, we would start the process of occupation by our people.

When we reported our scientific findings to the Elders in the man period of 2003, we were informed to stop the operation and await their decision before continuing the final stages of the cleansing process. Our Mission Chief protested that if we stopped the operation halfway through its course, Earth would suffer greatly and the mission would be a failure.

The communication we received from the Elders was full and to the point and covered many facts about the planet Earth.  It was not what we expected. 

Unbeknown to our scientific research team on Moon, those of our people who had been sent to occupy Earth had been reporting back to the Elders on the behavior of man.  Their report began in the year of 1760, when man had discovered machinery causing over two-hundred-man years in which the cleanliness of their atmosphere had been badly compromised.  Whilst we noted this at the time, it did not interfere with our cleansing process, ignored it.

However, the Elders chose to highlight the fact that as this unexpected man-made pollution had unbalanced the climate and distorted our programme findings. They stated that the process of our thinning of the ozone layer surrounding Earth and the depletion of nitrogen oxide, the temperature of the planet had increased each year, it had started to cause adverse effects to the environment.  The surface of the planet was heating up causing great cracks in its surface, the sea levels were increasing as the ice caps on the planet were melting and the rains and winds were intensifying, causing much destruction on the planet.

According to our programmed research findings we are just inside the safety parameters for the completion of phase one of the process, and would soon start to replace the ozone with melphodite gas and the Nitrogen Oxide with Chloride Methane.  But they seemed to ignore this in our report.

The final part of the report, which covered the period of 1870 to 2023 told of man as a primitive being, choosing violence to solve problems rather than negotiation; Of ignoring those who daily struggled with survival.  Greed and corruption seemed to be the tool of advancement in their species and lastly, which the Elders could not understand, was that man waged war in the belief that a higher being, which no one had seen or heard speak, guides them to do such things. They consider that man will not change their ways, so all attempts at colonizing Moon by them must be discouraged.

The final decision was on a separate page to the report.  All it said was

LET THEM BURN. 

Copyright Bob French

 THE MYSTERIOUS MISS MARY BUCKINGHAM.

By Bob French

Hatfield Paverel Station

It was late Thursday afternoon as James Clayton stood staring out across the village playing fields of Hatfield Peverel.  It had started snowing and people around him seemed to be hurrying home to prepare for the New Year celebrations, but James ignored them. He just stood staring out over the slowly changing countryside. It was New Year’s Eve, 1885 and he felt glad that the year had ended. 

Minutes passed before he turned, brushed the snow from the bench and sat down, thrusting his hands deep into his coat pockets. His eyes never leaving the now, snow-covered playing field.

His concentration was interrupted by an elderly woman who had walked past him, stopped, and returned to stand in front of him.

“Ay love, you can’t stay here.  It’ll be dark soon and the wind’ll pick-up.  You’ll catch your death.  Do you want me to give you a hand home lad?”  But James smiled and quietly thanked her.

The snow slowly started to cover his cap and overcoat as he began to go back over the days and weeks he had met and courted Mary; a dark haired, rather beautiful young woman who had been out shopping in Chelmsford, where he worked as a bank clerk. 

They had met by chance, well he thought so, on a Friday.  He had just delivered the days mail to the Post Office, when a motor bicycle back-fired, causing everyone to turn and look. At that moment they had collided on the pavement and after helping her to her feet, apologized to her and asked after her health.

“My sincere apologies Miss, please forgive me, I was not looking where I was going.”

She thanked him and explained that she was not hurt.  But James, not used to encountering young women panicked, and blurted out that “after an accident, one should drink a sweet cup of tea.”

It was her large brown eyes that suddenly made James feel strangely different. 

“There’s a tea house just around the corner on Duke Street.  I would be honoured if you’d allow me to make sure that you are alright Miss.”

They stood in the middle of the pavement just staring at each other, then she seemed to come to a decision, smiled, and took back one of her packages James had picked up. 

“Thank you, Sir, I would like that.”

They sat in the crowded tea shop for nearly an hour and talked about nothing and everything until a rather grumpy serving maid asked if they wanted another tea in a tone that suggested they had overstayed their welcome. 

James suddenly realized that his boss back at the bank, would be wondering where he had been.

“Look, I am so sorry Miss, but I must get back to work, but would you think it impertinent if I asked to see you again?”

“I’d like that very much.  Thank you.  When?”

“Would this Sunday be suitable, say 2 o’clock in the grounds of the cathedral here in Chelmsford?”

He remembered how, as he held open the door for her. He had blurted out that he did not know her name.

She seemed to hesitate at first.  “Mary Buckingham, and yours Sir?”

“James, James Clayton Miss, and I very much look forward to Sunday…. Mary.”

The temperature in October was near freezing but it did not bother them. They met outside the cathedral's West Door and held hands as they strolled through the grounds and out into the town.  This time he recalled they spoke of where they lived; their families and what they did for a living.

“Papa works in Whitehall, and I have two brothers and two sisters.  Sadly, I’m the youngest and so must keep Mama company.”

James, realising that his newfound lady-friend was part of the gentry and if things become serious between them, it may become a problem, but said nothing, allowing her to tell him her past, rather than bombard her with questions.

“And you, my love?”

“I work in a bank and have a sister who is five years older than me.  She used to care for me until I reached the age of twenty-one, then she moved up north, Carlisle I understand, and married a farmer.”

“And what does your Papa do?”

“He was a librarian.”

“Was?”

“Yes. My Ma and Pa were killed in a train crash six years back.”

It dawned upon him as he sat on the bench covered in snow, that their relationship had grown quickly, as did the questions about where he worked and the daily routine of the banking staff, but realized that when you were in love, the obvious didn’t always become clear.

They would always meet in Chelmsford, and after spending three or four hours enjoying the town and each other's company, she would insist that she would take a handsome cab back home after seeing him safely on the train back to Hatfield Peverel. 

Sometimes they would meet on a Saturday, when she would visit various shops to pick-up parcels for her Mama.  James didn’t mind, as long as he spent time with his Mary.

He gradually became aware of the cold wind that had picked up around him as he sat on the bench.  His thoughts settled on Saturday 17^th November.  They had decided to go to the music hall on Waterloo Lane. To watch the 2 o’clock matinee.  When the matinee had finished, Mary explained that she had to pick up a package from a tobacco shop, about a hundred yards down from his bank. 

When they turned the corner, they were stopped by a police constable and after questioning the officer, discovered that his bank had just been robbed and the area was cordoned off.  James quickly explained that he worked at the bank and demanded that he be permitted to pass, but the constable refused. 

Mary had insisted that as he could do nothing, they proceeded to the tobacco shop to pick up her mother’s parcel before it closed. 

Mary became concerned that the shop would be closed and that her mother would scold her, but as they approached the shop, the tobacconist quickly opened the shop door, handed her two parcels, and then closed the door, without saying a word.  James thought this behavior strange but didn’t question it. Then, as they walked to Liverpool Street station, he noticed that she kept looking over her shoulder, and again, though strange, didn’t question her.

It was as they approached the barrier to the platform that things became confused.  James, who had been carrying the two parcels was stopped by one of the station masters and asked where he and the young lady had been.

As James started to answer the man’s questions, the whistle blew on their platform.  Instantly Mary grabbed the two parcels from James and ran for the moving train. The station master and James stood bewildered at Mary’s behavior, then a police constable came rushing up.

“Was that her Fred?”

“Could be, but don’t worry, we can board the train at Hatfield Peverel.  Excuse me while I make a telephone call.  I’ll get my boys to call your chaps and they can board the train and arrest her and her ill-gotten gains.”

The police surrounded the train as it pulled into Hatfield Peverel and stayed on it until they had searched the train, but they never found her.

At an inquiry, it was discovered that the thieves had a thorough knowledge of the layout of the bank and what type of safe it had.  Then the damming indictment came out, that James had been identified as an accomplice to the robbery. Even though he pleaded his innocence, the inquiry still found him guilty by association.  He lost his job and the woman he had fallen in love with.

The snow was falling heavier now, and the bench he sat on was totally covered in a deep soft layer of snow. As James slowly glanced around at his surroundings, a figure moved in front of him.  Thinking it was the kind old woman returning, he looked up at her and realized that it was Mary.

“Mary my love, what are you doing here?”

“I had to come and see you.  To explain what happened.”

“It’s alright. I’m fine, but the police could not find you.  The newspapers said that you simply vanished. What happened?”

“Not a lot of people know, but just before Hatfield Peverel, there is a private stop for the folk who work at Boreham House. That was where I got off the train, met Mama and gave her the money we stole from your bank.  That is why they never found me. I’m so sorry I got you into trouble.”

He tried to reach out to her but found that he could not move his arm.

Mary realized that he was close to death, sat down next to him took his hand, and held it.  “Don’t worry my love, I will stay with you forever.

The following morning, James was found dead on the bench.  Frozen to death.  Beside him was an imprint where someone had sat with him for most of the night.  After an extensive search, no one could remember seeing this person, who seemed to have simply vanished in the night.

Copyright Bob French