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

 

 

Autumn Harvest

 Autumn Harvest 

By Christopher Mathews 

Children wade knee deep through waves of golden carpet leaf,

 the crunch and snap of autumn’s dry discarded wreath.

 

Pockets full of conkers they search the forest floor,

ready for the schoolyard battle, with the boy who lives next door.

 

The stream is slow and lazy now,

at peace with the waving waterweed,

shrew and voles seek a place for the long cold winter sleep

 

Morning mist veils the land with a gentle silver glow, the cobwebs shine like jewels, the promise of an early snow.

 

The evening sun, falls swiftly upon the weary weald,

soon at rest, the summer harvest gone, labourers plod home to leave the empty field

 

A breathless breeze calls softly among the withering leaves,

the golden spell of summer’s gone,

announcing winter’s sleep.

 

Old and ragged butterflies search among the blackthorn leaves,

a place to lay their seed of life for the coming spring.

 

The king of trees has lost his robes of lush and verdant green,

and reigns alone without the Elm,

his long dead slender queen.

 

His labour through the spring and summer toil,

produced the treasured acorn, abundant with the richness of the soil.

 

An fruitful crop of life, hides inside the golden leaves, but lost among its branches the gall wasp lays her parasitic seeds

Autumn brings to mind my darker days,

as daylight flees and youthful strength begins to slowly fade

 

Copyright Christopher Mathews

The end of war.

 The end of war.

By Christopher Mathews

(A love letter from Flanders)

My dearest, darling Florence,

It’s been so long I can hardly remember the shape of your face or the outline of your nose. The warmth of your skin in the sun on that day last summer, or the smell of oranges after you had been working in your father’s fruit stall all day. How your eyes twinkle when you smile at me.

The captain says, I’m not allowed to tell you where I am, somewhere in France in a trench, it’s a sort of ugly scar in the earth we all hide in. Do you know I haven’t seen or heard a bird singing since we got here. That’s because all the trees have been shredded to stumps, I suppose.

The morning mist mixed with the smoke from the guns hangs thick on the ground. We all live in terror of the Gas Rattles sounding, and Captain shouting Gas, gas, gas. Followed by “Mask up, lads”, as we all scramble before the green miasma comes.

Oh, for just a glimpse of your smile, to see you again. Sometimes I can’t remember what you look like. Do you remember that moment when your barley coloured hair flowed like ribbons in the summer breeze as I pushed you on a swing in the playground. Or the time when I gave you a ride home on the crossbar of my bike, your father was standing at the door looking cross. And you, trying to hide the oil stains on your dress from my bike chain. And he, with pocket watch in hand, tutting at the lateness of the hour. You were too afraid to kiss me goodnight in front of him, do you remember?

Where do all the rats come from. They seem to be everywhere and so big too. I swear, some are as big as the pigs on Mr Gregory’s farm. What do they live on? There’s hardly enough rations for me and the lads.

After it’s been raining, we’re wading through mud. How come the rats can get so big when there’s nothing to eat but mud?

My mate Frank says, they have found another food supply, out there, in the dark, among the bomb craters and barbed wire. But there’s nothing out there, so how did the rats get so big? Frank says they found a plentiful supply of meat. I don’t like to think of that.

Do you remember that day when we went tobogganing down Shooters Hill, we laughed. We couldn’t feel our fingers or toes, and your friend Betty cried all the way home on the bus. My dad made that sledge from an old bed frame and scraps of wood. I expect it’s gone now.

Lieutenant Graham says we should sleep sitting upright, with our hands tucked inside our trench coat pockets, otherwise the rats nibble your fingers or ears.

Rob and his brother Wil, didn’t come back after the last push. I wonder if they’re lying there, asleep out in the mud and cold. He still has my tobacco tin. I don’t suppose I’ll ever see it again.

Oh Flo, I long for the day when we will be wed, and this nightmare will come to an end. We felt so brave me, Charly, Frank, Rob and his little brother Wil, when we set off. He wasn’t even old enough to join up. Do you remember all the girls came to wave us off on the train. But I only saw you my dearest Flo.

Over here, It’s nothing like the posters or the rousing songs back in the pub. Can’t say too much ‘cos they will only blot it out. Something to do with morale back home.

Will you come rowing on the Serpentine with me again, we can bring a bottle of ginger beer and a basket full of sandwiches. Your mum makes nice sandwiches, and my mum’s fruit cake too?

We just have spam here, it’s not too bad, you get to like it after a bit.

Do you remember auntie Charlotte giggling like a girl when she saw us kissing in your mum’s pantry last Christmas. You went so red in the face.

The captain says, it will soon be over boys, so hold fast. One last push men! But that was Christmas 1915, it’s now February. 

We could hear the Germans singing carols, not one hundred yards away that Christmas. We joined in too. Who would have thought it, maybe they're not so different from us after all.

I still remember your sweet voice, the first time I heard you sing in church; like an angel, it was.

The first day it snowed it was so white, it seemed to wash away the war with all his ugly scars. It’s like God wanted to blot out the shame of it all. But it’s all grubby now, trampled under jack boots.

The chaplain says that God is on our side. I don't think he takes sides, do you?

Captain Graham does his best to reassure us all. He often walks along the trench just to cheer us up, you know, to check morale and bolster our spirits. He gave me a Cigarette once, when I’d run out. Yesterday he laid his hand on my shoulder,

“Take courage lads,” he said, but I could feel him trembling. He’s not much older than us.

I can still remember the first time you touched my arm, that made me tremble too, goosebumps all over, like electricity. Funny thing how both love and fear can make a man tremble.

I should really love a July wedding, shouldn’t you? We’ll have ginger beer and your mum‘s best cakes. I still keep the lucky rabbits foot you gave me when we parted, it’s the most precious thing I have, apart from your letters and my Bible.

Frank says, I’m stupid for trusting in such nonsense. He was shot the other day in the arm, they patched him up as best they could, but everything rots down here, I fear he may lose it to gangrene. He says it’s his lucky ticket home. I wish I had a ticket home.

I think I will ask my brother Donald to be best man, what do you think? You could ask your sister to be bridesmaid. I’m sending you ten-bob so you could start saving for our honeymoon. Southend, on the seafront, riding the dodgems or the helter-skelter, holding a big mop of candyfloss, glorious! And dancing too, at the Kursaal! I’m not very good at dancing. I know, you could teach me. Or if we can afford it, the Isle of Wight. No, don’t be silly Jack, we’re not millionaires are we.

The Big Bertha’s have started pounding again, so I’ll have to sign off.

Did your big sister have her baby yet? I hope it grows up with a dad. Every kid should have a dad.

Do write soon. I store up your letters and keep them in my Bible close to my heart.

I can’t sleep when the bombs are going off ‘cos the ground shakes. I wonder if my mates can see the fear in my eyes, I can see it in theirs. I think Norman has gone mad ‘shell shock’ they calls it. He wet himself on the first night of bombing, we found him huddled in a corner crying for his mother. Lack of morale fibre. They calls it, but I say, scared witless, like the rest of us.

“Our father who art in heaven… deliver us from this evil.” I never thought about that prayer much before now, but we all pray, every night, even Micki, who always said he didn’t believe in God. There are no atheists in the trenches.

Remember me in your prayers Flo, as I remember you. The captain has called orders down the line, so it’s tin hats on and rifles at the ready. When the whistle blows we’ll be up the ladder and over the top.

Think of me sometimes, if I don’t come back.

All my love, Jack

 

                                                                                               Copyright Christopher Mathews - November 2025

Spring on the bank of Buttsbury Brook

 Spring on the bank of Buttsbury Brook 

By Christopher Mathews

The stream is swollen ripe with rain, that feeds the meadow and the plane,

Suckles the trees with fertile wine, and feeds the myriads that dine, on tender shoots of verdant green, spring may soon be seen.

Gentle rain beats softly down, on the dry and frozen ground, and so the earth begins to yearn in winter’s night for spring’s return,

spring must come at last.

The air is laden warm and sweet to wake the moles from winter sleep, to stir the worm beneath the ground to seek the fresh spring’s vibrant sound,

Spring is coming fast

It nourishes the wild and fertile soil, as all the creatures begin their toil,

urgent now no time to lose find a mate and choose. find a home, make a nest no time to take a rest,

spring shall come at last.

The earth once captive to winter's grasp, begins to warm by sun at last, and so to wake the sleeping land from its slumber, unseen by man.

The beetle and the bee begin to stir inside their secret tomb, the frozen soil begins to yield to the warming sun across the field.

spring will come at last.

No time to lose too much to do, to build the hive and tend the brood, to seek the nectar in the flower, this is her appointed hour.

Spring has come at last

The snowcapped hills release their store of living water on the poor. For thirsty land, a new fresh spring is now at last at hand.

But spring will never last

 

© Christopher Mathews, April 2025

 Limpet - between the tides

                                  By Christopher Mathews

 

Oblivious of men, she keeps her small safe world, locked away from crashing waves, but she never makes a pearl.

 

No precious jewels are secure and safe inside her secret cave. She has no time between the waves to be a human’s slave.

 

Record of the years, the cycles of the moon, marked in calcium layers, she paints her little room, now dark now light, now blue now white, the health of the sea is held in each, the container of her life.

 

The ebb and flow of tide, are her night and day, now wet now dry now hot now cool, deep beneath the waves.

 

Slowly graze the limestone crags, the gravestones of the ships of men. Hold fast, be strong, all winter long, when storms must always come.

 

Hold tight, hold tight, with all you might, when the pecking seagull comes. be tough, survive and live your life, my armour plated one.

 

Like the grooves of a record or the rings of a tree, she marks the years of famine or of plenty. First he then she, then young now old, the solitary life of the limpet is seldom ever told.

© Christopher Mathews

 Final Disclosure

Christopher Mathews 

First Contact 

There had been rumours and sightings for years of course.  Since Rendlesham Forest in 1980 and before that the Roswell incident in the US.  But no formal recognition, no government acknowledgement that they existed at all, just blunt official denial, coverups, misdirection and wild press speculation.  People, being what they are, made up their own minds or more accurately, their imaginations. There were no hard facts. 

 

However, decades of speculation came to an abrupt end on the last day of March 2033 when official government disclosure was made obsolete in a most dramatic way.  Every internet site, every TV and radio station, every mobile phone and subdermal coms chip carried the same chilling announcement.

 

Do not be alarmed we have taken control of your communications networks. This message is from the Intergalactic High Council. Humanity has at last come of age.  Your race was ceded by this Council eons ago over infinite space.  You are now on the threshold of solar colonisation, soon you will discover interstellar travel.  

 

But your science and technology have outstripped your wisdom.  You lack self-control, in this you are infants, you will destroy one another and the Earth.  You cannot be trusted to govern yourselves; you cannot yet be allowed to spread beyond your world.

 

Humanity is therefore now under the guardianship of our Interstellar Caretaker, Ansat.  He will meet your world leaders to discuss the transition.  Forty solar cycles from now Ansat will address your world.

 

This announcement sounded wise and benign, even fatherly, but was heavy with the threat of absolute and irresistible power.  The same broadcast was repeated over and over for twenty-four hours, and then communications went back to normal.  But the interruption had caused chaos and barely contained panic. Aeroplanes and stock-markets around the globe both crashed. The delicate balance of modern life, so dependent on technology that we have come to rely upon had been exposed as fragile, and we all now knew it. Humanity was at the mercy of these strangers, and we were powerless. Effortlessly they could disrupt the technological web we have come to rely on.  The food supply chain would collapse overnight, panic would break out, as people squabbled over dwindling supplies.

 

“A loaf of bread for a day’s wages,” the book of Revelation predicted of the last days; a succinct description of social collapse which lies just below the surface of our age.

The folly of our proudly vaunted long life expectancy is just an elusion, as all those dependent on medication would die within a week, because no supplies could get through for lack of fuel. 

 

It is shocking to think that with our technology gone, we are all just one step from being bronze aged goat herders. Hubris had brought us to the brink of collapse.

 

Our world would now cling to their promise that mankind is on the threshold of its next giant evolutionary leap. With this announcement, humanity is truly poised on the edge of the next Cambrian Explosion.  We know that we are not now alone in the vast universe as we once thought, and now nothing would ever be the same again.

 

Over the intervening weeks, the world’s press was fixated on this one story, almost to the exclusion of all else. Examining every implication and possible outcome. Respected scientists, from every discipline, clamoured to give their insights.  Many came forward to say they had been monitoring the massive spaceships in orbit around our little planet for years.  but were forbidden to speak out.  

 

Fringe new age cult groups as well as many mainstream religious leaders like the Pope held massive gatherings. Offering their welcome, announcing Ansat as a saviour, the twelfth Imam, the coming messiah, whilst desperately trying to accommodate this paradigm shift into their traditions.

 

The sense of anticipation mixed with real dread was palpable. No one doubted the truth of the announcement or the validity of their claim. Dissenters were swiftly and silently disappeared.

 

The same worldwide announcement was made every seven days throughout the months of April and May, just as spring was coming into full bloom, but it also brought social unrest, collapse and even chaos.

 

On the fortieth day, all the phone and TV screens changed to a live feed from the White House lawn, in America.   The world’s press was busy setting up cameras. Leaders from all over the planet were gathered.  Our own King, along with all the royal crowned heads of the world were there. The leaders of the world’s religions were distinct in their colourful finery, and most shocking were rulers of nations, which under normal circumstances would never be seen at the same gathering.

 

The Benevolent Guardian 

 

A thundering sound was followed by the shocking sight of a gigantic liquid spaceship landing on the White House lawn.  A hatch opened with a cold metallic hissing sound.  The dignitaries parted as all eyes turned to look upon a terrifying sight.  Countless numbers of 7-foot-tall non-human creatures emerged. Human-like, but only just enough to be recognisable. These looked like monsters made from the discarded remains of all sorts of reptilian creatures.  Their appearance was softened, but not wholly disguised by the fact that they were clothed in what could be, either royal livery or more sinisterly military uniforms.  Each was carrying a long complicated metallic blue object, which ambiguously, could be a royal sceptre or a weapon. They were leading, what to everyone’s relief was a man, a very normal-looking man.  He was rather tall and slender, possibly of Scandinavian or Nordic ancestry.  He approached a microphone set up upon a dais.  His tall, mute entourage fanned out, shoulder-to-shoulder in an arc behind him, obscuring completely the world leaders.  Earth was looking on, holding its breath.

He spoke with a soft engaging voice, delivered in a clear and refined English accent.  Afterwards, others told me that he had an educated American voice, or spoke in perfect fluent French.  It seems to me that each person heard him in the voice they instinctively most trusted.  Oddly, none of the recordings made of that announcement can be recovered, they were all blank.  Finally, he cleared his throat and addressed the waiting world…

 

My children, it is a real joy to us that humanity has at last come of age.  But you are like adolescents who have discovered the first strength of manhood, but not the maturity to wield it.  Think of me as your guardian, taking care that you do not destroy yourselves before you can walk on your own. Or, if you prefer, as a schoolteacher settling squabbles in the playground.

 

I represent the will of the ‘Intergalactic High Council of Sentient Beings’ who, in their beneficence wish to invite mankind to our table when you are ready. Until that time, you must submit to our custodianship.

 

Your leaders have therefore agreed to surrender their power and authority to me, for a while.  I have crossed the vast expanse of space over millions of years in peace and friendship to…

 

But here, his soft voice and seductively reasonable words were abruptly interrupted by a break in the transmission.  A dishevelled looking old man appeared in what was obviously a makeshift studio.  He was half recognisable as the leading physicist who had been appointed by our own government.  He had met with the interstellar delegation when first contact was made, but soon after had mysteriously disappeared.

 

The unmasking

He lies; they are not what they claim to be.  They have not travelled across space to bring peace. They have always walked among us.  They flatter with the notion that ‘humanity has come of age’ or with an invitation to the ‘high table of sentient beings’, but they have appeared to subjugate humanity.  They impress with technology because it is in technology and science that we have placed our faith.  We have abandoned the God who made us and have surrendered to the demons who would enslave us.

 

History is littered with their malevolent presence bringing oppression and misery to mankind.  They are interdimensional beings; they occupied the shadows, the dark matter, they are the goblins and ghosts. The demigods and demons of ancient literature they are the Nephilim of the bible. The devils and the fallen angels of history reinvented as space beings. Subjugation is their plan; they seek to bring hell to earth and obliterate the Imago Dei and re-make man in their own image.

Ansat is nothing more than a demon masquerading as an Angel of light. He came to deceive and enslave humanity in chains of darkness and proclaim himself as God…..

 

But here the screen went blank, all screens went blank, all communication went blank, each of us was now alone, facing an uncertain future.

 

Copyright Christopher Mathews

 

The Night she disappeared

 The Night she disappeared

By Christopher Mathews

“The captain who thinks he is master of the sea is a fool. She is a cruel and fickle mistress who cannot be trusted. But once she has cast her spell, holds men in her net of wonder forever." *

Distress flares were seen around midnight somewhere off Old Hobb’s Point. Another ship in trouble was battling a frozen angry sea.

In the year 1859, fierce winter storms battered the Dorset coast, claiming many lives.  A severe storm will snare a weary crew who long to be stowed away at home with his family after a rough Atlantic crossing. An impatient captain, hoping to make for safe anchorage in Poole or Portsmouth may regret pushing his crew too hard. Better to have made for Falmouth and wait the storm out in safety. But a gale can last several weeks and that would cost the captain much of his bounty prize. 

Late in the evening a farmer was searching for lost sheep on the clifftops in spite of the gale. Sometimes, frightened sheep are driven over the precipice in panic during a storm. The stark white outline of the floundering ship was caught as the lightning flashed above Old Hobb’s Stack. The awful sight of the beleaguered ship fighting to keep herself from being gored on the rocks, was forever branded on his mind.

Her shredded sails were useless, as she was being driven before the wind and surf. There would be little chance to tack out to the relative safety of the open sea. It would mean certain death to send his weary crew aloft to set new canvas.

If she could only run before the wind to the safety of Falsehaven Cove, just two miles beyond the point, they may be able to save her. If not, she would be gored on the reef of Old Hobb. Once in his teeth, Old Hobb does not let go.

Falsehaven is no place to overwinter but “any port in a storm” is no metaphor along this rugged coast. Falsehaven is not named thus for no reason.

Leaving his sheep, the farmer ran down into the small fishing village calling,

“Shipwreck, off Old Hobb,” to the small fishermen’s cottages scattered along the street.

Nothing forges such strong bond in a small community as fishermen whose very lives are repeatedly in one another’s hands. The sea calls to each of them for their livelihood, but they each call on one another for their lives.

Branok was the young skipper of his great granfer’s old Dorset fishing Lugger the Henryetta, and crew in the Falsehaven lifeboat.  He was also a brand-new father, just that day. The townsfolk were all celebrating with him in the Luggerman’s Rest. The storm shutters of the tavern were battened down against the gale, it was long after licencing hours. The fishermen of Falsehaven supped on their ale deep into the night.

After midnight, above the sound of the men singing, the chapel bell rang out, a clear and piercing sound, cutting through the gale and the fog of pipe tobacco. It called the Lifeboatmen to trespass once again into the sea’s treacherous domain when she is most angry.

As soon as Branok’s wife heard the bell toll she knew what it could mean for her. Her newborn baby cried, and she nursed her, wrapped in her strong warm embrace. More than ships are dashed on the rocks of Old Harry in a storm. But it would be no use pleading with her husband, she knew him too well. All the wives knew that the fishermen of Dorset are bound to the sea with bonds far stronger and deeper than kin.

On leaving the warmth of the tavern, the men all touched the sign above the inn’s door for good luck, some muttered a prayer, or snatches of a hymn. The sign read, “God save our souls.” Each would need whatever courage God will supply if they were to see their loved ones again before the Great day of Judgement, “when the sea shall give up her dead.” Branok thought of his young wife Endelyn and new daughter Rosenwyn,

“What would become of them if...” But it does not do to dwell on such things before a rescue.

But there were others too, whose greedy eyes were on the floundering ship. They light beacons along the beach, but not to guide her home to safety. They are not intent on saving souls, they have a different prize in mind.

The Wesleyan Chaple, at the high end of Ratline Street looks reproachfully down on the tavern. They stare at one another along the length of that street with unspoken distrust. Both calling the town’s sinners to come and take their very different libations. And so, the words, “God save our souls,” are written above the doors of the chapel too.

The tavern is a conveniently short stagger from the harbour wall, where the boats tie up to unload their catch. But the chapel is a slow, hard climb up the long steep hill of Ratline Street.

On a bright, cloudless, day you can look down on Falsaven Cove from the clifftops, with a score of fishing luggers drying their sails and nets in the gentle summer breeze, mirrored in the surface of the deep azure sea. You may catch scraps of a sea chanty as the men haul the boats up the stony beach.

The farmer who ploughs the soil may believe the sea is just water, but the fishermen who ploughs the ocean knows not to trust her, even when she is in this mood. On such a day the rugged weatherbeaten cliffs are the only clue that the sea is a fickle mistress who does not yield willingly. She gives up her wriggling, glittering jewels reluctantly and demands a high price from those who would forage in her deep waters.

The fishing boats of the town are often crewed by three generations of men. Their faces, hands and temperament reflect the weatherbeaten crags, with tufts of thick wiry beard like the tussock grass which grows among the rocks. Boys must become men the day they leave school. Every family in Falsehaven has lost someone to the sea, some have lost several generations.

On this night the whole town gathered on the quayside to watch their menfolk row out through the relative safety of Falsehaven Cove and on into the pounding surf and treacherous waves heading towards the reef of Old Hobb’s Point. The little boat looked like an insect, a water-boatman in a maelstrom.  To the small children, their fathers are mighty men who can battle the fierce seas, their wives know better. “Come, my little ones, the chapel bell is calling us to prey for your pappa and granfer.”

The skipper of the Sir William Hillary knew there was little hope if the stricken ship did not clear the Point. That night’s catch would bring little joy to anyone.

Rowing hard, they approached under the sheltered lee of the cliffs, which stood landward of Old Hobb’s Stack. On rounding the point, there she was, broken in two on the unyielding rocks. Three of her four masts were gone, the aft deck smashed by the surf and her inners spilled out from the rip in her side. Branok, who was at the helm gasped at the site, “Poor souls”

Men could be seen on the foredeck clinging to the bow sprit and shrouds, some torn between jumping into the surf or staying with the ship until her inevitable ruin. On seeing the lifeboat, the crew all cheered with a new sense of hope rising above their despair. The stranded sailors quickly rigged a Bosun's chair from the stump of the foremast and shot a line down to the lifeboat. Once the line was secure, the crew were rescued one by one. Seven of her crew were saved that night. Two who had jumped, were plucked directly from the sea itself, but the rest were lost, swept from her deck like bar skittles. Branok thought of what Jesus had said to St. Peter the fisherman,

“Come follow me, and I will make you a fisher of men.”

Just seven souls were saved from a crew of about twenty, and what had become of her captain, the sea make not such distinctions.

By morning the worst of the storm had blown itself out. That day’s low tide would be a grim harvest of worthless cargo among infinitely valuable lost souls.

Every man and boy on that lifeboat knelt at the alter rail of the little chapel to give thanks for bringing them home safely. Their womenfolk had spent the night on their knees on that same spot. The small congregation, including the seven men who were rescued, spontaneously broke into Horatio Spafford's hymn It is well with my soul. Stafford had lost all four of his daughters to the sea.

The following afternoon was bright and clear although the sea was still rough. From high up on Old Hobb’s Point nothing could be seen of the ship, but the grim flotsam on the beach.

© Christopher Mathews, June 2024

*Adapted from a work by Jacques Yves Cousteau.