A NEW BEGINNING

 A NEW BEGINNING                                                                                                 

by Richard Banks

It was Sarah’s idea to buy the Old House. She had had enough of London. It was, she said, time to make a new start while we were still young enough. It would be our project, one we could do together. We would be a team again like we were before my job became more important to me than her. That is nonsense of course, and she knows it, but what I can’t deny is that my ascent up the corporate ladder had left us with little time to ourselves.

         It was, I told myself, the price to be paid for a salary that allowed us to reside in a part of London that would have seemed impossible when we were students living together in a scruffy bedsit above a burger bar. But like any upgrade there was a price to be paid. Was there ever a moment, day or night, when I wasn’t hard at work or half expecting the telephone to ring with problems that would have me rushing back to the office. Even the freebie tickets they gave me for big showbiz and sporting events were never free from the obligation to network and chase new business. Then there was the merger and that was when enough became more than enough. Time to leave. So, now my time is my own. I’m on a gap year. Well, if the kids can do it, so can I! Not that I’ll be short of things to do, Sarah will see to that, but this time it’s about us. She deserves that, and so do I.

         The Old House has definitely seen better days. Sarah says that when her grandmother was a girl it was the grandest house in the hundred, a mile out of town and with well tended gardens the size of three or four fields; but that was then, and many years of decline have reduced it to the near ruin it is today. The main advantage in buying a ruin, probably the only one, is that the asking price goes down rather than up. Already low enough to be within our price range I learned that the local council was considering compulsory purchase with a view to replacing the house with a housing estate. There was no time to lose, and when I offered a sum well below the advertised price, the owners - a distant offshoot of the minor nobility that once lived there - realised that a low offer was better than an even lower one they couldn’t say no to.

         On completion we put our furniture in storage and moved into a caravan in the front garden. From there we would sally out and do everything that was needed. At least that was the plan, but when it became obvious that the roof was letting in almost as much rain as it was keeping out we had no choice but to pay a roofer to replace it with a new one. Unsurprisingly our next discovery was wet rot, and another job for local industry. But after that it was us, all us, learning the skills that were needed to do everything else that had to be done.

         Even our slow start had not been time wasted. While the professionals were at work so were we, clearing the long neglected gardens of chest high brambles, nettles and every other weed known to man. We slew all before us, including a half dead birch tree which I felled within a foot of the spot I was aiming at.

         Sarah was nervous seeing me, axe in hand, but she had nothing to be concerned about. As I have told her, the destruction of my desk was a symbolic act of defiance, nothing more. No harm was meant, not even to that vulgar, little Yank who was taking my place. I couldn’t stop him taking my job but he wasn’t having the desk I had sat at for fifteen years. Some of the old guard cheered me. They stood well back when they saw what I was about to do, only the Yank came running over and tried to stop me. Did I mean to hit him when I swung the axe back over my head? Of course not. I was looking at the desk, not him.

         It was all hushed up, of course, for the sake of the firm, and I received the severance pay that had been agreed, but the Yank put it about that I was unfit for future employment, and that ended my career in financial services. But what do I care. Like every man worth his salt I won’t be kept down; I will come again, reinvent myself, find a new niche in life. Until then I will restore this house, make it better than ever, no effort spared, and with new hydraulics throughout the house we were now ready to install the new kitchen that Sarah had seen, and just couldn’t do without. Us, just us. Who would have thought it. Even the builder who came round touting for business could find no fault with what we had done.

         It was on returning from Wickes one afternoon that we came across the new Volvo of my former employer parked at the top of the driveway outside the conservatory. Any thoughts I had that he had come with a job offer were soon put to rest. This was a social visit; he was in the area and thought he would drop by to see if I was, “all right”. Better than him, I was tempted to say, but didn’t. Even he could see how fit I was, how I had shed the corporate flab for a leaner, more active me. Sir, or JT as he likes to be called by senior management, once had a brief fling with my wife. At least that’s what he thinks happened. The truth is somewhat different.

         I first noticed he was attracted to Sarah at the firm’s annual dinner and dance. It was while I was dancing with his wife, Lady Yiewsley – surely a sign that I was under serious consideration to replace my old boss in accounts – that they discovered a mutual interest in the opera. He had a pair of tickets for Figaro at Covent Garden, and as his dear wife was out of town that evening and unable to attend, he wondered whether Sarah would like to fill a seat that otherwise would be unused. Knowing his reputation Sarah played for time. She would, she told him, have to check her diary and promised to get back to him on the mobile number he gave her.

         Having reported all this to me we thought a night at the opera was not an unreasonable price to pay for what would hopefully be another step up the greasy pole. With the promotion still not decided the opera was followed by dinner at the Ritz when Lady Yiewsley was again out of town and I was in Switzerland on company business. I arrived back ahead of schedule the next morning to find Sarah not at home. When she returned an hour later in her fur and evening dress it was only too obvious what had happened. To her credit she made no attempt to deny it. Indeed she could not have been more forthcoming on what she regarded as an experience akin to being smothered by a dead sheep. The good news, however, was that she had taken every opportunity to stress my suitability for said promotion and that Sir had agreed I was the best man for the job. When this was confirmed a week later I wrote an unsigned letter to Lady Yiewsley informing her that her husband had been seen leaving the Savoy with a woman, somewhat younger than himself, at 7am in the morning. With JT brought back to the straight and narrow and on the tightest of leashes his texts and phone calls to Sarah ceased and, to the best of my knowledge, they only saw each other at corporate events where Lady Yiewsley was always at his side.

         So, what is he doing here unchaperoned - not to see me I wager? Does he really think that after all these years he can rekindle their imagined affair? What a pathetic, deluded little bore he is and yet Sarah’s surprise at seeing him has no trace of the deep distain she should be feeling. Indeed she appears perfectly at ease in his company. Has she forgotten all that happened; how when the merger was agreed he abandoned me, cast me aside like I was of no value or use, while he stayed on as Chairman. Betrayal it was, brutal betrayal!

         Sarah casts an anxious glance in my direction. This is dragging me back when I was doing so well. I take a deep breath. Sarah slips a pill into my hand and suggests that I show JT the garden. She knows I’m better outside. More deep breaths. It’s going to be OK I tell myself. Inadvertently I say this out loud. He thinks I’m referring to the garden. He raises an eyebrow at the pyramid of wood and other combustibles towering over what was once the bowling green. Finding nothing, OK or otherwise, to say about it he turns his gaze towards the shed I have constructed from flatpack. He makes an idiot remark about it being my hideaway from the ‘trouble and strife’ who will always have something for us to do. How dare he be so slighting to the woman I love, the woman he would take from me, just like he took my job!

         The door is open and I invite him in for a glass of the double malt I say is inside. There is no malt, nothing inside but my garden tools and the axe.

                                                                          

                                                  *****

         Sarah says that I must steady myself, that it wasn’t my fault. He had no right to be here. What has happened is unfortunate, a setback, but nothing that need do us any harm. No one heard him scream and, more than likely, no one saw him turn into the driveway. It will be our secret and, if we don’t panic, no one will ever know but ourselves.

         She has already moved his car into the garage where it can’t be seen and checked his mobile to make sure there’s nothing on it about us. With luck he will have told no one of his intention to visit. If the police should come we will say that JT paid us a courtesy call and departed within an hour. If they don’t, we do nothing, nothing at all but enjoy our new life. Anyway, what can they do without a body?

         Already we have doused it with petrol and pushed it into the mounting tip of rubbish that will be his funeral pyre. Tomorrow we will set it on fire and reduce everything to dust and ashes. It will be yet another step in our new beginning. In death, as in life, we triumph yet again. 

 

Copyright Richard Banks

 

 

A GUILTY SECRET

By Richard Banks

“Have you heard the news?” Mason speaks in a hoarse whisper that he don’t want anyone else to hear. He’s scared, no mistaking that, and for a few moments so am I. After all, when you’re locking-up at night, your back towards the street, the last thing you want is for someone to be creeping-up behind you, maybe gun in hand and about to demand everything you’ve just put in the safe.

         “Damn you Mase! What the heck are you doing? It’s 2am. You trying to give me a heart attack!”

         “It’s happened again.”

         In another place, another time I would be asking him what has, but it’s only too obvious.

         “Who is it this time?”

         “Lorna.”

         “Lorna Ruiz?”

         “Yes, of course I mean Lorna Ruiz. Who else do you know called Lorna?”

         He’s got a point. In a two bit town like Bylow, population 934, and decreasing, the only other Lorna would likely be her mother but she’s not around and maybe never was. For once in his life Mason’s right, that’s not what I should be saying.

         “Same as before?” I ask.

         Mason’s startled by the roar of a Chrysler 300 that’s speeding towards us before braking and turning left at the cross. He’s desperate not to be seen so we go around the corner. Into the side way that’s almost cellar black. What he’s got to tell me, he says, is for my ears only. He needs a favour and if he can ever do the same for me he’ll be glad to do it. After all, that’s what friends are for. Don’t I agree?

         I’m not sure I do but it seems I have no choice but to hear him out. At first he tells me nothing I won’t reading in the late edition of the Clarion. Lorna’s been found on waste land, ten miles out of town, throat cut ear to ear, just like numbers one to three. This he knows because he was pulled over by a cop he once knew in High School. Mase is only a hundred yards or so from where she was discovered and the cop’s asking him what he’s doing there and where he’s been.

         “And that’s when you told him you were with me.”

         “Sorry, Jimmy.”

         “So where were you? With a broad?”

         “Why a broad?”

         “Because that’s what you do on a Saturday night. For goodness sake, Mase, tell the cops her name and the motel you were at. Don’t even think of trying to protect her good name. Even assuming she has one, it’s not worth the two thousand volts that could be coming your way.”

         “Can’t do that man, it’s Carla.” 

         “You’re kidding! Mase, do you have a death wish? Whatever possessed you? She’s Tony Pescaro’s girl, big Tony, enforcer for the Bandini family, but then you already know that.”

         “Which is why I said I was with you. I’m sorry, Jimmy, I had to say something, couldn’t tell him I’ve been on my own all evening. How suspicious would that be? No, buddy, if you don’t back me up I’ll be chief suspect, I know it. I need an alibi, and one that sticks.”

         “Mase, this isn’t going to work. I was behind the bar. If I saw you so did a hundred other guys but none of them did. I’m sorry you’re in the shite but saying you were here isn’t going to work.”

         “No, Jimmy. Now listen to me, I’ve got it all figured out. I wasn’t in the bar. You took a break, went back for a smoke and saw me there trying to get cigarettes out of the machine, which as we know is broke, so you got some from the storeroom and I paid you in cash.”

         “And this was when?”

         “Eight pm. According to the cop, Lorna was found at nine, no more than an hour dead. If I was here at eight there’s no way I could have done it.”

         As alibi’s go it’s probably the worse I’ve ever heard. Also, he’s only got the cop’s word that she died around eight;  initial estimates of death, even by those qualified to give them, are often wide of the mark. But then it matters not. He’s not needing an alibi; there’s no evidence against him. Mase’s only problem is in being in the wrong place at the wrong time. His fingerprints and DNA are not at the crime scene and once it’s established that he was in Houston when murder two  took place he will soon be well down their list of suspects. This I should be telling him but I don’t; he’s in a panic and listening to no one but himself. So, it’s agreed: I saw him at eight, an hour into my shift, sold him two packets of Ryman and he departed saying he was going to burn some gas before driving home.

         Alibi agreed, he heads back into the glow of the main street lights and, after furtive glances left and right, hurries off to wherever he’s left his car. I give it five before returning to mine. The next day it turns out that Lorna wasn’t murdered at eight but two hours earlier when Mase, pre date, was in a diner. He’s even found the receipt in the back pocket of his jeans. He’s in the clear and, with the cops tight lipped and short of anything resembling a lead, there’s nothing to be done but speculate which of our Southern belles will be next. But not for long. The good folk of Bylow have organised a meeting to which all the abled bodied men of the town have been invited.

         It’s a call to arms and within an hour the Bylow Defence League not only comes into being but is given its marching orders. We’re organised into eight platoons whose mission is to parade about the town after dark with all the firepower we can muster. As none of the murders have been in town it’s by no means clear what good this is going to do, but everyone feels better for making the effort. Four guys who haven’t volunteered are now under surveillance and followed everywhere they go by another four guys who wear camouflage jackets that don’t exactly blend in to the urban terrain. It’s a farce and when someone accidentality gets shot in the butt the cops impose a curfew that’s probably not legal but at least keeps the womenfolk indoors after dark.

         This is bad news for the bar I run for the Bandinis who use it to launder some of their ill-gotten gains. They aren’t best pleased that we have to close at seven each evening but, as I say, what can I do about it? They’re the ones with the power, and the ear of every crooked politician in the county. Why don’t they get the curfew lifted? It might take a bribe or two, but nothing that can’t be made good in a few weeks. But they have a better idea which is probably why Tony Pescaro is at the head of their delegation. He wastes no time in telling me what’s on his mind.

         “No murderer, no murders, no murders, no curfew,” he says with an indisputable logic that won’t have escaped everyone else in town. As to the how bit he hasn’t come here short of a plan, and whether I like it or not, I’m in it.

         “So, who do you think did it?” he asks.

         “How should I know?” I say, feeling like the room’s closing in on me.

         “Maybe you don’t,” says Tony, “but you will have a better idea than most. I mean you’re behind the bar serving guys booze until they can hardly stand up. When that happens they get indiscreet, let things slip they wish they hadn’t said, odd little things that a smart guy like you will pick-up on. OK, so no one’s going to confess all, but someone, sometime is going to say a little bit too much and this is the place where it will happen – maybe has happened. So, who’s your money on, Jimmy, give me a name, three names, more if you have them. I’m all ears.”

         “Tony, I hear what you’re saying, guys often bend my ear in the early hours. Sometimes their wife’s been giving them grief, sometimes it’s the boss, sometimes it’s about money. I don’t want to hear it, but I’m the barman, it’s my job to listen and let them get it off their chest. I’ve heard it all, ten times over, but no one, absolutely no one, has given me any reason to think they’re a killer.” 

         But Tony’s not taking no for an answer. If I don’t know who it is, and he never thought I would, I can, at least, point him in the direction of someone who fits the bill: someone with a grudge against women, a wife beater, some weirdo who don’t fit in and no one likes. All he needs are some names. His plan, such as it is, is to abduct whoever I say and beat them within an inch of their life. If they happen on the right guy it’s problem solved, he gets what’s coming to him and everything gets back to normal.

         “And if you don’t get the right man?”

         “Then we let him loose to tell everyone in town what these hooded men did to him, and why. The way I see it, by the time we’re down to number three on your list the real murderer, if we don’t have him, will be hot footing it out of town to some place far off where he’ll be safe from us and free to start again. But that’s not our problem. Ours is to get the curfew lifted, so let’s start with a few names.”

         “I’ll need to think about it,” I say. This is a chance to settle one or two scores but as Tony’s idea of a good beating sometimes winds up being a homicide this is something I don’t want to get involved in. But that’s supposing I have a choice?

         Tony senses I’m less than keen. “Tell you what, Jimmy, I’ve got a name of my own. We’ll put that top of the list which means that for now I’ll only be needing two names.”

         “Who’s your man?” I ask.

         “A guy called Mason Brady. Perhaps you know him, a friend perhaps?”

         “Yeah, I know him. Wouldn’t call him a friend. Just a guy who does odd jobs about the bar. Why do you think it’s him?”

         “Information from someone who knows. Something of a ladies man is our Mr Brady. Tries it on when the girls don’t want it and then cuts up rough.”

         I want to tell him that Mason isn’t like that. He wouldn’t swot a fly, but if I make too much of it that won’t go well, either for him or me. But why do they think it’s Mase? It don’t take long to figure. He’s broken-up with Carla like I told him to and now she’s getting back at him like the viper she is. If I’m to keep Mason safe I need to give Tony exactly what he wants, three prime suspects, all of them far more likely to be their man. So, that’s what I do: two ex-cons with a history of violence and a bar room brawler who’s crazy on coke. I write down their names and say where they can be found. Tony smiles and shows his appreciation by thumping me on the back in a way that makes me think that sometimes he does this with a butcher’s knife.

         Have I done enough to protect a friend? I’m not sure, but most of all I need to look after myself. It’s time to empty the safe, pack a suitcase and drive far, far away to a place where I’m not known and won’t be found. Perhaps this time I’ll be a George or Henry, a good fit for a guy coming up to forty. Jimmy was good while it lasted, a likeable sort of name for a regular guy that no one had a bad word for; a better name than the two before, but they all served their purpose.

         Tony never spoke a truer word when he said his crew would scare-off the murderer, but even he will be surprised how soon this is going to happen. So, it’s goodbye Bylow and hello some place else.

         Maybe I’ll wind-up somewhere near you. But don’t worry, America’s a big place and I’ll be holding off for a while. Will you see me coming? I doubt it, no one else has and no one ever will. It’s a whole new canvas and I’ll be colouring it red. Ready or not I’m on my way!                                                  

           Copywrite Richard Banks                    

  THE BREAKING OF THE WINDOW 

 By Richard Banks

In June 1912 the window of the post office in Rayleigh was broken in an act of vandalism that was part of the Suffragettes’ campaign for women’s suffrage.

The subsequent trial of a Miss Bertha Brewster for this offence was held in Southend. The Chelmsford Chronicle reported proceedings as follows: 

Miss Ellen Judd, postmistress at Rayleigh said that shortly before midnight she was awakened by the smashing of glass. On getting up she found three large pieces of lead [presumably within the post office as well as broken glass from the window]. 

Arthur Ager, draper, said that he heard the smash and saw a young lady who he believed was the defendant, jump on her cycle, which had no lights and ride off. 

PC Pryke, alerted by Ager, cycled after the defendant and caught up with her one mile along the road towards London. She had no lights and told him that the lamp had just gone out. He told her that she answered the description of a lady who was supposed to have broken windows in Rayleigh post office. She replied, “that will have to be proved.” 

Defendant was remanded until Wednesday 3^rd July, when she said, “nobody had seen the windows broken and it could not, therefore, be proved that she had broken them.” 

The Chairman [a Mr Wedd) said that the bench was unanimous in finding the defendant guilty of an outrage on society. Fined £5. and £1.7s and 6d for damage and costs.

Was it an open and shut case or could the culprit have been Miss Ruth Curnock, the youngest of ten children born to Nehemiah Curnock, the local Methodist minister, who, it was rumoured, had been seen near to the scene of the crime by a policeman who, recognising her as the Minister’s daughter, told her to go home. If he did, this important piece of evidence was never mentioned at Bertha Brewster’s trial. Could it be that the unnamed policeman, and possibly other local people, withheld this information to protect the good name of the Minister, who in addition to being a much respected resident was known in this country and overseas for his work in deciphering John Wesley’s diaries.

While this is feasible there appears to be no evidence that any such cover-up happened. Although it has been alleged that Ruth was a suffragette there is no record of her in suffragette records. She was 33 when the window was broken, eight years older than Bertha.

The evidence that Bertha committed the crime is, in my view, perfectly sound. She was a prominent suffragette with a string of previous convictions for causing criminal damage. Perhaps her most infamous exploit was the breaking of windows at the Sun Hall in Liverpool, in 1909, disrupting a speech by the Secretary of State for War. Along with six other suffragettes she had gained access to the roof of the Hall from where they threw bricks and stones through the windows with a dexterity, that the reporter for The Courier described as ‘nothing short of marvellous’. On their way to Walton Prison they sang The Marseillaise, broke the windows of the vehicle they were travelling in and pushed a Votes for Women flag through the ventilator in the roof. During their stay in prison [they were sentenced to one month imprisonment] they broke further windows, went on hunger strike and were released over the next few days ‘owing to their emaciated condition’. Bertha appeared in court a second time in Liverpool for the breaking of the prison windows and was sentenced to six weeks imprisonment with hard labour. In 1910 and 1911 she was convicted at Bow Street court of two more charges of criminal damage following widespread disorder in London. 

There can, therefore, be little doubt that Bertha was responsible for the breaking of the post office window. However, what was she doing in Rayleigh on the night of her last recorded crime? Was she cycling for pleasure as many visitors to Rayleigh did at that time (although probably not at that time of night) or was she here on suffragette business visiting local activists of which one might possibly have been Ruth. Almost certainly her sole intention was not to break the insignificant window of the Rayleigh post office – that was decidedly small fry compared to her previous exploits.

Could it be that having roused Ruth to the need for violent protest she inveigled her into breaking the window while Bertha stood by encouragingly, or assisting in the breaking. This, of course, is speculation verging on fiction, but then speculation is probably as valid as rumour.                

 

Copyright Richard Banks   

 

 THE NIGHT SHE DISAPPEARED

By Richard Banks

It was in 2002 that I lost her. It was all very sudden. One moment she was as right as rain the next she wasn’t. Sepsis they called it. The doctor at the surgery tried to explain it to me, but I was too shook-up to take it in, told me I had done right in phoning 999. Nobody could have done more, he said, but I knew, deep down, that wasn’t so.

         It was around teatime that Mary started to feel unwell. She thought she had caught a chill, was feeling a bit hot and bothered, but nothing, she said, that a couple of aspirins and a good night’s sleep wouldn’t fix. At nine she went early to bed but by eleven was still awake and even more unwell.

         “I’m going to call an ambulance,” I said.

         “What, at this time of night?” she said. “Best wait until morning, I’ll be better in the morning.” But half an hour later she was even worse so I dialled 999 and although the paramedics arrived only ten minute later she was gone her hand slowly cooling and become cold in mine.

         “Better than a lingering death,” said Jenny, desperately trying to find something to say that might console me. I agreed - cousin Jimmy was not long dead from Parkinson’s; I wouldn’t have wanted her to go through what he did. Nevertheless, we both knew that Mary had left us too soon and too quickly; no time to say goodbye. After forty years together we should at least have had that.

         And, so it was that me and everyone else said our goodbyes at the funeral. Kenny flew back from New York and Mary’s brother took the train down from Dundee. There were fifty other folk who said they were coming so Jenny booked the large hall at the crematorium and arranged a reception at the WI where Mary was a member.

         The service was to be a celebration of her life, and the good times we shared with her, of which there were many. Jenny said we should all dress in something colourful because her mother had always liked bright colours and hated black. She was right up to a point but, like me, Mary was ‘old school’ about funerals and would have thought it disrespectful not to wear black. So, in the end we agreed that it should be a black suit and tie affair but that everyone coming should wear a red rose. Mary would have liked that being a Lancashire lass - at least she was before she came south to marry me.

         Anyway it all went as well as could be expected. Kenny did the eulogy and Jenny said a prayer and everyone I spoke to tried to say the right things or didn’t because they were too upset or unsure what to say. Their faces told me all I needed to know. Of course they were sad, and after the reception they all went home no doubt glad they weren’t me.

         The kids were great, as I knew they would be. Kenny paid for me to go to the States and spend Christmas with him and his new wife, and Jenny, who only lives a mile away, was in and out several times a week. It was tough to begin with, especially when life settled down into the new norm. I had never done the shopping before beyond driving Mary to the supermarket and loading and unloading the car. Cooking I learned through trial and error. Housework I hated and all the jobs I was use to doing, like decorating the house and keeping the garden trim, seemed utterly pointless. But after a year everything began to fall into place. I paid for a cleaner to come in twice a week and made full use of a long, dry summer to paint the outside of the house.

          Keep busy, take consolation in friends and children, that seemed to be the best way forward, and on a warm March day, in whatever year it was, I saw the first daffodil burst into bloom and realised that the worse was over. I had my memories, my children, two grandchildren and the best kept house and garden in the street. What’s more Spurs were riding high in the league, and as a seventieth birthday present Kenny brought me a subscription to Sky. Blimey - football, cricket and tennis every day of the week!

         But what Jenny got me was even better. I wondered what she was up to rummaging through the junk in the spare room. It was full of stuff I scarcely looked at but couldn’t bear to throw away, including packs and packs of photographs which Mary and I intended putting into albums but never did. But what we didn’t do Jenny did. Not all of them, of course, but enough to fill three books, not only with the original prints but also with ones made better by a photographer who took the best parts of some and made them as clear as clear could be.

         What a story they told: me and Mary before we were married, our engagement, our first holiday together, the wedding at St Jude’s and then the children, Kenny born only seven months after the ceremony - what a furore that caused – and two years later, Jenny. Had we been better off we would have had more kids – at least one - but we weren’t, so we stuck at two and what a grand little family we were. Too hard-up to go on holiday, my first snaps of us were taken in the garden of our maisonette or the local park, but no one was happier than us, we had each other and that mattered more than anything else. Anyway it wasn’t long before I got a promotion that enable us to put down a deposit on a house and, a year later, we put-by enough money to go self catering in Bognor, followed the next year by a B&B in Scarborough and then a hotel in Torquay.

         We were going up in the world and with the kids now at Primary school and better able to travel, we ventured abroad to Madeira. What great times they were, so many wonderful memories, and the album captured so many of them: more holidays, school sports’ days, Kenny in the team photograph before the football final they lost – no photographs after that!

         Jenny, not the sporting type, took to acting and was in the school play; Twelfth Night it was. Didn’t understand a word but by all accounts she did really well and toyed with the idea of becoming an actress until coming back to earth and opting to go to the City & Guilds where she  trained to become a dressmaker. By this time Kenny was at university studying economics. He was not a kid any more and neither was Jenny. There was a certain sadness in that, but also a sense of pride that Mary and I had brought up two children to be so full of promise and keen to get on in life. Inevitably both flew the nest. Within a year of leaving Uni Kenny accepted a job in America, where he still lives, while a few years later Jenny moved into a flat near the London fashion house she worked for. Kenny married and we flew out to San Francisco for the ceremony along with |Jenny and the young man who later became our son-in-law. Briefly reunited we again went our separate ways. Kenny’s job sometimes brought him back to Europe and from time to time would stay with us for a day or two before jetting off again, while Jenny, also busy with her work, was also an infrequent visitor.

         It might have continued so, especially when Jenny and Harry finally got round to tying the knot. Then suddenly it was all change and Jenny phoned us to say that we were to become grandparents. It was not what two career minded wannabes were intending but they decided to keep their ‘little surprise’ and reorganise their lives in a way that kept their dreams alive. They sold their flat in north London and bought a semi only a mile away where Jenny set-up an on-line business selling dresses that she not only made but designed. Harry, who worked for Nat-West, commuted into London before becoming Chief Clerk of a branch he could drive to in less than an hour. And, of course, Mary and I were nearby and able to look after baby John when needed, which I suspect was all part of their cunning plan. Unlike those of Baldwick in Blackadder it worked a treat and the years that followed, in which a second child, Emma, was born were among the happiest of our lives. Far from being put upon grandparents we took to the role with a relish that gave new purpose to our lives. Even more photographs! Many, of course, were of the grandchildren but I always made sure that there were plenty of Mary. Despite having the best daughter and grandchildren in the world no one was more important to me than her.

         Apart from myself, who was largely behind the camera, Kenny’s residence abroad meant that there were less photographs of him than seemed fair; something I did my best to put right when in 2014, on my eightieth birthday, I flew out to see him again, this time with Jenny, Harry and the grand-kids. What a fine time we had staying with him and wife number three in their holiday home in Martha’s Vineyard. I liked number three, a sweet girl, twenty years younger than himself with an odd sort of name I could never get my tongue around. Was there, I wondered, the possibility of another grandchild? Three years later they divorced and when wife number four came along it became obvious, even to me, that Kenny was more interested in acquiring wives than children. Well, it takes all sorts. At least he wasn’t short of a bob or two, and having no children of his own became increasingly generous with his money giving much of it to charity and setting-up trusts for his nephew and niece, who, I suspect, will have further reasons to be grateful to their uncle.

         So, I suppose, that pretty much brings the story up to date. It’s the big nine-o tomorrow. How fortunate I am to have lived so long and not be too much of a burden on my children. My only regret is in losing Mary when I did.  Could I have done more? I will always regret not calling out the para-medics sooner. Would it have made any difference? People tell me no, but they’re just being kind. Nobody knows for sure, but at least the album has kept her memory alive. In the first two books Mary features on nearly every page.

         They say you should never dwell on the past, but when so many good things have happened it’s hard not to. It’s amazing how many recollections a photograph can conjure: Kenny, age eight, in his new trousers, the one’s he chose himself which a week later he put his knee through playing football; Jenny’s magic cottage birthday cake which Mary stayed up half the night icing so it would be a surprise on the day. We didn’t have the money to buy one, as some parents did, but none of Jenny’s friends had a better cake, of that I’m sure.

         There was a time when the past seemed as solid and real as the present, but not now. It started a year ago when I was looking at this photograph of Mary and me with friends at this posh London restaurant. There was Bob and Hazel, Steve and Anna, ourselves of course and this woman sitting by herself because her husband was taking the photograph. He was George but what was her name? She was no stranger, I knew her face alright, but her name had gone and despite many hours of trying to remember it I never did. She was the first one in the album to become a memory forgotten. Since then there have been others, far too many, and the album has become an unwanted test of memory which I fail only too often. Gradually the number of people I am able to put a name to have become less and less. Worst still I have almost forgotten the faces. Did I ever know these people? Logic tells me that once I did; if not, why on earth are they in the album!

         Even photographs of Kenny began to look unfamiliar although thankfully when he turned-up unexpectedly, with Jenny and the kids, it was only too obvious, even to me, who he was. Even so, I faltered once or twice with his name and everyone went a bit quiet, although nothing was said - at least not while I was around. Since then the number of people who I once knew and can still recognise have dwindled to close family. Mary would always be in my thoughts; how could I forget her, but one night in the early hours of the morning I wasn’t so sure. Only by getting out of bed, there and then, and finding her in the album could I be sure she was still in my head. So, that’s what I did. There were six weddings in the album, six faces that could have been hers and six faces that could have been mine. I had lost her a second time, disappeared without a trace, except for a feeling that I had loved someone very special and that our time together was the happiest of my life.

                                                *****

          Some days are better than others. This one has started well. Could I be getting better? But no, there is no cure, only moments of clarity that can last for minutes, sometimes longer, but never long enough. If I don’t try to force them, if I just let it happen, a few precious memories may return tomorrow, if not tomorrow then sometime soon. Just one more time, I plead - let me always have that hope.

 

Copyright Richard Banks

                   

 

 INDECISION

By Richard Banks 

Elections are not for the indecisive. For the afflicted - me included - they are a multi-choice torture equivalent to being stretched on the rack or roasted over a red hot fire. It’s bad enough when the choice is between one or the other but there are at least six of them, parties I mean, saying different things and appearing not to get on. If only it was a matter of deciding which party has the best policies – whatever they are – but it seems that should you get it wrong you’re not just guilty of voting into office a party less suited to govern but one that will wreck the economy and bring civilisation crashing to an end!

         It’s all too difficult; I shouldn’t be asked to decide. Nevertheless I will do my democratic duty and endeavour to make an informed decision. So, that’s why I’m sat in front of the TV for the first of the candidates’ debates.

         My first sensation is of relief. It seems that all I have to do is choose between a weaselly looking man who intermittently morphs into a Rottweiler or one who could be a body double for Fozzie Bear. There is a studio audience who ask questions and a lady who tells off the candidates  when they keep on talking after she has told them not to. But at the start it’s all sweetness and light, the candidates smile ingratiatingly at the audience and when one of them asks a question they call the questioner by his or her first name like he knows them and wants to be their new best friend. The audience stare back like parents meeting an unsuitable young man who wants to marry their daughter.

         The candidates are of the opinion that although they are no longer young they are, at least, suitable and attempt to convince the audience of this by telling little stories about themselves. They both have parents who were [and hopefully still are] paragons of virtue who brought up their sons to be the fine upstanding chaps they are today. The bear discloses the information that his father was a toolmaker which in less salubrious company might not be considered a recommendation. Perhaps fearing this to be a tactical error he endeavours to give the impression that his father was so unsuccessful in this endeavour that he was unable to pay the family’s telephone bill. The weasel sensing the odium of unpaid bills tells the audience that the bear man and his party want to increase everyone’s tax by thousands and thousands of pounds and make them so poor they won’t be able to pay any of their bills. The bear man at first looks thoughtful as though he hadn’t quite realised that this would be the effect of his policies but later gets really narky with the weasel who he says is making it all up.

         At this point they not only talk too much but also at the same time which really gets the goat of the lady, who nonetheless manages not to turn into one. When it calms down the weasel decides to tell everyone that he has a plan. He says this in a jubilant way reminiscent of Prince Monolulu, a racing tipster, who use to appear at the Derby each year proclaiming “I’ve gotta horse.”  Sartorially the weasel is much less colourful than Prince Monolulu and not so much fun. Indeed, no fun at all according to the bear who since their disagreement over tax is more Grizzly than Fozzie. At the end of the debate the bear walks over to the weasel and just when I think they are going to fight to the death and make all choice between them unnecessary they smile and shake hands.

         So, it’s one out of two I’m thinking, that shouldn’t be too difficult but then it is; the programme’s not over, there are four more candidates waiting to make their pitch – three dogs and a bird. This time the format’s different, they are interviewed separately which doesn’t stop them talking too long as well as answering their own questions instead of the ones they’re been asked.

         First up is a sparky Jack Russell who would much rather be having fun falling-off surf boards or riding fairground attractions than sitting in a TV studio talking serious stuff about politics. Nevertheless he smiles throughout his interrogation and just to prove he’s not barking mad explains that the cost of his policies - having less elastic budgets than those of the last two parties – will definitely put-up taxes. However, if he should be at the helm when the ship of state goes down we will all have lots of fun frolicking in the sea.

         Next on is a Dobermann Pinscher whose leader is this blokey self-made man who, when not at home, is often to be found in his ‘local’, or someone else’s local, sampling the real ales on offer. The Dobermann is a self satisfied sort of a dog who is convinced that the world would be a much better place if everyone was just like him. Global warming doesn’t exist and all that is necessary to ensure prosperity for the nation is to allow dogs like himself, and chaps like his master, to make as much money as they can with a minimum of regulation. He growls in unfriendly fashion at the next dog who is a Border Collie representing a party you can only vote for in Scotland. Quite what he’s doing south of the border on a show watched mainly by Sassenachs not even he is too sure but he submits to the experience with the indulgent good humour of a missionary in a far off land who’s been invited to take part in a bizarre, but harmless, ritual. He plays along with an easy charm that suggests there are rituals north of the border more important to his political aspirations. Long gone are the days when his ancestors crossed the border to help steal sheep and crack a few heads. Today he has come in peace and not even the appearance of a turtle-dove, who wants to sit on the seat where he is now sat, is sufficient provocation to make him growl.

         The bird, whose turn it now is, does believe in global warming. He wants to save the Earth and everything in it, even if this does include the Dobermann. He is a dainty bird, with a distinctive livery who speaks in a gentle purr. Despite the cats and humans who have made his kind an endangered species he will continue to persuade all those with ears to listen that only his party can turn down the thermostat and heal the world. True to the instincts of his party it is co-led by himself and a lady turtle-dove.

         The programme ends and I am left to ponder on everything that has been said, which has been much, and as all the animals are equally insistent that they are the best I am as undecided as before. However, there is a body of people much wiser than myself who will, I’m sure, be able to advise me so I will put off my decision until seeing them again at the next meeting of Rayleigh Writers.   

 

Copyright Richard Banks

THE HIGH LIFE [Part 6]

 THE HIGH LIFE   [Part 6] 

By Richard banks         

         Frampton is in darkness. The live-in servants are asleep after another long day. Their Master and Mistress also sleep, but less soundly. As before they are in separate rooms. Despite it being an hour past mid-night this is going to be a traditional sort of haunting, think gothic - Frankenstein, Dracula, The Premature Burial! And who could be more susceptible to all this fright than a man half asleep and befuddled with drink.

         I find him lying on top of the bed, minus a shoe but otherwise fully dressed. In his monkey suit he reminds me of a beached whale, but unlike the whale he’s red faced and wreaking of port. His mouth opens and closes and he mumbles aggressively at someone or thing that, having entered his dreams, is filling them with thoughts he would rather not think - discordant, troubling thoughts. But they will be as nothing compared to what’s coming next. When he awakes he will find himself in the company of William Perry, the third Earl, whose ill-gotten treasure, so legend has it, is hidden somewhere on the roof. I announce his presence in the deep, guttural voice I have been practising out of earshot on the estate. In addition to my new voice, which is really rather good, I appear to him as a whirl of white mist that often takes human form but never quite comes into focus.

         This would be alarming to anyone capable of logical thought, but right now that’s not Neville, and, when he wakes up, he’s too scared to do anything but obey the spectre hovering over him. He’s there for the taking, and, after identifying myself as his ancient ancestor, I spin him a story he’s unable to resist. Not only do I know where the treasure is but the purpose of my visit is to show him where to find it.

         Neville manages to look both terrified and greedy at the same time. To his surprise the spectre’s saying something he wants to hear and, on being told to follow on and do exactly what he’s told, Neville stumbles out of bed only to see me squeeze under the door. He pulls it open and totters after me, clutching at the bannister as I lead him up three flights of stairs and into the fourth floor corridor where, having nothing to hang onto, he bounces off one wall onto the other and back again, like a pinball in an arcade machine. How he’s still on his feet not even he knows, but he is, and on being told to exit through the fire door, throws himself against it and crashes out onto the roof. This time he does hit the deck but he’s up like a jack-in-a-box and peering back at the swirl of mist that he’s somehow overtaken.

         “What now?” he splutters, and I point a ghostly arm at the walkway on the inside of the battlements. There are steps that lead up to it, and he almost crawls up them before straightening up and staggering towards the spot I continue to indicate. “Here?” he bawls, staring down at the flagstone on which he’s standing. “No, back one,” I tell him, almost forgetting to use my dead Earl’s voice. For a moment he looks uncertain as though he’s beginning to smell a rat, but he steps back anyway towards a gap in the wall where a merlon was once removed to accommodate a cannon that’s now in the Armoury.

         For the first time I use my own voice. “Neville!” I snarl, letting out all the rage and loathing I have for him. “Neville!” I bellow, in a louder voice, just as angry, that causes him to back off another step. Then I turn into myself and fly at him, shrieking as I do. For a moment I have the satisfaction of seeing the look of horror on his face as he realises who I am and that he is powerless to keep me from rushing at him. He panics, takes two more steps back, pedals air and plunges down towards the delivery area outside the kitchen, narrowly missing the only vehicle parked there. He hits the tarmac with a heavy thud, flips over and lies motionless as little rivers of blood form a pool around his head and shoulders. “What now?” he had said, and now he is finding out. For a few moments I imagine his spirit rising up like mine had done, but this is no time for wool-gathering, my night’s work is only half done. I hurry back through the fire door and down the stairs to the first floor bedroom I once shared with Neville.

         Tonight only Mildred is there. She lies on the same side of the bed that I once filled. Maybe this is in her thoughts as well as mine. She is restless, turning towards the centre and then back towards the edge where, but for the sheets she is clinging to, she might drop down onto the floor. Behind closed lids her eyes twitch, she too is dreaming. Once she had happy dreams, those days are gone; those ahead may very well get worse.

         “Mildred,” I say, nestling on the pillow beside her head. She stirs, but doesn’t wake. “Mildred!” I hiss, and she recoils away from me onto the nogo area that once was Neville’s side of the bed. She’s awake now, very definitely awake and never more afraid, but worse is to come. It’s show time again and I appear to her as myself, but this is the new me, scary, demonic me, long hair swirling, my face horrid with hate.

         Her body shakes with fear and she passes out, as I thought she would. When she comes to I am kneeling on the bed next to her. “How could you?” I say. She reaches out towards me but withdraws her hand before making contact with my aura.

         “This is not a dream,” I tell her, and she nods her head to signify that she understands this only too well.

         “Maddie,” she gasps. “How?”

         “You mean. How is it that I’m dead?” my voice angry and accusing.

         This, needless to say, is not what she means.

         “I’m sorry, Maddy, I’m so, so sorry. I should have said no. I wanted to say no, but I’m not as strong as you. He was going to abandon me and the baby, to turn me out of Frampton with nothing but my clothes and a train ticket back to London. And, if it was ever discovered you had been poisoned, he said he would put the blame on me, that I had done it because I wanted to be the next Lady Frampton.”

         “But that’s true, isn’t it? You had got used to the high life, couldn’t bear to be parted from it especially when the alternative was a council flat or hostel for unmarried mothers; definitely something to steer clear of, even if it did mean being an accessory to murder, and not just any old murder, the murder of your sister who always did good by you.”

         “But, Maddie, I had the baby to think about. Once it was born how could I have coped? No money, no home, no job, and worse still no baby. They would have taken it from me, Maddy, I know they would, and nothing I could have done would have stopped them. Please try and see that.  What I did was wrong, very, very wrong, I know that, but please understand how desperate I was. Oh lore, will I go to hell, Maddie? Tell me there’s no such place. You forgive me, don’t you, please say you do. It wasn’t me who wanted you dead; it was Neville, he gave you the poison, not me.”

         She is contemptible and my aura flares up as though someone has doused it with petrol. She deserves to die but that is not my plan. She is my sister and our mother, who awaits us, should not be denied another grandchild. So, I tell her what she must do and that if she doesn’t I will haunt her every night for the rest of her life, and that it won’t just be me. There will, I assure her, be demons and devils who will enter her head and never go away in this life or the next. Of course, all this is totally beyond my capacity to deliver but she doesn’t know that and judging by the way she’s shaking, and the wetting of the bed, she believes every word.

         “Up,” I command, and out of bed she gets up. “Follow!” and we go along the corridor to Neville’s study where I point her at the picture and tell her to open the safe. She looks bemused as well as terrified. “What safe?” she asks, unaware that there is one, so I tell her what she needs to know, including the numbers I saw Neville dial.

         With the safe open it’s time to tell her more. “The money inside belongs to Neville,” I say,  “at least it did until I tipped him off the battlements.” Her mouth droops open as she struggles to take in what I’ve said. “Now it’s yours, every penny of it and in that box there’s diamonds, take those too. You’re rich now, very rich, set-up for life rich, and the only thing you need to do is disappear and never be found, because, if you’re found, your life, and that of your child, will be a living hell. You’ll need some clothes, so get packed.”

         She nods her head and returns to the bedroom where I watch her dress and pack a holdall with everything she needs to see her through the next few days. “Money!” I screech and she dashes back to the study for the money and diamonds. She’s ready to go but doesn’t know where, so I tell her where and what she must do to get there, my six point plan which I have her repeat six times before allowing her to creep out of the house and into her car. She unlocks the entrance gates and on opening them is away to Folkestone where she abandons the car near the ferry terminal.

         And that’s where the trail ends for those pursuing her, which includes the police and all the Fleet Street dailies. Of course they think she has fled the country on a no passport trip to Boulogne, but she is elsewhere and remains in that elsewhere place until she isn’t. Of this I will say no more, except that this is only step two of my rather longer plan.

         Ten years on and her life continues in a part of the world far from Frampton. When she speaks of the past it is a construct of her own making. She has wealth enough to live in comfort for the rest of her life and, being out of reach of the police who wish to question her about Neville’s unexplained death, her only concern is not to antagonise the fearsome spirit that was once her sister. Her prematurely white hair is a constant reminder of our reunion of which she still has nightmares. Her son knows nothing of his aristocratic descent, or his five cousins who are happy and prospering under the guardianship of Neville’s brother. And me? What about me? Well, let’s just say that when the Guardian Angel returned I had quite a lot of explaining to do. But, pending the conclusion of several inquiries, two appeals and a judicial review, I’m still up high rubbing shoulders with the righteous. Long may it continue. They won’t be getting rid of me in a hurry, so, when you’re ready - "come up and see me sometime."

The End.

 Copyright Richard Banks

THE HIGH LIFE [Part 5]

 THE HIGH LIFE   [Part 5]

By Richard Banks

With Neville on his way to the station and Mildred back downstairs, reading a book in the conservatory, there’s next to nothing going on, so I take the tour with Joe Public who are allowed in two days a week at £10 a head. It’s all very entertaining although I suspect the man hired to do the guiding is making it up as he goes along. According to him Wellington planned the battle of Waterloo in the room named after him and Richard the Lionheart was a frequent visitor to the house which, I know, wasn’t built until fourteen-seventy something. However, no one seems to know better and, unchallenged, he concludes the tour on the roof where there’s a tea room and a gift shop.

         “Are there any ghosts?” I hear someone ask, and he comes up with some baloney about a long dead Earl who walks the battlements in search of a treasure that’s been hidden there. That’s a yarn I’ve heard before and Neville has too because he spent most of last summer hunting for it. But for now the only ‘treasure’ to be found is in the gift shop which does a surprising amount of business before our guests depart and things are made ready for the afternoon tour.

         Neville would make a very good ghost. He glowers with a malevolence that few other men could match, and given a few chains to clank and reason enough to moan and groan would be a star turn at any seance he chose to attend. Mildred, on the other hand, could only be an insipid ghost, hardly worth a mention, but that’s not the point, my children’s fate depends on her unborn child not being a boy.  

         I go for a long walk around the grounds and by the time I return to the house I know exactly what I’m going to do. But for now there’s nothing I can do but wait for Neville to return from London with his briefcase full of bank notes and a self satisfied look on his face that, given present tensions, is unlikely to last past dinner. But that’s not until Sunday. Until then I’m at leisure with my girls. Nurse takes good care of them and they seem happy enough. I too will do my best for them. I want to tell them that everything will be alright, but don’t. Best they neither see nor hear me. So, I quietly observe Huberta trying to stand, Lizzie chasing pigeons, Isabel crying for no obvious reason and Cassie returning from school. On Saturday all five of them play ball in the grounds, have a picnic and stray further than they’re supposed to. On Sunday it rains, and all except Huberta depart for Sunday school. They return, have dinner before Cassie goes to a birthday party and is driven back to the Gatehouse by someone in a Mini Cooper. 

           An hour later Neville’s car sweeps past the gates and continues on to the house. I follow him there and arrive just in time to see him on the stairs en-route to his study. He opens the door and I’m through it almost before he is. There’s just one more thing I need to be sure of and, once I am, it’s back to the Gatehouse where the children are at their tea. They chatter animatedly to each other, and while the others watch TV Cassie belatedly does the homework she was suppose to do the previous day. I see them put to bed and watch them sleeping until nearly 1pm. With a heavy heart I whisper my goodbyes and return, one last time, to the house.

 

  [to be Continued]

         Copyright Richard Banks