THE OLD BOOK OF SPELLS (Part 2 & Last)

 THE OLD BOOK OF SPELLS (Part 2 & Last) 

By Richard Banks  

At 2 pm I set out and by evening I’m crossing the Tamar Bridge into Cornwall. The campsite’s near Bodmin, but it’s not open until the morning, so I pull up in a lay-by on the A38 and spend the night there. Come morning I buy a tent in Liskeard and drive the rest of the way to the campsite. It’s in a field, next to an old manor house where the local toffs live. Buy a ticket at the gate and join the early arrivals at a fast food van that’s serving breakfast.

Nothing to do now but put up the tent and suss out the new arrivals. There’s a girl called Lorinda in the next tent who’s came with her best friend, Trish, and Trish’s boyfriend. She’s not best pleased with the arrangement and spends most of her time outside the tent, while Trish and boyfriend cavort energetically inside. 

When it starts raining I invite her in for a coffee. Ask her what she knows about The Anointed Order, but she’s never heard of it. Says she’s only come for the drugs and the chance to get her kit off during the maypole dancing, or whatever it is they do here. She says the organisers of the other events she’s been to are always on the look out for handmaidens and they get given the most incredible psychedelic drugs that you can’t get anywhere else - at least not in the club she goes to. She asks if I’ve got any drugs. I say no, but when the festival drug dealer turns up I buy a few spiffs, and arrange to meet Lorinda in the evening. 

Meanwhile, the site is filling-up with people and tents, but no one resembling the collector is among them. People are also arriving at the house, mainly in expensive cars. According to a guy who’s been here before they are the High Priests, who only come down to the site for special events. No one knows who they are because they keep their faces covered and have made up names like Incubus and Belias. As well as the usual guys on security they also have their own minders, and no one who hasn’t been invited gets inside the house. 

This isn’t good news. If the collector is a priest or a minder getting near him is going to be one big problem. But maybe he isn’t, so I spend the rest of the day by the way in, watching the latest arrivals. Come evening I still haven’t seen him and when Security close the gates for the night I go back to the tent. It’s not long before Lorinda joins me and we start chatting about all the things she’s been doing since we last met; the main news being that this guy from the house has asked her to be a handmaiden for a big ceremony they’re having there at midnight. 

It’s too good a chance to miss, so I tell her about the murder I didn’t do and how I need to get inside the house to see if the collector’s there. She thinks all this is terribly exciting and can’t wait to help me, especially if I let her have one of the spiffs I bought. Two spiffs later and we’ve hit on this plan, where she lets me in through this window on the first floor. I don’t know what I’m going to do once I’m inside, but if this pans out anything like the last film I saw I will not only prove my innocence but get back the book as well. 

The first part of the plan goes like clockwork. Lorinda goes into the house and ten minutes later she’s opening the window so I can climb in from this tree outside. The ceremony’s taking place in a courtyard in the centre of the house and I can see it all from another window on the first floor. Any hope I have of spotting the collector, however, is dead in the water; everyone, except for the handmaidens, is decked out like the Ku Klux Clan, in white robes that cover their faces. The handmaidens seem to be there mainly for decoration, but Lorinda has a starring role. She gets to lie on this marble table and writhe around, while the head priest anoints her from head to foot with linseed oil. Then he picks up a ceremonial sword and pretends to run her through with it, while she throws out her arms and does this cute little scream that’s probably not in the script. All this time the other priests are chanting ‘Comius, Comius, Prince of Darkness’ but he don’t come and after a while they give up and have a prayer instead. 

While all this is very interesting I’m no further forward than before. I get out of the same window I came in by and go back to the tent. Half an hour later Lorinda arrives back in her ceremonial robe, looking like she’s just drunk a brewery dry. Instead of the night of passion we were planning she falls down outside the tent and I have to haul her in. 

I figure it’s best to let her sleep it off, but midway through the night she has a dream in which she’s an oven ready chicken being chased across Bodmin Moor by a fox that sometimes turns into a fire breathing goat. Up she gets and races off, like she’s been shot out of a rocket. I go after her and when she trips over a power cable I grab her and, despite the fact that she’s as slippery as a bar of soap, drag her back to the tent. 

The disturbance, however, hasn’t escaped the notice of Security, and, by following the strong aroma of linseed oil, their man has no trouble in finding us. At first he’s going to throw us off the site but then we realise we know each other. It’s Ernie, who I shared a cell with for six months. I pump him for information about who's staying in the house, but he doesn’t have their names. All he knows is that their car numbers are cross referenced to their room numbers. But, as he says, if I can find out which room my man is staying in I can use the car number to hack into the DVLA’s internet site. I bung him twenty quid for his trouble and he says for another twenty he can let me have a ceremonial robe for wearing inside the house. I agree, and when everyone on site are back sleeping, he brings it along to the tent. 

In the morning, just before brunch, Lorinda wakes up, and I tell her what’s happened and that we have to get back in the house as soon as possible. She says that’s no problem because there’s another ceremony in the evening, after which the Order are having a slap up dinner. The significance of the dinner is that they have to take off their hoods to eat it, so I will be able to ID the Collector and follow him back to his room. What’s more, the priest who was rubbing her down with oil was also reciting stuff from a book that could be the one that belonged to uncle George.

At last everything’s going my way and I can’t wait for the off. But wait I have to because the ceremony doesn’t start until 8 pm. Lorinda’s got the same job as before, except that she’s been told to cut out the ad-libs. Anyway, she goes into the house about 7:30 and I follow her in, ten minutes later, dressed up in the ceremonial robe that Ernie flogged me. 

The sun is setting and when it’s nearly dark the ceremony begins. It’s the same old business as the night before, but this time there’s a thunder storm rumbling overhead. If ever the Order is going to conjure up the Dark Prince this is the night, except that when they get to the Comius, Comius bit a bolt of lightening comes down, strikes one of the minders and fuses all the lights. Needless to say this causes quite a stir, but once the lights come back on and the priests work out that the minder is still the minder and not the Prince, they all troop off to dinner, except the minder, who’s carted off to hospital. 

Sure enough, once everyone’s in the dining hall, the priests take off their hoods and park them on the floor under their seats. At first I don’t see the Collector, or anyone like him. Then he looks round at a waiter and I spot him. All I got to do is sit tight until the dinner’s finished and follow him back to his room. It should be a doddle, but it ain’t. After the cheese and biscuits, the Head Priest says something in Latin and everyone gets up and puts their hoods back on.

Keeping my eyes on the Collector is worse than the three card trick. Far worse! There must be at least fifty guys in robes and they’re all on their feet, going every which way. I’m trying hard not to take my eyes off him, but the hood I’m wearing isn’t helping because the eye holes are too far apart. However, once he’s out of the dining hall there’s less people, and by the time I follow him up three flights of stairs he’s on his own. Half way along a corridor he stops and gets out the key to his room, but, like me, he’s having trouble seeing, so he takes off his hood. Whoever this guy is he ain’t the collector. As if things can’t get any worse he susses out that I’ve been following him and asks me what my priestly name is. 

The game’s up, so I do a runner back down the corridor, hoping I can make it to the ground floor and duck out, through the back door, with the hired help. By the time I make the stairs, the security alarm is ringing, and the word is out that there’s an unwelcome visitor in the house. If the heavies get me I’m toast - the collector may not be the only one who wants me dead. Down below, two minders are running up the stairs towards me. There’s no way I’m going to get past them, so it’s right turn at the next landing, and along a corridor on the first floor. In addition to the guys behind, there’s another one running towards me. I put my head down and crash into him. He hits the floor but I’m still going. Ten yards on I see the window through which I came the previous night and climb out onto the tree. It’s dark and I can hardly see the ground, but the minders are almost at the window, so I take a chance and jump. I think I’m going to break an ankle but the ground’s soft and although I take a tumble there’s no damage done.

I need to disappear into the night but the robe I’m wearing is almost glowing, so I stop behind a bush and tear it off. My lungs are bursting, but stopping ain't an option, so I run hard towards the camp site. I’m nearly there when someone comes straight at me and shines a torch in my face. I zig-zag round him, nearly collide with a tree, and tumble down an embankment that slopes down to the camp site. By now I can hear dogs barking and they don’t sound like they’re going to lick my face. As they can run faster than me, I'm guessing it won't be long before they catch up. 

I’m in a panic. If I have a guardian angel this is the time for it to come to my rescue. Then it appears, except that it’s not an angel, it’s Lorinda. She’s packed a bag with all the money we’re got and on the assumption that a speedy exit is the order of the day, is haring off towards a hole in the perimeter fence that she nearly fell through the previous night. I follow on and we scramble through it and onto an unlit road that’s darker than the average coal cellar. We start running again but there’s no need. The dogs haven’t left the campsite and if their pitiful whimpering is anything to go by they’re not liking the pungent smell of linseed oil still wafting from our tent. We slow down, get our bearings and figure out our next move. 

What happens next is the arrival of the number ten bus to Plymouth. As get away vehicles go it’s not the fastest, but at ten pounds a head it’s definitely the cheapest. An hour later we’re in Plymouth and an hour after that we’re on an overnight coach to Poole. 

Why Poole? you’re thinking. The answer is logical, if not obvious. Lorinda knows a man there who owes another man a favour, and the last named man is Lorinda’s dad. What’s more, the man in Poole owns a yacht, and that’s our ticket out of the country, away from the Anointed Order, the police and everyone else that will do us down. And the good news doesn’t stop there, for Lorinda's old man owns a casino on the Costa del Sol, where he launders money for the same mob I used to work for. It’s a safe haven that might well have a need for my professional services.  

                                                            ********** 

So, it’s all ended well you’re thinking. Okay, so he didn’t prove his innocence to the police, get back uncle George’s book, or get even with the collector, but he’s met this really fun chick and now they’re going to get it together in a warm, sunny place that’s a distinct improvement on north London. While it’s better than a goalless draw at the Emirates I’m not sure how I should be feeling. Had it been down to Tom Cruise everything would have been sorted inside three hours, but real life ain’t like that. 

In real life there’s only so much a guy can do – sometimes, whatever you do ain’t enough - but a guy and a girl together, that’s different. Right from the start it felt different, the proof that it was came on the motorway, south of Exeter. That’s when Lorinda remembers she has something for me. She unzips her bag and rummages through it like she can’t find what she’s searching for, which is odd, because what finally comes out is nearly as big as the bag - it’s a book. I can’t believe what I’m seeing. “Is this the one you’re looking for?” she says, and sure enough it is. 

It turns out that when the lightning came down and the lights went out, my quick fingered little magician takes the book off the High Priest’s lectern and drops it down behind the table she’s lying on. It’s like taking candy from a baby. While everyone’s attention is focused on the stricken bouncer she gets off the table, slips the book into her bag, and as the Anointed Order go off to dinner she exits the house with the other handmaidens.

What happens after that you already know, so I guess this really is the end of the story. Lorinda says that it has more ups and downs than the Himalayas and that if I don’t finish it now while we’re on an up I will only have myself to blame. I take her point. What happens next I don’t know, but it’s a new start, a new story. The old one's over; there’s only one thing left to say - The End.

 

Copyright Richard Banks

THE OLD BOOK OF SPELLS (Part 1 of 2)

 THE OLD BOOK OF SPELLS (Part 1 of 2) 

By Richard Banks

When I first heard the news about uncle George I was sad. Not that I was ever close to the old boy, only met him three or four times, but he was family, Dad’s brother, the last of his generation. Then I got the letter from his solicitor and I felt a whole lot better. Turns out I was his nearest living relative and sole beneficiary. Thought I had won the lottery without buying a ticket. How big the jackpot was I didn’t know, but as Uncle George lived in a three storey house on the Caledonian Road I figured it was the nearest thing to a fortune I would ever see. 

After three years in Pentonville, and one on the dole, my lucky star was shining like never before. Then the clouds started rolling in and not even the sun was getting through. Should have known it was too good to be true. Uncle George hadn’t left me the house, it wasn’t his to leave; he only lived on the ground floor and that was rented. All I had was the stuff inside it and a bill for last month’s rent. Decided that the best thing to do was clear the flat before another month's rent was due and sell anything likely to fetch a price. With a bit of luck I could pay off his debts and still make a few quid. 

Wasn’t thinking that for long. One look around his pad was enough to tell me that there was better stuff on the local tip. Even then I thought there might be some money hidden away. Old people do that, especially when they don’t have bank accounts - whole wads of notes at the back of drawers or on top of cupboards. That’s when I found the shilling piece, and an old book of spells. At least I think that’s what it was. The old time writing didn’t make much sense, but the pictures were clear enough. It wasn’t no bible book, that’s for sure. 

I remember Mum saying that uncle George had a dark side, now I knew what it was. In the same cupboard I found his ceremonial robe and a certificate saying that he was member one hundred and thirty four of the Anointed Order of Gehenna. It didn’t seem right to take them down to the tip where they might get noticed, so I burned them in the back garden. Almost burned the book too, then thought better of it. Why not take it to that second hand bookshop in Camden Town, I thought; anything that old must surely be worth a fiver, so that’s what I did. 

As soon as I walk through the door I know I'm in the right place. This isn’t any old book shop, it's the Psychic Antiquarian Resource Gallery; the resource being books and magazines on every weird notion and religion that’s ever been invented. The guy behind the counter looks surprisingly sane. If he has a ceremonial robe at least he isn't wearing it. In fact he's better turned out than uncle George’s solicitor. What’s more he’s a real charmer. This is a man who can really close a deal, a born salesman, but I'm not buying, and at first neither is he.

He takes one look at the split in the binding and almost pushes the book back at me across the counter. Then something gets his attention and he opens it up. The guy would make a good poker player, but for a split second he lets down his guard and I can see he’s interested, really interested. Then he’s back to his poker face, sighs, says what a pity it isn’t in better condition, points out a creased page and a dark stain on another. Sighs again. I’m thinking that he’s going to offer me a fiver when it’s worth a pony or maybe fifty quid. Instead, he quotes me the full fifty. So how much is it really worth? I don’t trust him, so I say I’m not sure, that I think it might be worth more. He shakes his head, almost winces as he finds another stain in the margin of a picture; then his attention switches to the picture itself. It’s Old Nick himself, eyes glowing like they’re going to jump off the page. The guy can’t help himself, he’s almost drawling. Ups his offer to eighty quid, but by now he knows I’m on to him, that I’m going to say no and move on to other book shops.

When I do say no, he shrugs his shoulders like he’s none too bothered, but he knows a private collector who might pay more. If I leave my card maybe he will get in touch. I don’t have a card, so I write down my address and telephone number on a piece of paper he gives me. He smiles, wishes me luck and we say goodbye.

It’s 4:30, too late to find another book shop, so I head home. Figure if this book is as hot as I think it is then the collector will be on the phone before morning. I’m not disappointed, except that it’s not the telephone that rings, it’s the door bell. I open up to find this guy on the doorstep. His name is Mackenzie. He says he’s come about the book. I invite him in. This is dangerous, but he looks okay so I take a chance. It’s a chance too many. 

Not sure when he hit me, probably the first time I turned my back on him. All I know is that when I come round I’m lying on the parlour floor, staring up at Mrs B from the next door flat. Turns out that when I hit the deck, the old dear hears the bang and starts hammering on the wall like she does when she wants me to turn down the radio. Except that this time I don’t shout back, so she comes out her front door and finds mine open. 

Luckily for her, my visitor has grabbed what he came for and legged it out of the building. She wants to call the police, but the police and me don’t get along, so I say I’ll do it when I know what’s missing. What’s missing, of course, is the book, nothing else, just the book, and now I’m certain it’s worth serious money. I want it back and my devious little friend in the bookshop is just the man to help me find it. 

Next morning I’m there bright and early, half expecting the shop to be shut, but the sign in the window says ‘Open’, so I go in. It’s quiet, even quieter than a bookshop ought to be. Right away I’m smelling trouble and it ain’t long in coming. The door into the office is open and there’s books and magazines all over the floor. I ring the bell on the counter and, when no one comes out, I go in. 

At first I don’t see him, then I look behind his desk and there he is, flat out, with his head bashed in. He’s not breathing, and, unless his name is Lazarus, he won’t be getting up again. Cut and run, I’m thinking. You’re an ex-con with form for GBH. If the police find you here they won’t be looking for anyone else. Then I see this poster in his hand. It’s like he’s trying to give it to me; it’s stupid, but it makes sense. He’s holding the poster because it’s important, because it has something to do with the man who killed him - the same man who, but for Mrs B, would have done the same to me. This is all about the book and if I want to see it again the poster is my only chance. I take it from him and go back into the shop. There’s nobody there, or in the street outside. I slip out of the front door and walk back to my car several streets away. I mustn’t do anything to attract attention, and I don’t. 

By the time I get back home I’m thinking that the book is the least of my problems. I might have got out of the shop without anyone seeing me but my fingerprints are all over the counter and maybe some in the office. It won’t be long before the police find them and make the match with the ones I gave them four years ago. It’s not enough for a conviction, but if I’ve also been seen on CCTV then I’m definitely in the shit. What’s more the poster I took from the book guy also connects me to the shop and who’s to say his DNA isn’t all over it. Whatever else I do today, I need to burn it before the police find it. 

I take it out of my jacket pocket and go into the kitchen, intending to incinerate it in a saucepan. Then I think, no, slow down, if the book guy thought this important then it’s important enough to read. So I do. It’s about some sort of hippy gathering that’s taking place in Cornwall, 'The Festival of Gehenna and the Awakening Lights'.

Straightaway my mind goes back to Uncle George and the Anointed Order of Gehenna. Are they connected, I’m thinking, and sure enough they are; in the small print there’s an address, the same one that was on uncle George’s certificate. My mind’s working overtime and everything’s making sense. By holding on to the poster, the book guy was saying that his killer and the festival are connected, ‘go to the festival and there you will find him, book and all.’

And do I want to go? You bet I do. This guy is my get out of jail card. If I can find him, get his name and address, I might just be able to convince the police that it’s him, not me they should be looking for. But that’s a conversation for another day. Right now I’m wanting to avoid the police, and a festival campsite, in the middle of nowhere, seems like the perfect spot. 

There’s no time to lose. I change the plates on my car and get money from the bank. I also need a change of image. Appearances are important and I don’t want to be recognised, so I shave my head, wear a new age shirt I should have thrown out years ago and put on a big pair of shades. 

 (To be Continued)

Copyright Richard Banks

 A SUMMER WOOING                                     

By Richard Banks                    

The seven-fifteen from platform two was leaving the station, slowly gathering speed as it turned the bend in the track that pointed it towards Bransford. The last passenger to board the train took her seat in the half empty carriage and observed the streets and houses of the town give way to a field of barley. She recalled the winter months when the field was nothing more than dark clods of mud and the trees beyond it leafless skeletons. In a week or two the field would be harvested, the first step back into winter. She repressed a shiver and consoled herself that it was only August and that September days were sometimes the warmest of the year.

         What was it that Granny used to say when summer lingered on into autumn? It was an old expression not much heard now; something about India. Yes, that was it, an Indian Summer. When July or August were cool and wet, Granny always held out the prospect of an Indian summer just like those she claimed to remember from her youth: “September days so warm you could have fried an egg on the pavement.” The woman smiled, but Granny sometimes got it right. September when it came could be warm, a golden month made precious by the knowledge that summer dresses must soon give way to warmer clothes.

         The woman unfastened her handbag and extracted a compact which opened to reveal a mirror. She anxiously studied her face counting the lines that radiated from the corner of her eyes. There were three on either side of her face, the same as yesterday, the same as four weeks ago when she first noticed them. Was the middle one slightly longer? She wasn't sure. For now the application of a little cream would render them invisible. But first there was mascara to apply.

         Gerry liked girls who took trouble with their appearance. She knew this, he had a roving eye and a wagging tongue like other guys in the office. From their conversations she learned that Gerry liked brunets with shoulder length hair, slim girls with made-up faces and long legs, fashionable girls in silk blouses and pleated skirts that terminated several inches above their knees. Gerry seemed to have an obsession with pleated skirts which was weird she thought because no one made them now except that Romanian firm on the net which she had found after several long hours of searching.

         Now that she had changed, morphed into Gerry's perfect girl it was only a matter of time before he realised what she already knew, that they were a perfect match. For now, the focus of his attention was Cloey but this was ridiculous and could never be. Cloey was far too young and flighty for Gerry. He needed an older woman in the summer of her life, not a spring chicken with a voice to match. Why could Gerry not see this? The poor man was forever attracting unsuitable women. First there was Janey who fell off the stepladder while putting up the Christmas decorations. Didn't look so cute with her neck in a brace; no wonder Gerry dumped her. By the time she was back from sick leave Gerry had moved on to Deborah, that snotty girl in Personnel who didn't like being called Debby. But Deborah was just using him, stringing him along and when she sent that text to Janey detailing the deficiencies of Gerry's 'little acorn', Janey inflicted her come-uppance by copying it to everyone in the office.

         Poor Gerry, how humiliating for him. Who could blame him for complaining to his head of section and having them both sacked? That's when he needed the affection of an older, more mature woman, one who truly loved him. While the other girls were still sniggering she was his rock, at first his only true friend and then, gradually, almost without him noticing, a closer attachment began to form.

         It was going so well, then Cloey arrived, Deborah's replacement, and Gerry's wandering eyes began wandering all over her hour glass figure. He should have realised his mistake when she fell over drunk in the Kings Head that lunchtime and was unwell on the carpet. Instead he picked her up, plied her with coffee and saw her onto her train at Charing Cross. Since then their 'by chance' meetings about the office had become too frequent to ignore. Even more worrying was the rumour that they had been seen together in the Memphis Grill. Then she saw them for herself, together on that park bench, snogging like it was an Olympic event. She turned back on her heels and found a bench of her own where her tears might also have set new records. It was over, she thought. No one could have tried harder, how had she failed?

         The negativity of her thoughts astounded her. She stopped crying and dried her eyes. Emotion was giving way to rational thought. Failure was not an option she told herself. She was a positive person who made things happen, this was no more than a clearing shower. That's what Granny said when dark clouds gathered and the rain set-in driving her and the other children into Grannies scullery. No matter how black the clouds Granny was always adamant that the rain was nothing more than a clearing shower, that within minutes, an hour at most, the sun would be back out, a yellow blaze in a deep blue sky. Not for the first time the memory of Granny's boundless optimism brought a smile to her face; there would, she resolved, be no more rainy days in her life.

         The train pulled into Bransford. The woman returned her mirror and lipstick to her handbag and observed the City bound commuters hurry into the carriage and occupy the remaining seats. Her make-up completed, her mind was fully focussed on what must be done at the next station. Up to now she had been merely mischievous: the tilting of the ladder on which Janey was standing, the sending of that text on Deborah's unattended mobile – what a wheeze that had been – and finally the Mickey Finn in Cloey's drink. The present situation, however, called for something more serious, anything less would not be enough. Her plan was simple, high risk, but the stakes were high. She told herself that desperate times required desperate measures, but that once done, all would be well. She drank from a flask; the liquid reinforced her resolve, gave her confidence, repressed those what if doubts. But what if she did nothing and let things be? No, nothing could be worse than that.

         Not a moment too soon the train arrived at Milstead Junction. The woman alighted and made her way to the coffee bar on the London bound platform. This was where Cloey stopped for a cappuccino and croissant on her way to the office. The woman knew this because Cloey had told her so, “her life saver” she called it, her reward for dragging herself out of bed at seven a.m. It was not long before she made her entrance.

         The woman attracted her attention and beckoned at the empty seat beside her from which she had removed her handbag. Cloey looked surprised, then nervous, but was reassured by the woman's friendly expression. It was not difficult to switch the paper cups on the table in front of them, the same unsampled coffees filled close to the brim. They talked like the friends they were not, silly girlish stuff that the woman had outgrown but still remembered. Cloey yawned, her eyes struggling to stay open; the pills in her cup were taking effect. Timing now was everything. The woman put on her white sun hat with the wide, floppy brim that might have dipped down over her eyes had it not been for the large frames of her dark glasses. “It's time to go,” she said, “the 7.55 is due.” The woman guided her companion, from the café and stood her on the edge of the platform as their fellow commuters formed irregular lines either side and behind them.

         Only a single, piston-like movement was needed, the firm pressure of an open palm in the small of Cloey's back, too quick, too subtle for TV imaging or human eye. It was said that she fell slowly, arms out wide, her thin cotton dress billowing like a butterfly in an unexpected breeze. The woman closed her eyes and from her darkness heard all: the braking of the train, a juddering thud, the screams and shouts of those whose eyes were open. These 'details' she would banish from her memory, lose in some unacknowledged place along with all she did see: the dark splashes on the track, the ashen face of the driver as he pushed open the door of his cab.

         The woman withdrew unobtrusively from the platform and completed her journey to work by bus. Later that day or maybe the next, the news of Cloey's death would reach the office. When it did she would express the same sentiments of grief and disbelief as everyone else, but most of all she would be there for Gerry. More than ever he would need that special friend who could be so much more. In time he would realise this, how could he not, and when he did, nothing would ever come between them again.

         There he was at his work station opening his emails. Time to take him his post, to perch herself on the edge of his desk and flirt, tell jokes, laugh when he told his. The dark clouds were gathering but soon the sun would shine.         

                                                                                  Copyright Richard Banks                                                                                                            

TV in the UK ~ (The Early Years)

 TELEVISION IN BRITAIN – THE EARLY YEARS

By Richard Banks

TELEVISION IN THE UK WILL ALWAYS BE ASSOCIATED WITH THE INVENTOR, JOHN LOGIE BAIRD, THE BBC AND THE CORPORATION’S FIRST DIRECTOR GENERAL, JOHN REITH.

BAIRD’S INVOLVEMENT CAME FIRST.  IN THE RACE TO DEVELOP A WORKABLE TV SERVICE HIS MECHANICAL SYSTEM TOOK AN EARLY LEAD WHEN, IN 1926, HE TRANSMITTED MOVING IMAGES TO MEMBERS OF THE ROYAL INSTITUTION AND A REPORTER FROM THE TIMES, AT AN ADDRESS IN FRITH STREET, SOHO. THIS IS GENERALLY CONSIDERED TO BE THE FIRST PUBLIC DEMONSTRATION OF TELEVISION ANYWHERE IN THE WORLD.

BAIRD’S TELEVISION COMPANY HAD BEEN LICENSED BY THE POST OFFICE IN 1925 TO CONDUCT SHORT EXPERIMENTAL TRANSMISSIONS THAT WERE WATCHED BY THE 100 OR SO PERSONS THEN OWNING TV SETS. SELFRIDGE'S WERE THE FIRST STORE TO OFFER THEM FOR SALE.  REALISING THAT HE NEEDED A MORE POWERFUL TRANSMITTER TO BROADCAST HIS PROGRAMMES BAIRD APPROACHED THE BBC TO USE THE ONE THEY HAD FOR RADIO TRANSMISSIONS.  SOMEWHAT RELUCTANTLY THE CORPORATION AGREED ALLOWING BAIRD TO USE IT DURING THE LATE EVENING / EARLY MORNING WHEN NOT NEEDED FOR RADIO. A SECOND TRANSMITTER ACQUIRED SOON AFTER BY THE BBC WAS ALSO USED BY BAIRD. 

BAIRD’S TELEVISION COMPANY AND THE BBC COLLABORATED ON REGULAR TELEVISION BROADCASTS FOR SEVEN YEARS FROM 1929. DURING THIS TIME THE FIRST EVER TV PLAY WAS BROADCAST (‘THE MAN WITH THE FLOWER IN HIS MOUTH’) AS WAS THE DERBY IN 1931 – THE WORLD’S FIRST OUTSIDE TV BROADCAST. 

HOWEVER, THE BBC WAS BECOMING INCREASINGLY SCEPTICAL ABOUT BAIRD’S 32 LINE, MECHANICAL SYSTEM WHICH WAS CUMBERSOME TO OPERATE AND UNLIKELY TO ATTRACT MANY VIEWERS ON ACCOUNT OF ITS POOR PICTURE QUALITY.  A RIVAL ELECTRONIC SYSTEM DEVELOPED BY MARCONI - EMI USING CATHODE-RAY TUBES TRANSMITTED MUCH CLEARER PICTURES MADE-UP OF 405 LINES. 

IN 1934 POLITICS INTERVENED WHEN THE GOVERNMENT SET-UP THE SELSDON COMMITTEE TO CONSIDER THE FUTURE OF TELEVISION BROADCASTING. IT RECOMMENDED THAT TELEVISION BE ESTABLISHED AS A PUBLIC SERVICE AND THAT A REGULAR, HIGH DEFINITION SERVICE BE BROADCAST BY A SINGLE PROVIDER, THE BBC. THE COMMITTEE FURTHER RECOMMENDED THAT THE TWO RIVAL SYSTEMS COMPETE AGAINST EACH OTHER IN A TRIAL TO DECIDE WHICH OF THEM SHOULD BE USED. 

THE CONTEST TOOK PLACE AT THE ALEXANDRA PALACE, THE MAIN BUILDING IN A RUN-DOWN ENTERTAINMENTS’ COMPLEX, PART OF WHICH HAD BEEN LEASED BY THE BBC. THIS WAS THE LONDON STATION FROM WHICH TRANSMISSIONS WERE  MADE. BAIRD IMPROVED HIS 32 LINE SYSTEM TO 240 LINES BUT IT PROVED NO MATCH FOR ITS RIVAL. AFTER ONLY THREE MONTHS OF A SIX MONTH TRIAL EMI – MARCONI WERE DECLARED THE WINNER AND BBC TELEVISION FORMALLY COMMENCED OPERATIONS IN NOVEMBER 1936. 

THE GUIDING PRINCIPLES OF THE NEW SERVICE HAD BEEN ESTABLISHED 14 YEARS EARLIER IN 1922 WHEN THE BRITISH BROADCASTING COMPANY WAS ESTABLISHED BY ROYAL CHARTER TO BE THE NATION’S SOLE BROADCASTER OF RADIO PROGRAMMES. JOHN REITH, A STERN SCOTTISH CALVINIST WAS APPOINTED TO RUN THE NEW SERVICE. HE WAS DETERMINED THAT IT SHOULD NOT FOLLOW IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF AMERICAN RADIO STATIONS WHICH IN PURSUIT OF ADVERTISING REVENUE BROADCAST ONLY POPULAR ENTERTAINMENT. THE BBC,  HE INSISTED,  SHOULD INFORM, EDUCATE AND ENTERTAIN HENCE ESTABLISHING A HIGH MORAL TONE WHICH SET THE STANDARD FOR ALL PUBLIC SERVICE BROADCASTING IN THE UK. LATER HE DECLARED HIS GOAL WAS TO BROADCAST ‘ALL THAT IS BEST IN EVERY DEPARTMENT OF HUMAN KNOWLEDGE, ENDEAVOUR AND ACHIEVEMENT’. 

THE BBC’S RELATIONSHIP WITH GOVERNMENT WAS FROM THE BEGINNING AN UNCERTAIN ONE. REITH WANTED THE BBC TO BE INDEPENDENT OF GOVERNMENT BUT DID THIS STRETCH TO ITS REPORTAGE OF NEWS? WAS THE BBC TO BE THE MOUTHPIECE OF GOVERNMENT OR SHOULD IT SEEK TO PROVIDE A BALANCED, UNBIASED VIEW THAT ATTEMPTED TO BE FAIR TO ALL. 

[EXAMPLE OF 1926 GENERAL STRIKE.] 

 IN 1937 THE CORONATION OF GEORGE VI WAS TELEVISED.  IN THE SAME YEAR

 THE WIMBLEDON TENNIS CHAMPIONSHIPS WERE TELEVISED FOR THE FIRST TIME ALONG WITH THE FIRST FOOTBALL MATCH, BETWEEN ARSENAL AND ARSENAL RESERVES. A YEAR LATER BBC’S FOOTBALL COVERAGE MOVED ON TO THE MORE SERIOUS BUSINESS OF A FA CUP FINAL BETWEEN HUDDERSFIELD AND PRESTON NORTH END. THESE TELEVISION FIRSTS WERE WATCHED IN AROUND 20,000 HOUSEHOLDS. 

ON IST SEPTEMBER 1939 TELEVISION IN THE UK WAS SUSPENDED FOR THE DURATION OF WWII. IT RECOMMENCED ON 7 JUNE 1946 WITH A PRE-WAR ANNOUNCER SAYING, “GOOD AFTERNOON EVERYONE. HOW ARE YOU? DO YOU REMEMBER ME, JASMINE BLIGH.”  I, HOWEVER, MISSED THESE WORDS BY FIVE MONTHS NOT BEING BORN UNTIL THE FOLLOWING NOVEMBER. 

OUR HOUSEHOLD, A SMALL MAISONETTE IN LEYTON, NOW PART OF THE LONDON BOROUGH OF WALTHAM FOREST, WAS ONE OF THE FIRST TO HAVE A TELEVISION AS PART OF ITS FIXTURES AND FITTINGS. MY FATHER, ON DEMOB FROM THE ROYAL NAVY IN 1945, RECEIVED A CASH PAYMENT OF £83 WHICH HE INVESTED IN A PYE SET WHICH HAD A NINE INCH SCREEN TO WHICH A CONVEX LENS HAD BEEN FITTED ENLARGING THE PICTURE SIZE TO THIRTEEN INCHES. ALTHOUGH BEARING THE PYE NAME IT WAS NOT DISSIMILAR TO A MODEL AVAILABLE FOR SALE IN 1938 (THE MARCONIPHONE MODEL 709). 

THERE WERE A LIMITED NUMBER OF CONTROLS, AN ON/OFF SWITCH, ONES FOR VOLUME, CONTRAST AND BRIGHTNESS AND TWO MORE FOR CORRECTING PICTURE BREAK-UP OR A LOSS OF VERTICAL HOLD WHICH CAUSED THE PICTURE TO WHIZZ ROUND IN A DIZZYING WHIRL. SOMETIMES WHEN THE CONTROLS PROVED NOT ENOUGH MY FATHER WOULD BATTER THE SET INTO SUBMISSION BY POUNDING IT ON THE SIDE WITH A VEHEMENCE SURPRISING IN ONE WHO NEVER LAID A HAND ON HIS CHILDREN OR, TO MY KNOWLEDGE, ANYONE ELSE.  

THE SET GAVE GOOD SERVICE LASTING WELL INTO THE 1950s. HOWEVER IT BECAME INCREASINGLY PRONE TO BREAKDOWN NECESSITATING THE ATTENDANCE OF A TV REPAIR MAN WHO TO MY HORROR, WOULD SOMETIMES TAKE IT BACK TO HIS PREMISES FOR REPAIR. IN 1955 WHEN ITV CAME INTO BEING MANY PEOPLE HAD THEIR SETS CONVERTED SO THEY COULD RECEIVE THE NEW STATION AS WELL AS BBC. WE DIDN’T. WHY? I DON’T RECALL. MAYBE WE WERE PERFECTLY HAPPY WITH THE BBC’S PROGRAMMES OR MAYBE THE SET WAS BECOMING TOO OLD AND UNRELIABLE TO JUSTIFY THE EXPENDITURE.  WHATEVER THE REASON WE PERSISTED WITH THE PYE FOR A FEW MORE YEARS UNTIL BUYING A NEW SET ABLE TO RECEIVE BOTH CHANNELS. THE PYE WAS DEMOTED TO THE COAL CELLAR OF THE FAMILY’S SECOND HOME WHERE IT MAY STILL HAVE BEEN WHEN THE LAST REMAINING BANKS MOVED OUT IN 1980. 

UNTIL 1956 THERE WERE NO PROGRAMMES BETWEEN 6 – 7PM. THIS PAUSE IN PROGRAMMING WAS INTENDED TO FACILITATE THE PUTTING TO BED OF YOUNG CHILDREN AND WAS KNOWN AS THE TODDLERS’ TRUCE. IT ALSO PROVIDED SOME QUIET TIME FOR OLDER CHILDREN TO GET ON WITH THEIR SCHOOL WORK. ON SUNDAYS THERE WERE NO PROGRAMMES BETWEEN 6.15 & 7.25PM SO AS NOT TO INTERFERE WITH CHURCH ATTENDANCE, OTHERWISE BROADCASTING HOURS WERE 9AM – 11PM DURING THE WEEK, THAT IS MONDAYS TO FRIDAYS, BUT ONLY EIGHT HOURS ON SATURDAYS AND 7 HOURS, 15 MINUTES ON SUNDAYS.

THE NUMBER OF VIEWERS STEADILY INCREASED. A BIG BOOST TO TV OWNERSHIP WAS THE CORONATION OF ELIZABETH II IN 1953. HOWEVER, DESPITE THE RUSH TO BUY SETS, ONLY A MINORITY OF HOUSEHOLDS HAD THEM ON THE BIG DAY – 2,142,000, COMPARED TO 1,449,000 IN 1952 - CONSEQUENTLY THE HOMES OF THOSE WITH TVS WERE OFTEN FULL TO THE BRIM WITH FRIENDS AND RELATIVES. THIS WAS CERTAINLY THE CASE IN THE BANKS HOUSEHOLD WHOSE SMALL LOUNGE WAS FILLED TO CAPACITY. I RECALL THAT THE DAY’S EVENTS WENT ON FAR TOO LONG FOR MY SIX AND A HALF YEAR ATTENTION SPAN. I SPENT MUCH OF THE TIME ON A VERY WET DAY PLAYING IN MY BEDROOM WITH THE OTHER CHILDREN THERE GATHERED OCCASIONALLY RUSHING BACK TO THE LOUNGE TO MAKE SURE WE WEREN’T MISSING ANYTHING. NO DOUBT WE WERE AN UTTER PAIN TO THE ASSEMBLED PARENTS, SAT HUDDLED TOGETHER, PEERING AT THE PYE’S SMALL SCREEN.  

DESPITE THE INCREASING POPULARITY OF TV MANY FAMILIES STOPPED SHORT OF BUYING ONE FEARING THAT IT WOULD REDUCE FAMILY INTERACTIONS, DISCOURAGE READING AND CONVERSATION, THEREBY PRODUCING A NATION OF COUCH POTATOES GAZING PASSIVELY INTO THEIR TV SCREENS. WHAT CAN NOT BE DENIED IS THAT THE TV SET TOOK OVER IN MOST HOUSEHOLDS FROM THE HEARTH AS THE MAIN FOCUS OF FAMILY LIFE. 

DESPITE THE HIGH MORAL TONE OF THE BBC THERE WAS ALSO CONCERN ABOUT UNSUITABLE PROGRAMMES BRINGING UNSAVOURY CONTENT INTO THE SANCTUARY OF THE HOME. IN THE 1950s VIEWERS WOULD HAVE FOUND LITTLE TO COMPLAIN ABOUT BUT WITH THE BBC RESPONDING TO THE SOCIAL CHANGES OF THE 60s AND SOMETIMES AHEAD OF MAINSTREAM PUBLIC OPINION A VIEWER BACKLASH WAS NOT LONG IN COMING HEADED BY THE REDOUBTABLE, MARY WHITEHOUSE.  OFTEN DERIDED IN HER LIFETIME SOCIAL HISTORIANS ARE  NOW  SOMETIMES MORE SYMPATHETIC ABOUT HER EFFORTS TO CLEAN-UP THE AIRWAYS - NOT TO MENTION THE THEATRE AND LITERATURE. 

WHATEVER TV’s EFFECT ON FAMILY LIFE THERE CAN BE NO DOUBT THAT IT HAD A SIGNIFICANT IMPACT ON LIFE BEYOND THE HOME. CINEMA  AUDIENCES PLUMMETED AS WELL AS ATTENDANCES AT OTHER EVENING EVENTS. HOWEVER, PUBLIC HOUSES CONTINUED TO DO GOOD BUSINESS AS DID THE NEW PHENOMENON OF BINGO THAT IN THE 1960s TOOK OVER THE PREMISES OF SOME OF THE REDUNDANT CINEMAS.  TV NEWS COVERAGE ADDED TO PEOPLE’S AWARENESS OF CURRENT AFFAIRS, OFTEN FREEING THEM FROM THE POLITICAL BIASES OF DAILY NEWSPAPERS WHILE TV REDUCED LONELINESS IN ONE PERSON HOUSEHOLDS, AS IT STILL DOES.  

IN THE LATE 40s / EARLY 50s THERE WERE FOUR CONTINUITY ANNOUNCERS ON OUR SCREENS. – MARY MALCOLM, SYLVIA PETERS, MCDONALD HOBLEY AND PETER HAIGH. THEIR JOB WAS TO SMOOTHLY ESCORT VIEWERS FROM ONE PROGRAMME TO THE NEXT AND FILL IN THE GAPS WHEN TECHNICAL OR PRODUCTION PROBLEMS DISRUPTED PROGRAMMES. 

THEY WERE THE FIRST TV CELEBRITIES, ALWAYS IMMACULATELY ATTIRED AND SPEAKING IN POSH, LONDON ACCENTS THAT BECAME KNOWN AS BBC ENGLISH. WHILE MALCOLM AND PETERS ONLY HAD SMALL DRESS ALLOWANCES WITH THE BBC, DEALS WERE STRUCK WITH LONDON FASHION HOUSES AND JEWELLERS WHEREBY THE ANNOUNCERS WERE ABLE TO WEAR THEIR EXPENSIVE WARES WHILE ON AIR. FREE HAIR DRESSING WAS ANOTHER PERK OF THE JOB PAID FOR BY THE BBC IN EXCHANGE FOR THEIR ATTENDANCE AT EVENTS PUBLICISING THE CORPORATION. THEIR MALE COUNTERPARTS, HOBLEY AND HAIGH, WERE EQUALLY RESPLENDENT IN DINNER SUITS AND BOW TIES, NEVER A HAIR OUT OF PLACE

UNBEKNOWN TO MOST PEOPLE IN THE 1950s MARY MALCOLM WAS NOT JUST POSH BUT THE GRAND-DAUGHTER OF EDWARD VII AND LILLY LANGTRY. HER MOTHER, JEANNE-MARIE, WAS THE ONLY ONE OF EDWARD’S ILLEGITIMATE CHILDREN THAT HE PUBLICLY ACKNOWLEDGED. NEVERTHELESS IT WAS LATER CLAIMED THAT JEANNE-MARIE’S FATHER WAS IN FACT PRINCE LOUIS OF BATTENBERG, THE GRANDFATHER OF PRINCE PHILLIP. 

MOST PROGRAMMES WERE BROADCAST LIVE. SUBSEQUENTLY ON-STAGE PROBLEMS ALONG WITH BREAKS IN TRANSMISSION OFTEN BROUGHT PROGRAMMES TO AN ABRUPT HALT. WHEN THIS HAPPENED THE ANNOUNCER’S JOB WAS TO EXPLAIN WHAT WAS HAPPENING AND TO FILL-IN TIME AS BEST THEY COULD. ON ONE OCCASION MALCOLM ADVISED EVERYONE WATCHING TO GO AND MAKE A CUP OF TEA AND SHE WOULD CALL THEM BACK AS AND WHEN SOMETHING HAPPENED. INTERRUPTIONS TO PROGRAMMES COULD SOMETIMES LAST FOR 20 MINUTES OR MORE. TO FILL IN THESE LONGER GAPS A SERIES OF FILMS KNOWN AS INTERLUDES WERE SHOWN UNTIL IT WAS POSSIBLE TO RETURN TO THE SCHEDULED PROGRAMME.  CLEARLY INTENDED TO SOOTH THE FEVERED BROWS OF DISCONTENTED VIEWERS THEY USUALLY SHOWED TRANQUIL SCENES, OFTEN OF COUNTRY LIFE. THERE WAS THE POTTER AT HIS WHEEL CONSTRUCTING A POT, TWO HORSES PLOUGHING A FIELD, A WOMAN AT A SPINNING WHEEL, A WINDMILL TURNING AND KITTENS PLAYING WITH A VARIETY OF PROPS. SOMEWHAT LIVELIER WAS THE LONDON – BRIGHTON TRAIN INTERLUDE SHOWING A SPEEDED-UP FILM OF THE ACTUAL JOURNEY SHOT FROM THE DRIVER’S CABIN. I DON’T RECALL EVER SEEING THE TRAIN ARRIVE BUT OFTEN IT WAS WELL CLEAR OF LONDON BEFORE THE RESUMPTION OF THE SCHEDULED PROGRAMME. 

IN 1955 THE BBC’s MONOPOLY OF TV ENDED WHEN THE GOVERNMENT GAVE THE GREEN LIGHT FOR A SECOND CHANNEL, INDEPENDENT TELEVISION, A PRIVATE SECTOR COMMERCIAL CHANNEL GENERALLY REFERRED TO AS ITV. AS PREVIOUSLY STATED WE CONTINUED FOR A FEW YEARS WITH OUR OLD PYE BEFORE BUYING A  NEW SET THAT SHOWED BOTH CHANNELS. I WAS AN INSTANT FAN OF ITV WHICH FOCUSSED ALMOST ENTIRELY ON POPULAR ENTERTAINMENT, IMPORTING MANY OF ITS PROGRAMMES FROM AMERICA. TO MY GREAT DELIGHT THERE WERE NO END OF COWBOY DRAMAS, PLUS LASSIE, SUPERMAN, AND OTHER ACTION HEROES. IN FAIRNESS TO ITV THEY ALSO MADE OR COMMISSIONED A NUMBER OF HOME GROWN SERIES, SUCH AS ‘THE ADVENTURES OF ROBIN HOOD’, FEATURING RICHARD GREEN IN THE TITLE ROLE ALONG WITH A CAST OF JOLLY OUTLAWS WHO SEEMED TO HAVE BEEN RECRUITED FROM A SQUADRON OF RAF PILOTS. LITTLE JOHN, I RECALL, SPOKE WITH A BROAD SCOTTISH ACCENT WHICH HE MADE NO ATTEMPT TO DISGUISE. ROBERT MOORE GOT A MUCH NEEDED BOOST TO HIS CAREER IN IVANHOE AND ROBERT SHAW BECAME VERY WELL KNOWN FOR HIS PART IN ‘THE BUCCANEERS’. 

GRADUALLY THE DISTINCTION BETWEEN CHILDREN’S PROGRAMMES AND THOSE FOR ADULTS BECAME BLURRED WHEN THE AMERICANS DEVELOPED THE CONCEPT OF ‘ADULT WESTERNS’ WHICH LASTED A FULL HOUR INSTEAD OF THE REGULATION 30 MINUTES. WAGON TRAIN, GUN LAW AND CHEYENNE WERE THREE OF THE MOST POPULAR AMERICAN IMPORTS. ADULT CARTOONS WERE ANOTHER INNOVATION. 

HOWEVER, THE MAIN CHANGE TO PROGRAMMING ON THE NEW CHANNEL WAS THE INTRODUCTION OF COMMERCIAL BREAKS WHICH PRECEDED AND FOLLOWED EACH PROGRAMME AND INTERSECTED THE LONGER ONES. THESE WERE SURPRISINGLY POPULAR AND PREFERRED BY SOME – MAINLY ELDERLY VIEWERS – TO THE ACTUAL PROGRAMMES. WHO CAN FORGET THE NEVER ALONE WITH A STRAND MAN LIGHTING UP HIS CIGARETTE ON A BLEAK, RAIN SWEPT NIGHT IN THE LONDON STREET AFTER WHICH THE CIGARETTE HAD BEEN NAMED. THERE WERE ALSO MURRYMINTS, TOO GOOD TO HURRYMINT, THE SNAP, CRACKLE AND POP OF RICE CRISPIES, THE BROOK BOND TEA CHIMPS AND MANY MORE.

THE ADVERTISING BREAKS BETWEEN PROGRAMMES CLEARLY DEFINED THE ENDING OF ONE PROGRAMME AND THE BEGINNING OF THE NEXT.  THIS ALONG WITH THE INCREASING RELIABILITY OF PROGRAMMES AND TRANSMISSIONS SPELLED THE END FOR CONTINUITY ANNOUNCERS ON BOTH CHANNELS WHO ALMOST ENTIRELY DISAPPEARED FROM PUBLIC VIEW.

ITV, WHILE VERY WELL REGARDED BY MY YOUNG SELF, CAME UNDER HEAVY CRITICISM IN 1962 FROM THE PILKINGTON COMMITTEE FOR ITS LACK OF QUALITY BROADCASTING. CONSEQUENTLY WHEN IT WAS DECIDED TO GO AHEAD WITH A THIRD TV CHANNEL IT WENT TO BBC2. THAT WAS IN 1964. IT WAS THIS CHANNEL THAT BEGAN COLOUR TRANSMISSIONS IN 1967, FOLLOWED, IN 1969, BY ITV AND BBC1 (THE ORIGINAL CHANNEL). 

THE FLEDGLING DAYS OF TELEVISION WERE WELL AND TRULY OVER AND THE BOY IT HAD HELPED NURTURE WAS A YOUNG MAN SIX YEARS OUT OF SCHOOL.                    

Copyright Richard Banks

 ENDORA

by Richard Banks

During her long life Endora has seen many things and met many people, including Elizabeth I and the Duke of Wellington. Since her entry into this world she has ‘been there’, ‘seen it’ and sometimes taken a hand in the making of history. How she yearns to tell everyone what really happened to the Princes in the Tower or the name of the Polish seaman who was Jack the Ripper. These things and many others she knows, but having no proofs to satisfy the demands of academia must keep them to herself.

         During her lifetime witches have become an endangered species. Many have been burnt at the stake while others, in fear of their lives, have consented to become the wives or mistresses of mortal men, and by doing so lose their powers and become human. Not that Endora has ever been tempted to do the same. When danger threatens she hops unnoticed into the warm body of another creature and looks out through its eyes until it is safe to become Endora again. By doing so she has escaped death from insurrection, plague and persecution, often fleeing from danger in the body of a magpie or crow before abandoning this host for the safer refuge of a household pet.

         Through her good judgement she has survived many generations of man and confidently expects to live out her normal span of years which, she thinks, are only half spent. Knowing the location of many lost places she has recently become an archaeologist, establishing a glowing reputation by her unerring ability to rediscover the past. Despite having no formal qualifications for what she does, no one can deny that she knows more about the nation’s history than anyone else in academia. Where and how she has gained this knowledge is a mystery that has become unimportant; clearly she is a genius and geniuses once identified have no need for certificates or diplomas.

         These years of celebrity and history have been the best of her life but to her horror the bedrock of her existence has been shaken by the BBC which has invited her to appear on a popular TV programme dedicated to tracing the family history of well known people. Having already begun their research and drawn a perplexing blank the programme’s researchers have been more than normally curious to find out from Endora the identity of her parents so they can begin to trace the generations before.

         Sensing the closing of a net Endora has once again sought safety in flight. Forgoing the uncertain transport of magpies and crows she has bribed O’Keefe, the owner of a small aircraft, to take her incognito to the northern isle of Stackle Steady which has recently advertised for a school mistress who, when not teaching the island’s children, will have charge of their museum, recently established with lottery money. Here in this remote location beyond the reach of TV she will be safe from discovery and free to write the book that might one day re-establish her celebrity under an assumed name.

           On arrival Endora submits her application in person citing her wealth of knowledge in all the requested areas of learning and many more besides. While the islanders are surprised that someone so well qualified should not have the usual papers confirming their excellence they are nonetheless impressed by the person who purports to be a Professor Smyde. As no one else has applied for the post or is likely to do so they appoint Endora with immediate effect on a modest salary augmented by free accommodation in a croft adjacent to the school house and the loan of Dougie Muir’s cow for milk and butter. Her contract agreed and written into the back of an exercise book Endora takes up her new post, bewitching her sixteen charges on the first day of term so that they forget nothing she tells them and obey her every whim as if they were commands.

         The islanders are duly impressed and congratulate themselves on the success of their selection process; they might be far flung, country folk but they are more than able to cut a good deal when one is needed. However, none of them are entirely convinced that she is who she says she is. Their worse conjecture that she is a desperate criminal on the run from the police becomes less and less likely when no one is murdered and the museum’s donations’ box continues to rattle when shook. The consideration of lesser offences is also inconclusive until the answers they are seeking are discovered in the cargo of the monthly supply boat; there in a batch of back issue magazines is found a photograph of their teacher and the story of her unexplained disappearance.

         Mystery solved the islanders are as one in deciding that if Endora wants to be known by some other name that’s OK with them. The mainland folk are a strange lot to be sure and the Prof – as they call her – is no doubt better off with them. So life goes on much as before except that the crops grow larger and the fish in the sea never fail to fill the nets of the island’s fishermen. And all this, they note, had happened since the arrival of their teacher; what a good luck charm she is!

         But as the Feast of the Renewal draws near they are by no means certain what role Endora should play. Had she not become a valued addition to their ranks her role in that ritual would have been an obvious one. Already plump on arrival the constant invitations to lunch or dinner have since added an extra band of fat around her middle and her breath now smells sweetly of the cherry brandy that is their cottage industry. Expertly roasted she will make the Renewal a very tasty affair indeed. But then, do they really want to lose the person who has made their children so clever and brought them so much good fortune? Surely these are signs from the island’s deities that she should be spared and become one of them. Reasoning that actions rather than words is the best way forward Mr McTavish, the Chief Clerk, who is also the islanders’ Grand Master, invites Endora to join him and his good wife on the beach for a barbecue at which he has decreed that the entire population of the island appear unannounced from behind a sand dune in a state of unclad revelation he hopes will be appealing to their intended convert.

         Endora has seen many initiation ceremonies and, once she gets over her surprise at the unexpected arrival of the islanders, is not unduly perturbed to find herself fully exposed to the chill sea wind and daubed with the same blue colouring they have applied to themselves. This, she realises, is a joyous occasion, an expression of affection and acceptance into the inner sanctum of their community. It is not until she sees Mr McTavish advancing towards her, his lance at the ready and in advance of his unusually flushed face, that she realises that seven hundred years of witchery are within moments of ending. Never has a spell been uttered so quickly, and having frozen the island in time and motion she detaches herself from restraining hands and retreats to her croft where she releases the islanders from the game of statues she has obliged them to play.

         She wonders what next to do until it occurs to her that she and the islanders both have secrets they would rather not divulge. If she wants to stay on the island – which she does - it is cards on table time. Summoning the town moot by the sounding of the community gong she confesses to what she is and they, thinking she understands more than she does, let slip more than they need to. Confronted with a secret every bit the equal of her own she loses no time in pledging her silence in exchange for theirs. Indeed she quickly realises they can be of mutual assistance. If the islanders keep her supplied with the large number of frogs and toads needed for her spells she will ensure that a sufficient supply of tasty mortals visit them each year. There are, she observes, far too many of them in the outside world, tasty or otherwise, and few serve any useful purpose.

         More than that - far more than that! - they have been responsible for the deaths of many thousands of her kind, including her aunt Alveira who - had she not been drowned in a ducking stool - would now be within a decade of her treble 0 birthday. Suddenly the sacrifice of a few dozen humans to satisfy the infrequent rituals of the islanders is not enough. This, she realises, could be the turning of the tide, an all conquering alliance of witchery and cannibalism that over the course of the millennium will relegate the rest of mankind to the farmyard where its sole function will be to fill supermarket shelves.

         It is no more than they deserve! Never again will they make war and pollute the atmosphere. Never again will they decimate habitats and the animals that dwell in them; for the first time they will become givers, not takers. The islanders will do better, far better, of that she is sure. At present they have no ambition beyond the farming of their crofts but this she will change. As their teacher she will reveal to them their destiny and stiffen their resolve for the task ahead by witchery spells that will take root in their DNA and strengthen with every passing generation. 

                                               *****

         Thirty years on Endora has begun the history of her chosen people. She writes it in advance of the facts but knows that every word will come to pass. With more than enough to eat and drink the birth rate of the island has rapidly increased necessitating the migration of surplus population onto the mainland where they farm the land of those they honour by the eating of their flesh. The newcomers dominate local government and law enforcement while subtly controlling social media. When bad things are discovered it is others who get the blame.

         Endora’s most gifted pupils are now in London where they have become indispensable to Government, while ensuring that mankind is blind, deaf and dumb to the march of the new order. By the end of the century Britain will be theirs and the crossing of the Dover Straits will mark a new period of expansion. Nothing will prevent the islanders' domination of each and every landmass – it is only a matter of time and arithmetic.

         For the moment Endora has stayed her pen. What follows will be complex requiring much thought but she is determined that the final triumph of the island people will be accomplished within her lifetime. They will cleanse the world of its poisons, a single united people living in peace and harmony. They will be a new people for a new age... 

Copyright Richard Banks   

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