WRITE ME A LOVE STORY Ch 3

WRITE ME A LOVE STORY

By Janet Baldey

CHAPTER 3 

For a few weeks after Frank left, I ignored market day.  In the past, it had been a regular weekly event and the sale of our produce had made all the difference to our finances, but following his departure, I hid myself away like a wounded animal.  Fully aware I’d be the centre of attention as an abandoned wife, I dreaded the thought of the pitying looks and pointing fingers.   It took a curt letter from the Bank to twist my arm.   The farm was now running on credit and I needed every penny I could raise. Reluctantly, I realised the time had come for me to hold my head high and face out the stares and whispers.

Perversely, once I had made this decision, I began to look forward to it.  Market day had always been an opportunity to catch up on gossip, and recently there'd been little chance of that.  Apart from the occasional tradesman, I’d seen no-one except Sarah.   Sarah was my best and oldest friend and although she lived over five miles away, she’d made the trek across the soft and rolling hills as soon as she’d heard the news.  

After my tears had dried, we sat looking at each other while the steam from a freshly boiled kettle filled my tiny kitchen.

‘What you need.’  Sarah said.   ‘Is a dog to keep you company.’

I shook my head.  I’d had a dog once.  Sandy, a collie cross.   Sandy was elderly when we first leased the farm and, by degrees, grew more arthritic until some days she could barely stumble outside to do her business.   One evening Frank took her for a walk, a gun by his side.   When he returned he was on his own.

‘It was the kindest thing,’ he’d said.

I remember staring at him, at first too shocked to react.  Then my fists clenched and I started screaming at him.

‘How could you have done that?  I never even said goodbye!’

Frank shrugged.

‘Her life was becoming a misery and if you’d had your way it would have dragged on and on.’

 I’d sank into a chair, my hands covering my face. At last I looked up and saw Frank hovering in the doorway, his face was half defiant, half sheepish and he wouldn’t look at me.   Maybe he thought he was doing the right thing and during the next few days, I decided he might have been right, but even so it had taken a long time for me to forgive him.  From then on I’d vowed that no other dog would take Sandy’s place.

* * *

As I laid out my wares on the trestle table, I realised how pathetic they looked.   There were eggs, potatoes and beets but I hadn’t had time to make any butter or cheese.  At the last moment, I’d raided my store cupboard and added some bottled fruit and jam.  After all, with Frank gone I wouldn’t need so much.   I remembered how much he had loved my home-made preserves and my heart twisted.

By now, the other stallholders were arriving.   As soon as they saw me, they stopped what they were doing and came over.   Soon I was surrounded by a crowd of women and warm words washed over me like a softly lapping tide.

‘I heard my dear…silly bugger.’

‘These men…’  

‘Fools they are…’. 

‘What they won’t do for a bit of glory…’

As they spoke, they comforted me, put their arms about me, patted me and stroked my hair. 

Up until then I’d kept my emotions under control but their kindness was too much.   My eyes began to fill and desperately I looked around, blinking furiously.   Then I saw Sarah and Sarah understood, as I knew she would.

Winking, she made a clacking gesture with her hands and lifted her eyes to Heaven.   Putting her fingers in her mouth, she whistled and the shrill sound cut through the hubbub.

‘Come on ladies.   Give the girl a rest; we’ve got customers to fleece.’  

Chuckling, the women began to move away.   But they hadn’t done with me yet.   One by one they returned, each bearing a gift, a round ripe cheese, tomatoes, runner beans, watercress, a trussed chicken.   Brushing away my thanks, they piled their offerings onto my table before returning to their stalls.

Overwhelmed, I stood looking around from out of blurred eyes.  Suddenly, a ray of sun broke through the clouds and the figures moving slowly around the square were picked out in gold and my spirits soared.  I’d forgotten how kind people could be.  None of them was rich, all worked hard but they’d given willingly and somewhere deep inside me a tiny ember ignited and warmth coursed through me as I realised that, in this ancient place, similar small acts of kindness must have taken place all through the centuries. I crossed my fingers, praying that it would always be so.

As if denying my prayer, a deafening roar shattered the sky and faces, aged by shock, swung towards the East.   Flying low over the horizon was a huge plane, hedge-hopping across the fields, its wings skimming the trees as it chased its own shadow.   As it drew nearer, its Luftwaffe crosses were clearly visible.

Hands were clapped to ears and panicked voices screamed out from the crowd.

‘It’s a bloody Heinkel!’

‘It’ll blow us to smithereens!’

Everyone had heard horror stories of Nazi bombers jettisoning unexploded bombs to speed their way across the channel, especially if they were being chased by British fighters.

Suddenly, a shrill screech pierced the air.   Mad Meg was standing, her scrawny arms outstretched towards the sky, her fingers hooked into claws.   Spittle flying from her lips, she howled abuse at the bomber, her greasy hair whirling about her head.

A silent tableau of villagers stood around the raving woman watching the plane’s progress.  As their eyes swivelled, the monster disappeared into the murk and as the rent in the clouds sealed over the dull beat of its engines faded into the distance.

‘Good for you, Meggie.   You saw ‘im off.’  A voice roared ebullient with relief.

Immediately, a gale of laughter erupted as people slipped back into their lives and went about their business.

* * *

My unsold wares packed up ready to go; I was having a last word with Sarah when I felt a hand brush my shoulder.   It was Becca, Joe Smith’s wife.   As usual, she had a grubby toddler in tow; the child ducked behind its mother peeping out at us from time to time, twin canals of slime oozing from its nose.  Once more, Becca’s skirt was stretched tight over her belly.   Long ago I’d lost count of the number of children swarming through the dilapidated farmhouse the Smiths called home.

‘Joe asked me to remind you that you got Prince booked the second week in September.’   

I gasped.   With all that had been going on, it had completely slipped my mind.   Second week in September!  That was just over five weeks time.    Round as an apple and kind as a Christian, Prince’s chestnut bulk was a familiar sight in the fields.  Most of the small farmers used Joe’s horse.   It worked to everyone’s advantage.  Hiring a heavy horse was cheaper than owning one and Joe made a tidy bit of money without lifting much more than a finger.

‘Have you ever worked with a carthorse afore?’

I shook my head.   That had always been Frank’s job.   I could deal with Barley, but the thought of turning a collar over Prince’s huge, restless head worried me more than I liked to admit.

I stared into her wet, black eyes. As usual, they were inscrutable.  Once Frank had almost bought a mare with eyes like that.   An old horseman friend of ours had advised against it.  

‘Somewhere along the line, that mare’s been marked,’ he’d said.   ‘Never trust an animal with eyes like that.’  

   ‘Daresay Joe’ll help.’  Becca’s gaze slid over my face.  ‘It’ll be an extra mind.’

When she’d gone, Sarah looked at me.

‘What are you going to do?’ she asked.

         ‘If I know Joe, he won’t be able to drag himself away from the pub.’  I said, forcing my lips into a smile.

         Sarah’s eyes darkened.   ‘Oh yes he will.’   She bent towards me, her eyes were intense.

         ‘Just you take very great care.   You hear me?’

Copyright Janet Baldey

RIVER VIEW

RIVER VIEW

By Peter Woodgate

On the little wooden bridge that spans the river

I used to sit with bread, and net, and jar.

The fish I caught were small, just sticklebacks

but in my world I really didn’t care.

Of course, I had some disappointments,

days when I was out of luck,

I then would turn my thoughts, to other things

and use the bread to feed a coot or duck.

The river, then, was peaceful, as it flowed

through banks of willow herb and celandine,

and as I sat there in those halcyon days

the sun shone endlessly upon the scene.

I visit still that little bridge that stands

defiantly against “old times” decay,

my eyes will keenly seek, those visions of the past

But focus only on scenes of dismay.

For looking back at that, which I perceived,

as pleasing, despite my youthful folly,

it was much better then than what is now on view,

a bicycle wheel and supermarket trolley.

Copyright Peter Woodgate

Romany Galactica ~ Part 3 of 4

Romany Galactica ~ Part 3 of 4

By Len Morgan

 The airlock opened and in came Anju flanked by three security officers.  She gazed about, tap tap tapping a pair of synth-leather gloves against her left palm.   Short jet black hair framed her face, accentuating her flawless complexion.   Focusing his eyes on full red lips and narrow aquiline nose Sonny thought, God she’s beautiful.

“Snap out of it Sonny!   Don’t think with your dick, that’s what she’s counting on.”

“We have a warrant to search this vessel and its cargo.”

“Search away,” he said.

“I must caution you not to leave this planet without my authorization.   If you do so, your ship will be destroyed."

 “Be serious Anju, we’re in the middle of a refit or hadn’t you noticed we’re missing our primary drive?” he grinned at her.

“My name is Commander Drax, you can call me Commander,” her voice was cold and impersonal.

“Anju—”  She slapped him across the face with her gloves. 

“Throw them down and I’ll slap you back if it’s a duel you want,” he wasn’t smiling now. 

“Out of my way,” she commanded, heading for the comms pod as if he didn’t exist.

“If you find anything I’ll be in my cabin,” he said.

“I want to check the CM cubes you purchased, where are they?”

“Try the cargo hold,” he said opening the cabin door.

“Locker seven,”   an unemotional mechanical voice said.   It was the basic computer voice that came as standard with the ship, Sonny hadn’t heard it in an age; that wasn't a good sign.

Anju nodded towards her assistants, go get them, bring them here and check those synths while you're down there.”    She sat the life-sign indicator unit down beside the console.

Sonny closed the cabin door, settled on his single bunk and clicked his fingers twice to extinguish the lights.

.-...-.

The door burst open.   He shook his head and clicked his fingers, “Shit.”   The lights came on and he realized he didn’t have, a hangover, “Bloody Anju,” It took seeing her again, in her true light, to purge him of her once and for all.

“Outside!” said the deadpan officer.  "Commander wants to see you.”

“Remember, I’m the captain of this ship, and according to Inter-Galactic law, I’m in charge here.  This is piracy!”

“Out!”   He was dragged from his bunk and pushed roughly towards the door.

“Say please, and show some respect, you toad,” he turned to make eye contact and was slapped across the face.  “You’ll regret that,” he said.

“Outside!”

“You’re not from the 'gentle persuasion school' then?”  The man’s face remained impassive, he didn’t reply.

“This ship is ‘New Chicago’ territory and your intrusion is an act of war.”

“Shut up Bono.   It was you who let us in and as far as I’m concerned you are a smuggler.   I’m impounding this vessel.   When we find your contraband this ship will be dismantled and sold for scrap.   You will become a permanent guest in solitary confinement and I will take pleasure in breaking you very slowly.  You’ll be old and grey when you get out, no upgrades for you, Bono—“

 He clapped his hands, “Big speech, Drax.”

“Commander!”    She reminded him.

“And, it’s Captain Bono to you!” He said.  "Let me remind you, there are a few tales I could tell that would shake the foundations of your cosy little world.”

“Blackmail Bono?”

“Gentle reminder Drax,” he whispered.

She laughed.  It took all his willpower not to take her into his arms.   He could do it, but he would be the loser.

“I’m here Sonny, lean on me,” Sher's voice in his mind.

Support, he thought.

“Amigo’s,” she replied, “Watch, this should be good.”

He watched as Anju pressed the spot behind her left ear to answer a personal com-con call.   Her face paled, her lips tightened.  She shook her head in pique, becoming agitated and unable to contain her anger.  She turned away from him and for a while stood motionless.  Her underlings swapped questioning glances. She turned to face them.  

“It appears captain, that your cargo is in order and you will be taking on a diplomatic passenger for your onward journey.”

“Well thank you, Commander.  As soon as you have returned my cargo to the hold you’re free to leave.”

“Listen, you unctuous little shite!   If I hadn’t been warned off, by my superior officer I would kick your useless butt all over this ship.”  She grabbed the life-sign test monitor she’d been using on the CM crystals and turned to leave.  It beeped.   She looked in the direction the scope was pointing—‘Nav-con’.   “What’s this then?”

“That will be my Companion.   She’s here to maintain my sanity on long haul journeys...”

“Ah, she wasn’t very successful was she?”

“At least I was sane, to begin with, Drax.”

She laughed, “Who told you that?”   She removed the CM from its housing.   “Does--She--have a name?”

“She came with the ship, could say she's the spirit of this ship; her name is Cher.”

“Her life is pretty tenuous at this moment Bono,” Anju began to throw the cube into the air and catch it, higher, and higher until it hit the ceiling. 

“Careful!” He said.

 “Ah!   Look what you made me do,” she stepped back, allowing her eyes to follow its flight to the ground.

He dove full length to catch it but he was too late.   It bounced a foot into the air landing at her feet. 

“He tried to attack me, restrain him!” Anju yelled.   He was dragged to his feet, he struggled right up to the moment they put the cuffs on him.  “Take him to a holding cell I’ll follow in a while.   Oh, S o n n y...”   He looked back to see her foot poised above the CM cube.

“No!” he yelled.   His words were drowned by the crunch of the cube under her foot.  

She spread the pieces with the toe of her jack-boot.  “Oops,” she smiled at him.

“You evil venomous bitch!   She never did any harm to you, she was alive and you’ve murdered her.   I’ll see you pay for that if it’s the last thing I do!”

“Tears, for your widdle plastic toy, Sonny-boy?”  She smiled in triumph.   “Take him away.”

Copyright Len Morgan

To be continued/...

Flamingo Podnyalsya Ch 2

Flamingo Podnyalsya

Chapter 2

By Phil Miller

It was dark, cold and wet. No night to be wandering around the streets of London looking for his usual game. Pepe Brown sat in his soft worn leather wing-backed chair and stared into the soft flickering fire in his small cosy 2-bed town cottage. His face was flush and he sat relaxed as he supped from his large Stolichnaya Elit vodka bottle, compliments of Colonel Yassarevitch.

He sat for an hour before reaching forward and grabbing the poker to nudge the coals around, causing the flames to dance higher. He had always been fascinated by fire. This is how I will go he thought to himself, up in flames, like the Phoenix.  His eyes began to well up. He moved closer to the fire until his face almost glowed with the heat. Tears rolled down his face.

“Burn! Just fucking burn me,” he whimpered, before spitting a mouth full of vodka into the fireplace, causing the flames to lick up around the mantle as it searched for a way out. He threw the glass hard against the brick surround and yelped as a shard caught him in the face. He spat onto the floor and kicked over a nest of tables, swearing in Russian as he did so. Eventually, after emptying the bottle and falling to his knees on the hardwood floor, he slept. Very rarely did he sleep in bed; the chair or the floor, it didn’t matter, as long as he was out of it.

In the Russian Embassy in Dublin Ireland, sat Colonel Peter Yassarevitch  with two other men, Captain Kaspersky and Donyevsky;  special agents of the Federal Security Service.  They were discussing the next part of their operation to eliminate the radicals of the Okhrana when a young guard entered with a small sealed box and placed it on the table in front of Yassarevitch before saluting. The Colonel offered the item to Kaspersky who immediately began to open it. The guard did an about-turn and left.  Inside the box was a zipped bag. He peered inside and his first reflex was to pull back. Yassarevitch laughed out loud. After steadying himself, the Captain took a deep breath, reached in and pulled out the contents to lay upon the highly polished 17^th century walnut table.

“Well! It certainly looks like they had fun with him,” smiled the Colonel. “ You see the two toes missing from each foot and half the thumb missing from the left hand, hmm! He lost those in an archaeological dig in Northeast Siberia in the ’70s. His comrade, Mr Micheal Pitulko, another leading archaeologist from our wonderful Russian Academy of Sciences was not so lucky. He is still out there somewhere. Maybe someone will dig him up one day, eh! This is definitely Ruberov.  Fucking Pig!.” The Colonel stood up and walked over to the drinks cabinet and poured himself another Vodka.

“ Colonel, what is this?,” said Kaspersky as he prodded what looked like a piece of dried up fleshy pigskin. “Hmph!” shrugged Yasserevitch. “just another piece of my old friend I think.

“Who knows!  What matters is that an enemy of the Motherland is dead, that’s good. The British Government will probably keep the death of Ruberov under wraps for now. Don’t you just love the British sense of diplomacy and fair play? You are both going to London,” said the Colonel with a wry smile as he slid two files across the table. “Dismissed.”

Both officers knew what happened to the agents who screwed up the Novichok operation in a small cathedral town in southern England. Neither wanted to befall the same fate. Siberia was not the place to be at any time of year, especially on the wrong side of Yassaravitch.

BA flight 44062 was a relatively short flight at 1 hour 20 but it felt like a lifetime to Peter Donyevsky. After loyally serving nearly forty years in the Army, twelve of them in the KGB, he felt it was time to make a move;  freedom. During the flight, Micheal Kaspersky had not stopped talking. He talked about everything. About the op’s he had been on; the motherland; women he had played; men he had destroyed; his want for a higher ranking than Captain; the Colonel’s job; keep talking you fool, talk yourself into the grave he thought to himself. He knew Kaspersky very well. My time will come he thought. Peter had not engaged with Kaspersky throughout the entire journey. He just sat, listened and watched as the vodka’s slid down his comrade’s throat.

“ Why don’t you lighten up,” slurred Micheal, “have a drink,” he said as he clicked his fingers at the flight attendant.

Peter just stared straight ahead;  no acknowledgement, no reply.

“Oh! I forgot, you don’t  drink do you, pussy! “ he spluttered at Peter, nudging his arm hard with his elbow.

Still no response from Peter but a lot going through his mind. One day. One day I’ll have you. No way you’re going back alive, or I won’t!

“What’s up? What’s wrong?  I know! You’re not getting any snatch, are you? Don’t worry comrade. when we get to London I’ll sort some nice local sluts for us. Nice young sluts ay! Compliments of the Federation,” he whispered while putting his index finger to his lips, “shh, I won’t tell if you won’t.” He smacked Donyevsky hard on the knee which jolted him back to the here and now just as the sign lit up above their heads and the Captain began his landing speech. Peter was good at shutting down mentally. He was ex KGB, the best. Donyevsky slowly turned to Kaspersky and in his usual stoic manner pointed to the lit sign and said, “Belt up comrade, we are landing.”  Micheal Kaspersky belched, muttered a few insults under his breath and stared out the window at the perfectly quilted landscape that was England.

As soon as they were able to alight and collect their cases both men headed for Alexander House, a quaint but plush hotel 5 miles from the airport. They had separate rooms and after a relaxing shower, Kaspersky decided to call room service.

“Good afternoon, could I have Club Sandwich, some espresso and a bottle of your house vodka please.”

“Certainly Sir, Room 192, it will be approximately 15 minutes, thank you. Will there be anything else Sir?”

“Could you also send some to my business partner in room 194 with my compliments.  No, wait. Send him a bottle of pink champagne instead of vodka,” he laughed.

“ Sorry Sir, Mr Donyevsky  has checked out”

“What! When?”

“Erm, let me see. Ah!, he left at  12.32 Sir. Do you still require the Club sandw….”

He slammed down the hotel phone and searched frantically for his mobile, knocking his toes against the bed leg and cursing out loud, “bastard, fucking bastard,” before finding it on the floor by the small set of drawers at the side of his bed. There was also a note. He opened it and his eyes widened.  His mouth went dry as the realization hit home. He hit speed dial but then cut off almost immediately before wiping the shaving cream from his face, then dressed. As he left his room his phone rang.

“Don’t look for me Kas”

“If you think you can just disappear then you are making a big mistake my friend”

“I’m not making a mistake and I’m not your fucking friend you shit. If you come for me then you will go back to your secret penthouse apartment in a box. That’s right comrade, I know all about your little gem along the Kotelnicheskaya embankment. I don’t even think the Colonel could afford to live there.”

“ You’re a fool if you think we can’t track you, you are a dead man Donyevsky.”

“ We all die Kas, I just choose to live before I do.” He dropped the phone down a storm drain at his feet and hailed a black cab.

Copyright By Phil Miller

The Christmas Party.

The Christmas Party.

By Sis Unsworth

The Christmas party I recall, way back through the years,

 Started with a knees-up, laughter, and some tears,

It was early Christmas eve that the family did arrive,

There was Mary Joe and Uncle Sid, who came with his mate Clive,

My cousins all in Sunday best stood around the Christmas tree,

Then sang by the piano, the beer it did run free.

We children played our Christmas games, the adults all drank more, 
No one noticed uncle Joe had passed out on the floor,

Then Sid's mate Clive and Mary were gone for quite a while,

They came back sometime later, Clive had a sheepish smile.

Uncle Joe still on the floor knew nothing of the talk,

ln fact we all avoided him, as we did the Lambeth Walk.

To our delight at 9 o'clock we saw that it was snowing,

The adults took no stock of this as the beer was still flowing,

The snow had settled all around when it was time for bed,

We children noticed footprints leading to the shed.

Clive and Auntie Mary were nowhere to been seen,

And old drunken Uncle Joe had turned a shade of green.

No one thought it strange, as far as I remember,

When Mary had a baby the following September,

But what I couldn't understand, and never could derive,

How a baby that was uncle Joe's, looked just like Sid's mate Clive.

Copyright Sis Unsworth

WRITE ME A LOVE STORY Ch 2

WRITE ME A LOVE STORY

By Janet Baldey

CHAPTER TWO        

The day he left, I forced myself to give him a peck on the cheek and then turned and bolted upstairs.  From out of the bedroom window I watched as Frank marched down the hill and out of my life, without once looking back.   How could he have done that when once we’d been so close?   It was then that I broke down and sobbed until my pillow was soaked as I realised that, slowly and with stealth, he’d turned into a different person.

         The next day it seemed as though summer was over.  During the night the wind had veered northerly and when I woke, it was blowing a gale that ripped the still green leaves off the trees.  Fallen apples lay in drifts, like blood amongst the grass.   Most of them would be bruised and only be fit for pigswill but perhaps if I were quick I could save some.  As I opened the door, I heard the cows bellowing.  I’d forgotten the clock but they hadn’t, it was past milking time and their udders were swollen.  I put down the bucket:  the apples would have to wait.

  Leaving the farmhouse, a fine mist settled on my face.  The wind had dropped and a thick layer of cloud drifted towards the ground veiling the surrounding hills.  As I crossed the yard the drizzle changed to a downpour that drenched the manure spattered yard and turned it into a stinking sea of mud.  Listening to the rain drumming against the roof, I walked through the milking shed and pulled open the heavy doors on the far side, letting in the cows that were already jostling for position, their big brown eyes filmy with longing.  

When we’d first started to farm, large herds of Red Devons already grazed the surrounding hills so Frank had opted for Guernseys, delicate animals with pretty metallic grey-blue markings, saying, ‘we can’t compete with the big boys. They’ve cornered the market.  We’ll go for quality.’   

We had six now, all named after flowers, Daisy, Bluebell, Rose, Pansy, Cowslip and Clover.  Their yield wasn’t high but it was ideal for butter, cream and cheese.   One by one, I herded them into the barn and tied them to rings set in the walls before pouring a generous quantity of maize and sugar beet nuts into a manger. As the cows bent their heads and began to munch, I pulled a three-legged stool towards me and turned to the first in line, reaching underneath for her teats.   Squeezing and pulling, I sat listening to the sound of the creamy milk squirting into the bucket, staring at the raindrops sliding down the windows.   It was still pouring with rain when I’d finished and within minutes I was soaked as I walked the heavy churns out into the yard before wrestling them onto the flat bedded float.   Although I’d often watched Frank do this, I hadn’t realised how much effort it took and was exhausted by the time I’d finished.   Breathing heavily, I stopped for a moment, then, wiping my rain-soaked face with a wet hand, trudged through the mire to the stable where Barley, our sturdy little cob, was waiting.   As soon as she saw me, Barley’s ears pricked and her soft muzzle reached forward and nudged my hand, searching for her usual morning apple, cut into half.    I ran my fingers through the coarse hair of her mane, the heat of her body warming my hands.   Then, with a brisk slap on her rump, once more I braved the deluge and led the pony into the yard to shut her into the float.   Scrambling aboard and taking up the reins, I suddenly realised from now on this would be my regular morning and evening ritual, day in day out, rain or shine, with no time off for good behaviour.   Tears diluted by the rain, slid down my face as I sat hunched up against the weather, listening to the muffled sound of Barley’s hooves struggling through the soggy ground as she plodded down the hill towards the morning milk train.

Once back home, I stood shivering in the hallway stripping off my dripping clothes.   I caught a sudden glimpse of my face in the hall mirror; dark hair plastered to my head, I was as pale as a celluloid doll.   I turned away my eyes staring into nothing as I slotted together the rest of the day.    There’d be no time for breakfast.  My first job would be to sluice down the milking shed, then I had to feed and muck out the animals, before starting on the one thousand and one other jobs the farm demanded.  That night even my screaming muscles couldn’t stop me from plummeting into a deep pit, where all thoughts of cows, pigs and waterlogged fields were snuffed out by the spiralling darkness.

From then on my body fought a losing battle against fatigue.   Often I went to bed hungry, too tired to eat.   Even when Frank had been around, running the smallholding had been hard.  He’d done most of the heavy work while I’d looked after the cows, milking them twice a day and churning any left-over milk into cream, butter and cheese to take to market.    I also took care of the books.   Each evening I would sit down at the kitchen table, switch on the radio and begin the job of smoothing and deciphering the crumpled bits of paper that had spent the day in Frank’s pockets.   Soothed by the music and flickering firelight, I’d blank out the chaos of the outside world, comforted by the sight of my cosy kitchen, neatly kept ledger and pile of spiked bills.   When I looked back, those evenings seem idyllic.  Without Frank, my work suddenly doubled.   I became whip-thin and had to punch new holes in the leather belt that held up my slacks.  By the time night came, I was exhausted and went to bed as soon as it got dark, not bothering to draw the curtains.  And all the time an accumulation of bills hid the table and the spike stood empty.

But it wasn’t just the bone draining weariness that sapped my spirits.  Against my will, I pined for Frank.   Both of us were strong-willed and over the years we’d had our differences but in spite of that I missed the feeling that we were two fused into one, soul mates tuned into each others’ dreams.   I missed the shared glances when in company and the warm bulk of him in bed beside me.    In the evenings when darkness drowned the fields and the night wind rustled the leaves, I would sit in his chair and burrow my head into its worn fabric, searching for a trace of him.  

Copyright Janet Baldey 

Game gone wrong

GAME GONE WRONG                         

By Richard Banks

It should have been the best booze-up ever and on the Friday before the wedding we were determined to give John a send-off that, alcohol permitting, he would remember for the rest of his life.

         There were four of us, the Fab Four we called ourselves. Before that it had been the Three Musketeers, then Paul joined us at Salfleet Comprehensive, halfway through the second year. As no one knew much about the Musketeers our transition to the Fab Four was definitely an improvement, especially as we already had a John, and Joey’s second name was George. All we needed was a Ringo but short of me changing my name by deed poll there was no way that was going to happen; nevertheless, I did the next best thing and acquired a signet ring from Ratner's that cost me most of the cash I earned from my Saturday job at Woolworths.

         As mates went, we were the best, the closest, and nothing and no one was going to come between us. Did we believe that after the break-up of the Beatles? Probably not. By then we had left school and were a year or two into our first jobs. We were still pretty naive but the reality was beginning to take root; if Yoko Ono could tear apart the greatest rock band in history it was only a matter of time before some other Yoko did the same to us.

         Cynthia Parker was the first to try. To give her her due she was a better-looking bird than Yoko but when she suggested to Joey that they go to the cinema one Saturday instead of to the football he at last, came to his senses and brought a season ticket. After Cynthia there was Debby whose attraction disappeared the day she covered her long legs with a maxi skirt and Paul’s attention shifted to a face he didn’t much like. Then there was Rose who smelled of Woodbines and Bridget whose mad brother threatened to duff up John for some indiscretion committed in the back row of the Rialto. By the time temptation came to me I was well warned and when Sonya made me buy her a vodka and Pernod in the august surroundings of the country club I cut my losses and abandoned her mid-date for the public bar of the Nags Head.

         Having repelled the initial onslaught we closed ranks and dedicated our lives to football and the excessive consumption of alcohol. While we did not explicitly exclude women from our midst only those who passed the six-pint test and supported the Rovers had any chance with us. But of course, there is always someone who won’t abide by the rules and on a fateful day in April when the Rovers were relegated to Division Four, our very own Yoko arrived in the person of Tamsin.

         Having set her sights on John – who else – she took advantage of his despair by convincing him that a better life was to be had in the town’s shopping mall and the Arts Club coffee bar. When he was seen in the High Street wearing a cravat we knew he was lost forever and that nothing short of an exorcism was going to bring him back to us. Three months later he was engaged and six after that an envelope dropped through my letterbox containing an invitation to the wedding. In truth I was surprised to be sent one but when I met up with Joey and Paul and found that they also had been invited we resolved, as previously stated, to give John a stag night second to none.

         Tamsin was bound to try and stop us but when we put it to John he needed little persuading. Indeed in his confused, besotted state of mind, the stag night took on a significance almost equal to that of the wedding, a rite of passage comparable to the condemned prisoner’s last meal. Quite what he said about this to Tamsin I don’t know. What she said to him was audible to everyone within a half-mile radius and John was dismissed from her presence with an ultimatum that it was either her or us. As John wasn’t planning on marrying any of us he couldn’t quite see what the problem was but on surmising that it might have something to do with Tamsin’s aversion to pubs, beer and drunkenness he reopened negotiations by promising to drink no more than six pints and to be in his bed by half-past eleven. When Tamsin added the proviso that her brother Crispin come along, a deal was struck that gave the go-ahead for both stag do and wedding.

        

         So, we make a plan and on the night itself the four of us, plus Crispin, meet up at the Nags and commence operations with a pint of bitter and a whisky chaser. Crispin pulls out a notebook and when we ask him what he’s up to he says that he’s counting John’s drinks which he says are two and that he’s only allowed another four. This we tell him is not so because John’s agreement with Tamsin only refers to pints so therefore spirits don’t count. This he says isn’t fair but next round we lace the half-pint he’s drinking with a double Grappa and his conception of fair is lost in a confusion of brain that defeats his ability to stay upright. We leave him face down on the sawdust floor of the Nags and move on to the George when the stripper-gram we ordered arrives in the character of Little Bo Beep who having previously lost her sheep compounds her misfortune by losing her crook and everything she is wearing. The landlady’s none too amused and tells us to leave, which we were going to do anyway, so we pile into Paul’s car and drive out to the Wheatsheaf which is in the country and keeps open to three or four in the morning. When we tell John this he reminds us, somewhat pathetically, that he’s supposed to be home by 11.30 and we assure him that by 11.30 the next morning he will be.

         At 4am we stagger out and John thanks us for the best night out he’s ever had, but it’s not over yet and halfway back to town we stop the car, strip him down to his boxers and leave him to walk the four miles back to town. However, we’re only kidding so half a mile on we pull over to the side of the road and wait for him to catch up. When he doesn’t, we drive back. We find him lying face down, battered lifeless by the car that hit him.

         It isn’t our fault we tell ourselves but Tamsin doesn’t see it that way. To her, we are as guilty as the hit and run driver that scythed him down. Other people think the same, and deep down so do we. Paul takes it worse than any of us and a month later his body is found at the bottom of a cliff only a hundred yards from where John died. It was no accident, but the Coroner takes pity on John’s mother and returns the open verdict that triggers payment of the assurance policy she took out on him when he first started school.

         The stupid, sunshine days of our youth had turned tonight. We were cursed. When Joey stumbled off a crowded platform in front of an incoming train it was clear that I would be the next to die. It’s fate. There’s nothing to be done but seek the absolution that only one person can provide.

         And so it was that I went unannounced to Tamsin’s flat to say sorry and throw myself on her mercy. I feared she would slam the door in my face but she allows me in and lets me rattle on with my wild talk of fate and punishment. And as I talk her face reveals the emotion welling up inside. There is, she snaps, no such thing as fate, only the helping hands of those who see what must be done and make it happen. Her hands, not fate had pushed Paul and Joey to their deaths; her hands had sent them to a place she hoped was hell.

         She gets up from the settee where she had been sitting and walks resolutely to the kitchen. I should be running but by the time she returns I am no more than on my feet and turning for the door. I didn’t see the knife that sliced me, that sent me crashing to my knees but as I reach out for the handle the door opens as if my thoughts had made it happen. A woman screams, a man roars and a blow is struck that sends Tamsin thudding to the floor. I am safe; saved by the arrival of Tamsin’s flatmate and her boyfriend.

         But life can never be the same. My body heals, but fear still rules, and so does guilt. Familiar sights and faces only make it worse. I cut and run to a job and lodgings far from home and the asylum where Tamsin still plots my death. Her life, like mine, is a game gone wrong, no length of time will make it right.

Copyright Richard Banks