Charlies Boys.

Charlies Boys.

By Len Morgan

  John Bullock was the school worst bully, he was also a coward.  He only ever picked on boys who didn’t fight back.  So, when Mr East entered Form 4a and said “Fox, Bullock, head’s study, now!”  I got a sinking feeling in my stomach.

 “Mrs Jones has reported seeing one of you two boys bullying Andrew Burns, at first break, but can’t be sure which of you it was.  I don’t like bullies, and I won’t tolerate bullying in my school.  Do you understand?”

“Yes sir,” said Bullock.

"Yes sir,” said I.  Our ‘copper knobs’ bobbing in unison.

"If either of you are caught bullying, you will receive..." he picked up and flexed his cane lovingly, "six of the best!  Now get back to your class."

.-...-.

I’ve always been a loner. But, my classmates have never considered me to be a threat; I’m just one of the lads.  I’ve always been what my aunt Jo describes as, an easy-going well mannered boy.  So, I get called ‘carrot top’, ‘ginger nut’, and ‘copper knob’ I just grin; water off a ducks back, Aunt Jo would say.  Nobody but nobody, would ever dare use those phrases within earshot of John Bullock, not even members of his own gang.  Out of earshot?  He is referred too contemptuously as Bully Bullock.

 I’m happy to accept good-natured ribbing from the guys, but I’ve never been susceptible to bullying.  I’ve never given in to threats, so if it comes to blows, I will give as good as I get, my attitude has earned me respect from the bullies.  We have an understanding.  They leave me, and anybody who is with me, alone. Consequently, I enjoy a certain amount of popularity with boys who feel they need protection. At times, I’ve even been offered certain little inducements.  Occasionally somebody gets the idea they can ‘beat me up’, because of my size.  At fifteen, I’m close to five foot five and weigh a hundred and twenty pounds which is below average for my age.  What sets me apart is being the grandson of Graham (Grey) Fox.  Granddad was the British Flyweight Champion, for three years, in his youth. He taught me everything he knew about the noble art of boxing and all the dirty tricks used in roughhouse fighting as well. He was fit, fast, feisty, and fatal; right up to the day he took on a two-ton truck, in a catch-weight contest he was always destined to lose.  He died without regaining consciousness. 

In his will, he left me the ‘Grey Fox Gymnasium’.  The club brings in enough money to pay for my school uniforms, and give Aunt Jo something for my keep, plus a little bit put by for a rainy day.  Aunt Jo became my legal guardian when mum and dad were killed in an air raid in 1940.  The man who runs the gym for me, and takes care of the business side, is Harry Chilvers he was Granddad’s long time friend and corner-man. The arrangement suites everyone, Harry gets a good living, allowing me to get on with school, and growing up, free from distractions.  I have to say that Granddad taught me well.  Quick thinking, good reflexes, and fast footwork have stood me in good stead; I'm fit, self-confident, and prepared for anything.  To keep in shape I work out at the gym, for two hours each evening.  There’s no way I would allow myself to go soft.  I’d seen fighters run out of steam in the middle of a contest and it’s not a pretty sight.

.-…-.

I was having problems with my maths and physics homework; that’s Charlie Holmes’ department.  He’s our Maths and Science teacher.  He’s slightly taller than me but broad and solid. I could tell from his bearing that he kept himself fit and knew how to handle himself.  He served in the ‘Special Boat Service’ during the war, it was an elite force, for which we students held him in awe.

“Excuse me Mr Holmes sir, I'm having problems with the algebra homework could you tell me where I'm going wrong please?” I asked.

“Come to my office at 4 o'clock Fox, don’t be late,” he said.

So at 4:02 I was standing outside his office when Andy Burns arrived and stood beside me. 

“Are you here to see Charlie?” I asked. We all called him Charlie behind his back, but never to his face. “You're top of the class Burns what do you need help with?”

“Don’t worry, I'm not going to push in,” he said.  At that precise moment the door opened and there stood Charlie, unlit pipe between his teeth.

“Ah!  Just the chaps I need to help me out of a fix,” he said.  Then he smiled.

I always get nervous when Charlie smiles, it takes twenty years off his age at a stroke, and I know, deep down, he’s hatching some fiendish plot.  I looked at Andy and he grimaced, articulating my thoughts.

“Come in and sit down lads, would you like some tea?  I have some scones with homemade jam and fresh cream,” he said placing a large plate in the middle of the table.

May as well get something out of it, I thought. “Thank you, sir.  Do you have contacts in the black market sir?” I asked. 

He put his unlit pipe in his mouth, looked me straight in the eyes, and tapped the side of his nose twice, but said nothing. 

I took the hint, and the cup he offered. He poured tea, milk and two spoonful's of real sugar, not saccharine, into each cup, as we helped ourselves to side plates and tucked into the unexpected feast.

“Delicious,” said Andy.

“Actually, I have two problems.  But, I'm hoping to kill two birds with one, metaphorical, stone.” Charlie smiled again and I shivered.

“One bird needs a whole lot of coaching in, Physics and Maths if he’s to pass his GCE ‘O’ levels.  The other bird needs toughening up – to put it bluntly.   Are you with me so far?”

“Yes sir,” we said in unison.

“To be honest, I don’t have time to give private tuition, but I know a person who does.”  Charlie looked directly at Andy, who averted his gaze on the pretext of selecting yet another delicious scone.

“Actually, it’s just a simple quid pro quo arrangement I'm proposing.  Burns, you will tutor Fox for an hour each evening…”

“And you expect me to act as his bodyguard?” I said incredulously.

“I said toughen up not molly-coddle,” Charlie exploded; he took a deep calming breath. “You spend an hour each evening teaching Burns how to defend himself.  Don’t tell me your grandfather didn't pass on his fighting skills to you?”

Andy finally made his choice and reached for a particular scone.

“Leave it!” I said. “As of now, you’re in training.   You’re fat and overweight. You even have trouble running for the bus!”

His eyes lingered on the scone, then he looked at me, and reluctantly his hand withdrew.

“I take it you both accept your assignments?” There was a moments silence, “Good! Well have a progress meeting at the same time each Friday, but I can’t promise scones every week you understand?” 

 We all grinned. “Any questions?”

“No sir,” we shook our heads.

“Don’t you lads have homes to go to?”  The deal was done so we left his office together.

“When do we start Fox?”

“Right now,” I said, “and call me Red.”

“We’d better run if we're going to catch the 4:20 bus,” said Andy. 

“Don’t worry, we're running home,” I said, “I've got a lot of work ahead of me to get you in shape, come on."

.-…-.

I worked Andy like a dog for the next two weeks, just roadwork, mile after mile, to build up the stamina in his legs, and put steam in his boiler as Grey Fox would say.

In return, Andy exacted his revenge with quadrilateral equations, logs, slide rule maths, Pythagoras and geometry theorems. To be fair, he was a good teacher and had a natural flair, for explaining things, in words that I could understand.  So, chemical processes, atomic weights, valences, and double bonds in organic chemistry suddenly began to make sense.

True to the code Bully Bullock and his gang left us both well alone.  I had Andy skipping rope and pounding the bag way into the evenings.   He was getting home after lighting-up time and his mother began to accuse me of having a bad influence on him.  Charlie had to explain our strategy to her.  That was when I started getting invites to Andy’s house for tea and Sunday lunch.   Aunt Jo didn't mind, it gave her more quality time with her new boyfriend, and she saved on ration coupons.  Six weeks on, I was getting improved marks at school. Andy was in tip-top shape and brimming with confidence.

.-…-.

Then out of the blue, I was stricken down with a heavy bought of influenza.  I was delirious for two days and confined to bed.  I started eating again on Saturday and got out of bed on Sunday, but Aunt Jo wouldn't let me go out.

When I returned to school on the Monday, everybody was talking about a fight that took place outside of school on Friday evening.

.-…-.

“Are you going to tell me what happened, Andy?” I asked.

He smiled, “I was running home, sticking strictly to the program, as if you were there with me.  They barred my way, just outside the gates.  I tried to go the other way but they blocked me again; It was Bully and his gang.”

“Come on guys, don’t hold me up I have a lot to do tonight,” I said.

They made way for Bully, “You got me in trouble with the head Burns,” he said.

“That was your own fault,” I said.  He came at me throwing punches.  I slipped them ducking and diving, bobbing and weaving.  Then I hit him with a combination punch two in the breadbasket and one squarely on the nose.  He folded like a sack of spuds.

“Who’s next?” I said, turning on the others. But, they just moved aside and let me pass. I didn't even break a sweat.  I looked back when I reached the corner of Valence Avenue.  Bullock was still lying on the ground; the other three had run off and left him.  So, I went back to make sure he was OK.

“Piss off Burns, you've ruined my life.  When this gets out I’ll be a laughing stock.”

“So, why didn't one of the others offer to take me on?” I said, “Why didn't they stand by you?  Instead, they ran off like the cowards they are.”

“That’s true,” he said.

“So,” I said “What satisfaction do you get from beating people up?”

“It makes me feel respected and important.  Now you can fight we could form our own gang.  Get your mate Fox to join us we’d be unbeatable!” He said.

“You still don’t get it do you Bullock, beating up somebody weaker than yourself doesn't make you look big, just the opposite.  You are hated feared and avoided like plague.”

“Yea, good eh?” He said.

 “What did you do Andy?” I asked.

He became silent and reflective, “I just shook my head, disapproving, like Charlie does, and walked away.”

“Good on you man, you don’t need any more lessons in self-defence,” I said, feeling genuine regret.

“I don’t think so Red,” he said. I got the feeling he was gauging my reaction.  “But, I do still need somewhere to train and a good friend if you know of one?”

The bell rang, as we exchanged grins, and headed off to our first lesson – double maths – with Charlie Holmes.

Copyright Len Morgan

A FAIRY STORY

A FAIRY STORY

By Peter Woodgate

In times of old when knights were bold

There is a story I’ve been told

About a maiden slim and fair

With ruby lips and golden hair.

She’d sit all day incarcerated

Within her room and so frustrated

Her father did not trust her virtue

Outside the palace there formed a large queue

Of red-blooded males from all walks of life

And eager to make the fair maiden their wife.

But the king didn’t want any Tom Dick or Harry

Wooing his daughter, he was in no hurry

To give her away in an ordinary marriage

And see her depart by horse and carriage.

He wanted a knight, dashing and bold

To carry her over the castle threshold.

So he sent his servants to search the land

And bring him the names of knights brave and grand.

But although they searched the whole land through

The names of such knights were incredibly few

In fact after years of searching, it’s true,

The servants brought news and names of but two.

One was a youth both handsome and tall

Who went by the name of Sir Busterball,

The other was shorter but built like a tank

And known through the land as Mighty Cruickshank.

Both were fearless with passion and pride

And each had good men who rode by their side.

The king got the news and summoned each knight

To appear at the court in order to fight.

They would duel to the death for the hand of his daughter

Each one did not want to but knew that they oughta.

The day of the tournament arrived with great joy

To those who would watch them try to destroy

The life of the other, but was for good cause

And into the arena, they rode and did pause.

The horses they snorted, the crowds they did sing

as each gallant knight saluted the king.

They lifted their visors in chivalrous style,

Gazed at each other, broke into a smile,

They looked at the king, his daughter, her mother

Then, arms interlocked, they rode off together.

Copyright Peter Woodgate

Pictorial Haiku 3 (Haiga)

Pictorial Haiku 3   (Haiga)

By Rob Kingston

Copyright Rob Kingston

THE PRODIGAL SON

 THE PRODIGAL SON

 by Richard Banks                    

Dear Luke,

      Thank you for sending me a copy of your latest parable, which I gather will be published in a collection of your other works. It was very considerate of you to ask us for our comments. You were, of course, under no obligation to do so; after all, none of us are mentioned by name. Nevertheless, your sensitivity in writing to us is much appreciated.  Solly, God bless him, would have loved it. He was always a sucker for a good morality tale and often said that no one wrote them better than you. When he told you about the problems we were having with young Zach, I suspect he was hoping that one day you would write it up, in your usual discreet way. Thank you for sticking with his version of events. It wasn’t quite like that of course - I mean compassionate father forgiving erring son - but that’s the way he saw it, the way he wanted to be remembered, so thanks again.

      I have not mentioned your parable to the boys; it will only stir things up again. Even after all these years they are barely talking. Josh still blames Zach for blowing all that money and Zach is tired of being reminded of it. Fortunately, neither care much for stories, so they are unlikely to read what you have written. Let’s hope they don’t, sleeping dogs and all that.  

      My only criticism of your story is where are the women? In particular, why no mention of me? Let’s face it, without me none of this would have happened - Zach would never have been born and Josh would have had the whole darn estate to himself. Surely I’m worth a couple of lines? The full story is even more interesting and will no doubt furnish you with ideas for further parables. Allow me to tell you what happened.

      You will, I’m sure, be aware that I was not Solly’s first wife. That honour was bestowed on the blessed Lizabeth, a paragon of domestic virtue, who flipped her clogs trying to save Solly’s fattened calf from a marauding lion. No doubt he told you all about it - if not, why not? - he’s told me plenty of times. What he probably didn’t say was that we met six months later, at the Shady Lady club in downtown Jericho. You know the kind of place - dim lights, overpriced booze and a good-time girl for every sad Joe who stumbles across the threshold. You can guess where I fitted in. The trick was to keep the client drinking. Every drink meant two denarius for me. A drink for him and one for me was four denarius. Just keep him talking, flatter him, laugh at his stupid jokes; promise him anything, but keep him at the table until his money bag is empty.

      It might have been enjoyable had the clients been more interesting than their camels; even in the looks department they weren’t much better. Compared to them, Solly was a knight in shining armour. As soon as he walked through the door I could see he was different, although what he was up to was less than clear. He didn’t act like a regular punter. Regular punters just pick a girl and drink themselves silly. Solly looked like he was at a speed dating event, moving rapidly from table to table, asking all the girls the same questions -  “what’s your name? what house do you belong to?”

      “Why do you want to know?” I said, when he got round to me.

      “Look lady, it’s not a state secret. Just tell me, and you can buy yourself something nice with this.” He dropped a ten denarius coin onto the table and covered it with his hand.

      When I told him I was Marty, of the house of Benjamin, his face lit up like he had won the lottery. “Hallelujah!” he shouted. “Here she is at last.”

      “But I’ve been here all the time,” I said.

      “Allow me to explain,” he says. It was a rather long explanation - you know what Solly was like when he got going - so I’ll cut to the chase as they say. Solly had gone to see a soothsayer working the hotel circuit along the Dead Sea. “Will I get married again?” he shouts from the back of the hall. The soothsayer rolls his eyes and straight away has a vision of Solly standing at the altar with a broad in a meringuey wedding dress. “What’s her name?” yells Solly. For several minutes the soothsayer says nothing, just stands there, kind of shaking and staring into space. Eventually, he says, “Marty, of the House of Benjamin.” “Where do I find her?” Solly hollers, getting more and more agitated. “How do I know,” says the soothsayer, “I’m only watching the nuptials.”

      Any other man would just have waited until he met me; after all, if you marry someone it stands to reason you first got to meet them. Not Solly, of course. He’s got to make it happen now, so he runs up and down the country asking every woman he meets what her name is. After a while, he gets a tip-off about a girl called Marty working in a Jericho bar, and sure enough, he finds me. However, I wasn’t at all sure about what he was proposing. “Why should I marry you?” I said.

      “Sugar,” he says, “it’s meant to be, it’s our fate, we can’t escape it.”

      “Wanna bet,” I said. “I can walk out that door and do any darn thing I want.”

      “Look,” he says. “I’m a rich man. I’ve got two vineyards and a farm. Whatever you’re earning I’ll double it.”

      “What!” I said, “you’re going to pay me for being your wife?”

      “Think of it as an allowance,” he says. “Now put on your coat, we’re wasting time.”

      One hour later I was Mrs Ginberg, and on a fast camel, heading for the family estate. It was then that he told me about the sprog, little Josh.

      “Little Josh?” I said, “that wasn’t part of the deal.”

      “He’s nearly ten,” says Solly, “he’s house-trained, he won’t be any trouble. Anyway, everyone loves little Josh.”

      As soon as he said it, I knew I was going to be the exception. I mean, what do you say to a kid who spends his spare time studying corporate finance.  Lord knows I tried. I took him shopping and to that swanky new club in Ramat, but nothing I did was ever good enough. “I’m bored,” he would say, “can’t we go to the library.” After three months of him whining, I decided I needed reinforcements, one at least.

      “Solly,” I said, “what’s gonna happen to the estate if something happens to Josh?”

      “Nothing’s gonna happen to Josh,” says Solly. He gives me one of his suspicious looks. “Do you know something I don’t?”

      “No,” I said, “but who knows what might happen. Wouldn’t it be a good idea to have a spare?”

      “A spare what?” he says.

      “A spare son,” I said. I fluttered my eyelashes and acted kind of coy to get him in the mood. He didn’t need much prompting. Nine months later Zach was born.

      I have to admit I wasn’t too sure about him at first. When he wasn’t crying, he was puking and when he wasn’t puking it was all coming out the other end. Thank the Lord for slaves, especially those good with babies. However, I got to admit that once he was potty trained I began to take a shine to him. He was a real boy, not like that goody two shoes of a brother. Okay, so he got into trouble from time to time, but that’s what real boys do. It was just high spirits. You know the kind of thing, bunking off school, breaking windows and underage drinking. Even when he burnt down the kitchen I couldn’t stay angry with him for long, and when others were, I would give him a hug and take him to a burlesque show or a burger bar. Happy days! So much I could tell you, but if I did, this letter would probably end up longer than your book. Let me fast forward to the events recorded in your parable.

      We were doing good. Solly had bought up four more vineyards and was diversifying into real estate. Josh was a local councillor and protecting our interests on all the important committees. Zach was two years out of high school and racing Arab stallions in Alexandria. Well, he was never going to be a farmer. I knew that, so did Solly. What we didn’t realize, was that once he began winning major races, the publicity he generated for the business was better than a front page ad in the Jewish Chronicle. The business flourished as never before. All might have continued well, had not Zach returned home unexpectedly one day, with a proposition that promised to quadruple the family fortune.

      Zach was the leading jockey, ten points clear of the field, but to be the champion he needed to win a race-off with the second best horse, Cairo Fury. Everyone thought that Zach was bound to win, including the bookmakers. The odds on Cairo Fury had started at 4-1 against, but widened to 7-1, to encourage the few idiots prepared to throw away their money on a no-hoper. Zach’s proposition was a simple one: bet all the money we can raise on Cairo Fury, and he would ensure that his horse, Ginberg’s Choice, came home in second place.

      “What can go wrong?” he said.

      Solly must have agreed, for he mortgaged half the estate and laid off the proceeds with forty different bookmakers, in seven provinces.

      Come the day of the race, both horses made a sluggish start and raced side by side towards the first corner. Zach let Ginberg’s Choice drift towards the outside of the track, where it had further to run, allowing Cairo Fury the advantage of the inside lane. Normally, this would have been enough to secure a ten-yard advantage for the other horse, but Cairo Fury seemed curiously unable to seize the opportunity. In fact, the longer the race went on, the slower Cairo Fury got. By the third and final lap it had slowed down to little more than a canter, and Ginberg’s Choice was over half a lap ahead. Zach pulled hard on the reins but could do nothing to reduce the gap. With only fifty yards to go, he attempted to bring down his mount by kicking it in the breadbasket. The horse stumbled, but like the champion thoroughbred it was, staggered across the finishing line. There was an Inquiry, of course, and Zach spent seven days in a police lock-up. When nothing could be proved, he was let out and the race result allowed to stand.

      Several years later, the full story emerged. A syndicate of corn merchants had bet on Ginberg’s Choice to win the race by over ten lengths. To swing things their way, they bribed the rival stable to slip Cairo Fury a sedative. Unfortunately, the hapless doper overdid the dope and the poor nag nearly fell asleep on the final bend.

      Zach was banned for life from racing and after an unsuccessful attempt to resurrect his career under a false name, came back home to face the music. It wasn’t pleasant, I can tell you. Solly had quite a temper and Zach’s head made several large dents in the living room wall, but eventually, it all calmed down. After a year or two, they even started talking again. Of course, I couldn’t stay mad at Zach for long, and even when he was banished to the pigsty I used to take him his favourite food. Don’t believe all that stuff about him eating pods; that never happened, either in Alexandria or here.

      So, six years later, here I am, a widow with two grown-up sons, who don’t have much time for their mother. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t lonely. The days aren’t too bad, but the nights seem endless - just me in a king-size double bed. Plenty of room for manoeuvre, so to speak, and no one to manoeuvre with. Let me know when you’re next in the locality; we’ve got a lot of catching up to do. Until then, good luck with the book.

Yours affectionately,

Marty xxx

Copyright Richard Banks

                                  

KADYANDA

KADYANDA

(Mountain-top settlement in Turkey dating back 2,500 years)

By Peter Woodgate

Upon the heady height

of nature’s tantrums

they built you.

Now, your bones lie

crumbling in the dust.

We gaze in wonder

at your disseminated structure,

metamorphosed by the veil of time

and feel humbled.

We, who stand upon this mountain

of accumulated knowledge,

living in a world of nuclear know-how,

anatomical awe and structural splendour,

we, who have tinkered

with the doors to the universe

and tampered with the gates of Hell,

we, who are on the brink

of displacing God,

are suddenly aware

of our embryonic status,

as yet, un-weaned,

from ignorance.

Copyright Peter Woodgate

Write me a Love Story Ch 8

Write me a Love Story Ch 8

By Janet Baldey

CHAPTER 8

         I bit down hard on my lower lip as I watched the man. My heart was pounding. I’d realised Joe wouldn’t be pleased but I’d not anticipated the depth of his anger. Transfixed, I watched as his florid face mottled with fury.

        

         ‘Are you telling me, you do’n want me to plough your land?’ He thrust out his head and spittle sprayed my face.

        

         As I wiped it away my throat closed up and, as dumb as the beast waiting patiently outside the stable, I couldn’t speak. Instead, I just nodded, wishing I could melt into one of the puddles on the stone floor.

        

         ‘Do you know,’ he bellowed, ‘jus how much work I turned down to be ‘ere this week?’

        

         I noticed that a stray piece of hay, perhaps disturbed by his outburst, had drifted down from a manger and settled on his head. Every time he shouted, it nodded delicately as if in agreement. In another situation it would have been funny but I didn’t feel like laughing.

        

          ‘We had an agreement missus.’ He took a step towards me and, taking the full force of his rotten breath full in the face, I jerked backwards.

        

         ‘Is anything wrong?’

        

          Georg was standing in the doorway, his figure a black outline pasted on the morning light and at the sound of his voice I felt weak with relief.

        

         Joe swung his head around and his face darkened in a scowl. He was silent for a moment then his lips twisted into a smirk.

        

         ‘Oh, so this is where the land lies does it?  You and your pet Jerry getting cosy eh? ‘

        

         My cheeks burned with fury at his insinuation. How I wished for the courage to slap his loathsome face but then I saw Georg’s hands tighten into fists and found my voice at last.

        

         ‘I’m sorry Joe, but I’ve made up my mind. I know I should have told you before but I’ll pay you. You won’t be out of pocket.’

        

         ‘You bet I won’t,’ Joe growled.  ‘I’ll take five poun’ and not a penny less.’

        

         Trying not to show my shock, without a word I turned, motioning Georg to follow me.  Back at the cottage, I opened the drawer of my desk and drew out a battered tin box. In the bottom, as thin as tissue paper, there was just one fiver left.  I looked at it and sighed.   Although Frank had promised to send me money each week, I hadn’t been to the Post Office since he’d left. Tomorrow, I would have to swallow my pride.

        

         Joe all but snatched the note from my hand.

        

          ‘An’ remember, not too many oats, unless you want trouble. An’ no dry beet, otherwise you’ll have a dead ‘oss on your hands. An’ that’d cost you.’

          

         He shambled away and I glanced at Georg, catching a gleam in his eye. He winked and suddenly hysteria bubbled up inside me as I remembered the piece of hay pirouetting on top of Joe’s head.  Convulsing with hysterical laughter, my body shook until my stomach hurt and doubled up I had to cling onto the stable door for support.

  * * *

               Frank had been as good as his word. After Elsie the postmistress had totted up the figures in my bankbook, I realised that every week he’d sent a little something. There were also a couple of letters and I felt a surge of guilt that I’d not thought to call in before.

        

         I wandered over to the seat underneath the ancient and gnarled oak, near to where the Saturday market was held.  Slitting open the first envelope, I sat holding the single sheet for a moment before unfolding it, my hands trembling. In fact, it said very little except that he sent his best wishes and was training somewhere in the midlands.   The second, equally brief, told me he was being sent abroad. There was no address on either of the letters, neither was there any hint of warmth. Slowly, I re-folded the letters and put them in my pocket. I didn’t know what I’d expected but nevertheless felt a huge sense of disappointment. For a long time, I sat oblivious to the life of the village going on around me. Once, Frank and I had meant everything to each other. Neither of us had any other family and when we’d first met and fallen in love, the idea of having someone else to care for us was a revelation and we’d clung to each other as survivors cling to a raft. Now, I sat wondering how our marriage had gone so wrong and feeling dead inside.

        

         I stood up from the seat and walked back to the High Street making a determined effort to keep my tears at bay by concentrating hard on everything that was going on. It was obvious that, even in this sleepy part of England, people had the wind up. There was a constant background noise of hammering as men on ladders tacked  wire netting over windows and every telegraph pole and shop window  was festooned  with leaflets: ‘Beat Firebomb Fritz’,‘Careless talk costs lives’,‘Dig for victory’. By now, the slogans were yellow and dog-eared but they still had the power to unnerve. The daily papers, now down to two thin sheets only, were dominated by news of the Blitz and although the photography was in black and white, graphic images of the flames engulfing London leapt out from the page as if in full and lurid colour.

        

         Because most of my days were spent at the smallholding, it had been easy to push the thought of war to the back of my mind, but now just walking through the village made me nervous. And it wasn’t just me, as I walked through the streets, I passed clusters of people, gathered outside shops, houses and on street corners, chatting quietly together a mixture of anxiety and almost feverish excitement in their eyes.

        

         But life must go on and as I came to a stop outside the grocer’s; my eyes automatically honed onto the sign above the shop, as they had always done ever since I was a young servant girl just arrived in the village. The years between seemed to evaporate as I looked at the familiar words, as always admiring the showy curlicues decorating their capitals. The letters were faded but still readable. ‘A. Purdy & Daughters, Provisioners to the King,’ with a golden lion and unicorn rampant at either end. As ever, I wondered about the daughters. Mr Purdy was always alone behind the counter and, ducking under the low lintel, I saw, in that respect, nothing had changed. The shop always used to remind me of Aladdin’s cave, stuffed full with an abundance of goods, so much of everything it used to make my head whirl. Whatever one wanted, Mr Purdy stocked it and with a magician’s flourish could produce anything from a rat trap, or a length of clothesline, to a wedge of ripe cheese. But today, although I was momentarily blinded by the darkness inside the shop, as my sight adjusted I noticed that even though the mingled odours of cheese, spices and freshly baked bread had seeped into the woodwork and were still faintly present, the actual produce was sparse and several of the shelves were completely empty.   

        

         As I began to trawl its interior, I noticed two women standing talking in a corner. One was Mrs Rattray, a small husk-like woman with a marked dowager’s hump. The other had her back to me but I thought I recognised the untidy mane of black hair hanging almost to her waist.  As I wandered around, snatches of their conversation drifted towards me.

        

         ‘It’s terrible…. you don’t feel safe in your bed these days.’

        

         Long black hair moved up and down vigorously as the other woman nodded in agreement.

        

         ‘I seen ‘em wandering about the lanes as if they don’t have a care in the world.  Wicked brutes they are, if I had my way I’d hang the lot of ‘em.’

            

          Mrs Rattray’s mouth dropped open and her face seemed to collapse in on itself.

        

         ‘Oh, my dear.....do you think that awful Mr Hitler is hanging our poor boys?’ Her voice trembled and her eyes had the viscous sheen of dirty water.

        

         ‘Now, don’t you worry…. I’m sure yer grandson will be fine. Come on, let’s get you home.’

        

         The woman turned and I saw that I’d guessed right. It was Becca Smith. Our eyes met and her face tightened. She shot me a glance of such malice that I took a step backwards. Then, she turned her back and bent towards the older woman. I felt my face grow hot and the tips of my ears tingled as she whispered and I caught the look of astonishment on her companions face. Certain that they were talking about me, I began to tremble. For the life of me, I couldn’t understand the venom in Becca’s eyes. Surely, it wasn’t because of the incident in the barn: after all Joe had been well paid for his trouble. Trying to ignore them, I turned back to the shelves, forcing myself to concentrate.  Right in front of me was a tin of peaches and although they weren’t on my list, I stared at it until my vision blurred.

        

         There was a soft rustle behind me. Without thinking, I grabbed the peaches and turned. Mrs Rattray’s recent distress had obviously been forgotten and her face was avid with curiosity. She reached out for my arm and I flinched at the touch of the old woman’s dry, claw-like hand.

        

         ‘I’ve just heard you’ve got one of those Nazis working at your place. For all the world, I wouldn’t be in your shoes. Tell me dear, what on earth made you do that?’

        

           I gasped and shot a glance towards Becca, catching a sly look of triumph on her face. Taking a deep breath, I made an effort to answer the question civilly but was distressed to hear the tremble in my voice.

        

         ‘I needed help Mrs Rattray and he’s no trouble and seems very nice.’ 

        

         Immediately, an ugly noise erupted from Becca. ‘Nice! Well, that’s a word I wouldn’t use about the enemy. I ‘spose you’ll be telling us he’s good soon.’  She cocked her head. ‘You know what they say? The only good German’s a dead German.’ 

        

         ‘I speak as I find, Becca. He’s very helpful and works hard.’

        

         Her eyes glittered. ‘We all work hard me dear, but we don’t all bomb innocent folk. And, if you ask, me I think what you be doing is disgusting. Consorting with the enemy when your own husband is away fighting them…’

Furious anger consumed me. I fought to control myself but it was a losing battle.

        

         ‘How dare you talk to me like that Becca? And how dare you gossip about me?  What I do is absolutely none of your business…..’ I paused, then opened my mouth for another salvo but Mr Purdy interrupted his heavy voice acting like a fire blanket.

        

         ‘Now then, ladies, that’s enough. Both of you, calm down. Becca, if I were you I’d keep your opinions to yourself. I’m sure that Mrs Harper is not doing anything to be ashamed of.  And, if you want my opinion, there’s all sorts of Germans. Like there’s all sorts of us English. For instance, the bloke that delivers our wood also delivers to the camp an he says that some of them are real nasty bits of work, but others seem decent enough.’

 Becca shot him a furious glance. Her spine rigid, she marched up to him and slammed down her goods so hard the empty show cans on the counter rattled.

        

         ‘I make that two shillings and sixpence, Mr Purdy. Good day.’

        

         She turned and swept out of the shop, Mrs Rattray hobbling after her as fast as her bent body was able.

        

         My legs were shaking as I walked towards the counter.

        

         ‘Thank you, Mr Purdy. I only really came in for a packet of Rinso. I didn’t realise I’d cause so much trouble. I shouldn’t have lost my temper.’  Shame made my smile wobble.

        

         The grocer stared at me over the top of his half-glasses, his moonlike face kind.

        

         ‘Don’t you worry, m’dear.  Wasn’t all your fault.  That Becca has a sharp tongue in her head sometimes. But not many people pay her much mind. Not those that matter anyway.’

Reaching underneath the counter, he pulled out a carton of washing powder.  As he did, I realised I still had the can of peaches in my hand and suddenly, I had an idea.

‘Oh, and I’ll take these as well and do you have any braising steak?   Here’s my ration book. I think I’ve got enough points.’

As I left the shop I looked at him standing in his usual place behind the counter and felt a sudden rush of affection. He was one of the good ones, I could only hope he wasn’t outnumbered.

 I stared at Barley’s mane as the pony carried me back up the hill.    Gradually my anger drained away and self pity took its place. My eyes prickled and I blinked hard. I had enough trouble without Becca spreading rumours about me.  But as the path wound upwards, I grew calmer. The hedgerows were bright with berries and as the cart rumbled by small birds burst out of the bushes and shot into the sky. The sun was still high and I closed my eyes, feeling the warm breeze on my face. In spite of Becca, in spite of everything, I knew that there was no other place I’d rather be.

Prince was standing outside the barn when we arrived, his rough coat dark with sweat. Georg came across the yard carrying two buckets that slopped water as he walked. As the horse lowered his head and began to drink, Georg unbuckled the harness and let it drop to the ground. Kicking it to one side, he picked up a curry comb and started to groom, whistling softly as he worked.  

He looked round as we turned in at the gate and smiled as I raised my hand.

‘Finished?’ I called.

‘For the moment. He has worked hard today. He needs a rest.’  He patted Prince’s neck affectionately.    
        

‘And so do you, I expect. Give me a moment and I’ll bring you some food.’

As I brewed tea and buttered thick slices of bread, my mind was busy. For the first time in a long while, I was looking forward to the next day.

Copyright Janet Baldey