Write me a Love Story Ch 8+

Write me a Love Story Ch 8+

CHAPTER 8 cont…

By Janet Baldey

I threw back the covers and looked out of the window to where the moon still lingered, a pale reflection of its former self. The morning sky was clear and soon the rising sun would burn off the last shreds of mist still clinging to the ground. Humming under my breath I set off towards the milking shed.

When Barley and I got back from the station, Georg had already arrived. As soon as I saw him I felt a rush of happiness. Immediately I caught my breath, not realising until then how much I’d looked forward to seeing him. He walked towards me and helped me down from the cart. I smiled, I’d almost forgotten how nice it was to be treated like a woman.

‘I have just fed Prince. With luck, we should finish the ploughing today.’

‘Jolly good, but just make sure you break for lunch. No later than one o’clock.   That’s an order and if the sun doesn’t remind you, I will.’ 

Georg raised his brows, a question in his eyes.

As soon as I had finished my usual chores, I started to prepare lunch.  The braising steak would need long slow cooking so I quickly sliced up the meat adding some onions and carrots to the pot before popping it onto the stove. As I turned to rinse my hands in the sink I stopped to stare into the tarnished mirror propped against the window. Pursing my lips, I picked up a strand of hair, wishing I had time to wash it. Instead, I climbed the stairs to my bedroom and rooted around until I found a green silk scarf. Tying it into a turban I looked at myself in the bedroom mirror, pinching my cheeks to give them some colour. On an impulse, I took off my dungarees and slipped into a printed cotton dress, noticing that it was now much looser. Looking at myself yet again, I nodded.

 When I returned to the kitchen, a rich aroma filled the room. It was almost time to put the potatoes on but before I did, I opened my precious tin of peaches, tipped them into a bowl and put them on the side together with some freshly clotted cream from the dairy.

I dragged the table into the middle of the room and set two places, adding glasses for the cider, at present still in its jug cooling in the cellar. Looking around, I checked again to make sure everything was ready. Butterflies fluttered inside my stomach, it had been so long since I’d cooked for another person. Suddenly I stilled and stood staring into nothing. Then, I looked down at my dress, sighed and sat down, covering my face with my hands. What was I doing? My legs felt leaden as I got up from the chair and stumbled up the stairs. Stripping off my dress, I screwed it into a ball and flung it into a corner before pulling back on my dungarees. For heaven's sake!  He was a married man with children, he didn’t care what I looked like.

        

         I was halfway up the track when I met him coming down, Prince plodding behind like a giant shadow. Georg’s face streamed and sweat had turned his hair into a shining helmet. When he saw me he raised a hand in greeting, then used the same gesture to wipe his forehead.

        

         ‘It’s all done.’  He turned the big horse round. ‘Come and see.’

        

         I knew he was watching me, waiting for my smile as I saw the field with its freshly turned earth, the moist soil gleaming almost purple in the sun. I stood admiring the pattern of neat ridges stretching into the distance. I’d never been taught to knit but I’d often watched the housekeeper at The Manor. The needles in her fingers were rarely still and I realised that’s what the field reminded me of, rows of plain knitting with not a stitch dropped. My spirits rose. One by one, difficulties that I had lost sleep over were tumbling like dominoes. I looked at the man standing by my side, well aware that if it wasn’t for his help I’d never have got this far.

‘That’s wonderful. Thank you, Georg. Dinner is almost ready.’ I looked at the moisture trickling down his face, ‘after you’ve seen to Prince, you might like to have a wash. You can use the pump in the yard.’

           

         I waited until I heard the pump squeal before I began to pile the food onto plates. When all was ready I opened the door.  

‘It’s too hot to eat outside. Come in.’

        

         As he walked through the door, I wished I had a camera. It would have made a great picture. He halted, staring first at the table and then at me.

          I shrugged. ‘You’ve worked so hard. I thought it would make a change from sandwiches.’ At the last moment, I’d added some dumplings to the stew and was glad when I saw the speed at which the food disappeared.

        

         ‘Wunderbar,’ he leaned back into his chair and patted his stomach. ‘It is so long since I had anything that good.’

        

         ‘There’s peaches and cream to follow,’ Getting up from the table I filled a couple of bowls and sat smiling as he stuffed his mouth so full that cream ran down his chin.   

        

         Afterwards, we took our tea outside and relaxed in some shade while Georg fished out his tobacco tin.

        

         ‘Look,’ he said and sent three perfect smoke rings floating into the air. I watched them spiral upwards, twisting and elongating before they finally thinned, broke into fragments and dissolved.  He seemed so at peace that, although I had questions about his family, I stopped my tongue. I remembered from before how thoughts of his children affected him.

         ‘I used to do that for Gerda and Hans.’ It was as if he had read my mind. His lashes shadowed his eyes as he stared at the glowing end of his cigarette.

        

         There was a sudden flash of kingfisher blue, as he darted a glance towards me.‘Would you like to see a picture of them?’

        

         I nodded. The corners of the tiny photo were bent and its surface dulled. With gentle fingers, he smoothed it flat before handing it to me and as he did, I felt his breath on my cheek.

         ‘See, this is Hans and this is my daughter Gerda.’

        

         The two toddlers were laughing into the camera, their blond hair gleaming in the sun as they stood with chubby arms wrapped around each other’s waists.

        

         ‘They’re beautiful.  You must be so proud.  How old are they?’

        

         ‘When this was taken, Hans was four and Gerda two.  That was a couple of years ago.  It was when I last went home on leave. They will be bigger now.   Children grow so quickly.’

        

         I heard the ache in his voice.

        

         ‘What’s your wife’s name?  Have you got a picture of her?’

        

         ‘Her name is Frieda, and no, she does not like to have her photo taken.’

        

         He stared into space, seeming to be miles away and, stealing a glance at him, I regretted my question. He obviously missed her very much.

        

         ‘Where do you live?’

        

         ‘In a town called Dresden. I moved there after the farm was sold. It is a lovely place. So full of art galleries and museums they call it ‘Florence on the Elbe’. And the churches….so many that on Sundays the morning is filled with the sound of their bells. We also have a zoo. Gerda and Hans love the zoo.’  He nodded.  ‘You would like Dresden.

        

         He raised his eyebrows and smiled at me.   ‘Now if I know women at all, I know the next question.’

        

         ‘And that is?’

        

         ‘What is my work, of course.  You will never guess.’

        

         ‘So, what did you do?’

        

         ‘Before I joined the Luftwaffe, I was training to be an architect. From farmer to architect eh?  I said you would never guess.’ He laughed and patted his chest, a gesture that was so foreign, it startled me.

        

         All at once his good mood drained away and his smile vanished. ‘I think that if ever I do get back, I will have much work to do.’

        

         He fell silent and when I looked at him he turned his face away. The silence became uncomfortable and it was almost with relief that I heard the sound of the lorry’s horn.

        

         As he stood up to leave, he reached for my hand and brushed it with his lips and conscious of my work roughened skin, I tensed.

        

         ‘Thank you so much for the meal.’  Letting go, he touched the turban around my head.

         ‘You should wear green more often.  It suits you.’   

Copyright Janet Baldey

PAINTED LADY

PAINTED LADY 

By Peter Woodgate

I awoke one morning,

the sight and scent of a thousand blooms

embracing my senses.

She drifted past my window,

pausing…. briefly,

to admire the heads on my clematis.

Her slender body and limbs, outlined,

beneath a magnificent gown.

A gown designed in paradise,

as reds, browns, blacks and whites

mingled to a majestic finale.

I looked at her, for a moment,

unable to speak, then whispered,

“You are a beautiful Lady.”

She didn’t answer,

just shrugged her shoulders

and drifted away into the distance

in search of a suitor,

unaware of a destiny,

as brief, and erotic,

as a kiss.

Copyright Peter Woodgate

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