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Tuesday, 9 June 2020

THE GRIND


THE GRIND

By Phillip Miller

Drizzly old morning
No change on the train
Deadpan faces
Give no clue to their pain

Still we trudge
With brolly and jacket
In order to receive
A miserly pay packet.

It can’t be helped
It’s life as we know it
If sadness was money
Our wage slips would show it.

This all falls away
As I walk through the door
I am lifted at once
Like never before.

The drudgery vanishes
The sadness has gone
I’m home with my love
Just where I belong.

© Copyright Phil Miller

Monday, 8 June 2020

Flamingo Podnyalsya Ch 7


Flamingo Podnyalsya Ch 7

By Phillip Miller

CHAPTER 7

Four days after arriving at the Intensive Care Unit, Inspector Moreau had made rapid progress and had been discharged. He gathered his belongings together and waited for his taxi home. His head was a mass of red, purple, and black and, although the swelling had decreased along his shin bones and ankles, the pain was still grinding on him. His ribs had taken a battering also.
He sat outside the private hospital, waiting for his ride. Ten minutes later a black Mercedes pulled up alongside him and he hobbled around to the passenger door and eased his way carefully into the seat.
“You look well Commander,” said Peter Donyevsky.
“Flattery will get you nowhere. We need to get back to HQ and sort this mess out,” grimaced the inspector as Peter accelerated around a bend. “Did you take care of everything at the farm?”
“Yes,” said Peter.
“May those bastards rot in hell.”
“Who was the Englishman?”
“I don’t know. He arrived with an agent called Mika.” They rode over a speed bump and a pain shot down his right side. “For Christ’s sake! will you take it easy?” He pulled his right elbow in to support his fractured ribs.
“There was no woman, just the Englishman and Kaspersky.”
“Shit!” Moreau shook his head. “Craig! Where is he? Does he know? Did you tell him anything?”
“Don’t worry, we will find him,” said Peter.
“Where are we going?”
“Relax. I have it all under control.” He pointed to the small screen set in the dashboard. “GPS,” he smirked.

Craig Burnett left the Archway and walked over to his open-backed Toyota. Moreau and Donyevsky pulled up beside him and when he saw the tall Russian agent step out of the car, his legs almost gave way. “How did you find me?” he said, as he closed the driver’s door. Donyevsky took his keys and nodded at the car parked parallel. Moreau wound down his window. “Get in the car. We have much to discuss and little time,” wincing as he spoke.
“You look, terrible Sir!”
“No need to call me Sir. I need to tell yo…..”
“I know about Flamingo and I know about Okhrana. It’s a mistake. It’s a big mistake, Sir!”
Moreau looked quizzingly at Craig. “How do you know about Flamingo?”
“Sir!” Craig held out the small USB, then casually aimed it in Donyevsky’s direction. “That bastard in my flat must have dropped it in the scuffle. It contains everything to do with Operation Flamingo.
“Now you know! So, get in. We have to go to the command centre. We will be safe there. The Kremlin will not be happy that one of their best agents is dead and we don’t know how much they know. The woman is still out there so we need to be alert. She will come for you Craig. Donyevsky resumed his position in the driver’s seat and opened his glove compartment to check his small PSS-2 pistol; silent and lethal at close range. Craig sat in the rear. He thought about Cody and Tom; Didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye.
They arrived, two hours later, at an industrial estate just outside Milton Keynes, and made their way to a small factory outlet. The old wooden sign was well worn and impossible to read. Before long the automatic roller shutter creaked and clunked as it rose to reveal an empty facility. Craig’s feet started to itch but he avoided the compulsion to scratch. Peter helped Moreau out of the car while Craig remained seated, overcome by a feeling of extreme consternation but then eased himself up and out of the car to stand alongside Moreau.
The silence was soon broken as the Pit in the middle of the concrete floor began to rise.

“Don’t worry,” said the inspector, “This is where it all begins.” He turned and offered a pained smile to the young officer who followed in behind, head bowed.
The lift dropped for two minutes before reaching level three, and a further two minutes during horizontal shift. The doors slid speedily apart and the injured Chief Inspector hobbled, with the aid of his double agent, over to a woman holding a small scanner. “Good to go. Greenroom please,” she said, directing them to a wall consisting of various coloured doors. As soon as it opened, Craig realised that the nightmare was real. Two armed guards escorted them through the Command floor, eventually arriving at the large office of Major Singha, who cut short his Crypto meeting and turned to face them.
“Sir.” Moreau and Donyevsky saluted.
“Charles. Glad you made it. Peter, good to see you're still with us.” The Major stood and offered his hand to Moreau, then Donyevsky and finally to Craig.
“I suppose this has come as rather a shock to you, young man. Please sit. I’ll order some coffee. This could be a long night.”
Craig felt sick. He had been feeling sick ever since Moreau told him about the deaths of his sister-in-law Cody, and his brother, Tom.
“What does he know?” inquired the Major.
“Pepe Brown tracked him through Ruberov.” Moreau reached for a chair for support.
“Please forgive me, Charles. Please, Make yourself comfortable.” He directed Moreau to his bottle-green wing-backed executive chair and pressed a small button on his desk. “Tea, coffee and sandwiches, double-quick, Thank you.” He then averted his attention to Craig.

“What do you think this is all about?” said Major Navin Singha as Peter Donyevsky pulled up a chair to sit beside them both.
Craig felt embarrassed and nervous. His feet started to itch as he began to talk. “I don’t want any part of this. Without me, you can’t do anything anyway. So, just let me go.”
“Do you have any idea what is happening out there, in the real world?"
“All I know is that I’m just an average copper from North London. I support Spurs and get pissed most weekends. I’m not married and I don’t have kids.” He touched his temple as a small pain started to niggle away at him.”
Singha and Moreau looked at each other nodding as they listened. The door to the office opened. “Sir!” said a young woman, as she eased a trolley towards the Major’s desk. “Anything else, Sir?”
“No, thank you, just pour the drinks. That will be all.” The sandwiches looked very inviting, but Craig suddenly lost his appetite. Moreau, Donyevsky and the Major tucked in. The Russian agent eyed the young girl as she left the room, nodding approvingly.
“Here,” said the Major, as he offered a small plate of cakes around.
“I’m not hungry at the moment,” sighed Craig.
“You know why you’re not hungry,” said Major Singha, as he licked a blob of fresh cream from the corner of his bearded mouth.”
“Yes! I’m bloody scared shitless, that’s why! So, pick someone else for the job. Its sounds easy enough. Invade Russia, establish Flamingo and regain the imperialist dream. Just leave the Russians to themselves. Nothing to do with me. Just let me go.” He sat down satisfied with his little outburst. Donyevsky stopped chewing and stared intently over at him, frowning aggressively.
The Major clicked his fingers and a voice immediately answered, “Sir!”
“Send them both in.” The Major stood, as did Moreau, uneasily, as he indicated to Peter to go over and stand by Craig.
“Don’t be alarmed,” said Major Singha, as the door slid open.
Craig was staring at the ground, sliding his foot back and forth, trying to alleviate the itching.
“Hello, Craig.”

The voice was very familiar to him, but he couldn’t quite believe his ears. He looked up and blinked repeatedly as if a mirage had appeared. It was his brother, Tom. Then in walked Cody. He looked around in complete confusion and shock. He couldn’t talk or move. Then, she spoke. “Hi Craig, good to see you.” She offered a small smile; the one he remembered, curling up at the corner, causing one of her dimples to appear. “Same here Craig,” said Tom. Both were dressed in military uniform.
Too weak to move and too emotionally and mentally exhausted to confront the scene before him, he placed his head in his hands and began to sob, uncontrollably. Cody wanted to hold him. She could finally tell him how she felt about him. But not yet. More important things to do.

“Major! I think we should get moving. Arkhangel-M2 is now at the Kamchatka Peninsula. They have also massed forces along the Border with Latvia and Estonia, stating military manoeuvres, but already skirmishes cross line, Sir.” Cody saluted as she finished her report and stepped back, quickly grabbing a peek at Craig.
“Thank you. Initiate all Trojans and inform Bletchley.” The Major pulled his chair closer to the crushed figure before him. “I know it’s a shock, but you were destined for this. Ok! you were designed for this moment. You are going to be the next Tzar of Russia. Everything is in place.
“My life has been a lie. My whole life has been a lie.” He looked over at Tom and Cody and shook his head.

“These are two of the best special service agents in the business. They looked after you and protected you for this precise moment Craig. The Russian church has agreed. The Okhrana have agreed, along with the USA. It is now or never. Russia has to be stopped before it takes complete control of the East. It is causing too much instability. We must not fail. But, if it does fail, we have a little secret weapon of our own. It is all set. Now! I suggest you get some rest. We have a long journey ahead. Forget your old life. That is dead and buried. Show him to his quarter’s.”
Peter Donyevsky walked over and helped Craig up. Moreau sat quietly, observing his reaction, before reaching for another sandwich.

Moreau and Major Singha sat facing each other. Both took a deep breath and then sat back.
“Tridents one, two and three are in place. Okhrana is standing by and, if the shit really hits the fan, then HADES is in place also. I will leave you to engage your team within Okhrana. Let’s hope we don’t have to unleash it,” said the Major.
“I hope not. If that works like it should then just a thimble full would wipe out the entire Russian capital,” said Moreau as he slid the last bit of ham and cucumber sandwich into his mouth. “I want Craig to have access to Ruberov’s files. He needs to know.” He stood and poured a large brandy for himself and the Major. They raised their glasses. “I will see to it,” said the Major.

Craig was taken to his room and given an injection to help him sleep. He began to feel tired very quickly and it wasn’t long before his head found the pillow. The injection made him drowsy and he tried to force his eyes open but it was no use. Just as he was about to enter the realms of fantasy the door to his unit opened and in walked Cody. He was too far gone to acknowledge her as she sat on his bed and cradled his head as he drifted off. She held his face in both hands and kissed him, softly.

The next morning Tom entered Craig’s quarter’s with a small tray of food and a hot drink, placing it on the bedside table. He stood over the man that had been his younger brother, feeling the compulsion to hug him, but simply withdrew and left the room.

The aroma of the fresh ground coffee ignited Craig’s senses. He stirred slowly then rose to his feet and picked up the cup but ignored the food. It’s like a bloody prison. He tried the door and found it was unlocked so pulled it open and walked along the small corridor to the next door, which opened automatically. Two armed guards followed him to the next door which again, opened automatically. The vastness of the next room took him completely by surprise. It was the size of two football pitches and was filled with a mass of military personnel, giant screens, sections for hospitalisation and decontamination, weaponry and logistical areas. It was a hive of activity. Nobody noticed him. He spotted a woman with a scanner and asked if there were any showers. She obligingly guided him to a male wash-room facility, the guards ever-present. When he got to the showers he turned to his chaperones.
“You’re welcome to watch me boys but I’d rather do this on my own. I promise to wash behind my ears.” He expected some sort of response, but there was none. He turned on the hot water and stepped in. The power of the shower invigorated him, and he had never felt so happy to carry out his ablutions; it had been almost an entire week since he last bathed. He could not wait to eat but needed to stave off the hunger just a bit longer. Once finished he stepped out, dried himself down and looked for his old clothes but they had been taken. “ Hey! where are my………..?” The door opened and in walked Tom with a set of military overalls, boot’s and socks.
“Try these on. I think I have an idea of what size you are.” He set the items down next to Craig who grabbed his forearm.
“Tom, you have to help me. Get me out of here, please, get me out.” Tom swallowed hard and broke away, shaking his head. He turned and looked up at the camera locked onto them and then back at Craig. “Get dressed. It’s a big day.”

 Copyright Phillip Miller


Pigeon pie


Pigeon pie 

By Rob Kingston

Shock waves in the wind
The Robin is to be crowned Great Britain’s king

Not an Owl, not an Eagle or a Black bird
Not a Wren, a Jay, Cuckoo, warbler or Tit
Not a Starling, a Swift, Lark, Magpie or Martin
None of these will be featured to sing.

Not a Sparrow hawk, a Kestrel, Kite or Kingfisher
Cormorant, Coot, Curlew or Crane
A Goose, the Duck or even a Swan
None are the favourite, chosen for fame

For it is the Little Robin red breast they say is the best
That is to be elevated upon Great Britain’s crest
Its vibrancy in song and coat
Are two reasons as to why upon the crest it will float

I question the reasons, I question them all
For I see a more favoured breast to the crest be called
Mount up the pigeon upon this crest
For I see it is he who has answered this nation the best

From carrying messages both wide and far,
Seeing the terror and its many scars
For being there to answer to the nation in difficult times
Providing staples that get rinsed down with wine

A feature upon many land mark town halls
To flocking to the bird lady’s call at St Paul's
Children hand feeding in Trafalgar square
Feverishly flapping as the clangers come to bell bare

Featuring in films throughout time
Showing our London as a place uniquely sublime
Up and down the land
The mighty pigeon can be found

So to those residing in a lofty place
Please reconsider to which bird deserves this grace
If it’s on glory be
Then surely it should be the pigeon that deserves being seen

© Robert Kingston     29.12.15


Sunday, 7 June 2020

Syrian debate



Syrian debate 

By Robert Kingston

My ear to the chamber, as a quiet death knell rings out
Questions on sanity, as our past actions come about
Challenging times, a bequeath of Blair
Our parliamentary representatives. Their heads in a snare.

 
They line up on benches, each one with a view
Thoughts on scenes of anarchy, a creation that's not new
they ponder the outcome, of a new war in the Middle East
to battle a group of fundamentalists, who are more akin to beasts

 
Meanwhile, in America, they are reaping what's been sown
Seeds of hatred have festered, are finding their way home
A sleeper cell in the state of California, has risen with a cowardly fight
Their quest accomplished, so many lives they did blight

 
We hear of our leader's tough words as if they themselves are going to fight
In reality, they'll watch from afar, as the whole world ignites
The rhetoric is broad, the media spread it far
This fight is not about integration, it's all about money, oil, property and a big flash car!

 
They say, we have to stop this movement, yet their ideas are from the past
This cycle of intervention, provides no confidence that lasts
Too many soldiers in body bags, too many civilians left in despair
These damn warmongering politicians, too greedy to care.

 
© Robert Kingston 4.12.15


NO ESCAPE



NO ESCAPE 

By Jane Scoggins

Jackie was glad that she had pre-booked her ticket on the train from Newcastle to Kings Cross as it was already pretty full when she got on. A lot of holidaymakers and tourists coming back from the Edinburgh Tattoo perhaps. Settling down at her window seat with a book, she anticipated a good uninterrupted read on the three hour journey. The seat next to her was quickly taken by a young girl who she guessed was a student. They briefly acknowledged each other with a smile before the girl attached earphones to her mobile phone. The sound almost noiselessly emanating Jackie recognised as the voice of Ed Sheeran. They sat in silence until Durham when the girl got off. An elderly gentleman replaced her in the newly vacated seat. He smelled faintly of peppermints. He nodded off almost as soon as the train started moving. He reminded Jackie of a contented baby asleep in a car seat. Not that she knew anything about babies really. She was not married and had no children. Well not yet. Time for that. First, she had to meet Mr Right. She did not want to dwell on this, and quickly got back into her book and was soon totally absorbed in Jack Reacher. The elderly gentleman had finished his catnap by York, in time to organise himself to get off 20 minutes later at Doncaster. The seat beside Jackie remained empty until Peterborough when a flurry of activity on the platform resulted in quite a lot of people getting onto the train. The majority had football scarves and hats, and were all in jovial mood with cans of beer. Must be a game on London way Jackie surmised. Disinterested, she returned to her book, shut herself off from the chatter and lowered her head to the page. The plot was getting exciting and she was quickly reabsorbed in the story. Soon after the train left the station, Jackie was aware of someone sliding into the seat beside her. Not wanting to be distracted she did not turn to look directly at the passenger, but briefly looked sideways to see if it was a man or woman. She did not raise her sight higher than waist level to see the person’s face but enough to know it was a man wearing good quality trousers and fashionable leather shoes, and smelled faintly and pleasantly of lemons. The lower arms were encased in the sleeves of a dark puffa type jacket, and the hands elegantly slim, with well manicured nails. The man put a black canvas bag at his feet. Such beautiful hands Jackie thought I wonder if he plays the piano? So lovely were his hands that she felt too shy to raise her eyes to his face, in case that too was as attractive and he would see her blush.
After a few minutes, when Jackie had returned to her reading, the man leaned-in slightly towards her, and in a soft voice in a foreign accent said
  '' I have a gun, so don't move, don't speak, don't scream. Stay still and silent''
   Turning slowly to meet his gaze, Jackie was shocked to see his face. It was neither beautiful or handsome as she had anticipated. His dark eyes were cold and his lips had a cruel twist. His jaw was set in a way that compounded her rising terror. Her slight involuntary move away prompted him to push something hard and gun like into her side between the adjoining seats. Surprised she was able to speak at all, and in her shock momentarily forgetting his hushed words to keep silent, she ventured in a whispered stammer
  '' What do you want?''
   ''Nothing. Just sit tight until we get to Kings Cross. I will tell you what to do''
    He paused before continuing in a thick measured possibly eastern European accent. He was cool,  professional, coldly dominant.
     '' You will walk with me from the train when we arrive at Kings Cross, and then with me through the barrier. I will hold your arm as if we are friends, or partners, and you will say nothing, and will not draw attention in any way at all. I will tell you what to do after that. Just be ready to do exactly what I tell you, and when I tell you. If you do not follow these instructions I will shoot you dead and let you drop to the floor, and walk away amidst the crowds. The gun has a silencer so you see it will be very easy for me. I have used a gun many times before, I am very good, and very accurate.

So do not think for one minute, or even one second, that I will not do it.''
He smiled with menace close to her face, to confirm his confidence and his intent, leaving Jackie under no misapprehension that he would not carry out his threat. To make sure that the horrified young woman was crystal clear about his intentions he pulled the gun away slightly from her side, enough to give Jackie a glimpse of the weapon, and confirm to her that it really was a gun. He then pushed it more purposefully back into her side.
To maintain Jackie’s terror the man continued to whisper cruel threats, and to describe tortures and rape. Jackie had no idea whether any of this was to be his intention for her, or whether he was just enjoying the gratification of telling her and to watch the terror on her face.
 As the train got nearer to London Kings Cross railway station Jackie’s thoughts turned to the canvas bag at their feet. Did it contain a bomb she wondered? Was this man a terrorist? What was going to happen to innocent people milling about in their hundreds on Kings Cross station when they arrived arm in arm, him carrying a canvas bag in one had and a gun in the other pressed into her side and ready to shoot her and maybe others, dead. She tried not to think of her family, her dear kind parents and her sister. They would be devastated. So frozen with fear she could do nothing but sit rigidly in her seat and wait for instruction from her captor, and pray to God that she, and possibly others would be spared a terrible ending.
As the train pulled into one of the largest busiest railway stations in the country, there were so many passengers getting their belongings and suitcases ready to get off as soon as the train stopped at the platform, that no one noticed as the man helped the woman from her seat and with bag in hand guided her like a friend or lover from the train, and along the crowded platform towards the barrier, tickets ready. Jackie moved as in a dream. The man reminding her constantly to look ahead, not speak or draw attention. His grip on her arm was vice-like just in case she tried to pull away or faint in terror. He continued to steer her zombie like through a crowd of football fans even when they were through the barrier. No one took any notice of them, Jackie felt completely invisible. In such shock and fear as she was, and had been for the last hour, it was a few seconds before she realised when the vice like grip had loosened. In fact it had gone. Standing still she realised that the man beside her had disappeared, somehow melted into the chaotic throng of passengers on the station concourse. Still unable to move, and terrified of the man’s return or what he had gone to do, Jackie remained motionless for sometime. Then turning slowly on the spot she looked around her. She could not see him, but dare she move. After a minute she moved slowly away to stand by a group of people checking a timetable. After some time and feeling a bit more brave about observing her surrounds she saw a Community Police Officer but did not feel safe enough to approach him initially. Eventually she attracted his attention when he walked close by, but was still in so much shock she didn't know what to say, or how to say it. Realising the woman was upset or traumatised, he guided her to a quiet area and in faltering words of one syllable Jackie indicated her situation. The police officer quickly escorted her to a private office and phoned for help to interview her. This all took some time and although officers were dispatched, the man Jackie had described had long gone from the station. He had disappeared. Even CCTV was not helpful. The man was clearly a professional and knew how to camouflage himself and cover his tracks.
  Six months on and the man had not been found or even identified. Jackie remained in an acutely anxious state from her ordeal, knowing he was still out there. Taking medication and receiving counselling Jackie was unable to return to her job. Instead, she took part time work in a small office where she could walk to and from avoiding the use of public transport. She knew that for some time to come she would not escape her fears. Looking for Mr Right was put on hold.

Copyright Jane Scoggins

Saturday, 6 June 2020

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