Write me a Love Story Ch 9

Write me a Love Story Ch 9

By Janet Baldey

CHAPTER 9

         As the days shortened, the work on the farm intensified.  Autumn is always a busy season and this year was no different:  every day that passed carried us nearer to winter and it was essential that the farm should be battened down and weatherproofed before the first of the snow came. Time was passing and there was a burning sense of urgency about everything we did.  I hadn’t thought it possible to work any harder but with Georg by my side I did, and although I got tired it wasn’t with the mind-numbing exhaustion of earlier days. 

        

         By the end of October, we’d planted a crop of spring greens in the top field, checked the hedges and fencing around the farm and cleared the ditches of debris.  My woodshed was full and the barn was stacked to the roof with bales of hay for the cows.  As soon as the weather showed signs of closing in, I would have to bring them in from the field and pen them in the yard.
        

         But although winter was hovering just across the threshold, there were still days when it was warm enough to dry washing outside. One day I had just finished pegging out when it struck me that I hadn’t thought of the war for ages.  I looked around:  the farmhouse dozed in the sunshine, Georg was busy cutting wood and there was the occasional flash as sunlight caught the blade. All I could hear was the dull thwack of the axe and the contented chuckling of the hens pecking at the ground. It was all so peaceful; it seemed impossible that only a few hundred miles away people were fighting and dying. I felt a sudden stab of melancholy. Something was wrong and sometimes in the long reaches of the night I lay awake trying to work it out.  Surely, with a husband in the army I should be out of my mind with worry. Instead, for days at a time I never thought about Frank at all. I knew it wasn’t so with the other women.  Whenever I went to market I could see the lines etched upon their faces deepening week by week. Almost all had a husband, son, or brother in the forces and many had relatives in the cities and they were constantly on edge. I wondered what was wrong with me. Maybe all those sterile years growing up in the orphanage had killed something inside me; some essential spark had been snuffed out from lack of early love. Perhaps I was a freak. But if I couldn’t feel it followed that I couldn’t suffer and I couldn’t work out if that was a blessing or a curse.

        

         Enough:  I dumped my laundry basket on the ground. I would go for a ride.   That would lift me out of the doldrums. Maybe I would visit Sarah at Fernside; after all it might be my last chance before the bad weather set in.

        

         Rising and settling in the saddle, I felt my face glow as the wind combed my hair straight back from my scalp. Barley seemed just as exhilarated and her hooves skimmed the tussocks, propelling her plump body over the ground in a steady canter.    

        

         All around us the world was changing colour. The tips of the reeds surrounding the marshy pools were yellow, and a squally wind sent showers of flame coloured leaves raining down from the trees. Even the sky was different, its blue containing a hint of steel.

        

         As we clattered into the yard we were met by Tom.

        

         “Here. I’ll take her.” He grasped the pony’s bridle. “Nice to see you, Flora.   Sarah’s in the kitchen. Go on through.”

        

         Sarah’s face, red and shiny from baking, shone even more as I walked into the room.

         “

         How lovely. Come and give us a hug.” She held out her arms. “You’ve timed it just right. We can have a good natter before the mob get back from school. You must try some of my Christmas cake and see what you think.”

        

         I sank into a soft chair listening to the chink of china and water gushing into the kettle.  Sarah’s kitchen was larger than mine, chaotic but cheerful with sunshine yellow paintwork.  Scrawled crayoned drawings were tacked to the walls and cupboard door and I felt a sudden pang.  Children had never been part of Frank’s plan and sometimes I envied Sarah and Tom.       

At last Sarah put a loaded tray onto a low table and collapsed into a chair opposite. She filled our cups and we exchanged a few nuggets of gossip but then I found myself telling her what I suddenly realised had been in the back of my mind all along; my scene with Becca.

        

         “I really don’t know what I’ve done to upset her, Sarah. But she seems to hate me.”

        

         Sarah was quiet for a long time. When she looked up, her eyes were wary.

         “Of course, you know what it’s really all about don’t you?”

        

         “Haven’t a clue. What do you mean?”

        

         “Do you remember when you first arrived in the village?  When you started work at the Manor?”

        

           “Yes, of course.” As if I could ever forget; it was my first glimpse of life outside the orphanage and I’d been scared to death.

        

         “Becca, used to work there as well. I don’t know whether you realised that.   She left just before you arrived. I say left, she was sacked actually. There was some sort of scandal.  I don’t know the details, but I do know that Becca has always suffered from sticky fingers.”

        

         “No, I didn’t know.  But what’s that got to do with me?”

        

         Sarah pursed her lips, tilting her head to one side.“Perhaps you remember a certain gardener’s boy?  A very good looking lad as I recall.”

        

         “Frank?”

        

         She nodded.  “Before you arrived, he and Becca had been going steady for a long time. Then, she went and you came along and nabbed her man.”

         I gaped at her.

         “

         Close your mouth, Flora.”

        

         “I never knew that. Honest I didn’t. But in any case, that was years ago. She’s married to Joe now.”

         “Not much of a catch though, is he? I’ve always thought she married him on the rebound. I have a feeling she’s never got over Frank. In fact…..” Her mouth snapped shut.

        

         “What?”

 “Nothing.”

        

         “Come on, Sarah. You started to say something. You must tell me now.”

        

         She gave a sigh. “Look, I shouldn’t be saying this. I don’t really know if it’s true or not, it’s just that something tells me….” Her voice trailed into silence.

        

         “Sarah!”

        

         “Okay. It’s just that sometimes I wonder if it ever finished.”

        

         All the breath left my body, and I sat feeling as if I’d been punched in the stomach.  Then, I shook my head until the tips of my hair stung my cheeks.

        

         “No. You’re quite wrong. You must be.”

        

         “It’s possible.”

        

         Time paused as the suggestion settled into my mind.  “Well, I’ll find out when he gets back.”

         It was then that Sarah dropped her second bombshell.

“If he comes back.”

        

         “What do you mean?”

        

         “Flora, how certain are you that Frank has actually joined the Army?” 

“What are you talking about?  Of course he has.”

“But it was very strange that he didn’t discuss it with you first wasn’t it?   And he left very suddenly.  Do you know where he’s stationed?  And what’s his regiment?”

Dumbly, I stared at her. I had no idea and these were basic questions. Feeling a little sick, I realised that, in a normal relationship, any wife would have known the answers.

        

         “I’m really sorry love, but I’m not the only one who wonders.  Rumours are flying around the village and it’s best you should learn what’s being said from a friend.”

        

         She hesitated. “There is one more thing. You know that Becca”s expecting again. She must have found out round about the time Frank left.”

        

         “So what, Becca’s always pregnant.”

        

         “But perhaps this time it’s different. Maybe this time it’s not Joe’s baby.  And if it isn’t Flora, what do men do when they’re in a fix? “

* * *

It was a good thing that Barley knew the way back.  As the pony’s hooves left a swathe of flattened grass behind us, I slumped in the saddle. I’d been watching Sarah’s face as she talked. The look in her eyes had told me a lot; she hadn’t been repeating idle gossip simply for the sake of it. She believed all she’d told me; otherwise I was sure she wouldn’t have said a word.  Sarah was no fool and neither was she a mischief maker. I thought of the letters Frank had sent. At the time I’d noticed there was no address. I’d put it down to carelessness but the more I thought about it, the stranger it seemed.  And it was odd the way he’d changed in the weeks before he left. The way he kept shutting himself away: he said it was to listen to the news but maybe that wasn’t the whole truth.  And what was it people said?  ‘The wife is always the last to know.’ 
        

I thought I was in for another sleepless night but to my surprise, I slept soundly and awoke refreshed. As I dressed, there was lightness in my movements as if a great weight had been lifted from me. At some point during the night something had changed and at first I couldn’t think what. I ran downstairs to fill the kettle and switched on the wireless, and it was while I was humming in tune with the music that I suddenly realised that I no longer felt guilty about not loving Frank.

Copyright Janet Baldey

Kitchen Godless.

Kitchen Godless.

by Shelley Miller

🥘I'm regarded as retarded
`Cause my IQ is below
A number all the clever ones
Consider to be low.

🥘But I can bake a flaky flan
And spoil a spud or two,
And I can spin a smoothy
Full of berries, red and blue.

🥘I'm a ninny in a pinny
`Cause I cannot count to 3
As the clever ones move up
A notch, and grimace down at me.

🥘But they'll never cook a curry
Quite the same as what I do,
The kind that makes you scurry
In a hurry to the loo.

🥘Or make a gloopy soup of pea
And ham to wash it down,
To traumatise your taste buds
In shades of green and brown.

🥘I'm regarded as retarded
That's a cheeky pack of lies,
But at least I have a kitchen
Long deserted by the flies.

🥘Cuisine that makes you queasy,
Makes your tummy somersault,
Is a skill that I've been done for,
Never mind...just pass the salt.

© Copyright S.C.Miller.

FIFTY SHADES OF RED

FIFTY SHADES OF RED

By Richard Banks                                                                               

If Jenny is not the most jealous woman in the world I do not wish to meet the one that is; she would doubtless be green and glow in the dark. That’s not to say that I don’t love Jenny. Of course, I do; after ten years of blissful wedlock, I am the most fortunate of men. Fortunate in all things except the blight she has cast over my dealings with that half of the human race manifesting itself to be female. With them, I must maintain an aloof indifference bordering on disdain. At the beginning and end of social engagements, there must be no pecking of cheeks, the only physical contact to be entered into is a limp handshake, a fleeting engagement of fingers, that avoids the interlocking of fleshy palms. However, low the neckline of a woman I must never allow my gaze to stray below her chin. Eye contact of any kind, especially that too lingering and capable of misinterpretation is, also to be avoided.

         Usually, I observe their noses and for that reason am more likely to recognise a woman of my acquaintance by her nostrils than any other aspect of her being. Indeed, it is my contention that no one, at least no woman, has a nose of the same shape and dimensions. When I retire from the Civil Service I will write a book about it. As a means of identifying those of a criminal disposition it can, I am sure, be every bit as effective as fingerprinting and DNA.

         However, I digress, the subject under discussion is jealousy, not noses. To be deflected from the former would be to defeat my objective which is to explain the unfortunate circumstances of the Ionian Club dance. By using the word unfortunate in connection with the dance I have no wish to cast aspersions on an occasion which, I am sure, was much enjoyed by everyone but myself. I too would have enjoyed it had it not coincided, and borne witness to the most embarrassing predicament of my life. The account of that evening I am about to give is intended not just to explain but to warn. Let no man do as I did or the firm foundation of his being will surely crumble.

         That such a thing should happen in the august surroundings of the Belvedere Assembly Rooms and in the presence of the Lord Mayor and other distinguished guests shows that no person or place is immune from the ravages of fate. But one must always be vigilant and sadly I was not, but then it should not have been an occasion requiring vigilance, none had been needed at previous dances.

         In truth, the club dance was a predictable affair. One turned up, chit-chatted to anyone Jenny considered to be useful or important, ate from the buffet and did the dances one could do. Occasionally I would be dispatched to the bar to buy one of the useful men a drink, leaving Jenny free to toady up to his wife who was usually on the committee of a club she wanted to join. On such occasions I would buy him a G&T and a mineral water for myself. This last detail is important. My actions that evening were in no way influenced by alcohol. I was not drunk, I am not allowed to be drunk. To incur the odium of drunkenness would be to violate a sacred trust, the unspoken wedding vows of which Jenny is both custodian and umpire. I must play a straight bat, no chances taken, no catching out. Ten years the batsman I, at last, fell to the googly that was the Ionian Club raffle.

         I have never won a raffle and this one was no exception – 24 numbers adrift and the wrong colour ticket. As usual, I affected an expression of amused indifference and tried not to think unkindly of the winner who for the third year running was the wife, or significant other, of a local counsellor. Mrs Hamilton- Forbes stepped forward to receive the large Samsung television that was her prize and as the band reassembled for the remaining dances the television was wheeled away on a tea trolley borrowed from the kitchen. As to where it was being taken I knew not and cared even less. Jenny had also been taken away by Freddie Dewhurst for the purpose of dancing the foxtrot, and as Freddie had brought no significant other of his own to the dance I was relegated to the status of looker on. I consoled myself with a sausage roll from the depleted largess of the buffet and retreated to our table at the back of the hall.

         I had no sooner sat down when I became aware of a woman walking purposely towards me. I stood up to receive her and, with my usual discretion, looked her fully on the nose. Her voice, when she spoke, suggested that she was of the labouring class and this she herself confirmed by saying that she was Mrs Hamilton-Forbes’ maid. Her mistress, she said, had given instructions that the television was to be placed in a vehicle belonging to her husband. As she was unable to do this by herself she required the assistance of, “a strong man,” and thought I would do. Of course, I should have been suspicious. Why pick me when the captain of the rugby team was only two tables away? Sadly flattery and vanity are a seductive combination and in their company, the sweet voice of reason is seldom heard. Having used my peripheral vision to ensure that Jenny was still occupied by the intricacies of the foxtrot and unlikely to notice my departure with said maid I quickly followed her to the cloakroom where the television had been left.

         I readily confess that it was somewhat heavier than I anticipated and after only a dozen steps I was already regretting my unstated, but implicit, assertion of bodily strength. Only the realisation that the dropping of the television would be deeply damaging not only to its functioning but also to Jenny’s social aspirations sustained my increasingly painful progress to the exit. The automatic doors opened before me and the maid ushered me towards a van and on her opening its back doors I set down my burden in its surprisingly shabby interior. Having shut said doors she bid me a cheery goodbye and before I could splutter a reply clambered into the van beside the unseen person of the driver.

         Resisting the urge to sink like a stone in water I maintained an upright posture while observing their departure from the car park. As the pain in my arms subsided I about turned and on legs, both trembling and unresponsive to my navigational promptings passed slowly back into the foyer. Returning to the dance I found Jenny in deep conversation with Mrs Fitzroy on the periphery of the dance floor. By the time she rejoined me, I was back to my normal self and after the formality of the last waltz, we departed for home.

         And that was that, or so I thought, but the next day the shrill and urgent ringing of our telephone heralded the news that the television won by Mrs Hamilton-Forbes had been stolen. At first, I assumed that it had been taken from the van where I had placed it, but when it became apparent that this was not the case I gradually concluded that I had been an unwitting accomplice in its abduction. Hoping that everything could be smoothed over without Jenny knowing I removed myself, after lunch, to the police station and gave them a full account of what had happened. It was, I said, a mistake that anyone could have made, but the young constable taking my statement seemed not to agree.

         “Did I know the woman claiming to be the maid?”

         “No, of course not,” I replied.

         “Then how did you know that she was what she said she was? Was she wearing a uniform?”

         I confessed that I did not know. The Constable raised his eyebrows in questioning fashion and I responded, as best I could, by saying that the woman in question had assured me that she was a maid and that in the hallowed company of fellow Ioanians that was good enough for me. The Constable asked for a description of said maid and when I described her as fleshy, bulbous and of a large protruding shape he volunteered his opinion that this was the oddest description of a suspect he had ever heard. He was even less impressed when I told him I was describing her nose. Having completed my statement the Constable left me to consult with his Sergeant who judging by his raucous laughter was a very jolly fellow who I felt sure would be favourably disposed to myself and other noble Ioanians. The Constable returned to say that I was free to leave adding the proviso that I should remain in the neighbourhood in case my further assistance was needed.

         I was, therefore, not surprised when two days later the Constable phoned to request the pleasure of my company at a further interview. On this occasion, he was accompanied by his Sergeant whose severe expression suggested that his previous jollity was, at best, a distant memory. They came quickly to the point. CCTV coverage of the car park had identified both van and maid resulting in the arrest of a George and Tracy Hudson who having confessed their guilt were unable to account for the present whereabouts of the television.

         The camera footage of myself showed me to be unsteady on my feet. Had I been drinking? asked the Constable. Did I know that alcohol was a factor in 61% of recorded crime? At this point the Sergeant leaned forward across the table that separated us, and with unfriendly expression, stared into my eyes as though searching for a deep, unpleasant truth. This I sensed was not going well and as my eyes sparred with those of the Sergeant my ears listened incredulously to the words of the Constable. The Hudsons, he said, had made a statement significantly different from my own. 

      

         According to them the plan to abduct the television had been conceived by myself and that they, down on their luck and desperate for the £20 I paid them, were reluctant recruits to my criminal enterprise. Unaware of the recent installation of CCTV they had driven from the Assembly Rooms to a lay-by on a country road where they handed the television to a criminal associate of myself. They were, so they said, deeply ashamed of their actions which were completely out of character with their previously blameless lives. They now realised that they were the hapless dupes in a conspiracy conceived by myself to steal the television and put the blame on themselves. Had they not encountered my malign and corrupting influence they would never have even considered the criminal act which would forevermore be a stain on their character.

         Three months later I heard the same story movingly related by the female Hudson at my trial in the Crown Court. I have to admit she was extremely convincing and had she been speaking of any other man but myself I would have believed her every word.

         I await the verdict of the jury in a police cell. Faced with the prospect of a custodial sentence my only consolation is that I may now have time to write my treatise on noses. Jenny’s thin and pointed protuberance will, of course, be featured. I will colour it green. My own is red with shame and embarrassment. It may never be pink again.

Copyright Richard Banks   

THERE WAS NO CHOICE I HAD TO GO ALONE

THERE WAS NO CHOICE I HAD TO GO ALONE

(A VILLANELLE)

By Peter Woodgate

There was no choice I had to go alone

When divisions in belief showed lack of care

I grasped the words carved on those slabs of stone.

Planted them in this head of skin and bone

Used them as a base for daily prayer

There was no choice I had to go alone.

To bouts of deep regression I was prone

When viewing scenes that looked to be unfair

I grasped the words carved on those slabs of stone.

A message fabricated like the tone

Caused the bedrock fabric to tear

There was no choice I had to go alone.

And whilst they laughed I heard somebody groan

Would I believe it when they said “we care”?

I grasped the words carved on those slabs of stone

I would not listen to their idle drone

The credence in my heart did not compare

There was no choice I had to go alone

I grasped the words carved on those slabs of stone.

Copyright Peter Woodgate

Saddie a Lady of the Night

Saddie a Lady of the Night

By Sis Unsworth

Saddie was a lady, a lady of the night,

when she heard we were in lockdown, it did give her a fright.

So Saddie wrote to Boris and tried hard to explain,

I can’t social distance my clients would complain.

I want things back to normal, that’s what I desire,

They will not give me furlough and I’m too young to retire.

Saddie couldn’t type so she handwrote with a pen,

then put it in an envelope addressed to number ten.

She didn’t have an income, and found it hard to cope,

Then, she heard about a food bank and that gave her some hope.

A letter came from Boris, who was sad to hear her plight,

He said it must be difficult, for a lady of the night.

He suggested that she leave the streets, and try to work from home,

She could always try the internet or even use the phone

He understood her problem and knew it was a task,

He did then just remind her, she could always wear a mask!

Then she put the letter down, but didn’t have a clue,

She’d be out of work a long time, and wondered what to do?

So, if you’re feeling anxious and your future don’t seem bright,

Spare a thought for Saddie, a lady of the night…

Copyright Sis Unsworth

The Waxwell Road Mob (Part 2 & Last)

The Waxwell Road Mob (Part 2 & Last)

By Len Morgan

June's mobile phone lit up, 'Winnie the Pooh, Winnie the…'

“Hello?   Hi Karen.   Yes…  Yes…  Yes…   Of course.   Steve can bring him over any time.”  June covered the mouthpiece, “Karen’s been taken into hospital, the baby is coming, Steve’s bringing Connor down, he should be here in about half an hour.”

“Don’t worry about him Karen, he’ll be fine with us.   He can keep Dad amused, and give Bugs some intelligent conversation, and somebody to take him w-a-l-k-i-e-s.   Take care love; see you in a few days.  Bye."

"Did you hear that Len?"

“Every word, hope the dogs have short memories."

Sue growled deep in her throat. 

 Muffin gave a shrill sharp howl.

Mia maintained an inscrutable look because she’d never met Connor. 

Bugs yawned deeply, the kid’s alright, Bugs thought.

Twenty minutes later a horn sounded and they heard footsteps running up the drive.   Len went down on his haunches to welcome his beaming ten-year-old grandson with a bear hug.  “Hello mate, you’re looking well.    Let’s get your case into the spare room.”

“Where’s Nan?”

“Where do you think?   In the kitchen, I hope you’re hungry.”

Connor ran into the kitchen and hugged June.   Muffin was close behind him growling, as she nipped at his heel.

“Ouch!   That hurt.”

“Muffin!” Len scooped her up and placed her outside the back door.   “You can stay there until you calm down.”

“I don’t like her!”  Connor said, close to tears.

“Show me your heel,” said June.   “Ahha!  No skin is broken, that was just her way of showing you whose boss. 

“Here,” said Len offering a tube of cream.

“What is it?”

“It’s a special Anti-Muffin-Nip cream; it’ll cure you in no time.”

June smiled and rubbed some onto the faintly reddened heel. “There how does that feel?”

“Much better thanks, Nan, why doesn’t she like me?”

“She thinks anybody new is an intruder.”

“But, I’m not,” he protested hugging her.

“I know, but it’s her job to check out visitors and decide if they can join our pack.   It’s a sort of initiation.”

“Like when I went to my new school, they wouldn’t talk to me until I shot a few baskets, in the playground and Colin Lang said I was okay and I could join his team.”

“They let you have guns at school?   Len, I’m not sure I’m happy about that. It’s becoming more like the USA here, every day.”

“He’s talking basketball love; 'the shooter' is the equivalent of the ‘Goal Shooter’ in netball.”

“Ah!   Would you believe it, basketball; as I said, more like America every day.   Muffin will soon come round, and accept you as part of the family,” said June.

“Where’s my friend Bugs?   He likes me,” said Connor.

“He’s in here, stretched out on the sofa,” Len said glancing at the front page of his gardening magazine.

 “Thanks, Granddad.”   He went in search of the oldest of the four Chihuahua’s, whilst June opened the back door and let Muffin back in.

“Hello Bugs, can I sit here?”   He flopped on the cushion beside Bugs and began to stroke him.

Muffin burst into the room “Row, rowrowrowrowrow!”

“Errrr!” said Bugs, So Muffin hopped onto June’s recliner chair.  She curled up like a cat and sat, quiet as a mouse, watching.

“Granddad?”

“Yes mate.”

“Can I take Bugs out for a walk?”

“I’m not sure about that, he’s getting old, he’s fourteen in our years.”

“How much is that in dog years?”

“Well, one of ours is seven dog years,” said June, “so that’s…”

“Ninety-eight,” said Connor.

“My word, your good at mental arithmetic,” said Len.

Connor heard a tinkling sound and looked down.   Bugs sat at his feet with a blue leather lead in his mouth and his tail wagging.   “I think Bugs wants to come,” said Connor.

“June, come and see this.”

“Well, I’ve never seen him do that before,” said June.

“Take it off him quickly, before the others see, or they’ll all want to go w-a-l-k-i-e-s,” Len spelt the word out.

“Walkies?” said Connor.

Muffin buried herself under cushions, while Mia and Sue jumped up and down excitedly.

“Now you’ve done it,” said June.

“I’ll take you two when I get back,” Connor promised.   They followed Connor and Bugs to the front door, watched them walk down the garden path, and out through the front gate.

.-...-.

"I think we could walk as far as Watery Lane, and then we can sit on the bench and rest awhile before coming back.”   Bugs looked up at him and seemed to nod in agreement.  

An older boy ran by with a bull terrier on a thick rope and choke chain.   “Pussy,” he yelled at them.

Connor ignored him.   They walked off slowly, side by side until they reached the bench and Connor sat down.

'Get me up, this pavement is cold'.   The words just seemed to form in Connor’s mind.

“Did you speak?”  He looked around for somebody who might be playing a trick on him.   The lane was deserted.

'Just get me up please?'

He took off his jacket and folded it for bugs to sit on.   They sat there a while in silence, Connor stroking Bugs, looking around to be sure nobody was watching.

“Was that really you in my head Bugs, or am I going bonkers?” he whispered.

'You're Okay kid, you can hear me but nobody else can.'

“Why me?”   He sighed, “Haven’t I got enough problems?   I’m about to become a big brother.”

'How the hell should I know, I don’t make the rules.   I’m fourteen and I've had a good life, you’re a kid just like Mia, but you’re ten just four years younger than me.   If you were a dog you’d be…'

“Seventy, yes I know.”

'I was about to say Geriatric.   Life ain't fair.'

“You got that right Bugs.”

'What have you got to worry about?   Okay, so you’re a ‘Gofer’ well that’s an honourable profession, somebody has to do it, and since humans have hands, it’s something you’re well equipped for.   So you do all the fetching and carrying for us dogs.   That’s not so bad, is it?   You can go out whenever you like and have money you can spend.   You even get to spend some on yourselves occasionally.  All in all I’d say you got it cushy.'

“Yea?   What about bullies beating up on me and calling me rotten names in front of everybody and the threats...”

'Don’t worry about Muffin, she’ll come around.   You’re a decent kid, what’s not to like?'

“I’m talking about school.   You heard that big guy with the bulldog..."

'Bull Terrier.'

“Whatever.   Nobody likes me, the teachers are always getting at me, and Uncle Kelvin says they’re only doing it for my own good.   Granddad says I’ve got to give as good as I get…"

'I’d say as bad as ye get.'

“It gets so bad sometimes I wish I was dead!”

'You wanna change places?'

  “Can we?”

'Nah!   It’s just wishful thinking kid.   Maybe you could get into training and learn to run real fast.   Then, you just hit that sucker as hard as you can and run like hell!'

Connor smiled briefly.   “I wish I was an adult, then everything would be simple.”

'Sorry to mess with your dreams kid, but the big guy got laid off a month ago, he just mopes around the house, searching the internet, writing endless letters.   All the funs gone out of him, why today’s the best I’ve seen him in a long time.   It doesn’t get easier with age, take it from me.'

“What am I gonna do Bugs?”

'I guess you just gotta say enough’s enough - I ain’t gonna take no more!   But, what do I know about it, I’m just a mutt.'  

“Your right Bugs, I’m feeling sorry for myself and you obviously have troubles of your own.   Do you want to tell me?”

'Wouldn’t want to bore you with my trivial afflictions.   Renal deterioration, possible kidney failure, I’m on tablets for it but— Heh!   Veterinary bills, cost an arm and a leg,   Have you seen the strength of the big guy's eyeglasses?   He cuts tiny little tablets into four to get the dose right, then he wraps them in strong cheddar cheese to disguise them so I’ll eat them.   Ain’t that somethin?'

“O-oh!   Here comes the bulldog again.”

'Bull terrier.'

“Who’s talking about the dog?”

“Hey woose, where did you find that scrawny little rat.”

“This scrawny rat is a man-eating Chihuahua!   He’d have your runt for breakfast, but he doesn’t eat anything that small.”

“Why you—  Get him, Spike!"   He released the choke chain and Spike growled and charged towards them.  

Bugs roared 'Rabies!'    And went for Spike, biting his right leg.   Spike howled in pain and ran off down the street, with his tail between his legs, yelping.

“Now it’s your turn Ugly-puss,” Connor yelled.

Ugly-puss’s face distorted into a snarl but as Bugs turned towards him he looked less certain.   He lashed out with his foot kicking Bugs high into the air.   Bugs landed with a thud and lay still.

“You asshole!”   Connor screamed and ran in like a dervish, fists flying.   He landed one two three punches and Ugly-puss turned and ran.  
“You and that dog are mad!   I’m gonna tell my dad.”

Connor turned towards Bugs, tears in his eyes, and tried to lift him.

'Don’t!   Get the big guy; he’ll know what to do.'

.-…-.

The young Vet looked grave.   He placed his stethoscope to Bugs’s chest for the third time and shook his head.   “Considering his age, medical history and his current condition, I doubt we can restore him to anything like the quality of life he deserves.”

“You think it best we have him put to sleep?” June asked.   Len stood stoically, to one side, tears pooling in his eyes. 

“Don’t let him die, Granddad, it was my fault…”

'Don’t be so melodramatic kid!   You didn’t make me do nothing; did you see that Bull terrier run though?   It was worth two months of my life just for that moment.   And, look at you!   Taking on a tough guy a foot taller and older than yourself – he was nearly a man – he ran an he ran heh heh!   It’s my time kid, It’s only at the end we are given the gift of mind speech and even then it’s only special dogs that get it.  Say goodbye to me like a man, and don’t forget what you learned today.

“I’ll give you a few moments to consider which action is in his best interest, but he is in a lot of pain.   If he were human he wouldn’t get the humane choice, he would be made as comfortable as possible and be forced to linger.”

“No need to prolong his suffering, If the right thing is to let go,” said Len.

“Would you like to hold him for me?”

“I’ll do it said Connor,” he felt the adults hands on his shoulders, and as he cupped Bugs’s head in his own hands Connor felt the love flow in both directions.

“Goodbye Bugs.”

Bye kid.  Don’t take no shit!

Copyright Len Morgan

The Waxwell Road Mob (Part 1 of 2)

The Waxwell Road Mob (Part 1 of 2)

By Len Morgan

“Urf rrr urf rrrrr,” it was ‘the watcher’, Muffin.

“Raff rer-raff,” Sue leaps from the bed but is only the second Chihuahua to hit the floor running.

“Ro rororo,” Mia is a tireless toughie, the puppy of the pack.

The letterbox rattles and a chorus of canine voices give warning to the paperboy - enter at your peril.

A rolled-up newspaper appears, enticingly, four feet from the ground.   Each has their speciality and ‘the jumper’ is Sue it’s what she does best.   She sinks several inches then springs high above the letterbox grabbing the interloper in her mouth and with a deft twist of her head pulls it free of the box and throws it, in one single practised movement, down to the others waiting below.   Mia is the first to attack grasping a corner she twists and jerks upwards producing a satisfying ripping sound, followed by another and another as each, in turn, inflicts wounds on their victim.

Even as they tear at it they can hear bare feet padding rapidly across the lino.   Twist pull throw, one, two, three times, a triple attack from the Waxwell Rd Mob.   They stop, as Len arrives, looking up at him - he can almost read their thoughts – ‘always last to arrive.’   He’s the oldest pack member, and human, need I say more?

“What have you done to June’s paper?”

Mia’s answer is to shred off another two-inch-wide strip from the raggedy heap of punctured newsprint.

“Mia Christa-Dora you’re a bad girl!”

Mia struts away jaunty and self-assured – he loves me really.   As Len stoops to pull the pages into a semblance of order, she begins chewing at his right heel – Mmm not bad.

“You badun!”  

No sense of fun, our gofer.

Returning to the bedroom he throws the paper into June’s lap, “Here’s the remains of your paper, best of luck reading it.   Must be a new paperboy he pushed it too far in and you know our Sue.”

“What are we going to do with you girls, look what you did to my paper!”

Bugs hadn’t bothered to leave the bed with the others, he’d seen it all, done it all before, and chewed up the T-shirt.   He viewed them with contempt – It’s only the Sun – he thinks, attempting to push June over so he can settle more comfortably in the centre of the bed; Bugs weighs 4 pounds, June 160 pounds, but physics was never his strong point.

That’s the trouble with gofers, they’re too wrapped up with personal possessions, Muffin observes, My sox, my coffee, my shoes, my paper, You’d think by now they would realise their station in life and who is really important.

Chihuahua’s thought Bugs 

Precisely, Muffin thought back, licking Mia’s watering eyes.

Len climbs back into bed so Mia straddles his chest, licking his whiskers, - Mmm, stir-fried chicken sauce, we had that last night.

Disgusting, You'll catch his germs, warned Bugs.

Len is starting to nod off, so Mia nibbles his nose and scratches at his beard.

“Ouch!”   You little monkey.   You’re a bad girl!”

And?   She almost smiled.

Bugs got off the bed and padded into the bathroom for a drink.   Ting, ting, ting, ting!   Ting…   Ting, ting, ting!...

“I think Bugs wants the water bowl refilled,” said June.

“Coming Bugs!” The clock projected 06:25 onto the ceiling.

Take your time gofer; guess I’m stuck with what they gave me…   Five minutes later Bugs is out in the garden making room for more.

Len is just dozing off again when Sue hits his chest with a four-footed tackle.   She growls and raises her paw pushing him – wake up!   When he doesn’t move she places the paw on his balding pate and jerks violently.

“Ouch!”

“They want their breakfast,” says June ‘the interpreter'.

Grr wrruff, says Mia.   Muffin watches inscrutable as ever.

“Oww!   Stop it, Sue that hurts.”

Muffin licks Mia’s eyes again.  

They collected Mia six months earlier from Chris Stewart’s Farm; in the Stour valley of Kent.   Both Sue and Muffin came from the same source but two years earlier.   Muffin had been broody just prior to Mia’s arrival and adopted her right off - treating her as her own pup.

“Okay, okay,” said gofer Len, "I know when I'm beaten," getting out of bed for the second time; the red ceiling projection now showed 06:50 but fainter in the dawn light.   “I sometimes wonder who’s in charge here,” he said.

“They are!” said June.   Len didn’t reply.

June turned a page as Bugs snuggled down alongside her.     Muffin took up station on her upper legs a lookout, gazing through the bedroom window at anything that moved, giving a continuous commentary on any and everything happening outside.  

Sue and Mia are in the kitchen pushing and worrying Len ensuring he doesn’t get distracted from the task on hand.   He sets their bowls on the work surface - gold for Sue, green for Mia, blue for Bugs, and white for Muffin, and sets the kettle on to boil.

What’s he doing? Muffin wonders.

Sue pushes his calf with her two front paws, we come first remember?

He goes into the dining room to collect the mugs.   Sue follows, a withering look on her face, "Rrr-rr-ruff."

“Don’t worry Sue, I haven’t forgotten you.”   He bends down to stroke her.

Mia scratches the back of his hand lightly as if to say What about me?    So he gives her some attention as well.   Then back into the kitchen and outcome their individual jars containing small plastic bags of individually wrapped 20g portions of dry dog food.   There are three varieties for each.   Bugs being fourteen has the senior variety with the low protein, Sue is on the diet variety, being overweight,  the biggest non-human in the pack.    Mia is the baby and gets puppy mixture, while Muffin alone has a normal variety.

Len fills the bowls and takes them into the bedroom.   They all clamber onto the bed to await the arrival of their breakfast.   Sue wolfs hers down, and Mia is close behind.   Bugs sniffs it dubiously and looks to see what everybody else has before deciding his is no worse than theirs and starts to eat at a leisurely pace.   Lady Muffin sits patiently beside her bowl, eating nothing, looking out the window until Sue and Mia have finished theirs, and are looking around for more.   As they approach the untouched white bowl they are met with a ferocious snarl.   “Urrr Grrr argh!”   If they have any sense they'll think better of it and look over at Bugs.

“Grrrrrr!”  His upper lip curls and he bares his teeth.  

They turn their interest back to Muffin who is looking out the window and ignoring her food.   Sue moves her head forward slowly and follows it with a timid movement of her left paw.   Muffin snarls again. 

Sue and Mia sit on their haunches watching the other two eat, their faces, pictures of innocence and longing; half a chance and they would pounce and gobble all they could.

Bugs and Muffin eat at their leisurely pace their demeanour says Don’t you wish you had some? 

Mia sidles up beside Bugs keeping her head lower than his.   He keeps his body between her and his food and continues to eat.

As always, Sue and Mia’s wait is in vain, but hope springs…

copyright Len Morgan