The Legacy ~ Part 1 of 3

The Legacy ~ Part 1 of 3

By Len Morgan

   It all began when my estranged grandfather died leaving me his house and its grounds.

We'd not been on speaking terms, for some years, so I was surprised to receive a letter from his solicitors inviting me to the reading of his will.   I remember it vividly, why didn’t I listen to my wife Elaine and tear it up?

"Clive Alexander Perry," intoned the solicitors’ clerk.   I was the only person left in the room yet he peered around with a questing myopic gaze.

"That's me," I said.

 He started reading... "To my indomitable grandson Clive I leave the family estate, which stands in one and one-half acres of private woodlands, and cultivated gardens.   The land and buildings have been under Perry stewardship, for a dozen generations.   I expect Clive will learn to love and cherish it, as I have, continuing a family tradition by becoming its custodian.   Should he choose not to do so, another will be appointed to take on the task.   To this end, I impose the following conditions.   Namely, that 'the custodian' should take up and prove permanent residence, on a daily basis, for a period of not less than three months, prior to taking up stewardship," He paused and peered over his spectacles in my general direction.    

 “Is that quite clear Mr Perry?"  He asked.  So, I nodded, but he continued to wait...

It wasn't exactly Buck house, but it certainly wasn’t a ruin.   The furnishings were serviceable; mostly antique and excellent quality.  Then there were one and a half acres of prime Essex countryside encircled by a forbidding six-foot granite wall; privacy assured.   It would certainly be worth a bob or two I thought.   Despite having been a complete ass-hole, to poor old Grandpa Perry, during his later years.  
It seemed I would not come out of this situation too badly after all.   
The silence and his questioning gaze persisted.
"Yes," I said.

"The estate had a book value of £1.2 million at last valuation," the clerk continued.  
"Mmm," my mind was far away, hatching schemes for spending 1.2 million.

"There will, of course, be inheritance tax, the current rate is 40%," he added.

I nearly choked; the reality of the situation was not as simple as I’d thought.   But, after some quick mental arithmetic, I cheered up.   Yesterday three-quarters of a million was beyond my wildest dreams.   All I had to do was to remain in residence for three months.   Just answer the phone, at 08:30am & midnight, and talk to the solicitors’ clerk.   Simple!

So, what could go wrong?   Well, I hadn't counted on Elaine’s reaction.  

"If you think I'm giving up my comfortable semi to live in that monstrosity for three months you can forget it!   It’s a cold, damp, rat-infested ruin!”

 She’s a little emotional, with a tendency to over-react, but her pronouncement had the ring of finality.   Well, that’s my wife…

 "My career is more important than a rundown estate out in the sticks; I need to be here, close to the city, where I can keep my fingers on its pulse--" she ranted.

"It's only thirty miles fer cry sake and you've never been closer to it than ten miles..." I interrupted her flow.  But, when her mind’s made up, nothing will budge her.   So I resigned myself to fulfilling the requirements of the legacy; alone.  

I walked outside, "Thank you, Grandpa Perry," I raged at the sky, assuming he'd headed off in that direction. 

.-…-. 

   I tied up the loose ends in my life a week later.  By dropping two suitcases inside the main hall, I effectively took up official residence.

  Opening the refrigerator, I sniffed gingerly at the milk, expecting the worst.  It smelt and tasted quite fresh.  The bacon, eggs, butter, cheese, and bread were fresh.  Maybe somebody had come in the previous day to restock, a neighbourly act?   But, as I recall, Perry hadn’t been very neighbourly.  I sat down and ate a hearty breakfast, it was good, so I helped myself to seconds.   Halfway through, I got to thinking about that refrigerator.   The more I thought the stranger it appeared.   It was incredibly large for domestic use; covering a third of the kitchen wall, extending from floor to ceiling, it was more like a bank vault or a hotel deep freeze.  There was no manufacturer’s name, logo, model or serial number on it, but it looked brand new.   Yet I knew for a fact, it had stood in that same spot for as long as I could remember, since before I was born, and I hadn't set foot over the threshold in eight years.   It had a brushed steel finish but did not feel cold to the touch.   On impulse, I took out my pocket knife and attempted to scratch my initials on it - a recessive vandalism gene at work - "so what?"   It would soon be mine anyway but, it resisted my worst efforts.   At this point, my hackles rose.   I was ready to run away.  From a refrigerator, I thought?   If my friends get wind of that I’ll be a laughing stock.  

‘Fight your Dragons’, was dad's favourite saying, so I walked right up to it and opening the door…

   A closer inspection of the contents showed they were quite normal.   They were fresh but, cool to the touch, nothing was actually cold.  There was milk, eggs, bacon, butter, cheese, bread, booze, cash boxes. 
"Cash boxes!?"   
Two of each I observed identical pairs.   I could swear there had only been two bottles of milk, but there were two inside and one-half empty on the kitchen table.   On impulse, I removed one of the cash boxes, surprised to find them there, the box was locked.   I searched the large bunch of keys the solicitor’s clerk had given me.   Sure enough, there was a small key…   
"Yes!” I said, as the box opened.   
My mind went wild at the sight; it was completely stuffed with cash.   Large-denomination notes, new crisp twenties and fifties,   Thirty neat packs (3'x2'x6') still bearing official treasury bands with the words 'Bank of England £1000' printed on them.   I counted each stack, without removing the band, my mouth was dry from licking my fingers, £30,000!   I was suddenly fearful and checked the serial numbers, watermarks, and holograms, this time my pessimism was unfounded, all the notes were genuine.   I recovered slowly and stashed the money in my briefcase.   I'd often dreamed…   But, I would have to spend three months here before I could consider fulfilling dreams.   Best not think about it, I can do patient.   Trembling with excitement, and feeling thirsty, I quaffed the remaining milk straight from the bottle.   It didn't have the desired effect; did I see beer in there? 

 "Yes,” I reached in and grabbed a large amber bottle, then stepped back in shock.   There were still two cash boxes inside.   A quick glance at the kitchen table confirmed, a third identical box sat on the table empty.

   I sat down and stared at it listening to an ancient timepiece ticking away tiny fragments of my life.   I drank the beer slowly and deliberately, it had warmed a little before I binned the empty bottle.   I was determined, not to be intimidated, I would ignore the red tin box on the kitchen table…   As an afterthought, it followed the bottle into the rubbish bin.  I returned to the refrigerator, for the second bottle, and there on the shelf were two!   I removed one and closed the door it wasn't going to spoil my evening.   Next time I looked there were only two bottles left, I ignored them, my math was correct, instead, I took a bottle of Glenfiddich single malt scotch whiskey and went in search of a glass.   “Two minus one equals two,” I recited.

   At sometime during the evening, I dozed off.   Just after midnight, I awoke vaguely aware the phone had been ringing for a spell.

"Yes," I said.

"Ah!   I was about to give up on you, just needed to know you are still there, I'll ring again in the morning goodnight," said the solicitor’s clerk.  

 I awoke in time to prepare and eat breakfast before the phone rang.

"Look here," I said, "you can hardly expect me to dash home every evening before midnight just to hear you bid me goodnight, I'm not Cinda-fella you know…"

"haha, very droll!  It was your grandfather’s stipulation."   He answered frostily, "you can stick with it or move on and give somebody else a chance, the choice is yours but, if you fail to comply even once, the legacy is forfeit."

"But, what if I had an accident and was taken to hospital…"

"Then you would lose everything!   Be there at midnight and at 8:30am for the next ninety-one days,” he said.  

"What would happen to it if I did default?"

"I imagine your grandfather has made a clear stipulation regarding our course of action in such an eventuality.   Next in line would have to meet the same stipulation."

"You have a list?"

"We will speak again tonight," he said and hung up. 

After breakfast, I placed £10,000 in each of three manila envelopes placing them in my briefcase.   I drove into the centre of Dorriton, and opened accounts for £10,000 each in the two main banks, and £5,000 in the Building Society.  Next, I visited a prestigious local jeweller where I purchased platinum and diamond ear studs and a matching pendant, on sale or return for £4,500, subject to my wife's approval.  I ordered a necklace and bracelet, with matching one and a half carat blue diamonds for £15,000 leaving a deposit of £500.  I ate at a local restaurant and bought a new Mercedes car at the local dealership.  I promised to pay cash the following morning, inferring I’d won a large sum on the lottery.   Back home I placed the jewellery in the refrigerator; I’ve decided, from now on, to call it ‘the box’.   Helping myself to a bottle of beer, I settled to watch horse racing on TV.   Later, I took one set of jewels.   I finished my beer and returned the jewellery to the store accepting a cheque for £4,500, which I deposited in one of the banks.   I drew £5,000 from each of my accounts and placed it in the box with a bottle of fine Cognac, noting as I did so there were two jewel cases in 'the box'.   I closed the door; reopened it to remove a bottle of Cognac.  I checked the serial numbers on the two stacks of £10,000, which confirmed my growing suspicion, stack for stack the numbers were identical.  I would have to bank the money in different locations and allow time for the notes to get well circulated; I could therefore not touch the two cash boxes, each containing £30,000 for at least a month.   I settled down to drink my Cognac in front of the TV and was again roused at midnight by my friendly neighbourhood solicitor’s clerk.

To be continued/...

Part 2:

Copyright Len Morgan

BAD ROOTS

BAD ROOTS

By Peter Woodgate

I spread it on the table,

My completed family tree

Tracing all my ancestors

From cavemen up to me.

My finger wandered over lines

that led to various names,

And next to some, in brackets bold,

were details of the crimes.

It appears that I’ve descended

From a really motley bunch,

Details of which I can’t disclose

When it comes down to the crunch.

Needless to say I have no blue

Running through my veins,

No explorers, inventors or warriors

Or other various fames.

Right at the start, or so it seems

My ancestors made gates,

Fashioned from wood and allowing in

Their families and mates.

Of course, apart from letting in

They were designed to keep some out,

It appears the good could not get in

And the bad could not get out.

So, I’ve been stuck with an iffy past

I can’t change what’s gone before,

The future though, that’s up to me

I’m a villain, say no more..

Copyright Peter Woodgate

Writers Block.

Writers Block.

By Len Morgan

I wrote this to a fellow writer to help him overcome the deadly WB:

  I understand how you must be feeling and that your problem today could be mine, Sarah’s, Amanda’s, Ken’s, or Ron’s tomorrow (nobody is immune).  

  My suggested solution stems from my method of writing.   Some people need to have a complete story in their head before taking pen in hand.   Others jot ideas in a notebook and string them together like pearls.   Yet others decide which formula/theme, and the storyline they intend to use.   They decide on the characters, their ages, sex, names, and psychological profile etc.   Only then do they start to write their story.

  I am in a permanent quasi-state of block.   I haven’t got a clue what to write beyond the simple desire to write.  The act of touching pencil to paper, (I always write in pencil [with rubber to hand]), starts the process and releases words into my mind.  My hand moves, and I write.    From the words I have written come other words; a lot of the time what I write is drivel, but the important thing is that I write.   I have left a record, of an idea or thought process. I suppose I’m just doodling with words, which is why I write with a pencil and rubber.   I usually do not know what it’s about or where it will lead until I’m quite close to the end; when the inspirational idea hits me.

  Here is an example:

 ‘My grandmother had a cat’

I can’t guarantee how this will turn out - but here goes:

  My grandmother had a cat, a true tortoiseshell with long bushy fur, but I’d never figured out until today why he was so universally disliked?   He was friendly and climbed onto your lap, purring contentedly, then after a while, you felt quite at ease stroking him.   She called him ‘Flash’, which I thought was a grand misnomer; a tortoise would have given him a close race.   He was so languid; he even jumped in slomo; like the six million dollar man.   What mattered was that Grandmother adored him and he seemed completely oblivious to the universal loathing he stirred up in people.   The mystery of his name was resolved one day when I witnessed him catching a field mouse, in the garden.   One moment he was on my left; then he was on my right with a tail protruding between his teeth.   But I never understood why he was so universally reviled, until this moment; then it just hit me in a flash.

___________________________________

Here is where the punch line came to me. 

He was ‘BOSSEYED’ I suddenly remembered, I was three years old, he looked at me with such malevolence that my hackles rose and I experienced deep feelings of loathing that persisted, I guess he had the same effect on everybody.   The poor cat moved slowly so as not to bump into things, except when he focused on something specific, the object of his desire, like food, or grandma.

.-…-.

Well that was a spontaneous illustration of how I break my block.

Now it’s your turn, break your block by writing for ten minutes, without stopping, on any or all of the following subjects:

‘What I really hate is…   Have you seen me dance…   My first childhood recollection…   hats I’ve worn…   When I win the lottery…    

Think of some others and do, at least, one every day.

Note: the hi-lited line was added after the punchline came to me.

The Darker Half Chapter 9

The Darker Half Chapter 9

By Janet Baldey

CHAPTER NINE

The unnatural silence had woken her and as soon as she opened her eyes, she realised that something was different.  Her bedroom had an eerie glow and the air was bone chilling, the room felt like a refrigerator with its door open and the moment she sat up she started to shiver. Then she remembered what day it was and, despite the cold, she slipped out of bed.  It took a great effort of will, but she took only a quick glance towards the bottom of the bed before she pushed her feet into her slippers and shuffled towards the window.      

Lifting the curtain, she was met with a blank white wall, etched with spirographs of frost. Scraping a small hole clear, she peered outside. The snow gleamed dully, covering everything, even clinging to vertical surfaces. She wondered how deep it was and marvelled at the transformation that had silently taken place while she was sleeping.   Searching for signs of life and seeing none, her spirits lifted.  Surely none of their aged relatives would venture out in weather like this. She crossed her fingers tightly. Ever since she could remember, her Christmas had been turned into a sort of penance.   Despite ignoring them all year, her mother always held open house for her family at Christmas lunch and from mid-morning onwards, the front doorbell shrilled regularly as a steady stream of elderly aunts, uncles and cousins tottered, limped or waddled into their front room. Chairs were borrowed from all parts of the house, even from her father’s workshop, and withered, chubby and frankly fat, bottoms were jammed into mismatched seats side to side, forming a circle around the room. Anna often wondered why they came. It couldn’t have been for the food.  Her mother was no cook and all morning the bilious smell of brussel sprouts being boiled to a mush seeped into the lounge. 

Despite this, the oldies loved it and the noise levels increased with every glass of alcohol imbibed until they put parrots at the zoo to shame. Even more surprising, rising high above hoots of cackling laughter, Alec’s shrill voice could clearly be heard.  Every Christmas he never failed to amaze, as she witnessed a side to her brother she’d never dreamed of.  He was like a different child.  His usual surly, discontented pout was replaced by a sunny smile and while her father stood by the sideboard measuring out cherry brandy, port and tots of whisky into tiny glasses, Alec stumbled around offering round plates of nuts, crisps and cheese speared on cocktail sticks. The aunts cooed over him, calling him ‘their little pet’ and inviting him to kiss their wrinkled cheeks. The uncles would be gruffer but no less charmed, digging deep into their pockets for pennies to buy sweets. Anna had watched her brother perform before and despite everything always felt a secret twinge of admiration. She couldn’t believe that Alec could change so completely. Instinctively, he knew how to play each of them. With some he was quiet and sweet; with others, he giggled and acted the fool. To Anna’s amazement it worked, they thought he was adorable. It was all show of course. When they’d gone, and behind his mother’s back, he’d sneer at them mercilessly but to their faces he was angelic. Anna decided he must be a born actor and as she slaved away in the steamy kitchen, dishing stringy turkey and overdone vegetables onto cold plates, she wished she could be the same.  Instead she knew very well that when she made her entrance she’d stand, scarlet faced and sweating, feeling tongue-tied, and huge in comparison with her smaller brother.

But perhaps this year, it would be different. Perhaps this year she wouldn’t have to go through all that. She gazed up at the sky. “Snow”, she whispered. “Come on, snow as hard as you like.”  As if in answer, a few flakes drifted down from the charcoal coloured sky.

Comforted, she turned towards the misshapen snake lying at the end of her bed.  Long ago she’d trained herself not to be disappointed by Santa.  He wasn’t to know.   Maybe her being a twin confused him; in any event, he always got it wrong.  Christmas after Christmas, her stocking was stuffed by toys meant for boys – train sets, Matchbox cars, the Eagle Annual. How she longed for something fluffy and cuddly. It wasn’t until she was older that she realised it was all down to her mother. Bitter experience must have taught her that Alec wanted whatever Anna had and she’d lighted upon a solution.  Give them both the same but whatever the cost, Alec had to be kept happy.  

Anna recognised the shapes of the usual apple, orange and nuts together with the diary she always got, but there were also the sharp angles of a square box. Tugging it out from the thick lisle stocking, she gently removed its wrapping paper. This would find its way into her box of treasures - she had Christmas wrapping paper going back years and this time it was robins perched amongst pale green mistletoe leaves.  Inside the wrapping was a bright red box with MECCANO stamped on the lid.  She grinned. For once her present wasn’t a disappointment.  She loved Meccano, although she did wonder at her mother’s choice. Alec would find it difficult.  He’d struggle, and before long, he’d start whining, then grizzling and it would end by him throwing the pieces all over the carpet in a fit of rage.  She had seen it all before. Relishing the peace of the moment, she’d drawn her dressing gown closer and jumped back onto her bed sitting cross-legged on the counterpane.  Opening the box and tipping out the red and green metal pieces, she read the printed instructions and slowly and carefully, began to construct a crane.

        She was so engrossed, at first she didn’t notice the commotion coming from the landing outside her bedroom door. Slowly, she became aware that someone was screaming. Listening, her heart started to beat faster. That was her mother’s voice. Forgetting all about her crane, she jumped off the bed and raced out of her room towards the shrieks that were rapidly increasing in pitch.

      “Oh my Gawd.  What is it?  What is it?  Len come quickly. There’s something in the lav and it’s ‘orrible!”

         When she first got there Anna couldn’t see anything except her father’s broad back. He was standing in the doorway of the bathroom, then he bent and just before her mother started to screech again, she heard the steady drip of water. 

         “Joyce, please.  It’s nothing for you to fuss about.  I’ll deal with it”.  

Her father’s voice was thin as if all his breath had been squeezed out of his lungs and suddenly the hairs on her arms rose as something told her that they had both lost something precious and that life would never be the same again.

         “Dad, what is it? What’s happened?”

         He hesitated, then slowly turned to face her. Wordlessly, he held out his hand and she glimpsed a spiky mass of sodden grey fur lying limply in the centre of her father’s palm.

         Her stomach lurched and she felt sick as she realised what it was. She didn’t want to see but she couldn’t look way.

“Oh no,” she whispered.

         “Must have been thirsty, went to get a drink, fell in and then couldn’t get out.”  He sighed deeply. “Anna, I thought I told you to always make sure you locked the workshop door behind you?”

         Stricken, Anna looked at her father.  “But, I did Daddy.  I swear I did. I always do….”

“Then how…..” Her father stopped and shook his head, “I thought I could trust you Anna. Go back to your room.”

         She couldn’t drag her eyes away from his face. She’d never seen him look at her like that before. His eyes were cold and although hers implored him to believe her, his expression didn’t change. Then her tears overflowed as she struggled to comprehend.  It couldn’t be true, it just couldn’t be. If it was, it would mean that she’d never hold Misty in her arms again and feel the warmth and contented thrumming of its body drifting towards sleep, its tummy full of warm milk. When she entered the workshop there would be no soft mew to greet her, no furry fireball with tiny claws that sometimes drew blood when the game got too wild. Never again would she sit by the fire a book in her hand and Misty on her lap.  All that would be gone. And, her father blamed her!  Her heart broke. She just couldn’t bear it. Unable to move, she watched as her father turned away from her towards the stairs.

Something flickered at the corner of her vision. There was a tiny click and the light dimmed. Somewhere, somebody had closed a door. She looked around. Where was Alec?  The commotion must have woken him and he liked nothing better than a good scene. Why wasn’t he present, squirming with delight at the sight of her misery and shame?  A sudden certainty made her gasp. Alec had done this. Her stomach squeezed and a bitter taste almost choked her as she thought about it. She re-played yesterday evening in her head. She’d played with Misty, teasing her with a scrap of wool until the kitten had yawned and lost interest.  The kitten had curled up in its bed and she’d picked the box up and put in under the stove to keep warm. Then, she’d switched off the light and left, locking the door behind her. She remembered that distinctly, she always took great care not to forget. She thought back and also remembered all the times she’d heard a noise behind her as she’d locked up. Each time she had looked round, seen nothing and assumed she’d just been spooked by the dark.  But she must have been wrong.  Alec must have known about the kitten for weeks and had chosen Christmas Eve to act.

She started to shake. She’d always known that Alec liked nothing better than to make her life a misery and she knew that he was spiteful, but this went way beyond that.  This was pure evil. The thought that her own brother hated her so much he’d drown a defenceless scrap like Misty just to hurt her was unbelievable, but she knew it was true.   She saw her father disappearing down the stairs and opened her mouth to scream at him.

“It wasn’t me. It was Alec. Alec did this!”

She wanted to send the words flying, like arrows, towards him. She wanted them to pierce his rigid back.  She wanted him to stop, turn round and listen. Her shoulders slumped and with a soundless sigh her mouth closed. It was no good.  Her parents wouldn’t believe her. Alec would deny it and her mother would take his side. She’d say Anna was blaming Alec to save her own skin, after all there was no proof, it would be just her word against Alec’s. Any anyway, it didn’t matter. Misty was dead and nothing would bring her back.

         Listlessly, she’d walked towards her room. She wanted to be alone. She got into bed and drew the covers around her. Whatever happened, however much her mother screamed and raged, she wouldn’t get up again today. Let Alec do the work. He had caused this and she would never, ever forgive him. Lying on her back, staring up at the ceiling, she vowed that she would never enjoy another Christmas, and she would never speak to her brother again. 

Copyright Janet Baldey 

DAVID ESSEX AT CLIFFS

DAVID ESSEX AT CLIFFS PAVILION

By Peter Woodgate

I never thought that I’d admit

To going to Southend

And watching David Essex

It seems that my wife’s friend

Had suddenly developed

A rather nasty cold

And being listed “first reserve”

“You are going” I am told.

The tickets were for Mother’s Day

And bought by dear Lorraine

I don’t suppose she ever thought

That they would cause such pain.

But now and then you have to make

A sacrifice or two

And so I smiled and muttered

“Oh goody me and you”

So off we go to Cliffs Pavill

And park down on the Prom

We walk up fifteen flights of steps

No wonder my breath’s gone.

At last we sit down in the bar

To have a well earned drink

But all I see is females

And I begin to think

What if I’m the only bloke

In an ocean full of women

On the shore is David

And I’m left bloody swimming.

At last my fears are put to rest

As other men I see

They are at the bar and buying drinks

Have uses just like me.

And then it’s time to enter

We find our row and number

The lights go down, the music starts

Then suddenly there’s thunder

As women flock from everywhere

And rush down to the front

I strain my neck and catch a glimpse

Of what it is they want.

He stands there in his tatty jeans

A shirt without a collar

A waistcoat that’s seen better days

And he’s not short of a dollar.

But I must be objective

No hasty judgement here

Though secretly I’m thinking

I wish I had a beer.

Then David starts to strut his stuff

The women start to scream

As David sings “Rock On”, “Lamplight”

And “Silver Dream Machine”

Others follow,”Hold Me Close”

“If I Could” and more,

The Lyrics to “It Will Be Alright”

Really made them roar.

And when it came for him to say

“Goodbye,” right on cue

My wife and I, will say in truth

That “We’ll Be Missing You.”

Copyright Peter Woodgate

Lost and Found

Lost and Found

By Jane Scoggins

Most people have heard of the long-running stage play The Mouse Trap. It has been running for over 60 years I think. It has never really appealed to me, but my Mum loved it when Dad took her as a Birthday treat 20 years ago. She still talks about it, and how it made them laugh. Dad has been gone some time now. 4 years in fact. He had a heart attack. He was a good Dad and a loving husband. Mum, a woman with a positive outlook on life has been brave about her loss and likes to reminisce about the good things that she and Dad had together during their 48 years of marriage. Hence the recent reminiscing about The Mouse Trap. It was triggered by a discussion about another family favourite, the board game of the same name. Mum bought it years ago as a family present She said it would be a game that we could all play, a game that is suitable for all ages and most of all because it is fun.

  'All families need to play games. Families that play together, stay together' is what Mum often said. I have long since stopped reminding her that the saying is 'Families that pray together, stay together'. As she is not a churchgoer and I suspect not a regular at praying either it is wasted on her.

Anyway the thing about the Mousetrap game is that not long ago on a wet Sunday afternoon when I and the children were round at Mum's, we decided to get the game out. Unfortunately at some point we somehow lost the all important marble that is crucial to playing the game and although we hunted for it we couldn't find it, and we had to put the game away minus the marble.  It was getting late and we needed to get home for the children to get their school bags ready for the morning before bedtime, and for me to iron my blouse and skirt for work.

  A week or so later I got a phone call from Mum.

   'Oh Julie, I think I may have been burgled' she said in despair.

    ' What?' was my initial response.

    'Are you OK?'

     'Yes love, but I can't find the tin with my emergency money and I can't find Dad's signet ring or my engagement ring'

    'Has there been anyone in the house recently other than family or neighbours? She hesitated, 'I don’t think so.'

  ' I am just leaving work so I will come round straight away.'

   Mum was still a bit upset when I arrived but a cup of tea settled her nerves.

   There was no evidence of an intruder or anything disturbed. I started to look in the hiding places that Mum usually kept her engagement ring, Dad's signet ring and the tin that she kept her emergency cash in. To my relief I soon found them. Mum was so relieved she had a few tears.

  'I am so sorry love, for getting myself in a panic. I can't understand why I couldn't find them,' she said bewildered and cross with herself at the same time.

  'How stupid of me. I hope I 'm not losing my marbles?'

  I reassured Mum it was nothing, and that I was always forgetting where I had put things. She was sceptical, so I continued 'I regularly run up the stairs to get something and by the time I am standing in the bedroom I have forgotten what I came upstairs for.'

  We laughed, but both she and I knew that what happened to her today could be the start of increased memory loss, and neither of us wanted to think of what that may lead to. Her dear old friend and neighbour with dementia had been taken into care last year after having been found wandering in the dark in her nightclothes on more than one occasion, searching for relatives long since dead, or asking strangers for directions to places many miles away that held childhood memories.

  After that, I found myself being more conscious of checking that Mum was OK. She didn’t seem to be entirely herself and I was worried that she had been affected by the worry of losing her memory.

I visited more often over the next couple of weeks and noticed a number of things that were out of character in Mum's behaviour. Sometimes she was surprised to see me even though I had told her less than an hour previously that I was on my way. I noticed that she wasn't always as tidily dressed as usual or the washing up had not been done. She seemed a bit vague and tired. Even though she said she was fine I worried. Even though I had reminded her it was my son's, her grandsons Birthday, she completely forgot, and not even the card she had for him sitting on the sideboard, had prompted her.

 I sat her down and told her I was worried about her health. She agreed she didn’t feel too good but was not aware of having any memory loss or not looking after herself properly.

 'It will pass' she said.

   'None of us is getting any younger, it's inevitable. But what I don't want is to be a burden to you and Frank and the children. But there again, I don’t want to end up in a home not knowing what day of the week it is, or what I had for breakfast. I have been worrying about losing my memory and not being able to cope here at home. When I think of what happened to Margaret next door'

  Her voice trailed off.

 But I am not at that stage yet' she said rather over brightly.

 It took a bit of persuading to let me make an appointment with the Dr. but she agreed she did have some problems with her waterworks and didn't want to add incontinence to her list of things she didn't want to happen to her.

  'Especially as I do sometimes have to get to the toilet quickly' she laughed.

   I drove Mum to the surgery for the appointment and sat in the waiting room whilst she first saw the Dr. and then the nurse. The appointment took longer than expected, but eventually Mum came out accompanied by the nurse, smiling, and explained the delay.

 'I had to have lots of tests' Mum said.

  'And she came out with top marks' said the nurse.  'Apparently, I have an infection in my waterworks, and that is what has been causing all the problems. So I am not losing my marbles after all!'

  'Absolutely not.' said the nurse. A urine infection can often cause confusion and memory loss, particularly in an older person. A course of antibiotics, rest, and plenty of water will soon put you right.'

    It was a relief to us all, that there was an explanation.

 Knowing the diagnosis was nothing to worry about long term, Mum was more receptive to me giving her a helping hand for a few days whilst she rested. I did her shopping and a bit of housework. Whilst moving the armchair cushions, my hand came across the marble from the Mousetrap game. I held it up in triumph to Mum and we gave a little cheer, both recognising the significance.

  So...Marbles temporarily lost, and now found. Game on Grandma.

Copyright Jane Scoggins

 

 

  

How is Love Born

How is Love Born

By Len Morgan

So you ask me, how our love was born.

Like a poppy, in a sea of corn.

Supernova, in the darkest night.

Like a blind man, regaining his sight,

it was sunshine in a raging storm,

Like the quickening before the dawn.

The scent of earth after a shower,

heart beats like a drum, slow, with power.

Copyright Len Morgan