Charlies Good Company.

Charlies Good Company.

By Len Morgan

“Evening Charlie,” said the newcomer sitting on the bench opposite.  “Who were you talking to when I arrived?”

“His name was Henry, I’ve never met him before,  but he gave me these,” I said emptying the leather drawstring pouch onto the table. 

 “Twelve coins?  They look like gold sovereigns, they'll be worth a bob or two, and what did you have to do for them?”

“I don’t rightly know?  I was just sitting here minding my own business when he arrived.   He sat in the shadows where you are now. He wore a dark jacket with the hood pulled up.   I could just see his pale face in the moonlight.   He sat for some time agonising over whether or not he would speak to me, then finally he made up his mind and started to speak.   From memory, he said:"

 I find it harder each day to make sense of this crazy world, so much has changed.    Everyone I ever knew is gone.   I should have gone too, long ago, but I was too clever for my own good.   Indulge me stranger, share this bottle of wine with me, and I will reward you well.   Let me regale you with my tale, for it beggar’s belief.

"He placed two tulip glasses on the table in front of us and carefully filled them.   I sipped the wine, it was good, the best I’ve ever had. We drank slowly savouring it, for a while neither of us spoke.   When I put down my glass he refilled it, and continued his tale:"

You see, I‘ve lived a uniquely privileged life, my family were moneyed, I went to the best schools, belonged to the most exclusive clubs.   I enjoyed the company of many beautiful women.   Life was good!  I had wealth, power, friends, influence and popularity.  Then on the eve of my seventieth Christmas, whilst enjoying the company of convivial companions, I had occasion to visit my cellar to fetch a special bottle of wine.   As I made to rejoin my guests a figure appeared from the shadows.

"Who are you?"  I demanded.

“Henry!   It is your time,” he said in a voice to chill the grave, “come with me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous I have company…” I said.

“I am the Dark Angel,” he said.

“You want me to desert my guests?   You would deny me a final drink with my friends?”   I said with incredulity.

“Five minutes” said the spectre.

“Dash it; why not simply grant me leave to consume this fine bottle - in good company,” I appealed.  

“When the last drop is consumed you will come?” said the Dark Angel.

“My word on it,” I said.

‘When he departed, I returned this bottle to its rack, taking another in its stead.   That was in 1854.   A clever ruse I thought but, I grew older, my looks faded as my body aged and I became abhorrent to look upon.   Still, the Dark Angel did not return for me; even though I had long outstayed my time.   It is enough I want it ended.   I know now what I must do.   This is the very bottle of which I spoke.   It has to be consumed, in good company, in order for me to gain my release; am I in good company Charles?”  He asked.

I nodded and smiled so he recharged our glasses until the bottle was empty.

“Your health” he said as we drained our final glass together.   He placed this pouch in my hand, just as those clouds obscured the moon, and when the light returned he was gone, and there you were?  Very strange.   

 “Before he arrived I was about to bed down for the night, now your here,” I said pointedly.  

The constable dipped his forefinger into the glass.   “Ugh, vinegar!” his face wrinkled with distaste.   Then he read the label on the bottle, “Chateaux Lafite-Rothschild 1846,” he examined the coins more closely, “Mmm not one dated after 1854.   They are probably worth about £200 each and that was a damn good story, Charlie,” he smiled benevolently.    “Come on old lad, pack up your things, we're going back to the nick.   It's damn cold here and you could do with a good hot meal.   There’re worse places for a fellow to spend Christmas Eve.   So what if you’re not in ‘The Job’; I have it on high authority that you’re good company to be with,” he smiled.

I nodded “That would be nice,” I said as he picked up my bedroll.

Copyright Len Morgan

Honest Money

Honest Money

By Janet Baldey

The metallic rattle of the window blind woke him; a sudden breeze had sprung up and Ben was grateful for the draught.   He struggled into a sitting position and caught sight of the clock; school was over and he sat listening for the patter of Charlie’s footsteps.  Sure enough, within a few minutes, the door handle turned and Charlie’s small figure slipped into the room.

         ‘Hi Dad.  How are you?’  His voice was anxious.

         ‘Fine son.  But I’d like some water.  My mouth feels like the bottom of a birdcage.’

         Charlie picked up the jug with both hands and carefully filled a glass.  

         Ben’s mouth twitched.  Charlie was always such a serious little lad; in many ways, he reminded him of his father. 

         ‘So.  What did you do at school today?’

         Charlie shrugged.

         ‘Stuff.  History mostly. We’ve all got to trace our family tree.’

         Ben’s chest tightened.

         Charlie was quiet for a moment, then he looked up.  Again, Ben thought of his father.  Charlie’s eyes were the same intense shade of blue.  When he blinked it was like the flash of a kingfisher’s wing.

         ‘Dad, what sort of work did Grandad do?’

Taking a sip of water, Ben looked at his son and struggled to keep his voice even.

‘He worked in the City; for one of the top investment banks.   Very boring.  Like doing maths all day long, and you know how much you love maths!

         Charlie giggled.  ‘Will you help me with the family tree dad?’

         ‘Course I will son.  But not tonight.  I’d like a nap now and you’ve got other homework to do.   Come in and give us a kiss before you go to bed.’

         Ben lay back on his pillows and wondered what to tell his son.   His family had led a pretty luxurious lifestyle when he was young.   They had a cottage in Gloucestershire and a holiday home in France as well as a penthouse suite on the River.  They’d lived there mostly, to be near Dad because he worked such long hours.  Some evenings Ben would stand on the balcony and look towards the City, imagining his father at his desk.   As it got dark the lights glittered better than any jewels you could buy, especially the oval building near Aldgate.  The one they called ‘The Gherkin.’

         One night he’d dreamed that he was in the middle of a storm; thunder was growling overhead, every now and then erupting into earsplitting cracks.   One had woken him but the dream hadn’t ended.   Then he’d realised the noise was coming from downstairs – his parents were shouting at each other.   He’d crept out of his room and looked over the bannisters; his father was sitting slumped in a chair while his mother paced around the room.   He was sure he hadn’t made a sound but suddenly she looked up and sent him back to bed.

         The next was just like any other day but after school, his father’s Mercedes was waiting to pick him up.  

         ‘Surprise.  We’re going on holiday.  Just us.  Mum’s too busy.’

         The moment the car nosed towards the coast he’d realised where they were going.   His parents kept a yacht moored near Southampton and Dad had always promised him a sea voyage.

Ben closed his eyes, remembering his mounting anticipation as the lights of the motorway streamed by and his excitement when, at last, he saw the moon shivering on the waves.  That night, he was too excited to sleep but lay listening to the halyards talking to each other.

         They were at sea for a long time but he wasn’t bored.  Most of the time he was in the wheelhouse with his father watching the ocean roll by.  He’d seen dolphins, porpoises and even a whale.   But he’d thought his Dad was better at maths than navigating because one morning he’d woken to find themselves beached on an island.   His father had told him that something had gone wrong with the engine and they’d have to stay there until he fixed it.   It seemed to take a long time but Ben didn’t mind.   Living on an island was so exciting.   Every day they explored a little further, finding fresh water, coconut palms and a lagoon where fish were falling over themselves to be caught.   Not that they’d needed them, his father had brought a mountain of tinned stuff as well as all sorts of things to do.  

         Ben closed his eyes trying to recapture that time.  It had been magic, just him and his Dad and it seemed that every day they grew closer.

         Their idyll ended one morning when he’d woken to find the sky black with helicopters and his father’s face as white as the surf that fringed the island.   They hadn’t been rescued.   They’d been apprehended.  Once back in England, he’d been parted from his Dad, never to see him again.  As his mother drove him home, he’d been amazed at all the boarded-up shops lining the rainswept streets.  Suddenly, he’d seen a placard; its caption read ‘ROGUE TRADER CAUGHT’ and underneath was a picture of his father.   They told him that he’d gambled with billions of other people’s money and when his luck finally ran out the losses had led both to the fall of the Bank and the fragile house of cards propping up the economy.

Ben thought of Charlie again.  How on earth was he going to explain what happened?   Most importantly, how would he persuade him that his grandfather was not a crook?

         Deep inside him, pain flared.  The Bible said that God visited the sins of the father on the children.  He’d spent months being burned nut brown by a tropical sun.  Maybe that was why he’d developed the melanoma.   Lines deepened on his face as he thought of his own son facing a fatherless future in spite of the fact that he’d done his best to make sure that Charlie was provided for – he’d never live in luxury but at least the money was honest.

Copyright Janet Baldey

A Brief Encounter

A Brief Encounter

By Peter Woodgate

Do you remember, that afternoon,

upon the sand?

We watched the seagulls, gliding,

ate our picnic, nothing grand,

except the beauty of those hours

and the precious moments shared,

a gentle kiss, somewhat embarrassed

I whispered that I cared

.

You looked away, with tearful eye,

I didn’t understand,

why you appeared to be upset,

it wasn’t what I’d planned.

Of course, the tear was one of joy,

you laughed at my dismay,

then stroked my cheek, and kissed my face

and thanked me for the day.

Copyright Janet Baldey

Me Complain?

Me Complain?

By Len Morgan

   I listened in on a conversation, at the bus stop, recently:

 “I drove past the Bengal Lancer yesterday; did you know they’d closed down?”

 “Yes, and I’m not surprised, I only ate there once myself.   Service was bad, the food lukewarm - obviously reheated - the sauces tasted as though they had been watered down and the portions were pretty small; we picked up fish and chips on our way home.   Vowed we’d never eat there again!”

   Truth is, we British have a distinct dislike of complaining!   If we don’t like something we simply vote with our feet.   We don’t go back and give people a second chance to rip us off!   For certain the French, Germans, Italians, and Americans would not meekly accept poor service or substandard food.   

   Maybe we should ask to speak to the manager and give him the opportunity to make amends?   But, we seldom do, we suffer in silence and do not revisit that establishment.   Perhaps there was a good explanation for what happened?   If we don’t ask we will never know.

   Anyway - proprietors beware!   It takes years to build up a good business, one bad night, discourtesy or delivery can destroy it all.   One dissatisfied customer tells between five and ten acquaintances who will take heed and go elsewhere.

   Maybe there should be a ‘customer comments' slip delivered along with your meal then at least the proprietor will know why he has gone bust!   

Customer satisfaction is what it’s about.

THE NEWSLETTER

THE NEWSLETTER

by Richard Banks                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 The  Lodge,                                                                                                   High Bumstead,                                                                 

 Sussex

Dearest Friends,

With the New Year only a few hours away I once again put pen to paper to record the events of the year so nearly gone. So much has happened that without my diary I would be hard put to remember it all. Like my diary, I will begin in January.

         Well, what can I say about Bermuda that hasn't been said before? Definitely my favourite Caribbean island. What a blessing it was to be lying on the private beach of a five-star hotel while Arctic blizzards brought Britain to a standstill. At least that's what the Daily Mail said. Thankfully I wasn't there to see it. By the time Mike and I were back at The Lodge, the weather had changed to the usual winter crispness so cherished by those of us with triple-A heating systems. Needless to say, we were as snug as the proverbial bug in a rug and eagerly counting down the days to the birth of our first grandchild who arrived ahead of schedule on 14 February. No surprise then that Lucy and Jed decided to call him Valentine. Our little saint weighed in at 6 lbs, 11ozs and is the most beautiful, blue eyed baby you could ever wish to see. His full name is Michael John Valentine Weir and he was christened in St Peter's by the Bishop of Wensford. Mike was as pleased as punch to have the baby named after him and gave our Lucy a rather large cheque, which should, come the time, take care of his school fees. Needless to say, we have put him down for Winchester.

         What with the reception, which we held at the Lodge, this baby has already cost us a small fortune. Well, I suppose it's only money but it did mean that economies had to be made, so we cancelled our Easter tour of the Pacific Islands and settled for the more frugal option of the family villa in the Loire Valley. However, we still managed to have a jolly time and being close to Nantes where son, Tristan, lives we saw plenty of him and his gorgeous supermodel wife, Jeanette, plus her twin daughters by Nicos, her first husband, who may have died in an earthquake. The children are very sweet but terribly exhausting so going back to The Lodge felt more like a holiday than the holiday itself. Still, it was great fun.

         What a wonderful summer we have had this year. I don't think I have ever seen the garden look more lovely, and our new summer house is a splendid addition to the meadow. As usual, we hosted the village show in July and Mike won first prize for his Jerusalem Artichokes. He has also been elected Captain of the golf club which means that we frequently have to shell out on entertainments and the like, but one of the perks is that we get VIP tickets to events, like the US Masters at Augusta.

         In September Mike flew to Spain on business so I went to London to spend a long weekend with the Wilmot-Green's. Their daughter is a débutante this year and as several Royal persons – who I'm not allowed to mention – are on the lookout for wives, they are not without hope that the family may soon feature in Debretts.

         On returning home I received a telephone call from Tristan informing me that Jeanette, his gorgeous supermodel wife had left him for an unknown admirer believed to be a merchant banker. I said that this really wasn't acceptable and that it would make for very sorry reading in my annual newsletter. As Mike is an advisory member of the Banking Ethics & Morals Committee I felt sure that on his return he would soon identify the mystery banker and compel him to return the gorgeous Jeanette to the bosom of her family. Regretfully I must sully these pages with the lamentable news that the mystery banker is none other than Mike. He confessed all in an email to Tristan and myself which ended with a post-script saying, 'hope no hard feelings, Dad'. What Tristan said I have no intention of repeating, here or anywhere else, especially as I may have used similar language when learning that Mike has closed our joint accounts and transferred the monies therein to goodness knows where. To make matters worse it appears that Mike has been laundering the ill-gotten gains of a Columbian drug baron. Any hope that I would be left in possession of The Lodge was dashed when I received a letter from HBOS telling me that it had been re-mortgaged and no payments received for several months.

         To cut a long story short the house was repossessed last Thursday and I am now illegally squatting in the summer house. It seems that bad news travels fast, especially when it appears on the front page of the Sun. My reputation is in tatters. Not only am I the known associate of a crooked banker but under investigation by the Police for complicity to defraud. It seems that I signed a number of documents that were not quite what I thought they were. My friends, if that is what they were, are conspicuous only by their absence; the golf club have cancelled my membership and the Wilmott-Green's are saying they never knew me. Even the children don't pick-up the phone. I am, as they say, a social pariah.

         Needless to say, this is one newsletter I will not be sending out. At least I won't have to shell out several hundred pounds on postage. As I do not have several hundred pounds this is indeed a blessing. But as Scarlet O'Hara famously said 'tomorrow is another day' and I look forward to the New Year with an optimism I can only attribute to the half bottle of brandy I took from the wine cellar.

         Tomorrow is the 1st of January. Another year, another diary. I wonder what I will write in that?   

Copyright Richard Banks

             

What of the children

What of the children

By Rob Kingston

They knew nothing of the politics of flight, merely watched the birds that soared in the sky.
They knew nothing of the world around them and how it would ignite when sitting watching sparks rise up like fireflies in the hearth by night. 
They knew nothing of what spooked their parent’s sight, no understanding of the fear that glowed bright in their eyes.
They knew nothing of why their calm mother from polite and encouraging became anxious holding them tight.
They knew nothing of why father stood watching from the window each night, simply thinking he was watching dreams drift by in the moonlight. 
They know nothing of why they are walking for days, pushed shoved and spat upon by a world given to not caring. 
They know nothing of the politicians that sit on their hands, whilst they grow blown bellies and sleep in no go zones. 
Perhaps they will know in time, should the death bell not ring for them this day!


                                                                  (c) Robert Kingston 20.9.15

All That Glitters

All That Glitters

Jane Scoggins

When Mandy Steele got home from seeing a film at the Odeon in Camden Town she could not believe her eyes when she opened the door of her flat in Kensal Rise.  When she put her key in the lock at 11.15 pm she had been thinking of Richard Gere and the film she had just seen, Gravity. It had been exciting and scary. The realisation had been instantaneous. She had been burgled. Mandy stepped cautiously across the carpeted sitting room floor and then froze. First, she surveyed the mess and then she panicked and held her breath trying not to make a sound. What if the intruder were still in the flat? All was silent. Mandy exhaled and as carefully and quietly as she could in her high heels she walked around her flat, surveyed the trashed room, and her belongings in a mess. She scrabbled in her handbag for her mobile phone and for the first time in her life dialled 999.

‘Fire, police or ambulance?’ said a woman’s voice.

‘Police’ said Mandy.

'Putting you through' came back and within a couple of seconds, a man's voice said.

'You are through to the police' Mandy hurriedly started to explain, but was cut short by the man saying

‘Anyone hurt, or injured?

‘No’ said Mandy.

‘Anyone in danger?’

‘No’ said Mandy, I have been burgled, but whoever it was has gone’

The man gave his name and asked Mandy for hers together with her address and phone number before he allowed her to continue with the details of the burglary. Having established that she was OK and in no danger, the man confirmed that a police car was on its way.

It was nearly midnight before the police car drew up outside and two police officers, one male, one female got out the car. Mandy was relieved to see them and something in her gave way to her emotions. The sight of the two officers in their navy uniforms with crisp white shirts and all the bits of police paraphernalia hung about their belts gave her confidence to surrender her bravado and acknowledge upset and fear. The officers, used to this reaction were sympathetic but crisp and entirely professional, and immediately started to check out the flat and question Mandy about the time she had gone out, time of return, any suspicious looking people about, anything out of the ordinary, anyone with access to here flat, any unbolted windows? The female officer asked the questions and wrote notes in her notebook whilst the male officer looked around the flat, presumably for clues. It was a small flat so it did not take long and within 30 seconds he was back with the news that the intruder had apparently got in through the bathroom window around the back of the property. The female police officer asked her to check what she thought was missing. Despite the mess, the only things missing were the contents of her jewellery box and a diamond ring on her dressing table.

Mandy was glad that she had gone out wearing her watch, and opal ring. At least they were safe. The Opal ring had belonged to her mum and she wore it a lot. The watch had been a twenty first birthday present.

After the police had left and she was alone again, Mandy made a big mug of hot chocolate, added a handful of marshmallows and sat on the sofa to think. She sipped from the mug and thought about the stolen jewellery. She knew exactly what had gone and had given the details to the police. They had said they would do all they could to catch the thief or thieves if fingerprinting was successful, but as the pieces of jewellery were not particularly distinctive they were a bit doubtful as to their recovery.

A sapphire ring set in a gold band

A 3 gold twisted bracelet

A gold locket

A pair of gold hoop earrings

A diamond ring in a platinum setting

It is distressing enough to be burgled and have your possessions stolen but for a woman to have her jewellery taken is heartbreaking, as each piece usually has a story to tell and is connected to a significant relationship. Mandy considered her emotions as she thought about the significance to her of each piece of jewellery.

The sapphire ring and the 3 gold bracelet had been presents from her grandmother.

The gold locket had been a present from a boyfriend.

The gold hoop earrings she had bought herself from her first wage packet.

The diamond and platinum ring had been her engagement ring.

 

Mandy wept as she finished her hot chocolate and then she got ready for bed.

The next morning was Saturday and Mandy was glad she didn’t have to go to work. She sat in her pyjamas drinking coffee and eating toast and strawberry jam.

Looking at the copy of the list of stolen pieces of jewellery she had given the police, she took stock of her feelings and again thought about each piece and its importance to her. She re-framed in her mind her feelings of loss and came to a conclusion.

The feelings of loss were not for the actual items but for the loss of a different kind. The loss of a relationship.

Grandma had been a strict parent and grandparent with rules and expectations hard for her mother and her. She had been demanding and at times a bully. Mandy had rarely worn the two pieces of jewellery bestowed on her by her Grandmother. The sapphire ring had been a bribe to get Mandy to stay with her and look after her following a fall. She had been a hard taskmaster with a cruel tongue. Still at school, Mandy had been exhausted by her grandmother’s demands before and after school but too intimidated to complain.

The gold bracelet had been another bribe to get Mandy to change her mind about applying for Art college. 'That will get you nowhere she had sneered, get a proper job' her grandmother had insisted. Mandy has always resented not having the chance to fulfil her dream. Grandma had since died and Mandy didn’t miss her very much at all.

The gold locket had been a present from a boyfriend who had treated her badly and it had taken some courage to stop going out with him. She had recognised in time that like Grandma he was a bully, although when he was nice to her she really thought she loved him. The huge gold hoop earrings that she had bought herself out of her first pay packet had been a real joy to her and Mandy had worn them day in and day out for the first year. As time past and she grew more mature and fashions changed she wore them less and less and she progressed to a more discreet grown-up type of earrings. She had outgrown them in every way, and Grandma had said they looked ridiculous. Besides, the catch on one was broken so couldn’t be worn now anyhow.

The diamond ring had been the most recent of her possessions and the most beautiful thing Mandy had ever owned. It was not only beautiful but very expensive. It was her engagement ring. She thought about Jamie and touched the ring finger of her left hand where an engagement ring should be.

 Mandy had not worn the engagement ring for the last three weeks since she split up with Jamie. These last weeks had been tough and she still felt upset and tearful at times. Jamie worked in the city, earned lots of money, had a sports car and was charming beyond anything Mandy had known in her life. She had fallen for him and he for her. It had been a whirlwind romance. She had thought that at last, this was to be her Happy Ever After. Jamie planned to buy a house and settle down with her, or so she thought. It took some time for Mandy to find out and then accept that Jamie had been two or possibly three-timing her. It took her more time and a lot of courage to confront him. When she did he laughed at her and adopted a 'so what' attitude. Mandy thought her world had come to an end. She threw the ring at him, but rather sheepishly he had asked her to keep it.

When Mandy was showered and dressed and with her favourite CD playing in the background, she made a fresh cup of coffee and took stock.

 By the time she had finished her coffee, Mandy was much happier. She had a plan.

If the jewellery was found she would sell it, if not she would claim on the insurance. She reckoned on £5000. What good had the jewellery, except the hoop earrings been to her?

 'All that glitters'... she said to herself and smiled. None of it held happy memories, nor of the people who had given it to her. She was better off without it. It was a way of erasing the past and starting again. Mandy still loved art, and with the money from the jewellery, and a bit extra from her savings, she planned to visit art galleries across Europe, and have a holiday at the same time. Monet's house and garden, The Prada in Madrid, Michaelangelo frescos in Venice, the Uffizi in Florence. Maybe even as far as The Hermitage in St Petersburg. She would have the time of her life and in the meantime, she would sign up for an art class. She may not now be good enough or have the qualifications for Art college, but it was a start, and maybe, just maybe it could lead to something in the future. Whatever happened she was resolved to take this opportunity and take charge of her own destiny with the spoils of her past.

Copyright Jane Scoggins