Taking the Plunge

 

Taking the Plunge

Self Portrait

By Len Morgan

Dry leaves crackle underfoot as he makes his way up the drive; like walking on eggshells he thinks.  The sun is behind him, casting long shadows through the russet dappled carpet obscuring the path.  There is a glint in the sky; a rapidly decaying vapour trail pointing towards Heathrow Airport.

Angry gusts throw leaves in his face as if berating him for his tardiness.  He pulls up the collar of his heavy overcoat to stave off the chill.  His ears feel the pinch of winter as he reaches for the doorbell, a wreath of holly hangs from the knocker: welcoming.

A jet passes overhead; he gazes up as it traverses the sky, horizon to horizon in ten seconds. A the time it took him to walk from the garden gate to the front door, all of fifteen yards?  In that time the light would travel nineteen million miles.  How far would it travel in seven years, he thinks? That was how long he'd been away. 

Memory is a funny thing.  He could recall the scene in minute detail as if it had only just happened.  His self-righteous indignation, his angry hurtful words, as he threw clothes into his suitcase and slamming the door dramatically as he left. 

Many times he'd wanted to call and say he was sorry and he wanted to come home, but he just couldn't take that final step. 

The girl at the Salvation Army had given him a bowl of warming soup and asked how he'd come to such a low state.  She'd coaxed him into their hostel, and they'd provided him with shoes, clean clothes, and a warm coat, (His case and clothes had been stolen on that first night on the streets).  She'd stood by him as he made the phone call home.  He'd listened to the tearful crying at the other end of the line, no anger or recrimination, just an invitation.

"We love you, Kyle, please come home."

.-...-.

So, here he was, taking the plunge.  He presses the doorbell feels the welcoming rush of warm air as the door opens and he samples the mouth-watering aromas of Christmas.  
He returns the welcoming smile and mirrors the outstretched arms.

"Welcome home my darling."

Their tears are tears of joy...

 

Copyright Len Morgan

 

MOGGY POLITICIANS

Copyright Peter Woodgate   

I have read with great interest, on numerous occasions, the debate concerning dogs, their owners and, more to the point, the mess they leave behind.

    Being a dog owner, and a responsible one at that, I agree wholeheartedly with the disgust one has when being confronted by one of these abandoned faeces.

    Having picked up hundreds of my own, aptly named, Shih Tzu’s packages, I have become somewhat of an expert on dog waste and, in particular, what they tell me about the health of my dog. On viewing some of the many alien deposits encountered, I am fearful that the perpetrators may not have long to live and, on occasions, simply could not believe the entire package was deposited by just one animal.

    All this being said, I feel the poor dog, and their owner, get an unfair and over-publicised slating concerning their misdemeanours.

    I, for one, would like to see more done concerning cats. Don’t get me wrong, I like cats but, it does appear, they, and their owners, are allowed, literally, to get away with murder.

    You know, it happens all the time; a sweet grey-haired old lady calls her pussykins in for dinner. He slinks in looking up at her, putting on his best “come and give me a stroke look” gives his bowl a cursory sniff before jumping up onto his favourite chair, which, just happens to be next to the fire, and used by, yes you’ve guessed it, the grey-haired old lady. She then puts him on her lap and pussykins squirms backwards and forwards between her hands whilst purring ecstatically.

    “And what’s up with you today,” she asks as he looks longingly into her eyes, “not hungry today?”

She is, of course, completely unaware, that a mere 30 minutes previously, dear pussykins had been dismembering a blackbird whose newly-hatched chicks would now be left to die.

    Shortly prior to that, pussykins had dug up most of my newly planted pansies before choosing to deposit his faeces in an area not previously excavated. This is bad enough but it seems his psychological games know no boundaries as sometimes he buries his unwanted gifts and sometimes he doesn’t. there’s nothing like coming across the unexpected whilst planting out.

    Unlike dog owners, who can be fined for allowing their pets to soil public area's, and presumably, private areas, cat owners have no such restriction.

    It seems cats have some sort of immunity and freedom of access allowing them to saunter through my garden, dig up my plants, deposit their faeces in all corners and aggravate my dog to the point where he has a nervous breakdown. The cat can then return home where he is treated like a celebrity.

    I live next door to three cats, an Abyssinian Blue, a ginger Tom and a Tabby with a big red collar.

    Unlike the Springer and Labrador who live the other side of me, these cats have never worked. When they are not destroying wildlife and plants, they are either crapping on everybody’s garden but their own or spitting and hissing at each other,

Mostly though, they just sleep.

    I’ve knick-named them, Boris, Jo and Keir.

  

Copyright Peter Woodgate  

 

CONTACT

by Rosemary Clarke.

CONTACT is the most serious thing of all
With CONTACT we will never ever fall
Write to others, text, phone, Skype
Say anything, whatever you like.

Keeping other's buoyant is the cure
Don't you dare be nervous or demure
Speak from the heart and make new friends
Across the world all our love we must send

CONTACT everyone you can
But keep physical distance, that's the plan.
Outside wear your mask but use your phone.
Then none of us will ever be alone.

Copyright Rosemary Clarke.

 

 

 HARRY ESSEX

by Richard Banks       

Five hundred years after his birth few people know of the Essex boy who nearly became King of England. Had he succeeded to the throne, Elizabeth I, arguably this country's greatest monarch, would have remained a Princess, the crowned heads of the Stuart and Hanoverian dynasties would only have ventured into England on their holidays, and Queen Victoria would never have been born.[1]

      The child was born into the turbulent world of Tudor politics on the fifteenth of June 1519 in a small Augustine priory at Blackmore, Essex, some three miles east of Chipping Ongar. The Jericho priory, as it was known, was largely demolished nine years later, one of the ruins that Cromwell ‘knocked about a bit’ while dissolving the monasteries. Today only the church of St Lawrence remains, formerly the nave of the priory.

     The boy fared somewhat better. He was, to use recent parlance, a love child, the illegitimate son of Henry VIII and Elizabeth Blount, a maid of honour to Queen Catherine. Her liaison with the King began in 1514 when she was only twelve years old. An excellent singer and dancer, she accompanied Henry in a Christmas mummery. Another twelve year old, Elizabeth Bryan, may also have been a mistress of the King.

      Elizabeth Blount's affair with the King, which was to last longer than any of Henry’s other amours took place against the background of a royal marriage that had yet to produce a male heir. In 1516 after a string of miscarriages and still births, Catherine finally gave birth to a healthy child, but to Henry’s disappointment it was a girl, the future Mary I.

      Although the birth revived hope that Catherine might still have a male child, time was running out for a Queen who was six years older than her husband. When Henry and Catherine visited France, the French king, Francis I commented, ‘the King of England is young, but his wife is old and deformed.’ By contrast, Elizabeth was now only seventeen and perfectly able to provide the King with children. Within months of Catherine again becoming pregnant Elizabeth was also expecting the King’s child. The news so upset the Queen that she went into premature labour; a son was born but died a few days later. She was never to become pregnant again.

      Possibly at the insistence of the Queen, Elizabeth was sent from court to the Jericho Priory where a few months later, to the delight of the King, a male child was born. Henry immediately acknowledged the child as his own, naming him Henry after himself and Fitzroy meaning the son of a King or Prince. The King visited his son and mistress so often in 1519 that courtiers described his frequent absences as ‘having gone to Jericho’. In 1520 Elizabeth had another child, a girl, who Henry did not acknowledge. By 1522 the affair was over, Henry transferred his affections to Mary Boleyn, and Elizabeth was given the golden handshake of marriage to Gilbert Talboys, who was appointed Sheriff of Lincolnshire.

      While Elizabeth now moved into the wings of English history her son continued centre stage. High in his father’s favour, he was brought up with all the trappings of a Prince at Sheriff Hutton Castle in Yorkshire. At the age of six Fitzroy was created Duke of Richmond and Somerset, one of only three Dukes in England at that time. In the same year, he also became Earl of Nottingham, Lord High Admiral, Lord Protector of the Council of the North and Warden of the Northern Marches. Further proof of his father’s affection came a few years later when he was appointed Lord Lieutenant of Ireland. A proposal that he be made King of that country was seriously considered but rejected on the grounds that a separate kingdom might one day prove as troublesome to England as her perennial bad neighbour, Scotland.

      In 1533, at the age of 14, Fitzroy's position in the English aristocracy was cemented when he was married to the daughter of the Duke of Norfolk. Fearing that too much sexual activity had contributed to the death of Henry's brother, Arthur Prince of Wales, the king ordered the young couple not to consummate their marriage.

      In the same year, a Royal marriage ended and another began - although not in that order. Henry having married Ann then had his marriage to Catherine annulled by Archbishop Cranmer. A week after the annulment the already pregnant Ann was crowned Queen. Her coronation was to prove the high point of an ill-fated life. Three months later, to Henry’s displeasure, Ann was delivered of a baby girl, the future Elizabeth I. Already unpopular with those who still regarded Catherine as Queen, Ann now began to lose the affection of the King.

      Three years into an increasingly fractious marriage two events occurred that promised to secure her political survival - Ann became pregnant and Catherine died. Ironically, on the day that the former Queen was buried Ann miscarried a baby boy.

      Henry now moved to rid himself of Ann by having her executed on trumped-up charges of adultery. Ten days later he married Jane Seymour. Although he was still hopeful of fathering a legitimate male heir Henry, now 45, was by no means certain of success. To ensure an orderly succession an Act of Parliament was passed enabling the King to designate his successor from any of his legitimate or illegitimate children.

       The young man’s star was never higher and still rising when, to Henry’s horror, it's light was extinguished. On the twenty-third of July 1536, at the age of seventeen, Fitzroy died. The cause of death remains uncertain. Variously attributed to tuberculosis, a lung complaint or the sweating fever, it is possible that Fitzroy died of a genetic condition that may have caused the premature deaths of other Tudor royals. He was laid to rest in Framingham church in Suffolk where his ornate tomb can still be seen today.

      A year later Jane Seymour finally provided England with a legitimate male heir who in 1547 ascended the throne as Edward VI. Like Fitzroy, he was to die in his teens.

      While history is full of ‘what ifs’ it is more than possible that had Fitzroy survived into manhood he would have become King of England. In the sixteenth century, the accession of a woman to the throne was almost unthinkable. Only once before had it happened when Maud, the daughter and heir of Henry I, was usurped by her cousin, Stephen, plunging the country into ‘nineteen winters’ of civil war. While the birth of Prince Edward eased the prospect of a female accession, Henry was only too well aware that another boy was needed to secure the Tudor dynasty. Widowed by the death of Jane Seymour, twelve days after childbirth, Henry married a further three times without adding to his legitimate offspring. In 1544 Henry, now fifty-three and in declining health, settled the succession on Edward in an Act of Parliament that also declared Mary and Elizabeth to be second and third in line to the throne. Had Fitzroy lived, his name might well have preceded that of his half-sisters.     

      Perhaps the last word should go to Thomas Fuller, an English divine and historian, who in 1655 wrote, ‘had he [Fitzroy] survived King Edward the sixth we might presently have heard of a king Henry the Ninth, so great was his father’s affection and so unlimited his power to prefer him.’

 Copyright Richard Banks                  

 

---

[1]      In 1817 Princess Charlotte, the only legitimate grandchild of George III, died in childbirth. In order to safeguard the succession the Duke of Kent, at the age of fifty-one, abandoned his mistress of twenty-seven years in order to marry Victoria of Saxe-Coburg. Victoria, the future Queen, was born in May 1819.

 

Life by the waves

By Robert Kingston  

By Hemsby Marrams I was taken aback

For this unique settlement had suffered a whack

The raging North Sea had raised up its might

Where once stood homes reside pockets of light

 

Way down beneath, awash on the shore

Remnants of belongings, folk chose to store

Mingled with sand, mingled with brush

For some by the sea life had suffered a crush

 

Robert Kingston 

 

Lockdown & Guilty

 

Lockdown!

by Rosemary Clarke

Lockdown the shops
Lock up our hearts
This is where the trouble starts.
This is a battle
We can win
As long as we do not give in.
Be sure, be safe
Be firm, be free
Treat all individually.
Care for each other
That's the rule
Whether they be in homes or schools.
Young or old
Or rich or poor
We must care, oh so much more!
Watch your neighbour
They need aid
This is how our debts are paid.
To our silent
Lovely Earth
Be green-minded, help give birth
To a new
Fantastic age
Then maybe we'll turn the page.
Care for all
No matter race
Other creatures, different face.
Care for all
Under the sun
But...don't forget to have some fun.

 

GUILTY

by Rosemary Clarke

Shame on you, you bad M.Ps.
Yes, mummy taught you to say please
But did she also teach to care
About constituents out there.
While you're scoffing down your meals
How do you think this country feels?
Subsidised while we're on the skids
You won't even feed our kids!
It really isn't at all funny
Feeding you lot on tax money.
Perhaps we're just starting to see
The real-life of an M.P.
That's nothing if not luxury!
Shame if we go to vote at all
We can't vote for those who play football
They help out, make days more sunny
AND DO NOT DO IT ON OUR MONEY!

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

 

The Dragon’s Head Clasp

By Janet Baldey

‘Knock, knock.’

Marie opened the door of her sister’s room and breathed in a cloud of fragrance.  Roses were everywhere.  Thrust into vases they smothered every surface, decorating the room in shades of cream, ivory and gold

         ‘Wow’, she said.  ‘Ronnie’s really pushed the boat out.  What prompted this?’

         ‘They’re not from Ronnie.’  Joanne was peering at herself in the mirror, her varnished fingertips blending in dabs of rouge.   ‘Ronnie’s history.’ 

         ‘Oh no!  You haven’t broken up with him!’ 

Marie’s distress was real.  In her view, Ronnie had been a keeper.  Her beautiful sister, not yet twenty, had already left behind a string of broken hearts.  Most had not been worth a jot but Ronnie had been different.  Hard-working and sensible, with good-humoured patience he had tamed her wilful sister without using either a whip or a chair. 

‘Yep.  He was boring.’  Joanne brushed her hair into a tawny waterfall. 

‘Who are these from then?’

Joanne put down her brush.  Her green eyes sparkled as she spun to face Marie.  ‘Neville from work’, she said.

 Marie’s heart took a dive.  She shared an office with Neville and detested him intensely.  Boastful and arrogant he demanded attention incessantly and even after work his voice followed her home.  To get by, he relied on charming the right people and always totally ignored her.  Homely women were not to his taste and he had made this as obvious as a slap in the face.

 Even worse, she knew he had a darker side.   She caught a glimpse of it when a workmate contradicted some nonsense he’d had spouted.   Fascinated, she’d watched Neville’s complexion redden and his eyes flame.   Sensing trouble, she’d immediately become immersed in her work but not before she’d seen him stride out of the door and punch the corridor wall with a violence that scarred the paintwork.  Ever since, she’d treated him with caution, as one would a time-bomb.

But it was no good telling Joanne this.   She wouldn’t believe a word, so Marie hid her feelings.

‘Really?  He’s an awful flirt, you know.’

‘Not now, he isn’t.’  Joanne smirked as she slid into a satin sheath that accentuated every curve of her body.

‘So, where’s he taking you?  Must be somewhere special.’

‘We’re going on a mystery tour.’  Joanne gestured dramatically.  ‘Isn’t that exciting?’

‘Depends on where you’re going.’

‘Oh.  I think I know.  He’s taking me to meet his parents.  That’s why it’s such a secret.  He’s terribly well connected.  His dad’s an ambassador and his mum’s a barrister.  They’re an actual Lord and Lady and live in a huge manor house somewhere in the shires.   He says it’ll all be his when they pop off.’

Marie’s concern deepened.  She didn’t believe a word of it, it was a typical Neville flight of fancy.  But it did beg the question, what sort of man treated his parent’s death as a pulling tool?

‘If he’s so well off, why is he working at the post office?’

 ‘Research.  He’s writing a book, Marie.  He’s written several.  Just fancy, I’m dating an actual author!  Can you do this up for me?’

Oh, that’s pretty.’  Marie looked at the necklace Joanne was holding out to her

‘Beautiful, isn’t it?  Neville gave it to me.  He said it matched the colour of my eyes.  Just paste but still…….’

The thick gold chain felt smooth and heavy in Marie’s hands and as she watched its faceted stones caught the light and glittered.  It didn’t seem like paste to her and a memory struggled to surface.

Joanne parted her hair and bent her slender neck.

‘Right, how does this work?’  Marie looked at the clasp and gasped.  Goosebumps peppered her skin.

‘Hold on Joanne.  I’ve seen this necklace before.  Do you remember that robbery? It’s in the local paper this week. They showed pictures and one of the necklaces was just like this and with the same clasp.  A dragon’s head with little emerald eyes’.

‘Oh, what nonsense.  Are you saying that Neville’s a thief?  I call that downright nasty.  You’re just jealous.  Give it back and I’ll do it myself.’

‘No, really Joanne.  Wait, I’ll get the paper.’

Her heart pounding, Marie ran down the stairs, praying that she hadn’t thrown it out.  No, it was still on the table.  With a gasp of relief, she snatched it up.

‘Look,’ she slapped the newspaper in front of Joanne and pointed.   The girl stared for a long time and when she did speak, her voice wavered.

‘OK, it’s similar.   But it can’t be the same.   Now leave me alone, I’ve got to get ready.’

 ‘What time are you meeting him?’

‘Eight o’clock.  Not that it’s any of your business.’

Marie ignored her.  ‘Joanne, listen.  I promised Dad I’d keep you safe and it’s just not safe for you to go out alone with a man you hardly know.  People get murdered, you know.  There was that poor girl only recently.  You don’t want to end up in a ditch, do you? Look, for Dad’s sake, do me a favour.  The police station is just around the corner. You’ve got plenty of time.’

‘Your trouble is, you read too many crime novels. Neville’s not a thief, he’s not a rapist and he’s certainly not a murderer.  He’s a sweet man.’

‘Yeah’ thought Marie.  ‘As sweet as a snake hiding amongst bluebells.’

  But, as Marie had guessed, the mention of their father did the trick.  Joanne had been his favourite.  He’d always called her ‘His Prettiness’ and even though he’d died two years ago, Joanne still cherished that memory.  Eventually, she allowed herself to be led to the police station where she pouted and stared at the ground.  The Desk Officer examined the necklace carefully and passed them over to a Detective Inspector who beckoned them into his room.

It was Marie who did most of the talking to the very nice man who listened intently and then asked Joanne a lot of questions.  So many that Joanne began to fidget and glance at the clock.

‘Sorry to keep you, Madam.  Just one more.  Where did you say you were meeting your young man?’

‘I didn’t.’  Joanne clamped her mouth shut but then changed her mind when she saw the detective’s face.   ‘The Mall.  Outside Creasey’s.’ she added.

         ‘I’m afraid I’m going to keep the necklace.  I’m sorry’.  Now it was the DI’s turn to look at the clock.  ‘But I just have to make a quick telephone call and then we’re done.’  Without looking at either of them, he left the room.

         The telephone call was anything but quick and by the time he reappeared the room had grown too small for Joanne;  she was pacing its perimeter and spitting at Marie like a caged cat.

‘Can we go now?’ without waiting for an answer, she was off, slamming the door behind her.

          ‘Too late, I’m afraid,’ the officer muttered.  He winked at Marie and shook her hand.  ‘Thank you for your cooperation.  She’s a bit sparky, your sister so I’m afraid your name’s going to be mud for a while.  But never mind, in a day or so she’ll be thanking you. You may even have saved her life.’

         Panting, Marie hurried to catch up with her sister.  As she did, her mind wandered back to the interview.  She wondered what the detective had meant.  He was very nice she thought. Very nice indeed.  Lovely eyes.  And had he held her hand just a trifle too long?   The sound of sirens exploded her daydream and she followed her sister back home.

         It didn’t surprise Marie that Neville didn’t turn up for work on Monday.  What did surprise her was what he was eventually charged with.   The detective had turned up on their doorstep the following day.  He couldn’t tell them much, but what he did say shocked them both, even succeeding in wiping the sneer from Joanne’s face.   It seemed that both she and her sister had brushed shoulders with a monster and for the first time Marie felt glad to be plain.

         But not that plain, for this time she was certain she hadn’t imagined it.  The detective had definitely looked at her in a certain way and what was more, he’d said he’d call again, once the trial was over.

Copyright Janet Baldey