Abbalar Tales ~ 7

 

Abbalar Tales ~ 7 Mandrell

By Len Morgan

   A veiled woman, accompanied by nine mounted dog soldiers, entered the sleepy town of Mandrell at first light.   The few inhabitants abroad at that time were either on their way to or from work, all viewed the newcomers with suspicion, armed visitors invariably meant trouble.

Wizomi took in the motley band at a glance.   The men were mercenaries, but the woman was from a different mould.   Her cape was of fine black velvet, the delicate black gauze of her veil sheer silk.   Her hand made sandals were of calf leather finely jewelled and chased in gold thread, the soles showed little wear, he doubted she’d walked any distance in them.   Her nails were finely manicured and painted blood red.    The silken texture of her chocca honey skin was too perfect to be living tissue.   Finally, he looked into her wide brown eyes, which she'd expertly accentuated with a fine black kohl stick.   Her profile revealed a tantalising suggestion of her true form, as she rode past, the cape was taut at her breasts and hips accentuating the curves.   She was certainly a fine horsewoman full of poise, passion and bearing: qualities that cried out breeding; highlighting her superiority over those accompanying her.  The men were so obviously common that he wondered what their connection might be.   He would not have to wait long for an answer.   They were asking about other new arrivals over the past six to eight weeks.   At the Inns, nobody would speak openly to strangers but later would seek them out.   They were certainly free with their money making no secret of the fact they were prepared to pay well for information.   It would be just a matter of time before somebody mentioned Aldor and Genna…

His priority was to warn his friends, and that he did without further delay.   He knew he would probably be quizzed as would Genna, but he did not believe she was the object of their search.   Unlike her, he was a relatively high profile member of the community.   He would have to ensure her standing in the community was enhanced, and quickly.   He would get her to tell stories in place of Aldor, she certainly knew most of them.

 

.-…-.

 

    When Wizomi entered their quarters, he was agitated, a look of concern on his face.

"Friends, it may be of no concern, but you should know.   There are Huren horsemen, in town, enquiring after new arrivals.   Knowing the circumstances of your arrival I thought it prudent to warn you immediately."

"Thank you Wizomi, you are a true friend," Aldor began…

"Perhaps if you were to confide in me, as to the true nature of your situation, I could suggest an appropriate course of action?"

Aldor looked at Genna, she nodded assent.

"It is not a story I am particularly proud of."    He began…

 

.-…-.

 

Wizomi removed a sheaf of papers from his pouch.   "I fear we will be parting company sooner than I had hoped."   He shook his head sadly as he began to write on the first sheet.   "How much gold do you have?" he asked.

"Less what I owe to Genna?" he answered, asking her silently with his eyes.

"Around 820 Okes, I've deducted the price of a new horse," she explained with a smile.

"Take 10 with you, on your person and I will supply you with a promissory note for 500…"

"No!   Make that 100 the rest Genna will invest for me she is after all, my partner," he said.

Wizomi nodded "100 Okes payable on demand at any money lenders where the icon at the head of this promissory note is displayed."

Aldor looked at the 'Sun & two Crescents' sigil.   There was also some writing, repeated in several languages, and a set of glyphs he didn't understand.  

Wizomi explained, "It is a simple method of moving sums of money from city to city, or country to country, without actually taking it with you.   It works like this, I put up a sum say 1000 Okes, upon which a member of the 'Sun&Crescents' syndicate can draw.   In return, I can go to another city and draw on a similar sum put up by a member there.   If I have a debt to settle, I provide a note, to the person I owe it too, and they can draw on the syndicate, there is a recconing every six months.   There is , of course, a charge for drawings, currently 5% which will be…" he paused to calculate.

"5 Okes." Said Genna at once.

"But, the advantage is you do not have to carry heavy gold or risk being robbed on route.  Please sign this note immediately below my signature, the syndicate will only pay the sum to you when you sign in their presence and your signature is validated.   Here is a map," he continued, spreading it out on the table.  Head sou-east towards Hartwell, it is a walled city in the Meyam states.   There is a small mountain outcrop about two-thirds of the way, about here,” he said "you will feel an urge to avoid them, resist it and head for the tallest of the three peaks.   The Huren will almost certainly follow you, but I have a good friend who lives on the slopes of that mountain, he will aid you.  Do not be put off by his appearance…"

"Put off?"

"He is - a little different from other men, but he will be looking out for you.   He will know you are on your way and will aid in your future quest."

"My quest is as it always has been, to fulfil my birthright by becoming Caliph of Corvalen!"

"His name is Orden, he will aid you in what is to come," Wizomi repeated.

"Different?   In what way different," he asked a puzzled look on his face.

"I cannot say more, I am sworn, you will just have to trust me!   Now take the map and promissory note."

 "It is a good plan," Genna assured him.   You can move fast a'horse and light, with a small sum in your pouch.” 

Something in her voice made him stop her.  "You are coming with me of course?"  He said, gazing hopefully into her eyes, he didn't want to leave her.

She smiled wistfully, "I cannot ride a horse and so will slow you down.   You have to go partner, and I have to look after our interests here."

He looked away, suddenly overwhelmed with sadness, tears starting in the corners of his eyes.   He had only just found her - he knew if he stayed he might get himself killed but, he would almost certainly put her life in danger and that was unacceptable.

"You have to go, there is no choice."   She added, reading his mind, though it wasn't her own safety uppermost in her thoughts, as she surreptitiously wiped tears from her own eyes.  

They gazed at each other and suddenly they were close, their arms were entwined.

"I'll see you before you depart with some final details" Wizomi said tactfully withdrawing from the apartment.

 

(To be continued)

Copyright  Len Morgan

 

 ANOTHER YEAR ON

By Janet Baldey

“Thank God it’s Friday.”

Jodie leaned forward and clicked off her computer before cramming a bright green beret over her blonde curls.

“Bye, all. Off home for a long, sudsy soak. Hot date tonight.”  She winked and whirled out of the office.

Darren was the next to go. Unfurling his long limbs from his workstation he stood up and stretched his lanky frame until his joints clicked. Then, with a lazy wave of his hand, he ambled towards the door.

Gradually the accounts department emptied, its staff clattering out of the office and along the corridor towards the outside world where their voices faded into silence.  Eventually, the ‘phones stopped ringing. Only Sonia remained. Sonia was always the last to leave. Gazing into her glowing screen, she tried to lose herself in its depths. Her hands moved over the keyboard with mechanical precision, her eyes fixed on endless columns of figures. Invariably, she spun out her work for as long as she could, postponing the time when exhaustion forced her towards the place she used to call home.

A sound broke into her concentration and she looked up to see a wedge of light widening as a door at the far end opened.  Don, the office manager, appeared.  He glanced towards Sonia and weaved his way around the desks towards her.

         “Working late again Sonia?  You should go now.  You’re looking tired.”

         Sonia knew very well how she looked. Every morning her mirror reflected the same image. Empty eyes, underscored by indigo, stared out of a pallid face, its skin stretched too tightly over bones. She had grown used to it now. After all, that’s what you got when you existed on toast, tea and two hours sleep a night.

          An imitation of a smile moved her mouth.  

         “Just finishing off, I’ll be away soon.”

         “Make sure you are.” He hesitated and lifted his arm slightly as if to touch her.   She flinched; he saw the small movement and dropped his hand.

         “You know if you ever want to talk….”

         Her face froze. He sighed and walked back to his room.

         Only Don knew her story and that was the edited version. Maybe that was the reason why, for all his kindness, she couldn’t look him in the eyes.

         Sonia worked on until she heard the metallic clanking that heralded the arrival of Edie the cleaner, armed with her mop and bucket.  She shut down her machine and rose to her feet. She always tried to time her departure ahead of Edie’s arrival; too many times she had been on the receiving end of one of her lectures.

‘You shouldn’t let them work you so hard, dearie. You look fair peaky. And a good square meal wouldn’t do you any harm either.’ Edie had sounded concerned but Sonia had caught the speculative glint in her eye.

Outside, the night had closed in and icy stars studded the sky. Automatically, she glanced towards the car park half expecting to see her car waiting for her, its roof a frosty rectangle glittering under the floodlights, but the car park was deserted and she turned up the collar of her coat preparing for the long walk home.

         As she walked, head down, hands thrust deep into her pockets, she passed a pub.  It was a blaze of light and shadowy heads bobbed across its windows. Even from outside, she could hear the cheerful hum of voices. Her footsteps faltered, she turned and like an automaton, she pushed open the door.  Her feet took her up to the bar, her voice ordered its usual and her body carried it to a table. She sat for a moment, looking at the crowd thronging the saloon. She noticed one girl in particular. Sitting, perched on a barstool, her voice was just a little too shrill, her laughter a little too loud, her eyes a little too bright. Throwing back her head, she arched her slim white throat and swallowed a mouthful of alcohol. Sonia stared as if mesmerized. She recognised her. Once, she had been that girl.

She dragged her gaze away and looked down at her glass of red wine. Suddenly, a man sitting at the next table got up and caught her table with his hip. The table lurched, she shot out her hand to save her glass but was too late and its contents spilt onto the polished wood. The wine lay glowing like some fantastic jewel or….a pool of blood. Suddenly she was gasping for breath and made a frantic dash for the door. Outside, she leaned against the rough brick, gulping draughts of frigid air. At last, her breathing slowed, her limbs stopped trembling and her pulse steadied. She started walking.

         The sound of her key grating in the lock seemed very loud. Inside, her house was dark and still. Although she could hear the soft chuntering of the central heating system,

she could feel no heat and shivered as darkness seeped into her bones. Without bothering to switch on the lights or take off her coat, she made her way to the sitting room, guided by moonlight streaming through the windows. She sank onto a couch and stared vacantly in front of her.

         Time passed and Sonia’s tired brain drifted. She never slept fully but occasionally her consciousness leached away. She came to with a start as she heard a soft chuckle. She sat up, feeling a surge of joy. They didn’t always come but she lived for the times they did.  Adjacent to where she was sitting, a winged chair swivelled towards her and she saw her daughter curled up on its seat. Thin arms clasped her knees as she sat staring fixedly at the television screen watching images invisible to Sonia. Her face was animated and as she watched, she chewed the end of one of her plaits.  She was all arms and legs, just reaching the gawky stage before the onset of puberty and showing only a trace of the beauty to come.

         “Marcie,” Sonia cried but the child ignored her. Just then Sonia’s husband entered the room with a plate of sandwiches and a jelly.  He put them on the table and said something to the child who turned to him and grinned.  Sonia could feel the love flowing between them. He left the room and Marcie uncoiled from the chair and approached the table. Her mouth opened and she clapped her hands with delight as her father reappeared wearing a chef’s hat at a jaunty angle and carrying a pink iced cake decorated with silver hearts.

         Sonia caught her breath; of course, it was Marcie’s birthday.   How could she have forgotten? She tried to jump up but her limbs refused to budge. The last vestiges of sleep left her and she felt the familiar sense of desolation.

         “James, Marcie,” Sonia implored. “I love you. Please let me in. I miss you so much.”

         As always, neither showed the slightest indication that they heard her.

It was not always like this; sometimes it seemed to her that the barrier separating them thinned.  Its surface flexed and she had the feeling that if she pushed hard enough she could burst through. But tonight, it was sealed shut. Maybe it was because she’d been to the pub. Tears rose to her eyes. After all this time they still hadn’t forgiven her.

She didn’t remember much of the night that ruined her life. She remembered leaving work and going with her pals to the pub. “Just one,” she’d said. “We’re going away tonight.”  

         She remembered leaving and going home and seeing James’s face. It was the colour of spoiled milk.

         “Stinker of a migraine. You’ll have to drive.” He started to hand the car keys to her and then stopped. “You haven’t been drinking, have you?”

“No,” she’d said, her brittle voice betraying her. But James was in pain and didn’t notice.

         She remembered getting into the car. They’d planned to drive through the night and Marcie was already in the back, snuggled into a blanket. Excited, her eyes shone brightly in her small, delicate face. She reminded Sonia of a fledgeling cradled in a nest of down.

She remembered starting the car and driving off. After that, Sonia remembered nothing.  When she’d woken up, she was in the hospital. Her family were in the morgue.

         Ever since, she lay night after night, trying to remember. She was sure she hadn’t been drunk. She was sure she’d only had the one. Almost sure, anyway. Suddenly she screamed, the sound splintering the silence of the shattered house. Balling her hands, she pounded at the invisible screen until her fists were sore.

“IT WASN’T MY FAULT.   IT REALLY WASN’T MY FAULT.”

         Dropping to her knees, tears blurring her vision, she watched as their figures thinned, darkened and slid into the shadows.  Once more, she was left behind. 

Copyright Janet Baldey

BLUEBELLS 

Peter Woodgate 

The fragrant sound of springtime

The breeze, its echo heard in many bluebell flowers

Snaked artfully through early budding hedgerows

That eagerly awaited April showers.

 

Tiny feet came pounding

With steps that shook off winter’s caution

Eyes that saw yet led them on still, blindly

Those children so alive but sadly without notion.

 

Small hands swooping downwards

Plucking up the blooms that proudly stood

Leaving shattered stalks to freely weep

But all the crying in the world would do no good.

 

Above the laughing voices, screams could not be heard

And leaves and roots are crushed beneath the feet

Of happy children, arms all full of colour

And homeward bound to give their mum’s a treat.

 

On mantelpieces, placed in polished vases

The flowers still give out their pious scent

Whilst knowing, sadly, in the shady forest

Their very future lay with life-sap spent.

 

For a hundred years, perhaps, or even more

Local folk had thought not of that springtime splendour

“Why thank you very much,” they tell their children

As they observe a fleeting glimpse of grandeur.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 The Last Time I Saw Him

 by Jane Scoggins

How easy it is for the years slip by. One minute you are twenty and next you are forty. Linda got out the car and glanced as she always did at the old brick chimney stack rising tall and singular against the sky and hurried towards the entrance of St Lukes.

Joan was waiting for her in her small purpose-built flat that was always too hot. In recent weeks it had an added smell of Linda knew not what but thought it was supposed to represent the floral aroma of lavender. The smell emanated from one of those plug-in air fresheners.  Linda imagined that the gadget had been bought by one of the daily carers in order to mask some underlying odour from Joan that could not be removed sufficiently with soap and water.

Auntie Joan was old and it was expected that she might by now be suffering from a few old age ailments and possibly that included a bit of incontinence. Auntie Joan had always been so well turned out, clean, spruce and smelling of soap. Ashes of Roses had always been her favourite since Linda was a little girl. Since she had been in St Luke’s sheltered accommodation she had gone a bit downhill and this was upsetting to Linda, who preferred to think of Joan in her younger days.

Joan had stepped in to help care for Linda and her brother David when her mum had been diagnosed with MS. They had started by going round after school to have their tea with Auntie Joan and Uncle Ted, and when Mum deteriorated further Linda had had to help out a lot at home. Joan had been a brick and Linda could not imagine how she would have coped without her, especially when her Dad moved out. In the end, he had not been able to cope with the sight of his wife deteriorating in front of his eyes and feeling helpless to do anything about it. Mum said she understood. She knew he loved her and that he couldn’t cope with the stress. Linda thought she was too forgiving and that her Dad was a weak man.  Linda a teenager by then rebelled in more ways than one. Worse was to follow when her mum died and all that led up to her death still played on Linda’s mind.  She had not seen her father since the funeral. Linda was certain he had stayed away out of guilt for leaving them, and maybe because he had found another woman to take mum’s place  Linda had decided not to give in to forgiveness for many years, but as time passed she thought more about him. David had emigrated. Sad that a once happy family could be so lost to each other. 

The brick chimney at St Luke’s symbolised the last trace of Rochford Hospital before it was pulled down making way for new housing, including St Luke’s. Rochford Hospital was where she and her brother had been born, where her mum had come to outpatients and where she herself had been an inpatient after her breakdown It had also been the place where…

 ‘All done and dusted Mrs Bateman, see you on Wednesday ‘the carer’s cheery voice was saying as she was leaving Joan’s flat.’

‘Hello Linda, your auntie has just told me you are on your way so that is timed just right. Goodbye’

Joan Bateman smiled at Linda from her armchair as she walked in. She studied her face as she reached up her cheek to be kissed.

Linda felt in her handbag and brought out an envelope

and silently raised her eyes to meet Joan’s.

‘You’ve heard something then?’ said Joan quietly.

‘Yes, this mornings post,’

Joan patted the stool beside her and without taking off her coat Linda sat down. They both looked at the white envelope with the red logo.

Joan waited with the patience of years and wisdom and knew there was no hurry to know what words lay on the sheet of paper.

‘They have found him, Auntie Joan’.

The simple statement held twenty years of memories, and time stood still for them both.

‘The last time I saw him was here, isn’t it ironical?

Joan said nothing, but put out her hand and held Linda’s’.

He wants to see me. I don’t know how I feel. I am excited and afraid at the same time.

Why not bring him here and we can talk to him together, this is after all the place he was born.

I still have the blue blanket and his name tag.

Will he forgive me for having him adopted though?

When he hears your story and meets you he cannot fail to forgive you

You did nothing wrong and twenty years ago you were young, a different person, you did right by him. Time has healed us all and. you have put the past behind you.

‘Put the kettle on and let's talk. Maybe it is time now to start putting this family back together, its what your mum would have wanted. 

Copyright Jane Scoggins

 

 

 

 

Abbalar Tales ~ 6 Corvalen

By Len Morgan

Skaa-Bae knew something was wrong as soon as they entered the city.   An air of uncertainty, of nervous excitement, seemed rife.   He reigned in holding his hand up to halt the band of surly mercenaries, following him in close order.   He was thinking he would have preferred to apply a little torture to that spoilt brat, but his orders had been specific and delivered in front of his men.   He knew several of them wouldn't be averse to ratting on him if he'd deviated from those orders.   After all, Grym-Baal was their paymaster so they did things his way until it suited Skaa to do otherwise.   As things transpired, the boy had probably suffocated beneath ten feet of sand, which was faster than Grym would have liked.   It was a shame also that there were no ants or crustaceans out there, which would certainly have been the case back home, but Grym didn't know that, and neither had his men, or the boy for that matter, judging by the look of terror on his face.   Beside his imagination would have been likely to conjure them up anyway…  

"What in Lyandra's name is happening?" he yelled at a scruffy looking street trader.

"The Caliph is dead, and there is one mother of a battle going on in the centre of the city, factions are fighting for control, many of the sons have fled to safer havens.  Don't you just love it when the rich turn on themselves, butchering their own kin, for a change?"   He ducked as one of Skaa's men cracked a whip in his direction, "Aaahhh!"

"Too slow old man.   Huhaaa!" the rider laughed cruelly, "mayhap now you'll learn some respect for your betters."

Skaa led them on, into the foreign quarter, without further discourse.

.-…-. 

"There was a storm.   You should have gone back to make sure of him.   Did you?"

"No, but that can soon be remedied” Skaa began, “I could send back…"

"No!   Take six men and do it yourself but, don't return without a cadaver, or you can say farewell to your pay," Grym snarled.

Skaa didn't rush.   He enjoyed a bath, and a good meal, before despatching one of his men, to fetch a young doxy he’d had his eye on, with the promise of silver.   An hour in her company soon restored the fire in his belly; so he was ready for anything.   The girl went on to entertain the other riders, to make the visit financially worthwhile. 

 They rode out of the city at first light.  Unknown to Skaa, one of his dog soldiers had ridden out earlier, to dump a sack, at the fringes of the city, containing the decapitated body of the unfortunate young woman.   It was close to the Pochette Platzi, an area where life is cheap and no questions would be asked.   As the seven riders passed the place one of them noted the sack was gone.  Just minutes after he’d dumped it the broken body had been stripped of its clothing and left, naked in the gutter, at the mercy of a pack of half-starved feral curs.   Even before the killer returned to the inn they were sidling closer, sniffing and salivating, summoning the courage to attack.   Before the seven set out on their return trip, to the desert, all trace of her was gone.   The dogs, however, went hungry because somebody, fearful of an unquiet spirit, rescued her remains and interred them safely below ground.

.-…-. 

After two days of fruitless searching, it was evident they would not be able to produce the corpse.   They could stay and search for another week, widening the search area, and still find nothing.   Grym had as good as dismissed them; if they returned without a body so now they were unlikely to get paid.

Skaa’s expression was sour, his temper worse, and so they gave him a wide berth.   Then without preamble, he announced, "we leave at sun-up.  We are returning to the city, we only have supplies for one more week and we may need them whilst searching for a new paymaster."

"Can't we go into business for ourselves again," asked the youngest member of the band hopefully?   Though youngest he was far from the brightest but, he possessed an animal cunning, and was a demon with a blade in his hand.   When it came to fighting none, in the troop, were Frek's equal.   Even Skaa, a blades-man of excellence, would avoid direct confrontation with him.  

"We've worked the highways before, and we didn't do so badly," Frek reasoned.

"Do you remember why we gave it up," Skaa said patiently, "do you know the price on our heads back home?" he asked.

Frek went silent and gazed sullenly into the flames, "I jus thought…"

"No, you didn't!"   Skaa yelled cuffing the youngster about the ears, "but, that's what I like about you Frek, you shake me out of my moods and cause me to think beyond the moment!"   He placed a fatherly arm around the young man's shoulder - "you've given me an idea, there may be something else we can do," he sat down and went silent for an extended period, so long, in fact, the others became restless.   Just as several were preparing to breach the silence, he spoke.   "We are now bounty hunters!"   His statement was met with puzzled looks.   "What do you think we are doing at this moment?"   He said, - nobody spoke - "we are searching for a brat in return for payment."

"But, who would we be chasing," asked Frek.

"That’s easy, how many potential male heirs did the old Caliph leave?"   His question was met with silence.   "Thirty-six!   Of those, one is now the Regent and five others are housed safely in the cells beneath the palace, leaving thirty.    Thirty potentially fat bounties."

"So, we just turn up at the palace with one of his brothers and he pays us?" asked a voice in the group.

‘A sceptical little bugger’ Skaa thought but chose to ignore him.

“First we must find a body, desiccated beyond recognition by the desert.   There is a village nearby, where the tradition is to bury their dead in the sand until they are mummified.    When they hold celebrations they invite their ancestors, to the jig, by digging them up and display them in their dwellings, in places of honour, so they can bear witness to what is happening in this world, inform those in the next.   Then seek their approval.   We will buy or steal a body then we return to Grym and collect what he owes us.   Then we offer our services at the palace.   Once we are accepted Fazeil will provide us with a complete list of our quarry, their ages, personal details, and descriptions, together with the possible bolt holes they might have headed for."

"Then we go get em!" said Frek licking dribbles of saliva from his lips.

.-…-. 

It took Skaa three days to contrive an audience with one of Fazeil's advisors and to obtain an official warrant to seize arrest and detain all persons named therein.   Eventually, they would be returned to the palace as potential enemies of the state.   They would be detained indefinitely at the pleasure of the Regent, soon to be Caliph of Corvalen.

During the next three weeks, they took two of Fazeil’s brothers and in so doing pocketed more money than they had earned, in two years, working for Grym-Baal.  

Skaa enlisted the services of the other six members of his band and set off to successively visit all the outlying towns and villages, intent on ferreting out others.   He had also enlisted the services of one of Endrochine's favourite courtesans, one who knew the members of his family intimately, and who had no qualms about hunting them down; Jazim had no love for those who had looked down their noses at a mere courtesan.   There was one only she remembered fondly, as a true friend.   With the help of Jazim, they were very quickly able to track down two more and at this point, they were all looking forward to a rosy future.   Then they encountered a mature adversary, a brother with a dozen private bodyguards of his own.   They lost four of their number before dispatching him and escaping with his head in a basket.   The next town on their visit list was Mandrell.

(To Be Continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

 

NEW BEGINNINGS

By Peter Woodgate

 I have a new beginning which I want to tell you about, but before I do, let me tell you, briefly, about the old one.

There I was, 21 years of age, down the local dance hall, dolled up in my mohair suit with a packet of Du-Maurier cigarettes tucked neatly in my inside pocket. It’s not that I liked Du-Maurier for their flavour, in fact, I didn’t smoke but they came in a flat packet and didn’t create a bulge in the figure-hugging cut of the jacket. They looked cool too should you be asked to “flash the ash” by your mates or when offering to a young lady you just happened to be chatting up.

    Anyway, there I was, with my brother, playing the “see who could pull the prettiest girl” game, when, we both clapped our eyes on this young blond girl who was dancing with her mate. She kept looking over to us, smiling, and we noticed that she had a “lazy eye”. I don’t know the clinical term for it but anyway we decided that we couldn’t tell who she was smiling at so we moved from our usual spot making our way to the other side of the stage.

    After a fair bit of pushing and shoving, we arrived at the spot we were aiming for just as I bumped into this beautiful creature. She literally took my breath away, “I’m sorry,” I blurted out, as I recovered from an elbow in the chest. 

“That’s ok,” she replied giving me the most gorgeous smile I have ever witnessed.

    Well, one thing led to another, and, after making sure I had the last dance (traditionally the Drifters number) I asked if I could walk her home. Imagine my disappointment when she looked at me, seriously, and said “no,”

    It wasn’t until she explained that it was too far to walk and that she had come by bus, that I cheered up. I remember well that bus ride to hers on the top deck and despite costing me extra bus fares, and two Du-Mauriers it was worth it.

    Enough of that though, as 3 children, 6 dogs and an empty wallet later, I got divorced. My new beginnings, well, do you remember that blond girl I told you about? You know the one with the wonky eye, it turned out that she had moved to the same block of flats where I had gone to live with my mum and dad. I saw her regularly, smiling at her whenever our paths crossed but without thinking anything of it. On reading the local paper one day, I noticed an advert announcing a reunion for pupils of Kilburn Park High leaving in the years 57 and 58. I gave it little thought however, until my brother rang telling me that we should go and meet up with some of our old football team.

    I’d quite looked forward to going but ten minutes after arriving I felt extremely embarrassed as the only person I recognized was my brother, (20 years can do strange things to your memory) I thought.

    I think I was on my 15th “sorry but who are you,” routine when I, at last, recognized a familiar face. Well, it wasn’t actually the face, as such, as the cast in her eye and, after greeting me with her infectious smile, we got talking.

    Susan, as I now found out her name to be, was in the class of 58, I was in the class of 57. She had been married, briefly, but after her husband had run off with her best friend, she had remained single. She confessed too that it was she who had sent me valentine cards in the past and that she had always liked me, goodness knows why. She told me that after her divorce she had thrown herself into her work as a bereavement counsellor, she had all the time in the world, it seemed, for others, without expecting anything in return.

    We have met several times since, and on each occasion, I found myself learning   new things, things that make me want to spend more and more time with her.

    I popped the question the other week and Susan said yes!! As we walk down the aisle on that day some people will notice her eye.

I shall see only a beautiful woman.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 Picture Poem

by Len Morgan

Is this a Haiku?