Jane Scoggins
No story from me today but I wanted to promote a wonderful book I have recently finished reading. Winner of The Women's Prize For Fiction 2020 it is such a good read and gives an idea of what life was like in 1596 and leads us to believe is the basis for Shakespeare's play Hamlet:
By Janet Baldey
One hind leg cocked, Prince stood slumped against rough wood while large shapes shifted and swayed in the shadows.. Gradually, splinters of light pushed through the uneven planking and the dim light began to lift. There was a distant sound of clanking and Prince’s ears twitched as he opened his eyes. The other horses had heard it too and began to stamp their hooves. At last the stable door creaked open and Jim appeared with steaming buckets filled to the brim with bran mash.
‘Wake up boys.’ he called ‘Breakfast’.
The sun was a flat orange line on the horizon when the horses were led into the yard. Prince stood patiently while Jim heaved the heavy collar over his head and threw the britching over his rump. The routine never varied and Prince knew exactly what to expect. As a foal, he’d trotted behind his mother, watching and learning. There was the winter ploughing when, muscles bunching, the horses leaned into their collars, drawing the heavy plough over a choppy sea of clay. They pulled the seed drill in the spring and the hot, heavy days of summer were spent heaving carts filled with hay and harvested wheat. Little had changed for centuries and the slow, even cycle of the farming year were ideally suited to the heavy horses’ placid and uncomplaining natures.
But nothing lasts forever and gradually the atmosphere around the farm altered. Prince was not aware of this as his thoughts did not travel much beyond anticipating his next bucket of oats. If, however, he had been able to understand the sounds issuing from men’s mouths, maybe he would have worried. Their talk was all about war. Gradually men who cared for the horses left never to be seen again. They were not replaced and fields were left fallow. Prince was aware that Jim no longer harnessed him up. This task had been taken over by a younger and more inexperienced man. Although he meant well, he was clumsy and sometimes let the collar fall heavily onto Prince’s neck. Prince would snort and toss his head but otherwise, he bore the rough treatment with fortitude until his whole life changed
Early one morning the stable door swung opened and several different men entered. Prince looked up, curiously. Flashlights gleamed in the darkness. The men stopped by Prince’s stall and one ran experienced hands over his body.
‘This one’ll do’ he said.
Just before the sun rose the next morning, Prince and the other horses were rounded up. Again, they were forced to suffer the indignity of being blindfolded and were led in single file out of the field. Prince put his mind into neutral and followed his handler uncomplainingly, his hooves clopping along a metalled road. As he walked, a salt-laden breeze began to blow towards him and Prince’s nostrils twitched at the unfamiliar smell.
‘Whoa boy’. Again he was halted and to his surprise, he found that bands were being fastened around his middle. Suddenly, he was hoisted into the air and he snorted with terror, cold air rushed past his body then with a sickening lurch he found himself dropping downwards into a fetid hold that smelled of sweat. This time the blindfolds were not removed and Prince had to endure two days in a rolling hell. Closely tethered, he was unable to move more than a few feet and as the ground beneath him heaved Prince’s flanks brushed against those of the other horses, their fear contaminating him.
At last his ordeal ended and once again he found himself in fresh air. Prince stood still, feeling too miserable to move, his head was hanging, and he trembled with exhaustion. He was so steeped in misery that at first he failed to recognise a familiar voice.
‘Prince. I thought it was you, old boy.’
Gentle hands removed the grubby bindings covering Prince’s eyes. The unaccustomed light dazzled him and he did not recognise the man standing before him. Then he gave a soft nicker of realisation. It was Jim. It was the man who had looked after him at the farm.
Jim’s face was deeply lined and grey with exhaustion. He stared at the horse, and his face twisted with pity.
‘It isn’t fair,’ he whispered. ‘Welcome to the Western Front’. As he spoke a distant flash illuminated the skyline and there was a low rumble as if of thunder.
Now Prince had to get used to a new routine. At first light each morning, Jim would lead the big carthorse outside. A heavy harness was strapped to his body and his eyes were shielded by thick leather blinkers. Urged on by Jim, Prince’s hooves squelched through rain-sodden ground as he hauled on his heavy load. His nostrils flared, the sickly sweet stench of the mud-filled him with dread and if it wasn’t for the sound of Jim’s voice muttering quietly in his ear, he would have refused to budge. But Prince trusted Jim. Jim looked after him and always had done. As much as any animal could, Prince loved Jim and would have followed him anywhere.
As the weeks passed, the strain began to tell on both man and animal. Each laboured all day and far into the night and the work was gruelling. Prince would frequently sink to his fetlocks in the glutinous mud and the effort of having to pull a heavy load in such terrain exhausted him. As he strained and heaved his legs out of the sucking mud day after day, Prince became an automaton, lost in a nightmare of darkness and noise. The low rumble of the guns in the distance was incessant and although his blinkers blocked out the sight of most of the carnage, it could not block it out entirely and often Prince caught glimpses of dead horses, their stiffened limbs jutting at unnatural angles, their wounds gaping scarlet against the mud.
Gradually all his spirit drained away. He got little rest. During the short periods he spent in his stall, he would stand trembling, his ears constantly pricking this way and that, listening to the thunder of the guns and the shouts and screams of the soldiers. One day, just after they had delivered some supplies to the front line, the enemy cannons found their range. There was an ear-splitting explosion and a great gout of stinking mud fountained into the air, it rained down and spattered onto Prince who reared, screaming. With all his strength, Jim clung onto his bridle, doing his best to calm the animal but Prince had been temporarily deafened by the blast and was unable to hear Jim’s soothing voice. A red mist of fear descended upon him, he just wanted to get away, he forgot all about Jim, forgot that he was his friend. He shook his head madly trying to escape from his burden. Jim, worn down by many months at the Front, could hold on no longer and with a despairing cry, he fell under the horse’s flailing iron-shod hooves. Prince reared, beating at the air, then turning he careered back down the way that he had come, his cart lurching along behind him.
When the men caught up with him he was standing exhausted, his flanks heaving. He was covered in sweat and streaked with mud and his eyes were red and rolling with insane panic.
‘Poor brute’ one said.
So far gone was Prince, that he didn’t feel the cold ring of steel against his poll and didn’t hear the explosion that ended his life. He was just one of the eight million horses who died on the Western Front in the First World War.
Copyright Janet Baldey
By Sis Unsworth
my
old mum and my aunties, had a way to sort the mess.
The
china teapot would come out, and they would gather round,
and
very often to their plight, solutions would be found.
It
always was a ritual; the pot was warmed with care
while
a cup and saucer would be placed for all who gathered there.
Sugar
cubes and milk in jugs, no bottles on their table,
The
kettle heated then by gas, no electric plug or cable.
A spoon of tea went in the pot, for each and every one,
with
an extra spoonful for the pot, the job was almost done.
Then
boiling water added, they made sure it did not stew,
it
stood for just a little while, then they had their brew.
All
the tea was strained, as they poured it in each cup.
Milk
and sugar added, just before they drank it up.
It
seemed just like therapy as, they all joined in the chat,
But
I think the ritual of the pot, seemed to add to that.
For
when I have a problem it always seems a shame,
As
a tea bag in a mug, somehow, just don’t seem the same.
Copyright
Sis Unsworth
by Rosemary Clarke
The world would be a better place
If Barbie could help Ken
And Ken was in a wheelchair
Oh, what would happen then?
Or if he were paraplegic
After coming from a war
And Barbie was a Carer
To help when he could take no more.
Then little girls and little boys
Would learn they need each other
And what a great new world for them
All children would discover.
Copyright
Rosemary Clarke
by Richard Banks
I
get to the safe house, which is a shutdown café, and ring the bell. The door
opens and Henderson greets me like a long lost brother. He claps me on the back
and says the others are out back in the kitchen. I go in and look into their
faces. Four of them are exuberant, pleased to see me, two stare back in
disbelief. I put my back to the wall and draw my gun from its holster. There
is, I say, something that some of them should know if they’re wanting to stay
alive. I tell them about the lock on my door and the delayed explosion that
wasn't. Cheshire says I'm lying, that I'm a Government agent, but everyone knows
that's nonsense. If I was an agent there would be another ten behind me. I look
at Renshaw and ask him why. He considers his answer calmly; he speaks in his
usual, measured way.
“I'm sorry, Adam, but it was necessary.
You were a danger to us all. The Government was on to you. It would only have
been a matter of time before they caught up with you. What then? A drugged cigarette? I doubt it. They use
torture, you know. How long would you have held out before telling them
everything you know? There are millions of lives at stake. I couldn't take the
risk.”
I redirect the gun at Cheshire, ask her
the same question. Her betrayal seems worse and I feel my finger tightening on
the trigger.
“Shoot me,” she says. “Do it! Our lives
are unimportant. All that matters is the Cause.”
“Is there anyone else who wants me
dead?” My question is unanswered but everyone, apart from Renshaw and Cheshire,
are visibly shocked at what I have said. Clearly, they were never told, were
never meant to know.
I put my trust in them and return my
gun to its holster. There is silence, then Renshaw speaks. I tell him to shut
up, that nothing he says can be trusted, then I realise it's him who is going
to save me. He's thinking the same as me but I say it first. “Use Timewalk to
send me back to where no one will find me. Do that and we're all safe. Problem
over.”
“Very well,” says Renshaw, “are we all
agreed?” He looks at everyone in turn as they respond with a terse “yes” or a
nod of the head. He proposes that the two of us go directly to Timewalk before the evening patrols begin,
but I want someone there who's on my side so I insist that Henderson goes too.
We set off and reach the Timewalk building without encountering anything more
threatening than a stray cat. Renshaw lets us in and we go directly to the
transmissions room.
“When and where?” He asks.
I tell him Bath, England, early 1800s, and he starts fiddling with the controls in a way that suggests that standard transmissions have long ceased to be part of his job description. While he's sorting himself out I help myself to some clothing from the props room. I put on something labelled 'Regency, gentleman's formal' and hurry back to the transmissions room where the usual lights are flickering on the control panel. I take up my position. Henderson bids me good luck and I'm on my way.
***
It's a bad trip, I'm down on my knees
and there's a pain in my head like someone's taken a drill to it. What's worse,
if things can get worse, is that I am not in Bath, and unless Margate Beach has
got a whole lot bigger, there's no way this is England. I'm close to passing
out but if I do there might be no waking
up. I fall forward onto hot sand and, as it burns my hands and head, the
drilling stops. I find the strength to get back onto my knees and through eyes
dazzled by sunlight, stare out at a vast desert in which the only living thing
is me. My hat is nowhere to be found, so I take off the tailcoat I'm wearing
and hang it over my head. I need water, proper shade and if there's a place
where these things can be found that's where I’ve got to be. I stand up, pick a
direction and start walking. Two hours later I'm still going. I'm desperate to
be seeing something that isn't sand, but when I do it’s the bleached bones of a
human skeleton. This is what happens when you stop, I tell myself, you must
not, but that's easier said than done. It's mind over matter time; my body
wants to shut down but I won't let it, not after everything I've been through.
Ahead of me is a long ridge of sand,
over which a small bird appears and is joined by another. They tumble and turn
in the air before dipping down out of sight. I keep walking, knowing that
whatever is beyond the ridge will either save me or see me dead. The birds
reappear, soar upwards, circle and are lost in the glare of the sun. Out of
sight, they may already be too distant to see but logic tells me they are still
near. They need water just as much as I do and small birds don't fly far … or
do they?
I look down at my feet and make them
climb the slope to the top of the ridge. Every step must make a foothold
capable of supporting the weight of my body. A moment's carelessness will send
me sliding down, but my mind commands my body and my body continues to climb.
We triumph! and I step up onto a narrow plateau. Beyond it, the desert continues
to the horizon but I don't care, I'm not looking that far. Down below, no
further than one hundred metres, a cluster of palm trees tremble in a breeze
that blows only there. I roll down the other side of the ridge and start
walking again. This could be a mirage, a hallucination, me seeing only what I
want to see, but maybe, just maybe, it exists. I stagger up to the nearest
tree, hug it and know it's real. Ten more steps and I'm within the dappled
shade of an oasis. A lion and a lamb are grazing on the grassy bank of a lake,
on where a swan is swimming with her cygnets. The scene is tranquil, unworldly,
but, like me, it exists. I splash down into the clear, cool water and drink
from a stream that flows into it. In moments I am restored, made well again,
the cares and troubles of another life forever gone.
A crocodile glides towards me and on
finding I am doing nothing more interesting than washing the sand from my face
turns away towards a spur of land on which it has made a nest. Could life be
better? I think not, then a question proves me wrong.
“What animal are you?”
I turn in the direction of the voice
and find myself looking at a young woman who has allowed nothing to come
between her and the perfect tan.
“Human,” I reply. “I am, as you are,
human.”
She sits up from the grassy embankment
where she has been lying and dangles a foot in the water, sending an unhurried
ripple through her reflection. “A human?” She laughs and instantly dismisses
the idea as nonsense. “No, you are different. No human has skin like yours.”
I explain that I am wearing clothes and
that without them I am definitely human. To prove the point I wade over to her
and open my shirt so she can see my chest.
She points at my trousers. “And the
begatting? How do you do that?”
I reply that the trousers also come off
but that I will keep them on in case anyone from her tribe should come by.
“Tribe?”
“Yes, other humans, your father,
mother, a mate. Do you have a mate?”
She lies back on the ground, cradling
her head in her hands. The word seems unfamiliar to her and she repeats it
several times while considering its possible meaning. She decides to respond
with a certain knowledge of her existence. “I have Eric. He is my man and I
am Eve, his wife, who was once his rib. And this place is our home, Eden.”
This is all very odd but at the same
time strangely familiar. “Would I be correct in saying that Eric is the first
man and you his woman?”
Eve confirms that my supposition is
indeed correct. She turns over onto her front and says that if I want to make
myself useful I can rub coconut oil onto her back. She points to a coconut in
which a woodpecker is making a small incision.
“Is this what Eric does when he's
around?”
Eve heaves a deep sigh of discontent.
“You mean when he's not naming the animals?”
“Is that what he's doing now?”
“It sure is. It's the old chap's
orders, him upstairs. Go name the animals, he said, and while you're doing that
be fruitful and multiply. But oh no. Eric can't do two things at once so he
decides to name the animals first and leave the fruitful, begatting stuff to
later. So off he goes into the desert to name the meerkats and I've not seen
him since. Meanwhile, all the animals are begatting like mad and we ain't even
got started. He'd better come back soon or the old chap will be putting the
rabbits in charge.”
There is no good way of breaking bad
news, so I tell her about the skeleton in the desert and how it can only be
Eric. “He is dead,” I say. There is an irrefutable logic about this but the
concept of death is one she is totally unable to grasp. In the end, I say that
another of Eric's ribs has also become a woman and he is doing his begatting
with her. This she does understand and having never been told a lie believes
every word. When she has finished sobbing I tell her the good news.
“What's that?” she says.
“I have been sent to take his place.”
“What, by the old chap?”
I think he might be listening so I say
it's fate, our fate, and that it is written in the stars. This is a line I once
tried on a girl I met in a singles’ bar. It didn't work then and it doesn't
work now, owing to the need to explain writing. By the time that is done the
romantic possibilities are thinner than air. I try another line.
“Try and see it this way, the future
belongs to us. It's a new story, the story of Adam and Eve. Don't that have a
sweet ring? We'll be starting a dynasty that will change the world, no wars,
no hunger, a world full of happy,
contented people. We can do it sugar, you and me together.”
Eve says she doesn't have a clue what
I'm talking about but if it has anything to do with begatting I will need to do
something about the trousers.
I finish the rear side oiling and
tickle the flats of her feet; she lets out a high pitched shriek which startles
a sleeping leopard. Eve rolls over onto her back and draws up her knees so that
each foot is placed firmly on the ground. While she's deciding whether she
likes or dislikes being tickled I spread more oil onto her feet and shins. This
is like the best beach holiday ever and providing I can keep her off the
forbidden fruit that's the way it's going to stay.
It's time to explain about trouser buttons and having done so she demonstrates an aptitude for problem-solving that will come in very useful when we start making stone implements. But that comes later. For now, we have other things to do.
***
This is both the end of the story and the beginning. This time we will get it right.
by Rosemary Clarke
WANTED
People who care
WANTED
Folks who'll be there
WANTED
Ones who'll befriend
WANTED
The time they will lend
NOT WANTED
People who use
NOT WANTED
The system abuse
NOT WANTED
One's who'll take need
NOT WANTED
And turn it to greed
WANTED
People who smile
WANTED
To go the extra mile.
These are the ones blessed
under the sun
These make our day in every way.
KEEP BEING WANTED HOPE NEEDS US ALL TO CARE.
Copyright
Rosemary Clarke
