Memories forever.

Sujata Narang

I never knew I’d hold on to these memories forever.

Decades later, miles away, I never thought I would spell these days as the best ever.

As I look back, I think it was our magnificent getaway, anyways we didn’t want to participate in the concepts of business banking, or whatever as we'd already had a long day.

My brain was blocked; pages were already filled and I didn’t even have a decent pen.   

I found an abandoned pen refill on the floor; we shared it to copy the notes from the board.

Definitely it was a win! The meek dead refill saved us from the turbulent furious teacher when we didn’t even have a writing thing.

 

A few days later, one bright sunny day, we sneaked out of, yet another tedious financial engineering class swapped for some street shopping affair. 

Later that noon, we galloped down a big portion of junk, laden with spices and chillies.

And now we fancied a cup of Kesar milk, to quench the terrible dryness, as the burst of spices were getting uneasy to bear.  

I never knew, this was going to be a tale that I could tell forever, the day we were sweating like a pitcher filled with ice- cream, and carelessly using our laughing gear.

After we were filled with pleasure and food, we walked back in the lecture room, wrapping shameless pride.

The watch dog mistook us to be innocent ones, out of the bunch of blunt culprits bunking the lecture and strolling back in.

I never Knew it would be my most victorious disappearance from the classroom ever. 

We were discounted from yet another misery. Maybe the heavens were on our side.

I now know those glorious days will never return; the fun-filled days of my life.

The days back then were filled with careless chatter. The days I was doing my masters.

Those days when we had empty pockets, but every moment life was filled with love and laughter.

Nothing to worry, no bills to pay, nothing in particular that I was after.

I never knew I’d hold on and count those days as the best ever.

Recount and recall them forever and ever after.

Copyright Sujata Narang

 Road Hill House 

By Richard Banks

The following review of a recent Zoom course was written by myself for the WEA’s Newsletter. The WEA (Workers Educational Association) provides an extensive programme of courses on a wide variety of subjects. While it is too late to enrol for the Association’s Spring term courses (Jan - March), Adhoc courses will be held throughout the Spring and Summer. All courses during the pandemic have been taking place on Zoom but it is hoped to also hold face-to-face courses in Rayleigh, and elsewhere, later this year.

Anyone wishing to find out more about the WEA and its courses can do so on wea.org.uk or by phoning 0300 303 3464.

Richard

 

The Rise of Detective Fever

Tutor: Margaret Mills

10 week course

         This course, which under normal circumstances would have been held in the WI Hall, Rayleigh, was the first on-line learning experience for many of those taking part. Memorable for that reason it will also be remembered as an absorbing course in which the participants were able to exercise their deductive powers in trying to solve one of the most controversial murder cases of the Victorian era.        

         Fortunately, the official investigation was not undertaken by the amateur sleuths of Margaret’s course but by a new breed of policeman established by the Metropolitan Police in 1842. First based in Scotland Yard they were an elite, plain-clothed force, hand-picked from the best of the uniformed service. Although public reaction was initially wary – many perceiving them to be informants or Government spies – it was not long before they were receiving the enthusiastic endorsement of the national press and from there finding their way into the popular fiction of Dickens and Wilkie Collins. Since then they have never been out of fashion and are ever-present in the books and TV series of our own time.

         Prominent among the early detectives were Charley Field (the master of disguise) Adolphus ‘Dolly’ Williamson and Jack Whicher, known as the ‘Prince of Detectives’. In an age before fingerprints, DNA and other forensic aids the new detectives adopted a systematic, wide-ranging approach to criminal investigations that also made use of physiognomy, the art of judging character from a person’s appearance. The reactions of suspects, their facial expressions and mannerisms were therefore closely observed by these early exponents of the scientific approach to solving crime.

         In 1849 the reputation of the new detectives was secured when they were called in to investigate the ‘The Bermondsey Horror’, the brutal murder of Patrick O’Connor, a Customs official and moneylender. The crime sensation of the decade (eventually filling seventy-two pages of The Times) was solved by Field and Whicher who not only conclusively established the guilt of the culprits but apprehended them in distant parts of the UK wherein earlier times they might well have avoided capture.

         Eleven years later the London detectives were to face their greatest challenge yet when Wiltshire Magistrates requested their assistance in investigating the murder of Francis Saville Kent, the three-year-old son of well to do factory inspector, Samuel Kent. The initial investigation by the local constabulary had, to use a modern expression proved unfit for purpose and by the time the detective assigned to the case, Jack Whicher, arrived at Samuel Kent’s large house the much picked-over crime scene was of little help to his enquiries.

         Another complication was the large number of suspects. Road Hill House where Kent lived with his second wife, Mary was also home to four children from his first marriage and three from his marriage to Mary. In addition to three live-in servants, six more worked in or about the house during the day. While firm evidence was in short supply it soon became apparent to Whicher that the older children, now in their teens and twenties, resented their half-siblings, and that their father was much disliked by local residents and former servants. Rumours that he had, and was having, improper relationships with female servants was another discordant undercurrent that seemed somehow connected to the murder.

         Who did it?  I’m not saying. If you want to know you will have to do the course. But if you do, be prepared to be surprised!

         Our thanks to Margaret for an intriguing course, and to the WEA for their stewardship of Zoom.

 

Richard Banks,

Secretary, Rayleigh Branch

 

My Valentine 

By Peter Woodgate 

Although, at present, we are far apart,

a result of mankind’s dark insanity,

I focus on the dreams within my heart

not tainted by the world of negativity.

For each and every day I think of you,

untouched by earthly deeds and selfish thoughts,

within my heart the purity of love is unconfined,

not physical, as in the method we are taught.

Whilst free of substance, wonders cannot be destroyed

and ecstasy will burn beyond our dreams,

although we cannot touch as in the worldly sense

our spirits intertwine, or so it seems.

For we have more than love that fades

as flesh grows old,

Not bound by laws of nature, we are free

From all restrictions that withhold mere mortals

and no longer blinded, we can see.

Our passion is euphoric, joyous to the end

and down some by-way in the mists of time,

I will take your hand and we will realise

what it is to love, my valentine.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 Brothers

By Jane Scoggins 

John was running late and it bothered him. He was a stickler for timekeeping, but today the public transport system had got the better of him. He knew his brother would not mind, as unlike him, Ray had never been a stickler for time, and would not be bothered in the slightest that he was running late. Hurrying along as quickly as his gammy knee would allow, John noticed, that despite nearing the end of September, gardens were still looking nice with geraniums, begonias and Japanese anemones still blooming brightly. He must remember to tell Ray. He had always been a keen gardener. Not so much John, who had preferred sitting in the garden amongst the flowers. His wife Moira had been the gardener in years past and he had mowed the lawn. Now they lived in a flat with a balcony, where Moira had adorned the small space very prettily with hanging baskets in the summer and a few pots of all-year-round greenery and spring bulbs

   John apologised to his brother for being late. Although he knew it was quite unnecessary, it made him feel better.

   ''Moira has gone to see her sister and will come by and pick me up afterwards, I don’t think she will be all that long. We want to have time for a bit of lunch in town before she goes to the hairdressers. Our neighbour is having a drinks party to celebrate her 75^th birthday. She is a lovely woman. I probably told you that she lost her husband last year. They travelled the world together and she misses him a great deal. Now she doesn’t go further than Reading to visit her daughter and grandchildren. When she is away for a few days we feed her cat, a rather grumpy old moggy. They are devoted to each other and he probably rather resents us intruding into his territory. He actually scratched me yesterday. On a lighter note, West Ham beat Southampton 2-1. I know! Amazing isn’t it. I watched the game in the pub with Ronnie. We were like a couple of teenagers whooping it up with the lads in there. We had another pint to celebrate. Moira said I smelt like a brewery when I got home. On a sadder note, I read in the paper that Terry Bland has died. Haven't seen him for years but he was a real laugh wasn't he? Remember him at school that time when he mixed something in the science lab that caused an explosion and singed his hair really badly, making clouds of green smoke and an obnoxious smell that lingered for days. Its a wonder he wasn't expelled. He was a bright lad though and went on to university and ended up as something quite important in the computer industry. He married Susan Jeffrey Remember her from swimming club?  A real stunner, and with legs up to her armpits. She was a brainbox too and totally out of our league although you drooled over her like a puppy. I never told you did I, that I snogged her after the swimming gala one year. I reckon you would have punched me and not spoken to me for a week if you had known. Anyway, I redeemed myself by allowing you to pretend to be me when Jackie Flynn asked me if I wanted to go to the pictures. I knew you liked her too. We were so alike then that with a bit of tweaking and swapping of sweaters I don't suppose she noticed, and you said got to snog her in the dark in the back row of the cinema. We had a few laughs being twins growing up.

  Well, brother, I will have to go in a minute as I see Moira coming up the road. She's a bit slow these days but as bright and cheerful as she has always been these past 49 years. Can't believe we will be celebrating our Golden Anniversary next year. We are thinking of going on a cruise. Never done that before, so there will be lots to tell you when we get back. Here she comes up the path so I won't keep her waiting. Oh, I meant to tell you that the gardens are still blooming with geraniums, begonias and those tall pink Japanese anemones. Goodbye then old chap, see you again soon. Getting a bit stiff on this bench now so I will stand up and get going. Moira is waving at me from the gate. Looks like you will be having a bit more company today. I can see a hearse and a cortège approaching and about to come through the cemetery gates. I will wait a minute beside you to pay my respects as they progress. They must be going over the other side of the cemetery nearer the chapel. I can see the vicar now, he’s waiting over there beside a grave. May they, like you dear brother, rest here in peace. God bless you. I miss you”   

Copyright Jane Scoggins

 

Abbalar Tales ~ 26

 Abbalar Tales ~ 26 The Palace 1

By Len Morgan

“Mistress, they have escaped from the cellars.”

“Fools, how did you let it happen; Harby…”

“There is a low ventilation grill in each of the cells, on the outside there is an expanse of underground tunnels…”

‘Fazeil, what know you of tunnels beneath the city?’ she asked using mind speak.

‘There are extensive tunnels circling the inside walls of the city, they have remained unused and empty, ever since they were discovered some five-six hundred years ago.   There is access from the palace but no other known way in or out.’ He replied.

‘Harby has discovered a number of exits, through the cellars of the outer rim houses.’

‘I caution you that they should not become common knowledge lest our own designs be compromised.   Those access routes must be disguised.   The security of the city is at stake, only the Caliph and a few of his closest advisers, currently, have access.’

‘Four of the intended offerings have got loose and fled into those tunnels.’ She warned.

.-…-. 

He stepped through the portal, surrounded by mist, the missive to Asba Dylon still in his hand.   As the mist cleared he carefully consigned it to his pouch.   He found himself standing at the hub of a lightning-struck tree whose shards spread out, parallel with the ground, like the spokes of a giant wheel.   He sprang from the stump, bending his knees for what he judged to be a hop of several feet only to find, to his dismay, that he'd completely misjudged the distance.   It was in fact nearer six feet and he had to roll ungracefully to avoid a bad landing.   He stood up and turned to memorise the location of the portal for when he needed to return.   He only had four days and may need to find it in a hurry, before their dreams turned to dark terror and consumed them both as surely as they would had they been reality.   He turned slowly through a complete circle mapping his surroundings and committing them to memory.   He experienced a rush of excitement as he realised where he was.   These woods were the private hunting reserves of the first family of Corvalen.   He had spent many happy hours here as a child, hunting small game rabbits, pigeon, grouse, deer and other game.

"Hey, you!   What are you doing here?" a familiar voice demanded.  

He turned with a broad grin on his face expecting to see Elroed, the master woodsman, who managed these woodlands.   Thirty yards separated them; he noted Elroed held a partially flexed bow pointing menacingly in his direction.   No smile or look of recognition showed on the man’s face.  

"Good day master woodsman, I was passing and thought to see for myself the fabled Northern Reserve of Corvalen," He said.    "You are Elroed?" he questioned squinting into the morning sun.   "I have been very interested in the reports I have heard about your crop rotation theories, your coppicing practices, and methods of animal husbandry.   I decided long ago that if ever I found myself in this area I would look you up and see them for myself.   I am very impressed."  As he spoke he skimmed the surface of Elroed's mind.   He was surprised to find a deep sadness underlying his thoughts.   His father had disappeared just prior to the last conjunction.   He sensed tenderness, deeply underpinned by strength and a burning sense of commitment to the work and to destiny.   He was potentially far greater than his father.   He had chosen to plough a lone furrow, and Aldor felt a great affinity with the man.  

"My father is gone; he was a pioneer, his methods inspired, and years before their time."  It was no boast, just a simple statement of fact.  "I will continue in his stead as best I can, and seek to emulate him, it will be a labour of love."

"Forgive me but, you are so like the description I was given of him," in truth he had seen them both a scant seven month earlier.   The son a tall spindly youth, his father the same height but as broad again, rangy with a face filled with strength and purpose.   Each head topped off with a mop of wild unruly copper locks.   On closer inspection his youth became obvious, but at a distance, they could have been twins.   It was only fitting he should be appointed to continue his father's forestry programs and bring them to fruition.

"You are trespassing.   Who be you stranger," he asked in an easy drawl with portents of menace, "your words infer awareness of our ways so you must know these woodlands are private, now I must ask you to leave sir…"

"They call me Aldor, I am here to seek out a member of your court, an Asba Dylon by name, do you know of him?"

"Asba is a good friend; he lives on the fringes just outside the walls.   He is a true character.   When chided about his humble home he will explain it allows him to keep in touch with common people and therefore with public opinion.   In reality, he uses the generous stipend he is paid, as leader of the High Council of Corvalen, to educate and support most of the talented waifs and strays that abound in this city.   They would otherwise all wind up in prison.   He has them indentured and bound to local craftsmen tradesmen and businessmen.   If you are a friend of Asba's you will find plenty who will sing his praises with you.   I myself have two bright young prentices, keen and willing to learn woodcraft, animal husbandry, and good farming techniques.  There are a number of farms eager to take young men with their skills.   There are others indented to blacksmiths, sword-smiths, jewellers, and the local tannery.   I hear he has even pressed a number of young strays into service at the palace under the master armourer; others are working as pages, scullions and cooks.   Many are supporting adopted families, Asba is not a wealthy man but his heart is filled with riches and, he is rich in the hearts of the local communities all around the outskirts of the city.   Walk with me and I will guide you to his home."

They entered a dimly lit house, in no way reflecting the status of its owner.   "This is the house of Asba Dylon," Elroen said, "I must leave now, I have pressing business."    He tapped a seemingly random pattern on the roughly painted blue door and was gone.

The door opened silently, revealing an overweight man in his mid-forties, his hair black but thinning, his lower face covered by a greying beard encircling his broad lips.   He scrutinised Aldor inquisitively through his bright intelligent green eyes.   His serious visage broke into a warm welcoming smile.  

"Well met young prince," he said, "come on inside."

"You know of me?" Aldor asked, unable to hide his surprise.

"The brat who thought I would let him win at Kingdoms?" Asba asked.

"Damnation, the world continues to shrink."   He said recognition shining in his eyes.

"But, how did you recognise me?"

"Well you see, there is a computer under this city." Asba winked.   "It was a test," he said, a knowing grin on his face. 'You didn't fare too well from that one as I remember.   Potential revisionists are not exactly common, one in a thousand we are, it takes a rare talent to commune with control.'

'You are mind speaking.' Aldor said in amazement.

"Relax, you’re with friends. And the HM has been tuned out of your mind." Asba said.

"But you serve Fazeil…"

"I serve the Regent or Caliph, whoever that may be, I serve the ideal of what might come to pass, I serve the people" said Asba Dylon.

'My Brother…'

"Fazeil?   He is Jazim's creature."

"You mean…"

Asba nodded sadness in his eyes.

"I do not know if I could perpetuate the carnage that has gone on in the past" Aldor began.

"Spoken like a true patriot.    None would believe your genealogy now anyway," he grinned and made a sweeping gesture stepping back to fully take in his guest.  "You have changed too much and too fast for 'standards' to credit your claims."  

"Then it should be one of the others" Aldor replied at once.

"That is for you to decide, you will need to make the best selection.   It will take all your newly acquired skills and then something extra.   You are of course familiar with the palace and its intrigues.   You should know those who must be ruled out immediately, so we have confidence you will make the right choice.   You have less than half a year to shatter old traditions that have stood for thousands of years" Asba summed up his predicament far too succinctly for his liking.

'I will never become Caliph' he thought sadly, slowly coming to terms with the reality.

'Of course not, you are destined for much greater things.   The net you cast must be wider by far than Corvalen' said Asba.    "But, where are my manners, sit you down Aldor.   Yasmin!   Please bring tea and cakes for our young guest.   He is to be my right hand at court; from this moment he will be my scribe."

(to be Continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

 BETRAYAL 

By Peter Woodgate

 

They say the act of burglary is carried out at night

and that robbery is carried out by day,

 

You stole my heart that evening and robbed me of my youth

then left me in the morning in dismay.

 

Are you then a robber or a burglar?

For both described the way you treated me,

 

I was susceptible and weak, guided by your charms,

And so, your true intent I could not see.

 

So, how do I address you? What names befit your style?

With comments like “fantastic whilst it lasted.”

 

Do I call you Mister Mean? Or something more obscene.

Like, “bloody selfish chauvinistic bastard!”

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 

 BUFF ENVELOPES

By Janet Baldey

Not another one!   Her legs turning to water, Rifat bent to pick up the envelope.  As if it was red hot, she dropped into onto the table and stood staring at it.  At last, she wiped her damp hands down her skirt, reached out and, with the very tip of her finger, turned it so the address faced her. 

TO THE PRESENT OCCUPIER

The bold black type accused and fine lines tracked over her normally smooth brow.  She didn’t understand. Should she open these envelopes that kept drifting through her letterbox like unwelcome snowflakes or were they meant for Mr Askari?   True, she’d been living in the flat for months but, without papers, it was a ghostlike existence.  It was Mr Askari who paid the rent and it was his property that furnished the place.  She sat on his stained sofa, walked over his threadbare carpet and slept in his sagging bed.  Shuddering, she looked around the dingy beige living room with its bare walls and limp curtains.  Even her poverty stricken home in Slovenia was a palace compared to this.  Her eyes welled as she remembered its bright cushions and wall hangings lovingly stitched by her family.  Her tears overflowed and slid down her cheeks as she thought of her Mother and little Magda.   It was months since she had managed to send them any money.  Almost all she earned was taken by the cold eyed thug who appeared at her door every Friday evening.  As squat and ugly as a peasant’s privy, he never smiled and never spoke but simply held out his hand.   She hadn’t seen Mr Askari for months and sometimes wondered why, but she would never dare ask this man.

         With an apathetic shrug, she dropped the envelope onto the pile of similar ones.  She would try to pretend they weren’t worth worrying about. It was just that everything in this cold, dark country was so strange.  Days would pass before the sun made a token appearance, whereas in Slovenia it smiled most of the time.  Its meadows were lush and fragrant with the scent of bell flowers, orchids and the pale lemon butterwort and its countryside sprawled extravagantly, not like this tightlipped city whose regimented parks seem to have been cut out and pasted onto sour overused earth.   She clutched at her hair in despair.  If only she hadn’t listened to those glib men with predatory eyes and shark-like smiles.

        ‘It is good in England. There you will earn much money.  You will have a house, a washing machine, a car even. And very soon you will be reunited with your daughter.  Be brave Rifat.’

         She closed her fists and ground her nails into her hands as she cursed those men.  She cursed their ancestors, she cursed their progeny but most of all, she cursed their souls. Her body shuddered with venom until she felt limp and exhausted and stood with her head bowed.   After a while she roused herself and looked at the plastic kitchen clock with the crack across its dial.  It was time to go.  She slipped on her shoes with the punishing heels and re-applied her make-up.  As she stepped outside, she saw her neighbor leaving his flat.   She froze. He was a spy, she was certain of it. She had often caught him staring at her.  He had a thin, triangular, feral face and she didn’t trust him one bit.  She lowered her head and wished for a hibab to cover her face.

        So swiftly she was caught unawares, another figure materialized before she had chance to close the door. His appearance was forbidding and she started to tremble.  The man looked at the half open door and then at her.

        ‘Am I speaking to the present occupier?’, he barked and waved a buff coloured envelope, which she recognized at once.  She felt her mouth drop open.  She stared at him and saw his eyes were the washed-out blue of Arctic ice, his lips were thin and somehow she knew that, if kissed, they would taste of vinegar.

         Panicked and against her will, she flashed a desperate glance at her neighbour who stepped forward immediately.

         ‘No.  She’s just the cleaner….she speaks very little English.   I believe this flat belongs to Enzo Askari.’

        The man scowled and looked at Rifat as if she had soiled his shoes. ‘So, where is this Mr Askari, we have been trying to contact him for months.’

         Her saviour hesitated, ‘He is away.’  He stepped forward and whispered something in the man’s ear.  Rifat saw the man’s scowl deepen.  

         ‘We will check this, of course. In the meantime, if you see Mr Askari, please ask him to complete the form in the envelope and return it immediately.’

       They both watched as he spun round and stalked towards the stairs. 

        Rifat took another look at her neighbour.  She suddenly realized he didn’t look sly at all.   Instead, he looked wise and kind and his eyes shone like burnished copper, reminding her of the foxes she used to watch in the woods around her village.

       ‘Thank you so much’, she whispered.

        He half bowed.  ‘I am glad to help.   What is your name?  I am called Sergei.’  

        ‘My name is  Rifat.’

      ‘It is nice to meet you Rifat.  But now, I must warn you.   Never, but never, ignore buff coloured envelopes. They are from bureaucrats and must be answered. If they don’t get a reply they send their dogs out.’

        ‘Was that man a dog?’

        His lip curled.   ‘Of the very worst kind – even the lowliest cur would be ashamed to associate with his sort.   But, remember – fill in their forms – put anything you like, it doesn’t matter.  As long as you tick their boxes they are happy.  If you don’t, you will betray yourself.’

      She nodded, then started as she remembered. 

      ‘I must go now.’

      ‘Goodbye Rifat.   I hope we will see each other again soon.’

      Neither of them spoke but in that long moment of silence, Rifat could have sworn she heard both of their hearts beating as one.

Copyright Janet Baldey