A Photograph

 

A Photograph

By Len Morgan

Just something to raise a wistful smile to your face, even on the dullest of days in lockdown.  A fond memory of times past, a promise of better times to come.

 

Look at that thin gangly young girl in gingham & pigtails with her jammy face and a mischievous grin.  Who’d have thought she would blossom into the loving caring mother of our three grandchildren?

 

Look at that photo of a young man and woman optimistically embarking on a lifetime of adventure, of discovery, laughter and tears; that was you and that was me.  Look at us now the same smiles but a little wiser.

 

What a three-dimensional thing is a photograph; it covers time & space; drawing memories and emotions from your mind; long-forgotten ghosts from the past.

 

 

 SALVATION 

by Richard Banks    

                              

If I had one wish it would be to declare all other wishes null and void. Call me cynical, a spoilsport, anything you want but if you had my job you'd be thinking the same. Right now you're thinking about all the good I'm doing, how I transform people's lives, lives full of hardship that without me would be as grey and cheerless as the never-changing sky. What can I say? With four million viewers I must be doing something right; if I don't bring them pleasure then why do they watch? For thirty minutes every month they get to hope that they will be chosen, one of ten people randomly selected by computer to have their wishes made reality. The real winners are the ones who lose. For them there is always hope. OK, they say, so I didn't win this time but there's always next week and, if that doesn't happen, there's the week after and the week after that. Someone's got to win, why not me? In a world where deaths outnumber live births by five to one their chances of winning are constantly increasing.

         My sympathy goes to the chosen ones, the poor mutts who think that all their troubles are over, then they find out about the rules, the unpublished small print that no one thought to tell them about. Cash prizes are limited to 50,000 credits, enough to buy an apartment in a domed village but nothing left to pay the bills; and if you don't live in a domed village there's no shortage of desperadoes who will cut your throat for what you have got and they want. Happy days! Then there are the crazy people who think miracles can be done. Cure me of the sickness they say, I want to live in a warm place where the sun still shines, take me back in time, I know you can do it!

         But we can't. This is reality, it's all we have. Choose what you want but prepare to be disappointed. The lucky ones are those who make only moderate demands and having only moderate expectations are moderately satisfied. A man who wanted to see the sun was taken to a mountain top above the cloud bank. A woman who wanted to make love with Brad Pitt junior was granted half an hour of his time and went home more satisfied than most. The winner who came out best was the guy who wanted a litre of moonshine every day for the rest of his life.  As he was nearly forty this was considered a reasonable request. He's the happiest drunk you're ever likely to meet. For him the world is a great place, it exists at the bottom of a glass.

         Most of our winners aren't that fortunate. All suffer from the same disadvantage, that having won they are no longer eligible for further wishes. For most of them no wishes, no prospect of wishes, equals no hope. No wonder that the suicide rate for winners is three times higher than for the rest of us. By now you're thinking I don't get much job satisfaction. I don't, but at least I get to live in a domed village. Life in the bubble may not be normal but if normal is what we used to have, normal no longer exists. At least we're alive. In the combat zones, no one lives, twenty million deaths for every second of war. But not here, not on this sceptred isle. We were spared, no rockets, no bombs, not a single casualty, not a single building destroyed. Then the clouds rolled in. We thought they would pass over, it was just a matter of time, that one day we would wake up to a blue sky. Thirty years on we know that’s not going to happen, not for us, not for many generations to come. Our world, at best, is a twilight place where few crops grow and those that do are contaminated with the same sickness that's in all living things. We that were sixty million are now five but we cling on. Food is grown in factories, electricity generated, new buildings constructed. We have adapted, we continue to adapt. Every year some small progress is made but as yet there is no cure for the sickness. In the accountancy of human life if we do not balance the books in twenty years mankind will be extinct. We are on the edge, but not done yet. The newborns contain less radiation than their parents. For most the difference is not significant, in some it is. These fortunate few are nurtured within the benign environment of a dome. In time they will be paired with others of their kind. In them is our salvation.

         For now, we must take consolation in the few pleasures that remain. Our lives are short, fifty years for those in domes, thirty-seven for the rest. What would we do without wishes? On TV screens crackling with radiation those who watch dare to dream, believe in the possibility of better. For a short while behind drawn curtains, the world is out of sight and the things we have seen more precious than those we don't. It could be worse, they say. While there is life and wishes there is hope.

         Important people also get wishes. For them, there is no need for random selection. They are chosen as a reward for services rendered, members of the ruling council, district marshals and occasionally TV personalities like myself. Yes, I too have a wish. Having observed the shortcomings in other people's wishes I have been careful not to waste mine. I have chosen psycho-stasis, ten days in an induced coma where I can be in an ideal world of my own construction. I tell the therapist precisely what I want and she programmes my mind, like others programme computers. For ten days I can be anyone I want, do anything I want, in any place or time. It's a fantasy world in which the mind moves but the body doesn't. For some, it's more real than reality.

         Sometimes things go wrong, but not often. The nurse assures me that their success rate is 98%. She attaches electrodes to my head and chest, explains the procedure yet again and punctures my arm with a needle. Have a good trip she says. I close my eyes knowing that the next time I open them I will be in the south of France, circa 2001. The programme downloads and I slip into unconsciousness.

 

                                              *****

        

         I awake in a pleasant enough room that has floral wallpaper, a cupboard, and a radiator gurgling with hot water. It's morning, day one. I get out of bed and cross the room towards the window. My legs are unsteady but this is to be expected; it will, I'm told, soon pass. I draw back the curtains and stare out at a landscape that's definitely not the south of France. This is England, the way it used to me. It's a winter's day but the sun is shining. My disappointment is eclipsed by the sight of the sun and the blue sky that surrounds it. I wash, select some clothes from the cupboard and go exploring. The building I am in is a large one, evidently a hotel. There is food cooking, a full English breakfast. The smell of bacon mingles with that of sausage, mushrooms and coffee.

         At the end of a corridor is a staircase. I follow my nose and descend two flights to a dining room where the food is set out buffet style in metal bowls set within a long wooden cabinet that separates the kitchen from the dining area. I help myself. A jolly woman in white overalls asks me whether I want tea or coffee. I ask if I can have both. She laughs, says I will need a tray, finds one and, when my hands start shaking, she takes my breakfast to a table where the cutlery has already been set. Other people enter the room, little is said. They choose their meals, sit down and eat. There are no children. I wonder why, surely there should be some.

         I’m drinking the last of the coffee when a woman, a youngish sort of woman, asks if she might join me.  It sounds like an old joke. Am I falling apart is the standard response. Instead, I gesture politely towards an empty chair. Her name is Lyn. Lyn is pleasant, informal, but businesslike. She says I am her ten o'clock. I wonder if she is the escort I requested.

         “Why don't we go through to the conservatory,” she says, “it will be quiet there.”

         It is. We sit by the French windows in the full glow of the sun. Outside, in the garden, the rhododendrons are almost in bloom. It’s Spring.

         “How goes it?” she asks.

         I nearly say that it is not what I asked for, but this would be absurd. The woman exists only in my imagination. How can she explain the malfunction in my programming?

         “I'm fine.”

         She smiles. “How is your room?”

         “It has a nice view,” I say, “the sun shines in.”

         “Yes, we thought you would like that. It's east facing. There's nothing better than waking in a sunlit room. Don't you agree?”

         I do. She knows I do.

         She smiles, changes the subject. “Your publisher's been in touch. He sends his best wishes.”

         I suppress my annoyance. I speak quietly, but firmly. “I'm Gerry Wyngarde, the TV presenter, I don't have a publisher.”

         “What about the other Gerry?” she asks.

         “Which Gerry is that?”

         “This Gerry.” She hands me a book. “Give it a read. I'll be interested to know what you make of it. No hurry. We'll talk again tomorrow. Until then, make yourself at home.”

         She terminates our meeting with yet another smile. Her smile is irritating, affected. It seems to be saying that she knows things that I don't. I decide that if she wants me to read the book that's a good reason not to. I take a walk in the garden but it's cold so I come back inside. The book lies on the table where I left it. I pick it up. It's two hours until lunch and there's nothing else to do. I turn the pages to chapter one. I start reading, get to page fifteen and stop. This is a story I know only to well. It's about me, Gerry Wyngarde, a TV presenter in the year 2080 granting wishes to the poor wretches that have survived the apocalypse. Someone has been observing me, writing down the minutia of my life for an unsanctioned biography. It's an outrage! Who has done this? I turn back to the inside flap of the cover where there is a short biography of the author. His name is Gerry Warren. His life is summed up in three short paragraphs. Beneath the words is his picture; it is a picture of me.

Copyright Richard Banks

MY OLEANDER’S ORRIBLE

 MY OLEANDER’S ORRIBLE (For all those gardeners)

By Peter Woodgate 

My newsletter from Meadow Croft

Was neatly typed in rhyme

I sat and read with interest

Because I had the time.

A poem was the challenge

For all those budding bards

I thought, why not, give it a try

Instead of playing cards.

But what about the subject

How do I begin?

I looked out to the garden

And wrote this on a whim.

 

My Oleander’s orrible

The buds they won’t mature

I’ve fed it everything from tea

To good old horse manure.

The Acer has got acne

My Salix too has spots

The Corkscrew Willow’s looking weird

And tied itself in knots.

The Callistemon’s bottle, it has gone

The Roses all have rust

The Clematis has a mid-life crisis

And wilts at my disgust.

The Impatiens are not busy

The Jasmine’s looking tame

The Plumbago’s got lumbago

And the Lilac’s looking lame.

The Schrizophragma can’t make up its mind

It clings on to itself

The Skimmia has an option

Should it be left on the shelf?

The Hedera gives me a headache

The Campanula’s not ringing

The Cordyline’s been eaten

And the Strelitzia’s not singing.

The Sambucus, it is very old

But it can still look nice

All it needs is TLC

And lots of good advice

 

It seems a garden is a place

That can be full of woe

So I shall up and make my way

To a “Centre” that I know.

Where all the staff are friendly

And should I need a hand

In finding anything from seeds

To topsoil, bark or sand.

I know they’ll try their utmost

Everything within their power

And may even let me know just how

To make my Oleander flower.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 All The Fun Of The Fair

By Jane Scoggins

My Dad used to love telling me tales about the old days, and as a kid I loved to listen. When I was in my teens and taking more of an interest in history I became more engrossed. What I had previously thought had just been stories to keep me and my sister occupied, were actually real things that happened. I realised that Dad’s stories, handed down from his Dad and his Grandfather before him, were bound together by truth and historical fact.

  Whenever the Funfair came to town, which was twice a year, Easter and August Bank Holiday weekend, my Dad would take my sister and I, right from when we were quite small. He loved the Fair and at these times metamorphosed from a quiet man who worked somewhere in the city, to a jaunty animated man. On one of these occasions, I remember my sister saying

 'Have you noticed how Dad changes when the fairground comes to town? He turns into a fairground man himself, and walks like a cowboy?'  We had laughed at this, and I will always remember it, as it was true. He's gone now, my dear old Dad, but I remember him most when he came alive at the Fair. He was not a big man, but despite that, he was strong and amazed us with his strength as he wielded the big wooden mallet hitting the metal pad so hard that the bell rang and people turned to look and cheer as it didn’t happen all that often. The fairground man with the trilby hat tipped back on his head and spotted kerchief around his neck, always shook Dad's hand and congratulated him with a big grin. My Dad loved that. To our amusement he would swagger off to the rifle range this was another surprise. Dad was excellent at this too. We would watch as he picked up a rifle, examine it carefully, and slowly raise it before taking aim, just like a real cowboy. And then in his own time and with one eye squinting down the barrel, he would take aim at the row of moving plastic ducks. He always won at least once and walked away beaming with confidence, with a couple of cuddly toys for us, or a pack of cards for himself. At home, Dad sometimes got out old photographs. The one we liked most was the one from Rayleigh Trinity Fair in 1899, the year his father, my Grandfather was born. The year my Great grandfather travelled from south London, to help at the Fair. The Trinity Fair become quite famous and was very popular. It was held every year in the centre of Rayleigh on Trinity Monday and Tuesday, usually on or around May 29. Combined with the Horse Fair, it drew horse dealers with their carthorses, cobs, nags and ponies, agricultural workers and farmers, hawkers, stallholders, travellers and musicians from the surrounding area in Essex. 1899 was the year that the railway came to Rayleigh so the event was busier than ever that year. Hundreds of people came to the two-day event and the many public houses that had rooms to let such as The Crown The White Horse, The Half Moon, The Lion, and The Paul Pry were crammed to the rafters with paying guests.

  The story goes that Great grandfather, after the birth of his third child, Thomas, (my grandfather), had needed to seek additional work to supplement his job at the coir matting factory in Kingston upon Thames. The fibre came from the nearby Middle Mill on the Hogsmill River and was advertised in the Surrey Comet as ''The only coconut fibre manufacturer in Surrey''

It was from here that the enterprising Arthur Harris bought coconuts and set up a coconut shy as a side stall at a local fête. It became so popular that he made it his business and travelled around the country to the big fairs. By chance, my Great grandfather made his acquaintance and came to Rayleigh as his helper. Albert had tall metal spikes made with a cup at the top made of twisted metal. The coconut sat in the cup and for one penny, or seven balls for sixpence, a hard wooden ball could be thrown at the coconut. The object of the game of course was to knock the coconut from the cup to the floor and so win the coconut. It was not an easy thing to do and needed strength. Hence women and children were allowed to stand at a line nearer to the shy. The nuts, imported mainly from Ceylon at the time, by the fibre mills, were not primarily imported for the coconut itself, but for the fibre and the quality of the interiors was not the main concern. Hence there were sometimes, a few bad nuts, that once cracked open, the coconut flesh was brown and the milk dried up. The banner advertising the game came with the reassuring words ' Bad Nuts Exchanged. Most children, and indeed most adults at the time had never played such a game or toasted coconut. It was such a novelty it pulled in crowds of people all wanting to have a go. The children asked all sorts of questions about the coconuts and were sent off to ask their schoolmaster when they returned to the schoolroom by the church, to show them on the map of the world where Ceylon was. Great-grandfather laughed as children and adults cracked open the coconuts to see and taste, rather hesitantly the contents inside. Some folk held their prize as a trophy and took it home to show friends and neighbours. Albert and Great-grandfather were kept busy the two days making a good profit. Great-grandfather had marvelled at Albert’s costume and showmanship, all very elaborate and designed to pull in the crowds. In the late evening when everyone had gone home they would sit outside the Spread Eagle with their beer and pipes, chatting to the horse traders and stallholders. Unfortunately, such events attracted bad company as well as good.  Pickpockets and thieves mingled with the crowds. In fact, Great grandfather and Albert were witness to a robbery as they sat outside The Spread Eagle. A gang of rough men started a fight and causing a distraction, a man's purse and pipe were stolen. Great-grandfather and Albert were called as witnesses and the thieves taken to Rochford lock-up. That year and previous years too, there had been much drunken, rowdy behaviour and reports of theft and assault. So the man responsible for the fair, a Mr James Rogers, called a halt to the Trinity Fair and it ceased to be although the horse fair continued for some time.

 In 2017, the Trinity Fair was resurrected in a modern format with stalls and rides for the children. I got out Dad’s photo and showed it to my own family. Thinking about Dad, his father, and Grandfather, we went to the Fair and headed straight for the coconut shy.

Copyright Jane Scoggins 

Trinity Fair

 REVIVED

Peter Woodgate

Dreams unfolding

and horses thundering on the sands at dawn,

seagulls crying

and mists that mingle with a thought that’s torn

from half-sleep

the slumber of a mind aware,

cautious of a notion

and love I could not share.

 

This drowsiness, now, has ended

and concepts of the gloom to come

have disappeared,

with tenderness, my heart, now free, is won.

My dreams are not now apprehensive

containing spectres that accrue,

instead there is a warm and glowing light,

a radiance, that’s you.   

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 Cheerful Ron

By Sis Unsworth 

Ron was such a cheerful soul, who lived just down our street.

He was always so friendly, to all he chanced to meet,

even if a situation might cause him to be fearful,

he had the reputation of always being cheerful.

Ron fell and broke his leg one day, whilst running for the train,

he laughed and said, “a drop of gin, will soon relieve the pain.”

He always was so cheerful, and never had the blues,

and always cheered the other side, when his football team did lose.

It rained once on his holidays, like stair rods it came down,

we thought he’d come home miserable but Ron didn’t even frown,

in fact it was the opposite, as he stepped from his car,

“I’m glad that it did rain a lot, I could stay there in the bar.”

He surprised us all by moving house; he went one day last week,

Ron said, “but while its empty, go down and have a peek.”

So we went down to his old house, as he had left the key,

we all crept in so quietly, and wondered what we’d see,

I don’t think we were that surprised, and all gave out a cheer!

As now we too were cheerful, he’d left a crate of beer.

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

Abbalar Tales ~ 27

 Abbalar Tales ~ 27 The Palace 2

by Len Morgan

Aldor spent two days reviewing relationships with old associates using the name Aldor, nobody recognised him or even guessed at his true identity.   He recalled his pre-enhancement impressions and found, almost without exception, he had to profoundly and fundamentally revise his views as a result of what he discovered inside their minds.   He suddenly realised he didn't know very much about most of the people he had lived with on a daily basis.   Others were so open and uncomplicated he could not understand how they had risen so high in the hierarchy.    Only after scanning the minds of their immediate superiors did he realise they preferred underlings who were reliable and open, by inference they did not pose a threat.   There was a distinct preference for the predictable, who would provide a buffer between themselves and the more devious minds.   In reality, the most efficient ones could face in two directions at once; they seemed uncomplicated whilst being even more devious than their masters.   They rose steadily in defiance of their apparent placid natures then when the moment was right they struck...

One such was Asba Dylon, not that Aldor could penetrate his mind deeper than a few layers.   His admiration for Asba knew no bounds; it grew and grew as he witnessed the man’s ability to manipulate others at will.   He never missed an opportunity to take advantage of a situation.   He knew intuitively how to milk a situation or a contact.   Aldor found it difficult to remember that Asba, unlike himself, could not scan minds.

Asba liked to offer little inducements that were to a person’s advantage but on a few occasions, when threats were required, he never hesitated.   He played the courtly game in an exemplary fashion.

   Ostensibly, Aldor was Asba's scribe, which provided him with a unique opportunity to sample selected minds and identify what motivated them.   At an opportune moment, he was able to slip small snippets of information into Asba's mind.   It was exhilarating to witness the man effortlessly change direction in mid-sentence.   As a scribe, he was unimportant and virtually invisible, which was just as well because he spent much of the time honing his scanning skills by unashamedly dipping into the minds of those around him.

   By the close of his third day he was becoming concerned that he had not yet located a worthy successor to his father, Endrochine.   He knew he had to return to the sanctuary of the control room tomorrow, before the sunset, or Skaa and Genna would pay a heavy price.   Constantly he was comparing the candidates with Asba, if he had been of royal blood there would be no need to search further.   Whilst scrutinising Fazeil's offspring he came upon a mind that was curious, quick, and nimble, he felt both disappointed and angry when he realised it was the mind a young woman.   By convention, the succession had always passed to the strongest and therefore a man.   A woman had never even been considered, that would have been too radical even for Corvalen at this time but…   He then realised he was being a little narrow with his parameters, he realised with a start that he would not have met the criteria he was setting.   So, he reviewed the minds he had already sampled and found three who warranted further investigation.   A disturbance was in progress that impinged on his thoughts.   He felt physical pain as if he had been struck, he was startled, and instinctively moved in the direction of the commotion.   An area had been hastily vacated, by people not wishing to become involved in the scuffle, leaving a wide area occupied by a giant figure dressed in black leather bearing the crest of the Regents Guard.   He was standing over a prone figure who lay still at his feet.   As he watched, the dark giant viciously kicked at the grounded figure displaying non-verbal contempt in the conscious levels of his mind.   'Administrator turd'   the fight was obviously over if indeed the grounded man had ever fought back.   But, the kicking continued relentlessly, he was intent on killing the man on the floor and nobody looked to be going to his aid.  

'What kind of man acts so?'  Aldor thought as he stepped forward, unwilling to be a passive witness to a murder.    His father never would have permitted it.   His first encounter with that dark predatory mind left no doubt of his stamp.   He was a sadistic, unemotional butcher with a purpose.   Whatever pretence had been used to promulgate the encounter, it was premeditated.   "Enough!" he yelled throwing his bulk against the big man, putting himself between them, forcing him back.   The crowd collectively drew breath.   He turned towards the man on the floor and realised with surprise and anger that it was Asba Dylon.

The guard stepped back, more in surprise than from the physical contact with Aldor.   His mind was filled with amusement, as he gazed down into the eyes of the young upstart who had dared intervene in palace business.   He could see no fear in those eyes.   Instead, he saw righteous anger; and was forced to avert his gaze.   "You use violence against the Regents Guard?" he asked in annoyance at being bested.

"I seek only to protect my master from senseless violence.    He is a man of words, not aggression, a man who has shown me nothing but kindness and friendship since my arrival in Corvalen."   The crowd shouted their approval.   "You act in an unseemly manner, and shame the uniform you wear," he yelled, for the benefit of the crowd, warming to the task.

The big man folded his arms and roared with laughter.  

"Mock me at your peril, sir," said Aldor stepping forward striking him formally on both cheeks.   "You are a bully and a coward attacking a harmless man of peace.   You besmirch your office and will be brought to account…"

"You intend teaching me a lesson in manners?   You would show me the error of my ways?"   he laughed with amusement, but would dearly have loved to squash the little insect but, a formal challenge had been issued.   The crowd laughed along with him which made him feel better.

"Let us see how you fare against a man with the means to defend himself," Aldor replied, "it will probably be a unique experience."

"Whores spawn!" He answered and his armoured fist shot out towards Aldor's face.

Aldor moved his head four inches and the fist passed harmlessly over his shoulder.   He grabbed it instantly, utilising the big man's momentum to throw him high into the air, adding his own body weight to bring him down hard on his head.   There was a crack and his head lay at an unnatural angle, he lay still and unmoving where he had landed.

Aldor turned away to carefully check Asba over, ensuring that nothing was broken, before helping him to his feet.

Asba's first comments were, "Thank you.    I fear by helping me you have drawn unnecessary attention to yourself.   He is/was one of Fazeil's personal bodyguard.   By issuing a challenge to him you have issued a challenge against Fazeil himself.   You will therefore be expected to meet with his champion."

"Ghorik?   He is a good man, my father's champion for over twenty years, never beaten."   Aldor smiled, "he gave me my first sword, made out of wood, I was five at the time.   He sat me on his knee and placed it in my hands, it was too heavy, I dropped it on his toe and he cried yield…   I could not bring myself to kill him; I must leave the city…"

"Unfortunately, Kaffeit has already done the deed," Asba said.

Aldor shook his head; the sadness he felt did not show on his face.   "Of course, Ghorik would never have allowed such scum into the elite Regents Guard."

As they spoke a detachment of the Guard arrived, led by a captain Vascelli, known and trusted by them both; a good man, one of the old guard.

"I'm sorry Counsellor Asba, I have orders to detain your clerk in connection with the demise of this," he poked with his toe at the corpse, making no secret of his distaste for the man who had so recently returned to the wheel.   Six guards formed up around Aldor; who looked askance of Asba.

"Go with them, there are a hundred high born who will bear witness to the truth of what took place here tonight."

"He is to be detained to ensure his appearance at the duel, which will be set for dawn tomorrow," Said captain Vascelli.

"But he is dead…" said Asba nodding towards the corpse.

"A challenge has been made against the Regents Guard and therefore, by implication, against the Regent himself.   It can only be settled between this man and the Royal Champion."

"What if my scribe beats Kaffeit?" Asba asked.

The good captain and his guard burst into laughter that lasted for several minutes.   Finally, he pulled himself together, "Then he will go free, mayhap even become the new champion." this precipitated further laughter, "you have my word on it." He said.

 

(to be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan