Abbalar Tales ~ 29

 Abbalar Tales ~ 29 Captivity 2

By Len Morgan

  Paveil was Endrochine's third son, two years younger than Fazeil.   He was the issue of his father’s second wife, widely believed to have been, the true love of his life.   Sadly she died in childbirth, when Paveil was only three, after her loss Endrochine’s flame dimmed and he was never seen to smile again until the moment he rejoined her in death.   The brothers were not close as children, Fazeil much preferred the company of Jazim and her entourage.   

As they aged Endrochine's children flowered. Each contributing his bloom to the Corvalen bouquet.   Each brother was well trained and eminent in his respective field of excellence.   When he'd been running things, the diplomatic and administrative machine ran smoothly and efficiently.   

Paveil smiled, wondering how Asba Dylon was faring with his increased workload.   He had been handed the responsibility as a matter of course.   No other could do the job, and keep things ticking over in good order until the year end.  However, Paveil had been greatly perturbed by the attack on Asba the previous day.    More so by the fact it had taken place in a public forum.   Neither was his concern assuaged, on learning the identity of the perpetrator.   He was the same assassin whose bungled attempt on the life of Fazeil had brought about the unceremonious execution of Jerez, and resulted in Paveil's own incarceration.   Yet the assassin was allowed to go free?   Aldor could not understand why Fazeil should act in so contrary a fashion.  There were also confirmed rumours of a revival of the outlawed blood cult from Bluttland, at the instigation of Jazim, and sanctioned by Fazeil.    A number of key counsellors who were not in sympathy with Fazeil’s policies had mysteriously disappeared.  Others, unsympathetic towards Bedelacq's blood cult, had also gone.  Paveil was painfully aware that he himself was in a precarious position, they could not do what they had done and allow him to live beyond the end of the year.

   That was when he first heard the voice and started to question his own sanity.

 .-...-.

'Now you know the truth brother.   I do not have much time, and I need to know if you are prepared to become Regent of Corvalen' it said.   'Fazeil is not his own man and no longer has the interests of Corvalen first and foremost in his mind.   I have searched the minds of all our fathers’ issue, still residing within the city, and you alone possess the required experience knowledge and dedication to drag this state into a new era of development and prosperity.   I need an answer, will you say yes?'

"Who are you? " he replied.

 "Can I help you sir?" the guard stationed outside in the corridor enquired.

"Sorry, I'm just thinking aloud," he answered; determined not to repeat the error.

He sat on his simple mattress and repeated the question.   'Who are you?’

'I   am a prisoner here just as you are.'

'By what name should I call you,' he answered rephrasing his question.

'You can call me Aldor,' said the voice.

'I have no brother of that name, is this some strange weirding deceit…'

'Not so, I am indeed your brother but, I have changed so much as a result of recent experiences that none of my previous associates' friends or family would recognise me.   In my present state, this name will serve as well as another…'

'So, I am to trust a voice that will not be named?   I will not ask a third time…'

'Very well, I am Ahlendore.'

'Little Ahle?'   Paveil almost choked on the words, 'I would sooner trust a sewer rat, than a drunken womanising murderer of women and children.'

'I have never harmed a woman or child, but I must confess I was unwittingly responsible for the death of a Regent's Guard yester-eve.   He launched an unprovoked attack on my friend and employer,” he began...

'You are Asba's protector?   Why did you not say that first thing?   You have restored your standing in my eyes.'    Paveil's mind relaxed immediately.

'Does he know who you are?'

'Yes, it was he made me realise the Regency was not for me and suggested that I would be the ideal person to seek out the man who will be the kind of Regent Corvalen needs and deserves.'

'Was I the only one you could find?"

'There was one other, but I believe even a liberal-minded man like yourself would take issue with a female Regent.'

'Little Lillefane per chance?'

"You know her?'

'We share both father and mother,' he explained.   'It would be as well for me to be sure little sister Lillefane supports me if her talents are as prestigious as you imply.'

.-…-. 

    The old Ahlendore had considered the Regency his birthright.   He would have fought all comers, toe to toe, to gain it.   Aldor now knew he had another path to travel, not as glamorous mayhap but, necessary and worthwhile.   In addition, he knew he was probably the only person capable of treading that path with any likelihood of success.   He considered this to be due mainly to his off-world enhancements rather than his natural ability as a statesman.   He paused for a second time to ask the question.

 'Will you now become Regent of Corvalen?'  The extended pause was palpable.

'It's a hellish long way from this prison cell to the seat of the Caliphate but, if it is meant to be, I will not turn aside, I will serve the populace or die in the attempt'  he answered.

'Good man,' said the voice in his mind, revealing a picture of the smiling young Ahlendore appearing as he once was, changing slowly into Aldor a taller broader young man of indeterminate age with pale hair and pale northern eyes.

'Is that you?'

'It is,' the image replied.

Paveil liked the open honest face that returned his gaze.

'How can I be sure that you speak true and, that you are not an abomination of my disturbed mind.   I need to know that I am not going mad.'

'Come into my mind and share my thoughts' Aldor's voice invited.

He was confused by this but couldn't feel anything different.   Then he notices he was looking at an entirely different view.   His body felt young strong and vital.

'Ask a question to which you and I alone would know the answer,' Aldor continued.

Paveil thought, 'an unsolicited act of kindness to a stranger that put your own life in mortal danger, for no apparent reward,' he answered at once.

There was a pause for a minute or so, 'In truth, I cannot recall such an act' Aldor replied.   'Sadly I was not considered a nice person in my former guise.'

‘It is strangely disorientating, looking into another's mind, to view familiar events from your life through the eyes of that other.   They seemed familiar yet strangely alien, as if we had both experienced the same thing but, viewed from a different perspective’  said Aldor.   ‘For instance, if one viewed a house from the front, another from the side, the descriptions of its aspect would not tally; yet both views are equally valid.  But, I have failed your first test,'   said Aldor somewhat disgruntled.   'There is nothing, I can bring to mind…'

'Let me see if I can refresh your memory by showing you the incident through your own eyes'  said Paveil 'he eased them both back five years, as though he were in fact the expert.   Ahle would have been about eleven years old, he recalled they were hunting wild boar in the Northern Reserve.   The hounds were bred to the chase and had scented one, maybe several beasts, at this point he sidelined his own recollections in favour of following the action through Ahle's memories.

   He savoured the sounds, the feelings, the fresh emotions.   Even the colours were somehow different, alien, brighter, sharper, fresher, newer.   His spirits were high; he was filled with great excitement and expectation.   He was determined to be in at the kill.   He rode as though he were an extension of his mount, as they raced in pursuit, his head held low in contact with the beast as they sped beneath low hanging branches in an exhilarating adrenaline burst.    He was in danger of losing himself completely in the experience, having frequently to remind himself he was here for a purpose.   The sun-dappled the uneven spongy leaf mould underfoot as the early autumnal wind ruffled his hair and loose-fitting clothes.  

Paveil was amazed anew at the vigour and strength of youth, as he experienced what Ahle had felt.

Ahle was intoxicated with the moment convinced that today he would make his first kill.   All the signs were right, he was way in advance of the chase and watched as the boar split up from the sow to divide the field.   Next moment, he marvelled in surprise at seeing the hounds sniff the air and chase after the sow.   He was already in pursuit of the boar but alone.   The pack and the body of the hunt blindly followed the hounds.   But, he wanted the boar so that was the path he took; leaving behind the sounds of the main party he entered a clearing.   The boar was immediately ahead of him, his blood was up and the chase engulfed him.   He had eyes for one thing only, as he mouthed a litany over and over, 'Kill, kill, kill the beast,…'    It was a fine large specimen of porcine kind, tiny eyes, red now with fury, its anger had been roused; it would be both dangerous and unpredictable.   It sensed his approach and turned to face him, performing multiple pirouettes to offer its challenge.   A challenge Ahle's mount would not willingly take up, it reared and backed away refusing to go any closer.   Ahle kept his saddle eyeing the beast, summoning the will to urge his mount to the charge.   Even as he did so he could hear the change in voice, as the hounds realised their error and changed direction heading back towards him and the boar.   He would barely have time to make the kill before they arrived.   He kicked the horses’ flanks, urging her forward.

Then he heard a woman scream, followed by a high pitched keening, "Nooooo, Nooooo please don't do this…   Aaagh somebody help, he-elp!…"

He reined in pulling the mare in a new direction, towards the tortured voice.   Almost at once, he came upon two youths of sixteen or seventeen with a near naked young girl tethered to a tree by her wrists and ankles.

"Hold still and it will go better on you," one commanded, but she struggled all the more.

They heard the rapidly approaching hoofbeats and the sound of the hunting party closing with them.   They turned in surprise.

"What do think you're doing," Ahle demanded.   "You are trespassing on the Caliph's private lands, that’s a flogging offence.  The minimum sentence for you three will be forty lashes each!   Then if she complains you brought her here against her will, the sentence for you two will be doubled.   You may even be gelded for good measure, to prevent a repetition.   Hold fast," he commanded, but they were cowards so they broke and ran.   He allowed them to make good their escape; two to one is never good odds, he went instead to the young woman's aid.   He untied her and turned his back discretely, while she dressed, then pulling her onto his horse and conveyed her safely to her home.  

   Paveil had followed him when his course diverged from the main party.   Curiosity piqued, he took on the role of voyeur.   He could have killed the boar himself and taken the kudos but, it held no attraction for him, he'd done it all before.   He was much more interested in what Ahle would do.   He was prepared to provide support if necessary, hanging back out of sight to see how the boy would perform.

To his own certain surprise, the boy was brave, selfless and chivalrous.   Moreover, to Paveil's certain knowledge he never once spoke of the incident to anyone.   Others of his kin would have retold the tale a thousand times embellishing it a little more with each telling.   Ahle kept silent on the matter even went out of his way to congratulate the man who eventually bagged the boar.

   Looking into his mind now, Paveil found him to be self-effacing on the subject.   He explained it as something that had to be done, neither brave nor courageous.   He saw a wrong that had to be righted, according to his interpretation of the warriors’ code.   Would any man with the benefit of breeding have acted differently?   The question hung in the air, in the young man's mind, Paveil thought the answer would most definitely be ‘No’.

(To be Continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

 DANNY

By Jane Scoggins 

Danny sat at the end of the jetty in Burnham, his head in his hands, legs dangling over the water of the river Crouch. He was trying not to cry. He could hear boys calling to one another, further back on the jetty, as they baited their crabbing lines with bread and bacon fat. The sun shone warm on his back but he felt cold inside. His mum was dying and his whole world was a blur. How could this have happened, how could God be so cruel?  Mum was Mum and Danny loved her with all his heart. His ten years on earth had not prepared him for this. Two weeks ago everything had been fine; well, not exactly fine, but not terrible and out of control like it was now. If only he was not an only child. If only he had an older brother that he could talk to, who would look out for him so that he didn’t have to bear this burden alone. If only he had someone to turn to. But there was no one.

Gran had died last year and he had hated everything about the horrible months before that day in June. Gran had been a happy person. Mum said she was 'happy go lucky’ and Danny thought that suited her just right. She liked dangly earrings and jangling bracelets. She wore make-up even when she wasn’t going out to work or shopping. She even wore makeup when she was doing the chores on a Saturday morning, like mopping the kitchen floor and emptying the cat litter tray. Gran said it gave her a happy face and that’s what people liked to see. When she came home from work she would kick off her high heeled shoes and put her stockinged feet up on the pouffe. She wore fluffy slippers in the house and this almost reduced her down to Danny’s height. He supposed that was why she liked to wear high heels. Gran wasn’t a bit like mum, who was tall and slim and mostly wore skinny jeans and T-shirts. The only-make up she wore was that black mascara stuff on her eyelashes that made her big brown eyes look even bigger. Mum never wore high heels. Danny thought she was beautiful. Gran too, in her own, painted up way, but also because of her smile and her loud laugh that made you want to laugh too. But that had all stopped when she became ill with cancer. Mum and Dad had told him that Gran wanted him to know about it so that he would understand and because she wanted him to keep on going to visit her and not treat her like an invalid. This was even when her hair fell out and she was just left with wispy tufts, and later, when she turned a nasty grey colour, that no amount of make-up could hide. Gran shrank quickly into a frail old lady whom Danny could hardly recognise. It frightened him. Then one day she was gone. He cried for her, alone in his bedroom, surrounded by his beloved West Ham posters of smiling footballers, and, sometimes, when he lay face down on his favourite Hammers pillowcase. He had cried for her with his mum, as they sat on the settee watching children’s television. He had cried for her with mum and dad when they sat holding hands together in the crematorium chapel.

Now he would have to do it all again, only this time for his mum, whom he loved more than anyone in the world, even more, than he loved his dad, probably the best dad in the world.

Mum had not really recovered from Gran dying. She had lost her sparkle and her big, soft, brown eyes were less smiley than he remembered through his growing up. The changes in her had been slow, so he had not noticed that she had slipped from sadness to illness. All he knew was that these days she was often lying down when he came home from school. His noisy arrival, the dropping of his school bag and PE kit on the laminate wood hall floor, caused her to raise herself up quickly from the settee, in a hurried attempt to conceal that she had been lying down as if it were a secret. Danny did not understand why she did that, but he never said anything as he was always reassured to have her put her arm around him and steer him to the kitchen and the biscuit tin, whilst asking him what he had been up to at school. Then, last week, she had been to see the doctor again, for the second time in two weeks and also to the hospital. He knew that because Dad had taken a morning off work to take her to the appointment Danny had overheard his mum telling his dad that the doctor was concerned about the possibility of complications.

This morning Danny had come downstairs from his bedroom and glimpsed his mum and dad in the sitting room when the door was a bit open and they hadn’t heard him come down the stairs. They were talking quietly, with silent gaps in between what they were talking about as if it were something serious Danny heard mum say, ‘‘Doctor Wilson thinks now would be a good time to tell Danny’’ He saw Dad taking Mum in his arms and giving her a big gentle hug. Dad didn’t say anything, he just stroked her hair. Danny remembered that Doctor Wilson had been the name of Gran’s doctor too. Danny ran from the house and straight down to the jetty. It was a good place to sit and think, safe and familiar.

Danny’s parents, Kate and Kevin, heard the back door close and called out to Danny to come back, but he couldn’t have heard them, as he ran out to play with his friends on that warm Saturday morning. ‘‘Never mind, it will keep, how about a cuppa?’’ said Kevin. Kate smiled wanly and said, ‘‘Thanks Kev, you’re my rock’’.

With tea in hand Kate felt better and sat close up beside Kevin on the settee.

‘‘I wonder how Danny will take the news. Poor love, he has been a bit neglected lately. We must make sure he is made to feel special in the next few months so that he is not too badly affected by what is going to happen. I wish my mum was still here, I miss her so much. Dr Wilson is such a lovely GP; I really feel I am in safe hands. He was so good to Mum when she was diagnosed with cancer, and all through her treatment. He says I will have to take care of myself and that you will have to make sure I don’t overdo things or I will end up in hospital sooner than expected. He says I may need specialist treatment. I told him I don’t care, as long as the baby is ok." 

"We never thought we'd be able to have another baby and now a miracle has happened."

"Now that I am more than three months gone Doctor Wilson feels I am over the worst fears for a miscarriage and we should tell Danny that he can expect a little sister. Have you noticed he's seemed a bit out of sorts lately?’’

Kevin was thoughtful for a moment. ‘‘How about if I take him for a pizza and talk to him, man to man, to see if there is anything going on at school that’s bothering him. After all, we boys will have to stick together now that we know there is going to be another female in the house!"

Copyright Jane Scoggins

Personal Well-being: 04

 Personal Well-being: 04 Relief from chronic pain.

   By Barefoot Medic

It was 1975 when I made an earth-shattering discovery. 

I remember it clearly it was the day of the cup final, West Ham v Fulham, the Hammers won 2 - 0.

 I had a raging toothache, I had doused the tooth with 'Oil of Cloves' without effect, even paracetamol failed me.  Beating my head on the wall didn't help either.

  The only respite came from biting my lower left lip, this eased the pain. But, after a while, it returned.  First as a dull ache, pretty soon it was as bad as ever.

  I bit my lip on the lower right side this time, and for a while, it worked.  I found that if I bit for twenty to thirty seconds, then stopped for twenty to thirty seconds, the effect lasted much longer.

Inevitably the toothache returned.  By that time my lower lip was sore and bleeding.

 So, I put up with the pain from the toothache as long as I could before starting on the upper lip.  Aware of the damage to my lower lip I tried not to bite so hard on my upper lip.  I bit down gently, slowly increasing pressure until it relieved the pain.  I alternated left to right; thirty seconds on thirty off.  My upper lip was undamaged.  But the pain still returned after a while.

 Then I had an epiphany.  the toothache was a prolonged chronic pain!  When I bit my lips I was producing a sharp acute pain.  My body was drawing attention to the acute pain disregarding the fact it was the lesser of two evils.  

 What if I produced an acute pain somewhere else? 

 I made several assumptions:

·                  What if the body can only cope with one pain at a time?

·                  What if acute pain trumps chronic pain?

·                  What if this is the basis of acupuncture?

·                  I looked around for something I could use in place of my teeth.

 I found a drawing pin (thumbtack) and pressed it into one of the finger pads on my right hand, not hard enough to break the skin.  I applied gentle pressure until the toothache was nullified.  I held the tack in place with the finger by making a fist.  When the pain started to return I first increased the pressure then swapped the tack to another pad; no skin was broken, no physical harm was done, and within the hour the toothache was gone.  To be safe I doused the tooth with oil of cloves, the pain did not return.

  I have since used the same method to successfully alleviate earache and other chronic pain.  At no time did I break the skin. 

  Yes, it has been pointed out that medication can accomplish the same result, but it doesn't always work and is not always available, or even desirable.  It's reassuring to know that when all else fails, there is another 'natural' method of pain control you can call upon.

As always, you try my remedies at your own risk.  If in doubt consult a doctor.

 

Personal Well-being: 03

 Personal Well-being: 03 Make your own false teeth 

   By Barefoot Medic

I purchased a tub of POLYMORPH from Maplin's to make a replacement screwdriver handle for one I'd stupidly shattered when I used it as a chisel and hit it with a hammer...

Polymorph is a thermoplastic material that can be shaped and reshaped any number of times. it is normally supplied as granules that look like small plastic beads.  It can be heated in hot water and when it reaches 62 degrees centigrade the granules form a mass of ‘clear’ material (like chewing gum). When removed from the hot water it can be shaped into almost any form and on cooling it becomes solid once more (Majik).

I lost a tooth and was in pain eating hard/hot food.  My dentist said it would cost £20 consulting fee, £50 to remove the root, £250 to make a plate. I already have an upper metal plate.  I previously tried a lower plate but it made me gag, so that was not an option.

If I wanted the tooth set into the jaw that would cost me £1000. 

I told her my pension wouldn't stretch that far so I will just have to suffer; maybe the gum would harden up...

But, it didn't, and I was forced to chew on one side only.  Then, I got to thinking; I placed a few granules of polymorph in a cup and poured hot water on them.  When in the soft malleable state I rolled it into a ball and forced it between the teeth either side and wedged it in place, bit down on it, moulded it and waited for it to harden.  It was a little too large, so I jiggled and wriggled it until it came out.  I cut off the excess with scissors and reheated the remainder.  This time it fitted perfectly and for three months I forgot it was there, but it became discoloured due mainly to my love of curry (turmeric was to blame ~ not me).  So I fashioned a replacement. 

A pot of polymorph cost me £20 and has a hundred uses and would probably make a thousand teeth.  So, every three months I just replace it.  Even the dentist had to admit that it does a good job.  I carry a piece of polymorph in my wallet for emergency use.  I have friends who now follow my example; one informed me you can now get polymorph on the Internet which is good because Maplins is no longer in business in the UK. 

Health Warning:

I've been making my own teeth, like, this for over ten years but, as always, you follow my example at your own risk.  If in doubt seek advice.

 .-...-.

I'm now running out of ideas for 'well-being/money-saving tips' that work.   So, if you have something that works for you, please let me know, I will try it on myself and post it to this blog for the benefit of all.  I will also give due credit to the contributor.

Suggestions to:

 http://www.lenm393@yahoo.co.uk

 

Personal Well-being: 02

 

  Personal Well-being: 02 Lavender for burns & migraine 

  

  By Barefoot Medic

In 2000 my wife took a course in Anatomy, Physiology and Massage at our local technical college.  This involved learning about pure essential oils.  She was keen to learn as much as possible about the materials she was using, she related the following story to me:

 A scientist carelessly touched his hand on a hot Bunsen burner.  The only liquid immediately available was Lavender oil.  He poured it over the burn, which miraculously eased the pain.  Moreover, the skin didn't blister.

That's the story, you can believe it or not, but I will attest to the efficacy of Lavender (Lavendula angustifolia) from personal experience.  I burned my hand on a soldering iron so, June applied the 'Essential Oil'.  It immediately salved the pain and there was no blistering.  In 2001 I purchased a small 10ml bottle of the essential oil of Lavender for £3, I have used it and I've recommended it to my friends for burns ever since.

I occasionally, (once or twice a year), experience a form of migraine that results in a dull ache and lights swimming across my eyes, obscuring my vision.  My only recourse is to go into a darkened room and try to sleep it off.

I'd heard that Lavender was recommended for headaches, so when I next had an attack I poured a little Lavender onto a tissue and held it to my nose for ten to fifteen minutes.  Incredibly the attack was over within the hour.  I have had several migraines since and it worked every time.

That small bottle is still two thirds full and still works as described after twenty years, its efficacy is undiminished.  I thought it was expensive at the time but I now think it was cheap considering the pain and discomfort it has alleviated.  Every First~Aid box should contain a small bottle of Lavender oil!

I'm told it's primarily used is for Burns and headaches but, paradoxically my wife can't stand the smell, it gives her a headache...

As always (with my barefoot remedies) they work for me but, you try them at your own risk.

 Fake Tan and White Stilettos

By Janet Baldey

 There’s black marks, smeared all over me piller an me eyes are so swollen I can hardly see.   Must’ve been crying all night.   Bet I look a proper fright.  Plus, me back’s on fire.   It’s that mattress, you can feel every effing spring.

         God, this is a dump.   No room to swing a cat and there’s no carpet.  To fink I’m stuck here for another three weeks.   Don’t fink I can stand it.  Wish I was back in me own bed, under me pink satin duvet cuddling the teddy nan giv me.

          It’s all Lauren’s fault, silly moo.   Fancy daring me?   Done it on purpose, o’course.  Mind you, we were all half cut.  We usually go places on a Saturday.  This time it was the Rocking Rhino, wicked groups they get there.  Mind you, we sobered up a bit as we marched back to Chantelle’s, straight down the middle of the road, singing at the tops of our voices.

         “S’okay.’  She’d said.   ‘Me parents are in Marbs.”

         Once inside, she’d kicked off her stilettos and scampered over to the bar.

         “What’s it going to be then?”  She’d waved a bottle in the air.

         We sprawled on the blond leather sofa and Paris switched the telly on.   Seemed like the whole wall exploded into high def colour.   Must admit, I was wel jel.  ‘Course I knew Chantelle’s family were well wedged up.  That bar would look good in any pub and they were always off chasing the rays.”

All of a sudden, Lauren squealed.   “OMG, It’s Joey”

         “What?  From TOWIE.”

         “Yeah.   Ain’t ‘e smexi!”

         “Din’t know he was on the Riki Rich show.    BOGOFF, eh girls?”

         “Joey’s all right,” I said  “but Riki’s my fave.  He’s real bang tidy.”

         That was true then, but not now. Not after what ‘appened next.

There was a deafening blast of music and Riki stepped forward.   Teeth flashing out of ‘is tan, he opened his arms, ‘ugging us all.  

         “Ladies and gentleman.   You’ve heard of ‘Wife  Swap?  Forget it. Now bigger and better, you’ve got ‘Life Swap!”   The drummer went bananas and the audience went mad.  It was well-staged.

Eyeballing Riki, we giggled and nudged each uvver.  Apparently, there was this bird in Odessa with a brother who was a druggie with Aids and she was desperate to come to England to graft some loot for ‘is treatment.

         “Wha’s he say? Swap places with her and live in Odessa for six weeks?  Where’s that?  Sounds, alright?  Gotta be better than Basildon.”

         Then, Lauren went and opened her stupid mouth.  

         “Hey, you do nothing but chill, Chels.   Why don’t you go in for it?”

         “Bee-ayve…” 

“Go on, I dare you”.

         Well, that done it.  Mind you, I never expected to be picked.  Forgot all about it till I answered me Beyonce ring tone a few weeks on.   It were only the producer of the prog weren’t it?   Nearly wet me knickers.  “They’d had a good response”, he said, but I’d been chosen and could I come and discuss it?

         I was dead excited but when I met him it was a right let-down. He seemed a real nerd.  Well educational and skinny wiv it.   His glasses kept slipping down his nose and he had white eyelashes that blinked all the time.  He had odd socks on and what looked like me grandad’s fair isle cardie.   Nigel’s his name. The producer, not me granddad -‘is name is Alf.

         He said that this was a new venture for the programme and Riki was very excited about it.   It was to be a sort of social document.  LO flippin L!   Then, he said, would I be prepared to rough it?

          I sat fiddling with me Louis Vuitton handbag wondering how to say ‘no’ when, suddenly, Riki appeared.   ‘E was amazing, even more fit in the flesh than on the telly.   He was wearing a pair of skin-tight black leathers wiv a white silk shirt open to the waist with a gold medallion round his neck.  Well, me heart started beating so fast I couldn’t say a ruddy word, so I just nodded.

         Afterwards, me and Nigel had another chat.   The girl’s name was Nadya and she was an orphan and worked in a shop.   I’d go over there, live at hers and do her job - sort of fly on the wall thing.   He realised I didn’t speak the lingo, but he didn’t seem to think that’d matter, the customers could always point, or maybe I’d just do shelf filling.  In turn, Nadya would come over and live at ours.   She could help mum and dad wiv the ‘ousework and maybe do a bit of gardening. 

         ‘Course, then I had to sort it with the olds.   Dad was well vexed but I’d always been able to manage him and even Mum calmed down when she heard Nadya would help around the house.

         “That’s more than you ever do, me girl.”  She said.

         In the plane going over, they told me that Odessa was in the Ukraine which was a very poor country.  Even so, I was shocked when I saw where I was ‘sposed to live.  WTF!   I just stood and stared.  Nadya lived on the seventh floor in one grotty room and had to share a toilet and kitchen with four others.  They were really sick.   There was a creepy middle-aged geezer with oily black hair who offered to help me cook some golubtsy, (turns out its just cabbage and a bit o’ meat).  He’d stood so close, I couldn’t get his smell out of me nose for hours.   Then, there was a girl called Oksana.   She was about the same age as me but obviously never cleansed, toned or moisturised, cos her pores were well clogged.  She ‘ad dyed hair and wore a very short skirt wiv an ankle bracelet, so I guessed what she did for a living.    Worst of all, there was this minging old bag who didn’t stop staring at me from out of eyes like dried currents, well past their sell-by date.  She seemed to think she owned the kitchen and spat at me in Russian if I even picked up a tea towel.     

                The worst bit about the whole thing is that I’m wired for sound every minute of the day, can’t even fart without the whole world knowing.   There are cameras fixed to every wall and every time I go out one follows me.   I had to force meself the first time.  Well, it’s part of me contract, so I sort of ‘ad to.    There’s a lift, about the size of a coffin and you ‘ave to seal yourself in by pulling a sort of metal trellis shut.  Din’t trust it, so I walked all the way down six flights of stairs, every one smelling of pee

         Outside, it’s grim.   Dirty streets wiv crumbling concrete buildings and on every corner there’s groups of ugly old men playing dice.

         Me wages don’ go far.  At the end of the first week, I’d just got paid and went for a walk.  After a bit, the area picked up, there were avenues with trees and shops, some of them very smart, like you’d find in the West End.  So I window-shopped and that’s when I noticed the prices.  Then, I came to a one of them posh cake shops.  As soon as I saw all them meringues and pastries, me belly started to rumble.   So, I went inside and bought a cream slice.  I couldn’t believe me eyes when I saw me money shrinking as the assistant pecked away at it with long scarlet fingernails.; nearly half me wages gone on one small luxury  I felt for Nadya, then. Couldn’t be easy; not being able to afford stuff, no wonder her room was dingy

         Once or twice, I passed groups of beggars; young blokes mostly.  They’re gear was all ragged and they looked well spaced out.  Some of em muttered as I passed by,  prolly asking for money. I couldn’t help wondering if one of ‘em was Nadya’s brother.

 Then, it started to get dark, the wind got up and there was sleet in the air.   I shivered and thought about winter.  I bet Nadya’s room is an icebox.  There’s a big old-fashioned radiator under the window but it probably don’t give out much heat.   Not like our Baxi back home. 

 Mind you, all this made me fink.  I always blank the Big Issue sellers who whine at yer down the High Street back ‘ome but maybe some come from places like this.   Thass a thought.  ‘Cos this place ain’t reem.  It really ain’t reem at all.

  

Copyright Janet Baldey      

  LOCAL HEROES    

By Jane Scoggins       

                       

 ‘‘Cheers Philip’’. Annette held up her glass to Philip. He leaned forward and they chinked glasses. Beaming at one another for a few seconds they studied each other’s faces. Philip loved her face. Soft pale skin and gentle brown eyes twinkling with warmth and mischief. In turn, Annette loved Philip’s freckled face and the bright blue eyes that absorbed everything around him in an instant.

    ‘‘Happy Birthday Annette’’ said Philip raising his glass to her.

     ‘‘Thank you Philip, I can’t believe I am 90 years old, I feel like a 20-year-old inside’.

Philip laughed. ‘‘I know you do, you are always larking about and saying things to be outrageous.  I’ve got used to you now but I used to be quite shocked. I think you have a wicked sense of humour. You are what some people call a recycled teenager; lots of attitude but minus the spots.’’

    ‘‘I know, I used to say things on purpose just to see you go red and flustered, mean of me wasn’t it but I couldn’t help myself, I’ve always had a mischievous streak. Anyway, it worked because you don’t go red anymore; you just smile and shake your head. Makes you a person who can handle what gets thrown at you unexpectedly, and I like that. At my age, you don’t care what people think of you, although I never did really, which is the one advantage of getting old. Anyway enough said, shall we have cake now, it looks delicious?’’

    Philip reached for the cake.

    ‘‘I made it myself you know, just to prove to you that I can now cook.’’

    When the cake was eaten Philip put his hand behind the cushion on the sofa and brought out a gift, wrapped in birthday paper with colourful butterflies. Annette smiled and took the gift in her hands and for a few seconds admired the wrapping paper and showing absolute delight at receiving a gift.

    ‘‘My oh my, what a lucky girl I am today, a gift as well as a delicious chocolate cake that would make a Paris patisserie proud.’’

     Annette carefully unwrapped the gift so as not to tear the pretty paper and rip the butterflies. She revealed a picture of a popular Impressionist print within a small rectangular frame.

     ‘‘Poppies’ Annette said wistfully and was immediately taken back to the poppy fields of France where so many brave men and women lost their lives fighting for King and Country during the First and Second World Wars.

    Annette was nineteen when the Second World War broke out. In 1943, aged twenty-three, she had been recruited to the prestigious Special Operations Executive, known as the SOE. They were unprecedented times; she was young, adventurous, and proud to be chosen to serve her country in this way. Not that she had much time to think about it before being trained and given orders. The first time Annette was parachuted into France was both terrifying and thrilling. Met by Resistance workers in the darkness and silence of the night she was hurried away by locals across the fields to a safe house. In the morning the sight of the poppy fields all around was breathtaking and forever memorable. Later, poppies became the symbol for the fallen and every November poppies continue to be worn in remembrance. All those Annette met and worked with so briefly in northern France she never saw again. Annette wondered how many survived. There was one brave English girl, Nancy, whom she would always remember. They were parachuted into France together in 1944 just before D-Day, and tasked with helping distribute weapons to the Resistance fighters. If not for Nancy’s quick thinking after they landed in a field and hurried to hide themselves, they would have been discovered and probably shot dead. German soldiers tipped off about a possible landing, had fired indiscriminately into the undergrowth where they were hiding. Fortunately for Nancy and Annette, the soldiers, halted by the sudden loud screech of an owl nearby, briefly discontinued their firing and bayonet thrusting. Nancy followed the screech with a perfect owl call, as if from the owl’s mate. The soldiers laughed, and presuming that there was nothing hiding there except wildlife, moved away.

    Annette was roused from her reverie by Philip, telling her he had to go or he would be late to collect the papers.

    ‘‘Don’t forget you are going to Fitzwimark school next week will you?’’ Philip said as he prepared to leave.

    With Philip gone Nancy considered what she would talk to the Year 9’s about at the school. The youngsters had been learning about the Second World War. Pupils and teachers had been asked to talk with an older person who had memories of the war and then to write up the conversation.  These were already up on the classroom walls. Everyone had commented on Philip’s piece about Annette. She, along with two other senior citizens from Rayleigh had been invited to the school to share their memories with the pupils. Annette knew that this was a special event for Philip, she knew he was proud of knowing about her secret role during the War.

    Annette was equally proud of Philip. He had recently saved the day for her with his quick thinking and prompt action. He had helped to save her life three months previously when she had fallen in the kitchen and lain cold, stiff and in pain for several hours.  The old wound in her spine from the German soldier’s bullet that fateful night in France was so painful from her fall that she kept slipping in and out

of consciousness and feared she would not survive a night on the floor. When she heard the newspaper come through the letterbox she called out but was not heard.

 Annette resigned herself to her probable fate. But all was not lost. Out of the blue the paperboy came back, pushed the newspaper through and peered through the letterbox shouting, ‘‘Hello are you there?’’  He waited and listened, and on hearing a feeble cry had called out to her.

    ‘‘I’m going to get help, I will be as quick as I can.’’ After rushing to get help from a neighbour an ambulance was called.

    And the reason Philip the paperboy came back?  He knew the lady at that house must be at home as he could see her mobility scooter parked, and the light was on inside the hall.  She always collected her newspaper straight away from the door and had asked him to only push it through the letterbox halfway as she suffered from a painful back, and didn’t want to bend to pick it up.  After finishing his round he noticed that the newspaper was still in the door. Instinct told him to go back and check all was well.

Copyright Jane Scoggins