Promoting Thought
By Robert Kingston
countryside
road
from
hedge to hedge
sparrows
(C)
Robert Kingston (poem of the week 21-28.4.21
We are a diverse group from all walks of life. Our passion is to write; to the best of our ability and sometimes beyond. We meet on the 2nd and 4th Thursday each month, to read and critique our work in friendly, open discussion. However, the Group is not solely about entertaining ourselves. We support THE ESSEX AND HERTS AIR AMBULANCE by producing and selling anthologies of our work. So far we have raised in excess of £9,700, by selling our books at venues throughout Essex.
Promoting Thought
By Robert Kingston
countryside
road
from
hedge to hedge
sparrows
(C)
Robert Kingston (poem of the week 21-28.4.21
By Jane Scoggins
Living in
She met Ray in rehab, and both struggled to
come clean from heroin. It had been really hard. Anyone not addicted to drink
or drugs could not possibly know how hard.
Ray was a plasterer and carpenter, making
good money in and around Notting Hill where wealthy young bankers were buying
up property. He had mates he went to the pub with, but he was bored and
ambitious and looked around for different company, more exciting than his
usual mates. He aspired to a lifestyle more like the rich young bankers. He
accepted invitations, however casual, to casinos and the better clubs in
Ray's downfall came, when on three separate
occasions, he was in clubs when they were raided by the police, and he was
found in possession of, and supplying, heroin and crack cocaine. He was also
charged for driving under the influence of drink and drugs on another occasion,
and being in possession of heroin. To avoid a prison sentence, and with the
encouragement of his mother who worried about the long term loss of income from
her son, Ray accepted a fine, a referral to a drug rehabilitation centre and a
suspended jail sentence.
When Ray met Jackie in rehab he was
immediately attracted to her. She was pretty, vulnerable, and compliant. They became
a couple. With the help of Methadone, they hoped to get back to a normal life,
away from the cramps, cravings, and desperation of their lives as addicts.
Drawing strength from one another over
time they felt confident they were winning the battle and following rehab they
moved into a flat together. .But once an addict always an addict they say, and
it takes more than medication, to resist the cravings that rise up and demand
attention on a daily basis. It also takes willpower and determination.
Unfortunately, an opportunity for temptation came Ray’s way that he could not
resist, and he accepted a wrap of cocaine. He then could not resist a second and a third, a fourth and a
fifth. He returned to the gaming tables
to fuel his habit. Earning good money, he reassured Jackie he was in control of
his drug use, that it was purely recreational. Over time he became more
unpredictable in his behaviour. Jackie knew it was the drugs doing it to him,
not the real Ray, and stuck by him. Their history in rehab kept her emotionally
bound to him.
She really loved him and
was as addicted to him as she had been
on drugs, and just as dependant. She was determined not to give up on him
however difficult, and by whatever means. But Ray's drug use and sometimes losses at the casino fuelled
arguments and led to his more frequent aggression. As a result, they eventually
parted, very badly. Jackie's heart was broken.
She got part-time work at a large
supermarket which improved her confidence and reunited her with the real world
again. She was an equal, no longer a degenerate druggie on the streets,
sleeping in the park and smelling like shit. As part of her rehabilitation and
return to work, she was also a volunteer at the food bank in
Jackie had been split up from Ray for
nearly a year when one day he walked into the food bank. She was in the back
unloading boxes, and out of sight of the customer counter, when she heard his
voice. Her heart skipped a beat. She peeped out around the shelving. He looked
ill and unkempt. She was not prepared when one of the volunteers called her
name and put her on the spot. She stepped out from behind the shelving without
thinking and walked to the counter to help serve. Ray’s face lit up when he saw
her, all memories of their last difficult encounter when he had punched her,
clearly forgotten. Looking at his disheveled state she felt sorry for him. At
his best, he could charm the birds from the trees. He persuaded her to go for a
walk through the park after her shift. The inevitable happened; he walked her
home and asked if he could stay a few days whilst he sorted himself out and got
a job and flat. Jackie decided not to question what had happened to him. He
said he had been ill coming off drugs. After a meal, a shower, and a clean shirt
from his bag, he looked more like the handsome charismatic Ray she had fallen
for and missed so much. He stayed on and she began to feel whole again. That
had been three months ago.
As Jackie lay quietly on the sofa half
awake, she dreamt of a happy life with Ray and a reunion with her mother. She
had spoken of having a child, maybe moving away and starting again. She had
dreamed of marriage but did not think Ray was ready for that, although he
constantly told her he loved her and never wanted her to look at another man.
He was quite a jealous lover, and Jackie was careful that she did not get into
conversation with other men when she was with him. But she didn't mind. No
other man had ever been so interested in her, or so protective. It was
wonderful to feel loved even if it wasn't always consistent. She slipped further
into her pleasant dream. She could hear voices but could not be bothered to
wonder if they were real or part of her half dream. She saw Ray smiling at
her but it didn’t sound like his voice. No doubt he had come back to apologise,
like he always did. She wished now that she hadn't told him she thought she was
pregnant. She had hoped he would have been happy. Instead, he had accused her of
making a decision without him. She had tried to tell him it was not that way.
Realising she had said the wrong thing she back-pedaled and told him she was
joking. Men were funny weren’t they, she thought. You never knew if you
are saying or doing the right thing. She had misjudged it this time. He was
more angry than she could have anticipated.
Feeling too tired to open her eyes or get up,
Jackie wondered what she would do if she actually was pregnant and had a baby,
and then slipped into a deep sleep.
The ambulance crew found Jackie's lifeless
body slumped on the sofa, the carpet, and her clothes soaked in dark red sticky
blood. A thin rivulet of blood still ebbing from a deep wound. A kitchen knife
lay on the floor beside her.
Ray was picked up by the police the same
night, wandering aimlessly and in a distressed state.
He told the police they had had a row about
Jackie being pregnant. He didn’t want a baby, she did. He said if she didn’t
get rid of it he was leaving her. She got hysterical and said she would kill
herself and the baby. She said she could not bear to lose him again. Yes, he
had a temper and he had shouted at her, and remembers slapping her. But the
knife was not him. She had waved it over her stomach, he had reached for it.
They had stumbled. She fell. He panicked. He could not think straight.
The post mortem revealed that Jackie was
pregnant. There was old and recent bruising on her body. The GP records showed
that Jackie had received medical attention, and been prescribed anti-depressants after the previous traumatic break up from Ray. Neighbours said
Jackie had been a nice girl. Since Ray's arrival, they had not seen so much of
her but had not noticed anything untoward.
Tesco staff who worked with Jackie were
horrified by the news. Her work record had been good and there had been no sign
of behaviour that would indicate drug abuse.
The volunteers at the food bank were
genuinely dismayed and upset about Jackie's death and the nature of it. They
knew she had had a troubled past. They did notice that Jackie had been quieter
and not herself in recent weeks, and wondered if it had had anything to do with
the boyfriend she had taken up with again.
The trial for murder is set for eight weeks time. Ray denies the charges against him. It will be up to the jury to decide whether Jackie died accidentally, or whether Ray caused, or at least contributed to, her death. Not least because he did not call an ambulance. Those that knew Jackie since her stay in rehab said it was a terrible shame. A waste of the life of a young woman who had been determined to battle her addiction, and to turn her life around. A tragic thing to have happened to someone who had apparently been well on the road to recovery.
Copyright
Jane Scoggins
By Len Morgan
"You never married Asba, that is
regrettable, you should be passing on all the good qualities you possess to
future generations, but there is still time." She added.
Even in a dream, he found himself intoxicated by
the scent of her skin, he was conscious of her closeness, even with his eyes
closed, that was why he had always tried to keep his distance from her lest he
swallow her up in his own ego and never let her develop as she should and
obviously had. In dream time, they were
both teacher, and pupil, in the art of love.
Unencumbered by physical limitations of the flesh they lived a lifetime
in each other's arms, making up for lost time, a matter of moments in real-time.
When finally they materialized beside Skaa,
just beyond the portal, the future of Corvalen was assured.
Even if it were possible, Aldor would not be
happy Controlling Genna as a puppet.
That was the tactic employed by Jazim and Bedelacq. If he did the same he would be no better
than they. He was aware of warm tracks
of moisture tickling his cheeks, and a slight blurring of his vision. He wiped his eyes angrily on the backs of
his hands. He could tell, from scanning
her feelings for Asba, she had never really been his. At best he'd had her on loan but, she was
still a valued and trusted friend through fair and foul times. She was a good companion and he would do
nothing to jeopardize that. It was all
academic; he'd changed so much she wouldn't recognize him as the Aldor she knew.
She had however demonstrated an ability to control her mind to a startling degree. Such that it was suggested, with training, she could become a 'Revisionist' of exceptional talent. He smiled, when he received grudging confirmation, from the machines, that humanity still retained the potential to communicate with them, lacking only the know-how and the practice. He knew also there had to be many more who would be capable of learning the ancient knowledge and spreading it throughout Abbalar. He knew Asba and Genna would build on that, commencing with Paveil and Lillefane. So, essentially his work in Corvalen was done. He was left with a little housekeeping, and general tidying up to do before he moved on. There were plenty of people out there to be converted but, that was a job for the 'Revisionists' and they needed no encouragement from him. What he needed to do first, for his own peace of mind, was to discover who killed Eldoriel and why. Then of course there was still unfinished business with Bedelacq, Jazim, and others of their brood. Skaa had also expressed a keen desire to be involved on both counts. Both were grimly determined. Both had experienced a unique bond with Eldoriel and, through their loss, with each other.
Paveil
put the trusted protectors - the Regents Guard - to the task of exploring the
tunnels beneath the city. A troop was
sent to escort Aldor and Skaa to the palace, through those same secret tunnels. As the guards entered the tunnels heading for
the final showdown with Jazim and her supporters, Aldor and Skaa headed for the
house of Baal. They were even prepared
to deal with Bedelacq if he chose to appear.
They threw themselves manfully against the double oak doors and were a
little surprised they could not even bend them.
They
waited outside, for more than an hour, until the Regent's guard fought their way
through the house and finally removed the three massive metal bars holding it
firmly in place. Just three of Skaa's
old band were captured alive, amongst them Frek. They begged continually for an unknown drug,
an elixir Jazim had plied them with, highly addictive, it bound them to
her. Without a daily dose, their lives were
unbearable. She had returned to the
house of Baal with them, after Fazeils death, and ordered it turned into a
fortress. She commanded them to fight
to the death, then went into tunnels and, according to one of her aids, opened
up a black hole in the solid wall. She
entered it and was gone in an instant.
Aldor quizzed the machines and received confirmation that she had
entered the sanctuary and been sent on to a place where Bedelacq would not find
her. Without him, she would live out a
normal, but somewhat accelerated life.
'She is a criminal,
she has destroyed and ruined countless lives, how can you protect her?' Aldor asked.
'She is more than 350
years old, and will live another ten, twenty if she is lucky. Most of her life has been lived as a puppet
a slave to Bedelacq doing his work. She
never did so by choice. She was taken
as an infant and was molded into the person you saw. Only one in ten of those taken from their
families survived his indoctrination.
The survivors considered themselves the unlucky ones. She deserves to live a few years in peace
and freedom. She has always hated what
she became, but he is always in their minds pushing them, like macabre living
marionettes, denying them the luxury of choice and free will. We have decided to grant her peace, and a
time of contrition, to reflect and in some way make amends. We know all that she knows about the enemy;
we gleaned it from her mind as we did from you. We know Bedelacq…'
'Did she know who
killed Eldoriel?' He asked.
Knowing the speed at which the machines could
think the delay in replying was interminable, in reality, just a few seconds.
'Yes' was their reply.
Aldor waited, then realized no further
information would be forthcoming. He'd
noticed that machines could at times be very informative, while at others give
only the bare minimum information without elaborating.
'Can you tell me who
carried out the act?' He asked.
'His name is Frek.'
'Is that all?' He asked.
'He was one of Skaa's
men.'
Aldor called to Skaa with his mind. 'It
was Frek. Do you know where to find
him?'
'Frek?' His surprise was obvious. 'He
was the least affected by the drug Jazim administered. He went into the cellars with Genna…' said
Skaa.
"No!" Asba transmitted his alarm.
.-…-.
Genna sensed something different about
Frek. The fact he had not succumbed to
Jazim's addictive potion as the others had. There was something very chilling about him,
a driving obsession, more powerful than any drug.
"What are we searching for," he
asked.
"We need to discover where Jazim has gone
to ground. Any indication of her recent
presence would be helpful in tracking her down." Genna replied, "You
seem quite close to Skaa?"
"Known him a lot of years, he's like the
big brother I never had as a child. He
keeps me out of trouble." Said Frek.
"Then why did you go off with
Jazim." She asked.
"The others said it was a good idea and
that Skaa would be joining us. But when
he arrived, he refused and they put him in the cells before I had a chance to
speak up for him." Said Frek.
"Did you like her? Jazim?" she asked.
"Nah!
She was too busy giving orders to everybody. I wanted to get closer to her but her
heavies were always around. I knew she
wanted me though, I could see that hungry look in her eyes when she looked at
me."
"If that were so why did she not simply
order the heavies away and tell you how she felt. That is what I would have done," she
said.
"No!" he said with disdain, "that is not the way they do things."
"I don't understand that. If I wanted a man I would simply tell
him." She replied.
"I know but you are a woman from the
streets. You most of all should know
that it's just a test. They are testing
me and I have to prove that I want them enough. Oh, they protest and say it isn't a good
idea. They try to humour me acting as
if they don’t really want it. That
only makes me angry because I know they do.
They make me force them and punish them, then they go; depart and leave
me alone," he said in a dead voice.
The hackles on her neck rose, her instincts
were roused.
"When I met Asba, as a young girl, I knew
exactly how I felt about him. He was
the only man for me but, when I told him he backed away and made excuses to
avoid me. Now, look at him." She
said with a smile.
"That is because the man is the hunter. Game doesn't chase the hunter, that would be
wrong, that would cause him to lose his hunger." Said Frek.
"Why are you looking at me in that
strange way?" she asked.
"I know why you came down here with
me," he said, "You’re just like all the others."
"Others?
Am I?" She said.
'Get away from him as
fast as you can!' said a voice in her mind, 'He
is dangerous, he was the one who killed Eldoriel, and many others. It all fits. Whenever Skaa's band was in an area young
women were found dead.' 'Don't think
about it, just get away from him.'
‘That was Aldor's voice,’ she thought, ‘in my mind?'
"No Frek, you're wrong. I'm not like the others. I really want you to come to me," she
said. "Come here!"
The strange look on his face changed to uncertainty,
he no longer felt he was in charge.
"Man may be the hunter but women can also
hunt when they know what they are after, and when they want it enough! Come to me." She repeated reaching out
towards him with her arms, licking her lips lasciviously, she took a step
towards him.
"N-no I-I" he stammered and took two
backward steps, a look of fear in his eyes.
He turned and ran.
'The Regents guard is
on their way to hunt him down, leave him to them, they will make him pay for
what he has done,' said Aldor.
'But, how did he get
away with it for so long?' she thought.
'It is not so
difficult if everybody thinks your stupid and you do nothing to make them think
otherwise. But, he is not as dumb as he
would have us believe' Aldor replied.
'Aldor? That is you isn't it' she asked.
He did not reply.
She started back towards the cellars of Baal
house, just as the guardsmen were coming out of the cell that she and Wizomi
had occupied just five days earlier.
'I wonder what
happened to Wiz,” she thought as she slid through the grate to the cell that had housed
both Skaa and Aldor.
Genna stood up inside the cell, her eyes
adjusting slowly to the gloom. There
was a rustling sound, a shadow moved just outside of her vision. She turned and instinctively threw herself
sideways. He had been there waiting for
her, his eyes already in tune with the low light level.
'Aldor, he's here!' she yelled inside her
mind, already fearful for her life.
'Humour him, keep him
occupied, we are on our way.'
"Frek is that you? You can't get away from me that easily. I waited for you but you failed to return,
then the militia started to arrive outside."
"Do you know what they are looking
for?" he asked, continuing before she could reply, "don't play games
with me; I'm not the fool I choose to present to the world."
She started to roll back towards the broken
grating, but he had anticipated that and got there before her. She felt a heavy blow to her shoulder, and a
sharp pain, "aaahh," she cried out, it killed her momentum.
"One more move like that and I will kill
you where you lay," he said in a matter-of-fact tone. About now those tunnels will be full to
overflowing with the Regents guards, and militia, all looking for me," he
said.
"Why should they be looking for
you?" she asked. His response was
to kick her in the stomach, knocking the wind out of her.
"You talk when I say, otherwise keep
silence" he warned.
"Genna?" it was Asba's voice.
"In here!" She yelled, taking
another kick.
He grabbed her hair dragging her roughly to
her feet.
"I said q-u-i-e-t!" He hissed.
There was a rattling at the door, a key turned
in the lock, and it opened.
He stood defiantly facing them, using Genna as
a shield, as they entered.
One arm pinned both her arms to her sides, the
other held a heavy knife to her throat.
"That's far enough," he warned them,
tightening his grip. "This is a
Huren hunting knife. I could decapitate
her in an instant with very little pressure.
Tell them Skaa!"
"He's right; I've seen him cut a man’s
legs off with a single stroke of that blade.
At this moment, Genna is in very real danger,” he whispered so that Frek
would not hear.
"What happens to her depends entirely on
what you do. It would be best if you
put down your arms as a gesture of goodwill," sensing hesitation he added, "that was not a request."
They all complied. "It
would really be better for all if you simply let me slip away; as soon as we
are clear of the city I will release Genna…"
Skaa began to clap his hands slowly,
"Same old Frek" he said, "still not thinking. You will never be in the clear because
wherever you go I will be hunting you, just one step behind. I could never forgive what you did to Eldoriel. I loved her and I don't know how long I can
live without her. You killed her out of
jealousy,” Skaa accused, taking a step forward.
"Be still!" Frek warned. "She was a whore, a doxy; she joined with any man who wanted her. Everyone but me,” he said angrily, “she drove me crazy taunting and spurning. I wanted, I hungered for her so badly it hurt but when I told her she laughed in my face. Just one slash and the laughter stuck in her throat, the deed was done, my blade was decorated with her blood but I cannot remember killing her. I wished it hadn't happened but, it could not be undone, so I arranged her on the bed and dowsed the lights. Looking at her, you would never know…" There were tears in his eyes now.
"The boy climbing in the window was a
gift from the gods!" Skaa finished the sentence taking half a step more.
"Stay!
Where you are," his grip tightened on Genna and his eyes became
hard and unyielding.
"I
intend to kill you Frek, and so long as there's breath in my body I will hunt
you like the dog you are" he said in that intimidating gravely voice. "You have one chance to get away free,
and that is by killing me. If you're man
enough for it I challenge you; a duel to the death. You have my word, if you win, no man will
stop you."
"If I kill you they let me walk
free? I don't think so," he
sneered.
"You know I stand by my word, these are
honorable men, if you win the duel you will be judged blameless."
"Do you swear to honor this?" Frek questioned them.
One by one they recited the formal words -
"I swear it."
He released his grip on Genna, turning his
knife towards Skaa.
"You were always so sure you were better
than the rest of us," Frek gloated, "It’s a pity so many of our
former comrades are dead and unable to witness your demise. It will be no pushover; I may even break
sweat before you find yourself back on the wheel of life. But, I will have the consolation of
unearthing all the caches of coin you have hidden outside the city. I will take your head back home with me and
claim that reward as well," he grinned, "they will treat me like a
hero then I will buy my fill of real women.
Not these bony black-haired rat-faced sluts, I shall buy me, real women, with meat on their bones. Come on old
man, defend yourself."
"You can choose the weapons, but I get to
choose where we fight" Skaa replied.
"Sword and dagger," Frek answered at once.
"At dawn, on the palace plaza, where Aldor killed Fazeil's champion," said Skaa, his face a mask.
“So be it!” said Frek “I’ll miss you when your dead, old man...” He slipped out of the door and was gone in an instant.
(to be
Continued)
Copyright
Len Morgan
By Peter Woodgate
On
looking back across the years,
the
excitement, the frowns, smiles, and tears,
you
wonder where “Old Time” has gone
a mere
swift heartbeat in life’s song.
Experiences,
without the knowledge,
that
aging brings us and the courage,
to make
decisions for the good,
not
selfish, just because we could.
For
there’s a matter of concern,
life is
short, yet we must learn
to pass
this advice onto those
who
carry the torch as wisdom grows,
and
hopefully one-day mankind
will
have reached a higher mind,
where
love, and kindness, is the way
and
thoughtfulness is here to stay.
I’d
like to think it all worth-while
for
those whose lives have been a trial
and man
must reach out from this pyre
and
like the phoenix soar much higher.
Copyright Peter Woodgate
by Richard Banks
I
was, my mother once told me, a reluctant baby in no hurry to leave the warmth
and safety of her womb. That may explain why I have always preferred a bath to
a shower. Why rush what should be a pleasure, a chance to savour again that
untroubled time before the uncertain transition to a strange and unknown world.
Thirty-six years on, the good times
have far outweighed the bad. I have been fortunate, unaffected by war, disease, or famine. My life has been unremarkable, often dull, but the quiet certainty
to which I have become accustomed is something I value above everything else.
Jenny is in the kitchen, the engine
room she calls it, cooking dinner, her still slim figure almost hidden by the
steam rising from several saucepans on the hob. It’s pasta night, as it is
every Friday. What could be better than bucatini or spaghetti with a glass or two
of Chianti? In our lounge/diner Lucy and Kate are examining the presents under
the Christmas tree squeezing the ones with their names on, guessing what is
hidden beneath the brightly coloured wrapping paper. When they were younger
they would sometimes open a particularly intriguing parcel before attempting to
reinstate its covering. Now they understand that the unwrapping of presents
must wait until Christmas morning and never before the ringing of my alarm
clock.
They should be setting the table but as
usual, they have forgotten, distracted by the lure of more interesting things.
Jenny peers through the serving hatch and with feigned annoyance expresses
surprise that nothing has been done. But within minutes everything is done,
Lucy fetches the tablecloth from the linen cupboard and spreads it unevenly
over the dining table while Kate takes spoons and forks from the cutlery drawer
and, with studied concentration, places them on the tablecloth. She knows that
the forks must always go on the left which is the same side as her writing
hand. She is seven now, her sister six, babies no more. They sit up at the
table as Jenny brings in their meals.
Six o’clock tea is a good time,
especially on a Friday, and this Friday is no ordinary Friday, tomorrow is Christmas Day. Jenny raises her
glass. “Bon Appetite,” she says and the girls do the same with their tumblers
of lemonade. I smile but say nothing. Now is a time for eating, conversation is
for later, but for once it is not long in coming.
Kate clears her plate and discards her
spoon with a clatter onto the center of her plate. “What is happening
tomorrow?” she asks.
Jenny explains for the seventh or the eighth time that Father Christmas will come, as he always does, and that once
she and Lucy are washed and dressed they will be allowed to open all their
presents.
“And then,” Jenny continues, “as a
special treat we are all going with Uncle Ben to a lovely restaurant for
Christmas lunch.”
Kate pushes out her lips in sullen
displeasure. “Why can’t we have dinner here?”
She looks towards me as though seeking
my intervention but since the ending of our marriage there is nothing I can do
or say. This is her mother’s call and for a while, at least, she will decide
what is best for herself and the girls. I am sad but wish no sadness for them.
No, I must not be sad. It is Christmas Eve and once again I am able to share
the warmth of their company in a friendly familiar place.
Jenny wards off further discussion on
the subject of Christmas lunch by saying that it has been booked, so of course
they are going. They should be pleased that Uncle Ben has invited them to such
a posh restaurant. She adds, somewhat unconvincingly, that there is no more
food in the house and that if they don’t go to the restaurant they will have
nothing to eat all day.
“Is there no ice cream?” asks Lucy, her
face a picture of despair.
Jenny concedes that there might still
be some ice cream left and departs to the kitchen to find it. She returns with
dessert bowls, spoons, and a tub of Caramel Swirl. It is their favourite dessert
and thoughts of Christmas lunch are temporarily forgotten. As they finish,
Jenny turns on the television; a distraction is needed and instantly provided
by a Christmas edition of the Simpsons. I watch it with the girls while Jenny
clears the table and loads the dishwasher in the kitchen. She peers through the
serving hatch and seeing them absorbed in the adventures of Bart and Lisa
quietly makes a phone call on her mobile. I resist the temptation to move
closer to the serving hatch and eavesdrop on the conversation taking place.
There is no point, I know who she is talking to, and the words they are
speaking I should not be hearing; better to watch the Simpsons with the two
little girls sitting in front of me on the carpet. The programme ends and Kate
switches channels until she finds another cartoon. Jenny returns to the lounge
and sits down beside me on the settee. She studies the TV guide and informs the
girls that ‘Strictly’ will soon be starting and that once it is finished they
must get ready for bed. Tonight is the final. For six weeks the various
contestants have battled it out until only two couples remain. The presenter is
not unlike Jenny; she is wearing a white dress. Automatically my eyes turn
towards the photograph of our wedding on the wall above the fireplace, but it
is gone replaced by one of her and the girls. The snapshot of me in the hall
still remains but is seldom noticed. In time it too will disappear into the
cupboard under the stairs, out of sight and largely out of mind.
Am I angry? No. This is the way it has
to be. What is done is done and can’t be undone. Memories that give no pleasure
must be forgotten, discarded. Life is about today and tomorrow, never the past.
Jenny knows this. Her future and that of the girls is uncertain but she is
determined that through the choices she makes all will be well.
Will one of those choices be Ben? Only
time will tell. They have been dating for only three months, but if he were to
propose what would she say? He is charming, reasonably good looking, and
apparently not short of money. Let’s hope there is more to him than that.
‘Strictly’ comes to a triumphant end
and Jenny switches off the TV. Having quelled the usual protests she ushers the
girls upstairs into the bathroom where they clean their teeth and change into
their pyjamas. Once they would run back to me for hugs and kisses but now they
go straight to their beds. Jenny reads them a story and they settle down
beneath their duvets determined to fall asleep before Santa calls. She returns
to the lounge and pours herself another glass of wine. She is pensive, lost in
thought, she tries to read but turns only two pages of a chic lit novel. We sit
in silence not wanting to turn on the television lest it disturbs the girls.
We have much to say to each other, but
nothing that can be spoken. I want to tell her that it’s OK, that I understand,
life changes, so must she. Would she say the same to me? I think she would. So
why do I linger? Is it that we never said goodbye or am I, yet again, the
reluctant baby? One year after the accident that ended my life I should be
away, but the warmth and comfort of much-loved people in a familiar place has
more attraction than the unknown place beyond.
Jenny peers into the girls’ bedroom and
finds them asleep. There are Christmas stockings to fill, clothes to be ironed,
an extra present to wrap and label. At eleven-thirty she turns off the lounge
light and departs for bed. Tomorrow she will be woken by the sound of my alarm
clock and the excited cries of our children. By then I will be gone. Where I am
bound I don’t know, only that it is a new beginning, that death, like birth, is
a part of life and that in life I may be born again. On Christmas Eve I am
filled with hope.
Copyright Richard Banks
By Peter Woodgate
To
celebrate the coronation
Of our
presently reigning queen
I
received a pretty pencil case
It
showed that very scene.
The
gold coach and the horses
Came
alive on that box of tin
And
when opened up, a three-penny bit
Was
waiting there within.
My
immediate thought was that odd-shaped coin
And the
sweets that I could now buy
The
pencil case, a novelty,
Very
soon it said goodbye.
As
years rolled on I, often wondered,
Where
that case might be
I
regretted not keeping it somewhere safe
As now
it’s antiquity.
But I
have a feeling, we’ll meet again,
Only a
dream then, until,
We find
each other at the “order of the boot”
The
case, at “a fair,” and I, at “the hill”.
Copyright Peter
Woodgate
By Barefoot Medic
I recently listened to the book “A short history of nearly everything” by Bill Bryson.
Belatedly, on Disks 13 & 14 of 15, he turned everything on its head by suggesting that we are DNA factories. I’m still coming to terms with his assertion that we exist to create DNA. We are in the service of our genes, not the other way round!? The reality of this chills me…
This
puts all those sudden & unexplained cravings into perspective. An extreme example would be the strange
illogical cravings experienced by women during pregnancy. The body is undergoing changes that require
different building materials so, cram in the pickled onions, and swallow Vaseline
by the jarful or whatever else your genes demand in order to create a new DNA
factory.
We
didn’t invent DNA! DNA was created at
the dawn of time it is the same in humans as in insects & cabbages and has
never varied since the creation of life.
DNA is not alive and yet all our energies seem to be concentrated on
perpetuating its continued existence.