NEITHER HERE NOR THERE                                                           

by Richard Banks

Brian sat on the shelf over the fireplace between the cuckoo clock that Deidre had purchased in Austria and a china horse that had once belonged to her mother. He would, of course, have preferred to sit in his usual seat in front of the fire but that was now occupied by someone he once regarded as a friend. In the all too recent past it would have been understood that the chair was his chair and his alone, not even Deidre would have sat there. Guests, as Ernie once was, would have sat where they were bid minus their overcoats and caps but otherwise attired in such a way that if they had been instantaneously transported to a meeting of the Rotary Club they would have been appropriately and adequately dressed. 

         He stared down disapprovingly at Ernie who, having unfastened a button on his shirt was now reaching beneath the shoulder strap of a string vest to scratch an unusually hairy armpit. At the other end of his person, his stocking feet were resting on the brass rail that bordered the grate. This was too much! It was an insult, a desecration of all he held dear. In past times he, Brian Greenside, husband of Deidre who still bears his name, would have ejected this unprincipled Casanova from the house and administered the good thrashing he so richly deserved.

         But that was then and this was now, a now begun by the number nine bus that had rendered him a passed over person in more ways than one. Since then he had become an invisible blob of irregular dimensions, no larger than a paperweight and no heavier than a bubble.

         Devoid of voice but not of vision his role in life seemed only to observe it. With no eyelids to close, his only way of not seeing what he was not wanting to see was to remove himself to another place. Had Tottenham been playing at home that evening he would have taken himself there and, oblivious to whatever the weather was doing, perch himself on a beam above the directors’ box. If that was the best life could show him the worse was surely what he was now observing. To make matters worse Deidre, having washed the dishes, was now sitting in her chair and stretching out her unslippered feet towards those of Ernie. Reasoning that the meeting of all four feet might not be the least of the unpleasantness to come, Brian decided to remove himself up the chimney and onto the flat roof of the loft extension. He had not been there long when he was joined by a dim orb of light.

         “Having a bit of trouble, son?”

         It was a voice he knew well. Even after ten years there was no mistaking it.

         “Dad?”

         “That’s right, son. Just a jiffy and I’ll turn up the power. …..Yeah, that’s better. Sorry the picture’s only black and white but it’s not too bad, all things considered. I mean to say, it works by the power of thought and I was never much good at that.”

         “No Dad, that’s brilliant. Just one thing.”

         “Yes, son.”

         “Is that you?”

         “Of course it’s me, don’t you recognise your own father?”

         “Not like that, Dad. You can’t be any older than twenty-one. Haven’t you got something a bit more recent, like, after I was born?”

         The face on the orb registered an expression of bemused concentration. “Hang on, I’ll have another think. What about that?”

         “Yes, better, you’re getting there. Keep going another ten years. Yes, you’re nearly there. A bit more. Stop! No, back a bit. Yes, that’s it. Fantastic!  Blimey, Dad, can you do the same for me?”

         “Wish I could Bri but that’s an upstairs job. So, what’s keeping you, son, your mother can’t wait to see you again? Your old life’s over, time to give the new place a try. It’s not so bad, there’s more churches than pubs and most of them are wine bars, but the football’s second to none, ten divisions and five generations of ‘all time greats’ to choose from. Bet you never saw Stan Matthews play, you can now.”

         Brian felt an emotion that in the days when he had eyes would have made them brim with tears. “Can’t do that Dad. Not just now. There’s something I need to see to, unfinished business, can’t leave things as they are.”

         “You’ve got to let her go, son. It’s her life. There’s nothing you can do now.”

         “No, it’s not about Deidre. Can’t say I’m overjoyed about lover boy; didn’t expect that after only a month, but no, it’s not about her.”

         “Then what is it, son? Come on, you can tell me.”

         “You mean you don’t know about the money I won? I thought you lot were supposed to be all seeing, all knowing.”

         “Give me a break, Bri, I’m only a Grade 7, trainee, and that’s not going too well. Come on now, get it off your chest. You never know I might be able to help.”

         “Well, I won the lottery, didn’t I. Half a million quid. Couldn’t believe it ‘til they gave me the cheque. But what was I to do with all the money? Deidre was full of plans that would have seen it all frittered away, but I had other ideas. Wouldn’t it be better, I said, if we kept half and gave the rest to Jilly so she and Tom could stop renting and buy a home of their own. But no, she was all for hanging-on to the lot. After all, she said, our daughter would inherit everything once we were dead. Surely she could wait until then. However my mind was made up, so when I paid the cheque into our account I wrote out one for £250K and put Jilly’s name on it. Well, why shouldn’t I, it was my money. So without saying anything to Deidre I set-off to deliver the cheque in person. Couldn’t wait to see their faces. Too excited I was, didn’t look where I was going, never knew the bus was there until I was under it. Can you believe it? Was I ever meant to be lucky?”

         Ignoring the question which he supposed to be hypothetical Dad’s thoughts turned to his grand-daughter. “So, Jilly never got her cheque?”

         “No. The hospital put all my clothes in a plastic bag and gave them to Deidre who put them in the bin, except the suit which she probably thought would come in useful for the someone  presently in my parlour. No way was he going to squeeze into it, not that fat lump, so the suit stayed in the cupboard where she put it. If the silly mare had thought to look through the pockets she would have found my wallet and the cheque inside it. So, no, Jilly never got the cheque and until she does I won’t be going anywhere, up or down.”

         “Oh!” Dad considered the facts and concluded this was probably a Grade 1 problem. “Don’t see what you can do, son. If the living could hear, you would be able to tell Jilly where the cheque is, and if you had hands and feet you could take it to her, but all you have of any use is your sight and that’s no help on its own. You never know, son, Deidre might find the cheque and decide to do the right thing, after all Jilly’s her daughter as much as yours.”

         The blob that was Brian began to vibrate and almost doubled in size before emitting several flashes of light that exploded into the night sky like fireworks.

         “Steady on son, there’s no need for that.”

         The blob took a deep breath and with a groan returned to its normal size and shape. “No, Dad, I’m staying here. If you want me upstairs you will have to help me get that cheque to Jilly.”

         “But what can I do, Bri. I can’t work miracles, that’s not going to happen for at least a thousand years, and even then they will all have to be signed off by a fully qualified Seraphim. Every day people pray that they come into money. None of them ever get what they want; it’s not what we do.”

         “But you do have the power of thought, wasn’t that what you were telling me. You can make things happen just by thinking them. Isn’t that how it works?”

         “Not with me, son. Not yet. The power’s too weak. Let’s put it this way, if I was the petrol in your car you wouldn’t be going much further than the end of the road.”

         “Turn it up, Dad, you can do better than that. And what about me? Don’t I have the power of thought? I must have some. The two of us together; I know we can make it work.”

         Dad’s image wobbled and appeared to age several years. “But you’re a ‘No-Comer’, neither one thing or the other. Not sure you have any powers.”

         “But I do, Dad. Didn’t you see the sparks that shot out of me. Come on, I know we can do it, the two of us together! What have we got to lose?”

         Who knows, son, but I’m not getting any messages from up above, so why not. What have you got in mind?” 

         “Two home visits, that’s what. Plant the same idea in two persons heads and leave the rest to them.”

         “And the idea is that Jilly should have the suit?”

         “You bet. Deidre’s got no use for it. It’s only a matter of time before she throws it out so if we can make Jilly want it, I mean really want it, Deidre will only be too ready to hand it over.”

         “And supposing she looks in the pockets first?”

         “She won’t, not after what we tell her. Anyway that’s for later. First off we need to head over  to Jilly’s. Come on, I’ll tell you what to do on the way.”

         They arrived shortly after 11.30 to find the bedroom reverberating with the sound of impassioned interaction. The gasps and shrieks of the two participants reached a noisy crescendo that, on the parting of bodies, subsided into an urgent, but less noisy need to take-in oxygen.   “Blimey, son. What a time to arrive! Thank goodness the lights were out. Maybe we should come back later.”

         “No, Dad, this couldn’t be better. They’ll soon be spark out, dead to the world and not a sound to be heard, no TV, no mobiles, nothing to distract Jilly from what we’re going to tell her. The signal we’re be sending might be faint but it’s the only one she’ll be hearing. Now remember, we need to think the same thing at exactly the same moment so it’s, one, I want Dad’s brown suit more than anything in this world, two, it’s in the cupboard in my old room at Mum’s and three, fetch it now and don’t delay.”

         “Shouldn’t we be saying something about the cheque?”

         “No, Dad, too much information, let’s keep it short and simple. She’ll find it, I know she will.”

         Jilly turned onto one side and quickly succumbed to a blissful drowsiness. Tom also was scarcely awake and within a few minutes the murmour of shallow breathing indicated that they were both soundly asleep. Brian and Dad got busy and did what they had come to do and, cautiously satisfied with their efforts, left as unobtrusively as they had arrived. It was time to return to Deidre who hopefully would not be caught in flagrante. To their relief she was alone and Ernie nowhere to be seen. As Brian feared she was in full snoring mode.

         “Blimey, son, don’t think we’ll be heard through all that. What do we do now?”

         “Wait. Just wait. Two hours at most. Until then we practice. So, this is what we tell her: the suit is possessed by an evil spirit that means her harm, and that she must give it to the one who wants it.” Having synchronised the words they waited patiently on Deidre’s bedside table until a ferocious snore interrupted her slumbers and sent her scurrying to the bathroom. She returned several minutes later and settled back under the covers. As the lavatory system fell silent, Brian and Dad gathered either side of her pillow and with all their remaining energy repeated the message they had come to deliver.

         They drifted wearily into the front bedroom which had been Jilly’s room and parked themselves on the windowsill determined to witness the comings and goings of the day that they hoped would include the departure of the suit in Jilly’s hands. Their patient, if sometimes sleepy vigil was eventually rewarded by the rising of the sun and the sight of early risers setting off to their work. Unusually Deidre was also up and muttering to herself in a way that suggested she was not in the best of moods; a boiling kettle in the kitchen beneath them indicating that she was now at breakfast.

         In the distance a rumble like thunder heralded the approach of the refuse men. The noise gradually increased until their lorry was only several doors away at which point Deidre rushed out and having waved her arms frantically at the nearest dustman engaged him in a discussion he at first seemed unwilling to prolong. Having overcome his reluctance by the proffering of a ten pound note Deidre took a firm grip of his arm and almost dragged him into the house. A few seconds later they were up the stairs and in Jilly’s bedroom.

         “It’s in there,” said Deidre, pointing at the cupboard, “dark brown suit, on a hanger. Just get  it out of the house and put the damn thing in the cart.”

         The dustman clearly puzzled as to why Deidre could not have done this herself, peered apprehensively at the cupboard and considered the possibility that inside there might be something other than a brown suit. “So, it’s just a suit then?”

         “Of course it’s just a suit. I told you it was just a suit. All you got to do is take it away. What’s the matter? Want more money? Is that it? OK, I’ll make it twenty quid. Now, do you want it or not?”

         The dustman very definitely did want it, and even more wanted to escape this strange, overwrought woman who quite possibly was on the dangerous side of unhinged. He pulled open the cupboard door, which was hinged, and discovered, to his evident relief, the suit hanging inoffensively inside. He snatched it up and pausing only long enough to claim his reward fled down the stairs and out into the street where he ran as fast as he could after the refuge lorry.

         Clutching her purse, Deidre staggered almost drunkenly out of the bedroom and collapsed onto her own bed unaware that her former husband had thrown himself off the windowsill and was rolling about on the carpet shouting expletives that fortunately could only heard by his father. When his energy reserves became too depleted to sustain this activity he propped himself up against the wainscot where he was joined by Dad. They sat in silence, Brian not wanting to talk and Dad not knowing what to say.

         The impasse was eased, if not resolved, by the ringing of the door bell. The sound of Deidre descending the stairs and opening the front door was followed by a voice that was unmistakeably Jilly’s. She advanced into the hallway before coming quickly to the point.

         “Hello Mum, sorry to come round so early but I need to have Dad’s suit, you know, the one he was wearing when, when…when he was taken from us.”

         “You mean when he was run over by the bus.” After a thwart start to the day Deidre was in no mood for euphemisms. “Well, you’re too late, the bin men took it away five minutes ago. Glad to get rid of it, the wretched thing was giving me nightmares. Why on earth didn’t you ask me for it yesterday when I gave you Dad’s cheque? The suit’s of no use to you or anyone else. Who’s going to wear an old suit with a tyre mark down the back. You keep your mind on the money, that’s what your Dad wanted you to have, not a manky old suit.”

         “Yes, Mum, thanks for the cheque. I’m sorry you and Dad fell out over the money. I know how much you wanted to buy that villa in Spain, and I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had. But, well, I’m glad you didn’t. Why I need to have Dad’s suit I don’t know, but I feel sure he wanted me to have it just like he wanted me to have the cheque. So, if you tell me which way the bin men went I’ll be on my way.” On being told that they would probably be no further than Green Street Jilly about turned through the still open door and set-off in rapid pursuit.

         Brian and Dad who had been watching from the top of the stairs watched on as Deidre shut the door and with a weary sigh abandoned the hall for the kitchen. For once Dad was the first to react.

         “So Jilly’s got the cheque. Blimey, when did that happen?”

         “Yesterday, of course, weren’t you listening? Must have been after Deidre did the shopping. You know what I’m like with supermarkets; came home early and left her to it. Didn’t even see her find it. And not a word to anyone; how did she keep that to herself?”

         “No idea, son, but then we can’t always be watching and listening, and maybe we shouldn’t have been trying. Life’s for the living, best to leave them to it. After all they don’t get to see what we’re up to. Let’s face it, all we have done since yesterday is give Deidre nightmares and make Jilly pine after an old suit that’s of no use to her or anyone else. Gawd knows what the going rate will be for getting that back. Still, I suppose Jilly can afford it. You’ve done your best by her, and so has Deidre. It’s job done. Like the good ship Enterprise it’s time to boldly go - upwards and onwards.  Just say the word and we’ll be off.”

         “Need more words than one, Dad.”

         “Like four?”

         “You guessed it. Come on, let’s say it together?”

         “Why not, son. On the count of three?

         “Three it is. Start counting, Dad.”

         “One, two, three..”

         “Beam me up Scotty!”    

             

Copyright Richard Banks             

 

DHSS WELCOME 

By Janet Baldey

 Julie stood watching the patches of mist clinging to the tops of the lamp posts. She coughed as dank air seeped into her lungs, shivered and inched closer to a nearby shop, taking advantage of every blast of warm air.  She peered into the murk. There was still no sign of the bus, just a long line of shrouded cars, fog swirling around their headlights as they crawled along.      

Curling her toes inside her shoes, she stared at the lighted window, idly scanning the scattering of postcards.   ‘Computer problems?  ‘Handyman – no job too small….’ Then, ‘Wanted.  Companion for elderly widow…..’  She pressed her nose against the glass struggling to read the faint, spidery writing.  ‘No experience necessary…live in…one child accepted.   DHSS welcome.   She gasped and a cloud of condensation obliterated the message. As a desperate glance confirmed the dim bulk of the bus lumbering towards her stop, she plunged into the shop and rushed towards the small, nut brown shopkeeper leaving flying witches, skeletons and Dracula masks dancing in her wake. 

‘That advert in your window.   Can you get it down for me please?’ 

Even close up, she could barely decipher the handwriting. At last, her vision cleared, ‘Mrs Carmichael, 42 Wellington Gardens.  Miles away and there was no telephone number.       

All the way home, she sat squirming as the bus progressed with maddening slowness.   It was too good to be true.  The card was out-of-date.   She’d get there, and the job would have gone.  But….it was worth a try.   She had to get out of the hostel, if only for Lily’s sake.  Damp, vermin-infested, its flaky ceiling showering down a scurf of plaster whenever the people upstairs threw one of their parties, it was no place to bring up a child.  Especially one like Lily.  Her expression softened, as she glanced down at her daughter’s delicate face.  Looking at her watch, she willed the bus forward.

She took the stairs two at a time and when she reached Shel’s room her heart was a small animal racing for its life.        

‘Thanks for looking after her.   Has she been good?’

         ‘As an angel, love.  Blimey, you look puffed.  Come and park yerself.’

         ‘No time, but thanks.’   

Already, Julie was reaching inside her bag for a jar of baby-food.   She’d needed go back out but Lily must be fed first.  Crouching down beside her daughter, Julie offered up a heaped spoonful of beef stew.

‘Hey, you tryin’ to choke that kid?’  

Julie looked up.  Shel was doing her Buddha impersonation; slab-like arms folded over her chest, her eyes narrowed into slits. 

‘In a hurry.’ Julie told her about the postcard. ‘Any chance?’  She nodded towards Lily, a fragile hope kindling. 

‘Sorry, love. Taking the brats out trick and treating, must get it done before it comes down really bad.’   

She pointed towards the window, jaundiced with fog. 

‘Of course, sorry.’ 

Briefly, Julie had forgotten. All day long the building had echoed with slightly hysterical giggling and hollow groans as the resident’s children jumped out at one another, their pale faces streaked with dirt, their hair spiky with their mothers’ gel. 

* * * 

         It was as if she was in another world. As Julie pushed her daughter along broad pavements fringed by soaring patchwork trunks, she looked at the Regency houses their waxy facades glimmering in the thickening dusk. Lily now weighed as much as a baby elephant and she was completely lost. 

Just when she was about to give up, a wedding cake of a house loomed out of the mist, its number 42 cutting through the dark like a beacon. They had arrived, but she could hardly believe it. She’d thought the other houses were grand but this one overwhelmed its neighbours. Her legs shook as she walked up the drive. 

The door was opened by a tiny lady who, when she heard why she had come, seemed delighted by her arrival. 

‘Please in my dear.’ Mrs Carmichael fluttered around them like a small, brown moth.

Inside it was sombre. Velvet drapes closely covered the windows and the dim light of chandeliers struggled through glass stained a pallid yellow.  Julie wrinkled her nose. There was the faintest aroma of must and mildew although she could see no sign of rot and the furnishings, although old-fashioned, were spotless.      

‘I must admit to getting a little desperate. It seems that no-one is willing to trek all the way over here to look after an old nuisance like me.’  

 Mrs Carmichael trilled a laugh and put up a hand to cover her mouth. It was then that Julie noticed her nails.  Long and curved, they seemed out of place. Slightly startled, she confirmed her first impression; a frail, elderly lady with faded blue eyes hiding amongst a maze of wrinkles. Julie was reassured. It was comforting to realise that vanity didn’t disappear as you got older.

‘And, is this your little treasure?’     

Carefully, Mrs Carmichael stooped and peered inside the buggy.    

‘Delightful, and ….’   She murmured something so softly that Julie didn’t catch the words.  Creaking upright, her voice strengthened. 

‘Now, it doesn’t matter one jot that you have no experience. I’m very easy to manage and your duties will be minimal. Would you like to see your quarters?’ 

Julie stood, her eyes widening as they drank in blond wood, white leather and dove grey carpet. Everything was perfect.  It was almost as if Mrs Carmichael had read her mind.   The opulence of the rest of the house was not to her taste but as she stood in the middle of the suite of rooms, being offered up like a delicious pastry, she felt like hugging herself.   

 ‘Now, I’ll leave you in peace to settle in.  I usually have a cup of cocoa and a sweet biscuit at eight, so I shall see you then.’ 

‘Oh!’  Now it was Julie’s turn to cover her mouth. ‘I wasn’t thinking of starting straight away. I haven’t got my things and there’s stuff I have to sort out.’ 

There was a moment’s silence. When Mrs Carmichael spoke again, her voice was soft but as strong as a strand of silk. 

‘I’m sorry.  I couldn’t have made myself clear.  An immediate start is one of the conditions of the post.  It shows commitment, you see.’ 

‘But…. our clothes?   And, Lily won’t settle without her teddy.’ 

A crystal glass shattered onto a marble floor as Mrs Carmichael laughed. 

‘Don’t look so stricken my dear.  I have the perfect solution.  Leave baby with me and collect your things.  That way, it will take you no time at all. Look at her, the dear child is fast asleep and I’m sure she won’t wake before you get back.’ 

Julie glanced at her daughter.  Sure enough, she was sprawled in the buggy, only the slightest movement of her chest showing that she breathed.  Chewing at her lip, she looked around:  this was her passport out of the hostel.  She’d do her best, work hard, get a reference then when Lily was older……a rosy future beckoned. 

She grabbed her coat, whirled and ran out of the door. 

She’d reached the gate when she remembered. Her purse, she’d left it tucked into the side pocket of the buggy.  She turned and ran back up the drive.   It was only as she drew nearer, she heard it.  A thin, high wail.  Lily!  Lily was screaming.  She should never have left her.  She wasn’t used to strangers.  She reached the door, rattled the knocker and pounded at the wood with her fists. 

‘Let me in’, she yelled, but no one replied and the heavy door was implacable. Through her rising panic Julie noticed a low window to the left of the door and scrabbled through bushes to reach it. Slipping off her coat and using it like a shroud, she picked up a heavy flint and smashed at the glass until it shivered into a confusion of tiny cracks.  One more blow, then ignoring the wicked slivers of wood set in their wooden gums, Julie climbed in and ran towards her daughter’s cries.   

On a purple damask settee, inside the ugly drawing room, Mrs Carmichael sat holding Lily who was writhing in her arms and flailing at the air with her tiny fists.   

‘It’s all right darling, Mummy’s here.’ 

 Mrs Carmichael looked up and Julie froze. Gone was the saccharine smile and gentle expression.  Her face was a mask of greed and her eyes burned with a fire that scorched towards Julie standing transfixed in the doorway.  She just had time to notice the old woman seemed to have shed years, before a feeling of lassitude swaddled her limbs and all she wanted to do was drown in sleep.   Then, Lily screamed again and the sound drilled into her brain. Julie swayed across the carpet pushing against air that grew denser with every step she took. As she drew nearer, something terrible happened.  Mrs Carmichael curled her upper lip, hissed and Julie saw her teeth. For an instant, she froze then closing her eyes against the horror she flung herself forward and caught hold of Lily’s dress.  There was the sound of ripping cotton but Julie tightened her grip and a desperate tussle began.  Backwards and forwards they pulled as if sawing wood until Julie felt Lily grow limp. Her horror deepening, she made one last desperate effort, wrenched her daughter free and fled. 

 She sprinted down the road, feeling hard concrete slapping through her thin shoes.  Her head was empty save for one thought, she must get back to the hostel.  It might be dingy, but it was safe.  Oddly, her memory faded the further she got from the house until she remembered nothing.  Puzzled, her flight slowed to a stroll as she made her way back to the hostel. 

It wasn’t until later that the nightmare returned. When Lily opened her mouth to take her night time bottle, Julie caught sight of her teeth.  It was then that Julie screamed until the sound scratched the sky. 

 

Copyright Janet Baldey      

 

 The Essex Girl  

By Sis Unswoth

Sharon was an Essex girl, Essex born and bred,

She defined herself as Essex in everything she said.

She often overused and, repeated the word ‘like’

But if you try to put her down, she just said ‘on yer bike’

Her white stiletto shoes she proudly wore each day,

Would complement her image, Sharon used to say.

Her makeup was perfected, however long it took,

Sunbeds and fake tan cream, did compliment her look.

She always made an impact, when she was seen outside

Designer bags and mini skirts were her special pride.

But, time just never will stand still, I think you would agree

The years flew by and Sharon’s now a lively OAP.

The stiletto heels she will keep, and never will she sell,

For in her heart how old she gets, she still an Essex girl.

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

STRATEGY 

Peter Woodgate 

Into the battlefield eight by eight

Placed according to kind

With pawns upfront and kings behind

The battalions of the mind.

 

Winning is the only aim

And sacrifice is needed

Each piece upon the board bar one

Can have their use conceded.

 

The mighty queen and humble pawn

All must play their part

As each move is carefully planned

Coolness is the art.

 

Ego is the driving force

And veins are pumped with blood

Each skirmish fought hand to hand

To open up the board.

 

You lose a bishop, take a knight

Then sacrifice a pawn

The game swings first this way then that

Until the early dawn.

 

Your collar now feels very tight

Beads of sweat run down

Your opponent looks you in the eye

You return it with a frown.

 

The clock ticks on each move recorded

With a movement of the arm

The eyes looked glazed, the mouth is dry

The brain sends forth alarm.

 

Time left is fast receding

You already know your fate

A hand is placed  upon the piece

And you hear the words “checkmate”

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 FOOTBALL IN THE 50’s

 Peter Woodgate 

Sunday morning football down the park

We had to carry a crossbar and each post

Across the muddy pitches in our ankle boots

All this exertion on one piece of toast.

 

The ball was solid leather with a bladder

Which could soak up a puddle on its day

Should you be brave enough to try and head it

You soon regretted it with some dismay.

 

Our shirts were, mostly, of the same design

The shorts and socks did not follow suit

We wore whatever we could beg or borrow

And very often too, that meant a boot.

 

We didn’t care too much about the weather

Be it hail or ice or even snow

We never made a fuss, just got there on the bus

And waited for the referee to blow.

 

There was no pay for all our gallant efforts

No heated soil or nice hot baths with soap

We left the pitch all muddy and with bruises

Sometimes we lost but remained full of hope.

 

We then washed knees and elbows and our boots

In freezing water in an outside trough

If we were lucky someone brought a towel

Even though it was extremely rough.

 

Despite the lack of luxuries or substitutes

We counted down the days before each game

I look at football now and wonder just how

The players would have coped, it’s not the same

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 April Fool

By Janet Baldey

         Josie snatched the ‘phone away, the high wailing cry still ringing in her ears.   Somebody’s strangling a cat, she thought. Then she realized. Of course, that would be Ken playing one of his childish tricks on her. Any minute now a ghoulish voice would gibber and cackle down the line. She opened her mouth to give him a piece of her mind but then stopped. The wail was beginning to coalesce into sobs and Josie frowned. She was puzzled, she knew now it wasn’t Ken, he wasn’t that good an actor.  

         ‘Josieeee’. 

 With a jolt, she realised who it was. Lorraine, her friend since they were at school together.

         ‘Lorraine?  What’s wrong?’

‘Oh Josie, Matt’s gone, he says he isn’t coming back.  He left me a letter, he…...’   The rest of her sentence was drowned in hiccups.

         Josie was dumbstruck.  Lorraine and Matt? The perfect couple? The couple who had everything? 

         At last, she found her voice.

         ‘Calm down, love. I’m sure it’s all a misunderstanding. I’ll be right over. You can tell me all about it and then we’ll have lunch and hit the shops.  You know a spot of retail therapy always cheers you up’.

         An hour later, Josie arrived at the luxury riverside penthouse she had always envied.  Inside, the normally chic and well groomed, Lorraine was a sodden heap of misery sprawled on a sofa.  Sans slap, her eyes were red and swollen and her face was puffy and streaked with tears.

        

 

Lorraine was pathetically pleased to see her old friend.  Dabbing at her eyes with a hankie already streaked with mascara, she grasped Josie’s hand and drew her down to sit beside her. Her voice hitched with tears as she spoke.

‘Yesterday, as soon as I came in through the door, I knew something was wrong.   The flat felt cold and empty and it was so quiet. I went into the bedroom and all his clothes were gone.  He’s taken everything, Josie. His record collection, his books.  He left me a note’.

She handed over a crumpled piece of paper.  It was quite brief.

Lorraine,

I’m sorry to have to write a note like this, but we both know our marriage is going nowhere. I have met someone else and am giving up my job and going away to find happiness.  Will write when I am settled. 

Matt

         Josie stared at Lorraine.  She had no idea how to deal with this. What could she say?  Mouthing platitudes that she knew were woefully inadequate, she tried to comfort her friend but Lorraine’s sobs grew louder. After a while, Josie decided it was time to take positive action.

         ‘Go and wash your face’ she said firmly. ‘We’ll go shopping for a new outfit.   That’ll make you feel better and then we’ll have lunch at Marco’s.  We’ll really pig out.’

         Whilst Lorraine was in the bathroom, Josie looked around. She’d always admired this room, with its powder blue carpet and white leather settees.  She crossed over to the picture window and looked down at the river sparkling on its way to the sea.   

Boxy tramp steamers punched the tide, accompanied by a cloud of gulls. But the efficient double glazing quenched all sound and suddenly Lucy felt claustrophobic. It was like living in a Perspex cube.  She thought affectionately of her own tiny house, with its cramped rooms and no view to speak of.  She also felt a rush of guilt about

Ken. He had been working so much overtime recently and she knew it was only because she had wanted what Lorraine had.  The moment he got home this evening she would tell him that nothing mattered, as long as they were together.

  The rest of the day was not a success.  Lorraine drooped around the shops, listlessly fingering clothes that she was obviously not interested in.  Over lunch her mood changed and she launched into a vitriolic litany of all Matt’s faults and failings, stabbing at her food as if it were tender pieces of his anatomy. Josie had shrunk further and further into her chair as she realised that people sitting at tables nearby were falling silent.

 

The day that had started badly went rapidly downhill.  On her way home at last, Josie got stuck in a traffic jam. She looked at her watch and tapped her fingers against the steering wheel. Come on, get a move on. At this rate Ken will be home before I am.   At least, I’ve got steak in the freezer, that won’t take long to cook.  She glowered at the ribbon of red tail-lights gleaming on the wet road. Inch by painful inch the car crept forwards. Josie puffed out her cheeks and looked around.  

Suddenly, she gasped and trod down hard on the brake pedal.  She recognised the car parked in the driveway of the house she was passing.  Same make, same model, same registration number – it was Ken’s car.  A cold hand squeezed her heart.  What was it doing there?   It was way off his route home.  She felt a stab of panic, he had been late home so many times recently.  He had told her he was working overtime but maybe he wasn’t.  Maybe had another woman, like Matt.  She shook her head in disbelief at the idea, Ken wasn’t like that.  But then, that was probably what Lorraine had thought about Matt.  Suddenly, it all made perfect sense, the late nights, Ken’s tiredness, everything. The rat!   She glared at the neat semi-detached sitting smugly at the roadside, her anger rising.  Well, he can forget supper.  He’s got some explaining to do.  The car behind her hooted impatiently, the jam had cleared.  Viciously, she let in the clutch and the car bounded forwards.

Sure enough, when she walked into the sitting room, the answerphone light was flashing.  She pressed a button and heard her husband’s soft Irish brogue fill the room.  

‘Sorry, love. Will be a bit late home tonight. Tell you why later’.

You bet you will.  She flung herself down in the armchair, she felt drained.  She switched on the TV and with unseeing eyes, stared at the kaleidoscopic images that flickered across the screen. What a fool she’d been. She’d swallowed all his lies. She’d even found a logical explanation for the red hair she’d spotted glinting on his suit. She looked across at Mitzi, their red setter, stretched out on the rug. Tears trembled on her lashes and she reached for a box of tissues.

It was 8.30 before he got home.   He started speaking even before he entered the room.  

‘Sorry, I’m late love. Poor old John.  His car broke down and he was in such a panic. He’s got some urgent calls to make first thing in the morning so I lent him mine and came home on the bus.  First one didn’t turn up and the second was late.  Public transport!  What a shambles’.

He walked into the room and saw her sitting there amongst a drift of balled-up tissues.

‘What’s the matter?  Got a cold?’  He aimed a kiss somewhere in the direction of her head.

‘Is supper ready?  I’m starving’.

She sat staring at him. Of course, she remembered now. That was John’s house.   Ken had pointed it out to her once.  What an idiot she was and what a nasty, suspicious mind she had.

Full of remorse, she sprang up and gave him a long lingering kiss before rushing to the kitchen where she frantically started thawing steaks with a hairdryer.

 Puzzled, Ken stared at the door.  Then, he poured himself a drink and sat down, relief flooding through him. Well, that went okay. Thought the old ‘working late at the office’ excuse was wearing a bit thin. He smiled to himself. It had been his lucky day. John’s car breaking down – what a perfect excuse. He’d looked across the room and saw Julia looking at him and knew she would jump at the chance of giving him a lift. Via her place first of course. He stretched voluptuously and rustled open his newspaper. It was then he noticed the date, April Fool’s day, he thought and grinned.

 

Copyright Janet Baldey

Abbalar Tales ~ 35

 Abbalar Tales ~ 35 End Game

By Len Morgan

In the eerie grey predawn, they presented themselves at the plaza.   The Arbiter offered a choice of weapons.   They each chose carefully then stripped to the waist and walked to a scratch line painted across the centre of the square.

"If for any reason I call a halt, you will disengage at once and resume this position to await my ruling.   If you fail to do so after five minutes you forfeit the contest and your life.   Is that understood?" he asked looking at each, in turn, to be sure they understood.   "When I call 'disengage', you are both to take one step back and do not continue until ordered to do so" he said.   He then turned to the gathered crowd of less than a hundred curious spectators.

"This is to be a duel to the death on a matter of honour.   Frek and Skaa-Bae having been unable to resolve their differences by diplomacy or any other means.   They are left with a single option - trial by combat - a duel.   The survivor will be deemed the righteous party, blameless of any wrongdoing."

The small band of witnesses grew by the minute as the larger-than-life voice of the Arbiter drew in the curious.   A few moments of silence, and a hushed excitement, whipped expectation to fever pitch.   Bets were taken and money changed hands, as the sky lightened in the east.

"Address!"   he commanded, and both came to the set position, blades crossed.

As the arc of sunlight breached the horizon, he stuck their blades apart with his staff and stepped back.

.-…-. 

Frek leered at Skaa. “You will discover, who is the best swordsman; in your dying moments.”  Skaa did not reply…

   They had spent many hours together, more than most married couples.   They had on several occasions saved each other's lives but, now in a few moments, it would all be over.   He would not enjoy killing Skaa, though he would not admit it even to himself.   Best do the deed quickly and get it over with.

"Engage!" yelled the Arbiter.

Frek instantly threw a vertical cut at Skaa's head, intending to split the man spectacularly in two.  Skaa sidestepped neatly and instantly replied with a horizontal cut to the right, opening up his whole body as an inviting target.   His counter thrust began the moment Skaa's blade passed.   The old man's dagger engaged and deflected it, the cut had been a feint.   He took up close quarters to tie up Skaa's sword arm, and bring his own dagger into play but, there was no room left to maneuver.   It was a stalemate, though he received several ineffectual blows from the pommel of Skaa's sword.

"Disengage!"  this is a duel of honour, not a bawdy house brawl.   The rules of combat strictly forbid infighting!"   they separated and toed the line.

"Engage!"

They circled warily, each respectful of the ability of the other, each looking for that one opening.   He feigned an attack and watched Skaa feign an answering counter.   He closed, and Skaa threw a diagonal cut, Frek felt a sharp pain in his upper sword arm, forcing himself not to look he launched an immediate counter, but Skaa danced out of reach.

"First blood,” the Arbiter called for the spectators benefit.

He allowed his sword arm to drop slightly as though he was in difficulty but trying to disguise it, hoping to tempt Skaa into a rash action.   Skaa closed in on him.   At the last moment, he raised the tip of his sword slightly and lunged.   Again the older man's parry was left to right across his body, he didn't even seem aware he was doing it.   They fought on matching attack with counter-attack, reposte for counter-reposte.   Both men started to get through and score minor successes.   Both were bloodied and breathing heavily.   'Patience' Frek thought, he could see the old man was tiring and slowing down, he smiled confidently.

Just like playing a hooked fish on a line, give him his head, let him struggle and tire himself out, then pull him in and there's nothing he can do about it.   “Your going to die old man."

"True enough, but not today." Skaa grinned right back at him, "do your best and I'll give you a lesson, too bad, it will profit you none."

Ten minutes is a long contest, few can survive under such unrelenting pressure.   Yet fifteen then twenty minutes passed and they fought on, neither asking nor giving quarter.   There were now many hundreds in the square, but for all the noise they made you would think it empty; discounting the irregular ringing of steel on steel.   Frek gazed searchingly into the old man's face and fancied he could read defeat in his eyes.   It was, as he had said, just a matter of time.   The longer the contest continued the more it swung in the favour of youth.   He would be patient and the opening would come and he would end it.   He blocked a tired overhead swing, with his dagger, and immediately countered with a thrust at the center of Skaa's torso.   There it was again!   The left to right parry.  As his blade was dashed aside his dagger was already in motion, 'gotcha' he thought, but his blade cut through empty air and he felt a sharp pain in his chest.   He felt his grip weaken on the sword.   'Right to left, he parried rrr…' his mind became cluttered and his blurring eyes fixed Skaa with a frozen sightless stare.   The younger man stumbled and staggered back several paces on willow twig legs before collapsing under his own weight.   It was over.

  A delayed roar went up from the assembled crowd.   They rushed forward and ecstatically hoisted the victor onto their backs triumphantly parading him around the plaza.   Balladeers were busy composing songs about the battling Huren, each trying to outdo the others to produce the definitive work that would endure through time.   Aldor knew the tale would be wildly exaggerated, totally out of all proportion, but the taller the tale the better it's telling.

.-…-. 

Later, as they all sat quietly in Asba's lounge drinking bitter ale and eating toasted cheese cooked over a banked pile of embers, Skaa realized he felt no joy or elation at the death of Frek.   He could only recall good times they had shared, like this celebration.   Aldor sang his praises, reliving the action blow by blow.

"I was half a-feared you made that left-right parry a little too obvious.   I thought he would see through your ploy…"

"What ploy…"   Skaa said straight-faced.

Aldor gazed back in surprise, then saw the beginnings of a smile break out on the old man's face.

"You scoundrel" he scolded, Skaa's grin was mirrored on his own face.  

Asba refilled their flagons as they fell silent, reflecting on the hollowness of victory.   Remembering the young lives that had ended prematurely at the hands of the beast and, but for her quick mind, Genna might have joined them the previous night.

"We should celebrate because we are alive and that vile animal is not.   All thanks to the good right hand of friend Skaa," said Genna as if reading their minds.   "Can you sing?"  she asked the white-haired blue-eyed man to her left, slapping him roughly on the back as though he were an old comrade.

"Like a bird," he replied, bursting into a familiar refrain without further prompting, "I wan-der these g-o-o-ld-en by-ways in the daw-ns…"

"No!  No, not again, be silent!" she yelled, a look of despair on her face, "you’re a worse singer than…   Aldor?   Is it really you?   It is you!" she said answering her own question.   Her face broke into a smile and she threw her arms about his neck in sheer delight.

"Take your hands off my woman!" said Asba, joining the conversation.

"This is no woman, this is my partner," Aldor replied.

"Whatever happened to you," she asked, "what evil storm could have wrought such change."

"What happened…" He mulled over the question for a few moments, then he burst into a smile and shook his head, then he looked her into the eyes and said "Life happened to me.   Life!"   He kissed her on the cheek, "Congratulations," he said, "you have snaffled the most eligible bachelor in all Corvalen."

He turned to Asba and enthusiastically shook his hand.

"She's had her nets spread far and wide for years, to catch me.   Yes, I'm a little; a lot older than she; so when I'm in my dotage - frail and feeble - she will be off out with handsome young men of her own age but, I shall be the one she comes home to at the end of the day.   She will also be the first standard to become a revisionist in an age. Though she will be just the first of many; the future looks bright.   Paveil and his sister will ensure we multiply" said Asba.

'I'm sorry to interrupt the proceedings, but it's almost time to re-establish your mental link with Orden.   You will then not be able to bring thoughts of us, The Revisionists, or our hidden resources to your conscious mind.   But, the knowledge you have gained over the past week will remain with you.   It will always be at your disposal should it be needed.   If we need to contact you for any reason we will trigger a memory of your time with us.   When this happens you will know but others will not.   You carry with you a map of all the locations where you can gain access to 'the old technology', so may at any time join us without others knowing.   It would be helpful if you could discover through your connection to the Hive Mind (HM). what happened to the great host of humanity that migrated to the stars so long ago.   It may transpire that your fate is inextricably linked with theirs.'

'A moment yet,' said Aldor.  'Let me enjoy the silence a while longer.'   He sat quietly listening to, Skaa's rich and tuneful baritone voice singing an old folk melody, a traveler’s hymn.    Enjoying… 

Skaa sang loudly and softly evoking many emotions, both joyful and sad.

'This is silence?'  the machine voice asked.

'Compared to a whole Universe, trying to get into my mind, this is indeed silence.'  Aldor replied.

'If you are now ready to re-establish your link with Orden and the HM. we suggest you fill him in on what has transpired, from the parallel memories we have substituted in your mind.   Good luck.'

'Do machines subscribe to luck he wondered…’  Abruptly he became aware that he was no longer alone.

'Sprout, I was just beginning to get a teensy tad concerned,' said Orden.

'Orden, where have you been?   Why are you never around when we need you?'

'Well sprout, I might ask you the same, where have you been hiding and what is happening?'

'We discovered evidence of the existence of a possible Karaxen enclave to the North, a reclusive sect we understand.   Wizomi has gone to investigate and will re-establish contact when he can.'

'Then what are your plans?' Orden asked.

'I will travel East with Skaa to the homeland of the Huren, to learn more about them.   Their language and customs.   Then down into the Meyam states and further into the Cheilin Empire.' Aldor said.

'May I suggest you make the journey in reverse,' said Orden.  

'You will remember the horse trader who runs the ranch close by the enchanters wood, he is a native of the Cheilin Empire.'

'I remember him,' Aldor replied.

'It would be to our advantage to visit him prior to crossing the Sabre Tooth mountain range.   There is a small matter that needs attending to, which I would normally have asked Wiz to deal with but, as you say, he is not available.'

'What would you have me do?' Aldor asked.

'Make him aware of your association with Wizomi and enlist his help in making contact with a secret sect in Cheilin, known as the Tylywoch; it is their name for a huge blackbird similar to a Raven; they are sore in need of your talents.   I will inform Wiz that Jazim is heading in his direction as soon as he re-establishes contact,' Said Orden 'Good luck on your journey.'

'But I really should be getting after Jazim,' he countered.

'She is no longer your concern sprout.  Jazim aside, everything seems to have turned out well.   The future of the Corvalen states is assured, you leave them in good hands, you chose well, but this is only the beginning.   Bedelacq is now barred from Corvalen, But he has designs on the Huren states, and the Mayam federation as well.   But the most vulnerable at this time is the Cheilin Empire.'

'Take a few days to relax and celebrate with your friends, I think you've earned that much.'  Said Orden.

'Words fail…' Aldor thought.

 A herald arrived from the palace, summoning them all to a reception in honour of the new Prince Regent.   All the surviving brothers, including those who had been held in the cells, were to be at court to pledge allegiance to Paveil, who was to declare an amnesty for all.   The Kull was at an end.  

"Henceforth" the herald declared, "the accession will go to the firstborn by right.   The eldest will succeed, at the moment of the Caliph’s passing, and all his brothers will become princes of the realm; in celebration of this, a two-day festival is proclaimed.   Food and drink will be freely available, for everyone, in the Plaza in front of the palace.   The Regent himself will keep vigil to ensure the tables are always full and the wine casks never run dry."   The herald turned to address Asba.   "Sir, it is my pleasant duty to make the following announcement, firstly to you in person, and then to the world at large.   Henceforth, there will be a fund set up to build and run a state School and Orphanage, in the city of Corvalen."   He took out a new scroll and they all gathered around expecting something special.   "I am commanded to tell you that – your lifelong aspiration is about to be realized - in gratitude for your past services to the state of Corvalen.   We appoint you, our most loyal servant, Asba Dylon, first chancellor in perpetuity."  They cheered unreservedly and with enthusiasm, and he did not attempt to hide the tears that came unbidden to his eyes.

.-…-. 

   It was with sadness that Aldor finally bade farewell to his friends.   They refused to allow him to go until he made a solemn promise to return the following spring for the wedding of Asba and Genna.  

   They had all shared a great adventure and had grown in stature because of that experience.  

But, for Aldor, it was just the beginning…

 (Epilogue to follow...)

 This is not ~ The End

Copyright Len Morgan