DO YOU REMEMBER

by Richard Banks         

                                                                                                             I was still in that drowsy state of waking when I realised there was a visitor. I wondered who it would be: my wife, mother, brother, George, whoever George was. All had come and spoken of others who intended coming. My family was evidently a large one. There were also friends. Their get well cards numbered thirty.

         I hoped, when I opened my eyes, it would not be my wife. One should feel a special attachment to a wife; I must admit I felt none. The woman was not unattractive, although possibly a little older than myself. We were, she said, twenty years married. Our son was called Michael, he had just started work for a firm of stockbrokers. The three of us lived in Benfleet. I was Chief Clerk of a bank in the City. The rest, she considered, was best left until I was feeling better. Her voice had a monotonous drone I found irritating. I compared her unfavourably to the unpaid volunteer, who, since the previous day, had been helping out on the Ward. I looked forward to meeting her but so far had only seen her pass by the sometimes open door of my single room.

         My visitor coughed. It was a man's cough. I decided to see who it was. An elderly man looked back at me. The lines on his face rearranged themselves into what might have been a smile. I smiled too, as well as the bandages on my face would allow.

         “I don't suppose you remember me?” he said with the sad resignation of someone whose fate was to be anonymous. 

         I shook my head.

         “Didn't think you would, I'm your father. Expect you were hoping for someone more distinguished. Just as well you take after your mother's side of the family.”

         I recalled my first visitor of the day: a large woman in her fifties with bleached hair who insisted I call her Ma.

         “What do I call you?” I asked.

         “Oh, Dad will do.”

         “Not Pa?”

         “No Pa is your mother's husband.”

         “But I thought you were married to my mother.”

         His hangdog expression was suddenly animated by a facial twitch that caused his right cheek to vibrate. I was about to summon a nurse when the vibrations subsided and he continued speaking.

         “That's what I thought. Also thought I owned a three-bed semi in Southend, but it's all gone now. Your mother's solicitor saw to that.”

         “So you and Ma are divorced then?”

         He nodded.

         “And where do you live now?”

         “In a bedsit on the Kursaal Estate. It's not too bad. Small but cosy. Just room for Joey and the TV.”

         “Joey?” I asked.

         “Yes, Joey the budgie. He's not much of a talker but he's better company than your mother.”

         I decided to steer the conversation in the direction of myself. “So Dad, I expect you’ll be wanting to say something that will jog my memory.”

         He managed to look thoughtful and bewildered at the same time.

         “I mean, what can you tell me about my life, the things I've done that were important to me.”

         “You mean like driving off that cliff?”

         I took a deep breath. “Yes, that will do.”

         “Well, it certainly got you into the 'papers. Also got you in here. It's a wonder you're not in the cemetery. As if going over that cliff wasn't enough you had to land on the Fenchurch Street line and get hit by a train. Wreckage all over the place. No more trains until Monday.  You aren't very popular with the commuters I can tell you. That's about it really. Have you remembered anything?”

         I shook my head.

         “No, didn't think you had. When you do you'll have a lot of explaining to do.”

         “You mean about the accident; how it happened like?

         He looked ill at ease as though he had said too much. “Yes, that as well.”

         “As well as what?” I asked.

         He responded with what I hoped was a non-sequitur. “Has that police chappy been in to see you yet?”

         “No,” I said.

         “Probably best to leave it to him.”

         “Leave what? Look, Dad, if there's something I ought to know don't you think you should be telling me first before the police do?”

         His face began twitching again. “Not sure I'm allowed to. Wouldn't want to be breaking the law.”

         “Dad, this is just between you and me. No one's listening. No one will ever know this conversation took place. Now, what is it the police want to talk to me about?”

         The nervous twitch went into overdrive. When he spoke it was as though someone was exerting a strong grip on his throat. “The money,” he spluttered.

         “What money?”

         “The money you took from the bank to pay your gambling debts. Fifty thousand so the papers say. At least that's how much they found in your car, what was left of it. Then there's that drugs gang that chased you off the cliff. I expect the police will be wanting to know where they fit in. No doubt it will all be clearer once you remember. Won't make no difference to the house though.”

         “What house is that?”

         “The one you failed to keep up the payments on. Being sold at auction next week. Alice wasn't too pleased I can tell you.”

         “Alice who?” I asked.

         “Alice your wife. She came to see you yesterday. Don't you remember?”

         I said that I did remember but that the woman in question had introduced herself as Ali.”

         “Yes, that be her. A tall woman with freckles. I take it she didn't say anything about the....”

         “About the what?”

         “About the... Probably best if she tells you.”

         “But she's not here, Dad. So if there's any more bad news you might as well give it to me now. She wants out, is that it?”

         “She is out. Moved out when the bank sent in the bailiffs.”

         “I mean she wants out of our marriage.”

         “Oh yes, that too. Says she's going to take you to the cleaners for everything you got. Don't suppose that will be much. At least your boy has a bob or two now he's started work; not that you'll be seeing much of him once you're in prison.”

         “Is there anything else I should know?”

         “Well Southend lost five-nil to Scunthorpe last night.”

         “And I'm a Southend supporter?”

         He nodded.

         “Not many reasons to be cheerful then?”

         He considered the question carefully and sighed. There was an awkward silence. He looked at his watch and announced his intention to leave before it got dark. I watched him shuffle off with a bag of foodstuffs he had purchased from the Pound shop and saw myself thirty years on.

         I was eyeing the window with a view to throwing myself through it when the pretty little voluntary worker I mentioned earlier appeared in the doorway. She was pushing a wheelchair on which sat the slumped figure of an unconscious policeman.

         “What's wrong with him?” I asked.

         “Sleeping pills in tea,” she replied matter of factly. “Now get out of bed and help me take off his uniform.”

         “Why?” I sensed I was in enough trouble as it was.

         “Because if you don't, we can't escape and you'll be found guilty of goodness knows what and sent to prison. Now get a move on before someone finds out he's not on guard in the corridor.  Oh and by the way I'm Glennis. You may not remember me but I'm your girlfriend. Now, this is what's going to happen. You put on his uniform and we leave via the fire escape. Car to Burnham, yacht to Amsterdam, collect new passports, and off to Brazil. Any questions? On second thoughts questions later. But if you're having money thoughts the fifty K in the back of your car was just the small change. The rest is on the yacht. Oh don't look so worried; we're going to Rio: Sugar Loaf Mountain, Copacabana beach. That's got to be better than prison. Now let's have a big smile for your little Glennis. That's better.”

           My observations on better were delivered through clenched teeth. 

           “What's that you say? You weren't smiling, it was a grimace. Well of course you're hurting all over, but it's got to be done honeybunch. Big effort now. Button up that tunic, helmet on your head and you're all ready to escort me to the car park. Isn't this exciting!”

         Before I could answer she flung her arms around my neck and kissed me on the lips. That's when it all came back to me when I remembered how good life could be.

         “Are you ready?” she asked.

         You bet I was.

 

Copyright Richard Banks

                                                                                                       

 Apple Blossom Time

By Rosemary Clarke

     The phrase 'apple blossom time' denotes a time of great joy, the ending of troubles and worry, or a time when we had none; WELL WE HAVE NOW IN THE WORLD, WITH FIRE TORNADOES THIS IS SURELY THE WORST, OR IS IT?  But nature can be kind if we are kind back.

     We humans on the whole are lazy, that's why it takes a catastrophe to get us off our backsides and pushing.  Governments can't shift us, even common sense doesn't get through half the time, so how did we get like this?  We all began life filled with hopes and dreams and how we were going to make a difference then, with marriages, mortgages, children, and bills we are blunted: here's one solution.

     If you accept a job you don't like, stay until you get the grades or the mentoring or the thing of your dreams comes along, and then FIGHT!  Yes, fight for your dreams, all of us must regardless of everything because one thing that Covid has given us that is good is a chance to CHANGE!  So follow your dream whatever age, colour or sex you are; if you can't read or write, etc...LEARN - there's plenty of places and with the internet, the world is our oyster!

     What we must all be is the best human beings we can possibly be both to ourselves, others, the planet, and EVERYTHING on it; even the smallest thing like complimenting someone on a bus, train, or at work can make such a difference.  And giving a small sum to a charity of your choice can help those elsewhere; it would only mean a few pounds of your pay packet but mean so much elsewhere and who knows, if we ALL realise our dreams the world could be a better place and we would all have our 'apple blossom time'.

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

Personal Well-being ~12

Personal Well-being ~12 Sterile Fluid & Cough Suppression      By The Barefoot Medic 

   

I once read in a Survival pamphlet that if you are in need of a sterile liquid to clean a wound before applying a dressing.  At a pinch, there is no better, readily available, fluid than your own urine.  I later read the same thing in an SAS survival manual.  Have to confess I haven’t yet tried it myself but this corroboration gives me the confidence to try it when the need arises.

 

I was hoping my writing group would provide me with some tried and tested remedies of their own, but so far nothing…

As a child, I was told that honey & lemon was the preferred remedy for a persistent cough.  But, late one night, my dad replaced the lemon with vinegar, & honey with sugar.  I found this was actually more effective:

I put a teaspoonful of sugar in a glass, pour on a tablespoon full of vinegar and stir in two to three tablespoonfuls of hot water to taste; to stop the glass from cracking leave a spoon in the glass to leech off the heat.  Place it by your bedside and sip-it when you start to cough.  It’s important to sip it (not drink it).  But, it most definitely works…

                  As always you try it at your own risk, but it works for me.

 

 

A visit to the Zoo & A game of Cards

  A visit to the Zoo…

By Rosemary Clarke

   I haven't visited a zoo since Regents Park when I was a little girl, but there's another type of zoo that I'm always visiting to look at the animals - a sort of wildlife park - I refer to people watching.

I started this a while ago on an idea dreamed up for the Southend Writing Group by Ken Westall, always one to have an idea to get things started, so, to get to the nitty gritty, I sit on a seat, not that there are that many at the moment in Southend - way to go for caring for those who can't stand for very long, yay - I study people going in and out of shops, the way they take their masks off immediately or leave them on in the street, the camaraderie of groups of friends meeting, I could be watching you right now, and making up stories about you and 'you're other self', in my head.

It's an interesting game, it harms no one and helps me build characters, and let's face it, characters, and plots are every writer's stock in trade.

 

A GAME OF CARDS

By Rosemary Clarke

Solitaire is a very interesting game, it can teach us a lot about the stupidity of racism in that, you cannot play to win with just red or black, you have to have an amalgamation of both, they must both join together to win.
Just so with people, in fact with all species; as we need cats, dogs, and foxes so we need more obscure wildlife and even spiders and flies to help keep the balance.
Human animals, be they rich or poor, in sedentary work or on building sites are all needed. Every creature on this earth has a purpose, so before you dismiss someone, squash a bug or cut down a tree think, we are all here for a purpose and if that purpose is upset
..that's when the trouble begins and pandemics, tsunamis, forest fires and global warming all carry high the hellish torch of our own making.

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

Cheilin Saga ~ 09

 Cheilin Saga ~ 09 Bluttland I

By Len Morgan

Mawgwar was ‘the Premier Bride of Bedelacq’; and the most senior; his favourite and most intimate human receptacle.   He maintained better relations with her than with any other of his brides, even though at first appearance they all seemed to be about the same age, but they were not.   Bedelacq was able to maintain the human form in an unchanged state for hundreds of years; it was not possible to do so indefinitely but, if the process was started early enough, he could allow them to remain frozen in time, without ill effect for centuries.   He chose for them to be forever sixteen and in the full bloom of youth, and at their most attractive to males.

Occasionally a female body would show signs of deterioration and become harder for him to maintain, in a stable state, for any length of time.   He would allow the body to die, and with it the occupying spirit; or as in the case of Mawgwar, his faithful follower, he would allow her to choose a fresh young form from amongst her handmaidens.   There were four; when Bedelacq informed her of her impending demise, she chose without hesitation, announcing that Sherveice would become Mawgwar.   Though the new form was young, the switch was immediately apparent, as soon as it had taken place; the eyes of Sherveice grew dark and dangerous, revealing the true effects of Mawgwar’s seven previous transitions.  

Sherveice, was under a misconception that automatically, with her new body would inherit the power.    She made the mistake of issuing orders as though she were ‘the Premier Bride’.

“What do you think you are at girl?” Mawgwar screamed.   “You aren’t even a bride yet, I chose your body because that one is dying and you are the least of my minions.”

“No it isn’t true, say it isn’t…?”   Sherveice croaked through unfamiliar lips.

“Go enjoy what little time is left to you, return to the place of your birth and arrange your affairs.   What you do is of no concern to us.   Begone!” Mawgwar laughed malevolently.

.-...-.

Hierarchy!

To a man, all Blutt Priests and Generals can trace their formative years back to Blutt Central, to humble beginnings as slaves to the rulers ‘the Brides of the Bedelacq’; no matter how high they rise they know there is no escape from the collar and leash.   Instinctively they all defer to ‘the Brides’, Bedelacq’s personal representatives on Abbalar.  They make edicts, dispense his justice, and rule supreme,  throughout the land in the name of Bedelacq.

   General Mawld was taken from his parents, by the seekers, as a child, with seventy other boys and an unknown number of young girls, who were imprisoned in three carawagons, and hidden away from the light of day for the duration of their journey.   The boys were herded like cattle, on a nightmare journey, fed starvation rations and reduced to eating anything that came to hand, or mouth, in order to survive.   They were herded around, aimlessly it seemed, for close to three months becoming lean and gaunt in the process.   Their numbers dwindled daily until only thirty-five remained alive.   Only then did the seeker priest turn them and head to the capital, Blutt Central. 

On arrival, they were pressed into service as slaves to ‘the Brides’.   Life was still hard, their rulers strict and unpredictable ensuring their survival was uncertain but, they consoled themselves with the reality of receiving better quality and regular food.   During the next five years, Mawld served four Brides, being passed from one to another for assessment.   He would be uprooted in the middle of the night and led away without explanation, he came to realise that they did not need to give him one, he was required to obey any and all…   He came finally into the possession of Mawgwar, who retained him for six weeks, together with five others.   He learned early that to gain respect he had to be stronger than the others, and make them fear him, which he did reluctantly at first until he became an automaton.  

                                                    .-…-. 

A Conjunction occurs twice a year, when Vexen, the red moon, dominates the night sky by eclipsing Veinen, its smaller and more distant blue neighbour.   At this time Abbalar is bathed in blood-red light; for a period of seventeen minutes.   At this time, the Bluttlanders are whipped into a blood letting frenzy, by their priests, in the name of the one god Bedelacq.   For a brief insane interlude all the laws of humanity are suspended and they behave in a manner that would shame the vilest beasts.

Half an hour prior to ‘the Conjunction’, a hundred and twenty young men were led into the ‘Arena of Blood’.   Each was issued with a short stabbing weapon and a singlet of either orange or green.   These were to signify the teams they were allied to; the issue was completely random.    Becoming a thinly disguised excuse for the carnage the conjunction unleashed.   Further divided into units of three, they faced up and awaited the moment of the conjunction.   The light changed from lavender to violet to brown to red, and they attacked.   Their attackers and one of their own was killed swiftly, and the survivors turned to face the next group.   They were joined by a survivor from another group, and they fought again, Mawld fought until all who faced him were dead.   When the Conjunction had passed, a horn sounded bringing an end to the slaughter.   He looked towards the brides and their handmaidens and saw the blood lust reflected in their eyes.   Bloodied and bright-eyed, with tears and the excitement of battle, while fight fluids were still coursing through his veins he suddenly felt mortified, what had they done?   He looked around counting just thirty-four survivors, including himself, more than two-thirds of their number had died to provide those ghouls with entertainment; suddenly he felt sick.

As the survivors left the killing field their weapons were taken from them and inspected.  

They were separated into two groups.   Mawld was allocated to the larger group, with twenty-two others.   The group with twelve members was led back into the arena, and set to work, dispatching the wounded hanging the bodies by their heels and beheading them.  The blood drained into buckets until fully exsanguinated, then the bodies were piled onto four horse draws carts, and taken to be burned.

“How were we chosen,” Mawld asked a soldier.

“Their blades were not bloodied,” he answered with a wry grin.

“What will happen to them?” he asked.

The soldier shrugged and looked away.

Mawld and most of his group were seconded to the army, as officer cadets.  After a few months of training, they were sent, as young sub lieutenants, to lead seasoned troops into battle on the opposite face of the Sabretooth range.   This was during their ill-conceived and abortive attempts to gain a foothold in Southern Dalacia to the North of Bluttland.    Despite it ending in failure, Mawld distinguished himself in battle and returned as a veteran captain.   When he went north again, during the second campaign, his commanding officer was cut down in an ambush.   He took command rallying the men, who were on the point of retreating and led them in a rout that enabled Bluttland to establish its first permanent foothold in Dalacia.   He was mentioned in despatches and received a field promotion to Major.   He was now recognised as a talented officer, fast tracked for promotion, and recalled to Blutt Central for further training, and indoctrination, prior to further elevation.

Colonel Mawld returned to the front to take up a new post, and to find that morale had plummeted again in his absence.    There were daily desertions and many others were close to fleeing.   He called the men together and asked them to send representatives to put forward their grievances.   He promised he would do his utmost to redress the injustices.   A particularly aggressive representative refused to accept this and it came down to angry words, face to face, and more.   The man-made the mistake of drawing his sword against Mawld, who despatched him out of hand showing his contempt by wiping his blade on his victim’s cloak.   Then he repeated his promise and made eye contact, with as many as possible, daring them to doubt him.

  Mawld was true to his word.   In two months he totally reversed their fortunes.   He established good relations with some of the local farmers, buying their produce, at a fair price, and helping them to plant their fields in the absence of their young men; who had been pressed into service with the Dalacian Army.   One of his own troopers was accused of raping a local woman.   When the man openly admitted the act, Mawld had him publicly executed.   The farming communities could see that Blutt Laws were for all, not just the occupying force.   In just a few weeks he had set up a mobile establishment of three dozen young professional women, from Bluttland, the harassment of local women ceased from the day they arrived.   The next, and most unexpected, development was the recruitment of young local volunteers for a second cadre the Madame found that she was turning girls away.

Everybody it seemed was happy with the situation, everyone except a hard-line priest named Roffal, who thought they should be rounding up the local populace and sacrificing them in the name of Bedelacq.

“You ought to be gathering subjects for the next conjunction, not pandering to their whims!   These people are our enemies; you are fraternizing with them, helping them farm their lands, giving then succour.   You are a fool Mawld, they will turn on us.   Our only real friends are our own kind…”

“Priest!   We are in a foreign land, a hostile environment, we need their cooperation much more than they need ours.   If we impose our rituals and beliefs on them they will certainly turn against us, and make our job that much harder.   I am in command here and you will hold your peace,” said Mawld.

 “Our Lord Bedelacq is most specific.   At the time of conjunction, an offering of blood must be made in his name.   You will do well to remember that” said Roffal.

“Are you threatening me, priest?”

“I am telling you the facts man!”

“If Bedelacq bays for blood, he will receive blood!”   Mawld answered, “just get out of my sight, now!” he yelled dismissively.

   At the next conjunction each army unit sacrificed one head of cattle; a cow, a pig, sheep or goat, and they feasted on the drained carcases afterwards.  

Roffal was not pleased.   He ranted at the perceived insult to God.   “Human blood is what is expected and required at the conjunction, not this…” he yelled in frenzy and tipped the offering bowls over onto the floor, showing his contempt.

Six months on the priest returned to issue a further warning, “Mind my words, General, Bedelacq requires human blood!   Ignore this warning at your peril.”

Mawld went white with anger, “Then he shall have it” he answered, grabbing the priest by the scruff of his neck and drawing his knife.

Roffal squawked like a chicken, Mawld let him go, with a mixture of contempt and disbelief, and watched him scurry from the command tent in terror.   He summoned his officers and informed them of his encounter with the priest, “he may be a spineless coward but, he is very dangerous” said Mawld.

“He is also right,” said Hagg, one of his seniors, “we cannot ignore the wishes of Bedelacq, without courting disaster.   It could place our whole mission in jeopardy.”

Mawld looked hard at the man allowing it to pass without comment, this was a time for straight-talking, but he would be watching Hagg from now on.   “Does anybody else hold similar views?” he asked.   Three men stepped forward.   “You four can leave now and will not be a party to what I have planned; I ask only that you do not repeat anything you have heard.   When they had left he issued his instructions to those who remained.

On the night of the next conjunction, he held his own arm over the offering bowl, and let his blood flow.   Most of his officers did likewise.  Some of the men were also moved to do the same, as well as sacrificing animals as before.

Roffal was livid.   As promised, Mawld had given human blood at the offering and it was given willingly which made it a hundred times more potent, according to the Brides of Bedelacq.

A messenger was despatched to Blutt Central requesting that one of his Brides be sent to witness and put a stop to what was being done in the conquered region of Dalacia.   The priest was a bitter and vengeful man, he would not rest easy until Mawld was in chains and banished from the light of day forever.

(To be continued)

 Copyright Len Morgan

 My Last Holiday

By Rosemary Clarke

To begin with, I asked Len to come up with ideas for me to use as stories, poems etc as I'm fed up with talking about troubles etc, so here is the first:

   I don't know about my last holiday, but being with my niece Nat is always a holiday and so really, I have lots of little ones when I see her.
Because of a bus hitting me and the brain damage it caused I find it very hard to be spontaneous, but following Nat around, I learn things and have adventures finding out about me and the world around me.

Going out with her is never a chore; she's always diving into new shops on the high street or finding unusual things to eat or to wear.

When I'm with her, and I'm not the only one to say this, it's a huge adventure and you always come back with unusual desserts she's found in Iceland, a new band from HMV or a T-shirt  top or some knick-knack from a second-hand shop that looks just right and you'd never have looked at it without her.

Southend, Rayleigh and many other places become better and more interesting for me, but as well as this it's the way she gathers her friends around to help her and others, as she does them; no one is in trouble or upset for long with Nat because you always know that, whatever it is, no matter how bad, there's a solution at the end of the phone.

My last real holiday was about 1991when I still had my neck brace on, but thanks to Nat, it's a holiday just to be with her.

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

 

Runestones 03

 Runes

By Janet Baldey

         “Do you see that lady over there?”

         Margie followed the line of the Nurse’s pointing finger to where a figure was slumped in a wheelchair. Covered by a brightly coloured blanket, with only a tuft of white hair showing, its sex was difficult to determine but she trusted the nurse’s word.

         “You’d never guess, but that’s Lorna Lane’s twin sister.”

         “What the film star? Can’t be!” Another figure flashed into Margie’s mind, slim and lithe with masses of platinum hair.

         “True, we checked it out. When she’s awake, have a chat. She loves to talk.”

***

         My wretched body might be past it, but I still have all my faculties and I smiled to myself as I overheard their conversation.  It was, I conceded, very difficult to believe but I felt too sleepy to care.  Two heavy weights pressed down on my eyelids, the smell of disinfectant disappeared and the aroma of freshly baked cinnamon rolls took its place as the clamour of the room faded and I fell back into a past that I barely remembered but would never entirely forget.

           My twin and I are half Swedish and when we were young, we always spent Christmas with my mother’s sister in a tiny village just outside Stockholm. Again, I clearly felt  rough wool scratching my chin as mamma buttoned me into my thick winter coat ready for the long journey into the frozen Swedish countryside.

Aunt Saga’s cottage was spotlessly clean and so crowded with old fashioned pine furniture that a journey between rooms was like an obstacle course.  My Aunt was very like my mother, maternal and loving and after our hugs and kisses, she lost no time in ushering us into the warmth of her kitchen where we were revived by strong coffee and gingerbread biscuits.

“Don’t treat us like guests, we’re family.” Mamma always said and very soon, we were up to our elbows in food, preparing the enormous julbard smorgasbord traditionally served on Christmas Eve.

 In Sweden, presents are handed out after dark when everyone is stuffed full of smoked fish, cold and hot meats, salads or the spiced meatballs that were always my particular favourite. But I was a naughty and impatient child and couldn’t wait to get my gifts. I always remember staring out of the latticed windows wishing the remains of the day away.  So, one year while the rest of the family were in the kitchen hoovering up the smorgasbord and quaffing spiced eggnog, I rebelled.  Like a bandit, I crept into the room where the Christmas tree sparkled in a corner surrounded by a huge pile of presents.  My hands fluttering like hummingbirds, I skimmed through them until I found those marked with my name, Ebba.  From their feel, I could guess most of them, books, games, or sweets but there was one that intrigued me.  It was from Aunt Saga and rattled when I shook it.  With a stealthy look towards the door, I carefully undid the wrapping and took a peek. I can still feel the sense of crushing disappointment. The brightly covered package merely contained little pieces of wood with strange marks on them. They looked a bit like five-stones, but I already had those and was bored by them.

It was a dull present and I wondered what Astrid had got.  I stopped and listened.  I could hear the raucous sound of singing, strong drink was obviously being served and it was plain that nobody would notice my absence for some time. So, I searched on until I found it.  Astrid’s gift was shaped like a doll and seemed much more exciting. I hesitated but only for a second, then knowing I shouldn’t but doing it anyway, I switched labels and scurried back to the dining room.

It turned out that my parcel didn’t contain a doll but a fluffy white haired Tomte, a Swedish gnome supposed to guard the household if treated respectfully. Tomte was dressed in his usual scarlet tunic and was way better than scrappy old bits of wood so I was satisfied.  Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as Astrid undid her parcel. Instead of looking disappointed, she seemed curious and looked towards Aunt Saga. With a slightly puzzled frown, Aunt beckoned her into another room but I didn’t give them another thought, I was too busy ripping off wrapping paper.

The years went by and I forgot all about Tomte, stuffed into the back of a dusty cupboard.  But during that time, I noticed something strange. It seemed that Astrid could do no wrong and I could do no right. While my blonde hair darkened to mouse and acne marred my looks, Astrid’s hair shone like gold and her complexion remained flawless.  At school, I struggled, while Astrid romped ahead.  She always seemed to know the right questions to revise and invariably got top marks; it wasn’t long before she became Head Girl. After school, she opted for an acting career.  She changed her name from Astrid Smith to Lorna Lane and always seemed to be in the right place at the right time when choice parts were handed out.   She quickly became famous when, quite by chance, she crossed the path of a well-known film director casting for the female lead in his latest blockbuster. Later, in a blaze of limelight, she married a wealthy man who adored her and moved her to a luxurious home in Hollywood where her star continued to rise.

Meanwhile, I had no luck at all.  I was stuck under a permanent cloud. Just occasionally, the cloud lifted and a weak beam of sunlight struggled through, but mostly I was rained on from a great height.  Fed up with the attention Astrid got at school, I mixed with the wrong crowd and skipped lessons. Instead of studying, I spent my weekends in the mosh pit jumping up and down to the sound of discordant music. My parents tried to stop me by locking me in my bedroom, but what are windows for?  

Of course, I failed my exams and entered the workplace with no qualifications.  Eventually, I found a dead-end job and worked for a pittance under the sadistic control of a fat-arsed pig of a manager. Our hatred was mutual. He called me pizza-face and gave me all the worst jobs and I once put salt in his coffee.

Fed up with my moaning, Dad, who came from England, said that perhaps I’d stand a better chance in London. He still had some connections, so he got me a job as a waitress in a big hotel.  The work was hard on the feet but there was plenty of it and the tips were good. The trouble was, the rents were sky-high so although I only rented one room in a squalid shared house, I still had to paddle  hard to stay afloat. Then the heavens opened again and once more I was drenched.  Covid arrived and the hotel was forced to close. 

Out of a job, no money, the streets beckoned but then the cavalry galloped into town.  After a long and happy life, Aunt Saga died.  I was sad but the legacy she left me soon dried my tears. For the first time in my life, I had money in my pocket.

It was soon after that I met the love of my life.  Tony was tall, dark and handsome and better than that, he vowed he adored me. He actually vowed many things and one of them was that he could make my money grow.

“Your money will be safe with me,” he said.  It may well have been, but how was I to know because as soon as I gave him my PIN number, Tony disappeared. along with the contents of my bank balance.   I learned later that he was already married with a wife burdened with a litter of children somewhere in the depths of Essex.  I can only hope, for the sake of the gullible, that none of his children inherited his criminal gene.

So, then I really did end up in the concrete embrace of London’s pavements and believe you me, being on the streets does nothing for your health, which is the reason I’m here now.

But I don’t want you to think I blame Astrid.  It was my own fault for switching labels all those years ago.  We were reunited recently and after we’d dried each other’s tears, I learned why she’d been so lucky all her life.

“It wasn’t luck.  I’ve got Aunt Saga to thank for my good fortune. Do you remember that Christmas when you got Tomte and I got those bits of wood?  They are called Runestones and she told me how to use them afterwards.  Apparently, only some people can.  You need the gift. Funnily enough, she always thought you had it. You were meant to get them Ebba but she muddled up the labels.  Anyway, casting the Runes is very complicated but I managed it in the end.  Afterwards, every time I had to make a decision or came to a cross-road in my life, I relied on them. They told me what path to take and never failed me.  So, you see, I’ve got dear Aunt Saga to thank for my good luck.”

 “Oh no, Astrid. You’re wrong there.  It’s me you have to thank.” I thought. But I didn’t say anything. I may not have much but I still have my pride.

Recently though, another thought has occurred to me. Perhaps my bad luck was not due to the Runestones.  Perhaps they only work for Astrid.  Perhaps it was because of Tomte. Perhaps Tomte had a grudge against me for leaving him in the dark for all those years with only bits of broken toys for company? But maybe he has forgiven me now ‘cos Astrid is being very kind to me.  After I leave hospital she has arranged for me to stay with her, so I will get to see Hollywood after all.

I do hope I like it.

Copyright Janet Baldey