PADSTOW 

Peter Woodgate 

As masses weave their way

through narrow streets

what do they think?

as face to face with history they meet.

Is it just to walk the dogs

that brings them here?

or to appreciate the architecture?

No, nor any other pastime, I fear.

It appears before Rick Stein arrived

with fancy menus,

it was just a quiet place,

local residents,

living hand-to-mouth,

a little fishing boat

to catch the seafood that,

kept them afloat,

and, paid the rent.

Good old Rick,

he saved their lives,

his food, it’s said,

could raise the dead

and many shops then sprang to life,

selling, chalk and tiles and clay

and anything that came their way.

as customers flocked

across thresholds of excitement.

It’s progress, so they say,

the modern world, this is the way.

But I am sad, for Cornwall’s magic

fades rapidly within the queues

of traffic, as it quickly spews

it’s frustration through our heads

and on our brows, beads form

to trickle down to meet our chin,

anxiety it will begin

and all this takes away the bliss,

euphoria, a gentle kiss,

and other wonders that I miss.   

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate       

 Rhododendrons

Janet Baldey

Mornings are always the worst.   At the first shrill chirp, I awake and lie listening to the rising crescendo of birdsong.   From the way the sun slants through the curtains, I know it will be a fine day.  I know the branches of the tree outside my room will be hazy with new leaf and the creamy swell of the magnolia buds will be spearing a sky of the purest blue.   If I were outside, the cool air would feel like satin against my skin and the soft breeze would carry the scent of blossom at this time, it would be quiet and I probably wouldn’t meet another soul.   If I went out.   But I know I won’t.   I won’t, because I haven’t for so many years that I can’t remember the last time.

         Instead, I lie with my eyes closed.  My mind starts to drift but I control it.  There are places I won’t allow it to go.   Sometimes I lie in bed all day.  I don’t get up because there is nothing to get up for. I turn my face into my pillow and taste salt as tears run down my face.   Then, through my misery, I hear my dog whining softly and I know I have to make the effort, for her sake.

         In the bathroom, I glance into the mirror, expecting to see a young girl’s face, clear-eyed, with alabaster skin and cherry lips.  Instead, I see a woman whose puffy eyes and grey complexion testify to many years spent inside.   Mechanically, I run the tap and afterwards meticulously wipe away every silvery drop of water clinging to the basin’s surface.

         As I enter the kitchen, the old dog rises slowly and stumbles, stiff legged, towards me, the tip of her tail twitching.   She licks my hand, pathetically glad to see me.   I look at her and sorrow chokes me.   She is nearing the end of her life and suddenly I feel tentacles of panic begin to tighten. Who will I get up for when she is gone?

         My father always blamed my mother. Even though every muscle in my body screamed in agony, I sensed this as soon as I opened my eyes that morning, a generation ago.   She sat, foundering by my hospital bed, her face wrecked by weeping but my father was standing, not by her side but, ostentatiously, some way distant. He stood stiffly, a totem of disapproval, the skin of his face stretched tautly over the planes of his face.  It was obvious that he felt vindicated.  According to his doctrine, all through my childhood, my mother had been too soft with me. 

 ‘Children need discipline, the same way that dogs and horses do.   They must be trained to respond immediately in case they stand into danger’.

 All through my childhood, this message was directed at my mother in a vain attempt to wear her down and as I became a teenager, their conflict escalated in line with my growing independence.  

‘You must be mad to allow her to go out dressed like that!’ 

His rage was futile.

A day or so later, I waltzed into the kitchen, my face garish with a clown-like application of make-up, my mini-dress barely skimming my knickers.   As I waved goodbye, I saw him glance at my mother and his mouth open, but I was out of the door and away before he could speak.

         What did he feel as he stood at my bedside?  Did he feel vindicated, or was he, too, frozen with sorrow as he looked at the bruised and battered body of his little girl forced to grow old before her time?

       Dad left us a few months later. I think Mum was glad that he went. There had been too many recriminations. Night after night, the thin walls of my bedroom echoed with the hammer of raised voices.  Now that he was gone, she was free to assuage her guilt in the only way that she knew. I became her baby again and as the days slipped by, we would sit in front of the telly watching the soaps and gorging on cream cakes and lemonade until my belly began to swell. In my innocence, I thought I was merely getting fat.

         Then, as now, I spent a lot of time in the safety and comfort of my bed.   But I am not always safe, sometimes I dream. They are happy dreams at first. I am a child again, a young girl of thirteen, watching my feet, in my new pair of scarlet, patent leather shoes, flashback and forth as I hurry down the street.   My tote bag is crammed with make up and magazines.  My friend Lucy’s parents are out for the evening and we’ve got the house to ourselves.  We can do whatever we want.   Experiment with make up, try on clothes, read trashy magazines, giggle about boys and gossip.  Then, the dream speeds up into a kaleidoscope of blurred images merging into each other with lightning speed.   Lucy’s hair, my face, scarlet lips, panda eyes, narrow hips gyrating in time to Abba, being played full blast on the record player.  Insidiously, there is a change of mood and a growing sense of foreboding.   I am on my own and the street is dark. Full of terror, I try to turn back but cannot and wade through treacle towards my destiny.   My mouth opens as I scream and when I awake my soaked sheets are knotted around me.   I lie there and feel a tide of depression overwhelm me as I realize it wasn’t a dream at all.  Mercifully, my mind has obliterated most of that night but I do remember his guttural voice and the rotten-egg stink of his breath.

             Lucy used to come and visit me after I got out of hospital. Sometimes it was almost as if things were back to normal.   She used to chat about school and bring me get-well cards the other girls had made.   But gradually the times between her visits lengthened as her life moved on.   I never hear from her now.

         The worn brass doorknob fits perfectly into my hand, it feels smooth and cool as I twist it and tug the door open. The old dog slips out and I stand there waiting. There isn’t much of a view; I can just see the bricks of next door’s house.  I remember the garden when my dad lived here.   It was his pride and joy.  In the Summer he used to be out there night after night, not coming inside until it was too dark to see.   The lawn was his special pride, like a living carpet it stretched away from the house all the way to where the rhododendron bushes lurked. Flowers flanked the lawn. Like jewels, they exploded with colour.   Pinks, scarlet peonies, marigolds, ox-eye daisies and banks of purple anemones.   It isn’t like that now. The grass is knee high and the flowers have long ago been strangled by the weeds.   The rhododendrons are the only ones that have thrived; they have seized their chance and have spread almost to the kitchen window.

         Leaving the door open, just a crack, I retreat further into the kitchen.  I feel safer there.   Maybe one day I will follow the old dog out into the garden.   Maybe one day, but not today.   The police did their best but he was never caught and there are too many dark places where he could still be hiding.   The rhododendron bushes, the dark alleyways, hidden corners in forgotten places.   And I will always remember his fingers, like iron on my arm, and the tone of his voice.

         ‘If you tell, you will be dead’.

Patiently, she waited for me to recover, but I never did.   Not in her lifetime anyway.  Maybe it would have been better if they had let me keep the baby…

                 

Copyright Janet Baldey

 

 

      [There could be more, what will happen next?  It is for you to decide...]

     

Cheilin Saga ~ 19

 Cheilin Saga ~ 19 History Teaches 2

By Len Morgan

   Daidan awoke feeling remarkably refreshed.   But for the sword at his side he would have viewed his encounter in the night as no more than a vivid dream.   He reviewed the words, and touched the blade with assurance, it felt warm to his touch and seemed to have a comforting effect on him.   He bathed dressed and ate a light snack, sipping water between mouthfuls.   He chose to don light armour before making his way to the Arena, which was situated within the Palace grounds.   At sunrise, he was accompanied by his first counsellor, led and flanked by a troop of imperial house guards.   They made their way down an alley of torches; he had never expected to be the main attraction on his first visit to the Arena.   Daidan looked into the eyes of his counsellor, who glanced away nervously telling him all he needed to know.   As they entered the Arena he could see his nimbly agile adversary exercising his limbs, shadow fighting, in preparation for the combat to come.   It was dry, and there was a cold nip to the air, which he found bracing.   He took a slow deep breath, expanding his lungs to their full extent, holding the breath for a few moments before exhaling noisily.  

He took a second breath, gazed at his opponent, and smiled.   “It’s a glorious day to die,” he said.

“Indeed,” said Yvdrx

“If I were planning to die I also would choose such a day as this,” said Daidan.   He drew the sword from its scabbard swinging it effortlessly with speed, power, and panache.   Switching hands he continued to perform with ease executing a complicated set of intricate maneuvers tracing patterns in the air the blade close to invisible.   A low murmur went up from the small crowd of invited witnesses.   “Mayhap I should fight with my left, and give you a sporting chance,” he said in an easy friendly manner.  

Suddenly, Yvdrx looked less confident.

“Of course I have nothing to gain from this contest, If I kill you I will inevitably alienate your Clan and offend your widows and denying your children the love and support of their father.   You are I know a good father, yet you are prepared to give up everything in the mistaken belief that the new Clan chiefs will happily retire after just a month?”   If you force it upon them your son will not even survive the first cut, and you will cease to be Oybun of the 5^th Clan, what profit is there in that?”   A few more easy passes with the left hand, then the blade was transferred to his right, weaving pathways so swiftly no eye could follow.   Then it was sheathed so fast it seemed to disappear in mid-air.

Yvdrx made a few more passes with his sword, attempting to speed up his movements to match Daidan display.   His forced cuts and parries lacked their earlier fluidity, now looking clumsy in comparison.

“I will speak plain,” said Daidan, “I have no wish to kill you, it is never a pleasant thing to do, and regardless of promises there will always be resentment, both political and personal following your demise.   I desire only to unite the Empire, in the way I know best, which is to foster good relationships between the Clans.   I would make a poor start, towards that dream, by killing my closest rival.   It would be acceptable if the Emperor actually wielded the power implied by his office but, I know this not to be so. Instead, I find that I am simply used as a figurehead, a dragon without fire, every action directed by strangers.   Do this, don’t do that, I am in reality a prisoner in a house of shadows.   Not only am I denied the company of friends and family because it breaches the ‘no fraternisation’ rule, I am also forbidden to ride abroad or even to take to the fields and hunt like other normal men; as do you.   The worst thing of all is that I am not even here by choice, my name was submitted for selection without my knowledge.   In truth had you been elected I would have been the happier man.”    I only went through with the charade because I was convinced that you would win and honour would prevail.  I have no objection to becoming Oybun of the 7^th Clan; that is true power.   He smiled wryly and looked at Yvdrx in an appealing manner, “I need friends, can we not dispense with this ‘to the death’ business and put on a fine exhibition of swordsmanship that will strike fear into the hearts of enemies of the Empire?”

Yvdrx thought a while, “I never really wanted the job either,” he confided.    “It was foisted on me by others who decided it was in the best interest of the 5^th Clan.”

“Since being chosen, I have researched the antecedence of the post, and it is fascinating.   Did you know that the 5^th Clan has produced the matriarch of more Emperors than any other Clan; on no less than nine occasions?   The next most frequent was the 12^th Clan with only four.   From this research I also discovered that the 7^th Clan has never yet produced the mother of an Emperor who inherited the post,” said Daidan.

“Enough talk man,” yelled Yvdrx, “let the action begin.”

“So we fight the exhibition?”

“If that is your wish, in truth I no longer have stomach for this venture, now I can see how I have been manipulated by those I had thought were my friends.”

“When we are done you will be able to wreak vengeance on them all eh?”

“Indeed!” said Yvdrx with a smile as he came to the engarde stance, mirrored by his opponent.

“Good man!”

They fought a brave and clinical contest.   The witnesses were enthralled, for thirty minutes they witnessed toe to toe nonstop action.   At the end of which, Yvdrx was obviously flagging, but did not give way to panic or desperation; quite the contrary he modified his style to minimise his energy expenditure.   Of course, he knew that it was not ‘to the death’ but the crowd didn’t, and Daidan would never tell.   Not after running his opponent through three times in quick succession to ensure he would not survive to tell of their pact.   He wiped his blade on Yvdrx’s shirt turned and walked to the changing area without a backward glance.   There would be no further leadership disputes during the reign of Emperor Daidan I.  That same evening the sword mysteriously disappeared…

.-…-.

Dan smiled; his grandfather had once asked him if he considered his actions to have been wrong.  

“No” he answered out of loyalty.   But, he'd not really been convinced of that.

Just two years earlier he had repeated the story to Aldor, the only time it was ever retold, and asked Aldor's honest opinion of his forebear’s action.

“Yes & No” was Aldor’s considered reply. “He may have been guilty of overstepping his bounds by cheating.   Even though Yvdrx had been ridiculously gullible, suggesting he was not fit to be leader of the Cheilin Empire anyway.   As Emperor, he acted correctly, in the best interests of his subjects.   He could not afford to act like a man for that would demean the office.   If an Emperor permitted open descent in a subject it would rarely end there; the offender must be put down in a manner that would serve as a lesson to all.   To do otherwise would court anarchy.   If one death would ensure the stability of a nation and assure the continuance of a dynasty, the cost was justified.   Your grandfather gave up his right to act like a man when he accepted the honorific ‘Light of the World’.”

“Ah, quite so!   A man of perception,” Dan smiled.   He knew Aldor to be his staunchest ally; one who would also prove a fearsome adversary in other circumstances.   He held no reservations about Aldor’s loyalty or his commitment to his office.   If Aldor asked him to walk on fire, he would do so in the full knowledge, it was in his own best interest.

(to be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

Cheilin Saga ~ 18

 Cheilin Saga ~ 18 History Teaches…

By Len Morgan 

 Dan was aware that, whenever he appeared in public, there was a possibility that somebody would attempt to take his life.   At sixty, death held no fear for him; he knew it to be coming closer with each passing day.   But, was that not the case for everyone?   He’d witnessed the heroic deaths of young men, with a whole life ahead of them, dieing eagerly fighting for one futile ideal or another.   He had witnessed old men, barely able to breathe, shamelessly wasting their breath, begging for a few moments more.  But, death did not waver or hesitate.   When it is your time, you go; there is no choice.

  His grandfather was of the 7^th Clan, but that ceased to be relevant when he was elected to Emperor ‘Light of the World’.   Dan recalled a story he’d been told a hundred times seated on the old man's knee…

.-…-. 

‘The Knodd,’ he explained, were the twelve Oybun - Clan chiefs, traditionally called to elect a new leader when there was no legal heir of succession.  They were called to gather, following the demise of Ossamon IX, who died childless, aged 18, from ingesting a virulent poison for which there was no antidote.   His father died a year earlier, from the effects of a similar brew.   All members of the kitchen staff were under suspicion so when the judiciary failed to identify the guilty party they were all summarily executed.   This did not prevent the son from sharing his father’s fate.

 

   Initially, there were twelve candidates, ‘the chosen', one from each Clan, each a potential Emperor.   The Oybun would rank them from 1 to 12, in the order they would most like to see them become Emperor.   After four rounds of voting, there were just two candidates, Yvdrx of the 5^th Clan and Daidan of the 7^th.   The Knodd vote was tied at 6 to 6.   Several hours passed as they discussed how they could proceed.   Finally, the decision was to do a countback over the previous two rounds and discover who consistently received the highest votes.   Consequently, Daidan was named ‘Emperor Designate’ the decision to be ratified one month from that day.   At that ceremony, he would be formally named Emperor Daidan I, ‘Light of the World’.   From that day on, all his Clan affiliations would be severed.   His forces and staff would be recruited equally from all the Clans.   The other eleven candidates would be installed as the new Oybun - Clan leaders.   The final official act of the ‘Knodd’, the old council of leaders, was to elect the new Emperor.   Unlike the other Clans, the 7^th Clan would install Daidan’s deputy as their new Oybun.  

   Daidan I, would then create a dynasty to rule the Cheilin Empire for so long as there were legitimate heir’s.

 

   As far back as historic records go, there has never been an Emperor from the 5^th Clan.   Each of the others had produced at least one dynasty.   The 4^th 9^th & 11^th had all produced two, whilst the 7^th had produced three including Daidan I.   The 5^th were very dissatisfied with the outcome of the final vote.   They believed to a man that Yvdrx was the rightful ‘Emperor Designate’ they believed that a Knodd at stalemate should have sought other means to break the deadlock.   The other candidates should have been given a vote; Yvdrx had always been the favourite with his fellow candidates even in the beginning when there were still twelve prospects.   The system provided a number of alternatives, in the event of a deadlock, to ensure a decision would be reached.   Hand-to-hand combat was the popular choice of the 5^th Clan, their man was a blades man without equal.   But the Knodd had chosen to employ a count-back, by 7 to 5, thus effectively robbing Yvdrx and his seed of their considered birthright.

  History records that the 5^th Clan laid siege to the Eternal City, in protest.   An army stood at each of the four gates, demanding that the Knodd should be reconvened, to right the perceived injustice.   The Knodd however could only be convened when there was no Heir apparent.

 

   Yvdrx issued a public challenge to Daidan, reasoning that the ‘’Heir Designate’ was not Emperor.

 

  Daidan’s first counselor pointed out that he was not honour bound to meet the challenge.   He had an official champion who should answer it on his behalf.   It was even suggested that he would not be permitted, by law, to fight a duel to the death.

 “He was still seventeen days from ratification, therefore fair game,” reasoned Yvdrx.

“If you kill me you will automatically be debarred from the election,” Daidan pointed out.

“That may be so, but my son will stand in my stead,” the new Oybun replied stony faced.    

“And if I kill you?” asked Daidan.

“Then all 5^th opposition will vanish.   My family will become your most loyal supporters, and your dynasty will be assured, unto the end of your line,” said Yvdrx, “but that is not going to happen is it?   No doubt, you will hide behind the office and claim immunity.”

“The honorific ‘Light of the World’ stands for unity,” said Daidan.   “If the 5^th are aggrieved, that unity is in question and with it the future stability of Empire.”

 

 “My lord do not think that way, you have nothing to prove, he is noted as the finest swordsman in the 5^th Clan.   You are unlikely to best him,” the first counselor pleaded.  

“The interests of this Empire, and its unity, are paramount and must at all times be preserved,” said Daidan quietly.   “Yvdrx!   You have your showcase, we meet at first light tomorrow, I hope you are man enough to live with the consequences.”

“My son shall be the next Emperor,” he yelled with delight.    “Say your farewells to the world Daidan.”   

Daidan only smiled politely.

 

“I want him and his son incapacitated if he fails to take the field he will lose by default and no blood will be spilled.   If he does take the field it will be in a weakened state and I ought to be able to best him.”  

“It shall be so ‘Light of the World’,” said his first counselor.

.-...-.

As Daidan lay awake contemplating the approach of daybreak, a figure slipped through his window.

“Who is that!”   He demanded.

“Your counsellor will play you false this night,” the shadow figure warned.   “You will be fighting a man in his prime, full of vigour, and confident in his ability to prevail.  However, you must believe that you are the better man and convince Yvdrx that you are, in order to justify the confidence of the twelve.   I have here a blade, which will give you an advantage.   A man who is not of this world crafted it, for just such this situation.   Try it for balance,” he said offering the blade...”

“Your name first if you please,” said Daidan I.  

“I am from Chinake far to the north, I am known as Wizomi the storyteller, but my talents are not limited to stories. 

“Chinake, are you of the wierding way?” Daidan asked with suspicion.

Wizomi smiled, “You have heard of my tiny village,” he said with pride.   “My mission is to see you through the morrow.   Now take the weapon, it is unique, be assured there is not another like it in existence.   Feel how light and responsive it is?   We call it a living blade it amplifies your confidence and ability but it is a double-edged blade; pardon the pun,” He snickered briefly.   “It will deflect heavy blows, with the minimum of effort on your part, and will absorb the impact of any heavy weapon as though it were willow twig.   Your opponent is fast and confident, but he will be defeated, and I will demonstrate how you will accomplish it.”

(To be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

LETTER TO THE WORLD

 LETTER TO THE WORLD (especially the rulers)

By Rosemary Clarke

If only there were some smiles in the world
If only there was some joy.
All of the fighting and cruelty and fear
And if all the world is destroyed.
If only there was some care to be had
And ministers all had a dance.
If only countries didn't fight all the time
If only there was a chance.
If only the Food Banks would all go away
Because there was now no more need.
If only they'd talk about more than money... if only there ceased to be greed.
If only we realised just what we have
If only we'd not turn away.
If only all of us helped others around
If only there was that day.
If only we all cared enough about Earth
And all thought about each other.
If only this was all about to give birth… we'd probably so soon discover..
That all 'peace on Earth' is all down to US
And WE make 'goodwill to all men'.
Then perhaps religion would not be this fuss
And we all could, at last, breathe Amen.

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

GRANDMA'S BIRTHDAY

 by Richard Banks       
                                                                          

The morning was not going well. Steve was at the wheel, key in the ignition, anxious to be off. For a third time, he sounded the horn and was briefly rewarded by the sight of Lena in the open doorway of the house. There was a brief exchange of sign language including a gesture that might have indicated her intention to be ready in two minutes. She disappeared from sight into the gloom of their through lounge where a conversation featuring the words “computer” and “off” was followed by a howl of anguish and a further conversation on the subject of shoes. Having established the importance and location of shoes Lena reappeared in the doorway with a small boy who, after successfully negotiating the several steps down to the driveway, collapsed in abject misery onto its block paving. Unheeding of his mother's exhortations “to get up, now” the boy was unceremoniously restored to vertical alignment and conveyed to the car where all further resistance was rendered futile by his incarceration within a childproof seat belt.

         Lena took several deep breathes and prepared to re-enter the house, but there was no need. The curtains in her daughter's bedroom were now wide apart and said daughter could be seen retrieving her trainers from the rack at the foot of the stairs. She advanced into the porch and with the furtive air of an escaping convict peered either side of the car at the street beyond. Finding it devoid of anyone known to herself she banged shut the front door and speedily took her place on the back seat of the car.

         Steve peered into the windscreen mirror at the sullen faces of his two children and wondered why this should be. They were going on a family outing, a picnic. What could be better than that on a summer's day? Okay, it wasn't the best of days, a bit overcast perhaps, but the sun was up there somewhere and once it burned through the clouds there was no telling how nice the afternoon might be.

         He waited until Lena was in the front passenger seat before asking the question that preceded every journey.

         “Is everybody belted up?”

         Jack responded with another anguished howl.

         “Zoe did you hear what I said?”

         “Yes.”

         “And?”

         “Of course I am. So is Jack, so is Mum. Now can we get going before everyone in the street sees us?”

         Steve resisted the impulse to administer a sharp rebuke. Instead, he decided to win hearts and minds. “Come on cheer up everyone. It's Grandma's birthday. We're going on a picnic. We always do that on Grandma's birthday. Just think of the fun we had last year.”

         Zoe's reflections on last year's excursion and her father's strange idea of fun were cut short by Lena who curtly reminded her daughter of forthcoming social events she might be hoping to attend. Having reduced one half of the back row to enraged silence Lena continued on in determined fashion.

         “We had all this out yesterday. Nothing's changed, we're in the car, we're going. Now not another word, and that goes for your brother as well. Here feed him one of these, that should keep him quiet for a while.”

         Zoe opened the bag of toffees tossed onto her lap and pressed one into Jack's mouth. The tear stained face above the mouth became thoughtful. Perceiving that a world with sweets was infinitely better than the world that preceded it, his protestations of grief subsided and the face responded to the improving mood of its owner.

         Steve watched the transformation with unrestrained enthusiasm. “Did you see that? Look, look he's going to smile. There he goes. What a cheeky grin; any broader and it be touching both ears. Lena, quick, pass me the camera; it's in the glove compartment.”

         Sensing a lack of movement alongside him, Steve turned towards Lena whose normally expressive face was as dull and cheerless as the sky. She stared blankly through the windscreen at the garage door.

         “Lena?”

         Only her lips moved. “Drive the car, Steve, just drive.”

                                             **********

At the end of a journey of thirty minutes and seven toffees, the car and its occupants turned off a country road into a car park where they stopped alongside several other vehicles. As if to welcome their arrival the clouds parted to reveal a corridor of blue sky into which the sun made a belated appearance. The atmosphere within the car had also improved but was not yet summer.

         The unpacking of the car was achieved quietly and with a minimum of fuss. This they had done before and a familiar routine established which required neither direction or thought. They set off along the path that took them through a rose garden, Steve and Lena carrying the hamper that contained their picnic while Zoe followed on with raincoats, umbrellas and a box containing Grandma's cake. Released from the protective grip of his mother, Jack raced ahead gurgling with excitement.

         As usual, his father was the chief cheerleader. “That's right, Jack, you go and find Grandma. Tell her we're on our way. Look at that, Lena, the boy's a born sprinter, an athlete in the making. You mark my words that boy's going to win gold.” He pictured Jack's competitive breakthrough into the British team and his first gold medal at the Commonwealth Games in 2034. Having moved on two years to the Olympics his daydream was ended by a sudden tug on the hamper as Lena surged ahead in pursuit of Jack.

         “Get a move on, Steve, he's nearly out of sight.”

         They hurried along with all the finesse of unpractised contestants in a three legged race while their son, unencumbered by hamper and the demands of teamwork, reached the top of the path and kept going into the Woodland Area. They found him where Lena prayed he would be by Grandma's rhododendron examining a caterpillar.

         Steve set down his end of the hamper and smiled broadly. “Hello Mum. Sorry we're late. Ran into a bit of traffic on the A12. We're all here. Zoe's coming, bringing up the rear as usual. And how are you? A bit green round the gills I see. Not to worry, it's just a few lichens. I'll soon have you looking as good as new. He opened the hamper and on retrieving a tin of Brasso and several jiffy cloths immediately began work on the brass plaque that marked plot 792.

         “Zoe.” Lena was using her stern but patient voice. “There's no point in hiding behind that tree, it's not wide enough. Come here and give me a hand. You know the drill: polish first, the talking bit doesn't start until later.”

         Zoe advanced into full view anxiously scanning the surrounding terrain for other woodland visitors. On finding there were none she helped her mother lay out a ground sheet over which they spread a paper tablecloth displaying the words 'Happy Birthday Dad'. Her face contorted with disbelief; she struggled to find words sufficient to express her disbelief.

         “Don't say a word,” muttered Lena. “It was the only one Mr Patel had. It was that or a three mile trip into town. Put Grandma's cake over the Dad bit; he'll never notice.”

         Zoe giggled and helped with the rest of the unpacking until the tablecloth was overflowing with sandwiches, cakes and Mum's kiwi fruit trifle. They were trying to find room for the crisps and Cola when Steve, who had been totally absorbed in his polishing, reconnected with the woodland world behind his back.

         “My goodness, look at that, what a treat! Lena, you've done us proud. The best yet. No one does picnics like you. Isn't that right, Zoe?”

         Zoe confirmed the rightness of Mum's efforts while pointing out that it was herself who had buttered the scones.

         “She also kept Jack out of my hair when I was baking,” added Lena. “Now shall we make a start?”

         Steve scrutinised his watch and finding the time ten minutes short of mid-day suggested that they hold off until the afternoon. “Anyway,” he said, “we haven't brought Grandma up to date with our news. Let's do that first. Who wants to start? Zoe?”

         Zoe was about to articulate her opinion that talking to dead people was really weird and that she would rather throw herself off a cliff when Lena intervened with what she described as a 'new idea'. “Steve, why don't you speak on our behalf.”

         Steve looked surprised then disappointed.

         “After all you're so much better at this kind of thing than we are. I'm no good at monologues, prefer conversations where the person you're talking to talks back at you. But you're really brilliant at them. Even better than that chap on TV who does them for a living. What's his name? Alan something.”

         “Alan Bennett,” prompted Zoe.

         “That's right, Alan Bennett. And you're so much more cheerful than he is.”

         Steve looked thoughtful. The comparison with Alan Bennett was an unexpected compliment; he wondered why this hadn't been mentioned before.

         “Okay,” he said. “Where shall I start? What about last year's holiday in Marbella?”

         Lena nodded her agreement. Steve gathered his thoughts and turned round to face the plaque. He was about to begin when Lena's voice preceded his own.

          “And Steve, not too loud. You're not addressing a public meeting.”

         Steve took a deep breath. Was she being deliberately annoying? he wondered. She was definitely up to something. He decided this was not the moment to find out. He cleared his throat and began speaking. He had reached the point where they were in the Departures Lounge and their flight had been cancelled when Lena tugged at Zoe's sleeve. Her voice dropped to a whisper.   “You're brother's almost over the horizon chasing squirrels. Why don't you go and bring him back? And Zoe, … this may take you sometime.”

         Lena observed her daughter's careful departure and helped herself to a chocolate finger. She settled back against a tree with that book about the Venetian courtesan and the Duke of wherever which was due back at the Library on Monday. It was the kind of book her fiercely puritanical mother-in-law would have burnt in a huge bonfire of the profanities that would have included lottery tickets, mobile telephones and the Sun newspaper. To be reading such a book at this moment seemed deliciously decadent. She hurried on to the bedroom scene which she correctly surmised was only pages away. On the back-burner of her consciousness, she could hear Steve's rambling account of the past year and the occasional squeal from Jack in pursuit of squirrels. She, however, was in Venice and feeling all the better for it. She had reached the point where the Duke had to choose between the Duchess and the courtesan - who on the previous page had given birth to the male child he had previously been lacking - when her ever sensitive antennae informed its owner that Steve's narrative was about to end with Rory McIlroy's victory in the British Open. She relayed this information to her offspring with frantic hand signals that brought them racing to her side. They had scarcely resumed their places when Steve turned to face his family with the thoughtful expression of someone who had discharged a solemn but necessary duty.

         “Was that okay?” he asked.

         Lena hastened to reassure him. “Absolutely excellent dear. I'm sure your mother was most pleased to hear about young Rory. Now shall we have lunch?”

         “And what about the 'ologies'.

         “What about them dear?”

         “The 'ologies' that Zoe will be studying next year. Sociology was one; I know that, but wasn't too sure about the Psychicology. That's why I asked you, Zoe, if I had got it right. You might have said something.” 

         “But she did,” said Lena, “she nodded. You couldn't have heard her. Now help yourself to a sandwich, dear. There's cheese and tomato, ham on its own or egg and cress with that nice mayonnaise you like.”

          “But,” said Steve. Indeed there were several buts. The but thoughts struggled to assert themselves but proved no match for the seductive tang of a mayonnaise sandwich. Steve helped himself to another sandwich and the buts seemed a distant irrelevance. He happily observed his family at picnic. The squabbles of that morning he did not understand. He was not going to spoil his afternoon by trying to understand. For the moment his family was at ease and he with them.

         Jack picked up a scone and presented it to his father who politely acknowledged the gift and dropped it onto his plate. The look of outrage on Jack's face was followed by an indignant shriek, “no Grandma eat.” Having attended four birthday parties in the last year he was fully conversant with the convention that the person whose birthday it was should be fully involved in the birthday tea and whatever games that followed. To be eating Grandma's birthday tea, while she was elsewhere, was an injustice requiring his father's immediate attention. For once Steve was the first to understand.

         “You want Grandma to have this scone?”

         Jack vigorously nodded his head.

         “Then she shall, and I bet she would also like that ham roll.”

         Jack's head nodded even more vigorously.

         “In that case, we will make a little hole in the ground and send them down to her.” He reached into the hamper against which he had been leaning and retrieved a trowel and a bag of daffodil bulbs. Having made an excavation of some six inches he inserted both scone and roll.

         “Anything else you want Grandma to have?”

         Jack selected an iced cake with a cherry on top and at his father's bidding dropped it into the hole and helped cover it with earth.

         “That's it son, well done. Grandma will be pleased. I can see her now, eating them in heaven with the angels.”

         Jack's face registered surprise bordering on incredulity. “No! Grandma down there in a bad place.” In his imagination he saw an underground cavern in which his grandmother was sitting on her wickerwork chair.

         Zoe saw her father frown and tried not to laugh. “Well, he's got a point Dad. If Gran is down there she can't be up in heaven.”

         “And I never heard of heaven being underground,” said Lena. “Not that I'm saying your mother is in the other place,” she added hurriedly.

         Steve tried to recall what he had been told at Church before the lure of Sunday league football took him along a more secular path. The answer came to him as if by divine intervention. He addressed his explanation to Jack who was pounding the bad place with his father's trowel.

         “No son, it's only Grandma's ashes that are underground. It's her soul that's in heaven.”

         “Soul,” repeated Jack. This was his first theological instruction and he felt it important that all unfamiliar words be explained.

         “It's your inner light, son. The things that make you a good person, it's every kind thought you ever had, it's about caring for others, playing fair, doing what's right, always seeing the best in people. So when Grandma died her soul rose up into heaven and that's where she is now with Granddad, Great Aunty Kay and all the other good people she knew.

         Lena's eyebrows pushed upwards onto her forehead. “Are you sure Aunt Kay is up there as well?”

         “Well, she was Grandma's first cousin.”

         “I know that, dear, but after all she did spend rather a long time in Holloway. I don't think she was shining much of a light.”

         “Maybe she was innocent.”

         “What of all twelve offences?”

         “Well, it was hard times. Perhaps she repented.”

         “Or maybe she went to purgatory,” said Zoe.

         Correctly surmising that neither of her parents were conversant with the concept of purgatory she proceeded to enlighten them. “It's an in between place where dead people go who aren't good enough to go straight to heaven. How long they stay there depends on how bad they've been. Like if they've only stolen a few sweets from Tesco they're probably be let out after a month and allowed into heaven. But if they've been really bad they could be there for centuries.”

         “Well that explains it then,” said Steve. “Great Aunt Kay has done her time and been allowed up.”

         Lena opened her mouth to express her doubts on the subject and then thought better of it; Steve was looking irritated and in no mood to continue the discussion. She recalled her father's dictum that religion was best kept in church.

         Her daughter, however, was for continuing the religious debate.“What I don't understand is where heaven is. It's not in the sky, at least I don't think it is. There's nothing about it in that book of astronomy that Uncle Trevor gave me. According to that, space is full of planets, stars and big clouds of gas.”

         There was a thoughtful silence.

         “What do they say at school?” asked Lena.

         “Well Jenny thinks it might be some kind of parallel universe.”

         “I mean your teachers, dear. The ones that are supposed to tell you about these things.”

         “Oh they're no help. Mr Stubbs is an atheist while Mrs Jones says that heaven is when she's on holiday in Antigua. To tell you the truth I don't think they know any more than I do.”

         “I like Jenny's idea,” said Steve. Reminds me of what old Bill Felds once told me about some of the folk who lived about here a hundred or so years ago. They thought that the spirits of their ancestors lived on in the sounds and motions of the countryside: in the currents that made the rivers flow, in the wind that moved the trees and made patterns in the wheat. The Church called them heathens, were against them and everything they believed in, but I'm not so sure. I fancy they knew a thing or two.”

         “So, if that's right, heaven isn't up there, wherever 'up there' is, it's all around us,” said Lena.

         “Why not,” agreed Steve. “It's a better theory than others I've heard. Whose to say it's wrong? After all, how can you see a spirit? Stands to reason it must be invisible. Nobody, no voice to speak with. They could be all around us, we wouldn't know. It can't be proved, of course, but neither can it be disproved. In the end, you just have to go with what you feel. Guess that's why I keep coming back here. It's where Mum wanted to be, part of the forest she used to play in as a kid, near to where Granddad and Great Aunt Kay are now. If she does have a soul or spirit this is where it be.”

         Steve stopped speaking and wished he had done so sooner. He looked anxiously at Lena half expecting her to say something in that tone of voice that made him feel he was being quietly mocked. Instead, it was Zoe who spoke first.

         “That's really nice, Dad. Perhaps Gran is here, and Great Aunt Kay. She giggled. “Did you notice how that breeze started up when we were talking about her being in prison. Perhaps we should bring a wind chime next time we come.”

         Lena was tempted to say that it would only be something else to polish but for the second time that afternoon left her thoughts unsaid. She glanced down at her watch. It was nearly time to pack up, to do what they always did: plant a few bulbs and feed the remaining sandwiches to the ducks on the lake. For the first time she was in no hurry to leave. The day had gone well, unexpectedly well. Perhaps there was something to be said for Steve's theory. She cut the small birthday cake she had brought into four pieces.

         “Now, before we eat this, is there something you want to say, Steve? I mean what you always say at this time.”

         Steve grinned. “Yeah, why not. Let's say it together. Are you ready? On the count of three. One, two, three.”

         “Happy birthday Gran! twenty-one again.”

          

Copyright Richard Banks

 

 FALLING DOWN...AND GETTING UP.

By Rosemary Clarke

Falling down, determined to work
To sort out things I must not shirk.
Jane started it with a strimmer and tools
Now others help; that is solo cool!
Nat has lent me books galore
On clutter, cleaning and so much more.
Everything must find a place
For this domain to show some grace.
So, newspapers under the stool
Clutter cleaning is the rule.
Spices in the cupboard so
With mop and brush away I go!
Merrily tidying away
So that the past no more can stay.
It's having an effect on me
A future I can almost see.
If you're depressed and want to die
Give clutter clearing a darn good try.
It's helping with the mess I'm in.
Throwing the bad into the bin.
All the rows and all the pain.
So that I'll find my life again.

Copyright Rosemary Clarke