Charitable Giving 

By Jane Scoggins

Angela’s decision to go to the charity shop was made a few months after her husband Jim had passed away. It had been the Macmillan nurse who had suggested she might like to donate some of Jim’s clothes to the hospice shop. Although she had nursed Jim through his illness and knew that time was short, she had still been overwhelmed with grief. She had been quite unprepared for the savageness of her emotions. Nurses had tended Jim at home with such care and professionalism and supported them both emotionally right to the very end. One of the nurses continued to phone Angela from time to time, helping her cope with her initial turmoil and giving her practical advice. For the first few months, Angela got relief from opening Jim’s wardrobe and chest of drawers and holding a piece of his clothing to her cheek and then to her nose to breathe in his smell. When she was ready to pack up Jim’s clothes she spent a morning washing them and an afternoon ironing them. She put his good suit, sports jacket and leather jacket, three sweaters and six shirts into a spare suitcase from the loft, and took it to the Hospice charity shop in the neighbouring town. As soon as she had handed over the suitcase to the volunteer in the backroom Angela felt the sadness of parting from Jim once again. Feeling a bit tearful she went to a corner of the shop where there were shelves of books in alphabetical order, and a collection of CDs. It gave her time and privacy to reach into her handbag for a tissue, and gain her composure. After dabbing away her tears Angela looked about her and pretended to choose a book. At the end of the shelves, a coat stand stood adorned with scarves and a collection of handbags. One of the bags caught Angela’s eye. It was a baggy purple velvet thing and looked homemade. The many badges sewn or pinned on were what had caught Angela's attention. Cornwall, Thailand, Paris, Moscow, México, Lake District, Scotland, and Pembrokeshire. Then there were other badges, CND, Amnesty International, Love Books. As she turned the bag to read all the badges she saw that on one of the wide straps had been embroidered in chain stitch. Live Each Day As If It Were Your Last. Rose felt tears gather in her eyes again as she thought of Jim and their many holidays together. When they were first together it had been camping in Cornwall and Wales. As they got older and could afford hotels it had been touring in Scotland and walking in the Lake District. On their 25^th Anniversary, it had been to Paris where they had enjoyed a romantic few days, wandering the streets, visiting Montmartre, the gardens of Versailles, and riding in the lift to the top of the Eiffel Tower.  Since early retirement, they had had less money to spare for hotels but still went away, staying instead in B&B’s. Sadly those days were now over. The next thing she knew she was paying for the velvet bag along with a CD of folk music and leaving the shop. At home, Angela put on the CD and boiled the kettle for a cup of tea. She put the bag on the kitchen worktop and examined it more closely. It was even more shabby than she had noticed in the shop and began to wonder what had possessed her to buy it. But was once again drawn to the badges. She reflected on the images they inspired of travel, and altruism, and a strong indication of joy for life itself. She felt her spirits lift. She made a mug of tea, but while reaching over for the sugar she knocked it over and flooded the worktop with hot tea. The velvet base of the bag beside it sucked up the tea thirstily. Angela tried to sponge it clean to no avail, so put some cold water in the sink and dunked it in the bottom of the sodden bag. Holding the bag up it was really heavy with the water and feeling there was cardboard or padding in the base she squeezed out as much water as she could before getting her nail scissors and snipping at the stitching to pull out the cardboard and padding. To her surprise, Angela found something quite unexpected. The base padding was wrapped in plastic, and inside, neatly stacked in two piles was £1000 in £20 notes. Around the notes was a handwritten letter.

 

 Dear Stranger

        I am so glad you have my bag and have discovered this treasure trove. It s a gift for you. Yes, it really is. Let me explain. After many years as a free spirit travelling and supporting causes close to my heart, I am now housebound and having to live any unfulfilled dreams of travel through others. I have decided to give away some of my possessions and treasures. The velvet bag I was not sure about but decided to take pot luck with giving it away, in the hope that someone would like it, and at some point discover the money hidden inside. I would like you to use the money to fulfill a dream of your own. Life is short and we should enjoy it whilst we can. Of course, you may decide to pay your electric bill or have your house painted. That is up to you, but I hope you are the kind of person who will take a leap of faith and do something out of the ordinary, like taking a trip to Norway to see the beautiful fjords, the Northern Lights, or the Rocky Mountains. Or maybe to find peace in a Hebridean croft. I have been living in Essex for some time but am now downsizing and returning to my native Cornwall to be near my niece. I am including a PO Box address so if you decide to have an adventure it would give me great pleasure to hear about it.

Wishing you joy and happiness,

Rose

After Angela had read and re-read the letter she sat thoughtfully for quite a while before saying out loud

  ‘ Well Jim, what a bolt out of the blue this is! I’m not going to waste a wonderful opportunity. I'm going to do it, Jim! I’m going to do what we said we would do if we ever could. I’m going to walk in the Himalayan mountains, stay in a tea house and watch the sun rising and setting from the Annapurna Sanctuary. And you and Rose will be with me all the way.’

 

Copyright Jane Scoggins

Cheilin Saga ~ 22

 Cheilin Saga ~ 22 Further Developments

By Len Morgan

  Bector entered the Wheelwrights Arms, on his rounds of likely meeting places for local rabble-rousers and disaffected local activists.   Though a clandestine member of the Tylywoch, he looked and talked like a dissident.   He would drink protest and fight alongside and against the worst of them.   He gained a lot of useful information by doing so, and heard a rumour, earlier in the evening, that Aldor would be drinking there later on.   So he made a point of staying around, even though he doubted anything would come of it.   It was getting late, towards the end of the evening when he left the Inn.   He knew the fellow was an impostor and that he never appeared when Tylywoch were around but, what they needed to know was how good a match was he?   Was he a passing resemblance, or closer to a double, could he pass conversation with casual acquaintances only, or could he pass more intimate inspection?   He had covered half a block on his way home when a man called out to him.

“Bector!   Why so impatient, you should have waited a while longer,” he called breathlessly.  “I told the man about you and your expertise with weapons.   He is interested in meeting you, he thinks we may have a job for you, and there is something big going down.”

“When?”

“All in good time, don’t be impatient, you will have to meet the man first,” he placed an arm around Bector’s shoulder conspiratorially guiding him back towards the Inn.   “Let’s just say it will be happening soon and will put a stave in the spokes of the 13^th Clan, the devil’s spawn,” he made a reflexive sign, to ward off evil, as he voiced the name.

   Efelel sat in an out of the way corner of the Inn quietly scanning the minds of those gathered in the main room.   She viewed their thoughts with a mixture of disdain and boredom.   Half the men could think only of drowning their sorrows, the others of bedding a sympathetic and compliant woman.   In contrast, women’s thoughts were the more interesting.   They displayed both industry and aplomb; ranging from the simple need of a warm bed to the prospect of emptying some poor cove’s pockets, into her own.  Then of course there was always the fun of the chase, selecting, stalking, snaring, and finally leading her victim around by the nose…   Her mind was brought back sharply to awareness by the sudden appearance of a controlled mind.   She looked from one face to another seeking a fit.   But, all she could identify were self indulgent drunks…   Then the door opened and in came one of their contacts accompanied by a clear eyed, sharp-minded man.

‘We have one of the accursed, on the premises, over by the door’ she threw a sharp warning into Mawld’s mind.

‘Odrek?’ he thought in disbelief.

‘No, the heavy set cove with the unruly black hair…’ 

“Hello sweetie, you’re a new face in here, recon I’d remember you.   Here have a beer on the house, then mayhap you’ll come more often,” she greeted Bector with a friendly smile.   Her familiar manner suggested she would like to see a whole lot more of him, as soon as possible.   He took a mouthful of the beer, it was good, he took several more long pulls and smiled.   A few moments later he had difficulty focusing and shook his head.

“Are you alright sweetie?   Come over funny have you?   Come to my room and you can have a lie down for a while.” She said. 

Odrek responded immediately by offered to help Bector to the young woman’s room.

.-…-. 

   Bector was not the first member of the Tylywoch to go missing on a mission, but when he appeared two weeks later none the worse for his experience, aside from a loss of memory.  He could not say where he had been, or what he’d been doing.

   He was questioned long and hard but nothing came to mind.   So, he was more or less sidelined.   To his chagrin, he was re-deployed as a messenger.   He had been dealing with a very dangerous group, and if he could not explain what had happened, maybe he had been compromised in some way.   The Emperor was always at risk, and there was no more likely suspect than the Bluttland sect, of Bedelacq. 

   Bector knew, in his heart, they were right to be cautious.   Yet he couldn’t help displaying his impatience and dissatisfaction with the current state of affairs, even though he was more than perturbed by the implications of the lost weeks.   If he were brutally honest he would admit he was worried sick, but couldn’t stand inactivity, or the continual promises of support, and understanding received from the other members of his quad.   He didn’t want personal recommendations.   He wanted things to be as they always were as if it had never happened, but it had. 

   He became obsessed with the Aldor look alike.   He started plotting sights and dates where the phantom appeared, looking for a pattern, in vain because there seemed to be none.   He had seven confirmed sightings spread all over his map.   He stuffed it into the breast pocket of his coat in disgust.   He needed to get some rest anyway, so he lay on his cot, it helped him think.   He smiled, recalling that most of his best thinking was done on his back.   This time however nothing came and he was forced to put the problem from his mind or he would be unable to sleep at all.   He snuffed out the candle, rolled over, and visualised the sea, and in seconds, he was asleep. 

   In the morning he discovered there had been another sighting.   At the first opportunity, he opened out his map, searching his pockets for the red wax pencil he had been using to mark each sighting.   At some time it must have fallen out of his pocket.   He asked if anybody had found it or could loan him a drawing implement.   In desperation, he accepted a pin from a young woman and pricked a hole.   It would have to suffice until he could obtain another pencil.   He was angry with himself for losing it; he had liked its distinctive red mark.   As he refolded his map he noted the pinhole and a patch of the red shining through it, mocking him.   He shook his head and returned it to his pocket, fifteen minutes later in the act of making a routine delivery he stopped with a jolt.   He re-examined the map and, on impulse, pushed the pin through the existing hole and out the other side.   He unfolded it and discovered he had pierced through three of his red marks.   He pierced another hole through another of the red spots, when this was continued through all pages of the map it pierced two more.   There were still three sightings unaccounted for.   He worked out where these would be on the top sheet and made a third piercing…   All eight marks were now holed and he had a good idea where the next sighting would be.   The map of the City was a common one sold by vendors on street corners.  By tradition, it was folded twice, and Bector had seen no reason to mess with this.   Therefore, the impostor had stabbed his pin through the map thrice which meant he had marked twelve locations.   But, had he visited the locations in random order the sequence would have been obvious after five or six.   Therefore he had been consciously avoiding a sequence so the next visit had to be…

From that moment, all the unused locations were covered day and night.   This was done for a full week when nothing happened.   Then another week passed without incident and Captain Tyse was obliged to pull his scarce manpower from their OP’s and put them back on other investigations.   Bector was disappointed; he knew it was just a matter of time before his lead would produce results.   In his off time, he took to haunting what he considered to be the most likely site for the next appearance.   He repeated his vigil for three days and on the fourth, whilst he was still on duty, the Aldor impostor appeared again.   But of course, Bector was not there.   He went to see the Captain.  

“You pulled us off surveillance and he appeared at the very place I predicted.”

“That is correct, but there are other leads to be followed up, and I don’t have the manpower to chase them all.   Aldor knows of your lead, he said to tell you it is a good one, and it will be dealt with.   Just be patient and it will become clear.   There is currently a plot to assassinate the Emperor at the games and of course, his safety is our top priority.   We need to secure all areas close to the Emperor's box.

It was the morning of the ‘C17’ Games.   Dan needed help in selecting an appropriate outfit for the starting ceremony; he was never good with such things…

“Hestor!” he yelled, instantly remembering his steward was missing.   ‘Curses’ he thought, ‘He would have known exactly what would be appropriate for the occasion.’    “Where in Thund’s are you man,” he cried out in frustration, ‘I really miss you old friend’ he thought, realising the truth of the words even as they entered his mind.   ‘What did I do to turn you against me.   I swear if you return unharmed, I will issue a full pardon and reinstate you with an increased stipend.   I can’t believe what they say…’

“This is a vow!” he said.

“Sir?”

“Nothing,” he replied turning to look at the young fresh faces steward.   “Does this go?” he asked, holding up a matt black silk robe with gold trimmings and a pierced gold ornamental breastplate.

“Pardon my impertinence ‘Light of the World’ but had you considered this?” he lifted up a deep purple robe, “It is a warmer colour, and better compliments the breastplate & of course your chain of office,” said the steward.

“Ah!   But, of course, you are correct young man.   What is your name?”

“I am called Rhynor ‘Light of the World’” he said “I have been delegated to stand by you, in Hestors absence.   I shall stay, until his return if you approve, or until you are able to choose a suitable replacement.”

“I’m afraid that Hestor is irreplaceable.   He has been with me since we were children, but I’m sure you will prove to be a perfectly adequate stand-in if you would only stop continually admonishing me!” 

“Light o…?”

“You see?   There you go again!   Hestor only ever calls me that when he is unhappy about something I have said or done.   A simple ‘sir’ will suffice between us.”

“Of course sir, you had only to ask,” said Rhynor.

“Well Rhynor, now we have dispensed with formalities, we have an event to attend, you are to accompany me of course.   Let’s pick you an outfit, and we can dress each other.”

“Yes Ligh… sir!” he stammered, and Dan beamed with delight. 

.-...-. 

At that precise moment, Tyse, Captain of the Emperor's bodyguard was in conference with Aldor and Major Meredin of the Red Guard who was responsible for the overall security of the Emerald Palace.   The major commanded a body of five hundred troops, from all parts of the Empire.   All had distinguished themselves in some way, in order to even be eligible for selection as a member of the Red Guard.   They would be lining the route to the Emperor's box, when the royal party were seated they would fan out in all directions to deal with any contingency.   They were reviewing the arrangements for the third time, to ensure nothing had been left to chance.   The Guard would be combing the route for several hours before the Emperor even left the palace.   Tyse and the bodyguard of thirty-six men and women would accompany the Emperor, ever watchful being as unobtrusive as possible.   The Melitia would keep law and order, patrolling quietly but ever present, quelling civil disorder was their remit.   Only at the very last moment would they decode if the Emperor or one of his many doubles would be in the royal coach.   But, it was generally understood that where he goes, the majority of his bodyguard follow.   They would never leave him unprotected, and Dan would never miss the games.

“I will be on the rooftops with the other external quads,” said Aldor.   “We will precede the coach, on either side, or follow behind seeking anyone suspicious, anything unusual happening at open windows or, in the crown close by the Emperor's party.   Is there anything further we need to discuss?”   He asked, taking their silence as a no.   “Thank you for your attention, I know you both still have final details to attend to, so I will bid you good day.”

(To be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

FREE CHOICE (2nd & Last)

 FREE CHOICE  (2nd & Last)

by Richard Banks

#

So he watches them escort the culprit off the premises. The girl he does not remember until it is too late.

         Luke is now entering that part of the evening when his alcohol consumption is persuading him that Cynthia is definitely a seven and worth a snog. Of course, he would have preferred an eight. A nine he feels is not impossible, a ten only in his dreams. Cynthia is seldom in his dreams and when she is his discordant feelings on waking, makes him feel distinctly uneasy. Nonetheless every bloke should have a girlfriend and until someone better comes along Cynthia is it.

         Had he been able to read her mind he would have been surprised to learn that she had similar thoughts about him. Her thoughts, however, ran deeper and predated their first meeting in Threshers Week. She had been to the cinema with two cousins to see the latest Tom Cruise film. They were fans and she thought she was too, then she saw him in a clinch with Nicole Kidman and realised she would rather be kissed by her than him. This was a revelation she kept to herself, a revelation that both alarmed and perplexed her. Unable to disentangle her feelings she threw herself into her studies and unexpectedly gained the A-level grades that got her into Uni. She expected that she would be able to lose herself in further study but there was all this socialising stuff to do first, and that’s when she met Luke.

         He was diffident and awkward like herself but together they survived the various events they were expected to attend and even enjoyed them. He was a sensible, conventional young man, the kind her parents would approve of. Maybe he would be her salvation but when, on their third date, he got round to kissing her their transition from friends to sweethearts proved less sweet than she had hoped. Nevertheless having him around was useful. As a couple, it was easier to make friends and access the various alliances that were springing up around them. Of these, the Saturday group at Stardust was the most enjoyable and the least demanding.

         Tonight she has brought Lorna along. She doesn’t know her well, an American girl a few years older than herself who arrived three weeks after the beginning of term. She is studying Sociology and as Theo is also studying Sociology Luke thought she might be a suitable companion for his over serious friend. So Cynthia invited her along and Lorna accepted with an enthusiasm that seemed disproportionate to the event described. Indeed she was almost gushing and insisted that Cynthia visit her room where they sat on her bed drinking Irish coffee. They were getting on well when Luke was mentioned - her boyfriend said Cynthia - and the conversation faltered, almost stopped, and Lorna remembered she needed to collect a book from the library. The next day they met in the corridor of their dormitory and all seemed well again. What should she wear, Lorna asked, a dress? When Cynthia replied that a dress would be fine Lorna invited her back into her room where she tried on those she thought might be suitable until Cynthia declared her preference for a figure hugging off the shoulder cocktail dress. It was black, Lorna suited black.

         When she was in a good mood she could be any colour that took her fancy. At her best, she sparkled rainbow colours - yellow, blue, red, and all the shades in between, but now her mood is as black as her dress. Like the song the DJ sometimes plays, ‘it started with a kiss.’ Yes, she knew about the boyfriend; Cynthia had mentioned him, but only once, matter of factly and without affection. There was nothing in it, she had told herself, and on first seeing them together her instinct for such things seemed as sure and reliable as she expected it to be. Then he had dropped a hand on Cynthia’s shoulder, turned his face towards her, and kissed her on the lips. Lorna can hardly believe what she is seeing. Is the girl mad, why is she putting up with it, doesn’t she know that this can never be, that this is not what she was meant for? If others, like herself, can see it why can’t she? It’s insane. It should not be happening.

         The glass she is holding slips from her fingers and shatters on the edge of the table,  the liquid within shooting back onto her lap, soaking her dress which is spattered with broken glass. She attempts to brush it off but finds her fingertips oozing blood. She must get changed, she says, it won’t take long, Uni is less than five minutes away, she will be back soon, half an hour at most. She leaves but with no real intention of returning, then she knows she must. The nonsense must be made to stop. Cynthia must be rescued, not abandoned. It is up to her, no one else will do it. She wonders how many other Cynthias there are in this place, this horrible place that allows, no not allows, encourages such things to happen. If she can’t save their bodies she can at least save their souls. As for Cynthia, there will be much to explain, it will not be easy, but in time with her love and help, she will understand and be grateful.

         On her return to Stardust, she finds her new friends more intoxicated than before but not forgetful of her injuries. She is OK, she assures them, holding up the three fingers requiring thin plaster strips. Her only concern is that she hasn’t brought everyone a drink. If Cynthia will give her a hand she will go to the bar and buy the next round. She departs with Cynthia in tow, curiously ignoring the only empty space at the long bar. They eventually halt at the far end near a fire exit.

         “We thought you weren’t coming back,” says Cynthia, “you were gone over an hour,” she glances down at her watch and tries to work out the number of minutes she has been gone but the calculation is beyond her.

         “I had a bag to pack,” murmurs Lorna, glancing down at her own watch.

         “A bag?”

         “Yes, a bag. It’s downstairs in the clothes lobby, and in one minute it will go bang.”

         “Bang?”

          “Yes, bang, big nasty bang, but you mustn’t be scared because you’re with me and I’m going to look after you, keep you safe. Now, take my hand and do what I say. See that door. Take a good look, because when the bang happens all the lights will go out and there will be fire and smoke, horrible black smoke, but that’s OK because no one will see us leave. Through that door, we’ll go, down two flights of stairs, through another door and we’re gone, the viper's nest destroyed and we free, cleansed of all the poisons, reborn, better, stronger than before.

         There it goes!! It’s happening, now! Yes, scream, scream loud, that’s what the other girls are doing and we must do what they do, except we must be sooner to the door. Start moving, quick steps, that’s it, we’re nearly there.”

         On the other side of the room above the lobby the fire has already taken hold of the wooden floor, flames begin to reach up towards the ceiling. The decisions people take in the next few seconds will determine whether they live or die.

         Harry is a survivor of many scrapes, he keeps a clear head. While others panic he organises the remaining occupants of table 32 into a human chain and leads them, and others, through the thick smoke and down a little known staircase on the other side of the bar. He returns and does the same for six more. He attempts one further rescue but the staircase is ablaze and, although he tries to find a way through, Luke and Theo go after him and haul him back. There’s no hope they say, and no hope there is for those inside. Although their screams can still be heard no one else is saved.

         Harry is not the only hero that day. Steve stays put in the control room on the third floor calmly issuing instructions to his team on the walkie-talkies they all have. He will be the last survivor to leave, climbing through the skylight above his desk and crossing several roofs to safety.  As he descends a metal fire escape on the outside of Boots he remembers where he first saw the new girl at table 32. She is in a photograph he once saw on the web, one of a group of disaster tourists standing outside the Almeira Club in San Francisco the day after it was bombed by an organisation calling itself WAMO – Women Against Male Oppression. There is nothing remarkable about her, nothing that sets her apart from the other voyeurs in the photograph, but it is her face, that odd frown, he remembers. He has looked into many faces, it is a part of his job, he has seen all kinds of expressions and largely understands the thoughts behind them but this girl is different. He senses a darkness he can’t explain. He is interviewed by the police and tells them of his suspicions.

         Ella achieves one of her ambitions by appearing on the front page of a national daily. Harry, the hero, is being interviewed, photographs taken and she pictured giving him an emotional hug. They are invited to several fundraising events for the survivors. For a while, they are an item but when the newspapers move on to other things so does she. Harry is philosophical in a down to earth way. Having reached all bases he too is ready to move on.

         For Luke moving on is not an option. He should be heartbroken at Cynthia’s death but he isn’t. Sad? yes, but not sad enough. He feels confused, sometimes ashamed, but no one knows this but himself. He has a photograph of Cynthia which he keeps in his wallet, close to his heart, here it must remain, to discard it would be a betrayal of her and a condemnation of himself. He will never marry.

         Theo lapses into depression. He should, he tells himself, have done more to help those who died. He saved only one life and received no thanks for that. His friend, Cynthia, and her friend, Lorna, are counted among the dead. In all eighty-two people are thought to have died. As therapy, he writes down his thoughts on the disaster in a memoir that later becomes a best selling book. People, he writes, are never free of other people’s choices. In choice, there is both freedom and tyranny, love and hate, and every emotion in between. Choice should be with the angels not with those on Earth.

         Lives interrupted continue, including those of Lorna and Cynthia. Despite Steve’s suspicions, their names appear on a memorial plaque to the victims. Since their presumed deaths four more nightclubs have been bombed or set alight in Europe, South America, and Australia. Steve scours every photograph he can find of the burning or ruined buildings. One day he will see that face again, one day he will be proved right, but already it is too late.

The End. 

Copyright Richard Banks

              

Cheilin Saga ~ 21

 Cheilin Saga ~ 21  Reprise

By Len Morgan

O’Keffe had been raised in the ways of the one, ‘the trail of blood’.   She had been taught at an early age that the end justified the means.   In this case, the end would be total domination of Abbalar by Bedelacq, the living god, and his chosen and loyal worshipers.   That was fundamentally ingrained in her heart.   Young, intelligent and resourceful, she was quick witted and possessed a quality that made her irresistible to men.   That was why she dressed down, for anonymity, when other girls of her age were openly angling for a man, the best provider they could catch.   Her hair appeared badly cropped but was cunningly tucked and coloured.   Her face was pallid and she behaved in an outrageously tomboyish manner.   Even so, she found it difficult to pass unnoticed in mixed company; which was why she was forced to chew Pullu root, a plant extract guaranteed to repel men at the merest whiff of her breath.   She was a loyal and ardent follower of Bedelacq some would call her a zealot.   There was no room left in her life for complications from anything or anyone else.   She had been assiduously trained and was fully aware of her feminine attributes, and her ability to control the opposite sex.   By the age of puberty, her training was completely taken up with manipulation and control techniques.   But, no sooner had she begun to enjoy her newfound powers than she was forced to hide them, in order to carry out her duties as a spy.   That was when she was introduced to ‘la femme’, the richest and most exclusive Bordello in the city, where men of power and influence visited daily to expend their energies and converse with their favourite concubines.    The girls were sworn to secrecy, they would never repeat a word, the code was strict and the penalty for passing on pillow talk was branding and expulsion.   The girls and boys of the establishment were debriefed individually by the Madame, at the end of each session.   Then, if any other person, in public life, were seen to make gain, from such information, the girl who’d been privy to it would be questioned searched and followed.  If adjudged to be guilty of an indiscretion she would at least be on the streets, with her whores licence revoked.   Any gains they may consider she had made would be taken away with interest.   In such a situation she would be extremely fortunate to escape with her life.   Fortunately for all concerned, it never happened. 

.-…-. 

   O’Keffe was not subject to the strict code of ‘la femme’.   She was not a working girl, just a servant.   She cleaned and cleared the rooms as quickly as possible after they had been vacated; ensuring they were available for use when next  required.   She would wait patiently, in her small cupboard like room, with the tools of her trade.   Invisible and silent, she listened carefully to pillow talk, registering and passing it on, without acting upon it.   The intelligence was never for personal gain, so nobody could become aware of her clandestine activities.   If questioned, the Madame, her girls, and their guards would only remember a pale faced mousey haired gangly waif who did for them all quickly and efficiently without being observed by the clientele.  It was doubtful that anybody even knew her name, she was known simply as the scullion, transparent and anonymous, just as she liked it.   Outside of those premises, nobody could pick her out in a crowd.  she was the perfect spy.   She worked at the Bordello for two years, gleaning information useful to her group.   It was rumoured that a royal prince would be visiting the establishment seeking a concubine. Later confirmed to be prince Gavein, the heir to the Daidan dynasty; who would become Daidan IV, on the death of his father.   There were to be auditions, prior to the visit.  The Madame would select six suitable candidates to be presented to the heir apparent.  

   She arrived as herself, no more the waif, her hair now long black and lustrous; her deep green eyes drew men to her like lodestones.   She entered ‘la femme’ as if she owned it.   A plethora of beautiful women turned to look as she entered and their hearts sank.   Where they were spangled and bejewelled, she wore a single string of dainty pink fire pearls and a single matching jewel in her navel, which alone was probably worth more than all the other finery in the room.   All her rivals wore makeup in the latest style, in contrast, she appeared to have none, but the discerning Madame could sense a master’s touch in the crafty unobtrusive accentuation of line and form.   Even as their eyes met, she knew that this was the one.   Five other girls would be chosen to make up the numbers. 

“Have we met before child?” asked the Madame.

“Possibly…” she replied in a lazy husky voice that caused a thrill of excitement. 

“Exactly why are you here,” asked the Madame. She's the one! she thought.

O’Keffe smiled and her eyes widened in amusement, “You are seeking a suitable concubine, for a young prince, and I am she.”

“I shall require proof of your experience and other more personal details.”

“Here is a resume from my mistress,” with a flourish, she handed over a sealed envelope.

“You are Zop-hi-ra?”

“Zopheera” the girl corrected her.

“So, Zophira, you are not from the Eternal City.”

“That is a problem?   I was birthed here; my parents are from the northeast.”

“You understand we have to be sure you know the duties of a concubine, and what will be required of you…?” 

.-…-. 

Prince Gavein was smitten at first sight.   Zaphira’s history was carefully checked again, by Palace officials, and she formally became a resident of the Emerald Palace.   Never was there a more committed teacher or a more avid pupil.   In accordance with the tradition relating to concubines, her movements were not restricted in any way.   She lived in but was not expected to remain in, the women’s quarters.

   O’Keffe was therefore still seen on a regular basis, about the streets and circles of the city, though not as frequently as before; people just assumed there was a man in her life.   The most efficient cleaner ‘la femme’ had ever known mysteriously disappeared, without notice, she didn’t even return to collect her final stipend.   The Madame however collected enormous kudos, in the circles of bordello keepers, from having discovered and trained a royal concubine. 

(To Be Continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

 

LESSONS

By Peter Woodgate 

They sent me to school one day

To teach me about society,

They taught me how to read and write

To do my sums and be polite

They didn’t think I should enjoy myself

Or look to my heart for guidance,

We must progress and build machines

To hell with the old and good riddance.

We will all learn new technology

Without a backward word or apology,

We won’t need to build robots though,

They already walk the earth.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 Free Choice 

By Janet Baldey 

As Betty opened her front door, she saw her usual half pint hadn’t been delivered.  Sighing, she looked up and saw the sun was already burning off wisps of high cloud. It was going to be a hot day.  A glance at the thin gold Rotary on her wrist confirmed there no time to ask, she could only hope that her neighbour would notice and take it in for her.

         Hurrying down the street towards the bus stop, she saw the gleam of headlights.  Milkman was late, bus was early what else would go wrong she thought as she started to run.  Jumping on the bus, she flopped down on the nearest vacant seat, adjusted her hat, smoothed her gloves and sat looking out of the window until the bulky outline of her Ministry building appeared.   She stared at its rigid exterior; something was up at work, she’d realised that for the past few weeks. Its usually quiet corridors were teeming with harried-looking men, carrying document cases and disappearing into conference rooms.  Her own immediate superior, Mr Goodwin, normally so laid back as to be almost comatose, was scurrying around, a sheen of perspiration on his forehead.  Her girls noticed it too.  “Blimey”, one said.  “Old Goody looks as though he’s got a rocket up his jacksie.”  The other girls craned their heads and giggled.

“That’s enough,” she called. “You’ve all got work to do. Face the front and get your heads down.”

         Gratified, she heard the clacking of typewriter keys as the girls complied.  They were a good lot.  It seemed a shame to keep them all but chained to their desks in this grim building. Like keeping a cloud of butterflies in a cellar. Never mind, they had their whole lives in front of them, soon they’d meet their young men, marry and disappear from the work-place.  She often wondered what it would have been like if Graham had survived the war. She’d be married by now with two or three children clinging to her skirts.

         Lost in her own thoughts, she jumped as a hand touched her shoulder.

         “Miss Henderson, your presence is required in Boardroom One. Immediately, please.”

         She looked up to see Mr Goodwin looming over her, and her throat clenched as she smelled his sweat.  His face looked pinker than ever and what remained of his hair was awry.  This was unthinkable, he was normally so dapper.  Her heartbeat quickened as she cast her mind over the past few weeks.  Had she made some terrible mistake? Was this the end of her career?

         With an effort, she kept her voice steady. “Of course, Mr. Goodwin. I’ll be along right away”.  Rising she addressed the sea of faces she knew were staring at her.

         “Finish what you’re doing girls and then you can take your break.  Half an hour and no longer.”

         Boardroom One was the biggest of the conference rooms and as she entered, she saw it was crammed with men in suits, together with a meagre scattering of women.  She shot a quick glance around the room, recognising several familiar figures, but nobody looked at her, their attention was fully fixed on a man with close-cropped dark hair and rather prominent ears, sitting at the far end of the highly polished table.  Astonished, she realised it was the Minister himself, Manny Shinwell.

         Seconds later, the Minister leaned forward and tapped his pen on his water glass and waited until silence was complete. “Is everyone here?”  He glanced at his aide, who gave a brief nod. “Right. Could somebody stand against the door please. As from this moment, no one will be allowed to enter or leave.”  He paused, drew his fingers through his thinning hair and took a sip of water.

“You will all be wondering why you’re here and I’m afraid I have some disturbing news.  However, firstly I want to remind everyone that you’ve all signed the official secrets act.  Under no circumstances, should anything you hear this morning, leave this room.”

The hairs on the back of Betty’s neck rose as his words began to fill the silence.  Her jaw dropped open as she learned reliable sources had alerted the government to the fact that Russia was planning a nuclear attack on London.

         “We believe it will be three-pronged.  Croydon to the south, Uxbridge to the west and Romford to the east.  Massive casualties are inevitable with the resulting firestorm causing catastrophic damage to buildings and, it is feared the rest of Britain will be affected by radioactive fallout.

         This is truly a disastrous scenario and we can only pray it can be averted.  Our Prime Minister is, at this very moment, pressing for urgent talks with Mr Kruschev. 

All of you here have been invited for a special purpose and I will now hand you over to your various heads of departments, to explain.  Remember everybody, panic is to be averted at all costs so ‘Mums the word.”

         Nobody spoke as the Minister gathered together his papers and left the room. Through the stunned silence, Betty could clearly hear the chirp of sparrows and their cheerful innocence made her want to cry.

         In the anteroom, coffee was being served and Betty gratefully sipped at the bitter liquid, hoping it would clear her head. She looked around for Mr Goodwin and saw him beckoning her towards the door.

         Once seated in his office, he leaned towards her, his face grave.

         “These are dark days, Betty.  As the Minister implied, Britain is in a desperate situation but the government have made certain contingency plans.  A building, especially constructed to withstand a nuclear attack, has been built in a secret location in the Essex countryside.  This is intended to house senior members of the government and others especially equipped to re-build society once the attack is over.  We believe you can help with this.”

         “Me? What can I do?”

“Most of the occupants of the bunker will be fully trained military personnel but certain civilians will be necessary in order to acquaint such individuals with other duties and as a longstanding member of staff, your expertise will be of value. Think carefully about it, Betty.  We are well aware you have no immediate family so this is your free choice, albeit a difficult one.  But, before you make up your mind, we have arranged for you to visit the bunker and transport has been booked for you tomorrow morning.  Arrange for one of your girls to stand in for your absence.”

He stood up and Betty understood that she was being dismissed.

***

Betty’s eyes felt sore and gritty as she stared out of the window of the car, part of an irregular convoy of nondescript Fords, Austin’s and Hillmans.   Last night, she hadn’t slept a wink, feeling every spring in her bed as her mind refused to shut down. To think, the only thing she’d been worried about that morning was whether her milk would spoil.  In the event, it had and its silver foil top had been peppered with tiny holes where the cream had tempted the blue tits.  They were welcome to it, she thought. If what was feared, happened, there would be no blue tits.  She couldn’t stop herself going over the events of the day obsessively and looking at the haggard faces of her companions, she guessed they’d been through the same sort of ordeal.  Beyond superficial greetings, none of them spoke. Nobody was in the mood for small talk. 

Just after they passed through the village of Kelvedon Hatch, their driver made a quick right turn down a track leading towards a wood and as they bumped along the rutted ground, Betty clung on for dear life.  They seemed miles from anywhere, yet she realised they must be in easy reach of London. Small birds were flitting in and out of the trees and Betty couldn’t bear to think that this lush Essex countryside might soon disappear under layers of noxious ash.  It was the worst of nightmares.

At last, the car stopped in front of an odd- looking building tucked into  the side of a hill.

“Here we are ladies and gents – a bureaucrat’s idea of a country cottage. Just the place to spend your ‘olidays.”

The driver’s words were met by a nervous titter.

Inside, it was even odder, the outside being merely a façade, as their guide took pains to explain.

“This bunker has been designed to withstand all but a direct hit from a nuclear missile.  We have tunnelled under the hill to a depth of 125 feet and its walls are ten feet thick and made of reinforced concrete.”

They followed him through massive steel doors and one hundred yards down a long bare corridor to where the bunker itself was located. The guide walked fast and Betty had trouble keeping up, while trying to take in what he was saying.

“We have enough tinned and dried food, plus our own water supply, to enable 600 people to survive for a bare minimum of three months. You will notice the Geiger counters stacked by the entrance. After three months, the air will be tested daily before the doors are opened.

  Until then, we have a canteen, a sick bay, dormitories and the hub of it all is the information centre, where we can plot which way the wind is blowing the clouds of radiation.”

Betty shivered, and misunderstanding, the guide looked at her.

“You may find it cold now but with 600 living bodies packed inside a relatively small space, our main problem will be the heat.”

His voice continued relentlessly as they followed him through a honeycomb of chambers.  One room was packed with typewriters, teleprinters and switchboards. Betty guessed she would be based there but before she had chance to have a real look round, they were off again. 

‘These are the dormitories.  We will operate a system of hot bedding – I take it you know what that means?  But you will also be issued with your own sheet so it should be relatively hygienic.”

As they followed him around, Betty began to feel more and more claustrophobic.  She couldn’t imagine spending at least three months in this overcrowded space.  There were washing facilities, eating facilities, medical facilities but what facilities had been provided for leisure?  Almost immediately she felt an overwhelming feeling of shame.  She was one of the privileged, she was being offered the chance of life when millions would be annihilated.  She had no right to quibble about non-essentials.

On the return journey, once more the silence was deafening.  Betty felt as if she was inside a glass bubble as she mulled over her choice.  The guide had said public information broadcasts would alert the general public on steps they should take to protect themselves.  They should retreat to basements, or other enclosed spaces, with enough food and water to last them out.   In truth, she realised, that was all hot air. Most had no hope of survival. They would either be blown to pieces by the blast or die from radiation sickness.

And what of the people who did survive?  What life could they expect?  Poisoned earth, no wildlife, plummeting temperatures as a nuclear winter gripped.  Britain would become a dead zone. Her brain felt numb; were those held prisoner in the various nuclear bunkers to be envied or pitied?  She had no idea.  

As they entered London, she suddenly saw a swirl of bright skirts; there was a group of girls laughing in the sunshine.  They should have the chance of life, she thought, not a dried-up old maid like herself.  It was at that moment, she made up her mind.

Copyright Janet Baldey  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

        

        

 

 

        

 

 

        

        

        

        

 

        

        

        

 

 

THE LAST OF THE OLD GUARD.

By Rosemary Clarke

Let's hear it for the Scotsman who delighted all our screens
The one who was so naughty with his plotting and his schemes.
His bicycle is silent now, but then it was so used.
I'll bet he's up there watching plotting yet another ruse!
He's with Marina now, just like he thought he should, but Pearl is up there also so it won't do any good!
I'll bet the angels love it, up there must be feeling fine.
They've only bagged all of the cast of Last of The Summer Wine!

To Robert Fyfe, his family friends and all who made this wonderful series possible; thanks for the laughs!

Copyright Rosemary Clarke