Integrity
By Robert Kingston
I
can paint you
a love
story
in red
white
and blue
I’ll
even
wave
some
bells over
and tell you
that it’s
true
A poem for
Boris and co.
We are a diverse group from all walks of life. Our passion is to write; to the best of our ability and sometimes beyond. We meet on the 2nd and 4th Thursday each month, to read and critique our work in friendly, open discussion. However, the Group is not solely about entertaining ourselves. We support THE ESSEX AND HERTS AIR AMBULANCE by producing and selling anthologies of our work. So far we have raised in excess of £9,700, by selling our books at venues throughout Essex.
By Robert Kingston
I
can paint you
a love
story
in red
white
and blue
I’ll
even
wave
some
bells over
and tell you
that it’s
true
A poem for
Boris and co.
By Carol Blackburn
The forecast was encouraging with bright
intervals and a gentle breeze. The high tide was due at mid-afternoon and
Henry was preparing to go home to Southend. An elegant fellow and others would say
“Not a hair out of place.”
Now thinking back, Henry’s life had
thrown him a bounty, a good life. There was someone for him, Hetty his partner,
to care for him. This lucky reward continued with the arrival of his numerous
offspring. Nevertheless, Henry had been forced to travel across to the other
side of the Thames Estuary. Due to the burden to put food into the mouths of
his children, who still lived with them. He thought of them as his “Forever
family”. The days as the Sun cracked were filled with fresh vigour from the little
ones, that continued until the day slowed and peace was regained. His family
antics were just like the waves rushing, crashing, exploding on the seashore
at Southend. Then as gentle as silk as the waves rippled back out to sea, only
to be repeated all over, again. But as with the way of life, Henry realised
that nothing lasts forever. Not even the bad stuff!
His thoughts weaved further. Southend on
Sea, like many seaside towns had changed physically and the needs of Henry and
Hetty’s brood could no longer rely on Southend being the one-stop for
everything. The daily commute across to Whitstable would not be easy for Henry.
This necessitated travelling to this richer area across the
So, on a Wintry day, the family moved to
Whitstable to take up permanent residence sadly in a squatty attic. This was
all he could find to keep his loved ones safe. Henry was determined his family tree would not be cut short. Survival was paramount.
As with all of us, time flies, and
children grow, thrive and move on to have lives of their own.
Then cruelty fell upon Henry when he lost
Hetty, all too soon. For Hetty, no illness, just a brutal swift end, leaving Henry alone. Although his future with Hetty had been cut short, he was determined, to carry on.
Now, Henry bittersweet needed help.
Although Hetty was no longer at his side, she had guided him with his final
decision. A final move. He decided to return home to Southend; being his
birthplace it drew him with strength and memories of happier days.
Now the day had come for Henry to take
his final pilgrimage across the Estuary to stay in Southend. By returning to a
familiar area, he felt this could ease him and provide him with stability. He
would settle back not far from where the Bandstand used to be and with her
Majesty Queen Victoria down the way. This would provide a place daily to stop
and rest. He would share the lovely view with Her Majesty’s commanding glare
over the waves. However, for others, this silent statue companion
symbolised an era that was fading fast. But not for Henry.
The journey back to Southend took a
little longer. His older bones creaking. Nevertheless, the familiar sights, smells, and sounds jangled his senses and touched him with a welcoming
reassurance.
This bereft widower with his mellowed
eyes looked around to where he and Hetty had started. Then returned his eye
gaze to look up at Her Majesty, taking an extra gulp of sea air, confidence swelled his chest.
However,
when visiting Southend or any sunny coastal waters. Henry was best known by the
likes of you and I by:
“Oh no, look what that blessed Seagull has gone
and done!”
Have a good life Henry the Herring Gull.
Carole Blackburn Nov
2021
By Peter Woodgate
Once in a dream, I heard the sound
Of a thousand million souls
Crying out for freedom,
Trapped within the prison of injustice,
Concealed within my mind.
Each had been condemned by humanity
The result of greed, of selfishness, and lies,
They turned to face me, slowly,
With outstretched arms, accusingly
And questions in their eyes.
To those questions asked, I had no answers,
To the reasons why I could not say,
To when the world would understand
There was no indication
And, until I gave an explanation,
They would stay.
Each one a bead of sweat upon my brow,
I tossed and turned within this dream of woe,
Face upon pitiful face flashed into view,
My eyes, tight shut, I prayed that they would go.
It was then I found myself within a field,
All full of poppies that I walked upon,
I plucked one, held it up, for all the world to
see,
They turned around, faded, and were gone.
Of course, we must remember them,
Yet I, still have, this grave concern,
They gave their lives, we have been taught,
But will we ever learn?
Copyright Peter Woodgate
By Dawn Van Win
And at
eventide
Shall we
wander
Through vast
avenues
In storage
vaults
Where life’s
river leads
Larger still
Than all of
Amazonian facilities
Our warehouse
Of abandoned
dreams
The countless
possibilities
Of who we
someday
Could have
been
A slowly
reverent walk
Down dusty
halls
Shelves
stacked to the sky
Down either
side
Then gently
reaching out
Our hands
Caress the
edges,
Shapes and
forms
The
bittersweet sting
Of smiling
tears
Remembering
so many years
Of ‘some
day’, ‘one day’
When work is
done
Can we attend
then
To this sum
Of all that
is
Our Life’s
true calling
Held within
This moment’s
mourning
Perhaps our
fingers
Chance upon
A dangling
thread
Unravelling
A breadcrumb
trail
To start the
search
Into a
box
Left on a
shelf
Refusing
there
To be
abandoned
This dream
still flickers
And calls our
name
Wipe tears
away
Find packing
knife
Unwrap the
box
That holds
your life
Copyright
Dawn Van Win
By Len Morgan
‘Are our agents well
disposed? He must die today, without
fail, there can be no excuses, all our planning and efforts depend on it. This is the culmination of your planning and
sacrifice, we are relying on you. His
assassination will negate their primary means of defence. The Tylywoch will become renegades &
outcasts overnight. Through you, we will
control the new emperor, and the Cheilin Empire will become a satellite
controlled by Blutt Central and no one will know it until it is too late. With our combined resources we will sweep
North and destroy all opposition!’
‘Yes my master,
victory is at hand, we will not fail you,’Efelel promised.
‘See that you do
not! You will not want to survive to report
failure! All that has gone before would be as nothing to what I would do to you,’
warned
Bedelacq. Her throat constricted and she
experienced visions of torture and pain, her own cries of anguish accompanied
them.
‘You understand don’t you, Efelel!’
‘Yes master’ she cried gasping for
breath; stricken with abject misery.
Then she felt the tension relax, the mist and the green glow dissipated,
she felt relieved. He was always an
overpowering drain on her energy. Such
she supposed was the way of the god, though gone now she remained aware of his
continued presence like a sentinel overseeing all that she did.
She felt for the first time another was
present in the room.
“You had another visit from the master,” said
Mawld.
“There
can be no mistakes here today, do you understand,” she lashed out with her
mind, bringing beads of sweat to his brow.
‘The invasion is upon us. If we fail he will demand the ultimate
sacrifice, and, death will be a long time coming.’
Our agents are in position, they know what is
expected of them, we can only wait and see what comes to pass…”
“For all our sakes it had better be a
resounding success,” she hissed.
.-…-.
Bector lay on his cot, eyes wide open, staring
into nothingness and mumbling under his breath. His fellow quad members whispered together,
out of earshot, aware his actions were not normal. They had already sent for Tyse and awaited
his arrival with concern.
“This is not the Bector we know,” he said. “I want him locked up securely and
restrained until this day is over, we cannot take the chance that he might be
taken over.” He handed over a vial of
milky fluid to one of them, “He should be drugged and kept in an unconscious
state. Keep him under observation an
armed guard would not be excessive but make it as painless as possible for him.
Do it now before I take my leave,” said Tyse.
.-…-.
“There is a problem,” she said. “I cannot reach Bector.”
“What does that mean?” asked Mawld, “is he
dead, or sick.”
“ I don’t know,” said Efelel.
“It may prove more difficult but they are
still seeking the old man, which will work to our advantage, we do have other
agents, but none as close to the seat of power,” said Mawld.
“How many do you have, capable of handling
this?”
“Two, maybe three,” he said.
“Including yourself?” she asked.
“Four,” he said.
“I want Daidan dead,” she said, “if it means sacrificing all our agents, ourselves included, it must happen today, if you fail we will all be better off dead anyway!”
.-…-.
“What news,” asked Daidan.
“The Bluttlanders are massing on the far banks
of the
“What are their numbers,” Dan asked.
“The last estimate was 300,000 in the first
wave, but there will be at least that number again ready to cross as soon as a
beachhead has been established.”
“So what are you doing about it?”
“There are a hundred thousand seasoned troops
waiting to defend the Empire with their lives, and we have a few other
surprises in store for them as soon as they are afloat, I doubt that half their
force will reach our side of the river.” said Aldor.
“Then they will only have half as many again
as we have?”
“There is a lot resting on your survival Dan,
you cannot attend these games, your life is in very real danger…”
“Do not presume to dictate to me Aldor! I have not missed the first day of the games
in forty years, and I will not allow Bluttland to deny me one of my few
remaining pleasures in life. I will be
at the opening of these games as planned.
You may as well get used to that here and now,” said Dan.
“I am not suggesting you should miss the
event, rather that you should attend as somebody else.”
“Monstrous!” Dan roared with indignation.
“You hold the rank of commander in chief of
the Imperial forces,” said Aldor.
“Indeed that is so,” said Dan.
“Then this is what I propose,” said Aldor…”
.-…-.
The royal procession started out from the palace, moving slowly down ‘E5’ the Central highway. On either hand, the crowds waved and yelled enthusiastically as the open carriages moved slowly towards ‘C20’. Daidan III was a popular ruler who had worked consistently and conscientiously for the good of all of the peoples of the Cheilin Empire. The majority were aware that they prospered under his benevolent patronage. But, a small minority thought he inhibited their progress, they decided that forty years was enough time for any ruler, it was time for a change. As the figure in the carriage waved to acknowledge the crowds a figure lurked in the crowd with malevolent intent. Until recently the ill-dressed figure had been administrator of grain imports. He had enjoyed a good living charging heavy supplements to importers whilst lining his own pockets. This had always been considered acceptable practice and encouraged by his superiors whose hands were always extended for their share of the profits. Suddenly, they were all gone, he was alone accused of bribery and corruption, and everybody was pointing accusing fingers at him. He was suddenly alone and held accountable for his crimes, all the others had either fled or were adjudged innocent. Still others gave evidence against their fellows in order to save their own skins. He was not the best, nor the worst of the bunch, but institutional corruption runs deep. The difference was that he refused to name others, or accept a demotion, and so was stripped of his office his house, and his wealth. His family disavowed him and he was reduced to working, in a low class tavern, for food and board.
“That bastard Daidan brought me to this sad
state, now I will bring him to a worms feast!” he muttered under his breath as
he took up the false cane he had been using for support; all he had retained
from his former life. Unscrewing its
head he checked the dart projectile was correctly seated, in the tube, before
reversing the cane and removing the iron butt spike. What he had was a very effective blowpipe. He waited expectantly. As the Emperor’s carriage drew nearer, and
he judged it to be in range, he raised the pipe to his lips.
.-…-.
Gorten wore a Bo’stad, a small crossbow,
attached to his wrist with a quarrel held in place, for instant use, by a
strategically placed index finger.
Strapped to his right hip three more projectiles ready for rapid use and
a mini quiver strapped over his left shoulder.
He gazed down on the crowd below, then slowly he panned his eyes along
the road, through the crowd back to the Emperor's carriage, then back through
the crowd to his roost high above them.
He glanced across the rooftops to his opposite number, who was still
scanning the side nearest to Gorten.
Suddenly he stiffened and made a crows alarm call and pointed down into
the crowd on his own side of the street.
A quick glance revealed a man with a blowpipe
about to be levelled in the direction of the approaching coach. He saw the nearest of the Red Guard had
received the signal and was aware of the situation. Should he aim to disable the, would-be assassin, or would the Red Guard reach him in time, it would be a close
call. The blowpipe rose… He took the shot. The coaches rumbled by and he started to
move on, passing the coaches as he ran on leapfrogging the other three members
of his quad, placed at twenty-yard intervals.
He continued to scan the windows and crowds lining the opposite side of
the road. He looked back but was unable
to see whether the man was taken for interrogation, or escaped. Either way, he knew he had prevented the hit,
and that was his job. Gorten moved then
moved again, three times, without further incident. Then he watched a figure hefting an object
preparing to throw. Dragor glanced up
at the parapet and saw the signal from a man with a distinctive face and noted
it for its potential for a portrait in a quieter moment. He was quickly beside the man, who
explained he had intended on throwing his message into the emperor’s
coach. It was an honest congratulatory
note thanking Daidan for making it possible for honest traders to flourish.
“I’ll see that the emperor gets it,” Dragor
said to the man. He glanced up to
inform the man on the parapet that the potential crisis was over. He saw a different face now, and the signal
was not acknowledged.
Dragor ran for the nearest roof access yelling
instructions to his partner.
“Warn Sloan, there’s something strange
happening on the roof. Tell him I need
some backup and fast…” He headed up,
two steps at a time, moving swiftly to where the man had been. “Where is the man who was here” he demanded
knowing, even as he spoke, that these men were not Tylywoch. All eyes turned on him, “I need some
information…” he said lamely, five Bo’stad were levelled at him. He dived for the nearest man, drawing his
blade, on the move. Three quarrels hit
him together, an instant after he moved, the fourth man lay beneath him
unmoving. He did not see Gorten and his
quad loosed their projectiles, two of his killers fell dead, the third
disappeared behind a structure. Aldor
arrived and signalled to Gorten that he was in pursuit but could use
assistance. He followed the man to the
rear parapet, he turned to face Aldor.
“You,” said Aldor in surprise.
Mawld just smiled, taking advantage of the
situation, he loosed his shaft. Aldor
swayed economically to his left and the quarrel passed within half an inch of
his chest.
“Well, well, you are an ugly cove,” said Aldor
“they said you looked like me? Can't see it!”
Mawld re-cocked the bo’stad and reached for a
quarrel. Aldor piled into him as he
slotted it. Bo’stad and quiver fell
over the side of the parapet. Mawld was
half balanced in mid-air, on the edge, fighting to retain his balance. When he did, he kicked out viciously
catching Aldor in the vitals, gaining sufficient respite to right himself and
draw his sword. Aldor ducked under a
sweeping blow and drew his own blade, but was off-balance as he delivered a
short slashing blow at thigh height.
Mawld partially blocked it but the three quarrels at his hip were snapped
in halves, and now hampered his movements, so he ripped off what remained of
the device and threw it at Aldor. He
looked closely into Mawld’s eyes but saw no fear, or expression of any kind,
there.
Mawld made an exploratory stab at Aldor’s
chest. Aldor stepped around it and
threw a punch hard into his opponents face.
Mawld stepped back aware of a trickle from his upper lip, he was
bleeding from the nose.
“First blood,” said Aldor without emotion.
The reply was fast and frenzied causing Aldor
to smile.
“The Emperor's cause is five pigs down, soon to
be six and then, after he dies, your entire Tylywoch brood will be hunted down
and slaughtered by those you protect.
Rather ironic don’t you think?”
“You are forgetting something rather
important,” said Aldor.
“But I’m sure you will enlighten me?”
Aldor easily parried an overhead cut and
delivered a kick to his opponent's lead leg, “you will have to kill me first.”
“Precisely,” said Mawld.
“Your running out of time” Aldor goaded, “you
have ten minutes at most then the opportunity will be gone…”
“Oh!
So you think this is our only gambit.
You’re even more gullible than we thought.” It was Aldor’s turn to feel pressured.
“Fortunately I have an invisible helper…”
Aldor felt Efelel’s mental assault; at the
same instant, his opponent renewed his attack; a perfectly coordinated effort.
He ejected her violently from his mind and
instantly erected a shield about him, to prevent a repetition. He countered forcing Mawld back against the
parapet, once more.
“Hold fast, both of you,” a commanding voice
bellowed, “Now!”
Aldor disengaged and stepped back. Mawld lunged with a dagger catching Aldor in the right shoulder.
“Ahh!”
He yelled pulling the blade from his arm as if a firebrand had been
touched to his naked flesh, he turned angrily to face the wielder of that
voice.
“Sloan” said Mawld, “Thank the gods you got my
message. We have him now, red-handed;
he has agents on the opposite side of the street. Give me your bo’stad, I can pick them off
from here…”
“Ho,” said Aldor, ”I would not countenance
that…”
“Hold your distance both of you,” Sloan
levelled his bo’stad to cover them both.
He looked at them wide-eyed, “Gods you’re as alike as two feathers on a
ducks…”
“Except he is an impostor,” said Mawld.
“That will be for me to decide,” said Sloan.
“There is not much time,” said Aldor, “if time
overtakes us I might be forced to act.
If you loose that shaft at me, be ready with some other means of
defense. This man is both clever and
deadly.”
“Why would you be so foolish?”
“Dan’s safety must always come first,” Aldor
replied.
“I am General of Internal Security! You will obey my orders,” Mawld yelled,
“shoot the impostor NOW!”
Aldor remained silent.
Sloan fired.
(To be continued)
Copyright Len Morgan
By Len Morgan
Inside
every young girl, there’s a woman and a bride
Inside
every young boy, his mother full of pride
Inside
each young woman, is the power and the need
Inside
every young man, is the will to succeed
Inside
an adult woman, is the world in macro
And
every adult man has the desire to grow
Inside
the older woman, the girl she wanted to be
And
inside the older man, a young boy yearns to be free!
Copyright Len Morgan ~ 04/2000
By Janet Baldey
Harry liked to walk. He liked to walk in all seasons
and in all weathers but most of all, he liked to walk in winter. During the summer there were too many people,
couples, families, ramblers with hearty faces and heavy boots, all scarring the
silence as they reigned in their children and yelled for their dogs. But, on crisp
winter evenings he could count on having the fields to himself and tonight was
no exception. He looked upwards where
the curve of the moon hung in the January sky. The silence was almost complete
save for the crunch of his feet flattening frozen grass, the sound of his breath
and the screech of an occasional owl.
Harry was a poet and he found that walking helped him think. During the day, his thoughts mimicked the frenzied movements of trapped animals but at night, they grew in clarity. Phrases fell into place with the regularity of a metronome as he plucked words out of the air like a magician before committing them to memory. He no longer wrote his poems down. For many years he’d kept a
His daughter had looked up; her face was rosy from the
fire and her eyes were alight with malice.
‘Yeh! Dad’s a
poet and don’t we know it!’
At that moment, he understood why murders were
committed. He snatched the book out of her hand and threw it into the fire. Then
he left the room and stood shuddering, overwhelmed by the violence of his reaction.
As Harry walked, the cold seared his lungs and he
breathed out a pillar of air that rose slowly into a night sky so clear he felt
he could count every far away star. He turned
his head searching for The Plough and then found the Milky Way, a shower of
sparks stretching into infinity. Suddenly
his foot caught on something and he almost fell, he took a few lurching steps,
pinwheeling his arms before recovering his balance. He turned and looked back, at first, he saw
nothing but the empty path gleaming in the moonlight but then leaves trembled
on a bush and he retraced his steps. He lifted a low branch and peered inside. Thigh
high a pale disc floated, riding the shadows. By squinting, he could just make
out eyes, nose and a mouth and suddenly he felt as if he’d been punched in the
stomach. There was a child hiding in the
bush. For a moment he felt stunned. Then,
he took a deep breath and spoke gently.
‘What are you doing here kid? This time of night, you should be tucked up
warm and cosy in your bed.’
There was no reply.
‘Come on now child. Shall I take you home? Where do you live? Your parents must be that worried’.
‘I’m not a child.’
The voice was soft but clear and looking
closer, he realised that the figure was older than he’d thought. A young girl, perhaps fourteen, but still too
young to be out alone late at night.
‘What’s up lass, what are you doing
here?’
‘I come up here to think’.
His breath almost stopped. After all,
that’s what he did.
‘But why this time of night.’
‘It’s so peaceful.’
They were on the brow of a hill, below
them the land, inhabited by an army of shadows, unfurled into the night.
He was silent; his eyes seeing what she
saw. His knees began to ache and he sat down.
After a while the girl crept out and sat beside him.
‘Where do you live, lass?’
She turned towards the small town and
gestured to an area he knew well. Years ago, it had been a slum but now the
tiny terraced houses cost a small fortune.
‘I don’t live far from there. Come on, we can walk back together’.
His knees popped as he rose and
stretched out a hand towards her. He was relieved when she took it but immediately
sucked in his breath.
‘Your hands are perishing. Don’t you have any gloves?’
She didn’t answer.
She left him just before they reached the outskirts of
the town.
‘I go this way’, she said, taking a
fork in the track. Within a few minutes she’d merged with the dark.
From that time onwards they met often. She was always at the same spot, sitting
besides the track, staring down into the valley. He would sit down beside her and they would
chat. He learned that her name was Mary
and she liked to read. After a while he
began to look forward to seeing her. She
was very easy to talk to although she never said much, in fact she was the
quietest girl he had ever known. Once,
he forgot she was there and started reciting some of his poetry. He had likened the night to a great bird
spreading its ebony wings over the land and when he came too, he found her
staring at him.
After that, they often talked about the
poets. Tennyson and Keats were her favourites. She didn’t seem to know any
modern work.
During the week, he often thought about her. He
thought she was the daughter he’d always wanted. He worried about her; once she’d lifted her arm
and he’d seen a purple mark that he suspected was a bruise. She would tell him
nothing about her background and he wondered if she was happy, surely it wasn’t
normal for a young girl to spend so much time alone.
Once when he was wandering around the
Wednesday market, he came across a stall selling woollen goods. He remembered how icy her hands had been
that freezing night and on impulse, bought a pair of red mittens as a
present. He thought afterwards that when
he gave them to her, it was the only time he saw her smile.
One evening, just as spring was melting
into summer, she stopped just before they went their separate ways. All evening he’d sensed something was wrong.
She’d been even quieter than normal and had sat, her thin fingers ripping a
bare circle in the grass. When they left, she had accompanied him reluctantly. Then,
suddenly she grabbed his arm with fingers that bit into his flesh. Her eyes were enormous in her pale face.
‘Can I come home with you?’
Her words shocked him. He looked down at her and imagined his
wife’s reaction if he arrived home with this waif in tow. Martha’s face would first grow slack with disbelief,
then tighten as she thought the worst. Perhaps, a long time ago he had loved his
wife but they’d not shared the same bed for many years. Recently, as she sat, her legs wide open to
receive that heat of the fire, he’d caught the white flash of her
knickers. Far from provoking desire, the
sight had sickened him. Even so, she was
his wife and she ran the house.
He made a brief, negative movement of
his head as he stared at her. Her pallor
deepened but without a word, she turned and walked away.
He never saw her again. As the evenings lightened and the stars receded,
he followed the same path night after night, looking for her and every failure
saddened him.
One evening with a full moon sailing
overhead and the trees bowing to a silky breeze, he followed the familiar track
up the hill. Blind to the beauty of
the summer evening, he became aware of a noise like the snap of a shuffled pack
of cards. There was a line of flapping yellow
plastic forming a rough circle around the spot they used to meet. A man, his
shape pasted against the sky stood sentry nearby. As he grew nearer, Harry, recognised
him. It was the local bobby; he’d known
him for years ever since they were boys at school.
A sick feeling gathered in the pit of Harry’s
stomach.
‘What’s all this then?’, he said.
The constable stared suspiciously, then
his expression lightened.
‘Harry! What are you doing here? Shouldn’t
really say but seeing it’s you…someone’s dog dug up some bones and they reckon
they’re human. Squad’s coming up tomorrow.
Till then, I’m on guard.’
He laughed self-consciously.
Harry’s legs shook all the way home. Something
told him they were Mary’s bones. He’d known all along that it wasn’t safe for a
young girl to roam around at night. He should have been firmer with her. His hands made fists inside his pockets and
he groaned.
He barely slept that night. His body
tossed and turned in its narrow bed and around about dawn, a horrifying thought
crawled into his mind. What if someone
had seen him with her? Night after
night he wandered the hills alone. He’d
have no alibi and innocent people got charged with crimes all the time. Even if
he wasn’t convicted, his wife would never let him hear the last of it. He felt
a flare of self-disgust as he realised he’d stopped worrying about the girl.
For weeks afterwards he lived on the
edge of fear. Every time the doorbell rang his body tensed. His appetite
dwindled and his cheekbones jutted. Even his daughter who rarely acknowledged
his existence, noticed.
“What’s wrong with Dad. He looks weird,”
he overheard her asking his wife.
Time passed and nothing happened. After
a while the story disappeared from the papers, replaced by reports of the usual
petty crimes played out against the background of a small town. Months later, Harry plucked up enough courage
to ask his constable friend about the bones and was told that the case was closed.
“Them bones were human alright, but
they were about 150 years old.”
Harry felt weak with relief, shaking
his head he thought about all the time he’d wasted worrying about nothing. Mary was alive and well. Probably she had found a boyfriend and had
forgotten all about poetry. Despite everything,
he felt a slight frisson of jealousy.
Gradually, Mary became a memory until
one chilly morning not long after another year had started. Harry, woke, swung
his legs out of bed and sat rubbing the grit out of his eyes. As his vision
cleared, a splash of scarlet swam into view. His body jerked and he stared in
disbelief. Lying on the carpet just by
his feet was a pair of red woollen mittens. Breaking out in gooseflesh that had
nothing to do with the cold, he turned to the calendar for confirmation he didn’t
need. Today, was exactly a year since
his last meeting with Mary.
When the first numbing shock had worn
off, he realised he had been right all along. It hadn’t been safe for Mary to
wander alone at night, not even 150 years ago.
Copyright Janet
Baldey