A Rengay
By Robert Kingston
This piece is a collaboration between myself and an American poet based in Kentucky.
AUNT MABEL’S EASTER SURPRISE
Richard Banks
My aunt being a widow was easier to understand. She had been married briefly to a man named Bert who was killed in WW1 forty-one years to the day before I was born. My birthdays were therefore a reminder to her of a tragedy from which she never really recovered. It is said that at my christening she shed enough tears to fill the font.
She was, of course, my Great Aunt who
was usually invited to family gatherings that also included her brother, my
paternal grandfather, but after he died her visits became less frequent due,
partly, to her moving into residential care. Although she was still reasonably
mobile and clear in her thoughts and conversation my father’s acquisition of
his first car, a Hillman Minx, made it more convenient for us to visit her
rather than the other way around. This we did with great regularity, four times
a year, our visits seldom lasting more than an hour although to me, deprived of
my playthings, they seemed a good deal longer. Nevertheless my presence did on
occasions provide her with a certain melancholy pleasure for she had begun to
perceive in my appearance a resemblance to her late husband. Indeed I so raised
her spirits that her usual expression of sad resignation sometimes gave way to
a smile that also brought an unexpected gleam to her dark brown eyes.
It was in the early Spring of 1968 that
my father declared that our first visit of the year to Aunt Mabel was to take
place on Easter Sunday but that it was not to include me. I was still
recovering from the measles and although no longer infectious was not, due to
my remaining spots, allowed out beyond our back garden. I was, therefore, left
in the care of my fourteen year old sister who, once my parents were gone,
disappeared into her bedroom to play records. This was fine by me and I set-out
my soldiers on the living room floor confident that the ensuing battle would
not be disrupted by the intrusion of unwanted feet.
I was nearing the conclusion of the
Battle of Little Big Horn when I became aware of an interested spectator in the
form of Aunt Mabel. As she had not rung the front door bell she must, I
thought, have gained entry to the house through the side door which in those
days was closed but never locked until evening. She regarded me with a smile
that by the standard of her past sad glimmerings was almost radiant.
“Have the soldiers won?” she asked.
I explained that this was Custer’s last
stand and that he and the seventh cavalry were soon to be wiped out by the
Her eyes twinkled with amusement.
“Then, Harry, it’s just as well I came when I did. I tell you what, let them
have a truce for awhile, I have something to tell you. Come on now, sit down
next to me on the settee. It won’t take long and as it involves the giving of a
present I’m sure you’ll find it time well spent. And if Mr Custer has his wits
about him he might very well slip away unnoticed.”
I was about to explain that the battle
actually happened and that there was nothing I could do to save Custer and his
men when I noticed that she was reaching into her handbag presumably for the
gift she had mentioned. A moment later the battle was all but forgotten by the
sight of a yellow tin bearing the words, ‘Colman’s Mustard’. My face must have
registered both surprise and puzzlement although as I was behind it only Aunt
Mabel would have known this for sure.
Don’t worry,” she whispered, “there may
be something different inside. Shall we see?”
I nodded vigorously and through
unblinking eyes watched as she lifted the lid to reveal some crepe paper
within.
“Oh dear,” exclaimed Aunt Mabel, “I
hope there’s more than paper in there.”
For the first time, I realised I was
being teased and that Aunt Mabel had a sense of humour that was as mischievous
as it was unexpected.
“Go on reach inside, see what you can
find, but be gentle it’s very precious.”
I inserted the fingers of both hands
and almost immediately felt the smooth, cool object within. I raised it up and
having discarded the paper still clinging to it saw an enamel egg. I
should have been disappointed - after
all what use was an enamel egg to a boy who spent most of his spare time
playing soldiers or football - but I wasn’t, far from it, and Aunt Mabel
observed my reaction with evident satisfaction. She had judged me well. I had a
soul that, despite my childhood obsessions, could be touched by the alluring appeal
of fine art, and that egg was, without doubt, the most beautiful object I had
ever seen.
“Let me tell you about it,” she said.
“Have you heard of Peter Carl Faberge?”
I shook my head.
“Well, he was a very gifted craftsman,
a jeweller and goldsmith, who made all sorts of lovely things for the Czar of
Russia and other royal people. In addition to everything else he did for the
Czar, each Easter he would make him an egg, like this one, which he decorated
with gold, silver and precious stones. They are wonderful works of art that if
sold today would cost the buyer many, many thousands of pounds. Yes, you may
well open your mouth in disbelief. However, I mustn’t raise your hopes too
high, this is not a Faberge, but it’s the next best thing. This was made by one
of his pupils, who in 1912 set up his own studio in
“Is that the Uncle Bert who was killed
in the war?”
“Yes dear, he was my husband, although
not for very long. We married in 1916 just before he left this country to fight
the Germans on the western front. We should have waited until the end of the
war which was only two years later but we weren’t to know that at the time. We
were young and in love and in far too much of a hurry to wait. We honeymooned
in
“And that’s when he gave you this egg,”
I said, anticipating her next line. “It must have cost him an awful lot of
money.”
“Well, not quite, but it did cost him
his tobacco allowance for two weeks and for someone who loved his pipe as much
as he did that was a high price to pay. You’re looking puzzled, dear boy. Let
me explain. Your great uncle was allowed a quantity of tobacco each day which
he gave to another soldier in exchange
for the egg. How the soldier came to be in possession of it is a mystery we
will probably never have the answer to, but in war, many things are lost and
found, or more likely looted from damaged houses.”
“The thought that I might be in
possession of stolen property, at last, became too much for me and, several years
after the ending of the war, I took the egg to the
“I should have been happy, sold it at
auction and used the money to buy myself an annuity that would have provided me
with an income for life, but I didn’t. A pity, especially as Bert would no
doubt have wanted me to do so. Instead, I kept it on my dressing room table as
if it was a religious relic. You see, I couldn’t bear to be parted from it.
Indeed in my depressed state of mind, it would have seemed like a betrayal of
Bert if I had. It was, of course, a huge mistake. Miserable as I was I should
have come out of mourning after a year and made the most of my life, but I
never did. Life became a terrible burden, and only now it is over am I able to
feel the way I once did. Your parents think I’m a dreadful old hindrance; they
have done their duty by me but derived little pleasure from my company. I
hope, Harry, you will think better of me. At least you now have the egg, so
take good care of it. And if anyone tells you it’s not yours tell them that’s
it’s written in my will. Any questions? No? Then I had better be getting along.
I could be leaving by the side door but if you close your eyes and don’t peep I
can be on my way a little more quickly. I have an important engagement in two
minutes time and I don’t want to be late, not after fifty-one years.”
“You mean you’re off to see Uncle
Bert?”
“I think so, dear, I certainly hope so.
Shut your eyes and wish me luck.”
I did. On opening them again I realised
I had not thanked her for her gift, but by then she was gone.
An hour later my parents returned from
the care home with the news that Aunt Mabel was, in my mother’s words, ‘passed
over’. By then I had finished the
I said nothing about Aunt Mabel doing some of her ‘passing’ by way of our house - they would never have believed me. As for the egg I kept quiet about that too until the reading of her will when I said that she had already given it to me during one of our visits to the care home. As the will said nothing about its likely value and I was equally reticent on that subject my parents assumed that it was an inexpensive bauble which, after a brief inspection by themselves, was soon forgotten.
Twenty years later I sold the egg to the V&A for a good deal less than it was worth and invested most of the cash I received in a new Hillman for my father and a house for myself and the girl I was about to marry. If I had any regrets about the sale they were few in number because by then I was an Assistant Curator at the Museum and therefore able to see the egg on any day of the week that I wanted. More importantly it could also be seen by the many thousands of visitors that every year passed through our doors. It was, I thought, both the right and sensible thing to do, and as I have yet to be struck by lightning I can only assume that Aunt Mabel thinks so too.
Copyright Richard Banks
THE CURSE OF RICHARD PARKER.
By Bob French
The two young boys sat frozen to
their chairs, mesmerised by the old pirate who sat opposite them in his
crinkled old oil-skin coat. His rugged sunburnt face made darker by the
shaggy white beard that partially hid a large scar that ran down the side of
his face. Everything about him smelt of the sea, but what frightened the
boys the most were his eyes; they were a deep bluey-green; the colour of the
sea.
The windows of the old tavern rattled as the wind howled past the coast of East
Tilbury and rushed on down the estuary towards the City of
An old grandfather clocked chimed somewhere in the shadows of the alehouse as
the old pirate looked down at the two boys. He never smiled or
joked. To him, life was a serious matter, not to be fooled with. Then he
began; his voice was gruff and harsh.
“I recalls,” the old pirate leant forward as though about to whisper the
location of a hidden treasure. “That it were a cold and windy night as we
pulled out into the estuary. It were right choppy and the harder we
pulled on them oars the more the sea fought us.” He suddenly leant back,
gripped his leather tankard and drained it then slammed it down on the table,
making the two young boys jump. After he had dragged his sleeve across his
mouth he leant forward again and in a hushed raspy voice started talking.
“The Master’s Mate was an ‘ard man, but fair mind you. His name was
Richard Parker and ‘e didn’t like landlubbers; that’s the name we gives to
those poor fella’s that were nabbed by the Press Gang. Un each time we
got a new batch a’board, he’d treat ‘em ‘ard, so they understood what wus
expected of ‘em.”
“Now on this ship was an officer, by the name of Jethro Wilkinson, who didn’t
like Parker on account of him coming from a common background un ‘im bein’ an
officer thought he acted ‘bove his station. So one night he goes and
tells the cap’m that Parker has stolen a watch belongin’ to one of the
gentlemen landlubbers. The cap’m ‘as his birth searched and finds the stolen
watch. Parker should ‘ave been flogged, but the Cap’m respected ‘im so he
court martials him instead, then discharged ‘im from the Navy. Broke ‘is
heart it did.”
The old pirate looked up and smiled at the young girl as she leant across the
table and placed another tankard of ale down in front of him. When she
left, his face turned serious again as he stared at the young boys.
“Now Parker knew who had set him up and just as he was leaving the ship he
approaches Lieutenant Wilkinson and stared him right in the face and says:”
‘I curse you and your family, un those who come after you, un I condemn all
those of your kin that takes to the sea to everlasting shame.’
As the old pirate looked up, an ice-cold gust of wind suddenly rushed around
the alehouse as someone came in from the cold. The two young boys jumped
at the unwelcome intrusion and quickly held hands for courage.
”Of course Richard Parker was a professional sailor and it weren’t long before
he joined up again. But things had changed since he was a sailor; the wages
were now very poor and the food not much better, so Richard Parker starts a
protest and after a month he’s got several ships crews protesting. Now
the Admirals weren’t havin’ nothing to do with him and after about three weeks
they catches him, and on the 30th of June 1797, they hangs him
from the yardarm just out there in the estuary.” The old pirate took
another swig from his tankard.
“The story goes that Lieutenant
Wilkinson died on the way to
“Like all sailors, they burries Parker at sea, right where that wreck
is.” The old pirate turns and points out of the window towards the
estuary. The two young boys rush to the window and stare at the two masts
that protrude from the churning sea. As the boys concentrate on the grey
waters swirling around the sunken masts they hear the old pirate start to talk
again and quickly return to their seats. As they sit, he quickly glances
around behind him, then leans forward.
“Some say that them shadows that dances on these walls are those of Richard
Parker’s ghost.” The two boys quickly look at the strange moving shadows and
move a little closer to each other.
“In 1944, during the last war, a cargo ship, the SS Richard Montgomery, was
carrying thousands and thousands of tonnes of explosives. Un on the
afternoon of the 30th June it anchored out there in the
estuary. The Officer of the watch, so they says, was a Lieutenant
Jonathan Wilkinson and, for some strange reason, the ship dragged its anchor
and drifted right onto the Great Nore Sand Bank and sticks fast. No one
could understand why it had happened, but Lieutenant Wilkinson was court
martialled and sent back to
“Now the people who were in charge had a big problem on their hands.” The
old pirate nodded in the direction of the sea. “They ‘ad a sunken ship
rottin’ away with thousands of tonnes of high explosives on board. After
several months of talking it were decided to unload her; so a plan was made to
unload her; but the sea was ‘avin’ none of it. Some say it were the
curse, but half way through the operation she splits in two, so they ‘ave to
leave the rest of the high explosives on board.”
“To this day the curse of Richard Parker still hangs over us all, particular
the Wilkinson family.” The old pirate lifts his tankard and takes another
long swig of his ale, then belches, much to the amusement of the two young
boys.
“It don’t end there. A few years back a Mr Malcolm Wilkinson, a big shot
in American airport construction started to invest millions and millions of
dollars in the new Thames Airport Project. Everything was going swell,
according to his press release, until someone told him about the sunken
ammunition ship, the SS Richard Montgomery. After lots of tests, the
experts finally told ‘im that if the
Just then an unwelcome gust of ice-cold wind scurried around the room, sending
the shadows dancing across the wall again. The two boys jumped at the
figures that dances on the wall, then stood up and rushed towards the young
woman who had just come in.
“Mum, Granddad has been telling us the story about the ghost of Richard Parker
and the old ship in the estuary that is going to blow up.” She smiled and
leant across and kissed her father on the forehead.
“Thanks for looking after the boys Dad, I hope you haven’t been filling their
heads with nonsense?”
Copyright Bob French
By Robert KIngston
Fred was a ferret that in my view belonged in the wild. That’s
not to say he wasn’t, six days a week he resided in a hutch in the garden.
One Saturday, having plucked up the courage to tag along for a
workday, I watched as, upon release, he weaved through the undergrowth to a
nearby warren.
Asked to watch the entry hole whilst my sibling tracked to one
beyond a mound, I stood ready to grab whatever surfaced.
last touch ...
a moon-shaped scar
on my thumb
Copyright
Robert Kingston
By Sis Unsworth
Aunt
Mabel called at Easter, we couldn’t believe our eyes.
Just
to see her standing there, was a great surprise.
Grandad
nearly tumbled, and had to hold the gate,
Grandma,
wanted smelling salts, she feared that she would faint.
Mum
and Dad stood staring, their mouths were open wide
Our
tom cat he arched his back, and scurried back inside.
Aunt
Mabel she was standing there, a smile from ear to ear,
“Aren’t
you going to ask me in, don’t keep me standing here!”
She
made a real grand entrance, looking rather smug,
she
laughed and said, “don’t I look good?” and gave our Dad a hug.
“Do
you think I look much younger?” she then began to gloat
and
smiled as she removed, her classy faux fur coat.
“Look
I’ve lost five stone in weight; I’m always at the gym,
It’s
years since you last saw me, so admit I do look slim.
I’ve
bought a whole new wardrobe; this is a size ten frock,
I
expect you are all speechless, because you’ve had a shock.”
Grandad
was the first to speak, and slowly shook his head.
“The
reason that we’re all surprised, we all thought you were dead!”
Copyright
Sis Unsworth
by Richard Banks
He knows you are here and would like to meet you. Would you like to meet him, Tom?”
While it would be impolite to refuse, I’m sensing that once we meet Lancelot’s chum there may be no leaving this place. Tom evidently has no such fears and cheerfully accepts the invitation on behalf of us all. We are escorted further along the High Street to a red brick building that was once the administrative hub of the Parish Council. A policeman stands guard at the door and salutes us as we go in. Lancelot leads us up two flights of stairs before pausing at a door bearing the letters ‘Ai-Ai-Ouch’ and a smiling emoji. Lancelot also smiles in a way that is intended to reassure. “Don’t be alarmed,” he says, “there is nothing to fear, he really is a dear, dear friend.” He turns back to the door and administers two careful raps that are immediately acknowledged by a voice bidding us to enter. We do and Lancelot who is now behind us quickly shuts the door and puts himself firmly against it.
The creature that bids us welcome contorts its long, beak-like face into an expression that is evidently intended to put us at our ease. I’m not sure whether he reminds me of a bird or a reptile, there are bits of both, but my capacity for expressing fear or revulsion is curiously muted.
“Call me Ouch,” he says, “everyone else does.” The creature reaches out a long, black arm at the end of which a large pincher-like hand grasps our own, raising and lowering each one several times before allowing them to fall limply back to our sides. Having awkwardly observed a ritual with which he seems less than familiar he relaxes his face into an impenetrable blankness. The eyes that sparkled are now becalmed. He bids us sit down on the four chairs that have been set-out for us.
Ouch has a deep voice that is almost a growl. He could roar if he wanted to but for now he talks quietly, taking care to do so clearly and precisely. In this he may be assisted by a metal disc on his desk that pulsates with the sound of every word. Ouch enquires solicitously about our health which we assure him has been unaffected by the mist. “Yes,” he says, “it is a tragedy, so many dead. It is the plague that can’t be cured, the emerald cloud in space that lays waste to everything in its path. It comes, consumes and continues on. Nothing can stop or divert it. All that can be done is to limit the damage it causes and render assistance to surviving lifeforms. That’s why we are here. Our mission is to help, and as you can see we already have made a small but promising start. But who are we, you must be thinking; strange creatures indeed if they all look like me.” He gives out what he intends to be a chuckle of amusement. Tom reciprocates with a nervous guffaw. “Well, what can I tell you; we are Carn-a-tuns from the planet Carn-a-tus in a corner of the Universe we call the Golden Spiral. Until recently we were as unaware of yourselves as you were of us but as the mist neared this planet we observed much about it that we could not bear to see destroyed. I only wish we could have done more. Regretfully this village is only one of fifty sites on Earth that we have been able to preserve. But as your proverb says, from little acorns mighty oaks do grow and, with our support, there may soon be many sturdy saplings. As for yourselves I am happy to say that your troubles are at an end. There are 248 good people here, three less than when we arrived. Therefore, there are three vacancies which Lancelot has recommended should be filled by yourselves.”
“But, what about the others?” I say, in a voice that sounds less than grateful. Ouch seems disconcerted by my intervention. The look of benevolence that has returned to his face momentarily falters but is rescued by the turning-on of his smile; this time it is a wistful, apologetic smile. “They can not be admitted,” he says, “regretfully they would overburden the limited resources of the village. But they will, I assure you, receive all the assistance we can offer. They have already been given the liquid they need and will soon be relocated to a place of safety. They send you their best wishes. I assure you their troubles are very much at an end. Now, as for yourselves I suggest you return to the Green Dragon, have another glass of the landlord’s excellent ale and meet the people with whom you will be billeted.”
So, that’s what we do, and our fears and uncertainties vanish as we drink the liquid refreshment that is offered us. By the time we are taken to our new homes we are feeling more satisfied with life than anyone has a right to. Am I drunk? I don’t think so. In the morning it may be different, but when I wake up I still have this strange new feeling of carefree contentment. The man whose house I now share seems equally happy with life and when, in the afternoon, he proposes marriage I have no hesitation in accepting - well, it would have been rude to refuse. Tom and Clem have also settled into village life. Tom is the Town Clerk while Clem works for a farmer who has two daughters who constantly compete for his attention. Even by the standards of the village he is a happy man.
So, it has all ended well, although, of course, nothing has truly ended. Life continues and new things happen that require us to adapt and change. Not that this makes us any less happy. The new things may be good, bad or indifferent but none of them have the power to change the way we feel. We observe and accept everything that comes our way. Lancelot tells us we should be grateful to our benefactors and we are. As long as we have the landlord’s special ale how can we be anything but grateful.
The
Carn-it-tuns are now a common sight in the village. It seems that Ouch and his
fellow decision makers have decided that our regeneration should go hand in
hand with the village becoming a heritage and visitor centre. Our Carn-it-tun
visitors wander about the village observing us at work and play which we
endeavour to make as entertaining as possible. Cheese making and straw plaiting
is what I do, while others milk cows, plough fields or chase foxes. There is
skittles in the Dragon, and Morris dancing in the street outside. Our visitors
seem genuinely interested in everything we do and, unable to distinguish
between public and private places, often find their way into our homes. They
seem most interested in the babies, of which I now have two, and our WCs which
are a constant source of puzzlement to them. When they ask, through their
translation discs, what they are for I flush away several sheets of tissue and
they depart even more puzzled than before. Sometimes they forget to turn-off
their discs and we discover that they are journeying on to other visitor
attractions: to
I should be feeling all sorts of strong emotion but nothing can disturb the warm glow of happy indifference that shields me from everything that should trouble me. It is the same for everyone else. For the first time in our lives we have been freed from the tyranny of sadness and anxiety. We lack for nothing. Our situation steadily improves. Children are born in increasing numbers and the land which was dead is now almost back to normal. We have been allocated two new fields while the rest of the land outside the village is tended by huge machines that Ouch assures us will produce new crops, the like of which we have never seen before. There will be some for us, he says, a special treat to mark the fifth anniversary of their coming. We murmur our thanks and raise our glasses to him. Happy, happy, happy! Has life ever been this good?
[The End]
Copyright Richard Banks
