The Birthmark 

Jane Scoggins 

A hot July day in Southend On Sea and Jackie and Julie linked arms and strolled along the seafront towards the ice-cream kiosk.

‘Not a cloud in the sky’ said Jackie as she raised her face to the sun. ‘What a perfect day’ 

Julie squeezed her mum’s arm and felt a bit sad as she felt the thinness of her arm. And put to the back of her mind her Mum’s sadness. How unfair she thought to herself before turning and beaming at her mum. 

‘I told you it would be a beautiful day today and Southend has come up trumps.’

Southend had been a last minute decision for a day out.

‘There are a couple of deckchairs free over there, you go and sit on one and I will get us ice-creams.’ 

Julie came back laughing with two ice creams melting down the sides of the cones and dropped down into the second deckchair beside Jackie. They sat silently for a few minutes eating their ice creams conscious of the hot sun in a race to melt them before they were reduced to a completely sticky mess.

They sat watching the world go by; secretly storing up their observations to share and talk about later when they were out of earshot of the subjects of their observations.

They had always loved people watching and it was something that bound them together as mother and daughter. They had the same sense of amusement. Julies Dad hadn’t quite got it but he was always tolerant and indulgent and accepted that he was not on their wavelength as far as humour was concerned.  Today was the second anniversary of his death, and wife and daughter had visited his grave first thing that morning and laid down two red roses beside his headstone. Dad had been so proud of his ‘two beauties’ as he had called them, with their thick auburn hair and brown eyes. A thorn between two roses he had called himself as he put his arm around the pair of them.  He had always wondered how a geek like himself had managed to capture the heart of such a beautiful vivacious girl as Jackie. But capture her heart he had, and many happy years together had followed. 

A simple tale of love and loss. A group of teenagers laughing and jostling, chatting and happy went past. The girls in cut off denim shorts with wide leather belts on their hips, skimpy striped bikini tops with shoestring ties.  Growing up Julie had always been conscious of an operation scar on her chest and shoulder and had always been reluctant to show much upper body bare skin in public.

Mother and daughter sat for a while longer enjoying the day and observing the passers by. A middle-aged couple strolled past holding hands and Julie thought ‘That should be my mum and dad’. When the man turned around to look at her Julie thought she must have spoken out loud without realising, felt a bit embarrassed and automatically put her hand to her mouth as if to stop any further inappropriate thoughts escaping. 

The man paused and the woman looked on expectantly as he looked again at Julie and then to her mother.  His hand also went to his mouth as if wanting to delay his speech before he committed himself to speaking...  He directed his words carefully and hesitatingly to Jackie. ’You aren’t by any chance Jackie Mills are you?’ Julie looked at her mum and Jackie looked at the man and for a couple of seconds, there was silence as she looked searchingly at his face.

‘Yes I am’ she said hesitatingly, clearly not as yet making any connection with whoever the man was...

And then the penny dropped and with caution, she said ‘And are you Dave Fox by any chance?’

Simultaneously they both beamed at one another in complete recognition.

Jackie rose as quickly and as elegantly as was possible from the awkward position of sitting in a low slung deckchair, clutching her handbag and cardigan.

 Dave Fox stepped forward and took her hand. ‘Jackie Mills I cant believe it, after all these years. You have hardly changed at all.’ 

 Jackie’s hand self consciously went to smooth her once abundant burnished chestnut hair that had been her crowning glory, and for which she was known and recognised through her teens. She had turned the heads of many a young man with her pretty face and gorgeous hair. Dave had been one of those young men. To look at him now, a man that had not reached middle age unscathed in terms of hair thinning and lines on his face he was not readily identifiable to the untrained eye as the cool handsome slinky hipped youth who sang with a band and had a following of girls as long as your arm. 

‘Well, I never. can it really be you?’ Jackie looked into his face and then turned to her daughter. ‘Dave this is my daughter Julie’. 

‘I can see that, she is the living spit of you. And this is my wife Mandy.’

By way of explanation, Jackie explained to Julie that they had hung out together when they were young and that she used to travel about with him in a crowd when the band went to play at clubs and festivals.

After Dave and Mandy had said their goodbyes and gone on their way Julie and Jackie sat down again whilst Jackie gathered together her memories and shared them with Julie explaining that Dave was known as ‘The Fox that rocks’ Julie began to get a new view of her mother, as a rock chick, a groupie even. Julies mind is suddenly opened up to another world, one that she had not imagined her mother inhabiting. Her father had been a much more serious sort of man than Dave. She considered the contrast. 

When they got up to walk along the seafront looking for somewhere to eat Jackie continued to chat about the past. Meeting with Dave had prompted those dormant memories.

Julie also found herself thinking about Dave and her observations of him. True his face was no longer that of a handsome young rock singer, but he certainly had a twinkle in his eye. The most impressive part of him was his well-honed tanned upper body above his jeans. The day was hot and he had his T-shirt thrown across his shoulder.

It was not until he pulled his T-shirt from his shoulder as he said goodbye and turned to go that Julie could see the full extent of a rather beautiful and intricate tattoo that swept across his right shoulder and down onto his chest. Beneath the tattoo she was sure she could see an irregular patch of pink skin that was not tanned, and as if by coincidence almost matched the same scarred area on her own shoulder and chest where she had had a large birthmark removed as a child.

Copyright Jane Scoggins

 

The Family Meeting

 The Family Meeting

by Sis Unsworth

My Grandma called a meeting, it was some time ago,

there was Mum & Dad, and uncle Fred who came with auntie Flo.

The problem was that my old Gran, who lived there on her own,

was feeling quite abandoned, living all alone.

“Could one of you please take me in, I’d not be in your way?

I do get rather lonely, now I’m old and grey.”

Gran sat in the corner, a strange look on her face,

she listened as they argued, who would take her to their place,

we children listened tentatively, all sitting still and calm,

but as the rows got heated, they filled us with alarm.

Dad said “our house is full, no room for Gran to stay,

go to Fred and Flo’s” he said, “It’s better off that way.”

Uncle Fred got rather cross, and shouted at my Dad,

I glanced across at my old Gran, she did look rather sad.

My Mum then screamed at aunty Flo, “we can’t have her with us,”

we children loved our dear old gran, and wondered why the fuss.

Just then we heard the doorbell ring, out there in the hall,

and then a strange thing happened, Gran stood up really tall.

A huge black chauffeured limousine, arrived at Grans front door,

there was total silence, as she walked across the floor.

“That will be for me,” we heard our smiling Grandma say,

“for I have won the Euro, now I’ll be on my way.”

What happened then, I rubbed my eyes, I just could not believe,

for Mum & Dad & Fred & Flo, were all down on their knees,

“Oh come and live with us,” they all began to cry,

Gran just said, “you had your chance, and waved us all goodbye.

They all sent begging letters, and were shocked about the news,

that Gran had had a facelift, and gone off on a cruise.

She was kinder to us children, I really have to say,

we had expensive presents, each Christmas and birthday.

But Grandma did return one day, much to our surprise,

she pulled up in a taxi, right before our eyes.

“Could someone pay the taxi?” Gran said with a grin,

“as I’ve spent all my winnings, now who will take me in?”

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

Tylywoch ~ 19

 Tylywoch ~ 19  Luckless Thieves

By Len Morgan 

For Galt the busy cloth merchant and his entrepreneur wife Amree, clothing designer commissioner of exquisite creations for court and streetwear, life went on as usual.   People still needed clothing be there peace or threat of war.   She kept busy visiting her seamstresses whilst Galt met and dealt with his merchant acquaintances, buying and selling, turning a profit.   Food, clothing, precious metals and gems were at a premium, given the uncertain political climate.   There were pickings to be made by a man with a cool nerve and he was cooler than most.   Back at the premises, their new assistant Weilla was hard at work receiving and despatching goods on promissory notes penned in Galt’s fair hand.   She was in control having full powers to use their finances as she chose, paying large sums on little more than verbal instructions.   The leader of a local gang of racketeers rubbed his hands together at the thought of easy money, deciding to give the premises a call whilst Galt was not around.   His reputation as a tough operator meant nothing, in his absence, not when a young slip of a girl could be bullied into parting with more than the paltry sum currently being paid for their protection.   So, the foot soldiers took it upon themselves to go in and rob the establishment, and make it appear that looters had hit the premises.

To some women, the slim 17 year old would be considered good looking, but unfortunately, he had several rather anti-social traits.   He was a thief, he didn’t wash nearly as often as he ought, and harboured a penchant for violence towards his female acquaintances.   It had become so bad that even prostitutes avoided associating with him.   But, his biggest mistake to date would be his last.   He approached the cloth merchants’ premises with the intention of robbing and overpowering the young female assistant and…   He licked his lips in anticipation. 

Weilla’s eyes followed the approach of the cocky young street shark with interest.   She read his fortune in his dirty unkempt appearance his threadbare clothing and down at heels footwear.   His self confident swagger only added to the effect, confirming his felonious intent.   As he and his nefarious looking cronies entered the premises she fixed them with a confident friendly smile.  

“Good morning gentlemen, can I be of assistance?”

“Are you alone?” he asked.

“Maybe,” she answered, “What kind of a greeting is that?”

He reached out to grab her, by way of reply.

She took half a step back, he gained confidence, an ugly smirk appeared on his face.

“Anybody leaving a store in the care of a ripe little plum, like you, deserves to return and find it empty and the ripe fruit plucked!”  He lunged, she side stepped easily out of his reach, her trailing leg tripping him into a heavy fall, which looked like a complete accident. 

“Get her!” he yelled from his unaccustomed sitting position.   The two heavies rushed her from either side, grabbing air where she had been.   Neither saw the powerful Rabat punches that displaced several cervical bones causing instant paralysis.   “You little..” he rushed her, his face red with anger.   He didn’t see the balled fist that fractured his trachea, folding him in half like a rag doll.   He drowned in his own blood, but within minutes she had deposited them across the street.   They look, to the casual observer, to be just three more drunks sleeping off their overindulgence of the previous night.

Had somebody observed the incident it would have appeared that they entered the shop and collapsed in a drunken stupour.    But, the keen eyed Wilden had witnessed the confrontation and knew better.   He’d located a member of the 13^th Clan, a new arrival in the city.   Could she be turned, He wondered?

 

[To be continued]

 

Copyright Len Morgan

THE GREAT BIKE BOOK

 THE GREAT BIKE BOOK

by Richard Banks

      The first time I saw the old man he was sitting on a wooden bench outside Holy Trinity between the churchyard wall and Rayleigh High Street. He seemed deep in thought, and gloomy thoughts at that. In fact, I have never seen such a despondent expression. Although the focus of his unhappy gaze appeared to be directed across the road at the Half Moon public house, he was as oblivious to the comings and goings of its clientele as he was to the high performance sports car which came screeching to a halt in front of a red traffic signal. The lights changed to green and the car roared away through the thickening winter haze that was beginning to obscure the moon-like luminance of the church clock. It was no night for lingering, especially for someone of his age, so I decided to see if he was okay. As I crossed the road towards him he raised himself up and with a sad shake of his head headed-off through the church lychgate and down the pathway that led towards the old church. By the time I reached the gate he was out of sight.

      It was not until several weeks later that I discovered, from a long-standing resident, that I had seen nothing less than Rayleigh’s very own ghost. He was, by all accounts, an unusually prolific ghost who was unstinting in his personal appearances even to the extent of wheeling a bicycle into the library on one stiflingly hot summer’s day. Indeed, few of the people who saw him ever knew he was a ghost. He looked real enough and although his clothes could hardly be described as modern they were not sufficiently dated to attract much attention. As to who he was, nothing was known. Neither local records, nor the colourful recollections of the town’s old stagers, succeeded in identifying a single credible candidate for Rayleigh’s ghostly cyclist. The only clue to his identity came from several eye witnesses who claimed that the words ‘Donaldson Flyer’ were emblazoned on the frame of his machine, a name unknown to local cycling clubs and the British Cycling Federation. It was a mystery that might have remained a mystery had it not been for a remarkable twist of fate that brought me to a hotel in Dumfries some two years later. 

         I was on holiday and heading for the Ayrshire coast when an unseasonable mist descended from a grey sky, reducing visibility to a few yards. Within an hour I was lost, and with the evening darkness beginning to gather I was resigned to spending the night in my car at the side of the road. I pulled over and turned-off the engine and in the quiet of a country road heard the unmistakable tones of a traditional Scottish Dance Band. To my immense good fortune I had stopped within fifty yards of the Blair Inn, a small pub cum hotel, which that evening was hosting a wedding party. They had one vacant room left and I lost no time in checking in. The landlord’s wife, good soul that she was, cooked me dinner, which I ate in the relative peace of the small snug bar next door to the wedding festivities. There were several large black and white photographs on the walls which, for the want of nothing better to do, I examined in detail. In one, a group of about forty country people were gathered in the hotel forecourt, apparently prior to boarding a coach which could be seen in the background. It was an unremarkable photograph, in which I was fast losing interest, when I saw a familiar figure standing slightly aloof from the group with bike in hand. It was him, unmistakably him, the same old man I had seen on that winter’s evening in Rayleigh! 

     “Have you finished, sir?” Unobserved by myself the landlord’s wife had entered the room and was standing to one side of the table where I sat. 

     “The photograph…” I stuttered. 

     “Yes, sir?” She gave me a queer look that made me get a grip on myself. 

      “The photograph,” I repeated. “Was it taken long ago?”

      “Just after the war, sir. All the young men were just out of the forces, and my father, who was then the landlord here, organised this day trip to the coast to celebrate.” 

     “Are you in it?” I asked. 

      “Yes, sir, bless you, although you won’t recognise me. That’s me, the little one in pigtails, at the front with the other children.”

      “And what about” - I scarcely dared ask, would she remember?

       “the old man with the bicycle, who is he?”

      “Oh,” she replied, without a moment’s hesitation, “that’s Willie Donaldson, a real character if ever there was one.” She began to clear away the dinner things.

      “Did you know him well?” I said, trying to delay her departure and keep her talking on the subject of Willie Donaldson. She seemed surprised at my interest but needed little prompting to continue talking. 

      “He was the village blacksmith and a bit of an inventor on the side. That bike there is one he designed and made himself. The Donaldson Flyer he called it, much to everyone’s amusement. He tried to get it patented, but it cost too much. A pity that; my father said it was a good machine that might have sold well had Willie been able to get financial backing. However, you can’t keep a good man down and after he retired Willie decided to go travelling on his bike and to write a book about it; a kind of travelogue that would be of interest to other cyclists. Said he was going to call it the Great Bike Book of Britain and that it would make him rich and famous.” 

     “And did it?” I asked. 

     “No,” she replied with a twinkle in her eye, “but not for the want of trying. In the next two years Willie travelled far and wide, keeping a daily record of his journey in a log which he kept in his saddle bag. He used to send my father postcards from different parts of the country, which were read by all the village folk who used the Inn. After a while my father hung a map of Great Britain in the public bar and charted Willie’s progress by sticking drawing pins in the places he had passed through. One of the customers kept a count of how far he had cycled. By the time Willie reached Essex he had done over five thousand miles. The last postcard we got from him was posted in Southend, near London. It was the day before the Queen’s coronation. That evening he reached a small town called Ranleigh, or some such name, where his bicycle was stolen. The poor old chap hung about the place for several days, hoping to catch sight of it, but it was never seen again. Even worse was the loss of his precious manuscript with which he had hoped to make his name. He returned to the village soon after but was never the same man again. A few months later he was dead; died of a broken heart they say. I don’t doubt it, life can be cruel. What a pity he wasn’t to know that within a few weeks his saddle bag and the manuscript within it would be found and returned to the village. Of the bicycle there was no trace.”

      “And what became of the manuscript?” I asked. 

    She laughed, “It’s right behind you sir, in that glass case on the wall. No one knew what to do with it, so in the end all the regulars clubbed together to have it put on display. It wasn’t quite the fame he was hoping for, but I think the old fellow would have approved.” 

      I left the hotel the following day without disclosing the story of Willie’s ghostly apparitions. After pondering some while on what to do, I eventually wrote to the landlord and his wife, setting out the facts as I knew them and enclosing all the supporting evidence I could muster. With their agreement, and the support of the local antiquarian society, we had Willie’s manuscript published on the worldwide web, along with an account of his life and his equally colourful afterlife. To date the site has received over 400,000 hits and has achieved something approaching cult status.

      Willie’s ghost still continues to haunt the precincts of Holy Trinity, but we think that he quite likes the place now. He was last seen smiling broadly at the brass plate that we had fixed to the church lychgate. It reads, ‘Here is remembered William Donaldson, author of the Great Bike Book, who visited this town in June 1953. May he rest in peace’.

 

The End.

 

Copyright Richard Banks

 My Sister’s face

By Janet Baldey

It was when my sister’s heart stopped beating that suspicion dawned.  We weren’t close and I’d been called to her bedside as her only living relative, my parents having recently died - I hadn’t attended their funeral, as I said, we weren’t close. 

I stared at the woman lying before me as if seeing her for the first time.  Framing her delicate features, glossy waves of ash blonde hair flowed over the pillow and not a single line marred her face.  Anne Marie looked no different from when I’d left home twenty years ago and I wondered - how could anyone who looked so well, be so dead?

         Her funeral did nothing to assuage my unease.  It was a lavish affair, obviously orchestrated from beyond the grave and without a doubt, my parent’s wishes had been followed explicitly. Anne-Marie’s ornate casket dominated the centre of a large private room in a luxurious hotel, sited in the best part of town.  The décor was immaculate, crystal sparkled and fine wine flowed.  Canapes were being handed round on silver platters by dark suited waiters and the mellow sound of harps was piped from every corner.  I couldn’t help wondering whether the arrangements would have been so extravagant if it had been my funeral.   I thought not.

         I weaved my way through the other mourners all suitably dressed in the obligatory black.  I knew none of these people, my parents always made sure I was kept out of the way when they held their soirees although Anne Marie was paraded before them, wearing yet another new party frock in some pastel shade or other.  My parents liked pale colours, which made me all the more determined not to.

         At last, I stood by the side of her coffin.  Again, I stared at her face, trying to find some family likeness. I searched hard but could see none.  She was fair and I was dark and all at once I saw myself through my parents’ eyes.  The plain and awkward younger daughter.  Then, suddenly something caught my eye and an icy hand squeezed my heart.  I gasped.  If one looked hard, as I was doing, you could see that her face was starting to degrade. Her hands were artfully arranged in front of her but instead of the blue tracery of veins, it looked as though they were strung together with wires.    The room began to jerk and dance around me and I clutched at the white satin lining the casket.  There was the sound of agitated whispering and I heard a low voice mutter something.  As limp as a wet lettuce, I slumped and, as I did, felt a strong arm hold me upright and I was escorted out of the room and into a small office where I was lowered into a chair.

         “Here. Drink this.”  A glass was pressed into my hand and reluctantly I took a sip.  Expecting water, I was shocked into consciousness as the bitter liquid burned my throat. 

         “We thought you knew.” 

         The voice came from Mr Ambrose, the family solicitor.  Open-mouthed, I watched him as the unthinkable sank in.   He must have read my expression, because his buttoned-up exterior, softened. 

“Don’t think too badly of them.  You must remember that before you came along they’d given up hope of ever having a child of their own.  So, they decided on the next best thing and hence Anne Marie.  She filled a need and very soon they grew to love her as if……”  His voiced trailed away.

         “as if she were real.”  My unspoken words finished off his sentence.  I was appalled.  I’d grown used to feeling inferior to Anne-Marie.  She was the bright, glowing elder daughter, the apple of my parent’s eyes, and I was the runt.  I saw the unease in Mr Ambrose’s eyes as he struggled for words and I wondered if he had any idea of what it had been like growing up in a family like mine.  Sometimes it felt as though I was an annoying fly on the wall, at best disregarded and at worse swatted out of the way.  All my parent’s ministrations were directed towards Anne-Marie.  My mother’s face lit up when she entered the room and immediately the spotlight fell upon her and I was ignored.  I could well understand why.  Tall, slim and poised, no blemish ever spoiled the perfection of her skin and she looked equally as good wearing her school uniform as she did the frothy dresses my parents chose for her. Clever too, all her grades were A-plus starred, as my parents were keen to tell their friends, disregarding their glazed eyes.   My A’s, B’s and occasional C’s were not mentioned.  I was the polar opposite of my brilliant elder sister and my looks were not helped by my sulky resentment.  It was a poisonous shock to realise all that time I’d been jealous of a facsimile.

         During my childhood, as far as I was aware, the only advantage I had was that I was healthy and Anne-Marie was not.  Every six months she failed, her complexion dulled her hair grew lank and she took to her bed.  Within days she was admitted to hospital.  “For treatment.  You must be very kind to her Trudy.”  There was invariably a look of reproof on my mother’s face as she said this.  To me, these hospital forays were a welcome respite.  For a week or so, I had my mother to myself and I was so happy.

         However, my delight never lasted long.  Inevitably Anne-Marie would re-appear and the status quo would resume.  Jealousy is a terrible thing, it defiles the soul and it wasn’t until I’d left home and met Laura that I found true contentment.  Laura was the one who bolstered my shattered ego, she was the one who praised the colour of my eyes, convinced me that I was slim and coaxed me out of shapeless garments and into high fashion.  However, even Laura could never have imagined what I now knew to be the truth and I wondered what her reaction would be. I felt a longing to be with her.  I yearned to listen to her voice, as calm as rippling water flowing over pebbles.  In her cool, matter-of fact way, she would make sense of people like my parents who preferred perfection over their own flesh and blood.

         I came to, realising that Mr Ambrose was talking to me.  “Of course, although your parents were wealthy people, looking after Anne-Marie was an expensive business, state of the art technology does not come cheap and there were all those upgrades…” He sighed.

         Upgrades, of course. That was what they were.  Anne-Marie had never seen the inside of a hospital, as such.  My head ached as I fought to come to terms with the fact that I had been fighting a robot and had lost.  Of course, I knew they were now common but the ones I’d seen were clunky-looking mannikins used for chores no-one else wanted to do.  I had no idea they had become so sophisticated.  Of course, money talked as it always did.

         I tried to concentrate on Mr Ambrose.  He was talking money now and as suddenly as if someone had thrown iced water over me, I came too.  The small sum he mentioned was, to me, not small at all.  If we were careful, and thrifty Laura would make sure we were, there was enough to make all our dreams come true. I felt like jumping for joy.  My past might have been a desert but I was head for the sunny uplands.

Copyright Janet Baldey

A JUBILEE CELIBRATION NEVER TO BE FORGOTTEN

By Bob French

I had just cleared the arrivals terminal at Stansted when my mobile bleeped.  I was tired and hungry and all I really wanted to do was have a quiet beer and get my head down.  A taxi pulled up just as I stepped out into the bitter cold wind of May, causing me to curse the English weather.  That’s the problem with working overseas.  Whenever you got back to Blighty, it was always bloody freezing or raining. The driver asked me “Where to?”  and I told him to head towards Braintree, then rested my head back and drifted off.

My nap was interrupted by my mobile going off again, so I eased it out of my pocket and read it

”RV at 218-2115.2805”.

I smiled; always the James Bond. The text told me that Geoff, my brother, wanted to meet me at quarter past nine in the evening on the 28 of May at the pre-arranged Braintree Premier Inn, room 218. I was inquisitive as why he wanted me to get back to home for June. 

I had left Blighty some five years ago having completed my tour of duty with the Royal Marines and took a job out in Saudi Arabia teaching the Royal Body Guards close quarter protection. Even though Geoff wrote to me once in a while to tell me what he was up to and how much Mum missed me, I rarely replied. I knew he had found his niche as a wheeler and dealer; a sort of modern day ‘Dell Boy’, something I didn’t totally go along with.

Whenever I got any leave, I would normally go off scuba diving off the Seychelles or climbing in the Himalayas rather than go back to England, that was until I received his letter last month.  It sounded serious and that he needed my help, so I came.

The taxi dropped me off outside McDonalds where I grabbed a Big Mac and a coke and devoured them as I walked through the park to my home.  I let myself into my small hideaway bungalow on the outskirts of Braintree, emptied my kit into the washing machine and crashed on the sofa and started to think what my brother was up to.

Geoff was always involved in shady deals and if there was a lot of dosh involved, he’d take a chance.  I was surprised that he hadn’t yet come un-stuck with some of the low life he delt with.

It was raining on the evening of the 28^th of May, as I gave the pre-arranged knock-on room 218 and smiled.  Geoff pulled open the door and dragged me inside and gave me one of his hugs that nearly took my breath away.

“Good to see you, Mike.  How’s tricks?”

          After an hour of catch-up and some intense discussion about what the job was, I stood, nodded my acceptance and went towards the door. Geoff blocked my way, then hugged me again and started to reiterated the task.

          “Now remember Mike, it has to be done on the fifth of June at three in the afternoon at the Palace.  I smiled at the mention of the place and now how difficult it would be to gain access. There will be hundreds of people milling around all over the place and increased security around the Palace and throughout London.  I have been informed that it will be by invitation only, so you’re going to have to fix that, OK?  I will tell you who your target is nearer the day, until then just do your normal recce thing, look at your approaches, escape route, you know, all the usual stuff OK.”

I nodded and left the room, taking the back stairs to the car park and noticed that it had stopped raining. As I started to slowly walk home, I thought how I was to get close to my target without being noticed. There would be cameras all around and as Geoff said, Security would be beefed up. 

          I rose early on Monday the 30^th of May and walked down to the station and caught the train into London to recce the areas surrounding the Palace; the approaches, the security arrangements and possible exit routes including back-up plans in case things went west.  I could see the place was already getting ready for the Jubilee celebrations, but made sure I was not noticed.  I stayed until after three to make sure things didn’t change. Once I was happy with everything, I quietly made my way back to Braintree.

Plans and options rushed through my mind. I knew the whole city would be packed; with people wanting to see the celebrations being provided throughout the weekend. I was glad in a way that the job wasn’t on the same day as the thanks giving service at St Paul’s; being a good Irish Catholic, you never interfered with the business of God, no matter how important. 

It was late on Thursday the second of June, when I received a phone call from Geoff. All he said was the name of the target, before the phone went dead. I sat stunned.  The one person I would love and serve until my dying day. So I finished off my pizza from Dominos and relaxed back into my easy chair with a beer to watch the TV.  Everything was set.

The morning of fifth of June was a bright sunny day as I drove my hire car to Hatfield Peverel and parked up.  Bought a return ticket into London with cash and waited for the Colchester Train to arrive.  When it did, it was packed with revelers, all singing and waving Union flags and singing, so I mingled with them.

Geoff had explained the need for timing so I gauged my arrival in London to give me bags of time to approach the Palace, sus out the security before gaining access and doing the job.

As I sat in the park eating a cheese and chutney sandwich, I listened to the noise of the crowds as they filed past, some singing, some already too far gone with drink. Then I hear a church bell chime in the distance and knew it was three o’clock. I knew from experience that if someone else knew when a job was going down, the first thing you did was arrive late, so the security bods would think it was a hoax and relax.

Binning the remains of the sandwich, I casually strolled towards the Palace.  I could see that the surrounding areas were packed and security had been beefed up but I had a distraction planed.  At exactly ten past three, the two kids I had given five pounds to and some Chinese fire crackers, set them off.  Instantly the two Men in Black turned and ran towards the threat.  I slipped past them into a busy stateroom full of people.  The heat of the place and the smell of tobacco and stale beer hit me in the face as I quickly glanced around the room, until my eyes fell on a very elderly white-haired woman in an elegant pink dress sitting in an arm chair with a Corgi sat at her feet. 

I made a determined move towards her, but it was too late.  I had been identified and people were starting to point at me and screaming; some running towards me.  I had to get close to my target so started to increase my pace. I could see the fear in her eyes, then she put up her arms as though to stop me, and screamed.

I knelt down and took her hands.

“Hi Mum, I’m home. Happy birthday.” 

Copyright Bob French

Up cycling

 Up cycling 

 

By Rob Kingston

 

On the side is a jumper. It’s a colourful jumper with a pattern that speaks of a journey.

It has buttons now, the buttons are not the same size nor colour, with one standing out with a picture of a clock. Closer inspection reveals it is buttonholed to the right.

 

learning to write

with his best arm behind

war soldier

 

morning news…

in Ukraine a surgeon 

teaches skin grafts

to seventy students

in a week