Tylywoch ~ 20

 Tylywoch ~ 20  Elementals 1 

By Len Morgan

   Wilden cast his mind back thirty years when the seekers arrived in his village for tribute of cattle and initiates.   They chose indiscriminately, taking one in five children aged thirteen.   He was torn away from his loving family who assured him it was a great honour to be chosen, but he did not want to go.   He smiled with hindsight, as he recalled the tears.   But, his wants were of little moment to Bedelacq the one true god.   He became part of a herd of 30 young men driven, from town to town, like cattle.   The herd increased at every stop.   At night they were haltered, and by day forced to run non-stop, behind the cattle and horses.  The young women were treated differently; they were placed in three enormous box wagons following the procession.   At evening, food and water were placed beneath the canvas flaps, at either side of the wagons, in the morning the flaps were opened and the food was gone.   He recalled envying those well-fed and pampered prospective ‘brides of Bedelacq’.   Whilst they, and the cattle, would at best become slaves to his brides.   They survived, at far below subsistence level, they grew lean and mean on gruel supplemented with anything they could find, catch, or steal.   They took from those weaker than themselves, and those who failed to survive were decapitated and bled into large bronze receptacles and stripped of their flesh.   The survivors ate well on such occasions and never questioned the source of their good fortune.   The charred bones were plainly evident in the smouldering ashes of the campfires at dawn.   They headed steadily north, towards the mountains, he noted, after months of travelling, they no longer added to their complement, from the towns they passed.   New additions would have been eaten alive by the ravenous, wild-eyed, pack of wolf children, who had replaced the docile innocents of a few months earlier.   They had been systematically stripped of all dignity, compassion, and humanity.  

Now gaunt and hungry, they were prepared to fight to the death without provocation.   Even the Seekers became wary of them, attaching restraints at night and going around in pairs.   When the Priest Leader judged them to be ready; their numbers reduced from fifty to twenty; they could be herded to Blutt Central.   To him, they were merely the survivors. The raw material or distillate, the elemental substance that might produce half a dozen acolytes, of whom, one in a hundred might become a priest.   The remainder would simply be fuel expended on the gods work. 

The young females, as he now knew fared no better.   Through out their conversion, and transformation into ‘brides of Bedelacq – the one god’ they would have been aware of how the boys were treated and been envious.   The distillation of twenty females to just four had been both slow and painful.   The survivors considered themselves to be the unlucky ones. 

He recalled being herded into a corral with seven other acolytes, cold, naked, dirty, ravaged with hunger and thirst.

On either side young women either viewed them dispassionately or jeered derisively.   A group of young women approached them fastening collars around their necks, leaving them on display for public inspection.

Wilden toyed unconsciously with the thin leather thong around his throat, symbolic of the thick studded collar he’d received that day.

He remembered the young woman approaching him and attaching her leash to his collar. 

“Down!” she’d commanded, jerking sharply on the leash, bringing him involuntarily to his knees.   “Good Boy,” she said without emotion, patting him on the head like a hound, and placing a chunk of raw meat into his mouth.   “Eat!” she commanded.   He recalled the taste; it was the most delicious food he’d eaten since home; a distant memory.   She handed him a carafe of liquid, “Drink!”   He obeyed; it had a slightly saline taste, and faint yellowish tinge, but was far better than the earthy ditch water he’d been forced to drink in order to survive the journey.   There was something added to the water, something with an addictive quality, because to this day he still required a little of that liquid on a regular basis, always from the hands of that same young woman.   He smiled once again, recalling her long serious face, those large sienna eyes with dark dilated pupils.  Forceful, piercing and unblinking, those eyes gazed at him and through him without fear or pity.   He recalled a cool wayward breeze ruffling her long straight black shoulder length hair, and wondered how it dared to do so.   He gazed in wonder at those moist dark pink lips, slightly parted, revealing strong white teeth.   She stood motionless before him as if inviting his worship.   He was acutely aware of her scent, the sweet smell of her breath and skin.   He lowered his gaze in shame, to her dainty delicate feet, defiled by dust from the compacted earth floor of the compound. 

“Clean them!” she commanded as if reading his mind.

He knelt before her.   She raised her left foot to the level of his face.   He brushed it rhythmically with his hands then poured water from the carafe massaging it gently. Finally, he dried it on his now long brown hair, wiping her sole on his thigh.   She raised her other foot and he repeated his act of obeisance.  

“They are still dirty,” she said in slow metronomic syllables, “clean them!”  

He lowered his head licking and wiping them until finally, she appeared satisfied. 

“Come!” she commanded jerking simultaneously on the leash, bringing him to his feet.   She stood head and shoulders above him; tall slim and sinuous.   Where she walked he followed, she never cast a backward glance, so supremely confident was she of her control over him.  Some smiled as she passed; had she but glanced back she would have known the true measure of her power over him.   He prayed she wouldn’t look, as he fought to control his wayward member…  His prayer was answered.    

Throughout that first meeting, he was conscious of a voice within his head.  Calmly Reassuring, soothing him, counselling him to obey her; so that no harm would befall him.

She led him, through a maze of corridors, to a door one amongst many.  

She made unfamiliar hand gestures before the door causing it to open.   

“I am third hand maid to Mawgwrr the Premier Bride,” she announced proudly.   “You are my slave, and will call me mistress…”

“What is your name mistress?” he asked.

She was not fazed and didn’t raise her voice at his great impudence.   “My name is mistress Glamhorten.   I will overlook you speaking to me without being asked because I have not yet instructed you in mistress-slave etiquette.   You are allowed to speak only when asked.   Do you understand?”

“Yes,” he replied at once.

She carefully selected a thin whippy cane from a sheaf of similar implements standing upright in a tall wicker bin beside the door.  

“When not engaged in an activity at my request, you will kneel, head bowed before me or beside me as directed,” she said in a calm quiet voice.   “The answer I required was YES MISTRESS!!” she spoke sharply for emphasis, punctuating the syllables with vicious blows to his back.  

He winced as the full sting of those powerful biting blows exploded in his mind, milliseconds later.  

‘Be still, do not react, be grateful for this lesson in behaviour,’ said the voice within him. 

“Yes, Mistress.” He said in a servile voice, through streaming eyes, before she could follow up with further blows.

She took a hank of his hair and slowly wiped the cane on it, before replacing it in the wicker bin.   She straddled a back-less chair and clapped her hands twice in rapid succession.  A lean, naked young male appeared, prostrating himself before her, kissing her feet, prior to kneeling by her side.

She patted him on the head without a glance, “My Slave!” she said

“Until death mistress,” he answered, completing the ritual.

“This is your replacement,” she told him dispassionately.   “Teach him his duties well, if he fails it will be your fault, you will receive the punishment, not he!”

“You sleep there!” she said to Wilden, pointing to a narrow flat wicker basket covered by a thin grey threadbare blanket.   “Sleep on your belly until the blood dries, I do not want my blanket soiled.  

“You! With me!” she commanded the older boy, “I have need of your serpentine tongue…”

(To be continued)

 

Copyright Len Morgan

 Tomorrow

 

By Rosemary Clarke

 

I look up into the sunlit sky

And know that all is well

The people of Ukraine though

Are all living in Hell.

Their skies are filled with missiles

Their lives a ruin and pain

Why does the world do nothing

While this tragedy remains?

Why is nobody helping them

By closing up the skies

The schools and homes and hospitals

Why are they left to die?

We are all saying ' we can't do' 

What gives us the right?

This is a form of genocide

It isn't just a fight!

And after Ukraine what will be

The fate of all around

Is Finland next, which country die

If this is not improved?

And where are others in this fight

With all the pain and sorrow?

'It won't be us!' It won't be yet

But who's to know tomorrow? 

 

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

 CHANCE MEETING

Peter Woodgate

Tony was standing on the platform, he was on his own and it had started to snow. “What am I doing here,” he muttered and started to walk towards the exit gate.

As he did so a smartly dressed woman entered the station and walked slowly towards him. The light was poor but as she passed under one of the station lights he caught sight of her face and immediately thought, I think I must know her, her face is very familiar.

As she passed Tony, she gave him a smile before walking up to the waiting room turning the handle, and pushing open the door.

Tony glanced round to view the information board and noticed the next train was not due for 45 minutes, blast, he thought. Of course, they have recently changed the timetable I might as well join the lady in the waiting room.

As he pushed the door open he was met by a pleasant odour, obviously emanating from the attractive lady sitting in the corner. Tony studied her face for a moment before walking over and sitting down near enough to talk without raising his voice. “I’m sorry,” he blurted out, I seem to recognize you but at a loss to remember your name, are you local?

“Oh yes, she replied, that’s probably why you recognize me, I am on my way to my sisters, she lives in the next village up the line, I visit her frequently just to catch up on all the gossip, you know what us women are like” she added with a smile.  

Tony was about to continue the conversation when they heard an announcement, “owing to signal failures there will be no further service this evening.”

“Oh no,” Tony gasped, “do you know of any good B&B’s looks like I’m stuck for the night. Sorry” he added.  “I should introduce myself I’m Tony.”

She smiled at him before replying. “My name is Lorraine and I am pleased to meet you” she extended her arm and shook Tony’s hand. Well, I won’t be visiting my sister now and I only live 5 minutes walk from here so I could offer you a sofa for the night. Tony looked surprised before replying, “well, I don’t want to put you out but that sounds extremely tempting.”

After a short walk, they arrived at the house and Lorraine inserted the key in the lock and pushed the door open. As Tony entered the hallway a sudden feeling of de ja vous swept over him and he shivered as Lorraine led him into the kitchen speaking as she did so.

“I think we should have a drink, tea or wine?” she smiled and held up a bottle of red wine. They made their way to the lounge where Tony was shown a nice comfortable chair and the drinking commenced. After the second bottle was consumed Lorraine stood up suddenly and started undoing the buttons on her blouse, “I am a married woman you know” she spoke softly,

“well, I am a married man,” he replied, “but what the hell.”

It was sometime later, as they lay in bed that Lorraine leaned over and whispered in Tony’s ear,

“and how was that for you then?” Tony replied with a smile on his face.

“That was great, I am really glad we decided to consult the sex therapist, perhaps next time we should meet on a river cruise.”

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 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