A FAMILY AFFAIR  (Part 2 of 3)

by Richard Banks 

         My preference was for the spirits and on a coolish afternoon, I was more than content to wile away the several hours until dinner with a large G&T in the conservatory. It was while observing a strange plant of Triffid-like proportions that I inadvertently made the discovery that my fellow guests were attempting by more active means. In the intestines of this transparent monster was not only the necklaces but a hoard of gold coins that I took to be the fabled pieces of eight. Alas, I had fallen asleep, but my dream, although disappointing for not being reality, had at least brought me within an hour of dinner and the French cuisine of Aunt Flora’s faithful retainer, Madam DuSavoury. 

         Having located Teddy on the veranda of the Drawing Room we departed to our room where we again attended to our ablutions before changing into our evening things. Our subsequent entry into the dilapidated grandeur of the Queen Ann Dining Room was made all the more pleasant by the demeanour of our fellow diners which while expressing conviviality gave no indication that any of them had scooped the jackpot. The meal took its usual form with three excellent courses that, in the absence of the elusive necklaces, were likely to be the only highlight of our stay. 

         Coffee served, we endured the usual speeches eulogising Uncle Hector and bowed our heads respectfully when the vicar offered up a prayer to the old rogue who apparently was in Heaven and fondly looking down on us. “Here, here,” I muttered briefly breaking ranks to look up at the ceiling which responded by jettisoning a large flake of whitewash that spiralled slowly downwards until coming to rest in Cousin Izzy’s coffee cup. If this was a sign from heaven it was not one likely to benefit Izzy who might, perceivably, provide some entertainment by choking on the whitewash. With that thought in mind, I felt a pleasant tingle of optimism that within the next few hours the necklaces would be mine. 

         The dinner broke-up around 11.30 and after ushering Teddy into the male preserve of the smoking room I lost no time on returning to our bedroom ready to make good use of everything I had learnt at the twice monthly meetings of the East Dulwich Spiritualists. Having exchanged my evening dress for a see-through nightie that I thought likely to attract Uncle’s attention I offered up my first incantation at precisely twelve midnight. To my delight, this was immediately answered by a knocking on the ceiling above me. On my calling out, “Is that you Uncle Hector?” The knocking promptly ceased and a male voice answered,”no” and that he was sorry to have disturbed me. “But who are you!” I demanded. There was only one way to find out and having placed a chair on the bed I climbed up onto it and pushed aside the loft hatch in the ceiling. A dazzling blue light was shining in the otherwise inky blackness of the loft. “Are you a spirit?” I asked, bracing myself for a confrontation with one of Brookvale’s former owners. “Identify yourself and come in peace.” The light shifted from side to side and with much heavy breathing drew closer revealing in its wake a helmet and a grimy face I was beginning to recognise. 

         “Hello, Aunty, it’s Archie here, your nephew. Just doing a bit of potholing in the loft – awfully good practice, you know.”

         I did not know, although it was only too obvious what he was up to. “Found anything of interest?” I said, in an accusing sort of way, and on receiving the answer, “only a dead rat” I bid him continue his potholing out of earshot of myself who did not wish to be disturbed again. This I said with all the icy censor I could muster which was more than enough to send him scuttling-off in the direction of the Beck-Cooper’s room. Pausing only to entertain myself with the notion that he might fall through their ceiling and into their bed for an uninvited three-some I descended to the steady foundation of the bedroom floor where I cleared my mind ready for a second outreaching into the spirit world. It was not long before my call was answered by an unfamiliar voice speaking in an unfamiliar language that might have been Italian. It was not Uncle Hector. 

         I needed to clear the line, so to speak, but spirits, once they answer a call, are often reluctant to hang-up. The logical thing of course was for me do so but the psychic words that should have sent him on his way had no effect whatsoever. “Push-off!” I demanded in the vernacular, to which I added a rude word in Italian that I had learned on a school trip to Florence. While it had been reasonably successful in discouraging the bum-pinching activities of Italian youth it had no effect on my unwanted visitor until another voice gruffly told him to bugger off, which the spirit did with an indignant sigh. My new visitor not only spoke but, without being summoned, materialised in front of me.

         “So what does my little temptress want?” he asked. “Is she missing her dear old uncle? And why not, after all we did have some memorable moments together. Although, of course, it wasn’t just me. What a gal you were. I was your number fifty-two I recall and you were once kind enough to reward my efforts with a ten. You wrote it in that little black book of yours. But that was in the old blood and flesh days. There’s no going back to them, at least not for me. Now put on a cardigan or something before you catch a cold and tell your poor departed uncle why you have dragged him away from the sweet smell of tobacco in the smoking room. Incidentally, I saw Teddy there; is he still putting up with your tricks?”

         “Teddy does what I say and believes what I tell him. He’s an ideal husband and providing I light his fire once a week he’s happier than he has any right to be. He’s not half the man you were.” 

         “Very flattering, I’m sure, but you haven’t answered my first question, as if I didn’t know the answer. Well, let’s ask you something else: why should I tell you where the necklaces are? What right do you have to them?”        

        “So I can pass them on to Robert, of course.”        

        “You mean, Robert, your son?”

         “Yes, of course, I mean Robert. Your favourite nephew, a chip off the old block you once said, and with good reason.” 

         “What do you mean?”

         “I mean that Robert is not only my son, he’s yours too.”

         “Poppycock! Mind you I never thought that Teddy was the father, nothing more obvious than that, even Teddy must have had his doubts, but why me? And don’t tell me that he was born nine months after one of our assignations. There’ll be a dozen other candidates for sure; knowing you, more than that. No, no my dear you’ll have to do better than that.” 

         “Then I will. If it’s proof you want, then proof you will have. Not that I needed any, a mother always knows the father of her child. However, with this interview in mind, I resolved to put the question beyond doubt.”

         “How so?” 

         “DNA testing, of course, first I took a lock of Robert’s hair, and then a few days later at the wedding of your brother’s younger son, I encouraged his brother to become the worse for drink at which time I also cut-off a lock of his hair. Both were sent to a clinic in London and their forensic analysis is to be found in the several documents on the writing desk. Take a look at them, take a good look. Robert is indeed a chip off the old block. He’s your son, there’s no doubt about it, none at all.” 

         Uncle’s spectral image flickered like a florescent tube about to expire, his face registering surprise bordering on incredulity. At last, he steadied himself and with eyes, only on the papers I had set out crossed the room and stared down at them in their numbered order. 

         “Congratulations,” I said, once he was through. “You are a father. Now let us consider what you can do to help your son.”

         “I take it you are referring to the necklaces?”

         “Of course I am. Only you can ensure that he receives what is rightly his.”

         “And how much would he get once you sold them to your Hatton Garden friends?” 

         “Uncle, how ungallant of you, I am the mother of your only child, surely you don’t begrudge me a few little comforts in my middling years. Anyway, let’s face it, what choice do you have? If left where they are they will either be lost forever or discovered by one of the navies who one day will be demolishing this crumbling ruin. Is that what you want? No, of course not, so tell me their precise whereabouts and I will guarantee that what should happen does happen.” 

(To be continued)

 Copyright Richard Banks

                                                                           

Three Tanka

 Three Tanka 

By Rob Kingston

Recently published in issue 9 of HaikaiKatha.

HaikaiKatha is a journal published through the Triveni haiku India website.

A journal dedicated to Japanese short form poetry in India where the form is growing at a very fast rate.

 

Tanka is a short love song.

 

a walk

by the river

how these gulls

remind me of days gone by

arguing over nonsense

 

on repeat

the blackbird's song ...

recalling the days

when dad whistled the tune

i whistle today

 

 

stretching rainbows

from his new fishing rod

that memory

of a time in Southend

when all he caught was a cold

 

Copyright Robert Kingston

Tylywoch ~ 21

 Tylywoch ~ 21 Fighting Back I

By Len Morgan 

   Placing their best warriors in the van, they attacked the Barracks.   Luck was with them, and they caught most of the occupants of the first barracks were asleep, their attack was swift and bloody.   The second room was almost empty, they stripped it of weapons food, and anything likely to prove useful, then set it ablaze.   The serious fighting began when they attacked the third barrack room.   They were still able to count on the element of surprise and made a telling blow before the occupants reacted.   Then for a while, there was a hard fight until, at a signal, the lamps were extinguished and the reds withdrew.   For minutes the defenders were attacking each other, then somebody realised and ordered them to put up their arms.   At that precise moment, the Tylywoch entered the killing zone and the fighting came to an abrupt end.   

Scouts returned to report there were two other fully manned barracks close by.   Flushed with success Veille and his reds were all for pressing home their attack but Schell insisted they stick to the plan, not losing sight of the objective, to release Galyx.   So, they attacked and retreated as planned.   Finally, the alarm was raised and all available enemy units converged on the lower-level detention areas in far greater numbers than had originally been anticipated and Veille quickly acknowledged the wisdom of sticking to their plan. 

It took the attackers ten minutes to demolish the containment doors to the lower levels, by which time the defenders were well on their way.   The glow from the torches of the rearguard led them on into the maze of tunnels in hot pursuit.   Hildi, Soren, and four of the Red Guard slowed to ensure their pursuers did not lose contact before plunging into the next tunnel.   Five minutes later… 

“I think we’ve missed a turn,” Soren said, “We will have to go back.”   But as they turned to retrace their steps the first of their pursuers came into view.

“We’ll never get back in time, I know the way, follow me,” Hildi dashing down the next tunnel on the left.   They were now heading in the same direction they’d have taken had they previously made the correct turn.   The chasing pack followed with renewed determination, they were gaining on their quarry.  

“It's time to lose them!”   Soren said half an hour later.   They increased speed to match the slowest of the red guards quickly losing their tail.   Fifteen minutes later they caught up with the main group poised ready to attack at the opposite end of the palace.   In went ‘Stealth quad’, to silence the watch. 

(to be Continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

  A FAMILY AFFAIR   (Part 1 of 3) 

 by Richard Banks

We were early intending to be the first to arrive, but by the time we did, my Wyngate cousins had already laid claim to the only guest room fit for the purpose. Invited by our host, Aunt Flora, to take our pick of the third floor bedrooms in the East Wing, Teddy and myself finally settled on one less neglected than the others with a ceiling so far unstained by the ingress of rainwater. What the late arrivals had to put up with I shudder to think, although in the case of the Beck-Cooper’s I derived great pleasure in imagining them being rained out of their bed or bitten by one of the many small mammals contesting ownership of the old ruin; it was no more than they deserved.

         Having previously visited Brookvale I had come prepared and within my suitcase packed half a pound of cheese, four sturdy mouse traps and an aerosol labelled ‘Bugkill’. These I unpacked along with our bathroom things leaving everything else within our suitcases where I judged they would be better off than out. After performing our ablutions in the cloudy waters of the only functioning tap in the bathroom we ventured down to the Great Drawing Room in which our fellow guests were beginning to assemble.

         It was the usual crowd and we did the usual thing of pretending to be glad to see them. They reciprocated in similar fashion. We made the usual small talk, exaggerated the achievements of our teenage children and swanked about foreign holidays to exotic places that some of those present had only seen on TV or the web. Our conversations, while scrupulously avoiding any mention of money, were intended to give the impression that we had rather more of the stuff than we needed; fortune hunters we were not, and we professed an affection for Aunt Flora and Brookvale that fully justified our presence in this family gathering of her nearest and dearest.

          The least fortunate of her guests was Eric, the grandson of Aunt Flora’s youngest sibling. It was he who would inherit Brookvale and the death duties that would bankrupt him unless, come the time, he could persuade the National Trust to take the property off his hands in lieu of said duties. This was an outcome he daily prayed for and which would have been as welcome to him as the commutation of a death sentence. Unfortunately for Eric the almost derelict condition of the house and the sale of much of its estate had made Brookvale an improbable candidate for public ownership.

         If Eric’s prospects were bleak to the point of despair Aunt Flora’s other guests had nothing to lose and the tantalising possibility of improbable gain. For this they had Uncle Hector to thank. Hector was the first born son of his father Joseph Entwhistle a self-made millionaire from Quebec who had hit upon the idea of marrying Hector into the English aristocracy. It was to be a loss maker that would raise the prestige of his once impoverished family, into the starry orbit of a noble and ancient family, with a proven, if distant, connection to Royal persons living and deceased.

         The deal when struck, over fifty years ago, was that the eldest son of Hector’s marriage with Aunt Flora would inherit the family title and in return Henry would write the cheques that kept Brookvale afloat. This he did for seven childless years, finally delivering an ultimatum that unless his son and daughter-in-law got on with their side of the bargain he would cease all future payments into the Brookvale estate. As Hector had no significant funds of his own we can only imagine that he redoubled his efforts at fatherhood, but with no more success than before. The monthly payments duly ceased and in an unfatherly act of abandonment Joseph remade his will leaving his great wealth to his second son. The only mention of Hector was now a bequest of ten dollars included only to show that his disinheritance was the firm intention of the testator rather than the oversight of an elderly man of increasing eccentricity.

         However, it was rumoured that Hector’s father had not entirely abandoned his elder son and that he had sent him over a million dollars in a wooden chest labelled ‘tea’. This he had done on the solemn understanding that none of it was to be frittered away on maintaining a crumbling property no longer relevant to the aspirations of the Entwhistle family.

         What happened next was also rumour until the discovery of a bill of sale by Aunt Flora. Uncle Hector anxious to conceal his father’s clandestine gift from official scrutiny used the money to purchase two diamond necklaces which he no doubt reasoned could be concealed about the house or grounds until such time as Brookvale was somehow disposed of. This, however, was never going to happen in Aunt Flora’s lifetime. For her, ownership of Brookvale was a sacred trust that she would never relinquish even though the folly of remaining there was becoming increasingly obvious. Uncle Hector’s hopes of deriving any material benefit from his father’s gift therefore depended on him outliving his wife which he spectacularly failed to do by falling off the battlements and drowning in the moat.

         So, here we all are, three years on, solemnly assembled to commemorate an event that’s still the common tittle-tattle of the county. Our motives for being at Brookvale were undoubtedly mixed. Of course we all loved Uncle Hector and were saddened by his unfortunate passing but a mystery has an attraction which is difficult to resist and the possibility that one of us might somehow find the fabled necklaces was a magnet somewhat stronger than grief. Not that any of us were going to admit this, after all to do so raised the question of what we did next  with said diamonds. For now no one in the assembled company mentioned them, not a single word, which confirmed my suspicion that their thoughts were not so very different from my own. Having all been descended from Donald the Duplicitous, the seventh Marquis, we were, of course, all cut from the same cloth. Ditto for Aunt Flora, but in her case this family trait was remarkably absent. Indeed in old age she had acquired a kind, almost saintly aura that suggested that she would soon be a candidate for Chief Angel. Clearly she had no need of diamonds in the next life and would only use them in this one to shore-up an ancient estate that was a lost cause. Our discovery of the necklaces, if by chance that happened, was therefore likely to raise a moral dilemma requiring subtle and complex reasoning. Inevitably this would raise many questions such as what would Donald the Dup have done? But I’m getting ahead of myself, first of all we must find the necklaces.

         The same thought was very much in the minds of Aunt Flora’s other guests and if the last two years were anything to go by their modus operandi would be both varied and enterprising. Try as we may no one was quite able to conceal that intoxicating feeling that one of us would soon discover what we should not be looking for. 

         The welcoming refreshments consumed, the guests were free to walk the grounds or play croquet with the only mallet and ball that could be found. For now there was nothing for me to do but relax. My search would begin at midnight but for others, the hunt was already on and they were determined that not a moment should be wasted. What exactly each of them was up to was less than clear, although I soon became suspicious of cousin Hugh’s new walking stick which emitted faint but discernible bleeps that he tried to muffle by humming loudly on his lengthy perambulations of the front and back gardens. Hetty and Arthur retired to their room for an afternoon nap which they appeared to abandon in favour of a noisy rearrangement of its furniture, and Eric departed to the woods, spade in hand, to dig, so he said, for truffles.

         My preference was for the spirits and on a coolish afternoon, I was more than content to wile away the several hours until dinner with a large G&T in the conservatory. It was while observing a strange plant of Triffid like proportions that I inadvertently made the discovery that my fellow guests were attempting by more active means. In the intestines of this transparent monster was not only the necklaces but a hoard of gold coins that I took to be the fabled pieces of eight.

(To be continued)

Copyright Richard Banks

 THE LONG GOODBYE

 

By Peter Woodgate

 

They turn, depart, into the mist,

A fog that doesn’t hide the shape,

Thoughts, however, sink from view

Behind a cloak, a shroud, a cape.

They are there but cannot share

Quotidian actions day to day

Causing distress, anxiety

And concealed visions of dismay.

They are lost and yet remain

Your love obstructed by a shield,

A barrier that blocks your care,

Normality to them concealed.

But worst of all, a timeless wait

When hope for change will never be,

When all the love and care there is

Will be, shut out, eternally.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate 16/7/22

 

 

 

 

I shall miss this.

 LOOKING BACK WHEN THE TIME COMES

By Bob French

The silence of the night, so deep and dark, gradually changes, slowly at first by the faint shimmers of cream and yellow spreading across the distant horizon, then the gentle chorus of bird song gradually rising from all corners to a cacophony.  Then steadily the sky is filled with a million colours of the rainbow as a new day is born.  I shall miss this.

To hear the sound of young children laughing and playing in the parks; on the river banks and in the fields.  Happiness in abundance, with no care of fear, threat or danger as they live their young innocent lives, watched by their minders, parents and loved ones, who all look on them with love and contentment as they grow.  I shall miss this.

The sound of the river as it gently glides idly by, creating a sense of peace enjoyed by those who take the time to sit and listen.  Its glistening surface changing colour as the sky above moves across us all, dictating how the land we live in endures and grows.  The smells of the fields and the hard-working animals as they put their shoulder to the task.  I shall miss this.

The winding paths that lead through pastures green and trees so tall; the leaves that gently move in the cool afternoon breeze, giving comfort to those who choose to rest in the shade.  The air that carries the scent of the wild honeysuckle and jasmine that grows in places that only bring pleasure and a sense of tranquility.  I shall miss this.

The changing weather that heralds the seasons of our being on this earth, the meeting of families and friends to celebrate old memories and good times.  The young, proudly showing off to their grandparents and relatives whose time on this earth is drawing to a close, seeing hope in their young eyes and a wish for a better future.   Their young and innocent faces; so much to live for. So much to learn.  I shall miss this.

To friends who endured the hardships and comradery of serving in places far from our home shores, to those we remember, but no longer here.  The people who shared their love and friendship and the times we had in those mad, reckless, dangerous days, thinking that tomorrow may not come.  Remembering the women who gave their hearts and souls to a belief that one day things would change, to the tears and heartbreak that always followed.  They will always be in my mind.  I shall miss this. 

Feeling the temperature of the day slowly changing as the light fades, bringing to a close of another day.  The fading birdsong and rustling of the trees high on the distant hills slows to a still and birds and animals move to silence, seeking a place to sleep in the coming night. The black velvet sky high above stretching far away to the distant horizon speckled with diamonds, then silence.  

I shall miss this.

Copyright Bob French

 

 IF ONLY... 

By Rosemary Clarke 

You feel it every day

His touch upon your skin

It's with you, come what may

Where true horror begins.

He thinks it's just a game

And it's a lot of fun

But you don't feel the same,

The damage now is done.

There's an image many seek

Of a good time naughty lass'

But she'll never exist

In age or race or class

What many take for flirting

Are teenagers learning sex

But many leave them hurting

Feeling that their time is next.

So if you do love someone

Look straight into their eyes

And try to learn how they may feel,

don't keep on with the lies!

We all have feelings, all have blood

And we should be set free

Not trampled in an ugly mud

As many times we'll be.

For vileness echoes to the past

Where bad things often live

Could it be someday, that at last

We'll start to really live?

 

Copyright Rosemary Clarke