MOVING ON

by Richard Banks             
                                                                                             

For Ronnie Harper, Christmas Day was a pleasure confined to its anticipation. He enjoyed the warm glow of Christmas lights on bleak winter evenings, the contagious excitement of his children, the office parties, the evening get-to-gethers with friends, but Christmas Day was never more than a tantalising glimpse of a greater happiness unfulfilled by the event itself. He wished it was different, sensed it could be, but something within him would never let it happen.

     The solution, although unappealing, was well within his reach. He could have stayed home on Christmas Eve, spent time with Laura and the kids, but the necessity of taking a day’s holiday when he would only be required to work until midday persuaded him that work was the better option. 

      In truth, he needed little persuading. Of all his working days Christmas Eve was the one he liked most. It was special; it started with the train journey into London. People who never talked to each other not only talked they laughed, told jokes, discovered that the familiar faces sharing their carriage were just like themselves, 'real people' with personalities never warmer than on the 7.34 to Liverpool Street. If on the completion of the journey he had stayed on the train and let it take him back to Rayleigh, Christmas Day would have been safe, but the idea of doing so was absurd and the lure of pleasures yet to come irresistible. 

      On arrival at the office he would switch-on his terminal and sift through his in-tray prioritising what needed to be done that morning and what could be left until after the holiday. His colleagues were doing likewise and for a while the familiar routine of the office was little different from any other morning. 

      At 10.30 Sharon was dispatched to the café for sandwiches. On her return, workstations were abandoned and an unhurried queue formed at the coffee machine. An hour later the girls disappeared into the toilets reappearing in high heels and party dresses. Terminals were being switched off and everyone was looking towards the floor manager who appeared unaware that his charges were ready to vacate the office for the public house on the ground floor. At 12.30 he would glance at his watch and, with a smile seldom seen on other days, wish them a merry Christmas. Having observed their rapid departure he too deserted his post for a gathering of senior management in the boardroom. 

      Such was the unchanging ritual of office life on Christmas Eve. It was a ritual too good to miss and at 1pm on yet another Christmas Eve Ronnie was not surprised to find himself in the saloon bar of the City Exchange buying a round of drinks for the dozen or so people who worked directly for him. He had, however, decided that this year one thing would be different, that at 4pm he would buy another round and then leave. At 3pm this was still his intention, even at 3.45, but at five minutes to four it happened, the moment when he realised that life had never been better, could never be better, and that this moment might continue, if only he stayed. 

      Had this moment occurred in the same way as before he would have had warning, would have known what to do when to leave, but the interactions that constructed the moment could never be predicted. While Ronnie was only too aware that alcohol would be a factor, other things were also needed and at five minutes to four they duly arrived. He was reaching for his wallet, about to buy the round of drinks that would precede his departure when Darren placed a restraining hand on his arm. It was, he said, his shout, he hadn’t brought a round yet and no one was going to say that he was a mean bastard who didn’t pay his way. After five pints, Darren was not a man to argue with, anyway who wanted to get into a row on Christmas Eve. Best to let him have his way, drink-up quickly and then leave.

      Ronnie checked the timetable he always carried and saw that there was a train at 4.45. Providing he was away by 4.30 he would still be home in time to put the kids to bed. Then Darren returned from the bar and the 4.45 train became an irrelevant number on an irrelevant piece of paper. Instead of another pint Darren had brought him a whisky, an Ardmore malt. He put the glass to his lips, breathed in the scents of liquorice and aniseed, and allowed a few drops of the precious liquid to fall down onto his tongue. The moment expanded and engaged his other senses. His favourite song was on the jukebox, a joke was being told, people were laughing anticipating the punch line, and Julie was smiling, making eye contact in a way that seemed to be saying that she fancied him almost as much as he fancied her. In that moment, in that long sweet moment, he knew that 'now' was a pleasure he could not bear to end.            

                                            **********      

At seven o’clock, only the die hards were left, mainly single guys living close by in rented flats. They decided to end the evening with a curry in a Bethnal Green tandoori where Ronnie was sick in the toilets. He tried to read the time on his watch but could make no sense of it. A sudden fear gripped him that he had missed the last train home. He returned to the table where the guys had been sitting, to find that only Darren and Urzil were left. The bill had been paid, they said, it was time to go, the restaurant was closing. They left him in Bishopsgate in sight of Liverpool Street station and watched him totter towards it until an icy wind persuaded them to begin their own journeys home. 

      On reaching the station, Ronnie discovered not only that the trains were still running but that the next one to Southend was about to depart from platform eleven. He scrambled on board and sat down beside a young woman who immediately changed seats. Further down the carriage two youths and a girl were singing ‘White Christmas’. It was snowing in Chelmsford they said, by morning the whole country would be covered. The train started and slowly pulled out of the station. In forty minutes he would be in Rayleigh. Whatever else happened he must not fall asleep. He had done that once before and ended up in Southend. On that occasion, he had got a cab home but tonight was different, it was Christmas Eve. Would there still be taxis at the station? 

      He watched a snowflake hit the window and slowly dissolve. Another followed, then three more, then too many to count. The train gathered speed, passing over the dark shapes of streets and buildings that seemed bleak and unfamiliar. He fixed his attention on a long line of street lights until the condensation misting the window transformed them into a single orange streak. He wiped the window with the palm of his hand and the image of his face and shoulders appeared. He stared back at himself through eyes half shut.                                                      

                                         **********

      He had, he thought, only closed his eyes for a few moments when he felt a rough shaking of his shoulder. He looked up to find a burly man in a peak cap towering over him. For a few seconds he didn’t understand what was happening, then the words ‘power off’ jolted him back to consciousness. He asked where he was and was told Wickford and, that the train was stopped, terminated. An emergency bus service was about to leave. If Ronnie wanted to be on it he would have to hurry.  

      He stumbled onto the platform just in time to see another straggler pass through an open gate towards the taxi rank where the bus was waiting. He wanted to hurry, tried hard to hurry, but the snow on the platform and the unwillingness of his legs to respond to the signalling of his brain reduced his progress to a haltering jog.

      Outside the station the bus was being readied to depart, engine revving, doors opening and shutting, an impatient voice wanting to be off, more revving of the engine, then another voice giving the command to go. The driver beeped his horn and the bus was off. Its departure from the car park coincided with Ronnie’s arrival at the gate. He shouted and waved his arms but to no avail; the bus continued on until only its rear lights were visible. His scrambled brain struggled to take in what had happened, what he should do next, then he remembered the 25 bus – that went to Rayleigh; he would catch that. He hurried down to the High Street, to the bus stop outside Costas. The street was ankle-deep in snow, silent, deserted, sharp gusts of wind chasing down even more snow.

      His certainty that the 25 would still be running was shattered by the realisation that it was a quarter to twelve. Of course, there were no buses, the last one had long gone. He decided to phone for a taxi but the pocket in which he kept his mobile was empty; he searched through his other pockets without finding it. Had he left it in the tandoori? He wasn't sure. His only certainty was that to get home he would have to walk. He knew the road; it was long and straight. It went up the hill towards the church, then on to the Shotgate, and beyond that to the Carpenters Arms. From there Rayleigh was just down the road. He remembered making the journey by car two years before. If he walked hard he would be home in an hour, ninety minutes at most. There might still be a car or two about. If he saw one he would flag it down and hitch a lift.

       He started off in determined fashion. He told himself that as long as he kept moving he would be okay, it was just a matter of time, time and effort, that’s all that was needed. The worst part of the journey would be the first, that was uphill, the rest was mainly on the flat. It would be a doddle, he had gloves, a thick overcoat, this was no more than a tiresome delay at the end of an overlong day. 

      Halfway up the hill, he could see the silhouette of the church spire against the dark sky. First base he thought. He leaned forward, elbows bent, arms swinging back and forth like the long distance walkers he had seen in the Olympics. Five minutes later he was past the church and at the top of the hill. It had been an effort, but he had made it. He pressed on buoyed by the thought that he would soon be at the Shotgate. From there he would be able to see Rayleigh on the high ground to the east. 

      Ronnie paused at a bus shelter to recover his breath and without thinking sat down on the bench within. He peered back along the road hoping but not expecting to see the headlights of a car. Instead, he saw a single disc of light that was the church clock. He checked its time against that on his watch. It was Christmas Day. 

      Ronnie recalled the last time it had snowed at Christmas. He and Laura were on holiday in Switzerland on the ski slopes near Lausanne. They had been happy then, free spirits, doing what they wanted, when they wanted. They lived in London, a twenty-minute commute to the office where they both worked. It was after they married that they moved out into Essex. Laura stopped working and they started a family just like they planned. For a while family life seemed okay, a natural almost inevitable progression in his life, but was it better than what he had before? Somehow it was not enough, a step too far, too soon. For Laura, there was no choice. She had two children to bring up, one at school, one not yet out of nappies. Jason was playing football, Tanya nearly walking. He knew this because Laura told him. When she did there was a harshness in her voice that sounded like a reproach. She had adapted to the changes in her life, accepted them, and was moving on. With or without him she was moving on. The thought chilled him, seemed colder than the snow.

       

      It was time to get walking again. His legs were stiff and unresponsive, but he forced them back into action. On either side of him the houses were in darkness. He imagined the occupants in their beds, warm, sheltered, ready for the day ahead. For the first time in a long time, he yearned to be home. The journey to the Shotgate was taking longer than he had anticipated. Either it was further than he thought or he was slowing down; he wasn’t sure which. He passed another bus stop and realised that the next one would be at the Shotgate itself. Ten minutes later he was there.  

      For the next half mile, there were no houses just fields and a recently constructed dual carriageway. In the last remaining house, he saw a light. A voice in his head urged him to seek shelter there. Who would refuse him on Christmas Day? The light flickered off and he continued on, down the road that had no footpath, where pedestrians seldom ventured. But who needed a footpath when there was no traffic? For now, only the weather was of concern. 

      The road before him slanted gently downwards towards a long stilted bridge under which it passed. Two years earlier he had driven down it in a red Lamborghini, taking advantage of a clear road to press down hard on the accelerator. It had taken him only a few seconds to reach the end of the slope and a few more to rise up to level ground. The exhilaration of the experience had deceived him into thinking that the road was shorter than it was. Through the snow he could see the bridge and calculated that it was three hundred yards away. From there it would be a mile, maybe less, to the Carpenters Arms. When he reached the pub he would bang on the door and demand to be let in. He had often drunk there, played darts in the local league. The landlord would not turn away a regular customer.

      He walked in the centre of the road where the snow was less deep, counting each step, knowing that nothing less than six hundred would be needed to get him to the bridge. He was halfway there when he slipped and fell. For a few moments, he lay on his back waiting for his body to tell him if he could continue. His fall had been a heavy one but cushioned by the thick covering of snow. He felt no pain and although this might be due to the numbness of his limbs and body he reasoned that in all probability he was uninjured. Slowly he rolled over onto his chest and pushed his body up onto his knees. Still no pain. His legs and arms were working, doing what his brain was telling them to do. He was okay, normal, nothing changed.

 

      Back on his feet, he continued walking towards the bridge grimly aware that if he fell again and was unable to continue his cries for help would probably go unheard. The wind was stronger now, gusting, unimpeded by the line of houses that had previously protected him from its full force.  He was walking more slowly than before, carefully planting each foot flat into the snow so that the soles of his shoes were making maximum contact with the ground. For the first time, he felt the odds were against him. Could he make it to the pub? Even to the bridge could he make it?

 

     Another gust of wind caused him to stop, stagger back and throw out his arms in a desperate attempt to steady himself. Then he was down, tumbled over three, four times until he was at the side of the road, within touching distance of an embankment that in Spring would be covered in daffodils. His hands and arms were uninjured and he was again able to sit up. A sensation that on another day would have been pain told him that this time there was no getting up. Through a gash, in his trouser leg, he could see the jagged end of a bone. He needed help. Even now there was hope. He called out but the cold air in his chest and throat reduced his voice to little more than a whisper. He tried again and saw a thin stream of vapour melt silently in the wind.

 

      In the distance, he could see Rayleigh, the ridge on which it stood, dark shapes of buildings, the floodlit church and the windmill. He thought of his wife whom he had loved but not loved enough, of his children, of Christmas Days when he was too tired and hung-over to play with them. At daybreak they would be up opening their stockings, Jason climbing onto the windowsill, sweeping aside the curtains, and on seeing the snow, shrieking with excitement. He imagined Laura waking, finding herself alone in their bed, her going downstairs half expecting to see him on the settee beneath his overcoat. 

      By then, long before then, he would be invisible, a small white mound in a far greater whiteness. He wanted to say a prayer but knew none. His last thoughts were of Laura.  

                                                        The End.                                                                    

 

Copyright Richard Banks

                                                        

 

 

 Repent at leisure

By Janet Baldey

Terri felt the breeze lift her hair and took a deep breath, standing quite still until her pulse steadied.  It was such a relief to escape from the havoc in the cottage and into the peace of her garden; although if she ignored the birdsong, she could still hear their voices as they squabbled yet again.  Whoever would have thought they were mother and daughter, sometimes they acted like sworn enemies. She looked past a blaze of red-hot dahlias towards the last of the summer’s roses; how lovely the garden looked despite needing a  tidy-up; she’d neglected her plants for too long, once they’d been her pride and joy, but she’d barely set foot outside since Nadia and her mother took over and the nightmare began.   Today, she’d had enough, she gripped her secateurs tightly, nothing was going to stop her, those roses were being pruned even if murder was committed in the cottage.

         As she worked, she found herself relaxing; once she’d found this boring, now it felt as if she was being given a make-over with every breath she took.  It was all her own fault of course.  Mother always said she was too impulsive and that would be her downfall and this time, it seemed she’d been right, although her motives had been good, and at the time everyone had applauded her.

         “How wonderful and how very kind of you.  If only there were more like you, the world would be a better place.”

This rather trite sentiment, and others in the same vein, were echoed over and over until her head became so swollen that she hadn’t thought to wonder why there weren’t more. Although, to be honest, it wasn’t pure altruism on her part.  After Mother died, life in the cottage had become very lonely.  Buster had done his best of course, she bent to ruffle his fur, but he couldn’t actually talk, not her language anyway.  Although, come to think of it, neither did Nadia’s mother. Nadia did, but she only opened her mouth to complain or demand things. 

In the beginning, Terri had hoped for some sort of companionship but it hadn’t worked out that way, although when they’d first been introduced at the Centre, Nadia had seemed charming and so kind to her own mother that she’d quite won over her heart.  It was only later, when they were alone in the cottage, that she’d caught the first glimpse of the real Nadia.  Her smile had faded the minute Pauline drove away.

         “Is small…..” she’d looked around, discontent settling on her face like a well-worn frock.  “And dark….”  Her full lips drew together as she pouted.

         After that, the only time Nadia opened her mouth was to whinge about something.  Her room was too cramped, she wanted a new bed, the stairs were too narrow.   Nadia’s complaints shocked Terri.  She’d done her utmost to make the cottage attractive.  She’d freshened up the paintwork, bought new cushions for the sofa and new mattresses for the beds which perfectly fine, and she really couldn’t afford new ones.  But Nadia wouldn’t be placated, she seemed to dislike everything, including the food, pushing it around her plate before declaring that it didn’t ‘taste nice’.  As for companionship, forget about it.  Pointedly and in small cruel ways, Nadia made it quite clear that one old lady was all she was prepared to tolerate, and that only barely, as she and her mother fought frequently, spitting out foreign words at the tops of their voices. 

It wasn’t working out and just at that moment, the splintering sound of breaking glass proved her point. What had they broken this time?  She just hoped it wasn’t more of Mother’s precious cut-glass.   After the last breakage, she’d packed most of it away, but maybe some had been missed.  She stood, fighting an urge to find out and gradually the urge receded.  It was too late now anyway.  What was done was done and couldn’t be undone and she refused to let it spoil her moment.  She continued to snip, pushing to the back of her mind images of what she might find when she went back in.

At least the kitchen would be clean.   Worn out by complaints about her food, she’d reluctantly handed over that task to Nadia’s mother, a decision she now deeply regretted.  ‘The Witch’ as she’d secretly named her, had a slap-dash attitude to cooking that involved every pan Terri had and she filled the kitchen with greasy clouds of smoke as she burned each of them so that soon the counter-tops were cluttered with blackened pots each with a residue of charred food superglued to them.  Terri could have borne that, albeit with gritted teeth, if the food was to her taste but it wasn’t.  Inevitably it was either chillies or curries, both so hot they numbed her mouth, or a sort of goulash that bore a suspicious resemblance to something Buster would eat.   To make things worse, ‘The Witch’ didn’t believe in washing up, maybe she thought casting a spell would be enough.  When that failed, the task fell to Terri as it was obvious Nadia wouldn’t dream of chipping her varnished inch long nails. So, night after night she toiled as the moon rose, until the kitchen was fit enough to withstand another onslaught and it was time to go to bed.

She finished with the roses, looked and found other jobs, plenty of them.  She worked on until Buster began to fuss and she realised it was time for his evening meal.   Reluctantly, she turned on the hose to sluice dirt off her tools.  Buster whined again, hurrying her up and Terri suddenly realised she really didn’t want to go back in.  The cottage didn’t seem hers anymore, somehow Nadia and ‘The Witch’ had made her feel like an intruder in her own home.  This was no way to live but she had no idea what to do about it.  It had only been three weeks and she had something like another twenty-three to go.  If it wasn’t for Pauline, she’d throw in the towel.  She’d take the next bus to the Centre and demand they take back Nadia and The Witch, she’d be as hard as stone and insist they be re-homed like unwanted animals.  But Pauline was so sweet, as plump and pink as a marshmallow she’d quivered with delight at the thought of the two pathetic refugees safely delivered into Terri’s capable hands.  Pauline was also new to the charity, and this was her first success, so how could she sully her philanthropic zeal?  Terri sighed, remembering that her mother had also said she was too soft. 

She tried to stop thinking about Pauline.  It would do no good, she was probably happily married and as Mother had pointed out, some women were born to be alone.   She looked down and her eyes met Buster’s.  They implored and she pulled herself together. Buster couldn’t starve, and she couldn’t freeze, the light was fading fast and now the soft breeze had an edge, it really was time to go in.  

The cottage seemed very dark after she’d closed the door, it was also very quiet.  She guessed Nadia had gone out.  Recently she’d taken to going out a lot. Terri didn’t ask where, Nadia wouldn’t tell her anyway, but she did notice that when Nadia returned, she smelled funny, a musky aroma that clung to her clothes and lasted for days. It didn’t smell like cigarettes and as she didn’t smoke inside the cottage, Terri figured it was none of her business although she couldn’t help wondering where she went.  Maybe there were other refugees in the area, and she made a mental note to ask Pauline.  Anyway, wherever it was, it never seemed to improve Nadia’s mood, she was just as bad tempered when she came back.   Terri groped for the light switch and clicked it on, looking around to check for damage but couldn’t see anything.  ‘The Witch’ was in her normal seat by the fire studiously ignoring her.  For as long as she’d been there, she’d been knitting some sort of shapeless garment that could have been a scarf, or even something else entirely.  It was difficult to tell because it never seemed to grow, even though the clicking of her needles never stopped, except when she was flinging pans around the kitchen.

“Where’s Nadia?”  she said, not expecting an answer, and indeed she never got one, except for a split second, ‘The Witch’s eyes flicked towards the door.  Terri stared hard at her crumpled, brown paper bag of a face.  So, she did understand English - the thought wearied her, what had she done to deserve being treated like the enemy?   She turned away, ostensibly to get Buster’s kibble but really to hide the sheen of threatening tears.  She knew she mustn’t let them get to her, but it was all such a disappointment.

The next day, she took Buster out for a long walk.  He was delighted but she felt selfish as she watched him gambolling through the long grass because she hadn’t taken him out for his sake; it was for her own because she couldn’t stand being in the cottage anymore; the place that had been her home for fifty years.  It was then she realised that, as much as she liked Pauline, she had to risk disappointing her.  Her lips stiffened as she fished out her mobile, there was no time like the present.  She dialled the number.

“Hi Terri, how nice to hear from you.  Is everything OK?”  She listened to the bubbles in Pauline’s voice, they lifted her spirits, she seemed genuinely pleased to hear from her, then she remembered why she was calling and was immediately cast down.

“I’m not sure Pauline.  I would really like to have a talk with you.”

“Of course, my dear.  I’m tied up today, I’m afraid.  Can it wait until tomorrow?”

They agreed that it could and as she packed away her ‘phone, colour flooded back into Terri’s life.  She noticed for the first time the stunning autumn foliage, from the bright red of the maples to the yellow of the rowans.  All around the woods and hedgerows flamed and her spirits soared.  She’d be seeing Pauline tomorrow and everything was going to be alright.

Still dazzled by nature’s beauty, she walked up the garden path where irregular leaves studded the ground like discarded jigsaw.  That, and the faint aroma of woodsmoke in the air comforted her, but her good mood rapidly drained away as soon as she opened the back door.  The very first thing she saw was a huge pair of worn-down boots sticking out from beneath the sofa.  She froze and her eyes tracked upwards, past an equally huge pair of knees to where an enormous man was sitting, clearly making himself at home.  Her mouth opened but before she could utter a word, Nadia swept in from the kitchen bearing a steaming mug of tea.  Two surprises in one go, she didn’t think Nadia knew where the kitchen was.  Nadia’s simper disappeared as soon as she saw her.

“This is my brother.”

“Your brother?  I didn’t know you had a brother?”

Nadia’s face conveyed the opinion that Terri didn’t know everything about her, which was true enough, she supposed.

“He stays here now.”

Seconds passed before she remembered to speak.  “Oh no, I’m sorry that isn’t possible.  There’s no room. Where would he sleep?”

The expression on Nadia’s face didn’t change.

“He sleep on sofa.”

“What?  That’s impossible.  I’m afraid he’ll have to go back from wherever he came from.”

“He come from War.  He wounded.”

For the first time she noticed the man was wearing a grubby sling around one arm.  She shook her head, “I’m sorry but the answer is still no.  If he needs medical treatment, he should go to a hospital.”

Nadia glared at her and she glared back; even for Nadia this was a step too far.  Then, slowly the man stood up, uncoiling until he almost reached the ceiling and her pulses started to dance.  Suddenly, there was a flurry of black fur and Buster darted forwards.  He snapped at the man’s ankles who let out an oath and drew back his leg.  There was a shrill yelp, and a small dark shape flew across the room where it lay in a corner, quivering.  White hot anger took the place of fear as Terri ran to Buster, scooped him up and turned to face the ogre.

“How dare you?  Get out of my house immediately.”

There was a burst of activity and seconds later a huge hand gripped her throat crushing her against the wall where she slumped, staring into a pair of cold eyes the colour of the North Sea.  Through her terror, she heard the rattle of a lock and heard Nadia scream something just before the man opened the cellar door and shoved her through.  Dropping Buster, she grasped at nothing as gravity took over and she sprawled down its stairs like a rag doll before landing in a heap at the bottom.  It was then that she discovered. you really do see stars when your head comes into violent contact with a hard object, and it was only when her vision steadied that she noticed other sources of pain. The whole of her left side stung as if grazed as did her right wrist and she guessed there’d be some spectacular bruising when she got out.  If she got out, she tried to quell the panic that thought generated and it was then she remembered Buster.  Her heart quickened, poor thing, he’d never even been shouted at before, he must be terrified after being both kicked and dropped.  She prayed that he wasn’t hurt.

“Buster” she called.  There was silence and she felt clammy with dread.  She was about to call again when a small cold nose nudged her hand.  “Buster!”  He whined and gently she ran her hands over him.  She heard the thud of his tail and tears flooded her eyes as she held him close.  This was all her fault; she’d brought danger into his small world, and felt so guilty.  

The thought of danger reminded her, what on earth was she going to do?  She couldn’t force her battered body back up the stairs, anyway she was sure they would have locked the door.  She tried to think back, had she heard the key turn?   It was all a blur although one thing she did remember was Nadia screeching something just before she was sent flying. “Not down there.” She’d yelled.  Was it possible that Nadia had a softer side and was trying to protect her?  As likely as the stars falling down, Terri decided. 

Her head began to ache and she lay still with the whole of her body on fire.  She could hear a strange noise, the air was stifling and smelled odd; gradually a dark veil crept across her eyes so she closed them and after a while must have slept.   When she woke, her headache had gone, and she felt a bit better.  As an experiment, she stretched her arms and legs and apart from being stiff, they seemed intact.  She looked around, what little light managing to struggle through the dirt-encrusted windows had disappeared, so it was obviously night-time.  Hauling herself upright, she started to search for a torch when she realised it wasn’t necessary.  There was a strange green glow coming from the far end of the cellar.  She couldn’t imagine where it was coming from but in that weird light, she found she could see well enough to wind her way towards its source. As she did, the heat increased, and beads of sweat started to roll down her body.  Suddenly she stopped, the breath dying in her throat as she stared at rows of broad-leaved shrubs that had been planted in troughs covering three quarters of the cellar. Electric lights, running from generators, were rigged above the plants, the lights turning their leaves a sickly yellow.  Both the heat and the hum from the generators combined to re-ignite her headache.  At last, she remembered to breathe and as she did, the same smell that had come from Nadia’s clothes made her gag.  All at once, she realised what had been going on under her very nose and stood as still as a brick staring at the cannabis.  “God”, she thought. “I must be so stupid.  Why on earth didn’t I catch on before?”   She realised they must have picked their moments carefully, probably when she was walking Buster or hiding in her bedroom and there had been a lot of those moments, she admitted.  

Thoroughly unnerved, she almost screamed when her pocket started to vibrate just before her mobile broke into the giddy little tune she’d chosen.  Not being part of the tech-savvy generation, she’d completely forgotten she was carrying it.  Still staring at the plants, she fumbled the ‘phone out of her pocket.

“Hello, is that Terri?” 

It was Pauline and Heaven’s angels couldn’t have sounded as sweet. She pressed the phone against her lips and whispered into it.  “Pauline, can you hear me? I’m trapped in the cellar; Nadia and her brother pushed me down.  Please call the police, say it’s urgent.  I think they must be drug traffickers.”

“What! Whose brother? What’s going on?”

“I’ll explain later.  Be quick, please Pauline. They may be dangerous.”

It seemed an age as she sat and waited.  She cuddled Buster to her and worried.  What would she do in their place?  Goosebumps stippled her arms as she concluded their best course of action was inaction. Given that her circle of friends was not large and very rarely did anyone come to the cottage unannounced, all they had to do was sit tight. She prayed that Pauline didn’t let her down.  A tear slid down her face at the thought, but she barely had time to brush it away before she felt Buster tense. Then he started to yap and although the sound threatened her eardrums, her spirits soared. He was hearing something she couldn’t. She held her breath and seconds later, there was a sequence of muffled thumps and the cellar door creaked open.

“Is anybody here?” roared a voice and a beam of light, worthy of the Eddystone Lighthouse, flooded the cellar as she staggered to her feet.

She needn’t have worried and later, when the police and paramedics had done their jobs and disappeared, they sat and drank tea, just the two of them, three if you counted Buster. Despite everything, she felt happy.  There’d been no sign of Nadia and Co., probably on hearing the sirens, they’d disappeared into the gathering mist now shrouding the cottage, but all the same, Pauline wouldn’t dream of leaving her on her own. 

“I think it’s best that I stay.” She said.  “Apparently, the police suspect cuckooing and think they aren’t real refugees at all but criminals exploiting the situation.”  Her voice started to break up.  “There’ll be an investigation but it was my fault. I should have checked more carefully.  I am so sorry, Terry, I failed you.”

She looked so sad as she sat drooping over her tea that she acted on impulse yet again and said,

 “Don’t worry Pauline. I’m just grateful you decided to phone me today instead of waiting until tomorrow. Anyway, I should have noticed something before now.  We all make mistakes.”

 Reaching out, she covered Pauline’s hand with hers - so warm and soft, it felt like a little bird as it trembled under her touch.  Pauline raised her head and as their eyes collided, they held each other’s gaze and smiled as one. Terri squeezed Pauline’s hand and dared to hope that, for once, her mother had been wrong.

Copyright Janet Baldey

Tylywoch ~ 31

 Tylywoch ~ 31  Fighting Back II 

By Len Morgan 

   Aldor’s force entered the city to a warm reception, it was just one hour after Weilla made her speech.   By that time the Surbatt had only one stronghold left, the Emerald palace.   The morale of their troops within the palace was at rock bottom.   Sickness was rife, but the forces loyal to 'the Divine Light' seemed to be immune to the vomit fever and dysentery that left members of Taleen's force with no option but to surrender.   They could not fight in that debilitated state.   So when called upon to surrender many members of the 9th Clan and their sympathisers, gave up without protest, in return for the aid dispensed by Aldor's medical specialists.   Those not affected by the sickness drove their Surbatt masters, to the throne room, and threw down their arms, surrendering to the startled red guard, who had formed a cordon around the throne room, prepared to sell their lives dearly in a last-ditch stand…   Instead, Veille the highest-ranking officer was given the far less onerous task of accepting their surrender and locking them up securely.   When the Empress was shown to still be alive, most of the 9^th displayed great surprise, overwhelming her with their demonstrative displays of loyalty.  

The 9^th willingly re-joined the other clans in equal partnership and were to play a significant part in the war against Bluttland.   Far from splitting the Clans, the 'Surbatt Incident' had served to galvanise the sense of oneness in the hearts of all inhabitants of the Cheilin Empire.

As far as history is concerned, the Tylywoch took little part in the proceedings.   History would recall the Red Guards' daring escape from the dungeons and their triumphant humiliation of the evil Surbatt cult, but the Empress and the Guard knew what really transpired.   

Prince Taleen disappeared from the palace without a trace.   

Several days after his incarceration Wilden was exhumed from his living tomb.   To his surprise, his addiction was completely cured!   'Wilden's cure' as it became known, was used to successfully rehabilitate most of the others infected by Glamhorten, amongst them Galyx.   

In gratitude, for a royal pardon, Wilden renounced Bedelacq and became a trusted advisor, to the Empress, on all Bluttland matters.   He would prove to be a loyal trustworthy and invaluable advisor in the struggles yet to come.

The Blutt Conflict: 

 Jax closed his eyes…

"Good news!" said Orden "Aldor has entered the Eternal City.   The Empress is alive and well and the Surbatt uprising has been put down.   Aldor will soon be leading an army from the west to support us.   We have only to hold them back until he arrives." 

"That is good news indeed.   I also have news, but it is not good I wish it were, the witch woman from the ship has evaded us, she could now be anywhere!" 

"If that is true, she will now be well beyond your sector and therefore no longer your concern," said Terrek.  "We will catch up with her eventually; it's just a matter of time.   There has been a breakthrough of sorts in this sector.   Two ships discharged in a hidden cove we were not covering.   There may be what you called a witch woman with them.   If so, it's possible that your one will try to join up with that group.   If she is located I will let you know.   Is there any further information to be passed on?" 

"Only to confirm the weather will break overnight and the improved conditions will accelerate their attempts to land,” Said Orden.   “A ship is a big problem logistically, and they must be running low on food and water.   The conditions will have deteriorated markedly for the troops on board, so their priority must be to make landfall.   They were relying on the Surbatt rebellion to succeed and split our forces, they may not yet be aware that prince Taleen and his witch woman, are no longer a threat to us.  I believe you both know Galyx, one of Aldor's Tylywoch?   He killed the witch woman, and Taleen fled the city.   If the Blutt commanders are aware of it, they will know that time is now of the essence if they hope to get a foothold on Cheilin soil.

Terrek laughed, "The man with no name, who introduced me to Jax and persuaded me to take him as my apprentice."

"Quite!   It's unlikely they will attack before dawn, so pass the word to your commanders that everyone should get warm meal and a good night's sleep.   Who knows when we will next have that luxury!" at which point Orden broke off the mind link.

 (To be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

  Protesting 

By Jane Scoggins

Joe took his TV dinner from the oven and carried it on a tray to the sitting room. He put the tea cloth with which he had carried his hot dinner on the little coffee table before setting down his dinner plate. The little Ercol table was one of three in a nest that fitted neatly together one on top of another. Joe was always very careful when using any of the three, as the tables, had been treasured pieces of furniture since he and his wife Margie had received them as a wedding present many years ago from an aunt, long since dead. He was proud to say that they were still in excellent condition, with no marks on them. 

They had been regularly polished through the years, although in recent years Margie had not been so keen, and left this task more or less to Joe.

She had said, ‘Now I know about the cutting down of the Amazon Forest and the damage it does I am less inclined to polish this wood. It was probably cut down illegally, is not a sustainable variety, and will have taken away vital trees and land from the local people, reducing vital resources and increasing poverty’

Joe had not given any thought to this before, or the history of the much-loved tables. A bit taken aback and not wanting to annoy his wife, he shrugged and made some sort of placatory comment. Margie had since become more involved in reading about other environmental issues. She joined Greenpeace and became involved in their anti-whaling campaign ‘Save the Whales’ Joe was a purser on a ship at the time and knowing how much rubbish got heaved overboard almost daily when out at sea, not to mention the occasional fuel spillage, however small and not reported on, he kept quiet and did not mention these things to Margie when he was home on leave. He enjoyed his job and didn’t want to spark Margie into another campaign that might impact him and his employment. Joe turned on the TV and then carefully slid the little table across the carpet to just in front of his armchair. Reaching for his slippers under the chair he slipped them on and settled back into the comfy depths of the chair. He had returned that day from his life on the ocean waves and was looking forward to a few days rest. He wasn’t sure where Margie was, or when she would be back. He had gotten used to coming home and finding she was about to set off to join a campaign or had already gone on one. The last year he felt he had hardly seen her, but there again he had been away at sea a lot. He had accepted extra long shifts in an attempt to build up his savings and pension so he could retire early in the not-too-distant future. He thought he could then take on a local job and he and Margie could get back to spending time together like they used to. This drifting away from each other was not a good thing and their marriage was suffering. When was the last time they had been on a holiday or spent proper time together talking and listening to each other, he asked himself? He was doing things alone on his shore leave while Margie was busy or involved with Greenpeace. She had even spoken about putting herself forward for a voyage on their ship Rainbow Warrior. He had been silent on that one. He thought that was going a bit far. He had heard that these trips took months, across to the other side of the world. Joe started on his dinner, a lasagne tonight. He was hungry and looking forward to it, and an evening watching the box. He would message Margie this evening and see when she was coming home. He really must start paying her more attention.

During the evening Joe messaged Margie. When by 9pm he had not had a reply he tried phoning her. Her phone was turned off. Joe dozed and woke just as the music for the BBC Ten O’Clock news came on. He was feeling a bit groggy but alerted himself and sat up when he saw a picture of a large sailing vessel with a huge green and white banner across the side GREENPEACE. 

The newscaster said ‘Today the Greenpeace ship Rainbow Warrior set off on its voyage of education and protests against commercial whaling, nuclear testing and oil exploitation. It will sail around the world via Antarctica stopping at as many countries as it can. The voyage is expected to take at least 6 months.’

 Joe stared at the screen. When the camera zoomed in to see the figures of the people on board waving Greenpeace and Save the Whales banners Joe could clearly see Margie’s face, no doubt about it. And close beside her to his further shock and dismay, a tall handsome man with his arm around her waist. They were laughing and cheering. Joe had not seen Margie as happy as that for a long time. He realised then that perhaps she was not coming back to him, and he had lost her, not just to Greenpeace, protests and campaigns but to another man, with whom she had more in common. He had to ask himself whether protesting about it would do any good…

 

Copyright Jane Scoggins

 A Fairy Story

By Grace Petersson

She looked incredulously at the nurse before her.  “My name,” said the nurse in a softly spoken West Country accent “is Nurse Kingfisher, Victoria Kingfisher at your service.”  Nurse Kingfisher looked as if she had walked off a WW1 battlefield first aid station wearing a grey dress and cape, white cuffs and a white muslin cap.  “I can help you, dear,” said the smiling, rosy-cheeked matron.  But how thought Flora………

Flora always craved two things: to have a son and to be beautiful all her life.  She coveted beautiful women.  She envied them; wanted to be them.  Flora also wanted beautiful children, so she searched for the most drop dead gorgeous man and found all her most ardent desire in Christian Oboe.  Christian seemed the perfect man: handsome with chiselled jaw, wavy blonde hair, piercing blue eyes, sweet, kind and most of all he adored Flora with a passion.

So when Flora discovered herself pregnant soon after their marriage, she felt her life could not be more perfect.  The pregnancy went well; Flora looked after herself ensuring she was still irresistible to the attentive Christian who found her curvaceous body equally irresistible.

Flora and Christian had a son – the pinnacle of perfection.  They named him Rowan after Christian’s grandfather.  Rowan was a good quiet baby, who hardly ever cried and Flora’s body returned swiftly to its trim, sexy and enticing self.  She was comfortable in her beauty, her husband’s and that of her perfect son.

However, this perfect state came crashing down when Flora noticed Rowan was not progressing as quickly as her friend's children. 

“Johnny smiles at me all the time,” said Flora’s best friend Cara, of her adored offspring.  Rowan was not smiling at either Flora or Christian.  Slowly, after studying the signs of autism, Flora began to notice other signs of autism in Rowan: he rarely responded to her smiles or any facial expressions and would not look at toys or other objects even when Flora pointed to them.  Something was just not right, she knew and after many consultations, severe autism was finally diagnosed.

The first response of Christian, Flora’s husband was to deny any responsibility for the often inherited illness.  “It can’t be me!” he staunchly cried.  “No one in my family has ever had this condition, “it must be you he postulated”, pointing accusingly at Flora who was brokenhearted at the plight of her son and the cruel reaction of her husband.  She just desired to have her beauty, her stunning husband and her perfect son.  Now, none of that seemed possible.

Gradually as the months went by, Christian withdrew more and more from the family unit, until he finally, said he was leaving.  He had a new relationship with a beautician who he claimed made him happy and met all his needs.  Reluctantly and tearfully, Flora accepted the situation, taking Rowan for regular check-ups and talking to other mothers in the same situation. 

During one of these check-ups, Flora was so distraught and overcome by events that she fainted.  When she awoke in a ward, Flora found the nurse who called herself Nurse Kingfisher, looking at her sympathetically and offering hope.  Flora’s first cry was “What have you done with my baby!” 

“Don’t worry yourself dear, he is in good hands for a little while.”

“So how can you help me?” asked Flora.

“Well,” said the redoubtable Nurse Kingfisher, “You want your beauty, your handsome husband, and a perfect baby, is this not so?”

“Well yes,” replied Flora uncertainly,” but it’s not feasible is it?”

“Aha, that’s where you’re wrong, my dear.  I am your fairy godmother, and through me all things are possible.”

“What’s the catch?” asked Flora suspiciously.

“You just have to complete a few wee challenges and all your dreams will be yours,” said Nurse Kingfisher with a flutter of hands in the air.

“And what may they be,” asked Flora suspiciously?  “Will Rowan be safe?”

“Not only will he be safe, he would be made perfect in your eyes again and your pretty husband will be back in your arms and your home.  Isn’t that what you want?”

Flora thought about it and decided what the heck just ask the crazy lady what she would have to do.

“While looking after Rowan, you must train to be a professional nurse, choosing your specialism of working with children with autism in all areas and levels of the autistic spectrum until Rowan is ten years old.  You will have to ensure Rowan is looked after properly and appropriately whilst you study. You will have to utilise all the trusted contacts you can muster to achieve your goal.  Once you can prove to me that you understand fully the needs and challenges of an autistic child, your husband and Rowan will be returned to you perfect and good as new.”

Flora so desperately desired her beauty, her husband who loved her for her beauty and mostly for her son to be perfect; she was willing to try anything.

“However,” warned her fairy godmother, “if you should fail in your challenge, you will look like the wicked witch of the east in the Dorothy story and we all know what happened to her!”

So Flora, being so very proud of her appearance and the admiring glances she received from men everywhere, immediately found a suitable nursing course.  She asked friends and relatives to help care for Rowan as she studied.  Then she threw herself into the lives and needs of all autistic children she encountered, no matter where they were on the spectrum.  Amazingly, Flora discovered she loved the children, not in spite of their condition, but because of their so-called affliction.  She gradually realised how blessed she was to have Rowan, just as he was.  He actually was perfect she now knew.

As Rowan grew in confidence, poise, and beauty both inside and out, Flora discovered she loved and valued her son far more than her presumed beautiful appearance.

Eventually, Rowan reached his tenth birthday and Flora was a fully qualified nurse, working part-time and wholly happy in her situation, so much so, she forgot about the consequences of Nurse Kingfisher’s challenge.

One day as Flora walked in a field of bluebells with their son galloping through the azure blue blooms, Nurse Victoria Kingfisher appeared and said “Well done Flora, you have fulfilled the challenge and I am ready to return your handsome Christian to you and make Rowan just as you desired.  The fairy godmother was about to wave her magic wand, when Flora shouted “No, no!”  Rowan alarmed looked to his mother to ensure she was safe.

“No!” repeated Flora, “I don’t want my husband back, beautiful or not and I don’t want a hair on Rowan’s head to be changed.  I see now beauty is within and not just on the outside.  I know now I have been vain and shallow and could not see until just now that Rowan is perfect just as he is.”

“Well,” said Nurse Kingfisher with a little smile and a twinkle in her perceptive blue eyes, “My work appeared to be complete here.”  With that, she flew over the rainbow to save another soul in torment.

Copyright Grace Petersson

TANKA

by Rob Kingston

 TEFLON ANNY.

By Bob French

It was 6 o’clock on the morning of 21^st November 2021, the second anniversary of   the death of Mandy Hamilton’s mother.  She sat quietly at her kitchen table, staring at the photograph of her mum and thought of the good times they had spent together.

They had attended a wedding of a good friend, but during the reception, her Mum said that she felt ill and was going to go home.  But ten minutes into her journey, her mum decided that she felt really ill, and decided to go to A&E.  As she drove down a poorly lit street, an old woman stepped out into her path and was killed.

Mandy’s Mum was duly arrested and when she appeared in front of the judge, the evidence given by the police was that she was high on drugs.  Her solicitor, in her defence, stated that she was on special medication and should in fact be in hospital this very afternoon.  He even presented an expert witness to confirmed the solicitor’s statement, but the judge dismissed the plea and sentenced her to five years.  A year into her sentence, she died.

Mandy, a Detective Inspector with the Met, wiped away her tears, stood, drained the dregs of her cold cup of coffee, then made her way towards her front door.  ‘Got to keep busy.’ She thought, knowing that it was the only way she could get through the day.

Just as she got to work, her phone rang; It was John, a promising young constable who had been tasked with going through the evidence lockers before the old case files were sent off to Feltham for long terml storage.

“Boss, you asked me to tell you if I found anything interesting.”

“Thanks John.  Give me a minute to grab a coffee and I’ll join you.”

Ten minutes later Mandy entered the Evidence Room, in the bowels of Old Scotland Yard.  “Hi John, what have you found?”

“This note book in the evidence box of a Miss Wendy Drew who died mysteriously last year.  I think you should read it.”

Mandy noticed the expression on John’s face and realised that he was telling her something important. Just then her phone rang.  It was her Sergeant.

“Sorry John, must dash. The chief’s just called a meeting, but thank you for this.”  She slipped the book into her pocked and hurried away.

She got to the meeting just as her Boss summed up the situation.

“So, in the last three months, this particular protest group has interfered with traffic on fourteen different occasions, causing complete mayhem, resulting in a substantial dent in my budget and some pretty poor PR for the force.  It is led by a real piece of work; Dame Ann Vetch-Smyth, AKA Teflon Anny, a retired judge.  Now I’m getting it in the back of the neck from upstairs to sort this group out.  So, for the next two weeks, I want each division to concentrate their resources on bringing an end to Teflon Anny’s reign.”

As they left the conference room, a call came through saying that the protesters had struck again on the South Circular.  From what Mandy knew of this group, Teflon Anny and her followers would all be released without charge by the end of the day.

That evening as she sat at her kitchen table, Mandy began to read the book John had given her, making notes as she went.

The following morning on the way up to the fifth floor, she popped into Fred Mason, an ex-Sweeny Todd Commander.

“Fred, do you still have contacts with the old team?”

Fred, a good friend grinned. He detested being a desk jockey and would do anything to get out onto the streets again.

“Your wish is my command love.”

Mandy showed him the list of people she wanted to speak to. “Leave it with me.  I’ll get back to you by this evening.”

Just as she was getting ready to leave, Fred called her.  He didn’t say much, just; “Meet me at the Turks Head at nine.” 

As usual the place was packed as Mandy pushed open the door to the bar and allowed the warm familiar smelling air to wash over her.  Fred called her over and as she sat down, a mysterious hand appeared with a rum and coke, her favorite, and placed it down in front of her.

“We could only find three out of the five.  Two died of old age. One is in a hospice in Kent suffering from dementia, but the remaining two are good to go.” As he spoke, he discretely slipped a piece of paper across the table with the addresses of the two remaining persons of interest.

At ten o’clock on Monday morning, Mandy entered the public library in Brentford and asked to see Mrs. Fay Jillingham.  She was pointed in the direction of a serious looking grey-haired woman who was cataloging some library cards.

After talking quietly with her, she discovered that she had worked with two other women; Wendy Drew and Millie Shilling, all three were legal secretaries to Ann Vetch-Smyth, and was happy to confirmed certain details Mandy had read in the book.  When Mandy informed Mrs Jillingham that Wendy Drew had passed away under mysterious circumstances, Jillingham simply said that she was not surprised, and when pressed, Mrs Jillingham refused to comment.  Mandy thanked her and said that she would be in touch.  Her next appointment was with Mrs. Mille Shilling who, unlike Mrs. Jillingham didn’t want to talk of the time she was employed by Ann Vetch-Smyth for fear of retribution.  Mandy stood and said quietly that she fully understood, then left.

She called Fred that night and asked if he could help with some more addresses?

“Cost you a drink love.”

Five days later, she met Fred in the Turks Head again and received the list of address.  “What you up to then love?”

“Can’t say just yet Fred, but I may need your help later on, if that’s OK?”

During the following month Mandy, with the help of John, visited the people whose names appeared in the book to corroborated the details concerning them and to obtain a statement  to exactly what happened when they came into contact with Ann Vetch-Smyth.  Upon return to their office each day, they compared the details taken from those they visited with the notes on the police case files.

When she met Fred for a third time, she asked him if he could find out where and when the protest group that Teflon Anny led was going to strike next.

Fred called her a few days later. “They are going to be at the junction of the B4557 and the north Circular just outside Wembley Stadium on Tuesday night, just before the England and Scotland game.”

“Thanks Fred.  Now I am going to speak to my DCI, but can you get the serious crime boys ready to do a snatch job?”  She heard him chuckle.

“Just give the word love.”

At ten the next morning, Mandy walked into her Bosses office. “I know you are busy Sir, but I may have a plan that may interest you.”

Her boss sat back, and invited her to sit.

After half an hour her Boss had made three phone calls and had invited Mandy to take the overall lead in the operation.

That evening Fred called her and said he owed her a large drink.  Her boss had just tasked him to lead the SCS, The Serious Crime Squad, on the operation.

At ten to six on Tuesday evening, a couple of scruffy looking mini buses made their way into Wembley car park nearest to the junction of the B4557 and the North Circular. The SCS, who had been scattered around the area quickly identified the protesters as they started to move towards the junction.  Fred had made the point to the rest of his team that he wanted to be the one to collar Teflon Anny.

Just as the protesters were getting ready to strike, the SCS pounced.  Fred, who had recognized Ann Vetch-Smyth quickly approached a group of protesters who were trying to protect their leader. He pushed them aside then grabbed Teflon Anny by the scruff of her neck, spun her around and informed her, in not so many words. “You love, are kicked.”

She just smiled at him. “Don’t worry love, I’ll be out by half time.”

Ann Vetch-Smyth spent the night in the cells and the following morning, was escorted up-stairs to the magistrate’s court.

The judge simply asked her to confirm her name and address, then remanded her into custody until her case could be heard in the Crown Court.  Ann instantly protested her innocence, demanding to know what she was being tried for.

The judge looked down at her papers; “Perverting the course of justice, tampering with evidence, falsifying statements, Abusing the office of a magistrate, taking bribes and leaking evidence to persons considered a threat to the state.”  The judge looked up.  “And that’s just for starters.  Take her down.”

Fred and his group had been tasked with rounding up all those whose names had appeared in the little book that John had found in the evidence box belonging to the late Wendy Drew who, it appeared, had threatened to betray Judge Vetch-Smyth. 

It took Mandy over an hour to slowly reveal the facts surrounding the evidence being presented, based on the details contained in the little book and the statements of those interviewed along with the Metropolitan police case files.  It showed that judge Vetch-Smyth had imprisoned those she was asked to by gangland friends or business colleague for large sums of money, Mandy explained that she could connected these events with the large sums of money paid into Vetch-Smyth’s bank account; to instances where people were imprisoned, including those whose evidence had been altered to protect her associates and the fee she was paid; evidence that she had intimidated her staff to alter statements and lastly, bribes she had paid to judges who, when she and her group of protesters appeared before them, had their cases dismissed.

Members of the press were sent scurrying from the public gallery once they heard the judge sentence Teflon Anny to thirty-five years with no remission.

She met up with Fred that evening just as she was leaving for home.

“Well done love, you got some real low life off the streets today.  Should be proud of yourself.

Mandy looked at Fred and shook her head.  “I didn’t do it to keep those people off the streets Fred, I did it for revenge.  You see Ann Vetch-Smyth was the judge who ignoring the pleas of my Mum’s solicitor, and knowing that she was very ill, still sent her to prison where she died.

Copyright Bob French