A VALENTINE MESSAGE

 A VALENTINE MESSAGE

By Peter Woodgate

I could, of course, have bought a card,

Showing other people’s words,

But, in truth, they should be mine

To be of any worth.

A big red heart, a teddy bear,

Just commercialised produce,

This heart of mine, you cannot see,

But that is no excuse.

For it is full of your embrace,

Your love and kindly soul,

You touch so many people’s hearts,

And that should be my goal.

But I can only concentrate,

On one, and that is yours,

It is the only one I love

Unique, of that I’m sure.

 

Peter Woodgate 14 February 2023

Wish You Were Here

 Wish You Were Here 

By Jane Scoggins 

   Gwen’s trip to the charity shop started a few months after her husband Jim had passed away. It had been the Macmillan nurse who had suggested that Gwen might like to give some of Jim’s clothes to the hospice shop. Although she had nursed Jim through his illness, and knew that time was short, she had still been completely overwhelmed by grief when he died. The visiting nurses had given such a professional and supportive service to them both. After his passing the nurses had continued to visit regularly through the practicalities and emotional turmoil she found difficult to cope with. For the first few months Gwen found comfort in opening Jim’s wardrobe or chest-of-drawers and  holding a piece of his clothing to her face to breath in any lingering smell of him, or  to stroke a favourite wool sweater. At the point she felt it was the right time to sort out Jim’s clothes she asked one of the nurses what she thought she could do with her husband’s good suit, his sheepskin jacket and the almost new shirts and sweaters. The nurse, sensitive to Gwen’s emotions suggested she may like to donate them to the hospice charity shop. Jim had been cared for several times in the local hospice for short periods to review his medication and give Gwen a break from his care. She thought this a good idea, and the nurse offered to take them when she was ready to pack them up. Time passed and Gwen coped better with her grief. She ventured out more to spend time with friends. During a visit to the town she ventured into the charity shop. She was relieved not to see any of Jim’s clothes on the rails, afraid she might become tearful. Browsing in the shop she chose to buy a couple of books, a CD and a slim glass vase, just right for a bloom or two from her small garden. On the way to the counter to pay, something hanging from a hook caught her eye. It was a cloth bag made from deep purple velvet. It looked homemade and the things that made it distinctive were the badges pinned or sewn onto the front flap. Intrigued Gwen looked closer. The sewn on badges were from Cornwall, Paris, Nice, Moscow, Sri Lanka and Chile. Gwen could only imagine what it was like to travel the world, but she and Jim had been to Cornwall many times in their camper van and it held many happy memories. The pinned on badges were of Greenpeace, CND, Amnesty International and Love Books. The bag and its badges somehow resonated with Gwen and impulsively she took it to the till with the book CD and vase she had also selected.

At home Gwen put on the kettle and the CD. She hummed along to the Songs of the 70’s and examined the bag again. Smiling at her impulsiveness for buying a  rather well worn bag for the badges, she felt her spirits lift. Having made a mug of tea she reached for the sugar bowl and knocked the mug over. Hot tea spilled over the worktop where the bag sat. The bottom of the velvet fabric thirstily soaked up the tea and left very little to mop up. Dismayed, Gwen reached for a cloth and tried to sponge it clean but soon realised that it would need more serious attention. Putting the plug in the sink, Gwen ran the tap and dunked the soggy bottom of the bag in the cold water. After lifting it out Gwen began to squeeze the water out. The base was heavy with sodden cardboard or padding  so snipping away some stitches she reached in to remove it. To her surprise it was not cardboard but a plastic bag with two neat piles side by side of 20 pound notes wrapped in cloth and with a letter:

  ‘Dear stranger,

I am so glad you have my bag and have discovered this hidden treasure trove. It is a gift for you.

 

Yes, it really is. Let me explain. After many years as a free spirit travelling, and supporting good causes close to my heart, I am now housebound and reliant on others for the first time in my life and having to live any unfulfilled dreams  through others. I have decided to give away some of my possessions and treasures. The velvet bag I was undecided about but hoped I would take pot luck and give it away in the hope that someone else would treasure it and discover the hidden money. I would like you to use the money to fulfil a dream. Life is short and we should enjoy it whilst we can. Of course you may decide to pay your electric bill or have the house painted that is up to you. But I hope that if you are the person I think you are, you will take a leap of faith and do something out of the ordinary. The Norwegian fjords, the Northern Lights, The Rocky Mountains are all spectacular. If it is peace you prefer, a Hebridean croft. I have been living in Essex for some time but feel the time is right now to return to my native Cornwall. If you decide to follow a dream I have included a PO Box number. And if you wish, and only if you wish, perhaps you would write and tell me of your adventure.

Wishing you happiness

Rose  

 After Gwen had read and re read the letter she sat thoughtfully for a while before saying out loud

 ‘Well Jim, what a bolt out of the blue this is! But I am not going to waste an opportunity, I'm going to do it Jim. I'm going to do what we always said we would do together; if and when we had the time and money. I'm going to Nepal to walk in the Himalayan mountains, stay in a teahouse and watch the sunrise from the Annapuri Sanctuary. You will be with me all the way, and I will send Rose a postcard. 

 

Copyright Jane Scoggins     

The Prince & Gemma

 The Prince & Gemma

By Grace Petersson

Prologue

  Now after the craziness of movie tube, I am flat and again rudderless.  I have two beautiful children who are my whole life, and a stunning wife who wants nothing more now than to be the first Native American President of the USA.  So, now I am cast in the role of house husband and possibly first man.  Is this really what I want?

****

  I am Prince Thane of Scotland; second in line to the throne.  My brother Harald is first in line.  I am the surplus prince; the spare in case Harald goes AWOL.  My childhood was very entitled with the best private schools money could provide like Gordonstoun, an outdoorsy cold showers 'make a man out of you' type of school.  I am the outdoors type, I love nature, long walks, serving and defending my country.  I hate some of my mannerisms, which when I see clips of my father Malcolm are identical to him.

  However, in spite of all my privileges, my life was not all jollity and bliss.  Firstly, my parents, Malcolm and Marissa’s marriage was not the starry-eyed fairy tale predicted.  I sensed this particularly in my mother for as long as I knew her.  My father is Malcolm XIII.  He at first balked against the XIII numeral after his name, but eventually declared he would not be intimidated by superstition saying “I am the 13^th Malcolm and therefore that is how I will be known.”  Adding to the doomed marriage was the fact that Malcolm was actually in love with another, Amelia.  They met as teenagers, fell wildly in love, and had much in common from a love of all things horsey to a love of the environment and classical music.  However, Amelia had ‘been around’ as they say, and therefore deemed wholly unsuitable.  I am glad about this because Marissa was tall and willowy, giving me and Harald our 6ft tall bodies, making us even more desirable to the world’s women.   My mother Marissa, beautiful and enigmatic, couldn’t care less about horses and the environment.  What made her heart sing was a new dress from Versace, dirty jokes and unfortunately for her, Malcolm.

  So in view of Amelia’s unsuitability, a virgin had to be found for Malcolm my father, and my mother Marissa, fit the role perfectly.  Just 19 years old, supposedly shy and biddable, she was deemed perfect.  Alas, Marissa was complex and unhappy as a result of her own mother being a ‘bolter.’  Malcolm was wholly unaware of this, blithely marrying Marissa at the insistence of his dictatorial controlling uncle, Hereward.

****

  My life as I knew it came to a shattering halt when Marissa my mother was shot by a Scandinavian sniper when visiting the Taj Mahal.  She sat looking at the famous majestic building, not knowing this was the last sight she would ever see.  I was 11 and Harald was 16.  Initially, we clung together for comfort and support.  We both knew Malcolm my dad would eventually marry Amelia and I had no problem with this.  He deserved to be happy.  Yet still, I felt angry enough to kill  the world for stealing away my mother. 

  I always felt somehow at odds with the rest of the family.  Also, I sensed Harald was my mother’s favourite and all my life have looked, unconsciously for someone to replace Marissa’s withdrawn love.  Also, I somehow felt more at ease with the marginalised members of society. 

  When I was 17 I hounded my dad for the opportunity to live for a while in the USA, attending Sitting Bull University, a prodigious Native American school, where I learnt much of the plight and tragic history of Native Americans.  Some students even took me home to meet their parents, where ironically I learned most of the real history of these tragic people and I kind of felt they had adopted me.  Even with the constant protection officers, I felt freer.  I believe the students at Sitting Bull were marginalised sort of like me and my mother.  It was here I first met Jemima; a beautiful descendant of the Chinook tribe from what is now called California.

   I was both entranced and mesmerised.  Not just by her obvious beauty, but her ideas, strength and firm beliefs about justice in the world and for her people.  We hung out in the same circles for a while, but I had to return to the UK to take up my pledge to the army, which up until then was the only role making any sense to me. 

   I just could not see myself following the steps of my dutiful brother Harald, the golden boy, who ironically looks like my mother, but is not challenging or confrontational.  I, to my extreme chagrin, resemble Malcolm, both in looks and mannerisms but with striking red hair.  Yet I am a rebel and yet not.  I dutifully joined the army and ‘fought’ in Afghanistan, albeit with several armed guards to make sure I wasn’t a PR coup for the Taliban.  These minders, poor sods, willingly risked their lives for me, whilst I felt I was in a gilded cage, with an opulent lifestyle, but with all eyes on me waiting for me to screw up.

  Screw up I did.  After I left the army, I felt rudderless and lost.  I had a few girlfriends, but they were ultimately scared off by the press intrusion.  Then I met Jemima again, and felt like I had my mother Marissa back.  She loves me and holds me up and I can’t imagine a life without her.  So if she wants congress and a political career, I have to support her if, I want to keep her.  What’s the alternative?  Run back to Scotland and be ridiculed as the bolter prince who couldn’t control his own wife?  Dear reader, what would you do?

Copyright Grace Petersson

 

A trip to the Pictures

 A trip to the Pictures

Grace Petersson

Hooray! A trip to the pictures

Let’s do Wednesday 2 for 1

What a lark we had

 

Aggie, there’s free biscuits and coffee!

A treat of Julia Roberts and George Clooney

Hooray! A trip to the pictures.

 

Look Betty There’s a raffle!

Even with me walking stick – no hassle

What a lark we had.

 

Do you think Julia Roberts is still pretty?

Um…. A few wrinkles.. such a pity

Hooray! A trip to the pictures

 

Well what about George Clooney

 Oh yes..he’s  still my cup of tea

What a lark we had

 

Aggie we can do it all again next week

What’s on Betty… let’s take a peek

Hooray! A trip to the pictures

What a lark we had

 

Copyright Grace Petersson

 

 

 JANE’S HOLIDAY

By Bob French

Jane had a huge smile on her face as she realised that Sammy, her daughter, had made her breakfast.

“Oh, you are a dear, love.”

“It’s alright Mum.  I know you’ve been working late these past few weeks and that you are really looking forward to your girl’s holiday.”

All Jane could do was embrace her. “Now you’ll be OK with Dad looking after you?”

Sammy gave he one of her looks.

Jane nodded, knowing that she had brought Samantha Jane, her daughter, up to stand on her own two feet and face any problems regardless.  Nothing seemed to faze her.  

“Now I leave tomorrow, so if there is anything you need, tell me now.”  As she spoke, she gently twisted the gold ring around on her pinky.

Sammy looked down at her hand.  “You always do that Mum when you get concerned about something.  What is it?”

“It’s a family heirloom that my mother gave to me.  She told me that before I die, I must pass the ring onto my eldest child, that’s you.”

“Can I see it please?”

Jane held out her hand and showed her. 

“It’s got a coat of arms or something on it.  Do you know what it means?”

“No. All my mother said was that it should never leave my hand until I pass it on.”

Just then the front doorbell rang, causing Sammy to jump up, grab her school satchel, kiss her Mum and vanish out the door.

As she watched Sammy link arms with Sarika and Jilly, she thought of the little gold ring and how long she had before she had to hand it over to her daughter.

Jane and her five friends landed at Santiago de Compostela airport in the middle of the afternoon and were greeted with a blast of hot air as they stepped down from the Iberian Airliner. Three hours later they were ushered into the foyer of the Pension Casa do Gallo Serria, a pleasant guest house on the south west fringe of the town of Serria, where Nicholas, a handsome young Spaniard from the travel company met them. 

After a brief introduction and a drink, they were shown their rooms and told to assemble in the bar after their evening meal, when he would take them through the itinerary, which entailed a 110 kilometer walk along the old pilgrim way from the church of Iglesia de Santa Maria de Sarria to the Cathedral Basilica de Santiago de Compostela, the burial place of Saint James the Great, one of the apostles of Jesus Christ.

As they assembled outside the Pension the following morning, Nicholas explained that the pilgrim way had existed for hundreds of years, and was used by those who wanted to take the pilgrimage to the tomb of Saint James, the patron saint of Spain and Calicia. The pilgrims would pass through this town and stop at the Church Iglesia de Santa Maria, situated just around the corner. This beautiful church was built between 1205 and 1301 and had been cherished down the centuries by the people of the town; even during the Reconquista, the Muslim Moors had failed to conquer the region of Calicia, due to the tenacity of its people.

As the church bells sounded ten o’clock, Nicholas declared that they would begin the walk. 

The first day’s walk started with enthusiasm by everyone, with a gentle climb, followed by a steep drop into a lush green valley towards Portomarin.  Even though spirits were high, they were starting to feel their tired muscles.  They stopped briefly for lunch, then moved off, a little slower than they had started.  As Night drew in, they crossed the bridge at Portomarin and reached the little la Pension de Mar. That night everyone slept soundly.

It was at lunchtime on the third day that Nicholas called a halt at the town of Melide, and as they ate their sandwiches in the quaint town square, Jane and Harriet decided, on the recommendation of Nicholas, to visit the 14^th century church, Igreza de San Pedro de Melide and at the same time to get their pilgrims card stamped.

It was cool inside the little church and not too many tourists around.  As they slowly took in the beautiful trappings, the smell of incense and the quiet peacefulness of the church, they came across an old nun, sitting next to a silver collection tray.  Jane lent forward and dropped a couple of Euro notes into it.  The nun looked up into her face, smiled, then took her hand and kissed it.  Jane felt very humbled at the kind gesture.

Suddenly the old nun quickly stepped back and looked up into Jane’s face and started to speak quickly at her. From nowhere a younger nun seemed to appear and listened to the rantings of the old nun, then turned to confront Jane.

“Scussy Madam.  Please let me see your hand.”

Harriet stepped forward and tried to intervene, but the younger nun was insistent.  Jane, not wanting to make a scene, stretched out her hand and the nun gently took it and studied the little gold ring on her pinky.

“How did you come by this ring madam?”

“It is a family heirloom. My mother gave it to me, Why?” The nun slowly nodded. “Please to come with me.”

Jane glanced at Harriet, shrugged, then followed the nun into the heart of the church, then off into a small chapel beside the main altar. She stopped, crossed herself, and knelt.

Jane, realizing that she had better follow what the nun had done; crossed herself then knelt as well. The nun turned and spoke to her in a hushed voice.

“Madam.  If you look at the arms on your ring, then look to the arms on the wall over there, you will see they are the same.”

Jane stared across at the coat of arms and realized, they were the same.

“I don’t understand,” Jane muttered.

They were interrupted by an elderly Priest who started to speak rapidly with the younger nun, then, they all bowed low in unison to Jane.

Harriet took all this in as an amusing prank, probably a trick to fool the tourists, but the Priest spoke first.

“My Lady. The ring that you wear.  Has it been in your family for many generations?”

Jane recalled her mother telling her that the ring was probably many hundreds of years old, and nodded.

“Have you ever been to Spain before?”

“No, this is my first time.”

The Priest and the two nuns spoke quickly between themselves again before he took Jane’s elbow and guided her to a seat.

“My Lady.  If what you tell us is true, then you are the descendant of Margarette, Isabella, Maria Jana, de Contessa de Calicia.”

Jane stared at the Priest. “Are you sure?”

“My Lady.  You wear her ring.”  By now a crowd had started to gather around the entrance to the small chapel.

“Margaret, Isabel, Mary and ….. What is Jana in English please?”

It was the young nun who spoke. “My Lady, in English, I think it would be Jane.” Suddenly Jane’s memory went back to the day her mother had passed her the ring.  She recalled the two demands she put upon her.  Firstly, to pass the ring onto the eldest child and secondly, whenever possible, to retain the Christian name of Jane.

Harriet broke the silence. “So, what happened to the Contessa?”

The old nun slowly sat down on one of the pews.

“The story goes that in the 14^th century when the Muslim Moors were threatening the frontiers of Calicia, Ferdinand, Emanuel de Corso, the Count of Calicia, and his army confronted them.  The Moors were too strong and the Count lost his life in the battle.  The Moors pushed on into Calicia until they came to this town.  Here, the Contessa and her ladies were waiting for their men to return.  When she realised the situation, she rallied the towns people and sent word to out-lying towns and cities in Calicia, calling them to arms.  She held off the Moors for three months; long enough for Ramiro, Alonzo, Ricardo, the Duke of Leon to raise an army and defeat the Moors.

Ricardo had wanted access to the sea and Calicia stood in his way, so when he relieved the town, the first thing he wanted to do was to imprison the Contessa and claim the region as his own.  According to the legend, she was smuggled aboard a ship bound for France, and later, she crossed the English Sea to England and was never seen or heard of again.”

Suddenly the noise of the crowd broke into the church and when the Priest and his nuns pulled open the doors to the church, they were surprised to see hundreds of cheering people.

Jane yelled at the Priest. “What are they saying?”

“They have come to witness the return of their Contessa and say thanks to their God.”

As Jane and Harriet stepped out of the church into the sunlight, the crowds instantly fell silent and everyone fell to their knees.

It took Nicholas, the town constable, and the mayor nearly two hours to thank everyone and allow Jane and the party to move on. When they finally reached Santiago de Compostela, Nicholas took them to the cathedral and the tomb of Saint James.

As they approached the steps to the cathedral, everyone was surprised to see that the bishop, in his fine regalia, and his huge entourage of priests and nuns had suddenly appeared from the huge wooden doors of the cathedral.

As Jane, Harriet, and the rest of the party started to climb the steps, the bishop and his party took the knee.  Then the bishop stood and extended his hand.  Jane had seen this on TV and knew that she had to kiss the ring, so she knelt and kissed the holy ring.

“My child.  I cannot say how pleased we all are that you have chosen to return after so long. Will you pray with us a while?”

Jane looked at Harriet, then Nicholas, who nodded at her, then stood and followed the bishop into the cathedral.

At dinner that night, the market square where the pension was situated was buzzing with gossip.  The Contessa of Calicia had returned and chosen this humble place to dine.

As everyone sat and enjoyed their last meal before returning to England, Harriet leaned over and spoke to Jane with a broad smile on her face.

“Well, are you going to tell Sammy about this My Lady?”

Jane thought for a minute then smiled. “No, I don’t think so. Well not until I have to hand over the ring to her. Then she can make up her own mind.”  

Copyright Bob French

Crow

  

Crow 

By Jane Scoggins

 

That wicked bird

That wiley one

Black of heart and wing

 

That hooded thief

With watchful eye

Plumage dark as coal

 

He caws and dives

Like a feathered jet

Soars to scruffy nest

 

Bright clever knave

In parliamentary heights

Grips the swaying branch

 

Watching laughing for the chance

To swoop and scare

The unsuspecting sparrow

 

Copyright Jane Scoggins

THE PROTEST

 THE PROTEST

by Richard Banks

        The decision to relocate England and Wales ten miles off the coast of Florida has been one of the most popular dictates of the Ruling Council in the twenty-second century. While no longer obliged to seek public approval via elections or referendums its informal meetings with regional focus groups are often used to gage public opinion, and the feedback from these was almost entirely favorable; the Proletariat jumped at the chance of living in the warm climes of a holiday location they could not afford to visit, while the economic advantages of closer links to our main trading partner was more than apparent to the CEOs of Footsie companies. Once the Irish Union was moved out of the way by attaching it to the west coast of Scotland there was nothing obstructing the English Republic, south of the Berwick Dyke, from crossing the Atlantic Ocean to its new anchorage. 

         Nothing that is but Aarry Sullivan who likes Britain where it is and would rather not be separated from his brother who lives across the border in the Independent Nation of Scotland. While Aarry should be keeping his opinions to himself he is inclined to share them with his drinking companions at the Boris Tavern, a grade four alehouse for unskilled operatives engaged in non-essential work. 

         Once Aarry had hopes of promotion to a grade three tavern where there was a carpet on the floor and an inside loo, but his application to be upgraded on the grounds that his father had once been a grade three until demoted for unspecified contraventions of the Citizens’ Code was rejected on the grounds that Aarry was unable to prove that the unspecified offence had not taken place. The official notification of this decision had been followed by a further form withdrawing his non-essential food ration for three months. 

         So, here he was at the Boris, drinking cloudy beer in the company of Mase and Albe whose tacit acceptance of the ‘Great Journey’ was based on the assumption that nothing they said was likely to make any difference.

         “It’s bound to be a bit choppy on the way over,” said Mase, who had once been seasick on Southend Pier. “Should be warmer though.”

         “By twenty degrees at least,” agreed Aarry. “Alright in the winter but just you wait until summer. Be hotter than an oven then.”

         Mase who earns a living by pulling a rickshaw absorbed this information with a deepening frown.

         “And then there’s the alligators,” said Aarry. “Big buggers they are, the size of a launch. Won’t take long for them to swim across from the mainland. Heaven help anyone who gets too close to one of them.”

         Mase took another swig of beer while wondering why no one had mentioned this before. “Are you sure about the alligators? There’s nothing about them in the Daily Truth. It will all be wonderful that’s what the paper says. Prosperity for everyone, even us.”

         “So you know that for a fact?”

         “Of course I do. Can’t be anything else if it’s in the Truth. Blimey Aarry, don’t tell me you’re one of those Differentalists. You know what happens to them.”

         “No,” said Aarry, “no one knows. Here today and gone tomorrow, but that’s not going to happen to us if we keep our voices down and no one hears. Why shouldn’t we have opinions that are different from the Government? Bring back Parliament. Government for the people by the people that’s what I say.”

         “But that’s democracy,” gasped Albe, looking in panic at the listening device on the wall above their heads. “Just saying that word is a crime against the state.”

         “Well, you just have,” said Aarry, unable to repress a chuckle, “but don’t worry, Mase and me ain’t going to shop you and neither is anyone else. The listener up there don’t work and probably never did. It’s just a dummy to discourage dummies like us from getting out of line. The only listener in here is Jo behind the bar. A Government spy, that’s what he is. Earns far more doing that than selling this swill. But while he’s there and we’re over here out of earshot, we can say what we like.”

         “Are you sure?” whispered Mase who, like Albe, was peering anxiously at the listener.

         “Of course I’m sure. OK, let’s put it to the test. Viva the revolution, power to the people. Now, if that thing is working, this place will be full of the Guard by the time I get back from the karzie.” And with that, he departed for the shed out back. 

         He returned five minutes later to find his companions still waiting tremulously for the squeal of brakes and the slamming of car doors that usually preceded a Guard raid. 

         “Now, where were we?” said Aarry. “Don’t think that moving the country to the States will be doing us any favours. Whatever happens, we’re always be bottom of the heap. It’s the Plebs at the top that will be cashing in. As for the three of us, it couldn’t be worse.”

         “Not sure about that,” said Albe glancing nervously through an uncurtained window at a passing car.

         “Well you should be,” interrupted Aarry. “Just think about it. You run a treadmill to heat homes while me and the Misses work in a factory making fur coats for those who can afford them. None of that will be of any use where we’re going. As for you, Mase, I don’t fancy your job pulling a rick in the heat of one their summers. Hot work for those who can stand it.”

         “But then,” said Mase as Aarry abruptly changed the subject.

         “Then Spurs scored from a corner and…. Hello Jo, what you doing over here. Come to wipe down the table. That’s very civil of you. Don’t miss that green bit in the middle. Lord knows what that is.” Aarry returned to his commentary on the Spurs until Jo was safely back at the bar. “So, as I was saying the move is not for us. The question is what we’re going to do about it?” 

         “What can we do? It’s Government policy. Their minds are made up. They even asked some of the people.”

         “The people,” scoffed Aarry. “Aren’t we the people? No one’s asked us, and never will while we do nothing but what we’re told. There was a time when people like us had rights when we had a say on who was going to be the Government and kicked them out when we didn’t like what they were doing. It don’t happen now. Why I’ll tell you why we don’t have the vote no more.” 

         “And a good thing too,” said Albe. Don’t you know it was the vote that divided people and set them against each other? Surely you remember what they taught us at school? 

         “Yeah, along with all the other crap. They didn’t bother much with the reading and writing but they were never shy of telling us our place. Citizens’ Rights they called it, two periods every day. Two hours of them telling us we weren’t good enough, that Government was done by those who had the most money and the big estates, that only they were fit to run the country. And us, at the bottom of the pile? What use were we? Not much according to our teachers. That’s why school ended for us at fourteen, and we were set loose to do the jobs no one else wanted, for the doles and privileges that came the way of those who did what they were told.” 

         “Well, that’s the way it is, Aarry,” said Mase. “We can’t be going back to the bad old days of mutiny and anarchy when the gutters flowed with blood,”

         “It never happened,” said Aarry in a raised voice that was heard behind the bar. “It never happened,” he repeated in a gruff whisper. “It’s all lies, there never was no armed uprising, not by our sort, no looting, no burning, no violence beyond the shouting of our grievances.”

         Albe’s mouth sagged open in disbelief. “That’s not what it says in the history books. Where do you get all this stuff?”

         “From my grandad, that’s who. Some of it he saw for himself, most was told him by his father. I also saw it in a book he had. My mother burnt it when he died but by then I had read every page. It was the army that rose up, paid to do it by those at the top of the money tree who wanted to be free of all regulation so they could become richer and more powerful. No more Parliaments for them. At first, they made themselves popular by giving everyone tax cuts but in the years that followed they made sure that the rich got richer and everyone else from the middle down was slowly, but surely, made worse. The Unions that stood up for the rights of their members were suppressed and public services, like hospitals, were starved of the money they needed to keep going. And when the people had had enough, when they were half starved and only paid a pittance, they took to the streets in a great demonstration called the Just Remonstrance, but by then it was too late. That’s when the revolution happened, the bloody suppression of the people by the army. Thousands died and when the newspapers and TV reported what had happened they were shut down and replaced by Truth Media. And since then we’ve done what we’ve been told until no one knows another way. Ours is the hard way, the only way, that’s what they taught us at school, and that’s what we hear and read every single day. And, if the likes of us don’t tell the people what’s really going on it will only get worse.”

         “No, no, Aarry, it’s all going to get better. Once we’re on the other side of the pond it will be…”

         “Worse than before,” interjected Mase.  “Aarry’s right, right about that, and right about the Just Remonstrance. Grandma said those words when she was going silly with the mind rot. Spoke about soldiers shooting down the people and bodies too many to count. We thought it was nonsense, crazy talk. The only thing crazy, was that she was now saying what she had kept inside her when she had her wits. ‘Keep your mind to yourself,’ was one of her sayings. And that’s what she did until the last year of her life when it all came spilling out.” 

         “What about you?” said Aarry to Albe “do you believe me now? Not sure? Well one thing you can’t ignore is that running a treadmill in 40 degrees heat will do you nothing but harm. How old are you? Fifty? Little chance of you making it through to sixty. Is that what you want for you and your son?”

         “But what’s to be done? How can we possibly make things right?”

         “By telling the people the truth, the real truth, that they are poor because they have been made poor, that they are oppressed when they should be free, and that none of this will change until they seize back what is rightly theirs. We must be like the farmer sowing seeds, seeds of truth that will take root and become a mighty harvest. If the people rise up, too many to be denied they will be free. It must happen, we must make it happen. At home, I have leaflets telling people, people like us, what they must know and do. We each take some and hand them out to the workers leaving the second shift tomorrow. It will be dark, keep your faces covered, and as soon as you’re done get yourself out of sight in the back alleys. Any questions?”

         “Where do we go?” Said Mase.

         “Me outside NPI, you at the steelworks, and Albe outside the generating station in Crawley Street. Is that OK, Albe? No need to say anything, just nod your head. ….Good man! OK now, drink up and come back to my place. There’s a bag of leaflets for both of you, one hundred in each. And in case you’re wondering we won’t be the only ones out there tomorrow, there’ll be five more in Sectors One and Three. Come on now, let’s be going, we have a great work to do.”        

                                               *****        

In order not to endanger each other it was agreed by the three of them not to meet at the Boris until the following week, an arrangement that left Aarry free to return there by himself the following evening. Bag in hand he made his way into the back room and, as Jo locked up for the night, poured himself a Scotch from a bottle on the dining table within. Having downed it in one he was in the process of replenishing his glass when Jo entered the room and sat down beside him. 

         “Everything OK? Your mates in position and ready to go?”

         “You must be kidding. Have them hand out seditious propaganda? No way. Even one leaflet in the wrong hands can cause trouble down the line; remember what I said about little seeds. No, they were arrested at dawn, their possession of subversive literature more than enough to make them enemies of the State. We won’t be seeing them again.”

         “No point then in drinking to their good health.”

         “None at all. And to think I use to be like they were, sticking to the rules, rules meant to keep us down. Then I changed, but not like them. If you can’t beat them join them. Make yourself useful. No one goes hungry where I live. So, here we are, in the money again. Your share’s in the bag, in kind, just as you wanted, ten bottles of Scotch and four of gin.”

         “And what about you?”

         “What about me? You mean how much do I get? Maybe more, maybe less. That’s for me to know and you not to think about. But one thing I can tell you is that I’m moving up in the world. Got my grade 3 today, so this will be our last drink together. Soon, I’ll be a regular at the Phoenix, downing grade 3 beer with journeymen mechanics and semi-literate clerks, folks who are keen to get on in life and who might be tempted by those like me fomenting revolution. As for you, you’ll be getting a new man, Suji. Very keen is Suji. I’m sure you’ll do well together. So, here’s to us, to past times and better ones to come.”        

“Cheers.” 

The End.

          

Copyright Richard Banks