The Traveller’s Joy

By Janet Baldey

“Half of best, please love.”

Joy turned back to the pump, glancing at the clock; still early and already her arm was aching, it’d be as numb as a block of wood before the night was out.  As amber liquid foamed into the tankard, she thanked the Lord it had a good head.  At least there’d be no moaning and groaning that usually greeted the landlord’s watered-down brew.  Not her fault, but she was the one who got it in the neck.  Certainly not Fred, who’d disappear into the snug at the first hint of trouble. Like a bloody canary in a coal mine, he was.

“That’ll be a tanner please, Bert.  I know, I know. Goes up every week. But don’t shoot the messenger. Ain’t me wot’s lining me pockets.  What’s yours then, sweetheart?” Ignoring a nagging pain in her back, she nodded to the next in line.

She was sick of both this job and the landlord; especially, the landlord.  Conniving bugger with his weak beer and sky-high prices.  She peeked in his direction.  Forget the canary, he was crouching behind the bar like a fat, black spider with many eyes, each following her every move, just in case she slipped a penny into her apron pocket.  That was the trouble with being on the take, he thought everybody else had sticky fingers.

A sudden gust of wind buffeted the windows and icy rain scoured the glass with a venom that made even the most hard-bitten look up from their pints.  Despite the smelly fug of the bar, Joy shivered, glad to be inside, even if she did have to share the same air as Fred and his cronies.  She thought she heard the creak of wood and glanced towards the door but it was set firm in its frame.  Must be the wind trying to get in, she thought and if Fred didn’t do something about that lock, sooner or later it would.  She looked around the bar; pity about the state of the place though.  Her Ma could remember when it was a prison, and swore it was in better condition then.  Fred had really let it go.  Sometimes, Joy daydreamed about what she’d do if it were hers.  For starters, she’d sort out the state of the woodwork, inside and out, at the moment it was barely good enough for woodworm.  Then, she’d paint it up and make it look smart.  Ma had showed her a picture once and the whole place used to be covered in some sort of greenery, Old Man’s Beard, she called it.  Used to look quite nice, ‘Was the only thing holding the place together,’ Ma said.  But the first, and only, thing Fred did was to tear it all down and let the world see how rough the timber was.  Joy’s lip curled as she looked around the bar at the greasy upholstery and chipped tables.  Lot of work to be done and a fortune to be spent no doubt.  Again, she heard the creak of wood and stepped out of her daydream as this time the door did more than shiver, it swung open with a crash that sent loose plaster spraying from the ceiling.  In the silence that followed, Joy clearly heard mice in the wainscoting as everybody’s eyes swivelled towards the entrance. 

“Blimey, it’s Frosty the Snowman!”  Immediately, the would-be comic regretted his quip and buried his face in his glass, for there was something oddly dignified about the man standing in the doorway.  With a brisk, dog-shake of his body the stranger rid himself of hailstones clinging to his clothes and stepped out their puddle towards the bar. 

Fred jumped to his feet, almost spilling his beer.

“Out,” he bawled.  “No travellers here.  Didn’t yer read the sign?”  He gestured towards a board that read No travellers, no blacks, no Irish.

The man looked at him.  “But it’s called The Travellers.” He pointed out, mildly.

“Never you mind what it’s called.  I run this place and I don’t want dirty gyppos stinking the place out.” He nodded to his two mates who immediately lurched to their feet and stood swaying, poised for action.

The traveller stared into Fred’s bloodshot eyes and his lips moved.  At the time, nobody heard what he said, although several swore they did, but that was later.

Seconds passed, everyone held their breath, then the man turned back towards the door.  The wind’s whine carolled into a scream as it was opened and Joy shivered again.  “Wouldn’t send a cur out in weather like that” she muttered and at that moment, made up her mind.

With one swift movement, she ripped off her apron.  “Cover for me, will ya Fred.  Gotta go, call of nature,” she yelled.  Not waiting for his reaction, she dived down a couple of steps into the kitchen. Stopping only to grab a bottle of beer and hunk of pork pie, she wrenched her coat off its hook and flung it over her head. 

“Ere, mister. Wait up” she called into the whirling snow through which she could just see the dim outline of a bow top.  Puffing and blowing into the polar air she slid to a stop beside the traveller who was standing at his pony’s head, picking lumps of ice out of its mane.

“Sorry about Fred” she said, “he can be a misery sometimes.  Look, his girl’s got a pony and she keeps it in the stable across the yard.  She’s off to the farriers but she didn’t reckon on this weather and anyway, she’s sweet on the farrier’s son, so she won’t be back any time soon.  You can take your ‘orse in there for a while.  There’s fresh hay and if you’re lucky, a bit of bran mash. Quick, let’s get going, I gotta get back.”  She led the way across the yard to the stable and waited till the Bow Top rumbled to a stop and the horse was let out of its shafts. 

“Ere.” She thrust the beer and pie into the gypsy’s hands and for the first time looked at him full on.  Although his nut-brown face was seamed with as many cracks as ancient leather, his eyes were bright and alive with intelligence.  The eyes of a young man in an old man’s face, she thought and a sudden feeling of awe swept over her.

“That’s very civil of you Missy, may I ask your name?”

“It’s Joy sir; although me Ma sometimes says I bring her more trouble than joy.”

“You are very kind, Miss Joy and kindness should always be rewarded.  Here…” reaching deep into the pocket of his worn woollen coat, he held out a small sprig of heather. “Take this, keep it safe and remember who gave it to you.”

Scampering back to take her place behind the bar, Joy wondered what the old gypsy meant but words are cheap, soon forgotten and she had work to do; she tucked the heather into her apron pocket.  Sure enough, as the weeks passed nothing changed but the seasons that is, until exactly six months later when Fred was found drowned in a bowl of stew, his face bright purple, decorated with gravy and shreds of gristle.

Although not a popular landlord, the mood was sombre in the bar the evening after.   Unease lined every face as they lamented his demise, he wasn’t an old man but his lifestyle didn’t bode well for old bones and many a pint was left untasted as others vowed to cut back and take more walks.  There was only one who didn’t join in the general chorus of health-related consequences.  Jem stared into his tot of whisky before swallowing it down and clearing his throat.

“Twere that gypsy.  Six months, he told ‘im, and six months he got.  I said at the time, Fred should never have messed with ‘im.  He were no ordinary tinker, pure Romany he was and them lot ‘ave powers.”

“Ah, get away wi’ you Jem.  That whisky’s gone to yer head.”

“No, no.  I think Jem’s right.  E did say six months.  I read ‘is lips…”

Discussion prowled the room and after a while Joy switched off, although she did wonder.  After all, she’d had more to do with the traveller than the others.  Had she sensed something?  She gave herself a quick mental shake, she had more important things to worry about.  Even though she’d been no fan of Fred’s, she’d wished him no ill and what was going to happen now?  Who would be the new landlord and would she still have a job?

The next evening, she trudged back home her eyes all but blinded with tears. There’d been a letter waiting for her when she’d arrived at the pub and she never got letters.  It looked official and now tiredness and depression had convinced her that it was her notice and she’d be out on her ear before the week ended. What would she do then?  There was no way that she and her Ma could manage without her weekly pay packet, small though it was. Anyway, she enjoyed her job.  She was fond of all her regulars, mostly they were lonely men, widowers like Bert and Harry and there was Cliff whose wife had run off with a Yank.  Of course. there was the odd ruffian, too fond of his beer and his fists.  Lord help their wives, she often thought, but they were few and far between and tended to congregate around Harry.  Mostly, the blokes were kind and treated her with respect.  There’d only been one who’d truly given her the creeps.  Good looking chap and first she’d been flattered when he started paying attention to her.  Then, she’d looked up suddenly and caught him by surprise.  He was smiling but his eyes raised goosebumps although the room was warm; completely expressionless with no light or life,  looking into them was like looking into a pair of empty graves.  Chilled, from then on, she kept busy and did her best to ignore him but as the minutes ticked on she started to dread the dark journey home.   In the end, she asked Harry if she could walk up the hill with him and he seemed to understand.

“Is that chap bothering you?  “Don’t worry, me girl.  If he comes back tomorrer, me and the lads will have a word with him”.

Sure enough, he did come back and later she heard fists talking in the yard.  He never showed his face again but a couple of days later a young girl was found murdered near Rayleigh Weir and Joy couldn’t help wondering.

 

She wiped her face as she walked up the garden path, no need to worry Ma.  But once inside, when she tried to read her letter, more tears welled and the words separated into shapes that swam away like little fish.  In the end she had to ask her Ma for help.

“This is from a solicitor, what ‘ave you been up to my girl?”  Then, Ma squawked like next door’s rooster.   

“It says you’ve got to go and see them, to learn something to your advantage.  Oh, Joy.  Wonder what it means?”

………

Joy finished polishing the bar and looked around with a satisfied smile.   Now the refurbishment was completed, it looked lovely, just as she’d always imagined.  But she still had to keep pinching herself, fancy being made Manager with full control.  She and Ma had moved into the pub so there was no rent to pay and her wages had been doubled overnight.  The rotten woodwork outside had been replaced and painted a smoky green as a nod to the original Old Man’s Beard, otherwise known as The Traveller’s Joy, which was now the pub’s official name.  That was the first of two conditions to her employment - the other being that there was always a welcome to anyone, whoever he might be.   Joy still didn’t know who the new owner was, but he seemed to know about her which was a puzzle and no mistake, although the solicitor had told her not to worry about it.  So, she didn’t, not really, although she made a point of doing what the gypsy told her, and kept the sprig of heather in a safe place - just in case.

Copyright net Baldey

 A BITTER TASTE

Peter Woodgate

I look at the barmaid through an empty glass

As the last drop of liquid slides down my throat

I fumble through pockets each side of my jeans

Finding them empty I turn to my coat.

I manage a smile as I grasp some loose change

And thump the glass down and ask for another

She gives me a smile and replies with the words

You’ve had enough darling go home to your mother.

Everyone knows I’ve had a big row

My wife’s kicked me out and I’ve gone home to mum

All I have left is to visit the pub

And drown all my sorrows one after one.

But hang on a moment that girl in the corner

She’s wearing a blouse with pink and white lace

I stumble towards her my luck may be in

It’s then that I trip and fall flat on my face.

So to all those poor fellows who know what it’s like

To feel so dejected their lives full of woe

Don’t bother with women they just give you grief

Stick to the booze but drink nice and slow.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

  GUARDIAN ANGEL 

 by Richard Banks  

Aerium~Guardian

Everyone has a Guardian Angel, a departed soul who, having served a probationary period in the celestial world, becomes a Trainee Angel, Second Class. Such beings, after a long period of induction, are then sent back to earth to watch over a single human being, born at the precise moment that the angel enters the mortal world. At first, the angel can neither be seen nor heard and must remain incognito, so to speak, until the human in question requests its assistance. Only then can it commence its mission, which is to keep the human from harm and be his or her spiritual guide through life’s journey? If the human at the end of his life passes on into the celestial world the Angel is judged to have successfully completed its mission; it is then awarded a first class certificate and goes on to complete its training in one of many seminaries in the ethereal world. 

      Sadly, it is often the case that many human beings are unaware of the existence of their Guardian Angel and therefore make no call on its services. In such instances, the Angel is rendered inactive and ineffectual and must await the death of its human protégé before transferring its mission to a newly born child. It has been known for Angels to be marooned on earth in this way for over three hundred years before receiving the call for help that kick-starts their mission. While the long periods of solitary inactivity that most Angels endure is extremely demoralising, it also produces moments of intense frustration that send ripples of emotional energy rushing through the human world. 

      Such a moment was threatening to overwhelm the solitary figure who, unseen by human eyes, was applying needle and cotton to his celestial robe in the garden of the Slug & Lettuce. Aerium, for such was his heavenly name, took a deep breath and struggled to quell his pent-up emotions. He remembered the last time he had lost control of his feelings and how it had caused an earth tremor in Kings Lynn. He had received a celestial reprimand on that occasion and been warned as to his future conduct. He took another deep breath and resolved not to let it happen again. 

      His sombre thoughts were interrupted by the sound of raucous laughter from within the Slug & Lettuce, where Aerium’s latest protégé, Kevin, was vying with other young men as to who could consume the most Bacardi Breezers before closing time. As was their custom the winner’s drink tab was paid by the unsuccessful contestants, whilst anyone falling over or passing-out was deposited in the ornamental water feature that the landlord had installed in the vain hope of attracting a better class of clientele. The front door burst open and four inebriated young men stumbled out into the night air carrying the prostrate figure of Kevin, whom they managed to drop several times before heaving his prostrate body into the stagnant water.

      As he lay there face down, Aerium offered up a prayer of intercession that he should not suffer serious harm. Secretly he would not have been disappointed had his prayer gone unheeded. Kevin was clearly a lost cause and the longer he lived the longer Aerium would have to wait before reassignment to another, hopefully more promising, human being. Having completed his prayer, divine intervention arrived in the form of two ducks who proceeded to peck Kevin until he regained consciousness. At this point Kevin’s survival instinct took over and he rolled onto his back and then in a sequence of erratic, uncoordinated movements managed to stagger out of the water feature and collapse onto the litter strewn picnic area. 

      It was at moments such as this that humans would sometimes sense the presence of their Angel. They did not always know that it was an Angel, but for a moment they would know that something beyond their world, beyond their understanding, was there ready and able to change their life. This, however, was not such a moment. As Aerium knew only too well, Kevin was not about to extend an invitation to him or any other Angel. Indeed, the idea that Angels existed and were seeking his redemption would have horrified him. Kevin struggled to his feet and concentrated his remaining brain power on the challenging task of finding his way home. To his relief, he managed to locate the wicker gate that gave access to the street and, despite the fact that it swayed unhelpfully from side to side, was able to manipulate the latch and turn right towards the small village where he lived. 

      Aerium followed at a discreet distance, reflecting on the many changes that had taken place in the four hundred years since his death from bubonic plague. He tried to visualise the landscape as it had been, the wattle and daub houses, the large open fields, and the common land that now lay beneath a Tesco Supermarket. One thing that had not changed was mankind’s love affair with fermented liquor and the strange effect it had on their ability to walk in a straight line.   

      The thought had no sooner passed through his mind, when Kevin veered off the pavement and began to walk in the road, weaving from side to side of the white line in the centre. Aerium embarked on another prayer of intercession. He had scarcely completed the opening line when the sound of an approaching car was quickly followed by the glare of headlights. There was a screeching of brakes, a horrified scream from Kevin as the car skidded towards him, and then an inexplicable silence as the vehicle missed him by inches before mounting the pavement and impacting into a tree. The thud of metal on oak was followed by the crash of breaking glass and a cry of pain from the driver trapped within the compacted wreckage of his vehicle. Unable to comprehend the rapid blur of events, Kevin continued his unsteady progress towards the village.

 

      For a few shell-shocked moments, Aerium was undecided whether to follow Kevin or attend to the greater need of the motorist. He sought guidance from above. An inner voice told him that his mission was with Kevin and that the motorist had his own Guardian Angel. But where was the Angel? In theory it should have been there by the car, offering up prayers and waiting for that elusive moment of spiritual insight when the human would request its help. The motorist called out in the hope of attracting the attention of some other human, but there was no response. He called out again; “Is there anybody there!” but no one was. There was a searing pain in his chest and he sensed that if help did not come soon it would come too late. 

      Blood was seeping from the corner of his mouth and trickling slowly down his face; drip, drip, dripping down his shirt. His cries for help became less frequent and less audible. Aerium drew closer to him. It might not be logical, it might be against all the rules, but his intuition told him that this human man was now his responsibility. The human was silent. There was fear in his eyes. Fear that his life was nearly done. He did not want to die alone. But then he was not alone, there was a presence nearby. He felt its warmth and took comfort in the knowledge it gave him, that his life was no more than a beginning. Nothing was said, nothing needed to be said. The man saw Aerium and through him saw the reality that human vanity had previously denied him. The man’s spirit left his body and, despite the downward tug of dark forces, rose steadily into the night sky.

 

      To his disappointment, Aerium remained firmly rooted on terrafirma. He wanted to go with the man, but the man was not his man and it was less than clear whether Aerium would be commended or censored for his intervention in another Angel’s affairs. His mission was still with Kevin who having reached the comparative safety of the war memorial, was now attempting to lie down on the narrow plinth at its base. Aerium began another prayer of intercession; there would be many more to follow. 

                                       *****

      Through no fault of the author, this is a story without an ending. That it will have an ending is not in doubt. It is merely a matter of time, but time in the celestial world passes but slowly. In time, celestial commissioners will be appointed to consider Aerium’s conduct and that of the truant Angel. In time, probably several decades from now, they will deliver their verdicts and Aerium will either receive the promotion for which he has laboured, or the censure that will prolong his existence on earth. Until then he must continue his earthly vigil in the wake of the irrepressible and irredeemable Kevin. Remember them both, in your prayers, dear reader.

 

Copyright Richard Banks

 HIGH FLIERS 

By Rosemary Clarke 

     Oh Danny Boy the pipes the pipes are calling, they are to me, there won't be any 'after the war' for me Hun'll see to that; those flaming onions!

 

     It's just before dawn, lovely sky not a cloud in it.  I wonder what Paddy's doing; at least one of this family is getting it right!  Mum's drinking too much, didn't touch a drop before this damn war now...I know it, the worry, the money how to keep things together but I can't keep all of them!

 

     After all that argument of the SE's I'm flying one; hope the bugger doesn't fall to bits on me or the gun jam...no parachutes still!  How do we fight this thing if H.Q won't give us the equipment!  All I want is a quick death, no flamerinoes for me!  Good, pistol's in my pocket.  They can laugh, Mick taking pot shots at the Huns; Taffy and I know what it's really for.

 

     The waiting for Kiwi seems endless...God knows I'd love to see this place again, I'd even sit through one of those awful plays they're always putting on.  That dream said it though; death's the only real rest you get from this bloody war!

 

     Here comes Kiwi... they're so young now, schoolboys really newly washed and ready for battle, well, I promised him his first blood so here goes; I hope we'll be able to find an early flying two-seater coming over.

 

     Everything looks so bright today, so real as though I'm coming out of a dream, waking up.  The grass seems greener, wet almost emerald with the sun coming up properly now.

 

     I've told Kiwi to follow me up closely and he'll get in a good position to give 'em a good burst.  I don't feel I shall last much longer, spent out but if I'm killed I'll be in good company.

 

  McCudden, Rastas, Bond... Taffy's not done for yet...might even meet the great Albert Bell himself, have a flying lesson.

 

     Wonder how Piddles is; catching more mice or curling up where he shouldn't be most likely.  He'll last it out; cats definately have nine lives!

     Oh look at that a blackbird full of the joys of life, singing his little heart out!  I do love their yellow beaks; a light shining in the darkness.  I do believe he's wishing us luck!

 

     Ten past 5 and still no sign of cloud.  The aircraft look new, glossy and shiny like new toys out of their boxes.  Davidge, Biggs...damn good mechanics... I'll never see these men again.

 

     In and strap up!  Be better up in the air...no balloons as yet; come on old 1294 don't let me down!

 

     Damned eye messing about as usual, no real pain this time, used to it with one eye but that shrapnel; I'm lucky I'm flying at all.  Wonder if we'll see Hun or if it'll be like yesterday, or will I get my 73rd as Davidge said.

 

     They're lovely old buses some of those Hun craft; red and yellow like brightly coloured bugs hovering and dipping in the sky ...shame you have to shoot them down but it's war and they’re shooting at us.  Once round the block; hope Kiwi's keeping up. Nothing as yet, open the throttle and up we go.  Ah, that's better and here comes Kiwi.

 

     Alright here's one coming towards the lines ...get East get East!  God, he nearly had me!  Kiwi's doing well.  Bang on!  Flamerino sizzle... sizzle... wonk!  It's like moths to a flame, must see it go down...will I do that?  Look at him spin!  He's done for, thumbs up to Kiwi there's one in the fire!  Down, down ...bang!  All over for him.

 

     The battlefield's covered with holes and craters, looks like the beginning of Earth no lava though; little men running about.  It's a game isn't it, a huge game ... but who's playing it?

 

     Bloody Hell Archies! Hard right, keep it straight...come on you bastards make it easy for me! 

 

     God I wish this war would end!  God take me back to the boys, get this bus down, let it be alright...

 

     Rudder's gone, looks like it's all over for me... Kiwi's shot up badly too, fuel tank looks like.  Oh God it's happening!  I'm burning on my right side still, I've got my pistol thank God; told 'em I'm not being sizzled! 

 

     INTO THE MESS OR TO BETHUNE!

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

 

 Anticipating Spring

 

By Sis Unsworth

 

I love the changing seasons, but look forward most to spring,

the bulbs will soon be flowering, and songbirds start to sing.

I’ve seen a few new buds, bring life to weary trees,

Looking forward to the butterflies, and the hum of searching bees.

I’ve noticed fairly recently, the nights are turning lighter,

I’m so glad the early mornings, are just a little brighter.

Each day brings spring time closer, I see the change each week,

But this year is more special, for one thing I will seek,

the glory of it’s beauty always make me sigh,

For as the days grow warmer, my gas bill won’t be so high.

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

  

  ALL IN THE MIND

 by Richard Banks

Yeah, I like Rayleigh. Better than the Mile End Road any day of the week. Made the move six months ago. Best thing I ever did. Right from the start felt at home. Strange that for an East End boy born and bred. It never would have happened but for Angie. Came here to visit a friend and next day returned with a fist full of leaflets about houses for sale.

         “Kenny,” she says, “it’s a really nice place, better for the kids and near your Aunt Ada in Canvey.”

         “Aunt Ada,” I say. “Haven’t seen the woman in years. Never liked her, anyway.” 

         But I might just as well have saved my breath; once Angie sets her mind to something it usually happens, and when she got me to drive her down there one day I had to admit that she had a point. Yeah, I definitely like Rayleigh. Like the High Street and the white stone church at the top end. Like that it’s out in the sticks, near open country, and the sea at Southend. And yet it’s close enough to London for me to go there whenever I want. Not that I do. Rayleigh’s where I live now, and that suits me fine. Blimey, I even dream of Rayleigh, clear, sun-shiny pictures of nearby places: of the windmill, white sails against a blue sky, of stalls and bunting in the High Street, of squirrels on Rayleigh Mount, and other places I can’t quite place. And then there’s that one of the sun going down over Hollytree, our house in the Eastwood Road, and Bob next door still tinkering with his old Vauxhall. Sometimes I hear the faint blur of voices and passing traffic; familiar, reassuring noises I wouldn’t be without. 

         Then one day I hear, “Scilly”, a man’s voice speaking, sounds a bit like the guy at the garage. But why Scilly? I’m seeing Rayleigh when the voice is saying Scilly. Not only that, but it’s said in a way that’s puts Rayleigh well and truly in the shade. Funny that, how just one word can say so much. To him there is no better place and nothing else comes close. Perhaps it’s a premonition, I think; later today Angie’s going to arrive home with holiday brochures all about Scilly, but it never happens, and thoughts of Scilly slowly fade from my mind. 

         It was in the High Street museum that things started getting weird, odd stuff that couldn’t be explained. Angie had become a volunteer there, so one Saturday when there was nothing else on I went down there with her. Was thumbing my way through a book of old photos when I found one of a building I had dreamed of only the night before. Captioned, ‘Premises of North Thames Gas Board, 1981’ it was they said the very building I was sitting in, except now it was a Pizzaland restaurant on the ground floor and the museum up above. 

         That was when I realised that my dreams were not of the present but of the past, a past I could never have seen because I wasn’t there. The discovery went through me like an electric shock. Someone or something had got inside my head, no permission asked or given, and me not knowing it had happened. So far there were only good dreams but supposing they turned bad and I couldn’t shut them out. What then? For better or worse my mind was no longer my own. How to get it back? I didn’t have a clue. 

         At first I tried not sleeping. No sleep, no dreams I thought. Keep awake long enough and what’s inside me might lose patience and bugger off somewhere else. Kept it up for three nights, one mug of coffee after another long walks in the night, Angie looking at me like I’m mad, and mad I nearly am. At last I fall asleep on the sofa.

         I wake up in day light with no dreams in my head. Then I move on to the bathroom and while I’m showering they start rushing in. I see Rayleigh Station and a London bound train coming round the bend in the track, white steam billowing up into the usual blue sky. There’s a goods yard where now there’s a car park and on the other side of the track a gasometer long disappeared. On a dull, overcast morning the weather in my dream world is always better than the waking day. Grateful I am not. 

         This is the earliest of my dreams. The line was electrified in 1956, twenty five years before that photo of the Gas Board. With the help of the museum I am able to date another of my dreams to 1970, while the stalls and Union Jack bunting in the High Street are probably those put up for the Silver Jubilee celebrations in ’77. Then I dream of the Roebuck and what I’m seeing can’t be any earlier than 2003 when the pub opened. 

         “Thank God for that!” says Angie. “At least you’re now in the right century. Who knows you might soon have some dreams of your own.”

         Angie is doing her best to make light of it all. Did my best not to let-on what was happening, but with her working in the museum and me trying not to sleep it was only a matter of time before she found out. What I didn’t tell her was that my dreams now have a blot on them, a ragged black spot that started no bigger than a saucer, hovering above the optics at the bar. For the first time I sense fear, angry despair, and above the clatter of bar room voices hear, once again, “Scilly.” There is a sigh, followed by a groan and the blot seems darker and a little larger. Scilly, that once happy place is now the cause of deep concern. If I am to find out why, it will surely be in my dreams.

         In the next few weeks the untroubled skies of my night time world change from blue to grey, and instead of the random ordering of their coming each dream moves forward in normal time. At least that’s how it feels, and if I need any proof it’s in the slow expansion of the blot. The saucer that became a dinner plate is now the size of a car wheel. Like a black hole it is steadily devouring all light and colour around it. There’s no hope now, only the contemplation of disaster soon to come. 

         “But this ain’t my problem,” I say, looking into my shaving mirror, but the pallid face that stares back tells me it is and that when the dreams end so will I. It was then that everything in my day time world began to fall apart: how I couldn’t think straight no more, how I nearly drove the car into a bus, how I was signed off from work. So now I’m at home all day trying again not to sleep but having to nearly every second night. And when I do, I see the blot grow ever bigger and blacker. There’s more black now than picture. A few more dreams and everything will be black, all colour gone.

         Angie’s also gone. She didn’t want to, but it’s all for the best. “Don’t want the kids to see me like this,” I say. “Go stay with your mother for a while. Come back when I’m better, when the new pills kick-in.” But there ain’t no new pills. In fact I’m not taking the one’s I got. They can’t help me, nothing can. 

         The dreams keep coming, the blot pushing the pictures deeper and deeper into each corner. What’s happening in them is no longer clear. The little I can see is of an inside place of ceilings and floors, of strip lighting on white ceilings, of wooden paving blocks and floor standing furniture that might be beds. This is a bad place to be, none worse. All hope has gone, tomorrow there will be no more day. Time stretches out; every minute seems like an hour, each one more awful than the last. There is fear; numb, helpless fear turning warm blood to ice. And once again I hear, “Scilly;” the voice wavers, the speaker weeps. One more dream and it will all be done, everything lost and never seen again.

         I delay things as best I can. I will not sleep, black coffee on black coffee, Scotch from the bottle, but it’s no good. I sink down to my knees and fall forward onto the floor. If I am to stay awake I must get up. Get a grip I tell myself, up on five. I start counting, but five never comes.

                                              *****        

        I come to, my head aching, but no more dreams. What I’m seeing now is the real world, colour grey, the first light of day creeping into my living room through uncurtained windows. I’m not alone. 

         “Good morning,” he says from the armchair on which he is sitting. How do you like my house?” 

         “Your house! It’s my name on the deeds!” 

         “Of course it’s my house. Been here ever since it was built nearly fifty years ago. And you? Six months and twenty one days; that’s how long you’ve been here. You’re scarcely across the threshold and me still in residence. You’re nothing more than my tenant. But you must admit I’ve been a more than generous landlord. Not a penny in rent have I charged and in return for nothing I have given you my fond memories of the town you now live in. Happy thoughts you were only too pleased to have because, like me, there’s no place you like better.”

         “They ain’t happy now!” I bellow. “Scilly’s put an end to that. Why Scilly? Why torture me with that? Never been there, don’t want to. Why do I have to suffer for Scilly?”

         He looks surprised. “You’ve got it wrong,” he says. “The dreams I gave you were never about Scilly. I said Cicely with a C, the name of my wife. The only woman I ever loved, more important to me than everything else put together.” 

         “So why give me nightmares about her?”

         “So you would understand, how important she is to me, how I will stop at nothing to get her back and how you have no choice but to help me. You have a wife of your own. Imagine her slowly being taken from you. Day after day, each one darker than the one before; cancer it was, too advanced to stop. Nothing to be done but watch her die and that I did. And when she was gone I wanted nothing more than to be like her. Was going to top myself, then a heart attack saved me the trouble. I’m not a religious man but I’ve never shut my mind to the possibility of life after death. Now I know it’s more than just a Sunday school tale. But being here is not what’s it’s about. There’s something better, far better and it’s only a few steps away, but how can I go there when Cis might still be in that hospital ward. I can’t leave if she’s still there. So, if you want to be free of me you will have to take me back to the hospital. It’s easy done. You just let me step into you, this time it’s a complete takeover of brain and limb, then I walk your legs down to Southend, to the hospital ward where we were parted. Once there I promise you I’ll be gone and you back to normal. Until then I’ll be needing both your mind and body. Do we have a deal?” 

                                                *****

         We had a deal. Of course we had a deal, what choice did I have, and the next thing I remember is being picked-up off the floor of the ward where Cicely Bembridge died, three months to the day before we moved into Hollytree. Her husband was a good man so I’m told, devoted to his wife and the town in which he lived all his seventy seven years. A local Counsellor he was also a supporter of every good cause that needed a helping hand. I didn’t know him for long but I too liked George, even though he nearly drove me crazy. Who can blame him for that? I don’t, not now. 

         Did George find Cicely in the hospital? I don’t know. I’ll be lying if I said I did. Maybe she decided to go on ahead by herself and wait for him in that good place they thought might be life’s next stop. Either way, I figure they’re back together. Amen to that. As for myself the dreams I now have are mine and mine alone. I dream them in a house full of memories, the good ones far out numbering the bad. Angie says we have a lot to live up to. I agree. It won’t be easy, but we’re sure going to try. How can we not.

 

Copyright Richard Banks                            

 KNEES UP 

By Peter Woodgate 

Jo has got another Knee

The other one was knackered

Up and down the stairs she goes

No wonder she is shattered.

I am too with all this work

It seems a bit like hell

I’m up and down like a Jack-in-the-box

Every time I hear the bell.

It appears Jo is up for another job

One that requires an ology

She thinks it’s fun to pull the chord

And pretends it’s campanology.

She has to wear these stockings

And I’m not being catty

They are black and thick and wrinkled

Just like Nora Batty.

I should, of course, show sympathy

For the pain is the worst on earth

The only other that’s close to it

Is when you’re giving birth.

Of course, I cannot confirm this

Not having had the pleasure

I got to hold them afterwards

All three oh what a pleasure.

I suppose I should be thankful

That my knees are pretty good

They let me run around a bit

Which I suppose I should.

After all before the op

 Jo did the same for me

So I can’t moan for giving care

But I do you see.

I’ve had a taste of a carers jobs

And, in truth, must say,

We don’t appreciate their work

And they deserve more pay.

 

ARE YOU LISTENING Ris

 

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate (January 2023)