MACDONALDS TONIGHT

By Bob French

They sat close together on their settee with a thick blanket over their knees, facing the small unlit fireplace, and laughed at the hundreds of photographs they had kept in a large box of the friends they had worked with over the past 39 years.

Daphanie, in her day, had been a beautiful woman, whilst Louis, had been a tough weather-beaten young man who had made his living as a Corsican bandit.

They first came to know each other when Louis arrived in England as an eight-year-old immigrant and on his first day at school was picked on because he was different.  Daphanie stood up for him and soon they were inseparable.  When they graduated to secondary school, their roles reverse and Louis protected her from the conceited boys who thought that she was fair game.

Daphanie went on to university, then medical college to be a doctor, whilst Louis, after a few years doing odd jobs, returned to his home country and took up the profession of his father and his father before him; as a bandit.

Twenty years had passed; Daphanie, had become bored with the NHS and decided to go and work for Medecins Sans Frontiers and had thoroughly enjoyed it.  She had worked in South Sudan, the Congo, and now, on her last tour before retiring, she found herself in the war-torn country of Yemen.

Louis had worked with his father, before becoming bored with running from the Gendarme, and crossed over to the Island of Elba where a United Nations team was helping the people after an earthquake.  Because of his enthusiasm and dedication to helping those in need, they asked him to join them.  He too, travelled the war-torn countries of Africa and the Middle East until his unit was assigned to Yemen.

It was on a hot sticky afternoon when the village of Albuqa, suddenly came under attack from bandits from the north. Louis and the men from his section quickly started to defend the village. 

He watched in horror as a young boy dashed from the secondary school across the open ground.  Bullets hit him and spun him around like a rag doll.  Without thinking Louis dropped his weapon and sprinted out into the open, picked up the wounded boy, and raced back to cover. Within half an hour the government helicopters had arrived and were forcing the bandits back over the border.  Louis knew that there was a hospital in the village of Aleshash and on a good day it would take just under two hours to reach, but he knew that the old rations truck would take at least three.

He arrived just as it was getting dark and the medical staff quickly took care of the boy.  He asked where he could get a drink of water and was directed to the hospital rest area.  As Louis eased himself into one of the battered leather chairs, the door opened and a woman entered and started to remove her surgical gown.  As she took off her mask she glanced at Louis, then gave a scream of delight.

““Louis! Louis where have you been? What are you doing here?”

Within seconds, they were holding each other closely, not wishing to release each other.  It was then they realised how much feeling they had for each other.

Daphanie eased back from Louis and stared into his dark brown eyes. “God I have missed you.”  Then she kissed him. 

Just then a security guard entered the room.

“Are you the man who brought the young lad in?”

“Yes Sir.  He was wounded by bandits from the north who raided our station.”

The security.  “Your first +

aider said that you ran out into the middle of a fire-fight, picked up the boy and took him to cover. Is this right?”

Louis turned to Daphanie. “Will he be alright?”

“Yes Louis, thanks to you I was able to take out the bullets and patch him up.  We’ll need to keep him in for a week or more, but I don’t see why he can’t lead a normal life after that.  But tell me all about yourself?  Where have you been?”

Louis gently held her hand and guided her to the bench and began to explain how he had joined the United Nations Team and where he had been.  When he’d finished Daphanie hugged him.

Louis telephoned his base and explained that the old rations truck had broken down and would take at least three days to fix.  His boss was happy for Louis to stay but wanted his first aider back soonest.

The following day four battered army jeeps rolled into the compound.  Before the guards could ask who they were, six bodyguards stepped out of the vehicles and cordoned off the area.  Then a tall, distinguished-looking Yemini jumped down from a jeep and walked towards the hospital entrance.

A security guard intercepted him and demanded to know who he was and what did he want?

The man spoke reasonable English. “I wish to speak with the Doctor who saved the life of the boy from the school at Albuqa.”  Just then Daphanie stepped out from the tent and, knowing how the Yemini communicated, spoke softly to the man.

“Salam Malecom. Can I help you?”

The tall man stared at Daphanie.  I wish to speak to the Doctor who save my son.”

“That would be me.”

His expression instantly changed; his voice became harsh. “You are a woman.  Why is there no man doctor to treat my son?”

Daphanie smiled. “I’m sorry, but throughout the civilized world, a doctor is a doctor no mater their sex.  I can assure you that I have taken great care of your son.”

I also want to see the man who saved my son from those baboons from the north and brought him to your hospital.”

Louis had seen the cavalcade arrive and slowly started to make his way towards the main hospital tent.  As he approached, he saw Daphanie speaking to the tall man, then suddenly point towards him. Suddenly two heavily armed men grabbed his arms and propelled him towards their leader.

The tall man stared at Louis, then nodded.  “I am told that you risked your life to save my son?”

“Yes, that is correct.”

“Why?  He is not of your race.”

“My job is to help and care for people, regardless.  Your son was wounded and needed help.”  Louis just shrugged his shoulders as though to say ‘what did you expect me to do?’

Daphanie quietly interrupted.  “Could I have your name please?”

The tall man became cautious.  “Why do you need my name?”

“So that I can give your son his name.  At present, he is known to us as John Doe, number 25.”

The man smiled, then nodded.  “It is Sheik Mahammad, Abdul Aziz Al-Marabak.”

Louis instantly recognized the name and bowed his head.

“We are pleased to be of service, Sheik Marabak.”

Sheik Marabak started to move towards the entrance. “Now, please show me my son.”

“No!”

Sheik Marabak stopped, spun around, and stared at Daphanie, with anger in his eyes.

“I’m sorry, but you can not see your son dressed like that.”  She nodded to his dirty and dusty clothing and greasy ammunition belt hung across his chest. “Louis, please escort the Sheik to the changing room and have him change into gowns before he sees his son.”

Sheik Marabak instantly understood what she was demanding, then barked instructions for his men to wait outside. 

The Sheik spent half an hour with his son before he reappeared dressed in his desert clothing.

“Doctor. I wish to show my thanks and appreciation for saving my son’s life.”

Daphanie could see the gratitude in his eyes and spoke gently to him. “I’m sorry but we are not permitted to accept gifts from those we assist. Those are the rules.”

The Sheik looked at her for a while then spoke. “When do you and this man leave my country?”

Daphanie was suddenly confused by the question.  “Leave?”

“Yes, I am sure you both do not intend to stay in my country for the rest of your days?”

“Louis nodded.  Sorry, my Sheik.  We will end our tour and retire to England together in five months’ time.” Daphanie smiled at Louis’s decision to come and live with her in England.

The Sheik spoke quickly to one of his officers, who provided a small card and pen.  He wrote something on the back of the card and handed it to Louis.  “When you both finally settle down and you are in need of help, call this number.

They returned to England and bought a little cottage in Manningtree and survived on their meagre pensions.  They didn’t have a TV and spent many happy hours in the evenings going through the large box of photographs of the people they had served with and the memories associated with them.

“Daphanie suddenly picked up the card Sheik Marabak had given them. Eight months ago.  She looked at Louis.  “Do you remember what he said. “if we needed help.”

The following morning Daphanie called the Yemeni embassy and was put through to the Charge de Affair, who politely invited them up to London.

They no sooner entered the embassy door when the Charge de Affair greeted them and ushered them into the Ambassador.

“Doctor Daphanie and Mr. Louis, how pleased I am to see you.  I have been instructed by Sheik Mahammad, Abdul Aziz Al-Marabak, the President of Yemen, to firstly award you both the Most Sacred Order of the Golden Mountain and secondly to offer you any assistance we can.

They stood in a trance as the Ambassador draped the brightly coloured ribbon, with the large gold star around their necks.  “Now, I think it is time for a cup of tea?”

Once seated, the Ambassador spoke. “Now you are probably wondering what we mean by ‘help in any way.”

Daphanie nodded. “Yes, we are not really sure what you mean.”

My government would like to pay, no reward you both for saving the President’s son, who by the way got into Oxford, thanks to.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful.”

“Now to business.  We will pay into your account the sum of 150 each month until you pass away.”

Louis, who had remained silent so far, quietly spoke to Daphanie.  “A hundred and fifty pounds would help us a lot.  We could even get a TV.”

The Ambassador smiled; “No, No you misunderstand me.  One thousand five hundred pounds each month.”

They both sat there stunned.  Daphanie spoke first. “Sir, that is rather a lot of money.”

“For saving the life of one’s eldest son in my county is priceless Doctor.  If you need more, then you must call me and I shall arrange things.  These are the instructions of my President.

On the train home, Louis asked Daphanie what she was thinking.    She didn’t answer him straight away then, smiled, “let’s have a MacDonalds tonight.”

Copyright Bob French

Two Poems from Rosemary

 Nuts

by Rosemary Clarke

Nuts are good for you so I am told.

They're sweet and they're crunchy and never grow old.

We've put them in cakes or have eaten them raw

They come out at Christmas, and then we want more.

We don't eat enough of them, of that it is true

.
I can't see why when nuts are so good for you?

PS and raisins.

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

 

THE STRANGER

by Rosemary Clarke

Spiders webs with spiders all over the place

Tangling my hair, covering my face

The room is darkened and covered in gore

I didn't know, now I won't live here no more.

Go out in the sunlight, live once again

No matter the trouble, no matter the pain.

Just keep forging onward that's all I can see

Then finally I'll find the one that's called 'ME'.

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

 

 THE COUP DE GRACE 

by Richard Banks           

Mr Dunlop shut the front door and turned around the open sign so that it showed closed. As usual, there was paperwork to be done, receipts to be counted, but today was Thursday, and Thursdays were different. He let down the Venetian blind that covered the glass panel in the door and in the second or two it took him to close the slats peered nervously into the darkness outside.

      In the pharmacy behind the counter, Janice was unpacking the day’s delivery of pharmaceuticals. She had almost finished. In a few minutes, she would retreat to the bathroom and exchange the white overalls she was wearing for the outer garments she arrived in. Mr Dunlop emptied the cash register and placed both banknotes and coins in the safe. He would count them tomorrow. Next door the sound of footsteps was followed by the closing of the bathroom door and the splash of water signaling that Janice had discarded her overalls and blouse and was about to wash her arms and face. If it had not been Thursday he might have followed her there, for he often did and they would…, but it was Thursday and, although Janice did not know what Mr Dunlop knew, they both knew that Thursday’s were different. The bathroom door opened and Janice re-entered the pharmacy wearing the suede jacket that Mr Dunlop had recently brought her.

      “Are we still on for tomorrow?” she asked. For a moment she feared that he would say no, that he had no choice but to spend the evening at home with Irene. To her relief, he nodded, and although his parting kiss had not its usual warmth she sensed that nothing had changed between them. He let her out through the front door, waited several minutes, and then switched the light off and on three times to signal he was alone. 

      On the other side of the street, the glow of a cigarette in the unlit doorway of a vacant shop revealed the presence of someone otherwise unseen. The road was empty now, time for him to make his move, to be in and out with no one the wiser. He crossed the road and pushed at the door which he knew would be unlocked. As usual, Mr Dunlop was sitting behind the counter, grim faced, unwelcoming.            

      The young man closed the door behind him, his face contorting into an affectionless smile. “Hello uncle, how are you today?” 

      Mr Dunlop regarded him with wary distaste. Once he felt pity for him, now he had none. He left that to others, to those who saw only the dirt and neglect of a homeless vagrant. But he saw more, saw deeper, knew the corruption within. 

      Having received no response to his question the young man tried again. “Aunty Irene well, I hope.” 

      Mr Dunlop felt anger. What did the boy care for Irene, or anyone else for that matter? He nodded, not in response to the question asked, but at a box he had placed on the otherwise empty counter.

      The young man approached the box as though drawn by a magnet. “Have you got the ones I wanted?”

      “Yes. It’s all there, one hundred tablets.” He sensed that the young man was about to say that one hundred was not enough, that he needed more, instead he snatched-up the box and after a brief examination of its contents thrust it into the hip pocket of his overcoat. The young man considered whether to leave, or if something further needed to be said about Janice. His uncle would not have forgotten his threats, but sometimes it was necessary to reinforce a message, to remind him who was in charge. 

      His mind travelled back to the event that put him in charge. He had gone to his uncle’s shop, just before closing time, hoping to lift a few pills but no one was on the counter. Sensing an opportunity he pushed open the pharmacy door and peered inside. Again, there was no one to be seen. He entered, scouring the shelves for a familiar name or label, moving in crab like strides towards the restroom where Uncle Harold cooked lunch and read the ’paper. As he neared the half open door, a movement in his peripheral vision coincided with the sound of heavy breathing that grew in volume until it became an urgent gulping-in of air. For a moment he thought his uncle had been taken ill, then he saw them together on the sofa, saw Janice’s horror struck expression as she stared back at him, and the rise and fall of his uncle’s plump bottom. As she screamed he fled in panic, fearing the consequences for himself, but when, the following day, nothing had been said or done he realised that the person in trouble was not himself but Uncle Harold. An opportunity had come his way. At first, there was no need for threats. He had only to mention Janice and his uncle would be reduced to a nervous quiver. 

      “Don’t worry uncle, your secret’s safe with me,” he would say, and then, in an apparent non-sequitur, express his disappointment that he had insufficient money to go to the cinema. At first, his uncle paid him with money from the till, five pounds, then ten pounds but when ten pounds became twenty they agreed to use the currency of prescription drugs.     

      Mr Dunlop stared stony faced at his nephew. He couldn’t wait to see the back of him, but the young man showed no sign of leaving. “What are you waiting for?” he asked. “It’s no good asking for more. There isn’t any. Since that new place opened I’m barely breaking even.” For a moment his dark thoughts about his nephew were eclipsed by his animosity for DayNite Pharmacy. His nephew smiled another affectionless smile and, after ‘assuring’ Mr Dunlop that he would be back the following week, left the shop.     

     Mr Dunlop locked the front door and turned out the lights. Irene would be cooking dinner; he needed to get home before it spoiled. He anticipated the questions she would ask, “how’s business? is it up on last week? isn’t there anything we can do to stop losing trade?” 

      As the owner of the business founded by her father, she had every right to ask such questions and, as her manager, his job was to find solutions. How fortunate then that at last he had found one. A solution that also solved his other problem.    

      For now, there was nothing to be done, just wait until his nephew ingested one of the pills he had added to the bottle of anti-depressants that bore the DayNite label. His death would be a painful one - no more than he deserved. The repercussions to the pharmacy that apparently supplied the pills would also be painful. Even if they weren’t closed down who would do business with them after that. It was, as his old history teacher was fond of saying, the coup de grace.

The End

Copyright Richard Banks

 

   

 

 

Uncle Charlie’s Mobile home

 Uncle Charlie’s Mobile home

By Len Morgan

I recall it all even though, it happened more than 30 years ago. I asked Sheila, my sister, if she remembered our trips.  She said not, so I really had to double-think, maybe I was dreaming?

In the dreams, Uncle Charlie would take me and Sheila out in his Camper Van. I remember he called her Betty. She was, bright yellow with Peace, flowers, and mystic signs painted all over her.  We would travel out into the Essex countryside then he’d ask where we would like to go…

I remember it was Sheila’s turn to choose… “Let’s go to Scotland,” she said.

“How would you suggest we travel Kevin?” he’d ask me.

“Let’s go by steam train, the Flying Scotsman,” I said.  And Betty would whiz & spin like a Catherine wheel, when she stopped we were in a train carriage attached to the Flying Scotsman.  You must understand, this was not our first adventure with Charlie & Betty, so we were not phased by the transformation. And so this adventure began. We watched the countryside flashing by and when we opened the windows we could smell the steam and hear the familiar rhythmic sounds from the engine.  In next to no time we were in Glasgow, then on to Stirling, & finally Edinburgh.  When we left the station, our faithful Betty was waiting kerbside to take us where we wanted to go next.  Princes Street first to get a present for Mum, then to a nice restaurant for a meal. 

“Where next?” Charlie asked.

“the Zoo…” said Sheila.

“Oh yes please,” said I.

“Well your in luck kids, I just happen to have three tickets for the chimpanzees' tea party,”

What a day that was, and we were still home in time for tea.

.-...-. 

At another time we visited Dickensian London, and Betty became a street cab.  We actually saw Charlie's namesake Mr Dickens and his home at 48 Doughty Street.  We waved to him, he smiled and waved back at us. 

 Another visit took us farther afield, to the USA, New York and the Wild West!  Betty became a stagecoach New York was smelly and overcrowded so we went on to Buffalo where we met Mark Twain, he spoke with a strange accent, nothing like Tom Sawyer or Huckleberry Finn. 

at various times in my memories, Betty became a submarine, a hot air balloon, a helicopter, an airplane, and a spaceship.

.-...-. 

Sadly, as we got older Uncle Charlie's visits became less frequent.  It’s been 16 years now since his last visit.  We were all so busy with school, university, and work.  Guess we just forgot about him and his distinctive companion ~ Betty.  But, how could we ever forget those wonderful adventures?  Sheila says it was all in my mind, but looking around I can see the many souvenirs we brought back for Mum…

Today I received an official letter from Uncle Charlie’s solicitors.  Informing me that he had sadly passed away peacefully, at a Nursing home in Saffron Walden.  The letter explained that he'd left various bequests to friends and family.  He sent me two dozen gold coins, in plastic wallets, that he'd collected on his travels. I was asked to look out for a special delivery tomorrow 08/04/2023. 

I smiled when I saw a car transporter unloading a bright yellow Betty, embellished with flowers and magic symbols, it seemed untouched by the passage of time!  I smiled sadly remembering Charlie; wondering ‘where I would go’ as the transporter driver handed me the keys to Betty.  

I have no children but, I think I might take Sheila’s twins David & Katie for a drive; just for old time's sake…

Copyright Len Morgan

 Recycling

By Sis Unsworth 

My husband built a sun house, out of his old shed,

“it will benefit the family,” well, that is what he said.

Of course it was a lot of work, but he said,”it would look smart,”

inspired by his new project, he made an early start.

He worked on the new sun house, every dry warm day,

also he would venture out, even when the sky was grey.

At last the glass doors were put on, and he gave out a cheer,

but then he promptly went inside, for a celebration beer.

“I have to paint the inside now,” he added with a smile,

“I want it to look perfect, it just might take a while.”

Our friends and neighbours visit us, and love to sit inside,

It’s nice and warm there in the spring, a good place to abide.

You feel at one with nature, watching birds build their nests,

we don’t disturb their way of life, they make us feel like guests,

we’ve placed a bee hotel, outside where we can see,

a haven for a resting place, for a solitary bee.

The sun house stands in pride of place, for all who care to see,

the one he said, that he would make, “for all the family.”

I always know I’ll find him, whatever may be said,

asleep in his new sun house, that he made from his old shed.

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

A HAIGA from Rob

 Gifted

By Robert Kingston

HINDSIGHT

 HINDSIGHT 

By Richard Banks 

The first time I started seeing things was from beneath the shelter of my umbrella on the corner of Dean Stanley Street and Millbank. The rain was about to turn to sleet and the girl I had arranged to meet was nowhere in sight. I was, I admit, in a state of nervous agitation, cold, wet through from the knees down and very much fearing that I had been stood up. Two minutes later she made her entrance, alighting from a number 87 bus which she blamed for her late arrival. By then she was out of my thoughts, almost forgotten.

 

         “Hi,” I said, the stunned surprise in my voice only too apparent.

         “What’s wrong?” she asked. 

         “Nothing,” I replied. “Didn’t recognise you in that mac. Is it new?” 

         It wasn’t. In fact it was the one she had been wearing on our first date. It was not a good start to an evening for which I had high hopes. Thereafter it improved – it could not have got worse – and we had dinner at Pizzaland followed by a West End show for which I had discounted tickets. 

         I never did tell her what I saw in the thirty seconds or so before her arrival. But then, how  do you explain seeing a black robed monk walk down the middle of the road, heedless of the rush hour traffic and the rain which should have soaked him but had no way of doing so. And if that wasn’t enough, watching him being struck by a Waitrose delivery van - a collision that had no visible impact on monk or van - before turning right and disappearing from sight through a stone wall that would have repulsed a ten ton truck.        

        Had I related these details to Julie, the girl I was dating, I have little doubt that this, our third date, would also have been our last. In fact I needn’t have worried, three weeks later she abandoned me for a young man who drove a two seater sports car and took her for lunch at the Savoy. Even so I’m glad I said nothing. What I had seen was weird, too weird to let on to anyone else, particularly a young woman I was hoping to attract, not repel. 

         Normal is what I wanted to be, a nice, straightforward, uncomplicated guy at ease with himself and the world about him. This did not include the seeing of the monk, a monk who - had I seen what I thought I had seen - could only be a ghost. Either that or there was something very wrong with my mental functioning. As I didn’t believe in ghosts it seemed only logical I should confess all to the medical profession and swallow whatever tablets they prescribed.        

         Fortunately, I made my confession to Herbie Sutcliffe in the public bar of the Westminster Tavern. Quite what I was expecting him to do or say I don’t know, after five pints of Newcastle Brown my thinking was less than clear, but instead of him expressing the grave concern that seemed appropriate to my disclosure he was as cheerful as a semi-inebriated man could hope to be. Against all reason and expectation, I could not have chosen a better person to confide in. 

         Herbie, when he wasn’t making a bob or two flogging second hand books from a market stall, was a tourist guide operating in and around Westminster Abbey. In the next few minutes he told me everything I needed to hear. The monk, he said, was affectionately known as Old Skinhead on account of his tonsure which had laid bare a large part of his scalp. All that was known of him was that he was a Benedictine monk from the twelfth or thirteenth centuries. He had been seen not only by Herbie but by one other guide and a few of their clients. Seeing Skinhead, he asserted, was a gift, not a curse. It was a precious moment in history that I had witnessed, an insignificant but fascinating insight into the distant past. “There was nothing to be afraid of. Some people can see such things, others can’t. Be glad that you can. Who knows what wonderful things you might see: the coronation of a King or Queen, the arrest of Guy Fawkes, the trial of Charles I, or maybe an unknown slice of history, suppressed and excluded from the public record; ripples in time that make you a looking glass into another age. Believe me there’s not an historian alive who wouldn’t give everything he had to be like you.” 

         “So will it keep happening?” 

         “Bound to, it’s not like a TV you can switch on and off. Now it’s started this is you for the rest of your life. We should be celebrating your good fortune. So get along to the bar and buy the next round.” 

         I did, and although I had one heck of a hangover the next morning it was nothing to the realisation that I was not only normal but at the same time kind of special. Nevertheless, it was a talent I thought best kept to myself and at first only one other person apart from myself knew that my senses numbered more than five. I was, as Herbie almost said, like a TV set without an on and off switch, and although the transmissions came whenever they had a mind to they seldom numbered more than three a week. Almost always they are of ordinary people going about their working life. Sometimes they are at their leisure - at fairs, in the tavern, playing skittles, singing, dancing - and sometimes at prayer in their churches. There are thieves and vagabonds, but mostly the folk I see are honest strivers who work hard to live and are more than deserving of their small pleasures. 

         Despite Herbie’s fond hope that I would, one day, see a King or Queen my ‘visions’ have so far only identified one person I have been able to put a name to. I was at Stamford Bridge watching a less than enthralling nil nil draw between Chelsea and Derby when in a much more entertaining match a burly centre forward rose majestically above the other players to head the ball into the goal with such force that it rebounded back onto the field of play. The player wiped a muddy smear from his forehead and, with the air of a man who had done no more than what was expected of him, jogged back to the half way line for the resumption of play. Immediately, two things were clear to me: one, that his playing kit belonged to the early days of club football; and two, that I would never forget that dour, moustachioed face. A month later I saw him again on a cigarette card, one of a set of thirty players published in 1908. He was, according to the information on the reverse side of the photograph a Scottish international by the name of Billy Steele who played his club football for Newcastle. If I needed any further proof – which I didn’t – he was wearing the same black and white striped shirt in which I saw him play. As for famous events I once saw a riot of which I can tell you little beyond the fact that windows were broken and the rioters put to flight by soldiers on horseback. That this first happened in the early 1800s was apparent to me from the clothing of those taking part.

         All this I kept to myself in the pursuit of ‘normal’ but as I was beginning to find out there are many shades of normal and some of us have little choice but to be what we are. My next eureka moment came when I was having five o’clock tea at my mother’s house and a soldier in chain mail armour came striding through the wall against which our table was placed and, without upsetting anything on it, continued straight ahead before disappearing through the party wall into number 56. Although I had by this time become well practised at concealing surprise or alarm the sudden appearance of the warrior, sword in hand, caused me to emit a startled cry from what was, no doubt, an equally startled face.

         My mother’s reaction was restricted to a few words of weary resignation, “Oh no, not you as well.”

         “As well as who?” I asked. 

         To cut short a long story that was not allowed to commence before tea had been eaten and the dishes washed I was told the family secret that had up to then been kept from me. My father also had the ‘scourge’ as my mother called it and once jumped off Lambeth Bridge to avoid a runaway hansom cab that had mounted the pavement. Fearing that the incident would do nothing to advance his career in the Midland Bank he claimed to have jumped into the Thames to rescue a dog caught up in the current, an act of heroism widely reported in the local press which may well have influenced the bank to promote him to First Cashier. Thereafter he had no other choice but to conceal his ghostly visitations which he did by tightly closing his eyes on the pretence that he was light sensitive and sometimes needed to rest his eyes. Unsurprisingly this did not go down well with his line manager who expected his front desk staff to keep their eyes open when receiving or dispensing the bank’s cash. Rather than terminate his employment it was decided to transfer him to a backroom job that he did for the next seven years until he died at his desk from a heart attack, his eyes tight shut. 

         “Well, he did what he could, I suppose,” my mother said, evidently unimpressed by my father’s efforts to make good. “Can’t be blaming him too much for the way he was. His father and grandfather were just as bad. Caught it from them, I don’t doubt. Would never have married your father had I known what I was letting myself in for but he kept it from me until we were wed; too late then to say no then. Don’t do that to any girl you have a mind to marry, better still don’t marry. No good will ever come of it.”

         Needless to say I returned to my small bed sit sadly reflecting on everything my mother had said. To her my father’s unusual ability to see into the past was a curse to be kept secret at all costs, and in the ’50s when conformity was valued above all else, it is not difficult to understand why she felt that way. My father, who died when I was ten, evidently took the same view and far from taking any pleasure in his visions found them a cause of stress and unhappiness which no doubt shortened his life. I determined not to make the same mistake. As Herbie said, I had a gift not a curse and in an age more forgiving of those who are different I have no intention of being anyone but myself.

         However, one thing my mother and I were agreed on was that any girl likely to become my partner in life had to be fully aware of what she was taking on. I therefore resolved that on a fifth date I would explain all and leave it entirely to her as to whether or not we went on to date six. It was an honourable way forward but not one that got me past five until I discovered that Herbie had a kid sister, ten years his junior but only one year younger than myself. Like Herbie she also had the gift and loved every moment of it, claiming to have witnessed the Siege of Sidney Street and the coronation of Charles II. She also had the most wonderful head of cascading blond hair, a kind face and blue eyes that sparkled with the joy and wonder of life past and present. 

         Leila and myself have been together now for nearly seven years. Our separate visions we share with each other like other couples talk about films or plays they have seen. Sometimes we have the same vision, see the same things and compare our sometimes varying perceptions of what has come our way. Whatever we see, good or bad, we are drawn ever closer together.

 

         Sometimes I think of my father and feel sad.

                                                                                                           

MAG

                                                                                                                      2 July1978

A memoir found among the papers of the novelist and spiritualist, Martin A Greening, 1947-2020.

Reproduced here by kind permission of his son and executor, William Herbert Greening.

 

Copyright Richard Banks