Peter Woodgate
Orion
the Hunter, a constellation
Serene
goddess of the moon
Hermes,
a messenger to all of the gods
Perseus,
who died too soon.
Apollo,
the sound of music heard
Aphrodite,
goddess of love
Poseidon,
from the mighty seas
Zeus,
rules from above.
Jason,
wanderer of the seas
Helios,
the sun god of fire
Gaia,
the mother of all earth
Boris,
just a bloody liar.
Copyright Peter Woodgate
by Richard Banks
Danny looked at his watch but it had stopped and no amount of prodding and shaking was going to make it work again. Other boys would have just ditched it and got their parents to buy them another one, a solar powered one with extra functions, like a compass and thermometer. But he wasn’t like other boys, never had been, never would be, of that he was certain.
He flipped a stone off the jetty and watched the ripples spread across the lake towards the band of shiny water that reflected the moon and the security light of the boat house. Soon it would be day; the main road that bisected the forest would roar with the sound of traffic and the boat keeper arriving to bring in the boats from the island where they were moored. The boat keeper didn’t like feral boys who tried to break into the boathouse. He was a big man, belligerent, not a fellow to tangle with. Best to be gone before he arrived, to lay low in the wood where Shoeless, Irish and Old Jack lit fires at night and drank super strength cider. Like him they were outcasts, no-hopers, good for nothing. Maybe that’s why he kept the watch, a reminder of better times when everything was normal, sometimes good, like things should be, like it was for other boys - even then the bad times were never far away.
He remembered that Friday, in the school holidays, when he was late back from football. Dad was angry but Mum said it wasn’t his fault, the boy didn’t have a watch, how was he to know what time it was? The routine of another row was brewing; Dad trying to lay down the law, Mum talking back, defiant, hands on hips, raising her voice as he raised his, then Dad shouting, inarticulate with rage, losing the plot and Mum screaming as he lashed out.
Danny abandoned the opening hostilities and retreated to his room where he lay on the bed reading a comic. Next door the emotional tumult of voices reached their inevitable conclusion and doors slammed, signalling that Mum had taken refuge in the flat’s other bedroom. A few minutes later the living room door opened and Dad was on his way to see if she was okay, he hadn’t meant it, he wouldn’t do it again - of course, Danny could have a watch.
The next day Dad took him down to the jewellers in the High Street and asked the man to show him the watch in the window, the bright blue one with a picture of Thomas the Tank Engine on the dial. “But that’s for kids at infant’s school,” Danny protested, “the other boys would laugh.” He needed something more grown up, with a window in it to show the day of the month. Dad was getting angry again but the man said he had just the watch, the New Trekker, and although it was more expensive than the one in the sale it was stronger, better quality, and came with a five year guarantee. When Dad hesitated, the man, sensing that he was about to lose a sale, said he would take half the money now and the rest at the end of the month. The deal was struck and Dad paid with a crumpled ten pound note and a fistful of coins.
On the journey home, they stopped off at the park and Dad strapped the watch to Danny’s wrist and showed him how to change the time and date. They examined the instructions together and discovered that the watch also had a light that lit up the dial and an alarm that they set for 7.30 in the morning. They hurried home to show Mum, to explain how it worked, and Mum said it was the best watch she had ever seen and that they should fill out the guarantee and send it off before something happened to it. Then Mum read the instructions and found that the watch also had a stopwatch and she set it for fifteen minutes to remind her to take the dinner out of the oven. The sun shone warmly and no one wanted the day to end.
Two weeks later Danny was back at school and Dad was in and out of another job. There had been an argument, punches thrown and the police called to escort him out of the factory. Life was back to normal; three people struggling to coexist in the unwanted togetherness of four small rooms. Mum threatening to leave but with nowhere to go. Dad affecting indifference, inwardly seething, a time bomb ticking. Danny with the golden memory of a perfect day, that made the spring days that followed seem dull and deficient. He consoled himself with the thought that he now owned a New Trekker, not a hand-me-down from the cousins or something from a charity shop; a new watch that was the envy of his school friends. Not even Barrett, who lived in the big house next to the church, had anything that good.
Ever the pragmatist, he knew it couldn’t last. In time, maybe before the end of term, other boys would get new watches, better watches, and his unexpected rise in their esteem would be at an end. But until then he was someone, the indispensable someone who was needed to time their races and football matches, the boy who told them the minutes past the hour, the free meals boy who was now ‘one of them’. Although revelling in the novelty of his newfound popularity, he was, nonetheless, troubled by uneasy feelings that linked the outstanding balance on his watch to his father’s unemployment. What if Dad couldn’t pay? What would happen then? The answer came on the penultimate day of the month.
He arrived home to find Dad sorting out the household bills into the usual columns: those that were the subject of a final demand requiring at least partial payment, those only one or two months overdue, and those that could be safely ignored because the amounts were insufficient to warrant recovery action beyond an angry demand for payment. If the jeweller’s invoice was in the third column all was well; instead, it occupied a separate space on the dining room table; a puzzling anomaly in Dad’s system. Mum asked if he would clear the table for tea and Dad, unusually compliant, returned the bills to his box. There was an uneasy silence and Mum said that Dad had something to say. His words came slowly, in short, clumsy sentences. The watch had to go back. He had spoken to Mr Drewett, the jeweller, who was going to refund the money already paid. It was needed for other things.
Dad couldn’t bring himself to say sorry, it wasn’t his way. Neither was he a man to explain his decisions. He was a man of action, not words and Danny saw that he had failed in both. This headstrong man, full of bluster and defiance, was going to surrender his watch for the paltry sum of £12.50. It wasn’t fair, it mustn’t happen. Rage surged through his body. As his father reached out a palm to take possession of the watch Danny brought up his hand in a tight fist that struck the tip of his father’s bristly jaw. There was a look of disbelief on both their faces. For a moment they were too stunned to react, then Dad tried to catch him by the arm. Danny stepped back two paces, anger giving way to fear, aggression to flight. Another backward step took him almost to the front door. In a few panic stricken moments he was through it and running hard towards the woodland at the end of the road. Dad was shouting at him, and Mum was shouting at Dad, but as their voices decreased in volume Danny realised that neither were in pursuit.
He reached the trees and stopped to catch his breath; to decide what to do next. They would soon be looking for him, he had to get further away. On the far side of the wood, there was a boating lake with benches and an ice cream parlour that stayed open late on summer evenings. There would be people there. People that might save him from a beating if Dad appeared, belt in hand. By the time he reached the lake, the sun was low in the sky and the boat keeper was no longer hiring out boats. Two of Danny’s classmates were there. They talked, played football with a tennis ball and threw stones into the lake. It was nearly dark, the last rowers were returning to shore and family parties drifted off towards the car park. “Is it 9 o’clock?” said one of the boys. Danny confirmed that it was and they sauntered off to their homes on the other side of the main road. The boatman took several boats in tow and moored them on the island. He returned in a dinghy and dragged it up the gravel bank into the boat house. The ice cream man served his last customer and put down the shutters. “Fancy a pint?” he asked. “Why not,” said the boatman. They locked up and departed together, unaware of the boy sitting cross-legged on the jetty.
On the other side of the lake, an invisible figure observed the boy he had first noticed an hour before. He knew the boy and where he lived. There was no time to lose. If the boy moved away from the security light, he too would become invisible. He moved around the side of the lake where there were trees and bushes close to the waterline, finally arriving at the boathouse end where the boy still sat.
The man knew not why he did the things he did, only that he must, his mind was too full of nightmares, paranoia, and White Ace. He had once been a boy, an abandoned boy; there had been pain, and suffering. He tried hard to forget, he drank to forget, but the memories wouldn’t go away, he hid them in dark places, but no place was deep enough and memories, fragments of memory, would break free and burst into the light, and the light became a nightmare.
He was closing in, nearly there, only a
cricket strip between them, his bare feet silent on the stony ground. The man
was once a soldier, won medals, twice promoted, he had strong hands, he was
used to death. The stones no longer hurt his feet, he was on the jetty now,
four more steps, maybe five and he would be there. He reached out his hands and
rushed forward.
*****
Danny tossed another stone into the lake. It had been a long night, frosty cold, the trees leafless, dark skeletons against the dawn sky. Was it seven or eight am? He wasn’t sure. If the watch still worked he would have known the time, known precisely when to leave. What good, he thought, was a watch with broken glass and hands stuck on ten o clock? The breaking of it he did not remember. His only memories were of the thick fingers that gripped his neck, that forced his head and shoulders into the lake, and the bitter taste of the water that flooded his lungs. He struggled, splashed the water with his arms, made one gargling cry for help, but no one was there, only the man, and he was too strong.
The sun was rising, it was time to go
back to the wood, to the shallow grave in which his body lay. One day someone
would find him and Mum and Dad would scrape together enough money to take him
to church in a big limousine, just like they did for Granddad Jones. Things
would be different then, better, maybe good. For now, he felt only sadness.
The End.
Copyright Richard Banks
THE ENCOUNTER
By Bob French
Without looking back, Jilly screamed, then stomped
from the flat, slamming the door behind her, and hurried down the stairs to the
front door of the building. She had shared the flat with Justine for
over two years and thought they had a good thing going until she’d come home
early last evening suffering from a headache, only to find the toe-rag giving
Pauline, of all people, a good rogering in their bed!
She knew Justine was a bit of a
flirt, but Pauline. From the History Research Team! As
she wrenched open the front door, she screamed out at the top of her voice for
all to hear. “Pauline! Good God, you must be desperate! I hope she
gives you the pox.” Then as calmly as possible, she walked out into the cool
evening.
That
was five years ago, and Jilly had moved on, putting her encounters with the
opposite sex behind her. In fact, she made a point of avoiding them at all
costs.
She had gained a first in Maths
and had been snapped up by Tanner, Wilkinson and Tanner, a Business Accountancy
Consultancy based in the suburbs of
It was around three on Thursday
afternoon in the first week of March when Martha Tanner, the owner of the
company called her in to her office.
“Jilly. I have a
special job for you. Heatherspoons has a problem with trying to balance their
books before the end of the tax year. Can you be a dear and call
them up and make an appointment to visit them and sort out their problem?
Monday or Tuesday would be good, as I need you on Wednesday.”
One of the things Jully really
enjoyed was the tradition that on Friday night, everyone headed for The Pink
Lady wine bar for a few hours to let their hair down, and get the silly things
off their chest and then push off for a relaxing weekend.
Everyone was thoroughly enjoying
themselves when Frances Tanner eased herself in next to Jilly.
“Glad I got you
Jilly. Martha told me that she’s asked you to pop over to
Heatherspoons.”
“Yes, Tuesday at
ten. Anything I should look out for?”
“Have you been there before?”
Jully noticed that the tone in her
voice change slightly. “No. First time off the leash, so
to speak.”
“Mmmm. The company is
over near Hythe, on the river Colne. They are a strange bunch, so please be
careful.”
Jilly saw the concern in
Before Jilly could go after her,
Mandy, her team leader staggered across to her and put her arms around her.
“Come on lovey, it’s your round.”
An hour later, the team started to
drift off for the weekend. Jilly said farewell to Harry, the barman, then left to get into her car. It was only a ten-minute drive
and at this time of night, the roads would be deserted, she thought.
She turned onto the main road and
started down it, all the time thinking of what
When she got out and looked back,
there laying on the road was a woman.
“Oh my God! Are you
alright? I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you. Are you OK?
The woman looked dazed and her leg
seemed a little crooked. She sat there for a minute, then started to cry. “I
think I’ve broken my leg.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve just called for
an ambulance. Just lay back and relax. It won’t be long.”
Once the ambulance had left, the
police officer took down her details and said that they would be in
touch. Jilly sat in her car. She felt afraid. She
had heard of people being involved in a traffic accident and being sued by the
injured party for thousands of pounds.
Saturday morning, Jilly called her
local garage and had it dropped off to repair the dent. This meant
that she had to hire a car. This proved to be a problem as the only available
cars left were old and worn out to say the least.
It was raining on Tuesday morning
as Jilly drove across town towards Hythe. Just as she ventured out
into the country, the car started to splutter, lurch, then stop. She
looked around, but all she could see was countryside. Not wanting to
be late, she got out of the car and popped up her umbrella, and started walking.
After about ten minutes, she heard
the sound of a car approaching from behind. Before she could move
over to the grass verge, it stopped.
“Excuse me, Miss. Do you
want a lift?”
Jilly looked at the man, taking in
the details; late forties, with a kind face. Bright blue eyes, smartly dressed
in a dark grey suit and a red scarf. Very trendy. Just
then the wind picked up and nearly tore the umbrella from her
hand. The thought of chasing down the country road forced her to
make a decision.
“Thank you, yes please. I’m trying
to get to Hythe.”
“That’s fine. I can
drop you off. It’s on my way.”
Once inside the warm and
comfortable BMV, Jilly relaxed. “Jilly Watson.” As she held out her
hand.
The man glanced at her, then took
her hand. Horthorn Wentworth. You from around these parts?”
“No, I live in the north of
Jilly was confused. Is
this Hythe?”
Horthorn Wentworth nodded, then
pointed to the faded roadside sign which told anyone who wanted to know, that
this was the
Jilly smiled at
him. Thank you so much Horthorn, I really appreciate you helping
me. She extended her hand, which he took, and gently kissed it.
Jilly, a little surprised, smiled
at him, then climbed out of the car and made her way into the village.
Once she had met the team from
Weatherspoons, she called the garage; gave them the location of the dead car, and asked that they deliver a working car, made in the last fifty years, to
Weatherspoons before three in the afternoon.
As she sat in her Jamie’s and
bunny rabbit slippers, watching the TV that night, the news came
on. She suddenly jumped forward spilling her popcorn all over
Muffin, her cat. The face of Horthorn Wentworth had appeared on the
screen. She listed to the newscaster explained that this man had
been on the run for the last six months and is known to come from the
That night Jilly did not sleep
well, and in the morning, she reported what had happened to the
police. Whilst on the phone, the police officer informed her that
the lady she had run over last week would like to get in contact.
“You have her details I trust, Miss
Watson.”
Jilly sat back in her chair and
closed her eyes. ‘I’m going to be sued for thousands of pounds just
because I wasn’t concentrating on the road. After some soul-searching and a
stiff cup of coffee, she called the lady.
“Hello. It’s Jilly Watson, the
idiot who ran you over last week. Look I am so sorry but…”
“Jilly, my dear.” Jilly
couldn’t understand the upbeat tone of the woman. I just wanted to thank you.”
Jilly spoke slowly to
her. “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand. I ran you over
and put you in hospital, and you are about to sue me, aren’t you?”
“Good heavens
no. Whilst I was in hospital, they gave me a thorough check-over and
found that I had the start of breast cancer. They made an
appointment for me straight away, and it looks like because it was caught
early, there is no real threat. You see. If you hadn’t
run me over, I would have carried on living my life, only to find in a year or
so’s time that my cancer had become incurable, so thank you Jilly, and no, I
will not be suing you. Thanks for calling.
Copyright
Bob French
By Sis Unsworth
Bob did so love to decorate, he really was a treasure,
he’d painted out this old beach hut, to him it was a pleasure.
It really looked a picture, the best hut on the beach,
he thought the new girl on the block, may now be in his reach.
Kay was such a pretty girl, who’d just moved down his street,
but all the local lads around, were also keen to meet.
Bob heard she owned a beach hut, in need of loving care,
with little hesitation, he was the first one there.
He helped her pick out colour paints, they found it so much fun,
For sure she would be pleased with him, when the job was done.
He had arrived this morning, on such a perfect day,
he knew she’d call in later, so he started right away.
There were so many beach huts, stretched along the sand,
certain this would be the best, he’d made it look real grand.
Bob cleaned it out so thoroughly, and painted it with care,
Kay said she’d come this afternoon, so would meet him there.
He thought she would go out with him, when the job was done,
So worked hard through the afternoon, until the setting sun.
Suddenly he saw her, as she came across the sand,
things were going perfectly, just the way he’d planned.
she looked so pleased to see him, it made him feel so good,
admired his work with wonder, just how he’d hoped she would.
Kay said “It looks so beautiful, the best one that’s for sure,
The only problem I can see is, my hut’s the one next door!!!”
Copyright
Sis Unsworth
By Bob French
Private Henry Mulhoon, Paddy to his mates, shivered as
he shrugged his shoulders and slowly turned to complete another twenty paces
out and twenty paces back outside the Headquarters building. He had
been on sentry duty since eight last night and was cold, tired, and hungry; all
because his platoon sergeant found mud on his boots.
The guardroom corporal relieved him at
six in the morning so he could get changed into his work
fatigues. After breakfast he would be ready for his next round of
fatigues; the painting of the barracks' main gate. A punishment he had been
given by the Regimental Sergeant Major for smoking in uniform downtown.
At nine o’clock on the dot, he presented
himself to the guardroom orderly sergeant, and along with five other men, were
taken outside and told exactly what do to. Paddy who had painted
most of the signs and fences inside the barracks, quickly took control and
showed the rest of the men how to do the job properly.
At half past ten, the guardroom corporal
called the men in for a mug of tea. Just as they were making their
way towards the main gate, a scream cut through the morning air, followed by
the sound of a horse in distress. Everyone looked towards where the noise had
come from. It didn’t take long before everyone realised what was
happening. A hot-headed idiot had raced his new-fangled motor
vehicle past the young girl who was sitting in her carriage and spooking the
horse. She had screamed as the horse had reared up, then bolted.
No one moved as the horse, which was now
completely out of control, raced towards the main gates of the
barracks. Now, not many people know this, but Henry Mulhoon, before
he joined the army, worked on a farm and knew how to deal with frightened
horses. Whilst everyone dived for cover, Henry slowly moved out into the
street, raised his arms, and walked towards the horse. The horse
continued to charge towards him, then, to everyone’s surprise, it stopped and
Henry cradled its head and gently spoke to it, then turned to the young woman
who looked a little disheveled and embarrassed.
“Are you alright Missy?”
“Yes, and thank you for helping
me. That idiot in the motor vehicle ought to be reported to the
constable.”
Paddy picked up the reins and slowly
passed them to the young woman, who took them, then smiled at him, adjusted her
hat, and slowly moved off. Paddy stood stock still as he realised
what he had just done. His hands had been covered in black paint
which he inadvertently covered the horse’s reins with, then as the young woman
had taken the reins, she too had covered her gloves with the paint and to crown
it all, she had adjusted her had. Paddy did his best not to laugh but quickly headed for the guardroom.
The sergeant met him at the door with a
huge smile on his face.
“Well done Mulhoon. That took
some courage. I will make a point of informing Major Guthrie about
your bravery today.”
“Major Guthrie? Why
corporal?”
“Do you know who that young lady
was?” The look on Paddy’s face told him he had no idea.
“That was Elizabeth Gutherie, his only
daughter and a really nice young woman to boot. I’m sure the major
will be more than pleased with your conduct today. He might even
give you a medal for your bravery.”
Paddy suddenly felt very
proud. ‘A medal,’ he thought. ‘For bravery. Me a lowly
private getting a medal for bravery.’
The following day Paddy was on gardening
fatigues, out front of the Headquarters building when the Regimental Sergeant
Major and Major Guthrie came along the pavement and went to enter the building.
The Major stopped and looked down at
Paddy with a smile on his face. “Mulhoon is it?”
Paddy looked up and
nodded. Before he knew what was happening, the Regimental Sergeant
Major bent down and screamed into Paddy’s face to get to his feet, salute and
address the officer properly!
Paddy stunned by the sudden outburst,
scrambled to his feet and mumbled an apology.
“Thank you for saving
He then turned and continued to walk
with the Regimental Sergeant Major. As they moved off, Patrick heard
him say the word decorated. His mind rushed back to what the
guardroom sergeant had said about him being given a medal for his bravery.
A week had passed when Paddy, who had
just finished cookhouse fatigues was summoned to report to the Adjutant’s
office. He knew that anyone asked to report to the Adjutant was
either in real trouble or going to receive something special like a promotion or
a medal.
He quickly cleaned himself up, brushed
his uniform down, then hurried across to the Headquarters
building. He knew he had to report to the battalion Chief clerk
first, then wait outside the Adjutant’s door.
Twenty minutes later the door opened and
Major Guthrie stepped out and nodded to Paddy then left. Minutes
later Paddy was ordered into the office.
After marching in and slamming to attention
and giving the Adjutant one of his best salutes, he was told to stand at ease.
“Mulhoon. I understand that you saved
the life of Miss Elizabeth Guthrie last week. Well done.”
“Thank you, Sir.” Paddy’s mind
started to go into overdrive; The Military Medal, or maybe the Distinguished
Conduct Medal.
“Major Guthrie has suggested some form
of reward, so for the next three weeks you are to decorate the fencing and
gates of Major Guthrie’s married quarters.
At ten o’clock on Monday morning, Paddy
stood back to admire his handiwork, when he was interrupted by Miss
Elizabeth. In her hand, she had a tray of freshly baked scones, jam
and cream, and a mug of tea,
“Good morning Private
Mulhoon. I brought you some refreshments. I hope you
don’t mind.”
“Why thank you, Miss Guthrie, that’s very
kind of you.”
“Look, whilst you are here, please call
me Elizabeth.”
Paddy nodded with a huge grin on his
face and extended his hand. “I’m Paddy Miss.”
“I know what happened the last time we
touched hands Paddy.”
Do you know? It took nearly
five weeks to paint Major Guthrie’s fence and gates”
May 2023
Copyright Bob French
Len Morgan
Way back in the 1980’s, I worked in Dagenham near some wild uncultivated land. There was nowhere to go for lunch, apart from a burger van and a greasy spoon where I ate egg chips & sausage, once a week.
Mostly I took sandwiches and ate them while roaming over those wild fields. During that spring and summer, there were all manner of plants flowering there.
While serving alongside the United Nations Peacekeeping forces in Cyprus (UNFICYP). I purchased a 35mm camera which I used to record my plant discoveries. Then after a few weeks, I wanted to know the names of the plants, their medical uses, and which were edible, or in some cases both! Others I became aware of were poisonous, so to be on the safe side, I purchased a book ‘The Wild Flowers of Britain & Europe’ at last I was able to name them!
But, I didn’t really have much further
information, so, I drove into Barking to visit the Central Library.
There were all manner of
books containing information I could harvest regarding
my finds.
I took out an Ordnance Survey Map of East London (sheet 177) 1:50,000 (2nd series). I marked out the area’s I'd been surveying they covered just 2 squares (¾ inch by 1½). I marked each as I found it in my book, highlighting if they were poisonous Edible or Medicinal plants. By the middle of summer, I had made quite a thorough survey and by summer's end, I was anticipating resuming my work in the spring.
Unfortunately, the company I was working for was taken over and the site closed down, so I had to find alternative employment some way away from my area of investigation. When next I returned, the local council was in the process of building a housing estate on the land. So, I bowed to the inevitable and took up playing the guitar instead.
Coincidentally, while on a
holiday to Harlech in
The owner must have thought, we’ve got a right mug here, when I asked to buy it. “50p” he said.
I’ve had it in my garden for a number of years now, and it quickly spread, giving us a fine pink display. This year I noticed it was all over Hullbridge, and now I wonder if I am responsible for importing an invasive species to Essex...
Copyright Len Morgan
wonder if I am at fault in some way?
FORWARD
THINKING
Richard Banks
Five years later when my other brother, George, broke his arm playing football an ambulance arrived on the scene within several minutes as a consequence of mother phoning 999 a quarter of an hour before the accident occurred. By this time, being the oldest of my two brothers and Leila, our sister, I was fully aware of mother’s amazing ability to see into the future and mitigate life’s vicissitudes; a talent that unfortunately did not extend to their prevention.
“Why didn’t you stop George from playing?” I asked. “If you had told him not to, or sent him on an errand, it would never have happened.”
Mother smiled. She liked it when I asked questions. An inquisitive mind is a clever mind was another of her sayings and she was always ready to listen to our questions and answer them as well as she was able. There was, she said, nothing that anyone could have done to prevent George breaking his leg. Even if she had kept him from the football match it would have happened elsewhere, and in some other way. Just consider how much worse it might have been if she had sent him on an errand; he might have returned home through the forest or across fields. Who there would have been about to help him, not the football players that’s for sure. And how would she have known where to send the ambulance. No, it was better to let things happen in the way they were meant to.
“Will I have an accident?” I asked. As a Boy Scout, my watchword was always to be prepared and mother’s early warning system seemed likely not only to offer me protection from life’s misfortunes but to advance my progress through the ranks to Troop Leader. After all, if Mother knew when I was about to have an accident surely she would also be able to tell me when one of my fellow Scouts was about to suffer a misfortune. Forearmed with the correct time and coordinates I would be the first to his aid and having worked out in advance exactly what needed to be done would easily win my First Aid badge and possibly, depending on the generosity of the Scout Master, a life savers badge.
My day dreaming was interrupted by the sound of Mother’s voice telling me that she had no intention of telling me, or anyone else, that they were about to have an accident. It would do no good at all, she flatly asserted. Why worry someone about a misfortune they had no way of avoiding. Better just to let it happen and deal with the consequences as best one could. Observing me to be unusually pensive she sought to reassure me by asserting that some people went through life without so much as a scratch and that, who knows, I might be one of them. Best to think that, she said, even though it may not be true.
Better still, I decided to put it to the test and after crossing Epping High Street several times with eyes tight shut decided that what I had unwisely inferred from my mother’s words was true, that I was immune from harm. Forty years on that has indeed been the case.
I was into my third year of Secondary School when mother assembled us children to tell us that father was to die from a heart attack at eleven-forty five the following morning. She had decided that this should happen in the Co-op store away from ourselves and other family members who would understandably be distressed by witnessing such an alarming event. She knew that the people in the shop were good folk who would do their unavailing best for him and that he would not die alone which was a misfortune that no one deserved. As for the future she had, the week before, insured his life for a substantial sum of money that would enable us to continue our lives unaffected by the loss of father’s wages. We were to say nothing of all this to him, or anyone else, and that all that was required of us was to be at home when he set-off on his final journey. This we did, lining the garden path, bidding him an earnest, and in some instances an emotional farewell. Needless to say, this was very puzzling to Father who assured us several times that he was only going to the Co-op and, thereafter, Baxter’s shop where his boots were being mended. Half an hour later Mother set-off to collect our shopping, arrange his funeral, and collect Father’s boots which she correctly surmised would soon be a fit for my own feet.
It was a year later that mother acquired a suitor and although she clearly had no great liking for the man consented to marry him which she did less than a month after his proposal. Us children were all of one mind in thinking this was a dreadful betrayal of our father whose kindness to us in life had almost been matched by the pecuniary blessing of his departure. We needn’t have bothered ourselves, for within a month stepfather was run over by a number nine bus, and the family benefited from another life policy that my mother had taken out shortly before their Registry Office service. Having paid little more than thirty pounds in premiums on both policies and collected over £100,000 from the same insurer there can be little doubt that they smelt the proverbial rat but with no evidence of wrongdoing they had no choice but to make payment.
Happily, Mother had no further suitors. Indeed it was observed that the menfolk of the town, especially the widowers and bachelors, did all they could to give her a wide berth. Although mother was aware of the gossip circulating about town she was too busy bringing up her four children to pay it any heed. Having done nothing wrong, as far as she was concerned, she thought it no more than her right to spend the money that had liberally come her way. She invested heavily in the education of all her children enabling three of us to attend university, while George was brought a small factory where he established a successful business making football boots. Leila, perhaps the cleverest of us, was jettisoned into the social gatherings of fashionable society where she met and married a Baronet, who, happily, is still living.
It was with considerable trepidation that I introduced mother to the girl I was wanting to marry knowing that she would surely warn me if accident or ill-health was to be her lot in life. When my mother’s only comment was that Connie was a pleasant girl who would do well enough, I knew that there was no barrier to our union unless my proposal was received with a no. Fortunately for me, and our children, that was not to be the case and we have since enjoyed happy and healthy lives. My siblings have also been fortunate in that respect, including George who was thrice married and therefore claims to have had as much marital bliss as the rest of us put together.
In 2017, the year of the late Queen’s Sapphire Jubilee, Mother took to her bed and, in the presence of her housekeeper and Leila, died. That she was fully aware of her imminent demise was only too evident from the letter she left bidding us farewell, and every happiness in the years to come. There was, she wrote, very little for us to do but to attend her funeral and think kindly of her. The Co-op had been instructed as to the arrangements for her funeral and interment, while the family solicitor was to convert all her assets into a cash sum that was to be divided between her three sons. Leila, who had no need for money, would receive nothing, nothing that is but her mother’s extraordinary ability to foresee her family’s misfortunes. This, she asserted, was her most valuable gift, one she had inherited from her mother and the one hundred mothers that had preceded them. She had no guidance to give her daughter beyond the example of her own life. Leila, with her much polished brain, would find her own way and be more than an adequate custodian of powers that were to be used for the benefit of her own children and those of her brothers. That Leila had yet to give birth to a female child was her only concern but intuition told her that one would come, they always did, and that when born should be named Freya which had been told to her in a dream, which she believed was a vision.
Six years after mother’s passing Leila has no sense that she is the recipient of mystic powers and has yet to give birth to a daughter. Indeed it is eight years since her last child when it is rumoured her husband removed the possibility of siring another by submitting to a medical procedure he apparently has no intention of reversing.
We await developments, as they say. In the meantime, we continue to give thanks for a loving mother whose special powers may be all the more remarkable for being hers and hers alone.
The End.
Copyright Richard Banks
