THE CHRISTMAS PROMISE

By Bob French

The ice-cold wind that tugged at her coat, seemed to fade the minute she turned the corner and walked slowly up to the steps that led to Roy’s flat. The street lights hadn’t worked in this part of town in ages, but it didn’t matter.  She stood silently looking up at the doors to the building.  In her mind she could hear the thumping music emanating from his flat and for a brief second, she wanted to rush up the steps and burst into the party; join in with the Christmas spirit, hug and kiss her brother Roy, his girlfriend Mandy, Billy and Paul, Jilly and her lover Monica and Francois, her best friend, who always sang Christmas Carols in his native French tongue when he was drunk.  But it was different now and she wasn’t sure she was ready to face the past, so turned and sat down on the steps and buried her face in her cold hands.  But the sound of laughter of those she loved, taunted her. 

She looked up just as a shooting star streaked across the dark night sky and quickly made a wish, but knew it wouldn’t come true.  A couple passed her, hand in hand and in love, and wished her a Merry Christmas.  She looked up and returned their wishes, just as the Salvation Army band struck up a tune outside the pub and she watched as people started to gather around them. She briefly contemplated joining them, but her conscience forced her to turn and stare up at Roy’s front door.  Then, as though some invisible force had captured her mind, she climbed the steps.

Roy’s flat was on the ground floor and when she let herself in, she found it exactly the same as it had been on the night Roy had died.  She slowly wandered through the rooms, inhaling his presence as if he were still there, recalling his ruffled hair and cheeky smiling face; the good times they had spent here; Yahtzee nights with wine and pizza with all his friends, or raucous afternoons throwing popcorn and abuse at the TV as Fulham attempted to once again, win a game of football.  Now, the place was cold and empty, untouched, a shrine to her brother.  If their parents, whose idea of offering help was to throw money at the problem, had returned from the Caribbean to care for him, then who knows?

In the bedroom, his medication still stood on his bedside table, along with his watch, phone, some loose change, and a half-read novel, and wondered if he’d ever managed to finish it or whether the story ended as badly as Roy’s had.  This was where he had died.  Quietly slipping away in his sleep, all alone. 

Why hadn’t he waited?  He had promised her that they would spend Christmas together, even if it was for one last time, but it seems as though his frail body couldn’t keep going, and whilst she forgave him for getting himself into this mess, she couldn’t bring herself to forgive him for not saying goodbye.

He seemed fine when she’d left him a week ago. A little weak and tired, but not close to death.  His heart had just given up, the doctor had said.  The effort of keeping Roy’s damaged body alive proved too difficult a task.  She would have given her own heart if that’s what it would have taken to keep him alive. 

She sat on the edge of his unmade bed and stared around the room at the dull wallpaper, the faded pictures of the Boomtown Rats and his collection of running medals, memories of better days.  She felt a smile creep across her face as her eyes came to rest on the photo of them all outside Villa Park during the FA Cup semi-finals against Chelsea a few years back. Then she seemed to slump down and cuddle his pillow, slowly inhaling his odor, her mind silently screaming…why, why? but getting no answers.

She had telephoned her parents and amidst tears and long periods of sniffling, told them of Roy’s death. A plea for them to return home for his funeral was met with resentment and annoyance.  The fear of their reputation being tainted by attending a funeral of a drug abuser, even if he was their son, was just too much. They would send money for a headstone.

She lay there listening to the voices pass by the bay window as people made their way down to the local pub at the end of the street; Roy’s local, where his friends would probably be now, raising a glass to his memory.  Every now and then a car would pass by, it’s headlights lighting up the front of the room, catching the glittering reflection of the silver balls and tinsel that hung on the Christmas Tree, bringing happiness to the room, just for a few seconds, just like Roy’s life had done.

Her curiosity caused her to sit up and stare at a dull red light that had caught her eye. With a little effort, she made her way towards it and without thinking, pressed the button.

Instantly the dark, dank room was filled with screams of laughter and music of all his friends dancing and singing, making the room come alive.  She recalled that he had made the tape two Christmases ago. Her smile lasted a few seconds until her eyes started to fill, then she fumbled with the switch and turned it off.  The room suddenly fell cold, empty, and silent again.  Roy didn’t live here anymore, only his ghost.

The silence was gently broken by the faint sound of carol singers moving slowly down the street towards the pub.   

She wandered into the kitchen, usually a bomb site, but to her surprise, Roy had made an attempt to clean it up. On the table were the remains of what looked like a sandwich and next to it was an envelope addressed to her.

She sat down and with a frown on her tired face, slowly opened it, then read it.

She forced back the tears as he took her back to the days when they had looked after each other at boarding school; when they had gone on holiday together to Butlins one summer when their parents had not returned to the UK as promised, and how much he loved her for taking care of him after he had been hooked on drugs, he knew he didn’t deserve her.  She was the only one who really cared. His last sentence made her break down and sob.

‘I really did my best to hang on until Christmas Day, when I knew you would come over, but I could feel my body slowly giving up.  I tried calling you, but my phone battery was flat. I even tried to call on Max, my neighbor, but he had gone back to Austria for the holidays. I want to thank you, Sis, for being my rock and to say sorry I let you down.’

She sat there for what seemed like an hour, tenderly holding on to his letter, silently letting her mind wander back down memory lane to when they were two young kids, abandoned by their parents, cast aside as some sort of inconvenience, and how they had cared for each other.  Then with a deep sigh, she made her way back into his bedroom and slowly sat down on his bed, and stared at the wall, trying to collect her thoughts about how to arrange Roy’s funeral.  But it was Christmas, and everything was closed. Everyone had gone off to parents, or family. There was no one she could turn to for help. Suddenly she felt alone and helpless in the world.  She had lost the only person she ever cared for. No one knew she was here and no one probably cared. 

Without thinking she took out her phone and called her parents. Her father answered the phone and once he recognized her voice, he simply passed it to her mother.

“You do call at the most inconvenient moments, don’t you?” she could hear the anger in her mother’s voice.

“Mum, I need…..” and started to sob.  She wanted her help, her support, but her mother spoke over her, telling her to call back in the New Year.  Then the phone went dead.

Her mind went numb as she closed her eyes and started to lie down when her foot caught something.  It sounded like she’d kicked over a glass. Leaning forward to look under the bed, she saw a syringe up against one of his slippers.  It still had a full tube of some pink liquid in it.  She carefully picked it up and smelt it and instantly recognized the contents, then slowly lent back and with a sense of resignation she said.

“Oh, What the heck.”

 

Copyright Bob French

 The Gods

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

 TIME ON HIS HANDS

 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

 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 Colchester.  The hours were very agreeable and so were the perks; two months holiday a year, a travel card and a very handsome allowance for accommodation, which she spent on an extremely comfortable flat at the top of one of the high-rise buildings overlooking Colchester Golf Club in Braiswick. The thing that persuaded her to take the job was that the staff were all female and Tanner, Wilkinson and Tanner were not only females but laid-back and part of a successful team, which made the decision easy.

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 Frances’s eyes and wanted to ask her what she meant, but she had patted her on the shoulder and vanished into the crowd. 

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 Frances had said to her. She went over the warning again and again in her mind until suddenly there was a scream, then a bump, and Jilly realised that she was pulling the car over to the curb.

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 Colchester.  They chatted for a short while then he pulled the car over to the curb.  She looked around at the one street town.

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 village of Hythe.

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 Colchester area. The public are strongly advised not be approach him at any cost.  He is a very violent man and is wanted for the murder of three women.

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

 The Beach Hut

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

 

DECORATING

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. 

He had tried to explain that the mud had got there because he had crossed the grass to get to the parade ground, but his platoon sergeant was having nothing to do with it.

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 Elizabeth’s life yesterday.  That was very brave of you.”

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.”

Elizabeth laughed and lent down and carefully examined his hands before taking them.

“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

 

Geranium 

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 (2^nd 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. 

One plant I had never been able to find which I was assured should have been in my area was the wild Geranium known as Cranesbill. 

Coincidentally, while on a holiday to Harlech in Wales, in 2003, we visited a garden center, and there, in a neglected heap of soil and rubbish, I found a broken flower pot containing a single specimen of Cranesbill.  

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?